Saturday, September 10, 2016

Lane Has a Three-Way with His Brother

West Hollywood, September 1993

My partner Lane turns 38 today  and Randall, the Muscle Bear with the Pierced Penis, is throwing him a dinner party.  We have the usual discussions of dates from hell, celebrity hookups, and enormous penises, and somehow get around to incest stories.

Will the Bondage Boy tells about hooking up with his cousin when they were kids.

I tell about the brothers who both flirted with me in Houston, but changed it into a three-way encounter.

Then Lane says "I'll bet none of you but Boomer knows this, but I have a brother."

 I didn't know!  Lane always said he was an only child.  When Rosa died, he was the only beneficiary in her will, other than Temple Beth El and the Jewish Federation of Greater Los Angeles.

"Is he homophobic, and estranged?" Randall asked.

"Not at all.  In fact, we made out.  And not when we were kids.  We were both full-grown adults."

West Hollywood, September 1984

Sometimes funerals are fun, and not in a Goth way.  If the person was elderly, or died after a long illness, then the funeral is not sad, it's a celebration of their life.  You get to meet their relatives and old friends, and learn things about them that you never knew.

Lane grew up with his parents' funny, sad, and romantic stories, so he thought he knew all there was to know about his father:

Aaron was born into a Lithuanian Jewish family in Boyle Heights, California on March 4th, 1923.  After high school he joined the army, and fought in Italy during World War II.  He was shot in the leg and sent home, where he went to work in his parents' hardware store.  In 1953 he married Rosa, a Holocaust survivor from the Netherlands.  

He owned a clothing store and two apartment buildings in West Hollywood, attended Temple Beth El, visited Israel twice, voted Democrat in every election, and put way too much salt on his food.

But there was one thing Lane didn't know.  

Three days after Aaron died, Lane and his boyfriend were alone in the house -- Rosa was out with her cousin and niece -- when there was a knock on the door.

It was like looking in a mirror.  The guy standing there with a suitcase in hand was the same height as Lane, with the same physique, same face, even the same haircut.  Except he was a little older.

He opened the door slowly, in shock.

"You must be Lane!" his doppelganger said, holding out his hand.  "I'm your half-brother Leo."

Lane was speechless.

"I take it Dad never told you about me?"

They sat on the couch, Lane so shaky that Morgan had to help him down.  "You guys look so much alike, it's freaky!" he exclaimed.


Leo smiled and held out his hand.  "Sorry, we were never introduced...."

You never came out to strangers in 1984, but Lane could hardly introduce Morgan as a cousin from Poland: he was black, buffed, with a smooth hard chest and an uncut Mortadella++.

"This is my boyfriend and roommate Morgan."

"Oh...um..." Leo stammered, heavily embarrassed, as heterosexuals in the Reagan Era usually were when forced to acknowledge the existence of gay people. - but at least he wasn't shouting.  "I didn't expect you to be...of course, I'm perfectly fine with it.  I have friends back in Chicago who are...do you...I mean, are you both...."

"We don't have AIDS," Lane said, annoyed.  "Now let's hear about my Dad's double life."

When Aaron left the army in 1944, he moved to Long Island, lived with his uncle, and took a job in a men's clothing store.  In 1945, he married Marie, a Catholic girl who worked at a nearby diner.  They had a son named Leo.  After a couple of years, they divorced, and Aaron returned to Los Angeles. . 

"He wrote or telephoned me a lot," Leo continued, "And twice a year, on my birthday and in the spring, he flew out and spent a week with me.  When I was a kid, I thought everybody had two fathers, one who lived with him, and one who visited."

"That would explain the business trips," Lane said.  "But why didn't Dad tell me?  He obviously told you."

Later Rosa said: "We wanted to tell you, but it was never the right time."

"Yes, we knew all about you.  We even saw pictures.  He didn't mention that you were...you know, but I imagine that he was tolerant and all."

"He was sort of homophobic, actually," Lane said.  "He never wanted to meet Morgan, and wouldn't let us live in one of his buildings."

"That's odd, L.A. is so liberal.  Back in Chicago, you don't talk about that sort of thing openly."  He paused.  "Hey, do you think while I'm visiting, you and Morgan could show me...you know, the gay life of L.A.?  I'd love to tell my friends back home about it."

"I'm sitting shiva -- it's seven days of mourning after a loved one died.  But maybe Morgan would bring you."

