Saturday, April 8, 2017

I Bring Home a Teen Hustler

West Hollywood, April 1994

My boyfriend Lane and I had different tastes in men.  We both liked hefty, muscular or chubby guys, but he liked them older, tall, hairy, and fair skinned, and I liked them my age, short, smooth, and dark skinned.  So we got the idea of cruising separately and looking for our preferred types.

On Friday or Saturday nights, there was usually a party or a dinner to go to early in the evening.  If it didn't end in bedroom activity, Lane went to the Faultline or the Eagle in search of bears and leathermen, and I went to Mugi or Basgo's in search of Asian or Hispanic guys.

We would cruise from about 9:30 pm to 11:00 pm (if you don't meet someone within the first hour, you're not going to).  At 11:30 we met at the French Quarter to have a late snack and make the introductions.  Then we went home to share.

We usually ended up with one guy in our bed, but almost never two.  I don't know why.

That night in April 1994, I was having a dry spell: ever since I got back from Atlanta, nothing. Three Saturday nights in a row, Lane picked up hirsute, hung leathermen old enough to be my father, who might, if I was lucky, let me lick their balls while they were doing 69 with Lane.  I never got to take a load, or give one.

I felt like a third wheel in my own bedroom.

"Ok, that's it!" I exclaimed after the latest hirsute, hung leatherman had his coffee and left.  "I'm tired of the old, hairy guys!  Next Saturday night, I'm going cruising by myself -- you can stay home and watch a VHS tape of Star Trek -- to a twink, bar, where I'll pick up the smoothest, softest twink who ever twirled on a dance floor to the music of Sound Factory."

"That's easier said than done," Lane pointed out.  "You're 33 years old.  Infinite Chazz thinks you're hot, but the average twink wants somebody his own age."

"Not a problem -- I'll just flash my biceps and basket, and they'll follow me anywhere. In fact, I'll do you one better.  Next Saturday night in our bed, there will be a Cute Young Thing."

The youngest, softest, most innocent of twinks, barely legal, too young for the bars, age 18 to 21.


"Ok. Let's make it interesting.  If you bring home someone under 21, I'll do the chore you hate the most for a month."

"That's grocery shopping!" I exclaimed.  "And if I bring home someone over 21, or nobody at all, I'll do the chore you hate the most for a month."

"That would be laundry.  And I think it's about time to wash all the comforters and bedspreads in the house. You'd better stock up on Fab."  He paused.  "But no fair bringing home one of Infinite Chazz's friends.  You have to meet him through cruising."

I knew that I was in trouble.  I'm a twink magnet now in my 50s, but in my 30s young guys usually ignored me.  And how was I supposed to meet a Cute Young Thing, when they're too young to go to the bars?

9:00 pm: Different Light Bookstore.  Maybe they were browsing among the coming out manuals.

9:30 pm:  The Rage.  Maybe they got a fake id to go dancing inside.

10:00 pm:  Mrs. Fields' Cookies.  Cute Young Things like cookies, right?

11:00 pm.  The Cinerama Dome.  Maybe they were hanging out at the video game area of the theater.

11:30 pm. I found a pay phone and told Lee I would be a little late.

12:00 am.  The Toy Tiger, for old guys and their admirers.

1:00 am.  Book Circus, in desperation, to hire a hustler.

Book Circus was a small, sleazy bookstore on Santa Monica and La Jolla, only a few blocks from the French Quarter.  It sold mostly porn, but you could find some interesting other things.  There's nothing like buying a remaindered version of The D'Oyly Carte Picture History of Gilbert and Sullivan at 2:00 in the morning, while bleary-eyed patrons stare.

The patrons: guys who didn't get laid at the bars, eyeing old copies of Blueboy and Mandate to give them ideas before they go home to beat off.  And, if they don't want to go home alone, there were always hustlers wandering around.

