The Daddy with a New Lover Every Week

West Hollywood, March 1990

"I thank God for bringing me my new lover," Cal announced during the "joys and sorrows" segment of the service at the West Hollywood MCC.  We all looked eagerly, and with some envy:

Cal had only been attending the church for a few weeks.  He was new to West Hollywood, newly out, with an ex-wife and kids back in Baltimore.  Middle aged but too scrawny to be a bear, bald, eyeglassed, not attractive.

But he was holding hands with a stunningly handsome, curly haired beach boy in tight jeans.

During the coffee hour after the service, several guys approached the new lovers to congratulate them and invite them to "do brunch," perhaps hoping that they would be able to "share" Cal's prize.

The next week, Cal sat in church alone, brushing off the questions of "Where's your lover?"  During the "joys and sorrows," he announced, teary-eyed, that he and the beach boy had broken up.  "It's been hard on me, but I trust that God has a plan, and He'll get me through this!"

During the coffee hour after the service, several guys approached Cal to offer their sympathy and invite him to "get back out there."

The next week, Cal sat  with a stunningly handsome, curly-haired gym rat in a white tank top.

"I thank God for bringing me my new lover," he announced during "joys and sorrows."
I stared.  How did he find a new lover so fast?

It was the height of the AIDS crisis, and tricking (our term for hookups) was strongly condemned.  You never went home with someone you had just met; you asked him for a date (in four or five days, to avoid appearing over-eager).

The first date involved going out to dinner, a movie if there was a beefcake-heavy one playing, dancing, cruising (looking at cute guys), and then home to spend the night.

The second date was more of the same, except that at some point you met his friends, who approved or not.

The third date was a momentous step: it marked you as lovers (permanent partners).

Treated as a couple by all of your friends.
No other sex partners except for shared friends
Planning to move in together.

And requiring a tearful, face-to-face,  "it's not you, it's me" breakup.

There were a lot of first and second dates in West Hollywood, but not many thirds.  In a decade, I only had about five.  How did Cal manage to get two in two weeks?

The next Sunday, Cal was sitting alone in church again.  He explained that his lover wasn't feeling well.

But the following Sunday, he was praising God for giving him a new lover -- a slim, curly haired twink who worked as a waiter at the Cafe Etoile.

Ok, what was going on?  Did Cal meet guys on Tuesday, have the dates Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, become lovers in time for Sunday morning congratulations and brunch invitations, and then break up?

Why would you do that?

Unless you were using "lovers" as a socially acceptable way of tricking, going through guy after guy at the speed of light?

I decided to do a little sleuthing.  I tagged along on one of the brunch invitations to start a friendship with Cal.  Then, the next Sunday, when he announced that he and his lover had broken up, I invited him to dinner next Wednesday, with Lane.

And a guy from the gay synagogue: Joel, a lawyer, early 30s, pale, bookish, with glasses and a sparse beard (top photo).  Black curly hair. Conservative, not into "sharing" (we tried -- he's #5 on my list of the Guys Who Got Away).

 And most importantly, an interest in older guys.

The matchmaking worked fine: Cal and Joel were both impressed, exchanged phone numbers, and went home (separately).

At Shabbat on Friday night, Joel told us that for their first date, Cal was taking him to dinner at in the restaurant at the top of the Westin Bonaventure Hotel.

"He really wants to impress you!" I exclaimed.  Entrees started at $30.

"Yeah, it's really more of a third date place," Joel agreed.  "He said he works for Paramount.  Maybe he has money."

The date was on Saturday night.

On Sunday morning, like clockwork, Cal announced "I want to thank God for sending me my new lover.  He's Jewish, so he's not here today."

Lover? Permanent partner?  How was that possible?  They had only been on one date!

At the coffee hour after church, invitations to brunch were scarce, perhaps because there was no hunk on Cal's arm, or because congratulating people becomes tiresome when they have a milestone every week.

"So, you and Joel hit it off pretty well?" I asked, tentatively.

"Pretty well!" Cal exclaimed.  "He's fantastic!  I never met anyone like him before.  We have everything in common.  We're soulmates, for sure."

"After one date?"

