Pushing a Shopping Cart Up Castro Street

San Francisco, May 1996

Castro Street, the heart of the gay universe, is actually quite compact.  It begins at Duboce Triangle and extends six blocks south to the corner of Market, where you can see the Muni Station and the iconic Castro Theater.

Then there are two blocks of bars, restaurants, and boutiques:  Twin Peaks, Orphan Andy's, Almost Home, Thai Thai, the Q Bar.  A Walgreen's Drug Store.  A barber shop.  Two banks.

At 19th Street it becomes residential.  Bright, ornate Victorians with covered dormer windows, crammed together, covering every inch of space for the next five blocks.  The hill becomes very steep.

By 24th you are technically still on Castro Street, but you're not in The Castro anymore.  You're in Noe Valley.





Who actually lived in those Victorians on Castro Street?

They never came up for sale or rent.  No one we met ever gave them as an address.

Maybe they were the original residents of the street, not even gay, who moved in when the neighborhood was called Little Scandinavia and inspired the play I Remember Mama, who didn't budge during the 1970s and 1980s as Gay Liberation happened all around them.

There was no particular reason to go past 19th, so I never did, until the day I saw the homeless guy pushing a shopping cart up the hill.

Around 7:00 pm on a Wednesday in May 1996,  I was walking down Castro at 19th after the gym, when I saw him rumbling toward me.  It was too late to cross the street.

In San Francisco the homeless were everywhere, sitting on the sidewalk, sleeping in doorways, waving their cups and chanting "any change -- any change -- any change."  You ignored them.  If you wanted to help, you donated to a food bank or homeless shelter.  If you gave them money, spoke to them, or interacted in any way, they would follow you and ask for more.  And as word got around that you were a soft touch, you would be mobbed everywhere you went.  I often saw hapless tourists being followed around like the Pied Piper.

But I couldn't help wondering what the homeless guy was doing.  It would take effort to push that shopping cart up the steep incline, and what for?  There were few people in that direction to panhandle, no parks to camp out in.

And, except for the shopping cart, he didn't look like a homeless person.  He was in his 30s, with a round face and a well-trimmed beard.  A red polo shirt and white pants.  A typical Castro Street buffed physique.

 Before I knew it, we made eye contact. Then he stopped his cart and said "hello" before I could pretend that I didn't see him.

I had no choice but to say "hello" back and wait for the "any change?" barrage.

Instead he said "Hot day, isn't it?"

"Better hot than cold," I said noncommittally.

"My name's Jake."  He extended his hand.  I had no choice but to shake.

 Great, now this guy and his shopping cart will be following me around all night!  

"Boomer.  Where you from?" I asked, stupidly.  That was the standard first question in San Francisco cruising.  Everyone was eager to tell horror stories about homophobic small towns.  But you didn't interact with the homeless!

"Berkeley.  My dad is a professor at UC.  Strictly old school conservative -- you should have seen him raise the roof, when I told him I was gay!"

So that's why you're homeless -- your parents kicked you out.  "I don't 'come out' to anyone.  They can figure it out for themselves."

"Have you eaten?" Jake asked next.  "I was thinking of going to Thai Thai."

Great, now I have to feed him!

"Thai Thai is pretty good," I said noncommittally.

He reached out and squeezed my arm and smiled.  "Nice biceps!  Tell you what.  I'll just drop this stuff off at home, and meet you there in fifteen minutes."

"Where's home?  There aren't any..."  I was going to say "there aren't any homeless shelters up there."  But the cart didn't contain a ragtag assortment of belongings and mementos.  It contained two baskets full of neatly folded laundry.

WTF?  This guy wasn't homeless at all!

"Just up the hill.  See you soon."

After dinner Jake took me up to the Victorian just past 22nd Street, where he and three roommates paid an exorbitant rent.  It had stained glass windows, parquet ceilings, and hardwood floors, but no washer and drier. So they took turns carting all their stuff to the laundromat.

 He got a kick out of people thinking he was homeless, getting all flustered, giving him Attitude.

"You're the first guy who actually said 'hello' to me while I was pushing the cart,"  he said, leading me into his bedroom, which had a beautiful view of Castro Street all the way down to Market.  "That's got to get you some Karma points."  He began unbuttoning my shirt.

I didn't want to tell him that I only said "hello" by accident.

In case you were wondering: hairy chest, nice pecs, very thick Bratwurst, into interfemoral and kissing.

Blake and His Boyfriend: Are All Opera Singers Gigantic Beneath the Belt?

Manhattan, June 2009

A few weeks after I moved to the East Village in 1998, I started dating Blake, who lived in my building.  Seemingly an ideal boyfriend: in his 30s, black, muscular, religious (devout Episcopalian), with a Mortadella beneath the belt.  BUT he was pretentious, elitist, an opera buff, and always had a glass of wine in his hand.  Eventually I pawned him off onto Yuri, and they dated for about three months.

He and Yuri stayed friends.  Sometimes when Yuri came to Manhattan for the weekend, he got all of us tickets to Broadway shows and operas.  I generally dislike operas, but the performers often wore bulgeworthy tights, and afterwards we often went to parties with big name celebrities in attendance, like Andrew Lloyd Weber.

Apparently Yuri stayed in contact.  When we came back to New York for a visit in June 2009, he suggested that we spend a day with Blake.

"And the night.  He's the ex-boyfriend for both of us, so it's polite to ask him to share."

