Saturday, July 30, 2016

My Ex-Boyfriend Hooks Up with the President's Son

Claremont, California, August 1988

My ex-boyfriend Fred has just moved to California to study at the Claremont School of Theology, about 40 miles east of West Hollywood, along with his boyfriend Matt, a twink who is very cute and very well hung, but crazy as a loon.  Alan, Thanh, Will the Bondage Boy, and two other guys whose names I don't remember descend upon them for a housewarming party.

We have Vietnamese spring rolls in rice paper,  bánh bao   (meat rolls), and lemongrass chicken, plus a fruit salad for dessert.

After dinner Matt becomes the "entertainment," stripping, gyrating on our laps, and going down on me and Alan before Fred angrily tells him to cool it.  Then we sit around telling stories about the biggest penises we've been with, dates from hell, and hookups with celebrities.

Everyone in West Hollywood had a good celebrity dating story or two.  Alan tells about Scott Baio.  Will the Bondage Boy tells about Keanu Reeves.  My real-life celebrity boyfriend isn't famous enough to wow anyone, so I tell about Michael J. Fox, with our innocent hug at lunchtime transformed into a wild night.

Fred sits silent.  No one really expects him to have a story -- where will he meet anyone, spending his life in western Illinois, Nebraska, and Kansas?  We're not judging him on his lack, we're trying to entice him with tales of the joys of living in West Hollywood.  Who knows, tomorrow he might run into Tom Cruise at the Gold Coast!

Then Matt tells us about how, as a freshman at Harvard, he spent the night with Bronson Pinchot, the androgynous star of Perfect Strangers (1986-1993).  He does the "don't be ridiculous!" Myposian accent perfectly, although Bronson Pinchot doesn't really talk that way.

Suddenly, in a weird accusatory tone, Fred says "Well, I can top that.  In fact, the first guy I ever topped was Ronnie Reagan Junior!"

The room becomes silent.  We all stare.

Everybody knows that the evil President Reagan, sworn enemy of gay people, tireless fighter against gay rights, has a gay son -- a tall, thin, svelte ballet dancer!  What an embarrassment to the blathering homophobe!  Three weeks after he was elected in 1980, Reagan forced Ronnie to closet himself with a sham marriage.

But no one in West Hollywood has ever claimed to have dated or hooked up with him.  Maybe because he doesn't live in Los Angeles, so you wouldn't run into him on the street.  Or because in order to mention Ronnie you'd have to mention his father, the most hated person in the gay world, sure to put a damper on any party.

Chicago, Summer 1979

Fred was 26 years old, a student at McCormick Theological Seminary preparing for his "internship" year at a church in Rock Island.  He had been with a few guys before, but only oral and 69.  He wanted to "go all the way," top someone, but  he was very well hung, and everyone balked at his size.

He needed to find an experienced guy, and what better place than a bathhouse?

Man's Country was packed that night, all ages from twink to geezer, all shapes from svelte to superchub.  Fred had a few guys go down on him, and kissed and fondled a few others, before he saw Ronnie sitting by himself in the sauna-- in his early 20s, tall and svelte, with a long handsome face, sleepy eyes, a tight, smooth chest, and an average sized penis.

They kissed and fondled, and then went to Ronnie's cubicle.  Ronnie went down on Fred and then Fred turned him over onto his stomach.

"Wait -- I've never done anal before," Ronnie said.

Fred was looking for someone experienced, but it would be impolite to leave now.  "Me, neither.  I'll try to take it easy."

Ronnie stood and knelt over the bed.  Fred spat on his penis and pushed it in slowly.  Ronnie groaned but didn't protest.  He began thrusting, slowly at first, then more vigorously, while fondling Ronnie's back and shoulders and penis. Soon Ronnie started working on himself.  They finished at almost the same moment, wiped off with a towel, and then collapsed onto the bed for a long kiss.

"Wow, that was great!" Ronnie exclaimed.  "I should have been doing this a long time ago!"

"It didn't hurt?"