The funeral and reception were on Friday -- both Leo and Lane were pallbearers.  On Saturday afternoon they recited the kaddish prayer at Temple Beth El, and on Saturday night Lane stayed home while Morgan took Leo on a tour of West Hollywood gay nightlife: the French Quarter, the Gold Coast, the Zone.

Lane was awakened shortly after midnight by the sound of Morgan and another guy coming into the bedroom, taking off their clothes, and climbing into bed with him.  Still half asleep, he forgot all about Leo and figured Morgan had brought home a trick to "share."  He started kissing and fondling the guy while Morgan went down on him, feeling his chest, fondling his testicles.

Then the guy pulled his face away, and Lane got a good look.  It was Leo!

"Hey, hey, wait..."  Lane murmured.  "We're brothers.  And you have a wife and kids...."

"They're in Chicago, and I'm here," Leo said.  "I can't be this free at home.  Only when I'm traveling, and too drunk to care!"

"And I can't pass up the chance to be with two Lanes!"  Morgan exclaimed.  "A Lane sandwich!  You're even the same size beneath the belt!"

"Well, count me out.  I'm still sitting shiva, and besides -- we're brothers!"

Lane watched while Morgan went down on Leo, and then topped him.  He allowed himself to be pulled into a three-way cuddle for sleeping.

Sometime during the night, Leo vanished, leaving a note that said "Thanks!  Keep in touch!"

West Hollywood, September 1993

"But I never saw or heard from Leo again," Lane said.  "And Morgan didn't last much longer, either.  He was hot, but he would grab anything that moved, you know.  Like my own brother."

"Half brother," Randall reminded him.  "The fantasy of half the guys in West Hollywood."

"Not me," Lane says.  "I guess I'm old fashioned.  I like to sleep with guys who don't share all of my DNA."

See also: Alan Hooks Up with a Father and Son; 21 Surprising Facts about Lane.; and My Date with Two Brothers and their Dad

What Testicles Are For

I'm a big fan of the penis.  Big or small, thin or thick, cut or uncut, it's undeniably the main event, an obvious barometer of his desire, the site of erotic stimulation, the place where he will feel his orgasm most intensely.

With all that going on, the testicles tend to get ignored, but they're even more important to the sexual act.  They produce testosterone, a hormone essential to sexual functioning as well as many of our favorite masculine characteristics -- muscle tone, voice, chest and facial hair.   And they produce the semen that signals his orgasm.









Like the penis, testicles come in various sizes and shapes. Sometimes the two balls are very clearly defined in the scrotum, sometimes not.  Sometimes one is bigger than the other.

Like the penis, the scrotum hardens, contracts, and presses up against the body during the sexual act.















And the testicles are even more sensitive than the penis.  You're not going to be able to do oral calisthenics on them, but they are responsive to a light stroking, licking, or pulling.












If you're having a three-way, try putting one guy to work on the penis and the other on the testicles.












If the penis is big enough, you can even have a four-way, with two guys working on it and one on the testicles.

Add a fifth to kiss the guy, and you have a party.














Or you can work on the penis and testicles by yourself.  That's why you have both hands and a mouth.

See also: The Ins and Outs of Oral Sex










Friday, September 9, 2016

The Great Redneck Roundup: 20 Hookups in 20 Days


Summer 1995, the Wild West

When Dad turned 62, he and Mom retired, sold their house in Rock Island, and moved back to their home state of Indiana.  They told me that I had to come out by August to pick up any of my stuff that was still in the house, or it would go to Goodwill.

I wanted my desk, two chairs, a couple of books, two paintings, and some other mementos.

And Lane had never been out of California, except to visit me in the Midwest and some trips to Europe and Israel.  Time for a road trip!

The only problem is, after a lifetime in Los Angeles and over 20 years in West Hollywood, even Ojai seemed intolerably homophobic to him.   And we would be driving through some of the scariest, most conservative, most homophobic states in the country.

But we could see the sights, I told him.  The Grand Canyon, Mount Rushmore...and Rednecks, hairy-chested guys with farm-hard muscles and gigantic Mortadellas, who didn't like gay people but on Saturday night, after a few beers, happily went down on the guys they met at the tractor pull.

"Well...I do like cute redneck farmboys."


"Why not make a game of it?" I suggested.  "We'll see if we can hook up with a cowboy or redneck every day, bring a little same-sex action to the straight world.  How about it: 20 days, 20 sausages?"

