The Friend I Didn't Have Sex With

 This month I will have lived in the Straight World for seven years.  Granted, there's a gay-friendly coffee shop with a huge rainbow flag in the window a few blocks away, and every year during Pride Month about half the shops nearby have "Happy Pride" signs up.  But heterosexism, heternormativity, and overt homophobia is commonplace.

  I get asked about "my wife" by nearly everybody I meet.  

You hear homophobic slurs at the mall.  

On campus, out LGBT professors are commonly denied tenure (except in the music and drama departments), and LGBT students are commonly denied admission to some programs, like law enforcement and social work.  

But I expected that.  It's just life among heterosexuals.  

Almost all of the gay men in town are under 30.  As soon as they can afford it, they move to a gay neighborhood in Chicago or Minneapolis (no one chooses West Hollywood anymore).  

I know only one gay male couple over age 30, but I don't socialize with them; they are too deeply immersed in the lives of the ex-wives and kids they had before coming out.

Almost every guy who came to my pre-COVD sex parties was married to a woman, bisexual or on the downlow.

But I expected that, too.  Gay men growing up in the Straight World have two options: conform to social expectations by marrying a woman, or get out. (I got out, but then the necessity of getting a job pushed me back in.)

What I didn't expect about life in the Straight World:

You don't have sex with your friends.  Even your gay friends.  They draw a strict line between friendship and romance.  Ex-boyfriend?  Stay out of my bedroom!  Sharing?  Unheard-of!

In gay neighborhoods, your ex-boyfriends continued to share your bed on occasion, and your friends invited you to "share" their boyfriends on the third or fourth date.  Failing to invite was considered extremely rude, as was refusing the invitation.  

Friends went cruising together and brought home a third person to "share."

At the parties we held almost every week, oral sex was a party favor.

I can only think of one friend in West Hollywood whom I didn't have sex with: Mickey.

Mickey was a short, round chub of indeterminate age, soft and smooth, extremely fragile; you felt like if you hugged him too hard, he would dissolve.  But that would not, in itself, be sufficient cause for refusing to share.

He  latched on to us somehow in 1992 or 1993.  I don't remember how; one day he was just there.  No "coming out" story, no growing up stories, no background at all.  It was as if he was just conjured up out of the dew at that moment.  This was not unusual in West Hollywood: many guys had experienced such trauma in their homophobic small towns that they wanted to forget everything and start afresh.

After a friendship of six or seven months, he vanished.  No goodbye, no note; he just stopped showing up.  This was not unusual in West Hollywood, either: when you moved home or to a new gay neighborhood, you were immersed in a new social circle, and forgot about all but your very closest friends.  

He may have been living in his car; his financial situation was unclear.  But that wouldn't be a cause for refusing to share.  Most jobs, even in gay neighborhoods, required you to stay in the closet; being out often led to poverty.  

 I remember watching our usual Monday night tv lineup (The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, Blossom, Murphy Brown), going out to dinner (he didn't know how a buffet worked, and piled his plate embarrassingly high).  I remember buying comics at the Book Circus, getting Pollo Loco after the gym, Shabbat services at the gay synagogue.  But we never invited him to any party where sex was going on, or to spend the night in our bed.

A few random conversations: cats (liked), baked beans (yuck!), the Holocaust (horrified by), and BDSM (would like to try it). 

So why didn't I offer to tie him up, at least?

Some other conversations:

"I wish I could find a relationship like you guys have, with a lover who was faithful to me, who never even looked at another guy."

"Guys in Weho are such sleazoids!  I met someone at the Gold Coast last night, and he wanted me to go home with him!  Not even a date, just sex.  Disgusting! I'm so glad you guys aren't like that."

During the whole six or seven months of our friendship, Lane and I had to pretend to be monogamous!

Moving to West Hollywood #1: Is It Still There?

June 1985

During my year in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas, all I could think of was escape.  I hated everything about Houston: the endless construction, the ridiculous traffic, the suburban sprawl, the humidity, and especially the rampaging homophobia.  I wanted a place where:
1. I wouldn't have to drive.
2. I wouldn't have to deal with constant homophobia.

