My Night and Day with Sammy Blowfish

Mount Vernon, Iowa, July 2003

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why Cornell College?" I asked.

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

"Did you get an offer from Stanford?"

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

"But does it have a gay presence?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"My flight to Fort Lauderdale is on Wednesday."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A night of energetic sharing followed.

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

And I got to visit my family and friends.

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

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 Hookup with the Son of Mr. Blowfish

Washington, Iowa, August 2003

The class I hated the most in high school was Public Speaking.  I didn't mind the speaking -- it was rather fun having an audience.  But the teacher, Mr. Blowfish!

Actually Mr. Lundquist, he was a prissy, snippy, ultra-swishy little gordito, balding, with a villain goatee, who lived to impress upon students that they were worthless.  He swept over the classroom, making condescending, sarcastic, and insulting remarks in his overmodulated, oversophisticated voice.

"Try speaking English.  Eng-Lish!"
"I have an idea.  Let's try to get it right."
"You can't be that stupid.  You must be putting me on."
"God, your parents must have been morons, to have you."

More than one student was reduced to tears, whereupon Mr. Blowfish would sneer "It's called real life.  Get used to it."

The whole class hated him.

I remember one piece of advice he gave us: When you're invited to a party, find out who's coming, and research their interests, so you'll have something to talk about.

Wait -- this miserable, mean-spirited little troll was invited to parties?

I eked by his class with a C-, which was pretty good.  No one got higher than a C, except for the two A's given to girls who, we assumed, were his relatives.

When I figured "it" out, the summer after my high school graduation, I realized that he was the first gay person I ever met.  A gay hint in junior high speech class!

The years passed.  I graduated from high school, moved to West Hollywood, then New York, then Florida.  When I came back to Rock Island to visit, I asked around the gay community.  No one had ever heard of Mr. Blowfish...um, I mean Lundquist.

Still, the little Truman Capote wannabe must be gay.  Nobody straight was that swishy.

Back in Rock Island in the summer of 2003, I finally found Mr. Blowfish: he was retired, living in Washington, Iowa, about 70 miles away.

Now, finally, I could find out if he was actually gay or just a swish!

I called and gushed, "You were my favorite teacher in high school!"

Naturally I got an invitation to visit.

On the hottest day of the year, I drove my sister-in-law's car to Washington, to a very nice grey-brick house with dormer windows.

27 years had passed since I took Mr. Blowfish's class, but still, I recognized the man who answered the door: a fat, bearded bear in his sixties, wearing only a swimsuit and flip-flops.  I saw a mass of thick white hair on the man-boobs of his chest.  I couldn't see a basket.

"Mr. Davis, how nice to see you again!" he said, offering a limp handshake.

"Dr. Davis, now."

"I know, I know!  Isn't that marvelous, even if you did go to a third-rate school!  You must be using the skills I taught you every day, or do you hide behind those dreary  -- what-do-you-call-it -- Powerpoint presentations?"

"Sometimes," I admitted.

"Cover-up for academic incompetence, I always say.  Well, why don't we go out to the back?  It's such a nice day."

Mr. Blowfish led me to the back yard, where there were lawn chairs, a little white table stocked with a pitcher of lemonade, and a children's wading pool amid miscellaneous toys.

My heart sank.  If he had kids, he couldn't be gay.  "Are those toys for the neighborhood kids?" I asked tentatively.

"Oh, those belong to the grandkids.  My boys are visiting just now.  No matter where they're living, they always visit at the same time -- safety in numbers, they say.  Stick around for a bit, and you'll meet them."

He sat his lawn chair, took off his flip-flops, and plopped his feet in the kiddie pool.  "Oh, feel free to take off your shoes.  And your shirt, too.  You obviously spend a lot of time in the gym trying to forestall the ravages of age, so you might as well show off the results."

I took my shirt off, to see if his eyes widened.  They didn't.  "So, how old are your boys?" I asked, still trying to salvage my lifelong belief that Mr. Blowfish was gay.

"Oh, Thanh is 32 now.   He was born just a couple of years after my late wife and I left Viet Nam. He lives in Des Moines, doing something idiotic with computers. Louie is 28.  He lives in Michigan.  He could have been a doctor, but he chose the stupid path, conducting low-paying research."

So Mr. Blowfish fought in Viet Nam?  I couldn't imagine it.  And when I was in high school, he spent his days berating, demeaning, and otherwise terrorizing his students, then going home to hold his five-year old and one-year old sons on his lap.  Named Thanh and Louie Lundquist.  The image was bizarre.

