Alan and I Cruise in Japan

Osaka, Japan

In March of my first year in West Hollywood, my ex-boyfriend Alan, the former porn star and current student clergy, suddenly announced that he was leaving the MCC: God had called him to start his own gay Pentecostal church.

In Japan.

Ok, there were 100,000,000 people in Japan, 3% Christian, maybe 1% of that Pentecostal, and 10% of that gay.  A target market of 3,000 people.

"Oh, no, there will be a massive revival.  Thousands of Japanese gay men and lesbians will be won to the Lord.  In a few years, there will be gay Pentecostal churches all over Japan."

He invited me to come along and become his co-minister.  I should have remembered moving to Omaha with Fred.  But...

Alan quickly landed a job teaching at an English language school in Osaka, and moved in April 1986, just as the new semester was beginning.   I applied for and received a scholarship to spend the summer at Kansai University.  On May 27th, I flew to Australia to visit a friend, and then joined Alan in Japan.

He lived on a very noisy, crowded street in the Kita Ward of Osaka, in a tiny apartment -- about 216 square feet, the size of an average bedroom in the U.S.

Every day between 8:00 am and 2:00 pm, Alan met with his students -- 8 to 10 per hour, talking about current events and writing essays.  I went to Gold's Gym, then to my class in Japanese Literature or to the Joto Library to study Japanese.

After dinner we cruised. I got the gay bars, restaurants, and discos, and Alan got the bath houses, bookstores, movie theaters, and Sakuranomiya Park. We were ostensibly looking for new converts for Alan's Gay Pentecostal Church, but Alan seems to have been mostly cruising.  Every night he brought a new potential convert back to our apartment: students, salary men, tourists.  For some reason, Asian men found him infinitely attractive (later, when we were roommates, he used this remarkable ability to steal my dates).

But none of the guys he brought him converted.

The Gay Pentecostal Church -- Kamisama no kyokai gei -- met every Sunday morning at 10:30 for Sunday school and 11:30 for the morning service.  With Alan and me, and sometimes whoever stayed over last night.

No one else.

We put up fliers in gay bars, restaurants, discos.  Alan announced the church at a meeting of Kansai Pride.

No one came.

In July we went to a Hadaka Matsuri, a Naked Man Festival.  It was the highpoint of the trip. Unfortunately, we missed the Penis Festival of Kawasaki.

At the end of July, when Alan's school closed for summer break, we returned to Los Angeles.  I knew he wasn't going to go back to Japan, and sure enough, in August he returned to his old job as a middle-school social studies teacher.  But soon he was talking about starting a gay Pentecostal church in Thailand.

"There will be a massive revival.  Thousands of Thai gay men and lesbians will be won to the Lord.  In a few years, there were be gay Pentecostal churches all over Thailand.  You should come...."

I said no to that one.

My Celebrity Boyfriend and I Hook Up With....

West Hollywood, February 1987

Valentine's Day

I've been dating the Celebrity, a former teen idol (he's still closeted, over 30 years later, so I promised not to reveal his name), for a little over a month, and he's met almost all of my West Hollywood friends: Alan, Raul, Marcus, Michael, Mitch, Thanh. But I've never met any of his.

Dating a celebrity, I naturally expected to do some "sharing" with his celebrity friends.  John Travolta, or Rob Lowe, or Ralph Macchio.... 

But he doesn't even introduce me to anyone.

Maybe tonight will be different.  "I'm going to go all out," the Celebrity promises.  "This will be the most memorable Valentine's Day of your life."

Wow!  What's memorable to someone who starred in his own tv show?


200 doves flying out of a cake?

A charter jet taking us down to Tijuana for dinner?

Scott Baio naked in his bed?

Breathless with anticipation, I arrive at his house at 6:00 pm

There's a note on the door: "Door's open.  Follow the trail."

I go in.  There's a trail of paper hearts across the living room and dining room and down the hall.

The dogs, Rory and Max, are whining at the back door.  I assume they've just finished a potty break.  So I let them in.

"No, they have to stay outside!" the Celebrity yells in the distance.

Too late.  They scamper across the house, me following, to the spare bedroom, where the Celebrity is lying naked on a heart-shaped rug.   His penis and testicles are pushing through a hole in a Valentine's Candy Box.  He's desperately yelling "Sit!  Sit!" and grabbing up the candy before Rory and Max eat it.

 "Um...hi...this didn't turn out to be as sexy as I thought."

The candy put away, he removes the box.  The dogs sit.  I kneel and pet them.

"No, it's great.  Really creative."  I lie beside him, and we kiss.

He springs to life.  I go down on him.

No offense -- it's very nice, average sized, beautifully shaped, cut, ruddy.

 But in the last month I've gone down on him about 30 times.  Ok, now 31 times.  I was hoping for something...or someone...a little different.

We move into 69 position.  Rory and Max whine.  "Out!" he commands.

When we've finished, we order Chinese food and watch tv.

"Sorry the Valentine's surprise was a bust," the Celebrity says.  "Let's do something else tomorrow night, to make up for it.  Anything you want."

"Well, to be honest...have you heard about the West Hollywood 'sharing' thing?  Where couples bring in a third, one of their friends?"

He grins.  "Sure.  I didn't think you were into that."

"I haven't really done it before, but I'd love to give it a try.  If you...you know, are into it."

"Sounds hot!  I'm turned on already."  He kisses me.  "You just sit back and let me make all the arrangements.  I'll take care of everything!"

I move my hand to his crotch.  He springs to life again.

32 times.

I spend the next day bubbling with excitement.  What famous face and physique will I be "sharing" tonight?  Tony Danza? Mr. T from The A-Team?  Scott Baio?

I knock on the door at 6:00 pm.  The Celebrity answers, and draws me into a kiss.

"Did you...."

"Get you a Valentine's present? Absolutely.  Up-to-date model, with lots of new features."

"You got me a new tv?" I joke.

"No, it's way bigger than a tv set."


"Um... jet skis?"

"No, but I'll give you a hint -- it has a retractable hose."

"Curioser and curioser."

"Shall we go check it out?"

He takes me by the arm and leads me to the bedroom.

My mind is racing.  Paul Michael Glaser?  Leif Garrett?  Ted Danson?

He opens the bedroom door.

Can you guess who we "shared"?

Answer after the break.

Alan's Gift from Beyond the Grave

Indianapolis, January 2005

In January 2005, when I was back in Indiana for the holidays, I got a phone call saying  Alan, my ex-boyfriend, roommate, and close friend for 20 years, had died of AIDS-related cancer.  The memorial service would be held in Norfolk.

