Yuri and I Go to Amsterdam to Visit the Horsemen's Club

Amsterdam, June 2017

June has been a month for visiting old friends, or having them visit me -- first David, then Lane, and now Yuri, who I met in grad school in New York in 1997.  He's an atmospheric scientist, 43 years old, short and rather buffed, smooth chest, bright open face, thick brown hair.  No wrinkles, no grey hair, could easily pass for 30.  He must have a picture in an attic somewhere.

He lives in London, but I usually arrange to meet him somewhere else in Europe: Minsk in 2009, Paris and Amsterdam in 2011, Iceland last October.  And now Amsterdam again.

Except this year we'll be in town for the Horsemen's Club!

It used to meet every Sunday afternoon at the Argos Bar on Warmoesstraat: a club for men with at least 20 centimeters (about 8 inches) -- they measured you at the door. No sex, but a lot of groping, fondling, and cruising.

Then they changed it to big men and their admirers.  Everyone was welcome, but 20+ centimeters got in free.  And they allowed safe sex.

I used to go every year, but now that it only meets on the third Sunday of the month, it's hard to arrange trips to coincide with it.  This year, though, I arrange my vacation with Yuri to be in Amsterdam on June 18th.

Thursday

My flight to Amsterdam arrives at 8:15 am.  I take the train to the Central Station  and go cruising at Drake's Boutique on Damrak, near the Oude Kirk.    I go down on three guys: older, wearing a business suit; a burly truck-driver type; and a tall, slim Asian guy.

If it's this busy in the morning, what's it like at 9:00 pm?

Yuri arrives at 11:30.  We have lunch and then take the train to Utrecht, an hour away, to visit my Suriname friend Eli: 29 years old, very dark skin, handsome face, average penis.

He takes us on a city tour, and to dinner at Djakarta, an Indonesian restaurant, then back to his apartment for "sharing."  He's into kissing and cuddling, but also an anal top.  After I go down on him, he tops Yuri.

I'm too jetlagged to pay much attention.

Friday

 After breakfast, we take the train back to Amsterdam and check into our hotel, which is right next door to the Nieuwe Kirke.  We visit the Rijksmuseum and the Stedelijk Museum of Modern Art, work out at Health City, and then go to PRIK and Dirty Dicks.

We "share" a tall, thin twink from Germany who has a Mortadella+: Yuri and I take turns kissing him and going down on him, and then he goes down on us at the same time.

Afterwards we go to The Eagle, a leather cruise bar, and pick up Eser, a Turkish bear in his 30s with a hairy chest, hairy arms, a small belly, and a cut Kielbasa.  He lets me go down on him while he's kissing Yuri, and then he tops Yuri while he's going down on me (try it).

Saturday

We go to the Rembrandt House, the Museum Van Loon, and the Tropenmuseum, and go jogging at Ooster Park.

Eser meets us for dinner at Montmatre, and takes us cruising at Spijker and the Web.  Yuri and I go to the dark room and kiss while guys we can't see are going down on us.  

Then Eser invites us both back to his apartment to "share" his hookup: Paul, a French otter (slim with a hairy chest), in his 20s, with a long face and a Bratwurst+.

I go down on Paul while Yuri is going down on Eser, and then we switch positions.  Surprisingly, Paul turns out to be into anal, so he tops Yuri (with a condom, of course).  Eser asks to top me, but I refuse; instead, I talk him into interfemoral.

Afterwards we return to our hotel.

Sunday

I go to services at the Old Lutheran Church while Yuri works out, and then we meet for lunch at a Thai place.

"The Horsemen's Club open at 3:00," I tell him.  "I can't wait -- it's been too long!"

Yuri looks down at his plate.  "Maybe you will go alone.  I will go to the Bijbels Museum and meet you later."

Huh?  "But the Horsemen's Club is the reason we came to Amsterdam!"  I'm not a big fan of the city overall -- it's dirty, rundown, a little rough, very sleazy, and there are entirely too many drunk and high foreigners making fools of themselves.

"The reason you came, maybe.  I came here to see you."

"But...you're totally into bigger guys!  If it's under 8 inches, you throw it back!"

"Yes, but..."

"Is it because of your size?  I don't measure up either, but I always got in, even when it was 20 centimeters only.  Now it's open to all big guys and their admirers."

"My size is good, thanks."

"Your age?  So you're in your 40s.  I'm 56 years.  Being older is only a problem if you don't like twinks cruising you all the time."

"My age is good, too.  But...since we came here, I am topped four times.  That is more than usually for me in a month.  My butt is sore, and I am tired.  It is too much cruising.  On our last day in Amsterdam.  I want to do quiet, peaceful things."

So we go to Vondel Park and look at the cute guys running shirtless through the grass.

We go to a street market, where I buy a 19th century ex libris plate.

We stop for ice cream.

We browse in the Book Exchange.

In the evening we stay in our hotel room and watch tv.

Best day in Amsterdam ever.

See also: I Become a Birthday Present at the Horseman's Club

The Nebraska Football Player on the Great Redneck Roundup

July 1995, Omaha

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  What better place to find wild, untamed guys?

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

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

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

Perfect!

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

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

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



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

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

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

"Pittsburgh, definitely!  You?"

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

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

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

"Not really."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"West Hollywood boys know lots of tricks."

