The Nebraska Football Player on the Great Redneck Roundup

July 1995, Omaha

The Great Redneck Roundup of 1995 yielded 20 hookups in 20 days, but, surprisingly, few actual
"rednecks."

We were looking for country boys:
1. Heavy-set, not fat but thick around the belly
2. "Macho" jobs as truckers or factory workers.
3. Lived in small towns or on farms
4. Drove pick-up trucks
5. Listened to country-western music
6. Most important: were very, very, very well hung.

Instead, we met a slim smooth Hispanic guy who wanted to be a chef, and a South Asian medical technician who took us to the ballet.

Nice, but we could meet guys like that back in West Hollywood.  Where were the cowboys, truckers, and farmboys of the Straight World?

On Day 7, we drove 10 hours from Denver to Omaha.

"We're bound to pick up a country boy here," I said.

When I moved to Omaha with Fred during college, I had never been so far west before, or lived in my own apartment, so it seemed a great adventure, like a pioneer in a wild, untamed frontier.   Even the sky seemed a darker shade of blue.

The Mutual of Omaha insurance building, with its Indian in a headdress that glowed at night, was visible everywhere downtown.

  What better place to find wild, untamed guys?

After we checked into our hotel and worked out, I went cruising alone (we usually cruised together, but I was worried that the elusive country boy would be intimidated by two sophisticated California guys together).

Of the three gay bars listed in my Gayellow Pages, the Omaha Mining Company seemed like the best place.

It was a small, rather seedy gay bar in an old building with parquet ceilings.  There were barrels of peanuts you could shell and eat while waiting for your watered-down drinks.  Two tv sets showing a football game.

Perfect!

Wait -- August wasn't football season.  Even I knew that.

I sat down at the bar next to an obvious redneck: about my age, formerly muscular but now a little chunky, with a round bearded face.  He was wearing a red shirt unbuttoned so you could see his smooth, cologne-doused chest, very tight jeans with a prominent bulge no doubt augmented by a few socks, and a baseball cap.

He was drinking a Coors beer and every now and then yelling "Yeah!" as he paid close attention to the game.



"What's going on?" I asked.  "It's not football season."

"Son, it's always football season!" he exclaimed.  "This is a preseason game, Pittsburgh at Buffalo."

I knew fans always favored the nearest city, but both of those were pretty far from Omaha.  "Which one do you like?"

"Pittsburgh, definitely!  You?"

"Oh..um...Pittsburgh, of course."

Suddenly someone scored a point or something.  The guy yelled "Awright!" and raised his hand for a high-five.  I complied.

"That was a Pittsburgh point.  You're not a big football fan, are you?"

"Not really."

"No shame in that.  I'm Kevin."  We shook hands -- very big hand, very rough.  Instead of letting go, he guided my hand down onto his crotch.

Wow, country boys worked fast!  "Um...I'm Boomer.  Visiting town from West  Hollywood."

"You're kidding!"  He punched my shoulder.  "Man, I would love to go there.  Gay central!  Hey, can guys go down on each other right on the street, like in the pornos?"

"It's not really like that.  More of a small town, just almost all gay."

Between guzzles of Coors, yells of "Awright!",and rubbing my hand against his crotch, , Kevin asked dozens of questions about West Hollywood: coming from California was as attractive to country boys as gigantic penises were back home.  I told him about Alan the Pentecostal Porn Star, my celebrity boyfriend, and meeting Lou Ferrigno when I worked at Muscle and Fitness.

Kevin came from a small town in Kansas ("I've heard all of the Dorothy and Toto jokes").  In college he played for the Nebraska Cornhusker football team as "defense" ("because I'm big -- son, you don't know how big").  Now he worked as a recruiter, traveling to high schools all over the country to get kids interested in the University of Nebraska.

 "It so happens that you get a perfect view of the Mutual Indian from my bedroom window," he said expectantly.

What kind of a dumpy apartment would a country boy have?  "Well -- I'm visiting with my partner.  He's back at the hotel.  Why don't we go there?"

"Hotels!  You're in hotels every night!  Time you boys spent the night in a real bed!"

I couldn't tell him that in our six days on the road so far, we had only spent three in a hotel room.

We picked up Lane and drove to Kevin's apartment in a tall brown building just west of downtown -- a silver two-door car, not a red pick up truck.

His apartment was nicely furnished, with a leather couch, black stalk lamps, a brightly-colored print of a nude man from the backside.

