Saturday, August 27, 2016

Converting the Fundamentalist Boy

Upstate, September 2010

The Freshman came into Sociology of Religion class ready for a fight.  I knew all the signs.

He was Hispanic, tall, broad-shouldered, with short dark hair, dark skin, and a round open face.  A muscular physique, but not a football player.

Intense, one of those front-of-the-room hand-raisers.  The first to get to class, pull out his notebook, and sit with his pen ready to take notes. And frown with disgust at everything I said.

He rarely interacted with the girls in the class, always sitting next to boys and choosing boys for partnered work.  Probably gay.  Maybe he didn't know it yet.

There was a King James Bible atop all of his other books, even though the Bible was not one of the required texts for the class.

I knew where he was coming from.  I grew up fundamentalist, with three sermons per week that were mostly quoted Bible passages, Sunday school and NYPS classes that were mostly Bible studies, plus extra points for reading your Bible daily and extra extra points for carrying it around so you could witness to the world.

We were told that the Bible was literally dictated by God, word for word, to the human authors. We didn't even call it the Bible, usually.  We said God's Word.

Obviously if God wrote it, it had to be perfect, flawless, with no errors, no mistakes, no lies.

If the Bible said the world was created in six days, obviously that's what happened.  God would know, wouldn't he?

Methuselah lived for 969 years.  Check.
There were 2 or 7 of each animal on Noah's Ark.  Check.
Joshua caused the sun to stand still.  Check.

It took me years to acknowledge that Mark 13 didn't exist in the earliest manuscripts, that the book of Daniel contains words that didn't exist at the time of Daniel, that some of the Pauline Epistles were written in a polished, erudite Greek totally unlike that of the Apostle Paul.  That none of the writers of the Bible expected it to be taken literally.

This Freshman was just starting his journey.  He had stormed into the classroom ready to defend God's Word against attacks, probably planning to win the souls of the Professor and the entire class.

 I had to work carefully.  I didn't want the Freshman storming out of the class in anger and dropping.  If he was gay, he needed this class.  Most internalized homophobia is due to a mistaken belief that the Bible promotes anti-gay hatred.

My tactic: don't dispute the literal meaning of the Bible.  Turn it against him.

I started slowly, with an easy one: the story of Sodom.

"None of the Biblical writers thought that the sin of Sodom was same-sex activity,"  I said.  "It was a lack of hospitality to strangers."

The Freshman's hand shot up.  "What about Jude 7, which says that the Sodomites were punished with eternal damnation for going after 'strange flesh.'"

"Strange flesh, sarkos heteros in Greek, wouldn't mean same-sex acts -- hetero means 'different.'  It probably means an attempt to have sex with strangers."

On like that.  Leviticus.  Thou shalt not lie with man as with woman.  Abomination refers to ritual impurity in ancient Judaism, like eating pork or mixing cotton and linen fibers.

Romans: Men burned with lust toward one another.  The Apostle Paul was referring to a specific case in which heterosexual men engaged in same-sex acts.  He was not aware of the existence of gay men.

Colossians:  arsenokoitai and malakoi shall not inherit the Kingdom of God.  "Homosexuals" is a mistranslation.   Arsenokoitai is a vulgar slang term, similar to our assholes, meaning basically jerks.  Malakoi means "soft."

The Freshman looked like his head would explode.  He frowned, sighed, thumbed furiously through his King James Bible.

"But it says 'effeminate!'  That must mean gay!"

"We need to look at the original Greek manuscripts, not a translation."

"But God guides the hand of the translators, so it means exactly the same thing in English as in Greek!"

And on and on.  Sometimes it felt like the class was taking place between me and the Freshman, with the other students merely onlookers.

The breakthrough came when I mentioned the MCC, a gay Christian denomination.

"It must be weird going to church when God hates you," the Freshman said, "Singing praises the God who is going to send you to Hell.  How can they deal with it?"

I was getting annoyed by his pig-headedness.  "They don't think God is a bigot," I said.  "Their reasoning is, why would God be homophobic?  Or prejudiced against any minority group?  Actually, a large number of Protestant denominations agree: Episcopalians, Lutherans, Baptists..."

A few days later, the Freshman showed up during my office hours.

"Do you happen to have the address of that gay Christian church?" he asked.  "I want to go there and..um...witness to them."

