Sunday, December 30, 2018

How Not to be Creepy

I haven't been on Grindr for a few months -- some medical and psychological problems made me uninterested in hookups. But last week, I was feeling better, so I went on Grindr and started cruising.

Nothing.  Crickets.  Robots.

I said hello to a guy who immediately responded "No."

"No what?" I returned. "How do you know what I want?"

"Your creepy profile photo, for one."

Creepy photo?  It's just a selfie of me at the gym, smiling, with my impressive chest on display!







A few days later, I was in Indianapolis for the holidays, and I stopped into the Works, the sex club.   Little success. I managed to go down on a couple of the old guy regulars, but no one hot.

Finally an Asian twink with an enormous cock approached me in the video room, and I went down on him for a few minutes before he beat off to finish.  Literally -- he was getting ready to leave!  As I walked with him toward the lockers, he said "I was kind of leery of you at first."

"Huh?"

"Well, you're hot, but you come off as kind of creepy."

Two "creepy" comments in one week!  And who knows how many other guys failed to respond on Grindr, at the gym, or at the sex club due to my suddenly becoming "creepy"?.

Time to do some research.  What does "creepy" mean, anyhow?  How do you convey it?  How do you overcome it?

Psychologists have determined that the feeling of "creepy" results from uncertainty about a guy's intentions.  If you think he is actually a threat, you will experience anger or fear, and prepare for "fight or flight."  If you aren't sure, you will experience a sort of discomfort, a dread, that will make you want to leave the situation.

Extensive studies have determined what is most likely to be perceived as creepy in a guy (it's almost always men).

1. Any unexpected or unusual appearance or behavior can produce this "creepy" feeling.  Guys often come off as "creepy" with poor grooming, unkept hair, ill-fitting or outdated costumes.  This guy, for instance, has inappropriately bushy hair and a moustache that is no longer in style.









2. You can come off as creepy by breaking very minor rules of personal interaction: keeping eye contact for too long, standing too close, choosing awkward topics of conversation.

Paradoxically, asking questions about someone, the way we indicate interest, comes off as creepy: "Why does he want to know so much about me?  What is his intention?"

3. I guess you're supposed to go through life with your eyes down, because staring or just looking at someone is creepy.  "Why is he looking at me?  What does he want?"  Even in a gay venue, where guys are hoping to hook up with you, you're not supposed to look.

If a guy catches you looking, the "how to not be creepy" articles suggest that you approach and mention something other than his attractiveness.  "Hi, I was just noticing your t-shirt.  Are you a fan of that sports team?"

Even hobbies that involve looking, like photography and bird watching, are creepy.




4. Paradoxically, a smile, the usual way we attempt to convey friendliness, most often comes across as "creepy."  "He's smiling at me -- he wants something.  What?"

Smiles can go wrong in many ways: too broad, crooked, with the head tilted forward or backward.







5. Our eyes widen automatically when we see something pleasant, so we can see it better.  But widened or otherwise bulging eyes are creepy.  "Why is he so interested?  What is his intention?"

There's not much you can do about this one, except watch your head: a head tilted back makes the eyes look bigger.  And creepier.


















6. "Creepy" is usually connected to the phrase "creepy old guy" because age is the most common signal of creepiness.  When someone who is "too old" looks at, smiles at, or approaches you, you experience that dread: "An old guy!  What does he want with me?"

Even if you find him attractive!

This may have to do with our paradoxical attitude toward age.  Older people are powerful and command our respect, but they're also obsolete and laughably old-fashioned. We don't know how to respond.


The "how not to be creepy" articles suggest that you are automatically creepy to people younger than "half your age plus 7."

So if you are 60, anyone under 37.  If you are 40, anyone under 27.


Pity the poor twinks, attracted to older guys but constantly being creeped out when older guys approach them.

And those of us on the plus side of 40, twink magnets when they approach us, "creepy old guys" when we approach them!  It makes Saturday night at the bar a minefield.