Hustlers are not denigrated in gay communities, not looked down up or pitied.  They're merely capitalizing on their special gifts, generally an enormous penis,  How is making money from their penis any different than making money from musical talent or a big brain?  And the activity they engage in is enjoyable, not demeaning.  Why not get paid for doing it?

However, their clients are almost always bisexual, married, or downlow men.  Gay men have so many options for sex that they rarely have the need or the interest to patronize a hustler.

Except in an emergency.

Lane said I had to meet a Cute Young Thing through cruising.  He never said I couldn't pay for him.

It had to be a young looking guy, fresh-faced, innocent, right off the bus -- that's quite a tall order, for a hustler.  And he couldn't be drunk or high -- Lane hated drugs and alcohol.

Paydirt!  A very cute, very young looking guy, short, buffed, with black hair and dark skin, maybe Hispanic, pretending to read The Advocate.  He looked up at me and smiled.

"This place has a great selection," I said.  "I come here all the time."

He smiled.  "I usually wait until I get home."

An old joke.

We talked and cruised for a few minutes. He was Tai, from San Jose in northern California, 19 years old, in town for about six months.  He had a part-time job in a pizza place, but L.A. was expensive, and he was making money any way he could.

Time to seal the deal.  "It's pretty late.  Do you have a place to stay tonight?"

"Not if you're offering yours."

"Sure.  I live just about six blocks from here.  But kust you know, there'll be two of us.  Will that be extra?"

He frowned. "I don't do ladies."

"No, no -- my boyfriend.  He' a couple of years older than me, hairy chest,  cut 7.5."

"Sounds like just my type.  Oh -- before we go, could you lend me $10 for some cigarettes?"

Rather a cheap fee for a hustler, but I figured he'd charge us the rest later.

We went back to the house, where Lane was waiting up.  He was surprised to see the Cute Young Thing with me, but not so surprised that he didn't invite him into the bedroom and go down on him while we kissed.

Wait -- you didn't examine him for crabs! I thought.  But I'd be doing laundry tomorrow anyway.

Tai had a hard, smooth chest and a surprisingly small penis for a hustler.  Weren't they supposed to be gifted?  But when it became aroused, it hit flat against his belly.



I went down on Tai while he went down on Lane.  Soon I was taking his load.  Then I pushed him down onto the bed into interfemoral position, while he was still sensitive.  He groaned, gasped, and became aroused again.

Staying power!  A good quality for a hustler!

Now Lane went down on Tai again, while I entered his mouth from the top.  When I finished, Tai pushed me down onto his penis to spurt for me a second time.

Then we shared Lane's penis.  At the last moment, Tai pushed my head over so I would take Lane's load.

"That wasn't necessary," I said, gasping.  "I go down on Lane every day anyway.  We brought you in to share."

"Ok, then I'll take the next one.  But I'm warning you -- I'm keeping track."

Was he going to charge me by the orgasm?

After Lane finished his second orgasm, he got up and went to take a shower.  Tai lay his head on my chest.  I wrapped my arms around him.

"I should cover your payment now, while Lane isn't around," I whispered.  "How much do I owe you for the night?"

Tai began kissing my chest.  "How much do you owe me for what?"

"For...you know.."  My face began to burn. You weren't supposed to actually mention the contract openly.  "Um...don't you....um...charge?"

He smiled.  "Maybe, if the guy is a crazy closet case who won't kiss or go down on me.  Maybe not.  You'll never know."

And I still don't know for sure if Tai was a hustler or not.

By the way, total score: me 1, Lane 2, Tai 4.

See also: The Teenage Lawnboy; Cruising East of Alvarado.

Thursday, April 6, 2017

Rick the Hard Master Tops Scott Baio

Silverlake, March 2009

I'm back in California for spring break.  Will the Bondage boy has invited me to dinner to meet his boyfriend, Rick the Hard Master.

