Desperately Seeking Kevin the Vampire

San Francisco, March 14th, 2003

A Friday.  I'm living in Florida, but back in San Francisco for five days, anxious to visit my old hangouts and re-unite with my old friends:

Drake the Teddy Bear Artist.
Corbin, the Gym Rat with the Mortadella+:
Clay, who I picked up in the restroom at Macy's
Wayne the Ex-Priest.
Matt, my ex-boyfriend's ex-boyfriend

And especially Kevin the Vampire.  When I left San Francisco, I was actually relieved to be rid of him:  his smoking, his elitism, his weird paranormal powers, his exhausting bedroom calisthenics.  But at least dating him was never dull.

David, the ex-Baptist minister who is trying to make up for lost time by hooking up with at least two guys every day, picks me up at the airport.  On the way to his apartment on Alvarado in the Castro, he tells me that Drake, Corbin, Clay, and Wayne have all moved away or gone incognito.

I'm disappointed.  Back in West Hollywood, almost everyone I knew is still there.  I could walk into the French Quarter or the Fautline, and it would seem like I never left.

David shrugs.  "It takes a lot to live in Gay Heaven.  Not only money, but stamina, determination, passion.  Most guys get burned out in a few years."

"Well, surely Kevin the Vampire is still around.  I can't imagine him living anywhere else."

"Dunno.  I just hung out with him because of you, so we haven't been in contact.  Why don't you give him a call?"

I am embarrassed to admit that in a year of dating, I never got Kevin's phone number.  He always called me, or showed up at my door.

"Well, do you know his address?"  David asks.  "We could do a drop-in."

"I never got his actual street address, either, but I know where his apartment is.  I've been there a hundred times."  I hesitate.  "Only...we might not be able to find it.  One of Kevin's paranormal powers was confusing visitors.  If he wasn't expecting you, you would get lost."

"Desperately seeking Kevin the Vampire, a paranormal adventure!" David exclaims.  "I'm in -- but only if we can hook up with some of the leads.  I'm running a little low on my quota."








Saturday, March 15th

We have breakfast at Orphan Andy's, and then take the Muni out to the Richmond, where we find Kevin's apartment with no problem.  It's on the third floor of a Victorian on 12th Avenue, just south of Clement.

When we knock, a cute black-haired twink answers the door, bleary-eyed, wearing only pajama bottoms.  He introduces himself as Rome (or Roam) and invites us in for coffee.

"I've lived here for two years now, but I know who you're talking about.  He was here when I came to look at the place.  Not my type -- I like them muscular, like you guys."  He puts his hand on David's knee.  "But big eyes.  Weird, hypnotic."

"Definitely one of his selling points," I say.

"Well, he sold me.  I ended up going own on him, right in front of the landlord.  And I'm never a slut!  Weird, huh?"  He pauses, lightly stroking David's knee.  "Sorry I can't help you out.  I have to go take a shower and get ready for work.  So...unless you want to join me..."

I wait in the bedroom while David and Rome make out in the shower.  When they emerge, I go down on Rome while David is topping him.  Smooth hairless chest, average sized, cut, a lot of moaning.

That night David hosts a party in his apartment.  He invites four guys, including Matt, the crazy Harvard boy who was with my ex-boyfriend Fred for ten years.  Now he runs a nude housekeeping service.  Matt's date is, of all people, Seth!

A cute science nerd in his 30s with a surprisingly muscular physique, a hairy chest, and a Bratwurst+ beneath the belt.  The teaching assistant in my chemistry class in 1997, now a chemistry professor at San Francisco City College.  He and Kevin dated after we broke up (or maybe before we broke up).

The ex-boyfriend of my ex-boyfriend is dating the ex-boyfriend of my ex-boyfriend!

The mind boggles.

"Kevin and I didn't really have a friendly break-up," Seth tells me.  "There was yelling, and crying, and throwing things, and that was just my friends, when I told them about it.  So I haven't seen him since.  Sorry I can't be of any help."

Well, Seth was of some help.  I got to go down on him again during a game of "Guess the Penis."





Monday, March 17th

While David is at work, I go to St. Mary's Hospital to see Marius (top photo), the Argentine German who was Kevin's boss and best friend.  He's in his 40s, a hairy muscle bear with an enormous uncut Mortadella, and religious, a devout Lutheran who once planned to become a minister.  I'm sure we would have dated, except that I only met him after I began dating Kevin the Vampire.

"Kevin quit a couple of years ago, and moved out of town," Marius tells me.

"Out of San Francisco altogether? That's odd."

"I know.   But with rents going sky-high, he just couldn't afford to stay here on his salary any longer."

So Kevin the Vampire abandoned Gay Heaven for the most mundane of reasons, his checkbook?  I am strangely disappointed.

"I have his address and telephone number back at my apartment, if you'd like to stop by later."

"Sure, that'd be great."

He smiles.  "We could have dinner first, if you're free."

I check with David -- he's fine with not feeding me.  So Marius and I have dinner at Thai Thai, and then go back to his apartment in the Richmond to spend the night.  I go down on him, and he finishes with interfemeral while we're kissing.

Tuesday, March 18th

The telephone number that Marius gave me for Kevin doesn't work.

Wednesday, March 19th

My last night in San Francisco.  I have to get up early to catch my plane, so David and I are staying in.  He's busy in the kitchen, making arroz con pollo with a salad and fresh fruit, when there's a knock on the door.

"Could you get that?" David yells.  "And if he's hot, invite him to stay for dinner."

Through the peephole I see -- Kevin the Vampire!

Shocked, I pull the door open.  "Kevin...what...how..."

He grins.  "Aren't you going to invite us in?"

"Sure, come in."  Us?  

He comes in, followed by a buffed guy in his 30s with a short beard, a v-shaped torso, and impressive biceps.

David appears from the kitchen, staring.  "Kevin...how did you get here?"

"By BART, of course.  I live in Milpitas now, in an actual house, just like Ma and Pa Kettle.  This is Charlie -- quite a beautiful specimen, isn't he?  And you should see his penis -- well, most likely you will, before the evening is over."

Charlie shakes hands with us, unfazed at being called a "specimen."

"How did you know I was back in town?" I ask.

"Well, Boomer, you've been calling me for five days.  You must have known that, sooner or later, I would answer."

"I haven't been calling you...the phone number Marius gave me didn't work."

He laughs.  "I didn't mean by telephone."

By the way, Charlie did have a very nice penis.

