Mr. Muscle Doctor Big Basket

West Hollywood, August 1987

Shortly after returning from the conference in the Midwest where I meet a Notre Dame boy, Alan and I went cruising at Mugi.  A very large  Asian drag queen in a flowered chemise and blond hair approached me.

Before I had a chance to give Attitude, she grabbed my hand.  "I am Auntie Bopha.  From Kampuchea.  You say Cambodia."

I had never met anyone from Cambodia before. They speak an Austroasiatic language, similar to Thai, with a distinctive writing system.  It wouldn't hurt to have a conversation.  "Hi, I'm Boomer."

"You got job?"

What kind of cruise line was that?  "Um..yes, I work for Muscle and Fitness, and I'm in grad school at USC, working toward my doctorate in..."

"Oh, muscle, good.  And doctor, good, good!  Cure AIDS, maybe?"

"No, I won't be that kind of..."

"Get AIDS test?"

"Yes, I'm HIV negative, but..."

"Like get drunk?"

"No, this is just soda, but...."

Her hand clamped onto my crotch.  "Oh, big basket!  Good, good, good!"

"What the heck are you doing?"  I angrily pried her hand off and started to walk away.

She grabbed my arm.  "Wait -- Auntie Bopha has a boy for you!"  She pointed to the other side of the bar, where a slim Asian twink in a flowered shirt was staring at the floor. Black hair, golden skin, a beautiful angelic face.

 "New to America, two months only.  Not much English yet.  Name Chehay, means 'sexy,' yes?  You like?"

"Well, he is cute."

"Good, good, good!  You talk to him, ask for date."  She hustled me across the room, where I shook Chehay's slim, soft hand.   We had a brief, stumbling conversation before Auntie Bopha interrupted.  "Ok, ok, Chehay like, Mr. Muscle Doctor Big Basket like, now date!  Good, good!"

We made a date for the next Friday night.  Auntie Bopha wouldn't let us grope or kiss.

I slipped my phone number into Chehay's hand, but somehow Auntie Bopha got it and called with demands: "Ok, for date, you must wear nice shoes and tie -- look nice!  Take Chehay someplace nice -- no McDonald's!  And bring flowers.  Otherwise insult.  And two Dove Bars!"

Chehay lived in a small apartment in Little Pnomh Penh, on Anaheim Street on the east side of Long Beach, about an hour's drive from West Hollywood.

Bopha answered the door --  not in drag anymore, just in a flowered shirt and too-tight purple shorts.  My heart sank -- was he coming along on our date?  But no -- he just put the flowers in water and parked himself in front of the tv to eat the Dove Bars!

After an intolerably long wait, Chehay appeared, smiling shyly, in a tan shirt with a red tie.  He smelled of a sweet, rather sickly cologne.  We hugged -- I wanted to kiss, but Bopha cleared his throat ominously.

We had dinner at a Cambodian restaurant a few blocks from Chehay's house, followed by cruising at Ripples.  I found that we could communicate in French better than English.

I made him blush by saying mon saucisse veut vous connaître (my sausage wants to get to know you). 

In Cambodia marriages were usually arranged, so Auntie Bopha was pushing him into getting a "husband," even though he was only 21 years old and wasn't very experienced with men.  The pressure to "settle down" was intense.

I squeezed his hand under the table.

Most guys told their coming out story on the first date, but Chehay told me about how when he was ten years old, his entire family was killed by the Pol Pot; he escaped by climbing through an upstairs window onto the roof, and lived on the streets for awhile until a friend took him in.  Then, in December 1978, when Vietnam invaded Cambodia, they walked 100 miles through the jungle into Thailand, ending up in a refugee camp in Mai Rut. He was 13!

I stared.  When I was in my freshman year in college, complaining about the heterosexism in my English class, this small, soft, passive person, with soft hands and a shy smile, was walking through 100 miles of jungle!

Chehay lived in the refugee camp for three years, then was sent to France as part of a refugee relocation program, where he completed secondary school.  Then Auntie Bopha -- who really was a distant relative -- paid for his flight to America and got him a job.

What could I say after all that?  I just held his hand under the table and drank my tea.

