Penis Sighting at a Chinese Restaurant

Rock Island, May 1974

When I was growing up in Rock Island in the 1960s and 1970s, there were no Chinese restaurants  in town.  I knew only a little about Chinese food:

1. On a 1967 episode of The Andy Griffith Show where Andy and his sidekick Barney go to a Chinese restaurant.  Andy orders a steak, a baked potato, and green beans, but Barney is so stupid that he actually orders from the menu, and receives platesful of disgusting horrors.

2. My mother's cookbook, Meals with a Foreign Flair, offered a Chinese meal: chow mein, cucumber salad, asparagus, and fortune cookies.

3. Chinese food was cooked and served by Chinese men.  I had never met anyone of Chinese ancestry before, except for the mysterious boy that Bill and I played with a long time ago.

I hadn't even seen many guys of Chinese ancestry!  But doubtless they were amazingly attractive.


With tree-trunk penises!

When I was in eighth grade at Washington Junior High, a Chinese restaurant, the Mandarin Kitchen, opened in the Quad Cities.

I was anxious to go, but it was across the river in Davenport, Iowa. I wasn't allowed to cross the river by myself.  Besides, no buses went over, and it was too far to walk.

My parents wouldn't take me:

"It's too expensive," Dad said.

"And you wouldn't like it," Mom added.  "I had Chinese food once, in Long Beach.  It was awful!  What's wrong with Harris Pizza?"

 Then I thought of my birthday excursion!

My birthday is in November, when everything fun is closed, so every May I got a "birthday trip": I could invite two or three friends to go anywhere I wanted in the Quad Cities.  We went to Mother Goose Land (it's not as lame as it sounds), the Niabi Zoo, the Putnam Museum, the "Little Bit O' Heaven" at Palmer College.  Why not go out to lunch at the Mandarin Kitchen?

I invited Dan and Darry, my boyfriend and my best friend, plus my brother by default (but he didn't want to go) and Peter, the only Asian guy at Washington Junior High.  He was of Japanese ancestry, not Chinese, but I thought he might give us an air of authenticity, so we wouldn't look like tourists.

On a Saturday in May, shortly before the streaking incident, Dad drove us across the Centennial Bridge and into Davenport.  We turned down River Drive and drove through a rather seedy neighborhood, past shabby office buildings, taverns, tattoo parlors, and the Col Ballroom where sinners went dancing, until finally we reached the Mandarin Kitchen.

It was next to a dirty bookstore!

There was a neon cocktail-glass in the window.  They served booze!  Nazarenes weren't allowed to go into places that had alcohol.

"Do you want to go to Harris Pizza instead?" Dad asked.

I screwed up my courage.  "No, this will be fine."

"Ok.  I'll be back in an hour."  He handed me $20 to pay, deposited us on the curb, and drove away.

I took a deep breath and led Darry, Dan, and Peter through the glass door.

It was dark inside after the bright light of a May afternoon.  Red sashes everywhere.  Waving ceramic cats.  Rows of small tables.  And a lady holding menus!

She led us to a table, where another lady brought us tea.

It was only ladies in the whole restaurant!

When she came back to take our orders, I asked "Are there any men working here?"

She looked at me quizzically.  "Men?  Sure.  They in the kitchen."  She pointed to a narrow window where the cooks could put plates of food for the waitresses to pick up.

Sighing with disappointment, I ordered almond chicken, fried rice, and potstickers.

It was good -- but I didn't come all the way to Davenport and use up my birthday trip to look at Chinese ladies!

I was going to the kitchen!

I got up, walked down a hall marked "bathroom," and saw a beige door marked "employees only."

 A silvery space with a lot of black and silver pots.  Hot, steamy. Two Chinese men.

My heart sank.  Neither was very attractive.

A short, dumpy guy with glasses was bent over a sizzling pot.  A tall, gawky, rather geeky-looking guy was chopping vegetables.

"You want apply for job?" he asked.

"No...um...."  Thinking fast, I said "The bathroom is out of toilet paper."

"What the matter?"  the short guy said.  "You don't like Chinese food, gives you the runs?"

They both laughed.

They were making fun of me!  I hung my head in embarrassment.

The tall guy said "Ok, I show you toilet paper, but keep out of kitchen!  State law!"

He put his arm around my shoulders and ushered me to the door.  I felt the heat from his arm and chest, smelled the onion from his hands.  Cute or not, the proximity of his body was exciting.

He led me to a supply closet, grabbed a roll of toilet paper from a shelf, and then pushed me into the bathroom.

It had a toilet and a urinal.  There was a roll of toilet paper sitting on the tank.

The tall guy picked it up, grinning at me.  "You didn't see?"

