November 1999: A Hookup with Barry and the Poz Boy

In the fall of 1999, Barry, the traditional Catholic who had been exorcised from the homophobic demon, invited me to "share" his friend Jared.

"You'll like him," Barry insisted.  "He's from the Midwest, like you.  And an intellectual.  He knows everything about world history.  Just ask!"

"What's he look like?"

He send me a picture -- not my usual type.  In his 20s, tall, thin, pale, with long scraggly hair and a pretty, androgynous face.

"I like my guys with a little more heft to them,  Sorry."

"Well...he's gigantic beneath the belt," Barry said.  "And he really needs this.  He hasn't been with anyone for months."

"Why, what's wrong with him?"  I asked suspiciously.

"Nothing.  He's just been going through some things.  Some health problems.  He can explain."

I was intrigued by the mystery, so I agreed.

On a Saturday in late November, I took the train out to Barry's apartment in Sayville (he had given up on the traditional Catholic community).

Jared was slim and fragile, sitting shyly on the couch.  He had a soft, limp handshake.  I put my arm around him, and he sank against my chest, as if he were cuddling with a lover.

This guy was the polar opposite of the dynamic, loquacious Barry!   I wondered how they had ever become friends.

"So, what do you do?" I asked.

"I work at the Fashion Barn.  But I want to get into design someday."  He held me tightly and nuzzled my chest.  "Sorry if I'm a little forward...it's been awhile."

"That's fine.  I like being the object of attention."

He disentangled himself for dinner at the Sayville Inn.  He ordered only a salad, no dressing.

"How did you guys meet?" I asked.

"At church," Jared said.  "I gave up on the church when I came out, but a few months ago I came back.  Barry got me involved in Dignity [the gay Catholic group], and sometimes I go to Mass with Andre at the Catholic brotherhood."

He returned to the church a few months ago?  And he hadn't been with a guy for a few months?  What happened?  

Back at the apartment, the three of us hugged.  I kissed Barry, and then tried to kiss Jared, but he pulled his head away.  "Before we go any farther, I have to tell you something.  I'm poz."

He meant positive for the HIV virus.

"No problem," I said.  Actually, I was a little curious about what poz guys do in bed.   I had never dated anyone who was poz before, that I knew of, or even had any poz friends.   A couple of guys at the church, who I knew vaguely, and that was about it.

You're probably wondering how I managed to live in West Hollywood at the height of the AIDS crisis and not meet anyone poz.  Literature and film of the period always describes losing most of your friends to AIDS, a dozen in just a few months.

I've wondered about that myself.  I think it was just by accident.

The most common way to transmit HIV is through unprotected anal sex.  I was simply not interested in that, so when I was asked, I refused, and usually didn't see the guy again.  Since we typically chose our friends from among our ex-boyfriends, I built up a social circle of guys who also were not interested in anal sex, and remained negative.  By accident.

I'm not blaming the guys who practiced anal sex -- they had no way of knowing that it was unsafe at the time.

Jared had a huge Mortadella+, but he doesn't get a place on my Sausage List, since I wasn't permitted to do anything except fondle it.

He had sex by hugging me tightly, rubbing things together while Barry fondled his rear, having an explosive orgasm, and then starting to cry because "it's been so long."

We spent the night, had a replay in the morning, and then went out to breakfast.

"I thought my sex life was over," Jared said.  "No one wants to be with a poz guy.  But last night was great."

I hoped he wasn't implying that he wanted to start dating!  Our evening together was nice, but he wasn't really my type physically, he was kind of weird, and what was up with the no kissing?

I can do without oral, but no kissing?  The virus isn't transmitted that way!

A few days later, Jared called.  "I'm coming into the City for my birthday. Free to get together?"

"Well...um...I'm a little busy, with finals coming up and all."

"I want to try something.  I've been too nervous before.  But it's my birthday, and I thought you could help."

"What is it?"

"You go to the New York Bondage Club, right?"

So on Sunday Jared took the train into Penn Station.  We dropped into a diner for a piece of cake, and then went to a meeting.  He asked me to tie him to a St. Andrew's Cross, blindfold and gag him, and leave him open to all comers.

