10 problems with liking men in suits

There are some definite problems with having a special interest in men in suits.

1. They are garments designed erase any hint of the man's physicality.  Women's outfits show curves and cleavage, and bare arms and backs, but men's outfits make their bodies invisible (obviously some sexist stereotyping going on).  So unless they're very buffed or aroused, you have no idea what's going on under the gabardine.

2.  Half the time, when you think you see a bulge, it's not actually their cock.

3. Men generally wear suits when they are busy with work or at a formal event, where they're unable or unwilling to cruise, and might not even recognize your interest.   So it's hard to meet them that way.

4. If you do manage to meet them while they're in a suit, 90% of the time they'll show up for the date dressed "casually," in a bicep-displaying shirt and bulge-displaying jeans

5. If they do show up in a suit for some reason -- they came directly from work, or you're going to a party at Andrew Lloyd Weber's house -- I guarantee that they will take it off and carefully hang it up before beginning any sexual act. No way this is happening.

More after the break.

My Date with Santa Claus

San Francisco, December 1996

It was Christmastime, one of the years when I couldn't make it back to the Midwest, so I was even more depressed than usual.  To cheer me up, my friend David dragged me to the Bear Party (for husky guys and their admirers) held every Saturday night in a house South of Market in San Francisco.

As we wandering through the upstairs lounge area, where guys were chatting and eating Christmas cookies and drinking egg nog to "Jingle Bell Rock," David exclaimed "Look -- it's Santa Claus."

The guy he pointed out did look like Santa Claus, except for the jeans and red suspenders -- in his 60s, tall, thick muscular arms going to fat, a chubby belly, a white beard, his chest covered with white fur.  He was sitting on a leather couch, talking animatedly to a friend.

"Come on, let's go sit on Santa's lap!"

David was 43 years old, recently out, and anxious to try everything with everybody, but I was a little more picky,

"He's not into it!" I exclaimed.  Some guys came to the Bear Parties just to socialize with friends.  If you wanted sexual activity, you went down to the basement, where there were three rooms of mazes, mattresses, and dungeons.  "Besides, my idea of Santa Claus is a little younger, with a bodybuilder's physique."

"Don't tell me you never fantasized about Santa sliding down your chimney!"

"No, I can't say that I have."

"Scrooge!"  David dragged me across the room and knelt in front of Santa like a supplicant at an altar.  Smiling, he unzipped -- a very thick Kielbasa.  The friend made himself scarce.

While David worked, I sat next to Santa and fondled his chest and nipples.  He put a thick arm around me and drew me into a whiskery kiss.  It was all I could do to stifle a giggle as the song "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" played in my head.

David pushed my hand down onto Santa's penis, but I was a little weirded out and moved away.

After a few minutes, Santa zipped up and drew us both into bear hugs.

"Thank you, young man -- I had resigned myself to no erotic activity tonight -- you see, my knees aren't what they used to be, so I can't make it down the stairs.  But such things are forbidden in this part of the house.  Would you and your friend care to come back to my apartment?  By the way, my name is Bearnárd, with an accent grave.

"Well..."  David never felt that a Bear Party was a success until he'd been with at least five guys.

"I have wassail, and spiced apples, far superior to the Safeway gingerbread they're serving here. And condoms," he added with a wink.

"Sure, why not."

I didn't feel like going, but you should always bring someone along on a hookup.  I followed them out the door.

On the way home, Bearnárd told us that he majored in biology at Harvard, but now he wrote fantasy novels about King Arthur and his twin brother Mordred, one good, one evil, locked in an apocalyptic battle.

"They sell very well -- I've been called a new Tolkien, if that is in fact a complement."

"Any gay characters?" I asked pointedly.

"Oh, tons.  Of course, they didn't have the concept of gay in the Middle Ages, but there are many languorous looks between comrades in arms."

 Bearnárd's apartment in the Castro was completely Medievalized.  There were suits of armor, tapestries, halberds, and heavy oak tables.  He told us that he drew inspiration from the king's room in the Tower of London.

He did have a wassail bowl, full of hot apple cider and sliced apples, peaches, pears, and raisins, which we drew into bowls and ate like soup.

 Bearnárd changed into a red silk bathrobe which made him look even more like Santa Claus, and invited us to get naked, which made sitting on hard wooden benches rather uncomfortable.  He told us about the pagan origin of the yule log, the Christmas tree, the wassail bowl, chestnuts roasting over an open fire, and "Twelve Days of Christmas."

I had already heard of most of it, but Bearnárd acted as if it was an amazing revelation.

"And Saint Nicholas himself was no Madison Avenue marketing ploy, but the Wild Man of the Hunt, revered throughout Europe from prehistoric times, gone undercover when Christianity took control."

David and I exchanged pained expressions.  Who knew that Santa Claus was such a talker?

Trying to change the subject, I said "I know a guy in L.A. who went to Harvard.  My friend Fred's ex, Matt.  He majored in French and German."

"Matt, you say?  What's the surname?"

