My Date with Santa Claus

San Francisco, December 1996

It was Christmastime, one of the years when I couldn't make it back to the Midwest, so I was even more depressed than usual.  To cheer me up, my friend David dragged me to the Bear Party (for husky guys and their admirers) held every Saturday night in a house South of Market in San Francisco.

As we wandering through the upstairs lounge area, where guys were chatting and eating Christmas cookies and drinking egg nog to "Jingle Bell Rock," David exclaimed "Look -- it's Santa Claus."

The guy he pointed out did look like Santa Claus, except for the jeans and red suspenders -- in his 60s, tall, thick muscular arms going to fat, a chubby belly, a white beard, his chest covered with white fur.  He was sitting on a leather couch, talking animatedly to a friend.

"Come on, let's go sit on Santa's lap!"

David was 43 years old, recently out, and anxious to try everything with everybody, but I was a little more picky,

"He's not into it!" I exclaimed.  Some guys came to the Bear Parties just to socialize with friends.  If you wanted sexual activity, you went down to the basement, where there were three rooms of mazes, mattresses, and dungeons.  "Besides, my idea of Santa Claus is a little younger, with a bodybuilder's physique."

"Don't tell me you never fantasized about Santa sliding down your chimney!"

"No, I can't say that I have."

"Scrooge!"  David dragged me across the room and knelt in front of Santa like a supplicant at an altar.  Smiling, he unzipped -- a very thick Kielbasa.  The friend made himself scarce.

While David worked, I sat next to Santa and fondled his chest and nipples.  He put a thick arm around me and drew me into a whiskery kiss.  It was all I could do to stifle a giggle as the song "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" played in my head.

David pushed my hand down onto Santa's penis, but I was a little weirded out and moved away.

After a few minutes, Santa zipped up and drew us both into bear hugs.

"Thank you, young man -- I had resigned myself to no erotic activity tonight -- you see, my knees aren't what they used to be, so I can't make it down the stairs.  But such things are forbidden in this part of the house.  Would you and your friend care to come back to my apartment?  By the way, my name is Bearnárd, with an accent grave.

"Well..."  David never felt that a Bear Party was a success until he'd been with at least five guys.

"I have wassail, and spiced apples, far superior to the Safeway gingerbread they're serving here. And condoms," he added with a wink.

"Sure, why not."

I didn't feel like going, but you should always bring someone along on a hookup.  I followed them out the door.

On the way home, Bearnárd told us that he majored in biology at Harvard, but now he wrote fantasy novels about King Arthur and his twin brother Mordred, one good, one evil, locked in an apocalyptic battle.

"They sell very well -- I've been called a new Tolkien, if that is in fact a complement."

"Any gay characters?" I asked pointedly.

"Oh, tons.  Of course, they didn't have the concept of gay in the Middle Ages, but there are many languorous looks between comrades in arms."

 Bearnárd's apartment in the Castro was completely Medievalized.  There were suits of armor, tapestries, halberds, and heavy oak tables.  He told us that he drew inspiration from the king's room in the Tower of London.

He did have a wassail bowl, full of hot apple cider and sliced apples, peaches, pears, and raisins, which we drew into bowls and ate like soup.

 Bearnárd changed into a red silk bathrobe which made him look even more like Santa Claus, and invited us to get naked, which made sitting on hard wooden benches rather uncomfortable.  He told us about the pagan origin of the yule log, the Christmas tree, the wassail bowl, chestnuts roasting over an open fire, and "Twelve Days of Christmas."

I had already heard of most of it, but Bearnárd acted as if it was an amazing revelation.

"And Saint Nicholas himself was no Madison Avenue marketing ploy, but the Wild Man of the Hunt, revered throughout Europe from prehistoric times, gone undercover when Christianity took control."

David and I exchanged pained expressions.  Who knew that Santa Claus was such a talker?

Trying to change the subject, I said "I know a guy in L.A. who went to Harvard.  My friend Fred's ex, Matt.  He majored in French and German."

"Matt, you say?  What's the surname?"

I told him.

"I may have tricked with him.  I go to all the alumni events, you see.  Cute boy, but completely insane!"

Time to take the bull by the horns, as it were.  I walked across the room, knelt, opened the red silk robe, and went down on Santa Claus.

He pulled my head up.  "My boy, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but there's plenty of time for that later!  We must listen to some music first.  I have Charpentier's Noels por les instruments."

We left the Bear Party at a little after 9:00 pm.  It was after midnight when we finally got into Bearnárd's bed.  And then it was mostly watching and fondling while David went down on him.

It took an hour to finish.  Several false starts.

But at least I can now say that I've been with Santa Claus.

The next day I called Matt and asked if he knew Bearnárd.

"The fantasy writer?  Sure -- we dated when I was a senior.  Well, not much of a date.  Not a lot going on in the bedroom.  And talk, talk, talk.  That man, il est tout fou!".