We didn't have much time to check out the views.   Almost the moment we got in the door, Kevin was on his knees, unzipping me.   He worked on both of us for awhile, then tore off our clothes and pulled us into the bedroom.

Very nice physique, smooth hard chest, a little belly, long, thick Kielbasa, cut.

"So, which of you is the top?"  Kevin asked.  "Lane, right?  The condoms are in that drawer over there.  The second drawer, next to the lube.

Lane laughed, no doubt remembering Barcelona last year, when Ramon mistook me for a bottom.

Kevin frowned and lay flat on the bed on his stomach.  "So Boomer, you're the top?  I'm up for you.  You'd be surprised what I can take!"

"We're actually not into Greek," I said.  "No one in West Hollywood is.  Too many bad memories."

"Oh...right...I hear you.  He rolled over to his side.  "You lost a lot of friends to AIDS, back in the day.  Well, come here, and let's cuddle.  I haven't had two guys in my bed in a long time."

We lay on the bed on either side of him and kissed and cuddled, and took turns going down on him. Then I climbed on top of him and thrust between his legs.

"I never did it this way before," he whispered.

"West Hollywood boys know lots of tricks."

In the morning he took us to breakfast at Lisa's Radial Cafe, and then we checked out of our hotel and drove on to Des Moines.

Let's review:

1. Heavy-set, not fat but thick around the belly. Check
2. "Macho" jobs as a trucker or factory worker.  No -- college recruiter, middle class.
3. Lived in small towns or on farms. No -- Omaha, population 400,000
4. Drove pick-up truck. No.
5. Listened to country-western music.  Check. We didn't listen to music, but I definitely saw some cowboy hats on the CDs piled up on his entertainment center.
6. Well hung. Check

Three out of six isn't a great score, but Kevin had the most important Country Boy trait: enormous beneath the belt.  Plus very enthusiastic.

And before the Roundup was over, I met a trucker and an honest-to-goodness cowboy.

See also: The Great Redneck Roundup; Fred and the Teenager Downstairs

Cruising the Miracle Mile

West Hollywood, July 1980

The summer of 1980.  I am 19 years old.   I have just finished my sophomore year in college and moved to Omaha with  my boyfriend Fred.    After five weeks, I have met only three gay people.  As far as I know, there are no others in Omaha.

As far as I know, there are no gay magazines, newspapers, bookstores, political organizations, or social clubs anywhere in the world, nothing out there at all but a few furtive closet bars and some porn magazines.

The relationship is stormy.  Fred is controlling, demanding, and even what I would call abusive today.  He doesn't want me to continue college, doesn't want me to have a career.  I can't go out to the bars without him. He gets upset when I talk to another guy, but he's been seccretly hooking up.  I have to get out.

My friend Tom, who moved to California after high school and is now going to UCLA, invites me to visit.  This is a perfect opportunity to escape!  One day while Fred is out, I pack some of my things and drive west on Interstate 80, intending to never come back.

While visiting, I stay in Tom's room in his cousin's house in Westwood.  They are both attractive, but nothing happens except for what I call the "heterosexual huddle," what straight guys do while thinking about girls.


We see all of the touristy landmarks: Mann's Chinese Theater, the Cinerama Dome, Griffith Park, and the Hollywood Sign.  We cruise down Santa Monica Boulevard, Hollywood Boulevard, Sunset, Melrose, the streets that have been familiar throughout my life, ever since The Lucy Show suggested that Los Angeles might be a "good place."

It feels like home.

We drive through the gay mecca of West Hollywood, but I am not aware that it exists, so I don't notice anything different.

We stop at Book Soup on Sunset Boulevard, three blocks from my future house.

I see a section marked Gay and Lesbian.

I assumed that there were only Geight ay and Lesbian books in existence: Witchcraft and the Gay Counterculture, which Peter gave me, and the seven on Fred's  secret bookshelf.  It is amazing that they have a whole section at Book Soup .

Isn't it illegal to openly sell books about gay people? Fred said it was all done by mail order, without using anyone's real name.

I'm afraid to stand in front of the section, lest anyone think that I'm. . .you know.  I pretend to be immersed in a section nearby, Psychology, and steal surreptitious glances.

I see: Loving Someone Gay, The Best Little Boy in the World, The Penguin Book of Homosexual Verse, Gay American History, Christopher and His Kind....far more than eight!  (There were actually about 30 nonfiction books about gay people in print at that time, plus fiction.)

Finally I gather my courage, snatch a small paperback called The City and the Pillar from the shelf as I rush past, hide it under some science fiction novels, and go to the cash register.  I don't realize until I get there that there are two naked guys on the cover, but it's too late to back out now.

