The Worst Date in Ohio History: Remy the Jerk

Dayton, October 2005

For 20 years all of my friends and neighbors were gay men.  The guy on the next treadmill at the gym, the couple ahead of me in line at the grocery store, everyone I passed on the street was gay.  I got my news from The Advocate.   I bought my books in a gay bookstore.  I went to a gay church.

Now I'm living in Dayton, Ohio, in the midst of the Straight World.  There's one gay bar, on the other side of town, and no gay organizations except The Friends of the Italian Opera, a closeted group of gay retirees.  The nearest gay neighborhood is an hour's drive away.

I'm not adjusting well.  I have no friends except a "straight" Friend With Benefits.  I stop going to the gym, and gain weight.  I'm so depressed that I seek out psychological counseling.  And I have a series of crazy dates with sleazoids and jerks.

But tonight will be different.  It's a blind date, arranged by Clintin (who I hooked up with last February), so I haven't actually met him yet, but he sounds great: Remy, 36 years old, a history professor (specializing in 19th century America), who lives in the gay neighborhood of Germantown in Columbus.

His photo isn't great:  long, weasley face, villain goatee, pale skin, skinny chest matted with black hair.  But I'm willing to overlook those defects.

Ok, I have high expectations: we'll become boyfriends, I'll move in, and commute to my dreary job in Dayton, and get my life back to normal.

The Arrival

I arrive a few minutes early: weird white house, set back from the street, but in the heart of Germantown, a few blocks from the gay bars and restaurants.

Whoops -- one of his roommates is a woman!  Must be a lesbian, but still....

Instead of taking me into the living room, she escorts me upstairs to the bedroom to wait.  Remy is naked, toweling off from the shower.

"You're early!" he exclaims in a nasty tone.

"It's an hour's drive from Dayton, so I couldn't calculate exactly," I say defensively.  "Sorry for coming up here -- your roommate wouldn't let me stay in the living room."

"Yeah, she doesn't like me.  I'm only renting a room -- I had to move out of my house when I broke up with my ex."

Too much information for a first date!

Well, at least I got a good view.

The Dinner

There are a dozen gay restaurants in Columbus, but instead Remy takes me to the Milestone, a big, airy, freezing-cold restaurant that looks out over the downtown skyline.  He insists on a table outside, where we keep getting buzzed by the mist from a gigantic fountain.

The menu is all nouvelle-cuisine tiny-portioned gourmand stuff, with tiny pieces of meat and vegetables artistically arranged amid sprigs of cilantro and dabs of cumin mayonnaise.

There are three things I hate on a date: 1. to be cold; 2. to be hungry; 3. to be insulted.

Remy doesn't seem to realize that he is insulting me:
1. West Hollywood ("it's so superficial!")
2. My degree ("on of those fad degrees that will be useless in ten years")
3. My trip to Paris ("such a cliched destination.  why doesn't anyone ever go to Bucharest or Sarajevo?")
4. My singing voice.  How did he ever get around to that?

I don't have any particular reason to put up the top photo.  I just needed something to take my mind off Remy.

Have you ever noticed that jerks -- guys who are critical, inconsiderate, insensitive, and hurtful -- tend to be physically unattractive?  I certainly don't ascribe to the notion that beautiful bodies go with beautiful souls, but say you are attractive, so everyone is nice to you all the time.  Won't you learn to be nice?  And if you are constantly snubbed and rejected, won't you learn to be nasty yourself?




The Party

Next we're scheduled to go to a Halloween party at an apartment a few blocks from Remy's house.  It seems strange to go to a party on a first date -- too many distractions, too much competition.  But I haven't been to a good Halloween party for years, and I'm still clinging to the hope that we'll become a couple, and I'll get my gay life back.

We should have coordinated in advance.  I'm going as  Zorro, and he's going as Mark Twain, with a white suit, bushy white hair, and a white moustache.  Rather an odd couple, compounded by his rather gross makeup and the lit cigar he carries constantly as a prop.

There are about 30 guys crammed into the 2-bedroom apartment, a lot of hot bodies in skimpy costumes, but a lot of drinking going on.  The West Hollywood parties I used to go to had very little drinking -- when you choose your friends mostly from church and temple, you get a lot of teetotlars and "one glass of wine on my birthday" guys.  This is a room full of sloshing drunks, and stale with with marijuana and cigarette smoke.  And cruising.


Remy latches onto a Cute Young Thing, and before I know it, they're making out.

I've had enough!  "I'm ready to go!"  I tell him.

"Well, I'm not drunk enough yet.  Why don't you go back to the house -- my roommate will let you in.  I'll be back later -- and I may even have a surprise for you."  He nudges the Cute Young Thing.

No way!  In West Hollywood, the guy you begin the evening with, you end the evening with.  Friend, roommate, date, it doesn't matter -- you go out that door together, you come back together.  No abandoning them to pursue a trick.

And who "shares" on the first date?  That's not a date, that's a three-way hookup!

"I want to go home now!" I say, more firmly, squeezing his shoulder.  "Alone."

"Ok, ok," Remy says.  He scribbles his phone number, passes it to the Cute Young Thing, and escorts me out.

We walk back to his house through the crowds of gay-neighborhood partiers, mostly silent.

"You know, it wouldn't have killed you to share me with that Cute Young Thing," Remy said.  "He could do both of us."

