Thursday, October 24, 2024
Tuesday, October 22, 2024
I Cheat on My Boyfriend with a Goblin
In December 1979, when I was a sophomore at Augustana College, I got my first actual boyfriend: Fred, 27 years old, a graduate of McCormick Theological Seminary taking his internship year at the First United Methodist Church in Rock Island.
After Christmas I started spending two or three evenings a week with Fred -- dinner (he cooked), tv, and sex, then rushing home at 11:00 pm to tell my parents I had been studying late at the library.
By March I had introduced them to Fred, and was openly spending the night on Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.
In June we moved to Omaha together. After an execrable six weeks, we broke up, but stayed friends for the rest of his life.
Fred actually was from the Quad Cities, or nearby; he grew up in the small town of Aledo, about 30 miles south, and got his undergraduate degree in psychology at Knox College in Galesburg. He was still in contact with several of his Quad Cities friends, some that knew he was gay, some that didn't.
One who did was Dale Schaefer-Shit (his real name, except for the shit part), a nasty little goblin, about 3 feet high, with a very thick, heavy torso, very long, hairy arms, long sharp claws, an ugly, warty face, pointy ears, green skin, prehensile toes, a tail...Ok, he looked more like the top photo: Fred's age, tall, buffed, with a black beard and a hairy chest. But I always imagined him as a goblin.
I arrived at Fred's apartment, across the river in Davenport, about 4:30 pm -- dinner was at 5:00 pm, standard for the Midwest -- and at least once a week, often more than that, Dale Schaefer-Shit was there. Apparently he had some sort of late-night goblin job with the city, so he got up around 2:00 pm, and came to visit Fred in the late afternoon to do morning-type activities.
Sometimes he was sitting at the kitchen table, slurping on Cheerios.
Sometimes he was on the couch, watching Captain Ernie's Cartoon Showboat.
Sometimes he was coming out of the bathroom, toweling off after a shower, naked, his hairy chest glistening, his cock and balls dangling between his legs.
I should have been turned on, but I wasn't. Seeing Dale Schaefer-Shit made me angry. I could be in a perfectly good mood, on top of the world, but when I walked in and saw the goblin, my hackles raised. There was just something about him that seemed unclean, disturbing. Evil.
I do not love thee, Doctor Fell.
The reason why, I cannot tell.
But this one thing, I know full well.
I do not love thee, Doctor Fell.
Where did Fred, the ministerial intern, the theologian, the trained pastoral counselor, even meet that creepy little gremlin?
"He's my oldest friend. We grew up together. We were both in the same Cub Scout troop. We went to sleepovers together, and trick-or-treating on Halloween."
With that face, he must have gotten a lot of candy...
"We called each other Flintstone and Rubble, because my name is Fred. He's the first one I told when I realized that I was gay."
I get it...he was your shadow-self, the yang to your yin, the darkness to your light, the squirrelly snivelly Gollum to your Frodo.
"Well, he strikes me as...um.." A nasty little gremlim! "As sort of creepy."
"He's a little on the shy side, but he's a good guy, really."
"Um...hi..." I said tentatively.
"Fred's not here -- something held him up." He laughed at a secret joke. "Sit down. Want some blanket?"
I couldn't think of any way around it, so I kicked off my shoes, threw my raincoat on the floor, and sat down next to Dale Schaefer-Shit. I pulled the blanket over my legs. He slurped down the rest of his cereal and put the bowl aside.
"Hey, Boomer maybe you can help me. I've always wondered about something, and Fred's too square to talk about it. What do gay guys do in bed? Like rub your cocks together?"
I should have said "None of your business," but Dale Schaefer-Shit had dark mystical powers. I don't think I had a choice. "Sometimes we do that. Fred's favorite thing is Greek, which is plowing into your butt, but he's too big for me. I like French, which means giving the guy a b.j."
He flashed an evil grin. "No kidding? You suck his cock? Well, I see why Fred likes that, but what do you like about it?" I felt a hairy leg brush against mine. Schaefer-Shit was wearing short pants -- or naked...
Startled, and inexplicably getting aroused, I stammered "Um...I get a lot out of it. It's totally erotic...getting a guy off."
"Yeah? Cool! I've got blow jobs before, with girls, but I never gave one." He grabbed my hand under the blanket and pushed it against his naked, hairy cock. I instinctively began masturbating him.