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

Let's review:

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

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

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

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

A Perfect Southern Gentleman: A Karl/Percy Romance. Chapter Two: The KOKK House

 

This is the second chapter of  A Perfect Southern Gentleman: A Cousin Karl and Percy Romance

Karl and Percy sat on the love seat in the master bedroom, drinking sparkling grape juice from wine glasses and kissing. Karl was fully aroused, an enormous tent in his pants. Percy resisted the urge to get on his knees -- not yet. He wanted this night to last.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Yessir. I think I been ready since the first time I saw you."

They stood and faced each other. Karl started to undress. "No, let me do that," Percy whispered. He carefully unbuttoned his own shirt, revealing his slight but firm chest and belly, Then Karl's shirt. Massive pecs, enormous arms, a mountain-man's belly. 

Their shoes and pants next -- no sexy way to take those off. Percy stared at Karl's cock -- at least eight inches, thick, veiny, sticking straight out in front of him.

"Like it?" Karl asked with a grin.

"It's perfect."

The full story is on Righteous Gemstones Beefcake and Boyfriends

My Boyfriend Ed Asner and I Make Gay History

Hi, Boomer,

I'm Michael, from the gay synagogue in L.A.  Here's my gay celebrity romance story:

The episode "My Brother's Keeper" of The Mary Tyler Moore Show  (January 13, 1973) is an icon of gay history, the first time that the word "gay" was ever used on the air to mean a gay person.

The plot  is simple: When her brother Ben (Robert Moore) visits, the snooty Phyllis (Cloris Leachman) tries to fix him up with Mary, but instead he hits it off with working-class Rhoda (Valerie Harper).  Phyllis is horrified at the idea of Rhoda as a sister-in-law, until Rhoda says that it won't work out: "He's not my type."

"Why not?" Phyllis asks.  "He's witty, he's attractive, he's successful..."

"He's gay."  90 seconds of uproarious laughter from the studio audience, Phyllis looks confused, then relieved.  And blackout.

The original script didn't have a big reveal: Rhoda and Ben just weren't going to date.  But why not?  Various ideas were bantered about: he was married, he was a priest -- but they all raised too many questions.   Why hadn't he told Phyllis?  Was his relationship with Rhoda cheating?  Finally someone suggested "He's gay."

There's a dispute over who made the suggestion.  Some say Robert Moore.   After all, he was gay in real life, and had directed the gay-themed Boys in the Band in 1968.

Some say writer Dick Clair.  He was gay in real life, too.

Some say Valerie Harper.

They're all wrong.  It was my idea.

I was still in high school, a tall, slim twink with a smooth chest and a big cock, a drama club geek, a good little Jewish boy, the class clown, and o-u-t, out!

Well, not at school -- I had a "girlfriend," who turned out to be a big ol' lesbian later on.

Out to my parents, who were sending me to a shrink to "cure" me but otherwise were relatively accepting for the 1970s.

Out to myself -- Gay Liberation, baby!

And of course, out to my boyfriend, Ed Asner.

Ed Asner, who played gruff boss Lou Grant on Mary Tyler Moore, was 40 years old, a former football star, a big, burly Daddy, with a hard hairy chest, thick biceps, and a thick monster cock!  A total top, which wasn't a problem -- I was only 17, but I had already been plowed by the best of them, including my dad's best friend (don't tell Dad).

Ed was married -- 13 years, three kids.  But it was a marriage full of temptations and recriminations, infidelities, separations, suppressed traumas, and screaming matches.  They were both seeing psychiatrists.

And when the heartache grew too much for him, he drove out to Van Nuys and picked me up.  We went out to dinner, we went to ballgames -- when a reporter turned up, he introduced me as his "nephew." We checked into a cheap hotel, where I started with my tongue on his chest and worked down to his cock and balls, until he groaned, turned me over on my stomach, and spent the next hour inside me. 

Don't you hate those jackrabbits -- three thrusts and a spurt?  Ed took his time.  Slow and methodical, thrusting over and over until it felt like he had always been inside me, like we were too halves of the same person.

Yeah, I was a little bit in love with him.

Ok, a lot in love with him.

My parents were fine with our relationship -- they didn't know that we were boyfriends, of course.  They thought that having a big, macho man around would be a good influence on me, that is, turn me straight.

So, getting back to the story:

One night we were at a burger place, and Ed told me that they were having problems with a script:

"This guy, Phyllis's brother, starts spending time with Rhoda, but he's not interested in her romantically.  Why not?  Just not having chemistry won't work -- there has to be a big reveal at the end."

"Seems obvious to me," I said.  "He's gay."

Ed looked around to see if anyone heard.  "Are you kidding?  You can't have a gay guy on tv.  The censors would be down our throat!"

"It's the 1970s -- just don't show him making out with a dude, and it will be fine.  They had a gay guy on All in the Family last year."

"But they didn't use the word 'gay.'  It's the word that will get people up in arms."

"They just have to get used to it.  Watch -- gay!"  I exclaimed.  People looked around.  "Gay!  Gay!"

"Shut up!"  Ed muttered.  "My nephew is quite the kidder!", he told the couple at the next table with a fake laugh.

"You ever hear of Gay Liberation?  We're coming out of the closet, baby!  Better to deal with it now than later, and better Mary Tyler Moore than The Partridge Family."  I grabbed his hand under the table.  He brushed me away.  "You could at least ask."

He shrugged.  "Ok, I'll ask, but I can't make any promises."