"...and Sam is 26.  He just got a tenure-track position in art history at Cornell College.  Not the good school -- the dinky one up by Iowa City. I told him to set his sights a little higher, but he chose the liberal arts. Now, I ask you, what good has lecturing on Rembrandt ever done the world?"

After about fifteen minutes of similar put-downs, there there was a roaring in the front of the house, and the back yard exploded with people and dogs and a flurry of voices.

"Grandpa, Uncle Sammy bought me an alligator!"

"We got ice cream, but we're still hungry for hot dogs!"

"Gross, your feet are in our swimming pool!"

After the introductions, Thanh and Louie set up for grilling hot dogs and hamburgers, their wives busied themselves with salads and pie, their four kids and three dogs roughhoused, and Mr. Lundquist yelled for everyone to keep out of his flower bed.  The youngest son, Sam, the one who lectured on Rembrandt, invited me for a walk down the silent, sizzling hot streets of Washington.  His eye-widening was unmistakable.

Yep, gay, not out to his family, but he was sure that they knew.  No one had inquired about a "girlfriend" for years.

"Was Dad really your favorite teacher?" he asked.  "A lot of people are turned off by his perfectionism."

"Well, maybe not my favorite.  But I thought he was gay, so we had kind of a kindred spirit."

"You thought Dad was gay?"  Laughing, he squeezed my shoulder.  "That's so bizarre!  After Mom died he was out with a different lady every night!  He always said that his three favorite things in life were wine, women, and...women."

"Mr. Blowfish...I mean Mr. Lundquist was a little swishy in class.  A lot swishy, actually."

"You called him Mr. Blowfish!  I love it!  Because you thought he liked...um...going down on guys?"

"No, no, because of his looks.  I never thought of that other connotation -- until now."

Sam smiled, and briefly touched my hand.   "That will be my nickname from now on -- Sammy Blowfish.  Apropos of nothing in particular, are you busy later?"

I ended up asking my sister-in-law if I could keep her car out overnight, and then driving home to Cornell with Sammy.

He was short, slim, dark-skinned, with a beautiful physique and nice beneath-the-belt gifts. And he lived up to the Blowfish nickname.

This story continues in Son of Mr. Blowfish

See also: I hook up with my "Uncle"; Getting the Chinese Delivery Guy into my Bed.

My Top 10 Turn-Ons

Why do we like what we like?  Gay men get asked that question every day, mostly phrased like "How could you possibly be attracted to ugly, hideous, disgusting men instead of gorgeous, beautiful women, like everybody else who has ever lived?"

But once you walk them through the concept of same-sex desire, they still balk: "Why would you like that kind of guy? He isn't attractive at all!  Only an idiot would be into him!"

Or: "Why don't you like him?  Everyone must find him gorgeous.  You're blind, evil, or stupid if you don't!"

Everyone has their own taste in men, and that's fine.  If I find something attractive and you don't, that doesn't make me bad, wrong, or stupid.  We like what we like.

So here are the top 10 traits I find attractive, and the reasons why.

1. Dark skin.  Black, Asian, Hispanic, Mediteranean.  It must be the exotic factor: I grew up in the Midwest, surrounded by fair-skinned Swedes, Germans, and Belgians,.  There was one black kid and one Asian kid in my junior high.  I didn't meet anyone Hispanic, other than my teachers, until college.

2. Shorter than me.  Maybe a dominant-submissive factor, but looking up at the guy is a turnoff.  I'm 6'1, so anyone under 6'0 is good.  5'4 is ideal.

Little people are a particular interest.  Have you ever noticed that they have very short legs, but regular size penises?  That hang down to their knees!

3. Mass.  Who wants to hug a skeleton?  Muscle, the bigger and harder the better, especially pecs, abs, and biceps.  Chubby/husky/fat is good, too.  Muscular torso with a little belly, ideal.

Since coming to the Plains, I've been meeting lots of skinny twinks, and there is something to be said for being able to put your arms all the way around someone.  Still, I'm going for mass.

4. A round or square face and square, solid hands.

Yes, I noticed the face and hands before the penis in this photo.

A round or square face seems open and friendly.  A long, narrow face seems sneaky, underhanded, or elitist.

Square hands are more masculine than those thin, slender, delicate things.  Also they look better wrapped around a penis.

5. Gifted beneath the belt.  Do I really need to explain that one?

But not super-sized: the footlongs are nice to look at, but impossible to actually do anything with.

I have a definite preference for cut over uncut.  More than once I've pulled back the foreskin to discover that the guy does not clean himself properly.

6. Religious, especially seminary students and clergy.  Any religion: Protestant, Catholic, Jewish, Muslim, Buddhist, Hindu, pagan, Afro-Caribbean, fine.

