tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88230738924871055332024-03-18T04:40:05.897-05:00Tales of West HollywoodNYSocBoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06658785942817017972noreply@blogger.comBlogger991125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823073892487105533.post-76316786247710674832024-03-09T05:33:00.000-06:002024-03-09T05:33:42.221-06:00The Football Player Who Got Unstuck in Time<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSFOubkSjaIbKiwZBPCYwyS2q3yhSB0Z_uEmsHI6dEJvypVI3P-hv8G5hBerTJCh0pUpdCoTVY7VijQQFcmd7QNyll4_3k5LFw0sW5ekHFmwHADabhQ3GL9mwDjvsf_65PAj2mAXReQjzH/s1600/timetraveler3.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSFOubkSjaIbKiwZBPCYwyS2q3yhSB0Z_uEmsHI6dEJvypVI3P-hv8G5hBerTJCh0pUpdCoTVY7VijQQFcmd7QNyll4_3k5LFw0sW5ekHFmwHADabhQ3GL9mwDjvsf_65PAj2mAXReQjzH/s320/timetraveler3.jpg" width="193" /></a></div>
<b>New York, November 2000.</b><br />
<br />
You often hear stories about people who get unstuck in time.<br />
<br />
Two British ladies touring Versailles slip into the era of Louis XIV.<br />
<br />
A man makes a wrong turn in a department store and finds himself in an earlier version of the store from the 1930s.<br />
<br />
A man in 19th century costume falls out of the sky.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwfoFam2MNnTe03K8g7nbPcRuSNlj0K2G-iRVY-gSYEZiUgympOLyzs5NEbY8KihtFlOYEP5Opy4DaRbS-obki8kBxQPUJuv8bpxAK5EeJHo5v7ERNeymH8wRRcdDMDmIvqb6eq1HZjO4t/s1600/TimeTraveler.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwfoFam2MNnTe03K8g7nbPcRuSNlj0K2G-iRVY-gSYEZiUgympOLyzs5NEbY8KihtFlOYEP5Opy4DaRbS-obki8kBxQPUJuv8bpxAK5EeJHo5v7ERNeymH8wRRcdDMDmIvqb6eq1HZjO4t/s320/TimeTraveler.jpg" width="303" /></a>Here's a photo of a hipster dude, wearing a t-shirt and modern sunglasses, looking tremendously out of place amid the old people in fedoras witnessing the opening of a bridge in Canada in 1941.<br />
<br />
He's probably not unstuck in time, just unstuck. .<br />
<br />
There are a lot of unstuck people wandering around on Christopher Street in New York.<br />
<br />
It's not exclusively or even predominantly gay: the few gay bars and restaurants are scattered amid weird boutiques, kids' clothing stores, pet supply stores, and the Finnish Lutheran Church.<br />
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But it's where Gay Liberation began, a sacred place, a site for pilgrimages for gay people from around the world. <br />
<br />
Especially those who have been traumatized by homophobic hatred.<br />
<br />
Lost, lonely, confused. Ghosts. Revenants. Time travelers.<br />
<br />
Like the guy who was wearing only white shorts and a black Amish hat, on a cold day in October.<br />
<br />
And the Man in Black who just appeared, walking next to me, one day.<br />
<br />
And Carey from Tuscaloosa.<br />
<br />
I saw him in Christopher Park, staring at the Gay Liberation Monument as if he had seen anything so strange: in his 20s, medium height, solidly built, a little nerdy, with a square face, dirty blond hair, and thick eyebrows. He was wearing brown slacks, a red sweatshirt with giant letter A on it, and a brown fedora, and carrying an old-fashioned knapsack rather than a backpack.<br />
<br />
First rule of living in big cities: don't stop to talk to anyone you don't know. They will con you, or rob you, or both.<br />
<br />
But I am particularly attracted to "lost souls," so I stopped. "Pretty great, isn't it?"<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisuMAxywb811e_9o14aLmmGpObqfR9psNbZ9LpLfW9ls4alObRdDD1K4rpGGAJWnzvxOrVeu55yJfzJlU2xUV4nUuVDelHh7WbDnMjXhEEQ6281jvbb_LEln-ty-tiZdZFJqTOkZBFNqim/s1600/TimeTraveler2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisuMAxywb811e_9o14aLmmGpObqfR9psNbZ9LpLfW9ls4alObRdDD1K4rpGGAJWnzvxOrVeu55yJfzJlU2xUV4nUuVDelHh7WbDnMjXhEEQ6281jvbb_LEln-ty-tiZdZFJqTOkZBFNqim/s320/TimeTraveler2.jpg" width="180" /></a>"Murder!" he said with a smile. " I knew the Big Apple was up-to-date, but so out in the open and all! You sure couldn't get away with that jazz back home." He turned to me and held out his hand. "Hiya, kid. I'm Carey, Tuscaloosa U. of A. Go Crimson Tide!"<br />
<br />
Later I figured out that he meant the University of Alabama football team. "Boomer. You're a long way from home."<br />
<br />
"Don't I know it! We're on field trip to see the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State. I sort of got side tracked on the Staten Island Ferry. Say, you wouldn't know any eateries around here, would ya, Jackson? I could eat a horse, hooves and all!"<br />
<br />
I took him to a Thai place, where he was amazed by both the food and the prices. <br />
<br />
Carey said he had always been attracted to guys, but he wasn't out to anybody, and he would probably get married, because "that's the way we do things in the South." He had no idea that there were books on gay topics or gay characters on tv: "we don't look at a lot of television in the South."<br />
<br />
I took him back to my apartment -- yes, my roommate was <i>that way</i>, too -- and showed him my tv set and bookcase full of books on gay history and culture. <br />
<br />
"What's Stonewall?" he asked, pulling a book off the shelf. "Stonewall Jackson? Was he that way?"<br />
<br />
"It's the bar across from Christopher Park, where Gay Liberation began."<br />
<br />
He stared at me, blank, confused.<br />
<br />
"The Stonewall Riots? Gay Pride Day?"<br />
<br />
He put the book down and wrapped his arms around me. "I'm not much for history -- I like the present. Two guys together, right here, right now, that's all that counts, dig?"<br />
<br />
Nothing spectacular about the hookup. Very nice physique, smelled of cologne. Uncut, average sized, complained about having to use a condom.<br />
<br />
Then he got dressed and said "Thanks, Boomer. It's been swell, but I'd better be getting back." And he vanished into the night, leaving me thinking.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj-7d1tKoGz1eFhBMqBjXGAyPwbMIbK4ptm3R2wMVfOgEQs7ZRGStks9EabZOGNUzywHjm1W0cUMhQHKseLwLVf4JanUzuYAGxCzCWlszxz7n-OIeZEs4OtKxO6_l-hrKRibxDcNoXwYaR/s1600/carycox.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj-7d1tKoGz1eFhBMqBjXGAyPwbMIbK4ptm3R2wMVfOgEQs7ZRGStks9EabZOGNUzywHjm1W0cUMhQHKseLwLVf4JanUzuYAGxCzCWlszxz7n-OIeZEs4OtKxO6_l-hrKRibxDcNoXwYaR/s320/carycox.jpg" width="289" /></a></div>
His slang, his costume, his lack of familiarity with tv or the basics of gay history -- was Carey unstuck in time? Or just a clueless Southern boy?<br />
<br />
I looked up the roster of the Alabama Crimson Tide football team in the 1930s -- yes, those records are available -- and found a William Cary Cox from Bainbridge, Georgia, who played center from 1937 to 1939. He looked kind of like my Carey.<br />
<br />
After college, he served in World War II, and then ran an auto dealership in Alexandria City, Alabama. He died in 1991, survived by his wife and two children.<br />
<br />
A life lived fully, excessively in the Straight World.<br />
<br />
Unless he took a "jump to the left" one day in 1939 and ended up in the West Village.<br />NYSocBoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06658785942817017972noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823073892487105533.post-91674202342150842422024-03-07T10:44:00.001-06:002024-03-07T10:44:08.653-06:00My First Pridefest...I mean, Gay Pride Parade....I mean, Gay Rights March. With Mickey Muscle.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrBuSWWP4af95niE0bWIsmwMRJHI5PPhRbFj8ysq7XtCqKWumy8MH8ewkSMxH-uljMPeyU6EhXVp89VyoFEu3BbgN6lkLGiCJoREJnpmGR0avn_brI22WdbPrv7ixt8ZsUG_IZrYxCEIDpl6xTqSVqH1ICTli6M21ylg4JEJTP3yFTBglOetWvwnPL-dw/s448/meshTshirt.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="298" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrBuSWWP4af95niE0bWIsmwMRJHI5PPhRbFj8ysq7XtCqKWumy8MH8ewkSMxH-uljMPeyU6EhXVp89VyoFEu3BbgN6lkLGiCJoREJnpmGR0avn_brI22WdbPrv7ixt8ZsUG_IZrYxCEIDpl6xTqSVqH1ICTli6M21ylg4JEJTP3yFTBglOetWvwnPL-dw/w266-h400/meshTshirt.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><br />June 1982, after my junior year at Augustana College. Thomas, the former Episcopalian priest who I met with my ex-boyfriend Fred last year, calls to invite me to Des Moines for the annual Iowa Gay Rights March.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have never heard of such a thing.</div><div><br /></div><div>"We march to protest police harassment, discrimination in jobs and housing, sodomy laws, that sort of thing. We had one last year. It's always close to June 28th, the anniversary of the Stonewall Riots."</div><div><br /></div><div>I have never heard of the Stonewall Riots, either. But count me in.</div><div><br /></div></div><div>The full story, with nude photos, is on<a href="https://gemstonepride.blogspot.com/2024/03/my-first-pridefestum-gay-pride-paradeum.html" target="_blank"> RG Beefcake and Boyfriends</a></div>NYSocBoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06658785942817017972noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823073892487105533.post-90467430109114097852024-02-18T17:49:00.000-06:002024-02-18T17:49:03.867-06:00The Gay Painting in My Grandmother's Room<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj85_pOU9jLIq_v0MzYZb5uwpyBHRk97d21CCNfh6POgvIhDm3UJ2STaRDcnOdAT_14-p4FAWrHEmx2nbmk3JAxHd9idkBoPv4RXbIfKqJWE23CqK5kB6iv8dJhoPTucSuCu-wwA2xFlAM/s1600/vintage013.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj85_pOU9jLIq_v0MzYZb5uwpyBHRk97d21CCNfh6POgvIhDm3UJ2STaRDcnOdAT_14-p4FAWrHEmx2nbmk3JAxHd9idkBoPv4RXbIfKqJWE23CqK5kB6iv8dJhoPTucSuCu-wwA2xFlAM/s320/vintage013.jpg" width="285" /></a></div>
<b>Garrett, Indiana</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
The cold, snowy day after Christmas. Cousin Buster and I have already played with our toys, and we're tired of sitting around the living room of Grandpa Prater's farmhouse, listening to the adults complain about hippies and laugh about things that happened a thousand years ago. So we go exploring, hoping to find a secret stash of comic books.<br />
<br />
The kitchen<br />
The furnace room<br />
A little room used as as a pantry.<br />
A room with a pump in it.<br />
Some bedrooms.<br />
<i>Grandma Prater's Room. Locked. Off-Limits.</i><br />
<br />
Grandma Prater died in 1966, when I was five years, old, so I have only a few random memories of her: a short, fat, brown woman carrying bags of groceries, frying chicken, telling me a story about a mouse, giving me the nickname Boomer. She had a thick Kentucky accent.<br />
<br />
In a small farmhouse, they could use an extra bed, but after she died, no one ever slept in her bedroom again. The adults went in to clean, or to look around, but kids weren't allowed: we might "break something."<br />
<br />
The door was always locked, but when we played in the house, we always tried it anyway, just in case.<br />
<br />
Today the knob turns, and the door stands ajar! Cousin Buster and I glance at each other in surprise, then push the door open and look inside. <br />
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It is a very bright, airy room, not at all stuffy, with two windows and blue wallpaper. A four-poster bed with a blue comforter, the covers turned down, a Bible opened to the Psalms, as if Grandma Prater has just stepped out and would return at any moment.<br />
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A wooden dresser with photos of Kentucky kinfolk. A bureau. Clothes on hangers visible in the open closet door. A rocking chair with knitting stuff on it. <br />
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<br />
<i>And a painting: in a lush green forest, a boy is leaning against a tree, playing a flute. He is wild, savage, naked except for an animal skin. A round red sack hangs from his side.</i><br />
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I stare in awe. I am looking through a gateway into a "good place," where boys can hold hands and kiss without anyone asking "what girl do you like?" The boy is a fairy, a mystical sprite, beckoning me, offering a way to the secret world.<br />
<br />
After that, on most Christmas and summertime visits, I asked to see Grandma Prater's room. I became familiar with the bed, dresser, bureau, and rocking chair. I picked up her Bible, read the annotations, examined her sewing, turned the photos around to see who the subjects were. <br />
<br />
But my favorite part of the tour was the painting. <br />
<br />
<i>Who was the boy? Puck from A Midsummer Night's Dream? A boy Hercules (was that a lion skin?). I thought of the Piper at the Gates of Dawn in The Wind in the Willows, the painting that led to Narnia, the Road to Elfland in heroic fantasy.</i><br />
<br />
And, as I learned more about my grandmother, the painting seemed more and more out of place.<br />
<br />
She was born in 1900 in the desolate hills of Eastern Kentucky. Although she graduated from high school, a rarity at the time, she lived in isolation and poverty. During the Great Depression, they survived by making moonshine. She lost four of her eleven children. During World War II, she moved to Indiana, to another isolated farmhouse. <br />
<br />
She believed in ghosts, haints, witches, and premonitions. A few weeks before she died, she heard her mother calling her from beyond the grave.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxuCYs4jH4y5UJRry0JGIj8wcLjJ8fRXZMy_Nt6lbPBR7MZ899nWB_SpgFwBGjv6pTmLRrYDyfnq4OPFHYsJMAe6IP6SzJlHBXKgdtUxm7f0x-ElYthgcVrREaOsGBuiS8rsi2aGCfp4os/s1600/GrandmaPainting.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxuCYs4jH4y5UJRry0JGIj8wcLjJ8fRXZMy_Nt6lbPBR7MZ899nWB_SpgFwBGjv6pTmLRrYDyfnq4OPFHYsJMAe6IP6SzJlHBXKgdtUxm7f0x-ElYthgcVrREaOsGBuiS8rsi2aGCfp4os/s400/GrandmaPainting.jpg" width="348" /></a>She never read fantasy or mythology, or, as far as I could tell, any book but the Bible. There was no other art in the house except for a picture of Christ on the Cross and a souvenir from Indiana Dunes.<br />
<br />
I asked my mother where the painting came from, but she didn't know -- it had been there as long as she could remember, even back in Kentucky.<br />
<br />
Were there art galleries in the Kentucky hills?<br />
<br />
<i>Et in Arcadia ego.</i><br />
<br />
Grandpa Prater died in 1978, but Uncle Edd continued to live in the farmhouse until 1998, and, I assume, kept up the blue room and the painting.<br />
<br />
After I moved to West Hollywood, I visited my parents twice a year, first in Rock Island and then in Indianapolis, with little time leftover to visit my elderly aunts and uncles in northern Indiana.<br />
<br />
Before I knew it, ten, twenty, thirty years had passed since I last went into Grandma Prater's room<i>.</i><br />
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<b>Indianapolis, December 2000</b><br />
<br />
Yuri and I are spending Christmas with my parents. We go into the room that they've turned into a home gym: two exercise bikes, some free weights...and hanging on the wall beside a towel rack, <i>The Painting</i>!<br />
<br />
I stand speechless, staring, as memories rush back.<br />
<br />
How did it get here? Maybe when Uncle Edd moved out of the farmhouse, Mom claimed it.<br />
<br />
Yuri touches my shoulder. "Are you ok?"<br />
<br />
"Sure...I mean...this is one of my favorite childhood memories, a picture from my grandmother's bedroom. I thought it was a hint that gay people exist."<br />
<br />
"Your grandmother had the <i>Pastyr Devid?"</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
"You know it?"<br />
<i><br /></i>
Turns out that it was one of the illustrations in a book of Bible stories that Yuri's grandmother read to him. <br />
<br />
"I ask for the story of David the Sheep Boy..." Yuri began.<br />
<br />
"Shepherd?"<br />
<br />
"Ok, David the Sheepherd. I asked Baba to read me that story many times. I thought he was beautiful. Maybe this is where I know I am gay?"<br />
<br />
A continent apart, both our grandmothers inadvertently showed us a sign of gay potential.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxw-GOgWD6VaOo8AbsE7-uQ5rPF-pCIwuFhILijaQJH3PorcaSGti_dTSm1PWeESr1xpHwy3BbesV-IEmXdV00OInIHT2RZc_hAlEFOoV9WNELlWTYNHdV6kNrVrfO_y0tco12X07hv9M/s1600/JuliuszSlowackiTheaterKrakow.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxw-GOgWD6VaOo8AbsE7-uQ5rPF-pCIwuFhILijaQJH3PorcaSGti_dTSm1PWeESr1xpHwy3BbesV-IEmXdV00OInIHT2RZc_hAlEFOoV9WNELlWTYNHdV6kNrVrfO_y0tco12X07hv9M/s400/JuliuszSlowackiTheaterKrakow.jpg" width="256" /></a>I looked up the painting on the internet: it's <i>Shepherd Boy Playing the Flute</i>, by Polish painter Henryk Siemiradzski (1843-1902), who specialized in Biblical and classical scenes.<br />
<br />
Leaving two questions:<br />
<br />
1. Was Siemiradzski gay? I don't find a lot of beefcake in his works. There's a couple of cute guys on the curtain he painted for the Juliusz Slowacki Theater.<br />
<br />
2. How did my grandmother get a print of a work by a minor Polish painter in the hills of Eastern Kentucky?<br />
<br /><br />
<br />NYSocBoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06658785942817017972noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823073892487105533.post-29649480440575612692024-02-18T17:48:00.000-06:002024-02-18T17:48:34.849-06:00Dad Explains the Facts of Life<br />
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<br />
There are several traditional rites of passage between a boy and his Dad:<br />
<br />
When he teaches you to shave.<br />
When he lets you drive for the first time.<br />
When you can beat him at arm wrestling.<br />
<br />
But the biggest is The Talk, when Dad sits you down and explains The Facts of Life.<br />
<br />
By which he means the mechanics of biological reproduction, how sperm and egg cells merge their chromosomes to turn into an embryo, and nine months later, a baby.<br />
<br />
Why is this the sole subject matter of The Talk? <br />
<br />Finding out how you came to exist may be interesting, but it's irrelevant, the physiology of the past. What about your respiratory, circulatory, nervous, and muscle systems? What about the nutrition and exercise necessary to ensure that your body works properly? Surely those are Facts of Life of more immediate importance.<br />
