Sunday, December 31, 2017

In Search of Australian Aboriginal Men

Brisbane, Australia, July 2002

In 1986, I followed an Australian cowboy to his home on Kangaroo Island, with only the briefest of layovers in Sidney before going on to visit Alan in Japan.

This summer, same problem: my conference is in Brisbane, and I don't have the time or money to spend more than two days in Sydney.

Still, a week in Australia!  A chance to meet Aboriginal men!

Of course, there's nothing wrong with Anglo-Australians (80% of the population), or Chinese or Indian-Australians (8%) of the population).  But I can meet Anglo and Asian guys at home, or in Europe.  When will I be able to meet an Aboriginal Australian again?

Their culture is at least 40,000 years old: they began their migration to the continent during the Middle Paleolithic Era.

Most of the tribes practice so-called "ritualized homosexuality," in which the older men initiate the young men into the community through oral sex.

Initiate, right.

There are 27 language families, with over 100 languages in daily use, as distinct as English and Navajo.

The Wagiman word for "penis" is lagiriny, "tail."

The Ngarluma word for "erection" is jurdu, a cognate of jurdurn, "mountain peak."

Now that I've got to see!

Aboriginal Australians have a distinctive look, with dark-skin, frizzy hair, and broad noses. I couldn't find any nude photos on online bulletin boards (the precursor of blogs), but I imagine they have rather impressive mountain peaks..

They constitute only about 3% of the population, concentrated mostly in the north and the west.  Fortunately, I will be visiting during NAIDOC, a week of celebrations of Aboriginal culture, when many more from the outlying villages will descend upon Brisbane.

Sunday, June 30th

It's a 22 hour flight from Fort Lauderdale to Sydney, with stops in Los Angeles and Fiji, somehow arriving at noon on the same day I left.  I'm too exhausted to do anything on Sunday, but on Monday and Tuesday I visit the Sydney Opera House, the Museum of Contemporary Art, the Jewish Museum, the Sydney Sauna, and a sex club called the Signal.

Wednesday, July 2nd.

An hour and a half flight from Sydney to Brisbane, then a half hour train trip downtown, arriving around 2:00 pm.  I can't afford the Brisbane Hilton, so I am staying at a hip 3-star hotel nearby.

The desk clerk, whose nameplate reads "Chad," smiles professionally.  He's in his early 20s, brown-skinned, with straight hair, a sharp face, and a tight, muscular frame.  I figure he's South Asian, or maybe Polynesian.

"If I can do anything to make your stay more pleasant, let me know.  I'm here every afternoon until 5:00 pm."  Our hands touch as he gives me the key.  "I'm an authority on Brisbane, so if there are any particular sights you are interested in, just ask."

Very friendly bloke.

I check in at the conference, look at some of my literature, and explore downtown a bit.  The opening session last from 7 to 9.  Afterwards I'm too tired to go out.



Thursday, July 3rd.

Conference presentations in the morning and early afternoon, but at 3:00 pm it's time to head out to NAIDOC events and cruise for Aboriginal men.

"Have you been to the Queensland Cultural Centre?" Chad the Desk Clerk asks. "It's on Grey Street, on the other side of the river, just across Victoria Bridge.  A nice walk."

"That's next on my list!" I exclaim.  But first, the "NAIDOC Tea Dance" at the River Plaza on Scott Street.

I've never heard the term "Tea Dance" except in a gay context, so I assume that the River Plaza is a gay bar, with a 4:00 pm Tea Dance where Aussie blokes of all races, sizes, and shapes mingle and hook up.

When I get there, it turns out to be a retirement community.  I read the listing wrong; it's not a "Tea Dance," it's a "Tea" for elderly Aboriginal Australians!

I leave with egg on my face, go back to my hotel, have dinner, and then check my Spartacus Guide for real gay bars and bathhouses.

The Cruise Club, a bar with a dark room is only about 10 blocks away.   Nearly deserted on a Thursday night at 9:00 pm, but I manage to go down on a rather ugly, moustached, greasy-haired bloke who sports an enormous penis, easily a Mortadella, as thick around as a beer can.

He rushes off when he finishes.  I didn't even have a chance to say hello.


Friday, July 4th.

A national holiday back home, but of course not here.  More presentations in the morning.  I cut out at noon and ask Chad the Desk Clerk where I can rent a car.

"Taking a road trip?  I suggest Sandgate.  It's a beautiful seaside village about a half hour north of here.  There's a great place for high tea there, Olga's.  If you can wait until..."

"Thanks, but I've had enough tea for a lifetime!", I exclaim.

Instead I drive through heavy weekend traffic to Toowomba, about 1 1/2 hours west of Brisbane.

It would probably be a very pretty city, full of interesting colonial-era architecture, except that it's mid-winter,  I'm freezing in my light jacket, and I'm starving.  I stop at an outrageously overpriced sushi bar, and i don't even like sushi.

Finally I make it to the NAIDOC event:  a presentation on aboriginal culture at a Lutheran Church.  I'm expecting a vast cathedral packed with hundreds of people.  No -- it's held in the fellowship hall downstairs.  Twenty aboriginal families, a few Anglo members of the congregation, and me, feeling distinctly out of place.

I drive back to town, have dinner at a Korean place, and find a bath house about 2 miles from the hotel.  It's not terribly crowded, but I manage to meet another greasy-haired guy with an enormous penis (they must be a staple in Australia) and  a middle-aged South Asian guy on the downlow.

Later I hook up with the only black guy in the bath house: in his 20s, with frizzy hair, a tight muscular frame, and an uncut nine-incher.  An Aboriginal Australian!

After we kiss for awhile, he throws his legs in the air for me to top him.  Instead I go down on him for a few minutes.

"Are you sure you don't want to f*** me?" he asks.

Wait -- that's an American accent.

I lift up my head.  "Where are you from?"

"Atlanta.  So, how about if I f** you?"


.




Saturday, July 5th.

After the conference presentations in the morning, I drive out to East Brisbane for the last NAIDOC Event on my list, a program of Aboriginal dance at Coorparoo Secondary College (a  high school).

I sit in an auditorium, surrounded by schoolkids and their parents, watching Aboriginal dances performed by little boys.

The dances are interesting, but still -- I feel out of place, and rather guilty, as if I'm perving on the kids.

Afterwards I leave quickly, skipping the refreshments, drop off my rental car, and walk back to my hotel.

Chad the Desk Clerk says "You look like you're not enjoying our great city as much as you should be."

"A bunch of wild goose chases!"

"Well, maybe you need a knowledgeable tour guide.  Are you free tomorrow?  It's my day off, and....?"

Chad is asking me out!

"Um..,actually, I'm getting on a plane back to America tomorrow.  What about tonight?"

He frowns.  "Sorry, I have a family thing tonight.  It's NAIDOC Week, you know.  Got to pay my respects to the elders."