I didn't go -- I was too busy, it was too far away, I already had a flight reservation back to Fort Lauderdale, etc., etc.  But the truth is, I didn't want to think about Alan being gone.  I wanted to him to be in West Hollywood, cruising at Mugi, holding court at the French Quarter,  working out at the Holiday Spa, reliving those magic moments, unchanged, eternal.

About two weeks after the memorial service, I got an email from Tarik, Alan and Sandy's boy toy in the 1990s: "Can you come to Ocrakoke?  Alan left you something that you have to come here to pick up."

"What is it?" I responded.  "Can you just ship it to me."

"His instructions were that you have to come here to pick it up -- actually Norfolk, but since I live in Ocracoke now, I'll keep it for you here."

I had never heard of Ocracoke, so I rushed to look it up.  It's an island in the Outer Banks of  North Carolina: very isolated, accessible only by boat.  Permanent population 900, but a lot of tourists in the summer.  Nothing to do but swim, fish, look at wild horses, visit an iconic lighthouse, and go to a weird pirate museum (Blackbeard died there.)  Restaurants called the Back Porch Lunchbox and the Sweet Tooth Deli.  No gay bars, no gay organizations, 99% white.   Not the sort of place that a gay black urban guy would choose.

What was Tarik doing in Ocracoke?

I emailed him back.  "Can you tell me what the gift is?  Or give me a hint?  And what the heck are you doing in Ocracoke?"

"I got a job here.  So, Alan asked me to pass out the four gifts that he left to his old friends.  They all have to come to Ocracoke to get them.  I can't tell you what it is, but I can tell you that Alan picked it out especially for you."

The gift was probably a souvenir of West Hollywood, like a glass from Mugi or a menu from the French Quarter -- something nice, but not worth crossing the country for.  Still, I said that I would come during the summer.

"Great!  Come during Memorial Day Weekend.  Some of the other guys are coming then, too.  It will be a nonstop party!"

Ocracoke, May 2005

From Fort Lauderdale I flew to Norfolk, where I rented a car and drove 4 hours to Hatteras.  I barely made the last ferry, and arrived at Ocracoke at 1:00 am Saturday morning.

Tarik met me at the ferry terminal. He was in his early 40s, but still black-haired and buffed, with square workman's hands and a couple of new gold earrings. We hugged.

As we left the ferry station, he waved at people he knew.  "I'm one of like three black guys on the island, so everybody knows me.  It's like being a celebrity."

He drove m to a house on Back Street Road, around the corner from a coffee shop ("mostly gay") and a place called the Flying Melon ("gay-friendly").

"Sounds like quite a gay presence for a tiny speck of land in the Atlantic."

"It's a small community, mostly lesbians -- I know two other gay couples and about six single guys --but it gets much bigger in the summer.  You picked a good time to visit -- Memorial Day Weekend is nonstop cruising."

It was a big, airy house with hardwood floors, a piano in the front room, a patio out back.  Two dogs padded up to say hello.

There was a naked guy asleep on the sofa.

"We have a full house this weekend -- you know what it's like to live in a resort town!  But don't worry, you get your own room.  Um...my boyfriend is already asleep, so no sharing tonight -- but definitely tomorrow, ok?"

"Sure," I said, grabbing his butt.

The master bedroom was downstairs ("The owner of the house, and whatever Cute Young Thing he's convinced to come out from the mainland") and four bedrooms upstairs: "our room, the third roommate's room, guest room,, occupied, guest room for you,"  plus a finished attic, occupied ("I figured you wouldn't want to deal with the horny gay ghost").

He pointed out the bathroom, said "Breakfast is at 8:00," and left me alone.

The room was very dark, with heavy drapes and no night light.  When I turned off the lamp, I couldn't see anything at all.  Spooky!

A couple of hours later, I was awakened by a hand caressing my chest.  The gay ghost?  I thought -- no -- this guy was corporeal, with thick arms, a smooth hard chest, and a thick 7" cock.  Tarik was much bigger -- he must be one of the housemates or guests.

In a house occupied by four gay men and their boyfriends and hookup, it's not unusual for someone to get up in the middle of the night and end up in the wrong bed, accidentally or on purpose. I started kissing and fondling my unexpected guest, and soon I was going down on him.

"Yeah...like that..." he whispered.  "Do that...oh, I'm going to come..."

Afterwards I lay on top of him to do interfemoral.  "Wait -- I brought some lube."

When I finished, we lay in each other's arms.  Even with my eyes adjusted to the dark, I couldn't make out his face.  I went to turn on the lamp, but he said "Well, I should go wash off" and left.  I saw the outline of his naked backside as he opened and shut the door.

He never came back...apparently this was a secret mission.

I figured that in the morning I could figure out the identity of my mysterious visitor by process of elimination.

I awoke to the smell of coffee brewing, and the sound of laughter and clattering plates.  Downstairs, the owner's twink boyfriend, naked except for an apron, was making pancakes.  Other guys drifted out to the deck, where there were scrambled eggs, sausages, muffins, and pitchers of orange and tomato juice.  The owner, a burly bear; Tarik and his boyfriend; the asleep on the couch guy; Sandy from Norfolk and his date...and a buffed Asian guy wearing only red jockey shorts.

"It was...you?" I asked tentatively.

"Good morning," he said with a smile, and scooted over so I could sit next to him on the bench.  Jonathan Peng Lee, originally from Hong Kong, now a grad student in engineering at UNC Chapel Hill.

When the flurry of eating and gossip died down, Tarik clicked on a glass to get our attention.

"As some of you know, we invited Boomer, Sandy, and Mark here today to pick up the gifts that our friend Alan bequeathed them.  We'll start with Boomer.  Here's Alan himself to give the introduction."

He brought out his laptop and pushed a button, and suddenly I heard Alan!

"Greetings from the spirit world, Booooomer...." he said in a spooky voice.  "I have to get to my date with River Phoenix and Brandon Lee, so I'll make this brief.  One of my favorite memories of our time together is when we were sharing that tiny apartment in Japan, and I brought home a trick, who kept jumping into your bed.  Well, I recreated that experience for you.  I got a Japanese boy to sneak into your bed -- but don't freak out if there's another dick down your throat.  I just may pop in to share.   Enjoy!"

Everyone applauded.

"We couldn't find a Japanese guy," Tarik said,  "But I hope Jonathan is close enough."

"Sure, he's great."  I turned to Jonathan, who had his arm around my shoulders.  "Um...so you're a hustler?"

