Saturday, January 28, 2017

Nude Photos of Bug Hall

Bug Hall is a child star turned musician and dramatic actor, specializing in scruffy-loner and hetero-erotic roles.  So it was probably inevitable that some nude selfies would emerge, like these from 2010, posted on the OMG Blog.

The question on the blogosphere, of course, was: are they really Bug?  He did have a lean, hairy physique at the time, but this guy looks older than 25, and Bug has no heart tattoo.

Or a Prince Albert.

This penis doesn't look right.  We know from Bug's various bulges in movies that he is long and thin.  This is too thick.

And I doubt that he had a penis tattoo at age 25.

More about Bug Hall on Boomer Beefcake and Bonding.

Thursday, January 26, 2017

The Only Gay Guy at a Straight Party

Plains, January 2017

The Unitarian Church hosts regular "circle suppers," where eight or so people assigned "at random" meet at someone's house for a potluck.  It's not really random: I am usually assigned to a group consisting of mostly gay people.

But the other night my group consisted of four heterosexual couples and me.

Still, I was rather looking forward to it, since last time I went to a completely straight party, I met a cute college boy, the host's son, and we dated for about six months.  I've had good luck meeting guys so far in 2017. Could lightning strike twice?

No.  The couples were all "my age" (chronologically, anyway), which means that their kids had all "got married and moved away."

Well, maybe the food would be good.

No.  Craggy, tasteless chicken enchiladas, green beans with a weird minty tang, a macaroni salad loaded with mayonnaise, and two kinds of cheesecake.  Plus a lot of alcohol.

Beefcake?  Half the fun of gay parties is cruising the new guys.

No.  I'm fine with older men, but they should know their way around a gym.  Three of the heteros were sagging, wrinkled, and speckled, "my age" but about 100 in gay years.  The fourth was obese, with ham-hands and medic id bracelets and complaints of sciatica.

An enormous penis would make up for any number of physique imperfections, but of course at a straight party men don't typically get naked.

Not that I wanted them to.  If they got naked, the women would to, and I would be out of there fast.

Well, maybe the conversation would be ok.  At gay parties, we start with conversations about gay subtexts or actual gay characters in books, movies, and tv programs.

"Has anyone seen Sleepless yet?  I hear it has a kidnapped son, instead of the usual kidnapped daughter."

They talk about quarterhorses, the use of Amazon Kindle way up in the mountains where there's no electricity, scuba diving in the Caribbean, and how you would like to die (the consensus was: instantaneously while on the way home from a nice dinner with your husband or wife).

I've been to dozens of gay parties, and not once did anyone consider "how you want to die" a fascinating topic of conversation.

Maybe we could move from sports and death to romance.  At gay parties, we tell about dates from hell, the biggest penis we've ever seen, celebrity hookups.

So I told them about Ricky with a Y, who spent our date bragging about how much money he had and psychoanalyzing me.

Clarice tells about Joanie, who who met her current husband while still married to her last husband, but she still stuck with him during his illness, taking him to all his doctor appointments.  She didn't start dating her current husband until he died.

That's not funny at all.

I told about the nephew of my first "boyfriend," who I ran into 40 years later on campus.  Cool twist.

Teresa had a boyfriend in high school.  He wanted to marry her, but she knew that his dad was an alcoholic and abusive, so she refused.  Sure enough, he turned out to be abusive.  Years later she and her husband saw a guy that looked exactly like him on a train.  He wasn't.

That's not a good story.  The abuse makes it a downer, and the guy on the train wasn't related to him.  If it was his son or grandson, maybe.

I couldn't discuss enormous penises here, so I told about Alan the Pentecostal porn star, and let them figure it out.

Barb tells about the time her boss invited her out for breakfast.  He was enormous, at least 300 pounds.  She thought it was for business, but he thought it was a date.  So she quickly fixed him up with someone else.

Stories shouldn't criticize someone's physical appearance.  There's an obese guy in the room who will feel rejected.