"Huh?"

"I'm Aboriginal -- Turrbal nation. We're the original owners of Meanjin, all the land around Brisbane -- so obviously I could give you an in-depth tour, if you know what I mean."

I've been searching for Aboriginal men all week, and there was a cute, gay Aboriginal guy right here in the hotel!  "Will you be done later?" I ask in a rather desperate tone.  "We could get together then."

"Well, these things run rather late," he says doubtfully, "But we'll see.  Maybe I'll ring you up."

He doesn't ring me up.

See also: In Search of Sex and Languages in South Africa and The Cowboy of Kangaroo Island.





Wednesday, December 27, 2017

Cartoon Superheroes in Peril

Robin the Boy Wonder was introduced into the Batman comic books to give the Caped Crusader someone to rescue, and ever since, a tied, tormented, and threatened Boy Wonder has been a comic book mainstay.









Regardless of whether he is Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, or any of the other incarnations.


















Fan artists have certainly noticed, and produced any number of X-rated pictures of Robin in chains.

[All pictures are the property of their respective artists, and depict adults.]














But why stop with Robin?  Why not depict Spiderman, Peter Parker, being tormented by the Green Goblin on a dildo bench, with a vibrator attached to his penis?








Superman is invulnerable to most ropes, but insert a kryptonite dildo or two, and you'll have him right where you want him.  In this case, on a milking machine.

Did you know that Kryptonians have no pubic hair?

More after the break















Tuesday, December 26, 2017

Lane on the Plains: Twinks, Daddies, Cowboys, and a Rabbi

Plains, June 2017

"It's not fair," I told David.  "Since I left San Francisco, you've been out to visit me four times.  Since he moved to London, Yuri has been out to visit me four times.  But Lane won't leave West Hollywood.  I always have to fly out to visit him."

"What's wrong with West Hollywood?"  David asked.

"Nothing -- I love it there.  But it's a long, expensive flight, and Lane has more money and more free time than I do.  He should do some of the visiting."

When I met Lane in 1989, he was 33 years old, and he had only been out of Southern California twice, to visit relatives in New York and spend a year on a kibbutz in Israel.

"Why should I go anywhere?" he always said.  "I'm already here."

During the seven or eight years we were together, I convinced him to go on trips to Europe and two road trips across the United States, but after we broke up, he had a relapse.  For the last twenty years, he has only left Southern California once, to get married in his partner's home town of Salt Lake City.

"What you have to do is sell the Plains," David said.  "Give him some overwhelming reason to come here -- other than seeing you, that is. What is he interested in?"

#1. He likes a strong Jewish presence. But there are like 400 Jewish people in the whole state, two synagogues, one full-time rabbi.

"Ok, don't stress the Jewish angle.  Anything else he's passionate about?"

#2. Science fiction.  He's read every science fiction novel ever written.  But there aren't a lot of sci-fi bookstores on the Plains.

"Anything else?"

#3. Leather/bears/motorcycles.  There's a motorcycle rally in Sturgis, but not until August.

"Well, what about men?"

"#4. Older guys, beefy Daddy types.  But they're in short supply on the Plains.  I can go on Grindr and get ten twinks in an hour, but...

#5. Thai, Indian, and Vietnamese food.  

Both a rarity Finally I hit on it .  #6: Mount Rushmore!

"The great stone faces that Cary Grant climbed at the end of North by Northwest?  What's so great about them?"

"I don't know, but we missed them on our road trip in 1995 -- the highway was too packed to get through -- so it might be a big enough draw to get him out here."

It worked -- a promise of a trip to Mount Rushmore got Lane on a plane.  He came during my week "off" between Indianapolis and Amsterdam.

Thursday

Lane arrives at 4:30 pm -- alone..  He's 61 years old, balding, eyeglassed, but more buffed than when we were together, with thick hairy arms, a bulky chest, and a full beard.    I take him to dinner a place that serves Ethiopian food on weekends, and then to the gay-friendly coffee house for dessert.

"I didn't arrange for any sharing," I tell him.  "Since you and Ben are married, I figured you are monogamous."

He grins.  "Well, actually, we've been bringing in third guys, sort of like when you and I were together.  And when we're traveling, a close friend can substitute.  So if you have a friend you'd like to introduce me to..."

"Well, guys our age are in short supply here on the Plains.  I know a lot of twinks, but..."

To my surprise, he says: "Sure, no problem, I can handle being a Daddy.  As long as he's not young enough to be my grandson."

So I go on Grindr and arrange a hookup with a physical therapy major named Dack: short, slim, smooth body, kind of feminine, rather small penis.  Into kissing and anal (but Lane and I talk him into going down on us).

He's 19, young enough to be Lane's grandson, but in the heat of the moment Lane doesn't mind:  "Wait until I tell Ben!  He thinks 40 year olds are kids, and I went down on a 19 year old!"


Friday

We drive to Rapid City, South Dakota, and see the 19th century Norwegian stave church, the Berlin wall exhibit, and the art walk downtown.  At Mitzi's Books on Main Street, Lane buys a rare first edition of Logan's Run, the 1967 dystopian science fiction novel that was adapted into a 1976 movie. (#2: Science Fiction).

We have dinner at a Vietnamese restaurant (#5: Vietnamese food), work out in the hotel gym, and then go cruising.

Rapid City has three gay-friendly mixed bars.  We go to the Brass Rail, which looks like a straight bar except for the complete lack of women and guys hugging and kissing.  We end up going home with a black guy who asks us to call him "Daddy," although he's only in his 40s, tops (#4: Daddies).

Oh, well, he has a reasonably buffed physique, a hairy chest, and a massive Kielbasa.  A little too into nipple play, and an anal top, but he settles for me going down on him while he goes down on Lane.

Then we go back to our hotel.

"This has been a great day!" Lane exclaims.  "I can't wait to text Ben.  Imagine -- a 1967 first edition of Logan's Run!"

Leave it to Lane to find a science fiction novel more impressive than a Kielbasa.

Saturday

Mount Rushmore is 23 miles from Rapid City, but the traffic is bumper-to-bumper due to construction, an accident, and summertime crowds. So we give up and backtrack to Deadwood instead.

It's an old gold rush town, full of Wild West lore -- and Jews!

 In the 19th century, it had a large Jewish population, including Blanch Colman, who became the first female lawyer in the state, and Sol Star, who became a state senator (played by John Adams on the tv series Deadwood).  One third of the buildings on Main Street were owned by Jewish merchants (#1: A Jewish presence).

We tour downtown and then go to Mount Moriah Cemetery, where Wild Bill Hickok and Calamity Jane are buried.  It has a "Hebrew Hill" with over 80 tombstones.