He grinned.  "It pays my tuition.  They hired me for the whole weekend, so anytime you want another session, just ask."

I reached down and fondled his crotch.  He immediately sprang to life.  "Pencil me in for this afternoon."

See also:  Jon Takes Me to the Scariest Place on Earth;  Ocracoke:Gay Ghosts, Pirates, and Beach Boys

Alan, the Pentecostal Porn Star

West Hollywood, October 1985

When I moved to West Hollywood in 1985, I began to attend the All Saints Metropolitan Community Church, a gay-specific church.  It wasn't very big.  The MCC tends to thrive in communities where mainstream churches are homophobic, but in West Hollywood you had many other gay-friendly congregations.

So every Sunday only 30 or so people gathered in a sort of chapel on the second floor of a building on the corner of Santa Monica and Fairfax, down the street from the French Quarter Restaurant, for a service that borrowed heavily from Roman Catholic liturgy, with robes and incense and chants of "Peace be with you," but old-fashioned Methodist hymns and a conservative evangelical-style sermon.

(Most members of MCC were raised in homophobic denominations, usually either Protestant fundamentalist or Roman Catholic, so the church tried to accommodate both.)

Many newcomers believed that the Bible disapproved of gay people, or that AIDS was God's punishment for being gay.  The pastor had to minister to them, so every sermon was about how God is not homophobic, the Bible is gay-friendly, you can be gay and Christian.

For those who attended every Sunday, it got a little redundant.

There was a pastor and two student clergy, quite a lot for such a small congregation, but the positions were highly prestigious -- ministering in the heart of the Gay World!  -- and therefore sought-after:

I have a thing for clergy.  The pastor was in a long-term monogamous relationship, and one of the student clergy was a bit too old for me (a Baptist minister, married with children, before he came out).

That left Alan, a tall, husky former Pentecostal who had trained to become a missionary.

He had a boyfriend, too, but by mid-October, they had broken up, and I saw my chance to move in.  I wrangled an invitation to his house for dinner on the Saturday after Halloween.

Alan and his two roommates lived in the bottom half of a brown stucco duplex, about 10 blocks from the church, near Plummer Park where all of the male hustlers hung out, and the Formosa Cafe, where Hollywood celebrities used to hang out.

He turned out to be a former theology student and English major who almost went to grad school in Medieval poetry.  He had been in West Hollywood for six years; in his early days he acted in gay porn, alongside such greats as Kip Noll and Jeff Stryker.

So you'd think that we would have a lot to talk about.  Still, the date didn't go well.

1. He served canned ravioli, with no salad or vegetables in sight.  This is what you serve to impress a date?

2. Instead of The Golden Girls, the West Hollywood staple, he wanted to watch The Love Boat.  Geez, my grandmother watched that!

3. An hour of mind-numbing boredom later, I said, "Are you ready to go out?"  Nearly all dates in West Hollywood included an hour or so at the bars, mainly because being in a gay-friendly public place was so new and novel for most of us.

"Ok.  We can go to the baths."

A bath house!  On a date?  Unheard of!  And, for that matter, weren't clergy supposed to be into monogamous relationships, not hookups?

4. "Never mind, we'll just stay here," I said.

"Ok.  Go in the bedroom and take off your clothes.  I'm going to take a shower first."

Huh?

I just sat there, speechless, infuriated.  The student clergy was treating me like a hustler!  I heard the shower run, then go off.  Alan came out in a towel.

"I thought you would be naked in my bed by now."

"You didn't pick me up at Plummer Park" I yelled.  "This is supposed to be a date, not a sales contract!  And you call yourself student clergy!"

"Hold it-- I didn't mean to offend you," Alan said, perplexed.  "I was just trying to speed things up. I'm nervous -- I like you a lot.   Um...do you still want to go in the bedroom?"

"No, I want to go to the bars, and find someone who acts like a gentleman.  Like about a thousand other guys in West Hollywood!"

I stood and moved toward the door.

"Come on, I said I was sorry..."  He rushed toward me.  His towel fell off.  A gigantic Kielbasa+.

Whoa, what do you call that thing?  I stared.  He smiled.  "Did I mention that I used to do porn movies?"

I forgave him.  Turns out that being gifted beneath the belt (see my Sausage List) got Alan out of a lot of faux pas.

We dated for about six weeks, until I went home for Christmas, and a Norwegian con artist moved in.

A Live Sex Show for Alan

Washington, DC, April 1995

I had a lot of fun visiting Alan the Pentecostal Porn Star, his partner Sandy, and their friend Tarik in Norfolk in 1993, so I couldn't wait to return.

By April 1995, they had moved back to Sandy's home town of  Washington, DC.

Even better!  Dupont Circle, one the best and brightest gay neighborhoods in the world!

Sunday, April 9th.

I arrived on Sunday, April 9th, planning to spend a week and go home the day after Easter.  Sandy met me at the airport, explaining that Alan couldn't come -- he was "a little low energy."

I nodded.  Alan became HIV positive in 1992.  The virus must be catching up with him.

Their apartment was even cooler than I thought -- on R Street at Connecticut in Dupont Circle, within a few blocks of a dozen gay bars, bookstores, retail outlets, and organizations (plus the Embassy of Sierra Leone).


Alan didn't get off the couch to greet me.  He was a little thinner, a little tired-looking, but still warm and jovial.

The living room was bare -- no artwork on the walls, no objects d'art on the coffee table, no rugs, just plain furniture.

"We've been taking our time unpacking" Sandy explained.  "We don't typically spend a lot of time at home, what with my job and Alan's appointments."

As in medical appointments? 

We sat down to a dinner of goat cheese-and-turkey divan, a salad, and fresh strawberries..  Alan just picked at his.

"So what's the plan?" I asked.  "Since you're a DC native, Sandy, you can probably give me the insider tour."

"Sure, but I'm working until Saturday," Sandy said.  "But don't worry, you can walk to all the tourist places in about fifteen minutes."

I didn't ask whether Alan could come -- obviously not.  Shortly after dinner, he excused himself and went to bed, leaving Sandy and me watching tv.

This was turning out to be a depressing visit.  Was there some way to turn things around?  "Do you mind if I go out cruising some night, and bring someone home?"

"Not at all," Sandy said with a smile.  "In fact, we might even watch.  Alan has been so down lately, it might cheer him up."

That's it! I thought.  I'll bring a guy home and give Alan a live show.

Monday, April 10th

Alan was particularly into twinks, especially Asian and Hispanic. Maybe I could bring in two, and they could go with each other while we watched.