That meant a Gay Neighborhood, and I had only heard of five, in San Francisco, Los Angeles, Chicago, New York, and Boston.

How to get to one?  Applying for jobs in publishing or translating never worked; I would have to go to graduate school.

So I applied to Ph.D. programs in
1, Renaissance Studies at Berkeley
2. Comparative Literature at Columbia
3. Comparative Literature at the University of Southern California
4. Romance Languages at Chicago
5. Romance Languages at Harvard.
(I was obsessed with Renaissance Italy that year.)

Only USC admitted me.  That meant moving to West Hollywood!

But I had a question: was it still there?

AIDS was announced to the world in an article in The New York Times in July 1981, but I don't remember hearing anything about it during my senior year at Augustana (1981-82).

During my two years at Indiana University in Bloomington (1982-84), I heard a few homophobes shrieking about a "gay plague!!!!" that was "God's punishment on homos!!!", but homophobes were always shrieking about something, so I ignored them.

It wasn't until  I got to Houston (1984-85) that I heard anything substantive, through the Montrose Voice and pamplets that the AIDS Foundation distributed: AIDS got its start among gay men, and 6,000 of them had died, but it was not a punishment, it was a disease, a virus transmitted through unprotected sex.

So I began using protection, and I gave up activities deemed particularly dangerous.

But what about the millions of gay men who had unprotected sex before they knew, who cruised as a form of recreation in gay ghettos, where thousands of partners were available?   Maybe the gay ghettos were deserted, the residents all dead or dying.

Was West Hollywood still there?

When classes ended, I packed my car and drove the 1000 miles from Houston to Rock Island without stopping.  I spent the next month watching tv, walking the dogs, lifting weights, and visiting friends.  None of them were sick.

My friend Tom, who I visited in Los Angeles in 1980 (top), offered to let me stay with him in Van Nuys while I looked for an apartment.  Dick, the former bully who I met at a gay bar (left), offered to drive along as far as Denver.

We left on June 28th, 1985, the anniversary of the Stonewall Riots.

Next: Moving to West Hollywood #2.

Moving to West Hollywood #2: The Move

June 1985

After spending a year in Hell-fer-Sartain, I managed to escape by being admitted to the graduate program in Comparative Literature at USC: so I would be moving to West Hollywood.  My friend Tom, who I visited in Los Angeles in 1980, offered to let me stay with him in Van Nuys while I looked for an apartment.  Dick, the former bully who I met at a gay bar, offered to drive along as far as Denver.

But I was worried.

I heard so much about AIDS decimating gay communities. Maybe West Hollywood was a ghost town, its residents all dead and dying.

Was it still there?

On June 28th, the anniversary of the Stonewall Riots, we left Rock Island.





We spent the night in Omaha, with Thomas, the priest with three boyfriends.  He had only one now, and they didn't invite us to "join them."

June 29th: To Denver.  We stayed with Dick's straight, married cousin.

June 30th:  We went to church at the gay MCC of the Rockies, on Evans Street (they've moved; the building is now a gym).  It was packed.  But of course a church would be packed during an epidemic.

Afterward we went out to lunch with some guys we met, and to a beer bust at the Denver Eagle, a leather bar.  It was packed, too, wall-to-wall denim and muscle.  But there was not a lot of cruising going on, and everyone looked rather subdued and worried.

July 1st: Fishing with Dick's cousin (I liked to use fishing as bait to meet cute guys), then back to the Denver Eagle.  Not packed on a Monday night, but a muscle bear invited us back to his house  (safe activities only). He told us that Colorado hadn't been hit hard by AIDS; there were only about 100 cases.

It was the gay ghettos that were turning into ghost towns.

July 2nd:  Dick was staying in Denver to look for a job, so I was on my own.  On the way through Utah, I stopped at the Delano Inn where I met the Mormon missionary during my trip back from Los Angeles in 1980.  He wasn't there.  A casualty, I wondered?

 I drove on to Las Vegas, and went to a casino and a drag show.  They were having an AIDS benefit.  It was packed.

Michael, a cute guy my age, escaped to West Hollywood from Montana two years ago, only to flee to Las Vegas.

