Wednesday, October 5, 2016

The Last Half of My Scary Date with the Teenage Lawnboy

West Hollywood, March 1995

After my scary half-date with the jailbait lawnboy James in October 1992,  I thought I'd never see him again.  But he continued to live in Rosa's apartment building with his parents and mow the lawn and cut the hedges, and somehow we started hanging out.

He came over on Thursday nights, to watch The Simpsons and Cheers with us and hear about gay history and culture. He invited us to his basketball games, told us about the boys and men he was crushing on.  We had dinner with his parents, who told us that we were a wonderful influence on him.

James was constantly getting bigger and taller, until he was a head taller than me, with a slim, smooth basketball player's physique.  He wore glasses most of the time, which gave him a studious look.

But we insisted on nothing intimate except for cuddling on the couch.  He was probably our only friend that we hadn't seen naked.

The lack of physical intimacy added an unexpected new dimension to the friendship, a sort of famiy bond.  Lane was an only child, and my brother Ken, though two years younger, was always bigger, more aggressive, "older."  James was like the kid brother we never had.

I forgot all about my promise to "finish the date" on his 18th birthday, March 5th, 1995 -- I said it on the spur of the moment, and never thought he would take it seriously.

But James didn't forget.  In the spring of 1995, he started bringing it up:

"Only two months until our date!"

"I've been practicing for our date.  Wanna see? [He lies on the floor and pulls his legs behind his head]"

"You'd better rest up-- I'm going to keep you busy all night!"

"Is Lane going to just watch, or join in?  I don't care if he wants to join us, but I'm going to spend most of the night with you, ok?"

Gulp...After two and a half years of big brothering, the idea of sexual intimacy with James seemed weird, sort of incestuous.  I didn't want to go through with it...but how could I back out now?

1. Not into Anal

Remembering how he pulled his legs behind his head, I told him, "I hope you're not disappointed. I'm not into anal.  Neither is Lane."

He grinned.  "That's a relief!  I was going to do it if you wanted me to, but it's a little scary, you know, since you can get AIDS that way, even if you use a condom.  Besides, I've been practicing on getting my throat ready for you. Want to see how low I can go?"  He went into the kitchen, found a banana, and went to work.

2. Into BDSM

"My main thing is really BDSM," I said, "So I'll want to you to be tied up most of the night.  That's ok, isn't it?"

I expected James to say "Sorry, that's not my thing."

Nope.  "Wow -- do you have your own handcuffs? You can be a cop and interrogate me!  Or I can be James Bond, and you can torture me for information."

3. Set  Infinite Chazz on Him

"I'll tell you what to do," Lane said.  "James is obviously more into you than me, so I'll sit this one out."

"That doesn't help me any," I pointed out, "And it violates the rules of our relationship."

"Not at all.  If one of us is out of town, the other can use a close friend as a substitute for sharing, right?  I'll just find an excuse to be out of town, and my substitute will be someone so hot that James will spend the night with him -- you'll just be there to watch.  I suggest Infinite Chazz."

I met Infinite Chazz three years ago, when I was working at a camp for juvenile delinquents.  Now he was 20 years old, living in Orange County with his father and stepmother and taking classes at Cal State Fullerton: slim and smooth with a tight chest, perfect tight abs, nice biceps, veiny hands, and an impressive Mortadella+ beneath the belt.

Chazz was only about two years older than James.  They would share pop culture references, musical tastes, teen idols, even Tiny Toon Adventures -- a perfect match.

Besides, we called Chazz "infinite" because he was infinitely attractive, sure to draw the attention of every man -- or 18 year old boy -- who came within five feet of his dazzling smile and even more dazzling penis. He came up to West Hollywood every couple of weeks for sharing and making the guys at the synagogue or the MCC die of envy.

A couple of months ago, I used him as "bait" to draw Tim the Gay Comic's attention away from Lane.  Now I could use him to draw James' attention away from me.

James and Chazz had never met, but they were both ok with the substitution.   So on Sunday, March 5th, Lane drove down to Long Beach for a sleepover with his friend Randall (so he wouldn't be lying).  Chazz arrived around 5:00 pm, and we went to pick up James and have dinner at the French Quarter.

They hit it off so well, talking about Jonathan Brandis and Mario Lopez, Dave's World and Coolio, Mexican fried ice cream and the various designs of skateboards, that I began to feel like a third wheel.  Maybe this would turn into more than a sharing experience, James' first long-term romance.