"I guess not," I said, even more embarrassed.

He shrugged and sat the rolls down on the urinal.  "While I'm here, I go too.  You mind?"

"Um...no."  Suddenly I was interested -- maybe I could get a sausage sighting!

Slowly I dropped my pants and sat on the toilet.  The tall guy unzipped -- but he was facing away from me.

"Hey, I still need the toilet paper!" I said.

He laughed.  "I'm silly.  Here..."  He turned around.  I saw his cock -- not tree-trunk sized, but a good four inches soft, uncut.

He tossed a roll of toilet paper.  It landed too far for me to scoop up.

"That's ok, I get it."  He walked over, got the toilet paper, handed it too me, and returned to the urinal -- his cock hanging down the whole time!  I sat there in awe until he finished and washed his hands.

"You shy, huh?  Well, I lock door on the way out."

The moment he left, I stood, washed my hands, and walked out into the main room again.

'What were you doing back there all that time?" Dan asked.

"Applying for a job," I said with a goofy smile on my face.

See also: The Hookup at the Sleepover.

My Student Steals My Boyfriend

Bloomington, December 1983

When I was in graduate school at Indiana University, there were 30,000 students wandering around on the 2,000 acre campus, but still, everybody knew Jimmy, a graduate student in psychology.  He was a familiar sight, tromping across the campus on his forearm crutches.

 Jimmy had cerebral palsy, so his legs didn't work well, although he could walk slowly without crutches inside the house.  Also his hands were a little stiff.

Do you know what happens to a guy who doesn't use his legs much?  His chest, shoulders, and biceps overcompensate.  He becomes "cut" in bodybuilder lingo, a pale hard slab of marble.  Incredible.

One night in September 1983, while Viju and I were cruising at Bullwinkle's,  he came in.  I yelled "Score!" (or the 1980s equivalent).

Jimmy  invited me back to the terrible house he shared with two other psychology grad students, who hadn't cleaned the place since 1978.  There was a half-full carton of milk on the kitchen table that expired six months ago.

Sometimes we went to the apartment I shared with Viju, but not often: it was up a flight of stairs, and the only way he could get up and down was to be carried.

We dated through the fall semester, going to dinners and movies and to the bars.  Sometimes we went into Indianapolis to the bars or museums, to see Pippin and Godspell.

Jimmy had just come out a few days before we met in Bullwinkle's, so none of his family and friends knew that he was gay.

His best friend Tony found out when Jimmy invited him to our Halloween party, and for some reason he went into my bedroom and saw that my wall was emblazoned with pictures of hot guys torn from magazines.

"Where are the pictures of girls?" Tony asked, dumfounded.

He didn't handle it well.  First he yelled at Jimmy for hanging out with a "pervert," and when Jimmy said that he was gay, too, he accused me of brainwashing him.  When he discovered that there were other gay guys at the party, he ran screaming off into the night.

Jimmy helped us decide if Professor Singer was gay by going along on Viju's  intel-gathering mission.

At Thanksgiving he invited Viju and me to his parents' house in Crawfordsville, but to avoid another scene, we played it cool.  I even responded to a question about "my girlfriend" with a story about a tall blonde soccer player from Iceland.

On December 3rd, a little over a week later, when Jimmy told me: "We didn't plan on it, but I fell in love with another guy.  We're moving in together."

What guy?

Steve (I forgot the last name.)

One of my students!

Grad students at Indiana teach their own classes, and Steve was one of the back-of-the-class students in Intro to Literature, getting straight C's, never participating much.  He was sort of cute, but not very muscular.

All I could think was: What chutzpah!  Stealing the professor's boyfriend, just before final grades are due!

And I told my parents that I was bringing someone special home for Christmas.  What would they say?

Steve spent the last week of the semester grinning at me, daring me to give him a vengeance F.

I didn't.  He got a C.   Then he moved into Jimmy's horrible house where nothing was ever cleaned, and I invited Viju home for Christmas.

During the spring semester, I often saw Jimmy tromping across the campus on his crutches.  He looked happy

Nude Photos of Jeff Stryker

I don't know if you need nude pictures of 1980s gay porn icon Jeff Stryker.  Surely he's got the most recognizable penis in the business.  But just in case, here are a few

1980s prettyboy face, hardbody, 10 inches.  Any questions?

Come on, 10" is not that big.  I knew a guy with 11".  But he could barely get aroused.  Stryker had no trouble in that department.

You can still buy the authentic Jeff Stryker dildo.  I suggest keeping it by your bedside to scare overnight guests.

My Jeff Stryker Hookup story is here.

The full post is on Boomer Beefcake and Bonding