Saturday, April 9, 2016

Hank Williams Nude

This is reputedly Hank Williams, the country-western star, who I covered in the post "Hank Williams: Dynasty of Homophobia," on Boomer Beefcake and Bonding.
















The right time period, but I'm not sure I believe it.  Would the conservative Republican really allow himself to be photographed like that in the 1940s?

Besides, Hank Williams had a hairy chest, and died at the age of 29.  This guy is smooth, and looks way older than that.

Nice, though.

Getting the Shy Boy in the Third Row into my Bed

Wilton Manors, June 2002

When I moved to West Hollywood in 1985, I joined the All Saints Metropolitan Community Church, and I saw John there every Sunday.  He always sat by himself in the third row.  Eventually he joined the Food Bank Committee, and then he served on the church board, but he still sat by himself.

He was about five years younger than me, a junior at UCLA when we met, short and slim, with ruddy blond hair and blue eyes.  Very cute.

But I never even thought about asking him out.

Maybe it's because I usually dated Asian guys, or  gym rats like the Pentecostal Porn Star and the Thug on my Sausage List.

Or because I never saw him at the French Quarter, the Different Light, the gym, or anywhere in West Hollywood.  He seemed to exist only in church.

But it's probably because John just didn't seem like the dating kind.  He never sat with anyone; he never cruised anyone.  At the coffee hour after church, he was all Attitude, staring into the crowd without making eye contact.  He would talk to you about business, the church's financial goals and Food Bank program, but offered few personal details.

The only conversation we ever had on another topic:  he came up to me one day and said "I hear you work for Muscle and Fitness."

"Just part time.  I'm mostly in it to meet bodybuilders."

"Oh."  He  walked away.

In four years, I probably saw John 200 times, and said 200 words to him.

When I started dating Lane in 1989, I dropped out of MCC.  We attended the gay synagogue, Beth Chaim Chadashim, or the Episcopal Church.

A few years later, around 1991, I was visiting a friend in the San Fernando Valley, and we went to the gym together.  As I walked into the locker room, I saw John!  He was just out of the shower, with a towel around his waist.  He had bulked up a bit, with nice six-pack abs.

"John, how are you!" I exclaimed.  "Small world!"

"Yeah, hi, Boomer."  He caught me sneaking a peak at his rather small endowment, and quickly turned away.

As he got dressed, I got undressed.  I told him about Beth Chaim Chadashim, and he told me about MCC and his job doing some kind of statistical analysis.

Then he said, in a rather odd, stilted voice, "I might go for... um... coffee... um... um... never mind."  And he was gone.

He had been trying to ask me for a date!

I started wondering about John.  What was his story?  Why was he so standoffish?  Or maybe I just didn't express any interest.  Maybe there was a hidden gem at the All Saints MCC that I was too caught up in the big, loud gym guys to notice.

Too late now.  I was in a relationship, and besides, I didn't even remember his last name.

But gay neighborhoods are small.  Sooner or later, everyone you have ever met will show up again.

The years passed.  I moved to San Francisco, then New York, and then Florida, where I shared a house with Yuri and Barney, a former bodybuilder who owned a gym in Wilton Manors.

 Every morning Barney prepared us a bodybuilder's breakfast of egg white omelets, seven-grain pancakes, or oatmeal infused with spinach and kale (try it). On special occasions, cinnamon buns.

All three of us were dating and hooking up, and we often got out-of-town guests, so you never knew who would be sitting at the breakfast table in the morning.

But I never expected to see John!






One morning in the summer of 2002, I came into the kitchen, where Barney was making whey-protein French toast with apple slices and strawberry yogurt.

"Boomer, this is my friend John from Seattle," he said.  "He's here on vacation for a few days."

"Nice to meet you," I said, glancing at the kitchen table, where Yuri was drinking coffee with -- John from West Hollywood!

Not the slim, shy college kid I knew at the MCC.   Nearing middle age, graying at the temples, a little craggy, and heavy muscled, a semi-pro.  But umistakable!

