Saturday, June 3, 2017

A Footlong Sausage Sighting in Fairbanks, Alaska

Fairbanks, Alaska, February 2008

In the spring of 2008, when my temporary visiting position at the University of Dayton was winding down, I applied for about 50 academic jobs.  Most were in or near gay neighborhoods, but I also applied to some in places that would be interesting to visit.

A free trip to some exotic locale, a guided tour of the city, free meals in the best restaurants. And who knows?  Maybe I would like it so much that I would take the job.

So I applied to the University of Alaska at Fairbanks,

I always keep a scorecard of pros and cons, to decide whether to take the job, if I get the offer.

Fairbanks Pros

You can see the aurora borealis. 5 points

The University has a gay student group. 5 points

The Museum of the North. 5 points.

My office would have a window. 10 points (you'd be surprised how important this is).

The University offers classes in Yupik, Inupiaq, and Tlingit. 10 points

10% of the population is Native American, and 10% Hispanic. 10 points

There are 14 Thai restaurants. 10 points

Total Pros: 50

Fairbanks Cons

It's low and flat, and very spread out, 32,000 people in 32 square miles  -5 points.

It was 10 below zero degrees outside.   -5 points.

In the 2004 presidential election, 61.5% of Fairbanks voted Republican. -10 points.

The governor of Alaska was wack job Sarah Palin. -10 points

The university had no wrestling or male swim teams. -10 points.

No gay bars, although I heard that the Palace Saloon was "gay" after 11:00 pm. -20 point.

The nearest gay neighborhood was in Seattle, 3 1/2 hours away by plane.   -20 points

Total cons: -80.

Grand total: -30.  Not interested in that job.

I was on my own for dinner the second night.  I tried to find a place within walking distance of the downtown Marriott (which, in 10 below zero weather, means two blocks).

All I could find was Soapy Smith's Old Tyme Restaurant and the Cafe de Paris.

Ok, the Cafe de Paris.

When I got there, I found an ugly yellow space decorated by case after case of wine bottles.

I hate alcohol!  I almost went to Soapy Smith's Old Tyme Restaurant instead, but it was too cold to trudge through downtown Fairbanks again.

So I sat down and looked at the menu.

Lobster, steak, chops.  Nothing of interest.  Did I go through a time warp into the 1950s?

No -- the cheapest item on the menu was $30.

I ordered two appetizers and a Diet Coke, which came watered down in a bar glass, with one of those little red straws and a cherry.


It was quite early, so there were only a few people around.  Hetero couples mostly.  I felt out of place.

After finishing, I said "no" to an expensive dessert and went to the restroom.

It had two urinals, very close togethr, with no barrier between them.  The far one was in use: a tall, husky, dark-skinned guy, probably Native, in his 20s, with a round face and prominent cheekbones.  I couldn't judge his physique under his sweater and heavy coat, but I got a good view of his penis.

Huge!  He could barely wrap his hand around that garden hose, soft!  It had to be a Kovbasa++++,  a footlong, aroused!

I stood, trying not to stare, imagining going down on that monster.  Were all Native men hung?

He finished, shook it a little, and turned to me, smiling, Kovbasa still in full view.  He somehow managed to cram his penis back into his pants, zipped up, and squeezed past me to the sink to wash his hands.

"Not much room in here, is there?" Footlong said.

"No, not much room," I stammered.

Was he referring to the bathroom or to his pants?

When I finished and returned to the main room, Footlong was standing by a table, helping a young lady put her coat on.  Our eyes met as they walked out into the night.

She was in for a surprise later!  If Footlong was too much for her, I'd be happy to give it a try.

Pro: Sausage sighting of a huge Native guy: 100 points!

Meeting Six Guys at Freshman Orientation

Plains, June 2016

I never do anything erotic in my office.  It's down a narrow corridor, with six other offices right there, and thin walls so everyone can hear everything.

But earlier this week I made an exception. I figured it was safe enough, during a tornado.

It was Freshman Orientation:hundreds of newly-admitted students and their families were getting tours of the campus, going to advising meetings, checking out the gym, and talking to me, starstruck over meeting a Real College Professor..

Here are the six guys I met.  You have to decide which one I hooked up with

1. The Tan Dad

8:30 am:  As I am walking across campus from the parking lot, I see a family standing around a map, looking confused: teenage girl, mom, and the dad: in his mid 30s, deeply tanned and heavily muscled.

I stop, introduce myself, and give them directions to the library.  Turns out that Tan Dad and company have come all the way from California: daughter had some kind of sports scholarship.

"I lived in West Hollywood for ten years," I tell them.  "It's been quite a culture shock."

2. The Tenting Texter

8:45: There is a boy sitting in the lounge area of my department, texting on his cell phone.  Rather thin, androgynous, tenting in his short pants.  He sees me and quickly covers up.

"The secretary is out today.  Can I help you?"

He's planning to major in one of the sciences or social sciences, but he doesn't know which.  I give him some brochures.

"Our program is all about diversity," I tell him.  "Injustice based on race, religion, social class...and sexual orientation."

