A Glory Hole at a Rest Stop in Arkansas

Forestville, Arkansas, May 1985

In 1984, just after getting my M.A. from Indiana University, I took a job in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas.

If you don't count Christmas and spring breaks, 7 1/2 months, 210 miserable days in the worst place on earth: hot, humid, construction everywhere, heavy traffic constantly, every chore taking hours, flat tires several times a week, tiny apartment with no airconditioning, illliterate boozing landlord, heavy-metal blaring neighbor, an hour's drive to the nearest gay neighborhood, and all the gay people into hookups instead of dating and romance.

I hated every minute of it, except for my Italian class and the few occasions when a well-hung redneck shared my bed.

On May 8th, 1985, I packed my stuff into my car -- actually, I threw most of it out in order to travel light -- dropped off the apartment key to my horrible illiterate landlord, and drove to the horrible campus of Longhorn State University, where I gave my last final exam to my last horrible class, graded it, and turned in the grade forms to the horrible department office.  Then, at 3:05 pm, I walked out into the parking lot, got into my car, and drove.

The quickest route to Rock Island took you through godforsaken Texas for five hours, and I wanted out as soon as possible.  So I drove east for two hours, not stopping for food, gas, or bathroom breaks until I saw that "Welcome to Louisiana" sign, breathed deeply, and vowed never to set foot in Texas again.

And I haven't.

I planned to drive the whole 20 hours home straight through, but I'd been up since before dawn grading papers and cleaning my apartment, so at around 12:30 am, I couldn't drive anymore.  I  stopped at a rest stop on Interstate 40, near Forrestville, Arkansas.

In the 1980s you were allowed to park at rest stops and sleep.

After an hour or so, I had to go to the bathroom.  so I went into the little bathroom building, chose a stall, and and sat down.  It had a glory hole looking directly into the next stall!

I knew from my experience at Lambert Airport in St. Louis and the public parks of New Delhi that public restrooms were sometimes used for sex, so I waited there for awhile, peering through the glory hole.  Maybe a horny redneck trucker would stop by and push a Mortadella+ through.

Soon someone came into the next stall.  From what I could see, it was a young guy, probably my age, medium height, pale skin, square hands, smooth chest and belly.  Wearing a blue shirt and jeans.  Holding a magazine.

Did he know I was in the next booth?  Was he interested in public sex, or just doing his business?

I waited.

He sat on the toilet, leafed through the magazine, and started fondling himself.  His penis was average sized, ruddy, cut, with a thick head.  Soon he was aroused.

Put it through the hole!  I thought savagely.

He began masturbating, intent on the magazine. Soon his penis was standing straight up.  He spat on his hand and continued to work it.  But he didn't put it through the hole.

Didn't he know I was there?  I made some coughing noises.

He didn't stop, but he ignored the glory hole.

Maybe he thought I was just doing my business.  I stood, flushed the toilet, and obviously stayed in the stall.

He kept working.

I put my head right up to the hole, so he could see my open mouth.

Nothing.

Why doesn't he want me to go down on him?

I put my eye right up to the hole and looked into the stall.  Nice tight body, taunt, breathing heavily.  Pants around his ankles.

He spurted with a sigh, wiped off with toilet paper, and flushed the toilet.

Feeling rejected and embarrassed, I waited until he zipped up, left the stall, washed his hands in the sink, and swung through the doors.  Then I gave him another few minutes to get into his car and leave.

No such luck -- he was staring at the snacks in in the vending machine.  A very cute college boy with curly red hair and flawless pale skin.

"Hi,"  I said.

He didn't answer.

I got into my car and drove, not stopping again until I reached St. Louis about 7 am.  I stopped at a diner for breakfast.

There was a  cute guy sitting by himself at one of the little tables: about my age, thin, with thick sandy hair, dark eyebrows, and pink lips.

Having been awake for over 24 hours, except for short catnaps, my discretion was gone.