We stared at each other.

"This is my other housemate, Boomer," Barney continued, his back to us.

"Small world," I managed.

"Oh, do you guys know each other?"

"Yeah, from West Hollywood."

"From the All Saints MCC!" John exclaimed.

"Is this one of your church boys?" Yuri asked.  "He's so hot -- did you date him?"

"No."  I sat down next to John, and we hugged.  "I would have liked to, but it never happened."

Over breakfast John told us about being a shy, closeted college student going to his first gay venue, the All Saints MCC, but too self-conscious about his scrawny body and undersized endowment to approach a guy.

Who didn't have sex until 1988, when he was 23.

Who started weight training to increase his self-confidence, found a lover who dumped him for a celebrity, found another lover, and now was immersed in a community of gay bodybuilders and fans in Seattle.

Not bad for a guy who, a few years before, couldn't even ask someone out for coffee.

Oh, and I finally did make it into his bed. Barney did a lot of sharing that weekend.

See also: Wade the Real Beach BoyThe Pentecostal Porn Star and The Thug on My Sausage List

Friday, April 8, 2016

Wednesday, April 6, 2016

A Three-Way with Danny and His Boyfriend

Rock Island,  Fall 1969

At the beginning of fourth grade, there was a new boy sitting in the back of the class: short, slim, with brown hair and glasses, wearing a red sweater.

"This is Danny," Miss Johnson told us.  "He just moved to Rock Island this summer.  He wears a leg brace and walks on crutches, so he will need a special friend: someone to carry his books and lunch tray, and play quiet games at recess."

Danny reddened with embarrassment.

"Would anyone like to volunteer to be Danny's special friend?

A boy named Joel shot his hand up. Danny grinned at him -- apparently they had already become "special friends" over the summer.  

But I raised my hand, too, and for some reason Miss Johnson gave me the honor.

Maybe she remembered that I was the new kid last year.  Or maybe she just liked me better.

Joel sat fuming.

For the rest of the day, I carried Danny's books and lunch bag around.  I helped him look up "bats" in the Golden Encyclopedia, showed him the cafeteria and the nurse's office, and carried his lunch tray, while his friend Joel glared at me.

Danny glanced over at him and smiled, enjoying the attention.

The quiet games at recess?  Showing off, doing complicated hanging routines on the monkey bars -- his arms worked fine.

Danny had muscles!  And he was so cute that I couldn't stop looking at him.

Maybe I could get him to come over to my house, and cuddle on the couch while we watched Dark Shadows and Captain Ernie's Cartoon Showboat.  

I didn't get a chance to ask.

Just as the final bell rang, and I started helping Danny collect his books, Joel and Bill approached.  "Danny lives two houses down from me," Joel said firmly.  "I can walk home with him."

"Well -- Miss Johnson told me to."

"That's only in school.  She can't tell us what to do when school is out."

He had a point, but I wasn't going to give up on cuddling that easily.  "You should come home with me," I told Danny.  "I have naked army men, and Mom probably made some cookies."

 Nudity and cookies?  Danny smiled, thinking it over, enjoying having two boys fight over him.

"You have to go up three steps to get in your house," Bill said.  "He'll never make it up."

"Well, we can...."

"And your bedroom is in the basement," he added with a triumphant grin.  He didn't want me hooking up with Danny, either.

So we separated, Danny and Joel heading east, and me and Bill heading north.

The next day, Joel asked for and received the privilege of being Danny's "special friend."

I made one more attempt to hook up with Danny: I invited him to a sleepover at my house, along with Joel, Bill, and Greg the Boy Vampire. Danny didn't come.  I shared my bed with Greg.

At some point during the fourth grade, Danny vanished.  I don't remember when, or why. Presumably he moved: people often started out in Rock Island, because housing was cheap, and then moved to a more prestigious community, like Moline, or Bettendorf, across the river in Iowa.


Joel turned out to be another boy who "liked muscles," my preteen code for "was attracted to boys."  We stayed friends through junior high.  But I never heard anything about Danny.

