Straight Guys Never Figure It Out

Wilton Manors, October 2003

When I was living in Florida, newcomers from the small towns (or big cities) of the vast homophobic Straight World often went crazy with joy: "You can be open here!  You can be free!"  They found a job in a gay venue, read only gay books, went only to gay movies, and never ventured beyond the magic square bounded by Oakland Park Blvd., Powerline Road, NW 13th Street, and the Atlantic Ocean.

"Oh, you live on NW 12th Street?  Isn't that a little...iffy?"

Most residents of Wilton Manors weren't quite so insular.  But all of our friends were gay.  So were our neighbors.  And, as far as we know, so was the guy on the next treadmill at Barney's Gym, the guy sorting coupons in the check out line at the Publix Supermarket, and the woman browsing among the humorous cards at To the Moon.  We avoided heterosexuals as much as possible.  They were the enemy, screaming "God hates you!" from behind security fences at Gay Pride, or asking simpering, insulting questions, like "What do they think causes it now?"

So my house mates were surprised, and not entirely sympathetic when I befriended a heterosexual.

In the fall of 2003, when I was working at Florida Atlantic University, I saw Josh (not his real name) in the locker room of the campus gym, stripping out of a plaid shirt, suspenders, and a ridiculous red bowtie. I concluded that he was heterosexual almost immediately, through the gleaming, new-looking ring on his finger and his casual references to his wife. Surely Josh concluded that I was gay almost immediately, from my answer to the question " What are you working on now?” (media images of gay teenagers), or from the shelves of gay books, rainbow flag mouse pad, and gay pride poster in my office.

But no, when an attractive girl passed, Josh nudged me so I could look.  "I only look at guys," I said.

That didn't do it.

"He will never figure it out," my housemate Yuri told me.  "Stupid straight guys can never see anything but straights."

"Anyway, why would you want to tell a breeder?" my other housemate, Barney, said with an accusatory glare, as if I was planning some act of treason.  "When he finds out, he'll start screaming that you're trying to molest him."

"He's not a friend, really.  He just comes to my office to chat.  Besides, it's a challenge.  Somehow or other I'm going to get him to figure it out!"

"Impossible!"  Barney exclaimed.  "But why don't we make it interesting?  I'll bet you $20 that you can't get him to figure it out during the next week.  You can say anything you want except 'I'm gay.'"

"I want in on this thing too," Yuri said.  "But you can't cruise him.  Or talk about your old boyfriends."

I spent the next week dropping all of the hints I could think of.

"I can't get married in this state.  It's illegal."
"Oh...still married to the wife back home, huh?"
No, you nitwit, gay people can't get married!

"I can't donate blood.  It's illegal."
"I hear you.  Get a venereal disease just once, it haunts you for the rest of your life."
No, you idiot, gay men can't donate blood!

"My childhood church was totally homophobic.  It blamed gays for everything from child molestation to 9/11."
"That's ridiculous!  Gays are just people, like you and me."
Are you in on the bet?  Did my housemates pay you to pretend ignorance?

Finally in desperation I invited Josh over for dinner with Barney and Yuri.

"Oh, a guys' night!  Leave the girlfriends at home!  Sounds great!"

During dinner, I brought up Wilton Manors' reputation as a gay mecca.
"Yeah, gentrifying neighborhoods often have gay guys fixing things up."

Barney's job managing a gym with a mostly gay clientele.
"It's great that you're so secure in your masculinity that you aren't worried about them seeing you naked in the locker room."

Yuri's quest for the World's Biggest Penis in the Basque country of Spain four years ago.
"Wow, are they really that big?  They must really impress the ladies!"

My housemates grinned at me.

After dinner I invited Josh to select a movie to watch from our collection of 200-odd DVDS. Other than a few classics, they all had gay characters, gay subtexts, or covers displaying muscular guys with their shirts off. Without a word or even an odd look, he selected Alfred Hitchcock’s North by Northwest, which has none.

Josh sat on the couch, directly behind a coffee table containing a pile of gay magazines. On top was an issue of The Advocate, selected deliberately because the word “Gay” was written on the cover three times, along with photos of the gay icons Harvey Milk and Chad Allen. Surely that would be enough.

It wasn't.

After the movie, we were channel surfing, when an attractive man appeared on the screen. “Wait – go back,” I exclaimed. “That guy was totally hot!”

"What for?"  Josh asked.  "It was a guy."

Finally in desperation, I pulled out my wallet, handed $20 bills to Yuri and Barney, and said, in a loud, clear voice, "I am gay."

"Yeah, right.  Don't be funny."  He turned to Yuri.  "Does Boomer always joke around like this?"

"Yes, all the time," he said, barely restraining his laughter.  "Except when he wants to impress a girl."

I hit him on the head with a pillow.

When they finally assured Josh that I wasn't joking, he was shocked.  "I had no idea.  You hide it so well!"

Hide it?

Then: "I think it's great that you guys are so secure in your masculinity that you don't mind having a gay roommate."

My Grandmother's Gay Artist Friends

Santa Fe, New Mexico, July 2004

My Grandma Davis was an ultra-devout fundamentalist Christian who always carried her worn study Bible, corresponded with a dozen missionaries, and got angry at the "hippies and radicals" she saw on tv.  Yet she seemed remarkably nonchalant about my junior high boyfriend Dan, and when we broke up, she found a new boy for me to "go around with."

When she died, during my sophomore year in high school, we had to sort through her  possessions.  I found an old trunk in the attic with surprising evidence that she had encountered gay people before.  It contained:

1. Jazz records: Hoagy Carmichael, Louis Armstrong, Fats Waller, Duke Ellington, Bix Beiderbecke.

2. Some paintings: a young woman with long red hair, wearing a blue evening gown and pearls; a still life; an old-fashioned cottage with a huge back yard covered with flowers, labeled "Devon."  When was Grandma Davis in Devon?

