Friday, July 21, 2017
Thursday, July 20, 2017
That's the last time I let Bob, the19-year old economics major, arrange a hookup for us. On the way east to New York, he somehow found the most disgusting guy of all time, and on the way back, he got the wrong guy!
We stayed overnight in Rock Island again, and went to the Figge Museum of Art, across the river in Iowa.
I had never been there before. It opened in 1997, after my parents moved to Indiana, and on the rare occasions that I returned to the Quad Cities, there wasn't time for much sightseeing.
The second floor had galleries devoted to Spanish Colonial art, Haitian art, Grant Wood, and contemporary art. The third floor was devoted to a corn maze, and the fourth floor to a collection of black dolls.
Some of the galleries had a nice view of the Mississippi.
No beefcake art to speak of, although I did notice a surprising number of Cute Young Things and twinks among the patrons. A lot of cruisy smiles and up-and-down glances going on.
I found out why when I heard a lot of raucous noise from downstairs, and left Bob in the Haitian Art gallery to investigate.
The downstairs exhibition room was full of people, very cute college-age boys in grey t-shirts with "Metro Arts" logos, some girls, a few kids, very well dressed adults mingling with glasses of wine and little sandwiches. Some were already sitting on folding chairs facing a stage. There were t-shirts for sale, and tables of snacks.
Was this a private function? In my t-shirt and jeans, I looked more like one of the college boys than an adult.
I milled about, pretending to belong, trying to find someone alone, not in a group, to pump for information.
No luck. Some of the teenagers were in groups, doing voice exercises and giving each other encouragement. Some were talking to groups of adults. No one was alone.
As usual, I got cruisy glances from the twinks, suspicious glares from the adults.
The adults were parents, friends, and community leaders. Later I discovered that the mayors of both Davenport and Rock Island were there.
First up in the showcase: a comedy improv with three performers. I milled about, taking photos.
Soon Bob joined me, drawn by the noise. I apprised him of what was happening, and we watched in silence for a few minutes.
My eyes were drawn to a father and son standing alone, with no mother. Gay?
Dad was in his 40s, with a rugged face, salt-and-pepper hair, and a tight frame. Son was probably 15, wearing a gray Metro Arts t-shirt, with dark wavy hair and an orange baseball cap, texting furiously on his cell phone.
I am always attracted to guys in business suits. Maybe because they are designed specifically to hide the physique and bulge, so trying to imagine what he looks like with his clothes off becomes exciting.
And fathers, guys who are nurturing and domestic, yet obviously were naked, intimate, and aroused.
Bob nudged me. "You like him?"
"Sure, he's hot. And definitely gay. But I can't get him to make eye contact. He's too busy concentrating on the show."
"That's funny, I'm getting some major perv from him."
"Maybe you're more his type. And...there he goes."
The improv show ended, and father and son walked up to shake hands with one of the performers. All three headed back toward the room with the snack tables.
"Didn't you say that the museum was the best place to pick up guys?" Bob asked. "Why don't you go after him? We could have a three-way tonight."
I glanced around, embarrassed to be discussing three-ways so openly. "I'm not even sure we're supposed to be here, so I want to keep a low profile. And how do you pick up a guy in front of all of his relatives?"
"No problem. I'll take care of it. Be right back."
Before I could protest, Bob walked off toward the snack room.
The next showcase began, five artists talking about how they painted murals by the river.
Bob was gone a long time. I began to get annoyed, and walked back to find him. He met me.
"It's all set. They're going to a place called Wise Guys Pizza after the showcase, and we're going to meet them there. I guess it will be a whole big group. But if I'm going to hook up, I need to shower and brush my teeth. Could we go back to the hotel first?"
There was a group of gray-shirt Metro Arts teens occupying a booth, looking at the menu. Bob waved.
Where's the hot Dad?
A teenage boy with dark wavy hair and an orange baseball cap slid over so we could join him. Bob let me sit next to him.
He hooked us up with the wrong guy! The son, not the father!
I could have hooked up with a twink on my own. I wanted Bob to be my wing man in picking up a hot Dad.
It's not Bob's fault -- I'm dating a 19 year old, I get cruised by twinks all the time, and last week when he hooked me up with a teenager, I didn't object. What would you conclude?
The boy - Ethan -- wasn't 15, he was 20, entering his junior year at Western Illinois University,and totally into hooking up. Smooth, solid physique, 5" cut but easily aroused. Although he was mostly an anal bottom, he allowed me to go down on him while he went down on Bob, and then do interfemoral in a side position while Bob slid against his butt.
Bob is turning into rather more an anal top than I anticipated when we started to date.
A nice hookup, but not much different from the ones I get on the Plains. I wanted the father.
See also: Nude Wrestling in Fond du Lac.
"Butchie" (nobody called him John) was born in Bronxville, New York in December 1945, and grew up near Baltimore, Maryland. After graduating from high school in 1964, he moved to New York and puttered around, making money by hustling and modeling. His first professional photos were taken by Walter Kundcziz's Champion Studios.
He got a USMC tattoo, and he also may or may not have befriended Tony Dow, the 20-year old actor who previously played Wally on Leave it to Beaver.
