Saturday, May 28, 2016

Yuri Helps Me Make the Roommate Switch

East Village, October 1998

I met Blake in the fall of 1998, when I was in grad school in New York.  At first he seemed like an ideal boyfriend, with four of the five characteristics I find attractive: religious (devout Episcopalian), dark-skinned, muscular, and mega-gifted below the belt (#10 on my Sausage List.)

(Two years later, I would meet a guy with all five, by definition the Hottest Guy in the World).

But there were problems:
1. He was pretentious, one of those intellectual-artsy guys who doesn't own a television set, has season tickets to the opera, and won't eat at any restaurant without a Zagat rating.

2. He was closeted, bringing a female "beard" to work-related events. Who in 1990s Manhattan was closeted?

3. He always had a glass of wine in his hand.  I can't stand drinking.

4. He slept to opera music.

Time to dump Blake, right?

Except I was entranced by his roommate,  Joe.


The Roommate: Regular Guy


Short, muscular (a Chelsea gym rat), Mediterranean, and a "regular guy": I could hear him listening to Friends in his bedroom while Blake inflicted opera on me.  And he cooked: every time I stayed over, I woke up to the smell of bacon frying (Mom always told me to marry a guy who can cook.)

But how to get Joe?  I couldn't date him behind Blake's back, and if I dumped Blake, or did something heinous to get dumped, I would be labeled "bad news," undateable.

I had to get Blake to dump me without any character flaws or wrongdoings of my own.


Strategy #1: Kink

I had never yet met a black guy who was into S&M, getting tied up, spanked, whipped, and so on.  It sounded like a great way to get a "sorry, we're not compatible" speech.




Blake is into bondage


One night after dinner, I told Blake, "I'm really into S&M.  Do you think we could do a scene?"

He stared for a moment.  "Oh, wow, I didn't think you were up for that!"  He took me into the bedroom and opened a dresser drawer containing a large collection of whips, chains, handcuffs, and miscellaneous bondage toys.

"You're a top, right?  Could you flog me to Der Fledermaus?"

Strategy #2: The Menage.

On an episode of Seinfeld, Jerry likes his girlfriend's roommate, so he comes up with a scheme to make "the switch." He'll suggest a "menage a trois," thus insulting the girlfriend into dumping him, but intriguing the roommate enough to date him afterwards.



Back in West Hollywood in the 1980s, "sharing" one's boyfriend with friends and roommates was commonplace, even expected, but New York in the 1990s was much more conservative.  It might just work.

One night I said "Joe is kind of hot.  Do you think we could invite him to join us?"

Blake didn't even hesitate.  "Sure, no problem."  He yelled into the back bedroom, "Hey, Joe, wanna join us?"

That just made it worse.  Joe was warm and affectionate and passionate.  I had to find some way to make the Switch!


The Queen Victoria
Strategy #3: Yuri.

Since coming out last year, the Russian meteorology major had been a firestorm of dating activity (including competing with me over Jaan the Estonian Mountain Climber).

My friend Alan in West Hollywood could get any Asian guy he wanted, but Yuri could get anybody, period. Whatever you liked, he had it. Bodybuilder physique.  Pretty, somewhat feminine Cute Young Thing face. Good dancer.  Sexy Russian accent.

So I invited Yuri into the City for a Saturday of sightseeing, followed by dinner with Blake at the Queen Vic in the East Village.

I saw Blake's hungry look as they shook hands for a little too long; how he wrapped his arm around Yuri's shoulders to help him read the menu; how he suggested "off the beaten path" outings, like Roosevelt Island and the Cloisters, with the implication that I might not be coming along.

He didn't cruise Yuri, not exactly.  But he was obviously thinking about a Switch.

After dinner and a stop at the Eagle, we took Yuri to Penn Station to catch the train back to Long Island.  Blake offered to send him a book on the Episcopal Church, but he'd need his address.  Yuri helpfully provided his phone number, too.  And a goodbye hug.

Later I asked,  "Do you think he took the bait?"

"Don't worry," Yuri said.  "It was easy.  He's going to call me by Tuesday."

He was mistaken.  Blake didn't call for a week.  Not until after he gave me the "this isn't working out" speech.

Yuri and Blake went out once.

A few days later, I asked Joe to have coffee and "talk about my feelings."

We dated for almost a year.

Dating the High School Bodybuilder

Wilton Manors, January 2005

I was always mature for my age, so I attracted guys a few years older than me.  So it came as quite a shock when I hit 40, and things were reversed. The guys staring at me, approaching me at parties, and asking me out were younger.  10, 15, 20, even 25 years younger!