"Most of the guys here are refugees," he said.  "They can't stay in West Hollywood anymore, with all of their friends dying."  I remembered the courtiers who fled plague-stricken Florence in Boccaccio's Decameron, and sat around telling stories.

"Is it still there?" I asked.  "Or is it a ghost town?"

"It's nothing like what it was.  People are dying."

Michael invited me back to his apartment, but only to cuddle.  He planned to be celibate until they found a cure.

July 3rd: I left at 9:00 am, and by noon I was over the mountains, zooming through the sprawl of Pasadena and East L.A..  I should have kept going, into the San Fernando Valley to Van Nuys, where Tom lived.  But I wanted to take a detour into West Hollywood first.

I wanted to see if Michael was right.  If it was a ghost town.

I got off the freeway and drove down Santa Monica Boulevard to La Brea, the border of West Hollywood. It looked grim and industrial, with parking lots and nondescript, windowless buildings.  No one on the street.

 Like a post-Apocalyptic America.

At La Cienega, Santa Monica Boulevard veered left.  The first thing I saw was AIDS prevention poster starring Zelda Rubenstein of Poltergeist.  

Then a huge gym, with musclemen churning on exercise bikes.

Two guys in tank tops buying cookies at an outdoor Mrs. Fields.

A guy walking out of the Different Light Bookstore carrying a gay magazine.

A banner advertising an AIDS Benefit at the Rage

Male couples sitting al fresco under the awnings at The Cafe Etoile

Gay men shopping, eating, working out, buying groceries and books, coming home from work, dozens of them, hundreds.  West Hollywood was still alive, still vibrant.

I was home.

See also: Moving to West Hollywood #1.

Fondling the Biggest Schlong in Hollywood

Hi, Boomer,

In one of your stories, you said "I don't think 1930s film legend Jackie Coogan would tell his 12-year old grandson Keith Coogan, about the hookups of his youth."

Well, my Grandpa Sammy told me all about his hookups!  He was born in 1922, but didn't come out until 1990, when his wife, my Grandma Lonny, died.  After that, there was no stopping him -- he moved to Palm Springs, cruised in leather bars, went to bear parties, joined Gay and Grey clubs --  nonstop schmoozing and screwing.  And whenever my boyfriend and I drove up from West Hollywood to visit, he told us the raunchiest stories about his youth.







Here's one about Milton Berle's penis.

[Comedian Milton Berle (1908-2002) was famous for two things:

1. Being the host of Texaco Star Theater, an early comedy-variety tv show (1948-1956)  that everybody watched -- it was single-handedly responsible for selling 300,000 tv sets.

2. Having the biggest penis in Hollywood.  It was so famous, it was even mentioned at his funeral.]

The Catskills, June 1939

In the summer of 1939, Sammy was a high school student in Queens.  Like many Jewish boys from the City, he worked summers in the Borscht Belt, the resorts of Sullivan Count, New York.  He was an all-around athlete and a state tennis champ, so he landed a job as a tennis instructor and life guard at Grossinger's, the biggest and most elegant of the resorts:

 35 buildings, indoor and outdoor pools, three restaurants, big name acts like Glenn Miller and George Burns.

And Milton Berle, the 30-year old comedian who had been playing the Borscht Belt since he was 15, plus appearing on the radio and in movies like Radio City Revels.  He had a standup comedy act involving nonstop patter, joke after joke that had the audience rolling in the aisles.  When they weren't gazing at him with that vacation-enhanced horniness -- he was goodlooking, well-built -- he filled out a swimsuit beautifully

Berle always had a girl or two on his arm, but Sammy still hoped he was queer, or at least open to late-night blow-jobs from his buddies.  He cozied up to him, tried to drop subtle hints, but Berle got the wrong idea:

"There's plenty of skirts up here in the Catskills, Sammy, if you don't mind them a little on the plus side of 30.  These dames have been dreaming of romance with the lifeguards all winter.  With a little finesse, you can get an invite into a different bed every day."

Sammy had no interest in skirts on either side of 30, but, he figured, there must be plenty of swell fellas in the Catskills, too.  Soon he had a profitable business, letting aging queens go down on him for $1 a pop.  He could do it three times a day (taking Shabbat off), and make $18 per week.  His regular job only paid $20!