I told him.

"I may have tricked with him.  I go to all the alumni events, you see.  Cute boy, but completely insane!"

Time to take the bull by the horns, as it were.  I walked across the room, knelt, opened the red silk robe, and went down on Santa Claus.

He pulled my head up.  "My boy, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but there's plenty of time for that later!  We must listen to some music first.  I have Charpentier's Noels por les instruments."

We left the Bear Party at a little after 9:00 pm.  It was after midnight when we finally got into Bearnárd's bed.  And then it was mostly watching and fondling while David went down on him.

It took an hour to finish.  Several false starts.

But at least I can now say that I've been with Santa Claus.

The next day I called Matt and asked if he knew Bearnárd.

"The fantasy writer?  Sure -- we dated when I was a senior.  Well, not much of a date.  Not a lot going on in the bedroom.  And talk, talk, talk.  That man, il est tout fou!".

See also: 8 Harvard Yard Hookups; The Slave Boy of Market Street.

Yuri and I Go to Amsterdam to Visit the Horsemen's Club

Amsterdam, June 2017

June has been a month for visiting old friends, or having them visit me -- first David, then Lane, and now Yuri, who I met in grad school in New York in 1997.  He's an atmospheric scientist, 43 years old, short and rather buffed, smooth chest, bright open face, thick brown hair.  No wrinkles, no grey hair, could easily pass for 30.  He must have a picture in an attic somewhere.

He lives in London, but I usually arrange to meet him somewhere else in Europe: Minsk in 2009, Paris and Amsterdam in 2011, Iceland last October.  And now Amsterdam again.

Except this year we'll be in town for the Horsemen's Club!

It used to meet every Sunday afternoon at the Argos Bar on Warmoesstraat: a club for men with at least 20 centimeters (about 8 inches) -- they measured you at the door. No sex, but a lot of groping, fondling, and cruising.

Then they changed it to big men and their admirers.  Everyone was welcome, but 20+ centimeters got in free.  And they allowed safe sex.

I used to go every year, but now that it only meets on the third Sunday of the month, it's hard to arrange trips to coincide with it.  This year, though, I arrange my vacation with Yuri to be in Amsterdam on June 18th.

Thursday

My flight to Amsterdam arrives at 8:15 am.  I take the train to the Central Station  and go cruising at Drake's Boutique on Damrak, near the Oude Kirk.    I go down on three guys: older, wearing a business suit; a burly truck-driver type; and a tall, slim Asian guy.

If it's this busy in the morning, what's it like at 9:00 pm?

Yuri arrives at 11:30.  We have lunch and then take the train to Utrecht, an hour away, to visit my Suriname friend Eli: 29 years old, very dark skin, handsome face, average penis.

He takes us on a city tour, and to dinner at Djakarta, an Indonesian restaurant, then back to his apartment for "sharing."  He's into kissing and cuddling, but also an anal top.  After I go down on him, he tops Yuri.

I'm too jetlagged to pay much attention.

Friday

 After breakfast, we take the train back to Amsterdam and check into our hotel, which is right next door to the Nieuwe Kirke.  We visit the Rijksmuseum and the Stedelijk Museum of Modern Art, work out at Health City, and then go to PRIK and Dirty Dicks.

We "share" a tall, thin twink from Germany who has a Mortadella+: Yuri and I take turns kissing him and going down on him, and then he goes down on us at the same time.

Afterwards we go to The Eagle, a leather cruise bar, and pick up Eser, a Turkish bear in his 30s with a hairy chest, hairy arms, a small belly, and a cut Kielbasa.  He lets me go down on him while he's kissing Yuri, and then he tops Yuri while he's going down on me (try it).

Saturday

We go to the Rembrandt House, the Museum Van Loon, and the Tropenmuseum, and go jogging at Ooster Park.

Eser meets us for dinner at Montmatre, and takes us cruising at Spijker and the Web.  Yuri and I go to the dark room and kiss while guys we can't see are going down on us.  

Then Eser invites us both back to his apartment to "share" his hookup: Paul, a French otter (slim with a hairy chest), in his 20s, with a long face and a Bratwurst+.

I go down on Paul while Yuri is going down on Eser, and then we switch positions.  Surprisingly, Paul turns out to be into anal, so he tops Yuri (with a condom, of course).  Eser asks to top me, but I refuse; instead, I talk him into interfemoral.

Afterwards we return to our hotel.

Sunday

I go to services at the Old Lutheran Church while Yuri works out, and then we meet for lunch at a Thai place.

"The Horsemen's Club open at 3:00," I tell him.  "I can't wait -- it's been too long!"

Yuri looks down at his plate.  "Maybe you will go alone.  I will go to the Bijbels Museum and meet you later."

Huh?  "But the Horsemen's Club is the reason we came to Amsterdam!"  I'm not a big fan of the city overall -- it's dirty, rundown, a little rough, very sleazy, and there are entirely too many drunk and high foreigners making fools of themselves.