(All models are over 18.)

In 2005, when I was going to Barney's Gym in Florida, three boys from Cardinal Gibbons High School came in almost every afternoon to work out.  Two were just fooling around, but the third, Stanton, short and sandy-haired, was serious about weight training and nutrition.  He was developing quite a muscular physique, nearly ready for amateur competitions.

And he was obviously gay, staring at biceps and baskets.

And apparently into me, following me around, asking questions, trying to maneuver to see me naked in the shower.

I did the same things in high school!

I decided that I was going to mentor this kid, make sure he didn't have the same trouble I had:  assumed heterosexual, not aware that gay people exist.

But this was 2005, in a gay neighborhood.  Things had changed!

One day in late January, he approached me when I was alone in the locker room. "That guy you always work out with -- is he your boyfriend?"

WTF?  "Um..um...you mean Yuri?  We're just friends.  I don't have a boyfriend.'

"Me, neither."  He grinned.  "You into younger guys?"

"Are you kidding? I've been out since before you were born.  What are you, about sixteen?"

"Hey, I'm eighteen!" Stanton exclaimed, offended.  "And I can prove it.  Wanna see my id?"

I checked.  Eighteen years and two months.  "But...shouldn't you be cruising guys your own age?"

"What's cruising mean?"

At that moment, someone else came into the locker room, and Stanton quickly moved away.

The next day Stanton approached me again.  "My basketball team is playing against Dillard on Saturday.  It's the semi-quarterfinal.  Do you want to come?  And we could go for pizza afterwards."

"Will you be bringing a girl?" I asked.

"What?  No!  Why would I bring a girl?"

"Just joking," I said, smiling as I recalled how Verne and I went on basketball-and-pizza dates in high school, only we had to bring girls along as a screen.  "Anyway, I can't go -- previous engagement.  But thanks for the offer."

Next he invited me to see Lemony Snicket's Series of Unfortunate Events, the movie based on the series of children's books.

I declined, mostly because I was worried that everyone in the theater would think we were father and son.

Later I told Barney and Yuri about my teen admirer.  "Why don't you just date him?" Barney asked. "He's of legal age, and he's cute, so what's the problem?"

"The problem is, he was born 2 years after I moved to West Hollywood! His first childhood crush was Richard Lane Jackson on Saved by the Bell: The New Class!"

"So what?  When Christopher Isherwood met Don Bachardy, he was 48, and Bachardy was 18.  It was a match made in heaven!"



A few days later, Stanton invited me to Sebastian Street, the gay beach in Fort Lauderdale, where we could swim, sunbathe, and ogle cute guys all afternoon.  I agreed, but insisted on bringing Barney and Yuri along. Stanton countered by bringing his two high school buddies, Ronnie and Keaton.

In addition to discussions of the measurements of passersby and the actors they would like to "get with," they talked incessantly of Green Day.  When I put on a tape of Olivia Newton-John singing "Let's Get Physical," they cupped their ears and pretended to gag.

Afterwards, Stanton suggested that the three of them come back to our house to "party," but I refused.  I permitted a good-night kiss in the car, though.



Next Stanton invited me to a bodybuilding competition at Florida International University in Miami.  I said ok, but insisted on double-dating with Barney and his boyfriend.

And another good-night kiss in the car.

"Don't go bragging to all your friends about how you scored," I joked.

"Huh?"

He didn't get the term score, or the reference to second season of The Simpsons.


We dated a few more times -- yes, he eventually made it into my bedroom -- but it was obvious that the relationship wasn't going anywhere.  For one thing, Stanton was entering his prime partying years, and I was perfectly happy staying home on Saturday night.

For another, he would be going off to college soon, and I was sending out applications in the hope of getting a job in Europe.

For another, Green Day.

So I called it quits.

When I told Barney, he immediately asked if it was ok for him to ask Stanton out.  The age difference didn't bother him a bit.

See also: Liam's 18th Birthday Present and Hooking up with the Hitchhiker.

My Top 10 Turn-Ons

Why do we like what we like?  Gay men get asked that question every day, mostly phrased like "How could you possibly be attracted to ugly, hideous, disgusting men instead of gorgeous, beautiful women, like everybody else who has ever lived?"

But once you walk them through the concept of same-sex desire, they still balk: "Why would you like that kind of guy? He isn't attractive at all!"

So here are the top 10 traits I find attractive, and the reasons why.