I spent Monday touring the White House and the Smithsonian, then stopped at the Crew Club to work out and cruise.  I went down on a couple of guys, but nothing serious.

I met Alan and Sandy for dinner, then excused myself and went alone to the Cobalt, the biggest twink dance club in town.  But I was 34 years old, not yet a twink magnet, and after getting extensive Attitude, I went home.  No live show for Alan!

Tuesday, April 11th

The National Gallery, the Capitol, and then to the Crew Club to work out and cruise.  I met a very cute Capitol intern named David: round face, sharp features, smooth hard chest, average beneath the belt.  A political science major from Boston University.

But after we finished, in the 69 position, he refused my idea of going home to give Alan a live show.  "I'm too shy to do it in front of other people,"

Back home, Sandy made dinner -- cheese enchiladas with mango salsa -- and we stayed in to watch tv: Wings, News Radio, Frasier.

No live show for Alan.

Wednesday, April 12th

Early morning jogging past the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial, then breakfast, the Ford Theater, the Freer Gallery of Asian art -- where I didn't meet anyone -- and back to the Crew Club.  I went down on a couple of guys, including a tall, thin British twink named Bertram, but nothing serious.

Alan, Sandy, and I had dinner at the Great Wall, a Szechuan restaurant, and then walked around Dupont Circle for a bit, but Alan quickly got tired, and wanted to go home.

 Later I went to the Ace Club, where guys dance in jock straps in front of you.  Mostly hard-bitten musclemen, but there was one Asian twink!   I kept shoving dollars in his jockstrap to keep him chatting:  Hiroki from Japan, mid-twenties, day job as a waiter, hoping to go into restaurant management.

I told him about my live show idea.  "I do private parties, sure," he said.  "Costs $200. No sex, just dancing.  He bent over and hugged and kissed me.  "But if I like you, I spend the night for free," he whispered.

A little pricey, but why not?  I arranged for Hiroki to arrive tomorrow night, a little after dinner.

Thursday, April 13th.

Jogging, then Georgetown University to check out their linguistics department, then the National Cathedral, the Freer Gallery again, and home for dinner.

I was overbrimming with excitement -- Alan's surprise live show would start any moment.

The doorbell rang while Sandy was still cooking dinner.  Hiroki was early!  "Don't get up -- it's for me!" I exclaimed, and rushed to buzz him in.

A knock on the door.  I opened it.

To Tarik, the guy Alan and Sandy set me up with in Norfolk two years ago!  He hugged me.

"Alan said you were feeling a little lonely, so I pulled some strings and drove up for the weekend.  And I brought you a present," he said to Alan.  "He's out looking for a parking space.  Straight from Honolulu, Hawaii, by way of the Norfolk Naval Base, Ensign Mark Kimura!"

Turns out Tarik and I both had the same idea.

Hiroki, Tarik and Ensign Mark Kimura put on quite an energetic live show that night.

See also: I Visit Alan, Sandy, and Their Boy Toy

My Celebrity Boyfriend

West Hollywood, January 1987

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

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

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

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


The Meeting:

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

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

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

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

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

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






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

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

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

The Second Date:

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

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

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

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

The Third Date:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Relationship:

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

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

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

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

The Last Party

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

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

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

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

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

Alan dated him soon after..

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

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

Alan and the Kept Boy

West Hollywood, March 1986

When I was growing in the Nazarene church, not only was alcohol forbidden, we couldn't even go into a venue that served or sold alcohol, for any reason.  My Sunday school teacher said, "If a maniac with an axe is chasing you, and the only way to escape is to run into a bar, choose the maniac."

Alan grew up hardcore Pentecostal, with similar restrictions.

So we were never around anyone drinking.  We didn't really understand that people who are drunk behave differently than when they are sober.

Until one night at Mugi.

It was about 10:00 pm, still early.  Alan was chatting up a cute twink from Taiwan, and I had flirted with a few guys, but nothing definite yet.

Then I saw Zack,  sitting at the bar, drinking a green, toxic-looking drink.  I later discovered that it was a Flying Grasshopper, creme-de-menthe, creme-de-cacao, vodka, and mint leaves.  Stunningly out of place amid the coca-colas and beers.

He was a tall, blond twink, wearing a blue suit with a hot pink, frilled shirt unbuttoned half way down  Very tan, smooth chest beneath. Stunningly out of place amid the t-shirts and jeans.

He wasn't actually my type, I thought.  Besides, he wouldn't be interested: white guys came to Mugi only to meet Asian guys.  But I found myself drawn to him anyway -- something about the pink shirt against the tanned chest was extremely erotic.

We talked.  No slurred speech or erratic movements, not obviously drunk.  Zack was from Idaho, came to L.A. three years ago to become an actor.  He had done some modeling, yelled on a roller coaster in a commercial for Knotts Berry Farm, and played a racist high school bully on an episode of Diff'rent Strokes.  I pretended that I had seen it..

I reached inside his shirt to feel his chest.  It was remarkably ripped.  The boy knew his way around a gym.

Zack ordered another Flying Grasshopper, then grabbed my hand and squeezed it hard.  "Can I come back to your place tonight?"

 "I'm....um....with my roommate  right now," I said, shocked.

Warning Sign #1: In West Hollywood in 1986, you didn't bring guys home the first time you met.  You always made a date for later in the week.

"What's he look like?"

"He's over there, tall guy with a beard."

"Yeah -- cute.  Invite him along.  We'll have a three-way."

Warning Sign #2: The custom of "sharing" one's friends and roommates developed in response to the AIDS crisis, under the theory that you should keep your sexual activities within a tight social circle.  But you only shared them with committed partners, not with bar pickups (this rule changed during the 1990s, but in 1986 it was set in stone).

"We don't know each other very well," I said firmly.  "It's a little early to be talking about sharing."

Zack drained his second Flying Grasshopper in a couple of gulps.  "See, the thing is, I had a fight with my boyfriend -- tonight was supposed to be our anniversary -- that's why I'm dressed up.  I'm afraid to go home -- he gets violent sometimes.  So it's your bedroom or the street."

Wile we talked, I had been unbuttoning Zack's shirt, feeling his warm, hard chest and abs, fondling his sizeable package.  I leaned over and kissed him.  I can be a Good Samaritan, I thought.

"I came with my friend," Zack said.  "Just let me tell him that I'm going home with you."

"Wait -- why couldn't you stay with your friend?" I asked.

"Oh, his place is too tiny.  Besides, he's not hot!"

Warning Sign #3: His story didn't check out.

Warning Sign #4: He was willing to get into a car with two guys he didn't know.

