My Sunday School Teacher's Stripper Sons

When I was a kid in the 1970s, my favorite Sunday school teacher was named Brother Dino (not his real name).  He was young, in his mid-20s, with black hair and a thick black moustache -- rare for Nazarenes.

He had only been saved for a couple of years -- before that, he was a Catholic! -- and he knew all about movies, dancing, drinking, card-playing, carnivals, circuses, and Catholic Masses. He framed them as destructive and evil: "Look how horrible my life was before I got Saved!" -- but the stories were brash, colorful, and seductive.

Brother Dino was our cabin counselor at Nazarene summer camp during the summer of 1974, just after eighth grade. One day I saw him naked in the shower.  He looked like this guy: muscular body, hairy chest and belly, very impressive beneath the belt.

Nazarenes typically didn't have many kids -- why bring kids into the world, when the Rapture would come at any moment -- but Brother Dino and his wife had lots, four girls (born 1968, 1970, 1973, 1975)  --and, just when they were giving up, two boys, Mickey and Dom (1977, 1978).   I didn't pay them much attention -- I left the Nazarene church when the oldest was only about 10 -- but my mother told me about the them their talent show and jump quiz triumphs, their dates with the new preacher's kid, their participation in International Institute, their colleges and marriages and children.

She never mentioned the stripping. But my brother Ken did.

At Christmastime 1999, I was back in Rock Island home for the holidays, and as my brother drove me away from the airport, we passed a low gray building.  "That's a new strip club," Ken announced.  "Where girls take off their clothes," he added, as clarification.

"Any male performers?"  I asked.

"As a matter of fact, Tuesday is lady's night, with guys taking their clothes off."

I didn't ask how he acquired that information.  "Hmm...lady's night, only women allowed, I guess."

"And you know who the top dancers are?  Brother Dino's kids, Mickey and Dom!  Brother Dino can barely hold his head up in church anymore!  What did he expect, when he gave them Catholic names?"

Mickey and Dom were now in college -- one at Augustana, the other at St. Ambrose, the Catholic college in Davenport.  And on Tuesday night they made extra money by performing at the strip club.

Men were allowed in "if accompanied by a lady," so I called an old college friend, and we went to the 10:00 show. I was the only man in a crowd of twenty or so women.

Having not seen the boys since Mickey was a toddler and Dom a babe-in-arms, I didn't know what to expect.  They came on stage dressed as college jocks in sweatpants and Augustana and St. Ambrose sweatshirts.  They pretended to argue about college rivalries, and in "anger" stripped each other out of everything but their jockstraps.

 They had smooth, muscular bodies -- rather surprising, given their dad's hairiness, and not as sculpted as the male models of West Hollywood, but certainly impressive.

They danced together on a little stage, then separated and worked the crowd.  I think it was the oldest, Mickey, who gyrated toward my side of the room.  I held up a dollar.

He approached, grinning, his smooth chest shining with sweat, and thrust his crotch suggestively toward me. "I'm an ex-Nazarene, too," I told him, shouting to make myself heard above the music.  "Your dad was my Sunday school teacher."

He looked surprised, but kept grinning.  "Small world!" he said.  "You gay or is she your girlfriend?"

"Just a friend."  He straddled my lap.  I shoved the dollar inside his jock strap and felt around to see if he was as big as his dad.  He was.

"Cool!  You guys the best tippers!  Wanna kiss?"

"Sure!"

He bent over and kissed me briefly on the lips, as I shoved another dollar into his jock strap.  The crowd squealed in shock or delight.  Then he rose and backed away and gyrated toward a woman who was holding up a dollar.

My mother tells me that both Mickey and Dom are married with children now, working in human resources and telecommunications, respectively.  Their stripping days are far behind them.  But I'm sure that they're gay allies.

Rock Island has changed.

See also: A Nude Party with the Golden Boy

A Nude Fourth of July Party with the Golden Boy

Rock Island, June 30, 1978

Exactly one week ago, I figured "it" out.  My elation at finally solving the mystery, understanding who I am, has given way to depression.  There are no books on gay topics in the library, no gay organizations, no meeting places except for a gay bar that I'm too young to go to.

And I can't tell anyone.  Everyone thinks that gay people are either horrifying monsters or swishy jokes.  

What do I do now?

My friend Aaron invites me to a Marx Brothers Film Festival held at the Augustana College Student Union: The Cocoanuts and Animal Crackers tonight, and Horse Feathers, Monkey Business, and Duck Soup tomorrow (this was before DVDs).

