Picking Up a College Track Star in Front of My Brother

Small Town Illinois, September 2016

We're on our way back from a funeral, my brother and sister-in-law in the front seat, me in the back, driving down I-74 through a wilderness of small towns and vast plains: Danville, Farmer City, Mahomet, LeRoy, Downs, Carlock.

Katie points to the sign of a town with a quirky name.  "We should stop there for dinner.  It will probably have a cute Mom and Pop restaurant that all of the locals go to."

"Small town locals?  Sounds scary.  ZZ Top wannabes driving red pickup trucks with Confederate flags and 'I Heart Trump' bumper stickers."

"...and rows of cute boutiques and antique shops," Katie says.

"I think we should just press on to Bloomington.  According to Google Maps, there are three Thai restaurants..."

"I can't wait another hour!" my brother Ken exclaims.  "And I'm not eating rest-stop McDonalds!"

"It will be fine!" Katie jokes.  "If your hot pink tutu and drag queen bouffant attract rednecks, we'll tell them you're my hairdresser."

To get to the small town, you drive north from the highway through one of those horrible retail strips, with a Wal-Mart, fast-food restaurants, and car dealerships.  Then through a residential district of the same white-porch houses you see everywhere in Illinois, across a river, and to downtown:

A park with a bandshell.
A clothing store for Cowgirls.
Two closed banks, a closed antique store, a hair salon, a lot of deserted storefronts, and two restaurants, only one open: The Paradise Soda Shop.

We go into the soda shop.  Maybe it serves sandwiches, too.

It's in a historic building, with restored booths and seats from the 1920s,

There's a hot bear in an old-fashioned soda jerk costume behind the counter: in his 40s, chubby, black hair, beard, nice square hands.  His name tag reads "Seth."

I go into full cruise mode: eyes, crotch, eyes again.  Unfortunately, Seth's crotch is covered by an apron.  "Hi, Seth, my name is Boomer.  My associates and I are traveling through on the way to the big city, and we were wondering what kind of local delicacies you have."

He grins.  "Well, we have sodas, malteds, shakes, and phosphates."

"Phosphates?"

"Carbonated water with all different kinds of flavoring. They were popular in the 1920s.  But we have flavors they never thought of: watermelon, papaya, kiwi, sriracha..."

"Sriracha?  The hot sauce?"

Our eyes meet with that unmistakable vibe.  "It's an acquired taste."

"We were looking more for dinner," Ken says,

"Well, there are two restaurants in walking distance: Burger King and Pizza Ranch.  But be sure to come back for a phosphate later.  I'm here until 7:00."

So much for a down-home Mom and Pop restaurant that everybody goes to.

The Pizza Ranch is the franchise run by fundamentalists, with the goal of Glorifying God with bad pizza and deep-fried chicken.  Two buffet tables loaded down with fried stuff.  A salad bar consisting of wilted lettuce and sliced cucumbers, and some long rows of family-style tables.

Where the entire local high school football team is eating! Eight beefy guys squeezing past us to get to their table, then returning for more fried stuff and squeezing past us again.

Crotch view after crotch view!

Legs and thighs an inch away!
Chests and biceps in full view!
A smile and an "Excuse me, sir" as a guy shifts toward me to scoot around.

Plus a cute boy eating with two rednecks, a pair of men in muscle shirts, and the father of a nuclear family with a blatant bulge in his pants.

There are 23 men and 3 women in the room. My kind of restaurant!

I nudge Katie. "I think I'm going to move here, and eat at the Pizza Ranch every night."

"You do, and you'll be as big as a house," Katie says.

"Ok, I'll go somewhere else for the food, and come here for the view."

I try to push us through, so we can get back to the Paradise for phosphates and cruising.  Unfortunately, we arrive a little after 7:00, and Seth is gone.   A gruff older woman takes our phosphate orders.

Seth may be gone, but there's a cute college boy a nearby booth, eating ice cream with his two friends -- both girls, I notice.  He's tall and slim, with a long face and dirty-blond hair.  And he keeps looking over at me and smiling.

