Friday, November 18, 2016

The Foot-Long of Bourbon Street

New Orleans, March 1985

When my Grandma Davis died in 1975, she left $5,000 to each of her 12 grandchildren, as a "wedding present," to be bestowed upon them on their wedding day.

In the spring of 1985, I was telling my mother about my difficulties making ends meet in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas, and she said, "It doesn't look like a wedding is going to happen, so why don't we give you your Grandma's money now?"

The check came in February. The $5000 had become  $12,428, the equivalent of $28,000 today.  Enough to pay my rent for the next six months, get my car repaired, visit Europe, move to Los Angeles next summer -- and, right now, Spring Break to New Orleans!

The minute my last class ended, I got into my car and drove the six hours to New Orleans, and I didn't get back until an hour before my first class began.

Years later, after living in the gay neighborhoods of West Hollywood, San Francisco, and New York, I found the French Quarter inadequately gay, but in 1985 I loved the old French architecure of the Vieux Carre, the Voodoo Museum, and the bright, cheery gay bars, especially Cafe Lafitte in Exile (great name!).

 It wasn't Mardi Gras, so guys weren't flashing their equipment to the crowd, but I still saw my fair share of penises.

On my first night, I went home with a hairy, muscular bear in his 40s.  While I was going down on him, he talked nonstop about New Orleans' ghosts and hauntings.

On my second night, I went home with a short, compact University of Michigan undergrad on spring break, who loved the "fact" that I was from Texas.

On my third night, I somehow attracted the attention of a Cute Young Thing. I don't remember his name, so I'll call him Jasper.

Jasper was cute: fuzz-headed, blue eyes, long tan muscles, wearing a yellow t-shirt and tight jeans.  He had a soft Southern accent that I found attractive.  But I was 24 years old, too old for him.

Besides, he had a dopey, dazed expression, his shirt was dirty, and he had a weird-looking sore on his hand that was an immediate turn-off in the first days of the AIDS crisis.

He started talking to me at the bar, when I was cruising someone else.   The other guy soon scrammed.

"Let me buy you a beer!"  Jasper said.

"I don't drink."

"Two beers!" he yelled at the bartender, ignoring me. When they came, he reached in his pocket.  "Whoops, I left my wallet at home. Can you cover me?"

I refused.  The bartender took the drinks away.

When I left the bar, Jasper followed me out onto the street, talking nonstop.  He was from a small town in Arkansas.  When his family found out that he was gay, they kicked him out.  Now he was living with friends and planning to enroll at Tulane University.

"That's very interesting," I said.  'Well, bye!"

I turned into Dante's Pizza.  Jasper followed me in.

"Bedtime snack for your boyfriend?" he asked.

"You're not my boyfriend."

"Trick, then.  You have no idea how good in bed I am.  Give you a hint -- I call it my one-eyed monster!"  He giggled.

Jasper didn't get a pizza slice.

Next I went to a little convenience store, where I selected a bottle of mouthwash and an ice cream sandwich.  Jasper appeared at the check-out counter with a foot-long hot dog and a bottle of a vile blue liquid that looked like Windex but was labeled curacao. The clerk started ringing us up together.

"No, I'm not with him," I protested.  "I just want the mouthwash and ice cream."

"And the hot dog and curacao!" Jasper exclaimed.  "Curacao is the best!"

"I'm not buying you booze!  Ok, the hot dog."

Pouting, he returned the curacao.

We walked out into the street.  Jasper wrapped his arm around my waist and offered me a bite of his hot dog.  I refused.

"Don't you like eating hot dogs?  This one isn't as big as my hot dog, of course."

"I like hot dogs, but I just had pizza."

His hand moved down to my butt.  "Well, we'll just have to go home so you can eat something else.  Which way to your place?"

"I'm not bringing you home!" I exclaimed.

Jasper stopped us and started fondling my crotch, right in the street!  I backed away.

"Come on, you're not going to leave me hanging after all we've been through together!"

Well, it was late, he was cute...

"Come on!  You've never been with a guy as big as me, guaranteed!  And I know how to use it.  Greek, French, you name it, I'm up for it!"

