Fred and the Icelandic Photographer

New York, August 2000

"Boomer, guess what!" Fred said breathlessly, in those days before texting overtook the telephone.  "I got a new job, in Bemidji, Minnesota!"

Last I heard, my ex-boyfriend Fred and his partner Jester -- a blind guy who taught high school history -- were in Sandusky, Ohio, where Fred was working as an assistant pastor at a congregational church. Granted, a step down for someone with a doctorate in theology and ten years of pastoral experience, but Sandusky was a gay resort town.

What in the world were they doing in Bemidji, Minnesota?

Population 14,000.  Near nowhere at all (3 1/2 hours to Minneapolis, 4 1/2 hours to Winnipeg).

Famous for nothing in particular except a statue of Paul Bunyan, which isn't all that impressive.

One mixed bar, a campus gay organization, and that's it.

What else?  A job.

"I'm Protestant chaplain and director of Religious Life at Bemidji State University!"

Granted, a step up, but Bemidji, Minnesota?  Farther from the gay world than even Fresno.  What did Jester say?

"He's on board with it," Fred said curtly.   He never discussed his relationships unless forced, and then only briefly, the product of years of being closeted at work.

I was very busy during my last year in grad school, working two jobs, finishing my doctoral dissertation, and applying for every job in a gay neighborhood I could find, so I didn't contact Fred much.  Then in the spring I saw an ad for a job at Bemidji State University!

It might not be so bad.  Fred, Jester and I could start a gay political group, or maybe a weekly bear party like the one on Long Island.  And Minneapolis was close enough for weekend trips.

So in April I flew out for the interview.




Bemidji, Minnesota, April 2001

I soon discovered that the department were just inviting me so they could congratulate themselves on being so liberal.  They would never hire someone who researched gay topics, or as one interviewer called it, "sex education."

After dinner on Thursday night, they dropped me off at my hotel, and Fred picked me up for dessert at Rudy's, followed by cruising at the mixed bar.

Sitting beside him in his car was not Jester, but a Cute Young Thing I had never seen or heard of before.

He was  tall and skinny, with shoulder-length hair, a moustache, and a hard smooth chest.  There was a map of Iceland tattoo on his arm.

He introduced himself as Stefan, from Iceland, an art major at Bemidji State.

Where was Jester?  

"Oh, Jester is back in San Bernardino," Fred said dismissively.  "He came out for a couple of months, but then decided to go home."

"I can understand that.  It's hard for blind people to adapt to new environments, and I'll bet teaching credentials don't transfer from state to state.  He'd have to go back to school in order to teach here, right?"

"No, he just didn't like the cold weather," Fred said.

"And he missed the California beach boys," Stefan said in fluent English, with a little lilt in his voice.  "Never anything on his mind but sex, sex, sex, all day and all night!"

That didn't sound like Jester.  Time to change the subject.  "I love Iceland!  I visited when I was in college.  Reykjavik is beautiful."

"Reykjavik is too big and noisy.  Gritty.  Have you ever been to Akureyri?  It's still quiet, no tourists.  You can hear yourself think."

"Um...no.  I've just been to Rekjavik, and to a hot springs about an hour away."

"If you have been to Iceland," Stefan continued, "You must learn the Icelandic language.  It is the most pure of languages, unchanged since the days of the sagas.  No modern influences.  Ég vil sjá hala þínum, I want to see your penis."

Ruby's was an old-fashioned ice cream parlor that served tin roofs, black cows, and phosphates.  Stefan talked about the Old Icelandic sagas and the travels of Norse kings.  He was actually sort of interesting.  But he wouldn't eat anything -- "I don't want to turn into a fattie, like the Americans."

"Where have you been in the U.S. besides Bemidji?" I asked.

"Minneapolis, and a few days in New York."

"I live in New York.  Great, isn't it?"

"What a dump!" Stefan spat.  "It smells like a garbage can, and the people do nothing all day but watch the television.  How can you live in such a place?"

Ugh.  Stefan was as elitist as Fred's ex-boyfriend Matt.  I hate elitists, but apparently Fred couldn't get enough of them!

The mixed gay-straight bar was dark and rather seedy, with scary-looking guys propping up beer bottles like phalluses.

"Trolls!"  Stefan exclaimed.  "In Iceland, trolls are big, clumsy fellows who eat people.  Here they are just ugly and smell of armpits.  But we will dance, Boomer, ok?  Fred won't dance with me."

