Saturday, February 27, 2016

Matt and the Bartender Frighten the Horses

San Bernardino, December 1993

"Ok, mes amis," Matt says, "I'm going to tell you about the time j'effrayé les chevaux."

Lane and I have driven 70 miles to San Bernardino  to spend the weekend with my first boyfriend, Fred, and his partner, the 27-year old Cute Young Thing Matt.  Their friend Jerome, a Daddy months away from becoming a Geezer, has joined us for dinner, and now we're swapping stories of dates from hell, supersized penises, and fantasy hookups.

I told about how Alan and I hooked up with the kept boy, Jerome told about how he almost had sex with his own father.  Now it's Matt's turn.

"You frightened the horses?" I translate.

He nods  "When Mrs. Campbell heard that gay people exist, she said 'I don't care, as long as they don't do it in the street and frighten the horses.'  Well, mes amis, right in the bar, right before the very eyes of the scandalized patrons: J'ai mangé la saucisse of the bartender!"

We stare.  The bartenders in gay bars are always extremely attractive -- and unapproachable.  For one thing, they're at work.  For another, they get hit on a dozen times a night.  Once in a blue moon you might land a date with a bartender, but we've never heard of anyone doing it with him right in the bar.

Boston, Spring 1986

Matt was a junior at Harvard, very cute, with dirty-blond hair, a nice physique, and a bulge that wouldn't quit. He was also rich, super-smart, and a world traveler.  He could never figure out why his dull-witted classmates didn't want to date him.

One night he thought, I'm 21 years old, why not try cruising in a gay bar?

He went to Sporters Bar on Cambridge Street in the West End.  It was a standard gay bar, with pool tables, pinball machines that show naked ladies instead of naked guys, the standard  blaring dance numbers from five years ago, an over-dressed elderly lush at the bar, a lesbian couple sitting quietly in a booth, a scattering of gay men.

Two bartenders, one older, in a tank top, the other a shirtless twink -- rather too many for ten patrons.  Maybe it gets busy later, Matt thought.

Matt sidled up to the twink, Anthony.  He was slim and smooth, with dark hair and soulful eyes, rather cute in a pretentious way.

"What'll you have?"  Anthony asked.

"You on toast!" the Geezer Jerome interrupts, putting his hand on Matt's knee.  I wonder who will be sharing whom tonight.

"Mais, c'est le problème!" Matt exclaims, tactfully pulling away.  "You all know that I don't drink.  I can't tell porter from stout, and I have no idea what's dry about a dry martini.  What to order?"

He looked around.  A lot of beer bottles.  What beer brands did he know?  "Um...Coors beer, s'il vous plait."

 "Sorry, we don't have Coors," Anthony said.

"Quel dommage!"  What other beer brand did he know? Think!  "Um...Bud Light."

"Sorry, we don't have Bud Light."

Think! Just last summer, in Deutschland, my father ordered...ordered... "Radeberger!"

"Not too bright, are you, kid?"

Matt reddened.  One thing he couldn't abide was an insult to his intelligence.  Especially from a plebian bartender!

"Um...so, what's good here?"

"Depends on what you like."

"What do most people order?"

"It varies."

People were starting to stare.  His stupidity about beers would inhibit his chance of meeting guys!

Desperate, he said: "See here, my good man.  Let's make a deal.  Just bring me a beer, any beer, and I'll go down on you right here at the bar."


Anthony chuckled and brought him something called a Rolling Rock Extra Pale.  Matt handed him the money.

He took a sip and started to walk away.

"Hey, aren't you forgetting something?" Anthony called.

"He thought you were serious?" Lane asks.

"You didn't go through with it, did you?" Jerome says.

"Quel horreur!" Matt exclaims.  "There's no way I'm going to go down on that miscreant!"

"I don't blame you," Jerome says, putting his hand back on Matt's knee.  Matt stands to tell the story more dramatically.

After all the trouble of getting his beer, Matt realized that he had to go -- badly.  So he said "Excuse me," left it at the bar, and headed for the bathroom.

While he was at the urinal, the other bartender came in.  Matt never got his name -- we'll call him Sam.

Definitely Matt's type: in his 40s, Mediterranean, dark skin, lean hard muscles, black hair, goatee (top photo)

"Is Anthony giving you a hard time?" Sam asked.

"Oh, not at all. I understand that a bit of hazing of the new guy is de rigeuer."

"He's a bitch!" Sam exclaimed, taking a subtle peek at Matt's equipment. "He wouldn't even have a job, except he's the manager's boy toy.  Always harassing the customers, especially the Cute Young Things like you."

Finished, Matt zipped up and faced Sam with a cruisy smile.  "Probably he resents the competition."

"Boy, I'd like to take him down a few pegs."

Matt reached out and touched Sam lightly on the chest.  "I have an idea how we could do that."

So Sam sneaked Matt behind the bar, where he got on his knees.  No one could see him except Anthony, who turned pale as Matt unzipped Sam's pants and went down on his Kielbasa+.  Only for a few minutes -- Sam didn't finish. But he definitely ate a bartender's sausage.

