Troy and My Friend with Benefits

Upstate, September 2011

The problem with being a twink magnet is that younger guys aren't really experienced in the vagaries of sharing and three-way relationships, so hookups can easily turn into romance.

Sunday, September 18th
In Upstate New York, my partner Troy and I go to a Bear Party thrown by the Satyr.  When Riley comes in, I'm thunderstruck.  My jaw literally drops.  He is the most beautiful guy I have ever seen.

I wait while he strips -- slim body, average beneath the belt gifts, but who cares?  We chat.  I vageuly remember hearing that he is 19 years old, spent a year at the University but had to drop out due to lost financial aid, and now has a job at a party store. But I keep thinking "Why are we talking when we could be kissing?"

We spend an hour lying on a mattress in the Satyr's playroom.  The sex is over quickly; just touching him does the trick.  We spend the rest of the time kissing.  Afterwards he returns to our apartment for more kissing, and probably sex.  Who can remember?  Troy technically "shares," but mostly he just lies there.

Tuesday, September 20th.
We make an appointment for a hookup while Troy is at work.  Riley calls the night before, saying that he caught a cold at the Bear Party and feels miserable, but we can get together anyway as long as we don't do anything physical.

We end up picking up Chinese food to eat at home, then cuddling and talking for about an hour.

"Are you sure Troy is ok with us?" Riley asks.

"Oh, sure.  We have an open relationship.  We can have sex with other guys.  We just have to get together for the socializing."

"Isn't that the opposite of how open relationships usually work?"

During the next three days, Riley and I text constantly, friend each other on Facebook and Gay.com, and find out about each other's lives.  I begin thinking of a three-way romance.

Friday, September 23rd.
It's our third anniversary, so Troy and I invite the Gang of Twelve and some people from work for an anniversary party.  In the end there are 24 people in our small apartment, standing room only.  Riley is there, feeling better.   I try to be cordial and not touch him very much.

But some of the guys are suspicious.  I see the Satyr eyeing me, and the Klingon, who wasn't at the Bear Party, asks, "So, how do you two know each other?"

"Oh, we've known each other for a thousand years," I say.  And I really believe it is true.  We've always been together, and are just now reuniting.

After everyone else leaves, I invite Troy and Riley into the bedroom.  Troy says "No, thanks, you guys have fun."

Riley and I go into the bedroom and start kissing.  "Are you sure it's ok, making out with another guy on your anniversary?"

"We'll be together later, no problem."

We spend about an hour kissing, and then get around to the sex.

The next day Riley texts me: "Are you sure this is ok?" he repeats.

"Three way relationships are quite common," I tell him.  "As long as we don't date, Troy is fine with it."



Tuesday, September 26th

Riley and I make an appointment for a hookup at 11:00, just before lunch.  But he has to work late, and doesn't arrive until 1:30, and I'm so hungry that I insist we go out to lunch at a barbecue place first.

Then we spend our usual hour kissing and gradually getting around to intimacy.

"You had lunch?"  Troy asks later.  "That's a date!"

"We just grabbed lunch before jumping into bed.  Not really a date, just hunger."

"I don't like it!  He's younger and cuter than me, and a lot better in bed."

"That's not true!  Anyway, who cares?  You're my partner.  Riley is just a friend.  But I want him in our lives.  We're taking him out for his birthday Friday."

"What..birthday?  But doesn't he have real friends to do that with?"

"They're going out on Saturday.  Friday is for me.  Us."

Friday, September 30th
Riley comes over about an hour before Troy gets home from work, so I can give him his present, and we can make out.

"Troy is a little jealous," I tell him.  "We should try to include him more."

"I don't want anybody to be left out," he says.  "But whenever you ask him to share, he refuses."

"He wants to share in the socializing, not in the sex.  Just be sure you're really nice to him tonight."

We go out to dinner and then for frozen yogurt.  Back at our apartment, Troy and Riley discuss video games for about an hour, while I sit there, bored.  Finally I say "Who wants to go into the bedroom?"

Riley does.  Troy does not.

Afterwards I say "I can't wait to see you again.  When are you free?"

"Um...very busy week at work, getting ready for the Halloween rush.  Not until Thursday."

Wednesday, Oct 5th.

I spend the next week texting and facebook messaging Riley, with only a few, curt responses.  On Wednesday I don't hear from him at all.  Finally at 10:00 pm I text him: "What time can I expect you tomorrow?"

"Can't tomorrow.  Can we reschedule?"

"But...we made an appointment!  I've been waiting all week!"

"Sorry, the Klingon asked me for a date."

The Klingon!  That chubby nerd?  I roil with jealousy.

"But...you had a date with me!  I understand you wanting to back off -- things were getting very intense.  But you have to meet your commitments!"

Thursday, October 6th.

Troy says: "I've been thinking it over, and I don't want you to see Riley anymore.  Even if it's just for sex, sex can lead to falling in love."

"No problem," I tell him, "We broke up."

"You weren't dating, so how can you break up?"

I don't know.

See also: Troy's First Video Booth; Our Date with the Teenage Beach Boy.

The Satyr's Hookup with Sylvester Stallone

Upstate New York, August 2010

Troy, my boyfriend for the last year, has finally agreed to move in, and we're having a "housewarming" party to celebrate.  We invite his college friends Micah and Jordan; the Rich Kid and the Rapper from the Gang of 12, and their dates; and my ex-boyfriend Chad, who of course has to bring his housemate/Daddy, the Satyr.

The Satyr is a tall, husky, bearded bear, 62 years old, with an enormous Kovbasa++++ beneath the belt.  But I don't like him -- he's imperious, theatrical, sneaky: he has a manipulative relationship with Chad, and he tried to keep me and Troy from dating.  For what reason, I don't know.

Besides, he stifles my standard conversation topics at gay parties.

Enormous penises...he has the biggest I've ever seen.

Dates from hell -- there aren't any worse dates than our weird night in October 2008.

Celebrity hookups -- he claims to have been with everybody.

When he was a teenager, hustling in Times Square, his clients included Robert Redford, Peter Fonda, and...Christopher Isherwood. When he was a camera man in Hollywood, he dated Tom Selleck, Rob Lowe, and John Travolta, who flew him down to Cabo for a wild weekend with Tom Cruise.