1. Dark skin.  Black, Asian, Hispanic, Mediteranean.  It must be the exotic factor: I grew up in the Midwest, surrounded by fair-skinned Swedes, Germans, and Belgians,.  There was one black kid and one Asian kid in my junior high.  I didn't meet anyone Hispanic, other than my teachers, until college.




2. Shorter than me.  Maybe a dominant-submissive factor, but looking up at the guy is a turnoff.  I'm 6'1, so anyone under 6'0 is good.  5'4 is ideal.

Little people are a particular interest.  Have you ever noticed that they have very short legs, but regular size penises?  That hang down to their knees!













3. Mass.  Who wants to hug a skeleton?  Muscle, the bigger and harder the better, especially pecs, abs, and biceps.  Chubby/husky/fat is good, too.  Muscular torso with a little belly, ideal.

Since coming to the Plains, I've been meeting lots of skinny twinks, and there is something to be said for being able to put your arms all the way around someone.  Still, I'm going for mass.









4. A round or square face and square, solid hands.

Yes, I noticed the face and hands before the penis in this photo.

A round or square face seems open and friendly.  A long, narrow face seems sneaky, underhanded, or elitist.

Square hands are more masculine than those thin, slender, delicate things.  Also they look better wrapped around a penis.







5. Gifted beneath the belt.  Do I really need to explain that one?

But not super-sized: the footlongs are nice to look at, but impossible to actually do anything with.

I have a definite preference for cut over uncut.  More than once I've pulled back the foreskin to discover that the guy does not clean himself properly.












6. Religious, especially seminary students and clergy.  Any religion: Protestant, Catholic, Jewish, Muslim, Buddhist, Hindu, pagan, Afro-Caribbean, fine.

When you grow up in a fundamentalist church, you spend countless hours gawking at preachers, evangelists, Sunday school teachers, and choir directors, looking for biceps and bulges beneath their business suits.











7. Business suits.  My working-class relatives never wore suits to work, and academics never wear them, so the exotic factor kicks in.  Besides, they're so grown-up, so formal.  And since they're designed to obscure the body as much as possible, they become all the more erotic.














8. Down to Earth.  Someone who likes "regular" things, like hamburgers and tv sitcoms, who isn't going to judge me for my plebian tastes, or for being from the Midwest. I've been burned too many times by elitists.

9. Health Conscious.  Non-smoker, non-drinker, knows his way around a gym.  The explanation for that is obvious, too.


















10. Masculine.  I get angry when they call masculine "straight acting."  Straight men often have feminine traits: rings, cologne, hand gestures, a swishy walk, a nasal overmodulated voice.  And gay men usually have masculine traits.

Masculinity and femininity are culturally determined, varying across space and over time.  Pink was once a masculine color, and blue feminine.  But, that being said, I am attracted to the traits designated masculine by my culture: no rings, no cologne, the ability to speak with your mouth, not your hands, and a direct style of walking and talking.

If you like other traits, that's fine with me.  I do not pretend that my list is universal.  People like what they like.

See also: My Top 10 Turn-Offs

Friday, May 27, 2016

Finding a Private Place to Have Sex with Guys

Sometime in 7th grade:

I start to hear that guys' beneath-the-belt equipment turns into a gigantic baseball bat at random moments, with no prior warning.

The process is called "getting a boner," or "popping a boner," when it happens in an embarrassing situation, like when you are visiting your grandmother or giving an oral presentation in class.

I occasionally feel a stirring down below, but no baseball bats.

8th grade, around my 13th birthday:

I start experiencing my own baseball bats at random moments, in the locker room, in science class, at church.  They are usually easy to cover up with a hymnal or a science textbook, so no one notices.

I assume that other guys are covering up, too, since I rarely see any at school, or any tell-tale signs like squirming in your chair or suddenly looking for something to cover up with.  Occasionally I see one in the shower, and once a college boy at Olivet "pops a boner" while he is kissing his girlfriend.

Late in 8th grade:

I notice a pattern: baseball bats happen most often when I am looking at or talking to a cute guy, like my boyfriend Dan or Micah the Bible Boy.  Pictures of Korak Son of Tarzan in a Gold Key comic book will do it.  And Desi Arnaz Jr. on Here's Lucy on Monday night.  I begin bringing a giant math book to the living room with me.

Even thinking about a cute guy might cause a baseball bat, especially if you fantasize about kissing or hugging him.

Early in ninth grade:

The other guys are constantly talking about getting baseball bats while talking to cute girls.

Bill's big brother Mike tells me that you always get a baseball bat when you're having sex with a girl.  It's necessary to get the sperm into the girl's ovaries, so she can have a baby.

I figure that Dan and I are the only guys in the world who think about boys while it happens.

