A Sleepover with the Juvenile Delinquent: A Young Gideon Adventure

 “Hey, Bro,” Pontius called, rushing up to Gideon’s locker at the Riverpointe Christian Academy in Charleston. 

“Hey, yourself.”  Gideon was a bit suspicious: his younger brother rarely talked to him at school.  Sometimes he didn’t even accept a ride home, preferring to call one of the Gemstone drivers to avoid being seen with a “glee club nerd.”  An odd insult, since Gideon didn’t belong to Glee Club.

"Ok, here’s the thing. I want to have a sleepover Friday night, and you have to come."

"No way, José! 16-year olds do not go to slumber parties.”

“You used to like them.”

“Sure, gu5 I used to like Battlebots, too. I grew up.”

From his 10th birthday until last year, when he graduated to the high school building at the Academy, Gideon and Pontius hosted sleepovers at least once a month. They each invited two or three boys, plus their younger brother Abraham by default. They spent the night playing video games, watching tv, eating snacks, and bragging about how late they were staying up.  Then they bedded down in the Kid Guest Room, Pontius and Abraham on the top bunk, Gideon and another boy “on the bottom,” and the rest in sleeping bags.   Gideon always took awhile to choose his bed partner: not necessarily his best friend.  Maybe even one of Pontius’s friends, if he was cute. 

How did I know which boys were cute?  Gideon thought, surprised by the memory.  Why did I care?

The full story is on Righteous Gemstones Beefcake and Boyfriends.

We Stick It to the Wicked Witch of the North

Hell-fer-Sartain, April 1985

Near the end of my horrible nine months and 22 days in horrible Hell-fer-Sartain, the worst place in the world, my ex-boyfriend Fred came to visit.

We were together for only about six months back in 1980, when I was a stupid 19-year old college student.  We lived together, moved to Omaha together -- big mistake -- and broke up -- but stayed friends.  He had given up the ministry -- the only churches he could get were in horrible small towns -- and was working as a mental health counselor.

Near the end of his visit, he asked, "Boomer, when are you coming back to the Midwest?"

"May 8th.  The minute classes are over!"  I told him.  I'm dropping off my last grade, getting in my car, and heading north, and not stopping until I'm out of Hell-fer-Sartain!"

"That's perfect!  You can help me stick it to the Wicked Witch of the North."

"Who?"

"You know, She Who Must Not Be Named... my ex-fiancée...Diane?"

In 1976, Fred moved to Chicago to study for his M.Div. at McCormick Theological Seminary. He had been with a few guys, and even had some gay relationships, but he knew that a theological career required a wife and kids, so he started dating 28 year old Diane, daughter of his professor of Christian ethics and the granddaughter of a big wig in the United Methodist Church -- a prize catch for any upwardly mobile young theologian.

Plus she came with a ready-made family -- David, a 9-year old son from a marriage in her wild hippie youth.  Within a few months, they were engaged.

Diane knew her way around church hierarchy, and made sure that Fred went to the right parties and met the right people.  There was some tension between them -- she wanted sex a lot more often than Fred was willing to give, and she disapproved of his goal of becoming a small-town pastoral counselor -- why not aim for the top, an administrative position at the United Methodist Headquarters in Nashville?  But generally they got along well.

Fred completed his coursework in the spring of 1979, and got an internship at a church in Rock Island.  The plan was for Diane to stay in Chicago, until he completed his internship and got called to a church.  Then they would get married.  But in August 1979, the night before he was to leave for Rock Island, he decided to come out. He still wanted to get married...he promised to stay faithful...but she deserved to know the truth.

Diane did not take it well.  Crying, screaming, throwing things, calling him names, accusing him of being a pedophile: "I can't believe I almost married a queer!"  "You took my dad's class so you could get into his pants!" "You're moving to Rock Island so you can screw homos in public restrooms!" "You're just dating me so you can seduce my son!"

She wouldn't allow him to return to the apartment to pick up his things.  Or send a friend: "Nobody from your child molester club is setting foot in my house!"  Finally her brother offered to do it.

Fred tried to stay in touch -- he hated losing friends -- but Diane hung up on him when he called, and sent his letters back with a terse note: "Refused. Return to pervert."  He did manage to stay in touch with her son, sending letters and gifts to him through his Uncle John, making telephone calls when Diane was at work. David even managed to come to Christmas dinner one year by claiming that he was going to visit a friend.