Lane agreed to the Great Redneck Roundup of 1995:

Day 1: Phoenix, Arizona

This one was easy.  We stayed with a couple Lane knew, transplants from the gay Jewish community in Los Angeles, who took us on a tour of Phoenix's gay neighborhood and later invited us into their bed.  Sausage Count: 2

Day 2: Flagstaff, Arizona

After seeing the Grand Canyon, we drove down to Flagstaff to spend the night.  At a gay-friendly bar, we hooked up with a young Hispanic guy who worked as a waiter. Sausage Count: 3





Day 3: Provo, Utah

The heart of the Mormon world.  We were getting cocky, figuring that we could pick up a guy anywhere in Redneck Country, like on the campus of Brigham Young University.  Bust.

Day 4: Laramie, Wyoming

In a few years, the murder of Matthew Shepherd would make Laramie famous as haven of homophobia, but in 1995, we were just thinking cowboys.  We went to the campus of the University of Wyoming, visited the Art Museum, and the Museum of the Plains.

Nobody in Laramie, but on the road: when you go to a rest stop at dawn, there are always a lot of trucks parked, where the drivers spent the night.  Curious, I walked among them.  One of the doors was open, and the driver was sitting inside, legs spread, waiting for a passerby to strike up a conversation -- and be invited into the cab.  He turned out to be from Chicago, into kissing and oral. Sausage Count: Boomer 4, Lane 3


Days 5-6: Denver, Colorado

After four days in the Straight World, it was a relief to get to Denver, with its strong, well-organized gay neighborhood.  And meeting guys was easy. A South Asian guy named Ravi took us back to his apartment.

On Day 6, we toured the Museum of Decorative Arts and then met Ravi and his friend Jason for dinner.  We all went to a ballet at the Opera House, and then back to Ravi's apartment again. Sausage Count: Boomer 6, Lane 5












Day 7: Omaha, Nebraska.

I wanted to see the old places I knew from my month in Omaha with Fred.  And found that saying "I'm from West Hollywood" attracts guys as readily as saying "I have a gigantic penis."  We hooked up  with a Cornhuster, an extremely buffed former University of Nebraska football player who now worked as a college recruiter.  He was an anal bottom.  Sausage Count: Boomer 7, Lane 6

Day 8: Des Moines, Iowa.

Thomas, the gay Episcopalian priest who took me to my first Gay Rights Rally in 1981, was still living in Des Moines, a Silver Daddy who still managed to attract Cute Young Things.  We "shared" his latest boyfriend. Sausage Count: Boomer 9, Lane 8.






Days 9-11: Rock Island, Illinois

Along with visiting my parents and brother, packing up and shipping my stuff, and going to my old haunts, we had time to hang out with my old friend Dick and his partner.  I also sent Lane out to JRs by himself, so we would be even.  Sausage Count: 11

Day 12: Sioux Falls, South Dakota

We saw the famous Stave Church and went to a gay bar downtown, hoping to hook up with a Viking.  Instead we hooked up with a black guy on the downlow, whose wife was an English professor at the University. Sausage Count: 12

Day 13: Rapid City, South Dakota

We were so tired from driving and seeing Mount Rushmore and the Crazy Horse Monument that we forgot to cruise.  Bust.






Day 14: Billings, Montana

We ended up in Sturgis, South Dakota, during the famous Sturgis Bike Rally.  Hundreds of hot motorcycle guys riding around shirtless, beer in hand.  But there was no place to stay in town, so we had to drive on to Billings, Montana.  Again, too tired to cruise.  Bust.

Day 15: Missoula, Montana

We loved Missoula.  A very nice art museum, historic churches, antique shops, bookstores.  I saw one of the most beautiful men on Earth fishing off a bridge, a cut-off t-shirt revealing enormous biceps.  Lane stayed at the hotel, saying I could hook up by myself, so I went to a country-Western bar and met Jared, a real, actual cowboy (or so he said).  Sausage Count: Boomer 13, Lane 12



Day 17: Spokane, Washington

It was scary driving through Idaho, where the anti-sodomy law brought a maximum penalty of life in prison.  But then we arrived in Spokane, Washington, a little gay mecca, drawing gay guys from all over the redneck states.  They were low-key, closeted; no "real" gay bars, but lots of gay-friendly bars and restaurants, and a lot of "street cruising."  But we didn't pick up anyone.  Bust.

Day 18: Portland, Oregon

A gigantic gay mecca, with a bathhouse that took up nearly a city block and a nice country-western bar.  We did some cruising separately at the bathhouse (3 guys for me, 4 for Lane so we would be even).  Sausage Count: 16







Day 19: Redding, California

Two days left, 4 guys to go.  We pulled into Redding, a town of 90,000 near the Oregon border and Mount Shasta, where Bigfoot has been sighted.  There was only one, small gay bar, and it wasn't very active.

