What's Funny About Kissing a Cute Boy?

Racine, Wisconsin, Spring 1967

When I was little, I was always being forced to hug and kiss ladies against my will, just because my parents knew them.  For an adult, that would be sexual harassment, but for a kid, it was "cute."

"Come kiss your Auntie June!  Come on, don't be shy -- give her a kiss!"

Ok, I've never seen her before in my life, she stinks of perfume and powder, she's wearing gross lipstick, and she's a girl!  Disgusting!

At least it was only on the cheek.  In the Midwest, we reserve kissing on the mouth for romantic partners.

But still, "Come kiss your Auntie Sadie!"  "Come kiss your Auntie Opal!"  "Come kiss your Grandma Davis!"  "Come kiss your Cousin Beth!"

It was like a kissing booth at a carnival.

I quickly noticed that they demanded that I kiss only women.  Men only got a handshake.

Why didn't I ever get to kiss my parents' male friends?

In Racine, Wisconsin, where I spent kindergarten, first, and second grade, we lived only a block from Lake Michigan, so Mom took me and my baby brother to the beach nearly every day (even though Nazarenes weren't allowed).

One day she started talking to a boy-girl couple, In my memory they're very young, but they were probably in their late 20s, the same age as Mom and Dad at the time.

Rory had shoulder-length curly hair, rather pale skin, and a firm, compact physique with prominent abs.  He was wearing sunglasses, which I thought were the coolest thing ever.

Ruth was wearing a bikini.

While Mom and Ruth chatted, Rory took me by the hand and led me into the surf.  We went so far in that water was lapping against the bottom of my swimsuit.

He let me put on his sunglasses.  The world turned a pale green.

I felt proud to be walking along the beach with a cute boy, like a grownup on a date.

When we returned, Ruth said "Look at the two big, strong men!"

Yeah!  Two big strong men on the beach together!


A few days later, just at dinnertime, there was a knock on the door.  It was Rory and Ruth!

Rory wasn't wearing sunglasses or a swimsuit anymore.  He was wearing a tan short-sleeved shirt with a picture of a man playing golf on it.  His biceps swelled nicely.

Ruth was wearing a tan dress, and had on red lipstick and nail polish.  She was carrying a pie.

Mom took the pie from her, and Dad ushered them into the living room.  They sat on the couch.

I stared.  Rory had his arm around the back of Ruth's shoulders!  They never touched each other at the beach.

Were they like boyfriend and girlfriend?

"Boomer, where's your manners?" Dad said.  "Say hi to your Uncle Rory and Aunt Ruth."

"Hi," I said politely.

"Hi, Squirt!" Rory said, holding out his hand to be shaken.

"Now you know what to do," Dad continued.  "Shake hands with Uncle Rory, and give your Aunt Ruth a kiss."

Ruth pressed a finger to her cheek to point out the spot where the kiss should be deposited.

Suddenly I had an idea.  I climbed onto Rory's lap, grabbed Ruth's small, many-ringed hand, and kissed Rory on the cheek!

Their eyes bulged in surprise.  Rory laughed.

"Boomer!"  Dad exclaimed, angry.  "Do it right!"

Mom had returned from the kitchen with some glasses of soda on a tray.  "Sorry about Boomer.  He likes to be funny."

"Kid's going to be a regular Jerry Lewis when he grows up," Dad told them.

I refused to budge from Rory's lap. He took his arm from Ruth and wrapped it around me.  "Looks like somebody needs a hug."

"You'll be a great father someday," Ruth said softly.

Yeah, right, father.  or boyfriend.

I remember Rory and Ruth coming to the house a few times after that, to watch tv or play Yahtzee with my parents.  I always shook hands with Ruth and kissed Rory.  They always laughed.

What was so funny about kissing a cute boy?

A Glimpse of Cousin Joe's Shame

Rome City, Indiana

When I was 7 1/2 years old, we moved from Racine, Wisconsin to Rock Island, Illinois.  My parents didn't want my brother and me  in the way during the move (yes, "me" is correct), so on July 18th, we left a fully-furnished house in Racine, and on July 28th, we returned to a fully-furnished house in Rock Island.

We spent the ten days in Rome City, Indiana, with my Aunt Nora.  She was a big, jolly woman who baked pies for a living -- we got pie every night for dessert! -- and who let us watch all the tv we wanted.  She and Uncle Henry (who died a long time ago) liked tv so much that they named her kids after popular tv stars:

1. Ed (left), 18 years old, after the star of The Ed Sullivan Show.
2. Eva Marie, 16 years old, after Eva Marie Saint, star of the The Phillco Television Showcase
3. Joe (top photo left), 14 years old, after the star of The Joey Bishop Show

Their house was only two blocks from the Limberlost Library, where kids could use the main room, not just the children’s room, and Cousin Joe let us check out books on his card. It was three blocks from Sylvan Lake, where we went swimming and fishing and rode pontoon boats.

Aunt Nora's house had a living room, dining room, kitchen, and three bedrooms downstairs (for Aunt Nora, Joe, and Eva Marie).  Upstairs there was one bedroom for Grandma Davis whenever she came for a visit (Kenny and I slept there), and an attic "pad" for Ed.

