Lane and I Go Cruising in Lithuania

West Hollywood, June 1997

Lane and I haven't lived together for a year, and I've been sort of dating Kevin the Vampire, so we're not sure if we are a couple or not.  But we don't want to break our tradition of a trip every summer, either Europe or a road trip across the U.S.

"Paris, Brussels, and Amsterdam?" I suggest.  "We haven't been there in a while.  Or maybe Germany?"

"No Germany!"  he exclaims.  "I want to go somewhere off the beaten path.  Lithuania.  In search of my Jewish ancestors."

"Your mother was Polish -- we've already been to Poland to check out her heritage -- and your father was from California."

"But Dad's parents were Litvak -- Lithuanian Jews.  Bubbe -- Grandma -- immigrated with her parents in 1915.  She used to tell stories of the shtetl of Kvedarna, where her father was a rabbi."

The more I research Lithuania, the less I want to visit.  Granted, the Lithuanian language is the closest we have to the original Indo-European.

English:  My sausage is very big.
Hindi: Mera sosej bahut bada hai
Lithuanian: Mano dešra yra labai didelė

But it is an extremely homophobic country, like Mississippi squared.  No gay bars, no bathhouses, no nothing.  Plus 95% of the Jewish population was killed in the Holocaust.

95%!  Why would you want to go there?

But Lane is adamant about investigating his Bubbe's Rabbi father, and he is paying for the plane tickets, so....Paris, Amsterdam, and Lithuania.

Day 1:

There are no nonstop flights from Amsterdam to Vilnius, so we hav to go through Frankfurt, arriving at 1:30 pm.

Six years after independence, Soviet influence is everywhere: most signs are in Russian, not Lithuanian; there are long blocks of Brutopian apartment complexes, and statues of liberated workers gazing defiantly at the future; there are police officers and soldiers everywhere, who keep asking for our papers.

But our hotel is in the Old Quarter, on a winding Baroque street near the University and the Signatory House (where independence was declared).

We tour the rather austere Palace of the Grand Dukes  (above) and the Vilnius Cathedral, and have dinner in a French restaurant.

Then back to the hotel and to bed, having not met any actual Lithuanians, gay or straight, Jewish or Gentile.

Day 2:

After breakfast, we rent a car (quite a feat in a country not set up for tourism) and drive to Kaunas, about an hour east, which once had a Jewish population of 40,000.  Today it's about 500.   

We arrive in time for Shabbat services at the Ohel Jahov Synagogue, where the congregation consists entirely of elderly men.  We don't talk to anyone.

In the afternoon, we visit the Museum of the Devil (the Žmuidzinavičius Museum), with over 3,000 statues and images of devils from around the world. Yes, many of them are naked.

Kaunas Castle.

The depressing memorial to the Jews who died in the Holocaust.

Then pizza.

"This is all very interesting," I tell Lane, "But I need some masculine companionship.  What's the point of traveling, if you don't meet locals?  Preferably hot ones."

Our Spartacus guide doesn't list any gay bars in Kaunas, but it lists a "mixed bar," Baras, which caters to "students, bohemians, transvestites, fairies, and misfits."

Although we roil at being labeled "misfits," we check it out.

Mostly students and bohemians, not a lot of cruising going on.  I try to strike up a conversation with a twink reading a paperback book and drinking beer: in his 20s, slim, pale, weird half-mohawk hair style, horn-rimmed glasses:

"Mano vardas Boomer.  Aš esu iš Toronto." (I always claim to be Canadian while traveling in Europe, to avoid the extreme anti-American prejudice.)

He responds briefly and coolly, in English.  Soon I back off.

Well, at least I talked to a local.

Day 3

Our hotel has a gym, so we can work out before heading out to Kvedarna, population 1,500, where Lane's great-grandfather was a rabbi.  It's about two hours west over flat, green countryside.

The only trace of a Jewish presence is a small, overgrown Jewish cemetery, with fifty or so markers in Hebrew.  We can't find one for Lane's great-grandfather, the rabbi, although there are a few with his Bubbe's name that could be relatives.

The trip has been a bust: some interesting sights, but mostly sadness, loss, and loneliness.  It's an odd feeling being in a country of 3.6 million people, and not knowing anyone.

Since there's no restaurant in town, we stop at Kvedarna's small grocery store for some meat, cheese, and bread to make sandwiches.

There's a twink boy outside, eating a popsicle, shirtless even though it's a cool, rainy day: slim, pale body, pinprick nipples, tight abs.  He has the same weird hair and eyeglasses as the guy from last night.

For a moment I think it's the same person, so I say "Sveiki!  Small world, isn't it?"

He smiles.  "Americans?"

I realize my mistake.  "Taip.  I'm Boomer, and this is Lane.  We're from Hollywood, California."

"Joku."  He switches the popsicle to his left hand so he can shake our hands.  "You are from Hollywood!  You are movie stars?"

"We've been in some tv shows," I lie.

"Palike!  You will give me your...your..."  He made a writing sign.  "Why you come to Kvedarna?"

"My grandmother was born here,"  Lane said.

"Tikras!  My grandmother, too.  Maybe we are...um...cousin.  Come, cousins hug."  He wrapped us both in a bear hug.  "You come home, meet my mother and brothers?"

