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.

Cruising East of Alvarado

West Hollywood, September 1993

"Where are all the Hispanic guys?' I asked Lane one day. "The population of Los Angeles is about 50% Hispanic, but you never see any here in West Hollywood.  We don't even have a Mexican restaurant."

"I can buy some Old El Paso at the Safeway if you want," Lane said, "And make tacos tonight."

"I'm serious.  We bring home lots of Asian guys, and lots of Anglo leather bears, but no Hispanic guys"

"What do you expect, when you cruise at Mugi, and I cruise at the Faultline?  If you want to meet Hispanic guys, you have to go where they are."

He was right.  The Hispanic gay population of L.A. had its own distinct culture, pre-dating West Hollywood.  If I wanted to meet them, I had to head east of Alvarado.

So on Saturday night, I dropped Lane off at the Faultline for his weekly cruise, and drove a mile farther to the corner of Sunset and Hollywood, and a bar called Basgo's.

It was not like the semi-darkness of Mugi: it was loud and gaudy, the walls painted an effervescent pink.  There were murals of naked Aztecs, plastic palm trees, stuffed parrots.

Pumped-up bartenders in their underwear gyrated to salsa music:

En la vida hay amores
que nunca pueden olvidarse
imborrables momentos
que siempre guarda el corazón

Drag queens made the rounds, flirting and kvetching with their huge brandy snifters sloshing with ruby-red margaritas.

Rent boys slouched by the pool table, displaying sock-enhanced mega-bulges.

The cruising protocol was closer to Catch One than Mugi.  Few Anglos, no English being spoken, few people by themselves except for rent boys and drag queens.  You saw someone you liked and drew him away from his rowdy group of friends to the dance floor, where the pre-hookup conversation occurred.

Con los anos que me quedan
Yo vivire por darte amor
Borrando cada dolor
Con besos llenos de pasion
Como te ame por vez primera

I was drawn to a very handsome young guy with an impish grin, talking nonstop with his friends.   Shorter than me, dark skin, a round face, and black curly hair.  Frayed jeans with an enormous bulge and an yellow shirt with most of the buttons undone, revealing a hard smooth chest.

I approached and asked -- or rather yelled -- "Quires bailar?"  He grinned and nodded.  I took his hand and led him to the dance floor.

We spoke -- or rather yelled -- in  clipped Spanish.  His name was Dario.  He was 23 years old, from Peru.  He came to L.A. last year with his brother and two cousins.  He worked in a warehouse.



Nice background story.  Time to seal the deal.  I led him to the bar and ordered two tamarind-flavored Mexican sodas.   He grinned.

"Que quieres hacer en la cama?" I asked.  What do you like to do in bed?

"Oh, me gustaria que tu me maman!" Dario said, eyes gleaming.  "Y otras cosas, por supuesto.  Y cojerte..." 

Getting oral, topping, and "other things," not bad.

I knew that closeted guys were sometimes only into the act itself, not the preliminaries, so I specified:  "Pero, mi amigo y yo, nos gustan besando y abrazando, tambien."  Kissing and hugging, full body contact, making out.

He nodded.  "A mi me gustan muchas cosas."

And one more thing: "Y es absolutamente necessario que tu duermas con nosotros."  No grab-and-go.  You have to spend the night, or no deal.

He nodded.  "Si, si.  Dormiremos."

Dario didn't have a car, so he drove with me to pick up Lane at the Faultline, then to the French Quarter, and then to our apartment in West Hollywood. 

We sat in the living room.  I ran my hand over his chest, cupped his crotch, tried to kiss him.

No besando.

WTF?

Well, maybe he was shy.

We brought Dario into the bedroom, stripped off his clothes, and put him down on the bed.  He had a beautifully curved, uncut Bratwurst.  I went down on him while Lane fondled his chest.

Were they kissing?  I looked up.  No.
  

I gave Lane a turn at the cock and tried to kiss Dano.   No.

Well, could I at least fondle his balls?  Ok.

 He pushed Lane's head down on his crotch, jerked his hips, and finished with a groan. 

Ok, so how about mamando us?  No.

I wasn't particularly into anal, but he said cojerte, so I turned over onto my stomach and asked "Hay condones?"  Do you have condoms?

Dario was pulling his shorts on.  "Hey, I thought you were spending the night!"  I exclaimed.  "Dormiremos juntos!"

Nope.  "Tengo que venir a mi casa.  Necessito levantarme temprano."  I have to get up early.

So we left Lane in bed and got dressed, and I drove Dario home -- to Silverlake, eight miles away.

"Why did you tell me that you are into besando y mamando?" I asked in frustration.

He stared out the car window at the glittering lights of Santa Monica Boulevard.  "I told you I like many things," he said.

"And spending the night.  You said voy a dormir contigo."

"Dormir...tener sexo, si?"

I smelled a rat.  Dario had played me, agreeing to anything just to get into my bed.

Then we arrived at the address he gave me -- a glass-and-steel building on Hyperion, in the heart of Silverlake's gay neighborhood.

This was the tiny, rundown apartment that Dario shared with his brothers and cousins?

"Could I come in to use the bathroom?" I asked.

It was a beautifully furnished one-bedroom, with hardwood floors and antique furniture.  A framed print of a bullfighter.

A coffee table book about painter Joan Miro.

"Porque me dices que eres pobre?" I asked.  Why did you tell me that you were poor?

"I didn't say I was poor," Dario answered -- in respectable English!  "You heard what you wanted to hear."

The brothers and cousins came to the U.S. with him -- they didn't live with him.

And his job in the warehouse?  He was the general manager, with a salary double what Lane made.

"You wanted a poor little Latino boy who says 'si, señor' and agrees to whatever you say, and I wanted a hot, built Anglo to go down on me.  We both got what we wanted, right?"

