Thursday, January 25, 2018

The Colonial Williamsburg Boy Finds Out What Gay Means

My friend Barry in New York, the short, blondish muscle guy who was exorcized from a homophobic demon, grew up in Colonial Williamsburg, the historical park in Virginia where people live full-time in 18th century houses, wear historic costumes, and pretend that they're living in the 18th century.

He went to a regular school, but had to sneak into his house through the back door afterwards.  The front of the house had to maintain the illusion in detail.  No modern appliances.  No window decals.  No air conditioners.

 And, whenever they went out onto Duke of Gloucester Street, he and his family had to put on wigs and tricorner hats and say "Aye" a lot while thousands of tourists gawked at them.

All heterosexual husbands and wives towing dozens of kids.

He never saw a same-sex couple.  This was his destiny.  No hope for the future.

To make matters worse, his parents were conservative Catholics who didn't want him to know that same-sex desire existed.  He was not permitted the minimal gay content on tv and in movies in the 1980s.  He never heard about gay people at school, at church, or among his friends, either.

"Wait -- you never heard about gay people, at the height of the AIDS crisis?  Not even in homophobic diatribes?"
"I heard that AIDS was God's punishment on 'bad people" for having sex outside of marriage.  I thought it meant heterosexuals."

No gay people existed.  Instead, he was told, over and over again, a hundred times a day,  "You will grow up, meet the Girl of Your Dreams, get married, and have kids.  Every boy does.  It is universal human experience."

His destiny.  No hope for the future.

Sounds like my childhood, only 14 years later.

I survived through the orchestra, running, and paradoxically, the church.

Barry played music, too, but he was too shy and awkward for sports (he bulked up later), and he hated church.  So he turned inside.

By the time he was 15, he was smoking cigarettes and getting drunk once or twice a week.  He was soon experimenting with marijuana and other drugs.  He got high while listening to Madonna and Duran Duran in the darkness of his room.

"Good choices -- Hungry Like a Wolf.,,"

But eventually he had to go downstairs again, to Prince George Street, where he wore a tricorner hat and got gawked at by the tourists, husbands, wives, and kids.

His destiny.  No hope for the future.

The story of how Barry got his life back on track begins with his first sexual experience.


One day in high school he was "on," marching down the Duke of Gloucester Street with the Fife and Drum Corps, when he noticed a tourist outside the Courthouse, watching him intently.

Older, probably in his 30s, dark haired, bearded, his yellow t-shirt revealing a muscular physique and a hairy chest.

Hot!  Barry smiled at him.

Why did he seem so out of place?  Suddenly Barry figured it out -- he was alone.  Tourists always came in groups of husbands, wives, and a bunch of kids.

Was his wife somewhere else, with the kids in tow?  Or was there a possibility that some men avoided the wife-and-kids trap, lived free?

They marched down three blocks, turned in formation, and marched back.  The older man was still there, watching him.  Barry smiled again.

When they finished their performance, the other guys scattered, to put on their street clothes and hit Rick's Diner, their hangout, but Barry walked back toward the Courthouse.  The tourist was walking east, toward the Raleigh Tavern.

Not really understanding why, Barry ran to catch up with him.

"Good morrow, sir," he said politely, tipping his hat.  "Did you enjoy our performance?"

The tourist turned and flashed a smile that made Barry melt inside.  "I liked it, but I'm not sure you did.  You looked kind of uncomfortable."

Stay in character!  "Perhaps I'm not accustomed to such a throng of spectators.  Although this is the capital of Virginia Colony, it has only about 1,000 residents."

"Do you want to study music in college?"

"Well, there are no music faculties in colonial universities, but indeed one day when I am married, I hope to play for my supper and thereby support my wife and children." 

The tourist frowned.  "You don't have to talk like that," he said, staring intently as if he could see into Barry's soul.  "You don't have to pretend."  

Surely he meant "You don't have to pretend to be a Colonial," but Barry heard "The adults are lying.  You can be who you are."

His whole world came crashing down around him.  His whole life was a lie, as empty as the Colonial facades, with nothing behind  it but darkness.

Horrified, Barry ran away -- not home, but to a secret place he knew, a little copse of trees behind the Public Gaol, where he went to hide from the world, from his heterosexual destiny.

