Friday, February 17, 2017

Sleeping with a High School Boy in St. Louis

St. Louis, May 9th, 1985

7:00 am


After 210 execrable days of teaching bonehead English to redneckes in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas,  I finally managed to escape.   I've been driving all night, except for a couple of hours sleeping at a rest stop, so I'm quite a zombie.

 And I'm angry and frustrated, after watching someone masturbate through a glory hole, but not being allowed to get any of the action.

Time for breakfast.

I get off Interstate 55 in a neighborhood south of downtown St. Louis and stop at the Mississippi Mud House, the only gay-friendly restaurant in St. Louis, according to my Gayellow Pages.

It's not entirely gay: there are heterosexual couples, some businessmen in suits, and a scattering of college students.  Actually, I don't see anyone who sets off my gaydar.

Except for a cute guy about my age sitting by himself at one of the little tables: tall and slim, with thick sandy hair, dark eyebrows, and pink lips.  Wearing blue jeans and a pink polo shirt.

Maybe I struck out last night, but this time it's a sure thing.

 I try to make eye contact, but he won't look up.

Who cares?  My discretion has vanished.  When my order arrives, I pick up my plate and coffee cup and plop down in the seat across from him.

"Hi! I've had a rough night. Can I join you?"

He smiles. "Sure."


His name is Dwight.  He's 17 years old, finishing his junior year in high school, with a job lined up as a life guard during the summer.  He comes to the gay coffee shop almost every morning before on the way to school, hoping to meet someone, but he never does.

"You haven't been with a guy before?"  I ask.

"No.  I guess that's pretty lame, isn't it?  But there's no gay kids at school, none that are out, anyway, and I'm too young to get into the bars, so this is the only place to go."

This is the homophobic 1980s.  There are no gay student groups, no youth groups.  The adults try their best to keep children from even knowing that gay people exist.    

"No, not lame at all. I haven't been with many guys myself."

Suddenly I get stage fright.  Do I have what it takes to be this guy's first time?  I haven't showered or brushed my teeth for 24 hours, while driving in the hot Southern sun, and I'm so tired I might not be able to perform adequately.

Besides, Dwight is too young and too thin for me -- I like guys a few years older than me, in their 30s, with some muscle mass, something to hang onto.  Somebody like my first boyfriend, Fred.

But I deserve something after last night's debacle, and after 270 dreadful days in Hell-fer-Sartain.  I'm going home with Dwight.

He has class in a few minutes, but he plays hookey to show me the sights of St. Louis -- the Arch, which I've already seen, the Anheuser-Busch Brewery (which I hate), the Art Museum (which he hates), and McDonald's for lunch.

I think he's stalling on purpose.

12:30 pm

It's after noon when we finally get to a two-story square brick townhouse about five blocks from the gay-friendly coffee house.

Dwight leads me into the small, unkept living room and then up an old wooden staircase to the bedroom he shares with his younger brother:  two unmade twin beds, two desks loaded down with textbooks, toy cars, action figures -- this guy still plays with toys -- a poster of Rob Lowe on the wall.  His family doesn't know about him, of course, and they're oblivious to his same-sex interests.  "I could join the cheerleading squad at school, and they'd think it was to meet girls!"

I sit on the bed, and draw Dwight down next to me.  He looks away.  "I'm kind of nervous.  Let's start slow, ok?"

"Sure, no problem.  We'll cuddle, and take it from there."

We lay on the bed.  I take my shirt off.  Dwight doesn't.  I take him in my arms, try to kiss him but get his cheek instead.  Our legs intertwine. I should be getting aroused by this point, but I don't.  He lays his head on my chest.

"This is nice," he says.  "Just being here, together, with our arms around each other.  Romantic, you know?  Could we just lay here for awhile?"

"Sure, no problem."  I hold him tighter, and close my eyes.

2:30 pm

The next thing I know, Dwight is shaking me and whispering "Boomer, wake up!"

I open my eyes.  "What's up?"

"It's 2:30!  Mom will be home soon.  We got to get out of here!"

I quickly dress.  I insist on stopping in the bathroom, in spite of Dwight's protests.  He practically pushes me down the stairs and through the living room.

"Sorry we didn't get to do anything.  Are you going to be in town for awhile?  Maybe I could come to your hotel?"

"No, I'm due in Rock Island tonight.   My parents will probably be waiting with a 'Welcome-Home' poster and party favors."

"Ok, well..."  He opens the door.  "It was nice cuddling with you, anyway."

"Yeah."  I close the door again and grab and kiss him.  He puts his arms around me.  I get aroused, and  feel a Bratwurst+ pushing against me.  I fondle him briefly, then say goodbye and push through the door.


Always leave them aroused.

