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 Ginger Boy for Christmas

Wednesday, December 24, 1986:

I'm 26 years old. living in West Hollywood, but back in Rock Island for the holidays.  After the traditional Christmas Eve pizza and gift-unwrapping, at my parents' house,  Fred picks me up.

He's my ex-boyfriend, 34, tall, athletic, with a stern, rugged face, a smooth chest, and impressive beneath-the-belt gifts.

When we met, he was student clergy.  During my sophomore year in college, he got a church assignment, and talked me into moving to Omaha with him.  I lasted for a miserable month.  Now he's working as a mental health counselor in Kansas City.

He's  home for the holidays, staying at his parents' farmhouse, about 30 miles south of Rock Island.

We're going to spend the night together, and then have the traditional Christmas morning breakfast and present-unwrapping at his house.

"I told my parents you might have a friend with you," Fred tells me.  "I didn't know if you were bringing Raul home from West Hollywood."

"We broke up a couple of weeks ago, so I'm single again.  I just met [My Celebrity Boyfriend], but we haven't arranged a date yet."

"That's ok.  Who knows?  You might make a friend tonight!"

"I'd rather have you to myself.  We haven't seen each other since last Christmas."  We may be broken up, but Fred is enormously attractive, and I'm feeling especially vulnerable tonight.

"So we'll share.  That's all the rage in West Hollywood, right?"

We go out to JR's, the biggest of Rock Island's 3 gay bars, a sort of country-western disco.  It draws both gay men and lesbians.

It's crowded.  A lot of people home for the holidays and trying to escape from their crazy fundamentalist relatives.  I grew up in Rock Island, but I don't see any of my old high school friends.

But Fred does.  "Hey, I knew that guy!" he exclaims, gesturing at a short, rather buffed ginger guy in a black lumberjack shirt [top photo].  "Scotty, from high school!  He was a few years younger than me, my little brother's age. Cute!  I had no idea he was gay!"

"Did he knew that you were?"

He grinned.  "Let's go find out."

"Well, I was hoping..."

Scotty says that he doesn't remember Fred at all -- even in a small high school, there are rigid barriers between classes. But he is happy to reunite.

Like us, Scotty is back in Rock Island spending Christmas with his family.  He is doing some kind of marketing work for Hallmark Cards in Kansas City.

"What a coincidence!" Fred exclaims.  "I'm in Kansas City, too.  A counselor at Prairie Ridge [Psychiatric Hospital]."

"You should get together after the holidays,"  I suggest.

"Or now," Fred said, fondling Scotty's chest.  "I told my parents I would be having a friend spend the night."

"If you don't mind two of us," I added.

Scotty seem to see me for the first time.  "Oh, no, two is great."

So I get to watch while Fred and Scotty become re-acquainted in the attic of his parents' farmhouse.  Scotty has a nice, tight physique, smooth, hairless, and a thick cut Bratwurst, but I don't get a chance to do much with it.  Or with Fred, for that matter.  They're attached to each other the whole night.

In the morning, we have breakfast and open Christmas presents.  Fred's parents think that Scotty is my boyfriend Raul, and ask him about his Hispanic heritage.

I don't know if Fred and Scotty date back in Kansas City or not.  I don't hear from him again except for brief post cards for over a year, when he appears outside the French Quarter with Matt the Cute Young Thing.

Monday, December 24th, 1990

I'm 30 years old, living with Lane.  He can't get off work for two weeks (and doesn't want to leave West Hollywood)., so I'm back in Rock Island alone, free to cruise other guys, as long as I bring a close friend along.

After our traditional Christmas Eve pizza and present unwrapping, Dick picks me up.

He's my old grade school bully, now my only gay friend in Rock Island: tall, tan, thickly-muscled, with a gigantic Kielbasa+ beneath the belt.  We always get together when I'm in town at Christmastime and during the summer, sometimes for dinner, sometimes to spend the night.

We rarely cruise together, but Dick has just broken up with his boyfriend (I'm not the only one who has relationship problems at Christmas).  So he's anxious to meet someone, and suggests JR's.  But he doesn't want to leave me out: "You can spend the night too, of course.  Whichever of us meets someone, the other will share, ok?"

"Sure, sounds great."

We go to JR's.  It's crowded again.  Dick chats with a couple of guys he knows, and I scan the room.

There's Scotty the Ginger Boy again!  A little older, of course, with longer hair and a short red beard.  I take Dick's arm.  "Hey, I know that guy!  Fred and I hooked up with him a few years ago."