"There are several hundred in the United States.  The closest is in Albany.  But be careful -- you'll be outnumbered.  The congregation numbers around five hundred."

"Five hundred!  Come on -- you're exaggerating.  There aren't that many gays in the world!"

We moved on to other topics for the rest of the semester, so I didn't know if the class helped the Freshman overcome his homophobia or not (the quiz questions were all neutral).  He got a B+, and vanished, like students usually do.

Late in the spring semester, the Freshman came into my office again.  "Thanks for telling me about the MCC," he said.

"Did you find your visit enlightening?"

He grinned.  "You could say that.  I'm dating the pastor."

Hey, these stories can't all be about me hooking up.  I do have other interests, you know.



Ok, ok.  here's a naked guy to tide you over.

See also: The Bible, Christianity, and Homosexuality at gaychurch.org


Friday, August 26, 2016

I Spend the Night with Fred's Son

Indianapolis, July 2012 

During my last year in Upstate New York, I got an email from my ex-boyfriend Fred: "Guess what -- I just got a job offer in Indianapolis, near your parents!"

"Indianapolis, great!" I shot back.  "What sort of job is it?  Ministerial?"

"I'm the Sub-Secretary of the Social Action Committee for the Disciples of Christ,"

A pro-gay Protestant denomination.

"Handling LGBT issues?"

"No -- I'm not even out at work.  I handle issues regarding the mentally ill and homeless,  But you should see my office -- it looks right out onto Meridian Street!  Will you be coming out for Christmas?  We can celebrate our 32nd anniversary!"

Fred and I met at Christmastime 1979, when I was a sophomore at Augustana College, and he was a ministerial intern at a Methodist church in Rock Island.  We dated for about six months, and then became friends through years of changing jobs, cities, and relationships.

He was with Matt, a Cute Young Thing with a sarcastic wit and a nice butt, and then Jester, a college student with a buffed physique and a gigantic Kovbasa+++, then a series of Cute Young Things.  He worked as a youth pastor, mental health counselor, and homeless advocate in cities all over the map, from Omaha to San Bernadino to Sandusky.  I never knew where the next postcard or email would be coming from.

Time passes.  We hadn't seen each other for about ten years!

I didn't make it to Indianapolis for Christmas, but I did that summer.


Fred was 60 years old, bald, with a white beard and wrinkles around his eyes.  But he still had a winning smile, and was still buffed, his massive pecs obvious even in a business suit.

As he showed me around the Disciples of Christ headquarters in the modern glass and steel Landmark Center, Fred introduced me as his "friend from California," not "ex-boyfriend."

Ok, we dated for only six months, over 30 years ago, but still I felt like he was hiding something, moving us into the closet.

On his desk there was a "family portrait": Fred with his hand on a woman's leg, a hugging heterosexual couple, and two boys in their teens or 20s.

"When did you have time to get married and have three sons?" I asked.  "Or did the picture come with the frame?"

"That's Georgina and her sons.  We live together."

Live together????  "You...have a girlfriend?"

Fred smiled.  "That's Max, the oldest, 32 years old, and his wife June.  They live in Lafayette.  And Tyler -- he's 28.  He teaches culinary arts -- he'll be doing the cooking tonight.  Rusty is the youngest, a junior at Indiana University.  He lives on campus, but he's home for the summer."

"You have a girlfriend?" I repeated, weakly.  I always thought Fred was bisexual.  He just didn't want to admit it.

"No, we're just friends and roommates."

So he was living with Georgina so he could perv on her three hot sons?

Fred left work early, and I followed him up Keystone Avenue to the Broad Ripple neighborhood.  Upscale, conservative, heterosexual.  We parked in the driveway of a very nice Georgian-style house.

Two teenagers were playing basketball in the front yard.  Rusty, a cute blond with a respectable physique for a 20-year old, and his friend, Hispanic, a year or two older.

Fred introduced me as "Boomer from California."

In the kitchen, Tyler the chef was busy stuffing Cornish game hens.  He was very tall, with a tight physique, curly black hair, a hairy chest visible through his white t-shirt.

This time Fred introduced me as "Boomer the Ex-Boyfriend."

Tyler's hands were messy, so he hugged me instead of shaking hands.  His body was warm against mine.  I started to get aroused, and quickly backed away.

