Saturday, July 1, 2017

Gay Pride Has Changed


Minneapolis, June 2017

I've been marching in gay pride parades since they were called gay rights marches.

I was in the first ever to be held in the state of Iowa, in June 1981.

When I lived in California and New York, from 1985 to 2001, I marched almost every year, either with the Metropolitan Community Church or with the gay synagogue.

 It was the biggest event of the year: we spent months deciding which group to march with, working on banners and floats, charting out the route, making plans to meet friends afterwards, at the festival.

The day of the parade,we would show up at the staging ground on Crescent Heights an hour early (walk, if you could), dressed lightly -- Los Angeles in June is hot!

It was fun to be walking down the streets we drove down every day, with a wall of spectators on all sides, more gay men and lesbians than we ever knew existed.

The hetero screamers, outraged by our existence, with their signs saying we were going to hell, were confined to a small area next to the Rage, where we could ignore them easily.









Then came the festival in West Hollywood Park: 20 or 30 booths from every gay organization you had ever heard of, and some you hadn't: Dignity (for gay Catholics), Frontrunners (for runners), Gay Fathers, the Gay Asian-Pacific Alliance.  A few food carts, whoever was brave and non-homophobic enough to be seen with us, selling ice cream, corn dogs, and Thai food on a stick.

A huge crowd of gay men and lesbians, some you would never see anywhere else.  A chance to catch up with friends you'd lost track of.  Acres upon acres of shirtless musclemen.
Nonstop cruising: it wasn't a successful pride festival unless you got at least three phone numbers.

Hetero screamers milled about with pamphlets about how we were going to hell, so the rule was: never accept anything someone tries to hand to you.  Representatives of gay organizations will sit at their booths with brochures for you to pick up.


In the evening there was a round of parties and dances, with a lot more cruising, and there was always that one guy who was completely nude in a public place.

At work the next day, you could always tell who was gay: they were sunburned.

In Florida I didn't go, and in 2005 I moved to the Straight World, where Gay Pride was a small, understated affair.  A barbecue in the park for about 20 people.  A parade with about 20 banners but no floats that marched down one side of the street, the other still open to gawking traffic.

I haven't been to a big-city Gay Pride for 16 years.

They've changed.

Last weekend I went to Minneapolis for Twin Cities Pride.  Due to a GPS problem, my wisdom tooth extraction, and oversleeping, my friend and I missed the Parade, but we went to the festival in Loring Park, near downtown.



1. It's not Gay Pride or LGBT Pride, it's just Pride. It's rather annoying to be erased from your own festival.

2. Instead of 20 or 30 booths, there were over 200.  Most were not gay-specific.  Banks, credit unions, colleges (not college LGBT groups, just "why you should come here"), sheets and towels, a service that would clean your rain gutter.

Instead of two or three food trucks, there were about fifty.  No longer do the organizers have to scrounge around to find enough vendors willing to be seen with us.

3. The rule about not accepting anything someone tries to hand you was gone.  Everyone tried to hand us something: beads, buttons, bags, brochures.  I didn't take anything -- force of habit.

Fortunately, I didn't see any screamers.

4.  But the festival wasn't for us anymore.  Over half of the crowd consisted of male-female couples, often with kids in tow, and most of the rest were groups of women  A scattering of gay men.  

5. The acres and acres of beefcake were gone. Very few of the men were shirtless, and very few were buffed.  At least I can say that I have a better physique than 99% of the men at a Gay Pride Festival.

6. The cruising was gone, too.  The few times I got cruised, it was by a woman or a teenage boy.  I get more action at the doctor's office.

Afterwards we walked back across Lyndale Avenue, through the Minneapolis Sculpture Garden.  A large Muslim family was photographing each other in front of the cherry spoon statue.  College kids were playing miniature golf on a weird course with brillo pads and maps of downtown.  There was a baseball game going on at the stadium.

They were half a mile from Gay Pride.  They didn't know, or they didn't care.

"Gay Pride has changed,"  I told my friend.

"For better or worse?"

"I'm not sure."

One of the college boys playing miniature golf looked over at me with a cruisy glance.

Some things don't change.

A G-rated version of this post is on Boomer Beefcake and Bonding

See also: My First Gay Rights March


Thursday, June 29, 2017

With Voyeuristic Intention: The Joy of Watching

I've always been a big fan of watching other guys have sex.

Half the fun of bear parties and sharing is watching guys.

Especially boyfriends.  On the first few dates, you might get a little jealous, but once you're in a committed relationship, there's something undeniably erotic about seeing your guy with another guy.













