We Stick It to the Wicked Witch of the North

Hell-fer-Sartain, April 1985

Near the end of my horrible nine months and 22 days in horrible Hell-fer-Sartain, the worst place in the world, my ex-boyfriend Fred came to visit.

We were together for only about six months back in 1980, when I was a stupid 19-year old college student.  We lived together, moved to Omaha together -- big mistake -- and broke up -- but stayed friends.  He had given up the ministry -- the only churches he could get were in horrible small towns -- and was working as a mental health counselor.

Near the end of his visit, he asked, "Boomer, when are you coming back to the Midwest?"

"May 8th.  The minute classes are over!"  I told him.  I'm dropping off my last grade, getting in my car, and heading north, and not stopping until I'm out of Hell-fer-Sartain!"

"That's perfect!  You can help me stick it to the Wicked Witch of the North."

"Who?"

"You know, She Who Must Not Be Named... my ex-fiancée...Diane?"

In 1976, Fred moved to Chicago to study for his M.Div. at McCormick Theological Seminary. He had been with a few guys, and even had some gay relationships, but he knew that a theological career required a wife and kids, so he started dating 28 year old Diane, daughter of his professor of Christian ethics and the granddaughter of a big wig in the United Methodist Church -- a prize catch for any upwardly mobile young theologian.

Plus she came with a ready-made family -- David, a 9-year old son from a marriage in her wild hippie youth.  Within a few months, they were engaged.

Diane knew her way around church hierarchy, and made sure that Fred went to the right parties and met the right people.  There was some tension between them -- she wanted sex a lot more often than Fred was willing to give, and she disapproved of his goal of becoming a small-town pastoral counselor -- why not aim for the top, an administrative position at the United Methodist Headquarters in Nashville?  But generally they got along well.

Fred completed his coursework in the spring of 1979, and got an internship at a church in Rock Island.  The plan was for Diane to stay in Chicago, until he completed his internship and got called to a church.  Then they would get married.  But in August 1979, the night before he was to leave for Rock Island, he decided to come out. He still wanted to get married...he promised to stay faithful...but she deserved to know the truth.

Diane did not take it well.  Crying, screaming, throwing things, calling him names, accusing him of being a pedophile: "I can't believe I almost married a queer!"  "You took my dad's class so you could get into his pants!" "You're moving to Rock Island so you can screw homos in public restrooms!" "You're just dating me so you can seduce my son!"

She wouldn't allow him to return to the apartment to pick up his things.  Or send a friend: "Nobody from your child molester club is setting foot in my house!"  Finally her brother offered to do it.

Fred tried to stay in touch -- he hated losing friends -- but Diane hung up on him when he called, and sent his letters back with a terse note: "Refused. Return to pervert."  He did manage to stay in touch with her son, sending letters and gifts to him through his Uncle John, making telephone calls when Diane was at work. David even managed to come to Christmas dinner one year by claiming that he was going to visit a friend.

When Fred came out to him, David said "Yeah, I always knew.  Even when you and Mom were dating.  I figured that's why you never stayed over."

"You may have...um...mentioned her," I said.  "But why did you call her the Wicked Witch of the North?"

"She and her husband live in Dubuque, 60 miles due north of Rock Island."

Figures.  I had driven through Dubuque many times, but never stopped.  It always gave me a frisson of dread.  Nazarenes considered it the epitome of evil. the Mordor of the utter north.

"David is 18 years old now," Fred continued.  "Can you believe it?  Where does the time go?  Anyway, he's going to graduate from high school -- and he sent me an invitation.  I thought you could come as my date.  Just up for the day and back, no overnight."

I was curious.  About Mordor, and about the Wicked Witch of the North.

"Will there be yelling?  I hate it when homophobes start yelling about Leviticus."

"Don't worry -- Diane won't start yelling in public.  One thing she always hated was 'Making a scene.'"

"Sounds great.  I'm in."

Dubuque, June 2, 1985

Fred picked me up at my parents' house at 10:00, and we drove north for an hour to Dubuque. There was enough time for a brief tour of the city -- surprisingly mundane - and a a sneaky-drive past the house where the Wicked Witch of the North lived -- not a castle, an older two-story frame house, painted green -- before going to Dubuque Senior High School.

The graduation ceremony was held in the fieldhouse: about 200 students, so it was easy to find David in the staging area.  He was very tall, with thick brown hair, blue eyes, and a long chiseled chin.  I couldn't tell anything about his physique under the graduation robe.  He hugged us both and asked if I was "the...um...you know."