Well...a big one...and if it was the only way I was going to get rid of this guy....

I agreed to bring Jasper back to my hotel room.

We didn't kiss much -- his breath smelled of alcohol.

We took off our clothes and fell down onto the bed.

Jasper was, indeed, enormous, a Kovbasa++++.  When he was aroused, you could rub it against his pecs.

But he wouldn't stay aroused.  He softened and hardened intermittently, no matter what I tried with my hands and mouth.   It was like going down on a very big, very limp garden hose that occasionally stiffened.

Eventually I heard snoring -- Jasper had fallen asleep while receiving oral sex?

I pushed his arm around me so we could cuddle, and fell asleep myself.

I awoke a couple of hours later to see Jasper getting dressed.

"It's been fun," he said, "But I gotta go. Could you spot me a fiver?"

I spent the next week looking over my shoulder to see if Jasper was approaching, with his hot dogs and curacao and limp garden hose.

See also: Marco, the Gay Cannibal of Colombia; My Sausage List

Tuesday, November 15, 2016

Kevin the Vampire's Date with Satan

San Francisco, November 1996

It's my 36th birthday.  David, Drake the Teddy Bear Artist, Corbin the Gym Rat, Kevin the Vampire, and a few other guys have gathered in an Ethiopian restaurant.  We're discussing enormous penises, dates from hell, and finally celebrity hookups.

Corbin and David tell about our hookup with Brad Pitt.

Drake tells about getting on his knees in Tony Curtis' dressing room.

Kevin the Vampire says "I can do better than that.  A few years ago, when I first moved to San Francisco, I had a date with Satan."

Kevin is in mid 30s, tall and pale, with a long face, long hair, long hands, and a weird goatee, rather Satanic looking already. And there's a lot of mystery about him, a lot of paranormal.  So it seems believable.

David, the former Baptist minister, stares open-mouthed.  "The...the...real Satan?" he stammers.

"Well...perhaps not the real one," Kevin says.  "But as close as you'd want to get."

Enid, Oklahoma, 1980s

Kevin grew up in Tulsa and then Enid, Oklahoma, two of the most dreary, depressing towns in the Bible belt, with nothing to do but watch sports and talk about girls.  His parents belonged to the ultra-fundamentalist Bible Missionary Church, where everything but breathing was a sin.

"Baptists were the same way," David says.

He went through life terrified that he would commit a sin without knowing it.  He used to pray for God to kill him, so he wouldn't have to die unsaved, and spend eternity in hell.

It was especially terrifying once he recognized that he was gay ("thou shalt not lie with mankind as with woman; it is an abomination") and that he was a witch ("thou shalt not suffer a witch to live").

Oh, he couldn't zap himself across time and space, or turn mortals into toads, like on Bewitched, but:

He knew what people were thinking

He could see what was going to happen in the future

He could make himself invisible. People would walk right past without noticing him, very handy for dealing with bullies and getting out of chores.

His favorite power was mind-control.  It didn't always work, but sometimes, if he looked at you the right way, you would do what he wanted.  His mother let him have two desserts; his teacher changed the grade on a paper; a high school jock agreed to a blow job.

A lot of high school jocks agreed to blow jobs.

"That doesn't take magical powers," Corbin says.  "You're very hot.  I would do you."

Kevin smiles.  "How do you know that I'm not controlling you right now?"

As a teenager, he struggled valiantly to overcome his fundamentalist guilt. He forced himself to "sin," to go to movies and watch tv, to smoke and drink alcohol, to stay home from church on Sunday, to use profanity, to go to Catholic churches and Buddhist temples.

At the University of Oklahoma, Kevin majored in biology, partially in order to commit the "sin" of believing in evolution (a few professors changed his exam grades from C- to A+).

He dated a football star who later went pro, and who heterosexuals have probably heard of, but he was never sure if the jock really liked him, or if it was just his mind control.

"Skip Satan," Drake says.  "Let's hear about the football player.  Was he hung?"

"Mmmm...adequate for the task," Kevin replies.  "I'm not much of a size queen, anyway.  I'm attracted to innocence.  To virginity, so to speak.  I want to introduce my men to a whole new world of sensuality."  He glances at me.