Until my senior year in high school.

Rock Island, March 1978

On Sundays we spent six hours in church: Sunday school and morning service from 9:30-12:00, and then 6:00 Nazarene Young People's Society, 7:00 evening service and altar call, and 8:30-10:00 Afterglow: a party in the Fellowship Hall with contemporary Gospel music, sodas and snacks, and crazy party games.

It was technically a venue for soul-winning: your unsaved friends, who wouldn't dream of setting foot in a church service, might accept an invitation to a party.

But it was really a Nazarene-sanctioned dating venue.  Boys and girls paired off to go.  You could even bring a non-Nazarene date, in spite of the rule against being "unequally yoked with unbelievers," under the pretense of trying to get him saved.

One evening Cecilia, who lived across the river in Bettendorf, brought an unsaved boy: tall, brown-haired, very muscular upper body.  Wearing a leg brace, but no crutches.  She introduced him as Dan.

Danny, from fourth grade!

I eagerly latched on to him, and peppered him with questions.  He was a senior at Bettendorf High School, planning to go to the University of Iowa and study chemistry. He still did complicated gymnastics, he was in the chess club, and he liked science fiction movies.  He didn't have a girlfriend; this was his first date with Cecilia.

"You know," I said, "Back in fourth grade, I kept trying to get you into my house for a sleepover, but Joel and Bill kept talking you out of it.  I think they were jealous."

He grinned.  "Well, no time like the present.  Why don't you come over Saturday night?  I'll invite Rich, my best friend, and maybe some of the other guys."

"A sleepover in high school? Isn't that a little juvenile?"

"Not if we stay up all night!"

So with our parents' permission, five guys, me, Danny, his younger brother, his boyfriend Rich, and another friend named Steve had a sleepover.

Rather, we stayed up all night, eating pizza, watching Creature Feature, playing Risk and ping pong, doing chemistry experiments, and talking on his CB radio.  

No cuddling or groping, but some incidental touching, and a sausage sighting: Danny and I both had to go to the bathroom at the same time, and he suggested we share.  Average size, nicely shaped.

Danny lived about 10 miles away, and the spring of my senior year in high school was very busy -- and very emotionally intense -- so we didn't hook up again.

I wonder if he's writing a blog right now, and talking about the sausage sighting he got of me.

See also: The Hookup at the Sleepover.

The Naked Nordic God of the Icelandic Hot Springs

Iceland, March 1981

During my junior year at Augustana College, I declared a major in Modern Languages.  We had to become fluent in two languages and competent in a third, plus participate in one language club.

My languages were Spanish, French, and German, but their clubs were kind of boring, with bake sales, foreign-language films, and field trips to the Goethe Institut or the Alliance Française in Chicago.

Everybody joined the Scandinavian Club -- they had an endowment from a wealthy alumnus, and paid most of the way for members to go on annual field trips to Scandinavia!

A different country every year, alternating between Sweden, Norway, Denmark, and Iceland.

In my junior year, it was Iceland.

I would have preferred Norway, but I wasn't about to turn down ten days in the land of the Old Norse sagas and Nordic hunks for $300  ($1000 today).


There were 22 of us, 10 boys and 12 girls, plus two chaperones.

We stayed in a youth hostel, six to a room, but everyone got a single bed, so there wasn't any late-night fondling, just a couple of less-than-spectacular sausage sightings.

No one came out willingly in the 1970s, so if any of the other guys were gay, they didn't let on.

Iceland was interesting, but not quite interesting enough for ten days.  After you see the National Museum and the  Árbæjarsafn, an open-air museum of Icelandic history, there's nothing but glaciers, geysers, rocks, and scraggly mountains.  I've never found natural wonders as interesting as museums.

For nightlife, we saw The Blue Lagoon with Icelandic subtitles and went on a pub crawl.

Oddly, wine and liquor were permitted in Iceland, but not beer (prohibitionists argued that because it was cheap, people would drink more of it, and become depraved alcoholics).  We drank Appelsin, an orange soda.