I monitored the situation as he was fondled, prodded, kissed, licked, tickled, teased, edged, and spanked.

Later, I untied him so he could try his hand at topping.

He became a bondage club regular.

Soon I saw him at Ravi's Bear Parties, too, wandering around, fondling, teasing, edging, but no oral.

And still no kissing.

See also: The Homophobic Demon; an All-Nighter at the New York Bondage Club; and The Colonial Boy's First Time.

Will and Scott Have a Wild Night with Keanu Reeves

When I met Will the Bondage Boy in November 1987, he was the picture of a Silverlake leatherman.

He was in his 30s, short and compact, bearded, with a muscular, hairy chest and a little belly.

He worked as a bartender at the L.A. Eagle, he wore chaps, boots, and a leather jacket almost everywhere, and he had a fully equipped dungeon in his basement.

Will wasn't averse to going down on guys, especially if they were big beneath the belt, but he preferred S&M.  He was into intricate, complicated scenes with dialogue and plots, like "prisoner of war" or "interrogated spy."

I naturally assumed that he had been into leather as long as he had been out.  But no: not too long ago, he was a West Hollywood twink, with a closet full of polo shorts and cargo pants, Duran Duran on his car stereo, and no bondage experience except for a few vague fantasies.

He claimed that his awakening came in the summer of 1986, during a wild night with film star Keanu Reeves.

West Hollywood, July 1986

Although Will and I were both living in West Hollywood during 1985-86, our paths never crossed, that I know of.  I was into the Metropolitan Community Church, Asian guys, and Muscle and Fitness.  He was into musical theater, fashion, and...well, dancing.

He and his best friend, Scott, were at the Rage, the twink dance club, with occasional forays to Mickey's and Studio One, four or five times per week, every week, month after month, year after year, dancing and cruising, dancing and cruising.

"It was like we were killing time, just waiting around for our life to begin," Will says.

One night in July, a couple of weeks after Gay Pride, Will and Scott were in the Rage, as usual, when Scott started cruising a Cute Young Thing: tall, thick black hair, sharp features, a soft, smooth chest, and an enormous basket.

His name was Keanu, which he said meant Breeze over the Mountains in Hawaiian.  His parents were native Hawaiian and British, but he grew up in Canada.  He just moved to L.A. a few months ago.  He was living with his stepfather and trying to make it as an actor.

After they danced and fondled for awhile, Keanu said "Let's get out of here!"

Scott blanched -- "tricking," bringing someone home after just meeting, was taboo in West Hollywood.  Besides, you didn't abandon a friend in the middle of the evening.

"Oh, I don't mean anything like that," Keanu said.  "I meant let's go have some fun.  Both of you, of course."

Wondering what could be more fun than dancing at the Rage, they followed him out of the club and got into his battered Volvo.

"You got into a car with a guy you didn't know?" I ask, shocked.

"Well, there were two of us and one of him, so we thought it would be safe.  Besides, Scott was really into him."

They drove all the way through Beverly Hills, Century City, and Santa Monica to the Pier, where they got out and walked along the beach.

Gay men in West Hollywood simply didn't go to the beach, so it was quite an adventure walking on the sand, Scott and Keanu holding hands and kissing.  Will, feeling left out and a bit jealous, pushed himself into the group and kissed and fondled them both.  Soon he was going down on them.  Scott had a Kielbasa+, and Keanu had an uncut Mortadella.

After a few minutes, Keanu pulled him to his feet, zipped up, and said "This guy can't wait, can he?  We'd better cool him off, or he'll never last the night."

They climbed back into the car and drove into Beverly Hills.  Keanu parked in a back alley off Rexford Drive.

"Is this where you live?" Will asked.

"No, I live three doors down.  But this house has something my stepdad doesn't.  A pool."

"Wait," I protest.  "You were just on the beach.  Why didn't..."

"What can I say?  It was a wild night."

Before they could question, Keanu was taking his clothes off, leaping over the fence, and diving headfirst into a stranger's pool.

Scott eagerly followed.  Will followed, too, reluctantly.

"What if the people inside hear us?  We'll be arrested -- and you know what that means."