So if you're out jogging and you see this guy washing his car, don't look, don't smile, don't ask him any questions.  Just stop, pull out your cell phone, and wait for him to approach you.

Saturday, December 29, 2018

My New Year's Eve Sex Party with the College Track Star



Indianapolis, December 2016

I had been looking at pictures like the one below, and reading sext messages, for three months, ever since I met Ryan H., the college track star, in a diner in small-town Illinois.  Finally, just before Christmas, I drove into Champaign, and he took me out on a date, which involved meeting his parents, a wrestling meet, a mediocre dinner, hanging out with his friend, but NO SEX.

Three months of anticipation, and I didn't even get to go down on him!

Ryan asked me out on a second date, to a "21 and Under" pizza party in Indianapolis on New Year's Eve.

I never go out on New Year's Eve.

I definitely didn't want to go to a teenage party at age 56.

And I DEFINITELY definitely didn't want to go to a teenage party that results in nothing more intimate than a kiss on the doorstep.

But take a look at that combination of face, physique, and Mortadella+!  Maybe there's some way  I can talk the conservative Ryan H. into dropping his drawers.

I texted him and offered to take him to a "Real West Hollywood-style Gay Party" on New Year's Eve.



"I've never been to a party with all gay guys before," Ryan said.  "Sounds exciting, but I'm also a little nervous.  There won't be any drugs, will there?"

"No drinking, no drugs, just some desserts and party games."

Now I just had to arrange the party.

I asked Tyler to be the host.  He's the "son" of my ex-boyfriend Fred (actually the son of his roommate): a chef, 33 years old, very tall, with a tight physique, curly black hair, a scrubby beard, a hairy chest, and a cut Bratwurst+.

I contacted the other two gay guys I knew in Indianapolis, Ryan the museum guard and Simon the church organist, but they were both busy.

 "I'll take care of the party guests," Tyler offered.  But by December 28th, he had managed to get solid commitments from only two of his ex-boyfriends (Jesse and Sandoval), both bears in their 50s.

Tyler likes them older.

Five guys is enough for a West Hollywood-style party, but there should be a mix of sizes, shapes, and ages.  Ryan H., at age 19, would be the youngest guy there by over a decade.  I needed to get someone close to his own age.

Fortunately, I'm a twink magnet.  On December 28th, I got cruised by the waiter in a crazy retro restaurant: Mike, age 23, medium height, on the thin side, with a round face, heavy eyebrows, and short brown hair (top photo).  We went out on the 29th (oral bottom), and I invited him to the party.

That made six, a perfect number.

Most West Hollywood Parties begin at 6:00, but since it was New Year's Eve and we would be up until midnight, I picked up Ryan H. at the Sheraton at 7:00 pm, shook hands with his parents, and kissed and groped him in the elevator on the way down to the lobby.  Then we drove to Tyler's apartment.

Pre-Dinner Conversation

The usual coming out stories, dates from hell, enormous penises, and celebrity hookups.  I told about my date with Michael J. Fox, which impressed the older guys but not Ryan -- he looked away.  I started telling about my hookup with Justin, the supersized guy at the gym, but stopped when Ryan picked up a magazine.  Bored? Embarrassed?

This was the guy who had been sending me nude selfies for three months.

Dinner

Tyler served a traditional Greek New Year's Eve dinner: a lamb-macaroni dish, a cabbage salad, and vasilopita  There was wine, but Ryan, Mike, and I drank Diet Coke.  Then he passed out bowls of green grapes.

"Have a mouthful of grapes when the clock strikes midnight," he said, "For good luck in the coming year."

"What if my mouth is already full?" I asked, looking at Ryan.  He looked away.

Embarrassed?  Was I doing something wrong?

The Entertainment

We played Gay Trivial Pursuit, in teams: Ryan and Mike, and Tyler and his bear friends.  I was the moderator.   In what year was Stonewall?  What gay-themed movie won the best picture Oscar in 1982?  What was the name of the first gay character on prime time tv?  Which famous American writer was gay?

