Doing What Straight People Do: A Hookup in a Public Park in Plains

Plains, April 2016

It's a "nice" day on the Plains.

You know: bright sizzling sun like an angry gash in the world, sky so blue and cloudless that it makes your eyes ache, endless horizon that makes you feel like you're going to go zipping off into the stratosphere?  One of those days.

I rush through my work and try to get to my car and get home before anyone can stop me.  But unluckily, I run into every straight person I know, and they all start the refrain:
"What are you going to do to enjoy the outdoors?"
"You should get outside and enjoy the day!"
"It's too nice a day to be cooped up inside!"
"Don't days like this make you just ache to be outside?"

No.

1. The outdoors is not to be enjoyed.  It's to be traveled through to get to the things that are to be enjoyed.

2. Cooped up, in a low-heat, low-humidity, low-UV ray environment with optimal ventilation and light, a minimum of dirt, mud, ants, snakes, flies, mosquitoes, and mean dogs, and snacks, a bathroom, and entertainment nearby?  

I prefer rain, or snow, or at least some clouds.  No one orders you to "Get out and enjoy the day!" when it's cloudy.

When I was a kid, my parents forced me to "play outside" whenever it was "nice."  Incredibly boring -- nothing to do out there.  All my books, games, and toys were inside.  And usually uncomfortable to boot.  I would return hot, sticky, muddy, sunburned, and mosquito-bitten, whereupon my parents would say "See!  That was fun, wasn't it?"

In West Hollywood, nearly every day was "nice" -- we averaged 285 sunny days, 43 cloudy days, and 37 rainy days every year, and the temperatures never went below 50 degrees.  But we didn't "play outside."

In ten years I went to the beach three times, went hiking in Griffith Park once, and ate on those redwood picnic tables outside maybe six times.

It's only in the Straight World that people spend every possible moment outdoors.  Ball games, sailing, camping, skateboarding.  They even invite you to eat outdoors, shooing the bugs away from their hamburgers and hotdogs while their paper plates get buffeted around by the wind, as if it's a big treat.

And whenever the sky turns into a cerulean bowl and the sun starts to blaze in fury, they start the refrain: "It's too nice a day to be cooped up inside!  Why don't you go outside and enjoy the day!"

Ok, well, it's been almost nine years since I left Florida.  I guess I should try to assimilate.  What do I enjoy that can be transferred to an outdoor environment:

Going to museums and art galleries? No.
Going to the theater and the ballet?  No.
Watching movies and tv?  No.
Studying languages, history, and archaeology?  No
Reading comic books and graphic novels? No.
Touring old churches? No.
Working out? No.
Cruising?

I haven't had sex in a public place for 15 years, and I haven't actually done it outside, with the dirt and bugs and constant risk of discovery, for 25 years.

But if that's what the straight people want....

I check the online gay directories, and find three sites for public sex in Plains:

1. The restroom on the third floor of the library, with a 1 1/2 foot gap between toilet stalls.  No.

2. An adult video store with glory holes.  No.

3. A public park with trails through the tall tree, scrub, and mush.

Ok, I'll give it a try.

It's near downtown, along the river.  I drive over around 5:00 pm to get the after-work crowd.

There are five other cars, at least five people wandering the nature trails.  Will one of them be my key to "enjoying the outdoors"?

I walk briskly down the trail, past thin, barely-budding trees and prickly bushes.  When the trail forks, I take the left.

Car 1: A short, black-haired guy, college age.  I say "hello" as we pass.  He smiles and says "hello," also.  But that doesn't mean anything -- people in the Plains are polite.

Car 2: A woman with pink hair and a nose ring, taking photographs.

The left path ends.  I turn down the right.

Car 3:  A father and toddler-aged son, walking slowly and talking about nature.  I overtake and pass them, saying "Excuse me."

Car 4, or maybe Cars 4-5: Two high-school aged boys in t-shirts, laughing and jostling as they rush past me toward...the parking lot.  Could they have finished a hookup?

I return to the parking lot, take a drink of water from the fountain.  One of the cars is gone, but a new car has arrived.

I pass the Car 3 father and son again.