3. Some photographs of men, hugging, holding each other. One in a swimsuit, with a smooth, hard chest, standing on a beach, his arm around a taller, blond guy in a U.S. navy uniform (top photo).

Another of two very muscular, shirtless guys, one in white chinos, the other in overalls, apparently holding hands. (I asked for and got to keep them both.)

Dad could explain the music: "When your Grandma was younger, she was big into jazz.  Always going to concerts."

And the paintings:  "Right after high school, must have been in 1921, she went down to Indianapolis to art school.  Then, for some reason, she suddenly dropped out and went back home to Rome City.  That summer, 1923, she got saved at a Nazarene camp meeting, and married your Grandpa. "

I wondered what compelled a young woman to abandon her studies, her art, and her friends, shut them all away in a trunk in the attic for 52 years?

Did it have something to do with the hugging men?

Dad didn't know who they were.

A couple of years later, when I was in college, her younger brother Harry came to Thanksgiving dinner at Aunt Nora's house.  He was only ten when Grandma went to Indianapolis, but he remembered that their parents disapproved:

"This was during Prohibition, and Gracie and her friends went wild, with hooch and jitterbugging -- two things Nazarenes hate most.  It makes sense that she would want to hide away memories of her old, sinful life after she converted."

"But...who were the hugging men?"  I showed him the pictures.

"This one looks like a fellow she knew from art school, Carl something or other.  She brought him up to Rome City a couple of times. The others are probably his friends.  Oscar, maybe. I remember one time they all went skinnydipping up at Indiana Dunes, and got arrested, and Pop told her not to associate with such 'vulgarians' again, but of course she didn't listen."

Vulgarians?  Code for "gay"?  I looked in a directory of Indiana artists, but didn't find any Carl or Oscar from Indianapolis who was the right age.

Wood Woolsey

Then in 2004, I was visiting Larry in New Mexico, and I stumbled upon the name of regional artist Wood Woolsey (1899-1970).  He lived in Indianapolis from 1921 to 1927, and he studied at the John Herron Art Institute at the same time as Gracie.

He had a younger brother, Carl, also an artist, who lived with him.  My grand-uncle must have mixed the names up.

Wood Woolsey never married.  Could he have been gay?

Grandma Davis at the start of her life, skinnydipping with some gay guys!

Did finding out cause her skittish retreat into fundamentalist Christianity?

Or did she have only warm memories of her gay friends?  There's also evidence that she may have married a gay man.  And that fifty years later, when her 13-year old grandson began talking about boys he liked, she understood, on some level, and advised "You should find a nice Christian boy."  And when he broke up, she found him another boy to "go around with."

See also: Beefcake and Boyfriends of the Jazz Age

The Most Homophobic Statement I Have Ever Heard

Not Ralph in underwear

Rock Island, December 2001

I've heard lots of homophobic statements over the years, ranging from the ignorant (mostly from "friends"):

"Are you the boy or girl in your relationship?"
"What do they think causes it now?"
"If you've never been with a woman, how do you know you like men better?"

To the raving (mostly from preachers).

"The homa-sekshul would just as soon kill you as look at you."
"No nation that has tolerated homa-sekshuls has ever survived!"
"Homa-sekshuls are possessed by the Spirit of Evil!"

But the most homophobic statement I ever heard consisted of five little words:

"Oh, you mean that place."



Mr. Manary was a young, hip teacher at Rocky High, who insisted that students call him by his first name, Ralph.  I never actually saw him in his underwear, but close scrutiny during lectures suggested that he looked like this: tall, thin, clean-cut, tight-muscled, and bulging.

During my sophomore year, I had Ralph for American History.  He wrote a book on the Quad Cities, so he had us investigate Rock Island during the 1920s, and learn about gangster John Looney and jazz musician Bix Beiderbecke.

When we got to the 1950s, we read some writers of the Beat Generation, including Allen Ginsberg's "Supermarket in California", and we watched the classic anti-Communist allegory I Married a Monster from Outer Space.  

Have you ever heard of anyone so cool?

During my junior year, I had him for political science.  We took a field trip to the courthouse to see a real criminal trial,  about a shooting that took place in the Hawaiian Lounge, Rock Island's gay bar.  One of the witnesses, the "swish  on the double date", helped me figure out what gay meant.

Eugene McCarthy

When we held a mock 1976 presidential election.  Jimmy Carter won by a landslide, but Ralph came out in favor of the liberal independent, Minnesota senator Eugene McCarthy.

Ralph was the first person to encourage me to think about college.  He even got the head of the history department at his alma mater, St. Olaf College, to invite me to apply.

During my senior year, I had him for AP American History.  Sometimes he held study sessions at his house, and his wife made cookies.

We had to parse Dr. Martin Luther King's "I Have a Dream" speech and read Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, about the oppression of the Native Americans.

Fast forward 20 years, to January 2002: I was living in Florida but back in Rock Island for the holidays.  I contacted Ralph, the local history expert.

Ralph's house

Now in his mid-50s, he was still teaching at Rocky High, still living in that small two-story house on 7th Avenue, with a white picket fence and an old-fashioned gas streetlamp.

We talked about Rock Island history:  scandals and floods and riots.  Local celebrities.  Iconic businesses.

Then: "What can you tell me about the Hawaiian Lounge? It was a Rock Island institution, and then suddenly it was gone, and JR's took its place.  Do you know how and when it closed?"

His eyes flashed.  "What lounge, now?"

 "You know, the Hawaiian Lounge.  Our poly sci class sat in on a trial about a shooting that took place there."

"Can't say I remember it."

