Saturday, February 6, 2016

Alan Hooks Up with a Father and Son in Hong Kong

Norfolk, Virginia, June 1993

"Ok, time for my most memorable Hong Kong pickup," Alan says.

I'm visiting Alan and his partner and their friend Tarik in Norfolk.  Today we drove out to Colonial Williamsburg.  Now we're having a very healthy vegetarian dinner and swapping stories of sexual exploits in days gone by.

"Picture it: seven million people crammed into 426 square miles.  7 of the tallest buildings in the world.  Over 50 shopping malls, including Harbor City, with over 700 stores."

"It sounds awful," I complain.  "Everything I hate about big cities, the reason I prefer small-town gay neighborhoods."

"You don't know what you're missing.  The lights, the color, the shopping.  The 3.5 million Chinese men..."

"The 15 hour plane flight..." his partner Sandy continues..  

"Not to mention the horrific anti-sodomy laws," Tarik adds. "Life in prison for gay sex, not repealed until last year."

Alan glares at him.  "Need I remind you that your beloved state of Virginia still makes gay sex a felony?  That doesn't stop the guys down on Granby Street from cruising everybody in sight."

Hong Kong, Summer 1990

Alan was living in Paris.  Anxious to meet some Asian men, he spent his vacation in Hong Kong, shopping and sightseeing.  



Gay culture in Hong Kong wasn't well developed -- very few organizations, only three gay bars, only one very unsatisfactory bathhouse.  But street cruising was an art in itself.  Beaches, malls, parks were teaming with men, Chinese and Western, gay and straight. Most were available, some for free, some for pay.

One day he went sunbathing at Middle Bay Beach, where a lot of local gays hung out.  He saw a cute Chinese twink going down on an older white guy, who was pretending to be asleep.  

The older guy was a bear, very hairy, with a beard, thick muscles and a little belly. A thick uncut Bratwurst.  Not really Alan's type -- he liked slim, smooth chests. 

But he and the Chinese guy took turns working on the white guy, who then pretended to wake up and invited them all to his hotel.  

"An interracial three-way?" I ask, not impressed.  "You didn't need to fly 6,000 miles to get that.  Go to Mugi in West Hollywood."

"Or come out to the bars with Boomer and me later, and see who we find to 'share,'" Tarik says. "Maybe we'll get a Chinese guy, and have a three-race three-way."


"This is just the set-up," Alan says.  "It gets better."

They drove all the way up to the Crowne Plaza on Leighton Road, had their three-way, and the Chinese guy left.  The white guy invited Alan to get a drink in the bar.

His name was Cormac.  He was 43 years old, from Sidney, Australia, in Hong Kong working on some kind of business deal.  

"Hey, exactly my age!" Sandy exclaims.  "Alan knows how to pick them."

Cormac told Alan that he had been attracted to men all his life, but he married "because it was expected," and had three children.  He never had a same-sex experience until six months ago.  Now he was happily divorced and making up for lost time.

"My wife and kids have been a blessing -- they helped  me through all this.  Especially my oldest, Michael.  He sat me down one day and said, 'Dad, believe me, nothing will change if you just admit that you're gay.'  But he was wrong -- everything has changed -- for the better."

"Nice coming out story," I say.  "So, let me tell you about the time..."

"It's not over.  The best part is coming up."

"Your family sounds very supportive," Alan said.  "I'd love to meet them some time."

As if on cue, a twink appeared in the bar, carrying two shopping bags: in his 20s, slim, short brown hair, handsome face, wearing a red t-shirt and very tight jeans.  He grinned at Alan, then hugged Cormac.  "You've been busy, I see."


Cormac's son Michael!  It seems that Cormac brought him along on his trip to Hong Kong, as a way of saying "thank you" for helping him come out.  And he was gay! 

The three went out to dinner.  Michael was a high school history teacher, so he and Alan compared notes about inept colleagues, martinet administrators, and students who became aroused in class.  

Afterwards Cormac excused himself and returned to his room.  Michael and Alan went out cruising.  One thing led to another.

"So you brought him back to your hotel, and tricked with a father and son on the same day?" Sandy asks.

Alan smiles.  "I asked him to come back to my hotel, but I was staying way over on Victoria Road, and the Crowne Plaza was right there, so...."

There were two double beds in the hotel room.  Cormac was in one, under the covers, sleeping.  Alan and Michael quickly undressed and climbed into the other to kiss and fondle.  Then Michael started going down on Alan.

"...you were with Michael while his father was asleep in the next bed?" I ask.  We stare in shock.  Gay or straight, no father wants to wake up to see his son having sex!

"That's not what happened..."
 .
Alan had his eyes closed, so when a hand started fondling his chest, he assumed it was Michael's.  Then someone was kissing him.  Cormac!  

"A father and son together? Gross!"  Tarik exclaims.  "I mean, I like older guys, and sometimes I call them 'Daddy,' but a real father and son?  That's incest!"

Alan was somewhat surprised himself, but he figured, they were both adults, and there was no chance of pregnancy, so why not? Besides, they didn't actually do anything with each other; they took turns kissing Alan and going down on him, and then he went down on Michael while Cormac topped him (with a condom, of course).  Then Cormac returned to his own bed.

"Well, that takes the cake," Sandy says.  "I don't have anything nearly that weird, and I was quite the player, back in the day."

"That's not the best part, though," Alan says.

We wait expectantly.  What could top a story about sharing a father and son?

Alan pauses to let the suspense build.  

The best part was Michael's beneath-the-belt gifts -- the biggest Alan had ever seen, far bigger than his own porn-star-sized penis.  Easily a foot-long, Kovbasa++!

Leave it to Alan to find penis size more memorable than a night with a father and son.

