Saturday, May 20, 2017

The Glory Hole in the Library Bathroom

Plains, May 2017

Last Friday the campus was deserted.  The secretary in the main office was gone.  I walked down hallways so empty that the motion-sensor lights were off.

The food service was closed, so I had to walk all the way across the street to get lunch.

The campus gym was closed for remodeling, so I would have to go to the YMCA later.  But I had a more pressing problem: I had to use the bathroom.

When I have to sit down, I don't use the restrooms in my building -- they're heavily used, and so rather gross (a surprising number of college students don't know how to flush), and not at all private.  I use the one in the campus gym -- closed! or the one upstairs in the Business Building -- out of order!


Ok, Performing Arts, second floor.

Ocupado!

The only other secluded, non-gross restroom I could think of was on the third floor of the library, quite a walk, but...I had no choice!

I climbed the stairs to the third floor.  There were three students in the study area, at separate tables: a girl, a cute Hispanic guy, and a young-looking Middle Eastern guy.

I was curious about the cute Hispanic guy  taking notes from a book -- classes were over! So I walked past and took a peek: pharmacology.  He must be working on a late paper.

He looked up as I passed and stared at me suspiciously.  He was slim, with a round face, prominent eyebrows, and sensual lips.  Long, thin arms, square hands.

The Middle Eastern guy was working on his laptop: all I saw was black hair, a thin eyeglassed face, and a red t-shirt.  He looked very young.  I wondered if he was a newly-admitted student on a tour, taking a break in the library?

 I didn't want them to think I was there just to use the bathroom, so I crossed the room and headed for the PQ Section, French literature.  I browsed through Medieval, Renaissance, 19th Century, and turned the corner to a dead end with 20th Century.

I almost tripped over a guy sitting on the floor, reading an old book.

"Oh, excuse me!"

"No problem," he said, looking up briefly.  He was tall and thin, with black hair and a serious tan, wearing a purple university shirt and jeans.

I was already in this corridor, so I had to pretend to be looking for something.  I picked out a book on Gide and walked past the floor guy again, through the quiet study area.  I put the book down on one of the tables and headed to the restroom.

It was a long, narrow room.  You walked past the sinks into a little alcove with thick, heavy walls, for the urinals, and then another alcove with two very large stalls.  I chose the farthest one and sat down.

Then I heard the far door swing open.

I'm gunshy -- I can't do anything with someone else walking around outside, not even a boyfriend.  I would have to wait for him to urinate, wash his hands, and leave.

He didn't urinate.  Was he just standing there, admiring himself in the mirror?

Maybe he didn't realize that there was a guy in here!  I coughed to let him know.

Now he walked toward the urinals -- and past them.  He stood outside the toilet stalls, as if trying to decide on one.  I was invisible -- he wouldn't know mine was occupied.  I coughed again, to let him know.

He opened the door to the other one, went in, dropped his pants, and sat down.  I saw his tennis shoes and jeans, and a little of his tan socks.

Great -- now I would have to wait until he finished his business.  I pulled out my cell phone and waited for the sound of...you know.

No sound.

He must be gunshy, too.  So we would play the waiting game.  I tapped my foot impatiently..

Suddenly he shifted position and knelt on the floor, facing the wall between us.  I saw his cock under the stall, very thick, uncut, maybe a Kielbasa.  He was playing with it...

Was this...tea room trade?

But this was the University library!  I was a faculty member!  Besides, I had an apartment.  I could go on Grindr.

He was aroused: not a Kielbasa, a Bratwurst, but thick as a beer can, and close enough to touch.

I reached down and wrapped my hand around it.  He moved forward until his cock was sticking out from under the stall.

I got on my knees, crouched on the cold linoleum floor, and started licking the head.  He pushed it through even farther, arching his back.

I went down on it, steadying myself against the wall.  It was an uncomfortable position!


This is silly! I thought.   Invite him home!

I thrust up and down.  He was breathing heavily.  I reached out and stroked his balls, licked the huge mushroom head.  He arched his back farther.  Some more thrusts, more tongue action.  Soon he let out a little cry and pumped out his load.

He stood, pulled up his pants -- he was still partially aroused -- and left.

I returned to the toilet seat, flushed with erotic satisfaction.  I finished my business, washed my hands, and returned to the quiet study area.  Hispanic and Middle Eastern guy and the girl were still occupying their tables. Floor guy was gone.

Which of the three did I go down on?  I couldn't tell by the skin color, size, shape, or any other factor.

I sat down and read my book, trying to make eye contact with one of the guys, or both.

Middle Eastern guy looked up and smiled.

That's not proof positive, of course, but...

I might have to use the restroom again on Monday.

See also: A Glory Hole at a Rest Stop in Arkansas; Tracking Down the Glory Hole Boy.