The next weekend I returned to Basgo's and met Manuel, from Nicaragua, who spoke almost no English -- I checked.

And I made sure we were besando and abrazando before we left the bar.

See also: The Waiter in the Mexican Restaurant; I Bring Home a Teen Hustler.

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

London, June 1993

Sorry if you love London, or call it home.  I'm not a big fan, in spite of the architectural marvels and the 15 Public Penises.  I always get lost.  It's cold.  The streets are all dirty.  Everyone is rude all the time;  I've never seen anyone in London ever smile.  And the food's not great.

June 1993: My partner Lane was a delegate to the World Congress of GLBT Jews, to be held in London!  He invited me along as his guest.

This isn't him.  I have lots of pictures, but I'm too lazy to scan them.  But he was a husky, hairy bear with nice arms, like this guy.

I had been to Colombia, Japan, Australia, Turkey, and India, and he had been to Israel and Bermuda, but for some reason neither of us had ever been to Britain before, except to the airport.  So we planned lots of sightseeing: The Tower of London, the Sherlock Holmes Museum, Stonehenge, The Rude Man of Cerne Abbas, Canterbury Cathedral.  Not to mention the Gay Village of Soho.

1. The problems started from the moment I arrived.  At customs I was questioned extensively about my reasons for coming to Britain, who I was staying with, did I know anyone there, and again why was I there?????.

The customs agents simply could not believe that anyone would come to their country as a tourist.  They had never heard of such a thing.  There was nothing in Britain that could possibly be of any interest to outsiders!   Obviously I was a terrorist.


2. If you were planning a World Congress with delegates from all over the world, most of whom have never been to Britain before, wouldn't you pick a hotel that was centrally located?

Nope: The Royal Britannia Hotel was on the Isle of Dogs, an industrial sleugh on the East End of London, surrounded by the Thames on three sides.  No subway.  You could catch a bus into town -- about 6 miles to the Tower of London -- but it stopped at different places, depending on the whim of the driver, anywhere between six and twelve blocks from the hotel.

It stopped wherever the driver wanted.  So you were standing at a bus stop, and it would drive past you and stop two blocks away.

3. And it stopped running at 6:00 pm, and it didn't run on Sunday.

So I spent all day Thursday and Friday chasing after a bus and getting lost trying to find my way back.

4. As a guest, I was not allowed to go to any of the meetings, or any of the dinners, so I was stuck at the hotel's restaurant.

On Thursday night, there was an evening boat tour of the Thames, with box dinner provided.  Except for guests.  I stole one to avoid starving to death.

Saturday was the Sabbath, so not much going on. We went sightseeing, got lost on the way back, and had dinner at the hotel.

5. The Conference hosted a dance that evening (the Sabbath is over at sundown), but as a guest, I wasn't allowed to attend.  I spent the night watching television.

6. On Sunday we walked the six miles into town, but by the time we got there, we were too tired for sightseeing.  We returned to discover that the hotel restaurant was closed on Sunday.  And there's no pizza delivery to the Isle of Dogs.  Lane could go to the Conference dinner, but I couldn't.

I would have starved to death again, but someone with a car drove into town and brought me (and the other guests) some fish and chips.

Is this any way to run a gay Jewish conference?

On Monday the conference was over, thank God, so Lee and I spent a few days in Oxford, Stonehenge, Cerne Abbas, Bath, Canterbury, and York.

7. In Oxford, the shops that were supposed to be open were closed as the owner decided to "pop out."

8. In Bath, we stayed at a gay B&B, where in the lounge an old movie was playing.  I thought I recognized the actress, so I said "Is that Marilyn Monroe?"

"Of course it is, you twat!  What kind of faggot doesn't recognize Marilyn Monroe?"

"Um...the kind who is not interested in women?"

9. We couldn't tell which train was leaving for York.  There were two, on two tracks, with no signs.  So we asked someone.  And he deliberately directed us to the wrong train.

10. In York, we stayed in a straight B&B, where they absolutely would not believe that we wanted a room with one bed.  "Oh, no, duckie, there's been some mistake.  We'll fix it right away!"

I've been to Britain two or three more times since 1993.  Always nothing but problems, impossible rules, buses that go where they want, and incessantly rude poeple,  especially in London.  Give me Paris, or Amsterdam.  Or Osaka.  Or Irkutsk.

How We Invented Sex Parties

West Hollywood, November 1992

In West Hollywood in the 1980s and 1990s, hooking up was frowned upon.  You dated, shared your boyfriend with your friends, and played party games with a sexual component, but bringing home a stranger with no preliminaries -- deviant, dangerous, disgusting.

We knew about bathhouses and backrooms as relics of an earlier age of innocence, but there were none left in Los Angeles, and few of us went to them when traveling abroad.

And no one had ever heard of sex parties or bear parties, roomfuls of guys who get together explicitly for sexual activity with complete strangers.

The first one ever was Lane's idea.  But I helped.

Lane grew up in the Spanish Colonial house on Crescent Heights Boulevard that his parents bought when they got married.  It was no mansion, but it was huge by West Hollywood standards: an enormous living room, a family room, two dining rooms (one for everyday, one for special occasions), four bedrooms, two and a half baths, an enclosed porch, and a basement (rare in Los Angeles).  Plus a back yard with a huge hedge around it.

When his mother  died in November 1992, and Lane inherited the house, I expected him to immediately put it on the market, but instead he said "We should live there. The old-fashioned furniture will have to be replaced, and the kitchen needs remodeling, but it will be just like having a house in the suburbs."

I balked.  "Too stiff and formal.  And too much space for just two people.  It would hardly be cozy, would it?"

"It's walking distance to the French Quarter and the Metropolitan Community Church."

"But a mile from the Different Light. I just like our apartment better.  It's home."

