Teaching High School Boys in Slovakia

Slovakia, Summer 2005

I'm not very patriotic.  I grew up in an era where gay people were never, ever mentioned, but by the time I was in college, they were mentioned a lot.  Every time I turned on the tv or picked up a newspaper, I heard an elected official screaming that I was an abomination, a cesspool of disease, a depraved psychopath who wanted to destroy society.

Voting was easy: I simply picked the least homophobic candidate.  Unfortunately, in presidential elections, the other guy usually won.

In 2000, the staggeringly homophobic George W. Bush beat Al Gore.   Everyone watched in horror as gay rights legislation came to a screeching halt, and state legislatures began issuing homophobic proclamations.

In the 2004 election, it didn't really matter who else was on the ballot.  We would have voted for Count Dracula.  But George W. Bush and his platform of homophobic hatred won again!

A lot of gay people were seriously worried.  Not just about being deprived of civil rights -- about round-ups and concentration camps.

We closeted our resumes, stopped going to gay venues, and researched escape routes for when the knock on the door came.  Barney moved to Costa Rica. Yuri moved to London.  I emailed contacts everywhere in the world to see if they could hook me up with a job.  France, Germany, Estonia, Finland, the Netherlands, Turkey....

Even working in a bar in Friesland seemed like a good idea.

Finally in the late spring of 2005,  an internet friend named Doc (top photo), who lived in Vienna, told me that they needed someone at the gymnasium (high school) where he worked.  I could get a work visa for the summer, and then apply for a permanent position in the fall.

Vienna!  That sounded great!

"It's not exactly in Vienna.  It's my summer job at a gymnasium in Levoča, Slovakia."

I looked it up in an atlas. A small town of 14,000 near the Polish border.  Sort of isolated.  But within a six-hour drive of Prague, Budapest, Vienna, Warsaw, and even, if you were so inclined, Zagreb.  We would go on a lot of weekend trips.

"What would I be teaching?  English"

"Well, maybe English.  Sure."

He sent the papers a few days later.

Only after I signed the contract did I realize that it was a vocational school.  Students took 2- or 3-year courses in auto shop, cooking, and clothing design, plus the usual history, science, and foreign languages.  I would be teaching food service management.  Maybe I could ask for an English assignment in the fall, Doc said.

Why food service?

Apparently I told him about working at the Carousel Snack Bar and the Augustana Student Union Snack Bar, for 6 years, but he didn't realize that those were part-time jobs while I was in high school and college, twenty years ago.

Also I may have mentioned that I was taking a cooking class.

Teaching food service management doesn't sound difficult: scheduling, menu preparation, hiring, food safety practices, no big deal.  But the students didn't have the academic skills for a regular high school.  The boys were loud and obnoxious.  The girls were worse.  And none of them understood English or German well.

I had a small apartment provided by the school, but for meals I had to eat in the cafeteria with the students -- mostly potatoes.

And I had to use their gym -- there was nothing good in town.

And I had to be strictly closeted.

Levoča was in a conservative region of a highly conservative country -- Bratislava didn't even have a gay pride festival until 2011.  

There were no gay venues in Levoča, not even cruising grounds, no bookstores with English or German sections, no Chinese restaurants, no museums, nothing to do except watch tv and go to Catholic masses.

At least there was some beefcake at the public pool.

Doc didn't have a car.  We had to take the train to the station at Spišská Nová Ves‎, and catch another train to get anywhere.  During my 10 weeks in Slovakia, we went to a race in Kosice  and to the Tatralandia Water Park and took the train into Vienna and Budapest.  After the summer session ended, we rented a car and drove to Prague, Frankfurt,  Munich, and Vienna.  But other than that, we were stuck in Levoča.

In July, one of the colleges I applied to last spring came through with a job offer. In Dayton, Ohio.

Dayton had three gay bars, weekly "bear parties," lots of Chinese restaurants, an art museum, and a Barnes and Noble.

No contest.  At the end of August I flew back to the U.S.

Even with a homophobe in the White House, there's no place like home.

In Search of Australian Aboriginal Men

Brisbane, Australia, July 2002

In 1986, I followed an Australian cowboy to his home on Kangaroo Island, with only the briefest of layovers in Sidney before going on to visit Alan in Japan.

This summer, same problem: my conference is in Brisbane, and I don't have the time or money to spend more than two days in Sydney.

Still, a week in Australia!  A chance to meet Aboriginal men!

Of course, there's nothing wrong with Anglo-Australians (80% of the population), or Chinese or Indian-Australians (8%) of the population).  But I can meet Anglo and Asian guys at home, or in Europe.  When will I be able to meet an Aboriginal Australian again?

Their culture is at least 40,000 years old: they began their migration to the continent during the Middle Paleolithic Era.

Most of the tribes practice so-called "ritualized homosexuality," in which the older men initiate the young men into the community through oral sex.

Initiate, right.

There are 27 language families, with over 100 languages in daily use, as distinct as English and Navajo.

The Wagiman word for "penis" is lagiriny, "tail."

The Ngarluma word for "erection" is jurdu, a cognate of jurdurn, "mountain peak."

Now that I've got to see!

Aboriginal Australians have a distinctive look, with dark-skin, frizzy hair, and broad noses. I couldn't find any nude photos on online bulletin boards (the precursor of blogs), but I imagine they have rather impressive mountain peaks..

They constitute only about 3% of the population, concentrated mostly in the north and the west.  Fortunately, I will be visiting during NAIDOC, a week of celebrations of Aboriginal culture, when many more from the outlying villages will descend upon Brisbane.

Sunday, June 30th

It's a 22 hour flight from Fort Lauderdale to Sydney, with stops in Los Angeles and Fiji, somehow arriving at noon on the same day I left.  I'm too exhausted to do anything on Sunday, but on Monday and Tuesday I visit the Sydney Opera House, the Museum of Contemporary Art, the Jewish Museum, the Sydney Sauna, and a sex club called the Signal.