I'm sure the Satyr is making all of this up.  I lived in West Hollywood for 10 years at about the same time, and met a lot of celebrities: Michael J. Fox, Richard Dreyfuss, Robin Williams, Christopher Atkins -- but I never dated any superstars.

Time to call his bluff.  "Details!  You have to tell us the whole story.  Date, location, who you were with, what he was wearing, how hung he was..."

The Satyr glares at me, but says "Sure.  I'll tell you about my first gay sexual experience, with Sylvester Stallone."

"Great!"  I've heard a lot of celebrity dating stories about Stallone, the Italian Stallion, the star of the Rocky and Rambo series, so I'll be able to spot a fib a mile away.

Manhattan, January 1970

The Satyr (then named Sparky) was 22 years old, living in Spanish Harlem, taking acting classes at CUNY and trying to make ends meet anyway he could.

Through hustling, of course -- his extra-large equipment made him very popular among a certain type of closeted queen (shown is porn star Rick Donovan).

He hadn't "come out" -- acknowledged that he was gay.  He was always "the trade" -- the one who gets the blow job.  In those days, the trade thought of himself as straight.

He also waited tables at a strip club, swept floors at an illegal gambling den, read Tarot cards, did astrology, and translated Japanese for the Consulate General of New York ("I was born in Japan, before my mother -- well, that's another story").

Through the New York occult community, Sparky met Morton Lewis, who had directed a few films on astrology and the paranormal.  He needed a camera man for a new hippie love fest film that his brother was bankrolling.  It wouldn't take much work -- just three sets, a bedroom, a living room, and an exterior to be shot in Central Park.  Two days max.

He neglected to mention that it was going to be a softcore porn, but Sparky wouldn't have minded anyway.  It was a job in the industry!  Anyway, he could easily ignore the women's naked bodies and concentrate on the men.

"Wait -- you said you didn't identify as gay," Troy protests, "But you liked looking at men."

The Satyr shrugs.  "It was 1970.  Gay people were criminals in the State of New York, and psychopaths, according to the American Psychiatric Association.  It took a lot to admit it to yourself."

The movie, Party at Kitty and Stud's, would star newcomer Mike Stallone, a very massive bodybuilder type with thick black hair, dark droopy eyes, a sensual smile, and a strange, slurry way of speaking.  He was beautiful!  Sparky was instantly hooked.


He struck up a conversation with Mike at lunchtime.  They had a lot in common.  Similar childhoods: Mike's mother was a professional astrologer, and his father was a hair stylist.  An interest in the occult.  Determined to make it in the business, scrounging around for any job they could find.  Mike's latest was cleaning out the lions' cages at the zoo.

"I was completely broke, man, sleeping in the bus station.   It was either take this job or rob somebody."

"You should try hustling," Sparky said.  "With your physique and dick, you could earn some primo bread."

"I'm not queer, though," Mike said with a smile.

"That's ok, you don't have to be.  A mouth is a mouth, right?  It's the guy going down on you that has to be queer."

Mike didn't actually have sex with anyone on camera, but he had to be aroused a lot, on both days, through multiple takes.  By the second day, he was having trouble keeping it up.

In one scene, he had to be a gigantic shaft ready to plow into one of the actresses.  Morty wanted Sparky to film him approaching slowly, and stopping just before he touched her vagina.  But Mike couldn't stay hard long enough.

"We're going to have to shorten the scene," Morty said.  "Unless somebody wants to be a fluffer -- go down on Mike until he gets hard. Ladies, I know it's not in your contract, but..."

Before any of the actresses could respond, Sparky said "I'll do it!"

Everyone stared.  No one admitted to being gay in 1970, at least not in public.

"Hah, hah, big joke!" one of the actors said.  "Like you'd really go down on a dude!"

Sparky's face was burning with embarrassment and fear -- would Morty fire him?  Would Mike beat him up?   He tried to concentrate on that beautiful body, and more -- Mike's painful childhood, his determination, his passion, his pride.

"His penis..." Micah adds.

"Of course.  The penis is the doorway to the guy's soul.  A blow job is very spiritual."

"I'm serious," Sparky said, his voice trembling a bit.  "I'd love to help out."

"Let's cut the clowning," Morty said.  "Ladies..."

"No, let him do it," Mike said.  "It takes a lot of guts to admit you're queer, especially among you Neanderthals. I'm game."

Morton shrugged.  "Just get with it already.  I've got a movie to make."

"Come on, buddy," Mike said softly.  "Let's see what you got."

So Sparky knelt in front of the nude Stallone.  He had never gone down on a guy before, but he had received many blow jobs, so he knew what to do.  Soon Mike was an iron rod.

"That's enough!" Morton exclaimed.  "You want to get him hard, not have his baby."

Flushed with erotic excitement, Sparky returned to his camera, and they filmed the scene.

He "fluffed" Mike twice more before the day ended.

A few months later, Mike -- now named Sly -- got his big break, a starring role in Rebel (1970).  And Sparky moved to California, where he got a job as a camera man.  They never had sex again, they didn't even stay friends, but still, it was the defining moment of Sparky's life.

Upstate New York, August 2010

"Reading between the lines, it's kind of a sad story," Troy says.  "The guy you came out for wanted nothing more to do with you."

"But it was never about Stallone," the Satyr says.  "I liked him, sure, and he had a great physique, but it was about being true to myself.  It was the moment when I could finally stop lying to myself and say 'I am gay.'"

"My defining moment came with John Travolta," I tell them. "Picture it: the summer of 1978.  A sallow 17 year old..."

See also: Lane's Hookup with Batman, Robin, and the Joker; the Sylvester Stallone post on Boomer Beefcake and Bonding.

Converting the Fundamentalist Boy

Upstate, September 2010

The Freshman came into Sociology of Religion class ready for a fight.  I knew all the signs.

He was Hispanic, tall, broad-shouldered, with short dark hair, dark skin, and a round open face.  A muscular physique, but not a football player.

Intense, one of those front-of-the-room hand-raisers.  The first to get to class, pull out his notebook, and sit with his pen ready to take notes. And frown with disgust at everything I said.

He rarely interacted with the girls in the class, always sitting next to boys and choosing boys for partnered work.  Probably gay.  Maybe he didn't know it yet.

There was a King James Bible atop all of his other books, even though the Bible was not one of the required texts for the class.