But everybody loved the idea of making Ben gay -- it was hip, it was edgy, it was "now." It went right into the script, and the rest is history.

Our relationship ended not with a bang, but a whimper: eventually Ed just stopped calling me -- I guess he decided to "work things out" with the wife.

But I'll always have great memories of my romance with a Hollywood legend.  And the knowledge that I was part of gay history.

A Hookup in the Sauna with John Amos

West Hollywood, 2017

I'm having dinner with my ex-boyfriend Lane and his husband Ben and some of their conservative, assimilated Orange County friends, who surprisingly have quite a treasure-trove of celebrity hookup stories.  Earle has just told about public sex with then-teen idol Matt Dillon.

"Kid stuff!" Stan exclaims.  He's in his sixties, chubby, balding with a white goatee.  "Anybody can hook up with a twink -- they're so horny, they don't even care who they're with.  But it takes style and finesse to seduce a real man.  And back in the 1980s, I had the biggest and the best -- John Amos."

"Wow -- I used to see him at the gym," I say.  "Hung like a garden hose."

Born in 1939, former pro football player John Amos was very visible during the 1970s, playing Gordy the Weatherman on Mary Tyler Moore, the Dad on Good Times (1974-76),  and the older Kunta Kinte on Roots (1977).  During the 1980s, he did a lot of guest spots, and went to the gym a lot.  He was very dark and very buffed, with easily a 50" chest ant 18" biceps, plus about 6" soft.

"I saw him, too," Stan says.  "But I did more than look, let me tell you!"

"Wait -- was this the Holiday Spa on LaBrea?"

He nods.

From 1986 to 1990,  I went to the Holiday Spa five times a week (not to be confused with the Hollywood Spa, a sex hotel). There were closer gyms, and gayer gyms  -- only about 50% of the patrons were gay men --  but the Holiday Spa got the most celebrities.  Not big names, but recognizable: Ron Glass from Barney Miller; Peter Scolari from Newhart; Tom Villard from We Got it Made; Jimmie Walker from Good Times. Some were gay, and some just worked nearby.  It was fun to speculate on who was who.

John Amos often worked at the same time as I did.  He became one of those "nodding acquaintances" you develop at the gym.  You nod, ask "can I squeeze in between your sets," maybe say "nice workout today" if you see him in the locker room, but nothing more.

I never saw him having a cruisy conversation with anyone.

Lane lived five blocks from the West Hollywood Gym (now Basecamp Fitness), so around 1990, I started going there most of the time, dropping into the Holiday Spa only when I happened to be in the neighborhood. I rarely saw John Amos after that.

That's the end of my John Amos story.

But Stan has a lot more.  He doesn't remember the year, probably 1987 or 1988.

Hollywood, 1987

Stan was 33 years old, black-haired, built, and horny.  The AIDS crisis didn't stop his tricking: you can't stop living your life just because of some virus.  Just put a condom on it and be careful.

His favorite gym was the Holiday Spa, 90% gay men, 100% cruisy.  Guys would display erections in the shower, get blow jobs in the sauna.  Of course, you had to be careful, only hooking up late at night when most of the straight guys were gone.

He went down on a few gym rats in the shower, had a cute Asin twink go down on him in the sauna, but John Amos was special, the stuff of memories.

It was about 10:00 pm on a Thursday night, and Stan had just arrived at the Holiday Spa. He usually showered, hit the pool for cardio, did his weight training (lower body on Thursdays), and then hit the shower again.  The locker room was nearly deserted, so he took his time showering, hoping that someone would show up and he could at least get a sausage sighting.

He got one: John Amos, the tv star, came strutting down the rows, naked, carrying a towel and grooming kit at his side.  He wasn't very tall, surprisingly, but he had a v-shaped torso, a flat outtie belly button, and a huge cock that swung between his legs like a pendulum!

"Like the view, boy?" Amos said with a smile.  He chose the shower next to Stan and turned it on.  Water streamed down his massive chest, formed a little rivulet off his cock.

"I'm not a twink, I'm 33," Stan protested.

"When you get to be my age, all of you pretty little white boys look like twinks."  He squirted out some liquid soap and started soaping up his cock.

"That's a big job," Stan said.  "Can I give you a hand."

"Ok by me -- but use your tongue."

 Stan knelt on the shower floor, wrapped his hands around Amos' butt, and started on his cock.  It immediately hardened to about 8", with a huge head.  Stan bobbed up and down while squeezing Amos' balls.

After awhile, Amos said "Come on, boy -- we're wasting water."  He turned off the shower, grabbed his grooming kit and towel, and led Stan to the steam room.

It was moist and drippy, but not very hot -- no one had added more steam for awhile.  Still aroused, Amos opened his grooming kit and pulled out a condom.

Stan froze -- he was an anal top!  He rarely bottomed, and then only for very small guys.  "I'm not sure I can take all that."

"It's not for me, white boy -- it's for you."  Amos pressed the condom into his hand and bent  over the bleachers, manipulating himself with one hand.  "I haven't had a white cock in me in two months.  Now get busy!"

"Yes, sir!"  Stan manipulated his own 6.5" until it was hard, then rolled on the condom and pushed into Amos' very tight butt.  Amos groaned but pushed against him, and tightened his sphincter.  Stan thrust slowly at first, then faster and faster while Amos groaned "That's it, white boy.  You know where it goes."

