Saturday, March 4, 2017
I teach in a discipline that gay men aren't typically drawn to, in a college that gay men aren't typically drawn to, so out of the 100 or so guys in my classes every semester, I expected only a few to be gay.
But when the professor is gay, word gets around, and students enroll in your classes because they think you'll be a sympathetic voice. And when you have a physique, they enroll just to look at you.
So, as it turns out, I get a lot of gay male students, especially in the big intro classes.
It's inevitable that we'll see each other occasionally on Grindr and other dating apps. We follow an unwritten rule of ignoring each other.
Sometimes I don't recognize them -- it's at the beginning of the semester, when I don't know all the faces yet, or their profile pic isn't their face -- but after a few minutes, I figure out who they are, and go dark or keep the conversation friendly.
As usual at the beginning of a semester, I got a dozen "Hi!" and "Do me, Daddy!" and pictures of penises within a few minutes. I chatted with the ones who weren't ugly or obnoxious, and made some appointments for hookups, or added them to my "chat list" to talk to later.
But disappointingly, one guy with a very cute profile pic didn't approach me. He was Reynard (not his real name), 18 years old, a theater arts major who "lived for singing and dancing," and liked video games and cosplay. He was looking for "Mr. Right, but Mr. Right Now is ok."
I almost approached him, but decided against it. I had enough guys on my hook-up list for the week. I could do without him.
On Friday, I flew out to Salt Lake City for my ex-boyfriend's wedding. I returned on Monday, and didn't get back on Grindr until Tuesday.
"Nice!" I shot back. "Can I see more?"
"Thanks, Professor. Can I see your cock?"
How did he know I was a professor? I don't mention it in my profile. Maybe he recognized me from campus?
"Sorry, have we met?"
"I'm in your intro class this semester."
I froze. This had never happened before! Students who were taking my classes stayed away from me, automatically!
"So, can I see your cock? You're hot!"
"Sorry, I don't date students," I told him. And then, to be polite, "But we can chat. How do you like it on the Plains?"
"It's ok. Classes are hard. and I miss my friends back home."
"The campus gay student club has mixers and events..."
He sent a full face and body shot. "If you don't want to date, that's ok. I want to go down on your gigantic cock, Professor. I want you to top me. I don't have a lot of experience, but I want to learn."
"Well, first of all, stop calling me Professor. Second, I don't hook up with students, either. But we can chat, and..."
He blocked me.
On Thursday in class, I looked around for Reynard, but didn't see him. There were three guys with his first name on my roster, but none of them were him.
That Friday, I got an email from Reynard in my university account.
"Hi, Professor, sorry I got mad before. Guess what -- I dropped your class! Text me: ____."
Now what? I had no problem dating guys who weren't taking my class, but dropping just because we might be able to hook up? It was bizarre. Reynard was either socially incompetent or unstable, and either way, I didn't need him around.
I texted him: "Hi, Reynard. No problem. Sorry you dropped my class. As I said, I don't date students, but I hope to see you at the events at the gay center, or at the gay-friendly coffee house."
He didn't respond.
I never heard from Reynard again. He never came to the gay-friendly coffee house, and if he came to events at the gay center, I didn't notice in the crowd.
The Plains, March 2017
You don't forget someone who dropped your class so he can date you, so I thought about Reynard often. I hoped that he was adjusting to campus life, that he got some help fitting in, finding gay people for friendship and dating.
A year and a half later, I suddenly got a text from Reynard:
"Hi, Professor, remember me? Guess what -- I transferred to __ College [About 100 miles away]. They have a great dance program, and it's a small school, so I fit in better."
He sent a photo attachment -- shirtless, more buffed than I remember.
"Great," I responded. "Glad that you're doing well. You look like you're working out."
"Yep! I bench my body weight."
"Anyway, spring break is coming up, and I'm only a hundred miles from your town. Since I'm not a student anymore, or at least not a student at your college, do you want to get together?"
A year and a half after he drops my class for a possibility of a hookup, he wants to drive 100 miles for the possibility of a hook up?
Our date is on Saturday. I can't wait!
The story continues in: The Best Date in the History of the Plains
Friday, March 3, 2017
I was eight years old, in second grade at Hansche Elementary School in Racine, Wisconsin, and I wanted to tie up a boy.
Guys were being tied up all the time in the mass culture of the 1960s: on Batman, The Green Hornet, The Wild Wild West, in Tarzan and Bomba the Jungle Boy movies, in comic books. It was a standard means of putting the hero in peril.
But I didn't want to put anyone in peril. I wanted to tie a boy up so he could strain against the ropes, so his muscles would stand out, and I could see and feel him as much as I wanted.
Maybe we would even kiss.
