A Celebrity Tries to Steal My Boyfriend

Hollywood, August 1986

My friend Alan knew lots of celebrities and celebrity kids, like David Johnson, son of the Professor on Gilligan's Island, and anyone he didn't know, I met through other friends (Michael J. Fox), or through my job at Muscle and Fitness, or at the gym, or on the streets of West Hollywood (my celebrity boyfriend).  And at Mugi.

It was a bar on Hollywood Boulevard, east of Western, in Thai Town (now it's a Thai restaurant).  Simple decor.  Thai popular music (except for "One Night in Bangkok"., which it played every night).  No dancing.  And packed every night.  Most of the the clientele was Asian, mostly immigrants and tourists from East Asia. The rest were their admirers.

Alan liked it because he was, for some reason, intensely attractive to most Asian men.  He claimed that he could get any Asian guy just by walking up and smiling (He often used this amazing ability to steal my dates.)

The other half of the clientele was white, mostly men in the entertainment industry, mostly not well known, but on various nights I saw Jim J. Bullock, Lance Loud, Tom Hulce, and Tom Villard

Why did so many gay white actors, directors, producers, and crew members patronize a tiny Asian bar?  Maybe because it was a a five minute drive from Paramount Studios, and very close to about a dozen other studios, yet out of the way, not like one of the glitzy West Hollywood bars where you would be spotted.

In August 1986, shortly after we returned from Japan, I liked a very muscular Chinese-Vietnamese guy named Tranh, a student at UCLA.  I cruised him at the gym almost every day, and when I saw him at Mugi, I spent an hour flirting with him, using every trick I knew.   He had just agreed to have dinner with me, when Richard Chamberlain came in with some friends.

The 52-year old star of Dr. Kildare (1961-66), Shogun (1980), The Thorn Birds (1983), and King Solomon's Mines (1985) was not yet out, and he was not the subject of any gay rumors.

I was mildly surprised, but not impressed.   I didn't find him at all attractive -- there were much cuter celebrities at Mugi all the time.  Besides, he was probably there to cruise Asian men.

But Tranh's mouth dropped.  After a few moments, he said "Excuse me," and made a bee-line for Richard's table. It took only a moment for them to start kissing.

It wasn't fair -- I cruised Tranh at the gym for weeks, and I didn't get a kiss!

I pieced my way through the crowd to where Alan was holding court.

"What's the problem?"  he asked.  "You look like you lost your best friend."

"Maybe I did. I finally managed to get a date with Tranh, when that idiot Richard comes in, and he scurried after him like a squirrel after a nut.  Just because he's been in some movies!"

Alan smiled.  "Don't worry, I'll take care of it." He disentangled himself from his boyfriend du jour and made his way to Richard's table.  I could see him, Richard, and Tranh talking.  After about three minutes, he returned, hand in hand with a grinning Tranh.

"...and Boomer will be there, too.  Is that ok?"


He "got" Tranh for me by offering himself as part of the deal!

Still, I had to admire the ease with which he bested Richard Chamberlain.

And I did manage to go down on Tranh (average size, uncut).

See also: Sharing the Kept Boy

I Prove I'm Not Gay By Kissing a Guy

Many non-runners don't realize that runners get harassed a lot.  People yell out criticisms, slurs, and epithets, Over the years, I've heard:

"Run faster!"
"Run!  Maybe you'll catch up with them!"
"Where's the fire?"
"You lost your pants?"

And the standard array of epithets:
"Fag!"
"Fruit!"
"Dork"
"Wimp!"

They throw things or spit out of cars.

They mimic your actions,

They try to trip you.

Sometimes they even attack.



Rock Island, June 1976

It was the summer after my sophomore year at Rocky High, about a month after my date with King Carl Gustav of Sweden.  I had been running for a few months, in preparation for joining the track team in the fall (which never happened).

I know now that you should always vary your route and time of day, to minimize the harassment, but in 1976 I  always followed the same route: down 20th Avenue to 38th Street, down to 31st Avenue, over to 24th, up to 18th, and back, about three miles.

At the same time of day.

Past a school.

I know, dumb!

As I passed, I always saw a group of three boys, one junior high age, two younger, playing basketball or hanging out in the school yard.  Sometimes they were in a kiddie pool in the front yard of one of the houses across the street.