There was no one dancing.  "No, thanks," I said.

"Americans are so in the closet!  No one will shoot us if we just dance together!"

But I continued to refuse, and Stefan sat pouting for awhile, silent as Fred and I caught up on old friends, except for an occasional rude interjection:

"Lane just lives on his mother's money?  Is he handicapped?  In Iceland everyone must work."  

I didn't really feel like sharing this elitist jerk, but it had been about two years since I was in Fred's bed, so I consented to go back to his apartment.  The moment we came through the door, Stefan ran to the bathroom -- "I can't use the sickening, dirty bathroom at the bar!"

Fred nudged me.  "Isn't he great?  So cosmopolitan!  We'll be together for the rest of our lives, I guarantee.  I've never met anyone like him before!"


"Really?"  He seemed exactly like Matt, in his Cute Young Thing days, before he turned down the sarcasm and started trying to be friendly.  "Stefan doesn't remind you of any of your old boyfriends?"

"Um...no one comes to mind.  Well, he does remind me of Jester in one way."

"His interest in history?"

"No."  He grinned.  "Something else."

"So, are we ready for the sharing?"  Stefan walked out of the bathroom, already naked, a Kovbasa++ just as big as Jester's swinging between his legs.

I stared.

"Don't just look.  Who wants to go down on me first?"

You're probably wondering about the mechanics of going down on a guy with 11".  It works best with two guys, one working on the head and the other working on the shaft.  Unfortunately, Fred was a top, and not really into giving oral, so I had to handle the entire job.  Not that I minded.

After that night, Fred never mentioned Stefan again.  No doubt they broke up.  His job at Bemidji didn't last long, either.

See also: The Naked Nordic God of the Icelandic Hotsprings; The Tacher with Sixteen Inches

The Slave Boy of Castro Street

San Francisco, October 1996

The Castro and South of Market may have been Gay Heaven, but the rest of San Francisco was not.

You might see an occasional hand-holding gay couple or rainbow flag, but mostly you were deluged by heterosexual power-couples and cooing Moms and Pops on holiday.

Some neighborhoods were quite homophobic  I have had slurs yelled out of passing cars at me only five times in my life: once in Maine, once in Texas, and three times in San Francisco.

So most gay people in San Francisco wanted to move to the Castro.

It was tough. There were no apartment buildings, just Victorian houses chopped up into apartments with rents averaging $4000 per month, that came available only when someone died.

And the competition was fierce.  Once I looked at a one-room basement apartment, with an impossibly low ceiling and glazed windows that wouldn't open.  Unliveable!  But not to the dozen people inside frantically filling out applications!

I was living in a cramped third-floor walk-up, over a hardware store, down the street from a liquor store, and within a few block's walk of seven Baptist churches, a Pentecostal church, and the United House of Prayer for All People.

It was nearly as homophobic as Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas.

But only a mile from the Castro!

Late in September 1996, I had the opportunity to move closer.

There were no bath houses or saunas in San Francisco; they had all been closed down by Public Health.  But there was a weekly Bear Party (for big, hairy, husky guys) held at a private house South of Market.  Upstairs there was socializing and snacks; downstairs, a maze, a dark room, a dungeon, and a room full of mattresses for erotic activity.

The highlight of the party was the Slave Boy, a different guy each week tied to a St. Andrew's cross, naked, his mouth held open by a metal stirrup.  He stayed there all evening, available to be used for erotic activity by anyone who passed by.

Beside him was a box of erotic toys: whips, paddles, clothespins, a violet wand, and so on.

Some party guests became quite busy trying out the various toys, but I was usually content to just watch.  Until one night when the Slave Boy was particularly attractive: short, dark-skinned, and muscular.  Near the end of the party, I approached, took off the stirrup, and kissed him.

And kept kissing him.

When I pulled away, he pulled me back in.


After about ten minutes, he whispered "Would Sir like to come home with me tonight?  My name is Oliver."

A hookup with a slave boy?  "Aren't you too tired by now?"

"Oh, no, Sir, I'm always ready."  We kissed for awhile longer.  "I'll ask my Sir, ok?"

So I hung around until a muscle bear named Rick and another guy in a slave collar arrived to untie Oliver.  They had a brief conversation, and Rick motioned me over.

"My Boy would like you to share his bed tonight.  Are you interested?"