Jana, a girl I know from Rocky High, comes into the first screening.  With the most beautiful guy I have ever seen.  Greek or Italian, rather short, short black hair, sharp features, flawless skin.  He is wearing a yellow tank top that displays his smooth chest and nicely bulging biceps.  But no verbal description can do justice to his amazing confidence and energy.  He is a Golden Boy.

"Who...who is that guy with Jana?" I ask, transfixed.

Naturally Aaron assumes that I'm interested in the girl.  "Dunno.  But I'm sure you have nothing to worry about. He looks like a college kid, so at the end of the summer, he's out of here!"

During intermission, I drag Aaron over and get an introduction.  His name is Dino.

"Are you related to Dino []?" I ask.

"Uncle Dino?  Sure.  We don't see him much, though.  He joined a crazy fundamentalist church, Nazarene or something, and decided that we were all possessed by demons."

"He was my Sunday School teacher at the Nazarene Church!"

His face falls.  "Oh...um...I didn't mean..."

"That's ok, I know they're crazy fundamentalists.  I've been trying to get out."

"No, no, I shouldn't have made that crack.  Let me make it up to you.  Come by Lagomarcino's tomorrow, and I'll fix you up with a box of candy.  Your friend, too," he adds, glancing at Aaron.

"Are you working there for the summer?"

"Sort of.  My grandpa owns it."

Moline, July 1st

The Lagomarcinos are one of the wealthiest families in the Quad Cities.  They own several businesses, but they are best known for their landmark candy store in Moline, open since 1908.  It sells ice cream cones and sodas, but mostly you go there for the fancy chocolates. (In 2015, one-pound assortments begin at $24, double the price of one-pound Whitman Samplers).

We arrive about 2:00 pm.  Dino is working behind the counter, wearing a white apron, but still muscular, athletic, alive.

Before I can catch myself, I blurt out: "For someone who makes candy for a living, you have a really nice physique."

Dino smiles.  "Thanks.  I was on the swim team in high school, and I studied karate and boxing."

"Cool!  Aaron and I used to go to the Davenport Athletic Club on Saturday afternoons to..."  I catch myself before saying "to look at the cute guys."

"I worked out there when I was a kid.  Tommy Campbell was the best!"  (See Rock Island Boxers on Boomer Beefcake and Bonding).

"Maybe we saw you..."

"Probably."  He pauses.  "Hey, are you guys doing anything for the 4th?  I'm having some guys over to see the fireworks -- Mom and Dad are in Europe.  Our house is on River Drive [in Davenport],  so you get a really good view from the front porch.  We'll have some barbecue, drink some beers."

Who could turn down an offer like that?

Aaron could.  "Can I bring a date?"

He looks confused.  Does he think we're a gay couple?  Are we a gay couple?

"It's guys only.  We don't want any women messing up our fun, do we?"

Davenport, July 4th

Besides Aaron and me, there are six guys at the party: Dino, two of his high school friends, a cousin, two guys from college (he goes to Washington University in St. Louis), and a balding middle-aged man who introduces himself as Tony.

We all sit on lawn chairs in a back yard surrounded by a high redwood fence.  There are Japanese lanterns and bug-zapping candles.  Dino and his cousin grill steaks for us to eat off paper plates, with fruit salad for dessert (there is no ice cream or candy anywhere in the house).  We talk and joke and drink beer (soda for me).  No one mentions girlfriends or asks me if I would kick this or that actress out of bed.  Heaven!

Is this a gay party?

"It's hot out here!" Dino's cousin exclaims.  "What do we have these clothes on for?"

"Who's up for nude Slip N Slide!" Dino asks.

Slip N Slide is a long strip of plastic that you run a water hose on and slide down.  But I never heard of the nudity angle before!

I get Sausage Sightings of everyone at the party, including Dino (average, cut).

We get a back up when guys don't get up fast enough, and the next person in line slides into them.  Suddenly I'm part of a mass of naked men, laughing and jostling.  Hands grab butts.  Penises press against thighs.

We get dressed again to stand on the front porch and watch the fireworks over the Mississippi.  Emboldened, I wrap my arm around Dino's waist.  He smiles.

Afterwards we say goodnight.  Dino says "Thanks for coming!"

"Are you free tomorrow?  We could...."

He frowns.  "I've got a family thing tomorrow, and then I'm going back to St. Louis -- I just came to town to work the 4th of July weekend, while my folks are in Europe.  But if you get down to Washington U., look me up!"  He gives me his address.