"The reason you came, maybe.  I came here to see you."

"But...you're totally into bigger guys!  If it's under 8 inches, you throw it back!"

"Yes, but..."

"Is it because of your size?  I don't measure up either, but I always got in, even when it was 20 centimeters only.  Now it's open to all big guys and their admirers."

"My size is good, thanks."

"Your age?  So you're in your 40s.  I'm 56 years.  Being older is only a problem if you don't like twinks cruising you all the time."

"My age is good, too.  But...since we came here, I am topped four times.  That is more than usually for me in a month.  My butt is sore, and I am tired.  It is too much cruising.  On our last day in Amsterdam.  I want to do quiet, peaceful things."

So we go to Vondel Park and look at the cute guys running shirtless through the grass.

We go to a street market, where I buy a 19th century ex libris plate.

We stop for ice cream.

We browse in the Book Exchange.

In the evening we stay in our hotel room and watch tv.

Best day in Amsterdam ever.

See also: I Become a Birthday Present at the Horseman's Club

There's a Picture of Me and a Girl on My Parents' Dresser

Rock Island High School, Senior Year

Younger gay guys are often shocked to discover that I used to date girls. "Are you bisexual?" they ask. "Were you trying to 'turn' straight?"  Was it a screen, so no one would find out?" 

"No."

"Then...why?"

I think for a long time, wondering myself.   But in the end there's only one answer: "I had no choice."

During my childhood in the 1970s, heterosexual desire was assumed universal human experience.  Little boys might think "girls are icky!," but once they hit puberty, they would "discover the opposite sex," become obsessed with feminine curves and smiles.  Period.  No exceptions.  End of story.

So from birth relatives, teachers, preachers, coaches, camp counselors, judo instructors, Mean Boys, and friends subjected me to a flurry of interrogations: "Do you like girls yet?", by which they meant "Have you grown up?  Are you a man?"

When I turned 13, then 14, then 15, pubescent, yet still protesting a lack of interest, they shifted their tactics.  I was obviously "wild about girls," like every boy who ever existed. I just needed to find one who was my "type."  So they demanded: "Do you like that girl?  Or that one?  Or that one?"

They asked "What girl do you like?" more often than "How are you?"  I went to sleep each night with the interrogation ringing in my ears: "What girl do you like?  What girl do you like?  What girl? What girl?"

When I was hesitant about answering, or answered with the name of a head cheerleader too far out of my league to realistically pursue as a girlfriend, they -- literally everyone I knew -- tried to fix me up.

My father invited coworkers with teenage daughters over for dinner. Teachers assigned me female partners for projects.  Friends orchestrated chance meetings.  I was seated next to girls in the car, invited to parties only to discover that a "date" had been arranged for me, asked to fetch a book from a girl's house.  When the waitress smiled for her tip, I was advised "She likes you -- ask her out."

During high school, I succumbed to dates with 8 girls, including Julie, my date to the Senior Prom.

Everyone was going.  And during the spring semester, no one could talk about anything else. Finals, graduation, college plans?  Who cares!  Let's talk about corsages, tuxedos, dance steps, limousines, and fancy, expensive dinners at Jumer's Castle Lodge (which had rooms to rent upstairs, they told me with a leer).

Everyone wanted to know who I was bringing.  Friends I hadn't talked to in years accosted me in the hallway to ask "what girl?" "what girl?" "what girl?"

But...I didn't have a girlfriend!



"Ask someone -- anyone!  You have to go!  It's a rite of passage, the beginning of adulthood."

But...my church deemed dancing a sin, so surely my parents would never give me permission!

They did.  "Go! Stay out as late as you want! It will be the most important evening of your life!"

But...I didn't want to ask a girl!

My brother took care of that, fixing me up with an 11th grader named Julie, who was thrilled by the promise of hanging out with seniors.

It wasn't that bad.  We shared a limousine with Aaron (the rabbi's son who didn't realize that he was gay), Darry, and their dates, so it was much like a group of friends hanging out together.

This was the disco era, so we didn't need to touch as we danced to "Disco Inferno" and "Do You Believe in Magic."   It was easy enough to turn slightly and pretend to be dancing with a guy. And when we came to a slow number, like "You Belong to Me" by Carly Simon, I suddenly felt a desperate need for punch and cookies.

The only thing I hated was the slap-on-back congratulations, as if having Julie on my arm was the pinnacle of accomplishment.  I had fulfilled the hopes, dreams, and aspirations of everyone I knew!  No more uncertainty, no more sleepless nights of worry -- I had arrived.

There was a photographer, so Julie and I were photographed, me in my brown suit and Julie in her yellow dress.  20-wallet sized to send to all of our friends and relatives, and a full-size for the mantle.

After having dinner at Jumer's Castle Lodge and ignoring offers to get a room, I had the limo deposit Julie on her doorstep, with a "Thanks for a nice evening" but no kiss.  I never saw her again.

 But my parents put that picture on the mantle, amid pictures of me and my brother and sister and uncles and aunts and grandparents.