I knew where he was coming from.  I grew up fundamentalist, with three sermons per week that were mostly quoted Bible passages, Sunday school and NYPS classes that were mostly Bible studies, plus extra points for reading your Bible daily and extra extra points for carrying it around so you could witness to the world.

We were told that the Bible was literally dictated by God, word for word, to the human authors. We didn't even call it the Bible, usually.  We said God's Word.

Obviously if God wrote it, it had to be perfect, flawless, with no errors, no mistakes, no lies.

If the Bible said the world was created in six days, obviously that's what happened.  God would know, wouldn't he?

Methuselah lived for 969 years.  Check.
There were 2 or 7 of each animal on Noah's Ark.  Check.
Joshua caused the sun to stand still.  Check.

It took me years to acknowledge that Mark 13 didn't exist in the earliest manuscripts, that the book of Daniel contains words that didn't exist at the time of Daniel, that some of the Pauline Epistles were written in a polished, erudite Greek totally unlike that of the Apostle Paul.  That none of the writers of the Bible expected it to be taken literally.

This Freshman was just starting his journey.  He had stormed into the classroom ready to defend God's Word against attacks, probably planning to win the souls of the Professor and the entire class.

 I had to work carefully.  I didn't want the Freshman storming out of the class in anger and dropping.  If he was gay, he needed this class.  Most internalized homophobia is due to a mistaken belief that the Bible promotes anti-gay hatred.

My tactic: don't dispute the literal meaning of the Bible.  Turn it against him.

I started slowly, with an easy one: the story of Sodom.

"None of the Biblical writers thought that the sin of Sodom was same-sex activity,"  I said.  "It was a lack of hospitality to strangers."

The Freshman's hand shot up.  "What about Jude 7, which says that the Sodomites were punished with eternal damnation for going after 'strange flesh.'"

"Strange flesh, sarkos heteros in Greek, wouldn't mean same-sex acts -- hetero means 'different.'  It probably means an attempt to have sex with strangers."

On like that.  Leviticus.  Thou shalt not lie with man as with woman.  Abomination refers to ritual impurity in ancient Judaism, like eating pork or mixing cotton and linen fibers.

Romans: Men burned with lust toward one another.  The Apostle Paul was referring to a specific case in which heterosexual men engaged in same-sex acts.  He was not aware of the existence of gay men.

Colossians:  arsenokoitai and malakoi shall not inherit the Kingdom of God.  "Homosexuals" is a mistranslation.   Arsenokoitai is a vulgar slang term, similar to our assholes, meaning basically jerks.  Malakoi means "soft."

The Freshman looked like his head would explode.  He frowned, sighed, thumbed furiously through his King James Bible.

"But it says 'effeminate!'  That must mean gay!"

"We need to look at the original Greek manuscripts, not a translation."

"But God guides the hand of the translators, so it means exactly the same thing in English as in Greek!"

And on and on.  Sometimes it felt like the class was taking place between me and the Freshman, with the other students merely onlookers.

The breakthrough came when I mentioned the MCC, a gay Christian denomination.

"It must be weird going to church when God hates you," the Freshman said, "Singing praises the God who is going to send you to Hell.  How can they deal with it?"

I was getting annoyed by his pig-headedness.  "They don't think God is a bigot," I said.  "Their reasoning is, why would God be homophobic?  Or prejudiced against any minority group?  Actually, a large number of Protestant denominations agree: Episcopalians, Lutherans, Baptists..."

A few days later, the Freshman showed up during my office hours.

"Do you happen to have the address of that gay Christian church?" he asked.  "I want to go there and..um...witness to them."

"There are several hundred in the United States.  The closest is in Albany.  But be careful -- you'll be outnumbered.  The congregation numbers around five hundred."

"Five hundred!  Come on -- you're exaggerating.  There aren't that many gays in the world!"

We moved on to other topics for the rest of the semester, so I didn't know if the class helped the Freshman overcome his homophobia or not (the quiz questions were all neutral).  He got a B+, and vanished, like students usually do.

Late in the spring semester, the Freshman came into my office again.  "Thanks for telling me about the MCC," he said.

"Did you find your visit enlightening?"

He grinned.  "You could say that.  I'm dating the pastor."

Hey, these stories can't all be about me hooking up.  I do have other interests, you know.



Ok, ok.  here's a naked guy to tide you over.

See also: The Bible, Christianity, and Homosexuality at gaychurch.org

The Rich Kid and the Crying Truck Driver

Upstate, September 2008

In 2008, my "visiting" position in Dayton was coming to an end, and I had to find a new job.  I only applied to colleges in Blue States.  First just in gay neighborhoods.

As January and February passed and the best jobs were taken, I expanded to an hour away from gay neighborhoods.

Then three hours.

Just as I was about to start searching in Red States, I was offered a job in New York!

Well, Upstate New York, about six hours by car from the gay neighborhoods of Manhattan, Boston, and Montreal.

I figured I would be driving to one or the other every weekend.  Maybe even renting a second apartment there.

But snow, car wear and tear, the expense, and being busy limited my weekend jaunts to once every couple of months.

So 98% of my life happened in the Straight World, in a small town Upstate with no gay bars, just one gay-friendly church, and no gay organizations except PFLAG.

Just like in Dayton, most adult gay men had fled to gay neighborhoods elsewhere,  Most of the others were living aggressively heterosexual public lives: they escorted women to events; they had no gay friends; they took their same-sex dates into the next town over to avoid being spotted at home.

But there was a coterie of gay men, a Gang of Twelve, who were out and open.

They were mostly in their 40s and 50s, one or two older or younger.  Most had lived their whole lives Upstate, so they knew the towns and the people: the restaurants where they could be served without a fuss, the stores where they could shop without rude stares, the clubs where no women would hit on them.

So, except for a few basic precautions like not holding hands on the street, they were not closeted.

The New Guy in Town is always popular, but Upstate, my social calendar filled up astonishingly fast.  All I had to do was meet one of the Twelve, and he told his friends, who told their friends. Phone calls were made, emails sent, meetings arranged.  By Christmas, I had been out on dates with five of the twelve.  By summer, nine (the others were involved or not interested).

Date #1: The Rich Kid (top photo) got "dibs": he was first in line for everything in the county.  He and his sister and parents owned most of the county, sat on every board of directors, donated to every charity.

