Friday, November 24, 2017

Arabic and Class Rings: Cruising at West Point

Rock Island, September 1976

It's the beginning of my junior year in high school, time to register for the SATs, the college entrance exams.  But my parents are vehemently opposed to the idea of college.

They can't afford to send me.

It's unnecessary -- I'm already smart enough to go to work in the factory.

It's un-Christian, full of Catholics and atheists.

But I've been insistent, littering the house with catalogs and brochures, and finally Dad gives in:  "Ok, you can go to college, as long as it's West Point."

"The Military Academy!" I exclaim, shocked.  "What for?"

"I'll tell you what for: full tuition, room and board, plus a stipend.  All you have to do is sign up for five years of active duty afterwards."

"Five years in the Army!  That sounds awful!"

Dad's eyes narrow.  "I was in the Navy for four years.  It was the best time of my life.  A real man's world.  You don't know what real friends are until you've fought side by side."

"Um...a man's world?  Real friends?"  I imagine sitting in class surrounded by hunky collegiate athletes, the cream of the crop, the most muscular in America, stripping down next to them in the locker room, sleeping beside them in the dorms...  "  500,000 Americans sent overseas?  50,000 casualties?  Khi Sanh?  My Lai?"

"Oh, Vietnam is over with," Dad says dismissively.  "We stabilized the region."

"There will be another war.  And another.  And another. Anyway, I'm not big on military science.  I want to major in Arabic."

"They have Arabic," Dad says, leafing through the catalog.  "And Chinese.  You can major in both, if you're that into languages.  Plus, it's only an hour from Manhattan.  You like all that Broadway musical stuff, right?"

Arabic, Broadway musicals, and army hunks?  It wouldn't hurt to apply....

The application process begins during your junior year, with the SAT, a medical exam, and a physical fitness test: push-ups, pull-ups, sit-ups, a 400-yard dash, a mile run, and a basketball throw (you don't actually have to make a basket).

April 1977

I receive a letter stating that I've passed the first set of requirements.  Now I have to get a nomination from my Senator, Representative, or the President of the United States.

No problem: I already know Tom Railsback,  the representative from the 19th district for as long as I can remember.  He is 45 years old, a local boy, and a counterculture hero, having drafted the articles of impeachment against President Richard Nixon.

He says that there are four guys in the 19th district asking to be nominated, the most in a decade.

Just to be on the safe side, I approach our senator, Charles H. Percy, too, even though he's a Republican and I'm a staunch Democrat.

June 1977

While I am away in Switzerland at the International Institute, my acceptance into the official applicant pool arrives.  Now I have to fill out some more forms, submit some letters attesting to my moral character, get a psychological evaluation, and come in for an interview.

 "More hoops to jump through, just to join the army!" I complain.  "You know, Olivet offered me a scholarship, and I'll bet I could get one at Augustana, too."

"Do they offer Arabic?" Dad asks.  "Are they an hour from Broadway?"

I keep silent and continue the application process.

The psychological evaluation is  administered by the school counselor: MMPI, with several questions designed to weed out the gay prospects, some blatant ("I am attracted to members of my own sex") and some keying into gay stereotypes ("I am closer to my mother than to my father.").

What a relief !  I have not yet figured "it" out, and I am extremely homophobic.  I think that swishes are disgusting!  No way could I go to any college that allows them in!

West Point, New York, July 1977

Admissions interviews are being held in Chicago and Des Moines. but Dad insists that we go to West Point itself, so I can see how great it is.

We leave Mom and my brother and sister visiting our family in Indiana, and drive out with my Uncle Paul: twelve hours on the highway, a very long trip even with the three of us sharing the driving.  Then a day at West Point, and another very long day driving back.

The campus is very beautiful, stately Gothic architecture on a bluff overlooking the Hudson River.  Some of the buildings date from the Revolutionary Era.

 But soon I notice some problems:

Arabic is no longer offered as a major.  You can take two years of classes while you major in something else.

There are lots of hot guys around, but it isn't a male-only atmosphere.  West Point began admitting women just this year.

And many of the men are wearing big, bulky gold rings!  Rings are disgusting, effeminate, sure signs that you are a swish!

I thought they weeded out all of the swishes?

At my interview, I decide to bring up the issue.

The recruiter, Major Baskerville, is middle-aged, balding, with a barrel chest and a prominent bulge.  I imagine what he must look like naked before asking:

"On my psychological evaluation, there were a lot of questions that looked like they were trying to screen out the fairies.  How effective are they?"

He stares at me in surprise -- evidently most prospective cadets aren't so concerned about maintaining the purity of West Point.  I congratulate myself.  This interview is going great!

"Well, it's mostly effective, but it's inevitable that some cadets tendencies will slip through the cracks.  If we learn about any homosexual conduct, the cadet involved will be instantly expelled, of course."

"Great. I sure don't want to be bunking down with any fairies!  I was worried with so many of the guys wearing sissy rings."

"Hmm."  Major Baskerville returns to my file.  "I see you don't have any sports involvement.  Any reason for that?"

Gulp.  I can't tell him that I hate sports.  "Um...just no time.  I was on the wrestling team in junior high, but I dropped out."

"Why was that?"

Oh, no, I can't tell him about my opponent getting aroused during a match!  "Um...just no time."

"Sports are very important.  They build team spirit and reduce inappropriate..."  he trails off, looking at my file again.  "So you play in the orchestra.  Violin and viola?"

"Right.  I'm in the orchestra pit for every spring musical.  This year we're doing Kiss Me, Kate, by Cole Porter."

"Um...well, we have an orchestra here at West Point, but we don't really have a drama program.  Most cadets aren't interested theater.  Maybe now that we have female cadets, that will change."

He asks a few more questions, about my interest in Arabic, how close I am to my mother and father, and for some reason my friendship with Verne, the Preacher's Son, and then concludes the interview with a salute instead of a handshake.

Rock Island, December 1977

I receive a form rejection letter.

"Don't let it bother you," Dad says.  "Only about 10% of the candidates are admitted.  You probably got some points off in the sports department."

"Oh, it doesn't bother me," I tell him. "There are lots of other colleges."

Actually, I'm a little relieved.  West Point seemed a little too...swishy.

Four months later, I finally came out:

We stop the fight right now, we got to be who we are.

And I thought back on that interview.  The questions about sports, musical theater, my parents, and Verne -- was Major Baskerville screening me for "homosexual tendencies"?

