Saturday, May 27, 2017
On college campuses, the best season for beefcake watching is spring, when the heavy coats come off, and even when it's only 45 degrees out, undergrads break out the bulgeworthy short pants and muscle shirts.
Winter is good, too -- it's too cold to play sports outside, so they pack the gym.
But summer is a problem. Most of the students are gone, and those who remain go off-site for their recreation. You have to be diligent to find beefcake and bulges. Here are my main findings of the last week:
I was out jogging, and I passed two teenagers advertising a car wash. Shirts off, muscular physiques.
Sunday: The Bulging Boy with his Parents
My date and I were on the patio of an Ethiopian restaurant, when a family sat next to us: middle aged husband and wife, and son of college age, wearing athletic gear -- t-shirt, blue gym trunks, tennis shoes.
From my vantage point, I got a view directly to his crotch, which was tenting, regardless of how much he squeezed it, changed positions, or crossed his legs.
How embarrassing is it to get aroused while eating out with your parents?
I see tents quite often in class, but it's only a glance as I'm walking by. This one was an uninterrupted view for 10 minutes.
Monday; The New Bodybuilder at the Gym
You rarely see serious bodybuilders at the YMCA. This guy must have been on vacation: tall, long blond hair, hairless marble-statue physique although he wasn't lifting a lot. I tried to get a sausage sighting in the locker room afterwards, but there was an open door blocking my view.
Tuesday: The Librarian
I was back in the library, hoping for an instant replay of the Glory Hole from last Friday. Nothing happened, but there was a new reference librarian, not the usual Creepy Old Guy usually there: mid-30s, buffed, bearded, chest hair sticking out over his button-down shirt.
His face wasn't anything to write home about, but he definitely stood out on a campus full of twinks. Worth keeping in mind for later cruising.
The cute undergrad from Dubai that I met at the International Student Office. Wouldn't kiss, but he let m go down on him.
This was the night of my date with Ahmed, but also, as I was driving past the Islamic Center, I saw a guy working on the roof. Black, buffed, shirtless, holding a hammer.
Friday: Grindr at the Ice Cream Parlor
My friend and I were out jogging, and we decided to stop for ice cream (I know, stupid). He was taking his time with his sundae, so I pulled out my cell phone and clicked on Grindr.
There was someone 30 feet away!
I looked around. A middle aged heterosexual couple, a large family all eating ice cream together, and a bohemian boy. He was thin, bearded, wearing tan shorts and shoes but no socks. Sitting at a table with a girl, checking his cell phone.
I had my "friend" profile up, not my "hot" profile, so I quickly sent him a photo of my chest. He glanced over without cruising.
A moment later, a photo of his penis appeared. Or somebody's penis, an enormous Kielbasa, semi-aroused.
I'm free Sunday night.
See also: A Day of Beefcake and Bulges on the Plains; Tracking Down the Glory Hole Boy
Friday, May 26, 2017
Last Friday I had a glory-hole encounter with someone in the college library. I didn't see his face or much of his physique, just his penis -- about 7" -- and balls, and a little of his legs and shoes. But it must have been one of the three guys in the quiet study area that afternoon:
1. Hispanic, reading a pharmacology textbook: slim, big hands, round face, prominent eyebrows.
2. Middle Eastern, working on a laptop: very young looking, black hair, glasses, thin face, red t-shirt.
3. Floor Guy: on the floor in the stacks, reading a book: Anglo, tall and thin, black hair, serious tan, wearing a purple university shirt.
I don't understand anonymous encounters. I want to know who I was with. So Monday and Tuesday I wandered around the campus, looking for them.
It's not as crazy as it sounds. Between the end of the spring semester and the start of summer school, the campus is deserted. The only students around are those who live in town, and those who got special permission to stay in the dorms during the break, mostly international students who can't go home.
There are a few likely places where they would hang out: the library of course, the gym, and the Student Union.
Plus Allied Health Sciences (the pharmacology textbook), the office of the French club (Floor Guy was reading a French book), and the Engineering Building (most Middle Eastern students are engineering majors).
No luck on Monday or Tuesday.
On Wednesday I was walking through the Student Union, and suddenly I felt a strong urge: "Go upstairs to the International Student Office!"