I was impressed by his physique: short, compact, and quite buffed for someone in his 40s.

He took me to Alex and Ika's, a very expensive restaurant in Cooperstown, for sesame-encrusted wild salmon and a plantain and goat cheese salad.  Then back to his family's summer home -- a gigantic wood-lodge on Lake Otesaga, decorated in a weirdly incongruous Southwestern motif.

The Rich Kid was a bit on the domineering side, but he had two of the five traits I find attractive, and he was well-educated, articulate, and generous.  I would have gone on a second date, except before we got around to it, he ordered me to attend the Glimmerglass Opera Festival next Tuesday night  He was on the board of directors, and they needed ushers.

Drive 30 miles to be an usher at a production of Madame Butterfly? No, thanks.

One simple didn't say "no" to the Rich Kid.  He cancelled our second date, and sent out memos to the other 11 that I was "cute but stubborn."

Date #2: The Crying Truck Driver.  A tall, thin white guy with expressive hands and a cute British accent.  He invited me to his apartment for a "traditional Zambian dinner": a chicken breast, some kind of corn gruel, and mushrooms in peanut sauce.  I was still hungry afterwards.


Then he suggested that we watch a DVD from his collection of every British sitcom ever made.  I selected Are You Being Served.  But when I invited him to sit down next to me on the couch, Truck Driver hesitated and then yelled: "But I don't want to have sex with you!"

"Um...since when does sitting on the couch count as sex?  I've sat next to my brother lots of times!"

He ran into the bedroom, collapsed onto the bed, and started crying.

"I'm sorry," he sobbed.  'I just broke up with the Love of my Life.  My friends thought I should start dating again, but I'm not ready...I'm just not ready..."

He then told me all about the Love of His Life.  The relationship, from start to finish.  His faults, fetishes, faux-pas, and favorite foods.  What he should have said that time.  What happened at the Rich Kid's Christmas party.  Did I think there was any chance of them getting back together?

This turned out to be commonplace: most of the Gang of Twelve had dated most of the others, so on most dates, I got an earful of the others' problems with jobs and relatives, triumphs and defeats in cruising, and scandals from a decade ago.

And, since they all talked to each other, my size, shape, pecadillos, and preferences were soon common knowledge.

But this breakup was new, raw, and still painful.

I didn't realize at the time that the Truck Driver was describing the next guy on my social calendar!  Apparently the ex-boyfriend was also being advised to start dating again, and the Rich Kid gave him my email address.  We had a date tomorrow night!

See also: Picked Up by a Boy and His Dog.

Cooking and Cruising: Restaurant Hookups and Pickups

My memories of places often center on restaurants.  The food, the people I went with, and the waiters.  

A cute waiter can make the most miserable meal appealing, and haute cuisine loses something when served by a waitress.

And sometimes the waiters do more than flirt.














Rock Island

Harris Pizza.  Harris Pizza, no question, the best in the universe.  We ordered several times a year when I was growing up, and I always insisted on getting it when I returned for a visit.  Once I tried to pick up the college boy who worked at the counter, but my friend Dick did instead.  They've been together ever since.

The Hasty Tasty Shop, a pancake house where I had my wild night of debauchery in fifth grade.  Before the night was over, I got to give a massage to a high school boy and feel a wiener.

Sandy's, a fast-food chain where the waiters all wore cute Scotch tartan kilts, I assume with nothing on underneath.


Bloomington.

Bob's Burgers (no relation to the tv show).  Viju and I used to go there after an unsuccessful night of cruising at Bullwinkle's, and sometimes with out hookups after a successful night.  You could get a hamburger with a fried egg on top.  The waiters were paid extra to get enthusiastic over the food.  And they never gave us weird looks for being two (or four) men together.

Texas
 I didn't go to Houston very often, but when I did, it was to Baba Yaga, for wall to wall gay men and couples.  I took my clueless friend Bruce there when he was visiting, and he still didn't figure it out.





West Hollywood.  

The French Quarter, our go-to place for brunch, lunch, and an occasional dinner.  Remarkable for their 8" long fried zucchini sticks.  And for their cute waiters who flirted for tips.  If you sat at the little tables outside, sooner or later everyone you knew would pass by.

I never hooked up with one of the waiters, but my on-off boyfriend Raul did -- a buffed but rather feminine Afro-Cuban guy.  Unfortunately, I didn't get a chance to share.

La Azteca, a Mexican restaurant beyond the boundaries of West Hollywood.  Lane and I only went there once, but we managed to start a three-way romance with Mauricio, our waiter.

Hamburger Hamlet.  Burgers and fries rivaling anyplace in the world.  Marshall the Virgin and I used to go there after working out.

San Francisco.

Orphan Andy's, with a diner atmosphere, cute waiters, and even cuter clientele at the beginning of Castro Street.  It was also cruisy -- my friend David hooked up with a lot of guys there.  I didn't.












New York

Thai Palace. There were about 10 Thai restaurants in a 10 block radius of my apartment, but I always went to a little Thai restaurant near the Flatiron Building that's not there anymore.  Stuffed, deep-fried chicken wings with a sweeet sauce!  Never found them anywhere else. I brought Yuri there every time he visited me in Manhattan.

Paris.  

Suam Thai.  Speaking of Thai restaurants, during my summer in Paris I went to Suam Thai almost every night, and I tried to go back whenever I visited later.  No Angel wings, but good pad thai to go. I managed to hook up with Prasert, the chef -- while he was still working.

Florida.  

The Courtyard Cafe, Wilton Manors' answer to the French Quarter, with a huge patio where dozens of gay men gathered for brunch every Saturday.  Lunch was ok, too.  My friend hooked up with a waiter here, and dated him for six months.

Thai Sushi.  I'm not a fan of sushi, but I am a fan of cute waiters, and it was near The Club, the bath house of Wilton Manors.  Sometimes the guy at the next table ended up at The Club a moment later.

Amsterdam.  

Indrapura, an Indonesian restaurant notable for its chicken and beef satay, was on Rembrandtplein, just across the street from the guest house I always stayed in, and less than a mile from the Horseman's Club.  I never hooked up with any waiters, but I did get a date with a regular.

 Dayton.  

