Saturday, September 17, 2016

The Winner of the Biggest Penis Contest

Dayton, April 2008

When I was living in Dayton, I went to weekly M4M Parties hosted by a guy named Rode, held in the basement of his small, rather run-down house in the Oregon District near downtown. Around twenty guys, all sizes and shapes.
Activity consisted mostly of making out and oral, with occasionally anal (Rode had lots of picky rules about anal, so most guys just skipped it, or made dates for later).

One of my favorite regulars was Shawn, a recent graduate of the University who worked as a firefighter.  He was in his early 30s, taller than me, with a very handsome face, a smooth nicely musled physique, square hands, and a small uncut penis, about 3" soft.

He was primarily into kissing and going down on guys; he rarely let anyone touch him beneath the belt.

One day he did let me fondle him.  I was surprised to find that he didn't increase in size aroused.

Most penises grow from acorns into mighty oaks, nearly doubling in length (the average is 3.5" soft, 5.5" aroused). I expected Shawn to be at least 5" aroused.  But he grew to only about 3.5", just stiffening a bit.

"That's all that happens," Shawn said.  "Now you know why I don't let guys fondle me or go down on me very often.  They always get that look of disappointment.  I've even had guys change their minds at the end of the date, when we get into the bedroom."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said.  "You're just the right size.  No worries about gagging or scraping it with your teeth."    I got on my knees and started working on him.  He threw his head back and moaned.

After that day, Shawn let me go down on him, but no one else.  He would go down on them, kiss them, fondle them, but his penis was off limits.

Even so, he was the most popular guy at the M4M Parties, always friendly and talkative.  He knew everyone's names, remembered autobiographical details, asked questions about their jobs and relationships.  And he always agreed to go down on anyone who asked, even the ugliest of trolls.

Besides, he often brought cookies or cupcakes to augment the off-brand potato chips and dollar-store Nutty Bars that Rode provided.

There were always special events going at the M4M Parties: Halloween and Christmas themes, Guess the Celebrity Butt, Bring a Straight Friend Night.  One day in April 2008 they had a Biggest and Smallest Penis Contest, with prizes of a giant Jeff Stryker dildo (biggest) and a plaster cast of Michelangelo's David (smallest).

"You should compete," I told Shawn.  "It will help you get over your penis insecurity."

"Or make me feel worse.  I've been self-conscious about my size ever since I came out.  Why would I want to win a contest that emphasizes it?"

"If you compete, I'll go down on you later."

He laughed and squeezed my shoulder.  "Big motivator.  You'd do that anyway."

"Half the guys here would do that, if you weren't so self conscious."

"Ok, ok, if it will get you to shut up and go back to making out."   He shrugged, excused himself, and went to sign up.

After about half an hour, Rode called for the guys competing for the Smallest Penis to come forward.  They stood in a line, and for two minutes anyone they wished could be a "fluffer," going down on them to make them stiff.  Or they could work on themselves.

Shawn didn't go up.

I nudged him.  "Chickened out, huh?  Well, I'll still go down on you."

"Promise?"

 When Rode called time, the fluffers broke away, and most of the contestants stood at full attention.  One began to shrink immediately.  Rode pointed at each in turn with a "fairy wand."  We had to clap for the winner.

The winner was a guy in his thirties with black curly hair, a short beard, and a hard hairy chest, who had about 4" aroused.  He made the rounds, waving, smiling, getting his penis fondled by the other guests.

Next Rode called for the guys competing for the Biggest Penis.

Five guys came up.  Their soft sizes ranged from 5" to 7".

"Would you be my fluffer?"" Shawn asked, taking my hand and pulling me up toward the front of the room.

Shawn was competing for the Biggest Penis?

A murmur went around the room.  Why was Shawn competing with guys who were twice as big, maybe three times?  What was he trying to demonstrate?  What was he trying to prove?  Maybe he was a grower -- but who grew that much?

I went down on him and worked as quickly as I could.  Shawn became aroused, bu there wasn't much I could do about his 3.5".

Rode called time.  Some of the bigger guys began to shrink immediately.  One lost his arousal altogether.  But Shawn was sticking straight out in front of him.

Rode pointed at each of the contestants in turn with his fairy wand.  Shawn was at the end of the line, still stiff, an iron rod.

He got thunderous applause.

