David Pulls It Out

San Francisco, March 1997

When I was living in San Francisco, my friend David and I walked down Castro Street every day on the way to and from work, even though it was strictly not necessary, to immerse ourselves in the heart of the heart of the gay world.

The Castro Theater -- Orphan Andy's -- Almost Home -- All American Boy -- Twin Peaks -- even the Walgreen's on the corner of 18th and Castro were icons of home.

I liked the morning best, when the street was quiet and calm, empty except for an occasional gym hunk on the way to his workout.

And the barfly.

Every morning, we passed a little bar -- now it's the QBar -- with big French doors open to the street, and in the darkness inside, a single guy, alone on a barstool, gazing out into the world.

He was older, white haired, rather well dressed for the denim-and-leather crowd, wearing a white shirt and a tie.  I couldn't tell what he was drinking, but it wasn't beer.

Who would be in a bar at 9:00 am?

"Drunks," David said with a disapproving scowl.  A former Baptist minister, he was vehemently opposed to alcohol.  "Has to get his fix."

Every morning, day after day, the barfly sat at the bar, looking out at the world.  Sometimes he nodded or waved at us as we passed.

I got so used to seeing him that when he wasn't there, I waited for a few minutes to see if he'd show up.

In the evening, when we passed again after work, the bar was usually packed with the Happy Hour crowd, but the barfly was still there.

In the same spot, as if he hadn't moved.

Who would stay all day and all night in a bar?  Didn't he have other things to do?

Gay people are very territorial.  They've been battered around the straight world so much that when they find a home, they stay.  Maybe this guy couldn't bear to leave the heart of the heart of the gay world, that one block of Castro Street between 17th and 18th.

But no one could spend their life on that block.  There were restaurants, bars, clothing stores, a drug store, a theater, and a hair stylist, but no gyms, bookstores, post offices, grocery stores, or banks. Or jobs.

For weeks David and I passed, morning and evening, and the barfly was there.

One evening, without warning, I headed into the bar.

David grabbed my arm.  "Wait -- don't tell me you're hot for that barfly?  He's cute and all, but he's a drunk!"

"I just want to hear his story.  Maybe he's lonely.  I could take him to a meeting of SAGE, the gay seniors group."

"He knows how to use the phone book!"

"Hey, I went with you to cruise in the men's room at Macy's.  The least you can do is help me cruise the old guy."

Grumbling, David followed me into the bar.  We sat on barstools on either side of the barfly and ordered cokes.

The barfly turned to David, grinning.  "What took you so long?"

"What?  Er..."

He held out his hand.  "I'm Karol.  Not a drag name -- it's Polish for 'Charles.'"

"David...and this is Boomer."

"Hiya," he said over his shoulder.  "I've been coming to this bar morning and night for weeks, .  I was about ready to give up."

"So...you don't spend all day here?" I asked.

Karol laughed.  "I don't think my clients would like that!"

It turns out that Karol was a graphic designer.  One day he stopped in at the QBar for a Bloody Mary on the way to work, and he saw us pass by.  He was so entranced that he made a point of coming to the bar at the same time every morning and evening, in the hope that David would stop and say hello.

"I should have chased after you, but I didn't want to be that Creepy Old Guy, you know."

"Come on, you're not that much older than us," I said.

"I'm over 40, by a few years.  I remember Poland before the War -- World War II, not Vietnam.  And I remember the Summer of Love -- I bet you were still in diapers."

"So you don't drink?"  David asked.

"A Bloody Mary now and then, and maybe a vodka and tonic.  But I don't drink a lot, no."

Then Karol turned to me, his back to David -- the guy he had a crush on.  What was his game?

He told me about growing up during the War, coming to America to find work as an artist, marrying, having kids, and then coming out and finding his way to San Francisco.

"I was here before AIDS, before Gay Liberation, back when Jose Serria was doing drag shows at the Black Cat Cafe."

Suddenly I glanced down -- while he was talking, Karol had been groping David, unzipping his pants, and now he had pulled it out!

You heard me.

Right out in the open.

This was my cue to leave!  "Have fun, guys," I said.

Later that night, David called me.

"So, how was the date with your secret admirer?"

"Well, that's just it.  You know how, when you finally get a guy you've been fantasizing about for a long time, the reality is always disappointing? Plus when you get older, things get more difficult.  And Karol had been drinking...."

"His mission was a failure, huh?"

"And that embarrassed me so much that my mission was a failure, too.  Big bust all around.  So...you want to go to the Bear Party?"

The next morning Karol was not on his usual bar stool on Castro Street.

Cruising the Dwarf in West Hollywood

West Hollywood, March 1992

I have always been attracted to guys who are short, the shorter the better.  Under 5'8" is good, under 5'4" is great.

Dwarf/Little Person? (Members of the group use both terms) -- whoa, here's my number!

