Saturday, March 25, 2017

My Textbook Representative is a Gay Porn Star



Philadelphia, March 2013


Every academic is pestered by textbook company representatives pushing for you to assign your students their latest frightfully over-priced, generally gay-free textbook instead of some of the thousands of articles and e-books available for free at the campus library.














I'm usually immune to their pleas, but the rep that knocked on my office door last month, Mark from ___ Company, was jaw-droppingly handsome, and knew it: wavy brown hair, square jaw, piercing green eyes, huge hands, and a bodybuilder's physque crammed into his too-tight white shirt and grey slacks.

He flashed the smile that had been getting him special privileges his whole life and began pushing the new textbook with interactive e-book that meshed directly onto our online learning management system and...

"Um...sure, sure," I said, grinning like an idiot.  "But how is it with gay content?  I never order a textbook unless it covers the Stonewall Riots of 1969 that started the Gay Rights Movement."

He didn't flinch at the "controversial" topic.  "Well, let's take a look."  He came over to my side of the desk so I could see his laptop and leaned over me, so close that I could feel his body heat and, if I looked down, check for a basket.

There were several references to gay people: Stonewall, Anita Bryant, Matthew Shepard, the AIDS Quilt, gay marriage -- a lot more than the none in most intro texts.

"Ok, let me send you a link to the supplemental materials, and give you my card."  His huge bear-paw hand enveloped mine.  He flashed that smile again.

The moment Mark left, I dropped everything to look him up on the internet: Linkedin, twitter, instagram, and Facebook.

Mark was 26 years old, grew up in Pittsburgh, spent his junior year in high school in Japan, graduated from Duquesne University, had been to Europe and Canada, had a DUI arrest, had a brother named Clay.

He wrote a google review of a restaurant in Philadelphia.

He wrote an Amazon review of the tv series Sherlock.

There were a lot of newspaper articles about tennis -- his various matches and awards in high school and college.  He was signed on to a professional tennis recruitment website.

Facebook and Instagram had some pics of Mark with his arm around an older man and a guy he tagged as Mohammed, wearing a graduation gown, holding a fish [the models in the illustrations are not really him].

Shirtless.

I saved the shirtless pic to look at his thick, smooth chest, his shoulders and biceps, and his sixpack abs later.

He had a profile on a professional modeling site: interested in print and tv assignments, photos in a suit, in a sweater, in a swimsuit.  His resume listed some catalog work and local commercials.

How did this guy have time to work as a textbook rep?

Mark was back in my office the next week to see if I had gone over the supplementary material.

I was a little embarrassed that I had done so much internet stalking, so I decided to come clean.

"I looked you up online.  Quite an impressive list of accomplishments: decathlons, tennis, modeling."

He grinned.  "Oh, you saw my portfolio?"

"I lived in California for eleven years, so I've been around models' portfolios a lot.  Have you done any tv or movie work?"

"I have some youtube videos, if you'd like to see them.  Look under Markster348."

He moved on to discuss another textbook that my students might like.

As soon as I got home that night, I checked youtube for Markster348, and found a lot of streaming videos of Mark singing and flexing.

Then on a hunch I looked for Markster348 on some gay dating sites.

Jackpot!  Single, bisexual, into anal, oral, frottage, rimming, into jocks and preppy types.  A nice nude photo, semi-aroused cut Kielbasa.  But he hadn't accessed his account in "over two months."

No way I was going to date him -- he lived in Harrisburg, a two hour drive away (textbook reps have a wide territory).  And a hookup seemed inappropriate, given our professional relationship.

But I saved the nude pic to look at later.

The next week, Mark was in my office again.

"Have you made any decision about the textbook?"

"I'm about 75% in favor of ordering it."

He grinned, "What can I do to get you to 100%?"

Let me see you naked!  "Let me look over some of the supplemental materials, the pre-tests, the videos. and so on.  Speaking of videos, I saw yours online.  Very impressive.  And not just on youtube.  Some of the dating sites."

