My Date with Two Brothers...and their Dad

Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas, November 1984

During my horrible year in Hell-fer-Sartain, the worst place in the world, I tried to find a boyfriend by placing a personal ad in The Montrose Voice:

But most respondents lived in the Montrose, an hour away in Houston.  Others lived even farther away, in far-flung southern suburbs, even in Galveston. So I was overjoyed to hear from someone who lived only about 10 miles away (a half-hour drive in Houston traffic).

Jack said he was 24 years old, a little older than me, an English major at the University of Houston, with exactly my interests: literature, science fiction, classical music, languages, and foreign travel.  Plus, he said, he had a bodybuilder's physique and a Mortadella+ beneath the belt.

That was probably just "personal ad" bragging. But I didn't care. I would have accepted a date with a garden troll that was male, breathing, and less than an hour away.

He said he was laid up with a broken leg, and couldn't go out.  So I drove out to the house, a weird gray Tudor surrounded by crazy thin acacia trees and a bare mud lawn.

The door opened before I got to the front porch.  A shirtless guy stood in the doorway: short, compact, dark-skinned, just my type.  But definitely not 24.  Probably a teenager.

"I'm Eric, Jack's brother," he whispered.  "Keep your voice down -- my stepfather is asleep.  This way."

Brother!  Stepfather!  I thought we'd be alone!

He led me to the kitchen, and up a staircase to the attic.  It was now a messy bedroom: twin beds, both unmade; clothes scattered all over the floor; posters of Duran Duran, George Michael, and Rob Lowe.

One of the beds was occupied by another teenager, wearing only a bathrobe.  His leg was in a cast.  He was short and compact, but thin, no bodybuilder.

"I'm Jackie," he said.  "Sorry I can't really go anywhere.  But we can talk here...and stuff," he added with a leer.

I couldn't help asking, "Are you really 24?"

"Well, 20.  That's close.  And Eric is 18.  He's a senior."

Five years younger than me --  not a big deal. Maybe I could date Eric instead?

 "But I like girls," Eric added. "Jack and me never fool around together."

Jackie smiled evilly and reached out to stroke his basket.

"Ok, we fool around sometimes," he admitted, somewhat flustered.  "But I still like girls better.  Can I get you a soda?"

"Sure, Coke would be great."

He left.  There were no chairs, so I had no choice but to sit on the bed next to Jackie.  He quickly put his hand on my upper thigh.  I saw that he had "accidentally" left his bathrobe open.

"I'm not...really into tricking," I said (the old word for "hooking up").  "My ad was more for relationships. That's why I mentioned my interests in literature and music and...."

"I'm into music, too.  Who do you like the most?  I like Wham."

After more dismal conversation with a thin, naked kid with no interest in literature or classical music, Eric re-appeared with two cans of Coke and set them on the nightstand.  "Boomer, you want to see something cool?  Follow me."

He led me down the stairs and into the master bedroom, where Stepdad was asleep: Hispanic, in his 30s, very muscular.  He had kicked the covers off.  He was obviously having an erotic dream.

"Watch this!" Eric whispered.  He went to the bed and fondled Stepdad for a few moments. Then he pushed me down.  Stepdad drew me into an embrace.  Without waking up.

Which was admittedly erotic.  But:  Help! This is too weird!

I tore myself away and rushed out the door.  Eric followed.  "Don't freak -- I do it all the time," he whispered.  "He never wakes up.  Except sometimes I think he's just pretending to be asleep. You know..."

He put his arms around me. Soon we were kissing and doing other things in the hallway outside Stepdad's bedroom.

Which was admittedly erotic.  But: Help!  This is too weird!

I disentangled myself.  "Shouldn't I be getting...um...back upstairs," I stammered.

"Sure.  Jack must be getting lonely by now."

He followed me back up the stairs to the attic room, where Jackie had gotten completely naked.  I sat down on the bed, thinking that Eric would leave.  No -- he pushed me into a kiss with his brother.  Then he started undressing me.

