Friday, April 29, 2016
Getting Sausage Sightings in the locker room at the gym is harder than it sounds.
First, you have to be discrete, "accidentally" turning your head at the exact moment he drops his pants.
Second, you can't gawk. A momentary sidelong glance, no matter how big it is.
My campus gym is even worse: most guys don't even bother with the locker room. They stash their coats, work out, then put on their coats and leave.
But today, against all odds, I got the mother of all Sausage Sightings, a Kovbasa+++ for the record books.
Then a younger college kid came in and stood at a locker behind me and about five feet to my right.
Very young, probably a freshman. Very tall, round baby face, red hair, pale complexion, not a very impressive physique, but I figured, a sausage sighting is a sausage sighting.
He took off his shirt. I was busily tying my shoe.
He took off his gym trunks. I had a "problem" with the knot.
He deliberately turned his back to take off his jock strap.
Without realizing that I got a clear view in the mirror behind him.
I didn't even have to sneak a peak. I faced the mirror and pretended to check my hair.
Gigantic! Kovbasa+++ hanging halfway down to his knee, easily 7", ruddy, uncut. That's 11+ inches aroused.
Being unaware that I could see everything he had, the college kid stood fully visible and carefully primped at his hair.
Wait -- he was primping in the mirror. He knew that the mirror was there! He knew that I could see him!
Then he wrapped up, glanced at me with a little smile, and headed for the shower.
No, I didn't stick around until he came back, but I'm going to the gym at the same time today, to see if he's there. I'll tell you how it turns out.
See also: My Ex-Student Naked in the Locker Room
I'm 23 years old, just graduated from Indiana University with my M.A. in English, with a new job at a state college in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas.
I hate the bugs, the humidity, the rednecks, the country-western music, the hour-long drive to the nearest gay bar.
But I like the men: they grow them BIG in Texas.
I take out an ad in the Montrose Voice, trying to find guys for dating and romance. They charge by the letter, so:
GWM, 23, 6'0, 180, musc, into bks, tv, f/sf, mus, dts only.
Who knew that some of these acronyms are used for fetishes?
After a few rather inappropriate responses, I pay for the extra vowels: into books, television, fantasy/ science fiction, muscles. Dates only.
A few more inappropriate responses, including a guy who just breathes heavily into the phone, and then Raymond: a medical technician, 32 years old, from Detroit, in Texas five years. Reads science fiction. Favorite authors: Asimov, Heinlein, LeGuin.
Sounds good, but what does he look like? Newspaper ads don't include photos.
Black, tall, slim, bearded, hairy chest, gym-toned, .
We meet at Mother's in the Montrose for "drinks." Raymond is attractive, with a round open face and a disarming smile.
He turns me off by drinking three beers and flirting with the waiter, but this is my first date in Texas, so I can't complain.
He's into astrology. We're Taurus and Scorpio, opposite sides of the zodiac. Explosively passionate in the bedroom.
I'm dubious. Scorpios are dark, aggressive, easily angered, often melancholy. We need a laid-back, amiable sign. My first boyfriend Fred was a Virgo, and Jimmy the Bodybuilder on Crutches was a Libra.
But we both have the Sun in the Third House, Raymond points out. We both need lots of physical activity, and we're endlessly curious, eager to try new things. We could have a very fulfilling relationship.
Next we browse at Wilde and Stein, the gay bookstore, then dinner at a Mexican place, where Raymond drinks another beer and flirts with the waiter.
Huge cut Mortadella! He can put two hands around that thing and still have two inchs to spare!
I go down on him as well as I can, choking a bit, while he moans. Then he says "Come on, let's go into the bedroom."
We fall onto the bed, kissing, He pushes down my throat while I am lying on my back and thrusts while playing with my penis. Then suddenly he pulls away and bounces off the bed.
I look up, Raymond is at the dresser, rolling a condom over his Mortadella.
"I always use condoms. You don't mind, do you?" Without waiting for an answer, he throws my legs in the air. I feel a burst of pain as a giant baseball bat pushes into me.
"Wait...you're too big!" I exclaim.
