Friday, May 5, 2017

My Boyfriend Goes to Bed with the Baseball Player

Rock Island, June 1979

I've been putting off the story of Carl the Nazarene boy, because it's kind of embarrassing.

He was one of my brother Kenny's friends, a 16-year old sophomore at Rocky High (all models in the nude photos are over 18) .  I had seen him around, and talked to him a few times, but we didn't start dating until Kenny invited him over for a party on May 25th, 1979.

He was short, with a round baby face, wavy brown hair, dark brown eyes, a smooth pale chest, and slim abs with an outtie belly button.

Obviously too young for me: I was in college, a mature adult, and he was still a "little boy."  It would be social suicide if anyone at Augustana saw me hanging out him.

But he was cute, and very enthusiastic, and besides, how many gay guys had I met during the year since I figured "it" out?  Two, and neither of them wanted to date me.  You take what you can get.

As it turns out, we started dating at the worst possible moment: the Friday before Memorial Day Weekend.

 I had a trip to Colombia and a week in Indiana coming up, and he had a family vacation to Minnesota and a week at Nazarene summer camp.

So between May 28th and the end of July, we had three "dates," but really sort of hookups.

1. Swimming at Longview Park Pool (with Kenny along as a chaperone).  Afterwards we went upstairs to our bedroom to change clothes.  Kenny finished quickly, but Carl and I dawdled so we could have some time alone for kissing and fondling.  Carl was just starting to go down on me when Kenny called up "You guys want ice cream?"

2. Carl and I sat together in church, and then he came over for Sunday dinner.  Afterwards we went up to my office, got naked, and kissed and fondled, and I went down on him.   But it was uncomfortably hot, so we ended up just beating each other off.

Finally I asked Carl out on a real date.  Unfortunately, he was a Johnny Nazarene, strictly devout in spite of the preacher who screamed about "homa-sekshuls" in every sermon, so:
No movies
No theater
No bowling
No restaurants that served alcohol
No Quad City Angels baseball game (they had beer).

3. Our date consisted of broasted chicken at Mulkey's and then parking on the levee to watch the sunset over the Mississippi.  We made out and fondled each other through our clothes, and when it got dark Carl went down on me.

This wasn't working.  I wanted to hold Carl in my arms, feel his head against my chest, cuddle with him all night.  I wanted us to sleep together, like I used to do with Bill, but with full knowledge that we were boyfriends, that this was "real."

How to get him into my bed?

"Could you host a sleepover next weekend?" I asked Kenny.

"I'm sixteen," he said gruffly.  "I'll be a junior in the fall."

Sleepover were common in grade school, our main social event: four or five boys,with your brother invited by default.  They became increasingly uncommon in junior high, and they generally ended by high school.  But not always...

"You can still have them in high school, for sort of nostalgia.  Invite your old friends.  It will be fun."

"Hey, I practically had to pay you to get to have my last sleepover!"  Kenny exclaimed.  "Why are you so hot to have one now?"

"Well, you could invite Carl, and then..."

"You're not going to do weird gay sex stuff in front of a bunch of normal guys, are you?"

"No, of course not.  Well, maybe a little, after everybody is asleep.  But we'll be able to kiss and cuddle under the covers, like boyfriends."

"Who knew that homos like to kiss?  I thought you were all about the dick."

"Well, dicks, too, of course, but kissing, cuddling, all of that romantic stuff."

"Ok, ok, you don't need to draw me a picture."  He patted my shoulder.  "I wouldn't dream of standing in the way of two homos in love!  Don't worry, I'll give you your gay make-out sleepover. "

So Kenny invited four of his friends over Saturday night for a sort of "ironic" sleepover:
1. Carl
2. Todd, his best friend.
3. Marshall, who was at his last sleepover, a baseball player with a stunning physique and bulge to match.
4. Pete, a sports nut who was Marshall's best friend.

A few days before the sleepover, Marshall broke his leg sliding into home at a baseball game.  He would be in a wheelchair for 10 days, and then crutches for two months.

"Mom and Dad said I should cancel," he told Kenny.  "I can't play a lot of rough games, and I can't climb the stairs to your room."

"Don't be stupid," Kenny said.  "We can't have the sleepover without you.  We'll just play games that you don't need legs for, and carry you up and down the stairs.  It will be fine."

"But I also need to keep my leg elevated at night, so I have to sleep with a special attachment to my bed."

"We can get that!  No problem at all."

So we carried the fold-out bed from the basement to our attic room, and installed the special rise.

Carl in my bed all night!  Cuddling, kissing, our chests pressed together, my legs wrapped around him!  I couldn't wait.

