My Platonic Friends and their Boy Toy

Plains, April 2014

I was asked if there were any platonic friendships in the gay communities of the 1980s and 1990s.  Any guys you hung out with but never saw like this?

Not many.  Some acquaintances at church and the gym, some "friends of friends" you met at parties.

But your friends, the people you called on the telephone, invited over for dinner, went out with, were mostly guys you had dated, along with their current boyfriends, whom you were invited to share.

Sometimes you made friends without dating first, but you still shared boyfriends and, by the time I got to Florida, hookups.

There was hardly anyone who moved from acquaintance to friend without bedroom activity.

Guys who were celibate?  Not many of those.

Guys in monogamous relationships?  They mostly kept to themselves and stayed acquaintances.

What about guys you weren't attracted to?  It was considered impolite to refuse sharing, so unless he was literally repugnant, you at least did some desultory groping.

When I moved Upstate in 2008, I found sharing uncommon, either due to changing times or the culture of the Straight World.  The Gang of Twelve had all dated each other, but at different times.  I had to introduce Troy to the practice.

And when I got to the Plains, I even met guys who expected friendship without a bedroom.

I met them at the gym sometime in April 2014, just after Troy moved back upstate, leaving me alone on the Plains.

Hank was in his 50s, a tall redhead with nice abs, a moderately hairy chest, and a gigantic Mortadella+ beneath the belt.  He worked as an electrician.

His partner Wayne was in his 70s: a retired high school history teacher, a rather chubby bear, bald, white haired, with an impressively thick Bratwurst.

Ten years ago, they were both married with children, seeking secret partners on the downlow. They met at an outdoor cruising site, but the anonymous hookup soon turned into dating and romance.  They divorced the wives, moved to the nearest big city (this was a big city?), and came out as a gay couple.

I invited them to the Metropolitan Community Church -- they hadn't known that gay churches existed.

When they invited me over for dinner later that week, I naturally assumed it was for dinner and sharing.

They lived in an old farmhouse out in the country that they were having "fun" remodeling: the whole upstairs was still unfinished.

While Wayne finished cooking, Hank gave me a tour of the rest of the house: living room, dining room, study, and two bedrooms in colonial American style, with tall chairs, an antique secretary desk,  an old cupboard to hold the tv, and framed portraits of dour Puritan ancestors.

It was all rather boring, especially when Wayne went into detail about how they imported 9' grills for the grillwork, and redid the wainscotting around the landscaping and added .4 inch recessed bludgers with special prehensile bars and anodized aluminum pistons.

You've seen them at the gym, I told myself.  They're worth a little boredom.

I was surprised when the tour took me out into their formal colonial garden.  There was a modern enclosed redwood deck, with a hot tub.  And a boy sunbathing nude on a lawn chair: slim, sandy-haired, smooth chest, uncut Kielbasa.

"This is Jimmy," Hank said.  "He's renting our basement room in exchange for helping us remodel."

"Nice to meet you!" Jimmy said with the cruisy smile I always get from twinks. He reached up to shake my hand and almost pulled me into his lap.  "Are you a remodeler too?"

"I'm a professor at the University."

"Cool, I'm a student.  I'll sign up for your classes next semester.  Maybe you can give me some...you know, extra credit assignments."

I've only heard that one about a thousand times before.  But -- Hank, Wayne, and Jimmy?  This evening was getting better and better.

But Jimmy didn't join us for dinner.  "Oh, he doesn't want to hang out with us grandpas," Wayne explained.  "He's a young guy, into dance clubs and bath houses, all that stuff we did 30 years ago.

Anyway, there was still Hank and Wayne.

Wayne's forte was cooking.  He served chicken in an acidic tomato sauce over pasta, with tiramisu for dessert.  I hated it, but still, I had to listen to every ingredient and the minutiae of cooking techniques described in detail.

 No one ever has soda, so I brought Diet Coke, and had to listen to Wayne pontificate about how phenylalanine and aspartame would kill me.

Meanwhile Hank described how they built or refurbished the furniture with prehensile oak tachyons and tapestry lining from an old anchor basting wobble he got in an estate sale.

Still, sharing....

But after dinner came 1 1/2 hours of stories about remodeling, refurbishing, real estate, recipes, and pontifications about the evils of bottled water and Delicious apples.  With no one making a move.

Toto, I don't think we're in Oz anymore.

Maybe we just needed the young guy as a catalyst.  I invited them over for dinner, and specified "be sure to bring along that cute roommate of yours."

The three of them showed up with homemade cookies that Wayne made using a new recipe of grated fruit rind, plus molasses substituted for sugar and some peach pits that he got at a farmer's market last year dusted with nutmeg and cardamon, with a few dashes of coriander and spliced pecan buds for flavor.

Ok, ok.

