Saturday, December 10, 2016

A Craiglist Hookup on the Plains

Plains, December 2016 (Thankfully)

It's been a terrible semester, the worst I can remember, with bereavement, job problems, financial problems, a pulled muscle that has kept me from running, worries over our new fascist president, and almost no social life at all.  No M4M Parties, no Gay Men's Group. Most of my friends have vanished or gone incognito, and I haven't made any new ones. Just a couple of dates with undergrads that didn't go anywhere (see A Hookup with the Nephew of my First Time and The Boy at the Urinal with the Kovbasa++++).

Yesterday I turned in the final grades, and decided to celebrate by cruising.  But not on Grindr -- I have had enough of twinks calling me "Daddy."  I placed an ad on Craigslist.

Yep, the bottom of the barrel in cruising, where all sorts of crazies, sleazoids, and downlow guys hang out.

I submitted a chest pic and this ad.

Middle aged, athletic, work out daily, hairy chest, looking to host tonight at my apartment near downtown. Into kissing, cuddling, and oral, not into anal.  Any age/race, prefer bigger guys.  Send photo. 

Notice the not into anal?

Here are the responses, copied word for word, with their photos.

1. DJ (top photo).  

I might make it.  I am vers top, like rimming and sucking.

No way -- rimming is a complete turn-off!

2. Ted R.

You still looking?  8" here, bottom, really want a cock inside me tonight.

If you're a bottom, why are you telling me your cock size?  Besides, no way that's 8".  I give it a 5.

3. Pimpboy

Send me pics lol.

The name "Pimpboy" says it all.  I'm sure that photo is from the internet.

4. Jim

I saw your cl ad  and would be interested in joining you  I am a young 51 married discreet professional athletic masculine handsome 6'2" 200# 8.5 uc bottom and into hot sweaty man sex

What you need?  I am vers bottom.  You top or bottom?

On the downlow, and he said "bottom" three times in response to my "not into anal."  Not good at listening.

And look at the way he's sucking in that gut!  Didn't he notice that I like guys with guts?

5. Azi

Still looking ? 25 190 6.5 Asian here.  A threesome would be fun. Are you a top or a bottom?

I can come tonight we can have some beers what you say?  I'm horny as hell.

Way too over-eager, but he only mentioned "bottom" once.  I invited him over, but he never showed up.

6. Max

Saw your ad.  I'm 18, bi, never been with a guy before but want to try. I want a big one.  No car, so you have to pick me up.

No way I'm going to coddle some guy's first time.  Besides, he looks underage.  

7. Country Boy

Hi, I am 25, 5'7", 250, verst  ddf  not out  very discreet   like  oral  both ways rimming  and flip fucking.  Can't get pics on my email, wife checks.  Give me address and where to park.

That is not a 25 year old.  He's on the downlow, "discrete", and likes rimming.  No way.

8. Glen

Very hot hung musc ddf, not into fats or femmes, 420 friendly, bottom.

No 420 (marijuana), another bottom, but what the heck, whichever of the guys this is, he's got a physique.  So, after #5 chickened out, I invited him over.

He looked nothing like either of the two guys in the photo. He was not hot, hung, or musc.

But at least he was into oral.

Wednesday, December 7, 2016

Our First Hookup with Infinite Chazz

Anaheim, California, February 1994

My job at at a camp for juvenile delinquents lasted for only about six months, from July 1992 to January 1993: too many crazy rules, too homophobic.  The only kid I really bonded with was Chazz, a cute 17-year old on a diversion program for vandalism and auto theft, who I helped break the rules to visit his boyfriend.

We stayed in contact, chatting in America Online chatrooms and sometimes talking on the telephone.   After his release, he moved to Orange County, about 40 miles from West Hollywood, to stay with his father and stepmother. He got his high school diploma, enrolled at Cal Stat Fullerton, and got a job at Disneyland!

"You and Lane should come down and visit," he said.  "I can give you a behind-the-scenes tour."

I hated theme parks: the crowds, the noise, the tacky tie-ins, the $15 ice cream cones.  Especially the Disney Main Street, a glorification of the racist, sexist, homophobic 1890s America of Walt Disney's childhood.