It's also nice to watch your partner stripping and flexing.  You never get a good look while kissing or going down on him.
















Have you ever tried watching him masturbate, without lending a hand, becoming a pure voyeur?


















The interplay of chest, ab, and leg muscles, the rigidity of the cock, the respiration and heart rate increase, the facial expressions as he watches you watching him.
















His entire body rigid at the moment of orgasm.

More after the break.








Wednesday, June 28, 2017

Hookup with Brothers at the Dentist's Office

Plains, June 2017

The Wednesday after my return from Amsterdam, I'm at the oral surgeon's office, waiting to get a wisdom tooth removed.

It's a more delicate procedure than you might think.

No solid food or exercise for the next 48 hours.

On the third day, I can try jogging and eating normally, but nothing with granules (rice, potato chips) for a couple of weeks.

Antibiotics and two pain medications, one narcotic.

No "sucking" for at least a week.  The oral surgeon probably means through a straw, but I imagine no oral, either.

While I am sitting in the waiting room, a woman comes in with her two sons.  I can't tell which is older.

Brother #1 is not exactly a supreme beauty, but he's very, very cute: shorter than me, slim, with a round open face, short black hair, prominent eyebrows, high cheekbones, dimples, and square workman's hands.



He's wearing a black t-shirt, short pants (no bulge), and sandals.

He sits on the side of his mother farthest from me,  immersed in nonstop texting.

Brother #2 is tall, with a square face, sharp features, glasses, and a slim physique.  He's wearing a button-down shirt with a white undershirt visible underneath, slacks (no visible bulge), and orange shoes.

He gives me an obvious face-crotch-face cruising gaze, then sits down to fill out a form.

Remembering when I have been cruised at doctor's offices before -- at the sports doctor, while waiting for a colonoscopy -- I wonder if I can follow through and land a date or a hookup.

Problem: he's with his mother and brother.  Not much maneuvering room.

Another problem: I'll be called any minute.

I check Grindr on my cell phone, on the off chance he's there.  Nope.

Brother #2 finishes the form and drops it off at the receptionist's desk.  I go up to pretend to ask where the bathroom is, and try to check his name.

All I can see in a brief glance is "Oliver."

I look back -- Oliver is watching me.  He smiles.

Since I asked, I have to actually use the bathroom.  It's out in the hallway, shared with the insurance agency next door -- one urinal, one toilet, one sink.    I go in, pretend to urinate, turn to wash my hands -- and Brother #1 is there!

"Hi," I say, startled.

He stands there -- waiting for me, of course.  I slide past him to the sink.  He still stands there waiting, nervous.

"Your brother's getting some dental work done," I say. "That must be a bummer.  No potato chips or pizza for a week."

"I guess."  He's staring at the floor.

I brush past him again to get a paper towel, accidentally touching his shoulder.

"Excuse me."

He doesn't respond.

I go back into the waiting room.  Oliver, the one who cruised me, is gone.

A moment later, my name is called.

I spend Thursday and Friday at home, eating ice cream, mashed potatoes, and protein shakes and not getting any exercise.   On Saturday my friend and I go to the campus hangout for breakfast -- eggs ad pancakes, but no toast.  I think I see Oliver at one of the other booths (it's a small town), but I'm not sure.  He doesn't cruise me.

That afternoon, I go on Scruff to see if there's anyone nearby.

There isn't, but I have a message from one those blank profiles.  Usually I ignore them, but today he says: "Hi, I saw you at the dentist the other day.  I like older guys.  Do you want to get together?"

It must be Oliver!

"Sure, I remember you!"

He introduces himself as Bob, not Oliver -- must be one of these skittish "discrete" guys.  I don't usually hook up with guys trapped in a pre-Stonewall closet, but the circumstances -- the dentist's office, the almost encounter at the restaurant -- make it intriguing.  It's almost like fate wants us to be together.

Bob is 19, a sophomore at the University studying economics, living with his parents and two brothers.

"I can't use my mouth for kissing or whatever for another few days," I tell him,  "Can we make it Tuesday?"

I arrive at the gay-friendly coffee house 15 minutes early.  Picking up a twink is no big deal, but this has a special feel to it, a sense of destiny.

I'm nervous about my sexual performance.  I tried to eat a banana earlier, and could barely get my mouth around it.  A small penis will probably be ok, but if he's hung, I'm out of luck.

He's ten minutes late.  I'll give him another ten, and then chalk him up as a no-show.