"Not bad, not bad.  How was he in the sack?"

"Well, I don't know, really.  He and Fred were so into each other that I hardly got my mouth on anything of his.  Or Fred's.  And I had been looking forward to being with Fred again for weeks."

Dick laughs.  "Sounds awful.  How about an instant replay?  But this time, I'll see to it you have a place to put your mouth.  Leave it all to me."

We walk over and start talking to Scott, who doesn't remember me until I mention Fred.  No, they didn't stay in contact in Kansas City.  He got busy, you know?

This guy is a bit of a jerk.

But Dick is working his magic, and within a few minutes, Scotty has agreed to come home with him.

"Boomer will be there too, of course.  You're into both of us, right?"

"Who?" Scotty asks, confused.

I raise my hand.  "Remember me from your night with Fred?"

"Oh, sure, two of you will be fine," he murmurs.

Now this guy is totally into Dick.  How am I going to get any activity?

 We go back to Dick's house, across the street from Denkmann School, go into the bedroom, and strip.

Scotty tries to kiss Dick, but instead Dick kneels and goes down on me.  And stays there. No matter how much Scotty tries to draw him to his feet.  Finally Scotty lies down on the bed, and I get to kiss and go down on him, while Dick stays firmly attached to me.

 "Hey, could I get some of that?" Scotty asks, grabbing at Dick's enormous Kielbasa.

"Sure, be my guest."  Dick moves up, lies on his stomach, and starts kissing me.  Scotty isn't into anal, so he has no place to go but onto me.

We fall asleep in each other's arms, with Scotty between us.  I have access to him all night.

The best Christmas gift ever.  And don't feel sorry for Scotty -- he got a lot of action.

See also: Topped by the Mayor; The Muscle Bear with the Pierced Penis

Sausage Sighting of My Parents' Contractor

Rock Island, July 1989

Monday

My sister has gotten married and moved out, the last of the kids to do so, and my parents are taking advantage of the newly-empty house by remodeling.  Her bedroom will become a tv room.  The kitchen will get new cabinets.  There will be a shower in the bathroom.

First up: the kitchen.  For the next five days, we'll have to eat out for every meal.

But it will be worth it: the contractor is a buffed, tanned demigod named Tyler: about 30 years old, with a handsome model-face: black curly hair, blue eyes, square jaw, unshaven scruff of a beard.  He's wearing a blue muscle shirt that reveals  massive shoulders, a hairy chest, and thick veiny biceps.

His tight jeans reveal a bubble butt and an enormous bulge on the right side.  I'm guessing a Kielbasa.

I try starting a conversation.  He speaks mostly in monosyllables and grunts, but I gather that we went to high school together -- he graduated two years before me (which makes him 31).  He has a live-in girlfriend.  

Straight!

I quickly closet myself, saying that I live in "Los Angeles," not "West Hollywood."

That night I look Tyler up in my old yearbook.  He was a jock, a football player and a wrestler.  I worked as an athletic trainer, so I must have seen him in the locker room.  I must have gotten a sausage sighting.

But that locker room was wall-to-wall beefcake. I don't remember Tyler, or his sausage.

Well, maybe I'll get the chance now.  He'll be here for a week --  he'll have to use the bathroom sometime.


Tuesday

I discover that if I sit on the couch in the living room, I can look directly through the dining room into the kitchen, where Tyler is working on cabinets, his bubble butt moving rhythmically up and down, up and down.

I call Anky, the best man at my sister's wedding who I hooked up with a few days ago:  "You've got to see my parents' contractor!  He's incredible!"

An hour or so later, Anky stops by.  We sit on the couch, drinking lemonade, chatting, and gazing through the dining room into the kitchen at Tyler's bubble butt.  Or when he faces us, his supersized bulge shifting and throbbing and....

Once Tyler goes to the bathroom, walking through the dining room and down the hallway.  He says "Excuse me, guys," as he passes.

Anky and I look at each other.

"Should I burst in and offer him a towel?" I ask.

That night I work out and go to the bars with Dick, my old junior high bully. I tell him about the contractor's bubble butt and bulge.

"Sounds hot!" he exclaims.  "Can I watch?  I get off work at 3:00, so I could be there by 3:30."

Wednesday

Anky and Dick arrive at 3:30, with popcorn and a VHS tape. We pretend to watch Beetlejuice while gazing at Tyler as he works on cabinets and light fixtures and wall wainscoting.