Seeing a chance to cruise, I excuse myself and go over to his booth.  "Hi, you look familiar..."

"You must have seen me at the meet.  I'm Ryan H**** -- I placed at 10.23."

I have no idea what he is talking about, so I say "That sounds very impressive.  Sorry I wasn't there to see it.  I'm Boomer -- my brother and sister-in-law and I are just passing through town."

His face falls.  "Are you interested in track and field?"

"Sure, I like all sports.  I used to write for a bodybuilding magazine."

"Cool!  What do you do now?"

While the girls text furiously on their smartphones, Ryan and I talk about college.  He's a freshman at the University of Illinois, where he's on the track team (10.23 is his personal best for a 2-mile run).   He wants to major in criminology and go to work for the FBI.

"I can tell you all about the field of criminology," I begin.  Then I see Ken and Katie gesturing at me and looking bored.  "But we should be going -- we have a long drive ahead of us.  But you and I should stay in touch.  I'll give you my email address."

He thanks me, but doesn't offer anything in return.  We shake hands and head out into the night.

"I'm definitely moving here!" I exclaim..  "This place is cruisier than the Rage on a Saturday night at last call!"

"Are you sure Ryan wasn't just being friendly?" Katie asks.  "There's a big difference between friendly and interested.  He didn't give you his phone number, did he?"

"No, but..."

"Anyway, he lives 600 miles from your town," Ken adds.  "A little far for dating."

"Well, I'll be passing through this way again at Christmastime."

Back home, I look up Ryan on twitter and Facebook.  Last summer he tweeted a picture of his friend's backside with the caption "Thank God for Sam's butt."  His Facebook page has a picture of him in his underwear -- nice basket -- with the caption:  "Only ___ High School boys party in their underwear."

I'm guessing he's gay.

Suddenly my cell phone buzzes.  Ryan has sent me a photo: nude, at a pool, his enormous Kovbasa semi-aroused.  Probably photoshopped, but who cares?

I'm guessing he's interested.  

Only three months until Christmas!

See also: My Christmas Date with the College Track Star; Hookup with the Waiter at a Christian Restaurant; and Ryan's Three Way with Harry Styles.

20 Plains Pick-Ups, Hook-Ups, Dates, and Boy Toys

Guys in the Straight World hook up a lot more than we ever did in gay neighborhoods.  We had sex at the end of dates or parties, and hooked up only very occasionally.  There was too much else going on: cruise bars, dance bars, leather bars, restaurants, churches, community centers, bookstores, theater.

None of that on the Plains, nothing gay at all except for the gay-friendly coffee house, so your usual evening entertainment is Netflix and hooking up.

But only with teenagers and twinks: the older men moved to gay neighborhoods long ago, or are "bi-curious" and terribly closeted.

Here are the 20 top pick-ups from my 3 years to date on the Plains.

1. The Straight Boy  It was kind of flattering to be asked to be the "first time" for a so-called "straight boy," until he started laying down the requirements: no real names, no face pics, don't tell anyone, I don't want to do anything I don't want to do, and what if someone sees me coming in?

2. My Platonic Friends and their Boy Toy.  One of my few attempts to hook up with someone close to my age: a couple in their 50s from the gym.  Instead I had to endure two nights of horribly boring conversation about room additions and car models.  But I did manage a date with their housemate, Jimmy.

3. Nguyen the Gym Rat.  At a conference in St. Peter, Minnesota, I picked up the Vietnamese guy who worked in an art gallery, but got a date with Nguyen the Gym Rat instead.

4. My Dad's Navy Buddy.  Weird story about a guy who looked and acted like my Dad's old navy buddy from the 1950s.  Could have been his grandson, I suppose.














5. The Dakota Boy.  At least I thought he was Dakota: we met at a Pow Wow, where he was staffing a booth that sold corn on the cob as a snack.  Turns out he was a white boy cruising for Native Americans, and thought I was Dakota.

6. The Biker.  When the chunky guy with the beard, redneck baseball cap, hairy chest, and thick Bratwurst showed up at a bear party, I figured he was in his 30s.  Turns out he was only 23.