How about celebrity hookups?  I told about my date with Richard Dreyfuss.

Andy and Abby visited Los Angeles about twenty years ago, and saw Zsa Zsa Gabor walking a poodle in Beverly Hills.  At least, they think it was Zsa Zsa Gabor.  No, they didn't actually have a conversation.

Either heteros lead very boring lives, or they don't know how to tell a good story.

Maybe the party games would be ok.  At gay parties, we usually played "guess the penis" and other erotic-style games, but it wasn't obligatory.  Once we played a homemade gay edition of "Trivial Pursuit."

Our party game: go around the group and each tell about what you were doing at a decade in your life: age 10, 20, 30, 40, 50, 60, 70, and what you had learned by that point.

Do heteros spend all of their time obsessing about the past?  I have to research the past to write the stories on my blog, but still, it seems morbid.  Why not live in the now?

Because their goal in life was to raise children? The children are raised, so they have nothing to do but reminisce.

My goal in life is to find beauty.  Not only in male form, but in art, literature, music.  It's never over. Like Kevin the Vampire said last week, it's an eternal now.

Fortunately straight parties end early.  By 9:00 pm, everyone was dividing up the leftovers, putting on their coats, and driving off to their hetero lives.

The gay-friendly coffee house and the gym were both closed, so I went to a straight bar downtown, where college kids hang out.

It wasn't crowded -- a group sitting around a table, a couple playing pool.  More boys than girls.  Looked eerily like a twink bar, except no one was dancing.

The bartender was a buffed guy in his 30s wearing a backwards baseball cap.

"You look like you've had quite a night," he said.  "What can I get you?"

"Perrier, if you have it."

He frowned.  "I'll have to check the store room.  No one has ordered that for as long as I've worked here."

"What can I say?  I'm a child of the 80s."

"Oh, you're not that old!  I'll bet you could compete with any of the guys here."

I looked around the room.  "I'll bet I could, too."

See also:  Ricky with a Y; My Date with Richard Dreyfuss; Picking Up the Host's Son at a Straight Party.

Tuesday, January 24, 2017

My First Word Was My Boyfriend's Name

Garrett, Indiana, July 1978

When I was born in November 1960, my parents were living in a house on South Randolph Street in Garrett, a small town in northern Indiana.  We lived there until I was four and a half-years old, when we moved to Wisconsin.

I have very few memories of those years, and none about anyone who lived in the house next door.

But we returned to Garrett for visits once or twice a year, and drove down Randolph Street, past our old house, many times.  My parents often pointed it out, and the house next door:

"That's where your girlfriend lived!"

I didn't have a girlfriend, at age six, or ten, or fifteen, and I didn't want one.  I liked boys.

But nearly every time we drove past that house on South Randolph Street:  "There's your girlfriend's house!"

It was the most annoying of the "what girl do you like?" interrogations that tormented me as a kid.  I roiled at the blanket assumption that I, like every boy who had ever lived and ever would live, swooned over feminine curves and smiles, that my destiny lay in the prison of wife, kids, factory job, and small square house.

Like the two-story frame house with the ugly gray paint and the broken front door where, according to my parents, I had a girlfriend at the age of four.

We drove down Randolph Street a lot.  On the way to visit my grandparents -- both of them.  On our way to Auburn or Rome City to visit my aunts and uncles.  On the way home.  On the rare occasions that we did something in downtown Garrett.  A dozen times per visit.  And inevitably:

"That was where your girlfriend lived!"

Sometimes Mom added a few details: The girl's name was Rebecca.  She was three months younger than me, brown hair, blue eyes.  We played in our bassinets together.  My first word, other than "Mommy" and "Bye-Bye," was "Becky."

My first word was a girl's name.  I found that horribly depressing.

In July 1978, I was 17 years old, a new high school graduate.  I had just figured "it" out, but no one knew except my brother.

