Rock Island, September 1969
My parents used to have a barbecue every Labor Day, and invited all their friends and neighbors. This year Greg and his father came. After our hot dogs and hamburgers and Lays potato chips and apple cobbler, they wanted to play croquet.
Greg and I were in 4th grade, too old for baby games, so we escaped. We walked across the deserted schoolyard, peeking in the windows of Denkmann School, then crossed the street to Dewey's Candy Store.
Dick the Mean Boy was out of town, so we were free to explore south of Denkmann without being attacked. We found a scary bizarro-world where the normal rules of time and space didn't apply.
Streets had names instead of numbers.
They doubled back on each other like a space warp.
They dead-ended at nothingness.
We saw the end of the world: 46th Street then 1st Street, the beginning of a new universe.
It felt very dangerous, as if we might run into a mysterious threat around every curve.
Then, standing in a front yard all by himself, staring into space, we saw a boy!
A couple of years younger than us, very cute: black hair, black eyes, olive skin, wearing a red shirt and short pants.
But strikingly out of place: alone, silent, unmoving. And Asian!
In Rock Island, "minority" meant Belgian, Italian, or Greek. African-Americans were strictly segregated, below the hill, and I had never met or seen anyone Asian. Not even a face in the crowd at Longview Park or Mother Goose Land.
[Even in 2016, the Asian population of Rock Island is only 0.75%]
He couldn't be real! He must be a ghost. Maybe a Vietnamese boy who died in the War. Or a Martian! Maybe he came here in a spaceship!
"Can he see us?" I whispered.
"I dunno. Is he even here?"
We approached. He smiled invitingly and said something in a strange musical language. Martian or Vietnamese!
"Do you speak English?" I said loudly, enunciating every word.
He smiled, not comprehending, and said more.
"My name is Boomer. This is Greg. What's your name?"
He pointed to himself. "Chi Ehr Ma."
"Ma?" Greg joked. "Whose Ma are you?"
More words in his musical language, a bright smile, and then, in English, "Play." He turned and walked around the side of the house and into the back yard.
Was that an invitation? Did the Martian want us to play with him in the back yard?
Then suddenly he came out the front door!
There's no way he could have gone through the back yard, in the back door, and all the way through the house in just a second or two!
Screaming in fear, we ran back down the curving street and side streets with names instead of numbers, back to Denkmann School where things were safe, where things made sense.
A while later, when we calmed down, we decided that there were probably two boys, twins, trying to scare us.
On another day when Dick wasn't around, we ventured south again, and tried to find the Asian boys, Chi Ehr Ma and his brother, but all the houses on that weird curved street looked alike. We couldn't be sure which one they lived in.
If they lived anywhere. They were old enough to be in school. Why had we never seen them at Denkmann? Or at Dewey's, or anywhere else in the neighborhood? Maybe they were ghosts after all.
Days and weeks and months passed, and Chi Ehr Ma, the cute boy -- we concluded that he was probably Vietnamese -- became increasingly attractive in my mind -- and increasingly mysterious. What would have happened if Greg and I followed him into the back yard to "play"? Would we have been transported to a new, magical world? Or would we just have become friends, with long, lush afternoons playing, walking hand in hand, clinging together during sleepovers?
Chi Ehr Ma, with his dazzling, seductive smile became one of the icons of my childhood, combining with Jonny Quest and Hadji, with Kurt Russell in The Secret of Boyne Castle, with John Christopher's Tripod books as a clue to the unraveling the Big Lie. Telling me that, in spite of the adults' hysterical screaming of "You like girls! Every boy likes girls!", some boys like boys.
It is not raining upstairs.
In junior high and high school I met a few other Asian men and boys -- my judo instructor, Peter who invited me to a sleepover, the Vietnamese refugee who worked at the pretzel place in the mall -- always with a subtle, nearly unconscious desire, as if I expected them to flash a dazzling, seductive smile and invite me to secret places in the back yard.
During the spring of my freshman year at Augustana College, I enrolled in a course in East Asian Culture and Civilization, taught by Professor Ma of the Political Science Department.
