That's the last time I let Bob, the19-year old economics major, arrange a hookup for us. On the way east to New York, he somehow found the most disgusting guy of all time, and on the way back, he got the wrong guy!
We stayed overnight in Rock Island again, and went to the Figge Museum of Art, across the river in Iowa.
I had never been there before. It opened in 1997, after my parents moved to Indiana, and on the rare occasions that I returned to the Quad Cities, there wasn't time for much sightseeing.
The second floor had galleries devoted to Spanish Colonial art, Haitian art, Grant Wood, and contemporary art. The third floor was devoted to a corn maze, and the fourth floor to a collection of black dolls.
Some of the galleries had a nice view of the Mississippi.
No beefcake art to speak of, although I did notice a surprising number of Cute Young Things and twinks among the patrons. A lot of cruisy smiles and up-and-down glances going on. I found out why when I heard a lot of raucous noise from downstairs, and left Bob in the Haitian Art gallery to investigate.
The downstairs exhibition room was full of people, very cute college-age boys in grey t-shirts with "Metro Arts" logos, some girls, a few kids, very well dressed adults mingling with glasses of wine and little sandwiches. Some were already sitting on folding chairs facing a stage. There were t-shirts for sale, and tables of snacks.
Was this a private function? In my t-shirt and jeans, I looked more like one of the college boys than an adult.
I milled about, pretending to belong, trying to find someone alone, not in a group, to pump for information.
No luck. Some of the teenagers were in groups, doing voice exercises and giving each other encouragement. Some were talking to groups of adults. No one was alone.
As usual, I got cruisy glances from the twinks, suspicious glares from the adults.
The adults were parents, friends, and community leaders. Later I discovered that the mayors of both Davenport and Rock Island were there.
First up in the showcase: a comedy improv with three performers. I milled about, taking photos.
Soon Bob joined me, drawn by the noise. I apprised him of what was happening, and we watched in silence for a few minutes.
My eyes were drawn to a father and son standing alone, with no mother. Gay?
Dad was in his 40s, with a rugged face, salt-and-pepper hair, and a tight frame. Son was probably 15, wearing a gray Metro Arts t-shirt, with dark wavy hair and an orange baseball cap, texting furiously on his cell phone.
I am always attracted to guys in business suits. Maybe because they are designed specifically to hide the physique and bulge, so trying to imagine what he looks like with his clothes off becomes exciting.
And fathers, guys who are nurturing and domestic, yet obviously were naked, intimate, and aroused.
Bob nudged me. "You like him?"
"Sure, he's hot. And definitely gay. But I can't get him to make eye contact. He's too busy concentrating on the show."
"That's funny, I'm getting some major perv from him."
"Maybe you're more his type. And...there he goes."
The improv show ended, and father and son walked up to shake hands with one of the performers. All three headed back toward the room with the snack tables.
"Didn't you say that the museum was the best place to pick up guys?" Bob asked. "Why don't you go after him? We could have a three-way tonight."
I glanced around, embarrassed to be discussing three-ways so openly. "I'm not even sure we're supposed to be here, so I want to keep a low profile. And how do you pick up a guy in front of all of his relatives?"
"No problem. I'll take care of it. Be right back."
Before I could protest, Bob walked off toward the snack room.
The next showcase began, five artists talking about how they painted murals by the river.
Bob was gone a long time. I began to get annoyed, and walked back to find him. He met me.
"It's all set. They're going to a place called Wise Guys Pizza after the showcase, and we're going to meet them there. I guess it will be a whole big group. But if I'm going to hook up, I need to shower and brush my teeth. Could we go back to the hotel first?"
There was a group of gray-shirt Metro Arts teens occupying a booth, looking at the menu. Bob waved.
No parents.
Where's the hot Dad?
A teenage boy with dark wavy hair and an orange baseball cap slid over so we could join him. Bob let me sit next to him.
He hooked us up with the wrong guy! The son, not the father!
I could have hooked up with a twink on my own. I wanted Bob to be my wing man in picking up a hot Dad.
It's not Bob's fault -- I'm dating a 19 year old, I get cruised by twinks all the time, and last week when he hooked me up with a teenager, I didn't object. What would you conclude?
The boy - Ethan -- wasn't 15, he was 20, entering his junior year at Western Illinois University,and totally into hooking up. Smooth, solid physique, 5" cut but easily aroused. Although he was mostly an anal bottom, he allowed me to go down on him while he went down on Bob, and then do interfemoral in a side position while Bob slid against his butt.
Bob is turning into rather more an anal top than I anticipated when we started to date.A nice hookup, but not much different from the ones I get on the Plains. I wanted the father.
See also: Nude Wrestling in Fond du Lac.
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