"My Uncle's Queer": My Nephew's Transformation from Choir Boy to Punk Rocker

Rock Island, December 1999

I am in grad school in New York, visiting Rock Island and Indianapolis for the holidays, staying with my brother Kenny in his rundown, rambling house downtown.  The house is crowded with Kenny's children and stepchildren, plus a huge assortment of dogs, cats, hamsters, and parrots.

It's easy to miss Joel, Ken's youngest son, in the crowd: he's thirteen years old, short, slim, a quiet, polite Johnny Nazarene.  But a talented singer: he's toured in Iowa, Minnesota, and Sweden with the Moline Boys' Choir.  We go to their Christmas concert and hear his solo in "Come, O Come Emmanuel."

December 2000

Yuri and I are visiting Rock Island for the holidays. My family practices a "don't ask, don't tell" policy, so they don't know if we're friends or boyfriends or lovers.  Most of them probably don't even know that we are gay.  But Joel figures it out.  Although he claims to be straight, he asked us to teach him and his friend Max "how gay guys have sex."

Yuri and I teach him about gay kissing.





August 2001

I've completed my Ph.D., and I'm visiting Rock Island for a few days just before moving to Florida.  Joel is a cute 15 year old with short black hair, pale skin, and nicely rounded biceps.  Nazarenes aren't allowed to listen to "the devil's music," basically anything with guitars, but he likes Weezer, Nickelback, and other groups that I never heard of, but sound loud.

Oddly, ,my brother doesn't forbid it.  "It's his life," Kenny says.  "If he likes the devil's music, that's on him."

Joel asks why I didn't bring Yuri.  "You guys are, like, hot together, aren't you?"

Ken glares at me, accusing me of outing myself to his son.  "Boomer has a lot of friends, all kinds," he explains.  "Black, white, Jewish, Muslim, gay, straight.  He's so liberal, it hurts."



December 2001

It's only been six months since I saw him last, and the transformation is amazing.  Joel is a surly 15-year old, dressed all in black, who protests the "capitalist spending frenzy" of Christmas.  He spends most of his time in his room, listening to metal music.  He emerges to eat a bowl of Lucky Charms instead of Christmas dinner, and to ask "So, Uncle Gizmo, are the beach boys hot down in Florida?  I bet you get tons of action."

In front of the whole family, including relatives I wasn't out to!

"Um...well, I do ok," I stammer.

Later I ask Kenny if Joel is gay.

"Nope, nope, nope!" Kenny exclaims.  "He's totally hot for girls.  He's got a little gay friend, but that doesn't mean a thing."


June 2003

Maybe Kenny is angry about my accidental outing, or maybe he's just busy, but he doesn't invite me to Christmas in Rock Island in 2002. I don't visit again until June 2003.

Joel has just turned 17.  He has green hair, earrings,  and a pierced lip.  He gives me a hug and calls me "Beach Boy,"

He just got back from Hardcore Fest, where he heard Walls Of Jericho, Suicide Note, Saved By Grace, As We Speak, Provoke, How It Ends, Devastator, Preacher Gone To Texas, Blood In Blood Out, Too Pure To Die, For Death or Glory, Wings Of Scarlet, Uphold, Begin Again, King of Clubz, Pound for Pound, Undo Tomorrow, Haunted Life and Butt Lynt.

"Sounds like a great lineup," I tell him. I've never heard of any of them.

And naturally he's the lead vocalist in his own punk band, The Dead Eunuchs.

June 2004

Joel has a bright red mohawk and a nose ring.  The Dead Eunuchs has been performing all over the Quad Cities.  Tonight they have a gig at the Rusty Nail in Davenport.

"You should come," Joel says.  "We play a great set."

Well -- I'm not much for punk music in noisy heterosexual bars. "I don't think..."

 "You'll like one of our songs.  It's called 'My Uncle's Queer.'"


My face begins to burn.  Is Joel outing me in front of roomsful of drunken heterosexual rednecks?  "Queer?  Sounds homophobic!" I exclaim.

"The Dead Eunuchs are opposed to racism, sexism, homophobia, anti-Semitism, fascism, capitalism, brutality, and the police state," Joel recites.  "It's right there on our MySpace page. Come Saturday night.  You'll find out."

It's a small club with a bar and grille and a little stage.  About 20 people in the audience, some rednecks, but mostly bohemians of all shapes and sizes.  The Dead Eunuchs, five guys in their late teens or early 20s, perform in mohawks, shirtless (nice abs), with lots of crotch-grabbing and pretending to lick each other.

Their songs are the standard punk "life is meaningless" shtick, until they come to "My Uncle's Queer."

As far as I can tell from the screeching, the lyrics are:

My uncle's queer, you heard me right!
He won't tell Dad, he's scared to fight!
Break the system, break the wall,
Press your cock against my balls.
We're all dying from the fear
Inside out, everybody's queer!

Not very complementary, but at least it's inclusive.

Guitar riff, and then the second verse:


My sister kissed a dyke for [?],
My brother sucked a stud for Jesus
We all got cocks, we all got balls,
We all got faces pressed to the wall.
I am queer!  You are queer!
Hear that preacher, the world is queer!