Maybe because he was stiffer than the big guys.  Maybe because everybody liked him.  Or maybe because he had chutzpah.  But Shawn's 3.5" made him the winner of the Biggest Penis contest.

See also: The Bottom Named Rode; The Smallest Guys on My Sausage List.





Friday, September 16, 2016

Three Unscreened Hookups on the Same Night


Plains, September 2016

You're probably wondering why I've been posting so many bereavement stories.  This was a bad summer for people I know getting sick and passing away.  Other guys eat when they're upset.  I hook up.

So earlier this week I got on Grindr, put up a photo of my chest, said "Free tonight," and specified in my profile "Kissing, cuddling, and oral essential."

I was not in the mood to screen them carefully -- I just wanted someone in my bed to kiss and cuddle with.  So I did minimal screening, not worrying about age or size, rejecting only the downlow, 420-friendly (marijuana smokers), and "top me, Daddy!"  After that, the first three guys who asked got an invitation, scheduled at 6:00, 7:00, and 8:00 pm.




6:00:. Jarhead, age 28., buffed, hairy chest, hung to his knees, totally into kissing, cuddling, and oral.  

Jarheads are Marines, right?

He wasn't a Marine, and he wasn't 28 -- more like 68-- a chubby, hairy Grandpa.

Nothing wrong with a Grandpa, but why would you knock 40 years off your profile?  What if the guy you meets is not into older?

Turns out when he said he was into kissing, he just meant kissing on the body, not kissing on the mouth.  What kind of grade school dissimulation is that?  I sent him on his way.



7:00: Mike, age 25, tall, black, muscular, 8", totally into kissing and cuddling and oral.  

Well, he was tall and black, and in his 20s.  But very husky, even fat, not muscular at all.  With a gross nose ring.

And not into kissing and cuddling.  He wanted a blow-and-go.

What the heck -- he had a nice sized penis, a very thick 6" (everybody adds an inch), and I hadn't been with a black guy for awhile.

So I went down on him while he was sitting on a chair in my living room.  He forcibly pushed my head down onto his penis to take his load, and then said "thanks" and left.







8:00: Romeo, age 28, hairy, bearded, Hispanic, 8", totally into kissing and oral.

Guys push their age up in online profiles, too -- Romeo was only about 21, with a tiny bit of chest hair and a sparse beard.  Average sized uncut penis.

Not into kissing, yet again!  He wanted me to top him.  I refused.  He asked to top me.  I refused.

"What about oral?"  I asked.

He wouldn't go down on me, but he grudgingly consented to let me go down on him.

And down.  And down.  And down.

My jaw got tired after about twenty minutes, and I asked him to finish himself.   After twenty more minutes, he conceded that it wasn't happening.  "I'm really just into anal," he admitted on his way out.


9:00: I showered, changed clothes, and went down the hall to knock on the door of my mentally disabled neighbor, Timmy, who I had a date with last month.

"Hi, Boomer!" he said.  "I'm watching tv."

"What program?"

"Austin and Ally.  It has singing."  A Disney channel teencom.

"Can I watch with you?  We can cuddle and kiss."

At least I knew that Timmy was into kissing.  And underwear stuff.

See: Don't Be Nervous: My Date with My Mentally Disabled Neighbor

The 10 Ugliest Well-Hung Guys


Have you ever noticed that the uglier the guy, the bigger the penis?  It's as if nature has compensated for his clock-stopping face and gag-inducing physique, or it's giving you a reward for being able to look beyond the Ugly Duckling exterior.

Here are the 10 ugliest well-hung guys I could find on the internet.

1. Backward baseball caps do not belong on any guy over age 20.  And he should find some other hobby besides getting those gross tattoos that draw attention away from his Kielbasa.


2. Nice physique, really nice delts, and a thick Bratwurst, but the room would have to be very dark to hide the tiny round head and Nazi moustache.

















3. A good-sized Bratwurst, but the greased-back hair needs work.  Maybe the dopey expression is due to selfie-taking concentration.

















4. Gigantic Kovbasa, even when you consider the camera angle and photoshopping.  But who can pay attention to the shaft with that face looming out at you?  Another dark room for this guy.















5.  Probably photoshopped, still a thin 8" garden hose. But the skinny arms, ugly tattoos, and face like a weasel are definite turn-offs.  He'd better have the mother of all scintillating personalities.



















