My Terrible, Horrible, Harrowing Walk Home from the Gym

Plains, August 2018

This morning I went to the gym with Bob, but had to walk home because he needed the car to work.  I couldn't run because I was fully clothed.  It's only 2.3 miles, but it was a harrowing experience.

It was a very gray, cloudy day, very humid but not hot, with that weirdly oppressive feeling you get sometimes when things are a little off.

1.  The Crazy Guy. About .4 miles down a very busy street, with cars zooming past at breakneck speed, then cutting around a Kwick-Trip.  Except there was a husky guy in black, with long hair and multiple tattoos, blocking the sidewalk, glaring at me in a threatening fashion, and occasionally hitting himself in the head.

I crossed the street to get away from him, and he watched, glaring and hitting himself, as I walked the long way around.

2. The Muscular Crazy Guy. About .4 miles down a no man's land street with a mental health center, a food bank, a decrepit pizza place, a vacuum cleaner place, a laundromat, and some houses. All deserted and ominous, like the world after an apocalypse.

A muscular guy wearing only short black pants was walking in big circles on the sidewalk and street outside the vacuum cleaner place, talking angrily to himself.

"Not another one!" I thought.  "Is there a wacko convention in town?"

When he saw me, he started yelling -- I couldn't make out the words.

3. I ducked into the used bookstore to get away from him, browsed around the sorry collection of worn paperbacks from the 1970s, and finally bought a history of ancient Egypt that wasn't too dismal.

4. The Stopped Car.  About .5 miles through the "bar" neighborhood of downtown, with saloons, taverns, bars, and gin joints on every block, plus the post office, some banks, the Masonic Temple, and a ladies' strip club.

 I always find the bar neighborhood disturbing, but there's something eerie about it when you realize that all of the buildings are empty.

A car stopped right next to me, and a heavily tattooed guy jumped out.  No place to turn off, so I just walked faster.  I heard him talking behind me.  At the end of the block, I finally managed to turned  off.

5. The Dementer.  About .4 miles through a residential neighborhood, older houses (this was a fashionable neighborhood 100 years ago) with the woods that lead up to a convent in back. 

A tall figure wearing a long black robe and black hood was standing in a yard next to the woods.

It didn't seem to notice me, but still, that was enough.

6. The Breakfast Burrito.   I ran to the gay-friendly coffee house, where I figured there would at least be people.

There was.  A heavily tattooed man --even his fingers were tattooed -- sitting at one of the tables, eating a breakfast burrito.  He looked up and glared at me. I left.

7. The Flamingo. About .3 miles down a busy street, past closed antique shops, a store that sells only olive oil, a comic book store, a bakery, a bicycle shop.  There was someone leaned against the front of the Eagle Lodge across the street, leg drawn up like a flamingo. Just standing there.

8. The Crazy Lady.  I stopped at the gas station/convenience store for a banana.  There was a woman in the parking lot picking up bits of paper. I thought she was an employee tidying up, but she wasn't wearing a uniform, and wouldn't you use a broom for that?

9. The Egyptian. Only .3 more miles to home, across a busy street and up a hill.  The streets in that neighborhood have square stone planters with trees growing in them.  I guess it's supposed to be scenic, but it's difficult to negotiate when there's a crowd, or even two people coming in different directions: one has to wait, or step out into the street.

I saw a guy heading in my direction, and knew that we would both reach the planter at the same time, but I was in no mood to wait.  He wasn't either.  We turned to face each other as we squeezed past: he was my height, thick biceps, square hands black curly hair, black eyes.   Our chests scraped against each other.   He smiled and said "Excuse me."  Middle Eastern accent.

Did I say the trip was terrible, horrible, and harrowing?  I meant fantastic!

 A walk full of hot guys, one shirtless, another who tried to pick me up, a third who brushed his chest against me. Plus I got a book on ancient Egypt, a paranormal shadow person, and a banana.

I decided to go back to the coffee shop and talk to the heavily tattooed guy eating the breakfast burrito.

The Top 12 Track Team Bulges

We're used to seeing bulges in swimsuits and wrestling singlets, but what about other sports?  Like track.

For something as jaw-dropping as this to happen, the athlete has to be dressed without a cup.

Where is this WVC, anyway, and are they hiring?

