Nude Photo of Jack Dempsey

Jack Dempsey (1895-1983) was the most famous boxer in the world during the 1920s, world heavyweight champion from 1919 to 1926.  His fight against French boxer Georges Carpentier on July 2, 1921, dubbed "The Fight of the Century," was the first sporting event to receive live radio coverage.

He retired from boxing in 1927 and capitalized on his fame to lend his name to a series of business enterprises, including casinos and restaurants.

He was married four times and had three children, but, according to rumor, was a hit at the "homo parties" in Hollywood in the 1920s.

And there's a nude photo.

The face looks like him.  The body is a little more defined, but he is younger, in his late teens or early 20s.

It may be from the German movie Weg zu Kraft und Schonheit (1925), which used nude models, including Johnny Weissmuller and Jack Dempsey, to illustrate Roman sports, gymnastics, and dance.  It's available on youtube, but I don't find Dempsey there.

Here's a bulge shot.  Compare, and see if the penises could be the same.

Why Brother Hanson Got Divorced

Racine, Wisconsin, June 1968

I am in the second grade.  My parents are making a big fuss over the girl with the marvelous dollhouse:  "You have a girlfriend!"

When I protest that I like boys, they don't believe me: "Oh, one day you'll meet the right girl, and fall in love, and get married and have kids of your own!  You'll see!"

"The right girl" is my destiny?  But I want to marry a boy!

Like Brother Hanson, the Minister of Music at church.

I look forward eagerly to Sunday morning and evening and and Wednesday evening, when he climbs up onto the platform and begins the services with the magic words Isn't this a beautiful day in the Lord? Who would like to testify?

Then he leads us in three songs, leads the choir in their special number (only on Sunday morning), has the ushers pass around the offering plate, and tells us to Rise for prayer.  Only after all of that is the Preacher allowed to get up to scream about how much God hates us.

Brother Hanson is obviously more important than the Preacher, plus a lot nicer, and much cuter -- big and husky with wavy hair and blue eyes (this is not him). I think he's a teenager, but he's probably about 30.

I never see him with a woman.  Maybe he's found a way to get out of the "right girl" destiny, so we can get married!

"Does Brother Hanson have the 'right girl'?"  I ask.

My parents tell me that he has a wife, there in the front row -- they just don't spend much time together.  They come in different cars because he has to get to church so early, and of course she has to sit alone during the services

I expect Brother Hanson to continue leading the testimonies and songs forever.  But one Sunday in the spring of second grade, without warning, an old, ugly guy climbs up onto the stage  and says Isn't this a beautiful day that the Lord has given us?  Who wants to give a testimony?

Shocked, I look around for Brother Hanson: he is sitting by himself in a back pew.  His wife is not in the sanctuary at all.

How am I supposed to listen to the Preacher screaming for 45 minutes without seeing a cute guy first?  Besides, the old, ugly guy said it wrong -- the phrase is isn't this a beautiful day in the Lord!

Maybe Brother Hanson is sick, and will stand up again next week.

No.  Week after week, he stays in his back pew, while the old, ugly guy -- Brother Williams -- leads the testimonies and songs before the Preacher screams.

I begin to hate going to church.

Every summer the Nazarene Church has Vacation Bible School: a week of sermons, songs, Bible studies, and arts and crafts for kids from kindergarten to fifth grade.  Last year I made a "David and Goliath" out of construction paper, won a prize for memorizing Bible verses, and got cookies and Kool-Aid.

This year Brother Hanson is teaching the music class!  Rousing campfire songs with clapping, stomping, and hand gestures:

Rise and shine and give God your glory, glory! (clap, stomp), Children of the Lord.

Instead of a suit, he wears a short-sleeved shirt.  He's got muscles!

He also teaches the sports class: kickball on the grassy field outside the church.  I keep praying that he will take his shirt off, but he never does.

When my mother arrives to pick me up, I can hardly contain my excitement: "Brother Hanson was our teacher!" I exclaim.  "We learned a new song, and played kickball!  It was great!"

"I'm surprised they let him teach Vacation Bible School," Mom says.  "They won't let him be the Minister of Music anymore after his divorce."

Divorce?  I have never heard the word before.

"It's when a marriage ends, and the husband and wife don't live together anymore."

Wait -- marriages can be temporary?



 That's my loophole!

After I grow up, I'll "find the right girl," get married, and have kids, like my parents keep talking about. Then I can get a divorce.  and spend the rest of my life with men!

A few weeks later, we move away from Racine, so I never have the opportunity to see if Brother Hanson divorced so he could spend his life with men.  But ever after I think of divorce as a wonderful word.

See also: The Marvelous Dollhouse

Michael in the Boys' Room with Cole or Dylan Spouse

West Hollywood, August 2017

I'm back in West Hollywood for a week, visiting old friends and trying to make a few new ones.  Michael, who I met at Infinite Chazz's dinner last night, is taking me out to breakfast at Hugo's. where everybody goes for brunch now that the French Quarter is closed.