A Crush on the Girl Next Door's Boyfriend

Rock Island, August 1975

When I was a kid, I was pretty aggressive.  In fifth grade, I was dating Bill and inviting cute guys to sleepovers; plus I gave a massage to a high school boy, strategized to see Randy the Golden Boy in his underwear and the Sanderson boys naked, fell asleep in a sailor's arms, and felt three wieners.

But during puberty, it was no longer a vague, amorphous wish to be close to him or see him naked.  I wanted more than that, to touch, taste, and fondle.  The desire was intense, immediate, and overtly erotic.

So I became shy and circumspect, especially around adults.

During the summer after ninth grade, we moved to a new house, only a few blocks away from our old house on 41st Street, but bigger, with a double yard where my parents could do their beloved outdoor entertaining.  They immediately became friendly with the neighbors.

The family next door had a teenage daughter, Julie, who was majoring in business at Augustana College.  We didn't socialize much -- I tried to avoid talking to girls as much as possible, since my parents interpreted the most trivial "hello" as evidence that I was smitten.

 And Julie, though all smiles around my parents, had no use for kids.  Every morning we left our houses at the same time; she swept past me without a word, scowling like the Wicked Witch in The Wizard of Oz.

You could almost hear "Da-da-da-da-da-daaa," the music that plays when the Witch comes on stage (it's called "Miss Gulch," composed by Herbert Stothart).

Ok, she wasn't that bad.  But I wouldn't have socialized with her at all except for her boyfriend Conrad.

He was an education major at Augustana, tall and slim, with a handsome square face and a bright smile.  Brown hair, a severe military haircut -- unusual in the shaggy-haired 1970s.   A little shy and quiet, always deferring to Julie.  But he always had a smile for me and my younger brother, and he always tried to engage us in conversation.

They went swimming several times a week, and Conrad picked her up wearing his swimsuit.  A smooth, tight chest, lightly tanned, an "innie" belly button, and an enormous bulge!  I was desperate to ask if I could come along, but of course they were too old for me to hang out with.

One Saturday in August 1975, about a week after I learned about oral sex in the church parking lot, Mom and Dad held a barbecue for their friends and neighbors.  There were about 30 people on five picnic tables in the side yard, eating hamburgers and hot dogs from paper plates, drinking sodas and lemonade from plastic cups.

The family next door was there, but not Julie.  Or Conrad.

Then, when we were about ready for dessert, they came rushing into the back yard, wearing swimsuits, carrying beach bags.  "Sorry -- we were at the pool and we lost track of time," Julie told Mom.

"No problem, there's lots of hot dogs left, and some potato salad and chips.  Go and change clothes, and come back."

  "Great, thanks.  We'll just pop next door and be right back."

Mom frowned, realizing that they would probably be changing in the same room, and see each other naked!  "It will save time if Conrad changes in our house," she said.  "Boomer, show him where the bathroom is, ok?"

"Um...sure, sure."  My heart started to beat faster, and I felt uncomfortably warm.  I was going to get a sausage sighting!  Maybe Conrad would even let me...

Trembling with anticipation, I led Conrad through the back door and into the kitchen, where one of our neighbors was cutting cake into squares, then through the hallway to the bathroom.  What excuse could I use to go in with him?

The bathroom door was shut.  I knocked.  "Occupied!" someone yelled.

"Um...that's ok, you can change in my room," I said, thinking fast.  "This way."

Back through the kitchen and up the stairs to my attic room.  I sat down on the bed.  Conrad put down his beach bag, turned his back to me, and dropped his swimsuit.

No!  I was too close!  I glanced around the room.  What could draw his interest?  "Hey...see the poster over my bed?  That's Mark Spitz.   He won 7 gold medals at the 1972 Olympics in Munich."

Conrad turned to look.  He stood in front of me, naked.  A gigantic cut Kielbasa, five inches from my face!

"Nice," he said with utter nonchalance.  "I didn't think you were into sports."

"I'm not.  I just like swimmers.  I mean I like swimming.  Or swimmers who are swimming, I mean."

Conrad stood there, immobile, a frown on his face, as if he was trying to figure out a hard math problem.

He's waiting for me! I thought.  Reach out and touch it!  Go down on him!  But I froze.  "Um...um...I took swimming lessons ever since I was a kid.  I have some Boy Scout training manuals, if you'd like to see them."

He was still standing there.  Waiting for me!  I stood and brushed past him, being careful to "accidentally" brush against his penis with my hand.  "Oops, sorry."  I walked, so shakily that I thought I would fall, to my dresser, opened the top drawer, and pretended to rummage around.

"Maybe later -- right now I'm really hungry."  I heard Conrad fumbling around in his beach bag.  Pulling up his pants.