Ever After

I write to Dino at Washington University [in those days long-distance phone calls are prohibitively expensive].  He responds, first with brief notes, and then not at all.

Was Dino gay?  If so, what did I do wrong, to keep him from wanting further contact?  If not, why did he suggest a nude Slip N Slide?  Why did he let me put my arm around him?  What was going on at that party?

As the years pass, I begin to wonder: Was there really a 4th of July party full of men exuberant in their physicality and not at all interested in women?  Did I imagine the whole thing?  

Today Dino is all over the internet: he lives in Davenport, where he manages one of the Lagomarcino's businesses -- not the candy store --plus he's an amateur astronomer, he runs 5K races, and he sponsors the Silver Gloves boxing competitions for boys aged 10 to 13.   His wife teaches at the community college and runs a genealogy blog. One of his sons is an architect.

I could look him up and ask about that night, but I'm afraid of the answer.  I'd rather have my memory.

See also: I Lost It at the Movies; Cruising at the 4th of July Fireworks; and My Sunday School Teacher's Stripper Sons.

Sausage Sighting #3: Brother Dino in the Boys' Shower Room

In the summer of 1974, just after eighth grade at Washington Junior High, I went to Manville, our summer camp on the prairie, and got engaged to a girl named Sarah, because she said God gave her a Vision of My Future.  But I had a mercenary aim -- Nazarene missionaries had to be married, so only by marrying  Sarah could I escape to Saudi Arabia with my boyfriend Dan.

We were engaged for exactly three days, from Tuesday to Friday.  Then God gave me a Vision of my own.

On Friday afternoon Sarah and I walked into the woods where boys and girls went to kiss, and stumbled across a counselor necking with his girlfriend (I don't remember his name, but he looked sort of like this guy).

Suppressing giggles, we hid behind bushes and watched as he pushed his hand under her shirt and felt her boobs, what Marty called "stealing third base"on this very spot two years ago.

 It occurred to me that every Nazarene preacher, every missionary, every minister of music had pushed his hand under the shirt of his girlfriend or wife and felt her boobs.    And had sex with her.  It was a job requirement.


Sooner or later, Sarah would expect me to do that.

But it wasn't going to happen. Watching the counselor fondling his girlfriend's boobs, I knew that intimate acts with a girl were out of the question, period.

But if I didn't get married and have sex with girls, I couldn't become a missionary.  Then  how could Dan and I escape to Saudi Arabia?

I left Sarah at her afternoon crafts class and walked down the mosquito-infested pathway toward the boys' cabins.  "God, give me a Vision," I prayed.  "Tell me your Will for my life."

I stopped at the low cream-colored building called the Boys' Bath House.  It was deserted -- most boys used the bathroom in the cafeteria, or went in the woods, and only showered when forced to.  It was disgusting, stinking of urine and bleach, and there were spider webs in the toilet stalls.

But today I heard the shower running, and felt its hot, moist steam on my face.  Who would be showering in the middle of the afternoon?  I walked over and peeked beyond the yellow stone wall.

It was Brother Dino, my counselor (and back home, my Sunday School teacher).  Standing under the stream, briskly soaping his firm, hairy chest.  Rivulets of water ran over his muscular belly and down into his patch of dark pubic hair and onto his enormous penis.  I could definitely imagine stealing third base and hitting home runs with him!

Before Brother Dino could turn around and see me, I ducked behind the stone wall, did my business at a urinal, and rushed back to my cabin.

That was the vision!  I thought excitedly.  God has shown me His Will -- He wants me to be with a man!

My Sausage Sighting List

A Sausage Sighting is a glimpse of a guy's beneath-the-belt gifts that doesn't go anywhere else -- no dating, no romance, no hooking up, not even a few minutes in the dark room at the Duplex Bar in Paris.

Sometimes just looking is enough -- a good sausage sighting can be more memorable than a dozen nights of passion, especially when it's unexpected.

You can't count glimpses of strangers in the locker room or at the urinal, or actors getting excited during movie love scenes.  It's only a valid Sausage Sighting if you know the guy, if he's a relative, friend, co-worker, or acquaintance.  If you've at least had a conversation.

I'll use the same scale as in my Sausage List (the list of gigantic endowments belonging to guys I actually dated):

Bratwurst: memorable, 7-8 inches.
Kielbasa: super-sized, 8-9 inches.
Mortadella: the stuff of dreams, 9-10 inches.
Kovbasa: Are you kidding? 10+ inches.