There's also a small synagogue, one of three in the state.  We missed Shabbat services last night, but the student rabbi meets us for dinner at the Deadwood Grille.  He's in his 30s, handsome, with black wavy hair.  We don't hook up, but there are a couple of cute guys working out shirtless in the hotel gym.

"A synagogue in the middle of nowhere!" Lane exclaims.  "That rabbi really had some guts to take a congregation way out here!  I guess he did it for the history."

Sunday

We have breakfast, go to the St. John's Episcopal Church in Deadwood, and then drive over to Sturgis, the home of the annual bike rally.

On other days of the year there's not a lot to do, but we see the Sturgis Motorcycle Museum and have lunch in the Loud American Road House before heading down to Mount Rushmore again (#3: Motorcycles).

Bumper-to-bumper traffic again.  We stop at the Reptile Gardens and then go on Grindr, and find someone interested in hosting on a ranch on Rockerville Road, about 20 miles away: Steve, in his 30s, who works as a paramedic and rents out the ranch.  He travels to Europe every year, and has also been to Israel, Egypt, Morocco, Algeria, and Tunisia.

A husky, scruffy bear with a hairy chest and belly, thick hard hands, and a cut Bratwurst (#3: Bears).  And he does ride a motorcycle.

I go down on him while he's going down on Lane, and then I finish with interfemoral.

By the time we say goodbye, it's too late to go to Mount Rushmore, so we drive back to Rapid City.

"I can't wait to tell Ben that I hooked up with a real cowboy!" Lane exclaims.

Monday

It's time to drive back home.

"Sorry we never got a chance to see Mount Rushmore," I say.

"Oh, I can always see photos.  I got science fiction, Vietnames food, a Jewish community, a Daddy, a rabbi, and a cowboy.  I'd say that's more than enough for one visit."  He pauses.  "So, tonight, do you know any twinks we could hook up with?"

See also: 21 Surprising Facts about Lane; Why You Should Visit Sturgis, South Dakota Next August.


Sunday, December 24, 2017

Wilton's First Time was with Captain Kirk



Millions of Baby Boomer kids got their first glimpse of beefcake on Star Trek (1966-69) where, week after week, Captain Kirk  would take his shirt off to fight alien monsters or kiss alien babes. I didn't find him attractive -- he was too smug, too leery, and way too hetero.

Shatner continued to play Kirk in movies and parodies for 40 years, but he also appeared in a wide variety of movies and tv series, including starring roles in T. J. Hooker, Boston Legal, and Sh** My Dad Says.

Married four times, with a notorious eye for the ladies, Shatner has no gay rumors, that I know of.  George Takei, who played Sulu on Star Trek, reveals that the entire cast and crew knew that he was gay, except Shatner: "it went right over his head."  For him, gay people simply did not exist.



But in his early days, Shatner was quite different.


Montreal, September 1947

Wilton was 16 years old (model is over 18), a sophomore at West Hill High School in Montreal, and an aspiring journalist -- he had already published a poem about the War.

Physically, he was not so hot --  a tall stringbean, pushing through puberty with oversized hands and feet, oily skin, and constant horniness.

He didn't know that gay people were defined as "criminal psychopaths" in the Canadian penal code.  He didn't even know that gay people exist.

But he knew that Johnny Sheffield in a loincloth in Tarzan and the Huntress made him feel all hot and flushed.

And he had a picture of Alan Ladd with his shirt off hidden in a desk drawer in his room.

And he liked looking at the football players.  Some of them were nice, saying "hello" to him in the hallway and collaborating with him on class assignments,  but many of them were jerks.

Bill Shatner was a jerk.

Wilton had to admit that he was cute, with that curly reddish-brown hair and that bright Pepsodent smile. But he was a money-hungry, mercenary, soulless cog in the Cold War machine.  He wasn't interested in acting then, although he had done some children's theater.  He was all about money and getting rich -- offensive to Wilt's artistic sensibility.  He planned to get a football scholarship to McGill, major in economics, then start his own business.

But it wasn't just a difference in temperament.  Bill strutted around like he owned the place.  He wasn't even a star...he played an offensive end -- that's a minor position, but it made him a regular Jim Thorpe, in his own mind anyway.

When he was in a good mood, he ignored Wilton, walked right past like he was a ghost.  And God forbid he was in a bad mood -- he'd make with the nonstop jokes about Wilton's height, his acne, calling him ugly and a fruit, asking if he had pubic hair yet.



Wilton was a reporter for the school paper, and one day the editor gave him an assignment of interviewing one of the football players other than the quarterback -- anyone else he wanted.

He went into the locker room one day after practice to ask for volunteers -- and to gawk at the naked jocks, of course.

"Hi, I'm doing an article on what it's like to be on our football team," he began.  "And I was wondering if any of you would...."

Bill Shatner was walking from the shower wearing a towel, his chest hard and gleamng.  Wilton lost his train of thought.

"Um...would....would mind being interviewed."

"Hot-cha, Jackson!" he exclaimed with a smile.  "I'll be there with all my ears on."

Not that drip!  Wilton thought.  Anybody but him!   But he said "Ok, fine.  How about tomorrow lunchtime in the library?"

"No -- that's not private enough.  I don't want the whole world to know my deep, dark secrets.  Come to my house tonight after dinner."

So around 8:00 pm, Wilton knocked on the door of small flat-roofed house on rue Marcel, near the Bois de Saraguay.  He was surprised to see a mezuzah on the door frame -- he hadn't realized that the Shatners were Jewish.

Bill's father answered, and drew him into the living room, where his mother, aunt, and sister were listening to Family Theater on the radio.


"You're not going out to a soda shop, are you?"  Dad asked.

Going out?   "No, sir."

 "Good. You may not know that this is Erev Yom Kippur: tomorrow is the Day of Atonement, when we pray and fast to atone for our sins of the last year.  Nothing to eat from sundown to sundown."

Then Bill came bounding down the stairs wearing just his pants.  Wilt stared at his bare chest.  Suddenly he was flushed with erotic energy.

"Is that anyway to dress when you are entertaining a young man?" Mom asked.

"Sorry -- I just got out of the shower. "  He clapped Wilton on the shoulder.  "Howsa, Jackson -- let me spare you this agony -- come up to my room while I finish getting dressed, and then we'll blow."

Wilton followed Bill up to his room -- single bed, desk, pennant from McGill, bookcase with a few books on sports.  He carefully closed the door behind them.

"Where are we going?"

"Oh, I thought we could get some moo goo and meet some sweet petites [get ice cream and look for girls]. Better than hanging around this morgue, right?"     Bill dropped his pants -- he was wearing no underwear.  His cock was long, thick, cut.  Wilt stared.

"I never saw one that was circumcized before...."  His face was burning.  "Can I...touch it?"

Bill grinned.  "Be my guest."

Wilt knelt to get a better look.  He gingerly ran his fingers over the shaft, lifted the head. It began to stiffen.