The Blue Power Ranger Dates Fred and Matt

Fresno, November 1995

David grew up in Montana and Iowa, where gay people were assumed not to exist, except as monsters conjured up by the minister at church.   He was 14 when Rock Hudson died of AIDS in 1985, and he heard all sorts of horrible things about the movie star: "filthy diseased pervert," "should have been shot," "burning in hell."

He thought "that's me they're talking about!  They think I should be shot!  They think I'm going to hell!"

He spent his high school years praying, reading the Bible, and working out ferociously, trying to rid himself of his "evil thoughts."  He became an accomplished gymnast, and won state and regional awards. But no amount of prayer or exercise could keep him from remembering that, deep down inside, he was a filthy diseased pervert who deserved to be shot.

In college David discovered dramatics.  Creating a character, becoming a whole new person!  Surely that could shield him from the monstrousness of his evil.  He performed in college plays, and two days after graduation moved to Los Angeles to become an actor.  After only three months of auditions, he was cast as Billy, high schooler turned superhero in  Mighty Morphin Power Rangers (1993-96).

Each of the power rangers was a superhero, but they could also combine into the giant robot Megazoid, losing their individual identities for the greater good.  David wished he could do that in real life, dissolve into an ocean of life where male/female, black/white, gay/straight didn't matter.

He wasn't out at work, but he must have had the Mark of Cain on his forehead, since the jokes and slurs started almost immediately.

 "Why don't you have a girlfriend?"
"You looking at my butt, fag?"
"Don't you ever worry about the kids watching you prance around like a little faggot?"
 "Why are you the Blue Power Ranger?  Shouldn't it be Tutti-Frutti?"

David didn't participate in the gay world at all.  He never set foot in a gay bar, never picked up The Advocate or Frontiers, never dated, just an occasional hookup to relieve the pressure, mostly from Power Ranger groupies and sleazy older guys.  Once he accepted a date with Eddie Mekka, Carmine on Laverne and Shirley, but then he found out that Mekka was married, cheating on his wife, and called it off.

That only confirmed his belief that gay life was tawdry and sinister, that gay people were disrespectable, lurking in public restrooms, preying on kids.

He prayed a lot, and went to church, trying Episcopalian, Presbyterian, Baptist, Mormon, Pentecostal.  Plus Buddhist meditation and New Age past-life regressions.

A hookup told him about an actual gay minister, out to his congregation. His name was Fred, and he lived in Fresno with his partner Matt.  They talked several times on America Online.

One Saturday in November 1995, David drove 3 1/2 hours north to meet them.

Fred was in his 40s, tall, handsome, with thick brown hair tinged with gray, and very muscular: broad shoulders, thick biceps, big hands. Matt was about David's age, shorter, sandy-haired, with small, tight muscles.

"I'm many things: a polyglot, a flaneur, a bottom, a Hausfrau, but not a gym rat," Matt said.  "Still, a few hours a week in the gym works wonders.  Rather a sumptuous behind, n'est pas?"  He grabbed David's hand and pressed it onto his butt.

David was shocked.  Flirting with him, right in front of his partner? A minister?

Fred the minister was quite knowledgeable about the Bible and church history.  It seems that same-sex unions were commonplace in the early days of the church, not condemned until the late Middle Ages.  Today there were several Christian denominations that accepted gay people, and some gay-specific denominations, like the Metropolitan Community Church.

David had never heard of it.

"Oh, you should go, aussitôt que possible!"  Matt exclaimed.  "Not only is it gay-friendly, but it's packed with all of the hunks in tight jeans you could imagine!"

So among gays it always boiled down to sex, even at church.

After dinner Fred and Matt suggested that they hit Fresno's gay bars, but David claimed to be too tired.  Instead they went back to the apartment and had dessert and discussed movies and church and weight-training regiments.

David was sitting on the couch with Fred and Matt on either side of him, Matt casually fondling his arm and shoulder.  "But, mon petit etalon, shall I show you my absolute favorite exercise?  Parfait for the muscles of the neck and jaw..."

Before he knew what was happening, Matt had him unzipped and was going down on him.

Wait -- Fred was right there!

But it felt so right, so natural....

Soon Fred had his cock dangling in front of David's face.  He opened his mouth and let the minister enter him.  A man of God, sacred, spiritual, meant for a life of prayer and contemplation, his thick hard cock ramming against David's throat while his partner licked David's cock head..  He wanted this...

But it was wrong!

Later he let Fred top him while he was going down on Matt.  He spent the night warm and safe in their arms, then went to church the next day, to watch the man whose cock exploded inside him  last night give a sermon on compassion.

Could God have compassion on him, after last night?

On Monday morning, after the first snide comment, David walked off the set and never returned.  He checked himself into an ex-gay conversion center and endured two years of aversion therapy, forced heterosexual encounters, all-night prayer sessions, a constant drug haze, and plans of suicide.

Finally he had enough.  "God, this is it," he prayed.  "I'm gay and alive, and I have no choice: I have to be both.  So get ready, I'm coming out."

He moved to San Francisco, found a pro-gay therapist and a pro-gay church, read up on gay history, and started dating.

The first person he called was Fred.

See also: How Matt Began Renting Himself Out

Matt's Date with Johnny Sheffield's Son

San Diego, July 1989

My ex-boyfriend Fred's boyfriend Matt was loud and proud, out to everybody and everything.  

"Hi, I'm gay, and I'd like to order a large pizza."

 "Hi, I'm gay.  What time will the flight from Kansas City be arriving?"

Fred didn't care for gay pride events, but Matt dragged him to Christopher Street West in L.A. every year, and sometimes to the parades in San Francisco and San Diego too.  "Mon chevalier blanc, it will be fabulous!" he promised.  "And, as any queen knows, they come with nonstop cruising.  Finding a Cute Young Thing to share my butt and our bed will make it all glorioski, n'est pas?"

In 1989 they went to the San Diego gay pride parade, and afterwards to a "hair cutting" exposition at the Eagle.  One of the guys in the chair was a Cute Young Thing named Stewie (this was before Family Guy co-opted the name): early 20s, tall, slim, very tanned, with brown curly hair, a round open face, pinprick nipples, and an average-sized cock, cut.  Plus he came from a wealthy family and attended a private school, just like Matt.  They immediately hit it off, and were so busy talking that they almost forgot to cruise.

They went back to Stewie's apartment, where Fred topped him while he went down on Matt.  Then Stewie topped Matt -- versatile, not like those West Hollywood queens who were only into oral.  And kissing and cuddling afterwards!  Merveilleux!  Matt was almost in love.