See also: Alan's Partner and Their Boy Toy; Hooking Up with a Trophy Boy and His Dad; and I Spend the Night with Fred's Son

Friday, February 5, 2016

I Visit Alan, his Boyfriend, and their Boy Toy in Virginia


Norfolk, Virginia, June 1993

After our horrible trip to London for a gay Jewish conference on the Isle of Dogs, Lane flies back to West Hollywood.  I stop in Norfolk, Virginia, to spend a few days with my old friend Alan.


As the plane crosses Chesapeake Bay and descended into Norfolk, I become very, very nervous.  


We were best friends for years, in spite of his globetrotting, to Japan, Thailand, and France.  Then last summer he sent a long letter detailing how he had "repented of his sinful lifestyle" and couldn't hang out with his old "sinful associates" anymore.   


I figured we were through.


In December he sent me another letter, bright and cheery but very brief:  "I'm living in Norfolk, Virginia.  It's beautiful here -- I've never been happier.  Can you come and visit?  You can stay with me and Sandy."


Ok, I know Alan has an older sister -- is her name Sandy?  I can't remember.  Or is he still "ex gay," with a girlfriend?  Or a beard?    


Still, I hate losing friends.  I promised to come after the Isle of Dogs conference.  And reserved a hotel room, just in case.


What am I getting myself into?  I wonder.  Five days of homophobic Bible-thumping?  Five days of hanging out with a gay guy trying to pretend that he's straight?  


Alan meets me at the gate.  Blue button-down shirt, white pants.  His earring is gone.  He's lost a lot of weight -- he's thin, almost gaunt, and old -- he is only 37, but he looks about 60.  Yet I still see the vibrancy in his eyes the joie-de-vivre, in his bright smile.  


He wraps his arms around me and hugs me.  It feels like old times.


"Come on -- we'll go on a little tour of the town, and then I'll take you home.  Sandy is cooking dinner."


Sandy is...cooking dinner?  I get an image of a 1950s housewife in an apron and pearls, checking the potroast.  Has Alan become Ward Cleaver?



Norfolk is very beautiful, an old Navy town and seaport.  Alan drives me past the Wells Theater, the Myers House, and the Oriental Garden, and shows me Chesapeake Bay.


"Any good gay bars in town?" I ask.


He frowns.  "I wouldn't know...I don't go the bars anymore.  I cleaned up my life.  No more bars, bathhouses, street cruising -- remember how much time we wasted on all that nonsense?


Not a good sign.  "Last time I visited you, in Paris, you took me to a different dark room or bathhouse every night.  Remember how you picked up the cop in about thirty seconds?"


"I remember."  He flashes a sad, wistful smile.  "Weren't we a couple of libertines!  Thank God that's all behind me now."


Not a good sign.  "Well...um...Lane and I...."


"Whoa, look at that guy!" Alan exclaims, pointing out a hunky college-age boy, very muscular, shirtless.  "Norfolk is completely overrun with eye candy. Sailors and marines from the Shipyard, cute Jewish boys from B'Nai Israel...."


Ok, so Alan's not pretending to be "ex-gay" anymore. At least when Sandy's not around.

"Whoa, there's a whole pack of hotties!"  He pointed to three shirtless black guys peering under a car hood.  "You know, the civilian population of Norfolk is 50% black!  You're still into black guys, I hope."



What does he mean, I hope?  "You know it!"


Alan pulls up to a square white apartment building with white picket-fence balconies  My heart sinks -- after living in the glamour of West Hollywood and Le Marais, this is quite a decline and fall.


We go to an apartment on the third floor.  


The living room is bright, with tapestries and vivid colors, and wall-to-wall beefcake.  A painting of a naked man over the couch.  A statue of Michelangelo's David and nude African dancers on a shelf.  


"We're here!" Alan yells, dropping my suitcase.

Two guys appear from the kitchen! Both African-American. Alan introduces me to Sandy and Tarik.

Sandy is in his 40s, a little shorter than me, slim, wearing glasses. He has diamond studs in both ears. Tarik is amazing: about my age, short, dark-skinned, very muscular, with a handsome round face, bright eyes, and thick square hands. When he reaches out his hand to be shaken, I pull him into a hug instead.

We sit down to a very healthy dinner of chicken breasts covered in mango chutney, asparagus, cauliflower, and green salads, with iced tea to drink (they thoughtfully provide a Diet Coke for me).

I'm surprised -- Alan was always into pastas, pies, pastries, and chips. He only ate vegetables when they were doused in butter and cheese.

"We got you a guest pass at our gym," Sandy tells me. "Hope you're up for step aerobics, tomorrow at 6:00.'

"We'll have breakfast after," Tarik says with a grin. I figure he's a roommate.

"So, how did you get from Parisian roue to...this?" I ask.

"The Hong Kong Hustler," Alan says. Last summer he visited Hong Kong, and, feeling deprived after the sexual freedom of Paris, hired a hustler and bottomed. Without a condom.

"Well, he was cute. I always let my pants do my thinking for me."

A few months later, he discovered that he was HIV positive. Deeply depressed, he moved in with his sister in Norfolk, Virginia, became "ex gay", and cut off all contact with his former "sinful associates."

"That's where I come in," Sandy says. "The miserable fool thought God was punishing him for being gay. Even Pentecostals don't think God is that crazy. He met a sister at the Norfolk Apostolic Church who took pity on him and gave him my number."

"Our first date was on Christmas Eve," Alan says. "It lasted until New Year's Day. It took me that long to get used to being with someone bigger than me."

"Oh, stop it!" Sandy exclaims, hitting him on the shoulder. "You fell in love with my sweet nature and strength of character, not my nether regions!"

Bigger than Alan? This I have to see. I decide to bring up the subject of sharing.

They both attend the gay-positive Metropolitan Community Church, eat a high-protein, low-fat diet, exercise, meditate...and are monogamous. No cruising in bars, no bathhouses, no pickups, no sharing...."