"We can pick up the rest in San Francisco," Lane pointed out.

"Sure, but we're supposed to be getting guys in the Straight World, cowboys and truckers and rednecks."

I went up to the bartender and asked "Do you know of any clubs where you could meet several guys tonight?"

He told me about a bear party going on that night in a place called Happy Valley, where we got our remaining four!  Sausage Count: 20.

Day 20: San Francisco, California

When you drive into town from the north, you go over the Golden Gate Bridge, an iconic San Francisco moment.  We were too overwhelmed by being home, in the heart of the gay world, to bother with cruising.  But we had already had 8 dates or "sharing" experiences, 4 bar hookups, 1 public encounter, and 7 guys from bear parties or bath houses, for a total of 20 sausages in 20 days.

Oh, and we saw the Grand Canyon, too.

Monday, September 5, 2016

I Share Fred and His Boyfriend in His Parents' House

Rock Island, December 1980

In mid-December, just before classes end at Augustana, my ex-boyfriend Fred calls me from Omaha.  "Are you free Christmas night?" 

"Sure -- my family celebrates on Christmas Eve, so Christmas day is all down time."

"Great.  I'm bringing my boyfriend Toby up to meet my parents -- the first guy I've ever brought home -- and I want you to come along for moral support."

Last summer, when I was 19 years old, I moved to Omaha with Fred, a recent seminary graduate who had just taken a job as a youth pastor.  I hated every minute of it, and after five weeks escaped...um, I mean left and returned to Rock Island.  

Within a week, Fred rebounded into the arms of another 19-year old college student: Toby Meyer, who was starting his sophomore year at the University of Nebraska.  They moved in together after two dates.  Fred introduced him at church as his "nephew."

If anyone in the church found this suspicious, there's no record of it.

"So you want your ex-boyfriend to help you introduce Toby to your family."  I scoff-- I haven't seen Fred since our breakup, and now he wants me to hang out with his new boyfriend?  That would be mega-weird!

"Are you up for it?  Mom's a great cook.  And, if it sweetens the deal, you can join me in bed. Just come into my room after everyone's asleep.  I'd like to have you all night, but you know, I don't want to arouse suspicion."

That does sweeten the deal!  Fred is enormously attractive.  Besides, I've only been with one guy since our breakup, and that was a downlow thing after a screen date with some girls.

"Um...where are they going to put Toby?"

"Hopefully with me, but I can't be sure.  They think we're just roommates, you know.  I'm not out to anyone in my family." 


Well, he's sort of out.  Last summer Fred's Dad and older brother helped us move to Omaha. Virgil was in his 50s,hairy, grizzled, with hard shoulders and biceps, a do-or-die conservative Democrat who hated Ronald Reagan.  Dwight was in his 30s, a truck driver, tall, bearded, fat.  

They didn't say anything about us being gay, but they didn't mention girls, either, and they expressed no surprise when we had only one bed to move. They probably knew, but didn't want to talk about it. 

That's as out as you got in 1980.

This will be the first time I've seen Fred since we broke up.  That, plus meeting his boyfriend and most of his family, makes me very nervous.



I get even more nervous when I arrive before Fred and Toby -- they are still negotiating the snowy six-hour drive from Toby's parents' house in Sioux Falls.  

Virgil, Dwight, a little boy (Dwight's son), and a tall, slim black-haired guy (the boyfriend of Fred's sister) are sitting in the living room, watching a football game on tv.  

Virgil, gruff and a bit standoffish, introduces me as "Fred's former friend," and takes me back through the dining room to an enormous kitchen to meet the women:  Fred's Mom, short, fussy, and fat; Dwight's wife; and Fred's younger sister, a senior music major at Knox College.

They give me the choice of helping out in the kitchen or watching football.  I choose the kitchen, and make a salad while fielding questions about my major in college, whether I have a girlfriend, and why I left Omaha.

If there any doubts about Fred being gay, they are dissipated when he arrives with Toby, the most swishy little queen to ever sashay in a pink sweater and diamond earrings.  He spends the dinner saying things like "Mrs. A, this cauliflower casserole is delish!  You have to give me the recipe, so I can make it for Fred!" and "No pie for me, thanks -- I have to watch my figure!  Got to keep them interested, right?"

I am heavily embarrassed, and try to ignore him -- and Fred -- as much as possible, instead interrogating Jane and her boyfriend on Knox College.  