For the answer, see "WVC: The College with Uniforms that Reveal All," on Small Town Beefcake

















3. A commando performance from Middle Tennessee State University in Murfreesboro.

4. Triathlon winners (run, swim, bike) from Australia.

5. Sac City means "Sacramento City College," of all places to bulge at.

6. Central Connecticut/


More after the break

The Beefcake Restaurant of Rock Island

Rock Island, October 1977.

My senior year at Rocky High. I haven't figured "it" out yet, and even if I had, I would never tell anyone.  The interrogation of "What girl do you like?" has continued.  Intensified, even, since during my senior year I'm expected to find "the girl of my dreams."  It's possible to find a romantic partner after you turn 18, of course, but the ideal is to fall in love in high school and stay together through all the twists and turns of life, then celebrate your 60th anniversary surrounded by children and grandchildren.

So the "What girl do you like?  What girl?  What girl?" is incessant and demanding, especially on Tuesday, the day you call girls for Saturday-night dates. "Who are you going to call?  Who?  Who?  Who"" from my friends all day, and "When are you going to call?  When?  When?  When?" from my parents all night.

Why is everyone so insistent that I hang out with a girl?  When I successfully arrange a date, I can't stand the exclamations of joy, the slaps on the back, and the "our little boy's growing up!" from my parents.  And the next-day interrogations from my friends: "Did you touch her boob?  Did you feel her down there?  Was she good or not good in bed?"

And my obligation to say:  "Oh, yeah, I felt her everywhere.  We did lots of sex stuff!"

I usually try to get out of the whole mess by calling a girl so far  out of my league, or suggesting an activity so lame, that she invents a prior obligation (if she's nice) or laughs and slams down the phone (if she's mean).  Then I can mope around, rejected by "the girl of my dreams," playing "One is the Loneliest Number" on my stereo Saturday night, and if I'm lucky, Dad will slip me $5 to "get over her." $5 buys 5 paperback novels or a whole sausage and pepperoni pizza at Happy Joe's. 

Tonight I try out Jan, a tall blond girl from my Spanish class who my friends claim is "as hot as Farrah Fawcett."  She's one of the stars of Charlie's Angels (1976-81), about three private detectives who solve crimes by going under cover as bikini models and aerobics instructors.

Completely out of my league!  She's sure to laugh in my face!

I stall until 8:30, just to be on the safe side: requests for dates start coming in after dinner, around 7:00 pm, so by 8:30 most girls are already booked for  Saturday night.  Leaving the family pretending to watch tv but actually watching me, I go into the kitchen, close the door, and dial.    

Jan answers immediately, and I use my standard lame opening line.  "Hi, this is Boomer from school."

"Hi."

"Hi.  Um...I was wondering if you're free Saturday night?"

To my shock, she says  "Yes."  

Yes? Gulp...but she's a Farrah Fawcett lookalike.  She can't say yes!  Doesn't she have to wash her hair?    

But the deal isn't closed yet.  I still have to suggest activity.  The worst, lamest, dorkiest activity possible...Jump quiz?  Church revival?  Dinner with my parents?

I blurt out "Would you like to go to dinner at the Bring'er Inn?"

The worst restaurant in town.

First, what 1970s women's libber wouldn't be outraged by the logo, a caveman dragging in his girl by the hair?

Seond, it's a "supper club."  The menu is strictly from the 1940s, steaks and "chops," whatever they are.  While you eat, lounge-lizards sing -- Rat Pack favorites only.  And you get up and dance -- I don't know what kind of dances, maybe the Charleston.

Teenagers wouldn't be caught dead there.  Not even our parents -- it's for Grandma and Grandpa to reminisce about the Good Old Days.

But to my shock and consternation, Jan says "Sure. I've never been there, but my grandparents love it. Pick me up at 6:00."

I plod into the living room.  My parents and brother and sister are watching expectantly.  "She said yes," I tell them, and there are so many hoots and howls and hugs, it's like I accomplished something phenomenal.

"Where are you going to go?" Mom asks.

Wait -- all is not lost. There's no way my parents will let me go to the Bring'er Inn:
1. It's in Milan, the small town across the Rock River.  I'm not allowed to drive outside of Rock Island.
2. There's alcohol and dancing, two of the worst sins in the Nazarene Manual.  God will sentence us to an eternity of hellfire for even setting foot inside the place.

But when I say "The Bring'er Inn," Mom is all smiles, and Dad offers me an extra $10 for expenses.