"I'll bet gay guys do it better, though. You know what it feels like." He grabbed me by the neck and pushed me down toward his crotch.
I got on my knees, stuck my head under the blanket, and took Schaefer-Shit's goblin dick down my throat. It was average sized but hard as a rock, and covered with short hairs, like it had just been shaved.
It wasn't pleasant -- like having a hairy rock prodding at me -- so after awhile I moved on to his balls. They were huge, what they used to call "bull balls."
I licked and sucked them -- one was a mouthful -- while beating him off, then returned to his cock in time for him to excrete a mouthful of lukewarm, salty goblin semen.
He pulled his pants up and found his shirt, and I returned to my place next to him on the couch. We turned on the tv and watched a game show wordlessly. Gradually my will power returned, and I realized that I had just sucked the cock of a vile little goblin.
"Don't tell Fred about this," I said, my eyes on the screen.
"Oh, no problem. I can keep a secret. I'm full of secrets."
Soon Fred appeared, carrying a grocery bag. "You guys been watching tv?" he asked suspiciously.
"I've been keeping Boomer warm for you," Schaefer-Shit said. "But now I have to go to work. See ya, Flintstone."
"Bye, Rubble."
The next time I saw him, the little goblin went back to his habit of ignoring me.
Good.
Good.
I never told Fred what happened that day.
Good.
Many years later, Fred revealed that he had been cheating on me with Schaefer-Shit. Those times I ran into the little snivelly creep coming out of the shower, he had just been in the bedroom, being screwed by my boyfriend.
I didn't blame Fred. Schaefer-Shit had some kind of weird dark magic, and could get you to do what he wanted.
"Sometimes I didn't have a chance to clean up afterwards," Fred added, "So when you went down on me later, my cock had been inside...well, you know."
Yeah, I know. Inside a goblin's butt.
Monday, October 21, 2024
A Gay Romance on "Barnaby Jones"
The cold, windy Thursday night four days before Halloween, during my senior year at Rocky High.
The family has gathered in front of the tv set, as usual: the tv is on every night from dinnertime to bedtime, a backdrop to all of our other activities.
7:00: Welcome Back, Kotter. I look up briefly to see Horshak (Ron Pallilo) explain, yet again, that his name means "The cattle are dying."
7:30: What's Happening!. I look up briefly to check out Haywood Nelson's butt and bulge.
At 9:00, I turn off the tv and start doing homework. A few moments later, my brother Ken comes clomping up the stairs. "You'll never guess what they're watching down there!" he exclaims. "Barnaby Jones!"
"You're kidding -- Jed Clampett as a private eye?" The oldster detective is played by the star of the Beverly Hillbillies.
"And Catwoman is his secretary!" Lee Meriwether, who plays Barnaby's daughter-in-law, was Catwoman on Batman.
"That's crazy. Is their rival detective Scooby-Doo!"
Ken laughs. "Don't take my word for it -- you have to watch to see how terrible it is."
"Old people tv!" I complain. "No way!" My friends would rib me unmercifully if they found out I had watched something as lame as Barnaby Jones!
Ignoring me, he flips the tv on, and clicks the dial to CBS.
"You're the man for me!" Muscle Shirt says.
"Let's not get carried away!" Tight-Jeans protests.
"This looks good...I mean, awful." I stammer.
Looking back, I'm surprised that I didn't "figure it out" moment. But no, I absolutely did not connect I want to see those guys kiss! with gay.
"What did I tell you?" Ken flips the tv set off, flops down on his bed, and opens a math textbook.
What about Muscle Shirt, with his baseball-sized biceps and the romantic plaint of "You're the man for me?" He must have been a guest star.
Before the days of the internet, there is no way to track down the episode. I'll have to wait for summer reruns.
But during the summer, I am working at the Carousel Snack Bar on Thursday nights. The scene of gay romance is lost forever.
Asher Brauner has been in a few movies of gay interest: he played "Buddy" in Alexander: the Other Side of Dawn (1977), about a teenage runaway who becomes a hustler, and "Ted," in the gay-themed Making Love.
He played the hero in the Indiana Jones spoof Treasure of the Moon Goddess (1987), and a man-mountain who takes out entire countries in American Eagle (1989) and Merchants of War (1989).
And he was the hero of a gay romance that I misread 30 years ago on Barnaby Jones.
