The Naked Goldenboys at Football Try-Outs

Rock Island, August 1975

"All entering sophomores invited to try out for junior varsity football," Dad reads from a brochure that came in the mail.

"That's nice," I say, immersed in a course catalog.  In just a few weeks, I'll be going to Rocky High, a mature, sophisticated, grown-up high schooler with tons of cool courses to choose from.

Arthurian Legend or Greek Mythology?
The Great Depression or The Civil War?
Advanced Spanish or Elementary Swedish?
I must have that course catalog memorized!

"You dropped out of wrestling and judo," he points out.  "You have to play some kind of sport in high school."

"Is that a rule?  I don't like sports. Besides, I'm going to be busy with orchestra, jump quiz, Spanish Club, Writers' Club..."

"Yes, it's a rule!  And stop pretending that you don't like sports.  You're a boy, aren't you?"

"Well...I wouldn't mind the track team, I guess."

"Why not football?"

"No way!" I exclaim.  "Football is gross!"  Of all the sports I hate, football is the worst.  Guys pounding each other into a pulp over some stupid little ball.  Why don't they just give everybody his own ball -- that way they wouldn't have to fight over it.

"Football players always get the cutest girls," Dad says, assuming that I, like "every boy," make decisions solely on their usefulness in acquiring girls.

"What kind of date can I go on in Intensive Care?"

"Don't get smart!  It won't hurt you to try out, at least."

When Dad says "Jump," you don't ask "How high?", you just jump.  I have no choice but to try out.

Rocky High is about 2 1/2 miles from my house, a straight shot down 18th Avenue to Longview Park, then left on 17th Street and down the hill.  I walk slowly, hoping to arrive too late.

I have only seen the high school from a distance.  Close up, it's vast and imposing, two huge limestone monoliths, a dozen outlying buildings, a huge parking lot.   Suddenly I feel very small.  How will I ever find my classes?  I was one of the top students at tiny, ordinary Washington Junior High, but here, surrounded by rich kids from the South Side, the children of Augustana professors...what if I...

Somehow I find the locker room.  It's deserted, silent except for the sound of a shower.  I walk over -- a heavily tanned, muscular guy, probably a senior, is soaping up.  Enormous penis.  But what I remember most is his trapezius, the muscle the goes across the top of the shoulder.  How did he ever get it so big?

I stand staring, open mouthed.  Is this what playing football is like?  Constant sausage sightings?

He smiles.  "You get lost, kid?"

"Um...I'm supposed to go to junior varsity football try-outs."

He points the way.

There are 30 guys already on the field, doing push-ups.  I know some of them from junior high -- well, knew of them, since they were too far above me on the social ladder to speak to.  They were the goldenboys who played every sport, led every school club, and presided over every assembly.  As handsome as Greek gods, and built, tall, broad shoulders, thick biceps, and huge hands.  They drank three cartons of milk at lunchtime, put their legs on the desk in front of them in class, came in late, left early without ever getting in trouble.  They could do no wrong: teachers and students alike were in love with them.

No doubt the other guys are goldenboys from their own junior highs.

I stand staring, open mouthed.  Is this what being on a football team is like?  Hanging out with Greek gods day after day?  Sitting with them in the cafeteria?  Pairing up with them for class projects?  Being invited to sleepovers at their house?

I'm in!  But wait -- that would mean playing football.  Gross!  There must be some way to hang out with goldenboys without having projectiles aimed at you!

 The Coach, a short, solidly built bulldog who will also be my gym teacher in the fall, takes my name, asks what position I want to play ("um...I dunno -- whatever he's playing"), and tells me to do push-ups..

 I haven't started weight training yet.  I can only do five.

Turns out we are just warming up.  After some sit-ups and jumping jacks, the real try-outs begin.  There are five tests.  After each, the coach walks up to a few of the guys, ones who did well and ones who didn't, and asks their names.

The Running Test.  I'm good at running -- I easily zip past most of the guys.  Only two pass me.

The Obstacle Course Test.  "Run in between these giant things as fast as you can without knocking them over."

Easy, and sort of fun.  This might not be so bad after all.

The Throwing Test.  I have never touched a football before in my life, let alone thrown one.  The projectile goes way to the left of the target I am aiming at.

The Catching Test.  A gigantic projectile hurled at me.  I missed it by a mile.

Ok, this isn't going well.  It's not worth hanging out with Golden Boys if you have to throw projectiles, or get them aimed at you!

The Tackling Test.  "Hurl yourself with all your strength at that big square blue thing."

Forget that!  I run around it.

