Saturday, April 16, 2016
It's a "nice" day on the Plains.
You know: bright sizzling sun like an angry gash in the world, sky so blue and cloudless that it makes your eyes ache, endless horizon that makes you feel like you're going to go zipping off into the stratosphere? One of those days.
I rush through my work and try to get to my car and get home before anyone can stop me. But unluckily, I run into every straight person I know, and they all start the refrain:
"What are you going to do to enjoy the outdoors?"
"You should get outside and enjoy the day!"
"It's too nice a day to be cooped up inside!"
"Don't days like this make you just ache to be outside?"
1. The outdoors is not to be enjoyed. It's to be traveled through to get to the things that are to be enjoyed.
2. Cooped up, in a low-heat, low-humidity, low-UV ray environment with optimal ventilation and light, a minimum of dirt, mud, ants, snakes, flies, mosquitoes, and mean dogs, and snacks, a bathroom, and entertainment nearby?
I prefer rain, or snow, or at least some clouds. No one orders you to "Get out and enjoy the day!" when it's cloudy.
When I was a kid, my parents forced me to "play outside" whenever it was "nice." Incredibly boring -- nothing to do out there. All my books, games, and toys were inside. And usually uncomfortable to boot. I would return hot, sticky, muddy, sunburned, and mosquito-bitten, whereupon my parents would say "See! That was fun, wasn't it?"
In West Hollywood, nearly every day was "nice" -- we averaged 285 sunny days, 43 cloudy days, and 37 rainy days every year, and the temperatures never went below 50 degrees. But we didn't "play outside."
In ten years I went to the beach three times, went hiking in Griffith Park once, and ate on those redwood picnic tables outside maybe six times.
It's only in the Straight World that people spend every possible moment outdoors. Ball games, sailing, camping, skateboarding. They even invite you to eat outdoors, shooing the bugs away from their hamburgers and hotdogs while their paper plates get buffeted around by the wind, as if it's a big treat.
And whenever the sky turns into a cerulean bowl and the sun starts to blaze in fury, they start the refrain: "It's too nice a day to be cooped up inside! Why don't you go outside and enjoy the day!"
Going to museums and art galleries? No.
Going to the theater and the ballet? No.
Watching movies and tv? No.
Studying languages, history, and archaeology? No
Reading comic books and graphic novels? No.
Touring old churches? No.
Working out? No.
I haven't had sex in a public place for 15 years, and I haven't actually done it outside, with the dirt and bugs and constant risk of discovery, for 25 years.
But if that's what the straight people want....
I check the online gay directories, and find three sites for public sex in Plains:
1. The restroom on the third floor of the library, with a 1 1/2 foot gap between toilet stalls. No.
2. An adult video store with glory holes. No.
3. A public park with trails through the tall tree, scrub, and mush.
Ok, I'll give it a try.
There are five other cars, at least five people wandering the nature trails. Will one of them be my key to "enjoying the outdoors"?
I walk briskly down the trail, past thin, barely-budding trees and prickly bushes. When the trail forks, I take the left.
Car 1: A short, black-haired guy, college age. I say "hello" as we pass. He smiles and says "hello," also. But that doesn't mean anything -- people in the Plains are polite.
Car 2: A woman with pink hair and a nose ring, taking photographs.
The left path ends. I turn down the right.
Car 3: A father and toddler-aged son, walking slowly and talking about nature. I overtake and pass them, saying "Excuse me."
Car 4, or maybe Cars 4-5: Two high-school aged boys in t-shirts, laughing and jostling as they rush past me toward...the parking lot. Could they have finished a hookup?
I return to the parking lot, take a drink of water from the fountain. One of the cars is gone, but a new car has arrived.
Car 6: An elderly fat man in white pants, walking so fast that he's wheezing.
"Nice day," I say.
"Got to get out and enjoy outdoors," he says with a leer.
There's Car 1, the short, cute college-aged guy, again. This time I walk alongside him.
"Don't let it bother you," he says. "That fat guy tries to hook up with everybody."
Ok, this guy is gay, and here for a hookup.
"Oh, I don't mind -- he's mild. I lived in West Hollywood for 13 years -- we had some aggressive guys there!"
Mentioning West Hollywood always gets them interested. "West Hollywood! I'd love to visit someday. Did you hook up with any celebrities."