San Bernardino, Fall 1993

"B.S.!" Jerome exclaims.  "If Anthony was the manager's boyfriend, there's no way he'd put up with that."

"I may have left out one little detail," Matt says with a grin.  "After I finished with Sam, I had a change of heart -- a penis is a penis, n'est pas?  So I crawled over to Anthony and gave his Bratwurst+ a little of the same."

"Hey, these stories are supposed to be real!" I protest.  "How could the bar patrons not notice you going down on both bartenders?"

"Oh, keine Zweifel, Monsieur Doubting Thomas.  Allow me to demonstrate.  The back of this couch can be the bar.  Boomer, you stand there on the left -- you're Sam.  And could I get a volunteer to be the despicably plebian Anthony?"

"Me!  Me!"  Jerome exclaims.

Matt glares at him.  "I think Lane would make a good Anthony.  Jerome, your role is that of unsuspecting bar patron."

He goes down on each of us in turn while we stand behind the couch.

I love it when guys act out their stories.

See also: 12 Fantasy Hookups; Matt Starts Selling Himself.




Friday, February 26, 2016

In Search of Sex and Languages in Tijuana

I'm running low on Alan stories, but I hate to let him go. so here's the story of me, Alan, and the bathhouse in Tijuana.

Tijuana, August 1987

It's a sedate cultural center now, but in the 1980s, it was synonymous with sleaze.

Watch your wallet.
Drink only bottled water
Be careful of the bathrooms.
Don't walk too close to alleys.

"We should go," Alan the Pentecostal Porn Star said one day in 1987.  "You speak Spanish, so you can impress all the locals.  And the bathhouses are still open.  Have you been to one?"

"Just once, four years ago in Chicago.  My friend Viju took me.  I didn't like it."

"They're great!" Alan exclaimed.  "Darn homophobic Department of Health closed them down here, thinking we're all having unsafe sex and getting AIDS in them, but you can have unsafe sex anywhere.  You just have to be careful, stick to French.  That won't be a problem for us, right?"

Alan rarely topped anyone, and I never knew him to bottom.  Interfemoral, oral, and sometimes 69, although he was a little too big to do that comfortably.

"Sex with strangers?"  I said, dubious.  Even casual hookups were frowned upon in West Hollywood.

"It's a foreign country.  Our rules don't apply.  And we're both single, right?"  He paused.  "Besides, I know a place where you can meet Indios."

Mexico is a racially segregated society.  The elites are white, of Spanish ancestry only.  The middle class is usually Mestizo, of mixed Spanish and Indian ancestry.  And the working class and poor are primarily Indio, from about 60 different language groups:

Nahuatl, the language of the Aztecs, like nothing else I have ever seen:
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year: Cualli netlācatilizpan īhuān yancuic xihuitl

Mayan, the language of the ancient Mayan civilization of the Yucatan, nothing like Nahuatl:
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year: Ki'imak Navidad yéetel ki'imak ja'aba' túumben

Mixtec, Zapotec, Otomi, Mazatec, Tlapenec

The prospect of hearing Indio languages convinced me.

So one Saturday in the summer of 1987, we drove down to Tijuana, skipped over the usual tourist haunts, and drove directly to a crazy galleria on the south side of town, where, Alan told me, the Banos Vica catered to Indios.

Talk about sleazy!  You undressed, dumped your clothes in a bag, and went upstairs through a dirty shower room, then wandered through creaking corridors, dimly lit by bare bulbs, paint chipping on the walls, trash on the floors, sleazy looking naked guys in the shadows.

There were steam rooms and showers, but mostly you just did things right there in the shadows.


"Oh, boy," I thought.  "Indios!  I'm going to meet some Nahuatl and Mayan speakers!"

The only question was, how did I actually meet them?

Alan stood in the shadows.  He only had to wait a few moments before a slim, smooth guy with a bubble butt knelt to go down on his porn star-sized Kielbasa.

I could hardly say "Hola!  Hablas Nahuatl o Mayan?"

I waited.  Another slim, smooth guy with a thin moustache went down on my smaller but still respectable Bratwurst+.

After a few moments, I drew him to his feet and tried to kiss him, but he turned his face away.  "Quenin timotōcā?" I said, one of the Nahuatl phrases I memorized.

He shrugged and moved on.

Idiot! I told myself.  There are 60 native languages.  He could speak any of them, or none!


I went down on another guy, short, with a round face,  a sly smile, and an uncut Bratwurst.  After a few minutes, someone else roughly pushed me out of the way to go down on him, so I stood and drew him into a kiss.  The on-his-knees guy worked on both of us for a few moments, then stood and left.

"Hablas Nahuatl?" I asked.

He didn't answer.

The third guy was dark, muscular, with average beneath the belt gifts.  I went down on him until he finished with a moan.

"Hablas algo lengua India?" I asked. Do you speak any Indian language?

"Como?"