Most people have sex to express affection or erotic interest, or as a form of recreation.  Will the Bondage Boy has sex for those reasons, but to him kissing, cuddling, anal, oral, and interfemoral are  just "fooling around."  "Real sex" is about challenging yourself, testing your limits, seeing how much you can endure.

It is about pleasure, pain, humiliation, fear, rage, disgust, hopelessness, and courage.

It is about personal transformation.

There are a lot of bondage tops in West Hollywood and Silverlake, but not many "hard masters," guys willing to top you through elaborate scenarios, push your limits, give you the "punishment you need." Will knew Hard Master Rick for years, and bottomed for him a few times, but they only began dating three months ago.

I'm a little disappointed: I expect Will to serve dinner naked except for a slave collar, while Rick the Hard Master barks orders.

Instead, they behave like any other couple, cooperating to get dinner on the table, calling each other "honey," making jokes, telling us how they first met.  They are dressed in regular jeans and t-shirts.  You'd never even know that they are into S&M.




Rick is in his fifties, bald, with a long face and a full beard.  He has a bodybuilder's physique with especially nice biceps, a hairy chest and belly, and surprisingly, a rather small penis. But I suppose that, being a Hard Master, the size of his package is irrelevant.

Lane, Marshall, Randall the Muscle Bear, and three guys I don't know are there.  We have the usual dinner conversations about dates from hell, gigantic penises, and celebrity hookups. I tell about my hookup with Nate Richert.  Will tells about Keanu Reeves.

"You should ask Rick about some of his clients," he says. "It will blow your mind."

Turns out that, in addition to topping guys for pleasure, Rick has a little hustling business on the side -- there are so few Hard Masters out there that some guys have to pay for it.  There are a lot of celebrities on his client list, but "doctor-patient confidentiality" prohibits him from revealing their names.

"Come on, you can tell them one..." Will pleads.  "How about the Bottom from Hell?"

"Scott Baio!"  Rick exclaims.  "I've been trying my best to forget that one!"

Silverlake, November 2002

Rick got most of his clients from word of mouth, but occasionally he ran a personal ad.  "Sam" answered his ad in Frontiers: 40 years old, buffed, married, bisexual but not out, with a high-profile job, so he needed "absolute discretion."  But when they met at Elysian Park for the initial interview, Rick recognized him immediately as Scott Baio.

He didn't look much like the cute teen idol who starred in Happy Days and Charles in Charge.  His face was craggy, starting to wrinkle, but he still had a tight, smooth physique and an impressive uncut Bratwurst beneath the belt.

"Hard Masters don't use safe words," Rick told him.  "We push your limits.  But it would be helpful to understand what kind of scene you're looking for -- are you more into pain or humiliation, into role playing, into water sports, mummification?"

"I've done this before, so I know what to expect," Scott said.  "I'm up for about anything, except no marks and no kissing.  I'll go down on you, but I reserve kissing for the ladies.  And no photos, please."

Rick nodded.

They arranged for the scene the following Thursday afternoon.  Rick answered the door in full bondage gear and ordered Scott to strip.  He then blindfolded him, tied his hands behind his back, and led him to the basement dungeon, where he tied him to a St. Andrew's cross.

He took off the blindfold and showed Scott his collection of BDSM gear: whips, paddles, black clothespins, dildos, a violet wand.

Scott went pale and said "You know what?  This isn't working.  I changed my mind.  I don't want to do it anymore.  You'll still get paid, of course."

Rick hesitated.  Was this part of the game? Scott said he had done this before, but...

He decided to go forward anyway.  He began whipping Scott on the chest, very lightly.

"No, that's too much!" Scott yelled.  "I can't take it!"

Rick stopped and began to untie him.

"What are you doing?  I was just starting to get into it!"

"Ok, I see we're going to need a safe word," Rick said, frowning.  "Yours is 'melon.'"


He whipped Scott, put clothespins on him, and inserted a dildo into his butt.  At each move, Scott would complain and scream "It's too much!  I can't take it!  End the scene -- I'm not kidding!"