Ninth grade, around my 14th birthday:

I discover that if you continue to think about kissing and touching cute guys,  you can bring the baseball bat to the culmination that the older boys call "blowing a load."

Of course, it would be nice to have the cute guy there instead of just thinking about him, but when I approach my boyfriend Dan, he refuses.  So it's just me and the baseball bat.

The problem is, finding a place to do it, in a tiny house crammed with five people, including parents who never go out at night and a brother and sister who constantly have friends over.

Summer after ninth grade:

We move to a new house, considerably bigger, with a separate dining room, a screened in porch, a basement rec room, a double yard.    But still, finding a place to do it is a problem.

My bedroom: No, my brother and I share, and he and his innumerable friends could show up at any moment.

The bathroom: One for a family of five, right off the dining room, next to my sister's bedroom where she and all of her friends are constantly hanging out  Besides, my parents aren't aware of the concept of privacy.  They will walk right in while I am on the toilet, to put something in the linen closet or get clothes out of the hamper.

The basement: There is a large rec room, a laundry room, and an artist's studio belonging to the last resident, Mr. Kint.  No one has touched it since the day he died.  It freaks me out.   Besides, anyone walking into the rec room could look in and see what I was doing.

The attic! Just off our bedroom, there is an attic room, about 8 by 20 feet, unfinished, with one small window.  I could move the boxes and old furniture so that the back of the room is hidden from the door.

Now I just need my parents' permission to...um...do it there.

"I want to make a little study in the attic," I announce.

"But you have a desk and a bookcase in your room," Mom says.  "What else do you need?"

"It's too noisy.  Kenny is always playing his music loud, or having his friends over, and I can't get any work done."

"But there's no heat or air conditioning in there," Dad protests.  "You'll freeze in the winter and burn up in the summer."

"It has electricity, so I can get a space heater for the winter, and a window fan for the summer.    Besides, I won't be there very long, just an hour or so before dinner, when I'm doing homework."

They finally consent, and I move boxes around to make a safe haven of about 8 by 10 feet.

 I put out a sleeping bag and some pillows, a small bookcase with some books and writing tablets (I am supposed to be doing homework, remember?), and some baseball bat aids, like this Tarzan comic.

10th grade, around my 15th birthday:

I have brought in an old chair, an end table, a lamp, a clock, and a radio.  A space heater for winter.  Some pictures of Tarzan and Bomba the Jungle Boy on the wall.

I have started doing homework there for real, and working on my heroic fantasy novel.

It is  my sanctuary, a "good place" of my own, free from the "what girl do you like" interrogations of the outside world.

I start bragging to a couple of my friends about my sanctuary, where I can do anything I want.

"I can't get any privacy at home, either," Tom tells me.  "Could I...um...use your sanctuary sometime?"

"You can't bring a girl in there!" I exclaim, horrified.  "It's boys only!"

"No, no...by myself.  I'll just bring in some magazines, and...you know."

I think it over.  Watching a cute guy would be almost as good as kissing and hugging him!

"Ok, but you can't bring pictures of naked girls -- they're gross. And I have to be there, too.  My parents would get suspicious if some kid used my sanctuary when I wasn't around."


Eleventh grade:

Two guys come to my sanctuary: Tom and Aaron.  Not too often, maybe once every other week.  I discover that Darry has his own sanctuary.

Sometimes my brother is out in the bedroom, but he never gets suspicious.

Nor do my parents.










Twelfth grade:

Now it's three guys: Tom, Marty, and Aaron. Alternating, once a week, so each gets a turn once a month.

I don't get to touch anything, but still, I'm with a cute guy and his baseball bat!

See also: Dad explains the facts of life; The Most Underrated Sex Act; and the Preacher Pops a Boner.

Thursday, May 26, 2016

We Search for the World's Biggest Penis

Vittoria-Gasteiz. Spain, July 1999

The Basque language, spoken in northeastern Spain and southeastern France,  is not related to any other language on the face of the Earth.  It is the original language of the people who occupied the Iberian Peninsula, so old that some of its words come from the Stone Age:
Knife is labana, stone-that-cuts
Roof is teilatu, top-of-the-cave

I find that fascinating.  Who wouldn't find that fascinating?

My friend Yuri didn't.

Ok, how about this: the penises of Basque men are among the biggest in the world, topping the already-impressive 13.5 cm average of the rest of Spain.

The Basque word for man is gizon, which is similar to the phrase big penis (giz lun) in ancient Sumerian.  Coincidence?