I expect the cashier to scream "The sting worked!  Call the police!", or at least yell "Price check on the gay book! This weirdo wants to buy a gay book -- he must be gay!  How much does the gay book cost?"  But she just looks at me funny.

Tom meets me, and we go out to the car. "What did you buy?" he asks.

"The Ringworld Engineers and Lord Valentine's Castle," I tell him, naming two science fiction novels.  "And some other stuff."

Later we're driving down Wilshire Boulevard when the Billy Joel song "It's Still Rock and Roll" comes on the car radio, with the line "are you going to cruise the Miracle Mile?"

"This is the Miracle Mile!" Tom exclaims.  "How's that for a coincidence?"

It feels even more like home.

I stay for a week, then drive home to Rock Island to enroll in my junior year at Augustana.  But I'll be back.

I Share Fred and His Boyfriend in His Parents' House

Rock Island, December 1980

In mid-December, just before classes end at Augustana, my ex-boyfriend Fred calls me from Omaha.  "Are you free Christmas night?" 

"Sure -- my family celebrates on Christmas Eve, so Christmas day is all down time."

"Great.  I'm bringing my boyfriend Toby up to meet my parents -- the first guy I've ever brought home -- and I want you to come along for moral support."

Last summer, when I was 19 years old, I moved to Omaha with Fred, a recent seminary graduate who had just taken a job as a youth pastor.  I hated every minute of it, and after five weeks escaped...um, I mean left and returned to Rock Island.  

Within a week, Fred rebounded into the arms of another 19-year old college student: Toby Meyer, who was starting his sophomore year at the University of Nebraska.  They moved in together after two dates.  Fred introduced him at church as his "nephew."

If anyone in the church found this suspicious, there's no record of it.

"So you want your ex-boyfriend to help you introduce Toby to your family."  I scoff-- I haven't seen Fred since our breakup, and now he wants me to hang out with his new boyfriend?  That would be mega-weird!

"Are you up for it?  Mom's a great cook.  And, if it sweetens the deal, you can join me in bed. Just come into my room after everyone's asleep.  I'd like to have you all night, but you know, I don't want to arouse suspicion."

That does sweeten the deal!  Fred is enormously attractive.  Besides, I've only been with one guy since our breakup, and that was a downlow thing after a screen date with some girls.

"Um...where are they going to put Toby?"

"Hopefully with me, but I can't be sure.  They think we're just roommates, you know.  I'm not out to anyone in my family." 


Well, he's sort of out.  Last summer Fred's Dad and older brother helped us move to Omaha. Virgil was in his 50s,hairy, grizzled, with hard shoulders and biceps, a do-or-die conservative Democrat who hated Ronald Reagan.  Dwight was in his 30s, a truck driver, tall, bearded, fat.  

They didn't say anything about us being gay, but they didn't mention girls, either, and they expressed no surprise when we had only one bed to move. They probably knew, but didn't want to talk about it. 

That's as out as you got in 1980.

This will be the first time I've seen Fred since we broke up.  That, plus meeting his boyfriend and most of his family, makes me very nervous.

I get even more nervous when I arrive before Fred and Toby -- they are still negotiating the snowy six-hour drive from Toby's parents' house in Sioux Falls.  

Virgil, Dwight, a little boy (Dwight's son), and a tall, slim black-haired guy (the boyfriend of Fred's sister) are sitting in the living room, watching a football game on tv.  

Virgil, gruff and a bit standoffish, introduces me as "Fred's former friend," and takes me back through the dining room to an enormous kitchen to meet the women:  Fred's Mom, short, fussy, and fat; Dwight's wife; and Fred's younger sister, a senior music major at Knox College.

They give me the choice of helping out in the kitchen or watching football.  I choose the kitchen, and make a salad while fielding questions about my major in college, whether I have a girlfriend, and why I left Omaha.

If there any doubts about Fred being gay, they are dissipated when he arrives with Toby, the most swishy little queen to ever sashay in a pink sweater and diamond earrings.  He spends the dinner saying things like "Mrs. A, this cauliflower casserole is delish!  You have to give me the recipe, so I can make it for Fred!" and "No pie for me, thanks -- I have to watch my figure!  Got to keep them interested, right?"

I am heavily embarrassed, and try to ignore him -- and Fred -- as much as possible, instead interrogating Jane and her boyfriend on Knox College.  