"Hey, I've heard tons of stories about you!," he said, returning to the game hens.  "Is it true that when you were living in Omaha, you went down on the teenager downstairs while Fred was in the apartment watching tv?"

"What?  No!" I exclaimed.  "Fred brought the kid from his youth group home, and..."

Before I had a chance to say anything else, Max and his wife June came in with a bottle of wine and a six-pack of Diet Coke.  Max was also cute, with the same black curly hair as his brother, a little shorter and more stocky.

"Fred told us that you were a teetotler," June said, "So we came prepared.  I hope six cans is enough."


Then Georgina the Roommate arrived.  In her fifties, plump, walking with a cane. "Fred has told us so much about you," she said, "It's like you're already part of the family."

Dinner was served on a picnic table in the back yard.  Fred and Georgina sat together. Rusty sat at the head, and I had Tyler and Max on either side.  I felt a little vibe from Tyler, and sitting so close to him was nice, but I had no intention of cruising him in front of his brothers, mother, and...um... stepfather?

"Fred's other ex-boyfriend, Matt, flew out for a visit at Christmas," Max said.  "He and June hit it off, and went to all the gay bars.

"He brought back a Cute Young Thing," Fred added.

"He brought a hookup back here to your house?" I asked, shocked.

"Sure.  Where else?  Matt is turning into quite a bear -- and a twink magnet.  I'm surprised Rusty didn't ask him out."

Rusty laughed.  "Come on, Fred, you know I'm not gay."

"Everybody's a little gay," Max said.  "So, Boomer, I hear you had a date with Brad Pitt."

This was almost like a West Hollywood party.  We just needed to play party games involving nudity, and split up to "share."

Gulp.  Would Fred be sharing Georgina's bed tonight?

After dinner, we sat in the living room, Fred and Georgina on easy chairs, Tyler and me on the couch, close but not touching.  Rusty left to visit a friend, and Max and June loaded the dishwasher and then headed back to Lafayette.

"Would you like to watch something on Netflix?" Georgina asked.  "Or maybe some porn?"

What kind of porn?  "Netflix will be fine!"

We sat watching Breaking Bad, Tyler sitting very close to me and occasionally brushing my thigh.  It was hot, but with his mother and step-father grinning at us, I felt very uncomfortable.

After one episode, he shifted position and put his arm around me.

WTF?

Fred laughed.  "The look on your face is priceless!  Let me get you up to speed.  Rusty is straight, but completely pro-gay. and Max is bisexual. He and June have an open relationship.  And Tyler, of course, is gay."

"And my late husband and I had the honor of raising three wonderful sons," Georgina added, "Who are not afraid to be who they are."

 I let Tyler hold my hand, while Fred and Georgina watched.  After a second episode, Fred said "I guess it's time for us old folks to go to bed."

"You're only 8 years older than me!"

He grinned.  "You'll understand when you hit 60.  Old bones get tired."

Tyler turned to me.  "Would you like to go check out the bars?  Or would you rather go to bed, too?"

 "Bed, please," I said weakly.



Tyler took me by the hand and led me, not to my bedroom, but to his.  He shut the door and kissed me.

A nice kiss, warm, passionate, not demanding.

"It doesn't bother you to do this with your Mom and Fred downstairs?" I asked.

He pushed me to my knees.  I unzipped him and went down on his very stiff  Bratwurst+.

"Why should it?" he continued.  "I've had guys over before.  Yeah...  Like Fred...yeah...how do you think...wow, do that...how do you think he and Mom met?"

See also: Jester, the Blind Boy with the 12 Inch Penis; Alan Picks Up a Father and Son; and Cruised by the Waiter at a Crazy Retro Restaurant.

Wednesday, August 24, 2016

What Do You Have Under the Hood?

Rock Island, August 1977

When I was growing up in Rock Island, most boys were obsessed with being "men," doing exactly what men were supposed to do and nothing else.  The slightest of shifts in your hips as you walked, the most subtle of wrist movements, the tiniest bit of animation in your voice was proof positive that you were not a man at all, but a sissy, a "fag," or a girl.

Even if you got your body gestures, walking, and talking perfected, you could still give away your inner girlishness by not being knowledgeable and enthusiastic about three things: girls, sports, and cars.