Wednesday, July 2nd.

An hour and a half flight from Sydney to Brisbane, then a half hour train trip downtown, arriving around 2:00 pm.  I can't afford the Brisbane Hilton, so I am staying at a hip 3-star hotel nearby.

The desk clerk, whose nameplate reads "Chad," smiles professionally.  He's in his early 20s, brown-skinned, with straight hair, a sharp face, and a tight, muscular frame.  I figure he's South Asian, or maybe Polynesian.

"If I can do anything to make your stay more pleasant, let me know.  I'm here every afternoon until 5:00 pm."  Our hands touch as he gives me the key.  "I'm an authority on Brisbane, so if there are any particular sights you are interested in, just ask."

Very friendly bloke.

I check in at the conference, look at some of my literature, and explore downtown a bit.  The opening session last from 7 to 9.  Afterwards I'm too tired to go out.

Thursday, July 3rd.

Conference presentations in the morning and early afternoon, but at 3:00 pm it's time to head out to NAIDOC events and cruise for Aboriginal men.

"Have you been to the Queensland Cultural Centre?" Chad the Desk Clerk asks. "It's on Grey Street, on the other side of the river, just across Victoria Bridge.  A nice walk."

"That's next on my list!" I exclaim.  But first, the "NAIDOC Tea Dance" at the River Plaza on Scott Street.

I've never heard the term "Tea Dance" except in a gay context, so I assume that the River Plaza is a gay bar, with a 4:00 pm Tea Dance where Aussie blokes of all races, sizes, and shapes mingle and hook up.

When I get there, it turns out to be a retirement community.  I read the listing wrong; it's not a "Tea Dance," it's a "Tea" for elderly Aboriginal Australians!

I leave with egg on my face, go back to my hotel, have dinner, and then check my Spartacus Guide for real gay bars and bathhouses.

The Cruise Club, a bar with a dark room is only about 10 blocks away.   Nearly deserted on a Thursday night at 9:00 pm, but I manage to go down on a rather ugly, moustached, greasy-haired bloke who sports an enormous penis, easily a Mortadella, as thick around as a beer can.

He rushes off when he finishes.  I didn't even have a chance to say hello.

Friday, July 4th.

A national holiday back home, but of course not here.  More presentations in the morning.  I cut out at noon and ask Chad the Desk Clerk where I can rent a car.

"Taking a road trip?  I suggest Sandgate.  It's a beautiful seaside village about a half hour north of here.  There's a great place for high tea there, Olga's.  If you can wait until..."

"Thanks, but I've had enough tea for a lifetime!", I exclaim.

Instead I drive through heavy weekend traffic to Toowomba, about 1 1/2 hours west of Brisbane.

It would probably be a very pretty city, full of interesting colonial-era architecture, except that it's mid-winter,  I'm freezing in my light jacket, and I'm starving.  I stop at an outrageously overpriced sushi bar, and i don't even like sushi.

Finally I make it to the NAIDOC event:  a presentation on aboriginal culture at a Lutheran Church.  I'm expecting a vast cathedral packed with hundreds of people.  No -- it's held in the fellowship hall downstairs.  Twenty aboriginal families, a few Anglo members of the congregation, and me, feeling distinctly out of place.

I drive back to town, have dinner at a Korean place, and find a bath house about 2 miles from the hotel.  It's not terribly crowded, but I manage to meet another greasy-haired guy with an enormous penis (they must be a staple in Australia) and  a middle-aged South Asian guy on the downlow.

Later I hook up with the only black guy in the bath house: in his 20s, with frizzy hair, a tight muscular frame, and an uncut nine-incher.  An Aboriginal Australian!

After we kiss for awhile, he throws his legs in the air for me to top him.  Instead I go down on him for a few minutes.

"Are you sure you don't want to f*** me?" he asks.

Wait -- that's an American accent.

I lift up my head.  "Where are you from?"

"Atlanta.  So, how about if I f** you?"


.

Saturday, July 5th.

After the conference presentations in the morning, I drive out to East Brisbane for the last NAIDOC Event on my list, a program of Aboriginal dance at Coorparoo Secondary College (a  high school).

I sit in an auditorium, surrounded by schoolkids and their parents, watching Aboriginal dances performed by little boys.

The dances are interesting, but still -- I feel out of place, and rather guilty, as if I'm perving on the kids.

Afterwards I leave quickly, skipping the refreshments, drop off my rental car, and walk back to my hotel.

Chad the Desk Clerk says "You look like you're not enjoying our great city as much as you should be."

"A bunch of wild goose chases!"

"Well, maybe you need a knowledgeable tour guide.  Are you free tomorrow?  It's my day off, and....?"

Chad is asking me out!

"Um..,actually, I'm getting on a plane back to America tomorrow.  What about tonight?"

He frowns.  "Sorry, I have a family thing tonight.  It's NAIDOC Week, you know.  Got to pay my respects to the elders."

"Huh?"

"I'm Aboriginal -- Turrbal nation. We're the original owners of Meanjin, all the land around Brisbane -- so obviously I could give you an in-depth tour, if you know what I mean."

I've been searching for Aboriginal men all week, and there was a cute, gay Aboriginal guy right here in the hotel!  "Will you be done later?" I ask in a rather desperate tone.  "We could get together then."

"Well, these things run rather late," he says doubtfully, "But we'll see.  Maybe I'll ring you up."

He doesn't ring me up.

See also: In Search of Sex and Languages in South Africa and The Cowboy of Kangaroo Island.

My 12 Christmas Boyfriends

After my 15 Reasons to Skip Christmas post, you may think that I've had nothing but dreary, depressing, heterosexist holidays.

Actually, only about 30% of the Holiday Seasons I recall have been traumatic or otherwise unredeemably awful: getting sick, getting dumped, being bored to death, hearing that "Merry Little Christmas" song a thousand times, my dad yelling at us, the year my sister gave me office supplies.  50% have had a few redeeming moments, and 20% have been rather pleasant.