He never used the safe word, but still, Rick found it very distracting.  Bottoms weren't supposed to speak at all, and you never beg to end the scene unless you are serious.

So Rick put an open gag on Scott, so he couldn't speak but things could still be inserted into his mouth.  But Scott kept up a constant stream of moaning and yelling, which was still distracting.

Finally he gave up.  He got out his camera and photographed Scott.  "I'm making three copies.  One for your wife, one for your director at the studio, and the third for The National Enquirer."

Scott squealed and protested through his gag.  Rick shoved his tongue through the hole and forced Scott to masturbate while kissing him.  Then he untied him, let him shower, and collected his fee.

Of course, he didn't really send the photos anywhere.  But he was so annoyed by the squealing, uncooperative Bottom from Hell that he was tempted to.



Was Rick Telling the Truth?

Scott Baio has been the subject of many gay rumors, including hints of an interest in S&M.  Other people have mentioned the "no kissing" rule.

He was 42 years old in 2002, newly married, and working on various movie and tv projects.  And the photo Rick showed us looks like Scott.

But the bottom never said that he was Scott Baio.  Rick just assumed, based on the resemblance.  It's possible that it was someone else.

See also: The Top 10 Gay Rumors about Scott Baio; Will the Bondage Boy Hooks Up with Peter Fonda; and Which Story of Scott Baio's Three-Way is True?

Wednesday, April 5, 2017

Warning: Explicit Beauty Ahead

When every guy with a cell phone posts nude selfies on the internet, there are thousands of fabulous faces, sculpted physiques, and gigantic penises on display every time you boot up your computer.

Some photos stand out from the crowd by paying pay special attention to background, light, color, and composition, display some striking emotion, provide a backstory.  Others add a single tiny detail that transforms the photo from merely depicting a cute guy to being beautiful in itself.

1. The pale sculpted physique is offset by the dark checkered shirt and hat, and the cock and balls are offset by the jeans.  But it's the food cooking on the stove that give this photo a lifelike, homey feel: it's a moment of real life.  Dinner is almost ready.











2. Ok, some nicely rounded muscles, and two hands on his enormous uncut penis.  You expect a bragging smirk, or at least a cruisy smile, but this guy's expression is soft and vulnerable, his head against a soft beige pillow.  He's worried that he won't meet your expectations.














3. Slim backside, scruffy hair, aroused penis almost hidden.  What makes this photo is the bright hippie-graffiti  that fills the wall and reflects the multi-colored blanket.  This is a hipster just waking up after a long night of jazz music, Beat poety, and discussions of the meaninglessness of life.














4. Sculpted physique, flawless skin glowing in strong light, jeans drawn down just enough to suggest that they're about to fall off.  The gold watch draws attention to the hands.  Blurry urban background suggest the dangers and delights of the street.














5.  I love photos where the aroused penis stands tall, taking up half of the frame, but this photo adds to its intrigue by displaying the guy's jarhead and khaki shirt and belt.  He must be in the military.  There's a poster showing a tropical beach over his shoulder: he's looking for an escape, a "good place."

More after the break











Tuesday, April 4, 2017

Nude Photos of TV Doctor Vince Edwards

Baby Boomer kids are familiar with Vince Edwards from Ben Casey (1961-1966), and their parents, with his many beefcake roles of the 1950s, such as Mr. Universe (1951) and Hiawatha (1952).

There's no evidence that he posed for gay physique magazines like Physique Pictorial, but there are nude photos of a young Vince Edwards floating around the internet.











He's around 20 here, so it's about 1948, when Vince was studying at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts   A classical Greek pose like you would see in physique magazines,  but there was no full nudity in print at the time.  This must have been a private photo shoot.














Older here, and bulked up, probably early 1950s, after he moved to Los Angeles.

Was he a member or hanger-on of the Hollywood gay scene?

The full post is on Boomer Beefcake and Bonding.








