Friday, November 11, 2016

How We Survived the Homophobic World of the 1980s

A few days ago, we discovered that over 40% of the U.S. population believe that all Mexicans are rapists and all Muslims are terrorists, that African-Americans are inferior, that the handicapped should be ridiculed, and that sexual assault is ok.    It gives one pause, but it's not without precedent.

When I was living in West Hollywood in the 1980s and 1990s, most heterosexuals believed that gay people were pedophiles and violent criminals, that we were inferior and should be ridiculed, and that physically assaulting us was ok.

We heard incessant "fag! fruit! fairy!" jibes from family, friends, and classmates, while politicians, judges, teachers, preachers, and psychiatrists joined their voices together in an incessant shout of "You're crazy, evil, sinful, criminal!  You shouldn't exist!"

After surviving all that hatred, it was hard to imagine that heterosexuals were even human.  Surely they were soulless monsters who spent every waking moment plotting new ways to defame, humiliate, and kill us.

So we carved out our own Safe Space.

Our world, the only place where we could let our guard down and be free, was bounded by Sunset to the north, Melrose to the south, Doheny to the west, and Highland to the east. At each of those boundaries there was an invisible barrier separating us from the wilderness.

Of course, we had to travel outside our world sometimes, for jobs, to go to concerts and museums, to get to gay bars like Mugi.

But we were very careful: the woods were full of wolves.  We followed strict rules for survival.

1. Be inconspicuous: keep your voice low and your hands at your side.

2. Closet any signs of gayness: no rainbow flags, gay pride t-shirts, Advocate magazines.

3. Never speak to anyone you don't know, unless it is absolutely necessary.

4. Never take anything that a stranger tries to give you.  It will probably be a tract about how sinful you are.

5. Never go to a straight bar or restaurant.  It will be full of homophobes.

6. Avoid heterosexual books, newspapers, movies, and tv shows.  They will be full of homophobia.


What about the heterosexuals you must interact with daily, your classmates and coworkers:

1. Keep the conversation strictly professional.  Be polite but aloof.

2. Don't volunteer any personal information.  If asked, be vague and noncommittal.

"What did you do last weekend?""

"Oh, I just hung around.


3. When they ask about your girlfriend or interest in girls -- which they always do within a few seconds of "hello" -- lie.  Invent one.  Never come out to them, and never say you don't have a girlfriend, or they will try to fix you up with one.

4. When they say something homophobic -- which they always do shortly after asking about your girlfriend -- don't respond.  End the interaction and retreat.

5. What if you are accidentally outed?

If they start screaming, then obviously you should retreat.  If they merely ask insulting questions like "Which of you is the boy, and which is the girl?", use your own judgment about whether to respond.

6. Never accept invitations to parties, dinners, or other social events.  You will be fixed up with a girl or asked to discuss your interest in girls.

7. NEVER cruise them, regardless of how hot they are, or how friendly.  They will interpret your interest as a humiliating insult, and attack.

I have a story about the rules, but writing them all down took up too much space.  It will be up next: Picking Up the Best Man at My Sister's Wedding.

Wednesday, November 9, 2016

I Shag Oscar the Irish Bodybuilder and His Twink Boyfriend

Philadelphia, November 6th, 2012

Election Night.  Following my tradition of Election Night Hookups, I went out to Woody's, an enormous twink bar with nonstop cruising.  There was a surprisingly large crowd, some watching the returns on a big-screen tv, but most ignoring them, believing that politics was a game for homophobic heterosexuals, not for us.

At 51, I was one of the older guys there, but I'm a twink magnet, so I was getting cruised by a number of Cute Young Things.

I was NOT being cruised by Oscar the Grouch, a short, very muscular guy, probably my age or a little older, with a round face, a stern military haircut, and a constant scowl.

Oscar was not being cruised by anyone, in spite of his physique.  Maybe his age and scowl were turn-offs.  He stood by himself at a little counter, beer bottle at his side, grimacing at everyone.

I never do well with older guys, but I thought, he's got an amazing physique,why not give him a try?

I sidled up and introduced myself.   The first thing he said was:  "Aren't twinks the worst?"

"Um...beg pardon?"

"Frilly little wankers, so soft and sassy, wouldn't know what to do with a real man if he bit them on the arse."

Well, this was a twink bar....what did he expect? "I'm from West Hollywood..."  I began.

Before I could finish my sentence, he continued, "Why is America full of stooks?"

"Um...beg pardon?" I said, trying to place his accent.