Lying in bed enfolded in each other's arms while Fred dozed, they shared coming out stories.  Stewie had known since he was in high school, but he hadn't told anyone in his family: "Mom might be ok with it, but Dad's old school.  He was in Hollywood in the 1940s, when being gay was the worst thing in the world."

"Has he been in anything I may have seen?" Matt asked.  "I'm quite the movie buff -- the silver screen was my only escape from the dreariness of the Midwest.  Let me guess -- your papa is Marlon Brando?"

Stewie smiled and began kissing Matt's chest.  "He was in some jungle movies.  I guess they were popular back in the day."

"Your papa was Tarzan, Lord of the Apes?"

"Close.  He played Tarzan's son, a kid named Boy.  I know, lame, right?  No wonder he doesn't like to talk about his acting days.  How would you like it if...old guys grabbed you at the Target...and said 'Can I have your autograph, Boy?""  He moved down Matt's belly to his crotch and began to give him a blow job.

Later Matt checked a movie reference book and discovered that Stewie's father was Johnny Sheffield, "Boy" in 8 Tarzan movies (1937-1946) and "Bomba" in 12 movies (1948-1956).  He had never heard of him. 

"Mon petit etalon, it makes no difference if your dear papa is Jerry Falwell -- you must come out to him.  It is the only way to be free of the monsters of our childhood.  And the sooner the better.  How about tomorrow?  Fred and I can come along for moral support."

"Tomorrow's not good," Stewie murmured, licking Matt's shaft.  "Mom might be ok with it, but she's out of town.  Dad's all by himself, and he'll kick me out of the house, seriously."

"You don't live in his house, so voila! Problem solved!" Matt exclaimed, pulling Stewie's head away and drawing him in for a kiss.  "Tomorrow you and I will go to Papa and come out,  ok?"  He nudged Fred.  "Réveillez-tu, mon etalon -- tomorrow we have a date with Tarzan!"

Stewie hesitated, but Matt could be very persistent, particularly when his aroused penis was in your face, so finally he agreed.

Fred had to get back to San Bernardino, but Stewie invited Matt to stay with him for a couple of days.  In the morning he called his father and got an invitation to dinner that night.

Fortunately, Stewie lived in the heart of Hillcrest, San Diego's gay neighborhood, so while he was at work, Matt had a marvelous time wandering among the shops and boutiques and bars.  He had lunch at a quaint little Japanese bistro, bought himself a new outfit, and worked out in the gay gym/bathhouse.  Stewie got home at 6, with just enough time to shower, change clothes, and drive them to a Tudor-style house near Hilltop Park in the suburb of Chula Vista.

Stewie parked the car, honked, and waited for his Dad to restrain the dogs so they wouldn't get out.  "I don't think I can do this," he said, literally trembling.  "Can we just say that you're dating my ex-girlfriend?"

"Mais non!"  Matt said.  "Seize the day, mon petit etalon!  I guarantee you that dear Papa Falwell will know before dessert!"

John Sheffield was in his fifties, tall and rather portly, with Stewie's round open face, graying hair, and glasses.  He offered them both handshakes, then invited them into the back yard, where he was grilling steaks.

"All I can cook is steak and burgers on the grill -- put me in front of a range, and I'm all thumbs," he said, drawing a steak from its marinade and placing it on the grill with a smoky flourish.  "I'll bet you're a great cook, Matt.  In six months you'll have him fattened up into a blimp!"

"Well, I don't like to brag, but one bite of my Poulet Célestine and you'll be giving me the deed to the ancestral castle."

"Great, then give me a hand, won't you, and bring out the salad?  The kitchen is through that door, then turn right."

"I'll show you the way!" Stewie exclaimed, not wanting to be alone with his dad.

When they returned, John said "I've been wondering when you would bring one of your friends around.  Patty and I always thought they would be a great bunch of guys.  So, Matt, are you and Stewie...um...."

Dad knows already!  Matt thought  "No, Monsieur Sheffield, we only met yesterday."

"Where did you meet" John asked.  "There was a lot going on in San Diego, a lot of cultural events.  Parades, festivals."

"At...um...church," Stewie exclaimed.

"I came down from West Hollywood especially for...um...church," Matt added, although he actually lived in San Bernardino.  Come on, Stewie, your Dad knows.  He wants you to say something!

"West Hollywood!  Now there's a great town.  So much to do for guys like you and Stewie to do.  I'll bet you could go out every night for a month, and not go to the same place twice."  He brought a steak to a plate.  "Like it rare, I hope?"

"Still mooing, monsier papa.  Bien sur, there is a lot of partying in West Hollywood, but eventually one longs to settle down with that one special man..."

"Or woman," Stewie added frantically.  "Depending on who you...who you are, a man or a woman yourself..."

"And who you fall in love with," John added.  "Let me tell you guys a story about me and Johnny Weissmuller, who played my Dad at RKO."  [In John's version it was a kiss, not a blow job]

They finished dinner, watched an old movie, and left.

"Wow, I never knew Dad was bisexual!" Stewie said on the way home.   He nudged Matt.  "Hey, sorry I didn't come out.  I just couldn't get the nerve.  He thinks of me as this raging heterosexual ladies' man."

"Bien sur," Matt said dryly.

This isn't really a celebrity hookup story, so Matt never thought of telling it at a party.  He and Stewie stayed friends -- I may even have met him -- but I never knew that his father was Johnny Sheffield, who filled so many of my adolescent fantasies.

It's probably for the best.  Who wants to win "10 minutes alone in the bedroom" with someone at a party, and have him spend the whole time gushing "Your Dad was so hot!"

By the way, I have found no external sources attesting that Stewart is gay.

How Matt Began Renting Himself Out

San Francisco, April 1997

One night around 11:00 pm, I got a phone call out of nowhere.

"It's Matt, mon ami -- I'm at the Castro Street Muni Station.  Come pick me up!"

Matt the Cute Young Thing?

Nine years before, my college boyfriend Fred moved to Pomona, California, about an hour's drive from West Hollywood, to study at the Claremont School of Theology.

He brought Matt, 23 years old -- a scandalous age difference!

Plus Matt was an ultra-elitist snob, a graduate of the Andover Academy and Harvard University, who adored the opera, peppered his conversation with phrases in French and German, and complained that everything about my world was bourgeois or jejune:  the Midwest, West Hollywood, USC, Raul, the Greenery, the Different Light, you name it.

Plus he gossiped about everybody and everything, providing the weird voices.

Then Beau told his "Uncle,"  wink wink, "Be sure that yo' get mah new underweah in extra-extra-extra lahge."