"But he'll invite us to the opera!" I protested.

Yuri shrugged.  "You can live through an opera, if you look at the bulges."

Fact: all opera singers are huge beneath the belt. 

"Ok, I'll call him."

We met Blake and his new boyfriend, Kris, just after lunchtime on the Saturday of our visit.

After living in the straight world for four years, I was anxious to immerse myself in the gay world of the Village, pay my respects to Christopher Street and the Oscar Wilde Bookstore, go cruising at Boxers, with its outdoor patio, and so on.

Instead, after dropping our stuff off at Blake's apartment, we went to the Guggenheim and the Frick Museum.

Yuri and I had already been there!

Instead of dinner at a gay restaurant in the East Village, they took us to a place on 45th Street, near the New York Public Library.

Godawful, pretentious, all light and glass, with tiny $35 "plates" of broche cavatappia roule.  Lots of cocktails on the menu.  $5 for a Diet Coke.

And all female servers.  Half the fun of going out to eat is gawking at the hot waiters!

I wasn't in a good mood.

I nudged Yuri.  "Hot dogs later.  And cruising."

In the 8 years since I'd seen him last, Blake had gotten a little gray around the temples and chunky around the belly, but he was still quite attractive.

His boyfriend Kris wasn't bad, either.  A chubby twink, late 20s, with deep-set blue eyes, a short beard, and a hairy chest.  Except he outdid Blake in pretentious snark.

"Upstate New York?  All cow tipping and tractor pulls!"

"Television?  I watched that once.  It was dreadful."

"No, I don't work out.  Who wants to spend an hour sweating to narcissistic gym bunnies?  You know they're all swishy queens anyway!"

His only good quality:  he was an opera singer.

Fact: all opera singers are huge beneath the belt.

After dinner, I suggested going to a cruise bar, but Blake said he had a surprise for us.

Please, not the opera! I thought.

Fortunately, the New York opera season was over.  Instead, Blake took us to Blithe Spirit, a Noel Coward comedy, starring gay actor Rupert Everett, Angela Lansbury, and Christine Ebersole.

A gay playwright, a gay star -- you can't go wrong with that!

Except the play was entirely heterosexist.  It's about a man being haunted by the ghost of his ex-wife, which causes problems with his current wife.  Not a hint of beefcake or buddy bonding.

Afterwards, "drinks" -- another $5 Diet Coke -- at a straight bar.  With Rupert Everett, who proved even more pretentious than Kris, and borderline homophobic, bashing:


Gay subtexts: "Don't you hate dreary queens who think everything should be about them?"

Gay marriage: "A dreadful idea!"

Gay sex: "Be honest, doesn't it seem just a little silly to put your penis down a man's throat?"

I hoped Rupert wasn't planning to spend the night with us -- I was tired, hungry, upset, and not at all in the mood to put anyone's penis down my throat.

Thankfully, the evening soon came to an "early" end, around 1:00 am, and we stumbled back to Blake's apartment for a "nightcap."

My fifth Diet Coke of the day.  I anticipated getting up every hour all night.

"Now, about the bedroom arrangements," Blake said.  "There certainly isn't room for four of us in our bed, but I'm anxious to see -- and feel -- my ex-boyfriend again.  So, if you're amenable to it, I'll take Yuri into the master bedroom, and Boomer, you and Kris can have the guest room."

"Is it ok?" Yuri asked.

Kris leered at me.

Well, maybe I was up for having a man's penis down my throat after all.

"Sounds great," I said.  We gathered for a group hug and fondle, and then Kris took my hand and led me to the guest room.

Where I discovered three things:

1. Not all opera singers are huge beneath the belt.  Kris logged out at 5".

2. Plus he was an anal bottom.

3. Who didn't like cuddling.

See also: The Opera Buff and The Roommate Switch; Yuri and the Sausage Size Contest

The Boy Who Cried "Fabulous"

Wilton Manors, April 2005

How is it possible to get into a relationship with someone that you don't even like?

I met Florian when the South Florida Gay Men's Chorus performed at our church.  He was a Cute Young Thing, a fencing champion back in high school, handsome, with a firm, hairy chest, a little too tall for my tastes. But his extremely upbeat personality won me over:

"Isn't a beautiful day?  Of course, every day in Florida is beautiful, isn't it? Gosh, it just doesn't get any better than this, does it?  Welcome to Paradise!"

Our First Date

Picking me up: "I didn't know if you gave me the right address or not.  If you didn't, that would have been ok.  I had a marvelous evening planned, either way.  What a fantastic house!  And the decor is fabulous!"

Dinner: "This is the best crab quesadilla I've ever had!  And, oh, gosh, this salad is marvelous!  And aren't the waiters gorgeous?  I've never had such a fabulous meal!"

The Filling Station: "Isn't that guy hot!  And him, too!  I've never seen so many gorgeous guys in one place before!  It's like a Mr. Universe contest!  I can see why you like coming here! It's the best!"

Back to my house: "This is the most wonderful evening I've ever had!  You are positively incredible!  I can't believe how lucky I am just to be sitting here beside you!"

The kiss: He leaned in for a kiss -- with a wide grin on his face.  You never smile when preparing to kiss! It looks idiotic.

The bedroom: nice physique, hair chest, thick Bratwurst beneath the belt, into kissing and receiving oral, but the "fabulousness" never stopped.  "Oh, this is fantastic!  The best ever!  I can' believe how hot you are!"  On and on and on.