After the coach finishes marking things on his clipboard, he says "You all did a great job.  Hit the showers, and then wait in the locker room for me to call your name.  I'll tell you whether you made it or not in private."

Showering with the Golden Boys is exciting -- a roomful of hard pecs, washboard abs, and gigantic Mortadellas.  And fun -- the guys tease each other, snap towels, pretend that they're going to grab each other's penises.
 
I want to be part of this group, get sausage sightings and penis-grabbing every day.  But then...shudder...I'd have to play football!

Most of us are still half-dressed, some still toweling off, when the Coach starts calling names, and taking the boys one by one back to his office.  Anderson... Angelo... Bates... Bergstrom...  Callohill....

"I'm not too worried," says the boy to my right, whose Mortadella+ I gawked at just a few minutes ago.  "There are 20 guys on the JV team, and 27 of us -- I counted.  That means 3/4ths of us make it."

My heart sinks.  What if I make it?  There must be a position that's all running and obstacle-course.  Then I'll spend my first semester at Rocky High getting pummelled!

"There's going to be a pizza party Friday after practice, for the ones who make the team," he continues.  "Maybe..."

At that moment the Coach calls my name and waits for me to approach. But we don't turn left, to his office, like the other boys.   We turn right.  He wraps his arm around my shoulders and leads me to a little caged room with athletic equipment in it.

"Boomer, I know you gave it your best shot, but not everyone is cut out to play football.  I can see how much you love the game, though, so I had an idea.  Do you have your Red Cross First Aid Certificate?"

"Sure.  I got it last year."

"Well, how would you like a job as an athletic trainer?  You'd be part of the team, just as valuable as the quarterback."

And I could hang out with goldenboys without getting pummeled every day!  

By the way, I eventually saw the Coach naked, too.

See also: My Crush on the Girl Next Door's Boyfriend; and I Get a Job as an Athletic Trainer.

The Worst Date in West Hollywood History

I have always been attracted to guys who are shorter, the shorter the better.  And muscular.  So when I got the number of the muscular, 4'0" Ryan at the Faultline in West Hollywood, it was a major triumph

Ryan was 26 years old, new in town, and newly out -- he had never been on a gay date before.  So I went a little overboard and arranged the most spectacular date in West Hollywood history.

1. Brunch at Geoffrey's in Malibu, where my celebrity boyfriend took me on our first date.
2. Down to the Del Rey Yacht Club, to go sailing with my celebrity friend Edson Stroll.
3. Meet Raul for the tea dance at Mickey's in West Hollywood
4. Dinner at the French Quarter
5. Meet Lee for an outdoor jazz concert at the L.A. County Museum of Art
6. Back home for physical activity (Lee and I had an agreement: we could "date" other guys, but all physical activity had to occur at home, with the other partner present)


Things started going wrong from the beginning:

1. It is raining, so brunch at Geoffrey's is cold and uncomfortable.

2. It is still raining, so instead of sailing, we go to Fisherman's Village in Marina Del Rey, a tacky tourist trap.  Where I trip over something -- I don't know what -- and twist my ankle, making walking difficult.

"Maybe a nice safe movie instead of the tea dance?"  I suggest.

"No, I need to be around other gay guys!"  Ryan insists.  "You can sit down, no problem."

3. Off to Mickey's.  It's nearly empty, due to the rain.  Ryan has 3 beers.  He weighs 100 pounds, so he's buzzed.  He starts making the rounds of the dance floor, cruising every Cute Young Thing in sight, while Raul keeps me company at a little table.  I fume with jealousy.


4. The French Quarter is packed.  There's a 45 minute wait for a table.  I suggest we go somewhere else, but Ryan insists "No, this is Gay Central!  I need to be here!"

He then insists that we have champagne.  I don't drink, so one glass is enough to get me buzzed.

The concert is cancelled due to the rain.  I try to contact Lee to make alternative plans.  No answer (this was before cell phones).

"Let's go to the Toy Tiger instead," Ryan suggests. "Lee will catch up to us eventually."

5.  It's a piano bar in Silverlake where they sing show tunes and torch songs.  I hate show tunes and torch songs, but Ryan loves them.  He sings along to "The Man I Love," "You Can't Get a Man with a Gun," "Strangers in the Dark."

He's 26 years old.  Where did he learn all of these old chestnuts?

He has a Mai Tai, whatever that is.  His voice get slurry.

I try Lee again.  No answer.

 After two hours of show tunes and torch songs, I drag Ryan out onto the street.  We can't find the car.  Has it been stolen?  Has it been towed?  It's too much trouble to deal with tonight.  I call a friend to pick us up.