When I was growing up in the Nazarene church, we were taught that God had a plan for the most trivial details of our everyday life. Usually He didn't care if we ordered the chicken or the fish, or went to bed at 10:00 pm or 11:00 pm, but sometimes He issued a direct command, and you had to obey. Dozens of stories from preachers and Sunday school teachers told of what would happen if you listened.
"Turn left at the next corner!" -- and you met someone you could win for Christ.
"Call your sister!" -- and she turned out to be sick.
"DO NOT board that ship!" -- and the ship sank.
I don't believe that the Creator of the Universe is such a meticulous micro-manager, and if He was, it's doubtful that He would be particularly concerned with helping me find the guy I went down on in a restroom last week, but still, when I get a strong impression to do something, I usually obey.
None of the three guys from the library were there, but I did see a cute Middle Eastern boy sitting in the lounge area outside the International Student Office, playing on his laptop.
Very cute, dark skin, beardless, thick black hair, black eyes, sensual lips. A little skinnier than I usually like.
He looked up and gave me a cruising smile: face, crotch, face.
I sat down next to him. "Hi, I'm Boomer. I've seen you around the campus. Are you new to the University?"
He reached out a slim, soft hand to be shaken. "I'm Ahmed. I've been here for a year, but I'm afraid to go back to my country for the summer. My parents think I won't be able to return."
I nodded. "Yeah, the Cheeto Hitler is making life rough for a lot of international students."
"You call him Cheeto Hitler?"
"After those orange snacks, Cheetos."
He brushed his hand against my shoulder. "That's very funny!"
"Do you have anyone to take you in during Ramadan?" During Ramadan, which begins on May 26th, Muslims aren't allowed to eat or drink while the sun is up, so
"I live with my friend." He pronounced it with that slight emphasis that suggested a lover. "He will take me to the Islamic Center for iftar [the meal that ends the fast every night]."
"I happen to live a block from the Islamic Center," I said, not sure if that would help the conversation.
Visions of a three-way with two Middle Eastern guys played in my head.
Going down on Ahmed and his friend at the same time.
Having Ahmed go down on me while his friend topped him.
Watching them do anal while I fondled the friend's butt.
Topping Ahmed and his friend in a BDSM scene. Tying them together, forcing them to kiss.
I cleaned the apartment, put out as many Middle Eastern artifacts as I could find, and prepared a dinner of dolmas (stuffed grape leaves), tabouli, and baked chicken.
Then about 3:00 pm, Ahmed texted me: "Can I bring my girlfriend? I thought she had to work, but she is off tonight after all."
Ahmed is straight?
No way I am letting his girlfriend in my house!
Fuming, I texted him back: "Sorry, I only have enough for three. It will have to be a guy's night only."
"LOL. You sound like my friend. He always wants to be with just guys."
Well, maybe the evening won't be a total loss, I thought. Maybe the friend is gay, or bisexual.
Ahmed arrived at 7:00 sharp, gave m a hug instead of a handshak, and offered me a box of chocolates. "My friend will be here soon," he said. "He wanted to stop and shower first. He's very anxious to meet you, and hear about your life in California."
"Oh, has he been?"
"No, but he always talks about how great it would be in California. Long Beach, Santa Monica Boulevard, West Hollywood."
My ears perked up. No one talked about West Hollywood who wasn't gay.
Then there came another knock on the door. I opened it. A polite "meeting a stranger" smile tuned into a broad smile of recognition and "Nice to see you again!"
In case you were wondering: Bratwurst, cut, primarily an anal bottom, but also into kissing and oral. Ahmed was mostly straight. He wouldn't kiss, but he allowed me to go down on him.
See also: The Glory Hole in the Library Restroom; A Week of Beefcake and Bulges on the Plains.
Thursday, May 25, 2017
You don't have to have any erotic interest to enjoy seeing a nice penis, and there's always some curiosity: did they inherit your brother or brother-in-law's size?
My brother has three sons: Ethan (born June 1982), Frank (born October 1983), and Joel (born April 1986), plus a stepson. I've gotten sausage sightings of all of them (after they grew up, of course). First up: Ethan.
Manville, Illinois, June 2000
I am in grad school in New York, but visiting my parents in Indianapolis for a week before flying out to South Africa for a conference. I offer to drive to Rock Island, to visit my brother, but Kenny says that he and his sons will be at a "father-son retreat" that weekend.