Monday, April 3, 2017

A Celebrity Tries to Steal My Boyfriend

Hollywood, August 1986

My friend Alan, who dragged me to Japan, came to Los Angeles to become an actor in the mid-1970s, and ended up working in the gay porn industry.

He knew lots of celebrities and celebrity kids, like David Johnson, son of the Professor on Gilligan's Island, and anyone he didn't know, I met through other friends (Michael J. Fox), or through my job at Muscle and Fitness, or at the gym, or on the streets of West Hollywood (my celebrity boyfriend).  And at Mugi.


It was a bar on Hollywood Boulevard, east of Western, in Thai Town (now it's a Thai restaurant).  Simple decor.  Thai popular music (except for "One Night in Bangkok"., which it played every night).  No dancing.  And packed every night.  Most of the the clientele was Asian, mostly immigrants and tourists from East Asia. The rest were their admirers.

Alan liked it because he was, for some reason, intensely attractive to most Asian men.  He claimed that he could get any Asian guy just by walking up and smiling (He often used this amazing ability to steal my dates.)

The other half of the clientele was white, mostly men in the entertainment industry, mostly not well known, but on various nights I saw Jim J. Bullock, Lance Loud, Tom Hulce, and Tom Villard

Why did so many gay white actors, directors, producers, and crew members patronize a tiny Asian bar?  Maybe because it was a a five minute drive from Paramount Studios, and very close to about a dozen other studios, yet out of the way, not like one of the glitzy West Hollywood bars where you would be spotted.

In August 1986, shortly after we returned from Japan, I liked a very muscular Chinese-Vietnamese guy named Tranh, a student at UCLA.  I cruised him at the gym almost every day, and when I saw him at Mugi, I spent an hour flirting with him, using every trick I knew.   He had just agreed to have dinner with me, when Richard Chamberlain came in with some friends.

The 52-year old star of Dr. Kildare (1961-66), Shogun (1980), The Thorn Birds (1983), and King Solomon's Mines (1985) was not yet out, and he was not the subject of any gay rumors.

I was mildly surprised, but not impressed.   I didn't find him at all attractive -- there were much cuter celebrities at Mugi all the time.  Besides, he was probably there to cruise Asian men.

But Tranh's mouth dropped.  After a few moments, he said "Excuse me," and made a bee-line for Richard's table. It took only a moment for them to start kissing.

It wasn't fair -- I cruised Tranh at the gym for weeks, and I didn't get a kiss!

I pieced my way through the crowd to where Alan was holding court.

"What's the problem?"  he asked.  "You look like you lost your best friend."

"Maybe I did. I finally managed to get a date with Tranh, when that idiot Richard comes in, and he scurried after him like a squirrel after a nut.  Just because he's been in some movies!"

Alan smiled.  "Don't worry, I'll take care of it." He disentangled himself from his boyfriend du jour and made his way to Richard's table.  I could see him, Richard, and Tranh talking.  After about three minutes, he returned, hand in hand with a grinning Tranh.

"...and Boomer will be there, too.  Is that ok?"


He "got" Tranh for me by offering himself as part of the deal!

Still, I had to admire the ease with which he bested Richard Chamberlain.

And I did manage to go down on Tranh (average size, uncut).

See also: Sharing the Kept Boy

Sunday, April 2, 2017

A High School Boy Gives Me His Underwear


Fort Wayne, Indiana, December 1969

When I was growing up in the 1960s and 1970s, we visited my parents' home town in northeastern Indiana about twice a year, at Christmastime and during the summer.  My favorite part of the visit was when Grandma Davis announced "Let's go on a trip to Fort Wayne,"

When we were very little, Mom and Dad came, too, and when we were older, my baby sister came with us, but for many years it was just Kenny and me, fighting over who would get to ride "shotgun" in Grandma's brown Chevy Impala as she drove through Butler Center and Laotto and Huntertown, and finally (really only about a half hour later) Fort Wayne.