So we spend an hour having tea and very sweet pastries with Joku and his mother, two brothers, and two very hot friends, discussing Hollywood celebrities, Lane's Jewish heritage ("lots of Jews in Hollywood, no?"), and, obliquely, being gay:

Brother: "Do you have wives in California?"
Joku:  "Lane and Boomer don't want wives.  They are free."

Then it is time to drive back to Vilnius to catch our plane in the morning.

No sex, no gay people, that I know of.  But sometimes, meeting a local is enough.

 Especially a hot one.

The One Thing Kerry Wants in a Guy

West Hollywood, December 29th, 1998

I'm back in West Hollywood for New Year's Eve.  Lane and I are having breakfast at the French Quarter, catching up on the gossip of who dated who, who moved in, who broke up, during the 3 1/2 years I've been away.

"And guess what?" Lane says in a confidential hush.  "Kerry finally found a boyfriend! He moved into his apartment about two months ago!"

We met Kerry at the gay synagogue in West Hollywood several years ago.  He was 21 years old, a theater arts major at UCLA, sharing an apartment off Melrose with two roommates and working in a video store, where he always found a gay-themed movie to promote as his "Pick of the Week."

He stood out in the crowd: tall, a boyish all-American face, smooth sculpted physique, and a shock of red hair beneath a yarmulke decorated with little shamrocks.  One doesn't meet many redheaded Irish Jews.

Turns out that Kerry grew up in an Irish Catholic household in the Boston suburb of Braintree.  On his 16th birthday he shocked his family by going downstairs for breakfast in a yarmulke and announcing that he was converting to Judaism.

AND that he was gay.  In the same conversation.

That's chutzpah!

No wonder he moved 3,000 miles away to go to college.















We bonded over our outsider status, surrounded by guys who grew up kosher.  Lane and I had him over a few times for dinner and sharing: an oral bottom, average sized, surprising for a redhead, but with that face and physique, who cared?

He was very popular at the synagogue, at the gym, and at the twink bars. Some of the most desirable guys  in West Hollywood were asking him out.

There are six traits that make a guy stand out as boyfriend material in West Hollywood: movie industry connections, an extraordinary knowledge of the arts, a handsome face, a bodybuilder's physique, a gigantic penis, or money.   Kerry was being asked out by Cecil B. DeMille, Leonardo Da Vinci, Leonardo DiCaprio, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Jeff Stryker, and Richie Rich, or the West Hollywood equivalents.

BUT: lots of first dates, rarely a second, but by the third, he was shouting "Next!"

No matter how hot the guy was, Kerry always found something wrong with him: bad breath, weird tattoo, unmade bed, a yapping dog, ordered the most expensive item on the menu, said something bad about Boston, lived outside the gay neighborhood.

Maybe he didn't really want a boyfriend?  Maybe he just liked meeting new guys, going out, and the bedroom activity after?

But he kept complaining: "I want to find my soul mate, the one I was destined to be with.  I want there to be fireworks the first time we kiss!"

We lost contact after I moved to San Francisco, and then New York.  Finding out that he has a boyfriend -- and they're living together --  is huge!

Who is this Adonis who has risen above all other mortals, with their snoring and farting and eating peanut butter right from the jar, to become "the one" for the extraordinarily picky Kerry?

"I don't know.  Kerry doesn't bring him to synagogue, and he won't tell us anything about him, except his name is Mat with one 't'."

"Well, I've got to meet this Mat with one 't'!  Do you have their phone number?"

He doesn't, but he has a friend from synagogue who does.  I call, and get us an invitation to visit after dinner tomorrow night.

I wonder which of the six traits Mat will have?  Maybe all six!


December 30th

We drive to a rundown apartment building, brown adobe with bars on the window, on Willoughby, where West Hollywood meets the Straight World.

Kerry is a few years older, of course, but still has a boyish all-American face and a pale, tight physique.  Mat is about 30, thin, rather scruffy looking, with unkept black hair and a three-day growth of beard.

I check the six traits, one by one:

1. Wealth.  No -- the apartment is small and cluttered, with no dining room and just one bedroom.  They serve us cake on mismatched plates.

2. Movie Industry Connections.  No -- Mat has a clerical job in an office on Wilshire.  Kerry has given up on his acting ambitions, and is taking classes in human resources management.

3. Knowledge of the Arts.  No.  We discuss Ricky Martin.  the Matrix, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

4. Handsome Face.   No.  His face is long and narrow, his eyes too small.

5. Bodybuilder's Physique.  No.  Mat is rather thin.

Then he must have #6, a Gigantic Penis!

Sharing with two guys is rare, and neither of us find Mat particularly attractive, but we start cruising him anyway, just to see what his beneath the belt gifts are like.

We go into the bedroom.  I kiss and fondle Kerry, and he kneels and goes down on me while Mat goes down on Lane  -- without taking his pants off.

Mat doesn't stand up until Lane finishes.  Seeing my opportunity, I kneel in front of him, unzip him, and find -- average, maybe a little small.

But...Kerry is an oral bottom!  He likes them big!

Kerry kneels beside me.  "Can I help you with that?" he asks.

