My Top 10 Turn Offs

You already know the characteristics that I find attractive: short, dark, massive, gifted beneath the belt, and so on.

Almost every guy I have been with has had at least two, usually three of the characteristics.

But some characteristics are immediate turn-offs.

One or two might be ok, if you happen to also be a short, dark, muscular, gifted-beneath-the-belt Mormon missionary.

But three or four, and dating is out of the question.

Five or more, and we won't be hooking up, either, and sharing is out of the question, breach of etiquette or not.

Again, this is a matter of personal taste.  If you like these traits and I don't, that doesn't mean that I am bad, wrong, or stupid.    Everyone has different tastes in men, and that's fine. 

1. Tall and thin  Who wants to hug a telephone pole?  Who wants to hug a skeleton?

2. A long, narrow face, especially with a goatee, like a Disney villain.

3. Long, slender fingers/finger rings/tattoos/body art.  

 I hate long, slender, feminine fingers -- "nimble," like Tolkien's hobbits.  And jewerlry in a man is gross, except for dogtags or a pendant around his neck.  None of those plastic bracelets, and especially no rings.

If you ever want to get out of the mood fast, just imagine those long, slender, feminine fingers festooned with gross rings wrapped around your penis.  Instant shrinkage!

Same thing with body art. A small, tasteful tattoo that is easily ignored, ok, but plastering your body with ink like the Illustrated Man?  Your skin is perfectly attractive as it is.

.

4. Outdoors Nut/Sports Nut.  The outdoors is not a place; it's something you travel through to get to places.  You don't eat there, or sit on benches there, or hang out there. Spending time outside for its own sake is just nutty.

There is nothing more boring than listening to who won what game with what strategy in some sports match.

5. Fan of Horrible Music.  This includes country-western music, of course, but also whiny female vocalists, and especially torch songs.

The night is bitter
The stars have lost their glitter
The winds grow colder
And suddenly you're older

Yeah, I'm getting older by the minute, listening to this drivel.

6. Relationships with women/discussions of feminine beauty.   Long, long ago, some men didn't figure it out until after they obeyed the societal mandate to marry women, but not anymore.  If you're under 50, you have no excuse, except you were too scared to come out.

I know, it's possible to appreciate beauty in men and women, regardless of your sexual orientation, but after hearing "That woman is so hot!  There's not a man alive who wouldn't want to be with her!" constantly, hour after hour, day after day, I don't want to hear it from a guy I'm dating.

7. Alcohol, tobacco, or drug use. Raised Nazarene, I can't stand the sight or smell of beer, wine, or liquor. If you drink a beer in the bar occasionally and use mouthwash afterwards, ok, but I won't have it in my house.

Tobacco just smells gross.

And drugs -- who wants to be with a guy who's high?

8. Feminine Traits.  Politically, I'm a strong supporter of your right to be as butch, femme, or androgynous as you want to be. Work the room!  Sashay!  Say "Oh, Mary!" and "Puh-lease, girlfriend!"  But it's not going to get me romantically interested.

9. Elitist.   Rich is ok, celebrity is fine.  Well-read, multilingual, world traveler, no problem.  But don't throw your book-larnin' in my face and ridicule my plebian amusements:

"How can you watch television?  It's so mindless!"
"Science fiction?  All that Buck Rogers stuff?"

Or look down on the Midwest.  "Oh, you're from a dreary Ma and Pa Kettle state!  What did you do for fun, tractor pulls and cow tipping?"

Really, should someone who knows about Ma and Pa Kettle be criticizing me for growing up in Illinois?

10. Sleazoid.  Leering, vulgar language, aggressive cruising, constant double-entendres and dirty jokes.  Leave it in the cruise bar.  For that matter, it's annoying there, too.

See also: My Top 10 Turn-Ons

My Date with the Country-Western Star

Nashville, Fall 1991

I spent the fall 1991 semester in Nashville, where I studied Hebrew at Vanderbilt Divinity School, taught English at a state college, outed a Medieval knight...and dated a country-western singer.  At least, I thought he was a country-western singer.