Childhood

Cousin Joe.  When I was 7 1/2 years old, we stayed with my Aunt Nora, and I caught a glimpse of Cousin Joe's Kielbasa+ in the bathroom.  It was the first I ever saw --many later ones were disappointingly small by comparison. I'll bet it wasn't even a Kielbasa.  Probably a Kovbasa.

Cousin Buster. I went into his bedroom late at night and caught him masturbating.  Probably a Kielbasa.

The Sanderson Brothers, a gospel group that worked as counselors at Nazarene summer camp.  I got to see one of them relieving himself. Kielbasa.

Brother Dino, my Sunday school teacher, and also a counselor at Nazarene summer camp when I was in junior high.  I saw him taking a shower.  Easily a Mortadella.

Verne, the preacher's son.  We  "dated" in eleventh grade. We didn't identify the relationship as romantic, and nothing physical happened, but I did see him nude. Bratwurst.

College

Jurgen, the hipster poet from Augustana College. who I thought was gay until I met his girlfriend. 

Mark, the Boss from Hell during my senior year in high school and freshman year at Augustana.  We tricked him into running out of a urinal, where he had been reading Playboy and...you know.  Kielbasa+.

Mr. Kim, a Korean immigrant, a surprisingly buffed muscle bear.  When I was in college, he rented the the house next door with his family.  He only stayed about six months before buying a house in Moline, but he gave me a memorable Sausage Sighting.  Bratwurst.









Jens, a slim, blond chemistry major at Augustana.  During my senior year, I joined the Baptist student union, and went on tour with them to perform at various churches.  When we had to all bunk down for the night in the same room, I had the bed, and Jens had a sleeping bag right below me.  He waited until the rest of us were asleep -- he thought. Bratwurst.

Andrew,  the blond physics major from Indiana University who I saw during a heterosexual bonding activity known as a "circle jerk."

Texas

Chad, a soccer player from Australia who sat in my class in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas.  One day he came in late and stripped down to change clothes in my class. Ok, this one was in a jock strap, but I still saw enough. Bratwurst+

California

Brother Mike, a Baptist preacher who sat on the plane next to me on the way to a job interview.  Brother Mike was hot!  When our plane landed, we both headed to the bathroom -- along with 20 other guys.  We ended up standing side by side at the urinal.  Bratwurst+

Tyler, a contractor.  My parents were having their kitchen remodeled one summer while I was visiting.  From my chair in the living room, I got an excellent view of his front side as he stood on his ladder, doing things with wiring.  My friends and I ended up getting a sausage sighting. Kielbasa


New York

Huang, a fellow sociology student from Taiwan, one of my roommates during my first year in New York.  In 1998, at a conference in Montreal, I caught him in the act, and learned the truth about the Formosan penis.  Kielbasa.

Jason, the most homophobic of the grad students in my class on Long Island. We tricked him into revealing his Kielbasa.

Florida

Narveen, a Sikh guy who joined Barney's gym in Florida.  I tried to get a glimpse on several occasions, and finally he just let me take a peek.  Amazing. Mortadella+.

Ohio

More of a sausage "feeling."  Azi, the Dutch Caribbean at the Horseman's Club in Amsterdam.  I felt his gigantic kovbasa before going home with him and realizing that he was straight.  He wanted me for his younger brother, Eli.

Josh, an exceptionally buffed but straight waiter who often took my orders at the Lone Star Barbecue. I saw him all the time at the gym, too. In the sauna.  Kielbasa.

Upstate

Dr. Chester, a former professional wrestler who taught Sociology of Sports Upstate.  There was a private bathroom for faculty and teaching assistants -- one stall and one urinal.  One day I went in, and there he was, preparing to urinate.  He must have wrapped his faculty member around his waist a few times, like a belt. Easily a Kovbasa. (See: 15 teachers I may or may not have hooked up with).

19. Richard, the crazy bodybuilder downstairs when I lived in Upstate New York.  My balcony consisted of rough boards with wide gaps; you could look through them directly onto the balcony of the apartment below.  And one night...  Kovbasa++++.

The Plains

20. The Projectionist at the Film Festival.  Bratwurst, but he was tenting right there in the projection booth!

21. The College Kid at the Gym who tried to hide by facing away from me, toward the mirror.  Kovbasa++

22. The Straight Elitist Philosophy Professor  who bulged during the entire writing seminar, before I stumbled on him in the bathroom. Kielbasa+

The House Full of Men

One Saturday in the fall of eighth grade, my friend Craig and I rode our bikes through Lincoln Park in Rock Island, and then past Alleman, the Catholic High School.

