Trying to Find a Quiet Night in Gay Heaven

San Francisco, March 1997

What is it like to live in Gay Heaven, to know that you have achieved something that most gay people can only dream of?  How can you go about your everyday activities, buy groceries, pay rent, work out at the gym, knowing that thousands of people would give anything to be in your position?

It's a big responsibility to live as a stand-in for a thousand gay men.  Every moment has to count.  Every night is a mad rush of beer busts, bear parties, AIDS benefits, book signings, art openings, film premieres, special events so frequent that they're not special at all.

Plus at least one party per week, probably two or three, to welcome new residents; to say goodbye to those who are leaving; to celebrate birthdays, anniversaries, new jobs, and new apartments; to introduce new boyfriends; to entertain a constant stream of out-of-town guests.

(Every gay man you have ever known, even if it was just a brief conversation ten years ago, will eventually show up on your doorstep, bags in hand, hoping to stay with you while he tries to move to Gay Heaven.)

Plus a round of holidays that require planning and discussion: the Castro Street Fair, Halloween, New Year's Eve, The Gay Film Festival, the AIDS Walk, Dore Alley, Christopher Street West

Plus constant dates and hookups, partly because there are so many men to choose from, new refugees from the Straight World arriving every day.

Partly because when you're a stand-in for a thousand gay men stuck in Straight World wastelands, it's your duty and obligation to have as much sex as possible.

I leave the apartment at 8:00 am, meet David at Orphan Andy's for breakfast, and am never alone again until I return at 11:00 pm -- even then, I usually have a date or hookup with me.

My computer and tv sit silent.  My kitchen is for storing sodas and snacks.  Books that I buy but don't have time to read accumulate in uneasy stacks by my bedside.

I'm an introvert. I hate blaring music, flashing lights, and especially crowds.  I need quiet and solitude to recharge and energize.

March 14: Friday Night.

I've been asked out to dinner by Roger, a guy I met at the gym -- he had a very impressive shower erection.  Plus my sort-of boyfriend Kevin wants me to go to an "open mike night" (the vampire can sing!),  I've been invited to a party to help my friend Corbin welcome his visiting ex-boyfriend, and there's the usual Bear Party south of Market.  But I've had it.  Tonight is my night to relax!

I write in my Calendar "Quiet Evening at Home!!!," refuse all invitations, and turn off the answering machine on my phone.  After work and the gym, I pick up Thai food and a pint of ice cream.  I go home, draw the shades, and lock the door.

For the next 12 hours, I will not see, talk to, or interact with another human being.  Sheer solitude!  Heaven in Gay Heaven!

7:30 pm.  I put on my bathrobe and turn on Nickelodeon to watch while I eat.  Kenan and Kel, a teencom about a pair of Laurel-and-Hardy fat-thin bickering-buddies played by Kenan Thompson (who gets them involved in crazy schemes) and Kel Mitchell (who groans his catchphrase, "Here it goes!").  The guys believe that their friend Roger (Malcolm Jamal-Warner) is a jewel thief.

The show has a strong gay subtext, and Roger is rather cute.  What a coincidence -- a cute guy asked me out to dinner tonight.  We would probably be eating right now.  Then we'd go to Corbin's party, then cruising at the Eagle, and back to his apartment....

8:00 pm: I turn the channel to Sliders, about college boy Quinn (Jerry O'Connor) trapped in an endless voyage among parallel universes, accompanied by the Girl, the Professor, and the Jazz Musician.   This week they're in a world where all 18-25 year olds must become organ donors for the oldsters.  Meanwhile there's a subplot about Maggie (Kari Wuhler), a team member they picked up a few parallel worlds back, having a parasite removed from her body.  It takes a hot guy to lure it out so it can breed.

Heterosexist -- even alien parasites fall into boy-girl categories -- and disgusting.  Besides, Quinn never takes his shirt off.

At Corbin's party tonight, the entertainment will be a guy stripping and going down on the guests, or maybe a "guess the penis" game.

9:00 pm.  Nothing good on tv.  I go to the bedroom, lie down on the bed, and pick up a book.

Kevin is probably at the open-mic night by now.  One doesn't expect a dour, sarcastic vampire to be a singer, but he is, with a wide repertoire of torch songs and show tunes.  "Cabaret" starts playing in my head:

Put away the knitting, the book, and the broom.  Listen to the music play.
Life is a cabaret, old chum.  Come to the cabaret....

9:30 pm.  I turn the tv back on.  Step by Step, a TGIF sitcom about the blended family of Frank (Patrick Duffy) and Carol (Suzanne Sommers), formerly of Dallas and Three's Company, respectively.

In this episode, Frank's son  J.T. (Brandon Call), Carol's daughter Dana (Staci Keanan), and  their friend Rich (Jason Marsden) end up in a Mexican prison over burritos.  Back home, Carol teaches Jean-Luc (Bronson Pinchot), her partner at the beauty salon, how to drive.

Strong gay subtext between J.T. and Rich, and I'm pretty sure Jean-Luc is supposed to be gay.  But...I don't need to worry about subtexts and stereotypes anymore.  I'm in Gay Heaven!

The bear party is usually busy about now.

There are thousands of gay guys trapped in the Straight World tonight, with nothing to do but watch Step by Step and dream.  But I live in Gay Heaven.  It's my duty to go out, whether I want to or not.

I pull on my clothes and catch the Muni to South of Market.

10:00 pm.  I arrive at the bear party.  My friend David is there, going down on a muscular guy in his 30s with a short beard, a tight hairless chest, and a nicely shaped Bratwurst+.  He moves aside and motions for me to take over.

Just a quiet night in Gay Heaven.

See also: The Amazing Invisible Boy

My Date with Santa Claus

San Francisco, December 1996

It was Christmastime, one of the years when I couldn't make it back to the Midwest, so I was even more depressed than usual.  To cheer me up, my friend David dragged me to the Bear Party (for husky guys and their admirers) held every Saturday night in a house South of Market in San Francisco.