<br />
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<br />
The reason is obvious: The Facts of Life Talk isn't really about biological reproduction. <b> It's about Sex, aka heterosexual intercourse. </b><br />
<br />
Dad assumes that the quest for heterosexual intercourse, will occupy your thoughts, color your decisions, throughout your life. You will choose colleges and careers solely on the likelihood of heterosexual intercourse, marry to be ensured of a regular partner, get a job and a house and have kids to ensure that she sticks around, and spend your declining years on a park bench, gazing at "all the pretty girls" and wishing that you could have heterosexual intercourse with them.<br />
<br />
By the time Dad sat me down for the Talk, I already knew all of the Facts of Sex, except for one. I heard them through:<br />
<br />
<b>1. 7th Grade Health Class. </b>The teacher showed us a drawing of a man and a woman, facing us like the greeting to aliens on the Pioneer Space Probe, with the testicles and ovaries circled. He explained that sperm from the man's testicles merged with eggs from the woman's ovaries, which was then embedded into the uterine wall and developed into a fetus.<br />
<br />
Ok, but how did the sperm get to the ovaries, when they're a good five feet from each other? Teleportation?<br />
<br />
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"Don't get smart! You already know about sex! That's all you kids think about!" <br />
<br />
<b>2. Sunday School. </b>Ok, so we reproduced through sex. That must be why Brother Dino admonished us not to have sex before marriage, or God would strike us with incurable diseases as a punishment. He didn't want kids having kids.<br />
<br />
But what exactly <b>was</b> sex? <br />
<br />
"Good question!" Brother Dino said. "It's not just sex. God hates anything that defiles the body." <br />
<br />
Which didn't answer the question. <br />
<br />
<b>3. Summer Camp. </b>At Nazarene summer camp the summer after seventh grade, I asked an older boy named Marty to explain the procedure. He told me about going from <b>first base</b> (kissing) to <b>second base</b> (feeling the girl's breasts over her bra) to <b>third base</b> (feeling under). He even demonstrated by feeling my chest under my shirt. But then he got nervous and left before <b>the home run</b>.<br />
<br />
How did feeling under a girl's bra make sperm go from your testicles to her ovaries? The two organs were still a foot or more apart!<br />
<br />
4. <b>Mike. </b>In eighth grade, my friends and the jocks claimed that they had sex often, a dozen times a week. As we walked down the halls, they would say "I've had her...had her...had her..." <br />
<br />
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I couldn't ask them, so I asked Bill's big brother, Mike. <br />
<br />
"Ok," he said, "<b>The home run</b>: you put your penis inside the girl's vagina." (yes, he used the technical terms). "That's an opening that leads all the way up to her ovaries. So the sperm comes out and goes right up the tube to the egg." <br />
<br />
"But...but...pee comes out of your penis, too!" I exclaimed. "How do you make sure that sperms come out instead?"<br />
<br />
Mike began to blush. "Um...when you get older, sometimes...you know, it gets bigger...and like turns into a baseball bat."<br />
<br />
"Sure, I know all about...um, baseball bats," I said, feeling very grown up and sophisticated. No one had ever mentioned that Fact of Life before.<br />
<br />
"Well, when you're like that, only sperm can come out. When you're not, only pee."<br />
<br />
"But..you can't control when that happens. How do you get it to happen when you want to have a baby?"<br />
<br />
He laughed. "Oh, you'll find out, Bud. Believe me, you'll find out!"<br />
<br />
So I sort of knew the procedure. But Mike <b>left out the most important Fact of Life.</b><br /><br />
<br />
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<b>5. Dad</b>. In the fall of ninth grade, Dad took me out to the back yard, sat me in the grape arbor where, he said, someday he would host my wedding, and had the Talk. <br />
<br />
"You had Sex Ed, right?" he started off. "You know about sperm and eggs, and all that?"<br />
<br />
"Sure."<br />
<br />
"Do you have any questions?"<br />
<br />
"Well..." Yes, I had a question. "I already learned about running the bases, and what to do with your penis if you want a baby. But I hear guys talking all the time about having sex when they don't want to make a baby."<br />
<br />
"Don't do it!" Dad said sharply. "God will punish you with incurable diseases."<br />
<br />
"Sure, sure...but...why would you want to? I mean, if you don't want to make a baby, what's the point?"<br />
<br />
"What's the point?" he repeated, staring at me. "What do you mean, what's the point? It's a girl -- let's say a really cute girl -- and you've been kissing her, and feeling her breasts."<br />
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I looked away, toward the garage. "That's gross! Girls are all soft, with no muscles, no penis. Nothing cute. I mean, why would you touch them like that, unless you had to?" <br />
<br />
I didn't realize that I had said too much until it was too late. Dad stood abruptly, snarled "Don't be a wise guy!" , and nearly ran back to the house.<br />
<br />
<b>Dad left out the most important Fact of Life. </b> It took me years to figure out it out on my own:<br />
<br />
Some boys want to hit a home run with boys, not girls.<br />
<br />NYSocBoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06658785942817017972noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823073892487105533.post-48090651544195631972024-02-14T09:18:00.001-06:002024-02-14T09:18:56.164-06:00Desperately Seeking Kevin the Vampire<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>San Francisco, March 14th, 2003</b><br />
<b><br /></b>A Friday. I'm living in Florida, but back in San Francisco for five days, anxious to visit my old hangouts and re-unite with my old friends:<br />
<br />
Drake the Teddy Bear Artist.<br />
Corbin, the Gym Rat with the Mortadella+:<br />
Clay, who I picked up in the restroom at Macy's<br />
Wayne the Ex-Priest.<br />
Matt, my ex-boyfriend's ex-boyfriend<br />
<br />
And especially Kevin the Vampire. When I left San Francisco, I was actually relieved to be rid of him: his smoking, his elitism, his weird paranormal powers, his exhausting bedroom calisthenics. But at least dating him was never dull.<br />
<br />
David, the ex-Baptist minister who is trying to make up for lost time by hooking up with at least two guys every day, picks me up at the airport. On the way to his apartment on Alvarado in the Castro, he tells me that Drake, Corbin, Clay, and Wayne have all moved away or gone incognito.<br />
<br />
I'm disappointed. Back in West Hollywood, almost everyone I knew is still there. I could walk into the French Quarter or the Fautline, and it would seem like I never left.<br />
<br />
David shrugs. "It takes a lot to live in Gay Heaven. Not only money, but stamina, determination, passion. Most guys get burned out in a few years."<br />
<br />
"Well, surely Kevin the Vampire is still around. I can't imagine him living anywhere else."<br />
<br />
"Dunno. I just hung out with him because of you, so we haven't been in contact. Why don't you give him a call?"<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmV4w0rD5oM08J3eZ7KXT-EURnihWRASjbsjQtEtvRxsRFi_r0qiT8tB3ELVjnTvAlk1-9V-YE0TSYQaX3ut-l2LOMhzeNNBMvzOvyaRwAubw4FDaJ0yY_vDQXAZZbsaH4su6rpJdkMiI/s1600/bazaar2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmV4w0rD5oM08J3eZ7KXT-EURnihWRASjbsjQtEtvRxsRFi_r0qiT8tB3ELVjnTvAlk1-9V-YE0TSYQaX3ut-l2LOMhzeNNBMvzOvyaRwAubw4FDaJ0yY_vDQXAZZbsaH4su6rpJdkMiI/s320/bazaar2.jpg" width="260" /></a>I am embarrassed to admit that in a year of dating, I never got Kevin's phone number. He always called me, or showed up at my door.<br />
<br />
"Well, do you know his address?" David asks. "We could do a drop-in."<br />
<br />
"I never got his actual street address, either, but I know where his apartment is. I've been there a hundred times." I hesitate. "Only...we might not be able to find it. One of Kevin's paranormal powers was confusing visitors. If he wasn't expecting you, you would get lost."<br />
<br />
"Desperately seeking Kevin the Vampire, a paranormal adventure!" David exclaims. "I'm in -- but only if we can hook up with some of the leads. I'm running a little low on my quota."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAqXVyGDBh9QNOomTL6bjiQxjBLxNi4L409bVVyxhGy6wnKPu3zB70vBcQ29XGu_z9Y8AUTuHYEAiALZvSDReixoXS_Z0T3oS1AGdlbOwDcDrDC_YpnfnoEM-Qkj-0Udrf3Yy_EMg-f7I/s1600/DavidShower.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAqXVyGDBh9QNOomTL6bjiQxjBLxNi4L409bVVyxhGy6wnKPu3zB70vBcQ29XGu_z9Y8AUTuHYEAiALZvSDReixoXS_Z0T3oS1AGdlbOwDcDrDC_YpnfnoEM-Qkj-0Udrf3Yy_EMg-f7I/w320-h400/DavidShower.jpg" width="320" /></a><b>Saturday, March 15th</b><br />
<br />
We have breakfast at Orphan Andy's, and then take the Muni out to the Richmond, where we find Kevin's apartment with no problem. It's on the third floor of a Victorian on 12th Avenue, just south of Clement.<br />
<br />
When we knock, a cute black-haired twink answers the door, bleary-eyed, wearing only pajama bottoms. He introduces himself as <i>Rome (or Roam)</i> and invites us in for coffee.<br />
<br />
"I've lived here for two years now, but I know who you're talking about. He was here when I came to look at the place. Not my type -- I like them muscular, like you guys." He puts his hand on David's knee. "But big eyes. Weird, hypnotic."<br />
<br />
"Definitely one of his selling points," I say. <br />
<br />
"Well, he sold me. I ended up going own on him, right in front of the landlord. And I'm never a slut! Weird, huh?" He pauses, lightly stroking David's knee. "Sorry I can't help you out. I have to go take a shower and get ready for work. So...unless you want to join me..."<br />
<br />
I wait in the bedroom while David and Rome make out in the shower. When they emerge, I go down on Rome while David is topping him. Smooth hairless chest, average sized, cut, a lot of moaning.<br />
<br />
That night David hosts a party in his apartment. He invites four guys, including Matt, the crazy Harvard boy who was with my ex-boyfriend Fred for ten years. Now he runs a nude housekeeping service. Matt's date is, of all people, Seth!<br />
<br />
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A cute science nerd in his 30s with a surprisingly muscular physique, a hairy chest, and a Bratwurst+ beneath the belt. The teaching assistant in my chemistry class in 1997, now a chemistry professor at San Francisco City College. He and Kevin dated after we broke up (or maybe before we broke up).<br />
<br />
T<i>he ex-boyfriend of my ex-boyfriend is dating the ex-boyfriend of my ex-boyfriend!</i><br />
<br />
The mind boggles.<br />
<br />
"Kevin and I didn't really have a friendly break-up," Seth tells me. "There was yelling, and crying, and throwing things, and that was just my friends, when I told them about it. So I haven't seen him since. Sorry I can't be of any help."<br />
<br />
Well, Seth was of <i>some</i> help. I got to go down on him again during a game of "Guess the Penis."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b>Monday, March 17th</b><br />
<br />
While David is at work, I go to St. Mary's Hospital to see Marius (top photo), the Argentine German who was Kevin's boss and best friend. He's in his 40s, a hairy muscle bear with an enormous uncut Mortadella, and religious, a devout Lutheran who once planned to become a minister. I'm sure we would have dated, except that I only met him after I began dating Kevin the Vampire.<br />
<br />
"Kevin quit a couple of years ago, and moved out of town," Marius tells me. <br />
<br />
"Out of San Francisco altogether? That's odd."<br />
<br />
"I know. But with rents going sky-high, he just couldn't afford to stay here on his salary any longer."<br />
<br />
So Kevin the Vampire abandoned Gay Heaven for the most mundane of reasons, his checkbook? I am strangely disappointed.<br />
<br />
"I have his address and telephone number back at my apartment, if you'd like to stop by later."<br />
<br />
"Sure, that'd be great."<br />
<br />
He smiles. "We could have dinner first, if you're free."<br />
<br />
I check with David -- he's fine with not feeding me. So Marius and I have dinner at Thai Thai, and then go back to his apartment in the Richmond to spend the night. I go down on him, and he finishes with interfemeral while we're kissing.<br />
<br />
<b>Tuesday, March 18th</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
The telephone number that Marius gave me for Kevin doesn't work.<br />
<br />
<b>Wednesday, March 19th</b><br />
<br />
My last night in San Francisco. I have to get up early to catch my plane, so David and I are staying in. He's busy in the kitchen, making <i>arroz con pollo</i> with a salad and fresh fruit, when there's a knock on the door.<br />
<br />
"Could you get that?" David yells. "And if he's hot, invite him to stay for dinner."<br />
<br />
Through the peephole I see -- Kevin the Vampire! <br />
<br />
Shocked, I pull the door open. "Kevin...what...how..."<br />
<br />
He grins. "Aren't you going to invite us in?"<br />
<br />
"Sure, come in." <i>Us? </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9p4UWUT3OajTkWDLiIj1fVek1VSfJsOpV5jycTgIANmForTSXQT1EO5WIyKpAxE7aRzytYRaH80rfFggXV4IbUm1r4-1iPEAWNuyOgPeOmsVHyRfJHEr3MYY-ImJn6nBeXW4s8_ZU1To/s1600/kevinDate6.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9p4UWUT3OajTkWDLiIj1fVek1VSfJsOpV5jycTgIANmForTSXQT1EO5WIyKpAxE7aRzytYRaH80rfFggXV4IbUm1r4-1iPEAWNuyOgPeOmsVHyRfJHEr3MYY-ImJn6nBeXW4s8_ZU1To/w413-h640/kevinDate6.jpg" width="413" /></a>He comes in, followed by a buffed guy in his 30s with a short beard, a v-shaped torso, and impressive biceps.<br />
<br />
David appears from the kitchen, staring. "Kevin...how did you get here?"<br />
<br />
"By BART, of course. I live in Milpitas now, in an actual house, just like Ma and Pa Kettle. This is Charlie -- quite a beautiful specimen, isn't he? And you should see his penis -- well, most likely you will, before the evening is over."<br />
<br />
Charlie shakes hands with us, unfazed at being called a "specimen."<br />
<br />
"How did you know I was back in town?" I ask.<br />
<br />
"Well, Boomer, you've been calling me for five days. You must have known that, sooner or later, I would answer."<br />
<br />
"I haven't been calling you...the phone number Marius gave me didn't work."<br />
<br />
He laughs. "I didn't mean by telephone."<br />
<br />
By the way, Charlie did have a very nice penis. <br />
<br /><br />NYSocBoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06658785942817017972noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823073892487105533.post-2023917772474154992024-02-08T18:08:00.001-06:002024-02-08T18:08:35.516-06:00Showering with Two Boys at a Church Conference in Switzerland<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYSllCW6D7dgXiOoDRQbBHx8ZrS5th8hEdr1EMVt3sjvvL3-K3HlYbMm3UqJ3lSVjrfWKAloSYx_y0TBTI8zCRAkmaaZQZTcq6BYLdoomeO0g1eMBSWuEwq2mLHsy2RFR7LdGbPC_7ypk/s1600/Switzerland1.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYSllCW6D7dgXiOoDRQbBHx8ZrS5th8hEdr1EMVt3sjvvL3-K3HlYbMm3UqJ3lSVjrfWKAloSYx_y0TBTI8zCRAkmaaZQZTcq6BYLdoomeO0g1eMBSWuEwq2mLHsy2RFR7LdGbPC_7ypk/w366-h400/Switzerland1.jpg" width="366" /></a></div>
When I was sixteen years old, I was selected to join 500 Nazarene teenagers from around the world in Fiesch, Switzerland for our International Institute.<br />
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It was like summer camp, with daily sermons, Bible studies, jump quizzes, and seminars on soul-winning, except we had afternoons and one full day off for field trips and sightseeing We could go out on our own, as long as we:<br />
1. Didn't try to make friends with the locals.<br />
2. Didn't set foot in any Catholic church.<br />
3. Were back by 7:00 pm.<br />
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But every good Nazarene knows how to bend the rules.<div><br /></div><div>The full post is on <a href="https://gemstonepride.blogspot.com/2024/02/showering-with-portuguese-boys-at.html" target="_blank">RG Beefcake and Boyfriends.</a></div>NYSocBoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06658785942817017972noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823073892487105533.post-34398885809621889042024-01-29T11:52:00.000-06:002024-01-29T11:52:17.403-06:00I pray through to Vic-tray, with Phil's hand on my butt<div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibNBcfQvO0kpoMPE3FIxUMK7nFmxVrtjsReY6Wcbg0kj4_VoGHHDDn3YtFVAAZQggCeLve7d9dSPq6iGBK_FIojzQy6Wx9uCS36ZIdyJlOyRVciNja5P4hhUgrkyR_XfLjwg-OJO_XexQ/s1600/phil5.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibNBcfQvO0kpoMPE3FIxUMK7nFmxVrtjsReY6Wcbg0kj4_VoGHHDDn3YtFVAAZQggCeLve7d9dSPq6iGBK_FIojzQy6Wx9uCS36ZIdyJlOyRVciNja5P4hhUgrkyR_XfLjwg-OJO_XexQ/s1600/phil5.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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When I was growing up in the Nazarene Church, most church services ended with an altar call: an invitation (or exhortation) to come down to the front of the sanctuary, kneel at the long, low wooden rail, and Pray Through to Victory (all preachers had a Southern accent, so they said "Victray). <div><br /></div><div> It was similar to Catholic confession, with no priest: you asked God to forgive all the sins you could think of, and if He decided to, y<i>ou became a Christian</i> or <i>got saved</i> (from an eternity in hell).<br />
<b></b><br />Praying through to Victray wasn't easy -- you had to work, sobbing and begging and moaning, for at least ten minutes, sometimes more. And afterwards, the most trivial of sins -- an angry word, a lustful thought, a glance at the Sunday newspaper -- would negate your salvation, so you'd have to start all over again. It was not unusual to go down several times a year, and some especially sensitive types went down at almost every service.<br />