After dinner, I invited them into the living room, where Jimmy sat next to me on the couch, and the other guys chose armchairs.  We chatted, drank coffee, and Jimmy fondled my knee.  I put my arm around his shoulders, pulled up his shirt, and ran my hand across his chest and abs.  We started kissing.

I looked up.  Hank and Wayne were putting their shoes on.  "It's about time for us to be going," Hank said with a broad grin.

"Wait...um..."

"Oh, don't worry," Wayne said.  "Jimmy brought his own car, so he can drive home in the morning. Thanks for a nice evening."

'Wait...um..."

And, having fixed me up with their roommate, they were gone.

"I thought they'd never leave!" Jimmy exclaimed, looking at me expectantly.

"Don't you ever...um...share with them?"

He laughed.  "Are you kidding? I mean, I'd like to, but those guys are like in bed by 9:00 pm with warm milk.  No sexual interest at all.  I don't think they've done anything but cuddle for years, even with each other....so, want to take a shower?"

Dating a 21-year old does have some advantages.

See also: Yuri and the Muscle Daddies.; My Date with the Star of "Wizards of Waverly Place," and Ricky with a Y

Baseball Butts

I'm definitely a frontside fan.  When I see a backside, I always want to tell the guy, "Turn around!"

90% of the attraction comes from the face, not the back of the guy's head.

And the interplay of muscles in the pecs and abs.  Who cares about the latissimus dorsi?

And, of course, the penis is infinitely more fascinating than the butt.  It comes in different sizes and shapes.  You can watch it move and bulge.  When he is aroused, it takes on a life of its own, getting bigger and firmer, and you can use it to bring him to an orgasm.    

What does the butt do?  Just sits there.  

But a couple of days ago I was trapped in a baseball game.  I'm not into sports -- I can't tell a triple play from a touchdown -- but if I'm forced, I'll go for the snacks, and to cruise the spectators in the stands.  They're often quite a hunky lot, and those thin-silk athletic shorts make for some nice bulge watching.

Unfortunately, I was seated next to a Creepy Old Guy who kept trying to involve me in conversations about baseball (go figure).  

Our seats were on the ground level, just to the left of home plate, so with a good view of the players, too, as they waited their turn at bat.  A few glimpses of bulges, but mostly backsides.

I never noticed before how -- well, big -- baseball players' butts are.  They strain and shift against the fabric of their pants.

"Do those uniforms have some kind of butt padding?" I asked, "In case they want to slide into home?"

"No, no padding," my friend answered. 

These are their natural butts, getting ready to burst out of their pants as the player adopts the squat, knee-bent batting stance. 

I guess there's something to be said for a nice pair of glutes, after all.

Remember the "Big Butts" song?  (It's actually "Baby Got Back," by Sir Mix-A-Lot).

I like big butts, and I cannot lie.

You other brothers can't deny.

That when a guy walks in with an itty bitty waist,

And a round thing in your face,

You get sprung, want to pull up tough,

Cause you noticed that butt was stuffed.

Of course, the song was originally written about ladies' butts. With men, you have the added attraction of knowing that there's more to see, more to feel, more to touch and taste.

You just have to tell him, "Turn around!" 

See also: Top or Bottom?

My Date with the Grooms' Grandson at a Gay Wedding

Salt Lake City, Utah, September 2015

One day in the summer of 2015, a few weeks after the Supreme Court decision that legalized same-sex marriage in the U.S., I get a wedding invitation in the mail, and a request to be in the wedding party!

Heterosexuals complain that they're constantly going to weddings, as their friends one by one tie the knot.  I've never had that problem.  Until recently, gay people were not permitted formal, official ceremonies, and they rarely had informal ones.  The boundary between boyfriend and partner was too fluid, and besides, your parents and the other heteros often didn't know that you were with someone, sometimes didn't even know that you were gay.

A gay wedding!  I can't wait.

Besides, it's from Lane, my ex-partner, so all of my West Hollywood friends will be there.

I've only met his partner Ben once, when I flew back to West Hollywood for a week-long visit.  A week was way too long!

He was in his early 60s, tall, rather buffed -- he spent every afternoon at the gym -- with greying salt-and-pepper hair and a moustache. Attractive, but elitist, conservative, and a bit crotchety.

No sharing, no parties, no going out to the bars to cruise.  I couldn't even invite a guy over to spend the night with me.

I pointed out that Lane and I went to every bath house in Europe, plus bear parties and sex clubs, and nearly every Saturday night we were at the Faultline or Basgo's, looking for someone to "share."

Lane shrugged.  "I grew up."

Grew up, or got stodgy under Ben's tutelage?

And when I was asked out by a 20-year old, all hell broke loose:

"What are you doing dating a guy young enough to be your son?"  Ben exclaimed.  "Stick to guys your own age!"

"Um...I'm a twink magnet.  I can't help it."

"Nonsense.  You just like twinks because you can't handle the responsibilities of a grown-up relationship."

I almost walked right out the door, but I thought, this is Lane.  You've been friends for nearly twenty years, and Ben will probably be out of the picture in a few months.