"Nice inclusive message," I tell Joel later as he sits, shirtless and sweat-soaked, at my booth eating a hamburger.   "But not entirely accurate.  I've been out to your Dad since high school.  He was the first one I told when I figured it out."

"The song isn't about you.  It's about everybody who's afraid to be who they are."

I hesitate about asking if Joel is really "queer" or not -- it would be contrary to his message of solidarity.

And no, he never invites me to "press my cock against his balls."  

The Boy with Soft Hands

When I was growing up in Rock Island, Huey (not his real name) was one of my brother Kenny's friends.  Short, brown-skinned, a rarity among the pale Swedes and Germans of Rock Island, chubby, with black hair and soft black eyes, soft all over.  I especially remember his square soft hands with stubby fingers.

This story has been moved to RG Beefcake and Boyfriends

The Catholic Boy's Bulge at My Niece's Wedding

Kankakee, Illinois, Summer 2008

When I was a kid, the Nazarene church taught us to:

1. Pity "heathens," the Buddhists, Hindus, and Muslims who hadn't heard the Gospel.

2. Be suspicious of "liberal so-called Christians," the Methodists, Presbyterians, and Baptists.

3. Run in terror from Roman Catholics.  They drank, went to movies, and worshipped idols. Their Pope was the anti-Christ. They were probably demon-possessed.  We weren't supposed to make friends with them, set foot in one of their churches, or even walk on the sidewalk outside one of their houses, lest we be corrupted.

I left the Nazarene church around my freshman year of college, but my parents, brother, and sister are still active.






Ken is actually more devout than when we were kids.  He's ok with gay people, but he doesn't go to movies or the theater, doesn't shop or work on Sunday, and doesn't go to restaurants or stores with alcohol on sale.

He married in 1981, and had four kids.  Then he divorced his wife and married a woman who had three kids of her own, plus an elderly mother.  Ten people, four dogs, two cats, and a parrot all living together in a big, rambling house downtown.

Most of Ken's kids turned out less devoutly Nazarene than their parents.

The oldest spent time in prison for aggravated assault.

The second sang in a punk rock band.

The fourth got pregnant while still in high school.

But somehow the third, Katie, turned into a ultra-devout "Suzie Nazarene."

In high school, she was president of the NYPS and a delegate to the International Institute.

She enrolled at Olivet, the Nazarene college on the prairie, where girls generally majored in becoming a preacher's wife.

I wasn't out to her, or to any of my nieces and nephews, although some of them figured it out (my brother followed a  "don't ask, don't tell policy."  When I brought Lane or Yuri over for Christmas or a summer holiday, we stayed closeted.

I wasn't really close to them, anyway.  I didn't visit Rock Island much after my parents moved to Indiana in 1995, just an occasional Christmas, where they might or might not be present.  I sent them birthday cards with a check in it every year, but eventually I stopped that as well.

In the spring of 2008, when I was living in Dayton, I got Katie's wedding announcement in the mail.  I almost threw it out.  I usually boycott heterosexual weddings.

Then I saw that it was being held at St. Patrick's Catholic Church in Kankakee, Illinois.

Katie was marrying a Roman Catholic boy named Steve!

I had to see this!  How would my Nazarene relatives react?  Would they grit their teeth and go into a Catholic church?  Would they wait outside?  Would they disown Katie and refuse to talk to her again?

I emailed Katie.

"That's one of the things that brought us together," she said.  "Arguing about religion.  We can get into some heated debates, let me tell you!  But we also have a lot in common.  Nazarenes and Catholics both have really strict rules."

"How did you meet?"

"He was the barista in the coffee shop I used to go to.  Af first I tried to save his soul, but then we started talking about the differences between Nazarene and Catholic beliefs.  Of course, he was cute in his uniform, too. "

A Nazarene and a Catholic -- two of the more homophobic denominations.  I wondered how welcome I would be at their wedding.


Time to out myself.

Two nights before the wedding, all of Katie's relatives had dinner at a restaurant in downtown Kankakee, so they could meet Steve.

Steve was in his 30s, tall, husky, bearded -- with a huge bulge in his jeans!

I made a point of hugging him "hello," and sitting next to him to tell stories of West Hollywood, Florida, and New York. Without using the g-word, of course.

"How is Yuri?" Katie asked.  "You haven't brought him around the house since I was a kid."

Now was my chance!  "Oh, he's fine.  He's been with Michael for several years now."

Don't ask, don't tell!  My sister-in-law, Ken's wife, glared at me.  "Boomer has always been liberal, with lots of different kinds of friends."

"Yes...um...it fits in very nicely with my research on gay communities."

Now my mother was glaring at me.  "Oh, Boomer is always doing some kind of research.  That's why he's never had time to get married and raise a family."

"That, and the fact that I can't get married in the State of Ohio.  It's illegal.  But I date a lot, and I've had my share of long-term..."

Don't ask, don't tell!  "Lots of pretty girls out there in Ohio," my brother said.  "Must be hard to stick to any one person."

Enraged, I excused myself and went to the bathroom.  Steve followed, and stood next to me at the urinal. I was too nervous to sneak a peek.