But when you got beneath the sarcastic cover, Matt had a good heart.  And he was extraordinarily cute.

In the bedroom, while you were going down on him, he kept up a nonstop monologue of his progress, in three languages:

I'm getting there...un peu plus, mon chevalier.......je vais arriver...Mein Stollen, Mein Stollen...bien, bien...here I go...


We were never friends, exactly.  I only socialized with him -- and shared his bed -- because of Fred.  And that didn't happen often, maybe once every couple of months, and at Christmastime, when we all flew back to the Midwest.

Fred got his D. Min in 1993, and couldn't find a church, so he returned to his old job as a mental health counselor in San Bernardino, about 30 miles east of Pomona.

Ninety minutes from West Hollywood.

"I so envy you, mon ami!" Matt often said.  "So close to the action, the heart of the heart of the gay world, unsere Heimat!"

In 1995, shortly after we moved to San Francisco, Fred took a job at a congregational church in Fresno.

Three hours from West Hollywood

 "This town is even more dreary than San Bernardino!" Matt often said.  "And you're living in San Francisco, the heart of gay Heaven, Paradis."

In retrospect, I should have seen it coming.

I picked up Matt and his backpack at Castro Street Station and took him to Orphan Andy's for a hamburger.  He was 32 years old, no longer a Cute Young Thing, but quite buffed from hours at the gym.

"Fred and I are kaput! Over!  I caught him having sex with a kid in the youth group.  I'm all for sharing, but en cachette?  And I'm pretty sure the kid is underaged!"

"Well, you should at least hear his side of the story."

"No, I've had it.  J'ai trop mangé!  This isn't the first time, mind you, but I've put up with it because of my misguided sense of loyalty. But no more."

We returned to my cramped third-floor walk-up, over a hardware store, which he criticized as "impossibly bourgeois" and "a downscale dump," and spent the night.

It was my first time in bed with Matt without Fred being there.  He still kept up a nonstop monologue of his progress while I was going down on him: "Oui, mon ...étalon...comme ça...it won't be long now...a little more...bien, bien..."

In the morning, I called Fred and confirmed that this was no quarrel.  It was definitely over.  Matt's stuff was packed up and waiting for him in the guest room.

So we just had to get Matt the three essentials of life in Gay Heaven: an apartment, a gym membership, and a job.

The apartment came easy: a very nice second-floor in a Victorian on Dolores, near the Castro, for a frightfully high rent.

The next weekend, my friend David and I drove a U-Haul down to Fresno to pick up Matt's stuff: an antique grandfather's clock, a old secretary-style writing desk, ten boxes of books, and a lot of kitchen equipment, including a breadmaker and a pasta maker.  A second-hand store furnished the rest of the apartment.

The job was a problem. Matt stood to inherit several million dollars when his parents died, in fifty years, but for now his trust fund held only about $20,000.   And his resume was blank.

"I went straight from Harvard Yard to Fred's bed.  I've never actually had a job.  But I'm up for anything.  I'll sell my butt on Polk Street if I have to."  He turned around to display his butt.  It was indeed very nice.  His frontside, too.

"You're a little old for hustling," I said, hoping he wasn't serious.  "And not big enough for a career in porn.  But we'll find you something."

Ideas #1 and #2: Matt was fluent in French and German.  He could be a translator, or a guide for European tourists.

It turns out that everyone in the world was fluent in French and German -- I was fluent in French and German.  Aand European tourists usually came with guidebooks in hand.

Idea #3:  He was a Harvard alumnus, with lots of contacts in the City.  He called Santa Claus, aka Bearnard, the fantasy writer, and landed a job as his personal assistant.  But Matt's habit of criticizing everybody and everything did not sit well with Bearnard, and a few days later he was scanning the want ads again.

At least he got a hookup out of the deal: "Bien, bien...soon, soon...mon choux...comme ca...ich komme...."

Idea #4: I brought him over to "share" with Kevin the Vampire, my sort-of boyfriend, in the hope that he might have some supernatural suggestions.

"What have you being doing with yourself for all these years?" he asked.  "Sitting around watching soaps and waiting for Fred to come home, like June from Leave It to Beaver?"

"Basically," Matt admitted.  "I did all of the cooking and cleaning.  The marketing.  The laundry.  I was sein Hausmädchen, ja?"

"So you should get a job as a housemaid."

"Me as a housemaid?  That's hardly suitable for a graduate of the Andover Academy and Harvard University."

"And they only make about minimum wage," I added.

Kevin the Vampire smiled and touched his arm.  "But you could give it a Castro Street twist."

"What do you mean?"

"There are plenty of old queens in the City with more money than they know what to do with and absolutely no chance of bedding a Cute Young Thing.  They would pay premium rates for you to vacuum, dust, and prepare their afternoon aperitifs.  With your spectacular butt and sausage open for them to gawk at."

"A nude housekeeping service!" Matt exclaimed.  "Sounds like a way to syncretize my housekeeping skills, my entrepreneurial skills, and my physique.  And I could hire some twinks, in case clients like them younger.  A whole stable."


"Just be sure to specify that no sex is permitted, so San Francisco Vice stays off that spectacular butt of yours."

I moved to New York a few months later, but I understand that Matt soon had three assistants to handle about 20 clients per week.  His most popular service was "nude waiter" for dinner parties.

No sex during the housekeeping, of course, but nothing in the contract said that workers couldn't make a date for later.

"Mon etalon...a little more...ein bischen, ein bischen...almost there..."

See also: Fred and the Cute Young Thing; 8 Harvard Boys in My Bed; and Matt Gets on His Knees Behind the Bar

Fred and the Cute Young Thing Visit

West Hollywood, February 1988

If you sit at one of the tables outside the French Quarter on Santa Monica Boulevard long enough, every gay person you know will walk by.

David Johnson, son of the Professor on Gilligan's Island.  

David Cameron, whose mother starred him in the classic novel The Wonderful Flight to the Mushroom Planet.

And, in the spring of 1988, my first live-in boyfriend, Fred.

We met during my sophomore year in college, when he was a ministerial student.  When he got a job at a church in small-town Nebraska.  I moved with him, but it was a disaster -- he cheated on me with the teenager downstairs -- so I returned Rock Island.

We kept in contact, mostly through mutual friends, and hooked up occasionally at Christmastime.  He stayed in horrible small-town Nebraska until 1982, then moved to horrible small-town Kansas, and in 1985 left the ministry for a job as a mental health counselor in Kansas City.