More after the break.


Thursday, September 15, 2016

How We Invented Sex Parties

West Hollywood, November 1992

In West Hollywood in the 1980s and 1990s, hooking up was frowned upon.  You dated, shared your boyfriend with your friends, and played party games with a sexual component, but bringing home a stranger with no preliminaries -- deviant, dangerous, disgusting.

We knew about bathhouses and backrooms as relics of an earlier age of innocence, but there were none left in Los Angeles, and few of us went to them when traveling abroad.

And no one had ever heard of sex parties or bear parties, roomfuls of guys who get together explicitly for sexual activity with complete strangers.

The first one ever was Lane's idea.  But I helped.

Lane grew up in the Spanish Colonial house on Crescent Heights Boulevard that his parents bought when they got married.  It was no mansion, but it was huge by West Hollywood standards: an enormous living room, a family room, two dining rooms (one for everyday, one for special occasions), four bedrooms, two and a half baths, an enclosed porch, and a basement (rare in Los Angeles).  Plus a back yard with a huge hedge around it.

When his mother  died in November 1992, and Lane inherited the house, I expected him to immediately put it on the market, but instead he said "We should live there. The old-fashioned furniture will have to be replaced, and the kitchen needs remodeling, but it will be just like having a house in the suburbs."

I balked.  "Too stiff and formal.  And too much space for just two people.  It would hardly be cozy, would it?"

"It's walking distance to the French Quarter and the Metropolitan Community Church."

"But a mile from the Different Light. I just like our apartment better.  It's home."

But Lane prevailed, and we rented a U-Haul to bring over our bed, our tv, some paintings, six boxes of books, and some miscellaneous odds and ends.  There was something wrong with each of the bedrooms (where his parents slept, where his mother died, his old room, etc), so we moved the stuff out of the cavernous family room and moved our bed and an old dresser in.

And we set about trying to deal with the sound of silence.

We got no sleep the first night.

On the second night we invited someone in to "share."

On the third night we went out to the Faultline, even though it was a Tuesday.

But no matter how late we stayed out, no matter who shared our bed, we still couldn't sleep in that cavernous room, knowing that there were seven other equally cavernous rooms, an infinite space between us and the rest of the world.

"How did you handle all this space when you were growing up, with just you and your parents?"  I asked,

"It wasn't just three.  We had a housekeeper, my grandparents lived with us, my cousin spent summers, friends of my parents visited.  The house was usually full of people.."


"Then we should have a party," I told Lane.

"A housewarming party?"

"No, bigger than that. .  Twenty or thirty people to fill this place up.  I want them overflowing the living room,, spilling out into the enclosed porch and into the back yard. I want every one of these cavernous bedrooms full."


"Bedrooms occupied?" Lane repeated with a grin. "Sounds like you want some sharing to happen at this party."

"Definitely.  Sharing in the bedrooms, making out in the formal dining room, oral in the second dining room, anal in the parlor, bondage in the basement.  Guys showering together in the bathrooms, walking down the hall with their penises swinging in the wind.  Like a bathhouse without the Attitude."

"A bathhouse-themed party!" Lane said, his eyes glowing with party-planning fervor.  "We could pass out those scratchy white towels, label rooms 'steamroom' and 'darkroom' and such, play bathhouse games -- I don't know what,   we'll figure it out!"

A standard West Hollywood party has six to ten guys, are all friends or friends' dates.  But a bathhouse experience needs a lot more, and they have to be strangers.

We invited ten friends and asked them to bring a guest, and also passed out fliers to random guys who looked hot at the gym and the French Quarter. It had a photo of a shirtless model and this invitation:

Boomer and Lane's First Annual Bathhouse Party, Saturday night 8:00 pm!  Admission fee $2.00 to cover the snacks and sodas.  Men only, all ages (21+), shapes, and sizes welcome.  No drugs or alcohol, no hustlers, no Attitude, just hot guys in towels doing what guys in towels do.  

We locked up the valuables, bought 50 gym towels and a lot of condoms and lube packets, and installed a row of fake lockers.  Blaring disco music, flashing red and blue lights, and a mist machine added to the bathhouse effect.

Over 50 guys came, including about 30 that I had never seen naked before, and 20 that I didn't know at all.  Collegiate twinks, chubby bears, taciturn leathermen, swishy queens from the Rage, Hollywood semi-celebrities, all stripped down, wearing towels or nothing, socializing, playing party games -- and wandering down to the basement "maze" for sexual encounters.