"I want you all to myself.  I'm the jealous type."

"That's for sure.  Not your most attractive quality, I must say."

The Bedroom

After all that, why did I agree to spend the night with Remy the Jerk?

Three reasons:
1. I was cold, and wanted a warm bed
2. I was too tired to drive an hour back to Dayton
3. He had a penis.  A nice one -- at least 8".

Once I got past the alcohol and tobacco on his breath, Remy was a good kisser.  He tried to lower me onto his penis while we were kissing, but I refused anal, going down on him instead.  Then he moved into the 69 position to finish.  I finished in the interfemoral position, thrusting between his legs.

We fell asleep in each other's arms.  In the morning he gave me his telephone number, said "Next time with the Cute Young Thing.  I'll bet he can teach you a few tricks," and kicked me out without breakfast.

Still a jerk..

See also: The Huber Heights Horror.; a Hookup During a Job Interview

The Huber Heights Horror, or The Worst Hookup in Ohio History

Huber Heights, Ohio, November 2005

I still cringe just thinking about it.

Everybody was closeted in Dayton, so you spent a lot of time in online chatrooms, cruising for hookups, arrangements, friends with benefits, bondage boys, and maybe, occasionally, a real, actual date.

So I got used to online profile exaggerations: they're really 5 years older, 20 lbs heavier, and 2 inches smaller beneath the belt.

But really...

Brandon: 23, blond, slim swimmer's build, 8" uncut.  

We talked online for over an hour, about movies, tv, art, literature.  We had everything in common.  I felt an immediate emotional connection.  I was going to ask him out to dinner, but then he said, "Why don't you come over tonight?"

Well, it nearly midnight. I was falling asleep.  What kind of date could we have?

But he insisted.   I suggested that we cuddle on the couch while exchanging coming-out stories, then spend the night together and go out for brunch the next day, a good old fashioned West Hollywood "date."

"Sounds great!" he said.  "Come on over."

"Um..you don't have any parents or straight roommates hovering around, do you?"

"Oh, no, I live alone."

So I showered, changed clothes, and headed out the door at 12:30 am.

Brandon lived in Huber Heights, a ritzy suburb on the north side of Dayton, 15 miles from Fairborn. Down two deserted midnight highways.  Then a crazy maze of subdivisions with inadequate street signs.

Finally, at nearly 1:30 am, I pulled into the driveway of his nondescript suburban house.  

I walked shivering in the night chill across the front yard and rang the doorbell.  It seemed extremely loud.

Brandon's father answered.

At least, it looked like Brandon's father. 

23?  Try 43.  

Blond? grey and red.

Slim swimmer's build?  Husky bear.

 

And by the way, his name wasn't actually Brandon, it was Keith.  He just picked Brandon as a screen name because it sounded more youthful.

I had no objection to guys in their 40s , or to husky bears.    But try for a little less deception!

Still, I drove all the way out here, and we had everything in common. Maybe he was just self-conscious about his age and weight.

We could still cuddle on the couch, then spend the night together, then have brunch in the morning, right?

Brandon took me into the living room and sat me down on the couch without offering any beverages or snacks.  He unzipped and pulled his cock out.

Wait -- what about cuddling and coming out stories?

Plus -- another deception -- nothing like 8".  Maybe 5"

"Um...couldn't we do some preliminaries first?" I asked.

"Sorry -- it's just that I don't have very much time."

Not very much time?

But...but...what about spending the night?

" I have to get up early.  I was...um...called in to work."

He grabbed my head and pushed it down. Ok, the evening wouldn't be a total loss.

I  went down on him.

And kept going and going and going.  Brandon/Keith moaned and groaned, but never came close to finishing.  Finally I said "Ok, this isn't going to happen!"

"I guess I'm a little tired.  It's past my bedtime.  But thanks for coming over."

I left and drove home, arriving at 3:00 am.

Let's recap: 

I drove an hour in freezing cold in the middle of the night to meet a guy who lied about everything, who didn't offer any of the basic courtesies of a date, or even a hookup, for a sexual act that was purely one-sided, no reciprocation, no kissing, and didn't even end with a payoff.

A week or so later, I was back in the same online chatroom, and Brandon/Keith instant messaged me.

"I had such a wonderful time with you!  We should get together again!"

Aargh!

This guy has no connection to the story.  I just need something to take my mind off the Huber Heights Horror.

See also: Ricky with a Y; Remy the Jerk

The Catholic Boy's Bulge at My Niece's Wedding

Kankakee, Illinois, Summer 2008

When I was a kid, the Nazarene church taught us to:

1. Pity "heathens," the Buddhists, Hindus, and Muslims who hadn't heard the Gospel.

2. Be suspicious of "liberal so-called Christians," the Methodists, Presbyterians, and Baptists.

3. Run in terror from Roman Catholics.  They drank, went to movies, and worshipped idols. Their Pope was the anti-Christ. They were probably demon-possessed.  We weren't supposed to make friends with them, set foot in one of their churches, or even walk on the sidewalk outside one of their houses, lest we be corrupted.

I left the Nazarene church around my freshman year of college, but my parents, brother, and sister are still active.






Ken is actually more devout than when we were kids.  He's ok with gay people, but he doesn't go to movies or the theater, doesn't shop or work on Sunday, and doesn't go to restaurants or stores with alcohol on sale.