"Yeah, picking up guys in bars is just sleazy," Tarik says. "I don't see how anybody could go down on a perfect stranger."

Ok, maybe I won't suggest sharing.

We take our dessert to the living room -- a berry-yogurt parfait and decaf coffee. Tarik sits very close to me on the couch, so close that our thighs are touching.

As soon as I finish my parfait, I wrap my arm around his shoulders. He takes my hand and smiles.

What's going on? Does he want a date? But I told him about Lane back home. And he's not into hookups: "I don't see how anybody could go down on a perfect stranger."


Sandy asks what I want to do during my visit: "We could drive up to DC -- I stayed there until last summer, I can give you an insider tour. Colonial Williamsburg is worth a visit. Or we could go hiking down in the Dismal Swamp -- it's not really dismal at all."


It's 3:00 am London time, and I've had an strenuous day. I start to doze off. Tarik stands up and draws me to my feet and puts his arm around me.


"Looks like this boy is all in," Sandy says. "Tarik, you have the spare bedroom. See that he gets a little TLC. Or a lot, if he's up for it."


"Wait -- that almost sounded like you're expecting Tarik and me to..."


"Well, why not?" Alan asks. "Don't you think he's hot? I know what your type is...short, dark-skinned, muscular, religious, and big beneath the belt. I didn't ask about that last thing, but we can assume...."


Tarik grins.

"But you're not into casual encounters..."

"What's casual about it?" Tarik asks. "Alan told me all about you, from head to toe."

"Alan told us how much you like sharing," Sandy says. "Since we're monogamous, we can't provide that. So we got you a substitute."

I turn to Tarik. "You want to share my bed as a substitute?"

"Hey, man, I'll be whatever you want, whatever gets me and you kissing the quickest."

In case you were wondering: very passionate, into kissing and oral, Bratwurst+.

See also: Jester the Blind Boy with the Footlong; Alan Picks Up a Father and Son; and A Live Show for Alan

The Pentecostal Porn Star's Top Boyfriends, Tricks, Scenes, and Hookups

I hope Alan isn't reading these stories in the afterlife, or I'm in for a major haunting.  He would hate being called a Pentecostal Porn Star.  He didn't like talking about his porn career.

Actually, he didn't like talking about his past at all.  Most guys in West Hollywood  loved swapping stories about coming out, seducing a straight man, or seeing a celebrity penis, but Alan generally kept mum:  "Who cares about the past?  It's dead and gone.  We're young, we're hot, we're in the greatest place in the world.  This is our time to LIVE!"

Still, when he was tired and loaded up on sugary snacks, he could tell a good story.  Here are his top 20 boyfriends, hookups, and back room exploits.

Alan was born two days before Halloween, 1956, under another name, in a small town near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.  When he was ten years old, he began going to a Pentecostal church, got saved and filled with the Spirit, and began speaking in tongues.

1. The Pentecostal Boy.  His first sexual experience was at age 16, with one of his Pentecostal buddies.  Neither of them had any idea that gay people existed, but they fumbled around and discovered oral.

2. The Preacher at the Bathhouse.  After graduating from high school in 1974, Alan enrolled in the ultra-fundamentalist Waynesburg College.  He majored in either English or History, and played football to become more "macho."  He also began going to the bathhouses of Pittsburgh, where he ran into the minister of his hometown Pentecostal church.

After he got his degree in either English or history, he told his parents that he was gay.  They had a big blowup, and didn't speak to him for years.  He moved to Los Angeles, and got a job teaching ESL to new immigrants.

3. The Son of a Gilligan's Island Star.  One of his first boyfriends was David Johnson, son of Russell Johnson, the Professor on Gilligan's Island.

4. Will on Land of the Lost.  Alan made the rounds of closeted and semi-closeted celebrities, including Wesley Eure,  who played the teenage son on the Saturday morning live-action series Land of the Lost.

5. Porn Star Kip Noll.  He also began going to the bathhouses and bars of pre-AIDS Los Angeles.  One night he met someone who, impressed by his size, introduced him to porn director William Higgins, who cast him in a movie about a boy who wanders around West Hollywood picking up guys.  Kip Noll went down on him.  He refused to do anal.

6. The Football Coach.  Later that year Alan starred in a movie about a football player who gets blown by his teammates and tops his coach.  The exteriors were filmed at UCLA.  While doing research, he met and began dating the football coach of a L.A.-area university.  He wouldn't say which one, although I'm quite sure the name would mean nothing to us.

In all, Alan appeared in five porn movies, but his star potential was limited due to his reluctance to do anal, and by his lack of serious gym time -- he was getting a little chunky.

7. The High School Boy.  He got a job teaching English at a Catholic school, and began seeing one of his students -- after class, right in the classroom.

8. A Drag Queen Fairy Godmother.  After a series of crises in the early 1980s, including getting fired from his teaching job, the death of a close friend, and a sexual assault by a vice cop, Alan turned "ex gay," proclaimed that God had "cured" him, and joined Homosexuals Anonymous.  To prove to himself that he was really straight, he went to one of the dive bars in Hollywood and picked up a "woman" -- who turned out to be a drag queen.

That night he was an anal bottom for the first time.

In the morning he realized that God loves gay people after all.  He retired from porn, changed his name to Alan, turned blond, grew a beard, and joined the gay-positive Metropolitan Community Church. He became Student Clergy.

9. The Norwegian Con Artist.  Alan and I met in the fall of 1985.  We dated briefly, until he dumped me for a Norwegian con artist (the relationship didn't last long).  Then we became friends, and roommates for about a year.

10. The Bed-Hopping College Boy. In the summer of 1986, Alan returned to his old idea of becoming a missionary, with a gay twist: he moved to Japan to start a gay Pentecostal church, but returned  to West Hollywood at the end of the summer.  When I went to visit him, he picked up a college boy named Minoru, who kept switching between our beds all night.










