I Become a Birthday Present at the Horseman's Club

Amsterdam, March 2006

I used to go to Europe at least once a year, sometimes twice, usually at Christmastime or in the spring.  I flew into Paris or Amsterdam, whichever was cheaper, and split my time between those two cities, with an overnight in Brussels in between.

I was always careful to be in Amsterdam on Sunday night, for the Horseman's Club meeting at the Argos Bar on Warmoesstraat.

A club for guys with 20 cm (about 8 inches) or more beneath the belt.

I don't meet those standards, but I usually just took my shirt off and got waved through without measuring.  When they did measure, I was sometimes graded A (20 cm and over) and sometimes B (17-20 cm).

It was a social club -- no sex, but most guys sneaked into isolated corners for some groping or oral anyway.  You had to get naked or strip to your underwear.

I usually found someone to go home with.  In 2003, a 40-ish bodybuilder named Janik asked me to stay on in the Netherlands and become his lover.  I almost agreed.

In 2006, I met a Dutch-Caribbean-African guy with a gigantic Kovbasa.

The Dutch were leaders in the North Atlantic slave trade, and you see evidence all over Amsterdam, like this frieze of a muscular Moor carrying a bow and arrow.  But most of the slaves ended up in the Caribbean.

I never saw anyone black at the Horseman's Club until that night in 2006.

He was standing by himself near the pool table.  In his 20s, very dark, very tall and thin, wearing a green jumpsuit,  completely out of place amid the nude and underwear-clad men.

I figured he had just come in from the icy rain of an Amsterdam spring, and was cold.  I walked up to him and put my hand on his shoulder.  "Hi, can I warm you up?"

He stared at me -- not with Attitude, with a look of sheer terror, as if an underwear-clad man was a major threat.

"He must be in the wrong place," I thought.  "Maybe not even gay.  But surely he figured it out when he was fluffed for measurement."

I began to caress his thin shoulders and back, and he relaxed a bit and put his arm around my shoulders.

"Just so you know, there's a dress code.  You'll have to strip down to your underwear, or they'll kick you out."

"Ik spreek geen Engels," he said, before launching into a torrent of Dutch.

Everyone always uses English in Amsterdam, even residents talking to each other, so I've never learned much Dutch.  About all I can say is Goeiedag, Hoe gaat het?, and Ik kom uit Toronto (I always claim to be Canadian when I travel, to avoid being yelled at every five minutes.)

"Um...um...Ik heet Boomer, van Toronto. Hoe heet je?"

Huit Suriname.  Azi."

Suriname, the former Dutch colony in the Caribbean?  I was immediately interested.

About 2% of the Dutch population consists of recent immigrants from Suriname, and about half of them are black or mixed (they're called Maroons and Creoles).  But they are mostly working- and -lower class, isolated from the consumer-oriented bars, bathhouses, and sex shops of gay Amsterdam.

"Um...wanner je kom heer?"  When did you come to the Netherlands?

More very fast Dutch.  Then Azi reached out and groped me.  I felt for the front of his jumpsuit, where his Kovbasa had sprung to life.

"Sprichts du langsam, bitte," I said in German, hoping it was close enough to be comprehensible.

"Kom....naar....mijn huis, ok?"

Go home with him? But we just met, we hadn't said more than a dozen words, and he was a little too weird....

But...a Kovbasa...the biggest of the big....

I dressed.  Azi wrapped his arm around my shoulders and led me out onto Warmoessstraat.  We walked to the Centraal Station and got on the train to Ganzenhoef Station in southern Amsterdam, Azi talking nonstop in Dutch, me trying out my few words, supplemented with German and Spanish.

Azi had only been in the Netherlands for three years.  He worked in a cigarenfabriek.  Most of his family was back in Suriname.  The only family he had here was his moeder and his  jongere broer, who was studying computertechniek at the University.

Presumably Azi didn't live with them.

We got off the train in a multi-ethnic neighborhood called the Bijlmeer, and walked a few blocks through the darkness to a huge apartment complex. Orange and white lattices.  Balconies.  13 stories.

We took the elevator to the eighth floor, and got off in a small, cramped apartment.  There were books and newspapers scattered all over the living room. Kierkegaard, I noticed in surprise.  Azi read Danish philosophers?

Dirty dishes in the sink, overflowing clothes hamper.  Obviously Azi hadn't been expecting a hookup when he went out tonight.

As soon as the door closed, I wrapped my arm around Azi and went in for a kiss.  But he pushed my head away.

"Ben je hier?" he yelled.

Who else lived here?

 "In die slaapkamer!"  

Azi led me into a little hallway to an open door.  Small twin bed, unmade.  Underwear on the floor.

Sitting at the desk, apparently in an internet chatroom, was a young man.  Black, very dark, thin, very cute.  Naked. He quickly covered up and smiled at me.

"Dit is Boomer," Azi announced.  "Van der Horseman Club.  Mijn broer, Eli."

"Jij bent gek!" Eli exclaimed.  You're crazy!  They exchanged some angry words that I didn't understand, and Azi walked out. I heard a door slam.

Eli and I looked at each other.  "Um...what's going on?"


He spoke fairly good English.  "Mijn broer thinks I am too small to find boys.  Not enough big!  So tonight he says he will find a boy for me with a big lul -- down there, yes?  I say I don't want his help, but he goes out anyway, and now....don't be mad, you are very sexy...but..."