But only about 30,000 people in the U.S. are Dwarfs/Little People (according to activist Danny Woodburn, either term is correct).  That means about 1,000 adult gay men.  And since people with atypical bodies often have fewer hangups about their partners' gender, maybe another 3,000 who are bisexual, or straight but "bent around the edges."

4,000 in a country with a population of 300,000,000 The odds against of meeting one are astronomical!

In Los Angeles, the odds increase a bit: due to wide-ranging discrimination, many LP are drawn to show business.  So I occasionally saw a LP at a Hollywood event, or on the street in Century City.  But never in a gay context.

Except one night in the spring of 1992, when my partner Lane and I were at the Faultline on Melrose.

It was always packed with bears, bikers, leathermen, and their Cute Young Thing admirers, but never before or after had I seen Ryan (not his real name) -- about 4'0", shirtless, muscular, with a broad oval face and a quick smile.  He was a little drunk, and heavily cruising a Cute Young Thing (who was trying hard to ignore him).

I wasn't going to let this opportunity pass!  Lane and I had an open relationship, so he agreed to be my wingman.  We sidled up to the spot next to Ryan, and Lane asked, "How's the filming going?"

In West Hollywood, any hint that you worked in show business immediately netted you some fans.  But Ryan glanced over with cool, crisp Attitude, and redoubled his efforts to land the Cute Young Thing.

"Um...filming is going great," I said.  "Next week we're having a wrap-up party on the yacht."

"Are you bringing the Maserati?"

"No, that's still down in my place in Cabo."

 Of course, I didn't have a yacht, a Maserati, or a place in Cabo, but cruising is all about the illusion.  But Ryan remained unimpressed.

Lane and I exchanged panicked glances.  None of my good material was working!  Think, think, think...what did West Hollywood guys like more than showbiz contacts and bank accounts?  

"But you know, I really miss my modeling days." (This was true; I did do some modeling)

"Yeah, I loved your spread in Inches. Didn't you win the Spectacular Pecs award?"

"No, I got runner-up."

An appearance in a beefcake magazine.  Who could resist checking that out?

But Ryan was gazing wistfully as the Cute Young Thing wafted off to cruise a leatherman.  He drained his beer and started walking away.

What did West Hollywood guys like more than showbiz contacts, bank accounts, and pecs?

I walked over, stood directly in front of Ryan, blocking his way, and said "Hi."

He was exactly 2 feet shorter than me, so he was looking directly at my crotch.  His eyes widened.

Penises are more important than pecs, bank accounts, and showbiz contacts. I got his number.

Cruising East of Alvarado

West Hollywood, September 1993

"Where are all the Hispanic guys?' I asked Lane one day. "The population of Los Angeles is about 50% Hispanic, but you never see any here in West Hollywood.  We don't even have a Mexican restaurant."

"I can buy some Old El Paso at the Safeway if you want," Lane said, "And make tacos tonight."

"I'm serious.  We bring home lots of Asian guys, and lots of Anglo leather bears, but no Hispanic guys"

"What do you expect, when you cruise at Mugi, and I cruise at the Faultline?  If you want to meet Hispanic guys, you have to go where they are."

He was right.  The Hispanic gay population of L.A. had its own distinct culture, pre-dating West Hollywood.  If I wanted to meet them, I had to head east of Alvarado.

So on Saturday night, I dropped Lane off at the Faultline for his weekly cruise, and drove a mile farther to the corner of Sunset and Hollywood, and a bar called Basgo's.

It was not like the semi-darkness of Mugi: it was loud and gaudy, the walls painted an effervescent pink.  There were murals of naked Aztecs, plastic palm trees, stuffed parrots.

Pumped-up bartenders in their underwear gyrated to salsa music:

En la vida hay amores
que nunca pueden olvidarse
imborrables momentos
que siempre guarda el corazón

Drag queens made the rounds, flirting and kvetching with their huge brandy snifters sloshing with ruby-red margaritas.

Rent boys slouched by the pool table, displaying sock-enhanced mega-bulges.

The cruising protocol was closer to Catch One than Mugi.  Few Anglos, no English being spoken, few people by themselves except for rent boys and drag queens.  You saw someone you liked and drew him away from his rowdy group of friends to the dance floor, where the pre-hookup conversation occurred.

Con los anos que me quedan
Yo vivire por darte amor
Borrando cada dolor
Con besos llenos de pasion
Como te ame por vez primera

I was drawn to a very handsome young guy with an impish grin, talking nonstop with his friends.   Shorter than me, dark skin, a round face, and black curly hair.  Frayed jeans with an enormous bulge and an yellow shirt with most of the buttons undone, revealing a hard smooth chest.

I approached and asked -- or rather yelled -- "Quires bailar?"  He grinned and nodded.  I took his hand and led him to the dance floor.