"Hi!  I've had a rough night.  Can I join you?"

He smiled.  "Sure."

I haven't been back to Arkansas in 32 years, either.

See also: Public Cruising in Mississippi in 1984; The Joy of Public Sex; A Hookup in the College Restroom

The Joy of Public Sex: 12 Hookups in Public Places

Which would you prefer, the very attractive, gigantic guy reclining on a nice soft bed, or the equally attractive, equally gigantic guy sitting on the dirt against a hard brick wall?

Hookup websites list lots of places to have anonymous sex in public: restrooms in shopping malls and on college campuses, heavily-wooded parks, secluded beaches.  But I've never understood the attraction.  It's dangerous, illegal, and uncomfortable.  Why not just invite him back to your apartment?

I haven't had a lot of experience with the practice of public sex, but there have been times when I gave in to temptation and took care of things right there on the spot.

Tyrone. My second sexual experience, in high school, with Tyrone my workout buddy, took place in his car in the high school parking lot.

The Levee  In Rock Island a lot of men went cruising at the levee, and had sex right there in their parked cars.  I was too skittish to do it there, but I did go home with Professor Burton, who held the annual handcuff parties.

The Photojournalist.  During my senior year in college, I hooked up with a student in my Photojournalism class.  We didn't have anyplace to go -- I lived at home, and he lived in the dorm -- so we went to the stacks in the library -- deserted on a Saturday night -- and went down on each other in the PK section (Sanskrit, Pali, and Hindi).

The Airport Restroom. Trapped at Lambert International Airport in St. Louis later that year, I learned about cruising in public restrooms.  Six guys, including a buffed businessman in a suit and tie.

New Delhi. When I was visiting India, just after getting my M.A. from Indiana University, Viju took me to Jahanpanah City Forest in Delhi.  You see someone you like and follow him into the bushes.  I met Arshad the Zoroastrian, who took me out to dinner and then on a tour of the spiritual pilgrimage sites in Delhi.

Oxford, Mississippi. Later that summer, on the way to my first teaching job in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas, I spent the night in Oxford. Mississippi, and went down on three country boys in the woods outside of the Faulkner mansion, including Elmer, a University of Minnesota undergrad who came back to my hotel to spend the night.

The Rest Stop. On the way back, I stopped at a rest stop in Arkansas, and saw a guy masturbating through a glory hole.

The Cathoic Boy. At a conference at Notre Dame, I met a Catholic undergrad, who took me to a path that went around St. Joseph lake on the Notre Dame campus.

Ankara.  In the spring of 1989, during my semester teaching in Ankara, I found that Turkish men were cruising each other constantly, in the park, on the metro, in the hamams.  A lot of the college boys cruised in the wooded hills beyond Bilkent University, but I met an older guy there: Turkish moustache, furry chest, thick Bratwurst.

The Truck Driver.  During the Great Redneck Roundup of 1995, we stopped at a rest stop near Laramie, and I climbed into a truck cab with the driver.

Macy's. One day my effervescent, outrageous friend David tried to get me to pick up a clerk at Macy's and go down on him in the restroom.  But I wimped out and made a date with him instead.

The Restaurant Kitche. During my summer in Paris, I went to Suam Thai for dinner almost every night, and got extensively cruised by the chef.  One night he invited me into the kitchen to discuss something, and one thing led to another.  We ended up having sex in the supply room.

My Office.  When I was living in Manhattan and commuting to Long Island to work on my Ph.D., I I had three choices: take hookups home on a two-hour train ride; borrow Yuri's apartment; or entertain them in my office -- in a secluded corridor in the Social Science Building.

I shared with three other graduate students.  But I knew their schedules, so it was safe.

Still, every time I brought a hookup in, I listened carefully for the sound of a key in that lock.

Nothing in public since 2001 -- I have an apartment with a nice soft bed, only about ten minutes from here, so....