When you grow up in a fundamentalist church, you spend countless hours gawking at preachers, evangelists, Sunday school teachers, and choir directors, looking for biceps and bulges beneath their business suits.

7. Business suits.  My working-class relatives never wore suits to work, and academics never wear them, so the exotic factor kicks in.  Besides, they're so grown-up, so formal.  And since they're designed to obscure the body as much as possible, they become all the more erotic.

8. Down to Earth.  Someone who likes "regular" things, like hamburgers and tv sitcoms, who isn't going to judge me for my plebian tastes, or for being from the Midwest. I've been burned too many times by elitists.

9. Health Conscious.  Non-smoker, non-drinker, knows his way around a gym.  The explanation for that is obvious, too.


















10. Masculine.  I get angry when they call masculine "straight acting."  Straight men often have feminine traits: rings, cologne, hand gestures, a swishy walk, a nasal overmodulated voice.  And gay men usually have masculine traits.

Masculinity and femininity are culturally determined, varying across space and over time.  Pink was once a masculine color, and blue feminine.  But, that being said, I am attracted to the traits designated masculine by my culture: no rings, no cologne, the ability to speak with your mouth, not your hands, and a direct style of walking and talking.

If you like other traits, that's fine with me.  I do not pretend that my list is universal.  People like what they like.

See also: My Top 10 Turn-Offs

Who Topped Me in Barcelona: The Catalan Muscle Bear or the Chinese Twink?

This story is about my second experience as Greek passive (an anal bottom).  Can you guess who it was with?

Left: Guillem, a Catalan muscle bear in his 40s, with a Kielbasa beneath the belt.
Right; Ramon, a twink of Chinese ancestry, in his 20s, rather on the small side.

My first anal experience was with Fred, my first boyfriend, while in college.  And then rarely. if ever.  In West Hollywood, Greek was associated with people dying of AIDS, so even with a condom we rarely considered it.

Between 1985 and 1997, I was Greek passive for only 3 guys, and Greek active for 2.

Guillem or Ramon?  Read the whole story before trying to guess.

Barcelona, Summer 1994

Lane and I planned to spend only two days in Barcelona, but we ended up spending a week.  It turned out to be our favorite city in Spain, and probably in Europe.

Les Rambles, the pedestrian mall in the center of the old city
Sagrada Familia, the unfinished Gaudi church
The Picasso Museum
The best gym with day rates in Europe.

The Catalan language, obviously Romance yet pleasantly distinct from Spanish, French, and Italian.

Spanish: Quisiera tragar su salchicha
Catalan: Vull empassar la seva salsitxa

And Sauna Condal, three floors of saunas, steam rooms, mazes, dark rooms, and glory hole rooms.  We went twice, the second time on Bear Night, when it was crowded with tall, hairy-chested muscle bears, silver daddies, and Catalan chubbies.

Suddenly I saw an Asian guy sitting alone in the video room: in his 20s, short and slim, with a smooth chest, his penis covered with a towel. I guessed that he was of Chinese ancestry.

Wow!  I hadn't even seen an Asian guy since we arrived in Europe two weeks ago, except once at a Chinese restaurant in Madrid.  I figured he was a tourist from the U.S. or France, which had a larger Chinese population.  Or maybe even from China.

I knew all about cruising Asian guys, from many nights at Mugi in Hollywood.

I approached, sat next to him, and tried out my minimal Mandarin: "Ni hau bu hau?"


He glared at me and said something in Catalan that I didn't understand.  So he was a native Spaniard!

"Lo siento?"

He switched to a slow, careful Spanish.  "You were speaking Mandarin.  My grandparents speak Wu, not Mandarin.  They say Nung hau, not Ni hau, or better, Ve'tich va, which means 'have you eaten?"

A linguist!  Just my type!  "Me llama Boomer, de Toronto." [I always claimed to be Canadian while overseas to avoid getting yelled at.]

"Ramon," he said in a distracted voice, offering his hand to be shaken.

"Quisiera...."

Then he stood, crossed the room, and started working on the nipples of a muscle bear standing in the doorway.

Snubbed?  We'll see about that!  I walked over, knelt, and went down on the muscle bear's  curved Bratwurst, then gradually reached beneath Ramon's towel and fondled him- rather small, though very aroused.  I started working on both, as well as I could when one was three times as big as the other.

Soon the Muscle Bear knelt and motioned for us to change positions. I stood and kissed Ramon and fondled his butt, while the Muscle Bear worked on both of us.  It didn't take long for me to finish.  Then the Muscle Bear wordlessly left.

We looked at each other. That was a little abrupt -- Ramon was still hanging.