He married in 1981, and had four kids.  Then he divorced his wife and married a woman who had three kids of her own, plus an elderly mother.  Ten people, four dogs, two cats, and a parrot all living together in a big, rambling house downtown.

Most of Ken's kids turned out less devoutly Nazarene than their parents.

The oldest spent time in prison for aggravated assault.

The second sang in a punk rock band.

The fourth got pregnant while still in high school.

But somehow the third, Katie, turned into a ultra-devout "Suzie Nazarene."

In high school, she was president of the NYPS and a delegate to the International Institute.

She enrolled at Olivet, the Nazarene college on the prairie, where girls generally majored in becoming a preacher's wife.

I wasn't out to her, or to any of my nieces and nephews, although some of them figured it out (my brother followed a  "don't ask, don't tell policy."  When I brought Lane or Yuri over for Christmas or a summer holiday, we stayed closeted.

I wasn't really close to them, anyway.  I didn't visit Rock Island much after my parents moved to Indiana in 1995, just an occasional Christmas, where they might or might not be present.  I sent them birthday cards with a check in it every year, but eventually I stopped that as well.

In the spring of 2008, when I was living in Dayton, I got Katie's wedding announcement in the mail.  I almost threw it out.  I usually boycott heterosexual weddings.

Then I saw that it was being held at St. Patrick's Catholic Church in Kankakee, Illinois.

Katie was marrying a Roman Catholic boy named Steve!

I had to see this!  How would my Nazarene relatives react?  Would they grit their teeth and go into a Catholic church?  Would they wait outside?  Would they disown Katie and refuse to talk to her again?

I emailed Katie.

"That's one of the things that brought us together," she said.  "Arguing about religion.  We can get into some heated debates, let me tell you!  But we also have a lot in common.  Nazarenes and Catholics both have really strict rules."

"How did you meet?"

"He was the barista in the coffee shop I used to go to.  Af first I tried to save his soul, but then we started talking about the differences between Nazarene and Catholic beliefs.  Of course, he was cute in his uniform, too. "

A Nazarene and a Catholic -- two of the more homophobic denominations.  I wondered how welcome I would be at their wedding.


Time to out myself.

Two nights before the wedding, all of Katie's relatives had dinner at a restaurant in downtown Kankakee, so they could meet Steve.

Steve was in his 30s, tall, husky, bearded -- with a huge bulge in his jeans!

I made a point of hugging him "hello," and sitting next to him to tell stories of West Hollywood, Florida, and New York. Without using the g-word, of course.

"How is Yuri?" Katie asked.  "You haven't brought him around the house since I was a kid."

Now was my chance!  "Oh, he's fine.  He's been with Michael for several years now."

Don't ask, don't tell!  My sister-in-law, Ken's wife, glared at me.  "Boomer has always been liberal, with lots of different kinds of friends."

"Yes...um...it fits in very nicely with my research on gay communities."

Now my mother was glaring at me.  "Oh, Boomer is always doing some kind of research.  That's why he's never had time to get married and raise a family."

"That, and the fact that I can't get married in the State of Ohio.  It's illegal.  But I date a lot, and I've had my share of long-term..."

Don't ask, don't tell!  "Lots of pretty girls out there in Ohio," my brother said.  "Must be hard to stick to any one person."

Enraged, I excused myself and went to the bathroom.  Steve followed, and stood next to me at the urinal. I was too nervous to sneak a peek.

"Don't let it bother you," he said.  "My parents still insist on calling my brother's partner his 'roommate,' and they've been together for ten years.  But he's invited to all of the family functions.  That's something, right?"

I reddened.  No need to out myself -- Steve already knew.  Everyone already knew.  They may not use the g-word, but at least I was invited to all of the family functions.  And so were Lane and Yuri.  That's more than you can say for most fundamentalist relatives.

By the way, no one had a problem with Steve being Catholic.  I guess having a gay relative makes you tolerant.

And no, I never saw him like this.

See also;Yuri and I Teach My Nephew the Gay Facts of Life; Saving the Church Organist.; My Nephew Tries to Turn a Boy Gay

Ari, the Linguist on My Sausage List

Columbus, Ohio, September 2007

People who hear about the various languages I've studied always ask "Why didn't you become a linguist?"

Because linguistics is not about world languages.  It's about phonetics, phonology, morphology, and syntax, how ui changes to eu in some dialects of Farsi, but only before glottal consonants.

But that doesn't stop people from trying to fix me up with translators and polyglots of various ilks.

The latest, when I was in Dayton, was Ari, a professor of linguistics at Ohio State, about an hour away.

"He's got four of the five traits you find attractive," my friend enthused.  "He's a gym rat, religious, a swarthy Mediterranean, and gifted where it counts!"

So we exchanged a few emails and photographs.  Ari was muscular, in his mid-30s, dark-skinned, with curly black hair.  He said he was born in Israel, and moved to the U.S. when he was five years old.  He was a lapsed Orthodox Jew.  And a linguist!

Sounds perfect.

One Saturday afternoon, I drove into Columbus and met Ari at, of all places, an upscale hot dog place -- Dirty Frank's Hot Dog Palace.

"So Hebrew must be your first language," I began.  "It's fascinating that an extinct language was revived..."

