David and I Pick Up a Hitchhiker

Key West, Florida, August 2003

A common porn scenario is picking up a hot hitchhiker, who happens to be gay, gifted beneath the belt, and interested in you.

I've only done it once.

In West Hollywood you saw guys hitchhiking all the time, but they were usually hustlers.  I never picked anyone up.

In San Francisco and New York, I didn't have a car.

In Florida I was too apprehensive, until David visited.

You remember David, the effusive, ultra-horny former minister who got me into lots of scrapes in San Francisco.  In August 2003, he flew out for a five-day visit.

I hadn't seen him for six years.  He was a little more bald, a little more chunky, but still a beefy, bearded, bear, and as effervescent as ever.

I asked "What do you want to do while you're here?" expecting him to say Disney World, but he said "Let's go to Key West!"

I love Key West, 120 miles off the coast of Florida on a highway that crosses the ocean.  A compact, small town of 20,000, one of the most gay-friendly resorts in the world.  But it's a four-hour drive from Fort Lauderdale, a bit much for a weekend.

"I'll help out with the driving," David said.  "I always wanted to go there."

So we made a reservation at a gay B&B.  We started out at about noon on Friday, and planned to stay two nights and return early Sunday morning.

On the way south, you take an Interstate to Homestead, but then it's a surface road, Highway 1.  Sometimes we saw pedestrians along the road, and occasionally a hitchhiker.

In Key Largo, David called out, "Hey, that hitchiker is cute! Let's pick him up!"

"Are you kidding?  That's dangerous!"

Hitchhiking was a common means of getting around for the hippies and bohemians of the 1960s.  But it fell out of favor in the U.S. during the 1970s.

 "Hitchhikers are all psycho-killers!" TV commercials screamed.  "They will rape, strangle, and eat you!"

There have been actually only a few cases of hitchhikers robbing or killing the drivers who pick them up, but it was a common theme in pop culture.

"Don't be silly," David said.  "It's a great way to meet guys."

"Hustlers, you mean?"

"Regular guys.  Straight, but available.  90% of hitchhikers will let you go down on them in exchange for the ride."

"What about the other 10%?  Raging homophobes?"

"Come on -- you're on vacation.  Take a chance!."

"Ok, ok.  Next cute hitchhiker, we pick him up.  But we're not coming out to him, just driving him into Key West, that's all."

We rejected the next two hitchhikers as not cute enough, but the third, was a lean, muscular twink with his shirt off, standing outside the Dolphin Research Center in Marathon with a sign reading "Key West."  He didn't have a backpack.

"Is he ok?"  I asked David.

"Ok?  He's perfect!"

We slowed down, checked to make sure he was alone, then stopped.  I moved into the back seat, and the hitchhiker -- his name was Jesse -- got into the front seat next to David.

He was eighteen years old, a few inches shorter than me, tanned, with short brown hair, a smooth chest, lean, hard muscles, and big hands.


Jesse told us that grew up on a potato farm in Aroostook County, Maine, farther north than Montreal or Quebec City, about as far north as you could get in the United States.  When it came time to choose a college, he wanted to go as far south as possible, so he decided on  Florida International University in Miami.

They held a Freshman Orientation before classes started -- a week of tours, lectures, workshops, and "ice breakers."  Boring!   And he was anxious to get as far south as you could go.

So yesterday morning he got on a bus to Key West.  But he missed his transfer in Homestead, and he didn't want to wait three hours for the next bus, so he walked out onto Caribbean Boulevard and thumbed a ride south.

No, he didn't take off his shirt to attract drivers -- it was just a hot day.

The first guy who picked him up was driving all the way to Key West, but Jesse asked to be let off in Marathon.

"Why'd you stop in Marathon, with your destination so close?" I asked.

"Oh -- I wanted to swim with the dolphins.  You don't get many opportunities to do that, up in Maine."  He paused.  "So, um, are you guys gay?  It's ok if you are -- I'm not prejudiced.  I watch Will and Grace.   I just never met anybody gay before.  We don't have any in Maine."

"There are lots of gay people in Maine," I said. "I visited when I lived in New York."

"You lived in New York?  Awright!"  He turned and gave me a "high-five" gesture.  "That must have been cool."

"And I'm from San Francisco."  David said..

"Oh, I heard all about San Francisco!"  Jesse turned back to me. "Are you guys like,  lovers?"

"No, just friends,  But we've been in bed together.  Gay friends like to share each other's dates and boyfriends."