Ok, I can't figure it out,  So I invite Kerry to lunch a couple of days after New Year's and ask.

January 3rd.  

"What sets Mat apart from the other guys?  What was the initial attraction?"

"Oh, his face, his personality, his wit," Kerry answers.  "And his penis, obviously."

"It seems a bit on the small side to me."

"Who cares about size?  It's uncut!  Didn't you notice when we 'shared' that  was all over you and barely touched Lane?  I love uncircumcized men!"

For Kerry, it all boiled down to a foreskin.

Stranded on the Island of Dogs

This story has been moved to RG Beefcake and Boyfriends

Schlong, Schlanger, Schvantz: 18 Yiddish Words for Penis

A Germanic language influenced by Slavic and Hebrew, Yiddish was spoken throughout the Jewish communities of Eastern Europe from the 9th century on to World War II.

Jewish immigrants to the United States brought a strong tradition of Yiddish literature, art, and theater.  In the early 20th century, entertainers such as the Three Stooges and the Marx Brothers introduced many Yiddish words into everyday English, including klutz, schlep, kitsch, and chutzpah.

Many more are familiar: nebbish, schvitz, tuches.

There are still 1.5 million native speakers of Yiddish, mostly in the Ukraine, Israel, and the United States.  They are mostly elderly: except in a few Hasidic communities, the language is not being taught to the younger generations.

But many young Jews are learning Yiddish in order to embrace their cultural heritage.  You can major in Yiddish Studies at Columbia University and Rutgers,   The Digital Yiddish Library offers free downloads of over 11,000 titles.

So knowing a few Yiddish words for penis might come in handy for cruising at your local synagogue.

Note: most of these terms are obscene, so don't use them when your boyfriend's bubbie is making kiska in the other room.

Small 

Petseleh.  Baby-sized penis.

Schmeckel.  Diminuitive of "schmuck" (see below).

Schmecky.  A children's euphemism, like "wee-wee."

Schtickl.  A tiny penis.  From "schtick," a little bit, a familiar term in English for a comedy routine.

Average Sized/General Terms

Bokher.  Literally "boy."

Brit. Jewish/circumcized penis.  From the Hebrew for "covenant."

Eyver.  The polite term. From the Hebrew for "leg."

Mile.  Another polite term.

Putz, potz.  Literally "ornament."  Also "jerk, fool"

Schmuck, schmock. Also "jerk, fool."  The Three Stooges, who incorporated a lot of Yiddish into their act, called each other "schmucks" a lot.

Vyzoso.  Also "idiot."  The son of Haman, the enemy of the Jews in the Biblical book of Esther.

Large/Extra-Large

Schlang, schlong.  From the Persian for "snake."  Donald Trump was being quite vulgar when he claimed that Hillary Clinton was "schlonged" by President Obama.

Schlanger.  An extra big schlang.

Schmohawk.  An extra big schlanger.  They don't get much bigger.

Schtrunkel. The biggest of the big.  Literally "tree trunk."

Schtupper.  From "schtup," to have sex with someone.

Schvantz.  From the Middle High German for "tail."

Yung.  From "young man."

So Yiddish has 4 words for a small penis, 7 for an average size, and 7 for an extra-large?

I like those odds.

See also: 6000 Ways to Say "Penis"

Wilton's First Time was with Captain Kirk

Millions of Baby Boomer kids got their first glimpse of beefcake on Star Trek (1966-69) where, week after week, Captain Kirk  would take his shirt off to fight alien monsters or kiss alien babes. I didn't find him attractive -- he was too smug, too leery, and way too hetero.

Shatner continued to play Kirk in movies and parodies for 40 years, but he also appeared in a wide variety of movies and tv series, including starring roles in T. J. Hooker, Boston Legal, and Sh** My Dad Says.

Married four times, with a notorious eye for the ladies, Shatner has no gay rumors, that I know of.  George Takei, who played Sulu on Star Trek, reveals that the entire cast and crew knew that he was gay, except Shatner: "it went right over his head."  For him, gay people simply did not exist.



But in his early days, Shatner was quite different.

Montreal, September 1947

Wilton was 16 years old (model is over 18), a sophomore at West Hill High School in Montreal, and an aspiring journalist -- he had already published a poem about the War.

Physically, he was not so hot --  a tall stringbean, pushing through puberty with oversized hands and feet, oily skin, and constant horniness.

He didn't know that gay people were defined as "criminal psychopaths" in the Canadian penal code.  He didn't even know that gay people exist.

But he knew that Johnny Sheffield in a loincloth in Tarzan and the Huntress made him feel all hot and flushed.

And he had a picture of Alan Ladd with his shirt off hidden in a desk drawer in his room.

And he liked looking at the football players.  Some of them were nice, saying "hello" to him in the hallway and collaborating with him on class assignments,  but many of them were jerks.

Bill Shatner was a jerk.

Wilton had to admit that he was cute, with that curly reddish-brown hair and that bright Pepsodent smile. But he was a money-hungry, mercenary, soulless cog in the Cold War machine.  He wasn't interested in acting then, although he had done some children's theater.  He was all about money and getting rich -- offensive to Wilt's artistic sensibility.  He planned to get a football scholarship to McGill, major in economics, then start his own business.