Guess he's still in the picture.

I check the invitation again.  It's not even in West Hollywood.  It's at Saint Mark's Episcopal Cathedral in Salt Lake City, Utah

A gay wedding in Salt Lake City?  Homophobic redneck country?  Whatever for?

Friday

I arrive at Salt Lake City International Airport at 3:00 pm.  Lane picks me up and drives me directly to the church for the rehearsal.

"So, why are we in Salt Lake, and not West Hollywood?" I ask.

It seems that Ben grew up Mormon in Bountiful, a suburb of Salt Lake.  He married, had two sons, and remained faithful to the church until he started trying to deal with his gayness in the 1990s.  Saint Mark's was where he first felt accepted as a gay person, so it's got a special significance.  Besides, his ex-wife, one of his sons, and many other relatives are still in Salt Lake.

Heterosexuals are invited to a gay wedding?  I figured they'd be picketing and thumping Bibles, or Books of Mormon.

The wedding party isn't divided into bridesmaids and groomsmen, like in a hetero wedding.  There are six people: Ben's sons and grandson, a lesbian couple, and the ringbearer, his five-year old granddaughter.  And me, feeling out of place.

After the rehearsal, the wedding party and their husbands, wives, and kids are all going out to dinner at an Italian restaurant.  "You're riding with us and Jan and her wife," Lane says.  "It will be a little cramped..."

"Hey, Grandpa Ben, I'll drive him over."  It's Brandon, the grandson, tall and thin with thick brown hair and "wholesome" movie star looks: blue eyes, dimples, a cleft chin.

Ben glares at me, probably thinking that I'm going to try to seduce the boy, but consents.

"I heard you lived in New York," Brandon says when we get in the car.  "That must have been great, Broadway shows every night."

"It wasn't really like that.  You spend so much on rent and food that there's not much left over for shows."

"Still, you were in New York!  I'm moving there soon.  I graduated from U.U. in May, and right now I'm doing choreography for Fiddler on the Roof at the Pioneer Theater.  I've been interrogating Lane about Jewish folk dances.  He was really into it, back in the day."

My gaydar goes off.  "So, your church doesn't have any objections to Ben and Lane getting married?"

"Please!  I haven't set foot inside a church since I was ten!  I'm just Mormon for the culture  -- and to get a starring role in The Book of Mormon!"  He reaches over and grabs my knee.

Is this boy cruising?  I know I'm a twink magnet, but...a friend of his grandfather? 

I imagine flirting with one of Grandpa Prater's hunting buddies...and burst out laughing.

Brandon quickly moves his hand away, frowning.

"Sorry, I wasn't laughing at you.  I just thought of something funny."

At the restaurant, Brandon tries to sit next to me, but Ben says "You're up here," and places me between him and one of the lesbians.

During dessert, Brandon comes up again and presses against the back of my chair.  "Have you ever seen Temple Square at night?  It's really breathtaking..."

Ben presses my arm.  "Sorry, we need Boomer to talk over some details of the ceremony."

We drive to the hotel.  To my surprise, I don't get my own room -- I'm sharing with Ben and Lane.

"The wedding is tomorrow at noon, and then after the reception we're leaving for our honeymoon," Ben says, "So this room will be all yours tomorrow night, for cruising or having orgies or whatever."

"And this will be the last time we see you until you visit again," Lane added.  "So I thought we should share?"

"Really?  But..."

"It's a special occasion."

Ben has a very nice uncut Bratwurst.  He offers to top me, but I refuse, going down on him instead.  Then he does interfemoral with me while kissing Lane.

I rarely finish more than once in an evening, but tonight it's two, then three times, and Ben is still ready for more, his mouth and hands everywhere.

The night before his wedding, he is way over-exuberant with another guy?  Something is off here. Is he trying to tire me out so I won't "seduce" Brandon?

Saturday

In the morning I'm too exhausted to go to the hotel's exercise room.  We meet the lesbian couple for breakfast, have a brief tour of the city, and then go to the church.

Brandon catches me in the foyer.  "Did you have a good night?"

Yes, I went down on your Grandpa! "It was busy," I tell him.  "You'd be surprised how many details have to be ironed out."

"Um...." he begins, then stops.  "Um...I was thinking, if you don't have any plans for tonight, you should see Fiddler.  It's a great show.  I'll be backstage, but we can hook up afterwards and have dinner."  

"Sure, that would be great."

"Ok!  I'll reserve the ticket, and pick you up at the hotel at 6:30."  He looks around to see if anyone is watching, then leans in for a brief kiss.  "I can't wait!"

It was a great show.  Lane reads this blog, so I'm not going say what, if anything, happened afterwards.

But, after all, Brandon is not my grandson.


See also: 21 Surprising Facts about Lane; Cruising My Cousin's Son at a Funeral; and Picking Up the Best Man at My Sister's Wedding.