I get back in my car, get lost once, and then hit the I-67 north for the last six hours of my trip home from Hell-fer-Sartain.

Hey, we didn't exchange telephone numbers!

Wednesday, February 15, 2017

Classroom Bulges

Plains, February 2017

I don't stand behind a podium during my lectures; During an hour-long class session in a giant lecture hall, I can walk more than 2 miles.

Glancing down to ask students questions or see if they're paying attention, I see lots of bulges and tents, some crotch grabs, and occasional hands shoved into pockets to squeeze their junk.

What do you expect when you cram 50 testosterone-filled young men into stadium seats?







The guys wearing shorts, especially athletic shorts, are most prone to tenting.  Something about the silk texture and the friction.

A husky blond in intro class wears very tight shorts and spreads his legs to make his bulge even more dramatic.  He must have at least a Mortadella+, and he wants everyone to know it.












A shy science nerd in my advanced class, who coincidentally has signed up for every class I teach, grabs his penis through his pants every time I walk past.  Bratwurst.

I can't help it if he finds me attractive.

When you call on someone, the sudden rush of nervousness and anticipation will often cause an erection.  Try it for yourself.












A very tall black guy in the other intro class shoves his hand all the way into his pants and squeezes around down there.  Blatantly.  He doesn't care who notices.  He's huge -- must be a Kovbasa++++.


You can also see a lot of bulges and tents when the class is dismissed, and they stand up, pull out their cell phones, and file out of the classroom, texting furiously.  I wonder what they're discussing...












My only regret is that there's no way to tell for sure what they're packing.

Unless I happen to see them in the locker room at the gym, or they ask me out on a date (after the class is over, of course).

See also: The Student Who Has Erotic Daydreams in Class.

Tuesday, February 14, 2017

12 Valentine's Day Dates, Hookups, and Boyfriends

My least-favorite holiday is Christmas, but Valentine's Day comes a close second: a corporate-controled paeon to heterosexual desire, with millions of male-female couples paraded out to proclaim that their emotional bond is the most important thing in the world, the meaning of life.

And therefore you should spend money on maudlin cards, boxes of gut-busting candy, and dead flowers.

In gay neighborhoods it was ok, but in the straight world, same-sex couples who try to participate get stared at in restaurants, laughed at at the flower shop, jeered at the candy store.  Or at least they feel hideously out of place amid the cooing boys and girls.

And God forbid you're single!

Here are the highlights of Valentine's Day seasons past, some ok, some bad, some horrendously bad.

Not counting childhood, when everybody in the class got a valentine from everybody else, regardless of gender.

1. My First Gay BarValentine's Day, 1983. At Indiana University, my friend Viju talks me into driving up to Indianapolis.  I've never been in a gay bar, or any type of bar, before, and I'm blown away by the light, color, and camaraderie.  Nothing like the dark, sleazy, leering gay bars they show on tv.

2. T, the Thug from Catch On.  Valentine's Day, 1986.  There aren't a lot of black men in West Hollywood: if you want to meet them, you have to go to Jewel's Catch-One.  Alan and I go, and get cruised by a thug wannabe named T.










3. My Celebrity Boyfriend.  Valentine's Day, 1987.  The Celebrity and I have only been dating for about a month, and he says he wants to go "all out" for Valentine's Day.  I wonder what a famous ex-teen idol considers "all out."  A thousand doves swooping down from a helicopter?  A life-sized box of candy?  Sharing Scott Baio?  Turns out to be him on a heart-shaped blanket.

4. A Boy for Valentine's Day.  Valentine's Day, 1990.  I'm dating Lane, and still thinking of that "sharing Scott Baio" thing.  I don't actually pick up Scott Baio, but I get a nice substitute with Raul's friend Dominic, a cute Mexican twink.  While Lane and I are having dinner, Raul lets Dominic in the house, where he puts on a Cupid outfit and hides in the bedroom.  






5. The Estonian Word for Valentine.  Valentine's Day, 1998.  Yuri and I are both dating Jaan, the Estonian mountain climber, and we both want to impress him.  We plan a three-way date involving Estonian food, Estonian music, Estonian everything, until Jaan gets sick of it and kicks us both out.

But there's a nice side effect to gay dating: if the guy you both want rejects you, you can always spend the night with each other.

6. The Boy Who Cried Fabulous.  Valentine's Day, 2005.  What could be worse than to be dating the annoyingly cheerful, annoyingly upbeat Florian on hearts-and-flowers day?  Nothing.  A 5-pound heart-shaped box of candy, a dozen roses, a card two feet square with a horrible pun, and a teddy bear with a heart-shaped bib reading "I Wuv You."   He doesn't even love me, he wuvs me.



7. The Great Trick-Off of 2007.  I'm back in West Hollywood for a job interview, and Lane suggests that we hit the bars.  On Cupid Day?  It will be all depressed single guys.