Lone Star Barbecue.  We always went to the Lone Star Barbecue for breakfast.  Pancakes, "cowboy potatoes," and brisket-omelettes.  Plus Josh a long-haired hipster waiter with a ripped chest and huge biceps.  I saw him naked at the gym, too. (See my Sausage Sighting List).

The Dragon Palace, my go-to place for Chinese food.  Usually I got it delivered.  I tried to hookup with the delivery guy, Bobby Chan, but ended up with his Anglo friend instead.












Upstate New York


The Neptune Diner, one of those old-fashioned glass and steel diners that advertises "steaks and chops," whatever those are, but has a menu 30 pages long. I liked the gyros, the moussaka, the pancakes, and the chicken.  Chad, the housemate of the Satyr , who I dated in the fall of 2008, was a waiter there.

Applebee's.  Yes, the chain.  Troy always wanted to go to the one in the mall for lunch Saturday, because the bartender/waiter was his type: older, muscular, hairy. Unfortunately, he wore an apron that kept his bulge hidden.

The Plains

The Pizza Ranch. A horrible fundamentalist Christian pizza chain that offers gut-busting deep-fried chicken and Bible verses, but the hottest waiters imaginable.  I managed to hook up with a gay guy going undercover.

Rainbow Coffee.  There are no gay bars or restaurants in town, but there's a gay-friendly, lesbian-run vegan coffee house where you can meet lots of bohemian artistic gay-friendly types, like the cute English major Warren from the fundamentalist college on the hill.  I haven't actually seen him like this yet, but he's just a sophomore, so there's plenty of time.

Indianapolis

Charlie's Bar and Grille, a crazy retro restaurant where I got picked up by a waiter named Mike.

See also: My Top Sausage Sightings.

I Land a Date with the Water Delivery Guy

Upstate,  April 2009

Chad the Satyr's housemate and I broke up around Valentine's Day, and I was ready to start dating and hooking up again.

I was getting tired of the Gang of Twelve, the guys in Upstate New York who all had dated each other over the years and knew each other's secrets and gossipped constantly.   So although I continued accepting dates with the Klingon, the Sword Swallower, and the Pitcher with a Secret Move, I started looking at other guys.

Like the water man.

That spring water coolers were all the rage.  Tap water was unsafe, or at least the media said so, so everybody installed a water cooler in the kitchen, with a 5-gallon, 40-pound tank that had to be changed every week.

It was tricky changing the tanks yourself without splashing water all over, so the water companies offered a service whereby "the water man" would knock on your door once a week with a new bottle to replace the old.

They hired only the most muscular guys for the job, and my water guy, Pete, was no exception: in his 30s, short, dark-haired, with a v-shaped torso, an oval face and big hands.  And a wedding ring.

None of the Gang of Twelve had ever heard of him.

Not gay.

Still, every Wednesday afternoon, when Pete arrived with my water, we chatted a little longer than usual, made a little extra eye contact.  Sometimes I "accidentally" had my shirt off to see if his eyes widened.

They did.

Pete told me he was from Long Island, where he and his wife owned a house.  He came to town studying music at the University.  It was very expensive trying to maintain a house and an apartment, so he took the water-delivery job to make extra money.

"What does your wife do?" I asked.

"Sally is a teacher back on Long Island," Pete said.  "We're separated."

Separated?  The precursor to a divorce?

It made perfect sense.  Why did he choose a music school upstate, when there were so many options closer to Long Island?  He wanted to get as far from his wife as possible, to make a fresh start as he explored the gay world.

Now I just had to seal the deal.

#1: Let him "figure it out."   Straight guys always assume that everyone in the world is straight, but gay guys are always looking for clues.  I said "I just broke up with someone, and I'm trying to rid my apartment of all of their stuff.  Could you use some cds of Haydn, Bach, and Tchaikovsky?"

His eyes lit up as he deciphered someone and their as closet-speak for a guy and his.

#2: Physical contact.  We had chatted several times during the winter and spring, but I never actually touched him.  I said, "Hey, could you teach me how to change the bottles?  In case I run out before the end of the week?"

I changed gigantic bottles of milk and soda when I was in grad school, but he didn't need to know that.

I "accidentally" slipped, spilling some of the water on the floor.  Pete grabbed me. Massive hard chest against my back, shoulders against my shoulders, both of us laughing and sliding.

"Are you ok?"

"I will be in a minute."  I turned.  We kissed.

Pete had more deliveries that day, of course, so he couldn't stick around.  He returned in the evening, ready to go -- apparently he wasn't newly out, but had been seeing guys "on the downlow" before he and his wife separated.

His beautiful physique was all from "genetics" and lifting bottles of water -- he claimed that he never worked out.  He was small beneath the belt, but still a top, which I didn't mind for a change of pace.  The only thing I didn't like were his fetishes.  The clothes pins and whips were ok, but I drew a line at the lady's underwear.

We dated for about three weeks, long enough to count as boyfriends, at least by gay community rules.  A movie, the opera -- Wagner's Das Liebesverbot -- and two music recitals at the college, plus the antique and collectible shops of Cooperstown -- Pete was big into the kitchy nostalgia of the 1950s.

Muscular, musical, and into pop culture -- there might be a future here!

But I was hearing an awful lot about Sally, the separated wife back on Long Island.  She loved Thai food.  She was a big fan of Elton John.  She was looking for a new job.

One day at breakfast in Morey's Restaurant, he mentioned that Sally had a head cold.

"Wait -- how do you know she has a cold?" I asked.

"I just talked to her last night," Pete said nonchalantly.

"What for?"

"I talk to her every night."

I started to feel hot.  "What for?" I repeated.  "You're separated.  You have a new life now.  Shouldn't you be severing ties?"

He stared.  "That's right, we're separated.  By 200 miles.  I think about her all the time.  I can't wait until we're back together again."

Not a legal separation, a physical separation!  Now I was feeling really hot.  My stomach was churning.  "But...but...then what are we?"

"Why, friends, of course."

"But we...we...in the bedroom...."

"Oh, we have an open relationship. In fact, if you're not doing anything on the 9th, how about coming back to Long Island for a visit?  Sally would love to watch us, or maybe join in.  Are you into three-ways?"

"What?  Are you crazy?"  The thought made me nauseous. "I gotta go...."  I bolted from the restaurant and fled to the safety of my car.

No more weirdness for me!  From now on, I'm meeting men the old fashioned way -- picking them up in bars.