Car 6: An elderly fat man in white pants, walking so fast that he's wheezing.

"Nice day," I say.

"Got to get out and enjoy outdoors," he says with a leer.

There's Car 1, the short, cute college-aged guy, again.  This time I walk alongside him.

"Don't let it bother you," he says.  "That fat guy tries to hook up with everybody."

Ok, this guy is gay, and here for a hookup.

"Oh, I don't mind -- he's mild.  I lived in West Hollywood for 13 years -- we had some aggressive guys there!"

Mentioning West Hollywood always gets them interested.  "West Hollywood!  I'd love to visit someday.  Did you hook up with any celebrities."

"Oh, no one special.  Just Michael J. Fox, Richard Dreyfuss, Rob Lowe, and Leonardo DiCaprio," I lie.  "My name is Boomer."

"Michael."  We clasp hands.  "So, what's Leonardo like?  I used to have such a crush on him!"

Michael works in an office nearby, and often comes here after work to walk and cruise.  He's seen guys going off into the woods together, but he hasn't gotten the nerve to do anything himself.

It's not hard to talk him into an energetic session of kissing, oral, 69, interfemoral, and even some anal.  He has a very firm, solid body, a smooth chest with a glory trail leading from his navel to his average-sized cut penis.

Of course, we don't do it on the scratchy grass and mud.  We go back to my apartment, where it's warm and safe.

I guess I'm never going to be that assimilated.

See also: Playing Outside; Public Sex

Raul and my Bed-Hopping Roommate

West Hollywood, September 1986

In the fall of 1986,  shortly after I returned from Japan, I was living with Alan, who dragged me to the gay Asian bar Mugi twice a week.  Our other roommate, Chaiyo, was from Thailand.  I was taking a class in Chinese literature at USC (as part of my doctoral study in comparative literature).  Three days a week, I drove downtown to my job at the Community Redevelopment Agency, which was in the midst of revitalizing Little Tokyo.

With all of that Asian influence, you might expect me to meet a lot of Asian guys.  But I didn't.  The problem was, they found Alan so infinitely attractive that I couldn't compete.  Even if he didn't do anything.

One day in September 1986, I brought an Asian guy home.  Alan was watching tv in the living room, so I introduced them casually as we passed through.

 "Wow, your roommate is hot!" my date exclaimed. Sometime during the night, he got up to use the bathroom and "accidentally" stumbled into the wrong room, and into Alan's bed!

Alan didn't mind, but I wasn't yet comfortable with the West Hollywood custom of "sharing" with one's roommates.

Besides, "sharing," was only for committed partners, not casual dates!

Besides, "sharing" meant both of you participating!

Not to worry, there were lots of non-Asians around. L.A. was ethnically diverse.  In fact, it was 50% Hispanic.

50%!  I liked those odds!  On October 4th, 1986,  I went to the Plaza or the Silver Platter (I forget which) and met Raul from East L.A., a cook in a Filipino restaurant, short and slim with small hard muscles.

Was it safe to bring him home, or was Alan infinitely attractive to Hispanic guys, too? (This was before we started going to Tijuana.)

I decided to take the bull by the horns:  I invited Raul over for dinner Friday night "with my roommates."

He insisted on cooking -- "I'm a professional chef, I do all the work" -- chicken adobo, broccoli, and a Filipino rice cake called puta (no connection to the homophobic slur).

Raised in Iglesia Pentecostal Jesucristo, Raul was fascinated by Alan's plan to start a gay Pentecostal church in Thailand.  "But...how can you be cristiano, if you are gay? The Bible says that God hates gays."

After dinner, Alan grabbed his Bible and his Greek New Testament and started explaining how they didn't condemn gay people at all, starting with the story of Sodom -- it's about lack of hospitality, not gay people.

I already knew all about it, so I quickly got bored.

Famous gay couples, Ruth and Naomi, David and Jonathan.  Chaiyo fled to his room to watch The Golden Girls.  Raul jumped up and took the place he vacated next to Alan on the couch.

Ephesians and Romans: incorrect translation from the original Greek.  Arsenokoitai means "male prostitute," not "gay man." Alan's arm was wrapped around Raul's shoulders.