"You kidding? Wow --  I wish straight guys would do that!"  He paused.  "So, what's it like?  Cornholing, I mean.  Does it hurt?"

"A lot of gay men aren't into anal sex at all.  There's lots of other things to do.  Like oral sex -- I'm sure you've done that with girl."

"Oh, sure, lots of times," Jesse said with a bit of hesitation, turning his head toward the road.   "But I'll bet guys do it better, since they know what a guy likes."

"Do you have a place to stay in Key West?" David asked.

"Not really.  I figured I would just go as far south as I could, then turn around and go home."

Jesse was apparently a big flighty.

"Better not set out until tomorrow morning," David suggested.  Was he fondling Jesse's crotch in the front seat?  I couldn't tell.  "You can stay with us, if you want.  Of course, the B&B just has one bed, but you can camp out on the floor."

"That'd be great, guys! As long as you don't try anything, of course"

We did some sightseeing, took Jesse to the Southernmost Point in the United States, had dinner at a Cuban restaurant on Duval Street, pointed out various gay men, and then checked into our B&B.

As we laid blankets out on the floor for him, Jesse said "Ok, now I've been dying to see what you guys do in bed."

"Not much," David said.  "We're just friends, remember.  Now, if there was a hot guy in the bed with us..."

Jesse blushed.  "Um..um...well, can't you just do a little demonstration?  Just so I know."



"Ok, but if we're going to be naked, you have to be naked, too."

We all undressed and lay on the bed, Jesse as far to the right as he could, his hands covering his crotch. David and I started to kiss.

"Holy cow!" Jesse exclaimed.  "I didn't know gay guys kissed!"

"Sure -- it's my favorite thing.  Don't you like it?"

"Yeah...um...I like it ok, I guess."

David moved down and started to work on me.  Jesse's eyes widened, and he started to squirm.  He moved his hands away from his crotch.  He was rather small, ruddy, and uncut.

I leaned over and pulled him close.

"Just to see what it's like?"  he said.  Then we were kissing.

In the morning we took Jesse to the Greyhound Station to get on his bus back to Miami.

"See?"  David said.  "Jesse turned out to be a nice guy, and super-hot."

We stopped for another hitchhiker on the way back to Fort Lauderdale.  Nothing happened.

See also: Waking up to a Straight Boy in My Bed; My 12 Porn Movie Hookups; and The High School Bodybuilder.

Philadelphia: My Return to the Gay World

Philadelphia, Fall 2012

In 2005, when I moved into the straight world after twenty years in gay neighborhoods, I swore that I would soon be back home again.

But gay neighborhoods tend to be in the heart of fabulous big cities that everyone on Earth is desperate to live in, so academic jobs are extraordinarily competitive.  Every opening gets 300 or more applications, not only from the U.S. but worldwide, not only from new Ph.D.'s but from experienced, even tenured faculty.

Still, I kept trying, sending out applications to colleges near gay neighborhoods year after year, occasionally getting an interview but never being offered anything.

Finally, in 2012, my seventh year in the straight world, I got an offer: a small private college near Philadelphia had been stymied on its search for a tenure-track opening, so it needed someone to teach the Freshman Seminar, Research Methods, and "Law and Society"courses for a year while they were looking again.

A one year temporary position.  But in Philadelphia!

Philadelphia's version of West Hollywood is Washington Square West, an 8x12 block square bounded by Walnut, South, Lombard, and Sixth.  It is cluttered with gay bars (The Tavern on Camac, The Bike Stop), bath houses, restaurants, retail outlets, a Community Center,  and Giovanni's Room, one of the oldest gay bookstores in the world,

I was there!

I moved down in August 2012, leaving Troy and most of my stuff in my apartment Upstate. There seemed no point for him to move down for just a year.

I hated it at first, but figured that all new cities take a little getting used to.

Three months later, I was still hating it.

Six months later, I was desperately applying for every job I could, as long as it was nowhere near Philadelphia!

What went wrong?

1. The Expense. I got a frightfully expensive apartment that took up 50% of my take-home salary.

But my apartments in San Francisco and the East Village were frightfully expensive too. 

2. The Crime. It was in a high-crime neighborhood.  I always heard about robberies, assaults, shots fired.  I was afraid to go out at night.

But I used to walk down Santa Monica Boulevard at Highland without giving it a second thought.

3. The Commute.  My college was 11 miles away, about an hour by train, there and back every day.  Seemed like I spent my whole life on that train.