After dinner, the women set about to do the dishes, along with Toby ("Oh, I insist!  I love dishwashing -- I might even make it my career!")  The men go into the living room to watch more tv and wait for the women, so they can open presents.  I go to the bathroom.

Virgil is waiting for me at the door, glaring as if I took too long.  

"Sorry..." I begin.

"I have a question.  I'm glad you're trying to make up with Freddie -- you hurt him bad when you left Omaha.  But I want to know -- did you jump ship because he started dating a queer?"


"What?"  Stunned, I really want to say "WTF?"    

"Nothing wrong with queers," Virgil continues.  "They can set a table and keep a house as well as a woman can, and if that's what Freddie likes, it's up to us to make his friend feel welcome.  Not fly off the handle and run away."  

"Oh, no, that's not why I left at all."

"Good."  He grimaces menacingly.  "Cause I thought you looked a little piqued around Toby.  You don't want to hurt Freddie again, not in my house." 

"Oh, no.  In fact, to prove how much I accept Fred and Toby, I volunteer to spend the night in their room."

His grimace breaks into a grin. "Well, we were going to put you up in the spare room with Jane's boyfriend, and the boy in with his folks, but I'm sure that can be arranged."

We go back into the living room and exchange gifts.  I only brought one, a book for Fred, but receive three, from Fred, his parents, and Toby (a Nebraska Cornhuskers t-shirt:  "I saw a picture of you, and knew that red is your color!").  Then we watch more tv (a common entertaiment in the Midwest) until it's time to decide on the sleeping arrangements.

Bedroom #1: Jane
Bedroom #2: Dwight and his wife
Bedroom #3: Fred, Boomer, and Toby.
Spare Room: Jane's boyfriend and Dwight's son

"Sorry we have to triple up, Freddie."  Virgil says.  "There's just not enough beds to go around."

"Oh, I don't mind a bit," Fred says with a grin.


When we get upstairs, Toby wraps me into a hug.

"How did you ever convince Mr. and Mrs. A. to let us share Fred's bed tonight?  We're not out to them, so they think we're just roommates having a sleepover."

"That must be the reason," Fred says, joining us in the hug.  "No chance of any hanky panky going on up here."

"Actually, Virgil knows that Toby is gay, and thinks that you're straight but 'into queers.'"

"See, Fred?" Toby says.  "I can't be in the closet!  Everybody knows the moment I say 'hello.'"  He turns to me.  "Do you like kissing?  Fred doesn't like to kiss."

In case you were wondering: slim physique, average-sized cut penis, French and Greek passive.   

We shared a few more times, when they came to Rock Island or I drove out to visit them in Omaha.  Then Fred got a new job, as senior pastor of the United Methodist Church in Horrible Small-Town Kansas. He and Toby broke up, maybe because Toby didn't want to move to Horrible Small-Town Kansas, or maybe because he knew he could never be closeted enough to be a preacher's partner.  Everyone knew the moment he said "hello."

See also: My Ex-Boyfriend Fred's Nine Lovers.

Nate Richert's Kielbasa

West Hollywood, March 2000

I was back in West Hollywood for my friend Larry's annual Oscar party.  On March 25th, the night before, Lane and Randall the Muscle Bear with the Pierced Penis took me out to all our old haunts: Bodhi Tree, Different Light, the French Quarter, the Gold Coast, and the Faultline.

But we never made it to the Faultline.

I was struck by a twink sitting at the bar in the Gold Coast. A little shorter than me, broad shoulders, very handsome round face with sandy hair and glasses, kind of a Harry Potter look except for the lumberjack shirt.

I sat next to him.  He said "Howdy, pardner," and held out his hand to be shaken.

I made a quip about Hogwarts.  He countered with a quip about Lemony Snicket's Unfortunate Events.


Our legs pressed together under the bar.  "Can I buy you another beer?" I asked.

"Heck, I'll buy you a beer.  I'll buy everybody a beer.  Drinks are on me!"

"Well, I don't really drink."

"A virgin margarita, then.  You have to let me buy you something.  I can afford it.  I'm Harvey, and I'm always going to be Harvey, no matter what they say!"

Was that name supposed to mean something?  All I could think of was Harvey the Giant Rabbit in the James Stuart movie.  "Ok, Harvey, a Coke will be fine."

He seemed a little soused, but not unbearably so.  I reached out, unbuttoned a couple of buttons of his lumberjack shirt, and slid my hand down to feel his firm, hairy chest.  Few twinks have that much hair -- I was hooked!

I reached down and groped him.