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Usually just adults went down -- kids were excused, and teens had regular invitations to "bow your head right here and ask God to forgive you" in Sunday School (just before the morning service) and NYPS (just before the evening service), so we were usually saved by the time the altar call came around.<br />
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But in ninth grade, the first year that I was officially a teenager, I discovered a benefit to going down to the altar (other than the not going to hell thing).<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjazU7LIuUP8f4g9ZcftHR_-UgCBqknRCVxn_LeCtkKT4UCpAgaCZtZOleifQcKY1gAQSJ3OXcaLJt1_III8RZKdbiE62h4e3u3_icY7sGuY5hstaKYFG3kpKIGlrAxREstVfotwUowZa5TlKkke-2aShugpaIqRfafwkMfbBkVKP1dT2RS1e5eysr2wig/s518/altar2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="518" data-original-width="388" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjazU7LIuUP8f4g9ZcftHR_-UgCBqknRCVxn_LeCtkKT4UCpAgaCZtZOleifQcKY1gAQSJ3OXcaLJt1_III8RZKdbiE62h4e3u3_icY7sGuY5hstaKYFG3kpKIGlrAxREstVfotwUowZa5TlKkke-2aShugpaIqRfafwkMfbBkVKP1dT2RS1e5eysr2wig/s320/altar2.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />Praying Through was such hard work that you needed someone by your side, entreating God on your behalf. So whenever you went to the altar, Christians of the same sex rushed down to help. Two, three, or even more, depending on your popularity.<b> </b><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>
They pressed against you, hugging and holding, arms around waists and shoulders, even pressed on your butt as if trying to push you into heaven, and when you successfully Prayed Through, you became a single mass, bear-hugging and back-slapping and pressing together. During those moments, I felt a lifetime's worth of hard muscle, and sometimes even private parts pressed surreptitiously against me.<br />
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Going down to the altar allowed me to get hugged, held, and caressed by the preacher, the preacher's son, my Sunday school teacher and lots of other cute boys and men. <br />
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And the next service, if I was still saved, I had carte blanche to go down and touch, hold, hug, and fondle any guy I liked.</div><div><br /></div><div>The full story is on <a href="https://gemstonepride.blogspot.com/2024/01/i-pray-through-to-victrah-with-boys.html" target="_blank">RG Beefcake and Boyfriends</a> </div>NYSocBoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06658785942817017972noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823073892487105533.post-54111946804887243872024-01-29T10:53:00.000-06:002024-01-29T10:53:37.037-06:00Why Dad Was Proud of Me for Watching TV<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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When I was in kindergarten, first, and second grade, we lived in Racine, Wisconsin. I have only a few memories from that period: going to the beach a few blocks from our house, going to the zoo, marrying the boy next door, my second grade teacher making me stand in the corner for refusing to square dance (she wouldn't believe that it was forbidden for Nazarenes, and at the age of 7 I was in no position to ask the preacher to telephone her).<br />
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And a very weird memory of my Dad being proud of me for watching a children's tv program.</div>
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Dad was in his late 20s, just out of the Navy, rather athletic, an avid swimmer (no, this isn't a picture of him), a stalwart Democrat and an avid Nazarene. He worked on the assembly line at the J. I. Case Company, a job he would keep for the next 30 years.</div>
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The memory is vague: Dad is sitting on the couch, half reading the newspaper, half snoozing, so he must have just gotten home from work, around 4:00 pm. My brother and I are watching tv. </div>
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Mom comes in from the kitchen and asks "What do you want to watch now? <i>Romper Room</i>?"</div>
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"No," I say. "<i>The Land of Ziggy Zaggy.</i>"</div>
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Dad looks up. "Ziggy Zaggy? What kind of kookie show is that?"</div>
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Mom changes the channel, and we see a woman walking onto the stage, singing about the mystical land.</div>
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Dad laughs. "Ok, I get it now! You're starting early, just like your old dad! A chip off the old block! Come up here and sit by me."</div>
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I sit on the couch, and he puts his arm around me. I'm thrilled. Dad is usually kind of critical,but today I'm a chip off the old block! I did something right, something that made him proud of me. But what?</div>
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50 years later, I don't remember anything about the show except for a woman singing "The land of Ziggy Zaggy," but after a few internet searches on various variations (zaggo, zongi, zuggi), I found it:</div>
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It was a local Chicago children's program, <i>The Land of Ziggy Zoggo</i>. Also called <i>The Nancy Berg Show</i>, after the host. Short lived, 1963-65. We only moved to Racine in the summer of 1965, so I must have watched a few episodes at the end of the run.</div>
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There's a full episode on youtube. Very amateurish, painted backdrop for a set, only one performer. Three sketches, about 5 minutes each.</div>
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1. Miss Nancy visits a Middle Eastern land, where she meets a Go-Go Genie (herself) selling magic carpets in a parody of talky used-car salespeople. She buys the carpet, kicking herself for being conned, but it works. She then flies through the clouds while singing. </div>
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2. The kimono-clad Miss Sukayaki (Nancy again), with a stereotyped "Ah so" accent, goofs up the "ancient Japanese custom of flower arrangement." </div>
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3. Miss Nancy flies a balloon to the African jungle to show film footage of various animals: a rhinocerous, a lion, a leopard.</div>
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No beefcake, no buddy-bonding, actually no male characters, but the exotic locations must have been appealing to me as a kindergartner. And maybe the hint of social satire: you may get conned by a fast-talking salesperson.</div>
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But why was Dad so pleased? Why was I "starting early" and a "chip off the block" for wanting to watch <i>The Land of Ziggy Zoggo?</i></div>
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Easy. He thought that I, at the age of 4 1/2, was lusting after Miss Nancy's bosom. </div>
NYSocBoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06658785942817017972noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823073892487105533.post-13525910726966987022024-01-27T10:08:00.000-06:002024-01-27T10:08:24.952-06:00Tony Dow and the Glory Hole at the Air Force Base<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Last week 69-year old Jock, a retired landscaper and Uber driver from Tucson, told me a story of when he was in the California National Guard in 1966, and Tony Dow, the actor who starred as teenage hunk Wally in <i>Leave It to Beaver</i>, was in his barracks. One day they all went out to the movies, and Wally and his friend picked up a high school boy. Jock followed them, and watched as they had a three-way in the park.<br />
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But that's not the only story he has.<br />
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I'll use his words as much as possible.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCi9Eb6Ngv5zqwn-7n2nJgxURVg_zdBIxpidSUw8zfMif88a40gO8yiazi90gtsidx6u-A9zbrP6Vn7pzk55xHrBUFZ6yrAV58tgDR7L-qxV7GKbDfmAGKIlcMC1gsabO1KCAeMJKNI-s/s1600/barracks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="423" data-original-width="564" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCi9Eb6Ngv5zqwn-7n2nJgxURVg_zdBIxpidSUw8zfMif88a40gO8yiazi90gtsidx6u-A9zbrP6Vn7pzk55xHrBUFZ6yrAV58tgDR7L-qxV7GKbDfmAGKIlcMC1gsabO1KCAeMJKNI-s/s320/barracks.jpg" width="320" /></a><b>Marysville, California, October 1966</b><br />
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When I was in boot camp, we got passes to go into town twice a week. A lot of the guys tried to get some action with girls, but struck out -- the Sexual Revolution hadn't yet hit Marysville -- you couldn't even get condoms -- so they couldn't wait to get back to the base and go to the latrine. <br />
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<i>Boomer: Striking out made them want to go to the bathroom?</i><br />
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Let me set up the scenario. All unmarried guardsmen under the rank of sergeant lived in barracks, or what they called dormitories. One long, narrow room with 20 single beds and lockers, 10 on each side.<br />
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At the far end, you go through a lounge with two couches, some chairs, and a tv set, and then the latrine, two urinals and a toilet, right out there, not in a stall. There was no window, so it was pitch-dark unless you turned on the light. The switch, for some reason, was out in the lounge, by the tv set.<br />
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During my first few nights in the dormitory, I noticed that most guys who got up to use the latrine turned on the light -- you could see it glimmering under the lounge door. But some didn't. Why were they fumbling around in the dark?<br />
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Curious, I waited until someone went in without turning the light on, and followed, walking through the deserted lounge to the latrine door. I pulled it open.<br />
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It was musty, smelling of urine and someone's aftershave, and pitch-black except for a little gleam. How could you even see where the urinal was? I gingerly moved forward, my hand outstretched -- and suddenly I was touching a bare butt!<br />
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<i>Boomer: Side or back?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>Side. He was facing the toilet, like he was peeing into it.<br />
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"Wait your turn, buddy," the guy growled.<br />
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Wait your turn for what? I wondered. There were two other urinals to pee into. I reached down past the bare butt and felt a buzz-cut head, ears, neck, arms grabbing the guy's butt -- then my hand was batted away.<br />
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"I said fuck off. I'm almost done."<br />
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The guy was getting a blow job! I had no idea that g.i.'s had sex with each other, right there in the barracks! My mind was majorly blown, let me tell you!<br />
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I retreated to the lounge and waited for the guy to leave.<br />
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"It's all yours," he whispered in passing.<br />
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I returned to the latrine and shut the door, and inched forward. Someone grabbed my cock!<br />
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I reached down and felt that smooth hard chest again. Farther down to the belly, pubic hair, and cock. He was big -- at least 7" -- and aroused.<br />
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I fondled him for a moment, then stood directly in front of him, and he leaned down to blow me, his hands squeezing my bare butt. I caressed his hair and face, squeezed his shoulders. When he started jerking me while licking my balls, that did it!<br />
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"I'm going to cum," I moaned.<br />
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"Shush," he murmured, and swallowed my load.<br />
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It was a perfect set up.! Almost every night, about a half hour after lights out, the fag would get up...<br />
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<i>Boomer: Watch your language.</i><br />
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Sorry. That's what they called oral bottoms in those days. Anyhoo, the oral bottom would go into the latrine without turning on the light, and we knew that he was ready to give blow jobs. We were all young and horny, so he was busy. On some nights there were two or three guys waiting.<br />
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If someone turned on the light from the lounge outside, the guy getting the blow job would just turn around and pretend to be peeing at the urinal. <br />
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<i>Boomer: Was it the same guy giving the blow jobs every night?</i><br />
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Usually. Sometimes another guy beat him to it.<br />
<br />
<i>Boomer: Did you ever get to be the oral bottom?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />
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<i><br /></i>Once or twice he let me go down on him for a few minutes before he did me, but not usually, no. <br />
<br />
But I didn't mind -- I'm still more of an oral top than a bottom, if you'd like to get together sometime and try me out. Here's a recent photo. Not bad for 69, huh? And 69 is my favorite position, by the way.<br />
<br />
<i>Boomer: Mine, too.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>Anyhoo, after 12 weeks of basic training, I shipped out to Moffett Airfield in Mountain View, California, where the latrine was right by the bunks, no way to hide. Of course, guys still found ways to get it on. There was a supply closet off the tv lounge, and plenty of street cruising. <br />
<br />
Not to mention San Francisco a short train ride away. Golden Gate Park during the Summer of Love! That was one far out trip, man!<br />
<br />
<i>Boomer: Great story about being gay in the military in the 1960, but what does it have to do with Tony Dow?"</i><br />
<i><br /></i>Oh, he shipped out somewhere else. I don't remember where. We weren't close, as I said. He mostly pal-ed around with Kurt.<br />
<i><br /></i><i>Boomer: But you said this was a Tony Dow hookup story. Was he one of the guys waiting in line for a blow job every night?"</i><br />
<br />
Lord, no. He was the f-- the oral bottom. <br />
<br />
<i>Boomer: The guy who sat on the toilet and gave blow jobs to anyone who wanted one?</i><br />
<br />
Right. I thought I made that clear.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc4TNUWsv8NP7q4Wix_WEARDcCmnDhucSHVRyH17qawCvlihKEHIrjWvibpnRwyedQMH_0tp7KIm5lMaXZF3yvxAbVWSd6LZPdyo55SZiYW51WJQRbN7Q6LmD9ncCgFt0aF5grtKSNAFk/s1600/tonyDow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="510" data-original-width="356" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc4TNUWsv8NP7q4Wix_WEARDcCmnDhucSHVRyH17qawCvlihKEHIrjWvibpnRwyedQMH_0tp7KIm5lMaXZF3yvxAbVWSd6LZPdyo55SZiYW51WJQRbN7Q6LmD9ncCgFt0aF5grtKSNAFk/s320/tonyDow.jpg" width="223" /></a><i><br /></i>
<b>Was Jock Telling the Truth?</b><br />
<br />
Tony Dow has been linked with women only since 1968.<br />
<br />
I can see him engaging in some same-sex activity with a buddy, like his friend Kurt. I can even see him as one of the guys waiting in line at the latrine, thinking that a mouth is a mouth.<br />
<br />
But to seek multiple experiences with near-strangers in the equivalent of a glory hole? I don't buy it. I think time has clouded Jock's memories.<br />
<br />
It's a good story though, even without a celebrity hookup.<br />
<br />
See Also: <a href="http://talesofwesthollywood.blogspot.com/2017/07/tony-dow-and-kurt-hook-up-with-high.html">Tony Dow and Kurt Hook Up with a High School Boy.</a>NYSocBoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06658785942817017972noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823073892487105533.post-70479584428860908792024-01-23T04:24:00.000-06:002024-01-27T10:08:54.668-06:00My Friday the 13th Date with Kevin the Vampire<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>Plains, Friday, January 13th, 2017</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
It's my second date with Wagner the Music Major, who I picked up in the Student Union earlier this week. We're seeing <i>Hairspray </i>at the University Theater -- in the first row, of course. I always sit in the first row, when possible.<br />
<br />
At intermission I look around the audience. No one I know, which seems strange -- I know lots of theater buffs.<br />
<br />
<i>Then suddenly, about 10 rows back, I see Kevin the Vampire!</i><br />
<br />
"That's impossible!" I exclaim. <br />
<br />
"What?"<br />
<br />
"My old boyfriend from San Francisco. I haven't seen him since -- um, 2003. Nearly 14 years ago. What would he be doing here?"<br />
<br />
I look back again. <i>No Kevin.</i> <br />
<br />
When we met in San Francisco in 1996, Kevin the Vampire was in his 30s, tall and
buffed, with pale skin, a hairy chest, and a Satanic goatee. We dated for almost a
year, although I didn't care for his elitism, his smoking, or his
exhausting bedroom calisthenics. <br />
<br />
"Why do you call him Kevin the Vampire? Did he like biting you on the neck?"<br />
<br />
"No,
but he had weird paranormal powers. He could control people's minds..