"Don't let it bother you," he said.  "My parents still insist on calling my brother's partner his 'roommate,' and they've been together for ten years.  But he's invited to all of the family functions.  That's something, right?"

I reddened.  No need to out myself -- Steve already knew.  Everyone already knew.  They may not use the g-word, but at least I was invited to all of the family functions.  And so were Lane and Yuri.  That's more than you can say for most fundamentalist relatives.

By the way, no one had a problem with Steve being Catholic.  I guess having a gay relative makes you tolerant.

And no, I never saw him like this.

See also;Yuri and I Teach My Nephew the Gay Facts of Life; Saving the Church Organist.; My Nephew Tries to Turn a Boy Gay

My Boyfriend Goes to Bed with the Baseball Player

Rock Island, June 1979

I've been putting off the story of Carl the Nazarene boy, because it's kind of embarrassing.

He was one of my brother Kenny's friends, a 16-year old sophomore at Rocky High (all models in the nude photos are over 18) .  I had seen him around, and talked to him a few times, but we didn't start dating until Kenny invited him over for a party on May 25th, 1979, the summer after my first year at Augustana College.

He was short, with a round baby face, wavy brown hair, dark brown eyes, a smooth pale chest, and slim abs with an outtie belly button.

Obviously too young for me: I was in college, a mature adult, and he was still a "little boy."  It would be social suicide if anyone at Augustana saw me hanging out him, even if they didn't think we were gay.

But he was cute, and very enthusiastic, and besides, how many gay guys had I met during the year since I figured "it" out?  Two, and neither of them wanted to date me.  You take what you can get.

As it turns out, we started dating at the worst possible moment: the Friday before Memorial Day Weekend.

 I had a trip to Colombia and a week in Indiana coming up, and he had a family vacation to Minnesota and a week at Nazarene summer camp.

So between May 28th and the end of July, we had three "dates," but really sort of hookups.

1. Swimming at Longview Park Pool (with Kenny along as a chaperone).  Afterwards we went upstairs to our bedroom to change clothes.  Kenny finished quickly, but Carl and I dawdled so we could have some time alone for kissing and fondling.  Carl was just starting to go down on me when Kenny called up "You guys want ice cream?"

2. Carl and I sat together in church, and then he came over for Sunday dinner.  Afterwards we went up to my office, got naked, and kissed and fondled, and I went down on him.   But it was uncomfortably hot, so we ended up just beating each other off.


Finally I asked Carl out on a real date.  Unfortunately, he was a Johnny Nazarene, strictly devout in spite of the preacher who screamed about "homa-sekshuls" in every sermon, so:
No movies
No theater
No bowling
No restaurants that served alcohol
No Quad City Angels baseball game (they had beer).

3. Our date consisted of broasted chicken at Mulkey's and then parking on the levee to watch the sunset over the Mississippi.  We made out and fondled each other through our clothes, and when it got dark Carl went down on me.

This wasn't working.  I wanted to hold Carl in my arms, feel his head against my chest, cuddle with him all night.  I wanted us to sleep together, like I used to do with Bill, but with full knowledge that we were boyfriends, that this was "real."


How to get him into my bed?

"Could you host a sleepover next weekend?" I asked Kenny.

"I'm sixteen," he said gruffly.  "I'll be a junior in the fall."

Sleepover were common in grade school, our main social event: four or five boys,with your brother invited by default.  They became increasingly uncommon in junior high, and they generally ended by high school.  But not always...

"You can still have them in high school, for sort of nostalgia.  Invite your old friends.  It will be fun."

"Hey, I practically had to pay you to get to have my last sleepover!"  Kenny exclaimed.  "Why are you so hot to have one now?"

"Well, you could invite Carl, and then..."

"You're not going to do weird gay sex stuff in front of a bunch of normal guys, are you?"

"No, of course not.  Well, maybe a little, after everybody is asleep.  But we'll be able to kiss and cuddle under the covers, like boyfriends."

"Who knew that homos like to kiss?  I thought you were all about the dick."

"Well, dicks, too, of course, but kissing, cuddling, all of that romantic stuff."

"Ok, ok, you don't need to draw me a picture."  He patted my shoulder.  "I wouldn't dream of standing in the way of two homos in love!  Don't worry, I'll give you your gay make-out sleepover. "

So Kenny invited four of his friends over Saturday night for a sort of "ironic" sleepover:
1. Carl
2. Todd, his best friend.
3. Marshall, who was at his last sleepover, a baseball player with a stunning physique and bulge to match.
4. Pete, a sports nut who was Marshall's best friend.

A few days before the sleepover, Marshall broke his leg sliding into home at a baseball game.  He would be in a wheelchair for 10 days, and then crutches for two months.

"Mom and Dad said I should cancel," he told Kenny.  "I can't play a lot of rough games, and I can't climb the stairs to your room."

"Don't be stupid," Kenny said.  "We can't have the sleepover without you.  We'll just play games that you don't need legs for, and carry you up and down the stairs.  It will be fine."

"But I also need to keep my leg elevated at night, so I have to sleep with a special attachment to my bed."

"We can get that!  No problem at all."

So we carried the fold-out bed from the basement to our attic room, and installed the special rise.

