The Worst Date in Ohio History: Remy the Jerk

Dayton, October 2005

For 20 years all of my friends and neighbors were gay men.  The guy on the next treadmill at the gym, the couple ahead of me in line at the grocery store, everyone I passed on the street was gay.  I got my news from The Advocate.   I bought my books in a gay bookstore.  I went to a gay church.

Now I'm living in Dayton, Ohio, in the midst of the Straight World.  There's one gay bar, on the other side of town, and no gay organizations except The Friends of the Italian Opera, a closeted group of gay retirees.  The nearest gay neighborhood is an hour's drive away.

I'm not adjusting well.  I have no friends except a "straight" Friend With Benefits.  I stop going to the gym, and gain weight.  I'm so depressed that I seek out psychological counseling.  And I have a series of crazy dates with sleazoids and jerks.

But tonight will be different.  It's a blind date, arranged by Clintin (who I hooked up with last February), so I haven't actually met him yet, but he sounds great: Remy, 36 years old, a history professor (specializing in 19th century America), who lives in the gay neighborhood of Germantown in Columbus.

His photo isn't great:  long, weasley face, villain goatee, pale skin, skinny chest matted with black hair.  But I'm willing to overlook those defects.

Ok, I have high expectations: we'll become boyfriends, I'll move in, and commute to my dreary job in Dayton, and get my life back to normal.

The Arrival

I arrive a few minutes early: weird white house, set back from the street, but in the heart of Germantown, a few blocks from the gay bars and restaurants.

Whoops -- one of his roommates is a woman!  Must be a lesbian, but still....

Instead of taking me into the living room, she escorts me upstairs to the bedroom to wait.  Remy is naked, toweling off from the shower.

"You're early!" he exclaims in a nasty tone.

"It's an hour's drive from Dayton, so I couldn't calculate exactly," I say defensively.  "Sorry for coming up here -- your roommate wouldn't let me stay in the living room."

"Yeah, she doesn't like me.  I'm only renting a room -- I had to move out of my house when I broke up with my ex."

Too much information for a first date!

Well, at least I got a good view.

The Dinner

There are a dozen gay restaurants in Columbus, but instead Remy takes me to the Milestone, a big, airy, freezing-cold restaurant that looks out over the downtown skyline.  He insists on a table outside, where we keep getting buzzed by the mist from a gigantic fountain.

The menu is all nouvelle-cuisine tiny-portioned gourmand stuff, with tiny pieces of meat and vegetables artistically arranged amid sprigs of cilantro and dabs of cumin mayonnaise.

There are three things I hate on a date: 1. to be cold; 2. to be hungry; 3. to be insulted.

Remy doesn't seem to realize that he is insulting me:
1. West Hollywood ("it's so superficial!")
2. My degree ("on of those fad degrees that will be useless in ten years")
3. My trip to Paris ("such a cliched destination.  why doesn't anyone ever go to Bucharest or Sarajevo?")
4. My singing voice.  How did he ever get around to that?

I don't have any particular reason to put up the top photo.  I just needed something to take my mind off Remy.

Have you ever noticed that jerks -- guys who are critical, inconsiderate, insensitive, and hurtful -- tend to be physically unattractive?  I certainly don't ascribe to the notion that beautiful bodies go with beautiful souls, but say you are attractive, so everyone is nice to you all the time.  Won't you learn to be nice?  And if you are constantly snubbed and rejected, won't you learn to be nasty yourself?




The Party

Next we're scheduled to go to a Halloween party at an apartment a few blocks from Remy's house.  It seems strange to go to a party on a first date -- too many distractions, too much competition.  But I haven't been to a good Halloween party for years, and I'm still clinging to the hope that we'll become a couple, and I'll get my gay life back.

We should have coordinated in advance.  I'm going as  Zorro, and he's going as Mark Twain, with a white suit, bushy white hair, and a white moustache.  Rather an odd couple, compounded by his rather gross makeup and the lit cigar he carries constantly as a prop.

There are about 30 guys crammed into the 2-bedroom apartment, a lot of hot bodies in skimpy costumes, but a lot of drinking going on.  The West Hollywood parties I used to go to had very little drinking -- when you choose your friends mostly from church and temple, you get a lot of teetotlars and "one glass of wine on my birthday" guys.  This is a room full of sloshing drunks, and stale with with marijuana and cigarette smoke.  And cruising.


Remy latches onto a Cute Young Thing, and before I know it, they're making out.

I've had enough!  "I'm ready to go!"  I tell him.

"Well, I'm not drunk enough yet.  Why don't you go back to the house -- my roommate will let you in.  I'll be back later -- and I may even have a surprise for you."  He nudges the Cute Young Thing.

No way!  In West Hollywood, the guy you begin the evening with, you end the evening with.  Friend, roommate, date, it doesn't matter -- you go out that door together, you come back together.  No abandoning them to pursue a trick.

And who "shares" on the first date?  That's not a date, that's a three-way hookup!

"I want to go home now!" I say, more firmly, squeezing his shoulder.  "Alone."

"Ok, ok," Remy says.  He scribbles his phone number, passes it to the Cute Young Thing, and escorts me out.

We walk back to his house through the crowds of gay-neighborhood partiers, mostly silent.

"You know, it wouldn't have killed you to share me with that Cute Young Thing," Remy said.  "He could do both of us."

"I want you all to myself.  I'm the jealous type."

"That's for sure.  Not your most attractive quality, I must say."

The Bedroom

After all that, why did I agree to spend the night with Remy the Jerk?

Three reasons:
1. I was cold, and wanted a warm bed
2. I was too tired to drive an hour back to Dayton
3. He had a penis.  A nice one -- at least 8".