As we wandering through the upstairs lounge area, where guys were chatting and eating Christmas cookies and drinking egg nog to "Jingle Bell Rock," David exclaimed "Look -- it's Santa Claus."

The guy he pointed out did look like Santa Claus, except for the jeans and red suspenders -- in his 60s, tall, thick muscular arms going to fat, a chubby belly, a white beard, his chest covered with white fur.  He was sitting on a leather couch, talking animatedly to a friend.

"Come on, let's go sit on Santa's lap!"

David was 43 years old, recently out, and anxious to try everything with everybody, but I was a little more picky,

"He's not into it!" I exclaimed.  Some guys came to the Bear Parties just to socialize with friends.  If you wanted sexual activity, you went down to the basement, where there were three rooms of mazes, mattresses, and dungeons.  "Besides, my idea of Santa Claus is a little younger, with a bodybuilder's physique."

"Don't tell me you never fantasized about Santa sliding down your chimney!"

"No, I can't say that I have."

"Scrooge!"  David dragged me across the room and knelt in front of Santa like a supplicant at an altar.  Smiling, he unzipped -- a very thick Kielbasa.  The friend made himself scarce.

While David worked, I sat next to Santa and fondled his chest and nipples.  He put a thick arm around me and drew me into a whiskery kiss.  It was all I could do to stifle a giggle as the song "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" played in my head.

David pushed my hand down onto Santa's penis, but I was a little weirded out and moved away.

After a few minutes, Santa zipped up and drew us both into bear hugs.

"Thank you, young man -- I had resigned myself to no erotic activity tonight -- you see, my knees aren't what they used to be, so I can't make it down the stairs.  But such things are forbidden in this part of the house.  Would you and your friend care to come back to my apartment?  By the way, my name is Bearnárd, with an accent grave.

"Well..."  David never felt that a Bear Party was a success until he'd been with at least five guys.

"I have wassail, and spiced apples, far superior to the Safeway gingerbread they're serving here. And condoms," he added with a wink.

"Sure, why not."

I didn't feel like going, but you should always bring someone along on a hookup.  I followed them out the door.

On the way home, Bearnárd told us that he majored in biology at Harvard, but now he wrote fantasy novels about King Arthur and his twin brother Mordred, one good, one evil, locked in an apocalyptic battle.

"They sell very well -- I've been called a new Tolkien, if that is in fact a complement."

"Any gay characters?" I asked pointedly.

"Oh, tons.  Of course, they didn't have the concept of gay in the Middle Ages, but there are many languorous looks between comrades in arms."

 Bearnárd's apartment in the Castro was completely Medievalized.  There were suits of armor, tapestries, halberds, and heavy oak tables.  He told us that he drew inspiration from the king's room in the Tower of London.

He did have a wassail bowl, full of hot apple cider and sliced apples, peaches, pears, and raisins, which we drew into bowls and ate like soup.

 Bearnárd changed into a red silk bathrobe which made him look even more like Santa Claus, and invited us to get naked, which made sitting on hard wooden benches rather uncomfortable.  He told us about the pagan origin of the yule log, the Christmas tree, the wassail bowl, chestnuts roasting over an open fire, and "Twelve Days of Christmas."

I had already heard of most of it, but Bearnárd acted as if it was an amazing revelation.

"And Saint Nicholas himself was no Madison Avenue marketing ploy, but the Wild Man of the Hunt, revered throughout Europe from prehistoric times, gone undercover when Christianity took control."

David and I exchanged pained expressions.  Who knew that Santa Claus was such a talker?

Trying to change the subject, I said "I know a guy in L.A. who went to Harvard.  My friend Fred's ex, Matt.  He majored in French and German."

"Matt, you say?  What's the surname?"

I told him.

"I may have tricked with him.  I go to all the alumni events, you see.  Cute boy, but completely insane!"

Time to take the bull by the horns, as it were.  I walked across the room, knelt, opened the red silk robe, and went down on Santa Claus.

He pulled my head up.  "My boy, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but there's plenty of time for that later!  We must listen to some music first.  I have Charpentier's Noels por les instruments."

We left the Bear Party at a little after 9:00 pm.  It was after midnight when we finally got into Bearnárd's bed.  And then it was mostly watching and fondling while David went down on him.

It took an hour to finish.  Several false starts.

But at least I can now say that I've been with Santa Claus.

The next day I called Matt and asked if he knew Bearnárd.

"The fantasy writer?  Sure -- we dated when I was a senior.  Well, not much of a date.  Not a lot going on in the bedroom.  And talk, talk, talk.  That man, il est tout fou!".

See also: 8 Harvard Yard Hookups; The Slave Boy of Market Street.

The Beach Boy and the "Fag"

Wilton Manors

"I've found him!" Kelly exclaimed over the telephone.  "The One!  We've only had one date, but that's enough to know!"

Kelly was one of the fitness trainers at Barney's Gym: in his 30s, about Yuri's height, with a long face, brown hair, good biceps and excellent abs and a smooth, less-than-spectacular chest.  Beneath the belt he was average, cut, with shaved pubes.  Somewhat shy and quiet, one of those high-school nerds who found self-confidence at the gym.

He would let you go down on him, to be polite, but he reciprocated only if  you were big in the belly.  The bigger the better.  Superchub, no problem.

His dream guy was fat, young, smooth, and supersized beneath the belt.

Not easy to find!  In Florida, where the beach is a few blocks away and guys wear next to nothing year round, the Wilton Manors norm was heavily muscled with 3% body fat.  Husky guys were uncommon, and fat rather rare.  Young fat guys practically unheard of.

And for whatever reason, fat guys tend to be a a little small beneath the belt.  

So who was this Tobias, the Man of Kelly's dreams?

On the night of their third date, they came over for dinner so Kelly could introduce him to his friends: Barney, Yuri, his boyfriend Jim, another fitness trainer, me, and Wade the Beach Boy.  Yuri made his famous moussaka.

