Thursday, May 12, 2016
Last night I was on Grindr, trying to coax a skittish Cute Young Thing with blond hair and an enormous Mortadella into coming over. He asked question after question:
"How big is it?"
"What do you want to do?"
"What do you want me to do?"
"Are you hot?"
"How long will it take?"
"Do we have to have chit-chat first?"
"How old are you?"
"How big is it?"
"What do you want to do?"
"What do you want me to do?"
"Do you do this often?"
"What are you into?
"Will anyone else be there?"
"Do you like younger guys?"
"What do you want to do?"
"How big is it?"
I was getting more and more frustrated. Hookups are supposed to be a form of recreation, not arduous chores! But I had put so much time into this guy, I hated to just tell him to forget it.
Then I got buzzed by one of those guys with a blank profile, no name, age, height, weight, or description of interests, just a face and chest. A bear cub: in his 30s, bearded, chubby, hairy.
"I don't have much time, I'm just passing through town, but I'd like to stop by."
I don't invite guys over without getting some background information, including a phone number for insurance, but I was frustrated, and besides, I haven't seen a hairy chest for awhile -- all I seem to meet nowadays are smooth twinks -- so I said "Fine." I gave him the address and the access code for the apartment building, so I could buzz him in.
Less than five minutes later, he was knocking on my door. How did he get here so fast? How did he get into the building without being buzzed in?
He looked like a hobbit from The Lord of the Rings: about 5'3", with dark curly hair, and a short beard.
He was evasive during the pre-bedroom chitchat.
Boomer: "What do you do?"
Hobbit: "I hang out, you know, a little of this, a little of that."
Boomer: "Where do you live?"
Hobbit: "Oh, it's a very small town. You've never heard of it."
Boomer: "Are you gay or bi?"
Hobbit: "I'm not into labels."
Boomer: "Ok...um...what was the last movie you saw?"
Hobbit: "Something on Netflix, I forget the title."
Sighing, I took him by the hand and led him into the bedroom.
He was very much into kissing.
We took off our clothes --except he wouldn't take off his socks.
The Hobbit's penis was average sized, uncut, very thick, which looks enormous on a short guy.
He put me on my back and threw my legs in the air.
"Um...I'm not into anal..."
"That's ok." Apparently hobbits use that position for oral!
He was very adept, but the position was so strange that it took me a long time to finish.
Then I turned him on his back, kissed him for a while, and went down on him in the same position.
Afterwards we cuddled for awhile, but then the Hobbit said "I really have to be going. Pressing business to attend to."
I stood, pulled on my pants, and did a quick check of the room to see if anything was missing.
We walked out into the living room.
"Hey, can I get a picture?" I asked. None of my friends would believe this!
"Sure." His pants on but his shirt still off, the Hobbit grinned for my smart phone camera. Then he shook my hand and left.
The evasive answers, refusing to take off his socks, the extraordinarily large spurt -- something was a little off about this guy.
I checked my smart phone. Somehow I managed to take a picture of the bookcase to the Hobbit's right, not him!
Weird paranormal hookup, and no way to prove it.
"Are you there? How big are you? What do you want to do?"
See also: Gay Ghosts, Vampires, and Supernatural Beings
Wednesday, May 11, 2016
Now I know that gender identity is fluid, with many tangible and intangible components, but when I was a kid, it was all about boys and girls, so distinct that they might as well be separate species.
What made a boy a boy:
1. Short hair.
2. A shirt and pants.
3. A lack of makeup, nail polish, and perfume.
5. A penis.
Mostly a penis.
I wasn't yet aware that it grows bigger and stronger, or that you can use your hand or mouth to bring the guy to organsm.
But I knew that it was the most private, intimate, and dangerous part of the body.
My father told me that I must never display it, even by accident. Hide it at a urinal. Make sure no one sees you when you are changing clothes in the locker room. Never go skinny dipping.
Sometimes "dirty boys" might ask to see it, or touch it, but I must always recoil in disgust.
In fact, I must never touch my own penis, except when urinating or washing. Never at night, in bed.
I definitely noticed. Even in grade school, I knew how to sneak peeks beneath the belt, gauging bulges, mentaly calculating sizes and shapes, detecting slight movements, shifts, and semi-arousals.
The first bulge I remember was on my fifth birthday, in November 1965.
Mom and I were both sick. I was sad and worried as she lay in bed.
I got a Tell-the-Time Clock with a smiley face and gloves on its hands, but I was too sick to play with it. There wasn't any cake.
I sat on the couch with Dad, sipping 7-Up and watching tv. First The Flintstones, and then Tammy, with a sugary mawdlin song that I hate today, maybe because I associate it with being sick, or maybe because Dad sang it at odd moments for the next thirty years.
I hear the cottonwoods whisperin' above.
Tammy--Tammy-Tammy's in love.