But Lane prevailed, and we rented a U-Haul to bring over our bed, our tv, some paintings, six boxes of books, and some miscellaneous odds and ends.  There was something wrong with each of the bedrooms (where his parents slept, where his mother died, his old room, etc), so we moved the stuff out of the cavernous family room and moved our bed and an old dresser in.

And we set about trying to deal with the sound of silence.

We got no sleep the first night.

On the second night we invited someone in to "share."

On the third night we went out to the Faultline, even though it was a Tuesday.

But no matter how late we stayed out, no matter who shared our bed, we still couldn't sleep in that cavernous room, knowing that there were seven other equally cavernous rooms, an infinite space between us and the rest of the world.

"How did you handle all this space when you were growing up, with just you and your parents?"  I asked,

"It wasn't just three.  We had a housekeeper, my grandparents lived with us, my cousin spent summers, friends of my parents visited.  The house was usually full of people.."

"Then we should have a party," I told Lane.

"A housewarming party?"

"No, bigger than that. .  Twenty or thirty people to fill this place up.  I want them overflowing the living room,, spilling out into the enclosed porch and into the back yard. I want every one of these cavernous bedrooms full."

"Bedrooms occupied?" Lane repeated with a grin. "Sounds like you want some sharing to happen at this party."

"Definitely.  Sharing in the bedrooms, making out in the formal dining room, oral in the second dining room, anal in the parlor, bondage in the basement.  Guys showering together in the bathrooms, walking down the hall with their penises swinging in the wind.  Like a bathhouse without the Attitude."

"A bathhouse-themed party!" Lane said, his eyes glowing with party-planning fervor.  "We could pass out those scratchy white towels, label rooms 'steamroom' and 'darkroom' and such, play bathhouse games -- I don't know what,   we'll figure it out!"

A standard West Hollywood party has six to ten guys, are all friends or friends' dates.  But a bathhouse experience needs a lot more, and they have to be strangers.

We invited ten friends and asked them to bring a guest, and also passed out fliers to random guys who looked hot at the gym and the French Quarter. It had a photo of a shirtless model and this invitation:

Boomer and Lane's First Annual Bathhouse Party, Saturday night 8:00 pm!  Admission fee $2.00 to cover the snacks and sodas.  Men only, all ages (21+), shapes, and sizes welcome.  No drugs or alcohol, no hustlers, no Attitude, just hot guys in towels doing what guys in towels do.  

We locked up the valuables, bought 50 gym towels and a lot of condoms and lube packets, and installed a row of fake lockers.  Blaring disco music, flashing red and blue lights, and a mist machine added to the bathhouse effect.

Over 50 guys came, including about 30 that I had never seen naked before, and 20 that I didn't know at all.  Collegiate twinks, chubby bears, taciturn leathermen, swishy queens from the Rage, Hollywood semi-celebrities, all stripped down, wearing towels or nothing, socializing, playing party games -- and wandering down to the basement "maze" for sexual encounters.

I lost track of the number of guys I went down on, had go down on me, or kissed and groped -- there were some repeats.  But more than at a real bathhouse.

Around 10:00 pm, guys started getting dressed and going home or to the bars.  By 11:00 there was no one left but Randall, the Muscle Bear with the Pierced Penis, who we invited to spend the night.

"We should have these parties on a regular basis," Lane said.  "But a different theme every time.  Fire Island, maybe..Castro Street...a t-room..."

"Or no theme," Randall said.  "Why bother?  Guys don't want a lot of fancy props and complicated party games -- they come for the socializing and sex."

After more sleepless nights in the cavernous space, we called it quits, put the house on the market, and moved back into our cozy two-bedroom apartment.  So we had to go back to small, intimate dinner parties.

But one of our guests started hosting "bear parties," for husky, hairy men and their admirers, at his house in the Hollywood Hills.

And the tradition spread.  Within a year, nearly every guy with a house was inviting friends and strangers over for socializing and sex.  Some specialized in BDSM, oral, or anal.  Some specified that you had to be young, fit, or big beneath the belt.

And some said "all ages, sizes, and shapes welcome," just like Lane and I did in our invitation to the very first sex party.

See also: Helping Marshall Lose His Virginity

Lane Brings Home a Sleazoid

West Hollywood, April 1990

Lane and I have been dating for almost a year.  Almost every night, he stays over in my house near Sunset and San Vicente, or I stay over in his apartment on Hacienda, about five blocks away.

But we still cruise.  On Friday and Saturday nights, if we don't have a dinner or party to go to, we go to Mugi or to the Faultline.

On Sunday afternoons we go to the beer/soda bust at the Faultline.

Of course, we never bring anyone home directly from the bar.  Only disgusting sleazoids stoop to hooking up, or what we call "tricking.  When we meet someone, we make a date with him for 3-4 days later, then go out to dinner or to a movie, and finally, bring him home to "share."

Tonight I have a sore shoulder, and I don't feel like cruising.  After dinner I tell Lane that I just want to stay in  and watch tv.

"Do you mind if I go out by myself?" Lane asks. "I'll come over afterwards to spend the night."

"Only if you bring me something," I say.  "Or somebody," I add as a joke.

He drives off at 9:30 pm, after the Golden Girls.   I watch tv, read a book.

11:00 pm.  We usually arrive at the bar by 10:00, and leave by 11:00.  Who can cruise longer than that?  Unless there's a special show or contest or something.

12:00 am.  Sometimes we stop at the French Quarter or the Hamburger Hamlet afterwards, but we're always home by midnight.  We're not night owls.

1:00 am.  We're absolutely always home by 1:00 am.  Did he forget about me, and go home to bed?

I walk the five blocks to Lane's apartment.  No light in the window.

I knock.  No answer.  I let myself in, and sit on the couch and turn on the tv.



1:36 am

I hear a car pull up, and go out to the balcony to look.  It's Lane!  With a rough-looking sleazoid!

He's tricking?  And without me?