One day we took a bus to Hveragerði, about 45 minutes from Rejkjavik, to visit Reykjadalur, "Steam Valley,"  an unearthly-looking region of volcanic boulders, spurts of steam, rocks, waterfalls, pools of water, and hot springs with wooden footpaths around.

Our guide told us that some intrepid souls jumped into the hot springs, but you had to be careful -- in some of them, the temperature got up to 80 degrees (175 fahrenheit), and would scald you.

None of us was brave enough.  Besides, it was cloudy and damp, with a cold wind blowing -- who wanted to strip?

When it came time to get back on the bus, we discovered that Erik was missing!

He was a junior Scandinavian Studies major, short, slim, sandy-haired, blue-eyed, with a round handsome face.  We had known each other since high school, but we didn't interact much: he was a fratboy, several levels above me on the social scale.

We went up and down the paths, calling his name.  No answer.

He couldn't have fallen into a crevice.  It was all open -- we would see him.

Could he have wandered off the path, into the wilderness of volcanic rocks?

We searched for 45 minutes.  Then, just as our chaperone suggested we drive back to town and stop at the police station, Erik appeared -- on a path we had just searched!

Seeing our anxious and angry faces, he said "What?  Chill out -- I was just looking at something.  We're only in Iceland once, right?"

He didn't believe that he had been gone over 45 minutes: "I guess I lost track of time.  Sorry."


Rock Island, Summer 1998

I run into Erik at Rocky High's twentieth year reunion, and then again at JR's, Rock Island's gay bar!

He's still slim, sandy-haired, and strikingly handsome, now teaching Scandinavian Studies at St. Olaf College in Minnesota.

After a few beers (Diet Cokes for me), we talk about that long-ago trip to Iceland:

"I didn't tell anyone what happened, because it was erotic.  I didn't want to out myself."

That afternoon Erik wandered off by himself on a wooden-plank pathway.  Suddenly it got very quiet.  He couldn't hear our voices anymore, or even his own footsteps.   Everything seemed distant, yet sharply focused, like in a dream.

He crossed a little pathway, and came to a pool.  There was a man standing waist deep in the water, naked, muscular.  Massive penis.

He stared at Erik in surprise, and then smiled.  His eyes were piercing, hypnotic.  He gestured for Erik to come into the water with him.

"I was terrified.  Why should I be so afraid of a hot guy asking me to skinny dip with him?  I became aroused.  My feet started to move.  I wanted more than anything to be in that water, to be kissing him, going down on him.  He was aroused, enormous."

"How big?"

"Nine inches, easily. He walked toward me, water dripping off his penis.  I got on my knees.  I felt him ramming into my throat.  I hadn't been with anyone before -- it choked me!  I pulled my head away to cough.  Then I heard a noise -- someone calling my name.  I turned away.  I saw you guys in the distance."

"But what you describe took only a few seconds," I point  out.  "You were gone for about an hour."

"That's one thing I don't understand," Erik says.  "And another -- when I looked back, he was gone,  He didn't have time to run away, and there was no place to go."

I'm living in Manhattan, the paranormal capital of the world, and I'm an expert on missing time and paranormal events.  "Maybe you had a close encounter with the Huldufólk, Hidden People, the  magical inhabitants of Iceland.  They're usually harmless, unless you disturb them.  But some of them like luring humans off the path and seducing them."

"Seducing them, yeah," Erik says.  "What do these Huldufolk look like?"

They are as big as humans, as beautiful as Tolkien's Elves, lithe and androgynous.  They appear as beautiful youth with long blond hair, usually naked.

."Well, there goes that theory," Erik says  "My guy was no androgynous prettyboy.  He was at least fifty, maybe sixty, balding, with a white bead and a hairy chest.  More my type anyway.  I was always into big, burly bears."

"Oh, ok," I say, disappointed. "He must have been just an aging hippie looking for some boy toy action."

