Trying to Find a Quiet Night in Gay Heaven

San Francisco, March 1997

What is it like to live in Gay Heaven, to know that you have achieved something that most gay people can only dream of?  How can you go about your everyday activities, buy groceries, pay rent, work out at the gym, knowing that thousands of people would give anything to be in your position?

It's a big responsibility to live as a stand-in for a thousand gay men.  Every moment has to count.  Every night is a mad rush of beer busts, bear parties, AIDS benefits, book signings, art openings, film premieres, special events so frequent that they're not special at all.

Plus at least one party per week, probably two or three, to welcome new residents; to say goodbye to those who are leaving; to celebrate birthdays, anniversaries, new jobs, and new apartments; to introduce new boyfriends; to entertain a constant stream of out-of-town guests.

(Every gay man you have ever known, even if it was just a brief conversation ten years ago, will eventually show up on your doorstep, bags in hand, hoping to stay with you while he tries to move to Gay Heaven.)

Plus a round of holidays that require planning and discussion: the Castro Street Fair, Halloween, New Year's Eve, The Gay Film Festival, the AIDS Walk, Dore Alley, Christopher Street West

Plus constant dates and hookups, partly because there are so many men to choose from, new refugees from the Straight World arriving every day.

Partly because when you're a stand-in for a thousand gay men stuck in Straight World wastelands, it's your duty and obligation to have as much sex as possible.

I leave the apartment at 8:00 am, meet David at Orphan Andy's for breakfast, and am never alone again until I return at 11:00 pm -- even then, I usually have a date or hookup with me.

My computer and tv sit silent.  My kitchen is for storing sodas and snacks.  Books that I buy but don't have time to read accumulate in uneasy stacks by my bedside.

I'm an introvert. I hate blaring music, flashing lights, and especially crowds.  I need quiet and solitude to recharge and energize.

March 14: Friday Night.

I've been asked out to dinner by Roger, a guy I met at the gym -- he had a very impressive shower erection.  Plus my sort-of boyfriend Kevin wants me to go to an "open mike night" (the vampire can sing!),  I've been invited to a party to help my friend Corbin welcome his visiting ex-boyfriend, and there's the usual Bear Party south of Market.  But I've had it.  Tonight is my night to relax!

I write in my Calendar "Quiet Evening at Home!!!," refuse all invitations, and turn off the answering machine on my phone.  After work and the gym, I pick up Thai food and a pint of ice cream.  I go home, draw the shades, and lock the door.

For the next 12 hours, I will not see, talk to, or interact with another human being.  Sheer solitude!  Heaven in Gay Heaven!

7:30 pm.  I put on my bathrobe and turn on Nickelodeon to watch while I eat.  Kenan and Kel, a teencom about a pair of Laurel-and-Hardy fat-thin bickering-buddies played by Kenan Thompson (who gets them involved in crazy schemes) and Kel Mitchell (who groans his catchphrase, "Here it goes!").  The guys believe that their friend Roger (Malcolm Jamal-Warner) is a jewel thief.

The show has a strong gay subtext, and Roger is rather cute.  What a coincidence -- a cute guy asked me out to dinner tonight.  We would probably be eating right now.  Then we'd go to Corbin's party, then cruising at the Eagle, and back to his apartment....

8:00 pm: I turn the channel to Sliders, about college boy Quinn (Jerry O'Connor) trapped in an endless voyage among parallel universes, accompanied by the Girl, the Professor, and the Jazz Musician.   This week they're in a world where all 18-25 year olds must become organ donors for the oldsters.  Meanwhile there's a subplot about Maggie (Kari Wuhler), a team member they picked up a few parallel worlds back, having a parasite removed from her body.  It takes a hot guy to lure it out so it can breed.

Heterosexist -- even alien parasites fall into boy-girl categories -- and disgusting.  Besides, Quinn never takes his shirt off.

At Corbin's party tonight, the entertainment will be a guy stripping and going down on the guests, or maybe a "guess the penis" game.

9:00 pm.  Nothing good on tv.  I go to the bedroom, lie down on the bed, and pick up a book.

Kevin is probably at the open-mic night by now.  One doesn't expect a dour, sarcastic vampire to be a singer, but he is, with a wide repertoire of torch songs and show tunes.  "Cabaret" starts playing in my head:

Put away the knitting, the book, and the broom.  Listen to the music play.
Life is a cabaret, old chum.  Come to the cabaret....