"Oh, no one special. Just Michael J. Fox, Richard Dreyfuss, Rob Lowe, and Leonardo DiCaprio," I lie. "My name is Boomer."
"Michael." We clasp hands. "So, what's Leonardo like? I used to have such a crush on him!"
Michael works in an office nearby, and often comes here after work to walk and cruise. He's seen guys going off into the woods together, but he hasn't gotten the nerve to do anything himself.
It's not hard to talk him into an energetic session of kissing, oral, 69, interfemoral, and even some anal. He has a very firm, solid body, a smooth chest with a glory trail leading from his navel to his average-sized cut penis.
Of course, we don't do it on the scratchy grass and mud. We go back to my apartment, where it's warm and safe.
I guess I'm never going to be that assimilated.
See also: Playing Outside; Public Sex
West Hollywood, June 1989
It's my third date with Lane, the date you traditionally introduce him to your friends, so we're having dinner at my house with Raul, Will, my Celebrity ex-boyfriend, Fred and Matt...and my housemate Derek?
Derek and I are not close. We don't eat meals together, we rarely share each other's dates. We are invited to each other's parties by default, but we rarely attend.
So why is he here?
I'm worried that the former fitness model with the baseball bat between his legs will steal my new boyfriend before we even have a chance to seal the deal. It's happened before.
I serve barbecued chicken, baked potatoes, "roshineers," and tomatoes. Lane brings a salad, and Derek furnishes the desert.
After dinner we start talking about childhood crushes -- tv and movie stars you found dreamy, back in the day: Luke Halpin of Flipper, Desi Arnaz Jr., Barry Williams of The Brady Bunch.
Derek keeps silent. He's substantially older than the rest of us, so he probably doesn't want to call attention to his age by mentioning Ricky Nelson or...or Frank Sinatra.
"Incredibly hot!" Will exclaims. "Those eyes! That voice!"
"And so fey," Lane says. "It's obvious he's one of us."
We all nod in agreement.
"He's bi," Derek says suddenly. "But mostly into girls. Guys once in a blue moon. Pity...he's got a face that can break your heart."
"Do you...um...have firsthand knowledge of this bi thing?" I ask.
Derek was 26 years old, an amateur bodybuilder, newly out, divorced from his wife Ellen, and exploring the gay world. He was trying to make a living as a fitness model -- magazine ads, semi-nude photos in "physique magazines," and nude photos in gay magazines like In Touch and Blue Boy. He supplemented his income with gigs as a bodyguard, bouncer, and...well, paid escort.
One night his friend Panther (Jim at the time) arranged a "date" for him: "He saw you in In Touch, and wanted a better look. He's a big star, really big, so everything has to be on the hush-hush."
Curious, Derek drove to the house in the San Fernando Valley, and got buzzed in -- by David Cassidy!
They sat in the living room, drinking wine coolers. The most famous pop star in the world seemed rather star-struck by Derek. He wanted to know about his workout routine, his diet. They talked about the gay world, the bars, discos, bath houses -- David was shocked that such things existed. They were so busy talking that three hours passed before they even thought of going into the bedroom.
What they did when they got there is private, but it was amazing. Afterwards they cuddled and talked all night. David was smooth, androgynous, rather well hung, exactly Derek's type. He was hooked.
That wasn't enough. Derek wanted a full-time lover. He wanted to move in with David, to stand next to him as the papparazi swarmed, to spend every night kissing and talking softly in that king-sized bed with the black silk sheets.
"Sort of like the millions of teenage girls who wrote 'Mrs. David Cassidy' in their school notebooks," Fred notes.
Finally one day in May, Derek put his foot down.
"I need more time," he said. "I understand that you're the idol of every teenage girl in the world, but I'm here, now. We should go out, do something together, have a real date."
David thought for a moment. "Well...I have a concert in Glasgow next Friday, and then I don't have to be in London until Sunday afternoon. I can bring you along as...say, my new bodyguard?"
A romantic weekend in Britain with the man of his dreams!
They sat side-by-side on the plane en route to Glasgow, and stood side-by-side to be photographed leaving the airport -- you can still see the AP wire photo of David and Derek together.
Of course, they had separate hotel rooms, but after the concert on Friday night, David sought out Derek's room. They had an energetic, passionate night.
"I thought you would get a kick out of it," David said with a grin.
Another two hours north to Aberstwyth, where they registered as "Joe Drummond" and "Derek Drummond" at a guest house. One room, two beds.