11. My Celebrity Boyfriend.  In the spring of 1987, I dated the Celebrity, a still-closeted former teen idol.  Alan asked him out immediately after we broke up -- or maybe before -- and they dated twice.

12. The Kept Boy.  Alan found three in a bed distracting, so he didn't do much "sharing."  Our first "sharing" experience was accidental, with a kept boy who we didn't realize was drunk










13. The Parisian Cop.  In the fall of 1989, Alan moved to Paris to...well, start a gay Pentecostal church.  But soon he gave up that idea, and became a permanent Parisian.  When I came to visit, he picked up a Parisian cop.

14. The Father and Son. While in France, Alan took a trip to Hong Kong, and picked up a father and son -- a biological father and son!







15. The Lapp.  The nice thing about Paris is, everyone in the world eventually gets around to visiting, including a member of the Sami people, the nomads of northern Scandinavia.

16. The Hong Kong Hustler.  Alan loved Hong Kong, and visited as often as he could.  Unfortunately, it didn't have quite the sexual freedom as Paris.  In the summer of 1992, feeling deprived, he hired a hustler, and bottomed.  Without a condom.

A few months later, Alan discovered that he was HIV positive.  Deeply depressed, he moved in with his sister in Norfolk, Virginia, became "ex gay" again, and cut off all contact with his former "sinful associates."








17. Sandy.  Soon Alan changed his mind -- God loved gay people after all.  He started going to the Norfolk Metropolitan Community Church, where  he met Sandy: middle-aged, African-American, rather feminine, almost as big beneath the belt as he was, also a recovering Pentecostal.  They stayed together until the end of his life.

18. The Substitute.  I visited them twice in the early 1990s, once in Norfolk and once in DC.  Since becoming HIV positive, Alan insisted on monogamy -- no "sharing," not even with safe sex.  But when I spent the night with them, they brought in a substitute.  Ok, that's my scene, not Alan's.

19. The Colonial Williamsburg Boy.  In New York in 1998, I met Barry, who grew up in Colonial Williamsburg and went to Howard University in DC.  Turns out that he had dated Sandy!, Ok, that's Sandy's.

20. The Male Nurse.  We gradually lost contact in the 2000s, as friends who live across a continent from each other do.  But one day in 2005, Sandy called to tell me that Alan had died of AIDS-related cancer.  He was in good spirits during his last days, content with his life and certain of his place in heaven.  Almost his last words were "Isn't that male nurse hot?"

Alan LIVED until the end.

10,000 Naked Men, Part 1: Asian to Hung

When I was a kid in the 1960s and 1970s, you never saw a penis except in the locker room after gym class.  No pictures.  There were plenty of pictures of naked women, but male dangly bits were deemed de facto obscene, so there weren't any. Maybe on a statue or a naked Amazonian Indian in an occasional issue of National Geographic.  Otherwise you had to make do with looking for bulges.

When I turned 18, I could buy "dirty" magazines, but they were all about women except for Playgirl, which I didn't dare buy.  Sometimes I bought Hustler, because nude men would be shown alongside the women.

In grad school in Bloomington, I finally found porn magazines aimed at gay men: Blueboy, Honcho, In Touch.  You could see penises, but they were frightfully expensive, $3, $4, or even $5 (twice my hourly salary) for nine or ten pictures.

In the 1990s, the internet allowed you to go to online bulletin boards, pay a monthly fee, and download jpgs, hundreds of them.  Guys who had been bereft of erotic imagery for the last 30 years suddenly found themselves spending an hour or twoevery morning just looking at and downloading images.  Maybe 20 a day, or 7300 per year.


Then in the 2000s, bulletin boards were replaced by blog sites like tumblr, and suddenly every hunk with an i-phone was posting nude selfies.  Today you can see uncountable thousands of pictures instantly.

But the guys who were bereft of erotic imagery earlier in life were still overwhelmed.  It's like you were starving for half your life, and suddenly you are invited to a nonstop banquet.  You gorge yourself, worried that the display will someday end.  So you continue to spend an hour or two every morning downloading images.

And before you know it, you have 10,000.

I've used many of them as illustrations on this blog, but there are thousands more.  Here are some of my favorites.  In each category.

Asian.  (Top photo.) Lots of men from China, Japan, Korea, Vietnam, and South Asia.  I like this fresh-faced Chinese twink with a veiny Bratwurst+.




Ballet and Opera Bulges. (Second photo.) Admit it -- you go to the ballet primarily for the bulgeworthy tights.  Here's a trio of buddy-bonding guys with tripods beneath the belt.

Batman and Robin.  I have a whole folder of pics of the Caped Crusader and the Boy Wonder, both canonical and fan art.  Nightwing -- Robin all grown up -- shows a fabulous physique but no basket in this canonical drawing.











Black. It's the sleep-flexing on the couch that makes this photo.  And the baseball bat between his legs.















Bulges.  Charlie Day of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia displays the second most important reason I'm a fan.  The first is his comedic talent.  Ok, who am I kidding? His comedic talent is #2.













Celebrities.  I have over 1000 pictures of shirtless and nude celebrities.  Most I've seen in things, or at least heard of.  This one is 1930s heart throb Tom Neal.








Comics.  Comic book and comic strip characters saying and doing fun things, especially things that, taken out of context, sound dirty.  Looks like Mr. Magoo's sexual expertise was too much for the twink he hooked up with.














Dads and Sons.  Not sex photos, but shirtless or naked, at the beach or in the sauna.  This is an interesting series, Dad and Son photographed every year, as dad gets a little saggier and son (always over 18) gets a little more buffed. The changing hair styles are fun, too.













Dwarfs and Other Unique Men.  Men who are very short, very tall, or have other unusual physical qualities. Some interesting -- and hot -- nude photos, but I'm going to go with this muscular swimmer who is missing a leg.












