Saturday, March 18, 2017

A Hookup with a Filipino Teen Idol

Manila, March 1988

In the spring of 1988, I flew to Thailand to visit Alan, who had moved there to start a gay Pentecostal church.  The travel agent said I would have to have a five-hour layover in the Philippines.

I thought of the Philippines as a "good place" ever since I first saw the orange-colored archipelago in the world atlas my uncle got for me when I was four or five years old.

So I made it overnight, from 11:00 am Saturday to 6:00 am Sunday.

Enough time to go to Rizal Park, the National Museum, and the Manila Cathedral, eat Filipino food, buy some books, and, I hoped, go to the Club Baths for some cruising.

I didn't make it to the Baths.

Who would have thought that the Cathedral was a prime cruising ground?

I saw a very cute guy lighting a candle before the Pieta in the Cathedral -- late teens or twenties, nearly my height, slim, black hair, flawless brown skin.  I am always attracted to religious guys, and I thought he might be a priest or seminarian, so I tried to strike up a conversation in the few words of Tagalog I had memorized.

"Kamusta!  I bisitahin ang Amerika."

He smiled.  "In the Philippines we all speak English."

"Sorry."

"That's ok.  It's nice that you tried."

We ended up having "real Filipino food," ukoy (shrimp fritters), chicken adobo,  and some kind of purple ice cream.

Marco (not his real name) was impressed that I lived in "Hollywood," and asked me if I knew Rob Lowe.  Of course, I said I did.

"He's gay.  I know some guys he's dated."

"I always thought so!" Marco said.  "He's so pambabae, like a girl.  We call them bakla, lady-boy.  I'll take you to see them later -- I know a bar."

"I only like guys who are masculine," I said, coming out to him.

"Me, too."  He brushed my knee under the table.  "Who else is gay in America?"

I told him about my Celebrity Boyfriend.  He was impressed.

"It must be nice to live in America, where you can be gay all the time.  I would like to have a boyfriend, but I will get married and have a lot of kids.  It is inasaahan,.  It is as Mama and Papa hope."

We ended on a tour of Manila -- Marco had a very nice car, for a teenager.  I asked to go to a bookstore -- disappointly, its name was "Books 4 Less," but they had some titles in Tagalog or half Tagalog, half English.  Marco pressed one into my hands -- "The best teen idol magazine in the Philippines."

Marco was cruised constantly, and several people came up and started talking to us.  I figured he was just attractive.  Only later did I realize that he was famous.

Then we went back to my hotel

Marco had a slim, smooth chest and a Bratwurst, uncut but with the head peaking out.  He wasn't into kissing, but he let me go down on him and finish with interfemoral.

He wouldn't spend the night afterwards.  "I have to go back to my real life.  But maybe I will see you again, if I come to America to be in a movie.  I think I could cross-over well, don't you think?"

I didn't know what he meant, but I said "Sure."

The next morning, on my flight to Los Angeles, I started thumbing through the Filipino teen idol magazine Marco gave me.

There was a picture of him!

I had hooked up with a Filipino teen idol.

I didn't add Marco to my stories of dating celebrities, since no one in the U.S. has heard of him.  He's not out -- last time I checked, he was married with several children.  But here are some Filipino actors who have been the subject of gay rumors:

Richard Gomez (top photo)
Dennis Trillo (left)











Piolo Pascual



















Sam Milby


See also: The Philippines

Wednesday, March 15, 2017

What Happened on My Date with the Grocery Boy

Plans, March 2017

You're probably wondering what happened on my date Monday night with the grocery boy, aka the face of supreme beauty, aka Zack, the assistant manager at the Hy-Vee.

I picked him up in the check-out line on Saturday afternoon, and invited him over for dinner.  I planned to serve chicken a l'orange, arugula salad, and fried plantains.

7:10

Zack arrives.  I invite him to sit down in the living room while I finish the chicken and make the salad.











7:12

The chicken can simmer for awhile.





7:20

I'm not usually into anal, but who can say no to that face?
















7:50

I ask Zack to start on the salad while I finish the chicken and heat the casserole.














7:55


I don't even know his last name yet.














8:10

I'm usually good for just once a night, but....

















8:30

We can do without the salad.  Let me just take the chicken off the burner, reheat the broccoli-cauliflower casserole, and open a can of artichoke hearts.  I ask Zack what he would like to drink.