The biggest, brightest, most exciting city in the world.

It was unimaginably huge, bigger than Rock Island, Moline, and Davenport put together, and it had the most fascinating places I had ever seen.  There was always something new: a gigantic County Courthouse; a candy factory much nicer than that scary one in the Willy Wonka movie; a Children's Zoo with its own train; an art museum; the history museum at Old City Hall; Kern's Toy Store; a memorial to Johnny Appleseed.

Somehow Grandma Davis always knew where there were a lot of cute boys:  playing basketball in schoolyards, crowded into booths at the soda shop, competing in athletic events, running around in groups at street fairs.  She let us play with them while she sat on a bench, reading a magazine.

We usually stopped for lunch at the Famous Coney Island on Main Street: hot dogs with chili, cheese, and onions, and steamed buns.   Plus french fries, onion rings, and root beer floats (vanilla ice cream floating in a gigantic mug of root beer).

And a never-ending supply of cute high school boys in white shirts, black pants, and black bow ties who brought out your orders.


On a cold day just before Christmas in 1969, when I was in fourth grade, we were having lunch at the Coney Island, and my brother and I were rough-housing, stealing fries off each other's plates, shoving each other, and laughing.  Grandma Davis told us to settle down, so I stopped and picked up my root beer float.

Then Kenny shoved me again.  I dropped the heavy mug onto my chest, drenching my shirt with root beer.  More root beer splashed onto my pants, and the clump of melting ice cream fell right onto my lap.

Gross!  Cold and wet!  I pushed it onto the floor.

"It looks like you peed your pants," Kenny said.

"Oh, no, you're soaked!" Grandma Davis exclaimed.  She grabbed some napkins and tried to dab me, but the root beer and ice cream had already soaked in.  "You can't ride all the way back to Garrett like this -- it's freezing out!"

A high school boy came running up: short, compact, muscular, with long brown hippie-hair and a bright smile.  He was carrying a little pad and pencil.  I don't remember his name, if I ever knew it, so I'll call him Jim.

"Don't worry, Ma'am, I'll take care of him," he said.  Then "Come on, champ, let's get you cleaned up."

 He took me by the hand and led me past the staring patrons to a little door marked "Employees Only."  Inside it looked like a kitchen, with tables and chairs and a little refrigerator.  There was a bank of lockers on on side, and a rack with a lot of coats hung up on it.

Another high school boy was sitting at one of the tables, eating a sandwich.  He was tall and thin, with black hair and deep blue eyes.  I never got his name either, so I'll call him Rich.

"We had a little accident," Jim said.  "Give me a hand here, ok?"

They pulled my shoes off, and I took off my pants and shirt.  It was cold!  I was shivering in my underwear and socks.  Rich gave me a towel to dry off with.

"Do we have a spare pair of pants the kid can wear?" Jim asked.

"There's an extra uniform...not his size.  He'll be swimming in it."

"Better than nothing."  While Rich went to get the uniform, Jim helped me dry off.

"Um...your underwear is soaked, little buddy.  That was one busy root beer float.  Better slip out of them, too.  I'll keep watch to make sure no girls come in."

I nodded and pulled off my underwear.  It was oddly exciting to be standing naked with high school boys.

Rich appeared with a pair of black pants and white shirt.  "Um...you can't put this on with no underwear.  Your area will pop right out and scare the poor ladies to death!"

They looked at each other.

"I have an idea.  You don't mind used underwear, do you, buddy?"  Jim slipped out of his pants, and then dropped his white briefs, revealing a dark mass of pubic hair and thick hairy balls and a penis!  Long, thick, veiny, as big as my Cousin Joe's.

  I stared in awe.

Jim handed me his briefs, still warm from his body, and I slipped them on.  His penis had just been pressing against this thin cotton a moment ago!

He pulled his pants back up, with no underwear. I stared, trying to see an outline or a bulge.  But the lines were straight.

