Saturday, May 21, 2016

The Naked Man in the Peat Bog

Garrett, June 1969

When I was a kid, we visited my parent's family in Indiana once or twice a year, for a week in the summer and sometimes at Christmastime.  We always stayed with my Grandma Davis or Aunt Nora, my father's family.  We visited my mother's family, too,  at my Grandpa Prater's farmhouse in Garrett, but it was sort of boring -- impenetrable Kentucky accents, smoking and drinking, endless discussions of things that happened 100 years ago back in the hills.

And no one to play with, except for my Cousin Buster.   Sometimes my Uncle Paul  would play -- until the summer after 3rd grade, when he got married and turned into an adult.  I have only a few solid memories: swimming in the pool down the road, catching frogs, fishing, having milkshakes with his friends, learning how to "pee in the wind" (with the wind blowing away from you, so the stream is carried a long way).

And the Naked Man in the Peat Bog


There was a peat bog beyond the cornfields, a swampy, mossy expanse that looked like a good place to catch alligators.  But Paul -- he never liked to be called "Uncle" -- told us never to go near it: "There's a Naked Man who lives in there, and he eats kids.  If you get too close, he'll pop out and grab you and cook you for his dinner!"

"Why doesn't Grandpa tell him to move out?" I asked, already aware of property rights.

Paul thought for a moment. "He's been living here a lot longer than we have, more than a hundred years."

"Well, if he's that old, he can't run very fast.  I can get away, I bet!"

Frankly, I didn't believe him.  Besides, I really wanted to catch an alligator, and the thought of seeing a Naked Man just sweetened the deal. Maybe I would even see his "shame"!

So one day in the summer of 1969, when we were visiting for the wedding, I decided to go exploring.  I brought my cousins Graydon and Dayton (Kentucky Kinfolk).

We walked quickly through the back yard, where Paul and three of his friends were playing horse shoes -- they didn't see us -- then past the barn and the vegetable garden.  We pieced our way through the high corn row for maybe a quarter mile, until it opened up into a little grove of trees, with the peat bog beyond.  It was mossy-gold, with little specks of shimmering water.  There was a musty, earthy smell.  I thought I heard splashing.


"Are you sure there are alligators in there?" Cousin Graydon  asked.

"I just heard one!"

We got some sticks and started poking around in the moss, swirling the muddy water that oozed up. I thought I saw a gold glinting shape -- maybe an alligator, or maybe lost pirate treasure, which would be just as good!

Then suddenly the Naked Man came lumbering out of the cornfield.  Pale, muscular, kind of hairy, his chest and belly smeared with mud. Gigantic penis.  An orange mask over his face.  He held his arms up like Frankenstein and lurched toward us, moaning "Ummmmm!"

Shrieking in terror, we ran as fast as we could back to the house, where Paul and friends were quietly playing horse shoes.

"Why...what's the matter, kids?"  he asked in surprise.  "Did you see a rattlesnake?"

I didn't notice at the time that he was grinning.  Or that one of his friends was missing.

For a long time, I thought I had a real paranormal experience.  But recently my boyfriend suggested that Uncle Paul might have set the whole thing up to scare us away from the dangerous peat bog.

It worked.  We never went back.



But why did he think a naked man would be especially frightening?  The gigantic penis became one of my favorite childhood memories.

See also: My Best Man


Friday, May 20, 2016

Yuri and I Share the Boy Toy and His Daddy


Wilton Manors, February 2004

The main rule about sharing boyfriends and hookups was: a couple brought in a third person.

During the 1980s, it was always romantic partners bringing in a close friend or roommate.

By the 1990s, the couple could also be a pair of close friends, and the third person a stranger, as long as there was a date first.

But you never shared with four.  I can remember only a few times when that happened.  It was always a little weird, and made me feel uncomfortable afterwards.