The only one I had any hope of accomplishing was cars.

There was no way I was going to kiss and hug girls, sports were too confusing, but I had just got my driver's license, and Mom let me borrow her car sometimes.  Knowing how to fix a car was an attainable goal.  Masculinity within my reach!

The only problem: I was an aesthete, an intellectual, into Renaissance poetry and statues of naked men.  I couldn't tell a hammer from a nail. I got a D- in shop class.  I got carpentry and building toys for Christmas, and left them untouched in their boxes.



But I perservered.  In August 1977, I went to my father and asked him to teach me how to "fix cars."

"You?"  he asked in surprise.  "You hate mechanical stuff."

"Well, most mechanical stuff.  You couldn't pay me to solder an iron onto a lathe, or whatever.  But a car is different."

"Ok, I can give you some pointers.  There are three things about cars that every guy should know: how to change a tire, how to change the oil, and how to repair a carburetor."









1. Change a Tire.  

Dad took me out to the garage, popped open the trunk, and showed me where the jack and spare tires were stored.

"You've seen the ladies with flat tires on the side of the road, waiting for someone to help.  If you can change a tire, you'll be sure to get their phone number!"

What about a guy on the side of the road?  I thought.  

  And of course, if you're on a date and the tire goes flat, you'd better be able to change it, or the girl will think you're a sissy."

He showed me how to jack up a car and "unscrew the lug nuts."

I couldn't get the wrench to work.  It just slid along the nuts.  Finally Dad grabbed the wrench and did it himself.

"Well, you get the idea, anyway."

2. Change the oil.

"A garage will do this for you, but imagine how impressed the girls will be when they find out you can change your own?"

"And the guys,"  I said.

This involved getting under the car and unscrewing a gross greasy thing.

I balked.  "I'll impress the girls with my wit and charm, thanks."











3.  Fix the carburetor.

Next Dad showed me how to open the front hood and prop it up.

"Knowing what's under here is the key to impressing girls."

It was an incomprehensible mass of wires and pipes.

"Here's your fan belt, your carburetor, your radiator, your angler, your glockenspiel."

I stared into oblivion, imagining a hot guy with his shirt off straining over the engine.

"Loosen the rod here, angle the pipe so the screw goes counter-clockwise, then re-up the uptake on the valve here.  This knob goes with this fuel injector.  Then you just sort of squeeze the triangulator down the revolver, and gently push the socket into the wrench."

I stared into oblivion, imagining a hot guy with his pants off straining over the engine.  Dad hadn't mentioned the benefits of not knowing how to fix cars.

"Now you try."

I turned and headed back to the house.  "Thanks, anyway.  I'll just pay someone to do it."

Preferably a guy with his pants off.







Tuesday, August 23, 2016

The Blind Boy with the 12" Penis Finds His Way into Fred's Bed


Rock Island, December 1999

After my ex-boyfriend Fred broke up with Matt, his partner of ten years, in the spring of 1996, he almost immediately started dating Jester, a blind boy with a very buffed physique and a gigantic Kovbasa++++.  They were together for about five years.

Not his usual type: Fred was drawn mainly to the slim femme boys with sallow chests. And he was constantly bragging about his extra-large package, so he wouldn't want anyone bigger.

What was the attraction?

I didn't find out until December 1999, when we both returned to Rock Island to spend Christmas with our families (Jester stayed in San Bernardino).  We went out to dinner and to JR's to look for a guy to "share."

"There probably won't be any buffed blind guys with gigantic penises available," I joked.  "You'll have to settle for less."

"Oh, please, buffed and hung guys are a dime a dozen," Fred said.  "That's not what I saw in Jester.  I'm attracted to the White Knight dynamic, charging in on a horse to save you from the dragons of doubt and despair.  Like Matt, who was all kinds of crazy.  Or Boomer, who was trying to overcome his fundamentalist childhood, scared to drink wine or dance, or do anal."

"I wasn't too scared to go down on you five times in one night!" I exclaimed.  "Remember our first date?"

"Ok, let me tell you the story of Jester, and then you'll understand.  But be warned -- it's not fun or sexy."

I gulped.  "Go for it."