Finally Stan spurted into the condom.  He pulled out and rolled it up.

"Ready to take it, boy?" Amos said, working frantically, his eyes closed.  He stood.  "Get ready for it..."

Stan knelt and took Amos' load.

Afterwards they took another shower, and Amos left and Stan continued his workout.  They didn't exchange phone numbers.

Stan went to the gym at the same time every night for a week, but he never saw John Amos again.

Was Stan Telling the Truth?

I don't remember the Hollywood Spa being nearly that active.

John Amos has been married three times, most recently to Elisabete De Sousa (since 1982).  He has played gay characters, and is very gay-positive in real life.  That strikes me as someone who is heterosexual.

I could see a blow job in the shower, under the "a mouth is a mouth" theory of straight-gay hookups. But being an anal bottom?  Surely Stan made that up to give his story some added zing.

See also: Earle Has Public Sex with Teen Idol Matt Dillon

Who Topped Me in Barcelona: The Catalan Muscle Bear or the Chinese Twink?

This story is about my second experience as Greek passive (an anal bottom).  Can you guess who it was with?

Left: Guillem, a Catalan muscle bear in his 40s, with a Kielbasa beneath the belt.
Right; Ramon, a twink of Chinese ancestry, in his 20s, rather on the small side.

My first anal experience was with Fred, my first boyfriend, while in college.  And then rarely. if ever.  In West Hollywood, Greek was associated with people dying of AIDS, so even with a condom we rarely considered it.

Between 1985 and 1997, I was Greek passive for only 3 guys, and Greek active for 2.

Guillem or Ramon?  Read the whole story before trying to guess.

Barcelona, Summer 1994

Lane and I planned to spend only two days in Barcelona, but we ended up spending a week.  It turned out to be our favorite city in Spain, and probably in Europe.

Les Rambles, the pedestrian mall in the center of the old city
Sagrada Familia, the unfinished Gaudi church
The Picasso Museum
The best gym with day rates in Europe.

The Catalan language, obviously Romance yet pleasantly distinct from Spanish, French, and Italian.

Spanish: Quisiera tragar su salchicha
Catalan: Vull empassar la seva salsitxa

And Sauna Condal, three floors of saunas, steam rooms, mazes, dark rooms, and glory hole rooms.  We went twice, the second time on Bear Night, when it was crowded with tall, hairy-chested muscle bears, silver daddies, and Catalan chubbies.

Suddenly I saw an Asian guy sitting alone in the video room: in his 20s, short and slim, with a smooth chest, his penis covered with a towel. I guessed that he was of Chinese ancestry.

Wow!  I hadn't even seen an Asian guy since we arrived in Europe two weeks ago, except once at a Chinese restaurant in Madrid.  I figured he was a tourist from the U.S. or France, which had a larger Chinese population.  Or maybe even from China.

I knew all about cruising Asian guys, from many nights at Mugi in Hollywood.

I approached, sat next to him, and tried out my minimal Mandarin: "Ni hau bu hau?"


He glared at me and said something in Catalan that I didn't understand.  So he was a native Spaniard!

"Lo siento?"

He switched to a slow, careful Spanish.  "You were speaking Mandarin.  My grandparents speak Wu, not Mandarin.  They say Nung hau, not Ni hau, or better, Ve'tich va, which means 'have you eaten?"

A linguist!  Just my type!  "Me llama Boomer, de Toronto." [I always claimed to be Canadian while overseas to avoid getting yelled at.]

"Ramon," he said in a distracted voice, offering his hand to be shaken.

"Quisiera...."

Then he stood, crossed the room, and started working on the nipples of a muscle bear standing in the doorway.

Snubbed?  We'll see about that!  I walked over, knelt, and went down on the muscle bear's  curved Bratwurst, then gradually reached beneath Ramon's towel and fondled him- rather small, though very aroused.  I started working on both, as well as I could when one was three times as big as the other.

Soon the Muscle Bear knelt and motioned for us to change positions. I stood and kissed Ramon and fondled his butt, while the Muscle Bear worked on both of us.  It didn't take long for me to finish.  Then the Muscle Bear wordlessly left.

We looked at each other. That was a little abrupt -- Ramon was still hanging.

 "Have you eaten?" he asked with a grin, and pushed me down onto my knees again.

After he finished, we looked up Lane and Ramon's roommate Guillem, who had already been together earlier.

Guillem was a buffed, hairy muscle bear in his 40s, with a long face and a salt-and-pepper beard.  One of his hands was in a brace.

We went out for drinks at La Chapelle, a small gay bar crowded with religious artifacts about 8 blocks away.

Ramon told us that he knew only a few words of the Wu language, from his grandparents, who settled in Barcelona after the Communist Revolution of 1949.   His parents spoke only Catalan at home, and were not at all interested in their Chinese heritage.

Neither was Ramon.  He got annoyed when people assumed he spoke Chinese, or became interested in him only because they thought he was Asian.

Both he and Guillem belonged to the Catalan Independence movement, and tried to promote the Catalan language whenever they could, even pretending that they didn't speak Spanish.

"Did you know that only 40% of the people in Catalonia speak Catalan at home?" Guillem said.  "It is the native language of only 30%.  This is shameful!"

I turned to Ramon.  "You must stand out at Catalan advocacy meetings, being the only Chinese guy there."

Guillem glared at me.  "He is Catalan. Are you English or German, because your grandparents were from those places?