But when I was in grad school, I regularly took the train two hours from my apartment in Manhattan to Stony Brook, took classes, and returned with no problem.

4. The Size. It was one room, only big enough for a futon that doubled as a couch, a small table/desk, and a bookcase.

But my first apartment in West Hollywood was one room, with no bed, a built-in desk, and a microwave but no stove.  

5. The Boyfriend.  Troy was back Upstate, so every weekend I drove up to him, or he drove down to me.  So half the weekends I was out of town.  It's hard to maintain friendships or relationships that way.

In West Hollywood, I spent a semester in Turkey, and another in Nashville.  Then I returned and started right back, with no awkwardness or lost connections.

6. The Lateness.  The bars and bath houses catered to the after-midnight crowd.  Go at 9:00 pm, and you could hear the crickets chirp.  I had to get up at 6:00 am to get to work, and I was too tired to go out.

But I got up at 6:00 am my whole life, and I was never too tired to go out.

7. The Emptiness.  West Hollywood, New York, and Florida had organizations for black, Asian, and Hispanic gay men, gay doctors, lawyers, fathers, runners, Methodists, Episcopalians, Catholics, Jews, gardeners, movie buffs, football fans, Republicans, Democrats, atheists, pagans...you name it.  Philadelphia had a Community Center and some self-help groups.

In West Hollywood I belonged to some groups, but in New York and Florida I didn't.  You could meet men anywhere. 

8. The Heterosexuals.  I lived right down the street from a straight bar with pictures of 1940's pin-up girls on the ceiling  There were heterosexual couples in my building.  I saw boy-girl couples on the street all the time.

There were heterosexuals in West Hollywood and New York, too.  We always shared our community with a few daring yuppies and a few oldsters who had been living there since before the Flood.

9 The Twinks.  There were a dozen gay bars, restaurants, and retail outlets within a few blocks of my apartment, all entirely occupied by twinks.  I rarely saw a guy over 30, and almost never over 40.  No matter where I went, I was the oldest person in the room.

But I was a twink magnet.  All of those 20-year olds wanted to get with me.  I got a LOT of action, more penises than I knew what to do with.  

But only three dates the whole year.

Remember "Hey, Nineteen"?

No, we got nothing in common
No, we can't talk at all
[But] please take me along when you slide on down.

10.  The Tourists.  The streets were crowded with guys who drove in from small towns, to spend a few hours or a few days dancing, drinking, doing drugs, and hooking up.  We had tourists in West Hollywood, San Francisco, the East Village, and Wilton Manors, especially on the weekends, but then they went home, leaving small towns populated by guys who were survivors, who had escaped from the homophobia of the straight world.  We called it Oz and Heaven, walked around smiling, unable to believe, year after year, that we were finally home.

In 2012, the homophobia of even the most backwards of towns was nowhere near as fierce, and as universal, at the homophobia of 1982, 1992, or 2002.

You could come out to straight people without being lectured at, screamed at, or asked "What do they think causes it?"

You could come out at work without being instantly fired.

The sense of community, the belief that "we are all survivors" was gone.

It was just a neighborhood with a lot of gay people. It wasn't home.

See also: Hookup Hell in Philadelphia

The Midnight Hookups of Philadelphia

Thursday

I'm back in Philadelphia for a conference.  I lived here for a horrible nine months, a few years ago.  It was ugly, dirty, crowded, expensive, dangerous, and it had the most unfriendly gay people anywhere.

My horrible flight lands at 2:00 pm.  I check into a hotel about 6 blocks from my old apartment.  It's even worse now.  A grim, grotesque pageant of self-absorbed yuppies and homeless people sleeping on air vents.  My crappy hotel is costing me $300 a night.  I can't go a block without being panhandled.  Giovanni's Room, the oldest gay bookstore in town, is gone.

And it's impossible to find a decent guy to have sex with.

Club Philly, a gay bathouse, is only a block away.  When I lived here, it had a gym and private rooms.  You had sex in the steam room and sauna.

Now the gym is gone!  A rack of free weights!  Plus no steam room, no sauna.  They have a glory hole maze now, but it's deserted.  4 floors, rickety stairs, and there's nobody there.

I go down on a very hot black guy in his 20s with a slim muscular physique and a 8" cock.  So far so good.

 A young Hispanic guy motions me into his room.  He seems to be mute -- he motions rather than speaks.  He motions for me to screw him.  I refuse.  He motions aggressively.  I leave.