One night I woke up late and had to go to the bathroom, so I climbed out of bed and pieced my way gingerly downstairs and through the unfamiliar hallway. The bathroom door was ajar.  I shoved it open.

Cousin Joe was standing in front of the sink.

I saw him only dimly, in the silvery-black moonlight and the glow of a nightlight attached to a wall outlet, and only for an instant, but 40 years later, the image is still vivid:  a nude, muscular backside. A smooth chest visible in the mirror, and a belly -- thin, no abs.  A dark patch of pubic hair.  And what the grownups called his shame

I had only seen two shames before, my brother's and my Uncle Paul's.  I would see another two years later, at the Rock Island Pow Wow, but by that time I would know the correct term. This one was huge, a monster, a garden hose.  I wondered how he could fit it into a pair of pants.

Was he peeing in the sink?  No -- that was a trickle of water from the faucet.  He was washing it!

Why didn't he do that at bathtime?

Noticing me, Joe swung around, hands dripping, shame swaying from side to side. "What the hell are you doing!" he yelled.  "Get out of here!"

But I was transfixed.  I couldn't look away.

Suddenly the light came on in Aunt Nora's room, and I heard Cousin Ed's voice from upstairs -- Kenny woke up and started crying when I wasn't there.  Grunting, Joe brushed past me, and ran to his own room to put on a bathrobe.

Before long, everybody was gathered in the kitchen, talking furiously while Aunt Nora made hot chocolate.  Eventually it was decided that, though I had embarrassed Joe by seeing his shame, it was his own fault.  You should shut the bathroom door, even late at night when you think everyone is asleep.

I don't understand why they called it a shame.  It was certainly nothing to be ashamed of -- I'll bet it would win first prize at the Gay Horsemen's Club in Amsterdam, where I would find an A+++-sized boyfriend years later  -- and it provided me with a fond childhood memory.

Besides, I got hot chocolate.

Why Dad Was Proud of Me for Watching TV

When I was in kindergarten, first, and second grade, we lived in Racine, Wisconsin.  I have only a few memories from that period: going to the beach a few blocks from our house, going to the zoo, marrying the boy next door, my second grade teacher making me stand in the corner for refusing to square dance (she wouldn't believe that it was forbidden for Nazarenes, and at the age of 7 I was in no position to ask the preacher to telephone her).

And a very weird memory of my Dad being proud of me for watching a children's tv program.

Dad was in his late 20s, just out of the Navy, rather athletic, an avid swimmer (no, this isn't a picture of him), a stalwart Democrat and an avid Nazarene.  He worked on the assembly line at the J. I. Case Company, a job he would keep for the next 30 years.

The memory is vague:  Dad is sitting on the couch, half reading the newspaper, half snoozing, so he must have just gotten home from work, around 4:00 pm.  My brother and I are watching tv.  

Mom comes in from the kitchen and asks "What do you want to watch now?  Romper Room?"

"No," I say.  "The Land of Ziggy Zaggy."

Dad looks up.  "Ziggy Zaggy?  What kind of kookie show is that?"

Mom changes the channel, and we see a woman walking onto the stage, singing about the mystical land.

Dad laughs.  "Ok, I get it now!  You're starting early, just like your old dad!  A chip off the old block!  Come up here and sit by me."

I sit on the couch, and he puts his arm around me.  I'm thrilled.  Dad is usually kind of critical,but today I'm a chip off the old block!  I did something right, something that made him proud of me. But what?

50 years later, I don't remember anything about the show except for a woman singing "The land of Ziggy Zaggy," but after a few internet searches on various variations (zaggo, zongi, zuggi), I found it:

It was a local Chicago children's program, The Land of Ziggy Zoggo. Also called The Nancy Berg Show,   after the host.   Short lived, 1963-65.  We only moved to Racine in the summer of 1965, so I must have watched a few episodes at the end of the run.

There's a full episode on youtube.  Very amateurish, painted backdrop for a set, only one performer.  Three sketches, about 5 minutes each.

1. Miss Nancy visits a Middle Eastern land, where she meets a Go-Go Genie (herself) selling magic carpets in a parody of talky used-car salespeople.  She buys the carpet, kicking herself for being conned, but it works.  She then flies through the clouds while singing. 

2. The kimono-clad Miss Sukayaki (Nancy again), with a stereotyped "Ah so" accent, goofs up the  "ancient Japanese custom of flower arrangement." 

3. Miss Nancy flies a balloon to the African jungle to show film footage of various animals: a rhinocerous, a lion, a leopard.

No beefcake, no buddy-bonding, actually no male characters, but the exotic locations must have been appealing to me as a kindergartner.  And maybe the hint of social satire: you may get conned by a fast-talking salesperson.

But why was Dad so pleased?  Why was I "starting early" and a "chip off the block" for wanting to watch The Land of Ziggy Zoggo?

Easy.  He thought that I, at the age of 4 1/2, was lusting after Miss Nancy's bosom.  