Bill was caressing his hair, holding his shoulders, thrusting his pelvis gently forward and backward as his cock grew longer.

Wilton had never heard of oral sex before, but instinctively he opened his mouth and let Bill's cock slide in.  He grabbed the base to control it better, and bobbed up and down, licking the shaft like it was a lollipop.

"Suck it," Bill suggested.  "Make like you're a hoover [vacuum cleaner]."

Wilton began sucking and licking the head while masturbating the shaft.  He grabbed Bill by the butt to steady himself.

"That's it.  Good job," Bill murmured. ' Good boy."  He thrust hard, shuddered, and suddenly spurted an enormous load into Wilton's mouth.  He didn't know what to do with it -- he looked around, saw a box of tissues by the bed, and jumped up to deposit the load into one.

"Thanks, buddy-boy."  Bill took the tissue from his hand and threw it into the waste basket.  "He shoots -- he scores!"  He began putting on his clothes.

"Got anything to get the taste out of my mouth?"

"A smooth and creamy at Dairyland should do the trick."

"But...Yom Kippur.  The Day of Atonement."

"I've already atoned, Jackson.  I wanted to make up for all the times I was mean to you in the last year.  I knew what you wanted -- it's what all fairies want -- so why not give it to you?  And the soda is part of the deal, too."

They didn't become lovers -- Wilton didn't go down on another guy until college.  They didn't even become friends.  But Bill Shaner was a lot nicer after that.  And whenever they passed each other in the hallway, they shared a secret smile.

Friday, December 22, 2017

I Pick Up a Boy and His Daddy at an Airport in Montana

Helena, Montana, April 2013

In the spring of 2013, desperate to get out of Philadelphia, I sent out a lot of application portfolios, but being obviously over 40, with 13 years of temporary "visiting faculty" jobs, plus a resume-full of gay-themed research, made me less than desirable as a candidate.  I only got three interviews: a women's college somewhere in eastern Pennsylvania, a Catholic college in Montana, and a public university on the Plains (I took the Plains).

My flight to Helena, Montana gave me a 2-hour layover in Denver.

I don't mind layovers.  The Denver Airport has an artwalk with some of the most interesting public art in the U.S., plus a nice view of the mountains and a nice breakfast place.

Plus airports are great for physique watching: an endless variety of businessmen in suits, college boys in t-shirts and short pants, hot dads balancing their toddlers on their knees.

Helena Airport, on the other hand, is tiny, with a single lobby and a single restaurant, Captain Jack's Bistro and Bar.  Pictures of cowboys, pillars that look like trees.

After my interview, they took me to the airport at 3:00 pm for my 5:00 flight, even though I had my boarding pass and was through security in about 30 seconds.  Nothing to do but get on my laptop and look out at the dark clouds rumbling overhead and wonder if I was going to make it to Philadelphia.

Not a lot of beefcake to watch: a couple of high school athletes, a middle-aged cowboy with a nice basket.  Otherwise all women, kids, or elderly people.

And a twink: tall, slim, with weird wavy hair, a bearded oval face, prominent eyebrows, and those big round earrings, wearing a white button-down shirt and red jeans with a nice bulge.  Rather feminine, flaunting about with his carry-on.  I noticed that it had a rainbow flag on it.

My first gay guy in Montana, and he's not closeted!  Too bad that he's not my type.

Even though there were lots of empty seats, he plopped down next to me.

"Going to Denver?  Yeah, I guess we're all going to Denver.  I'm off to visit my sister in Tucson -- she just had a baby.  I haven't seen her in almost a year.  My name is Jacob."

"Congratulations," I said.   "My name is Boomer."

He grabbed my arm.  "Oh, I bet there's a story behind that."

"Three of them, in fact."  I don't usually make conversation in airports -- there's little point -- you'll both be flying off in different directions in a few minutes.  But -- the only gay person in Helena, Montana!   "I'm going home to Philadelphia.  I was here for a job interview."

"Oh,  Boomer, I hope you get the job.  I'd love to show you the sights!  Did you get a chance to see Cruse Avenue?"

"Cruise Avenue?  Is that the gay neighborhood?"

"No, silly!"  He slapped my shoulder.  "It's a great street that overlooks downtown and the mountains, so you can get a birds' eye view of everything! Oh, and I'd take you to the Holter Museum, and the 4J's -- that's our best casino, not like Las Vegas, but it's fun!  And if you like dancing, they have country-western line dancing at the Rialto."

"Boys dancing together?"

"Sure, whatever you want.  We're open minded in the Big Sky Country."

Did this guy work for the Tourist Bureau?  "I'm really more into classical music."

He grabbed my arm again.  "Babe, you're in luck.  My Daddy is one of the performers at the Montana Early Music Festival. That's why he's not going to Tucson with me --they're performing at St. Peter's tonight.  That's the Episcopal Cathedral downtown."

Daddy?  My ears perked up.  Adults did not refer to their parents as "Daddy," so Jacob was outing himself as the bottom in a fetish relationship that was about control rather than BDSM.  "So, how long have you and your...daddy been together?"

"About three years. I don't call him Daddy all the time, of course.  I call him Mike on campus and to his ex-wife.  She's not very accepting -- she thinks we're just roommates.  But most people in Helena couldn't care less.  It's live and let live up here."  Suddenly there was a rumble of thunder, and it started to pour outside.  The clouds were so dark they were almost black.

Jacob reached out and stroked my knee -- very open for an airport!  And how did he even know I was gay?   "It looks like we might be going to that concert after all."

About fifteen minutes later, our flight was indeed cancelled, so I was stuck in Helena overnight.  I could call the college and have them get me a hotel room, but whenever I've done that, I haven't gotten the job.  Besides, Jacob was already calling his Daddy to arrange for me to spend the night.

I wondered what Daddy looked like: older, of course, and an anal top, but...a stern leather master?  A cigar-chomping bear?  A hard-drinking, tattoo-covered redneck?

Well, it wouldn't hurt to meet him, anyway.

I got Jacob's full name and number, and emailed them to Troy in New York -- just a precaution -- then followed him to his car, clinging against him under his umbrella.

We had dinner at a Mexican restaurant -- he grabbed my knee under the table while I ate my arroz con pollo with guacamole, and briefly held my hand.

 Then we went to the Rialto, the country-western gay bar.  Deserted at 6:00 pm on a rainy Thursday night -- but we managed to find a secluded corner for kissing.

"I'm going to be servicing two Daddies tonight," Jacob murmured, running his  hand over my chest.  "One for each end.  Oh, I can't wait.  I hope you're as hung as my Daddy is."

"How hung is he?" I asked.

"Well, let's just say we grow them big in Montana!

We got to the concert just as it was starting. Jacob ushered me into one of the first rows and pointed to the choir.  "That's Mike," he whispered.  "Isn't he hot?"