8:32

He tells me.



8:35


This time Zack calls the shots.








9:00

The chicken and casserole are cold.  I put them in the refrigerator and order a vegetarian pizza from Domino's.  We turn on Netflix while waiting for it to arrive.





9:20

This is why on the first date, you always go out to dinner.

See also: 10 Things You Should Know about Dating an Introvert;  Picking Up the Grocery Boy



Tuesday, March 14, 2017

Farshad, the French Moroccan on my Sausage List



Treguier, Brittany, Summer 2007

I used to go to Europe every year.  A spring break jaunt beginning at the Louvre and ending with the Horseman's Club in Amsterdam, or a more extensive summer tour of France, Germany, or Estonia.

In the summer of 2007, I did something different: spent three days visiting Yuri in London, three days in Paris, and then a quest for Breton men.

Breton is a Celtic language, similar to Welsh and Irish.  Denigrated by the French government for centuries, it was losing speakers fast, down from a million in 1950 to about 300,000, mostly elderly and rural.  You could see it in street and metro signs in Rennes, but I had never heard it spoken.






So I rented a car and drove four hours to Saint-Brieuc, where I spent the night.  The next day, up the coast to Plouzec, Paimpol, and Treguier.  Overnight again.  Then to Rennes, Paris, back to London, and home.

It was a bust.  A lot of cute guys, but all speaking French.  I even tried saying "Mat an traou!" to shopkeepers and gas station attendants and a teenager on the beach, but they responded in French.

But I did get cruised at the Ernest Renan House.

In addition to being the heart of Brittany, Treguier is the birthplace of philosopher Ernest Renan, who caused a scandal by writing The Life of Jesus (1863), asserting that Jesus was not a divine being.

There's a statue of him in the town square, being lauded by the Goddess Athena.  When it was first installed in 1903, townsfolk rioted, thinking that it was criticizing Catholicism.

When I was touring the Renan House, a short, studious looking guy in his late 20s or early 30s, dark skinned, bearded, kept looking at me with obvious "cruisy" intent.  Finally I approached him.

He looked North African, not Breton, but hoping, I said "Mat an traou!"

"The Jews are a cancer eating away at other nations," he replied in French.

My mouth dropped in shock.  Had I understood him properly?  What kind of pick-up line was that?  "Les juifs...quoi....?" I began.  "My French isn't good...."

Grinning, he switched to English.  "That's what Renan taught.  Also, that the Jews of the Bible are not related to the Jews of modern Europe.  Isn't it a tragedy that a national hero of France was so anti-Semitic?"

"I had no idea..."

"What a pity that many Frenchmen are still prejudiced against Jews."  He held out his hand.  "I'm Farshad." (Not his real name.)

An Arabic name!  Muslim, but not anti-Semitic.

We sat down in a nearby cafe.  Farshad was a history teacher at a lycee in Paris, visiting Bretagne on holiday.  Third-generation Moroccan.  And gay!

I had met gay Muslims before, but they were all on the downlow, maintaining a strictly heterosexual facade, meeting with "special friends" only in private, behind closed doors.

But Farshad was out.  He marched in the Gay Pride Parade in Paris.  He was out to his parents. "My father doesn't like to talk about it, but my mother asks, 'when will you find a special guy and give me grandchildren?'"

He was even out to many members of his masjid, "But I must be quiet to my imam, of course."

We spent so much time talking about being gay and Muslim in France that afternoon turned into evening.  We checked our guidebooks for a Moroccan restaurant in Treguier, came up empty, and went to a pizza place instead.

And then back to his hotel room.

Farshad turned out to have a hairy, nicely muscled physique.  After we kissed for awhile, he wanted to do anal, but I went down on his cut Mortadella+ until he pulled me into the interfemoral position and entered between my legs.  Then he helped me finish with his hand.

A nice surprise in Bretagne.

The next day, I drove on to Rennes, and Farshad continued his holiday.  We became Facebook friends.

Two years later, he helped found the first gay Muslim organization in France.  A gay-friendly mosque opened in 2012.

See also: Farshad's Hookup with Leonardo DiCaprio.

Monday, March 13, 2017

Naked Men in Every Country in the World

 This is Part 2 of my list of dates, hookups, and sausage sightings from the countries I've visited, except for the United States and Europe.  To count, the guy has to be from the country (no expats).