See also: 8 Harvard Yard Hookups; The Slave Boy of Market Street.

In Search of Sex and Languages in South Africa

Durban, South Africa, July 2006

One of my passions is meeting -- and preferably hooking up with -- men who speak unusual languages (unusual in the United States; they may have millions of speakers).  When I visited South Africa in 2000, I met speakers of Zulu and Khoisan.  In 2006, my friend Doc and I returned for a conference, eager for more sex and languages.  The conference lasted for three days, but we decided to stay for eight, to give us a chance to look for speakers of:  Zulu, Xhosa, Afrikaans, Tswana, and Sotho.

Tuesday: Jet-lagged.

Wednesday: Zulu

Spoken by 1.1 million people near Durban.

Your baseball bat is big: bat yakho baseball kuyinto enkulu

Ok, I've been with a Zulu guy before, but Doc hadn't.  A night at the Lounge, Durban's biggest gay bar, yielded a meeting with Zulu-speaker Joseph, a biology teacher in his twenties. 

Thursday: Xhosa, a "click" language spoken by 8.2 million people in the Eastern Cape province.

I want to go home with you: ndifuna ukuya ekhaya kunye nawe

There are a lot of Xhosa speakers in Durban.  After we told Joseph about our quest, he introduced us to an ex-boyfriend, Wushi, a Xhosa speaker worked in a garage:  a gym rat in his 30s, rather hefty, with a little belly.









Friday: Afrikaans


Spoken by 7.1 million people, mostly descendants of Dutch Boer settlers.  Unfortunately, they are mostly on the west side of the country, a day's drive from Durban.

I like to eat sausages: Ek hou daarvan om wors te eet

We rented a car and drove to Johannesburg, six hours north of Durban, to the Rand Afrikaans University in Johannesburg, that offers courses in both Afrikaans and English.

We walked on the campus.  Nothing.

We went to the Department of Afrikaans and talked to the only professor who was there during the winter break.  He was, surprisingly, black, or what they call "Colored" in South Africa.

He told us that Afrikaans was very much a "mother tongue," spoken at home but not on the streets.

In the evening, we went to the Melville, Johannesburg's gay neighborhood, hoping to meet an Afrikaans speaker in the Factory or the REC Room.

At the REC Room, I picked out a likely looking candidate: white, shorter than me, solidly built, a little chunky.  Light brown hair, round face, nice smile.

"Ik heet Boomer," I said in what I thought was Afrikaans.  "Ik kom uit..."

"Are you from Amsterdam?"  he exclaimed.  "I would love to go there!  Is it as hot as they say?"

We didn't meet anyone who spoke Afrikaans

Saturday: Tswana

We visited Constitution Hill and the Lion Park before driving about an hour north to Pretoria in search of Tswana, spoken by 4.4 million people in Botswana and nearby.

What is your name? Leina le gago ke mang?

This time we were smart.  We logged onto a chatroom in advance and arranged a meeting with  Tswana-spaker Thabo, who worked in information technology.  He took us to dinner at an Indian restaurant.

Sunday: Break

We visited the Vortrekker Monument, Church Square, and the Transvaal Museum, then had Chinese food and stayed in our hotel room for the night, watching Malcolm in the Middle, The Simpsons, and Family Guy.

"We're doing something wrong," Doc said.  "We're meeting lots of completely Western guys, the same that you would meet in Vienna or Amsterdam.  I want to meet tribal Africans."

"What do you mean?"  I asked.  "Grass huts and talking drums went out in the 1930s."

"Not that, but some of the old culture.  Same-sex relations that were age and gender-stratified, before the Western gay culture took over."

"So...street cruising?"



Monday: Sotho.

Spoken by 5.6 million people.

Which way is the toilet? Batekamore e kae?

We selected a likely village, Zwelisha, in the heart of the Drakenburg Mountains near the border of Lesotho.  Not much there but tin-roofed houses, a clinic, and a high school, a low yellow building.

Even though it was a cool winter day, we ran across a group of high school boys walking along the side of the road, naked except for loincloths, their bodies covered with white clay.  They made flexing body-building gestures to us.

We stopped in at the clinic to ask what was going on.




The young doctor on call -- actually a medical student from Johannesburg -- told us that it was a manhood ritual.  "They spend a week in a lodge, bragging and bonding.  They used to fight with spears, but now it's usually wrestling.  Same thing. Hoe meer dinge verander, hoe meer het hulle dieselfde, we say."

Wait -- was this guy Afrikaans?

He was.

Tuesday: Back to Durban

Four out of five languages isn't bad.

Pedro's Hookup with Philip McKeon

Since putting out the call for celebrity hookup stories, I've had three guys approach me claiming that they hooked up with Philip McKeon.  None before.

Here's the most detailed.  He didn't give a name, so I'll call him Pedro.

