Saturday, April 29, 2017
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.
"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
Friday, April 28, 2017
Springtime on the Plains is a paradise of beefcake, brawn, cruising, and sausage sightings, but yesterday was especially busy. Muscles and bulges everywhere I looked.
1. Student Union. I arrive on campus and walk through the Student Union on the way to my office. There are tables full of students in muscle shirts. One is a bodybuilder, displaying a smooth, hard chest and thick biceps as he bends over a chemistry textbook.
2. Intro Class. 100 students in stadium seats. I wander among them as I lecture. A bird's eye view of tight t-shirts and short pants.
3. Bathroom Break. I always stop at the bathroom between classes, both to go and to check my grooming. A young professor with an uncut Kielbasa+ is just finishing up.
5. Lunch at Chipotle. The guy making my chicken and black bean burrito has his shirt unbuttoned three buttons. From my angle, I can look right down it to see the outline of his hard, slightly hairy chest.
6. Afternoon Seminar. Seven women and three men. The men sit together in the front row -- safety in numbers, I guess. One always has his legs spread as far as they will go, like he's cruising in a bar. I'm not allowed to ask out students in my class, but after final grades are posted...
8. Volleyball. They're playing volleyball on the grass outside the Fine Arts Building. Eight guys, all of them shirtless. I can't stand it!
9. Gym. It's warm enough to jog outside, but I run around the indoor track anyway, to get a view of the three (three!) shirts vs. skins basketball games being played on the floor below.
10. Locker Room. The physics professor with the husky, hairy body, the six-pack abs, and the enormous Mortadella on his way to the shower as I come in. He doesn't bother with a towel.
11. Student Union Snack Bar for my post-gym apple and power bar. There's a cute, nerdish guy named Dustin at the cash register who always cruises me. Today he makes sure that our hands "accidentally" touch as
12. Bathroom Again. This time on the second floor of the Student Union, down the hall from the student organizations. A row of urinals with no barriers between. There's already someone standing at a urinal, talking on his cell phone and playing with himself. Average size, semi-aroused. He sees me come in, plays with himself for a few more strokes, then zips up.
13. Office Hours. One of the other professors in my department is talking to a gigantic bodybuilder in a black muscle shirt. "I'd like you to meet my husband," she says.
14. The Artist. I walk through the Fine Arts Building on the way to the parking lot. An art student passes me, carrying an abstract sculpture. He's short, sandy-haired, smiling, wearing green shorts with...you guessed it. Yet another enormous bulge.
"Nice," I tell him. "A real work of art."
15. The House Across the Street. A few yards from where my car is parked: four guys sitting on the front steps. One is playing a guitar. They're all shirtless.
It's been like ten hours in a bath house. And I still have dinner and trivia night at the gay-friendly coffee house to go.
Who needs West Hollywood?
See also: Searching for Beefcake on the Plains; Random Summer Beefcake on the Plains
Thursday, April 27, 2017
I discovered these photos on the internet. At first I thought it was a spoof website -- surely men didn't swim naked in the the skittish 1940s and 1950s, where male nudity was forbidden in magazines and in movies, and pants were designed to eliminate bulges.
And some of these photos seem faked. The fonts are off, and there's no way nude photos would appear in high school or college yearbooks.
And the boys in the photos look a little old to be in high school or even college. Maybe they are ordinary nudists, with a swim team caption photoshopped in.
Plus there are ample photos of high school, college, and Olympic swim teams of the 1920s-1950s wearing body hugging suits, with bulges but nothing else.
But I've gotten verification in legitimate magazine articles and personal reminiscences. Men and boys in some schools actually did compete naked during the period.
Giving spectators an eyeful, even with the shrinkage.
The full article on swim team photos is on Boomer Beefcake and Bonding.
Wednesday, April 26, 2017
One day during my junior year at Rocky High, my younger brother Kenny invited me out for ice cream. I was suspicious -- he never invited me to go anywhere. He must be buttering me up!
And sure enough, the moment we sat down at Happy Joe's with our sundaes, he said "I want to have a sleepover Saturday night."
"No way, José!" I exclaimed. "No way I'm spending the night with eighth graders!"
From my eighth birthday through junior high, I hosted sleepovers at least once a month: three or four boys, plus my brother by default, since we shared a room. We spent the night playing, roughhousing, eating snacks, watching tv, and staying up later than usual, and then bedded down, two to a bed and in sleeping bags.
There was always a lot of competition over who would get to sleep with the host; I always picked the cutest boy there, not necessarily my boyfriend Bill.
Kenny started hosting sleepovers on his eighth birthday, too, and of course I was invited by default. It was fine when I was in grade school, or even in junior high. But I was in high school now, too old for such "baby" activities.
"I haven't had one for a long time!" Kenny protested. "And Mom says I can't have one unless you say it's ok, cause you have to be there."
I didn't used to mind bedding down with naked boys. But at age 15 it would be threateningly erotic -- what if I got aroused?
"What will my friends say if they find out I spent the night with a bunch of eighth grade dorks?" I complained.
