Saturday, February 10, 2018

My Hookup with the Egyptian God and His Boy


San Francisco, April 1997

There wasn't much street cruising going on in West Hollywood, since everyone drove everywhere.  But San Francisco was a walking city, so you could easily stop and talk to someone on the street, and invite them out for dates or hookups.  

But the competition was fierce.  Forget walking around in a muscle shirt with a gym-pumped physique -- there were a dozen bigger guys on every block.  If you wanted to attract men, you needed a gimmick.

There were cowboys and ballet dancers, guys riding unicycles and skateboard, guys carrying pies and leading dogs. An Edwardian gentleman.  Santa Claus.  

But probably the most creative of the street cruisers was the Martian.

At least that's what we called him.  He was a very tall, very muscular black guy, dressed all in white and gold, a gold medallion hanging around his neck.  He looked exactly like an emissary of the Galactic Council as envisioned by a "Space Brothers" UFO cult.

None of my friends had dated or hooked up with him -- he tended to give Attitude, not speak to or make eye contact with anyone.  But according to gossip, he gave his name as Darvon, with various last names: Zipp, Klaa, or Euripides.  He  claimed to be from either "a small planet very, very far away" or  "a small galaxy near Neptune" (the nonsensical answer that Betty Hill received during her 1961 abduction).

And his apartment was full of photos of alien spaceships, strange plants that were probably extraterrestrial, a cat that responded to telepathic signals, and a regeneration booth.  

This I had to see.



Although I was sure that Darvon was just spoofing, I am interested in UFOS and aliens.

And in black men.  

Of course, you can't just walk up to a guy on the street and say "Your place or mine?'  You need a hook of your own, something that sets you apart.

I decided to use language.  Not klaatu barada nikto, the alien phrase that Michael Rennie used in The Day the Earth Stood Still -- too ordinary.  Certainly nothing in the Klingon of Star Trek or the Elvish of The Lord of the Rings.

Maybe he was interested in his African heritage.  How about Swahili?

A helpful anthropology student at Berkeley gave me a few phrases:

You have a nice body: Una mwili nzuri
I want to see your penis: Nataka kuona uume yako
I want to go down on you: Nami kupiga magoti

One night after the gym I saw the Martian on 18th Street, walked up to him, and tried the third phrase, which actually means "I want to kneel before you."

He smiled broadly and responded: "Wewe kuzungumza lugha ya wafalme," which I later discovered means "You speak the Language of the Kings!"

Switching to English, we discussed the origin of Swahili as a lingua franca of east African fishermen and Arab traders in the 16th century, then the great Bantu migrations, then the Cushitic languages of Ethiopia (over dinner at the Ethiopian restaurant on Valencia Street).  

To my disappointment, Darvon never claimed to be an alien: he was plain old Darvon McKinley from Detroit, 32 years old, with a degree in African Studies from Wayne State University.  He lived in San Francisco for two years.

"I was going for an Egyptian look," he said, "Ancient Egypt was the earliest Black civilization.  But everyone thought I was an alien, so I went with it.  Darvon Klaa, from a small galaxy near Neptune."  He laughed.

Back at his apartment in the Mission, there were no pictures of alien spaceships or regeneration booths.

The plants were spindly and spidery, with some weird colors, but native to the tropics of central Africa, and for sale in any greenhouse.

The cat was cool.  All black, with a diamond collar, named Giza.  I never saw a cat before who would come when called.


The living room had no furniture except big pillows on the floor, a long, low coffee table, and a big throne-like chair.  Darvon sat on the throne.  I had no choice but to sit on a pillow at his feet.

"My boy will be home soon," he said, stroking Giza.  "Then we can go to the bedroom."

"Your boy?"   He hadn't mentioned a partner.

"Tanner.  He gets off at the restaurant at 10:00.  He hasn't been to college, but don't worry, he knows his place as well as you do."

Huh?

"He's read his history," Darvon explains.  "He knows that the Blackman built all the great civilizations while whitemen were still huddling in caves.  He understands that his place is at the foot of the Blackman, like you do." 

Ok, Darvon wasn't an alien -- he was a Black Supremacist!  Tarik, who I visited in Norfolk last summer, was raised Black Muslim.  But they disapprove of dating white men.  Darvon obviously didn't mind.