After dinner, the women set about to do the dishes, along with Toby ("Oh, I insist!  I love dishwashing -- I might even make it my career!")  The men go into the living room to watch more tv and wait for the women, so they can open presents.  I go to the bathroom.

Virgil is waiting for me at the door, glaring as if I took too long.  

"Sorry..." I begin.

"I have a question.  I'm glad you're trying to make up with Freddie -- you hurt him bad when you left Omaha.  But I want to know -- did you jump ship because he started dating a queer?"

"What?"  Stunned, I really want to say "WTF?"    

"Nothing wrong with queers," Virgil continues.  "They can set a table and keep a house as well as a woman can, and if that's what Freddie likes, it's up to us to make his friend feel welcome.  Not fly off the handle and run away."  

"Oh, no, that's not why I left at all."

"Good."  He grimaces menacingly.  "Cause I thought you looked a little piqued around Toby.  You don't want to hurt Freddie again, not in my house." 

"Oh, no.  In fact, to prove how much I accept Fred and Toby, I volunteer to spend the night in their room."

His grimace breaks into a grin. "Well, we were going to put you up in the spare room with Jane's boyfriend, and the boy in with his folks, but I'm sure that can be arranged."

We go back into the living room and exchange gifts.  I only brought one, a book for Fred, but receive three, from Fred, his parents, and Toby (a Nebraska Cornhuskers t-shirt:  "I saw a picture of you, and knew that red is your color!").  Then we watch more tv (a common entertaiment in the Midwest) until it's time to decide on the sleeping arrangements.

Bedroom #1: Jane
Bedroom #2: Dwight and his wife
Bedroom #3: Fred, Boomer, and Toby.
Spare Room: Jane's boyfriend and Dwight's son

"Sorry we have to triple up, Freddie."  Virgil says.  "There's just not enough beds to go around."

"Oh, I don't mind a bit," Fred says with a grin.


When we get upstairs, Toby wraps me into a hug.

"How did you ever convince Mr. and Mrs. A. to let us share Fred's bed tonight?  We're not out to them, so they think we're just roommates having a sleepover."

"That must be the reason," Fred says, joining us in the hug.  "No chance of any hanky panky going on up here."

"Actually, Virgil knows that Toby is gay, and thinks that you're straight but 'into queers.'"

"See, Fred?" Toby says.  "I can't be in the closet!  Everybody knows the moment I say 'hello.'"  He turns to me.  "Do you like kissing?  Fred doesn't like to kiss."

In case you were wondering: slim physique, average-sized cut penis, French and Greek passive.   

We shared a few more times, when they came to Rock Island or I drove out to visit them in Omaha.  Then Fred got a new job, as senior pastor of the United Methodist Church in Horrible Small-Town Kansas. He and Toby broke up, maybe because Toby didn't want to move to Horrible Small-Town Kansas, or maybe because he knew he could never be closeted enough to be a preacher's partner.  Everyone knew the moment he said "hello."

See also: My Ex-Boyfriend Fred's Nine Lovers.

The Great Redneck Roundup: 20 Hookups in 20 Days

Summer 1995, the Wild West

When Dad turned 62, he and Mom retired, sold their house in Rock Island, and moved back to their home state of Indiana.  They told me that I had to come out by August to pick up any of my stuff that was still in the house, or it would go to Goodwill.

I wanted my desk, two chairs, a couple of books, two paintings, and some other mementos.

And Lane had never been out of California, except for flights to New York, Israel, and Europe.  Time for a road trip!

The only problem is, after a lifetime in West Hollywood, even Ojai seemed intolerably homophobic to him.   And we would be driving through some of the scariest, most conservative, most homophobic states in the country.

But we could see the sights, I told him.  The Grand Canyon, Mount Rushmore...and Rednecks, hairy-chested guys with farm-hard muscles and gigantic Mortadellas, who didn't like gay people but on Saturday night, after a few beers, happily went down on the guys they met at the tractor pull.

"Well...I do like cute redneck farmboys."

"Why not make a game of it?" I suggested.  "We'll see if we can hook up with a cowboy or redneck every day, bring a little same-sex action to the straight world.  How about it: 20 days, 20 sausages?"

Lane agreed to the Great Redneck Roundup of 1995:

Day 1: Phoenix, Arizona

This one was easy.  We stayed with a couple Lane knew, transplants from the gay Jewish community in Los Angeles, who took us on a tour of Phoenix's gay neighborhood and later invited us into their bed.  Sausage Count: 2

Day 2: Flagstaff, Arizona

After seeing the Grand Canyon, we drove down to Flagstaff to spend the night.  At a gay-friendly bar, we hooked up with a young Hispanic guy who worked as a waiter. Sausage Count: 3

Day 3: Provo, Utah

The heart of the Mormon world.  We were getting cocky, figuring that we could pick up a guy anywhere in Redneck Country, like on the campus of Brigham Young University.  Bust.