Yuri was very interested in that! Last year he competed with me over Jaan the Estonian Mountain Climber solely because of his enormous proportions, and picked up Kalle, even though he looked like a serial killer.

So in the summer of 1999, when I was in Paris, he came to visit, and insisted that we take a side trip to Basque Country.

Um...the Basque Country is 8 hours from Paris by train! Couldn't we go to Amsterdam instead?  It's only 5 hours by train, and there's the Horsemen's Club, with a strict size requirement.  Or we could pop over to England and see the naked, aroused Rude Man of Cerne Abbas.

Ok, we'll go there, too, but first, Basque penises!

Any reasonable person would check to see if the ancient Sumerians were correct at a gay sauna, like Ego in Bilbao or Venconmen ("Come with men") in San Sebastian, but Yuri was a sports nut, and wanted to go to a bike race.

Basque Country is very rugged, with mountains and the seacoast, perfect for bicycling.  There are so many amateur races every year, it's almost the national sport.  We went to see the Euskaldun Tournament in Vittoria-Gasteiz.

I found it quite boring.  The cyclists all start with a flourish, and then you wait around for two hours for them to get back.


But the bulges made it worth the wait. The winne was 24-year old Ruben Oarbeaskoa (second from the right, later photo), from the Ollara-Ercoreca team.

He actually looked to be among the smaller of the team, but Yuri fell in love anyway, and said "I'm going to touch it!"

"How are you going to do that?"  I asked.  "Sneak up on him in the locker room?  There are reporters and fans everywhere."  The crowd was enormous.

"Russians are smart!  How do you say 'Writer for a sports magazine' in Spanish?"

I told him.  Wielding his camera, he began piecing his way through the crowd.  "Escritor para Sports Seminal!" he yelled, alternating with the Russian "Pisatel dl'ya Sportivnogo Zhurnale!

He made his way up toward Rubin. Eventually I couldn't see him anymore.  After awhile he came back, beaming.

"Basque men are the best in the world!" Yuri exclaimed.


Vittoria Gasteiz
"What happened?  Did you....?"

He grinned.  "I told Ruben I'm a writer, and I wanted to ask him some questions about the race.  He was surprised -- no Russian sports journals talked to him before.  So he reached out to shake hands.  And I fell....I show you."

He mimicked the motion of  reaching out, tripping, and "instinctively" steadying himself by grabbing at -- my crotch.

"Did he get mad?  Did he yell?"

"No, he laughed.  I said I'm sorry.  But boy, I'm not sorry!"  He put his arm around me  "Ok, so tomorrow we go to the gay sauna."

I think Yuri got the idea of the trip-and-grab from an episode of Seinfeld.

Tuesday, May 24, 2016

Shawn's Three Way with his Best Friend and His Uncle

London, June 2015

Yuri has broken up with Michael, and is no longer living in Soho, the West Hollywood of London.  Instead, he's in Vauxhall, the South of Market of London, a funky neighborhood of leather bars, tattoo parlors, and dive restaurants.  Fun.

Tonight he invites a bear couple in their 50s and two single guys in their 20s over for dinner, conversation, entertainment, and, hopefully sharing.  The conversation begins with tales of gigantic penises and celebrity hookups (Prince Harry appears  in both categories).

Then, oddly, Yuri suggests coming out stories.

In West Hollywood, every new person you met told you his coming out story, how he had overcome the deadly silence of his childhood, finding evidence that "it is not raining upstairs" as everyone around him proclaimed, loudly, that everyone on Earth was heterosexual.  The stories were all similar, yet we never grew tired of them; it was a way of bonding, of discovering that we were not alone in the world.

But nowadays gay people don't grow up in utter silence anymore. They know at age five; they tell their parents at age eight; they join their elementary school Gay-Straight Alliance at age ten.  There's no coming out; there was never an "in."

Yuri's suggestion of coming out stories must be for the benefit of the young guys, I conclude, to give them a sense of history.  So I tell about going to see the movie Grease in the summer of 1978: "We stop the fight right now, we got to be who we are."

One of the bears tells about finding a stash of straight porn magazines, around 1975, and zeroing in on the men.

The other bear tells about listening to David Cassidy sing "I Think I Love You" on The Partridge Family in 1971.

We're about to move on to other topics, when Shawn, age 28, says "I can top that.  I had no idea until I was gay until just after my seventeenth birthday, when I had a three-way with my best mate and my uncle."