"I don't remember much Hebrew," Ari said.  "I did my dissertation on Tlingit, a Na-Dene language of British Columbia and Alaska.  It has fifteen pronomials, which vary depending on the locative.  For instance, if you're going out to sea, it's dak-dei for a n-dei locative, but daki-naa for an n-naa locative."

"Many of the Native American tribes had third genders..." I began, hopefully.

"No, Tlingit doesn't have gender categories.  But it does have telic punctuals..."

"It's very important for your telics to be punctual."

He stared.  "Um...I just finished a paper on Jingulu, an Australian aboriginal language with six cases."

"I'm interested in Australian aboriginals, too" I said.  "They have a culture dating back thousands of years...."

But Ari wasn't interested in culture.  "Jingulu has four genders: masculine, feminine, neutral, and vegetable, but everything rounded is masculine, like kiyinarra, which means vagina."

This was probably the first time that I ever heard the term vagina on a date.  It didn't increase my amorous expectations.

"The Basque word for man is gizon, which is similar to the phrase big penis in ancient Sumerian," I tried.

He frowned.  "You're not trying to suggest a Basque-Sumerian link, are you?"

"No...um, I was just...."

"The interesting thing about Basque is its compound benefactive case.  Have you ever heard of a compound benefactive before?"

And it went on like that, through dinner, through browsing upscale clothing at Torso, through "a beer" at the Exile, and back to Ari's apartment.

"Not a problem," I thought.  "Being gifted beneath the belt can more than make up for a few hours of boredom."

He was.  My friend who set us up hadn't exaggerated.

But:

He wasn't.  He spent every moment of our time together with his mouth open.  Talking!  Directing, exhorting, commenting, murmuring.

I tried a variety of ways to shut him up, but to no avail.  He kept talking.

I'm going to resist the temptation to make a dirty joke about linguists using their mouths.

We dated a few more times -- he was nicely muscular, and very gifted beneath the belt (#6 on my Sausage List).  But I could never get Ari to shut up

See also: Getting the Chinese Food Delivery Boy into my Bed; 8 Harvard Yard Hookups

12 Hookups and Dates that Sound Like the Plot of a Porn Movie

Every day we see, hear, and talk to friends, neighbors, coworkers, students, strangers -- and dozens of service people, the pharmacist, the plumber, the carpenter, the bus driver, the pizza delivery guy, the bookstore clerk.

99 out of 100 are female, ugly, straight, or taken, but even if you encounter that 1 in 100 that's male, cute, gay, and available, the interaction is so momentary that there's no time to determine if they're attracted to you, or just being friendly as a part of their job.

Even if you can establish a mutual interest, how do you arrange a date or a hookup with other customers waiting behind you and the boss keeping an eagle eye from a post nearby?  99 times out of 100, it's impossible, and you each go on to more accessible guys at the Rage or a M4M Party.

This is the stuff of porn movies, where the service guy is always muscular, gifted beneath the belt, and ready for action, in an empty store or on a service call with an empty schedule all afternoon.

I've only managed a few of these "porn movie" hookups or dates, where you approach the guy and make the connection while he is at work.

Here are the most interesting.

1. The Waiter.  In West Hollywood, you got cruised by waiters all the time.  They weren't serious.  When the waiter flirted with me at the French Quarter, I just laughed it off.  But the next day I saw him at the gym.

2. The Doctor.  In the 1980s, doctors were usually homophobic, so you always had to be careful that your doctor was gay or gay-friendly (you still do).  So when I got sick and needed a doctor right away, I stayed strictly closeted.  But he said "I can do a house call tomorrow, to see if you're feeling better..."

3. The Politician.  I'm not interested in politics, and I especially wasn't while living in San Francisco, with homophobic rhetoric spewing from every press conference.  But when I met a young city councilman., who also happened to be gay, I became interested.

4. The Fireman.  When I was living in graduate student housing in New York, my roommate left a pan of water on the stove all day.  I returned to find the kitchen on fire.  It was easily put out, but the fire department came anyway, and one of the fireman gave me his number.

5. The Chef.  During my summer in Paris, I went to Suam Thai almost every night.  One slow night the chef  -- who was not Thai -- invited me back into the kitchen to talk about something or another, and one thing led to another.....

6. The Pizza Delivery Guy.  Just after I got my Ph.D., I was visiting Rock Island, and cruised the pizza delivery guy.  I was leaving town the next day, but my friend Dick sealed the deal.  They've been together ever since.












7. The Hitchhiker.  When my friend David came to visit me in Florida, we drove out to Key West, and picked up a hitchhiker, a college student who was happy to share a bed with us.

8. The Actor.  You go to a play, your eyes meet, you go to their dressing room afterwards, and sparks fly.  Easier said than done: they can't see you in the darkened theater, they're busy concentrating on their performance, and it's hard to get backstage afterwards unless you already know them.  It's only happened to me once.

9. The Chinese Food Delivery Guy.  In Dayton.  Ok, I didn't hook up with him, but I got a date with his best friend

10. The Flight Attendant.  The flight was half full, I was sitting in the back row near the galley, and the attendant was bored.  We struck up a conversation, and when we were delayed too long for me to catch my connection, he offered to show me the sights of Boston.

11. The Water Delivery Guy.  Pete, who delivered bottled water to my apartment in Upstate New York.  One day I asked him to show me how to install the water bottles, one thing led to another, and we dated for about 3 weeks.