Which was admittedly erotic.  But: What am I doing?  Two brothers, one straight, one into tricking, with Stepdad asleep but grabby downstairs?  

I made an excuse and went home.

I have often wondered what would have happened if I had stayed.  Would I be in a relationship with all three?

See also: Three Guys in My Bed in Baltimore.; Lane has a three-way with his boyfriend and his brother; Sausage Sighting of a Father, Son, and Grandson

The Greek Orthodox Priest with the Pushy Mom

Davenport, Iowa, September 1981

I began my senior year at Augustana (1981-82) with a single burning question: grad school or a job?

My professors claimed that I could use an English and Modern Languages major to launch a career in journalism, public relations, advertising, translating, or publishing. Surprise -- you needed specialized training for all of those jobs.  300 resumes, and not a single bite.

So I applied to grad school:
1. Russian, University of Iowa (I know, I was just in first year, but I really liked my Russian major friend in Iowa City)
2. Law, Indiana University
3. English, Indiana University
4. Linguistics, University of Chicago
5. Byzantine Studies, University of Chicago

Why Byzantine Studies?

With my new Russian obsession, I wanted to try out Russian Orthodox Church, but the nearest was in Chicago, so I picked the next best thing: St. George's Greek Orthodox Church in Rock Island.

I was disappointed: the liturgy was in English, not Greek, there were pews (I heard that the Orthodox stood), and the sermon was on heterosexual marriage.  But I did meet Peter, formerly a Greek Orthodox priest, now a private investigator for an insurance company.

Being a clergy groupie, I eagerly accepted his invitation to dinner, even though he was substantially older than me, in his 40s.

He lived in a big house in Davenport with his elderly parents, a bedridden Dad and a frail, tiny Mom who talked incessantly of the old country (she left Greece at the age of five, but still remembered it as a "good place").

The dinner was awful -- lamb in some kind of disgusting white sauce, undercooked potatoes -- what happened to the moussaka, spanikopita, and stuffed grape leaves?  No desert -- not even baklava.  And Peter and his Mom drank incessantly.

Afterwards, Peter invited me into his study to see his books on Orthodox theology, Byzantine history, and modern Greek.  He told me about the Russian Orthodox Saints Boris and George, who were gay, and suggested that the Byzantine world was a "good place."

At least it was bright and colorful.

We went downstairs to the basement rec room, where his Mom was watching Fantasy Island. When it was over, she said goodnight and went to bed, and we watched a late movie on tv, something with Bette Davis in it.  Then Peter asked if I wanted to spend the night.

We went into his bedroom and began to get intimate.

I didn't realize at the time, but his Mortadella+ was one of the biggest on my Sausage List, #11.

Suddenly, when I was in the middle of going down on him, the door swung open, and Mom walked in.  No knocking, no words, no nothing.  She saw us, shrieked, and ran out.

"What was...why..."  I stammered.

"Oh, don't worry," Peter said.  "Mom knows that I'm gay."

"Why did she rush in like that?"

"She didn't realize that you were spending the night."

That wasn't a satisfactory answer.

In the morning Mom was perfectly gracious.  There was no breakfast except coffee and juice -- the Greek Orthodox fast before Communion.

Peter invited me over for dinner several more times in the fall of 1981, and afterwards Mom always asked "Boomer, will you be spending the night?"

I loved hearing about the Byzantine World, but he never wanted to go out in public, not even to the Greek Festival.  We would have dinner -- the food was terrible -- and watch tv -- it was always Love Boat and Fantasy Island.  Besides, Mom was a little creepy.  After about two months, I called it quits.

But not before I applied to the Byzantine Studies Program at the University of Chicago.

I ended up going to Indiana University to study English.

See also: Yuri Hooks Up at a Russian Orthodox Seminary
 

The Getty Consternation Institute

Tom the Big Boss, Sort of

Marina del Rey, California, July 1989

In May 1989, when my doctoral dissertation committee rejected my third dissertation prospectus, I walked out of the conference room, drove away from USC and never went back.