His story has been modified for grammar, pacing, and style:

Hollywood, 1986 or 1987

I've been in the business since I was five years old, but one of my favorite jobs was the horror comedy Return to Horror High (1987).  Scott Jacoby, George Clooney, Maureen McCormick -- we were all wild and crazy kids.  We had a blast.

I wasn't out yet, but everybody knew, and I got a lot of offers.  I'll tell you about George Clooney sometime. But the one I really wanted was Phil McKeon.

22 years old, this incredibly tall, incredibly hot Nordic god, with a smile that wouldn't quit, not to mention the huge bulge shifting around in his pants when he walked.  He never talked to a girl off-stage, and no girl picked him up after work -- he must be gay!  So one day I decided to find out.  I asked "Hey, Phil, can I talk to you about something in private?"

I led him to a secluded spot on the set.

"So, what's the big mystery?"

"Just this." I pulled his head down and kissed him without even groping him first!

We kissed for a minute, and then he broke away.  "Every guy in Hollywood has done that," he said, rather belligerently. :What do you have that's so special?"

"Eight inches of primo Latino meat," I said, pressing his hand against my aroused cock.

He scoffed.  "Just eight inches?  Why don't you take on a real manwich?"

That;s right, he said manwich.

I fell to my knees.  He unbuttoned his pants and pulled out a ten incher -- I swear, it was like a garden hose -- pale, cut, with a thick mushroom head.  I opened my mouth as wide as I could, felt the head push past my teeth, but it was all I could do to keep from gagging.  I grabbed his buns to steady myself and let him do all the work, thrusting back and forth.

Finally I beat him off with two hands while sucking his head. That got him off -- he spurted a nice sized load.

Then he buttoned up and pulled me to my feet.  I thought he wanted to kiss again, but instead he said "You got what you wanted, ok?  If you tell anybody about this,  I will have you fired."

And he just walked away.

He was kind of cool on the set after that, as if I had offended him in some way.

Plains, October 2017

You're probably wondering 2 things.

1. Who is Phil McKeon?

Alice (1976-1985) was a "single woman making it on her own" sitcom in which aspiring singer Alice Hyatt finds happiness and fulfillment working as a waitress in a small-town Arizona diner.

11-year old Broadway actor Philip McKeon was selected to play her son Tommy.

As he entered his teen years, Phil's blond-haired, blue-eyed, androgynous good looks made him an ideal teen idol candidate, so he honed his singing talent and sat for a few shirtless and semi-shirtless photo shoots in Tiger Beat.  

But the competition from Leif Garrett, Shawn Cassidy, and Robbie Benson turned out to be too intense.  After starring in a few horror movies, he dropped out of acting, although he still hits Hollywood on occasion to produce or direct.















2. Is Pedro telling the truth?

I have never heard any Phil McKeon hookup stories before, although many people point out that he "acts gay" or they get a "gay vibe" from him.

Phil, who died in 2019, never married or been linked romantically with a woman.  He spent his last years in Hays, Texas, a suburb of Austin, where he hosted the "Breakfast Taco" radio program.

According to his Facebook page, he liked the New York Yankees, Van Halen, Fox News, Sean Hannity, and Westerns.

He was a devout Roman Catholic who goes to confession and participates in "prayer chains"

What do you think?

See also: Philip McKeon after Alice

My Textbook Representative is a Gay Porn Star

Philadelphia, March 2013

Every academic is pestered by textbook company representatives pushing for you to assign your students their latest frightfully over-priced, generally gay-free textbook instead of some of the thousands of articles and e-books available for free at the campus library.














I'm usually immune to their pleas, but the rep that knocked on my office door last month, Mark from ___ Company, was jaw-droppingly handsome, and knew it: wavy brown hair, square jaw, piercing green eyes, huge hands, and a bodybuilder's physque crammed into his too-tight white shirt and grey slacks.

He flashed the smile that had been getting him special privileges his whole life and began pushing the new textbook with interactive e-book that meshed directly onto our online learning management system and...

"Um...sure, sure," I said, grinning like an idiot.  "But how is it with gay content?  I never order a textbook unless it covers the Stonewall Riots of 1969 that started the Gay Rights Movement."

He didn't flinch at the "controversial" topic.  "Well, let's take a look."  He came over to my side of the desk so I could see his laptop and leaned over me, so close that I could feel his body heat and, if I looked down, check for a basket.

There were several references to gay people: Stonewall, Anita Bryant, Matthew Shepard, the AIDS Quilt, gay marriage -- a lot more than the none in most intro texts.

"Ok, let me send you a link to the supplemental materials, and give you my card."  His huge bear-paw hand enveloped mine.  He flashed that smile again.

The moment Mark left, I dropped everything to look him up on the internet: Linkedin, twitter, instagram, and Facebook.

Mark was 26 years old, grew up in Pittsburgh, spent his junior year in high school in Japan, graduated from Duquesne University, had been to Europe and Canada, had a DUI arrest, had a brother named Clay.