I loved it. I wantd to change my major to Asian Studies, to immerse myself in the exploits of ancient Chinese emperors, The Dream of the Red Chamber, Taoism, Buddhism, and that mysterious, musical language.
"Chinese has four tones," Professor Ma said. "Ma is my family name, but depending on the tone, it could be horse, mother, to scold, or a question mark. Let me demonstrate: Ma ma ma ma -- 'did mother scold the horse?'"
Ma! The boy from my memory was speaking Chinese! Not Vietnamese, not Martian. He must have been asking us a question.
I stayed after class and asked Professor Ma what "Chi Ehr" means.
"Depending on the tone, it could mean 'The life force is strong' or 'He eats cabbage.' It's also my son's real name, but he likes to be called Chip."
My mouth dropped.
Professor Ma moved to the United States in August 1969 to teach political science at Augustana, bringing his wife and twin sons, Yung Yu and Chi Ehr. They bought a house in Davenport, across the river. In September 1969 his colleague, who lived in Rock Island, invited them over for a Labor Day picnic.
A few days later, Professor Ma invited me to dinner, and to reunite with my old friend Chi Ehr, or Chip, now a 16-year old high school junior. (The model is over 18.)
He escorted me to an upstairs bedroom: unmade single bed, stereo, books, clothes, and sports stuff scattered about, posters of Van Halen and Farrah Fawcett. The smell of marijuana.
"Farrah Fawcett -- gross!" I thought.
Chip was sitting on the bed, a calculus book open in front of him. Very tall and slim, with long hair and a long face, not at all cute.
This was the icon of my childhood, a clue that gay people exist?
"Sup?" he said. "Dad told me that we met before, when I was a kid." Suspicious scowl, American accent. Not at all what I was expecting!
"Yeah. Me and my friend Greg, in 4th grade. We said hello, and then you went to the back yard, and your brother came out the front door. We got spooked and ran away."
He laughed, and flashed that dazzling, seductive smile of my childhood. "Oh, yeah -- I remember that! When you vanished, I got spooked, too. The first guys I met in America were a couple of ghosts! I always wondered what would have happened if you stuck around."
By the way, I just looked up "Chi Ehr Ma" on the internet. He's a professor of mathematics at a university in California (not the famous mineralogist).
See also: 20 Asian Dates, Hookups, and Sausage Sightings; Kurt Russell's Secret.; The Son of Mr. Blowfish
Saturday, October 15, 2016
Thursday, October 13, 2016
I'm in Washington DC, visiting my old friend Alan for the week before Easter and Passover. My partner Lane calls, like he does every day, and Infinite Chazz gets on the phone.
"Hey, Dad! You'll never believe this! Last night I was dumped!"
"That is hard to believe!" I exclaim. "You're never rejected. You just walk up to the guy, flash your patented smile, and he's writing down his phone number!"
Infinite Chazz is 21 years old, a student at Cal State Fullerton, called "Infinite" not only because of his enormous Mortadella, but because he's infinitely attractive, sure to cause jaw-dropping stares in every man who comes within five feet of him. He drives up every couple of weeks, to "share" and make the guys at the synagogue or MCC die of envy.
"Not this time. And you'll never guess who dumped me."
"Jerry O'Connell?" I joke. The star of Sliders was the prime time hunk du jour.
"Close. Mark-Paul Gosselaar."
"What? Are you sure? Is this a fantasy?"
"I wish! I'm still smarting from the rejection."
Mark-Paul Gosselaar (left) was the teen-dream star of Saved by the Bell (1988-1994), Zack Morris, the constantly-in-trouble operator of Bayside High. Every gay boy in the country had his pin-up on his bedroom wall; most realized that they were gay watching the buddy-bonding romance between Zack and Mario Lopez's Slater (right)
"I'm not saying he's not hot," I tell Chazz, "Or that he's not a nice guy, but he's never had any gay rumors, that I know of. He's a hetero horndog, dating every supermodel he sees."