"You ok, Boomer?"

I turned.  Conrad was buttoning up his shirt.

"Yeah," I said, managing a weak smile.  "I can't find my training manuals, is all."

"Let me know when you find them.  I'd be interested in seeing them."  He put his trunks into the beach bag, slid on his sandals, and walked past me to the stairway.  "Ready to go back downstairs?"

"Oh, I have a couple of things to do.  You go on."

"Ok.  Thanks for letting me change up here."  He touched my shoulder.  "I'll see you soon, ok?"

I stayed in my room for the rest of the afternoon.  When my brother came upstairs to see where I was, I told him I had a stomach ache.  Later Mom brought up some chicken soup and told me I shouldn't have eaten so many hot dogs.

When the fall semester started, I was in school all day, and rarely saw Julie -- or Conrad.  Around Christmastime, I asked about him, and Julie said that they broke up.

See also: I Learn About Oral Sex in the Church Parking Lot; Going to Bed with the Boy Next Door.

Friday, May 19, 2017

My Nephew Tries to Turn a Boy Gay

Wilton Manors, March 2003

One morning in March 2003, just after I got back from visiting West Hollywood and San Francisco for spring break, my mother called -- at 6:00 am!   "Your nephew is in jail!" she exclaimed.

"Wait  -- ?" I asked, confused -- that's not the sort of thing you expect to hear first thing in the morning.  "What did he do?"

"He's accused of breaking and entering and sexual assault."

Sexual assault?  That's a very serious charge, the Illinois equivalent of rape.  "Who did he...assault?"

"It was a boy -- a college boy, one of his classmates," Mom said, the accusation barely hidden in her voice.  She thought it was my influence, that I somehow encouraged my nephew to 'turn' gay and commit....

"Hey, in no way do I condone assault!  No means no!  Besides, how much influence could I have on him?  I barely see any of Kenny's kids, and I haven't told them that I'm....you know."

I wasn't out to Kenny's kids, although Joel, the youngest, had figured it out.  I lived on the other side of the country, and saw them only briefly, with their parents.  We never hung out or went places alone.  I gave them Christmas but not birthday presents.  We weren't at all close.

"Well -- that's what happened.  That's what the other boy is saying, anyway."

Maybe it was a misunderstanding, a hookup that went wrong, a college boy experimenting who got cold feet.  "What does Joel say happened?"

Kenny had three sons and a stepson, but the only one who gave me a gay vibe was Joel, age 17, a punk rock singer with green hair and a nose ring.  He was kind of androgynous, and he asked me to "teach him about gay sex" three years ago.  But Mom said, "It wasn't Joel, it was Ethan."

"Ethan! But he's...a..." I stopped myself from saying "a good kid," but Ethan, Kenny's oldest, was, in fact, "good": quiet, gentle, polite.  No one you would ever think of as capable of a violent crime.

 He was 21 years old, in his junior year at Olivet, the Nazarene college, majoring in either nursing or computer science -- I didn't remember which.  Tall, big-boned, with a barrel chest, thick arms, and big hands.  Scruffy dirty-blond hair, a little fuzz on his chin, blue eyes.

He was a troubled kid.

He suffered from panic attacks, paranoia, and depression. He was seeing a counselor, and taking some kind of medication.

Once he ran away from home and was gone for five days.

Once he ran out of church screaming that he had committed the Unpardonable Sin, and couldn't ever be saved.

Maybe it was caused by the trauma of his mother dying when he was ten years old, or bullying from his brothers and stepbrother, or the overcrowding in that rambling house downtown. or  overzealous Nazarene discipline.

Or internalized homophobia.  Was Ethan gay?

No way -- I kept a close watch of all of my nieces and nephews, actually all of my relatives, hoping to find someone who was gay.  Ethan was always obsessed with girls, and never had a significant male friend.

Then what happened that night?  What did Ethan do to his classmate?

The district attorney dropped the burglary charge and offered Ethan a plea bargain: from criminal sexual assault (with a mandatory minimum of four years and registration as a sex offender) to aggravated battery (with a one year prison sentence and five years of probation).  His sentence was to begin in July 2003.

I flew out to Rock Island that summer to visit my brother and his family, and especially to see Ethan, and hear his side of the story:

Kankakee, March 2003

Ethan was in his third year at Olivet, but only a sophomore -- his parents didn't know, but he had failed some of his classes, and had to take them over.  He couldn't understand the math required for computer science, so he changed to nursing, then business.  Still, his grades hovered around the D level -- quite a feat at Olivet, which had very low standards.  He was on academic probation.

Nazarenes weren't allowed to drink, dance, or go to movies, but he was doing all of those things, which made him feel guilty.  He told everyone he was saved and sanctified, but was he?  Could he even be saved?  He still worried that he had committed the Unpardonable Sin.