One morning in February 1988, my roommate Derek, my ex-boyfriend Raul, and some other people were having brunch at the French Quarter, when suddenly Fred strolled by on the sidewalk outside, accompanied by a Cute Young Thing.

The French Quarter

I did a few double takes, then rushed out and grabbed him by the shoulder.

"Boomer!"  He gave me a friendly hug.  "I would have called, but I have your old number listed in my address book."

In those days, whenever you moved, your phone number changed.

I dragged him and the Cute Young Thing back to our table to join us.  "What are you doing in town?"

He was visiting seminaries, planning to enroll in a D.Min. (Doctor of Ministry) program to hopefully land a church in a decent town.  He had already interviewed at Yale and Vanderbilt, and now Claremont School of Theology, out in the San Gabriel Valley.

The Cute Young Thing (CYT), was barely out of his teens, slim with dirty-blond hair, an ostentatious diamond earring, a blue t-shirt, and tight blue shorts with a bulge that caused heads to turn even in bulge-heavy West Hollywood. I don't know where Fred found him.

A CYT

He looked askance at our Crabcakes Benedict, Mardi Gras Omelette, and Strawberry Crepes, called us all "fatties," and ordered the Diet Plate.  Then he criticized the French Quarter as "bourgeois."

You don't often see such an annoying combination of hotness and snark.

We went sightseeing, and then to dinner and to the clubs, while the CYT kept up a constant stream of criticism:

West Hollywood was "tacky," the Pacific Design Center "tired," Beverly Hills "bourgeois."

I had a job at Muscle and Fitness as "a glorified file clerk for narcissists," I was getting a "worthless degree" at a "second rate school," my car was "tacky," and my clothing was "hayseed."

To add insult to injury, the Cute Young Thing kept cruising me.




The next day Fred had to do a sample sermon and have lunch with the committee, and somehow he talked me into taking the CYT out for more sightseeing.  I dragged Raul along to share the pain.

The criticism continued:  I was from the Midwest, "nothing but hayseeds and cows," and a "geezer" at age 27.  Raul was "fat," wore a "glorified pimp" outfit, and should "learn to speak English."

The cruising also continued, and the CYT had the nerve to suggest that we come back to his hotel. Behind Fred's back!

Something had to be done about this menace!

Fortunately, we had a plan.

We went back to the hotel, kissed and fondled a bit, and stripped the CYT out of his clothes.  Then we broke away.

"Whew!  That's some gut you got!"  Raul exclaimed, pointing at his six-pack abs. "How did you hide it? Sorry, man, I'm not into fatties."

"What?  I....um..." the Cute Young Thing stammered.

"And what do you call that?" I said, pointing at his enormous package.  "I never saw one so small before."

"Maybe Fred likes them tiny?" Raul suggested.

"How does he even know it's there?  Sorry, buddy, I'm not into pencil stubs."

We got up and left the CYT speechless and staring on the bed.

Later that evening Fred called.  "What did you say to the CYT?  He insisted that I turn Claremont down!  He said the guys in West Hollywood are too fat and ugly!"

As it turns out, Fred and Matt stayed together for about 10 years, and we often "shared."

I never figured out what Fred saw in him.

Maybe you can?

See also: 8 Harvard Yard hookups; Matt's First Night with Fred and His Brother

Matt's First Night with Fred and His Brother

West Hollywood, March 1993

Whenever a new boyfriend is admitted to a social group, he always has to tell his coming out story.  It's a rite of passage.

But in the five years we've known Matt, Fred's boyfriend, he hasn't told his.  "I'm like Topsy," he claims.  "I didn't have no birthin'.  I just growed."

One night in spring of 1993, at a party at Will the Bondage Boy's apartment, he finally gives in:  "Oh, all right!  But you have to tell it, Fred, mon étalon.  Tell about the chevalier blanc, the white knight who rescued me from the two dragons of Kansas City."

Kansas City, May 1987

Matt graduated from Harvard with a B.A. in French Literature and a thesis on Raymond Radiguet, the beautiful and fabulously well-hung novelist who amassed an incredible list of lovers -- Picasso, Hemingway, Jean Cocteau, Coco Chanel -- before he died of typhus at age of 20.

"Forget your coming out story!" Will the Bondage Boy exclaims.  "I want to hear about this Raymond Radiguet.  How hung was he?"

Matt smiles. "That would be telling. But back to the horrors of May 1987: Great Caesar's Bust is on the shelf, and I don't feel so well myself."

After eight years of bliss, first at the Phillips Academy and then at Harvard, Matt had to go back home, to that awful castle that his parents stole from his grandmother, to the most jejune, ennuyeux, bourgeois neighborhood in the most stuffy, obnoxious, hébété, redneck city in Kansas.  That's right, Kansas.

"Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas, anymore."

"But ya are, Blanche!  Ya are!"

Back to his big brute Dad, who spent half his time in India, selling widgets and wocks to Brahmins and the other half hurlant, saississant, pressant: "Play football!  Change carburetors!  Don't be a fairy!"

Back to his big brute Mom, who dressed like Donna Reed -- hello!  It's the 1980s! -- and kept picking away at him like Woody Woodpecker: "Do you have a girl yet? Do you have a girl yet?  Do you have a girl yet?  Ha-ha-ha-HA-ha!"

The only member of his family he could stomach was his older brother Buzz, a shaggy blond haired hipster who used to give him wedgies and nipple-twists when they were kids.  Then one summer he and an Italian buddy drove their Fiat off an embankment on the SP325 outside of Bologna and sped off to the afterlife together.

"Was he gay?" Lane asks.

"I don't know.  Mom and Dad won't tell me, and he won't tell me.  He says it's irrelevant in the afterlife."

Buzz followed Matt to Harvard, where he hovered over his bed in the dead of night, scaring his tricks to death and offering unwanted advice:  "You're doing it wrong!  Use your tongue more!"

"Just what you need!" I exclaim. "A big brother ghost butting in."

Mom and Dad didn't know that Matt was gay, but he was going to change all that now, and end all interrogations altogether.

"Coming out to parents is always a nightmare," Lane says sympathetically.

The morning after he returned to the Provinces, he caught them in the breakfast nook.

"There are scrambled eggs and L'Eggos in the kitchen," Mom said.

L'Eggos?  Good Lord!  "Mom and Dad, you're probably wondering why I haven't been on a date with a girl since fifth grade, why I sent away for an autographed picture of Gregory Harrison, and why I wander through the house singing 'I'm Coming Out.'  C'est incroyable, I know, but I'm gay."