Nice bulge.  Maybe a Kielbasa beneath the belt.  I was even more hooked!

"Hey!" Harvey exclaimed.  "This place is dead!  Let's go to the Rage!"

The notoriously noisy twink bar?

"Well, I'm here with my friends.  We were going to the Faultline.  We're a little old for the Rage."

"Nonsense.  You're with me.  Harvey can open every door."

The Rage was only a few blocks from our old apartment.  Maybe it would be fun.

It wasn't.  The music was blaring, the air was thick with cigarette smoke and poppers, and there were swarming munchkins everywhere.  It was uncomfortable for everyone, especially the bears I dragged along.


They sat at one of the little round tables, Lane with a soda and Randall with a beer, while Harvey and I danced.  Or did whatever swaying movements we could with the press of gyrating twinks.

Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder.  It was Randall.

"Hey, either seal the deal and let's go home and screw," he yelled, trying to make himself understood over the roar, "Or drop this twink and let's go home and screw!"

"Ok, ok."  I took Harvey by the hand and led him to a dark area where couples went to kiss.

"What do you want to do now?" he asked, grinning.

"What do you think?"  I put my arms around him, and we started kissing.  He allowed only a brief kiss-- not very impressive.  I reached down and groped him again.  His Kielbasa became aroused, but he didn't t grope me in return.

A bit cool, but I was too into him to notice.  "Let's go back to my place.  I'm staying in my friends' guest room."

"You kidding!  The night is young, and there's about a dozen more clubs we haven't been to yet.  Let's go up to the Strip -- the Viper Room!"

"Well, I'm sort of ready to go home now," I said anxiously.

He put his arm around me, not affectionately, but as a way of steering me away.  "Another time, Bro. Let me give you my number."

Suddenly I remembered that lots of guys in West Hollywood don't do hookups. They want to date, get to know you better.

I handed him a notebook, and he scribbled a number and the name "Nate," not "Harvey."  I gave him mine, too.

"Are you free tomorrow night, Nate?  I'm going to an Oscar party at this great house in the heart of Old Hollywood."

"Sounds great!  Call me!"

I kissed him again, and reluctantly left him at the Rage.

Randall, Lane, and I went to the Faultline, but they cautioned "No more twinks!  Act your age!"

I was too embarrassed to try to pick up anyone else, anyway.

The next day I called Nate's number about noon and about 5:00 pm, and got an answering machine both times.

The day after that, I called the number again, got an answering machine again, and gave up.

A few weeks later, back in New York, I happened to be home on Friday night, switching through the tv channels, and I ran into Sabrina the Teenage Witch, the sitcom based on the Archie comics series.  I hadn't seen it since the first season.


There was Harvey, Sabrina's boyfriend, played by 22-year old Nate Richert.

I had gone out with a celebrity, without realizing it!

I watched Sabrina as often as possible after that, and paid attention to Nate's later career.

He tried to distance himself from his squeaky-clean TGIF roots with horror and indie projects, like Are You a Serial Killer? and Demon Island (about a haunted pinata, no kidding).

His last acting role was H-e-n-r-y (2006), a short about a basketball game in a prison yard.

But he became an accomplished musician, producing music videos and a 2004 album (Tone Control) with a sort of rockabilly-blues beat.  A lot of songs about lost loves and problematic relationships, some heterosexual, some ambiguous, like "Peace of Mind."

I don’t believe in your fairytale.
Dreams come and go with the light of the moon.
You kick the black cat right out of our trail.
It may not last forever but it won’t be over soon

Nate has had several girlfriends, and was married to his childhood sweetheart, Catherine Hannah, for several years.  The couple has since divorced.

So what did that night at the Gold Coast and the Rage mean?

Was Nate gay and closeted?

Bisexual, just starting to explore his attraction to guys?

Straight, trying to make friends, not sure how to respond to aggressive cruising?

I have no idea.

See also Michael J. Fox Beneath the Belt; My Date with the Star of "Wizards of Waverly Place" and My Date with the Nickelodeon Boy

Sunday, September 4, 2016

My Hookup with the Egyptian God and His Boy


San Francisco, April 1997

There wasn't much street cruising going on in West Hollywood, since everyone drove everywhere.  But San Francisco was a walking city, so you could easily stop and talk to someone on the street, and invite them out for dates or hookups.  

But the competition was fierce.  Forget walking around in a muscle shirt with a gym-pumped physique -- there were a dozen bigger guys on every block.  If you wanted to attract men, you needed a gimmick.