"When it's The One, you know after one glance!  He's moving in next weekend."

"Well, after the dust is settled, invite us over for dinner.  We're the guys who brought you together."

"Sure -- but no sharing!" Cal said with a smile.  "I want Joel all to myself."

I didn't get a chance to talk to Joel during the week, but at Shabbat on Friday, I asked, "How are things going with Cal?"

"Things aren't actually going," he said.  "We went out Saturday night, then again on Tuesday, but no more.  He's nice and all -- I know he's your friend -- just not my type."

"That's funny -- in church on Sunday he announced that you had become lovers."

"That's the thing.  During the first date -- we had only just barely climbed into bed -- he started saying we were soulmates, meant to be together, he had never met anyone like me before, and so on and so on.  Sunday morning he talked about moving in together!  It was way too fast!"

So Cal wasn't using dating as a substitute for hookups.  Quite the opposite.  He fell in love instantly, like many guys do who have been deprived of same-sex relationships until midlife.

"Poor guy.  I'm surprised you hung around for the second date."

"Well, I thought he would calm down a little.  Besides, I wanted another chance in bed with him."

"Good in bed, huh?"

Joel grinned and spread his hands apart like a fisherman. "Biggest I ever saw."

Unfortunately, I never saw it, but from other guys who dated Cal, I'm estimating a Kovbasa+.

See also: My Top 15 Sausage Sightings; 10 Guys who Got Away

The Horrifying Hispanic Rebuff of Eigenmann Hall

Indiana University, August 1982

I was 21 years old, a new college graduate, just starting graduate school at Indiana University.  Classes woudln't start until Monday; we were supposed to spend this week getting used to the gigantic campus that took 20 minutes to walk across.  The  library with stacks as big as a football field.  Eigenmann Hall, the 13-story high graduate men's dormitory that housed more people than a small town, with its own snack bar, gym, and library.  A 20-page brochure advertised every conceivable student club,  from bird-watching to Marxism (no gay groups, of course).

On the Thursday before classes began, there was an International Student Mixer in the Eigenmann Hall Snack Bar. Come and meet your dorm mates from more than 20 countries!  Everyone welcome!  Refreshments provided!

Rock Island was very homogenous.  Everyone's grandparents and great-grandparents were from Sweden, but there were no, or almost no recent immigrants. There were no international students at Augustana except for one guy from Sweden. I wanted to meet people from Argentina, Bolivia, Britain, Germany, India, Japan, Korea, Samoa, South Africa,  Taiwan, Thailand, and Venezuela.  I was there!

You know what happens at these functions, right?  No international mingling. Everyone clung together with people from their own country, eating brownies and drinking punch and giggling and gossipping.  They never even glanced at the students from other countries.  .  

And I was the only American, wandering around, pretending to be very interested in the announcements posted on the bulletin board, being rebuffed by the Brits, the Indians, the Japanese, and the Samoans like a ball in a foosball game.

I wasn't having it!  I came here to meet people from different countries, and I was going to meet people from different countries!  Besides, I hadn't met anyone gay on campus yet, and some of these guys were cute.

I chose four guys standing by the refreshment table, having an animated conversation in Spanish.

Today, when 13% of the population of the U.S. speaks Spanish, it is difficult to imagine the linguistic desert of the 1970s.  In eight years of studying Spanish, I had never heard anyone speaking it in real life, never had a conversation in Spanish except with classmates (and a guy from church once).  This was my opportunity.

I sidled up and pushed my way into the Spanish-speaking group.  They stopped talking. 

I looked at the leader, a tall, muscular guy about a foot taller than the others, smiled, and said "Hola!"

He glared at me. "Practicing your Spanish?"

Another thing about Spanish class -- we studied countless scenarios in which an American meets someone from Mexico or Peru or Spain, and they are always friendly, always eager to chat about the color of their socks or the difference between "ice" and "ice cream."

"Um...um..." I stammered.  "People...um...like it when you take the trouble to learn their language.  I...um...studied Spanish for eight years...I'm fluent...."

"That's great.  What prize did you win?"

It occurred to me: he thought I was an "ugly American,"  looking down on his country, thinking he was stupid.