When Fred came out to him, David said "Yeah, I always knew.  Even when you and Mom were dating.  I figured that's why you never stayed over."

"You may have...um...mentioned her," I said.  "But why did you call her the Wicked Witch of the North?"

"She and her husband live in Dubuque, 60 miles due north of Rock Island."

Figures.  I had driven through Dubuque many times, but never stopped.  It always gave me a frisson of dread.  Nazarenes considered it the epitome of evil. the Mordor of the utter north.

"David is 18 years old now," Fred continued.  "Can you believe it?  Where does the time go?  Anyway, he's going to graduate from high school -- and he sent me an invitation.  I thought you could come as my date.  Just up for the day and back, no overnight."

I was curious.  About Mordor, and about the Wicked Witch of the North.

"Will there be yelling?  I hate it when homophobes start yelling about Leviticus."

"Don't worry -- Diane won't start yelling in public.  One thing she always hated was 'Making a scene.'"

"Sounds great.  I'm in."

Dubuque, June 2, 1985

Fred picked me up at my parents' house at 10:00, and we drove north for an hour to Dubuque. There was enough time for a brief tour of the city -- surprisingly mundane - and a a sneaky-drive past the house where the Wicked Witch of the North lived -- not a castle, an older two-story frame house, painted green -- before going to Dubuque Senior High School.

The graduation ceremony was held in the fieldhouse: about 200 students, so it was easy to find David in the staging area.  He was very tall, with thick brown hair, blue eyes, and a long chiseled chin.  I couldn't tell anything about his physique under the graduation robe.  He hugged us both and asked if I was "the...um...you know."

Fred handed him an envelope containing a graduation-present check and said "No, we tried, but it didn't work out. Where's your mother?"

"Oh, milling around, I guess.  Can you come to the party later?  You can see her then."

"Will we be able to?" I asked. "Or will your mother...um...start screaming?"

He gave me a weird confused look.  "No problemo.  Mom only screams when the Hawkeyes score a touchdown."

We took our seats.  Fred looked around, and finally pointed out the Wicked Witch, wearing a black robe and a pointed hat, carrying a sign saying "I'll Get You, My Pretty."

Ok, not really.  But I swear, there was a dark shadow hovering over her.

When each graduate crossed the stage, their family and friends cheered.  David was in the W's, toward the end.  When he crossed, Fred stood and bellowed loudly "Yeah!  Go, David!"

The Wicked Witch froze in her seat, staring.

After the ceremony, we hung out for awhile, cruising the cute guys (I was only 24 years old, so 18 was ok for me), then headed over to the party at the Witch's house.  There was a sign on the front door: "Come to the back," so we walked around to the back yard, where there were picnic tables festooned with white and blue (the school colors) laid out with hamburgers, bowls of chips, veggies, and potato and macaroni salad, two kinds of cake, and various sodas.  "Rhythm of the Night" was playing from a boom box.

We saw David talking to a group of friends, and headed in his direction. But then someone grabbed my shoulder.  I turned.

The Witch!  Aka Diane.  A short, petite woman with her hair done up in a bob.  Smiling broadly.  Grabbing our hands.

"Fred, it's so great to see you again!  And this must be your boyfriend!"

Being nice to us?  Not screaming?  Fred was just staring, his jaw open, so I jumped in: "I'm Boomer.  We dated for awhile, but it didn't work out.  But we stayed friends...Fred hates losing people."

"Me, too!  When I lost my first husband, I vowed to never lose anyone I cared about again, if I could helpit"  She took Fred's arm.  "We'll have a nice long chat to catch up.  But first let me introduce you to my husband.  You'll love him -- but hands off, he's taken."   She laughed and turned to me.  "But David is single, Boomer."

People can change a lot in six years.

Fred and Diane stayed in contact for the rest of his life.

Trapped in a Junior High Locker Room

A few summers ago, I walked into the campus locker room after a long run, planning to shower and change clothes.  It was deserted, as one expects in the summer. But just as I dropped my underwear, the door burst open, and 50,000 kids ran in.

They were beside me, beneath me, above me, behind me, jostling, pushing, occasionally saying "Excuse me, sir," a blur of swim-sleek bodies and wet dripping hair and tiny hands fiddling with locks and swimsuits tossed to the floor.