There were cowboys and ballet dancers, guys riding unicycles and skateboard, guys carrying pies and leading dogs. An Edwardian gentleman.  Santa Claus.  

But probably the most creative of the street cruisers was the Martian.

At least that's what we called him.  He was a very tall, very muscular black guy, dressed all in white and gold, a gold medallion hanging around his neck.  He looked exactly like an emissary of the Galactic Council as envisioned by a "Space Brothers" UFO cult.

None of my friends had dated or hooked up with him -- he tended to give Attitude, not speak to or make eye contact with anyone.  But according to gossip, he gave his name as Darvon, with various last names: Zipp, Klaa, or Euripides.  He  claimed to be from either "a small planet very, very far away" or  "a small galaxy near Neptune" (the nonsensical answer that Betty Hill received during her 1961 abduction).

And his apartment was full of photos of alien spaceships, strange plants that were probably extraterrestrial, a cat that responded to telepathic signals, and a regeneration booth.  

This I had to see.



Although I was sure that Darvon was just spoofing, I am interested in UFOS and aliens.

And in black men.  

Of course, you can't just walk up to a guy on the street and say "Your place or mine?'  You need a hook of your own, something that sets you apart.

I decided to use language.  Not klaatu barada nikto, the alien phrase that Michael Rennie used in The Day the Earth Stood Still -- too ordinary.  Certainly nothing in the Klingon of Star Trek or the Elvish of The Lord of the Rings.

Maybe he was interested in his African heritage.  How about Swahili?

A helpful anthropology student at Berkeley gave me a few phrases:

You have a nice body: Una mwili nzuri
I want to see your penis: Nataka kuona uume yako
I want to go down on you: Nami kupiga magoti

One night after the gym I saw the Martian on 18th Street, walked up to him, and tried the third phrase, which actually means "I want to kneel before you."

He smiled broadly and responded: "Wewe kuzungumza lugha ya wafalme," which I later discovered means "You speak the Language of the Kings!"

Switching to English, we discussed the origin of Swahili as a lingua franca of east African fishermen and Arab traders in the 16th century, then the great Bantu migrations, then the Cushitic languages of Ethiopia (over dinner at the Ethiopian restaurant on Valencia Street).  

To my disappointment, Darvon never claimed to be an alien: he was plain old Darvon McKinley from Detroit, 32 years old, with a degree in African Studies from Wayne State University.  He lived in San Francisco for two years.

"I was going for an Egyptian look," he said, "Ancient Egypt was the earliest Black civilization.  But everyone thought I was an alien, so I went with it.  Darvon Klaa, from a small galaxy near Neptune."  He laughed.

Back at his apartment in the Mission, there were no pictures of alien spaceships or regeneration booths.

The plants were spindly and spidery, with some weird colors, but native to the tropics of central Africa, and for sale in any greenhouse.

The cat was cool.  All black, with a diamond collar, named Giza.  I never saw a cat before who would come when called.


The living room had no furniture except big pillows on the floor, a long, low coffee table, and a big throne-like chair.  Darvon sat on the throne.  I had no choice but to sit on a pillow at his feet.

"My boy will be home soon," he said, stroking Giza.  "Then we can go to the bedroom."

"Your boy?"   He hadn't mentioned a partner.

"Tanner.  He gets off at the restaurant at 10:00.  He hasn't been to college, but don't worry, he knows his place as well as you do."

Huh?

"He's read his history," Darvon explains.  "He knows that the Blackman built all the great civilizations while whitemen were still huddling in caves.  He understands that his place is at the foot of the Blackman, like you do." 

Ok, Darvon wasn't an alien -- he was a Black Supremacist!  Tarik, who I visited in Norfolk last summer, was raised Black Muslim.  But they disapprove of dating white men.  Darvon obviously didn't mind.

What else?  While Darvon changed the subject to racist portrayals of Blackmen in movies, I tried to think of other black supremacist groups.  The Hebrew Israelites.  The Moorish Science Temple...

No way I was going to hook up with a guy who thought white people were inferior, or with Tanner, his brainwashed "boy."  I believe in racial equality!  I stood to make an excuse and leave, but first I had to go to the bathroom.


While I was in the bathroom, I heard the door open and close, and a muffled conversation.  Tanner!  I took my time finishing, and returned to the living room to find Tanner sitting on one of the pillows at Darvon's feet: a short, slim white guy in his 20s, with a handsome round face, curly hair, and a smooth chest.  

His street clothes were scattered on the floor.  He was naked, except for an Egyptian-looking vest.  