I lost track of the number of guys I went down on, had go down on me, or kissed and groped -- there were some repeats.  But more than at a real bathhouse.

Around 10:00 pm, guys started getting dressed and going home or to the bars.  By 11:00 there was no one left but Randall, the Muscle Bear with the Pierced Penis, who we invited to spend the night.

"We should have these parties on a regular basis," Lane said.  "But a different theme every time.  Fire Island, maybe..Castro Street...a t-room..."

"Or no theme," Randall said.  "Why bother?  Guys don't want a lot of fancy props and complicated party games -- they come for the socializing and sex."

After more sleepless nights in the cavernous space, we called it quits, put the house on the market, and moved back into our cozy two-bedroom apartment.  So we had to go back to small, intimate dinner parties.

But one of our guests started hosting "bear parties," for husky, hairy men and their admirers, at his house in the Hollywood Hills.

And the tradition spread.  Within a year, nearly every guy with a house was inviting friends and strangers over for socializing and sex.  Some specialized in BDSM, oral, or anal.  Some specified that you had to be young, fit, or big beneath the belt.

And some said "all ages, sizes, and shapes welcome," just like Lane and I did in our invitation to the very first sex party.

See also: Helping Marshall Lose His Virginity



Wednesday, September 14, 2016

On My Knees in a Cute Boy's Bedroom

Brainerd, Minnesota, June 1976

Every year the family spends a week camping somewhere in the northwoods, fishing, swimming, hiking -- and, on Sunday, finding the nearest Nazarene Church.

Even when it's in Brainerd, Minnesota, an hour's drive away.

"But Nazarenes can't eat out on Sunday, so we'll have to drive back here and cook dinner!" I protest.  "It will be after 2:00 when we eat!"

"Jesus prayed and fasted all night," Mom pointed out.  "Besides, there might be some cute girls there."

I sigh.  Not the "what girl do you like" litany again!  What about cute boys?

"And what about the soulwinners? We'll be mobbed!"

"Oh, stop complaining.  We'll just call ahead and tell them we're coming!"

The most prestigious thing a Nazarene can do is soulwinning, talking sinners (which basically means all non-Nazarenes) into accepting Jesus as their Personal Savior, thereby winning their souls for our team.

We take classes in soulwinning, hear sermons about it, read stories about it, evaluate scenarios.  Our Sunday School teacher often asks "How many souls did you win this week?"

Usually none at all.  It's not easy.  When you were 14 years old, would you have been able to walk up to this guy and say "Hi, do you have a moment to hear the Good News of Jesus Christ?"

If you aren't "spiritually mature" enough for soulwinning, you can witness instead: tell the sinner that you are ecstatically happy every moment of every day because you're saved, or just demonstrate with a broad smile.  The sinner, immersed in the unrelenting agony of the unsaved life, will eventually want to know more.


Soulwinning is so prized that casual visitors to a Nazarene church can easily be mobbed by people grinning at them and trying to start soulwinning conversations.  Unless they come with a member, signifying that they are "taken," or call ahead.

When we walk through the foyer of the Brainerd Church of the Nazarene, looking for all the world like a family of sinners who stumbled in by accident, we are nearly mobbed, but the Sunday School superintendent, the one we called earlier, comes to the rescue.

"This is Brother Davis and his family, from the Rock Island Church of the Nazarene," he announces, and the wannabe soulwinners back off.

But in my Sunday School class, they haven't gotten the word.

Ten or so high schoolers are sitting on folding chairs or chatting before the class begins, and every one of them looks up and flashes me a toothy witnessing grin.  Two girls and a boy approach, intent on starting soulwinning conversations.

"I'm from Rock Island..." I begin.  Then a tall, black haired boy with a strong physique, obviously church royalty, leaves his cluster of admirers and exerts control.  The others back off.

"Welcome!  I'm Roald," he say, offering a warm, tight handshake and a more subtle witnessing smile.  He's done this before!  "Is this your first time?"



This could work to my advantage!

"My parents made me come," I say, which is true.

"Well, sit down over here by me.  I'll tell you how everything works.  If you have any questions, just ask."

So I sit thigh to thigh with a cute boy, who helps me hold the hymnal and shows me how to find Bible verses.