Today I would absolutely refuse.  But I was young and naive, and besides, he had an incredible physique..

Alan had just struck out with the Taiwanese guy, so he didn't need much convincing.

When we got to the car, Zack pulled me into the back seat with him, and we began kissing and fondling as Alan drove.

Warning Sign #5: He didn't act like a guy who had just had a fight with his boyfriend, and was afraid to go home.

Warning Sign #6: For all my groping, Zack did not become aroused.

Warning Sign #7: "Let's stop at the liquor store!" he exclaimed.  "Drinks all around."

"I don't know where any liquor stores are," Alan protested.

"I do, I do!  Turn here on Van Ness, then go down to Santa Monica. Studio Liquor, right off Highland!"

Alan glared at me, but stopped, and Zack ran in and bought a bottle of Peppermint Schnapps.

Warning Sign #8: He began sipping at it right in the car.

When we got to the apartment, Zack carefully brought the bottle in with him and put it on the coffee table.  Then he yelled "Showers first!  Who's with me?"

"Sorry, I hate showering with other people."

"I'll go!" Alan said.  They took off their clothes and went into the bathroom.  They were in there for a very long time.  First there was giggling, then no sound at all.  Finally they emerged, naked,  Zack's hard, smooth, tanned physique a sharp contrast to Alan's pale, hairy body.  They compared cock sizes.  Zack was significantly smaller.

"Time for Peppermint Schnapps!" he announced, grabbing the bottle again. "It's the best thing in the world, except for a Sloe Gin Fizz."

We took the bottle from him, went into Alan's bedroom, and climbed into the bed.  Zack and I began kissing, and Alan began working on him beneath the belt.

Unsuccessfully.  No matter what he tried, Zack could not rise to the occasion.

"Well, I'm more of a bottom anyway," he said.  He turned over onto his stomach.  "Who wants to be the first?"

Alan volunteered.  Later he told me that it was terrible.  Zack just lay there like a statue.  Soon I could tell that he had fallen asleep.

We ended up falling asleep, too, with Zack between us.

He didn't want to wake up in the morning.  Finally Alan gave up, got dressed, and went to church.

How was I going to get rid of this guy?

 I let him sleep another hour, and then shook him away.

"God, what a hangover!" he moaned.  "Bloody Marys all around.  Got any vodka?"  He grinned at me.  "Hey, you're cute.  Did we do it last night?"

"Um...well, we tried.  Don't you remember?"

"Babe, I was so blasted, I'm lucky I remembered my name.  Did I give you that old saw about a fight with my boyfriend?  That's my favorite."

 Leaning heavily on me, Zack pulled himself out of bed.  "Well, part of it is true.  I'm going to have a fight with my boyfriend as soon as I get home.  I told him I'd be back by midnight, so I didn't turn into a pumpkin. Got any Vodka?"

"No.  We don't keep alcohol in the house.  You bought a bottle of Peppermint Schnapps."

He pushed himself out into the living room and took a sip.  "Well, at least the night was good for something.  Take me home, ok, babe?  We have Vodka and Tequila there"

Grateful to finally be rid of him, I drove Zack to one of those huge apartment complexes on the Miracle Mile, where he lived with a 40-ish film director who promised to get him some acting jobs.  As far as I could tell during our brief conversation, he was more of a kept boy than a boyfriend.  With a major alcohol problem.

I missed all of the warning signs, blinded by his chest.

See also: Sharing the Optometrist's Boyfriend; Alan Cruises a Cop

The Pentecostal Porn Star Hooks Up with a Norwegian Con Artist

West Hollywood, December 1985

Maybe the cold makes people want to hug, but I've found the wintertime to be good for starting a new romance: I started dating Fred the Ministerial Student in December, Verne the Preacher's Son in January, and my Celebrity Boyfriend in January.  Christmas is particularly erotic: kissing Brian under the mistletoe, meeting the bully in the gay bar, catching Cousin Joe in the act.

But you have to be careful if you're already in a relationship.  The last two weeks of December are a mine field, especially if you return to the Midwest and leave your boyfriend behind.

In the fall of 1985, shortly after I moved to Los Angeles, I liked Alan, one of the two ministerial students at All Saints Metropolitan Community Church (the gay church).  I'm a clergy groupie, and his former job as a porn actor sweetened the deal.

But it took a long time to incite his interest -- I was tall and rather muscular, and he liked small, slim guys -- so we didn't start dating until early November.

I assumed that we would be monogamous.  And we were.

For about six weeks.

On December 15th, a guy named Kristian appeared at church.  Small, slim, passive, smiling, handsome, early 20s. I could see Alan's face light up.

After the service, Alan practically knocked me over in a mad dash to cruise him during the coffee hour.  I followed and tried to butt in as much as possible.  His story didn't add up: 

1. Kristian was born in Norway, and moved to the U.S. with his parents at age 5.  His father was a professor of political science at the University of Pennsylvania, and his mother wrote children's books.

2. He graduated from UCLA's Film School and was now working as a production assistant at Paramount.

3. He had totalled his car in an accident that wasn't his fault, so now he was taking the bus everywhere.

4. He had just broken up with his lover, and needed a place to stay until January 1st, when his new apartment would be ready.

"You can stay with me!" Alan exclaimed.  "I have two roommates, but you can...um... camp out on our couch."

Watching my boyfriend's eyes gleam with erotic anticipation, I offered Kristian an alternative plan: "I'm going home to the Midwest on Tuesday,a and I'll be gone for two weeks, so you can have my apartment all to yourself."

I know what you're thinking -- hand over my apartment key to some guy I just met?  He'll steal everything I own, and turn the place into a crack house!

Those sort of misdeeds never occurred to me.  I was fixated on the fact that Kristian had no car, and Alan lived five miles away.  It would be impossible for them to get together!!

It never occurred to me that Alan had a car.  

When I returned to Los Angeles on January 2nd, Kristian had moved out of my apartment and into Alan's bed.  "Um...um...we didn't plan on it...it just happened," Alan told me. "Can we still be friends?"

Plus, during the few days he spent at my apartment, Kristian stole a pair of jeans, pawned my grandmother's silverware, and ran up $200 in phone calls to Norway.  Fortunately, Alan got my silverware back and wrote me a check for the $200, explaining that it was "a misunderstanding."  Kristian thought my grandmother's silverware was part of the deal?

By the end of January, Kristian had taken Alan for all he could and gone on to the other ministerial student at the church, and a month or so later he moved on to West Hollywood Presbyterian.  I don't know if he was a clergy groupie, or thought a minister would be a soft touch.