"If it's ok with you, Sir."

"Fine, fine. Boy's been very good tonight, and he deserves a reward."  He pushed the still-naked Oliver toward me.  "But no pain, ok?"

We were so busy kissing in the backseat that I wasn't paying attention to where we were going until we arrived.

It was a narrow Victorian on Eureka at 19th, in the heart of the Castro!

Rick led us into a parlor with hardwood floors and parquet ceilings, furnished all in black leather and glass.  A naked guy who had been watching tv sprang up to take our coats.

"Gene, look at the present Sir got me for being good!" Oliver exclaimed.  "I can't wait to unwrap him."

"Would Sir like a beer or a soda?" Gene asked.  "Or me?" he added with a leer.

"No, thanks.  I think I'd just like to go to bed."

Oliver grinned, took my hand, and led me upstairs to a beautiful bedroom with a four-poster bed and an antique mahogany dresser.  There was a copy of The Short Stories of O. Henry on the nightstand.

"Nice room,"  I said.  "You slaves got it made."

"This is the guest room.  I sleep in the slave quarters with Gene and Mike, when I'm not in Sir's bed."  He put his arms around me.  "Would Sir like to undress while I take a shower?"

I had never met a 24/7 Slave before, and I was interested in how it worked.  Oliver told me that all of the slaves had jobs, but they signed their paychecks over to Sir, who gave them a weekly allowance and put some money into their savings accounts. They could have their own friends and outside activities, even hookups, with Sir's permission.  They were always on call -- even if they were performing an appendectomy, when Sir called, they dropped everything and rushed home.

"What if Sir is abusive?"  I asked "What if he orders you to do something dangerous?"

"Sir always respects my limits!" Oliver exclaimed, offended.  "But if he did something to hurt me...it would be a tough decision, but the relationship might have to end."

I envied Oliver-- he could walk one block to the MCC.
Two blocks to Almost Home and the Oyster Bar.
Three blocks to the Midnight Sun, the gay Walgreens, and the Different Light.
Four blocks to Thai Thai, Marcello's Pizza, Twin Peaks, and Orphan Andy's.
Nothing but gay people for five blocks in any direction!

"It almost sounds worth it, just to live in the Castro!"

"You think so?"

In the morning, we went downstairs to a flurry of activity as Gene flipped pancakes (while nude), Mike made coffee (while nude), and Rick put on a business suit to go to work.

"Did you enjoy yourself last night?" he asked.

"Yes, Sir!  Boomer is very hot -- not nearly as hot as Sir, of course.  And...he told me he was interested in becoming your new boy!"

I blanched. "What?  No...I..."

Rick turned to me.  "Have you had any experience, Boy?"

"No..." I stammered.  "I just said..."

"It's not S&M, you know., although some slaves need that.  It's total domination -- I control everything about your life, even what you have for lunch.  That's a big commitment, for both of us.

"I know.  Oliver has been telling me about it."

"We'd have to try it out for a couple of weeks, before signing the contract."

A couple of weeks...in a beautiful Victorian on Eureka, in the heart of the Castro?  In the center of the gay universe?  In gay heaven?

It wasn't worth it.

But I did get to spend the night with Oliver again, the next time he was the Bear Party's Slave Boy.

See also: My Date with Santa Claus.

Who Topped Me in Barcelona: The Catalan Muscle Bear or the Chinese Twink?

This story is about my second experience as Greek passive (an anal bottom).  Can you guess who it was with?

Left: Guillem, a Catalan muscle bear in his 40s, with a Kielbasa beneath the belt.
Right; Ramon, a twink of Chinese ancestry, in his 20s, rather on the small side.

My first anal experience was with Fred, my first boyfriend, while in college.  And then rarely. if ever.  In West Hollywood, Greek was associated with people dying of AIDS, so even with a condom we rarely considered it.

Between 1985 and 1997, I was Greek passive for only 3 guys, and Greek active for 2.

Guillem or Ramon?  Read the whole story before trying to guess.

Barcelona, Summer 1994

Lane and I planned to spend only two days in Barcelona, but we ended up spending a week.  It turned out to be our favorite city in Spain, and probably in Europe.

Les Rambles, the pedestrian mall in the center of the old city
Sagrada Familia, the unfinished Gaudi church
The Picasso Museum
The best gym with day rates in Europe.

The Catalan language, obviously Romance yet pleasantly distinct from Spanish, French, and Italian.