Frustrated, I said loudly, "Hay alguien que hablan una lengua Indio?"  The men standing in shadows glared at me.

I sought out Alan, and we shared a light-skinned, curly-haired guy.  He went down on Alan while I went down on him.

Afterwards, I had almost given up, but I still managed to ask, "Hablas Mayan o Nahuatl?"

"Are you the one who was yelling earlier?" he asked in English.

"I wasn't yelling, I was just talking loudly."

He laughed.  "Got a Indio thing, huh?  Sorry to burst your bubble, but I'm from San Antonio."

We left after a couple of hours.

"Well, that was fruitless," I said.

"You were with about five guys," Alan said. "How is that fruitless?"

"I didn't meet anyone who spoke any Indian languages."

"Were you there for sex or languages?"

"Well, languages, mainly," I admitted sheepishly.

"Why didn't you say so?  No one talks in a bathhouse.  But I know a place we can go."

On the way out of town, we stopped at the Club Habanero, a gay bar on the Calle Benito Juarez that specialized in Indios.  We met Alejandro, a slim guy from Veracruz who spoke no English, just Spanish -- and Nahuatl!

By the way, the Nahuatl word for penis is huiloti, or "dove," but when it is aroused, it's a moquauhquetza.

Alan wasn't happy with my ability to monopolize the conversation.

And even less happy when I failed to seal the deal and get an invitation back to Alejandro's apartment.

Apparently you can learn the Nahuatl word for penis, or you can go down on a Nahuatl penis, but you can't do both.

See also: My First Bathhouse; In Search of Sex and Languages in South Africa



The Boy Who Cried "Fabulous"

Wilton Manors, April 2005

How is it possible to get into a relationship with someone that you don't even like?

I met Florian when the South Florida Gay Men's Chorus performed at our church.  He was a Cute Young Thing, a fencing champion back in high school, handsome, with a firm, hairy chest, a little too tall for my tastes. But his extremely upbeat personality won me over:

"Isn't a beautiful day?  Of course, every day in Florida is beautiful, isn't it? Gosh, it just doesn't get any better than this, does it?  Welcome to Paradise!"

Our First Date

Picking me up: "I didn't know if you gave me the right address or not.  If you didn't, that would have been ok.  I had a marvelous evening planned, either way.  What a fantastic house!  And the decor is fabulous!"

Dinner: "This is the best crab quesadilla I've ever had!  And, oh, gosh, this salad is marvelous!  And aren't the waiters gorgeous?  I've never had such a fabulous meal!"

The Filling Station: "Isn't that guy hot!  And him, too!  I've never seen so many gorgeous guys in one place before!  It's like a Mr. Universe contest!  I can see why you like coming here! It's the best!"

Back to my house: "This is the most wonderful evening I've ever had!  You are positively incredible!  I can't believe how lucky I am just to be sitting here beside you!"

The kiss: He leaned in for a kiss -- with a wide grin on his face.  You never smile when preparing to kiss! It looks idiotic.

The bedroom: nice physique, hair chest, thick Bratwurst beneath the belt, into kissing and receiving oral, but the "fabulousness" never stopped.  "Oh, this is fantastic!  The best ever!  I can' believe how hot you are!"  On and on and on.

The next morning, breakfast with Yuri and Barney: "This is the best coffee I've ever had!  And cinnamon buns!  Incredible!"

I walk him to the door: Gosh, your housemates are absolutely fabulous!  Barney is a cuddly old bear, and Yuri is just incredibly handsome!  I'm dying to ask you to share, but I guess it's a little too soon, isn't it?  I should be happy with the most gorgeous guy in the world!"

I slam the door and sigh loudly.  Florian was so goshdarn chipper, so in-your-face fantabulous, that I couldn't stand him!

But he was also very aggressive.  Before I knew it:




Our Second Date

The movie: "This is the funniest movie I've ever seen!  And the world's best popcorn!  I can't believe how good it is!"

The dinner:  "That shrimp tempura was marvelous, and this is absolutely the best red bean ice cream in the universe! And isn't that waiter gorgeous!  Do you know the Japanese word for super-stud?  I wouldn't mind eating cat food if he brought it out!"

Back to my house: "This is the most wonderful evening I've ever had! Gosh, everything was just fabulous!  I can't believe how lucky I am to be dating you!  You are absolutely the most gorgeous guy in the universe!"

One more superlative, and I'll pour my soda on your head!  But you'd probably think it was fabulous!


I could just refuse all future dates.  But I didn't have the will power, and he was very, very cute.  Besides, he hadn't actually done anything wrong -- he was just annoyingly chipper.

Maybe I could scare him off.  BDSM sometimes worked.

I suggest a BDSM Scene:  "I've never tried anything like that before, but it sounds perfectly marvelous!  Tie me up and use me, Daddy!  Or should I say Sir?  Gosh, it's just so exciting!"

The Scene: I gagged him, blindfolded him, attached clothespins to his nipples, and spanked him, while he kept up a nonstop dialogue through the gag.  "Th---uh----fab--lus."