Fuming, I wait for them to get up the stairs.  I pull the door open before Lane has a chance to put his key in the lock.

"Who's the sleazoid?" I snarl.

"Here you are!" Lane exclaims.  "We stopped by the house, but you weren't there.  You asked me to bring you something.  Well, here he is!"

"I'm your birthday present," the Sleazoid says with a laugh.  He hands me a paper bag. "Plus zucchini sticks and ranch dressing from the French Quarter."

"It's not my birthday."

"Ok, your St. Patrick's Day present. Erin go bragh!"

I look the Sleazoid over.  Tall, a bit chubby, a short beard, wearing leather chaps and a white t-shirt that reveals a hairy chest.  A tattoo of Hot Stuff the Little Devil on his skinny arm.

"Is this a trick?" I ask coolly.

"Oh, no.  We stopped at the French Quarter on the way home.  Dinner first makes this a date, right?."

"I'm Mal," the Sleazoid says, loping over to the couch and sitting with his legs spread.  Very nice basket, probably sock-augmented  "Short for Malachi.  I was raised ultra fundamentalist.  Then I was Episcopal, Wiccan, Shinto, Sufi, Baha'i, Zen Buddhist...."

"Let's put these zucchini sticks in a bowl," I say, grabbing Lane and dragging him into the kitchen.

"What gives?  You bring home a trick..."

"A date!" Lane corrects me.

"Technically, I guess.  But obviously not to share!"

"We went to your house to surprise you!" Lane exclaims.  "You can ask Derek if you don't believe me.  I thought you would like Mal.  He's into all those weird religions, like you are."

"Who cares about weird religions?  He's not at all my type, it's 1:36 am, and there's a half-drunk sleazoid with a tattoo of Hot Stuff the Little Devil on the couch!"

"That Sleazoid, as you call him, is about twice the size of Alan."

Huh?

Lane knows what I find attractive. #5, Gifted beneath the belt, trumps everything else.

We take the Sleazoid -- Mal -- into the bedroom and take turns going down on his Kielbasa (actually not quite as big as Alan, but still impressive).  Then Lane goes down on me while Mal and I kiss (he's surprisingly passionate).  Mal finishes by lying atop me and thrusting between my legs.

Very erotic, except for singing "Happy birthday to you" between thrusts.

By 1993, we were cruising separately on Fridays and Saturdays.

See also: Sharing the Eskimo; Victor and His Sleazoid Daddy

Levi's Date with a Star of "The Dick Van Dyke Show"

West Hollywood, June 1995

It's the night before Gay Pride, so of course Lane and I have a full house: Infinite Chazz, my ex-boyfriend Fred and his boyfriend Matt, Randall the Bear with the Pierced Penis and his date Levi ("like the jeans"), and some other guys.  Most of them will spending the night, six in the beds and four in sleeping bags on the floor, so they can march in the parade tomorrow or get a good place to watch (we're a scant three blocks from Santa Monica Boulevard).

The only one I haven't met is Levi, a Long Beach boy in his late 30s or early 40s, slim, very tanned, and just starting to go bald, with gray hairs among the black in his beard and poking up from beneath his white t-shirt.  Very nice bulge.  I'm hoping to get to "share" later, but chances are he and Randall will invite Will the Bondage Boy into their bed instead.

As usual at West Hollywood parties, we discuss celebrity hookups: Scott Baio, Michael J. Fox, Rob Lowe, Louis Ferrigno.

Randall tells about the time he and Dick Sargent competed over a Disney teen star -- not Tommy Kirk  (that's a story for later).

Then Levi stands.  "All right, boys and girls, it's time for a guessing game.  And to make it more interesting, everyone who guesses correctly wins 10 minutes in the bedroom with me on my knees:

On Gay Pride Day in 1978, when I was a 22-year old Cute Young Thing, fresh off the boat from Alamosa, Colorado, I met and had a swooning night of passion with my boyhood crush, a star of The Dick Van Dyke Show.  You have to guess which one."

The classic Boomer sitcom (1961-1966), about tv comedy writer Rob Petrie (Dick Van Dyke) balancing his work world with his suburban family!  I'm too young to remember first-run episodes, but I've seen a lot of reruns. Not a lot of gay content, no beefcake, but some of the guys were interesting.

"Was it Buddy?" Fred asks. (The short, spunky Morey Amsterdam)  "He had a wife named Pickles -- you don't get more phallic than that."

"I'm voting for Jerry Paris, who played the next door neighbor," I say.  "He was incredibly handsome, nice hair, great hands."

Maybe it was the son," Will the Bondage Boy suggests.  "Larry Mathews would be all grown up by 1978."

"Dick Van Dyke himself?" Matt asks.  "I always got a little -- je ne peux pas dire -- a vibe from him."

Nine votes are cast, with Randall abstaining: 3 for Jerry Paris, 2 for Dick Van Dyke, and 1 each for  Morey Amsterdam, Larry Mathews, Jerry Van Dyke, and Carl Reiner.

"Unfortunately, no one will be seeing what my mouth can do," Levi says, "Not until later, anyhow.  The famous tv star who set my heart aflutter when I was a boy, and who brought me to my knees that hot day in June 1978, was none other than Richard Deacon, who played Mel Cooley."

Huh?

Mel Cooley, the officious busybody, the easily perturbed stick-in-the-mud, the quintessential square, the brunt of a thousand digs and put-downs?   How could he set anyone's heart aflutter?

Besides, he was bald, bespectacled, and rather homely, with a W. C. Fields nose, a weak chin, and a nondescript physique, even for the 1960s.

Levi explains:






Alamosa, Colorado, 1960s

A small town in the scrub grass at the base of the Rockies, 200 miles from the nearest big city, where the biggest tourist attraction was sand dunes.  It was full of cowboys, Mormons, and hobos, with nothing to do on a Saturday night but go to football games and drink beer: painful for a quiet, non-athletic, bookish boy regardless of your sexual identity, but when you're growing up gay in the police-state 1960s, sheer torture.