Day 4: Laramie, Wyoming

In a few years, the murder of Matthew Shepherd would make Laramie famous as haven of homophobia, but in 1995, we were just thinking cowboys.  We went to the campus of the University of Wyoming, visited the Art Museum, and the Museum of the Plains.

Nobody in Laramie, but on the road: when you go to a rest stop at dawn, there are always a lot of trucks parked, where the drivers spent the night.  Curious, I walked among them.  One of the doors was open, and the driver was sitting inside, legs spread, waiting for a passerby to strike up a conversation -- and be invited into the cab.  He turned out to be from Chicago, into kissing and oral. Sausage Count: Boomer 4, Lane 3

Days 5-6: Denver, Colorado

After four days in the Straight World, it was a relief to get to Denver, with its strong, well-organized gay neighborhood.  And meeting guys was easy. A South Asian guy named Ravi took us back to his apartment.

On Day 6, we toured the Museum of Decorative Arts and then met Ravi and his friend Jason for dinner.  We all went to a ballet at the Opera House, and then back to Ravi's apartment again. Sausage Count: Boomer 6, Lane 5












Day 7: Omaha, Nebraska.

I wanted to see the old places I knew from my month in Omaha with Fred.  And found that saying "I'm from West Hollywood" attracts guys as readily as saying "I have a gigantic penis."  We hooked up  with a Cornhuster, an extremely buffed former University of Nebraska football player who now worked as a college recruiter.  He was an anal bottom.  Sausage Count: Boomer 7, Lane 6

Day 8: Des Moines, Iowa.

Thomas, the gay Episcopalian priest who took me to my first Gay Rights Rally in 1981, was still living in Des Moines, a Silver Daddy who still managed to attract Cute Young Things.  We "shared" his latest boyfriend. Sausage Count: Boomer 9, Lane 8.

Days 9-11: Rock Island, Illinois

Along with visiting my parents and brother, packing up and shipping my stuff, and going to my old haunts, we had time to hang out with my old friend Dick and his partner.  I also sent Lane out to JRs by himself, so we would be even.  Sausage Count: 11

Day 12: Sioux Falls, South Dakota

We saw the famous Stave Church and went to a gay bar downtown, hoping to hook up with a Viking.  Instead we hooked up with a black guy on the downlow, whose wife was an English professor at the University. Sausage Count: 12

Day 13: Rapid City, South Dakota

We were so tired from driving and seeing Mount Rushmore and the Crazy Horse Monument that we forgot to cruise.  Bust.






Day 14: Billings, Montana

We ended up in Sturgis, South Dakota, during the famous Sturgis Bike Rally.  Hundreds of hot motorcycle guys riding around shirtless, beer in hand.  But there was no place to stay in town, so we had to drive on to Billings, Montana.  Again, too tired to cruise.  Bust.

Day 15: Missoula, Montana

We loved Missoula.  A very nice art museum, historic churches, antique shops, bookstores.  I saw one of the most beautiful men on Earth fishing off a bridge, a cut-off t-shirt revealing enormous biceps.  Lane stayed at the hotel, saying I could hook up by myself, so I went to a country-Western bar and met Jared, a real, actual cowboy (or so he said).  Sausage Count: Boomer 13, Lane 12

Day 17: Spokane, Washington

It was scary driving through Idaho, where the anti-sodomy law brought a maximum penalty of life in prison.  But then we arrived in Spokane, Washington, a little gay mecca, drawing gay guys from all over the redneck states.  They were low-key, closeted; no "real" gay bars, but lots of gay-friendly bars and restaurants, and a lot of "street cruising."  But we didn't pick up anyone.  Bust.

Day 18: Portland, Oregon

A gigantic gay mecca, with a bathhouse that took up nearly a city block and a nice country-western bar.  We did some cruising separately at the bathhouse (3 guys for me, 4 for Lane so we would be even).  Sausage Count: 16







Day 19: Redding, California

Two days left, 4 guys to go.  We pulled into Redding, a town of 90,000 near the Oregon border and Mount Shasta, where Bigfoot has been sighted.  There was only one, small gay bar, and it wasn't very active.