See also: My Last Wrestling Match; The Preacher Pops a Boner; and An Unsolved Murder and Two Redheads with Mortadellas

Thursday, November 23, 2017

Cesar Hooks Up with the Entire Male Cast of "I Love Lucy"

Brentwood, California, April 1991

I'm not exactly friends with Cesar Romero, the 85-year old Latin hearthrob who played The Cisco Kid in the 1940s and the Joker on Batman in the 1960s.  In West Hollywood, your friends were generally your ex-boyfriends and their current boyfriends, and Cesar and I have never dated, never even tricked (although I've watched him and Lane go at it).

But after my Biblical Hebrew class at UCLA, I like going over to visit him in his modern glass-and-leather apartment in Brentwood, to drink lemonade, get flirted with, and hear stories about hookups with the stars of Golden Age Hollywood.  Today he promised to tell me about the time he hooked up with the entire male cast of I Love Lucy (1951-57).

The vintage sitcom was before my time, but I've seen lots of episodes in syndication.  I love "Job Switching," where Lucy and Ethel (Lucille Ball, Vivian Vance) get jobs on an assembly line at a candy factory, with disastrous results.  And "Lucy Does a TV Commercial," where Lucy gradually gets drunk while selling the vitamin tonic Vitameatavegimen.

Lucy and Ethel were the stars.  The husbands, Ricky and Fred (Desi Arnaz, William Frawley) were mostly there to say "no, you can't have a new dress" and do slow burns after a catastrophe.  

But Desi was impossibly cute, and I recalled a scattering of other hot actors.  I wonder which Cesar has been with.

"Where to begin..." Cesar says.  "I've gone down on so many of the cast members.  Not the women, of course.  But..."

"Begin with Desi," I tell him.  "He was the hottest."

"And the biggest," Cesar adds with a wink.

Hollywood, April 1940

Cesar Romero was 33 years old, and already an established actor.  Never a contract player, he worked for various studios, playing heavies, gangsters, handsome leading men, and sundry adventurers, most recently the sardonic cowboy hero The Cisco Kid.

But what made him the most well-known face in Hollywood was his social life.  He was out every night, to movie premieres, gallery openings, charity events, nightclubs.  He practically lived at the Coconut Grove.  He was always seen on the arm of an attractive lady, usually an up-and-coming starlet; but he was a complete gentleman, seeing the lady to her front door with nothing more intimate than a kiss on the cheek.  There was no hint of scandal about him.

Last fall he dated Lucille Ball, the glamorous contract player for RKO.  When she asked, "Why don't you ever make a pass at me?", he replied, "Nothing personal.  It's just that I'm queer."

She was the first person he ever told.   After that they became close friends and confidants, sharing notes on eligible and not-so eligible men.

It was Lucy who told him about Desi Arnaz, a 23-year old singer and dancer who had come to Hollywood to play Manuelito in Too Many Girls.

"He's Cuban, like you!" she exclaimed.  "And a dancer!  And he's dreamy besides!  You're sure to get along fabulously."

"Are you sure he's that way?" Cesar asked.

"Sure as shooting, Jackson!  He didn't even try to make love to me. [Make love is the old term for flirting.]  If that's not proof, I don't know what is!"

So Cesar took the charismatic young dancer to the Coconut Grove.  Where he couldn't stop talking about Lucy.

Ok, normal [the 1940s term for "straight"].  Just shy.

Still, they became friends.  When Desi started seeing Lucy, they often double-dated with Cesar and whatever beard the studio provided.

It didn't take long for Desi to figure "it" out:

"Mira!"  he said one night, while the girls were powdering their noses.  "You don't have to hide.  I know you're a maricon!"

Cesar started to protest.  "Did Lucy say..."

"She said nothing.  I know from how you look at me.  I've seen that look before."


Me resbala, acero!  [No problem, buddy.], I know you can't help it.  But you should know, I like girls, not boys.  I can't be your chaval."

After that Cesar became more open, telling Desi about his trysts with this or that guy, Hollywood stars and others, about the parties he went to at the USO.

And maybe more aggressive at cruising him, since one night Desi said "Bueno, let's do it.  We'll get it over with, and then we can be friends.  But just this one time, ok?  I like girls, not boys."

They went back to Cesar's house in Beverly Hills, went into the bedroom, and Desi unzipped.

"How big was he?" I asked.

"One of the biggest.  A footlong!  I could barely get my mouth around the head.  And he was quick, too.  A few thrusts, and he was spurting down my throat.  Huge load!"

One time turned out to be a regular thing.  Once a week or so, they would go out to dinner, then back to Cesar's house.  No reciprocation, no kissing, just a blow job, a friendly gesture between friends.

In November 1940, Lucy and Desi married.

Cesar heard all about their tumultuous relationship.  Desi liked women -- and men -- too much.  He was devoted to Lucy, yet he always seemed to have one or two affairs going on the side, plus innumerable hookups.

Eventually, in one of his many failed attempts to stay faithful, Desi put an end to the "friendly gestures."

Brentwood, California, April 1991

I'm a bit disappointed.  I've already heard a lot about Desi Arnaz's bisexuality, and a "double date" doesn't really count as "hooking up with the entire cast of I Love Lucy."  

"What about the other male stars?" I ask.  "William Frawley, who played Fred Mertz?"

"No," Cesar admits. "Even when I first met him, back in 1936, he was bald.  Ugh!"

I can't think of anyone else offhand, but I came prepared.  I pull out my Complete Guide to Prime Time TV Shows, and ask Cesar about his hookups with the rest of the actors, directors, and miscellaneous cast members.

Director William Asher?  No.

Head writer Bob Carroll, Jr?  No.

Richard Keith, who played Lucy and Ricky's infant son, but would now be in his 40s? No.

Ok, there are lots more in the cast list.  I go through them, one by one.

Cesar has gone down on Bennett Green, who played various bit parts in 21 episodes, and Marco Rizo, the music director.  And that's it.

"Three isn't bad," Cesar says.  "Besides, Desi and I were close friends for fifty years, And in the end, isn't friendship more important than any number of cocks?"

Of course, but I came here to learn about cocks..  "Ok, let's go on to your hookup with Desi's son, Desi Arnaz Jr."

See also: Lane's Date with Batman, Robin, and the Joker; I Love Lucy; Cesar's Three Way with the Sons of Desi Arnaz and Dean Martin

Derek the Fitness Model and the Teenage Cowboy

West Hollywood, September 1988

In West Hollywood, almost no one lived alone.  It was too expensive, and besides, we moved here in the first place to find community.  So we lived with a partner (we called them "lovers"), a roommate, or both.