I finally began to figure it out.  "I thought my hookup was with Azi.  Is he even gay?"

"No.  He has a girlfriend, so he wants me to have a boyfriend.  I want a boyfriend, but my study is more important, yes?"

"So a straight guy went to the Horseman's Club to get groped by a dozen guys, all to find a hookup for his little brother?  That's above and beyond the call of duty.  He was only trying to help.  You should apologize."

He smiled.  "Mogelicht.  Sorry that Azi tricked you.  I will walk with you back to the train station, yes?"

"That would be great," I said, drawing him to his feet and wrapping my arms around him.  "In the morning."

In case you were wondering: not nearly as big as his brother, Bratwurst at best.  But very good at cuddling.

See also: A find a Boyfriend at the Horseman's Club; Eli's Dispatches from Oman; and A Jogging Date with a Somali Teenager

My Night and Day with Sammy Blowfish

Mount Vernon, Iowa, July 2003

In the summer of 2003, I visited my old speech teacher, Mr. Lundquist, aka Mr. Blowfish, in Washington, Iowa.  I ended up asking my sister-in-law if I could borrow her car for another day, then driving an hour north to Mount Vernon, Iowa, to spend the night with his son, Sam.

Well, Sam was extremely hot: shorter than me, dark skin, red hair, and a tight, lean physique.

Besides, I was suffering from Florida's dearth of Asian men, and Sam was Asian (actually half Vietnamese, half Swedish)..

Besides, he had just taken a tenure track job at a small college in the heart of the Straight World.  I sensed that this might be my future, and I wanted to see what it was like.

He had literally just moved in to his apartment in someone's house a few blocks from the campus.  We had to walk through a clutter of boxes to get to the bedroom, where the bed was unmade and the lamps were sitting on the floor.

"Sorry about the mess," he said, wrapping his arms around me.  "When you drive down to spend the day with your Dad and brothers, you don't really expect to bring someone home."

Sam was very energetic and very passionate -- maybe too passionate.  We didn't get much sleep that night -- every time I dozed off, he would initiate another session.  Of course, he was 26 years old, but still, it seemed odd.

In the morning he took me to breakfast at a weird diner stuck in the 1950s, where scruffy men in overalls ordered things like "The Farm Boy": 3 eggs, 3 slices of bacon, 3 sausage links, hash browns, pancakes, and toast.  He tried to grab my crotch under the table, but I pushed his hand away.

Then we toured downtown -- 3 blocks of depressing brown brick buildings, mostly bars and small, deserted boutiques -- and the campus -- more of the same.

"Why Cornell College?" I asked.

"Well, I wanted a liberal arts college where I could really get to know the students.  And I'm basically going to be the entire art history program.  This year I'm teaching Italian Renaissance, Asian, and Precolumbian.   Try doing that at Stanford."

"Did you get an offer from Stanford?"

"Actually, my only other offer was in Utah.  Mormon country, full of rattlesnakes and homophobes!  Cornell is much more gay-friendly."

"But does it have a gay presence?"

"Um...I don't think so.  There's a gay bar in Cedar Rapids, about 20 miles away."

"20 miles isn't bad."  I didn't have the heart to tell him that I lived a 3-block walk from a dozen gay bars, restaurants, beaches, and boutiques.

"Besides, Des Moines is only 2 hours away, and Chicago is 4 hours.  I'll be driving to one or the other every weekend."

We both knew that he wouldn't -- once the semester began, he'd be too busy, or the weather would be too bad.  On most weekends, he'd be stuck in Mount Vernon.

Next Sam took me to his office, which was very nice, with real bookcases and a window looking out onto the quad -- actually, an alley, but if you stood right up against it and looked to your left, you could see the King Chapel.

He shut the door, drew me close, and started kissing me.

"Hey, wait -- this is your office!" I exclaimed, shocked.  "Anybody could walk in at any moment."  Besides, I was sweaty from walking around the campus on the second-hottest day of the year.

"Come on, it's Sunday -- there's nobody around," he murmured, nuzzling my neck.  He started to unzip my pants.

I've spent my whole life on college campuses, as student and professor.  But that was the first time I actually had a sexual encounter in a professor's office.

Sam drove us into Cedar Rapids that afternoon.  It was more of a city: there was a nice Vietnamese Restaurant, a nice park with jogging trails -- he tried to go down on me on the jogging trail, but I refused -- and an art museum that specialized in the work of Grant Wood.

He suggested that we finish the day in Cedar Rapid's one gay bar, but I was tired from lack of sleep, so we went back to his apartment in Mount Vernon and watched a movie instead.

Followed by another night of outrageously energetic bedroom calisthenics and another gut-buster breakfast.

"How long are you going to be in the area?" Sam asked.

"My flight to Fort Lauderdale is on Wednesday."

"Great, that gives us three more days...."

He wanted me to spend the rest of my visit with him?  But -- I came back to the Midwest to visit my family and friends! "Well, I have to get my sister-in-law's car back."

"No problem.  I'll follow you to Rock Island, you can drop off the car, and then we'll drive back."

"Um...it's about 70 miles."

"I don't mind...in the country, you have to drive a lot."

"Besides, I need to get to the gym," I continued.

"You can use the campus gym as my guest."