After lunch we went back to my apartment.  There were no more preliminaries -- each of us knew what was going to happen next.  So we went directly into the bedroom and pulled into a group hug.

I kissed Chazz for a long time while he was fondling James.  Then I pushed their two heads together and moved out of the way.  But James followed, put his arms around me, and kissed me.

A good kisser, for an 18-year old.

He pulled my shirt off and started kissing and fondling my chest.  Chazz got on his knees, unzipped James, and started going down on him.  I saw that he had a thick dark Bratwurst+, uncut.

James pushed him off to unzip and go down on me.  Not bad -- he had been practicing on bananas, after all. Chazz fondled his butt.

"Not into anal," James murmured.

"Ok."  Chazz got on his knees and tried to go down on James while he was going down on me, but there was no room.  I lay on the bed, and James moved into the interfemoral position, lying atop me and thrusting between my legs while kissing me.

Leaving Chazz with nothing to do.

I rolled James off me.  Chazz tried to push his Mortadella+ into James' mouth, but he said "I don't like that position."

How did he know?  How many guys had he been with? 

With little else to do, I went down on James.  He finished instantly, then raised me up.  "That's ok, I can finish five times a night.  You're not tired yet, are you?"  He drew me into a kiss.

"Um...remember, I'm into BDSM..." I murmured.

"Oh, right.  Tie me up and interrogate me!"  He pushed his hands behind his back invitingly.

I did a scene where I tied up both Chazz and James and "forced" them to kiss and then do 69.  The one who finished last would get "punished."

James didn't finish at all.  "Sorry, I couldn't concentrate."

"It's ok."  I went down on him while Chazz lay on the other side of the bed, and he finished instantly.

It was like that all night.  The moment Chazz got near him, James shrank.

Chazz left early in the morning so he could get to the university by 9:00.  James stuck around for breakfast and to say hello to Lane when he returned.

"I hope I wasn't impolite," he said, "But it was really hard to concentrate with Chazz around.  No chest hair, no muscles!  He was like a boy, not a man at all.  Next time, you and Lane, ok?"

I stared, speechless.

See also: The Gay Comic and the Cute Young Thing;  Our Date with Infinite Chazz; and My Scary Half-Date with the Teenage Lawnboy

My Sausage List

I am particularly attracted to guys who are gifted beneath the belt,

I've never rejected someone for having a Vienna Sausage.  Small can be just as nice, and in many situations it does the job better.

Besides, by the time I get around to checking, the guy has already won me over with his winning smile, sparkling conversation, or body by Michelangelo.

But bigger has a definite aesthetic appeal.  And when you get together with friends and swap stories, like fisherman bragging about their biggest "catch",  it's never about Vienna Sausages.  It's all about Polska Kielbasa:

So here are some of the biggest, or at least the most memorable, "sausages" I ever "cooked."

Only guys I actually went on dates with -- no glimpses in the shower room or cruising at the sauna (those are on my Sausage Sighting List). And only if I had an intimate experience with the guy -- just fondling doesn't count.

I'll use the following scale:

Kielbasa: supersized, 8 inches (20 cm)
Mortadella: the stuff of dreams, 9 inches (23 cm)
Kovbasa: Are you kidding? 10 inches (25 cm)

Add .5 inches for each +.
Peter, the Orthodox priest with the pushy Mom.  We dated when I was a senior in college.  I hadn't been with many guys at the time, so I didn't realize how remarkable he was beneath the belt. Mortadella+

Dick, my grade school bullyWe met at JR's in Rock Island, when I was back home for Christmas in 1984, and got together whenever I returned for the next few years. Kielbasa+

 (left) the cowboy cop, who didn't approve of guys who believed in God. We dated briefly in Houston in 1984. Kovbasa

Jasper, the teenage hustler of Bourbon Street, who couldn't get fully aroused.  Kovbasa++++

West Hollywood
Alan, formerly a Pentecostal Porn Star (top photo).  When we met, he was Student Clergy at the Metropolitan Community Church.  We dated in 1985, just after I moved to West Hollywood. Kielbasa+

T, the thug wannabe who Alan and I met at the Catch One in Los Angeles. Mortadella+

Mohammed, the doctor who came by for a house call on Christmas Eve.  Mortadella

Halil, a Turkish bodybuilder who I met during my semester in Ankara in 1989.  He had a girlfriend, but still invited me to share his bed at a bodybuilding competition in Istanbul. Kielbasa+

Jester, the Blind Guy with the Footlong, who Fred dated after he broke up with Matt. Kovbasa++++

Infinite Chazz, the juvenile delinquent I met at work, called "infinite" for his Mortadella+ and for his infinite attractiveness to every man he met.