My top 12 have all involved boyfriends.

1. Dan.  In junior high,  Dad gave in and let me buy a naked man for Christmas.  Actually a statue of a naked man.  My brother got me pile of new comic books. Dan came over in the afternoon to help me read them.  Best Christmas ever!

2. Verne.  On the Christmas Eve my first year in high school, the Nazarene youth group went caroling all night, ending with a big breakfast at the church.  It was my first time staying out all night, and a lot of fun to be dashing through the snow with high school hunk Verne, who I would start dating soon.  The only problem was, my brother and sister were angry at having to wait until I got home at 8:00 to start opening presents -- usually we started around 4:30.

4. Brian.  In twelfth grade, Brian, who I used to babysit, showed up at my brother's Christmas party.  I kissed him under the mistletoe, then gave him a ride across the bridge to Iowa, hugged him, and asked him to call me.  Back home, I told my brother that, kiss or no kiss, I wasn't a "swish," then went upstairs and listened to the BeeGees on my clock radio.  At the time it was rather traumatic, but since it's become one of my most iconic memories.

5. Fred.  My first date with my first real boyfriend, Fred the Ministerial Student, was on December 21st of my sophomore year in college.  You'd think that would be too late for Christmas presents or to "meet the family," but no, he invited me to his parents' farm in Aledo, about 30 miles south of Rock Island, on December 26th.

6. Viju.  When I was in grad school in Bloomington, my friend Viju came home with me.  I had never actually had a "coming out" conversation with my parents, so I was nervous about how they would handle a rather flamboyant gay guy in the house.  But when we brought our suitcases upstairs to the room that I used to share with my brother, I saw that they had pushed the two twin beds together.  They not only "knew," they were fine with us sleeping together!

We weren't actually dating, but so what?

7. Dick.  During my deplorable year in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas, I went back to Rock Island for the holidays, and ran into my old bully.  Back in grade school, he made my life miserable with poundings and punches and a constant stream of slurs: "Wuss! Sissy!  Fairy! Girl!"  Who would have thought that he was struggling with same-sex desire of his own?  Or that, all grown up, he would apologize by inviting me back to his house.  Or that he was so...um...gifted.

8. Lane.  One year I had a job that didn't give me much time off for Christmas, so I couldn't make the trek cross-country.  Lane and I stayed home in West Hollywood.  We went to a Hanukah party and had latkes and Hanukah gelt.  We went to a bear party, with 50 naked hairy guys eating Christmas cookies and then wandering downstairs to the maze.  We went to Midnight Mass at a gay-positive Catholic church, and then stopped for breakfast at the French Quarter. And I didn't hear the "Merry Little Christmas" song once.  Best Christmas ever!

9.-10. Yuri and Jaan. My first year in New York, I brought Yuri to the departmental Christmas party.  He was still claiming to be straight, but I expected him to at least dance with me.  He refused, so I said "Look, I bought your ticket, so you either get up on that dance floor now, or get into my bed later."

He picked the bed.

Suddenly I had two boyfriends, Yuri and Jaan the Estonian Mountain Climber.  Best Christmas ever!

11. Mickey.  When I was living in Florida, I returned to Rock Island for Christmas, and my brother said that my old Sunday School teacher, Brother Dino, had two sons who were working as strippers.  I went to the show, and  got a kiss from Mickey.

Ok, he wasn't really a boyfriend, but my list, my rules.

12. Troy.  Born and raised in small-town Upstate New York, Troy has an extended-extended-extended family.  He usually goes to Christmas dinner at the home of his grandmother's cousin and her family, but one year Lisa, his grandmother's cousin's son's ex-wife, invited us all to her house.  There must have been eighty people there, and Troy was out to every one of them; no awkward "so who is this?" questions.

She sent us home with presents plus care packages full of leftovers for later.

The only problem: some kid kept playing the "Merry Little Christmas" song over and over and over.

See also: 15 Reasons to Skip Christmas.

"Why Don't Yah Come Ovah?": Tarik's Hookup with a Ghost

Norfolk, July 2000

Tarik was 32 years old, working as a dietician in a hospital and cruising for older white guys, preferably cops.

Norfolk was a rough town, and rather homophobic, so you had to be careful: a lot of the cops would let you go down on them, then rob you or beat you up.  But there weren't a lot of gay venues other than the bars: he went to the MCC, the gay church, and wrote for Our Own Community Press, the local gay newspaper.

It was at the MCC that he met Mitchy: in his 50s, short, thin, greying, a bit on the femme side  (I have an image of Leslie Jordan), and something of a dollar-dropper (trying to attract guys with an ostentatious display of wealth).  Three minutes into the conversation, he had mentioned that he lived in Linkhorn, the wealthiest neighborhood in Virginia Beach, and that he owned a Rembrandt.  All in a thick Tidewater accent: "Hello theah, deah.  Ahm'm from Linhohn.  Ah own a pictuah by Rembrandt."

Maybe because he grew up poor and a member of the black-supremacist Nation of Islam, Tarik always found topping rich white guys very erotic, so he accepted Mitchy's invitation to "come ovah."

Not a great hookup.  A 45 minute drive, and turns out that Mitchy wasn't into anal; he wanted Tarik to go down on his very small, wrinkled cock, and when that took too long,  "Lick mah balls, deah.  That allus gets me off."

And no reciprocation.  He played with Tarik's cock for a bit, but wouldn't go down on him.

Plus his house was very cold, the Rembrandt was of a woman, there was another picture of a naked woman in the bedroom, he had torch songs playing constantly, and he was a bit racist: "Would you lakh to heah something else?  I know y'all lakh rap..."

But Tarik was not used to being pursued, so when Mitchy called two nights later and asked "Why don't yah come ovah?", he agreed.

More going down on Mitchy's small, wrinkled cock while a naked woman looked down on them and torch songs played, and it was so cold that they had to stay under the covers.  This time, at least, Mitchy went down on Tarik -- badly.