 "Have you eaten?" he asked with a grin, and pushed me down onto my knees again.

After he finished, we looked up Lane and Ramon's roommate Guillem, who had already been together earlier.

Guillem was a buffed, hairy muscle bear in his 40s, with a long face and a salt-and-pepper beard.  One of his hands was in a brace.

We went out for drinks at La Chapelle, a small gay bar crowded with religious artifacts about 8 blocks away.

Ramon told us that he knew only a few words of the Wu language, from his grandparents, who settled in Barcelona after the Communist Revolution of 1949.   His parents spoke only Catalan at home, and were not at all interested in their Chinese heritage.

Neither was Ramon.  He got annoyed when people assumed he spoke Chinese, or became interested in him only because they thought he was Asian.

Both he and Guillem belonged to the Catalan Independence movement, and tried to promote the Catalan language whenever they could, even pretending that they didn't speak Spanish.

"Did you know that only 40% of the people in Catalonia speak Catalan at home?" Guillem said.  "It is the native language of only 30%.  This is shameful!"

I turned to Ramon.  "You must stand out at Catalan advocacy meetings, being the only Chinese guy there."

Guillem glared at me.  "He is Catalan. Are you English or German, because your grandparents were from those places?

I could see who was the dominant partner in this relationship!  "Well...I like to claim my Potawatomie Indian heritage..."

It was now about 9:00, dinnertime in Barcelona.  Ramon and Guillem invited us back to their apartment on a very dark, narrow street in the old city, near a famous cafe,  Els Quatre Gats, where Picasso used to hang out.

We ducked inside for a look.

Dinner, served around 10:00, was trinxat, a sort of potato and cabbage quiche with fried eggs, a dark black sausage, and bread on the side, while a Spanish language version of Roseanne played in the background.

I guess it didn't come in Catalan.

After dinner we sat in the living room.  I hadn't been with Guillem yet, so I fondled his chest and kissed him.  Soon all four of us were naked.  I was going down on Guillem's rather thick Kielbasa, while Guillem and Lane were both working on Ramon.  I shrugged and grabbed Ramon and kissed him.

Then..

Have you guessed who I had my second Greek passive experience with?

Answer after the break

The Naked Man in the Bathtub

West Hollywood, February 1990

When I started dating Lane, I slept over almost every night in his apartment.   I was home in the evening perhaps two nights a week, and my rooommate Derek was never home during the daytime, so we rarely spoke.

So I didn't hear much about his dates, club activities, or visiting friends.

One Saturday Lane started coughing and feeling feverish, so I went on a chicken-soup-and-orange juice run and left him alone for the evening.  I went to the gym, browsed at Different Light, and then headed home to order Chinese delivery and watch Mr. Belvedere, Mama's Family, and The Golden Girls.  

When I walked into the apartment, I heard the water running in the bathroom -- Derek taking  a shower -- but I had to go badly, so I knocked on the door and yelled "Hey, mind if I pee?"

"No, go ahead!"

That didn't sound like Derek's voice.  But  I jumped into the bathroom, pulled up the toilet lid, and unzipped.

Only then did I notice the naked man in the bathtub, just letting the water run to fill it up.

Not Derek.

That wasn't surprising in itself.  Derek dated, he had friends from out of town visit, his friends brought boyfriends.  There were often people I didn't know wandering through the house.

But Derek was a 40-year old former fitness model (you can see him in a 1980 issue of Mandate).  His friends were all 40-year former fitness models and middle-aged gym rats.

And he only dated slim, androgynous twinks.  No one over 30.  Facial hair and chest hair were turn-offs.  No bodybuilders, bears, or chubbies.

The naked man in the bathtub was a bear: older, maybe 50, chubby, with a beard and a hairy chest.  Nose ring and nipple rings.  Average endowment.

Not one of Derek's usual friends.  Certainly not a date.

"Oh...um...excuse me."

"Not a problem," the bear said, smiling as he checked out my package.

"I'm Derek's roommate, Boomer."

"I'm Panther, his ex, visiting for the weekend."

Ex?  I finished, zipped up, and moved to the sink.  "How long ago were you together?"

"Oh, eons and eons. Where were you in '72?  He was still married to Ellen, a scared little gym boy peeking into the Gold Coast for the first time.  I took him under my wing, showed him the baths and the cruising trails in Griffith Park -- this was before AIDS, mind you -- and oh my Goddess!  Did he blossom!"  He stood, dripping wet.  "I was going to take a nice long soak, but you look like you're more fun.  Towel me!"

I handed him the guest towel.  "Where is Derek, by the way?"