It stayed there, me and a girl smiling at the world, after I figured it out, after I dated Fred the Preacher and the Priest with the Pushy Mom and the cute cultist

It stayed there, me in a brown suit and a girl I never saw again, while I was living in Bloomington and Texas, discussing my date with the bodybuilder and my trip to India with Viju and my trip to Italy to track down my high school crush.

One day in frustration I took it down and hid it in a drawer in my room, but the next year it returned like the raven in the Edgar Allan Poe poem, chortling "Nevermore!"

It stayed there when I moved to West Hollywood,  telling my parents all about dating Alan and Raul and my celebrity boyfriend and my date with Richard Dreyfuss.

Why did my parents leave it up?  What were they trying to say?  What were they trying to believe?

This isn't the photo

Finally, in the summer of 1988, a decade after my prom date, it vanished from the mantle, replaced by an Isabel Bloom sculpture. 

Thank God! I exclaimed.

Sometime during the 1990s, a picture of me and my partner Lee appeared on the mantle, in a group photo with my brother and sister and their spouses.  I figured that the prom photo was gone for good.  But no...

Rock Island, December 1994

During a Christmas visit,  my mother asked me to get something out of her bedroom.  I hadn't been in there for years.

That darned prom photo was sitting on their dresser!

As far as I know, it's still there.

10 Black Guys in Bondage: The X-Rated Version

There are lots of Asian guys into BDSM, but very few black guys, and those few are mostly tops.

 When you're subject to constant discrimination, being followed around stores so you don't steal anything, having people clutch their purses when they pass you on the street, being stopped and searched for the crime of walking while black, going to prison -- one in eight black men in America are incarcerated at some point during their life -- you're unlikely to find being dominated particularly erotic.

I've met only two or three black BDSM bottoms in real life, and even photographs are rare: after years of collecting, I have only about 100 (not counting scenes from movies). Here are my top 10 favorites:

1. My favorite position, spreadeagle on the bed.  I love the look of angry defiance as he tests the leather straps.

2. My second-favorite position, on a chair with his hands tied behind his back.

3. An interesting background picture, glistening muscles.

4.  I don't know why the hands-above-the-head position is so popular with black BDSM bottoms.  This looks like a prison fantasy (notice the tattoos and the bars in the background),but what makes it is the super-sized schlong.

5.  :Sali," probably African.  That looks like the prow of a ship behind him.


More after the break

I Become a Birthday Present at the Horseman's Club

Amsterdam, March 2006

I used to go to Europe at least once a year, sometimes twice, usually at Christmastime or in the spring.  I flew into Paris or Amsterdam, whichever was cheaper, and split my time between those two cities, with an overnight in Brussels in between.

I was always careful to be in Amsterdam on Sunday night, for the Horseman's Club meeting at the Argos Bar on Warmoesstraat.

A club for guys with 20 cm (about 8 inches) or more beneath the belt.

I don't meet those standards, but I usually just took my shirt off and got waved through without measuring.  When they did measure, I was sometimes graded A (20 cm and over) and sometimes B (17-20 cm).

It was a social club -- no sex, but most guys sneaked into isolated corners for some groping or oral anyway.  You had to get naked or strip to your underwear.

I usually found someone to go home with.  In 2003, a 40-ish bodybuilder named Janik asked me to stay on in the Netherlands and become his lover.  I almost agreed.

In 2006, I met a Dutch-Caribbean-African guy with a gigantic Kovbasa.

The Dutch were leaders in the North Atlantic slave trade, and you see evidence all over Amsterdam, like this frieze of a muscular Moor carrying a bow and arrow.  But most of the slaves ended up in the Caribbean.

I never saw anyone black at the Horseman's Club until that night in 2006.

He was standing by himself near the pool table.  In his 20s, very dark, very tall and thin, wearing a green jumpsuit,  completely out of place amid the nude and underwear-clad men.

I figured he had just come in from the icy rain of an Amsterdam spring, and was cold.  I walked up to him and put my hand on his shoulder.  "Hi, can I warm you up?"

He stared at me -- not with Attitude, with a look of sheer terror, as if an underwear-clad man was a major threat.

"He must be in the wrong place," I thought.  "Maybe not even gay.  But surely he figured it out when he was fluffed for measurement."

I began to caress his thin shoulders and back, and he relaxed a bit and put his arm around my shoulders.

"Just so you know, there's a dress code.  You'll have to strip down to your underwear, or they'll kick you out."

"Ik spreek geen Engels," he said, before launching into a torrent of Dutch.

Everyone always uses English in Amsterdam, even residents talking to each other, so I've never learned much Dutch.  About all I can say is Goeiedag, Hoe gaat het?, and Ik kom uit Toronto (I always claim to be Canadian when I travel, to avoid being yelled at every five minutes.)

"Um...um...Ik heet Boomer, van Toronto. Hoe heet je?"

Huit Suriname.  Azi."