1. The multiracial four way with Lane.
2. The live sex show that we put on for Alan.
3. Victor and his Sleazoid Daddy

During the winter, hundreds of wealthy snowbirds from New York invade Wilton Manors, clogging the streets, crowding the bars and restaurants, throwing money around -- and prowling for beach boys.  Suddenly Daddies have some Sugar Daddy competition, so if you're over 40, and you don't have a boyfriend by Thanksgiving, you're likely to go dateless through Valentine's Day.

It was Valentine's Day 2004, I was 43 years old, and I hadn't had a date since Thanksgiving.  An occasional hookup, some afternoons at the Club, and not much else.


So when Victor at Barney's Gym stopped me in the locker room and asked me for a date, I consented, even though he wasn't exactly my type.  He was in his 20s, muscular, with a smooth chest and a nice uncut Bratwurst, but his long, narrow face, tattooed biceps, and rings were a turnoff.

Over dinner at a Thai place in Oakland Park, Victor told me that he was Cuban-American, from Miami.  He moved to Wilton Manors two years ago, had a job as some kind of juice distributor -- and had a boyfriend, Jauvier.

"He's a snowbird.  He lives in New York, and only flies down to Florida in the winter.  So we're allowed to date other guys, but when he's in town, we have to share."

Ok -- Lane and I engaged in that sort of dating quite often back in West Hollywood.  What does this Jauvier look like?


"Oh, he's very hot.  An older guy -- a Daddy, like you.  Shorter than me, very muscular, blond, a short beard, super hung."

Blond?  "Isn't he Hispanic?"

"Well, more of a redhead.   In Spanish, rubio could mean either."

It seems that there are a lot of redheads in Peru, mostly of Irish, German, and Scandinavian ancestry.  They tend to live in Lima and the other large cities of the north, and in racist Peruvian society they tend to be middle and upper class, so they rarely immigrate to the U.S,

"There aren't a lot of blond Hispanic guys around," Victor said.  "Jauvier really stands out in a crowd."

Victor wanted to take me home that night to "share" his boyfriend, but I wanted to at least meet him first.  We weren't as trusting in the 2000s as we were in the 1990s -- being alone with two guys you didn't know was a bit risky.  So I invited Victor and Jauvier over for dinner a few days later, with Yuri and Barney.

Yuri was also in the middle of a dating slump, so he peppered me with questions about Jauvier.  Is he a bodybuilder?  How big is he?  Does he like Russian guys?

"The four of us won't share," I warned him.  "Lane and I tried that a couple of times in West Hollywood, and it was just weird."

"There won't be four tonight, naturally.  But if we are friends, Victor and Jauvier will ask me to share on many other nights."  


Yuri usually specialized in Middle Eastern dishes, but Victor asked for "Russian," so he made vareniki (vegetable dumplings), chicken tabaka, and cold borscht.

Victor and Jauvier arrived at 6:00, carrying a bottle of wine (I forgot to warn them that I didn't drink).

My first impression: ugh.  Jauvier was shorter than me, with a substantial v-shaped torso and a hairy chest. When we hugged, I felt thick, heavy pecs and an impressive beneath-the-belt package.  But he stank of cologne, he was wearing rings, and his face -- not so much ugly as sinister, balding, with gray hair that used to be red, and a villain goatee.

Ugh.

But I had to go through with it -- at this point it would be impolite not to share.  Besides, when you're going down on a guy, who cares about his face?

Then the sleaziness began.  Jauvier used feminine pronouns, made sexual double-entendres out of everything, and made crass references to telephone poles, enemas. and tampons during dinner.

Sample:  "Oh, please, she spreads her legs so wide, you could fit the Queen Mary inside and have room left over for six maxi-pads."

About his ex-boyfriend!

Victor laughed uproariously at his boyfriend's so-called "humor."

After dinner, we gathered in the living room for coffee and baked apples, and Jauvier said "So, I never been in a gang bang with five guys before.  Who goes first?"

Barney glared at him, came down with a sudden "headache," and retreated to his room.

"I must meet my friend at the Manor," Yuri began, heading for the door.


I grabbed his arm.  "No -- stay!"  I mouthed the words "share."