The junior high boy was sort of cute, with thick brown hair, and a tan chest with pinprick nipples, but too young for me (I was 15, and he was probably 13 or 14).  So I didn't pay him much attention.

Not even the day he grabbed his crotch and yelled "Fag!" while his cronies laughed.

I shrugged, figuring that he was a junior high Mean Boy.  I was in high school, beyond that sort of bullying.  It wasn't worth changing my route over.

Then one day the Mean Boy and his cronies attacked.

They lay in wait in the bushes behind the school, and when I came past, they jumped out and surrounded me and squirted viciously with squirt guns and a squeeze bottle, looks of sheer malice on their faces.

Soaked, roaring with rage, I grabbed one of the squirt guns from a boy's hands and threw it onto the ground.

They scattered in three different directions.

I chased the Mean Boy, the oldest of the pack.  He ran across the street to the house with the kiddie pool, into the back yard, toward a play house, but before he could make it, I tackled him and dragged him to the ground.  I used my wrestling training to pin him.  I was holding his hands above his head, pressing our chests together, pressing our crotches together, panting.

"Get off me, faggot!" the Mean Boy snarled.  And then "Ow!  Help!"

What would you do if you had a cute boy pinned to the ground?

"I'll show you who's a faggot, faggot!" I yelled.

"What you going to do about it?" he asked, struggling.

"I'll tell you, tough guy.  I'm going to kiss you!"

He laughed.  "You wouldn't have the nerve!"

"Try me."

He continued to struggle.  "Ok, wise guy, let's see what you got."

The Mean Boy's eyes widened as my mouth clamped down onto his.  "Mmph!" he protested.

I shoved my tongue into his mouth.

This was my first "French kiss."   I seem to remember the Mean Boy responding, darting his tongue against mine.  but it might be my imagination.

After a few minutes, I backed up.  The Mean Boy didn't say anything.  He just stared.

"Oh, you want another kiss?"

He shook his head.  "I guess you're pretty tough."

I jumped to my feet and turned and ran on, trembling with rage and a strange erotic excitement.

 I glanced back.  The Mean Boy was propped up on one elbow, staring at me.

This story could end in several ways.  The boy could become my first boyfriend.  I could run into him years later, and discover that he was gay.

But actually I never saw the Mean Boy again.  I started running a different route -- several different routes, actually.  If he was two years younger than me, he must have been a sophomore at Rocky High during my senior year, but I don't remember him.

But I definitely remember the kiss.

See also: My Date with Carl Gustaf, the King of Sweden; My First Kiss, from a Boy Vampire.

A Nude Fourth of July Party with the Golden Boy

Rock Island, June 30, 1978

Exactly one week ago, I figured "it" out.  My elation at finally solving the mystery, understanding who I am, has given way to depression.  There are no books on gay topics in the library, no gay organizations, no meeting places except for a gay bar that I'm too young to go to.

And I can't tell anyone.  Everyone thinks that gay people are either horrifying monsters or swishy jokes.  

What do I do now?

My friend Aaron invites me to a Marx Brothers Film Festival held at the Augustana College Student Union: The Cocoanuts and Animal Crackers tonight, and Horse Feathers, Monkey Business, and Duck Soup tomorrow (this was before DVDs).

Jana, a girl I know from Rocky High, comes into the first screening.  With the most beautiful guy I have ever seen.  Greek or Italian, rather short, short black hair, sharp features, flawless skin.  He is wearing a yellow tank top that displays his smooth chest and nicely bulging biceps.  But no verbal description can do justice to his amazing confidence and energy.  He is a Golden Boy.

"Who...who is that guy with Jana?" I ask, transfixed.

Naturally Aaron assumes that I'm interested in the girl.  "Dunno.  But I'm sure you have nothing to worry about. He looks like a college kid, so at the end of the summer, he's out of here!"

During intermission, I drag Aaron over and get an introduction.  His name is Dino.

"Are you related to Dino []?" I ask.

"Uncle Dino?  Sure.  We don't see him much, though.  He joined a crazy fundamentalist church, Nazarene or something, and decided that we were all possessed by demons."

"He was my Sunday School teacher at the Nazarene Church!"

His face falls.  "Oh...um...I didn't mean..."

"That's ok, I know they're crazy fundamentalists.  I've been trying to get out."

"No, no, I shouldn't have made that crack.  Let me make it up to you.  Come by Lagomarcino's tomorrow, and I'll fix you up with a box of candy.  Your friend, too," he adds, glancing at Aaron.