He wrote a google review of a restaurant in Philadelphia.

He wrote an Amazon review of the tv series Sherlock.

There were a lot of newspaper articles about tennis -- his various matches and awards in high school and college.  He was signed on to a professional tennis recruitment website.

Facebook and Instagram had some pics of Mark with his arm around an older man and a guy he tagged as Mohammed, wearing a graduation gown, holding a fish [the models in the illustrations are not really him].

Shirtless.

I saved the shirtless pic to look at his thick, smooth chest, his shoulders and biceps, and his sixpack abs later.

He had a profile on a professional modeling site: interested in print and tv assignments, photos in a suit, in a sweater, in a swimsuit.  His resume listed some catalog work and local commercials.

How did this guy have time to work as a textbook rep?

Mark was back in my office the next week to see if I had gone over the supplementary material.

I was a little embarrassed that I had done so much internet stalking, so I decided to come clean.

"I looked you up online.  Quite an impressive list of accomplishments: decathlons, tennis, modeling."

He grinned.  "Oh, you saw my portfolio?"

"I lived in California for eleven years, so I've been around models' portfolios a lot.  Have you done any tv or movie work?"

"I have some youtube videos, if you'd like to see them.  Look under Markster348."

He moved on to discuss another textbook that my students might like.

As soon as I got home that night, I checked youtube for Markster348, and found a lot of streaming videos of Mark singing and flexing.

Then on a hunch I looked for Markster348 on some gay dating sites.

Jackpot!  Single, bisexual, into anal, oral, frottage, rimming, into jocks and preppy types.  A nice nude photo, semi-aroused cut Kielbasa.  But he hadn't accessed his account in "over two months."

No way I was going to date him -- he lived in Harrisburg, a two hour drive away (textbook reps have a wide territory).  And a hookup seemed inappropriate, given our professional relationship.

But I saved the nude pic to look at later.

The next week, Mark was in my office again.

"Have you made any decision about the textbook?"

"I'm about 75% in favor of ordering it."

He grinned, "What can I do to get you to 100%?"

Let me see you naked!  "Let me look over some of the supplemental materials, the pre-tests, the videos. and so on.  Speaking of videos, I saw yours online.  Very impressive.  And not just on youtube.  Some of the dating sites."

He glanced around nervously, probably afraid that I was going to out him.  There were five other offices right next to mine, and you could hear conversations in any of them.

  "Oh...um...thanks.  How did you find them?  I didn't think I had my screen name published anywhere."

"You told me -- Markster354, on youtube."

"Oh -- those videos.  I thought you meant my..."

"Your..."  I continued.

"Some stuff I did in college.  No big deal, but I'd rather not have my girlfriend find out about it.  Or my boss."

"Of course."

He took out a piece a paper, scribbled a few words, and pressed it into my hand.  "To look at later."

I obligingly put it in my pocket, and looked at it after he left: "Frat Boy Rim Job."

Boystube had a clip: five "fratboys" have a sex party, with oral, anal, rimming, and barebacking.

My friend Alan in West Hollywood starred in some porn movies in the 1980s, so I know a little about the industry.  This was strictly amateur, and rimming -- gross!

If you don't know what it is, look it up.  I'm not going to explain.

Still, it was interesting to watch Mark in action.  How often do you see someone that have a professional relationship rimming a guy while being topped?

He was in my office the next week.  "Ok, I've decided on your textbook," I announced, to spare him endless drives out from Harrisburg.

"Great.  And if there's anything else I can do..."

"I'll send you an email.  And, by the way, I saw that movie you recommended."

He flashed a broad smile.  "What did you think?"

"Very talented performer.  Very versatile."

He glanced around and leaned in close.  "If you'd like -- you know, a private showing -- I'm staying at the Days Inn."  He passed me a card with his phone number.

In case you were wondering: oral only, no rimming.

Pushing a Shopping Cart Up Castro Street

San Francisco, May 1996

Castro Street, the heart of the gay universe, is actually quite compact.  It begins at Duboce Triangle and extends six blocks south to the corner of Market, where you can see the Muni Station and the iconic Castro Theater.

Then there are two blocks of bars, restaurants, and boutiques:  Twin Peaks, Orphan Andy's, Almost Home, Thai Thai, the Q Bar.  A Walgreen's Drug Store.  A barber shop.  Two banks.

At 19th Street it becomes residential.  Bright, ornate Victorians with covered dormer windows, crammed together, covering every inch of space for the next five blocks.  The hill becomes very steep.

By 24th you are technically still on Castro Street, but you're not in The Castro anymore.  You're in Noe Valley.





Who actually lived in those Victorians on Castro Street?

They never came up for sale or rent.  No one we met ever gave them as an address.

Maybe they were the original residents of the street, not even gay, who moved in when the neighborhood was called Little Scandinavia and inspired the play I Remember Mama, who didn't budge during the 1970s and 1980s as Gay Liberation happened all around them.