7. The Guy with the Professor Fetish.  The youngest person I ever dated (up to that time), a 22-year old theater major who wanted me to "keep him after class."

8.The Guy with the Daddy Fetish, who I picked up at a comic book store.  He had cerebral palsy and a Daddy fetish.

9.The Teenager at the Bear Party.  Joey was 19, but wanted to come to a daytime bear party to hook up with the over 40 crowd.











10.  The Waiter at the Pizza Place.  A Protestant fundamentalist pizza place that played Christian music and had Bible verses on the walls.

11. . The Boy Who Had Never Been Kissed.  He had been with guys before, but never been kissed.

12. Ricky with a Y.  A crazy date with a rich kid whose parents owned half of the state and criticized everything I did.

13. The Adonis.  He burst into the gay-friendly coffee house and ignored me, no matter how enthusiastically I cruised him.

14. The Boy at the Farmer's Market.  He was selling homemade pickles.

15. Freshman Orientation.  An Asian guy who was playing volleyball at the gym, and got stuck in my office during a tornado warning.









16. Bastian, an 18-year old high school senior who my friend Gabe dated.  I came along to "share."

17. The Teenage Boy and His Mom.  We hooked up at the gym.  I thought he was bringing his hot friend along, but it turns out he was bringing his Mom.

18. The Deaf Guy who was into BDSM scenes, but couldn't be blindfolded or gagged.

19. The Tourist Brothers.  The Plains is apparently a tourist destination, and a heterosexual nuclear family was checking out the sights while their teenage sons were checking me out.

20. My Host's Son.  Picked up at a heterosexual party.  We dated for the next six months.

A Week of Dates with Daddies and Bears

Plains, June 2016

It's fun being a twink magnet, but sometimes I long for the company of men my own age, men who remember dial phones and David Cassidy, who don't spend the entire evening texting and talking about Lego Star Wars, who don't initiate the bedroom activity by saying "Do me, Daddy!"

The problem is, here on the Plains, most of the out, open gay men over 40 have long since moved to the nearest gay neighborhood, leaving the closeted, skittish, newly out, and downlow.  And they usually say "No one over 30" in their profiles!

"You're just not looking in the right places," Gabe, my vegan friend with the enormous penis, tells me.

"I get perved by older guys every five seconds," my sort-of boyfriend Dustin adds.  "Want us to set you up with some?"

"Hookups or dates?"

He laughs.  "Whatever you want.  We can even share a malted down at the sock hop, if that's your bag, Daddy-O."

So Gabe and Dustin text a few old boyfriends and get on a few hookup apps, and before I know it, they've set up a week's worth of dates and hookups with bears, daddies, and silver foxes.

Tuesday: The Wine Connoisseur

Dustin and I meet Brad at the Wine Bar near my apartment, where I gamely sip on a soda while he prats on about beaujolais. He's a husky bear in his 60s, balding, white beard, hairy chest, never had a boyfriend -- "I'm too independent for that."

 He's retired, wintering in Florida, and spending the summers immersed in wine, gardening, and...well, not much else.

After a long, boring conversation, we go back to Brad's house, about 20 miles away, for more wine and soda and boring conversation.  I go down on him right there in the living room, more out of boredom than desire -- averaged sized, thick -- and when he is finished, Dustin and I drive home, yawning.

Wednesday: The Foot Fetishist.

Gabe comes along on my hookup with Footman, who wants two foot masters, whatever that is.

We drive far out to his house by a lake in the middle of the night.  Footman specifies that we should not shower after working out, so we smell nice and ripe.

He's in his 40s, rather buffed, with a hairy chest, prominent nipples, and a small penis with a Prince Albert.

He sniffs our socks, takes them off, massages and kisses our feet, and then brings us into the bedroom, where he continues to massage and kiss our feet.  I don't want to kiss this guy after he's been playing around with my feet.  He won't do oral.  He lets me go down on him, but does not become aroused.  "Play with it with your feet!" he suggests.

Ok, I'm outta here.