"Of course I know that you speak English," I said, not sure if I was more embarrassed or angry.  "You have to speak English to enroll at this university.  I was just trying to be friendly...trying to be nice."

Seeing a pale 21-year old kid trembling, almost in tears, the guy toned back his hatred a bit and started asking me questions.  "Where are you from?", that sort of thing.  I don't remember my answers.  After a few minutes, I got out of there.

You're expecting this story to end with the guy inviting me back to his room for a night of sex.

Nope.  I never saw him again.  I never got his name, or the country he was from.

But I learned that people in the U.S. who are speaking a language other than English do not like you to chime in.  They are not pleased that you speak their language.  They consider it an insult.  I'll do it only if they start the conversation in their language, or if they are obviously struggling with English.

And over 30 years later, that "Practicing your Spanish?" rebuff still stings.  

My First Word Was My Boyfriend's Name

Garrett, Indiana, July 1978

When I was born in November 1960, my parents were living in a house on South Randolph Street in Garrett, a small town in northern Indiana.  We lived there until I was four and a half-years old, when we moved to Wisconsin.

I have very few memories of that time, and none about anyone who lived in the house next door.

But we returned to Garrett for visits at least twice a year, and drove down Randolph Street, past our old house, many times.  My parents often pointed it out, and the house next door:

"That's where your girlfriend lived!"

I didn't have a girlfriend, at age six, or ten, or fifteen, and I didn't want one.  I liked boys.

But nearly every time we drove past that house on South Randolph Street:  "There's your girlfriend's house!"

It was the most annoying of the "what girl do you like?" interrogations that tormented me as a kid.  I roiled at the blanket assumption that I, like every boy who had ever lived and ever would live, swooned over feminine curves and smiles, that my destiny lay in the prison of wife, kids, factory job, and small square house.

Like the two-story frame house with the ugly gray paint and the broken front door where, according to my parents, I had a girlfriend at the age of four.

We drove down Randolph Street a lot.  On the way to visit my grandparents -- both of them.  On our way to Auburn or Rome City to visit my aunts and uncles.  On the way home.  On the rare occasions that we did something in downtown Garrett.  A dozen times per visit.  And inevitably:

"That was where your girlfriend lived!"

Sometimes Mom added a few details: The girl's name was Rebecca.  She was three months younger than me, brown hair, blue eyes.  We played in our bassinets together.  My first word, other than "Mommy" and "Bye-Bye," was "Becky."

My first word was a girl's name.  I found that horribly depressing.

In July 1978, I was 17 years old, a new high school graduate.  I had just figured "it" out, but no one knew except my brother.

We usually left Rock Island as soon as Dad got off work, at 4:00 pm, and drove six hours to Rome City to spend the night with Aunt Nora.  The next day all of Mom's brothers and sisters gathered at Grandpa Prater's farmhouse outside Garrett and spent the day playing horseshoes or board games, watching tv, and talking, with a picnic or barbecue in the summer.  But today Grandpa Prater wasn't feeling well, so we just stopped in for a brief visit; the family gathering would take place at Uncle Paul's house in town.

"Look!  Your girlfriend's house!" Mom exclaimed as we drove down Randolph Street.

I started to worry.  Was it possible that at the beginning of my life, I liked girls?  Did something happen to turn me gay?  And if you could turn gay, could you turn straight again?

Going out with a girl, sitting with her on a couch, touching her on the face and shoulder, squeezing her breast, kissing her, seeing her naked...gross!  No muscles, no penis, nothing masculine, nothing attractive!  Was that my fate?

Garrett is a small town.  Uncle Paul's house was only five blocks from my girlfriend's house.  In the afternoon, while everyone was getting ready for the barbecue, I put on my t-shirt and shorts, said I was going for a jog, and ran over to meet this girlfriend I had at age four.

After 13  years, it was unlikely that she was still living there, but on the off chance, I walked up to the front door and knocked.

"There's no one home."

A boy was walking across the yard, a baseball bat in hand: a little older than me, my height, dirty-blond hair in an old-fashioned 1950s style, deep-set blue eyes, and high cheekbones.  He was wearing a muscle shirt that displayed small but firm biceps.  Cute!