He pulls out. "There's no such thing. It's just a matter of relaxing your muscles. Here, I'll open you up a little." A finger with a sharp nail goes inside me and feels around. "Ready?" A burst of pain again.
I pull away. "I'm not really into Greek."
"But you're a Scorpio. All Scorpios are into Greek."
"Um...I'm not really into astrology, either."
He squeezes my buttocks. "You'll see. You're a Scorpio. Once I'm inside, you'll like it. And I can keep going for hours."
He pushes inside again. This guy is about two inches longer and way thicker than Fred was! I yell out in pain as he begins to thrust, and finally yell "Get off! Get off!"
He pulls away. "Ok, then, just go down on me, alright?"
I make him go into the bathroom and wash off first.
Of course, there's no second date.
A few days later, I get a phone call from Sayid, who explains that Raymond gave him my number. He's 26 years old, a professional dancer -- "and a Virgo." A soft, sweet, laidback sign.
"It's hard to talk over the phone," he says. "Can I come up?"
He has a rather feminine, high-pitched voice, but I haven't been with many guys in Texas, so ok.
An hour later, he appears at my door: black, rather light skinned, tall, bearded, but very muscular, with thick biceps and six-pack abs. We sit on the couch, drinking sodas and talking -- he was raised Baptist in rural Alabama, but now doesn't hae any particular religion, although he's "very spiritual."
We kiss, and I run my mouth over his chest and abs, and unzip his pants. He has a manageable Bratwurst, uncut, with shaved pubic hair.
We move onto the floor and get into the 69 position.
Finally someone paying attention to my beneath-the-belt gifts!
After awhile, he jumps up and pulls me into the bedroom. He leaps onto the bed and turns over onto his stomach.
I turn him back onto his back and go down on him until he finishes.
"That was nice," he says, "But don't you want to do me?"
"Um...I just did," I say, confused.
"But you're a Scorpio. All Scorpios are into Greek."
He turns over onto his stomach again. "Take me! Take me! Do whatever you want with me!"
Of course, there's no second hookup.
I arrived in Nashville on August 18th, 1991, sad about leaving West Hollywood but looking forward to my new graduate program in Biblical Hebrew at Vanderbilt Divinity School. I found an apartment and an adjunct teaching job, toured the campus, and looked for Nashville's gay life:
Three gay organizations, some bars, and a Metropolitan Community Church.
On my first Saturday, I went to two of the bars, both on dismal country roads beyond the city limits. The first was completely deserted except for a woman who tried to pick me up -- a real woman -- and the second was about half drag queens, half rednecks. No one I found attractive.
I missed Mugi and the French Quarter.
Disappointed, I left after about an hour. On the way back into town, I stopped at an old-fashioned ice cream place called Bobbie's Dairy Dip, ordered a hot fudge sundae, and sat at one of the picnic tables outside.
"'Scuse me, sir, do you mind if I join you?"
I looked up: A country boy, barely out of his teens: tall and thin, scruffy black hair, handsome round face, unshaven, wearing a button-down shirt, jeans, and dirty tennis shoes. Holding a dish of frozen custard.
"You were looking at me at that other place we was at, but I didn't have the nerve to come say hi. The name's Red."
Was this the way people cruised in Nashville?
Red was very talkative: he was 25 years old, grew up in a small town outside Nashville, and worked at a gas station. He just got out of prison a few months ago -- DUI and resisting arrest.
Not the best pickup line!
But he "turned his life around." He was sober, he had his GED, and he was taking classes at the community college. He wanted to go to Middle Tennessee State and study zoology.
"You been to college, ain't you?" he asked. "I can tell by the way you talk."
"Yep, I almost got a Ph.D. I'm at Vanderbilt now, studying Biblical Hebrew."
"Whoa, Biblical Hebrew, that's hard. I can tell, just talking to you, that your brain is working at like three or four levels above mine. Let me ask you something." He reached under the table and rubbed his foot against mine "Do you think it will ever be legal for people like us to get together?"
At that moment, some kids at another started table laughing. Red jumped up and ran to his car.