Swimming with a Boy Named Twilight

Titusville, Florida, Summer 1967

I had a recurring dream, or an especially vivid memory, of being attracted to a boy in my earliest childhood,

A very short house with a tall palm tree out front.  A woman, blond in a flowered dress.  A fat, blustery man.  A girl eating strawberries with whipped cream. A baby. And the boy.

Older than me, but still a kid, and taller, with blond or dirty-blond hair. I remembered his name as Twilight.

This guy is over 18.  I didn't remember how old Twilight was.

There were three main images:

1. We are watching tv in a room with oak panels. I think that a guy on screen is cute, and turn to Twilight for  validation.  He smiles.

2. In a car, driving somewhere: Twilight is sitting next to me in the back seat.  He says "Look at that" and reaches over my lap to point it out.  His warm, tanned arm rests briefly on my thigh.

3. Twilight is trying to coax me into a warm, salty ocean.  He splashes through the surf, yells, "Come on!"  His dark-tanned skin glistens in the sun.  There's a line of white on his back, where his swim trunks have ridden down.

Over the years Twilight grew in symbolic importance, until he became a Harlequin figure, a Jack of Shadows. The smile reveals the existence of same-sex love.  The touch demonstrates that it can be be physical as well as spiritual. And the cry of "Come on!" invites me to embrace its warmth: "don't dream it, be it."

Or was he a real boy that I actually met?

In the fall of 2004, when I was living in Florida, I decided to try my sleuthing skills out on the mysterious Twilight.

More after the break

A Bulge Sighting on my Fifth Birthday

Racine, Wisconsin, November 1965

Now I know that gender identity is fluid, with many tangible and intangible components, but when I was a kid, it was all about boys and girls, so distinct that they might as well be separate species.

What made a boy a boy:
1. Short hair.
2. A shirt and pants.
3. A lack of makeup, nail polish, and perfume.
4. Muscles.
5. A penis.

Mostly a penis.

I wasn't yet aware that it grows bigger and stronger, or that you can use your hand or mouth to bring the guy to organsm.

But I knew that it was the most private, intimate, and dangerous part of the body.

My father told me that I must never display it, even by accident.  Hide it at a urinal.  Make sure no one sees you when you are changing clothes in the locker room.  Never go skinny dipping.

Sometimes "dirty boys" might ask to see it, or touch it, but I must always recoil in disgust.

In fact, I must never touch my own penis, except when urinating or washing.  Never at night, in bed.

Other people usually pretended that no one even had a penis.  They never looked beneath the belt.  When it obviously shifted, or got bigger, they pretended not to notice.

I definitely noticed.  Even in grade school, I knew how to sneak peeks beneath the belt, gauging bulges, mentaly calculating sizes and shapes, detecting slight movements, shifts, and semi-arousals.

The first bulge I remember was on my fifth birthday, in November 1965.

Mom and I were both sick.  I was sad and worried as she lay in bed.

I got a Tell-the-Time Clock with a smiley face and gloves on its hands, but I was too sick to play with it.  There wasn't any cake.

I sat on the couch with Dad, sipping 7-Up and watching tv.  First The Flintstones, and then Tammy, with a sugary mawdlin song that I hate today, maybe because I associate it with being sick, or maybe because Dad sang it at odd moments for the next thirty years.

I hear the cottonwoods whisperin' above.
Tammy--Tammy-Tammy's in love.

It was a hayseed sitcom (1965-66) about a bayou gal who becomes the secretary for a powerful industrialist and sets her sights on his fey son.

In the episode that aired on my fifth birthday, Tammy is courting a boy named Peter Tate (David Macklin), who doesn't really like girls.  He's just playing along.

Do you see something extra beneath the belt?  He forgot to wear underwear that day.















How about now, with a semi filling out his chaps?

Remember, guys -- including cameramen -- always pretend not to notice, so lots of bulges and semis get captured on film.

David Macklin popped up  -- and out -- again and again during my childhood.  A teen surfer on Gidget (1966).  A fratboy on The Munsters (1966).  A hippie on Ironside (1968). An abused rich kid on Cannon (1973).

In the fifty years since that November night, I've seen my share of real-life penises.  And fondled them.  And more.  But bulge-watching is still a fun, exciting, and fulfilling pursuit.

And it all began on my fifth birthday.

A much better gift than a Tell-the-Time Clock.

S

My Hookup with Superman

Milwaukee, January 2014

I love bath houses.  The maze of warm, dimly-lit corridors.  The nude swimming.  The nude exercising.  The camaraderie.  The warmth.  The sexual promise.  I used to be a regular at the River Club in Upstate new York, and whenever I'm in town, I visit the Works in Indianapolis and the Flex Club in Clevelad.

But at Christmas 2013, I flew to Indianapolis, so no Flex Club, and there wasn't time to go to the Works.  I was feeling deprived.  There were still two weeks left before classes started.  Why not take a short "sex vacation"?

The nearest bathhouse was in Milwaukee, and I hadn't been there since I was five years old, so...