See also: The Museum Guard in My Bed.; My 12 Porn Movie Hookups

Troy Returns to Hell-fer-Sartain

Upstate, March 2011

Troy, my boyfriend in Upstate New York, was a high school French teacher and soccer coach -- rather an anomaly in a town obsessed with baseball --  25 years old, tall, slim, athletic  very handsome, except for the big black earrings and a pink triangle tattoo.

He had never been farther west than Buffalo, so in the spring of 2011, I offered to fly us to West Hollywood and San Francisco.

"That sounds cool," he said, "But you know where I'd really like to go?  Texas.  Cowboys, sage brush, cattle ranches, oil barons, all that glitz and glamour.  You know what they say: 'they grow them big in Texas."

"But...after 210 miserable days in Hell-fer-Sartain -- um, I mean Houston -- I vowed to never set foot in the state again!"

"I know -- you've told me lots of horror stories about your year in Texas.  But that was in 1985, before I was even born.  I'm sure it's changed a lot since then. Being gay is even legal now."

It took several conversations, but finally I agreed: three nights in Austin, Texas, a liberal, bohemian college town nowhere near Hell-fer-Sartain, and then March 15-19 in West Hollywood.

When the plane landed at Austin International Airport on March 11th, and the blue sky of Texas enveloped me, I began to feel anxious, almost panicky.  What if we were trapped here?  What if we could never escape again?

"Relax!" Troy said, taking my hand.  Wary of homophobes, especially in redneck Texas, I jerked it away.

The highway into town had tall barriers on either side.  I couldn't see anything.

We stayed at a gay bed and breakfast on Lavaca Street, just south of the State Capitol, near the Mexi-Arte Museum, a gay bar called Rain, and a sushi restaurant.  Adequately Bohemian.  I could stand spending three nights here.

But then Troy had another surprise: "I want to drive out to Houston.  It's only 165 miles."

"What?  Why?"

"The Montrose is one of the oldest gay neighborhoods in the country.  And besides, I've heard so many stories about Hell-fer-Sartain that I want to see it for myself.  We'll drive up tomorrow, spend the night, and drive back the next day, ok?"

"No way, Jose!  You talked me into coming to Texas, but no way I'm going near that place!  I haven't been there in 25 glorious years, and I'm up for at least another 25 years without setting foot in Hell-fer-Sartain."

"Ok, ok!  But would you mind if I go myself, just for curiosity's sake?  I'll keep a complete log of what happened.  Oh -- and carte blanche for cruising?"

"Sure, whatever.  You won't find anybody in Hell-fer-Sartain, anyway.  Lord knows I tried."

So I spent all day Monday and Tuesday by myself in Austin.  Troy returned in time for dinner Tuesday night.  As promised, he kept a log:

Monday 

11:00 am.  I arrive at Lone Star College, where Boomer taught bonehead English to rednecks.  I meet with Cammie, the head of the Gender-Sexuality Alliance, who prefers not to use gender pronouns.   "It's not a gay club," they tell me.  "Most of our members are transgender or genderqueer.  We have cisgender straight members, too. And a couple of gay guys."

12:00 pm.  Several members of the GSA -- two gay, two genderqueer, and one straight --  take me to lunch at the China Bear, near the campus.  They're going to be on a panel in a sociology class at 2:00, and ask me to go along.

2:00 pm.  The panel.  We sit on chairs in the front of a room with about 30 students -- not all rednecks (there's a Muslim girl in a hijab).  Each of us tells our "coming out" story (as gay, transgender, and genderqueer). Then the students ask questions, mostly about "what causes it?" and "how did your parents react?"  One asked me if I was attracted to buttholes the way straight guys are attracted to boobs.


3:00 pm.  The other gay gay on the panel, a biochemistry major named Mason, offers to take me on a tour of the area.  We try to find Boomer's old address, but the house is gone.  The streets are now paved, by the way, and have sidewalks.

5:00 pm.  Back to Mason's house.  I expect dinner, but instead he invites me to "share" with his partner Donovan, an older guy, balding but otherwise cute, firm hairy chest, big dick.  I go down on him while Mason is going down on me, and then he tops Mason.   Hot!

7:00 pm.  We shower (together) and then drive into Houston, where I check into my hotel and (finally!) go out to dinner at Baba Yegg, which disappointingly doesn't serve Russian food.  But there are lots of gay guys there, in groups and couples.

9:00 pm.  Time to hit the bars.  There are a dozen within walking distance of my hotel: South Beach, JR's, Blur, Ripcord.  Mostly dancing and drag queens, but there's one leather bar, the Eagle (naturally).

11:00 pm.  Mason and Donovan say goodbye and go back to the suburbs.  I  hit the Eagle, which is in full cruise mode.  Apparently bar life is still important in Texas.

12:00 am.  No luck at the Eagle, and I'm a little tired (and hungry), so I go to Boheme, an artsy wine bar with a pizza menu.  Naturally, I get cruised when my mouth is full of artisanal eggplant-kalimata olive pizza.

1:00 am.  Rolf is a little older than me, in his 30s, with too many scents and too much gel in his hair.  But otherwise he's hot, very muscular, bare hard chest, cut Kielbasa+, into "worship" (where you kiss and lick him all over the body).  I am glad to oblige! For sex, he's an oral bottom.  As Boomer knows, I'm mostly an oral bottom, too, but I don't mind getting a blow job every now and then, especially if the guy is hot.

Tuesday

8:00 am.  Breakfast with Rolf, then jogging through the Montrose.

10:00 am.  The Museum District: Museum of Fine Arts, Natural History Museum, then cruising at Rice University.  A cute college guy seems to be flirting with me, but I don't have time to stop.

1:00 pm.  Lunch, then a stop at the gay sex shop to buy Boomer some souvenirs, a 9" dildo and some nipple clamps (he'll use them on me, hopefully).  They have video booths with glory holes, so I stick around for awhile.  Soon a 9" penis comes through the glory hole at me.  I don't know who it belongs to -- it's dark, maybe Hispanic.  Who cares?

Later a college-aged guy puts his very hard average sized penis through.  Is it the same one who flirted with me before?  I can't tell for sure.

2:00 pm.  Time to leave Hell-for-Sartain.

"What about you?" Troy asked.  "What did you do during your two days alone in Austin?"
 