I'll call him Randy.

We met at a restaurant near near campus, when he saw me trying to translate a passage from the Hebrew Bible and came over to ask if I was "a Christian."  Turns out he went to Bible college, planning to become a missionary, but dropped out, and now he was working as a waiter and at a guitar store while honing his musical craft.

Naturally, I started going to the restaurant for lunch almost every day, at the end of the rush when he had time to chat.

Randy was a country boy, all about fishing, hunting, working on cars, and following sports, but he never mentioned a girl, so I figured he was gay. Besides, there was something about his open face and appreciative smile that made my gaydar go off.

Nashville was the country-western music capital of the world, so I started trying to impress him by listening to Johnny Cash, Hank Williams, Willie Nelson, Charlie Pride, and Roy Acuff.  I couldn't stand the dismal, depressing, ballads about being poor, tired, hungry, lonely, rejected, replaced, and generally miserable, but if they helped me get into Randy's good graces, it was worth the depression.

I asked his opinion of Clint Black, Alan Jackson, Garth Brooks,  and Randy Travis.

I did extensive research, until I was able to talk to him about the history and genres of country-western: honky-tonk, rockabilly, country pop, the Bakersfield sound.  Bluegrass, banjo pop, Outlaw Country, Western Swing, neotraditionalism.

After a few weeks of buttering him up, Randy finally made his move: "I'm performing this weekend.  I know it's not really your kind of music, but...you know, if you want, you could come.  And maybe we could have dinner afterwards."

Randy's gig was in the Paradise Park Trailer Resort, a dark, dingy redneck bar downtown where the floors were coated with Astroturf (I'm not kidding).  There was lawn furniture against the walls.  There was a Spam exhibit.  The other patrons looked like refugees from Duck Dynasty. 

I got there at 9:00, just as Randy was going on.  He walked onto the small, dingy stage with guitar in hand, nodded at me, and sang:

Farm people, book wavers, soul savers, love preachers!  Lit to pop and nobody is gonna stop!

It sounded familiar...wait...was it "Stop," by Jane's Addiction?

Then:
That's me in the corner, that's me in the spotlight, losing my religion, trying to keep up with you.

What kind of country-western singer performs "Losing My Religion," by R.E.M.?


And then his own composition:

The world keeps on turnin'
I can't decide if it's night or day
Your jaws keep on movin'
I can't decide if you know the way

Protest conformity, rage against the machine, raise your fist against the injustice of the world!  Indie rock!

All this time, I had just been assuming he was a country-western singer!

Later, over dinner, I praised his song effusively.  Randy said "That's a relief!  You're such a big fan of country-western music, I didn't think you would find anything to like in indie rock."

"Oh, I'm versatile," I said with a suggestive leer.  "I can find something to like in just about everything."

Derek the Fitness Model and the Teenage Cowboy

West Hollywood, September 1988

In West Hollywood, almost no one lived alone.  It was too expensive, and besides, we moved here in the first place to find community.  So we lived with a partner (we called them "lovers"), a roommate, or both.

There were two types of roommates.

Alan and I were Close Friends: We ate meals together, went out together, moved in the same social circle... and invited each other to "share" boyfriends.

When he moved to Thailand in the fall of 1987, I moved in with a fitness model-turned-realtor named Derek, a tall, muscular, hairy guy in his 40s, and his lover Chazz, a slim, androgynous twink.

They lived in a small but very nice house on Hilldale, just off Sunset.

Derek and I turned out to be Just Roommates: We scheduled different hours for cooking and eating meals.  We were invited to each other's parties by default, and on Saturday afternoons we went to the Bodhi Tree on Melrose to browse for New Age books, but otherwise we rarely socialized. We had different social circles.

And he never invited me to "share."

It was rather frustrating listening to the activity on the other side of the wall, and never being asked to join in.

Did I mention that Derek's physique was spectacular even by West Hollywood standards?  And that I saw his beneath-the-belt gifts in one of his old layouts in Mandate?