 Michael is in his twenties, medium height, with curly black hair, dark features, a smooth chest, and an uncut Kielbasa, mostly an oral bottom but open to suggestions.  He grew up in Boulder, Santa Cruz, and Northridge, graduated from Cal State Northridge with a degree in theater, and is now living in a small apartment off La Cienega and trying to get into independent filmmaking.

"That was a fun party last night," he says.  "I never thought of sex as a party favor before."

"I was mostly looking for new celebrity dating stories for my blog," I tell him.  "I've already depleted all of the stories I heard while I lived here, and besides, I'm tired of hearing about Scott Baio and John Travolta."

"Who?"

"Precisely."

"Well, I don't have a lot.  I wasn't very active before I went to college.  Some Grindr hookups, some fooling around in the boys' room, that sort of thing."

"Tell me about that fooling around in the boys' room."

"It wasn't with anybody famous, though -- oh, do you watch Riverdale on Netflix?  I hooked up with Jughead, Cole Sprouse.  Or maybe it was his twin brother.  I can't be sure.  I didn't get a name."

"Why didn't you mention this last night?" I ask, shocked.

"He was kind of a jerk.  Besides, I didn't think he was famous enough."

"Are you kidding?  A dating story about one of them would be epic!"  Dylan and Cole Sprouse starred in the Disney Channel teencoms The Suite Life of Zack and Cody (2005-2008) and The Suite Life on Deck (2008-2011).   Lots of younger guys had crushes on them as kids.

He shrugs.  "It wasn't any big dating thing.  More of a hookup.  Not even that.  He didn't even come."

"And you didn't know if it was Cole or Dylan?   Even without a name, I can tell them apart.  They have a different appearance."

"I had never seen them before.  I didn't watch tv much growing up."



Hollywood, July 2010

Michael's father was a dour Ukrainian professor of political science who didn't allow "the boob tube" in the house.  So Michael sneaked over to a friend's house to watch The Simpsons and Malcolm in the Middle, and found himself drawn to actors and acting (his father disapproved of "theater types," too).

In high school he joined orchestra, yearbook, French club, student council, anything to take his mind off acting -- and being gay.  The two were linked in his mind, both disreputable -- in Catholic schools they taught that gay people were evil, mentally ill, sinners, even in 2008.

He got a car for his 18th birthday, and he used it to drive his actor friend Paul to auditions.  So when Paul got a small part on an episode of the Disney Channel's Suite Life on Deck, he invited Michael to come to the table read:  "You'll meet the cast, make connections.  It will be great."

"Am I even allowed?" Michael asked.

"I'll tell them you're my chauffeur."

So they drove down to the studio on Las Palmas and parked in the employee lot, and Michael sat on a folding chair watching as the actors sat around a table reading their lines.  The Sprouse brothers were about Michael's age, with dirty blond hair and slight physiques that they made up for with a vibrant energy.  He didn't know which was which, but both of them kept making eye contact and smiling at him.

He hoped to talk to them during the first break, but they kept to themselves.

"Are Cole and Dylan gay?" he asked Paul.  "They're like staring at me."

Paul frowned -- Michael wasn't out to him, so he probably thought it was a homophobic complaint.  "I don't know -- I've only just met them today.  But I'm sure they don't mean anything by it.  They're just staying in character."

When the table read ended, Michael hoped to get an introduction, but again the Sprouse brothers kept to themselves.  Sighing, he headed to the bathroom, which was down a long corridor and to the right.  He was urinating when he heard the outer door open, then the inner door  -- it was one of the Sprouses!

Startled, Michael quickly zipped up.  "It's all yours."

"Hey, you're Paul's friend, right?" Cole or Dylan said, "I saw you looking at me..."

"I wasn't...."

"It's ok, dude.  I wanted to talk to you out there, but with everybody around it's hard to get away."  He put his hand on Michael's shoulder.  "But...you know, you're crazy hot, and I was wondering if you wanted to hang out sometime."

"Hang out..."

"You know, man.  Do I have to spell it out for you?"  He glanced at the door to see if anyone was coming, then moved in for a kiss.

That was all the incentive Michael needed.  They kissed and groped, and somehow stumbled into the handicapped stall, where Cole or Dylan tore off Michael's shirt and kissed his chest.  They unzipped and worked their cocks together, and Michael fell to his knees and went down on Cole or Dylan -- about 7" cut, and thick around.  But then they heard the outer door open, and Cole or Dylan pulled Michael to his feet and quickly zipped up.  Still tenting, he ran out into the main room.

The inner door swung open.  "You fall in?"  It was the other Sprouse brother's voice.

"Can't a guy have a moment to jerk off in peace?"

"Not when we have to be in Westwood in twenty minutes.  Wait until tonight to play with yourself, like everybody else in the world."

The inner door swung open again.  Michael heard them leaving.

Michael waited by the phone for a week, expecting that Cole or Dylan would ask Paul for his number.  But nothing happened.  He was too embarrassed to ask to go to the other rehearsals or the taping, and too upset to watch the show.

West Hollywood, August 2017

"Not a jerk," I tell Michael.  "You shouldn't blame him for not following through with a date.  He sounds scared -- closeted, in the public eye, worried that someone will find out and it will hurt his career.  Or that his brother will freak out."