He could get hookups by going up to a cute guy and saying ''You want to
come home with me, don't you?'"<br />
<br />
"That's a nice power to have," Wagner says.<br />
<br />
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"And
he could make himself invisible. You couldn't drop by for a visit --
if he wasn't expecting you, his apartment was impossible to find. But
he wouldn't just show up on the Plains."<br />
<br />
<i>I've been posting stories about him on my blog, most recently in December. Could that have summoned him?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>No -- just my imagination!</i><br />
<br />
After the musical, as we are walking out to the parking lot, Kevin is suddenly standing beside me! He doesn't walk up -- he just appears, like Jesus on the road to Emmaus.<br />
<br />
"Um...hi, Kevin," I say, pretending to be nonchalant. "Nice to see you again."<br />
<br />
<i>It's been nearly 14 years, but he doesn't look any different. I guess vampires don't age.</i><br />
<br />
"Wonderful to see you, too, Boomer!" He wraps me into a hug. His body is cold, as if he's been running around outside without a coat. "You have no idea how difficult it was to track you down! Florida to Ohio to Upstate New York to Philadelphia, and now to this charming little town on the Plains."<br />
<br />
"Why didn't you just get my email address from David?"<br />
<br />
"And who is your very attractive companion?: Kevin asks, ignoring my
question. "If this is an example of the beefcake on the Plains, I'll be
scanning the real estate ads!"<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL2hwHqjcnno78cWs-CTMpVqVxr8VwLWpiaZuTglvvczDp3jwo70XZlWpbHblzA-JR9EQxYvJUhepQ8yvt7Sx5y1mSbRxRx227YlNKGrdzNiCjo2T7gJFcKCIUYtld08-f3lMuB8_swKI/s1600/kevin15.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL2hwHqjcnno78cWs-CTMpVqVxr8VwLWpiaZuTglvvczDp3jwo70XZlWpbHblzA-JR9EQxYvJUhepQ8yvt7Sx5y1mSbRxRx227YlNKGrdzNiCjo2T7gJFcKCIUYtld08-f3lMuB8_swKI/s400/kevin15.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
<br />
"Beefcake is very common here, and readily available."<br />
<br />
He shakes hands with Wagner. "How long have you and Boomer been an item?"<br />
<br />
"This is our second date."<br />
<br />
"Oh, my, the second date, a pivotal moment in a new romance! I wouldn't dream of interfering. Boomer, let's meet tomorrow to catch up. I'll be at your apartment at -- say 10:00 am?"<br />
<br />
<i>And he vanishes. He doesn't walk away -- he's just sort of not there.</i><br />
<br />
"I see what you mean," Wagner says. "Appearing and disappearing like that is kind of creepy."<br />
<br />
"But fun," I say with a bit of sad nostalgia.<br />
<br />
<b>Saturday, January 14th</b><br />
<br />
Kevin appears at my apartment at 10:00 sharp. I take him to the gay-friendly coffee house for brunch -- vegetarian quiche for me, only coffee for him. <i>Vampires don't eat.</i><br />
<br />
He is noncommittal about what he'd been up to since 2003. "Oh, I puttered around, bought books, went to beer busts, invited men into my bed. You know what life was like in Gay Heaven: we were busy all the time, but nothing really happened. Every moment was an eternal now."<br />
<br />
"So...what do you want to do during your visit? Anything special you'd like to see? Want me to arrange a hookup for you? I know some guys, or I can go on Grindr."<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ2VF06RDMIl-qQKskOaqV1cNiVQTezndxdcAqGeVEnVtYKAmG-BOv3U3tQqPwYUv1GluYksgfO-5da5HkoU0fA6BGBRYJf3dhNhPhFDbsg9qEDAUBfN-OSM9h8GqyaogviMqmEJ7PkJU/s1600/Kevin8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ2VF06RDMIl-qQKskOaqV1cNiVQTezndxdcAqGeVEnVtYKAmG-BOv3U3tQqPwYUv1GluYksgfO-5da5HkoU0fA6BGBRYJf3dhNhPhFDbsg9qEDAUBfN-OSM9h8GqyaogviMqmEJ7PkJU/s320/Kevin8.jpg" width="240" /></a>"Sampling the cornfed beef of the Plains? That does sound tempting, but I'd really rather have some time alone with you. After all, our relationship was one of the most important in my life -- perhaps<i> the </i>most important -- and I couldn't bear the idea of shuffling off this mortal coil without holding you in my arms again. If Wagner doesn't object, that is."<br />
<br />
I know Kevin -- no quick blow jobs for him! Exhausting two hour sessions involving weird oils, massage, licking and sucking everywhere, Tantric edging, multiple positions, multiple orgasms, leaving you drenched with sweat and other fluids, ruining the sheets. <br />
<br />
But he has mind control powers. How can I refuse?<br />
<br />
We spend the day sightseeing and cruising, have dinner with some gay guys from the Unitarian church, and then return to my apartment. We go into the bedroom and start kissing and fondling.<br />
<br />
I kneel and go down on Kevin -- he's bigger than I remember, a Bratwurst+, cold and hard as iron. Then he pulls me onto the bed. He lies atop me, chest against chest, thigh against thigh, mouth against mouth. His body is cold and hard, too. His aroused penis goes between my legs.<br />
<br />
<i>Interfemoral -- my favorite position! We never did this while we were dating!</i><br />
<br />
He puts his arms around me and thrusts while we kiss, his tongue darting in and out of my mouth. I grab his butt. We finish at the same moment. <br />
<br />
Apparently Kevin is still the same age as he was in 1996, but I'm 20 years older, and one orgasm per evening is enough. I soon fall asleep.<br />
<br />
<b>Sunday, January 15th</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
When I wake up, Kevin is gone. No note, no phone number, nothing. He vanished.<br />
<br />
I feel a little frisson of dread. <i>Did I imagine the whole thing?</i><br />
<br />
No -- the sheets are definitely soiled with bodily fluids. <br />
<br />
<i>Wait -- what life "was" like in Gay Heaven. It "was" an important relationship. Shuffle off the mortal coil. Cold skin. Vanishing even more abruptly than when we were dating...</i><br />
<br />
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<i>Was Kevin a ghost? A ghost vampire?</i><br />
<br />
I rush to my computer and start emailing people. David. Zack. Kevin's ex-boyfriend Seth. His former best friend Marius. <br />
<br />
The responses trickle in. No one has seen Kevin or talked to him in years.<br />
<br />
Desperate, I think of the number Marius gave me in 2003. It didn't work then...<br />
<br />
I find it in my old address book, and call.<br />
<br />
This time it works -- Kevin answers! "Boomer, what a surprise! Did I leave my underwear in your apartment? I've just arrived back in San Francisco, so I'm afraid you'll have to keep it as a souvenir."<br />
<br />
"Um...no, no. I was just wondering...you left so abruptly... if you were angry or upset."<br />
<br />
"Oh no, not at all. I simply had a plane to catch! Well, there's the BART. It was wonderful seeing you again -- I'll be sure to stop by the Plains next time I'm flying across the country."<br />
<br />
Kevin is not a ghost. He's not a vampire. He's just an ordinary guy, a bit eccentric, like everyone lucky enough to live in Gay Heaven.<br />
<br />
<i>Or maybe....</i><br />
<br />
See also: <a href="http://talesofwesthollywood.blogspot.com/2016/12/desperately-seeking-kevin-vampire.html">Desperately Seeking Kevin the Vampire.</a>; <a href="http://talesofwesthollywood.blogspot.com/2016/08/the-sunday-morning-orgy.html">The Sunday Morning Orgy</a>; <a href="http://talesofwesthollywood.blogspot.com/2015/07/i-go-home-with-amazing-invisible-boy.html">I Go Home with the Amazing Invisible Boy.</a>NYSocBoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06658785942817017972noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823073892487105533.post-9593488016158514302024-01-10T04:35:00.000-06:002024-01-10T04:35:57.247-06:00The Baptist Student Union: Two guys give in to temptation<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>Naperville, Illinois</b><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>perville, Illinois</b><br /><br />When I finally managed to drop out of the Nazarene church, my parents told me, "You don't have to be a Nazarene, but you can't be a heathen! Find another church to go to!" <br /><br />So I tried Presbyterian and Lutheran churches, and, during my senior year at Augustana College, the Baptist Student Fellowship.<br /><br />My parents were not pleased.<br /><br />Nazarenes thought that Baptists were the most evil of the "so-called Christians." At least the Lutherans were open about worshipping idols, and the Presbyterians about tearing apart the Bible, but the Baptists were almost identical to Nazarenes.<div><br /></div><div>The only differences that I could see:</div><div><br /></div><div><b>1. Baptism</b>. The Nazarene <i>Manual</i> mentioned baptism, but in all my years as a Nazarene, I had never seen it done. Baptists required it for everybody.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>2. "Once saved, always saved."</b> Nazarenes believed that after you got saved, you could backslide -- commit more sins -- and have to be saved all over again. For Baptists, once was enough -- after you were saved, you would go to heaven no matter what you did. <br /></div>
<br /><div><div>When I was a kid, the older boys at church whispered that due to "once saved, always saved," Baptists had no morals: hey would "put out" for anybody. So if you wanted a "sure thing" on a date, ask a Baptist girl. </div></div></div><div><br /></div><div>What about Baptist boys? I joined the Baptist Student Union to find out.</div><div><br /></div><div>The full story is on <a href="https://gemstonepride.blogspot.com/2024/01/the-baptist-student-union-two-baptist.html" target="_blank">RG Beefcake and Boyfriends</a></div><div><br /></div>NYSocBoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06658785942817017972noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823073892487105533.post-78506431435116268302024-01-08T03:57:00.000-06:002024-01-08T03:57:52.911-06:00Notre Dame, a Catholic Boy, and a Warm Summer Night<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>Notre Dame, Indiana,</b><br />
<br />
When I was 26 years old, in grad school at the University of Southern California, I had a paper on "Boccacio and the Jews" accepted at a Medieval Studies Conference at the University of Notre Dame in Indiana.<br />
<br />
I flew into Rock Island to visit my parents for a few days. Then they dropped me off at Notre Dame on the way to visit their relatives in Garrett, Indiana, about an hour's drive away. <br />
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I loved Notre Dame! It was like a Medieval university, with archways, pillars, Gothic buildings, crucifixes, small side chapels, and statues of saints everywhere. <br />
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I expected Duns Scotus to walk by at any moment, discussing <i>De consolatione philosophiae </i>with Thomas Aquinas, while St. Hildegard of Bingen sang "O nobilissima viriditas!"<br />
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And did I mention the beefcake? Hot Catholic boys walking around, their scapulars gleaming against their hard brown chests, talking about the Bangles and <i>Robocop </i>and last night's baseball game like any students at any secular college.<br />
<br />
There were no conference activities scheduled for Saturday night. Most of the participants went out to dinner with their husbands and wives and boyfriends and girlfriends. My roommate went to the Linebacker Lounge, hoping for a heterosexual pickup. My <i>Gayellow Pages </i>listed one gay bar in South Bend, but it was too far to walk. I was stuck on campus.<br />
<br />
Lonely, bored, I wandered into the library, like I used to at Augustana on Saturday nights, when I felt overwhelmed by my friends' chants of "<i>girls! girls! girls! let's get some girls! let's look at some girls!" </i><br />
<br />
Nostalgic for Augustana, I walked into the stacks and browsed through the PD section (Scandinavian Literature). Nathan was sitting at an isolated study carrell, surrounded by thick books.<br />
<br />
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No, he wasn't naked. But he was cute -- 20 years old, short, slim, pale, with curly brown hair and a boyish face. <br />
<br />
"Studying Norwegian?" I asked.<br />
<br />
He looked up and smiled. "Oh -- no, Spanish. This was just a quiet place to study."<br />
<br />
"<i>Yo hablo Espanol tambien. Podimos discutir cosas intimas, si?"</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
"Whoa, whoa, I'm just first year!"<br />
<br />
"Sorry. I'm in grad school in Spanish. In Los Angeles."<br />
<br />
"Wow, Los Angeles -- that must be great! All the movie stars everywhere. Who's the biggest star you've met?"<br />
<br />
Every heterosexual guy who found out that I lived in Los Angeles inevitably asked me about "hot girls." Nathan was gay!<br />
<br />
"Met, or saw naked?" I asked with a leer. "I could tell you some things about Tom Cruise..."<br />
<br />
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Soon we were eating hamburgers in the Student Center, while Nathan told me about growing up in an all-Catholic neighborhood of Buffalo, New York, not knowing anyone who was black, Protestant, or gay. He came out during his freshman year, but he only knew three gay guys on campus, two students and a professor, and he had never had a boyfriend.<br />
<br />
"There's lots of sex at Notre Dame," Nathan said. "I could get a dozen guys a night, if I wanted. But just once, I'd like one of them to say hello to me the next day." He reached under the table and took my hand. "Is that the way it is in Los Angeles, too? Lots of secret stuff with straight guys who are thinking about girls the whole time?"<br />
<br />
"Oh, no. Everybody in West Hollywood is gay, so we don't need to trick with straight guys. We date. We fall in love. We have permanent partners." <br />
<br />
He quickly moved his hand for a brief grope. "So, wanna make out?"<br />
<br />
"Make out? Um...where? I have a roommate."<br />
<br />
"Me, too. Let's take a walk."<br />
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He led me across the dark, quiet campus to a footpath that led around St. Joseph Lake. It was heavily wooded, but I could still see the Basilica of the Sacred Heart across the lake; St. Mary, who topped the Golden Dome, had her back turned to us.<br />
<br />
Nathan pointed out the Moreau Seminary, a priests' residence.<br />
And the Sacred Heart Parish Center.<br />
And the Our Lady of Fatima shrine.<br />
And the Solitude of St. Joseph, a retreat house for monks.<br />
<br />
"This must be the most Catholic place on Earth!" I exclaimed. "Except maybe the Vatican."<br />
<br />
"Yeah. And the woods are busy all the time. Not a lot of college kids, but priests, monks, professors. I swear I had a Cardinal one night." He grinned in the darkness. "Creepy old guy, but Italian, you know. Gigantic."<br />
<br />
We started kissing and groping. Once we had to move aside as a fratboy and his girlfriend passed, giggling with erotic anticipation, but otherwise we were alone. Soon my pants were down, and he was on his knees.<br />
<br />
It felt weird, being semi-naked in the summer night. It reminded me of when I was a kid, and Uncle Paul showed us how to pee against the side of the barn. <br />
<br />
Nathan and I stayed in contact. The moment he graduated from Notre Dame, he fled to the gay haven of San Francisco, where he went to work in a store on Union Square. It wasn't exactly the career his parents intended for him, but at least he was home.NYSocBoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06658785942817017972noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823073892487105533.post-22315289174219466902024-01-02T05:49:00.000-06:002024-01-02T05:49:09.401-06:00Farshad's Hookup with Leonardo DiCaprio<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I'm in Paris for the first time in eight years, visiting my old haunts and catching up with old friends. Farshad, the French Moroccan on my Sausage List, and his roommate Michel have me over for dinner.<br />
<br />
Farshad is approaching middle age, dark-skinned, bearded, with a hairy chest. He's one of the founders of the first gay Muslim organization in France and a member of a gay-friendly masjid. Michel is a second-generation French Tunisian in his 20s, short, slim, with a smooth chest.<br />
<br />
The French are not as star-struck as Americans, so celebrity hookups are not a common dinner-party topic of conversation, but I mention my relationship with Jimmy the Boy Toy, how my real-life celebrity boyfriend was not famous enough, so I invented a hookup with Gregg Sulkin of the <i>Wizards of Waverly Place.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
"Why didn't you tell him Leonardo DiCaprio?" Farshad asks. "He's more famous, and more believable. <i>Tout le monde a été dans son lit. </i>[Everyone has been in his bed.] Even me."<br />
<br />
I nod knowingly. Leonardo DiCaprio is not only immensely talented, he's very, very busy. He has been involved in passionate romances with female supermodels from three continents, yet he still has the time and energy to rack up up gay rumors. Nearly every guy I know claims to have been with him, or at least to have seen him kissing a bloke at a nightclub.<br />
<br />
But Michel is impressed. "You and the star of <i>Titanic</i>!" he exclaims. "I never knew that. Did you say 'I'm king of the world!' when<i> tu l'baisé</i>? [when you topped him]"<br />
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<b>Brussels, June 1995</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Farshad was 18 years old, a new graduate from a lycee in Lille in northeastern France, planning to study languages at the university. He had just figured out that he was gay, not just using <i>garz</i> as a substitute for girls, as many of his friends did, but interested in dating and romance. <br />
<br />
But where did a conservative Muslim boy from conservative Lille, whose parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts, and two brothers were members of the Ligue Islamique du Nord, go to meet boys? And avoid running into anyone he knew?<br />
<br />
To Belgium, of course.<br />
<br />
One weekend he took the train 1 1/2 hours to Brussels, got a dorm room in a youth hostel, and set about exploring the gay nightlife. <br />
<br />
He found a club on the Rue du Lombard that had a bar and disco in the front and a darkroom in the back, and saw a blond <i>minet </i>on the dance floor, shirtless, gyrating vigorously, almost obsessively. Sweat glistened on his slim, smooth chest, rolled down his perfect belly. He had long arms and shoulders, dirty blond hair, a beautiful angelic face. <br />
<br />
<i>Trop chaud!</i> Farshad thought. <i>Too hot for me. I have no chance.</i><br />
<br />
But he underestimated his Mediterranean charms. Soon the garz sat down at the bar next to him and ordered an Orangina and asked "Q<i>ue tu veux boire</i>? [What would you like to drink?] with a strong American accent.<br />
<br />
Surprised and excited, Farshad stammered "Um...<i>quoi</i>... an Orangina, too, please."<br />
<br />
"You speak English? Excellent!"<br />
<br />
"English, Italian, Arabic, and a little Tamazight, the native language of Morocco," Farshad said, hoping to impress him.<br />
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He did. "That's fantastic! I can barely handle French and German, and that's only because my mother is from Germany."<br />
<br />
He introduced himself as Leo. He was an actor, in Belgium making a movie about Arthur Rimbaud, the famous boy genius who wrote startling poetry and had an affair with the middle aged, established poet Paul Verlaine.<br />