A few months after I moved in, Derek broke up with Chazz (who soon moved out).  He started bringing dates home.  Mostly slim, androgynous twinks.


Ok, now's my chance! I thought.  Maybe he was monogamous with Chazz, but he certainly won't mind sharing a boyfriend!

But he never asked, and when I invited him to share my on-off boyfriend, he gave me a weird, sad smile, and said "No, thank you," with exaggerated politeness.

What, not into sharing?  Or not into Raul?

Or not into me?

Impossible!  Everyone was into me!  I was never rejected -- except by Derek.

Then I met Calvin, the Cowboy of Sunset Boulevard, who was skittish about going down the hill to the gay part of West Hollywood, where someone might think he was...you know.  I invited Derek along on our date, figuring that the promise of two guys in his bed would trump Calvin's fear of "somebody I know seeing me."

It backfired: Seems that Derek was from Wyoming, grew up around cowboys, and had played one in a photo shoot for Playgirl.

They were so busy talking that I felt like I was tagging along on a date between Calvin and Derek.

So I wasn't completely surprised the next morning, when I got back to the house after walking Calvin to his car, and Derek asked "Are you going on a second date?"

"Probably not.  He was very passionate in bed, but we don't really have a lot in common."

"Then, do you mind if I ask him out?"

I sort of did.  Calvin was my project -- a shy, closeted young cowboy.  I drew him out of his shell, introduced him to an out, proud gay community. What had Derek done, except flex his biceps and talk about Wyoming?  But I said "No, not at all.  Wait a couple of days, of course."

In West Hollywood, the 48 hours after the first date was a tense waiting period.  Either of you could ask for a second date, or not.  What if one asked, and the other wasn't interested?  What if you saw each other on the street before you were ready to call?  If  48 hours passed without a request for a second date, you could relax and move on to other people..

 "Great, thanks!  I'll wait a week, just to be on the safe side.  Wouldn't want anybody to think I was rustling on your ranch, would we?"

But when I got home from Muscle and Fitness on Monday afternoon,  there was a message from Calvin on our machine.  He had called Derek exactly 48 hours after our date ended!

Derek wasn't really a fan of the Old West -- at least, I never heard him mention bronco busting or cow poking -- but he orchestrated a Western-themed date for Saturday night: dinner at a Mexican restaurant, followed by Oilcan Harry's, a bar in Studio City that specialized in country-western line dancing.

I snippishly decided to be home, watching tv in the living room, when they returned, about 11:00 pm.

"Have fun, guys?" I asked.

"Oh, it was great," Derek said.  "Really nice crowd at Oilcan Harry's."

"Well, come on, sit down and tell me all about it!"

Derek glared at me, as if to ask, Are you deliberately making this awkward?

Another West Hollywood rule: at the end of the date, your friend or roommate is anxious to get into the bedroom, so keep the conversation to a bare minimum.

He murmured "I have to make a pit stop," and disappeared into the bathroom.  Calvin sat down on the couch next to me.

"Hey...um...I want to apologize about blowing you off for your roommate."

"No need for apologize" I said, surprised.  "We only had one date -- we weren't in a relationship."

"Well, I feel bad anyway.  You're really nice and all, but Derek and me, we just have a lot more in common.  Did you know he was in a rodeo when he was a teenager?"

"Hey, who am I to stand in the way of two cowboys in love?"  That came out more sarcastic than I intended.

"I don't want to go into to the bedroom with Derek, and have you out here, all lonely and upset..."

"Well, if you'd rather I not be here, I can go to the Rage for an hour or so."

Calvin scooted over and put his arm around me.  "Or you could spend the night with us.  I'm sure Derek won't mind."

Derek appeared, wiping his hands on a towel.  "I won't mind what?"

"Inviting Boomer to spend the night with us."

He stared with deer-caught-in-the-headlights horror - but he said: "Um...um...sure, that would be great."

I'm still not sure why he agreed -- they weren't in a relationship, so sharing was weird.    But we ended up in his bedroom with Calvin between us, taking turns kissing him and working beneath the belt.