"Wait -- if being gay is genetic, they would both have to be gay, right?"

"Not necessarily.  They start off as the same zygote, but genetic changes happen in the womb.  You can have one twin with a food allergy that the other doesn't have, or musical talent -- or an attraction to men.  So maybe only one is gay.  But which one?"

He shrugs. "You tell me."

Assuming that Michael was telling the truth, not fabricating a hookup from a brief meeting, was he with Dylan or Cole that day?

Which Twin Was It?

After The Suite Life, Cole and Dylan both enrolled at NYU.  Dylan concentrated in archaology, and now runs a pagan brewery in Brooklyn (he belongs to Asatru, a Nordic neopagan religion).  An androgynous long haired blond.

Cole majored in video game design and photography, and has returned to acting with Riverdale.  Short black hair, more masculine appearance.

Cole hasn't been romantically linked to anyone.  On Twitter, he said in jest that he's only attracted to cookies, and he's petitioned for his Jughead character to be true to his comic book origins and come out as asexual.

Dylan posted a nude selfie to attract someone's attention, but I don't know if it was a boy or a girl.

See also: The Nude Selfie of Dylan Sprouse; Cole and Dylan after "The Suite Life"

A Glimpse of Supreme Beauty at a Highway Rest Stop in Iowa

Interstate highways have rest stops every 30-50 miles, so you don't have to get off the highway to do your bathroom business.

The older ones consist of just toilets and maybe some vending machines, but the modern ones have pathways through picnic grounds, flower gardens, and even wooded areas, so you can walk or jog.  I've covered 7 miles in a day just by stopping at a rest stop every hour and circling the path once or twice.

Rest stops are perfect places for sausage sightings.  Men typically need to urinate every 2-3 hours, so on a 6-hour road trip, they'll be at the urinal at at least twice.

 Rest stops are also perfect places for boy watching:  glimpsing handsome faces, muscular physiques, and spectacular bulges as dozens of guys walk past every minute,

But what happens when you encounter supreme beauty, and there's no time to make a connection before he's gone forever?

I-35 Rest Stop, May 2016

On the way back from visiting Troy and company in New York, I pulled into a rest stop near Northwood, Iowa.  It's a large facility with a tourist center, a coffee shop/bakery, and extensive walkways that wind through picnic areas.

I parked on the south side of the parking lot and walked to the sidewalk on the right side of the photo, past the green SUV.

A middle aged man and four guys in their teens or early twenties had just climbed out.  Two were walking toward the rest rooms.  Two were talking quietly.

And the last:

I stopped, speechless in the face of supreme beauty.

Impressions came all jumbled together in a single glance.  I categorized them and analyzed them later:

1. In his late teens or twenties, a college student.

2. Shorter than me, slim, tanned arms and hands, out in the sun in a t-shirt a lot. A tennis player or a farm boy.

3. Dirty blond hair, short, spiked.  Concerned with his appearance, knows his way around hair gel.

4. A round open face, prominent eyebrows, dark eyes.

5. Smiling.  He has been smiling every moment his whole life, probably because everyone he has ever met is in love with him.

6. Gray t-shirt with a Nebraska Cornhuskers logo, a little small, riding up above his outtie belly button.  University of Nebraska student for several years, maybe a senior.

7. Thin but hard biceps.

8. Calvin Klein underwear, white.

9. Blue jeans, torn at the knee, athletic shoes, no socks.

10. Traveling with a middle aged man and three peers on Memorial Day weekend.  Too late for a school field trip.  Maybe a father taking his son and three friends on a camping trip..

He looked at me and said "They have a bakery in there", thinking I was someone in his party.  Realizing his mistake, he looked down, embarrassed.  I smiled and moved on.

I walked around the picnic area for about five minutes, then went inside to use the restroom.  When I came out, he was walking down the stairs from the bakery with a cute guy in his early twenties.  They were eating cookies from an open box.

This time he definitely cruised me -- face, crotch, face.  

 I smiled and said "Hi."

He smiled back, but didn't speak.

I walked around the pathways for another five minutes, and headed toward my car.  He and his companion were standing by their SUV, talking to the middle-aged man.  The two other guys, both very cute in their own right,  were sitting at a picnic table nearby, occupied by their cell phones.

As I walked past, he looked at me while asking someone else "When we get there, will we have time to..."

He stopped.  I smiled. He stared, cruising again.  Face, crotch, face.

"Hot day" I said, addressing either him or the middle-aged man.

"Yeah," he said.

I couldn't start a conversation with his father or guardian right there!   I had to get him alone.  At least find out his name.

I circled half of the picnic area, and walked back.  Now he was standing by the picnic table with the duo, watching me curiously.  I quickened my pace, planning to say "Where you headed?" or  something.

Then the middle age man yelled "Are you ready to go?", and the three of them walked back to the SUV and climbed in.

I passed close to his car.  He was in the back seat, passenger side, watching me through the solid glass of the window.  I waved.  He smiled and waved.

We were only inches apart.