I didn't notice his attempts to not know. He was a liberal, sensitive to minority struggles, and just plain cool, so why wouldn't he be gay-friendly?

That Place

"It was just a few blocks from here, on 4th Avenue.  You had to drive past it to get downtown...." I stopped short and stared.  His face was contorted into a mask of disgust.

"Oh, you mean that place."

He emphasized the word that: alien, other, stranger, savage.  Something wicked.  Something awful.  That place.

I quickly made an excuse and left, and drove aimlessly around in my sister-in-law's car for a long time.  I have rarely felt so depressed.

One of my childhood heroes hated me.

Swimming with a Boy Named Twilight

Titusville, Florida, Summer 1967

I had a recurring dream, or an especially vivid memory, of being attracted to a boy in my earliest childhood,

A very short house with a tall palm tree out front.  A woman, blond in a flowered dress.  A fat, blustery man.  A girl eating strawberries with whipped cream. A baby. And the boy.

Older than me, but still a kid, and taller, with blond or dirty-blond hair. I remembered his name as Twilight.

This guy is over 18.  I didn't remember how old Twilight was.

There were three main images:

1. We are watching tv in a room with oak panels. I think that a guy on screen is cute, and turn to Twilight for  validation.  He smiles.

2. In a car, driving somewhere: Twilight is sitting next to me in the back seat.  He says "Look at that" and reaches over my lap to point it out.  His warm, tanned arm rests briefly on my thigh.

3. Twilight is trying to coax me into a warm, salty ocean.  He splashes through the surf, yells, "Come on!"  His dark-tanned skin glistens in the sun.  There's a line of white on his back, where his swim trunks have ridden down.

Over the years Twilight grew in symbolic importance, until he became a Harlequin figure, a Jack of Shadows. The smile reveals the existence of same-sex love.  The touch demonstrates that it can be be physical as well as spiritual. And the cry of "Come on!" invites me to embrace its warmth: "don't dream it, be it."

Or was he a real boy that I actually met?

In the fall of 2004, when I was living in Florida, I decided to try my sleuthing skills out on the mysterious Twilight.

More after the break

The Beach Boy and the "Fag"

Wilton Manors

"I've found him!" Kelly exclaimed over the telephone.  "The One!  We've only had one date, but that's enough to know!"

Kelly was one of the fitness trainers at Barney's Gym: in his 30s, about Yuri's height, with a long face, brown hair, good biceps and excellent abs and a smooth, less-than-spectacular chest.  Beneath the belt he was average, cut, with shaved pubes.  Somewhat shy and quiet, one of those high-school nerds who found self-confidence at the gym.

He would let you go down on him, to be polite, but he reciprocated only if  you were big in the belly.  The bigger the better.  Superchub, no problem.

His dream guy was fat, young, smooth, and supersized beneath the belt.

Not easy to find!  In Florida, where the beach is a few blocks away and guys wear next to nothing year round, the Wilton Manors norm was heavily muscled with 3% body fat.  Husky guys were uncommon, and fat rather rare.  Young fat guys practically unheard of.

And for whatever reason, fat guys tend to be a a little small beneath the belt.  

So who was this Tobias, the Man of Kelly's dreams?

On the night of their third date, they came over for dinner so Kelly could introduce him to his friends: Barney, Yuri, his boyfriend Jim, another fitness trainer, me, and Wade the Beach Boy.  Yuri made his famous moussaka.

Tobias was in his 20s, tall, chubby, with a smooth chest, employed as a bartender at a hotel near the beach.  Obviously smitten by Kelly: he kept his arm around him the whole evening.

But I was turned off by his greasy slicked-back hair, tattoos, rings, and unattractive leer.

And his speech, littered with profanity: "Little Kelly here, he's the best f*king c*ksucker in the business!  Holy f*k, I never c** so hard in my life!"

And the fact that he had been in prison: "There was a little queen at Kissimmee [juvenile detention center] that was on his knees every night, serviced the whole f*ing dorm, I kid you not!"


"What were you in juvie for?" I asked.

"Oh, please, we're queers.  We're all criminals, according to the hetero *holes that run this country.  Now let's get this f*ng party started.  Which of you c*ksuckers wants the first shot?"

He unzipped.  He was already fully aroused.  A perfectly shaped Kielbasa, with a round head and a small vein running up the side.

Well, I didn't mind a little profanity.

Still, I couldn't imagine quiet, shy Kelly getting along with brash, profane Tobias for long.

A week or so later, I flew out to New Mexico to visit Larry and cruise in the Navajo nation.  Then I visited Rock Island and Indianapolis for a few days.

When I got back, I saw Kelly at the gym and asked "So, is it still Paradise?"

"Oh, it's going great!  Wait -- you've been out of town.  Are you talking about Tobias?  He's history!"

"Why, what happened?"

Here's what happened:

A few days after I left for New Mexico, Wade the Beach Boy and Kelly had lunch.

"Oh, it's going great!" Kelly said.  "Great in bed!  I never met a guy with so much stamina.  I must do him like ten times a day!"

"What about outside the bedroom?" Wade asked.  "Do you have the same interests in, like movies?  Or music?  You're the world's biggest gym rat -- does Tobias even work out?"

"Not really.  He says he gets enough exercise in bed! But we go to the beach, we go dancing, we cruise together and bring guys home to share.  It's fun...but...um, have you ever heard of parties where guys have sex?  I don't mean sharing with friends -- I mean complete strangers?"

"Sure -- Bear Parties.  Boomer talks about them."

"Well, Tobias wants me to go to a Bear Party with him, down in Miami Beach. Fifty naked guys, maybe more."

"Sounds like a fun Saturday night," Wade said.  "Can I get an invitation?"