The one bright spot in his life was his girlfriend, Susan.  They had been together since their freshman year.  She was perfect in every way -- attractive, athletic, smart, and very devout, going to church three times a week, following every one of the Nazarene rules -- she would kiss, but she wouldn't let him touch her breasts.

Ethan didn't understand how he'd ever gotten someone like her -- he wasn't an athlete, he wasn't smart, he wasn't very spiritual.

Then one day out of nowhere Susan sat him down and said "I didn't mean for this to happen, but I found someone else.  It's God's Will for us to be together."

The other guy was Paul, a senior, and everything Ethan wasn't -- a thick-muscled wrestler with a amazing bulge in his pants, an A-student, a future minister -- holy, beloved by God, and rewarded by God.  He was even named after the Apostle Paul, who Jesus chose to start the new Christian church.  Perfect in every way!

"Wait -- an amazing bulge in his pants?" I asked.  

Ethan shrugged.  "Perfect in every way."

During spring break, everyone else went home, but Ethan lay on the bed in his dorm room, drinking smuggled-in beer, listening to bootleg rock music on his headphones, and ruminating.  He had lost the only thing that gave his life meaning.  There was nothing left in his future but darkness.

If only they would break up, Susan would come back to him.

But why would they break up?  They were both perfect in every way.

Paul wouldn't want her if she was imperfect.  Maybe Ethan could convince her to sin.

No -- when they were together, he asked her to go to a movie, to go to a dance, and to have sex.  She refused all three.  She was sanctified holy, incapable of sin.

What other reason could Paul have for rejecting Susan?

Suddenly the answer came to Ethan: if Paul was gay, he wouldn't want her anymore.

If he was gay....

He wouldn't turn gay deliberately.  Nazarenes thought that "homa-seksuality" was the worse possible sin.

"You can't turn gay," I protested.  "You are or you aren't."

"At Olivet they told us that you can turn gay against your will, by going to a gay bar, or reading a pro-gay book, or by having gay sex."

This is what I get for not being out to Kenny's kids, I thought.  They grew up knowing nothing about gay people.

Drunk, bleary-eyed, depressed, Ethan looked up Paul's address in the student directory and drove to Mendota, about 100 miles from Kankakee.  It was about 3:00 am when he found the house.  He walked in the back door -- they don't lock their doors in small towns.  A dog saw him and started to whine, wanting to be petted.

He walked to a room at the end of the hall, where perfect people slept.  Sure enough, there was Paul.  Perfect body, buffed, hairless.

Carefully he pulled down the covers.  Paul didn't stir.  He was wearing white underpants that gleamed in the starlight.

A dog padded into the room and whined.

Ethan felt his cock and balls through the underwear -- enormous, of course -- Paul was perfect in every way.

The idea of putting a man's cock in his mouth was disgusting -- but it was the only way to win his girlfriend back.

He pulled down his underwear and went down on him.  Paul moaned and started to get aroused.

Then the dog jumped up on the bed.  Paul woke up, and all hell broke loose.

"You'd think, if Paul was perfect in every way, he'd forgive you, and not press charges," I said.

"He would have, no doubt."  Ethan hung his head.  "But it wasn't Paul.  I went to the wrong house, and went down on a complete stranger."

See also: the Catholic Boy's Bulge at My Niece's Wedding;  Nephew Sausage Sighting #1: Ethan.

Thursday, May 18, 2017

Nude Photos of 1950s Teen Idol Fabian

Fabian Forte, or just Fabian (1943-) was a late 1950s teen idol known for such hits as "I'm a Man," "Turn Me Loose," and "Hound Dog Man."  His star began to fade in the 1960s, but he found new fame as an actor (Ride the Wild Surf, Ten Little Indians, Dr. Goldfoot and the Bikini Machine).  And, in 1973, he posed nude in Playgirl.











Well, sort of nude.  We get a few butt shots, and this coy blocked penis.  At least you can see his slim hairy chest and gold chains.

















This is getting annoying.  Some pubes, but the reason we want to see him nude in the first place is tucked in behind his motorcycle seat.

















Ok, there it is.  Sort of.  I can't really judge its size.

But considering how rare celebrity nudity was in 1973, we should be thankful for that glimpse.  It's more than we have for Paul Anka.

The full post on Fabian is on Boomer Beefcake and Bonding.

I Become a Birthday Present at the Horseman's Club

Amsterdam, March 2006

I used to go to Europe at least once a year, sometimes twice, usually at Christmastime or in the spring.  I flew into Paris or Amsterdam, whichever was cheaper, and split my time between those two cities, with an overnight in Brussels in between.