We spoke -- or rather yelled -- in  clipped Spanish.  His name was Dario.  He was 23 years old, from Peru.  He came to L.A. last year with his brother and two cousins.  He worked in a warehouse.



Nice background story.  Time to seal the deal.  I led him to the bar and ordered two tamarind-flavored Mexican sodas.   He grinned.

"Que quieres hacer en la cama?" I asked.  What do you like to do in bed?

"Oh, me gustaria que tu me maman!" Dario said, eyes gleaming.  "Y otras cosas, por supuesto.  Y cojerte..." 

Getting oral, topping, and "other things," not bad.

I knew that closeted guys were sometimes only into the act itself, not the preliminaries, so I specified:  "Pero, mi amigo y yo, nos gustan besando y abrazando, tambien."  Kissing and hugging, full body contact, making out.

He nodded.  "A mi me gustan muchas cosas."

And one more thing: "Y es absolutamente necessario que tu duermas con nosotros."  No grab-and-go.  You have to spend the night, or no deal.

He nodded.  "Si, si.  Dormiremos."

Dario didn't have a car, so he drove with me to pick up Lane at the Faultline, then to the French Quarter, and then to our apartment in West Hollywood. 

We sat in the living room.  I ran my hand over his chest, cupped his crotch, tried to kiss him.

No besando.

WTF?

Well, maybe he was shy.

We brought Dario into the bedroom, stripped off his clothes, and put him down on the bed.  He had a beautifully curved, uncut Bratwurst.  I went down on him while Lane fondled his chest.

Were they kissing?  I looked up.  No.
  

I gave Lane a turn at the cock and tried to kiss Dano.   No.

Well, could I at least fondle his balls?  Ok.

 He pushed Lane's head down on his crotch, jerked his hips, and finished with a groan. 

Ok, so how about mamando us?  No.

I wasn't particularly into anal, but he said cojerte, so I turned over onto my stomach and asked "Hay condones?"  Do you have condoms?

Dario was pulling his shorts on.  "Hey, I thought you were spending the night!"  I exclaimed.  "Dormiremos juntos!"

Nope.  "Tengo que venir a mi casa.  Necessito levantarme temprano."  I have to get up early.

So we left Lane in bed and got dressed, and I drove Dario home -- to Silverlake, eight miles away.

"Why did you tell me that you are into besando y mamando?" I asked in frustration.

He stared out the car window at the glittering lights of Santa Monica Boulevard.  "I told you I like many things," he said.

"And spending the night.  You said voy a dormir contigo."

"Dormir...tener sexo, si?"

I smelled a rat.  Dario had played me, agreeing to anything just to get into my bed.

Then we arrived at the address he gave me -- a glass-and-steel building on Hyperion, in the heart of Silverlake's gay neighborhood.

This was the tiny, rundown apartment that Dario shared with his brothers and cousins?

"Could I come in to use the bathroom?" I asked.

It was a beautifully furnished one-bedroom, with hardwood floors and antique furniture.  A framed print of a bullfighter.

A coffee table book about painter Joan Miro.

"Porque me dices que eres pobre?" I asked.  Why did you tell me that you were poor?

"I didn't say I was poor," Dario answered -- in respectable English!  "You heard what you wanted to hear."

The brothers and cousins came to the U.S. with him -- they didn't live with him.

And his job in the warehouse?  He was the general manager, with a salary double what Lane made.

"You wanted a poor little Latino boy who says 'si, señor' and agrees to whatever you say, and I wanted a hot, built Anglo to go down on me.  We both got what we wanted, right?"

The next weekend I returned to Basgo's and met Manuel, from Nicaragua, who spoke almost no English -- I checked.

And I made sure we were besando and abrazando before we left the bar.

See also: The Waiter in the Mexican Restaurant; I Bring Home a Teen Hustler.

The Rich Kid and the Muscle Bear: Dumped by Richie Rich

Louisville, Kentucky, April 1984

I was at Indiana University to get my M.A. in English, but on a campus that offered Elementary Lithuanian, Sufi Poets, Mongolian Civilization, and Serbo-Croatian Epics, who could stand still for dull William Wordsworth?

In the fall of 1983, I enrolled in Tibetan Culture (for both graduate and undergraduate students), and one of my classmates was Richie Rich.

Not his real name, of course: In Harvey comics, Richie Rich was a blond in a Lord Fauntleroy costume whose infinite wealth caused an infinite number of problems.

This Richie Rich was a slim, tanned blond who was majoring in Central Asian Studies, mostly to annoy his Dad, a state senator who played golf with President Reagan. and consistently voted anti-abortion, anti-Russia, and anti-gay.

Richie was vehemently opposed to his father's politics, but he didn't mind the infinite wealth.  He spent every summer at the beach house on Cape Cod.  He drove a new Jaguar.  He spend hundreds of dollars on bohemian-chic fashions.  He always looked like he was trying out for a road tour of Fame.