Then we both topped Calvin -- one of the few times I've ever topped anyone.

I got only limited access to Derek -- no kissing, just a little fondling.  But it was fun seeing him in action.

They dated for about three months, and I ended up sharing their bed a few more times, always with passionate attention from Calvin and some basic fondling from Derek.  

That was enough.

See also: My Date with Richard Dreyfuss; The Naked Man in the Bathtub; Derek and the Pop Star

Naked in the Shower with Randy Travis

Born in 1959, country-western singer Randy Travis has a face that would send me running for the exit: long and narrow, with a gigantic forehead and tiny, beady eyes -- and he wasn't much cuter when he was young.

I've never heard his voice, but it has apparently won him a shelf-full of Grammies, CMA, ACM, and AMA awards (whatever those are).

His discography looks rather heterosexist, with a liberal addition of Jesus-Saves Gospel: "It's God's Amazing Grace that brought me this far."

Is it just me, or do people who mention God in every other sentence tend to be homophobic?

Not much gay content in his acting career.  I thought he played Will's wealthy cowboy client on Will and Grace, but that was Harry Connick Jr.  Travis has been in some cowboy movies and Christian dramas.

He's apparently been "plagued" by "accusations" of gayness, which he "vehemently denies." Sounds you think being gay is about the worst thing in the world, cowboy.

He's been married twice.   In 1991 he married his manager, Libbie Hatcher, who was 20 years older than him (yeah, I know, a double standard).  They divorced in 2010, and in 2015 he married Mary Davis.

No kids.  A lot of "family, Family, FAMILY" lyrics, though.

Not very good fodder for a gay sausage sighting story, but I have one:

Warwick, Rhode Island, August 1984

Call me Carlo.  I'm a Rhode Island boy.  I drink coffee milk, say "cah" instead of "car," and know who won the Governor's Cup in 2017 (Brown). I can't imagine living anywhere else.

When I was growing up in Warwick, Rhode Island in the 1960s and 1970s, the Warwick Musical Theater was a place to stay far away from, if you had any interest in being cool.  They called it "The Tent," although in 1967 the original circus tent was replaced by a gaudy, candy-colored theater-in-the round.

It specialized in dinosaur acts: Wayne Newton, Tom Jones, Andy Williams, Perry Como (who we called Perry Coma). No rock, unless you count Sha Na Na.  No black performers, except once Sammy Davis Jr.

I graduated from high school in 1975, majored in English at Roger Williams and the University of Rhode Island, moved to Providence, and in 1982 got my first job, as an entertainment reporter for The Cranston Herald.  But I tried to steer clear of the Tent. A kid's ballet recital!  A society luncheon! Anything but that.

But one day, the editor told me that on Sunday, August 5th, the Tent was having "A Night with Barbara Mandrell and Randy Travis."  He ordered a review, plus an interview of one or the other.

I had heard of Barbara Mandrell, but I couldn't name one of her song.  I had never heard of Randy Travis, but his picture showed a nice physique and a considerable basket.  Besides, I figured, a guy is a guy.

Buster Bonoff, the owner of the Tent, would pick them up at the airport about noon on Sunday, bring them to their hotel, and give them about four hours to relax or rehearse before picking them up for the concert at 6:00.

My interview was scheduled at 5:00 pm at a waterside restaurant called Doughboy's, where Top of the Bay is now.

I prepared by going to the record store to look for Randy's albums -- there were none (Randy Travis: live at the Nashville Palace had been released, but the record store didn't stock it).  Nor did the radio station have any of his singles.

The country-western radio station in New Bedford had a single by Randy Traywick (his original name): "Dreamin'" and "I'll Take Any Willing Woman."

Way heterosexist.  I thought about going with Barbara Mandrell instead.

On the 5th, I drove down to Warwick early to take some pictures.  Then I discovered that I had a couple of hours to kill, so I decided to work out -- always a good idea to get buffed before interviewing a guy -- you never know what will happen.  Remind me to tell you about my interview with Sha Na Na.