Dundee, Scotland, Spring 2004

Carmostie, a far suburb of Dundee, Scotland, is the world's most boring burg.  It's all about golf -- three golf courses, the British Open, shops like The Tee Caddy, fat, ugly golf enthusiasts wandering around taking pictures.  Dull!   When I was a kid, all there was to do was hang around in the House Grounds, or, if we had the money, stop into Goodfellow and Steven for an ice cream.

I knew what gay people were -- swishy, fruity things, like Jack on Will and Grace.  But there weren't any in Carmostie, or in all of Scotland, as far as I could tell. Certainly not me -- I didn't swish!  I was straight, just too mature to take part in the juvenile dating-and-breaking up fest that was my high school.

My best friend Brian, a cute Paki with a round face, black hair, and swimmer's build, was too mature for the dating game, too.  I never suspected that he might be gay, even though we always rated guys on their butts and baskets.  After all, he was deeply into football.  How could a fan of Dundee United ever be...gay?

One day just past my seventeenth birthday, Brian invited me to go to a movie in Dundee, about ten miles away.  Funny, I didn't ask him what was playing.

But he didn't take me to the Odeon.  We went to a flat in a rather funky neighborhood about two blocks from the statue of Desperate Dan in the City Centre.

He knocked, and to my surprise, my Uncle Jack answered.

Uncle Jack was my dad's younger brother, a black sheep who had all sorts of "quare" friends and did vaguely disreputable things that my parents never talked about.

Even though he lived only a half hour drive away, I had never been to his flat, and he rarely came to Carmostie.  Last time we saw him was at a Christmas party, five months ago.

Uncle Jack answered the door wearing only a towel.  I noticed for the first time his hard hairy chest, his nipple ring, his thick biceps,,,.

"Oh, sorry, mates, you're early," he exclaimed.  "Come in, come in, just let me finish getting dressed.  There's sandwiches and sodas in the fridge, if you're feeling peckish."

We grabbed some sandwiches and sat down on the couch, beside a picture of a semi-nude man in a foundry.  On the coffee table there was a book on male nudes.  Brian began to leaf through it.

"Where's the ladies?" I asked.

"Who needs ladies when you can have him?"

Were you starting to get it? I asked.

Shaun grins sheepishly.  "I feel like a complete idiot now, but no.  Brian didn't swish, so he couldn't possibly be gay, right?"

"How do you know my Uncle Jack?"

"We met at the Christmas party last year -- you remember," Jack said.  "And we've kept in email contact, and sometimes I come up here for dinner."

"Why would you want to be friends with my uncle?  He's ten years older than us, isn't he?"  Which I thought of as middle aged, at the time.

"Are you kidding?  Look at him!  He's brilliant!"

A moment later, Uncle Jack appeared wearing short pants and a tank top.  I'd never seen him like that before.  I had to admit that he was hot.

 "Are you coming to the movies with us?" I asked.

He frowned.  "Well, mate. this isn't really about the movies.  It's what might call an intervention.  Brian and I have been discussing you, quite a lot, really, and we think you have a problem.  We're here to get you sorted out."

My face burned.  "I don't use drugs!" I protested.

"Not that kind of problem.  Here, let's have a hug, then."

I dutifully stood and put my arms around Uncle Jack.  He hugged me tightly, not like an uncle.  I felt his hard chest, his abs, his basket against mine.

He tried to let go, but I hugged him harder.  I could feel my penis springing to life.

"Hey, let me in on that, too," Brian said.  He pushed his way into our hug, his hand on my butt.

Suddenly Uncle Jack and Brian were kissing.  It didn't seem weird.  It was the most natural thing in the world.

Brian moved in to kiss and fondle me.  Uncle Jack pulled my Bratwurst+ out of my pants, stroked it, then fell to his knees and went down on me.  My first time.

Brian took me by the hand and led me to the bedroom.  I was still fully aroused when he pushed me onto the bed into the interfemoral position.

Uncle Jack lay on the bed, too, his enormous Kielbasa standing straight up.  He fed it into me while Brian worked.

Afterwards Brian and I lay cuddling as Uncle Jack got dressed.  "Well, I was just expecting a heart-to-heart talk, but that turned out well," he said.  "I'll get us some tea and biscuts."

London, June 2015

"Did you and Brian date after that?" one of the bears asks.

"No, it was just that one time.  Uncle Jack and Brian were actually dating, and they decided that it was high time I came out."  He smiles.  "The sharing wasn't part of the plan, but I'm glad it happened."

"You're right," I say.  "That beats my Grease story by a mile."

See also: I Lost It at the Movies; Yuri and I Meet the Emo Boy of London

Sunday, May 22, 2016

My Top 10 Turn Offs

You already know the characteristics that I find attractive: short, dark, massive, gifted beneath the belt, and so on.