"He sure is!" I said, although I didn't know exactly which of the elderly, portly singers he was referring to.

I'm not a big fan of Renaissance music, but the concert was interesting, mostly through the incongruity of hearing it in Montana, looking at a row of middle-aged bears and wondering which was the "daddy" of the twink beside me.  The husky, white haired baritone?  The chubby tenor?  The elderly, eye-glassed bass?

Afterwards Jacob led m up to the stage, past all of the middle-aged bears, to....another twink?

Mike was a professor of music at the college, slim, eyeglassed, blue-eyed...and in his mid-30s.  No more than five years older than Jacob!

This Daddy-Boy relationship was obviously not based on age.  Was it based on penis size?

Back at their house on the oddly-named Flowerree Street, Mike revealed a slim, firm, hairy chest and an uncut, average sized penis.  He was mostly an anal top, but agreed to let me go down on him.

Then Jacob went down on me while Mike topped him.

In the morning we went back to the airport for our flight to Denver.  They gave me their phone number, and said if I got the job, we would get together.

I didn't get the Montana job, but the Plains is only 900 miles away.  I might drop in sometime





By the way, Jacob, the bottom. had a Mortadella+. Go figure.

And I still don't understand how he knew I was gay.

See also: 36 Hours of Cruising at Lambeth International Airport.







Sunday, December 17, 2017

Erotic Story about Grandpa Prater #2: Stealing the Banjo

This is the second erotic story about my Grandpa Prater.

Garrett, December 1972

It's the day after Christmas in seventh grade.  We're visiting my parents' relatives in Indiana.  Today we drive out to the farmhouse near Garrett to visit my Grandpa Prater, my mother's father, and bring him his Christmas presents.

Grandpa Prater is 70 years old, but still big and rugged, with thick arms and shoulders and huge hands. He wears overalls, sometimes with a white t-shirt underneath, sometimes without, so you could see his hard round pecs dusted with white hair.

He moved from Kentucky to Indiana with his family in 1942, to take advantage of factory jobs during World War II.  Now he is widowed, and all of his kids have moved out except Uncle Edd, who acts more like his brother than his son.

There's no car in the driveway, and no one answers when we knock, so we figure that they're out, at the store or visiting friends in town.  We drive down the road about half a mile to the Trailer in the Deep Woods, to visit my Cousin Buster and his parents and wait for them to return.

Cousin Buster shows me the guitar he got for Christmas, and tries to play "Your Mama Don't Dance," by Loggins and Messina.  He doesn't do well.  "I should have asked for a banjo," he says. "Man, I could really howl on that box." 

"Why don't you ask Grandpa if you can borrow his?"

Somehow we decide that it would be a good idea to sneak into the farmhouse while he's gone and "borrow" the banjo.  

We walk through the woods until we come to the side yard.  There's still no car in the driveway.

We climb onto the porch and go in through the parlor.

I've been there a thousand times, but never when the house is deserted.  There's something eerie, even sinister, about the two overstuffed sofas, red with clawed legs, the old console radio with a black-and-white tv on top, the picture of Jesus on the Cross that changes to an Ascended Christ if you look at it right.  

The kitchen is familiar, too.  I've been there many times.  But there's something sinister about the plate of toast and Sue Bee Honey left on the kitchen table, as if someone suddenly rushed out.  Or was kidnapped.

I've never been inside Grandpa Prater's bedroom.  

First there's an anteroom, with some coats on hooks and shoes on the floor.  Then a big oak door.

My heart is racing with guilt and fear.  We shouldn't be here -- it's trespassing.  "Let's wait until Grandpa Prater gets home, and ask him," I suggest.

Cousin Buster is a little pale, too.  "No, I can't wait.  He won't mind."

He gingerly turns the handle and opens the door.

It's a long, narrow room, with an old-fashioned bed, a pitcher on a wooden dresser, clothes hanging in an armoire.  An armchair with clothes piled on it.  A half-full bottle of whiskey and an old leatherbound book on the nightstand.

Grandpa Prater is lying on the bed!

His shirt off, his overalls undone, thick arms behind his head.  My first thought is that he's dead, but then I see his massive hairy chest subtly rising and falling.  He must just be asleep -- sometimes old people take naps in the middle of the day.  Uncle Edd must have gone off by himself, taking the car, and Grandpa Prater didn't hear us knocking.

Later, replaying the scene in my mind, I see a massive bulge in his overalls, but it's probably just my imagination.  I didn't get a sausage sighting that day.

Still, the unexpected semi-nudity, the hairy chest, the sense of transgression and secrecy all combine to make the sight decidedly erotic.  I feel a stirring down below.


Should we continue with our quest to borrow the banjo?

Cousin Buster begins tip-toeing across the floor.

:Suddenly, without moving or opening his eyes, Grandpa Prater says "Hello, Joe, what do you know?"

We yell in surprise.

He sits up in bed.  "Come here and sit with your old Grandpa for a spell."

I hesitate -- getting too close to alcohol is a major sin for Nazarenes, and Grandpa Prater is sort of scary, with his incomprehensible Kentucky accent and smell of whiskey and Aqua Velva.  But we climb onto the narrow bed, and he wraps an enormous arm around each of us and draws us close.

I really like having a muscular arm around me.  The stirring down there continues.

"Um...we wanted to borrow your banjo," Cousin Buster says.

"To learn to play like you," I add, to flatter him.

"The banjo is old-fashioned! You should be playing new music.  Rock and Roll. The Beatles.  In my day we all listened to Eubie Blake and W. C. Handy.   I was modern!  It was my Daddy who wanted to hear 'Barbara Allen'"

We didn't know what he was talking about at the time, but Eubie Blake and W.C. Handy are jazz musicians popular in the 1920s, and "Barbara Allen" is an old folksong.

He reaches past Cousin Buster to get the book on the nightstand, and opens it to a page with a sports team.  "That's me, your old Grandpa, on the wrestling team at Salyersville High School.  Wasn't I a caution in those days?

He is actually pointing out a basketball team.  But one of the boys looks like him.

"I was going to study to be a science teacher, but my Daddy said 'No, son, you're a man now, you have to marry and start a family.  Now, I swan, Grace was the prettiest gal this side of Prestonburg, but why couldn't we have waited a year or two?"

Translation: when he graduated from high school, Tony wanted to go to teacher's college, but his father forced him to get a job instead, so he could afford a wife and kids.  I hear the "job, wife, kids" litany constantly today.

"Maybe then I could have paid for nice things, like a bigger house, in town, and a nice car."

And a bathroom!

"...and doctors, when the babies got sick.  And when Grace got sick."

Cousin Buster extricates himself.  "So, can we borrow the banjo?"