We usually left Rock Island as soon as Dad got off work, at 4:00 pm, and drove six hours to Rome City to spend the night with Aunt Nora.  The next day all of Mom's brothers and sisters gathered at Grandpa Prater's farmhouse outside Garrett and spent the day playing horseshoes or board games, watching tv, and talking, with a picnic or barbecue in the summer.  But today Grandpa Prater wasn't feeling well, so we just stopped in for a brief visit; the family gathering would take place at Uncle Paul's house in town.

"Look!  Your girlfriend's house!" Mom exclaimed as we drove down Randolph Street.

I started to worry.  Was it possible that at the beginning of my life, I liked girls?  Did something happen to turn me gay?  And if you could turn gay, could you turn straight again?

Going out with a girl, sitting with her on a couch, touching her on the face and shoulder, squeezing her breast, kissing her, seeing her naked...gross!  No muscles, no penis, nothing masculine, nothing attractive!  Was that my fate?

Garrett is a small town.  Uncle Paul's house was only five blocks from my girlfriend's house.  In the afternoon, while everyone was getting ready for the barbecue, I put on my t-shirt and shorts, said I was going for a jog, and ran over to meet this girlfriend I had at age four.

After 13  years, it was unlikely that she was still living there, but on the off chance, I walked up to the front door and knocked.

"There's no one home."

A boy was walking across the yard, a baseball bat in hand: a little older than me, my height, dirty-blond hair in an old-fashioned 1950s style, deep-set blue eyes, and high cheekbones.  He was wearing a muscle shirt that displayed small but firm biceps.  Cute!

So cute that I almost forgot my quest after my "girlfriend."  "Um...hi.  I'm looking for a girl who used to live here, named Becky.  About my age, brown hair."

"That's my baby sister.   Well, not that much of a baby, only a year younger than me.  I'm Ben."  We shook hands -- warm, tight handshake.  "She's at work right now, but she'll be back soon.  Do you want to wait?"  He grinned.  "Or we could go surprise her."

An adventure with a cute boy!  I was in!

We walked up Randolph Street to Garrett's small downtown -- a hardware store, a newsstand, a movie theater, some bars.  I told Ben about my college plans and the Fourth of July party I went to last week where the guys got naked -- he found that hilarious!  He told me about high school -- turns out that he knew my Cousin Buster -- and his job at the car wash.  It was warm and comfortable, yet exciting, like a first date.

It was hot, so Ben took his shirt off.  Even more exciting!  Smooth tanned chest, pinprick nipples, outtie belly button. I found some excuse to wrap my arm around his shoulders.  He grinned.

Becky worked at a small store that specialized in women's dresses.  It was deserted in mid-afternoon.  A girl sat behind the counter, reading a magazine.

"Hey, where's Becky?"  Ben asked.

"Oh, it wasn't busy, so she left early.  I don't know where she went."

Ben turned to me.  "Sorry to bring you all this way for nothing.  We can go back to the house and wait, if you want."

"I have a better idea.  My uncle is having a barbecue this afternoon.  Why don't you come?  Buster will be there, and you can meet my parents."

So Ben came as my "date" to the barbecue at Uncle Paul's house.  We ate hamburgers, potato chips, salad, and pie; we played horse-shoes with the adults and slip-and-slide with the kids.  Mom and Dad introduced him as "the brother of Boomer's first girlfriend."  I introduced him as Ben.

"Oh, this is Benny, your little buddy!" Uncle Paul exclaimed.  "It's cool how you found him again."

"Little buddy?" I asked, perplexed.

"Yeah, when you were a baby, the neighbor lady used to babysit in the afternoons, while your Mom was at work.  She had two kids of her own -- Benny, and I forget the girl's name.  We called him your 'little buddy.'"

"I remember that," Ben said, wrapping his arm around my waist.  "I thought you looked familiar.  My long-lost bud!"

"You boys were crazy about each other, let me tell you!" Uncle Paul continued.  "I used to come over after school to pick you up, and you would hug for dear life and not let go."

"Um...what about Becky?"

"Was that her name?  You liked playing with her, too.  But you know what your first word was?  Other than Mommy, Bye-Bye, and Paul -- it was Benny!"