Probably junior high age, at various stages of pubescence.  Some hard tight muscles, some thin, soft androgyny.  Some massive cocks and low-hanging balls, some nubs and pencil-dicks.  About half of them were aroused.

I grabbed my towel, wrapped it around my waist,  and inched my way through the crowd, murmuring "Excuse me, excuse me" as I collided with the occasional shoulder or arm, butt or dick.  A hand cupped my butt.  Whenn I turned, a freckled kid with braces was grinning "Sorry,  sir, I thought you were...."

Finally I extricated myself from the mass of bodies and found their handler, who was passing out towels as they pushed and shoved their way to the showers, three or four under each head.

"Junior high swim camp," he explained.

"I think I'll wait it out," I told him.  There would be no room for me to shower amid the throngs of exuberant 14-year old bodies anyway, and just looking made me uncomfortable.

Some of the physiques were impressive.  Some of the cocks were impressive.  And aroused.

Was it ethical to notice?









The high school wrestler in this photograph is 15 years old.  He's from Illinois, where the age of consent is 17, so it will be two years before an adult can legally date or engage in a sexual relationship with him.

Is it ethical to notice him?  Can you appreciate the aesthetic beauty of someone with whom physical activity would be inappropriate?

Certainly. Physical activity and aesthetic appreciation are two different things. You can enjoy the attractiveness of your boss, your students, your brother-in-law, your nephew, a stranger on the street, people who you would never consider dating or hooking up with. 

One proviso: no cruising or aggressively staring, which moves from aesthetic appreciation to sexual intent and, outside of a bar context, makes nearly everyone uncomfortable.  Straight men tend to think of it as a threat, and gay men, as creepy.











Another proviso:   Only persons aged 18 or older may be depicted aroused or in a sexual situation in photographs, film, or any visual art.  Teens can be arrested for taking selfies of themselves.

Nudity is permitted, but why take chances?  Never photograph anyone under 18 nude, with or without their permission.  [The guy taking this selfie is obviously in his 20s.]

A third proviso: Obviously, no dating or hooking up.  If your hookup looks young, card him.

Does noticing mean that you are a  p___?

Certainly not.

This is a pre-pubescent athlete.  Notice the big head compared to the body, the soft, square torso, the baby face.  He looks like a child, which of course he is.  You may find him cute, like a puppy dog, but not at all beautiful.
















These athletes are post-pubescent.  Notice the small heads compared to their bodies, the long, lean, muscular torsos, the tight faces.  They look like adults, and which of course they are, physiologically if not socially.

Noticing means that you are attracted to men, not children.

Tony Dow and Kurt Hook Up with a High School Boy

I've been asking friends, ex-boyfriends, and ex-boyfriends of ex-boyfriends for gay dating or hookup stories involving Tony Dow, the Baby Boomer icon, Wally on the nuclear family sitcom Leave It to Beaver.

I've come up empty.  A lot of stories involving actors from the 1960s that I didn't know were gay or bi: Jon Provost, Brandon DeWilde, Bobby Driscoll, Jack Wild, Jay North.  I'll have to do some fact-checking before I can post them.

But none involving Tony Dow,  until a few nights ago, when I got a email from Jock, a 69-year old retired landscaper and Uber driver from Tucson, who is a friend of one of Randall the Muscle Bear's ex-boyfriends.  It led to a long conversation on Facebook Instant Messenger, and one of the wildest celebrity hookup stories I've ever heard.

I'll reproduce it using Jock's words as much as possible.

Marysville, California, September 1966

In August 1966 I was a skinny 18 years old with big ears and a big cock, just out of high school in Mission Viejo, working at Martin's, and, like most teenage boys at the time, worried about two things:
1. Where is my next blow job coming from?
2. How can I avoid being shipped to Vietnam?

Joining the California Air National Guard solved both problems.  It was military service, so Dad wouldn't get sore and call me a "coward," but no one would be shooting at me.  The 12-week basic training was held at Beale Air Force Base in Marysville, California, about 40 miles north of Sacramento.

And it was wall-to-wall hunks,  working out together, showering together, bedding down for the night together.

We were all young, hung, and full of cum.  I got more action than the 7th flee on shore leave in Singapore!