I visited the State Capitol and  the State History Museum, which was kind of boring.  I cruised at Oilcan Harry's but didn't meet anyone, worked out at the Gregory Gym at the University of Texas but didn't seen any Texas penises, bought used books at a public library book sale, not very interesting ones.

"Meet any hot guys?"

"No.  I saw Alvin Rangel's biceps and bulge at a dance recital.

I should have gone back to Hell-fer-Sartain...um, I mean Houston.

See also: Troy's First Video Booth

Bob Hooks Up with Five Guys at the Lake House

Upstate, July 2017

Bob's version of what happened during our three nights with my ex-boyfriend Troy and his current boyfriend Charles:

I've never had a boyfriend before -- I only was with one guy before meeting Boomer -- so when he asked me to come along on his visit to his ex-boyfriend and his current boyfriend, I didn't know what to think!

But it was a chance to see mountains, and Cooperstown -- the Baseball Hall of Fame! -- and spend 12 nights in bed with a guy.  If you've never slept -- just slept -- with a guy before, try it out.  I'd rather do that than get a blow job!

Friday

We have dinner in Cooperstown with Troy and Charles. Troy, Boomer's ex, is your standard twink, about 30, short, hairy chest, big cock.  But Charles is amazing, exactly my type: about 50, tall, broad-shouldered, thick slabs of muscle!

After dinner we go to the lake house, where they invite us for a midnight boat ride.  Boomer doesn't want to go, but I do.  We take this 8-seater motorboat out around the lake, Charles driving while Troy and I grope and make out (Boomer said I could go with other guys).  Then we stop, and Charles drops his pants -- biggest, thickest Mortadella+ I've ever seen!

Troy and I team up to suck him and lick his balls, and then Troy and Charles go down on me at th same time.  It's intense, in the dark, with the boat bobbing up and down.  Afterwards we go skinny-dipping to wash off -- the water's cold, but we don't care!

I'm so revved up that I can't wait to get back to the house and make out with Boomer.  He lets me go down on him, as long as I'm quiet.

Saturday

In the morning we drive into town to go to the gym, and then find a coffee house loaded with wall-to-wall college guys.  Then back to the lake house.  In the early afternoon, guests start to arrive, until there are over 40 people crammed into the small house and on the decks and in the boats.

Score!  Charles' relatives are incredible.  I figure most of them are straight, but who cares?  I'm around straight people all the time.

I go swimming with Charles' cousin, a chubby bear with a big basket and trunks that keep riding down his butt.

Pontooning with his nephew Trace, a little older than me, smooth and very muscular, with a tattoo of a bull smelling flowers on his chest.

And I go kayaking with Aram, who is a real musician!  

Later Trace and Aram invite us to meet up with their girlfriends and some other people in town.  Boomer stays home.  We go to this coffee house that has live music, and Trace introduces me to Rick, a very cute black guy in his 30s who used to sing backup for Rihanna!

We end up at Trace's apartment, making out, and Rick and I go into the bedroom.  He has a smooth, hard chest and a 8" uncut cock. He goes down on me for awhile, and then he pushes me onto the bed and thrusts between my legs while we're kissing.  It's called interfemoral -- Boomer likes it, too.  It's intense!

Suddenly Trace is knocking at the door.  "You guys about ready to go back to the house? Janine left already, and it's after midnight."

"Hold your horses," Rick yells.  "Or come in here, and I'll hold them for you."

Trace comes in, takes off his shirt and pants, and straddles me, pushing his cock into my mouth while Rick is still doing interfemoral.  He's not very big, but he's hard as a rock!  Then we switch positions, and Rick tops Trace while he's going down on me.

Trace is bi, in case you didn't notice.

Back at the lake house, I try interfemoral with Boomer, my first time on top of him.  It's great!  You're feeling his whole body, not just his cock.

Sunday

Aram invites us to breakfast at his house.  Then we go into Oneonta to church and to meet a couple of Boomer's friends for lunch.

In the afternoon, we go to the Baseball Hall of Fame -- incredible!  I could spend all day there.  I start up a conversation with a high school boy named Jesus (Hay-Zoos), from Mexico, but he doesn't look Hispanic.  I mean, he has light skin and light brown hair.  I didn't know they played baseball in Mexico!

He's staying with his family at the Otesaga Resort, and he invites us to go swimming.  Boomer doesn't want to go, so we go by ourselves.

Except we never make it to the swimming!  The minute we get inside his room, we start kissing and groping.  Jesus goes down on me, and then I push him on the bed for interfemoral -- he's never done that before.  When I finish, I beat him off while kissing him.

He's on snapchat.

In the evening Boomer and I have dinner with Troy and Charles, then return to the lake house.  We watch tv for awhile, and then Charles and his grandparents go out onto the deck. Boomer goes to bed.

"I haven't been with Boomer yet," Troy says, "And tomorrow you guys are leaving."

"He's nervous about doing anything with Charles' grandparents in the next room," I tell him.

"Well, they're not in the next room now.  Let's go surprise him!"

We go into the bedroom, and I start kissing Boomer while Troy goes down on him. But he takes a long time, so Troy and I start working on him together.  Finally he turns over and goes down on me, then Troy.  Then Troy leaves, and Boomer and I cuddle.


Monday

Charles and Troy have to get up very early to go to work, so we get up early, too.  We're on the road before the sun rises.

"Sorry you had to go through that ordeal," Boomer says. "Charles' family was nice and all, but so darn heterosexual!  I can't wait to get to the Flex Club in Cleveland, and get some action."

"What are you talking about? It was nonstop action.  I can't even remember all the guys who went down on me. Five or six guys, not counting you!  I had a blast!"

Unfortunately, I was too tired to go to the Flex Club later.

See also: Boomer's Version; and 13 Guys in One Night in Cleveland.

Three Nights with Troy and His Boyfriend: Boomer's Version

Upstate, July 2017

Every year I go back to Upstate New York. I didn't actually like my four years there -- too remote, too isolated, too rustic.  But I liked my Troy, the SUNY French major who was my boyfriend for 3 to 5 years (depending on how you calculate).

Troy has a new boyfriend, Charles, a 49-year old ex-Marine who runs the sanitation system of the city of Canajoharie.  It is apparently rather lucrative, since they have a very nice house there plus a cabin on a lake near Cooperstown.