Then Jim and Rich helped me pull up the black employee pants and roll up the cuff.  They were so loose that I had to squeeze them together with my hand.   I pulled on the shirt, and they helped me button it and tuck it in.

"Now you're an honorary employee of Famous Coney Island," Jim said.

"We're going all the way to Garrett," I protested.  "You'll never get your...um...underwear back,"

 "That's ok.  Keep it as a souvenir."

The job done, Jim put my wet clothes in a bag and took me out to Grandma Davis.

"A coat and hat, and he'll be good to wait up for Santa Claus.  Oh -- and I almost forgot -- I'll get you a new root beer float."

I was in no mood for ice cream.  I was too overcome by the sight, sound, and smell of the masculine. My area was touching where Jim's had been! It was like we were pressing together!

The next weekend, Grandma Davis returned the pants and shirt.  I never told her about the underwear.

I kept it hidden in my dresser drawer for years.

And I order a lot of root beer floats in restaurants, hoping that history will repeat itself.

See also: My First Kiss from a Boy Vampire







How Much Does Astrology Know About Your Sex Life?

I'm a big fan of the paranormal, but not astrology.  It's too complicated: I am a Scorpio with Virgo in my Second House (21.02), the Moon in Jupiter, Mercury in Sagittarius, the Sextile Sun in Jupiter, and Mars in opposition (4.43-73).

Ok...

When I started going to gay bars in 1983, the astrology craze of the 1970s was winding down, but you still occasionally were asked "What's your sign?"

It was a good conversation starter.  And being a Scorpio didn't hurt my cruising success: it's the most sexual of the signs of the zodiac: passionate, energetic, intellectual, dark, mysterious, intense, and insatiable.

Scorpio is supposedly most compatible with Cancer, Virgo, Capricorn, Libra, and Pisces, and not compatible with Taurus, Leo, Sagittarius, and Aquarius. Let's see if it works,  Here is a boyfriend or lover from each of the sun signs:



NOT COMPATIBLE

Aquarius (January 21 - February 19): The water-bearer, Ganymede, cupbearer and boy toy for the gods.  Friendly, loyal, inventive, scatterbrained.    

Dustin, my teenage boyfriend on the Plains, who I hooked up with at his father's party. It was intense but rather volatile.

















Taurus (April 21 - May 21); the bull.  Patient, reliable, warmhearted, tends to be jealous and possessive. Hung like a bull.  

Barry the Colonial Williamsburg Boy.  Not particularly hung.  We hooked up once, and became friends. He was a little too weird for me, with his background in a conservative Catholic family in Colonial Williamsburg and years spent as a hustler.














Leo (July 23 - August 21): the lion.  Generous, broad-minded, pompous, tends to be bossy.

Raul, the Hispanic chef I dated in West Hollywood.  We argued, broke up, got back together several times. He wasn't pompous, but he was inclined to be bossy.

Sagittarius (November 23 - December 22): The archer, especially Chiron the Centaur.  Optimistic, good-humored, intellectual, irresponsible, reckless.

Troy, my boyfriend in Upstate New York.  We were together for about six years, but we did argue a bit.












COMPATIBLE

Pisces (February 20 - March 20):  The fish.  Compassionate, kind, idealistic, weak-willed.

Eli from Amsterdam, who I've been friends with ever since his brother brought me home as a "birthday present" from the Horseman's Club.

Cancer (June 22 - July 22): the crab.  Emotional, intuitive, cautious, moody.

My Celebrity Boyfriend, from West Hollywood.  We only dated for about three months.  He was rather moody.  See: Sharing My Celebrity Boyfriend, the Director, and the Cute Young Thing.






Virgo (August 22 - September 23): the virgin.  Modest, shy, easy-going, fussy, a perfectionist.

Ryan H, the small-town track star that I met on the way back from Indianapolis last summer.  That didn't work out at all (see My New Year's Eve Sex Party with the College Track Star).


More after the break.