Once I got past the alcohol and tobacco on his breath, Remy was a good kisser.  He tried to lower me onto his penis while we were kissing, but I refused anal, going down on him instead.  Then he moved into the 69 position to finish.  I finished in the interfemoral position, thrusting between his legs.

We fell asleep in each other's arms.  In the morning he gave me his telephone number, said "Next time with the Cute Young Thing.  I'll bet he can teach you a few tricks," and kicked me out without breakfast.

Still a jerk..

See also: The Huber Heights Horror.; a Hookup During a Job Interview

My First Pridefest...I mean, Gay Pride Parade....I mean, Gay Rights March. With Mickey Muscle.

June 1982, after my junior year at Augustana College.  Thomas, the former Episcopalian priest who I met with my ex-boyfriend Fred last year, calls to invite me to Des Moines for the annual Iowa Gay Rights March.

I have never heard of such a thing.

"We march to protest police harassment, discrimination in jobs and housing, sodomy laws, that sort of thing.  We had one last year.  It's always close to June 28th, the anniversary of the Stonewall Riots."

I have never heard of the Stonewall Riots, either.  But count me in.

The full story, with nude photos, is on RG Beefcake and Boyfriends

The Boy Who Cried "Fabulous"

Wilton Manors, April 2005

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

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

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

Our First Date

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our Second Date

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

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

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

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


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

Maybe I could scare him off.  BDSM sometimes worked.

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

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

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

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

Our Third Date

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

See also: 50 Ways of Saying "Fabulous"

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

Huber Heights, Ohio, November 2005

I still cringe just thinking about it.

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

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

But really...

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, no, I live alone."

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

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

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

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

Brandon's father answered.

At least, it looked like Brandon's father. 

23?  Try 43.  

Blond? grey and red.

Slim swimmer's build?  Husky bear.

 

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

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

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

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

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

Wait -- what about cuddling and coming out stories?

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

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

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

Not very much time?

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

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

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

I  went down on him.

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

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

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

Let's recap: 

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

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

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

Aargh!

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

See also: Ricky with a Y; Remy the Jerk

The Worst Date in West Hollywood History

I have always been attracted to guys who are shorter, the shorter the better.  And muscular.  So when I got the number of the muscular, 4'0" Ryan at the Faultline in West Hollywood, it was a major triumph

Ryan was 26 years old, new in town, and newly out -- he had never been on a gay date before.  So I went a little overboard and arranged the most spectacular date in West Hollywood history.

1. Brunch at Geoffrey's in Malibu, where my celebrity boyfriend took me on our first date.
2. Down to the Del Rey Yacht Club, to go sailing with my celebrity friend Edson Stroll.
3. Meet Raul for the tea dance at Mickey's in West Hollywood
4. Dinner at the French Quarter
5. Meet Lee for an outdoor jazz concert at the L.A. County Museum of Art
6. Back home for physical activity (Lee and I had an agreement: we could "date" other guys, but all physical activity had to occur at home, with the other partner present)


Things started going wrong from the beginning:

1. It is raining, so brunch at Geoffrey's is cold and uncomfortable.

2. It is still raining, so instead of sailing, we go to Fisherman's Village in Marina Del Rey, a tacky tourist trap.  Where I trip over something -- I don't know what -- and twist my ankle, making walking difficult.

"Maybe a nice safe movie instead of the tea dance?"  I suggest.

"No, I need to be around other gay guys!"  Ryan insists.  "You can sit down, no problem."

3. Off to Mickey's.  It's nearly empty, due to the rain.  Ryan has 3 beers.  He weighs 100 pounds, so he's buzzed.  He starts making the rounds of the dance floor, cruising every Cute Young Thing in sight, while Raul keeps me company at a little table.  I fume with jealousy.


4. The French Quarter is packed.  There's a 45 minute wait for a table.  I suggest we go somewhere else, but Ryan insists "No, this is Gay Central!  I need to be here!"

He then insists that we have champagne.  I don't drink, so one glass is enough to get me buzzed.

The concert is cancelled due to the rain.  I try to contact Lee to make alternative plans.  No answer (this was before cell phones).

"Let's go to the Toy Tiger instead," Ryan suggests. "Lee will catch up to us eventually."

5.  It's a piano bar in Silverlake where they sing show tunes and torch songs.  I hate show tunes and torch songs, but Ryan loves them.  He sings along to "The Man I Love," "You Can't Get a Man with a Gun," "Strangers in the Dark."

He's 26 years old.  Where did he learn all of these old chestnuts?

He has a Mai Tai, whatever that is.  His voice get slurry.

I try Lee again.  No answer.

 After two hours of show tunes and torch songs, I drag Ryan out onto the street.  We can't find the car.  Has it been stolen?  Has it been towed?  It's too much trouble to deal with tonight.  I call a friend to pick us up.

6.  We finally get back to the house.  I'm exhausted, in pain, worried about my car, in no mood for physical activity, and besides, we have to wait for Lee.

But Ryan starts kissing and undressing me.  Maybe something will go right on this date!  We go into the bedroom

Where I promptly fall asleep.

It's official: the Worst Date in West Hollywood History!

By the way, Lee had been waiting for us at the Faultline, my car had been towed, and I didn't see Ryan again

S

Alan and the Kept Boy

West Hollywood, March 1986

When I was growing in the Nazarene church, not only was alcohol forbidden, we couldn't even go into a venue that served or sold alcohol, for any reason.  My Sunday school teacher said, "If a maniac with an axe is chasing you, and the only way to escape is to run into a bar, choose the maniac."

Alan grew up hardcore Pentecostal, with similar restrictions.

So we were never around anyone drinking.  We didn't really understand that people who are drunk behave differently than when they are sober.

Until one night at Mugi.