After college Kevin couldn't settle on a career: he dropped out of medical school after one year, tried graduate school in biology but hated it, and worked as a hospital orderly, nursing home attendant, and phlebotomist.  Finally he trained as a medical technician, a job which allowed him a lot of free time to read and hook up with men.

In his ongoing attempt to rid himself of fundamentalist guilt, Kevin committed even more "sins."  He tried hashish and cocaine.  He read books on paganism, atheism, and New Age philosophy.  He attended a Wiccan ritual.  He deliberately blasphemed God, the Trinity, and Jesus Christ.

San Francisco, December 1992

In 1992, Kevin finally achieved the life-long dream of gay men everywhere: he managed to move to San Francisco.  He found a job at St. Mary's Medical Center, and an apartment nearby in the Richmond district, a bit far from the Castro, but still Gay Heaven.

But even in Heaven, he worried about hell.  The nagging doubt just wouldn't go away: "Is there a God who is passing judgment on me?  Am I doomed to an eternity in hell?"

He determined to engage in one great, final gesture of defiance against the religious oppression of his childhood.  He was going to have sex with the Devil.

That is, Anton Szandor LaVey, who founded the Church of Satan in 1966.  Rituals were held in the famous Black House at California Street and 23rd in the Richmond District -- just around the corner from Kevin's apartment.

The Church of Satan was very popular among the youth counterculture of the 1960s.  Over a million people bought copies of The Satanic Bible, and there were dozens of famous converts or well-wishers, such as the Beatles, underground filmmaker Kenneth Anger, and actress Sharon Tate, who was killed in the Charles Manson murders in 1969.

In 1975, most members of the Church of Satan left for the rival Satanic Temple of Set, and LaVey fell from the limelight.  But he was still living in the Black House, still promoting his philosophy through books and magazine articles, still conducting rituals for a small group of loyal followers.

Still Satan.

 In December 1992, just at the start of the Christmas season, Kevin got an invitation through a friend, and made his way, trembling with fear but also eager, to the Black House.

To his disappointment, Anton was not at all scary.  He looked like someone's doting grandfather, tall, gaunt, bald, and smiling.

They sat in a perfectly normal-looking living room. A coffee table with a pile of People magazines.   Pictures of family members on the mantle.  There was even a Christmas tree, though Anton called it "a memorial to the Dying God."

He told Kevin that Satanism was about being true to your animal nature: "We are animals, not gods.  We should do what pleases us, what gratifies us.  Everything else is bullshit."

"What about helping others?" Kevin asked, playing the devil's advocate.

"If that's what pleases you, fine.  But never do anything just because someone expects it of you. Not your mother, not your boss, not some old guy sitting on a cloud.  More tea?"

"So, by that logic," Kevin said, "Satanism itself is basically bullshit."

"Exactly.  I'm a stage magician, a flim-flam man.  But name me one religion, philosophy, spiritual system, or ethical system that isn't bullshit.  There are no gods, there are no spirits, there is no heaven and hell.  There is here and now.  Eating, drinking, fighting, f**king.  Especially f**king."  

They eventually got around to the sex.  Anton wanted to top Kevin, but he settled for a blow job.  On his knees in Anton's bedroom, thrusting up and down on his thin spearlike Kielbasa, Kevin was surprised to find no sense of guilt at all.  Not even when Anton yelled "Ave Satanas" as he spurted down Kevin's throat.

No gods, no monsters, no heaven, no hell.  Nothing but the here and now.

Anton didn't reciprocate.  There was no cuddling or kissing afterwards.  But still, Kevin was elated.

 He left the Black House and walked through the misting rain, and looked at the Christmas lights shining red and green on California Street.  Never had anything looked so beautiful.

Was Kevin Telling the Truth?

Anton LaVey was straight, but open to occasional same-sex activity.  He died in 1997.  His Black House has been torn down, and a condominium built on the spot.

See also: Drake on His Knees in Tony Curtis' Dressing Room; Five Three-Ways with Kevin the Vampire.

Sunday, November 13, 2016

Drake on His Knees in Tony Curtis' Dressing Room

San Francisco, November 1996

This story has moved to Boomer's Gay Celebrity Dating Stories.