 In 1986, the LAPD was notoriously homophobic.  They would be laughed at, called names, lectured on the book of Leviticus, and probably assaulted.

"Spoilsport!" Keanu exclaimed, splashing him.   "I know these people -- well, I've seen them, anyway.  From a car as we drove past."  He got on his knees and tried to go down on Scott underwater.

Will pulled him to his feet.  "Are you crazy!  Now it's not just indecent exposure and trespassing, it's lascivious behavior -- a felony!"

Keanu tried to grab Scott's penis, but Will pushed him away.

"Sounds like somebody needs some discipline," he said.  "You ever been spanked, boy?"

It was oddly exciting to be called "boy" by a Cute Young Thing barely out of his teens, and the prospect of a spanking...maybe it could be a teacher-student thing, like in his high school fantasies...besides, anything to get them out of the pool!

So they stopped at Laurel Hardware for some clothesline and clothes pins -- rather a popular purchase at 2:00 am -- then returned to Will's apartment in West Hollywood.   Will stripped to his underwear, and Keanu tied him to a chair with his hands behind his back.

He was gagged, fondled, whipped lightly with a belt.  Clothespins were attached to his nipples.

Then Keanu said "We've been lovers for ten years.  You never knew that I've been seeing other guys on the side.  One day you come home unexpectedly to find me with my boyfriend.  We tie you up, make fun of your tiny penis, and force you to watch."  He led Scott to the bed and kissed him passionately, then moved him into the 69 position.

Will was already a little jealous, and he found himself getting into the role easily, struggling against the ropes, yelling into the gag, feeling real anger and betrayal -- and becoming tremendously aroused.

They took their time, making the act as slow and romantic as they could, which aroused Will even more.  He really believed that he was watching his long-term lover cheating on him!  Keanu looked over a couple of times and smugly fondled Scott's Kielbasa.

When Keanu finished, he lay there for a moment, then came over to Will,  took off the gag, and untied him.  Will pulled him into a long kiss.

"Did you like that?" Scott asked anxiously.  "Or was it a little too weird for you?"

Will stood,  still sticking straight out, and made his way shakily to the bed.  He grinned. "Are you going to punish me for being late to class, Teacher?"

They never saw Keanu again, but the next Saturday night Will was standing at the entrance of the L.A. Eagle, wearing chaps and a leather vest.

Were Will and Scott telling the truth?

1. Guys often have a second "coming out" into the leather scene, but Will's transition from vanilla sex only to complicated role-playing bondage games seems a little abrupt.

2. They got some biographical details wrong: Keanu was born in Lebanon, not Canada, and in the summer of 1986 he was already established as an actor. 

3. But he did drive a battered 1969 Volvo, and he was living in Beverly Hills with his former stepfather, director Paul Aaron.

4. Keanu apparently has a rather small penis, not a Mortadella.  But that might just be the convention of West Hollywood storytelling, where everyone is enormous.

5. In 2014 a female intruder went skinny dipping in Keanu's pool.  He called the police and had her arrested.  He never mentioned any similar acts in his youth.

6. There's no evidence that Keanu Reeves is gay.  Although he is unmarried, he has been linked with several women over the years, including Winona Ryder, Cameron Diaz, Parker Posey, and most recently trans actress Jamie Clayton.  He is a strong gay ally, so surely if he was gay or bi, he would have outed himself by now.

The Quest for the Bushman Penis

Durban, South Africa, July 2000

When I was in junior high in the 1970s, I read Lost World of the Kalahari, by Laurent Van Der Post, about the Bushmen or San.  Today it seems rather simplistic and colonialist, full of "noble savage" myths, but to a 15-year old in the Midwest, it was fascinating:

1. The Bushmen lived in the arid Kalahari desert, the most inhospitable place on Earth
2. Their culture hadn't changed in 40,000 years
3. They drew rock paintings similar to those of our cave man ancestors.
4. Their language used a distinctive pattern of clicks.
5. They were a distinctive race, yellow-skinned, wrinkled, with steatopygia (I had to look it up: large buttocks).