There was no particular reason to go past 19th, so I never did, until the day I saw the homeless guy pushing a shopping cart up the hill.

Around 7:00 pm on a Wednesday in May 1996,  I was walking down Castro at 19th after the gym, when I saw him rumbling toward me.  It was too late to cross the street.

In San Francisco the homeless were everywhere, sitting on the sidewalk, sleeping in doorways, waving their cups and chanting "any change -- any change -- any change."  You ignored them.  If you wanted to help, you donated to a food bank or homeless shelter.  If you gave them money, spoke to them, or interacted in any way, they would follow you and ask for more.  And as word got around that you were a soft touch, you would be mobbed everywhere you went.  I often saw hapless tourists being followed around like the Pied Piper.

But I couldn't help wondering what the homeless guy was doing.  It would take effort to push that shopping cart up the steep incline, and what for?  There were few people in that direction to panhandle, no parks to camp out in.

And, except for the shopping cart, he didn't look like a homeless person.  He was in his 30s, with a round face and a well-trimmed beard.  A red polo shirt and white pants.  A typical Castro Street buffed physique.

 Before I knew it, we made eye contact. Then he stopped his cart and said "hello" before I could pretend that I didn't see him.

I had no choice but to say "hello" back and wait for the "any change?" barrage.

Instead he said "Hot day, isn't it?"

"Better hot than cold," I said noncommittally.

"My name's Jake."  He extended his hand.  I had no choice but to shake.

 Great, now this guy and his shopping cart will be following me around all night!  

"Boomer.  Where you from?" I asked, stupidly.  That was the standard first question in San Francisco cruising.  Everyone was eager to tell horror stories about homophobic small towns.  But you didn't interact with the homeless!

"Berkeley.  My dad is a professor at UC.  Strictly old school conservative -- you should have seen him raise the roof, when I told him I was gay!"

So that's why you're homeless -- your parents kicked you out.  "I don't 'come out' to anyone.  They can figure it out for themselves."

"Have you eaten?" Jake asked next.  "I was thinking of going to Thai Thai."

Great, now I have to feed him!

"Thai Thai is pretty good," I said noncommittally.

He reached out and squeezed my arm and smiled.  "Nice biceps!  Tell you what.  I'll just drop this stuff off at home, and meet you there in fifteen minutes."

"Where's home?  There aren't any..."  I was going to say "there aren't any homeless shelters up there."  But the cart didn't contain a ragtag assortment of belongings and mementos.  It contained two baskets full of neatly folded laundry.

WTF?  This guy wasn't homeless at all!

"Just up the hill.  See you soon."

After dinner Jake took me up to the Victorian just past 22nd Street, where he and three roommates paid an exorbitant rent.  It had stained glass windows, parquet ceilings, and hardwood floors, but no washer and drier. So they took turns carting all their stuff to the laundromat.

 He got a kick out of people thinking he was homeless, getting all flustered, giving him Attitude.

"You're the first guy who actually said 'hello' to me while I was pushing the cart,"  he said, leading me into his bedroom, which had a beautiful view of Castro Street all the way down to Market.  "That's got to get you some Karma points."  He began unbuttoning my shirt.

I didn't want to tell him that I only said "hello" by accident.

In case you were wondering: hairy chest, nice pecs, very thick Bratwurst, into interfemoral and kissing.

The Music Major's Top Turn On

Plains, January 2017

First day of the semester.  A day of anticipation and dread.  Will my new classes be a pleasure or a pain? Which students will be eager to participate?  Which will be taciturn?

But today I'm feeling a little off:  I got no sleep last night, and somehow I pulled a muscle doing bicep curls, of all things.

Plus I'm teaching an overload this semester, so it's class nonstop all morning, with no breaks.  I have to dash out to get lunch and eat it in my office during my office hours.

It's exactly noon, and very crowded at the Student Union Food Court.  I get into the line at the Grille for my regular lunch of chicken, vegetables, and a fountain drink.

The line moves sideways, cafeteria-style.  The guy next to me turns and smiles.

"It's my first time here.  Is it any good?"

He's a student, taller than me and rather stocky, wearing a brown sweater and jeans, but no coat.  Reddish-brown hair, short reddish-brown beard, blue eyes.  Reminds me of Alan the Pentecostal Porn Star, my friend in West Hollywood..

"Sure.  I eat here almost every day.  The grilled chicken and brown rice is pretty healthy."

"I'm Wagner[not his real name].  I just started in the graduate school."

This is weird.  You don't speak in line except to complain about the weather, and you certainly don't introduce yourself to someone you'll be standing next to for only about 30 seconds.   You stare at the food, or look at your cell phone.

He's from Bemidji, Minnesota, studying for Master of Music degree, concentration in music theory.

That's why he isn't wearing a coat -- the Performing Arts Building links directly to the Student Union.