1. Australia. At a conference in Brisbane in 2002, I set out looking for aboriginal men, and ended up  meeting a lot of Caucasians, including a guy with a moustache and a beer can-thick Mortadella.  Into kissing, nice spurt.








2. Canada.  I've been to Montreal and Toronto several times, as well as camping in Manitoba and visiting my Canadian cousins.  Probably the muscular bear that Troy picked up at a video booth in Montreal: he worked as a farmer, and spoke no English.  Mostly a top, but open to suggestions.













3. Colombia.  In the summer after my freshman year in college, I went to Colombia to build a church.  I wasn't out to anyone yet, so I didn't hook up, but I met a "cannibal" (hustler).

4. Egypt.  After my semester in Turkey in the spring of 1989, I visited Egypt for a few days, enough time to hear Arabic spoken, see the pyramids (not very impressive) and hook up with an auto mechanic from Cairo in his mid 20s with a short beard and a hairy chest.  A little smaller than this photo, but what he lacked in size, he made up for in stamina.







5. India.  My friend Viju took me to India during the summer after we got our M.A. degrees from Indiana University, just before my execrable year in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas.  A lot of public cruising, notably the Zoroastrian who did it six times a day.

6. Israel.  After my semester in Turkey, I visited Egypt and Israel for a few days.  I mostly wanted to see sites of historic interest, like the Wailing Wall, but I managed to hook up with a student at Bar-Ilan University who was into interfemoral but not oral.










7. Japan.  I spent six weeks in Japan with Alan in the summer of 1986.  We cruised a lot, but I'm going to have to go with Jin, the bed-hopping boyfriend (he started out on Alan's bed, and moved to mine).

More after the break















Picking Up the Grocery Boy

Plains, March 2017

I hate shopping for groceries, especially:

1. The old people who act surprised that they actually have to pay, and rummage through their purse for their checkbook.

2. And who can't figure out how to use the card swipers.

3. The checkers who get into long, involved conversations with their friends.

4.  And who let their friends cut in line.

So I have a system: I go only on Tuesday mornings around 10:00 am (no old people, and the checkers' friends haven't arrived yet), and I go only to the Food Co-Op, which is much less crowded, and doesn't take coupons. Besides, it stocks fresh fruit and vegetables you can't get anywhere else, like jicama and carambola,

But today I need some things that can't wait until Tuesday --  mouthwash, bananas, protein bars, a can of cream of broccoli soup, that sort of thing -- and I'm too busy to drive all the way out to the Food Co-Op.  So I take a deep breath, grit my teeth, and go to the Hy-Vee.  On a Saturday afternoon.

It's packed, of course. but I'm an expert at choosing the shortest line -- only five people, no full shopping carts, no one elderly.  And the checker....

The most beautiful guy I have ever seen -- or at least, the most beautiful guy since the highway rest stop in Iowa last summer.  A glimpse of supreme beauty in a supermarket on the Plains.

In his 20s, about my height, rather slim, but with a dreamy teen idol face. Sharp, classic features, dark eyebrows, a dazzling smile.

I feel a little shaky.  Even at age 50-something, supreme beauty makes me weak in the knees.

I watch him work, gazing at his face and hands, glancing down to see if he has a physique or a bulge, grinning like a teenager at a boy band concert, strategizing how to ask him out.

Get ahold of yourself! This is a supermarket. He's 30 years younger than you, probably underaged, and probably straight!  Besides, he's busy.  You can't cruise a guy at work.  

Now there's only one person ahead of me, a middle-aged lady who fishes around in her big purse for her small purse, pulls out a check book, and laboriously writes a check, including the memo line, then records the amount in her ledger.  Ordinarily I'd be fuming.

He sees me watching, mistakes my gaze for impatience, and says "It will just be a minute, sir."

I'm tongue-tied.  He's so stunning, I can't think! This must be what the ancients felt when Zeus or Apollo appeared before them.

His nameplate says Zack: Assistant Manager.

"Um...um...no problem, Zack...I'm in no hurry.  I've got nowhere to go this afternoon except the gym.  It's chest and shoulders day."  I unzip my leather jacket. Underneath I'm wearing a blue sweater that accents my pecs.

He looks!

He turns to my items while the bag boy is still bagging the middle-aged lady's stuff, and flashes that smile again.