Fred handed him an envelope containing a graduation-present check and said "No, we tried, but it didn't work out. Where's your mother?"

"Oh, milling around, I guess.  Can you come to the party later?  You can see her then."

"Will we be able to?" I asked. "Or will your mother...um...start screaming?"

He gave me a weird confused look.  "No problemo.  Mom only screams when the Hawkeyes score a touchdown."

We took our seats.  Fred looked around, and finally pointed out the Wicked Witch, wearing a black robe and a pointed hat, carrying a sign saying "I'll Get You, My Pretty."

Ok, not really.  But I swear, there was a dark shadow hovering over her.

When each graduate crossed the stage, their family and friends cheered.  David was in the W's, toward the end.  When he crossed, Fred stood and bellowed loudly "Yeah!  Go, David!"

The Wicked Witch froze in her seat, staring.

After the ceremony, we hung out for awhile, cruising the cute guys (I was only 24 years old, so 18 was ok for me), then headed over to the party at the Witch's house.  There was a sign on the front door: "Come to the back," so we walked around to the back yard, where there were picnic tables festooned with white and blue (the school colors) laid out with hamburgers, bowls of chips, veggies, and potato and macaroni salad, two kinds of cake, and various sodas.  "Rhythm of the Night" was playing from a boom box.

We saw David talking to a group of friends, and headed in his direction. But then someone grabbed my shoulder.  I turned.

The Witch!  Aka Diane.  A short, petite woman with her hair done up in a bob.  Smiling broadly.  Grabbing our hands.

"Fred, it's so great to see you again!  And this must be your boyfriend!"

Being nice to us?  Not screaming?  Fred was just staring, his jaw open, so I jumped in: "I'm Boomer.  We dated for awhile, but it didn't work out.  But we stayed friends...Fred hates losing people."

"Me, too!  When I lost my first husband, I vowed to never lose anyone I cared about again, if I could helpit"  She took Fred's arm.  "We'll have a nice long chat to catch up.  But first let me introduce you to my husband.  You'll love him -- but hands off, he's taken."   She laughed and turned to me.  "But David is single, Boomer."

People can change a lot in six years.

Fred and Diane stayed in contact for the rest of his life.

The Priest with Three Boyfriends

Des Moines, March 1980

In the spring of 1980, my sophomore year at Augustana College, Fred the ministerial student took me to Des Moines, where he had friends among the closeted gay religious community. Like Oscar, who had a romance with future President Ronald Reagan back in the 1930s.  And Malcolm Boyd, the Episcopal priest who wrote the counterculture classic Are You Running with Me, Jesus? (he actually came out in 1977, but I didn't know until we had lunch together).

We stayed with Thomas, a Episcopal priest whose congregation didn't know: "They assume that because I'm a priest, I'm celibate."  He lived alone, except for two dogs, with a huge collection of pornographic magazines and photos, both gay and straight, neatly classified by author, magazine, and type.  I spent the afternoon rummaging through it while Fred and Thomas were out talking about religion or something -- Fred didn't approve of porn -- and got my first glimpse of some of the great gay erotic artists, like Tom of Finland, Sean, and the Hun.

I thought Thomas lived alone, but the first night of our stay, I woke up in the middle of the night, walked down the hall to the bathroom, and found the door to Thomas's bedroom wide open.  The lights were dim, but inside I saw two guys asleep, wrapped in each other's arms.

The next day at breakfast I met Boyfriend #1, a tall, slim redhead who worked at one of Des Moines' straight bars. He lived with his girlfriend, but sometimes came over when his shift ended.

Later that day, we had lunch with Oscar, Malcolm Boyd, Thomas, and Boyfriend #2.  I don't remember much about him.

I drove back to the house later that evening -- Fred was off with Oscar -- and yelled "Is anybody home?"  No answer.

Thomas was in the study, with porn magazines scattered all about, naked.  Kissing a very muscular teenager.  Also naked.

Boyfriend #3!

He disentangled himself long enough to say "Jason, Boomer.  Boomer, Jason."  In the midst of a kiss, the boy held out his hand for me to shake!

Freaking out, I retreated to my bedroom and sat down in a swivel chair.  Jason followed. He stood at my bedroom door, naked.  "Hey, I hope we didn't scare you," he said, panting.  "It's no big deal -- we were just playing around."