6. And, most intriguingly, the men "were born, lived, and died" in a semi-aroused state.   They were proud of their difference from other men, and called themselves Qhwai-xkhwe ("always standing") to openly proclaim it.

I had to see that!

The book had no illustrations, so one day I went to the Rock Island Public Library and checked out The Harmless People and Hunters of the Desert Land.  Nothing.

I didn't think about it again until college, where our library offered an Interlibrary Loan service.  So I requested The Khoisan Peoples of South Africa, Pygmies and Bushmen of the Kalahari, The Bushmen, and Namibia Old and New.  Nothing, although Bushmen rock art regularly depicts men in a state of arousal.

In college I saw The Gods Must Be Crazy (1980), about a Bushman who finds a discarded Coke bottle, the only relic of Western civilization he's ever seen, and tries to return it "to the gods."  He concludes that the "gods" are crazy.  Some nice physiques, but even if you look carefully, you can't see anything.

In West Hollywood, I saw A Far Off Place (1993), about two Western kids forced to flee across the Kalahari with the assistance of a helpful Bushman boy.  Nothing.

I didn't think about it again until I visited Durban, South Africa  in 2000.  There weren't any Khoisan or San speakers at the conference, that I know of.  There was a tourist attraction called the Bushman Caves, in the Drakensburg Mountains on the border with Lesotho, but no "real" Bushmen.

Then, the night after my regrettable experience with the Hottest Man in the World, I went back to the Lounge (it was the only gay bar in town).  This time there was a more working-class crowd.  And I saw a Bushman -- proper term, "San" or "Khoisan."  At least I think he was -- short, yellow-skinned, kind of wrinkled and wizened-looking.

Should I go up, introduce myself, and grab?  Follow him into the bathroom?  Hope that he went to the dark room?

I decided to introduce myself.

"Hi, my name is Boomer," I said.  "I'm from Montreal.  I used to work in porn films."

"Jerry." (Probably not his real name.)  He reached out to shake my hand, and kept on holding it.

He didn't speak English very well, but I got that he was Khoisan, he lived in Port Elizabeth, about 10 hours away by bus, and he was here for the conference.  AIDS was increasing rapidly among his people, due to a lack of awareness about safe-sex practices, and a refusal to believe that same-sex behavior existed.

Of course, it did.  It was everywhere.

He hadn't stopped holding my hand!  And now he was running his other hand against my thigh. 

Time to check.   On the small side, at least by African standards, but definitely aroused.

And it stayed that way for the whole night.

Se also: The Hottest Guy in the World.; In Search of Sex and Languages in South Africa

My Date or Trick with Mario in the White Room

West Hollywood, September 1987

In spite of my nostalgia-infused memories of West Hollywood as a paradise, it had some big problems.  For one thing, it was completely segregated.  Only 3% of its residents were black, 5% Asian, and 10% Hispanic (compared to Los Angeles in general, 10%, 11%, and 47%).

You rarely saw anyone black on the streets, and when you did, he was with a white guy, and being charged a hefty cover to get into the bar, or waiting extra-long for the server to notice him in the restaurant.

But this isn't a story about institutional racism and microaggressions.  It's about a guy named Mario.

Nearly every day, I stopped into the Different Light Bookstore on Larrabee.  I joked that I was moving the entire stock into my room.

And one day I saw Mario browsing in the theater section.

He was rather feminine, thin and willowy, wearing gold rings, bracelets, and necklaces -- an immediate turnoff.  But he was shorter than me, dark skinned, with glasses that gave him a studious look.  So when he approached, started a conversation about gay literature, and invited me to dinner at the Greenery, I agreed.


Wait -- he meant right now.  In West Hollywood, you always set up dates for the future. Was this one of those dreaded tricks, a pickup, sex for its own sake?

Tricking was frowned upon -- if this was a trick, I could never tell my friends about it.

While I ate a hamburger and Mario picked at a salad, we exchanged coming-out stories.  He grew up in Richmond, Virginia and fled to West Hollywood seven years ago.  He had a job as a secretary, but only until he got his big break as an actor.  He hadn't had much luck, but he did land a date with celebrity Rob Lowe.

I countered by telling him about my Celebrity Boyfriend.