Tyler's team won easily.  Ryan and Mike belonged to the post-gay generation, with mostly straight friends and little knowledge of their history and culture.


The "Guess the Sausage" Contest

Here's where things would get erotic.  Everybody had to go into the bathroom and snap a picture of their penis, flaccid, then text it to Tyler, who printed them out.

The one who guessed all five correctly got to spend 10 minutes alone in the bedroom with the guy of his choice.

It's not easy, even if you've been with the guy before. I had been with Mike and Tyler, and I had no trouble guessing Ryan's gigantic Mortadella+, but I got the two bears mixed up.

But Tyler got them all right, and chose to go into the bedroom with -- me!

I dutifully followed him into the bedroom.

"Why me?"  I asked.  "I'm staying here!  We had sex this morning!"

"I know.  Why do you think I want some more?"  He pushed me to my knees.

"Ok, but we need to do another penis contest.  I want to get with Ryan before the night's over."

"Sure, sure."  He unzipped.   I shrugged and went down on him.

When we returned, Ryan was glaring at me.  Had I done something wrong?

The Arousal Contest

For this contest, everybody had to get naked and stand still.  The first person to get fully aroused without touching himself or being touched by anyone else won, and could ask anyone he wanted to go down on him.

Older guys and guys who are well hung don't get fully aroused easily, but Mike the Waiter sprang to life immediately. And chose -- me!

"You've already been with me," I protested.  "Are you sure you don't want one of these other guys instead?"

"I made my choice," Mike said, grinning.  "Rules are rules."

I dutifully followed him into the bedroom, where we kissed and fondled, and he went down on me.

Auld Lange Syne

By this time it was nearly midnight, so we gathered around the tv, still naked, to watch the ball drop on Time Square.  I sat on the couch between to Ryan H. and Jesse the Bear.  At the stroke of midnight, I grabbed Ryan and kissed him and fondled his Mortadella+.  He smiled, pushed me away, and started eating his grapes.

"Grapes for luck in the New Year."

"Right.  I should eat my grapes, too.  I wonder where..."

At that moment, Jesse enveloped me in a hug and kissed me.  He was a good kisser, and I became aroused.  I felt someone go down on me -- Ryan, probably.

No, it was the other bear, Sandoval.

Sharing

Desperate, I pushed his head away.  "Ok, time for the sharing," I said.  "Ryan, you and me, and who wants to join us?  Mike?"

"Actually, I'm a little tired," Ryan said.  He was pulling on his pants. "It's been a fun party, but I'd like to go home now, if that's ok?"

"Um...sure.  Just let me get dressed, and I'll drive you back to the Sheraton."

"The downtown Sheraton?"  Sandoval asked.  "Jesse and I are going that way.  We'll be happy to drop you off."

A few minutes later, Ryan H. was gone, along with the bears, leaving me alone with Tyler and Mike.

Mike grinned.  "About that sharing..."

I wasn't really in the mood, but I dutifully went down on Tyler while Mike was going down on me, then bottomed for interfemoral -- Mike on top of me with his cock between my legs, and Tyler topping him.

But all the time, I was thinking of Ryan H., the college track star who I somehow managed to offend.

He unfriended me on Facebook, and he hasn't responded to my texts since that night.

See also: My Christmas Date with the College Track Star.; I Spend the Night with Fred's Son; Cruised by the Waiter in a Crazy Retro Restaurant

Friday, December 28, 2018

Nude Men in Airport Searches

I fly as little as possible nowadays, when  you're packed into a tiny hobbit-sized seat for 2 hours, there are almost no direct flights so you have to change planes, and the delay and cancellation rate have soared to nearly 50%.

And flights are always overbooked, a practice that would be illegal in any other business.  If you buy a theater ticket, that seat in the theater is waiting for you.  If you buy an airplane ticket, they may sell your seat to someone else, betting that both of you won't show up and they can get paid twice.






