Comic Book Guy's Date with Porn Star Jeff Stryker

West Hollywood, November 18,  1987

It's the day before my 27th birthday, a Wednesday, about 11:00 pm.  I have spent the last hour and a half cruising at Mugi, the gay Asian bar in Hollywood.

In West Hollywood in the 1980s, in the first years of the AIDS epidemic, you don't go to the bars looking for someone for that night -- only sleazoids and druggies go home with someone they picked up right then.  You talk, maybe kiss and grope a bit, and make a date for a few days later.

Which presents a problem:  After two hours of looking at hot guys, and probably kissing and groping more than one of them, you're revved up, full of energy, excited, horny, and rather lonely.

I've been striking out, which makes the horniness and loneliness worse.  I'm tempted to go to the Gold Coast, the sleaze bar on Santa Monica and La Jolla, and pick up a sleazoid, someone I don't even find attractive.

Instead I use my usual plan for assuaging the horny/loneliness: I go back to my childhood, when I used to buy comic books at Schneider's Drug Store.

Book Circus, on La Jolla across the street from the Gold Coast, sells mostly gay porn, but there's an eclectic selection of used books -- I've bought 19th Century Russian Literature, the Bhagavad-Gita, and The Fleischer Story (about the studio that produced Betty Boop and Popeye Cartoons).  Plus general interest magazines like Time and Newsweek, and comic books.


It's mostly empty at this hour: I see a sleazoid who struck out at the Gold Coast recharging his engine with a copy of Advocate Men; an elderly bespectacled queen browsing in the used books; a couple of street kids or hustlers, hard to say which, wandering aimlessly about without looking at anything.

The night manager  looks up from his half-eaten hamburger and french fries and glares at me.  His name is Jacob, but I'm going to call him Comic Book Guy, after the character on The Simpsons, because now I can't see or hear him in any other way: in his 40s, dark beard, fat, with chubby hands and a gigantic belly, always dressed in a tank top and shorts, even in the winter, nasal sarcastic voice, elitist disdain of anything you decide to buy.

Oddly enough, Comic Book Guy is not without friends.  He usually has two or three guys hanging out by his counter, Sometimes they sneak him over gin-and-tonics from the Gold Coast, in spite of the "No Food or Beverages" sign.

Sometimes they go back through the "Employees Only" door with him.  To do what, I can only guess.

The comic book section is well-stocked with non-DC and Marvel titles.  Gladstone reprints of classic Uncle Scrooge stories from the 1950s.  The perennial teen beefcake of Archie.

It's like I'm back in Rock Island, browsing at Schneider's Drug Store, like I'm warm and safe in my attic room, while Mom and Dad watch tv downstairs, and there's leftover Harris pizza waiting for me in the refrigerator.

I choose two Ducks and two Archies, plus an Advocate and the porn magazine Inches, brace myself for Comic Book Guy's  sarcasm, and head for the checkout counter.

Sure enough, he wipes his hands on a napkin and announces  my titles, loudly: "An infantile news magazine...a magazine for men who have struck out at the bars to beat off to...two infantile picture-books about talking ducks...and Archie comics!  I take that back...you plan to beat off to Reggie Mantle!"

Everyone is looking.  I redden with embarrassment.

"Give me a break!" I exclaim.  "Lots of guys read comic books."

"Do you have someone at home to sound out the big words for you?" Comic Book Guy says with a sneer.

I pull out my wallet and try to hand him a bill.  "Just can the sarcasm and ring me up."

"I'm sorry, the kiddie lit is only for sale until 10:00 pm.  If you would care to return in the morning..."

"That's not a rule, and you know it!"

He smiles and looks blatantly down at my crotch.  "Or I could give you the books tomorrow at 6:00 pm sharp, when you arrive here to take me out to dinner."

Weird way to ask a guy out!  "I'm sorry, tomorrow is my birthday.  I'm having a party...."

Comic Book Guy grins.  "I would be delighted to be your date at your birthday soiree!  Pick me up here at 6:00 pm. sharp."

I'm tired, horny, lonely, and dazed.  Almost by rote, I say "Sure, that will be great."

  He takes my money, counts out my change,, and bags my books so quickly that I'm not sure what happened. "Don't beat off to Reggie too much tonight.  You'll need your strength."

November 19, 1987

I spend the next day going to USC, the gym, and Muscle and Fitness, and agonizing.  I don't find Comic Book Guy attractive -- he's too old, too fat, and too sarcastic for me -- plus you never invite someone on a first date to your birthday party -- plus the other party guests will be West Hollywood gym rats who won't accept a sarcastic chub.