"Here's the thing.  I'm supposed to be the party's official 'fag.'"

"That is way offensive, dude."

"No, it just means a guy who likes oral sex."

Oral bottoms, guys who are into going down, are often denigrated in gay communities, even called "fags," to distinguish them from the "real men," the oral tops.  It's all sexist nonsense, based on the belief that women are oral bottoms, and being "like a woman" is reprehensible.

"But," Kelly continued,  "The 'fag" has to go down on anybody Tobias wants.  But you know I'm not into that unless the guy is chubby."

"Well then refuse, and just go with guys you find attractive."

"Yeah, but Tobias told me to.  He already told everyone I was going to do it.  He's kind of in charge in the relationship.  He calls himself 'the guy," like I'm 'the girl."

"Ok."  Wade thought for a moment.  "Here's what you do.  First, get me an invitation."

The party was held in one of those extraordinarily expensive glass-and-steel apartments with a picture window looking out onto the ocean and the tv hidden away in a teakwood cabinet.  There were about 30 guys, a good mix of older and younger, occupying the living room and two bedrooms.

Tobias stationed the "fag" on a stool in a small alcove.  Wade said he wanted to mingle, but stood close by anyway.

After a few minutes, Tobias returned with a tall, thin older guy, naked, with a sizeable Bratwurst.  "Is this the fag?"  he asked, looking at Kelly.

"No, I am," Wade said, kneeling and going to work.

Tobias glared at Kelly, but what could he do?  He wandered off, found a thin twink, and brought him to the alcove.

"Sorry, Kelly's taking a break," Wade said.  "But I'm free."  He fell to his knees and got to work.

Tobias walked off in a huff.

Afterwards Wade wandered around until he found a chubby guy, and invited him into the alcove, where Kelly eagerly went to work.

Tobias appeared with another tall, thin guy, saw that Kelly was busy, and exclaimed "Hey, what the f*k?  You refuse all the guys I bring over, but when Wade brings someone..."

"Don't worry," Wade said.  "I'll take care of him."

"That's not the point!  Kelly is supposed to be the f*ing c*ksucker, f*ing going down on whatever guy I say!"

"I think that's called pimping," Wade murmured.  "Is Kelly your boyfriend or your employee?"

That was the end of Kelly' romance with Tobias.

But he did meet someone else at the party: big belly, thick uncut Mortadella.

Ok, he was 55 years old, and had a hairy chest.

But at least he didn't call Kelly a "fag."

See also: The Beach Boy and the Giant; Carlos and his Two Secrets.

Cruising in the Navajo Nation

Window Rock, Arizona

I grew up around Native Americans, at the annual pow wow and through visiting relatives (my Cousin Joe is half Potawatomie).  But I was never with a Native American guy, through all my years in college and in West Hollywood, except for the Inuit that Lane and I hooked up with.

When I visited my friend  Larry in New Mexico, I was determined to find a Native American guy.

Cruising in Santa Fe proved fruitless -- well, I brought home a cute college boy, but he was Anglo.

Albuquerque, Tucumcari, Roswell, Alamogordo, the same.  Lots of Hispanic guys, but not a lot of Native Americans.

So I decided to go to the heartland -- the Navajo Nation.

Semi-autonomous, 27,000 miles in parts of New Mexico, Arizona, and Utah, population 300,000, of whom 170,000 speak the Navajo language.  Capital Window Rock, Arizona, population 2,700.

I got a hotel room at the Quality Inn in Window Rock and set out.

Then I realized that I had no idea how to go about it.

I had been planning on cruising in straight bars, but there weren't any in Window Rock.

Not a lot of street cruising, either.  No one on the streets.  People drove cars and trucks.

There was a string of fast-food restaurants, but I didn't think much cruising went on at McDonald's and Church's Chicken.

The Window Rock itself was a very scenic natural formation, and the Navajo National Museum was interesting, but....Navajo men?

I found a locally-owned Mexican restaurant, but when I went inside, all eyes turned toward me with hostile stares.

In desperation, I asked at the front desk what "activities" there were around.  I got a list of dull things like camping, hunting, fishing, the Navajo Nation Zoo, and buying arts and crafts.

Was I being too blatant?  Or too desperate?

I spent the evening in online chatrooms.

Nothing.

In the morning I went jogging, early, before the sun got too hot.  I passed a group of high schoolers on the jogging trail.

In three hours I would be leaving for the airport.  And Indian country would be gone forever.

Suddenly I saw a man jogging by himself.   In his 20s, tanned, hairy chest.  

Good enough. I caught up to him and poured on the erotic energy.  "Hot one today, isn't it?" I began, an inane but effective way to start a conversation.

Instead of the usual hostile stare, he smiled.

His name was Ricky, and he worked in human services.  I spent four years in human resources, so we talked a bit about the problems of personnel.  Then about the problems of meeting people in the Navajo Nation.

"It's all close-knit family groups.  You don't get to be friends unless your great-grandparents knew each other.  And dating -- forget it -- drive down to Albuquerque."

"So -- you don't have a girlfriend or boyfriend at home?" I asked.

"Just me and my cat."

"I love cats!" I exclaimed,  pretending to be excited.

He glanced over and smiled.  "You want to drop by and meet her?"

You know what followed.  Briefly petting the cat, followed by a shower and a bedroom.  Nice physique, average beneath the belt gifts.

 Then Ricky drove me back to my hotel, so I could check out and drive to the airport.

A nice, unexpected hookup.  With only one problem.  Ricky was Anglo, too.

See also: Kyle Hawk: Gay or gay-ally wrestler, with a nude Native American bonus

The Security Guard on My Sausage List

Wilton Manors, September 2001

In West Hollywood, there were strict age limits on dating.  More than 5 years older or younger, and you were gossiped about and not invited to parties.

