The Romanian Twink at the Gay Asian Bar

West Hollywood, November 8, 1988.

It was Election Day: George Bush, the Vice President of homophobia for the last eight years, vs. Michael Dukakis, who hated gay people and was a fierce opponent of gay adoption.

I was depressed over my doctoral dissertation, my ever-mounting collection of bills, and my lack of a boyfriend, so there was no point in getting even more depressed.  Instead of voting, I went to Mugi, the bar for Asian guys and their admirers.

It was not crowded on a Tuesday night, with most American citizens home watching the election returns: a few Asian guys clustered together on one side of the bar, a couple of regular admirers, Creepy Old Guys who leered and got drunk but never cruised anyone.

And a twinks: short, slim, rather feminine, with a cute round face, a square chin, and prominent eyebrows, standing by the bar with a beer bottle propped up like an erect penis.  Cruising me with a sultry stare.

I was there to meet Asian guys, not a twink who looked like he just walked out of the Rage, so I gave him Attitude.

But he didn't catch on; he sauntered up to me with a broad smile and held out his hand.  "Allo, I am Stash (stesh) from Romania (Romen-ia)."

Romanian was the only Romance language spoken in Eastern Europe, descended from the Latin of the Roman legionnaires.  Incomprehensible to speakers of Spanish and French: lots of Slavic words, strange diacritical marks.

I want to eat your sausage.
French: Je veux manger ta saucisse
Romanian: Eu vreau să mănânc cârnați ta

Now I definitely wanted to talk to him!

"You have very big muscle (mooshl)," Stash continued as we shook hands. "Do you study karate?"

"No, I just work out.  I studied judo in school."

"Judo!  You are from Japon?"

Huh?

Quick, which of these guys is Japanese?

Easy to tell, right?  But I do have some Native American ancestry, so maybe, in the right light, if you're expecting someone Japanese...

But why did I say "Yes, from Kyoto, Japan."?  Maybe because I was worried that if I told the truth, Stash would move on to someone else.  Besides, I spent summer in Japan a couple of years ago, and  I chose a Japanese ethnicity for a school project once. That's enough for an honorary citizenship, right?

"Kyoto, Japon!" Stash repeated.  "Fantastic (fon-test-ik)!  You will tell me all about Japonia, and show me judo moves, ok?  We go on date (deet).  I know good gay restaurant close by here."

I followed him to a Greek restaurant on Hollywood Boulevard, near Mann's Chinese Theater -- not gay, but open 24 hours, and with a good gyro platter.

In his lovely Romanian accent, Stash fondled my knee and told my his coming out story.  He was born in Cluj [population 400,000, about 200 miles northwest of Bucharest]

One of the decretei, "children by decree," forced into existence by dictator Ceaucescu's eugenics program, he was abandoned by his parents and raised in a casa de copii, an orphanage.

Life was harsh.  Ten kids, all ages, slept on on army cots in a small room with no heat and no electricity.  There was never enough to eat.  Everyone bathed in the same dirty water.

Beatings and sexual abuse were common.

There was a picture of Bruce Lee on the wall in his dormitory that someone tore from a magazine.  It symbolized masculine energy and power, and more, an escape.

Stash felt his first erotic desire looking at that picture.

Gulp.  And he thought I was Asian, his masculine ideal. 

When he was 14, Stash was discovered going down on one of the older boys.  Nothing happened to his partner, but he was labeled a  deviante and isolated in a tiny room the size of a closet, allowed to come out only for school, forced to undergo hours of psihanaliză [psychoanalysis] that mostly involved getting beaten.

A few weeks later, he and a friend escaped from the orphanage by literally climbing over a chain-link fence.  They hitchhiked to Salonta, where they made it across the border to Hungary.

They lived in Budapest for awhile, living mostly on the street, surviving through hustling and an occasional theft.  But Stash wanted to go farther, to America, where Asian guys studied judo and karate, their bare chests glistening in the sun.

"Jackie Chan is very hot, yes?" Stash asked.  "Do you know him?"

Gulp.  More Asian guys.  "Um...no.  I know Michael J. Fox from Back to the Future.  Do you think he's hot?"

"Um...sure, he is ok.  I won't say no to Marty McFly.  But Chinese, Japanese guys...wow!"

Stash paid a truck driver to smuggle him across the border to Vienna.  Then he hitchhiked all the way across Austria and Italy to Rome.

"Paid him how?" I asked.