But I liked Chazz -- I felt like a big brother to him.  And Lane had fond memories of going to Disneyland as a kid.  So we decided to go down on a Thursday in early February 1994 -- a weeknight in the middle of winter shouldn't be too crowded.

 We checked into our room at the Sheraton around 7:00, picked up Chazz at his parents' house, and took him to dinner at a Mexican restaurant (tip: always eat first, so you don't have to buy the overpriced, saturated fat-laden theme park food).

It had been a year since I saw Chazz in person.  He had changed, or maybe I had permission to notice, now that he was over 18!  Thick arms and shoulders.  A far bigger bulge.  His adolescent features hardened into those of a classic leading man: a square jaw, a heavy brow, soft eyes, and a bright smile.

When we ordered our cheese enchiladas and arroz con pollo, Chazz excused himself and went to the bathroom.

"Why didn't you tell me that your Boy Toy was so drop-dead gorgeous?" Lane exclaimed.

"I know!  Last I saw him, he was a cute kid, and now he's a super-hunk!"

"I'd wear a gay-pride t-shirt to Liberty Baptist Church [where homophobe Jerry Falwell preached] just for a five-second through-the-pants grope."

"I didn't even think you were into twinks.  You like bodybuilders and hairy-chested, bearded bears."

Lane laughed.  "Sometimes a twink will turn my eye.  Remember Danny, my boyfriend before you?  He was a regular Trophy Boy.  And Chazz definitely does the trick.  Any chance of us sharing tonight?"

"I don't know.  Since I was his teacher at Camp Routh, he may not think of me as an erotic possibility.  He might not even be into older guys."

"Older?  Who you calling old, Sonny?!"

"I'm 33.  That's a huge age gap for an 18 year old.  And you're 38, old enough to be his father."

"Just suggest it, will you?"

"Well, I'll ease into the idea."

When Chazz returned, I said "This weekend we're going to see My Father the Hero, starring Gerard Depardieu.  He's very hot, don't you think?"

Chazz shrugged and said something about 20-year old Mackenzie Astin in Iron Will.

I pointed out a hot suit-and-tie guy in his thirties.  Chazz shrugged, but his jaw dropped at the hot teenage busboy.

Grabbing at straws, Lane told about his hookup with Cesar Romero, the Joker on the old Batman tv show.  "He was in his 80s, super hot and super hung, believe me!"

Chazz yawned and said "Before we go over to the park, I should tell you some ground rules:"

1. No physical contact. Hay people are technically allowed at Disneyland -- they can dance together since a lawsuit in 1984 -- but you still have to be careful.  You might not get kicked out for holding hands, but you can get yelled at or beat up.

2. Don't out me in front of the staff.  They're usually ok, but management is really homophobic.  They don't hire anybody who 'looks gay,'   You hear them complaining about 'fags' and 'fairies.'

3. You're my uncles.  Don't out yourselves, either, just to be on the safe side.

"Sounds fun!" I exclaimed, thinking "why are we doing this again?"

Oh, yeah -- Lane wants me to ask Chazz to "share."  After all that oldster-bashing, I don't think so.

Chazz directed us to a "cast member" parking lot, which was a lot closer than "guest parking," and through a secret side entrance that led to Adventureland (yes, we paid the admission fee).

It was a Thursday evening, but the crowds were still intense.  Lots of nuclear families with babies in strollers and overexcited kids, some hot Dads, an occasional teenager.

Chazz got lots of smiles back.  He was getting cruised by everybody.   Literally everybody -- men, women, teenagers, boys, girls, Aladdin and Princess Jasmine.

I pointed out various guys,  to check on how Chazz responded.  He uniformly rejected anyone who looked over 30, and squealed "Gross!" at Daddies and bears.  But high school boys brought a broad smile to his face.

"Do any of the 'guests' approach you and try for a date or a trick?" Lane asked.

"Oh, sure, all the time.  I can't stand the Creepy Old Guys -- they stand so close that you can see their yellowed, rotten teeth and smell their rank breath.  And they think they can impress you by talking about things from before you were born. As if!"

"How old are these Creepy Old Guys?" I asked.