12. The Museum Guard.  While we were passing through Indianapolis on our way home from New York in 2015, we stopped to visit a museum where Ryan was a guard.  He came by our hotel later.

The Catholic Priest in My Bed

Akron, Ohio, April 2007

In the spring of 2007, I was teaching at the University of Dayton, and dating Paul, an aspiring writer who had just graduated from Ohio Dominican University. He had four of the characteristics I find attractive: short, husky, gifted beneath the belt (Bratwurst+), and religious (devout Catholic).

Devout Catholic.

1. He got his name by being born on June 29th, the Feast Day of Saint Paul.  Lucky he wasn't born on June 30th, the Feast Day of Saints Clotsindus and Ostianus.

2. He went to Catholic schools and a Catholic college.

3. His older brother was a priest.

4. He wore a scapular around his neck, except at the gym.

5. He had a little basin of holy water in his apartment, which he used to cross himself.

6. When he spent Saturday night with me, he insisted on going to Mass the next day.

7. And fasting before, so no Sunday brunch.

Being closeted, Paul didn't want anyone to know that we were gay.  He wouldn't take me to his regular church in Huber Heights, or go to a church near me in Fairborn, where someone might recognize.

We often drove all the way into Columbus to find a relatively gay-friendly Catholic church.  If not, we went to Holy Family, the most conservative church in town, where statues outnumbered people, and elderly nuns sat in the front row with rosary beads, and priests still heard confessions.

The nice thing about conservative churches is that it's easy to be closeted.  It never occurs to anyone, ever, that a member of the congregation -- or a visitor -- might be gay.  Paul and I could sit together, hug, answer questions as a couple, and everyone just assumed that we were heterosexual friends, or father and son (I was 45, and he was 25).

Besides, one of the priests was very cute.  Father Christopher, 26 years old, a new graduate of the Pontifical College Josephinum.  Tall, dark-haired, with glasses and a hint of a respectable physique, who threw references to Harry Potter and Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy into his homilies.


I have a thing for clergy: Catholic, Protestant, Jewish, Muslim.  There's something about the juxtaposition of the physical and the spiritual, the erotic thoughts that leak into sacred spaces, the penis hidden beneath those gaudy robes and black cassocks.

No chance that we would ever hook up!  He was a graduate of the most conservative seminary in the U.S., and a priest at the most conservative church in Ohio!

Just looking was enough.

One Sunday Father Christopher announced an upcoming spiritual retreat, centered on the contemplative works of Thomas Merton.  Participants would car-pool to the Loyola Retreat House, near Akron, Ohio, about three hours away.

I liked Thomas Merton, and I really liked Father Christopher, so I signed up.  Paul couldn't make it.

A group of 10 of us drove up in three cars, leaving at dawn and arriving just in time for lunch.  Then an afternoon of meditation workshops, book discussions, lectures, free time for contemplation, dinner, and Mass.  It was like a Nazarene camp meeting.

The next morning, we had another Mass, followed by breakfast, more workshops, discussions, and lectures, lunch, and more free time for contemplation.  Then we headed home.

I got to spend a lot of time with Father Christopher.  My life story had to be strictly closeted, of course, but I still managed to complain about the Nazarene church of my childhood, and share lots of stories about how much they hated Catholics.

 He was shocked -- he had believed that everyone loved and respected the Catholic Church, even Protestants.

But the best part was bedtime.  Since Father Christopher and I were the only non-couples at the retreat, we were assigned to share a room.

I didn't intend to try anything, of course -- the last thing I needed was to be ejected from a retreat center a three hour drive from home.  But I was hoping for a Sausage Sighting.

Father Christopher changed into his pajamas in the bathroom, then climbed into bed with rosary beads.  "Hail Mary, full of grace," he began.  "Oh -- Boomer, I hope this won't disturb you?"

"Not at all."  I waited..

No chance of seeing any autoerotic activity later.  I looked it up: Catholics consider masturbation "intrinsically evil," like being gay.

But sometimes the penis has a mind of its own.  Especially when you lack a regular sexual outlet.

I watched.

Father Christopher finished his rosary, kissed it, put it aside, and crossed his arms over his chest like a vampire.  Soon he began to snore. 

I watched.

After about half an hour, it began to rise.

It stood at full attention.

I didn't dare touch it, but...could I move off the covers, and get a peek?

I reached over and carefully tugged at the covers.

Father Christopher murmured something, and I retreated.

It was still standing at full attention.

I tried again.

It stood, peeking out of his underwear, ready for action, a Bratwurst with a mushroom head.

Eventually he turned over.  He hadn't awakened, or even touched anything.

Later I discovered that the average person has about 5 dreams per night.  10% of those dreams have sexual content, and 5% of the sex dreams result in a spontaneous orgasm.

So if you watch most men all night, you have a 1 in 40 chance of seeing a spontaenous orgasm.  But since Father Paul didn't have an access to an ordinary sexual outlet, my chances were probably like 1 in 10.

Still, my luck was amazing.

In the morning Father Paul showered and changed, and we continued the retreat.

I don't think he even knew that his erotic life came alive every night in dreams.

See also: Barry and the Creepy Old Guy; and Paul Gives Up Men for Lent

Which Story Actually Happened?

These stories are all based on real events, but I always take some artistic license, combine two events into one, make up conversations, change details.