On Saturday night, I pick up my friend Joel (of course it was going to be a "double date," and we dutifully pick up thegirls.  We cross the river, sort-of-discussing who was seeing whom among our mutual friends, but I'm really wondering: Why am I here?  Why is it so darn essential to have girls along?  Why can't it just be me and Joel?

We arrive at  the restaurant just before our reservation time, 7:30.  A stunningly handsome, broad-shouldered guy in a tuxedo takes down our names and escorts us to our table.

Then another stunningly handsome, broad-shouldered guy in a tuxedo brings us water and sodas, and shows us the menu.

I barely notice my "chops" (lamb meat), or the flowsy man-woman duo singing "Let's Call the Whole Thing Off" on the stage.  I'm busy cruising.

There are at least five stunningly handsome, broad-shouldered guys in tuxedos working the kitchen, bringing out glasses of wine, chatting up the Geritol set.  Plus stunningly handsome teenage boys in black uniforms bussing the tables.

It's like a strip show before they take their clothes off.

Jan nudges me.  "Nice place, huh?"

"Um...yep.  Well, I could do without the dinosaur music, but the service is great."

"Be sure you give our waiter a nice tip."

And my phone number?  I think.

Later I discover that Lee Mohr started the restaurant in 1939, and staffed it with his stunningly handsome sons, sons-in-law, and grandsons.

Suddenly the Bring'er Inn is my favorite restaurant.  But only if I can bring a boy.














It burned down in 1980, but Lee Mohr's grandson Greg and his partner (business, not romantic) run several restaurants in Chicago, continuing the tradition of restaurant hotness.

More Clothed-Nude Men

I love photo montages of men fully clothed and then nude.  It gives you a chance to hone your bulge-watching skills.

1. I still can't figure out where he was packing it.

2.  Why do people who obviously aren't gang members flash gang signs?

3.He looks like he's up for a role in Chorus Line.  The nude photo will give him a better chance.

4.  I love the ones that have the same pose with and without.  Some of these come from the old Speci-Men site, which gradually erased the clothes.

5.  He seems thinner without.

6. I didn't know he had the tattoo.  Kind of ruins the "clean-cut, innocent" effect.

7.  I like a guy who is more comfortable naked than clothed.

9.  Nice belly.

10.  No fair -- you have to show the basket in the "clothed" photo.

11.  You're forgiven.

A Week of Beefcake and Bulges the Plains

Plains, May 2017

On college campuses, the best season for beefcake watching is spring, when the heavy coats come off, and even when it's only 45 degrees out, undergrads break out the bulgeworthy short pants and muscle shirts.

Winter is good, too -- it's too cold to play sports outside, so they pack the gym.

But summer is a problem.  Most of the students are gone, and those who remain go off-site for their recreation.  You have to be diligent to find beefcake and bulges.  Here are my main findings of the last week:

Saturday: Car Wash for Life

I was out jogging, and I passed two teenagers advertising a car wash.  Shirts off, muscular physiques.

Sunday: The Bulging Boy with his Parents

My date and I were on the patio of an Ethiopian restaurant, when a family sat next to us: middle aged husband and wife, and son of college age, wearing athletic gear -- t-shirt, blue gym trunks, tennis shoes.

From my vantage point, I got a view directly to his crotch, which was tenting, regardless of how much he squeezed it, changed positions, or crossed his legs.

How embarrassing is it to get aroused while eating out with your parents?

I see tents quite often in class, but it's only a glance as I'm walking by.  This one was an uninterrupted view for 10 minutes.

Monday; The New Bodybuilder at the Gym

(Top photo).
You rarely see serious bodybuilders at the YMCA.  This guy must have been on vacation: tall, long blond hair, hairless marble-statue physique although he wasn't lifting a lot.  I tried to get a sausage sighting in the locker room afterwards, but there was an open door blocking my view.




Tuesday: The Librarian

I was back in the library, hoping for an instant replay of the Glory Hole from last Friday.  Nothing happened, but there was a new reference librarian, not the usual Creepy Old Guy usually there: mid-30s, buffed, bearded, chest hair sticking out over his button-down shirt.

His face wasn't anything to write home about, but he definitely stood out on a campus full of twinks.  Worth keeping in mind for later cruising.









Wednesday: Ahmed

The cute undergrad from Dubai that I met at the International Student Office.  Wouldn't kiss, but he let m go down on him.