What else?  While Darvon changed the subject to racist portrayals of Blackmen in movies, I tried to think of other black supremacist groups.  The Hebrew Israelites.  The Moorish Science Temple...

No way I was going to hook up with a guy who thought white people were inferior, or with Tanner, his brainwashed "boy."  I believe in racial equality!  I stood to make an excuse and leave, but first I had to go to the bathroom.


While I was in the bathroom, I heard the door open and close, and a muffled conversation.  Tanner!  I took my time finishing, and returned to the living room to find Tanner sitting on one of the pillows at Darvon's feet: a short, slim white guy in his 20s, with a handsome round face, curly hair, and a smooth chest.  

His street clothes were scattered on the floor.  He was naked, except for an Egyptian-looking vest.  

"I thought you got lost in there," Darvon said.  "Tanner, welcome our guest."

Tanner stood, put his arms around me, and groped and kissed me. I reached down and groped his very thick Bratwurst, already aroused.  Then Tanner knelt, unzipped me, and started going down on me.

Wait -- this was a weird Black supremacist cult!

"Sorry.  I...um..I have to go."

"You can't leave until Tanner has finished showing you his proper place."

"Um...well..."

"I know my place," Tanner said.  "At the foot of the Blackman."  Saying that liturgical phrase made him even more aroused.  He sat at Darvon's feet, with his legs spread so his penis was still accessible, opened the drawstring of his pants, and started kissing and licking his Kielbasa+.

"I should be going..." 

Darvon leaned back and closed his eyes.  "Boomer, are you sure you have to rush off? You're welcome to help Tanner with his evening duties, or if you wish, you can borrow him for awhile.  He's an excellent kisser, and as you can see, quite eager to please."

Tanner looked up.  "I made cookies for later."

I knelt in front of Darvon and started working on his shaft while fondling Tanner.

"Wait," Darvon said.  "You forgot to..."

"I know my place, at the foot of the Blackman," I said quickly..

For penises and cookies I'll say anything, no matter how nauseating.

See also: Pushing a Shopping Cart Up Castro Street; Tarik's First White Cop

Monday, February 5, 2018

David Pulls It Out

San Francisco, March 1997

When I was living in San Francisco, my friend David and I walked down Castro Street every day on the way to and from work, even though it was strictly not necessary, to immerse ourselves in the heart of the heart of the gay world.

The Castro Theater -- Orphan Andy's -- Almost Home -- All American Boy -- Twin Peaks -- even the Walgreen's on the corner of 18th and Castro were icons of home.

I liked the morning best, when the street was quiet and calm, empty except for an occasional gym hunk on the way to his workout.

And the barfly.

Every morning, we passed a little bar -- now it's the QBar -- with big French doors open to the street, and in the darkness inside, a single guy, alone on a barstool, gazing out into the world.

He was older, white haired, rather well dressed for the denim-and-leather crowd, wearing a white shirt and a tie.  I couldn't tell what he was drinking, but it wasn't beer.

Who would be in a bar at 9:00 am?

"Drunks," David said with a disapproving scowl.  A former Baptist minister, he was vehemently opposed to alcohol.  "Has to get his fix."

Every morning, day after day, the barfly sat at the bar, looking out at the world.  Sometimes he nodded or waved at us as we passed.

I got so used to seeing him that when he wasn't there, I waited for a few minutes to see if he'd show up.

In the evening, when we passed again after work, the bar was usually packed with the Happy Hour crowd, but the barfly was still there.

In the same spot, as if he hadn't moved.

Who would stay all day and all night in a bar?  Didn't he have other things to do?

Gay people are very territorial.  They've been battered around the straight world so much that when they find a home, they stay.  Maybe this guy couldn't bear to leave the heart of the heart of the gay world, that one block of Castro Street between 17th and 18th.

But no one could spend their life on that block.  There were restaurants, bars, clothing stores, a drug store, a theater, and a hair stylist, but no gyms, bookstores, post offices, grocery stores, or banks. Or jobs.

For weeks David and I passed, morning and evening, and the barfly was there.

One evening, without warning, I headed into the bar.