There were two types of roommates.

Alan and I were Close Friends: We ate meals together, went out together, moved in the same social circle... and invited each other to "share" boyfriends.

When he moved to Thailand in the fall of 1987, I moved in with a fitness model-turned-realtor named Derek, a tall, muscular, hairy guy in his 40s, and his lover Chazz, a slim, androgynous twink.

They lived in a small but very nice house on Hilldale, just off Sunset.

Derek and I turned out to be Just Roommates: We scheduled different hours for cooking and eating meals.  We were invited to each other's parties by default, and on Saturday afternoons we went to the Bodhi Tree on Melrose to browse for New Age books, but otherwise we rarely socialized. We had different social circles.

And he never invited me to "share."

It was rather frustrating listening to the activity on the other side of the wall, and never being asked to join in.

Did I mention that Derek's physique was spectacular even by West Hollywood standards?  And that I saw his beneath-the-belt gifts in one of his old layouts in Mandate?

A few months after I moved in, Derek broke up with Chazz (who soon moved out).  He started bringing dates home.  Mostly slim, androgynous twinks.

Ok, now's my chance! I thought.  Maybe he was monogamous with Chazz, but he certainly won't mind sharing a boyfriend!

But he never asked, and when I invited him to share my on-off boyfriend, he gave me a weird, sad smile, and said "No, thank you," with exaggerated politeness.

What, not into sharing?  Or not into Raul?

Or not into me?

Impossible!  Everyone was into me!  I was never rejected -- except by Derek.

Then I met Calvin, the Cowboy of Sunset Boulevard, who was skittish about going down the hill to the gay part of West Hollywood, where someone might think he know.  I invited Derek along on our date, figuring that the promise of two guys in his bed would trump Calvin's fear of "somebody I know seeing me."

It backfired: Seems that Derek was from Wyoming, grew up around cowboys, and had played one in a photo shoot for Playgirl.

They were so busy talking that I felt like I was tagging along on a date between Calvin and Derek.

So I wasn't completely surprised the next morning, when I got back to the house after walking Calvin to his car, and Derek asked "Are you going on a second date?"

"Probably not.  He was very passionate in bed, but we don't really have a lot in common."

"Then, do you mind if I ask him out?"

I sort of did.  Calvin was my project -- a shy, closeted young cowboy.  I drew him out of his shell, introduced him to an out, proud gay community. What had Derek done, except flex his biceps and talk about Wyoming?  But I said "No, not at all.  Wait a couple of days, of course."

In West Hollywood, the 48 hours after the first date was a tense waiting period.  Either of you could ask for a second date, or not.  What if one asked, and the other wasn't interested?  What if you saw each other on the street before you were ready to call?  If  48 hours passed without a request for a second date, you could relax and move on to other people..

 "Great, thanks!  I'll wait a week, just to be on the safe side.  Wouldn't want anybody to think I was rustling on your ranch, would we?"

But when I got home from Muscle and Fitness on Monday afternoon,  there was a message from Calvin on our machine.  He had called Derek exactly 48 hours after our date ended!

Derek wasn't really a fan of the Old West -- at least, I never heard him mention bronco busting or cow poking -- but he orchestrated a Western-themed date for Saturday night: dinner at a Mexican restaurant, followed by Oilcan Harry's, a bar in Studio City that specialized in country-western line dancing.

I snippishly decided to be home, watching tv in the living room, when they returned, about 11:00 pm.

"Have fun, guys?" I asked.

"Oh, it was great," Derek said.  "Really nice crowd at Oilcan Harry's."

"Well, come on, sit down and tell me all about it!"

Derek glared at me, as if to ask, Are you deliberately making this awkward?  Another West Hollywood rule: at the end of the date, your friend or roommate is anxious to get into the bedroom, so keep the conversation to a bare minimum.

He murmured "I have to make a pit stop," and disappeared into the bathroom.  Calvin sat down on the couch next to me.

" want to apologize about blowing you off for your roommate."

"No need for apologize" I said, surprised.  "We only had one date -- we weren't in a relationship."

"Well, I feel bad anyway.  You're really nice and all, but Derek and me, we just have a lot more in common.  Did you know he was in a rodeo when he was a teenager?"

"Hey, who am I to stand in the way of two cowboys in love?"  That came out more sarcastic than I intended.

"I don't want to go into to the bedroom with Derek, and have you out here, all lonely and upset..."

"Well, if you'd rather I not be here, I can go to the Rage for an hour or so."

Calvin scooted over and put his arm around me.  "Or you could spend the night with us.  I'm sure Derek won't mind."

Derek appeared, wiping his hands on a towel.  "I won't mind what?"

"Inviting Boomer to spend the night with us."

He stared with deer-caught-in-the-headlights horror - but he said: ", that would be great."

I'm still not sure why he agreed.  But we ended up in his bedroom with Calvin between us, taking turns kissing him and working beneath the belt.

Then we both topped Calvin.

I got only limited access to Derek -- no kissing, just a little fondling.  But it was fun seeing him in action.

They dated for about three months, and I ended up sharing their bed many more times, always with passionate attention from Calvin and some basic fondling from Derek.  

That was enough.

See also: My Date with Richard Dreyfuss; The Naked Man in the Bathtub; Derek and the Pop Star

Tuesday, November 21, 2017

My Date with Jack the Vacuum Cleaner

Wilton Manors, December 2002

Grocery store employees aren't exactly fantasy hookups.  They don't come to your house, and when you see them at work, they're sliding your canned goods over scanners while a dozen people wait behind you.

Besides, the checkers are mostly women, and the baggers are mostly high school boys.  Not much to work with.

But take another look at the college-age boys and young adults, in their shortsleeved shirts, biceps straining over industrial-sized crates of lettuce.  They develop a lot of upper body strength.

Besides, you're there at the same time every week.  There's lots of time to cruise.

And you're out, as openly gay as you can get without a sign, two guys pushing a single shopping cart, or a single guy buying vegetables, fruit, and lean meats, with no Hamburger Helper or Hot Pockets in sight.

In West Hollywood, we had the gay Safeway, on Santa Monica a few blocks down from the Rage. 90% of the customers were gay.

In Florida we had the Publix, down the street from Rosie's Bar and Grill.  A lot of heterosexuals, but enough gay people that we could be open without fear of homophobic harassment.

My housemates and I ate most of our breakfasts and dinners together, and Barney did all of the shopping.  So I only went to the Publix when I wanted something not on his list, like soda or snack foods.