Yuri shook his head.

"Please," I whispered.

He shrugged.

The four of us went into Yuri's bedroom and stripped.  I immediately dropped to my knees and went down on Jauvier's impressive Bratwurst, while Victor went down on Yuri, and Yuri studiously avoided kissing Victor.

Jauvier pointed his penis at Yuri, who shrugged and went down on him.  Then Jauvier tried to throw his legs in the air, but Yuri refused.  He turned to me. I refused.

"Come on, girls," he said.  "Somebody has to be up for anal tonight!"

Yuri and I got into the 69 position, leaving no orifice available for Jauvier, so Victor mounted him for anal.

After sharing, spending the night is mandatory, but when Victor finished, we claimed an early day and pushed them both out the door.

Yuri glared at me.  "I do you a favor, so now you must share a guy that I want.  Anybody I want, ok?"

And I didn't even get a chance to do anything with Victor.

See also: Yuri's Revenge: the Cowboy with the Kovbasa+; and Lane and I have a Multiracial Four-way.


Thursday, May 19, 2016

Japanese Tentacle Porn

The statue of Laocoon and His Sons reminds me of Shokushu Goukan, or Tentacle Rape, a distinctively Japanese form of pornographic art in which the subject is being entered, usually without consent, by a monster with many penis-like tentacles.

The tentacles can also act as ropes for bondage.

There is mouth and anal entry, and either penis manipulation or some sort of tentacle-fellatio.










The origin was probably a non-pornographic yokai who grabbed unsuspecting fishermen and pulled them to their deaths.  A little tweaking, and the cautionary tale becomes porn.












Contemporary artists usually show hapless space explorers running afoul of multi-tentacled alien monsters with sexual congress on their minds, but there are also furry and fantasy-world tentacles.

The monsters can be plants, animals, or miscellaneous, sentient or not.














Sometimes the encounter is not accidental but by design, the hero captured by a mad scientist or Medieval torturer.














We usually don't see the being, just the straining, struggling muscles and the multiple entries by the tentacle/penises, so the acts becomes stylized, pure entry, sex without an object.

See also: Laocoon and His Sons; and Yokai: The Gay Goblins of Japan


Tuesday, May 17, 2016

A Sausage Sighting of a Straight Elitist Philosophy Professor

Plains, May 2016

8:45 am.  I go to a seminar on teaching writing, led by a philosophy professor named Taylor.  There's no space left at the conference table, so I have to sit all by myself in a little chair off to the side.

I'm already in a bad mood.

This Taylor guy is about my height, in his 30s, with rather long hair, combed back, and a beard.  He is wearing a pink button-down shirt, a sports jacket, jeans, and yellow shoes.

Who wears a sports jacket with jeans?  Who wears a pink shirt with yellow shoes?  How pretentious can you get?

When I approach the table, he is talking about Lisbon, "off the beaten path," so it's not so touristy as other European capitals.

Yeah, yeah, I've been places, too, but I don't go around place-dropping.  "Oh, Reykjavik is so off the beaten path, and have you been to Tegucigalpa?"

I hate elitists.

Then comes the proclamation of heterosexuality.  Straight men can't go more than a sentence without proclaiming their straightness, either by referencing their wives or by making a universalizing statement like "my son is at the age when boys begin to notice girls." Taylor does both.

I go to the break room for a banana and yogurt.  He appears and says "I can't resist the siren call to get another bagel."

Ulysses reference?  Ugh!

Then: "My wife loves..."

Proclamation of straightness again?  What is it about this guy?

9:00: Morning Session

Pretentious heterosexual lit.  Have we read The Unbearable Lightness of Being?  It's about a Czech intellectual who is a womanizer, but abandons his many affairs to find true happiness with his wife in Geneva.

Yeah, Geneva, off the beaten path.  Lovely this time of year.

This is going to be a long day.

Then Taylor scoots back in his chair and spreads his legs.

Enormous bulge, full outline of what has to be a semi-aroused Kielbasa+, hanging to the left!