Saturday night we used the living room instead of the basement rec room.  We played Risk and Trivial Pursuit and watched Chuck Acri's Creature Feature.

I noticed that Carl was being very helpful to Marshall, bringing him sodas, helping him maneuver in his wheelchair, but I didn't think anything of it.  He was just being nice.

He was sitting next to me on the couch, after all, and we were sharing the same bowl of popcorn.

When it was time for bed, Kenny and I helped Marshall up the stairs to our attic room.

"I hope you did all the bathroom business you need for the night," Kenny joked.  "I'm not carrying you downstairs again."

The best part of every sleepover was deciding who got the beds, and who got the sleeping bags on the floor.  But this time there were three beds, mine, Kenny's, and the fold-out bed for Marshall, so no one would get the floor.

"Ok, Todd goes with Kenny," I said.  "Who's going with Marshall?"  Obviously Pete, since Carl would be in my bed, but I didn't want to make it obvious that we were a couple.

Then out of nowhere Carl said "I'll go with him."

My face started to burn.  I felt like I had been kicked in the stomach.  "Huh?"

"I've never slept on a fold-out bed before," he said with a grin.  "It will be fun."

I glanced at Kenny, who was staring open-mouthed.  "Don't you want to...." he began.

"Don't I want to what?"  Carl asked, blinking innocently.

He was my boyfriend!  The whole point of this sleepover is to give us a chance to sleep together!

But of course I couldn't say anything as he took off his shirt and pants and climbed into bed next to Marshall.  Pete, meanwhile, stripped down and climbed in bed next to me.  Kenny shrugged and turned off the light.

I've thought a thousand times about what I should have done.  I've replayed a thousand scenarios in my head.

But I was eighteen years old, still an adolescent, and completely new to all of this, so what actually happened was:

I never spoke to Carl again.

See also: The Juvenile Delinquent's Bare Butt; My Little Brother's Friend is Gay

Tuesday, May 2, 2017

May 1979: One of My Little Brother's Friends is Gay

Rock Island, May 1979

One day in May 1979, near the end of my freshman year in college, my younger brother Kenny said "You've been a homo for almost a year now."

I glared at him.  He was the only one I told, and we had an unspoken rule to never mention it.  "The word is gay, and longer than that.  I just figured it out last year."

"So, why don't you know...a friend yet?  You're pretty ugly, and you smell pretty bad, but there must be some homo out there willing to give you a break. "

"I'm sure they'd be falling all over each other to get my phone number, if I could actually meet someone.  But I'm too young to get into the bars, there aren't any gay groups in town, and I can't just walk up and ask.  So far I've met just two gay guys in town, and neither of them want to date me."

Kenny grinned triumphantly.  "Well, I've got good news for you.  You've known a fairy all this time without knowing it."


"One of my friends is that way.  He just told me -- I'm so cool, everybody is ok with telling me their deepest, darkest secrets.  So, want me to set you up on a date?"

"I don't know...a high school boy? That's a little young."  Kenny would be sixteen in June, so his friends were mostly fifteen and sixteen-year olds --- an insurmountable age gap.  Not for hooking up, maybe -- I slept with Mary's sixteen-year old brother last March, during spring break -- but dating?  What would my friends think?

 Oh, right...they would never know.

"Hey, it's not like you have a whole lot of choices.  And..."  He leaned in conspiratorily.  "I'll tell you his darkest secret -- he thinks you're hot.  I know -- it sounded crazy to me, too, but that's what he said.  So..."

"Well, who is it?  What does he look like?" I had met most of Kenny's friends over the years.

"That would be telling," Kenny said with a smirk.

"Well, how do I know if he's my type or not?"

"Oh, you have a type?  Well...I should tell you, he's not very fruity."

"That's ok, I don't like femme guys."

"Yeah, I figured you like to be the girl."

"We're both guys, dummy!  So...what else can you tell me about him?  Is he cute?"

He shrugged.  "How should I know what turns a gay dude on?  But the girls kind of like him, I guess.  But here's the thing   -- he doesn't know you're gay, so you can't know he is, either.  I'll invite five guys over, and you'll have to take it from there, dig?"

"Ok....."  I said doubtfully.

The next Friday night, Kenny invited five guys and two girls over for a pizza party.  We took over the basement rec room, which had a foosball game, a pingpong table, a tv set, and two couches.

Which was gay?  My mind raced.

(All nude models are over 18)

1. Denny the drama club boy (top photo)?  No -- he spent all his time with one of the girls.

2. Todd, Kenny's best friend, a sports nut with sandy blond hair and green eyes.  No -- he was flirting with the other girl.