"I thought you got lost in there," Darvon said.  "Tanner, welcome our guest."

Tanner stood, put his arms around me, and groped and kissed me. I reached down and groped his very thick Bratwurst, already aroused.  Then Tanner knelt, unzipped me, and started going down on me.

Wait -- this was a weird Black supremacist cult!

"Sorry.  I...um..I have to go."

"You can't leave until Tanner has finished showing you his proper place."

"Um...well..."

"I know my place," Tanner said.  "At the foot of the Blackman."  Saying that liturgical phrase made him even more aroused.  He sat at Darvon's feet, with his legs spread so his penis was still accessible, opened the drawstring of his pants, and started kissing and licking his Kielbasa+.

"I should be going..." 

Darvon leaned back and closed his eyes.  "Boomer, are you sure you have to rush off? You're welcome to help Tanner with his evening duties, or if you wish, you can borrow him for awhile.  He's an excellent kisser, and as you can see, quite eager to please."

Tanner looked up.  "I made cookies for later."

I knelt in front of Darvon and started working on his shaft while fondling Tanner.

"Wait," Darvon said.  "You forgot to..."

"I know my place, at the foot of the Blackman," I said quickly..

For penises and cookies I'll say anything, no matter how nauseating.

See also: Pushing a Shopping Cart Up Castro Street; Tarik's First White Cop

My Coming Out Movie


Rock Island, June 1978

I didn’t go to movies much when I was a kid. Our church forbade them, and besides, I didn’t get an allowance until junior high.  In 1968, I saw only 3 movies in a theater: Blackbeard’s Ghost, Yours, Mine, and Ours, and Oliver!

But during the summer of 1978, shortly after my senior prom, I was a high school graduate.  I had a job at the Carousel Snack Bar and my own car: money and freedom. And I went to all the movies I could.

During the 10 weeks of summer, from Memorial Day to Labor Day of 1978, I saw 21 movies, alone, with my brother, with Aaron and Darry and a boy I liked: Old Marx Brothers comedies at the Film Club, dollar movies at the Augustana Student UnionThe Rocky Horror Picture Show at the Nuart, and lots of blockbusters at the Showcase Cinemas (Animal House, The Cheap Detective, The End, The Eyes of Laura Mars,  Grease, The Greek Tycoon, Seniors....). 

One of them was my coming out movie.  I never actually got to the end: I began to sob uncontrollably.  I ran from the theater and ran to my car and sat in the front seat, sobbing.  And when I stopped sobbing, I was able, finally, after 17 and a half years on the planet, to say the word.

Gay.

You probably think that Rocky Horror did it.  No, it was Grease.

It's a heterosexist boy-meets-girl fable, drawing on the 1950s craze, and therefore kin to Lords of Flatbush,  Happy Days and Laverne and Shirley): during their senior year at Rydell High in the 1950s (actually 1962), "nice girl" Sandy (Olivia Newton-John) falls for greaser Danny (John Travolta), but he is only interested in girls who "put out." So her friends, the Pink Ladies, give her a tramp-makeover, and Danny is lured in.


But more: it's about masks, surface conformity hiding our true selves. Danny is sweet, sensitive, and caring, but his culture requires a pretense of machismo. When he falls for Sandy, he is forbidden from acknowledging that he is in love; it's supposed to be all about sex.  Sandy, meanwhile, learns to hide her true self under a sleazy, leather-clad, cigarette-smoking facade.

At the time, both were heavily rumored to be gay.  Conforming, wearing a mask.

But girls can only lure, hint at sexual availability.  There are dire consequences for actually giving in, as Rizzo (Stockard Channing) learns.

What do the teenagers want, when they are their true selves?  Not sex.  Not romance. They want belonging, an emotional connection.

As the movie ends, the eight friends wonder what will become of them after graduation.  Will they go their separate ways?  "No," Danny exclaims.  "That'll never happen. We'll always be together."

"Grease," performed by Frankie Valli, was constantly on the radio that summer.

This is a world of illusion, out of control, makes us confused: nothing is real, you have to wear the mask, say things you don't mean, pretend things you don't feel.

 The adults are lying -- only real is real.  It's all one big lie.

Over and over, day after day, year after year, they try to make you believe that what you feel doesn't exist, what you want doesn't exist, that no same-sex love has ever happened in all the history of the world.

It's all one big lie. Only real is real.

We stop the fight right now, we got to be what we feel.

That did it.

I may be the only person in history to start sobbing uncontrollably during Grease.

See also: A Nude Party with the Golden Boy.; Grease Live.