Fine Art.  Lots of reproductions of male beauty in statues and paintings.  Franz Metzner was a German sculptor known for his stylized musclemen.  In this poster, two nude men are hoisting a flag to celebrate the International Exposition of Industry and Labor in Turin in 1911.














Hung.  My file of supersized guys contains some whoppers, but I like this amateur shot of a military-type posing against a bare wall.

Ran out of space.  Next up: Kilts to Pairs and Punks to Urinals.






Thursday, February 4, 2016

Who Topped Me in Barcelona: The Catalan Muscle Bear or the Chinese Twink?
























This story is about my second experience as Greek passive (an anal bottom).  Can you guess who it was with?

Left: Guillem, a Catalan muscle bear in his 40s, with a Kielbasa beneath the belt.
Right; Ramon, a twink of Chinese ancestry, in his 20s, rather on the small side.

My first anal experience was with Fred, my first boyfriend, while in college.  And then rarely. if ever.  In West Hollywood, Greek was associated with people dying of AIDS, so even with a condom we rarely considered it.

Between 1985 and 1997, I was Greek passive for only 3 guys, and Greek active for 2.

Guillem or Ramon?  Read the whole story before trying to guess.

Barcelona, Summer 1994

Lane and I planned to spend only two days in Barcelona, but we ended up spending a week.  It turned out to be our favorite city in Spain, and probably in Europe.

Les Rambles, the pedestrian mall in the center of the old city
Sagrada Familia, the unfinished Gaudi church
The Picasso Museum
The best gym with day rates in Europe.

The Catalan language, obviously Romance yet pleasantly distinct from Spanish, French, and Italian.

Spanish: Quisiera tragar su salchicha
Catalan: Vull empassar la seva salsitxa

And Sauna Condal, three floors of saunas, steam rooms, mazes, dark rooms, and glory hole rooms.  We went twice, the second time on Bear Night, when it was crowded with tall, hairy-chested muscle bears, silver daddies, and Catalan chubbies.

Suddenly I saw an Asian guy sitting alone in the video room: in his 20s, short and slim, with a smooth chest, his penis covered with a towel. I guessed that he was of Chinese ancestry.

Wow!  I hadn't even seen an Asian guy since we arrived in Europe two weeks ago, except once at a Chinese restaurant in Madrid.  I figured he was a tourist from the U.S. or France, which had a larger Chinese population.  Or maybe even from China.

I knew all about cruising Asian guys, from many nights at Mugi in Hollywood.

I approached, sat next to him, and tried out my minimal Mandarin: "Ni hau bu hau?"


He glared at me and said something in Catalan that I didn't understand.  So he was a native Spaniard!

"Lo siento?"

He switched to a slow, careful Spanish.  "You were speaking Mandarin.  My grandparents speak Wu, not Mandarin.  They say Nung hau, not Ni hau, or better, Ve'tich va, which means 'have you eaten?"

A linguist!  Just my type!  "Me llama Boomer, de Toronto." [I always claimed to be Canadian while overseas to avoid getting yelled at.]

"Ramon," he said in a distracted voice, offering his hand to be shaken.

"Quisiera...."

Then he stood, crossed the room, and started working on the nipples of a muscle bear standing in the doorway.

Snubbed?  We'll see about that!  I walked over, knelt, and went down on the muscle bear's  curved Bratwurst, then gradually reached beneath Ramon's towel and fondled him- rather small, though very aroused.  I started working on both, as well as I could when one was three times as big as the other.

Soon the Muscle Bear knelt and motioned for us to change positions. I stood and kissed Ramon and fondled his butt, while the Muscle Bear worked on both of us.  It didn't take long for me to finish.  Then the Muscle Bear wordlessly left.

We looked at each other. That was a little abrupt -- Ramon was still hanging.

 "Have you eaten?" he asked with a grin, and pushed me down onto my knees again.


After he finished, we looked up Lane and Ramon's roommate Guillem, who had already been together earlier.

Guillem was a buffed, hairy muscle bear in his 40s, with a long face and a salt-and-pepper beard.  One of his hands was in a brace.

We went out for drinks at La Chapelle, a small gay bar crowded with religious artifacts about 8 blocks away.

Ramon told us that he knew only a few words of the Wu language, from his grandparents, who settled in Barcelona after the Communist Revolution of 1949.   His parents spoke only Catalan at home, and were not at all interested in their Chinese heritage.

Neither was Ramon.  He got annoyed when people assumed he spoke Chinese, or became interested in him only because they thought he was Asian.

Both he and Guillem belonged to the Catalan Independence movement, and tried to promote the Catalan language whenever they could, even pretending that they didn't speak Spanish.

"Did you know that only 40% of the people in Catalonia speak Catalan at home?" Guillem said.  "It is the native language of only 30%.  This is shameful!"

I turned to Ramon.  "You must stand out at Catalan advocacy meetings, being the only Chinese guy there."

Guillem glared at me.  "He is Catalan. Are you English or German, because your grandparents were from those places?

I could see who was the dominant partner in this relationship!  "Well...I like to claim my Potawatomie Indian heritage..."

It was now about 9:00, dinnertime in Barcelona.  Ramon and Guillem invited us back to their apartment on a very dark, narrow street in the old city, near a famous cafe,  Els Quatre Gats, where Picasso used to hang out.

We ducked inside for a look.

Dinner, served around 10:00, was trinxat, a sort of potato and cabbage quiche with fried eggs, a dark black sausage, and bread on the side, while a Spanish language version of Roseanne played in the background.

I guess it didn't come in Catalan.

After dinner we sat in the living room.  I hadn't been with Guillem yet, so I fondled his chest and kissed him.  Soon all four of us were naked.  I was going down on Guillem's rather thick Kielbasa, while Guillem and Lane were both working on Ramon.  I shrugged and grabbed Ramon and kissed him.