<br />
"Was he gay?" Farshad asked.<br />
<br />
"Gay? No. He was gay, straight, bisexual, and everything else. He loved men, he loved women, he loved words and language, he loved beauty. He found desire everywhere, even in the slightest touch on the wrist."<br />
<br />
Leo touched Farshad's wrist. <br />
<br />
"I've never been with a <i>garz</i> before," Farshad admitted. "Except for fooling around with my friends, fondling through their clothes, wanking them, that sort of thing. Nothing romantic. Nothing passionate."<br />
<br />
"Well, it's about time you started," Leo said, moving in for a kiss.<br />
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Leo was very passionate, into kissing and full-body contact and oral. He went down on Farshad, then topped him with his legs in the air so they could kiss. Then they held each other in their arms and kissed and cuddled, and became aroused again and moved into 69. And on and on all night. Farshad didn't remember it all, just a blur of hands and mouths and aroused penises. <br />
<br />
Farshad awoke to the sound of the shower running. Soon Leo emerged from the bathroom, toweling off.<br />
<br />
"What do you want to do today?" Farshad asked. "Have you seen the Musees Royaux des Beaux Arts?"<br />
<br />"I have to be on the set in an hour."<br />
<br />
"Ok, then...dinner later?"<br />
<br />
"I'll be going back to America soon. And you have to be getting back to Lille."<br />
<br />
"<i>Mais...mais...</i>"<br />
<br />
Leo sat on the bed. "The world is full of hot guys, Farshad. Not just one, not ten, not a hundred -- thousands. They'll come and go, but there will always be more. Your job on this planet is to experience as much beauty as you can before it all fades away."<br />
<br />
They didn't exchange telephone numbers. They never saw each other again.<br />
<br />
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<b><br /></b>
"That's rather a sad story," I say. <br />
<br />
"Sad!" Farshad exclaims. "I see only happiness. I spent the night with a man who has a beautiful body and a beautiful soul. Can you expect more of life?"<br />
<br />
"You shall certainly travel from stage to stage," Michel says, quoting the Qur'an. "Nothing lasts forever. What counts is the beauty in front of me at this moment." <br />
<br />
<b>Was Farshad Telling the Truth?</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Leonardo DiCaprio was filming <i>Total Eclipse</i> in 1995, and several scenes were shot in Brussels. But his conversation seems too intellectual, even cerebral. DiCaprio is more of a plain talker. <br />
<br />
DiCaprio doesn't have blond hair, and is smaller beneath the belt than Farshad said.<br />
<br />
The bedroom activity Farshad describes doesn't mesh with the descriptions of DiCaprio's bedroom activity from some of the women in his life, but that could be merely a matter of performing differently with men and women.<br />
<br />
DiCaprio is a strong supporter of the gay community who has played gay or bisexual characters several times. You'd think that if he was bisexual, he wouldn't keep it a secret.<br />
<br />
But the gay rumors continue to rack up.<br />
<br />
See also: <a href="https://gemstonepride.blogspot.com/2024/01/nude-photos-of-leonardo-dicaprio.html" target="_blank">Nude Photos of Leonardo DiCaprio</a>NYSocBoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06658785942817017972noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823073892487105533.post-77764182572264779042024-01-01T04:39:00.000-06:002024-01-01T04:39:38.399-06:00My Boyfriend's Secret Bookshelf<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>Davenport, Iowa</b><br />
<br />
When I first met Fred the Ministerial Student in December 1979, my sophomore year at Augustana College, I tried to determine if he was gay by examining his bookcases for books by gay authors -- I only knew about Tennessee Williams, Oscar Wilde, and Shakespeare. I didn't find anything.<br />
<br />
In the open, anyway.<br />
<br />
One day in March 1980, a few months after we began dating, Fred asked me to get something from his bedroom closet, and I found a secret bookshelf, facing away from view, so even if the door was ajar, you wouldn't know what was there.<br />
<br />
Curious, I pulled a book out. <i>Familiar Faces: Hidden Lives: The Story of Homosexual Men in America Today, </i>by Howard Brown.<br />
<br />
I had never seen a nonfiction book about gay people.<br />
<br />
"There are a few others," Fred told me. "I have almost all of the nonfiction about gays, I think. Of course, it has to be hidden."<br />
<br />
"I've never seen a gay book in a bookstore."<br />
<br />
"Not likely. They wouldn't stock any -- it's illegal to put them out on the shelves -- and besides, who would walk up to the counter and try to buy one?" (<a href="http://everydayheterosexism.blogspot.com/2013/03/cruising-miracle-mile.html">I would be doing it</a> in just a few months). "It's all by mail. You don't have to give them your name, just a money order and post office box."<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhitknBUYHPB8NhqsT_aBkbetu_QqgalKQo25tnK4yO4B2futgIiVb04vyO-cN6utxR_JQPjrI8kjw-ZNfTipqNoakZcSH6_eK-373hyUrc7kSmd9-NUfphKT0ZzYUTlCSb-Dm_q-qRXG0/s1600/MerleMilller2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhitknBUYHPB8NhqsT_aBkbetu_QqgalKQo25tnK4yO4B2futgIiVb04vyO-cN6utxR_JQPjrI8kjw-ZNfTipqNoakZcSH6_eK-373hyUrc7kSmd9-NUfphKT0ZzYUTlCSb-Dm_q-qRXG0/s1600/MerleMilller2.jpg" /></a>With Fred's permission, I spent the afternoon going through the seven gay books in existence.<br />
1. <i>Familiar Faces, Hidden Lives.</i><br />
<i>2. Greek Homosexuality</i><br />
3. <i>The Homosexual Matrix</i><br />
4. <i>Is the Homosexual My Neighbor?: Another Christian View</i><br />
5. <i>Jonathan Loved David: Homosexuality in Biblical Times</i><br />
6. <i>Iolaus, An Anthology of Friendship, </i>by early gay activist Edward Carpenter<br />
7. A slim hardback, <i>On Being Different: What it Means to be a Homosexual, </i>by Merle Miller.<br />
<br />
(Fred was actually mistaken; there were about 30 nonfiction books about gay people in print in 1980.)<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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The only author I recognized was Merle Miller. My English and journalism teachers were always priasing him:<br />
<br />
Born right next door to Rock Island, in Marshalltown, Iowa, a graduate of the University of Iowa, and now look at him! A famous journalist, novelist, and historian, biographer of presidents!<br />
<br />
Read his books for a model of clear, vigorous writing: <i>Something Happened (1962), </i>or <i>Only You, Dick Darling! (1965), </i>or <i>Plain Speaking: An Oral Biography of Harry S. Truman (1973).</i><br />
<br />
They didn't mention, or they didn't know, that in in January 1971, Merle Miller came out in an article in <i>The New York Times: "</i>What It Means to Be Homosexual."<br />
<br />
The article received 2000 letters, and was reprinted, with an afterward, in the slim hardbound volume that I found on Fred's hidden bookshelf. <br />
<br />
What does it mean to be gay?<br />
<br />
According to Merle Miller, it doesn't mean that you're crazy, sick, sinful, or evil. It doesn't mean that you're plotting to seduce kids or overthrow civilization.<br />
<br />
It means that you are invisible, and heterosexuals will try anything and everything to maintain the pretense that you do not exist.<br />
<br />
Merle Miler stayed invisible. When he died in 1986, the <i>New York Times </i>refused to mention his partner of 22 years, David W. Elliott (who, paradoxically, wrote a novel entitled <i>Listen to the Silence).</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
But I mourned the writer who grew up right next door, who nobody knew was gay, who wrote one of the only gay books in existence.NYSocBoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06658785942817017972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823073892487105533.post-15400440419890726762023-12-29T04:55:00.000-06:002023-12-29T04:55:33.552-06:00My Boss Lets Out His Trouser Snake<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />At the beginning of my senior year in high school, my parents said "It's time you started earning your own money." So I got a part-time job at the Carousel Snack Bar in Southpark Mall, about a ten-minute drive from home.<br />
<br />
The Carousel Snack Bar had the curious idea that going to a mall was a rare, exciting event, not part of everyday life, so they sold the kind of snacks you would expect at a carnival: hot dogs, popcorn, cotton candy, and soft-serve ice cream.<br />
<br />
There were benefits to the job: all the junk food I wanted, a bookstore down the hall, and a never-ending parade of high school and college jocks. <br />
<br />
But I hated my boss, Mark Morris (not his real name). He was about thirty, a little on the chunky side, with black hair, a square face with a little beard, and nerd glasses. But what he lacked in physical presence, he made up for in raw machismo.<br />
<br />
<b>1. He swaggered. He swore. He barked out orders while swearing</b>: "Clean out the butter dispenser, damn it!"; "Restock the f*** ketchup!"; "Didn't I tell you to change the god** bun warmers!"<br />
<br />
<b>2. He kept us late every night, mopping, polishing, shining until an hour after the Mall closed.</b> <div><br /></div><div> I'm still fuming over being forced to stay late and mop out the <b>store room</b>, thereby missing the district jump quiz tournament and killing my chances of going to the regionals!<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjydg35FrephXguK9-VOREgjuwJ8jE4O_CUj3Q8vz3G514Al-Yr99gmlqBWYn8huV9qpFIGj7CkIMBc0PwQ7b3iihcrmJMDH-z9yi3cBhmPSW8Sl6jhl-8WLUAOrqsp8Ispypv8ClUR71gi/s1600/FloweramaJoel.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjydg35FrephXguK9-VOREgjuwJ8jE4O_CUj3Q8vz3G514Al-Yr99gmlqBWYn8huV9qpFIGj7CkIMBc0PwQ7b3iihcrmJMDH-z9yi3cBhmPSW8Sl6jhl-8WLUAOrqsp8Ispypv8ClUR71gi/w255-h400/FloweramaJoel.jpg" width="255" /></a><br />
<b>3. Every other sentence was a clever reference to penises or sex, or both:</b><br />
<br />
"How's it hangin', Sarge?" (he called all the boys "Sarge").<div><br />
"You guys better take your hands outta your pants and start pushing the cotton candy!"</div><div><br />
"It's cold enough out today to turn an Eskimo dick into a popsicle!"</div><div><br />
"Hey, dickless wonder, I said go chop the onions!"<br />
<br />
Considering that we were sixteen and seventeen-year olds, his comments seem dangerously close to sexual harassment. But the term was not in common use yet. I thought sexual references were standard in the work world.<br />
<br />
<b>4. Mark was only obnoxious to the boys. The girls got away with murder:</b></div><div><b><br /></b>
"Of course you can take tomorrow off, Dear. Your studies come first."</div><div><br />
"Of course you can skip the mopping, Sweetheart, if you're too tired."<br />
<br />
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The Carousel Snack Bar didn't have a restroom, so we went across the hall to use the one at Flowerama.<br />
<br />
<b>5. When we asked permission to go to the bathroom, Mark always implied that we intended to masturbate:</b><br />
<br />
"Gonna go choke the chicken, huh?"</div><div><br />
"Gonna go spank the ol' trouser snake, huh?"</div><div><br />
"Don't have too much fun over there, Sarge!"</div><div><br />
"Sure, Sarge. Wanna borrow my <i>Playboy?"</i><br />
<br />
I wanted to quit, but my parents said "You have to stick to your commitments. You'll be working for bad bosses your whole life."<br />
<br />
Which is true, but no other boss has ever asked if I was going to "spank the ol' trouser snake."<br />
<br />
Mark actually did keep a stack of <i>Playboy </i>magazines in the store room, and sometimes on a slow day he took one into the Flowerama restroom for fifteen or twenty minutes. We speculated that he was maybe "spanking" his own "trouser snake."<br />
<br />
I pretended disgust, but actually, I wanted to see it. <br />
<br />
Maybe I could think of a plan to get a glimpse of Mark's penis, and minimize the obnoxious comments at the same time.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZUGphC67KYRXlUcLYjEqKSwIJmIOAmCcPM1xB9NadQK8HVcmEfifmYqtFDkvKyF5dRPQeWtLa9bYmrcg0OQbR74mKTqClX4IL5mv2r90OYlnwRpQMdi5zXS_PSiaqwWfHbVcIYoUruSWq/s1600/joel5censored.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZUGphC67KYRXlUcLYjEqKSwIJmIOAmCcPM1xB9NadQK8HVcmEfifmYqtFDkvKyF5dRPQeWtLa9bYmrcg0OQbR74mKTqClX4IL5mv2r90OYlnwRpQMdi5zXS_PSiaqwWfHbVcIYoUruSWq/w213-h400/joel5censored.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>A very cute Augustana music major who was working part-time at Flowerama, agreed to be an accomplice. </div><div><br /></div><div>First he put a wad of putty on the latch in the back stall in the bathroom, so it wouldn't lock. Then we waited.</div><div>
<br />For a cold Tuesday night, when customers were scarce. Suddenly Mark barked, "We won't sell any more cotton candy crap tonight, so clean out the machne. I want it so shiny you can see your dick in it!" Then he stuck a rolled-up <i>Playboy </i>under his arm and headed across the hall. <br />
<br />
About five minutes later, Joel called the store. "Nobody here. He's ready."<br />
<br />
"I'm going on break," I announced to my coworker.<br />
<br />
Flowerama was deserted except for Joel, who was pretending to be immersed in a florist's magazine. He nodded as I passed, walked to the back of the store and through the door marked "Employees Only." It led to a corridor, with the employee restrooms across the hall.<br />
<br />
I carefully opened the door to the men's restroom. Two stalls, a urinal, and a sink. I saw Mark's feet in the far stall. And his pants and underwear.<br />
<br />
Not gathered around his ankles. <b>All the way off,</b> carefully folded, at his feet. <br />
<br />
The plan was to burst into the stall and yell "Caught you!", but this was much better!<br />
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I sneaked across the floor, noiselessly, and scooped up his pants and underwear.<br />
<br />
"Hey!" Mark yelled from inside. "What 're you...."<br />
<br />
I ran, bursting through the restroom door and the "employees only door" while Mark was still fiddling with the latch on the stall. I deposited his clothes on a tray of lilacs, then ducked behind the checkout counter next a giggling Joel.<br />
<br />
Mark burst out a moment later, naked from the waist down. <br />
<br />
He saw his pants on the lilac tray, stomped over and picked them up, glared at us, and then stomped back to the store room to get dressed.<br />
<br />
I worked at the Carousel Snack Bar for another few months. Mark never talked about what happened, but he made far fewer references to the penises and sexual appetites of his employees.<br />
<br />
By the way, his trouser snake was huge.</div></div>NYSocBoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06658785942817017972noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823073892487105533.post-26247136167730324402023-12-26T09:33:00.000-06:002023-12-26T09:33:06.318-06:00The Worst Date in Ohio History: Remy the Jerk<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>Dayton, October 2005</b><br />
<br />
For 20 years all of my friends and neighbors, the guy on the next treadmill at the gym, the couple ahead of me in line at the grocery store, everyone I passed on the street was gay. I got my news from <i>The Advocate</i>. I bought my books in a gay bookstore. I went to a gay church. <br />
<br />
Now I'm living in Dayton, Ohio, in the midst of the Straight World. There's one gay bar, on the other side of town, and no gay organizations except The Friends of the Italian Opera, a closeted group of gay retirees. The nearest gay neighborhood is an hour's drive away.<br />
<br />
I'm not adjusting well. I have no friends except a "straight" Friend With Benefits. I stop going to the gym, and gain weight. I'm so depressed that I seek out psychological counseling. And I have a series of crazy dates with sleazoids and jerks.<br />
<br />
But tonight will be different. It's a blind date, arranged by Clintin (who I hooked up with last February), so I haven't actually met him yet, but he sounds great: Remy, 36 years old, a history professor (specializing in 19th century America), who lives in the gay neighborhood of Germantown in Columbus.<br />
<br />
His photo isn't great: long, weasley face, villain goatee, pale skin, skinny chest matted with black hair. But I'm willing to overlook those defects. <br />
<br />
Ok, I have high expectations: we'll become boyfriends, I'll move in, and commute to my dreary job in Dayton, and get my life back to normal.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYQA1ESEZS-5u69sOXvec5eIBQeORd9vmRJ6Nyng1KKwVEBWtQBdwTlK__5DY8wo_CGNHezvSYZiomC-nLbaODny2VnSKdLl-D5VPv_X8xMO1cdivtV81SkFy7s5j4h6u4zI5cMtw3VP8/s1600/Remy.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYQA1ESEZS-5u69sOXvec5eIBQeORd9vmRJ6Nyng1KKwVEBWtQBdwTlK__5DY8wo_CGNHezvSYZiomC-nLbaODny2VnSKdLl-D5VPv_X8xMO1cdivtV81SkFy7s5j4h6u4zI5cMtw3VP8/s320/Remy.jpg" width="180" /></a><b>The Arrival</b><br />
<br />
I arrive a few minutes early: weird white house, set back from the street, but in the heart of Germantown, a few blocks from the gay bars and restaurants.<br />
<br />
Whoops -- one of his roommates is a woman! Must be a lesbian, but still....<br />
<br />
Instead of taking me into the living room, she escorts me upstairs to the bedroom to wait. Remy is naked, toweling off from the shower.<br />
<br />
"You're early!" he exclaims in a nasty tone. <br />
<br />
"It's an hour's drive from Dayton, so I couldn't calculate exactly," I say defensively. "Sorry for coming up here -- your roommate wouldn't let me stay in the living room."<br />
<br />
"Yeah, she doesn't like me. I'm only renting a room -- I had to move out of my house when I broke up with my ex."<br />
<br />
Too much information for a first date!<br />
<br />
Well, at least I got a good view.<br />
<br />
<b>The Dinner</b><br />
<br />
There are a dozen gay restaurants in Columbus, but instead Remy takes me to the Milestone, a big, airy, freezing-cold restaurant that looks out over the downtown skyline. He insists on a table outside, where we keep getting buzzed by the mist from a gigantic fountain.<br />
<br />
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The menu is all nouvelle-cuisine tiny-portioned gourmand stuff, with tiny pieces of meat and vegetables artistically arranged amid sprigs of cilantro and dabs of cumin mayonnaise.<br />
<br />
There are three things I hate on a date: 1. to be cold; 2. to be hungry; 3. to be insulted.<br />
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Remy doesn't seem to realize that he is insulting me:<br />
1. West Hollywood ("it's so superficial!")<br />
2. My degree ("on of those fad degrees that will be useless in ten years")<br />
3. My trip to Paris ("such a cliched destination. why doesn't anyone ever go to Bucharest or Sarajevo?")<br />
4. My singing voice. How did he ever get around to that?<br />
<br />
I don't have any particular reason to put up the top photo. I just needed something to take my mind off Remy.<br />
<br />
Have you ever noticed that jerks -- guys who are critical, inconsiderate, insensitive, and hurtful -- tend to be physically unattractive? I certainly don't ascribe to the notion that beautiful bodies go with beautiful souls, but say you are attractive, so everyone is nice to you all the time. Won't you learn to be nice? And if you are constantly snubbed and rejected, won't you learn to be nasty yourself?<br />
