Troy Returns to Hell-fer-Sartain

Upstate, March 2011

Troy, my boyfriend in Upstate New York, was a high school French teacher and soccer coach -- rather an anomaly in a town obsessed with baseball --  25 years old, tall, slim, athletic  very handsome, except for the big black earrings and a pink triangle tattoo.

He had never been farther west than Buffalo, so in the spring of 2011, I offered to fly us to West Hollywood and San Francisco.

"That sounds cool," he said, "But you know where I'd really like to go?  Texas.  Cowboys, sage brush, cattle ranches, oil barons, all that glitz and glamour.  You know what they say: 'they grow them big in Texas."

"But...after 210 miserable days in Hell-fer-Sartain -- um, I mean Houston -- I vowed to never set foot in the state again!"

"I know -- you've told me lots of horror stories about your year in Texas.  But that was in 1985, before I was even born.  I'm sure it's changed a lot since then. Being gay is even legal now."

It took several conversations, but finally I agreed: three nights in Austin, Texas, a liberal, bohemian college town nowhere near Hell-fer-Sartain, and then March 15-19 in West Hollywood.

When the plane landed at Austin International Airport on March 11th, and the blue sky of Texas enveloped me, I began to feel anxious, almost panicky.  What if we were trapped here?  What if we could never escape again?

"Relax!" Troy said, taking my hand.  Wary of homophobes, especially in redneck Texas, I jerked it away.

The highway into town had tall barriers on either side.  I couldn't see anything.

We stayed at a gay bed and breakfast on Lavaca Street, just south of the State Capitol, near the Mexi-Arte Museum, a gay bar called Rain, and a sushi restaurant.  Adequately Bohemian.  I could stand spending three nights here.

But then Troy had another surprise: "I want to drive out to Houston.  It's only 165 miles."

"What?  Why?"

"The Montrose is one of the oldest gay neighborhoods in the country.  And besides, I've heard so many stories about Hell-fer-Sartain that I want to see it for myself.  We'll drive up tomorrow, spend the night, and drive back the next day, ok?"

"No way, Jose!  You talked me into coming to Texas, but no way I'm going near that place!  I haven't been there in 25 glorious years, and I'm up for at least another 25 years without setting foot in Hell-fer-Sartain."

"Ok, ok!  But would you mind if I go myself, just for curiosity's sake?  I'll keep a complete log of what happened.  Oh -- and carte blanche for cruising?"

"Sure, whatever.  You won't find anybody in Hell-fer-Sartain, anyway.  Lord knows I tried."

So I spent all day Monday and Tuesday by myself in Austin.  Troy returned in time for dinner Tuesday night.  As promised, he kept a log:

Monday 

11:00 am.  I arrive at Lone Star College, where Boomer taught bonehead English to rednecks.  I meet with Cammie, the head of the Gender-Sexuality Alliance, who prefers not to use gender pronouns.   "It's not a gay club," they tell me.  "Most of our members are transgender or genderqueer.  We have cisgender straight members, too. And a couple of gay guys."

12:00 pm.  Several members of the GSA -- two gay, two genderqueer, and one straight --  take me to lunch at the China Bear, near the campus.  They're going to be on a panel in a sociology class at 2:00, and ask me to go along.

2:00 pm.  The panel.  We sit on chairs in the front of a room with about 30 students -- not all rednecks (there's a Muslim girl in a hijab).  Each of us tells our "coming out" story (as gay, transgender, and genderqueer). Then the students ask questions, mostly about "what causes it?" and "how did your parents react?"  One asked me if I was attracted to buttholes the way straight guys are attracted to boobs.


3:00 pm.  The other gay gay on the panel, a biochemistry major named Mason, offers to take me on a tour of the area.  We try to find Boomer's old address, but the house is gone.  The streets are now paved, by the way, and have sidewalks.

5:00 pm.  Back to Mason's house.  I expect dinner, but instead he invites me to "share" with his partner Donovan, an older guy, balding but otherwise cute, firm hairy chest, big dick.  I go down on him while Mason is going down on me, and then he tops Mason.   Hot!

7:00 pm.  We shower (together) and then drive into Houston, where I check into my hotel and (finally!) go out to dinner at Baba Yegg, which disappointingly doesn't serve Russian food.  But there are lots of gay guys there, in groups and couples.

9:00 pm.  Time to hit the bars.  There are a dozen within walking distance of my hotel: South Beach, JR's, Blur, Ripcord.  Mostly dancing and drag queens, but there's one leather bar, the Eagle (naturally).

11:00 pm.  Mason and Donovan say goodbye and go back to the suburbs.  I  hit the Eagle, which is in full cruise mode.  Apparently bar life is still important in Texas.