It was about 10:00 pm, still early.  Alan was chatting up a cute twink from Taiwan, and I had flirted with a few guys, but nothing definite yet.

Then I saw Zack,  sitting at the bar, drinking a green, toxic-looking drink.  I later discovered that it was a Flying Grasshopper, creme-de-menthe, creme-de-cacao, vodka, and mint leaves.  Stunningly out of place amid the coca-colas and beers.

He was a tall, blond twink, wearing a blue suit with a hot pink, frilled shirt unbuttoned half way down  Very tan, smooth chest beneath. Stunningly out of place amid the t-shirts and jeans.

He wasn't actually my type, I thought.  Besides, he wouldn't be interested: white guys came to Mugi only to meet Asian guys.  But I found myself drawn to him anyway -- something about the pink shirt against the tanned chest was extremely erotic.

We talked.  No slurred speech or erratic movements, not obviously drunk.  Zack was from Idaho, came to L.A. three years ago to become an actor.  He had done some modeling, yelled on a roller coaster in a commercial for Knotts Berry Farm, and played a racist high school bully on an episode of Diff'rent Strokes.  I pretended that I had seen it..

I reached inside his shirt to feel his chest.  It was remarkably ripped.  The boy knew his way around a gym.

Zack ordered another Flying Grasshopper, then grabbed my hand and squeezed it hard.  "Can I come back to your place tonight?"

 "I'm....um....with my roommate  right now," I said, shocked.

Warning Sign #1: In West Hollywood in 1986, you didn't bring guys home the first time you met.  You always made a date for later in the week.

"What's he look like?"

"He's over there, tall guy with a beard."

"Yeah -- cute.  Invite him along.  We'll have a three-way."

Warning Sign #2: The custom of "sharing" one's friends and roommates developed in response to the AIDS crisis, under the theory that you should keep your sexual activities within a tight social circle.  But you only shared them with committed partners, not with bar pickups (this rule changed during the 1990s, but in 1986 it was set in stone).

"We don't know each other very well," I said firmly.  "It's a little early to be talking about sharing."

Zack drained his second Flying Grasshopper in a couple of gulps.  "See, the thing is, I had a fight with my boyfriend -- tonight was supposed to be our anniversary -- that's why I'm dressed up.  I'm afraid to go home -- he gets violent sometimes.  So it's your bedroom or the street."

Wile we talked, I had been unbuttoning Zack's shirt, feeling his warm, hard chest and abs, fondling his sizeable package.  I leaned over and kissed him.  I can be a Good Samaritan, I thought.

"I came with my friend," Zack said.  "Just let me tell him that I'm going home with you."

"Wait -- why couldn't you stay with your friend?" I asked.

"Oh, his place is too tiny.  Besides, he's not hot!"

Warning Sign #3: His story didn't check out.

Warning Sign #4: He was willing to get into a car with two guys he didn't know.

Today I would absolutely refuse.  But I was young and naive, and besides, he had an incredible physique..

Alan had just struck out with the Taiwanese guy, so he didn't need much convincing.

When we got to the car, Zack pulled me into the back seat with him, and we began kissing and fondling as Alan drove.

Warning Sign #5: He didn't act like a guy who had just had a fight with his boyfriend, and was afraid to go home.

Warning Sign #6: For all my groping, Zack did not become aroused.

Warning Sign #7: "Let's stop at the liquor store!" he exclaimed.  "Drinks all around."

"I don't know where any liquor stores are," Alan protested.

"I do, I do!  Turn here on Van Ness, then go down to Santa Monica. Studio Liquor, right off Highland!"

Alan glared at me, but stopped, and Zack ran in and bought a bottle of Peppermint Schnapps.

Warning Sign #8: He began sipping at it right in the car.

When we got to the apartment, Zack carefully brought the bottle in with him and put it on the coffee table.  Then he yelled "Showers first!  Who's with me?"

"Sorry, I hate showering with other people."

"I'll go!" Alan said.  They took off their clothes and went into the bathroom.  They were in there for a very long time.  First there was giggling, then no sound at all.  Finally they emerged, naked,  Zack's hard, smooth, tanned physique a sharp contrast to Alan's pale, hairy body.  They compared cock sizes.  Zack was significantly smaller.

"Time for Peppermint Schnapps!" he announced, grabbing the bottle again. "It's the best thing in the world, except for a Sloe Gin Fizz."

We took the bottle from him, went into Alan's bedroom, and climbed into the bed.  Zack and I began kissing, and Alan began working on him beneath the belt.

Unsuccessfully.  No matter what he tried, Zack could not rise to the occasion.

"Well, I'm more of a bottom anyway," he said.  He turned over onto his stomach.  "Who wants to be the first?"

Alan volunteered.  Later he told me that it was terrible.  Zack just lay there like a statue.  Soon I could tell that he had fallen asleep.

We ended up falling asleep, too, with Zack between us.

He didn't want to wake up in the morning.  Finally Alan gave up, got dressed, and went to church.

How was I going to get rid of this guy?

 I let him sleep another hour, and then shook him away.

"God, what a hangover!" he moaned.  "Bloody Marys all around.  Got any vodka?"  He grinned at me.  "Hey, you're cute.  Did we do it last night?"

"Um...well, we tried.  Don't you remember?"

"Babe, I was so blasted, I'm lucky I remembered my name.  Did I give you that old saw about a fight with my boyfriend?  That's my favorite."

 Leaning heavily on me, Zack pulled himself out of bed.  "Well, part of it is true.  I'm going to have a fight with my boyfriend as soon as I get home.  I told him I'd be back by midnight, so I didn't turn into a pumpkin. Got any Vodka?"

"No.  We don't keep alcohol in the house.  You bought a bottle of Peppermint Schnapps."