I'd been planning on an academic career for four years -- what was I going to do now?  I thought back to Augustana, where I wanted to become an editor or translator, and got a job as an editor at the Getty Conservation Institute (founded by oil tycoon J. Paul Getty, whose grandson, Paul Getty Jr., was the object of some of my junior high fantasies).

It turned out to be the worst job in the world.

The 10 things I hated most about it:

1. There were a lot of heterosexist employees.  I got "Isn't that woman hot?", "What kind of girl do you like?" and "Would you kick that actress out of bed?" as often as in high school.  Tom the Big Boss was particularly obnoxious about it. And of course, no one in the 1980s was out at work.

He was tall, thin, bespectacled, a scholar, not one you would automatically assume to be heterosexist.  Not a bad physique (and yes, once I did get a peek in the men's restroom.  Not bad there, either).

2. Tom also used physical assault as a greeting.  Every time I saw him, he punched me -- hard -- on the shoulder.  I ended up being bruised every day.  And I couldn't say anything, because he was the boss.

The Getty Consternation Institute

3. It was not near the very beautiful Getty Museum, but in a warehouse district on Glencoe Avenue in Marina del Rey, with nothing nearby, no restaurants, no parks, nothing.  I had an hour for lunch, but with no place to go, I had to sit in the lounge eating my sandwich, and they always found me and said "We need this right away!  Your lunch can wait until later!"

4. The Getty Conservation Institute were involved in the preservation of art and archaeology around the world, so I figured I'd be getting around the world to edit articles on rock art in Australia. the Tomb of Nefertari in Egypt, the Mogao Grotto in China, or the Prado in Spain.

No, it was Tom who jetted around the world, having expensive dinners with the Minister of Antiquities of Peru or the Cultural Ambassador of Greece.  I worked for a subsidiary boss, Kathy, editing the abstracts of articles like "Functional Polymers for Chrome Fixation" and "Nitrogen for Biodeterioration Control on Museum Collections."

5. Every editorial change, even correcting typos, required me to fill out a form and get the boss's approval.  By the end of the day, there was a large stack of forms for Kathy and then Tom to approve.

6. Then I had to type the abstracts into an online database, get that approved by the boss, and file everything, abstracts, corrections, and Kathy and Tom's ok, into a vast bank of file cabinets. I was a secretary!

7. Kathy had no qualms about stealing my work.  I wrote a 50-page style manual for the editorial department, and she put her name on it, took it to Tom, and received a note "Great job!"

8. Abstracts could be submitted in Spanish, French, or German as well as English, but I wasn't allowed to touch those, in spite of my graduate work in Comparative Literature.  One day Kathy was running around the office with a question about Spanish.  "I can help!" I exclaimed.  "Oh, no, you wouldn't know about it." "Oh, I know quite a bit about Spanish," I protested, but she wouldn't hear of it.  Eventually she called the Spanish Department at UCLA to find out.

The question was: what do you call the thing on top of the "n" in Spanish?

It's a tilde.

I started bringing Don Quixote or Cien años de soledad, untranslated, to sit prominently on my desk.

Graduate Student Intern, Not Tom

9. With all of the foreign dignitaries and archaeologists wandering in and out all the time, it was like an international airport.  I got sick a lot. 

10. There were a lot of high-strung, crazy employees.  Screaming fits were common.  Probably due to #1-9.

I started looking for a new job immediately.  A year later, I still hadn't found a new job, but I couldn't take it anymore, so:

 I printed out new first pages of the Style Manual, with my name as author, and substituted it on all of the copies.

 I typed up a letter of resignation, in Spanish, and left it on Kathy's desk.  

And on the way out of the office, I stopped by Tom's office and punched him hard on the shoulder.

Next: I teach Gay 101 at Juvenile Hall.