It was a hayseed sitcom (1965-66) about a bayou gal who becomes the secretary for a powerful industrialist and sets her sights on his fey son.
In the episode that aired on my fifth birthday, Tammy is courting a boy named Peter Tate (David Macklin), who doesn't really like girls. He's just playing along.
Do you see something extra beneath the belt? He forgot to wear underwear that day.
How about now, with a semi filling out his chaps?
Remember, guys -- including cameramen -- always pretend not to notice, so lots of bulges and semis get captured on film.
David Macklin popped up -- and out -- again and again during my childhood. A teen surfer on Gidget (1966). A fratboy on The Munsters (1966). A hippie on Ironside (1968). An abused rich kid on Cannon (1973).
And it all began on my fifth birthday.
A much better gift than a Tell-the-Time Clock.
See also: David Macklin, the Boy with Something Extra
Tuesday, May 10, 2016
When I visited South Africa for a conference in 2000, I met two guys. One spoke Zulu and the other spoke Khoisan.
My friend Doc and I returned for another conference in 2006, eager for more sex and languages. The conference lasted for three days, but we decided to stay for eight, to give us a chance to find speakers of:
Spoken by 1.1 million people near Durban.
Your baseball bat is big: bat yakho baseball kuyinto enkulu
Ok, I've been with a Zulu guy before, but Doc hadn't. A night at the Lounge, Durban's biggest gay bar, yielded a three-way hookup with Joseph, a biology teacher: in his 20s, tall, lean, with six-pack abs and a long, thin Kielbasa. Oral.
Thursday: Xhosa, a "click" language spoken by 8.2 million people in the Eastern Cape province.
I want to go home with you: ndifuna ukuya ekhaya kunye nawe
There are a lot of Xhosa speakers in Durban. After we told Joseph about our quest, he introduced us to an ex-boyfriend, Wushi, who worked in a garage: a gym rat in his 30s, rather hefty, with a little belly and a thick Bratwurst. Into anal but open to suggestions.
Spoken by 7.1 million people, mostly descendants of Dutch Boer settlers. Unfortunately, they are mostly on the west side of the country, a day's drive from Durban.
I like to eat sausages: Ek hou daarvan om wors te eet
We rented a car and drove to Johannesburg, six hours north of Durban, to the Rand Afrikaans University in Johannesburg, that offers courses in both Afrikaans and English.
We walked on the campus. Nothing.
We went to the Department of Afrikaans and talked to the only professor who was there during the winter break. He was, surprisingly, black, or what they call "Colored" in South Africa.
He told us that Afrikaans was very much a "mother tongue," spoken at home but not on the streets.
In the evening, we went to the Melville, Johannesburg's gay neighborhood, hoping to meet an Afrikaans speaker in the Factory or the REC Room.
"Ik heet Boomer," I said in what I thought was Afrikaans. "Ik kom uit..."
"Are you from Amsterdam?" he exclaimed. "I would love to go there! Is it as hot as they say?"
Renny worked in a factory. He was average sized, into oral.
We didn't meet anyone who spoke Afrikaans, but English is ok, too.
We visited Constitution Hill and the Lion Park before driving about an hour north to Pretoria in search of Tswana, spoken by 4.4 million people in Botswana and nearby.
What is your name? Leina le gago ke mang?
This time we were smart. We logged onto a chatroom in advance and arranged a meeting with Thabo, who worked in information technology. He took us to dinner at an Indian restaurant and then to a gay bath house.
In his 40s, bearded, slightly hairy chest, very long, thick Mortadella. Interfemoral.
We visited the Vortrekker Monument, Church Square, and the Transvaal Museum, then had Chinese food and stayed in our hotel room for the night, watching Malcolm in the Middle, The Simpsons, and Family Guy.
"We're doing something wrong," Doc said. "We're meeting lots of completely Western guys, the same that you would meet in Vienna or Amsterdam. I want to meet tribal Africans."
"What do you mean?" I asked. "Grass huts and talking drums went out in the 1930s."
"Not that, but some of the old culture. Same-sex relations that were age and gender-stratified, before the Western gay culture took over."
Spoken by 5.6 million people.
Which way is the toilet? Batekamore e kae?
We selected a likely village, Zwelisha, in the heart of the Drakenburg Mountains near the border of Lesotho. Not much there but tin-roofed houses, a clinic, and a high school, a low yellow building.
Even though it was a cool winter day, we ran across a group of high school boys walking along the side of the road, naked except for loincloths, their bodies covered with white clay. They made flexing body-building gestures to us.
We stopped in at the clinic to ask what was going on.
The young doctor on call -- actually a medical student from Johannesburg -- told us that it was a manhood ritual. "They spend a week in a lodge, bragging and bonding. They used to fight with spears, but now it's usually wrestling. Same thing. Hoe meer dinge verander, hoe meer het hulle dieselfde, we say."