But it wasn't just a difference in temperament.  Bill strutted around like he owned the place.  He wasn't even a star...he played an offensive end -- that's a minor position, but it made him a regular Jim Thorpe, in his own mind anyway.

When he was in a good mood, he ignored Wilton, walked right past like he was a ghost.  And God forbid he was in a bad mood -- he'd make with the nonstop jokes about Wilton's height, his acne, calling him ugly and a fruit, asking if he had pubic hair yet.

Wilton was a reporter for the school paper, and one day the editor gave him an assignment of interviewing one of the football players other than the quarterback -- anyone else he wanted.

He went into the locker room one day after practice to ask for volunteers -- and to gawk at the naked jocks, of course.

"Hi, I'm doing an article on what it's like to be on our football team," he began.  "And I was wondering if any of you would...."

Bill Shatner was walking from the shower wearing a towel, his chest hard and gleamng.  Wilton lost his train of thought.

"Um...would....would mind being interviewed."

"Hot-cha, Jackson!" he exclaimed with a smile.  "I'll be there with all my ears on."

Not that drip!  Wilton thought.  Anybody but him!   But he said "Ok, fine.  How about tomorrow lunchtime in the library?"

"No -- that's not private enough.  I don't want the whole world to know my deep, dark secrets.  Come to my house tonight after dinner."

So around 8:00 pm, Wilton knocked on the door of small flat-roofed house on rue Marcel, near the Bois de Saraguay.  He was surprised to see a mezuzah on the door frame -- he hadn't realized that the Shatners were Jewish.

Bill's father answered, and drew him into the living room, where his mother, aunt, and sister were listening to Family Theater on the radio.


"You're not going out to a soda shop, are you?"  Dad asked.

Going out?   "No, sir."

 "Good. You may not know that this is Erev Yom Kippur: tomorrow is the Day of Atonement, when we pray and fast to atone for our sins of the last year.  Nothing to eat from sundown to sundown."

Then Bill came bounding down the stairs wearing just his pants.  Wilt stared at his bare chest.  Suddenly he was flushed with erotic energy.

"Is that anyway to dress when you are entertaining a young man?" Mom asked.

"Sorry -- I just got out of the shower. "  He clapped Wilton on the shoulder.  "Howsa, Jackson -- let me spare you this agony -- come up to my room while I finish getting dressed, and then we'll blow."

Wilton followed Bill up to his room -- single bed, desk, pennant from McGill, bookcase with a few books on sports.  He carefully closed the door behind them.

"Where are we going?"

"Oh, I thought we could get some moo goo and meet some sweet petites [get ice cream and look for girls]. Better than hanging around this morgue, right?"     Bill dropped his pants -- he was wearing no underwear.  His cock was long, thick, cut.  Wilt stared.

"I never saw one that was circumcized before...."  His face was burning.  "Can I...touch it?"

Bill grinned.  "Be my guest."

Wilt knelt to get a better look.  He gingerly ran his fingers over the shaft, lifted the head. It began to stiffen.

Bill was caressing his hair, holding his shoulders, thrusting his pelvis gently forward and backward as his cock grew longer.

Wilton had never heard of oral sex before, but instinctively he opened his mouth and let Bill's cock slide in.  He grabbed the base to control it better, and bobbed up and down, licking the shaft like it was a lollipop.

"Suck it," Bill suggested.  "Make like you're a hoover [vacuum cleaner]."

Wilton began sucking and licking the head while masturbating the shaft.  He grabbed Bill by the butt to steady himself.

"That's it.  Good job," Bill murmured. ' Good boy."  He thrust hard, shuddered, and suddenly spurted an enormous load into Wilton's mouth.  He didn't know what to do with it -- he looked around, saw a box of tissues by the bed, and jumped up to deposit the load into one.

"Thanks, buddy-boy."  Bill took the tissue from his hand and threw it into the waste basket.  "He shoots -- he scores!"  He began putting on his clothes.

"Got anything to get the taste out of my mouth?"

"A smooth and creamy at Dairyland should do the trick."

"But...Yom Kippur.  The Day of Atonement."

"I've already atoned, Jackson.  I wanted to make up for all the times I was mean to you in the last year.  I knew what you wanted -- it's what all fairies want -- so why not give it to you?  And the soda is part of the deal, too."

They didn't become lovers -- Wilton didn't go down on another guy until college.  They didn't even become friends.  But Bill Shaner was a lot nicer after that.  And whenever they passed each other in the hallway, they shared a secret smile.

What Made Sandy a #10

When I was an undergraduate at Augustana College (1978-82), boy-girl dating was pushed even more dramatically than in high school.

It was no longer a way of achieving prestige; it was serious business.  Men needed wives for career success, to escort to office parties and demonstrate their "family man" stability.  Women needed husbands to finance their club activities and to give them children. And we had to seal the deal before graduation.

So every conversation with peers, parents, and professors involved "what girl are you interested in?", and every Tuesday night brought a flurry of phone calls as boys asked girls for weekend dates, with the subtext: "I want to evaluate you as a potential wife."