"Not much.  You knew exactly what to do."

They exchanged telephone numbers, as one does, but didn't call, and a few weeks later, Fred moved to the Quad Cities for his ministerial internship.

Fred didn't know who Ronnie was at the time.  The presidential campaign hadn't started yet, and he had barely heard of Ronald Reagan, the governor of California.  It wasn't until the next summer that he realized that he had topped Reagan's son.

"So," Thanh says, "Don't keep us waiting.  Show us the penis that the guys in Chicago couldn't take."

Fred unzips and takes it out.

"Very nice."

"Very nice?" Matt exclaims, as if he's personally offended. "Is that all?  The length, the shape, the...the circonfĂ©rence? Merveilleux!  Like no other man!  You just have to see it aroused, to get the full effect.  I'll show you."  He kneels and starts going down on Fred.

Was Fred Telling the Truth?

Ron Reagan was indeed living in Chicago in 1979, but he never called himself "Ronnie," and he's heterosexual, although he doesn't mind the rumor: "It's not perjorative, it's simply incorrect."  He is a strong advocate of gay rights, including gay marriage.

And his marriage to Doria, which lasted until her death in 2014?   There was no pressure from his parents -- they didn't approve of her, and and didn't even know about the wedding until it was over.

I think Fred was feeling left out because he had no celebrity dating stories, and jealous that Matt was going down on us as the evening's "entertainment." Especially Alan the ex-porn star.  So he invented a story about a celebrity that he could have believably met  in the Midwest, and one that accentuated his size and sexual prowess.

See also: Topped for the First Time.

Friday, July 29, 2016

The Edwardian with the Footlong and the Fetishes

San Francisco, October 1996

In the fall of 1996 Corbin, the gym rat from Oakland with the Mortadella+, took the leap and moved across the bay to San Francisco.  He found a third-floor walkup on Valencia, seven blocks from Castro Street and about three blocks from Gold's Gym, so we started working out together.

One day in October, we were leaving the gym after a workout, walking down 16th, when we saw the Edwardian: in his 30s, very handsome, with pomaded hair and a little moustache, dressed in a waistcoat and a boater hat, carrying a walking stick.  He looked for all the world like a dandy from 1910, walking down the Strand on his way to high tea with E. M. Forster and P. G. Wodehouse.

Since the days of Emperor Norton, the self-proclaimed Emperor of America (1818-1880), San Francisco has been a haven for eccentrics.  Colorful costumes, bizarre behavior, kooky beliefs -- not a problem.  Roller skate in your underwear while singing "Like a Virgin" and passing out tracts on the Illuminati and cornstarch -- just another day in Gay Heaven.

The Edwardian was a common sight on Castro or 16th.  If you made eye contact, he said "Good afternoon, sir," and expected you to respond in kind.  If you said "Hello," or, God forbid, "Hi!", he frowned and moved on.

Word on the street was that he had a footlong Kovbasa++++, which he shared with anyone who managed to maintain the illusion that this was Edwardian England for an entire conversation. I never managed it.

But today the Edwardian rushed toward Corbin, shook his hand warmly, and said "My dear sir, it is so delightful to see you!  You and your friend must come by for tea soon!"

"That sounds super radical" Corbin said in Valley Girl speak.  "Gotta book now, but we'll be there fer sure!"

The Edwardian frowned and moved on.

"What was that all about?"  I asked.

"Oh, I was with him a couple of weeks ago.  Believe me, it was quite an experience."

"Is he as hung as they say?"

"Even more.  But he's still not someone you want to hook up with."


September 1996

Corbin saw the Edwardian in the gym one day, dressed in ordinary gym clothes, trying to work out with the free weights.  He had a sallow chest, but long, hard biceps and nicely developed triceps.

"Um..good afternoon," Corbin began. "I didn't know that you worked out."

"Indeed!" the Edwardian said.  "How else did you expect me to maintain my level of fitness? Yoga?"

"Oh, of course.  I meant no offense."