No doubt the registrar at CUNY never realized that Sammy's tuition was paid with blow jobs.

Sammy served in Italy during the War, finished college, and went to work as an civil engineer. In 1947 he married a Catholic girl named Lonny, hoping that marriage would "cure" him of being queer.  As it turns out, Lonny was rather adventurous, and had no problem with his proclivities -- as long as there was no "setting up housekeeping," he was free to schmooze and screw all he liked.  Sometimes he even brought home tricks for them to "share."

Las Vegas, July 1971

As the years passed, Sammy saw Milton Berle on The Texaco Star Theater,  and then doing guest spots on Dick Powell, F Troop, I Dream of Jeannie, Red Skelton, Jackie Gleason, Batman (my Dad was a big fan).  He heard the stuff about Berle's schlong.  Enormous!  Gigantic!  Phil Silvers saw it at the urinal and said "You'd better feed that thing, or it's liable to turn on you."  Alan Zweibel got a look when Berle guest-starred on Saturday Night Live -- "an anaconda...a pepperoni."

He was upset that he never got a chance to see it during the summer of 1939 -- or better yet, feel it.  Or better yet, go down on it.

In the summer of 1971, he saw that Berle was headlining at Caesar's Palace, so as a special 25th-anniversary present, he surprised Lonny with a trip to Las Vegas.

The 63 year old Berle wasn't quite as handsome as he used to be -- but who among us is?  But he remembered Sammy from Grossinger's all those years ago, and invited him back to his suite for a drink.

"You ever take my advice, and go door to door banging the Geritol chicks?" Berle asked.

"No, no -- turns out I'm a one woman man," Sammy said.  "I don't think I'm big enough to satisfy a multitude anyway.  Not like you....hey, do you think I could get a peek?"

Berle shrugged and pulled it out of his pants.  About 5" soft, and thick around.

"Hmm....not too bad. But I've seen bigger."

"On who, King Kong?  You'll never see a bigger one, I guarantee."

"Well, maybe it's big.  My eyes aren't so good these days.  They play tricks.  Do you mind if I feel it?"

Berle hesitated.  "I don't get offers to do that, except from fairies.  You're not a fairy, are you?"

"Like I told you, I'm a one-woman man."

"Ok...I guess you could take a grope.  You're sure you're not a fairy? I don't want a fairy touching me there."

Sammy began to get angry.  What happened to live and let live?  Hadn't Berle ever heard of Gay Liberation?  But he said "I swear I'm not a fairy" and wrapped his hand around the shaft.  He jerked a couple of times.

"You know, my hands aren't so sensitive anymore.  Better I should taste it."  Before Berle had a chance to answer, he leaned down and ran his tongue over Berle's head.

"Ok, that's enough," Berle said, pushing him away.  "Bigger than you thought, huh?"

"Not bad.  Well, I should be going."  Sammy stood and walked out of the room, but turned back and said "I had one boyfriend who was bigger.  You should try it with a black guy sometime."

Berle's eyes widened as he realized that he had just been fondled and licked by a gay man.

Was Grandpa Sammy Telling the Truth?

 Berle was apparently quite homophobic, even more than usual for men of his age.  In 1999, a real estate company ran an old photo of Uncle Miltie in drag, with the caption that every queen needs a castle, and he promptly sued, reasoning that someone might see the ad and think he was gay.  At the age of 91.

His "private joke file" contains a lot of homophobic jokes:

What do you call a gay dentist?  A tooth fairy.

I'm not sure he would allow a same-sex fondle, even with a guy who he thought was straight

See also: Milton Berle: Television's First Drag Queen

Three Eddie Mekka Hookup Stories

In the 1970s I had a big crush on Carmine Ragusa on Laverne and Shirley (right): he was short, broad-chested, and beautiful. And gay-coded: Shirley's platonic pal, variously working as a singer, dancer, hustler, and boy toy.  Surely, I thought, actor Eddie Mekka was gay in real life.

When I moved to West Hollywood in 1985, I expected to meet Eddie, or at least see him at bars, the gay gym, and the various gay events, but he never showed up anywhere.