Tobias was in his 20s, tall, chubby, with a smooth chest, employed as a bartender at a hotel near the beach.  Obviously smitten by Kelly: he kept his arm around him the whole evening.

But I was turned off by his greasy slicked-back hair, tattoos, rings, and unattractive leer.

And his speech, littered with profanity: "Little Kelly here, he's the best f*king c*ksucker in the business!  Holy f*k, I never c** so hard in my life!"

And the fact that he had been in prison: "There was a little queen at Kissimmee [juvenile detention center] that was on his knees every night, serviced the whole f*ing dorm, I kid you not!"


"What were you in juvie for?" I asked.

"Oh, please, we're queers.  We're all criminals, according to the hetero *holes that run this country.  Now let's get this f*ng party started.  Which of you c*ksuckers wants the first shot?"

He unzipped.  He was already fully aroused.  A perfectly shaped Kielbasa, with a round head and a small vein running up the side.

Well, I didn't mind a little profanity.

Still, I couldn't imagine quiet, shy Kelly getting along with brash, profane Tobias for long.

A week or so later, I flew out to New Mexico to visit Larry and cruise in the Navajo nation.  Then I visited Rock Island and Indianapolis for a few days.

When I got back, I saw Kelly at the gym and asked "So, is it still Paradise?"

"Oh, it's going great!  Wait -- you've been out of town.  Are you talking about Tobias?  He's history!"

"Why, what happened?"

Here's what happened:

A few days after I left for New Mexico, Wade the Beach Boy and Kelly had lunch.

"Oh, it's going great!" Kelly said.  "Great in bed!  I never met a guy with so much stamina.  I must do him like ten times a day!"

"What about outside the bedroom?" Wade asked.  "Do you have the same interests in, like movies?  Or music?  You're the world's biggest gym rat -- does Tobias even work out?"

"Not really.  He says he gets enough exercise in bed! But we go to the beach, we go dancing, we cruise together and bring guys home to share.  It's fun...but...um, have you ever heard of parties where guys have sex?  I don't mean sharing with friends -- I mean complete strangers?"

"Sure -- Bear Parties.  Boomer talks about them."

"Well, Tobias wants me to go to a Bear Party with him, down in Miami Beach. Fifty naked guys, maybe more."

"Sounds like a fun Saturday night," Wade said.  "Can I get an invitation?"

"Here's the thing.  I'm supposed to be the party's official 'fag.'"

"That is way offensive, dude."

"No, it just means a guy who likes oral sex."

Oral bottoms, guys who are into going down, are often denigrated in gay communities, even called "fags," to distinguish them from the "real men," the oral tops.  It's all sexist nonsense, based on the belief that women are oral bottoms, and being "like a woman" is reprehensible.

"But," Kelly continued,  "The 'fag" has to go down on anybody Tobias wants.  But you know I'm not into that unless the guy is chubby."

"Well then refuse, and just go with guys you find attractive."

"Yeah, but Tobias told me to.  He already told everyone I was going to do it.  He's kind of in charge in the relationship.  He calls himself 'the guy," like I'm 'the girl."

"Ok."  Wade thought for a moment.  "Here's what you do.  First, get me an invitation."

The party was held in one of those extraordinarily expensive glass-and-steel apartments with a picture window looking out onto the ocean and the tv hidden away in a teakwood cabinet.  There were about 30 guys, a good mix of older and younger, occupying the living room and two bedrooms.

Tobias stationed the "fag" on a stool in a small alcove.  Wade said he wanted to mingle, but stood close by anyway.

After a few minutes, Tobias returned with a tall, thin older guy, naked, with a sizeable Bratwurst.  "Is this the fag?"  he asked, looking at Kelly.

"No, I am," Wade said, kneeling and going to work.

Tobias glared at Kelly, but what could he do?  He wandered off, found a thin twink, and brought him to the alcove.

"Sorry, Kelly's taking a break," Wade said.  "But I'm free."  He fell to his knees and got to work.

Tobias walked off in a huff.

Afterwards Wade wandered around until he found a chubby guy, and invited him into the alcove, where Kelly eagerly went to work.

Tobias appeared with another tall, thin guy, saw that Kelly was busy, and exclaimed "Hey, what the f*k?  You refuse all the guys I bring over, but when Wade brings someone..."

"Don't worry," Wade said.  "I'll take care of him."

"That's not the point!  Kelly is supposed to be the f*ing c*ksucker, f*ing going down on whatever guy I say!"

"I think that's called pimping," Wade murmured.  "Is Kelly your boyfriend or your employee?"

That was the end of Kelly' romance with Tobias.

But he did meet someone else at the party: big belly, thick uncut Mortadella.

Ok, he was 55 years old, and had a hairy chest.

But at least he didn't call Kelly a "fag."

See also: The Beach Boy and the Giant; Carlos and his Two Secrets.

How We Invented Sex Parties

West Hollywood, November 1992

In West Hollywood in the 1980s and 1990s, hooking up was frowned upon.  You dated, shared your boyfriend with your friends, and played party games with a sexual component, but bringing home a stranger with no preliminaries -- deviant, dangerous, disgusting.

We knew about bathhouses and backrooms as relics of an earlier age of innocence, but there were none left in Los Angeles, and few of us went to them when traveling abroad.

And no one had ever heard of sex parties or bear parties, roomfuls of guys who get together explicitly for sexual activity with complete strangers.

The first one ever was Lane's idea.  But I helped.

Lane grew up in the Spanish Colonial house on Crescent Heights Boulevard that his parents bought when they got married.  It was no mansion, but it was huge by West Hollywood standards: an enormous living room, a family room, two dining rooms (one for everyday, one for special occasions), four bedrooms, two and a half baths, an enclosed porch, and a basement (rare in Los Angeles).  Plus a back yard with a huge hedge around it.

When his mother  died in November 1992, and Lane inherited the house, I expected him to immediately put it on the market, but instead he said "We should live there. The old-fashioned furniture will have to be replaced, and the kitchen needs remodeling, but it will be just like having a house in the suburbs."