The next morning, breakfast with Yuri and Barney: "This is the best coffee I've ever had!  And cinnamon buns!  Incredible!"

I walk him to the door: Gosh, your housemates are absolutely fabulous!  Barney is a cuddly old bear, and Yuri is just incredibly handsome!  I'm dying to ask you to share, but I guess it's a little too soon, isn't it?  I should be happy with the most gorgeous guy in the world!"

I slam the door and sigh loudly.  Florian was so goshdarn chipper, so in-your-face fantabulous, that I couldn't stand him!

But he was also very aggressive.  Before I knew it:

Our Second Date

The movie: "This is the funniest movie I've ever seen!  And the world's best popcorn!  I can't believe how good it is!"

The dinner:  "That shrimp tempura was marvelous, and this is absolutely the best red bean ice cream in the universe! And isn't that waiter gorgeous!  Do you know the Japanese word for super-stud?  I wouldn't mind eating cat food if he brought it out!"

Back to my house: "This is the most wonderful evening I've ever had! Gosh, everything was just fabulous!  I can't believe how lucky I am to be dating you!  You are absolutely the most gorgeous guy in the universe!"

One more superlative, and I'll pour my soda on your head!  But you'd probably think it was fabulous!


I could just refuse all future dates.  But I didn't have the will power, and he was very, very cute.  Besides, he hadn't actually done anything wrong -- he was just annoyingly chipper.

Maybe I could scare him off.  BDSM sometimes worked.

I suggest a BDSM Scene:  "I've never tried anything like that before, but it sounds perfectly marvelous!  Tie me up and use me, Daddy!  Or should I say Sir?  Gosh, it's just so exciting!"

The Scene: I gagged him, blindfolded him, attached clothespins to his nipples, and spanked him, while he kept up a nonstop dialogue through the gag.  "Th---uh----fab--lus."

The next morning:  "That was by far the most erotic evening of my life!  You were just fabulous! Seriously, I couldn't imagine a better scene!  But maybe we could get that super-stud Barney to join in next time! Two Sirs -- that would be incredibly amazing!"

Maybe some of life's sorrows would tone him down a bit.

Our Third Date

An auction at Out of the Closet. Discussion of George Bush:  "I'm sure that he'll be defeated in the election next month!  The straights are much less homophobic now than when I was a kid!"

Walk on the beach.  This is the spot where Yuri had rocks thrown at him from a carload of homophobes. "Well...um...isn't he lucky that nothing worse happened!  Um...he is by far the most gorgeous guy I've ever seen.  Gosh, he must get cruised a hundred times a day!"

Dinner at my house with Barney. When Barney's partner died, his family refused to come to the funeral:  "Well ...um......you know...he was lucky that...that he had a supportive partner...and...an alternate family...and....this is the best moussaka I've ever eaten!"

Movie: Philadelphia, with Tom Hanks as a lawyer with AIDS who loses his job.  Boxes of kleenix all around.  "This is...um...the most beautiful movie I've ever...um...seen.  Tom Hanks is a fabulous actor...and...um...more kleenix, please?"

Invitation to the bedroom:  "Sorry, I'm not really feeling well.  But it's been a fantastic day.  I've never had so much...um...fun in my life."

That was the end of my relationship with Florian. Instead of toning him down, I turned him off.

A couple of weeks later, I ran into him at the Filling Station with another guy: "Boomer, this is Philip!  Isn't he the most gorgeous guy you've ever seen?  And isn't this a fabulous place?  I had to bring him here for our second date -- I knew he would have positively the best night of his life!  Well, gosh, it's been great seeing you again!

Philip shot me a pained look as Florian led him away.

See also: 50 Ways of Saying "Fabulous"

The Huber Heights Horror, or The Worst Hookup in Ohio History

Huber Heights, Ohio, November 2005

I still cringe just thinking about it.

Everybody was closeted in Dayton, so you spent a lot of time in online chatrooms, cruising for hookups, arrangements, friends with benefits, bondage boys, and maybe, occasionally, a real, actual date.

So I got used to online profile exaggerations: they're really 5 years older, 20 lbs heavier, and 2 inches smaller beneath the belt.

But really...

Brandon: 23, blond, slim swimmer's build, 8" uncut.  

We talked online for over an hour, about movies, tv, art, literature.  We had everything in common.  I felt an immediate emotional connection.  I was going to ask him out to dinner, but then he said, "Why don't you come over tonight?"

Well, it nearly midnight. I was falling asleep.  What kind of date could we have?

But he insisted.   I suggested that we cuddle on the couch while exchanging coming-out stories, then spend the night together and go out for brunch the next day, a good old fashioned West Hollywood "date."

"Sounds great!" he said.  "Come on over."

"Um..you don't have any parents or straight roommates hovering around, do you?"

"Oh, no, I live alone."

So I showered, changed clothes, and headed out the door at 12:30 am.

Brandon lived in Huber Heights, a ritzy suburb on the north side of Dayton, 15 miles from Fairborn. Down two deserted midnight highways.  Then a crazy maze of subdivisions with inadequate street signs.

Finally, at nearly 1:30 am, I pulled into the driveway of his nondescript suburban house.  

I walked shivering in the night chill across the front yard and rang the doorbell.  It seemed extremely loud.

Brandon's father answered.

At least, it looked like Brandon's father. 