"Deah, ya'll are so big.  Ah can't get mah mouth around it."

Three nights later "Why don't yah cove ovah for dinnah?"

Mitchy served pork chops!  Tarik didn't belong to the Nation of Islam anymore, but he still avoided pork.  He filled up on mashed potatoes and green beans, and went down on Mitch's small cock right at the dining room table, before dessert.

And Mitchy insisted that he spend the night.

This was turning into a full-fledged relationship, except Mitchy never wanted to go out.  Apparently he was too closeted to go to the bars, and the day they met was the only time he attended the MCC.  He hooked up in online chatrooms, and went to First Landing State Park, the outdoor cruising area in Virginia Beach.

Great, an unwanted boyfriend who was in the closet!

Tarik accepted "Why don't yah come ovah?" invitations two or three more times before getting the gumption to say "No.  Sorry, I don't feel like it tonight."

"But deah, I'm horney.  I have needs."

It was always about Mitchy's needs, wasn't it?  "Sorry, I don't feel like it."

"But deah, if you won't come ovah, I'll have to go to the park to meet a fella."

"Do what you want.  I'm not coming over."  Tarik hung up on him.

The next night when he went to the office of Our Own Community press, they were talking about a newspaper article. "Does anyone know if he was gay?  Was it really a bashing incident?"

Mitchy's housekeeper found him dead in his bedroom.  He had been beaten and strangled.  Nothing was taken. The police were baffled, but Tarik figured that he had gone out cruising and propositioned the wrong guy.   

Tarik felt guilty, of course.  If he hadn't said "no" that night...but Mitchy made the decision to pick up rough trade.  He made the decision to stay in the closet.

A few weeks later, Tarik was lying in bed, just starting to doze off, when the phone rang. 
"Hello, deah.  Why don't yah come ovah?"

A prank call? But Tarik had told only a few people about his hookup/dates, and no one about Mitch's signature phrase or thick Tidewater accent.

Mitchy still pestering him for a hookup from beyond the grave? 

See also:
Tarik and the Blue-Eyed Demon

West Hollywood Stories of Gay Celebrity Dates and Hookups

In the gay neighborhoods of West Hollywood and San Francisco, not so much in New York or Florida, everyone had a celebrity dating or hookup story.  Here are the most famous or most believable I've heard.

I'm making no claims about the sexual orientation of any of these celebrities except #1 and #10. Some of the stories are probably exaggerations, a non-romantic lunch becoming a romantic date, a casual meeting becoming a vigorous all-night orgy.  Some are probably pure inventions.

Cesar Romero (1907-1994) 1940s heartthrob and the Joker on the old Batman tv series.  My boyfriend Lane hooked up with him in the early 1990s.  When he told the story, Adam West (Batman) and Burt Ward (Robin) were in the mix.

President Ronald Reagan (1911-2004) He was just a local radio announcer when Oscar, the retired set designer from Des Moines, claims that they dated. The biographical details check out.

Desi Arnaz (1917-1986).  Ricky Ricardo on I Love Lucy.  Cesar Romero claimed that they had a long-term "friend with benefits relationship.

Tony Randall (1920-2004) star of the Odd Couple (1968-1975).  Marcus, the first person I met in West Hollywood, said that they met on the set of Hollywood Squares, and hooked up in a hotel in Beverly Hills.  Marcus was in the industry, and introduced me to several celebrities, including Michael J. Fox and Robin Williams, but there's no evidence that Tony Randall was gay.

Tony Curtis (1925-2010), the movie star who went in drag for Some Like It Hot (1959).   Drake, the leather teddy bear artist of South of Market, claimed to have tricked with him when he was starring in Trapeze (1956), about a circus love triangle.  Tony Curtis was married to women five times, but his androgynous prettyboy looks made him the subject of many gay rumors in the 1950s.

Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997), the gay Beat poet.  Fangorn, aka Dennis, said that his first gay experience was a three way with Ginsberg and Peter Orlovsky.

Dick Sargeant (1930-1994), Cary Grant (1904-1986), and Groucho Marx (1890-1988), all on the same night, in the same bed!  In 1958, when he was a teenage navy recruit, Randall (the bear with the pierced penis) told us that he hooked up with Dick Sargent (future star of Bewitched), who took him to a gay party.  There Groucho and Cary both invited him home.  They compromised.

Pat Boone (1934-).    This doesn't really count as a friend's hookup story, but Randall, the Muscle Bear with the Pierced Penis, told us that he heard about a three way that Pat Boone had with Dick Sargent and a teenage fan.




Richard Chamberlain (1934-)  The now-out star of Shogun (1980) and I competed over Thanh, the Vietnamese grad student, one night at Mugi. Thanh and I dated once, and then became friends.  He immediately sought out Chamberlain for a dinner-and-bedroom date.

Peter Fonda (1940-), actor and political activist.  This is actually a buffed model representing his iconic role in Easy Rider (1969).  Will, the Bondage Boy with the Sweeney Todd fetish, told us that they hooked up at a bath house in Mexico in 1978.  Fonda, who has been married three times, has been the subject of gay rumors.

Sylvester Stallone (1946-).  In Upstate New York, the Satyr claimed that he had a job as a "fluffer" for Stallone during his 1970 porn movie.









David Cassidy (1950-) teen idol and star of The Partridge Family (1970-1974).  My housemate Derek, a former fitness model, told us about a romantic weekend of motorcycling through Wales with him in 1974.  At that time David Cassidy was the most famous pop star in the world.  If it really happened, why is there no news coverage?

Mark Hamill (1951-), the iconic Luke Skywalker of Star Wars (1977).  He's done a lot of theater, too.  He was starring in The Nerd on Broadway in 1987, when Blake the Opera Buff said that they met and went out on several dates.  Hamill is not out, but there has been a lot of speculation about his sexual identity.

