Saturday, April 23, 2016

20 Hispanic Boyfriends, Dates, Hookups, and Sausage Sightings

55 million people in the U.S. are Hispanic, with ancestry in one of the Spanish-speaking countries of Latin America.  Most from Mexico, followed by Puerto Rico, El Salvador, Cuba, the Dominican Republic, and Guatemala.  About half are foreign-born.

They can be of any race, but the most common configuration is mestizo, with both white and Indio roots.  Straight black hair, brown skin, smooth chest, huge beneath the belt.

I speak fluent Spanish, and lived in places with high Hispanic populations: Los Angeles (49%), New York (27%), and Florida (25%), so I've managed to attract the attention of a few Hispanic hunks, boyfriends, dates, and memorable hookups.





1. Marco the Gay Cannibal.  After my freshman year in college, we went to Colombia to build a church, and I encountered a gay hustler ("cannibal").  We didn't actually do anything, but I'm going to count him anyway.

West Hollywood

2. Arman, the first Hispanic guy I remember dating,  few weeks after I arrived in West Hollywood, shortly after my date with Michael J. Fox.  He was a rough-looking tattooed guy who everyone was ignoring at the Gold Coast.  Our date involved going to his cousin's quinceanera and meeting his abuela.

3. Raul from East L.A., who I met at the Silver Platter in 1986, when I was tiring of Alan stealing all my Asian dates.  We dated, on and off, for the next three years.



4. Bathhouse Boy Alejandro.   Alan and I went cruising in Tijuana and met several guys at the bathhouse, but we met the Indio Alejandro at a bar.  His first language was Nahuatl.

5. The Silverlake Stud.  In the fall of 1993, I went cruising at Basgo's, east of Alvarado, and met the Silverlake Stud, who pretended that he was poor and didn't speak English.













6. The Multiracial Four-Way.  One night at Basgo's I picked up a black Hispanic guy from Venezuela, while Lane picked up an Asian guy from Mexico.

7.Mauricio, the Waiter in the Mexican Restaurant, who was actually from Macon, Georgia, but put "Mexico City" on his name tag because it sounded better.













8. Enrique,  a gay Hispanic singer-songwriter who performed at the MCC in 1994.  He also had a bodybuilder's physique and an enormous Kielbasa beneath the belt.

9.During the Great Redneck Roundup of 1995, Lane and I met a Hispanic guy in Flagstaff.  He worked as a waiter at a gay-friendly bar, but he was actually studying anthropology at Northern Arizona University.









San Francisco

10. At the Gilroy Garlic Festival.  David and I shared Hector, who ran the garlic ice cream stand.

New York

11. Mario the Teen Model.  The youngest guy I had ever dated up to that point, a 19 year old fashion model and Columbia University student who took me on a wild night that never ended, no matter how often I said "Let's go home."








12. Breaking Every Rule of Gay Cruising.  I didn't cruise in bars in New York much.  This is probably why.  Jorge was attractive and all, but he sneaked me into his parents' house, and then had to sneak me out again while they were all having breakfast in the morning.  Plus I got lost somewhere in New Jersey.

Florida

13. Andre, who wore a Flowah Powah T-shirt and took me on the worst date in Florida history, involving a half-built house, an alligator, a crazy roommate, and drugs.











14. Remy, a regular at the Filling Station.  We were "bar friends" for two years before we finally got around to hooking up.

15. Victor, who Yuri and I shared in 2004. I didn't know he was Hispanic until he wrote down his last name.

16. His boyfriend Jauvier, a blond Hispanic guy from Peru.




Ohio

17. Carlos and his Two Secrets.  First secret: instead of "a few extra pounds," he was a superchub.  Second secret: his boyfriend was an incredible muscle god.

Upstate

18. The Shared Stud.  Troy tries being a top, but it doesn't work out well.







Plains

19. The straight guy's first time.  CJ, a time traveler from the distant past, had crazy, outdated ideas about gay people.

20.The Trophy Boy, met at the doctor's office, where I had to pry him away from his overprotective Dad.









Friday, April 22, 2016

How to Avoid Being a Creepy Old Guy

Name five things wrong with this profile pic:

1. The angle makes his head look small.
2. The frown and crossed arms make him look angry.
3. His chest is missing.
4. His belly is emphasized.
5. He looks like a Creepy Old Guy.