When they walked through the town, a few people stared, as if trying to place them, but David was only recognized once: a teenage boy came up and asked for his autograph.
"Are you David's mate, then?" he asked.
"Um...bodyguard," Derek said.
"Ok, right," the boy said with a knowing grin." He walked off, singing "I Think I Love You."
"This morning I woke up with this feeling," Matt obligingly sings, "I didn't know how to deal with, and so I just decided to myself, I'd hide it to myself, and never talk about it...."
Derek looks miserable at the memory, so I cut Matt off. "Do you think the kid knew that you and David were together?" I ask.
Apparently David thought so. He was quiet all the way back to the guest house. That night he insisted on sleeping in his own bed.
On Monday, David flew on to Amsterdam, and Derek flew back to Los Angeles.
He never saw David again.
"Stay away from those celebrities," Derek says, looking pointedly at me. "They'll break your heart."
Was Derek telling the truth, exaggerating a simple bodyguard job, or making the whole thing up?
Evidence that he was telling the truth: David Cassidy did tour Britain in May 1974, and the bodyguard in the AP photo looks like Derek.
Evidence against: David doesn't mention Derek, or any same-sex relationships, in his memoirs. It is unlikely that the most famous pop star in the world would be able to take a weekend off and motorcycle through Wales without drawing the attention of the press.
See also: Derek the Fitness Model and the Teenage Cowboy; David Cassidy.
The problem with living on the Plains is, all the gay men look like this.
Smooth, blond, 21.
Anxious to get you into bed, but not to be friends afterwards.
And if you do become friends, they won't be around long: they're planning to run off to the nearest gay neighborhood as soon as possible.
The guys who stick around past 30 are typically heavily closeted, on the downlow, with wives and girlfriends waiting at home, requiring "discretion" for hookups and no socialization after.
So how do I build up a friendship network, like the ones I had in West Hollywood, Florida, and even Upstate? Guys to chat with at the bars, see at parties, have over for dinner.
Maybe if I find some bears -- chubby, husky, hairy guys, typically over 40, therefore more settled, likely to stick around town for awhile.
There's a gay employees group that meets at a different restaurant in town once a month.
January: 12 lesbians, 2 straight allies, 1 gay man in his twenties who gives me Attitude.
You get Attitude just trying to make friends?
February: 6 lesbians, 4 straight allies, no gay men.
March: 8 lesbians, 4 straight allies, 1 gay man: Mike, a professor of education in his 60s, who agrees to a date later.
A muscle bear, rather handsome, with a hairy chest and a little belly, and a nice Kielbasa.
It's not really a date, since we never leave my apartment. A little conversation, bedroom activities (mostly oral), and he leaves.
When I suggest more activities, he states that he's busy: club meetings, organizations, dinners with straight friends every night of the week. But he'd be happy to come over for another hookup.
There are only two gay-welcoming churches in town. I select the Unitarian-Universalist Fellowship, which is more dedicated to social issues than spiritual enlightenment. Every Sunday there's a new sermon on something I should feel guilty about.
I'm not eating organic, free-range, fair-trade, low-carbon footprint, locally-grown potatoes;
I'm shopping in stores that oppress workers in Guatemala.
My fitness regiment is elitist, oppressing the poor who don't have the time and money to join a gym.
I drive a car.
Besides, there's only one gay couple, Hank and Wayne, 50s and 70s, and they're totally assimilated, hanging out with straight people all the time.
I try to befriend them anyway, and end up with an evening of intense boredom, discussions of room additions and favorite recipes, and a date with their 21-year old boy toy, Jimmy.
In West Hollywood and New York, there were bear parties every weekend, where 30 guys got together for socializing and sex. Why couldn't I host one on the Plains?
I put an ad on craigslist and some social media sites: Bear Party, husky/hairy/chubby guys and their admirers.
Crickets. Silence. A few inquiries like "Will there be any really goodlooking guys there?" and "Will there be any young, cute guys there?"
Five guys show up, all smooth twinks in their 20s.
Ok. I try again: "Gay and Grey Hookup Night." Younger ok, but over 40 especially welcome.
More inquiries like "Will there be any young, cute guys there?"
This time I get six guys, all over 40. All closeted, downlow, "is this discreet?", with constant discussions of "my wife" and "isn't this or that actress hot."