I joined him. "They weren't laughing at us, you know."
Red was cute, with the "lost soul" look I liked But I was a bit nervous about inviting a scruffy-looking stranger, an ex-con, back to my apartment. "I like to take things slow, get to know the guy," I said "How about we go out to dinner Tuesday night?"
"Ok. But someplace safe." He thought for a moment. "How about Bucky's, down in Columbia."
I'd never heard of Columbia, but I assumed it was a suburb of Nashville, where Red lived.
Of course, I got his contact information, and gave it to Lane back home.
Columbia turned out to be about 50 miles away, and Bucky's a heterosexist "family restaurant" that served "chicken an dressin'."
Red was wearing a plaid button-down shirt and a red tie. He gave me a plastic rose, the kind they sell at 7-11. A little weird.
"I never had a real date with a guy before," he said with a shy smile. "Usually they just want to do you and go home."
I hated smokers!
Afterwards he wanted to go to the club up in Nashville, where they had drag shows on Tuesday nights.
Then why did I drive all the way down here? For Southern Country Cooking?
But I had already invested time and energy in this guy, so we went. It was ok, if you like drag shows.
On the way back to our cars, a pick-up truck pulled up next to us, and the passenger-side door opened. It was all dark inside. "Hey, faggots," someone whispered. "Get in."
Red grabbed my hand, and we ran back to the bar. We waited a half hour before trying to leave again.
It was after midnight I was tired and scared. I just wanted to go home -- alone. But when I suggested that we call it a night, Red looked so disappointed that I invited him home.
We sat on the couch in the living room, kissing -- Red was admittedly good at that. But the moment I tried to go down on him, he said "You got any photo albums? I want to know everything there is to know about you."
So we watched TV and leafed through my photo albums. I showed Red photos of my parents and brother and sister, my friends at Denkmann, Washington, Rocky High, Augustana, Indiana, and West Hollywood. He kept up a constant stream of questions
I drew Red to his feet and pulled him into the bedroom. He stared at the bed next to the window.
"We can't sleep there! Too risky."
I was too tired to argue. I spread some blankets and pillows out onto the living room floor and tore off Red's shirt and tie. Hard hairy chest, lanky arms. I pulled his pants down and went down on his cut Kielbasa+. He groaned.
"Hey, you know what would be good? Some music."
So I turned MTV on, and we moved into 69 position to Madonna's "Express Yourself."
So if you want it right now, make him show you how
Express what he's got, oh baby ready or not
Red was very eager -- he finished while I was going down on him during "Express Yourself," and again on top of me, with his penis between my legs. Then he went down on me twice.
But the evening was too weird -- a 45 minute drive for chicken, a drag show, gay bashing, photo albums, MTV -- I decided not to see him again.
The next Sunday, I went to services at the MCC, the gay church. And Red was there, sititing in the front row!
See also: The Country-Western Star; the Bed-Switching Freshman at the Chocolate Moose.
Sunday, April 24, 2016
It was actually Aldine, Texas, a far, far, far northern suburb of Houston, 20 miles from the beauty and excitement of the Montrose.
And, if you don't count two trips back to Rock Island and spring break in New Orleans, it was actually only seven and a half months, or 210 days.
209 days too long.
I had a dreary two-room apartment on a dead end street, with an illiterate redneck landlord downstairs and a headbanger neighbor.
Everyone in the rust belt moved to Texas in the early 1980s, which meant that everything was grotesquely crowded, it took an hour to get anywhere in grotesque traffic, and everyone was new at their jobs, so they took forever and made lots of mistakes, which made every chore from banking to going to the gym a daunting enterprise.
Plus, everything was under construction, resulting in constant delays, and more flat tires in nine months than I've had in the 30 years since.
The campus was all ugly concrete slabs and treeless scrub grass.
Everyone was illiterate, surly, and very, very homophobic. Consequently, all gay men were very, very closeted, giving you fake names and fake phone numbers.
There are a few things I remember fondly:
My Italian class.
A visit from Bruce.
Spring break in New Orleans.