Suriname, the former Dutch colony in the Caribbean?  I was immediately interested.

About 2% of the Dutch population consists of recent immigrants from Suriname, and about half of them are black or mixed (they're called Maroons and Creoles).  But they are mostly working- and -lower class, isolated from the consumer-oriented bars, bathhouses, and sex shops of gay Amsterdam.

"Um...wanner je kom heer?"  When did you come to the Netherlands?

More very fast Dutch.  Then Azi reached out and groped me.  I felt for the front of his jumpsuit, where his Kovbasa had sprung to life.

"Sprichts du langsam, bitte," I said in German, hoping it was close enough to be comprehensible.

"Kom....naar....mijn huis, ok?"

Go home with him? But we just met, we hadn't said more than a dozen words, and he was a little too weird....

But...a Kovbasa...the biggest of the big....

I dressed.  Azi wrapped his arm around my shoulders and led me out onto Warmoessstraat.  We walked to the Centraal Station and got on the train to Ganzenhoef Station in southern Amsterdam, Azi talking nonstop in Dutch, me trying out my few words, supplemented with German and Spanish.

Azi had only been in the Netherlands for three years.  He worked in a cigarenfabriek.  Most of his family was back in Suriname.  The only family he had here was his moeder and his  jongere broer, who was studying computertechniek at the University.

Presumably Azi didn't live with them.

We got off the train in a multi-ethnic neighborhood called the Bijlmeer, and walked a few blocks through the darkness to a huge apartment complex. Orange and white lattices.  Balconies.  13 stories.

We took the elevator to the eighth floor, and got off in a small, cramped apartment.  There were books and newspapers scattered all over the living room. Kierkegaard, I noticed in surprise.  Azi read Danish philosophers?

Dirty dishes in the sink, overflowing clothes hamper.  Obviously Azi hadn't been expecting a hookup when he went out tonight.

As soon as the door closed, I wrapped my arm around Azi and went in for a kiss.  But he pushed my head away.

"Ben je hier?" he yelled.

Who else lived here?

 "In die slaapkamer!"  

Azi led me into a little hallway to an open door.  Small twin bed, unmade.  Underwear on the floor.

Sitting at the desk, apparently in an internet chatroom, was a young man.  Black, very dark, thin, very cute.  Naked. He quickly covered up and smiled at me.

"Dit is Boomer," Azi announced.  "Van der Horseman Club.  Mijn broer, Eli."

"Jij bent gek!" Eli exclaimed.  You're crazy!  They exchanged some angry words that I didn't understand, and Azi walked out. I heard a door slam.

Eli and I looked at each other.  "Um...what's going on?"


He spoke fairly good English.  "Mijn broer thinks I am too small to find boys.  Not enough big!  So tonight he says he will find a boy for me with a big lul -- down there, yes?  I say I don't want his help, but he goes out anyway, and now....don't be mad, you are very sexy...but..."

I finally began to figure it out.  "I thought my hookup was with Azi.  Is he even gay?"

"No.  He has a girlfriend, so he wants me to have a boyfriend.  I want a boyfriend, but my study is more important, yes?"

"So a straight guy went to the Horseman's Club to get groped by a dozen guys, all to find a hookup for his little brother?  That's above and beyond the call of duty.  He was only trying to help.  You should apologize."

He smiled.  "Mogelicht.  Sorry that Azi tricked you.  I will walk with you back to the train station, yes?"

"That would be great," I said, drawing him to his feet and wrapping my arms around him.  "In the morning."

In case you were wondering: not nearly as big as his brother, Bratwurst at best.  But very good at cuddling.

See also: A find a Boyfriend at the Horseman's Club; Eli's Dispatches from Oman; and A Jogging Date with a Somali Teenager

The Penis Sheaths of New Guinea

In tropical regions where nudity is the rule, men still find ways to draw attention to their best feature.  Among the Highland tribes of New Guinea, koteka or penis sheaths are commonly worn.

Most cover only the penis, leaving the testicles bare.

The length does not necessarily signify the social status of the wearer, or the size of the penis inside.

Some stick straight up, tied in place to emulate an erection.

The most commonly used gourd is the calabash (lagenaria siceraria).  They are hollowed out, worked to the appropriate shape, and then dried.

Smaller sheaths are used for everyday purposes.  For ceremonies, they can be as long as you want them to be.

Penis sheaths are used throughout Melanesia, and also in tropical regions of Africa and South America.  Here Siko Nathuan, head of Vanuatu Island, poses with 18-year old British student Marc Raynor, who became the stand-in for Prince Philip during his birthday celebration.  They're wearing straw penis sheathes.

More after the break.

My Night and Day with Sammy Blowfish

Mount Vernon, Iowa, July 2003

In the summer of 2003, I visited my old speech teacher, Mr. Lundquist, aka Mr. Blowfish, in Washington, Iowa.  I ended up asking my sister-in-law if I could borrow her car for another day, then driving an hour north to Mount Vernon, Iowa, to spend the night with his son, Sam.