9:30 pm.  I turn the tv back on.  Step by Step, a TGIF sitcom about the blended family of Frank (Patrick Duffy) and Carol (Suzanne Sommers), formerly of Dallas and Three's Company, respectively.

In this episode, Frank's son  J.T. (Brandon Call), Carol's daughter Dana (Staci Keanan), and  their friend Rich (Jason Marsden) end up in a Mexican prison over burritos.  Back home, Carol teaches Jean-Luc (Bronson Pinchot), her partner at the beauty salon, how to drive.

Strong gay subtext between J.T. and Rich, and I'm pretty sure Jean-Luc is supposed to be gay.  But...I don't need to worry about subtexts and stereotypes anymore.  I'm in Gay Heaven!

The bear party is usually busy about now.

There are thousands of gay guys trapped in the Straight World tonight, with nothing to do but watch Step by Step and dream.  But I live in Gay Heaven.  It's my duty to go out, whether I want to or not.

I pull on my clothes and catch the Muni to South of Market.

10:00 pm.  I arrive at the bear party.  My friend David is there, going down on a muscular guy in his 30s with a short beard, a tight hairless chest, and a nicely shaped Bratwurst+.  He moves aside and motions for me to take over.

Just a quiet night in Gay Heaven.

See also: The Amazing Invisible Boy

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.

Rating Guys in West Hollywood

Remember how precisely potential boyfriends and husbands were rated back at Augustana, my undergraduate college? Mostly on their future bank account, but also on their independence (living away from home, having a car), their coolness (disco moves, being bad), and their face and physique.

I have been trying to think how we rated potential boyfriends in West Hollywood.

Their physique was the most important factor. You were generally safe dating someone up to one level higher or two levels lower than you.  For instance, a 7 could date anyone from 5 to 8.  Any higher, and there would be too much competition from other guys trying to steal him away.  Any lower, and everyone would always wonder why you were so desperate; you must have some hidden flaw.

9-10. Bodybuilder. Competitive-style basketball-size biceps, xylophone abs, and traps like knotted cords hands down.  Your personality and bank book didn't matter; if you could bench 300, everyone was in love with you. Who cared that it was like hugging a marble statue?

7-8. Gym Rat. Not competitive but nicely muscled, with a tight chest, heavy biceps, and thin abs, the sort of physique you get with only 2 hours a day at the gym.

5-6. Chubby.  Some guys shunned the chubby, yelling "no femmes or fats" in their personal ads, but most guys liked a little heft, whether it was muscle or fat.

3-4. Skinny.  I'm not sure why. Maybe skinny guys were suspected of being sick.  Or, since a main focus of West Hollywood dates and parties was eating, they were suspected of being antisocial.

2-1. Feminine.  There's just no way around it.  In spite of our belief that people should "be who they are," in spite of our awareness that gender norms are social constructs designed to promote sexism and homophobia, feminine guys were at the bottom of the barrel.  A lilt in your voice, a sashay in your step, a flutter in your hands, and we were noping our way to the other side of the bar.

Having a big cock, a handsome face, or an outgoing personality could push you up one or two levels, so a #3 with all of these traits would become a #5.  Conversely, having a small cock, a ugly face, or a shy-and-quiet personality, so a #9 could find himself treated like a #7.

Having friends on higher levels could also push you up (think of the sharing possibilities!).  But friends on a lower level pushed you down.

Being a sleazoid (leering, joking, making sexual innuendos) pushed you down a level.

But having money did not push you up, nor did being poor push you down, as long as you weren't homeless or living in a residential hotel.  Most of us had chosen West Hollywood over careers, so we were living on various service jobs, and couldn't afford our own apartments.   

Any discussion of heterosexual relationships in your past, or hint of heterosexual desire (such as pointing out the attractiveness of a passing woman) immediately pushed you down to a 1.  Regardless of your other qualities, you were essentially undateable.    

You could even go down a level for mentioning interests that fairly or not, we defined as "too hetero":  science fiction and fantasy, action-adventure movies, the beach, and sports of all sorts.