He gets my name, my department, where I'm from (I say California), and where there's a good coffee house in town.  Curt, one-word answers.

I'm turned off by his over-friendliness.  Is it that weird "Minnesota nice"?

Wagner's order arrives.  He pays as I give my order.  I expect him to vanish, but he waits for me to finish, and then asks "Where are you sitting?"

Walking away, I tell him.  "I have to get back.  Office hours."

"Ok...nice chatting," I hear in the distance.

I'm starting to feel guilty.  The poor guy probably doesn't know anyone, he's in an unfamiliar city far from home on the coldest day of the year,  he reaches out, and gets Attitude.  I should have been nicer.

It wouldn't hurt to have lunch with him....

I turn and go back to the cafeteria.  There are rows of tables in the front, and some booths in the back.  Wagner is sitting at one of the booths, with three other guys....

He looks up quizzically.  I wave and go through the side door.

Ok, not lonely.  Was he cruising me?

I get cruised by twinks all the time -- I was cruised in a crazy retro restaurant in Indianapolis a couple of weeks ago, and ended up with a New Year's Eve date --  but usually it's the soft, cuddly, passive types.  Wagner is a bit older, stockier, bearded, aggressive.

Besides, I can't attract men with face alone, at least not recently.  My physique draws the attention, and today I'm wearing a bulky coat that hides everything.

I return to my office. Office hours, class, gym (lots of shirtless guys playing basketball!), snack, class.

At 8:00 pm I'm finally ready to go home, have dinner, watch Netflix, and fall asleep.  The route that involves the least amount of time outside in the cold goes through the Student Union and Performing Arts to the north parking lot.

Besides, you can usually find some cute theater majors hanging around in the Performing Arts lounge.

And music majors?

I go into the lounge, pretending that I want to buy a soda from the machine.  Sure enough, there's Wagner, sitting by himself, working on a laptop.

"Hi!" he exclaims, scooting over so I can sit next to him.  "How was your day?"

Almost exactly 24 hours later, Wagner is in my bedroom, going down on me.  He has a firm physique with big nipples and a belly, very furry -- there's even hair on his shoulders.  Nice tongue action.

When I finish, we climb into bed.  I wrap my arms around him.  He lays his head on my chest.

"You have the most spectacular chest I've ever seen," he murmurs.  "You must go to the gym every day."

"Just about."  I move to go down on his very thick beer-can of a penis.   "Question, though.  When we met, I was wearing a bulky coat, so you couldn't see my physique.  What did you find attractive?   Are you into older guys?"

"Well, yes, but that wasn't it.  I get approached by older guys all the time.  Most of them are just pathetic, so needy."

"So...just out of curiosity."

"Your voice," he says.  "Great basso profundo.  I figured you for a music professor."

That's a new one.  

"Most gay guys go to the ballet to cruise bulges," Wagner continues.  "I go to the opera to cruise voices."

 I do have a deep voice, but I can't hold a note.

Fortunately, he doesn't ask me to demonstrate.  My mouth is occupied elsewhere.

See also: Cruised by the Waiter in a Crazy Retro Restaurant; First Day of Class Beefcake and Bulges.

Troy and My Friend with Benefits

Upstate, September 2011

The problem with being a twink magnet is that younger guys aren't really experienced in the vagaries of sharing and three-way relationships, so hookups can easily turn into romance.

Sunday, September 18th
In Upstate New York, my partner Troy and I go to a Bear Party thrown by the Satyr.  When Riley comes in, I'm thunderstruck.  My jaw literally drops.  He is the most beautiful guy I have ever seen.

I wait while he strips -- slim body, average beneath the belt gifts, but who cares?  We chat.  I vageuly remember hearing that he is 19 years old, spent a year at the University but had to drop out due to lost financial aid, and now has a job at a party store. But I keep thinking "Why are we talking when we could be kissing?"

We spend an hour lying on a mattress in the Satyr's playroom.  The sex is over quickly; just touching him does the trick.  We spend the rest of the time kissing.  Afterwards he returns to our apartment for more kissing, and probably sex.  Who can remember?  Troy technically "shares," but mostly he just lies there.

Tuesday, September 20th.
We make an appointment for a hookup while Troy is at work.  Riley calls the night before, saying that he caught a cold at the Bear Party and feels miserable, but we can get together anyway as long as we don't do anything physical.

We end up picking up Chinese food to eat at home, then cuddling and talking for about an hour.

"Are you sure Troy is ok with us?" Riley asks.

"Oh, sure.  We have an open relationship.  We can have sex with other guys.  We just have to get together for the socializing."

"Isn't that the opposite of how open relationships usually work?"

During the next three days, Riley and I text constantly, friend each other on Facebook and Gay.com, and find out about each other's lives.  I begin thinking of a three-way romance.

Friday, September 23rd.
It's our third anniversary, so Troy and I invite the Gang of Twelve and some people from work for an anniversary party.  In the end there are 24 people in our small apartment, standing room only.  Riley is there, feeling better.   I try to be cordial and not touch him very much.

