Lane's Bear Boyfriend and Infinite Chazz

West Hollywood, January 1995

Lane was a big fan of a gay comic that appeared weekly in Frontiers, about an assimilated couple: they lived in a straight neighborhood, had mostly straight friends, and had problems involving kids and in-laws.

"That's what life should be like," he said one night. "If the world wasn't so homophobic, we could move down to Anaheim, buy a house, and adopt a couple of kids, just like..."

"Just like our oppressors?"

"Just like straight people.  And look -- one of the guys is short, slim, and Jewish, and the other is tall, goy, and muscular, just like us!"

"Must be a sign," I said, busily channel surfing.

One Sunday night in January, we went to a book signing of gay cartoonists at the Different Light Bookstore.  Tim, who drew Lane's strip, looked nothing like his characters: he was about 40, and big, bigger than me everywhere:  6'8 to my 6'1, and about as wide as he was tall, with impossibly wide shoulders, thick heavy biceps, enormous hands and a big belly.  I swear if he lay down on a bed, he would take up the whole thing!

Add a thick black beard, leather chaps, and a leather vest festooned with silver skulls, and you have a cross between a heavy-metal rocker and a Hell's Angel.    No wonder there was no line at his table.

Lane rushed us over.  "I love your work!" he gushed.  "Does it reflect your real life?"

I expected a big, booming voice, but Tim was actually soft spoken.  "No, it reflects what I want life to be -- a 'normal' life, with a house, a job, a partner, and kids, where gay and straight don't matter."

Ugh!  I came to West Hollywood to escape the "house, job, wife, kids" cage!  I left Lane to gush some more and headed over to meet Donelan.

When we reunited, Lane didn't talk about Tim, but he was very energetic in the bedroom that night.  I was certain that he was fantasizing about Tim

Lane liked his men big, the bigger the better: tall, massive, muscular, fat.  I was much taller than him -- we looked like Mutt and Jeff walking down the street -- but I couldn't compete with Tim.

A few days later, I came home from work to find Lane and Tim sitting on the couch. Not kissing or fondling, but Tim was so big that he couldn't sit on a couch without pressing his leg and thigh against the guy next to him.

I was certain that they had been in the bedroom!

I roiled with jealousy.  We were allowed to see other guys, as long as we brought them home to "share" the bedroom activity. Sex without sharing was cheating.

"Having fun?" I sniped.

"We were just waiting for you to get home," Lane said with a guilty grin.  "We're going to go out to dinner."

Grumble, grumble.  Ok, I guess.

We piled into Lee's hatchback -- Tim was too big for the back seat, so I had to take it.  On the way to the restaurant in a straight neighborhood, we stopped at the 7-11 for something, and Tim almost slammed the door on me!

"Sorry -- I didn't know you were getting out of the car."

Yeah, right.

After dinner, we returned to the apartment, but Tim didn't come in for sharing.  He looked around to make sure no one was looking, then hugged us both at the same time and gave us each a wet, gross kiss.  I reached down to grope him and found Lane's hand already there.

That night Lane was less than enthusiastic in the bedroom.  Because he had already had some bedroom calisthenics earlier in the day?

About a week later, Lane announced: "Tim has invited us out to visit him in Temecula on Friday."

Temecula?   

A far, far southern suburb, about 1 1/2 hours away from West Hollywood, where Tim lived in the house he inherited from his parents, where he had three cats and belonged to a gardening club and saw his two daughters from a heterosexual marriage on weekends.

Ugh!  Sounds like what I moved to West Hollywood to escape.  Besides, I had a vested interested in keeping Lane as far away from his boyfriend as possible.  I was pretty sure that ten minutes after Tim said "Move in," Lane would have the U-Haul rented and the "Dear John" letter written.


"Driving all that way in Friday night traffic?  No, thanks!" I said.

"Well, how about if we leave here at 2:00, and get there at 3:30, before rush hour starts?"

What?  Lane knew that I worked at JobTech from 8 to 5 Monday - Friday!

"We can't make it.  I have a job, remember?"

"It's contract.  You can take the day off whenever you want."

"Sure, if I don't want to make any money that day."

Lane paused.  "Hey, do you mind if I drive over by myself?  I'll be back by 10:00 pm, I promise."

I glared at him.  "Sure, no problem."