Suddenly I realized what was happening: Sam had latched onto me as an escape from Straight World isolation and tedium. If I didn't act fast, I would become "the boyfriend."  He might even ask me to stay in Mount Vernon.   "I have a better idea.  Let's spend the day in Rock Island -- I want to introduce you to some friends of mine.  I just have to make a couple of phone calls first."

After we worked out, Sam followed me to Rock Island, where we dropped off the car and toured all the old sights of his childhood.  In the evening we had dinner with Dick, my old bully, now a muscle bear in his 40s, and his partner Jack.

A night of energetic sharing followed.

The next day he drove back to Mount Vernon with their phone number in his pocket and an invitation to visit anytime.

And I got to visit my family and friends.

See: Mount Vernon Muscle on A Gay Guide to Small Town America.

The Worst Date in Ohio History: Remy the Jerk

Dayton, October 2005

For 20 years all of my friends and neighbors were gay men.  The guy on the next treadmill at the gym, the couple ahead of me in line at the grocery store, everyone I passed on the street was gay.  I got my news from The Advocate.   I bought my books in a gay bookstore.  I went to a gay church.

Now I'm living in Dayton, Ohio, in the midst of the Straight World.  There's one gay bar, on the other side of town, and no gay organizations except The Friends of the Italian Opera, a closeted group of gay retirees.  The nearest gay neighborhood is an hour's drive away.

I'm not adjusting well.  I have no friends except a "straight" Friend With Benefits.  I stop going to the gym, and gain weight.  I'm so depressed that I seek out psychological counseling.  And I have a series of crazy dates with sleazoids and jerks.

But tonight will be different.  It's a blind date, arranged by Clintin (who I hooked up with last February), so I haven't actually met him yet, but he sounds great: Remy, 36 years old, a history professor (specializing in 19th century America), who lives in the gay neighborhood of Germantown in Columbus.

His photo isn't great:  long, weasley face, villain goatee, pale skin, skinny chest matted with black hair.  But I'm willing to overlook those defects.

Ok, I have high expectations: we'll become boyfriends, I'll move in, and commute to my dreary job in Dayton, and get my life back to normal.

The Arrival

I arrive a few minutes early: weird white house, set back from the street, but in the heart of Germantown, a few blocks from the gay bars and restaurants.

Whoops -- one of his roommates is a woman!  Must be a lesbian, but still....

Instead of taking me into the living room, she escorts me upstairs to the bedroom to wait.  Remy is naked, toweling off from the shower.

"You're early!" he exclaims in a nasty tone.

"It's an hour's drive from Dayton, so I couldn't calculate exactly," I say defensively.  "Sorry for coming up here -- your roommate wouldn't let me stay in the living room."

"Yeah, she doesn't like me.  I'm only renting a room -- I had to move out of my house when I broke up with my ex."

Too much information for a first date!

Well, at least I got a good view.

The Dinner

There are a dozen gay restaurants in Columbus, but instead Remy takes me to the Milestone, a big, airy, freezing-cold restaurant that looks out over the downtown skyline.  He insists on a table outside, where we keep getting buzzed by the mist from a gigantic fountain.

The menu is all nouvelle-cuisine tiny-portioned gourmand stuff, with tiny pieces of meat and vegetables artistically arranged amid sprigs of cilantro and dabs of cumin mayonnaise.

There are three things I hate on a date: 1. to be cold; 2. to be hungry; 3. to be insulted.

Remy doesn't seem to realize that he is insulting me:
1. West Hollywood ("it's so superficial!")
2. My degree ("on of those fad degrees that will be useless in ten years")
3. My trip to Paris ("such a cliched destination.  why doesn't anyone ever go to Bucharest or Sarajevo?")
4. My singing voice.  How did he ever get around to that?

I don't have any particular reason to put up the top photo.  I just needed something to take my mind off Remy.

Have you ever noticed that jerks -- guys who are critical, inconsiderate, insensitive, and hurtful -- tend to be physically unattractive?  I certainly don't ascribe to the notion that beautiful bodies go with beautiful souls, but say you are attractive, so everyone is nice to you all the time.  Won't you learn to be nice?  And if you are constantly snubbed and rejected, won't you learn to be nasty yourself?




The Party

Next we're scheduled to go to a Halloween party at an apartment a few blocks from Remy's house.  It seems strange to go to a party on a first date -- too many distractions, too much competition.  But I haven't been to a good Halloween party for years, and I'm still clinging to the hope that we'll become a couple, and I'll get my gay life back.

We should have coordinated in advance.  I'm going as  Zorro, and he's going as Mark Twain, with a white suit, bushy white hair, and a white moustache.  Rather an odd couple, compounded by his rather gross makeup and the lit cigar he carries constantly as a prop.

There are about 30 guys crammed into the 2-bedroom apartment, a lot of hot bodies in skimpy costumes, but a lot of drinking going on.  The West Hollywood parties I used to go to had very little drinking -- when you choose your friends mostly from church and temple, you get a lot of teetotlars and "one glass of wine on my birthday" guys.  This is a room full of sloshing drunks, and stale with with marijuana and cigarette smoke.  And cruising.


Remy latches onto a Cute Young Thing, and before I know it, they're making out.

I've had enough!  "I'm ready to go!"  I tell him.

"Well, I'm not drunk enough yet.  Why don't you go back to the house -- my roommate will let you in.  I'll be back later -- and I may even have a surprise for you."  He nudges the Cute Young Thing.

