Fall 2012: Brandon and His Angry Inch

Philadelphia, Fall 2012

During my terrible year in Philadelphia, I didn't go out a lot.  I remember only three hookups, and they were all crazy.  Like Brandon and his angry inch.

Meeting: I see Brandon's picture on a gay chat site.  Muscular, deep tan, dark curly hair, short beard, dreamy.

His profile: 21 years old, shorter than me, ftm transman, t for 2 years, post-op torso sculpting 14 months.

I've never been with a transgender person, but I'm not opposed to the idea. And the torso sculpting sounds nice.

I start a chat: "Congratulations on transitioning at such a young age."

He's a math major at Ursinus College, about 30 miles away, sharing an apartment with two friends.  He doesn't know any other trans people. I mention three that I know Upstate, and offer to put him in contact with them.

I don't suggest getting together; I never cruise younger guys.  It's their job to cruise me. But he doesn't.

I see him in the chatroom a few times after that, but he never contacts me.

Musical Appointment Calendars:

A month later, Brandon sends me a message out of nowhere.  "I'm coming into Philadelphia today, and I have the afternoon free. Want to fool around?"

Sounds like a desperation hookup, but ok.

I don't see the message until that night.  I try to reschedule for Thursday.  He agrees, but cancels at the last minute, saying a friend is in the hospital.  So dinner Saturday night?  He agrees. Then on Saturday morning he says he can't make it, can we get together now?

Ok.

The Hookup:

Brandon comes to the door. He is even more extraordinarily cute in person.

 I plan on sitting him down, asking if he wants a beverage, playing it cool, but we immediately start kissing and groping.

I don't feel anything when I grope him, but I figure he's just very small.

Our shirts come off.  He has a hairy chest, nice muscular pecs.  He unzips me.  I slide my pants off and push him onto the futon for more kissing.  He fondles me.

I unbuckle his pants and slide them down to his knees.

Ok, this is weird.

He has a very large pubic mound, shaped like a a Pacific island atoll.  A long narrow trench.  And Inch High Private Eye.

Is that as good as the doctors could do?  It doesn't look anything like male body parts.

"Um...you're going to have to show me around down there," I say.  "I've never been in this type of territory before."

He shows me.  He's an aggressive top, driving his equipment into wherever on my body he can find.

Afterwards, we kiss and cuddle for awhile, and then he's ready for more.  And more.  And more.

The session only ends because he has somewhere to be.  I suspect that he could keep going all day.

The moment he's out the door, I call Chad, my friend Upstate, and tell him about Brandon's unusual equipment.

He checks Brandon's profile on the chatroom website.  "You dope!  Did you even read his profile?  He's taking testosterone, and he's post-op for torso sculpting.  He hasn't done any transitioning beneath the belt!"

"You mean...those were just ordinary lady parts?"

"Yup."

Suddenly I'm very embarrassed.  All afternoon I thought I was dealing with special transman parts, and it was just a regular vagina and clitoris, like everyone born female has!

"Ok, I've taken sex ed, and I've seen naked women in movies, and I know they don't have Pacific Island atolls and angry inches."

"The testosterone probably caused some masculinzation."

"Just ordinary lady parts," I repeat.  "No wonder he didn't want me on top of him. There was a vagina down there."

Chad is silent for a few minutes.  Then: "Sounds like you had a nice time, even without a penis.  Are you going to hook up again?"

"I'm not sure."

I do some research that afternoon.  Many transmen can't afford penis reconstruction, or don't want it.  Why is a penis so essential to manhood?  They're men, with or without.

Besides, no one will know the difference except their sexual partners, and any sexual partner so worried over 1" versus 6" isn't worth bothering with.

And Brandon is very cute and very, very enthusiastic.

Still, I would really like a penis.

"He was Looking at Me!": Assaulted by a Naked Man in the Locker Room

Philadelphia, Fall 2012

I always try to join a gay gym, so I don't have to deal with heteronormative comments and lady-gawking, and so no one minds if I do a little gawking of my own.

During my terrible year in Philadelphia, I joined the 12th Street Gym, only about half a mile from my apartment.

It was an older facility, kind of musty, but crowded with cute gym rats.  Unfortunately it was "gay friendly" rather than "gay."  About half of the clientele consisted of gay men, and the rest straight men, who varied in their degree of comfort about being gawked at.

Some put on a show, swirling and wiggling their equipment.  Some were completely nonchalant.  Some were careful to turn their backs and wear towels, or avoided taking showers altogether, worried that to be seen and desired by a gay man would mean that they were gay, too.

 But after seven years in the straight world, I was adept at subtle glances.

I don't remember even glancing at Duane that day (I never got his real name.)  It was around 7 pm, and the gym was packed with the after-work crowd.  I finished my workout, undressed, and headed to the shower room, which was also packed.   You had to wait for a turn at the shower heads.     

Mindful of the crowd, I showered quickly without paying much attention to the other guys around, toweled off, and walked back into the locker room.

Just as I unlocked my locker and opened the door, I heard a man yell "Stop looking at me!"

I turned -- everybody in the locker room turned.  Duane was rushing across the bare floor.  He was in his 40s, tall, black, bald, not terribly muscular.   Naked, dripping wet from the shower.

You notice weird things at a time like that.  His penis swaying from side to side.  The wet marks his feet made.

"F*** fag, stop looking at me!"  

Homophobic language in Philadelphia's gay neighborhood?  And a straight guy who still thought of a gay man's gaze as a horrible insult?  I was shocked.  

The other guys were shocked, too.  They stared, motionless.  One said "Hey, now..." 

Wait -- Duane was rushing toward me!

His fists clenched, his face contorted with rage, prone to attack.

But..I hadn't been in a physical altercation since the Mean Boys of grade school.  Surely such things didn't happen anymore.  We were adults.  This was a gay neighborhood...

It only took a few seconds to cross the locker room floor, and Duane was....

Tackled by a tall slender guy: in his twenties, pale skin, smooth chest, curly brown hair, wearing only white briefs.  He must have been dressing.  Later I discovered that his name was Curtis.

Duane was knocked to the floor, his arm twisted behind his back.

Struggling wildly but subdued, he yelled "That fag looked at me!"   

"Yeah, dude, we're all looking at you," Curtis said.  "Now are you going to play nice?"

"But..."  

Curtis pulled him to his feet.  We faced each other.  I saw that his eyes were filled with tears, and his lower lip was trembling.

"But he looked at me," Duane whined.

"I didn't..." I began.

"So what if he did?  It's a compliment -- means he thinks you're hot. Now you gonna apologize, or do I put my black belt in karate to work?"

By now the club manager had appeared, so I didn't get my apology.  He waited for us to get dressed, then took us into the office and listened to our stories.  After some insulting questions about whether I had touched Duane inappropriately or "stalked" him, he told Duane to be "more tolerant" and let us go.

Curtis was waiting for me in the foyer.  He was wearing a white shirt and tan pants, with a photo nametag.  

"You ok, sir? That must have been quite a shock."

"I'm more shocked that Duane wasn't banned from the club."  

"Yeah, that kind of thing is...well, not common, but it happens.  When you mix gay and straight guys, you gotta expect it.  Not everybody is enlightened."  He paused.  "Can I buy you a drink?"

In case you were wondering: average beneath-the-belt gifts, top, bisexual, with a girlfriend.

And I didn't go back to the 12th Street Gym for a month.

See also: Brandon and His Angry Inch.