He glanced around nervously, probably afraid that I was going to out him.  There were five other offices right next to mine, and you could hear conversations in any of them.

  "Oh...um...thanks.  How did you find them?  I didn't think I had my screen name published anywhere."

"You told me -- Markster354, on youtube."

"Oh -- those videos.  I thought you meant my..."

"Your..."  I continued.

"Some stuff I did in college.  No big deal, but I'd rather not have my girlfriend find out about it.  Or my boss."

"Of course."

He took out a piece a paper, scribbled a few words, and pressed it into my hand.  "To look at later."

I obligingly put it in my pocket, and looked at it after he left: "Frat Boy Rim Job."

Boystube had a clip: five "fratboys" have a sex party, with oral, anal, rimming, and barebacking.

My friend Alan in West Hollywood starred in some porn movies in the 1980s, so I know a little about the industry.  This was strictly amateur, and rimming -- gross!

If you don't know what it is, look it up.  I'm not going to explain.

Still, it was interesting to watch Mark in action.  How often do you see someone that have a professional relationship rimming a guy while being topped?

He was in my office the next week.  "Ok, I've decided on your textbook," I announced, to spare him endless drives out from Harrisburg.

"Great.  And if there's anything else I can do..."

"I'll send you an email.  And, by the way, I saw that movie you recommended."

He flashed a broad smile.  "What did you think?"

"Very talented performer.  Very versatile."

He glanced around and leaned in close.  "If you'd like -- you know, a private showing -- I'm staying at the Days Inn."  He passed me a card with his phone number.

In case you were wondering: oral only, no rimming.

See also: Alan the Pentecostal Porn Star; the Great Hookup Contest of Philadelphia.

Thursday, March 23, 2017

A Hookup with the Surly, Crazy-Eyed Guy with the Mortadella+


Philadelphia, March 2013

I'm at the gym at my job in a small private college near Philadelphia, having a bad day  (actually, most days in Philadelphia are bad).  And now the guy on the butterfly press is just sitting there, playing with his cell phone.

You're supposed to rest about a minute between sets, but not on the machine.  Get up and walk around, or better yet, go do a set for another muscle group.

But the undergrads at the campus gym often just sit there for 5 minutes, rendering their weight training useless and jamming up everybody else's work out.

It's annoying.  Besides, I like to do my sets in a specific order, alternating upper and lower body, and working down from the big to the small muscle groups, so I can't just walk away.  I always walk up, motion for them to unplug their earphones, and ask "Can I squeeze in between your sets?"

They always get up and let me "play through."

But today when I ask, the guy on the butterfly press glares at me, eyes wide, teeth set.  "I have two sets left," he growls, ready for a fight, daring me to make a move against him.

Nobody ever has had that reaction before!  This guy must be crazy!

I should probably retreat, but I'm annoyed by the territoriality.  "Well, how about if I squeeze between the sets, while you're resting?"

He grumbles...but says ok.  He jumps up and stands there glaring at me while I move the weight to double what he was doing.  And keeps glaring during my set.

You're supposed to walk around, or at least look away.

So after my set, instead of walking around, I stand there, getting in his face.

He's an older student, senior or grad: mid-20s, tall and thin, tattooed, shaggy black hair, short beard, deep-set eyes.  Crazy eyes.  Wearing a black t-shirt and silken gym shorts that show no basket.

Suddenly I find him very attractive.  

He's not at all my usual type.  Maybe it's his surliness  -- you're into guys who aren't into you.  Or maybe it's because I'm approached by twinks all the time.  Finding one who doesn't cruise me, who displays no interest, is refreshing.

Or maybe it's just the challenge.

He says "It's all yours," jumps up, and moves to the preacher press.  I finish my next set and move to the calf press next to him.  I put on four 50-pound weights.  He pretends not to see me.

"Hey!"

He takes off his earphones and glares.

"If you want the full benefit, you should take it slower, and go down lower.  Let me show you."

He glares at me.  "Just my luck.  I finally get up the nerve to go to the gym, and some muscle-bound Bob Paris wannabe tells me I'm doing it wrong."