I was always impressed by the number of cute guys working there, but I didn't go often enough to get to know faces, let alone cruise anyone.

So it came as a surprise one day in early December 2002, when I went to the Publix to get Christmas candy, and a guy stocking cereal said "Hey, you're one of Wade's friends, aren't you?  I've seen you here with him."

Wade was a recent graduate of McGill University in Toronto who worked in a hotel.  We dated for a few weeks last summer.  He and Yuri had become friends, so he was around the house a lot, and sometimes we "shared."  I couldn't remember when I had been in Publix with him -- maybe one night when he came over for dinner.

But I smiled and said "Yep.  I'm Boomer."


We shook hands.  He was a beach boy, in his 20s, about my height, with dark-blond curly hair, a round face, a rather muscular physique, and big hands.

"How do you know Wade?"

"He dated my boss, the Giant.   I was sad that they broke up...they seemed really good together."  He paused.  " have to get back to work, but maybe we could get together later?  I get off at 7:00."

"I'm busy tonight, but how about the weekend?"

We exchanged phone numbers, and I finished my shopping and went home.

And immediately called Wade for the dish on Jack.

"I met him through the Giant," Wade told me. "Super nice guy.  A little closeted -- he still lives with his conservative Mom."

"How long did you date?"

"Um...just the one time.  He was nice and all, but...."

"Not big enough beneath the belt?"

"Oh, it's not that.  He's got a nice body.  It's just...I'm really into older guys, for one thing, and for another, we weren't compatible in bed."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't want to say anything negative, and turn you off.  He's a really nice guy.  You'll see."

How mysterious!  I was definitely going out with Jack now!

On our date, we had dinner at Rosie's, and then went cruising at the Manor.  Jack told me with a grin that he grew up in Harlem -- it's a very small, very conservative town on Lake Okeechobee, in central Florida:  "Nothing there but a bar and a Pentecostal church.  My dad went to one, and my mom went to the other."

The two eventually divorced, and Mom and Jack  moved to Fort Lauderdale.

Jack continued going to a hardcore fundamentalist church,  planned to become a preacher, and enrolled at Pensacola Christian College.

He dropped out during his difficult coming-out process.  He had been working at Publix for two years, and intended to make it his career.

We spent a lot of time comparing notes about our fundamentalist childhoods, and talking about the passages in the Bible that are used to promote homophobia, even though they have nothing to do with gay people.

So far so good.  He was very cute, and we had a lot in common.

Then we went into the bedroom.

Nice physique, average beneath the belt gifts, kissed like a vacuum cleaner, using suction to pull my mouth into his.  Not terribly pleasant.

I pushed him away.  We fondled for a bit, and then he went down on me.

Like a vacuum cleaner.

The suction was so great that it hurt.

"Not so rough!" I exclaimed.

"Sorry." He fondled me for a bit and then tried again.

Again, like a vacuum cleaner.  I let him work for a few minutes, and then pulled his head away.  It was hard to dislodge him.

Do you have to be trained in oral sex?  I never received any instruction except "watch your teeth."

"Here, let me show you how."

I went down on him.  He finished almost instantly.

"Ok, now you try."

Like a vacuum cleaner.  I dislodged him, and we went to sleep.

The next day my penis was sore, and there was blood in my urine.  The doctor told me that small capillaries had burst due to the over-energetic oral sex.  Not serious, but rather frightening.

And no more dates with the Vacuum Cleaner.

See also: Wade the Beach Boy; Wade and the Giant; Picking Up the Checker in the Grocery Store

Monday, November 20, 2017

Derek the Fitness Model's Date with David Cassidy

West Hollywood, June 1989

It's my third date with Lane, the date you traditionally introduce him to your friends, so we're having dinner at my house with Raul, Will, my Celebrity ex-boyfriend, Fred and Matt...and my housemate Derek?

Derek and I are not close.  We don't eat meals together, we rarely share each other's dates.  We are invited to each other's parties by default, but we rarely attend.

So why is he here?

I'm worried that the former fitness model with the baseball bat between his legs will steal my new boyfriend before we even have a chance to seal the deal.  It's happened before.

I serve barbecued chicken, baked potatoes, "roshineers," and tomatoes.  Lane brings a salad, and Derek furnishes the desert.

After dinner we start talking about childhood crushes -- tv and movie stars you found dreamy, back in the day: Luke Halpin of Flipper,  Desi Arnaz Jr.,  Barry Williams of The Brady Bunch.  

Derek keeps silent.  He's substantially older than the rest of us, so he probably doesn't want to call attention to his age by mentioning Ricky Nelson or...or Frank Sinatra.

Then someone mentions David Cassidy, the androgynous star of The Partridge Family, who had a string of hits in the early 1970s: "I Think I Love You," "I Woke Up in Love this Morning,"

"Incredibly hot!" Will exclaims.  "Those eyes!  That voice!"

"And so fey," Lane says.  "It's obvious he's one of us."

We all nod in agreement.

"He's bi," Derek says suddenly.  "But mostly into girls.  Guys once in a blue moon.  Pity...he's got a face that can break your heart."

"Do firsthand knowledge of this bi thing?"  I ask.

Hollywood, Fall 1973

Derek was 26 years old, an amateur bodybuilder, newly out, divorced from his wife Ellen, and exploring the gay world.  He was trying to make a living as a fitness model -- magazine ads, semi-nude photos in "physique magazines," and nude photos in gay magazines like In Touch and Blue Boy. He supplemented his income with gigs as a bodyguard, bouncer, and...well, paid escort.

One night his friend Panther (Jim at the time) arranged a "date" for him: "He saw you in In Touch, and wanted a better look.  He's a big star, really big, so everything has to be on the hush-hush."

Curious, Derek drove to the house in the San Fernando Valley, and got buzzed in -- by David Cassidy!

They sat in the living room, drinking wine coolers.  The most famous pop star in the world seemed rather star-struck by Derek.  He wanted to know about his workout routine, his diet.  They talked about the gay world, the bars, discos, bath houses -- David was shocked that such things existed. They were so busy talking that three hours passed before they even thought of going into the bedroom.

What they did when they got there is private, but it was amazing.  Afterwards they cuddled and talked all night. David was smooth, androgynous, rather well hung, exactly Derek's type.  He was hooked.

David had a heavy touring schedule -- and he liked girls, a lot -- so he didn't have much time for Derek.  They got together maybe once a month.