San Francisco

Corbin, the guy my friends Zack and Drake fixed me up with, who told a story about choosing a small but handsome guy over someone who was ugly but hung.  Mortadella+

New York

Garan.  We
met in San Sebastian in 1999, when Yuri and I went to the Basque Country of Spain in search of the world's biggest penis.  He actually asked Yuri for the date, and was surprised but accommodating when I showed up, too. Kielbasa

Blake, who I dated in New York in the fall of 1998, and performed the "roommate switch" on. (left) Mortadella+

Ozzie, the NYU Undergrad from Morocco, who hooked up with John F. Kennedy Jr. and refused to leave my room in the rain Kovbasa+

Barry, the Colonial Williamsburg boy from Long Island.  Mortadella.

Jermaine, the Biggest Guy on My Sausage List: a very cute Harvard undergrad who I met in Boston in 2001.  He  had the annoying habit of asking "Who's your daddy?" every five seconds, even though I was substantially older. But he made up for it with his intellect, and with his Kovbasa+++++

Stefan, the Icelandic Photographer, who Fred dated after Jester.  Kovbasa

Janik, from at the Horseman's Club in Amsterdam in 2003.  He invited me to live with him in a small town in Friesland. I only lasted a few days. Mortadella

 Jake, the alpaca cowboy that Yuri and I shared.  Kovbasa+.


Remy the Jerk.  A Halloween party date from hell with a total *hole.  Even his Kielbasa couldn't save the evening.

Farshad  from Morocco.  We met in France in 2007. Mortadella+

Ari, the linguist in Dayton in the fall of 2007, who was cute and everything, but wouldn't shut up. Kielbasa


The Satyr, one of the The Gang of 12 from Upstate New York.  We had one date in the fall of 2008, and then I switched to his boytoy/roommate/boyfriend (who must have felt like a muppet). Kovbasa+

Troy, the French major who became my partner for around five years. Kielbasa.


 Jimmy, the Boy Toy.  Or rather the roommate of my two platonic friends.  I expected a night of "sharing" but got a date.  Kielbasa

Jameer.  I became his Boy Toy, even though I was twenty years older.  Mortadella+

Gabe, the twink who wasn't interested, but we became friends, and shared on occasion.  Kielbasa+

Todd, the nephew of the guy I had my first sexual experience with, back in high school.  Kielbasa.

Justin, the shy supersized guy at the gym.  Not much of a physique, but: Kovbasa++++.

See also: My Sausage Sighting List; 12 Sausage Fondlings, Gropes, and Grabs

Monday, October 3, 2016

The First Half of My Scary Date with the Teenage Lawnboy

West Hollywood, October 1992

The Boy Next Door didn't really live next door. He lived at one of Lane's mother's rental properties, a five-unit building on La Jolla.  When Rosa got sick in the summer of 1992, it became Lane's job to distribute the paychecks to her employees, including the Boy Next Door, who was in charge of mowing the lawn and trimming the hedges at his apartment.

One day when Lane was busy, he asked me to do it.

I found the Boy Next Door -- we'll call him James -- cutting the hedge around the building while his pet beagle watched.

He was as tall as me, shirtless: a slim, tanned physique, hairless, small nipples. Curly brown hair, a round face with blue eyes. A cute college-aged twink. I thought.

"Hi, are you James? I'm Boomer, Rosa's son's um...roommate. He sent me over with something for you."

"Sure, I've known Lane for a long time."

"Oh, how long have you worked for Rosa?"

"A couple of years now," James said noncommittally. "How is she?"

"Not good. She can't get around too well. She mostly stays in the house now. We had to hire a live in nurse."

"That's too bad. She was always nice to me, brought me cookies on Hannukah."

What a mature conversation!

"How long have you and Lane been boyfriends?", James continued, taking the check from my hand.

Only gay guys would use the term "boyfriend."  I sighed with relief: one of us!  "A little over two years."

"That's cool," he said, giving me the face-crotch-face gaze of a blatant cruise. "I'd like to have somebody like that someday."

"Um...we have an open relationship." It was rather an obvious gambit, but I was only 31 years old, not yet a twink magnet, and I found the attention of this Cute Young Thing flattering. Besides, I wanted to one-up Lane, who dated a 19-year old beach boy just last month.

"So you can date other people?" James said, pretending to turn his attention to the dog. "Like maybe you could date me?"