Looking for survival strategies on tv, Levi hit upon Mel Cooley.  Obviously gay -- at least, no wife was ever mentioned.  And a master of the passive-aggressive barbs that let you survive and even triumph over bigger, more powerful adversaries.  When fisticuffs would get you pummelled, try a slow burn or a disapproving eye-roll.  When an open objection would get you killed, try a snarky quip.  Genius!

Smitten, Levi watched Richard Deacon in everything he could find: Mr. Ed, The Addams Family, That Darn Cat, The Gnome-Mobile, Blackbeard's Ghost, Get Smart, The Beverly Hillbillies, Here's Lucy, Maude, BJ and the Bear.  

He always played gay-vague, passive-aggressive, snarky sticks-in-the-mud aching to ruin the hero's fun.  But on the talk and game shows -- Dick Cavett, The Tonight Show, Mike Douglas, The Match Game -- he revealed the sensitive, sweet soul beneath the bristly facade.  Levi was intrigued: he wanted more.

Hollywood, June 1978

A few weeks after he graduated from Adams State College with a degree in agriculture (his parents insisted), Levi was living in California (top photo), working in a department store, and watching his first Gay Pride Parade.  Harvey Milk was the grand marshal. There were protests against the Briggs Amendment, which would prohibit teachers from making pro-gay statements.

 And -- sitting on the patio of a restaurant facing the street, Levi saw his childhood crush, Richard Deacon!  He was with Paul Lynde and Phyllis Diller and a couple of Cute Young Things.

He was 57 years old, graying, and kind of chunky -- Levi later discovered that he didn't like the gym, and followed Miss Piggy's rule about jogging: "One should run only when one is being chased."  But he was enormously tall, massive, and vibrant, talking animatedly, waving his hands about.

"Mr. Deacon, I loved you in Dick Van Dyke!" Levi exclaimed, rushing forward.  "And in That Darn Cat!  You're a genius!"

"I'm not a genius," Richard said, looking up with a cruisy smile.  "I'm a craftsman."

Levi instinctively looked around, waiting for an insulting quip like "You mean crap-man."  But the others in his party just smiled.  Richard -- "Deac" -- invited Levi to join them.

Later they all had dinner at Deac's house off Coldwater Canyon Drive, north of Sunset.  He cooked: steak with corn compote and summer squash,  asparagus, and a Napa Valley cabernet, with a chocolate torte for dessert.

After dinner, Paul and Phyllis and the Cute Young Things went home, but Levi spent the night.  And the next.  They didn't become lovers, but they became friends, and shared tricks and recipes and Gay Pride Parades until his death on August 8, 1984.

West Hollywood, June 1995

"During my six years of friendship with Richard Deacon, I learned three important things about him," Levi says.

1. He didn't want to play heroes, or God forbid, romantic leads.  No fisticuffs, no kissing ladies.  He found what he was good at, and used it to his advantage, crafting a respectable Hollywood career, making enough money to indulge in all of the things he loved: good food, good wine, art, theater, travel.

2. He was the nicest, most approachable, most easy-going guy in Hollywood.  He would talk to anyone, from superstars to the counter girl at the deli, and no one had a single bad word to say about him.  

Levi pauses.

"What's third thing?" I ask.

"For some of you, it might be the most important.  Not to me -- I couldn't care less.  But it was very nice on a hot Hollywood night with a glass of Merlot by the bedside."

"What's the third thing?" I repeat, annoyed.

He spreads his hands, spanning at least a Kovbasa+.

3. Richard Deacon was hung to his knees.

A Hookup in the Sauna with John Amos

West Hollywood, 2017

I'm having dinner with my ex-boyfriend Lane and his husband Ben and some of their conservative, assimilated Orange County friends, who surprisingly have quite a treasure-trove of celebrity hookup stories.  Earle has just told about public sex with then-teen idol Matt Dillon.

"Kid stuff!" Stan exclaims.  He's in his sixties, chubby, balding with a white goatee.  "Anybody can hook up with a twink -- they're so horny, they don't even care who they're with.  But it takes style and finesse to seduce a real man.  And back in the 1980s, I had the biggest and the best -- John Amos."

"Wow -- I used to see him at the gym," I say.  "Hung like a garden hose."

Born in 1939, former pro football player John Amos was very visible during the 1970s, playing Gordy the Weatherman on Mary Tyler Moore, the Dad on Good Times (1974-76),  and the older Kunta Kinte on Roots (1977).  During the 1980s, he did a lot of guest spots, and went to the gym a lot.  He was very dark and very buffed, with easily a 50" chest ant 18" biceps, plus about 6" soft.

"I saw him, too," Stan says.  "But I did more than look, let me tell you!"

"Wait -- was this the Holiday Spa on LaBrea?"

He nods.

From 1986 to 1990,  I went to the Holiday Spa five times a week (not to be confused with the Hollywood Spa, a sex hotel). There were closer gyms, and gayer gyms  -- only about 50% of the patrons were gay men --  but the Holiday Spa got the most celebrities.  Not big names, but recognizable: Ron Glass from Barney Miller; Peter Scolari from Newhart; Tom Villard from We Got it Made; Jimmie Walker from Good Times. Some were gay, and some just worked nearby.  It was fun to speculate on who was who.

John Amos often worked at the same time as I did.  He became one of those "nodding acquaintances" you develop at the gym.  You nod, ask "can I squeeze in between your sets," maybe say "nice workout today" if you see him in the locker room, but nothing more.

I never saw him having a cruisy conversation with anyone.

Lane lived five blocks from the West Hollywood Gym (now Basecamp Fitness), so around 1990, I started going there most of the time, dropping into the Holiday Spa only when I happened to be in the neighborhood. I rarely saw John Amos after that.