Then..

Have you guessed who I had my second Greek passive experience with?

Answer after the break


Tuesday, February 2, 2016

Alan Cruises a Cop

Paris, March 1989

During my terrible semester teaching in Ankara, Turkey, my friend Alan the Pentecostal Porn Star sent me a airplane ticket to visit him in Paris.

Alan was my best friend in West Hollywood, fun but exhausting, rushing headlong from wild scheme to wild scheme, his frenetic energy making him constantly "up."  No quiet nights at home, no nice safe museums or art galleries: lights! colors! music!

Plus he had no sense of tact, decorum, or the consequences of his actions.

The morning after we broke up, he called and asked me to have brunch with him and his new boyfriend.

When he saw a high school boy aroused in class, he asked "Do you want to go to the bathroom and take care of that?"

And now he wanted me to drop everything and fly to Paris for a week?

Well, it was Paris, after all.  And I was anxious to see Alan again after six months.


He had put on a few pounds -- actually about 20, a victim of French sauces and limited gym facilities.  But he still had the same frenetic energy, the same fervor -- and the same unbrindled erotic desire.

On the way into town on the Metro, he kept pointing out cute lycee boys, burly working-class men, languid immigrants, and timid tourists.  "It's like a candy store, isn't it?  So many men, so little time!"

He had a tiny one-room apartment on the fifth floor of a building on rue Chapon, in the heart of Le Marais, about two blocks from the Pompidou Center, walking distance from  Notre Dame and the Louvre.

He didn't mention the gay Pentecostal church, his ostensible reason for moving to Paris: he had a job teaching literature at the American School went to the American Church on the Quai d'Orsay, and had a circle of friends, mostly ex-patriots.  He showed every intention of staying in France permanently.



During the daytime, I was on my own.  I had only been to Paris once before, so I did all the tourist things -- the Louvre, the Luxembourg Gardens, Montmartre, even the Eiffel Tower.

Paris was great for jogging, but gyms were rare -- I finally found a health club with an assortment of free weights, but I had to buy a month membership to get in.

At night we cruised.

There weren't a lot of gay organizations in Paris -- at least, not as many as in West Hollywood.  But the venues for sex made up for it.

Bathhouses, bars with back rooms, video stores with glory holes.  A different one every night.

"I'm in vacation mode," I told Alan one morning at breakfast in a patisserie -- which, as the name implies, offered no choices that weren't 98% sugar.  "So the West Hollywood rule against tricking doesn't apply.  But you've been here six months.  Have you been tricking every night?"

"It's another world," he said, chomping on an eclair.  "Sex isn't something shameful -- it's an ordinary part of life.  Did you know gay sex has been legal here since 1805?  Guys think nothing of going into a bar with a dark room on the way home from work and going down on five guys.  Even straight guys, with wives and girlfriends waiting at home."

"Straight guys?  You're kidding!"

"Boomer, straight and gay don't apply here.  I swear to you, 80% of the men in this city are available right now, and the other 20% you have to buy a drink first.  Come on -- point out a guy, anyone you like, and I'll bring him home for you tonight."

Yeah, right -- an ex-porn star would have no trouble picking up someone in a gay-owned patisserie full of gay men in the heart of Le Marais.  But what about a straight guy out on the street?

"Ok -- what about -- him?"  I pointed out the window at a police officer watching us suspiciously, to make sure no one was having sex.

He was undoubtedly cute, a square face, short hair, muscular chest, meaty arms, big bulge.  But in 1989 the police were not our friend.

They were homophobes, out to arrest us for solicitation for saying "hello," lewd conduct for holding hands, sodomy for kissing.  They stood around outside gay bars, hoping to intimidate people from going in.  Even crime victims weren't safe from jeers, name-calling, and assaults.

A vice cop almost arrested Alan in the early 1980s.  No way was he going to risk another arrest!.

Alan paled a little, but gained fortitude from another bite of eclair.  "Not a problem, no problem at all.  I'll just go invite him over after work tonight."

While I stared open mouthed, he walked out the door, walked right up to the cop went over and struck up a conversation.  He pointed me out.  The gendarme smiled and waved at me, and a moment later walked away.

Alan returned.  "Ok, his name is Antoine, he gets off at 6:00, so he'll be at the apartment a little after.  You'll be going down on him by 6:30."

I stared, open-mouthed.

"We won't go out to dinner until afterwards, ok?"

Was he putting me on?

"I have to get to work.  See you tonight."

I went to the gym, the  Lachaise Cemetery to see Oscar Wilde's grave, the Shakespeare and Company bookstore, Luxembourg Gardens (again), and finished up wandering around the Sorbonne, thinking about my upcoming "trick."  Was Alan putting me on?  Or would he bait and switch, picking up a guy who looked sort of like the cop?

At a little after 6:00, I returned to the apartment.

Alan had pulled the couch out into a bed, and was sitting next to Antoine the Cop!  Not in uniform -- wearing a black button-down shirt and jeans.

Of course, you change into street clothes after work.

"I brought you a little present," Alan said.

Antoine the Cop didn't even wait to be introduced -- he pulled me down onto the bed on top of him.  I unbuttoned his shirt and ran my mouth over his smooth, very hard chest while he and Alan kissed.  Soon I had worked my way down to his crotch.  After fondling him for awhile, I unzipped him and pulled out his long uncut Bratwurst.  No public hair -- he must shave.

I started going down on him. At the first stroke, I felt Alan's hand on my shoulder.

 It's too soon for your turn! I thought.  But I looked up.

He was gesturing at the clock.  6:30 exactly.

See also: Alan and I Share the Kept Boy;  Alan's Three Arrests; Alan's Substitute for Sharing

Monday, February 1, 2016

Hooking Up with My Host's Son at a Straight Party

Plains, January 2016

Who would you rather spend Saturday night with?