I didn't know the name of the boy I wanted to tie up: I only saw him in the schoolyard at recess. We were probably the same age, but he was bigger than me, with hard shoulders and biceps. He had a strikingly handsome face, heavy eyebrows, high cheekbones, and black hair, long and unruly in the 1960s style.
He didn't play with the other kids. He sat by himself.
He never smiled.
I wasn't sure, but I might have seen him at the beach, too. Lake Michigan was only a couple of blocks from our house, so we were there almost every warm day, and once last summer I saw a very cute buffed boy splashing around in the cold water with his parents.
He wasn't smiling then, either.
That's why he was so attractive: he was dark, brooding, a lost soul.
I knew exactly how I wanted to tie him up: on a chair, with his shirt off, his hands tied behind his back, and his legs tied to the chair posts. That way, I would be able to kiss and touch his chest and biceps, his belly, maybe even his private area, and feel his "shame."
Mom said we should never touch our own "shame," except to wash and go to the bathroom, so it would be especially intimate to touch another boy's.
As I devised the plan, problems arose.
1. It couldn't happen in the house: Mom and Dad would be there. This was too intimate for them to know about. Finally I decided on a park a couple of blocks from Hansche School, where there were some benches amid the trees. I could tie the boy to one of the benches.
2. I didn't have any rope, at least not the nice, thick kind they used in the movies. I hoped kite string would work.
3. I didn't know how to tie knots, except on my shoe. So I would have to use those bow knots.
4. How could I get the boy to agree to be tied up?
When you're seven years old, you can make friends easily: you just
walk up to the guy and start talking.
It took me a couple of weeks to screw up my courage, but one day in the spring, I walked up to him at recess and asked "Do you want to play after school?"
"Sure," he said. "I have to ask Mom if it's ok though."
That part was easy. After school we walked to his house to get his Mom's permission, then to my house. He probably thought we would play in my back yard, but after I got my Mom's permission, I led him toward the park instead.
"There's nothing to do there," he complained. "Let's go to the beach and throw stuff into the water."
"I want to play Batman" I told him. "The Joker has Batman tied up, and he has to escape before an atom bomb explodes on Gotham City."
He shrugged. "Ok. Do you want to be the Joker or Batman?"
"You can be Batman," I said politely, as if I was giving him an honor.
It was a gray, cloudy Friday in April, and the park was mostly deserted, just a couple of old people, who wouldn't bother us.
I steered the boy toward an empty bench. "This is my secret lair," I said. "I have you in my clutches, Dynamic Dodo!"
He looked dubious. "Shouldn't we have Robin, too?"
"The Boy Blunder can't save you this time, Batman!" I sat the boy on the bench and whispered "You got to take your shirt off."
"What? No way -- it's too cold."
No shirt off? How disappointing! "Ok, then, I'm here to tie you up! You can't escape me!" I pulled the boy's arms behind the bench, and used the string to tie his wrists together.
"What are you doing? That's too tight!"
"It will get even tighter than that for you!"
I had just enough string left to tie his arms together. Then I sat on the bench next to him and ran my hand over his chest. "Your muscles won't save you this time, Batman!"
The boy started jerking. He wasn't supposed to do that!
"No!" he yelled. "Let me out! Let me up!"
Startled, I jumped over the bench and tried to untie the string. He was jerking so much, I couldn't do it.
"Hold still! I can't get a grip!"
"No! Ow!" He was starting to cry. An old guy started walking toward us. I was going to be in big trouble!
Finally I got the knots undone. The string fell to the ground. The boy jumped to his feet and ran away. I ran as fast as I could in the other direction, then circled around, went back to my house, and hid in my room.
Soon the boy's parents would call, demanding to know why I hurt their son. Or maybe the police would arrest me and send me to jail!
But nothing happened. No parents, no police.
The next day was Saturday. I stayed close to home, worried that I might see the boy out on the street, and he would try to beat me up, or send his big brother over to do it.
About 2:00 in the afternoon, the knock on the door I had been fearing finally came. I stayed in my room, hiding. I heard Dad answer the door, some muffled voices, and footsteps toward my room!
Maybe I could hide under the bed, pretend I wasn't there? No -- Dad knew I was in my room.
He swung the door open without knocking. "Your friend is here," he announced, leaving me alone with -- the boy.
All by himself. No Dad, no big brother, no police.
I looked down at my feet, embarrassed to face him.
"Do you want to play Batman again?" he said. "If we do it in the house, I'll take my shirt off."
He was smiling.
See also: My First Indian Sausage Sighting and BDSM Scene.
Thursday, March 2, 2017
The answer is probably: touch him.
Erotic desire is about touch: his chest, his mouth, his penis, using your hands, your mouth, and your penis.
What we call "sex" is actually about touch: fondling him, kissing him, putting his penis into you, putting your penis into him.