I expected to meet guys who had dated or tricked with him, but he's only appeared occasionally as an aside fleshing out a story about someone else:

In a story about Scott Baio:  his first sexual experience was with Eddie Mekka when they were both starring in Blansky's Beauties (1977)

In a story about Sylvester Stallone:  he got a blow job from Eddie Mekka on the set of Tango and Cash, with the homophobic Kurt Russell nearby (1989).

In a story about David Yost: he accepted a date with Eddie Mekka in the early 1990s, but backed out when he heard that Eddie was married.

Now, in 2017, I have a lot more friends and friends of friends with ties to Hollywood and Broadway, so I sent out email requests to everyone I could think of, and ended up with a few Mekka-centric stories.

1. Eddie, Cesar Romero, and Scott Baio

Fall 1980

During his years on Laverne and Shirley, Eddie Mekka stayed in the limelight by accepting all the celebrity guest shots his agent offered him: The Love Boat, Fantasy Island, Circus of the Stars, miscellaneous talk shows.  And he nurtured sexual relationships with older stars, who could ease his way once he stopped playing the Big Ragoo.  Like 1940s Latin lover and 1960s Batman villain Cesar Romero.  He didn't find the 73-year old attractive, but most likely he would just want to give Eddie a blow job -- no big deal!

He got Cesar's number from Penny Marshall (Laverne) and asked him out to lunch, with the implication that sex would follow, and then casting-couch favors.  But Cesar said "Can you arrange to bring along that little hottie from Happy Days?  The one with the package?"

"Ron Howard?  Sure...I mean, I can ask."

"No, that little Chachi [18-year old Scott Baio]."

Eddie blanched.  Scott was his first and only real boyfriend -- he preferred the ladies for romance -- and the breakup had not been pleasant.  But he agreed, and as it turned out, Scott was also touring the bedrooms of Hollywood's elder statesmen.

To his surprise, Cesar wanted more than oral -- the former heartthrob was Greek active, still able to get it up, and enormous.  He topped Scott, but Eddie refused, and had little to do but stand there naked, looking pretty.  No casting favors resulted.












2. Eddie and the "Weird Science" Guy

Fall 1995

Everybody in West Hollywood watched Weird Science (1994-98), the sitcom about two teenagers who build a virtual-reality girl.  It was quite heterosexist, but beefcake-heavy: the stars were both very muscular, and often half-naked.  Plus Michael Manasseri (left) was gay.

In the episode "Men in Tights," which aired on January 13th, 1996, a misfired spell transforms the boys into professional wrestlers, and have to fight a seasoned wrestler called Der Blitzkrieg.  Eddie Mekka played fight promoter Tommy Svachino.

Like many gay boys, Michael had a crush on Carmine Ragusa in the 1970s and 1980s. Nearly 20 years later, Eddie was balding and going a little to fat, but still hot.  Michael went out of his way to welcome the celebrity guest star, introducing him to his current boyfriend Tutor, bringing him a Danish, even bringing him a script change personally in his dressing room.

"Tutor seems nice," Eddie said.  "I don't know what gay guys look for in romance, but he looks like he's got it all."

"Same as straights, mostly." Michael said, casually stroking Eddie's shoulder.  "Someone with an interesting personality, a good heart, and a dazzling smile."

"Is that it?  What about a gigantic cock?" Eddie asked, cupping his own impressive basket.

"That's about something else altogether...."  Michael could take a hint.  He fondled Eddie's basket, then pulled out his cock -- 6.5", cut -- and went down on him.  Eddie closed his eyes and kept silent.

Michael worked for a long time, with few signals from Eddie.  He started alternating masturbating and sucking, then masturbating while darting his tongue around the head.  That got Eddie aroused -- after awhile he spurted wordlessly into Michael's face.

They didn't exchange phone numbers, and didn't see each other again.  Yes,  Michael and Tutor had an open relationship.


3. Eddie and the Hustler

Spring 2013

The homey small-town West Hollywood that Boomer knew is gone. Now it's all glitzy storefronts and partyboys in cages, out of towners driving in for a weekend of drinking, drugs, and sex.  Ghosts of long-dead or soon-to-be-dead partiers trudge along Santa Monica, begging for coke or cash or a blow job. Strangers are not your friends: they all carry guns.  Stay away from alleys,  Sunset Boulevard, and West Hollywood Park.