Stash smiled.  "How do you think?"

"So...um...how big was he?"

"Big."

When he was 16, a church group got him a refugee visa, and placed him with a foster family in London.  They were nice to him, but extremely homophobic; he had to stay closeted, and even pretend to date girls.  But he learned English, went to school, and got his General Certificate [high school diploma].

He went to work in a grocery store to save enough money to move to America.  He had just been in town a few weeks.  The first thing he did, after finding an apartment and a job, was go to Mugi to meet one of the Asian guys from his earliest fantasies.

Gulp.

I checked my watch.  10:00 pm, and I had to get up early.  Time to seal the deal.

"So...I am sorry that I talk so long," Stash said.  "We will go back to the bar, or to my apartment?  I live only near here."

"Um...your apartment is fine."

No way I could make up a story about Japan now, after hearing about his life of deprivation and misery.  Maybe I could draw him right into the sex, and avoid my fake Japanese identity altogether.

I followed him to a upstairs apartment on Wilcox: one room, with a futon, a small dresser, a table and chair, and a kitchenette.  There was no place to sit but the futon.

I put my arm around Stash and moved in for a kiss.  We kissed for a long time, but when I tried to grab his obviously aroused penis, he pushed my hand away.

"Wait...wait.  I like you, yes, but this is first date.  We wait. You want some tea?"

"Um...sure."  So the guy who paid for his way across Europe by hustling wouldn't let me go down on him?

He stood,  and began puttering around in the kitchenette.  "Ok, now you tell me about coming out in Kyoto, Japan."

Darn!  Time to come clean! "Um...actually, I have to tell you, I'm not really Japanese.  I studied Japanese, but I'm actually of European and American Indian ancestry.  I grew up in Illinois."

"Illinois?  Chicago!"  He sat beside me again.  "Fantastic!  Do you know gangsters?  Shoot bad guys?"

I got into Stash's bed on our second date: smooth chest, nice biceps, average sized beneath the belt, uncut, very hard.  Into kissing and cuddling.  Let me go down on him, but mostly an oral bottom.

On our third date, we "shared" with my Vietnamese friend Thanh.  After that we fell out of contact.

See also; Turning Japanese

How to Tie Up Twinks

I have come to the conclusion that almost all guys under age 30 are into bondage.  Maybe not in gay neighborhoods, where S&M masters are readily available, but out here on the Plains, hinting that you might like to tie them up is like dangling a carrot in front of a donkey: they'll follow you anywhere.

Of course, they're nervous.  They've never given up control before.  But they're intrigued -- and enthusiastic.  The sooner you can set up a scene, the better.

Even if you're not into bondage and domination play, a tied up twink is pleasant for "vanilla sex," oral, anal, and interfemoral.

There are 8 steps to a successful BDSM scene.

1. Prepare the Bottom

I prefer my bottoms, also called "subs" or "boys," to be young and thin, but any age and size is fine.

Never suggest a scene for a first date or hookup.


All BDSM play involves dominance and force, so it's important to have a verbal contract in advance.  Agree on which acts will or might occur.  Arrange for a safe word for him to use if he wants an activity to stop.

No, there is no one who is "into everything." He has to specify what he definitely wants to happen, what he is ok with, and what he definitely doesn't want to happen.




2. Set Up the Space

If you don't have a separate room set up as a  dungeon, any room will work.  I use my regular bedroom, but remove the usual paraphernalia, put dark drapes on the windows, black sheets on the bed, and my equipment laid out on the dresser.  Some sinister-looking artwork, gargoyles and such.

Loud music is essential to drown out the other sounds. A classical symphony sounds majestic, or you can go with heavy metal:  I like Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, and Marilyn Manson,

3. Shift from Regular Time to the Scene

After the preliminaries -- the small talk, the drinks, the bathroom break, some kissing and fondling -- the scene begins.

I always tell the bottom that the scene begins when I put on my leather vest, and ends when I take it off.  During that period, neither of us have names.  I will not speak to him except to issue commands, and he is not permitted to say anything except his safe word, "Yes, sir," and "No, sir,"

I then go into the other room, take off my shirt, put on my leather vest, and return.  I order the bottom to strip, kneel, unzip me, and go down on me with his hands behind his back.

Then we're ready for the scene to begin.

4. Immobilization

The bottom must be immobilized, hands over head, hands behind back, or spreadeagle.

Aesthetically, I prefer hands behind back, but spreadeagle, face up, gives you more of the body to work on without shifting positions.