He waves his hand.  "Sure, take it.  Keep it til the cows come home.  But promise me one thing -- when you all become men, you won't let your daddies tell you what to do.  Go to college.  Make something of yourself, no matter how cute the little girl down the holler is."

Translation: Don't listen to the litany of "job, house, wife, kids."  Escape to West Hollywood.  Find a home.

See also: Erotic Story about Me and My Grandpa #1: Wrestling Moves

Erotic Story about Grandpa Prater #1: Wrestling Moves


My Grandpa Prater, my mother's father, was a big man, towering over my father and uncles, and rugged even in his mid-60s, with thick arms and shoulders and huge hands.  He wore overalls, sometimes with a white t-shirt underneath, sometimes without, so you could see his hard round pecs dusted with white hair.

He was a man's man, always doing something with his sons and sons-in law and various friends: hunting, fishing, playing horseshoes, working on cars.

He had a thick Kentucky accent that was virtually incomprehensible, but he didn't say much anyway.  When the family gathered in the living room to play cards and exchange gossip, he kept silent unless someone asked him a question.  The indoors was uncomfortably stuffy; he'd rather be out with his friends and some dogs on a midnight hunt.

The only time he perked up was when someone asked him to play his banjo.  Then he'd play "Foggy Mountain Breakdown" or "Cotton Eyed Joe," as good, and as fast, as the Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs at the Grand Ole Opry.

There was a sadness about him that I didn't pick up on when I was a kid.  Something deep and dark, that the little joys of everyday life couldn't penetrate.  It wasn't just that he had lost his wife, three older brothers, and four of his eleven children.  It was a dream deferred, a hope from his childhood that he abandoned.

More about that later.

I have two good stories with Grandpa Prater.  The first is about judo.

Garrett, June 1971

The summer after fifth grade.  We're all at the farmhouse, but my brother and Cousin Buster are off somewhere, so I'm the only kid.  Dad and my uncles are up by the Old House, playing horseshoes.  I'm not allowed because I'm too little.  I don't necessarily like horseshoes, but I like hanging out with the men, especially when my only other option is sitting in the farmhouse with my Mom and aunts, gossipping about who did what with whom thirty years ago.

I'm wandering aimlessly through the side yard and the rhubarb patch when Grandpa Prater appears, wraps his huge paw around my shoulder, and says "I hear you're taking wrestling."

(I'm not going to try to transliterate his incomprehensible Kentucky accent.  Use your imagination.)

"Wrestling?  No, I'm studying judo.  It's a Japanese sport.  We wear white robes and throw each other."

"Judo?"  He repeats the unfamiliar word.  "Did you know I was a wrestler in high school?"

He takes my hand and leads me up the hill toward the Old House.  It's difficult to understand him, but by interrupting with many questions, I get the gist of his story:

In the Kentucky hills in the 1920s, it was unusual to go past the eighth grade, but the adolescent Tony (who I assume looked like this) was smart as a whip, so his parents allowed him to go on through twelfth grade at Salyersville High School. His best subject was music -- he sang and played the banjo, like on the Grand Ole Opry. That got the bullies riled, so to prove that he was a he-man, he went out for wrestling and basketball, too.

I have that problem!  At Denkmann, raising your hand too often or getting high grades on too many tests drew the ire of Mean Boys.

By now we are on top of the hill, in the men-only zone behind the Old House.  Dad asks, "Wanna join us, Tony?"

He doesn't ask me.

"Well, sure, but right now Boomer's going to show you all his judo moves."

I'm what?   Try to throw someone who is twice as tall as me, and a solid mass of muscle?  And my grandpa?  I don't think so!

But Dad and my uncles are gathered around to watch the show.

"C'mon, you can't hurt me.  I'm strong as an ox.  I was wrestling guys before your Daddy was born."

Sighing, I grab Grandpa by the shoulder and hip and try the easiest throw, basically tripping your opponent.  To my surprise, he goes down easily and pulls me on top of him.

"Dagnabit, you did it!" he exclaims.  "That there judo is powerful stuff.  Now pin me.  Come on, pin me to the ground!"

I scamper on top of him, feeling his hard firm chest, smelling his Aqua Velva cologne and hint of whiskey, and press his arms over his head.

He pushes his arms down and slides me down his trunk, as easily as one might push off a pair of pants.  I feel his hard belly and the mass of his crotch.

"Well, your pinning needs some work, but other than that, you're a natural.  Hear that, Frank?  You sign this boy up for wrestling!"

Dad grins at me as if I've achieved a major goal.  And maybe I have.  "C'mon, Boomer," he says, "Play horseshoes with us.  You're old enough now."

I did go out for wrestling a year later, when I started junior high.

The next story about my grandpa involves sneaking into his bedroom to "borrow" his banjo.

See also: Erotic Story of My Grandpa #2; My Grandpa Prater's Gay Connection; My Uncle and His Boyfriend







Saturday, December 16, 2017

My Student Steals My Boyfriend


Bloomington, December 1983

When I was in graduate school at Indiana University, there were 30,000 students wandering around on the 2,000 acre campus, but still, everybody knew Jimmy, a graduate student in psychology.  He was a familiar sight, tromping across the campus on his forearm crutches.

 Jimmy had cerebral palsy, so his legs didn't work well, although he could walk slowly without crutches inside the house.  Also his hands were a little stiff.

Do you know what happens to a guy who doesn't use his legs much?  His chest, shoulders, and biceps overcompensate.  He becomes "cut" in bodybuilder lingo, a pale hard slab of marble.  Incredible.

One night in September 1983, while Viju and I were cruising at Bullwinkle's,  he came in.  I yelled "Score!" (or the 1980s equivalent).



Jimmy  invited me back to the terrible house he shared with two other psychology grad students, who hadn't cleaned the place since 1978.  There was a half-full carton of milk on the kitchen table that expired six months ago.

Sometimes we went to the apartment I shared with Viju, but not often: it was up a flight of stairs, and the only way he could get up and down was to be carried.

We dated through the fall semester, going to dinners and movies and to the bars.  Sometimes we went into Indianapolis to the bars or museums, to see Pippin and Godspell.

Jimmy had just come out a few days before we met in Bullwinkle's, so none of his family and friends knew that he was gay.


His best friend Tony found out when Jimmy invited him to our Halloween party, and for some reason he went into my bedroom and saw that my wall was emblazoned with pictures of hot guys torn from magazines.

"Where are the pictures of girls?" Tony asked, dumfounded.

He didn't handle it well.  First he yelled at Jimmy for hanging out with a "pervert," and when Jimmy said that he was gay, too, he accused me of brainwashing him.  When he discovered that there were other gay guys at the party, he ran screaming off into the night.

Jimmy helped us decide if Professor Singer was gay by going along on Viju's  intel-gathering mission.