"Idjits.  You get into a big row over gay marriage, when civil unions do the same job.  What's the difference?"

Um...


"And your tv is bollocks!  The other night I was watching Parks and Recreation.  'Oh, you have to watch,' my friend said.  It's cor deadly, right?'  Infantile drivel, more like."

Ok, he was annoyingly downbeat, but I was entranced by his enormous pecs and huge round biceps -- and by his the accent, which I finally placed as Irish.

Oscar (not his real name) grew up a fell jackeen in Kilkenny, Ireland, a small town known for its Medieval castle and abbeys, and the nursery rhyme about the Kilkenny cats:  there were two of them, but "each thought they were one cat too many," so they fought, and now there's none at all.

"We're fighters in Kilkenny," Oscar told me.  "Always ready to get our hop on.  Not like you American ponces."  He grinned.

I reached out and felt his chest, and moved my hand down to his crotch.  Thick mass, semi-aroused.  Talking of fighting turned him on!

After getting his degree at Trinity College, he moved inside the Pale, downtown Dublin, the biggest, best gay neighborhood in the world.  West Hollywood  is all tacky and tawdry, full of dosser twinks with nothing to do but file their nails and tool, but in the Pale, there's a big leather bar, the Boiler Room, a stone's throw from Parliament, and the George is just down the street from Triners!  You can see the Book of Kells and ride a bloke on the same afternoon!

I was starting to bristle.  I defend West Hollywood as if it were my home town -- which, in many respects, it was.  But I kept my eye on the prize, a hookup with an older guy, and a bodybuilder to boot.

"There are museums in Los Angeles, too.  The L.A. County Museum of Art, the Getty...and....and Pacific Design Center..."

"Please, those blue and green building blocks?"

"So...what made you leave the gay paradise of Dublin for our tawdry, twink-infested U.S.?" I asked.

"Me fella had a job here. If we ride it tonite, we'll be sharing with him.  Doug. You'll like him -- all the Yank brills think he's savage hot."

Two older guys, and probably bodybuilders with Irish accents? I'm there!

"I hate America though.  I keep telling Dougie boy we should leg it back to Dublin, or at least move to Canada, where people are a little more civilized, right?"

Insulting my country on Election night?  I was about to give him shade and leg it out of there, two bodybuilders or not, but then Oscar put his arm around me and squeezed hard, and leaned in for a boozy kiss.  I felt his huge hand on my back, his hard bicep, his aroused Kielbasa pushing against me.

"Well, I'm locked and fell langered.  Why don't we pop off to me gaff?"

I assumed that meant go home with him.

Oscar took me by the hand and led me toward the door.  " At least you're a real man, not one of these barmy goslings with piercings everywhere and too-tight jeans.

"Yeah, I get swarmed by twinks all the time, too.  It will be nice to hang out with a couple of guys my own age for a change."


 We left the bar around 11:00 pm, took the metro to the 52nd Street SEPTA station and walked three blocks to an upstairs apartment on Peach Street: small, cluttered living room, kitchenette, dining room, two bedrooms.  Doug, the partner, was already asleep, snoring softly under the covers in the darkness of the master bedroom.

"Go ahead and jump in bed," Oscar said.  "Snog, if you like, for a bit of a larf."

Worried that I was about to be the butt of a practical joke, I gingerly took off my shirt and pants and climbed into bed next to the snoring mass of Doug.  I reached over and felt for a hairy, chubby bear -- and got a slim, smooth chest, skinny arms, and an average sized penis that hardened under my touch.

A twink!

"Did you bring me a present?" Doug murmured.

American accent!

So Oscar the Grouch hated twinks and Americans, but his partner was an American twink?


Well, a penis is a penis.

After we kissed -- snogged -- and fondled, Doug went down on me while I was kissing Oscar, and then we double-teamed Oscar's very thick uncut Kielbasa until he finished.  I finished between Doug's legs while fondling Oscar.

At least I got to shag one older guy that night.

See also: The Surly, Crazy-Eyed Guy








Sunday, November 6, 2016

10 Election Night Hookups

Rock Island is staunchly Democrat, and my parents were the most staunchly Democrat of all.  I spent my childhood going to election rallies and passing out bumper stickers, and falling asleep on election night listening to the returns on tv in the next room.

But when I grew up, my political interests ended altogether.  Politicians seemed to be competing to see who could express the most homophobic hatred.  Why bother to support candidates where the choices were "I promise to keep your children safe from homo recruitment!" and "I promise to keep homos from shoving their sick lifestyles down your throats!"?