As Friday neared, I became more and more apprehensive.  Lane would probably be spending the afternoon in bed with his boyfriend!  Plus he would be experiencing the sedate Straight World lifestyle of the comic strip.  Mowing the lawn, calling the plumber to fix the sink, planning the garden club picnic, bringing a casserole to the hetero couple next door, advising the daughter over her boy trouble.

Ugh!

In a year or two, they would be inviting me to visit them in Temecula, to meet the in-laws and the kids.  They would serve coffee and cake in the living room, with a picture window looking across to the neighbors' house across the street, where the kids were playing catch in the front yard....

Friday, February 4th

I went to work as usual, but couldn't concentrate, worrying about Lane dumping me to go suburban with the motorcycle bear Tim.  Finally I decided to drive out to Temecula and catch them in the act!

I claimed to not be feeling well and left at noon.  I didn't want to drive all the way down to Temecula myself, so I called Infinite Chazz, who was from Orange County and knew his way around the suburbs.

We met three years ago, when I was working at a camp for juvenile delinquents.  Now he was living with his parents and taking classes at Cal State Fullerton: 20 years old, slim with short brown hair, a long face, a tight smooth chest, and an impressive Bratwurst beneath the belt.

We called him Infinite Chazz because he was infinitely attractive, sure to cause jaw-dropping stares in every gay guy who came within five feet of his dazzling smile and even more dazzling bulge.  He visited every couple of weeks, to "share" and make the guys at the synagogue or MCC die of envy.

At 1:30, I picked up Chazz at his parents' house.  We stopped to grab lunch at a Carl's Junior, then and drove another hour to Temecula, arriving at 3:00, at just the right moment for Lane and Tim to begin their illicit bedroom activity.

Sure enough, Lane's car was parked in the driveway.  The upstairs window was open.  That must be where they were doing it!

We knocked.  Tim immediately came to the door.  Fully clothed.  "Um....hi?" he said quizzically.

Thinking fast, I said "Hi!  I decided to come out after all."

"Great!  Glad you could make it!  Lane's out in the garden."  He reached out his bear paw to Chazz.  "And this is...."

"My friend, Infinite Chazz."

"Well, come here, let's have hugs all around."  He wrapped us in his massive arms and gave us each a kiss.  I reached down to grope him, and found his hand on Chazz's basket.

That night the four of us hooked up.  Tim had a Mortadella+, beercan thick, with an enormous head.  I got to go down on him for a few minutes before Infinite Chazz took over.  Then he topped Chazz while kissing Lane.  Meanwhile Chazz went down on me.

Tim was quite energetic for a man-mountain.

Turns out that there was no illicit bedroom activity going on.  Tim drew bears in his comic strip, but in real life he liked smooth, slim twinks and Cute Young Things.  He liked Chazz.

See also: I Sneak Chazz into His Boyfriend's Bedroom; Leonard and Larry

Our First Hookup with Infinite Chazz

Anaheim, California, February 1994

My job at at a camp for juvenile delinquents lasted for only about six months, from July 1992 to January 1993: too many crazy rules, too homophobic.  The only kid I really bonded with was Chazz, a cute 17-year old on a diversion program for vandalism and auto theft, who I helped break the rules to visit his boyfriend.

We stayed in contact, chatting in America Online chatrooms and sometimes talking on the telephone.   After his release, he moved to Orange County, about 40 miles from West Hollywood, to stay with his father and stepmother. He got his high school diploma, enrolled at Cal Stat Fullerton, and got a job at Disneyland!

"You and Lane should come down and visit," he said.  "I can give you a behind-the-scenes tour."

I hated theme parks: the crowds, the noise, the tacky tie-ins, the $15 ice cream cones.  Especially the Disney Main Street, a glorification of the racist, sexist, homophobic 1890s America of Walt Disney's childhood.

But I liked Chazz -- I felt like a big brother to him.  And Lane had fond memories of going to Disneyland as a kid.  So we decided to go down on a Thursday in early February 1994 -- a weeknight in the middle of winter shouldn't be too crowded.

 We checked into our room at the Sheraton around 7:00, picked up Chazz at his parents' house, and took him to dinner at a Mexican restaurant (tip: always eat first, so you don't have to buy the overpriced, saturated fat-laden theme park food).

It had been a year since I saw Chazz in person.  He had changed, or maybe I had permission to notice, now that he was over 18!  Thick arms and shoulders.  A far bigger bulge.  His adolescent features hardened into those of a classic leading man: a square jaw, a heavy brow, soft eyes, and a bright smile.