In New York, the lower age limit was gone.  It was perfectly acceptable, even expected, for someone in his late 30s to be seen with a 20-year old Cute Young Thing.

When I moved to Florida in 2001, the upper age limit was gone, too.  It was perfectly acceptable, even expected, for someone in his early 40s to be seen with a 60-year old Daddy.

Of course, the older still had to wait for the younger to approach, lest he be labeled a Creepy Old Guy.  So I never approached 60-something Troy at the Sunshine Cathedral, a gay church in Fort Lauderdale: we were "just friends."

We continued to be "just friends" when we started working out together at the Club Fort Lauderdale, and going out to dinner, usually to a Japanese fusion place called Kenji.



Troy was a retired physician who had just come out upon his wife's death.

He was well-versed in Eastern mysticism, the paranormal, and the occult.  He had a gay Tarot cart deck.  We talked about Zen Buddhism and mysterious disappearances and my summer in Japan.    

But I adamantly rebuffed his attempts to get physical.  I was dating another guy from the Sunshine Cathedral, 24-year old Matt, who wasn't very bright, but had 3 of the 5 qualities that I find attractive: muscular, religious, and gifted beneath the belt (#1 on the list of the 15 biggest "sausages" I've ever encountered).

Matt was trying to write a novel about a hard-boiled noir detective who happened to be gay, and in the meantime worked as a night-time security guard.  We usually went out in the early evening, before his shift started.

The only time Matt and Troy saw each other was during Sunday morning services at the Sunshine Cathedral, and once or twice when I invited them both over for dinner.

Or so I thought.

That fall Troy went on a vacation to China and Tibet.  He brought me back a stamp shaped like monkey with Davis in Chinese characters:

丹尼斯 Dān ní sī, "Nice Redhead", which I suppose is is better than Boomer:  杰夫 Jié fū, "Outstanding Husband."

He brought Matt a silk shirt that beautifully highlighted his pecs.  But I didn't think anything of it at the time; he also brought back a souvenir for Yuri, who he barely knew.

I didn't think anything of it when Matt occasionally said that he was too tired to go out, and Troy was also busy.  In your 40s, you can stay home on Friday and Saturday night without feeling guilty.

So I went home for Christmas, to hear my old high school teacher make the most homophobic comment in the world.

After two weeks, I flew back from Rock Island, and Matt and I spent New Year's Eve together.

But on January 4th, Matt said he was too tired to go out before his shift, so I went to the Club by myself.

You know where this is going: Matt and Troy in a dark corner, k-i-s-s-i-n-g.

"We've been dating since Christmas," Matt explained. "I didn't know how to tell you."

Troy just grinned.  Age trumps beauty.

See also: The Georgia Boy and the Cute Young Thing; and The Coffee Drinker

The Boy Who Cried "Fabulous"

Wilton Manors, April 2005

How is it possible to get into a relationship with someone that you don't even like?

I met Florian when the South Florida Gay Men's Chorus performed at our church.  He was a Cute Young Thing, a fencing champion back in high school, handsome, with a firm, hairy chest, a little too tall for my tastes. But his extremely upbeat personality won me over:

"Isn't a beautiful day?  Of course, every day in Florida is beautiful, isn't it? Gosh, it just doesn't get any better than this, does it?  Welcome to Paradise!"

Our First Date

Picking me up: "I didn't know if you gave me the right address or not.  If you didn't, that would have been ok.  I had a marvelous evening planned, either way.  What a fantastic house!  And the decor is fabulous!"

Dinner: "This is the best crab quesadilla I've ever had!  And, oh, gosh, this salad is marvelous!  And aren't the waiters gorgeous?  I've never had such a fabulous meal!"

The Filling Station: "Isn't that guy hot!  And him, too!  I've never seen so many gorgeous guys in one place before!  It's like a Mr. Universe contest!  I can see why you like coming here! It's the best!"

Back to my house: "This is the most wonderful evening I've ever had!  You are positively incredible!  I can't believe how lucky I am just to be sitting here beside you!"

The kiss: He leaned in for a kiss -- with a wide grin on his face.  You never smile when preparing to kiss! It looks idiotic.

The bedroom: nice physique, hair chest, thick Bratwurst beneath the belt, into kissing and receiving oral, but the "fabulousness" never stopped.  "Oh, this is fantastic!  The best ever!  I can' believe how hot you are!"  On and on and on.

The next morning, breakfast with Yuri and Barney: "This is the best coffee I've ever had!  And cinnamon buns!  Incredible!"

I walk him to the door: Gosh, your housemates are absolutely fabulous!  Barney is a cuddly old bear, and Yuri is just incredibly handsome!  I'm dying to ask you to share, but I guess it's a little too soon, isn't it?  I should be happy with the most gorgeous guy in the world!"

I slam the door and sigh loudly.  Florian was so goshdarn chipper, so in-your-face fantabulous, that I couldn't stand him!

But he was also very aggressive.  Before I knew it:

Our Second Date

The movie: "This is the funniest movie I've ever seen!  And the world's best popcorn!  I can't believe how good it is!"

The dinner:  "That shrimp tempura was marvelous, and this is absolutely the best red bean ice cream in the universe! And isn't that waiter gorgeous!  Do you know the Japanese word for super-stud?  I wouldn't mind eating cat food if he brought it out!"

Back to my house: "This is the most wonderful evening I've ever had! Gosh, everything was just fabulous!  I can't believe how lucky I am to be dating you!  You are absolutely the most gorgeous guy in the universe!"

One more superlative, and I'll pour my soda on your head!  But you'd probably think it was fabulous!


I could just refuse all future dates.  But I didn't have the will power, and he was very, very cute.  Besides, he hadn't actually done anything wrong -- he was just annoyingly chipper.