When we were cruising at Ripples, we finally had an opportunity to hug and grope, but he refused to kiss, with people watching.  He was surprisingly soft and fragile.  I thought he would break if I hugged him too hard.

And what could we talk about?  "Um, aimez-tu Corey Haim? Pouvons-nous aller a The Lost Boys?"  Everything seemed so trivial!

When we returned to the apartment, Bopha was still there.  And he had company -- two elderly women -- real women, not drag queens -- who hugged Chehay, then me, and peppered us with questions in English, French, and Khmer.  "Had nice time, yes?     Est-ce que tu baiser? (Did you kiss?)  Kroupeti mneak ku lok? (Something about a husband)."

Finally they adjourned to the couch to drink tea.

"What was that all about?" I asked.

"No worries!" Bopha said.  "I tell Chehay's other aunties you make good husband, Mr. Muscle Doctor Big Basket, but they want to see. They say good, good, good!  Bedroom time!"

Embarrassed, Chehay looked down at his feet.

"Bedroom time?"

Bopha put our hands together.  "Ok, you wait long enough.  Boomer ready, Chehay ready, Jeff Stryker Italian Stallion, yes?"

"Wait -- you're not going to stay here while we..."

"Oh, no, hour only -- enough to hear you take prohmcheari.  Then we go home.  You stay all night. Good, good!"

Suddenly we were alone in the bedroom.  Chehay smiled shyly.

" Est d'habitude  de attendre à l'extérieur?" I asked. Do elderly aunties usually wait outside?

"No," he answered in French.  "But two guys is not usual either.  They have changed the customs for gays."

I could hear them talking and giggling in the living room.  No doubt they could hear us as well.

Twenty minutes later, I was saying "I swear, this has never happened to me before."

It must be a combination of the horrors of Chehay's past, the ladies and drag queen waiting outside, the pressure of becoming an instant  "husband," and the uncomfortably gender-polarized masculine-feminine thing.  Nothing happened, no matter what I tried. Or Chehay tried.

Things went better in the morning, but still, Chehay told me he wasn't ready for a relationship, a polite way of saying "Don't call back."  I hope he didn't tell Auntie Bopha that Mr. Muscle Doctor Big Basket was a big bust.

See also: A Celebrity Steals My Date; A Summer Night at Notre Dame

The Brazilian Twink

Wilton Manors, March 2002

You probably know my top 10 turn-offs: tall, thin, long faced, wearing jewelry, alcoholic, sports nut, and so on, until we reach #10: feminine traits.

Politically, I'm a strong supporter of your right to be as butch, femme, or androgynous as you want to be.  I won't blink an eye if you sashay across the room in bedazzled couture, stanking up the place with your Chanel #5, and call me "girlfriend."  But it's not likely to get you the key to my bedroom.

So how did I end up going home with Miss Chita Taboo?

Well, I didn't know about Miss Chita Taboo.

One night in the spring of 2002, Yuri dragged me to the Manor, the twink bar in Wilton Manors, and I was cruised by Victor, a slim, smiling twink from Brazil (this isn't him).

He had three of the five traits I find attractive -- shorter than me, dark-skinned, and religious (devout Catholic).  And he had only a few feminine mannerisms, the sort that twinks get when they grow up in a super-macho environment where every hint of androgyny is punished -- they tend to go overboard, and sashay a bit.  Not a big turn off.

Besides, he was very persistent.  He taught me how to say "I want to kiss you." in Portuguese.

Eu quero te beijar

So I accepted the date.

I thought something might be up when I got to Victor's apartment, which was large, elegantly-furnished, and so close to the beach that you could hear the waves.

In his living room, instead of a couch, there was an enormous pink daybed with a zebra canopy and a photo of Madonna behind it.

"Who's the hunk?" I asked, pointing to a framed portrait of a very attractive older man, shirtless, with a hairy chest, gigantic pecs and delts.


"Oh, that's my Michael, my ex-husband," Victor said.  "Bodybuilder -- he went to Barney's Gym, where you go.  We broke up a long time ago.   We're still friends  -- we can share sometime -- but don't worry, you have no competition!"