I could see who was the dominant partner in this relationship!  "Well...I like to claim my Potawatomie Indian heritage..."

It was now about 9:00, dinnertime in Barcelona.  Ramon and Guillem invited us back to their apartment on a very dark, narrow street in the old city, near a famous cafe,  Els Quatre Gats, where Picasso used to hang out.

We ducked inside for a look.

Dinner, served around 10:00, was trinxat, a sort of potato and cabbage quiche with fried eggs, a dark black sausage, and bread on the side, while a Spanish language version of Roseanne played in the background.

I guess it didn't come in Catalan.

After dinner we sat in the living room.  I hadn't been with Guillem yet, so I fondled his chest and kissed him.  Soon all four of us were naked.  I was going down on Guillem's rather thick Kielbasa, while Guillem and Lane were both working on Ramon.  I shrugged and grabbed Ramon and kissed him.

Then..

Have you guessed who I had my second Greek passive experience with?

Answer after the break

Jason Bateman Dates the Porn Star

West Hollywood, March 1987.

Even though my celebrity boyfriend and I dated for only about six weeks, our breakup was devastating -- particularly since he dumped me for my roommate Alan!

For three days I called in sick to work and sat at home in my bathrobe, eating ice cream, watching game shows on tv, and bursting into tears at random moments.  I didn't go out, except for work, for over a week, and when I finally hit the bars again, it was in a self-destructive daze, trying to pick up the ugliest, most disgusting sleazoid I could find.

On the second Friday night after the breakup, I padded my crotch with a balled-up handkerchief, went to a sleazy bar called the Rawhide, and propped up the wall.  Lots of leering, ugly guys there, but the one who came over was the ugliest of the lot: Tall, super-thin, pale as a ghost, with a long thin face, a thick Tom Selleck porn stash, an...ugh!...tattoo, and two...ugh!...rings.  Plus he was smoking!

The only conversation I got from him was: his name was James [not Jim], he was a porn star, and he wanted to f* me sideways with Mr. Big.

Perfect!  Getting f* sideways by Mr. Big would be the perfect remedy to our breakup.  To seal the deal, I pulled James into a kiss.

Gross! Sloppy, boozy, smoky, and his teeth scraped my tongue.

In 1987, even sleazoids were worried about AIDS, and wanted to date rather than trick, so I suggested that we meet for brunch Sunday morning at the French Quarter.  Alan and Peter would be there, and see how pitiful and self-destructive I had become, and feel guilty.

James arrived in a stupid pink muscle shirt that displayed his slim, hairy chest, which was doused -- doused! in cologne.  Obviously he wasn't hired to do porn for his physique -- his very tight jeans showed an ample basket.  But to get a chance at his penis, I'd have to endure a lot of James.  Perfectly gross.

As I waited for Alan and Peter to show up so I could make out with James, we discussed gym routines, porn, poppers, and penises. You should never mention ex-boyfriends during a date, but I did anyway, talking about that last party in detail.

James shrugged.  "The bigger they are, the flightier they get." Then:  "Hey, you want to meet my ex?  He's having a party next Friday night.  Bringing you along would make him die of envy."

So James was on the rebound, too?  Was I his idea of the sleaziest, ugliest guy possible?

"He's famous, totally closeted, and completely full of himself," James continued, "So showing up with an Iowa farmboy would really stick it to him."

"I'm from Illinois, not Iowa, and I never lived on a farm.  So who is this movie star?"

"Did you ever watch Valerie?"

The nuclear family sitcom (1986-1991) starred Valerie Harper (Rhoda) until she left after a salary dispute.  Then it became the TGIF classic The Hogan Family.  "Sure.  But Josh Taylor [Dad Michael Hogan] isn't all that famous."

"No -- David."  Teen heart throb Jason Bateman!

"But he's under age, isn't he?"  In West Hollywood you never discussed the attractiveness of kids under 18, and you never, ever admitted doing anything with them.

"Hey, hey, hey, none of that!" James protested.  "He was 18 when we met -- and let me tell you, he had been around the block a few times!  No way anybody can take my cock unless they're experienced."

Studio City, January 1987

In addition to his porn work, James worked on set design and painting, and did some acting.  He was working on Valerie and very much enjoying the view -- his ex who worked in casting filled every extra slot with a cute gay guy -- but he was still surprised when Jason Bateman, who was always surrounded by girls, approached with a cruisy smile.  After apprising that he was of legal age, James invited him out for coffee.

"Sure, I like girls," Jason said.  "Who doesn't?  But there's one thing I especially like that girls can't give me.  Unless they use one of those gross plastic strap-ons.  Nothing like the real thing."

Mr. Big started to stir in James' pants.  Jason reached down and cupped it.

"So you're into Greek [anal]?"  James asked. "That's not safe these days.  How about French [oral]?"

"I can get a girl to do that," Jason said with a shrug.

So James put a condom on Mr. Big, threw the tall, slim Jason's legs over his head, and topped him -- his first anal in three years!  Jason was tight, and for all his bragging, had never had 8.5 inches before -- but after some initial pain, he got into it.  James worked slowly, trying to make it last --  and he knew how!  Jason had an orgasm about halfway through without even touching himself.

They dated for about six weeks.  James knew, on some level, that Jason was just interested in him for his cock -- he never spent the night, he would barely kiss, he would barely cuddle.  He was seeing other people, guys and girls both.But James didn't care -- it was a real relationship, a romance.