I was a gym rat with a face and a cock, which pushed me up, but my interest in science fiction pushed me down, so I evened out at about a 7.  I went out with a lot of gym rats and chubby guys, but hardly ever a bodybuilder, even when I worked on Muscle and Fitness.

But it wasn't an exact science.  Often you would choose a guy who had your friends saying "That's not his type at all. What's the attraction?"

See also: What Made Sandy a 10?

Seeing a Father, Son, and Grandson Naked

Plains, April 2017

I see the Geezer in the gym a couple of times a week: in his 70s, tall, ugly, and out of shape, with thin arms, no chest, and a sagging belly.   He never lifts weights or does cardio; he hangs around the pool and sauna, reads newspapers in the lounge, and talks to his buddies about the deadly dull things heterosexuals talk about, the game last night and the bathroom remodeling and the new job of the grandson.

I could not be less interested.

But one day we were stripping down at the same time, and I got a nice view of his penis.

Horse-hung!  A good 5" soft, uncut, veiny, as thick as a beer can.  It must be a thick 10" aroused.

The best sausage sighting ever!

And, I thought, the Geezer must have had a lifetime of admirers, men and women who wanted his penis, and more, who wanted the person he was before bitterness, disappointment, poor health, and the awareness of his mortality dimmed his days and nights.

So I struck up a conversation, said I was doing research on the older guys who went to the gym (which was true), and looked for a gay connection in the Geezer's biography.   Later I did some online research.

The Geezer

In 1964, the Geezer was a University of Nebraska jock named Dave, a farmboy from a small town near Lincoln.

He was on the swim team, and won some awards.  Swimming was a lifelong passion.

There must have been homoerotic hijinks in college.  Frat parties, late night bull sessions, romantic friendships.  

The Geezer didn't mention any particular close friends.

He graduated in 1964, but was never part of the youth counterculture.  Quiet, driven, conservative, he went to work for Mutual of Omaha, the insurance company. He married his college sweetheart, and had two sons and a daughter.

Was he sneaking into the gay bars, or going to the tea rooms? 

We were neighbors!  Dave was living in Omaha in 1980, when I moved there with my first boyfriend Fred.  A 38-year old householder with a wife and three children.

But our paths never crossed. 

Apparently nothing else happened.  A life of heterosexual monotony.  House, job, vacations, holidays, kids' piano recitals, watching them, one at a time, marry and leave the house.

He retired in 2007, and moved to the Plains to be close to his grown daughter.

"What about your sons?" I asked.

"The oldest got a job in marketing.  He lives in Des Moines.  The other wanted to be an actor or a model or some such nonsense, so he moved to California.  We see him maybe once a year."

My gaydar perked up.  That was my story, too, fleeing from the cage of heteronormative expectations -- wife, job, house, kids -- for the freedom of West Hollywood. Maybe this was the Geezer's gay connection!

The Geezer's Son

The Geezer's Son, Rich, was not hard to track down.  I told him I knew his father on the Plains, and we lived in L.A. at the same time, so he was happy to reminisce.

Rich graduated from the University of Nebraska with a degree in dramatic arts in 1988, and immediately moved to Los Angeles.  He did some bodybuilding work, and some modeling and commercials.

In 1988 I was living in Los Angeles, and working for Muscle and Fitness.  Had our paths crossed?

No.  He never appeared in Muscle and Fitness.  He never posed for Mandate, or Advocate Men.  He never went to the Rage, or Basgo's, or the French Quarter, or Gay Pride Festivals.

Rich is straight.

But...he did pose for Playgirl in the early 1990s.  You can see his photo on the Adonis Men database: heavily muscled, flexing, his dark, thick penis hanging down, a good 5" soft.

He inherited his dad's beneath-the-belt gifts!

The Geezer's Son married in 1993, and abandoned his dreams of stardom.  He and his wife moved to Phoenix, Arizona, where he went to work in real estate  They had two sons and a daughter.

Nothing else happened.  Like his father, the Geezer's Son has lived a life of heterosexual monotony, with houses, yards, dogs, vacations, kids' piano recitals and football games and high school graduations.  He just celebrated his 50th birthday.

No gay connection!

Um...maybe the Geezer's grandsons?

Rich's oldest son got married right out of high school, and now has a job in construction, a house, a wife, and two kids, aged four and two.