The next morning:  "That was by far the most erotic evening of my life!  You were just fabulous! Seriously, I couldn't imagine a better scene!  But maybe we could get that super-stud Barney to join in next time! Two Sirs -- that would be incredibly amazing!"

Maybe some of life's sorrows would tone him down a bit.

Our Third Date

An auction at Out of the Closet. Discussion of George Bush:  "I'm sure that he'll be defeated in the election next month!  The straights are much less homophobic now than when I was a kid!"

Walk on the beach.  This is the spot where Yuri had rocks thrown at him from a carload of homophobes. "Well...um...isn't he lucky that nothing worse happened!  Um...he is by far the most gorgeous guy I've ever seen.  Gosh, he must get cruised a hundred times a day!"

Dinner at my house with Barney. When Barney's partner died, his family refused to come to the funeral:  "Well ...um......you know...he was lucky that...that he had a supportive partner...and...an alternate family...and....this is the best moussaka I've ever eaten!"



Movie: Philadelphia, with Tom Hanks as a lawyer with AIDS who loses his job.  Boxes of kleenix all around.  "This is...um...the most beautiful movie I've ever...um...seen.  Tom Hanks is a fabulous actor...and...um...more kleenix, please?"

Invitation to the bedroom:  "Sorry, I'm not really feeling well.  But it's been a fantastic day.  I've never had so much...um...fun in my life."

That was the end of my relationship with Florian. Instead of toning him down, I turned him off.

A couple of weeks later, I ran into him at the Filling Station with another guy: "Boomer, this is Philip!  Isn't he the most gorgeous guy you've ever seen?  And isn't this a fabulous place?  I had to bring him here for our second date -- I knew he would have positively the best night of his life!  Well, gosh, it's been great seeing you again!

Philip shot me a pained look as Florian led him away.

See also: 50 Ways of Saying "Fabulous"

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.

Public Cruising in Mississippi in 1984: Sex First, Intimacy Later

Oxford, Mississippi, Summer 1984

I've just finished my M.A. degree, and I'm on my way south to Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas, a far northern suburb of Houston, where I will be teaching English at Lone Star State College.  I stop for the night in Oxford, Mississippi, the home of Ole Miss.

I tour the university and the William Faulkner house, get take-out fried chicken from Lenora's Family Restaurant, and check in to my hotel to settle down for an evening of Family Ties, Cheers, and Night Court.

I'm not planning to go out.  I have to take occupancy of my new apartment by 5:00 pm tomorrow, or I'll be stuck in hotels all weekend.  That means getting up at 5:00 am.

Besides, I'm in Mississippi, the heart of the heart of the most horrifyingly homophobic state in a horrifyingly homophobic country.  Where is there to go?

My Gayellow Pages listed only 1 bar in the whole state, in Jackson.

And I definitely am not going to go to a straight bar!

Still, I'm restless.  I have to go somewhere.

In the gathering darkness, I leave my hotel, walk down Lamar Boulevard, past Lenora's again, around the courthouse.  The same coffee houses and pizza places you would find in college towns anywhere,  Down University Boulevard, toward the campus.  

Elegant but rundown Victorian houses, gas stations, clothing boutiques, a lot of churches, a Christian Science Reading Room.


I see a cute guy heading in my direction, coming from the campus -- about my age, light brown hair, clean-shaven, slim, smooth chest.  His shirt is tucked into the right pocket of his jeans.  He gives me a long cruisy stare and turns south, onto 11th Street.  Curious, I follow.

He turns right onto Lincoln Avenue, a residential street that dead-ends at a traffic barrier.  He walks around -- there's a dirt path into the woods.

I follow him into the dark woods lit only by twilight and an occasional street light glimpsed far away -- and cigarettes.  The woods are populated!

Rugged Ole Miss Rebel football players, well-kept businessmen-types, bears, blue collars, rednecks who drove a dozen miles to stand in seclusion in the warm, humid night. Lots of muscles. 

The smell of beer and cigarettes and sweat.


This must be an outdoor cruising area, like the one Viju took me to in India earlier this summer.

The guy I followed in stands with his back to a tree and drops his pants.  Average beneath-the-belt-gifts, but already standing at attention, pale in the moonlight.  I kneel on the damp earth and go down on him.  

It takes him a long time, but he finishes with a barely suppressed moan.  Then he pulls me to my feet and zips up.  I try to kiss him, but he moves his head away  

"My name is Boomer," I say.

He looks startled, but says "Howdy, Boomer.  I'm Elmer."  He extends his hand.  It seems odd to be shaking hands with someone after we've been intimate.  Sex first, introductions later.  "Thanks, that was awesome."

He vanishes into the darkness.


A few guys have gathered to watch our performance.  I go down on a slim, blond guy in his 20s, with a Bratwurst+.  Then another Bratwurst is pushed into my face, and I try to go down on them both at once.

I can't see who it belongs to.

Sex first, introductions later.  If at all. 

One finishes and walks away; the other pushes my head off and walks away..

I wander through the woods. 