And those endless security lines.
1. Take off your coat, shoes, and belt and pile them in a little gray bin.
2. Take your laptop out of its case and put it in another bin
3. Put everything in your pockets into a third bin.
4. Don't forget bins for your carry-on luggage.
5. And your toiletries, including expensive carry-on sizes of your toothpaste and mouthwash.
5. Follow the orders that the gruff TSA agent barks at you.
6. Collect your stuff and get dressed again.
7. Replenish your water supply with their expensive bottled water.

Sometimes I've just said "forget it," and turned around to go home.




In 2011, University of Cincinnati architectural student Aaron Tobe performed a protest.  When he went through security, he took off his shirt, revealing te Fourth Amendment (against "unreasonable searches") on his chest.

He was arrested for "disorderly conduct" and interrogated for 45 minutes about whether he belonged to a terrorist group and whether he was planning to blow anything up. Finally the charges were dropped.

Maybe they just wanted to spend 45 minutes staring at Aaron's chest.







Other people have protested the brutopian TSA regulations by wearing swimsuits or skivvies through security, or by getting completely nude.  Airport security is not amused.

















In the years following 9/11, I was chosen "at random" for an extra pat-down every time every time I got on a plane.

Every time, without exception.

Eventually I figured it out: I wore a beard, I had a leather jacket, and I traveled light.  Terrorist!

The beard came off, the jacket came off, I brought along an extra suitcase, and the pat-downs stopped.










But I'm still chosen "at random" nearly every time for those special scanners that show you naked.  I've had my penis on display more often at airports than at bath houses.

Maybe the TSA agents just want to check out my package.

See also: 36 Hours of Cruising at Lambert International Airport








Monday, December 24, 2018

Bullfighter Bulges

Matadors, the chief player in bullfights, wear stylized, flamboyant costumes with so many tassels, threads, and brocades that they need a dresser.

The bulge is an essential part of the costume, an overt, obvious sign of the matador's manhood.















Either all matadors are exceptionally well hung, or they pad down there.


















You can even see the teeth marks, as we used to say in West Hollywood.
















Of course, in a real corrida, you're seeing them from a great distance, while sitting in a gigantic stadium, but when his bulge is almost as big as his head, you can't help but notice.

















This matador is on the small side, which means enormous for everybody else.

More after the break.
















Friday, December 21, 2018

Ballet Bulges

What else do you go to the ballet for?

The tight-fitting lycra is meant to facilitate the complex leg movements necessary for a ballet performance, but it has an even more interesting function.















Of course, everyone pretends not to notice.
























You're not going to see anything more detailed than a bulge.  Ballet dancers typically wear a "dance belt," a sort of snug jock strap to keep them from flopping around during complicated moves.















But just a bulge is fine.























Ballet dancers must be very athletic, but there are few biceps and pecs on display in most ballets.

If you want biceps and pecs, go to the gym.  The ballet is for bulges.

More after the break.














Sunday, December 16, 2018

Coming Out with John Travolta


Rock Island, June 1978

During the summer of 1978, I figured "it" out.  At the movies.

I didn’t go to movies much when I was a kid. Our church forbade them, and besides, I didn’t get an allowance until junior high.  In 1968, I saw only 3 movies in a theater: Blackbeard’s Ghost, Yours, Mine, and Ours, and Oliver!

But during the summer of 1978, shortly after my senior prom, I was a high school graduate.  I had a job at the Carousel Snack Bar and my own car: money and freedom. And I went to all the movies I could.

During the 10 weeks of summer, from Memorial Day to Labor Day, I saw 21 movies, alone, with my brother, with Aaron and Darry and a boy I liked: Old Marx Brothers comedies at the Film Club, dollar movies at the Augustana Student UnionThe Rocky Horror Picture Show at the Nuart, and lots of blockbusters at the Showcase Cinemas (Animal House, The Cheap Detective, The End, The Eyes of Laura Mars,  Grease, The Greek Tycoon, Seniors....). 