In the Book of Acts, Philip meets an Ethiopian eunuch, and invites him to spend the night.  Eunuchs were usually gay.  Adam whispered something in Raul's ear and tried to fondle his leg; Raul laughed and pushed his hand away.

I knew where this was headed.  "Hey, sounds like you guys have a lot to talk about," I said. "It's late.  I'm going to bed."

"Ok," Raul said, barely noticing me as he looked down at a passage in the Greek New Testament -- or was he looking at Alan's bulge?  "We will be done soon."

Yeah, right!  I thought.  I'll see you at breakfast!  

I went to my room, got undressed, and lay in bed with a book, fuming with jealousy.  I heard muffled conversation from the living room, then a burst of laughter.  Then an ominous silence...were they kissing?  And footsteps heading down the hall to Alan's room.  Someone used the bathroom.

Then my door opened.  It was Raul!

"Man, that Alan...talk, talk, talk," he said, stripping off his shirt.  "I mean, it was interesting, but come on, man! I'm on a date!"

He slid out of his pants and climbed in bed next to me.  "And he's so grabby!  If I didn't know better, I would think he was cruising me!  You weren't waiting too long, were you?"

"Not at all."  I turned off the light.

Kicking Out Ronald Reagan's Lover

West Hollywood, September 1988

For gay people in the 1980s,  West Hollywood was a sacred site, a Mecca free from the homophobia and other injustices of the straight-dominated world.  Everyone visited at least once, often for an extended period as they tried to find some way to stay.

When you were lucky enough to live in West Hollywood, your phone kept ringing, as gay men you hadn't talked to for ten years suddenly remembered that you were  close friends and dangled for an invitation.

Still, it was a surprise, in August 1988, to answer the telephone and hear "Boomer, darling!  How are you!"

It was Oscar, the retired set designer from Des Moines.  My first boyfriend Fred and I spent a couple of hours with him back in 1980, and that was it.  A very tenuous connection!

"Darling, I'm making the plunge -- I'm finally going to come out and visit West Hollywood.  And I want to see you in particular!"

"Um...what about Fred?"  He had moved to Pomona in the San Gabriel Valley with his boyfriend Matt.

"Oh, I'll be visiting him, too, but he lives so far away, and he has such a tiny apartment, whereas you have such a big house."

How did he know that?  "I'm just renting a room from Derek...."

"Whatever.  Would it be ok if I stay with you?  Just for a few days.  Or a week.  Two or three weeks, tops."

I couldn't think of any reason why not.  I tried.

Derek said it was ok, but he needed the guest room for another visitor, so Oscar would have to stay in my room.  In my bed.

Which means he would expect...you know.  In West Hollywood culture, it would be impolite to refuse. Particularly when you were sharing a bed.

As you know, I am attracted to guys who are dark-skinned, shorter than me, and muscular or husky.  Oscar was tall, thin, and pale.

Plus:
1. Feminine.  Lots of guys in West Hollywood were attracted to guys with feminine traits.  But I wasn't. Rings, ascots, perfume, overmodulated voices, undulating limbs -- instant turn-offs.

2.  And 73.  I was often attracted to older guys.  When I was 20, I dated a 40-ish college professor.  But an age difference of 46 years?  A little much!

But what can you do?  He was coming.

One Friday in early September, Fred, Matt, and I picked Oscar up at LAX, carried his dozen suitcases to my house, and took him out to dinner and back to my place.  Then they scrammed back to the San Gabriel Valley, leaving Oscar gazing at me in expectation.

"The bedroom is over here," I told him.  "I'm just getting over a cold, so it wouldn't be a good idea to do anything tonight."

The "gettinv over a cold" ploy lasted for about three days.  Then I devoted about a week to a whirlwind of sightseeing, everywhere from the LaBrea Tar Pits to the Toy Tiger, a Silverlake bar for older guys.  I didn't enjoy being mistaken for Oscar's grandson or a hustler all the time, but the ploy worked: every night, Oscar was so exhausted that the moment we got into bed, he fell asleep.

But sooner or later, he would be wide awake and ready for...you know.

"How long do you think you'll be able to stay?" I asked over breakfast.