That wasn't enough.  Derek wanted a full-time lover.  He wanted to move in with David, to stand next to him as the papparazi swarmed, to spend every night kissing and talking softly in that king-sized bed with the black silk sheets.

"Sort of like the millions of teenage girls who wrote 'Mrs. David Cassidy' in their school notebooks," Fred notes.

Finally one day in May, Derek put his foot down.

"I need more time," he said.  "I understand that you're the idol of every teenage girl in the world, but I'm here, now.  We should go out, do something together, have a real date."

David thought for a moment.  "Well...I have a concert in Glasgow next Friday, and then I don't have to be in London until Sunday afternoon.  I can bring you along as...say, my new bodyguard?"

A romantic weekend in Britain with the man of his dreams!

They sat side-by-side on the plane en route to Glasgow, and stood side-by-side to be photographed leaving the airport -- you can still see the AP wire photo of David and Derek together.

Of course, they had separate hotel rooms, but after the concert on Friday night, David sought out Derek's room.  They had an energetic, passionate night.

On Saturday morning, they took a private plane from Glasgow to Cardiff, where they rented motorcycles and drove two hours north, through Brecon Beacons National Park, to the tiny town of Three Cocks for lunch.

"I thought you would get a kick out of it," David said with a grin.

Another two hours north to Aberstwyth, where they registered as "Joe Drummond" and "Derek Drummond" at a guest house.  One room, two beds.

When they walked through the town, a few people stared, as if trying to place them, but David was only recognized once: a teenage boy came up and asked for his autograph.

"Are you David's mate, then?" he asked.

"Um...bodyguard," Derek said.

"Ok, right," the boy said with a knowing grin."  He walked off, singing "I Think I Love You."

"This morning I woke up with this feeling," Matt obligingly sings, "I didn't know how to deal with, and so I just decided to myself, I'd hide it to myself, and never talk about it...."

Derek looks miserable at the memory, so I cut Matt off.  "Do you think the kid knew that you and David were together?" I ask.

Apparently David thought so.  He was quiet all the way back to the guest house.  That night he insisted on sleeping in his own bed.

On Sunday morning, they got up early, biked the 2  1/2 hours back to Cardiff, and got on a plane to London.

On Monday, David flew on to Amsterdam, and Derek flew back to Los Angeles.

He never saw David again.

"Stay away from those celebrities," Derek says, looking pointedly at me.  "They'll break your heart."

Was Derek telling the truth, exaggerating a simple bodyguard job, or making the whole thing up?

Evidence that he was telling the truth: David Cassidy did tour Britain in May 1974, and the bodyguard in the AP photo looks like Derek.

Evidence against: David doesn't mention Derek, or any same-sex relationships, in his memoirs.  It is unlikely that the most famous pop star in the world would be able to take a weekend off and motorcycle through Wales without drawing the attention of the press.

See also: Derek the Fitness Model and the Teenage Cowboy; David Cassidy.

Friday, November 17, 2017

The Midnight Hookups of Philadelphia


I'm back in Philadelphia, where I lived for an execrable nine months.  It was ugly, dirty, crowded, expensive, dangerous, and it had the most unfriendly gay people anywhere.

My horrible flight lands at 2:00 pm.  I check into a hotel about 6 blocks from my old apartment.  It's even worse.  A grim, grotesque pageant of self-absorbed yuppies and homeless people sleeping on air vents.  My crappy hotel is costing me $300 a night.  I can't go a block without being panhandled.  Giovanni's Room, the oldest gay bookstore in town, is gone.

And it's impossible to find a decent guy to have sex with.

Club Philly is only a block away.  When I lived here, it was a gym and private rooms.  You had sex in the steam room and sauna.

Now the gym is gone!  A rack of free weights!  Plus no steam room, no sauna.  They have a glory hole maze now, but it's deserted.  4 floors, rickety stairs, and there's nobody there.

I go down on a very hot black guy in his 20s with a slim muscular physique and a 8" cock.  So far so good.

 A young Hispanic guy motions me into his room.  He seems to be mute -- he motions rather than speaks.  He motions for me to screw him.  I refuse.  He motions aggressively.  I leave.

I talk to a couple sharing a room.  An elderly guy, chubby, with red scaly psoriasis all over his body, and his boyfriend, elderly, slim, who doesn't speak and seems a little off.  I go down on the boyfriend for a few minutes.

I go on Grindr and find that there are 3 guys within 20 feet, in the same club.  I say "hello" to them.  Nothing.

So much for Club Philly.

Chinese food for dinner, then back to my hotel.  I put an ad on Craigslist Philadelphia, "hosting downtown."  Nothing.  Not one response.  Back home I'd have 20 guys by this point.

Back to Grindr. There are like 300 guys within 30 feet.  I say "Hi" to about 20 of them.

Nothing.  Crickets.

As a last resort, I put an ad on Craigslist: hosting downtown.  Back home, my ads get 10-20 responses.

Nothing.  Crickets.

Bob calls.  He went to work, then hung out at the gay-friendly coffee house.

A gay-friendly coffee house?  Sigh.


I made a mistake: this is the last day of the conference!  And another mistake: every conference I've ever been to, you dress casually.  Here there are suits and ties everywhere.

I get cruised by a cute Italian guy, but otherwise make no contacts.

The sessions are over by 5:00.  I have more Chinese food and then head to the hotel gym.

A lousy set of dumbbells!

I look up "gay gyms" online and find the Sansome Street Gym, about 7 blocks away.  Why not.

The twink at the front desk cruises me.  So far so good.

Nope: Weight room contains 4 measly cybex machines, broken so you can't change the angle.  Big deal.  I wander through the huge space, completely empty except for an ugly guy who rejects me!

Back to Grindr.  A weird tattooed hippie, frightfully skinny, with a small cock comes over, gets a blow job while looking at porn and saying crazy things like "I grew up in Philadelphia.  That's why I hate it."  and "I'm a mural artist.  I want to get thousands of people to look, but I can't decide what they should look at."

Is everybody in Philadelphia demented?

He tells me to suck hard, like I'm trying to get a thick milkshake through a straw.

After he finally comes, he puts on someone named Bjork and dances and sings loudly, while searching in his bag for his gummy bears.  Then he asks me for a "donation."

Back to Grindr.  Some guy starts insulting me for being old.  Like it's my fault, if I wasn't so stupid I would have just stayed 30.  I tell him: "I was a gay kid in the 1970s.  I've been beat up, spat on, threatened, chased, called fag, fairy, pervert, abomination in the eyes of the Lord.  I experienced more hate than you can even imagine.  Do you really think that a few insults will hurt me?  He shuts up.