"Bananas and cream of broccoli soup!  I'd like to see the recipe that calls for those."

I laugh.  "I'll invite you over to sample it."

He's cruising!

Get ahold of yourself!  This is a supermarket checkout line, not a gay bar!  Besides, do I really want to see him naked, his thin chest bare, his small penis aroused?  Perfection becomes imperfect very quickly in the cold light of the bedroom

"Any coupons today?"

Even his voice is dreamy!  I glance up and down, checking for a bulge. "Um...no."

"Any discounts?"

"No."

"Card?"

"What?  I've never been here before.  You'll have to explain that to me."

"It's a super-saver card that gets you..um...gas and stuff.  I can sign you up in a few minutes. I just need your email address or phone number."

My heart races.  Zack wants my phone number!  Then reason kicks in:  no, he doesn't.  He wants to sign me up for a card.

"No, thanks."

"Ok, your total is $21.06."

I pull out my wallet and fumble around for my debit card.  "So, assistant manager.  Why do they have you on checkout?"

"We're short a couple of people. I'm usually in the back.  But it's kind of fun coming up front and talking to the people.  Reminds me of when I first started here."

"You can't have been here that long.  What are you, 25?"

"23," Zack says. "But thanks for the compliment."

I hand him my debit card.  He shows me how to put it into the chip reader, and hands it back  It doesn't work the first couple of times.

He's going to think I'm some geezer who doesn't know technology.

I get it to work.  He grins.  "Success!"

"Not yet."  Why did I say that?  Was it a pick up line?  A pretty lame one.

"Paper or plastic?"


 "Um...paper please.  I try to be environmentally conscious."

Ask him out!


Do I really want to date him?  Do I really want to hear about his psychological traumas, job issues, problems with his parents?  To hang out with his crazy friends, and endure his boring conversation about sports?  

"Me, too."  Zack hands me the receipt.  Our hands touch.  Our eyes meet.

Ask him out!

"Do you need help getting this stuff to your car?" Zack asks.

Does he think I'm an invalid?  I bench press 300 pounds! Ok, so I won't ask him out.

"No, thanks."

"Have a nice day, sir."

"Thanks, Zack.  You, too."

I grab my bag and walk away, feeling a bit shaky.

I should have asked him out!  But he was working!  Besides, supreme beauty should stay ethereal, unsullied by the real world.

Maybe he'll be working again tomorrow...

No, he's an assistant manager, usually in the back...this was my one chance.

Feeling decidedly nauseous, I turn back.  The twenty steps to Zack's check-out lane seem to take forever. It's like walking through molasses.

The face of supreme beauty is busy with another customer.  He looks at me and frowns.

"Did you forget something, sir?"

"Yeah...um...the banana and cream of broccoli soup recipe...I promised to invite you over to sample it....um...here's my card.  Text me."

Still frowning, he snatches it from my hand and puts it into his front pocket.  "Thanks."

I turn away and walk slowly out of the store, to my car, where I sit for a few minutes, fuming.

I made a complete fool of myself.  No way I'm ever setting foot in Hy-Vee again!  What was I thinking, trying to pick up a checker in a grocery store?

Twenty minutes later, I'm just pulling into the gym parking lot.  My cell phone buzzes.



The most beautiful guy in the world is coming over for dinner Monday tonight!

Now I just need to find a recipe calling for bananas and cream of broccoli soup.

Next: What Happened on My Date with the Grocery Boy

See also: A Glimpse of Supreme Beauty at a Highway Rest Stop; My Date with Jack the Vacuum Cleaner



Sunday, March 12, 2017

Guys Naked in the Snow

The other day it was 24 degrees out, with a biting wind.  As I walked through the gym parking lot as fast as I could, shivering in the cold, I saw a high school kid standing there, waiting for a ride, in gym trunks and a t-shirt.

Not shivering.

How could he do that?












There's something undeniably erotic about guys with their shirts off, or naked, in the snow.  Maybe it's the incongruity -- I would never dream of going outside like that in the cold, not even for a second.














Certainly not lying around in it, trying to make a snow angel.











Maybe it's the toughness.  This guy is impervious to the cold.  He must be made of iron.


















In Scandinavian countries, it's traditional to take a hot sauna, then run out into the snow.  The juxtaposition of hot and cold is supposed to be good for you.

More after the break.