Hostility, and a veiled compliment? And he knows Bob Paris, the gay bodybuilder -- must be gay himself.

He doesn't object as I walk over, put my hands on the bar to show him, and "accidentally" touch his hands.

"I can see you have a lot of potential -- your biceps are already firm and tight, and you have a nice chst. You just need a little instruction to get things going."

He glares.  "I'm doing just fine, thanks.  I don't need any $100 dollar an hour personal trainer pestering me."

I touch his shoulder.  "I'll give you some tips for free.  A public service so you don't hurt yourself.  You can buy me a coke afterwards."

He flashes his crazy eyes but says "Ok."

I show him how to use some of the machines and free weights, touching him several times in the process.  He continues to glare with his crazy eyes.  This guy is crazy.

Then we shower -- he's on the other side of the locker room, so I don't see anything -- and walk down the street to a burger place.

"Ok, if you're serious about weight training, you need to lead a healthy lifestyle.  That means no drinking, no drugs, and a low-fat, low-sugar diet."

He smiles for the first time.  "I don't use drugs, and I was planning to order the turkey burger anyway."

His name is Aaron.  He graduated five years ago, but he can use the gym on his alumni card.  His degree was in music -- he wanted to become a singer, and still performs at open mike nights -- but his real jobs are in the campus cafeteria and a pizza place downtown.  His schedule doesn't leave a lot of time for socializing, so he doesn't meet many guys.

We go back to the tiny apartment he shares with two straight guys and a large dog.  He leads me immediately into the bedroom, and stands there, glaring with his crazy eyes, waiting for me to make the first move.

I run my hand over his smooth, tight chest and down to his crotch.  He's still glaring.

Well, he didn't say no...

I unzip him and go down on him.

Whoa, a gigantic Mortadella+!

 Soon we're on his single, unmade bed, naked, kissing.  He pushes into interfemoral position to finish, then goes down on me.

Afterwards he rushes into the bathroom to wash off, and then returns to me in bed.  We cuddle.  Suddenly he gets aroused again.  But he's still glaring.

I have to say something.  "You know, you're very hot, but there might be something about your demeanor that's off-putting to guys.  You should expect the best in people, not the worst -- you shouldn't go into an encounter looking all defensive, this glaring..."

He glares.  "What are you talking about?  This is the way I look when I'm attracted to a guy."

See also: Yuri and the Unhung Hippie; My Textbook Rep is a Porn Star.

Monday, March 20, 2017

A Sausage Sighting of the Mysterious Boy at the Old House

Garrett, July 1972

Just up the hill from my Grandpa Prater's farmhouse in northern Indiana was the Old House: over 100 years old, now fallen to ruin.  We could go up and play in the dusty yard, or hunt for frogs in the little pond, but we could not go inside.  Uncle Paul said that it was full of "witch's blood" that would turn us into "ghosts," but most likely it was just unstable.

We usually stayed away from the Old House, unless there were adults up there, playing horseshoes or skinning and cleaning the animals they hunted.  We didn't like the weird shadows in the upstairs windows, like dark figure moving about, or the porch swing that sometimes moved by itself.

But one day in the summer of 1972,  when I was eleven years old, the farmhouse was full of people: Mom and Dad, my aunts and uncles, and some people I didn't know, an old guy Grandpa Prater's age, some husbands and wives, and a couple of surly teenagers.  They were in the living room, the kitchen, in Grandma Prater's memorial room, even on the front porch.

They were all laughing loudly and talking about things that happened thirty years ago.  Boring!  And no kids to play with!  My brother and baby sister were out with Grandma Davis, and Cousin Buster was visiting his other grandparents.

It was noisy and oppressively hot; I had to get out of there!  I told Mom I was going to play outside.

But what to do?  Nothing is more boring than a farm with no animals on it.

I decided to go up to the Old House and throw rocks into the pond, to see if I could scare some fish.