I balked.  "Too stiff and formal.  And too much space for just two people.  It would hardly be cozy, would it?"

"It's walking distance to the French Quarter and the Metropolitan Community Church."

"But a mile from the Different Light. I just like our apartment better.  It's home."

But Lane prevailed, and we rented a U-Haul to bring over our bed, our tv, some paintings, six boxes of books, and some miscellaneous odds and ends.  There was something wrong with each of the bedrooms (where his parents slept, where his mother died, his old room, etc), so we moved the stuff out of the cavernous family room and moved our bed and an old dresser in.

And we set about trying to deal with the sound of silence.

We got no sleep the first night.

On the second night we invited someone in to "share."

On the third night we went out to the Faultline, even though it was a Tuesday.

But no matter how late we stayed out, no matter who shared our bed, we still couldn't sleep in that cavernous room, knowing that there were seven other equally cavernous rooms, an infinite space between us and the rest of the world.

"How did you handle all this space when you were growing up, with just you and your parents?"  I asked,

"It wasn't just three.  We had a housekeeper, my grandparents lived with us, my cousin spent summers, friends of my parents visited.  The house was usually full of people.."

"Then we should have a party," I told Lane.

"A housewarming party?"

"No, bigger than that. .  Twenty or thirty people to fill this place up.  I want them overflowing the living room,, spilling out into the enclosed porch and into the back yard. I want every one of these cavernous bedrooms full."

"Bedrooms occupied?" Lane repeated with a grin. "Sounds like you want some sharing to happen at this party."

"Definitely.  Sharing in the bedrooms, making out in the formal dining room, oral in the second dining room, anal in the parlor, bondage in the basement.  Guys showering together in the bathrooms, walking down the hall with their penises swinging in the wind.  Like a bathhouse without the Attitude."

"A bathhouse-themed party!" Lane said, his eyes glowing with party-planning fervor.  "We could pass out those scratchy white towels, label rooms 'steamroom' and 'darkroom' and such, play bathhouse games -- I don't know what,   we'll figure it out!"

A standard West Hollywood party has six to ten guys, are all friends or friends' dates.  But a bathhouse experience needs a lot more, and they have to be strangers.

We invited ten friends and asked them to bring a guest, and also passed out fliers to random guys who looked hot at the gym and the French Quarter. It had a photo of a shirtless model and this invitation:

Boomer and Lane's First Annual Bathhouse Party, Saturday night 8:00 pm!  Admission fee $2.00 to cover the snacks and sodas.  Men only, all ages (21+), shapes, and sizes welcome.  No drugs or alcohol, no hustlers, no Attitude, just hot guys in towels doing what guys in towels do.  

We locked up the valuables, bought 50 gym towels and a lot of condoms and lube packets, and installed a row of fake lockers.  Blaring disco music, flashing red and blue lights, and a mist machine added to the bathhouse effect.

Over 50 guys came, including about 30 that I had never seen naked before, and 20 that I didn't know at all.  Collegiate twinks, chubby bears, taciturn leathermen, swishy queens from the Rage, Hollywood semi-celebrities, all stripped down, wearing towels or nothing, socializing, playing party games -- and wandering down to the basement "maze" for sexual encounters.

I lost track of the number of guys I went down on, had go down on me, or kissed and groped -- there were some repeats.  But more than at a real bathhouse.

Around 10:00 pm, guys started getting dressed and going home or to the bars.  By 11:00 there was no one left but Randall, the Muscle Bear with the Pierced Penis, who we invited to spend the night.

"We should have these parties on a regular basis," Lane said.  "But a different theme every time.  Fire Island, maybe..Castro Street...a t-room..."

"Or no theme," Randall said.  "Why bother?  Guys don't want a lot of fancy props and complicated party games -- they come for the socializing and sex."

After more sleepless nights in the cavernous space, we called it quits, put the house on the market, and moved back into our cozy two-bedroom apartment.  So we had to go back to small, intimate dinner parties.

But one of our guests started hosting "bear parties," for husky, hairy men and their admirers, at his house in the Hollywood Hills.

And the tradition spread.  Within a year, nearly every guy with a house was inviting friends and strangers over for socializing and sex.  Some specialized in BDSM, oral, or anal.  Some specified that you had to be young, fit, or big beneath the belt.

And some said "all ages, sizes, and shapes welcome," just like Lane and I did in our invitation to the very first sex party.

See also: Helping Marshall Lose His Virginity

Three Twinks and a Bear on the Same Night

West Hollywood, August 2017

I haven't been back to West Hollywood for four years, and I probably won't be back for awhile, so I want to make the best of it, as many friends, sights, hangouts, and penises as I can cram into six days and seven nights.

I stay with Infinite Chazz and have dinners, go cruising, and otherwise reconnect with Lane, Will, Randall the Muscle Bear, and Zack the Photographer. Plus I meet five new guys.


1. Jerzy

Wednesday: at dinner at Sammy's Thai, I meet  Jerzy,  tall and big-boned, with a rugged face and a severe military haircut, his muscular physique going to fat, a very thick 7".  He's mostly an oral bottom, but open for suggestions.

Jerzy doesn't believe that older guys becom twink magnets, so I take him out to the Rage and the Faultline to look for twinks.  Later we go back to Chazz's apartment to spend the night and "share."

Thursday afternoon: We hit the gym, the Getty Museum, UCLA, and the Santa Monica Pier.

Thursday night: Jerzy wins the twink contest, and gets to go down on me, Chazz, Will, and their partners.

Saturday night: I meet Jerzy, Lane, and Ben in Long Beach.  We visit Randall the Muscle Bear and cruise the cowboy bars.  No hookup.

Jerzy calls on Monday: "Tomorrow is your last night in Los Angeles, and I want to do something special.  How about if you drive down here to Costa Mesa, and we'll have dinner at a place I know on the beach.  You can bring one of your twink friends, if you like, and we'll share."