The sexual orientation always makes them nervous if they're straight.  The Tenting Texter grins at me: "Well, I'm all about diversity."

3. The Bear Dad

10:00: a group of faculty sit on stage in the big auditorium, talking to the parents of the newly admitted freshmen and answering questions. Mostly husband-wife pairs, sometimes with a kid tagging along.  But the Bear Dad is sitting alone; either the wife couldn't make it, or he's single.

He's in his 40s, tanned, slightly graying, muscular, his pecs swelling against his white dress shirt.  Unbuttoned three buttons, revealing a nice hairy chest.

He asks about online courses.

"I teach online all the time," I tell him.  "It's anonymous, you don't get to know the students, and they don't get to know you.  I much prefer on-site courses, or a hybrid."


4.  The Surfer

10:45.  Now it's time to meet in small groups with the students, and answer any of their questions.

My group consists of five girls and four guys, one a blond beach boy in a white muscle shirt with a surfing logo.

"Um...sorry, we don't have a surfing team here," I say.  He laughs.

Then he asks about "what ticks off professors."  I want to say something like "coming to class with your shirt on," but of course I play it cool.

5. The Big Brother

12:00: The faculty all get a free lunch in the cafeteria, so we can eat freshmen and their families and answer questions.  I wave at the Tan Dad and Surfer from before, but they're already sitting with someone.  I choose two guys, both in their teens or twenties.  One is probably Hispanic, with dark skin and black hair.  The other is a ruddy blond Anglo.

"Which of you is the father?" I ask.

The Hispanic guy laughs.  "We've been getting that all day.  I'm the Big Brother."

"My mom and stepdad couldn't be here," the Anglo says, "So he gets the job of keeping me out of trouble."

"Or getting you into trouble," Big Brother adds.  "So, what's the craziest thing that ever happened in one of your classes?"

6. The Volleyball Player

2:00.  It's raining outside, so I head for the campus gym and jog around the indoor track.  Downstairs there's a volleyball game going on.  Mostly girls, but two boys, one white, one Asian, who don't seem to mind playing a "girl's sport."

As I circle the track, he looks up.  Our eyes meet.  Twice.

Then he's gone.

Then suddenly he's jogging alongside me.

"Hi, are you a professor?" he asks.  "I have a couple of questions."

Turns out he's a transfer student from a college out east, here to play volleyball and major in Native American Studies, with a minor in Gender Studies.

The Tornado

3:00: I return to my office.  Occasionally freshmen or their families or both drop by to ask more questions or get some brochures.  They're wet -- it's raining hard.

4:00 I'm having a very nice, nearly cruisy conversation with one of #1-6, above, when a loud buzzer goes off and a voice says "Tornado Warning.  A tornado has been sighted near our city.  Take shelter immediately."

The guy looks around in alarm.  "Where is the shelter?" he asks.

"Well, there's a shelter in the basement of this building, but my office is in a corridor inside another corridor, so you can't get much safer.  You might as well sit it out here.  I have snacks and sodas, and I can get you on the wi-fi."

We sit on the couch.  He texts his family to tell them where he is, and then starts watching a movie.  I put my arm around him to see better.  Soon we're kissing and fondling.

The tornado warning is extended three times -- we can't leave until about 5:30.  By that time he's gone down on me once, and I've gone down on his impressively thick Bratwurst+ twice.

Ok, ready to guess who it was?

1. The Tan Dad
2. The Tenting Texter
3. The Bear Dad
4. The Surfer
5. The Big Brothr
6. The Volleyball Player

Answer after the break

Thursday, June 1, 2017

Nephew Sausage Sighting #4: My Nephew's Boyfriend

Washington DC, November 2014

Of all the strange phone calls I've received from my mother over the years, the weirdest was at 7:00 am one Saturday morning in November 2014.

"When you're in Washington, DC for your conference next weekend, why don't you drive down to Norfolk to visit your nephew?  He lives there now."

What nephew lived in Norfolk?  Last I heard, my sister's son was in Indianapolis, and Kenny's sons were all in Rock Island.  Except Frank, who lived somewhere in Tennessee or...Virginia.  "Is it Frank?"

"No, it's Robbie."


I can't be blamed for not recognizing his name.  I'd forgotten about Kenny's stepson Robbie.

Kenny's first wife died of cancer in January 1993, leaving him 29 years old, working night shifts at the factory, with four kids, aged 10, 9, 7, and 5.  The grandparents helped out a bit, but everyone gossipped that he remarried less than five months after the funeral to get free childcare.

His new wife, Angie, scandalized the Nazarene Church.  She was a heathen Baptist!  Eight years older than him!  And divorced -- nearly the unpardonable sin!   Plus she had three kids of her own:  two girls, ages 13 and 10, and a boy, Robbie, age 15, nearly as old as Kenny!

I saw Robbie at the wedding, at Christmas dinner in 1993, when Kenny and his family took me out for pizza in the summer of 1994, and at Christmas dinner in 1994.  He was a cute teenager with black hair and glasses, pale, soft, and quiet.  I don't think we exchanged more words than a "how's California?" and "how's school?"