But I'm getting ahead of myself.  I have to tell you about Tony Dow.

He was one of the guys in my squadron!  Cute face, smooth tight chest with those pinprick nipples, nice abs,  surprisingly dark tan, nice bulge.  His cock was about four inches soft, thick around, semi-uncut, you know, with the head peeping out from the foreskin.

"Did you ever see it aroused?" I interrupted

"See, or taste?"

My uncle was cameraman for NBC, and he introduced me to a lot of celebrity kids, so I wasn't too starstruck over Tony.  We didn't hang out, except when a whole group of us went into town to go dancing at Chiseler's Inn or to a movie, or to a basketball game at the high school to try to pick up some "girls" (or at least that's what they said).

Tony was a regular guy, not stuck up at all, and not nearly as squeaky clean as his Wally character.  He drank -- gin and tonic, I think.  He smoked pot.  He listened to the Rolling Stones.  And on more than one occasion, he met a Cute Young Thing and took off for some late night hanky-panky, if you get my meaning.

"Male Cute Young Things? He went off with boys?"

Let me set up the picture.  First you need to know that Tony usually went around with his friend Kurt --  a tall guy, curly dark-blond hair, pale, kind of skinny, but all dick, hung to his knees.

Well, one night a lot of us are at the old State Theater on E Street -- I think we were watching Way, Way Out, with Jerry Lewis as an astronaut -- , and Kurt sort of vanishes.  Tony keeps looking around for him, but he never comes back.

After the movie, we're in the lobby, eating our leftover popcorn, wondering if we should go looking for him, when he comes down from the balcony with his arm around a high school boy.  Black hair in a military buzz cut, cute jock's face, thin, so short that he barely came to Kurt's shoulder.


"This is Frankie," Kurt announced.  "He's a senior.  We're going to...um...go get a malted."

Frankie giggled and slapped him.

"Not without me, you're not!" Tony exclaimed.  He looked kind of angry.  "Somebody's got to keep you out of trouble."

Kurt turned to Frankie.

"Can my stick-in-the-mud sidekick tag along, to keep us out of trouble?  He doesn't eat much."

Frankie looked him up and down, and grinned.   "Hey, I know you!  Wally, right?"



"Tony."

"But don't hold that against him," Kurt said.  "He puts his pants on one leg at a time, just like the rest of us."

"Well, actually, it takes me a little longer to get my pants on," Tony said.  "I have to find a place for everything."

"Was that supposed to be a quip about how big his penis was?"

"I think so.  Comes across as kind of lame, but remember, we were surrounded by straight guys, so he couldn't say anything openly."


Frankie reached out his hand, as if he wanted to shake, but instead he pressed it hard against Tony's chest.

Kurt glared at him.

"You think he was angry at Tony for squeezing in on his date?"

"Or, more likely, worried that the high school kid liked Tony better."

"Well, we'd better get off," Kurt said.  "We've got a lot of malteds to drink before the last bus back to the base."

I was anxious to get some cock myself -- the best cruising in Marysville was on 1st Street, down by the river.  But I was curious about what Kurt and Tony were up to, so I followed them -- at a discrete distance.

They walked right past the soda shop and kept going, up B street to a little playground near Ellis Lake.  It had monkey bars, a slide, and a swing set, with some clumps of trees where I could hide and snoop.

They were swinging.

This was hardly the three-way I was expecting!

I was about ready to turn back and go cruising, when suddenly Kurt pulls Frankie off his swing and starts kissing him.  They don't even look for a secluded spot!

Tony pulls them away, to a little clump of trees.

I can't see very well, but it looks like Kurt has his arm around Tony, and Frankie is on his knees. Going down on both of them.  I see a little flash of what could be Tony's cock.

I keep watching, hoping to see more cock, or at least some more kissing.  But it never happens.  All I see is Tony arching his back: I'm guessing that's his spurt.

After awhile Frankie stands up, and they walk off toward the soda shop.

Later, at the dormitory, I asked Tony, "Did you guys have fun?"

"Sure," Tony said.  "Double chocolate malted, outta sight."

"Why didn't you come out to him, let him know he had a kindred spirit?"

"It was 1966 -- I didn't dare.  Besides, I didn't think he was gay.  In those days, straight guys got blow jobs from guys, too, as I found out later, in the latrine.  But that's another story."