He pushed himself out into the living room and took a sip.  "Well, at least the night was good for something.  Take me home, ok, babe?  We have Vodka and Tequila there"

Grateful to finally be rid of him, I drove Zack to one of those huge apartment complexes on the Miracle Mile, where he lived with a 40-ish film director who promised to get him some acting jobs.  As far as I could tell during our brief conversation, he was more of a kept boy than a boyfriend.  With a major alcohol problem.

I missed all of the warning signs, blinded by his chest.

See also: Sharing the Optometrist's Boyfriend; Alan Cruises a Cop

My Date or Trick with Mario in the White Room

West Hollywood, September 1987

In spite of my nostalgia-infused memories of West Hollywood as a paradise, it had some big problems.  For one thing, it was completely segregated.  Only 3% of its residents were black, 5% Asian, and 10% Hispanic (compared to Los Angeles in general, 10%, 11%, and 47%).

You rarely saw anyone black on the streets, and when you did, he was with a white guy, and being charged a hefty cover to get into the bar, or waiting extra-long for the server to notice him in the restaurant.

But this isn't a story about institutional racism and microaggressions.  It's about a guy named Mario.

Nearly every day, I stopped into the Different Light Bookstore on Larrabee.  I joked that I was moving the entire stock into my room.

And one day I saw Mario browsing in the theater section.

He was rather feminine, thin and willowy, wearing gold rings, bracelets, and necklaces -- an immediate turnoff.  But he was shorter than me, dark skinned, with glasses that gave him a studious look.  So when he approached, started a conversation about gay literature, and invited me to dinner at the Greenery, I agreed.


Wait -- he meant right now.  In West Hollywood, you always set up dates for the future. Was this one of those dreaded tricks, a pickup, sex for its own sake?

Tricking was frowned upon -- if this was a trick, I could never tell my friends about it.

While I ate a hamburger and Mario picked at a salad, we exchanged coming-out stories.  He grew up in Richmond, Virginia and fled to West Hollywood seven years ago.  He had a job as a secretary, but only until he got his big break as an actor.  He hadn't had much luck, but he did land a date with celebrity Rob Lowe.

I countered by telling him about my Celebrity Boyfriend.

"My boss wants me -- I can tell," Mario continued.  "But I saw him in the rest room -- a footlong, honey!  No way, nuh-huh, I can't handle that."

Ok, feminine and into anal.  Date or trick, this wasn't going to work.  I put $5 on the table to pay for my dinner, and politely excused myself.

"Come on, honey, don't leave me hanging!" Mario exclaimed.  "After I put myself out to cruise you!  I don't meet many nice guys, who are willing to take things slow and get to know you.  Everybody wants to just jump into bed right away."

This was awkward!  "Well...um...I don't think we're compatible."

"Is it because I'm black?  You're afraid what your friends will say?"

"What?  No!"  My face burned.  That was the farthest thing from my mind,  But now we were definitely going through with the date, or trick.



So we walked down the street to Mickey's, the twink hangout, and danced and flirted and groped and fondled.

No kissing!  Was he shy or what?

But, date or trick, I was ready to go home with him.

Mario lived in a very nice apartment building, white with pink trim, on Romaine Street just off Fairfax.  He made me take off my shoes and socks to avoid tracking lint on the carpet.

"Do you want to take your shower first?" he asked.  "There are fresh towels in the bathroom, and a douche under the sink."

Douche?  Was he an anal top?

All of the towels in the bathroom were white, like at the gym.

I showered and came out to find Mario in the kitchen.  "Now put your clothes in the washer, and I'll do a load tomorrow morning before you go home.  Don't worry, no one will touch your stuff."

"My clothes...but...."

"You can't get dressed into dirty clothes, can you?"

I did as he asked.  Mario went to take his shower.  I wandered around the apartment -- only a few books, all on acting -- and found the bedroom.

It was completely white: rug, curtain, dresser, nightstand, lamp, bedspread, everything.  It made my eyes hurt.

I stood there, afraid to touch anything.  A song by Cream ran through my head: "In a white room with black curtains...wait in the place where shadows run from themselves..."

Soon Mario appeared, wearing only a white towel.

"Oh, don't worry -- the sheets and bedspread are clean.  I change them every day."

"Every...day?  I have like three sets of sheets, tops.  Don't you run out?"

"Oh, honey, I wouldn't run out for a month.  I buy sheets the way other guys buy shoes.  But I do the laundry every day anyway.  Who wants dirty clothes in the hamper for a week?"  He groped me.  "Now give me that towel.  I'll hang it up so it won't get mildewed."

He took off his towel, too -- Kielbasa, beautifully shaped.  I sat on the bed, naked, until he returned.

I moved in for a kiss.  "Sorry, I'm not into that," he said, turning his face away.

We lay on the bed, not kissing.  Mario's body was cool to the touch.  He didn't turn the light off -- the bright lights against the white background were dazzling.

He handed me a condom and turned over on his stomach.  He wanted me to screw him!

No dice.

He tried to put the condom on me.  I wasn't aroused.  "I'm really not into that," I said.

"No problem, honey.  I know lots of ways to please my man."

Mario moved down below the belt and started go go down on me.

The weirdness, the whiteness, the femininity, the lack of kissing -- nothing was happening.  I wasn't getting aroused!

A unpardonable sin, for either a date or a trick.

After awhile, he gave up, ran into the bathroom for some mouthwash, and returned.  "Well, I love cuddling with my man, too."

Wait -- didn't I get a chance to go down on him?    When I reached down there, he shooed my away.

And he didn't turn off the light!  I was stuck spending the night with him -- it would have been gauche to leave -- in a room as glaringly white as a hospital bed.

After an hour or so, I got up, gauche or no gauche, retrieved my clothes from the washer, and woke Mario with some excuse about why I had to leave.