I didn't have time to drive all the way back to Providence, so I stopped at the YMCA in Warwick, which happened to be down the street from Randy's bed and breakfast.  I used to go there all the time as a kid -- free weights, some Nautilus, and plenty of action in the sauna and shower.

Today I didn't have time for action.  I did some upper-body weight training and a little cardio, and hit the showers.

I had just begun to soap up, when I turned around, and there was Randy Travis, or at least someone who looked like him, not ten feet away, putting his towel on a hook. He chose the shower next to mine, turned it on, and stood under it.  Surprisingly not very tall, a lean physique with big biceps, smooth chest, and a very nice cut cock.

He turned around to wet himself, squirted some soap into his hand, and began lathering up his cock and balls, all the while grinning at me.  I instinctively felt for my own cock and started manipulating it.

We were alone in the locker room -- Sunday afternoons are dead time at the Y.  Did he want me to do more?

Newspaper reporters are not psychiatrists.  No rule prohibits us from going down on our interview subjects.  I took a step over and reached out my hand, ready to  fondle his penis.

That's when I made my fatal mistake.

"Hey, are you Randy Travis?" I asked.

His face fell into a frown, and his hands moved to cover his crotch.  "Yeah, why?  You a fan?"

I pretended that I had stepped over to shake his hand.  "I'm Carlo.  I'm supposed to interview you later for The Herald.  Take a picture, too."

"Cool.  I'll be there," he said with a suspicious frown.

Surprised by the sudden cold shoulder, I turned off my shower and grabbed a towel.  "Ok, so I'll see you a little later."

The interview went very badly.  I kept trying not to look at Randy's crotch, and his matronly manager kept butting in.  And the concert: let's just say that me and country-western music don't mix.

But to this day, I'm wondering: I was all over that YMCA for an hour before going to the showers, and I didn't see Randy Travis anywhere.  The only place he could have been is the sauna.  But he would have no reason to hang around the sauna for an hour.

Except....

See also: Hank Williams Nude

Gabe and I Have a Grindr Hookup Contest

Plains, December 2015

The other night I had a couple of free hours, so I went onto a dating app, and I got approached by a hustler!

"I specialize in making older guys feel good," he offered.  "I know it gets lonely when you're over 40, and everyone ignores you."

"Are you kidding?" I exclaimed, annoyed.  "I get approached by younger guys all the time, and I've never yet been turned down! I could hook up with a dozen twinks every night if I wanted to."

 The next day I was complaining about the hustler's chutzpah to my friend Gabe. a recent graduate of the University, now a barista at the gay-friendly coffee house.

"Weren't you exaggerating a bit?" he said.  "I mean, I think you're hot, but most guys my age aren't into anyone over 30, I don't care how much you can bench press."

He paused.  "Now, me, on the other hand, I can attract anyone, any age,  18 to 85.  I just have to bat my eyes and flash my come-hither smile."

I had to admit that Gabe was one of the cutest guys I ever saw: 24 years old, with a nice tight physique and a very thick Kielbasa beneath the belt.  But he was also rather feminine, long-haired, weird red-plastic glasses, with weird plastic bracelets, into poetry readings and art exhibitions and protesting meat processing plants..

"Sure, you can attract androgynous, artsy guys, but what about a man's man?  A guy who drinks beer and goes deer huntin', and wants you to help him skin his kill?"

Gabe, a staunch vegan, whitened.  "Well...I might not want to date him, but I could certainly get him into bed.  Any guy, twink, bear, chubby, Daddy, not a problem."

"Well, I might not want to date a Cute Young Thing who still lives with his parents and has a 10:00 curfew," I countered, "But I could get him into my bed in a second."

"How about we make a little bet?  We each select someone on the app, and the other has to convince him to meet in one hour or less. The loser has to buy the winner dinner."

"What if we both land our guys?"

"Then we have a four-way."

So Saturday night, prime dating and hookup time, we met at my apartment and went to work.