The gay-friendly coffee house has two doors.  I keep looking back and forth, pretending to be nonchalant.

Suddenly Brother #1 comes in through the far door!  He stands by the pastry counter, looking at the scones and cookies.

When Oliver shows up, he'll see his brother, get skittish, and leave!  I have to get him out of there!

I walk over and say "Hello.  Remember me?"

He grins and grabs my shoulder "Sorry I'm late.  I had to wait until Mom left.  Is this really a gay place?"

Wait -- my date is with Brother #1?

The one who was busy texting in the waiting room, and ignored me in the bathroom, and never cruised at all?

A big surprise, but not unwelcome -- Bob was by far the cuter brother.

It will be a few more days before I can get my mouth around his uncut Bratwust, but he was fine with interfemoral and kissing.

And it turns out that his brother Oliver is bi.  Maybe there's a brother three way in the future.

See also: The Weirdest Place to Pick Up a Twink

Sunday, June 25, 2017

My Embarrassing Date with the Teenage Farmboy

Long Island, September 1997

Friday, September 12th, 1997.  The end of the my first week of classes at Setauket University, my 10th day in New York.

10 days after moving to West Hollywood, I found a gay bar, a gay gym, and a gay church, I had about a dozen friends, and I had been on about four dates.

On Long Island, there are no gay bars, gay gyms, gay churches, gay anything.  There is nothing in walking distance of Setauket University but a hardware store and an Indian restaurant.  Unless you want to take the train two hours into Manhattan, you're stuck on campus, where all of the events and activities are for undergraduates.

I've met about 50 people: roommates, fellow graduate students, undergraduates, faculty.  But only on who is "openly" gay.

After 12 years in California, where I rarely saw or spoke to a straight person outside of work, I assume that all of the men are gay, except for those who mentioned wives or girlfriends, or who asked me if I had a wife or a girlfriend.  But we're not going to come out to each other in the Straight World and risk a homophobic assault or a stupid question like "Are you the boy or the girl?"

The only "openly" gay guy is Jesse, the 17-year old farmboy from Ulster County who I met while in "emergency housing" in the freshman dorm.  Tuesday night I went down on him while we were lying on blankets on the roof (see Trapped in a Dormitory with Freshmen).

10 days without talking to a gay person other than Jesse the 17-year old. No gay friends, no dates, no sex except for that night with Jesse.    I latch onto him as a beacon of hope, and ask him out, in spite of our monumental age difference.


Mistake.  Most embarrassing date of all time.

1.   Dinner at the Indian place, down a country road with no sidewalk.  You dress nicely for a date, but Jesse shows up in a white t-shirt with stains on it, short pants, and shoes but no socks.  I am embarrassed to be seen with him.

Then he orders the hamburger platter.  At an Indian restaurant!

2. A grad student mixer.  Ok, at 17, he is the youngest one there, but he doesn't have to go out of his way to call me "sir."

He introduces himself to the department chair as "a freshman in Mr. Davis' class."

He's not in my class -- he just wants to embarrass me.

The chair gives me a nasty look.

I think I just got outed.

3. A walk through the quad.  Jesse keeps trying to hold my hand!

I don't hold hands in public.  It's a sure way to get a homophobic jibe yelled out of a passing car.

Besides, it looks silly, and it's not necessary.  You don't need someone to guide you in the proper direction.

4. Back to my apartment.

We squeeze uncomfortably onto my single bed.  It is hot, and we are sweating.  We get naked.

I try kissing him, but he is facing away from me, and he won't turn his mouth around.

"Um..would you turn around so I can kiss you?"

"Oh, sure..."  We kiss for a moment, and then he turn around again, facing away from me.

Does he want me to do anal?  Forget it!

I scoot down, pull up his rather small cut penis, and start oral sex.  He gets aroused.

I've had guys ask all kinds of silly or even insulting things during sexual encounters (see What Not to Say During Sex):

"Do you like that big cock?"
"Who's your Daddy?"
"You do that better than my girlfriend."
"You're a dirty boy, aren't you?"

But Jesse is the worst.  After about five minutes, he asks:

"Are you having fun?"


In the middle of a sexual encounter, he's bored?

I've never been so insulted!

I immediately pull my head up, and lie there fuming while he uses his hand to finish.  I say no  more than two or three words as he wipes off with a kleenix, pulls his clothes on, and leaves.

For several days, the kleenix stays on the floor where he missed the waste basket.  I don't want to touch it, or Jesse, again.


L

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