Even though it was a bright, sunny day, the Old House seemed more sinister than usual.  I shivered with nervous excitement.

The porch swing was swinging by itself.  I heard the rusty scrape.

Trying to avoid looking in the windows at whatever might be inside, I rounded to the back yard, and and almost ran into a boy.

I yelled and jumped back.

He didn't approach.  He just stood there, staring.

He was a few years older than me, but not yet a teenager [models in the nude photos are over 18].   Tall and slim, with a round face, sharp features, and black curly hair.  Wearing a thin brown jacket, which seemed weird on a hot day.

Someone to play with!  And cute!  I thought, smiling at him.  "Do you live around here?"

"I think I used to live here," he said, still staring.

"Me, too.  We moved away when I was little."

"Do you want to go inside?  I can show you my old room. I carved my initials on the wall."

"No way...Grandpa told me to never go in there.  There's witch's blood."

He frowned.  "Ok, well -- let's swing."

We climbed on the porch swing and started swinging back and forth, until we were banging against the wall.  It felt like the whole house was about to fall down.  I jumped off.

"Let's throw some rocks in the pond," I said.

"No.  It's hot.  Let's go swimming!"

"In there?  It's all full of moss and gunk."

"No, it isn't.  When I was a kid, I swam in there all the time.  It's fun."

"Well...I don't have a swim suit."

"You weenie!  Come on, I'll race you." He started taking his clothes off.  I stopped instinctively to watch,   I saw a nice smooth hard chest.  He  turned his back to take off his shorts, but then turned back, giving me a nice view of his "shame."

A beautiful cut Bratwurst!  I hadn't seen very many at that time, but I could tell it was special, the stuff of dreams.

The boy ran and jumped into the pond with a big splash.

"Is it deep?" I said doubtfully.

But the boy wasn't paying attention.  He stood and started walking off, into the pond, like he belonged there...

At that moment, I heard my Mom yelling for me.  "I got to go," I said, and ran down the hill.

"Where have you been?" Mom asked.  "We've been ready to go for fifteen minutes while you traipsed around at the Old House."

I decided not to tell them about the boy, and get him in trouble, too.

For years I wondered about the mysterious boy.  Who was he?  Why was he at the Old House?  Was he a ghost?

I sort of wanted him to be a ghost, but I knew there was a realistic explanation.

Eventually I asked Mom, who told me that the people visiting that day were Grandpa's Cousin Crit and his family.  They moved to Indiana with Mom's family in 1942, and lived in the Old House until 1965.

"Was there a boy a little older than me?"  I asked.

"I think all his kids were my age, but let's check."  She went to get a family Bible to check.  "Cousin Crit, born in 1910.  Married Sarah, had six kids: Delmar, Ethel,  Wilkie, Alice, and Carl."

Carl, the youngest, was born in November 1943.  He would have been 28 years old.  Maybe a grandson, who lived with them?

 Mom didn't remember any, but she spent a couple of years in Long Beach, right after she got married, so she didn't know for sure.

North Manchester, Indiana, July 2006

Over 30 year later, when I was living in Dayton, Ohio, I thought about the boy at the Old House again, and tried to look up Cousin Crit's kin online.  There were dozens of people with his last name in North Manchester, including the mayor, but with a little digging I managed to find Carl.  A phone call got me an invitation to visit my third cousin.

Carl was 62 years old, a buffed muscle bear with a hefty gray beard, retired from the military and back in his home town to take care of his invalid sister (his other siblings had died).  He told me about his career: joining the army right after high school in 1961, being stationed in Korea, Vietnam, Germany, Afghanistan, always on the move, never able to find a home.    

"I remember that visit!" he said.  "It was first time I was back to the Old House since I moved away  But I don't know who the kid was."

"He said he used to live in the house."

"I don't know what he was telling you, but I was the last kid to live there.  Maybe one of my nephews stayed for a week or two.  But none of them were 12 or 13 in 1972."

I shruggd.  "I must be remembering it wrong."