But he managed to cram a lot of great experiences into those 19 years.
The Tony Dow connection is on Boomer Beefcake and Bonding
Tuesday, July 18, 2017
It's the morning after the most disgusting hookup ever. Bob the 19-year old economics major and I are at having egg white omelets and fruit cups at the Quad Cities Pancake House.
"So, what's on the schedule for today?" Bob asks.
"Chicago, about three hours from here. We'll hit a couple of the museums, spend the night, and then drive on to Cleveland tomorrow."
"Would you mind if we take a little side-trip first? I have a cousin I haven't seen since we were kids. It's a couple of hours out of the way."
"Fond du Lac, Wisconsin."
4 hours out of the way! But this is Bob's trip, too, so he should have a say in the itinerary. Besides, I have a history with Fond du Lac.
During my senior year in high school, although I was still Nazarene, I became obsessed with all things Catholic. I read The Seven Story Mountain and The Dark Night of the Soul, learned to say the Rosary, and even went incognito into a Catholic Mass. I didn't actually convert, but I was considering it.
And I considered applying to Marion College in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin.
One day in January 1978, Dad drove me up for a tour. I remember a vast snow-covered campus with round white buildings, pristine, pure, as quiet as a cloister.
You could feel the presence of God everywhere.
I imagined living in an austere dorm room, all white, empty except for a bed with white covers, some statues of saints, and a shelf of contemplative classics: the Little Flowers of St. Francis, The Cloud of Unknowing. Of walking among buildings of brilliant white other-worldly splendor every day, en route to my classes in medieval philosophy, Catholic theology, Ecclesiastical Latin, and Koine Greek.
Saying the rosary, walking the Stations of the Cross, going to Novenas, blessing myself with holy water before daily Mass.
Spending every day in communion with the Divine.
I decided to go to Augustana instead, but ever since, Fond du Lac has remained entrenched in my mind as a place of peace and serenity, as close as you can get to heaven in this life.
"Could we go to a Catholic Mass while we're there?" I ask.
Bob blinks. "Well, it's Wednesday, and I'm not Catholic, but...ok, if you want. I'll text my cousin."
On the four hour drive to Fond du Lac, Bob tells me more about Cousin Tark (short for Tarkington). He's older than Bob, a big brother who used to babysit him and sneak him into R-rated movies, until he went away to college in Wisconsin, and then got a job in Fond du Lac.
"Was he cute?" I ask.
Not an athlete, but big and tall, with a thick beefy chest and nice biceps.
"Any sausage sightings?"
"Man, we used to wrestle in the nude. I remember it getting hard once! Really big -- and thick! Man, that thing was like a beer can!"
A beer-can penis somehow seems out of place in a world of quiet contemplation. Surely trivial matters like sex fade away when you are in the presence of the Divine.
Fond du Lac, Wisconsin
We arrive in Fond du Lac at around 2:00 pm. Tark doesn't get off work until 5:00 pm, so we go to Lakeside Park and walk along the lake.
I try to imagine how different my life would have been if I had gone to Marian, and stayed in Wisconsin, instead of going to Augustana, then Indiana University, and then West Hollywood. Would I have been to 10,000 daily masses by now? Said the rosary 20,000 times? Spent my life in quiet contemplation of the Divine?
Next we go to St. Paul's Cathedral. No Mass is going on, but I bless myself with holy water and light a candle in front of a statue of the Blessed Virgin, while Bob texts on his cell phone.
Then Marian College itself, which is a disappointment: an Erbert and Gerbert's sandwich shop in the student union, a jazz concert coming up on Friday, a sports team called the Dockspiders, and "A Beginner's Guide to Star Wars" in the student newspaper. Hardly contemplative or otherworldly!
At 5:30 we go to Joe's Fox Hut, a rather scary dive bar next to the army induction center, with a Schlitz Beer sign out front.
The server takes us into a dark, dismal room with country-western music blaring, and hands us menus: pizza! corn dogs! garlic bread!
Nothing healthy on the menu. Even the chicken breast comes with french fries and cole slaw.
Suddenly a very tall, chubby guy with short hair and a reddish-brown beard sneaks up behind Bob, motions for me to keep quiet, and grabs him. Bob yells.
Bob hugs him. "Hi, Cousin Dweeb. This is my boyfriend, Boomer."
Tark slides into the booth next to me and shakes my hand.
"Cousin Dork, you're all grown up -- sort of. You're still scrawny -- and dating your professor! How did you pull that off?" He nudges me. "I'll bet the little guy gets all A's, huh?"
"He's not actually in any of my classes."
"Well, there's always next semester."
He orders a sausage-mushroom pizza with mini corn dogs on the side, and tells us about his job as an auto detailer.
"It's great -- they bring the cars right to my house, and I do the work in my driveway. No overhead. Sure beats working in a stuffy office all day -- or teaching a bunch of whiny brats."
"True," I say. "But some of those whiny brats are cute."
"I heard that. Man, if I was a professor, I'd be inviting every gal in sight for some extra tutoring in my office. Maybe a little oral exam, huh?"