"Sure. How's Friday night?   We can have dinner at the French Quarter, then go cruising at the Gold Coast..." I began.

James frowned. "Well, I'm too young to get into bars."

"Oh, ok."  He must be nineteen, I thought, the same age as Lane's beach boy.  "A movie, then?"

"Ok. I wanna see The Mighty Ducks."

It was a G-rated Disney movie starring Emilio Estevez, aimed at an audience of kids.  That should have given me a clue, but it didn't.  "The Mighty Ducks it is. I'll pick you up at your apartment at 6:00."

"Um...let's meet at the Pollo Loco, ok?" A fast food place across the street from the French Quarter, and about five blocks from his house.

"Ok.  And just so you know," I said, "For the bedroom activity, Lane has to be there. If you're not into sharing, he can just watch."

James grinned. "That's ok. I like Lane And I've never been with two guys before. It will be hot.." He reached out and grabbed my hand. I leaned in for a kiss, but he moved his head away. "Not here," he whispered. " don't know I'm gay."

We exchanged phone numbers, and I said goodbye and went on to deliver the other paychecks.

That night I told Lane that I had met a Cute Young Thing, but I didn't say it was James from his mother's property. I wanted it to be a surprise. But I did say that there would be a present for him in bed when he got back from synagogue.

On Friday night James wore a muscle shirt that displayed hard, firm muscles, and very, very tight jeans. I think he put some socks in there.

At Pollo Loco I tried to get him into a conversation about his classes, but he was noncommittal. Instead we talked about tv: he was a big fan of The Simpsons and Tiny Toons.

Ok, Tiny Toons was a kids' show on the WB Network, but lots of adults in West Hollywood watched for the gay subtexts.  "Hey, you're never too old for Warner Brothers animation."

Next came the very boring Mighty Ducks. We sat in the darkness, our knees pressed together, our arms sharing a single arm rest, eating out of a single box of popcorn.

The movie got out at 10:00. So did the synagogue service. I figured Lane would get home before us, so I brought James in and said "Surprise!"

No answer.

"Well, I guess he's not home yet. We'll have to wait." We sat down on the couch and turned on the tv. I put my arm around James and went in for a kiss.  Instead he moved his head down and started unbuttoning my shirt and kissing and fondling my chest.

"'s not here yet.  We should wait."

"He can watch when he gets home. Come on." He stood and took my hand and pulled me toward the bedroom.

At that moment Lane came in. "So, who's the big surprise..." He stopped stared open-mouthed at James.

"Hi, Lane. Boomer said it was ok for me and him to go on a date."

He continued to stare.  "Did you tell him how old you are?"

"Um...he's 19, isn't he?" I said in a small voice, suddenly feeling very embarrassed.

"19?  Boomer, did this conniving scalawag tell you he tried to make me last year? When he was --what was it, 14 years old?"

My heart sank as I realized what I almost did.  14? So this year he was...15? "What. No, he's 19.  He..."

James grinned sheepishly. "I'm fifteen and a half. I figured by the time you found out, you'd be so turned on you wouldn't care."

"Not care about committing a felony?" I said angrily.

"Oh, come on, it's illegal just to be gay. I'm not going to tell anyone.  And  I'm bigger than most guys my age. Wanna see?"

"No! Do you know how much trouble you could have gotten me into, you reckless idiot!  Don't you have any sense of propriety?  This isn't a game!  Now get the f*** out of here!"

James hung his head.

"Wait -- he's just a kid.  He doesn't know any better."  Lane went over and drew James into a hug. Misunderstanding, he tried to kiss him. "When's your birthday, James? When do you turn 16?"

"March 5th."

"Ok, your eighteenth birthday is March 5th, 1995, in two years and six months. That's when we'll finish this date. Mark it on your calendar. You, me, and Boomer will spend the night together. But not even a grope until that moment."

"Well, maybe a hug," I said, drawing us into a three-way hug.

Then we all drove to the French Quarter and had sundaes.

Lane and I figured that by the time March 5th, 1995 rolled around, James would forget all about us.

But he didn't.

Next: The Last Half of My Scary Date with the Teenage Lawnboy

See also: Hit on by a High School Boy; Artan the Beach Boy

Wearing a Gay Pride T-Shirt in Public, on the Plains

Plains, October 2016

Unless I'm in a gay neighborhood, I'm never out in public.  No gay pride t-shirts, no lambdas, no pink triangles, no rainbow flags.  No holding hands with my date.  My book on a gay topic is turned inward so no one can read the title.