Some changes are to protect people's identities. About 3/4ths of the names are made up.

Sometimes I can't remember everything.  If I don't know the exact name of the restaurant I went to in Barcelona 20 years ago, I'll look one up.

Sometimes trying to include all the people and events would be too confusing.

And of course I have to make some changes, to turn an incident into an interesting story.

Can you figure out which story actually happened the way I wrote it, and which was modified?

Childhood

A, I visit my Indian cousins, and play a game where I get to tie the older one up and fondle his penis?

B. Two older boys teach me about oral sex in the church parking lot?

Answer.  B.  When I visited my cousin, I pulled down his pants, but his brothers intervened and "rescued" him before I got to do anything else.

High School

A. In Switzerland for a Nazarene conference, my friend and I sneak into town, and dance with a Swedish leatherboy at a bar?

B. A week after figuring "it" out, Dino the Golden Boy invites me to a 4th of July party involving naked guys sliding into each other?

Answer: B.  We did go to the bar in Switzerland, but I met the Swedish leatherboy in another bar in London years later,

College

A. I trick the boss from hell into revealing his Trouser Snake, running out from the bathroom into the store, still fully aroused?

B. My professor at a small religious college in the Midwest invites his advanced students to a handcuff party?

Answer: B. My boss did come running out of the bathroom, but he wasn't aroused.

West Hollywood

A. A Ginger Boy for Christmas.  Fred and I go to JRs in Rock Island and pick up a Ginger Boy, who ignores me, and a few years later Dick and I go to the same bar and pick up the same Ginger Boy, who gets ignored by Dick?

B. Gershom, the Orthodox Jewish guy who had never been with a Gentile before, and asked to practice on me, so we did it in the kitchen, with our boyfriends waiting out in the living room?

Answer: A. Gershom and I did practice before his big date, but in private.

San Francisco

A. I dated Kevin the Vampire, who had special powers, like you couldn't see him unless you wanted him to?

B. The Amazing Invisible Boy, who came back to my apartment, couldn't explain the brown stain on his shirt, didn't understand contemporary references, and vanished without going through the door?

Answer: B.  Kevin was not nearly as vampire-like as the story suggests.

New York

A. I meet famous composer Andrew Lloyd Webber at a party, and he gives me a ride home in his limo, and we stop for tacos?

B. Visiting Rock Island for the holidays, my 14-year old nephew asks me "how gay guys have sex," and Yuri and I take him to the park and demonstrate gay kissing?

Answer: B.  I talked to Andrew Lloyd Webber, but didn't get a ride home with him.  That was Tom Wopat.

Florida

A. Janik the Frisian Bodybuilder, who I met in the Horseman's Club in Amsterdam, invited me back to his small town in Friesland?

B. When I was in Arizona, cruising in the Navajo Nation, I finally met a Native America guy, except he turned out to be white?

Answer: A.  I didn't meet anyone in the Navajo Nation.  The jogger pickup actually happened in Albuquerque.

Ohio

A. The Huber Heights Horror, who I drove 20 miles at 2:00 am to date, only to find out that he completely misrepresented himself -- older, fatter, and smaller than his profile, and only into a hookup, not a date?

B. I go on a spiritual retreat, get a Catholic priest as a roommate, and see him tenting as he becomes aroused in his sleep?

Answer: B.. #A was actually two incidents combined.  The Huber Heights guy didn't misrepresent himself, except that he wanted a hookup instead of a date.  It was another guy who said he was 30, muscular, with a Mortadella beneath the belt.

Upstate

A. I take Troy to his first glory hole, and promise that I'll be the guy on the other side, so he can practice, but before I get a chance, he hooks up with a French Canadian farmer?

B. Lester, the Shy Boy at the Bathhouse, whose friends told him that he couldn't leave until he had been with five guys, or one guy five times?

Answer: B.. Troy didn't really hook up with anyone in his video booth












Plains

A,  At a comic book store, I pick up a boy with cerebral palsy who has Daddy issues and wants to rip my clothes off?

B. I go to a heterosexual dinner party, and hook up with my host's college-age son while everyone else is having dessert and coffee in the next room?

Answer: B, of course.  In #A,  I didn't pick up the boy with cerebral palsy at a comic book store, with his father standing right there.  It was at a bar.

The Nude Car Wash

Dayton, May 2006

At the end of every semester, students fill out a Teaching Evaluation, answering questions about how much they liked the class.  They should like it a lot. The Evaluations are used to decide whether you keep your job, and "adequate" is typically an average of 3.5 or 4.0 (on a scale of 1-5).

That means that being out in the classroom is simply out of the question.  Just one homophobe giving you a "1" on everything can lower your class average to below "adequate," and a class of 20 is guaranteed to contain at least 3 homophobes.

So how do I stay "in the closet" in class, at least to the3 or more homophobes?  It's really not difficult, even though I mention gay people or gay issues in every class. Heterosexuals are so eager to believe that there are no gay people in the world that just a few tricks can maintain their illusion.

1. I never mention my romantic relationships at all, ever. Hetero professors throw in their husbands and wives every ten seconds:  "Today we're covering chi square.  My wife hates chi square," or "I would have finished grading your exams, but it was my wife's birthday, and..."  Not me.

2. Several times during the semester, I mention something that happened "at church."  Heterosexuals tend to believe that being religious and being gay are polar opposites: all gay people are anti-religion, and all religious people are anti-gay.  So of course if I go to church, I must be heterosexual.