He smiled.  "None taken, sir.  You look rather like an expert in the field of physical culture.  I wonder if you might consent to give me some instruction.  I'll pay you, with American currency -- or high tea, if you prefer."

So Corbin showed him the proper form for the bench press, squat, and bicep curl.  Then they showered and dressed -- the Edwardian indeed had a huge, very thick footlong, a garden hose hanging between his legs that even Corbin, who thought Bratwursts were small and Mortadellas average, found impressive.

"What do you do for a living?" Corbin asked.  Probably he was independently wealthy, but one always asked about jobs, hometowns, and coming-out stories in the pre-hookup conversation.

"I'm a help desk technician.  My employer insists that I use the colloquial American argot while interacting with clients, but after work hours I'm free to speak the King's English again."

"You mean the Queen's English?"

The Edwardian sighed.  "My dear boy, of course I know who is actually sitting on the British throne at this moment, but in my heart and soul I am living in that most gracious and gentile of eras, the reign of King Edward, with an occasional nod to the last years of Victoria, or the first of George."

(Victoria reigned from 1837 to 1901, Edward to 1910, and George to 1936).

The Edwardian lived in a small apartment om Mission, on a rather run-down street otherwise occupied by a residential hotel and a pawn shop.  But it was elegantly furnished in Edwardian style: dark wallpaper, old pictures occupying every square inch of wall space, cluttered overstuffed furniture and heavy bureaus.  There was no tv or computer in the house.

There were a lot of books, all old hardbound.  A lot of late Victorian and Edwardian authors: Dickens, George Eliot, Yellow Age Decadents, Oscar Wilde, James Joyce. E. M. Forster, plus Shakespeare, Milton, Keats, the ancient Greeks and Romans.  No history books.

"Would you like to listen to music?"

"Surely you don't have a stereo?"

"No, a Victrola.  But it plays records fine.  I have some Debussy, Ravel, Stravinsky...and Madonna's Immaculate Collection."

"Really?  I thought you maintained -- I thought it was Edwardian only."

The Edwardian laughed.  "Sometimes, my dear fellow, you have to give the young man what he wants to hear, so he'll show you what you want to see."

Suddenly the antique living room was booming with:

Don't go for second best baby, put your love to the test
You got to make  him express how he feels,
And maybe then you'll know your love is real

Tea was a glittering silver tea service.  There were plates of hard, stale "biscuits" and small sandwiches of cucumber and cream cheese on white bread with the crusts cut off.  Not a very filling repast, but, Corbin figured, he could eat later, after he got some bedroom time with the Edwardian.

"It does get lonely, knocking around in this flat all by myself," the Edwardian said wistfully.

It was a cramped three room apartment!

"If only I could find a soulmate, Alec to my Maurice." (He pronounced the E.M. Forster character "morris.").  "Lots of young men want to make my acquaintance -- and the acquaintance of my walking stick, as it were.  But none of them have yet had the delicacy of spirit to appreciate my life here, my haven amid the bustling crowds of the modern world."

"Oh, I'm a big history buff..." Corbin began.  Then he checked himself.  "I mean, I have a great appreciation for modern literature and the fine arts.  Do you like Picasso?"

"Very good," the Edwardian said with a smile.  "You are a quick study.  Come, if you've finished your tea, I want to show you the rest of the house."

Wait -- isn't this a little premature?  Corbin thought.  We haven't kissed or fondled or groped.  We've barely touched!  But maybe that's how Edwardians do it -- leaving all of the physical intimacy for the bedroom.

He followed the Edwardian into a tiny but elegantly furnished bedroom, 3/4ths of it occupied by a giant bed with a 12-foot darkwood headboard.

He moved in for a kiss, but the Edwardian pushed him away.  "It's a bit stuffy in here.  Shall we remove our clothing?"

Feeling himself getting aroused, Corbin slid out of his pants and and shirt.  The Edwardian carefully took off his waistcoat, pants, garters, and socks, and hung them on hangers.  He was becoming aroused, too, his Kovbasa++++ pushing into the air.