2. Alex

Friday afternoon: While visiting UCLA with Jerzy, I met Alex, a 21-year old resident advisor on campus to lead new student orientation.  He' taller than me, with straight black hair, a round face, retro horn rimmed glasses, and a tight smooth chest.  Average sized penis, big balls.  Into making out (a lot) and oral (top and bottom).

He gives me an "insider tour"  of Hollywood which mostly involves driving down Sunset Boulevard. We end up in Little Tokyo before returning to his apartment to make out.

Sunday afternoon: We drive to Hacienda Heights to visit the Hsi La temple.  Then we return to his apartment to make out.

He calls on Monday: "Are you doing anything tomorrow?  There's a new exhibit at the Huntington Library that I thought you would like...."

3. Darius

Thursday night: Will and I go to the Eagle in Silverlake, and pick up Darius, who has only been out for two years and wants to try being tied up for the first time.  While Will uses a dildo on him, I enter his mouth from above.

Then Will's partner tops him while I go down on Will.

4. Dylan

We meet at Infinite Chazz's "twink party" on Friday night, and "share," but he doesn't stay over.  He's of medium height, rather pale, with short blond hair, thick eyebrows, a smooth chest, and a shaved crotch (about 5 inches, but perpetually aroused).  An oral and anal top.

Saturday night: We drive into Orange County for dinner with Lane and Ben and a few other guys.  We end up back at Infinite Chazz's house -- just us, no sharing -- and have breakfast and go jogging in the morning.

On Monday I show up at Dylan's job with lunch (Pollo Loco take-out).

"Are you doing anything tomorrow?" he says.  "It's your last night in town, so I'd like to do something special.  I know you like comedy, so I got tickets to the Groundlings..."

5. Michael

Friday night: Infinite Chazz and his partner invite two twinks over to share celebrity hookup stories.  Dylan goes down on me and I get his phone number, but Michael ends up spending the night, with breakfast at Hugo's the next morning.

He's Hispanic or Italian, of medium height, with curly black hair, dark features, a smooth chest, and a a gigantic uncut Kielbasa  Mostly an oral bottom, but he let me go down on him.

Monday night: Michael and I go to Santa Monica for dinner with Zack the Photographer. We share (oral only) and spend the night.

In the morning, we have breakfast before Michael and Zack have to go to work.

"Tonight is your last night in Los Angeles," he says.  "I hope you don't think this is corny, but I'd like to spend it cuddling on the couch, watching Netflix and eating pizza.  And going down on you about six times, of course."

Four guys, each wanting to spend a "special night."  Which did I choose?

Answer after the break

I Share the South-of-Market Bear's Boyfriend

San Francisco, March 1996

Lane and I were living in San Francisco, gay heaven.  I was 35 years old, far beyond my twink years.  He was 40, graduated to Daddy.

We rarely saw anyone under 30.  San Francisco is hard; it takes time, money, and strategy.  Most twinks and Cute Young Things can't manage it.

Our circle of friends consisted entirely of guys in their 40s and 50s: chubby, bearded bears or smooth musclemen, with nipple rings and tattoos, black handkerchiefs in their pocket, handcuffs attached to their belt loops.

They worked entirely within the gay community: as a leather craftsman, the manager of a travel agency that catered mostly to gay men, an AIDS support specialist, a  lawyer whose clients were exclusively gay men, an artist who made leather bears to sell to gay tourists.



Our best friend was probably Drake, the leather bear artist (left) -- teddy bears in bulging chaps, in leather jackets, carrying whips and gay flags.  He was 53 years old, husky but muscular, with a hairy chest, prominent nipples, and nice biceps.  Kielbasa+ beneath the belt, uncut.  A bondage bottom.

His boyfriend, Darrell the Cartoonist, was younger, in his mid-40s (ten years, the limit to an acceptable match!), already mostly bald, with a salt and pepper beard.  Moderately hairy chest, cut Bratwurst.  A bondage top (below).

We didn't see Darrell much.  We went out to dinner once and "shared" after, but he didn't go out to the bars or the bear parties. In fact, some guys in our circle of friends wondered if Darrell existed at all, or if he was just an excuse to not "get out there and date."

One day just before Halloween, the start of the gay social season, Darrell was in Oklahoma visiting his parents, when his allergies started acting up.  He took an antihistamine, drank a glass of wine with it, and died.

The funeral was in Oklahoma.  We didn't go.

But this story is about Drake's new boyfriend.

A couple of weeks after Darrell's death, Drake returned to the gay social world.

Beer/soda bust at the Lone Eagle
Underwear contest at the Lone Star
An AIDS benefit at the Metropolitan Community Church
A book signing at Different Light
The bear parties every Wednesday and Friday night.


We saw Drake at every event, eating, drinking, socializing, cruising.  But he didn't hook up with anyone, not even at the bear parties, he didn't ask anyone for dates.  He always went home alone.

Why do you go to a bear party without even looking for someone to share your bed?

At Christmastime, Lane and I tried to fix him up with a guy we knew, but he refused: "Been there, done that.  The domestic thing isn't for me, anyway.  Too many rules."

So we let him alone.

Then one day in March 1996, Drake met us at brunch after church and announced: "I have a new boyfriend!  Last night was our third date!"

Lane and I glanced at each other in surprise.

"Your first date in months!" I exclaimed.  "Why didn't you tell us about it before?"

He stared down at his menu.  "Oh, I didn't want you guys making a big deal about it until I was sure."

"Well, we're making a big deal of it now," Lane said.  "Where did you meet him?  What is he like?  Details, details!"

"His name is Zack.  He saw some of my bears at All American Boy and asked about the artist. He's from across the Bay."

Very vague.  "So, are you bringing him to the beer bust at the Eagle?"

"Um...no, he had to get home."

I frowned.  You were expected to introduce new boyfriends to "the family" on the second or third date.  He had to be evaluated, to make sure he was good enough for you, that he would fit into our world.  And he had to be "shared."