3. I mention my background in wrestling, judo, and bodybuilding.  Things haven't changed much since I was in high school thirty years ago: heterosexuals still tend to believe that all gay men are frail, wispy things allergic to muscles, so anyone who knows his way around a gym must be heterosexual.

My "secret" is usually safe.  Occasionally I get statements on course evaluations like "I think the professor is a fag!", but not often.

So I was surprised in the spring of 2006, when I taught a course in "Drugs and Alcohol in American Society" in Dayton.

  There was no unit on gay people, although I think I mentioned early medical attempts to connect AIDS deaths to gay men using poppers (amyl nitrite).  At the end of the semester, a conservative fratboy business major named CJ, who was squeaking by with a C-, told me, "If you let me turn in an extra credit assignment, I'll mow your lawn every week all summer with my shirt off."

I stared, too shocked to speak.

"Ok, all the yardwork.  All summer.  Come on, a whole summer of eye candy!"

Finally I managed to say,  "I don't have a lawn.  I live in an apartment."

"Ok, then I'll wash your car all summer-- wearing only a jockstrap!  You'll never get a better deal than that!"

His girlfriend -- or a girl he flirted with often -- approached and took his shoulder.  "Dr. Davis isn't interested in that sort of thing," she advised.

So the girl didn't "catch on," but the hunk did?  Maybe he saw my eyes widen when he yawned-and-flexed.

"Oh...well, maybe you have a gay friend. I can be like a gift certificate."

"Wait -- I have an idea.  You can put your talents to use, and share it with the whole university community."

So during finals week, CJ's fraternity held a car wash for charity -- they wore speedos, not jock straps, but there was still a lot of muscle on display.

I brought my car in three times.

See also: Summertime Car Washes

Paul, the Boyfriend Who Was Too Good in Bed

Dayton, September 2006

Would you like a boyfriend with such a prodigious sexual appetite that he wants to have three rounds of vigorous bedroom activity every day, morning, mid-afternoon, and evening (more if his interest is aroused in the most trivial way possible, like seeing a cute guy in bicycle shorts pass the apartment).

How about if each round of bedroom activity lasts for an hour or more?

Sound good?

Maybe not.

In the Straight World of Dayton, Ohio, most guys are very, very closeted, taking ladies to office functions, insisting on driving an hour out of town for your dates, never inviting you back to your apartment lest their roommate "find out."

Therefore you don't see boyfriends often, maybe once a week.  On other nights they are busy with family or work functions that you are not invited to, or just skittish about being seen.

So I dated Paul, the office drone/aspiring writer, for six months without noticing anything unusual.  Sure, he was very passionate, and extremely eager .  When he spent the night, I never got any sleep: hour-long sessions at bedtime, in the morning, and sometimes in the middle of the night.

But I figured, he was young -- in his 20s -- and really, really into me.

Besides, isn't everyone like that when you first start dating?  You always have to meet him at the venue, because if he comes to your apartment, or you go to his, you'll never leave.

I didn't think anything of it until my second boyfriend, Charlie, turned out to be Paul's roommate -- each thought the other was straight.  He moved out in embarrassment, and Paul needed a new roommate.

"Why don't we move in together?"  he suggested.  "We've been dating for six months -- it's about time."

"Won't people suspect?" I asked sarcastically.

"Oh, no, we'll move most of your stuff into the second bedroom, and introduce you as my 'roommate.'  It's a perfect plan!"

I still had six months left on the lease on my old apartment, so I just moved some books and clothes, and some mementos, like the armoire from India and the tapestry from Paris.  I assured Paul that the rest would be coming at the end of July.

We settled down into domestic bliss.

Sort of.

 Picture this:

1. I got up at 6:00 am so I could work out for a couple of hours before my first class.  But he required an hour of sex first.  No time to get to the gym.

2. We  took turns cooking dinner.  Preparation usually took about an hour, and I liked to eat at 6:00.  But Paul got home at 5:30, and required sex the moment he walked in the door.  So preparation didn't begin until 6:30, and we ate at 7:30.
"Paul, I get low blood sugar if I eat so late."
"So eat a snack.  I can't wait."

3. He wouldn't go to the theater in Dayton -- we had to drive to Columbus, an hour away, which means leaving at 6:30, or 5:30 if we wanted dinner first. But Paul got home at 5:30, and had to go into the bedroom right away.
"Can't it wait until later?  We've already done it for like 3 hours today already."
"Nonsense!  There's plenty of time!"
 No theater.

4. I was in the midst of the season finale of Ugly Betty, the scene where Santos is shot just as his son, Justin, is performing in West Side Story, when my hand accidentally brushed against Paul's lap.  He said, "We have to go into the bedroom now."
"Are you kidding?  I want to see if Santos lives."
"You can watch tv any time.  Let's go!"

5. I went out jogging, and came home soaked with sweat, ready for a shower.  Paul said "Good, you're home.  I saw a cute guy on the street, and I'm ready to go in the bedroom."
"Can it wait until I shower?  I'm soaked."
"No, I've waited too long already.  Let's go!"

6. I got dizzy and collapsed onto the floor, accidentally brushing against his butt on the way down.  He exclaimed, "I'm calling an ambulance!  But we have to go into the bedroom first!"
Ok, I just made that one up. 