Me, too.

But sometimes you have no choice.

It's fun being a twink magnet, but occasionally I would like to have a conversation that doesn't involve a swirl of flavor-of-the-week pop stars and evaluations of ipad cloud streaming gadget players.

Unfortunately, out here on the Plains, there are very few gay guys my age: they all fled to Minneapolis, Chicago, or West Hollywood during the Great Gay Migration of the 1970s, leaving a few shut-ins and down-low closet cases.

Shortly after moving here, I  realized that if I wanted to socialize with someone my own age, it would have to be a heterosexual!  

A daunting prospect: in gay neighborhoods, all of your friends and neighbors were gay.  You might have some straight acquaintances, at school or at work, but you kept them at arm's length.  They were the enemy, the oppressors.

But it's the 21st century, I thought.  There must be some heterosexuals around who are not homophobic or annoyingly heterosexist.

I started striking up conversations with heterosexuals at work, at the gym, and at church.  I started going to my friend's vegan potlucks, which were about 50% gay, 50% straight. And in mid-January 2016,  I went to a totally heterosexual party!

It was held by Arthur, an ex-hippie vegetarian in his 50s who often leads services at the Unitarian Church, and his wife Joanne.  They are apparently quite affluent: they have a a formal living room, a separate dining room, a gigantic kitchen, a family room, and a patio that looks out onto the cold wilderness.

Eight heterosexuals and me sat around the gigantic dining room table, eating a potato casserole, cheese tamales, a green salad, and jello squares, then adjourned to the living room for dessert and coffee.

I felt a bit out of place.  And things only got worse.

Here's my evaluation of heterosexual parties:

1. Everything is male-female.  Gay parties were exclusively male, with very occasionally a lesbian, but at straight parties, the seating arrangements, the conversations, even the coats are strictly divided into "him" and "her."

2. They are age-segregated.  Gay parties had every age, from young twink to geezer, but straight people invite only their own age group.  Everyone was in their 40s and 50s.

3. They are elderly.  Maybe it's because they they only go to the gym during the first week of January, but most straight men in their 40s and 50s are flabby and sagging or wrinkled and decrepit, with creaking joints and aching backs.

4. They are boring.  Discussions of additions to the house, variations in health insurance, who just got out of the hospital, which kid just got a promotion at work, which stock is doing well, and how good the food tastes.  A lot of how good the food tastes.

5. They end with a whimper.  Gay parties ended with everyone going out to the bars, or else going off in pairs and groups to the bedroom.  Straight parties end with women saying "Can I help you clean up?" and men saying "I have to get up early tomorrow."

During dessert-and-coffee,  the back door opened, and a boy burst in: teenage or early twenties, shorter than me, thick brown hair, handsome square face, thick eyebrows, prominent ears.

He tore off his sweater, revealing an Adventure Time t-shirt. Thick, hard chest, nice biceps.

I wasn't planning to cruise, but it was impossible to not be overwhelmed by the contrast. Hardness, strength, vitality, energy!  In a room full of sagging, tired people.

"How was the exhibit?"Arthur asked.

"Great!  I met a guy who throws pots with Aztec designs."

There were no other explanations or introductions.  The boy tore into the kitchen, grabbed a plate, and piled it high.  He put a knife and fork in his pocket, grabbed a can of soda, and ran out of the room.

"Isn't he joining us?"  I asked.

"Oh, Dustin doesn't want to hang around us old folks."

Maybe not, but I wanted to hang around with him.

I asked about the bathroom, and was pointed to the same direction that Dustin went.  I found him on a couch in a study off the family room, shoveling food into his mouth and watching a music video.


"I love Adventure Time," I said, sitting next to him.  "Do you think Princess Bubblegum and Marcelline were a couple?"

He grinned at me, perhaps astonished that a guy my age knew the show.  "Maybe not canonical, but that's definitely the writers' intent."

Dustin was an undergrad at the Minneapolis College of Art and Design, home for winter break. He was mainly interested in animation.  We talked about Adventure Time, Regular Show, The Simpsons, and the 1960s French sci-fi animated movie Fantastic Planet.   I didn't do any obvious cruising, but there was a definite connection.

Then Arthur was standing in the doorway.  "Here you are!  I thought you got lost.  Dustin isn't boring you to death with his animation stories,  is he?"

"Not at all.  I'm a big fan."

He looked at me with an odd smirk.  "Well,  when you're ready to join the grownups, we're playing mad libs."

After he left, Dustin laughed and touched me on the shoulder.  "Hey, bro, if being an adult means playing mad libs, I'll give it a pass."

"Me, too."

He paused.  "I have some gorg cels from the Lord of the Rings, the Ralph Bakshi animated version, up in my room, if you'd like to see them."

I reached out and tentatively stroked his arm. "Not tonight, thanks.  But why don't you bring them around tomorrow night, when we go out to dinner?"

I'll stick to being a twink magnet.

In case you were wondering: average sized, extremely passionate, mostly into oral.  He's gone back to Minneapolis, but hopefully we'll stay in contact and get together on his next break.

See also: The Hookup Contest; What Dustin Likes About Older Guys: Visiting Dustin in Minneapolis

The Boy in the Mesh T-Shirt at the Gay Rights March

Des Moines, June 27th, 1981

The summer after my junior year at Augustana.  I drive out to Des Moines, where Thomas, the gay Episcopal priest I met last year, is holding a strategy meeting for the Gay Rights March tomorrow -- the first in the state of Iowa.

It's not a Gay Pride Parade, it's a Gay Rights March.  We will be marching through hostile city streets, carrying signs that say "Stop Gay Police Harassment," "Gay People Are Not Criminals," and "We Are Your Children."