By the summer of 1995, Robbie was living somewhere in Ohio or Pennsylvania with his grandparents.  I don't know why.

Maybe he didn't like his new role as "big brother" to his stepbrothers and stepsister.

 Maybe he didn't like living in the big, rambling house downtown, in a "bad" neighborhood.

Maybe the Nazarene rules seemed oppressive.

Although Ken adopted him, so he was technically part of the family, he cut off all contact with the Davises (he did sometimes call his sisters).  As far as I knew, neither Ken nor Mom and Dad had heard from Robbie in 20 years.

How would Mom even know where he was, let alone want me to visit?

"He doesn't talk to your brother, but he talks to the girls [Ken's step-daughters], and they talk to me.  They even had us over when he flew out to visit a couple of years ago."  She paused.  "It wouldn't hurt for you to go see him."

It wouldn't hurt.  I could ask him why he left so abruptly.

Besides, I love Norfolk.  It reminded me of my old West Hollywood friend Alan, and his boyfriend Sandy.  Beautiful Colonial architecture, the Chrysler Museum of Art, lots of gay nightlife, 50% black population.

So I called -- it took Robbie a moment to remember that "Oh, yeah, Ken had a brother."  He invited me down for a visit.

On the Saturday of the conference, I drove down to Norfolk and got a hotel room -- no need to press my luck.  Then I stopped by an antique store to buy a gift, and drove to Robbie's house.

It was way on the north side of town, in Ocean View near the military base.

There was a teenager trimming the hedges with a weed wacker.  Probably 18 or 19, blond hair, scruffy blond beard, blue eyes.  Shirtless, even though it was in the 60s outside: broad shoulders, smooth chest, lightly tanned, firm but not massive, pinprick nipples, tight abs with an innie belly button.

"Hi!  I was hoping to finish before you got here.  We were trying to spruce up the place."

"Oh, everything looks fine, believe me," I said, looking him up and down.

"You must be Boomer.  My name is Beau."  We shook hands.  "Robbie's inside -- he's a little nervous."  He wrapped a buffed arm around my shoulders.  "Come on, let's do the reunion."

Calling him by his first name --  Robbie must be gay!  Beau must be a boyfriend!

He led me into the house and yelled "The victim for the human sacrifice is here!"

Robbie appeared.  My nephew was 37 years old, tall, slim, eyeglassed, balding on top.  "Is this wise guy giving you a hard time, Uncle Boomer?"

None of my nephews and nieces call me Uncle anything.  Way to make me feel old!

"Oh no, he's great."

"He smells like he's been skinning skunks!" Robbie exclaimed.  "Beau, go upstairs and take a shower, and put on that nice shirt I got you.  We're taking Uncle Boomer out to dinner."

"Yes, Master!" Beau shot me a wink and trounced up the stairs.

"He's cute," I said as Robbie led me into the living room.

"Yep.  On the wrestling team.  And smart, too -- he's going to study engineering at Old Dominion.  I really lucked out with this one."

Lucked out?  Obviously Beau was a boyfriend!  Of course Mom wouldn't have said anything -- the whole family practiced a "don't ask, don't tell" policy.

Robbie opened his gift and talked about his job -- at the Navy yard, but a civilian -- and the house -- $150,000 mortgage --  and asked me about the Plains, while I ruminated:

I'm not actually related to Robbie by blood, and since I only saw him a few times, I have none of the family-bond stuff that stifled erotic interest in my other nephews.  

We could have a three way!  My nephew and his boyfriend!  I wonder if they are hung....

It didn't take long to find out.  Beau came bounding down the stairs -- naked, his penis swinging between his legs.  Bratwurst, cut, low-hanging balls, shaved pubic hair.    I gaped.

"Beau!  Where are your manners?"

 "What -- we're all guys here!  I can't find that new shirt."

"Look in your closet, next to your suit."

"Gotcha." He turned -- nice view of his butt as he walked up the stairs again.

"I swear, that boy is a born nudist!  He would go naked at the Metropolitan Opera, if I let him!  He must have got that from his mother."

His mother?  Wait...

" mother live in Norfolk, too?" I asked.

"Oh, no, she's got her own place in Newport News [about ten miles away].  Beau is just with me on weekends.  That's why I moved to Norfolk -- I wasn't going to go months and months without seeing Beau, so when Kathie's husband got a job out here, I came too."

Wait -- that's a weird thing to do for your boyfriend...

"Um...sounds like you get along well with Kathie."

Robbie shrugged.  "I guess so.  I mean, there's no hostility or anything.  I like Joe, too.  He's a good stepfather, supports the boy, but never tries to take my place."

I missed the implied criticism that my brother had not been a good stepfather -- I was too busy being embarrassed.  Beau wasn't Robbie's boyfriend.  They might not even be gay.

Way to make me feel old: my little brother's kid has an 18-year old son!

Who I just saw naked!

I smiled.  That's got to be one for the record books: Sausage sighting of my nephew's son.

See also: I Visit Alan and His Boy Toy in Virginia


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