Creepy means that your appearance, demeanor, or words make the person looking at you or talking to you feel uncomfortable, but not actually threatened.

ghost is not creepy.  A haunted house that might contain ghosts is.

A man pointing a gun at you is not creepy.  A man leering at you is.

But not every man leering at you.  Only those who are doing something wrong, introducing the erotic into situations where it is inappropriate.

This guy is aroused, but does not look at all open to sexual activity, thus creepy.

 Anybody can be creepy, but I hear it most often about older guys approachng younger.

There are a dozen factors that can make you appear creepy, no matter what your intentions are, as you push into your 40s, 50s, 60s, and 70s, thus severely reducing your likelihood of doing this.

 So here are the rules:

1. Own Your Age

Be comfortable with your physical appearance as a 40, 50, 60, and 70 year old.  Don't try to forestall the inevitable changes of age.  Own your baldness, wrinkles, and grey beard.


2. Up Your Grooming 

Erotic desirability is a combination of attractive traits, which vary from person to person , and the lack of unattractive traits, which don't vary much: nose and ear hair, spotty or irregular head hair, body odor, bad breath, moles, warts, skin tags, liver spots.

As we age, our unattractive traits increase, so we have to be extra careful to eliminate or hide them.

Impeccable grooming and personal hygiene are a must.  Shower, shave, shampoo, brush, wash, trim, deodorize.





3. Hit the Gym

Being over 40 is no excuse for sagging and bloating.  You lose a little muscle mass as you age, but if you keep up a weight training routine, the loss is negligible.  Just switch from the free weights to the machines, and decrease your running from 5 miles to 3 miles a day.

But don't hang out in the sauna for hours, turning beet-red and sweating buckets.  That's creepy.









4. Dress in a Timeless Fashion.  You don't want to dress in contemporary youth fashion, or in dinosaur clothes.  I suggest either somewhat formal, or the old standby of t-shirts and jeans.

NO baseball caps of any kind, ever.


5. Don't Try to be Down with Contemporary Culture. Are you familiar with the Angry Birds, Travis Scott, Minecraft, Chris Hemsworth, the phrase "on fleek", or whatever is the new "now"? If you are, fine -- run with it.

If not, don't try.  Youth culture changes too fast, and if you make a mistake, you sound ridiculous.






6. But..Don't Show Your Age.  A few references to David Cassidy, Ronald Reagan, and the days when there were only three channels on tv ("what's a channel?") are interesting and colorful, but you can quickly turn into Grandpa Simpson. And no coming out stories -- they weren't interesting in the 1980s, and they aren't interesting now.

I suggest current events or timeless references: Shakespeare, Renaissance art, the homoeroticism of ancient Greece.  Or just let the young guys talk about what they find interesting.


7. Don't Stare.  In the 1980s and 1990s, we hooked up by gazing at the guy we were interested in, staring at them with a frown, like we were overwhelmed and disquieted by a sudden surge of erotic interest.

That is not done anymore. Staring is creepy. The younger generation has substituted eye contact and a friendly smile.

8. Don't Touch.  A surreptitious touch on the knee on the shoulder, even a grope, used to be part of the cruising game, distinguishing "friendly" and "erotic" encounters.

No more. The younger generation kisses before touching.




9. Don't Compliment.  When you're trying to attract someone, oddly, compliments don't work.  They make you appear overeager or insincere.

10. Don't Discuss Sex.  In the 1970s and 1980s, every conversation included the terms anal, oral, top, and bottom.  No more.  Today they like to figure it out for themselves.

Instead, have a pleasant conversation on a topic of timeless interest, and wait to be invited to "hang out."

Once you're alone in a comfortable place, you can let it all hang out.

I borrowed most of these pictures from the excellent "Daddy Worship" tumblr site.

Thursday, April 21, 2016

Lane and His Trophy Boy

West Hollywood, July 1989

You can easily tell whether heterosexual partners have broken up.  They begin going to social events alone, and no longer spend the night together.  Usually they never see each other again, period.

In gay communities, the boundaries are more fluid.

Romantic partners who have broken up continue to run into each other all the time (there aren't many gay places to hang out, after all).  They may still go to social events as a pair.  They may still spend the night together.

So the question "Are you still a couple?"  comes up often:
1. Should I ask about the other guy?
2. Should I invite them to things together?
3. Should I try to fix him up with someone else?
4. Is he free for me to date?