I was always careful to be in Amsterdam on Sunday night, for the Horseman's Club meeting at the Argos Bar on Warmoesstraat.

A club for guys with 20 cm (about 8 inches) or more beneath the belt.

I don't meet those standards, but I usually just took my shirt off and got waved through without measuring.  When they did measure, I was sometimes graded A (20 cm and over) and sometimes B (17-20 cm).

It was a social club -- no sex, but most guys sneaked into isolated corners for some groping or oral anyway.  You had to get naked or strip to your underwear.

I usually found someone to go home with.  In 2003, a 40-ish bodybuilder named Janik asked me to stay on in the Netherlands and become his lover.  I almost agreed.

In 2006, I met a Dutch-Caribbean-African guy with a gigantic Kovbasa.

The Dutch were leaders in the North Atlantic slave trade, and you see evidence all over Amsterdam, like this frieze of a muscular Moor carrying a bow and arrow.  But most of the slaves ended up in the Caribbean.

I never saw anyone black at the Horseman's Club until that night in 2006.

He was standing by himself near the pool table.  In his 20s, very dark, very tall and thin, wearing a green jumpsuit,  completely out of place amid the nude and underwear-clad men.

I figured he had just come in from the icy rain of an Amsterdam spring, and was cold.  I walked up to him and put my hand on his shoulder.  "Hi, can I warm you up?"

He stared at me -- not with Attitude, with a look of sheer terror, as if an underwear-clad man was a major threat.

"He must be in the wrong place," I thought.  "Maybe not even gay.  But surely he figured it out when he was fluffed for measurement."

I began to caress his thin shoulders and back, and he relaxed a bit and put his arm around my shoulders.

"Just so you know, there's a dress code.  You'll have to strip down to your underwear, or they'll kick you out."

"Ik spreek geen Engels," he said, before launching into a torrent of Dutch.

Everyone always uses English in Amsterdam, even residents talking to each other, so I've never learned much Dutch.  About all I can say is Goeiedag, Hoe gaat het?, and Ik kom uit Toronto (I always claim to be Canadian when I travel, to avoid being yelled at every five minutes.)

"Um...um...Ik heet Boomer, van Toronto. Hoe heet je?"

Huit Suriname.  Azi."



Suriname, the former Dutch colony in the Caribbean?  I was immediately interested.

About 2% of the Dutch population consists of recent immigrants from Suriname, and about half of them are black or mixed (they're called Maroons and Creoles).  But they are mostly working- and -lower class, isolated from the consumer-oriented bars, bathhouses, and sex shops of gay Amsterdam.

"Um...wanner je kom heer?"  When did you come to the Netherlands?

More very fast Dutch.  Then Azi reached out and groped me.  I felt for the front of his jumpsuit, where his Kovbasa had sprung to life.

"Sprichts du langsam, bitte," I said in German, hoping it was close enough to be comprehensible.

"Kom....naar....mijn huis, ok?"

Go home with him? But we just met, we hadn't said more than a dozen words, and he was a little too weird....

But...a Kovbasa...the biggest of the big....

I dressed.  Azi wrapped his arm around my shoulders and led me out onto Warmoessstraat.  We walked to the Centraal Station and got on the train to Ganzenhoef Station in southern Amsterdam, Azi talking nonstop in Dutch, me trying out my few words, supplemented with German and Spanish.

Azi had only been in the Netherlands for three years.  He worked in a cigarenfabriek.  Most of his family was back in Suriname.  The only family he had here was his moeder and his  jongere broer, who was studying computertechniek at the University.

Presumably Azi didn't live with them.

We got off the train in a multi-ethnic neighborhood called the Bijlmeer, and walked a few blocks through the darkness to a huge apartment complex. Orange and white lattices.  Balconies.  13 stories.

We took the elevator to the eighth floor, and got off in a small, cramped apartment.  There were books and newspapers scattered all over the living room. Kierkegaard, I noticed in surprise.  Azi read Danish philosophers?

Dirty dishes in the sink, overflowing clothes hamper.  Obviously Azi hadn't been expecting a hookup when he went out tonight.

As soon as the door closed, I wrapped my arm around Azi and went in for a kiss.  But he pushed my head away.

"Ben je hier?" he yelled.

Who else lived here?

 "In die slaapkamer!"  

Azi led me into a little hallway to an open door.  Small twin bed, unmade.  Underwear on the floor.

Sitting at the desk, apparently in an internet chatroom, was a young man.  Black, very dark, thin, very cute.  Naked. He quickly covered up and smiled at me.

"Dit is Boomer," Azi announced.  "Van der Horseman Club.  Mijn broer, Eli."

"Jij bent gek!" Eli exclaimed.  You're crazy!  They exchanged some angry words that I didn't understand, and Azi walked out. I heard a door slam.