"We can pick up the rest in San Francisco," Lane pointed out.

"Sure, but we're supposed to be getting guys in the Straight World, cowboys and truckers and rednecks."

I went up to the bartender and asked "Do you know of any clubs where you could meet several guys tonight?"

He told me about a bear party going on that night in a place called Happy Valley, where we got our remaining four!  Sausage Count: 20.

Day 20: San Francisco, California

When you drive into town from the north, you go over the Golden Gate Bridge, an iconic San Francisco moment.  We were too overwhelmed by being home, in the heart of the gay world, to bother with cruising.  But we had already had 8 dates or "sharing" experiences, 4 bar hookups, 1 public encounter, and 7 guys from bear parties or bath houses, for a total of 20 sausages in 20 days.

Oh, and we saw the Grand Canyon, too.

50 States, 50 Naked Men, Part 1

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

Midwest

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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









Northeast

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

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

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

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

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

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




Middle Atlantic States

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

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

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

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

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

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









Southeast

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Boy from My First Three-Way

Omaha, July 1980

During the summer of 1980, just after my sophomore year in college, I was 19, stupid, and completely infatuated with my first boyfriend Fred.  So when he finished his ministerial internship and got a job as a youth minister at a Methodist church in Omaha (actually Gretna, Nebraska, about 20 miles away), I dropped out of college and moved with him.

It was awful.  We lived in a horrible apartment, I had a horrible job as a glorified paperboy. The people were rude. I had to pretend to be Fred's "cousin."

He had never had a live-in boyfriend before, so he became controlling and weird.

 After six weeks, I packed up my stuff and left.

My only positive memory from those six weeks is Michael Stevenson (not his real name), a boy from the youth group at church.  A high school jock, about my height, very short brown hair, square face, nice chest.  The other members of the congregation were standoffish and rude, but he always said "hello" to me and asked how I liked Gretna -- and one night Fred brought him over for dinner and "sharing."

I didn't know anything about sharing  -- I had only been with a few guys, and never more than one at a time.  And Fred didn't explain anything in advance.  After dinner, when I finished putting the dishes in the dishwasher, I went out into the living room to find Michael on his knees, going down on Fred!

"It's ok," Fred said, noticing my shocked expression.  "Michael is 17.  Yesterday was his birthday, in fact."

He thought I was worried about that?  No -- I thought that being gay was illegal for everyone.  I was worried about my boyfriend cheating on me right in front of my eyes, with a member of his youth group!

"I'm his birthday present," Fred continued.

Michael giggled.  "So are you."  He stood, walked over and kissed me.

Suddenly I was up for sharing.

I'll always remember that kiss -- warm, passionate but assertive, demanding.

And Michael's penis, small but thick, uncut, an iron shaft yet easy to go down on without gagging.  Not like Fred's monster cock

I went down on Michael while he was standing there in the entry-way, thrusting energetically up and down until he finished.  Then we went into the bedroom.  He had already sprang to life again, so I went down on him a second time while he was going down on Fred.  Then Fred tried to top him, but he was too big.  He made do with interfemoral.

My first sharing experience, and the best ever, with one of the nicest guys I've ever met!

We spent the night cuddling, and in the morning Michael showered and went to school.  He continued to chat with me in church, but he never came over for "sharing again."  After I left Omaha, Fred and I stayed friends, but he never mentioned Michael.

Maybe he was just a hookup, a one-night stand.  But I still remember him fondly, 36 years, 8 boyfriends, and 130 hookups later.

Plains, July 2016

I was successful in finding the Mormon missionary who I chatted with briefly in Beaver, Utah.  Why not try to find Michael?

I had even more clues than with the Mormon missionary: a first and last name, a United Methodist church, a high school and a birthday.

His last name is not as common as "Stevenson": there were only five in the Omaha area.  No Michael.   He wasn't listed in the alumni roster of his high school, which means he never checked in -- a bad experience with bullying and homophobia, no doubt.

 No doubt he moved to the nearest gay neighborhood as soon as he could.  That would be Chicago.

But maybe I could dig up a relative.

A search of Omaha newspapers revealed a Mike Stevenson who won a fishing contest in 2006, and took a school tour of Washington DC in 2010.  Maybe Michael's nephew or...gulp...son?

When he won a civic scholarship as a high school senior in 2013, Mike said that he was planning to attend Dakota Wesleyan University in Mitchell, South Dakota.

Wesleyan...fundamentalist...double gulp.