It's gauche to ask, or tell.  You're expected to just know.

My soon-to-be partner Lane met Danny at a gay Passover seder in April 1987.  He was an intensely hot Tropy Boy, 19 years old, newly out, with  a handsome male-model face, short blond hair, flawless pale skin, a smooth chest, and muscular legs.  Average beneath the belt gifts, cut.  Jewish, but not observant.

On their first date, three days later, Lane discovered that Danny was one of the few guys on Earth who didn't like receiving oral sex.  He put up with it to be polite, but his thing was giving.  He was very good at it.  Also into kissing, interfemeral, being spanked, and voyeurism -- he like watching other guys doing it.

That was all fine with Lane.  The bedroom activities were frequent and energetic.

After only three weeks, Danny moved from his parents' house in the San Fernando Valley into Lane's apartment.



Danny was so hot that Lane became the envy of West Hollywood.  Suddenly everybody at the Gold Coast, the gym, and the gay synagogue was his bosom buddy, and wanted to "share."

The problem was: Danny was so used to being a Trophy Boy that he didn't do anything, except drink milk right out of the carton and leave dirty dishes piled on the coffee table.

 He was ostensibly studying education at Cal State L.A., but he didn't go to class, and got straight D's (how do you get a D in an education class?).  Mostly he watched Duck Tales, went to lunch with his Cute Young Thing friends, and spent Lane's money on grooming products and clothes.

Lots of clothes.  55 shirts, 21 pairs of shoes, and 32 belts (he had something of a belt fetish).

The clencher came in May 1989, when Danny failed all of his classes and then cleared out the joint checking account on a Beverly Hills shopping spree.  Lane had to dip into his savings account to pay the rent.

He was furious!  There was crying.  There was yelling.

Danny's wardrobe was thrown, fancy belt by fancy belt, off the balcony.


By the end of the evening, Danny had packed up and moved back in with his parents.

Lane spent two days in his apartment, eating ice cream and listening to sad songs.  On the third day he went to the Zone, hoping to pick up a sleazy one-night stand.

He picked up me instead.  We were together for the next ten years.

But of course, Lane and Danny didn't cut off all contact.  About two weeks after the breakup, Danny came over for dinner and sharing.  He was, indeed, very energetic in the bedroom, fully aroused from the moment he took off his expensive designer pants to after he fell asleep.

But the change of boyfriends happened so quickly that Lane's friends were clueless.  He introduced me around, of course, but they seemed to think that I was just a new friend, or maybe a temporary fling, a mere setback in the Saga of Danny and Lane.

When Lane and I went to the gay synagogue, the usher tried to seat us separately.

His friend saw us at the Greenery, and asked, pointedly, "So, where's Danny?"

I ran into another of his friends at the Different Light Bookstore, and was asked "How are Lane and Danny?"

A full month after we started dating, a party invitation came in the mail, addressed to Lane and Danny. 

I was getting upset.  "You have to do something about this!" I told Lane.  "Let them know that Danny is history, you're with me now."

"They see me with you all the time.  They never see me with Danny," Lane said.  "What else can I do?  Obviously I can't make an announcement!"

I had an idea.  Danny was a trophy boy, so hot that no one could believe that Lane would break up with him willingly.  But Danny could break up with Lane.

On the night of the party, I drove to the Valley, picked up Danny at his parents' house, and came as his date.  Lane came by himself.

Danny and I stood with our arms around each other, flirted, kissed, brought each other drinks, sat together at the dinner table.

Lane said "hello" politely, but otherwise ignored us and sat by himself.

Heads turned.  Tongues wagged.


At the end of the evening, Danny and I opted to go cruising at Mugi instead of "sharing" with anyone.  Soon Lane joined us, effervescent.

"That was incredible!" he exclaimed.  "'How are you holding up?' 'He wasn't good enough for you!' Trying to fix me up with Cute Young Things!  Offers of sympathy sharing.  I never had so much fun in my life!"

Finally all of West Hollywood knew that Danny and Lane were no longer a couple.

And when Lane and I appeared together, no one commented on my sudden change in allegiances.  Obviously Danny was so hot that I couldn't handle him, so I latched onto Lane as the next best thing.

It's better than being Lane's "new friend" for the next 10 years.

10,000 Naked Men, Part 2: Kilts to Pairs

I'm reviewing my collection of 9,248 pictures of men collected from 20 years of internet bulletin boards and blogs.