36 Hours of Cruising at Lambert International Airport

St. Louis, January 1982

I don't hook up in public, period.  No parks, no nature preserves, no secluded hotel restrooms, no booths at the Pleasure Palace.  No way, no how.

But back in college in the Midwest in the 1980s, I didn't know much about gay culture and history, and I thought that the only possible way for gay people to meet was in bars and public places.  So I wasn't so picky.

January 30th, 1982, my senior year at Augustana College.  I applied to the Ph.D. program in Spanish at Tulane University in New Orleans.  They flew me in for an interview, and now I was on my way back to Rock Island.

The three hour flight to St. Louis was uneventful; we flew above the clouds in brilliant sunlight.  Our descent was a little bumpy, but we landed at Lambert Airport right on schedule, at 5;15 pm.

I went to the monitor to check on my connection, a 6:30 flight to Moline, Illinois, and home.

Cancelled.

The board was lit with dozens of flickering "cancelled" lights.

I had never flown alone before -- my flights to Switzerland, Colombia, and Germany were in supervised groups.  What was I supposed to do?

Finally I found the American Airlines help desk.  The line was endless.  Forget it!

I called the American Airlines telephone number.  On hold for half an hour.  Forget it!

I walked through the terminal.  Stores and restaurants were closing.  I grabbed dinner -- a burger and fries -- at the Brewmaster's Tap Room just before it closed.  No one explained what was happening.

Later I discovered that St. Louis got 14 inches of snow overnight, the biggest blizzard in history.  They closed the airport and sent most of the staff home, stranding thousands of travelers.

All of Saturday night, no flights came in or out, and none of the stores were open except a nacho place and Hudson Books.  I had nachos and overpriced candy bars for breakfast and lunch.

Food services began Sunday morning, and flights started going out around noon.  But there was such a backlog that I couldn't get out until 6:30 pm.

Get a hotel room?  No credit cards, not enough money.

Stuck all night and all day at Lambert International Airport

In the era before smart phones, laptops, wifi, and DVDs.

How I passed the time:

1. Reading three best sellers from the meager selection at Hudson Books: The Hotel New Hampshire, Gorky Park, and Red Dragon.  They were all terrible.
2. Calling my parents and asking them to come pick me up, but they were snowed in, too.
3. Vowing never to go to St. Louis again.
4. Vowing not to go to grad school in Spanish.
4. Walking up and down the concourses, looking at the cute guys trying to sleep.

5. Having sex with strangers.

About 11:00 pm Saturday night, I was sitting in a stall in an out-of-the-way restroom at the end of an abandoned concourse, when someone went into the stall next to me.

Great! I'm too shy to perform now!  I'll just have to wait it out!

So I waited and waited, and he waited and waited, and before I knew it, things were happening under the partition between the stalls.

Wait -- do people actually do these things in public restrooms?

I had lots of time to research the matter, and it turns out that they do.  If you wait in a secluded stall long enough, things just happen.  Or else you make eye contact with someone you like, head into the restroom together, and go into the same stall.

That night and the next day, I hooked up with several other stranded passengers and airport employees.  The ones I remember are:
1. A middle-aged businessman in a suit and tie
2. A young dad whose wife and kids were waiting outside
3. A guy who worked in the nacho shop, and took me to the store room to finish the hookup.
4. A flight attendant who said he cruised there often
5. A cute college boy from Minneapolis who liked to kiss, and gave me his phone number.
6. An African guy from Zambia.

About as much action as you'd get at a bath house.

But don't try this at home.  Undercover police officers are on patrol, hoping to make an arrest for "lewd behavior."  It's gross, it's uncomfortable, and it plays into the stereotype of gay men as sexual predators.  Besides, in the era of Grinder and internet chat rooms, who wants to be with someone so closeted that he resorts to pick-ups in public restrooms?

But in 1982, it made for a memorable layover at Lambert International Airport.

See also: Cruising at the Levee; The Darkroom at the American Gay Bar; I Pick Up a Boy and His Daddy at an Airport