Later I met Becky again.  She was perfectly nice.

But my parents got it wrong -- my first word was the name of a cute boy.

See also: What's Funny about Kissing a Boy?

Monday, January 23, 2017

The Smiling Boy at the Gym

The other night at the gym, a college boy cruised me.

This might not seem unusual.  I've been a twink magnet for years. I picked up the waiter at a restaurant in Indianapolis just a couple of weeks ago, and last week I picked up a guy at the campus food court.

But this was different.

1. In the straight world, no one cruises at the gym, except for little kids who haven't learned the norms yet.  Some of the guys are homophobic, and will respond with violent rage.  You check out biceps and bulges with very brief, nonchalant glances, and never make eye contact with someone you don't know.  I rarely pick up guys at straight world gyms.

2. It was at the YMCA, not the campus gym.  Very few college students go there.  The cardio center is occupied primarily by older men, the free weight room by serious bodybuilders and an occasional group of giggling high school boys.

This was a twink.  Around 20, cute, with a long face and sharp features.  Wearing a red baseball cap, so I couldn't see his hair.  Too far away to see his physique.

On an exercise bicycle that faced the weight machines, staring at me while I did incline presses.  Smiling.

At me, or in my general direction?

One way to find out: the preacher curl was the only other machine that faced the exercise bikes.  It wasn't nearly time for biceps, and I don't use the preacher curl, but I sat and did a few sets.

I have nice biceps, but you can't tell from a distance.

But the twink kept smiling at me.

There were half a dozen buffed older men in the weight machine room.  Why me?

I went back to the free weight room, did three set of butterflies and some ab crunches, and returned.

The twink had finished his cardio and was on incline press machine.  I chose another incline press a few feet away.  Both looked directly at a mirror.

He was wearing one of those slit-side t-shirts.  Pale skin, pinprick nipples, tight but not muscular -- I could see his ribs, and some tattoo writing on his chest.  He was lifting only 130 pounds (I do 270).

Smiling at me.

I looked away, flustered.

How could I concentrate on my weight training with this kid gaping at me like a lovesick puppy dog?

Was he mentally unbalanced?  High?

I returned to the free weight room, did some tricep pushdowns, and grinned like an idiot at the high school kid struggling with his shoulder press across from me.

He smiled shyly and looked away.

That's the way you're supposed to do it!

Back to the weight machine room.  The twink was sitting on a leg press machine, his cell phone in his hand.  He looked up and smiled.

He didn't speak, but kept smiling, his eyes followed me all the way across the room to the drinking fountain, and then all the way back.

I rushed back into the free weight room and hid there for half an hour.  When I returned, the twink was on an exercise bike again, this one facing away from the weight machine room.

There was only one way out into the lobby, except an emergency exit -- you had to go past him. But at least he wouldn't see me until it was too late to smile like an idiot.

Or not -- the moment I rushed past, I heard a "Hi!"

I turned.  "Sorry, have we met?  I'm not too good with faces."

 "No, I'm not from here," he said, smiling.  "I'm in town visiting my Dad."

"Where are you from?"

"San Francisco.  Well, Berkeley.  My Mom is a professor, but I just work for Verizon."

That explains why he didn't know the rules of straight-world cruising!  

We ended up at the gay-friendly coffee house, and then at my apartment, where I went down on the twink -- his name was Cade.  Average sized but very hard, very big spurt.   Then he threw his legs in the air, but I pushed him down and topped him in the interfemoral position.   We washed off, and then he tried interfemoral with me.

"I loved San Francisco," I told him as we lay in bed afterwards.  "It's Gay Heaven."

"It's nice -- lots of hot guys around.  But the competition is fierce.  I can never meet anybody."

"You need a gimmick," I told him.

"Here on the Plains, it's easy -- all I have to do is smile, and they line up.  You're the third guy I hooked up with at the gym this week."

Maybe I should start smiling at guys at the gym.

See also: My Ex-Student Naked at the Gym.


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