"Sorry, honey," he murmured.  "I guess you're just not into black guys."

No, I was definitely into black guys, just not glaring white rooms.

I ran into Mario occasionally after that, at the Different Light, the gay Safeway, or on the street, and he always smiled sadly, as if to say "I know your secret shame."

That wasn't fair.  No one can be expected to perform in a white room, with someone who won't kiss and calls him "honey."

See also: Mario's Date or Trick with Rob Lowe and  The Truth about the Black Penis

In Search of Books and Boyfriends in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas

Hell-fer-Sartain, November 1984

I'm a big bibliophile.  When I move, it takes 30 boxes just for my books.

The highlight of visiting a new town is checking out the bookstores.

If I walked into this scene, I would check out the books before making out with the guy.

So during my awful year in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas, when I ran an ad in the Montrose Voice, Houston's gay newspaper, looking for a boyfriend, I specified "must like books."

It was a boyfriend ad -- I was 23 years old, conservative, romantic, not into "tricking" (the 1980s word for hookups).  I wanted dating, romance, a relationship.  So, to make sure we had a lot in common, I specified more than my sexual tastes:"into bks, tv, f/sf, mus, dts only.

Into books, tv, fantasy/science fiction, bodybuilding (muscles).  Dates only (they charged by the letter).

 Most guys who answered didn't even read the ad -- they just answered all of them, in search of an elusive hookup.

Others misunderstood, thinking I meant "pornographic books, transvestism, and fisting in San Francisco."

Others were "into books," but strongly disapproved of the "mindless, infantile dreck" on the rest of my list.

Finally, after about two months of running the ad, I got a response from a guy named Hank, who seemed ideal.

He was from Ottumwa, Iowa (about two hours from Rock Island); he had a bachelor's degree in psychology (I had a master's degree in English); and he claimed a love of books, movies, tv, and science fiction (at least he knew what sf meant).

So I agreed to a date.

When I arrived at Hank's apartment on Kipling Street in the Montrose, Houston's gay neighborhood, he answered the door in bathrobe.

Cute: short black hair, deeply-set eyes, sharp chin, high cheekbones.  From what I could see through the bathrobe, a nicely toned, smooth chest with flat nipples and a hint of six-pack abs.

"I'm still getting ready," he said apologetically.  "Have a seat, and I'll be with you in a minute."

It was a small one room apartment with a single window that looked out onto a fire escape, and nowhere to sit but an unmade bed.  A kitchenette with unwashed dishes in the sink and open boxes of cereal on the counter.  A coffee table with more unwashed dishes on it.  A small dresser and a black and white tv.

I shouldn't complain -- I had a small apartment, too.  But at least I knew how to wash dishes and make a bed.

As I looked around the tiny room, I noticed something missing.  No books.

I have books in every room in the house, including the bathroom.  Hank had none.   A bookcase full of knicknacks; snow globes, toys, figurines.  No pile of novels waiting to be read.  No coffee-table books for visitors to browse through.  Nothing.

For that matter, no magazines or newspapers, either.

Hank bounced out of the bathroom in a t-shirt that revealed a v-shaped torso and very thick hard biceps.  He plopped down on the bed next to me.  "So, what do you want to do?  Go out to eat, go to a movie, go cruising?"

He had never had Japanese, Indian, Thai, or Vietnamese food.  We went out to dinner at a...yawn...steakhouse, where I subtly quizzed Hank on how much he really liked the four things on my list.

Books: His favorite author was...um..Shakespeare.  His favorite gay author was...well, what difference did sexual orientation make, as long as the book was good?

TV: He used to watch The Brady Bunch when he was a kid.  He had a crush on Greg.  Contemporary shows?  Well, he didn't have much time for tv.

Fantasy/Science Fiction:  Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom is science fiction, right?

Bodybuilding: He went to the gym.

After dinner I suggested that we browse in the Wilde and Stein Bookstore, which specialized in gay fiction.  I bought The Boy Who Picked the Bullets Up, a gay coming-of-age story.  Hank looked bored.

We returned to his book-free apartment and sat on the bed.

I was ready to bolt.  This guy was cute and all, but I was looking for a boyfriend, someone who shared my interests.

"I don't think this will work out," I said, sighing.  "We don't have much in common.  I'm really looking for a guy who is into books."

"I read books!" Hank protested.  "I have a whole pile of them!"  He opened a drawer under the bed and displayed...some well-worn children's books.

Charlie an the Chocolate Factory
The Little House on the Prairie
The Boxcar Children
The Hardy Boys

"Um...have you read anything lately?" I asked.

"Well, I don't have time to read a lot, but look -- have you ever read The Phantom Tollbooth?  It's about a boy named Milo, see..."

"I don't think...." I began.

"Look..."  Hank wrapped his arm around me to draw my attention to the book.  A hard bicep against my back, a big hand on my shoulder.  I fell against his chest.

There was a definite bulge in his pants.

"We don't have to look at my books," Hank said, "If there's something else you'd rather do."

There was something else I wanted to do: kiss and lick his chest, and gradually move my way down to his beautifully shaped Bratwurst+.   I eagerly thrust up and down until Hank lay on the bed and pulled me on top of him for interfemoral and kissing, then into 69.

Ok, there are some things I like more than books.

See also: Anal and Astrology in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas

Infinite Chazz Hooks Up with Mark-Paul Gosselaar

Washington, DC, April 15th, 1995

I'm in Washington DC, visiting my old friend Alan for the week before Easter and Passover. My partner Lane calls, like he does every day,  and Infinite Chazz gets on the phone.

"Hey, Dad!  You'll never believe this! Last night I was dumped!"