I talk to a couple sharing a room.  An elderly guy, chubby, with red scaly psoriasis all over his body, and his boyfriend, elderly, slim, who doesn't speak and seems a little off.  I go down on the boyfriend for a few minutes.

I go on Grindr and find that there are 3 guys within 20 feet, in the same club.  I say "hello" to them.  Nothing.

So much for Club Philly.

Chinese food for dinner, then back to my hotel.  I put an ad on Craigslist Philadelphia, "hosting downtown."  Nothing.  Not one response.  Back home I'd have 20 guys by this point.

Back to Grindr. There are like 300 guys within 30 feet.  I say "Hi" to about 20 of them.

Nothing.  Crickets.

As a last resort, I put an ad on Craigslist: hosting downtown.  Back home, my ads get 10-20 responses.

Nothing.  Crickets.

Bob, my boyfriend back on the Plains,  calls.  He didn't do much today: just work, then hanging out at the gay-friendly coffee house a few blocks from our apartment.

A gay-friendly coffee house?  Sigh.

Friday

I arrived on Thursday because conferences always begin on Thursdays and end on Sunday.  Not this one!  Today is the last day!  Only about three sessions left.  

And another mistake: every conference I've ever been to, you dress casually.  Here there are suits and ties everywhere.  I am woefully out of place in the sessions I attend.

I get cruised by a cute Italian guy, but otherwise make no contacts.

The sessions are over by 5:00.  I have more Chinese food and then head to the hotel gym.

A lousy set of dumbbells!

I look up "gay gyms" online and find the Sansome Street Gym, about 7 blocks away.  Why not?

The twink at the front desk cruises me.  So far so good.

Another dead end for working out!  The weight room contains 4 measly cybex machines, broken so you can't change the angle.  Big deal.  I wander through the huge space, completely empty except for an ugly guy,  who rejects me!

Skip the workout.  I go back to my hotel room and try Grindr.  About an hour later, a weird tattooed hippie, frightfully skinny, with a small cock comes over, gets a blow job while looking at porn and saying crazy things like "I grew up in Philadelphia.  That's why I hate it."  and "I'm a mural artist.  I want to get thousands of people to look, but I can't decide what they should look at."

Is everybody in Philadelphia demented?

He tells me to suck hard, like I'm trying to get a thick milkshake through a straw.

After he finally comes, he puts on the music of someone named Bjork and dances and sings loudly, while searching in his bag for his gummy bears.  Then he asks me for a "donation."  I kick him out.

Back to Grindr.  Some guy starts insulting me for being old.  Like it's my fault, if I wasn't so stupid I would have just stayed 30.  I tell him: "I was a gay kid in the 1970s.  I've been beat up, spat on, threatened, chased, called fag, fairy, pervert, abomination in the eyes of the Lord.  I experienced more hate than you can even imagine.  Do you really think that a few insults will hurt me?  He shuts up.

Then a 50-year old South Asian guy comes over for wet, sloppy kisses, licking body part, and telling me how much he likes little boys.  Triple turn off.

"Um...you know, I haven't been a little boy in many years.  Why are you here?"

"I like to share mature men and little boys.  Three of us together would be really nice, don't you think..."

 I tell him that sex with 14-year olds is a crime, try to staunch the weird licking, and suck his cock to shut him up.  Then I literally push him out the door.

A moment later, Derek, my friend from the Plains, texts me: "Can't wait to see you again!  Looking forward to Tuesday."

Sigh.

I wish I was back home on the Plains.

Saturday

The conference is over, so I go to the Rodin Museum and the Barnes Art Foundation.  I try to get into Eastern State Penitentiary, but the line is too long.

In the evening I go on Grindr to get ignored and blcoked again, then return to Club Philly.

Score!  Usually I consider a bathhouse a success if I get with five guys, but I lose count after seven.

1. Tall young guy with enormous uncut penis.
2. His friend, buffed, blond who wanted to kiss.
3. Hairy chub in his room.
4. Tall muscular guy with a red beard who wanted to kiss.
5. Young black guy who came after 30 seconds.
6. Guy with cerebral palsy who is an anal bottom.
7. Short buffed guy from Italy with a smooth chest

Then I go to the Bike Stop and make out with two other guys, a short Asian and a husky bank teller from Delaware.

I stumble back to my hotel at 2:00 am, go to bed, and wake up at 6:00 am sharp to go to the airport.

Two things I've learned:

1. Dating apps are useless in gay neighborhoods.
2. No one has sex until after midnight.


See also: Philadelphia, My Return to the Straight World