I hadn't met Charles before this trip, but I saw some photos: round face, hairy chest, thick biceps, square workman's hands, an uncut Kielbasa hanging down.

"You and Bob [the 19-year old economics major] can stay with us," Troy said -- a godsend in baseball season, when every hotel in a 50 mile radius of Cooperstown jacks up the rates.  "Can you come for Charles' 50th birthday party on July 8th?  Every gay guy in the state will be there -- it will be intense."

Just as we were driving into Otsego County, I got a text from Troy.  "Change of plans -- we're spending the week at Charles' grandparents's lake house.  But don't worry, we told them the situation, and they said it's fine for you to be there."

I didn't want to spend three nights in the home of elderly heterosexuals I'd never met, but it was too late to back out -- every decent hotel nearby was sure to be booked solid.

There are two versions of what happened next.

Boomer's version:

Friday

We have dinner with Troy and Charles in Cooperstown, and then follow them to the lake house: 10 miles on narrow dirt roads.  I'm completely lost.

It's not a big house: 3 bedrooms, a living room, a small kitchen, two decks, and a dock.  No wifi, which means no course prep, Facebook, or Grindr.  A TV that is turned constantly to CNN, unless it's off, and a cd of whiny female vocalists is playing instead.  Charles grandparents, retired professors in their 80s, tell us about 50 years of happy memories in this house.  When Charles was a boy, he and his parents would come out almost every weekend during the summer.

"Hey, we should go for a midnight boat ride!" Charles exclaims.  "Like when I was a kid."

I'm not a fan of swimming or boating.  I don't even like driving over a bridge.  In Florida I lived four blocks from the beach and never went into the water.  And I especially don't want to go boating in the middle of the night.  I politely refuse, but Bob exclaims "Cool!  I'm in!"

After they leave, I sit up for a few more minutes, then go to bed.  It's a room right next to the grandparents, which means no sharing with Troy and Charles!  I'm not even sure I want to have sex with Bob here: the walls are very thin.

A few minutes later, Toby the golden retriever scratches at the door.  Turns out this is his bed.

I fall asleep, and wake up about an hour later when Bob slides into bed between me and the dog and puts his arms around me.  "We went skinny dipping!" he whispered.  "Wow, is Charles ever hung!  You should see him!"

"I hope to."

Bob's mouth moves down my chest to my crotch.  "There's a dog in bed with us," I protest.

"He won't care."

"Plus Charles' grandparents are just next door."

"I'll be quiet."

Saturday

In the morning we drive into town to go to the rather spartan YMCA, and then find a coffee house with wifi so I can do some work for my online summer school classes.  Then we go back to the lake house.

In the early afternoon, guests start to arrive, until there are over 40 people crammed into the small house and on the decks and in the boats.   I introduce myself one by one, trying to figure out who the gay ones are

Charles' brother? A chunky bear in a red shirt.

His cousin?  Muscular frame going to fat, and trunks that kept riding down along his butt, big basket.

His nephew?  Mid-20s, short hair, muscular frame, with a tattoo of a crow figure in a loincloth stomping on a lion, and another of Ferdinand the Bull.

A coworker?  guy with red hair, beard, ponytail, and a smooth chest?

An unidentified bearded hipster in his 40s?

The guests, male and female, child and adult, go swimming and boating and sit looking at the lake.  A three-person band plays John Denver songs.  We are invited to view a powerpoint photo montage of Charles through the years, including photos of him and two ex-boyfriends.  Apparently he's been out for a long time. His family seems to be ok with it.  But where are all his gay friends?

At 5:00 pm we eat barbecued chicken.

 At 7:00 pm there are presents and cake.

I feel out of place amid all this heterosexual nuclear family business, but apparently Bob doesn't.  He goes swimming with the Nephew, pontooning with the Uncle and Cousin, and kayaking with the Bearded Hipster.  When it gets late, he goes outside, helping set off fireworks.

Around 9:00, he says "The Nephew is meeting his girlfriend in town, and he wants us to go.  Are you up for it?"

A late night heterosexual rendezvous in a sleazy dive bar?  "I'm a little tired.  But you go ahead."

After awhile, I go to bed.  Toby scratches at the door, and I let him in.  Eventually Bob comes in, slides into bed, and puts his head on my chest.

"How was it?" I ask.

"Great!  We went to this coffee house that had live music, and the Nephew introduced me to this guy who sings backup for Beyoncé!"

I know who that is, sort of.

Sunday

The Coworker invites us to breakfast at his house, with his wife, two kids, and an unidentified guy named Erik.

Then we go into town to the Unitarian Church and to meet a couple of gay guys I knew for lunch.  I am hoping to be invited to "share" afterwards, but they don't suggest it.

In the afternoon, Bob and I go to the Baseball Hall of Fame: tacky, expensive, and only for baseball fans.  Afterwards we split up: I want to go to the used bookstore, and he wants to check out the tacky souvenir shops.

When we reunite, Bob has a high school boy in tow.  "This is Jesus, from Mexico.  He's staying with his parents are staying at the Otesaga Resort.  He invited us to go swimming."

More swimming?  We're staying at a lake!

"No thanks -- you go ahead.  I'll meet you at the Otesaga in about two hours."

In the evening we have dinner with Troy and Charles, then return to the lake house.  It's quite late, so I go to bed, leaving them watching CNN.

Before I can fall asleep, Bob and Troy come in.

"You're not getting out of here without a little sharing," Troy says with a grin.

"Be quiet -- grandparents in the next room."

"Oh, they're out on the deck, talking to Charles.

"And that's much better?"

Troy goes down on me while Bob and I kiss.  But the situation is too weird, and I can't finish.  He gives up and goes down on Bob instead, who finishes very quickly.

Monday

Charles and Troy have to get up very early to go to work, so Bob and I get up early, too.  There's not even time for morning sex.  We're on the road before the sun rises.

"Sorry you had to go through that ordeal," I tell Bob.  "Charles' family was nice and all, but so darn heterosexual!  I can't wait to get to the Flex Club in Cleveland, and get some action."

"What are you talking about?" Bob asks.  "It was nonstop action.  I can't even remember all the guys who went down on me.  Not counting you, six -- no, seven!  I had a blast!"

Obviously I was at a different lake house.

Next: Bob's Version

See also: 13 Guys in One Night at a Bathhouse in Cleveland