Dean Paul Martin (1951-) and Desi Arnaz Jr. (1953-), the sons of Dean Martin and Desi Arnaz, respectively, and two thirds of the boy band Dino, Desi, and Billy.  Cesar Romero claimed that he had a three-way with them in 1971.

Dan Butler (1954-), who played the ultra-macho sports announcer Bulldog on Frazier (1993-2004). Marshall the Virgin dated him several times shortly after we took him to his first Bear Party in 1994.

Kip Noll (1958-2001) the porn star.  My friend Alan, the Pentecostal porn star, worked with him on a film in the early 1980s.  Does it count as a hookup if your sexual activity is part of your job?










Ronald Reagan, Jr. (1958-),  the President's son, estranged from his father, a ballet dancer, who got married very quickly and suspiciously when his father took office -- what were we to think? Half of West Hollywood claimed to have dated him.  My ex Fred claimed that they met at a bathhouse in Chicago during the summer of 1979.

Scott Baio (1960-). Nearly everybody in West Hollywood claimed to have dated "Charles in Charge."

Rob Lowe (1964-), teen idol and brat packer.  Mario, who picked me up at the Different Light Bookstore, worked with him on a tv pilot when they were both teenagers.  According to Mario, they had dinner, went up to Rob's room, and one thing led to another while they were watching Magnum, P.I.

Keanu Reeves (1964-).  The brooding star of the Matrix movies has played gay characters several times, but he had barely begun his career in 1988, when my friends Scott and Will ran into him at the Rage.  They described a wild night that included making out on the beach and skinny-dipping in a pool of a house in Beverly Hills that didn't belong to them.

Luke Perry (1966-2019), star of the teen drama Beverly Hills 90210 (1990-2000).  Remember the Family Guy episode, in which Meg accidentally "outs" him in the school newspaper, and he sues for slander?  My friend Barry, the Colonial Williamsburg boy of Long Island, claimed to have met him while cruising in West Hollywood one night in 1997.  Perry was married with a son at the time, but ok.

Leonardo DiCaprio (1974-), the indy movie star who has played gay characters several times, and receives nearly as many gay rumors as the big boys, Tom Cruise and John Travolta.  Lots of guys claimed to have dated or hooked up with him, but the most believable story came from Farshad, the French Moroccan on my sausage list, who said that they met in Paris in 1995.

Mark-Paul Gosselaar (1974-), star of Saved by the Bell.  He doesn't really count, since it wasn't actually a date: my friend Infinite Chazz claims a hookup that went wrong when MP dumped him for another guy.

Prince Carl Philip of Sweden (1979-).   Zack, the photography student at the Rhode Island School of Design, said that he spent the night with him when they were teenagers, both boarding school students in Connecticut.

Dylan O'Brien (1991-),  star of the Maze Runner movies and the tv series Teen Wolf (2011-).  Jimmy, the Boy Toy of my platonic friends,  told me that they went to high school in Hermosa Beach, California together.  They used to do it in his parents' garage.  This was before I had heard of Dylan O'Brien, so he's an odd person to try to impress me with, and there are some gay rumors.

By the way, the top photo is of model Craig Moody.  He's gay and from Florida, but none of my friends has claimed to have dated him.

Harry Styles (1994-).  Ryan H,, the college track star that I met while driving through small-town Illinois, said that he met Harry Styles of the boy band One Direction in the summer of 2015, and had a rather unsatisfactory three way with him and a silver fox.

See also: Celebrities I've Dated

Dancing with a Swedish Leatherboy

Fiesch, Switzerland, June 1977

During the summer after my junior year at Rocky High, when I still belonged to the ultra-fundamentalist Nazarene Church and thought gay people were monsters, I was one of the delegates to the Nazarene Youth Society International Institute, 500 cream-of-the-crop teenage Johnny and Suzie Nazarenes from around the world meeting in an old army training camp (now the Sport und Ferienzentrum) in Fiesch, Switzerland.














What did we do for a week?

Boys-only swimming

1. Evangelization services, with altar calls every night.
2. Bible studies, prayer meetings, and workshops on personal evangelization.
3. The International Jump Quiz Tournament.
4. Swimming in the camp pool (boys only before noon, girls only after noon).
 5. Field trips to Rhone Glacier, Brig (for skiing), and Mount Eggishorn (for mountain climbing).

I tried to call Giovanni, the foreign-exchange student who I had a crush on, but the number didn't work.


We had some free time for sightseeing, as long as we followed the rules:

1. Don't make friends with the locals.
2. Don't go near any Catholic churches.
3. No dancing, movies, live theater, card games, or festivals. No restaurants that serve alcohol (in Switzerland they all do).
4. Be back at the base by 7:00 pm, and in your bunk 1/2 hour after altar call ends. 

Sport und Ferienzentrum, Fiesch

I started hanging out with Alex, whose dad was a missionary in France, and who had no qualms about breaking the rules.  We visited Sion Cathedral, chatted up some high school boys on the train, abandoned our lunch boxes for a restaurant.

And one night we snuck out after curfew, walked into town, and ended up in a disco (breaking three rules at once).

My eyes were drawn to an older guy, maybe 25, sitting with his friends: blond, glasses, wearing a leather jacket with no shirt underneath.  I glimpsed a stunning, sculpted physique like a marble statue, and a gigantic bulge.  So I dragged Alex over to talk to him.

Our barracks

In English, he said that his name was Christoffer, and he was an engineering student from Goteborg University in Sweden.

"I had lunch with King Karl Gustaf last year," I yelled, trying to make myself heard over the music.. "He told me to apply to Goteborg University."

"He doesn't know what he's talking about," Christoffer yelled.  I didn't realize it at the time, but in retrospect, he was very drunk. "You should be a model.  You have the right. . .um. . face for it. . .and you, too," he added, turning to Alex. "You should be models together."

Suddenly we heard the throbbing beat of Donna Summers' "I Feel Love."  "Come on, we dance," Christoffer said, throwing off his leather jacket and dragging us onto the dance floor.