I had figured "it" out just after my high school graduation, and had a live-in boyfriend during my sophomore year, but, still, I was in no way excused.  I heard a constant "What girl do you like?", and every Tuesday night, "What girl will you call?"

I didn't want to date any girl, but I really had no choice.  You did not come out to anyone in small-town Illinois in the 1980s, ever.

Unfortunately, girls were evaluated solely on their physical attractiveness.  I knew a few basic rules: fat or short hair should elicit "Ugh!  Gross!", and slim with long hair "Wow, she's hot!"  Blonde should garner more enthusiasm than other hair colors.    But I simply could not distinguish between, say, the attractiveness of Barbara and Julie on One Day at a Time,  or Sabrina and Kelly on Charlie's Angels.  

Boys at Augustana were evaluated on the basis of their future wealth, power, and prestige.

10:  Fratboys were always "10," taking absolute precedence over everyone else.  It didn't matter what they looked like or whether they had the personality of an ass.  Any girl would drop a long-term boyfriend instantly just for the prospect of getting a coke in the Student Union with a fratboy.

7 to 9: Gold mine majors, like business and computer science, which would lead to mega-buck jobs.

4 to 6: Practical majors, like social work or psychology, which would lead to good, stable jobs. Dateable if no gold mine majors or  fratboys had asked you out for several weeks in a row.

1 to 3: Head case majors, fit only for lunatics who wanted to starve to death, like English and history.  Dateable if no one higher up had asked you out for several months in a row.






You could move up for one or more of: a car, an off-campus apartment, disco skill, a wild--and-crazy personality, an arrest record, a Robert Redford smile, a Sylvester Stallone physique,  an awe-inspiring penis, or if you were Jewish (I don't know why).

But you would move down for one or more of:  a part-time job, an interest in science fiction or fantasy, goody-goody morals, a clock-stopping face, a shy-and-quiet personality, a fat belly, facial hair, glasses, or a "Danish dick" (pipsqueak-sized).

And during your senior year, when you were getting desperate, everyone moved up a level.

I was majoring in English (head case) and Modern Languages (practical), I had a part-time job, an interest in science fiction, and goody-goody morals (I didn't drink or use drugs), but also a car, a physique, and a penis.  So I figured that I was a #5.

One day a female friend pointed out a boy who rated #10: Sandy, who I knew from my Renaissance history class.

Wait -- he was a history major (head case), tall and hulking, with black hair, a nondescript face, and a nondescript physique.  A little belly.  Wearing glasses.  He should be down around #1, undatable.  What pushed him up to #10?

She wouldn't tell me.

So I asked Sandy to "hang out" and did some sleuthing.

I had to pick him up at the dorm.

No car.  No apartment.

We got pizza at Alfano's, where getting him to talk was like pulling teeth.

No wild-and-crazy personality.

 Then he insisted that we go to the Cave to "look for girls."  I hated dancing and "looking for girls," but I agreed.

No John Travolta disco moves.

A bad boy with an arrest record?

No.

He got a little tipsy -- ok, a lot tipsy -- which put him around #1 in my book (I hate drunks)!

Our quest "to meet girls" proved fruitless, so he asked me to take him home.  I had to actually help him up to his dorm room!

I hate drunks, but this might prove fruitful.  I might get a blow job out of it, or at least a grope.

I helped Sandy undress and lie down on bed.  When I moved to climb into bed with him, he brushed me away.  But I managed to slide down his underwear and take a peek before leaving.

Enormous!  A fire hose.  A Swedish salami.  Big enough to push him up from #1 to #10.

And Jewish.

Ari, the Linguist on My Sausage List

Columbus, Ohio, September 2007

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sounds perfect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But:

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

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

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

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

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

Tracking Down My Jewish Cousins

When I was growing up in Rock Island, almost every kid in my class had grandparents or great-grandparents from the Old Country,  so"where you came from" was a constant classroom assignment.

"Bring some food from your country"
"Tell about how your country celebrates Christmas."
"Teach us a few words in your country's language."

In junior high the assignments became more complex: the political structure, history, and economy of your country.

By high school, we were writing histories of immigration from our country, writing reports on its literary classics, and charting its GDP.

Except for me.  My grandparents and great-grandparents, both biological and adopted, were born here, and no one remembered any farther back (except for Grandma Davis's great-grandmother coming from Quebec.). 

 I was forced to "just pick a country" to do the assignments: Spain, Finland, the Philippines, Japan, and India spring to mind.

Being American-born-American, with no particular ethnic heritage, I've always been eager to embrace any hints of anything non-WASP-y in my family tree.  Like my Native American relatives, who turned out to be Aunt Nora's husband's family.

And...Jewish?

I have two odd memories that suggest a Jewish connection:

1. It's around 1968, when I'm seven years old, but before we move to Rock Island.  My parents decide to drive out to see "Otto."  I don't know if he's a friend or relative or what: these things are never explained to kids.

Otto was the old man in the story The Muscles of Morris Street, but I don't make the connection.

He is way old, way older than my grandparents, bald with wrinkles and glasses that make his eyes look big.  

His living room is heavy with thick furniture, a dark-oak piano, black-and-white pictures of dour-looking relatives, and a very nervous, trembling poodle.

One of his photos shows some guys in old-timey swim uniforms.  Otto catches me looking at it.

