Saturday, April 2, 2016

Lane and I Share Two Guys at Once in Silverlake

Silverlake, April 1994

On Saturday nights when we didn't have other plans, Lane and I often went cruising.  Around 9:30, I dropped him off at the Faultline, and then drove a mile farther east to Basgo's, the Hispanic bar in Silverlake.

At 11:00 or 11:30,  I picked him up again.

Usually one or both of us had met someone, and made a date for later in the week (we would share the bedroom activities at the end, of course).

Once in a while, we couldn't wait: the guy came along, for a late-night snack at the French Quarter (to make it technically a date rather than a hookup), and then home for the bedroom activities.

You're probably wondering what happened when Lane and I both wanted to bring a guy home that night.

In two years of cruising, that only happened once.

Basgo's was not for third and fourth-generation Hispanic guys.  It was for recent immigrants from Mexico, Guatemala, Panama, or points south, who spoke little or no English and felt more comfortable in Latin American gay cultures than in the white middle class Anglo gay culture.

There were a lot of guys who looked like the top photo.

And a lot who looked like this (there are millions of people of British, German, French, and Scandinavian ancestry in Latin America).

But not a lot of black guys. African slavery was not common in Latin America, where Indians were available to do the same jobs.  And intermarriage was common.  So today people of exclusively African ancestry constitute:

10% of the population of Colombia
4% of the population of Venezuela
1% of the population of Mexico

And when they immigrate, they tend to prefer the African-American gay culture to the Hispanic gay culture of Silverlake.

So it was rather surprising to see a black guy at Basgo's.  

He would have stood out in the crowd anywhere: very tall, probably 6'5", with close-cropped black hair and a round, handsome face.  A red, yellow, and blue muscle shirt with the logo FVF revealed thick, hard shoulders and biceps.  Square hands.  A bar-bulge in his jeans.

I approached and said "Hola!  Me llame Boomer."

He glared at me.  "Practicing your Spanish?"

Embarrassed, I switched to English.  ", what does FVF mean?"

(It's actually the name of the Venezuelan National Football Team).

Another glare.  "What does NFL mean, chumo?  Are you from the moon?"

"No, the Midwest," I said before retreating to the other side of the bar.

A while later, the FVF guy appeared next to me, carrying two bottles of beer  "Hola!" he said.  "Me llame Pedro."

"Practicing your Spanish?"

He handed me one of the bottles.  "Come on, I was just having fun with you.  So you're from the Midwest, right?  Que barbaridad!  Like, you had barns, and fields, and you had to do the,,,ordeñando of the cows?"  He made cow-milking motions with his hands.

"Sure," I lied.  "I milked 30 cows before school every morning."

" are really good with your hands, right?" he said with a leer.

"And mouth."

Pedro was from Caracas, Venezuela, where his father taught economics at the Universidad Central.  He had come to the U.S. just after completing his degree in performing arts from the University of Zulia; now he was doing some modeling and commercials while trying to break into acting.

He was a bit too tall for me -- I like guys who are short, dark, and heavily muscled.  But I had never met a black Hispanic guy before, and he was so talkative and animated that I found myself explaining the "sharing," showing him a photo of Lane, and inviting him to get together later on in the week.

"Why not tonight?" Pedro asked, his hand wandering down to cup my bar-bulge.  "No tengo nada para hacer."

With someone's hand on your penis, it's hard to say no.

There were no cell phones in those days, so I couldn't call Lane and tell him.

Instead, Pedro followed me to the Faultline, where we found Lane with his tongue down the throat of a buffed Asian leatherman.

I was rather surprised -- Lane usually liked hairy chests and beards, attributes rare in Asian guys.

"Oh, hi, Boomer," he murmured, pulling away.  "This is Harry, from Veracruz, Mexico -- you didn't know they had Asian leathermen in Mexico, did you?  I invited him home tonight.  We're going to do a leather scene."

(Asians comprise less than 1% of the population of Mexico.)

This was awkward!

 " Pedro, from Caracas, Venezuela. him home, too.  Harry, could we reschedule the scene for another time?"

The leatherman frowned.  "Lo siento, I fly back to Veracruz tomorrow.  How about if you bring Pedro home another time?"

Pedro laughed.  "Oye, I've been cruising Boomer for an hour.  Ya soy excitado.  Feel."  He grabbed Lane's hand and pushed it against his crotch.  "The offer expires at midnight."

This was quite a conundrum!

"Guys, this may be estupido," Harry said, "But why can't all of us go to your apartment?  Your bed is big enough, no?"

Lane and I exchanged glances.  We never thought of that before!

After a late dinner at the French Quarter, we all returned to our apartment.

In the guest bedroom, we tied Harry, spanked him, edged him, and "forced" him to do oral.

Then we left him tied to the bed and went to the master bedroom for more kissing, oral, and 69.  Lane and I took turns going down on Pedro.  Lane and I finished with 69. Finally, we went back to the guest room, where Pedro topped Harry while Lane went down on him.

It was an energetic evening, but difficult to ensure that no one was left out. We never invited two guys home at once again.