Being Out and Proud is fine, but I've heard too many stories about gay people getting assaulted and killed by random bigots.  Even if only one passerby in a thousand is inclined to kill you and has a gun in his pocket, that's too many for me.

But yesterday when I got to the gym, I discovered that I brought along a Gay Pride t-shirt by mistake.  A very open one, with literally the words "Gay Pride!!!" in big rainbow letters.

I didn't want to drive all the way home to get another one, or spend $15 on one of the gym's t-shirts that are completely covered with banal "keep moving" slogans.

So for the next 1 1/2 hours, I was going to be out in public.  In a small town in the Straight World.

It was my running day.  Was assault more likely on the treadmill or out on the wilderness trail?

I opted for the trail.  People see you for only a few seconds as they jog past in the other direction, but on the treadmill, they can get a good a good view for an hour.  Besides, it would probably be empty.  Who runs at 5:00 pm on a Sunday afternoon?

The Lobby

To get out of the gym, I have pass about a dozen people in the lobby, including two Somali women in hijabs, and a group of high school jocks.

They don't seem to notice, but Casey, who is running the front desk, does.

He isn't the usual collegiate twink the gym hires: he's in his 30s, buffed, with severely short black hair, a round face, and the hint of a hairy chest beneath his white shirt.  I'm thinking manager, filling in for a sick desk guy.

They're supposed to say "Hi" on your way in and "Have a nice day" on your way out, but instead Casey asks  "Going for a run?"

"Yeah, I thought I'd hit the wilderness trail.  It will be covered with snow soon."

"Well, be careful out there," he says with a frown.  "There, this is snake season."

I think he means "homophobe season."

The Trail

As it turns out, the wilderness trail is busy.  I constantly encounter joggers going in the other direction, on their way back t the gym.

On the Plains, you're supposed to say hello or wave to those you encounter on the street or wilderness trail -- a very hard habit to break when you're jogging somewhere else.

Usually it's about 70% "hellos" or waves, 20% Attitude (they pretend not to see you), and 10% hostile stares. .

With my Gay Pride T-Shirt on, I estimate about 25% "hellos" or waves," 50% Attitude, and 25% hostile stares.

Men are most likely to give Attitude; women most likely to either say "hello" or give a hostile stare.

Teenagers and kids usually smile.

The older people start with smiles, but when they get close enough to read my "Gay Pride!!!!", the smiles turn into hostile stares.

Usually when you encounter  a male-female couple jogging together, the man says "hello," the woman gives Attitude -- presumably she doesn't want to be accused of flirting.  But today in my Gay Pride T-Shirt, it is the opposite: the woman says "hello," the man gives Attitude.

Presumably he doesn't want to be accused of flirting.

 The "hellos" and waves seem bigger and broader, even congratulatory, and the hostile stares considerably more hostile, grim and menacing.  But that might just be my imagination.

Verdict: most heterosexuals on the Plains are surprised to discover that a gay person lives among them.

At least no one yells at me or starts quoting Leviticus.

Back at the Gym

I run five miles in 50 minutes, not a great time, but a good solid 6 mph, then return to the gym.

Casey is still at the front desk. "How was your run?"

"Great! I saw a deer about three miles in, and almost stepped on a garter snake."

"That sounds scary!"

"Not as scary as some of the other joggers."

"Well, this is the Plains, after all."  He laughed.  "Need a towel?"

"No, thanks."  The gym doesn't give out towels -- you have to subscribe to a towel service for $10 extra per month.  I bring my own.

"On the house."  He passes a towel at me.  "If you need any help stretching or anything, let me know."

Casey is definitely going out of his way to indicate that he is a gay ally -- or gay himself.

The Locker Room

I have to use the urinal and the drinking fountain, so I walk through the locker room in my Gay Pride T-Shirt.

This is fun.  Not Attitude so much as deer-in-the-headlights stares as guys read my t-shirt and turn away.  Wouldn't want the gay guy to get ideas!

There's a twink in a wheelchair who always works out in the late afternoon, taking forever: 20 minutes on the incline press machine, never moving or letting someone else squeeze in between sets.  Then an older guy, his father or brother or boyfriend, helps him shower and dress.  Right now the twink is naked in the wheelchair, his uncut Bratwurst hanging out.  He reads my t-shirt and smiles.  His father or brother or boyfriend quickly grabs a towel and covers him.

I'm tired of these epater le bourgeois  antics.  I shower, change clothes, and head back upstairs to see what Casey is up to.


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