You probably think that Rocky Horror did it.  No, it was Grease.

It's a heterosexist boy-meets-girl fable, drawing on the 1950s craze, and therefore kin to Lords of Flatbush,  Happy Days and Laverne and Shirley): during their senior year at Rydell High in the 1950s (actually 1962), "nice girl" Sandy (Olivia Newton-John) falls for greaser Danny (John Travolta), but he is only interested in girls who "put out." So her friends, the Pink Ladies, give her a tramp-makeover, and Danny is lured in.

But more: it's about masks, surface conformity hiding our true selves. Danny is sweet, sensitive, and caring, but his culture requires a pretense of machismo. When he falls for Sandy, he is forbidden from acknowledging that he is in love; it's supposed to be all about sex.  Sandy, meanwhile, learns to hide her true self under a sleazy, leather-clad, cigarette-smoking facade.

At the time, both were heavily rumored to be gay.  Conforming, wearing a mask.

But girls can only lure, hint at sexual availability.  There are dire consequences for actually giving in, as Rizzo (Stockard Channing) learns (pictured with her boyfriend Kenickie, played by Boomer Conaway of Taxi).


What do the teenagers want, when they are their true selves?  Not sex.  Not romance. They want belonging, an emotional connection.  As the movie ends, the eight friends wonder what will become of them after graduation.  Will they go their separate ways?  "No," Danny exclaims.  "That'll never happen. We'll always be together."

"Grease," performed by Frankie Valli, was constantly on the radio that summer.

"This is a world of illusion, out of control, makes us confused": nothing is real, you have to wear the mask, say things you don't mean, pretend things you don't feel.

 But "The adults are lying -- only real is real"  It's all one big lie.

Over and over, day after day, year after year, they try to make you believe that what you feel doesn't exist, what you want doesn't exist, that no same-sex love has ever happened in all the history of the world.

It's all one big lie. Only real is real.

So: "We stop the fight right now, we got to be what we feel."

That did it.

I didn't actually see the movie that day; the song came during the opening credits.

The adults are lying; only real is real.
We stop the fight right now.  We got to be what we feel.

I'm probably the only person to start sobbing during the opening credits of Grease.

I had to run out of the theater and sit in my car and cry.

The adults are lying; only real is real.
We stop the fight right now.  We got to be what we feel.

Tears of joy, of relief.  Years of lying, years of being lied to, of invisibility, of deathly silence, of assertions that "what you feel does not and cannot exist," all vanished in a moment.  The scales fell away.  I understood everything.

It's been 40 years, but I still tear up thinking about it.

Wednesday, December 12, 2018

Fangorn's First Hookup, with Allen Ginsberg and Peter Orlovsky

San Francisco, November 2010

I'm living in Upstate New York, but back in San Francisco for a conference, staying with my friend David.  We meet some guys at the Red Jade Restaurant on Church Street:  Matt my ex-boyfriend's ex-boyfriend, a South Asian Daddy named Tutor, Seth the Chemist, and his new boyfriend Fangorn.

(I'm not kidding -- he was named after the forest in The Lord of the Rings.)

They live in Santa Rosa, about an hour's drive north of San Francisco.  Seth teaches at Sonoma State, and Fangorn grows onions.

They make quite a pair.  Seth is slim, blond, sharp-jawed, clean-cut, and Fangorn a big, hairy, husky nature boy with long hair and a beard.

We discuss the usual gigantic penises, dates from hell, and celebrity hookups.  Matt tells about his date with Bronson Pinchot, star of Perfect Strangers.  David tells about hooking up with Skyler Stone, who we know from Raising Hope.  I stick to Michael J. Fox.

"Do poets count?" Fangorn asks, "Or do they have to be on the boob tube?"

I hate anti-tv elitists!  I start to roil.

"Sure, poets are fine," I say through gritted teeth.  "As long as they're famous."

"How many famous poets are there, that were alive in the last fifty years?" David asks.