Milwaukee has lots of attractions, but I would spend most of my time in the Midtowne Spa.  And inside the spa, since the only guys I meet normally are slim, androgynous twinks, my goal was to hook up with five guys like this: macho, hairy, scruffy, muscular. And Older!

Thursday, Jan 9th

I arrived in Milwaukee at 10:30 am, rented a car, and drove to the Kimpton Hotel, in the Third Ward south of downtown.  In spite of the silly name, it's an upscale boutique hotel with an art deco feel and lots of quirky touches, like....

Ok, you're more interested in hearing about the sex.

The Midtowne Spa was a two-story cream-colored building, dwarfed by the Cold Storage building next door.  No sign outside, just a street number.

Downstairs was all exposed brick with a blue motif: locker rooms, small gym, a sauna, a steam room, a room with bunk beds, and an outdoor patio (closed for the winter).  Upstairs were  some corridors with private rooms, a game room, and a tv room.  No glory holes or orgy room.

Not very crowded: on weekdays, bathhouses tend to be crowded at lunchtime and after work, and I hit it just after the lunch rush, on a day when it was -5 degrees outside.  But I did manage to get an invitation back to the room of:

Older Guy #1: mid-40s, black, balding, hard biceps, with a thick Bratwurst+.  Kissing, cuddling, oral, conversation.

Also, I met Older Guy #2: mid-50s, white, very tall, white hair, Mortadella.  I went down on him in the steam room.

I left at 3:00, retrieved my car, and visited the Grohmann Museum, the Beefcake Museum of Milwaukee, then had dinner and worked out in the hotel gym.  In the evening I went to This Is It, one of the nicer gay bars in the U.S., but didn't pick up anyone.

Friday, January 10th

A little warmer, in the 20s.  I visited the Art Museum and the Pabst Mansion, returning to the bath house at noon for the lunchtime crowd.  Still not very busy!  I hung around in the video room and the steam room, and hooked up with:

Older Guy #3: white, not very old -- maybe in his 30s -- but very tall, with a massive hairy chest and a thick, average-sized penis.  He stood while I went down on him in the steam room.

Plus I double-teamed two young Hispanic guys with smooth chests and Bratwursts.

At 2:00 pm I left.  I had a 12-hour pass with in-out privileges, so I went to Marquette University and wandered around the campus, had dinner, and worked out in the hotel gym.

I returned at 9:00 pm for Fetish Night, wearing black shorts and a leather vest.

I expected a lot of muscle bears in chaps, but in fact there wasn't a lot of leather.  It was crowded with twinks in latex, a few police officers, "puppies," furries, weird Mardi Gras masks, and superheroes.


Including Superman: a guy in his mid-20s, shorter than me, with a long face and black wavy hair, wearing the complete costume, blue tights, buffed, basket, red "S" insignia, cape.  

He was very busy, kissing and fondling one twink while another was on his knees, going down on his gigantic, very hard Kielbasa.  But I've found that there's always room for one more.  I approached, knelt, and helped the twink go down on Superman  -- there was more than enough room for both of us on that huge shaft and baseball-sized head.

Then I stood, felt his chest and biceps -- they were real - and pushed his free hand down onto my crotch.  He pulled my head into a three-way kiss, and the twink on his knees started going down on us both.

I kept kissing and fondling him until only the two of us were left.

"Well, Perry, I think it's about time to go back to my room," he said in a deep theatrical voice.

Perry White, the blustering, white-haired editor of the Daily Planet?  Ok....

I followed Superman to his room, tore him out of his cosplay costume, and finished going down on him, then pulled him into the interfemoral position.  Good kisser.

His name was actually Pasco (short for Pasquale).  He was 25 years old, originally from Italy, but he had been in the U.S. since he was five years old.


"I like lots of superhero cosplay -- at a science fiction convention last month, I was Zorn from the Fox tv show, -- but for a fetish party I thought I'd go with the basics.  So -- about ready to go back to my apartment?  I'd really like to hold Perry White in my arms tonight."

"Um...I just got here," I admitted.  "I was hoping to mingle a bit." And meet Older Guys!

"Sure, no problem. Maybe we could get together for brunch tomorrow?"

He dressed in his street clothes and left.  I wandered back into Fetish Night, didn't see any older guys, but kissed and fondled a muscular twink dressed as Cupid, and went down on:

Older Guy #4: mid-40s, balding, hairy chest, muscular, small penis, in a puppy costume.  Unfortunately, he made "yipping" sounds when he spurted, and then tried to lick my face.  Gross!

Saturday, January 11

Pasco and I met for brunch, and then he invited himself along on my trip to Racine, about half an hour away.  We looked for my old house, and Hansche Elementary School, and the beach on Lake Michigan where I "married" the boy next door in second grade.  It's not usually a good idea to reminisce about your childhood on a first date, but Pasko didn't seem to mind.

After lunch at a brew pub, we drove back to Milwaukee, where he showed me his childhood house and Saint Thomas More High School,  where he was on the wrestling team.

It was 4:00 pm when he dropped me off at my hotel.  "So, what are you up for tonight?" he asked.

I didn't want to admit that I was going back to the bath house to try to score some Older Guys!  "I have no plans.  What did you have in mind?"