I had never danced before, so I'm sure I was bad at it, but Christoffer wasn't paying attention.  He jumped and gyrated and lip-synched until his body started to glow with sweat.

I wasn't going back to camp without a touch, so I reached out and ran my palm lightly over that white-marble chest.  Christoffer grinned at me.  He reached over and undid a button of my shirt, and then another, and ran his hand underneath.

The Swedish leather boy

Then Alex pulled me away.  "We have to get back!" he yelled.

"No, stay!" Christoffer yelled.  "Come to my hotel.  We have Schnapps!"

An offer of alcohol quashed any erotic interest I might have had.  I said goodbye and quickly followed Alex out of the club and through the dark, cool night to our camp.

"I think I saved you from a fate worse than death back there," Alex said. "That Christoffer guy was gay."

"No way!" I exclaimed.  "Didn't you see his body?"  In Rock Island, we thought that muscles were a sure sign of heterosexual identity.

I never saw Christoffer again, of course, but I have often wondered what would have happened if we accepted his offer of "Schnapps."

See also: My date with the King of Sweden

The Catholic Priest in My Bed

Akron, Ohio, April 2007

In the spring of 2007, I was teaching at the University of Dayton, and dating Paul, an aspiring writer who had just graduated from Ohio Dominican University. He had four of the characteristics I find attractive: short, husky, gifted beneath the belt (Bratwurst+), and religious (devout Catholic).

Devout Catholic.

1. He got his name by being born on June 29th, the Feast Day of Saint Paul.  Lucky he wasn't born on June 30th, the Feast Day of Saints Clotsindus and Ostianus.

2. He went to Catholic schools and a Catholic college.

3. His older brother was a priest.

4. He wore a scapular around his neck, except at the gym.

5. He had a little basin of holy water in his apartment, which he used to cross himself.

6. When he spent Saturday night with me, he insisted on going to Mass the next day.

7. And fasting before, so no Sunday brunch.

Being closeted, Paul didn't want anyone to know that we were gay.  He wouldn't take me to his regular church in Huber Heights, or go to a church near me in Fairborn, where someone might recognize.

We often drove all the way into Columbus to find a relatively gay-friendly Catholic church.  If not, we went to Holy Family, the most conservative church in town, where statues outnumbered people, and elderly nuns sat in the front row with rosary beads, and priests still heard confessions.

The nice thing about conservative churches is that it's easy to be closeted.  It never occurs to anyone, ever, that a member of the congregation -- or a visitor -- might be gay.  Paul and I could sit together, hug, answer questions as a couple, and everyone just assumed that we were heterosexual friends, or father and son (I was 45, and he was 25).

Besides, one of the priests was very cute.  Father Christopher, 26 years old, a new graduate of the Pontifical College Josephinum.  Tall, dark-haired, with glasses and a hint of a respectable physique, who threw references to Harry Potter and Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy into his homilies.


I have a thing for clergy: Catholic, Protestant, Jewish, Muslim.  There's something about the juxtaposition of the physical and the spiritual, the erotic thoughts that leak into sacred spaces, the penis hidden beneath those gaudy robes and black cassocks.

No chance that we would ever hook up!  He was a graduate of the most conservative seminary in the U.S., and a priest at the most conservative church in Ohio!

Just looking was enough.

One Sunday Father Christopher announced an upcoming spiritual retreat, centered on the contemplative works of Thomas Merton.  Participants would car-pool to the Loyola Retreat House, near Akron, Ohio, about three hours away.

I liked Thomas Merton, and I really liked Father Christopher, so I signed up.  Paul couldn't make it.

A group of 10 of us drove up in three cars, leaving at dawn and arriving just in time for lunch.  Then an afternoon of meditation workshops, book discussions, lectures, free time for contemplation, dinner, and Mass.  It was like a Nazarene camp meeting.

The next morning, we had another Mass, followed by breakfast, more workshops, discussions, and lectures, lunch, and more free time for contemplation.  Then we headed home.

I got to spend a lot of time with Father Christopher.  My life story had to be strictly closeted, of course, but I still managed to complain about the Nazarene church of my childhood, and share lots of stories about how much they hated Catholics.

 He was shocked -- he had believed that everyone loved and respected the Catholic Church, even Protestants.

But the best part was bedtime.  Since Father Christopher and I were the only non-couples at the retreat, we were assigned to share a room.

I didn't intend to try anything, of course -- the last thing I needed was to be ejected from a retreat center a three hour drive from home.  But I was hoping for a Sausage Sighting.

Father Christopher changed into his pajamas in the bathroom, then climbed into bed with rosary beads.  "Hail Mary, full of grace," he began.  "Oh -- Boomer, I hope this won't disturb you?"

"Not at all."  I waited..

No chance of seeing any autoerotic activity later.  I looked it up: Catholics consider masturbation "intrinsically evil," like being gay.

But sometimes the penis has a mind of its own.  Especially when you lack a regular sexual outlet.

I watched.

Father Christopher finished his rosary, kissed it, put it aside, and crossed his arms over his chest like a vampire.  Soon he began to snore. 

I watched.

After about half an hour, it began to rise.

It stood at full attention.

I didn't dare touch it, but...could I move off the covers, and get a peek?

I reached over and carefully tugged at the covers.

Father Christopher murmured something, and I retreated.

It was still standing at full attention.

I tried again.

It stood, peeking out of his underwear, ready for action, a Bratwurst with a mushroom head.

Eventually he turned over.  He hadn't awakened, or even touched anything.

Later I discovered that the average person has about 5 dreams per night.  10% of those dreams have sexual content, and 5% of the sex dreams result in a spontaneous orgasm.

So if you watch most men all night, you have a 1 in 40 chance of seeing a spontaenous orgasm.  But since Father Paul didn't have an access to an ordinary sexual outlet, my chances were probably like 1 in 10.