He had just discovered Bullwinkle's, where he chatted up guys but rarely hooked up; no one ever saw him taking anyone home.

Richie wasn't really my type: he was tall, thin, and blond, and even in 1983 I preferred short, dark, and muscular.

But he was interested in religion, and he was...well, rich, two points in his favor.

I wouldn't mind discussing Buddhism, Hinduism, and Zoroastrianism while tooling around in Richie's Jaguar, or spending the week in his summer house on Cape Cod.

So I cruised Richie Rich at Bullwinkle's.  He was attentive, even flirtatious, allowing me to grope him and fondle his chest.  But before I could go any farther, he said "Well, see you in class," and vanished.

I invited him to my Halloween party in October, but he didn't come.

He was a Unitarian, so one Sunday in November, I visited his church -- no Richie Rich.

The next day in class, I said "I went to your church yesterday."

His eyes widened.  "What for?"

I took Russian Folklore instead of Tibetan in the spring 1984 semester, but, having just broken up with Jimmy the Bodybuilder on Crutches, I was even more eager to land a new boyfriend, preferably Richie Rich.

But what would attract his attention?

He was interested in religion.   How about the Metropolitan Community Church?

A church founded by and for gay people!  Richie wanted to see that!

The nearest MCC was in Louisville, Kentucky, about two hours south of Bloomington.  Roy the Farmboy and I visited last year, and I spent the night with the preacher, Brother Reid: a tall, bearded bear in his 40s.

Brother Reid was into Cute Young Things, and would certainly cruise Richie.  To avoid the competition, I rented us a hotel room for Saturday night.

We would drive up on Saturday, have dinner, go to the bars, spend the night, then get up on Sunday, go to church, and head for home.

Foolproof, right?  I would certainly have Richie Rich in my bed, where my superlative physique and expert sexual technique would win him as my boyfriend!

The trip down to Louisville went great, except that Richie insisted that we take my car -- he didn't want his Jaguar to get dirty.   We talked, laughed, discussed Buddhism, flirted with a local boy at a rural gas station.

We checked into the very elegant, very expensive Brown Hotel downtown -- fortunately, Richie paid. I put my arm around him the moment we set down our suitcases, but Richie said "Come on, let's go on a tour of the town, and find someplace to eat."

We had dinner at a Mexican place, and then went to the Discovery, a gay disco.

Mostly gay men, a scattering of lesbians and what looked like one heterosexual couple.

We hit the dance floor, and I tried to hug Richie again, but he moved away from me.

After awhile, I saw him dancing with an older guy, Brother Reid's age, a husky muscle bear with a black beard and a thick mat of chest hair, damp from dancing.

They had no problem hugging -- and kissing!

I went to the bar, bought a coke, and pulled Richie from the clench.   "Here's your drink."

"Thanks," he said, taking it from me while gazing into the eyes of the bear.

"Hi, my name is Boomer.  You guys are really hitting it off."

"Pleased to meet you," the bear said without looking at me.  They went back to kissing.

Hey, Richie is my date!

Jealous, outraged, I rushed to the nearest guy, a balding but buffed sleazoid in his 30s, and started cruising him.  After a moment, I looked over to see if it was having an effect.

Richie and the Bear were both gone!

I waited for an hour.  There were no cell phones in those days, so I couldn't call.

There was nothing to do but invite the sleazoid back to my hotel room and expend all my frustration on energetic, uninhibited oral and even some Greek.  Then I kicked him out.

Richie appeared in the morning, just as I was getting ready to call the police, all blustery and happy about the guy he tricked with last night.

I was furious.  You don't just dump guys at a bar.  Especially your date!

Ever since then, I have had an unbreakable rule: when you go out with someone, friend, boyfriend, hookup, or date, you stay with them to the end of the evening.  You can make dates for later, or you can share, but no abandoning them to pursue some guy.

You're probably wondering how church went.

He cruised Brother Reid.

The Most Homophobic Statement I Have Ever Heard

Not Ralph in underwear

Rock Island, December 2001

I've heard lots of homophobic statements over the years, ranging from the ignorant (mostly from "friends"):

"Are you the boy or girl in your relationship?"
"What do they think causes it now?"
"If you've never been with a woman, how do you know you like men better?"

To the raving (mostly from preachers).

"The homa-sekshul would just as soon kill you as look at you."
"No nation that has tolerated homa-sekshuls has ever survived!"
"Homa-sekshuls are possessed by the Spirit of Evil!"

But the most homophobic statement I ever heard consisted of five little words:

"Oh, you mean that place."



Mr. Manary was a young, hip teacher at Rocky High, who insisted that students call him by his first name, Ralph.  I never actually saw him in his underwear, but close scrutiny during lectures suggested that he looked like this: tall, thin, clean-cut, tight-muscled, and bulging.