Eli and I looked at each other.  "Um...what's going on?"


He spoke fairly good English.  "Mijn broer thinks I am too small to find boys.  Not enough big!  So tonight he says he will find a boy for me with a big lul -- down there, yes?  I say I don't want his help, but he goes out anyway, and now....don't be mad, you are very sexy...but..."

I finally began to figure it out.  "I thought my hookup was with Azi.  Is he even gay?"

"No.  He has a girlfriend, so he wants me to have a boyfriend.  I want a boyfriend, but my study is more important, yes?"

"So a straight guy went to the Horseman's Club to get groped by a dozen guys, all to find a hookup for his little brother?  That's above and beyond the call of duty.  He was only trying to help.  You should apologize."

He smiled.  "Mogelicht.  Sorry that Azi tricked you.  I will walk with you back to the train station, yes?"

"That would be great," I said, drawing him to his feet and wrapping my arms around him.  "In the morning."

In case you were wondering: not nearly as big as his brother, Bratwurst at best.  But very good at cuddling.

See also: A find a Boyfriend at the Horseman's Club; Eli's Dispatches from Oman; and A Jogging Date with a Somali Teenager

Wednesday, May 17, 2017

Is This Real Life, or Is It a Fantasy?

Somebody called these stories "sexual fantasies."

That really made me angry.

1. The stories are NOT sexual.  They are not porn. They're about friends, family, dating, romance, jobs, travel, the paranormal, and celebrities.  They're about strange, funny, and interesting things that happened.

Sex sometimes occurs, but it's not the point of the story, and it's described tastefully, mostly through euphemism: "then I went down on him."  You won't find any "throbbing man-meat pounded into his jizz hole."







2. The stories are NOT fantasies.  They are all based on my real-life experiences. Nothing is completely invented.

I really did get a sausage sighting of Christopher Atkins at a picnic in the park

Soak my pants with a root beer float while visiting Fort Wayne with my grandmother.

Spend a summer in Paris while I was in grad school.

Live with Derek in a house a few blocks south of Sunset Boulevard.

Visit Alan and his partner in Washington D.C.

Get jealous of Lane's friendship with a gay cartoonist.

Pick up a teenage hitchhiker on the way to Key West with David.

Move to Omaha with my first boyfriend Fred.

Date Kevin the Vampire.

Get four guys in my bed in Baltimore.


3. I do change names and personal information.

I changed most of the names and personal information to protect the identity of the people mentioned. Lane, David, Kevin, Dustin, Ryan H., Jimmy the Boy Toy -- they all have different names.

And some of their physical attributes.  I'm particularly attracted to chubby guys, but I know that most of my readers aren't, so I've dropped some pounds and added a few inches to some of my boyfriends and hookups.











4. I have to invent some details.

I don't remember a lot of specific details, like who precisely was at the party, what restaurant we ate at, or who said what, so I have to improvise.

So maybe when I saw Christopher Atkins urinating against a tree, our conversation didn't involve how much he charged. I don't know what we actually said.

And maybe the  root beer float incident didn't happen at Christmastime.  I don't actually remember the season or the year.





5. I take artistic license.

Incidents are boring.  They have to be fleshed out.  To turn them into stories, they have to have pacing, narrative flow, suspense.  They have to have a crisis, climax, and denouement.

So maybe when I tackled the kid who attacked me with the squirt bottle, I didn't actually kiss him.

And maybe the person who lent me his underwear when I poured root beer on myself was actually a middle-aged man, not a cute high school boy.  And I was actually mortified with embarrassment, not turned on.

That's the difference between a memory and a story.

Monday, May 15, 2017

Ryan's Three-Way with Harry Styles

Plains, October 2016

In search of celebrity dating and hookup stories, I've been asking all the gay men I know, with little luck.  But I got a good one last night, from of all places, Ryan H., the college track star I met two weeks ago while driving through small-town Illinois on the way back from a funeral.

Last night we were chatting on Facebook's instant messenger:

Ryan:  I have one for you.  Me and Harry Styles.

Me: For real, or a fantasy?  

Ryan:  Real.  Summer before last.

I quickly wikipedia Harry Styles.  Born 1994, member of the boy band One Direction from 2011 to 2015, five albums, five Brit Awards and four MTV Music Video Awards, "Live While We're Young" hit #3 on the U.S. charts, and "Best Song Ever" #2.  Just signed with Columbia as a solo artist.  

Google images shows Harry at several points in his life.  Rather cute in One Direction, but now he has androgynous long hair and a body-full of gross tattoos.


Me: So summer of 2015.  You were...17?  

Ryan:  Right.  Just after my junior year in high school.