Still, my luck was amazing.

In the morning Father Paul showered and changed, and we continued the retreat.

I don't think he even knew that his erotic life came alive every night in dreams.

See also: Barry and the Creepy Old Guy; and Paul Gives Up Men for Lent

Seeing My First Gay People: The Fairy at the Court House

Rock Island, November 1976

Up until my junior year in high school, I had no idea that gay people existed.  I knew about fairies, boys who had the audacity to pretend that they were girls (bad at sports, good at schoolwork), and fags, monstrous beings who conflated masculine and feminine. But I never associated these beings with same-sex desire or acts.

No one did.  Everyone I knew dismissed same-sex desire as something else, hero worship or friendship, and same-sex acts were simply beyond the boundaries of what could be imagined.

Even though I engaged in some at music camp during the summer after my sophomore year.

Still, I didn't figure out that gay people existed until that fall.

1. September 29th: On TV, Alice met an ex-football player (Denny Miller, left), who said that he was gay.  So of course he has no romantic interest in her.  But all men, I was told, spent their lives in passionate pursuit of the feminine.  Who was this exception?  What was "gay"?

2. October 6th: in Rolling Stone, Elton John stated that he was "bisexual."  Nowhere in the article was the word defined, but I knew"bi" from "bisect" and "bicentennial": divide into two.  Did he have "two sexes"?

October 9th: On TV: a  new patient (Howard Hesseman) joined Bob Newhart's therapy group, and the others were horrified to discover that he is gay.  Elliot Carlson (right) is particularly worried about...something.  But what?

November 1st:  On TV, Phyllis dated a man who did not find her attractive.  He explained that he was gay.



November 10th: my political science class car-pooled down-town to the County Courthouse to see a real criminal trial in progress.

The case was about a shooting that took place outside the Hawaiian Lounge, which we all knew was a fairy hangout.  Sure enough, a swish was called to the witness stand: tall and gaunt, with long, greasy hair and mascara-ed eyes. He explained that he was parked across the street at the time, so he saw everything. The attorney wanted to know why he was parked in downtown Rock Island on a bitter cold January evening.

“We had just come from the Hawaiian Lounge, and we were deciding where to eat.”
“Who was in the car with you?” the attorney asked.
He named two men and a woman.
“Why was there a woman with them?” I whispered to my friend Darry. “Swishes hate women.”
“Maybe it was two of Them and a normal couple,” he whispered back. “Maybe it was two swishes on a double date!”

This made no sense. Swishes hated women, so how could they date. ..unless he meant. ..but they couldn't possibly date each other! They were both boys!

But if you don't find women attractive, maybe you find men attractive, so you want to date....

November 14th: in the public library, researching prisons (for the same civics class), I was leafing aimlessly through a book, when I happened upon a black and white photo (not this one).

It took a long moment for me to comprehend what I was seeing; it simply didn't make sense.  Two male prisoners were standing in front of a chain link fence, with their backs to the camera. Holding hands.

I stared for a long time, thinking “No, this is impossible.” Only little kids, parents and children, and boyfriends and girlfriends held hands.. Men didn’t even touch each other’s hands. If their hands met by accident, they would jerk away, too disgusted for words.The caption talked about the “problem of homosexuals in prison.” So fairies  -- swishes -- homosexuals -- gays dated each other, held hands.

Suddenly embarrassed, as if I had been caught viewing pornography, I slammed the book shut.  Darry looked up at me quizzically.

November 15th: On TV: Maude's husband (Bill Macy) dreamed that he kissed a man, and worried that he might be gay.

So gays not only dated and held hands: they kissed!  Maybe they reached under frilly sweaters to feel each others' powdery marshmallow bodies.  Maybe they even had sex.

But I still didn't connect gays holding hands with the boys holding hands among the candles in the Don Grady song.  Or gays dating with my dates with boys.  Or gays having sex with me and Todd spending the night together at music camp.

I wouldn't make the connection for another year and a half.

We Look for a Gay Comic Book

Rock Island, December 1976

At Christmastime in my junior year in high school, shortly after I caught Cousin Joe in the act, I caught the flu.  I lay in bed for a week, missing the District Jump Quiz Tournament, unable to concentrate on books or comic books, unwilling to make the arduous trek across the room to turn on the portable tv atop the dresser, I mostly listened to KSTT on my clock radio. Boston sang "More Than a Feeling" about a thousand times; their only competition seemed to be "You Make Me Feel Like Dancing," by Leo Sayer.  I know what he made me feel like doing.

Once I heard a song called “Walk on the Wild Side,” about a man’s  descent from Acting like a Girl to Fairy to Swish: “he shaved his legs and then he was a she.” But I was puzzled by the line in which the Swish “goes to see Apollo" (I had never heard of the Apollo Theater in Harlem).  What did the Greek god, the epitome of muscular manliness, have to do with a sinister, soul-destroying walk on the wild side?







On December 29th, I was feeling a little better, so I asked Darry to bring Robert Graves' massive two-volume Greek Myths, and read up on Apollo.  In one story, he and his friend Hyacinth were playing with a discus.  The wind Zephyr became so jealous of their love that he blew the discus off course, and it hit Hyacinth in the head, killing him. The distraught god created a flower from the bloodstained grass, the hyacinth, with petals that spell out ai, alas!

“Zephr was jealous of their love,” I read. “How can you be jealous of a guy? You can have hundreds of buddies. You’re only jealous of girls.”

“Maybe Apollo and Hyacinth were girls, sort of,” Darry said. “You know. . . .” he flashed a loose wrist.

“Don’t be ridiculous! They couldn’t be gay.  There weren't any swishes in ancient times, and besides, they were like, built!”  Everybody knew that gays were thin, wispy things who hated muscles.

“How do you know how built they were? There aren’t any pictures in the book.”