Tuesday night underwear contest.  Drake, but no Zack.

"Oh, he would win so easily, I wanted to give you other guys a chance."

Wednesday night bear party. Drake, but no Zack.

"Oh, he's uncomfortable in big crowds like this."

Saturday night dance at the Metropolitan Community Church.  Drake, but no Zack.

"He's got a thing tonight."

The next week, more of the same.

We asked around.  No one had met Zack.

Was Drake just making him up?  Or was he so spectacularly attractive that he didn't want to risk getting him stolen away?

Or was he embarrassingly ugly?

Time to take the initiative.  We invited Drake and Zack to dinner -- not in our apartment, too small, but at the Ethiopian restaurant down the street.

Ethiopian food comes in dabs of colorful mashed vegetables and minced meats on a bed of spongy bread.  Everyone tears off some bread and uses it to spoon up the waadi, ayibe, and kocho.  Perfect for pre-"sharing" intimacy.

Drake and Zack arrived a few minutes late, Drake in a white t-shirt and a leather vest, and Zack in a yellow button-down shirt and a leather jacket.

He was a kid!  A Cute Young Thing!  A few years ago Fred scandalized West Hollywood by dating Matt, eight year younger.  This kid must be at least 20 years younger than Drake!

We tried not to stare as Zack shook our hands and sat down between us.

Soon we warmed up.  Zack was a freshman at Berkeley, only 19 years old.  But he was relaxed,  articulate, well versed in gay culture, and completely at ease with guys 20, and 30 years older.

Of course, we shared later.  No tattoos, no nipple rings, no piercing, a single earring.  Smooth, pale, flawless skin, a big chest, prominent nipples, xylophone abs, an uncut Mortadella.  I went down on him while Lane was going down on Drake, and then we kissed while Drake was going down on Zack.  We ended the evening by tying Drake and Lane together on the bed for a bondage scene.

Later I called Drake.  "That's why you didn't want us to meet him?  Because he was younger?"

"Well, you have to admit, he's not the usual type you see hanging around the Eagle."

"I didn't know you were into younger guys."

"It's the darndest thing," Drake said.  "I didn't used to be, but for the last few years, there are twinks everywhere I go. They're smiling at me, cruising me --  It's like I'm a twink magnet."

"Sounds annoying," I said.  "Who needs a lot of skinny, giggling schoolboys in your bed?"

"It has its benefits.  They're awfully enthusiastic, and their energy -- they just keep going and going!"

 "Still, I hope I never become a twink magnet."

See also: The Leatherman who never left South of Market.; Zack Hooks Up with the Prince of Sweden; Handsome or Hung?

Ozzie Hooks Up with John Kennedy Jr.

Old Westbury, New York, October 1999

It's raining hard outside, so Ravi's Bear Party in Old Westbury had rather a low turnout to begin with, and now there are only five of us left:
Ravi and his partner Ken
Yuri and me, waiting for the rain to lighten up a bit.
Ozzie, a NYU undergrad whose ride left, so he's stuck. He'll probably be staying overnight.

We're sitting in the living room, finishing the last of the snacks and swapping stories about the biggest guys we've ever been with, dates from hell, and celebrity hookups.

I tell about my date with Michael J. Fox
Ravi tells about his hookup with Elton John.
Ken tells about his date with Barry Manilow.

Then Ozzie says "Have you ever heard of John F. Kennedy, Junior?"

The jetsetting son of President John Kennedy, lawyer, journalist, athlete, a fixture of New York high society?  Of course!  He was rumored to be gay or bisexual throughout his life, but we haven't heard about anyone who actually dated him.

"I helped him come out," Ozzie says.

"But..he never actually came out," Ravi protests.  "He was married to the end of his life."

"To the end of his life, yes."

Eastside Club, New York, Summer 1999

Ozzie was 19 years old, a biochemistry major from Morocco, newly out, enormously attractive and enormously well-hung.  He had a fake id, and he was living in the city with the largest concentration of gay men in the world.  Where could he go to meet some?  As many as possible?

He wanted to go to the bars, but his friend Jeremy suggested a bath house.  No blaring music, no drunks, you could see the guys naked without bringing them home, and you could get with them instantly.

New York had only two bathhouses.  The closest was the East Side Club on 56th, a very perfunctory affairs with showers, a small sauna, a video room with bleachers, and rows of small cubicles.

They went on a Friday in July.  It was stormy, with black clouds and thunder.

"So, like tonight?" Yuri asks.  "Is this a Halloween story?"

Ozzie smiles.

The club wasn't very busy:  a scattering of old guys, a few  hustlers, and two scared, newly-out teenagers with fake ids.

Jeremy wandered off, and Ozzie checked out the video room, with old porn movies playing.  There was only one guy there: completely out of place, neither old guy nor hustler.  In his 30s, very attractive, with thick brown hair, an oval face, a moderately hairy, muscular frame, and a Bratwurst beneath the belt.  He was dripping wet, like he had just gotten out of the shower, but he wasn't wearing a towel, like most guys in bath houses.

Ozzie didn't know a lot about cruising, but he figured he could play up the Middle Eastern angle.  He sat next to him and said "Hi, I'm Ozzie, from Morocco, but now I am at NYU."

Ozzie thinks that the guy murmured the name "John."

He didn't look over, or offer a hand to be shaken.  He kept staring at the screen, and in a low monotone, he said "I'm nowhere.  I'm in a dark pit.  I'm on a winding road with no ending, and all the stars went out."

"Ok, this guy sounds high!" I exclaim.  "You'd better give him a miss!"

"I know," Ozzie says.  "But there was something about him...I could't move.  I couldn't look away."

"It can't be that bad," Ozzie told him, touching his shoulder.  It was cold.  John must have just come in from outside.

"That's why he was wet -- it was raining," Ravi says.

"All my life I did the things I was supposed to do," John said.  "I saw the people I was supposed to see.  All my life I waited.  And for what?"