You will be using rope -- handcuffs are a pain --, so practice in advance.  Nothing ruins the scene more than fumbling around.

I prefer that the bottom be gagged and blindfolded also.

Ordinary clothesline works well enough for the arms and legs, but for the cock and balls, you'll need thin rawhide strips.  Shoelaces can substitute in a pinch.

More after the break.

Picking Up the Cowboy of Sunset Boulevard

Santa Monica Boulevard, West Hollywood, fall 1988.  A small town of tree-lined streets.  Small shops, restaurants, and bars where gay men and lesbians gathered in search of freedom.

The Sunset Strip, only five blocks north, still technically West Hollywood, but big, blaring, glaring, crowded with cars and the clubs where hetero glitterati snorted cocaine.

Five blocks, actually only two blocks up the hill from the house that I shared with Derek, but we never went there.  It was as if there was an invisible force field keeping gay people away.

The Strip was relatively uncrowded during the daytime, the easiest way to get to Hollywood, Silverlake, and sometimes Downtown.  But I didn't even like to drive through: I always felt like an interloper, passing through a wild, alien territory.

Eight years ago, on a visit to Los Angeles long before I moved here, my friend Tom and I drove down Sunset, and stopped at Book Soup, where I bought my first gay-themed book.  Now I passed it with a little frisson of dread.

But one Friday afternoon I thought, "What's the big deal?  It's just a street.  I'm going to Book Soup."

So I walked over to Cynthia, up Hammond, past the West Hollywood School and some apartments, until I came to the Coldwell Bank Building, and Sunset Boulevard.

It was even more disquieting as a pedestrian, walking through an alien world of skyscrapers and gigantic billboards, past the Whiskey A Go-Go, the Viper Room, the Mystery Pier, places that were not famous but infamous, dens of sleaze, vice, and hetero excesses.  Then Book Soup.

It was, to my surprise, small, sedate, with black bookshelves stocked with indie fiction and literary criticism, out of place across the street from the Viper Room.  The used books and gay sections were gone.  There was a lot of hetero indie fiction and hip hetero essays.

I started feeling out of place again, but I bought No One Here Gets Out Alive, a biography of Jim Morrison of the Doors, mainly because he was shirtless on the cover.

There was a cowboy by the front door, drinking the free coffee.  Mid-20s, my height, muscular, maybe a little chunky.  He had a bright, open, very handsome face.  He was wearing a cowboy hat and a lumberjack shirt unbuttoned to reveal a smooth chest, and very tight jeans with a silver belt buckle.

"Jim Morrison!  Excellent!" he exclaimed.

"Are you a fan?"

"My band covers the Doors sometimes.  We do mostly country, as you can see, but we do some rock, too."  He paused, an unmistakable gleam in his eye.  "So, you live around here?"

Wait...was I being cruised?  Mario cruised me at the Different Light last year. But this was a straight bookstore on Sunset Boulevard!

"A few blocks away," I said suspiciously.  "Well, nice talking to you.  Bye."

I walked out the door and headed west on Sunset.  The Cowboy followed.  "Hey, what are you doing now?"

Down on Santa Monica Boulevard, this type of approach would mean "trick"  -- a sexual encounter before you got to know the guy.  Very risky, frowned upon.  But did he mean a trick?  This was a whole different world, with its own rules and protocols.  "I'm...I guess I'm going to get some coffee."

"Great!  I know just the spot!  Too early for music, of course, but they have great burgers and fries."  He pointed to the Whiskey A-Go-Go.   A dark, seedy, intensely heterosexual nightlclub -- a semi-naked lady on the marquee!  Besides, my Nazarene instincts recoiled at the word "whiskey."

"Let's...let's head down to Santa Monica," I said.  "I know a good place."

"Down the hill?"  He stared down Larrabee.  "I don't like it down there.  Too...too...um, crowded."

He meant too gay.  This guy was a closet case, gay but afraid to be seen among gay people!

"Don't worry," I said.  "If anybody tries anything, I'll be here to protect you."

"It's not that.  They'll think I'm...you know, gay, too."

The Cowboy was going to get the full West Hollywood treatment!  I just hoped that his anticipation of getting into my bedroom was enough to keep him from running away.

5:00 pm: Coffee at the Abbey, where the waiters were all cute and flirtatious.  The Cowboy's eyes bulged. When I tried to put my arm around his shoulders, he jumped a mile.