"They won't all be dorks," Kenny said. "I have to invite Todd, but you can decide on the other two boys."
Todd was Kenny's best friend, a sports nut with sandy blond hair and green eyes (all models in the illustrations are over 18).
"As if! My friends wouldn't be caught dead at a junior high sleepover!"
"Well, they have to be my age. But...well...maybe there's one of my friends that you like. I'll invite anybody you want."
In retrospect, this seems like an odd offer for a heterosexual boy to make to his heterosexual brother -- I wouldn't figure "it" out for another year. But apparently Ken already knew, on some level.
My eyes lit up. "Anybody I want?"
"As long as they go to Washington [Junior High]."
Considering that I was in high school, I knew a surprising number of junior high boys -- Kenny's friends, the younger brothers of my friends, some boys from church, random boys that I saw at Kenny's school activities. It wasn't hard to decide on one:
"Ok, for my first boy I pick Denny." A tall, blond ninth grader with a round angelic face. He played the lead in the junior high production of Oklahoma! last fall.
"No problemo. Denny and me are tight. Kenny and Denny, Denny and Kenny." He paused. "So...who's the second boy?"
I thought for a moment. Who was the cutest boy at Washington?
In an instant, it came to me: "Rebel."
"No way! I can't get Rebel! He's old -- he was held back a year. And we're not really friends. I just say hi in the hall."
I met Rebel, real name Maurice, when Kenny invited him to church as part of his junior high soulwinning regiment: tall, muscular physique, short hair, perpetual sneer, cute in a sleazy, semi-dangerous way. He sat through Sunday school class and half of the morning service, but exclaimed "This is bogus!" and sauntered out the door before altar call.
According to Kenny, Rebel was fourteen-years old, but still in eighth grade. He spent his time behind the gym, smoking -- cigarettes and pot -- and drinking and drawing fake tattoos on himself. He had been suspended for getting into fights and trying to break into a teacher's car. He was Catholic. His parents were divorced. A juvenile delinquent.
"Too bad. That's my choice."
"He wouldn't come," Kenny protested. "And besides, Mom and Dad won't let him in the house."
"They will if you say we're going to witness to him."
"There must be another boy you like better! How about Steve? He's cute, right?"
"I suppose...but I have my heart set on Rebel."
I'm not sure if I was really interested in Rebel, or if I just wanted Kenny to cancel the sleepover, but I stood my ground. Finally he agreed to ask. The next day he announced that Rebel was coming.
Adding a 14-year old juvenile delinquent to a sleepover full of 13-year old "nice boys" changed the dynamics.
Instead of watching tv, we listened to Rebel play his guitar (badly):
"I'm a rock star. All the babes are wild to get at me, but I say, no, I'm too cool to hang out with girls."
Instead of playing pingpong and foosball, we lit a fire in the back yard and roasted marshmallows and melted army guy toys:
"That will teach those Viet Cong to bomb Americans!" Rebel exclaimed.
At snack time, Rebel mixed up Coke, Sprite, and red Kool-Aid.
"This is the real stuff!" he said. "It will get you higher than a kite, if you're man enough to drink it!"
It tasted awful.
Finally it was time for bed. Kenny and Todd would share his bed, of course. One boy would share my bed, and the other would get the sleeping bag on the floor.
"I'll take the floor," Rebel said. "I slept on the ground lots of times, when I was running from the fuzz. Nothing's too hard for me."
"Well...if you're scared to go to bed with a high school boy, I understand."
He glared at me. "I'm not scared of nothing. But just so you know, I don't like underwear. I need room to move around, so I sleep nekkid. That won't bother you, will it?"
"Hey, I'm in high school. I can take anything."
No sausage sighting, but I helped myself to a butt fondle
I was up all night.
No more sleepovers!
See also: Seeing the Golden Boy in His Underwear
He was tall and lanky, with a beard and piercing eyes. He didn't participate much in the conversations about long ago-events in the hills of Kentucky and the exploits of husbands and wives. He sat in an old easy chair, smoking cigarettes, his face illuminated in firelight like an otherworldly creature. After awhile, he grabbed his car keys and left without a word, driving out into the darkness of the Indiana countryside.
Was he a secret agent, off to fight evil Russian spies? Or maybe he was a wizard, off to the cemetery to summon the spirits of the undead?
I thought he was the coolest guy in the world.
But the curtain was always drawn.
Uncle Edd never played with us, and he didn't say much, but he wasn't indifferent. He often brought out gifts of comic books and candy. He sent me a Christmas present every year -- an unabridged dictionary, a world atlas. It's just that he was the strong, silent type, not used to kids.
Later I discovered that he was a writer! He didn't make a living off his writing, but he published some photo-journalism, and some Western stories, back when Western stories were popular. After he died, my cousin sent me one: "My Sister Sue," about a female gunslinger who rescues the male narrator from the villain.
Coolest guy in the world!
After I "figured it" out in 1978, it occurred to me that Uncle Edd might be gay. After all, he was over 40 years old, not married, and he had never been seen with a woman or mentioned a girlfriend. My mother said that if he was a Catholic, he would have become a monk.