"William Carlos Williams?" Matt suggests.

"Allen Ginsberg.  Back when I was a college kid, still named Dennis.  In fact, my first gay experience was with Ginsberg and his lover, Peter Orlovsky."

We all know Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997), the Beat poet whose Howl was required reading for anyone coming out in a homophobic society:

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked....
who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,
who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love,
who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whomever come who may,
who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword


He became a guru to the youth counterculture of the 1960s.  

He was gay, in a life-long and presumably monogamous relationship with fellow writer Peter Orlovsky (1933-2010.  I've seen them both naked in many films and photographs, and read their homoerotic poetry, but I've never met anyone who hooked up with them.

Boulder, Colorado, July 1975

Dennis was 20 years old, tall and slim, a Creative Writing major at the University of Iowa, a would-be poet desperate to see his stuff published in chapbooks and in little magazines.  

"What a coincidence!" I exclaim.  "I'm from the Quad Cities, just down the road from Iowa City. Did you ever go to the gay bars in Rock Island?"

"No, I wasn't out yet."

He was a lapsed Lutheran, not a pagan yet, and, as far as he knew, straight, although his sexual experience was limited to fumbling around in the car with his date on the night of the senior prom.

He loved the Beat poets, especially Allen Ginsberg, so in the summer of 1975 he enrolled in the Jack Kerouc School of Disembodied Poetics at the Naropa Institute in Boulder, Colorado.

It was a primitive school with no classrooms, no dorms, no buildings at all, meeting in various rented spaces in Boulder, including an old bus depot and an apartment over a Chinese restaurant.  But the intellectual and spiritual energy was amazing: not only Allan Ginsberg but Chongyam Trungpa Rimpoche, Anne Waldman, Ram Das, Gregory Bateson, John Cage, and Gary Snyder were lecturing, performing, and holding classes on such topics as Buddhism, Earth religions, social movements, and poetry. 


There were 1,500 students from all over the world, all ages, staying 8 to a room in hotels and apartments, and sleeping in tents in North Boulder Park.  

Dennis enrolled in Allen Ginsberg's class in the History of Mahayana Buddhism, and Peter Orlovsky's class in Poetry Writing.

Ginsberg was 49 years old, balding, bearded, chubby.  Orlovsky was 42, slim, with long hair and intense eyes.

"They never said anything about being gay.  I didn't even know that they were lovers until someone told me." 

The classes were something of a disappointment.  Ginsberg lectured on historical sources like any professor, except that he was cross-legged on the floor, and occasionally chanted a Sanskrit text.  Orlovsky had students sit in a circle and discuss each other's submissions, the standard creative writing class you could get in any university.

And Naropa wasn't all about spiritual enlightenment and the unspeakable visions of the individual.  There were fist-fights and drunken brawls.  Two naked hippies rushed into a classroom and began tearing off a girl's clothes, screaming about "breaking free from the shackles of capitalism."  The Rimpoche invited a dozen girls and a handful of boys to his house every night for Tantric orgies that lasted until dawn.

In contrast, Ginsberg and Orlovsky seemed positively sedate. They didn't participate in the drinking or the orgies.  Every night they returned to their quiet, nondescript home near downtown Boulder, exactly like a middle-aged heterosexual couple.

Dennis had never met anyone gay before.  He expected flamboyance, camp, and nonstop sexual come-ons. But neither Ginsberg nor Orlovsky ever propositioned him.    

Not that Dennis would accept, of course -- he was straight.  But...from everything he had heard, gay men weren't picky -- they would try to get into the pants of anyone with a penis!  Didn't they find him attractive? 

What was wrong with him?

He started coming to class with his shirt off, hoping his bare chest would draw their attention.

Nothing.  

He stuffed a sock into his crotch.

Nothing.

He positioned himself next to Orlovsky in the writing circle, and casually rubbed his foot against Orlovksy's calf.  

Still nothing.