No way!  In West Hollywood, the guy you begin the evening with, you end the evening with.  Friend, roommate, date, it doesn't matter -- you go out that door together, you come back together.  No abandoning them to pursue a trick.

And who "shares" on the first date?  That's not a date, that's a three-way hookup!

"I want to go home now!" I say, more firmly, squeezing his shoulder.  "Alone."

"Ok, ok," Remy says.  He scribbles his phone number, passes it to the Cute Young Thing, and escorts me out.

We walk back to his house through the crowds of gay-neighborhood partiers, mostly silent.

"You know, it wouldn't have killed you to share me with that Cute Young Thing," Remy said.  "He could do both of us."

"I want you all to myself.  I'm the jealous type."

"That's for sure.  Not your most attractive quality, I must say."

The Bedroom

After all that, why did I agree to spend the night with Remy the Jerk?

Three reasons:
1. I was cold, and wanted a warm bed
2. I was too tired to drive an hour back to Dayton
3. He had a penis.  A nice one -- at least 8".

Once I got past the alcohol and tobacco on his breath, Remy was a good kisser.  He tried to lower me onto his penis while we were kissing, but I refused anal, going down on him instead.  Then he moved into the 69 position to finish.  I finished in the interfemoral position, thrusting between his legs.

We fell asleep in each other's arms.  In the morning he gave me his telephone number, said "Next time with the Cute Young Thing.  I'll bet he can teach you a few tricks," and kicked me out without breakfast.

Still a jerk..

See also: The Huber Heights Horror.; a Hookup During a Job Interview

Men with Tree Trunk Penises

I know it's just a trick of perspective, but I love the photos where the guy's aroused penis stands as tall as a tree trunk,  taking up half the frame.


















And his balls look bigger than his head.












Not too many older guys post them.  Maybe only twinks have the technical expertise.  Or penises that can stand straight up.














It looks like it's standing next to him.  I expect him to put his arm around it and say "Have you met my little buddy?"

It wasn't the best idea to use a soda can to demonstrate his length -- they're only about 5" high.  Now, if he was thicker than a soda can....

More after the break.

The Gay Ghost of Ocracoke

Ocracoke, a community of 900on the Outer Banks of North Caroline, is so isolated that it has its own dialect,  the Ocracoke Brogue, with terms and usages leftover from Shakespeare's day.

buck: friend
mommick: to make a mess of
offshore: crazy
quamish: queasy
scud: a short trip

And it is full of ghosts.

Springer's Point, where Blackbeard the Pirate was beheaded, is haunted by a burly man with matted hair and red glowing eyes, who chases trespassers with an axe before disappearing.

The British Cemetery features a lady in Victorian costume who tells visitors that she lost her way en route to a party.

After closing, the employees at Gaffer's Bar often see an elderly man sitting at a booth by himself.  When they approach, he vanishes.

But the most unusual ghost lurks in Tarik's attic.

When Martin and his then-lover Paul bought the house in 1990, they expected the usual haunted house noises: footsteps, slamming doors, mysterious voices.  Maybe some things moved around.  But they didn't expect a horny ghost, a sex-crazed demon, or whatever it was.

The attic was once used as a library -- there were about a dozen thick, heavy bookshelves which absorbed all of the light and made the sloping rafters look forlorn and abandoned. They planned to use it as an overflow bedroom, so they put a in a futon, a nightstand, a lamp, and a couple of chairs.
One weekend a few weeks after they moved in, there were 7 guys in the house, so they put up their old friend Josh in the attic bedroom.

He came downstairs the next morning and said "I don't know which of you did it, but thanks.  That was the best blow job of my life!"

Everyone denied climbing up to the attic to give Josh a blow job.

"I actually didn't get a good look -- it was too dark.  Now that I think about it, I never even opened my eyes.  I didn't reach down to touch the guy's head or shoulders, either."

"How do you get a blow job without touching the guy?" Martin asked.

He shrugged.  "It just never occurred to me.  So, come on, 'fess up, guys -- which of you is the culprit, and can you come back tonight?"

Josh eagerly waited for his mysterious visitor the next night, but nothing happened.

The second guy to encounter the ghost or incubus, Michael, was not so pleased. After a long trip from the mainland, he went right up to bed.

He was lying on his back with his eyes closed, having a sexual fantasy, starting to masturbate, when suddenly he was frozen in place.  He couldn't even open his eyes.  It was like being paralyzed!

Then someone went down on him.  He couldn't feel a body, just the mouth bobbing up and down on his cock, the tongue licking his head, the suction of a demonic throat.

He didn't even like oral -- he got too sensitive -- and this was torture!  It seemed to last for hours.

Finally Michael had a painful orgasm.

He looked up to see a dark male figure, naked, vanishing into a bookcase!

He bolted downstairs, and slept on the couch for the rest of his visit.

Martin and Paul avoided placing guests in the attic room after that.

Martin tried to research the house, to see who the horny gay ghost might be.  Someone with unfinished business, who died without acknowledging that he was gay, or without having a sexual experience.

The house was built in 1906 as a summer home for a Dr. Carroll, a physician from Raleigh. One day in 1910, the village constable broke up a party there with "only men present."  Probably a gay party.

Dr. Carroll died in 1941 -- but not in the house.  And if he had been having sex parties for 30 years, it's unlikely that he died with unfinished business.