Last time: Asian to Hung.

Kilts.  Several dozen photos, both posed and candid, demonstrating that Scottish guys go commando under their kilts.










Latino.  Men from Latin America, or Hispanic men in the United States. They can be of any race. This guy from Mexico City has been reading Garfield before demonstrating his Kovbasa+.






Matadors.  I think the enormous bulges are part of the costume, symbolic of the matador's virility and power.  I also have some where the bull's horns have ripped open the costume, leaving the penis exposed.  It's not spectacular.


















Middle East.  Arabs, Turks, Persians, and Israelis.  Bedouins a plus.  And a Kurdish guy with the most enormous Kovbasa+++.

The problem is always where to classify.  This guy could easily fit into Muscle and Outdoor as well.  I downloaded a program to find duplicates.











Military, Police, and Guards.  Men in uniform, including border and castle guards, hot cops from various countries, and cute soldiers taking selfies.  They can't get too far out of uniform, or you can't tell that they're military.

















Muscle.  Most of the guys in the collection are muscular, but this folder is reserved for the ones who stand out as particularly buffed, and don't fit into any of the other categories.








Nerds.  You know you're a nerd when you spend more time trying to see what book he's reading than looking at his penis.  Guys wearing glasses or bow ties, reading books, or doing science fiction or superhero cosplay.














Old Guys, Chubs, and Bears.  Guys of the more mature persuasion, of heftier girth, or with an exceptionally hairy chest.  It's surprising how often all three come together.  This guy has only two of the three qualities, but he has a nice smile.















Orcs and Other Fantasy Beings.  It started with Orcs -- who would have thought that some guys find Tolkien's baddies sexy?  Here's a very well endowed Orc captured and forced to carry heavy weights around.  The folder also contains elves, dwarfs, hobbits, fairies, goblins, angels, demons, and furries (animal people).












Outdoors.  Guys at festivals, nude beaches, nude bike races, or just displaying their goods in public places, like this Hungarian maintenance man.
















Pairs.  I'm not big into action shots, but I like pairs of guys, brothers, friends, or lovers, kissing, hugging, or just hanging out side by side.

Next:Punks through Urinals








Wednesday, April 20, 2016

Sunday Night Slump: Three Hookups on the Same Night

Plains, April 2015

I hate Sunday.  It's the dark, dangerous, lonely end of the week.

Maybe it's residual Nazarene guilt.

Maybe it's because there's nothing to do.  No theater, restaurants are deserted, gym closes at 6:00, nothing on tv but The Simpsons, which I'm getting tired of after 27 years, and the never-ending homophobic rant of Family Guy.  

Maybe it's the memory of Sundays past:
The Filling Station in Fort Lauderdale
The Bondage Club in New York
The Horseman's Club in Amsterdam
The beer busts at the Faultline with tangerine chicken on tv trays after.  

I haven't been to the Sunday beer bust at the Faultline for 20 years!  Somebody stop me before I start singing "The Way We Were."

Too late.

Can it be that it was all so simple then,
Or has time rewritten every line?
If we had the chance to do it all again,
Tell me, would we?    

Out here on the Plains, I've been assuaging my Sunday night sadness in the best way I can think of: with a Sunday Night Special.

Two hookups with guys from dating apps, one at 8:00 pm, the other at 9:00 pm.

Two because 50% of hookups don't actually show up.

If they do, fine.  I'm up for two guys on the same night.

But none of this downlow, bi-curious, discrete, "I told my wife I was out buying shoes" nonsense.

They have to be gay and out, or no dice.

Of course, on the Plains, that means they're always in their 20s.









6:00 pm.  I go on the hookup apps during dinner, and wait for prospects to approach.  It doesn't take long to narrow the field down to two:

1. Mike, a chemistry major with a long, sharp face and an insouciant smile, but a nicely defined, smooth chest and an "innie" belly button.

2. Aaron, a business-entrepreneurial student who is vice-president of the Economics Club. Square face, bright smile, nondescript physique but (according to him) a gigantic Kovbasa+ beneath the belt.

While I'm talking to Aaron, I am approached by Mohammed on a different app: An engineering student from Saudi Arabia, 23 years old, solidly built, with dark smooth skin, but "bi-curious," on the downlow.

"Sorry, I already have someone coming over," I tell him.