I was trying to figure out how many ethnic groups participated.  Lane and I were both European Americans.  Pedro and Harry were both Hispanic, but Pedro was Afro-Venezuelan, and Harry was Asian-Mexican.  So is that two or four?

See also: The Silverlake Stud; Victor and His Sleazoid Daddy

Thursday, March 31, 2016

The Darkroom of the Gay Bar in St. Louis

St. Louis, November 2008

Most gay bars in Europe have darkrooms, cut off from the main bar by a black curtain.  It's completely dark inside, not even a safety light, although some guys walk around flashing the lights on their cell phones.  You feel around until you find something you like.

In the U.S., you might occasionally find a guy pulling it out in a dark corner, but there are no darkrooms.  State and local laws strictly forbid public sexual encounters.  Even in bathhouses, private clubs with membership fees, you're not allowed to do things in public areas.  

I've seen the equivalent of a darkroom only once in the U.S.

In the fall of 2008, in St. Louis for a conference, I went to the Spike (I don't remember its real name) on Manchester Street, in the gay neighborhood.

Bare brick walls, a small dance floor, a lot of guys in jeans hanging around staring into space, their beer bottles protruding like phalluses.

I noticed a lot of beer bottles by a door in the back, as if people were leaving them on the way to the bathroom, but it wasn't a bathroom.

They would set down their beer bottle, go through, and return a few minutes later.

After awhile, I investigated.

It was a narrow enclosed patio, partially open to the sky, lit only by the stars and a string of multicolored Christmas tree lights.

No heat except for a red-glowing space heater.

A bulletin board, some railings, no place to sit.

There was a row of men standing with their backs against the wall in single file, like prisoners waiting for a firing squad.

Except they had their pants down.  Their penises were hanging down.  One was standing straight out in anticipation..

There was a guy on his knees, going down on one.

The others were waiting.

A smorgasbord!

I picked an attractive subject, a slim twink with an uncut Mortadella, fell to my knees, and went to work.

He moaned but did not otherwise respond.  He didn't even look at me.

After a few minutes, I felt someone prod my shoulder.  The other guy working the line, wanting his turn.

I shrugged and crawled over to the next subject, in his 30s, tall, with a short beard and average beneath-the-belt gifts.   I reached under his shirt to feel his chest, but he pushed my hand away.

Penis only.

After a few minutes, another shoulder prod.

I moved down the line, to a slim, balding black guy with a huge Kovbasa+.

Too much for me.  I crawled on to the next.

Another twink, this one more muscular, a collegiate athlete type with dirty blond hair and a cut Bratwurst.

I knew nothing else about him.

In bars you got the guy's entire life story, and in bathhouses you at least exchanged names, but here there was nothing but the phallus.  Even the athlete's face was a cypher: motionless, expressionless, not even looking at you.

And you saw none of their body.  They were fully clothed except for the penis hanging out of their pants.  At least the athlete let me feel his chest and abs under his shirt, but I saw nothing else.

He finished very quickly, without making a sound.  I sputtered and swallowed, then rose to my feet and tried to kiss him.

He turned his face away, zipped up, and quickly left.

How rude!  I'm good enough to go down on you, but not to kiss you!

As I stood there, fuming, one of the guys on his knees grabbed at my crotch, no doubt thinking that I was planning to take the twink's place.  I shoved him away.  He shrugged and went on to the next.

A guy near the end of the line finished with a shout, zipped up, and left.  A solidly built Daddy in his 40s stepped up to take his place, unzipped, and pulled out an already-aroused uncut Bratwurst.

I stood directly in front of him  and said "Hi."  He stared straight into space -- giving Attitude, a sign that you're not interested.

But he held out his uncut Bratwurst.

Sighing, I dropped to my knees.

I was beginning to feel like a factory worker on an assembly line.

The next guy in line prodded me.

I stood and looked at the smorgasbord.  Since I began, three guys had finished or grown bored.  Others took their place.

I stood in an empty space and let someone go down on me.  I don't know who he was, what he looked like.

A factory worker on an assembly line.

Penises only, no body, no mind, no soul.

Suddenly I was very depressed.

I pushed him away, zipped up, and went back into the bar.  Retrieving my coke, I stood next to a guy in a black muscle shirt standing by himself by the pool tables.

A little shorter than me, pale, smooth, nicely muscled shoulders and biceps, square working-man's hands.

His name was Mark, an Americanized version of Mirsad.

He was 32 years old, a Bosnian Muslim who fled with his parents during the Bosnian War in 1992.  He had only lived in the U.S. for two years.  He worked for the cable company as an installer.  He liked the Star Wars movies and graphic novels.

I invited him back to my hotel room to spend the night.  He was intense and passionate, into oral, giving and receiving, and anal, which I refused.  In the morning we had breakfast in the hotel, and he gave me his phone number before we said goodbye.

Here's what he looked like naked.

A body, a mind, a soul.

See also: The Nigerian with the Pierced Penis; 36 Hours of Cruising at Lambert International Airport.