"Precisely," Lane says.  "We can spend the night tricking, like we did before AIDS -- pick someone up, bring him home, do him, kick him out, back to the bar for the next guy."

"But we were Cute Young Things back then.  I'm 46!"

"So what?  I'm 51!"

8. The Asian-American Family Valentine Dinner.  Valentine's Day, 2009.  I'm dating Chad, who is second-generation Korean-American.  He invites me to dinner with his family, which turns out to be like a Korean Thanksgiving: tons of food, relatives you only see once a year, and innumerable questions about the new guy Chad is dating.




9. The Guilt Trip. Valentine's Day, 2010.  I'm dating Troy, a newly-graduated French major who says "Oh, I hate Valentine's Day.  Let's not celebrate at all."  Fine with me.  Until February 14th, when I awaken to candy, flowers, expensive jewelry, and dinner reservations.  Fooled you!

10. I Become a Creepy Old Guy.  Valentine's Day, 2012.  #9 is probably the reason I hate Valentine's Day now.  I insist that we don't celebrate.  At all.  We go to a bathhouse instead, the River Club in Albany, where I become a Creepy Old Guy.








11, The Youngest Guy I've Ever Dated.  Valentine's Day, 2015.  A 22 year old theater major.  Fortunately, we start dating too close to the Day to celebrate it.

12, My Ex-Student Naked in the Locker Room.  Valentine's Day, 2016.  A 19-year old political science major who wants to become a lawyer.  Our first date is the night before.  I wake up, go down on him, give him a bagel, and kick him out.

I get to spend The Day alone in my apartment, doing course prep, downloading porn from the internet, and watching The Walking Dead.  

Best Valentine's Day ever!

Monday, February 13, 2017

In Search of the Lapp Penis

Paris, July 7, 1991

My partner Lane and I arrived in Paris yesterday, on the first of the Paris-Brussels-Amsterdam jaunts that would become an annual tradition.  He'd never been to Paris before, and I had only been once, so we wanted to cram as much sightseeing as possible into our five days: the Louvre, the Musee d'Orsay, Notre Dame, Shakespeare and Company Bookstore, the Arc de Triomphe, the Eiffel Tower...

And, of course, we wanted to "share" as many men as possible.

Alan the Pentecostal Porn Star, who moved to Paris two years offered some suggestions from his long list of tricks and dates: mostly twinks and Cute Young Things but all sizes and shapes, races and languages.

"Claude is from Belgium -- a face like an angel...Michel is studying political philosophy at the Sorbonne -- kind of a nerd, but hung!..."

"What about Hanno R___?"  Lane read from the list.  The note said "Sailor, 25. From Lappland."

"Right.  He lives in Le Havre now, but he grew up in Lappland, in northern Sweden."

The Lapps, or Saami!  I had dreamed about those mysterious reindeer-herding nomads ever since I read Sonia and Tim Gidal's Follow the Reindeer in third grade.  They were the original inhabitants of Scandinavia, before the Germanic tribes moved in.  Today there are 130,000, most still nomadic, wandering the far north of Finland, Scandinavia, Norway, and Russia.  They speak a Uralic language, related to Finnish and Hungarian.

English: penis
Saami: cihppa
Finnish: siitin
Hungarian: himvesszo

By the way, the standard Saami unit of measurement, the equivalent of the English foot, is "penis-length."  They found the penis a more convenient measuring-stick than their feet.

That settled it.  We were hooking up with the Lapp!


"Hanno wasn't that good in bed, though." Alan protested.  "Nice dick, but he wouldn't kiss, and he wanted me to top him.  You know I'm not into anal."

"Besides, we only have five days in Paris," Lane said.  "I don't want to spend a whole day going back and forth to Le Havre on a train, just for a trick.  There are plenty of guys to hook up with, right here."

"Well -- what if Alan invited him down to Paris?"

Lane shrugged.  "That would be ok, I guess."

But Alan got distracted with other things, and forgot to call him.




July 8

On Monday night, Alan finally got around to calling Hanno in Le Havre.  He said that he would like to meet us, but he was tied up with work all day until the weekend.  But we were welcome to go up to Le Havre for a visit.

"That's a deal-breaker!"  Lane exclaimed.  "I've been reading about Le Havre in the guidebook.  It's the ugliest city in France, smoggy, run-down, crime-ridden, with no good sightseeing and only one bathhouse."

"It's got a beach.  Nude men with their penises lying out, just waiting for a friendly grope.  Besides, maybe Hanno has some Lapp friends, and we can have a Northern Sun bear party."

Lane considered it.  "No, I'm still going to nix the plan.  I want to go to Shakespeare and Company and the Musee d'Orsay today.  But you go ahead."