Indeed, his character Zack Morris screams heterosexual privilege, someone who absolutely assumes the universality of heterosexual desire, who is absolutely convinced that gay people do not exist.
"Well, last night, he made two exceptions. Me, and the guy he dumped me for."
Chazz was in West Hollywood keeping Lane company. On the Friday before Passover, Lane was tired, so Chazz went out by himself, promising to bring someone home to "share."
He went to the evening service at Beth Chaim Chadashim, the gay synagogue, and a meeting place for West Hollywood's gay Jewish community. Although he wasn't Jewish, he had visited often enough that all the regulars knew him.
At the refreshment table after the service, he was drawn to a new guy, strikingly tall, with dirty blond hair, a rarity at the synagogue. When he got closer, he saw that it was Mark-Paul Gosselaar, his teenage crush!
At the refreshment table after the service, he was drawn to a new guy, strikingly tall, with dirty blond hair, a rarity at the synagogue. When he got closer, he saw that it was Mark-Paul Gosselaar, his teenage crush!
"Mr. Gosselaar, I love you...I mean, I love your work!" Chazz gushed, shaking his hand. "I have the entire Saved by the Bell series on VHS."
Usually gushing at a celebrity turns him off, but MP smiled broadly, with that Zack Morris smile that brought teenage boys to their knees. "Call me MP. Yeah, Saved by the Bell was lots of fun, but I'm anxious to move on to adult roles. I'm doing a Misery thing right now about a football jock kidnapped by an unpopular girl."
"Sounds great -- I can't wait to see it." Chazz noticed that they were still shaking hands, and began to get aroused. "So, I didn't know you were Jewish." And gay.
"I have Jewish roots on my mother's side, so when I heard that there was a gay synagogue in town, I had to come and give it a look."
"What's your expert opinion?"
"I need to do more research," MP said, touching Chazz's chest. "Really get to know gay Jewish boys, see what they're like inside, examine them up and...down." He looked down at Chazz's crotch.
Chazz didn't need any more prompting. He invited MP home to "share" with Lane, but MP wanted to see "gay nightlife." So they went to the Rage, the twink dance club.
They danced, and kissed, and groped each other.
"How big was he?" I ask.
"Average sized, maybe a little smaller. I didn't care. I would have gone down on him right there at the Rage, if he suggested it."
"Did you see it?"
"No, but I saw the tenting, and felt it through his pants."
"Did you see it?"
"No, but I saw the tenting, and felt it through his pants."
They were all dancing in a mass, so Chazz didn't even notice when MP moved to the side and faced the Other Man -- Asian, tall, slim, black-haired, with very tight jeans and some socks shoved in to give him a bulge.
Then they were blatantly facing each other. Grinning. Eyes smoldering.
MP was cruising another guy, while on a date with him! Unheard of in the gay community!
Thinking fast, Chazz said "I'm tired -- let's go get a drink," and walked off the dance floor. MP didn't follow.
He went to the bar, got a bottle of beer, and brought it to MP -- who said "thanks" without ever taking his eyes off the Other Man.
Chazz grabbed his shoulder. "I'm ready to go home."
"Ok," MP said. "It was nice meeting you."
"I mean with you..." Chazz said desperately. "Or both of you, together. I have a place..."
"I don't know...I'm sort of shy." MP reached out to grab the Other Man and kiss him passionately.
Chazz was furious. He was never rejected, and certainly not in the middle of the date! He looked around for another guy to make MP jealous, and stuck up a conversation with a cute black twink. But when he looked around, MP was gone.
Seething with rage, aching with rejection, Chazz drove home, and cried in Lane's arms.
Was Chazz Telling the Truth?
In April 1995, Mark-Paul Gosselaar was 21 years old, and working on Twisted Love, a Misery rip-off set in a high school. He does have Jewish roots, but his hair is black, not dirty-blond -- it was dyed for Saved by the Bell.
Penis size: About halfway through Dead Man on Campus, his character is making out with a girl in bed, and he gets aroused in real life. You have to zoom in to see it; at least a Bratwurst, somewhat bigger than what Chazz described.