He left little gifts in Jason's dressing room.  He caught himself humming show tunes as he drove to the studio every day ("Strange, dear, but true, dear, when I'm close to you, dear, the stars fill the sky...").  One night he even said "I love you."

That was too heavy for a closeted 18-year old. He gave James the old "It's not you, it's me" speech, said "I hope we can still be friends."

At that moment Alan and Peter came in, so I pulled James into a long, boozy kiss.  I took him home and went down on him -- well, it was big, and a penis can't stink of cigarettes and booze. -- but didn't take him up on his offer of anal -- or of attending his ex boyfriend's party.

Was  James Telling the Truth?

1. I have heard no other dating or hookup stories involving Jason Bateman, except for one that's really about Elijah Wood.

2. Jason has only been linked with a few women.  He married Amanda Anka in 2001.

3. He has played several gay characters, and is perfectly comfortable "pretending" to be gay.

James may have been telling the story to convince me to do anal, but then what would have happened if I agreed to go to the party?

See also: My Celebrity Boyfriend

Randall, the Muscle Bear with the Pierced Penis

Rock Island, December 25th, 1990

My boyfriend Lane and I have an open relationship: bedroom activity with other guys is fine, as long as we are both present, "sharing" or at least watching.  In emergencies, like when I'm back in Rock Island for two weeks, a close friend can substitute.

So on Christmas Day, I call Lane and tell him how my friend Dick and I went to JR's last night and hooked up with the Ginger Boy.  And he tells me about how he went to a bear contest at the Faultline, and got the phone number of the winner, Randall.

"You should have seen him!  A classic muscle daddy, in his 50s but not grey, a military haircut, a short-cropped beard, thick arms, nice muscular hairy chest!  I groped him -- feels like a gigantic Kielbasa down there!"

"Sounds hot," I say.  Not really my type though.  I just turned 30, so I'm not into the over-40 crowd.  I figure if they date, I'll just be the "watcher."

"And really into S&M: mummification, water sports, you name it."

I like some minor bondage, but Lane isn't into it at all.  What does he see in this guy?  "So, when is the big date?  You can bring Max along to share, if I'm still in the Midwest."

"No, we'll wait until you get back.  How about if we have dinner with him on the 5th?"

West Hollywood, January 5th, 6:00 pm

I expect Lane to drive me to a West Hollywood address -- San Vicente, Crescent Heights, Fairfax, La Brea.  But instead we get on the 410 and drive south for 45 minutes, to Long Beach!

The other side of the world?  What does this guy have that the 20,000 gay men in West Hollywood don't?  

Long Beach, 7:00 pm

We meet Randall at a restaurant on East Broadway, in the heart of Long Beach's gay neighborhood.  He is very attractive, very dynamic, in spite of being 23 years older than me.  Maybe I'll do more than watch.

I start bringing out my best stories.  I spent a summer in Japan.

"Really?  I lived in Japan for five years, after I got out of the navy. Nihonjin dansei ga miri kitekidesu!"

How about my celebrity boyfriend?

"Oh, I met him at a party a few years ago, when he was still in that tv show.  He let me tie him up, but I couldn't do anything else.  You know who's really into S&M scenes?  I'll give you a hint -- he's on Murphy Brown!"

Ok, my writing career.   "I worked for Muscle and Fitness for four years," I tell him, omitting the fact that I was a proofreader.  "But now I've moved into freelance.  I just had an article published in Frontiers [the local gay newspaper]."

"That's great.  I write a monthly column on the leather world.  You've probably seen it -- Randall's Ropes?"

Grrr.

10:00 pm

After cruising at the Mineshaft, a local leather bar, we go back to Randall's house, a square Spanish colonial flanked by palm trees.  Not much furniture: a nearly bare living room, a playroom with a pool table and a fireplace, a study with some paperbacks leftover from his college days.  But a well-stocked basement dungeon.

"Who's up for a scene?" Randall  asks.  "Boomer, you look like a bottom."

"Nope, a top.  Lane bottoms on occasion, but he's not really into it at all."

"Not tonight," Lane says.  "I want to try the dominance thing."

"Come on, Boomer -- you can't say no to two tops.  At least let us put you in my new leather-braided restraints and play with you a bit."

So I take off my clothes, and Randall wraps my wrists and biceps in tight leather bands.  He fondles my chest, and Lane goes down on me.  

But I'm not used to restraints, and it's very, very tight.  "Enough, enough!" I exclaim.

"But I was going to put clamps on your nipples!"

"Let me out of this thing!"

He unties the braids.  "Would you be up for a midnight swim instead?   In my pool, not in the ocean, so there will be no fish to nipple on your toes"

11:00 pm

Randall strips, revealing a nice muscular chest and a gigantic Kielbasa -- with a Prince Albert, what looks like a 3" thick metal hook through his glans.

Lane and I follow him upstairs and into the back yard.  It's January in Long Beach, 53 degrees out, jacket weather.  I assume that his pool is heated.

No.

Randall and Lane dive into the deep end.   I climb carefully into the shallow end and stand there, shivering.

Randall swims over and gropes me.  "Hey, Boomer, have you ever gone down on a guy underwater?"

Put my head under that ice shelf?  I don't think so.

I climb of the pool and go back in the house.  Randall follows.