Gay men did not call their partners husbands in 2002, unless they were modeling their relationships on heterosexual boy-girl models.

Ok, Victor was way too feminine for my comfort zone.

But I already agreed to the date -- I couldn't back out now.

We had dinner at a Brazilian restaurant, and then walked hand in hand along the gay beach.

"How can you afford that swanky apartment?" I asked.

"Oh, Daddy is the mayor of Belo Horizonte, He sends me money every month so I stay away from Brazil.  I embarrass him.  And I make money from my entertaining, too."

I didn't ask what his entertaining entailed, but I got an idea from the rest of our conversation, mostly about pop music.  Victor was a big fan of Jennifer Lopez, Vanessa Carlton, Lane Ann Rimes, Brandy, Pink, and Aaliyeh, but he also liked the classics.  He had just been to a Cher concert, and he had a copy of Madonna's first album (1983), which had her all-time best number, "Lucky Star."  He began singing it for me, right on the beach, complete with hand gestures.


You may be my lucky star, but I'm the luckiest by far....

Getting serenaded by Madonna songs by moonlight is quite an experience.

Still, this guy was way too feminine.  I decided to excuse myself and go home without the obligatory kiss. Then Victor cozied up to me and said, "I have a surprise for you. Bolo de rolo, guava cake.  A special Brazilian dessert.  I made it myself."

He already made the cake.  It would be impolite to refuse.

We sat in Victor's elegantly furnished kitchen, eating small slices of the very rich, spicy cake and drinking coffee.  I tried to steer the conversation away from popular music.

How about the gym?

"Oh, I do jazzercise every morning.  I keep my girlish figure."

Movies?

"Oh, I want to see the Powerpuff Girls movie so bad! I love them so much -- Girl Power!  Which one is your favorite, Blossom, Bubbles, or Buttercup?"

"Um...do you have any interests that involve men?"  I asked.

"Horny already, you naughty boy?  Wait a minute...I'll be back...."  Before I could say anything, he vanished through the bedroom into the bathroom and shut the door.

Oh, no -- he thought I was interested in bedroom activities.  I had to turn him down fast!   I followed to tell him I was going home.

The bedroom contained:

A gigantic bed with a black bedspread and red plush pillows.

A chair shaped like a high-heel shoe.

A vanity desk cluttered with jars, vials, chalices, styluses, Eau de Parfum, nail polish, polish remover, lipstick, sponge applicators, brow gel, eyeliner, toner, moisturizer, bronzer, mascara, hair gel, moisturizer, pink razors, tweezers, powder.

And a framed photo of an elegant drag queen.

"Who's the drag queen?" I asked through the door.

"That's me -- Miss Chita Taboo.  I've won Miss Gay Fort Lauderdale twice!  I could go on to Miss Gay Florida last year, but that Yvette DeLong beat me out!"

"Oh,.,that's very interesting," I said.  "I'm not..I mean, I support your right to do drag 100%.  I just like men who are a little more...you know...masculine."

No answer.

"I think I'm going to be going.  But thanks for the rolo de bolo.  It was very tasty."

No answer.

Had he collapsed?

"Victor?  Are you ok?"

No answer.

Was he sobbing over the rejection?

"Miss Taboo?  Are you still there?"

The door breezed open.  "Sorry, I didn't hear you with the toilet running."

Victor stood in front of me, naked, smiling.  Hung.

Bratwurst+.  Maybe bigger.

"What did you say, babe?"

"Um...um..I said I'd love to see your act sometime."

"How sweet!  But why are your clothes on still!"

Well, I never turn down a Bratwurst+.

See also: The Pitcher with the Secret Move; and My Sausage List.

The Worst Date in Florida History

Boynton Beach, Florida, March 2004

My day with Ryan in the spring of 1992 has won awards as the Worst Date in West Hollywood History because everything that could go wrong, did.  But 12 years later, I had the worst date in Florida history.  Before the evening was over, I hated the guy.   And his house. And his crazy housemates.

I should have known Andre would be a problem, when we met at the Filling Station: he was wearing a leather vest and a shirt that said "Flowah Powah."   Dropping the r's?  Really?