And sausages. They grow them BIG in Texas, and the guys were readily available. For hookups, anyway.
Here are 16 Texas toughs, horrors, hookups, and sausages from my 210 days in Hell-fer-Sartain.
1. The Student Who Got Naked in My Class, stripped down to his underwear right in the middle of a lecture on Moby Dick. No one has ever done that in any class since. The most beefcake you see is when they take off their sweater, and their shirt pulls up off their chest.
2. Raymond, a black guy with an interest in astrology (he was a Taurus) and an enormous Mortadella who kept saying "if you relax, it won't hurt." It did.
3. Sayid, his friend. Raymond fixed us up, apparently believing that if I wasn't an anal bottom, I must be an anal top. At the end of the date, Sayid ran into the bedroom, stripped, turned over on his stomach, and squealed "Take me! Take me! Do whatever you want with me!"
4. Hank, a recent graduate of the college, now working in a department store, who claimed to want a relationship, but gave a fake telephone number. He didn't realize that as a faculty member, I had access to all student records. So I looked him up and called.
"Um...um...I don't...I mean," he stammered, trying to figure out how he managed to accidentally write down his real number.
"You said you wanted a relationship. So -- dinner tomorrow night?"
He didn't want dinner.
5. Dan, a Vietnamese immigrant who worked at the mall and chain smoked. During our date, he poured water on a napkin to use as a makeshift ash tray. After the date, I came down with a case of...well, let's just say it wasn't pleasant.
6. Two Brothers and their Dad. I had a date with the 19-year old, but I made out with the 17-year old, and got a sausage sighting of the aroused Dad in bed.
7. Dick, My Old Bully. We reconnected at Christmas, back in Rock Island. Who knew that he was gay? And so buffed? And so well hung?
8. My Most Embarrassing Hookup, when a middle-aged Mormon guy mistook me for a hustler.
9.The Redneck Boy from the trailer court next door worked out with weights, shirtless, in his yard. I never made contact, but it was a pleasant sight.
10. The Professor Who Got Away. I pushed a little too hard, going into detail about the things we had in common. I may have used the term "soul mate." He rain.
12. The Footballer. This guy goes into ecstasies over me being from the Midwest, asked about farms, milking cows, etc., etc. He asks me to wear a football jersey on our date. He asks me to stand in front of the window and "Feel myself up."
He arrives and says "Are ya hungry?"
Which is almost as annoying.
14. The Most Skittish Guy on Earth. He arrives, says "There are too many people around. You didn't tell me you lived so close to other people. What if they saw me coming in? What if they hear us?"
I get annoyed and say "Are we going to do it or what?"
He grabs a chair, puts it on the floor in the bedroom, and says "Go ahead and do it, then."
But then he hears a noise and vanishes before I have a chance to "do it," whatever "it" is.
15.Carl the Cowboy Cop with a Kovbasa+, one of the biggest I've ever seen. But he was immensely tall, which was a turnoff, and extremely anti-religious.
16. The New Age Devotee who kept talking about the Universe, energy, chakras, crystals, and stuff: "The Universe wants you to find the one you're destined to be with." He didn't want to do anything in bed except kiss and cuddle, although he stayed aroused all night.
In the morning, I prepared a New Age breakfast of granola and fresh plums. I tried to hand him the bowl of plums, but he didn't take it, and it shattered all over the floor.
A fitting end to my 210 days in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas.
I'm at the Orthopedic Clinic to see a doctor about my knee injury. I still have Troy as my emergency contact.
"What is he?" the receptionist asks. "Your son, your brother...."
I look around to see if anyone can hear before outing myself with "My ex-boyfriend."
The lady behind me is staring at a cell phone, oblivious.
Behind her is a family:
1. The husband in his 50s, bearded, a little chunky, Anglo. Rather attractive, but with a nasty scowl.
2. The wife, in her 40s, short, black-haired, Hispanic.
3. The son, a teenager with his arm in a sling. Slim, dark-skinned, curly black hair, stunningly handsome.
If he was gay, he would be a Trophy Boy, so hot that guys would compete over him, and his boyfriend would have to fight off predatory cruising.