I returned to my car.

The SUV started to pull out.

I took out my cell phone and snapped a picture of it.








I don't know why.  He's not visible, except for a small, blurry image of his hand holding on to the seat in front of him.   It's just a picture of a green SUV with Nebraska plates.

With the most beautiful guy I have ever seen in the back seat, passenger side, going away forever.

At the end of our lives, we will remember glimpses of supreme beauty more fondly than any number of sexual encounters.

See also: I Pick Up a Boy at a Gas Station in Iowa, Sort Of; Picking Up the Checker in the Grocery Store; and The Amish Boy in Red Bikini Briefs.

Guilt and Shame: My First Night with My First Boyfriend

December 16, 1979, a week before Christmas.  It's the end of my first date with Fred the ministerial student: a farmboy from central Illinois, 28 years old, tall, broad-shouldered, smooth hard chest. 

We sit on the couch in his tiny apartment in Davenport, Iowa.   He refuses kissing, instead pushing my head down over his crotch.  I unzip him. Huge!  Granted, this is only the fourth guy I've been with, but I've seen a lot of cocks, and...well, just huge!  I try to go all the way down on him, but my gag reflex kicks in before I get halfway.  I cough and sputter.


Fred:  Shall we go into the bedroom?

We go to the bedroom, take off our clothes, and fondle each other.  I kiss and lick his chest.  He pulls down the covers on the bed and pushes me down, throwing my legs in the air. 

Boomer:  Wait -- what are you doing?

Fred:  Aren't you a bottom?

Boomer:  Um...what's that?

I am not yet aware of the existence of anal sex.  I think that gay guys just suck and masturbate each other.

Fred:  I'll explain later.

He switches positions for 69 and goes down on me while his cock pushes against my face.  I try to take him, but he's too big, choking me.

Boomer:  Wait...wait...let's try something else.

I turn him over onto his back and go down on him while beating off.  My jaw is going to ache tomorrow!  I don't swallow -- it squirts out all over his chest and belly and the bedsheets.  I run to the bathroom and get a towel.

Fred:  Thanks, but after all that, I think I need a shower.

He grabs the towel and goes into the bathroom.  I hear the shower running.  I beat off, thinking of his body glistening in the stream of water, and finish and wipe off with kleenix.  He returns and climbs in bed next to me and turns off the light.  He wraps his massive arms around me in the darkness.

Fred:  It's all right...it's ok.

Boomer: Huh?  What's all right?

What is he comforting me for?  Not swallowing? Grated, the sex wasn't great, but it's not my fault he has a big cock.

 Fred: Aren't you feeling guilty?

Boomer:  Guilty about what?

Fred:  About having sex with a man, of course.

Boomer:  Why would that bother me?

He turns the light back on and leans up on one elbow. 

Fred:  Are you trying to tell me that you have no guilt feelings about being gay?  After a whole society has been telling you your whole life that you're sick, disgusting, a criminal?

Boomer:  No, not at all.

Fred:  Man, I envy you.  I feel guilty all the time. You see all the images of homos on tv: they're pathetic little weaklings, sissies, flauncing around with limp wrists and lisps, thinking about nothing but Judy Garland and shopping, and I think 'Is that me?'  It's like being gay is about a betrayal of my manhood.  How do you avoid the feeling of shame?

I've only known that gay people exist for a few years, and my images were of guys like Jody on Soap: not particularly swishy  I heard about 'fags' and 'fairies,' but I never thought of them as gay, just as hetero guys too feminine to get girls.

Boomer: I guess I never worried about being too feminine.

Fred:Well, you're a bottom, so that's not your problem.  But I'm also feeling guilty because being gay will be a big disappointment for my parents. They'll never hear about any of my friends or romances.  No daughter in law, no grandchildren to spoil.  Since my brother can't have kids, the family name ends with me.

And all the media saying "Love and marriage is the meaning of life."  If you don't have a wife and kids, you've lost out, you're worthless.   I know it's just brainwashing, but the guilt just comes over me.  How do you avoid it?

How did I avoid it? I wonder.  I got the "What girl do you like?" litany over and over, the "wife, kids, job, house is your destiny" bit as long as I  could remember.  Finding out that it was possible to not get married, not have kids, to share your life with a man, came as a profound relief.

Boomer:  I don't know.  Following society's expectations was just never important to me, I guess. I was a Nazarene, so I was breaking social rules every day.

Fred:  What about your church? The Nazarenes won't even let you go to a movie.  They must think that homos are like incarnate demons.  I mean, I'm liberal, and I still hear the Book of Leviticus in my head every time I go to screw a guy.  Isn't that why you said no to Greek?

I never heard of gay people or gay sex mentioned, not once, from a Sunday school teacher, preacher, evangelist, or friend, until about my senior year of high school, when the new preacher discovered homa-sekshuls and started attributing everything from earthquakes to car accidents to God punishing Christians for not hating them adequately.

Boomer:  Well, our pastor does scream about homa-sekshuls in every sermon, but he's an idiot. Who cares what he thinks?  Even Nazarenes know that the Levitical Code doesn't apply to contemporary Christians.