"I'm really in the mood," he protests.  "Could we do a three-way?"

I don't want to have two strangers in my apartment at once, even with their background information and phone numbers.  There are too many opportunities for stealing.

But I haven't been with a Middle Eastern guy for years, and no one from Saudi Arabia.

But he's bi-curious, downlow, probably planning to drop by while his girlfriend is out shopping. That's trouble.

But his photo is hot, and we have a nice conversation about San Francisco.

 8:00 pm.  Mike doesn't show up.  No call, no cancellation, just doesn't show.

"Ok," I tell Mohammed.  "We'll do the three-way.  Just let me clear it with Aaron."

Aaron has never been with a Middle Eastern guy.  "Doesn't Saudi Arabia execute gays?"

"That may be why a lot of Saudis go on 'sex vacations' to Europe or America."

I submit the photos to each other.  They're both into it.

I don't notice that it's starting to rain.

8:30 pm.  Pouring rain, thunder, lightning.

8:45 pm.  The tornado alarm goes off.  Aaron cancels: "Sorry, I'll never make it out in this deluge."

It's too late to contact Mohammed.  Will he be a no-show?  Bi-curious, a three-way, in the rain, a lot to get skittish about.

9:00 pm.  Mohammed knocks on the door.

I explain that Aaron cancelled.  He doesn't mind.

He kisses, not well, but adequate for a bi-curious guy.  He allows me to go down on his cut Mortadella, but won't touch mine.  He throws his legs in the air, and I rub against his butt but don't enter.  Then I go down on him again.

The bedroom activity and conversation takes about an hour.

I try to get Mohammed to talk about being gay -- or bi-curious -- as a Saudi, with conservative Muslim family and friends, but he is too skittish.  After I go down on him again, he dresses and leaves.

I notice that the rain has stopped.

10:00 pm.  I go back on the dating apps.

Aaron appears: "The storm is over.  Can I come over now?"

And Mike: "Sorry, a friend dropped by, and I couldn't get rid of him.  Can I come over now?"

See also: Three Guys in My Bed in Baltimore.

"I'm a Try Something, A'ight?": Picked Up by the Boy and His Dog

Upstate, June 2009

In Upstate New York, I used to run 4 miles from home to Wilbur Park, then down East Street to Maple, and home again.

One afternoon I was about halfway through the run, when I saw a young kid, a teenager at most, walking a pit bull nearly as big as he was.

I don't like running past dogs -- they sometimes get spooked and start barking.  But the kid was black, and I was afraid to cross the street for fear of being tagged racist.  So I persevered.

I heard growling, then "Janell, heel!  Stop that!"  Then the dog lunged forward and bit me on the butt.

"Janell, Janell, stop that!" the boy yelled, jerking the leash.

Grudgingly, growling, Janell the Pit Bull sat.

"Your monster dog just bit me!" I exclaimed.

"I'm sorry, Mister. Janell's really a sweetheart. She just thought your behind was candy, and she want a taste."  He grinned at me with that unmistakable appreciation that sets off your gaydar.  I was in no mood for cruising, but I did notice that he was a twink, not a kid -- short, light skinned, solidly built, with dark brown eyes, a broad nose, and sensual lips.

  "You can pet her if you want.  My name's Malik."

I leaned down to pet Janell.  She growled softly.  "I'm Boomer.  And sweetheart or not, my butt hurts."

"Let me take a look, Boomer."  I pulled my pants down a little.  I felt his hand on me, probing.  "Ok, I see the bite marks, and a little tiny bit of blood.  Don't look like a big deal."

"Does Janell have her shots?'

"Oh, sure, she's all set."

My butt was throbbing.  "Well, I'm going to Urgent Care anyway. "

"Ok.  I'll drive you, a'ight?  I just gotta drop Janell off at the house."

We hobbled down the street.  Janell was still growling softly.

"I'm a try something, a'ight?  If I put my arm around you, maybe she'll think we friends."

"Ok...but what will the neighbors think?"

"Ain't none of their business, is it?" he said with a grin.  He wrapped a hard, muscular arm around my waist, and the growling stopped.

Ok, so Malik was gay.  And cruising me.

He lived about a block away, in an older house, painted light blue, encircled by a chain link fence, naturally.  He opened the front door and let Janell bounce inside.  An older woman in a pink nightgown was sitting on the couch, reading a book.