Corbin went in for a grope, but the Edwardian pushed him away.  "Might I have a feel of your underclothes?"

He shrugged and handed him his briefs  The Edwardian sniffed them like a bouquet of flowers, then without warning stuffed them into Corbin's mouth.

Corbin spat them out.  "Um...those are dirty..."

"Mmm..hmmm" the Edwardian moaned.

Shrugging, Corbin knelt and started to go down on the Kovbasa++++, but the Edwardian pushed him away. "Really, my dear fellow, you are anxious to begin, aren't you?  We have the whole evening to get to know each other better. Perhaps I"  He turned Corbin around and began feeling his butt.

"I'm not into anal!" Corbin exclaimed.

"What a gauche term!  Rest assured, I have no sodomy in mind.  Merely a touch."

He knelt and began kissing Corbin's butt.  Corbin felt a tongue against his hole and jumped away.  "Ahh!  I'm not into that, either."

"Well, then, what are you 'into', dear fellow?"

"The usual.  Kissing, sucking..."

"How vulgar!  Well, perhaps I can convince you to try the finer things in life."  A whip appeared out of nowhere.  "Deliver your bum, please."

", thanks."

"Water sports?  I have the carpet in the parlor macadamized..."

Enough was enough!  Corbin made an excuse, dressed, and left.

Who knew that the Edwardians were so kinky?

See also: Corbin's Choice; My Friday the 13th Date with Kevin the Vampire; and Finding Your Fetish.

Tuesday, July 26, 2016

Street Cruising in San Francisco: 15 Gimmicks that Landed Me or My Friends

When I lived in San Francisco, street cruising was common: you happened to see an attractive guy on the street, and after minimal conversation, at most a drink in the nearest bar, invited him into your bed.

Street cruising was not planned.  You were on your way to the gym or to dinner or to the underwear party at the Lone Star, wending your way through the after-work crowds, when something about the guy incited your interest and prompted you to make contact.

If you wanted to be successful, you couldn't depend on your biceps and bulge alone.  Every guy in town could bench press 350, and was either super-hung or knew how to stuff socks down there.

You had to have something special, a little boost that set you apart from the crowd.

Here are 15 successful street cruising gimmicks.  Each of them landed me or one of my friends.

1, The Leatherman. had a scuffy beard, nipple rings, and a tattoo of Hot Stuff the Little Devil.  He wore chaps, a leather vest, and no shirt everywhere, to the grocery store, to the dentist, to church. He never left South of Market, where such things are not completely bizarre.

2. The Unicyclist.  Another example of partial nudity, with a twist.  He rode a unicycle down the street, wearing only short pants and white gloves and carrying a little horn.  When he saw a guy he liked, he circled and beeped.

3. The Construction Worker.  San Francisco was all professionals and service industry workers, very few blue collar jobs, so everyone had rough-and-tumble fantasies about a guy in a yellow vest with a toolbelt covering his crotch.

4. The Teddy Bear Artist.  He was 53 years old, husky but muscular, with a hairy chest, prominent nipples, and nice biceps. Kielbasa+ beneath the belt.  He made a living building custom teddy bears: in leather jackets, in bondage gear, sporting gay pride flags.  There was always a small teddy bear hanging from his belt.

5. The Golden Retriever's Human.  Even if the guy's face and physique nothing to write home about, who's going to pass up an opportunity to play with the dog?

6. The Maserati's Owner.   You can hardly engage in street cruising while driving, but the Maserati's Owner simply sat in his frightfully expensive convertible, an ostentatious symbol of wealth (especially in San Francisco, where cars are a burden, not a necessity).

7. The Pie Man.  Whenever he wanted to cruise, he bought a pie at the bakery and carried it down the street.  Conversations involved asking for "a piece," asking if he could "eat something that big," and so on.  The next day he donated the pie to a homeless shelter.