Held at Manville, the Nazarene camp in eastern Illinois.
Having spent innumerable summers fighting the flies, mosquitoes, heat, deplorable food, and nonstop screeching sermons at Manville, I scoff. "If you want to torture your kids, why don't you just tie them to an ant hill?"
"It's not like when we were little," Ken says. "They have tennis courts, hiking trails, and a gym now, and we stay in a 'family cabin' with its own bathroom and kitchen."
"No more walking down that terrible snake-strewn path to the toilets, huh? But it still sounds awful."
"Why don't you come out on Friday, and see for yourself? The cabin sleeps six, so there will be plenty of room for you."
I am definitely curious -- I haven't been to Manville since high school, over 20 years ago. Besides, spending the night with Kenny and his sons will be fun, like the sleepovers we used to have as kids. So on Friday I drive my rental car the three hours out from Indianapolis.
The long, low tabernacle is still there, and the dining hall/ snack bar where we bought hot dogs on innumerable nights after altar call, and the rows of damp, airy cabins. But Ken is right about the new gym, the tennis courts, and the hiking trails that lead through the tall grass of the prairie.
Manville is occupied entirely by cute dads and their teenage sons. Since there are no women around, they don't have to follow the rules prohibiting short pants or going shirtless.
The beefcake almost makes it worth the trip.
Kenny introduces me as his "brother from New York," which causes some eyebrow-raises: New York is one of the wicked cities God plans to destroy during the upcoming Tribulation. Labeled a "sinner" in need of salvation, I get a lot of witnessing and shy attempts to start soul-winning conversations.
A very muscular high school boy named Kyle approaches me at the gym with the oldest line in the book: "If you were to die tonight, and God asked why He should let you into His heaven, what would you say?"
I talk him into going hiking with me and Kenny. Nothing erotic happens, but Kenny says "You can pick them up anywhere, can't you?"
The family cabin is cramped -- two stacks of bunk beds, a small couch, a table and four chairs, a kitchen area, and a bathroom with a toilet and shower -- but it beats those drafty cabins with the shower room half a mile away.
It has electricity, but no tv, and no heat or air conditioning -- and it's hot and sticky in the central Illinois summer.
But Kenny comes up with an interesting solution: we all go naked!
At first I balk, just stripping down to my underwear, but Joel says "Come on, Uncle Boomer, don't be a weenie," so I strip down too.
"Not bad," Joel says. "Could be bigger."
Kenny glares at him. "Don't tease your uncle."
Cooking naked seems like a bad idea, but it's just hot dogs, canned baked beans, and potato chips. Then we do the dishes, play a game of Bible Monopoly, pray while holding hands, and go to bed.
Ethan, Kenny's oldest son, will have psychiatric problems and an aggravated assault in a few years, but he's just turned 18, and he's still a Johnny Nazarene, looking forward to his freshman year at Olivet. He's a slow, soft, big-boned kid with a little belly, some hair on his chest, and long thick arms.
He sits with his legs spread, so you can get a good sausage sighting: a short, thick penis with a prominent head, like his father's.
See also: My Nephew Tries to Turn a Boy Gay; 20 Cousins, Uncles, and Nephews on My Sausage Sighting List.
Wednesday, May 24, 2017
To express erotic desire.
To experience beauty
To boost our self esteem
To be polite
To establish and maintain intimacy.
Intimacy: that feeling of intense closeness, of opening not only your body but your soul, is essential for starting and maintaining a romantic relationship, the only way to distinguish friends and roommates from lovers.
These are sexual acts rated on a scale of 1 (least intimate) to 10 (most intimate).
To determine the intimacy of your sex life, score yourself for each of these acts that you engaged in with a partner during the last week, then divide by the number of sessions.
For instance, if you had five sessions last week, twice as as an anal top, three times as an oral bottom, three times as an oral top, and and one mutual masturbation, your score is 6.0
But, if you had five sessions last week, all involving kissing, plus twice as an anal bottom and three times as an oral bottom, your score is 12.8.
Note: They are rated on intimacy only, not on other ways to judge a sexual act, such as skill required, degree of erotic stimulation provided, and facility at producing an orgasm.