He stopped, breathing heavily, overcome by sadness and rage.  He saw that the tourist had followed.

"What's wrong, kid?  You ok?"

Barry was most definitely not ok. 

"I'm...I'm..." he stammered.  Then he started to cry.

The tourist put his arms around him.  Barry had never been embraced by a man before, not even by his father.  He had never known that a chest could be so hard.

He clung to the tourist, running his hands over his chest and shoulders. Then they were kissing.

Men could kiss each other?

 They fell onto the soft summer ground, and the tourist undid the buttons of Barry's colonial breeches and went down on him.


He had never felt such an explosion of desire.

Afterwards they walked down Francis Street together.

"I didn't know there were other guys in the world who...you know...wanted to kiss."

The tourist laughed.  "Oh, there are thousands of gay people.   Maybe millions."

He had never heard the word "gay" before.

"There are bars for us down in Norfolk.  And whole neighborhoods where we can hold hands and kiss in public."

"I don't believe it!" Barry exclaimed.  "Where?"

"New York.  There's the East Village, Chelsea, Fire Island...."

They said goodbye somewhere around the campus of William and Mary.

It would take years, and a lot of work, to overcome his childhood of silence and despair.

But now, at least, he had a name.  And he had a future.

See also: A Hookup with Barry and the Poz Boy; David's First Sexual Experience.

Wednesday, January 24, 2018

Sausage Sighting of James Arness on Makaha Beach


I'm Ali, short for Alika, "Guardian."  I was born and raised in Makaha, the surfing capital of the world.

Kind of a bummer when you hate surfing.

I was a bit of a chubby kid, not at all athletic, and a "sissy" -- I got picked on a lot.   I liked to hang out on the beach and look at the surfers, but I didn't like hanging out with them.  They're, as a rule, macho, sexist, and way homophobic, surfing to "prove" their manhood, goading each other on with homophobic slurs.  Even today, there are no openly gay professional surfers.  You have to have a wife and kids back home.

Imagine what it was like when I was growing up in the 1960s!

The only surfer I could stand was my classmate Brian Keaulana  -- Native Hawaiian, with beautiful dark skin, brown eyes, and a smooth muscular chest.  He teased me all the time, but at least he wasn't mean.  No tripping, no hitting, just ribbing me on being momona (fat), and on watching tv all the time.

I did watch a lot of tv.  I longed to escape from the island, find my way into the world of Lost in Space (Billy Mumy, sigh!) or That Girl (I wanted to be Ann Marie, and get to kiss Donald Hollinger).

Or Gunsmoke.

Marshall Dillon (James Arness) was exactly my type: tall, broad-shouldered, deep-voiced, a Grade-A cowboy complete with 10-gallon hat and leather vest.  And what a bulge on him!  You could see it moving around every time he walked.  What I wouldn't give to be captured and tied up by the bad guys, and have Marshall Dillon burst in to save the day!  Maybe carry me off into the sunset, for lots of kissing and hugging!

Remember, I was like nine or ten years old.  I wouldn't be thinking about going down on guys for a few years.

One day I told my friend Brian about my crush on Marshall Dillon -- omitting the kissing and hugging, of course -- and he said "I know him.  We buddies."

"Not!"  I exclaimed.  Surely he was putting me on!

"No lie, Brah.  He's a surfer, and his son, too."

"Not a surfer, a cowboy!"I protested, angry.  He had no right to pull my Archetypal Cowboy out of his mythic setting in the Old West and plop him down into the mundane, every day world of Makana Beach!

"Don't be buggin', Brah!  He an actor, right, come over here from the Mainland to surf.  His son, too.  They tight with my dad, come for dinner, play Matchbook cars, like that."  His father was Buff Keaulana, a lifeguard and former surfing great.

"You lolo, or pull my leg!"

"I can prove it!  Next time James Arness comes to Hawaii, you come over for dinner, too."

I figured he was just blowing hot air, but sure enough, a few weeks later, Brian invited me to lunch at James Arness' house!

Apparently he really was a surfer -- he and Rolf rented a bungalow on Makana Beach two or three times a year, and flew out from L.A. for a surfing vacation.

When Brian and I arrived, James, Rolf, Buff, Corky, and a couple of guys I didn't know were sitting on deck chairs in swimsuits, eating take-out bentos full of poke (raw fish), tako (octopus), chicken and rice, and liliko (passionfruit).