Wait -- was this guy Afrikaans?
He was. With a very nice Mortadella. Into oral.
Tuesday: Back to Durban
Four out of five languages isn't bad.
See also: I Meet the Hottest Guy in the World; In Search of Sex and Languages in Tijuana; In Search of Australian Aboriginal Men
Sunday, May 8, 2016
I was at Indiana University to get my M.A. in English, but on a campus that offered Elementary Lithuanian, Sufi Poets, Mongolian Civilization, and Serbo-Croatian Epics, who could stand still for dull William Wordsworth?
In the fall of 1983, I enrolled in Tibetan Culture (for both graduate and undergraduate students), and one of my classmates was Richie Rich.
Not his real name, of course: In Harvey comics, Richie Rich was a blond in a Lord Fauntleroy costume whose infinite wealth caused an infinite number of problems.
This Richie Rich was a slim, tanned blond who was majoring in Central Asian Studies, mostly to annoy his Dad, a state senator who played golf with President Reagan. and consistently voted anti-abortion, anti-Russia, and anti-gay.
Richie was vehemently opposed to his father's politics, but he didn't mind the infinite wealth. He spent every summer at the beach house on Cape Cod. He drove a new Jaguar. He spend hundreds of dollars on bohemian-chic fashions. He always looked like he was trying out for a road tour of Fame.
Richie wasn't really my type: he was tall, thin, and blond, and even in 1983 I preferred short, dark, and muscular.
But he was interested in religion, and he was...well, rich, two points in his favor.
I wouldn't mind discussing Buddhism, Hinduism, and Zoroastrianism while tooling around in Richie's Jaguar, or spending the week in his summer house on Cape Cod.
So I cruised Richie Rich at Bullwinkle's. He was attentive, even flirtatious, allowing me to grope him and fondle his chest. But before I could go any farther, he said "Well, see you in class," and vanished.
I invited him to my Halloween party in October, but he didn't come.
He was a Unitarian, so one Sunday in November, I visited his church -- no Richie Rich.
The next day in class, I said "I went to your church yesterday."
His eyes widened. "What for?"
I took Russian Folklore instead of Tibetan in the spring 1984 semester, but, having just broken up with Jimmy the Bodybuilder on Crutches, I was even more eager to land a new boyfriend, preferably Richie Rich.
But what would attract his attention?
A church founded by and for gay people! Richie wanted to see that!
The nearest MCC was in Louisville, Kentucky, about two hours south of Bloomington. Roy the Farmboy and I visited last year, and I spent the night with the preacher, Brother Reid: a tall, bearded bear in his 40s.
Brother Reid was into Cute Young Things, and would certainly cruise Richie. To avoid the competition, I rented us a hotel room for Saturday night.
We would drive up on Saturday, have dinner, go to the bars, spend the night, then get up on Sunday, go to church, and head for home.
Foolproof, right? I would certainly have Richie Rich in my bed, where my superlative physique and expert sexual technique would win him as my boyfriend!
The trip down to Louisville went great, except that Richie insisted that we take my car -- he didn't want his Jaguar to get dirty. We talked, laughed, discussed Buddhism, flirted with a local boy at a rural gas station.
We had dinner at a Mexican place, and then went to the Discovery, a gay disco.
Mostly gay men, a scattering of lesbians and what looked like one heterosexual couple.
We hit the dance floor, and I tried to hug Richie again, but he moved away from me.
After awhile, I saw him dancing with an older guy, Brother Reid's age, a husky muscle bear with a black beard and a thick mat of chest hair, damp from dancing.
They had no problem hugging -- and kissing!
I went to the bar, bought a coke, and pulled Richie from the clench. "Here's your drink."
"Thanks," he said, taking it from me while gazing into the eyes of the bear.
"Hi, my name is Boomer. You guys are really hitting it off."
"Pleased to meet you," the bear said without looking at me. They went back to kissing.
Jealous, outraged, I rushed to the nearest guy, a balding but buffed sleazoid in his 30s, and started cruising him. After a moment, I looked over to see if it was having an effect.
Richie and the Bear were both gone!
I waited for an hour. There were no cell phones in those days, so I couldn't call.
There was nothing to do but invite the sleazoid back to my hotel room and expend all my frustration on energetic, uninhibited oral and even some Greek. Then I kicked him out.
Richie appeared in the morning, just as I was getting ready to call the police, all blustery and happy about the guy he tricked with last night.
I was furious. You don't just dump guys at a bar. Especially your date!
Ever since then, I have had an unbreakable rule: when you go out with someone, friend, boyfriend, hookup, or date, you stay with them to the end of the evening. You can make dates for later, or you can share, but no abandoning them to pursue some guy.
You're probably wondering how church went.
He cruised Brother Reid.
See also: The Farmboy and the Security Guard; Richie Rich Joins a Gym