Winch came to Hollywood to be an actor five years ago.  In all those days and weeks and months, he had landed one modeling job.  He shared a terrible apartment with three other guys and their tricks du jour and spent his days at the gym, the bars, and the sex parties.  He kept up a steady supply of Coco Puffs, Ecstasy, and lube mostly through sex work: a cage boy at Mickey's; a stripper at gay parties; a hustler with discrete "generous" ads on craigslist.

One night an older guy answered his craigslist ad and promised to be "generous," so Winch invited him over.  He was in his 50s, short and rather chunky, with a flat face and gray frizzy hair.

"Yeah, you got me," he said.  "I'm the Big Ragoo."

Winch didn't know what that meant -- maybe this guy had been the mascot for Ragu Spaghetti Sauce in his past life -- but he buttered him up a bit.  "Oh,  I recognize you!  You were great back in the day!  What have you been doing lately?"

"Fiddler on the Roof  -- I play Tevye.  You know, 'Sunrise, sunset, swiftly flow the years'?  Oh, and I directed an episode of The Suite Life of Zack and Cody."

Winch had heard of that!  "Do you know Cole and Dylan?  Are they gay?"

The Big Ragoo grinned.  "Everybody's gay after they get a few beers in them."

Usually hustlers get blown, but the Big Ragoo wanted Winch to blow him.  About 7" and thick, but it took forever -- he had to masturbate while Winch licked his balls to finally finish.  Then he wiped off, paid, and left, and Winch got on his smartphone to try to find out who the heck the Big Ragoo was.










Are any of these stories true? 

That is, not an exaggeration or a pure fantasy?

Eddie has about the same physical traits and sexual interests in all three stories, but there's a problem with #1: I knew Cesar Romero in the 1980s, and he never mentioned sex with Eddie Mekka (although he did watch his friend Jason top Scott).  Plus he was only into oral.  Plus how was he going to help their careers?

#2 seems more likely, except that I've never heard any other dating/hookup stories about Michael Manasseri.

#3 seems the most realistic: Winch, who was born years after Laverne and Shirley, wouldn't catch the reference to the Big Ragoo.  A closeted actor may well seek out a hustler.  And it's more contemporary, not colored by nostalgia or faulty memory.

See also: Earle has public sex with Matt Dillon; Laverne and Shirley

The Surprise in Comic Book Guy's Bedroom

Wilton Manors, April 2004

I like lost souls: shy, uncertain, newly-out.  I like to draw them out of their shell, show them the sights and sounds of the gay community, find the jewel in the rough.

Of course, sometimes it backfires, like with the Ugly Guy Makeover.  And Comic Book Guy.

I met him through a mutual friend in April 2004, a couple of weeks after the Worst Date in Florida History.  He did not look like Comic Book Guy from The Simpsons -- he was in his 30s, a little taller than me, with an athletic build, a hairy chest, wavy red hair, and a beard that for some reason got shaved off between our first and second dates.

Definitely a lost soul -- cute, but with passions guaranteed to turn off the horniest Cute Young Thing at the Manor.

1. Family.  Comic Book Guy was an an actual Florida native -- he had parents, brothers, sisters, cousins, nephews, nieces, and a 100-year old grandmother, all within a 20-mile drive.  In fact, 50% of his conversation involved an upcoming birthday party, graduation, recital, play, or something for some relative.

2. The other 50% of his conversation involved comic books: sizes, shapes, fine vs. near fine, the penciling styles of obscure artists, plot inconsistencies, anachronisms, crossovers.

 I read a few comic book titles -- some Ducks, an occasional Archie -- but I hadn't paid attention to the Marvel and DC multiverses for years.  It was...complex.  Infinite Earths, the Death of Batman, the rebirth of the Silver Surfer, The Avengers, the Justice League, crossovers, reboots...my head was spinning.

 Naturally, I accepted his invitation to the premiere of The Punisher, although I had never heard of the character.

Date #1:  The Punisher, then Chinese take out and back to his apartment in Oakland Park.