Well, Sam was extremely hot: shorter than me, dark skin, red hair, and a tight, lean physique.

Besides, I was suffering from Florida's dearth of Asian men, and Sam was Asian (actually half Vietnamese, half Swedish)..

Besides, he had just taken a tenure track job at a small college in the heart of the Straight World.  I sensed that this might be my future, and I wanted to see what it was like.

He had literally just moved in to his apartment in someone's house a few blocks from the campus.  We had to walk through a clutter of boxes to get to the bedroom, where the bed was unmade and the lamps were sitting on the floor.

"Sorry about the mess," he said, wrapping his arms around me.  "When you drive down to spend the day with your Dad and brothers, you don't really expect to bring someone home."

Sam was very energetic and very passionate -- maybe too passionate.  We didn't get much sleep that night -- every time I dozed off, he would initiate another session.  Of course, he was 26 years old, but still, it seemed odd.

In the morning he took me to breakfast at a weird diner stuck in the 1950s, where scruffy men in overalls ordered things like "The Farm Boy": 3 eggs, 3 slices of bacon, 3 sausage links, hash browns, pancakes, and toast.  He tried to grab my crotch under the table, but I pushed his hand away.

Then we toured downtown -- 3 blocks of depressing brown brick buildings, mostly bars and small, deserted boutiques -- and the campus -- more of the same.

"Why Cornell College?" I asked.

"Well, I wanted a liberal arts college where I could really get to know the students.  And I'm basically going to be the entire art history program.  This year I'm teaching Italian Renaissance, Asian, and Precolumbian.   Try doing that at Stanford."

"Did you get an offer from Stanford?"

"Actually, my only other offer was in Utah.  Mormon country, full of rattlesnakes and homophobes!  Cornell is much more gay-friendly."

"But does it have a gay presence?"

"Um...I don't think so.  There's a gay bar in Cedar Rapids, about 20 miles away."

"20 miles isn't bad."  I didn't have the heart to tell him that I lived a 3-block walk from a dozen gay bars, restaurants, beaches, and boutiques.

"Besides, Des Moines is only 2 hours away, and Chicago is 4 hours.  I'll be driving to one or the other every weekend."

We both knew that he wouldn't -- once the semester began, he'd be too busy, or the weather would be too bad.  On most weekends, he'd be stuck in Mount Vernon.

Next Sam took me to his office, which was very nice, with real bookcases and a window looking out onto the quad -- actually, an alley, but if you stood right up against it and looked to your left, you could see the King Chapel.

He shut the door, drew me close, and started kissing me.

"Hey, wait -- this is your office!" I exclaimed, shocked.  "Anybody could walk in at any moment."  Besides, I was sweaty from walking around the campus on the second-hottest day of the year.

"Come on, it's Sunday -- there's nobody around," he murmured, nuzzling my neck.  He started to unzip my pants.

I've spent my whole life on college campuses, as student and professor.  But that was the first time I actually had a sexual encounter in a professor's office.

Sam drove us into Cedar Rapids that afternoon.  It was more of a city: there was a nice Vietnamese Restaurant, a nice park with jogging trails -- he tried to go down on me on the jogging trail, but I refused -- and an art museum that specialized in the work of Grant Wood.

He suggested that we finish the day in Cedar Rapid's one gay bar, but I was tired from lack of sleep, so we went back to his apartment in Mount Vernon and watched a movie instead.

Followed by another night of outrageously energetic bedroom calisthenics and another gut-buster breakfast.

"How long are you going to be in the area?" Sam asked.

"My flight to Fort Lauderdale is on Wednesday."

"Great, that gives us three more days...."

He wanted me to spend the rest of my visit with him?  But -- I came back to the Midwest to visit my family and friends! "Well, I have to get my sister-in-law's car back."

"No problem.  I'll follow you to Rock Island, you can drop off the car, and then we'll drive back."

"Um...it's about 70 miles."

"I don't mind...in the country, you have to drive a lot."

"Besides, I need to get to the gym," I continued.

"You can use the campus gym as my guest."

Suddenly I realized what was happening: Sam had latched onto me as an escape from Straight World isolation and tedium. If I didn't act fast, I would become "the boyfriend."  He might even ask me to stay in Mount Vernon.   "I have a better idea.  Let's spend the day in Rock Island -- I want to introduce you to some friends of mine.  I just have to make a couple of phone calls first."

After we worked out, Sam followed me to Rock Island, where we dropped off the car and toured all the old sights of his childhood.  In the evening we had dinner with Dick, my old bully, now a muscle bear in his 40s, and his partner Jack.

A night of energetic sharing followed.

The next day he drove back to Mount Vernon with their phone number in his pocket and an invitation to visit anytime.

And I got to visit my family and friends.

See: Mount Vernon Muscle on A Gay Guide to Small Town America.