23?  Try 43.  

Blond? grey and red.

Slim swimmer's build?  Husky bear.

 

And by the way, his name wasn't actually Brandon, it was Keith.  He just picked Brandon as a screen name because it sounded more youthful.

I had no objection to guys in their 40s , or to husky bears.    But try for a little less deception!

Still, I drove all the way out here, and we had everything in common. Maybe he was just self-conscious about his age and weight.

We could still cuddle on the couch, then spend the night together, then have brunch in the morning, right?

Brandon took me into the living room and sat me down on the couch without offering any beverages or snacks.  He unzipped and pulled his cock out.

Wait -- what about cuddling and coming out stories?

Plus -- another deception -- nothing like 8".  Maybe 5"

"Um...couldn't we do some preliminaries first?" I asked.

"Sorry -- it's just that I don't have very much time."

Not very much time?

But...but...what about spending the night?

" I have to get up early.  I was...um...called in to work."

He grabbed my head and pushed it down. Ok, the evening wouldn't be a total loss.

I  went down on him.

And kept going and going and going.  Brandon/Keith moaned and groaned, but never came close to finishing.  Finally I said "Ok, this isn't going to happen!"

"I guess I'm a little tired.  It's past my bedtime.  But thanks for coming over."

I left and drove home, arriving at 3:00 am.

Let's recap: 

I drove an hour in freezing cold in the middle of the night to meet a guy who lied about everything, who didn't offer any of the basic courtesies of a date, or even a hookup, for a sexual act that was purely one-sided, no reciprocation, no kissing, and didn't even end with a payoff.

A week or so later, I was back in the same online chatroom, and Brandon/Keith instant messaged me.

"I had such a wonderful time with you!  We should get together again!"

Aargh!

This guy has no connection to the story.  I just need something to take my mind off the Huber Heights Horror.

See also: Ricky with a Y; Remy the Jerk

Lane's Bear Boyfriend and Infinite Chazz

West Hollywood, January 1995

Lane was a big fan of a gay comic that appeared weekly in Frontiers, about an assimilated couple: they lived in a straight neighborhood, had mostly straight friends, and had problems involving kids and in-laws.

"That's what life should be like," he said one night. "If the world wasn't so homophobic, we could move down to Anaheim, buy a house, and adopt a couple of kids, just like..."

"Just like our oppressors?"

"Just like straight people.  And look -- one of the guys is short, slim, and Jewish, and the other is tall, goy, and muscular, just like us!"

"Must be a sign," I said, busily channel surfing.

One Sunday night in January, we went to a book signing of gay cartoonists at the Different Light Bookstore.  Tim, who drew Lane's strip, looked nothing like his characters: he was about 40, and big, bigger than me everywhere:  6'8 to my 6'1, and about as wide as he was tall, with impossibly wide shoulders, thick heavy biceps, enormous hands and a big belly.  I swear if he lay down on a bed, he would take up the whole thing!

Add a thick black beard, leather chaps, and a leather vest festooned with silver skulls, and you have a cross between a heavy-metal rocker and a Hell's Angel.    No wonder there was no line at his table.

Lane rushed us over.  "I love your work!" he gushed.  "Does it reflect your real life?"

I expected a big, booming voice, but Tim was actually soft spoken.  "No, it reflects what I want life to be -- a 'normal' life, with a house, a job, a partner, and kids, where gay and straight don't matter."

Ugh!  I came to West Hollywood to escape the "house, job, wife, kids" cage!  I left Lane to gush some more and headed over to meet Donelan.

When we reunited, Lane didn't talk about Tim, but he was very energetic in the bedroom that night.  I was certain that he was fantasizing about Tim

Lane liked his men big, the bigger the better: tall, massive, muscular, fat.  I was much taller than him -- we looked like Mutt and Jeff walking down the street -- but I couldn't compete with Tim.

A few days later, I came home from work to find Lane and Tim sitting on the couch. Not kissing or fondling, but Tim was so big that he couldn't sit on a couch without pressing his leg and thigh against the guy next to him.

I was certain that they had been in the bedroom!

I roiled with jealousy.  We were allowed to see other guys, as long as we brought them home to "share" the bedroom activity. Sex without sharing was cheating.

"Having fun?" I sniped.

"We were just waiting for you to get home," Lane said with a guilty grin.  "We're going to go out to dinner."

Grumble, grumble.  Ok, I guess.

We piled into Lee's hatchback -- Tim was too big for the back seat, so I had to take it.  On the way to the restaurant in a straight neighborhood, we stopped at the 7-11 for something, and Tim almost slammed the door on me!

"Sorry -- I didn't know you were getting out of the car."

Yeah, right.

After dinner, we returned to the apartment, but Tim didn't come in for sharing.  He looked around to make sure no one was looking, then hugged us both at the same time and gave us each a wet, gross kiss.  I reached down to grope him and found Lane's hand already there.

That night Lane was less than enthusiastic in the bedroom.  Because he had already had some bedroom calisthenics earlier in the day?

About a week later, Lane announced: "Tim has invited us out to visit him in Temecula on Friday."

Temecula?   

A far, far southern suburb, about 1 1/2 hours away from West Hollywood, where Tim lived in the house he inherited from his parents, where he had three cats and belonged to a gardening club and saw his two daughters from a heterosexual marriage on weekends.