Obviously hetero -- he's wearing a t-shirt with semi-naked ladies on it. But...he's smiling at me!
I smile back.
When I finish, Trophy Boy is at the receptionist's desk. I bring it up, say "Excuse me," and reach out to touch his arm (not the one in the sling). Dad pulls him back protectively.
His form is on the desk: Adam M---I can't read the rest.
I go back to my seat. Trophy Boy tries to sit across from me, but Dad steers him away .
They are called in first.
Will this be one of those glimpses of great beauty that we remember forever, even though we never speak and never touch?
The nurse leads me to an examination room just as Trophy Boy and his Dad are heading toward the x-ray room. His shirt is off. Smooth brown skin, flawless, small nipples, an outtie belly button.
"They got you going through the works," I say brightly.
"Yeah. They think I broke my radial head bone. You have to wait three weeks after the accident to take the x-rays."
A moment later he is whisked away, but I definitely saw him checking out my crotch.
Trophy Boy is gay after all, or at least interested, and stunningly beautiful.
All I have to do is find out who he is, make sure he's of legal age, and draw him away from his overprotective father.
1. I scour all of the friends lists of my Facebook friends, figuring that if he's gay, he must know one of them.
2. I look for him in Grindr, Scruff, and Adam4Adam.
3. I check the University directory for an Adam M---. Too many names pop up.
Radial head bone -- an elbow injury. Tennis!
5. It's too early for anyone to be playing on an outdoor court, but interscholastic tennis is a possibility. I check the schedules of all of the high schools and colleges in the area.
Bingo! He's Adam Martinez, a senior at East High, on the honor roll, the debate team, and the tennis team.
Senior, of legal age.
6. He's not going to be playing, certainly, but he will be watching the last game of the season.
So will I, after doing some research on the sport.
"Hi!" he calls immediately. "I didn't know you were a tennis fan."
"Oh, yeah, big time," I lie.
He scoots over so I can join him. Our legs rub together. He's definitely cruising me!
Tennis games are long and boring, giving us lots of opportunities to chat. Adam is out to his parents. They like his boyfriend, and treat him like family. They have an open relationship like the one Lane and I had in West Hollywood -- both partners have to be there for the bedroom activities.
After the game, Adam invites me to his boyfriend's apartment to "share."
What does the boyfriend of a Trophy Boy look like? Two stunningly handsome twinks in my bed! I'm dying with anticipation.
We drive to one of the big apartment complexes near the campus. Adam slides his key into the lock, pushes open the doorway, and yells "It's me. I brought someone."
"Great, bring him in!" a voice calls.
We walk into the living room. A gay porn movie is playing on tv. And sitting in an easy chair, naked, fondling himself:
"Wait...you're Adam's Dad!"
Adam laughs. "Are you crazy? I mean, I like older guys, but....anyway, Dad's not hot."
"But...at the doctor's office."
"Dad had to work, and Mom and me don't have cars, so Stuart offered to drive us."
Overwhelmed, I sit on the floor. Adam's Faux Dad holds out an aroused Mortadella that would be impressive if I wasn't so embarrassed.
"Don't worry, it happens all the time," he says. "Good for keeping our relationship closeted. But there's a big difference between me and Adam's Dad. Want to see what it is?"
"I think I have a pretty good idea already." I kneel and go down on him while Adam deftly unzips me.
The night turns out fine: Stuart is a macho top, only interested in receiving oral and topping, but Adam is versatile at oral and a good kisser.
By the way, uncut Bratwurst beneath the belt, and versatile in spite of having an arm in a sling.
Unfortunately, they have another rule: you can bring home any guy you want, but only once. And we can't even become friends. Next month, right after graduation, they're moving to Bozeman, Montana together.
How come, after three years in Plains, I never met them?
Well, three years ago, Adam was fifteen.
At least I spent the night with a Trophy Boy. And his Dad.
See also: The Boy with Daddy Issues; Alan Hooks up with a (Real) Father and Son; and The Weirdest Place to Pick Up a Twink.