The Rich Kid and the Muscle Bear: Dumped by Richie Rich
I was at Indiana University to get my M.A. in English, but on a campus that offered Elementary Lithuanian, Sufi Poets, Mongolian Civilization, and Serbo-Croatian Epics, who could stand still for dull William Wordsworth?
In the fall of 1983, I enrolled in Tibetan Culture (for both graduate and undergraduate students), and one of my classmates was Richie Rich.
Not his real name, of course: In Harvey comics, Richie Rich was a blond in a Lord Fauntleroy costume whose infinite wealth caused an infinite number of problems.
This Richie Rich was a slim, tanned blond who was majoring in Central Asian Studies, mostly to annoy his Dad, a state senator who played golf with President Reagan. and consistently voted anti-abortion, anti-Russia, and anti-gay.
Richie was vehemently opposed to his father's politics, but he didn't mind the infinite wealth. He spent every summer at the beach house on Cape Cod. He drove a new Jaguar. He spend hundreds of dollars on bohemian-chic fashions. He always looked like he was trying out for a road tour of Fame.
Richie wasn't really my type: he was tall, thin, and blond, and even in 1983 I preferred short, dark, and muscular.
But he was interested in religion, and he was...well, rich, two points in his favor.
I wouldn't mind discussing Buddhism, Hinduism, and Zoroastrianism while tooling around in Richie's Jaguar, or spending the week in his summer house on Cape Cod.
So I cruised Richie Rich at Bullwinkle's. He was attentive, even flirtatious, allowing me to grope him and fondle his chest. But before I could go any farther, he said "Well, see you in class," and vanished.
I invited him to my Halloween party in October, but he didn't come.
He was a Unitarian, so one Sunday in November, I visited his church -- no Richie Rich.
The next day in class, I said "I went to your church yesterday."
His eyes widened. "What for?"
I took Russian Folklore instead of Tibetan in the spring 1984 semester, but, having just broken up with Jimmy the Bodybuilder on Crutches, I was even more eager to land a new boyfriend, preferably Richie Rich.
But what would attract his attention?
A church founded by and for gay people! Richie wanted to see that!
The nearest MCC was in Louisville, Kentucky, about two hours south of Bloomington. Roy the Farmboy and I visited last year, and I spent the night with the preacher, Brother Reid: a tall, bearded bear in his 40s.
Brother Reid was into Cute Young Things, and would certainly cruise Richie. To avoid the competition, I rented us a hotel room for Saturday night.
We would drive up on Saturday, have dinner, go to the bars, spend the night, then get up on Sunday, go to church, and head for home.
Foolproof, right? I would certainly have Richie Rich in my bed, where my superlative physique and expert sexual technique would win him as my boyfriend!
The trip down to Louisville went great, except that Richie insisted that we take my car -- he didn't want his Jaguar to get dirty. We talked, laughed, discussed Buddhism, flirted with a local boy at a rural gas station.
We had dinner at a Mexican place, and then went to the Discovery, a gay disco.
Mostly gay men, a scattering of lesbians and what looked like one heterosexual couple.
We hit the dance floor, and I tried to hug Richie again, but he moved away from me.
After awhile, I saw him dancing with an older guy, Brother Reid's age, a husky muscle bear with a black beard and a thick mat of chest hair, damp from dancing.
They had no problem hugging -- and kissing!
I went to the bar, bought a coke, and pulled Richie from the clench. "Here's your drink."
"Thanks," he said, taking it from me while gazing into the eyes of the bear.
"Hi, my name is Boomer. You guys are really hitting it off."
"Pleased to meet you," the bear said without looking at me. They went back to kissing.
Jealous, outraged, I rushed to the nearest guy, a balding but buffed sleazoid in his 30s, and started cruising him. After a moment, I looked over to see if it was having an effect.
Richie and the Bear were both gone!
I waited for an hour. There were no cell phones in those days, so I couldn't call.
There was nothing to do but invite the sleazoid back to my hotel room and expend all my frustration on energetic, uninhibited oral and even some Greek. Then I kicked him out.
Richie appeared in the morning, just as I was getting ready to call the police, all blustery and happy about the guy he tricked with last night.
I was furious. You don't just dump guys at a bar. Especially your date!
Ever since then, I have had an unbreakable rule: when you go out with someone, friend, boyfriend, hookup, or date, you stay with them to the end of the evening. You can make dates for later, or you can share, but no abandoning them to pursue some guy.
You're probably wondering how church went.
He cruised Brother Reid.
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