That's the end of my John Amos story.

But Stan has a lot more.  He doesn't remember the year, probably 1987 or 1988.

Hollywood, 1987

Stan was 33 years old, black-haired, built, and horny.  The AIDS crisis didn't stop his tricking: you can't stop living your life just because of some virus.  Just put a condom on it and be careful.

His favorite gym was the Holiday Spa, 90% gay men, 100% cruisy.  Guys would display erections in the shower, get blow jobs in the sauna.  Of course, you had to be careful, only hooking up late at night when most of the straight guys were gone.

He went down on a few gym rats in the shower, had a cute Asin twink go down on him in the sauna, but John Amos was special, the stuff of memories.

It was about 10:00 pm on a Thursday night, and Stan had just arrived at the Holiday Spa. He usually showered, hit the pool for cardio, did his weight training (lower body on Thursdays), and then hit the shower again.  The locker room was nearly deserted, so he took his time showering, hoping that someone would show up and he could at least get a sausage sighting.

He got one: John Amos, the tv star, came strutting down the rows, naked, carrying a towel and grooming kit at his side.  He wasn't very tall, surprisingly, but he had a v-shaped torso, a flat outtie belly button, and a huge cock that swung between his legs like a pendulum!

"Like the view, boy?" Amos said with a smile.  He chose the shower next to Stan and turned it on.  Water streamed down his massive chest, formed a little rivulet off his cock.

"I'm not a twink, I'm 33," Stan protested.

"When you get to be my age, all of you pretty little white boys look like twinks."  He squirted out some liquid soap and started soaping up his cock.

"That's a big job," Stan said.  "Can I give you a hand."

"Ok by me -- but use your tongue."

 Stan knelt on the shower floor, wrapped his hands around Amos' butt, and started on his cock.  It immediately hardened to about 8", with a huge head.  Stan bobbed up and down while squeezing Amos' balls.

After awhile, Amos said "Come on, boy -- we're wasting water."  He turned off the shower, grabbed his grooming kit and towel, and led Stan to the steam room.

It was moist and drippy, but not very hot -- no one had added more steam for awhile.  Still aroused, Amos opened his grooming kit and pulled out a condom.

Stan froze -- he was an anal top!  He rarely bottomed, and then only for very small guys.  "I'm not sure I can take all that."

"It's not for me, white boy -- it's for you."  Amos pressed the condom into his hand and bent  over the bleachers, manipulating himself with one hand.  "I haven't had a white cock in me in two months.  Now get busy!"

"Yes, sir!"  Stan manipulated his own 6.5" until it was hard, then rolled on the condom and pushed into Amos' very tight butt.  Amos groaned but pushed against him, and tightened his sphincter.  Stan thrust slowly at first, then faster and faster while Amos groaned "That's it, white boy.  You know where it goes."

Finally Stan spurted into the condom.  He pulled out and rolled it up.

"Ready to take it, boy?" Amos said, working frantically, his eyes closed.  He stood.  "Get ready for it..."

Stan knelt and took Amos' load.

Afterwards they took another shower, and Amos left and Stan continued his workout.  They didn't exchange phone numbers.

Stan went to the gym at the same time every night for a week, but he never saw John Amos again.

Was Stan Telling the Truth?

I don't remember the Hollywood Spa being nearly that active.

John Amos has been married three times, most recently to Elisabete De Sousa (since 1982).  He has played gay characters, and is very gay-positive in real life.  That strikes me as someone who is heterosexual.

I could see a blow job in the shower, under the "a mouth is a mouth" theory of straight-gay hookups. But being an anal bottom?  Surely Stan made that up to give his story some added zing.

See also: Earle Has Public Sex with Teen Idol Matt Dillon

Lane's Bear Boyfriend and Infinite Chazz

West Hollywood, January 1995

Lane was a big fan of a gay comic that appeared weekly in Frontiers, about an assimilated couple: they lived in a straight neighborhood, had mostly straight friends, and had problems involving kids and in-laws.

"That's what life should be like," he said one night. "If the world wasn't so homophobic, we could move down to Anaheim, buy a house, and adopt a couple of kids, just like..."

"Just like our oppressors?"

"Just like straight people.  And look -- one of the guys is short, slim, and Jewish, and the other is tall, goy, and muscular, just like us!"

"Must be a sign," I said, busily channel surfing.

One Sunday night in January, we went to a book signing of gay cartoonists at the Different Light Bookstore.  Tim, who drew Lane's strip, looked nothing like his characters: he was about 40, and big, bigger than me everywhere:  6'8 to my 6'1, and about as wide as he was tall, with impossibly wide shoulders, thick heavy biceps, enormous hands and a big belly.  I swear if he lay down on a bed, he would take up the whole thing!

Add a thick black beard, leather chaps, and a leather vest festooned with silver skulls, and you have a cross between a heavy-metal rocker and a Hell's Angel.    No wonder there was no line at his table.

Lane rushed us over.  "I love your work!" he gushed.  "Does it reflect your real life?"

I expected a big, booming voice, but Tim was actually soft spoken.  "No, it reflects what I want life to be -- a 'normal' life, with a house, a job, a partner, and kids, where gay and straight don't matter."

Ugh!  I came to West Hollywood to escape the "house, job, wife, kids" cage!  I left Lane to gush some more and headed over to meet Donelan.

When we reunited, Lane didn't talk about Tim, but he was very energetic in the bedroom that night.  I was certain that he was fantasizing about Tim

Lane liked his men big, the bigger the better: tall, massive, muscular, fat.  I was much taller than him -- we looked like Mutt and Jeff walking down the street -- but I couldn't compete with Tim.

A few days later, I came home from work to find Lane and Tim sitting on the couch. Not kissing or fondling, but Tim was so big that he couldn't sit on a couch without pressing his leg and thigh against the guy next to him.