Maybe I could scare him off.  BDSM sometimes worked.

I suggest a BDSM Scene:  "I've never tried anything like that before, but it sounds perfectly marvelous!  Tie me up and use me, Daddy!  Or should I say Sir?  Gosh, it's just so exciting!"

The Scene: I gagged him, blindfolded him, attached clothespins to his nipples, and spanked him, while he kept up a nonstop dialogue through the gag.  "Th---uh----fab--lus."

The next morning:  "That was by far the most erotic evening of my life!  You were just fabulous! Seriously, I couldn't imagine a better scene!  But maybe we could get that super-stud Barney to join in next time! Two Sirs -- that would be incredibly amazing!"

Maybe some of life's sorrows would tone him down a bit.

Our Third Date

An auction at Out of the Closet. Discussion of George Bush:  "I'm sure that he'll be defeated in the election next month!  The straights are much less homophobic now than when I was a kid!"

Walk on the beach.  This is the spot where Yuri had rocks thrown at him from a carload of homophobes. "Well...um...isn't he lucky that nothing worse happened!  Um...he is by far the most gorgeous guy I've ever seen.  Gosh, he must get cruised a hundred times a day!"

Dinner at my house with Barney. When Barney's partner died, his family refused to come to the funeral:  "Well ...um......you know...he was lucky that...that he had a supportive partner...and...an alternate family...and....this is the best moussaka I've ever eaten!"

Movie: Philadelphia, with Tom Hanks as a lawyer with AIDS who loses his job.  Boxes of kleenix all around.  "This is...um...the most beautiful movie I've ever...um...seen.  Tom Hanks is a fabulous actor...and...um...more kleenix, please?"

Invitation to the bedroom:  "Sorry, I'm not really feeling well.  But it's been a fantastic day.  I've never had so much...um...fun in my life."

That was the end of my relationship with Florian. Instead of toning him down, I turned him off.

A couple of weeks later, I ran into him at the Filling Station with another guy: "Boomer, this is Philip!  Isn't he the most gorgeous guy you've ever seen?  And isn't this a fabulous place?  I had to bring him here for our second date -- I knew he would have positively the best night of his life!  Well, gosh, it's been great seeing you again!

Philip shot me a pained look as Florian led him away.

See also: 50 Ways of Saying "Fabulous"

Finding Larry's New Fetish

Santa Fe, New Mexico, July 2004

I've never understood how you can be friends with someone for years, and then there's an incident, and it's over.

They just stop answering the phone when you call, or responding to your emails.  They unfriend you on Facebook.

Or in the case of Larry, he orders you out of the house.

You remember Larry, the "lost soul" in Nashville with the crazy, obsessive lifestyle, who finally got involved in the gay leather community?

After I left Nashville, we called and emailed each other regularly.

He moved to Denver and then Santa Fe, New Mexico.  I moved to New York and then Florida.

In the summer of 2004, we hadn't seen each other face-to-face for years, so I decided to fly out to Santa Fe for a 10-day visit.  

Big mistake.

As Ben Franklin said, house guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days.

Day 1:  I arrived at 8:00 pm.  Larry picked me up at the airport, gave me a brief tour of the city, and then took me back to his house.

A three-room trailer in a desolate commercial strip on the outskirts of town.  Cluttered with terrible, mismatched thrift-store furniture.

I guess passions for leather and opera don't come cheap, so you have to economize in other areas.

We tried to squeeze into his small single bed for some ordinary vanilla sex, but the night was very hot, and we were both big, so I ended up sleeping on the floor.

Day 2:  I assumed that Larry would take off work so we could go sightseeing, like I always did when a friend visited me in Florida.  But no, at 7:00 he drove off, leaving me alone on Jemez Road with no car.

All of the art galleries, shops, missions, and museums were downtown, about six miles away.

I started walking, and eventually hit Airport Road, with a lot of fast food places and cars rushing by in the hot desert sun. There was a mall about a mile away, where I bought a t-shirt.  I found a gym, but they didn't have day memberships.

Larry returned at 6:00 pm.  "What's on for tonight?" I asked.  "Dinner, art walk, the clubs?"

"Oh, no, I'm too tired to go out.  I'll cook dinner here."

"Well...can we at least go to the gym first?"

So Larry drove me to his gym and bought me a day pass.  Then he baked a chicken for dinner. It wasn't ready until 10:00 pm.

"Four hours past dinnertime," I muttered.  "We should have just ordered a pizza."

"Too much saturated fat, and way too expensive!"

Some brief, noncommittal bedroom activity ended the evening.

Why wasn't I meeting his friends?  Why weren't we cruising?  What was going on?

Day 3:  I asked Larry if I could drive him to work and borrow his car for sightseeing, but he refused: "Nobody drives my car but me."

So I rented a car and visited The Plaza, The Museum of Indian Arts and Culture, and The New Mexico Museum of Art, and returned to Larry's gym for another day pass.

When Larry got home at 6:00 pm, I said, "Tomasita's tonight -- best Mexican restaurant in town, according to the internet!"

"Oh, no, that's much too expensive."

"My treat."

"Oh, no, you're my guest, I'll cook.  I can do Mexican, if that's what you want."

So he made low-fat enchiladas.  Afterwards he wanted to go to the gym.  I had already been, so I asked "Do you mind if I go to the clubs?"

He glared at me.  "No, the clubs will be dead on a Thursday night.  But when I get back from the gym, we can do a S&M scene, if you want.  I'm a top, you know."

So I watched tv all night, and then bottomed for an S&M scene.  I didn't like it.