"I can't hook up by myself.  You know the rule -- the other partner has to be there to watch."

"Or a close friend can substitute."  He glanced at Alan.  "Up for being Boomer's go-between?"




July 9th

Alan planned to leave work early and meet me at the Saint-Lazare station at 2:50, in time to catch the 3:15 train that arrives in Le Havre at 5:30 pm.  We would meet Hanno at his apartment at 6:00 pm, have an early dinner and hook up, then get back on the train, returning to Paris by 11:00 pm.

Except Alan didn't show up.

The 3:15 train left.  The 3:30 train left.

I called his apartment from a pay phone, and got no answer.

At 4:00 I went to a gay bar with a dark room to kill some time. Lots of Parisian guys waiting, aroused, in the darkness, but no Lapps.

At 5:30 I returned to the apartment.  Alan was there: "Sorry, I got held up at work.  Is it too late to go now?"

"It is if we plan to get back to Paris tonight," I said dismally.

"Well, don't worry.  I'll call Hanno, and reschedule for tomorrow night."

There was no way to track down Lane, so we had to go to the train station at 11:00 pm to meet him.

He wasn't happy.




July 10

Our last day in Paris!

"I'm not going to lose track of you again," Lane told me.  "This time I'm going with you on your quest for Lapp Penis.  If Alan flakes out, we'll go alone."

Alan flaked out again, but I had come this far, so Lane and I got on the train and rode 2 1/2 hours northwest to Le Havre, a port city of 150,000 that suffered heavy damage during World War II, and depopulation during the economic crisis of the 1970s.   Glass and concrete buildings under a dark, thunderous sky, narrow streets all named after famous people (most I'd never heard of).  We took a cab to Hanno's square concrete apartment over a bakery on the Rue Aristide Briand.

Hanno looked more like a bohemian intellectual than a nomadic reindeer herder: he had a tall, thin, long face, black curly hair, scruffy beard.  Not my type at all.

Besides, his apartment was a mess: the bed wasn't even made.  Didn't he realize that he would be getting company?

Besides, he was a smoker.

But I wasn't going to come this far for nothing.  After the briefest possible conversation, we took off our clothes and fondled a bit.  We climbed on the unmade bed and fondled some more, and then Hanno went down on Lane while I went down on him. Big penis anyway, very hard, uncut.  Very nice spurt.  When he finished, he went down on me while Lane pushed his penis into my throat.  No kissing, but no anal, either.

Afterwards Hanno lit up a cigarette while I continued to fondle his soft penis.

"So...I want to hear all about the Saami language," I told him.

He blinked.  "Saami -- oh, Samisk?  Why do you think that I know about Samisk?"

"You're a Saami, right?  Alan told us you were from Lappland."

"Sure.  I am from Kiruna, in Lappland.  But I am not Lapp, I am Swedish."

See also: 6000 Ways to Say Penis.


The Penis Sheaths of New Guinea

In tropical regions where nudity is the rule, men still find ways to draw attention to their best feature.  Among the Highland tribes of New Guinea, koteka or penis sheaths are commonly worn.

Most cover only the penis, leaving the testicles bare.

The length does not necessarily signify the social status of the wearer, or the size of the penis inside.












Some stick straight up, tied in place to emulate an erection.


















The most commonly used gourd is the calabash (lagenaria siceraria).  They are hollowed out, worked to the appropriate shape, and then dried.












Smaller sheaths are used for everyday purposes.  For ceremonies, they can be as long as you want them to be.











Penis sheaths are used throughout Melanesia, and also in tropical regions of Africa and South America.  Here Siko Nathuan, head of Vanuatu Island, poses with 18-year old British student Marc Raynor, who became the stand-in for Prince Philip during his birthday celebration.  They're wearing straw penis sheathes.

More after the break.












Sunday, February 12, 2017

Abs: A Man's Third Best Feature

Big pecs and biceps are the stars of the male physique, but abs are a close third.  They're much harder to develop, not about size but about definition, so they're the signature of the well-developed man.
















There are actually four sets of muscles on the trunk:
The rectus abdominus in the front, which give you the "xylophone" effect
The serratus on the upper sides, which connect the abdomen and the pecs.
The transverse abdominus
The obliques on the lower sides, the biggest of the abdominal muscles.

Everybody tries crunches and sit-ups for their abs, but they are almost impossible to do effectively.  I suggest the plank (reverse push-up) and side twists.








And cardio: since abs are a matter of definition rather than bulk, you need to get your body fat down.

The definition is most noticeable when the abs are hairless.













But hairy abs have a charm of their own.




A thin line of hair going down the abdominal ridge is called a "glory trail," since it draws the eye to the crotch.  Charlie McDermott made the glory trail famous by displaying his in nearly every episode of The Middle.

More after the break.