6.  We finally get back to the house.  I'm exhausted, in pain, worried about my car, in no mood for physical activity, and besides, we have to wait for Lee.

But Ryan starts kissing and undressing me.  Maybe something will go right on this date!  We go into the bedroom

Where I promptly fall asleep.

It's official: the Worst Date in West Hollywood History!

By the way, Lee had been waiting for us at the Faultline, my car had been towed, and I didn't see Ryan again

S

My Celebrity Boyfriend

West Hollywood, January 1987

When I moved to West Hollywood in 1985, I found that half of the residents were aspiring actors, directors, writers, models, dancers, or singers.  Most of my friends and acquaintances had been in something, and some had been in several things.

I've had hookups and dates  with several celebrities, or at least people who are listed in the Internet Movie Database, but I've only been in a relationship with one.

No real names because he's still closeted, and  I don't want to get sued -- how crazy is it that in 2015, you can be sued for slander for "accusing" someone of being gay.

But I can tell you that he's a couple of years older than me, tall and slim, with dark hair and dark eyes.  He was most famous at the time for an adventure tv series which I watched at Indiana University in the early 1980s, but since then he's starred in a cop show and appeared in some soap operas. Shouldn't be hard to figure out.


The Meeting:

We met at the post office at Christmastime in 1986, a few days after my fight and sort-of-breakup with my boyfriend Raul.  He was standing in line in front of me, carrying a large package.  I said "that's one enormous package.  And the box you're mailing is pretty big, too."  He laughed. (In the 1980s, "package" was slang for the visible bulge that sex organs make in tight pants.)

I told him I worked for Joe Weider's Muscle and Fitness, and asked if he would be available for the June centerfold.  He laughed again.

I gave him my telephone number, and said I was getting ready to leave for two weeks in Rock Island, but maybe we could get together afterwards.

You know dating in West Hollywood -- if you're not available right that moment, forget it.  There are lots of other guys around.  So I figured I would never hear from him again.

But when I called my roommate Alan on Christmas Day, he told me that the Celebrity had left a message.

We talked later, and made a date for January 10th, 1987.






The First Date:
I wore a thin silk shirt to show off my pecs, which was a mistake -- the Celebrity planned an "impress your date" dinner at Geoffrey's, on the beach at Malibu.  The temperature was in the 50s, with a wind whipping through me, and we dined al fresco.  And the Celebrity insisted that I have the chilled peach soup.  I turned down the invitation to "see his place," went home, and crawled under an electric blanket.

Ok, the first date was a bust.  I figured I would never hear from him again.

But he called the next day, and invited me to play tennis.

The Second Date:

I have played tennis maybe six times in my life.  I am terrible at it!  But how could I make any worse of an impression?

We played on a public court in Beverly Hills, with half of the Hollywood glitterati watching me stumble and trip, and bat the ball into the stratosphere, and land hard on my knee, requiring a trip to the emergency room.

Ok, the second date was a bust.  This was it for my celebrity romance!

But he called later and invited me to dinner at his house.

The Third Date:

The Celebrity lived in a rather modest house in the Hollywood Hills: only two bedrooms, a small swimming pool that was really more of a hot tub, no tennis court (thank goodness!).  He had two dogs, a Scottish Terrier and a Swedish Valhund, who sometimes took him to dog shows.

In West Hollywood, the third date meant that you were together, a couple.  But we hadn't even gotten to the bedroom yet.  And what if celebrities had their own rules?  I didn't know what to expect.

Dinner was chicken piccata, a green salad, and white wine.  I hadn't told him that I didn't drink, and anxious not to make any more faux-pas, I drank it, and got a little buzzed.

Then we went into the living room, watched a movie on his new VHS player, and eventually made it to the bedroom.

This is Christopher Atkins, not my Celebrity Boyfriend, but it will give you an idea of his physique: lean, firm, not terribly muscular, average or perhaps a little small beneath-the-belt.

But very cute, and energetic, willing to keep going all night.

Neither of us said anything in the morning, but I assumed that we were now together.

The Relationship:

During the next two  months, the Celebrity and I went out only twice more, once to see the opera Porgy and Bess at the Wiltern, and once for brunch at one of those top-floor restaurants where the spectacular views give you vertigo and the entrees start at $100. Otherwise we played tennis (again!), hung out in his pool, walked his dogs, and had Chinese or Thai food delivered while we watched movies on his VCR.

And cuddled and kissed. The Celebrity could cuddle for hours. 

He came over for dinner with my roommate Alan and ex-boyfriend Raul once.  I never met any of his friends.