Almost every guy I have been with has had at least two, usually three of the characteristics.

But some characteristics are immediate turn-offs.

One or two might be ok, if you happen to also be a short, dark, muscular, gifted-beneath-the-belt Mormon missionary.

But three or four, and dating is out of the question.

Five or more, and we won't be hooking up, either, and sharing is out of the question, breach of etiquette or not.


1. Tall and thin  Who wants to hug a telephone pole?  Who wants to hug a skeleton?

2. A long, narrow face, especially with a goatee, like a Disney villain.
















3. Long, slender fingers/finger rings/tattoos/body art.  

 I hate long, slender, feminine fingers -- "nimble," like Tolkien's hobbits.  And jewerlry in a man is gross, except for dogtags or a pendant around his neck.  None of those plastic bracelets, and especially no rings.

If you ever want to get out of the mood fast, just imagine those long, slender, feminine fingers festooned with gross rings wrapped around your penis.  Instant shrinkage!

Same thing with body art. A small, tasteful tattoo that is easily ignored, ok, but plastering your body with ink like the Illustrated Man?  Your skin is perfectly attractive as it is.




.

4. Outdoors Nut/Sports Nut.  The outdoors is not a place; it's something you travel through to get to places.  You don't eat there, or sit on benches there, or hang out there. Spending time outside for its own sake is just nutty.

There is nothing more boring than listening to who won what game with what strategy in some sports match.










5. Fan of Horrible Music.  This includes country-western music, of course, but also whiny female vocalists, and especially torch songs.

The night is bitter
The stars have lost their glitter
The winds grow colder
And suddenly you're older

Yeah, I'm getting older by the minute, listening to this drivel.

6. Relationships with women/discussions of feminine beauty.   Long, long ago, some men didn't figure it out until after they obeyed the societal mandate to marry women, but not anymore.  If you're under 50, you have no excuse, except you were too scared to come out.

I know, it's possible to appreciate beauty in men and women, regardless of your sexual orientation, but after hearing "That woman is so hot!  There's not a man alive who wouldn't want to be with her!" constantly, hour after hour, day after day, I don't want to hear it from a guy I'm dating.





7. Alcohol, tobacco, or drug use. Raised Nazarene, I can't stand the sight or smell of beer, wine, or liquor. If you drink a beer in the bar occasionally and use mouthwash afterwards, ok, but I won't have it in my house.

Tobacco just smells gross.

And drugs -- who wants to be with a guy who's high?








8. Feminine Traits.  Politically, I'm a strong supporter of your right to be as butch, femme, or androgynous as you want to be. Work the room!  Sashay!  Say "Oh, Mary!" and "Puh-lease, girlfriend!"  But it's not going to get me romantically interested.

9. Elitist.   Rich is ok, celebrity is fine.  Well-read, multilingual, world traveler, no problem.  But don't throw your book-larnin' in my face and ridicule my plebian amusements:

"How can you watch television?  It's so mindless!"
"Science fiction?  All that Buck Rogers stuff?"

Or look down on the Midwest.  "Oh, you're from a dreary Ma and Pa Kettle state!  What did you do for fun, tractor pulls and cow tipping?"

Really, should someone who knows about Ma and Pa Kettle be criticizing me for growing up in Illinois?





10. Sleazoid.  Leering, vulgar language, aggressive cruising, constant double-entendres and dirty jokes.  Leave it in the cruise bar.  For that matter, it's annoying there, too.

See also: My Top 10 Turn-Ons



The Weirdest Place to Pick Up a Twink

Upstate, June 2011

There's a moderately invasive medical procedure recommended for everyone over 50, to make sure everything in your colon is copacetic.  I turned 50 last November, so I'm up.

The preliminaries are rough:

3-4 days before, no whole wheat or fiber, and nothing red.

The day before, clear liquids only.  A lot of green jello, lemonade, and beef broth.

The night before, drink 2 liters of an awful-tasting liquid.  I cut it with a lot of lemonade mix.

Five hours before, drink 2 more liters.

Nothing to eat or drink two hours before.

After all that, who's in the mood to get cruised?  No matter how cute the guy is.

9:30 am.  

I'm in the small, cramped waiting room of the endoscopy clinic.

It's packed -- everybody wants to get the procdure done as early in the morning as possible, and you're not allowed to drive afterwards, so most patients have drivers with them.

You can instantly tell the difference: the patients tend to be elderly, dazed from hunger, and apprehensive, while the drivers tend to be young, bored, and knee-deep in their laptops and ipads.