During my sophomore year, I had Ralph for American History.  He wrote a book on the Quad Cities, so he had us investigate Rock Island during the 1920s, and learn about gangster John Looney and jazz musician Bix Beiderbecke.

When we got to the 1950s, we read some writers of the Beat Generation, including Allen Ginsberg's "Supermarket in California", and we watched the classic anti-Communist allegory I Married a Monster from Outer Space.  

Have you ever heard of anyone so cool?

During my junior year, I had him for political science.  We took a field trip to the courthouse to see a real criminal trial,  about a shooting that took place in the Hawaiian Lounge, Rock Island's gay bar.  One of the witnesses, the "swish  on the double date", helped me figure out what gay meant.

Eugene McCarthy

When we held a mock 1976 presidential election.  Jimmy Carter won by a landslide, but Ralph came out in favor of the liberal independent, Minnesota senator Eugene McCarthy.

Ralph was the first person to encourage me to think about college.  He even got the head of the history department at his alma mater, St. Olaf College, to invite me to apply.

During my senior year, I had him for AP American History.  Sometimes he held study sessions at his house, and his wife made cookies.

We had to parse Dr. Martin Luther King's "I Have a Dream" speech and read Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, about the oppression of the Native Americans.

Fast forward 20 years, to January 2002: I was living in Florida but back in Rock Island for the holidays.  I contacted Ralph, the local history expert.

Ralph's house

Now in his mid-50s, he was still teaching at Rocky High, still living in that small two-story house on 7th Avenue, with a white picket fence and an old-fashioned gas streetlamp.

We talked about Rock Island history:  scandals and floods and riots.  Local celebrities.  Iconic businesses.

Then: "What can you tell me about the Hawaiian Lounge? It was a Rock Island institution, and then suddenly it was gone, and JR's took its place.  Do you know how and when it closed?"

His eyes flashed.  "What lounge, now?"

 "You know, the Hawaiian Lounge.  Our poly sci class sat in on a trial about a shooting that took place there."

"Can't say I remember it."

I didn't notice his attempts to not know. He was a liberal, sensitive to minority struggles, and just plain cool, so why wouldn't he be gay-friendly?

That Place

"It was just a few blocks from here, on 4th Avenue.  You had to drive past it to get downtown...." I stopped short and stared.  His face was contorted into a mask of disgust.

"Oh, you mean that place."

He emphasized the word that: alien, other, stranger, savage.  Something wicked.  Something awful.  That place.

I quickly made an excuse and left, and drove aimlessly around in my sister-in-law's car for a long time.  I have rarely felt so depressed.

One of my childhood heroes hated me.

The Police Cadets of South Florida

Fort Lauderdale, September 2001

In August 2001, after completing my Ph.D. in sociology I moved to Florida, on the invitation of my friend Yuri.  I immediately felt at home. It was like I had gone back in time 16 years, to when I first arrived in West Hollywood.

Yuri shared a small ranch house in Wilton Manors (the gay suburb of Fort Lauderdale) with Barney, an older guy who owned a gym in Oakland Park.  He reminded me of Derek, the fitness instructor-turned-insurance agent, my housemate in West Hollywood in 1987.

I had the choice of sharing Yuri's bed or moving into the small room off the kitchen that used to be the study of Barney's deceased lover.  I picked the study, although I ended up in Yuri's bed quite often anyhow: in Fort Lauderdale, like in West Hollywood: good manners required that you invite your roommate to "share" your dates.

We lived only two blocks from Wilton Drive, the Santa Monica Boulevard of Fort Lauderdale, with the Florida equivalents of everything I missed in West Hollywood:

New Age Books and Things (the Bodhi Tree)
Bill's Filling Station (the Hamburger Habit).
The Sunshine Cathedral (The Metropolitan Community Church)
The Ramrod (The Faultline)

The Courtyard Cafe (the French Quarter)

Plus the Clubhouse II Bath House, about 2 miles away, constantly packed with locals and tourists.

We went there quite often, until I started a monogamous relationship with Matt the Security Guard.

Even my jobs seemed to mirror those of West Hollywood .

1. From copy writer for Muscle and Fitness to fitness trainer at Barney's gym.  I taught the new members how to use the machines, and walked around to see if anyone needed help.  

2. From adjunct English instructor at Loyola Marymount to adjunct Communications instructor at Florida Atlantic University.  I taught "Introduction to Communication Studies" and "Popular Culture."

3. From juvenile probation officer to instructor at the Broward County Police Academy. I taught "Spanish for Police Officers" and "Juvenile Offenders."

There was only one problem: outside of gay neighborhoods, Florida was very, very, very conservative and very, very, very homophobic.