Spanish: Quisiera tragar su salchicha
Catalan: Vull empassar la seva salsitxa

And Sauna Condal, three floors of saunas, steam rooms, mazes, dark rooms, and glory hole rooms.  We went twice, the second time on Bear Night, when it was crowded with tall, hairy-chested muscle bears, silver daddies, and Catalan chubbies.

Suddenly I saw an Asian guy sitting alone in the video room: in his 20s, short and slim, with a smooth chest, his penis covered with a towel. I guessed that he was of Chinese ancestry.

Wow!  I hadn't even seen an Asian guy since we arrived in Europe two weeks ago, except once at a Chinese restaurant in Madrid.  I figured he was a tourist from the U.S. or France, which had a larger Chinese population.  Or maybe even from China.

I knew all about cruising Asian guys, from many nights at Mugi in Hollywood.

I approached, sat next to him, and tried out my minimal Mandarin: "Ni hau bu hau?"


He glared at me and said something in Catalan that I didn't understand.  So he was a native Spaniard!

"Lo siento?"

He switched to a slow, careful Spanish.  "You were speaking Mandarin.  My grandparents speak Wu, not Mandarin.  They say Nung hau, not Ni hau, or better, Ve'tich va, which means 'have you eaten?"

A linguist!  Just my type!  "Me llama Boomer, de Toronto." [I always claimed to be Canadian while overseas to avoid getting yelled at.]

"Ramon," he said in a distracted voice, offering his hand to be shaken.

"Quisiera...."

Then he stood, crossed the room, and started working on the nipples of a muscle bear standing in the doorway.

Snubbed?  We'll see about that!  I walked over, knelt, and went down on the muscle bear's  curved Bratwurst, then gradually reached beneath Ramon's towel and fondled him- rather small, though very aroused.  I started working on both, as well as I could when one was three times as big as the other.

Soon the Muscle Bear knelt and motioned for us to change positions. I stood and kissed Ramon and fondled his butt, while the Muscle Bear worked on both of us.  It didn't take long for me to finish.  Then the Muscle Bear wordlessly left.

We looked at each other. That was a little abrupt -- Ramon was still hanging.

 "Have you eaten?" he asked with a grin, and pushed me down onto my knees again.

After he finished, we looked up Lane and Ramon's roommate Guillem, who had already been together earlier.

Guillem was a buffed, hairy muscle bear in his 40s, with a long face and a salt-and-pepper beard.  One of his hands was in a brace.

We went out for drinks at La Chapelle, a small gay bar crowded with religious artifacts about 8 blocks away.

Ramon told us that he knew only a few words of the Wu language, from his grandparents, who settled in Barcelona after the Communist Revolution of 1949.   His parents spoke only Catalan at home, and were not at all interested in their Chinese heritage.

Neither was Ramon.  He got annoyed when people assumed he spoke Chinese, or became interested in him only because they thought he was Asian.

Both he and Guillem belonged to the Catalan Independence movement, and tried to promote the Catalan language whenever they could, even pretending that they didn't speak Spanish.

"Did you know that only 40% of the people in Catalonia speak Catalan at home?" Guillem said.  "It is the native language of only 30%.  This is shameful!"

I turned to Ramon.  "You must stand out at Catalan advocacy meetings, being the only Chinese guy there."

Guillem glared at me.  "He is Catalan. Are you English or German, because your grandparents were from those places?

I could see who was the dominant partner in this relationship!  "Well...I like to claim my Potawatomie Indian heritage..."

It was now about 9:00, dinnertime in Barcelona.  Ramon and Guillem invited us back to their apartment on a very dark, narrow street in the old city, near a famous cafe,  Els Quatre Gats, where Picasso used to hang out.

We ducked inside for a look.

Dinner, served around 10:00, was trinxat, a sort of potato and cabbage quiche with fried eggs, a dark black sausage, and bread on the side, while a Spanish language version of Roseanne played in the background.

I guess it didn't come in Catalan.

After dinner we sat in the living room.  I hadn't been with Guillem yet, so I fondled his chest and kissed him.  Soon all four of us were naked.  I was going down on Guillem's rather thick Kielbasa, while Guillem and Lane were both working on Ramon.  I shrugged and grabbed Ramon and kissed him.

Then..

Have you guessed who I had my second Greek passive experience with?

Answer after the break