"No, it's fine.  I'm sorry I disturbed you."

"You didn't disturb us."  He walked over to me and caressed my chest.  "You're hot.  Maybe we could get together later."

Was he asking me for a date, with his boyfriend in the next room? "Um...um...I have a lover," I stammered.  That was our word for same-sex relationships.

"He can come, too -- the more the merrier."

Now Thomas stood in the doorway, naked, huge. "Can't leave you alone for a minute, can I?" he said, feigning anger, but with his eyes twinkling. "Get back in the playroom, pronto!"

He paused.  "You too, Boomer!"

I was unaware of the gay community custom of "sharing."  I wasn't even aware of hookups.  Sex with someone you weren't in love with?  Gross!  Besides, I had to stay faithful to Fred.

  But I was single 1 1/2  years later, when I saw Thomas again.

See also: The Boy in the Mesh T-Shirt; and Fred's Nine Lovers

A Glimpse of Supreme Beauty at a Highway Rest Stop in Iowa

Interstate highways have rest stops every 30-50 miles, so you don't have to get off the highway to do your bathroom business.

The older ones consist of just toilets and maybe some vending machines, but the modern ones have pathways through picnic grounds, flower gardens, and even wooded areas, so you can walk or jog.  I've covered 7 miles in a day just by stopping at a rest stop every hour and circling the path once or twice.

Rest stops are perfect places for sausage sightings.  Men typically need to urinate every 2-3 hours, so on a 6-hour road trip, they'll be at the urinal at at least twice.

 Rest stops are also perfect places for boy watching:  glimpsing handsome faces, muscular physiques, and spectacular bulges as dozens of guys walk past every minute,

But what happens when you encounter supreme beauty, and there's no time to make a connection before he's gone forever?

I-35 Rest Stop, May 2016

On the way back from visiting Troy and company in New York, I pulled into a rest stop near Northwood, Iowa.  It's a large facility with a tourist center, a coffee shop/bakery, and extensive walkways that wind through picnic areas.

I parked on the south side of the parking lot and walked to the sidewalk on the right side of the photo, past the green SUV.

A middle aged man and four guys in their teens or early twenties had just climbed out.  Two were walking toward the rest rooms.  Two were talking quietly.

And the last:

I stopped, speechless in the face of supreme beauty.

Impressions came all jumbled together in a single glance.  I categorized them and analyzed them later:

1. In his late teens or twenties, a college student.

2. Shorter than me, slim, tanned arms and hands, out in the sun in a t-shirt a lot. A tennis player or a farm boy.

3. Dirty blond hair, short, spiked.  Concerned with his appearance, knows his way around hair gel.

4. A round open face, prominent eyebrows, dark eyes.

5. Smiling.  He has been smiling every moment his whole life, probably because everyone he has ever met is in love with him.

6. Gray t-shirt with a Nebraska Cornhuskers logo, a little small, riding up above his outtie belly button.  University of Nebraska student for several years, maybe a senior.

7. Thin but hard biceps.

8. Calvin Klein underwear, white.

9. Blue jeans, torn at the knee, athletic shoes, no socks.

10. Traveling with a middle aged man and three peers on Memorial Day weekend.  Too late for a school field trip.  Maybe a father taking his son and three friends on a camping trip..

He looked at me and said "They have a bakery in there", thinking I was someone in his party.  Realizing his mistake, he looked down, embarrassed.  I smiled and moved on.

I walked around the picnic area for about five minutes, then went inside to use the restroom.  When I came out, he was walking down the stairs from the bakery with a cute guy in his early twenties.  They were eating cookies from an open box.

This time he definitely cruised me -- face, crotch, face.  

 I smiled and said "Hi."

He smiled back, but didn't speak.

I walked around the pathways for another five minutes, and headed toward my car.  He and his companion were standing by their SUV, talking to the middle-aged man.  The two other guys, both very cute in their own right,  were sitting at a picnic table nearby, occupied by their cell phones.

As I walked past, he looked at me while asking someone else "When we get there, will we have time to..."

He stopped.  I smiled. He stared, cruising again.  Face, crotch, face.

"Hot day" I said, addressing either him or the middle-aged man.

"Yeah," he said.

I couldn't start a conversation with his father or guardian right there!   I had to get him alone.  At least find out his name.