<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b>The Party</b><br />
<br />
Next we're scheduled to go to a Halloween party at an apartment a few blocks from Remy's house. It seems strange to go to a party on a first date -- too many distractions, too much competition. But I haven't been to a good Halloween party for years, and I'm still clinging to the hope that we'll become a couple, and I'll get my gay life back.<br />
<br />
We should have coordinated in advance. I'm going as Zorro, and he's going as Mark Twain, with a white suit, bushy white hair, and a white moustache. Rather an odd couple, compounded by his rather gross makeup and the lit cigar he carries constantly as a prop.<br />
<br />
There are about 30 guys crammed into the 2-bedroom apartment, a lot of hot bodies in skimpy costumes, but a lot of drinking going on. The West Hollywood parties I used to go to had very little drinking -- when you choose your friends mostly from church and temple, you get a lot of teetotlars and "one glass of wine on my birthday" guys. This is a room full of sloshing drunks, and stale with with marijuana and cigarette smoke. And cruising.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiefyZdW8VBORMZxhyKjStiVfkf1QIHCdvs3TgrFXXqp84Ke-mzU_y-8SHC_LZRUOH7nhr0eGsMeXuAB2YsqJi7EV2GX70Q0lccy0U27HZu793w5RaZ4xCccZkUAeqF7y0mQuYLV5Q1ALE/s1600/marktwain.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiefyZdW8VBORMZxhyKjStiVfkf1QIHCdvs3TgrFXXqp84Ke-mzU_y-8SHC_LZRUOH7nhr0eGsMeXuAB2YsqJi7EV2GX70Q0lccy0U27HZu793w5RaZ4xCccZkUAeqF7y0mQuYLV5Q1ALE/s1600/marktwain.jpg" /></a><br />
Remy latches onto a Cute Young Thing, and before I know it, they're making out. <br />
<br />
I've had enough! "I'm ready to go!" I tell him.<br />
<br />
"Well, I'm not drunk enough yet. Why don't you go back to the house -- my roommate will let you in. I'll be back later -- and I may even have a surprise for you." He nudges the Cute Young Thing.<br />
<br />
No way! In West Hollywood, the guy you begin the evening with, you end the evening with. Friend, roommate, date, it doesn't matter -- you go out that door together, you come back together. No abandoning them to pursue a trick.<br />
<br />
And who "shares" on the first date? That's not a date, that's a three-way hookup!<br />
<br />
"I want to go home now!" I say, more firmly, squeezing his shoulder. "Alone."<br />
<br />
"Ok, ok," Remy says. He scribbles his phone number, passes it to the Cute Young Thing, and escorts me out. <br />
<br />
We walk back to his house through the crowds of gay-neighborhood partiers, mostly silent. <br />
<br />
"You know, it wouldn't have killed you to share me with that Cute Young Thing," Remy said. "He could do both of us." <br />
<br />
"I want you all to myself. I'm the jealous type."<br />
<br />
"That's for sure. Not your most attractive quality, I must say."<br />
<br />
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<b>The Bedroom</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
After all that, why did I agree to spend the night with Remy the Jerk?<br />
<br />
Three reasons: <br />
1. I was cold, and wanted a warm bed<br />
2. I was too tired to drive an hour back to Dayton<br />
3. He had a penis. A nice one -- at least 8".<br />
<br />
Once I got past the alcohol and tobacco on his breath, Remy was a good kisser. He tried to lower me onto his penis while we were kissing, but I refused anal, going down on him instead. Then he moved into the 69 position to finish. I finished in the interfemoral position, thrusting between his legs.<br />
<br />
We fell asleep in each other's arms. In the morning he gave me his telephone number, said "Next time with the Cute Young Thing. I'll bet he can teach you a few tricks," and kicked me out without breakfast.<br />
<br />
Still a jerk..<br />
<br />
See also: <a href="http://talesofwesthollywood.blogspot.com/2015/12/the-huber-heights-horror-or-worst.html">The Huber Heights Horror.</a>; a <a href="http://talesofwesthollywood.blogspot.com/2016/04/february-2005-hooking-up-during-job.html">Hookup During a Job Interview</a>NYSocBoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06658785942817017972noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823073892487105533.post-21983465359233460072023-12-23T10:07:00.000-06:002023-12-23T10:07:10.553-06:00Grandpa Prater's Banjo<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg7K5p64FHn4FwtjIIHOyZwCChTIoeNuor-Ouaanac9PN-ijRyyyZdQdNFX_mRCwPGpKC4w5yXJx8TnVXo8PBaRjOVqKdcOx5zKlzyGKKHdnh7XT_56xPDGDvwaYMfecfeVWw-2c8TOLU/s1600/grandpa9.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg7K5p64FHn4FwtjIIHOyZwCChTIoeNuor-Ouaanac9PN-ijRyyyZdQdNFX_mRCwPGpKC4w5yXJx8TnVXo8PBaRjOVqKdcOx5zKlzyGKKHdnh7XT_56xPDGDvwaYMfecfeVWw-2c8TOLU/s320/grandpa9.jpg" width="277" /></a></div>
This is the second erotic story about my Grandpa Prater.<br />
<br />
It's the day after Christmas in seventh grade; I just turned 12. We're visiting my parents' relatives in Indiana. Today we drive out to the farmhouse near Garrett to visit my Grandpa Prater, my mother's father, and bring him his Christmas presents.<br />
<br />
Grandpa Prater is 70 years old, but still big and rugged, with thick arms and shoulders and huge hands. He wears overalls, sometimes with a white t-shirt underneath, sometimes without, so you could see his hard round pecs dusted with white hair.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He moved from Kentucky to Indiana with his family in 1942, to take advantage of factory jobs during World War II. Now he is widowed, and all of his kids have moved out except Uncle Edd, who acts more like his brother than his son.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
There's no car in the driveway, and no one answers when we knock, so we figure that they're out, at the store or visiting friends in town. We drive down the road about half a mile to the Trailer in the Deep Woods, to visit my Cousin Buster and his parents and wait for them to return.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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<div>
Cousin Buster shows me the guitar he got for Christmas, and tries to play "Your Mama Don't Dance," by Loggins and Messina. He doesn't do well. "I should have asked for a banjo," he says. "Man, I could really howl on that box." </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Why don't you ask Grandpa if you can borrow his?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Somehow we decide that it would be a good idea to sneak into the farmhouse while he's gone and "borrow" the banjo. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We walk through the woods until we come to the side yard. There's still no car in the driveway.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We climb onto the porch and go in through the parlor (country folk don't lock their doors).</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I've been there a thousand times, but never when the house is deserted. There's something eerie, even sinister, about the two overstuffed sofas, red with clawed legs, the old console radio with a black-and-white tv on top, the picture of Jesus on the Cross that changes to an Ascended Christ if you look at it right. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The kitchen is familiar, too. I've been there many times. But there's something sinister about the plate of half-eaten toast and jar of Sue Bee Honey left on the kitchen table, as if someone suddenly rushed out. Or was kidnapped.<br />
<br />
I've never been inside Grandpa Prater's bedroom. </div>
<div>
<br />
First there's an anteroom, with some coats on hooks and shoes on the floor. Then a big oak door.</div><div><br /></div><div>More after the break</div><span><a name='more'></a></span><div><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA_dddd8gly04u5UZp8CUdYePGvxV1u64nQ5j_pSQobrB20MLhKMDlI_dsx8bQQPzQsVrW5Sj3XhM6WJXSqb1YNrQVNF4YzeO6HLBAE-JMgLT43nLCP-Bgi4yQBYJLuu5iq-NTvD99xNg/s1600/Grandpabedroom2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA_dddd8gly04u5UZp8CUdYePGvxV1u64nQ5j_pSQobrB20MLhKMDlI_dsx8bQQPzQsVrW5Sj3XhM6WJXSqb1YNrQVNF4YzeO6HLBAE-JMgLT43nLCP-Bgi4yQBYJLuu5iq-NTvD99xNg/s320/Grandpabedroom2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
My heart is racing with guilt and fear. We shouldn't be here -- it's trespassing! "Let's wait until Grandpa Prater gets home, and ask him," I suggest.<br />
<br />
Cousin Buster is a little pale, too. "No, I can't wait. Grandpa won't care/"<br />
<br />
He gingerly turns the handle and opens the door.<br />
<br />
It's a long, narrow room, with an old-fashioned bed, a pitcher on a wooden dresser, clothes hanging in an armoire. An armchair with clothes piled on it. A half-full bottle of whiskey and an old leatherbound book on the nightstand.<br />
<br />
Grandpa Prater is lying on the bed! <br />
<br />
His shirt off, his overalls undone, thick arms behind his head. My first thought is that he's dead, but then I see his massive hairy chest slowly rising and falling. He must just be asleep -- sometimes old people take naps in the middle of the day. Uncle Edd must have gone off by himself, taking the car, and Grandpa Prater didn't hear us knocking before.<br />
<br />
Later, replaying the scene in my mind, I see a massive bulge in his overalls, but it's probably just my imagination. I didn't get a sausage sighting that day.<br />
<br />
Still, the unexpected semi-nudity, the hairy chest, the sense of transgression and secrecy all combine to make the sight decidedly erotic. I feel a stirring down below.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjum9YO8uerZpkx2RWYEdefOgnp3lDZkDWnje7rmnLdQCAb-SX1B8JItJUfXqR7oo_9TvA6PstkyXoaUOOhRIdqGzvvl6sINQl6kWExu6tRmp-viRDmWs_cOT94V2rAJB1GW_qPMlr5zhc/s1600/grandpa8.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjum9YO8uerZpkx2RWYEdefOgnp3lDZkDWnje7rmnLdQCAb-SX1B8JItJUfXqR7oo_9TvA6PstkyXoaUOOhRIdqGzvvl6sINQl6kWExu6tRmp-viRDmWs_cOT94V2rAJB1GW_qPMlr5zhc/s400/grandpa8.jpg" width="265" /></a>Should we continue with our quest to borrow the banjo? <br />
<br />
Cousin Buster begins tip-toeing across the floor.<br />
<br />
Suddenly, without moving or opening his eyes, Grandpa Prater says "Hello, Joe, what do you know?"<br />
<br />
We yell in surprise.<br />
<br />
He sits up in bed. "Buster and Boomer! Come here and sit with your old Grandpa for a spell." <br />
<br />
I hesitate -- getting too close to alcohol is a major sin for Nazarenes, and Grandpa Prater is sort of scary, with his incomprehensible Kentucky accent and smell of whiskey and Aqua Velva. But we climb onto the narrow bed, and he wraps an enormous arm around each of us and draws us close. <br />
<br />
I <i>really</i> like having a muscular arm around me. The stirring down there continues.<br />
<br />
"Um...we wanted to borrow your banjo," Cousin Buster says. <br />
<br />
"To learn to play like you," I add, to flatter him.<br />
<br />
"The banjo is old-fashioned! You should be playing new music. Rock and Roll. The Beatles. In my day we all listened to Eubie Blake and W. C. Handy. I was modern! It was my Daddy who wanted to hear 'Barbara Allen'"<br />
<br />
We didn't know what he was talking about at the time, but Eubie Blake and W.C. Handy are jazz musicians popular in the 1920s, and "Barbara Allen" is an old folksong.<br />
<br />
He reaches past Cousin Buster to get the book on the nightstand, and opens it to a page with a sports team. "That's me, your old Grandpa, on the wrestling team at Salyersville High School. Wasn't I a caution in those days?"<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOAZ9G0exxlfYNRlshMWX5czYvqG7HwkYtGjhVR0KP6njV5OF2cBjyzKzNMLNeQtZ4ZBY1QdtLxWG0UrooeyUS7OdQ-Be38EOjm4sgs1XytcAmR-BS4bq6JwIZAI2MoJbWKtrSqXOLzGA/s1600/SaylersvilleHighSchool.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOAZ9G0exxlfYNRlshMWX5czYvqG7HwkYtGjhVR0KP6njV5OF2cBjyzKzNMLNeQtZ4ZBY1QdtLxWG0UrooeyUS7OdQ-Be38EOjm4sgs1XytcAmR-BS4bq6JwIZAI2MoJbWKtrSqXOLzGA/s400/SaylersvilleHighSchool.jpg" width="400" /></a>He is actually pointing out a basketball team. But one of the boys looks like him.<br />
<br />
"I was going to study to be a science teacher, but my Daddy said 'No, son, you're a man now, you have to marry and start a family. Now, I swan, Gracie was the prettiest gal this side of Prestonburg, but why couldn't we have waited a year or two?"<br />
<br />
Translation: when he graduated from high school, Tony wanted to go to teacher's college, but his father forced him to get a job instead, so he could afford a wife and kids. I hear the "job, wife, kids" litany constantly today.<br />
<br />
"Maybe then I could have paid for nice things, like a bigger house, in town, and a nice car."<br />
<br />
<i>And a bathroom instead of an outhouse in the barn!</i><br />
<br />
"...and doctors, when the babies got sick. And when Grace got sick."<br />
<br />
Cousin Buster extricates himself. "So, can we borrow the banjo?"<br />
<br />
He waves his hand. "Sure, take it. Keep it til the cows come home. But promise me one thing -- when you all become men, you won't let your daddies tell you what to do. Go to college. Make something of yourself, no matter how cute the little girl down the holler is."<br />
<br />
Translation: <i>Don't listen to the litany of "job, house, wife, kids." Escape to West Hollywood. Find a home.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
See also: <a href="http://talesofwesthollywood.blogspot.com/2016/07/erotic-story-about-me-and-my-grandpa-1.html">Grandpa Prater's Wrestling Moves</a></div>
NYSocBoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06658785942817017972noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823073892487105533.post-21822363823892940242023-12-16T05:24:00.000-06:002024-01-02T05:49:26.202-06:00Nude Photos of Leonardo DiCaprio<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheP75tHb2_qgG2iVz02iAa2plpCg_3nfxNlPCGbuu-_eoFs86624T6HP82LnEDZJltmGZwNQPjlWP8hO_W9n0mxa8OcsLWXjryXucfsyaqRflrlP1irVaxLB5Ax3OpuHggQtlAAwYayUA/s1600/lo5.gif" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheP75tHb2_qgG2iVz02iAa2plpCg_3nfxNlPCGbuu-_eoFs86624T6HP82LnEDZJltmGZwNQPjlWP8hO_W9n0mxa8OcsLWXjryXucfsyaqRflrlP1irVaxLB5Ax3OpuHggQtlAAwYayUA/s320/lo5.gif" width="244" /></a></div>I watch mostly comedy and science fiction, and Leonardo DiCaprio doesn't do much of either, so I've only seen a few of his movies: <i>Romeo x Juliet, Inception, The Great Gatsby, Once Upon a Time in Hollywood. </i>But I've heard of many: they win Critic Association awardss, get discussed at parties, head "my favorite movie" lists:<div><br /></div><div>He is not a beefcake star, but a surprising number of his film appearances involve nudity.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_uhMreQQIwEdoW8dVHus4uOm6Tmg6CP85-SGa935bN8kq8DWza85MP6Ablvx2km9X4g05-CICED6Ao1d-FBPKanQuQmkvPO6fEtGpJGxBMlEkzHtMC2_Uf5EQSfwM9vfUD49ujUP55ec/s1600/leo3.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_uhMreQQIwEdoW8dVHus4uOm6Tmg6CP85-SGa935bN8kq8DWza85MP6Ablvx2km9X4g05-CICED6Ao1d-FBPKanQuQmkvPO6fEtGpJGxBMlEkzHtMC2_Uf5EQSfwM9vfUD49ujUP55ec/w233-h400/leo3.jpg" width="233" /></a><br />
In 1994, Arthur Rimbaud in <i>Total Eclipse,</i> Leo gave us full frontal and rear shots. (Don't worry, he's over 18 here).</div><div><br /></div><div>This post has been moved to<a href="https://gemstonepride.blogspot.com/2024/01/nude-photos-of-leonardo-dicaprio.html" target="_blank"> RG Beefcake and Boyfriends</a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>NYSocBoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06658785942817017972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823073892487105533.post-83392902377354525582023-12-16T04:49:00.000-06:002023-12-16T04:49:01.659-06:00My Late-Night Hookup with Lou Ferrigno<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFYmvfSTkB4NtiRfqiB8WfMh2c5ZT6cUhELrm6BJeVqcJ-8F5u8iJ1FMC1COxubpNbkAH1CbBQT94_5WSCMg6Q5Em-6ImOUwE6ZrRY9fXLTyktERC9rA5zO8AErkZMykKzVPZuqhI9qtA/s1600/lou3.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="478" data-original-width="509" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFYmvfSTkB4NtiRfqiB8WfMh2c5ZT6cUhELrm6BJeVqcJ-8F5u8iJ1FMC1COxubpNbkAH1CbBQT94_5WSCMg6Q5Em-6ImOUwE6ZrRY9fXLTyktERC9rA5zO8AErkZMykKzVPZuqhI9qtA/s320/lou3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
When I was living in West Hollywood, I worked part-time as an editorial assistant on <i>Muscle and Fitness. </i><br />
<br />
It wasn't as much fun as it sounds. The articles were often heterosexist, we featured female bodybuilders as often as male, and I didn't get to actually watch many photo shoots.<br />
<br />
But I did get to meet a lot of bodybuilders, including Lou Ferrigno, Mr. America, Mr. Universe, "Hercules," and "The Incredible Hulk"<br />
<br />One day he came in with Bill Bixby, his "Hulk" co-star. I thought they looked like a gay couple.<br />
<br />
A few days later, he came in by himself for a photo shoot.<br />
<br />
"Hi, Mr. Ferrigno." I called. "Where's Bill?"<br />
<br />
"I left him home, chained up in the basement."<br />
<br />
"Can I come take a look?"<br />
<br />
He grinned, clapped a huge hand on my back, and walked on.<br />
<br />
A couple of weeks later, I had coffee with Jack Colvin, who played his nemesis on "Hulk." He told me "Ferrigno is straight, but he won't say no to a late-night blow job."<br />
<br />I kept a lookout for Ferrigno's next appearance. It came near Halloween, when I was working reception, a part of the job I hated.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_H8xHS0b6eVm7a16lzI1fbaIHY791BD6SPo54epwoYwFgsx4rwy4sed8bBEODtCb8F71tMjesTLF-bwqqtXmmVLfPOOJCRjlDKSvkyu9CJsZeXUWmsphrdCo0xEoYU07JWh6xWN2wJdY/s1600/dad7.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="401" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_H8xHS0b6eVm7a16lzI1fbaIHY791BD6SPo54epwoYwFgsx4rwy4sed8bBEODtCb8F71tMjesTLF-bwqqtXmmVLfPOOJCRjlDKSvkyu9CJsZeXUWmsphrdCo0xEoYU07JWh6xWN2wJdY/s320/dad7.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
"You got a promotion, I see," he said with a cruisy smile.<br />
<br />
"I'm a jack of all trades around here, but usually I'm in editorial."<br />
<br />
"Then be sure to spell my name right."<br />
<br />
"Only if you spell mine right. I'd better write it down for you."<br />
<br />
He didn't object, so I wrote it on a piece of paper. "And my phone number, in case you have any questions."<br />
<br />
"Good idea. I might have questions."<br />
<br />
He put the number in his pocket and went off to his appointment. About half an hour later, he came through the lobby again and stopped at my desk. "Do you like ____?"<br />
<br />
I didn't understand his deaf accent (Ferrigno has 80% hearing loss). "Mexican food?" Was he asking me out? "Sure. What time...."<br />
<br />
Then someone else came in, and he mouthed "I'll call you," and left.<br />
<br />
At least that's what I think he said.<br />
<br />
I told all my friends that I had a date with Lou Ferrigno, and waited for his call.<br />
<br />
It never came. I started dating Alan the Pentecostal Porn Star, and forgot about it -- I was giving my phone number to a lot of people at the time.<br />
<br />
Then one night in January shortly after Alan and I broke up, I was at home, watching tv and doing my Italian homework, when Lou knocked on my door!<br />
<br />
"Is this a good time?"<br />
<br />My one-room apartment was a mess -- unmade bed, dinner dishes out, books and papers everywhere. Besides, I was in my bathrobe, and I hadn't brushed my teeth since dinner. But who's going to say no?<br />
<br />