In Search of Sex and Languages in South Africa

Durban, South Africa, July 2006

One of my passions is meeting -- and preferably hooking up with -- men who speak unusual languages (unusual in the United States; they may have millions of speakers).  When I visited South Africa in 2000, I met speakers of Zulu and Khoisan.  In 2006, my friend Doc and I returned for a conference, eager for more sex and languages.  The conference lasted for three days, but we decided to stay for eight, to give us a chance to look for speakers of:  Zulu, Xhosa, Afrikaans, Tswana, and Sotho.

Tuesday: Jet-lagged.

Wednesday: Zulu

Spoken by 1.1 million people near Durban.

Your baseball bat is big: bat yakho baseball kuyinto enkulu

Ok, I've been with a Zulu guy before, but Doc hadn't.  A night at the Lounge, Durban's biggest gay bar, yielded a meeting with Zulu-speaker Joseph, a biology teacher in his twenties. 

Thursday: Xhosa, a "click" language spoken by 8.2 million people in the Eastern Cape province.

I want to go home with you: ndifuna ukuya ekhaya kunye nawe

There are a lot of Xhosa speakers in Durban.  After we told Joseph about our quest, he introduced us to an ex-boyfriend, Wushi, a Xhosa speaker worked in a garage:  a gym rat in his 30s, rather hefty, with a little belly.









Friday: Afrikaans


Spoken by 7.1 million people, mostly descendants of Dutch Boer settlers.  Unfortunately, they are mostly on the west side of the country, a day's drive from Durban.

I like to eat sausages: Ek hou daarvan om wors te eet

We rented a car and drove to Johannesburg, six hours north of Durban, to the Rand Afrikaans University in Johannesburg, that offers courses in both Afrikaans and English.

We walked on the campus.  Nothing.

We went to the Department of Afrikaans and talked to the only professor who was there during the winter break.  He was, surprisingly, black, or what they call "Colored" in South Africa.

He told us that Afrikaans was very much a "mother tongue," spoken at home but not on the streets.

In the evening, we went to the Melville, Johannesburg's gay neighborhood, hoping to meet an Afrikaans speaker in the Factory or the REC Room.

At the REC Room, I picked out a likely looking candidate: white, shorter than me, solidly built, a little chunky.  Light brown hair, round face, nice smile.

"Ik heet Boomer," I said in what I thought was Afrikaans.  "Ik kom uit..."

"Are you from Amsterdam?"  he exclaimed.  "I would love to go there!  Is it as hot as they say?"

We didn't meet anyone who spoke Afrikaans

Saturday: Tswana

We visited Constitution Hill and the Lion Park before driving about an hour north to Pretoria in search of Tswana, spoken by 4.4 million people in Botswana and nearby.

What is your name? Leina le gago ke mang?

This time we were smart.  We logged onto a chatroom in advance and arranged a meeting with  Tswana-spaker Thabo, who worked in information technology.  He took us to dinner at an Indian restaurant.

Sunday: Break

We visited the Vortrekker Monument, Church Square, and the Transvaal Museum, then had Chinese food and stayed in our hotel room for the night, watching Malcolm in the Middle, The Simpsons, and Family Guy.

"We're doing something wrong," Doc said.  "We're meeting lots of completely Western guys, the same that you would meet in Vienna or Amsterdam.  I want to meet tribal Africans."

"What do you mean?"  I asked.  "Grass huts and talking drums went out in the 1930s."

"Not that, but some of the old culture.  Same-sex relations that were age and gender-stratified, before the Western gay culture took over."

"So...street cruising?"



Monday: Sotho.

Spoken by 5.6 million people.

Which way is the toilet? Batekamore e kae?

We selected a likely village, Zwelisha, in the heart of the Drakenburg Mountains near the border of Lesotho.  Not much there but tin-roofed houses, a clinic, and a high school, a low yellow building.

Even though it was a cool winter day, we ran across a group of high school boys walking along the side of the road, naked except for loincloths, their bodies covered with white clay.  They made flexing body-building gestures to us.

We stopped in at the clinic to ask what was going on.




The young doctor on call -- actually a medical student from Johannesburg -- told us that it was a manhood ritual.  "They spend a week in a lodge, bragging and bonding.  They used to fight with spears, but now it's usually wrestling.  Same thing. Hoe meer dinge verander, hoe meer het hulle dieselfde, we say."

Wait -- was this guy Afrikaans?

He was.

Tuesday: Back to Durban

Four out of five languages isn't bad.

The Boy Named Angel

When I was in grade school, I had a regular boyfriend, but I liked lots of  other boys: Craig, who sat next to me in class; Joel, who also liked looking at boys with muscles; Robbie, a hookup at the bookmobile one summer: and David Angel.

Not the David Angell who produced Cheers and Frasier.  A slim, shy boy, puppy-dog cute, with dark hair and dark blue eyes and nice hands.  We played occasionally, but never became friends, I think because there were so many bigger, bolder guys around.  It was one of those relationships that might have gone somewhere, but didn't.