Next Dr. Carroll's married daughter took possession, but she and her husband lived in Norfolk, and rarely stayed in the house.  There was a series of summer tenants.

In the 1960s a psychic name Sandor bought the house, and saw hippie clients in the attic library, which at that time had its own private entrance.  He wasn't married -- gay?  He died in 1990 -- but in a hospital on the mainland, not in the house.  Could he be the horny ghost?

The only other possibility was a hippie who was staying in town for the summer in 1971.  He may have known Sandor, or he may have been a stranger -- the newspaper article was unclear.  One night, high on LSD, he was attracted by something in the attic window, and tried to climb up the wall instead of going up the stairs.  He lost his footing, fell, and broke his neck.

Whoever or whatever was giving nonconsensual blow jobs in the attic room, Martin and Paul thought it best to keep him under wraps.

They broke up in 1998.  Martin could no longer afford two mortgages, so he sold his house in Chapel Hill and moved to Ocracoke permanently.  To help with the loneliness, he got two roommates, both gay men, of course.  One of the roommates eventually got a boyfriend, Tarik.  Now there were four gay men in the house, with boyfriends and dates staying over, and mainland friends visiting all the time, and often there was no choice but the attic or a sleeping bag on the floor.

Martin and his roommates always warned the guys about the gay ghost.  Sometimes they hoped to get a ghostly blow job, but nothing happened.  Sometimes they laughed off the warning, only to run down the stairs ashen-faced with horror.

They tried sending couples up to the attic, but one of them got a blow job while the other slept, oblivious.

As the legend grew, gay men volunteered to be ghost busters from as far away as West Hollywood.

The neighbors started talking -- they were already famous as "the gay house," and now "the house with the gay ghost."

You don't need notoriety in a small town.

Then one weekend Tarik invited his Norfolk friend, Bammy, for a visit.  They called Bammy "Monster" because he was hung -- way hung.  8" long, thicker than a beer can -- and that was soft.  When aroused, he was 11" long, with a head as big as a baseball.

He was an oral and anal bottom, but not by choice.  No one had been able to give him a blow job  since he was 16 -- the most they could do was lick the shaft. Lots of guys wanted him to plow their butt, but he didn't get hard enough to enter -- his arousal was more like a spongy tumescence.

"Let me at this so-called ghost," Monster said.  "If he can take it, he's welcome to it."

So he spent the night in the attic room, naked, lying on his back, with the covers down, inviting.

Nothing happened.

About 2:00 am, Monster grew tired of waiting, and started to masturbate.  He displayed his aroused cock.

Nothing happened.

Finally he dozed off, and turned over onto his stomach.

Monster awoke to the feel of an erect penis pushing against him.  Figuring that Tarik had come up during the night, he lifted his head and opened his mouth.  The cock pushed up against his throat.  Average size, very hard, uncut, not cold or anything, just like a regular cock.

He bobbed up and down on it, feeling the pubic hair against his face.  reaching up to grab two butt cheeks.  He saw nothing but a dark form.   Still thinking that it was Tarik.

The spurt came a few minutes later, a huge mouthful.  Bammy swallowed, and the dark form moved away.

"Thanks, man," Monster whispered. "Always happy to take your load."

Then the dark form moved off the bed.  Monster watched as it moved toward the bookcases -- and vanished!

With a shout he ran downstairs to Tarik's room, and jumped into the bed like a little boy afraid of the dark.

"That darn crazy ghost!  He couldn't go down on me, so he made me go down on him!"

That was the last anyone saw -- or felt -- of the horny gay ghost of Ocracoke.

Alan, the Pentecostal Porn Star

West Hollywood, October 1985

When I moved to West Hollywood in 1985, I began to attend the All Saints Metropolitan Community Church, a gay-specific church.  It wasn't very big.  The MCC tends to thrive in communities where mainstream churches are homophobic, but in West Hollywood you had many other gay-friendly congregations.

So every Sunday only 30 or so people gathered in a sort of chapel on the second floor of a building on the corner of Santa Monica and Fairfax, down the street from the French Quarter Restaurant, for a service that borrowed heavily from Roman Catholic liturgy, with robes and incense and chants of "Peace be with you," but old-fashioned Methodist hymns and a conservative evangelical-style sermon.

(Most members of MCC were raised in homophobic denominations, usually either Protestant fundamentalist or Roman Catholic, so the church tried to accommodate both.)

Many newcomers believed that the Bible disapproved of gay people, or that AIDS was God's punishment for being gay.  The pastor had to minister to them, so every sermon was about how God is not homophobic, the Bible is gay-friendly, you can be gay and Christian.

For those who attended every Sunday, it got a little redundant.

There was a pastor and two student clergy, quite a lot for such a small congregation, but the positions were highly prestigious -- ministering in the heart of the Gay World!  -- and therefore sought-after:

I have a thing for clergy.  The pastor was in a long-term monogamous relationship, and one of the student clergy was a bit too old for me (a Baptist minister, married with children, before he came out).

That left Alan, a tall, husky former Pentecostal who had trained to become a missionary.

He had a boyfriend, too, but by mid-October, they had broken up, and I saw my chance to move in.  I wrangled an invitation to his house for dinner on the Saturday after Halloween.

Alan and his two roommates lived in the bottom half of a brown stucco duplex, about 10 blocks from the church, near Plummer Park where all of the male hustlers hung out, and the Formosa Cafe, where Hollywood celebrities used to hang out.