"That's my son, back when he was not much bigger than you," he says.  "Do you like to swim?"

"No.  I like to watch tv."

"I don't have a television, but I can give you some paper to draw on."  He goes to his desk and pulls out a black-bound day calendar for the year 1963. Blank, never used. It starts in September, not January, and has dates for "Yom Kippur," "Rosh Hashanah," "Purim," "Pesach."  I don't know what any of those words mean at the time, but later I figure out that they're Jewish holidays.  So Otto is Jewish.

2. It's couple of years later,  maybe 1971, when I'm 10 years old. Grandma Davis has taken us to Fort Wayne, the big city about 30 miles from her farm.  In the midst of doing fun grandma-and-kids things, she drives us to a ritzy neighborhood far from downtown, and says "I have to stop at this house for a minute.  You can come in, but don't make fun because they're Jewish."

I'm offended.  Does she think I'm a hick?  There are lots of Jewish kids in our neighborhood in Rock Island.

We climb up a thick, heavy porch with granite pillars, and knock on the door.  A middle-aged man with wavy hair and a little paunch answers.

The only other thing I remember are two teenagers, a girl and a boy, sitting at the kitchen table, watching tv -- the first portable black and white tv set I had ever seen!

The boy doesn't have his shirt off, sorry.  But he is still cute, with dark crewcut hair and very pale skin.  And he looks very, very grown up.

"Have you been to see Otto?" Grandma Davis asks the boy.

He looks up sheepishly.  "We're.. .um... planning to go later today."  No doubt he wasn't.

"You should visit him," she insists.

So the cute boy with a tv in his kitchen was friends or relatives with the elderly Otto, who had no tv at all.  Weird!

When Grandma Davis died, I was bequeathed her Bible, with family records in it, and everything became clear:

Otto (1890-1971) married Blanche, Grandpa Davis' sister, in 1923.   Apparently he was never accepted by the family because he was 15 years older than Blanche, because this was his second marriage (the first ended in divorce), because he was Jewish, .,and because their son Wilbur was born five month after the wedding.

Scandal upon scandal in 1923!

Maybe Grandma Davis also rejected Otto and Blanche  -- or maybe she saw them during the 350 days a year that we weren't in town.  Blanche had already died by the time of Memory #1.  Memory #2 must have been an errand that brought us to see  Otto's son Wilbur.  

Wilbur was married in 1945, apparently just after he served in World War II, and had two Baby Boomer children, David (born 1948) and Kama (1950). The cute boy must have been David. Which makes him my...fourth cousin once removed?

What's important is: I have a Jewish connection.  Rather a distant connection, but I'll take it.  L'chaim!

And maybe I have even more contemporary Jewish relatives.

Grandma's Bible record ends there, but internet searches have yielded more.

David became some kind of business person in Chicago. He has one son, Jared David, who has never married.

According to Facebook, Jared lives in Louisville, Kentucky, where he's into crossfit.

Maybe gay?

He  "liked" St. Andrew's Episcopal Church.  The Episcopalians are pro-gay.










Wilbur's daughter Kama married Roger S___.  They have a daughter, Nikki, who is married to someone named Trusty in Cincinnati, Ohio.

Nikki has a son named Mason (my fifth cousin, once removed, by adoption).  On the swim team at St. Xavier High School.

St. Xavier High School?  

It seems that over the generations, my Jewish relatives assimilated and lost their Jewishness.

I'm still taking it as evidence of Jewish ancestry.

Sorry, I forgot to put in nude photos, but here's a nice Jewish boy with his penis out to tide you over.

Infinite Chazz Hooks Up with Mark-Paul Gosselaar

Washington, DC, April 15th, 1995

I'm in Washington DC, visiting my old friend Alan for the week before Easter and Passover. My partner Lane calls, like he does every day,  and Infinite Chazz gets on the phone.

"Hey, Dad!  You'll never believe this! Last night I was dumped!"

"That is hard to believe!"  I exclaim.  "You're never rejected.  You just walk up to the guy, flash your patented smile, and he's writing down his phone number!"

Infinite Chazz is 21 years old, a student at Cal State Fullerton, called "Infinite" not only because of his enormous Mortadella, but because he's infinitely attractive, sure to cause jaw-dropping stares in every man who comes within five feet of him.  He drives up every couple of weeks, to "share" and make the guys at the synagogue or MCC die of envy.

"Not this time.  And you'll never guess who dumped me."

"Jerry O'Connell?" I joke.  The star of Sliders was the prime time hunk du jour.

"Close.  Mark-Paul Gosselaar."

"What?  Are you sure?  Is this a fantasy?"

"I wish!  I'm still smarting from the rejection."

Mark-Paul Gosselaar (left) was the teen-dream star of Saved by the Bell (1988-1994), Zack Morris, the constantly-in-trouble operator of Bayside High.  Every gay boy in the country had his pin-up on his bedroom wall; most realized that they were gay watching the buddy-bonding romance between Zack and Mario Lopez's Slater (right)

"I'm not saying he's not hot," I tell Chazz, "Or that he's not a nice guy, but he's never had any gay rumors, that I know of.  He's a hetero horndog, dating every supermodel he sees."