8. Pushing a Shopping Cart Jake used a shopping cart to take his laundry to the laundromat.  being mistaken for homeless when he was obviously well-fed and well-housed got him a lot of attention.

9. The Golfer.  I've never met a gay man who was actually into golf, and Castro Street is probably five miles from the nearest golf course, but lugging one of those bags full of clubs down the street is definitely a conversation starter.

10. The Bible Boy.  My friend David picked up a "screamer," one of those guys who carry signs and Bibles and yell about "abominations."

11. The Edwardian.  He wore a waistcoat and a boater hat and carried a walking stick, looking for all the world like he was on the way to tea with E.M. Forster and P.G. Wodehouse

12. Santa Clausaka Bearnard, a writer who had a bestselling series of fantasy novels set in the days of King Arthur.  He was eccentric in a lot of ways, but in the wintertime he capitalized on his resemblance to Santa Claus by wearing lots of reds and blacks.  A surprising number of guys asked him to slide down their chimney.

13. The Martian.  A very tall black guy, bald, dressed all in white with a gold medallion hanging on his neck, he looked exactly like the an emissary of the Galactic Council in a "Space Brothers" UFO cult.  He gave his name as Darvon Klaa, and said he was from "A small planet very, very far away."

14. Brad Pitt.  Actually just a guy who looked like him.  But he played up his resemblance to the hunky star of Thelma and Louise, Johnny Suede, A River Runs Through It, and Interview with the Vampire, and celebrity sightings were so rare in San Francisco that he caused a sensation of autograph-seeking and cruising.

15. The Skateboarder.  There aren't a lot of twinks in San Francisco: living in the City requires stamina and financial resources beyond the reach of most 20-year olds.  So those few twinks around were exotic, like visitors from a distant country.  What better way to attract attention than to emphasize your alienness, skateboarding in a flannel t-shirt, baggy jeans, and a backward baseball cap?

Cruising in the Navajo Nation

Window Rock, Arizona, July 2004

I grew up around Native Americans, at the annual pow wow and through visiting relatives (my Cousin Joe is half Potawatomie).  But I was never with a Native American guy, through all my years in college and in West Hollywood, except for the Inuit that Lane and I hooked up with.

When I visited Larry in New Mexico in 2004, I was determined to find a Native American guy.

Cruising in Santa Fe proved fruitless -- well, I brought home a cute college boy, but he was Anglo.

Albuquerque, Tucumcari, Roswell, Alamogordo, the same.  Lots of Hispanic guys, but not a lot of Native Americans.

So I decided to go to the heartland -- the Navajo Nation.

Semi-autonomous, 27,000 miles in parts of New Mexico, Arizona, and Utah, population 300,000, of whom 170,000 speak the Navajo language.  Capital Window Rock, Arizona, population 2,700.

I got a hotel room at the Quality Inn in Window Rock and set out.

Then I realized that I had no idea how to go about it.

I had been planning on cruising in straight bars, but there weren't any in Window Rock.

Not a lot of street cruising, either.  No one on the streets.  People drove cars and trucks.

There was a string of fast-food restaurants, but I didn't think much cruising went on at McDonald's and Church's Chicken.

The Window Rock itself was a very scenic natural formation, and the Navajo National Museum was interesting, but....Navajo men?

I found a locally-owned Mexican restaurant, but when I went inside, all eyes turned toward me with hostile stares.

In desperation, I asked at the front desk what "activities" there were around.  I got a list of dull things like camping, hunting, fishing, the Navajo Nation Zoo, and buying arts and crafts.

Was I being too blatant?  Or too desperate?

I spent the evening in online chatrooms.


In the morning I went jogging, early, before the sun got too hot.  I passed a group of high schoolers on the jogging trail.

In three hours I would be leaving for the airport.  And Indian country would be gone forever.

Suddenly I saw a man jogging by himself.   In his 20s, tanned, hairy chest.  

Good enough. I caught up to him and poured on the erotic energy.  "Hot one today, isn't it?" I began, an inane but effective way to start a conversation.