I did some checking: nobody with Kristian's name had graduated from UCLA Film School, or was working at Paramount.  I'll bet he wasn't even Norwegian.  He just let his soft, small, passive frame and killer smile work for him.

My Hookup with Robert Redford

West Hollywood, February 1986

One Sunday after church, my ex boyfriend Alan, the Pentecostal Porn Star, appears at my table at the French Quarter. "Are you doing anything Tuesday night?"

"The usual -- gym, Chinese food, and Who's the Boss.  Why?"

"Well, put Tony Danza on hold.  We're going to Mann's Chinese for the premiere of The Hitcher.  A guy I met at the gym has a part in it, and he invited us."

"Um...thanks, but no thanks."

"Why?  What's wrong with The Hitcher?"

I listed the reasons.

1. We have only been broken up for a little over a month, and I'm not totally comfortable with your  "cruising together" thing.

2. I don't go to many movies, maybe five per year.  There are no theaters in West Hollywood, so you have to go into hetero-territory, put up with heterosexual couples, or worse, groups of hetero boys who sit with one seat between them so their bodies won't touch; plus heterosexist plotlines and endless homophobic jibes.

3. The Hitcher?  The previews look horrible.  Bloody, violent, sadistic movie about a young man who picks up a hitcher who frames him for murder.  I only go to comedies starring cute guys, or any movie where you see a guy's cock or butt.

"Would it sweeten the deal if I told you we will be sharing Robert Redford?"

"Um...what?  Robert Redford, the movie star?"

"Jon said that Redford is like his best friend, and wants to share, but only if I bring a friend of my own along.  I figured, with you being a big celebrity groupie, you'd jump at the chance."

True.   Tall redheads aren't really my thing -- I like my men short and dark-skinned -- but Redford is certainly famous, with lots of Oscars and Golden Globes and at least two gay-subtext movies (The Sting and Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid).  

Sharing Redford would certainly make a better party story than lunch with Michael J. Fox or brushing against the knee of the King of Sweden.

But...'Wait...sharing on your first date?  That's a little weird, isn't it?  Maybe he's just dangling Robert Redford in front of your nose like a carrot, just to get into your pants."

"Maybe," Alan admits.

"And why does he even want this four way on a first date?"

"He actually just wanted me and Redford, but it's dangerous going home with two guys you don't know.  They could be bashers.  But two guys going home with two guys evens out the situation.  It's not a trick, it's a party!"

"Well...."  Even if the Redford thing is a hoax, movie premieres have premiere parties, with cruising gay and closeted celebrities.   And I'll be sharing with Alan -- even though we've broken up, I really miss sex with him. He's very energetic, very passionate, and super-hung.  "Sure.  Sounds like fun."

The Premiere

Jon is in his late 20s or early 30s, a little shorter than me, with dark curly hair, a square jaw, and a firm but not muscular physique.  I can't see a bulge.

Turns out that he's from Indiana, like my parents; he majored in theology at Butler University in Indianapolis, then moved to Los Angeles, where he's been on Black Sheep Squadron, Hart to Hart, Baretta, and a lot of other tv series I never saw.  He was on the series finale of MASH. 

"So that's what got Alan interested!" I exclaim.  "He'd go out with anybody who was on MASH, or who could sing the theme song, or who has seen an episode."

Jon doesn't get the joke.  "No, what attracted Alan was that we're both recovering fundamentalists.  I can quote chapter and verse of Galatians in the original Koine Greek."

"I'm more into French, myself," I say flirtatiously.  "So, what's Robert Redford into?"

"He's into everything but bottoming. But very closeted.  I don't think he's ever had a boyfriend.  He only goes with guys when I invite them over to share."

"So...where is he?" Alan asks.

"He couldn't make the premiere, but we'll meet up later."

The movie is awful -- it literally makes me sick, both from the gore and from the heterosexist myth that all men hate each other: every man the protagonist encounters is evil, belligerent, or bullying, while every woman is kind, sympathetic, and loving.  Jon's character is on-screen for about two seconds. 

 I pass the time by fondling Jon's knee and imagining going down on him while Alan goes down on Robert Redford.  Or going down on Robert Redford while Jon goes down on Alan.  Or....

The Restaurant

After the premiere, I thought we'd go to the after-party, to hobnob with the star, C. Thomas Howell, and maybe get his phone number -- he's gay, right?

Instead, Jon drives us to a restaurant -- and not even a nice restaurant.  Mel's Drive In on Sunset, a faux greasy spoon probably named after Mel's Diner on Alice.  Not at all the sort of place a big star would hang out.

Not at all the sort of place three gay men would hang out, either.  Wall-to-wall hetero couples!

"Where is Redford?" Jon asks.  "He said he would meet us here at 11:00."

We order hamburgers and french fries, chat in that closeted way that gay men do when they infiltrate the straight world, and keep looking at the door.

"That flighty queen!  I'll bet he forgot!"

It's midnight.  I have to be up at 6:00 am tomorrow.  And I have the distinct impression that Jon is putting us on about the Redford thing.

"Let's just give him a miss and go back to Alan's apartment," I suggest.  "We can share another time."

"Fine with me," Alan says.

"No, this is ridiculous!" Jon exclaims. "He does this all the time.  I set us up with a hot guy, and he bails at the last minute.  His ex-wife calls, or he sees someone he knows on the street, or who knows what.  I say we drive out to his house, bring the party to him!"

Malibu

Redford has a beach house out in Malibu, a good half-hour drive away.  Granted, it's a nice house, from what little we can see in the dark.

Jon buzzes.  No answer.

He buzzes again.  No answer.

"I know he's in there!"

On the third try,  we hear a sleepy voice..  "Yeah?"

"It's Jon.  I have Alan and Boomer with me."

"Oh, shit, was that tonight?  Hang on."  He buzzes us through the gate, and a moment later opens the front door.

Robert Redford, a little scraggly looking, in a bathrobe, hugs Jon and shakes our hands.  "Sorry, guys, I forgot all about dinner...and I'm really not up for entertaining right now.  I was in bed."

"Well, can we at least spend the night?" Jon asks.  "Maybe you'll be up for it in the morning."

"Sure, come on in."  Redford and his dogs lead us through the living room and down a corridor.  "You can have this room and the one across the hall.  You can split it up amongst yourselves.  If you need anything, tough, I'm going to bed."

We all pick the same room, of course.  Jon has a hairy chest and an average-sized penis.  I go down on him for a few minutes, as a courtesy, but spend most of my time going down on Alan, while he and Jon are kissing.  Then Jon goes down on me, but not long enough for me to finish.  Alan spurts, but Jon does not.   They fall asleep in each other's arms.