They stared for a long moment.  Then Mama Pajama began the pick-pick-picking. "Are you sure?  Are they sure?  Who's your doctor?  Did you get a second opinion?"

Big Daddy stood, brusque, all business.  "You're too old for that sissy stuff.  You're a grownup now."

"Well, not quite a grownup yet," Matt said. "I've never driven a car.  I've never gotten a paycheck.  I've never had a boyfriend.  Oh, I've had sex -- I know my way around a penis, let me tell you that -- but no boyfriend."

"Not the best strategy!" I say.  "Parents really don't want to know what you do in bed, any more than you want to know what they do."

"Bien sur.  But, as you may have noticed, I tend to speak first, contemplate my errors later."

For the next hour, Mom and Dad yelled, argued, recriminated, and spat like wet cats, mostly at each other, blaming Matt's "problem" on toilet training and male babysitters and that unfortunate trip to Spain, and finally on Buzz's death,  until Matt couldn't take it anymore and ran up to his room.  Buzz was hovering over the bed.

"That went well," he said sarcastically.  "You know what's going to happen next?  They're going to send you someplace.  The same place you went after my accident."

"Prairie Ridge Children's Hospital," Matt clarifies.  "For teenage Looney Toons, mixed nuts, and assorted cinglés."  

"What's wrong with that?"  Matt asked Buzz in consternation. "The walls were orange.  Very cheerful."

When he went back downstairs, Mom was still pick-pick-picking.  "Won't you see a psychiatrist?  They're doing marvelous things now with psychiatric drugs.  If you can't be cured, at least you can keep your impulses in check."

And Dad was cogitating.  "He just needs a stable job to keep his mind occupied.  I'm bringing him back to India. He can manage the branch office in Hyderabad.  Better drop the Francais and brush up on your Telugu, boy!"

"The boy don't need a shrink, he needs a useful career!" Will says, quoting from West Side Story.

More yelling, more plans, more co-option, until Matt ran out of the house and kept running through the nameless suburbs, hoping to be grabbed by flying monkeys and taken to the castle of the Wicked Witch of the West.  Oh, right, he just came from there.  Running, running, running.

Where could he go?  He knew absolutely no one in Kansas City, he had no old hangouts.  He had $38 in his pocket, enough for a night in a cheap hotel.

Finally he slowed to a walk.  He recognized this neighborhood, in the rocky hills northwest of town.  Sortor Drive...he was on the way to Prairie Ridge!

Well, any port in a storm.

He didn't know exactly what he was going to do.  Ask to be admitted?    But he burst into the bright orange reception room, and saw the Knight.

Tall, well-muscled, hard pecs visible beneath a white shirt, a brightly-smiling farmboy with a bulge that wouldn't quit.

"Are you ok?" he asked.  "You look out of breath."

His name was Fred, he was from a small town in Illinois, he was a mental health counselor with a degree in theology -- but who cared about the details?  He was Matt's chevalier blanc.

They went out to dinner, and Matt spent the night in Fred's apartment.  Buzz hovered over the bed, saying "Man, what a whopper!  This guy is amazing!  How can you take all that?"

"Buzz most certainly did not comment on your size!" Matt exclaims. "He merely said that you were attractive.  For those of you who have not had the pleasure, mon étalon and I are comparable in circumference, if not in length."

In the morning they paid Mom and Dad a visit.  Fred explained about the psychological, sociological, legal, and religious aspects of gayness.

The next day they returned with a U-Haul to collect Matt's things.

Not to worry, Mom and Dad eventually came around.  When it' a choice between a gay son and no son, most parents come around.

"Let's hear more about Buzz," Will says.  "Was he cute?  Was he hung?  Did you ever see him naked?"

Matt smiles.  "That would be telling."

See also: Fred and the Cute Young Thing.; The White Knight and the Jester; Matt's Black and White Ball

My Ex-Boyfriend Fred's Nine Lovers

We don't live just one life.  We may be "only dancing on this Earth for a short while," but during that short while, we are many different people.  We move to new cities, and take on new jobs. Friends and boyfriends come and go.

My first boyfriend Fred had many different jobs, cities, friends, and relationships.  In trying to make sense of his life, I decided to go with his lovers.

1. The Farmboy.  Fred was born on a farm in rural Western Illinois in November 1952.  Growing up, he milked cows and fed pigs, but he was not isolated from the social ferment of the 1960s. He watched The Smothers Brothers and listened to Jefferson Airplane.

In high school, Fred was a clean-cut all-American, lettering in football, taking girls to school dances, leading Sunday school classes at the United Methodist church, respected by his parents and the oldsters, who thought he was the exception to a generation full of "draft dodgers and hippies."

No one talked about gay people.  He was not aware that they existed, certainly not aware that he was himself gay.

He had no same-sex experiences except with the Farmboy, his girlfriend's brother, who lived about a mile down the road.  After his dates, he dropped off the girl with a chaste kiss on the cheek and then met the Farmboy behind the barn for moments of homoerotic joy.

2.  The Greek Professor.  After graduating from high school in 1971, Fred enrolled at Western Illinois University in Macomb, but transferred after a year to Knox College in Galesburg.

He majored in psychology, because he wanted to understand his desires better, and in Classics, because he was in love with his Greek professor: a Harvard Ph.D. in his fifties with a thick beard, a hairy chest, a little belly, and a Bratwurst beneath the belt.  The Greek Professor mentioned the gay loves of Zeus and Apollo -- the first time Fred ever heard gay people discussed in public.

Incidentally, he also initiated Fred into bottoming, which in those days was called "Greek passive."

3. The Episcopal Priest.  From 1976 to 1979, Fred was attending McCormick Theological Seminary in Chicago, studying for his Master of Divinity degree with a concentration in pastoral counseling.  He had a girlfriend, and then a fiancee, because that was the only way you could get a job in the Methodist Church.   But somehow he found the gay neighborhood of Chicago, with its bars, bookstores, and bathhouses, and had several brief relationships and hookups.

Among his more memorable hookups was Ron Reagan, son of the future president, who he topped in his first Greek active experience.

His most memorable relationship was with Thomas, an Episcopal priest from Des Moines, who told him that it was ok to be gay and Christian.  They remained friends for the rest of Fred's life.

See: The Priest with Three Boyfriends and Fred Hooks Up with the President's Son

4. Boomer.  Shortly after breaking up with the fiancee, Fred moved to Rock Island for his internship year at the First United Methodist Church.  There he met Boomer, a 19-year old college student.  Fred fell hard and fast; within a week, he was thinking of Boomer as his soul mate, the one God or fate had predestined for him at the beginning of the time.