3. Marshall (second photo), a baseball player with a stunning physique and bulge to match.  No -- he never gave m a second glance.

4. Handy (left), a black guy who was playing foosball with Kenny while I was sitting on the couch, so I spent a half an hour staring at his butt.  No -- I had never met him before, and Kenny said I knew the gay guy.

5. Carl from church (below), a very shy, reserved boy who I had never seen out of a Sunday suit.  No -- Johnny Nazarene, ultra-devout, would be horrified if he found out that he was in the same room with a gay person.  Two gay people.

Maybe none of them were gay, or it was one of the girls, and Kenny was pranking me.

I tried two more tactics:

1. "Anybody want to watch The Dukes of Hazzard?  Bo and Luke Duke?"

John Schneider was well known for his blatant bulge.

No takers.

2. "Whoa, it's hot in here."  I took off my shirt.  If the gay guy thought I was hot, he'd look.

Nobody looked.

I had enough.  Kenny was pranking me!  "I'm going to go out to the back yard to play with the dog and cool off," I announced.  I tromped up the stairs and called for Katie, the golden retriever, who was in the living room with my parents.

It was just past 8:00 pm, twilight, with the sky dimming and a few lightning bugs out.  I led Katie out and tossed a frisbee for her to catch.

Suddenly the side door opened.  It was Denny!

"Can I help?" he asked.  "Sometimes I don't like a lot of noise and crowds."

"Yeah, I'm the same way."  I handed him the frisbee, making sure that our hands touched.  He smiled shyly.

Could Denny be the gay guy?  But...he spent most of the night with a girl!

" Angela your girlfriend?"

"I wish!  Have you seen her?  Way out of my league, man!"

So I played frisbee with Katie the dog and a straight boy.  When it got too dark to see well, we brought Katie back into the house and returned to the party.

Now Marshall was chatting up one of the girls, and Handy the other.

I tried one more tactic:

"Your attention, please.  I have, up in my office, at this moment, a fine collection of rare and exotic Golden Age comic books, which I will open for the perusing of any of you gentlemen...and ladies, too, of course.  But the office is rather cramped, so I can accommodate only one person at a time.  Th line forms this way...."  I motioned toward the staircase.

Not the best pick up line in the world.  The guys mostly ignored me.  But Carl the Nazarene boy stepped up.

"I'd love to see them.  I love comic books."

As we walked up the stairs to the kitchen and then to my attic room, and then to the room I called my office, I wondered if Carl could be the gay guy.  He hadn't spoken to any girls...but he was Nazarene!  No dancing, no movies, no eating out on Sunday.  With a preacher who fomented against homa-sekshuls in every single sermon!

I was a Johnny Nazarene, too, when I was in eleventh grade.

We never got around to looking at the comic books.  We were too busy kissing and groping.

Not a very big penis, but he made up for it with his enthusiasm.

See also: Is Mary's Brother Gay?; The Juvenile Delinquent's Bare Butt; and My Boyfriend Goes to Bed with the Baseball Player.

Monday, May 1, 2017

Choke On It! My Hookup with the Bodybuilder Goes Wrong

Plains, April 2017

I've always found Sunday nights boring, depressing, and generally downers. There's nothing going on, nothing to do but watch Fox animation, and now I don't even have live tv anymore.  So I've gotten into the habit of getting a hookup. Every afternoon I go on Grindr, Scruff, and Hornet for a couple of hours to try to arrange something for the evening.

I'm a twink magnet, so usually it's just a matter of deciding between offers.

But classes ended on Thursday.  A long procession of cars have been coming into the city all weekend, as parents come to retrieve their kids.  Apartments and dorms are packed up and vacant.

Last night there was a toga party next door, and this morning they all scattered, too.

Sunday afternoon I went on Grindr, as usual, and found nothing within a five mile radius but guys in their 30s and 40s, who always ignore me

What the heck.  I started the hookup interviews.

1. Dan.  In his 30s, smooth muscular physique, weird tattoo, nothing too crazy on his profile.

He used to work in a candy factory, but he had to take the worms out of the nuts and use them anyway.  Then he worked at a pizza place, but it was using dog food instead of sausage, so he called the Health Department on them.  Now he was working at a restaurant near the campus, but his coworkers kept peeing in the soup.

Weird conversation, but he had a physique, so ok.  I invited him over at 7:00.

I always invite two, in case one is a no-show.

2. Lonny.  In his 40s, bearded, hairy chest, ran a straight bar in a small town about 30 miles away.  His profile picture showed his wife and baby son.

A lengthy hookup interview, including questions about our penis sizes and favorite sexual positions, and an detailed description of exactly what we would do, moment by moment. "Ok, first you walk into the apartment. We sit down and chat for awhile.  I give you a soda.  Then we make out on the couch.  We go into the bedroom...."