Someone is trying to go down on a middle-aged guy with a hairy chest, a little belly, and a gigantic Kovbasa, a  foot-long baseball bat  It's too big, so mostly he is using his hand.  I stand beside them, and he goes down on me as well.

I try to kiss the middle-aged guy, but he pushes my head down to his chest instead. I kiss and lick his nipples.

After a few moments, he leaves, and the guy on his knees goes down on me alone.

I don't finish; it's hard to concentrate in the semi-darkness, with the bugs and the heat and the sweat.  Besides, I don't know anything about the guy I'm having sex with.  At least in the bathhouse in Chicago last year, you could see their faces and physiques.


Some guys have gathered around to watch.

Finally I pull him to his feet, so at least I can see his face.  It's Elmer!

"Oh, hi, Boomer, I didn't know that was you."  

"You can't get rid of me that easy," I joke.  I try to kiss him, but he pulls his head away.

"You got a room?"

"Yeah, I'm at the Graduate, up on Lamar."

"Let's go there, ok?  The mosquitoes are getting pretty intense out here."

On the way out of the woods, he stops to go down on a tall, muscular redhead with a military crew cut.

Then we go back to Lamar Boulevard.  Elmer stops at a small grocery store to buy a toothbrush.  

"Do you know any of these guys?" I ask.  "Like, last name basis?"

"I know some of the faces of the regulars, but we don't talk much. We're mostly just there for the sex.  I think you're the only guy who ever told me his name."

It sounds horribly depressing, something out of a Truman Capote novel.  At least Rock Island has some gay bars.  "Is that all there is for gay guys to do, here in Oxford?  Have quickies in the woods, with mosquitoes and muddy knees?"

Elmer slaps me on the back.  "You gotta be kidding me, boy!  Them woods are just for sex.  I got a lot of gay friends in town.  I got two boyfriends.  We go to movies, to football games, out to eat, that kind of thing.  There's a professor that throws real fancy parties once a month  30 gay guys, with dancing and hors d'oeuvres."


"But it's like...Mississippi!  Are you out to people and everything?"

"No, coming out is a Yankee custom.  We keep a low profile down here, no camping it up and calling each other 'Mary,' and if somebody asks, you just say you haven't met the right girl yet."

When we get back to my hotel room, Elmer goes immediately into the bathroom.  I hear the sound of tooth brushing and gargling.  He returns: "Ok, you go brush your teeth, too.  And use mouthwash."

I comply.  When I come out, he is lying naked on the bed.  "Now I'll kiss you."

Sex first, intimacy later. Last names, not at all.


See also: Cruising Rednecks in Oxford, Mississippi; William Faulkner

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


Monday, February 22, 2016

A Live Sex Show for Alan

Washington, DC, April 1995

I had a lot of fun visiting Alan the Pentecostal Porn Star, his partner Sandy, and their friend Tarik in Norfolk in 1993, so I couldn't wait to return.

By April 1995, they had moved back to Sandy's home town of  Washington, DC.

Even better!  Dupont Circle, one the best and brightest gay neighborhoods in the world!

Sunday, April 9th.

I arrived on Sunday, April 9th, planning to spend a week and go home the day after Easter.  Sandy met me at the airport, explaining that Alan couldn't come -- he was "a little low energy."

I nodded.  Alan became HIV positive in 1992.  The virus must be catching up with him.

Their apartment was even cooler than I thought -- on R Street at Connecticut in Dupont Circle, within a few blocks of a dozen gay bars, bookstores, retail outlets, and organizations (plus the Embassy of Sierra Leone).


Alan didn't get off the couch to greet me.  He was a little thinner, a little tired-looking, but still warm and jovial.

The living room was bare -- no artwork on the walls, no objects d'art on the coffee table, no rugs, just plain furniture.

"We've been taking our time unpacking" Sandy explained.  "We don't typically spend a lot of time at home, what with my job and Alan's appointments."

As in medical appointments? 

We sat down to a dinner of goat cheese-and-turkey divan, a salad, and fresh strawberries..  Alan just picked at his.

"So what's the plan?" I asked.  "Since you're a DC native, Sandy, you can probably give me the insider tour."

"Sure, but I'm working until Saturday," Sandy said.  "But don't worry, you can walk to all the tourist places in about fifteen minutes."

I didn't ask whether Alan could come -- obviously not.  Shortly after dinner, he excused himself and went to bed, leaving Sandy and me watching tv.

This was turning out to be a depressing visit.  Was there some way to turn things around?  "Do you mind if I go out cruising some night, and bring someone home?"

"Not at all," Sandy said with a smile.  "In fact, we might even watch.  Alan has been so down lately, it might cheer him up."

That's it! I thought.  I'll bring a guy home and give Alan a live show.

Monday, April 10th

Alan was particularly into twinks, especially Asian and Hispanic. Maybe I could bring in two, and they could go with each other while we watched.

I spent Monday touring the White House and the Smithsonian, then stopped at the Crew Club to work out and cruise.  I went down on a couple of guys, but nothing serious.