So cute that I almost forgot my quest after my "girlfriend."  "Um...hi.  I used to live next door, and I'm looking for a girl I used to know, named Becky.  About my age, brown hair."

"That's my baby sister.   Well, not that much of a baby, only a year younger than me.  I'm Ben."  We shook hands -- warm, tight handshake.  "She's at work right now, but she'll be back soon.  Do you want to wait?"  He grinned.  "Or we could go surprise her."

An adventure with a cute boy!  I was in!

We walked up Randolph Street to Garrett's small downtown -- a hardware store, a newsstand, a movie theater, some bars.  I told Ben about my college plans and the Fourth of July party I went to last week where the guys got naked -- he found that hilarious!  He told me about high school -- turns out that he knew my Cousin Buster -- and his job at the car wash.  It was warm and comfortable, yet exciting, like a first date.

It was hot, so Ben took his shirt off.  Even more exciting!  Smooth tanned chest, pinprick nipples, outtie belly button. I found some excuse to wrap my arm around his shoulders.  He grinned.

Becky worked at a small store that specialized in women's dresses.  It was deserted in mid-afternoon.  A girl sat behind the counter, reading a magazine.

"Hey, where's Becky?"  Ben asked.

"Oh, it wasn't busy, so she left early.  I don't know where she went."

Ben turned to me.  "Sorry to bring you all this way for nothing.  We can go back to the house and wait, if you want."

"I have a better idea.  My uncle is having a barbecue this afternoon.  Why don't you come?  Buster will be there, and you can meet my parents."

So Ben came as my "date" to the barbecue at Uncle Paul's house.  We ate hamburgers, potato chips, salad, and pie; we played horse-shoes with the adults and slip-and-slide with the kids.  Mom and Dad introduced him as "the brother of Boomer's first girlfriend."  I introduced him as Ben.

"Oh, this is Benny, your little buddy!" Uncle Paul exclaimed.  "It's cool how you found him again."

"Little buddy?" I asked, perplexed.

"Yeah, when you were a baby, the neighbor lady used to babysit in the afternoons, while your Mom was at work.  She had two kids of her own -- Benny, and I forget the girl's name.  We called him your 'little buddy.'"

"I remember that," Ben said, wrapping his arm around my waist.  "I thought you looked familiar.  My long-lost bud!"

"You boys were crazy about each other, let me tell you!" Uncle Paul continued.  "I used to come over after school to pick you up, and you would hug for dear life and not let go."

"Um...what about Becky?"

"Was that her name?  You liked playing with her, too.  But you know what your first word was?  Other than Bye-Bye and Paul -- it was Benny!"

Later I met Becky again.  She was perfectly nice.

But my parents got it wrong -- my first word was the name of a cute boy.

See also: What's Funny about Kissing a Boy?

My Ex-Boyfriend Hooks Up with the President's Son

Claremont, California, August 1988

My ex-boyfriend Fred has just moved to California to study at the Claremont School of Theology, about 40 miles east of West Hollywood, along with his boyfriend Matt, a twink who is very cute and very well hung, but crazy as a loon.  Alan, Thanh, Will the Bondage Boy, and two other guys whose names I don't remember descend upon them for a housewarming party.

We have Vietnamese spring rolls in rice paper,  bánh bao   (meat rolls), and lemongrass chicken, plus a fruit salad for dessert.

After dinner Matt becomes the "entertainment," stripping, gyrating on our laps, and going down on me and Alan before Fred angrily tells him to cool it.  Then we sit around telling stories about the biggest penises we've been with, dates from hell, and hookups with celebrities.

Everyone in West Hollywood had a good celebrity dating story or two.  Alan tells about Scott Baio.  Will the Bondage Boy tells about Keanu Reeves.  My real-life celebrity boyfriend isn't famous enough to wow anyone, so I tell about Michael J. Fox, with our innocent hug at lunchtime transformed into a wild night of sexual excess.

Fred sits silent.  No one really expects him to have a story -- where will he meet anyone, spending his life in the Midwest?  We're not judging him on his lack, we're trying to entice him with tales of the joys of living in West Hollywood.  Who knows, tomorrow he might run into Tom Cruise at the Gold Coast!