Especially my students at Florida Atlantic and the Police Academy, 18 year olds drawn from such redneck cities as Sunrise, Delray Beach, and Pahokee.

The morning of September 11, I was just getting ready for my class, when news of the World Trade Center collapse hit.  Their attitude toward 9/11: "Let's drop some A-bombs on Iraq!"

Their attitude toward gay people: "Let's drop some A-bombs on Wilton Manors."


After being out in grad school I found myself closeted again.

But, on the bright side, I saw a lot of beefcake.

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 Most Embarrassing Hookup, in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas

Houston Texas, January 1985

I spent nine horrible months in 1984-85 in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas, in the northern suburbs of Houston, the worst place in the world.

The gay neighborhood of the Montrose was only 25 miles away, but still, it was nearly impossible to meet people.  First, it was nearly an hour's drive away, in bumper-to-bumper traffic.

All of the gay organizations met on weeknights, when I didn't have time.  That left bars, which were dangerous, with good old boys driving by to issue homophobic threats, and undercover cops waiting to arrest you for "homosexual conduct."

And when you got past the danger, you found a barful of very closeted guys with weird quirks.

But at Christmastime in 1984, I went back to Rock Island and hooked up with my old bully at JR's.  After he turned out to be both apologetic and massive (#7 on my Sausage List), I thought it might be possible to meet someone nice in a bar after all.

So one Saturday night in January 1985, I drove down to the Montrose, to a cruise bar called the Ripcord, a very dark, rather dingy expanse, with peanut shells on the floor and the bottles of the last customers still on every table.

But for some reason I didn't get any attention.  Guys my own age, even older guys gave me nothing but Attitude.

I was 24 years old, but I looked a bit younger.  I was wearing a leather jacket, a short-sleeved shirt that displayed my physique, and very tight jeans, and I knew how to "stand and model" with a phallic beer bottle thrust up from my crotch.  I was the hottest guy there!

Can you figure out why I was getting Attitude?

After an hour, I was desperate.  In order to maintain my self-esteem, I would have to find a "sure thing," someone so inept or unattractive that he would be open to practically anyone.



I found someone standing in the shadows by the pool table: mid-40s, bushy-haired, glasses, a nerd's unstylish shirt and slacks.  But he was shorter than me and a bit chubby, both characteristics that I find attractive.

When I walked over and said "hello," he gave me as much Attitude as everyone else.  But I didn't care: I started talking to him anyway, and gently stroking his thigh.  He didn't move away.

Eventually he began to look at me -- with a cold glare -- and to respond to my questions -- with curt monosyllables.  Better than nothing. 

His name was Warren.  He wouldn't say what his job was, so I didn't volunteer mine, either.

I might have mentioned that it was hard making ends meet; I was always short on cash.  

No, he wasn't from Houston.  He had just been living here a few years.  He grew up in Utah.

"Mormon?" I asked, thinking of the Mormon missionary I met on my way back from California in 1980.

"It's the Reformed Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints," he said, looking around suspiciously.  "But let's not talk about that here."

Did he think he could be identified by his church membership?  "Ok, well, why don't we go somewhere else?"

He continued to glare, but reached out to fondle my chest. "Where should we go?"

I didn't want to admit that I lived in a far suburb -- an instant turn-off in gay neighborhoods -- so I lied: "We can't go back to my place.  I live with my parents."

"Well...how about a hotel room?"


I followed Warren to one of those sleazy discount hotels on the edge of downtown, and he got us a room.  He turned out to be respectable beneath the belt, and very passionate, into kissing and cuddling as much as the more advanced activities.

I awoke in the morning to the bouncing of the bed as Warren, already dressed, was putting his shoes on.

"Want to go out for breakfast?" I asked.

"Oh, no, I can't afford any more.  Besides, I have to be going.  I'm late already."

Can't afford any more?  What did that mean?

His shoes on, Warren checked his wallet to make sure his credit cards were still there, and headed out the door.

"Wait...you forgot..."  I began,  You always exchanged phone numbers with a hookup, just in case...

"It's on the nightstand.  Thanks, this was fun."  And the door slammed behind him.

I lay in bed, naked, shocked.  Why was he so anxious to be out of there?

I leaned over to the nightstand to retrieve his phone number.  Instead, there was:

An unmarked envelope containing five $20 bills.

The cruisy outfit, the "short on cash," the "living with my parents": Warren thought I was a hustler!

My face burned as I realized that everyone in the bar must have thought so, too. That's why they gave me so much Attitude!

I was too mortified to ever go near that bar again.

See also: Topping and Bottoming in Texas

Alan Dates Will of "Land of the Lost"

Alan the Pentecostal Porn Star didn't like telling celebrity dating or hookup stories: "Does being on tv automatically make guys hotter?  Does it give them a bigger cock?  What's the point?"  