Plus you have to concentrate on proper technique. If you are big, how to minimize the pain? If you are small, how to keep from popping out at every thrust. 2 points
Anal Bottom. The same problem as with topping -- facing the wrong way, or you can't see much. But the pain and sense of risk work to increase the intimacy. 4 points
BDSM Top. BDSM requires even more preparation and equipment than anal, but it's not just a matter of plowing in. You have to pay careful attention to the bottom's reactions, and modify your actions accordingly. 5 points.
Frottage (through the clothes): 3 points.
Interfemoral (naked): 7 points.
Kissing. So intimate that some guys won't do it at all, and others, only with a romantic partner. 10 points.
And you have to be very aware to your partner's response to move toward a simultaneous orgasm. Very intimate. 7 points
Oral Bottom. Not very intimate at all. Most guys will go down on anyone who offers, regardless of face, physique, or personality -- a penis is a penis, and beneath the belt they're all the same. You can even go down on a disembodied penis, through a glory hole or in a dark room, and have no idea who he is or what he looks like.
And the thrusting requires so much concentration, so much attention to technique and breath control, that you don't have much time left to establish emotional intimacy. 2 points
Oral Top. A little more intimate. Just as with oral bottoms, most guys will drop their pants for anyone who asks (as long as they are male and over 18) -- a mouth is a mouth. But putting your penis into a position where you could get bit requires a minimum of trust, and at least you can look at at your partner. 4 points
See also: The Ins and Outs of Oral Sex
Tuesday, May 23, 2017
Maybe that's why he hasn't had a lot of long-term boyfriends. It's hard to find a guy that size who is into you, and who you are compatible with.
I asked him for a list of the most super-sized boyfriends, dates, and hookups he can remember. They have to be someone that he socialized with, no bathhouse hookups or sausage sightings at the gym.
Since we lived together and shared frequently, there's a lot of overlap with my sausage list, but a lot was surprising. 7 Kovbasa or bigger, including 1 Kovbasa++++++ (that's 13 inches!).
Yuri was born in 1974 in Volgograd in southern Russia, about 120 miles west of the Kazakh SSR. His father was a chemistry teacher, and his mother worked in a factory. One of his grandfathers was a Kazakh from Astrakhan.
The Kazakh wrestler. In 1988, when he was 14 years old, Yuri visited his cousins and went to a traditional Kazakh wrestling match. He had his first sexual experience with one of the wrestlers. Probably a Kovbasa.
Sergeant Andreivich. In 1992, Yuri graduated from the gymnazia and joined the army. He began a relationship with Sgt. Andreivich, a middle-aged career soldier with a beard and a hairy chest. It only lasted a few weeks before Yuri was discharged for having a "psychological deviation. Kielbasa.
In the fall of 1992, Yuri enrolled in a five-year degree program in geology at St. Petersburg State University. He had a few sexual experiences, usually with older guys with wives and kids, but didn't think of himself as gay. It was just "guys fooling around."
Pyotr from Mongolia. A student in Yuri's physics class, the first young guy he had ever been with. Not actually from Mongolia, from Irkutsk, near Lake Baikal. Mortadella+
In the fall of 1997, Yuri enrolled in the Ph.D. program in Atmospheric Sciences at Setauket University, and moved into a graduate student apartment on campus.
Boomer. 36 years old, very attractive, with a hairy muscular chest, thick biceps, nice abs. And openly gay! Yuri had never met anyone like him before. After a few months of protesting "I'm not gay," he finally came out on the night of a Holiday Party in December 1997, and shared Boomer's bed. Not for the last time! Size classified.
Jock from Australia. The first guy Yuri landed a date with on his own, without getting Boomer's help. They had Mexican food, went dancing, and kissed under the stars. Yuri didn't like him, but his Kielbasa+ was nice.