But he was hot, with 3 of the 5 characteristics that I find attractive: dark-skinned, shorter than me, and muscular running to husky. Most likely he also had #4, gifted beneath the belt (when I visited South Africa, I met someone with all 5).

We exchanged email addresses, and a few days later he invited me to dinner at his house on Saturday night.

Things went downhill from there.

1. He lived a 45-minute drive away. In West Hollywood we wouldn't date anyone who lived more than 10 minutes away.

2. In a swamp.  To get to his house, you had to walk across a bridge over a muddy moat occupied by an alligator.  

3. His house was in the midst of a major renovation.  The living room and kitchen had a floor, but you had to walk on bare boards across mud to get to the bedrooms and bathrooms.  I saw mice, frogs, and a garter snake.  Probably food for the alligators.

4. No one understands the phrase "I don't drink," so when I'm invited to dinner, I always bring 2 cans of Diet Coke.  This time I forgot. Andre had only beer, wine, and whiskey.  I had to drink brackish, bad-tasting tap water.

5. He said "I'm quite a cook.  I love experimenting with new dishes."  And indeed, he had a whole bookcase full of cookbooks.  But he served some tasteless lentil-squash horror over brown rice.  And no dessert.

By this point, I was thinking "You'd better be spectacular beneath the belt!"

6. One of his housemates joined us for dinner: a tall, thin, swishy queen from Alabama named Beau.  Not a problem per se, except in Florida it was customary to invite your roommate to "share" your date, and impolite for the date to say "no."  

7. During dinner, they both drank quite a lot and got very tipsy.  Drinking is one of my Top 10 Turn-Offs.

8. While we listened to slow, lugubrious, depressing torch songs.  One after the other. Like Judy Garland:

The night is bitter, 

The stars have lost their glitter, 

The winds grow colder 

And suddenly you're older, 

And all because of the man that got away. 

"Do you have anything lively?"  I asked.  "Energetic, upbeat, non funereal, from this century?"

Andre frowned.  "I don't know -- I'll check."  He sifted through his voluminous collection of CDs, and finally came up with one lively track.  Barbra Streisand singing "Lucky."  Beau lip-synched and acted out the moves.

9. After dinner, we sat on the couch, with more torch songs playing in the background.  Beau put on a drag outfit and lip-synched to Avril Lavigne's "Happy Ending" (which isn't about a happy ending), before saying "Sorry, can't stick around to play, girls.  The night awaits!" and flouncing out.

10. "Want to do some crystal?"  Andre asked.

No!  

"Coke?"

I hate drugs even more than drinking!  You'd better be phenomenal beneath the belt!

11. Finally Andre led me back across the bare boards to his bedroom.  I hid my wallet so it wouldn't vanish, like I always do when visiting someone for the first time.  We started kissing and groping.

Then we heard a door slam.  "Oh, that's my other housemate, Ricky.  He's still in high school, but he stays here sometimes."

"High school?" I repeated in surprise.  "How old is he?"

"Eighteen -- he just had his birthday.  We gave him a spanking.  You should have seen him when he was sixteen, though.  The cutest little hustler you'd ever want to meet. "

Suddenly the teenager was at the door.  He was Hispanic, light skinned, with three earrings in one ear and none in the other.  Wearing a Flowah Powah t-shirt.

"Whew, Daddy got it going on!" Ricky exclaimed, looking at me. "Hey, how you like these guns?"  He ripped off his t-shirt and flexed.

"Very impressive," I admitted.

"You can touch them if you want.  Or touch something else, even better." He flounced onto the bed.

12. "You into sharing, Papi?"

"It's just our first date!"

"Whatever.  Got any crystal?"

"In the chest in the living room," Andre said.  "And turn on some Judy while you're out there."

That was the last straw.  I had to get out of this mad house!

I made an excuse, pieced my way past the mud, mice, alligators, torch songs, drag queens, underaged hustlers, and miscellaneous drugs, and zoomed as fast as I could back to the normalcy of Wilton Manors.

13. I left my wallet in Andre's house.

See also: Yuri's Revenge: The Cowboy with the Kovbasa+