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."

"Why?


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 could...um..."  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."

"Um...no, 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?

Erotic Story about Grandpa Prater #2: Stealing the Banjo

This is the second erotic story about my Grandpa Prater.

Garrett, December 1972

It's the day after Christmas in seventh grade.  We're visiting my parents' relatives in Indiana.  Today we drive out to the farmhouse near Garrett to visit my Grandpa Prater, my mother's father, and bring him his Christmas presents.

Grandpa Prater is 70 years old, but still big and rugged, with thick arms and shoulders and huge hands. He wears overalls, sometimes with a white t-shirt underneath, sometimes without, so you could see his hard round pecs dusted with white hair.

He moved from Kentucky to Indiana with his family in 1942, to take advantage of factory jobs during World War II.  Now he is widowed, and all of his kids have moved out except Uncle Edd, who acts more like his brother than his son.

There's no car in the driveway, and no one answers when we knock, so we figure that they're out, at the store or visiting friends in town.  We drive down the road about half a mile to the Trailer in the Deep Woods, to visit my Cousin Buster and his parents and wait for them to return.

Cousin Buster shows me the guitar he got for Christmas, and tries to play "Your Mama Don't Dance," by Loggins and Messina.  He doesn't do well.  "I should have asked for a banjo," he says. "Man, I could really howl on that box." 

"Why don't you ask Grandpa if you can borrow his?"

Somehow we decide that it would be a good idea to sneak into the farmhouse while he's gone and "borrow" the banjo.  

We walk through the woods until we come to the side yard.  There's still no car in the driveway.

We climb onto the porch and go in through the parlor.

I've been there a thousand times, but never when the house is deserted.  There's something eerie, even sinister, about the two overstuffed sofas, red with clawed legs, the old console radio with a black-and-white tv on top, the picture of Jesus on the Cross that changes to an Ascended Christ if you look at it right.  

The kitchen is familiar, too.  I've been there many times.  But there's something sinister about the plate of toast and Sue Bee Honey left on the kitchen table, as if someone suddenly rushed out.  Or was kidnapped.

I've never been inside Grandpa Prater's bedroom.  

First there's an anteroom, with some coats on hooks and shoes on the floor.  Then a big oak door.

My heart is racing with guilt and fear.  We shouldn't be here -- it's trespassing.  "Let's wait until Grandpa Prater gets home, and ask him," I suggest.

Cousin Buster is a little pale, too.  "No, I can't wait.  He won't mind."

He gingerly turns the handle and opens the door.

It's a long, narrow room, with an old-fashioned bed, a pitcher on a wooden dresser, clothes hanging in an armoire.  An armchair with clothes piled on it.  A half-full bottle of whiskey and an old leatherbound book on the nightstand.

Grandpa Prater is lying on the bed!

His shirt off, his overalls undone, thick arms behind his head.  My first thought is that he's dead, but then I see his massive hairy chest subtly rising and falling.  He must just be asleep -- sometimes old people take naps in the middle of the day.  Uncle Edd must have gone off by himself, taking the car, and Grandpa Prater didn't hear us knocking.

Later, replaying the scene in my mind, I see a massive bulge in his overalls, but it's probably just my imagination.  I didn't get a sausage sighting that day.

Still, the unexpected semi-nudity, the hairy chest, the sense of transgression and secrecy all combine to make the sight decidedly erotic.  I feel a stirring down below.


Should we continue with our quest to borrow the banjo?

Cousin Buster begins tip-toeing across the floor.

:Suddenly, without moving or opening his eyes, Grandpa Prater says "Hello, Joe, what do you know?"

We yell in surprise.

He sits up in bed.  "Come here and sit with your old Grandpa for a spell."

I hesitate -- getting too close to alcohol is a major sin for Nazarenes, and Grandpa Prater is sort of scary, with his incomprehensible Kentucky accent and smell of whiskey and Aqua Velva.  But we climb onto the narrow bed, and he wraps an enormous arm around each of us and draws us close.

I really like having a muscular arm around me.  The stirring down there continues.

"Um...we wanted to borrow your banjo," Cousin Buster says.

"To learn to play like you," I add, to flatter him.

"The banjo is old-fashioned! You should be playing new music.  Rock and Roll. The Beatles.  In my day we all listened to Eubie Blake and W. C. Handy.   I was modern!  It was my Daddy who wanted to hear 'Barbara Allen'"

We didn't know what he was talking about at the time, but Eubie Blake and W.C. Handy are jazz musicians popular in the 1920s, and "Barbara Allen" is an old folksong.

He reaches past Cousin Buster to get the book on the nightstand, and opens it to a page with a sports team.  "That's me, your old Grandpa, on the wrestling team at Salyersville High School.  Wasn't I a caution in those days?

He is actually pointing out a basketball team.  But one of the boys looks like him.

"I was going to study to be a science teacher, but my Daddy said 'No, son, you're a man now, you have to marry and start a family.  Now, I swan, Grace was the prettiest gal this side of Prestonburg, but why couldn't we have waited a year or two?"

Translation: when he graduated from high school, Tony wanted to go to teacher's college, but his father forced him to get a job instead, so he could afford a wife and kids.  I hear the "job, wife, kids" litany constantly today.