The other is going to Augustana College in Rock Island!

My alma mater!  But why did he pick a small Lutheran college 2000 miles from home?

"I couldn't tell you," the Geezer says. "Maybe to be near family -- he's got cousins there."  

"What is he majoring in?"

"Oh, music or some such nonsense.  He's a dreamer, like his father.  Wanted to be a pop star like...what's her name...Adele?"

My gaydar goes off.

More after the break

A Hookup with the Surly, Crazy-Eyed Guy with the Mortadella+

Philadelphia, March 2013

I'm at the gym at my job in a small private college near Philadelphia, having a bad day  (actually, most days in Philadelphia are bad.  Not nearly as bad as Hell-fer-Sartain, ugh...Texas, the worst place in the world, but bad...).  And now the guy on the butterfly press is just sitting there, playing with his cell phone.

You're supposed to rest about a minute between sets, but not on the machine.  Get up and walk around, or better yet, go do a set for another muscle group.

But the undergrads at the campus gym often just sit there for 5 minutes, rendering their weight training useless and jamming up everybody else's work out.

It's annoying.  Besides, I like to do my sets in a specific order, alternating upper and lower body, and working down from the big to the small muscle groups, so I can't just walk away.  I always walk up, motion for them to unplug their earphones, and ask "Can I squeeze in between your sets?"

They always get up and let me "play through."

But today when I ask, the guy on the butterfly press glares at me, eyes wide, teeth set.  "I have two sets left," he growls, ready for a fight, daring me to make a move against him.

Nobody ever has had that reaction before!  This guy must be crazy!

I should probably retreat, but I'm annoyed by the territoriality.  "Well, how about if I squeeze between the sets, while you're resting?"

He grumbles...but says ok.  He jumps up and stands there glaring at me while I move the weight to double what he was doing.  And keeps glaring during my set.

You're supposed to walk around, or at least look away.

So after my set, instead of walking around, I stand there, getting in his face.

He's an older student, senior or grad: mid-20s, tall and thin, tattooed, shaggy black hair, short beard, deep-set eyes.  Crazy eyes.  Wearing a black t-shirt and silken gym shorts that show no basket.

Suddenly I find him very attractive.  

He's not at all my usual type.  Maybe it's his surliness  -- you're into guys who aren't into you.  Or maybe it's because I'm approached by twinks all the time.  Finding one who doesn't cruise me, who displays no interest, is refreshing.

Or maybe it's just the challenge.

He says "It's all yours," jumps up, and moves to the preacher press.  I finish my next set and move to the calf press next to him.  I put on four 50-pound weights.  He pretends not to see me.

"Hey!"

He takes off his earphones and glares.

"If you want the full benefit, you should take it slower, and go down lower.  Let me show you."

He glares at me.  "Just my luck.  I finally get up the nerve to go to the gym, and some muscle-bound Bob Paris wannabe tells me I'm doing it wrong."

Hostility, and a veiled compliment? And he knows Bob Paris, the gay bodybuilder -- must be gay himself.

He doesn't object as I walk over, put my hands on the bar to show him, and "accidentally" touch his hands.

"I can see you have a lot of potential -- your biceps are already firm and tight, and you have a nice chst. You just need a little instruction to get things going."

He glares.  "I'm doing just fine, thanks.  I don't need any $100 dollar an hour personal trainer pestering me."

I touch his shoulder.  "I'll give you some tips for free.  A public service so you don't hurt yourself.  You can buy me a coke afterwards."

He flashes his crazy eyes but says "Ok."

I show him how to use some of the machines and free weights, touching him several times in the process.  He continues to glare with his crazy eyes.  This guy is crazy.

Then we shower -- he's on the other side of the locker room, so I don't see anything -- and walk down the street to a burger place.

"Ok, if you're serious about weight training, you need to lead a healthy lifestyle.  That means no drinking, no drugs, and a low-fat, low-sugar diet."

He smiles for the first time.  "I don't use drugs, and I was planning to order the turkey burger anyway."

His name is Aaron.  He graduated five years ago, but he can use the gym on his alumni card.  His degree was in music -- he wanted to become a singer, and still performs at open mike nights -- but his real jobs are in the campus cafeteria and a pizza place downtown.  His schedule doesn't leave a lot of time for socializing, so he doesn't meet many guys.