"But then, why the missing time?  Maybe naked Nordic gods come in both twinks and bears.  Just like in West Hollywood."

See also: The Football Player Who Got Unstuck in Time.; and Fred and the Icelandic Photographer







12 Spring Break Boys

I've been on college campuses, as a student or a teacher, almost every year of my life, so spring break is always a big deal.

A week off in March or early April, actually ten days if you skip the Friday befor (which everyone does), when plane flights are still cheap.and tourist destinations uncrowded!

Here are 12 memorable spring breaks, crowded with sightseeing and cruising.







1979: Chicago.  It was my freshman year of college.  Growing up in Rock Island, I'd been to Chicago many times, of course, but this time I had a goal: my friend Mary asked me to determine if her kid brother was gay.   After spending the night with him, I reported to Mary that he was absolutely straight -- wink wink, nudge nudge.

1981: Iceland.  I joined the Scandinavian Club just so I could go on their annual field trip to a Scandinavian country. During my junior year, it was Iceland.  I wasn't out, so no bars, bathhouses, or street cruising, but a lot of looking at Nordic men.  And my friend Erik hooked up with a naked Nordic god.








1985: New Orleans.  During my terrible year in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas, I jumped at any opportunity to escape.  The minute my last class ended, I got into my car and drove the 6 hours to New Orleans.  And I didn't get back until about an hour before my first class began on the Monday after.  It wasn't Mardi Gras, so guys weren't flashing their equipment to the crowd, but I still saw my fair share of penises.

1988: Pattaya, Thailand.  When I was living in West Hollywood, my friend Alan moved to Thailand to start a gay Pentecostal church.  He was sidetracked into an ex-gay cult, so I flew over to rescue him with a trip to Pattaya, the gay party capital of Southeast Asia.









1993: Las Vegas.  My first and only trip to Las Vegas, where heterosexual men in suits came to drink, gamble, and hook up with chorus girls.  Or with gay men.

1995: Washington, DC. To visit Alan and his partner Sandy, and put on a live sex show for him.

1998: San Francisco.  I was in New York, getting my Ph.D.  Yuri the Russian meteorology major had just come out, and wanted to see the heart of the heart of the gay world.  So we flew to San Francisco, stayed with my friend David, and went cruising on Castro Street. Sharing, a bear party, underwear night, a hookup, and a drive down Lombard Street.






2000: West Hollywood.  Home for a decade, but it was nice to be back for a visit.  And I hooked up with a celebrity.

2002: Paris-Brussels-Amsterdam.  The first time I made the circuit.  Five days in Paris for the Musee d'Orsay, Luxembourg Gardens, Shakespeare and Company, and bar darkrooms, overnight in Brussels, and three nights in Amsterdam for Indonesian food, the Rikjsmuseum, and the Horseman's Club, for men with 23 cm (8 inches) or more.  It would become an annual ritual.

2005: Another Paris-Brussels-Amsterdam circuit, when I met the Dutch African at the Horseman's Club, and he brought me home as a "birthday present" for his brother.






2010: Montreal.  In Upstate New York.  My boyfriend Troy and I had both been here before, most recently in October 2009, when he experienced his first glory hole. But this time we had friends to visit.

2016: Mexico City.  I speak Spanish and I've studied Mesoamerican archaeology for years, but I've never been to Mexico except for some short jaunts to Tijuana. What better way to spend spring break than to fly down to Mexico City to visit the Museo Nacional de Arquelogia?

Oh, and there were some hot guys, too.

Tuesday, April 5, 2016

Do Seasons Affect Your Dating Success?

I'm depressed today because there are three weeks left in the semester, my favorite tv show just had its season finale, and the last play of the theatrical season is next week.  Soon everything will be over, and it will be time to endure three months of boredom and isolation: summer in the Straight World.

My favorite seasons are, in order: Fall, Winter, Spring, and...ugh...Summer.

Maybe I can snap out of my depression by calculating how many cute guys I've landed dates with in each season.  Is there a dearth of dating in Summer, and a plenitude in Fall?