He turned out to be a former theology student and English major who almost went to grad school in Medieval poetry.  He had been in West Hollywood for six years; in his early days he acted in gay porn, alongside such greats as Kip Noll and Jeff Stryker.

So you'd think that we would have a lot to talk about.  Still, the date didn't go well.

1. He served canned ravioli, with no salad or vegetables in sight.  This is what you serve to impress a date?

2. Instead of The Golden Girls, the West Hollywood staple, he wanted to watch The Love Boat.  Geez, my grandmother watched that!

3. An hour of mind-numbing boredom later, I said, "Are you ready to go out?"  Nearly all dates in West Hollywood included an hour or so at the bars, mainly because being in a gay-friendly public place was so new and novel for most of us.

"Ok.  We can go to the baths."

A bath house!  On a date?  Unheard of!  And, for that matter, weren't clergy supposed to be into monogamous relationships, not hookups?

4. "Never mind, we'll just stay here," I said.

"Ok.  Go in the bedroom and take off your clothes.  I'm going to take a shower first."

Huh?

I just sat there, speechless, infuriated.  The student clergy was treating me like a hustler!  I heard the shower run, then go off.  Alan came out in a towel.

"I thought you would be naked in my bed by now."

"You didn't pick me up at Plummer Park" I yelled.  "This is supposed to be a date, not a sales contract!  And you call yourself student clergy!"

"Hold it-- I didn't mean to offend you," Alan said, perplexed.  "I was just trying to speed things up. I'm nervous -- I like you a lot.   Um...do you still want to go in the bedroom?"

"No, I want to go to the bars, and find someone who acts like a gentleman.  Like about a thousand other guys in West Hollywood!"

I stood and moved toward the door.

"Come on, I said I was sorry..."  He rushed toward me.  His towel fell off.  A gigantic Kielbasa+.

Whoa, what do you call that thing?  I stared.  He smiled.  "Did I mention that I used to do porn movies?"

I forgave him.  Turns out that being gifted beneath the belt (see my Sausage List) got Alan out of a lot of faux pas.

We dated for about six weeks, until I went home for Christmas, and a Norwegian con artist moved in.

The Security Guard on My Sausage List

Wilton Manors, September 2001

In West Hollywood, there were strict age limits on dating.  More than 5 years older or younger, and you were gossiped about and not invited to parties.

In New York, the lower age limit was gone.  It was perfectly acceptable, even expected, for someone in his late 30s to be seen with a 20-year old Cute Young Thing.

When I moved to Florida in 2001, the upper age limit was gone, too.  It was perfectly acceptable, even expected, for someone in his early 40s to be seen with a 60-year old Daddy.

Of course, the older still had to wait for the younger to approach, lest he be labeled a Creepy Old Guy.  So I never approached 60-something Troy at the Sunshine Cathedral, a gay church in Fort Lauderdale: we were "just friends."

We continued to be "just friends" when we started working out together at the Club Fort Lauderdale, and going out to dinner, usually to a Japanese fusion place called Kenji.



Troy was a retired physician who had just come out upon his wife's death.

He was well-versed in Eastern mysticism, the paranormal, and the occult.  He had a gay Tarot cart deck.  We talked about Zen Buddhism and mysterious disappearances and my summer in Japan.    

But I adamantly rebuffed his attempts to get physical.  I was dating another guy from the Sunshine Cathedral, 24-year old Matt, who wasn't very bright, but had 3 of the 5 qualities that I find attractive: muscular, religious, and gifted beneath the belt (#1 on the list of the 15 biggest "sausages" I've ever encountered).

Matt was trying to write a novel about a hard-boiled noir detective who happened to be gay, and in the meantime worked as a night-time security guard.  We usually went out in the early evening, before his shift started.

The only time Matt and Troy saw each other was during Sunday morning services at the Sunshine Cathedral, and once or twice when I invited them both over for dinner.

Or so I thought.

That fall Troy went on a vacation to China and Tibet.  He brought me back a stamp shaped like monkey with Davis in Chinese characters:

丹尼斯 Dān ní sī, "Nice Redhead", which I suppose is is better than Boomer:  杰夫 Jié fū, "Outstanding Husband."

He brought Matt a silk shirt that beautifully highlighted his pecs.  But I didn't think anything of it at the time; he also brought back a souvenir for Yuri, who he barely knew.

I didn't think anything of it when Matt occasionally said that he was too tired to go out, and Troy was also busy.  In your 40s, you can stay home on Friday and Saturday night without feeling guilty.

So I went home for Christmas, to hear my old high school teacher make the most homophobic comment in the world.

After two weeks, I flew back from Rock Island, and Matt and I spent New Year's Eve together.

But on January 4th, Matt said he was too tired to go out before his shift, so I went to the Club by myself.

You know where this is going: Matt and Troy in a dark corner, k-i-s-s-i-n-g.

"We've been dating since Christmas," Matt explained. "I didn't know how to tell you."

Troy just grinned.  Age trumps beauty.

See also: The Georgia Boy and the Cute Young Thing; and The Coffee Drinker

What Made Sandy a #10

When I was an undergraduate at Augustana College (1978-82), boy-girl dating was pushed even more dramatically than in high school.

It was no longer a way of achieving prestige; it was serious business.  Men needed wives for career success, to escort to office parties and demonstrate their "family man" stability.  Women needed husbands to finance their club activities and to give them children. And we had to seal the deal before graduation.