Thursday: The Workman

This was the night of my date with Ahmed, but also, as I was driving past the Islamic Center, I saw a guy working on the roof.  Black, buffed, shirtless, holding a hammer.















Friday: Grindr at the Ice Cream Parlor

My friend and I were out jogging, and we decided to stop for ice cream (I know, stupid).  He was taking his time with his sundae, so I pulled out my cell phone and clicked on Grindr.

There was someone 30 feet away!

I looked around.  A middle aged heterosexual couple, a large family all eating ice cream together, and a bohemian boy.  He was thin, bearded, wearing tan shorts and shoes but no socks.  Sitting at a table with a girl, checking his cell phone.

I had my "friend" profile up, not my "hot" profile, so I quickly sent him a photo of my chest.  He glanced over without cruising.

A moment later, a photo of his penis appeared.  Or somebody's penis, an enormous Kielbasa, semi-aroused.

I'm free Sunday night.

See also: A Day of Beefcake and Bulges on the Plains; Tracking Down the Glory Hole Boy

A Day of Beefcake, Bulges, and Sausage Sightings on the Plains

The Plains

Springtime on the Plains is a paradise of beefcake, brawn, cruising, and sausage sightings, but yesterday was especially busy.  Muscles and bulges everywhere I looked.

1. Student Union.  I arrive on campus and walk through the Student Union on the way to my office.  There are tables full of students in muscle shirts.  One is a bodybuilder, displaying a smooth, hard chest and thick biceps as he bends over a chemistry textbook.

2.  Intro Class. 100 students in stadium seats.  I wander among them as I lecture.  A bird's eye view of tight t-shirts and short pants.

3. Bathroom Break. I always stop at the bathroom between classes, both to go and to check my grooming. A young professor with an uncut Kielbasa+ is just finishing up.

4. Prospective Students on Tour.  A group of fifteen boys in muscle shirts, plus a few girls, being led across the quad.  They gaze, gawk, ask questions. A Hispanic guy with brown skin and long, thick muscles makes eye contact and smiles.

5. Lunch at Chipotle.  The guy making my chicken and black bean burrito has his shirt unbuttoned three buttons.  From my angle, I can look right down it to see the outline of his hard, slightly hairy chest.

6. Afternoon Seminar.  Seven women and three men.  The men sit together in the front row -- safety in numbers, I guess.  One always has his legs spread as far as they will go, like he's cruising in a bar.  I'm not allowed to ask out students in my class, but after final grades are posted...

7. Campus Bookstore.  An older guy, professor or nontraditional student, husky, Middle Eastern, is leafing through one of the bargain books.  Definite bulge.

8. Volleyball.  They're playing volleyball on the grass outside the Fine Arts Building.  Eight guys, all of them shirtless.  I can't stand it!

9. Gym.  It's warm enough to jog outside, but I run around the indoor track anyway, to get a view of the three (three!) shirts vs. skins basketball games being played on the floor below.

10. Locker Room.  The physics professor with the husky, hairy body, the six-pack abs, and the enormous Mortadella on his way to the shower as I come in.  He doesn't bother with a towel.

11. Student Union Snack Bar for my post-gym apple and power bar.  There's a cute, nerdish guy named Dustin at the cash register who always cruises me.  Today he makes sure that our hands "accidentally" touch as

12. Bathroom Again.  This time on the second floor of the Student Union, down the hall from the student organizations.  A row of urinals with no barriers between.  There's already someone standing at a urinal, talking on his cell phone and playing with himself.  Average size, semi-aroused.  He sees me come in, plays with himself for a few more strokes, then zips up.

13. Office Hours.  One of the other professors in my department is talking to a gigantic bodybuilder in a black muscle shirt.  "I'd like you to meet my husband," she says.

14. The Artist.  I walk through the Fine Arts Building on the way to the parking lot.  An art student passes me, carrying an abstract sculpture.  He's short, sandy-haired, smiling, wearing green shorts with...you guessed it.  Yet another enormous bulge.

"Nice," I tell him.  "A real work of art."

15. The House Across the Street.  A few yards from where my car is parked: four guys sitting on the front steps.  One is playing a guitar.  They're all shirtless.

It's been like ten hours in a bath house.  And I still have dinner and trivia night at the gay-friendly coffee house to go.

Who needs West Hollywood?

See also: Searching for Beefcake on the Plains; Random Summer Beefcake on the Plains