During my 11 years in the Straight World, Ohio, Upstate, and Plains (so far), I've had first dates (not hookups) with 72 guys.








Fall (September, October, November) 

After the dead time of the summer, everything starts over again.  New classes, new books, new faces at the gym, new tv shows, new theater season, new museum exhibits.

There's a little nip in the air, so you can go outside without getting soaked in half a block, and wear a hot sweater inside.

My favorite holidays, Halloween and Thanksgiving.  And my birthday, of course.

Dates: 27 (42%), including boyfriends Charlie and Paul in Ohio and Chad in Upstate New York.





Winter (December, January, February).  It's cold, so you can stay in the house without people trying to guilt you into "enjoying the outdoors."  The cold air is invigorating.  The sun goes down at a normal hour, so it's dark in the evening.

The social world is in full swing, with parties, dinners, benefits, concerts, plays, art exhibits, film festivals, book signings.

Christmastime is a pain, but if you stay out of the Mall and don't watch network tv in December, you can avoid most of it.  Stick to New Year's Eve and Valentine's Day.

Dates: 24 (37%), including Pete (the water delivery guy) in Upstate New York and Dustin (the son of my host at the heterosexual party) in Plains, who I'm still dating, whenever he gets a school break.






Spring (March, April, May).  You can jog outside again, the flowers start to bloom, and there's a smorgasbord of holidays and events: Mardi Gras parties, St. Patrick's Day, Easter, film festivals, Oscar parties, and spring break.

In May the year runs down: the last day of class, the last episode of your favorite tv show, the last play of the season, saying goodbye to friends.  But before that, it's a fun ride.

Dates: 15 (23%).  I'm usually with someone, so dating is not a top priority.










Summer (June, July, August).  Dead time.  All of your friends are out of town, there's no classes, nothing to do, nowhere to go, and even if you did have somewhere to go, it's too hot.

Baseball games.  Camping.  Eating outside.  People forcing you to "enjoy the outdoors."

Long, boring car trips to the Midwest for uncomfortable visits with fundamentalist relatives.

Dates: 7 (11%), including Troy, my boyfriend in Upstate New York (but we met in the spring).

Some hookups while on vacation, but not a lot of dates.  Is it because there aren't many guys around to date, or because I'm too depressed to cruise properly?

See also: Best, Worst, and Most Erotic Christmases; 34 Reasons to Like Summer.




Monday, April 4, 2016

The Joy of Saying "Cock"

Rock Island, Spring 1979

When I was a kid, the Nazarene Church prohibited us from using "the Lord's name in vain."

To the extreme.

No goddam, of course, or the word damn, except in the phrase God will damn you.  Even darn was too much.

Gosh, gee, and golly, all shortened forms of "God" and "Jesus," were forbidden.

The British term Lord was shockingly blasphemous.  I got in big trouble with my counselor at Nazarene camp for carrying around a copy of Tarzan, the Lord of the Apes:

"You're practicing idolatry!  You're worshipping a false god!  There's only one Lord!

I never tried zounds, which means "God's wounds."

God also hated words that were obscene or even risque.

The word sex could be used only as a noun: Adam was of the male sex.  Never to refer to coitus.  Instead, the preachers and Sunday school teachers always used the phrase: going to bed: "God will send you to hell for going to bed before you're married."

I can only imagine the younger kids in the congregation misinterpreting that statement and being terrified of bedtime.

You must go to the bathroom, never pee or piss.  So you might say, "I was in the bathroom, going to the bathroom."

We had a lot of fun with the King James Bible's prohibition against coveting "thy neighbor's ass," but referencing the animal was ok.  To reference a section of the anatomy, you had to say backside.  Never butt or ass.

You insulted someone by calling them sinner, heathen, or Catholic, never asshole.

You could imply that someone's parents were unmarried, but you had to use the term illegitimate, not bastard.  Although we sort of cheated with dastard.