"Relax, that's ok here," I said, trying again.  He flinched me off.

His real name was Calvin.  He wasn't actually a cowboy -- he grew up in Van Nuys, and he was studying music at Cal State L.A.  He lived in a house with three roommates, all straight. In fact, everybody he knew was straight.

 "You can't be a gay musician.  So I don't tell anybody,  and I don't go to gay places.  I never went down the hill before, cause guys always tell me that's where the gays hang out."  He looked around.  "But, you know, you could never tell.  It looks like any straight place, except it's all guys. Ok, go ahead and hug me."  He grabbed my knee under the table.

6:00 pm: Different Light Bookstore, where I browsed while the Cowboy stood outside.  He looked skittish, like he was going to make an excuse and bolt, so I called my housemate Derek, who had just gotten home from work, for reinforcements.

Derek picked us up and drove us to:

7:00 pm: The French Quarter, where the waiters were equally cute and flirtatious.  A former fitness model with a spectacular physique even by West Hollywood standards, Derek could turn every head in the house.  The Cowboy was obviously impressed as a vision of "sharing" danced in his head.

8:30 pm: Gold Coast, a faux cowboy bar where they played country-western music.  The Cowboy had assumed that all gay bars were overwhelmed by disco music, so he was impressed again, in spite of the rather small crowd.

When I leaned in for a kiss, the Cowboy pushed me away.  "Not in front of your roommate!" he whispered savagely.

"Oh, go ahead," Derek said.  "I've seen Boomer kiss guys before.  I've seen him do more than that!  Here, try it with me."

He drew the Cowboy into a kiss, which became so passionate that I tapped him on the shoulder.  "Hey, roommie, I haven't had the honor yet."

Embarrassed, Derek broke away.  "Sorry...forgot who was on a date with who."

I shrugged and drew the Cowboy into a kiss.

10:00 pm: Home.  Derek kept his distance for the rest of the evening, and when we got home, he said goodnight and vanished into his bedroom.  The Cowboy and I sat talking and making out for awhile, and then went to bed.

In case you were wondering: very passionate, average beneath the belt gifts.   Top, but open to other activities as well.  His only annoying habit was that he kept talking: "I'm going to f*** you!  I'm going to f*** you!"

Well, yes, that's rather obvious, isn't it.

7:00 am: Breakfast.  Just bagels and fruit.  Then the Cowboy got our phone number (there was just one phone per house in the 1980s), and I walked him back to his car, parked in a lot just off Sunset.

Climbing up the hill to Sunset still felt like entering a hostile alien world.

The next weekend Derek talked the Cowboy into coming down the hill again.  They ended up dating for about three months.

Sorry, ran out of room before I got to the sharing.  That will have to wait until next time.

Next: Three-Way with Derek and the Cowboy

See also: My Date or Trick in the White Room; My Date with Richard Dreyfuss

10 Naked Youtube Celebrities

If you're over 30, you may not realize that youtube is not just a place for uploading funny videos of your cat.  Youtubers get their own channels, draw paid subscribers, and become famous. There are a lot of singers and comedians, gamers, chefs, spokespersons for religious and political viewpoints.
"Ask a Mortician."
 "Ask a Ninja"
"Llamas with Hats"

And youtube isn't the only site with vlog channels. There's also Vimeo, Blip.tv, DailyMotion, Facebook, independent platforms.

Over 110,000 vlog channels, some with millions of subscribers.

Often they're famous for their physiques in addition to their singing or comedy, and "leaked" nude photos only add to their fame.

Don't worry, I checked the ages of all subjects of the nude photos.

1.  Jack Harries (age 25)

2. Luke and Jai Brooks

3. Jack Gilinsky (age 21)

4. Cameron Dallas (age 23)

5. Beau Brooks

6. Sam Pottorff

7. MattPatt

8. Caspar Lee (age 24)

9. Shawn Mendes (age 19)

10. Brent Rivera

Jake Paul Nude

This is one of the nude photos of internet and Disney Channel star Jake Paul, which originally appeared in Instinct magazine.   Warning: it's a full arousal.

A very nice cut Mortadella.  I'd prefer a face with it, but how often do you get to see a Disney Channel teencom star's penis?

Without having to buy him dinner and hear about his career for two hours, I mean.

The full post on 19-year old Jake and his 21-year old brother Logan is on Boomer Beefcake and Bonding

See also: My Date with the Nickelodeon star