I circled half of the picnic area, and walked back.  Now he was standing by the picnic table with the duo, watching me curiously.  I quickened my pace, planning to say "Where you headed?" or  something.

Then the middle age man yelled "Are you ready to go?", and the three of them walked back to the SUV and climbed in.

I passed close to his car.  He was in the back seat, passenger side, watching me through the solid glass of the window.  I waved.  He smiled and waved.

We were only inches apart.

I returned to my car.

The SUV started to pull out.

I took out my cell phone and snapped a picture of it.








I don't know why.  He's not visible, except for a small, blurry image of his hand holding on to the seat in front of him.   It's just a picture of a green SUV with Nebraska plates.

With the most beautiful guy I have ever seen in the back seat, passenger side, going away forever.

At the end of our lives, we will remember glimpses of supreme beauty more fondly than any number of sexual encounters.

See also: I Pick Up a Boy at a Gas Station in Iowa, Sort Of; Picking Up the Checker in the Grocery Store; and The Amish Boy in Red Bikini Briefs.

50 States, 50 Naked Men, Part 1

I've been to 48 of the 50 U.S. states, and met men in most of them.  Here are my favorite naked men in each state (guys I've seen naked, not including locker rooms, bathhouses, bear parties, and boyfriends).  They have to actually be living in the state, not tourists, and it can't be in a city I was actually living in.

Midwest

 1. Illinois.  Tough call, since I grew up in Rock Island and went to college there.  But I'm going to go with Dylan, the 28-year old retro twink met in 2015.  He acted like it was still 1985.

2.  Indiana.  Another tough call: visits to relatives twice a year, graduate school at Indiana University, visiting my parents in Indianapolis.  I'm going to go with Tyler, the "son" of my first boyfriend Fred, who I met in 2012.  He was actually the son of Fred's housemate, but I still got a weird family vibe.

3. Iowa.  Davenport, Iowa was right across the river from Rock Island.  Plus I've been to Des Moines several times.  But my favorite hookup was with a 48-hour long date with Sammy, the son of my old speech teacher Mr. Blowfish, a Swedish-Vietnamese art history professor who took me on a 36 hour date in Cornell, Iowa.

4. Michigan.  In 1971, we visited my Indian relatives in Dowagiac, Michigan, and I played a bondage - penis grabbing game with my older cousin Javon.  Huge!

5. Minnesota.  At a conference in St. Peter, Minnesota, I picked up a Vietnamese undergrad at an art gallery, but ended up on a date with his gym rat cousin.

6. Nebraska.  In 1980 my boyfriend Fred and I moved to Omaha for a terrible month.  He brought home Mike, a teenager from his youth group at church, for my first three-way.  Years later I tried to find Mike again.  He had died, but I found out from his nephew that he kept a picture from that night all his life.

7. Ohio.  Three years in Dayton, plus many visits to Cleveland on the way from Upstate to Indianapolis, stopping at the Flex Club on the way.  One year Troy and I hooked up with the Shy Boy who Wouldn't Leave My Room.

8. Wisconsin.  We lived in Racine, Wisconsin from Kindergarten through second grade, but of course I was too young for sausage sightings.   I didn't meet anyone in Wisconsin until January 2014, when I went to Milwaukee for a post-Christmas vacation, and picked up Superman.









Northeast

9. Connecticut.  When I was living on Long Island, my first year in grad school, I went out on a date with a guy who lived in Greenwich, Connecticut, three hours away by train.  I spent the night, and the next day he gave me the wrong directions, so I had to spend 2 hours standing on a train platform.

10. Maine.  In 2010, my boyfriend Troy and I went to the gay resort town of Ogunquit, Maine.  I don't care much for resorts, but we did manage to pick up a guy on the beach.  He was black, and into BDSM, both rarities in Maine.

11. Massachusetts.  No question: Jermaine, the Biggest Guy on my Sausage List.

12. New Hampshire.  Drove through, but didn't stop.

13. Rhode Island.  In 2000, Yuri and I visited my friend Zack, who was studying at the Rhode Island School of Design.

14. Vermont. On the way back from Maine in 2010, Troy and I stayed overnight in Burlington, Vermont, and hooked up with an undergrad French major at Middlebury College.




Middle Atlantic States

15. Delaware.  I've only been here once, when Jermaine, the Biggest Guy on My Sausage List, took me to Bowers Beach for his uncle's 50th birthday party.  No bedroom activity except with Jermaine, but I did see Uncle Titus naked.