Carl in my bed all night!  Cuddling, kissing, our chests pressed together, my legs wrapped around him!  I couldn't wait.

Saturday night we used the living room instead of the basement rec room.  We played Risk and Trivial Pursuit and watched Chuck Acri's Creature Feature.

I noticed that Carl was being very helpful to Marshall, bringing him sodas, helping him maneuver in his wheelchair, but I didn't think anything of it.  He was just being nice.

He was sitting next to me on the couch, after all, and we were sharing the same bowl of popcorn.

When it was time for bed, Kenny and I helped Marshall up the stairs to our attic room.

"I hope you did all the bathroom business you need for the night," Kenny joked.  "I'm not carrying you downstairs again."

The best part of every sleepover was deciding who got the beds, and who got the sleeping bags on the floor.  But this time there were three beds, mine, Kenny's, and the fold-out bed for Marshall, so no one would get the floor.

"Ok, Todd goes with Kenny," I said.  "Who's going with Marshall?"  Obviously Pete, since Carl would be in my bed, but I didn't want to make it obvious that we were a couple.

Then out of nowhere Carl said "I'll go with him."

My face started to burn.  I felt like I had been kicked in the stomach.  "Huh?  But...you..."

"I've never slept on a fold-out bed before," he said with a grin.  "It will be fun."

I glanced at Kenny, who was staring open-mouthed.  "Don't you want to...." he began.

"Don't I want to what?"  Carl asked, blinking innocently.

He was my boyfriend!  The whole point of this sleepover is to give us a chance to sleep together!

But of course I couldn't say anything as he took off his shirt and pants and climbed into bed next to Marshall.  Pete, meanwhile, stripped down and climbed in bed next to me.  Kenny shrugged and turned off the light.

I've thought a thousand times about what I should have done.  I've replayed a thousand scenarios in my head.

But I was eighteen years old, still an adolescent, and completely new to all of this, so what actually happened was:

I never spoke to Carl again.

See also: The Juvenile Delinquent's Bare Butt; My Little Brother's Friend is Gay

Nephew Sausage Sighting #4: My Nephew's Boyfriend

Washington DC, November 2014

Of all the strange phone calls I've received from my mother over the years, the weirdest was at 7:00 am one Saturday morning in November 2014.

"When you're in Washington, DC for your conference next weekend, why don't you drive down to Norfolk to visit your nephew?  He lives there now."

What nephew lived in Norfolk?  Last I heard, my sister's son was in Indianapolis, and Kenny's sons were all in Rock Island.  Except Frank, who lived somewhere in Tennessee or...Virginia.  "Is it Frank?"

"No, it's Robbie."

"Who?"

I can't be blamed for not recognizing his name.  I'd forgotten about Kenny's stepson Robbie.

Kenny's first wife died of cancer in January 1993, leaving him 29 years old, working night shifts at the factory, with four kids, aged 10, 9, 7, and 5.  The grandparents helped out a bit, but everyone gossipped that he remarried less than five months after the funeral to get free childcare.

His new wife, Angie, scandalized the Nazarene Church.  She was a heathen Baptist!  Eight years older than him!  And divorced -- nearly the unpardonable sin!   Plus she had three kids of her own:  two girls, ages 13 and 10, and a boy, Robbie, age 15, nearly as old as Kenny!

I saw Robbie at the wedding, at Christmas dinner in 1993, when Kenny and his family took me out for pizza in the summer of 1994, and at Christmas dinner in 1994.  He was a cute teenager with black hair and glasses, pale, soft, and quiet.  I don't think we exchanged more words than a "how's California?" and "how's school?"

By the summer of 1995, Robbie was living somewhere in Ohio or Pennsylvania with his grandparents.  I don't know why.

Maybe he didn't like his new role as "big brother" to his stepbrothers and stepsister.

 Maybe he didn't like living in the big, rambling house downtown, in a "bad" neighborhood.

Maybe the Nazarene rules seemed oppressive.

Although Ken adopted him, so he was technically part of the family, he cut off all contact with the Davises (he did sometimes call his sisters).  As far as I knew, neither Ken nor Mom and Dad had heard from Robbie in 20 years.

How would Mom even know where he was, let alone want me to visit?

"He doesn't talk to your brother, but he talks to the girls [Ken's step-daughters], and they talk to me.  They even had us over when he flew out to visit a couple of years ago."  She paused.  "It wouldn't hurt for you to go see him."

It wouldn't hurt.  I could ask him why he left so abruptly.

Besides, I love Norfolk.  It reminded me of my old West Hollywood friend Alan, and his boyfriend Sandy.  Beautiful Colonial architecture, the Chrysler Museum of Art, lots of gay nightlife, 50% black population.

So I called -- it took Robbie a moment to remember that "Oh, yeah, Ken had a brother."  He invited me down for a visit.

On the Saturday of the conference, I drove down to Norfolk and got a hotel room -- no need to press my luck.  Then I stopped by an antique store to buy a gift, and drove to Robbie's house.

It was way on the north side of town, in Ocean View near the military base.