I met Alan and Sandy for dinner, then excused myself and went alone to the Cobalt, the biggest twink dance club in town.  But I was 34 years old, not yet a twink magnet, and after getting extensive Attitude, I went home.  No live show for Alan!

Tuesday, April 11th

The National Gallery, the Capitol, and then to the Crew Club to work out and cruise.  I met a very cute Capitol intern named David: round face, sharp features, smooth hard chest, average beneath the belt.  A political science major from Boston University.

But after we finished, in the 69 position, he refused my idea of going home to give Alan a live show.  "I'm too shy to do it in front of other people,"

Back home, Sandy made dinner -- cheese enchiladas with mango salsa -- and we stayed in to watch tv: Wings, News Radio, Frasier.

No live show for Alan.


Wednesday, April 12th

Early morning jogging past the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial, then breakfast, the Ford Theater, the Freer Gallery of Asian art -- where I didn't meet anyone -- and back to the Crew Club.  I went down on a couple of guys, including a tall, thin British twink named Bertram, but nothing serious.

Alan, Sandy, and I had dinner at the Great Wall, a Szechuan restaurant, and then walked around Dupont Circle for a bit, but Alan quickly got tired, and wanted to go home.

 Later I went to the Ace Club, where guys dance in jock straps in front of you.  Mostly hard-bitten musclemen, but there was one Asian twink!   I kept shoving dollars in his jockstrap to keep him chatting:  Hiroki from Japan, mid-twenties, day job as a waiter, hoping to go into restaurant management.

I told him about my live show idea.  "I do private parties, sure," he said.  "Costs $200. No sex, just dancing.  He bent over and hugged and kissed me.  "But if I like you, I spend the night for free," he whispered.

A little pricey, but why not?  I arranged for Hiroki to arrive tomorrow night, a little after dinner.

Thursday, April 13th.

Jogging, then Georgetown University to check out their linguistics department, then the National Cathedral, the Freer Gallery again, and home for dinner.

I was overbrimming with excitement -- Alan's surprise live show would start any moment.

The doorbell rang while Sandy was still cooking dinner.  Hiroki was early!  "Don't get up -- it's for me!" I exclaimed, and rushed to buzz him in.

A knock on the door.  I opened it.

To Tarik, the guy Alan and Sandy set me up with in Norfolk two years ago!  He hugged me.

"Alan said you were feeling a little lonely, so I pulled some strings and drove up for the weekend.  And I brought you a present," he said to Alan.  "He's out looking for a parking space.  Straight from Honolulu, Hawaii, by way of the Norfolk Naval Base, Ensign Mark Kimura!"

Turns out Tarik and I both had the same idea.

Hiroki, Tarik and Ensign Mark Kimura put on quite an energetic live show that night.

See also: I Visit Alan, Sandy, and Their Boy Toy



Sunday, February 21, 2016

The Great 2007 Hookup Contest, Midwest Muscle vs. West Hollywood Street Smarts

West Hollywood, February 2007

I fly from Dayton to LAX for a job interview at Los Angeles City College.  After an interview with the recruitment committee, my job talk, and dinner at a Mexican restaurant, I am dropped off at my hotel.

I change into my West Hollywood clothes, and my ex Lane picks me up.  We go to the French Quarter for dessert with my old friends Marshall and Will the Bondage Boy, plus Marshall's boyfriend Mark and a Cute Young Thing named Jake, who doesn't seem attached to anyone.

I have two nights in Los Angeles, and I want to go to all my old haunts.  The Different Light Bookstore!  The Bodhi Tree!  The gay synagogue!  The Faultline!  My old gym!

"I have an idea," Lane says.  "Remember the Great Redneck Roundup of 1995?  We can spend the night hooking up -- pick someone up, bring him home, do him, kick him out, back to the bar for the next guy."

"But we were Cute Young Things back then.  I'm 46!"

"So what?  I'm 51!"

"And I really wanted to go to my favorite places again..."

"Why not do both?"  Mark suggests.  "There are five of us.  Each will take you to one of your favorite spots for an hour, and whoever can pick up someone wins."

"Are you ready to pitch your Midwestern farmboy muscles against our West Hollywood street-smarts?" Lane asks.

During the next two nights, we held the Great 2007 Hookup Contest at my five favorite spots in West Hollywood.

1. The Different Light Bookstore, with Mark.

We arrive at 9:00 pm.  Gay literature and history, book signings, poetry readings.  I used to drop in almost every day.  I joked that I was moving their entire inventory to my apartment, book by book.  But in 10 years in West Hollywood, I only picked up one guy here.

Mark goes to the erotica section and starts chatting up a middle-aged bear.  I latch onto a shy-looking twink, maybe new to West Hollywood, browsing in the gay history section.

"I wrote one of those books," I tell him.

He turns to me and smiles.  "Oh, which one?"

Whoops -- I can't find it.  He moves on.  A moment later, Mark appears with the bear.  "And this is Boomer.  He'll be there too."