12:00 am.  No luck at the Eagle, and I'm a little tired (and hungry), so I go to Boheme, an artsy wine bar with a pizza menu.  Naturally, I get cruised when my mouth is full of artisanal eggplant-kalimata olive pizza.

1:00 am.  Rolf is a little older than me, in his 30s, with too many scents and too much gel in his hair.  But otherwise he's hot, very muscular, bare hard chest, cut Kielbasa+, into "worship" (where you kiss and lick him all over the body).  I am glad to oblige! For sex, he's an oral bottom.  As Boomer knows, I'm mostly an oral bottom, too, but I don't mind getting a blow job every now and then, especially if the guy is hot.

Tuesday

8:00 am.  Breakfast with Rolf, then jogging through the Montrose.

10:00 am.  The Museum District: Museum of Fine Arts, Natural History Museum, then cruising at Rice University.  A cute college guy seems to be flirting with me, but I don't have time to stop.

1:00 pm.  Lunch, then a stop at the gay sex shop to buy Boomer some souvenirs, a 9" dildo and some nipple clamps (he'll use them on me, hopefully).  They have video booths with glory holes, so I stick around for awhile.  Soon a 9" penis comes through the glory hole at me.  I don't know who it belongs to -- it's dark, maybe Hispanic.  Who cares?

Later a college-aged guy puts his very hard average sized penis through.  Is it the same one who flirted with me before?  I can't tell for sure.

2:00 pm.  Time to leave Hell-for-Sartain.

"What about you?" Troy asked.  "What did you do during your two days alone in Austin?"
 
I visited the State Capitol and  the State History Museum, which was kind of boring.  I cruised at Oilcan Harry's but didn't meet anyone, worked out at the Gregory Gym at the University of Texas but didn't seen any Texas penises, bought used books at a public library book sale, not very interesting ones.

"Meet any hot guys?"

"No.  I saw Alvin Rangel's biceps and bulge at a dance recital.

I should have gone back to Hell-fer-Sartain...um, I mean Houston.

See also: Troy's First Video Booth

I Pick Up a Boy and His Daddy at an Airport in Montana

Helena, Montana, April 2013

In the spring of 2013, desperate to get out of Philadelphia, I sent out a lot of application portfolios, but being obviously over 40, with 13 years of temporary "visiting faculty" jobs, plus a resume-full of gay-themed research, made me less than desirable as a candidate.  I only got three interviews: a women's college somewhere in eastern Pennsylvania, a Catholic college in Montana, and a public university on the Plains (I took the Plains).

My flight to Helena, Montana gave me a 2-hour layover in Denver.

I don't mind layovers.  The Denver Airport has an artwalk with some of the most interesting public art in the U.S., plus a nice view of the mountains and a nice breakfast place.

Plus airports are great for physique watching: an endless variety of businessmen in suits, college boys in t-shirts and short pants, hot dads balancing their toddlers on their knees.

Helena Airport, on the other hand, is tiny, with a single lobby and a single restaurant, Captain Jack's Bistro and Bar.  Pictures of cowboys, pillars that look like trees.

After my interview, they took me to the airport at 3:00 pm for my 5:00 flight, even though I had my boarding pass and was through security in about 30 seconds.  Nothing to do but get on my laptop and look out at the dark clouds rumbling overhead and wonder if I was going to make it to Philadelphia.

Not a lot of beefcake to watch: a couple of high school athletes, a middle-aged cowboy with a nice basket.  Otherwise all women, kids, or elderly people.

And a twink: tall, slim, with weird wavy hair, a bearded oval face, prominent eyebrows, and those big round earrings, wearing a white button-down shirt and red jeans with a nice bulge.  Rather feminine, flaunting about with his carry-on.  I noticed that it had a rainbow flag on it.

My first gay guy in Montana, and he's not closeted!  Too bad that he's not my type.

Even though there were lots of empty seats, he plopped down next to me.

"Going to Denver?  Yeah, I guess we're all going to Denver.  I'm off to visit my sister in Tucson -- she just had a baby.  I haven't seen her in almost a year.  My name is Jacob."

"Congratulations," I said.   "My name is Boomer."

He grabbed my arm.  "Oh, I bet there's a story behind that."

"Three of them, in fact."  I don't usually make conversation in airports -- there's little point -- you'll both be flying off in different directions in a few minutes.  But -- the only gay person in Helena, Montana!   "I'm going home to Philadelphia.  I was here for a job interview."

"Oh,  Boomer, I hope you get the job.  I'd love to show you the sights!  Did you get a chance to see Cruse Avenue?"

"Cruise Avenue?  Is that the gay neighborhood?"