But before I could bring up the subject, my Grandpa Howard died, and three weeks later Uncle Edd shocked everyone by moving in with a widow with three teenage sons. Apparently they had been dating for years without telling anyone, because they didn't want Grandpa Howard to feel guilty about Edd living there to take care of him.
Not gay. Still pretty cool.
I have a good story about Uncle Edd.
One day when we were nine or ten years old, Cousin Buster and I sneaked into the barn, planning to steal some eggs. The outhouse gate was closed. In the dim light, we could see Uncle Edd's pants drawn around his ankles inside.
"He's cleaning his gun in there," Cousin Buster whispered. "An AK-47. He shoots Russians with it. Let's go up and look." He pointed up to the loft.
"That doesn't sound like a good idea," I whispered. "Uncle Edd'll get mad."
"He won't get mad -- I do it all the time. Besides, from up there you can see his peter."
I don't know why Cousin Buster thought that male nudity would seal the deal, but it did. We climbed up to the loft, careful that the rickety wooden ladder didn't creak.
The stench was overpowering.
But Cousin Buster was right -- I could see his peter, a gleam of white in the dim light.
And lost my balance and tumbled down into the outhouse, crashing into the wall and onto Uncle Edd's lap.
Later, after three stitches in my head a tetanus shot, and a lot of yelling from my parents, I was back at Aunt Nora's house, where we were staying.
"Whatever got into you?" she asked. "Climbing onto an old outhouse like that!"
"I wanted to see Uncle Edd's gun," I said.
My older cousins started laughing. It would be ten years before I understood the joke.
See also: Cousin Buster and I Get God Mad and Seeing Cousin Joe's Shame.
Sunday, April 23, 2017
I can ignore almost anything.
But some words and phrases are too grating and asinine to ignore. They make me much less likely to invite you home in the first place, and they ruin the mood once we get there. They're likely to elicit laughter or a groan of disapproval. You'd be better off quoting Monty Python ("My nipples explode with delight), or just giving your vocal cords a rest.
Here are 11 sex words and phrases that will kill the mood:
Oh, aren't you fit!
Physical fitness is a measure of your cardiovascular endurance, muscle strength and endurance, flexibility, agility, and fat-to-muscle ratio, not your physical attractiveness. Saying that someone is fit makes you sound like a leering, groping Creepy Old Guy.
2. Delicious/Mouth Watering.
Your kisses are delicious! Your cock is mouth-watering!
You use your mouth for both eating and sex, but otherwise the two activities are not at all related. Sex has nothing to do with your taste buds; a hamburger can't be sexy, and a person cannot be delicious.
I need a man to breed me.
Breed means encouraging animals to have sex so they will reproduce. It's demeaning when you're talking about human beings, and completely inaccurate when you're talking about anal sex. If you're an anal bottom, just say so.
Oh, fuck me, fuck me.
The word fuck is used for many things besides sexual acts, mostly bad things. It's vulgar, coarse, and low-class. Besides, it's vague. Exactly what act are you proposing? Do you want to be an anal top, an oral bottom? Do you want to do interfemoral? Be specific!
5. Cock sucker/sucking cock
I want you to suck my cock!
Cock sucker is a long-standing derogatory term for gay men. It's demeaning to oral bottom, and completely inaccurate. You only suck at the end of the act. Say "go down on me" instead.
6. It feels good/great
The success of oral sex is dependent on how attractive you find your partner, how erotic you find the situation, how comfortable you are in the room, and a host of other conditions, some seemingly trivial (whether or not you are hungry). "It feels good/great" reduces the act to a pure sensation.
There will be a fag at the party to service you.
Fag is another derogatory term for gay men, implying that that they are objects rather than people, far inferior to heterosexual men. And why would you refer to just one of the gay men at a party as a fag? They're all gay.
I'm a sub into getting whipped and spanked, looking for a dom.
Dom (dominant) and sub (submissive) are terms taken from heterosexual master-slave scenes, infused with the heteronormative depiction of sex as always involving a "boy" and a "girl." It brands you as a newcomer to gay communities: we say top and bottom.
Suck that big cock! Do you like that big cock?
I'm a big fan of extra-large equipment, but it's annoying to be asked "Do you like that big cock?" in the middle of a sexual encounter. Especially when they ask you over and over.
Um...of course I like that big cock. Why else would I be here?
The irony is that guys who ask that are usually average-sized.
Yeah, do that. Yeah...yeah.
In porn, it's guys watching the act who say "yeah...yeah" every thirty seconds. In real life, it's the guy you're having sex with, whether or not you've asked him a question.
I'm gonna cum....
Why bother to announce it? It's usually obvious, unless you're one of those guys who produces no semen, so nothing comes out. And if you do want to announce it, why use that unelegant phrase? Try:
Russian: Ya zankochen (I am finished).
German: Ich spritze (I squirt).
Spanish: Yo rocio (I splatter).
French: Je jouis (I am glad).
See also: 6000 Ways to Say Penis