The lesson is about how God has a husband or wife planned out for us, so we should keep ourselves pure and not kiss before marriage.  Standard Sunday school stuff, but I'm already annoyed by Mom's "there may be cute girls there" crack, so I stare at the floor.

Roald thinks I'm "under conviction" and puts his arm around me.

Then we have to hold hands for the closing prayer.

This could definitely work to my advantage! 

I sit with Roald and his friends during the church service, too -- fortunately for me, unfortunately for him, no altar call.  His soulwinning plan thwarted, he asks "What are you doing now?"

"We have to drive all the way back to our cabin for dinner."

"I have an idea -- why don't you come home for dinner with us?  I'm sure Mom and Dad won't mind."

"Well, I'm with my family...."

They get invitations, too.

"See?" Mom asks, "You had nothing to worry about.  The Lord provides."

I glare at her for wrecking my cover, but Roald doesn't notice.  I guess he is so used to that sort of language that he thinks even sinners talk that way.

Roald's family lives in a big two-story house on a cul-de-sac, with a separate family room and bathrooms upstairs and downstairs.

Dinner is the standard ham, baked potatoes, green beans, and jello salad. My parents must have outed themselves during Sunday school, since they get no soulwinning conversation; they talk about boring adult things, money and politics and room additions.

Roald glances at me and makes a face.  I giggle.

"Roald, if you boys are finished," his Mom says, "Why don't you take Boomer swimming out on the lake?"

Swimming?  I was hoping to watch tv, or listen to records, or read comic books, anything but more time on a lake!  "I just have my church clothes," I protest.

"Oh, I'm sure Roald will lend you a pair of his swimming trunks."

We go up to Roald's bedroom.  I get a pleasant view of his hard, firm chest and shoulders as we strip down, and a nice sausage sighting -- he's bigger than me, thick and ruddy.  But I want more.

It's time to play my Ace.

"Gee, you're always so happy," I offer, sitting down on the bed in Roald's spare swimsuit.  "How do you manage it?"

Seeing a soulwinning opening, he sits  next to me and reached on his nightstand for a Bible.  "It's because I'm saved.   When you have Christ in your heart, you're happy all the time.  There's not a single moment of sadness or anger, ever."

I know the script!  "Yeah, but there's just so many problems.  I have hassles with my parents, my brother is crazy, my teachers are crazy, and there are so many temptations at school...dancing, movies, rock music...."

"And girls, right?"

Girls, girls, girls!  Is that all anybody ever thinks of?

He puts his arm on my shoulder.  "When you accept Jesus Christ as your savior, none of that bothers you.  It's impossible for you to ever feel pain again."

"But it's just so hard...."  Suddenly I really am feeling sad.  The "what girl do you like?" interrogations, wanting to go to college when Dad insists on the factory, the boy in my class that I like but can't say anything, my horrible future with a wife, kids, job, and house....

Suddenly I am sobbing.

Roald puts his arms around me and draws me to his chest.  I hold him tightly.  "It's just so hard!" I repeat.

"Do you want to pray right now?"

I nod.  We get on our knees and hug and pray, but for different things.  Roald prays for me to get saved, and I pray for an answer.  An escape from the constant girls, girls, girls.  An escape from my wife-kids-job-house destiny.

Two weeks later, at music camp, I have my first sexual experience.  An answer to my prayer?

See also: Spending the Night with Todd; and A Naked College Boy in My Room

Sunday, September 11, 2016

Will the Bondage Boy Hooks Up with Peter Fonda

West Hollywood, April 1993

Every year Lane's mother Rosa hosted a huge Passover seder.  Her house on Crescent Heights was packed with relatives from New York, friends from Temple Beth El, employees, neighbors, and minor celebrities.  I went twice as Lane's roommate or boyfriend (depending on who asked).

Rosa died last year, so Lane has the responsibility of hosting.  Fifty people will never fit into our small two-bedroom apartment, so he's paring down last year's guest list, deleting Rosa's old housekeeper, the great-uncle that he only saw once a year, crotchety neighbors, and the elderly ladies from the Hadassah League.

"What do you think?" Lane asks.  "Should we keep Jane and Peter Fonda?"

I look over his shoulder at the guest list: Jane Fonda and Ted Turner. Peter and Portia Fonda.  "Rosa knew them?"