Comic Book Guy showed me his collection of comic books and memorabilia, including the letter he received from Stan Lee of Marvel as a teenager, when he complained about a storyline with the Hulk being nearly raped by two flamboyant gay stereotypes.  The notoriously homophobic Lee laughed it off.

We sat on the couch and listened to music -- yes, they were torch songs -- and kissed and groped.

Then abruptly, Comic Book Guy stood.  "Well, it's late.  Thanks for a nice evening.  G'night."  He practically pushed me out the door.

I gaped in surprise.  In Florida, you always engaged in physical intimacies on the first date. Occasionally a guy might want to "take it slow," but that required an apology, an explanation, and no kissing and groping. 

So I chalked Comic Book Guy down as "not interested."  But he called me the next day and asked me out again.

"Maybe his lover is out of town," my housemate Barney told me.  "He's waiting for him to get back, so you can 'share.'"

"No -- he wouldn't be kissing and groping me if he was waiting for a lover to come back."

"Maybe he didn't clean his bedroom," Yuri suggested.

"Well-- maybe.  But the rest of his house was spotless."

Date #2:  Indian food, followed by dancing at the Manor, then back to his apartment for more torch songs.  More kissing and groping.  I started undressing Comic Book Guy on the couch, but he moved my hand away. "Well, it's late.  Thanks for a nice evening.  G'night."

Wait -- you definitely always had physical intimacies on the second date.  I couldn't even think of an excuse not to.

"All I can think of," Barney said, "Is that he's a pre-op transsexual who doesn't want you to know that he's still got a vagina." (The term transgender was not yet common.)

"Hmm -- wouldn't you discuss that before the first date?"

"You should, of course.  But sometimes people don't."

Date #3:  Looking at cute guys at the beach, followed by a visit to a comic book store, an antique shop to find a gift for his brother's birthday, and dinner at the Greek Islands Taverna.

"I met a transsexual guy the other day," I told Comic Book Guy.  "Born female.  He was taking hormones to lower his voice, but he still had his female sex organs.  Very nice guy, very hot."

"I don't get transsexuals," he said.  "I mean, it's ok if that's your thing, but I'm a man who's into men."

Ok, not transgender.  Then why was he keeping me out of his bedroom?

Back to his apartment to watch The X-Men on DVD.  More kissing and groping!

It was time to push the issue.

"I'm too tired to drive all the way home," I said.  "I'd better spend the night."

Comic Book Guy looked doubtful.  "Well...I can set you up on the couch."

"Come on -- this is our third date.  You definitely, always, absolutely get into the bedroom by the third date.  Isn't it about time?"

"Well--ok.  Let's go."

He took me into his bedroom.  It was spotless.  But the air conditioner was booming at full force.  It must have been 50 degrees.

"I like it cold to sleep," he explained.  Then he turned on a cd player full of torch songs.

"Cold and noisy?" I asked.

"I can't sleep without music playing."

"Great -- always a good idea to get depressed before you drift off to sleep."

Then he turned off all of the lights.  With his room heavily curtained, it was black.  I could see nothing at all.

I hate utter darkness!  It makes me think that I'm blind!

"Um..couldn't we have a night light? What if I need to go to the bathroom?"

"Oh, no, I can't sleep unless the room is completely dark!"

"This is definitely not going to work!", I thought.

I could hear him taking off his clothes in the darkness.  Then he was taking off my clothes.  I hugged him -- more for warmth than for affection -- and we fell onto the bed.  He drew a thin sheet over us.

"Would you please turn down the air conditioner?  I'm freezing!"

"No -- I can't sleep with it hot."


"Then turn off the music!  It's depressing!"

"No -- I can't sleep without it."

"Well, can you at least turn on a light so I can see you?"

"No -- I like the dark."

I might as well make the best of it.  Sighing, I pulled down his shorts and reached for..

Something tiny.  Microscopic.  The smallest I have ever seen -- or rather, felt.

That was our last date.

I feel bad: Comic Book Guy probably thinks I dropped him because his size was inadequate.

No, it was because of his cold, dark, noisy room.

But wait a minute -- he never called me back.

Maybe my size was inadequate for him!

See also: The One Time a Guy Has Criticized My Size; The Darkroom Bait and Switch.