 An all-male party full of hot guys in swimsuits!  My hormones should have been spilling out all over the place, but I couldn't my eyes off James Arness.  Broad shoulders, smooth chest, gigantic bulge visible in his swimsuit.

Brian introduced me, and he grabbed my hand with his huge paw.  "Are you a surfer?"  he asked.

Marshall Dillon was talking to me!  "Oh...um...I can't...I mean..."

"Ali is delicate" Brian said.  "Like a butterfly.  He'll melt in the water."

"I don't...um...I don't have the balance for surfing."

"It just takes a little confidence," James said, squeezing my shoulder.  "How about if after lunch I give you a lesson?"

A surfing lesson from Marshall Dillon!  The mind reels!  "I don't have my swim trunks with me, though."

"I'm sure we can find something for you to wear.  One of Rolf's spares."

"You joke?" Brian said.  "He so ono, can fit into Big Jim's trunks."

"Don't be mean!"  His father scolded.  "Ali can't help it he's big."

"No lie! He wears big boy pants!"

"I'll bet I could wear your trunks," I said.  Swim trunks that had been next to James Arness on my body!  The next best thing to touching him!

"I'm 6'7, and I weigh 275 pounds," Big Jim said.  "I've got a 48 inch chest and a 43 inch waist.  Two of Ali could fit into my swim trunks."

"I can prove it," Brian said.  "Take 'em off, and let Ali try them on."

I'm still not sure why Big Jim didn't get a spare swimsuit for me to try on, but he didn't.  He stood, put his bento to one side, and dropped his pants.  His penis hung down at least 5".

I gasped in awe.  I had never seen anything so beautiful!

"Oh, yeah, I'm big there, too," Big Jim said, with a smile.  He lifted his legs one at a time, so his swimsuit would slide off, then handed it to me. "Do your worst."

Without taking my eyes away, I took off my shoes, then my pants, leaving my underwear on.  I pulled Big Jim's swimsuit on -- way too big, of course.

"Wait, wait!" Brian exclaimed.  "I'm heading in, too, pardner."  He stripped to his underwear, then climbed into the swim trunks and slid them up.  They got to just above our knees.  "See, two of us!"

I was standing face to face with Brian Keaulana, our crotches and thighs pressed together, while a naked James Arness stood behind us.  Can you think of a better fantasy scenario?

I never did get that surfing lesson, and I never saw James Arness again.  Apparently when his son graduated from high school, he lost interest in surfing, and James didn't want to fly out to Hawaii without him.

When I was fifteen, Brian Keaulani and I started having sex.  But that's another story.


Sunday, January 21, 2018

Ten Guys I'd Definitely Kick Out of Bed

I never refuse an offer to go down on a friend or a friend's boyfriend, or to have him go down on me.  It's just basic courtesy, like a handshake in the straight world.  Who cares if he's not at all my type?  A penis is a penis.

When guys approach me at a bar or on Grindr, I'm a little picker, but still, I say "yes" to most requests for or hookups.  I figure, why not?  A penis is a penis.  Typically I'll refuse only if:

1. I've already had a hookup today.
2. I'm tired or not feeling well.
3. The request is sleazy or demanding.
4. The guy expects me to drive to Timbuktu.
5. He's impossibly ugly.

Here are ten guys who fall into Category #5.  If you like them, fine -- everybody is somebody's ideal.  But even if they were my best friend's new boyfriend, I'd be making an excuse and heading for the door.

All photos are taken from the tumblr site collegecocks, but don't let that dissuade you from visiting: most of the guys depicted are very attractive.

1.  Maybe if he showers, washes his hair, shaves, and comes down off whatever he's on.


















2.  Whoever thought that sticking your tongue out was sexy?  Especially when you have dumb hair, a skinny, emaciated body, and multiple tattoos?















3.  A long, crazy beard combined with short hair!  It's like he's stuck halfway into his transformation into a Biblical patriarch.
















4.  I'm attracted to guys in suits, but that's such a long, narrow weasel face, with thin, puckered lips and thin, delicate hands.  Nice cock, though.


















5. Scary face, skinny pale body that has never seen the sun.

More after the break.
















L

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...