Doesn't he notice?  Or does he not expect anyone to look beneath the belt?

How to introduce pretentious heterosexist lit into your classes.  Students like writing that addresses their interests, like how to get along with the opposite sex.

Ugh.

"When we were in Vienna last summer, my wife and I...."

Double Ugh.

At least there's a memorable bulge to look at, and I might even get a sausage sighting out of the deal.




11:00: Bathroom Break

Taylor heads for the bathroom.  I wait a moment, then follow, timing my entry to get there just as he has unzipped.

He's not at a urinal, he's in a stall!

30 free urinals, and he picks a stall.  Is he that worried about another guy seeing his Kielbasa+?

Back to the seminar.  We discuss technology and student writing, using Turnitin to catch plagiarism, how foreign students don't have the same understanding of plagiarism as we do in the U.S.

Taylor spreads his legs again, letting his heterosexual semi air.

12:00:  Lunch.

Instead of eating the turkey sandwiches, chips, and cookies provided, I hit the gym and lift weights.

 Pumped up, I am cruised a couple of times by callow undergrads on the way back to the seminar room.  A nice break from the heterosexual pretentiousness of my seminar.

1:00: Afternoon Session.

Grading student writing assignments.  Using rubrics.

Watching Taylor spread his legs.

Sample free-writing exercises:
What do you find most attractive about the opposite sex?

Describe your last date as if it was a story.  Begin with the boy calling the girl....

Ugh.

"I was visiting Robert Bly at his summer house in the south of France, and..."

Double ugh.

Taylor's hand falls against his bulge and gives it a brief squeeze.

Everyone pretends not to notice.

3:00: The seminar ends.

I go upstairs to the second floor stacks, anxious to immerse myself in gay lit after a day of heterosexual pretension.  But first I have to use the bathroom.  My favorite facility is secluded, down a hallway from IT Services, with a long row of urinals and three stalls.

The restroom is deserted.  I choose the farthest stall.

It doesn't occur to me that it might be occupied.  Really.The door isn't latched.  I push it open.

Taylor is sitting on the toilet, looking at something on his cell phone.  Aroused.

A Kielbasa+ sticking straight out from beneath his pink shirt!

"Oh, excuse me!" I exclaim, and hastily retreat.

It almost makes the day of heterosexist elitism worthwhile.

See also: My Sausage Sighting List; Teacher Hookups

Monday, May 16, 2016

Adam and Iddo Goldberg Nude

If you ever wanted to see a naked photo of Adam Goldberg, the previously cute star of Dazed and Confused, Relativity, The Hebrew Hammer, My Name is Earl, and Entourage, here's your chance.















Gross -- the guy has tattooed up grotesquely.

  But he seems to have a very nice, thick Bratwurst













As a bonus, here's a photo of someone named Iddo Goldberg, who I've never heard of.

Sunday, May 15, 2016

Lloyd Hooks Up with the Male Witch of the Lake of the Woods

Rome City, Indiana, December 1975

My Grandma Davis died last month.  We're back in Indiana, staying with Aunt Nora while the family works on settling her estate.

My brother and I are going through a box of her husband's old stuff.  We never knew my Grandpa Davis, so it's sort of interesting: clothes, photos, a plaque from the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, his high school yearbook.  And, wrapped in a linen cloth, an oval stone about the size of a baseball.

It doesn't look special.  It's like any stone you would pick up on the side of the road.  Why did he keep it?  Why did he wrap it so well?

"Oh, I remember this!" Aunt Nora exclaims.  "Mom used to bring it out and show it to us every time she told the story of the Witch of the Lake of the Woods.  Do you want to hear it?"


Ken and I glance at each other.  My mom's family, the Praters, are all about ghosts and witches, but Grandma Davis was modern. She lived in a regular house on a regular street, with a color tv and a picture window.  She drove into town to have lunch with her friends.  Everything about her was fresh and new

Why this one story, buried in the depths of her past?







Bremen, Indiana, June 1923

The Lake of the Woods is near Bremen, Indiana, about an hour's drive from Fort Wayne, where Grace spent her childhood.