I found his campus address and sent him an email, saying that I was looking for an old friend with his name, who belonged to the Gretna United Methodist Church and graduated from Gretna High School in 1982.

He emailed back.  "Sure, that's my Uncle Michael!"

Success!  "Do you have his email address?  I'd love to get back in touch with him."

"I'm sorry to tell you this, but Uncle Michael died a few years ago.  Cancer.  I have mementos I can show you.  Can you come out to Mitchell?"

I didn't want to drive an hour and a half to meet with the nephew of a guy I had a one-night stand with 36 years ago, but I kept thinking of that night, that passionate, intense kissing, that penis standing hard and firm...so ok.

Mitchell, South Dakota is known for its Corn Palace, a castle-like building with Moorish-style domes and minarets, the walls covered with murals made of corn.  I took some photos, then met Mike at a brew pub a few blocks away.

Mike Stevenson was 21 years old, the image of his uncle: same short hair, same square face, same muscular torso.  I almost reached out and kissed him, but caught myself and shook his hand instead.

"How did you know my Uncle Michael?" he asked.

I don't usually come out to strangers, especially those attending Wesleyan colleges, so I talked about spending the summer of 1980 in Omaha.  Michael befriended me, showed me around, really made me feel welcome.

"Was he your boyfriend?"

"Um..."  Ok, I guess I could come out.  "We sort of dated.  It was complicated."

"He never talked about high school.  I don't think he liked it very much -- it was probably hard, in those days when you had to be in the closet. So I was hoping you were like the one bright spot."

No, I was a one-night stand, I think, embarrassed.  "Sounds like you were pretty close to him."

 "He was like a second father to me.  I used to spend summers out in Sayville with him and Uncle Max.  After he died, Uncle Max gave me some old photos and stuff."

Photos, playbills, his passport, a certificate for winning a fishing contest, the contours of a life.

A photo of Michael and his partner in Sayville -- they were there when I was living on Long Island, but our paths never crossed.

Michael and his former partner in New Jersey.

Fishing trips and ski trips (with Mike in tow), the Tower of London, Gettysburg, Colonial Williamsburg.

The New York Gay Pride Festival.

An autographed picture of Barry Williams, Greg on The Brady Bunch.

"Uncle Michael said he knew he was gay when he saw The Brady Bunch as a kid.  He had a crush on Greg."

"I was more into Peter, myself."

The program of his college graduation.

A photo of Michael in college, his arm around his roommate (I assume).

A photo of Michael in high school.

And....a photo of Michael and me!

I didn't even remember that Fred took a picture that night: a 17 year old and a 19 year old, hugging, smiling at the camera.

It never occurred to me that this was Michael's first "sharing" experience, too.  An experience that bolstered him through the horrors of a homophobic adolescence.

A memory of a warm summer night that never faded.

For either of us.

See also: Fred and the Teenager Downstairs.

Fred and the Teenager Downstairs

Omaha, June 1980

In the spring of 1980, during my sophomore year at Augustana College, my boyfriend Fred the Ministerial Student ended his internship and landed a job as a youth minister at a church in Omaha -- actually Gretna, a small town about 20 miles south.

Great -- my first boyfriend who knew that he was gay, and after five months, he vanishes!

But what if I moved with him?  We could rent an apartment together.  I could transfer to the University of Nebraska to finish my degree, and meanwhile get a job to help out with the expenses.

It doesn't sound like a great idea, in retrospect, but I was 19 years old, and getting my own place with "my lover" sounded very grown-up and romantic.



Fred agreed, but with some ground rules.  He was closeted -- Methodists were more liberal than Nazarenes, but they still found being gay "incompatible with Christian practice."  So:

1. I was to introduce myself as his "cousin" staying with him while going to college.
2. I couldn't go to the gay organizations in Omaha, where someone might identify me and it would get back to the church.

I told my parents that Fred found me a summer job, and on June 7th, 1980, packed two suitcases and a box of books and drove out to join him.

We lived together for about six weeks, until July 20th, 1980.

There were lots of problems:

1. My job, Assistant District Circulation Manager at the Omaha World-Herald: a glorified paperboy
.

2. College: I would have to live in Nebraska for a year to get in-state tuition.

3. Fred had never had a live-in boyfriend before, and he soon became controlling and weird.  He cooked occasionally, but he never did any cleaning or laundry.  As the "preacher's wife," that was my job.

4. The small town on the prairie, with a Watermelon Feed, a Fourth of July Parade, and a Town Dance.  Do you have any idea what a Watermelon Feed is?  It doesn't often involve high school jocks.