He's on a high ladder, doing something in the ceiling.  Anky rushes out and grabs him by the sides, to steady him.

"Thanks, but that's not necessary."

"Oh, I insist," Anky says, grinning back at us.

I kick myself for not thinking of it first.

Thursday

Anky arrives at 3:00 with a college friend, a biology major named Wayne.  Dick arrives at 3:30 with Terence, the theater nerd he's dating.  We sit around the dining room table, where there's an even better view of Tyler's bubble butt and bulge, pretending to play Risk.

Tyler is working on something directly above the refrigerator.  I go in and clap him on the shoulder and say "Sorry to disturb you, but we need more sodas."

"No problem, fella."  He steps out of the way.  I open the refrigerator, lean down to get the sodas, and get a beautiful close-up view of Tyler's crotch.

I return to the dining room.  "Someone throw water on me," I murmur.  "I'm about to faint."

Friday

The kitchen will be finished today.  Tyler just has to do some "clean-up and trim."

Dick takes off work and arrives at 11:00, bringing not only his boyfriend but his boyfriend's ex and a middle-aged queen who I know vaguely from church.  Anky arrives with Wayne.

My mother, getting ready to leave for an afternoon of errands and shopping, looks at us suspiciously.  "Are you sure you boys wouldn't be more comfortable in the rec room?  That's what it's there for."

"Thanks," I say, 'But we're going to have lunch soon.  I'm sending Dick out to get Kentucky Fried Chicken."

She shrugs.  "Ok, but don't leave a mess up here for me to clean up."

After she leaves, the six of us sit in the living room, four on the couch and two on the floor, pretending to talk and listen to music but actually gazing at Tyler's bubble butt and crotch as he...

Walks into the living room and stands facing us....

"I don't charge extra for a show," he says.  He begins to dance to Madonna's "Express Yourself."

The shirt comes off.  We stare at his massive, hairy chest

"You should come see me at Teaser's in Iowa City on Tuesday night,  It's Ladies' Night, but I can get you in."

The pants come off, revealing black bikini briefs.  Then they come off, and his thick, meaty Kielbasa swings between his legs.

I stare, rapt, not sure if I should offer him a dollar or a blow job.

When "Express Yourself" ends, Tyler picks up his clothes from the floor and wordlessly disappears into the bathroom.  He emerges fully clothed.

"You guys have a good day," he says, returning to work..

See also: Picking Up the Best Man at My Sister's Wedding; My Sausage Sighting List

Nephew Sausage Sighting #3: A Fondle and a Penis Sock

After my parents moved to Indianapolis in 1995, I used to stay with my brother when I returned to Rock Island for Christmas or summer visits.

He put me in a room next to his sons, Ethan (born June 1982) and Frank (born October 1983), so I saw them shirtless and in their underwear often, and had several sausage sightings over the years (of course, I only count the ones that happened after they turned 18, when their penises were fully matured).

But his youngest son, Joel (born April 1986), had a room on the other side of the house (actually two houses crammed together), so I rarely saw him at all.




Rock Island, June 2004

When I visited Rock Island in the summer of 2004, Joel was the only nephew still living with Kenny: an eighteen year old punk rocker with a scarlet mohawk, a pierced lip, and several tattoos.  Nice smooth chest, though, washboard abs, thick biceps, more buffed than emo.

I saw him perform with his group, the Dead Eunuchs: five guys with scarlet mohawks, all in their late teens and early 20s.  They did a lot of crotch-grabbing and pretending to lick each other, with lines like "push your cock against my balls" and "everybody is queer."

Quite a penis fixation!  Now I definitely wanted a sausage sighting!


But my brother still put me in the small room next to Frank and Ethan's old room.  I could hardly walk all the way down the hall, go down the stairs, cross the kitchen, and walk down another hall to burst into Joel's bathroom.

There are only two other foolproof ways to get a sausage sighting:

1. Invite him to go swimming or to the gym, where he'll have to strip down, and you can sneak a peek.

I invited Joel to work out with me and my friend Dick, a very buffed ex-bully, at the YMCA.  But he came with his gym clothes on beneath his leather jacket, so he wouldn't have to shower or change clothes there.

2. Have sex with him.

 I got no gay vibe from Joel -- he was always talking about this or that girl -- but with lines like "suck a stud for Jesus" and "press your cock against my balls," he had to be bi or pansexual.