He collapsed onto the bed. "Boy, I'm tired. I could use a nap."<br />
<br />
"Ok, let's take a nap."<br />
<br />
I climbed onto the bed next to him, and he wrapped a huge arm around me. I moved up and started unbuttoning his shirt and kissing his chest.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhfd1YXgTGbQhbQLD7weIYTqxG7VsNhpDeQZUVjlVUVKei7BmjBsQdkJVgBU4nx6kJHoLJg6CCTVtLttRSo5JvnbvTaU7nkxyrAMXMa9SSJDsCzW1AoNbfm7nTfI7hOqpvsM3G2LR0CCw/s1600/ferrigno4.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="519" data-original-width="313" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhfd1YXgTGbQhbQLD7weIYTqxG7VsNhpDeQZUVjlVUVKei7BmjBsQdkJVgBU4nx6kJHoLJg6CCTVtLttRSo5JvnbvTaU7nkxyrAMXMa9SSJDsCzW1AoNbfm7nTfI7hOqpvsM3G2LR0CCw/s320/ferrigno4.jpg" width="192" /></a>"That's nice," he murmured. He held me tighter -- so tight I couldn't move. I heard snoring.<br />
<br />
Oh, well, lying in a muscular man's arms is one of the great joys of life.<br />
<br />
We lay there for about ten minutes, while I caressed Lou's chest and belly, felt his bicep, and pressed his crotch. No arousal.<br />
<br />
"Go downtown," Lou murmured, his eyes still closed.<br />
<br />
He released his grip so I could move down to his cock. It took awhile for him to get aroused, but it was worth it -- about 7", very thick, uncut, mushroom head.<br />
<br />
"Lick my balls," he murmured. "That always lights my fire."<br />
<br />
So I licked and sucked his balls while masturbating him, just going down on him in time to take his load. Then Lou wrapped me into a hug again. He wouldn't kiss.<br />
<br />
"I don't kiss, sorry But that was nice. Guys do it better than girls."<br />
<br />
I lay back against Lou's chest, feeling guilty. Tricking, sex without going out on a date first, was unheard of in West Hollywood, unless you were a druggie or a sleazoid. I could never tell my friends about this...unless I could salvage it with a date.<br />
<br />
I"Um...about that Mexican food?"<br />
<br />
"I have to look at you to hear you," Lou said.<br />
<br />
I brought my face up to his. "Mexican food? Or Greek? I know a good place in Hollywood....not tonight of course, but I'm free on Thursday."<br />
<br />
"Sorry, I'm busy. Got a thing with the wife."<br />
<br />
"Wife?" I repeated in shock. [He had been married to his second wife since 1980, and had two children.]<br />
<br />
"Don't worry, she knows. Well, I got to go." He stood and ambled toward the door. "I'll call you, ok?"<br />
<br />
And he was gone.<br />
<br />
I was mortified. Not only had I tricked, I had helped a guy cheat on his partner, the same thing I broke up with Alan for! I felt used, manipulated, unclean, like I needed a shower. Besides, he hadn't touched my cock. I was still horny.<br />
<br />
No more late-night "Is this a good time?" visits from Lou Ferrigno, or anyone else.<br />
<br />
Turns out that I didn't need to worry. I saw Ferrigno at <i>Muscle and Fitness</i> and bodybuilding expos several times after that, and he always clapped a hand on my shoulder and said "Hi, buddy," but he never came to my apartment again.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Lon9t1VX81_Yma6DL2ouAim_Av92a2wAtsKN3p4KuZ_HZ7Ka2jxNkAa9h6VO1VK-JaYqWDZQxRih58FipqswKjM7VkJJfv23QaXYoz8tSmWoYRDpZzS6ffQP4S_Kta7Y0I9O3GczL5s/s1600/dad6.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="430" data-original-width="474" height="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Lon9t1VX81_Yma6DL2ouAim_Av92a2wAtsKN3p4KuZ_HZ7Ka2jxNkAa9h6VO1VK-JaYqWDZQxRih58FipqswKjM7VkJJfv23QaXYoz8tSmWoYRDpZzS6ffQP4S_Kta7Y0I9O3GczL5s/s320/dad6.jpg" width="320" /></a>I've heard a few more Lou Ferrigno hookup stories, but not many, maybe because he was not a major tv star, practically unknown to generations that grew up after<i> The Incredible Hulk. </i> Tom Selleck or Sylvester Stallone were more familiar.<br />
<br />
Or maybe because the evenings together were just "booty calls." The term hadn't been invented yet, but that's what they were.<br />
<br /><br />NYSocBoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06658785942817017972noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823073892487105533.post-26528345491122750052023-12-15T10:05:00.000-06:002023-12-23T10:08:13.265-06:00Grandpa Prater's Wrestling Moves<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij6JPC2UyxMJrH3oNnrIlR6J6OR4ny2aPQLr8kpnT-hCJkO0KcQ7ZTB5AabRAjyJTiM_6XZq-TQpp2SA0GZ1bFiVbmY-Ys8nsagS4LpaqniTzHAj8zis8Qlc7hsFYbZ8ZCg5L7oLLo8YA/s1600/grandpaOveralls.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij6JPC2UyxMJrH3oNnrIlR6J6OR4ny2aPQLr8kpnT-hCJkO0KcQ7ZTB5AabRAjyJTiM_6XZq-TQpp2SA0GZ1bFiVbmY-Ys8nsagS4LpaqniTzHAj8zis8Qlc7hsFYbZ8ZCg5L7oLLo8YA/s400/grandpaOveralls.jpg" width="197" /></a><br />
My Grandpa Prater, my mother's father, was a big man, towering over my father and uncles, and rugged even in his mid-60s, with thick arms and shoulders and huge hands. He wore overalls, sometimes with a white t-shirt underneath, sometimes without, so you could see his hard round pecs dusted with white hair.<br />
<br />
He was a man's man, always doing something with his sons and sons-in law and various friends: hunting, fishing, playing horseshoes, working on cars. <br />
<br />
He had a thick Kentucky accent that was virtually incomprehensible, but he didn't say much anyway. When the family gathered in the living room to play cards and exchange gossip, he kept silent unless someone asked him a question. The indoors was uncomfortably stuffy; he'd rather be out with his friends and some dogs on a midnight hunt. <br />
<br />
The only time he perked up was when someone asked him to play his banjo. Then he'd play "Foggy Mountain Breakdown" or "Cotton Eyed Joe," as good, and as fast, as the Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs at the Grand Ole Opry. <br />
<br />
There was a sadness about him that I didn't pick up on when I was a kid. Something deep and dark, that the little joys of everyday life couldn't penetrate. It wasn't just that he had lost his wife, three older brothers, and four of his eleven children. It was a dream deferred, a hope from his childhood that he abandoned.<br />
<br />
More about that later. <br />
<br />
I have two good stories with Grandpa Prater. The first is about judo.<br />
<br />The summer after fifth grade. We're all at the farmhouse, but my brother and Cousin Buster are off somewhere, so I'm the only kid. Dad and my uncles are up by the Old House, playing horseshoes. I'm not allowed because I'm too little. I don't necessarily like horseshoes, but I like hanging out with the men, especially when my only other option is sitting in the farmhouse with my Mom and aunts, gossipping about who did what with whom thirty years ago.<br />
<br />
I'm wandering aimlessly through the side yard and the rhubarb patch when Grandpa Prater appears, wraps his huge paw around my shoulder, and says "I hear you're taking wrestling."<br />
<br />
(I'm not going to try to transliterate his incomprehensible Kentucky accent. Use your imagination.)<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiwSfyrpjgJmzy4MsCxiGGjJcYooiZQEtH_iJ-6usbawYWKiDk2cD2DKZoV3RwE_00GWqU2GpnvVLUvQkIFpnieG3XoRte7mjjy2OFIIHoiNqmt-jb6HMgXVjZLcuEjEd3P4w0pbRBlvo/s1600/GrandpaBulge1.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiwSfyrpjgJmzy4MsCxiGGjJcYooiZQEtH_iJ-6usbawYWKiDk2cD2DKZoV3RwE_00GWqU2GpnvVLUvQkIFpnieG3XoRte7mjjy2OFIIHoiNqmt-jb6HMgXVjZLcuEjEd3P4w0pbRBlvo/s400/GrandpaBulge1.jpg" width="271" /></a>"Wrestling? No, I'm studying judo. It's a Japanese sport. We wear white robes and throw each other."<br />
<br />
"Judo?" He repeats the unfamiliar word. "Did you know I was a wrestler in high school?" <br />
<br />
He takes my hand and leads me up the hill toward the Old House. It's difficult to understand him, but by interrupting with many questions, I get the gist of his story:<br />
<br />
In the Kentucky hills in the 1920s, it was unusual to go past the eighth grade, but the adolescent Tony (who I assume looked like this) was smart as a whip, so his parents allowed him to go on through twelfth grade at Salyersville High School. His best subject was music -- he sang and played the banjo, like on the Grand Ole Opry. That got the bullies riled, so to prove that he was a he-man, he went out for wrestling and basketball, too.<br />
<br />
I have that problem! At Denkmann, raising your hand too often or getting high grades on too many tests draws the ire of Mean Boys. <br />
<br />
By now we are on top of the hill, in the men-only zone behind the Old House. Dad asks, "Wanna join us, Tony?"<br />
<br />
<i>He doesn't ask me.</i><br />
<br />
"Well, sure, but right now Boomer's going to show you all his wrestling moves. Judo, I mean."<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6bRH4dKWxTOYYWD-_rHRrEicFtORRL3Mqe9klRlOOFqa2H5DKi0OD8_ZEpGrcx4PU5J1oFZ_zMwfg-mTBTs_aCJpALfwpe74YPg6uAMWOnOw5cMcOKB2tOgyzzm7s77fdL-vm7qaZgAM/s1600/horseshoes.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6bRH4dKWxTOYYWD-_rHRrEicFtORRL3Mqe9klRlOOFqa2H5DKi0OD8_ZEpGrcx4PU5J1oFZ_zMwfg-mTBTs_aCJpALfwpe74YPg6uAMWOnOw5cMcOKB2tOgyzzm7s77fdL-vm7qaZgAM/s320/horseshoes.jpg" width="181" /></a><i>I'm what?</i> Try to throw someone who is twice as tall as me, and a solid mass of muscle? And my grandpa? I don't think so!<br />
<br />
But Dad and my uncles are gathered around to watch the show. <br />
<br />
"C'mon, you can't hurt me. I'm strong as an ox. I was wrestling guys before your Daddy was born."<br />
<br />
Sighing, I grab Grandpa by the shoulder and hip and try the easiest throw, basically tripping your opponent. To my surprise, he goes down easily and pulls me on top of him.<br />
<br />
"Dagnabit, you did it!" he exclaims. "That there judo is powerful stuff. Now pin me. Come on, pin me to the ground!"<br />
<br />
I scamper on top of him, feeling his hard firm chest, smelling his Aqua Velva cologne and hint of whiskey, and press his arms over his head. <br />
<br />
He pushes his arms down and slides me down his trunk, as easily as one might push off a pair of pants. I feel his hard belly and the mass of his crotch.<br />
<br />
"Well, your pinning needs some work, but other than that, you're a natural. Hear that, Frank? You sign this boy up for wrestling!"<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgclTCAGAPIsUBFFK1LVKYsLLMBZM8VRtWekSUgPJQLDgv07CUHcc7a1drA3TQa-O4N8k1p_VqSX-gamp_mOgWVUUM_WYLF198aFefXoZ9atiKdp7CBIdgphv7Dp3jqijWnNJVgMwPyAeQ/s1600/wrestler2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgclTCAGAPIsUBFFK1LVKYsLLMBZM8VRtWekSUgPJQLDgv07CUHcc7a1drA3TQa-O4N8k1p_VqSX-gamp_mOgWVUUM_WYLF198aFefXoZ9atiKdp7CBIdgphv7Dp3jqijWnNJVgMwPyAeQ/s320/wrestler2.jpg" width="186" /></a>Dad grins at me as if I've achieved a major goal. And maybe I have. "C'mon, Boomer," he says, "Play horseshoes with us. You're old enough now."<br />
<br />
I did go out for wrestling a year later, when I started junior high.<br />
<br />
The next story about my grandpa involves sneaking into his bedroom to "borrow" his banjo.<br />
<br />
See also: <a href="http://talesofwesthollywood.blogspot.com/2016/07/erotic-story-about-grandpa-prater-2.html">Grandpa Prater and his Banjo</a><br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />NYSocBoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06658785942817017972noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823073892487105533.post-66120335555205801702023-12-15T05:29:00.000-06:002023-12-15T05:29:00.437-06:00My Boyfriend Bill Grows Up<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYCK9jqF7C6vdcE3V8d-vyIroeXLOgD_8oYoofX7DVd5jh2S9VbZzi_2sBmR3mbqGVKsoOHHfAl9jdXf2kcW-fpo-pP7ScFCvVftlZ2wPZvc25wFjE4aZIV5wlPaYJ7OxxMf1W_91SglOT/s1600/Bill.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYCK9jqF7C6vdcE3V8d-vyIroeXLOgD_8oYoofX7DVd5jh2S9VbZzi_2sBmR3mbqGVKsoOHHfAl9jdXf2kcW-fpo-pP7ScFCvVftlZ2wPZvc25wFjE4aZIV5wlPaYJ7OxxMf1W_91SglOT/s320/Bill.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
Remember my first boyfriend, Bill, from Denkmann Elementary School? We were inseparable for three years, walking to and from school, watching <i>Captain Ernie's Cartoon Showboat, </i>reading comic books, inviting cute boys over for sleepovers.<br />
<br />
We had our own gang -- me, Bill, Joel, and Greg -- who liked looking at men with muscles.<br />
<br />
I have lots of good stories about Bill:<br />
<br />
The <a href="http://talesofwesthollywood.blogspot.com/2015/02/a-naked-indian-god.html">naked Indian god </a>at the pow wow.<br />
<br />
The time we went to <a href="http://esofwesthollywood.blogspot.com/2015/02/spring-1972-bill-and-i-find-little-bit.html">A Little Bit O'Heaven</a> for my birthday trip, expecting statues of naked Greek gods?<br />
<br />
The time we got Dad upset by claiming to be a <a href="http://talesofwesthollywood.blogspot.com/2015/02/fall-1970-bill-and-i-become-mama-and.html">Mama and a Papa.</a><br />
<br />
The time we <a href="http://everydayheterosexism.blogspot.com/2013/11/spring-1971-making-american-folk-songs.html">turned music class gay</a> by making all the songs about kissing boys.<br />
<br />
We stayed friends in junior high, but we drifted apart into other interests and social circles.<br />
<br />
The last time I was at his house was for a Halloween party in tenth grade, probably October 31st, 1975. I spent most of the evening talking to his big brother Mike, who used to call me "Bud" and drive us places.<br />
<br />
The last time I saw Bill was during 12th grade, probably March or April 1978, when we visited David Angel in the mental hospital. He thought we were a couple. We laughed it off as ridiculous. <br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrCd3nPGA5ZHJwBpmlJOD-bg4jyWdlhj7s-EDm067-1PfCfql4aOs8rhdiAs6_pLF42xobx_u8gECSFI2NYqVpfOwaQJ-WC3wG123XIu9WNwvhHkikr8vod743r1lXgsjQw8WPsBYyEoiv/s1600/BoomerBillSwim.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrCd3nPGA5ZHJwBpmlJOD-bg4jyWdlhj7s-EDm067-1PfCfql4aOs8rhdiAs6_pLF42xobx_u8gECSFI2NYqVpfOwaQJ-WC3wG123XIu9WNwvhHkikr8vod743r1lXgsjQw8WPsBYyEoiv/s1600/BoomerBillSwim.jpg" /></a><br />
The years passed: Augustana College, Indiana University, Texas, West Hollywood, San Francisco.<br />
I didn't hear anything from or about Bill, though I often spoke of him as my first boyfriend.<br />
<br />
The years passed: New York, Florida, Ohio, Upstate New York. I started a blog about my childhood memories, and recorded all of my Bill stories. <br />
<br />
I tried to look him up, but none of the high school or college friends that I was still in contact with remembered him, and he had a common name, impossible to google.<br />
<br />
Before I knew it, I was 54 years old. Nearly 40 years had passed since the day Bill and I visited David Angel.<br />
<br />
Then out of nowhere I got a friend request from him on Facebook.<br />
<br />
Eagerly I scoped out his Facebook profile. <br />
<br />
Where was he living? <i>Reno, Nevada</i><br />
What was his job? <i>Restaurant manager.</i><br />
<br />
<b>Most importantly, was he gay? Were my memories real, or a misinterpretation of a straight boy's friendship?</b><br />
<br />
Status: single.<br />
Favorite TV shows: <i>Breaking Bad, Lost, CSI. </i><br />
Favorite movies: <i>Back to the Future, Men in Black, Star Wars</i><br />
Favorite music: <i>R.E.M., The Red Hot Chili Peppers, Jefferson Airplane</i><br />
<br />
Didn't tell me anything. But then, my facebook profile is also vague.<br />
<br />
Time for our first chat in 40 years.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuqngsA5-K_zAGT4y4MKkm6tELWm7slNF2VcEEddiEiA5xFwG4MMTcOfAbL0OX5R99nlcIKUw65npQsOtS6bbMmP5qBz7_LSbxWusiMTS2mxfGH6Crj6vM7MfnNRXEtjdWKeC-T3_RDZhQ/s1600/rsplace.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuqngsA5-K_zAGT4y4MKkm6tELWm7slNF2VcEEddiEiA5xFwG4MMTcOfAbL0OX5R99nlcIKUw65npQsOtS6bbMmP5qBz7_LSbxWusiMTS2mxfGH6Crj6vM7MfnNRXEtjdWKeC-T3_RDZhQ/s320/rsplace.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
We exchanged life histories in that stilted, obituary style that you use when reconnecting with someone after many years. He studied culinary arts at Black Hawk College, then worked as a chef at Jumer's Castle Lodge, across the river in Bettendorf. During the 1990s, he opened a restaurant near the resort of Wisconsin Dells. It went bankrupt after the stock market downturn of 2004, and he moved to Reno, Nevada, where he now manages all of the restaurants in one of the casinos.<br />
<br />
"But I've dabbled in other businesses, too," he continued. "In 1999 I became co-owner of a strip club in Moline, out by the airport."<br />
<br />
My heart sank. A strip club? Straight!<br />
<br />
"I insisted that we were equal opportunity," Bill said. "We had male strippers on Tuesday nights." <br />
<br />
"I've been there!" I exclaimed. "Christmastime 1999 or 2000. On male stripper night. I saw my old <a href="http://talesofwesthollywood.blogspot.com/2015/03/fall-1999-my-sunday-school-teachers.html">Sunday school teacher's sons</a>, Mickey and Dom!"<br />
<br />
If Bill noticed that I had just outed myself, he didn't let on. "Sure, I remember them. College boy act. Very good, very professional, and they had the goods. I always auditioned the strippers personally, to make sure they were up to speed."<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKjTeaoQSdcXiV6coQT-VBZbXmUAcjDCmPwDyACUslrCWCCvbdfVT5C1JteeJ9NTheoKI1sOsMmOzNRE0BNSbVqa4Uhyphenhyphenfn2Gk5eZupBdkKyJ6Hg5Gz3UHqo3HpWNKjI6QvkEfzDA25c74W/s1600/Stripper2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKjTeaoQSdcXiV6coQT-VBZbXmUAcjDCmPwDyACUslrCWCCvbdfVT5C1JteeJ9NTheoKI1sOsMmOzNRE0BNSbVqa4Uhyphenhyphenfn2Gk5eZupBdkKyJ6Hg5Gz3UHqo3HpWNKjI6QvkEfzDA25c74W/s320/Stripper2.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
"Men and women both?"<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Of course! I have a pretty good eye for beauty, as you saw with Mickey and Dom."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Bisexual? Or straight and nonchalant about gay people?</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"What about romances?" I asked. "Any long-term relationships?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I was married for 15 years. We had an open relationship, though. We both saw other people. Since then I've been single."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Bisexual? Or straight?</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"But what about you?" Bill asked. "Any boyfriends, lovers, husbands? After Dan at Washington Junior High, I mean."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>Boyfriends, lovers, husband</i>s -- he knew about me! And he interpreted my friendship with Dan as a romance. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I told him about Fred the Ministerial Student in college, Raul and my celebrity boyfriend in West Hollywood, 10 years with Lane, 5 years with Troy. 7 years with Yuri (we were friends, but closer than many lovers).<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"You've been busy!" Bill exclaimed. "Me too. I'm single but not lonely. I can still attract the hotties -- look."</div>
<div>
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<div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5PwN6pShp0Ub7ALnzMNugQ2iZIXyXqWrSYcnMshL9xaSIVhHfNkCqECUnspO1L1ZdJxp94R7qdFLgjwYw0OcjFRM_9mxqspEkwNzCd3D5JoG8MksdkOjTplsxghbqvguieNiUMJmQpMx3/s1600/billtoday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5PwN6pShp0Ub7ALnzMNugQ2iZIXyXqWrSYcnMshL9xaSIVhHfNkCqECUnspO1L1ZdJxp94R7qdFLgjwYw0OcjFRM_9mxqspEkwNzCd3D5JoG8MksdkOjTplsxghbqvguieNiUMJmQpMx3/s320/billtoday.jpg" width="254" /></a></div>
<div>