Finally Dennis decided to take a more aggressive approach. He caught up with Orlovsky and Ginsberg as they walked home for the evening, pushed between them, and put his arm around Ginsberg's waist.  Ginsberg didn't push away.  Instead, he wrapped his arm around Dennis.  Orlovsky looked over, smiled, and wrapped his arm around Dennis, too.

But were they propositioning him, or just being affectionate?  Dennis had to know for sure!

"I have a question.  I hope it's cool.  How did you guys know that you were...um..gay?"  He had never said the word aloud before.

"I think you already know the answer to that question," Ginsberg said.

"What -- no!  I'm just asking.  I'm straight.  I never been with a guy before, and I don't want to."

"Then why are you here?"

"Please master can I touch your cheek," Orlovksy recited.  "Please master can I kneel at your feet.  Please master can I loosen your blue pants.  Please master can I gaze at your golden haired belly..."

Dennis had never heard that Ginsberg poem before.  The image it evoked was tantalizing.  But he said "No!"  and broke away.

"We're going to go home and get naked," Ginsberg said.  "You can join us, if you like.  Or you can wait.  We live thousands of lives -- you have plenty of time."

A few moments later, he was going down on Ginsberg's average sized penis -- still, it made him gag -- and then trying Orlovsky's thin Bratwurst.  Then he bottomed for Ginsberg while Orlovsky went down on him.  They giggled and pawed, and cracked jokes -- to them it was just play.  

But to Dennis it was a transformation.  

San Francisco, November 2010

"Many gay men still think of sex as play, a form of recreation," Fangorn says.  "They don't understand how much spiritual power it has.  It can transform you."

"So...," David says... "I guess you and Seth won't be sharing our out-of-town guest tonight?"

"Let's not be hasty!"  His hand falls into my lap.  "Sex can transform you, certainly, but it can also be a pleasant ending to an evening of dinner and conversation."

Seth laughs.  "Fangorn likes three-ways better than one-on-one sex.  I guess you're always trying to replicate your first experience."  

"Great!" I exclaim.  "My first experience was with an incredibly well-hung high school violinist.  Fangorn, can you live up to his lofty standards?"

He did.

Monday, December 10, 2018

104 Naked Men

On The Mary Tyler Moore Show back in the 1970s, Mary Richards complains that she's 36 years old. She started dating at age 16, and she goes on about two dates per week.  That's 2,000 dates, and she still hasn't found Mr. Right.

She's horrified by the waste, but I was intrigued.  2,000 dates.  What's wrong with going to movies, concerts, plays, museums, and dinners 2000 times?

She had a fiance for four years (400 dates), and assuming 10 other long-term boyfriends (50 dates each), and an average of 3 dates with the rest before dumping them, that's 377 men.  What's wrong with talking to 377 men, discussing books and movies, hearing their stories, getting to know them?

And seeing them naked?

Ok, in 2009, when I met Troy, I was 48 years old.  By the time Mary Richards got to that age, she would have dated 576 men.  Let's see how I stack up:

I'm going to count a "date" as a preplanned evening event involving a meal or entertainment with an individual who is recognized as a current or potential romantic partner.  That excludes daytime activities, evenings with friends, informal "hanging out," parties, sharing, and hookups.

High School and Before: 0.  None of the guys I went out with recognized that we were current or potential romantic partners.

Augustana College. 8, including Fred the Ministerial Student, Brian, Mickey (the Russian guy I met at the Des Moines Gay Pride Parade), and Bob (the Greek Orthodox priest with the pushy mom).  I'm going to count Professor Burton, the guy with the handcuff parties, too.

Indiana University: 5, including Jimmy the Bodybuilder on Crutches, Scott the Shy Undergraduate, and the assistant to the attorney general of the State of Indiana.

Hell-fer Sartain, Texas: 2.  A lot of hookups, not many dates, just the Cowboy Cop on my Sausage List and a crazy New Age guy.