Then a 50-year old South Asian guy comes over for wet, sloppy kisses, licking body part, and telling me how much he likes little boys.  Triple turn off.

" know, I haven't been a little boy in many years.  Why are you here?"

"I like to share mature men and little boys.  Three of us together would be really nice, don't you think..."

 I tell him that sex with 14-year olds is a crime, try to staunch the weird licking, and suck his cock to shut him up.  Then I literally push him out the door.

A moment later, Derek, the 19-year old abuse survivor, texts me: "Can't wait to see you again!  Looking forward to Tuesday."


I wish I was back home on the Plains.


The conference is over, so I hit the after-party for the Philadelphia Marathon, the Rodin Museum, and the Barnes Art Foundation.  I try to get into Eastern State Penitentiary, but the line is too long.

In the evening I go on Grindr to get ignored and blcoked again, then return to Club Philly.

Score!  Usually I consider a bathhouse a success if I get with five guys, but I lose count after seven.

1. Tall young guy with enormous uncut penis.
2. His friend, buffed, blond who wanted to kiss.
3. Hairy chub in his room.
4. Tall muscular guy with a red beard who wanted to kiss.
5. Young black guy who came after 30 seconds.
6. Guy with cerebral palsy who is an anal bottom.
7. Short buffed guy from Italy with a smooth chest

Then I go to the Bike Stop after all and make out with two other guys, a short Asian and a husky bank teller from Delaware.

I stumble back to my hotel at 2:00 am, go to bed, and wake up at 6:00 am sharp.

Two things I've learned:

1. Dating apps are useless in gay neighborhoods.
2. No one has sex until after midnight.

See also: Philadelphia, My Return to the Straight World

Eric Has Sex with Chuck Connors and a 29 Year Old Johnny Crawford

This is the second Chuck Connors-Johnny Crawford hookup story I heard when I was living in West Hollywood.  I don't remember who told it.  Probably one of Will the Bondage Boy's friends:

Hollywood, Fall 1975

One morning Johnny Crawford called his  Rifleman co-star, Chuck Connors.

"I found a guy for you," he said.

Instead of "What's he look like" or "Are you sure he's gay," Chuck immediately asked "Does he like Greek?"

Johnny expected it.  He had known for years that Chuck Connors was Greek active, an anal top.  Even when he was a kid growing up in Brooklyn in the 1930s, Chuck was a sucker for a shapely derriere -- his first time, in fact, was when he was an altar boy, 13 years old but already hung and horny, already a top.  (The bottom was his parish priest.)

Men or women, either were fine.  With men, Chuck liked them masculine, muscular, dark-haired, cowboy sidekicks.  No femmes, no fairies, and especially no "Gay is Good" liberationists.  Keep it in the bedroom where it belonged.

Back in the 1960s, he used to cruise Sunset Boulevard looking for hustlers to bring back and "share" with his second wife Kamala, but since gay liberation took off, the hustler population had declined.  He was too famous, and besides, he claimed that the nightclubs were full of hippie chicks and gay liberationist boys who thought getting plowed was degrading.  So he had some friends scope out the studios, looking for cute young things and ingenues who might like to get plowed by the Rifleman.

Like Johnny Crawford, 29 years old, his teen idol days long gone, trying to make it as a serious actor, but he mostly getting offers to play cowboys. Johnny was bisexual, but he and Chuck had never tricked together.  It would be creepy, like a father and son.  Besides, Johnny was into the young, slim, androgynous hippie sort, and Chuck Connors had never been androgynous.  Or a hippie.

"I'm filming The Great Texas Dynamite Chase (1976), about a couple of hot chicks who rob a bank and go on the lam," Johnny told Chuck. "I play a cowboy they pick up on the road.  The three of us stop at a fancy hotel and have a bisexual orgy with this hot bellhop."

The bellhop was played by Eric Boles, a 25-year old celebrity kid (his dad was also in the movie): short, black hair, handsome movie star face, cute but a little too masculine to be Johnny's type.

"But that's not the best part," Johnny continued.  "In the first scene, a naked girl walks across the set to seduce him, and he wasn't at all interested.  No interest.  Nothing.  And in the orgy scene, he wasn't looking at the girls at all -- he was trying to get a peek at me."

"Nice, but that doesn't answer my question," Chuck said.  "Does he like Greek? Remember, I'm well hung, and I like to take my time."

Johnny knew that, too.  20 minutes for his first screw of the night, 30-40 for his second, and so on.    At the staunchly middle age of 54, Chuck had slowed down a bit, but he could still go on for half an hour.

"I didn't ask if he liked Greek especially, but he's definitely into dudes, and he definitely had a crush on you when he was a kid."

"Ok, we'll see.  Bring him around."

"I already asked.  There's the problem -- he only wants to come around if we're both there."

Chuck paused on the telephone for a long time.  Then:  "Are you up for that?"

"I wouldn't mind us both working on him, as long as, you know, you and I don't kiss or anything."

The next Saturday afternoon, Johnny and Eric drove up to Chuck Connor's house in the Hollywood Hills.  After a few beers and a discussion of the stars Chuck had topped -- Bobby Sherman, Jay North, Jack Wild -- they went into the "playroom" and got undressed.  Chuck fondled Eric's butt while he knelt to go down on Johnny.

Johnny had heard a lot about Chuck's gigantic cock, but never saw it in person -- impressive, at least 7", long and thick, and getting longer every second as he manipulated it.  Eric obligingly reached over and began going down on him while beating off.

"Ready to get screwed, boy?" Chuck asked.

Eric looked up, startled.  "Um...could Johnny screw me first?  A smaller one, to sort of warm me up?"

"I'm not that small!" Johnny protested.  He had a good 6.5" But he obliged, pushing Eric onto his back so he could look and him and kiss him while they screwed.  Eric didn't protest as Johnny slid his legs farther and farther back behind his head.  Chuck entered his mouth for awhile, but then he pushed him away: "Too big, I can't breathe," he murmured, beating off.  He spurted a few seconds before Johnny's orgasm. 

Johnny went into the bathroom to wash off.  When he returned, Eric and Chuck were getting dressed.

"What about Chuck?" he asked.

"Your boy's too sore," Chuck said with a grimace.  "We'll do it another day.  Maybe."  The maybe came out in a growl.

On the way home, Chuck said "I hope I wasn't rude.  It was great meeting Mr. Connors, but he's way too old for me.  I think he's older than my Dad!"

"Then why did you agree..."  Johnny began.