Fred:  Hmm.  You're one of the lucky ones, I guess.  For most of us, overcoming society's hangups is a life-long process. The first thing you need after coming out is a good gay-friendly therapist.

Boomer:  No, the first thing you need is a friend.

Fred: So you're up for Greek, then?

Boomer:  Ask me tomorrow.

Nearly 40 years have passed since that night, but I still hear quite often that gay people experience "guilt and shame."  I didn't understand then, and I still don't understand.  When you realize that "it is not raining upstairs," that women are not an inevitable part of your future, that desire for men can and does exist, what is there to feel but an immense joy?

Troy's First Video Booth

Montreal, October 2009

Guys who are young or newly out have usually been brainwashed -- I mean socialized -- into the heterosexual ideal of monotony - I mean monogamy.  Rejecting all others, sharing your life, heart, and body with just one person til death.  Which can't come soon enough.

So when I started dating 23-year old Troy in Upstate New York, he was not amenable to the idea of bringing in a third person to "share."

I pointed out that he went down on me and the Pitcher at the same time, and no one seemed to mind. (See The Satyr's Sinister Scheme.)

"That just happened.  I didn't plan on it.  But now we're together, and I should be enough for you."

"You're great, but there are a lot of cute guys out there.  I want to experience as much masculine beauty as I can."

"What about marital fidelity?" he asked, repeating a buzz word from his childhood.

"That whole mythos was based upon economics.  There was only way for a man to ensure that the children he was paying to raise were his own: forbid his wife from having sex with another man. Men don't get pregnant, so why not go for it?  Seize the day!"

"Ok...but...I want to warm up first, get used to this whole idea of fooling around on the side."

Well, let's invite someone we already dated into our bed.  Maybe Pete the Water Guy.

No, that would be too weird.

Hooking up with a stranger?

A stranger in my apartment?  Too risky!

How about a Sex Party?  Twenty guys, no waiting.

No.  Too many young guys.  I'm only into older.

A bath house?  There's one in Albany, and....

No.

There weren't a lot more options.

You know what I've always wanted to try?  A glory hole.  Where you're on one side of a wall, and he's on the other side.  

You only see his penis -- he can be anybody you want. 

A glory hole?  I had tried them at bath houses.  Uncomfortable, annoying, and a disembodied penis is not very erotic -- I like to see the guy I'm with, or at least feel him.

But ok.  The only place I knew of with such facilities was a video store on the Rue Ste. Catherine in Montreal, so we drove up for the weekend, and ignored the bars, bath houses, and sex shops.

Although we did see the Bonsecours Market and Centre d'histoire de Montréal, which seemed to be rather too inclusive of local celebrities from the 1970s.

Troy wanted to try out the glory hole at 10:00 pm on Saturday night, when most of the gay residents and visitors were out on dates, or at the bars, bath houses, and sex shops.... who was left to go to an adult video store?  Trolls, druggies, hustlers, closet cases...

We wanted into the brightly-lit front room, browsed among the gay videos and porn magazines, and then headed for the back, where there was a lounge area and two rows of small booths.

 There were about a dozen guys standing or sitting in the lounge, waiting for someone attractive to show up.  As I suspected, a rough crowd.  A lot of rumpled clothes, unshaven faces, and sallow, haunted looks.  Some guys were just trying to get out of the cold.

Definitely bottoms.  They wanted to be on the receiving end.  Troy wasn't going to get a lot of action tonight.

The booths were about the size of a telephone booth.  You went in, sat down, deposited a loonie (a Canadian dollar coin), and got to watch 5 minutes of a porn movie.  Another loonie, another 5 minutes.  You could also deposit $5 for 30 minutes, or $10 for 60.

This could get expensive.

We opened the door to an unoccupied booth, and saw that it had two glory holes, connecting to the booths on either side.  Both were deserted.

"I'm a little nervous," Troy said softly.  "What if the guy isn't my type?  I only like older guys, with muscles and chest hair."

"That's the point of the glory holes," I said.  "Disembodied cocks, no body type needed.  But tell you what -- I'll wait a few minutes, then go into that booth."  I gestured at the one on his left.  "Then you can pretend you don't know who it is, so it will be like going down on a stranger."

He smiled.  "Ok, let's try that for starters."

I left him alone.  The door shut, and the "Occupied" light came on.  I went back out to the entry area and scanned the video titles and got cruised by a scary-looking guy in a green trenchcoat.  To discourage him, I went out to the front room and browsed among the sex toys.

Then I returned and went to the booth to the left of Troy.  Scary guy followed, and went into the booth next to me.  His mouth immediately appeared at his glory hole.  I ignored him, unzipped, and squeezed through the glory hole into Troy's booth.

He ignored me.

I swayed a little bit.

He ignored me.

I pulled back in, knelt, and looked through the glory hole -- at the back of a guy's butt.

"Ahem!"  I cleared my throat and pushed through again.  I felt a hand giving me a desultory squeeze.