Ugh!  Sounds like what I moved to West Hollywood to escape.  Besides, I had a vested interested in keeping Lane as far away from his boyfriend as possible.  I was pretty sure that ten minutes after Tim said "Move in," Lane would have the U-Haul rented and the "Dear John" letter written.


"Driving all that way in Friday night traffic?  No, thanks!" I said.

"Well, how about if we leave here at 2:00, and get there at 3:30, before rush hour starts?"

What?  Lane knew that I worked at JobTech from 8 to 5 Monday - Friday!

"We can't make it.  I have a job, remember?"

"It's contract.  You can take the day off whenever you want."

"Sure, if I don't want to make any money that day."

Lane paused.  "Hey, do you mind if I drive over by myself?  I'll be back by 10:00 pm, I promise."

I glared at him.  "Sure, no problem."

As Friday neared, I became more and more apprehensive.  Lane would probably be spending the afternoon in bed with his boyfriend!  Plus he would be experiencing the sedate Straight World lifestyle of the comic strip.  Mowing the lawn, calling the plumber to fix the sink, planning the garden club picnic, bringing a casserole to the hetero couple next door, advising the daughter over her boy trouble.

Ugh!

In a year or two, they would be inviting me to visit them in Temecula, to meet the in-laws and the kids.  They would serve coffee and cake in the living room, with a picture window looking across to the neighbors' house across the street, where the kids were playing catch in the front yard....

Friday, February 4th

I went to work as usual, but couldn't concentrate, worrying about Lane dumping me to go suburban with the motorcycle bear Tim.  Finally I decided to drive out to Temecula and catch them in the act!

I claimed to not be feeling well and left at noon.  I didn't want to drive all the way down to Temecula myself, so I called Infinite Chazz, who was from Orange County and knew his way around the suburbs.

We met three years ago, when I was working at a camp for juvenile delinquents.  Now he was living with his parents and taking classes at Cal State Fullerton: 20 years old, slim with short brown hair, a long face, a tight smooth chest, and an impressive Bratwurst beneath the belt.

We called him Infinite Chazz because he was infinitely attractive, sure to cause jaw-dropping stares in every gay guy who came within five feet of his dazzling smile and even more dazzling bulge.  He visited every couple of weeks, to "share" and make the guys at the synagogue or MCC die of envy.

At 1:30, I picked up Chazz at his parents' house.  We stopped to grab lunch at a Carl's Junior, then and drove another hour to Temecula, arriving at 3:00, at just the right moment for Lane and Tim to begin their illicit bedroom activity.

Sure enough, Lane's car was parked in the driveway.  The upstairs window was open.  That must be where they were doing it!

We knocked.  Tim immediately came to the door.  Fully clothed.  "Um....hi?" he said quizzically.

Thinking fast, I said "Hi!  I decided to come out after all."

"Great!  Glad you could make it!  Lane's out in the garden."  He reached out his bear paw to Chazz.  "And this is...."

"My friend, Infinite Chazz."

"Well, come here, let's have hugs all around."  He wrapped us in his massive arms and gave us each a kiss.  I reached down to grope him, and found his hand on Chazz's basket.

That night the four of us hooked up.  Tim had a Mortadella+, beercan thick, with an enormous head.  I got to go down on him for a few minutes before Infinite Chazz took over.  Then he topped Chazz while kissing Lane.  Meanwhile Chazz went down on me.

Tim was quite energetic for a man-mountain.

Turns out that there was no illicit bedroom activity going on.  Tim drew bears in his comic strip, but in real life he liked smooth, slim twinks and Cute Young Things.  He liked Chazz.

See also: I Sneak Chazz into His Boyfriend's Bedroom; Leonard and Larry

10 Reasons Chubs Rule

For the last thirty years, I've spent about two hours a day at the gym.  I've dated, hooked up with, and socialized with countless bodybuilders and gym rats.  But I have always been attracted to chubby guys, too.  In some ways, I like them better.

Here are 10 reasons chubby guys rule:

1, For every gym rat with 3% body fat, there are 20 guys with bellies.  A lot more guys to choose from.











2. And a lot more variety.  Muscular physiques, though undeniably attractive, all look about the same.  Visceral fat (around the organs) comes in infinite variety: belly only, with or without muscle, around the glutes, around the pecs, around the biceps, with varying size and hardness.

3.  And a lot less competition.  Chubby guys have their admirers, of course, quite a lot of them, but not nearly as many as gym rats.  You might be the only guy at the bar who is interested in him.

4. Success is practically guaranteed.  When chubby guys are rejected, it's not "Sorry, you're not my type," but a very hostile "You're gross, disgusting!  You shouldn't be allowed in the bar!"  As a result, they are very sensitive to rejection, and unlikely to say "no."

5. You can relax on the date.   Sometimes you don't want to compete with your date to see who can order the healthiest meal.  Many chubby guys are very health conscious, but most won't raise a judgmental eyebrow if you order the bacon-cheeseburger and fries.

More after the break

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

The Naked Man in the Bathtub

West Hollywood, February 1990

When I started dating Lane, I slept over almost every night in his apartment.   I was home in the evening perhaps two nights a week, and my rooommate Derek was never home during the daytime, so we rarely spoke.

So I didn't hear much about his dates, club activities, or visiting friends.

One Saturday Lane started coughing and feeling feverish, so I went on a chicken-soup-and-orange juice run and left him alone for the evening.  I went to the gym, browsed at Different Light, and then headed home to order Chinese delivery and watch Mr. Belvedere, Mama's Family, and The Golden Girls.  