He grinned.  "I want to be double-teamed by Perry White and Jimmy Olsen.  How about if my friend and I drop by about 9:00?"

Jimmy Olsen was the teenage office boy at the Daily Planet.  I could meet a dozen teenagers a night back home.  I was on a quest....

But I could hardly refuse.

I had dinner and worked out in the hotel gym, and at 9:00 sharp, Pasco knocked on my door.

I thought he was kidding, but no, he was wearing a Superman costume under his coat.  And with him, dressed as Jimmy Olsen in a green vest and bow tie, was Older Guy #5

The Bodybuilder on the Beach

Racine, Summer 1965

Heterosexuals are allowed to just "be," their glancing at girls or boys presumed instinctive, universal, unquestionable, as inevitable as sunrise, unworthy of comment but worthy of constant praise.  But gay people are constantly asked for a history, or an etiology, for how they Figured It Out, for When They Knew.

Maybe when I was 4 years old, and fumed with righteous indignation when Dad accused me of "liking" the hostess of The Land of Ziggy Zaggy.

Maybe when I was 3 years old, and sneaked out into the living room long past my bedtime to see two men hugging on tv .

Or when my parents gave me a Little Golden Book with a picture of a muscular, loincloth-clad Tarzan on the cover. Probably by age 2.

Or maybe when I met the Bodybuilder on the Beach.

We moved to Racine, Wisconsin just before kindergarten, and stayed through second grade (1965-68).  Our house was only a block from Lake Michigan, so we went to the beach almost every day. 

The Event happened before my sister was born, so probably in the summer of 1965, when I was four years old.  I was playing with a toy dump truck while my father swam and my mother sunbathed.  Suddenly a bodybuilder walked past our blanket (I didn't know that word yet, so I called him a Muscle Man).

He stood head and shoulders above any of the other beachgoers. He was as tall and tanned as Hercules, with broad shoulders, a thick, hairy chest, and xylophone-hard abs.

Overcome with joy, I rushed up to him.  "Can I touch you, Mister?" I asked, not at all shy.

Grinning, the Muscle Man stopped and flexed.  I patted his marble-hard stomach and hairy chest, but I couldn't reach his arms, so he got on his knees.  His bicep was enormous, so big that I couldn't cup it in two hands.  It was the most amazing thing I had ever felt.


Mom was standing beside me.  "Yes, isn't he big and strong?" she said.  "I bet all the girls like him."

Girls?  But...I was a boy, and I liked him.

"When you grow up, you'll have big muscles like that, and all the girls will like you, too!"

Girls?  But...I wanted boys to like me.

She thanked the Muscle Man for putting up with me, and he continued on his way down the beach. He hadn't said a word.

The Event taught me two things:
1. Men were incredible.
2. I wasn't supposed to think so.

I never saw the Muscle Man again.

Nearly 50 years have passed, but not much has changed.  Men are still incredible, and I still hear, every day, that I'm not supposed to think so.

Why Brother Hanson Got Divorced

Racine, Wisconsin, June 1968

I am in the second grade.  My parents are making a big fuss over the girl with the marvelous dollhouse:  "You have a girlfriend!"

When I protest that I like boys, they don't believe me: "Oh, one day you'll meet the right girl, and fall in love, and get married and have kids of your own!  You'll see!"

"The right girl" is my destiny?  But I want to marry a boy!

Like Brother Hanson, the Minister of Music at church.

I look forward eagerly to Sunday morning and evening and and Wednesday evening, when he climbs up onto the platform and begins the services with the magic words Isn't this a beautiful day in the Lord? Who would like to testify?

Then he leads us in three songs, leads the choir in their special number (only on Sunday morning), has the ushers pass around the offering plate, and tells us to Rise for prayer.  Only after all of that is the Preacher allowed to get up to scream about how much God hates us.

Brother Hanson is obviously more important than the Preacher, plus a lot nicer, and much cuter -- big and husky with wavy hair and blue eyes (this is not him). I think he's a teenager, but he's probably about 30.

I never see him with a woman.  Maybe he's found a way to get out of the "right girl" destiny, so we can get married!

"Does Brother Hanson have the 'right girl'?"  I ask.

My parents tell me that he has a wife, there in the front row -- they just don't spend much time together.  They come in different cars because he has to get to church so early, and of course she has to sit alone during the services

I expect Brother Hanson to continue leading the testimonies and songs forever.  But one Sunday in the spring of second grade, without warning, an old, ugly guy climbs up onto the stage  and says Isn't this a beautiful day that the Lord has given us?  Who wants to give a testimony?

Shocked, I look around for Brother Hanson: he is sitting by himself in a back pew.  His wife is not in the sanctuary at all.

How am I supposed to listen to the Preacher screaming for 45 minutes without seeing a cute guy first?  Besides, the old, ugly guy said it wrong -- the phrase is isn't this a beautiful day in the Lord!

Maybe Brother Hanson is sick, and will stand up again next week.

No.  Week after week, he stays in his back pew, while the old, ugly guy -- Brother Williams -- leads the testimonies and songs before the Preacher screams.