West Hollywood - 1, Midwest 0

We go back to Mark's apartment.  The bear is very muscular, with a hairy chest and a nice uncut Bratwurst, but I'm more interested in Mark: in his 30s, curly hair, smooth chest, average sized, cut, into kissing and oral.

At 10:30 his boyfriend Marshall arrives to take me to the gym.

2. L.A. Fitness, with Marshall.

It used to be the Holiday Spa. Marshall and I used to work out nearly every night here, amid the gay men, celebrities, and gay celebrities.  Now it is a beautiful facility, but nearly deserted at 11:00 pm.  No celebrities, just a few gym rats who looked heterosexual.

Marshall and I work out, then go to the steamroom. It is deserted except for a young Asian guy.  We open our towels.  He gives us a weird angry look and opens his towel, too.  Fully aroused.

Marshall goes over and offers a hand.  The Asian guy pushes him away.  Then, with a look of supreme resignation, he walks over to me, kneels on the wet stone floor, and goes down on me.  Only for a few minutes, but it counts.

West Hollywood - 1, Midwest -1.

Afterwards Marshall comes back to my hotel to spend the night.

The next day, I have breakfast with the committee, individual meetings with faculty and students, lunch, a teaching demo, a campus tour, more meetings, and dinner.  They drop me off at my hotel at 7:00, and Will the Bondage Boy picks me up.

"This is Valentine's Day," I point out.  "Couples everywhere.  How am I supposed to pick up anyone today?"

He shrugs.  "Lots of lonely single guys hope to show that they're really men by hooking up, right?"

3. The Bodhi Tree, with Jake.

Will picks up Jake, and drops us both off at the Bodhi Tree, a New Age Bookstore on Melrose, where I used to go every week to browse among the paranormal books.  I picked up Richard Dreyfuss there, but only after working on him for several weeks.  How could I just cruise someone?

Apparently Jake can.  After we browse for a bit and I select up a book on alien abductions, he draws me to the Buddhism section, where a thin, intellectual-looking guy with a scraggly beard was browsing.

"Hi, I've seen you here a few times," Jake says.  "This is my friend Boomer, from all the way out in Ohio.  A Midwestern farmboy.  I'm showing him the sights of California."

"Hi, I'm Ezra."  We shake hands.  "Are you interested in Buddhism?"

"I don't know much about it.  Is it pro gay?"

We end up at Jake's apartment, where I go down on his thick cut Bratwurst while Jake is kissing him. Soon I'm going down on Jake, too: Kielbasa, uncut.  They're still kissing at 9:00, when Lane arrives to take me to the synagogue.

Since Jake initiated the hookup, he gets the point: West Hollywood -2, Midwest -1.

4. Beth Chaim Chadashim, with Lane.

The gay synagogue holds Friday night Shabbat services, plus a full range of social events.  Tonight is a Valentine's Day dance.  Lane is not big on dancing -- during our all our years together, as partners and friends, I've only seen him dance once.  So he sits on the side with punch and cookies, while I chat up some cute Jewish guys.

I still haven't sealed a deal at 10:30, when it's time for Will the Bondage Boy to pick me up.  West Hollywood -2, Midwest -1.


5. The Faultline, with Will the Bondage Boy and Lane (who insists on coming with us).

Lane and I spent many Sunday afternoons at the beer-and-soda bust at the Faultline, a bear-leather bar near Santa Monica and Vermont, but we rarely picked anyone up.  It's for socializing, not cruising, and tonight is no exception. Guys flirt and grope, and I see a chubby bear aroused at the urinal in the bathroom, but nothing substantial happens.

At 1:00 am Will and Lane come back to my hotel to spend the night.

West Hollywood -2, Midwest -1. 

West Hollywood wins.

But remember -- during the two-day period, Mark, Jake, Lane, Will, and Marshall were with just two guys apiece.  I was with them plus the hookups, a total of 7 guys.   

Midwest farmboy outwits West Hollywood sophisticates.

By the way, I didn't get the job.

See also: The Great Redneck Roundup of 1995; and The Great Hookup Contest of Philadelphia.

Christmas 2007: Topped by the Teenage Mayor

Indianapolis, December 2007

In 1995 my parents and sister moved from Rock Island to a small town in southern Indiana.

Outside of Indianapolis and Bloomington, southern Indiana is deeply conservative.  There are more fundamentalist churches than people.  Billboards extoll "family values." Homophobic diatribes fill the letters section of the local newspapers.

So when I came for my annual Christmas and summer visits, I stayed mostly in the house, unless my parents dragged me out to a restaurant or antique store, or I got to drive up to the gay venues of Indianapolis.

In December 2007, on the way back to Dayton on Christmas Day, I stopped at the Works, a bath house with a fully equipped gym, a maze, a steam room, and several dark rooms for anonymous activity.  It was surprisingly crowded -- I guess I'm not the only one experiencing angst or infinite boredom during holiday visits.

A young guy approached me in the maze: short brown hair, cute round face, smooth, not particularly muscular body.  He looked about 15!  I wondered if he was underage.  Could he have a fake id?