So every conversation with peers, parents, and professors involved "what girl are you interested in?", and every Tuesday night brought a flurry of phone calls as boys asked girls for weekend dates, with the subtext: "I want to evaluate you as a potential wife."

I had figured "it" out just after my high school graduation, and had a live-in boyfriend during my sophomore year, but, still, I was in no way excused.  I heard a constant "What girl do you like?", and every Tuesday night, "What girl will you call?"

I didn't want to date any girl, but I really had no choice.  You did not come out to anyone in small-town Illinois in the 1980s, ever.

Unfortunately, girls were evaluated solely on their physical attractiveness.  I knew a few basic rules: fat or short hair should elicit "Ugh!  Gross!", and slim with long hair "Wow, she's hot!"  Blonde should garner more enthusiasm than other hair colors.    But I simply could not distinguish between, say, the attractiveness of Barbara and Julie on One Day at a Time,  or Sabrina and Kelly on Charlie's Angels.  

Boys at Augustana were evaluated on the basis of their future wealth, power, and prestige.

10:  Fratboys were always "10," taking absolute precedence over everyone else.  It didn't matter what they looked like or whether they had the personality of an ass.  Any girl would drop a long-term boyfriend instantly just for the prospect of getting a coke in the Student Union with a fratboy.

7 to 9: Gold mine majors, like business and computer science, which would lead to mega-buck jobs.

4 to 6: Practical majors, like social work or psychology, which would lead to good, stable jobs. Dateable if no gold mine majors or  fratboys had asked you out for several weeks in a row.

1 to 3: Head case majors, fit only for lunatics who wanted to starve to death, like English and history.  Dateable if no one higher up had asked you out for several months in a row.






You could move up for one or more of: a car, an off-campus apartment, disco skill, a wild--and-crazy personality, an arrest record, a Robert Redford smile, a Sylvester Stallone physique,  an awe-inspiring penis, or if you were Jewish (I don't know why).

But you would move down for one or more of:  a part-time job, an interest in science fiction or fantasy, goody-goody morals, a clock-stopping face, a shy-and-quiet personality, a fat belly, facial hair, glasses, or a "Danish dick" (pipsqueak-sized).

And during your senior year, when you were getting desperate, everyone moved up a level.

I was majoring in English (head case) and Modern Languages (practical), I had a part-time job, an interest in science fiction, and goody-goody morals (I didn't drink or use drugs), but also a car, a physique, and a penis.  So I figured that I was a #5.

One day a female friend pointed out a boy who rated #10: Sandy, who I knew from my Renaissance history class.

Wait -- he was a history major (head case), tall and hulking, with black hair, a nondescript face, and a nondescript physique.  A little belly.  Wearing glasses.  He should be down around #1, undatable.  What pushed him up to #10?

She wouldn't tell me.

So I asked Sandy to "hang out" and did some sleuthing.

I had to pick him up at the dorm.

No car.  No apartment.

We got pizza at Alfano's, where getting him to talk was like pulling teeth.

No wild-and-crazy personality.

 Then he insisted that we go to the Cave to "look for girls."  I hated dancing and "looking for girls," but I agreed.

No John Travolta disco moves.

A bad boy with an arrest record?

No.

He got a little tipsy -- ok, a lot tipsy -- which put him around #1 in my book (I hate drunks)!

Our quest "to meet girls" proved fruitless, so he asked me to take him home.  I had to actually help him up to his dorm room!

I hate drunks, but this might prove fruitful.  I might get a blow job out of it, or at least a grope.

I helped Sandy undress and lie down on bed.  When I moved to climb into bed with him, he brushed me away.  But I managed to slide down his underwear and take a peek before leaving.

Enormous!  A fire hose.  A Swedish salami.  Big enough to push him up from #1 to #10.

And Jewish.

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

West Hollywood, June 1995

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Huh?

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

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

Levi explains:






Alamosa, Colorado, 1960s

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

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

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

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

Hollywood, June 1978

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

West Hollywood, June 1995

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

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

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

Levi pauses.

"What's third thing?" I ask.

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

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

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

3. Richard Deacon was hung to his knees.

We Search for the World's Biggest Penis

Vittoria-Gasteiz. Spain, July 1999

The Basque language, spoken in northeastern Spain and southeastern France,  is not related to any other language on the face of the Earth.  It is the original language of the people who occupied the Iberian Peninsula, so old that some of its words come from the Stone Age:
Knife is labana, stone-that-cuts
Roof is teilatu, top-of-the-cave

I find that fascinating.  Who wouldn't find that fascinating?

My friend Yuri didn't.

Ok, how about this: the penises of Basque men are among the biggest in the world, topping the already-impressive 13.5 cm average of the rest of Spain.

The Basque word for man is gizon, which is similar to the phrase big penis (giz lun) in ancient Sumerian.  Coincidence?

Yuri was very interested in that! Last year he competed with me over Jaan the Estonian Mountain Climber solely because of his enormous proportions, and picked up Kalle, even though he looked like a serial killer.

So in the summer of 1999, when I was in Paris, he came to visit, and insisted that we take a side trip to Basque Country.

Um...the Basque Country is 8 hours from Paris by train! Couldn't we go to Amsterdam instead?  It's only 5 hours by train, and there's the Horsemen's Club, with a strict size requirement.  Or we could pop over to England and see the naked, aroused Rude Man of Cerne Abbas.