"My boss wants me -- I can tell," Mario continued.  "But I saw him in the rest room -- a footlong, honey!  No way, nuh-huh, I can't handle that."

Ok, feminine and into anal.  Date or trick, this wasn't going to work.  I put $5 on the table to pay for my dinner, and politely excused myself.

"Come on, honey, don't leave me hanging!" Mario exclaimed.  "After I put myself out to cruise you!  I don't meet many nice guys, who are willing to take things slow and get to know you.  Everybody wants to just jump into bed right away."

This was awkward!  "Well...um...I don't think we're compatible."

"Is it because I'm black?  You're afraid what your friends will say?"

"What?  No!"  My face burned.  That was the farthest thing from my mind,  But now we were definitely going through with the date, or trick.



So we walked down the street to Mickey's, the twink hangout, and danced and flirted and groped and fondled.

No kissing!  Was he shy or what?

But, date or trick, I was ready to go home with him.

Mario lived in a very nice apartment building, white with pink trim, on Romaine Street just off Fairfax.  He made me take off my shoes and socks to avoid tracking lint on the carpet.

"Do you want to take your shower first?" he asked.  "There are fresh towels in the bathroom, and a douche under the sink."

Douche?  Was he an anal top?

All of the towels in the bathroom were white, like at the gym.

I showered and came out to find Mario in the kitchen.  "Now put your clothes in the washer, and I'll do a load tomorrow morning before you go home.  Don't worry, no one will touch your stuff."

"My clothes...but...."

"You can't get dressed into dirty clothes, can you?"

I did as he asked.  Mario went to take his shower.  I wandered around the apartment -- only a few books, all on acting -- and found the bedroom.

It was completely white: rug, curtain, dresser, nightstand, lamp, bedspread, everything.  It made my eyes hurt.

I stood there, afraid to touch anything.  A song by Cream ran through my head: "In a white room with black curtains...wait in the place where shadows run from themselves..."

Soon Mario appeared, wearing only a white towel.

"Oh, don't worry -- the sheets and bedspread are clean.  I change them every day."

"Every...day?  I have like three sets of sheets, tops.  Don't you run out?"

"Oh, honey, I wouldn't run out for a month.  I buy sheets the way other guys buy shoes.  But I do the laundry every day anyway.  Who wants dirty clothes in the hamper for a week?"  He groped me.  "Now give me that towel.  I'll hang it up so it won't get mildewed."

He took off his towel, too -- Kielbasa, beautifully shaped.  I sat on the bed, naked, until he returned.

I moved in for a kiss.  "Sorry, I'm not into that," he said, turning his face away.

We lay on the bed, not kissing.  Mario's body was cool to the touch.  He didn't turn the light off -- the bright lights against the white background were dazzling.

He handed me a condom and turned over on his stomach.  He wanted me to screw him!

No dice.

He tried to put the condom on me.  I wasn't aroused.  "I'm really not into that," I said.

"No problem, honey.  I know lots of ways to please my man."

Mario moved down below the belt and started go go down on me.

The weirdness, the whiteness, the femininity, the lack of kissing -- nothing was happening.  I wasn't getting aroused!

A unpardonable sin, for either a date or a trick.

After awhile, he gave up, ran into the bathroom for some mouthwash, and returned.  "Well, I love cuddling with my man, too."

Wait -- didn't I get a chance to go down on him?    When I reached down there, he shooed my away.

And he didn't turn off the light!  I was stuck spending the night with him -- it would have been gauche to leave -- in a room as glaringly white as a hospital bed.

After an hour or so, I got up, gauche or no gauche, retrieved my clothes from the washer, and woke Mario with some excuse about why I had to leave.

"Sorry, honey," he murmured.  "I guess you're just not into black guys."

No, I was definitely into black guys, just not glaring white rooms.

I ran into Mario occasionally after that, at the Different Light, the gay Safeway, or on the street, and he always smiled sadly, as if to say "I know your secret shame."

That wasn't fair.  No one can be expected to perform in a white room, with someone who won't kiss and calls him "honey."

See also: Mario's Date or Trick with Rob Lowe and  The Truth about the Black Penis