Thursday, February 25, 2016

The Gay Kid in the Farmhouse in Plains


February 22nd, 1986: A Saturday.  I'm living in West Hollywood. Alan and I go cruising at Catch One, a club that specializes in African-American men.  I meet the wannabe thug T.

February 20th, 1996: A Tuesday.  Lane and I are living in San Francisco.  I walk down Folsom Street on my way to my part-time job, and run into Mickey, the leatherman who never leaves South of Market, not even to go to the Castro.  We have lunch at a gay Chinese restaurant, and I talk him into participating in the youth outreach program at the MCC.

February 19th, 2006: A Sunday.  I'm visiting Amsterdam.  I have dinner at an Indonesian restaurant, and then go to the Horseman's Club on Warmoestraat, for men with gigantic beneath-the-belt gifts.   I meet Azi from Suriname, who has a Kovbasa+ .  He invites me home to be a "birthday" present for his college-aged brother, Eli.

February 23rd, 2016:  A Tuesday.  I live in Plains, a small town in the vast Midwestern wilderness.

Except I'm not in town; I'm at a farmhouse, gazing at the dark vastness of snow-covered fields through the window.  (Photo from National Geographic)

And then at the country-kitchen style living room, where heterosexuals are occupying couches and chairs, listening to a middle aged woman named Claire read poetry.

West Hollywood, San Francisco, Amsterdam, farmhouse.  How the mighty have fallen!

Her poems are sort of like Spoon River Anthology, telling the story of a farm family during the Great Recession of 2007-2008: middle-aged Jo (that must be Claire), her worry-laden husband, Grandpa and Grandma, her teenage daughter who wants to be a farmer, and her teenage son, who wishes he was a thousand miles away.

Me, too.  It's about a thousand miles to the Flex Club in Cleveland.  It's probably busy right about now.

Do the poems at least describe the husband's hard muscles glistening in the sun, or dark-eyed farmboys going skinny-dipping in the creek?

Nope. Lots of lines about grandpa smelling soft earth, Jo's smooth skin starting to mottle with age, the husband's inner strength that guides you through adversity, and the son looking up at bluebirds flying to Oz.

Maybe he escaped to the nearest gay neighborhood.

West Hollywood, San Francisco, Amsterdam, farmhouse.  Where are the snows of yesterday?

I hated Spoon River, I hate these poems, and I hate farmhouses.  What am I even doing here?

The hostess invited me.  She's a professor at the University, so it's a good career move.

I look around at the other poetry aficionados. Mostly elderly women, a couple of middle-aged men.  A slim, creepy-looking bald guy leading an even creepier-looking bald guy by the arm.

Lovers -- no -- father and son.

At the last heterosexual gathering I went to, I hooked up with Dustin, the host's son.  But no cute college boys burst in to fill the room with life and excitement.  I am alone.


West Hollywood, San Francisco, Amsterdam, farmhouse. 

 Years go falling in the fading light.  Buy me a ticket on the last train home tonight.

Question time. I raise my hand.  "Are the son and daughter based on your real-life children?"

"To an extent.  But Jane is the one who didn't want to become a farmer -- she's living in New York.  Kyle loved farm life."

Didn't he escape to a gay neighborhood?  "What's he doing now?"

"He majored in agriculture at the university, and now he's an agronomist up in Yankton."

Someone else raises a hand to ask about the dramatic structure of the poems.  My wheels spin.

Evidence that Kyle is gay:
1. He longed to escape.
2. He would be around 30 now, and Claire didn't mention a wife and kids.
3. A reference to Judy Garland in The Wizard of Oz.

Evidence that Kyle is hetero:
1. He works as an agronomist
2. In Yankton, South Dakota.
Can you imagine anything more stultifying than standing in a vast field, beneath a blank sky, looking at plants?  For a living?

But I really want him to be gay.  I want there to be gay people in farmhouses in vast fields, beneath blank skies.

It's easy to look Kyle up: he's one of Claire's facebook friends.

He has indefatigably hetero country interests: Brad Paisley, Lonesome Dove, sports, sports, and sports.  But he also likes Modern Family, and he's a proponent of marriage equality.  Besides, no wife or kids mentioned.

I friend him with a "Hi, I know your Mom."

The next day, we chat.

Kyle:  I see you've lived in L.A., New York, and Fort Lauderdale.  What are you doing on the Plains?

Boomer:  A job, what else?  What are you doing in Yankton?

Kyle:  I love it here!  It's my sister Jane who's the big city gal.  She and her girlfriend live right in the heart of the East Village.  Hey, maybe they were your neighbors!"

Jane and her...girlfriend?  I was so obsessed with finding a gay boy in the farmhouse that I never thought about the girl: growing up thinking she was all alone, getting crushes on cheerleaders instead of football players, discovering what "lesbian" meant on the internet, plotting her escape to a gay neighborhood in the biggest big city she could find.

West Hollywood, San Francisco, Amsterdam, farmhouse.  Et in Arcadia ego.

Well, every story can't be about a hookup.

Wednesday, February 24, 2016

What Dustin Likes about Older Guys


Remember last January, when I went to a heterosexual party, and hooked up with the host's 21-year old son, Dustin?  (Not his real name.)

Dustin is in college in Minneapolis, but last week he drove out for the long weekend.  On Saturday, he was busy with his friends, but on Sunday we went out to dinner at the new Mexican place and saw Deadpool, at the Mall.

The tickets seemed rather cheap.  While we were waiting to buy popcorn,  I looked at my receipt.

Senior Citizen Discount!

Whoa, I'm only 55.  I won't be eligible for senior citizen discounts for at least five years!

"It must be the contrast effect," Dustin said.  "The average age of this crowd is about twenty, so you naturally look old.,"

I looked around.  Almost all college-age boys, in pairs and groups.

Suddenly I felt very out of place.  I tried to concentrate on the pre-movie commercials.

"Anyway, who can tell the difference between 55 and 60?   Or 40 and 60, for that matter?  There's young, and then there's old, that's all."

"What's that you say, sonny?"  I said, hurt.  "Why, in my day, we had respect for our elders.  When my Dad told me to go out and feed the dinosaurs, by golly, I jumped to it!"

Dustin caressed my knee in the darkness.  "Hey, Grandpa Simpson, you got the goods.  I'd go down on you sooner than any of these Marvel fanboys.  In fact, I'll bet that you're the only guy in the whole theater who has a 100% chance of getting laid tonight."

He was right -- I did get laid after the movie.  Repeatedly.  Young guys who have only had sex a few times can be remarkably energetic.

Did I say that?

During one of our cuddling breaks, I dug out old my Norton Anthology of English Literature, and read Dustin a poem, "The Old Men Admiring Themselves in the Water," by William Butler Yeats (1903).

I heard the old, old men say,
"Everything alters,
And one by one we drop away."










They had hands like claws.










And their knees
Were twisted like the old thorn-trees
By the waters.










"All that's beautiful drifts away
Like the waters."










"Ridonkulous!" Dustin exclaimed. "I call B.S.  Or should I say banana oil?"

"I think the proper term is bogus."

He kissed  me on the chest, then started working his way down.  "If all you look at is his hands and knees, you're doing it wrong.  The best part of an older guy is in between."

I laughed.  "Speaking of knees, how about getting on yours?"

See also: My Ex-Student Naked in the Locker Room; and Hooking Up with My Host's Son


L

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