"Ahem!"  I zipped up, went over to Troy's booth, and opened the door.  He was on his knees in front of a beefy Bear, in his 40s, wearing a cowboy hat.  Why hadn't I seen him in the lounge area?

"Occupé!" he growled.

Troy looked up.  "C'est bon -- il est mon copain.  Boomer, this is Max.  He's a farmer.  Isn't that cool?"

"Enchanté!" Max grunted, obviously miffed at the coitus interruptus.

"You exchanged a lot of information through a glory hole!'

"He just opened the door to the booth, and we started talking.  It's a lot better than a disembodied penis, isn't it?"

Max pulled Troy to his knees and zipped up.  "Ta chum ne se souci pas?" Your boyfriend doesn't mind?

" Bien sûr que non!  Il était son idée!"  It was his idea!   He enveloped Max in a long kiss.  "Do you mind if Max comes back to the hotel with us?"

That was the end of Troy's insistence on monogamy, although he backslid a little when I made a teenage Friend with Benefits.

See also: Troy's Wild Ride in Hell-fer-Sartain and The Shy Boy at the Bathhouse.

Penis Painting in Traditional Africa

In the tropical regions of sub-Saharan Africa, nudity used to be the norm.  But men still found ways to ornament themselves and highlight their...um...best features.  They still do, on occasion.

Some men use scarification, the equivalent of Western tattoos, for a permanent effect.

Or paint for a more temporary outing.

Clay washes right off when you're finished displaying your erotic desirability and ready to get down to business.

Everyone has different style ideas.

The designs can get quite intricate.

Sometimes you don't need any ornamentation.  Your penis speaks for itself.

See also: African art on Boomer Beefcake and Bonding

A Naked Man Behind the Door

Speaking of sausage sightings, here's one for the record books:

There are several unisex bathrooms on campus, three in a row in a corridor of the Business School, three in a row in the Art Building, two in a row in Social Sciences.

They're designed for the disabled who can't negotiate the m/f restrooms, but also used by:

Non-binary and transgender people who might not feel comfortable in the m/f restrooms.

Guys who are shy about pulling it out in front of other guys.

And anyone who dislikes the gunkiness of the toilets in the m/f restrooms after about ten hours worth of students have been parking their behinds on them.

They are big, with big, square doors that can accommodate wheelchairs.  When you walk in, there's a sink directly in front of you and a toilet and sometimes a urinal five paces to the side.

No "occupied" indicators, like on airplanes.  You just try the door.  If it's locked from the inside, you move on.

That's a lot of buildup, but the payoff is worth it.

The other night I was walking through the Business School on the way back from the gym, and I decided to use one of the bank of unisex bathrooms. I chose the middle one for some reason.  Symmetry, I suppose. 

The doors are unexpectedly easy to open, and I had to go.  I swung it wide.

There was a man facing me!

Too old to be a student, probably in his 30s.  Tall, pale skin, buzz cut. Wearing a gray business suit.

Except his pants were down or off. I saw his bare, hairy legs, his thighs, his crotch, and a long, thick uncut cock hanging down.  About 4" soft.

I said "Excuse me" and swung the door shut again.

They don't slam.  It took a second.  He just stood there, motionless, staring.

Obviously he had not realized that the door was unlocked.

But one thing is bugging me:  he was nowhere near the toilet.  He was about three steps from the sink, facing away from it.  Facing the door.

What was he doing?

Maybe he was an exhibitionist, waiting for someone to expose himself to, with the safety of claiming "I didn't know the door was unlocked."

If so, he would have a long wait. There are several bathrooms in the Business Building, and not many people around.

Could he have been waiting for someone specific -- a bathroom hookup that I accidentally interrupted?

It beats shoving your cock under a toilet stall.

Going to Bed with the Boy Next Door

Rock Island, November 1968.

 A Thursday, two days after my eighth birthday.  Mom isn't feeling well, so she's in bed already.  Dad made macaroni and cheese for dinner.  My brother and I are in our pajamas, watching The Flying Nun and reading books.

Suddenly Mom calls Dad into the bedroom.  He returns a few moments later.  "Boys, get your coats and shoes on.  You're going on a sleepover."

Cool!  They said I could start going on sleepovers when I turned eight, but I didn't think it would be so soon after. But why does Kenny get to go?   He's only six!   

"Who with?"  I ask.

"Mike from next door."

Mike?  But we aren't friends -- he's a year younger than me, in the second grade.  We only played together once last summer, when he talked me into running through a sprinkler with my clothes on, and got me in trouble.  

But -- a sleepover, like the big kids have!  "I'll go pack some clothes and toys."

"No, there's no time.  I'll bring you some clothes tomorrow.  Just put your coats and shoes on right over your pajamas.  And you can pick out one toy apiece to bring.  But hurry up."

Kenny and I run down the stairs to our basement room to get our shoes on, and then look for toys to bring.  My teddy bear (named Ted E. Bear) seems like an obvious choice, but I don't want to act like a little baby in front of Mike, so I choose a Tarzan action figure instead.

When we climb up the stairs again, Mike's Dad, Mr. Maartin, is standing in the living room.  "Ready to go, cowpokes?" he asks with a broad smile.