"Maybe then I could have paid for nice things, like a bigger house, in town, and a nice car."

And a bathroom!

"...and doctors, when the babies got sick.  And when Grace got sick."

Cousin Buster extricates himself.  "So, can we borrow the banjo?"

He waves his hand.  "Sure, take it.  Keep it til the cows come home.  But promise me one thing -- when you all become men, you won't let your daddies tell you what to do.  Go to college, if you want.  Wait till the right time to get married, no matter how cute the little girl down the holler is."

Translation: Don't listen to the litany of "job, house, wife, kids."  Escape to West Hollywood.  Find a home.

See also: Erotic Story about Me and My Grandpa #1: Wrestling Moves

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.

Nothing.

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.




Monday, July 25, 2016

Pushing a Shopping Cart Up Castro Street

San Francisco, May 1996

Castro Street, the heart of the gay universe, is actually quite compact.  It begins at Duboce Triangle and extends six blocks south to the corner of Market, where you can see the Muni Station and the iconic Castro Theater.

Then there are two blocks of bars, restaurants, and boutiques:  Twin Peaks, Orphan Andy's, Almost Home, Thai Thai, the Q Bar.  A Walgreen's Drug Store.  A barber shop.  Two banks.

At 19th Street it becomes residential.  Bright, ornate Victorians with covered dormer windows, crammed together, covering every inch of space for the next five blocks.  The hill becomes very steep.

By 24th you are technically still on Castro Street, but you're not in The Castro anymore.  You're in Noe Valley.





Who actually lived in those Victorians on Castro Street?

They never came up for sale or rent.  No one we met ever gave them as an address.

Maybe they were the original residents of the street, not even gay, who moved in when the neighborhood was called Little Scandinavia and inspired the play I Remember Mama, who didn't budge during the 1970s and 1980s as Gay Liberation happened all around them.

There was no particular reason to go past 19th, so I never did, until the day I saw the homeless guy pushing a shopping cart up the hill.

Around 7:00 pm on a Wednesday in May 1996,  I was walking down Castro at 19th after the gym, when I saw him rumbling toward me.  It was too late to cross the street.

In San Francisco the homeless were everywhere, sitting on the sidewalk, sleeping in doorways, waving their cups and chanting "any change -- any change -- any change."  You ignored them.  If you wanted to help, you donated to a food bank or homeless shelter.  If you gave them money, spoke to them, or interacted in any way, they would follow you and ask for more.  And as word got around that you were a soft touch, you would be mobbed everywhere you went.  I often saw hapless tourists being followed around like the Pied Piper.

But I couldn't help wondering what the homeless guy was doing.  It would take effort to push that shopping cart up the steep incline, and what for?  There were few people in that direction to panhandle, no parks to camp out in.

And, except for the shopping cart, he didn't look like a homeless person.  He was in his 30s, with a round face and a well-trimmed beard.  A red polo shirt and white pants.  A typical Castro Street buffed physique.

 Before I knew it, we made eye contact. Then he stopped his cart and said "hello" before I could pretend that I didn't see him.

I had no choice but to say "hello" back and wait for the "any change?" barrage.

Instead he said "Hot day, isn't it?"

"Better hot than cold," I said noncommittally.

"My name's Jake."  He extended his hand.  I had no choice but to shake.

 Great, now this guy and his shopping cart will be following me around all night!  

"Boomer.  Where you from?" I asked, stupidly.  That was the standard first question in San Francisco cruising.  Everyone was eager to tell horror stories about homophobic small towns.  But you didn't interact with the homeless!

"Berkeley.  My dad is a professor at UC.  Strictly old school conservative -- you should have seen him raise the roof, when I told him I was gay!"

So that's why you're homeless -- your parents kicked you out.  "I don't 'come out' to anyone.  They can figure it out for themselves."

"Have you eaten?" Jake asked next.  "I was thinking of going to Thai Thai."

Great, now I have to feed him!

"Thai Thai is pretty good," I said noncommittally.

He reached out and squeezed my arm and smiled.  "Nice biceps!  Tell you what.  I'll just drop this stuff off at home, and meet you there in fifteen minutes."

"Where's home?  There aren't any..."  I was going to say "there aren't any homeless shelters up there."  But the cart didn't contain a ragtag assortment of belongings and mementos.  It contained two baskets full of neatly folded laundry.

WTF?  This guy wasn't homeless at all!

"Just up the hill.  See you soon."

After dinner Jake took me up to the Victorian just past 22nd Street, where he and three roommates paid an exorbitant rent.  It had stained glass windows, parquet ceilings, and hardwood floors, but no washer and drier. So they took turns carting all their stuff to the laundromat.

 He got a kick out of people thinking he was homeless, getting all flustered, giving him Attitude.

"You're the first guy who actually said 'hello' to me while I was pushing the cart,"  he said, leading me into his bedroom, which had a beautiful view of Castro Street all the way down to Market.  "That's got to get you some Karma points."  He began unbuttoning my shirt.

I didn't want to tell him that I only said "hello" by accident.

In case you were wondering: hairy chest, nice pecs, very thick Bratwurst, into interfemoral and kissing.

See also: David and the Homeless Teenager; My Hookup with the Martian




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