I was certain that they had been in the bedroom!

I roiled with jealousy.  We were allowed to see other guys, as long as we brought them home to "share" the bedroom activity. Sex without sharing was cheating.

"Having fun?" I sniped.

"We were just waiting for you to get home," Lane said with a guilty grin.  "We're going to go out to dinner."

Grumble, grumble.  Ok, I guess.

We piled into Lee's hatchback -- Tim was too big for the back seat, so I had to take it.  On the way to the restaurant in a straight neighborhood, we stopped at the 7-11 for something, and Tim almost slammed the door on me!

"Sorry -- I didn't know you were getting out of the car."

Yeah, right.

After dinner, we returned to the apartment, but Tim didn't come in for sharing.  He looked around to make sure no one was looking, then hugged us both at the same time and gave us each a wet, gross kiss.  I reached down to grope him and found Lane's hand already there.

That night Lane was less than enthusiastic in the bedroom.  Because he had already had some bedroom calisthenics earlier in the day?

About a week later, Lane announced: "Tim has invited us out to visit him in Temecula on Friday."

Temecula?   

A far, far southern suburb, about 1 1/2 hours away from West Hollywood, where Tim lived in the house he inherited from his parents, where he had three cats and belonged to a gardening club and saw his two daughters from a heterosexual marriage on weekends.

Ugh!  Sounds like what I moved to West Hollywood to escape.  Besides, I had a vested interested in keeping Lane as far away from his boyfriend as possible.  I was pretty sure that ten minutes after Tim said "Move in," Lane would have the U-Haul rented and the "Dear John" letter written.


"Driving all that way in Friday night traffic?  No, thanks!" I said.

"Well, how about if we leave here at 2:00, and get there at 3:30, before rush hour starts?"

What?  Lane knew that I worked at JobTech from 8 to 5 Monday - Friday!

"We can't make it.  I have a job, remember?"

"It's contract.  You can take the day off whenever you want."

"Sure, if I don't want to make any money that day."

Lane paused.  "Hey, do you mind if I drive over by myself?  I'll be back by 10:00 pm, I promise."

I glared at him.  "Sure, no problem."

As Friday neared, I became more and more apprehensive.  Lane would probably be spending the afternoon in bed with his boyfriend!  Plus he would be experiencing the sedate Straight World lifestyle of the comic strip.  Mowing the lawn, calling the plumber to fix the sink, planning the garden club picnic, bringing a casserole to the hetero couple next door, advising the daughter over her boy trouble.

Ugh!

In a year or two, they would be inviting me to visit them in Temecula, to meet the in-laws and the kids.  They would serve coffee and cake in the living room, with a picture window looking across to the neighbors' house across the street, where the kids were playing catch in the front yard....

Friday, February 4th

I went to work as usual, but couldn't concentrate, worrying about Lane dumping me to go suburban with the motorcycle bear Tim.  Finally I decided to drive out to Temecula and catch them in the act!

I claimed to not be feeling well and left at noon.  I didn't want to drive all the way down to Temecula myself, so I called Infinite Chazz, who was from Orange County and knew his way around the suburbs.

We met three years ago, when I was working at a camp for juvenile delinquents.  Now he was living with his parents and taking classes at Cal State Fullerton: 20 years old, slim with short brown hair, a long face, a tight smooth chest, and an impressive Bratwurst beneath the belt.

We called him Infinite Chazz because he was infinitely attractive, sure to cause jaw-dropping stares in every gay guy who came within five feet of his dazzling smile and even more dazzling bulge.  He visited every couple of weeks, to "share" and make the guys at the synagogue or MCC die of envy.

At 1:30, I picked up Chazz at his parents' house.  We stopped to grab lunch at a Carl's Junior, then and drove another hour to Temecula, arriving at 3:00, at just the right moment for Lane and Tim to begin their illicit bedroom activity.

Sure enough, Lane's car was parked in the driveway.  The upstairs window was open.  That must be where they were doing it!

We knocked.  Tim immediately came to the door.  Fully clothed.  "Um....hi?" he said quizzically.

Thinking fast, I said "Hi!  I decided to come out after all."

"Great!  Glad you could make it!  Lane's out in the garden."  He reached out his bear paw to Chazz.  "And this is...."

"My friend, Infinite Chazz."

"Well, come here, let's have hugs all around."  He wrapped us in his massive arms and gave us each a kiss.  I reached down to grope him, and found his hand on Chazz's basket.

That night the four of us hooked up.  Tim had a Mortadella+, beercan thick, with an enormous head.  I got to go down on him for a few minutes before Infinite Chazz took over.  Then he topped Chazz while kissing Lane.  Meanwhile Chazz went down on me.

Tim was quite energetic for a man-mountain.

Turns out that there was no illicit bedroom activity going on.  Tim drew bears in his comic strip, but in real life he liked smooth, slim twinks and Cute Young Things.  He liked Chazz.

See also: I Sneak Chazz into His Boyfriend's Bedroom; Leonard and Larry

Our First Hookup with Infinite Chazz

Anaheim, California, February 1994

My job at at a camp for juvenile delinquents lasted for only about six months, from July 1992 to January 1993: too many crazy rules, too homophobic.  The only kid I really bonded with was Chazz, a cute 17-year old on a diversion program for vandalism and auto theft, who I helped break the rules to visit his boyfriend.

We stayed in contact, chatting in America Online chatrooms and sometimes talking on the telephone.   After his release, he moved to Orange County, about 40 miles from West Hollywood, to stay with his father and stepmother. He got his high school diploma, enrolled at Cal Stat Fullerton, and got a job at Disneyland!

"You and Lane should come down and visit," he said.  "I can give you a behind-the-scenes tour."