There was a teenager trimming the hedges with a weed wacker.  Probably 18 or 19, blond hair, scruffy blond beard, blue eyes.  Shirtless, even though it was in the 60s outside: broad shoulders, smooth chest, lightly tanned, firm but not massive, pinprick nipples, tight abs with an innie belly button.

"Hi!  I was hoping to finish before you got here.  We were trying to spruce up the place."

"Oh, everything looks fine, believe me," I said, looking him up and down.

"You must be Boomer.  My name is Beau."  We shook hands.  "Robbie's inside -- he's a little nervous."  He wrapped a buffed arm around my shoulders.  "Come on, let's do the reunion."

Calling him by his first name --  Robbie must be gay!  Beau must be a boyfriend!

He led me into the house and yelled "The victim for the human sacrifice is here!"

Robbie appeared.  My nephew was 37 years old, tall, slim, eyeglassed, balding on top.  "Is this wise guy giving you a hard time, Uncle Boomer?"

None of my nephews and nieces call me Uncle anything.  Way to make me feel old!

"Oh no, he's great."

"He smells like he's been skinning skunks!" Robbie exclaimed.  "Beau, go upstairs and take a shower, and put on that nice shirt I got you.  We're taking Uncle Boomer out to dinner."

"Yes, Master!" Beau shot me a wink and trounced up the stairs.

"He's cute," I said as Robbie led me into the living room.

"Yep.  On the wrestling team.  And smart, too -- he's going to study engineering at Old Dominion.  I really lucked out with this one."

Lucked out?  Obviously Beau was a boyfriend!  Of course Mom wouldn't have said anything -- the whole family practiced a "don't ask, don't tell" policy.

Robbie opened his gift and talked about his job -- at the Navy yard, but a civilian -- and the house -- $150,000 mortgage --  and asked me about the Plains, while I ruminated:

I'm not actually related to Robbie by blood, and since I only saw him a few times, I have none of the family-bond stuff that stifled erotic interest in my other nephews.  

We could have a three way!  My nephew and his boyfriend!  I wonder if they are hung....

It didn't take long to find out.  Beau came bounding down the stairs -- naked, his penis swinging between his legs.  Bratwurst, cut, low-hanging balls, shaved pubic hair.    I gaped.

"Beau!  Where are your manners?"

 "What -- we're all guys here!  I can't find that new shirt."

"Look in your closet, next to your suit."

"Gotcha." He turned -- nice view of his butt as he walked up the stairs again.

"I swear, that boy is a born nudist!  He would go naked at the Metropolitan Opera, if I let him!  He must have got that from his mother."

His mother?  Wait...

"Does...um...his mother live in Norfolk, too?" I asked.

"Oh, no, she's got her own place in Newport News [about ten miles away].  Beau is just with me on weekends.  That's why I moved to Norfolk -- I wasn't going to go months and months without seeing Beau, so when Kathie's husband got a job out here, I came too."

Wait -- that's a weird thing to do for your boyfriend...

"Um...sounds like you get along well with Kathie."

Robbie shrugged.  "I guess so.  I mean, there's no hostility or anything.  I like Joe, too.  He's a good stepfather, supports the boy, but never tries to take my place."

I missed the implied criticism that my brother had not been a good stepfather -- I was too busy being embarrassed.  Beau wasn't Robbie's boyfriend.  They might not even be gay.

Way to make me feel old: my little brother's kid has an 18-year old son!

Who I just saw naked!

I smiled.  That's got to be one for the record books: Sausage sighting of my nephew's son.

See also: I Visit Alan and His Boy Toy in Virginia

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

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

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

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




Rock Island, June 2004

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

2. Have sex with him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Um...." I began.

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

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

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

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

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

"Incredibly crazy."

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

Nephew Sausage Sighting #2: Gay Dudes Have Purple Cocks

Indianapolis, June 2013

The nice thing about having heterosexual relatives is, they tend to reproduce. And their kids grow up into a whole new group of mega-hunks.

My brother has three sons: Ethan, Frank, and Joel, plus a  stepson, Robbie.

My sister has a transgender daughter whom we thought of as a son until she came out at age 28.

 I've gotten sausage sightings of all of them (I only count the ones that took place after they turned 18, of course).

Frank (born October 1983)

Frank was the athlete of the family, playing baseball and basketball almost as soon as he could walk, going out for every sport at in junior high and high school.  He played Varsity football and basketball made all-State in something or other, and became a letterman.

He was definitely a mesomorph, maybe tending toward endomorph, with thick, hard muscles in his chest and shoulders, thick biceps, and a little belly.  In his 30s he went to fat.

After 1995, when my parents moved to Indianapolis, I stayed with Kenny during my Christmas and summertime visits to Rock Island.

He had a very big, very crowded house, so he put me in a tiny room with a single bed and a sewing machine, at the end of a long, narrow corridor.  The room Frank and Ethan shared was next door, and a half-bath (toilet and sink only) next to that.

I often heard Frank's loud snoring through the wall.

The bathroom had no lock on the door, so it was not uncommon for someone to burst in during the night and get an eyeful before the half-asleep occupant could say anything.  

I saw Frank sitting on the toilet or standing to urinate on several occasions when he was a kid.  And he saw me a lot -- so often that I suspected he was lying in wait, listening for my footsteps in the hallway.