"Hey, Mama, look what Janell caught!" Malik joked. "Can we keep him?"  He seemed in very good spirits, for someone whose dog had just been involved in an attack.

"Your son's dog got a little rambunctious," I said.  His good humor was infectious. "No big deal, but I'm going to Urgent Care, just in case."

"I'm a borrow your car to drive him.  Don't worry, I'll be back before you gotta work."

While we waited, Malik told me that he had a job as an orderly at the hospital, and he was studying nursing at SUNY Cooperstown.  "I'm like the only guy in some of my classes, and some of those nursing girls are fine, know what I mean?"

Ok, so Malik was straight.

The doctor cleaned the wound, put on a bandage -- it didn't need stitches -- prescribed Advil for the pain, and told me to lay off the running for a few days.  Then Malik drove me home and helped me inside, although I didn't really need the help.

I figured he was just being nice so I wouldn't sue him.  "Don't worry, it doesn't hurt anymore," I said.  "And my insurance will cover the Urgent Care.  You and Janell are fine."

Malik shrugged.  "You got anybody coming by later to take care of you?  Girlfriend or boyfriend?"

I stared.  Straight people never said "girlfriend or boyfriend."  They always assumed that gay people did not exist.  "No, I'm...single at the moment."

"Who gonna cook you dinner later?"

"Oh, I'll just order a pizza."

"Nuh-huh, you ain't ordering no pizza on my watch.  Tell you what -- I'm a pick you up later, a'ight, and you coming to the house, and I'm gonna cook.  Mama's working, so we have the house to ourselves."

"That's not really necessary," I said reluctantly.

"Hey, man, Janell got a bite of you, so it's only fair that you get a bite of me.  Or something with your mouth, anyway."  He stood facing me, and put his hand on my waist.  "I'm a try something, a'ight?  You just be cool."

Suddenly we were kissing.

Then he broke away.  "K, you rest now.   I'll drop Mama off at work and pick you up at 6:00"

That night Malik served pork chops, scalloped potatoes, and green beans, with apple pie for dessert.  Then I sat on a pillow on the couch, with Malik's arm around me and Janell's head on my lap.  I told him about the Gang of Twelve, that I was dating, one at a time.

"See, I never could get guys who was just into guys," he said, "Or just into girls, either.  There's so many fine studs and foxes out there, how can you limit yourself?"

Ok, so Malik was bisexual.

"I find men more than enough."

"Well, I've gone down on men and women both, so maybe I know a few tricks that gay dudes don't."  He grinned.  "I'm a try something, a'ight?"

He moved the dog's head away and started unzipping me.

In case you were wondering: ripped body, Bratwurst.

See also: The Truth about the Black Penis; The Rich Kid and the Crying Truck Driver.

Tuesday, April 19, 2016

David Hooks Up with the Bible Boy of Castro Street

San Francisco, June 1996

I'm starting a new part-time job at the San Francisco AIDS Foundation.  During my all-day orientation, I meet a newcomer to the City, David:

Older than me, balding, handsome, with a bright open preacher's face. Rather buffed, with a thick neck, thick arms and a furry barrel chest.  That aggressively friendly, ever-cheerful "How are ya!"  manner that you see with guys whose jobs require you to like them.

He tells us that six months ago, he was a conservative Baptist minister in Arkansas, married with children.  Then, on his 43rd birthday, he came out.  He had his first same-sex experience, divorced his wife, read a lot of pro-gay books, and moved to San Francisco.

He has moved into an apartment in the Castro with another ex-Baptist minister, joined a gym, and found a (full time) job at the AIDS Foundation.  Now he's anxious to try everything the gay world has to offer, especially the sex.

"No sex for the first 43 years of my life!" he exclaims.  "Unless you count my ex-wife.  Just fantasies.  I have to get up to speed.   I bet I can get with a thousand guys in the next year, three a day, if I work at it."

He glances at the concerned faces of the other employees of the AIDS Foundation.  "What?  I'll be safe, of course.  I carry a package of condoms with me at all times."

After orientation David and I take the Muni to Castro Street for dinner.  We bond over tales of childhood deprivations and crazy fundamentalist relatives -- and hot men.  He is relishing his freedom to talk openly about hot guys for the first time in his life.

There's no question that we'll hook up -- that's a given.  You make new friends in San Francisco by sharing their bed. But I'm more interested in hanging out, in exploring the gay world through David's eyes.