I had no intention of going down on my 18-year old nephew, but I wouldn't mind watching while he went down on someone else: Dick or his boyfriend Jack, the "pizza boy," a slim, theatrical twink: oval face, sparkling black eyes, wavy black hair, nice chest and biceps.

They invited us to dinner the day after the workout, which also happened to be the day before I would be leaving Rock Island.  I didn't say anything about a three-way, figuring that it would take care of itself, but the evening had a West Hollywood feel: a guy bringing his new boyfriend over for his friends to "share."

Joel plowed into his steak and kidney pie with a gusto that made one wonder how he kept the weight off -- especially given the increasing bulk of his father and older brother.  "I know Uncle Beach Boy won't be around, but you guy should definitely come and hear the Dead Eunuchs on Saturday.  I can get you VIP seats."

"Does that come with a backstage pass?" Jack asked.  "You know, so I can see you strip down in your dressing room and such?"

Joel laughed.  "I strip down enough on stage for all the girls and gay dudes."

"You take your shirts off," I said, "But you don't show any cock.  You should do something to illustrate your line 'press your cock against my balls' in 'My Uncle is Queer.'"

"Full frontal nudity in Rock Island!"  He shook his head.  "I'd be arrested."

"You could try wearing a sock, like the Red Hot Chili Peppers," Jack suggested.

He shrugged.  "We tried that.  They don't stay on."

"I know the trick," Dick said.  "You just take some string, and wrap it from the top of your shaft.  Want me to show you how?"

He nodded.  "Sure, if Uncle Boomer doesn't mind seeing me naked."

"I don't mind a bit," I said with a grin.

We put the dessert and coffee on hold while Dick went to the bedroom and fetched an athletic sock and a shoe lace.   Joel stood in the living room and stripped -- he was not at all shy about being naked in a roomful of gay men.

Huge Mortadella, thin, uncut.  He didn't inherit that from his father!

"Nice!" Jack hinted.  "I'll bet you get lots of action."

"I do ok.  But you know, the girls are more into your face than your dick.  You can be a pipsqueak, they don't care."

"What about the boys?" he  asked. "I'm sure there are a hundred guys in the Quad Cities who would love to go down on you.  One or two even in this room."

Joel laughed.  "You're right -- the dudes are all about the dick."

Dick knelt in front of him.  "Ok, so you tie the shoe lace like this -- Boomer, would you hold it steady for me?"

Flushed with erotic potential, I knelt and wrapped my hand around my nephew's Mortadella.  Maybe I should go down on him after all...

"Hey, if Boomer gets a grope, I get a grope," Jack exclaimed.  He knelt  beside me.  I let go, and he wrapped his hand around Joel.  He started to stiffen.

"Sorry," Joel said.  "That happens sometimes."

"You just need someone to take the pressure off..."

"Or maybe he needs every guy in the state to stop manhandling him!" Dick exclaimed.  "Now, are we going to demonstrate the penis sock, or are we going to have a gang bang?"

"Um...." I began.

"Penis sock, please,"  Joel said.  "Unless you have some babes waiting in the bedroom."

So Dick finished tying the knot -- it was just like tying a shoe lace -- and Joel swung his penis sock around a few time.  It didn't come off.    Then he got dressed again, and we had our dessert and left.

In the car, Joel said, "Cool guys, but if didn't know better, I'd think that Jack was trying to get with me."

"No way!  He was just being flirty.  Lots of gay gays act like that."

"I know.  I mean, who would try something in front of his boyfriend and my uncle!  How crazy would that be?"

"Incredibly crazy."

See also: Nephew Sausage Sighting #1: The Father-Son Retreat; and My Uncle's Queer: Joel's Transformation from Choir Boy to Punk Rocker.

Hooking Up with my Old Bully

Rock Island, December 21st, 1984

December 21st, 1984, a Friday night.  I am teaching in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas, the loneliest place on Earth --  I've had no dates all semester, except for some very weird one-night stands.  The high points of my semester have been a visit from Bruce and the student who got naked in my class.

Now I'm home for Christmas in Rock Island, the second loneliest place on Earth.

I've just had dinner with my parents, Tammy and her boyfriend, and Ken and his wife and kids.  Marriage and children are on everyone's mind.  The boyfriend asks, "Do you have a girlfriend in Texas?" My father shushes me before I can think of something witty and sardonic to say.

Then we watch tv: Benson, Webster, Dallas.

There are no gay people here.  Anywhere.