"Oh, way old.  I bet some of them are even old enough to be my dad!"

Lane frowned.

"But I've made dates with a couple of guys my own age, you know, cute ones, ones I have things in common."

Our behind-the-scenes tour involved going into secret side-doors to avoid the lines of rides like Space Mountain and the Mark Twain Steamboat, going into little tunnels to see the animatronic Abraham Lincoln and the Sleeping Beauty Castle, and some shopping in a "cast member"-only store hidden behind one of the seemingly empty storefronts on Main Street U.S.A.

I found it all rather depressing.  I was just waiting for 11:00, when the park would close and this behind-the-scenes tour would have to end.

Finally, as the crowds were pouring through the front entrance through trams, Chazz led us to Adventureland, back into the small side exit, and out onto the still-bustling streets of Anaheim.  We found our car, and started on the way to his house.

Chazz looked alarmed.  "Hey, aren't you going to invite me know, spend the night in your hotel room?  I thought you guys did that all the time."  He reached over and grabbed my knee.

"Not all the time," Lane said from the back seat.  "But sometimes, if we meet someone we both like."

""We didn't think you were into older," I said.

"Well, not Creepy Old Guys, like grandpas, but you guys, normal age, sure.  I been fantasizing about Boomer ever since he was at Camp Routh.  I have a thing for teachers, you know."

I turned around, and Chazz directed me back to the Sheraton.  We went up to the hotel room.

That night he got his nickname of Infinite, and not just because of his Mortadella+.

 See also: Lane's Bear Boyfriend and Infinite Chazz; Lane and His Trophy Boy; and My Scary Date with the Teenage Lawnboy

Tuesday, December 6, 2016

The Gay Painting in My Grandmother's Room

Garrett, Indiana, December 1969

The cold, snowy day after Christmas.  Cousin Buster and I have already played with our toys, and we're tired of sitting around the living room of Grandpa Prater's farmhouse, listening to the adults complain about hippies and laugh about things that happened a thousand years ago.  So we go exploring, hoping to find a secret stash of comic books.

The kitchen
The furnace room
A little room used as as a pantry.
A room with a pump in it.
Some bedrooms.
Grandma Prater's Room.  Locked.  Off-Limits.

Grandma Prater died in 1966, when I was five years, old, so I have only a few random memories of her:  a short, fat, brown woman carrying bags of groceries, frying chicken, telling me a story about a mouse, giving me the nickname Boomer.  She had a thick Kentucky accent.

In a small farmhouse, they could use an extra bed, but after she died, no one ever slept in her bedroom again.  The adults went in to clean, or to look around, but kids weren't allowed: we might "break something."

The door was always locked, but when we played in the house, we always tried it anyway, just in case.

Today the knob turns, and the door stands ajar!  Cousin Buster and I glance at each other in surprise, then push the door open and look inside.

It is a very bright, airy room, not at all stuffy, with two windows and blue wallpaper.  A four-poster bed with a blue comforter,  the covers turned down, a Bible opened to the Psalms, as if Grandma Prater has just stepped out and would return at any moment.

A wooden dresser with photos of Kentucky kinfolk.  A bureau.  Clothes on hangers visible in the open closet door.  A rocking chair with knitting stuff on it.

And a painting: in a lush green forest, a boy is leaning against a tree, playing a flute.  He is wild, savage, naked except for an animal skin. A round red sack hangs from his side.

I stare in awe.  I am looking through a gateway into a "good place," where boys can hold hands and kiss without anyone asking "what girl do you like?"  The boy is a fairy, a mystical sprite, beckoning me, offering a way to the secret world.

After that, on most Christmas and summertime visits, I asked to see Grandma Prater's room.  I became familiar with the bed, dresser, bureau, and rocking chair.  I picked up her Bible, read the annotations, examined her sewing, turned the photos around to see who the subjects were.

But my favorite part of the tour was the painting.

Who was the boy?  Puck from A Midsummer Night's Dream?  A boy Hercules (was that a lion skin?).  I thought of the Piper at the Gates of Dawn in The Wind in the Willows, the painting that led to Narnia, the Road to Elfland in heroic fantasy.

And, as I learned more about my grandmother, the painting seemed more and more out of place.