But I haven't heard any gay rumors about him. I suspect that Chazz took an "innocent" meeting and added some details about kissing and groping.
But why make it into a story of a painful rejection?
San Francisco, September 1996
A t-room is a public restroom where you meet guys for dating and hookups.
Sometimes guys do it right there. There's a "glory holes" holes between stalls where you can insert things, or you can go under the barrier, or just use the same stall.
Why not just take them home? T-rooms are gross and uncomfortable, people could interrupt you at any moment, you could be arrested for "lewd behavior."
Besides, you can't do this in a t-room.
I've only known one gay guy who ever admitted to hooking up in a t-room: my friend David, 43 years old, newly out, and cruising constantly.
He told me "Look, you came out 18 years ago. If you've had five guys per week, that's almost 5,000 guys. I came out 3 years ago. I'm going to have to have five guys per day to to catch up."
"I haven't had five guys per week!" I protested. "Not nearly that many! And besides, this isn't a contest."
"Just trying to make up for lost time," he said with a gleam in his eye.
He started by cruising in the conventional venues, in bars, at bear parties, at church, at the Gay Fathers Club, on Castro Street. But hooking up that way takes several hours. If you have a job, go to the gym, and want a non-sexual social life, you may have time for meeting one or two guys per week, certainly not five every day.
Besides, even in San Francisco, the number of gay guys into hookups, into you, and available at that moment is limited. He had to seek out unconventional partners, closeted straight guys.
First the park.
Then the beaches.
Finally the t-rooms.
"It's great" David told me. "Not just a bunch of gym bunnies and leather daddies." He enumerated the incredible variety of guys he had: a middle-aged businessman carrying a briefcase, a college fratboy, a janitor, a construction worker, a teenage boy in a Domino's pizza uniform.
"No names, no coming-out stories, no discussions of art and literature -- sometimes we don't even make eye contact -- just the raw act itself, pure erotic pleasure. Isn't that what being gay is all about?"
"Right, right, Mr. Activist. Why don't you give it a try before getting all judgmental?"
"I have --when I was stuck at the airport in St. Louis for 36 hours, back in college."
"Believe me, the restroom at Macy's is a lot more comfortable than an airport. Come with me today, when all the cute little floorwalkers go to lunch. We'll share."
So we went to Macy's,browsed through men's wear, and David latched onto a cute guy passing out cologne samples: in his 20s, with wavy brown hair, a gym-toned body, and a basket. Obviously gay.
It wasn't like regular cruising -- we approached, took a sample, made significant eye contact, but didn't speak. Then we stood nearby and leered.
Cute Guy got an evil smile on his face and, after a long moment, headed for the restroom. After another long moment, we followed.
He was standing at the urinal, unzipped but not urinating, fondling himself. Small but very nice, ruddy, with a "mushroom head." We took the urinals on either side of him and unzipped. He glanced at each of our penises. Then David went into one of the stalls.
"That cologne sample was great," I said. "But you must get sick of it after awhile."
"That's for sure." He had a mild Southern accent. "I can't wait to get home and shower for about an hour."
"Sounds like fun. My name is Boomer."
"Clay." He zipped up and headed for the sink to wash his hands. I followed.
David walked out of the bathroom stall and left, his mission a failure.
"Um...I was wondering if you'd like to get together after work. Maybe get dinner, or go to the Eagle."
Clay smiled. "Sure. I get off at 5:00 -- meet me in the front lobby." He grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser. "By the way, don't bring your crazy friend. Can you believe he wanted me to do it right here? Hello -- it's not 1955!"
In case you were wondering: into kissing, average beneath the belt gifts, up for it three times in one evening.
Wednesday, October 12, 2016
Tuesday, October 11, 2016
A very nice cut Mortadella. I'd prefer a face with it, but how often do you get to see a Disney Channel teencom star's penis?
Without having to buy him dinner and hear about his career for two hours, I mean.