You can enter his mouth, but then you won't be able to fondle him anymore. You can enter his butt, but then you won't be able to kiss him anymore. But guess what: he has a third place for you to enter while still being able to fondle and kiss:
Between the legs.
It's called intercrural (Latin for "between the legs") or interfemoral (from the femur bone that extends down the thighs).
Your partner lies down, face up, and squeezes his legs together. You lube your cock, lie on top of him, and enter just beneath his scrotum, the area called the perineum.
While you're thrusting, you can kiss and fondle as much as you like.
Interfemoral allows you to feel his entire body, not just his mouth or his penis.
I generally like to start the erotic session with kissing, fondling, and oral. When the guy finishes, I enter for interfemoral (the perineum is particularly sensitive after an orgasm).
If you're big or husky, he might find the pressure uncomfortable. In that case, you can enter in an arched position.
If there's a major size difference, I suggest putting your partner on top.
You can also turn him onto his stomach and enter that way, as an alternative to anal.
Interfemoral is completely safe. The only problem might be a friction burn on your penis, which can be avoided by using lube.
You and your partner can't do interfemoral simultaneously, but the next best thing is called frottage or the Princeton Rub (because Princeton students used it as an alternative to anal):
You press your cocks together and manipulate them with your hands, or use the pressure of your bodies.
Frottage works best when the cocks are the same size. If one is substantially smaller, it gets lost.
Interfemoral doesn't work with three people. I've tried entering between his legs while the third guy enters his mouth, and entering from the front while the third guy enters from the rear, but it's a complex operation with little erotic payoff.
Interfemoral requires you to focus all of your time, concentration, and erotic energy on one person, on exploring his body as fully as possible.
Isn't that what sex is all about?
See also: The Ins and Outs of Oral Sex; The Most Underrated Sexual Act; How Intimate is Your Sex Life?
Wednesday, March 1, 2017
A week off in March or early April, actually ten days if you skip the Friday befor (which everyone does), when plane flights are still cheap.and tourist destinations uncrowded!
Here are 12 memorable spring breaks, crowded with sightseeing and cruising.
1981: Iceland. I joined the Scandinavian Club just so I could go on their annual field trip to a Scandinavian country. During my junior year, it was Iceland. I wasn't out, so no bars, bathhouses, or street cruising, but a lot of looking at Nordic men. And my friend Erik hooked up with a naked Nordic god.
1985: New Orleans. During my terrible year in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas, I jumped at any opportunity to escape. The minute my last class ended, I got into my car and drove the 6 hours to New Orleans. And I didn't get back until about an hour before my first class began on the Monday after. It wasn't Mardi Gras, so guys weren't flashing their equipment to the crowd, but I still saw my fair share of penises. And I hooked up with the footlong hustler of Bourbon Street.
1988: Pattaya, Thailand. When I was living in West Hollywood, my friend Alan moved to Thailand to start a gay Pentecostal church. He was sidetracked into an ex-gay cult, so I flew over to rescue him with a trip to Pattaya, the gay party capital of Southeast Asia.
1995: Washington, DC. To visit Alan and his partner Sandy, and put on a live sex show for him.
1998: San Francisco. I was in New York, getting my Ph.D. Yuri the Russian meteorology major had just come out, and wanted to see the heart of the heart of the gay world. So we flew to San Francisco, stayed with my friend David, and went cruising on Castro Street. Sharing, a bear party, underwear night, a hookup, and a drive down Lombard Street.
hooked up with a celebrity.
2002: Paris-Brussels-Amsterdam. The first time I made the circuit. Five days in Paris for the Musee d'Orsay, Luxembourg Gardens, Shakespeare and Company, and bar darkrooms, overnight in Brussels, and three nights in Amsterdam for Indonesian food, the Rikjsmuseum, and the Horseman's Club, for men with 23 cm (8 inches) or more. It would become an annual ritual.
2005: Another Paris-Brussels-Amsterdam circuit, when I met the Dutch African at the Horseman's Club, and he brought me home as a "birthday present" for his brother.
first glory hole. But this time we had friends to visit.
2016: Mexico City. I speak Spanish and I've studied Mesoamerican archaeology for years, but I've never been to Mexico except for some short jaunts to Tijuana. What better way to spend spring break than to fly down to Mexico City to visit the Museo Nacional de Arquelogia?
Oh, and there were some hot guys, too.
Tuesday, February 28, 2017
In the 1940s, he often adopted classical poses.
Usually with a posing strap, of course: nude photos of men were not permitted in print or the U.S. mails until the 1960s.
His modeling career lasted from 1946 to about 1960.
Although heterosexual, he was always happy to display his physique to an audience of gay men, a rarity in the 1950s.
The full post is on Boomer Beefcake and Bonding.