Redlands, California, October 1988

The boy was 15 years old, skinny, swishy, and miserable.  He was living in Redlands, a small town near San Bernardino, with parents and older brothers who were sympathetic but didn't understand him -- at all.  They spent all their time hunting, working on cars, and watching sports, especially Nascar races, and didn't see how you could like music and art and chasing butterflies and still be a boy.  For Christmas and birthdays he got sports equipment.  On holidays he was forced to go camping in the...ugh...wilderness.

School was worse.  He had no friends. He was bullied and abused constantly.  He was punched, tripped, called a "fag," shoved into oncoming traffic, while the teachers looked on and did nothing.

Church was much worse.  The preacher hated homos, and took out some time in every sermon to describe their filthy lifestyle -- they would not only have sex with anybody anywhere, men, women, children, animals, they would kill you as soon as look at you.  90% of all murderers were fags, 80% of all kidnappers, 100% of terrorists.  They were utterly unclean, despicable in every way, deserving of death, as God's Word commanded.

The boy didn't think he was capable of having sex with everybody and everything, or murdering or kidnapping people.  But he knew that being a fag was like a cancer.  It would fester inside him, grow and grow, until he became a monster.

One day at a Renaissance Faire the boy met a man dressed as a Medieval jester, who bowed deeply and said "Good morrow, sirrah."

He was fascinated.  Jesters were free to do and say anything they wished; they weren't restricted by rules like "boys must work on cars" or "fags are despicable."   When he went home, he started calling himself Jester.

It was a secret name, a bulwark against the pain of the world, against his future as a despicable fag.

But it wasn't enough.  One day after a particularly vicious round of bullying, the boy came home from school, took off his coat and hung it in the closet.  He saw the shoebox on the shelf where his father kept his gun, always loaded to defend the home against intruders.  The boy took the gun to his room, aimed at his head, and fired.

Gunshot wounds to the head are fatal 90% of the time.

The boy lived, but was completely blind in one eye and could only detect light and shadow in the other.

After a few months of recovery, his parents sent him to the California School for the Blind in Fremont.  It was a boarding school, far away from the bullying and rednecks of Redlands.  He decided not to hide anymore: from his first day there, he was Jester, a gay boy, swishy, skinny, and out.

He soon discovered that every guy at the school was gay or bi, or at least willing to accept a late-night blow job.  And his above-average bulge made him very popular.  He began lifting weights and developed a buffed physique, which made him even more popular.

The School for the Blind taught not only Life Skills 101, how to read braille and find your way around with a cane, but a full range of high school courses.  Jester excelled in French and history, joined the debate team, and was elected class treasurer.  He graduated in 1993, and enrolled at Cal State San Bernardino as a history major.

He thought that all Christians were homophobic, that you could not both gay and religious at the same time, but in the spring of 1996, he heard about a gay-friendly Disciples of Christ Church right in San Bernardino.  There were several gay couples in the congregation.

He and his friend Cody visited, and met Fred, an incredibly attractive and well-hung mental health counselor, who had just broken up his partner of 10 years.  He was lonely in that big apartment all by himself, and looking for a roommate.

Cody offered to become the roommate.  He moved in a week later.  Soon Fred and Jester began dating.






Rock Island, December 1999

"You weren't a White Knight!" I exclaimed.  "Jester saved himself long before you even met.  He was out and happy when he walked into that church!"

Fred looked at me.  "I didn't say that I saved Jester.  He saved me."

Suddenly I understood.  Fred wanted to be a minister his whole life, but even after getting a doctorate in theology, he couldn't find a church.  He lost his job as a youth pastor in Fresno, and had to go back to being a mental health counselor in San Bernardino.  And his partner of ten years dumped him.  Alone and miserable, despairing, he met Jester.













Spectacular physique, sure.  Gigantic penis, sure. But what attracted Fred was his upbeat attitude, his optimism, his unshakeable belief that things will get better.

See also: Jester, the Blind Boy with the Footlong; Matt's First Night with Fred and His Brother

Sunday, August 21, 2016

Jester, the Blind Boy with the 12" Penis

San Bernardino, June 1997

My friend David and I have driven down from San Francisco to visit West Hollywood, and now we're spending the weekend with Fred in San Bernardino.  He recently broke up with Matt, his partner of ten years, and lost his ministerial job in Fresno.  I want to make sure he's doing ok.