"You know who it sounds like?"  Carl said.  "Me.  I was born in the Old House.  I carved my name on the wall of my room upstairs, and banged on the wall with the porch swing, and I used to go skinny-dipping in the pond all the time.  But I didn't do any of those things that day, and besides, I was 28 years old, not 13."

"Unless a younger version of you went skinny dipping with me while you was sitting in the farmhouse," I said with a laugh.  "A preteen doppelganger trying to recapture the lost freedom of his childhood."

"Huh?"

"It must have been a kid from down the road."

Carl didn't share my interest in the paranormal, and I didn't want to explain.  Or to ask him to drop his pants, so I could compare his penis to that of the mysterious boy I saw at the Old House 30 years ago.

See also: The Naked Man in the Peat Bog; Lane's Weirdest Paranormal Experience.

Sunday, March 19, 2017

Matt's Black and White Ball

Upstate, April 2009

The invitation came in an email:"You and a guest are invited to Matt's Black and White Balls, Memorial Day Weekend 2009. Lodging provided.  Please RSVP."

Plus a MP4 of "Everything's Up To Date in Kansas City" from Oklahoma.

"Balls must be a mistake," I told my boyfriend Chad.  "He must be doing an homage to the famous Black and White Ball that Truman Capote held for New York glitterati in 1966."

"Gay glitterati, all dressed in black and white!" Chad exclaimed.  "Sounds festive.  But who's Matt?"

"My ex-boyfriend Fred's ex-boyfriend from California. You'd like him."

When I met Matt in 1988, he was a 22-year old Cute Young Thing, a Harvard elitist, abrasive and condescending in spite of his fabulous butt and extra-large beneath-the-belt gifts.  But as I got to know him better, he turned out to be secretly kind, generous, and only marginally insane.

In the bedroom, while you were going down on him, he kept up a nonstop monologue of his progress, first in English, then in French.  He usually finished in German.

I'm getting there...un peu plus, mon chevalier.......je vais arriver...bien, bien...ich komme!

"Fred and Matt were together for about ten years.  When they broke up, he moved to San Francisco, and then to Boston.  I haven't seen him in five or six years."

"Well, you must have made a good impression on him.  But why is he hosting his Black and White Ball in Kansas City, not Boston?"

When I asked, Matt responded only "That would be telling.  But don't worry, it won't be just KC barbecue-and-tractor-pull fans.  There will be a lot of guys from San Francisco: David, Corbin, Seth.  I even invited Kevin the Vampire."

Kansas City, May 23rd, 2009

I arrived in Kansas City at 2:00 pm.  Instead of Matt, I was met by a guy holding a sign: an African-American Cute Young Thing, short, very dark, buffed, wearing a formal white shirt and black pants.  He introduced himself as Malcolm.

I thought he was a professional driver, but he led me to an old, beat-up car with a back seat cluttered with clothes and fast-food wrappers.  Not really professional -- must be one of Matt's friends.

"How long have you and Matt known each other?"

"He just hired me for the weekend.  But I'm available all day and all night.  Just give me a call, and I'll be there."  He grinned and grabbed my knee.

Hired for what?

"Would you like a short tour of the City before we head over to Matt's house?"

He drove me past the Crown Center, the Liberty Memorial, and Swope Park, where we kissed and fondled at a fountain overlooking the valley.  Then we drove to a huge brick house on the north side of town, parked, and went inside without knocking.

Past a foyer into an enormous living room.  A cute older guy, mid-40s, African-American, was standing on a ladder, putting up a poster of a naked man.

"This is Boomer," Malcolm announced, putting his arm around my waist.  And leaving it there.

He smiled and held down his hand.  "I'm Dallas, and no, I'm not from Texas."

Then Matt came in, naked, dripping wet.  He was now 44 years old, balding, a little pudgy, but he still had a fabulous butt.

"Boomer, welcome!  Sorry I can't hug -- we've been in the pool.  Why don't you go up to your room, change, and join us?  Malcolm will show you where it is."

Malcolm grinned.  "Sure, I'll be glad to."