"Are you working there for the summer?"

"Sort of.  My grandpa owns it."

Moline, July 1st

The Lagomarcinos are one of the wealthiest families in the Quad Cities.  They own several businesses, but they are best known for their landmark candy store in Moline, open since 1908.  It sells ice cream cones and sodas, but mostly you go there for the fancy chocolates. (In 2015, one-pound assortments begin at $24, double the price of one-pound Whitman Samplers).

We arrive about 2:00 pm.  Dino is working behind the counter, wearing a white apron, but still muscular, athletic, alive.

Before I can catch myself, I blurt out: "For someone who makes candy for a living, you have a really nice physique."

Dino smiles.  "Thanks.  I was on the swim team in high school, and I studied karate and boxing."

"Cool!  Aaron and I used to go to the Davenport Athletic Club on Saturday afternoons to..."  I catch myself before saying "to look at the cute guys."

"I worked out there when I was a kid.  Tommy Campbell was the best!"  (See Rock Island Boxers on Boomer Beefcake and Bonding).

"Maybe we saw you..."

"Probably."  He pauses.  "Hey, are you guys doing anything for the 4th?  I'm having some guys over to see the fireworks -- Mom and Dad are in Europe.  Our house is on River Drive [in Davenport],  so you get a really good view from the front porch.  We'll have some barbecue, drink some beers."

Who could turn down an offer like that?

Aaron could.  "Can I bring a date?"

He looks confused.  Does he think we're a gay couple?  Are we a gay couple?

"It's guys only.  We don't want any women messing up our fun, do we?"

Davenport, July 4th

Besides Aaron and me, there are six guys at the party: Dino, two of his high school friends, a cousin, two guys from college (he goes to Washington University in St. Louis), and a balding middle-aged man who introduces himself as Tony.

We all sit on lawn chairs in a back yard surrounded by a high redwood fence.  There are Japanese lanterns and bug-zapping candles.  Dino and his cousin grill steaks for us to eat off paper plates, with fruit salad for dessert (there is no ice cream or candy anywhere in the house).  We talk and joke and drink beer (soda for me).  No one mentions girlfriends or asks me if I would kick this or that actress out of bed.  Heaven!

Is this a gay party?

"It's hot out here!" Dino's cousin exclaims.  "What do we have these clothes on for?"

"Who's up for nude Slip N Slide!" Dino asks.

Slip N Slide is a long strip of plastic that you run a water hose on and slide down.  But I never heard of the nudity angle before!

I get Sausage Sightings of everyone at the party, including Dino (average, cut).

We get a back up when guys don't get up fast enough, and the next person in line slides into them.  Suddenly I'm part of a mass of naked men, laughing and jostling.  Hands grab butts.  Penises press against thighs.

We get dressed again to stand on the front porch and watch the fireworks over the Mississippi.  Emboldened, I wrap my arm around Dino's waist.  He smiles.

Afterwards we say goodnight.  Dino says "Thanks for coming!"

"Are you free tomorrow?  We could...."

He frowns.  "I've got a family thing tomorrow, and then I'm going back to St. Louis -- I just came to town to work the 4th of July weekend, while my folks are in Europe.  But if you get down to Washington U., look me up!"  He gives me his address.

Ever After

I write to Dino at Washington University [in those days long-distance phone calls are prohibitively expensive].  He responds, first with brief notes, and then not at all.

Was Dino gay?  If so, what did I do wrong, to keep him from wanting further contact?  If not, why did he suggest a nude Slip N Slide?  Why did he let me put my arm around him?  What was going on at that party?

As the years pass, I begin to wonder: Was there really a 4th of July party full of men exuberant in their physicality and not at all interested in women?  Did I imagine the whole thing?  

Today Dino is all over the internet: he lives in Davenport, where he manages one of the Lagomarcino's businesses -- not the candy store --plus he's an amateur astronomer, he runs 5K races, and he sponsors the Silver Gloves boxing competitions for boys aged 10 to 13.   His wife teaches at the community college and runs a genealogy blog. One of his sons is an architect.

I could look him up and ask about that night, but I'm afraid of the answer.  I'd rather have my memory.

See also: I Lost It at the Movies; Cruising at the 4th of July Fireworks; and My Sunday School Teacher's Stripper Sons.