But some of the guys are suspicious.  I see the Satyr eyeing me, and the Klingon, who wasn't at the Bear Party, asks, "So, how do you two know each other?"

"Oh, we've known each other for a thousand years," I say.  And I really believe it is true.  We've always been together, and are just now reuniting.

After everyone else leaves, I invite Troy and Riley into the bedroom.  Troy says "No, thanks, you guys have fun."

Riley and I go into the bedroom and start kissing.  "Are you sure it's ok, making out with another guy on your anniversary?"

"We'll be together later, no problem."

We spend about an hour kissing, and then get around to the sex.

The next day Riley texts me: "Are you sure this is ok?" he repeats.

"Three way relationships are quite common," I tell him.  "As long as we don't date, Troy is fine with it."



Tuesday, September 26th

Riley and I make an appointment for a hookup at 11:00, just before lunch.  But he has to work late, and doesn't arrive until 1:30, and I'm so hungry that I insist we go out to lunch at a barbecue place first.

Then we spend our usual hour kissing and gradually getting around to intimacy.

"You had lunch?"  Troy asks later.  "That's a date!"

"We just grabbed lunch before jumping into bed.  Not really a date, just hunger."

"I don't like it!  He's younger and cuter than me, and a lot better in bed."

"That's not true!  Anyway, who cares?  You're my partner.  Riley is just a friend.  But I want him in our lives.  We're taking him out for his birthday Friday."

"What..birthday?  But doesn't he have real friends to do that with?"

"They're going out on Saturday.  Friday is for me.  Us."

Friday, September 30th
Riley comes over about an hour before Troy gets home from work, so I can give him his present, and we can make out.

"Troy is a little jealous," I tell him.  "We should try to include him more."

"I don't want anybody to be left out," he says.  "But whenever you ask him to share, he refuses."

"He wants to share in the socializing, not in the sex.  Just be sure you're really nice to him tonight."

We go out to dinner and then for frozen yogurt.  Back at our apartment, Troy and Riley discuss video games for about an hour, while I sit there, bored.  Finally I say "Who wants to go into the bedroom?"

Riley does.  Troy does not.

Afterwards I say "I can't wait to see you again.  When are you free?"

"Um...very busy week at work, getting ready for the Halloween rush.  Not until Thursday."

Wednesday, Oct 5th.

I spend the next week texting and facebook messaging Riley, with only a few, curt responses.  On Wednesday I don't hear from him at all.  Finally at 10:00 pm I text him: "What time can I expect you tomorrow?"

"Can't tomorrow.  Can we reschedule?"

"But...we made an appointment!  I've been waiting all week!"

"Sorry, the Klingon asked me for a date."

The Klingon!  That chubby nerd?  I roil with jealousy.

"But...you had a date with me!  I understand you wanting to back off -- things were getting very intense.  But you have to meet your commitments!"

Thursday, October 6th.

Troy says: "I've been thinking it over, and I don't want you to see Riley anymore.  Even if it's just for sex, sex can lead to falling in love."

"No problem," I tell him, "We broke up."

"You weren't dating, so how can you break up?"

I don't know.

See also: Troy's First Video Booth; Our Date with the Teenage Beach Boy.

Dick Sargent, Cary Grant, and Groucho Marx in the Same Bed

West Hollywood, October 1994

It is the evening before the AIDS Walk, an event almost as big as Halloween or Gay Pride, and Lane and I are having some guys over for dinner, including Will the bondage boy, Randall, the muscle bear with the pierced penis, and Scott from MCC.

 During the time between dessert and sharing or hitting the bars, we swap stories about gigantic penises, homophobic home towns, and hookups with the captain of the football team, and the question comes up, "Who's the biggest celebrity you've ever been with?  Big in stardom, or big in size?"


Scott: David Hyde Pierce, star of Frasier
Lane: Batman and Robin
Me: Michael J. Fox
Will: Peter Fonda

Randall the muscle bear sits back in his chair, looks slowly around the room, and says "Cary Grant, star of North by Northwest and Indiscreet."

The famous movie star!  We all wait expectantly.  I haven't heard this story before.

"Dick Sargent, who played Darrin Stevens on Bewitched," he continues.

"Um...I'd rather hear the Cary Grant story."

"...and Groucho Marx.  All on the same night, in the same bed."

Hollywood, Summer 1958

A hot day in June.  Randy was 18 years old, newly drafted into the navy, enjoying his last few weeks of freedom before shipping out.  He went to a Dodgers game with his brother, ate his mom's chocolate chip cookies, watched The Red Skelton Show with his grandmother -- and went cruising.

Los Angeles was still a netherworld.   Police chief William H. Parker hated "perverts." The sodomy law wouldn't be revoked until 1976.   There were bar raids, entrapment scams.  Randy was afraid to go to the bars.