Slightly embarrassed, I told him about the comic book that my boyfriend Bill gave me long ago, with Casper the Friendly Ghost making a mystical ascent to the Island in the Sky. Darry wanted to see it, so I asked him to find my box of old Casper comics in the closet. The Island in the Sky comic was missing!

Thinking it was misfiled, we sorted through my boxes of Disney, Tarzan, Archie, and superhero comics. Nothing. We even crawled into the attic  crawlspace to look through a box labeled “Boomer," leftover from our move two years ago.  It contained old toys, puzzles, coloring books, cartoon kits, Viewmaster slides, birthday party photos. No comic books.

Exhausted by the effort, I clomped back to bed and collapsed. Darry pulled the covers over me and went downstairs to fetch some orange juice. When he returned, he said, “Don’t get all obsessed. Your fever-addled brain probably invented it. A bad acid trip about Casper the Friendly Ghost, imagine that!”

“No, I’ve read the comic book – lot of times.” I remembered every detail. I remembered when I first read it -- a hot summer night, my boyfriend Bill asleep beside me, breathing softly, and Casper flying to the Elysian Fields to meet Greek gods.

 It was an essential part of my childhood, like Chekhov and Sulu smiling at each other or Robbie Douglas singing about boys holding hands.

“So, tell me all about the story you dreamed up. . .I mean, that you read in that mysterious vanishing comic book.  Casper goes to an island in the sky."

“And he meets Apollo, Pan, Bacchus, and some others. All men, no women. Muscular physiques. They live together. It was like heaven.”

Darry laughed. “Sounds like the Hawaiian Lounge to me! Nothing but fruits, on double dates with each other!  Except for the muscles, of course.”

“Waste your time doing something else!” I exclaimed, scandalized. “Nobody was gay! It was a kid’s comic!”

When Darry left, I huddled beside the space heater, trembling.  First the secret message "Brian gives free LBJs," and now the Island in the Sky.  Why did all of my most cherished childhood memories involve swishes?

It would take me another year to figure out why..

Three Twinks and a Bear on the Same Night

West Hollywood, August 2017

I haven't been back to West Hollywood for four years, and I probably won't be back for awhile, so I want to make the best of it, as many friends, sights, hangouts, and penises as I can cram into six days and seven nights.

I stay with Infinite Chazz and have dinners, go cruising, and otherwise reconnect with Lane, Will, Randall the Muscle Bear, and Zack the Photographer. Plus I meet five new guys.


1. Jerzy

Wednesday: at dinner at Sammy's Thai, I meet  Jerzy,  tall and big-boned, with a rugged face and a severe military haircut, his muscular physique going to fat, a very thick 7".  He's mostly an oral bottom, but open for suggestions.

Jerzy doesn't believe that older guys becom twink magnets, so I take him out to the Rage and the Faultline to look for twinks.  Later we go back to Chazz's apartment to spend the night and "share."

Thursday afternoon: We hit the gym, the Getty Museum, UCLA, and the Santa Monica Pier.

Thursday night: Jerzy wins the twink contest, and gets to go down on me, Chazz, Will, and their partners.

Saturday night: I meet Jerzy, Lane, and Ben in Long Beach.  We visit Randall the Muscle Bear and cruise the cowboy bars.  No hookup.

Jerzy calls on Monday: "Tomorrow is your last night in Los Angeles, and I want to do something special.  How about if you drive down here to Costa Mesa, and we'll have dinner at a place I know on the beach.  You can bring one of your twink friends, if you like, and we'll share."

2. Alex

Friday afternoon: While visiting UCLA with Jerzy, I met Alex, a 21-year old resident advisor on campus to lead new student orientation.  He' taller than me, with straight black hair, a round face, retro horn rimmed glasses, and a tight smooth chest.  Average sized penis, big balls.  Into making out (a lot) and oral (top and bottom).

He gives me an "insider tour"  of Hollywood which mostly involves driving down Sunset Boulevard. We end up in Little Tokyo before returning to his apartment to make out.

Sunday afternoon: We drive to Hacienda Heights to visit the Hsi La temple.  Then we return to his apartment to make out.

He calls on Monday: "Are you doing anything tomorrow?  There's a new exhibit at the Huntington Library that I thought you would like...."

3. Darius

Thursday night: Will and I go to the Eagle in Silverlake, and pick up Darius, who has only been out for two years and wants to try being tied up for the first time.  While Will uses a dildo on him, I enter his mouth from above.

Then Will's partner tops him while I go down on Will.

4. Dylan

We meet at Infinite Chazz's "twink party" on Friday night, and "share," but he doesn't stay over.  He's of medium height, rather pale, with short blond hair, thick eyebrows, a smooth chest, and a shaved crotch (about 5 inches, but perpetually aroused).  An oral and anal top.

Saturday night: We drive into Orange County for dinner with Lane and Ben and a few other guys.  We end up back at Infinite Chazz's house -- just us, no sharing -- and have breakfast and go jogging in the morning.

On Monday I show up at Dylan's job with lunch (Pollo Loco take-out).

"Are you doing anything tomorrow?" he says.  "It's your last night in town, so I'd like to do something special.  I know you like comedy, so I got tickets to the Groundlings..."

5. Michael

Friday night: Infinite Chazz and his partner invite two twinks over to share celebrity hookup stories.  Dylan goes down on me and I get his phone number, but Michael ends up spending the night, with breakfast at Hugo's the next morning.

He's Hispanic or Italian, of medium height, with curly black hair, dark features, a smooth chest, and a a gigantic uncut Kielbasa  Mostly an oral bottom, but he let me go down on him.

Monday night: Michael and I go to Santa Monica for dinner with Zack the Photographer. We share (oral only) and spend the night.

In the morning, we have breakfast before Michael and Zack have to go to work.

"Tonight is your last night in Los Angeles," he says.  "I hope you don't think this is corny, but I'd like to spend it cuddling on the couch, watching Netflix and eating pizza.  And going down on you about six times, of course."

Four guys, each wanting to spend a "special night."  Which did I choose?

Answer after the break