When I walked into the apartment, I heard the water running in the bathroom -- Derek taking  a shower -- but I had to go badly, so I knocked on the door and yelled "Hey, mind if I pee?"

"No, go ahead!"

That didn't sound like Derek's voice.  But  I jumped into the bathroom, pulled up the toilet lid, and unzipped.

Only then did I notice the naked man in the bathtub, just letting the water run to fill it up.

Not Derek.

That wasn't surprising in itself.  Derek dated, he had friends from out of town visit, his friends brought boyfriends.  There were often people I didn't know wandering through the house.

But Derek was a 40-year old former fitness model (you can see him in a 1980 issue of Mandate).  His friends were all 40-year former fitness models and middle-aged gym rats.

And he only dated slim, androgynous twinks.  No one over 30.  Facial hair and chest hair were turn-offs.  No bodybuilders, bears, or chubbies.

The naked man in the bathtub was a bear: older, maybe 50, chubby, with a beard and a hairy chest.  Nose ring and nipple rings.  Average endowment.

Not one of Derek's usual friends.  Certainly not a date.

"Oh...um...excuse me."

"Not a problem," the bear said, smiling as he checked out my package.

"I'm Derek's roommate, Boomer."

"I'm Panther, his ex, visiting for the weekend."

Ex?  I finished, zipped up, and moved to the sink.  "How long ago were you together?"

"Oh, eons and eons. Where were you in '72?  He was still married to Ellen, a scared little gym boy peeking into the Gold Coast for the first time.  I took him under my wing, showed him the baths and the cruising trails in Griffith Park -- this was before AIDS, mind you -- and oh my Goddess!  Did he blossom!"  He stood, dripping wet.  "I was going to take a nice long soak, but you look like you're more fun.  Towel me!"

I handed him the guest towel.  "Where is Derek, by the way?"

"Oh, he took Tyler -- that's my boy as of last month, which is six months in twink years -- they're on a tour of West Hollywood.  They'll be back soon, and then we're all going out to dinner, and then cruising."  Minimally toweled, he approached.  "Up in San Francisco, we say hi to our brothers with a hug and grope."

I obliged.

We didn't do anything but hug and grope, of course -- we had just met, and there was no roommate or or mutual friend around.  We sat on the couch, talking and joking and looking at porn magazines, until Derek and Tyler returned, about an hour later.

Tyler was short, dark, muscular, Chinese-American.  Exactly my type!

I tagged along for dinner at the French Quarter.  Panther monopolized the conversation, telling me about L.A. in the 1970s, his relationship with Derek, and his life now -- he lived in San Francisco, where he worked as an organist in a Catholic church, of all things.  Tyler was one of the parishioners.

"I grew up Nazarene..." I began, to establish a connection.  But Panther moved on.

Tyler glanced over and smiled at me.

There was no way I would see him naked tonight -- any sharing would take place with Derek -- so when we went to Mugi, I redoubled my efforts to find someone, and ended up kissing and groping a guy from Singapore.

I glanced over and saw Tyler smiling at me.

Of course, I couldn't pick him up -- hooking up was frowned upon in West Hollywood in 1990.  But it was nice to get a little action, since I knew what would happen when we got home.

Derek, Panther, and Tyler said goodnight and disappeared into the bedroom.  I disappeared into my bedroom.  I heard shuffling and talking, then squeaking.

I went to sleep.  Anyway, I turned off the light and lay there, feeling left out and miserable.

A while later, I was awakened by the sound of the door opening and closing, then the pressure of someone climbing into bed with me.  I reached over and felt Tyler's hard smooth chest!

"I didn't wake you up, did I?"  He took my hand and pushed it down past his belly.

"No, of course not."  I drew him into my arms.

A while later, the door opened again.  I saw Panther's roundish form shadowed in the light of the hallway.

"Playing musical beds, Tyler?" he said with a laugh.  "Count me in.  I saw what Boomer had to offer earlier in the bathroom, thank Goddess!"

He climbed into the bed on the other side, so I was nestled between him and Tyler.

You probably can guess what happened next.  Derek appeared, naked, in the doorway.  "So this is where everybody went.  Am I invited to the party?"

Panther raised his head.  "Well, Boomer is a little occupied, but I have a free body part or two.  Grab ahold."

In the morning,  I called Lane to see if he was feeling better.  "Sorry for blowing you off," he said.  "It must have been a pretty boring night for you."

"Just an ordinary Saturday night in West Hollywood."

See also: Threesome with a Fitness Model and a Cowboy

Sausage Sighting of the Korean Muscle Bear

Rock Island, August 1981

One of the most interesting of my Sausage Sightings was the Asian muscle bear.

When I was growing up in Rock Island, you were white or black. There was one Chinese kid in my junior high, and my judo instructor was Japanese.  And that was it.

So I was surprised, during the summer after my junior year in college, when a Korean family moved into the house next door: Mr. Kim, an engineer in his 30s, his wife, who worked in a bank downtown, and two young daughters.

Mr. Kim was a surprisingly buffed muscle bear.  He often mowed his lawn or played with his dog with his shirt off and sometimes he sat in a kiddie pool in the back yard in a swimsuit, reading a magazine.

Very hot.  I wanted to get to know him better.  Of course, he was married with children, but so were many of the guys who cruised at the levee.

