The Amish Boy in Red Bikini Underwear

Rural Florida, August 2001

Whenever I tell someone about the rules in my childhood church: no dancing, movies, cards, mixed swimming, eating out on Sunday, secular literature, theaters, circuses, carnivals, jeans, earrings, makeup...they ask "Were you Amish?"

No, but  I have Amish roots.

My biological grandmother, Orpha Maye Young, was descended from an Amish family.  LaGrange County, where she and my biological grandfather lived, has the largest Amish population in the United States.  30% of the county speaks Pennsylvania Dutch (their German dialect).

By the way, many Amish work in factories, not on farms, and some do, in fact, use electricity.

When I was growing up, our visits to Indiana often included Shipshewana, the Amish capital, about 20 miles from Aunt Nora's house in Rome City. On the way we saw the Amish trundling down the country roads in their horse-and-buggies.

Once we arrived, we saw them at the Flea Market, at the Country Store, and on the streets, groups of boys, young unmarried men (without beards), and married men (with beards), all wearing their trademark black woolen hats, long-sleeved homespun shirts, and black pants (fastened with buttons because the Bible doesn't mention zippers).

I have a thing for religious men -- monks, priests, rabbis, imams, seminary students, Mormon missionaries -- and here was a whole tribe of them!

I found them fascinating, strangely erotic in spite of their attempt to appear modest. Or because of it. 

I'm not the only one, judging from the popularity of reality tv programs like Breaking Amish and Amish Mafia,  which seemed designed for the sole purpose of getting Amish men out  of their clothes.

Not to mention fictional tv series like Two Broke Girls, in which the sleazoid pair does their best to corrupt two innocent Amish boys (Jack DePew, Brandon Jones, top photo).

The largest concentrations of Amish in the U.S. are in Ohio, Indiana, and Pennsylvania; they are extremely rare elsewhere.  So I saw none while I was living in California or New York.

But in the summer of 2001, on my way from New York to Florida, I saw some in the most unlikely of places.

 On the I-95 South, just after crossing the Florida-Georgia border, you come to one of those mega-rest stops with gas, a restaurant, a video arcade, a convenience store, showers for truckers, and who knows what else?  I stopped, got gas, and sat down for a lunch of fried chicken, "dirty rice," and french fries.

Suddenly fifty Amish people came trundling in!

Later I found out that there are bus companies that specialize in transporting the Amish from Indiana, Ohio, and Pennsylvania to Sarasota, Florida.  Why wouldn't they want to go on vacation?

A dozen Amish men were heading to the rest room.  I jumped up from my seat and headed there, too.

It was trough-style.

 I took my place between an unmarried young man and a married older man, unzipped, and did my business while surreptitious glancing at my partners.

The older man unbuttoned his pants, pulled up his shirt, and pulled out an impressive-sized member.  No underwear.

The younger guy pulled his rather smaller member from a pair of red bikini briefs.

Red bikini briefs? 

I had to know more about this guy!

A few moments later, I found him standing by his bus, sipping a soda.   "Hi, I don't mean to bother you, but I couldn't help noticing -- you're not wearing the regulation uniform."

He smiled.  "Yah, I got them at Penney's.  I like yours, too."

Apparently he had been sneaking a peek at me while I was sneaking a peek at him!

But I was wearing regular white briefs.  He must be referring to something else....

"Name's Amos.  I'm eighteen in October."

"Boomer. Older than that."

We shook hands.  He had a hard, firm handshake that he held a moment "too long."

Wearing underwear was against Amish policy, especially red underwear., Amos said.  But the elders understood adolescent rebellion: "They don't get too mad if a teenager starts to wear fancy clothes.  Or if he learns to drive a car, or goes to a movie."

"Or goes to a gay bar?"

Amos started to blush red around his ears, and looked the other way.  "Nah, we don't like the gays too much.  God wants you to get wife and children."

He didn't sound very enthusiastic.  That, plus the red underwear -- and checking me out -- he was gay!

The other Amish were starting to lope toward the bus. .I only had a few seconds left.

"There are gay-friendly churches," I said.  "You don't have to choose between gay and God.  Do you go on the internet?"

"Yah.  You think I'm a dope?"