"I figured it was the only way I could get naked with you."

See also: Tad's Wild Night with the Rifleman and His Son

Wednesday, November 15, 2017

A Hookup with an Abuse Survivor

Plains, November 2017

When I was a Nazarene, most Sunday school classes were about finding God' Will for our lives.

It was an important question.  If we followed God's Will, we would be blessed with riches, love, and infinite happiness.  If we didn't, we would be poor, unloved, and miserable.

There were two main questions for boys: God's Will for your career (usually it was the ministry) and God's Will for your future wife.  (Girls just had one question, their future husband, since they were expected to be housewives.)

But there were thousands of smaller questions.  God was intimately concerned with every detail of your daily life.  Should I have the chicken or the fish? Should I do my math or English homework first?  Should I walk down this street or that street? If you followed God's Will in those minor decisions, you would be blessed: you might meet someone whose soul you could win, or find a dime on the sidewalk.  If you didn't, you would miss out on those opportunities, and maybe get hit by a truck.

So life was a continuous series of "What should I do next?" questions sent up to heaven along with the various requests in Jesus' name (which God was honor-bound to agree to):

"Is it Your Will for me to take the early bus or the late bus?"  Ok, the early bus.
"In Jesus' name, let there be donuts in the cafeteria."
"Is it Your Will that I sit with my regular crowd or next to that cute guy?"  Ok, regular crowd
"In Jesus' name, let that cute guy look at me."

40 years later, I still believe in God, but I don't believe that the Creator of the Universe is deeply concerned with which bus I take, or that He provides hookup opportunities, whether or not you end your request with  "in Jesus' name."

Most of the time, anyway.

There's a kid at church -- Derek -- 19 years old, tall, thin, rumpled black hair, horn-rimmed glasses, remarkably cute.  He has a background of abuse; he's living with foster parents.  I get a definite cruising vibe from him.

Once, instead of shaking hands at the "Sign of peace," I hugged him.  Wow, definite chemistry!

I keep wondering if he's gay or bi.

I want to make a move, but there are problems.  What if he's straight?  What if his abuse was sexual, and my cruising triggers something from his past?  Or what if I start something, and he wants a deep, lasting romance rather than a hookup?  He should be with someone his own age.

Why can' I stop thinking about this kid?

I friend him on facebook, finding nothing that indicates gay or straight identity.  I talk with him at church.  I see him at the art center, smile and nod at his chatter.

I want to kiss him.

Once he's getting something off a high shelf, standing on a footstool, and I grab his sides to steady him.  Erotic desire shoots through me like getting zapped by electricity.

I try to get my mind off him with hookups and classes.  No use.  I'm totally infatuated with a kid half my age, who is a victim of abuse and probably straight.

What to do?  I pray.  It feels like being a 15-year old Nazarene boy again.  "God, if it is Your Will that I interact with Derek, help me to get alone with him.  In Jesus Name."

That night I get a phone call.  "Hi,'s me, have...I mean, I have someone...for my class..could you...I mean..."

A prayer in Jesus Name actually worked?  God's Will is for me to hookup with Derek?

Or just mentor Derek, help him come out?

I invite him over the next day to be interviewed.

We talk, drink sodas, play with the cat, sit on the couch to talk about art.

I have to play this cool -- no sexual harassment, no predatory behavior, nothing that makes him uncomfortable.

He's sitting with his arms crossed, classic "keep away" form.

We both pet the cat.  Our hands touch.

Every time we touch, I go crazy!  I can't stand it!  How am I supposed to mentor this kid when the erotic energy is so overpowering?

Is he gay and into me, or gay and not into me, or straight, or suffering from arrested development, still a kid?  I can't tell.

We do the interview.  It's about my job.  Nothing about being gay, except I say I'm writing a paper on LGBT issues.  He nods.

We discover that we both have birthdays coming up next week, 1 day apart.  "I'll buy you a present," he says.

"Great.  I'll buy you one, too."  I grab his shoulder.  Electric energy!  I can't stand it.  

I look at his crotch.  No bulging.  He is not aroused.

It's been two hours.  He says "I'd better be going" and puts on his coat and backpack.  I escort him to the door.

"I had fun hanging out with you," he says.  Suddenly he pulls me in for a hug -- a very awkward hug -- our heads almost bump one way, his mouth brushes against the side of my head as we try the other way.

Was he just trying to kiss me?

I release him from the hug.  He says goodbye and leaves.

And I still don't know if he's gay but not into me, gay and into me, or straight, or asexual, or not yet developed....

"God," I pray, "That was fun, but I have another request."

Later in the day, I get a text from Derek:

"Want to hang out again sometime?"

I can't stand it.

Lane and His Trophy Boy

West Hollywood, July 1989

You can easily tell whether heterosexual partners have broken up.  They begin going to social events alone, and no longer spend the night together.  Usually they never see each other again, period.

In gay communities, the boundaries are more fluid.

Romantic partners who have broken up continue to run into each other all the time (there aren't many gay places to hang out, after all).  They may still go to social events as a pair.  They may still spend the night together.

So the question "Are you still a couple?"  comes up often:
1. Should I ask about the other guy?
2. Should I invite them to things together?
3. Should I try to fix him up with someone else?
4. Is he free for me to date?

It's gauche to ask, or tell.  You're expected to just know.

My soon-to-be partner Lane met Danny at a gay Passover seder in April 1987.  He was an intensely hot Tropy Boy, 19 years old, newly out, with  a handsome male-model face, short blond hair, flawless pale skin, a smooth chest, and muscular legs.  Average beneath the belt gifts, cut.  Jewish, but not observant.

On their first date, three days later, Lane discovered that Danny was one of the few guys on Earth who didn't like receiving oral sex.  He put up with it to be polite, but his thing was giving.  He was very good at it.  Also into kissing, interfemeral, being spanked, and voyeurism -- he like watching other guys doing it.

That was all fine with Lane.  The bedroom activities were frequent and energetic.

After only three weeks, Danny moved from his parents' house in the San Fernando Valley into Lane's apartment.

Danny was so hot that Lane became the envy of West Hollywood.  Suddenly everybody at the Gold Coast, the gym, and the gay synagogue was his bosom buddy, and wanted to "share."

The problem was: Danny was so used to being a Trophy Boy that he didn't do anything, except drink milk right out of the carton and leave dirty dishes piled on the coffee table.

 He was ostensibly studying education at Cal State L.A., but he didn't go to class, and got straight D's (how do you get a D in an education class?).  Mostly he watched Duck Tales, went to lunch with his Cute Young Thing friends, and spent Lane's money on grooming products and clothes.