He agreed.  I invited him over at 8:00.

I went to the gym, came home, had dinner, cleaned the apartment, and waited for Dan.  And waited.  And waited.

No show.

Time for Lonny.

No show.

Two no-shows?  This was getting depressing.  Was I a leper?

Next, I did the unthinkable.  I put an ad on Craigslist.

If you've never tried Craigslist, don't.  Hustlers, downlow married men, "sissies" who want to blow you while wearing a dress, guys who are drunk or high,

3. Austin

Slim, smooth, helmet-hair, dorky expression, said he was 18.  I said I would have to card him when he got here.

He agreed.  "I'll be there in five, ten minutes."

Five, ten minutes, fifteen, twenty, thirty minutes came and went.  No Austin.

4. Bob Jones.  That's what the Craigslist email said, but you can put in any name you want into the system, and some guys use pseudonyms.

He gave me only his stats: 36 years old, 6'3, 250, muscular, 8", want a blow job.  

6'3 and 250 pounds?  I'm 6'1 and only 210.  He must be a bodybuilder, I thought.

And Sunday night is depressing anyway, and I was stinging from three no-shows in a row, so I said "Ok" and emailed him the directions with no other interview questions.

Don't try this at home.

15 minutes later, Bob Jones was knocking on the door.  Through the peephole, I saw he was very tall and very buffed.  But he also had long hair and a long beard, two turn-offs, and he was wearing a dirty t-shirt and dirty jeans.

What the heck?  I thought.  At least he showed up, and a penis is a penis.

He walked in the door and, without saying "hello," grabbed me and shoved his tongue down my throat, a very wet, sloppy kiss, his teeth scraping against my tongue.  He had been eating onions!

I came up for air.  "Hi, I'm Boomer.  Would you like to sit down in the living room or..."

He pushed my hand down onto his crotch.  He was already aroused.  "Let's just go into the bedroom, boy."

Boy? I'm old enough to be your Daddy!

We went into the bedroom.  As we were undressing, Bob told me that he used to be a Marine.  He shot a lot of Iraqi soldiers during the war, but now he just shot deer and rabbits.

Crazy thing to say.  But a penis is a penis...

He lay down on the bed, face up.  I started kissing his chest, but he pushed me down to his crotch, where his cock was standing at attention.

Enormous cut Mortadella!  This was going on my Sausage List!

I started with his balls and worked my way up the shaft.  But the moment I got my mouth around his cock head, he pushed my head down onto it -- hard.

With the big ones, you can bob up and down, but you can't stay down.  It cuts off your air supply.

I tried to raise my head.  He held it there.  "Choke on it, boy!" he exclaimed.

Then he let me up.  Gasping for air, I began licking his balls, then worked up to his cock again.

He pushed my head down again.  "Choke on it!  That's what you want, isn't it?"

This time he kept my head down so long, I started to panic.  What was going on?  Was Bob Jones planning to suffocate me with his cock?

Finally he let me up.  I gasped and sputtered.  There were tears in my eyes.  I grabbed the bottom part of the shaft and started masturbating him while sucking the head.

Could I just stop and tell him to leave?  But what if he got angry?  He was bigger than me, more buffed, and an ex-Marine, probably.  I couldn't best him in a fight.

If the guy has no weapon, you're never in any real danger with his cock in your mouth and your hand on his balls.  But I really didn't want to deal with the fallout of clamping down.

It took him forever.  10, 15, 20 minutes.  I grew accustomed to the routine: masturbating him while licking the head, then bobbing up and down, then his hand pushing me down to "choke on it."  I asked "do you like it fast or slow?", "do you want me to work on your nipples?", "do you like it like this?", trying to get him to speed up.  But he always said "You're doing just fine."

My jaw was sore.

I wanted him out of there!  What if he got violent?

Finally, at one of the "Choke on it!", he spurted down my throat.  I barely felt it.

He got up, dressed while talking about his fishing trip, how his boat was rocking in the rain, and how he'd never got married.  Then he pushed his tongue down my throat for another wet, sloppy kiss, and he was gone.

To his credit, he never said anything demeaning or homophobic.

And he did have a Mortadella.

Still, I keep thinking that I was lucky.  The evening could have turned out another way.

See also: My Hookup from Hell.