The full post on 19-year old Jake and his 21-year old brother Logan is on Boomer Beefcake and Bonding
See also: My Date with the Nickelodeon star
Sunday, October 9, 2016
For 20 years all of my friends and neighbors, the guy on the next treadmill at the gym, the couple ahead of me in line at the grocery store, everyone I passed on the street was gay. I got my news from The Advocate. I bought my books in a gay bookstore. I went to a gay church.
Now I'm living in Dayton, Ohio, in the midst of the Straight World. There's one gay bar, on the other side of town, and no gay organizations except The Friends of the Italian Opera, a closeted group of gay retirees. The nearest gay neighborhood is an hour's drive away.
I'm not adjusting well. I have no friends except a "straight" Friend With Benefits. I stop going to the gym, and gain weight. I'm so depressed that I seek out psychological counseling. And I have a series of crazy dates with sleazoids and jerks.
But tonight will be different. It's a blind date, arranged by Clintin (who I hooked up with last February), so I haven't actually met him yet, but he sounds great: Remy, 36 years old, a history professor (specializing in 19th century America), who lives in the gay neighborhood of Germantown in Columbus.
His photo isn't great: long, weasley face, villain goatee, pale skin, skinny chest matted with black hair. But I'm willing to overlook those defects.
Ok, I have high expectations: we'll become boyfriends, I'll move in, and commute to my dreary job in Dayton, and get my life back to normal.
I arrive a few minutes early: weird white house, set back from the street, but in the heart of Germantown, a few blocks from the gay bars and restaurants.
Whoops -- one of his roommates is a woman! Must be a lesbian, but still....
Instead of taking me into the living room, she escorts me upstairs to the bedroom to wait. Remy is naked, toweling off from the shower.
"You're early!" he exclaims in a nasty tone.
"It's an hour's drive from Dayton, so I couldn't calculate exactly," I say defensively. "Sorry for coming up here -- your roommate wouldn't let me stay in the living room."
"Yeah, she doesn't like me. I'm only renting a room -- I had to move out of my house when I broke up with my ex."
Too much information for a first date!
Well, at least I got a good view.
There are a dozen gay restaurants in Columbus, but instead Remy takes me to the Milestone, a big, airy, freezing-cold restaurant that looks out over the downtown skyline. He insists on a table outside, where we keep getting buzzed by the mist from a gigantic fountain.
There are three things I hate on a date: 1. to be cold; 2. to be hungry; 3. to be insulted.
1. West Hollywood ("it's so superficial!")
2. My degree ("on of those fad degrees that will be useless in ten years")
3. My trip to Paris ("such a cliched destination. why doesn't anyone ever go to Bucharest or Sarajevo?")
4. My singing voice. How did he ever get around to that?
I don't have any particular reason to put up the top photo. I just needed something to take my mind off Remy.
Have you ever noticed that jerks -- guys who are critical, inconsiderate, insensitive, and hurtful -- tend to be physically unattractive? I certainly don't ascribe to the notion that beautiful bodies go with beautiful souls, but say you are attractive, so everyone is nice to you all the time. Won't you learn to be nice? And if you are constantly snubbed and rejected, won't you learn to be nasty yourself?
Next we're scheduled to go to a Halloween party at an apartment a few blocks from Remy's house. It seems strange to go to a party on a first date -- too many distractions, too much competition. But I haven't been to a good Halloween party for years, and I'm still clinging to the hope that we'll become a couple, and I'll get my gay life back.
We should have coordinated in advance. I'm going as Zorro, and he's going as Mark Twain, with a white suit, bushy white hair, and a white moustache. Rather an odd couple, compounded by his rather gross makeup and the lit cigar he carries constantly as a prop.
There are about 30 guys crammed into the 2-bedroom apartment, a lot of hot bodies in skimpy costumes, but a lot of drinking going on. The West Hollywood parties I used to go to had very little drinking -- when you choose your friends mostly from church and temple, you get a lot of teetotlars and "one glass of wine on my birthday" guys. This is a room full of sloshing drunks, and stale with with marijuana and cigarette smoke. And cruising.