"Notice that he said 'waited,' not 'I've been waiting,'" I point out.  "This guy is dead."

Ozzie looks annoyed.  "You're giving it away."

Back at the East Side Club, Ozzie decided to move on.  "Good luck with...that," he said.

John grabbed his arm. His hand was very cold.  "No -- wait," he said, still staring ahead.  "Stay with me here.  Just for a minute.  I just need a minute."

He stood.  His Bratwurst was fully aroused.  Ozzie noticed that his ankle was in a cast, but he didn't use crutches.

John led Ozzie to a dark corner and hugged him -- he wouldn't kiss -- and felt his chest and penis.  The cold, wet skin was a little distasteful, but the guy was cute, so Ozzie quickly found himself aroused.  John knelt and went down on him, his hands clamped on his buttocks.

Even his mouth was cold!

Ozzie pulled John to his feet and went down on him.  John's Bratwurst was very hard, like iron, but still cold from the rain outside.  He had shaved pubic hair.  He didn't moan, or speak, or make any sound.  It took him only a few minutes to finish with a monumental spurt.

Ozzie rose to his feet.  "I'm ready now.," John said, still not looking at him.

"Ready for what?"

Without another word, John walked off into the darkness.


Old Westbury, New York, October 1999

"I was with two other guys that night," Ozzie says.  "I didn't think anything about it at the time -- I don't know American celebrities very well.  But then I saw the pictures on tv the next day.  John F. Kennedy Junior, who crashed into the ocean.  He was my guy!"

"Wait -- when was this?"  Ravi asks.

"I was at the East Side Club on July 16th, 1999, the day of the crash.  I saw his picture on tv the next day."

"His plane crashed late at night.  He must have gone from the bath house directly to the airport."

Ozzie shakes his head.  "No.  I looked it up already.  We got to the bathhouse at 9:00 at night, and John took off at 8:39.  The crash was about an hour later.  When I helped him come out, John was dead already."

"You had sex with a ghost!" Ken exclaims.

"Well, at least it was with a famous ghost," I say.

Ok, what happened that night at the East Side Club?

The last few days of John F. Kennedy Jr.'s life are well-documented

He spent July 13th-15th at the Stanhope Hotel on Fifth Avenue, depressed over his financial difficulties and his relationship with his wife, Carolyn.

They were on their way to a divorce.  She thought he was a "fag" because of his many male friendships, especially with the muscular Michael Bergin.


Explanation 1: Struggling to come out, to admit his same-sex interests to himself, Kennedy went to the East Side Club sometime during the week, and Ozzie got the date wrong.

Kennedy had an ankle cast, but it was removed on the 14th.

But Ozzie swears that it was the 16th.

On July 16th, Kennedy got up and went to the office of George magazine at 1633 Broadway.  He stayed in the office all day, except for lunch with his editors and working out in the gym.  At about 4:00 pm, his sister-in-law Lauren Bessette arrived, and they began their trip to the Essex County Airport, where they would meet his wife and fly to Martha's Vineyard.

Explanation #2: Kennedy went to the East Side Club early in the day on the 16th, and Ozzie got the time wrong.

But Ozzie swears that it was in the evening

Explanation #3: Ozzie hooked up with a guy who looked like John F. Kennedy, Jr., who had just come in out of the rain, and who was a little high..

Explanation #4: There are ghosts wandering the hallways of the East Side Club.

See also: The Amazing Invisible Boy; The Boy Who Refused to Leave My Room

The Great Redneck Roundup: 20 Hookups in 20 Days

Summer 1995, the Wild West

When Dad turned 62, he and Mom retired, sold their house in Rock Island, and moved back to their home state of Indiana.  They told me that I had to come out by August to pick up any of my stuff that was still in the house, or it would go to Goodwill.

I wanted my desk, two chairs, a couple of books, two paintings, and some other mementos.

And Lane had never been out of California, except for flights to New York, Israel, and Europe.  Time for a road trip!

The only problem is, after a lifetime in West Hollywood, even Ojai seemed intolerably homophobic to him.   And we would be driving through some of the scariest, most conservative, most homophobic states in the country.

But we could see the sights, I told him.  The Grand Canyon, Mount Rushmore...and Rednecks, hairy-chested guys with farm-hard muscles and gigantic Mortadellas, who didn't like gay people but on Saturday night, after a few beers, happily went down on the guys they met at the tractor pull.

"Well...I do like cute redneck farmboys."

"Why not make a game of it?" I suggested.  "We'll see if we can hook up with a cowboy or redneck every day, bring a little same-sex action to the straight world.  How about it: 20 days, 20 sausages?"

Lane agreed to the Great Redneck Roundup of 1995:

Day 1: Phoenix, Arizona

This one was easy.  We stayed with a couple Lane knew, transplants from the gay Jewish community in Los Angeles, who took us on a tour of Phoenix's gay neighborhood and later invited us into their bed.  Sausage Count: 2

Day 2: Flagstaff, Arizona

After seeing the Grand Canyon, we drove down to Flagstaff to spend the night.  At a gay-friendly bar, we hooked up with a young Hispanic guy who worked as a waiter. Sausage Count: 3

Day 3: Provo, Utah

The heart of the Mormon world.  We were getting cocky, figuring that we could pick up a guy anywhere in Redneck Country, like on the campus of Brigham Young University.  Bust.

Day 4: Laramie, Wyoming

In a few years, the murder of Matthew Shepherd would make Laramie famous as haven of homophobia, but in 1995, we were just thinking cowboys.  We went to the campus of the University of Wyoming, visited the Art Museum, and the Museum of the Plains.

Nobody in Laramie, but on the road: when you go to a rest stop at dawn, there are always a lot of trucks parked, where the drivers spent the night.  Curious, I walked among them.  One of the doors was open, and the driver was sitting inside, legs spread, waiting for a passerby to strike up a conversation -- and be invited into the cab.  He turned out to be from Chicago, into kissing and oral. Sausage Count: Boomer 4, Lane 3

Days 5-6: Denver, Colorado

After four days in the Straight World, it was a relief to get to Denver, with its strong, well-organized gay neighborhood.  And meeting guys was easy. A South Asian guy named Ravi took us back to his apartment.