"Sorry, you're from the Midwest, so I figured you wouldn't mind a little chill.  Let me warm you up."  He slaps my back -- vigorously. It hurts!

"Ouch!  Get away!"

"Sorry!  Well, let's get busy."  He grabs Lane, pushes him down on the couch, and starts aggressively kissing and fondling him.  His gigantic Kielbasa becomes aroused.  Who am I to turn down a Kielbasa?   I kneel and go down on him.

It feels like I'm going down on one of those old-fashioned hitching posts.


"Could you take that thing out?" I ask.  "It's breaking my teeth."

"Well, I prefer leaving it in.  Oral sex is much better that way.  Try this -- it will help you relax your throat."

He shoves a poppers vial at me.  I refuse.

Tired of getting my teeth knocked out, I move over and go down on Lane.

"Shall we go to the bedroom?" Randall asks.  He doesn't wait for an answer -- his fully aroused hitching post leads the way.

He sits on the bed, his back against the headboard, and Lane crawls between his legs and goes down on him.  I sit next to him.  We kiss for awhile.  Then he opens a carved wooden box and pulls out a homemade cigar.  "Want to get high?"

I don't drink.  What makes him think I do drugs?  I've never even seen marijuana before.  "Um...no, thanks."

"How about you, Lane?"

Lane looks up.  "Thanks, but I'm high enough as it is.  It's not every day that I get to go down on someone as big as you."

"Hey, he's not that much bigger than me!"  I exclaim.

"Just keep working, boy," Randall says, patting his head.  He lights up.  An acrid-sweet smell fills the room.

After awhile, he pushes Lane away and tries to turn me over onto my stomach.

"Um...I'm not into anal."

 "Just relax, boy." He spits on his penis and pushes it between my legs, while I'm facing the wrong way.  After a few dozen thrusts, he finishes with a yell.

All in all, a less than optimal evening.

But Lane loved it.  Randall was like a bigger, more accomplished, more adventurous version of me.  We visited him in Long Beach, or invite him up to West Hollywood, every couple of weeks until we moved to San Francisco in 1995.  And after we broke up, Lane and Randall became roommates.

Today Randall is 78 years old, still living in that house in Long Beach, still inviting Cute Young Things over to swim in his pool, try out his dungeon, and break their teeth on his Prince Albert.

See also: A Golden Boy for Christmas; Darren, Cary Grant, and Groucho Marx in the Same Bed.

What Not to Say During Sex: 11 Words and Phrases That Kill the Mood

I've been engaging in regular sexual activity for a number of years, and I've heard everything imaginable before, after, and even during the act:  laughing, screaming, crying, yelling an ex-lover's name, Bible verses, dirty talk, French, German, Klingon.

I can ignore almost anything.

But some words and phrases are too grating and asinine to ignore.  They make me much less likely to invite you home in the first place, and they ruin the mood once we get there.  They're likely to elicit laughter or a groan of disapproval.  You'd be better off quoting Monty Python ("My nipples explode with delight), or just giving your vocal cords a rest.

Here are 11 sex words and phrases that will kill the mood:

1. Fit

Oh, aren't you fit!

 Physical fitness is a measure of your cardiovascular endurance,  muscle strength and endurance, flexibility, agility, and fat-to-muscle ratio, not your physical attractiveness.  Saying that someone is fit makes you sound like a leering, groping Creepy Old Guy.

2. Delicious/Mouth Watering.

 Your kisses are delicious!  Your cock is mouth-watering!

You use your mouth for both eating and sex, but otherwise the two activities are not at all related.  Sex has nothing to do with your taste buds; a hamburger can't be sexy, and a person cannot be delicious.

3. Breed.

I need a man to breed me.

Breed means encouraging animals to have sex so they will reproduce.  It's demeaning when you're talking about human beings, and completely inaccurate when you're talking about anal sex.  If you're an anal bottom, just say so.

4. Fuck

Oh, fuck me, fuck me.

The word fuck is used for many things besides sexual acts, mostly bad things.  It's vulgar, coarse, and low-class.  Besides, it's vague.  Exactly what act are you proposing?  Do you want to be an anal top, an oral bottom?  Do you want to do interfemoral?  Be specific!





5. Cock sucker/sucking cock

I want you to suck my cock!

Cock sucker is a long-standing derogatory term for gay men.  It's demeaning to oral bottom, and completely inaccurate.  You only suck at the end of the act.  Say "go down on me" instead.

6. It feels good/great

The success of oral sex is dependent on how attractive you find your partner, how erotic you find the situation, how comfortable you are in the room, and a host of other conditions, some seemingly trivial (whether or not you are hungry).  "It feels good/great" reduces the act to a pure sensation.

7. Fag

There will be a fag at the party to service you.

Fag is another derogatory term for gay men, implying that that they are objects rather than people, far inferior to heterosexual men.  And why would you refer to just one of the gay men at a party as a fag?  They're all gay.

8. Dom/Sub

I'm a sub into getting whipped and spanked, looking for a dom.

Dom (dominant) and sub (submissive) are terms taken from heterosexual master-slave scenes, infused with the heteronormative depiction of sex as always involving a "boy" and a "girl."  It brands you as a newcomer to gay communities: we say top and bottom.

9.  Big cock

Suck that big cock!  Do you like that big cock?

I'm a big fan of extra-large equipment, but it's annoying to be asked "Do you like that big cock?" in the middle of a sexual encounter. Especially when they ask you over and over.