Outside the Castro Street Station, we come across two screamers.

You see screamers frequently in gay neighborhoods, at events like Gay Pride and the AIDS Walk, or sometimes on an ordinary summer afternoon:  heteros waving signs and shouting Bible verses and generally expressing how much they hate us.

Usually they come in groups, so the sodomites won't be able to rape and murder them as easily, but today there are only two:

1. A middle aged man, slim, grey-haired, sweating in a business suit, carrying a sign that reads "Homosexuality is an abomination in the eyes of the Lord," snarling and shouting invectives at the passersby:

"Know ye not that the unrighteous shall not inherit the kingdom of God? Be not deceived: neither fornicators, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor effeminate, nor abusers of themselves with mankind!"

2. The Bible boy, slim and blond in a business suit, but considerably more handsome, with blue eyes and sharp features, looking down at his feet -- because he doesn't like being around sodomites, or because he doesn't like being around his dad?  He's carrying a large King James Bible.

I know the drill -- cross the street if you can.  Don't make eye contact, don't speak, don't engage with the screamers in any way.

But does David?  Will the former Baptist preacher engage?  Or will his fundamentalist brainwashing kick in, resulting in guilt, self-recrimination, and a decision to turn "ex-gay"?

I don't want to find out.  "Come on, let's go this way," I say, pulling David's arm.

"Are you kidding?  That boy is hot!"

"He's a screamer!"

David laughs.  "I hope so.  Do you like twinks?"

"Sure, but...cruising a screamer?  Are you crazy?"

"Yes.  And horny.  Do you mind if I bring in a third for tonight."

Soon I will be used to David cruising anyone, anywhere, but now I'm shocked.  A screamer, in front of his Dad!

We approach Bible Boy while the main screamer is yelling at a heterosexual couple for promoting sodomy.

David smiles and holds out his massive hand.  Bible Boy smiles shyly.  I can hear him thinking, "This isn't what a sodomite looks like!  Why isn't he wearing a dress?"

"My name is David, and this is Boomer."

"Kyle.  Have you ever heard of the Four Spiritual Laws?"

That old soulwinning routine?  I learned that in high school!

David says "ἐγὼ ἦλθον ἵνα ζωὴν ἔχωσιν καὶ περισσὸν ἔχωσιν."

Bible Boy stares.

"John 10:10: I am come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly.  B.A. in Classical Studies from the University of Arkansas, M.A. in Latin from Tulane University, M. Div. from the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary."

His eyes widen.  "Wow, that's impressive.  How did you..."  He stops himself from saying "How did you sink into such unholy degradation..."

"Can you take a break?  I'll tell you all about my journey from Pine Bluff, Arkansas to Castro Street."

"Um...I don't drink."

"Do you eat hamburgers?"

He yells to the Preacher that he's going witnessing, and we go to Orphan Andy's for burgers and fries.

Kyle is 18 years old, a new high school graduate who plans to attend UC Santa Cruz next fall ("Boy, did my folks squawk about that!  A heathen college full of atheists and sodomites!")

The older guy is actually his youth minister.  There are six other members of his youth group scattered around town, brandishing signs and screaming to spread the Good News, but Kyle, a shy, sensitive, quiet boy, couldn't find a partner, so the preacher said 'Just stick by me.'"

"I wasn't even going to come.  I hate soulwinning," Kyle explains.  "But I wanted to see what real sodomites look like.  Besides, we're going to get ice cream later."

Nice youth group outing, screaming and fudge ripple!

"You don't really believe all that 'abomination in the eyes of the Lord' stuff, do you?" David asks.

"Well, I have to believe what the Lord says in His Word, even if I don't understand it.  I mean, you look at cute guys, and think, what would be wrong with touching them?  But the Lord says it's an abomination, so...."

Chuckling,  David pulls out his Greek and Hebrew and demolishes every homophobic interpretation of the "Big Five" Bible verses.  From the story of Sodom to the "strange flesh" of Jude.

We end up back at his apartment.

David and Bible Boy kiss while I go down on them at the same time.  David has a thick uncut Bratwurst+, and Bible Boy is average, cut, and ruddy.  They get into the 69 position and leave me out for awhile, but then Bible Boy goes down on me until I finish.  David pulls out a condom and introduces him to anal.