Is My Nephew Gay?

Indianapolis, September 2016

My sister and her husband moved to Indianapolis shortly after they married.  Terry worked as a car salesman, then ran a car detailing service, while Tammy worked as a secretary, office manager, and finally Assistant Director of Sports Information at a small Methodist college.

It soon became obvious that their son Joseph, born in 1990, had no interest in either cars or sports.  He liked acting, singing, dancing, and modeling.  When he was eight years old, he appeared in some local tv commercials.  When he was twelve, he starred in a community theater production of The Little Prince.

He was also interested was cooking.  He won a chili cookoff at age thirteen, baked homemade bread and pasta, and insisted that the family try every ethnic restaurant in Indianapolis, from Ethiopian to Indonesian.

He started taking Japanese in junior high and went on a study tour of China in high school.

As a teenager, Joseph was tall and slim, with curly blond hair and striking brown eyes, very handsome, and very fey, swishing and limp-wristed, with that nasal "gay accent" voice.  He wore bright pastel shirts and tight bulging jeans and plastic bracelets.

Definitely gay, I thought.

His parents didn't think so.

At age 12:  "He's got a girlfriend at school he hangs out with!"
At age 13:  "He joined the community theater to meet girls!"
At age 14:  "He'll be discovering girls soon, and then, watch out!"
At age 15:  "He's so handsome, all the girls will be lining up to date him."
At age 16:  "He's shy around girls, but he'll come around...."
At age 17:  "He's much too busy to date...."
At age 18:  "There are so many girls he likes, he can't settle on one, so he's going to the senior prom in a group of friends."

I tried my best to let Joseph know that it was ok to be gay, without actually saying that I thought he was:

I gave him a box of books, including several young adult novels on gay topics.

We had conversations about gay writers Yukio Mishima, Oscar Wilde, and Tennessee Williams.

I invited him to visit "me and Yuri" in Florida (he didn't come).

I invited him and "whatever friend you want" to see Angels in America (he came alone).

In 2008, Joseph enrolled at Indiana University, planning a dual major in East Asian Languages and theater.  He wanted to study the "Noh Theater" of Japan.

And he got a girlfriend!

Jan, a fellow theater major from a small town in southern Indiana.

In 2010, my boyfriend Troy and I drove to Indianapolis for Christmas, and met her at Christmas Eve Dinner.

Or at least we met the back of her head.  The rest of her was attached to Joseph.  Every moment they weren't eating or unwrapping a present, they were exploring each other's tonsils.

Her conversation was: "I'm planning [kiss] to concentrate  [kiss] in children's [kiss] theater [kiss]."

Tammy and Terry beamed.  I imagine they were feeling anxious about the possibility of Joseph being gay through his whole life, and now they were validated!  He was straight after all!

I was devastated.  I had spent the last ten years mentoring a gay kid...but he wasn't!

When they graduated in 2012, Joseph enrolled in the doctoral program in Central Asian Languages in Bloomington, and Jan got a job at the Children's Museum in Indianapolis.  They moved into an apartment together in Franklin, Indiana, about halfway between.

Straight -- but...

I found a profile on a gay dating app of a guy who looked like Joseph and was the right age.

Joseph belonged to a couple of gay groups on Facebook, including a Queer News Service.

Half of his Facebook friends were men.

In 2016, he borrowed his father's 1969 Chevy Camero to drive in the Indianapolis Gay Pride Parade (because 1969 was the year of the Stonewall Riots, the beginning of the modern Gay Rights Movement).

Straight ally?  Bisexual?  Genderqueer?

Last September, back in Indianapolis for a funeral, I determined to find out.

I couldn't ask, or -- God forbid -- cruise him, but I could use the age old "eye-widening" technique.

There were a lot of pictures on my phone from my trip to Mexico, including the standard sights, some random friends, and some swimsuit pictures of hot men.  I showed them to Joseph, checking to see which he spent time on and which he flipped through quickly.

He spent time on the hot men.

See also:Nephew Sausage Sighting #5;  We Teach My Nephew the Gay Facts of Life


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