"That is hard to believe!"  I exclaim.  "You're never rejected.  You just walk up to the guy, flash your patented smile, and he's writing down his phone number!"

Infinite Chazz is 21 years old, a student at Cal State Fullerton, called "Infinite" not only because of his enormous Mortadella, but because he's infinitely attractive, sure to cause jaw-dropping stares in every man who comes within five feet of him.  He drives up every couple of weeks, to "share" and make the guys at the synagogue or MCC die of envy.

"Not this time.  And you'll never guess who dumped me."

"Jerry O'Connell?" I joke.  The star of Sliders was the prime time hunk du jour.

"Close.  Mark-Paul Gosselaar."

"What?  Are you sure?  Is this a fantasy?"

"I wish!  I'm still smarting from the rejection."

Mark-Paul Gosselaar (left) was the teen-dream star of Saved by the Bell (1988-1994), Zack Morris, the constantly-in-trouble operator of Bayside High.  Every gay boy in the country had his pin-up on his bedroom wall; most realized that they were gay watching the buddy-bonding romance between Zack and Mario Lopez's Slater (right)

"I'm not saying he's not hot," I tell Chazz, "Or that he's not a nice guy, but he's never had any gay rumors, that I know of.  He's a hetero horndog, dating every supermodel he sees."

 Indeed, his character Zack Morris screams heterosexual privilege, someone who absolutely assumes the universality of heterosexual desire, who is absolutely convinced that gay people do not exist.

"Well, last night, he made two exceptions.  Me, and the guy he dumped me for."

West Hollywood, April 14th

Chazz was in West Hollywood keeping Lane company.  On the Friday before Passover, Lane was tired, so Chazz went out by himself, promising to bring someone home to "share."

He went to the evening service at Beth Chaim Chadashim, the gay synagogue, and a meeting place for West Hollywood's gay Jewish community.  Although he wasn't Jewish, he had visited often enough that all the regulars knew him.

At the refreshment table after the service, he was drawn to a new guy, strikingly tall, with dirty blond hair, a rarity at the synagogue.  When he got closer, he saw that it was Mark-Paul Gosselaar, his teenage crush!

"Mr. Gosselaar, I love you...I mean, I love your work!"  Chazz gushed, shaking his hand. "I have the entire Saved by the Bell series on VHS."

Usually gushing at a celebrity turns him off, but MP smiled broadly, with that Zack Morris smile that brought teenage boys to their knees.  "Call me MP.  Yeah, Saved by the Bell was lots of fun, but I'm anxious to move on to adult roles.  I'm doing a Misery thing right now about a football jock kidnapped by an unpopular girl."

"Sounds great -- I can't wait to see it."  Chazz noticed that they were still shaking hands, and began to get aroused.  "So, I didn't know you were Jewish."  And gay.

"I have Jewish roots on my mother's side, so when I heard that there was a gay synagogue in town, I had to come and give it a look."

"What's your expert opinion?"

"I need to do more research," MP said, touching Chazz's chest.  "Really get to know gay Jewish boys, see what they're like inside, examine them up and...down."  He looked down at Chazz's crotch.

Chazz didn't need any more prompting.  He invited MP home to "share" with Lane, but MP wanted to see "gay nightlife."  So they went to the Rage, the twink dance club.

They danced, and kissed, and groped each other.  

"How big was he?" I ask.

"Average sized, maybe a little smaller.  I didn't care. I would have gone down on him right there at the Rage, if he suggested it."

"Did you see it?"

"No, but I saw the tenting, and felt it through his pants."

Then the Other Man showed up. 

They were all dancing in a mass, so Chazz didn't even notice when MP moved to the side and faced the Other Man -- Asian, tall, slim, black-haired, with very tight jeans and some socks shoved in to give him a bulge.    

Then they were blatantly facing each other.  Grinning.  Eyes smoldering.

MP was cruising another guy, while on a date with him!  Unheard of in the gay community!

Thinking fast, Chazz said "I'm tired -- let's go get a drink," and walked off the dance floor.  MP didn't follow.

He went to the bar, got a bottle of beer, and brought it to MP -- who said "thanks" without ever taking his eyes off the Other Man.

Chazz grabbed his shoulder.  "I'm ready to go home."

"Ok," MP said.  "It was nice meeting you."

"I mean with you..." Chazz said desperately.  "Or both of you, together.  I have a place..." 

"I don't know...I'm sort of shy." MP reached out to grab the Other Man and kiss him passionately.

Chazz was furious.  He was never rejected, and certainly not in the middle of the date!  He looked around for another guy to make MP jealous, and stuck up a conversation with a cute black twink.  But when he looked around, MP was gone.

Seething with rage, aching with rejection, Chazz drove home, and cried in Lane's arms.

Was Chazz Telling the Truth?

In April 1995, Mark-Paul Gosselaar was 21 years old, and working on Twisted Love, a Misery rip-off set in a high school. He does have Jewish roots, but his hair is black, not dirty-blond -- it was dyed for Saved by the Bell. 

Penis size: About halfway through Dead Man on Campus, his character is making out with a girl in bed, and he gets aroused in real life.  You have to zoom in to see it; at least a Bratwurst, somewhat bigger than what Chazz described.

But I haven't heard any gay rumors about him.  I suspect that Chazz took an "innocent" meeting and added some details about kissing and groping.

But why make it into a story of a painful rejection?  

See also: A Live Sex Show for Alan; Saved by the Bell; Why Christopher Atkins is My Facebook Friend.

Drake on a Date with Ricky Nelson and Bob Ellis

Hollywood, May 1956

One day in the spring of 1956, Harriet Nelson (who played "herself" on the long-runnng Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet) invited her friend MJ (Mary Jane Croft)  over for coffee, and to talk about a problem.  Her son Ricky, a sophomore at Hollywood High, was soft and sweet and feminine, not outgoing and athletic like his older brother David.  Ozzie  pushed him into playing football, but he hated it.  He preferred tennis, if he was going to play a sport at all.  And music -- he was "musical."