He graduated from high school in 2001 and joined the army, and when his military service was over, found a job in Nashville or Memphis or somewhere like that.  So I saw him once a year, at Christmastime, and sometimes not even then.   

My sausage sighting came in the summer of 2013, when my niece (then male-identified as Joseph) got married in Indianapolis.  Frank, now age 29, came to the wedding, along with a wife, son and daughter that I had never met before.

He was not an athlete anymore: he had thick arms and a belly.  Thick hair, a beard, a little redneck looking.  Tattoo, cowboy hat, chain-smoker.  And a card-carrying GOP conservative, even more conservative than my other crazy relatives.

I steered clear of him.

Except for some reason he and his family were staying at my parents' house.  They got the guest bedroom, and I was stuck on the pull-out couch in the home gym.

I almost called my ex-boyfriend Fred in Indianapolis to see if I could stay with him instead, but it wouldn't have been polite.

So for three nights, I lay on the fold-out bed, listening to Frank's loud snoring through the wall.

One night, late, the snoring stopped.  I heard padding in the hallway -- Frank in the guest bathroom?

I waited, but didn't hear a flush.  He must be out in the kitchen, getting a snack.

Feeling the urge myself, I put on a bathrobe and walked out to the guest bath.  I opened the door and flipped on the light.

Frank was sitting on the toilet in the dark, looking at something on his cell phone.  He had his hand on his cut Bratwurst+.  Semi-aroused.

Was he masturbating?  

Well, he had been sleeping in a small room with his two kids for the last three nights.

"Hey, turn out that light!" Frank whispered.

"Sorry.  I didn't know you were in here."  I flicked the light off, but his face and penis were still visible in the glow of his cell phone.

In the morning I took Frank aside and said "Sorry about last night.  Mom and Dad really should put a lock on that door."

"That's ok.  I guess we're even now.  Remember all the times I burst in on you while you were in the bathroom?"


"Yeah.  It happened a lot."

"I'll tell you a secret -- I was doing it on purpose." He leaned in conspiratorily. "My crazy brother said gay dudes have purple cocks, and I wanted to see if it was true."

Nephew Sausage Sighting #1: The Father-Son Retreat

We typically get our first sausage sightings from relatives, uncles, brothers or cousins, and they remain a reliable source through our lives, especially when the new generation of nephews and second cousins (your cousins' kids) starts to mature.

You don't have to have any erotic interest to enjoy seeing a nice penis, and there's always some curiosity: did they inherit your brother or brother-in-law's size?

My brother has three sons: Ethan (born June 1982), Frank (born October 1983), and Joel (born April 1986), plus a stepson.  I've gotten sausage sightings of all of them (after they grew up, of course).  First up: Ethan.




Manville, Illinois, June 2000

I am in grad school in New York, but visiting my parents in Indianapolis for a week before flying out to South Africa for a conference.  I offer to drive to Rock Island, to visit my brother, but Kenny says that he and his sons will be at a "father-son retreat" that weekend.

Held at Manville, the Nazarene camp in eastern Illinois.

Having spent innumerable summers fighting the flies, mosquitoes, heat, deplorable food, sports, flirting girls, and screeching sermons at Manville, I scoff.  "If you want to torture your kids, why don't you just tie them to an ant hill?"

"It's not like when we were little," Kenny says.  "They have tennis courts, hiking trails, and a gym now, and we stay in a 'family cabin' with its own bathroom and kitchen."

"No more walking down that terrible snake-strewn path to the toilets, huh?  But it still sounds awful."

"Why don't you come out on Friday, and see for yourself?  The cabin sleeps six, so there will be plenty of room for you."

I am definitely curious --  I haven't been to Manville since high school, over 20 years ago.  Besides, spending the night with Kenny and his sons will be fun, like the sleepovers we used to have as kids.  So on Friday I drive my rental car the three hours out from Indianapolis.

The long, low tabernacle is still there, and the dining hall/ snack bar where we bought hot dogs on innumerable nights after altar call.  There are still rows of damp, airy cabins.   But Ken is right about the new gym, the tennis courts, and the hiking trails that lead through the tall grass of the prairie.

Manville is occupied entirely by cute dads and their teenage sons.  Since there are no women around, they don't have to follow the rules prohibiting short pants or going shirtless.

The beefcake almost makes it worth the trip.

Of course I have to stay closeted, or they would chase me out of the camp with pitchforks, but Kenny still introduces me as his "brother from New York City."  Ulp!  That's one of the wicked "cities of the plain" that God plans to destroy during the upcoming Tribulation.  Labeled a "sinner" in need of salvation just by my residence, I get a lot of witnessing and shy attempts to start soul-winning conversations.

A very muscular high school boy named Kyle approaches me at the gym with the oldest soulwinning opening: "If you were to die tonight, and God asked why He should let you into His heaven, what would you say?"

I have to laugh: I used the same line in Kankakee 25 years ago!

I talk him into going hiking with me and Kenny.  Nothing erotic happens, but Kenny says "You can pick them up anywhere, can't you?"

The family cabin is cramped -- two stacks of bunk beds, a small couch, a table and four chairs, a kitchen area, and a bathroom with a toilet and shower -- but it beats those drafty cabins with the shower room half a mile away.