In March I asked him about it.  He said, "Tell you what.  We'll host a party.  15 of my friends, and 15 of your friends.  That way everybody will get to know each other all at once."

The Last Party

On March 30th, 1987, the Celebrity and I hosted a post-Oscar party.  I invited Alan, Tranh, Raul, and two celebrities, Michael J. Fox and Tom Villard, to prove that I had famous friends, too (they didn't come).  The Celebrity invited several actors and a director.  I figured they were all gay, but as the evening progressed, some of them turned out to be hetero.

I thought I was being an excellent host, refilling drinks, pointing out the direction of the bathroom, answering questions like "how long have you two been together?" and "what are you guys planning for the summer?"  As guests left, I told them "Thanks for coming!"

But maybe I was too cruisy. In West Hollywood, parties tend to be exclusively gay, so light-hearted cruising, pretending to be interested, is customary.  Maybe that embarrassed the Celebrity. Or maybe he was jealous.

Or maybe he had been thinking of us as a "down-low" fling, not as a couple.

He was fine in bed that night, sharing the Director and then Alan, but the next day he didn't call, and when I called him, I got his answering machine.  During the next week, three messages and a drop-in went unanswered, and when I finally got through to him, he was "really busy."  Finally  I moved on.

Alan dated him soon after..

I just heard from him recently.  He said "thanks for not outing me," told me that he remembered the breakup being mutual, and complained that he wasn't on my Sausage List.

See also: My Celebrity Boyfriend and I Share; Guess Which Celebrities I've Dated; and Alan's Top 20 Scenes

High School Graduation: Getting Down with a Dude

Rock Island, May 1978

My brother Ken wasn't the only one who seemed to "know" in the winter and spring of 1978, my senior year at Rocky High, as I studied for AP exams and filled out college applications.  It seemed that I spent the whole semester protesting "No way am I a Swish!"

1. Darry (below), who explored the ghost of Davenport House with me, gave me a portable chess set for Christmas, with the card saying: "You'll need this for your honeymoon with Xaviera Hollander."

Xaviera Hollander was a New York City madame who told about her exclusive brothel in an autobiography, The Happy Hooker.  She was widely recognized as the most beautiful woman in the world.  Why would I need a chess set for my honeymoon with her?  Obviously because we wouldn't be having sex!








2. My Career Planning teacher assigned the Strong Interest Inventory, which matched you to jobs based on a series of Zen paradoxes: would you prefer to draw maps or feed zebras,  solve people’s problems or drive race cars, chop wood or program computers? When the results came, I was a good match for journalist, chemist, historian, and astronomer.

And female lawyer.  But not male lawyer.

Hot with rage, I stormed up to the teacher.  “This test thinks I’m a Swish!” I yelled.

With the offending score under his nose, he stumbled around for a few moments and finally came up with an excuse:  "Male and female lawyers draw on different sets of skills. The men are more aggressive,  and the ladies are more nurturing."  He looked up at me with watery wounded eyes.  "It doesn't mean that you have homo...homosexual tendencies or anything."

3. After the Sunday evenings service, the teens gathered for "Afterglow," a sort of party with games, Gospel music, and snacks.  Since it counted as a date, the ten or fifteen minutes between altar call and Afterglow was filled with preening, evaluating, and drama.

Church royalty usually had many invitations to choose from, especially Debbie, who was spoiled, snooty, and arrogant.  So I was surprised when she approached me with three of her cronies in tow, pressed her flat palm hard against my chest, and commanded, “You’re taking me to Afterglow.”

When I refused, she stared open-mouthed for a moment, as if she had never heard such nonsense, and then said "Figures.  I knew he was a Swish."  Her cronies giggled with delight.

4. For a skit in Spanish class, my female partner and I pretended to be parked at a lover’s lane. I took her in my arms, and an accomplice cut the lights, giving us time to muss our hair and clothes as if we had been necking. It wasn’t supposed to be funny, but the class roared.

Later my friend Tom, who would invite me to visit him in Los Angeles two years later, explained: “It was just the idea of you with a girl!”

I thought he meant a Nazarene, forbidden anything past first base, but now I realized that he thought I didn't like girls, so the sight of me pretending to kiss one was hilarious.

5. Craig, who went streaking with me in junior high, invited me to his graduation party.  "There'll be mattresses in the basement," he said, "In case you want to get down with. . .um. . .anybody."

Surely he meant "with a girl." He would be shocked and outraged if I used the mattress to get down with a dude.

Wouldn't he?

But he did say "get down with...um...anybody."

No way was I a Swish!