"Take your time -- there's no hurry.  Or if you'd rather take a nap or...something, dinner will be served at 6:00."

Malcolm led me to a very bright, airy bedroom on the second floor, dropped my bag, and pushed me down onto the bed.  We tore our clothes off and got into the 69 position, but I kept choking on his thick, uncut Kielbasa.

Suddenly there was a knock on the door, and Dallas came in.  "You boys mind if I get in on this action?"

Malcolm raised his head.  "I thought you were with Glenn before."

"Hey, I can do it twice in a day.  When I was younger, sometimes I did it six times, if I could find enough cute white boys."  He squeezed onto the bed next to us, and pulled his pants down.  His Mortadella+ sprang to life.

I dutifully went down on him while Malcolm was going down on me.

Malcolm and Dallas both left before dinner, leaving me, Matt, Corbin, Seth, and three guys I didn't know.  It was soup, sandwiches, and fruit salad.

"Don't worry.  If you get peckish, there will be lots to eat at the Black and White Balls later."

He definitely said Balls, not Ball.

Afterwards it was like a West Hollywood party.  We hung out in the family room, swapping stories about enormous penises and celebrity dates, watching Tales of the City, cruising, while the caterers worked in the rest of the house.  At 8:00 we went up to our rooms and changed clothes, and came downstairs to a wonderland of beefcake posters, statues of Greek gods, and phallic art.  The other guests started to arrive, the ones who lived in town or were staying in a hotel (chauffeured by Malcolm or Dallas).

I reunited with David from San Francisco, but  Kevin the Vampire wasn't there.  Neither was Matt's ex, Fred.

We chatted, ate little quiches and shrimps, and drank soda or sparkling cider (Matt didn't drink).  Suddenly the caterers were all naked except for black jockstraps.  So were Malcolm and Dallas.

Malcolm approached and put his arm around me.  "Did you miss me, babe?"

"Why didn't you stay for dinner?" I asked.

"Too many guys to pick up.  But don't worry, we can have dinner tomorrow night, just me and you."

Matt rang to get our attention.  "Welcome, old and new friends, to my Black and White Balls.  As you may know, six months ago, my dear Papa died, leaving me this house, which I hardly need.  It's going on the market."

He glanced around the room.  I followed his gaze, and noticed that there were way more caterers than you needed, almost one for every party guest.  And something else.

Every party guest was white or Asian, and every caterer was black!  WTF?

"You may not know, however, that dear Papa, for all his wheeling and dealing in India, was a sheet-wearing, Confederate Flag-carrying, cross-burning racist.  Sadly, I grew up with a considerable strain of racism of my own, which took me years to overcome. So today, we are going to exorcise this house of all its racial inequality with the Black and White Balls.  Feel free to mingle, grope, suck, fuck.  I want to see black and white men together in every room in this house, especially in dear Papa's study, which no black man has ever entered before."

One of the party guests was going down on a caterer.

"Wait -- are you guys hustlers?"

"Oh, no."  Malcolm moved his hand down to my butt.  "Matt was very careful to specify that we're getting paid to cater and chauffeur.  We don't have to do anything with a guest...if we don't want to."  He moved my hand down to his crotch, where he was already aroused.  "Can you guess if I want to?"

Another caterer approached, a tall, muscular guy in his 30s with washboard abs and a gold ring through a nipple.  "Can I get you anything, sir?  Soda...mini quiche...my penis?"

I didn't understand the logic: how do you fight racism by rigidly dividing the group by race?  Wouldn't it make more sense to have both black and white men as party guests?

And why go through time and expense of inviting guys from all over the country, paying for their lodging, and catering a glamorous "Black and White Ball" that turned out to be just a sex party?


But as I dropped to my knees to go down on a Kielbasa and a Mortadella at the same time, I became less interested in logic.

By the way: five guys that night, dinner with Malcolm the next day, and sharing with Matt and his boyfriend, who happened to be Dallas!

See also:  Matt's First Night with Fred and His Brother