"No, silly!"  He slapped my shoulder.  "It's a great street that overlooks downtown and the mountains, so you can get a birds' eye view of everything! Oh, and I'd take you to the Holter Museum, and the 4J's -- that's our best casino, not like Las Vegas, but it's fun!  And if you like dancing, they have country-western line dancing at the Rialto."

"Boys dancing together?"

"Sure, whatever you want.  We're open minded in the Big Sky Country."

Did this guy work for the Tourist Bureau?  "I'm really more into classical music."

He grabbed my arm again.  "Babe, you're in luck.  My Daddy is one of the performers at the Montana Early Music Festival. That's why he's not going to Tucson with me --they're performing at St. Peter's tonight.  That's the Episcopal Cathedral downtown."

Daddy?  My ears perked up.  Adults did not refer to their parents as "Daddy," so Jacob was outing himself as the bottom in a fetish relationship that was about control rather than BDSM.  "So, how long have you and your...daddy been together?"

"About three years. I don't call him Daddy all the time, of course.  I call him Mike on campus and to his ex-wife.  She's not very accepting -- she thinks we're just roommates.  But most people in Helena couldn't care less.  It's live and let live up here."  Suddenly there was a rumble of thunder, and it started to pour outside.  The clouds were so dark they were almost black.

Jacob reached out and stroked my knee -- very open for an airport!  And how did he even know I was gay?   "It looks like we might be going to that concert after all."

About fifteen minutes later, our flight was indeed cancelled, so I was stuck in Helena overnight.  I could call the college and have them get me a hotel room, but whenever I've done that, I haven't gotten the job.  Besides, Jacob was already calling his Daddy to arrange for me to spend the night.

I wondered what Daddy looked like: older, of course, and an anal top, but...a stern leather master?  A cigar-chomping bear?  A hard-drinking, tattoo-covered redneck?

Well, it wouldn't hurt to meet him, anyway.

I got Jacob's full name and number, and emailed them to Troy in New York -- just a precaution -- then followed him to his car, clinging against him under his umbrella.

We had dinner at a Mexican restaurant -- he grabbed my knee under the table while I ate my arroz con pollo with guacamole, and briefly held my hand.

 Then we went to the Rialto, the country-western gay bar.  Deserted at 6:00 pm on a rainy Thursday night -- but we managed to find a secluded corner for kissing.

"I'm going to be servicing two Daddies tonight," Jacob murmured, running his  hand over my chest.  "One for each end.  Oh, I can't wait.  I hope you're as hung as my Daddy is."

"How hung is he?" I asked.

"Well, let's just say we grow them big in Montana!

We got to the concert just as it was starting. Jacob ushered me into one of the first rows and pointed to the choir.  "That's Mike," he whispered.  "Isn't he hot?"

"He sure is!" I said, although I didn't know exactly which of the elderly, portly singers he was referring to.

I'm not a big fan of Renaissance music, but the concert was interesting, mostly through the incongruity of hearing it in Montana, looking at a row of middle-aged bears and wondering which was the "daddy" of the twink beside me.  The husky, white haired baritone?  The chubby tenor?  The elderly, eye-glassed bass?

Afterwards Jacob led m up to the stage, past all of the middle-aged bears, to....another twink?

Mike was a professor of music at the college, slim, eyeglassed, blue-eyed...and in his mid-30s.  No more than five years older than Jacob!

This Daddy-Boy relationship was obviously not based on age.  Was it based on penis size?

Back at their house on the oddly-named Flowerree Street, Mike revealed a slim, firm, hairy chest and an uncut, average sized penis.  He was mostly an anal top, but agreed to let me go down on him.

Then Jacob went down on me while Mike topped him.

In the morning we went back to the airport for our flight to Denver.  They gave me their phone number, and said if I got the job, we would get together.

I didn't get the Montana job, but the Plains is only 900 miles away.  I might drop in sometime





By the way, Jacob, the bottom. had a Mortadella+. Go figure.

And I still don't understand how he knew I was gay.

See also: 36 Hours of Cruising at Lambeth International Airport.

Wade the Beachboy Cruises for Hawaiian Men

Wilton Manors, Summer 2004

"I read an interesting article in the Gay News,"  my ex-boyfriend's hookup tells us.  "It was about the gay traditions of kanaka maoli, traditional Hawaiian society. "

With three housemates dating and hooking up regularly, you never know who will be sitting at the breakfast table, especially on weekends.  This morning there's seven, including my housemate Yuri, my ex-boyfriend Wade,  and Ricardo, the Cuban-American dance instructor who Yuri and Wade "shared" last night.

"The aikane, or male bedmate, was a standard part of the culture," Ricardo continues.  "Every guy had a wife and an aikane." 

"I always thought of Hawaii as a 'good place,'" I say, "Where same-sex desire is open.