Remy latches onto a Cute Young Thing, and before I know it, they're making out.
I've had enough! "I'm ready to go!" I tell him.
"Well, I'm not drunk enough yet. Why don't you go back to the house -- my roommate will let you in. I'll be back later -- and I may even have a surprise for you." He nudges the Cute Young Thing.
No way! In West Hollywood, the guy you begin the evening with, you end the evening with. Friend, roommate, date, it doesn't matter -- you go out that door together, you come back together. No abandoning them to pursue a trick.
And who "shares" on the first date? That's not a date, that's a three-way hookup!
"I want to go home now!" I say, more firmly, squeezing his shoulder. "Alone."
"Ok, ok," Remy says. He scribbles his phone number, passes it to the Cute Young Thing, and escorts me out.
We walk back to his house through the crowds of gay-neighborhood partiers, mostly silent.
"You know, it wouldn't have killed you to share me with that Cute Young Thing," Remy said. "He could do both of us."
"I want you all to myself. I'm the jealous type."
"That's for sure. Not your most attractive quality, I must say."
After all that, why did I agree to spend the night with Remy the Jerk?
1. I was cold, and wanted a warm bed
2. I was too tired to drive an hour back to Dayton
3. He had a penis. A nice one -- at least 8".
Once I got past the alcohol and tobacco on his breath, Remy was a good kisser. He tried to lower me onto his penis while we were kissing, but I refused anal, going down on him instead. Then he moved into the 69 position to finish. I finished in the interfemoral position, thrusting between his legs.
We fell asleep in each other's arms. In the morning he gave me his telephone number, said "Next time with the Cute Young Thing. I'll bet he can teach you a few tricks," and kicked me out without breakfast.
Still a jerk..
See also: The Huber Heights Horror.; a Hookup During a Job Interview
It's raining hard outside, so Ravi's Bear Party in Old Westbury had rather a low turnout to begin with, and now there are only five of us left:
Ravi and his partner Ken
Yuri and me, waiting for the rain to lighten up a bit.
Ozzie, a NYU undergrad whose ride left, so he's stuck. He'll probably be staying overnight.
We're sitting in the living room, finishing the last of the snacks and swapping stories about the biggest guys we've ever been with, dates from hell, and celebrity hookups.
I tell about my date with Michael J. Fox
Ravi tells about his hookup with Elton John.
Ken tells about his date with Barry Manilow.
Then Ozzie says "Have you ever heard of John F. Kennedy, Junior?"
The jetsetting son of President John Kennedy, lawyer, journalist, athlete, a fixture of New York high society? Of course! He was rumored to be gay or bisexual throughout his life, but we haven't heard about anyone who actually dated him.
"I helped him come out," Ozzie says.
"But..he never actually came out," Ravi protests. "He was married to the end of his life."
"To the end of his life, yes."
Ozzie was 19 years old, a biochemistry major from Morocco, newly out, enormously attractive and enormously well-hung. He had a fake id, and he was living in the city with the largest concentration of gay men in the world. Where could he go to meet some? As many as possible?
He wanted to go to the bars, but his friend Jeremy suggested a bath house. No blaring music, no drunks, you could see the guys naked without bringing them home, and you could get with them instantly.
New York had only two bathhouses. The closest was the East Side Club on 56th, a very perfunctory affairs with showers, a small sauna, a video room with bleachers, and rows of small cubicles.
They went on a Friday in July. It was stormy, with black clouds and thunder.
"So, like tonight?" Yuri asks. "Is this a Halloween story?"
The club wasn't very busy: a scattering of old guys, a few hustlers, and two scared, newly-out teenagers with fake ids.
Jeremy wandered off, and Ozzie checked out the video room, with old porn movies playing. There was only one guy there: completely out of place, neither old guy nor hustler. In his 30s, very attractive, with thick brown hair, an oval face, a moderately hairy, muscular frame, and a Bratwurst beneath the belt. He was dripping wet, like he had just gotten out of the shower, but he wasn't wearing a towel, like most guys in bath houses.