Kalli the Swedish Bodybuilder. Yuri met him in Estonia in the summer of 1998, and brought Boomer in to "share" without telling him. Older guy, very muscular, ugly face, Kovbasa+
Claude the Trophy Boy. The live-in boyfriend of Ravi, who hosted the bear parties on Long Island, a student at Hostra University. In the fall of 1998, Yuri convinced them to "share." Mortadella+
Blake the Opera Buff. We dated in the fall of 1998, but I was more into his roommate, and used Yuri for a "roommate switch." They continued dating for about three months. Mortadella
The Basque Muscle God. In the summer of 1999, Yuri went to France to visit Boomer, and they looked for the world's biggest penises among the Basques of northern Spain. The older muscle god Garan took them on a wild date. Kielbasa
Chad from the Help Desk. Yuri usually didn't like young guys, especially skinny, androgynous guys with long hair and earrings, but Chad, an undergraduate computer science major who manned the help desk, was special. Kovbasa++
Ozzie from Morocco. The NYU undergrad who Boomer and Yuri met on Long Island claimed to have hooked up with John Kennedy Jr., and refused to leave Yuri's room in the rain. Kovbasa+
Daniel. In January 2000, Yuri met his first long-term boyfriend, a history professor into Beat poetry and jazz. They dated until Yuri moved to Florida, and stayed "long distance boyfriends" for a few months after that. Bratwurst.
"See, I don't care if they are small!" Yuri told me.
"Um...Bratwurst is above average."
"Well, small for me."
In the fall of 2000, Yuri moved to Florida for a job in atmospheric research. He moved to Wilton Manors, the gay neighborhood of Fort Lauderdale, and shared a house with Barney, a retired bodybuilder who ran a gym. It was walking distance to a dozen gay bars and restaurants, with a bath house about a mile away. Yuri was in heaven! He did a lot of hooking up, but not a lot of dating.
Andrey the Black Canadian. 3% of the population of Nova Scotia is black, mostly the descendants of American slaves who escaped to the north. They dated for about a month in the spring of 2001. Kovbasa++.
Jim the Baseball Player. They met in the summer of 2003, and dated for about a year, but never lived together. He was closeted, a source of never-ending conflict for out-and-proud Yuri. Mortadella
The Alpaca Farmer. Boomer and Yuri shared the Florida cowboy who raised alpacas and had a small alpaca museum on his property. Not very attractive, but he did have an enormous Footlong. Kovbasa+
The Bodybuilder Who Never Got Naked. "I don't throw them back if they're small!!" Yuri protested. "What about Keith the Bodybuilder?" They met in September 2004, and dated for about three months, even though he had some anatomical difficulties. Average.
The Cop. Actually a DEA Agent who invited Yuri out on a stakeout for their first (and only) date. Kovbasa
In 2005, Yuri moved to London for a job in ecological systems. He found a tiny, exorbitantly priced apartment in Soho and immersed himself into London's gay community.
Nasir the Flight Attendant. Almost immediately, he started dating Nasir, a flight attendant in his early 30s with a soft, slim physique, a number of tattoos, and a Kovbasa++++++, the biggest Yuri had ever seen. Unfortunately, it wasn't very functional. They only dated for a few weeks.
Obnoxious Michael. I can say that now: I just didn't like the guy. Yuri's first live-in boyfriend and his longest relationship to date, about three years, from 2006 to 2009. A bodybuilder in his 40s with tattoos, a little belly, and an obnoxious attitude. Extra-thick Kielbasa
In 2009, Yuri moved to Minsk to become a professor of atmospheric sciences at Belarussian State University. He didn't like it, and moved back to London after a year.
The Daddy from Minsk. In the spring of 2010, Yuri had a passionate, if brief romance with an openly-gay muscle Daddy. Kovbasa
The Pop Star. Yuri never had a celebrity dating story before he met Will Young, the British pop star who I had never heard of, but whose albums apparently go platinum. They dated in the spring of 2016. Kielbasa
See also: My Sausage List
Monday, May 22, 2017
I am in grad school in New York, visiting Rock Island and Indianapolis for the holidays, staying with my brother Kenny in his rundown, rambling house downtown. The house is crowded with Kenny's children and stepchildren, plus a huge assortment of dogs, cats, hamsters, and parrots.
It's easy to miss Joel, Ken's youngest son, in the crowd: he's thirteen years old, short, slim, a quiet, polite Johnny Nazarene. But a talented singer: he's toured in Iowa, Minnesota, and Sweden with the Moline Boys' Choir. We go to their Christmas concert and hear his solo in "Come, O Come Emmanuel."
Yuri and I are visiting Rock Island for the holidays. My family practices a "don't ask, don't tell" policy, so they don't know if we're friends or boyfriends or lovers. Most of them probably don't even know that we are gay. But Joel figures it out. Although he claims to be straight, he asked us to teach him and his friend Max "how gay guys have sex."