She was born in 1900 in the desolate hills of Eastern Kentucky.  Although she graduated from high school, a rarity at the time, she lived in isolation and poverty.  During the Great Depression, they survived by making moonshine.  She lost four of her eleven children.  During World War II, she moved to Indiana, to another isolated farmhouse.

She believed in ghosts, haints, witches, and premonitions.  A few weeks before she died, she heard her mother calling her from beyond the grave.

She never read fantasy or mythology, or, as far as I could tell, any book but the Bible.  There was no other art in the house except for a picture of Christ on the Cross and a souvenir from Indiana Dunes.

I asked my mother where the painting came from, but she didn't know -- it had been there as long as she could remember, even back in Kentucky.

Were there art galleries in the Kentucky hills?

Et in Arcadia ego.

Grandpa Prater died in 1978, but Uncle Edd continued to live in the farmhouse for twenty years, and kept up the blue room and the painting.

 I moved to West Hollywood in 1985, and visited my parents twice a year, first in Rock Island and then in Indianapolis, with little time leftover to visit my elderly aunts and uncles.

Before I knew it, ten, twenty, thirty years had passed since I last went into Grandma Prater's room.

Indianapolis, December 2000

Yuri and I are spending Christmas with my parents.  We go into the room that they've turned into a home gym: two exercise bikes, some free weights...and hanging on the wall beside a towel rack, The Painting!

I stand speechless, staring, as memories rush back.

How did it get here?  Maybe when Uncle Edd moved out of the farmhouse, Mom claimed it.

Yuri touches my shoulder.  "Are you ok?"

"Sure...I mean...this is one of my favorite childhood memories, a picture from my grandmother's bedroom.  I thought it was a hint that gay people exist."

"Your grandmother had the Pastyr Devid?"

"You know it?"

Turns out that it was one of the illustrations in a book of Bible stories that Yuri's grandmother read to him.

"I ask for the story of David the Sheep Boy..." Yuri began.


"Ok, David the Sheepherd.  I asked Baba to read me that story many times.  I thought he was beautiful.  Maybe this is where I know I am gay?"

A continent apart, both our grandmothers inadvertently showed us a sign of gay potential.

I looked up the painting on the internet:  it's Shepherd Boy Playing the Flute, by Polish painter Henryk Siemiradzski (1843-1902), who specialized in Biblical and classical scenes.

Leaving two questions:

1. Was Siemiradzski gay?  I don't find a lot of beefcake in his works.  There's a couple of cute guys on the curtain he painted for the Juliusz Slowacki Theater.

2. How did my grandmother get a print of a work by a minor Polish painter in the hills of Eastern Kentucky?

See also: Erotic Story about my Grandpa Prater #2: Stealing the Banjo

Sunday, December 4, 2016

My Date with Robin Williams and His Mega-Hunk Boyfriend

West Hollywood, September 1985

When I first moved to West Hollywod, I expected to see (and meet, and date) celebrities all the time.  But during my first two months, I saw only four., and only met (and sort of dated) one.

So when my friend Marcus invited me to a Labor Day pool party hosted by his film-producer housemate, visions of celebrity beefcake filled my head.

Sylvester Stallone and Lou Ferrigno sunbathe nude.  

Harrison Ford in a speedo dives into the pool and splashes Steve Gutenberg.

Mel Gibson struts  about in his bulgeworthy Mad Max leather chaps.

Besides I heard about West Hollywood parties, where the games involve  penis size contests and the evening ends in the bedroom, with couples bringing in a third to "share."  Maybe me and Harrison Ford and Steve Guttenberg!

Marcus' house was in the Hollywood Hills, only a few miles from my apartment in West Hollywood, but through a maze of narrow, curvy roads named after Greek gods: Hercules, Zeus, Venus, Achilles.

On the way up Laurel Canyon Boulevard, the car behind me decided that I was going too slow, and zoomed around.  As it passed, I got a glimpse of the swishy queen in the passenger seat sneering at me.

It was Robin Williams (1951-2014), soon to become a comedy legend with starring roles in movies like Mrs. Doubtfire, The Fisher King, Hook, Aladdin, and Good Will Hunting.