The Hookup

Wide awake, horny, I get up to try to find the bathroom.  One of Redford's dogs approaches.

"You know where the bathroom is?" I ask.

He turns and leads me back to the master bedroom.

Redford is lying on the bed, in his bathrobe, reading a magazine.

"Oh, sorry.  I thought he was leading me to the bathroom."

"It's back that way," he says, pointing toward his left.  "And after you're done, you might as well take care of this for me."

"Um..."

Suddenly I don't have to go to the bathroom anymore.  I climb onto the bed, undo Redford's bathrobe, and find an uncut, soft cock, about 4".  It gets bigger as I touch and fondle it.  By the time I go down on him, Redford is a thick 7."  As I bob up and down, it gets even longer, and harder.

He keeps up a nonstop dialogue.  "That's it...more tongue action. Yeah...yeah...I'm coming...."

I swallow his load, go into the bathroom to wash over -- and urinate -- then return to the bed for cuddling.

But Redford says "I'm a little tired -- don't you think you should be back in your own bed?"

I return to my own bed, where Alan and Jon are snoring, and squeeze in to Jon's side.

In the morning we get up early "to miss the traffic," and leave without waking Redford.

The Fabrication

Some of this story is pure fabrication -- I made it up.  Can you figure out which parts are real and which are not?

1. The Premiere
2. The Restaurant
3. Malibu
4. The Hookup

Answer after the break

Alan's Arrest: The Vice Cop, the Gay Basher, or the High School Boy?

West Hollywood, July 1988

"Ok, do you guys want to pick at ice cream like little sissy girls, or do you want to EAT ICE CREAM?"  Alan asks.

If you say EAT,  you get six scoops "for starters."

We're at a barbecue at Derek's house near Sunset Boulevard. About 10 of us, including Fred, Matt, Raul, Marcus, and Will the Bondage Boy, are swapping our best stories about disastrous dates, gigantic penises, or hookups with celebrities.  Now it's time for dessert, and Alan's turn:

"I'm going to tell you about the time I was arrested."

This should be good.  Alan does everything BIG.  A Pentecostal theology student turned porn star turned English teacher, he is exuberant, effervescent, full of crazy schemes.  He says whatever pops into his head, does whatever he wants without considering the consequences.  It's not hard to imagine a lot of circumstances where he would draw the wrath of the heterosexual police state.

"Better yet, I'll tell you about three incidents, and you have to decide which resulted in my arrest.  They all happened in the early 1980s, before any of you met me."

"What do we win if we get the right answer?" Raul asks.

"Twenty minutes alone in the bedroom with me.  Anything you want: make out, give me a blow job, discuss Dynasty...."

We glance at each other and grin.  Alan is very big beneath the belt.

#1: The Vice Cop

Alan didn't approve of public cruising -- not because of any immorality in anonymous contacts, because it was dangerous.  Undercover cops were everywhere, waiting to haul in "perverts" on "lewd conduct" charges, even if they did nothing but talk.

One day Alan and his friends had a picnic in Griffith Park, and he decided to go on a hike.  A cute guy cruised him.  In his twenties, with blond curly hair and a smooth chest -- well, who wouldn't follow him into the woods?  Besides, there was no way a vice cop would be prowling this far from a gay neighborhood!

They found a secluded spot.  The cute guy unzipped Alan's pants and pulled it out.  He fondled Alan's aroused penis for a few minutes.

Then he flashed a badge.  "LAPD Vice!"

I go into the kitchen and bring Alan another soda.  Obviously the contest is over -- this must be the one.

#2: The Gay Basher

In the early 1980s, before people knew about AIDS, "tricking" was commonplace -- you went out to the bars, met someone, and brought him home that night, without waiting for a date or introducing him to your friends or anything.

One night at the Gold Coast Alan met a truck driver -- in his 30s, very tall and muscular, with a beard and a hairy chest.  Alan usually preferred soft and smooth -- but what a bulge!

The guy said "I want take you home and pound you!"  Alan was not usually into anal sex, but he figured, with someone that hot, he would make an exception.

They went back to Alan's apartment.  When they walked in the door, Alan drew him in for a kiss.  The truck driver called him a  "f*king faggot", and punched him in the face.

Alan sprang back in shock, and the guy was on top of him, punching and kicking and yelling "f*king faggot."

"More ice cream?" Alan asks.  "I brought lots."

#3: Staying After Class

Every high school teacher and college professor knows that male students often get aroused in the classroom. You're supposed to pretend that you don't notice.  But Alan doesn't pretend.

He was so cute!  18 years old, tall, slim, Hispanic, a little feminine, with thick black hair -- and what a bulge!  He had a Mortadella, easily.  And he was tenting outrageously right in the middle of the lecture.

Alan leaned down and whispered in his ear, "Do you want to go to the bathroom and take care of that?"

The boy blushed and shook his head.  But after school he came back to "talk about his grade."  His bulge returned.  So did Alan's.

The school was empty except for some kids doing after-school activities and the the janitor making his rounds.  So Alan unzipped his pants, and the boy knelt and went down on him.  Right at his desk!

"Ding, ding!" Alan exclaims.  "Write your answer on a slip of paper, and I'll tally the results."

Most guys guess The Vice Cop.  I mean, come on, the guy flashed his badge!

"No," Alan says. "He let me off with a warning -- after he went down on me.  He was on a power trip -- he got off on intimidating guys into sex."

Some guess Staying After Class.  Sex with one of your students, right in the classroom!  Who cared that he was of legal age -- the police would have a field day!

"No," Alan says,  "We hooked up after class several times.  We're still in contact -- he went to UC Santa Cruz, majored in philosophy."

Only Will the Bondage Boy, who has never met Alan before, guesses The Gay Basher.  "You look like you can take care of yourself," he says. "I bet the basher ended up in the hospital, and that didn't sit well with the straights."


"Precisely!" Alan exclaims.  "He got a broken nose and three broken ribs.  My crazy roommate called the police, and of course they arrested me for 'enticing' a poor innocent straight boy."

So Will and Alan go into the bedroom for 20 minutes.  They don't tell us what happened there.  Probably something like this.

See also: Sharing the Kept Boy with Alan; and the Bear with the Sweeney Todd Fetish.

Alan Dates Will of "Land of the Lost"

Alan the Pentecostal Porn Star didn't like telling celebrity dating or hookup stories: "Does being on tv automatically make guys hotter?  Does it give them a bigger cock?  What's the point?"  