Me: So how did you meet Harry Styles in your small town in Illinois?

Ryan: No, LOL, it was in Indianapolis [two hours away].  My family goes down for the weekend several times a year.  We go to a Pacers game or a concert, go to the Children's Museum, that sort of thing.  Well, this time my friend Sam came along, and there were so many of us that we got our own hotel room.

Me:  Were you and Sam a couple?

Ryan: Sam?  LOL.  He's a year younger than me, and straight!  I just like older guys.  But he's a sweetheart, my cuddly bae.  So we had it all planned out.  After they were all in bed, I snuck out -- Sam covered for me, right -- and I walked about seven blocks to the Metro [a gay club on Massachusetts Avenue].

Me:  You got in ok?

Ryan:  I had a fake id, and besides, look at me!  I've been flashing a smile to get whatever I want since I was little.

Me:  Well, you are rather cute.

Ryan: Def!  So I'm into silver foxes, hot ones like you, and this one really hot guy piques my interest -- in his fifties, tall distinguished, white hair and beard, nice muscular chest.  But he's already hitting on this cute, long-haired twink.  I don't care -- I go up and flash my smile anyway.

Me: Planning to steal the Silver Fox away?

Ryan: I don't know.  I thought maybe a three-some -- I never had one of those before. So I flash my smile, and Silver Fox gets that dopey grin -- the one you got when you saw me, right?  And the guy he's with looks a little jealous.  And I see it's Harry Styles from One Direction.  I was never a big fan, but every girl in school was into him, so I recognized him instantly.

Me: What was Harry Styles doing in Indianapolis?

Ryan:  I didn't ask.  I pretended I didn't even know who he was.

[A quick look at One Directions' website reveals a concert in Indianapolis on July 31st, 2015.]

Me: Did Silver Fox invite the two of you home?

Ryan:  We went to the Sheraton -- the same hotel my family was staying in!  So we waste no time -- the minute we get inside, Silver Fox and Harry start kissing.  I unzip Silver Fox and -- OMFG!  #Hung to his knees  #Super-stud.  Almost as big as you.  Can I see a cock pic?

[I send him one.]

Ryan:  Hot!  So I go down on the Silver Fox -- I'm really, really good at oral, by the way.  My mouth and tongue are legendary.  I unzip Harry, too, and go down on him to be polite.

Me:  How big was Harry?

Ryan: Kind of small, but nice anyway.  Very firm.  When you tell the story, make him a Mortadella, ok?

Me:  Ok.

[This bulge pic suggests a probable Bratwurst]

Ryan: Anyway, I decide I want some kissing action -- so I stand up and try to kiss them both at the same time, you know.  But they ignore me, strip off their clothes, and Daddy turns Harry over onto his stomach and starts topping him.  I take off my clothes and sort of hang around.  Daddy reaches out and gives me a feel.  Come on, I have the biggest cock in Champaign County.  I deserve more than that!

Me: Then what happened?

Ryan: I kind of kneel over Harry, and he tries to go down on me.  But it's a weird position, and he gags.  So I kiss him while he's being topped by the Silver Fox.  Really nice, by the way.  Are you into kissing?

Me: Sure, I love kissing.

Ryan: I can't wait until Christmas.  I want to spend Christmas Eve on the couch with you, wearing fuzzy sweaters, drinking eggnog and cuddling and kissing.

Me: Sounds great.  So, what happened next?

Ryan:  Nothing much.  I kind of crawled under Harry and went down on him while he was being topped. Then Daddy finishes with a gigantic roar and goes into the bathroom to wipe off.  I keep going down on Harry, but he pushes me away and goes into the bathroom, too.  I figure he's going to pee and will be back in a few minutes.  Then I hear the shower going -- Silver Fox and Harry are taking a shower together, leaving me alone on the bed, aroused, all by myself!

Me: Not cool.

Ryan:  I mean, I think I'm pretty hot, don't you?  And I have a gigantic cock.  Why weren't they into me?

Me: I don't know.  I'm into you.

Ryan: So I got out of there and went down to the fifth floor to my room, and sort of started crying in Sam's arms. #Miserable.  #Jealous.

Me: Not a positive experience?

Ryan:  Not at all!  I'd rather have the guy all to myself.  I want to take my time, kiss him, fondle him, get to know him.  And cuddle!  If you don't spend the night, what's the point?

Me:  I hear that.

Ryan: I can't wait until Christmas.  There'll be a package for you to open under the tree.  [Sends me a selfie, aroused.]

Was Ryan telling the truth?

Harry Styles was in Indianapolis in the summer of 2015, and he has been the subject of gay rumors, but there's no evidence that he's into older guys, or is in the habit of hooking up with random strangers in bars.