Tuesday, March 29, 2016

Wade the Beachboy Cruises for Hawaiian Men

Wilton Manors, Summer 2004

"I read an interesting article in the Gay News," Wade and Yuri's hookup says.  "It was about the gay traditions of kanaka maoli, traditional Hawaiian society. "

With three housemates dating and hooking up regularly, you never know who will be sitting at the breakfast table, especially on weekends.  This morning there's seven: me, Barney, our dates from last night, Yuri, my ex-boyfriend Wade, and Ricardo, the Cuban-American dance instructor they "shared."

"The aikane, or male bedmate, was a standard part of the culture," Ricardo continues.  "Every guy had a wife and an aikane." 

"I always thought of Hawaii as a 'good place,'" I say, "Where same-sex desire is open.

"Me, too!" Wade exclaims.  "I applied to the University of Hawaii for my undergrad degree, but my parents talked me into staying home in Canada.  I should have gone!  Hawaiian men are so hot!"

"And I'd love to hear the Hawaiian language spoken."

"You could get your chance," Ricardo says.  "According to the article, there are 400,000 native Hawaiians on the mainland, most of them right here in Florida."

"That's 200,000 men," Barney calculates, "100,000 adult men, 10,000 adult gay men.  Nice odds!  You could get an aikane easily, if you plan your strategy right."

"And when you do, bring him around," I add.  "I want to talk to him."

"Or use your mouth, anyway," Wade says.  Everyone laughs.

Where do you find gay native Hawaiians in Florida?

The Polynesian restaurants in Fort Lauderdale, the Big Kahuna and the Mai-Kai, are tacky, touristy, and very heterosexual, with "shows" featuring gyrating women in grass skirts.

There is a Hawaiian Civic Association in Melbourne, but its brochure lists "family friendly," that is, heterosexual-only events.

But: Florida International University in Miami.  10% of the 50,000 students are Pacific Islanders, mostly native Hawaiians.

 5,000 of them, 2,500 male, 250 gay male.

Ok, where to find them?

Wade checks the schedule of classes for something on Pacific Island anthropology, languages, cultures...and finds Hawaiian Language 101, offered through the Asian Studies Department!

Surely lots of native Hawaiians would enroll in such a class!

It's a long drive on terrible Florida highways, but at least his job at the hotel will pay the tuition, assuming that language study will come in handy in speaking to tourists.

Week 1

Hawaiian 101 was held on Tuesdays and Thursdays in the Deuxieme Maison,  "The Second House," actually a long, low concrete building.

Wade loved the language.  Only 8 consonants, including a glottal stop: H, K, L, M, N, P, W. And no dipthongs.  So Merry Christmas becomes Mele Kalikimaka.

The professor was a woman of Irish, Japanese, and Hawaiian ancestry, not a native speaker; she said that there were only about 2,000 native speakers left, but 200,000 people have learned some Hawaiian to get in touch with their roots.

What about your classmates?

11 women, 8 other men.  Of the men, one was haole, one black, the rest native Hawaiians trying to fill the "foreign language" requirement and get in touch with their roots at the same time.

Are any of the six native Hawaiian men gay?

It was hard to tell.  They all came and left in a group, and didn't interact much with the haole boys.

Week 2

Class is cancelled due to the hurricane.

Week 3

The Hawaiian for "I have a big stick" is i loaa he nui lāʻau

Week 4

"I finally managed to get a cruisy conversation with one of my classmates," Wade tells us.  "David.  He's majoring in Mass Communications.  He was excited to find out that I'm from Canada."

Week 5

"Made it!" Wade exclaims.  "David is gay, but closeted.  We went out for coffee, and then back to his dorm room."

"How big is he?" Yuri asks.

"You know I'm usually into older guys, but David is super-hot.  Very handsome face, smooth chest, xylophone abs, thick Smooth chest, tight pec muscles, very affectionate. We kissed, cuddled, he went down on me, I went down on him."

"How big?"

Wade smiles.  "I kept choking."

Week 6

"Ok, you've been out with David three times," I say.  "Time to introduce him."

"And share him," Yuri adds.

"He hasn't been out very long," Wade says, "And he's a little on the shy side.  I'm not sure he'd be up for sharing with both of you.  But he might be open to letting you watch."

"Ok, bring him on Thursday night," Yuri says.  "For dinner."

Week 7

Yuri is not really interested in sharing Wade's boyfriend -- he's into older, bodybuilder types, not twinks.  But he's willing, just to be polite.

But I'm thrilled.  I spend the week remembering the Pacific hunks of my childhood: Call It Courage, Robinson Crusoe on Mars, the tales of Robert Louis Stevenson.  Dusky, muscular Hawaiian guys fill my fantasies.

Finally Thursday night comes.  Barney is out, so it will be just the four of us.  Yuri makes moussaka, with a green salad and dolmas, stuffed grape leaves.  I rent a new porn movie to set the mood for later.

The doorbell rings promptly at 6:00.  I open it to Wade, carrying a fruit compote for dessert, and his new boyfriend David, from Hawaiian class.

A curly-haired haole.

Actually of English, Portuguese, and Japanese ancestry.

Well, Wade never actually said the guy was native Hawaiian.

At least he was not as shy as Wade thought, open to "sharing," and very well hung.

See also: 10 Ethnic Groups on my Bucket List; and A Clue in Hawaiian Pidgin


Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...