Nazarenes said that Catholics were dangerous, demon-possessed, anxious to brainwash you with their weird Latin chants.  I didn't really believe it -- but still, the sense of danger was exciting, like approaching a cage of roaring tigers.

Across the street from the Catholic school was a big white house with a fence of spiked logs, like they used in the Old West.

"See that house?" Craig asked. "Do you know why it has such a big, spiked fence?"

"Because it's full of Catholics?"

"No, because it's full of men with guns.  If you go in there, they'll shoot you."

Men with guns?

I wasn't afraid of guns.  My Dad and uncles had been taking me hunting ever since I learned to walk.  I liked the all-masculine preserve, and the phallic symbolism of a gigantic gun pushing up from a guy's crotch.

 "So...what do the Men with Guns look like?"

"Oh, they're big.  With big muscles.  They can tear a steel girder in half with their bare hands."

Being a naive twelve-year old, I didn't realize that Craig was putting me on.

"Let's take a look!" I exclaimed.  I was anxious to see these muscular men polishing their guns and tearing steel girders in half.

"Um...er...we can't do that.  We'll get shot."

Ignoring him, I parked my bike, walked around to the back, and peered through the gaps in the wooden spikes.  I could vaguely see a grassy yard, two trees, and some lawn chairs -- wait -- was that a guy in a swimsuit?


I needed a better look.

No way was I going to try to climb that fence!  In fifth grade, I nearly killed myself falling into an outhouse while looking for Uncle Edd's gun,  and last summer, I banged my head into the side of the pool trying to see if my boyfriend Dan was kissing another guy.

How about just going to the door and knocking?

I had an excuse: the preacher was always talking about the importance of soul-winning, going door to door to win strangers for Christ, or at least inviting them to church.  Two or three times a year, the high school kids divided into groups of three and went soul winning in different neighborhoods in Rock Island and Moline.

I was too young to go with them, but maybe I could convince my Sunday school teacher, Brother Dino, to bring me.

The next day in church I told him, "There's a house by the Catholic school, and it's full of Catholic sinners.  I rode past on my bike yesterday, and God laid a burden on my heart to win the souls inside."

"Are you sure?"  Brother Dino asked.  "You're a little young for soul-winning."

"I'm mature for my age,"

"But...Catholics are advanced.  Satan has a strong grip on them.  They'll try to brainwash you."

"You're big and strong," I said, taking his arm.  "You can protect me from anything, I bet."

So the next Saturday, I went soul-winning with Brother Dino and a high school girl named Cecilia (two women weren't safe going out together, and two men were intimidating, so you always went soul-winning in a mixed-sex group of three)

We walked up to the door, and Brother Dino knocked.  I felt my heart racing.  Any moment now, I would see the inside of the house, with muscular men cleaning their guns.

A cute guy in a black shirt with no buttons answered the door. He eyed our Bibles suspiciously.  "May I help you?"

"I'm Brother Dino, and this is Boomer and Cecilia.  We're here to share some Good News with you."

"Good news?  What...."

"The Good News that God has a place in heaven waiting for you.  All you have to do is accept Jesus Christ as your personal savior."

"Um...ok, won't you come in?"

He ushered us into the most Catholic room I had ever seen.  A framed portrait of the Pope! Statues of saints and the Virgin Mary! Crucifixes, rosaries, candles!  A scary, evil Catholic Bible on the coffee table! Catholic magazines!

"This is the rectory of Saint Mary's Church," he said.  "I'm Father Benedict.  Father Andrew is puttering around in the garden somewhere."

Seeing our faces drained of blood, he grinned.  "Maybe you'd like some tea before you tell me about Our Lord?"

Brother Dino turned and ran from the house as if he was being chased by monsters.  Cecilia and I followed.  We jumped into the car and zoomed away, and didn't stop until we got back to the Nazarene church.

Then he started yelling.  "Catholic priests!  You brought me to a houseful of Catholic priests!  Do you have any idea how dangerous they are?  We were lucky to get out of there alive!"

But I couldn't help thinking: There were two men living in the house without wives.  They had found a way to escape the "what girl do you like?" brainwashing, not with guns, but with Catholic cassocks.  .

See also: The Boy on the Prospect List