I smile back.  Mr. Maartin is tall and broad shouldered, with thick arms and a little tattoo of an anchor on his wrist.  He's way old, of course, almost 30, but sometimes old guys are nice to look at, too.  I wonder if I'll get a glimpse of his shame tonight, like with Cousin Joe last summer.

Dad helps us put our coats on over our pajamas, hands me a plastic bag with our toothbrushes and toothpaste in it, and gives us each a hug.

Mom comes out to say goodbye.  She has her coat on, and she is carrying a suitcase.

"Where is Mom going?" I ask.

Nobody answers.  Mr. Maartin takes our hands and leads us down the steps and across the fresh November snow to his house.  I see Mom and Dad walking across our back yard to the garage.

"Don't worry about a thing," he says as he opens the screen door.  "Your Mom will be fine.  This is all perfectly normal, the cycle of life."

My heart sinks.  Is she sick?  Is she going to the hospital?  Is she going to die?

I try to avoid thinking about my worries and enjoy my first sleepover.  It's not what I was expecting: no other boys except Mike.  Mr. and Mrs. Maartin right there all the time.  We watch Bewitched and That Girl and Dragnet, eat Jiffy Pop  Popcorn, read comic books, and play army men.  At 9:00, Mrs. Maartin brings us mugs of warm milk, and then sends us to brush our teeth.

9:00?  I thought you stayed up all night at a sleepover.       

Mr. Maartin stands at the bathroom door, already in his pajamas.  I see his broad pale chest with little hairs around his nipples, his thick biceps, his little belly.   "Ok, cowboys, which of you wants to bunk with Mike, and which wants to bunk with his old dad?"

"You!"  I exclaim.  Mike is cute, slim, brown-haired, blue-eyed, with small, hard biceps and an outtie belly button.  I like how his brown skin stands out against the white of his pajamas.  But -- Mr Maartin is big!  And I'll be able to see his shame!

"I want Mommy!" Kenny exclaims.

"She'll be fine, I promise," Mr. Maartin says.  He turns to me.  "Um...you know, pardner, if it's all the same to you, I think the little buckeroo might need a woman's touch tonight."  He takes Kenny by the hand and leads him down the hall.

Suddenly I realize that he meant him and Mrs. Maartin.  No way would I want to sleep with a lady!  All those disgusting powders and perfumes.  Besides, at church the preacher said boys should never sleep with girls unless they're married.

Mike smiles at me.  "Sometimes I snore, but all you have to do is shake me til I I wake up.  I don't care."

We climb into his single bed and wait for Mrs. Maartin to say goodnight and turn the light off.

The bed is very narrow.  I accidentally push my leg against Mike's thigh.

"Hey, stay on your own side!" he murmurs.

This isn't fair!  You get stuck with the second-best bed, far away from Mr. Maartin and his shame, and you can't even be comfortable!

"I don't got cooties!", I say, wrapping my leg over his leg and my arm over his thin chest.

I've never held a boy like this before -- it's amazing, warm, hard, intimate.  I flush with unexpected joy.

Instead of shrugging me off, Mike turns over onto his side.  My arm is around his chest, and my other arm slides against his butt.  After a few minutes, he begins to snore.  I kiss his shoulder.

I don't want to fall asleep, to miss even a moment of this joy.  I want to lie like this, with Mike in my arms, tonight and tomorrow night, and every night, for the rest of my life.

I never had another sleepover with Mike -- he was a year younger than me, an impassible age gap.  But in the next weeks, and months, and years, and decades, I had lots of sleepovers with lots of other boys and men.  Holding a boyfriend in your arms all night is way better than a sausage sighting.

By the way, as you probably guessed, Mom was having a baby.  In the 1960s adults never discussed such things with kids, so I was oblivious until Dad called the next morning to announce that I had a baby sister.

See also: I Get a Glimpse of Cousin Joe's Shame; My Third Grade Boyfriend; A Crush on the Girl Next Door's Boyfriend.

My First Hookup

Rock Island, December 1978

I figured "it" out in 1978, during the summer after my high school graduation, and immediately started looking for gay people in Rock Island.

Not for sex or dating, necessarily, just to find someone to talk to.  I had made a major discovery, uncovered the Big Lie, and I couldn't tell anyone about it.

There was no one to discuss the hints and signals that helped us finally realize that "it is not raining upstairs."

No one to share complaints about the incessant "what girl do you like?" interrogations of our family and friends.

No one who I could nudge on the street and say "Isn't that guy hot!"

But how to find gay people in a world with no dating apps, no internet chatrooms, no gay organizations, and everyone pretending that they had no idea that same-sex desire existed.

There was a gay bar in town, but you had to be 21 to get in.  I was 17, and looked around 15.

Asking knowledgeable straight people was a problem.  They would answer with a suspicious "Why do you want to know?  Are you a fag?"

So I made my inquiries as homophobic as possible.  "No, of course not!  I just want to know if it's safe to walk down the street in this town!"

That research yielded mostly dead ends, hints and rumors, no last names, no details.