I don't like him. In a world of quiet contemplation, all he can think of are corn dogs and oral sex.
Eventually his girlfriend Diane joins us: a music professor at Marian specializing in jazz history.
Jazz? Not Gregorian chants?
We go to a place called the Backstage Bar and Grille to drink beer (soda for me and Bob) and listen to live music, more pop than jazz. Loud!
Then we go back to Diane and Tark's house to drink more beer, listen to more music -- loud! -- and play with their dogs and cat,. Finally it's time for bed: they put us up in an upstairs bedroom with race car posters and stuffed animals.
Bob and I strip down. "They seem nice," I say.
"Yeah. He's changed. A little fatter, but still like a big brother. And I like Diane...they've been together two years, but I never met her."
We start kissing and fondling. Bob pushes me down onto the bed.
I look up to see Tark. Grinning, naked.
He motions me to keep silent. Bob is kissing my chest. Suddenly Tark grabs him from behind.
"Nude wrestling!" he yells, dragging a giggling Bob to the floor. "Rowdy Roddy Piper versus the Dynamic Dork!"
No, we didn't have sex. But I did get a sausage sighting of his beer-can penis.
Yes, that makes up for the absence of quiet contemplation in Fond du Lac.
Monday, July 17, 2017
When I go home to Rock Island, I usually do quite well with hookups. Being the new guy in town, I get approached a lot, I have the "I grew up here!" conversation starter, and in the absence of gay bars there's a lot of old-fashioned cruising going on. But earlier this week, when we stopped in Rock Island on the way to New York, I had the MOST DISGUSTING HOOKUP OF ALL TIME.
I blame Bob, the 19 year old economics major I met at the dentist's office a few weeks ago. He was with only one guy before me, but quickly warmed up to the idea of sharing and hooking up.
He had never heard of gay dating apps, and was eager to try out Grindr, so I promised that on our night in Rock Island, he could arrange some hookups for us.
Then I went to the gym while Bob got to work on Grindr, with the profile name "visiting" and nude pictures of us both to share. When I returned, he had the hookups arranged.
"I invited two, in case one doesn't show up, like you taught me," he said. "One for you, a teenager."
I'm actually more attracted to guys in their 30s. I just go with the twinks and Cute Young Things because they approach me all the time, and there aren't a lot of "regular aged" guys on the Plains. But I wasn't going to tell that to Bob the 19-year old, especially when he was so proud of himself.
"And one for me," he added. "Old, muscular, hairy chest, big cock."
Sounded like Bob's would be more my style.
Little did I know.
Chris the Teenager (yes, we carded him) arrived ten minutes late.
Bob got a few of my tastes wrong:
I like them short. He was very tall, like 6'5".
I like them muscular or husky, not chubby. Chris had a ton of soft belly fat, and those big womanly breasts that I find a turn-off.
I like them well-hung. He had maybe 4.5".
But I shouldn't complain -- Bob did his best.
Chris wasn't bad at kissing, and he let me go down on him while he was going down on Bob. But then he lay on the bed with his butt in the air, whispering "Do me, Daddy."
"Let me try!" Bob. "I've never topped anyone before."
Bob has an uncut Bratwurst, about 7", which should be big enough to pass through the fat of Chris's butt cheeks. But he couldn't find the hole! Finally he rubbed off against Chris, a sort of reverse interfemoral, while Chris was going down on me.
Then Chris said he had to go home, since his parents didn't realize that he had borrowed their car.
Not a very satisfying hookup, but I told myself, "Wait for Bob's guy. In his 40s, muscular, big cock. A bodybuilding bear!"
10:00 Sid the Illustrated Man
The guy who showed up was in his 60s, with a long, ugly face and an obvious toupee. He introduced himself and immediately lay down next to Bob, who was still naked, ran his finger over his cock, and put it in his mouth!
"I think it's lube," Bob said. "I tried anal on a guy before."
"Well, it's still delicious!"
Ok, major turn-off. No way I was kissing this guy now!
But he was Bob's hookup, so I had to be polite. I helped him undress.
Very thin, smooth, hairless body covered with tattoos, including spiderwebs, Madonnas, a dagger, a gay pride flag, a skull -- I lost count. Disgusting.
But a cock is a cock.
I started going down on his 6" cut cock, while he lay there, squeezing his nipples, his tongue out like a puppy dog. Disgusting.
Beyond disgusting -- nauseating!
Bob fondled his butt. Was he thinking of doing anal again?
I slapped Sid's butt, and he moaned "That feels good!"
Soon Bob and I were slapping him on the legs, arms, abs, chest, and cock, everywhere but his balls (which he said were sensitive), while he beat off, moaning and squeezing his own nipple and sticking his tongue out like a puppy dog.
Soon he spurted -- and, of course, ate it!
We got him dressed and out of there fast.
I needed a shower. I have never been so disgusted by a hookup in my life.
Bob didn't like him either: "That guy was way too kinky!"
But this morning he asked if he could spank me.
See also: What Not to Say During Sex; A Hookup with Brothers at the Dentist's Office; What is the Difference Between a Pizza and a Penis?