Thursday: The Bisexual

Dustin and I hookup with Adam, from a small town about 50 miles away: he's only 42, tall, black-haired, black beard, a little chunky, with thick biceps and a thick cut Kielbasa.  My only turnoff is the innumerable tattoos.

He's a computer technician and avid online game player, born and raised in the Plains.  He lives in a house that belongs to his parents, sharing with a heterosexual couple and his girlfriend.

Um...girlfriend?

"Oh, sure, I love women.  I like playing with guys on the side, of course, but nothing can compare to the soft, smooth, feminine curves -- man, they even smell good, you hear me?"

Um..ok, I go down on him to shut him up.  He's not bad in the bedroom, passionate, into oral and kissing, but how can I concentrate with the mental picture of soft, smooth, feminine curves in my head?

Friday: Day Off!

Saturday Afternoon: The Smoker

Gabe and Dustin both tag along for this hookup. For some reason, they tell the Smoker that we're all anal tops.  We aren't.

The Smoker drove 80 miles to be here.  He's in his 40s, thin, wiry, heavily tanned, with a stupid moustache.  He stinks of smoke.  Kissing him is gross.  I go down on his long, pale white penis while he goes down on Gabe.  He doesn't get aroused. Then Dustin tries.  Nope.

 "Mostly I just beat off while getting screwed."

I turn him over on his back and try entering him, but he's not good at that, either.  He keeps sputtering and choking.  "Mostly I just get screwed," he says.

Saturday Night: The Nipple-Biter

I'm on my own for my date with Corbin.  He's exactly my age, but he looks much older, bald, craggy, sagging, somewhat feminine.  He lives in a small town about 30 miles away, where everyone knows but no one talks about it.  He's a high school music teacher, and plays the organ at the small fundamentalist church that he grew up in.

 After dinner, we go back to my apartment and into the bedroom.  Corbin is into kissing, but his cologne is a little much.  He has a thin, white-haired chest, a little belly, and a Bratwurst that doesn't get aroused, even though he augments it with a cock ring.

"Try this," he says, and bites my nipple -- hard.

I bite his nipples -- hard while he manipulates himself.  It takes forever.

How does someone my age get to be so old?

Sunday: 

"Tonight, we'll be hooking up with..." Gabe begins.

"Oh, no," I interrupt.  "I've had enough of the foot fetishists and nipple-biters.  Tonight it's my turn to pick someone."

I go on a dating app, and start a conversation with TJ, age 25, who works in a restaurant downtown but is planning to go back to school for a degree in psychology.  Tall, slim, nice pecs and washboard abs, average sized, uncut.

Gay, out, employed, two miles away, no fetishes, non smoker, able to get aroused, able to go down on me without choking!

Maybe I can put up with the texting, references to Lego Star Wars, and "Do me, Daddy!"  

See also: What Dustin Likes About Older Guys; No One Over 30.

Do Seasons Affect Your Dating Success?

I'm depressed today because there are three weeks left in the semester, my favorite tv show just had its season finale, and the last play of the theatrical season is next week.  Soon everything will be over, and it will be time to endure three months of boredom and isolation: summer in the Straight World.

My favorite seasons are, in order: Fall, Winter, Spring, and...ugh...Summer.

Maybe I can snap out of my depression by calculating how many cute guys I've landed dates with in each season.  Is there a dearth of dating in Summer, and a plenitude in Fall?

During my 11 years in the Straight World, Ohio, Upstate, and Plains (so far), I've had first dates (not hookups) with 72 guys.








Fall (September, October, November) 

After the dead time of the summer, everything starts over again.  New classes, new books, new faces at the gym, new tv shows, new theater season, new museum exhibits.

There's a little nip in the air, so you can go outside without getting soaked in half a block, and wear a hot sweater inside.

My favorite holidays, Halloween and Thanksgiving.  And my birthday, of course.

Dates: 27 (42%), including boyfriends Charlie and Paul in Ohio and Chad in Upstate New York.

Winter (December, January, February).  It's cold, so you can stay in the house without people trying to guilt you into "enjoying the outdoors."  The cold air is invigorating.  The sun goes down at a normal hour, so it's dark in the evening.