Um...of course I like that big cock.  Why else would I be here?

The irony is that guys who ask that are usually average-sized.

10. Yeah

Yeah, do that. Yeah...yeah.

In porn, it's guys watching the act who say "yeah...yeah" every thirty seconds.  In real life, it's the guy you're having sex with, whether or not you've asked him a question.

11. Cum

I'm gonna cum....

Why bother to announce it?  It's usually obvious, unless you're one of those guys who produces no semen, so nothing comes out.  And if you do want to announce it, why use that unelegant phrase?  Try:

Russian: Ya zankochen (I am finished).
German: Ich spritze (I squirt).
Spanish: Yo rocio (I splatter).
French: Je jouis (I am glad).

See also: 6000 Ways to Say Penis; What is the Difference Between a Pizza and a Penis?

Topped for the First Time by Fred the Ministerial Student

Davenport, Iowa, December 1979

There are a practically infinite number of bedroom acts you might want to engage in during a date with this guy, but for most gay men, the Big Four are anal top and bottom and oral giving and receiving, or in the terms we used in the 1980s:

French active/passive
Greek active/passive

French was the mainstay.  You didn't even need to ask; you could just assume that any guy you met was up for oral, both giving and receiving.  It's just what you expected to happen in the bedroom.

It's the only major activity that I knew about for 1 1/2 years after figuring "it" out.

Well, where was I supposed to learn about Greek?

There was no gay porn then, at least none that I had access to.

The Joy of Gay Sex had been published but wasn't on the shelves at the Waldenbooks in the Mall.

I had only been with about three guys, and none of them suggested Greek, or even mentioned it.


Then, on December 16, 1979, during my sophomore year in college, Fred the Ministerial Student asked me for a date.  He was 27 years old,  immensely attractive, my height, with an open smiling face, a tight swimmer's build, nice biceps, and an "innie" belly button.

We had dinner in a Chinese restaurant in Davenport and then returned to his tiny two-room apartment, where I tried the "yawn and stretch" maneuver to put my arm around him.

After kissing for awhile, we went into the bedroom, tore our clothes off, and fell onto the bed, where I went down on him.  I was being French passive, although I was doing all the work.

He wasn't quite as big as the guy in this photo, but still a lot bigger than any of the three I had been on before.   I gagged and choked.

"That's ok," Fred said.  "I get that a lot.  It's the curse of the well-hung man."

He pushed me back onto the bed.  I thought he was going to go down on me, making me French active, but instead he threw my legs into the air.  It was uncomfortable, hard to breath with all that weight on my chest.

Hey, what's going on?  What's he doing?

He spat on his hand, rubbed it on his penis, and tried to push it inside me!

The pain was intense!  "Hey, wait!" I yelled.  "What are you doing?"

He pulled out.  "Sorry -- I thought you were a bottom."

"Huh?"

"Are you Greek active?  I figured you were Greek passive."

I had no idea what he was talking about.

"What's Greek?"

"I'll explain later."  He moved into the 69 position.

During our second date, Fred showed me a copy of The Advocate, which had personal ads with code like French p, Greek a/p.  The two main gay activities were French (oral) and Greek (anal).  For each you could be active (inserting) or passive (receiving), or versatile.  You could like both equally, or prefer one.

I was so surprised that gay magazines existed that I barely paid attention to the code.

"So, I know you're French passive.  Are you Greek active or passive?"

"I don't know.  I've never done that Greek thing before."

"Why didn't you say so?"  If you're a virgin, it's easier from the rear.  And I'll lube more, don't worry."

"Couldn't we, like, kiss and stuff?" I asked.

"Oh, no, it's great.  You'll see.  You just have to relax." He fondled my butt.  "Nice!"

When we went into the bedroom and got naked, he turned me over on my stomach.  He took a jar of vaseline from the nightstand, and, I assume, smeared it on his penis.  "Just relax," he repeated.  "I'll take it slow."

And he was inside me again.  It still hurt, but it was tolerable, and it was kind of nice feeling Fred's body push against me.  But then another problem arose -- apparently pressing against the prostate triggered my urination reflex.  I had to go, now!

I pushed Fred off and headed to the bathroom.  Back in the bedroom, Fred said "Yeah, that happens sometimes.  I should have warned you.  Ready to try again?"

We tried again a few more times.  I got used to it, at least enough to allow myself to be talked into it, but I still couldn't see the attraction.  Either you couldn't breathe, or you were facing the wrong way. You couldn't kiss.  It hurt.  It was messy.  It ruined the mood to ask "have you cleaned down there?"

And it was really annoying to hear Fred whisper in my ear "Just relax!" as he tried to drive a baseball bat into my butt.

Through college and grad school, I was asked to be Greek active or passive on occasion.  I usually refused.

By the time I got to West Hollywood, Greek was implicated as a main way to transmit the AIDS virus, and thus extremely rare. Guys rarely requested it.  Between 1985 and 1997, I was Greek passive with only three people, and Greek active with two.

But lately I've noticed a big increase in Greek.  On the Plains, most of my dates throw their legs in the air the second we get into the bedroom.

Is it became I'm older, a "daddy"?
Or are guys in the Straight World less concerned about AIDS?
Or is it just the 2010s?

Go figure.

See also: I learn about oral sex; My second Greek passive experience; Fred hooks up with Ron Reagan Jr.