"Oh, he took Tyler -- that's my boy as of last month, which is six months in twink years -- they're on a tour of West Hollywood.  They'll be back soon, and then we're all going out to dinner, and then cruising."  Minimally toweled, he approached.  "Up in San Francisco, we say hi to our brothers with a hug and grope."

I obliged.

We didn't do anything but hug and grope, of course -- we had just met, and there was no roommate or or mutual friend around.  We sat on the couch, talking and joking and looking at porn magazines, until Derek and Tyler returned, about an hour later.

Tyler was short, dark, muscular, Chinese-American.  Exactly my type!

I tagged along for dinner at the French Quarter.  Panther monopolized the conversation, telling me about L.A. in the 1970s, his relationship with Derek, and his life now -- he lived in San Francisco, where he worked as an organist in a Catholic church, of all things.  Tyler was one of the parishioners.

"I grew up Nazarene..." I began, to establish a connection.  But Panther moved on.

Tyler glanced over and smiled at me.

There was no way I would see him naked tonight -- any sharing would take place with Derek -- so when we went to Mugi, I redoubled my efforts to find someone, and ended up kissing and groping a guy from Singapore.

I glanced over and saw Tyler smiling at me.

Of course, I couldn't pick him up -- hooking up was frowned upon in West Hollywood in 1990.  But it was nice to get a little action, since I knew what would happen when we got home.

Derek, Panther, and Tyler said goodnight and disappeared into the bedroom.  I disappeared into my bedroom.  I heard shuffling and talking, then squeaking.

I went to sleep.  Anyway, I turned off the light and lay there, feeling left out and miserable.

A while later, I was awakened by the sound of the door opening and closing, then the pressure of someone climbing into bed with me.  I reached over and felt Tyler's hard smooth chest!

"I didn't wake you up, did I?"  He took my hand and pushed it down past his belly.

"No, of course not."  I drew him into my arms.

A while later, the door opened again.  I saw Panther's roundish form shadowed in the light of the hallway.

"Playing musical beds, Tyler?" he said with a laugh.  "Count me in.  I saw what Boomer had to offer earlier in the bathroom, thank Goddess!"

He climbed into the bed on the other side, so I was nestled between him and Tyler.

You probably can guess what happened next.  Derek appeared, naked, in the doorway.  "So this is where everybody went.  Am I invited to the party?"

Panther raised his head.  "Well, Boomer is a little occupied, but I have a free body part or two.  Grab ahold."

In the morning,  I called Lane to see if he was feeling better.  "Sorry for blowing you off," he said.  "It must have been a pretty boring night for you."

"Just an ordinary Saturday night in West Hollywood."

See also: Threesome with a Fitness Model and a Cowboy

A Celebrity Tries to Steal My Boyfriend

Hollywood, August 1986

My friend Alan knew lots of celebrities and celebrity kids, like David Johnson, son of the Professor on Gilligan's Island, and anyone he didn't know, I met through other friends (Michael J. Fox), or through my job at Muscle and Fitness, or at the gym, or on the streets of West Hollywood (my celebrity boyfriend).  And at Mugi.

It was a bar on Hollywood Boulevard, east of Western, in Thai Town (now it's a Thai restaurant).  Simple decor.  Thai popular music (except for "One Night in Bangkok"., which it played every night).  No dancing.  And packed every night.  Most of the the clientele was Asian, mostly immigrants and tourists from East Asia. The rest were their admirers.

Alan liked it because he was, for some reason, intensely attractive to most Asian men.  He claimed that he could get any Asian guy just by walking up and smiling (He often used this amazing ability to steal my dates.)

The other half of the clientele was white, mostly men in the entertainment industry, mostly not well known, but on various nights I saw Jim J. Bullock, Lance Loud, Tom Hulce, and Tom Villard

Why did so many gay white actors, directors, producers, and crew members patronize a tiny Asian bar?  Maybe because it was a a five minute drive from Paramount Studios, and very close to about a dozen other studios, yet out of the way, not like one of the glitzy West Hollywood bars where you would be spotted.

In August 1986, shortly after we returned from Japan, I liked a very muscular Chinese-Vietnamese guy named Tranh, a student at UCLA.  I cruised him at the gym almost every day, and when I saw him at Mugi, I spent an hour flirting with him, using every trick I knew.   He had just agreed to have dinner with me, when Richard Chamberlain came in with some friends.

The 52-year old star of Dr. Kildare (1961-66), Shogun (1980), The Thorn Birds (1983), and King Solomon's Mines (1985) was not yet out, and he was not the subject of any gay rumors.