In 1985 I knew him mostly as the effervescent fish-out-of-water Mork, an alien observer who misunderstood Earth customs and recited treacly morals on the tv show Mork and Mindy (1978-1982), but I had also seen him in Popeye (1980) and The World According to Garp (1982).

He was 34 years old, with rather homely face, but a thick, almost muscular frame and a fabulously fur-covered chest and belly.

Who knew that he was so swishy?

I followed the car as it turned right onto Mount Olympus Drive, then Electra, then Achilles.

We were going to the same party! Robin was gay!

 We pulled up to the valet parking station at the same time.

My jaw dropped: Robin's date was gorgeous! Mid-20s,tanned, Mediterranean features, v-shaped torso, massive shoulders, thick biceps.

"Hi, I'm Boomer!" I exclaimed.

"Pete," the date said with a friendly smile, shaking my hand vigorously.  Robin ignored me and touched Pete's shoulder.  "Could we go inside now?"

He shrugged.  They disappeared inside the house.

I was rather offender -- I naively expected all celebrities to be as friendly as Michael J. Fox -- but Pete piqued my interest, and Robin, swishy or not, was part of the deal.  I was definitely going to be sharing their bed at the end of this party!

Unfortunately, it turned out to be not a West Hollywood party after all.  A lot of men and women standing around in the living room, drinking cocktails and wine spritzers.

A few minor celebrities: C. Thomas Howell (Red Dawn), Tom Hulce (Amadeus), Dean Paul Martin (Misfits of Science).  With women.

I found Marcus out by the pool, where there was a more pleasant male-female ratio, plus hunks in swimsuits.  "Hey, I thought this was a West Hollywood party! All groping and three-ways!"

He grinned.  "It might get a little steamy later on, after the heteros leave."

"Great!  There's still a chance I can make it with Robin Williams and his super-hot boy toy."

"Robin Williams brought a date?  I knew he was gay, but I always figured he was too closeted to be seen with guys in public."

"Well, maybe he's coming out.  And you should see the hunk he's snared!"

 At that moment, Pete emerged onto the patio -- alone.  Seeing my chance, I brought Marcus as an excuse to talk to him.

"We're in town for a week," he told us, "While Robin is appearing at the Comedy Store."  So this wasn't their first date -- they were boyfriends.  "I miss San Francisco, and my home gym.  I can't wait to get back."

"I go to the Hollywood Spa.  It's a nice facility...." I began.

"Sorry, it's noisy out here," Pete said, leaning close.  I put my arm around his waist.  Marcus found someone else he needed to say hello to, and vanished.  "How's the free weight situation?"

Pete was cruising me while his boyfriend was in the other room?  He must want to "share. "Excellent.  I can get you a day pass, if you'd like to work out with me -- say tomorrow afternoon?  Robin, too -- a lot of celebrities work out there."

"Sounds great.  I'll have to check with the Boss, but I think we're free."

I laughed at his joke -- calling his partner The Boss!"

We had barely finished exchanging telephone numbers when Robin flounced onto the patio like a 1930s movie diva.  "I'm all done here," he said curtly.  "Let's go."

"I invited Pete to work out with me tomorrow," I said. "You're invited too, of course.  And afterwards maybe we could have dinner...."

Followed by sharing!

Robin glared at me, no doubt upset at someone cruising his date.  "Sorry, but I'm very busy. I'm working on some new material for my show tomorrow night."  He pulled at Pete's arm.  "Come on, we're done here."

Pete shot me a pained look and allowed himself to be led out.

We didn't work out together, but the next night Pete called and asked if I wanted to go cruising.  We went to the Gold Coast, where we looked at the hot guys, talked about San Francisco  -- surprisingly, he didn't say much about Robin, except that they had been together for less than a year.  We drank orange juice, kissed, and groped.

Then I followed Pete to a house on Crestview Street where all of the out-of-town performers at the Comedy Store stay.

We sat on the couch, and Pete pushed my hand down onto the bulge in his jeans.  He was already aroused.

Shouldn't we wait for Robin to get here?  "What about Robin...." I murmured.