But I didn't get his number, so I can't call and cancel.  Just not showing up would be rude...and I wouldn't be able to go into Book Circus again...

I end up telling Marcus, who is hosting the party, to expect one more, then driving out to Book Circus to pick up Comic Book Guy.  He's wearing a different tank top and shorts.  He pulls me into a wet kiss, then puts a flabby arm around my shoulders and escorts me to my car.

"I'll take the back seat -- do you mind?  It's hard for me to fit into the passenger side.  Besides, we need room in the front seat"

"You're bringing a guest?" I ask, fuming.  My date has a date?

"We have to pick up your present.  Sorry I didn't have time to wrap it.  Here's the address."

Grudgingly I drive us to an apartment in Westwood.

"We're going to be late," I growl.  "What's the big..."

"Patience, young grasshopper."  Comic Book Guy gets out of the car and goes inside.  About ten minutes pass, while I stare at my watch and wonder if I should just leave him there.  Finally he emerges with my present.

Jeff Stryker, the most famous gay porn star of the 1980s.

Apparently he often did personal appearances at Book Circus, and he and Comic Book Guy became friends.

I don't get to go down on Stryker: he wins the "who can get aroused fastest" contest, but refuses his prize,  -- ten minutes in the bedroom with me.  He sends Jacob instead.

 Jacob turns out to be good at kissing, cuddling, and oral, with a presentable 6" penis.  And a lot of porn star friends.

No, we don't date again.

See also: Nude Photos of Jeff Stryker

"The President's Not Cute!": My Meeting with President Johnson

Indianapolis, Summer 1966

Everyone in the Boomer generation and older knows where they were on November 22, 1963, when they heard of the assassination of President John F. Kennedy.

My Cousin Joe remembers a murmur going through the school, a teacher crying, and being sent home early.

I was barely three years old, so all I have are some vague, confusing memories of people being sad.

I didn't know he was dead, or that Lyndon B. Johnson was the new President.  There were so many pictures of John F. Kennedy on tv and in books, and people talked about him so much, that I thought that he was still the President 2 1/2 years later.

All the pictures showed John F. Kennedy as handsome and athletic.  There were shirtless photos in Life magazine.  He had muscles!

And the movie PT-109 (1963) showed him rescuing a buddy from a sinking ship during World War II!  My friends and I made him a key player in our "my hero" games.

So I was thrilled one day in the summer of 1966, when we were visiting Indiana, and my Aunt Nora, my father's sister, suddenly announced "You're going to meet the President!"

Later I found out that Indiana was celebrating its Sesquicentennial, 150 years of statehood, and my grandmother's family was important, descended from pioneers.  She and some other "pioneer women" had been selected to shake hands with the President at the festival in Indianapolis.

We drove down with my Grandma, my Aunt Nora and two of my older cousins, Joey  and Eva Marie.

I remember a parade with boy scouts, some people walking around in pioneer costumes with a covered wagon, and a merry-go-round like at a carnival (but it wasn't a "carnival," forbidden for Nazarenes, it was a "festival").

 But the highlight was to be the address by the President.

My cousins and Aunt Nora and I stood at the head of the crowd, very near the row of chairs where Grandma was sitting and the podium where he would speak.  I couldn't wait.  Maybe he would come out in a swimsuit, like in the photos in Life magazine.  Or at least take his shirt off -- it was a hot July day, and lots of guys in the crowd had their shirts off.

"Isn't this exciting, Squirt?" my Cousin Joe said.  He was a grown-up, 12 years old (top photo looks like him), holding my hand so I wouldn't get lost. "Seeing the real, live President, just like on tv. Maybe he'll shake your hand!"

Then a band began to play "Hail to the Chief," someone announced "Ladies and Gentlemen, the President of the United States,"  and....

An old, ugly guy marched onto the stage!

I tugged at Cousin Joe's shirt.  "Where's the President?"

"Why, that's him.  Doesn't he look the same as on television?"

There had been a terrible mistake!  Where was the hunky muscleman who ripped his shirt off and dived into shark-infested waters to rescue his buddy?  

This trip had been one big lie!

Outraged by the betrayal, I tore myself away and ran headlong through the crowd.  Cousin Joe ran after me, with Aunt Nora and Eva Marie following.  They caught up with me by the cotton candy machine.


"What on Earth is the matter with you?" Aunt Nora exclaimed.  "You're a big boy, too old for temper tantrums!

"It's your fault!" I said, starting to cry.  "You said we would meet the President!"

"Who do you think is talking up there, Bub?" Cousin Joe asked.

"Not the President!"

"What makes you say that?"

"He's not cute!"

Years later, Cousin Joe said that he "knew" that I was gay at that moment.