Ryan's story was obviously a cautionary tale about what to do and not to do on our upcoming Christmas date, and an attempt to pique my interest with references to his penis size, proficiency at oral sex, and attractiveness to men.  But he could have used any sexual experience -- why invent a liaison with Harry Styles, who I don't find attractive in the least?

Unless he really did have a three way with Harry Styles and a Silver Fox the summer after his junior year in high school.

See also: Picking Up a College Track Star; West Hollywood Stories of Dating and Hookups with Celebrities; My Christmas Date with the College Track Star.

Sunday, May 14, 2017

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."

"Yes...um...it 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

I Prove I'm Not Gay By Kissing a Guy

Many non-runners don't realize that runners get harassed a lot.  People yell out criticisms, slurs, and epithets, Over the years, I've heard:

"Run faster!"
"Run!  Maybe you'll catch up with them!"
"Where's the fire?"
"You lost your pants?"

And the standard array of epithets:
"Fag!"
"Fruit!"
"Dork"
"Wimp!"

They throw things or spit out of cars.

They mimic your actions,

They try to trip you.

Sometimes they even attack.



Rock Island, June 1976

It was the summer after my sophomore year at Rocky High, about a month after my date with King Carl Gustav of Sweden.  I had been running for a few months, in preparation for joining the track team in the fall (which never happened).

I know now that you should always vary your route and time of day, to minimize the harassment, but in 1976 I  always followed the same route: down 20th Avenue to 38th Street, down to 31st Avenue, over to 24th, up to 18th, and back, about three miles.

At the same time of day.

Past a school.

I know, dumb!




As I passed, I always saw a group of three boys, one junior high age, two younger, playing basketball or hanging out in the school yard.  Sometimes they were in a kiddie pool in the front yard of one of the houses across the street.

The junior high boy was sort of cute, with thick brown hair, and a tan chest with pinprick nipples, but too young for me (I was 15, and he was probably 13 or 14).  So I didn't pay him much attention.


Not even the day he grabbed his crotch and yelled "Fag!" while his cronies laughed.

I shrugged, figuring that he was a junior high Mean Boy.  I was in high school, beyond that sort of bullying.  It wasn't worth changing my route over.

Then one day the Mean Boy and his cronies attacked.

They lay in wait in the bushes behind the school, and when I came past, they jumped out and surrounded me and squirted viciously with squirt guns and a squeeze bottle, looks of sheer malice on their faces.

Soaked, roaring with rage, I grabbed one of the squirt guns from a boy's hands and threw it onto the ground.

They scattered in three different directions.

I chased the Mean Boy, the oldest of the pack.  He ran across the street to the house with the kiddie pool, into the back yard, toward a play house, but before he could make it, I tackled him and dragged him to the ground.  I used my wrestling training to pin him.  I was holding his hands above his head, pressing our chests together, pressing our crotches together, panting.

"Get off me, faggot!" the Mean Boy snarled.  And then "Ow!  Help!"

What would you do if you had a cute boy pinned to the ground?

"I'll show you who's a faggot, faggot!" I yelled.

"What you going to do about it?" he asked, struggling.

"I'll tell you, tough guy.  I'm going to kiss you!"

He laughed.  "You wouldn't have the nerve!"

"Try me."

He continued to struggle.  "Ok, wise guy, let's see what you got."

The Mean Boy's eyes widened as my mouth clamped down onto his.  "Mmph!" he protested.

I shoved my tongue into his mouth.

This was my first "French kiss."   I seem to remember the Mean Boy responding, darting his tongue against mine.  but it might be my imagination.

After a few minutes, I backed up.  The Mean Boy didn't say anything.  He just stared.

"Oh, you want another kiss?"

He shook his head.  "I guess you're pretty tough."

I jumped to my feet and turned and ran on, trembling with rage and a strange erotic excitement.

 I glanced back.  The Mean Boy was propped up on one elbow, staring at me.

This story could end in several ways.  The boy could become my first boyfriend.  I could run into him years later, and discover that he was gay.

But actually I never saw the Mean Boy again.  I started running a different route -- several different routes, actually.  If he was two years younger than me, he must have been a sophomore at Rocky High during my senior year, but I don't remember him.

But I definitely remember the kiss.

See also: My Date with Carl Gustaf, the King of Sweden; My First Kiss, from a Boy Vampire.

Nude Photos of John Manning and His Beefcake Brothers

Here are some nude photos of 1950s Physique Pictorial model John Manning and at least one of his brothers.















A standard 1960s studio shot of John, emphasizing his plus-size penis.
















John as an Indian, a rare color photo by Bruce of Los Angeles.


















John and his regular co-model James Selig.














John on the left, and the guy on the right is reputedly his brother Jim.

The full article is on Boomer Beefcake and Bonding