We go back to the tiny apartment he shares with two straight guys and a large dog.  He leads me immediately into the bedroom, and stands there, glaring with his crazy eyes, waiting for me to make the first move.

I run my hand over his smooth, tight chest and down to his crotch.  He's still glaring.

Well, he didn't say no...

I unzip him and go down on him.

Whoa, a gigantic Mortadella+!

 Soon we're on his single, unmade bed, naked, kissing.  He pushes into interfemoral position to finish, then goes down on me.

Afterwards he rushes into the bathroom to wash off, and then returns to me in bed.  We cuddle.  Suddenly he gets aroused again.  But he's still glaring.

I have to say something.  "You know, you're very hot, but there might be something about your demeanor that's off-putting to guys.  You should expect the best in people, not the worst -- you shouldn't go into an encounter looking all defensive, this glaring..."

He glares.  "What are you talking about?  This is the way I look when I'm attracted to a guy."

See also: Yuri and the Unhung Hippie; My Textbook Rep is a Porn Star.

"He was Looking at Me!": Assaulted by a Naked Man in the Locker Room

Philadelphia, Fall 2012

I always try to join a gay gym, so I don't have to deal with heteronormative comments and lady-gawking, and so no one minds if I do a little gawking of my own.

During my terrible year in Philadelphia, I joined the 12th Street Gym, only about half a mile from my apartment.

It was an older facility, kind of musty, but crowded with cute gym rats.  Unfortunately it was "gay friendly" rather than "gay."  About half of the clientele consisted of gay men, and the rest straight men, who varied in their degree of comfort about being gawked at.

Some put on a show, swirling and wiggling their equipment.  Some were completely nonchalant.  Some were careful to turn their backs and wear towels, or avoided taking showers altogether, worried that to be seen and desired by a gay man would mean that they were gay, too.

 But after seven years in the straight world, I was adept at subtle glances.

I don't remember even glancing at Duane that day (I never got his real name.)  It was around 7 pm, and the gym was packed with the after-work crowd.  I finished my workout, undressed, and headed to the shower room, which was also packed.   You had to wait for a turn at the shower heads.     

Mindful of the crowd, I showered quickly without paying much attention to the other guys around, toweled off, and walked back into the locker room.

Just as I unlocked my locker and opened the door, I heard a man yell "Stop looking at me!"

I turned -- everybody in the locker room turned.  Duane was rushing across the bare floor.  He was in his 40s, tall, black, bald, not terribly muscular.   Naked, dripping wet from the shower.

You notice weird things at a time like that.  His penis swaying from side to side.  The wet marks his feet made.

"F*** fag, stop looking at me!"  

Homophobic language in Philadelphia's gay neighborhood?  And a straight guy who still thought of a gay man's gaze as a horrible insult?  I was shocked.  

The other guys were shocked, too.  They stared, motionless.  One said "Hey, now..." 

Wait -- Duane was rushing toward me!

His fists clenched, his face contorted with rage, prone to attack.

But..I hadn't been in a physical altercation since the Mean Boys of grade school.  Surely such things didn't happen anymore.  We were adults.  This was a gay neighborhood...

It only took a few seconds to cross the locker room floor, and Duane was....

Tackled by a tall slender guy: in his twenties, pale skin, smooth chest, curly brown hair, wearing only white briefs.  He must have been dressing.  Later I discovered that his name was Curtis.

Duane was knocked to the floor, his arm twisted behind his back.

Struggling wildly but subdued, he yelled "That fag looked at me!"   

"Yeah, dude, we're all looking at you," Curtis said.  "Now are you going to play nice?"

"But..."  

Curtis pulled him to his feet.  We faced each other.  I saw that his eyes were filled with tears, and his lower lip was trembling.

"But he looked at me," Duane whined.

"I didn't..." I began.

"So what if he did?  It's a compliment -- means he thinks you're hot. Now you gonna apologize, or do I put my black belt in karate to work?"

By now the club manager had appeared, so I didn't get my apology.  He waited for us to get dressed, then took us into the office and listened to our stories.  After some insulting questions about whether I had touched Duane inappropriately or "stalked" him, he told Duane to be "more tolerant" and let us go.