Sex only (mostly oral), no socializing later: "I told my wife I was out shopping for tires."
Twenty guys, ten closeted downlow "is this discreet?" bisexual chubby bears, the rest out-and-proud, open gay twinks.
I guess I'm stuck with the twinks.
There are worse fates.
See also: My Platonic Friends and Their Boy Toy; Yuri and the Muscle Daddies.
In the spring of 1999, when I was dating Joe the Regular Guy, we took the train up the Hudson Valley to Rhinebeck to visit his ex boyfriend Travis, the first guy he ever dated, back when he was a young, naive undergrad at Bard College.
Travis actually worked as a carpenter -- he made good money building custom furniture for rich people. He was in his 40s, muscular, with a beard and a hairy chest, wearing overalls with no shirt.
He had two dogs, who greeted Joe enthusiastically, two cats, and a rabbit. Plus two pick up trucks, a wood shop, a refrigerator full of beer, and a living room with copies of Field and Stream on the coffee table. Just like my mother's relatives in Indiana, except he was gay.
I started having fantasies of those long, dark nights at the farmhouse outside Garrett, sitting on my Uncle Paul's lap or trying spying on Uncle Ed's "gun."
Although Joe and I hadn't discussed it on the way up, I naturally expected to "share."
No discussion of sharing, so I decided to bring it up myself.
"It's great that you're still such good friends with your ex," I began, ignoring the fact that in gay communities, most of your friends are ex-boyfriends. "I'm not really close to Blake, who I dated before Joe."
Joe grabbed my knee vigorously. Later I discovered that he was prodding me to change the subject, but I thought he was just being affectionate.
"You dated Joe's roommate?" Travis asked, eyes widening.
"Sure. In fact, we hit it off one night when Blake and I...."
Joe nudged me.
"...all had dinner together! Hey, Boomer, let's go out into the backyard and look at the stars! They're very bright out here in the woods!"
"Ok, ok, I won't bring it up."
In the middle of the night I got up to go to the bathroom, and passed Travis's bedroom. The door was wide open. Travis lay in bed. He had kicked off the covers -- I could see a bare backside illuminated in pale light from the nightstand. The dogs, curled up on the floor, looked up expectantly.
If he didn't want to invite us in, why did he sleep naked, with the door wide open?
I went in, patted the dogs each on the head, and moved on.
On Saturday we hiked to the top of Indian Head, and then explored the village of Woodstock, where the hippies never left. In the evening, Travis invited a couple he knew, Todd and Henry, both hairy, bearded bears, over for grilled steaks and vegetables. They brought a pie.
"Um...in the City," Joe said. "Boomer knew my roommate Blake."
"There are so many temptations in the City!" Todd said. "Bath houses, bear parties, hot guys cruising you all the time. How do you manage to stay faithful? It's hard enough for us, out here in the boondocks!"
"It takes work," Travis said, "But it's worth it, right, guys?"
But I was tired of feeling guilty over sharing. "That's the nice thing about gay relationships -- they don't have to obey that heterosexual 'wife as property' rule. Nobody's going to get pregnant, so who cares if you bring in a third guy from time to time? I...."
They were all staring at me, except for Joe, who had suddenly become very interested in feeding a piece of steak to a begging dog.
"Sharing?" Travis asked.
"Um...of course, it's not for everyone..."
"Oh, please, we're not hicks!" Henry said. "We have Travis over all the time!"
"He isn't!" Joe exclaimed. "Or...every time we talk, he goes on and on about how you should be faithful to one guy, how he's only been with three guys in his life."
"I wasn't...um, exactly honest about my love life," Travis said. "I didn't want you to think I was a slut. Quiet, shy farmboy from Ulster County, altar boy at the Catholic Church, doesn't even know that gay people exist, has to ask me how they go about having sex."
"That was eight years ago! I'm...people change. They grow up."
"Ok, ok," Henry said. "I see what happened here. Everybody was afraid to come out. But I can solve this little disagreement with two simple words: Bear Party. Right here, right now. Who's up for it?"
See also: Landing My Boyfriend's Roommate.
Thursday, April 14, 2016
I used to work out at the Hollywood Spa with a ex-soldier named Marshall -- mid-twenties, shorter than me, very pale, with a military haircut and a hard, smooth chest.
After working out, we sometimes stopped at the Hamburger Hamlet -- maybe not the best option for after-the-gym, but the hamburgers and fries were amazing!