Instead of touching his chest, the standard bath house ice-breaker, I asked "How old are you?"

He looked offended.  "How old are you?"

"Ok.  When was the first national election you voted in?"

"2000."  So he was at least 25!  "I voted for Al Gore for president, and David Johnson for senator.  But Lugar won by a landslide.  So, we gonna talk politics, or you gonna go down on me?"

"Ok, you talked me into it. My name is Boomer."  I reached out and groped him.  Average, uncut.

"Jim. Got a room?"

Jim turned out to be an anal top.  Usually I'm not into that, but so many twinks throw their legs up in the air at me that it seemed a refreshing change of pace.  Besides, there was a lot of kissing and oral on the way down.

Chatting afterwards, I discovered that he was 26 years old, he graduated from Indiana University with a history degree in 2002, and now he and his brother ran a storage company.

"Do you want to go back to my place," Jim asked, "Maybe get some dinner?  I live a few miles out of town, but I'm up for having you spend the night."

"Sorry, I'm due in Dayton tomorrow morning."

"After New Year's, then?  Come out for the weekend.  I'd love to introduce you to my boyfriend."

Boyfriend?  

He wrote down his address -- New Bern, a small town about thirty miles from my parents' house.  We sometimes drove out to visit the antique shops.  I wasn't impressed.


"I've been through New Bern!" I exclaimed.  "Even more scary conservative than the rest of Southern Indiana.  Full of gun stores and fundamentalist churches!  How can you stand it?  Don't you get crosses burnt on your front lawn?"

He smiled.  "Oh, I manage.  Come down next weekend, and we'll show you around."

On January 5th, I drove out to New Bern.  Gun stores, fundamentalist churches, "Beads by Emily," a non-ironic 1950s diner, an old-fashioned barber shop.  I could feel the waves of suspicion and hatred from the townsfolk.

Jim lived alone in a very nice two-story house near the outskirts of town: his back yard abutted a horse farm.  Apparently running a storage company paid very well.

His boyfriend Calvin was a few years older, probably around thirty, and considerably more muscular, with a smooth hard chest and xylophone abs

He explained that he worked at one of those trendy clothing stores in the Mall in Greenwood, so he had to look good.  Every day before work he spent two hours at the Y, pumping iron.

After chatting for a bit, we moved into the bedroom for an amazingly enthusiastic encounter. Jim was still an anal top -- with enough stamina to top both of us.  Calvin was versatile, and into oral.

Afterwards we had lunch in a Mexican restaurant where the ornate murals featured muscular, half-naked Aztecs meeting Cortez and his conquistadors, quite a refreshing bit of beefcake in the straight world.

Everyone seemed to know Jim and Calvin.  The waiter gave us our drinks on the house, and two people came up to say hello.  One had a lot to say about the upcoming ice-carving festival.

Then I got a tour of New Bern.

The high school where the students performed the gay-themed drama Angels in America.

The house where Emily of "Beads by Emily" lived with her "girlfriend."

A Lutheran church that was "welcoming," and had several open gay couples in the congregation.

All gay public employees, by the way, were protected by a non-discrimination policy.

Finally we went to the park where Jim used to watch Calvin playing baseball, before they started dating, when they knew each other only vaguely, the way guys in small towns do.  Oblivious to passersby, they pulled each other into a kiss.

This was small town scary conservative Indiana?

"You guys are quite the civic boosters," I said.  "Next you'll be telling me that you're members of the Rotary Club, Toastmasters, and the Chamber of Commerce."

"Close,"  Jim said, wrapping his arm around my shoulders.  "I'm the mayor."

My head exploded. 

"You said you run a storage company..."

"In a small town all elected offices are part time."

"You got elected mayor of a conservative small town at age 26...."

"He was 25," Calvin corrected me.  "One of the youngest mayors in Indiana history, but not the youngest.  That was a 23-year old up in...."

"And the gun-owning, fundamentalist townsfolk elected a gay guy?"

"Well, I'm not exactly out," Jim said.  "I've never actually made a coming-out speech.  I don't bring Calvin to official functions.  But everybody in town sees us together all the time, and we never have girls around.  The young people don't care, and the older ones pretend not to notice."

In ultra-conservative small-town Indiana?

"There are homophobes here," Calvin added.  "Bible-thumping preachers and in-bred rednecks and the like.  But you get those everywhere.  I bet you even got them out in West Hollywood."

Back at the house, Calvin cooked dinner, and we settled in to watch a DVD, interrupted only by a phone call requiring Jim's mayoral decision regarding the upcoming festival.  Then we went into the bedroom.

I didn't "date" Jim and Calvin again, but it was nice to know they were there.

By the way, the first "openly" gay mayor in Indiana is Pete Buttigieg of South Bend, who came out during his first term in June 2015, and was elected for a second term with 80% of the votes.  Apparently his being gay was less controversial than his plan to return two-way traffic to one-way Michigan Street.

See also: A Ginger Boy for Christmas.