It's all built up today, with camp grounds and boat launches, but in the 1920s, it was dark and quiet and deserted.

The Potawatomie wouldn't fish there: they called it the Lake of Deep Darkness, Mhibesgispuknya.

When Lloyd and Grace, were first married, they decided to build a weekend house on the Lake of the Woods, where they could go swimming and fishing and get away from the hassle of Jazz Age Fort Wayne.

There were problems with the project right from the start.  The workers heard mysterious voices.  The whole crew got sick with food poisoning.  One worker fell off the roof and broke his leg.  Another went into the woods to use the bathroom and ran out screaming and refused to return to the site.  Finally the whole structure burned down.

Lloyd and Grace gave up and abandoned the property -- it lies vacant to this day -- and bought the farmhouse in Garrett.  But their problems continued.  Doors would open by themselves.  They heard voices in the attic.  One night Grace awoke with icy fingers around her neck, as if someone was trying to strangle her, but when Lloyd turned on the light, there was no one there.

Lloyd was not superstitious, but he knew that something supernatural was going on.  So he consulted a gypsy named Romulus, who sometimes worked around his father's house.

Romulus said: "When you started building in the Lake of the Woods, you destroyed a place that is sacred to the Potawatomie. Their Witch is furious.  You will see no peace unless you return at the full moon and go on the journey he guides you on."

"He?" Lloyd asked, perplexed.

"Yes.  The Potawatomie witches are men."

"What journey is he planning?  Where does he want to take me?"

Romulus shook his head.  "That's all I can see in the stars."


Lloyd was hesitant, but willing to try anything.  So at the next full moon, he, along with Grace and his brother Nicholas, drove back to the Lake of the Woods, and put up a tent on the site of the burned-down house.  In the distance they could see the cabin where the Witch lived -- funny that they they hadn't noticed it before.

They built a fire and cooked hot dogs, as if this were a pleasant camping trip, trying not to look at the cabin.

Finally the moon came up.  And the Witch appeared.

They were imagining a doddering, white-haired Indian draped in beads, carrying rattles and mysterious medicine bags, but the Witch was young, in his 20s, pale skinned, muscular, wearing only a loincloth and a grass headdress.

He approached, wordless, solemn,

He looked at Lloyd for a long moment.  Then he motioned for him to follow.

They didn't go to the cabin.  They walked off into the woods.


Grace and Nicholas waited, talking quietly, wondering what was going on in the dark woods.  What torture, what rite of passage, was the Witch inflicting on Lloyd?

After about an hour, Lloyd walked out of the woods, very slowly, his head hanging down.

Grace and Nicholas grabbed and hugged him, and peppered him with questions.  "What happened?  What did the Witch do to you?  What did he want?"

Lloyd didn't say anything.  He just held out the Medicine Stone.

Lloyd never told anyone what happened that night.  But at the next full moon, he went back, hoping to find the Witch again.

He returned at the next full moon, and the next, again and again, at every full moon unless he was out of town or it was too cold.

The years passed, and it became every few months.  Then every six or nine months.  Cabins and resorts, gas stations and convenience stores  grew up around their lot, and when you stood on the place where Lloyd met the Witch, you could hear the tourists laughing and splashing as they swam, and see motor boats zooming past.

But Lloyd never saw the Witch again.  All he had left was the Medicine Stone.

Today

I never thought of it before writing it down, but this story doesn't make sense.  If the Potawatomie were afraid of the lake, why was it sacred to them?  And how did the Gypsy know so much about what a Potawatomie Medicine Man was thinking?  And if the ordeal was so gruelling, why did Lloyd keep coming back?

I already suspect that Lloyd was gay.  When you remove the supernatural trappings, you get the story of a guy who finds an unique excuse to return to the Lake of the Woods every month to hook up with his hot Indian boyfriend.

Not a bad cover story, Grandpa!

See also: Was My Grandfather Gay?; My First Indian Sausage Sighting