I was mildly surprised, but not impressed.   I didn't find him at all attractive -- there were much cuter celebrities at Mugi all the time.  Besides, he was probably there to cruise Asian men.

But Tranh's mouth dropped.  After a few moments, he said "Excuse me," and made a bee-line for Richard's table. It took only a moment for them to start kissing.

It wasn't fair -- I cruised Tranh at the gym for weeks, and I didn't get a kiss!

I pieced my way through the crowd to where Alan was holding court.

"What's the problem?"  he asked.  "You look like you lost your best friend."

"Maybe I did. I finally managed to get a date with Tranh, when that idiot Richard comes in, and he scurried after him like a squirrel after a nut.  Just because he's been in some movies!"

Alan smiled.  "Don't worry, I'll take care of it." He disentangled himself from his boyfriend du jour and made his way to Richard's table.  I could see him, Richard, and Tranh talking.  After about three minutes, he returned, hand in hand with a grinning Tranh.

"...and Boomer will be there, too.  Is that ok?"


He "got" Tranh for me by offering himself as part of the deal!

Still, I had to admire the ease with which he bested Richard Chamberlain.

And I did manage to go down on Tranh (average size, uncut).

See also: Sharing the Kept Boy

Three Guys in My Bed in Baltimore

Baltimore, November 2015

People think that professional conferences are about getting drunk and having orgies, but in fact you're very busy with presentations, meetings, book sessions, and a little sightseeing, so there isn't much time left for bars and boys.

When I was in Baltimore in the fall of 2015, I was staying right in the conference hotel.  What would be easier than bringing somebody up during my hour or two between sessions, or in the evening?

Easier said than done.

Friday night, the last night of my trip.

6:00 pm: I go on Grindr.  Back home I get inundated with hookup requests within minutes.  Here, nothing.

6:15 pm.  I take a new shirtless photo to post.  Maybe that will help.

6:30  I go on Scruff, Adam4Adam, and Hornet.

6:45 pm.  Guys start to approach me, but they're not visitors staying in any of the dozen hotels in the area.  They're all locals.

7:30 pm.  I settle on Alix, age 35, slim, Asian, in the medical profession, with a very provocative selfie.  He lives in Cold Springs, about six miles away, so it will take about half an hour to get here.

8:00 pm.  In this hotel, you have to have a guest room key card to go up the elevator.  So we agree that Alix will text me when he arrives, and I'll go down and get him.

8:15 pm.  I'm still waiting.  While I wait, I chat with other guys.



8:30 pm.  I go downstairs and look.   I text him "Ok, you're a no show."

I invite another guy on my list. Rob, also in his 30s, bearded, hairy, muscular, Middle Eastern-looking, with a job in finance and another very provocative selfie.

"I live in Glen Burnie, about 10 miles away," Rob says.  "So, with traffic and parking, plan on it taking an hour for me to get there."

"Great!  I'll see you at 9:30 pm."

8:45 pm.  Alix texts.  He's downstairs.  He was delayed.

What do I do now?  Cancel with Alix?  He's already here. Cancel with Rob?  He's on the way. 

I go down and get Alix, hoping for a quick, half hour hookup, and out the door before Rob arrived.

Alix has a nice physique and an exceptionally large Kielbasa beneath the belt, but he doesn't want to kiss or do oral.  He wants to top me, but I don't have any condoms.  So I go down on him, while he moans "I want to f*** you, I want to f**** you."

9:15 pm.  We're finished.  He holds me in his arms so tightly that it hurts, and starts talking.

How can I get him out of here?

At that moment, Rob texts.  "Traffic was light.  I'm in the lobby."

Embarrassed, I tell Alix, "I thought you were a no-show, so I invited another guy over."

He says, "Well, invite him up! The more the merrier."

I go into the lobby, pick up Rob, and bring him upstairs.  I tell him, "Pay no attention to the naked man in the bed."

"Oh, is this your roommate?" Rob asks.

"Hookup from earlier in the evening," I admit.  "But I'll kick him out if you'd rather have a one-on-one."

He looks at Alix.  Alix smiles.

"No, this is fine."  He quickly takes off his clothes, climbs onto the bed, and takes Alix in his arms.

Wait, Alix didn't want to kiss me, but he'll kiss Rob?

I go down on Rob while they're busy.  Alix murmurs "I want to f*** you, I want to f**** you."

Fortunately, Rob brought condoms.

At least I get to kiss Rob while Alix is working.

Afterwards they seem to fall asleep in each other's arms.  At least I get some cuddling.

10: 30 pm.  I can't have two strangers spending the night!

I wake them up.  "Um...it's been fun, but one of you has to leave."

They both get dressed and leave.  Together.