Ok, we'll go there, too, but first, Basque penises!

Any reasonable person would check to see if the ancient Sumerians were correct at a gay sauna, like Ego in Bilbao or Venconmen ("Come with men") in San Sebastian, but Yuri was a sports nut, and wanted to go to a bike race.

Basque Country is very rugged, with mountains and the seacoast, perfect for bicycling.  There are so many amateur races every year, it's almost the national sport.  We went to see the Euskaldun Tournament in Vittoria-Gasteiz.

I found it quite boring.  The cyclists all start with a flourish, and then you wait around for two hours for them to get back.

But the bulges made it worth the wait. The winne was 24-year old Ruben Oarbeaskoa (second from the right, later photo), from the Ollara-Ercoreca team.

He actually looked to be among the smaller of the team, but Yuri fell in love anyway, and said "I'm going to touch it!"

"How are you going to do that?"  I asked.  "Sneak up on him in the locker room?  There are reporters and fans everywhere."  The crowd was enormous.

"Russians are smart!  How do you say 'Writer for a sports magazine' in Spanish?"

I told him.  Wielding his camera, he began piecing his way through the crowd.  "Escritor para Sports Seminal!" he yelled, alternating with the Russian "Pisatel dl'ya Sportivnogo Zhurnale!

He made his way up toward Rubin. Eventually I couldn't see him anymore.  After awhile he came back, beaming.

"Basque men are the best in the world!" Yuri exclaimed.

Vittoria Gasteiz

"What happened?  Did you....?"

He grinned.  "I told Ruben I'm a writer, and I wanted to ask him some questions about the race.  He was surprised -- no Russian sports journals talked to him before.  So he reached out to shake hands.  And I fell....I show you."

He mimicked the motion of  reaching out, tripping, and "instinctively" steadying himself by grabbing at -- my crotch.

"Did he get mad?  Did he yell?"

"No, he laughed.  I said I'm sorry.  But boy, I'm not sorry!"  He put his arm around me  "Ok, so tomorrow we go to the gay sauna."

I think Yuri got the idea of the trip-and-grab from an episode of Seinfeld.

Janik, the Frisian Bodybuilder at the Horseman's Club

Amsterdam, June 2003

Just after getting my Ph.D., when I was living in Florida (2001-2005), I tried to go to Europe every year at Christmas or spring break: a weekend in Amsterdam, a night in Brussels,two or  three days in Paris, and then home. I always liked to be in Amsterdam on Sunday nights, when the Horsemen met at the Argos Bar on Warmoesstraat.   It was a social club -- no sex allowed -- but members all had to be nude. Their guests had the option of nudity or underwear.

The membership fee varied depending on your size (yes, they took measurements).  "A" got in free.

So the majority of men drinking beer, playing pool, and cruising had the endowments of porn stars.

It was quite a nice place for sightseeing, and sometimes guys would invite you back to their house.

In the spring of 2003, I met Janik, smooth, muscular, balding, in his early 40s, in the A category and then some, as big as my Cousin Joe, or bigger  (#9 on my Sausage List).

He was pleasant to talk to -- even after I admitted to being American (usually I claimed to be Canadian to avoid being asked why Americans were such idiots).  And at the end of the evening, he invited me back to his place -- in Heerenveen.

Heerenveen, Netherlands, Summer 2003

90 miles north of Amsterdam, 2 hours by train, in Friesland (where most people speak Frisian, not Dutch).  Janik had a tiny apartment on the same block as the "Dirty Duck Coffeeshop" and a heterosexual dance club called "Party Cafe Salsa," which made it quite noisy at night.

Still, we had a very nice evening, and in the morning Janik said, "Stay here with me.  We can be lovers. I can get you a work visa."

Living in Europe with a muscle god in the A+++ category vs. teaching sociology in Florida?  It sounded like a good deal.

So I cancelled my day in Brussels.

On Monday morning Janik went to work, leaving me to go sightseeing in Heerenveen.  Unfortunately, there was not much to do except walk around and look at the houses and canals.  I ended up buying a Frisian phrase book and a depressing French novel about Tintin's sexual problems.  Janik came home, and we went to the gym, then got Japanese take out and watched soccer on tv.

I hate sports and Japanese food.

But we had a very nice evening later, so I cancelled my train to Paris.

On Tuesday, while he was at work, I took the train into Groningen and saw the Martinitoren (St. Martin's Tower) and the Netherlands Stripmuseum (a museum of cartoon and comic strip art).  But the train was so crowded with rush hour traffic that I didn't get home until 7:30 pm.  We got Indonesian take out and watched The Simpsons dubbed in Dutch.

I would have to learn both Dutch and Frisian to live here.  I like languages, but I'd really rather learn something that would be useful outside of Friesland.

On Wednesday, I signed up for a Frisian class and then went out looking for jobs on my own.  The manager of the only gay bar in Heerenveen, Le Clochard, said he could use a waiter who spoke English and German.  That night Janik and I went to the gym, then got Japanese take out and watched soccer on tv.

I still hate sports and Japanese food.

Waiting tables and watching sports with a muscle god in the A+++ category, or teaching sociology in Florida?

On Thursday I took the train to Amsterdam and got on my 5:00 pm flight back home.

See also: The Surprise in the Dutch Afro-Caribbean Horseman's Bedroom