"Oh, he doesn't mind," Pete said, unzipping.  His Kielbasa+, uncut, sprang to life.  I wrapped my hand around the shaft.

I started going down on him.  He leaned back and spread his legs and mussed my hair.  "That's good -- great."

I worked feverishly, expecting the door to open at any moment and an irate boyfriend to come bursting in.  Soon Pete spurted down my throat with a very loud "Yeah!", then moved me to the floor to go down on me.  But I wasn't able to stay aroused.  Eventually he switched to using his hand while we kissed.

When I finished, I tried to lead Pete into the bedroom, but he said "Robin will be back soon, so you'd better go."

What about sharing?  "Go?  Wait -- I thought..."

"But it's been great!  We're heading back to San Francisco tomorrow, but keep in touch.  Maybe you can come up and visit sometime."

"That would be fun."  I walked out of the house feeling guilty, unclean.  This was not sharing.  Closeted celebrity or not, I had helped Pete cheat on his boyfriend.

I didn't call Pete in San Francisco, and I didn't make up a "sharing" experience to tell at West Hollywood parties.   I didn't want anything more to do with the sordid affair.

Was Robin Williams Gay?

In September 1985, Robin Williams was married to Valerie Valardi, with a two year old son, Zachary.  He would marry twice more during his life.

He played many gay and gay-vague characters over the years, in The Birdcage, The Night Listener, and in his last movie, The Boulevard.   Some of his performances were extremely homophobic, yet he was always an advocate for gay rights and gay marriage.  When her daughter Zelda came out as bisexual, Robin was completely supportive.

One would expect that, with that gay-positive background, Robin would be open about being bisexual, but he always insisted that he was 100% into the ladies.  He never even considered having a same-sex experience.

So, if Pete wasn't a boyfriend, who was he?

Maybe a personal assistant or a bodyguard?  He never claimed that they were boyfriends, and he did call Robin "the boss."

By the way, in case you want to see it, here's Robin's penis, from The World's Greatest Dad (2009).  There may have been some shrinkage.

See also: Michael J. Fox Beneath the Belt; and The World According to Mork

A Ginger Boy for Christmas

Wednesday, December 24, 1986:

I'm 26 years old. living in West Hollywood, but back in Rock Island for the holidays.  After the traditional Christmas Eve pizza and gift-unwrapping, at my parents' house,  Fred picks me up.

He's my ex-boyfriend, 34, tall, athletic, with a stern, rugged face, a smooth chest, and impressive beneath-the-belt gifts.

When we met, he was student clergy.  During my sophomore year in college, he got a church assignment, and talked me into moving to Omaha with him.  I lasted for a miserable month.  Now he's working as a mental health counselor in Kansas City.

He's  home for the holidays, staying at his parents' farmhouse, about 30 miles south of Rock Island.

We're going to spend the night together, and then have the traditional Christmas morning breakfast and present-unwrapping at his house.

"I told my parents you might have a friend with you," Fred tells me.  "I didn't know if you were bringing Raul home from West Hollywood."

"We broke up a couple of weeks ago, so I'm single again.  I just met [My Celebrity Boyfriend], but we haven't arranged a date yet."

"That's ok.  Who knows?  You might make a friend tonight!"

"I'd rather have you to myself.  We haven't seen each other since last Christmas."  We may be broken up, but Fred is enormously attractive, and I'm feeling especially vulnerable tonight.

"So we'll share.  That's all the rage in West Hollywood, right?"

We go out to JR's, the biggest of Rock Island's 3 gay bars, a sort of country-western disco.  It draws both gay men and lesbians.

It's crowded.  A lot of people home for the holidays and trying to escape from their crazy fundamentalist relatives.  I grew up in Rock Island, but I don't see any of my old high school friends.

But Fred does.  "Hey, I knew that guy!" he exclaims, gesturing at a short, rather buffed ginger guy in a black lumberjack shirt [top photo].  "Scotty, from high school!  He was a few years younger than me, my little brother's age. Cute!  I had no idea he was gay!"

"Did he knew that you were?"

He grinned.  "Let's go find out."

"Well, I was hoping..."

Scotty says that he doesn't remember Fred at all -- even in a small high school, there are rigid barriers between classes. But he is happy to reunite.