I begin to hate going to church.

Every summer the Nazarene Church has Vacation Bible School: a week of sermons, songs, Bible studies, and arts and crafts for kids from kindergarten to fifth grade.  Last year I made a "David and Goliath" out of construction paper, won a prize for memorizing Bible verses, and got cookies and Kool-Aid.

This year Brother Hanson is teaching the music class!  Rousing campfire songs with clapping, stomping, and hand gestures:

Rise and shine and give God your glory, glory! (clap, stomp), Children of the Lord.

Instead of a suit, he wears a short-sleeved shirt.  He's got muscles!

He also teaches the sports class: kickball on the grassy field outside the church.  I keep praying that he will take his shirt off, but he never does.

When my mother arrives to pick me up, I can hardly contain my excitement: "Brother Hanson was our teacher!" I exclaim.  "We learned a new song, and played kickball!  It was great!"

"I'm surprised they let him teach Vacation Bible School," Mom says.  "They won't let him be the Minister of Music anymore after his divorce."

Divorce?  I have never heard the word before.

"It's when a marriage ends, and the husband and wife don't live together anymore."

Wait -- marriages can be temporary?



 That's my loophole!

After I grow up, I'll "find the right girl," get married, and have kids, like my parents keep talking about. Then I can get a divorce.  and spend the rest of my life with men!

A few weeks later, we move away from Racine, so I never have the opportunity to see if Brother Hanson divorced so he could spend his life with men.  But ever after I think of divorce as a wonderful word.

See also: The Marvelous Dollhouse

The First Boy I Tied Up

Racine, Wisconsin, April 1968

I was eight years old, in second grade at Hansche Elementary School in Racine, Wisconsin, and I wanted to tie up a boy.

Guys were being tied up all the time in the mass culture of the 1960s: on Batman, The Green Hornet, The Wild Wild West, in Tarzan and Bomba the Jungle Boy movies, in comic books.  It was a standard means of putting the hero in peril.

But I didn't want to put anyone in peril.  I wanted to tie a boy up so he could strain against the ropes, so his muscles would stand out, and I could see and feel him as much as I wanted.

Maybe we would even kiss.







I didn't know the name of the boy I wanted to tie up: I only saw him in the schoolyard at recess.  We were probably the same age, but he was bigger than me, with hard shoulders and biceps.  He had a strikingly handsome face, heavy eyebrows, high cheekbones, and black hair, long and unruly in the 1960s style.

He didn't play with the other kids.  He sat by himself.

He never smiled.

I wasn't sure, but I might have seen him at the beach, too.  Lake Michigan was only a couple of blocks from our house, so we were there almost every warm day, and once last summer I saw a very cute buffed boy splashing around in the cold water with his parents.

He wasn't smiling then, either.

That's why he was so attractive: he was dark, brooding, a lost soul.

I knew exactly how I wanted to tie him up: on a chair, with his shirt off, his hands tied behind his back, and his legs tied to the chair posts.  That way, I would be able to kiss and touch his chest and biceps, his belly, maybe even his private area, and feel his "shame."

Mom said we should never touch our own "shame," except to wash and go to the bathroom, so it would be especially intimate to touch another boy's.

As I devised the plan, problems arose.

1. It couldn't happen in the house: Mom and Dad would be there.  This was too intimate for them to know about. Finally I decided on a park a couple of blocks from Hansche School, where there were some benches amid the trees.  I could tie the boy to one of the benches.

2. I didn't have any rope, at least not the nice, thick kind they used in the movies.  I hoped kite string would work.

3. I didn't know how to tie knots, except on my shoe.  So I would have to use those bow knots.

4. How could I get the boy to agree to be tied up?


When you're seven years old, you can make friends easily: you just
walk up to the guy and start talking.

 It took me a couple of weeks to screw up my courage, but one day in the spring, I walked up to him at recess and asked "Do you want to play after school?"

"Sure," he said.  "I have to ask Mom if it's ok though."

That part was easy.  After school we walked to his house to get his Mom's permission, then to my house.  He probably thought we would play in my back yard, but after I got my Mom's permission, I led him toward the park instead.

"There's nothing to do there," he complained.  "Let's go to the beach and throw stuff into the water."

"I want to play Batman" I told him.  "The Joker has Batman tied up, and he has to escape before an atom bomb explodes on Gotham City."

He shrugged.  "Ok.  Do you want to be the Joker or Batman?"

"You can be Batman," I said politely, as if I was giving him an honor.

It was a gray, cloudy Friday in April, and the park was mostly deserted, just a couple of old people, who wouldn't bother us.

I steered the boy toward an empty bench.  "This is my secret lair," I said.  "I have you in my clutches, Dynamic Dodo!"

He looked dubious.  "Shouldn't we have Robin, too?"

"The Boy Blunder can't save you this time, Batman!"  I sat the boy on the bench and whispered "You got to take your shirt off."

"What?  No way -- it's too cold."

No shirt off? How disappointing!  "Ok, then, I'm here to tie you up!  You can't escape me!"  I pulled the boy's arms behind the bench, and used the string to tie his wrists together.