Day 4:  While Larry was at work, I went to the Canyon Road Art Galleries, the San Miguel Mission, and the Cathedral of St. Francis of Assisi, and had lunch at Tomasita's.  Then I bought groceries.  When he got home at 6:00, dinner was on the table.

Surprisingly, he was annoyed.  "I'm the host, I should cook dinner.  Or don't you like my cooking?"

I ended up apologizing and waiting while he wrapped my dinner in cellophane for later and cooked a meal of his own.

Afterwards, I said "It's Friday night.  The gin joints should be hoppin'.  Where shall we go?"

"Oh, no, there aren't any decent gay bars in Santa Fe.  We'll go into Albuquerque tomorrow.  Let's just hang out and watch tv tonight."

"Well -- do you mind if I go to the clubs on my own?"

I didn't notice him glaring at me.  "No, of course not.  Just -- if you bring a hot leatherman home, I get to share."

Turns out that Larry was right -- there was only one gay bar in town, the Rouge Cat.  Unfortunately, it catered to the Cute Young Thing crowd, and twinks in New Mexico didn't have the Daddy fixation that they did in Florida.  After about an hour of getting Attitude, I was finally cruised by a cute University of New Mexico undergrad named Tom.

By the time we got back to the trailer, Larry was asleep in his single bed, so Tom and I slept on blankets on the living room floor.  He got up and left early; I didn't think Larry had even noticed.

He had.

Larry got up and made coffee as if nothing was wrong.  But when we sat down, he started in: "What did I tell you?  You bring a cute guy into my house, and I don't even get a peek!"

"Sorry, you were asleep, and...well, I didn't think Tom was your type.  You like them more mature."

"Why were you going out without me, anyway?  You're visiting me!," Larry continued, starting to rant.  "We're supposed to go out together!"

"You said it was ok.  You were too tired to go out."

"Well, excuse me for working for a living!  I don't have a rich sugar daddy who gives me free rent!"

Did he mean Barney?  "No, I pay rent..."

"Or a cute boy toy just waiting at home for me!"

Did he mean Yuri?  "No, we're just..."

"You know what?  If my house isn't good enough for you, why don't you just get out?  Take some of your sugar daddy's money and stay in a hotel!"

I stared.  "I didn't say your house wasn't good enough..."

I don't remember what else was said that morning, but it ended with my duffel bag deposited into my rental car.  I spent Days 6-10 in hotels, touring Tucumcari, Roswell, Allamogordo, Albuquerque, and the Navajo Nation.  I called Larry a couple of times, but when he heard my voice, he hung up.

Had I been bragging about my "sugar daddy" and "boy toy" back home in Florida?   Had I been complaining a little too much about the dreary accommodations and lack of sight-seeing?  I don't remember.

The trip wasn't a total loss.  I saw some interesting museums and art galleries, hooked up with a couple of cute guys, and discovered my grandmother's long-lost gay friend.

But I lost a friend of 13 years in the process.

See also: Finding Larry's Fetish; Cruising in the Navajo Nation; Cruising in New Mexico.

The Police Cadets of South Florida

Fort Lauderdale, September 2001

In August 2001, after completing my Ph.D. in sociology I moved to Florida, on the invitation of my friend Yuri.  I immediately felt at home. It was like I had gone back in time 16 years, to when I first arrived in West Hollywood.

Yuri shared a small ranch house in Wilton Manors (the gay suburb of Fort Lauderdale) with Barney, an older guy who owned a gym in Oakland Park.  He reminded me of Derek, the fitness instructor-turned-insurance agent, my housemate in West Hollywood in 1987.

I had the choice of sharing Yuri's bed or moving into the small room off the kitchen that used to be the study of Barney's deceased lover.  I picked the study, although I ended up in Yuri's bed quite often anyhow: in Fort Lauderdale, like in West Hollywood: good manners required that you invite your roommate to "share" your dates.

We lived only two blocks from Wilton Drive, the Santa Monica Boulevard of Fort Lauderdale, with the Florida equivalents of everything I missed in West Hollywood:

New Age Books and Things (the Bodhi Tree)
Bill's Filling Station (the Hamburger Habit).
The Sunshine Cathedral (The Metropolitan Community Church)
The Ramrod (The Faultline)

The Courtyard Cafe (the French Quarter)

Plus the Clubhouse II Bath House, about 2 miles away, constantly packed with locals and tourists.

We went there quite often, until I started a monogamous relationship with Matt the Security Guard.

Even my jobs seemed to mirror those of West Hollywood .

1. From copy writer for Muscle and Fitness to fitness trainer at Barney's gym.  I taught the new members how to use the machines, and walked around to see if anyone needed help.  

2. From adjunct English instructor at Loyola Marymount to adjunct Communications instructor at Florida Atlantic University.  I taught "Introduction to Communication Studies" and "Popular Culture."

3. From juvenile probation officer to instructor at the Broward County Police Academy. I taught "Spanish for Police Officers" and "Juvenile Offenders."

There was only one problem: outside of gay neighborhoods, Florida was very, very, very conservative and very, very, very homophobic.

Especially my students at Florida Atlantic and the Police Academy, 18 year olds drawn from such redneck cities as Sunrise, Delray Beach, and Pahokee.

The morning of September 11, I was just getting ready for my class, when news of the World Trade Center collapse hit.  Their attitude toward 9/11: "Let's drop some A-bombs on Iraq!"

Their attitude toward gay people: "Let's drop some A-bombs on Wilton Manors."


After being out in grad school I found myself closeted again.

But, on the bright side, I saw a lot of beefcake.

My Hookup with the Son of Mr. Blowfish

Washington, Iowa, August 2003

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

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

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

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

The whole class hated him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Naturally I got an invitation to visit.

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

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

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

"Dr. Davis, now."

