Thursday, January 3, 2019

The Bare Butts of World War II

Between 1935 and 1947, the Farm Security Administration sent out dozens of photographers to document contemporary American life.  They photographed farmers, miners, schoolteachers, schoolboys from Maine to New Mexico, in big cities and small towns.

A surprising number of photographs zeroed on bare chests and bulging biceps, like these CCC (Civilian Conservation Corps) workers in Maryland.














Or these young men swimming in Lake Providence, Louisiana.

There are also a lot of bare butts on display.  Apparently rear nudity wasn't NSFW in 1942.











A coal miner demonstrates the shower he built in his basement.


















Sargent Cambliar showers at his army base.


















I'm not sure why the students in a "short farming course" at the University of Wisconsin need to shower after class.  Maybe it's dusty in the fields.















A fireman in Washington, DC strips down after a call.













A FSA Camp in Wilder, Idaho.














This one is just captioned "Sunray, Texas," but he's probably a factory worker.

I couldn't find any penises, but it's rather interesting to find so much male nudity in government-authorized photographs 70 years ago.

Tuesday, January 1, 2019

Dating the Preacher's Son

Verne, Mark, and a guy I don't remember
Rock Island, May 1977

During my junior year at Rocky High (1976-77), most guys were obsessed with demonstrating that they were not Swishes (our word for "gay").  The best way was to become a Rock (jock), or be seen in public with one -- they hated men with muscles.

I wasn't on a team -- being an athletic trainer didn't count -- so I had no choice but the only other option: date a Rock.

But most Rocks were very busy, having sex with eight or nine girls in various combinations every night, so they had little time or energy left for boys.

 One day in November, a few weeks after my date with Todd's girlfriend, I was running around the indoor track, when I saw the preacher's son Verne (not his real name) playing one-on-one basketball in the gym be-low. Verne was a senior, so our paths rarely intersected. At school, I saw him only in the locker room after football practice, when he was anxious to get to the showers.

At church, he was always encased in a shell of fawning groupies. Practically our only contact came a couple of months ago, when I helped him Pray Through to Victory at an altar call.

As I ran, Verne finished his game. He guzzled Gatorade from a plastic bottle, then ripped off his t-shirt and collapsed, shimmering with sweat, onto the lap of a girl.  He was hugely tall, with broad shoulders, hard thick biceps, short dark hair, and dark blue, almost purple eyes.  And he was a Nazarene -- no sex allowed!  He would be perfect.

It took a week for me to bolster my courage enough to call. Even then, I dialed and hung up three times. When Verne came on the line, I said, “There’s a gospel concert on Saturday. Um. . .if you’re not, like, busy or anything. . .would you like to go?”

Verne burst into raucous laughter.

“Sorry to bother you,” I said stiffly, my face burning with humiliation.

“No – it’s ok, sorry,” Verne said. “It was just funny the way you asked. I’m busy Saturday, but what about the basketball game Friday? You can do more touching at a game, anyway. I’ll get us a couple of girls.”

I spent the rest of the evening exuberantly calling all of my friends, and wondering why do we need girls?

During the game, Verne and I sat with the girls on either side, so that our thighs and knees sometimes brushed together, and whenever the Rocks scored a point, he enveloped me in a warm, sweaty hug. Next came Alfano's for Canadian bacon and sauerkraut pizza and two pitchers of soda, one for the boys and one for the girls.

We had a lot to talk about.  Verne was taking AP Spanish and French; if it hadn't been God’s Will for him to become a preacher, he would have become a linguist.

When we dropped off Verne’s girl, he walked her to her doorstep “for safety,” but returned almost immediately, complaining that her father had left the porch light on.

My girl came next; her porch light was dark.

When I returned to the car, Verne asked “Did you get any?”'

I assumed that he meant kissing, so I said “Sure. Lots.”  I had kissed her on the cheek.

Verne and me
Verne reached over and punched my shoulder and exclaimed “Awright!” I was disappointed that he didn’t walk me to my doorstep to “get some,” but otherwise I was elated by my success.

During the winter and spring of eleventh grade, we went to a a jazz concert, the spring musical,  an orchestra banquet, two basketball games, a baseball game, hiking, jogging, tennis, and swimming.  That was more enough for us to be “going together,” though no one at Rocky High seemed to notice, referring to us only as buddies.

 Dating Verne summarily ended any suspicion that I was That Way. Even at church, people spoke to me in a civil tone.  It also ended pressure by my Crowd to date girls -- apparently Vikings were dreamy enough.

 Maybe that's why he always insisted on girls for evening dates.  He usually provided them, but twice I brought Becky, my Just Friend, and once I acquired my own, by casually saying: “Oh, and Verne will be there, too.”

At some point Verne always disappeared with his girl for ten or fifteen minutes, and on the way home he had the annoying habit of asking “Did you get any?” But these complaints were trivial; I was dating a Rock!

In May we spent a weekend camping with his friends at Starved Rock State Park at Starved Rock State Park, about 100 miles from Rock Island.

 Though we shared a tent, I avoided any repeat of the scapular incident last summer at music camp. I didn't want to discover that Verne was one of these guys who drops you the moment things get physical.  But I did get a sausage sighting.



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.

L

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