Then Bible Boy -- Kyle - dresses, thanks us both, and returns to his youth group for ice cream.

David and I look at each other.  He grins.  "I could tell he was gay from a block away.  It was just a matter of getting him away from that darned youth leader."

I am completely overwhelmed.  Even Alan was nothing like this!

"That's two guys," he says.  "My goal is three a day, so I need one more.  Want to go cruising?"

See also: David and the Homeless Teenager



Sunday, April 17, 2016

What's Wrong with an Open Relationship?

I have been getting insulted by an anonymous poster, who complains bitterly that I am a despicable person with a sad, pathetic, meaningless life because I have an open relationship.

 I no longer permit anonymous posts on this blog.

Half of these stories are about sharing boyfriends and romantic partners, so I'm not sure why someone who hates such things would be here in the first place.

But in case you have moral qualms about open relationships, here's why I think they're a good idea:











The cultures of the world have many ways of determining who is responsible for raising children.  The most common are:
1. Polygamy: several women have children with one man.
2. Polyandry: one woman has children with several men
3. Mixed: anyone in the clan can have children with anyone else.

17% of the world's cultures practice monogamy: one woman has children with one man only.










Monogamy ensures that men know that they are the biological father of the children they are raising.  But it has some drawbacks:

1. The wife becomes property, her vagina a commodity that can be bought and sold.  Through the 18th century, if a married woman was raped, the husband was assumed the victim.  If she was unmarried, the victim was the father.

2. The penalty for a wife who "cheats" is severe, but for the husband, the penalty is mild.  It is even expected that he have a "mistress" on the side.  90% of the people prosecuted under the adultery laws are female.

3. The husband and wife are expected to live alone, with their children, in"single family homes" which puts a severe strain on the world's economic resources.  Multiple-family dwellings are much more efficient.

Same-sex couples don't need to worry about pregnancy from an extramarital encounter, so why do they practice monogamy?  I have heard the following objections to sexual activity with people outside the relationship:

1.It increases the risk of sexually-transmitted diseases.

Unprotected sex increases the risk of STDs regardless of whether you are in a relationship or not.  Should single gay people avoid sexual activity, also? Wrap it up!

2. The partner may find someone he likes better, and end the relationship.

Will spending an hour in the bedroom with this guy tell you if he likes The X-Files and Buddhist philosophy, if he will be supportive of your career, if he will fit in with your friends?  Of course not -- all you will find out about is his bedroom performance.  If your relationship is so fragile that it will end because you found someone better at oral sex, is it really worth preserving?









3. Heterosexual men don't do it.

Of course they do, just not as often as we do, for an obvious reason: women lose prestige by having sex, but men gain it. Think of the terms used for men and women with multiple partners: stud vs. slut.  So it takes work to persuade a woman to have sex with you, but to get a man to have sex with you, all you need to do is ask.

4. It must be disgraceful.  You wouldn't want people to find out, would you?

I would prefer that my mother, minister, and boss not be apprised of my latest three-way.  Also I wouldn't want them to know what I did with my partner last night.  And I don't want to know what they did with their partners, either.

5. It detracts from the joy, fulfillment, and fun of the relationship.

I don't see how.  It's a joy to cruise guys together, to evaluate prospects.  It's fulfilling to watch your partner in action with a guy he finds especially attractive. And it's fun to discuss afterwards.


6. I prefer monogamy, and everybody on Earth has to do things my way.

If you and your partner are both into it, feel free to only have sex with each other.  Or to not have sex at all.  It's really none of my business.  But at the same time, you don't have the right to judge me over something that my partner and I enjoy.



Semi-Open Relationships

I don't have strictly open relationships, where either partner can do anything with anybody at anytime.  What's the fun in that? I want to be there.

My relationships have usually been semi-open.

1. Either partner can engage in social activities with anyone he wants, including events that are typically considered dates: dinners, movies, and so on.

2. BUT no bedroom activity can occur without both partners being present.  All three will participate, or if one of the parties isn't into it, he can just watch.

3. At bath houses, sex clubs, and bear parties, the partners will cruise together whenever possible, but separate sexual activity is permitted.

4. If the partners are in separate cities, they can engage in bedroom activities with close friends, including "sharing" dates and romantic partners.

It's worked so far.  Twenty years of semi-open relationships with no STDs, no jealousy, no crying and recrimination, no breakups because he found someone better, and a lot of fun.