Which, I suppose, make sense.  Alix and Rob live close enough to date, whereas I'm getting on a plane tomorrow and flying away.

Still, I hadn't planned to be a match-maker!  Besides, I didn't get a chance to do much.  I'm still in the mood.

It's against the rules of cruising to hook up with more than one guy in an evening, but....

10:45 pm.  I invite a third guy over.  Christian, a Johns Hopkins student, 20 years old, with an athletic physique, and again, a very nice selfie.  Looks like he has a Kielbasa beneath the belt -- they make them big in Baltimore.

Just as we finalize the hookup, he says  "Do you mind if I bring my boyfriend?  He's into older guys, too."

See also: The 20 Most Beautiful Men in the World; My Most Embarrassing Hookup; My Saturday Night Special

Penis Sighting at a Chinese Restaurant

Rock Island, May 1974

When I was growing up in Rock Island in the 1960s and 1970s, there were no Chinese restaurants  in town.  I knew only a little about Chinese food:

1. On a 1967 episode of The Andy Griffith Show where Andy and his sidekick Barney go to a Chinese restaurant.  Andy orders a steak, a baked potato, and green beans, but Barney is so stupid that he actually orders from the menu, and receives platesful of disgusting horrors.

2. My mother's cookbook, Meals with a Foreign Flair, offered a Chinese meal: chow mein, cucumber salad, asparagus, and fortune cookies.

3. Chinese food was cooked and served by Chinese men.  I had never met anyone of Chinese ancestry before, except for the mysterious boy that Bill and I played with a long time ago.

I hadn't even seen many guys of Chinese ancestry!  But doubtless they were amazingly attractive.


With tree-trunk penises!

When I was in eighth grade at Washington Junior High, a Chinese restaurant, the Mandarin Kitchen, opened in the Quad Cities.

I was anxious to go, but it was across the river in Davenport, Iowa. I wasn't allowed to cross the river by myself.  Besides, no buses went over, and it was too far to walk.

My parents wouldn't take me:

"It's too expensive," Dad said.

"And you wouldn't like it," Mom added.  "I had Chinese food once, in Long Beach.  It was awful!  What's wrong with Harris Pizza?"

 Then I thought of my birthday excursion!

My birthday is in November, when everything fun is closed, so every May I got a "birthday trip": I could invite two or three friends to go anywhere I wanted in the Quad Cities.  We went to Mother Goose Land (it's not as lame as it sounds), the Niabi Zoo, the Putnam Museum, the "Little Bit O' Heaven" at Palmer College.  Why not go out to lunch at the Mandarin Kitchen?

I invited Dan and Darry, my boyfriend and my best friend, plus my brother by default (but he didn't want to go) and Peter, the only Asian guy at Washington Junior High.  He was of Japanese ancestry, not Chinese, but I thought he might give us an air of authenticity, so we wouldn't look like tourists.

On a Saturday in May, shortly before the streaking incident, Dad drove us across the Centennial Bridge and into Davenport.  We turned down River Drive and drove through a rather seedy neighborhood, past shabby office buildings, taverns, tattoo parlors, and the Col Ballroom where sinners went dancing, until finally we reached the Mandarin Kitchen.

It was next to a dirty bookstore!

There was a neon cocktail-glass in the window.  They served booze!  Nazarenes weren't allowed to go into places that had alcohol.

"Do you want to go to Harris Pizza instead?" Dad asked.

I screwed up my courage.  "No, this will be fine."

"Ok.  I'll be back in an hour."  He handed me $20 to pay, deposited us on the curb, and drove away.

I took a deep breath and led Darry, Dan, and Peter through the glass door.

It was dark inside after the bright light of a May afternoon.  Red sashes everywhere.  Waving ceramic cats.  Rows of small tables.  And a lady holding menus!

She led us to a table, where another lady brought us tea.

It was only ladies in the whole restaurant!

When she came back to take our orders, I asked "Are there any men working here?"

She looked at me quizzically.  "Men?  Sure.  They in the kitchen."  She pointed to a narrow window where the cooks could put plates of food for the waitresses to pick up.

Sighing with disappointment, I ordered almond chicken, fried rice, and potstickers.

It was good -- but I didn't come all the way to Davenport and use up my birthday trip to look at Chinese ladies!

I was going to the kitchen!

I got up, walked down a hall marked "bathroom," and saw a beige door marked "employees only."

 A silvery space with a lot of black and silver pots.  Hot, steamy. Two Chinese men.

My heart sank.  Neither was very attractive.

A short, dumpy guy with glasses was bent over a sizzling pot.  A tall, gawky, rather geeky-looking guy was chopping vegetables.