I still voted in most presidential elections, if I could figure out which candidate hated us the least.  And, to assuage my feeling of persecution and victimization, I started a tradition of Election Night Hookups.



1. Professor Burton.  November 4, 1980.  The first time I was able to vote: my junior year at Augustana College.  After voting, I had dinner with Professor Burton, a husky bear in his 40s who taught geology.  I went down on him in the living room, while he was watching election returns.

Results: "Gay menace" Ronald Reagan enjoyed a landslide victory over the only mildly homophobic Jimmy Carter and John Anderson.

2. Dan the Chain Smoker.  November 6, 1984.  During my horrible, depressing year in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas.  After voting I hooked up with a guy named Dan: in his 30s, short, slim, bearded, smoked constantly.  I had an ash tray in my apartment, but instead he used a damp napkin on a saucer.  Nice sized Bratwurst, though.

Results: "Gay menace" Ronald Reagan got 58% of the popular vote over Walter Mondale, who, when  asked to say something about gay people at a campaign stop, angrily walked off stage.





3. Turning Japanese.  November 8, 1988.  Depressed over my doctoral dissertation, broke, lacking a boyfriend, I paid no attention to the presidential race, and didn't vote.  I went to Mugi, the gay Asian bar.  A Romanian twink named Stash approached and asked where in Asia I was from.  I don't know why -- I don't look at all Asian.  For some reason I told him "Japan" and had to go with that through our entire first date.

Results:  George Bush, Reagan's vice president of homophobia, beat out Michael Dukakis, who hated gay people and was a fierce opponent of gay adoption.

4. Alan's Ex.  November 3rd, 1992.  After we voted, Lane and I went to an Election Night Party held by the Stonewall Democrats, and ended up going home with Alan's ex-boyfriend, who, like Alan, was an ex-porn star.

Results:  Bill Clinton, the first candidate to mention gay rights (he promised to end the military ban on gay people), got 72% of the gay vote and 43% of the heterosexual vote, beating out George Bush.




5. The City Councilman. November 5th, 1996.  David and I went to another Election Night Party.  I didn't actually get a hookup, but I got a date with Tom Ammiano, who was on the San Francisco Board of Supervisors.

6. I Break Every Rule of Gay Cruising: November 7th, 2000.  In New York, I lived within easy walking distance of about 20 gay bars, but I rarely went cruising.  But on the night of November 7th, I was depressed, so I went to the Eagle, broke every rule of gay cruising, and ended up somewhere in New Jersey with Jorge, and having to sneak out of his parents' house in the morning with no idea how to get home again.

Results:  George W. Bush, who hated us even more than his Dad, or  Al Gore, who just thought we were second class citizens?   Gore won the popular vote, but Bush got the electoral vote.






7. November 2nd, 2004.  I was living in Florida with Barney and Yuri.  No hookup.

Results: George W. Bush beat out John Kerry for another term with 50.7% of the popular votes.  I was so worried about round-ups and concentration camps that started applying for jobs outside the U.S., planning an escape.

8. The Bathhouse Bonanza. November 4th, 2008.  I was living in Upstate New York.  On the night of November 4th, I drove down to Albany and went to the River Club, a small bathhouse.  I usually didn't have much luck there, but tonight for some reason I was absurdly popular, accepted by everyone I approached.

Results: Barack Obama and John McCain were both against gay marriage, but Obama vowed to support gay rights, and McCain said there was no anti-gay discrimination in the U.S.  Obama got 53% of popular votes.



9. Oscar the Grouch. November 6th, 2012. During my horrible, terrible year in Philadelphia, I went out cruising on Election Night, and hooked up with Oscar the Grouch: a short, very muscular guy from Ireland who complained incessantly about everything American.  Kielbasa beneath the belt, though.

Results: Barack Obama, who had now changed his mind and favored gay marriage, got 51% of the popular votes, beating Mitt Romney, who was still against it.











10. November 8th, 2016: Plains.  Hillary Clinton, who has repeatedly affirmed her commitment to gay rights, or Donald Trump, who thinks it's pretty weird to "choose" to become gay and wants to dump gay marriage?

I invited Monster Cock, aka Brandon, over for a homemade vegetarian pizza and election returns.  This will was first time voting.

Coincidentally, he might become a geologist, like Dr. Burton, my first Election Day Hookup.

Results: We sat there open-mouthed, speechless as the Der Fuhrer stormed through all of the swing states.  Then I was too upset to do anything in bed.  He still wanted to.  Not the best second date!

See also: The Boy at the Urinal with the Kovbasa++++

L

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