I have three good memories of David:

1. One day at recess we all decided to take nicknames.  David wanted "Muscles."
"But you don't have any muscles!" I protested.
"Sure I do. I'm real strong!  Feel."
He flexed a small, hard bicep.  I cupped it with my hand.
"You're right.  It's really big."  Flushed with an warmth that I didn't understand, I moved quickly away.

2. In the spring of sixth grade, shortly after we went to "A Little Bit O'Heaven," Joel invited some of us over for a sleepover.  His small twin bed was only big enough for two; everyone else had to make do with sleeping bags.  We spent the evening wondering who would be the Fifth Boy, the boy invited to share Joel's bed.

At bedtime, Joel said "Everybody else here has been in my bed before, so it's David's turn."

My heart sank.  I wanted to be the one!

"That's ok -- I like the floor," David said.  "Why don't you let Boomer?"

Joel glared at him, and my boyfriend Bill glared at me, but neither of them could say anything as I took my place beside Joel.

3. In junior high, we had gym class together, and I got one of my first sausage sightings of David in the shower.

And three bad memories:

1. We were playing once when a middle-aged woman, presumably his mother, appeared.  "Your father won't let me back in the house," she told David.  "There's food cooking -- I need you to turn the stove off, so it won't burn."  Weird and creepy.

2. David never invited anyone over to his house to play or watch cartoons.  We were intimately familiar with every other house in the neighborhood, but not his. So one day Bill and I knocked on the door, ostensibly to invite him to go to Schneider's and look at comic books, but really to get a glimpse inside.

He came to the door, pale and nervous.  "Are you nuts?" he whispered.  "You can't be here!  My Dad sleeps during the day!"

"We were just..."

"Get out!" he whispered.  "Get lost!"

3. One day in junior high gym class, David was stripping down, and I saw a large red-and-purple bruise on his chest.

"Wow, how did you get that?" I asked.

"What, this?"  He quickly covered it up.  "That's nothing.  We were just playing around.  It happens to everybody."

"Who was playing around?"

"Um...my cousin and me.  Just playing around, no big deal."

I couldn't imagine what kind of playing around might cause a bruise like that.

Ok, I get it now: these are obvious signs of domestic and child abuse.  But what kid in the 1970s would think of that?

And one mixed memory:

During our senior year in high school, Bill told me that  David went crazy.  All of a sudden he forgot to how speak English, and he only knew a few words of Spanish, so he started yelling "Te amo!  Te amo!  Te amo!"

We went to visit him at the East Moline State Mental Hospital.  We were directed to a big, airy room where patients in bathrobes were playing pingpong and foosball.  At the far end, several sat on chairs watching One Life to Live.  

David was sitting on a white couch, in a t-shirt and pajama bottoms, laughing over a paperback edition of Tom Sawyer.  I hadn't seen him, except in passing, since junior high gym class -- my first thought was "He's gotten really muscular!"  He had a hard, smooth chest and thick biceps. He still had a shy, wounded puppy-dog expression.

But he didn't act shy or wounded!

"Hi, guys!"  he exclaimed.  "Rapley let you out early, huh?"

Bill and I glanced at each other.  Mrs. Rapley was our fifth grade teacher.

David laughed.  "I'm just joking with you.  I know what year it is.  Let's have a hug."

He stood and gave us each a bear hug, and sat us down on either side of him.

"So, what's new with you guys?  You still an item?"

"An item?" Bill repeated.  "What...what do you mean?"

"An item -- you know, like giving each other flowers and chocolates and carving your names into trees with little hearts!"

My face burned.  "David, you know that we're both boys, right?"

"Come on, Boomer, you know the soul doesn't have a gender.  We're infinite beings trapped in one-dimensional bodies, so what does it matter if you have the same plumbing?  Get married already, march down that aisle.  God knows you were meant for each other!"

"What are you talking about?" Bill asked in a curt, angry tone.

"David is confused," I told him.  "He doesn't mean to imply anything."

"Hey, just because I'm crazy doesn't mean I can't see what's right in front of my eyes!  Now you gonna kiss, or what?"

"Um..actually, we broke up awhile ago."  I figured that was the only way to end the uncomfortable conversation.

"Yeah.  We're still friends, of course, but we're dating other...um...guys now."

"That's too bad.  You make such a cute couple! Maybe you'll find each other again later on, in your next life."

We chatted for awhile longer, about other things, and then left.  In the parking lot, Bill said "Wow, David is worse than I thought!"

"Completely delusional!  Where'd he ever get the idea that we were...you know?"

"Next he'll be claiming that we're little green men from Mars!"

Two months later, I finally discovered what David had known all along.

The adults are lying -- only real is real.
We stop the fight right now -- we got to be what we feel.

I recently tracked down David again, thanks to Facebook.  He moved to Missouri to stay with his aunt and uncle, graduated from high school a year late, studied biology in college, and worked in a zoo.  Later he moved to Denver and became a dog trainer.  He still suffers from anxiety and depression, but he is taking medication.  He is heterosexual but has never married.  

No post mentions an abusive parent.