Yuri and I teach him about gay kissing.
I've completed my Ph.D., and I'm visiting Rock Island for a few days just before moving to Florida. Joel is a cute 15 year old with short black hair, pale skin, and nicely rounded biceps. Nazarenes aren't allowed to listen to "the devil's music," basically anything with guitars, but he likes Weezer, Nickelback, and other groups that I never heard of, but sound loud.
Oddly, Ken doesn't forbid it. "It's his life," my brother says. "If he likes the devil's music, that's on him."
Joel asks why I didn't bring Yuri. "You guys are, like, hot together, aren't you?"
Ken glares at me, accusing me of outing myself to his son. "Boomer has a lot of friends, all kinds," he explains. "Black, white, Jewish, Muslim, gay, straight. He's so liberal, it hurts."
Joel is a surly 15-year old, dressed all in black, who protests the "capitalist spending frenzy" of Christmas. He spends most of his time in his room, listening to metal music. He emerges to eat a bowl of Lucky Charms instead of Christmas dinner, and to ask "So, Uncle Gizmo, are the beach boys hot down in Florida? I bet you get tons of action."
In front of the whole family, including relatives I wasn't out to!
"Um...well, I do ok," I stammer.
Later I ask Kenny if Joel is gay.
"Nope, nope, nope!" Kenny exclaims. "He's totally hot for girls. He's got a little gay friend, but that doesn't mean a thing."
Maybe Kenny is angry about my accidental outing, or maybe he's just busy, but he doesn't invite me to Christmas in Rock Island in 2002. I don't visit again until June 2003.
Joel has just turned 17. He has long green hair, earrings, and a pierced lip. He gives me a hug and calls me "Beach Boy,"
He just got back from Hardcore Fest, where he heard Walls Of Jericho, Suicide Note, Saved By Grace, As We Speak, Provoke, How It Ends, Devastator, Preacher Gone To Texas, Blood In Blood Out, Too Pure To Die, For Death or Glory, Wings Of Scarlet, Uphold, Begin Again, King of Clubz, Pound for Pound, Undo Tomorrow, Haunted Life and Butt Lynt.
"Sounds like a great lineup," I tell him.
And naturally he's the lead vocalist in his own punk band, The Dead Eunuchs.
Joel has a bright red mohawk, and his group, the Dead Eunuchs, has been performing all over the Quad Cities. Tonight they have a gig at the Rusty Nail in Davenport.
"You should come," Joel says. "We play a great set."
Well -- I'm not much for punk music in noisy heterosexual bars. "I don't think..."
"You'll like one of our songs. It's called 'My Uncle is Queer.'"
My face begins to burn. Is Joel outing me in front of roomsful of drunken heterosexual rednecks? "Queer? Sounds homophobic!" I exclaim.
"The Dead Eunuchs are opposed to racism, sexism, homophobia, anti-Semitism, fascism, capitalism, brutality, and the police state," Joel recites. "It's right there on our MySpace page. Come Saturday night. You'll find out."
Their songs are the standard punk "life is meaningless" shtick, until they come to "My Uncle's Queer."
As far as I can tell from the screeching, the lyrics are:
My uncle's queer, you heard me right!
He won't tell Dad, he's scared to fight!
Break the system, break the wall,
Press your cock against my balls.
We're all dying from the fear
Inside out, everybody's queer!
Not very complementary, but at least it's inclusive.
Guitar riff, and then the second verse:
My sister kissed a dyke for [?],
My brother sucked a stud for Jesus
We all got cocks, we all got balls,
We all got faces pressed to the wall.
I am queer! You are queer!
Hear that preacher, the world is queer!
"Nice inclusive message," I tell Joel later as he sits, shirtless and sweat-soaked, at my booth eating a hamburger. "But not entirely accurate. I'm out to your Dad. He was the first one I told, back in 1978."
Joel grins. "The song isn't about you. It's about everybody who's afraid to be who they are."
I hesitate about asking if Joel is really "queer" or not -- it would be contrary to his message of solidarity.
And no, he never invites me to "press my cock against his balls." But I do get a sausage sighting.
See also: We teach my Nephew the Gay Facts of Life; Nephew Sausage Sighting #3: A Fondle and a Penis Sock