But when he set his mind to it, he had some good stories: he dated David Johnson, son of the professor on Gilligan's Island; two of the male cast members of M*A*S*H (not Alan Alda); and Land of the Lost star Wesley Eure.

West Hollywood, June 1979

In May 1978, three days after graduating from ultra-fundamentalist Waynesburg College in rural Pennsylvania, Alan arrived in the gay ghetto of West Hollywood.  It was the halcyon days of sexual excess, after Gay Liberation but before AIDS, when there were enough bars and bathhouses in town to fill every night with dates and tricks.  And he dated and tricked with the best of them.

In the spring of 1979, he met Donnie, a production  manager/stage manager/general factotum at CBS.  They had sex once, then became friends, as was the custom in those day.  He told Alan about his gay sex party with Sid Krofft and Jack Wild, star of the Saturday-morning kidvid show H.R. Pufnstuf.

"I always thought those boys on the Krofft shows were gay.  Butch Patrick on Lidsville...Johnny Whitaker on Sigmund and the Sea Monsters...."

"Well, there was some casting couch stuff going on with Sid, but those guys were mostly straight. Other than Jack Wild, the only one I know for sure is gay is Wesley Eure."

The last of the Krofft Shows, Land of the Lost (1974-1976), was the most ambitious.  A whole family -- father, son, and daughter -- trapped in a prehistoric world with dinosaurs, evil reptilian Sleestaks, and helpful humanoid Pakuni..  They hire Star Trek alumni as writers, and a UCLA linguist to invent the Pakuni language.  And instead of their usual fey prettyboys, they got a real rugged outdoorsman to play the son.

A little old for a Krofft boy, age 23 when the show began, Wesley Eure was tall and buffed, with black curly hair and a dazzling teen-idol smile. He was a talented singer, selected to replace David Cassidy on The Partridge Family, and a classically-trained dramatic actor who had performed Shakespeare and Eugene O'Neill.  Yet he didn't balk at being chased by dinosaurs every week.

"How do you know he's gay?" Alan asked.  "Have you tricked with him?"

Donnie laughed.  "Not tricked, no -- we dated. Candy, flowers, a soda with two straws, a kiss on the doorstep, the whole romantic bit.  But he dumped me after the third date."

"Things getting too real for him?"

"I was getting too out for him.  He's strictly closeted."

"Closeted, in 1979?  That's ridiculous!"  Alan exclaimed.  "Being gay is legal now.  Willie Brown is on our side.  There are gay characters on tv all the time. What's he got to be afraid of?  Give me this guy's number, and I'll pull him out of the closet."

"What makes you think you're his type?"

Alan grinned.  "Have you seen my cock lately?  I'm everybody's type."

So Donnie called Wesley and arranged for him to met Alan for dinner at the Formosa Cafe near Plummer Park.

Wesley was 27 years old, but too big and buffed to be a twink. Since Land of the Lost ended, he had done some soaps and guest spots, and he was very excited about the movie C.H.O.M.P.s, a superhero spoof about a boy who invents a robot dog.

"It could become a tv series!" Wesley exclaimed.  "And I'd get to kiss Valerie Bertinelli every week -- nothing wrong with that, right?"

Alan stared.

"Sorry -- it's my cover.  I'm so used to pretending to be straight..."

"Well, tonight you're gay through and through.  I've got a whole tour of Hollywood planned: the Bunkhouse, the Rawhide, Circus Disco -- then, if you're up for it, the baths."

"I can't go to gay bars, or the baths.  What if someone recognizes me?"

Alan sighed and allowed himself to be invited home.  The sex was hot.  Wesley had a hard smooth chest, a tight belly, and a beautifully shaped 6-inch penis.  They kissed and fondled for a long time, almost to climax, and then Wesley went down on Alan -- he could take it all without gagging.  After he finished, he moved into the 69 position for the second round, and then interfemoral.

Later, as they were cuddling in bed, Alan said, "So, dating you will involve just going out to dinner and talking about Valerie Bertinelli?  No dancing, no movies, no cruising?"

"I can't be seen in any gay places," Wesley said.  "Not if I want a career.  If this is going to go any farther, you'll have to be cool with that."  He began kissing Alan's chest, and slowly moved down to his belly and crotch.  "I can make quiet nights at home worthwhile."

"Sounds cool," Alan said.  "But for our next dinner, I get to pick the place."  He moaned as Wesley began going down on him for the third time that evening.

Two days later, Alan picked up Wesley at his apartment.  "We're meeting some of my friends -- I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all," Wesley said.  It was traditional to introduce your boyfriend to your friends on the second or third date. "Gay or straight?"

Alan glared at him.  "What do you think?"

They drove to a large, open restaurant near Santa Monica and Fairfax, down the street from Temple Beth El.  "I figured a Jewish neighborhood would be closeted enough for you."

Donnie and two other guys were sitting at the table waiting for them.

"Shouldn't there be some girls with us, just in case?" Wesley said doubtfully.

Alan shoved him to the table and made the introductions:  Morris Kight, president of the Stonewall Democratic Alliance, and Troy Perry, founder of the Metropolitan Community Church!

All Wesley had heard of were bars and bathhouses -- he was astonished to discover that there were social clubs, political clubs, churches, magazines, newspapers, even a bookstore that specialized in gay literature.

While they were talking, a cute twink came over to ask for Wesley's autograph.  "You helped me come out!" he exclaimed.  "Watching you on Land of the Lost in those cut-off jeans made me realize that I was gay."

After he left, Wesley turned to Alan.  "He was awfully open about being gay.  Is this a gay restaurant?"

Alan grinned.  "You got me.  This is the French Quarter, the nicest restaurant in the gay ghetto."

"Gay ghetto -- I thought this was a Jewish neighborhood."

"We share," Troy said.  "There's plenty of room for everyone in West Hollywood."

Alan reached over and grabbed his hand under the table, then slowly raised it up to the tabletop, so that they were holding hands obviously, in public.  The other guys ignored them.

"After dinner we can go back to my apartment," Alan said, "Or we can go to the Circus Disco.  I'll have to warn you, though, there won't be any girls there."

"Well, maybe a few drag queens," Donnie said.

Wesley thought for a moment, but only for a moment.  "The disco."

Alan and Wesley dated for another month or so before breaking up.  When gay rumors caused him to be fired from Days of Our Lives in 1981, Wesley returned to the closet, and did not come out publicly until 2009.

See: Donnie's Gay Sex Party with Jack Wild; Alan's Top 20 Tricks, Scenes, and Dates