The social world is in full swing, with parties, dinners, benefits, concerts, plays, art exhibits, film festivals, book signings.

Christmastime is a pain, but if you stay out of the Mall and don't watch network tv in December, you can avoid most of it.  Stick to New Year's Eve and Valentine's Day.

Dates: 24 (37%), including Pete (the water delivery guy) in Upstate New York and Dustin (the son of my host at the heterosexual party) in Plains, who I'm still dating, whenever he gets a school break.

Spring (March, April, May).  You can jog outside again, the flowers start to bloom, and there's a smorgasbord of holidays and events: Mardi Gras parties, St. Patrick's Day, Easter, film festivals, Oscar parties, and spring break.

In May the year runs down: the last day of class, the last episode of your favorite tv show, the last play of the season, saying goodbye to friends.  But before that, it's a fun ride.

Dates: 15 (23%).  I'm usually with someone, so dating is not a top priority.

Summer (June, July, August).  Dead time.  All of your friends are out of town, there's no classes, nothing to do, nowhere to go, and even if you did have somewhere to go, it's too hot.

Baseball games.  Camping.  Eating outside.  People forcing you to "enjoy the outdoors."

Long, boring car trips to the Midwest for uncomfortable visits with fundamentalist relatives.

Dates: 7 (11%), including Troy, my boyfriend in Upstate New York (but we met in the spring).

Some hookups while on vacation, but not a lot of dates.  Is it because there aren't many guys around to date, or because I'm too depressed to cruise properly?

See also: Best, Worst, and Most Erotic Christmases; 34 Reasons to Like Summer.

What Dustin Likes about Older Guys

Remember last January, when I went to a heterosexual party, and hooked up with the host's 21-year old son, Dustin?  (Not his real name.)

Dustin is in college in Minneapolis, but last week he drove out for the long weekend.  On Saturday, he was busy with his friends, but on Sunday we went out to dinner at the new Mexican place and saw Deadpool, at the Mall.

The tickets seemed rather cheap.  While we were waiting to buy popcorn,  I looked at my receipt.

Senior Citizen Discount!

Whoa, I'm only 55.  I won't be eligible for senior citizen discounts for at least five years!

"It must be the contrast effect," Dustin said.  "The average age of this crowd is about twenty, so you naturally look old.,"

I looked around.  Almost all college-age boys, in pairs and groups.

Suddenly I felt very out of place.  I tried to concentrate on the pre-movie commercials.

"Anyway, who can tell the difference between 55 and 60?   Or 40 and 60, for that matter?  There's young, and then there's old, that's all."

"What's that you say, sonny?"  I said, hurt.  "Why, in my day, we had respect for our elders.  When my Dad told me to go out and feed the dinosaurs, by golly, I jumped to it!"

Dustin caressed my knee in the darkness.  "Hey, Grandpa Simpson, you got the goods.  I'd go down on you sooner than any of these Marvel fanboys.  In fact, I'll bet that you're the only guy in the whole theater who has a 100% chance of getting laid tonight."

He was right -- I did get laid after the movie.  Repeatedly.  Young guys who have only had sex a few times can be remarkably energetic.

Did I say that?

During one of our cuddling breaks, I dug out old my Norton Anthology of English Literature, and read Dustin a poem, "The Old Men Admiring Themselves in the Water," by William Butler Yeats (1903).

I heard the old, old men say,
"Everything alters,
And one by one we drop away."










They had hands like claws.

And their knees
Were twisted like the old thorn-trees
By the waters.

"All that's beautiful drifts away
Like the waters."

"Ridonkulous!" Dustin exclaimed. "I call B.S.  Or should I say banana oil?"

"I think the proper term is bogus."

He kissed  me on the chest, then started working his way down.  "If all you look at is his hands and knees, you're doing it wrong.  The best part of an older guy is in between."

I laughed.  "Speaking of knees, how about getting on yours?"

See also: My Ex-Student Naked in the Locker Room; and Hooking Up with My Host's Son