"Got stuff to do," I say.  "See ya."  I get into my car and head out into the black, clear night.  It's too cold to go to the levee, so I go to JR's, Rock Island's gay bar.

It's still early, only 9:30, and not crowded.  Most gay people are with their relatives now, lying, dissimulating, or keeping silent during conversations about boyfriends and girlfriends and the hotness of tv stars.

Then I see, across the room, my worst nightmare: Dick Sunstrom (not his real name).

Dick in Grade School

Dick was the biggest, meanest, nastiest bully at Denkmann Elementary School. He lived next door to Dewey's Candy Store, where Bill took me on our first date -- I think his grandpa owned it -- and he terrorized kids who tried to get after-school snacks.  Just boys he deemed insufficiently masculine: they were punched, kicked, tripped, spat on, and called names: Sissy!  Fairy!  Wuss!  Tiny Tim!  And the most devastating: Girl!"

At least once a week, Dick challenged a "sissy" to a fight, and the entire school watched as he pummelled the poor kid to death.  I was pummelled to death twice.

His reign of terror continued into junior high and high school, except that he got bigger and bigger, until he towered over us mortals, with huge hands and huge biceps and a beneath-the-belt gift that you couldn't take your eyes off.

He didn't fight much anymore, but he was one of the boys who pushed my future boyfriend Dan into the girls' restroom, and now he had a whole new repertoire of insults: Swish!  Fruit!  Fag! Homo!  The worst remained: Girl!

Now, six years after graduation, Dick is here in JR's, even bigger, more muscular, and meaner-looking.  Was he fooled by the country-Western decor?  Doesn't he realize that it's a gay bar?   I brace myself for the shouts of Sissy!  Fruit!  Fag! Wuss! Girl!

Dick sees me, clomps over, and claps a huge hand on my shoulder.  "Boomer!  How the hell are you?  I never expected to see you here!"

"Um...I never expected to see you, either.  How are you?"

"Great, just great!  Merry Christmas!  Let me buy you a beer!"

Turns out Dick is gay, a regular at JR's.  Really, shouldn't we have known?  He was a man's man who never spent a moment around girls.  He liked only male-coded activities like hunting, fishing, cars, and guns.  And the years of yelling: an obvious defense against the struggle that went on inside every boy who liked boys, when liking boys meant that you were a girl.

I should be angry over the damage Dick has done to a generation of feminine boys who heard his taunts of  Sissy!  Fairy!  Wuss!  Fag!  Girl!  But I'm not.  It took him forever to figure it out -- he was 22, in his senior year of college (he majored in accounting, of all things).  And in the last 2 1/2 years, he's had one-night stands but no boyfriends, no lovers.  He's more damaged than any of them.

Dick invites me back to his house -- he still lives next to the Candy Store.  He shows me his cars, his fishing trophies, his gun collection.  Then he takes me into the bedroom and shows me the body that terrorized a generation of feminine boys.

It is magnificent (#7 on my Sausage List).

We exchange phone numbers, and get together whenever I come home for a Christmas or summer visit. Over the years he will meet my lovers, and I will meet his.

It's not so lonely in Rock Island after all.

See also: A Ginger Boy for Christmas

December 2001: The Pizza Delivery Guy

When I was growing up, the best pizza in town came from Harris Pizza on 14th Avenue, about a half mile from our house.

The best in the world -- I've never found anything close.  Ground sausage, with the cheese on top. Real, fresh mushrooms, not the canned stuff.

We never got delivery -- why wait around, and then have to tip the delivery boy?  Dad just drove over and picked it up.

After I moved to West Hollywood in 1985, I went back home for visits twice a year, at Christmastime and in the summer, and I always insisted on getting Harris pizza at least once.

My parents moved to Indiana in 1995, so I didn't get back to Rock Island often, maybe every two years.  I stayed with my brother, who lived downtown, a long way from 14th Avenue, but I still insisted on ordering it at least once during my visit.

During the summer of 2001, a few weeks before I moved from New York to Florida, I was back in Rock Island visiting Ken, and for some reason I got the job of driving my sister-in-law's car to pick up the pizza.

I had never actually been inside Harris Pizza before.  I was surprised by how small the space was, how much it smelled of sausage and mushrooms, and how hot the guy at the counter was.

He was stunning!  College age, oval face, sparkling black eyes, wavy black hair, nice chest and biceps.  His name tag said "Jack."

I couldn't decide which I liked better: the smell of the Harris Pizza, or Jack saying "May I help you?"