16. Maryland.  November 2016: Three guys in my bed in Baltimore, each more hung than the last.

17. New Jersey.  When I lived in New York, one night I broke every rule of gay cruising and ended up in the house of a cute Hispanic guy, with his parents in the next room, somewhere in New Jersey.

18. New York,  Four years in New York City, three years Upstate.  I can't decide.

19. Pennsylvania.  During my year in Philadelphia, I had an election-night hookup with Oscar the Grouch, aka Oscar the Irish bodybuilder, and his American boy toy.

20. Washington DC.  Visited several times, hooked up with several guy, but my favorite was probably the "straight" jock with the bulge who I brought back to the apartment as a "gift" for Alan and his partner Sandy.









Southeast

21. Florida.  I lived in Wilton Manors for 4 years, but my most memorable hookup was probably when David and I drove down to Key West, and picked up the hitchhiker.

22. Georgia.  When Lane and I were living in West Hollywood, we flew to Atlanta for some reason -- I don't remember why -- and hooked up with a Georgia boy.

23. North Carolina.  One year Alan and his partner Sandy took me to a gay resort on the coast of North Carolina.

24. South Carolina.  When I visited my Cousin George in South Carolina in 1971, we took baths together and slept naked ("only fools wear pajamas").  When I reunited with him in 2005, I discovered that he insisted on the baths and sleeping naked so he could get a sausage sighting.

25. Virginia.  When I visited Alan and Sandy in Norfolk, they were monogamous, but provided me with a "substitute" named Tarik.

26. West Virginia.  Drove through, but didn't stop.

Next: the South, the Mountain States, and the West, in Part Two.

A Glimpse of Supreme Beauty at the World's Largest Truck Stop

I love driving crosscountry through Iowa.  The rest stops are interesting, with jogging trails that wind through prairies and woods, and there is a steady stream of cute guys walking to and from their cars.

But yesterday it was raining hard all day, plus nonstop construction -- you'd inch you're way through a construction zone, drive half a mile, and then see yet another sign "Construction Zone Ahead."

Only short rest stops, stuck inside, not enough time to explore.

Finally, late in the day, hours behind schedule, we made it to the World's Largest Truck Stop, also known as the Iowa 80 Truck Stop in Wolcottville, Iowa.




The World's Largest Truck Stop, also known as the Iowa 80 Truck Stop in Wolcottville, Iowa is a veritable trucker's mall, with every car part you could imagine, a food court, clothing, toys, accessories.    Plus a lot of services for truckers: a movie theater, a laundry, even a dentist and a chiropractor.

It gets thousands of visitors a day.  Usually a good place for beefcake watching, if you like beefy truckers and their broods.

But yesterday it was nearly empty.  Not a single hot guy to be found.  At least not in the food court; Bob rushed me in and out so fast that I didn't have time to check anywhere else.

Tired, frustrated, beefcake-bereft, we stopped into one of the gigantic gas stations with 10,000 lanes to get gas before pushing on to Rock Island.

Suddenly one of those small white panel trucks pulled up into the lane to our right and a little ahead.  The driver jumped out.  Young, in his twenties, pale, muscular, shaggy brown hair, wearing a dark green athletic shirt and short pants.

Intensely, insanely handsome, with the kind of face that makes you freeze in awe.

Our eyes met.  He smiled.  Then he began pumping the gas, his body shifting back and forth so that sometimes he was hidden behind a pillar.

What could I do?  I couldn't roll down my window and talk to him.  We were at a gas station in Wollcottville, Iowa, off to separate lives.

But I cold take a picture.

I pulled out my cell phone, waited for the camera function to load, and waited for him to sway in my direction.

But then Bob appeared, cleaning the windshield with a squeegee.

I didn't want him to know that I was snapping a photo of a stranger at a gas station, so I waited for him to stop.

Supreme Beauty swayed in and out, in and out.  How long did it take to fill a panel truck gas tank?

Finally Bob moved away.  He would now get into the car and start driving.

I had to act now.  Swaying or not, I snapped a picture of the most handsome guy I had ever seen.

It came out blurred, his supremely handsome features almost impossible to discern, his muscular frame reduced to a simple bicep bulge.

But at least I have the photograph to jog my memory.

And a reason to go back to Wolcottville

See also: A Gay Connection at a Gas Station in Rural Illinois