Then Matt tells us about how, as a freshman at Harvard, he spent the night with Bronson Pinchot, the androgynous star of Perfect Strangers (1986-1993).  He does the "don't be ridiculous!" Myposian accent perfectly, although Bronson Pinchot doesn't really talk that way.

Suddenly, in a weird accusatory tone, Fred says "Well, I can top that.  In fact, the first guy I ever topped was Ronnie Reagan Junior!"

The room becomes silent.  We all stare.

Everybody knows that the evil President Reagan, sworn enemy of gay people, tireless fighter against gay rights, has a gay son -- a tall, thin, svelte ballet dancer!  What an embarrassment to the blathering homophobe!  Three weeks after he was elected in 1980, Reagan forced Ronnie to closet himself with a sham marriage.

But no one in West Hollywood has ever claimed to have dated or hooked up with him.  Maybe because he doesn't live in Los Angeles, so you wouldn't run into him on the street.  Or because in order to mention Ronnie you'd have to mention his father, the most hated person in the gay world, sure to put a damper on any party.

Chicago, Summer 1979

Fred was 26 years old, a student at McCormick Theological Seminary preparing for his "internship" year at a church in Rock Island.  He had been with a few guys before, but only oral and 69.  He wanted to "go all the way," top someone, but  he was very well hung, and everyone balked at his size.

He needed to find an experienced guy, and what better place than a bathhouse?

Man's Country was packed that night, all ages from twink to geezer, all shapes from svelte to superchub.  Fred had a few guys go down on him, and kissed and fondled a few others, before he saw Ronnie sitting by himself in the sauna-- in his early 20s, tall and svelte, with a long handsome face, sleepy eyes, a tight, smooth chest, and an average sized penis.

They kissed and fondled, and then went to Ronnie's cubicle.  Ronnie went down on Fred and then Fred turned him over onto his stomach.

"Wait -- I've never done anal before," Ronnie said.

Fred was looking for someone experienced, but it would be impolite to leave now.  "Me, neither.  I'll try to take it easy."

Ronnie stood and knelt over the bed.  Fred spat on his penis and pushed it in slowly.  Ronnie groaned but didn't protest.  He began thrusting, slowly at first, then more vigorously, while fondling Ronnie's back and shoulders and penis. Soon Ronnie started working on himself.  They finished at almost the same moment, wiped off with a towel, and then collapsed onto the bed for a long kiss.

"Wow, that was great!" Ronnie exclaimed.  "I should have been doing this a long time ago!"

"It didn't hurt?"

"Not much.  You knew exactly what to do."

They exchanged telephone numbers, as one does, but didn't call, and a few weeks later, Fred moved to the Quad Cities for his ministerial internship. He met Boomer, his first real boyfriend, in December.

Fred didn't know who Ronnie was at the time.  The presidential campaign hadn't started yet, and he had barely heard of Ronald Reagan, the governor of California.  It wasn't until the following summer that he realized that he had topped Reagan's son.

"So," Thanh says, "Don't keep us waiting.  Show us the penis that the guys in Chicago couldn't take."

Fred unzips and takes it out.

"Very nice."

"Very nice?" Matt exclaims, as if he's personally offended. "Is that all?  The length, the shape, the...the circonférence? Merveilleux!  Like no other man!  You just have to see it aroused, to get the full effect.  I'll show you."  He kneels and starts going down on Fred.

Was Fred Telling the Truth?

Ron Reagan was indeed living in Chicago in 1979, but he never called himself "Ronnie," and he's heterosexual, although he doesn't mind the rumor: "It's not perjorative, it's simply incorrect."  He is a strong advocate of gay rights, including gay marriage.

And his marriage to Doria, which lasted until her death in 2014?   There was no pressure from his parents -- they didn't approve of her, and and didn't even know about the wedding until it was over.

I think Fred was feeling left out because he had no celebrity dating stories, and jealous that Matt was going down on us as the evening's "entertainment." Especially Alan the ex-porn star.  So he invented a story about a celebrity that he could have believably met  in the Midwest, and one that accentuated his size and sexual prowess.

See also: Topped for the First Time.