"What are you doing?  That's too tight!"

"It will get even tighter than that for you!"

I had just enough string left to tie his arms together.  Then I sat on the bench next to him and ran my hand over his chest.  "Your muscles won't save you this time, Batman!"

The boy started jerking.  He wasn't supposed to do that!

"No!" he yelled.  "Let me out!  Let me up!"

Startled, I jumped over the bench and tried to untie the string.  He was jerking so much, I couldn't do it.

"Hold still!  I can't get a grip!"

"No!  Ow!" He was starting to cry.   An old guy started walking toward us.  I was going to be in big trouble!

Finally I got the knots undone.  The string fell to the ground.  The boy jumped to his feet and ran away.  I ran as fast as I could in the other direction, then circled around, went back to my house, and hid in my room.

Soon the boy's parents would call, demanding to know why I hurt their son.  Or maybe the police would arrest me and send me to jail!

But nothing happened.  No parents, no police.

The next day was  Saturday.  I stayed close to home, worried that I might see the boy out on the street, and he would try to beat me up, or send his big brother over to do it.

About 2:00 in the afternoon, the knock on the door I had been fearing finally came.  I stayed in my room, hiding.  I heard Dad answer the door, some muffled voices, and footsteps toward my room!

Maybe I could hide under the bed, pretend I wasn't there?  No -- Dad knew I was in my room.

He swung the door open without knocking.  "Your friend is here," he announced, leaving me alone with -- the boy.

All by himself.  No Dad, no big brother, no police.

I looked down at my feet, embarrassed to face him.

"I'm..."

"Do you want to play Batman again?"  he said.  "If we do it in the house, I'll take my shirt off."

He was smiling.

See also: My First Indian Sausage Sighting and BDSM Scene.

Corrupting a Mean Boy

Racine, Spring 1968

Growing up strictly fundamentalist prepared me for a lifetime of civil disobedience.  We had to be on guard constantly.  Teachers, other kids, police officers, store clerks, anybody who belonged to the World would try anything, from seduction to threats, to get us to deny God.

In second grade at Hasche Elementary School in Racine, Wisconsin, my teacher, Miss Donovan, was adept at promoting evil.  She was tall and thin, with black hair and bright red lips and a perpetual scowl.   Evil.

1. She told us that proper nouns, specific People, Places, and Things, had to be capitalized.  So on the spelling test, I capitalized "Heaven," and got it marked wrong.

"Heaven is a specific place!"  I yelled.  "You can't make me say it's not!"'

Hansche School was torn down a few years ago

2. We had to do dreaded square dancing.  Nazarenes were not permitted to dance, ever.  I told my parents, who had the preacher call and set her straight, but not before I had to sit in the corner for a full class session.

3. She made us learn the expression "Nobody's perfect."  But Nazarenes were perfect!  The foundation of our theology was Christian perfection, the inability to ever commit any sins.  "You can't make me say it,"  I protested.  "It's a lie!"

Another day sitting in the corner!


I couldn't take much more of Miss Donovan's mind-control torture.

I decided on a pre-emptive strike.

There was a Mean Boy in my class named "Mean Dave" to distinguish him from Nice Dave.  He had muscles and sandy hair and a brash smile.  I didn't associate with Mean Boys much, but Mean Dave was always getting in trouble with Miss Donovan, too, and in wartime, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.  And did I mention the muscles?

We borrowed some gag gifts from Mean Dave's older brother, and while Miss. Donovan was out patrolling the kids at recess, we sneaked into the classroom and put fake vomit under her desk, a whoopie cushion on her chair, and pop-up snakes in her chalk drawer. To be on the safe side, we also wrote "Donovan eats worms!" on the blackboard.

At the end of recess, she marched into the classroom, shrieked "Who wrote this!", and forced us all to put our heads on our desks until someone confessed.  But we could hear her opening the chalk drawer -- shrieking as the snakes popped out -- then a farting sound as she sat in her chair -- then a shriek as she thought she stepped in vomit.


Mean Dave and I were discovered almost immediately. We had to stay after school, AND apologize to Miss Donovan. AND Mean Dave was not allowed to play with me anymore.  His parents said I was a bad influence.

Imagine -- a "perfect" Nazarene was a bad influence on a Mean Boy!

The Marvelous Dollhouse

Racine, Fall 1967

Fall 1967, second grade at Hansche School in Racine, Wisconsin.  A girl -- I think she was Pam, who officiated at my wedding to Doug last year -- asked me to come over to her house after school to play.

Boys and girls didn't usually play together.  The teachers at school didn't even like us talking to each other.  We were herded through separate doors in the morning and to separate tables in the cafeteria, and at recess the boys had to play dodge ball far off in the grass, while the girls jumped rope and played singsong games in the shadow of the school. I liked to jump rope, but the teachers often shooed me away. Once when I was just sitting on the steps nearby to avoid the glare of the recess sun, a teacher screamed wildly at me to move away, as if deadly danger lurked there, against the cool bricks.

But Pam had a legendary dollhouse, so I agreed.