"Oh, darling, I'm as free as a bird.  I can stay until spring!"

Great! I went out and applied for a job in Turkey.

Maybe I could find him a boyfriend to move in with?  Or claim to have a kinky fetish?

Then I remembered Oscar's story of dating future president Ronald Reagan, when they were both working for WHO Radio in Des Moines, back in 1936.

Reagan happened to be in town, campaigning for George H.W. Bush (who was running for president in 1988) and reuniting with old friends.  I knew someone who worked for Attorney General John Van De Camp, a long-time gay rights advocate: a tenuous connection, but it mighit work.

I ran into the living room, where Oscar was reading Frontiers.  "Guess what!  You might be getting a reunion with your old boyfriend, Ronald Reagan!  The Attorney General's assistant is arranging it!"

He turned pale.  "Ronald Reagan? How did you...."

"We just have to pretend to be straight.  You know, Reagan's a big homophobe nowadays."

He exhaled sharply.  "Oh, no, my dear, it would be too painful after all these years. Pretending that we didn't mean anything to each other.  Oh, no, it would be dreadful.  I couldn't abide it."

"Are you sure?  I mean, a party with the President..."

That afternoon he packed his suitcases and called Fred to pick him up.  He spent the rest of his vacation in the San Gabriel Valley.

I'm still not sure if Oscar really dated Ronald Reagan or not.

Reagan was out of office a few months later, but for years I got rid of unwanted houseguests by offering to introduce them to the ex-President.   He wasn't very popular among gay people.

See also: Fred Hooks Up with Ronnie Reagan

A Student Strips in My Classroom

Hell-fer-Sartain, Fall 1984

I hated every minute of every day of my 232 days in Hell-fer-Sartain...ugh...Texas, where I was exiled just after getting my M.A. from Indiana University -- teaching bonehead English to classes of homophobes, if I could make it to campus through the constant gridlocked traffic.  But one incident  almost made one day bearable.

One of my students in Survey of English Literature was Chad, a soccer player from Australia, tall, slim, tanned, in the habit of flirting with me, or at least saying things that sounded like flirting, like"Can I knock you up later?" ("Can I come to your office?").

One day early in the semester, I was lecturing on Shakespeare, when Chad came running in late, still in his gym clothes: a t-shirt emblazoned with the school logo and red shorts.  He plopped down in the first row.

"Hamlet's soliloquy...." I began.

Then, suddenly, out of nowhere, Chad's shirt came off.  I saw a smooth, tanned, muscular torso.

On the beach, he might not have been impressive, but in a classroom on a dull September afternoon, he was stunning.

And shocking.  My jaw dropped.  I could not have been more surprised, not even if the whole class disrobed in front of me.

The room became very silent.    All eyes were on Chad as he carefully folded his shirt and put it in his gym bag.

Oblivious to the staring eyes, Chad took his gym trunks off.  Underneath was a well-packed jock strap.

Finally I was able to speak.  "Um...Chad?"

"What?"  He reached into his gym bag, pulled out a pair of jeans, and wriggled them on.

"What are you doing?"

"What do you mean?"  Next a fresh t-shirt came out of the gym bag and wrapped onto his muscular body.  And a notebook and pen to take notes.  He looked like a college student.

I continued my lecture, and called Chad up to my desk after class.  His excuse was: "I didn't want to be late."

Apparently students in Australia changed clothes in the classroom all the time.

Or maybe he just did it for my benefit.  

A Hookup with the Surly, Crazy-Eyed Guy with the Mortadella+

Philadelphia, March 2013

I'm at the gym at my job in a small private college near Philadelphia, having a bad day  (actually, most days in Philadelphia are bad.  Not nearly as bad as Hell-fer-Sartain, ugh...Texas, the worst place in the world, but bad...).  And now the guy on the butterfly press is just sitting there, playing with his cell phone.

You're supposed to rest about a minute between sets, but not on the machine.  Get up and walk around, or better yet, go do a set for another muscle group.

But the undergrads at the campus gym often just sit there for 5 minutes, rendering their weight training useless and jamming up everybody else's work out.