When we ordered our cheese enchiladas and arroz con pollo, Chazz excused himself and went to the bathroom.

"Why didn't you tell me that your Boy Toy was so drop-dead gorgeous?" Lane exclaimed.

"I know!  Last I saw him, he was a cute kid, and now he's a super-hunk!"

"I'd wear a gay-pride t-shirt to Liberty Baptist Church [where homophobe Jerry Falwell preached] just for a five-second through-the-pants grope."

"I didn't even think you were into twinks.  You like bodybuilders and hairy-chested, bearded bears."

Lane laughed.  "Sometimes a twink will turn my eye.  Remember Danny, my boyfriend before you?  He was a regular Trophy Boy.  And Chazz definitely does the trick.  Any chance of us sharing tonight?"

"I don't know.  Since I was his teacher at Camp Routh, he may not think of me as an erotic possibility.  He might not even be into older guys."

"Older?  Who you calling old, Sonny?!"

"I'm 33.  That's a huge age gap for an 18 year old.  And you're 38, old enough to be his father."

"Just suggest it, will you?"

"Well, I'll ease into the idea."

When Chazz returned, I said "This weekend we're going to see My Father the Hero, starring Gerard Depardieu.  He's very hot, don't you think?"

Chazz shrugged and said something about 20-year old Mackenzie Astin in Iron Will.

I pointed out a hot suit-and-tie guy in his thirties.  Chazz shrugged, but his jaw dropped at the hot teenage busboy.

Grabbing at straws, Lane told about his hookup with Cesar Romero, the Joker on the old Batman tv show.  "He was in his 80s, super hot and super hung, believe me!"

Chazz yawned and said "Before we go over to the park, I should tell you some ground rules:"

1. No physical contact. Hay people are technically allowed at Disneyland -- they can dance together since a lawsuit in 1984 -- but you still have to be careful.  You might not get kicked out for holding hands, but you can get yelled at or beat up.

2. Don't out me in front of the staff.  They're usually ok, but management is really homophobic.  They don't hire anybody who 'looks gay,'   You hear them complaining about 'fags' and 'fairies.'

3. You're my uncles.  Don't out yourselves, either, just to be on the safe side.

"Sounds fun!" I exclaimed, thinking "why are we doing this again?"

Oh, yeah -- Lane wants me to ask Chazz to "share."  After all that oldster-bashing, I don't think so.

Chazz directed us to a "cast member" parking lot, which was a lot closer than "guest parking," and through a secret side entrance that led to Adventureland (yes, we paid the admission fee).

It was a Thursday evening, but the crowds were still intense.  Lots of nuclear families with babies in strollers and overexcited kids, some hot Dads, an occasional teenager.


Chazz got lots of smiles back.  He was getting cruised by everybody.   Literally everybody -- men, women, teenagers, boys, girls, Aladdin and Princess Jasmine.

I pointed out various guys,  to check on how Chazz responded.  He uniformly rejected anyone who looked over 30, and squealed "Gross!" at Daddies and bears.  But high school boys brought a broad smile to his face.

"Do any of the 'guests' approach you and try for a date or a trick?" Lane asked.

"Oh, sure, all the time.  I can't stand the Creepy Old Guys -- they stand so close that you can see their yellowed, rotten teeth and smell their rank breath.  And they think they can impress you by talking about things from before you were born. As if!"

"How old are these Creepy Old Guys?" I asked.

"Oh, way old.  I bet some of them are even old enough to be my dad!"

Lane frowned.

"But I've made dates with a couple of guys my own age, you know, cute ones, ones I have things in common."

Our behind-the-scenes tour involved going into secret side-doors to avoid the lines of rides like Space Mountain and the Mark Twain Steamboat, going into little tunnels to see the animatronic Abraham Lincoln and the Sleeping Beauty Castle, and some shopping in a "cast member"-only store hidden behind one of the seemingly empty storefronts on Main Street U.S.A.

I found it all rather depressing.  I was just waiting for 11:00, when the park would close and this behind-the-scenes tour would have to end.

Finally, as the crowds were pouring through the front entrance through trams, Chazz led us to Adventureland, back into the small side exit, and out onto the still-bustling streets of Anaheim.  We found our car, and started on the way to his house.