At Thanksgiving he invited Viju and me to his parents' house in Crawfordsville, but to avoid another scene, we played it cool.  I even responded to a question about "my girlfriend" with a story about a tall blonde soccer player from Iceland.

On December 3rd, a little over a week later, when Jimmy told me: "We didn't plan on it, but I fell in love with another guy.  We're moving in together."

What guy?

Steve (I forgot the last name.)

One of my students!

Grad students at Indiana teach their own classes, and Steve was one of the back-of-the-class students in Intro to Literature, getting straight C's, never participating much.  He was sort of cute, but not very muscular.

All I could think was: What chutzpah!  Stealing the professor's boyfriend, just before final grades are due!

And I told my parents that I was bringing someone special home for Christmas.  What would they say?

Steve spent the last week of the semester grinning at me, daring me to give him a vengeance F.

I didn't.  He got a C.   Then he moved into Jimmy's horrible house where nothing was ever cleaned, and I invited Viju home for Christmas.

During the spring semester, I often saw Jimmy tromping across the campus on his crutches.  He looked happy

Thursday, December 14, 2017

Sausage Sightings of Adult Devon Sawa and Jonathan Taylor Thomas

Vancouver, Canada, September 1999

Cal me Rick.  In 1999, I was a a senior at King George Secondary School in Vancouver, a Glee Club geek, pale, skinny, eyeglassed, kind of homely, with a pretty good voice but no social skills.  I knew I was gay, but I wasn't out yet.

Then my buddy told me about auditions for minor parts in Final Destination (2000), starring Devon Sawa (the 21-year old star of Casper, The Boys Club, Wild America, and Idle Hands).   I figured it would look good on my uni apps, and I had a little crush on Devon, so off I went.

 I got the part -- one line and crowd shots, took about an hour -- but somehow Devon noticed me.  We went out to lunch, and then to the Aquarium, and before I knew it I was coming out to him -- the first person I told!  And that weekend he escorted me to my first gay bar.

We never hooked up -- he said I wasn't his type.  But I never forgot the emotional connection and support.

One night he asked me, "Of all the actors in Hollywood, other than me, who would you most like to sleep with?"

Without a blink I said "Jonathan Taylor Thomas."

I watched every episode of Home Improvement (1991-1999), even though I despised that awful, homophobic Tim Allen, and the "real men" grunting, playing sports, and talking about tools.  I had enough of that growing up in Vancouver, thank you.  But Jonathan Taylor Thomas (1981-), a teen dream fave rave, an androgynous prettyboy with soulful grey eyes and puckered lips.

How could you help putting his poster on your bedroom wall and kissing it every night?

Even though your parents misinterpreted your interest in Home Improvement and kept giving you tools for Christmas.

"Jonathan's pretty cool," Devon said.  "We've been friends for years.  Tell you what -- come visit me in L.A. sometime, and maybe I can arrange a meeting."

When filming ended, he went back to L.A., and I went on to the Victoria Conservatory to study voice, but we stayed in touch.

I finally did visit at Christmastime in 2001, and was disappointed by two things:

1. Devon is straight, or maybe bi. He was dating Danielle Fischel of Boy Meets World!  I did get a date with Ben Savage out of the deail, but that's a story for another time.

2. Jonathan Taylor Thomas had left Hollywood to study philosophy at Harvard, and wasn't in town for a hookup.

The next few years of my life were rough: I flunked out of the Conservatory, broke up with my boyfriend, lost my brother, tried to make it as a singer, and finally went back to uni for my teaching credential.  I got my degree in 2008, and became a high school music teacher, first in Hamilton, Ontario and then in Toronto.

Devon and I became "Christmas and Birthday Card" friends.  I was invited to his weddings, to Jessica and Dawni, but didn't go.  The last time I saw him in person was in Montreal in 2006.

My schoolboy crush on Jonathan Taylor Thomas dimmed a bit when I saw his gay-themed movies, Speedway Junkie (1999) and Common Ground (2000), and read his homophobic response to the reporters' standard question: "Does playing a gay character mean that you are gay?"

JTT: "Of course not!!!!!   I've played murderers.  Does that mean I'm a murderer?"

In his interview with The Advocate, his response was just as vociferous: "It's a blatant lie."

I didn't see him in any more movies, and assumed that he had left Hollywood for good.

[According to Popsugar, he graduated from Columbia in 2010 and left Hollywood, returning only to direct three episodes (and guest-star in four) of his pal Tim Allen's sitcom, Last Man Standing (2013-2016).  I don't know who the boyfriend is,]

Last summer, I had to go to Los Angeles for a conference, and I emailed my friend Devon to ask him to lunch.

"Lunch, nothing!" he responded.  "You're staying with me in Calabasas.  That is, if you don't mind a houseful of kids and cats."

Calabasas, California, July 2017



I flew into LAX on Thursday, rented a car, and drove up to Calabasas, in the San Gabriel Valley about an hour's drive away.  Nice house, very rustic, with mountains visible in the distance.

Devon was 38 years old, no longer blond, tall and tattooed and craggy -- but we've all gotten older, haven't we?

It was a little awkward at first, like you might imagine with someone you haven't actually seen in a decade, but soon we were talking about Vancouver in the 1990s, and coming out, and it was like old times.  Dawni was nice, but kept in the background, mostly running around with the kids, a toddler boy and a babe in arms.

"Are you going to be here Saturday afternoon?" Devon asked.  "We can go up into the mountains.  And I might have a surprise for you."

I had a couple of presentations to go to at the conference, but I promised I would be.

When I arrived on Saturday afternoon, Jonathan Taylor Thomas was sitting in the living room!

I didn't recognize him at first: he was 36 years old, no longer puppy-dog cute, more scholarly, like that cool philosophy professor who introduced you to existentialism and jazz.

Was Devon setting us up?

I played it cool, not sitting next to him, not gushing, and absolutely not bringing up Home Improvement.  Jonathan was quiet, a bit reserved.  Later Devon told me that they hadn't seen each other in about ten years.

After we chatted for awhile, Devon said "Ok, it's pool time.  Men only -- no wives, kids, or cats."

Jonathan shook his head.  "You're not going to get me that way again!  We're not fifteen anymore!"

"Maybe you're not, but I plan to stay fifteen forever!" Devon exclaimed.  "Rick, help me with grandpa here."

I didn't know what was going on, but I obliged.  We each took one of Jonathan's hands and pulled him through the living room and dining room, and out through the French doors to the pool.

"No!" Jonathan yelled.  "You jackass, I've got my smartphone in my pocket, and my wallet!  And I don't have a change of clothes!"

Devon laughed.  "You heard the man.  Get him out of his clothes, and don't be gentle!"

We quickly stripped Jonathan of his shirt, undershirt, shoes, pants, and underwear -- yes, I "accidentally" got a grope -- average size, cut.   Then we took him by his hands and feet and threw him into the pool.