Curtis was waiting for me in the foyer.  He was wearing a white shirt and tan pants, with a photo nametag.  

"You ok, sir? That must have been quite a shock."

"I'm more shocked that Duane wasn't banned from the club."  

"Yeah, that kind of thing is...well, not common, but it happens.  When you mix gay and straight guys, you gotta expect it.  Not everybody is enlightened."  He paused.  "Can I buy you a drink?"

In case you were wondering: average beneath-the-belt gifts, top, bisexual, with a girlfriend.

And I didn't go back to the 12th Street Gym for a month.

See also: Brandon and His Angry Inch.

My Terrible, Horrible, Harrowing Walk Home from the Gym

Plains, August 2018

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Naked in the Shower with Randy Travis

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Warwick, Rhode Island, August 1984

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's when I made my fatal mistake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except....

See also: Hank Williams Nude

First Day of Class Beefcake and Bulges

Plains, August 2016

I love the first day of class.  The campus has been mostly deserted all summer, but today it springs to life with thousands of new students and faculty members, dozens of new opportunities.

8:30 am.  Meeting with my new teaching assistant, a tall, buffed former football player who just began grad school.

I can't wait to start sending him on errands.

9:30 am.  Office hours.  I walk out into the hallway to go to the bathroom, and hit a huge crowd of students waiting for the large lecture hall to clear.

I get five smiles and three cruisy eye-crotch-eye looks.

11:00 am.  My first class.  112 students in the large lecture hall.  I never stand on that stage; I always make a circuit of the aisles while lecturing, to make it easier to call on random students.  Cute, nervous freshmen, nerds in button-down shirts, collegiate jocks fidgeting in their chairs.  Biceps and bulges everywhere.  A shirt lifts up so I can see a flash of abs.  A hand moves absently onto the crotch.















12:30.  Lunch.  I eat lunch in my office to avoid the crowds at the Student Union.  Five students are sitting on the couches in the main office, waiting to talk to faculty members, in front of a plate of brownies left over from a meeting last Thursday.  I walk over and ask "Do you think these brownies are still good after five days?"

A slim hipster says "Let's find out."  He picks one up and tries to feed it to the cute boy sitting next to him on the couch.

"I'm not eating that!" the cute boy exclaims.

"Why not? You've had worse things in your mouth."  He grins at me.

2:00 pm  My advanced class.  The buffed blond guy from my intro class last semester is sitting in the front row.

3:30 pm.  My other advanced class.  There he is again!  He's enrolled in both.

I also see the Hispanic bodybuilder who was in my intro class twice (he failed the first time).

I can't wait to start calling on them.

5:00 pm.  Gym.  It's packed with the "new year's resolution" students, who vow to get in shape every fall semester.  It's like the gym in January.  I have to wait for my turn on the machines.

Two guys who were in my intro class earlier today are using the shoulder press, at 40 pounds.  I lift four times as much.  They stare.

Another cute guy is using the incline press, at 60!  I move it down to 180.  

"How can you lift so much?" he asks.

"I used to work for a bodybuilding magazine," I tell him.

"That must have been exciting.  Did you meet anybody famous?"

We make a coffee date for tomorrow.

6:00 pm.  I go upstairs to walk around the indoor track a few times.  There are at least four shirts vs. skins basketball games going on.  I did a long run yesterday, but nothing says I can't do a nice mile and gawk.

6:30 pm.  The locker room is packed!  Stripping down next to me is a tall, thin guy.  He turns his back to change underwear, but I still get a glimpse of an enormous package.  Then a third guy returns from the shower and needs to get to the locker between us.  We step out of the way as he removes his towel, his gigantic penis in full view, and fumbles with his lock.

7:30 pm.  Back home, I order dinner from the pita place downtown.  The delivery guy gives me a shocked smile and starts stammering.  "Hi!  Um...your total is...I mean, here's your pita..," like I'm a famous movie star.

Maybe he was in my class earlier today.

8:30 pm.  Do I dare go on Grindr?  First week of class, all of the new guys will be on.

Sure enough, there are dozens of new profiles within a mile radius.  I change my profile picture from chest to face, but still, I get a barrage of "Hi, Daddy!" and "Come over and do me!"

This will be a fun semester.

See also: Wagner's Top 10 Turn-Ons; Classroom Bulges