I took a class in East Asian Civilization at Augustana.  Unfortunately, we barely touched on Korea, but I tried an opening on Taoism, the Way of Non-Resistance.

Mr. Kim cut me off.  "I don't know anything about that stuff.  I'm a Presbyterian."

Ok, so how about Korean history?  The Joseon dynasty that threatened Tokugawa Japan?

Cut off again.  "I don't know anything about that stuff.   We moved here when I was five."

The Korean language, maybe?  "Annyeong  haseyo! Good morning."  

"Sorry, I don't know much Korean.  I took Spanish in school."

"Tengo una verga grandissima para ti!"  Ok, I didn't say that.

By this point it was obvious that Mr. Kim was not particularly interested in buddying around with the teenage boy next door.

But there's more than one way to get a Sausage Sighting.





My brother and I shared an attic room with windows on each end.  His bed was beside the south window that looked out on the lawn, and mine was beside the north window that looked out a very narrow side yard and then Mr. Kim's house.

I could lie in bed and look down into his kitchen.

It usually wasn't very interesting -- people cooking and getting things out of the refrigerator.  But sometimes late at night I was awakened by the light coming on from next door, and I saw Mr. Kim making a snack.

In his underwear.

And one night, something more spectacular happened.

The light came on about midnight, just after I went to bed.  I peered down, as usual, to see Mr. Kim talking to his wife.  He was gesturing, pacing, so maybe it was an argument.

The underwear was off!  Mr. Kim was completely naked!  His impressive Bratwurst was swinging in and out of view as he paced back and forth.  His backside, too.

His wife was wearing a bathrobe.  She started making tea.

Eventually they sat at the kitchen table, and the Bratwurst was hidden from view.

The nude kitchen stop was never repeated.  A few months later, the Kims moved away.

Recently I read somewhere that the Korean penis averages 3.8 inches, the smallest in the world.

If Mr. Kim was small, I'd like to see big.

See also: 6000 Words for Penis

The Priest with Three Boyfriends

Des Moines, March 1980

In the spring of 1980, my sophomore year at Augustana College, Fred the ministerial student took me to Des Moines, where he had friends among the closeted gay religious community. Like Oscar, who had a romance with future President Ronald Reagan back in the 1930s.  And Malcolm Boyd, the Episcopal priest who wrote the counterculture classic Are You Running with Me, Jesus? (he actually came out in 1977, but I didn't know until we had lunch together).

We stayed with Thomas, a Episcopal priest whose congregation didn't know: "They assume that because I'm a priest, I'm celibate."  He lived alone, except for two dogs, with a huge collection of pornographic magazines and photos, both gay and straight, neatly classified by author, magazine, and type.  I spent the afternoon rummaging through it while Fred and Thomas were out talking about religion or something -- Fred didn't approve of porn -- and got my first glimpse of some of the great gay erotic artists, like Tom of Finland, Sean, and the Hun.

I thought Thomas lived alone, but the first night of our stay, I woke up in the middle of the night, walked down the hall to the bathroom, and found the door to Thomas's bedroom wide open.  The lights were dim, but inside I saw two guys asleep, wrapped in each other's arms.

The next day at breakfast I met Boyfriend #1, a tall, slim redhead who worked at one of Des Moines' straight bars. He lived with his girlfriend, but sometimes came over when his shift ended.

Later that day, we had lunch with Oscar, Malcolm Boyd, Thomas, and Boyfriend #2.  I don't remember much about him.

I drove back to the house later that evening -- Fred was off with Oscar -- and yelled "Is anybody home?"  No answer.

Thomas was in the study, with porn magazines scattered all about, naked.  Kissing a very muscular teenager.  Also naked.

Boyfriend #3!

He disentangled himself long enough to say "Jason, Boomer.  Boomer, Jason."  In the midst of a kiss, the boy held out his hand for me to shake!

Freaking out, I retreated to my bedroom and sat down in a swivel chair.  Jason followed. He stood at my bedroom door, naked.  "Hey, I hope we didn't scare you," he said, panting.  "It's no big deal -- we were just playing around."

"No, it's fine.  I'm sorry I disturbed you."

"You didn't disturb us."  He walked over to me and caressed my chest.  "You're hot.  Maybe we could get together later."

Was he asking me for a date, with his boyfriend in the next room? "Um...um...I have a lover," I stammered.  That was our word for same-sex relationships.

"He can come, too -- the more the merrier."

Now Thomas stood in the doorway, naked, huge. "Can't leave you alone for a minute, can I?" he said, feigning anger, but with his eyes twinkling. "Get back in the playroom, pronto!"

He paused.  "You too, Boomer!"

I was unaware of the gay community custom of "sharing."  I wasn't even aware of hookups.  Sex with someone you weren't in love with?  Gross!  Besides, I had to stay faithful to Fred.

  But I was single 1 1/2  years later, when I saw Thomas again.

See also: The Boy in the Mesh T-Shirt; and Fred's Nine Lovers

Six Naked College Boys and One Date

Bloomington, Indiana, February 1983

On surveys, only about 2% of the U.S. male population admits to being gay, and another 1% bisexual. Of course, most are leery of coming out on a survey questionnaire, and dissimulate.  The actual population is probably much higher.

And I estimate that a huge proportion of the "straight" male population, about 80%, is open to sexual activity with men.  .