West Hollywood: 23.  Long-term relationships with Raul and Lane, several boyfriends, including Alan and my celebrity boyfriend, plus the Bulgarian Bodybuilder, Marcus with the Beneath-the-Belt Mystery, the Most Conservative Professor on Campus, the Thug on my Sausage List, and the Cowboy of Kangaroo Island, Several from Mugi, including guys from Burma, Cambodia, Thailand, and Vietnam.  A few more celebrities.

Nashville: 3. I only spent a semester there, but I dated three guys, including the Medieval Knight, the Country-Western Singer, and Larry, who discovered that his fetish was being spanked.

San Francisco: 4.  Long-term relationship with Lane and a steady boyfriend with Kevin the Vampire didn't leave much time for dating.

New York: 16.  When I turned 40, every twink on Earth started pushing and shoving to get into my bedroom.  Two long-term boyfriends, Blake and Joe.  Yuri (we dated twice before we started being just friends).  Jaan, Nastiest Guy in the World, the other Joe, Avi, the Biggest Guy on my Sausage List, the Filipino on my Sausage List, and the guy who got a demon exorcised out of him.




Florida: 18.  The twink trend continued in Florida, with Matt the Security Guard, the Frisian Bodybuilder, the Comic Book Guy, Randy (Hurricane Party), the High School Bodybuilder, Fabian (for whom everything was fabulous!), and several more.

Dayton: 12. Paul, Charlie, the Linguist who wouldn't shut up, Carlos who had a secret, the Blind Guy.  And I'm going to count my Friend with Benefits, since we had dinner.

Upstate: 13.  Nine dates with members of the Gang of Twelve, plus a few miscellaneous dates before I started dating Troy in the fall of 2009.

Total: 104!  




Why so few?

1. In gay communities it is considered vulgar to date several guys at once.  It's one, then see if it works out, then another.
2. You tend to give relationships more time, dating for several months before going on to the next.
3. There are no clear-cut divisions between boyfriends and friends. You can go out with a friend, and spend the night afterwards, but not classify it as a date.
4. There are many more social activities that aren't classified as dates.  Spending time at home, in pairs or groups, having brunch or lunch, having people over for dinner, cruising together, going to bear parties and to the beach.
5. Breaking up with a romantic partner does not mean that the relationship, or the sexual activity, will end.

Or maybe heterosexuals are more promiscuous.

Sunday, December 9, 2018

Tintin Porn

Teenage reporter Tintin (here played by Jean-Pierre Talbot) and his foul-mouthed companion, Captain Haddock, appeared in 26 French comic albums (1930-1976), adventuring in such exotic locales as Egypt, Tibet,  America, and the Moon.  They have been translated into over 100 languages.  Although often derided as old-fashioned, as blandly heroic, Tintin is still popular among adults and children alike.

He comes from an era where children's adventure stories typically omitted hetero-romance, so there is none.  Neither Tintin nor Captain Haddock display the slightest heterosexual interest.  Instead, they live together, rescue each other, become jealous over the male competition, and walk side by side into the sunset, The gay subtexts are frequent.

And the fan re-imaginings.


Tintin rarely appeared shirtless in the original strips, and when he did, he had a non-descript cartoon physique.  So why not give him a chest?















Or make him and the Captain nude altogether?

I like how Tintin's pubic hair reflects his trademark wave, but his penis is rather small.  He's an adult, not a child.











 A muscular, bulging Tintin, and a Haddock with a shaved chest and a cock ring.


















No nudity, but a nice chest for Tintin, and his relationship with Haddock is depicted as openly erotic.

















A bit more explicit.  Notice that Tintin is wearing Haddock's captain hat.  I don't know why Haddock has blank Orphan Annie eyes.










A gag strip in which Tintin discovers Haddock's previous relationship with Popeye.  I don't care for absurdly oversized penises, but I like Tintin's chest hair, and the fact that he's about to top Haddock.  Older guys get very tired of always having to top the Cute Young Things.

See also: Tintin and Captain Haddock

L

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