I asked Matt to come, but he refused.  Not just yet.  But they'll get together soon.  In gay communities, exes almost always stay friends.  Often they become your closest friends.  And, when you visit, they always invite you back into their bed.

I'm looking forward to it.  Fred was my first boyfriend, too, and there's always been something warm and comforting about sharing an ex-boyfriend's bed again.

When we arrive at Fred's apartment near Meadowbrook Park in San Bernardino, a Cute Young Thing answers the door.

"Hi, I'm Cody.  Fred is busy cooking, but he'll be out in a minute."

We stammer our introductions.  We didn't expect Fred to have a new boyfriend so soon after the breakup.  And especially a Cute Young Thing: about 20, short and slim with slicked-back blond hair, wearing a red muscle shirt, cut-off jeans with a decided bulge, and no shoes. A bit fragile and fey for my tastes, wearing three rings, one ostentatiously big.  Reeking of cologne.

Fred likes his guys pretty and girlish.  I don't.

We drop our bags in the foyer, say "hello" to Fred, puttering over some kind of pasta salad in the kitchen, and sit down in the living room.  Cody brings us sodas, and iced tea for himself.

Cody in the picture makes getting into Fred's bed a problem.  Fred and Cody couldn't invite both of us to "share": sharing is for three only.  Nor would they invite one and leave the other alone in the guest room, listening to the sounds of sex, lonely and upset.  The only solution is to not share at all.

David and I glance at each other with weak smiles, both thinking the same thing: I've been with this guy before.  He's hot and everything, but I came here planning to sleep with Fred.

We think of a solution at the same time: if one of us hooks up tonight, then the other will be free to be invited into Fred and Cody's bed.

When Fred comes out into the living room, David asks, "So, Fred, what do you have planned for us to do tonight?  A cruise bar, I hope.  Boomer and I are hot for some Inner Empire studmuffins."

"Maybe tomorrow night.  Tonight we have a dinner party planned.  The other guys will be here in a few minutes."

A party?  Even better.  West Hollywood Parties always end with guys pairing off and hitting the bedrooms.  I could share with Fred and Cody, and David could find someone else.

I've met two of the guys before -- Jerome and Mark, older, sagging, not very impressive.  I'd rather sleep alone.

But the third! Jester ("not my real name -- I got it when I came out").  In his 20s, tall, tanned, heavily muscled, with black hair, a round face, and a bright smile.  Blind -- he came in on Jerome's arm, but after that found his way around the apartment with no help.

I nudge David and whisper "How about if we share Jester tonight, and leave Fred and Cody to themselves?"

"Agreed."

Over vegetarian Greek pasta salad, fresh bread, red beets, and cabbage, we have our usual conversations about movies, tv, homophobic coworkers, celebrity hookups, and dates from hell.  Cody tells his coming out story.  Then David  turns to Jester.

"And now the Jester.  I love that nickname!  How did you ever come up with it?"

"Let someone else tell their story," Jester says.  "Mine is really long and boring."

"Come on, don't be shy," David says.  "It can't be as long as Boomer's penis."

Everyone laughs.

"David should know," I say.  "He goes down on me as often as I can talk him into it.  His skill in that area is legendary."

Hardly proper dinner conversation, but we are trying to incite Jester's interest any way we can, without him being able to see or touch us.

Jester still refuses to tell his coming out story.

After dinner we retreat to the living room for dessert and party games.  David and I try to jostle for a position next to Jester, but he sits between Jerome and Cody.

Our main game is "guess the penis," which requires you to stand in a row behind a bench, your penis on display, while a guy who is blindfolded tries to decide who belongs to which just by fondling it (use your hands, not your mouth).

When it's my turn, I guess Fred and David well enough, but the gigantic Kovbasa++, six inches soft?  Your penis shrinks as you age -- it must belong to Cody or Jester.

"Jester!" I exclaim.

"Right!" he says.  "Hardly anybody gets that about me.  They think because you're blind, you must be small."

"Oh, I don't think you're small in any way" I say, stroking him a bit before moving on to the next guy.

Now I really want to spend the night with Jester.  I corner him in the kitchen, put my hand on his shoulder, and ask "Do you need a ride home?"

"No,  thanks.  I...."