5. The high school boy who lived downstairs, who Fred took under his wing, always inviting him to tag along when we went to dinners or movies.  I found some shirtless photos of the kid, which made me think that they were sleeping together (years later, Fred admitted that I was right).

The only bright spot was Michael, a high school boy from Fred's youth group who came over for my first three-way.

Then my friend Tom, called.  "You know, Omaha is halfway to Los Angeles.  You might as well come the rest of the way and pay me a visit."

So that Sunday, July 20th, I waited for Fred to go to church.  I packed while he was gone, got into my car, and drove cross country 24 hours to Los Angeles.

Nearly the minute I left, Fred found a new lover, a University of Nebraska freshman.  They were together for two years, introduced to parishioners as a "college kid I'm helping out."  Then Fred moved to Kansas, and met Matt, his partner for the next eight years.  They got along better.

Fred and I stayed friends.  Eventually he moved to California.

See also A Ginger Boy for Christmas; My First Three-Way

The Psychotherapist of Omaha

Omaha, June 1980

In the summer of 1980, during my sophomore year at Augustana, my boyfriend Fred landed a pulpit in Gretna, Nebraska, a tiny town about 20 miles south of Omaha.  So, being bright-eyed and naive, I moved with him.

I hated every minute of it.
1. Fred was completely closeted, so I had to be introduced as his "cousin."
2. He expected me to do all of the housework.
3. Gretna, Nebraska had an annual "Watermelon Feed."  I never go to any event called a "feed."  Do they line you up at a trough like pigs?
4. I had a job as an Assistant District Circulation Manager for the Omaha World Herald. A glorified paperboy.
5. I had a car, but I wasn't allowed to go to into Omaha to the gay bars, or even to go to the gym without Fred's permission.
6. Fred dated women, "for appearances."
7. I'm pretty sure that Fred was also tricking with the teenage boy downstairs.

Naturally, I got depressed.  Super-depressed.  Sitting-around-all-day-in-a-bathrobe depressed.

"You need psychiatric help," Fred told me one evening when he returned to see that I had spent the entire day in front of the tv.  "Every gay person should be in counseling anyway, to work through the guilt and shame."

"I don't have any guilt and shame.  I'm homesick."

 "Yes, you do.  You're just suppressing it.  Don't worry, I'll find you a therapist."

Easier said than done.  Although the American Psychiatric Association removed "homosexuality" from its list of psychoses in 1973, some therapists hadn't gotten the word, and others were just homophobic.  But the Gay Hotline of Omaha had some referrals, and in July 1980 I began seeing Dr. Corey.  I couldn't afford individual sessions, so he suggested group therapy.

Bad idea!  There were four other members in the group, two men and two women, and they spent the entire three sessions that I attended peppering me with inane questions:

"Were you gay before you met Fred?"
"How do you know you're gay, if you've never tried it with a woman?"
"Did some traumatic event turn you gay?"
"When you see a cute girl, do you think she's ugly?"
"Where do you find women's clothes in your size?"
"When are you going to have a sex change operation?"

And those were the polite questions.

Dr. Corey had a rule: you can't hit anyone in session.  If you feel like you're going to lose your temper, get up and leave the room.

A tall, muscular guy named Stan, about my age, got up and left the room a lot.  After almost every question.  We could hear him stomping around in the waiting room, saying "Goddam!  Goddam!  Goddam!"

When they asked "Do you have to be drunk or high to be able to have sex with a man?", I answered "No, I like it, so I want to be sober."

That got Stan so upset that he had to stomp around outside the building, in the parking lot.  When he returned, he had obviously been crying.

"I don't have anything against anybody," he stammered, "But when you...act, act like that, like a...woman, with your legs in the air...and then you say you like it!  You're sick!  You have a disease!"

"What makes you think I'm the one with his legs in the air?"

He stomped out of the room again.

During my third session, someone asked: "Are you the boy or the girl in your relationship with Fred?

Of course, the proper response is "We're both boys," but I was too stupid for that.  I thought of how Fred was the money-maker, how he expected me to stay home, put all of my career aspirations on hold, and spend my days doing housework and watching soap operas.  Gender-polarized female.  So I said "The girl, I guess."

Three of the four group members ran out of the room to avoid hitting me.

Which didn't make me feel better.

I never went back to group.  I thought of a better solution.

On Sunday, July 20th, I waited for Fred to go to church.  I packed while he was gone, got into my car, and drove cross country 24 hours to Los Angeles.  You can read about my trip here.