It has electricity, but no tv, and no heat or air conditioning -- and it's hot and sticky in the central Illinois summer.

But Kenny comes up with an interesting solution: we all go naked!

At first I balk, just stripping down to my underwear, but Joel says "Come on, Uncle Boomer, don't be a weenie," so I strip down too.

"Not bad," Joel says.  "Could be bigger."

Kenny glares at him. "Don't tease your uncle."

Cooking naked seems like a bad idea, but it's just hot dogs, canned baked beans, and potato chips.  Then we do the dishes, play a game of Bible Monopoly, pray while holding hands, and go to bed.

Ethan, Kenny's oldest son, will have psychiatric problems and an aggravated assault conviction in a few years, but at age 18, he's stiill a Johnny Nazarene, scrupulously following all the Nazarene rules, looking forward to his freshman year at Olivet (our college on the prairie). 

 He's a slow, soft, big-boned kid with a little belly, some hair on his chest, and long thick arms.

He sits with his legs spread, so you can get a good sausage sighting: a short, thick penis with a prominent head, like his father's.

Frank and Joel are naked too, of course, but they are 16 and 14 years old, so I don't count them as sausage sightings.  I'll have to wait until they turn 18.

Finding a Private Place to Have Sex with Guys

Sometime in 7th grade:

I start to hear that guys' beneath-the-belt equipment turns into a gigantic baseball bat at random moments, with no prior warning.

The process is called "getting a boner," or "popping a boner," when it happens in an embarrassing situation, like when you are visiting your grandmother or giving an oral presentation in class.

I occasionally feel a stirring down below, but no baseball bats.

8th grade, around my 13th birthday:

I start experiencing my own baseball bats at random moments, in the locker room, in science class, at church.  They are usually easy to cover up with a hymnal or a science textbook, so no one notices.

I assume that other guys are covering up, too, since I rarely see any at school, or any tell-tale signs like squirming in your chair or suddenly looking for something to cover up with.  Occasionally I see one in the shower, and once a college boy at Olivet "pops a boner" while he is kissing his girlfriend.

Late in 8th grade:

I notice a pattern: baseball bats happen most often when I am looking at or talking to a cute guy, like my boyfriend Dan or Micah the Bible Boy.  Pictures of Korak Son of Tarzan in a Gold Key comic book will do it.  And Desi Arnaz Jr. on Here's Lucy on Monday night.  I begin bringing a giant math book to the living room with me.

Even thinking about a cute guy might cause a baseball bat, especially if you fantasize about kissing or hugging him.

Early in ninth grade:

The other guys are constantly talking about getting baseball bats while talking to cute girls.

Bill's big brother Mike tells me that you always get a baseball bat when you're having sex with a girl.  It's necessary to get the sperm into the girl's ovaries, so she can have a baby.

I figure that Dan and I are the only guys in the world who think about boys while it happens.

Ninth grade, around my 14th birthday:

I discover that if you continue to think about kissing and touching cute guys,  you can bring the baseball bat to the culmination that the older boys call "blowing a load."

Of course, it would be nice to have the cute guy there instead of just thinking about him, but when I approach my boyfriend Dan, he refuses.  So it's just me and the baseball bat.

The problem is, finding a place to do it, in a tiny house crammed with five people, including parents who never go out at night and a brother and sister who constantly have friends over.

Summer after ninth grade:

We move to a new house, considerably bigger, with a separate dining room, a screened in porch, a basement rec room, a double yard.    But still, finding a place to do it is a problem.

My bedroom: No, my brother and I share, and he and his innumerable friends could show up at any moment.

The bathroom: One for a family of five, right off the dining room, next to my sister's bedroom where she and all of her friends are constantly hanging out  Besides, my parents aren't aware of the concept of privacy.  They will walk right in while I am on the toilet, to put something in the linen closet or get clothes out of the hamper.

The basement: There is a large rec room, a laundry room, and an artist's studio belonging to the last resident, Mr. Kint.  No one has touched it since the day he died.  It freaks me out.   Besides, anyone walking into the rec room could look in and see what I was doing.

The attic! Just off our bedroom, there is an attic room, about 8 by 20 feet, unfinished, with one small window.  I could move the boxes and old furniture so that the back of the room is hidden from the door.

Now I just need my parents' permission to...um...do it there.

"I want to make a little study in the attic," I announce.

"But you have a desk and a bookcase in your room," Mom says.  "What else do you need?"

"It's too noisy.  Kenny is always playing his music loud, or having his friends over, and I can't get any work done."

"But there's no heat or air conditioning in there," Dad protests.  "You'll freeze in the winter and burn up in the summer."

"It has electricity, so I can get a space heater for the winter, and a window fan for the summer.    Besides, I won't be there very long, just an hour or so before dinner, when I'm doing homework."

They finally consent, and I move boxes around to make a safe haven of about 8 by 10 feet.

 I put out a sleeping bag and some pillows, a small bookcase with some books and writing tablets (I am supposed to be doing homework, remember?), and some baseball bat aids, like this Tarzan comic.