The story continues with: Sex with Jock in the Barracks Bathroom.

Was Jock Telling the Truth?

The details check out -- Jock was probably in Tony's barracks during basic training in 1966.  But I'm wondering how he managed to see a three-way from a considerable distance, in the dark.  Sounds like a fantasy.

But if it was a fantasy, why didn't he make it about himself?

"My Three-Way with Tony Dow and a High School Boy" would make a great celebrity hookup story.

"Spying on Them and Just Seeing a Flash of Cock," not so great.

See also: Gay Dating Stories with Tony Dow; The Glory Hole at the Air Force Base.

Picking Up a College Track Star in Front of My Brother

Small Town Illinois, September 2016

We're on our way back from a funeral, my brother and sister-in-law in the front seat, me in the back, driving down I-74 through a wilderness of small towns and vast plains: Danville, Farmer City, Mahomet, LeRoy, Downs, Carlock.

Katie points to the sign of a town with a quirky name.  "We should stop there for dinner.  It will probably have a cute Mom and Pop restaurant that all of the locals go to."

"Small town locals?  Sounds scary.  ZZ Top wannabes driving red pickup trucks with Confederate flags and 'I Heart Trump' bumper stickers."

"...and rows of cute boutiques and antique shops," Katie says.

"I think we should just press on to Bloomington.  According to Google Maps, there are three Thai restaurants..."

"I can't wait another hour!" my brother Ken exclaims.  "And I'm not eating rest-stop McDonalds!"

"It will be fine!" Katie jokes.  "If your hot pink tutu and drag queen bouffant attract rednecks, we'll tell them you're my hairdresser."

To get to the small town, you drive north from the highway through one of those horrible retail strips, with a Wal-Mart, fast-food restaurants, and car dealerships.  Then through a residential district of the same white-porch houses you see everywhere in Illinois, across a river, and to downtown:

A park with a bandshell.
A clothing store for Cowgirls.
Two closed banks, a closed antique store, a hair salon, a lot of deserted storefronts, and two restaurants, only one open: The Paradise Soda Shop.

We go into the soda shop.  Maybe it serves sandwiches, too.

It's in a historic building, with restored booths and seats from the 1920s,

There's a hot bear in an old-fashioned soda jerk costume behind the counter: in his 40s, chubby, black hair, beard, nice square hands.  His name tag reads "Seth."

I go into full cruise mode: eyes, crotch, eyes again.  Unfortunately, Seth's crotch is covered by an apron.  "Hi, Seth, my name is Boomer.  My associates and I are traveling through on the way to the big city, and we were wondering what kind of local delicacies you have."

He grins.  "Well, we have sodas, malteds, shakes, and phosphates."

"Phosphates?"

"Carbonated water with all different kinds of flavoring. They were popular in the 1920s.  But we have flavors they never thought of: watermelon, papaya, kiwi, sriracha..."

"Sriracha?  The hot sauce?"

Our eyes meet with that unmistakable vibe.  "It's an acquired taste."

"We were looking more for dinner," Ken says,

"Well, there are two restaurants in walking distance: Burger King and Pizza Ranch.  But be sure to come back for a phosphate later.  I'm here until 7:00."

So much for a down-home Mom and Pop restaurant that everybody goes to.

The Pizza Ranch is the franchise run by fundamentalists, with the goal of Glorifying God with bad pizza and deep-fried chicken.  Two buffet tables loaded down with fried stuff.  A salad bar consisting of wilted lettuce and sliced cucumbers, and some long rows of family-style tables.

Where the entire local high school football team is eating! Eight beefy guys squeezing past us to get to their table, then returning for more fried stuff and squeezing past us again.

Crotch view after crotch view!

Legs and thighs an inch away!
Chests and biceps in full view!
A smile and an "Excuse me, sir" as a guy shifts toward me to scoot around.

Plus a cute boy eating with two rednecks, a pair of men in muscle shirts, and the father of a nuclear family with a blatant bulge in his pants.

There are 23 men and 3 women in the room. My kind of restaurant!

I nudge Katie. "I think I'm going to move here, and eat at the Pizza Ranch every night."

"You do, and you'll be as big as a house," Katie says.

"Ok, I'll go somewhere else for the food, and come here for the view."