For the frontside, you had to use the word shame, or if absolutely necessary, the technical term penis.  Never, ever cock, not even in reference to the rooster.

Once in high school Verne and I tried to joke about the rooster.
Verne:  "I have a cock at home."
Boomer: "Can I see your cock?"
Verne:  "Sure.  You can even play with my cock."

Claiming that we meant "rooster" didn't help.  We were both grounded for a week.



During my senior year in high school, tired of the restrictions and bigotry, I  started breaking away from the Church.

The guilt was heavily internalized, so it had to be gradual, skipping the Wednesday evening service and a Sunday evening service here and there, reducing the amount of money I gave during the four weekly collections, and systematically breaking the rules.  From the least to most horrifying:

1. Reading the Sunday newspaper.
2. Buying on Sunday.
3. Listening to rock music.
4. Wearing short pants in public.
5. Going bowling in an alley that served alcohol.
6. Dancing
7. Setting foot in a Catholic church
8. Going to a movie

By the time I got to my freshman year in college, there were only a few rules left to break:

  
Drinking alcohol.  Too advanced for me.

Going to bed with a girl before marriage.  No way!

Using the Lord's name in vain.

If I said bad words, I could finally be free of the Nazarene guilt!  So I started throwing them into casual conversations with my friends, Mary and Bruce.

Gee, it's hot today.  
Golly, I don't think I can finish this pizza all by myself.

Not even an eyebrow raise.

Our goddam paper is due tomorrow!

 Only a few eyebrow raises.

Excuse me -- I have to pee.

Nope.

This class is a real pain in the ass.

 That got an eyebrow raise.

That asshole cut in front of me!

A brief stare, but no comment.

Ok, time for the ultimate of bad words, the word that horrified men and God alike.

I walked up to Bruce, and tried to say Men have c...

Nothing came out.

Again.  I looked at Bruce, he looked at me.  I said I have a big c....

"What?"

God was looking down at me.  All of the Nazarenes were watching.  It was time to take a stand.

Bruce was staring at me as if I was crazy.

In a loud, clear voice, almost a yell, I said I like to look at cocks!

He laughed.  "Me, too.  And ducks and geese and cows and horses, down on the farm.  Ok, now I have one: want to hear a dirty joke?  The boy fell in the mud!"  

Bruce didn't get it, but by saying cock in public, I was free of Nazarene guilt.  I could go through life without expecting God to strike me dead every moment.

And I had come out.

See also: Who Killed Cock Robin: The Only Gay Nursery Rhyme.

Sunday, April 3, 2016

The Bed-Switching Freshman at the Chocolate Moose

I was saddened to learn that the Chocolate Moose, a landmark ice cream place on Walnut Street in downtown Bloomington, is going to be demolished to make way for a generic office building.  The distinctiveness of local culture vanishes for faceless uniformity, yet again.

The Chocolate Moose was a quirky little building shaped like a chocolate chalet.  You went to the  window to order soft-serve ice cream, floats, shakes, hot dogs, sloppy joes, that sort of thing.  No indoor dining, but there were a couple of picnic tables.

It was only a block from the apartment Viju and I shared during my second year in graduate school at Indiana University.

It was open until 2:00 am, so we often dropped by after cruising at Bullwinkle's, especially if we struck out (if we were successful, we took our hookups to Bob's Burgers instead).

The later it got, the better the sightseeing -- half-drunk fratboys pushing soft-serve cones into each other's faces, shirtless jocks licking on snow cones until their tongues turned blue.

In spite of the beefcake, there  wasn't a lot of cruising going on.
1.Most of the customers were straight.
2. There weren't a lot of places to hold private conversations.
3. Once you're ready for ice cream, you're probably too emotionally raw to handle a hookup.

But I have a good hookup story involving the Chocolate Moose.

Bloomington, May 1984.

Viju and I head out to Bullwinkle's, about five blocks from our apartment.

There's a boy pacing around the entrance, with that deliberate-but-nonchalant look of someone trying to get the nerve to go in.