20% are on the downlow:  They are interested in relationships only with women, so they claim to be "straight," although they are attracted to both men and women.  They seek out male-male action while telling their wives and girlfriends that they're out getting a loaf of bread.  They're open for kissing, cuddling, reciprocation, whatever.

30% will settle.  They are attracted only to women, but who cares?  Sex is sex, and it's a lot easier to get a guy than a girl.  No kissing, no reciprocation, they just want to lie back and think about lady parts.

30% will let you watch.  They aren't attracted to guys, and they don't want you to touch them, but they are willing to engage in autoerotic activity with you present, as long as you don't let on that you are interested in watching.

In fact, a major form of "male bonding" for that 30% is to invite your buddies over, watch porn or just talk about girls, and engage in autoerotic activity without letting on that you are watching each other.

I first heard of this practice when I was in graduate school at Indiana University, when a hefty Dungeons-and-Dragons player named Duane criticized The Kinsey Report (some 30 years after it was published) because 37% of male respondents stated that they had engaged in a 'homosexual' act to orgasm at some time during adulthood.

"That Kinsey had a ridiculous definition of homosexual acts!" Duane exclaimed.  "It  includes everything you do with other guys around, even a circle jerk!"

I didn't know what a circle jerk was.

"Oh, it's like when you're reading porn magazines or talking about girls with your buddies, and you decide to get off.  You're not touching them -- you're not even thinking about them.  You're thinking about girls.  How is that homosexual?"

My interested piqued, I asked, "How many buddies are with you, generally?"

"Sometimes just one, but I've been in a group of six before."  He eyed me suspiciously.  "Why?"

"No reason."

 I had to find some way to get invited to one of these six-guy orgies!  But of course I couldn't come out -- this was the homophobic 1980s.  I figured that since Duane played Dungeons and Dragons most nights, that was where the "circle jerks" happened.

I waited a few days to alleviate suspicion, and then asked to join, offering to bring a pizza.

When I arrived, there were five college boys sitting in Duane's dorm room on the 5th floor of Eigenmann Hall.  I took my place among them and scoped out the territory:

Desk chairs: 
Duane: husky bear, graduate student in physics.  The Dungeon Master.
Ben: cute eyeglassed graduate student in economics, new to D&D.

Duane's bed:
Scott: long haired, bearded hipster, graduate student in sociology
Andrew: blond undergrad in physics, rather husky.

His Roommate's bed:
Asher, the roommate, a rather muscular but shy grad student in math.
Me.

We played Dungeons and Dragons for awhile without comment, but when straight men get together, women invariably enter the conversation: sizes, shapes, angles, the ones they've been with, the ones they would like to be with, ones on tv.  Soon the conversation became more graphic, as they tried to one-up each other with tales of the most spectacular feminine physiques they'd been with.

I said "My ex-girlfriend had breasts like Loni Anderson's."  (Jennifer, the savvy receptionist on WKRP in Cincinnati).

They were all impressed.  "Wow, that must have been great!" Ben exclaimed.  Apparently breast sizes to straight men are like cock sizes to the rest of us.

"Yes, they were quite...um...nice," I said.  What, exactly, did straight men do with women's breasts? "I...um...felt them many times."

"Yeah, right.  I bet you did more than feel them!"  Duane said, nudging Ben.

"Darn right!"  I wondered what they were talking about.

"We gonna talk about girls, or play Dungeons and Dragons?" Asher said, annoyed.

But once the talk of girls begins, it doesn't end.  Next I brought out my secret weapon: an issue of Playboy.  "I also dated a girl that looked just like her," I said, opening the centerfold. and placing it on the gaming table.  "Um...she was the head cheerleader and the Homecoming Queen.  I did lots of things with her breasts, too!"

By now everyone was sitting in full view of each others' crotch. Soon there was a little squirming and hiding going on.  At this point the instinct was to grab Asher or Ben, sitting on either side of me, but instead I grabbed myself.

Still no sausages!  Time to get the ball rolling.  I unzipped.  "She always told me how much she liked this," I said.

Then Scott the Hipster unzipped.  "That's nothing.  I bet your prom queen girlfriend would dump you in a minute if she saw this!"

It was rather unimpressive.

Soon the other guys unzipped: Duane (thick), then Ben (nice mushroom head), then Andrew (impressive Bratwurst), leaving only Asher sitting shyly, fully clothed.  The conversation dimmed as each guy was immersed in his private fantasy, staring into space or at the centerfold.

I tried to stare into space, avoid the disgusting centerfold, and look at Scott and Andrew, on the opposite bed, plus cast occasional sidelong glances at Duane and Ben.  And Asher, looking more and more uncomfortable.

I reached over and touched his shoulder.  "You ok?"

He stared at my crotch for a moment, wide-eyed, then said "I gotta go, sorry."  He brushed past me and rushed through the door.

At the end of the event, kleenixes were passed around, and the guys returned to their game without comment.

Altogether, rather unsatisfying.

The next day I ran into Asher in the Eigenmann Hall Gym, working out furiously.

"What happened last night?  You didn't seem like you were having fun.".

He reddened -- apparently what happens in the circle jerk stays in the circle jerk -- but said "It was just too weird.  I know you're not supposed to...you know, look, but how can you not?"

Asher was gay!

I didn't go to any more Dungeon-and-Dragons Circle Jerks, but I did get a date.

See also: 15 Simple Rules for Cruising Straight Guys; and Dungeons and Dragons