MJ smiled.  "When I was a little girl, musical was what they called...wait...you don't mean Ricky is that way...doesn't he have a girlfriend?"

"Ricky and Claire are just friends. They go shopping and talk about clothes.   I've never seen them kiss, or even hold hands.  And Ricky positively idolizes men.  It's even appeared in the show."  Lately head writers Dick Bensfield and  Perry Grant had been introducing some "Ricky doesn't like girls" plotlines into the scripts.  Harriet didn't know why.  To signal that they knew...to issue a warning.  She sighed.  Studio politics!

"So what if he's...um...musical?" MJ asked.  "You're still his mother, aren't you?"

"Of course!  I have nothing against people like that, I've worked with them since I was a little girl.  And some of my closest friends...." Harriet trailed off: the aggressive, mannish MJ, who played Lucille Ball's perpetual foil/best friend, was almost certainly of the Sapphic persuasion, but she hadn't yet admitted it to anyone.   "But society can be so cruel..."

"Especially the Hollywood gossip mill."

"..and I don't want Ricky being hurt.  Mixed up with the wrong crowd, men who will blackmail him or abuse him.  I think he needs a friend more than anything, to show that he's not alone.  Do you know anyone who...."

"Are you trying to set Ricky up on a date?"  MJ asked, a delighted gleam in her eyes.  "Oh, it will be so sophisticated, like a Cole Porter song, like 'Begin the Beguine.'  I know tons and tons of eligible men who are 'not the marrying kind.' They're mostly older, though. Cesar Romero, John Wayne, Joe Kearns....oh!  Tony Curtis!"

"Tony Curtis?" Harriet repeated.  "I never met him, but I hear that he's the utter living end, as the kids say.  Why, Drake, the boy who rode to school with David and Ricky, used to talk about him all the time.  He was positively in love with him before they had a falling out of some sort...."

She trailed off again.  They looked at each other, understanding...

"Is this Drake boy handsome?"  MJ asked.

When Harriet Nelson called 18-year old Drake, she was so subtle that he had no idea that the evening with Ricky was supposed to be a date.  More like babysitting.  The kid was two years younger than him, scrawny and kind of obnoxious.  But his father insisted -- Ozzie and Harriet was one of the hottest properties in Hollywood, and it wouldn't hurt him to get tight with a big teen star.

Was Ricky even a teenager yet?

If he was going to be stuck in dullsville for an evening, he wouldn't do it alone -- he invited his boyfriend, Bob Ellis,  a 23 year old actor who had starred on Meet Corliss Archer as a "best friend."  Bob was great -- he had a car and his own pad.  Plus a thick beefy chest, nice biceps, and a cock that wouldn't quit.  Not just big, although it was about 7" -- Bob could take three blow jobs, one after the other, and still spring up, ready for more.

The plan was to go to dinner and then bop at the Zanzibar.  Ricky brought Claire along, and Drake and Bob would go "stag."

Everything went fine for awhile. Ricky was becoming rather cute, and he was very knowledgeable about modern music.  Drake could almost see dating him.

Then Bob and Ricky started doing that look that Drake knew well.  Could he be that way?  And hot for his guy?

It got worse:

"Dad said I could sing on the show," Ricky bragged, "Or maybe play the drums, like Krupa."

"You'll never be as hot as Krupa!" Bob said with a sleazy leer.

"Maybe, but which one do you have a chance with?"

"Oh, be yourself!" Claire said, hitting him playfully with her purse.

At the Zanzibar, Drake asked Claire to dance -- good for keeping his pecularity a secret, but a bad strategic move.  When they returned to the table, Ricky and Bob were gone.

"Looks like our fellas have ditched us," Claire said.  "They must out spooning somewhere."

"You mean it's cool with you that Ricky...does that?"

She shrugged.  "I knew about his taste in fellows since we started dating. It doesn't hurt anybody, and I'd rather have him sometimes than not at all."

Doesn't hurt anybody?  Drake was roiling with jealousy.  He went into the bathroom, hoping to catch Bob and the scrawny kid in the act.  Not there.  Then into the parking lot, to Bob's car....

Bob and Ricky were sitting side by side in the back seat.  Ricky had his cock out, and was playing with himself while he went down on Bob!  Drake saw a flash of Bob's shaft, and quite a lot of Ricky's cock -- rather small, cut, and pale in the light of distant street lamps.

Drake rapped loudly on the window.  Ricky sprang up in alarm and covered himself,  then saw Drake and smiled.  He rolled the window down part way.

"Just warming him up for you," he smirked.

Drake never went out with Bob -- or the little weasel -- again.

West Hollywood, August 2017

I heard this story a couple of weeks ago from Drake's ex-boyfriend Zack (I made up the conversation with Harriet).

Why did Drake never talk about it when I knew him in San Francisco in the 1990s?   I think because it puts everyone, and especially Drake, in a rather bad light.  Drake had no cause to expect monogamy from Bob when multiple partners seem to have been the norm in 1950s Hollywood.  He overreacted to the situation and lost a boyfriend and a potential friend.

And there's another problem: Drake going down on Tony Curtis is a sallow 16-year old with no experience in the gay community; Drake going on a date with Ricky Nelson is an experienced 18-year old with a boyfriend.  Six months apart at most. Can they both be true?

See also: Drake on his Knees in Tony Curtis' Dressing Room; Billy Finds a Special Friend on The Twilight Zone; Ricky Nelson Hooks Up with Kent McCord.