Lots of clothes.  55 shirts, 21 pairs of shoes, and 32 belts (he had something of a belt fetish).

The clencher came in May 1989, when Danny failed all of his classes and then cleared out the joint checking account on a Beverly Hills shopping spree.  Lane had to dip into his savings account to pay the rent.

He was furious!  There was crying.  There was yelling.

Danny's wardrobe was thrown, fancy belt by fancy belt, off the balcony.

By the end of the evening, Danny had packed up and moved back in with his parents.

Lane spent two days in his apartment, eating ice cream and listening to sad songs.  On the third day he went to the Zone, hoping to pick up a sleazy one-night stand.

He picked up me instead.  We were together for the next ten years.

But of course, Lane and Danny didn't cut off all contact.  About two weeks after the breakup, Danny came over for dinner and sharing.  He was, indeed, very energetic in the bedroom, fully aroused from the moment he took off his expensive designer pants to after he fell asleep.

But the change of boyfriends happened so quickly that Lane's friends were clueless.  He introduced me around, of course, but they seemed to think that I was just a new friend, or maybe a temporary fling, a mere setback in the Saga of Danny and Lane.

When Lane and I went to the gay synagogue, the usher tried to seat us separately.

His friend saw us at the Greenery, and asked, pointedly, "So, where's Danny?"

I ran into another of his friends at the Different Light Bookstore, and was asked "How are Lane and Danny?"

A full month after we started dating, a party invitation came in the mail, addressed to Lane and Danny. 

I was getting upset.  "You have to do something about this!" I told Lane.  "Let them know that Danny is history, you're with me now."

"They see me with you all the time.  They never see me with Danny," Lane said.  "What else can I do?  Obviously I can't make an announcement!"

I had an idea.  Danny was a trophy boy, so hot that no one could believe that Lane would break up with him willingly.  But Danny could break up with Lane.

On the night of the party, I drove to the Valley, picked up Danny at his parents' house, and came as his date.  Lane came by himself.

Danny and I stood with our arms around each other, flirted, kissed, brought each other drinks, sat together at the dinner table.

Lane said "hello" politely, but otherwise ignored us and sat by himself.

Heads turned.  Tongues wagged.

At the end of the evening, Danny and I opted to go cruising at Mugi instead of "sharing" with anyone.  Soon Lane joined us, effervescent.

"That was incredible!" he exclaimed.  "'How are you holding up?' 'He wasn't good enough for you!' Trying to fix me up with Cute Young Things!  Offers of sympathy sharing.  I never had so much fun in my life!"

Finally all of West Hollywood knew that Danny and Lane were no longer a couple.

And when Lane and I appeared together, no one commented on my sudden change in allegiances.  Obviously Danny was so hot that I couldn't handle him, so I latched onto Lane as the next best thing.

It's better than being Lane's "new friend" for the next 10 years.

Monday, November 13, 2017

Heterosexual for a Day

Remember "What do the Simple Folk Do?" from Camelot:

What do the simple folk do
To cheer them when they're feeling blue?
When they're beset and besieged, the folk not noblesse obliged,
How do they manage to shed their weary lot?

In West Hollywood, it was easy to cheer up when you were feeling blue: buy some books, look at art, have lunch at the French Quarter, go cruising at the Gold Coast.  But West Hollywood is 2000 miles away, and I'm surrounded by heterosexuals.

What do you do on gloomy Saturdays in November, at the start of the "Ho Ho Ho" madness, when all of the melancholy songs are playing but it's not even your birthday yet, and your 5K running speed is down by 5 minutes, and West Hollywood is 2000 miles away and you're surrounded by heterosexuals?

"How do hetero men spend their Saturdays?"  I ask my boyfriend Bob, who is 19 years old and has lived in the Straight World his whole life.  He writes me out a list, then leaves for work.

It sounds like a fun game: see how the other half lives.  Spend a day as a heterosexual, doing everything that hetero men do.

9:00 am: They work on cars.

You mean, like, open the hood and stuff?   In gay neighborhoods we walk or take the subway.  I know how to put gas in those car things, and steer them, and that's it.  But maybe I could get an auto mechanic to do something, like change the oil.

Score!  The guy at the Jiffy Lube is in his 30s, short and buffed, with a round face and square workman's hands.  And he squirts things with lube all day....

10:00 am: They hunt things.

Like, um...cuddly bunnies and such?  I've never once in my life held a gun, but I can certainly hunt.  How about antiques?  I can look for some additions to my beefcake art collection.

Score!  "A Surf Boy Tiki Mug" from Orchids of Hawaii, a restaurant supply company operating out of the Bronx during the tiki craze of the 1960s.  An evil Dennis the Menace.

Besides, there;s a hot father and college-aged son at the Antique Mall, scoping out some antique model cars.  I make eye contact with the son, and get a cruisy smile.

11:00 am:  They play baseball.

I would prefer to avoid having projectiles hurled at my head.  But working out the gym is the same thing, nght?

1:00 pm: They have lunch at Five Guys Burgers and Fries

I would gain ten pounds just walking into that joint. Fortunately, there's a Jersy Mike's next door, which not only has turkey subs, it has some cute college boys for me to exchange witty banter with.

2:00 pm: They shop for tools.

Kitchen supplies count as tools, right?  I go to Cooks Plus and buy a frittatta pan.

3:00 pm: They drink beer and watch the game.

Diet Coke will have to substitute for the beer, and I can't watch sports on tv -- I only get Netflix.  But I happen to have some old bodybuilding contests on DVD.  Will the 1985 Mr. Olympia, with Lee Haney, do?'

6:00 pm: Bob comes home and cooks dinner (frittattas).  

"How did your day as a heterosexual go?" he asks.

"Great!  I worked on cars, hunted things, played sports (if bench pressing counts), had lunch, shopped for tools, and watched a game.  There's just one thing on the list I didn't get around to.  I thought of it after you left this morning."

I show him the last thing that hetero men do.

"I'm totes up for that!  After dinner and some making out, that is.  We can't do it until about 9:00 anyway."

After a day of beefcake and cruising, I'm up for more than making out.  I go down on Bob while beating off, then push him onto the floor for interfemoral, with him on top.

Then we watch tv until it's time for the last item on the list:

9:00 pm: They go out to try to pick up babes.

Preferably babes with handsome faces, hard smooth chests, and gigantic penises.

See also: Searching for Twinks on the Plains