On Day 6, we toured the Museum of Decorative Arts and then met Ravi and his friend Jason for dinner.  We all went to a ballet at the Opera House, and then back to Ravi's apartment again. Sausage Count: Boomer 6, Lane 5












Day 7: Omaha, Nebraska.

I wanted to see the old places I knew from my month in Omaha with Fred.  And found that saying "I'm from West Hollywood" attracts guys as readily as saying "I have a gigantic penis."  We hooked up  with a Cornhuster, an extremely buffed former University of Nebraska football player who now worked as a college recruiter.  He was an anal bottom.  Sausage Count: Boomer 7, Lane 6

Day 8: Des Moines, Iowa.

Thomas, the gay Episcopalian priest who took me to my first Gay Rights Rally in 1981, was still living in Des Moines, a Silver Daddy who still managed to attract Cute Young Things.  We "shared" his latest boyfriend. Sausage Count: Boomer 9, Lane 8.

Days 9-11: Rock Island, Illinois

Along with visiting my parents and brother, packing up and shipping my stuff, and going to my old haunts, we had time to hang out with my old friend Dick and his partner.  I also sent Lane out to JRs by himself, so we would be even.  Sausage Count: 11

Day 12: Sioux Falls, South Dakota

We saw the famous Stave Church and went to a gay bar downtown, hoping to hook up with a Viking.  Instead we hooked up with a black guy on the downlow, whose wife was an English professor at the University. Sausage Count: 12

Day 13: Rapid City, South Dakota

We were so tired from driving and seeing Mount Rushmore and the Crazy Horse Monument that we forgot to cruise.  Bust.






Day 14: Billings, Montana

We ended up in Sturgis, South Dakota, during the famous Sturgis Bike Rally.  Hundreds of hot motorcycle guys riding around shirtless, beer in hand.  But there was no place to stay in town, so we had to drive on to Billings, Montana.  Again, too tired to cruise.  Bust.

Day 15: Missoula, Montana

We loved Missoula.  A very nice art museum, historic churches, antique shops, bookstores.  I saw one of the most beautiful men on Earth fishing off a bridge, a cut-off t-shirt revealing enormous biceps.  Lane stayed at the hotel, saying I could hook up by myself, so I went to a country-Western bar and met Jared, a real, actual cowboy (or so he said).  Sausage Count: Boomer 13, Lane 12

Day 17: Spokane, Washington

It was scary driving through Idaho, where the anti-sodomy law brought a maximum penalty of life in prison.  But then we arrived in Spokane, Washington, a little gay mecca, drawing gay guys from all over the redneck states.  They were low-key, closeted; no "real" gay bars, but lots of gay-friendly bars and restaurants, and a lot of "street cruising."  But we didn't pick up anyone.  Bust.

Day 18: Portland, Oregon

A gigantic gay mecca, with a bathhouse that took up nearly a city block and a nice country-western bar.  We did some cruising separately at the bathhouse (3 guys for me, 4 for Lane so we would be even).  Sausage Count: 16







Day 19: Redding, California

Two days left, 4 guys to go.  We pulled into Redding, a town of 90,000 near the Oregon border and Mount Shasta, where Bigfoot has been sighted.  There was only one, small gay bar, and it wasn't very active.

"We can pick up the rest in San Francisco," Lane pointed out.

"Sure, but we're supposed to be getting guys in the Straight World, cowboys and truckers and rednecks."

I went up to the bartender and asked "Do you know of any clubs where you could meet several guys tonight?"

He told me about a bear party going on that night in a place called Happy Valley, where we got our remaining four!  Sausage Count: 20.

Day 20: San Francisco, California

When you drive into town from the north, you go over the Golden Gate Bridge, an iconic San Francisco moment.  We were too overwhelmed by being home, in the heart of the gay world, to bother with cruising.  But we had already had 8 dates or "sharing" experiences, 4 bar hookups, 1 public encounter, and 7 guys from bear parties or bath houses, for a total of 20 sausages in 20 days.

Oh, and we saw the Grand Canyon, too.

10 Types of West Hollywood Parties

When I was living in West Hollywood, parties were a major form of socializing.  We held them, or were invited to them, at least once a week, sometimes twice.  Around major holidays like Christmas and Gay Pride, you might be invited to two or three every weekend.

Parties came in different types, with different expectations about what would happen and how they would end.

1. The New Boyfriend.  To introduce a new boyfriend to the group and get their approval, typically on the third or fourth date.   At the end of the evening, one of the guests would be invited to "share" (go into the bedroom for a threesome).

2. Coming Out.  For introducing a new friend to the group, either someone who was newly out or someone who had just escaped to West Hollywood from a homophobic small town.  He had to tell his coming out story.  At the end of the evening, some of the guests would take him "cruising" (looking for dates at the bars).

3. Moving.  You're moving in with a new boyfriend.  Your roommate moved out, so you can no longer afford the rent.  You want to move closer to your job.  You want to move closer to the heart of West Hollywood, Santa Monica and La Cienega.  You didn't have a lot of stuff in West Hollywood, so grab a few friends, rent a U-Haul, and you're done in a couple of hours, followed by a shower and pizza.

4. Christmas.  Rather a depressing holiday, full of hetero family nonsense.  Gay men have often been rejected by their families, or their families are a thousand miles away.  We overcame the depression by hosting nonstop parties where you made fun of Christmas classics, sang double-entendre-laden songs, and unwrapped x-rated presents.

5. Dinner.  A West Hollywood staple, a chance for you to show off your culinary skills.  Followed by discussions of gigantic penises, dates from hell, and celebrity hookups, and entertainment (a nude dancer) or games involving nudity.  At the end of the evening, some guys would be invited to "share" the roommates, and others would go out cruising.

More after the break.