The Midnight Hookups of Philadelphia

Thursday

I'm back in Philadelphia for a conference.  I lived here for a horrible nine months, a few years ago.  It was ugly, dirty, crowded, expensive, dangerous, and it had the most unfriendly gay people anywhere.

My horrible flight lands at 2:00 pm.  I check into a hotel about 6 blocks from my old apartment.  It's even worse now.  A grim, grotesque pageant of self-absorbed yuppies and homeless people sleeping on air vents.  My crappy hotel is costing me $300 a night.  I can't go a block without being panhandled.  Giovanni's Room, the oldest gay bookstore in town, is gone.

And it's impossible to find a decent guy to have sex with.

Club Philly, a gay bathouse, is only a block away.  When I lived here, it had a gym and private rooms.  You had sex in the steam room and sauna.

Now the gym is gone!  A rack of free weights!  Plus no steam room, no sauna.  They have a glory hole maze now, but it's deserted.  4 floors, rickety stairs, and there's nobody there.

I go down on a very hot black guy in his 20s with a slim muscular physique and a 8" cock.  So far so good.

 A young Hispanic guy motions me into his room.  He seems to be mute -- he motions rather than speaks.  He motions for me to screw him.  I refuse.  He motions aggressively.  I leave.


I talk to a couple sharing a room.  An elderly guy, chubby, with red scaly psoriasis all over his body, and his boyfriend, elderly, slim, who doesn't speak and seems a little off.  I go down on the boyfriend for a few minutes.

I go on Grindr and find that there are 3 guys within 20 feet, in the same club.  I say "hello" to them.  Nothing.

So much for Club Philly.

Chinese food for dinner, then back to my hotel.  I put an ad on Craigslist Philadelphia, "hosting downtown."  Nothing.  Not one response.  Back home I'd have 20 guys by this point.

Back to Grindr. There are like 300 guys within 30 feet.  I say "Hi" to about 20 of them.

Nothing.  Crickets.

As a last resort, I put an ad on Craigslist: hosting downtown.  Back home, my ads get 10-20 responses.

Nothing.  Crickets.

Bob, my boyfriend back on the Plains,  calls.  He didn't do much today: just work, then hanging out at the gay-friendly coffee house a few blocks from our apartment.

A gay-friendly coffee house?  Sigh.

Friday

I arrived on Thursday because conferences always begin on Thursdays and end on Sunday.  Not this one!  Today is the last day!  Only about three sessions left.  

And another mistake: every conference I've ever been to, you dress casually.  Here there are suits and ties everywhere.  I am woefully out of place in the sessions I attend.

I get cruised by a cute Italian guy, but otherwise make no contacts.

The sessions are over by 5:00.  I have more Chinese food and then head to the hotel gym.

A lousy set of dumbbells!

I look up "gay gyms" online and find the Sansome Street Gym, about 7 blocks away.  Why not?

The twink at the front desk cruises me.  So far so good.

Another dead end for working out!  The weight room contains 4 measly cybex machines, broken so you can't change the angle.  Big deal.  I wander through the huge space, completely empty except for an ugly guy,  who rejects me!

Skip the workout.  I go back to my hotel room and try Grindr.  About an hour later, a weird tattooed hippie, frightfully skinny, with a small cock comes over, gets a blow job while looking at porn and saying crazy things like "I grew up in Philadelphia.  That's why I hate it."  and "I'm a mural artist.  I want to get thousands of people to look, but I can't decide what they should look at."

Is everybody in Philadelphia demented?

He tells me to suck hard, like I'm trying to get a thick milkshake through a straw.

After he finally comes, he puts on the music of someone named Bjork and dances and sings loudly, while searching in his bag for his gummy bears.  Then he asks me for a "donation."  I kick him out.

Back to Grindr.  Some guy starts insulting me for being old.  Like it's my fault, if I wasn't so stupid I would have just stayed 30.  I tell him: "I was a gay kid in the 1970s.  I've been beat up, spat on, threatened, chased, called fag, fairy, pervert, abomination in the eyes of the Lord.  I experienced more hate than you can even imagine.  Do you really think that a few insults will hurt me?  He shuts up.

Then a 50-year old South Asian guy comes over for wet, sloppy kisses, licking body part, and telling me how much he likes little boys.  Triple turn off.

"Um...you know, I haven't been a little boy in many years.  Why are you here?"

"I like to share mature men and little boys.  Three of us together would be really nice, don't you think..."

 I tell him that sex with 14-year olds is a crime, try to staunch the weird licking, and suck his cock to shut him up.  Then I literally push him out the door.

A moment later, Derek, my friend from the Plains, texts me: "Can't wait to see you again!  Looking forward to Tuesday."

Sigh.

I wish I was back home on the Plains.

Saturday

The conference is over, so I go to the Rodin Museum and the Barnes Art Foundation.  I try to get into Eastern State Penitentiary, but the line is too long.

In the evening I go on Grindr to get ignored and blcoked again, then return to Club Philly.

Score!  Usually I consider a bathhouse a success if I get with five guys, but I lose count after seven.

1. Tall young guy with enormous uncut penis.
2. His friend, buffed, blond who wanted to kiss.
3. Hairy chub in his room.
4. Tall muscular guy with a red beard who wanted to kiss.
5. Young black guy who came after 30 seconds.
6. Guy with cerebral palsy who is an anal bottom.
7. Short buffed guy from Italy with a smooth chest

Then I go to the Bike Stop and make out with two other guys, a short Asian and a husky bank teller from Delaware.

I stumble back to my hotel at 2:00 am, go to bed, and wake up at 6:00 am sharp to go to the airport.

Two things I've learned:

1. Dating apps are useless in gay neighborhoods.
2. No one has sex until after midnight.


See also: Philadelphia, My Return to the Straight World