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

"Sometimes," I admitted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Grandpa, Uncle Sammy bought me an alligator!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This story continues in Son of Mr. Blowfish

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

Yuri and I Share the Boy Toy and His Daddy

Wilton Manors, February 2004

The main rule about sharing boyfriends and hookups was: a couple brought in a third person.

During the 1980s, it was always romantic partners bringing in a close friend or roommate.

By the 1990s, the couple could also be a pair of close friends, and the third person a stranger, as long as there was a date first.

But you never shared with four.  I can remember only a few times when that happened.  It was always a little weird, and made me feel uncomfortable afterwards.

1. The multiracial four way with Lane.
2. The live sex show that we put on for Alan.
3. Victor and his Sleazoid Daddy

During the winter, hundreds of wealthy snowbirds from New York invade Wilton Manors, clogging the streets, crowding the bars and restaurants, throwing money around -- and prowling for beach boys.  Suddenly Daddies have some Sugar Daddy competition, so if you're over 40, and you don't have a boyfriend by Thanksgiving, you're likely to go dateless through Valentine's Day.

It was Valentine's Day 2004, I was 43 years old, and I hadn't had a date since Thanksgiving.  An occasional hookup, some afternoons at the Club, and not much else.

So when Victor at Barney's Gym stopped me in the locker room and asked me for a date, I consented, even though he wasn't exactly my type.  He was in his 20s, muscular, with a smooth chest and a nice uncut Bratwurst, but his long, narrow face, tattooed biceps, and rings were a turnoff.

Over dinner at a Thai place in Oakland Park, Victor told me that he was Cuban-American, from Miami.  He moved to Wilton Manors two years ago, had a job as some kind of juice distributor -- and had a boyfriend, Jauvier.

"He's a snowbird.  He lives in New York, and only flies down to Florida in the winter.  So we're allowed to date other guys, but when he's in town, we have to share."

Ok -- Lane and I engaged in that sort of dating quite often back in West Hollywood.  What does this Jauvier look like?


"Oh, he's very hot.  An older guy -- a Daddy, like you.  Shorter than me, very muscular, blond, a short beard, super hung."

Blond?  "Isn't he Hispanic?"

"Well, more of a redhead.   In Spanish, rubio could mean either."

It seems that there are a lot of redheads in Peru, mostly of Irish, German, and Scandinavian ancestry.  They tend to live in Lima and the other large cities of the north, and in racist Peruvian society they tend to be middle and upper class, so they rarely immigrate to the U.S,

"There aren't a lot of blond Hispanic guys around," Victor said.  "Jauvier really stands out in a crowd."

Victor wanted to take me home that night to "share" his boyfriend, but I wanted to at least meet him first.  We weren't as trusting in the 2000s as we were in the 1990s -- being alone with two guys you didn't know was a bit risky.  So I invited Victor and Jauvier over for dinner a few days later, with Yuri and Barney.

Yuri was also in the middle of a dating slump, so he peppered me with questions about Jauvier.  Is he a bodybuilder?  How big is he?  Does he like Russian guys?

"The four of us won't share," I warned him.  "Lane and I tried that a couple of times in West Hollywood, and it was just weird."

"There won't be four tonight, naturally.  But if we are friends, Victor and Jauvier will ask me to share on many other nights."  

Yuri usually specialized in Middle Eastern dishes, but Victor asked for "Russian," so he made vareniki (vegetable dumplings), chicken tabaka, and cold borscht.

Victor and Jauvier arrived at 6:00, carrying a bottle of wine (I forgot to warn them that I didn't drink).

My first impression: ugh.  Jauvier was shorter than me, with a substantial v-shaped torso and a hairy chest. When we hugged, I felt thick, heavy pecs and an impressive beneath-the-belt package.  But he stank of cologne, he was wearing rings, and his face -- not so much ugly as sinister, balding, with gray hair that used to be red, and a villain goatee.

Ugh.

But I had to go through with it -- at this point it would be impolite not to share.  Besides, when you're going down on a guy, who cares about his face?

Then the sleaziness began.  Jauvier used feminine pronouns, made sexual double-entendres out of everything, and made crass references to telephone poles, enemas. and tampons during dinner.

Sample:  "Oh, please, she spreads her legs so wide, you could fit the Queen Mary inside and have room left over for six maxi-pads."

About his ex-boyfriend!

Victor laughed uproariously at his boyfriend's so-called "humor."

After dinner, we gathered in the living room for coffee and baked apples, and Jauvier said "So, I never been in a gang bang with five guys before.  Who goes first?"

Barney glared at him, came down with a sudden "headache," and retreated to his room.

"I must meet my friend at the Manor," Yuri began, heading for the door.


I grabbed his arm.  "No -- stay!"  I mouthed the words "share."

Yuri shook his head.

"Please," I whispered.

He shrugged.

The four of us went into Yuri's bedroom and stripped.  I immediately dropped to my knees and went down on Jauvier's impressive Bratwurst, while Victor went down on Yuri, and Yuri studiously avoided kissing Victor.

Jauvier pointed his penis at Yuri, who shrugged and went down on him.  Then Jauvier tried to throw his legs in the air, but Yuri refused.  He turned to me. I refused.

"Come on, girls," he said.  "Somebody has to be up for anal tonight!"

Yuri and I got into the 69 position, leaving no orifice available for Jauvier, so Victor mounted him for anal.

After sharing, spending the night is mandatory, but when Victor finished, we claimed an early day and pushed them both out the door.

Yuri glared at me.  "I do you a favor, so now you must share a guy that I want.  Anybody I want, ok?"

And I didn't even get a chance to do anything with Victor.

See also: Yuri's Revenge: the Cowboy with the Kovbasa+; and Lane and I have a Multiracial Four-way.