Ozzie thinks that the guy murmured the name "John."
He didn't look over, or offer a hand to be shaken. He kept staring at the screen, and in a low monotone, he said "I'm nowhere. I'm in a dark pit. I'm on a winding road with no ending, and all the stars went out."
"Ok, this guy sounds high!" I exclaim. "You'd better give him a miss!"
"I know," Ozzie says. "But there was something about him...I could't move. I couldn't look away."
"It can't be that bad," Ozzie told him, touching his shoulder. It was cold. John must have just come in from outside.
"That's why he was wet -- it was raining," Ravi says.
"All my life I did the things I was supposed to do," John said. "I saw the people I was supposed to see. All my life I waited. And for what?"
"Notice that he said 'waited,' not 'I've been waiting,'" I point out. "This guy is dead."
Ozzie looks annoyed. "You're giving it away."
Back at the East Side Club, Ozzie decided to move on. "Good luck with...that," he said.
John grabbed his arm. His hand was very cold. "No -- wait," he said, still staring ahead. "Stay with me here. Just for a minute. I just need a minute."
He stood. His Bratwurst was fully aroused. Ozzie noticed that his ankle was in a cast, but he didn't use crutches.
John led Ozzie to a dark corner and hugged him -- he wouldn't kiss -- and felt his chest and penis. The cold, wet skin was a little distasteful, but the guy was cute, so Ozzie quickly found himself aroused. John knelt and went down on him, his hands clamped on his buttocks.
Even his mouth was cold!
Ozzie pulled John to his feet and went down on him. John's Bratwurst was very hard, like iron, but still cold from the rain outside. He had shaved pubic hair. He didn't moan, or speak, or make any sound. It took him only a few minutes to finish with a monumental spurt.
Ozzie rose to his feet. "I'm ready now.," John said, still not looking at him.
"Ready for what?"
Without another word, John walked off into the darkness.
Old Westbury, New York, October 1999
"I was with two other guys that night," Ozzie says. "I didn't think anything about it at the time -- I don't know American celebrities very well. But then I saw the pictures on tv the next day. John F. Kennedy Junior, who crashed into the ocean. He was my guy!"
"Wait -- when was this?" Ravi asks.
"I was at the East Side Club on July 16th, 1999, the day of the crash. I saw his picture on tv the next day."
"His plane crashed late at night. He must have gone from the bath house directly to the airport."
Ozzie shakes his head. "No. I looked it up already. We got to the bathhouse at 9:00 at night, and John took off at 8:39. The crash was about an hour later. When I helped him come out, John was dead already."
"You had sex with a ghost!" Ken exclaims.
"Well, at least it was with a famous ghost," I say.
Ok, what happened that night at the East Side Club?
The last few days of John F. Kennedy Jr.'s life are well-documented
He spent July 13th-15th at the Stanhope Hotel on Fifth Avenue, depressed over his financial difficulties and his relationship with his wife, Carolyn.
They were on their way to a divorce. She thought he was a "fag" because of his many male friendships, especially with the muscular Michael Bergin.
Explanation 1: Struggling to come out, to admit his same-sex interests to himself, Kennedy went to the East Side Club sometime during the week, and Ozzie got the date wrong.
Kennedy had an ankle cast, but it was removed on the 14th.
But Ozzie swears that it was the 16th.
On July 16th, Kennedy got up and went to the office of George magazine at 1633 Broadway. He stayed in the office all day, except for lunch with his editors and working out in the gym. At about 4:00 pm, his sister-in-law Lauren Bessette arrived, and they began their trip to the Essex County Airport, where they would meet his wife and fly to Martha's Vineyard.
Explanation #2: Kennedy went to the East Side Club early in the day on the 16th, and Ozzie got the time wrong.
But Ozzie swears that it was in the evening
Explanation #3: Ozzie hooked up with a guy who looked like John F. Kennedy, Jr., who had just come in out of the rain, and who was a little high..
See also: The Amazing Invisible Boy; The Boy Who Refused to Leave My Room