I got to choose someone for Gabe first:

Travis, a 38-year old truck driver from a small town about 50 miles away.  Tall, bearded, hairy, and hung.  His interests actually did include hunting and fishing, as well as football, motorcycles, and "big, chubby guys with some meat on their bones."

The thin, androgynous Gabe was the opposite of what he was looking for!

Gabe gave it his best shot, initiating the conversation with "Want to come over for a beer and a massage?"

I watched their polite, less-than-enthusiastic exchange.

Travis:  "Did you see the game tonight?"

Gabe: [Long pause].  "Uh, no.  I'm here with my friend.  We watched Priscilla, Queen of the Desert.  It's a great old movie about a group of drag queens who get stuck in the Australian outback...."

Travis: [Long pause].  "I'm going hunting next week.  I can't wait."

Gabe:  "[Long pause]. "What music do you like?  I like Owen Pallet, Jay Brannon, a lot of queer indie music."

Travis: [Long pause].  "Um...well, I listen to country-Western, mostly.  I'm going to the Fur Fleet in March.  It's the biggest gathering of bears, cubs, and chubs in the Upper Midwest."

Gabe: Sounds like fun.  I love bears and chubbies."

Travis: [Pointedly] "Me, too."

"That was a dirty trick!" Gabe exclaimed, shutting down the app. "You picked a guy with none of my interests, and I wasn't even his type!"

I shrugged. "All's fair in love and cruising."

"Ok, Mr. Man, now it's my turn."

He picked Bastian, a 18 year old high school senior who was planning to go to art school: long dirty-blond hair, a handsome although rather severe face, a slim physique with an impressive Bratwurst.  Lots of weird plastic bracelets and chains around his neck, two tattoos. Not really my type.

Besides, his profile said "No hookups -- dating and relationships only" and to make matters worse, "My age only."

I glared at Gabe, but said "No problem!  I'll have the hookup arranged in an hour! But leave the room -- I need privacy to work my magic!"

Gabe retreated to the study.  A half hour later, I announced, "Mission accomplished.  Dinner at Chandler's tomorrow night at 7."

How did I get the boy who wasn't into hookups or older guys?

1. Praise.

Boomer: "I just wanted to congratulate you for being out at a young age.  I know it's hard to be gay in the heterosexist high school culture."

Soon I was hearing horror stories about the constant "what girl do you like?" interrogations of his friends, teachers pairing boys and girls together for marriage assignments, parents evoking "when you have a wife and kids" every five minutes.


Boomer: "Have you dated anyone at your school?"

Bastian: "Please! They're too scared to be out."

2. Complaints about Hookups.

Boomer: "Well, there's always this dating app."

Bastian: Are you kidding?  It's full of creepy old guys who just want to get into my pants."

Boomer: "I know.  You can't get rid of them, it's always like 'Come over and do me! I'm more than just a penis!"




3. A Potential Boyfriend

 Boomer: "Hey, I know a guy you might like.  He's 24 years old, single, and completely out."

I told him about Gabe's interest in art, poetry, and queer Indie music, and sent his picture.

Bastian: "Sounds great!  Set us up!"

4. Sealing the Deal

Boomer:  Let me see if he's up for it.  [Pause for a few minutes.]  He says fine.  Dinner tomorrow night at Chandler's.  But the thing is, he's shy, and he won't meet with a new guy unless I'm there as moral support.  Do you mind if there are two of us?"

Bastian: "No problem.  See you both tomorrow.  Can't wait!"

There is more than one way to share a twink.

The story continues with The Hookup Contest, Part 2

See also: The Twink Who Wasn't Interested; Cruising My Host's Son at a Heterosexual Party

Hank Williams Nude

This is reputedly Hank Williams, the country-western star, who I covered in the post "Hank Williams: Dynasty of Homophobia," on Boomer Beefcake and Bonding.

The right time period, but I'm not sure I believe it.  Would the conservative Republican really allow himself to be photographed like that in the 1940s?

Besides, Hank Williams had a hairy chest, and died at the age of 29.  This guy is smooth, and looks way older than that.

Nice, though.