After his internship,  Fred found a job as a youth minister at a United Methodist church in Gretna, Nebraska, a suburb of Omaha.  In the summer of 1980, he convinced Boomer to drop out of college and follow him.

Neither was prepared for the daily routine of a live-in relationship.  Fred became controlling and argumentative, Boomer surly and jealous, certain that Fred was cheating with the teenager downstairs (and perhaps he was).   After five weeks, Boomer left, to return to college.

But, like the Episcopal priest, they remained friends.  Fred tried his best to keep his old loves in his life.

See: My First Date, with Fred the Ministerial Student and Fred and the Teenager Downstairs

5. The Nephew.  In the fall of 1980, Fred rebounded, falling hard and fast into the arms of another 19-year old college student, a University of Nebraska sophomore who moved in with him after only two dates.  Closeted, Fred introduced him as his "nephew."  They stayed together for about two years.

I don't know why they broke up -- I suspect that the Nephew graduated and moved somewhere for a job.

In 1982, Fred left Gretna to become senior pastor of the United Methodist Church in Horrible Small-Town Kansas. He was pressured to date women, and in fact had several lady friends, keeping his same-sex activity strictly on the downlow.


See: I spend the night with Fred and his boyfriend, in his parents' house.






6. Matt.  In 1985, Fred decided that he couldn't take the closeting anymore, so he left the ministry altogether for a job as a mental health counselor in Kansas City.  In May 1987 he met Matt, a recent Harvard graduate who was elitist, sarcastic, and all kinds of crazy, but had a good heart.  They were together for ten years.

In 1988 they moved to Claremont, California, where Fred studied for his D.Min degree at the Claremont School of Theology.

After graduating,  Fred got a job as a youth pastor in San Bernardino, then a family counselor in Fresno.  Matt, who had never had a job, stayed home to cook and clean, becoming a veritable "housewife."

Fred believed in monogamy, staying faithful to one guy forever.  He was never comfortable with the West Hollywood custom of sharing, or of going down on guys as entertainment at a party.   Yet there were so many Cute Young Things around, a kaleidoscope of biceps and bulges.  It was impossible to resist.  He began a pattern of hookups and even full-fledged affairs without telling Matt.

In 1996, Matt discovered that Fred had been cheating, and left him.  But they stayed friends, of course.

See: Matt's First Night with Fred and His Brother; and How Matt Began Renting Himself Out

7. Jester.  Fred did not handle breakups well.  He was so distraught when Matt left that he quit his job and returned to San Bernardino, where he went to work as a mental health counselor.

He immediately began dating Jester, a college student, later history teacher, blind, with an upbeat attitude and a footlong beneath the belt.

They were together for five years, finally breaking up in 2001.  The breakup was rough, with accusations and rage on both sides.  They didn't stay friends afterwards.

See: The Blind Boy with the 12" Penis and The Blind Boy Finds His Way into Fred's Bed.

8. The Icelandic Photographer.  The next decade is a blur of cities -- Sandusky, Ohio; Bemidji, Minnesota; Pocatello, Idaho; Mesa, Arizona.  A blur of jobs -- homeless advocate, assistant pastor, manager of psychiatric services.  And a blur of boyfriends, Cute Young Things by the dozens finding their way into Fred's apartment for a month, for a week, for a single day.

Why didn't he commit to anyone in particular?  Maybe he was afraid of losing his heart -- and soul -- yet again.

Maybe it was difficult for a guy in his 50s to form permanent relationships with the twinks he found most attractive.

Or maybe, after so many years of monogamy, Fred wanted to sit back and enjoy the ride, enjoy all the fun of a relationship with none of the responsibilities.

The only relationship that stands out in the blur is the Icelandic Photographer, who I met in 2001. An art student at Bemidji State University, with long hair, a moustache, a hard smooth chest, and a Kovbasa beneath the belt.  He had an Icelandic flag tattooed on his hand.

"This is it!" Fred told me.  "I've never met anyone like him before!  We're going to be together for the rest of our lives!"

Fred never mentioned him again.

See: Fred and the Icelandic Photographer

9. Tyler. In 2011, Fred landed the fest, most prestigious job of his life: director of mental health services for the Disciples of Christ Church at its main headquarters in Indianapolis.

After hooking up with a 26-year old chef named Tyler, Fred moved in with him, but only as a roommate.  He became close to Tyler's mother, Georgina, and a surrogate father to his brothers, Rusty and Max.  They even took family portraits together.

Fred and Tyler were Platonic friends, a stepfather and stepson.  After that first night, they never slept together, not even for "sharing," and each sought out other lovers. But it was Tyler who took care of Fred when he got sick in 2016, who helped him into and out of his wheelchair and drove him to his doctor appointments, and who was holding his hand during those last days in the hospice.

Maybe, at the end of his life, Fred finally found his soulmate.

See: I Spend the Night with Fred's Son

My Ex-Boyfriend Hooks Up with the President's Son

Claremont, California, August 1988

My ex-boyfriend Fred has just moved to California to study at the Claremont School of Theology, about 40 miles east of West Hollywood, along with his boyfriend Matt, a twink who is very cute and very well hung, but crazy as a loon.  Alan, Thanh, Will the Bondage Boy, and two other guys whose names I don't remember descend upon them for a housewarming party.

We have Vietnamese spring rolls in rice paper,  bánh bao   (meat rolls), and lemongrass chicken, plus a fruit salad for dessert.

After dinner Matt becomes the "entertainment," stripping, gyrating on our laps, and going down on me and Alan before Fred angrily tells him to cool it.  Then we sit around telling stories about the biggest penises we've been with, dates from hell, and hookups with celebrities.

Everyone in West Hollywood had a good celebrity dating story or two.  Alan tells about Scott Baio.  Will the Bondage Boy tells about Keanu Reeves.  My real-life celebrity boyfriend isn't famous enough to wow anyone, so I tell about Michael J. Fox, with our innocent hug at lunchtime transformed into a wild night of sexual excess.

Fred sits silent.  No one really expects him to have a story -- where will he meet anyone, spending his life in the Midwest?  We're not judging him on his lack, we're trying to entice him with tales of the joys of living in West Hollywood.  Who knows, tomorrow he might run into Tom Cruise at the Gold Coast!

Then Matt tells us about how, as a freshman at Harvard, he spent the night with Bronson Pinchot, the androgynous star of Perfect Strangers (1986-1993).  He does the "don't be ridiculous!" Myposian accent perfectly, although Bronson Pinchot doesn't really talk that way.