"Search for 'Metropolitan Community Church.'  They're all over."

He grinned.  "Ok, thanks.  I gotta go."  He held out his hand for me to shake again.  This time he squeezed it hard. "Bye, now."

It's been almost exactly 13 years since that day in June.  Amos is 31 years old.  I hope he's out and proud.

I hope our five-minute chat helped.

See also: The Bodybuilder and the Teenage Underwear Thief; and A Glimpse of Supreme Beauty at a Highway Rest Stop

The Naked Baseball Player in My Kitchen

Wilton Manors, August 2003

I hate sports!  Especially playing them:  I could never understand the allure of waiting for a hard round projectile to come zooming out of the sky and hit you in the head.

But also watching them: why watch a bunch of guys who don't even have their shirts off chase a little projectile around?

I had seen only one half of a baseball game in my life, until I was living in Florida, and Yuri started dating one of the Florida Marlins.


They were pro-gay.  They bought ads in gay magazines, and the Fort Lauderdale Gay Men's Chorus sang before the game on AIDS Awareness Day.


But that didn't stop Jim the Baseball Player (not his real name) from being closeted.

Yuri met him online sometime in May 2003.  He always went down to Miami for their dates, so even after three months, I had never met Jim.

But I saw pictures.  Extraordinarily cute, and, according to Yuri, surprisingly gifted beneath the belt.

"You've got to bring Jim up to Wilton Manors," I told Yuri.  It was customary to introduce the boyfriend to the roommates and invite them to 'share.'

 "He doesn't want to come," Yuri said.  "It's a gay neighborhood, and he's afraid that someone will see him and find out that he is gay."

Typical closet case -- worried that armies of heterosexuals are scrutinizing your every move for tell-tale signs of gayness.

I had already given up hope when, one night early in August 2003, I woke up late and had to go to the bathroom.  I had to walk through the kitchen to get there.


There was a naked man peering into the open refrigerator.

I was so awestruck by his physique that it took me a moment to look up at his face: it was Yuri's boyfriend, Jim the Baseball Player!

"Mind if I make myself a sandwich?" he asked.

"Um...um...go ahead.  You must be Jim.  My name's Boomer."

"Oh, sure, Nice to meet you.  Yuri talks about you all the time."

"You, too.  I didn't think he'd ever manage to drag you up to Wilton Manors."

"It's a gay neighborhood -- you can't be too careful.  But we drove up to Boca Raton, and it was so late...I'll be out early tomorrow, before anyone sees me."

He wasn't looking at my face, either.  I looked down...my bathrobe was hanging open.

"So..um...go ahead and make a sandwich.  I have to ask Yuri about something..."

"He's asleep..." I heard as I rushed through the living room and down the hallway to Yuri's room.  It was dark.  I heard Yuri breathing softly.

I leapt onto the bed and shook him.  "Yuri, are you awake?"

"Mmmm...kochu spat."  (I want to sleep.)

"Yuri, you've got to invite me to share your boyfriend!"

His eyes fluttered open.  "Oh, hi, Boomer.  What's going on?"

"Jim is spending the night!  Invite me to share!" I repeated.

"Oh, yeah.  I wanted to invite you, but you were asleep when we came home."

"Well, what about now?"

"Now?"  He glanced over at his clock radio.  "Boomer, it's 3:00 in the morning.  I'm not even into it now.  The next time he comes to Wilton Manors, for sure.  Now let me sleep, ok?"

"Ok, ok, sorry."  I stumbled out into the hallway, used the bathroom, and then returned to the kitchen.  Jim the Naked Baseball Player was sitting at the table, eating his sandwich and drinking a can of soda.

"G'night," I murmured, trying not to stare at his magnificent physique and obvious gifts beneath the belt.

Jim was gone by the time I woke up.

But apparently I made an impression.  A few days later, Yuri brought home tickets to the August 12th game.  "Jim said be sure to bring you, and after the game we will go back to his apartment."  He grinned.  "To spend the night."

By the way, the Marlins beat the Los Angeles Dodgers 5-4.

I'm told -- I fell asleep.

See also: Yuri and the Bodybuilder; Yuri Steals My Boyfriend, Sort Of; and Third Wheel to a Muscle God