It's annoying.  Besides, I like to do my sets in a specific order, alternating upper and lower body, and working down from the big to the small muscle groups, so I can't just walk away.  I always walk up, motion for them to unplug their earphones, and ask "Can I squeeze in between your sets?"

They always get up and let me "play through."

But today when I ask, the guy on the butterfly press glares at me, eyes wide, teeth set.  "I have two sets left," he growls, ready for a fight, daring me to make a move against him.

Nobody ever has had that reaction before!  This guy must be crazy!

I should probably retreat, but I'm annoyed by the territoriality.  "Well, how about if I squeeze between the sets, while you're resting?"

He grumbles...but says ok.  He jumps up and stands there glaring at me while I move the weight to double what he was doing.  And keeps glaring during my set.

You're supposed to walk around, or at least look away.

So after my set, instead of walking around, I stand there, getting in his face.

He's an older student, senior or grad: mid-20s, tall and thin, tattooed, shaggy black hair, short beard, deep-set eyes.  Crazy eyes.  Wearing a black t-shirt and silken gym shorts that show no basket.

Suddenly I find him very attractive.  

He's not at all my usual type.  Maybe it's his surliness  -- you're into guys who aren't into you.  Or maybe it's because I'm approached by twinks all the time.  Finding one who doesn't cruise me, who displays no interest, is refreshing.

Or maybe it's just the challenge.

He says "It's all yours," jumps up, and moves to the preacher press.  I finish my next set and move to the calf press next to him.  I put on four 50-pound weights.  He pretends not to see me.

"Hey!"

He takes off his earphones and glares.

"If you want the full benefit, you should take it slower, and go down lower.  Let me show you."

He glares at me.  "Just my luck.  I finally get up the nerve to go to the gym, and some muscle-bound Bob Paris wannabe tells me I'm doing it wrong."

Hostility, and a veiled compliment? And he knows Bob Paris, the gay bodybuilder -- must be gay himself.

He doesn't object as I walk over, put my hands on the bar to show him, and "accidentally" touch his hands.

"I can see you have a lot of potential -- your biceps are already firm and tight, and you have a nice chst. You just need a little instruction to get things going."

He glares.  "I'm doing just fine, thanks.  I don't need any $100 dollar an hour personal trainer pestering me."

I touch his shoulder.  "I'll give you some tips for free.  A public service so you don't hurt yourself.  You can buy me a coke afterwards."

He flashes his crazy eyes but says "Ok."

I show him how to use some of the machines and free weights, touching him several times in the process.  He continues to glare with his crazy eyes.  This guy is crazy.

Then we shower -- he's on the other side of the locker room, so I don't see anything -- and walk down the street to a burger place.

"Ok, if you're serious about weight training, you need to lead a healthy lifestyle.  That means no drinking, no drugs, and a low-fat, low-sugar diet."

He smiles for the first time.  "I don't use drugs, and I was planning to order the turkey burger anyway."

His name is Aaron.  He graduated five years ago, but he can use the gym on his alumni card.  His degree was in music -- he wanted to become a singer, and still performs at open mike nights -- but his real jobs are in the campus cafeteria and a pizza place downtown.  His schedule doesn't leave a lot of time for socializing, so he doesn't meet many guys.

We go back to the tiny apartment he shares with two straight guys and a large dog.  He leads me immediately into the bedroom, and stands there, glaring with his crazy eyes, waiting for me to make the first move.

I run my hand over his smooth, tight chest and down to his crotch.  He's still glaring.

Well, he didn't say no...

I unzip him and go down on him.

Whoa, a gigantic Mortadella+!

 Soon we're on his single, unmade bed, naked, kissing.  He pushes into interfemoral position to finish, then goes down on me.

Afterwards he rushes into the bathroom to wash off, and then returns to me in bed.  We cuddle.  Suddenly he gets aroused again.  But he's still glaring.

I have to say something.  "You know, you're very hot, but there might be something about your demeanor that's off-putting to guys.  You should expect the best in people, not the worst -- you shouldn't go into an encounter looking all defensive, this glaring..."

He glares.  "What are you talking about?  This is the way I look when I'm attracted to a guy."

See also: Yuri and the Unhung Hippie; My Textbook Rep is a Porn Star.