Chazz looked alarmed.  "Hey, aren't you going to invite me to...you know, spend the night in your hotel room?  I thought you guys did that all the time."  He reached over and grabbed my knee.

"Not all the time," Lane said from the back seat.  "But sometimes, if we meet someone we both like."

""We didn't think you were into older," I said.

"Well, not Creepy Old Guys, like grandpas, but you guys, normal age, sure.  I been fantasizing about Boomer ever since he was at Camp Routh.  I have a thing for teachers, you know."

I turned around, and Chazz directed me back to the Sheraton.  We went up to the hotel room.

That night he got his nickname of Infinite, and not just because of his Mortadella+.

 See also: Lane's Bear Boyfriend and Infinite Chazz; Lane and His Trophy Boy; and My Scary Date with the Teenage Lawnboy

Farshad, the French Moroccan on my Sausage List

Treguier, Brittany, Summer 2007

I used to go to Europe every year.  A spring break jaunt beginning at the Louvre and ending with the Horseman's Club in Amsterdam, or a more extensive summer tour of France, Germany, or Estonia.

In the summer of 2007, I did something different: spent three days visiting Yuri in London, three days in Paris, and then a quest for Breton men.

Breton is a Celtic language, similar to Welsh and Irish.  Denigrated by the French government for centuries, it was losing speakers fast, down from a million in 1950 to about 300,000, mostly elderly and rural.  You could see it in street and metro signs in Rennes, but I had never heard it spoken.






So I rented a car and drove four hours to Saint-Brieuc, where I spent the night.  The next day, up the coast to Plouzec, Paimpol, and Treguier.  Overnight again.  Then to Rennes, Paris, back to London, and home.

It was a bust.  A lot of cute guys, but all speaking French.  I even tried saying "Mat an traou!" to shopkeepers and gas station attendants and a teenager on the beach, but they responded in French.

But I did get cruised at the Ernest Renan House.

In addition to being the heart of Brittany, Treguier is the birthplace of philosopher Ernest Renan, who caused a scandal by writing The Life of Jesus (1863), asserting that Jesus was not a divine being.

There's a statue of him in the town square, being lauded by the Goddess Athena.  When it was first installed in 1903, townsfolk rioted, thinking that it was criticizing Catholicism.

When I was touring the Renan House, a short, studious looking guy in his late 20s or early 30s, dark skinned, bearded, kept looking at me with obvious "cruisy" intent.  Finally I approached him.

He looked North African, not Breton, but hoping, I said "Mat an traou!"

"The Jews are a cancer eating away at other nations," he replied in French.

My mouth dropped in shock.  Had I understood him properly?  What kind of pick-up line was that?  "Les juifs...quoi....?" I began.  "My French isn't good...."

Grinning, he switched to English.  "That's what Renan taught.  Also, that the Jews of the Bible are not related to the Jews of modern Europe.  Isn't it a tragedy that a national hero of France was so anti-Semitic?"

"I had no idea..."

"What a pity that many Frenchmen are still prejudiced against Jews."  He held out his hand.  "I'm Farshad." (Not his real name.)

An Arabic name!  Muslim, but not anti-Semitic.

We sat down in a nearby cafe.  Farshad was a history teacher at a lycee in Paris, visiting Bretagne on holiday.  Third-generation Moroccan.  And gay!

I had met gay Muslims before, but they were all on the downlow, maintaining a strictly heterosexual facade, meeting with "special friends" only in private, behind closed doors.

But Farshad was out.  He marched in the Gay Pride Parade in Paris.  He was out to his parents. "My father doesn't like to talk about it, but my mother asks, 'when will you find a special guy and give me grandchildren?'"

He was even out to many members of his masjid, "But I must be quiet to my imam, of course."

We spent so much time talking about being gay and Muslim in France that afternoon turned into evening.  We checked our guidebooks for a Moroccan restaurant in Treguier, came up empty, and went to a pizza place instead.

And then back to his hotel room.

Farshad turned out to have a hairy, nicely muscled physique.  After we kissed for awhile, he wanted to do anal, but I went down on his cut Mortadella+ until he pulled me into the interfemoral position and entered between my legs.  Then he helped me finish with his hand.

A nice surprise in Bretagne.

The next day, I drove on to Rennes, and Farshad continued his holiday.  We became Facebook friends.

Two years later, he helped found the first gay Muslim organization in France.  A gay-friendly mosque opened in 2012.