Instead of the usual hostile stare, he smiled.

His name was Ricky, and he worked in human services.  I spent four years in human resources, so we talked a bit about the problems of personnel.  Then about the problems of meeting people in the Navajo Nation.

"It's all close-knit family groups.  You don't get to be friends unless your great-grandparents knew each other.  And dating -- forget it -- drive down to Albuquerque."

"So -- you don't have a girlfriend or boyfriend at home?" I asked.

"Just me and my cat."

"I love cats!" I exclaimed,  pretending to be excited.

He glanced over and smiled.  "You want to drop by and meet her?"

You know what followed.  Briefly petting the cat, followed by a shower and a bedroom.  Nice physique, average beneath the belt gifts.

 Then Ricky drove me back to my hotel, so I could check out and drive to the airport.

A nice, unexpected hookup.  With only one problem.  Ricky was Anglo, too.

See also: My First Indian Sausage Sighting; Cruising in New Mexico; and I Hook Up with a Dakota Boy.

Sunday, July 24, 2016

The Nude Car Wash

Dayton, May 2006

At the end of every semester, students fill out a Teaching Evaluation, answering questions about how much they liked the class.  They should like it a lot. The Evaluations are used to decide whether you keep your job, and "adequate" is typically an average of 3.5 or 4.0 (on a scale of 1-5).

That means that being out in the classroom is simply out of the question.  Just one homophobe giving you a "1" on everything can lower your class average to below "adequate," and a class of 20 is guaranteed to contain at least 3 homophobes.

So how do I stay "in the closet" in class, at least to the3 or more homophobes?  It's really not difficult, even though I mention gay people or gay issues in every class. Heterosexuals are so eager to believe that there are no gay people in the world that just a few tricks can maintain their illusion.

1. I never mention my romantic relationships at all, ever. Hetero professors throw in their husbands and wives every ten seconds:  "Today we're covering chi square.  My wife hates chi square," or "I would have finished grading your exams, but it was my wife's birthday, and..."  Not me.

2. Several times during the semester, I mention something that happened "at church."  Heterosexuals tend to believe that being religious and being gay are polar opposites: all gay people are anti-religion, and all religious people are anti-gay.  So of course if I go to church, I must be heterosexual.

3. I mention my background in wrestling, judo, and bodybuilding.  Things haven't changed much since I was in high school thirty years ago: heterosexuals still tend to believe that all gay men are frail, wispy things allergic to muscles, so anyone who knows his way around a gym must be heterosexual.

My "secret" is usually safe.  Occasionally I get statements on course evaluations like "I think the professor is a fag!", but not often.

So I was surprised in the spring of 2006, when I taught a course in "Drugs and Alcohol in American Society" in Dayton.

  There was no unit on gay people, although I think I mentioned early medical attempts to connect AIDS deaths to gay men using poppers (amyl nitrite).  At the end of the semester, a conservative fratboy business major named CJ, who was squeaking by with a C-, told me, "If you let me turn in an extra credit assignment, I'll mow your lawn every week all summer with my shirt off."

I stared, too shocked to speak.

"Ok, all the yardwork.  All summer.  Come on, a whole summer of eye candy!"

Finally I managed to say,  "I don't have a lawn.  I live in an apartment."

"Ok, then I'll wash your car all summer-- wearing only a jockstrap!  You'll never get a better deal than that!"

His girlfriend -- or a girl he flirted with often -- approached and took his shoulder.  "Dr. Davis isn't interested in that sort of thing," she advised.

So the girl didn't "catch on," but the hunk did?  Maybe he saw my eyes widen when he yawned-and-flexed.

"Oh...well, maybe you have a gay friend. I can be like a gift certificate."

"Wait -- I have an idea.  You can put your talents to use, and share it with the whole university community."

So during finals week, CJ's fraternity held a car wash for charity -- they wore speedos, not jock straps, but there was still a lot of muscle on display.

I brought my car in three times.

See also: Summertime Car Washes


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