One night we were talking about old boyfriends, and Marshall revealed that he had never been with a guy before!
"Are you newly out?" I asked in surprise.
"Terrified of AIDS?" No.
"Self-conscious about your size?" No.
"Suffering from a urological condition?" No.
"None of those things. I'm just waiting for Mr. Right"
"I was raised to wait until my wedding night," Marshall explained. "But since gays can't get married, I'll wait until I have a permanent commitment. Bound together for life. Forsaking all others."
"How do you handle dating? Most guys want you in the bedroom on the first date, maybe the second if you apologize profusely."
"If he really loves me, he'll wait," Marshall said firmly.
"Has anyone waited so far?" I asked. "Any second dates?"
"Not a lot. But you know how it is: most guys are jerks. Sex is too precious a gift to waste on just anyone!"
Marshall reddened. "When it's true love, you never even look at another guy. Like you and Lane. You have a solid, loving relationship, right? None of this sharing nonsense?"
Actually, Lane and I often brought home a guy to "share."
What right did Marshall have to imply that our relationship was therefore not solid or loving?
"Oh, sure," I lied. "I would never agree to sharing!"
"And sex with complete strangers in bathhouses! Sick!"
"That's nothing!" I said. "In Europe, every gay bar has a darkroom where you do things without even seeing what the guy looks like!"
"What sex-obsessed scumbag would want to do that? Disgusting!"
Lane and I loved the dark rooms of Europe. So now we were sex-obsessed scumbags?
I decided to do something with this self-righteous little twit -- like introduce him to the joys of cruising.
"Older guys, Daddy types, beefy, with chest hair and beards. Nicely built. Big down there, of course."
"I have just the right guy for you. Tall, goodlooking, beefy, bearded, and a total romantic, looking for Mr. Right. He'll be at the Bear Party this weekend -- I'll wrangle you up an invitation."
"What's a bear party?"
"Oh, just a party where a lot of gay guys get together. There's swimming, snacks. Sometimes we watch a movie. There may be some sex going on, but you can ignore it."
The bear party:
It was held in a big house in the Hollywood Hills. Socializing in a gigantic lounge that opened onto a patio with a swimming pool. Downstairs, the family room had mattresses scattered around a big fireplace, and two of the bedrooms were converted into dark room-mazes.
I planned to introduce Marshall to Stuart, a regular at the bear parties: Mid-30s, muscular, a little belly, a hairy chest, Mortadella beneath the belt, But where was he?
Lane, Marshall, and I walked through the lounge, scanning the crowd of bears, daddies, Cute Young Things, and semi-celebrities.
"I guess Stuart hasn't arrived yet," I said. "Why don't we go in the pool while we wait? It's heated."
"I didn't bring a swimsuit."
"That's ok, neither did we." We led him out to the patio, showed him where to strip and place his clothes, and jumped into the pool.
Marshall was too busy gawking at the dozens of naked bears to notice that his clothes were perilously close to the side of the pool, where divers were sure to splash them.
After awhile, he noticed. He climbed out of the pool and stood naked and shivering in the cool October evening. "My clothes are soaked!" he yelled. "And I'm freezing to death!"
I handed him a towel. "Sorry about that. But don't worry -- Lane will go pop your clothes in the drier. They'll be good as new in 30 minutes. While we're waiting, let's go downstairs -- I hear there's a fireplace down there where you can get warm."
All of the mattresses in the family room were occupied with naked guys, in pairs and groups, grabbing and fondling and exploring.
"Hey, you didn't say this was an orgy!" Marshall whispered angrily.
"Oh, it's fine. We don't need to do anything -- we can just sit and warm up. Come on --." I sat him down by the fireplace and put my arm around him. "Besides, there's nothing wrong with just looking."
So we looked, and looked, and Marshall became more and more obviously interested. He began stroking my knee. I reached out and grabbed a passing muscle bear, who smiled and tried to grope us.. Marshall declined, but I didn't.
"Lane doesn't mind you...doing that?" he whispered, eyes wide.
"Doing what? I was just being polite, not planning a romantic dinner for two."
Soon Marshall and I were kissing and groping.
When Lane appeared, Marshall jumped away. "Sorry -- I'm...I mean...I mean, I know you're together."
"It's fine. Boomer likes to kiss. So do I," Lane added with a leer.
Soon they were kissing and groping.