The Catholic Boy's Bulge at My Niece's Wedding

Kankakee, Illinois, Summer 2008

When I was a kid, the Nazarene church taught us to:

1. Pity "heathens," the Buddhists, Hindus, and Muslims who hadn't heard the Gospel.

2. Be suspicious of "liberal so-called Christians," the Methodists, Presbyterians, and Baptists.

3. Run in terror from Roman Catholics.  They drank, went to movies, and worshipped idols. Their Pope was the anti-Christ. They were probably demon-possessed.  We weren't supposed to make friends with them, set foot in one of their churches, or even walk on the sidewalk outside one of their houses, lest we be corrupted.

I left the Nazarene church around my freshman year of college, but my parents, brother, and sister are still active.

Ken is actually more devout than when we were kids.  He's ok with gay people, but he doesn't go to movies or the theater, doesn't shop or work on Sunday, and doesn't go to restaurants or stores with alcohol on sale.

He married in 1981, and had four kids.  Then his wife died, and he married a woman who had three kids of her own, plus an elderly mother.  Ten people, four dogs, two cats, and a parrot all living together in a big, rambling house downtown.

Most of Ken's kids turned out less devoutly Nazarene than their parents.

The oldest spent time in prison for aggravated assault.

The second sang in a punk rock band.

The fourth got pregnant while still in high school.

But somehow the third, Katie, turned into a ultra-devout "Suzie Nazarene."

In high school, she was president of the NYPS and a delegate to the International Institute.

She enrolled at Olivet, the Nazarene college on the prairie, where girls generally majored in becoming a preacher's wife.

I wasn't out to her, or to any of my nieces and nephews. Fundamentalists insist on a "Don't ask, don't tell" policy.  When I brought Lane or Yuri over for Christmas or a summer holiday, we stayed closeted.

I wasn't really close to them, anyway.  I didn't visit Rock Island much after my parents moved to Indiana in 1995, just brief Christmas visits, and after 2000, I didn't visit at all.  I sent them birthday card with a check in it every year, and that's about it.

In the spring of 2008, when I was living in Dayton, I got Katie's wedding announcement in the mail.  I almost threw it out.  I usually boycott heterosexual weddings.

Then I saw that it was being held at St. Patrick's Catholic Church in Kankakee, Illinois.

Katie was marrying a Roman Catholic boy named Steve!

I had to see this!  How would my Nazarene relatives react?  Would they grit their teeth and go into a Catholic church?  Would they wait outside?  Would they disown Katie and refuse to talk to her again?

I emailed Katie.

"That's one of the things that brought us together," she said.  "Arguing about religion.  We can get into some heated debates, let me tell you!  But we also have a lot in common.  Nazarenes and Catholics both have really strict rules."

"How did you meet?"

"He was the barista in the coffee shop I used to go to.  Af first I tried to save his soul, but then we started talking about the differences between Nazarene and Catholic beliefs.  Of course, he was cute in his uniform, too. "

A Nazarene and a Catholic -- two of the more homophobic denominations.  I wondered how welcome I would be at their wedding.

Time to out myself.

Two nights before the wedding, all of Katie's relatives had dinner at a restaurant in downtown Kankakee, so they could meet Steve.

Steve was in his 30s, tall, husky, bearded -- with a huge bulge in his jeans!

I made a point of hugging him "hello," and sitting next to him to tell stories of West Hollywood, Florida, and New York. Without using the g-word, of course.

"How is Yuri?" Katie asked.  "You haven't brought him around the house since I was a kid."

Now was my chance!  "Oh, he's fine.  He's been with Michael for several years now."

Don't ask, don't tell!  My sister-in-law glared at me.  "Boomer has always been liberal, with lots of different kinds of friends."

" fits in very nicely with my research on gay communities."

Now my mother was glaring at me.  "Oh, Boomer is always doing some kind of research.  That's why he's never had time to get married and raise a family."

"That, and the fact that I can't get married in the State of Ohio.  It's illegal.  But I date a lot, and I've had my share of long-term..."

Don't ask, don't tell!  "Lots of pretty girls out there in Ohio," my brother said.  "Must be hard to stick to any one person."

Enraged, I excused myself and went to the bathroom.  Steve followed, and stood next to me at the urinal. I was too nervous to sneak a peek.

"Don't let it bother you," he said.  "My parents still insist on calling my brother's partner his 'roommate,' and they've been together for ten years.  But he's invited to all of the family functions.  That's something, right?"

I reddened.  No need to out myself -- Steve already knew.  Everyone already knew.  They may not use the g-word, but at least I was invited to all of the family functions.  And so were Lane and Yuri.

By the way, no one had a problem with Steve being Catholic.  I guess having a gay relative makes you tolerant.

And no, I never saw him like this.

See also;Yuri and I Teach My Nephew the Gay Facts of Life; Saving the Church Organist.; My Nephew Tries to Turn a Boy Gay


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