But when he set his mind to it, he had some good stories: he dated David Johnson, son of the professor on Gilligan's Island; two of the male cast members of M*A*S*H (not Alan Alda); and Land of the Lost star Wesley Eure.

West Hollywood, June 1979

In May 1978, three days after graduating from ultra-fundamentalist Waynesburg College in rural Pennsylvania, Alan arrived in the gay ghetto of West Hollywood.  It was the halcyon days of sexual excess, after Gay Liberation but before AIDS, when there were enough bars and bathhouses in town to fill every night with dates and tricks.  And he dated and tricked with the best of them.

In the spring of 1979, he met Donnie, a production  manager/stage manager/general factotum at CBS.  They had sex once, then became friends, as was the custom in those day.  He told Alan about his gay sex party with Sid Krofft and Jack Wild, star of the Saturday-morning kidvid show H.R. Pufnstuf.

"I always thought those boys on the Krofft shows were gay.  Butch Patrick on Lidsville...Johnny Whitaker on Sigmund and the Sea Monsters...."

"Well, there was some casting couch stuff going on with Sid, but those guys were mostly straight. Other than Jack Wild, the only one I know for sure is gay is Wesley Eure."

The last of the Krofft Shows, Land of the Lost (1974-1976), was the most ambitious.  A whole family -- father, son, and daughter -- trapped in a prehistoric world with dinosaurs, evil reptilian Sleestaks, and helpful humanoid Pakuni..  They hire Star Trek alumni as writers, and a UCLA linguist to invent the Pakuni language.  And instead of their usual fey prettyboys, they got a real rugged outdoorsman to play the son.

A little old for a Krofft boy, age 23 when the show began, Wesley Eure was tall and buffed, with black curly hair and a dazzling teen-idol smile. He was a talented singer, selected to replace David Cassidy on The Partridge Family, and a classically-trained dramatic actor who had performed Shakespeare and Eugene O'Neill.  Yet he didn't balk at being chased by dinosaurs every week.

"How do you know he's gay?" Alan asked.  "Have you tricked with him?"

Donnie laughed.  "Not tricked, no -- we dated. Candy, flowers, a soda with two straws, a kiss on the doorstep, the whole romantic bit.  But he dumped me after the third date."

"Things getting too real for him?"

"I was getting too out for him.  He's strictly closeted."

"Closeted, in 1979?  That's ridiculous!"  Alan exclaimed.  "Being gay is legal now.  Willie Brown is on our side.  There are gay characters on tv all the time. What's he got to be afraid of?  Give me this guy's number, and I'll pull him out of the closet."

"What makes you think you're his type?"

Alan grinned.  "Have you seen my cock lately?  I'm everybody's type."

So Donnie called Wesley and arranged for him to met Alan for dinner at the Formosa Cafe near Plummer Park.

Wesley was 27 years old, but too big and buffed to be a twink. Since Land of the Lost ended, he had done some soaps and guest spots, and he was very excited about the movie C.H.O.M.P.s, a superhero spoof about a boy who invents a robot dog.

"It could become a tv series!" Wesley exclaimed.  "And I'd get to kiss Valerie Bertinelli every week -- nothing wrong with that, right?"

Alan stared.

"Sorry -- it's my cover.  I'm so used to pretending to be straight..."

"Well, tonight you're gay through and through.  I've got a whole tour of Hollywood planned: the Bunkhouse, the Rawhide, Circus Disco -- then, if you're up for it, the baths."

"I can't go to gay bars, or the baths.  What if someone recognizes me?"

Alan sighed and allowed himself to be invited home.  The sex was hot.  Wesley had a hard smooth chest, a tight belly, and a beautifully shaped 6-inch penis.  They kissed and fondled for a long time, almost to climax, and then Wesley went down on Alan -- he could take it all without gagging.  After he finished, he moved into the 69 position for the second round, and then interfemoral.

Later, as they were cuddling in bed, Alan said, "So, dating you will involve just going out to dinner and talking about Valerie Bertinelli?  No dancing, no movies, no cruising?"

"I can't be seen in any gay places," Wesley said.  "Not if I want a career.  If this is going to go any farther, you'll have to be cool with that."  He began kissing Alan's chest, and slowly moved down to his belly and crotch.  "I can make quiet nights at home worthwhile."

"Sounds cool," Alan said.  "But for our next dinner, I get to pick the place."  He moaned as Wesley began going down on him for the third time that evening.

Two days later, Alan picked up Wesley at his apartment.  "We're meeting some of my friends -- I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all," Wesley said.  It was traditional to introduce your boyfriend to your friends on the second or third date. "Gay or straight?"

Alan glared at him.  "What do you think?"

They drove to a large, open restaurant near Santa Monica and Fairfax, down the street from Temple Beth El.  "I figured a Jewish neighborhood would be closeted enough for you."

Donnie and two other guys were sitting at the table waiting for them.