David grabbed my arm.  "Wait -- don't tell me you're hot for that barfly?  He's cute and all, but he's a drunk!"

"I just want to hear his story.  Maybe he's lonely.  I could take him to a meeting of SAGE, the gay seniors group."

"He knows how to use the phone book!"

"Hey, I went with you to cruise in the men's room at Macy's.  The least you can do is help me cruise the old guy."

Grumbling, David followed me into the bar.  We sat on barstools on either side of the barfly and ordered cokes.

The barfly turned to David, grinning.  "What took you so long?"

"What?  Er..."

He held out his hand.  "I'm Karol.  Not a drag name -- it's Polish for 'Charles.'"

"David...and this is Boomer."

"Hiya," he said over his shoulder.  "I've been coming to this bar morning and night for weeks, .  I was about ready to give up."

"So...you don't spend all day here?" I asked.

Karol laughed.  "I don't think my clients would like that!"

It turns out that Karol was a graphic designer.  One day he stopped in at the QBar for a Bloody Mary on the way to work, and he saw us pass by.  He was so entranced that he made a point of coming to the bar at the same time every morning and evening, in the hope that David would stop and say hello.

"I should have chased after you, but I didn't want to be that Creepy Old Guy, you know."

"Come on, you're not that much older than us," I said.

"I'm over 40, by a few years.  I remember Poland before the War -- World War II, not Vietnam.  And I remember the Summer of Love -- I bet you were still in diapers."

"So you don't drink?"  David asked.

"A Bloody Mary now and then, and maybe a vodka and tonic.  But I don't drink a lot, no."

Then Karol turned to me, his back to David -- the guy he had a crush on.  What was his game?

He told me about growing up during the War, coming to America to find work as an artist, marrying, having kids, and then coming out and finding his way to San Francisco.

"I was here before AIDS, before Gay Liberation, back when Jose Serria was doing drag shows at the Black Cat Cafe."

Suddenly I glanced down -- while he was talking, Karol had been groping David, unzipping his pants, and now he had pulled it out!

You heard me.

Right out in the open.

This was my cue to leave!  "Have fun, guys," I said.

Later that night, David called me.

"So, how was the date with your secret admirer?"

"Well, that's just it.  You know how, when you finally get a guy you've been fantasizing about for a long time, the reality is always disappointing? Plus when you get older, things get more difficult.  And Karol had been drinking...."

"His mission was a failure, huh?"

"And that embarrassed me so much that my mission was a failure, too.  Big bust all around.  So...you want to go to the Bear Party?"

The next morning Karol was not on his usual bar stool on Castro Street.

See also: A Hookup in the Restroom at Macy's and Waking Up to a Straight Boy in My Bed.

Sunday, February 4, 2018

The 10 Dumbest Lines on Dating App Profiles

We've all seen them: a nice photo, reasonable stats, but an ignorant, insipid, vague, cliche-filled profile.  Either the guy is as dumb as a bag of bricks, or he figures no one will read the profile anyway.

Guess what?  People do.

Here are the dumbest lines I've seen on dating app profiles recently:











1. Love the outdoors.

Personally, I would be perfectly happy to live in an underground city and never see the sun, but if you like being out in all that infinite space, at least tell us what you like to do out there.  Surely you don't just stand there thinking "There's nothing solid between me and Alpha Centauri."  Do you enjoy swimming, tennis, hunting, jai alai?






2. Goodlooking guys to the head of the line.

That "head of the line" phrase is the utmost in pretension -- no way anybody is going to get so many hookup requests that they line up.  And "goodlooking" is in the eye of the beholder.















3. Anything you want to know, just ask!

Without more information, how can I know what to ask?  Do you like your eggs over easy or scrambled?  How many guys have you had in your bed at the same time? Do you enjoy British costume dramas?  Why are you carrying a Chinese pingpong paddle?













4. If I don't respond, it means I don't think we're compatible.  Don't get mad -- we all have a type. 

Too much information.  I know what a lack of response means, thanks.  Did someone, once, out of all the thousand guys he didn't respond to, take offense?















5. I like having a good time.

Oh, sorry, I hate having a good time.  We're not compatible.

More after the break















L

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