I tried to look for  clues: guys who were especially feminine, or who made eye contact a little too long, or who touched your hand by "accident."

That was fruitless, too: I spent weeks hanging out with Jack Kerouac, aka Jurgen, only to discover that he was straight, living with a girl!


As far as I could tell, there were no gay people at Augustana, in Rock Island, in the state of Illinois, in the world.

Then, around Christmastime in 1978,  I went to the post office in downtown Rock Island to buy some stamps, and behind the counter was a grinning Little Person.

Or maybe just a short guy.  The Little People Association of America defines dwarfism as anyone 4'10" and under.  He may have been an inch or two taller than that, maybe 5'0", the height of Aron Eisenberg, who played the Ferengi boy Nog on Star Trek: Deep Space Nine.

(Don't worry, he was over 25 years old when he bulged for this photo.)

My Little Person -- his name tag said Andy -- was in his 20s, very handsome, with a round face, cleanshaven, shaggy brown hair, and a slim, tightly muscled physique.

For a moment I couldn't think of what to say: I just stared.  Then, catching myself: "I'd like a book of stamps."

"Got a lot of Christmas cards to send?"

"Yep.  A lot of guys on my list."

The word guys hung in the air.  Andy smiled even more broadly.  "Well, how about our new Carl Sandburg stamps? He's the one that called Chicago 'the city of big shoulders,' you know."

What straight guy would think of big shoulders?  Andy was gay!  But how to make contact at the front of a long line of grumpy Christmas shoppers?  "I know.  I'm an English major at Augie [Augustana College]."

"I went there.  Majored in Postal Science."  He laughed at his own joke, and touched my hand as he passed over the book of stamps.  When I didn't flinch, he said "Maybe I should drop by my alma mater some time, see how things are going over there."

"I'm at the Student Union most afternoons."  I couldn't think of anything else to say, so I left.

The next day I hung out at the Student Union all afternoon, but no Little Person.

I scrambled to find a gift to send to my Aunt Nora in Indiana, box it up, and take it to the post office at the same time the next day.  Andy was there!

He noticed that I let a couple of other people go ahead of me so I could go to his window, and grinned broadly.

"I wanted to thank you for the Sandburg stamps," I said.  "They'll be a big hit with my friends.  Too bad they didn't show the stormy, husky, brawling Youth, half-naked and proud."  

"That's our Tom of Finland collection, out next month."  I had never heard of Tom of Finland, the gay erotic artist, so I didn't get the joke.  He paused.  "Busy day today.  I can't wait until I get off at 6:00 pm."

At 6:00 pm I was waiting outside the back entrance to the post office, watching the day shift leave.  Andy glanced at me, but didn't speak.

"Hi, Andy!  I thought we could..."

WTF?  He walked past quickly without looking at me, then slowed and looked back.  Mystified, I followed.

I followed him for three blocks, past the Circa 21 Dinner Theater, past the Public Library where I spent many afternoons in high school, past the United Methodist Church.  Every now and then he looked back to make sure I was still there.

Finally we came to an old Victorian house that had been chopped up into apartments.  He unlocked a side door and went in, leaving it ajar.

I stood outside, wondering what to do.  A few moments later, Andy stuck his head out the door, looked at me, and disappeared again.

I followed him inside and up the stairs to a small studio apartment.  A daybed, a small coffee table covered with books and papers, two stalk lamps, a bookcase.

Andy carefully closed and locked the door.

"So, where do you want to go for dinner?"

Then he was on me, kissing and fondling everything he could get his hands on.  We tore off our coats and shirts and collapsed onto the daybed.  His mouth was everywhere, biting, licking, sucking.  He tried to turn me over and push inside, but I whispered "No, the front."

He went down on me vigorously -- my first experience at receiving oral sex.

  Then he lay on his back, moaning as I moved from his firm, hairy chest to his belly. When I got to his penis -- average sized, uncut -- he trembled and moaned and jerked his hips, and finished with a shudder.

I had only been in 1 1/2 sexual situations before, and never anything this exuberant.  It was overwhelming.

When it was over, we lay on the daybed, kissing and fondling, and I was finally able to ask Andy some questions.

No, he didn't know any other gay people in town.  Some familiar faces at JR's, some guys he knew by first names or nicknames, but no one real.

It was too dangerous.  If anyone discovered that he was gay, he would be kicked out of his apartment, fired from his job, arrested, committed to a mental institution.

"Could we...you know, get together again?  Maybe have dinner?"

"Not until you're old enough to go to JR's," Andy said with a sad smile.  "It's the only safe place."  He stood and handed me my underwear.  "Make sure no one sees you on your way out."

I left feeling even more alone.

Actually, Illinois revoked its sodomy law in 1962, and the American Psychiatric Association removed being gay from its list of psychoses in 1973.

 But Andy didn't know that.  No one in small town Illinois in 1978 knew that.

I never saw Andy again.  Years later, I asked around at JRs, and found out that he moved to Iowa City to be close to a lover.

A month later, I would meet my second gay guy in Rock Island, Peter the Male Witch.

See also: My date with Jack Kerouac.