"You jerks!  I'm going to get you for this!"  He hoisted himself out of the pool, naked and gleaming in the sun, his cock bouncing about.  Devon tried to run away, but Jonathan grabbed him and pushed them both into the pool.

Soon all three of us were naked, dunking each other, roughhousing like kids. Devon is quite well hung, by the way, a thick 4" soft.

There was no sex -- a bit of casual groping, maybe.  I never even found out if Jonathan is gay.  But being naked in the pool with my old friend and my childhood crush -- what could be better?

See also: A Footlong Sausage Sighting in Fairbanks, Alaska; Jonathan Taylor Thomas; Devon Sawa

Monday, December 11, 2017

Hookup with My Ex-Bully's Son

Denver, Colorado, December 2017

"Have a Rocky Mountain Christmas at Dick and Jack's," the Facebook event page says. "December 24th, 6 pm until Santa Claus comes.  Or you do."

I click on "can't make it":  Denver is a nine hour drive from the Plains, and I haven't seen Dick for about twelve years.

We met nearly 50 years ago, when he was a grade-school Mean Boy, twice my size, broad-shouldered, tanned, with huge hands, who made our lives miserable with his punching, tripping, spitting, and taunts of "Wuss!  Fag!  Fairy!  Girl!"

Six years after graduation, on, I ran into Dick at JR's, Rock Island's gay bar -- he was still twice my size, broad-shouldered, tanned, with huge hands.  Hot!  We hooked up -- gigantic beneath the belt, too!

After that, whenever I came to Rock Island for a Christmas or summertime visit, we had dinner or went out to the bars together.  We shared hookups and partners.  We exchanged Christmas presents.

But after Dick and his partner Jack moved to Denver in 2005, we lost contact.  I hate losing friends, but when you move around a lot, you have a lot of guys to keep track of.

A few months ago, Dick stumbled upon the Tales of West Hollywood blog, recognized himself, and friended me on Facebook.   I've learned who his friends are, what he has for lunch, where he hangs out, what plays Jack is in...and then this event.

"Jack and I would really like you to come," he emails me.  "Little Dick, too.  It will be like old times."

Little Dick? He's never called his penis that before.

"Sorry, I've already made plans for Christmas Eve in Indianapolis."

Besides, Christmas is the worst time to see old friends.  It's a sad holiday anyway, all about the time passing and inevitable decay and death, and adding old friends to the mix will only emphasize that you can't go home again.  These guys that you once knew intimately are strangers.

"Well, how about earlier?  Tell you what -- when do classes end?"

"My last class is November 30th."

"Come December 1st.  Spend a week.  We'll do the Nutcracker, the Christmas Carol, the whole Christmas thing.  And I'll even set you up with Little Dick."

Yeah, I was assuming that a visit would include an intimate acquaintance with his penis.  "Ok, But I can only come for five days.  I have to grade finals next week.

Friday, December 1st

My flight arrives about 2:00 pm, but I have to wait until 3:00 pm for Jack to pick me up -- he's 37 years old, still stunningly handsome, with an oval face, black hair, a nice swimmer's build.  A drama teacher at a high school in Arvada, and frequent actor in community theater.

"Sorry, I don't mean for you to think you're unwelcome," he tells me, "But something happened -- Dick's cousin went into the hospital, and he had to go down to Colorado Springs.  He'll probably be back on Sunday, and you can see him then.  Little Dick, too."

Little Dick, of course.  I guess, when you've been together for 17 years, you make up little pet names for your partner's penis.

He grins and nudges my shoulder.  "I hope you can deal with just me for a couple of days."

Jack drives me to a small apartment off Colfax Street, and takes me on a walking tour of the gay neighborhood.  Then dinner at a Mexican restaurant and home for sex.  I've been with Jack before: he has an average-sized cock and is mostly an anal bottom, but he always allows me to go down on him. as long as I return the favor.

Saturday, December 2rd.

Jack plans a full day of sightseeing: the Art Museum, the Clyfford Still Museum (which we didn't go into), lunch with his friend Stuart at Illegal Burger on Larimer Square, Tattered Cover Bookstore, then working out at his gym.

After dinner, we cruise at the Midtowne Spa.  I don't do well in the mile-high city: I get ignored a lot.

"Don't worry," Jack tells me.  "There will be plenty of time for more erotic activities when Dick gets back.  And you'll meet Little Dick, of course."

Little Dick.  Of course.

Sunday, December 3rd

We go to brunch at the apartment of Jack's friend's Larry (blond, in his 30s) and Mike (a hefty bear in his 50s): Belgian waffles, scrambled eggs, bacon, and cheese dumplings for some reason.  About halfway through, Dick bursts into the kitchen and wraps me in a bear hug.

He's a year older than me, close to 60, balding, but still huge.  His hairy chest smells of sweat.  "Hey, sorry I couldn't be here earlier, but you know, family is family.  But I'll make it up to you tonight."

"Why not make it up to him now?" Larry asks.

"As soon as I get some scrambled eggs -- and dry toast, please.  I left my cousin's place before breakfast."

After brunch, we go into the bedroom and get naked.  I obligingly kiss Larry and let Mike go down on me, but I'm anxious to get reacquainted with Little Dick.

It has no trouble getting aroused.

As I'm starting to go down on Dick, he says "Little Dick will be back around 5:00.  His dad always drops him off in time for dinner."

"Huh?"  I remove Dick's cock from my throat.  Little Dick is a person?

We meet that afternoon:  Dick and Jack's foster son, who hates being called Little Dick.  Short, slim, college-age, with brown hair and an attractive round face.

He was 15 when his dad found out he was gay and kicked him out of the house.  The Metropolitan Community Church arranged for Dick and Jack to become his foster parents.  Now he's an English major at the University of Colorado, Denver, hoping to become a writer.  Partially reconciled with his parents, at least enough to go home for weekend visits.

Later I notice photos of the three of them together posted on Facebook, and timeline posts about "Dick" that seem  appropriate for a 20-year old.

I don't want to mention that I thought Little Dick was a penis for two days.

That night we have pizza and go to A Christmas Carol, then go back to the apartment.

"Boomer, you can sack out with Jack and me tonight," Dick says, "Or you can have the couch.  It folds out into a pretty nice bed."

"Hey, what about my bed?" Little Dick asks.  "Plenty of room there."

He grins at me.

"Well, I did come all this way to see...um...Big Dick...so it would only be polite to share their bed."

Big Dick shrugs.  "If you guys want to hang out, that's fine with me.  Little Dick is all grown up."

He takes me by the hand and leads me toward the bedroom.  "Don't worry. I'll bring him back in one piece.  Probably."

Turns out that Little Dick is not that little.

See also: The Great Redneck Roundup of 1995; Hooking Up with the Pizza Boy

L

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