"Sure. They met when Jane's husband Tom Hayden was running for Senate. She's been to seder several times, [Her brother] Peter only once that I can remember, but Mom invited them every year."

The 1960s counterculture heroes sitting down to Passover dinner with Lane's elderly, kugel-baking mother?   It seemed bizarre.  But, I remembered, Rosa's politics were very liberal.  When she was younger, she wrote for a radical Zionist newspaper.

"Should I continue the tradition?  It means four table settings, and they probably won't come.

"Go for it.  I'd like to meet them."

A few days later, at lunch with Will the Bondage Boy, I mention the Jane and Peter Fonda guest list.

"Can I get an invitation?" he asks.  "It would be fun to see Peter Fonda again.  I wonder if he remembers our trick."  [Trick was our word for a hookup.]

"You tricked with the star of Easy Rider?  Why haven't you told this story before?  You always tell about Keanu Reeves."

He shrugs.  "Nothing to tell.  We tricked, the end.  A jealous-lover bondage fantasy with Keanu Reeves is much more interesting."

"I'll be the judge of that."

Tijuana, April 1978

Will was 20 years old, a sophomore at Occidental College, a Cute Young Thing ready for action.  This was before the fear of AIDS shut down all the bathhouses in Los Angeles, but he was afraid to go to them, lest someone from school see him and have him expelled.  So one weekend he and a friend went to a bathhouse in Tijuana, a seedy affair with musty showers, damp corridors, and leering drug-addled downlow men.

Will recognized Peter Fonda immediately.  He didn't find him particularly attractive: pushing 40, tall and thin, with a receding hairline, a long face, and a Tom Selleck moustache.  But who would turn down the chance to trick with Captain America of Easy Rider, whose homoerotic buddy-bonding gave the 11-year old Will his first glimpse of gay potential?

They went back to his room and collapsed onto the seedy, stained mattress, fondling but not kissing.  Peter went down on Will, but he was too star-struck and couldn't concentrate enough to get aroused.  After awhile, he gave up and moved to go down on Peter.



 Peter was enormous beneath the belt, a good 9", and thick as a beer can.  Will could only manage to get his mouth around the head; the shaft took two hands.  Still, Peter was impressed, groaning, whispering "Oh, yeah, that's great!  Feels great!"

He finished with a monumental spurt and, sweating and out of breath, drew Will into a hug -- still no kissing.  "That was outta sight!  Do you live in L.A.? If you have a place where we could crash, we could make this a regular thing."

"Sure, I have a place," Will said, thinking of his dorm room.  He could put a tie on the door handle to signal to his roommate that he was having a "girl" over.

"But don't tell your friends about me, ok?  I have a reputation of being a macho action hero, and I don't need any rumors ruining it."

"Ok."

Peter wrote his telephone number on a piece of paper and handed it to Will, then dressed and left.

West Hollywood, April 1993

"I felt like I should call, just because he was such a big star," Will says.  "But he wasn't that cute, and he wasn't that good in bed, so I gave it a miss.  I'm probably the only guy in history to dump a celebrity after the first date."

"No, I've done that, too,"  I say.

"See?  Not nearly as interesting as Keanu Reeves.  The only interesting part was his 9", and I've been with bigger guys since."

Will gets his invitation to the Passover seder.  The Fondas don't come, but Lane gives him Peter's address and telephone number from Rosa's address book.   I don't know what happened after that.

Was Will telling the truth?

1. Most celebrity dating and hookup stories make the the celebrity gorgeous, and the sex energetic and passionate.  Making Peter unattractive and the sex mediocre gives Will's story a ring of truth.

2. But being starstruck over Peter Fonda rings false.  He's not a big star.  During the 1970s and 1980s he starred mostly in car-chase actioners like Race with the Devil and The Cannonball Run.  In 1978 his only movie role was High Ballin', a Canadian attempt to cash in on the trucker craze, with Peter driving, brawling, and picking up a girl conveniently named Pickup.

3. Peter has been married to women three times, and has two children, Justin and Bridget.  He was with his second wife, Portia, from 1975 to 2011.

4. He's a gay ally.  He claims that he chose a black motorcycle jacket for Easy Rider to become an icon in the gay community.

See also: Will and Scott Have a Wild Night with Keanu Reeves; 21 Surprising Facts About Lane