I try to push us through, so we can get back to the Paradise for phosphates and cruising.  Unfortunately, we arrive a little after 7:00, and Seth is gone.   A gruff older woman takes our phosphate orders.

Seth may be gone, but there's a cute college boy a nearby booth, eating ice cream with his two friends -- both girls, I notice.  He's tall and slim, with a long face and dirty-blond hair.  And he keeps looking over at me and smiling.

Seeing a chance to cruise, I excuse myself and go over to his booth.  "Hi, you look familiar..."

"You must have seen me at the meet.  I'm Ryan H**** -- I placed at 10.23."

I have no idea what he is talking about, so I say "That sounds very impressive.  Sorry I wasn't there to see it.  I'm Boomer -- my brother and sister-in-law and I are just passing through town."

His face falls.  "Are you interested in track and field?"

"Sure, I like all sports.  I used to write for a bodybuilding magazine."

"Cool!  What do you do now?"

While the girls text furiously on their smartphones, Ryan and I talk about college.  He's a freshman at the University of Illinois, where he's on the track team (10.23 is his personal best for a 2-mile run).   He wants to major in criminology and go to work for the FBI.

"I can tell you all about the field of criminology," I begin.  Then I see Ken and Katie gesturing at me and looking bored.  "But we should be going -- we have a long drive ahead of us.  But you and I should stay in touch.  I'll give you my email address."

He thanks me, but doesn't offer anything in return.  We shake hands and head out into the night.

"I'm definitely moving here!" I exclaim..  "This place is cruisier than the Rage on a Saturday night at last call!"

"Are you sure Ryan wasn't just being friendly?" Katie asks.  "There's a big difference between friendly and interested.  He didn't give you his phone number, did he?"

"No, but..."

"Anyway, he lives 600 miles from your town," Ken adds.  "A little far for dating."

"Well, I'll be passing through this way again at Christmastime."

Back home, I look up Ryan on twitter and Facebook.  Last summer he tweeted a picture of his friend's backside with the caption "Thank God for Sam's butt."  His Facebook page has a picture of him in his underwear -- nice basket -- with the caption:  "Only ___ High School boys party in their underwear."

I'm guessing he's gay.

Suddenly my cell phone buzzes.  Ryan has sent me a photo: nude, at a pool, his enormous Kovbasa semi-aroused.  Probably photoshopped, but who cares?

I'm guessing he's interested.  

Only three months until Christmas!

See also: My Christmas Date with the College Track Star; Hookup with the Waiter at a Christian Restaurant; and Ryan's Three Way with Harry Styles.

Gabe and I Have a Grindr Hookup Contest

Plains, December 2015

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What if we both land our guys?"

"Then we have a four-way."

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

I got to choose someone for Gabe first:

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

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

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

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

Travis:  "Did you see the game tonight?"

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

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

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

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

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

Travis: [Pointedly] "Me, too."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1. Praise.

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

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


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

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

2. Complaints about Hookups.

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

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

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




3. A Potential Boyfriend

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

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

Bastian: "Sounds great!  Set us up!"

4. Sealing the Deal

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

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

There is more than one way to share a twink.

The story continues with The Hookup Contest, Part 2

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

The Hookup Contest, Part 2: Gabe's Date with the High School Boy

The Plains, January 2016

Remember the hookup contest Gabe and I had before Christmas?

We each chose someone for the other guy to try to hook up with on a dating app. I had to approach the 18-year old Bastian, a high school senior whose profile said explicitly "no older guys" and "no hookups -- dating and relationships only."

So I offered to set Bastian up on a date with Gabe, and tag along "for moral support."

All's fair in love and cruising.

The date was scheduled for December 20th, but Bastian cancelled. He said we could reschedule for after Christmas.

I figured that was the last we would hear of him-- younger guys wimp out all the time.  But he did text me a few days after Christmas, asking for the date to be scheduled on January 3rd, a Sunday night: dinner at a Mexican place, then the new Star Wars movie, The Force Awakens.

He didn't want his parents to know he was gay, so he arranged to spend the night at a friend's house.  We had to pick him up and drop him off there.

Bastian was slim, a little shorter than me, with sandy-blond hair, blue eyes, and sharp features.  He was wearing a sweater, no coat, and carrying a backpack.  "In case we spend the night," he said, sliding into the back seat next to Gabe.