As I'm sitting there, too tired to read the book I brought, an elderly woman and her driver come in.  She goes to the reception desk to fill out paperwork, and the driver glances around the room.

College age, very fair skin, dark blond hair, blue eyes, a little swishy.  Wearing a pink hoodie.  Carrying a laptop.

Our eyes meet.

He stares for a moment, open-mouthed, as if he has come face-to-face with the Man of His Dreams.  He smiles, looks away, and then smiles again.

I'm a little annoyed.  The boy is extraordinarily cute, but like most gay men over 40, I get cruised by teenagers and twinks all the time.  He can take a number.  And who cruises in a doctor's office waiting room?  Your target is nervous, not feeling well, and probably contagious.

Especially this waiting room, cramped, crowded with elderly people waiting for an invasive medical procedure?  When your target is loopy from 30 hours without solid food, tired from no sleep the night before, apprehensive, cranky, and miserable?

Maybe the boy is just overwhelmed by my superhuman gorgeousness, I think.  After he gets an eyeful, he'll leave me alone.

Nope.  He leaves Mom or Grandma sitting at the receptionist
desk, plops down next to me, and boots up his laptop.

He glances over at me, desperate to say something but too shy.

I decide to take pity on him.  "Are you here with your mother?" I ask.

He grins with palpable relief, and begins to talk very quickly and nervously.  "I'm driving my Grandma.  I'm the grandson without a job, so I was drafted.  Not that I'm a bum or anything, I'm in college, but I don't have any classes today.  My next class is tomorrow afternoon, Calculus.  It's pretty hard.  I thought I wanted to be a physics major, but now I think maybe...."

To shut him up, I smile and hold out my hand.  "I'm Boomer."

"I'm Kal, with a K, even though it's short for Calvin, with a C."  His hand is soft, and I think manicured.  "Boomer, wow!  I bet there's a story behind that name!"

"There is, but this isn't the right place to tell it."

"Right, right, I gotcha," Kal says, nudging me.  Then, expectantly: "Grandma says she wants to go to the Chinese Buffet afterwards and eat from one end to the other."

Ok, this is going to be a pickup, whether I want it to be or not.  "I might head over there myself.  You know, you can't have anything red for four days, so the General Tso chicken was out."


"Oh, I love General Tso chicken!  You know the best place in town to get it..."

Before he can tell me where, my name is called.  .

"Well, nice chatting with you," I say.

"You, too, Boomer.  Maybe I'll see you at the Chinese Buffet later."

11:30 am

I doubt it.  My appointment is before Kal's Grandma, and I ask for minimal sedation, so I can stay alert and watch the procedure on the little tv.  So my recovery time is short.  At 11:30, I'm on my way out, and no doubt Kal is still sitting in the waiting room.

I tell Troy about being cruised by Kal.

"I swear, you can be picked up anywhere!" he exclaims.  "I'm surprised that the doctor didn't slip you his phone number!  So, do you really want to go to the Chinese Buffet?"

"The nurse said have a light meal -- pancakes, eggs, something like that. But..."

"But...."  Troy grins.  "We're going to the Chinese Buffet, aren't we?"

I shrug.  "Well, it is only three blocks away."

It's not very crowded at 11:30 am on a Wednesday.  Troy and I pay, fill our plates with chicken and vegetables, and sit at one of the little booths near the entrance.

Sure enough, the moment we sit down, Kal comes in, pays, and makes a beeline to our booth.  He squeezes in next to me.

Hi!  I thought you'd be here!"

"You talked me into it.  Where's Grandma?"

"Oh, she's still at the hospital.  They said I could go, and they would call me on my cell phone when she's ready to be picked up."  He pauses.  "So is this your boyfriend?"

"How did you know?"  Troy asks.

Kal laughs.  "I didn't, for sure, but I was pretty sure.  You could be his son or his boyfriend.  I hoped you were his boyfriend, because that would mean Boomer was into younger guys."  He squeezes my knee under the table.  "Hey, I'm going to go get some food.  Stick around, ok?"


8:00 pm

Kal has a slim, smooth body, with nicely toned abs and an outtie belly button.  Average sized penis, but ready instantly, and able to finish three times in close succession, twice with me going down on him, once with Troy.

He won't let me do interfemoral, or to straddle and enter him, my two favorite positions.  He ignores Troy. He goes down on me, but I'm still  tired from the procedure, so I don't finish.

On a normal day, this would be an inadequate hookup experience.  But remember where I was just a few hours ago.

See also: The Trophy Boy at the Orthopedic Clinic.