Like us, Scotty is back in Rock Island spending Christmas with his family.  He is doing some kind of marketing work for Hallmark Cards in Kansas City.

"What a coincidence!" Fred exclaims.  "I'm in Kansas City, too.  A counselor at Prairie Ridge [Psychiatric Hospital]."

"You should get together after the holidays,"  I suggest.

"Or now," Fred said, fondling Scotty's chest.  "I told my parents I would be having a friend spend the night."

"If you don't mind two of us," I added.

Scotty seem to see me for the first time.  "Oh, no, two is great."

So I get to watch while Fred and Scotty become re-acquainted in the attic of his parents' farmhouse.  Scotty has a nice, tight physique, smooth, hairless, and a thick cut Bratwurst, but I don't get a chance to do much with it.  Or with Fred, for that matter.  They're attached to each other the whole night.

In the morning, we have breakfast and open Christmas presents.  Fred's parents think that Scotty is my boyfriend Raul, and ask him about his Hispanic heritage.

I don't know if Fred and Scotty date back in Kansas City or not.  I don't hear from him again except for brief post cards for over a year, when he appears outside the French Quarter with Matt the Cute Young Thing.

Monday, December 24th, 1990

I'm 30 years old, living with Lane.  He can't get off work for two weeks (and doesn't want to leave West Hollywood)., so I'm back in Rock Island alone, free to cruise other guys, as long as I bring a close friend along.

After our traditional Christmas Eve pizza and present unwrapping, Dick picks me up.

He's my old grade school bully, now my only gay friend in Rock Island: tall, tan, thickly-muscled, with a gigantic Kielbasa+ beneath the belt.  We always get together when I'm in town at Christmastime and during the summer, sometimes for dinner, sometimes to spend the night.

We rarely cruise together, but Dick has just broken up with his boyfriend (I'm not the only one who has relationship problems at Christmas).  So he's anxious to meet someone, and suggests JR's.  But he doesn't want to leave me out: "You can spend the night too, of course.  Whichever of us meets someone, the other will share, ok?"

"Sure, sounds great."

We go to JR's.  It's crowded again.  Dick chats with a couple of guys he knows, and I scan the room.

There's Scotty the Ginger Boy again!  A little older, of course, with longer hair and a short red beard.  I take Dick's arm.  "Hey, I know that guy!  Fred and I hooked up with him a few years ago."

"Not bad, not bad.  How was he in the sack?"

"Well, I don't know, really.  He and Fred were so into each other that I hardly got my mouth on anything of his.  Or Fred's.  And I had been looking forward to being with Fred again for weeks."

Dick laughs.  "Sounds awful.  How about an instant replay?  But this time, I'll see to it you have a place to put your mouth.  Leave it all to me."

We walk over and start talking to Scott, who doesn't remember me until I mention Fred.  No, they didn't stay in contact in Kansas City.  He got busy, you know?

This guy is a bit of a jerk.

But Dick is working his magic, and within a few minutes, Scotty has agreed to come home with him.

"Boomer will be there too, of course.  You're into both of us, right?"

"Who?" Scotty asks, confused.

I raise my hand.  "Remember me from your night with Fred?"

"Oh, sure, two of you will be fine," he murmurs.

Now this guy is totally into Dick.  How am I going to get any activity?

 We go back to Dick's house, across the street from Denkmann School, go into the bedroom, and strip.

Scotty tries to kiss Dick, but instead Dick kneels and goes down on me.  And stays there. No matter how much Scotty tries to draw him to his feet.  Finally Scotty lies down on the bed, and I get to kiss and go down on him, while Dick stays firmly attached to me.

 "Hey, could I get some of that?" Scotty asks, grabbing at Dick's enormous Kielbasa.

"Sure, be my guest."  Dick moves up, lies on his stomach, and starts kissing me.  Scotty isn't into anal, so he has no place to go but onto me.

We fall asleep in each other's arms, with Scotty between us.  I have access to him all night.

The best Christmas gift ever.  And don't feel sorry for Scotty -- he got a lot of action.

See also: Topped by the Mayor; The Muscle Bear with the Pierced Penis