Driving to the restaurant, I kept mostly quiet.  It was their date, after all.  Their conversation consisted of:

Gabe:  So you're a senior in high school. What are your college plans?

Bastian:  I applied to UCLA, Columbia, Florida State, and the University of Hawaii.  I'm going to wherever the guys are the hottest.  Boomer, you lived in California.  Were the guys big there?

Me:  Well...um...

Gabe:  What do you want to major in?

Bastian:  Art.  I want to start a fashion blog.  I'm really big into fashion.  Like, do you shave your pubic hair?

Gabe: [Embarrassed pause].  Um...no, I never tried that.

Bastian:  Oh, it's great!  It makes your penis look a lot bigger.  Here, have a look.  You too, Boomer." [A cell phone is shoved at me, showing Bastian nude, aroused, very big, with shaved pubes.]

The questions continued at the restaurant, including the sort of questions one doesn't ask in public in a small town on the Plains:

"Have you ever been topped by a really big one?"

"Do you know any guys with big ones?  I mean, really gigantic ones, like in porn?"

"Have you ever been with a black guy?  Do they have big ones?"

"Have you ever been rimmed?"

"Who's the youngest guy you ever let top you?"

"What does 'golden showers' mean?"

And, he was rubbing his leg against mine under the table!

When Bastian went to the bathroom, Gabe turned to me: "I thought this was a quiet, shy, conservative guy who wanted to date and get to know you.  Sounds like he won't even make it to the end of the movie!"

"I know, it's weird. He was brushing my leg under the table.  And I thought he didn't like older guys."

"Consider yourself lucky.  He was trying to grope me!"  Gabe laughed.  "Man, this aggressive bit is a big turn off.  We should take him home, so he can take a cold shower!"

"No, let's go to the movie, and see what happens.  Maybe he'll calm down.  Besides, I've been looking forward to seeing it for weeks."

At the movie, Bastian sat between us and held the popcorn, so we would reach in to get some and grab his hand instead.  Plus he used his free hand to brush against my thigh. He tried to grope me through my pants, but I pushed him away.

And he kept peppering us with comments.

"I bet Finn has a big one!"

"You think Finn and Poe are together?"

"Han Solo is one hot Daddy! I'd do him in a minute!"

I shushed him, but the comments continued.

Afterwards we walked out into the lobby and then into the mall parking lot.  Bastian linked arms with both of us.  "Hey, let's get frozen yogurt!" he said.

"Well, I'm a Vegan," Gabe said.  "They probably won't have anything I can eat."

"Ok...so then, back to your apartment?"

Gabe flashed a "no way!" look at me, and said "Well...I have a roommate, so I can't bring anyone home."

Bastian's grip on our arms tightened.  "Then let's go back to Boomer's place.  He can watch.  Or join in!  I've never been with two guys at once before!"

We got to the car.  Bastian climbed into the front seat, next to me.  Gabe climbed into the back.

"Ok, your place, right?"  he asked, putting his hand on my knee.

"I'm a little tired," I said.  "We'd better just take you home.  Or to your friend's house."

"But...you know, it's a date," he said in a small voice.

"We should just take you home," I repeated.

"I thought...but aren't we?"

Was the kid starting to cry?

I put my arm around him.  "What's wrong, Bastian?  You've been on dates before.  Sometimes things happen, sometimes they don't."

His shoulders were trembling.  "No, I haven't.  I've never been on a date before. Or had sex.   I never even met anybody gay before. Everybody at my school is straight.  Church, too.  I download porn and get hit on by Creepy Old Guys on that dating app, and that's it."

"So why all the questions about rimming and golden showers?"

"And the hands everywhere?" Gabe added.

He looked up teary-eyed.  "That's what gay guys do, isn't it?  I didn't want you to think I was just an ignorant kid..."

"That's not at all what gay guys do," I said.  "What they do is this."  I wrapped my arms around him and hugged Bastian, and kissed him on the cheek.  He didn't want to let go.

"Maybe I'm up for some frozen tofu, after all,"  Gabe said.  "Then we'll see what happens."

This is what happened:

Kielbasa, ok with kissing, mostly into anal.  But, with a 37 year age difference, I've now officially been with someone young enough to be my grandson.

See also: The Hookup Contest; a Boy for Valentine's Day