Suddenly David is there, putting his arm around Jester.  "So you're the guy with the footlong, an inch or so bigger than Boomer.  Has he been giving you tips on how to fend off the size queens?  Like me, for example?"  He cups Jester's crotch.

"Down, boys," Jester says with a grin, moving his hand away.  "You'll have to ask my boyfriend before squeezing the merchandise."

His boyfriend?  Who...he arrived on Jerome's arm -- he must be dating Jerome!

Surprised and embarrassed, we return to the living room.  Jerome and Mark are just putting their raincoats on to say goodnight.  No doubt Jester will be following them.

But he doesn't.

What's going on?  Maybe Jester is Fred and Cody's roommate?  Then where's his boyfriend?

"Well, I guess we'll go to bed, too," David says.  "It was a long drive down here."

"We still have to discuss the sleeping arrangements," Fred says.  "If you guys want to be in the same bed, you can have Cody's room.  Otherwise one of you can sleep with Cody, and the other with Jester and me."

I stare, open mouthed.  Jester is the boyfriend, and Cody the roommate!

Questions flood my mind. Why does Fred have a roommate, when he never did in 10 years of living with Matt?  Why didn't he let on that Jester was his boyfriend, and Cody his roommate?

"Dibs on Fred and Jester!" David calls.  He nudges me.  "You snooze, you lose, buddy."

Cody smiles at me.  "Which side of the bed do you want?"

On the bright side, Cody was a great kisser, and had a constantly-aroused Bratwurst.  I went down on him twice.

Jester's story continues in The White Knight and the Jester

See also: The Substitute for Sharing; My Sausage List ; and 12 Disabled Dates

12 Disabled Dates and Handicapped Hookups

20% of the population has a disability.  10% has a severe disability, requiring special aids to engage in everyday activities.

10% is a lot.   If you hookup once a week, you'll be going down on five disabled guys in a year.  If you have 10 boyfriends during the course of your life, one of them will probably be disabled.

Most disabled guys don't want to be fetishized, felt sorry for, or complimented on how bravely they have overcome adversity.  They just want to have the things everybody else has: a job, an apartment, friends, boyfriends, and erotic exploration.

Here are 12 disabled dates and handicapped hookups, plus a couple of sausage sightings.











1. Danny from third grade, who I pushed my way into a friendship with in third grade, wore a leg brace.  I ran into him in high school, and was invited to a sleepover at his house.  Nice sausage sighting.

2. Mark, a paraplegic due to a diving accident, was in some of my classes at Augustana.  Nice upper body.














3. Jimmy, the Bodybuilder on Crutches.  When I was in grad school in Bloomington, I started dating Jimmy, a grad student in social work who had cerebral palsy: he had to use crutches to get around, giving him an amazing bodybuilder's physique with 0% body fat.

4. Mario, a very cute deaf leatherman used to be a regular at the Faultline in West Hollywood.  Lane and I had him over for a three-way.








5. Jester, The Blind Guy with the Kovbasa+, who Fred dated after he broke up with Matt.  As a teenager, he tried to commit suicide by shooting himself, but ended up blind instead.

6. Ramon, who had a missing right arm, asked me to go ice skating with him in New York.  I had never been ice skating before.
















7. Raphael, Gay Psychic Angel.  In Florida in 2002, an angel showed up at my door to discuss New Age religions.  He did a psychic reading, we kissed, and he gave me his telephone number, but I chickened out.  His arms didn't work; they hung loosely at his side.

8. Ethan, the Boy in the Wheelchair, who I met in Dayton in 2005.  He wanted an S&M scene, which involved tying his hands behind his back and his non-working legs together.













9. Tommy in Dayton.  Another blind guy I dated, who said he could tell someone's penis size by listening to them urinate.  Or you could just feel your way.

10. Andy, who I met at a comic book store on the Plains in 2015, had more severe cerebral palsy than Jimmy: slurred speech, spastic movements.  He had a Daddy fetish, and wanted to rip my clothes off -- not very easy when your hands don't work well.











11. Robert, who I met on the Plains in 2015.  He was deaf but could lip-read, and wanted a S&M scene.  No blindfold, of course.

12. My Mentally Disabled Neighbor, who took me on a date to see Kansas, and then back to his apartment for the "underwear" stuff.