10th grade, around my 15th birthday:

I have brought in an old chair, an end table, a lamp, a clock, and a radio.  A space heater for winter.  Some pictures of Tarzan and Bomba the Jungle Boy on the wall.

I have started doing homework there for real, and working on my heroic fantasy novel.

It is  my sanctuary, a "good place" of my own, free from the "what girl do you like" interrogations of the outside world.

I start bragging to a couple of my friends about my sanctuary, where I can do anything I want.

"I can't get any privacy at home, either," Tom tells me.  "Could I...um...use your sanctuary sometime?"

"You can't bring a girl in there!" I exclaim, horrified.  "It's boys only!"

"No, no...by myself.  I'll just bring in some magazines, and...you know."

I think it over.  Watching a cute guy would be almost as good as kissing and hugging him!

"Ok, but you can't bring pictures of naked girls -- they're gross. And I have to be there, too.  My parents would get suspicious if some kid used my sanctuary when I wasn't around."

Eleventh grade:

Two guys come to my sanctuary: Tom and Aaron.  Not too often, maybe once every other week.  I discover that Darry has his own sanctuary.

Sometimes my brother is out in the bedroom, but he never gets suspicious.

Nor do my parents.

Twelfth grade:

Now it's three guys: Tom, Marty, and Aaron. Alternating, once a week, so each gets a turn once a month.

I don't get to touch anything, but still, I'm with a cute guy and his baseball bat!

See also: Dad explains the facts of life; The Most Underrated Sex Act; and the Preacher Pops a Boner.

My Brother and I Compete over a Boy

Rock Island, August 1968

In the summer of 1968, when I was 7 1/2 years old and my brother Kenny was 5, we moved from Racine, Wisconsin to Rock Island, Illinois.

I HATED Rock Island.  Everything was wrong!  Different brands pf milk, bread, and even ice cream!  Different tv channels!  A different afternoon cartoon show host!  

Plus Rock Iland wasn't even an island!  And Illinois -- hat kind of a dumb name was Ill-a-Noise?

Plus, back in Racine, there were kids to play with everywhere, but Ill-a-Noise was a wasteland.

Our new house was on a street that dead ended in the parking lot of Denkmann School.  No kids around during the summertime.

We weren't allowed to cross 20th Avenue, on the north side, by ourselves (I finally got permission when I turned 8).

The house next door was occupied by Mike, too young for either of us to play with.  Then a vacant lot (there's another house now).

There were three houses on the other side of the street, occupied by (from south to north):
1. Joyce, a middle-aged lady in Capri pants and a beehive haircut.
2. A "you kids get off my lawn!" old guy.
3.A boy!

He sat at that window on the left (no bushes then), which probably led to a  living room:  a cute brown-haired boy in white pajamas with the Flintstones on them, looking out, watching us curiously, but not smiling or gesturing.

A little odd, but who cared?  He was someone to play with!

I started toward the front door, to ask if he could come out to play.

Then my brother grabbed my shoulder.  "I get him, not you."

"Back off.  He's obviously in third grade, like me."  You could only play with kids your own age -- even a year difference was too much.  

"You're crazy!" Kenny exclaimed.  "He's not a doddering old third grade geezer like you.  He's young, strong, vibrant, obviously in kindergarten." (This dialogue is all invented, so it might not be age-accurate.)

"I admit that it's hard to tell through a window.  Tell you what -- we'll try out our best stuff.  The one who  gets a reaction first can ask to play with him."

The contest to impress the cute Boy was on.

Figuring that the Boy must prefer indoor activities, I walked past with a pile of comic books, while the Boy watched.  Kenny pulled a red wagon with our new puppy riding inside.

No fair to use dogs as props!

Ok, the Boy was inside, not outside, so maybe he preferred indoor activities.

I walked past with a pile of cartoon kits (you affixed plastic cutouts of characters from a tv show onto a board representing the set, thereby acting out scenes). The Boy moved away from the window.

Kenny brought his Tarzan Bop Bag (you punch it, and it pops back up.)  The Boy returned.

Action, and muscles!  That was fighting dirty!

Well, if the Boy wanted muscles, he would get muscles.  I took off my shirt and flexed like a bodybuilder.  Play with me, and you'll get some of this! 

(I actually didn't have much of a physique at age 7 1/2, but I thought I did.)

Kenny turned a cartwheel.  Muscular and agile!

The Boy clapped.

Grr.

"Ok, you win," I told Kenny.  "Go claim your prize."

I waited on the sidewalk while Kenny walked to the front door and knocked.  A middle-aged lady answered.  They talked for a few moments, and then he returned to me.

"Well, is he coming out?" I asked impatiently.  At least I could see the cute boy.

"No," Kenny said.

"What?"  I saw the lady still standing in the doorway.  "Aren't you going in to play?"

"No. Danny has chicken pox.  The house is quarantined."

All that work for nothing!  I couldn't help being a little mad at the Boy, as if he had been deliberately leading us on.

"Why is his mother still waiting like that?"

"Oh, right.  I promised that you would lend him your comic books and cartoon kits."

Later I discovered that Danny was in fourth grade, too old for either  of us.

No nude photos to illustrate a story about young kids,but here's one of an older guy to tide you over.