He's very young, probably just 18 (which would make him five years younger than me), short, slim, pale, not my usual type, but very cute, with black hair, an oval face, very red lips, and a little blush in his cheeks.

We make eye contact.  I start to say something like "It's not so bad inside," but Viju pushes me through the door.

"What's the matter?  Didn't you think he was cute?"

"Oh, yes, definitely worth it!  But I was worried -- he might be an undercover cop.  The minute you say something sexy, bang!  You're finished!"

I wait awhile, but the Freshman never comes in.  Viju and I set out to cruise, but we really don't have our minds on it -- after seeing the super-cute guy at the entrance, everyone seems second-rate.

We cruise for an hour or so, but no one comes to mind.  Finally we leave.

On the way home, we pass the Chocolate Moose.  The line is half a block long.

"Want ice cream?" Viju asks.

"No, I'm not waiting in a line that size!  You go on.  I'll see you at the house."

I leave Viju waiting in line, return to the apartment, and sit down to watch tv and read a book.

A half hour passes.  Then 45 minutes.  How long was that line, anyway?

Did Viju decide to go back to the bar?  Did he get kidnapped?  Should I go out looking?

Then I hear footsteps on the stairs.  Viju comes in -- with the Freshman, still carrying his malt!

"This is Jerry," he says, his arm around the boy.  "He's a freshman, planning to major in economics."

"I saw you at Bullwinkle's," I say, trying to be nonchalant.  "So you finally went in?"

"Um...no...actually, we met at the Moose," Viju says.  "We started talking in line, and...well, you know."  He turns to the Freshman.  "Meet my roommate, Boomer."

The Freshman looks at me.  "Hi," he says softly.

"Do you need to go to the bathroom?"

He shakes his head.

"Then we'll just be going to bed.  Goodnight."

Viju draws him into a kiss right in front of me, almost as if he is trying to make me jealous.

Arm in arm, they vanish (there was no sharing in those days).  Soon I go to bed.

Our bedrooms are right next to each other, down a little hallway from the living room, and we always leave our doors open a crack for ventilation, so I hear everything that happens in Viju's room.

Usually it's fun, a lot of moaning and thumping and "Yeah, like that!" and "I'm getting close!", plus a glimpse of semi-tumescent penises as the hookups walk past my door to the bathroom to wash up afterwards.  But tonight I feel left out and jealous.  If only I had stopped for ice cream, the Freshman would be in my bed right now!

I wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of someone climbing into bed next to me.  The Freshman!

Naked, his tight smooth chest and skinny belly glowing in the pale light from the window, his penis average sized but beautifully shaped.  I can't see his eyes.  He must have gotten up to go to the bathroom, and accidentally picked the wrong door.

"Um...Viju's next door," I murmur.

"Shh," he whispers.  "I'll take care of everything.  Just leave everything to me."

He climbs atop me.  He kisses my chest, my abs.  His hand finds my penis.  I stand, aroused.  I feel his mouth and tongue.  

Bed-switching would be quite common in West Hollywood, but I've never experienced it before.

Will Viju be outraged tomorrow morning?  Will he accuse me of betraying him?  Am I betraying him?

Tomorrow can take care of itself.  I turn the Freshman over onto his back and finish by kissing him and thrusting between his legs.

See also: Bed-Hopping in Japan; The Ex-Con at the Ice Cream Stand

The Justin Bieber Penis

It's hard to believe that Justin Bieber just turned 22.  He's already moved far beyond his teen idol roots to mature pop singer.

His androgynous teen idol looks are long gone, too.  I find tattoos a major turnoff, and he's sporting some major ink.

Fans have been speculating for years about the Bieber penis, visible in many on- and off-stage bulges and apparent arousals.

So the internet broke when a papparazo snapped the Bieber naked on holiday in Bora Bora.












Here's a shot of the Bieber penis.

Not bad.  I'd say a Kielbasa+.

 But I still don't like the ink.

See also: Justin Bieber: Definitely Gay