My pizza wasn't quite done, so we chatted a bit.  "I grew up in Rock Island.  Whenever I visit, I always come back for a Harris Pizza."

"Where do you live now?"

"New York.  I have an apartment in the East Village." (I didn't mention that I would be vacating it in three weeks.)

Jack grinned.  "Wow, that's exciting!  I'd love to live in New York someday.  I'm studying theater arts at Augustana, so Broadway is my dream."

"Hey, I know lots of theater people.  If you visit New York, I could introduce you to my friend Blake, who works for...."

Then my pizza slid up from the kitchen.  I paid and left -- forgetting to give Jack my name or phone number.

The next day I went to Harris Pizza at about the same time.  No Jack -- and it would be pushy to ask the staff about him.

And I was leaving tomorrow!

Thinking fast, I called my friend and former bully, Dick.

"Harris Pizza!" he exclaimed.  "All that fat and sodium!   I never go near that place -- you might as well be eating a deep-fried Big Mac!

"The pizza might be bad, but you should see the pizza boy!  His name is Jack, he's a theater student at Augustana, and he's incredible!"

"Your type, huh?  A short bodybuilder with dark skin, an extra big sausage, and a degree in theology?"

"Well -- rather tall and fair skinned, actually.  More your type.  But gorgeous with a capital G!  And he was obviously cruising me!  Except I'm flying back to New York tomorrow, so I don't have time to pursue him."

"So you want me to pursue Jack for you?"

"Just go to Harris Pizza, mention me, maybe wow him with the list of celebrities I've seen naked -- feel free to add Tom Cruise to the list -- and maybe get his number.  I'll take it from there."

"I don't know, Potsie," he said, referring to Happy Days.  "Sounds like a crazy scheme. What's in it for me?"

"Well...if Jack and I hit it off, I'm willing to share.  Besides, you owe me for the 3,000 times you called me a 'sissy,' 'wuss,' and 'girl' back in grade school."

"Ok, ok," Dick grunted.  He didn't like to be reminded of his bullying days.  "I'll see what I can do."

The next day I went back to New York, and got so immersed in packing and truck rentals and lease walk-throughs that I forgot all about it.  Dick didn't say anything in his emails.

Then in November he emailed me: "Are you coming back to Rock Island for Christmas?"

"I wasn't planning to.  I was just there last June -- I don't want to wear out my welcome at my brother's house."

"You can stay with me.  I have a special present for you. Come the day after Christmas -- but not until 6:00 pm.  That's when the present is coming."

Puzzled, I agreed.  I spent Christmas with my parents, then rented a car and drove out to Rock Island on the 26th, timing my trip to arrive at 6:00 sharp.

Dick opened the door in a Christmas sweater, gave me a bear hug, and took his present -- a rather expensive set of wine glasses.  I noticed that the table was set for three.

"So, you mentioned a special present?"

"Right, right."  He yelled "Okay, now!" into the back of the house.  "Whatever Lola Wants, Lola Gets" from Damn Yankees started playing.

And a shirtless twink in a Santa hat and red jockstrap came dancing seductively out of the bedroom.

Whatever Lola wants, Lola gets,
And little man, little Lola wants you!

"Merry Christmas!" he said, grinding against me.

I helped myself to a grope.  "You got me a twink?  How thoughtful!"

Dick grinned.  "You idiot, this is Jack -- the famous hot pizza boy you were all crazy about!"

Over dinner (for which Jack got dressed), I heard the story:  last summer Dick went to Harris Pizza as I requested, but Jack wasn't there, so he gave up.  But in September, he read that the Augustana Theater Department was performing Death of a Salesman, with someone named Jack as Biff.  He wasn't a big theater fan, but he went to the performance, talked to Jack afterwards -- sure enough, it was the same guy.  And they started dating.

"Since you're kind of responsible for us meeting, Dick wanted to surprise you," Jack added.  "But not recognizing me kind of ruined it."

"Well, I only talked to you for five minutes, six months ago.  But it's a nice surprise now -- you're even hotter than I remember."

"You are, too," Jack said.

"Ok, enough grade school 'Oh, you're cute!' bull!" Dick exclaimed.  "Everybody thinks everybody is hot -- now let's get busy.  We have some sharing to do!"

Jack moved in with Dick a few months later.  They've been together ever since.

See also: Hooking Up with My Old Bully; My 12 Porn Movie Hookups; and The Museum Guard in My Bed.