"Me, too!" Wade exclaims.  "I applied to the University of Hawaii for my undergrad degree, but my parents talked me into staying home in Canada.  I should have gone!  Hawaiian men are so hot!"

"And I'd love to hear the Hawaiian language spoken," I add.

"You could get your chance," Ricardo says.  "According to the article, there are 400,000 native Hawaiians on the mainland, most of them right here in Florida."

"That's 200,000 men," Yuri calculates, "100,000 adult men, 10,000 adult gays."

"Nice odds!" Ricardo says.  "You could get an aikane easily, if you plan your strategy right."

"And when you do, bring him around," I add.  "I want to talk to him."

"Or use your mouth, anyway," Wade says.  Everyone laughs.

Where do you find gay native Hawaiians in Florida?

The Polynesian restaurants in Fort Lauderdale, the Big Kahuna and the Mai-Kai, are tacky, touristy, and very heterosexual, with "shows" featuring gyrating women in grass skirts.

There is a Hawaiian Civic Association in Melbourne, but its brochure lists "family friendly," that is, heterosexual-only events.

But: Florida International University in Miami.  10% of the 50,000 students are Pacific Islanders, mostly native Hawaiians.

 5,000 of them, 2,500 male, 250 gay male.

Ok, where to find them?

Wade checks the schedule of classes for something on Pacific Island anthropology, languages, cultures...and finds Hawaiian Language 101, offered through the Asian Studies Department!

Surely lots of native Hawaiians would enroll in such a class!

It's a long drive on terrible Florida highways, but at least his job at the hotel will pay the tuition, if he tells them that language study will come in handy in speaking to tourists.



Week 1

Hawaiian 101 was held on Tuesdays and Thursdays in the Deuxieme Maison,  "The Second House," actually a long, low concrete building.

Wade loved the language.  Only 8 consonants, including a glottal stop: H, K, L, M, N, P, W. And no dipthongs.  So Merry Christmas becomes Mele Kalikimaka.

The professor was a woman of Irish, Japanese, and Hawaiian ancestry, not a native speaker; she said that there were only about 2,000 native speakers left, but 200,000 people have learned some Hawaiian to get in touch with their roots.

What about your classmates?

11 women, 8 other men.  Of the men, one was haole, one black, the rest native Hawaiians trying to fill the "foreign language" requirement and get in touch with their roots at the same time.

Are any of the six native Hawaiian men gay?

It was hard to tell.  They all came and left in a group, and didn't interact much with the haole boys.



Week 2

Class is cancelled due to the hurricane.

Week 3

The Hawaiian for "I have a big stick" is i loaa he nui lāʻau

Week 4

"I finally managed to get a cruisy conversation with one of my classmates," Wade tells us.  "David.  He's majoring in Mass Communications.  He was excited to find out that I'm from Canada."

Week 5

"Made it!" Wade exclaims.  "David is gay, but closeted.  We went out for coffee, and then back to his dorm room."

"How big is he?" Yuri asks.

"You know I'm usually into older guys, but David is super-hot.  Very handsome face, smooth chest, xylophone abs, thick Smooth chest, tight pec muscles, very affectionate. We kissed, cuddled, he went down on me, I went down on him."

"How big?" Yuri repeats.

Wade smiles.  "I kept choking."

Week 6

"Ok, you've been out with David three times," I say.  "Time to introduce him."

"And share him," Yuri adds.

"He hasn't been out very long," Wade says, "And he's a little on the shy side.  I'm not sure he'd be up for sharing with both of you. Maybe Yuri could share, and I could talk him into letting Boomer watch."

"Fine with me."

"Bring him on Thursday night," Yuri says.  "For dinner."

Week 7

Yuri is not really interested in sharing Wade's boyfriend -- he's into bodybuilder types, not twinks.  He'll do it, of course, just to be polite.

But I'm thrilled.  I spend the week remembering the Pacific hunks of my childhood: Call It Courage, Robinson Crusoe on Mars, the tales of Robert Louis Stevenson.  Dusky, muscular Hawaiian guys fill my fantasies.

Finally Thursday night comes.  Barney is out, so it will be just the four of us.  Yuri makes moussaka, with a green salad and dolmas, stuffed grape leaves.  I rent a new porn movie to set the mood for later.

The doorbell rings promptly at 6:00.  I open it to Wade, carrying a fruit compote for dessert, and his new boyfriend David, from Hawaiian class.

A curly-haired haole.

Actually of English, Portuguese, and Japanese ancestry.

Well, Wade never actually said the guy was native Hawaiian.

At least he was not as shy as Wade thought, open to "sharing" with both of us, and very well hung.

There's a story about searching for native Hawaiian men in Hawaii on The Gay Guide to Small Town Beefcake.  See "The Haole Hunks of Kauai, Hawaii"