It was enormous, the biggest I had ever seen.  It opened up to reveal three floors, all with precisely detailed furniture. You could see plates on the dining room table, and tiny folios of sheet music on the piano

.  We spent hours exploring, hosting a music recital in the ballroom, cooking a rich kid's supper and serving it to 100 guests in the gold-draped dining room.  Then, because it was almost supper time for real, Dad arrived to pick me up.

During the five-block drive home, Dad kept turning and grinning at me. “Pam, Pam, Pam,” he repeated, as if trying to memorize the name for future reference. “Is she cute?”

I didn't understand the question.  Girls could be mean or nice, smart or dumb, brave or scaredy-cat, but how could they be cute? Only boys were cute. Maybe he was talking about her outfit? “It was ok, I guess.”

He laughed. “You guess. . .I’ll bet you guess!” He reached over to squash me on the shoulder as if I had won some prize. “Did you ask Pam to come and play with you tomorrow?”

“No.”

 “Well, why not? You have to be quick. If you’re not careful, some other boy will horn in, and then where will you be?”

At home, Mom asked the same questions --  is Pam cute? Did you ask her to come and play with you? Well, why not? And my brother Kenny, a roly-poly kindergartner, burst into singsong: "Pam and Boomer-y sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g!”

“Knock it off!” I exclaimed. “We weren’t kissing!”

Giggling uproariously, Kenny lay on the floor and kicked his feet in the air and continued: “First comes love, then comes mar-riage. . . .”

“Knock it off, or I’ll pound you!” I yelled. “I’m not marrying Pam!”

Kenny leapt to his feet and ran from the room. He called back: “When are you gonna kiss your girl-friend?”

“I don’t like Pam!” I yelled. “I don’t like girls!”

Mom laughed. “Then why did you go to a girl’s house, Mr. Smarty-Pants?”

But now, finally, I understood. When a boy went to a girl’s house, it always meant that they liked each other. And not just a shy, casual liking – everyone thought that they wanted to get married!

That must be why Dad had only men friends. If he made friends with a lady, Mom would think “He wants to get married to her instead of me!”

That must be why the teachers kept boys and girls from playing together.  They were too young to get married!

After that I carefully avoided playing with girls, however fun their jump ropes, jacks, and dollhouses seemed. I didn’t want anyone thinking I liked girls, not boys.

It didn't work.  To this day, my parents insist that, whatever happened later on, in second grade I was heterosexual -- after all, I had a girlfriend!

Marrying the Boy Next Door

Racine, Fall 1967

Long before I met Bill, before my first date, when we were still living in Racine, Wisconsin, I married the boy next door.

This isn't him; he would have about my age, six or seven years old, in first grade.

His name was Doug.  I remember a crew cut, a bare smooth chest, and a broad smile.

We must have sat at pale wood desks at Hansche Elementary School, we must have played army men and cartoon kits, we must run in swimsuits to the beach -- but I  remember only three incidents.

1. We have spread a blanket over the kitchen table to make a fort, and safely sequestered, we are watching My Three Sons. I think it was the episode where Robbie Douglas (Don Grady, left) falls in love with a bullfighter, so February 16, 1967.

Suddenly I say, softly,  "Someday I'm going to marry Robbie Douglas."

Doug giggles.  "You can't marry Robbie Douglas!"

"I know that!  He's not real.  I mean I'm going to marry a boy that's cute and nice, like him."

"I'm cute and nice," Doug protests.  "And I got more muscles!" For proof, he flexes his arm.  I cup his small, hard bicep in my hand.  "You should marry me!"

"You have lots of muscles," I agree.  "I want to marry you."

2. Probably the next day, after school.  Mom is frying baloney for supper.  The round fake-wood table with the seam in the middle is set with plastic plates and glasses, and paper towels for napkins. There is a bottle of ketchup, a jar of Miracle Whip, and a jar of “dull pickles.”

We walk up to her hand in hand, and I say "Guess what?  Doug and me are getting married."
She doesn't respond.  With her back turned, I can't tell if she is happy or sad or mad.
“Did you hear me, Mom?”

Mom stiffens abruptly, and says in a strangely harsh tone, "Boys can't get married."
"I know that!  We got to wait until we're big."
"Like Robbie Douglas's Dad and Uncle Charlie," Doug adds.
“On My Three Sons? They’re not married.” Mom is still distracted, still not looking. "You can only get married if you fall in love.”

“Well – me and Doug fell in love, so we can get married, ok?”
“Boys only fall in love with girls,” she said. “Now go wake up your Dad for supper.”

3. Not dissuaded, we decide to get married anyway.  We march down to the deserted February beach with three of our friends.  A big, grown-up third grader named Pam officiates.  She says "I now pronounce you man and husband," instead of "man and wife."   Someone throws rice on us, and we have a brief but exciting kiss.

 I don't remember anything about Doug after that.  Maybe he moved away.

My mother claims that she doesn't remember my marriage in the spring of 1967.  It was a trivial incident to her, childish nonsense.

Or maybe something more. She tried to hide it, but she was really upset.  Maybe the incident brought her first suspicions that boys could indeed fall in love.