"Shouldn't there be some girls with us, just in case?" Wesley said doubtfully.

Alan shoved him to the table and made the introductions:  Morris Kight, president of the Stonewall Democratic Alliance, and Troy Perry, founder of the Metropolitan Community Church!

All Wesley had heard of were bars and bathhouses -- he was astonished to discover that there were social clubs, political clubs, churches, magazines, newspapers, even a bookstore that specialized in gay literature.

While they were talking, a cute twink came over to ask for Wesley's autograph.  "You helped me come out!" he exclaimed.  "Watching you on Land of the Lost in those cut-off jeans made me realize that I was gay."

After he left, Wesley turned to Alan.  "He was awfully open about being gay.  Is this a gay restaurant?"

Alan grinned.  "You got me.  This is the French Quarter, the nicest restaurant in the gay ghetto."

"Gay ghetto -- I thought this was a Jewish neighborhood."

"We share," Troy said.  "There's plenty of room for everyone in West Hollywood."

Alan reached over and grabbed his hand under the table, then slowly raised it up to the tabletop, so that they were holding hands obviously, in public.  The other guys ignored them.

"After dinner we can go back to my apartment," Alan said, "Or we can go to the Circus Disco.  I'll have to warn you, though, there won't be any girls there."

"Well, maybe a few drag queens," Donnie said.

Wesley thought for a moment, but only for a moment.  "The disco."

Alan and Wesley dated for another month or so before breaking up.  When gay rumors caused him to be fired from Days of Our Lives in 1981, Wesley returned to the closet, and did not come out publicly until 2009.

See: Donnie's Gay Sex Party with Jack Wild; Alan's Top 20 Tricks, Scenes, and Dates

A Celebrity Tries to Steal My Boyfriend

Hollywood, August 1986

My friend Alan knew lots of celebrities and celebrity kids, like David Johnson, son of the Professor on Gilligan's Island, and anyone he didn't know, I met through other friends (Michael J. Fox), or through my job at Muscle and Fitness, or at the gym, or on the streets of West Hollywood (my celebrity boyfriend).  And at Mugi.

It was a bar on Hollywood Boulevard, east of Western, in Thai Town (now it's a Thai restaurant).  Simple decor.  Thai popular music (except for "One Night in Bangkok"., which it played every night).  No dancing.  And packed every night.  Most of the the clientele was Asian, mostly immigrants and tourists from East Asia. The rest were their admirers.

Alan liked it because he was, for some reason, intensely attractive to most Asian men.  He claimed that he could get any Asian guy just by walking up and smiling (He often used this amazing ability to steal my dates.)

The other half of the clientele was white, mostly men in the entertainment industry, mostly not well known, but on various nights I saw Jim J. Bullock, Lance Loud, Tom Hulce, and Tom Villard

Why did so many gay white actors, directors, producers, and crew members patronize a tiny Asian bar?  Maybe because it was a a five minute drive from Paramount Studios, and very close to about a dozen other studios, yet out of the way, not like one of the glitzy West Hollywood bars where you would be spotted.

In August 1986, shortly after we returned from Japan, I liked a very muscular Chinese-Vietnamese guy named Tranh, a student at UCLA.  I cruised him at the gym almost every day, and when I saw him at Mugi, I spent an hour flirting with him, using every trick I knew.   He had just agreed to have dinner with me, when Richard Chamberlain came in with some friends.

The 52-year old star of Dr. Kildare (1961-66), Shogun (1980), The Thorn Birds (1983), and King Solomon's Mines (1985) was not yet out, and he was not the subject of any gay rumors.

I was mildly surprised, but not impressed.   I didn't find him at all attractive -- there were much cuter celebrities at Mugi all the time.  Besides, he was probably there to cruise Asian men.

But Tranh's mouth dropped.  After a few moments, he said "Excuse me," and made a bee-line for Richard's table. It took only a moment for them to start kissing.

It wasn't fair -- I cruised Tranh at the gym for weeks, and I didn't get a kiss!

I pieced my way through the crowd to where Alan was holding court.

"What's the problem?"  he asked.  "You look like you lost your best friend."

"Maybe I did. I finally managed to get a date with Tranh, when that idiot Richard comes in, and he scurried after him like a squirrel after a nut.  Just because he's been in some movies!"

Alan smiled.  "Don't worry, I'll take care of it." He disentangled himself from his boyfriend du jour and made his way to Richard's table.  I could see him, Richard, and Tranh talking.  After about three minutes, he returned, hand in hand with a grinning Tranh.

"...and Boomer will be there, too.  Is that ok?"


He "got" Tranh for me by offering himself as part of the deal!

Still, I had to admire the ease with which he bested Richard Chamberlain.

And I did manage to go down on Tranh (average size, uncut).

See also: Sharing the Kept Boy