Then Marshall went down on Lane, while I went down on him. His first time was a three-way!
And Stuart never did show up.
Don't worry about Marshall, though. He found True Love, with a guy he met at the Bear Party.
In the dark room.
See also: Sharing the Kept Boy with Alan; How We Invented Sex Parties
Tuesday, April 12, 2016
It looks legitimate, like the real photo taken before censoring.
The full post on Bobby Darin is on Boomer Beefcake and Bonding.
Monday, April 11, 2016
You're not supposed to think of people at the workplace as sexual beings. Supposedly it distracts you from doing your job properly.
Work clothes are designed to minimize his physicality, keep the biceps and bulges under wraps, prevent you from imagining him naked.
But in fact, work clothes become all the more erotic because they're not supposed to be.
But college professors dress a bit more formally, with shirts and slacks that keep things hidden. You rarely see a bulge, never a tent.
Still, you can imagine what they look like naked.
Cruising -- leering, touching, and statements of erotic interest -- is inappropriate in the closed environment of a workplace, but anyone can look, and once in a while you get to see him in real life.
He may ask you for date or hookup. In thirteen years as a college professor, not including adjuncting, I've been approached by dozens of students, but never by another professor.
You may run into him at a Bear Party or a bathhouse. This is the stuff of porn movies, but it has happened to me only once.
You may see him in the locker room. That's happened to me three or four times.
You may be standing at the urinal in the restroom at the same time.
That's happened a lot more often, maybe fifteen times.
Ok, most college professors are straight -- the gay ones burnout or get fired quickly -- so they're not asking you for dates or going to bear parties. They usually don't work out, or not at the same time as you. But they all stand at urinals.
You can even predict when: academics will use the restroom closest to their office, typically just after teaching a class (after dropping their stuff off in their office) or going to lunch, or just before they leave campus for the day.
Or during those long, boring committee meetings. He'll probably check out after about an hour and a half into it to use the restroom; or if not, he's sure to jump in the moment the meeting adjourns.
When I was a graduate student at Long Island University, New York, I wanted a sausage sighting of Dr. Chester, a former professional wrestler who taught the history and sociology of sports.
He was in his 50s, massive, with a huge barrel chest, a bull neck, gigantic wrists and hands. Unfortunately, he wore a business suit, uncharacteristic for college professors, with slacks that hung straight down and didn't offer a bulge.
He had a wife and kids, so he probably wouldn't be asking me for a date, or showing up at Ravi's Bear Parties on Long Island.
He didn't use the campus gym.
He never taught classes at any time convenient for "accidentally" using the fourth floor restroom.
Besides, during the 1999-2000 year, I was living in Manhattan, commuting to Long Island three times a week, teaching three classes, working on my qualifying exams, going to weekly Bear Parties, and hooking up with the BDSM Birthday Boy, a Man in Black, a teenage model, and Andrew Lloyd Webber. I was a little too busy to do a lot of strategizing over a mere sausage sighting.
Then, one day in April 2000, late in the afternoon, I was on my way out of the Social Science Building to meet Yuri for dinner. I didn't really have to go, but I decided to do a pre-emptive, just in case.
I unlocked the outside door and walked through the swinging security door into the faculty men's room. It was very small, really only big enough for one person, with a toilet stall and a single urinal right next to the sink. And there, at the urinal, was Dr. Chester, just starting to unwrap the most massive Kovbasa I had ever seen!
It was like a fire hose. It took two hands to hold it. Very thick, uncut.
How could he walk around with that thing in his pants?
He glared at me. "Good afternoon, Boomer," he said coolly, obviously not happy to be disturbed. " I'll be through in a moment."
"Oh, sure, take your time," I managed.
He let loose, oblivious to my staring, or thinking that I was just impatient.
When he finished, he played with it for a moment, then turned, still hanging out. I stepped back to let him past me. He stood in front of the mirror and played with it a little more, while I watched.
Guys always wrap up while standing in front of the urinal. They never walk to the mirror, still hanging out. Unless they want to give you a show.
Or was he testing me, to see if I was one of those "predatory" gay guys who accost straight men in urinals?
I wasn't about to find out. I went to the urinal and conducted my business, while Dr. Chester wrapped up, washed his hands, and left.
To this day, I wonder what would have happened if I had reached over and touched it.
See also: The Homophobic Student in the Shower; Twelve Teacher Hookups