He sent me a nude photo. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It was eerie looking at Bill's face again after 40 years. He was a little chunky, with a muscular, slightly hairy chest and big biceps. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In all of our sleepovers, I never saw Bill nude. He was a little small beneath the belt, uncut. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Hot!" I told him.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Thanks. It gets me a lot of action."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Ok, still noncommittal. Time to ask.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>"Action with men or women?"</b></div>
<div>
<br />
Bill didn't hesitate. "Oh, men, of course. Women are nice and all -- I wouldn't kick Scarlett Johansson out of bed -- but at the end of the day you really want two muscular arms around you and a baseball bat pressing against your leg. We knew that back in third grade, didn't we?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"All but the baseball bat part. I didn't figure that out until after high school."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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<div>
"Well, I was precocious. I started getting busy in 10th grade. Remember Aaron, the Rabbi's son? And Tyrone, on the football team? And what about that cutie who played the violin...what was his name?"<br />
<br />
"Todd." Had he gone to bed with everyone I had a crush on?<br />
<br />
We should have stayed friends. It would have made high school a lot more fun.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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See also: <a href="http://talesofwesthollywood.blogspot.com/2015/04/spring-1978-boy-named-angel.html">The Boy Named Angel</a></div>
NYSocBoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06658785942817017972noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823073892487105533.post-66864375086795869562023-12-14T21:04:00.005-06:002023-12-15T05:27:59.805-06:00Sausage Sighting of Christopher Atkins<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEXv631C8ShgeXFRtY8bOqr5kN8OqNCWKXpglquxVTs66-CStQ5IQ4xDDHRI2ofLZypOG78xtXVgM9HK_vo3PtCF_QF85Bc_szAr40NrOfMEdy7M8R-gFiIpBNCmZu_0TyDSaheKvTNFA/s1600/chrisakins2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEXv631C8ShgeXFRtY8bOqr5kN8OqNCWKXpglquxVTs66-CStQ5IQ4xDDHRI2ofLZypOG78xtXVgM9HK_vo3PtCF_QF85Bc_szAr40NrOfMEdy7M8R-gFiIpBNCmZu_0TyDSaheKvTNFA/w240-h400/chrisakins2.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
When I was living in West Hollywood, I met a lot of actors, some famous ones: Adam West, Cesar Romero, Gregory Harrison, Greg Williams, John Amos, Lou Ferrigno, Michael J. Fox, Richard Dreyfuss.<br />
<br />
But only one is a Facebook friend today: Christopher Atkins<br />
<br />
Here's why:<br />
<br />
<b>West Hollywood, June 1994</b><br />
<br />
In the spring of 1994, my friend Infinite Chazz began dating Kris, a 19-year old baby-faced ginger boy who had been in Los Angeles less than a year, but had already been in some movies and tv shows. <br />
<br />
You might know him as Kristoffer Winters, who played the Zilbor in <i>Dude, Where's My Car (</i>2000) and Clayton Gallagher in <i>Shameless</i> (2011-2012), and who is reputedly the boyfriend of Jeremy Renner.<div><br /></div><div>The full post is on <a href="https://gemstonepride.blogspot.com/2023/12/a-date-with-kris-who-may-not-be-jeremy.html" target="_blank">RG Beefcake and Boyfriends</a></div>NYSocBoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06658785942817017972noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823073892487105533.post-58708242329590268012023-12-14T20:51:00.001-06:002023-12-14T20:51:41.518-06:00Nude Photos of Willie Aames<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRHqW4SzxpZHuzPfXx6d9wcxGmTjPPzt3C9CVa90vQajlnGZ_bTBdMje77pmxSkf9Fjy9ndsAhIYot8Bi8IxSmH9Rn7WF64LGNHuWtG6v9MViPfgEzbeM8wdSORu6BnYt5_sgoK3alUhrOt_ZjyjX1zoYcqiLsbTySt6FyMe2jpq3r3p27kiEIvKy8xSQ/s389/BibleMan2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="307" data-original-width="389" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRHqW4SzxpZHuzPfXx6d9wcxGmTjPPzt3C9CVa90vQajlnGZ_bTBdMje77pmxSkf9Fjy9ndsAhIYot8Bi8IxSmH9Rn7WF64LGNHuWtG6v9MViPfgEzbeM8wdSORu6BnYt5_sgoK3alUhrOt_ZjyjX1zoYcqiLsbTySt6FyMe2jpq3r3p27kiEIvKy8xSQ/w400-h316/BibleMan2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Teen idol Willie Aames had an amazing physique, back in the day, and a rather impressive bulge.<br />
<br />
Other than <i>Charles in Charge (1984-90)</i>, he is best known for <i>Paradise</i> (1982), a knockoff of <i>Blue Lagoon, </i>with none of the scintillating dialogue or intriguing plot (ok, I'm joking. <i>Blue Lagoon</i> didn't have those things, either.)<br />
<br />
But you did get to see Willie's willie.<div><br /></div><div>The full post is on <a href="https://gemstonepride.blogspot.com/2023/11/nude-photos-of-willie-aames.html" target="_blank">RG Beefcake and Boyfriends</a><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div>NYSocBoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06658785942817017972noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823073892487105533.post-79153077313370737882023-12-13T04:32:00.000-06:002023-12-13T04:32:10.837-06:00My Date with Richard Dreyfuss<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9gdZrRSsNx1R2IQb4nvCnhf_SclO-Mg5zxIeP_NMkb9BIXsJ6W_-uv4WuBGxUARO9PB5BdsnfBTaClNtIzr8JOnWRnYejFmoc1B42mgDkuSJjXb3ux-T3lePt7BHalG1WAyffMiHiDXOd/s1600/Derek1.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9gdZrRSsNx1R2IQb4nvCnhf_SclO-Mg5zxIeP_NMkb9BIXsJ6W_-uv4WuBGxUARO9PB5BdsnfBTaClNtIzr8JOnWRnYejFmoc1B42mgDkuSJjXb3ux-T3lePt7BHalG1WAyffMiHiDXOd/w320-h400/Derek1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<b>West Hollywood</b><br />
<br />When I lived in West Hollywood, I visited the Bodhi Tree Bookstore on Melrose almost every weekend. It specialized in New Age books, everything from natural foods and aromatherapy to Buddhism, Hinduism, and the occult. I was mostly interested in the paranormal section: ghosts, vampires, ufos, mysterious disappearances, time slips. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5bjFm1qQnxm5587wXJgrMxZYbCBZZ3ggZOqLUuHthZj9wGhqHBPNwyqcGngWaf76WOMKY2jmH_b4U-dHbUGAOHx6nvImW6tlEoJkQWvPXyZdiR65LMbcGas7QoWMxaBIpUstGkgn1rlw/s1600/BodhiTree2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5bjFm1qQnxm5587wXJgrMxZYbCBZZ3ggZOqLUuHthZj9wGhqHBPNwyqcGngWaf76WOMKY2jmH_b4U-dHbUGAOHx6nvImW6tlEoJkQWvPXyZdiR65LMbcGas7QoWMxaBIpUstGkgn1rlw/w310-h400/BodhiTree2.jpg" width="310" /></a></div>
It got very crowded on weekends. We often saw actors, mostly the semi-celebrities who starred in tv shows a few years ago and were still recognizable. Often browsing in the witchcraft section, trying to find a spell that would hasten their success or prevent their decline.<br />
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One Saturday afternoon, I found a short, rather husky guy standing directly in front of the section I wanted, immersed in a book. I glared at him, cleared my throat a few times, and eventually he moved away. My roommate Derek immediately clomped over.<br />
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"Did you ask him out, or what?" he demanded.<br />
<br />
"Who?"<br />
<br />
"You didn't even talk to him? Do you know who that was? Richard Dreyfuss!"<br />
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I hadn't even noticed.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg38HhNKvzlRmPj1fIscn3KxB0LNUD27lEg3h4NlLV1qzUtvp0JYiVyLNtHKRZhjkROz3CJAHGHnJ47RaDvDqIpTN-kYtpppHpsm-vP7Zg9V7SM5WJ4vYETr15Q5Ey24yBiE__dEejYKUM/s1600/RicharDreyfuss2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg38HhNKvzlRmPj1fIscn3KxB0LNUD27lEg3h4NlLV1qzUtvp0JYiVyLNtHKRZhjkROz3CJAHGHnJ47RaDvDqIpTN-kYtpppHpsm-vP7Zg9V7SM5WJ4vYETr15Q5Ey24yBiE__dEejYKUM/w400-h309/RicharDreyfuss2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Of course I knew who Richard Dreyfuss was:<i>American Graffiti, </i><i>Close Encounters of the Third Kind, </i>T<i>he Goodbye Girl. Moon Over Parador, </i>and <i>Jaws, </i>my which had the most obvious gay-subtext romance I had ever seen. I just didn't recognize him in real life.<div><br /><div>The next Saturday, same section, same short, rather husky guy, immersed in a book about vampires. This time I looked closely. Yep, it was Richard Dreyfuss! "I got my first kiss from a vampire" I said, as an icebreaker.<br />
<br />
It didn't work. He moved quickly away.<br />
<br />
He wasn't there the next Saturday, but a couple of weeks later, I saw him in the paranormal section again. I said "Hello," from one regular customer to another, and to my surprise he responded. Soon we were chatting about Benjamin Bathurst, the British diplomat who arrived at an Austrian inn, walked around the horses, and vanished forever. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXgF6khtaJ-kz5wWfPKyzez24Q-QIeCJXuugIzqBqHHqpE3R_0jtnEDZhDv4Xxac5H17cbkDzR6SxSrCj3lcvnRrp87NvDGss4j0p8yrwBswxNdK6oE_EibuJxHDENMD2lLwSf7MNP5uE/s1600/richarddreyfuss2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXgF6khtaJ-kz5wWfPKyzez24Q-QIeCJXuugIzqBqHHqpE3R_0jtnEDZhDv4Xxac5H17cbkDzR6SxSrCj3lcvnRrp87NvDGss4j0p8yrwBswxNdK6oE_EibuJxHDENMD2lLwSf7MNP5uE/s320/richarddreyfuss2.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
After that, we chatted regularly. He was friendly, and I thought, a little cruisy, always paying special attention to the cute guys. Could he be gay? And more importantly, interested?<br />
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<b>Important Clue #1: </b>Cruising cute guys. <br />
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I had already been in a relationship with a closeted celebrity. I didn't need another. But still...he was Richard Dreyfuss!<br />
<br />
One day I got enough courage to invite him to the Abbey, a gay restaurant on Robertson, for coffee, and he consented.<br />
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<b>Important Clue #2: </b>Consenting to go to a gay restaurant. <br />
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I told him about some of my own paranormal experiences, like the Naked Man in the Peat Bog. <br />
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"You're lucky that your ghost was a hottie," he said with a smile. "All I saw was a little girl, wearing a pink dress and horn-rimmed glasses. She stood by my bedside when I was in the hospital after a car accident."<br />
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<b>Important Clue #3: </b>The word "hottie" .<br />
<br />
I decided to play my trump card. "My <b>ex-boyfriend</b> saw ghosts all the time," I hinted. "And UFOs. I felt so jealous."<br />
<br />
"My <b>wife i</b>s the same way. I wish I was more attuned to the spiritual world."<br />
<h1 class="firstHeading" id="firstHeading" lang="en">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span dir="auto"><i>Touché</i></span></span></span></span></h1>
Ok, not gay, not interested -- but super gay-friendly, especially for the 1990s. <br />
<br />No more coffee dates, but we continued to be "chatting at the bookstore" friends for awhile. Then suddenly he stopped coming to the Bodhi Tree on Saturdays. <br />
<br />
Maybe he walked around the horses and vanished.<br />
<br />
Or maybe he moved to New York.<br />
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I never got his phone number.<br /></div></div>NYSocBoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06658785942817017972noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823073892487105533.post-48271590452836457372023-12-11T07:35:00.000-06:002023-12-11T07:35:59.569-06:00What Do You Have Under the Hood?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjArvsB-stCoPC_jTPAYxweqCMaGmZyfJTRXfWD8WgJ8vy7VQmahvz4TdaLflohSBhaMm1_EWE5qw_hlyfx3OId9P9Uew9cbach-GwqGAONNQD8b6eaFqUGNkN1Z26jR2fjEWEekTOal5U/s1600/underhood2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjArvsB-stCoPC_jTPAYxweqCMaGmZyfJTRXfWD8WgJ8vy7VQmahvz4TdaLflohSBhaMm1_EWE5qw_hlyfx3OId9P9Uew9cbach-GwqGAONNQD8b6eaFqUGNkN1Z26jR2fjEWEekTOal5U/s320/underhood2.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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When I was growing up in Rock Island, most boys were obsessed with being "men," doing exactly what men were supposed to do and nothing else. The slightest of shifts in your hips as you walked, the most subtle of wrist movements, the tiniest bit of animation in your voice was proof positive that you were not a man at all, but a sissy, a "fag," or a girl. <br />
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Even if you got your body gestures, walking, and talking perfected, you could still give away your inner girlishness by not being knowledgeable and enthusiastic about three things: girls, sports, and cars.<br />
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The only one I had any hope of accomplishing was <i>cars.</i><br />
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There was no way I was going to kiss and hug girls, sports were too confusing, but I had just got my driver's license, and Mom let me borrow her car sometimes. Knowing how to fix a car was an attainable goal. Masculinity within my reach! <br />
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The only problem: I was an aesthete, an intellectual, into Renaissance poetry and statues of naked men. I couldn't tell a hammer from a nail. I got a D- in shop class. I got carpentry and building toys for Christmas, and left them untouched in their boxes.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2_xTS0dbRbx1G3JrX17ja7322DjVHR5AEpm5U9WHT6Nk0dP0TaAbVOv0KHXA9DHNDyKammkjeAOJC2wQx5iFIb3YRmIHmPWTTDoBf6VPVzWiKtauZDK4u4Yqu20Y7RLU2uo2J4b8CnPE/s1600/Underhood3.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2_xTS0dbRbx1G3JrX17ja7322DjVHR5AEpm5U9WHT6Nk0dP0TaAbVOv0KHXA9DHNDyKammkjeAOJC2wQx5iFIb3YRmIHmPWTTDoBf6VPVzWiKtauZDK4u4Yqu20Y7RLU2uo2J4b8CnPE/s320/Underhood3.jpg" width="211" /></a><br />
But I perservered. In August 1977, I went to my father and asked him to teach me how to "fix cars."<br />
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"You?" he asked in surprise. "You hate mechanical stuff."<br />
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"Well, most mechanical stuff. You couldn't pay me to solder an iron onto a lathe, or whatever. But a car is different."<br />
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"Ok, I can give you some pointers. There are three things about cars that every guy should know: how to change a tire, how to change the oil, and how to repair a carburetor."<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEips71BrYJXfq0DNRsF1Z5iKV1HADw1LEGYHOD9zYqaWW_XoZiHqcD2dSHEKNxHhwSSJ2TSJzKdRRVMteOIWVBpeIFKVuYwqAyHbrPKTXLdADrZy-pDlllu3-Cj2PnXJHabUlGEGsfZYNs/s1600/tire2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEips71BrYJXfq0DNRsF1Z5iKV1HADw1LEGYHOD9zYqaWW_XoZiHqcD2dSHEKNxHhwSSJ2TSJzKdRRVMteOIWVBpeIFKVuYwqAyHbrPKTXLdADrZy-pDlllu3-Cj2PnXJHabUlGEGsfZYNs/s320/tire2.jpg" width="279" /></a><b>1. Change a Tire. </b><br />
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Dad took me out to the garage, popped open the trunk, and showed me where the jack and spare tires were stored. <br />
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"You've seen the ladies with flat tires on the side of the road, waiting for someone to help. If you can change a tire, you'll be sure to get their phone number!"<br />
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<i>What about a guy on the side of the road? I thought. </i><br />
<br />
And of course, if you're on a date and the tire goes flat, you'd better be able to change it, or the girl will think you're a sissy."<br />
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He showed me how to jack up a car and "unscrew the lug nuts." <br />
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I couldn't get the wrench to work. It just slid along the nuts. Finally Dad grabbed the wrench and did it himself.<br />
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"Well, you get the idea, anyway."<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibFIKu5zd85s-rMLC2h7O2MmaYKAgNHIdjM7E797XCYPHvHbrydKMvlm4cWI4XuOsLQ5nTileF1YswHMLNUKzBpLnEfxTK9EBvP8-PYxZHVkcmr-IC_UupdZZarnOKE3llD1nnJAYPTkA/s1600/hood2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibFIKu5zd85s-rMLC2h7O2MmaYKAgNHIdjM7E797XCYPHvHbrydKMvlm4cWI4XuOsLQ5nTileF1YswHMLNUKzBpLnEfxTK9EBvP8-PYxZHVkcmr-IC_UupdZZarnOKE3llD1nnJAYPTkA/s320/hood2.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<b>2. Change the oil.</b><br />
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"A garage will do this for you, but imagine how impressed the girls will be when they find out you can change your own?"<br />
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"And the guys," I said.<br />
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This involved getting under the car and unscrewing a gross greasy thing. <br />
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I balked. "I'll impress the girls with my wit and charm, thanks."<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt8D5d9tQqu86DjW6Sg9CcMuUmgZFS4KL-Zl4gOz-grSCtTBebCY-2nmkPR_uCc5C3OM99ShmIQf-wGWhRH0f1oU7kIIv2dBmUzB3J8uFz1r1xaDCsS5Lpi78GpoDAdpSpvMwvU3MLja0/s1600/underhood.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt8D5d9tQqu86DjW6Sg9CcMuUmgZFS4KL-Zl4gOz-grSCtTBebCY-2nmkPR_uCc5C3OM99ShmIQf-wGWhRH0f1oU7kIIv2dBmUzB3J8uFz1r1xaDCsS5Lpi78GpoDAdpSpvMwvU3MLja0/s320/underhood.jpg" width="320" /></a><b><br /></b><br />
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<b>3. Fix the carburetor.</b><br />
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Next Dad showed me how to open the front hood and prop it up.<br />
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"Knowing what's under here is the key to impressing girls."<br />
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It was an incomprehensible mass of wires and pipes. <br />
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"Here's your fan belt, your carburetor, your radiator, your angler, your glockenspiel."<br />
<br />
I stared into oblivion, imagining a hot guy with his shirt off straining over the engine.<br />
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"Loosen the rod here, angle the pipe so the screw goes counter-clockwise, then re-up the uptake on the valve here. This knob goes with this fuel injector. Then you just sort of squeeze the triangulator down the revolver, and gently push the socket into the wrench."<br />
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I stared into oblivion, imagining a hot guy with his pants off straining over the engine. Dad hadn't mentioned the benefits of <b>not </b>knowing how to fix cars.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirJdbPYNtysZ-KDtk6WXw_Db9ohFWe10YuJmpnYJio78CaBRgLVgYqgspGm0mLuDihrVAFYogtePj00GA7j9620yFqYOZv9UFN-k5w2GvjAs7Ya93-V333KkfPK8NbffpOJqRSBUEA-48/s1600/underthehood3.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirJdbPYNtysZ-KDtk6WXw_Db9ohFWe10YuJmpnYJio78CaBRgLVgYqgspGm0mLuDihrVAFYogtePj00GA7j9620yFqYOZv9UFN-k5w2GvjAs7Ya93-V333KkfPK8NbffpOJqRSBUEA-48/s320/underthehood3.jpg" width="261" /></a>"Now you try."<br />
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I turned and headed back to the house. "Thanks, anyway. I'll just pay someone to do it."<br />
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Preferably a guy with his pants off.<br />
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<br />NYSocBoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06658785942817017972noreply@blogger.com1