Suddenly, in a weird accusatory tone, Fred says "Well, I can top that.  In fact, the first guy I ever topped was Ronnie Reagan Junior!"

The room becomes silent.  We all stare.

Everybody knows that the evil President Reagan, sworn enemy of gay people, tireless fighter against gay rights, has a gay son -- a tall, thin, svelte ballet dancer!  What an embarrassment to the blathering homophobe!  Three weeks after he was elected in 1980, Reagan forced Ronnie to closet himself with a sham marriage.

But no one in West Hollywood has ever claimed to have dated or hooked up with him.  Maybe because he doesn't live in Los Angeles, so you wouldn't run into him on the street.  Or because in order to mention Ronnie you'd have to mention his father, the most hated person in the gay world, sure to put a damper on any party.

Chicago, Summer 1979

Fred was 26 years old, a student at McCormick Theological Seminary preparing for his "internship" year at a church in Rock Island.  He had been with a few guys before, but only oral and 69.  He wanted to "go all the way," top someone, but  he was very well hung, and everyone balked at his size.

He needed to find an experienced guy, and what better place than a bathhouse?

Man's Country was packed that night, all ages from twink to geezer, all shapes from svelte to superchub.  Fred had a few guys go down on him, and kissed and fondled a few others, before he saw Ronnie sitting by himself in the sauna-- in his early 20s, tall and svelte, with a long handsome face, sleepy eyes, a tight, smooth chest, and an average sized penis.

They kissed and fondled, and then went to Ronnie's cubicle.  Ronnie went down on Fred and then Fred turned him over onto his stomach.

"Wait -- I've never done anal before," Ronnie said.

Fred was looking for someone experienced, but it would be impolite to leave now.  "Me, neither.  I'll try to take it easy."

Ronnie stood and knelt over the bed.  Fred spat on his penis and pushed it in slowly.  Ronnie groaned but didn't protest.  He began thrusting, slowly at first, then more vigorously, while fondling Ronnie's back and shoulders and penis. Soon Ronnie started working on himself.  They finished at almost the same moment, wiped off with a towel, and then collapsed onto the bed for a long kiss.

"Wow, that was great!" Ronnie exclaimed.  "I should have been doing this a long time ago!"

"It didn't hurt?"

"Not much.  You knew exactly what to do."

They exchanged telephone numbers, as one does, but didn't call, and a few weeks later, Fred moved to the Quad Cities for his ministerial internship. He met Boomer, his first real boyfriend, in December.

Fred didn't know who Ronnie was at the time.  The presidential campaign hadn't started yet, and he had barely heard of Ronald Reagan, the governor of California.  It wasn't until the following summer that he realized that he had topped Reagan's son.

"So," Thanh says, "Don't keep us waiting.  Show us the penis that the guys in Chicago couldn't take."

Fred unzips and takes it out.

"Very nice."

"Very nice?" Matt exclaims, as if he's personally offended. "Is that all?  The length, the shape, the...the circonférence? Merveilleux!  Like no other man!  You just have to see it aroused, to get the full effect.  I'll show you."  He kneels and starts going down on Fred.

Was Fred Telling the Truth?

Ron Reagan was indeed living in Chicago in 1979, but he never called himself "Ronnie," and he's heterosexual, although he doesn't mind the rumor: "It's not perjorative, it's simply incorrect."  He is a strong advocate of gay rights, including gay marriage.

And his marriage to Doria, which lasted until her death in 2014?   There was no pressure from his parents -- they didn't approve of her, and and didn't even know about the wedding until it was over.

I think Fred was feeling left out because he had no celebrity dating stories, and jealous that Matt was going down on us as the evening's "entertainment." Especially Alan the ex-porn star.  So he invented a story about a celebrity that he could have believably met  in the Midwest, and one that accentuated his size and sexual prowess.

See also: Topped for the First Time.

Six Degrees of Separation: From Fred to Fred's First Lover

They say that everyone on Earth is connected to each other by, at most, six degrees of separation, networks of "a friend of a friend of a friend."  That's especially true in the gay world, where men move from gay neighborhood to gay neighborhood, seeing the same faces, seeking the same hangouts.

So look carefully at your next date or hookup: chances are you, or someone you know, has been with him before.  If you dig deeply enough into the histories of your lovers, you will run into your ex lovers there, a chain of emotional and erotic experiences that extends back through history.

1. Fred, my first boyfriend, We met in December 1979, during my sophomore year in college, when he was a 28-year old intern at the United Methodist Church in Rock Island.  We dated for a few months, lived together during a disastrous summer in Omaha, and then stayed friends for the next thirty years.

2. Matt. While working as a mental health counselor in Kansas City in May 1987,  Fred met Matt, a recent graduate of Harvard University, snobby, elitist, and crazy, with the habit of talking constantly during sex, in three languages.  "Oh, mon etalon...nearly there..soon, soon...ich werde kommen...."  They stayed together for ten years, in Claremont, California, then San Bernardino, then Fresno, breaking up in the fall of 1996.  Then Matt moved to San Francisco and started a housekeeping service.

















3. Seth.  A graduate student in chemistry, later a chemist, who taught a horribly heterosexist lab section, before Kevin the Vampire and I convinced him to lay off.  And hook up with us.

Seth dated Kevin after we broke up, and then moved on to Matt.

That's right, the ex-boyfriend of my ex-boyfriend dated the ex-boyfriend of my ex-boyfriend.

4. Fangorn.   In 2009, Seth moved to Santa Rosa for a job and met Fangorn (named after the forest), a white-bearded nature boy, pagan, and fan of The Lord of the Rings.  He had a farm near Santa Rosa, where he grew mostly onions (and marijuana).

I don't know what the eminently empirical scientist saw in the aging hippie, except maybe his Kielbasa beneath the belt.  But they were together for a couple of years.

5. Allen Ginsberg and Peter Orlovsky.  Back in the 1970s, when Fangorn was a Cute Young Thing named Dennis, he enrolled in the Naropa Institute in Colorado.  He and Beat poet Ginsberg and his partner Peter Orlovsky enjoyed romping about in the nude.










6. Justin.  In the late 1950s, when Peter Orlovsky was a student at Columbia University, he dated a young Classics major named Justin.  Who went on to graduate study at Harvard, got his Ph.D., and for some reason chose to teach in the Midwest, Knox College.

7. Fred.  Where, twenty years later, with a beard and a belly, he taught -- and dated -- the theology student who would become my first lover.

See also: Fred's Nine Lovers; The Blue Power Ranger Dates Fred and Matt