Gay men and lesbians from all over the state are sitting in Thomas's living room, discussing how to respond to screamers, what to do if we are arrested, where to meet if we must scatter.

I sit next to Mickey, the only other guy my age: short, tan heavily muscled, very attractive, with dirty blond hair and a round boyish face.  We chat a bit, but don't exchange any personal information -- in those days you are circumspect, even among gay people.

"I want Boomer and Mickey to hold the banner that says "Gay is Good," Thomas says.  "We want some muscle out there, to show the straights that we're not all weak little sissies!"

Mickey grins at me.  "Up for being partners?"

"You know it."  We clasp hands briefly.

Then he and the other townies go home, and the out of town visitors bed down for the night.  It's a little crowded: the two bedrooms are full, and four of us get sleeping bags on the living room floor (nothing erotic happens).


June 28th, 12:00 pm

Mickey and the other townies arrive just after noon.

Do you remember those mesh half-t shirts they wore in the 1980s?  You might as well not be wearing a shirt at all.  Your pecs and shoulders were visible behind the sheer mesh stuff, and your abs were completely exposed.

They were hot if you had a perfect body.  A centimeter less than perfection, and they looked stupid.

Mickey is hot.


2:00 pm

The march is a little disappointing.  The media refused to publicize it, so no one knows about it except gay people, and they're mostly too closeted to come.  Our only spectators are the police officers watching us carefully to make sure we don't have sex on the street, and a few passersby.  Some run into the stores and offices to fetch their friends to gawk. No homophobic attacks, no screamers, just some laughter and an occasional  "Look at the fags!"

Afterwards, we take down our signs and pack them into Thomas's car.  "Great job, everyone!  We  let them know that we're not going to hide anymore!"

I'm a little depressed.  How can less than 20 gay people take on the homophobia of the 2.9 million straights in the State of Iowa.  But Mickey is standing next to me, smiling, muscular. No use crying about it.  Carpe diem!  The theme song from One Day at a Time goes through my head:

This is it.  
This is life, the one you get, so go and have a ball.

"I'm spending the night -- it's too late to drive back to Rock Island"  I tell him.  "Do you want to get together for dinner?"

"That'd be cool," Mickey says.  "Let me go home and change, and I'll meet you at my favorite restaurant in town.  Chicago Speakeasy on Euclid, say 7:00?"

5:00 pm

Back at Thomas's house, I shower and change clothes. I go into the kitchen, where two of the marchers, Paul and Erik are preparing lasagna and garlic bread for dinner.

"I won't be home for dinner," I tell them.  "I'm going out with Mickey."

"You landed Mickey the Muscleboy!" Paul exclaims.  "What's your secret?"

Erik adds "There's not a queen in Des Moines who hasn't tried to get into his pants."

Word of my "conquest" quickly passes through the group.  I hear hooting and hollering as everybody starts to tease "the kid."

"Go easy on him, huh?  Leave some for the rest of us."

"Be sure to ask if he has a brother for me."

"Find out if he has a big one!"

"Bring him back here afterwards, We'll have an orgy."


7:00 pm

The Chicago Speakeasy is festooned with pictures of gangsters and bootleggers from the Roaring Twenties.  I ordered a "Dillinger Delight,"  a grilled chicken breast "wid all da grub": a baked potato and a side salad.

Now that we're alone, we feel more comfortable revealing personal information.

Mickey is in grad school in Russian at the University of Iowa, about two hours away.  He also speaks German, Czech, and Polish.  He figured "it" out two years ago, and hasn't been in a relationship yet, although he's dated a few guys.  He's out to his older sister, but not to his parents or straight friends.

I grab his knee under the table, and gently bring my hand up to his crotch.  A Bratwurst springs to life.

9:00 pm

"Want to go to the Garden?" he asks, naming one of Des Moines' gay bars.  "So we can, you know, kiss and stuff?"

"Um...I'm only 20, too young to get in."

"Back to Thomas's place, then?"

I imagine a roomful of guys teasing us and asking to join in [I haven't yet heard of the concept of "sharing."]    "There's no privacy there.  Could we go back to your place?"  I assume that he has his own apartment.

He slowly brings his face close to mine.  Is he going to kiss me in public?  That's crazy -- we'll be killed!  But instead he says "I guess.  Follow me home."

 He waits in his car for me to pull around, and then starts driving down Euclid, across the Des Moines River.  Suddenly he turns left without signaling.  I follow.  He drives faster and faster, swerving across a busy intersection, then turning right, again without signalling.

"Slow down!" I yell.  Of course, he can't hear me.

We're on 30th Street, zooming toward Drake University.  He's a block ahead.  Suddenly he turns right.  I follow, but by the time I get there, he's gone.

I didn't get his phone number.  Or his last name.  There's nothing to do but go back to Thomas's house and face the teasing.

"You're back early!  Didn't you hit it off?"
"Or are you just really fast?"
"Was he too big for you?"
"Or were you too big for him?"

As a consolation, Thomas and his boyfriend invite me into their bed.  I'm not in the mood to do much, but I go down on them a little.

A few days later, Mickey calls -- he got my phone number from Thomas.

"Sorry I bailed on you.  I was planning to sneak you into my room, but I chickened out."

"Don't you have an apartment?" I ask in surprise.

"Me?  No.  I'm home with my parents for the summer."

Obviously he couldn't bring me home 

"Look -- I have my own room in the grad student apartments in Iowa City.  In the fall, when classes start, come out for a visit, ok?  This time I promise I won't bail."

I visited Mickey several times during my senior year at Augustana, and  when it came time to register for fall classes, I signed up for Elementary Russian and Russian History.

In case you're keeping track: Mickey, Bratwurst, uncut; Thomas, Mortadella, cut.  I don't remember the boyfriend.

See also: The Priest with Three Boyfriends; My First Gay Rights March