I hated theme parks: the crowds, the noise, the tacky tie-ins, the $15 ice cream cones.  Especially the Disney Main Street, a glorification of the racist, sexist, homophobic 1890s America of Walt Disney's childhood.

But I liked Chazz -- I felt like a big brother to him.  And Lane had fond memories of going to Disneyland as a kid.  So we decided to go down on a Thursday in early February 1994 -- a weeknight in the middle of winter shouldn't be too crowded.

 We checked into our room at the Sheraton around 7:00, picked up Chazz at his parents' house, and took him to dinner at a Mexican restaurant (tip: always eat first, so you don't have to buy the overpriced, saturated fat-laden theme park food).

It had been a year since I saw Chazz in person.  He had changed, or maybe I had permission to notice, now that he was over 18!  Thick arms and shoulders.  A far bigger bulge.  His adolescent features hardened into those of a classic leading man: a square jaw, a heavy brow, soft eyes, and a bright smile.


When we ordered our cheese enchiladas and arroz con pollo, Chazz excused himself and went to the bathroom.

"Why didn't you tell me that your Boy Toy was so drop-dead gorgeous?" Lane exclaimed.

"I know!  Last I saw him, he was a cute kid, and now he's a super-hunk!"

"I'd wear a gay-pride t-shirt to Liberty Baptist Church [where homophobe Jerry Falwell preached] just for a five-second through-the-pants grope."

"I didn't even think you were into twinks.  You like bodybuilders and hairy-chested, bearded bears."

Lane laughed.  "Sometimes a twink will turn my eye.  Remember Danny, my boyfriend before you?  He was a regular Trophy Boy.  And Chazz definitely does the trick.  Any chance of us sharing tonight?"

"I don't know.  Since I was his teacher at Camp Routh, he may not think of me as an erotic possibility.  He might not even be into older guys."

"Older?  Who you calling old, Sonny?!"

"I'm 33.  That's a huge age gap for an 18 year old.  And you're 38, old enough to be his father."

"Just suggest it, will you?"

"Well, I'll ease into the idea."

When Chazz returned, I said "This weekend we're going to see My Father the Hero, starring Gerard Depardieu.  He's very hot, don't you think?"

Chazz shrugged and said something about 20-year old Mackenzie Astin in Iron Will.

I pointed out a hot suit-and-tie guy in his thirties.  Chazz shrugged, but his jaw dropped at the hot teenage busboy.

Grabbing at straws, Lane told about his hookup with Cesar Romero, the Joker on the old Batman tv show.  "He was in his 80s, super hot and super hung, believe me!"

Chazz yawned and said "Before we go over to the park, I should tell you some ground rules:"

1. No physical contact. Hay people are technically allowed at Disneyland -- they can dance together since a lawsuit in 1984 -- but you still have to be careful.  You might not get kicked out for holding hands, but you can get yelled at or beat up.

2. Don't out me in front of the staff.  They're usually ok, but management is really homophobic.  They don't hire anybody who 'looks gay,'   You hear them complaining about 'fags' and 'fairies.'

3. You're my uncles.  Don't out yourselves, either, just to be on the safe side.

"Sounds fun!" I exclaimed, thinking "why are we doing this again?"

Oh, yeah -- Lane wants me to ask Chazz to "share."  After all that oldster-bashing, I don't think so.

Chazz directed us to a "cast member" parking lot, which was a lot closer than "guest parking," and through a secret side entrance that led to Adventureland (yes, we paid the admission fee).

It was a Thursday evening, but the crowds were still intense.  Lots of nuclear families with babies in strollers and overexcited kids, some hot Dads, an occasional teenager.


Chazz got lots of smiles back.  He was getting cruised by everybody.   Literally everybody -- men, women, teenagers, boys, girls, Aladdin and Princess Jasmine.

I pointed out various guys,  to check on how Chazz responded.  He uniformly rejected anyone who looked over 30, and squealed "Gross!" at Daddies and bears.  But high school boys brought a broad smile to his face.

"Do any of the 'guests' approach you and try for a date or a trick?" Lane asked.

"Oh, sure, all the time.  I can't stand the Creepy Old Guys -- they stand so close that you can see their yellowed, rotten teeth and smell their rank breath.  And they think they can impress you by talking about things from before you were born. As if!"

"How old are these Creepy Old Guys?" I asked.

"Oh, way old.  I bet some of them are even old enough to be my dad!"

Lane frowned.

"But I've made dates with a couple of guys my own age, you know, cute ones, ones I have things in common."

Our behind-the-scenes tour involved going into secret side-doors to avoid the lines of rides like Space Mountain and the Mark Twain Steamboat, going into little tunnels to see the animatronic Abraham Lincoln and the Sleeping Beauty Castle, and some shopping in a "cast member"-only store hidden behind one of the seemingly empty storefronts on Main Street U.S.A.

I found it all rather depressing.  I was just waiting for 11:00, when the park would close and this behind-the-scenes tour would have to end.

Finally, as the crowds were pouring through the front entrance through trams, Chazz led us to Adventureland, back into the small side exit, and out onto the still-bustling streets of Anaheim.  We found our car, and started on the way to his house.

Chazz looked alarmed.  "Hey, aren't you going to invite me to...you know, spend the night in your hotel room?  I thought you guys did that all the time."  He reached over and grabbed my knee.

"Not all the time," Lane said from the back seat.  "But sometimes, if we meet someone we both like."

""We didn't think you were into older," I said.

"Well, not Creepy Old Guys, like grandpas, but you guys, normal age, sure.  I been fantasizing about Boomer ever since he was at Camp Routh.  I have a thing for teachers, you know."

I turned around, and Chazz directed me back to the Sheraton.  We went up to the hotel room.

That night he got his nickname of Infinite, and not just because of his Mortadella+.

 See also: Lane's Bear Boyfriend and Infinite Chazz; Lane and His Trophy Boy; and My Scary Date with the Teenage Lawnboy