Refuse, you say?  "No" means "no"?

I tried that.  Paul got hurt feelings.  "Don't you find me attractive anymore?  You like that tv more than you like me!  Why can't you be more understanding?"

Or else he would satisfy his longings himself, which took twice as long.  Still no theater, and dinner at 8:30!

After a dozen missed plays, concerts, tv shows, and workouts, about fifty late dinners, and who knows how much soreness. enough was enough.  I moved my stuff back into my old apartment.

First time anybody has ever been dumped for being too good in bed.

See also: Dating Two Guys At Once.

Dating Two Roommates Who Aren't Out to Each Other

Dayton, Fall 2006

In 2005, after 20 years in gay neighborhoods, I moved to the Straight World of Dayton, Ohio. There were some gay people around, of course, but they adopted an aggressively heterosexual public life.

1. They appeared at events alone or with female friends.

2. They dropped pronouns when answering the question "What did you do this weekend?"

3. They had no gay friends, just hookups and romantic partners.

4. Whom they never discussed with their heterosexual friends.

5. Who obeyed an unspoken rule to pretend not to know.

In June 2006, I began going out with Paul (not his real name). He was in his 20s, a recent graduate of Ohio Dominican University who was doing some sort of lower-level office drone work while trying to become a writer.  He had four of the characteristics I find attractive: short, husky (actually tending to fat),  religious (devout Catholic), and gifted beneath the belt (not the fifth -- he was a pale blond).  

Since gay men in the Straight World would rarely agree to being seen in public in pairs, Paul and I mostly had Chinese food and watched DVD movies in my apartment (I never saw his apartment, because he wasn't out to his straight roommate.) 

When we wanted to do something public, we drove into Columbus, for dinner at La Fogata, or a gay-themed movie, or the theater.

In gay neighborhoods, you dated one guy at a time.  You became romantic partners by the third date; from that point onward, it was taboo to date or hook up with anyone else (except for "sharing" with friends and roommates).  But in the Straight World, it was acceptable, even expected, to date several guys at once.

I think the reason was the aggressively heterosexual public life.  Your boyfriend could not give you all of his attention; he couldn't take you to office parties, or to family functions, or even to street fairs.  So you needed several boyfriends to be assured of a date on Saturday night.

(That must be why the Episcopal priest who I met in Omaha had three boyfriends.)

So I kept on cruising and dating, and met another guy: Charlie (again, not his real name), a high school football coach and physical education teacher.  He was in his 20s, extremely muscular, with nice biceps and a thick, hairy chest.

Unfortunately, he also had 4 of the my Top 10 Turn-Offs:  taller than me; a sports nut; an outdoor nut; and an affinity for drinking beer.  

But in the Straight World, there are so few gay men to choose from that if he likes you and he's not completely repulsive, he's worth a shot.

Like Paul, Charlie led an aggressively heterosexual public life.  He wasn't out to his roommate, who was straight and "wouldn't understand."

He even had a "beard," a female friend who agreed to go with him to games and events, to help hide his gayness.

There was one nice thing about being closeted: Charlie never asked me to go to any football game.  We went hiking, deep in the wilderness of John Bryan State Park, where no one would notice us.  We went jogging at Rivers Edge park in Dayton, early in the morning when no one would notice us. We drove into Columbus to go cruising at the Exile.  

Things were going great -- I had two regular boyfriends, Paul and Charlie, one artistic, one athletic.  Of course, they insisted that our relationship be strictly secret, described in only the vaguest terms to gay people, and never mentioned at all to heterosexuals.  But it was easy to adapt to the new rules.

See if you can guess which statement I would say to heterosexuals, and which to gay people:

"Saturday night, one of my boyfriends took me to dinner at La Fogata"
"Saturday night, I had dinner at La Fogata."'

"The guy I'm dating swears by bicep exhaustion sets."
"A friend of mine swears by bicep exhaustion sets."

"My date and I went cruising at the Exile in Columbus."
"I went to Columbus."

Besides, I could continue cruising, in search of a third, fourth, or fifth boyfriend -- maybe, eventually, one for each night of the week!

In December, shortly after my birthday, Paul came down with a cold, so I decided to play the role of the thoughtful boyfriend and surprise him with some chicken soup.  I never got his address, so I had to call him for it.

"Sure, come on over," he said in a stuffed-up voice.  "But my roommate's here, so play it cool.  Say you're my cousin or something."

I drove out to his apartment in a rather nice complex in Huber Heights, a northern suburb of Dayton, and dialed the security code.  The door immediately buzzed open -- I was expected.

I walked to the second floor and knocked.

By now you've probably guessed what happened next:  

Charlie answered!

I was dating roommates!  

Paul and Charlie had been living together for over a year, but each thought other was straight and stayed strictly closeted.  Neither had any idea that the other knew me, or any gay people.  They had different interests, so their paths never crossed.

You may think that, when the smoke cleared, the three of us settled down into a cozy romantic triad.  In fact, they were both extremely embarrassed over the year of closeting.  Charlie broke up with me on the spot (not because I had another boyfriend -- because someone else "knew").  He soon moved out.

Paul and I continued to date.  But, when he was advertising for a new roommate, I insisted that he tell all prospects that he was gay. Then we moved in together.  Big mistake!

See also: The Guy Who Was Too Good in Bed