 Indeed, his character Zack Morris screams heterosexual privilege, someone who absolutely assumes the universality of heterosexual desire, who is absolutely convinced that gay people do not exist.

"Well, last night, he made two exceptions.  Me, and the guy he dumped me for."

West Hollywood, April 14th

Chazz was in West Hollywood keeping Lane company.  On the Friday before Passover, Lane was tired, so Chazz went out by himself, promising to bring someone home to "share."

He went to the evening service at Beth Chaim Chadashim, the gay synagogue, and a meeting place for West Hollywood's gay Jewish community.  Although he wasn't Jewish, he had visited often enough that all the regulars knew him.

At the refreshment table after the service, he was drawn to a new guy, strikingly tall, with dirty blond hair, a rarity at the synagogue.  When he got closer, he saw that it was Mark-Paul Gosselaar, his teenage crush!

"Mr. Gosselaar, I love you...I mean, I love your work!"  Chazz gushed, shaking his hand. "I have the entire Saved by the Bell series on VHS."

Usually gushing at a celebrity turns him off, but MP smiled broadly, with that Zack Morris smile that brought teenage boys to their knees.  "Call me MP.  Yeah, Saved by the Bell was lots of fun, but I'm anxious to move on to adult roles.  I'm doing a Misery thing right now about a football jock kidnapped by an unpopular girl."

"Sounds great -- I can't wait to see it."  Chazz noticed that they were still shaking hands, and began to get aroused.  "So, I didn't know you were Jewish."  And gay.

"I have Jewish roots on my mother's side, so when I heard that there was a gay synagogue in town, I had to come and give it a look."

"What's your expert opinion?"

"I need to do more research," MP said, touching Chazz's chest.  "Really get to know gay Jewish boys, see what they're like inside, examine them up and...down."  He looked down at Chazz's crotch.

Chazz didn't need any more prompting.  He invited MP home to "share" with Lane, but MP wanted to see "gay nightlife."  So they went to the Rage, the twink dance club.

They danced, and kissed, and groped each other.  

"How big was he?" I ask.

"Average sized, maybe a little smaller.  I didn't care. I would have gone down on him right there at the Rage, if he suggested it."

"Did you see it?"

"No, but I saw the tenting, and felt it through his pants."

Then the Other Man showed up. 

They were all dancing in a mass, so Chazz didn't even notice when MP moved to the side and faced the Other Man -- Asian, tall, slim, black-haired, with very tight jeans and some socks shoved in to give him a bulge.    

Then they were blatantly facing each other.  Grinning.  Eyes smoldering.

MP was cruising another guy, while on a date with him!  Unheard of in the gay community!

Thinking fast, Chazz said "I'm tired -- let's go get a drink," and walked off the dance floor.  MP didn't follow.

He went to the bar, got a bottle of beer, and brought it to MP -- who said "thanks" without ever taking his eyes off the Other Man.

Chazz grabbed his shoulder.  "I'm ready to go home."

"Ok," MP said.  "It was nice meeting you."

"I mean with you..." Chazz said desperately.  "Or both of you, together.  I have a place..." 

"I don't know...I'm sort of shy." MP reached out to grab the Other Man and kiss him passionately.

Chazz was furious.  He was never rejected, and certainly not in the middle of the date!  He looked around for another guy to make MP jealous, and stuck up a conversation with a cute black twink.  But when he looked around, MP was gone.

Seething with rage, aching with rejection, Chazz drove home, and cried in Lane's arms.

Was Chazz Telling the Truth?

In April 1995, Mark-Paul Gosselaar was 21 years old, and working on Twisted Love, a Misery rip-off set in a high school. He does have Jewish roots, but his hair is black, not dirty-blond -- it was dyed for Saved by the Bell. 

Penis size: About halfway through Dead Man on Campus, his character is making out with a girl in bed, and he gets aroused in real life.  You have to zoom in to see it; at least a Bratwurst, somewhat bigger than what Chazz described.

But I haven't heard any gay rumors about him.  I suspect that Chazz took an "innocent" meeting and added some details about kissing and groping.

But why make it into a story of a painful rejection?  

See also: A Live Sex Show for Alan; Saved by the Bell; Why Christopher Atkins is My Facebook Friend.

Fondling the Biggest Schlong in Hollywood

Hi, Boomer,

In one of your stories, you said "I don't think 1930s film legend Jackie Coogan would tell his 12-year old grandson Keith Coogan, about the hookups of his youth."

Well, my Grandpa Sammy told me all about his hookups!  He was born in 1922, but didn't come out until 1990, when his wife, my Grandma Lonny, died.  After that, there was no stopping him -- he moved to Palm Springs, cruised in leather bars, went to bear parties, joined Gay and Grey clubs --  nonstop schmoozing and screwing.  And whenever my boyfriend and I drove up from West Hollywood to visit, he told us the raunchiest stories about his youth.







Here's one about Milton Berle's penis.

[Comedian Milton Berle (1908-2002) was famous for two things:

1. Being the host of Texaco Star Theater, an early comedy-variety tv show (1948-1956)  that everybody watched -- it was single-handedly responsible for selling 300,000 tv sets.