"You want apply for job?" he asked.

"No...um...."  Thinking fast, I said "The bathroom is out of toilet paper."

"What the matter?"  the short guy said.  "You don't like Chinese food, gives you the runs?"

They both laughed.

They were making fun of me!  I hung my head in embarrassment.

The tall guy said "Ok, I show you toilet paper, but keep out of kitchen!  State law!"

He put his arm around my shoulders and ushered me to the door.  I felt the heat from his arm and chest, smelled the onion from his hands.  Cute or not, the proximity of his body was exciting.

He led me to a supply closet, grabbed a roll of toilet paper from a shelf, and then pushed me into the bathroom.

It had a toilet and a urinal.  There was a roll of toilet paper sitting on the tank.

The tall guy picked it up, grinning at me.  "You didn't see?"

"I guess not," I said, even more embarrassed.

He shrugged and sat the rolls down on the urinal.  "While I'm here, I go too.  You mind?"

"Um...no."  Suddenly I was interested -- maybe I could get a sausage sighting!

Slowly I dropped my pants and sat on the toilet.  The tall guy unzipped -- but he was facing away from me.

"Hey, I still need the toilet paper!" I said.

He laughed.  "I'm silly.  Here..."  He turned around.  I saw his cock -- not tree-trunk sized, but a good four inches soft, uncut.

He tossed a roll of toilet paper.  It landed too far for me to scoop up.

"That's ok, I get it."  He walked over, got the toilet paper, handed it too me, and returned to the urinal -- his cock hanging down the whole time!  I sat there in awe until he finished and washed his hands.

"You shy, huh?  Well, I lock door on the way out."

The moment he left, I stood, washed my hands, and walked out into the main room again.

'What were you doing back there all that time?" Dan asked.

"Applying for a job," I said with a goofy smile on my face.

See also: The Hookup at the Sleepover.

Sausage Sighting of the Korean Muscle Bear

Rock Island, August 1981

One of the most interesting of my Sausage Sightings was the Asian muscle bear.

When I was growing up in Rock Island, you were white or black. There was one Chinese kid in my junior high, and my judo instructor was Japanese.  And that was it.

So I was surprised, during the summer after my junior year in college, when a Korean family moved into the house next door: Mr. Kim, an engineer in his 30s, his wife, who worked in a bank downtown, and two young daughters.

Mr. Kim was a surprisingly buffed muscle bear.  He often mowed his lawn or played with his dog with his shirt off and sometimes he sat in a kiddie pool in the back yard in a swimsuit, reading a magazine.

Very hot.  I wanted to get to know him better.  Of course, he was married with children, but so were many of the guys who cruised at the levee.

I took a class in East Asian Civilization at Augustana.  Unfortunately, we barely touched on Korea, but I tried an opening on Taoism, the Way of Non-Resistance.

Mr. Kim cut me off.  "I don't know anything about that stuff.  I'm a Presbyterian."

Ok, so how about Korean history?  The Joseon dynasty that threatened Tokugawa Japan?

Cut off again.  "I don't know anything about that stuff.   We moved here when I was five."

The Korean language, maybe?  "Annyeong  haseyo! Good morning."  

"Sorry, I don't know much Korean.  I took Spanish in school."

"Tengo una verga grandissima para ti!"  Ok, I didn't say that.

By this point it was obvious that Mr. Kim was not particularly interested in buddying around with the teenage boy next door.

But there's more than one way to get a Sausage Sighting.





My brother and I shared an attic room with windows on each end.  His bed was beside the south window that looked out on the lawn, and mine was beside the north window that looked out a very narrow side yard and then Mr. Kim's house.

I could lie in bed and look down into his kitchen.

It usually wasn't very interesting -- people cooking and getting things out of the refrigerator.  But sometimes late at night I was awakened by the light coming on from next door, and I saw Mr. Kim making a snack.

In his underwear.

And one night, something more spectacular happened.

The light came on about midnight, just after I went to bed.  I peered down, as usual, to see Mr. Kim talking to his wife.  He was gesturing, pacing, so maybe it was an argument.

The underwear was off!  Mr. Kim was completely naked!  His impressive Bratwurst was swinging in and out of view as he paced back and forth.  His backside, too.

His wife was wearing a bathrobe.  She started making tea.

Eventually they sat at the kitchen table, and the Bratwurst was hidden from view.

The nude kitchen stop was never repeated.  A few months later, the Kims moved away.

Recently I read somewhere that the Korean penis averages 3.8 inches, the smallest in the world.

If Mr. Kim was small, I'd like to see big.

See also: 6000 Words for Penis