2. Having the biggest penis in Hollywood.  It was so famous, it was even mentioned at his funeral.]

The Catskills, June 1939

In the summer of 1939, Sammy was a high school student in Queens.  Like many Jewish boys from the City, he worked summers in the Borscht Belt, the resorts of Sullivan Count, New York.  He was an all-around athlete and a state tennis champ, so he landed a job as a tennis instructor and life guard at Grossinger's, the biggest and most elegant of the resorts:

 35 buildings, indoor and outdoor pools, three restaurants, big name acts like Glenn Miller and George Burns.

And Milton Berle, the 30-year old comedian who had been playing the Borscht Belt since he was 15, plus appearing on the radio and in movies like Radio City Revels.  He had a standup comedy act involving nonstop patter, joke after joke that had the audience rolling in the aisles.  When they weren't gazing at him with that vacation-enhanced horniness -- he was goodlooking, well-built -- he filled out a swimsuit beautifully

Berle always had a girl or two on his arm, but Sammy still hoped he was queer, or at least open to late-night blow-jobs from his buddies.  He cozied up to him, tried to drop subtle hints, but Berle got the wrong idea:

"There's plenty of skirts up here in the Catskills, Sammy, if you don't mind them a little on the plus side of 30.  These dames have been dreaming of romance with the lifeguards all winter.  With a little finesse, you can get an invite into a different bed every day."

Sammy had no interest in skirts on either side of 30, but, he figured, there must be plenty of swell fellas in the Catskills, too.  Soon he had a profitable business, letting aging queens go down on him for $1 a pop.  He could do it three times a day (taking Shabbat off), and make $18 per week.  His regular job only paid $20!

No doubt the registrar at CUNY never realized that Sammy's tuition was paid with blow jobs.

Sammy served in Italy during the War, finished college, and went to work as an civil engineer. In 1947 he married a Catholic girl named Lonny, hoping that marriage would "cure" him of being queer.  As it turns out, Lonny was rather adventurous, and had no problem with his proclivities -- as long as there was no "setting up housekeeping," he was free to schmooze and screw all he liked.  Sometimes he even brought home tricks for them to "share."

Las Vegas, July 1971

As the years passed, Sammy saw Milton Berle on The Texaco Star Theater,  and then doing guest spots on Dick Powell, F Troop, I Dream of Jeannie, Red Skelton, Jackie Gleason, Batman (my Dad was a big fan).  He heard the stuff about Berle's schlong.  Enormous!  Gigantic!  Phil Silvers saw it at the urinal and said "You'd better feed that thing, or it's liable to turn on you."  Alan Zweibel got a look when Berle guest-starred on Saturday Night Live -- "an anaconda...a pepperoni."

He was upset that he never got a chance to see it during the summer of 1939 -- or better yet, feel it.  Or better yet, go down on it.

In the summer of 1971, he saw that Berle was headlining at Caesar's Palace, so as a special 25th-anniversary present, he surprised Lonny with a trip to Las Vegas.

The 63 year old Berle wasn't quite as handsome as he used to be -- but who among us is?  But he remembered Sammy from Grossinger's all those years ago, and invited him back to his suite for a drink.

"You ever take my advice, and go door to door banging the Geritol chicks?" Berle asked.

"No, no -- turns out I'm a one woman man," Sammy said.  "I don't think I'm big enough to satisfy a multitude anyway.  Not like you....hey, do you think I could get a peek?"

Berle shrugged and pulled it out of his pants.  About 5" soft, and thick around.

"Hmm....not too bad. But I've seen bigger."

"On who, King Kong?  You'll never see a bigger one, I guarantee."

"Well, maybe it's big.  My eyes aren't so good these days.  They play tricks.  Do you mind if I feel it?"

Berle hesitated.  "I don't get offers to do that, except from fairies.  You're not a fairy, are you?"

"Like I told you, I'm a one-woman man."

"Ok...I guess you could take a grope.  You're sure you're not a fairy? I don't want a fairy touching me there."

Sammy began to get angry.  What happened to live and let live?  Hadn't Berle ever heard of Gay Liberation?  But he said "I swear I'm not a fairy" and wrapped his hand around the shaft.  He jerked a couple of times.

"You know, my hands aren't so sensitive anymore.  Better I should taste it."  Before Berle had a chance to answer, he leaned down and ran his tongue over Berle's head.

"Ok, that's enough," Berle said, pushing him away.  "Bigger than you thought, huh?"

"Not bad.  Well, I should be going."  Sammy stood and walked out of the room, but turned back and said "I had one boyfriend who was bigger.  You should try it with a black guy sometime."

Berle's eyes widened as he realized that he had just been fondled and licked by a gay man.

Was Grandpa Sammy Telling the Truth?

 Berle was apparently quite homophobic, even more than usual for men of his age.  In 1999, a real estate company ran an old photo of Uncle Miltie in drag, with the caption that every queen needs a castle, and he promptly sued, reasoning that someone might see the ad and think he was gay.  At the age of 91.

His "private joke file" contains a lot of homophobic jokes:

What do you call a gay dentist?  A tooth fairy.

I'm not sure he would allow a same-sex fondle, even with a guy who he thought was straight

See also: Milton Berle: Television's First Drag Queen