So he stood on the corner of Hollywood and Highland, outside of Coffee Dan's, and waited for someone to pick him up.

He looked much different than the muscle bear that we met 33 years later. Cleanshaven, a boyish face, short black hair in a military crewcut.  Thinner but still built, smooth chest, nice biceps.  And a Kielbasa, which he augmented with a balled-up sock in his jeans.

It didn't take long to get offers.  He rejected two before climbing into the car with a guy in his 30s with a round face and a warm smile.  They drove to a deserted parking lot off Selma, and kissed and talked, and the guy went down on his massive Kielbasa -- not pierced yet.  He offered $1, but Randy rejected the money and went down on him in return.  Then they sat and kissed and talked some more.

It turned out to be Dick Sargent, 28 years old, making a name for himself in Westerns and movies.

"The second Darrin on Bewitched!" Lane exclaims.

"So..." Will says.  "How big was he?"

Bratwurst, uncut.

Randy knew him from  Bernardine (1957), about a high school boy who invents a fictional girlfriend.  Dick was doing that a lot in the studios!

One of his buddies in the movie was played by his ex-boyfriend Hooper Dunbar, who had also dated James Dean and Sal Mineo.  He left Hollywood for Central America, where he would become a painter and important Bah'ai leader.







His other buddy was played by singer Pat Boone, straight but open to suggestions.  His "Long Tall Sally" which hit #8 on the charts in 1956, was about a drag queen.

"I haven't slept with him." Dick said.  "But I've seen him in action.  Not bad."

"Sounds like everybody in Old Hollywood was gay," Lane says.

"That's what I told  Dick."

"You don't know the half of it.  There are so many guys like us in the studios.  Some of them you'd never guess.  Marlon Brando,  Wally Cox, who plays Mr. Peepers on tv.  Cary Grant.  He's such a ladykiller, you'd never know he's in the fraternity."

"Cary Grant!  I loved him in Indiscreet!"

"Would you like to meet him?  There's a party Sunday afternoon, if you can make it."

It was held at a gay casting agent's house in Beverly Hills.  About thirty men, all ages from oldster to teenager, talking, dancing, flirting, swimming naked in the pool.  Randy had never seen anything like it.




Some guys he had heard rumors about:
Van Johnson, who starred in Brigadoon.
Tab Hunter, whose "Young Love" caused bobby-soxers to swoon.
Antony Perkins, who almost won an Oscar for Friendly Persuasion (left).

Others he had no idea of:
Ronnie Burns, the teenage son on the Burns and Allen Show
Rock Hudson, who starred in a lot of war movies.
And Groucho Marx!

The star of all those anarchic 1930s comedies like Duck Soup and Monkey Business, and now the host of the game show You Bet Your Life on Thursday nights.  He was sitting by himself, smoking his trademark cigar and drinking whiskey and being ignored: at 68, he was a bit too old for all the cruising going on.  Besides, the cigar stank.

Randy left Dick to mingle and approached him.  "Hey, Groucho, what's the secret word?" he said, stupidly, kneeling in front of him like an acolyte. "I didn't know you belonged to the fraternity."

The aging jokester grinned.  "How old are you, Beany Boy?"

"Eighteen."

"Two years younger than my grandson Andy.  Well, Beany, in my day tricks weren't just for fairies.  Any red-blooded all-American could grab his buddy's penis, no questions asked."   He put his hand on Randy's shoulder and pushed him forward.  "Now, how much do you charge to go a little lower?"

Then Dick appeared, arm in arm with the handsome, svelte 54-year old Cary Grant.

"Hello, what's this?" Cary exclaimed.  "The party's getting a bit wild, isn't it?"

Randy stood, embarrassed by the implication.  Dick and Cary towered over him.   "It's an honor to meet you, Mr. Grant."

Cary took his hand and held it for a long time.  "And you as well.  Dick, my boy, how do you conjure up all these foxes?  You must have a magic wand."

"Well, I do, actually," Dick said.  "But it's nothing compared to Randy's."

"Hey, Mr. Blanding, take a number," Groucho called.  "I believe the bobby-soxer had a previous commitment."

Cary grinned.  "You're into the Geritol set, huh?  Well, maybe we can work something out."

They ended up going to Groucho's house on Hillcrest Road, a few blocks away ("Don't worry, the wife is in Europe, playing 'Marco Polo' with an Italian gigolo").   Groucho served them all whiskey sours and put on a record of Dinah Shore singing "It's So Nice to Have a Man Around the House."  Dick and Randy kissed and fondled, while Cary and Groucho watched.  Then they all took off their clothes and went into the master bedroom.

Cary had a Bratwurst+, and Groucho -- incredible!  A Kovbasa++, easily a foot long once it sprang to life!  While Cary went down on Dick, Randy tried his best to go down on Groucho.  He just managed to get the head.

"Noble attempt, kid," Groucho said.  "Better than Rock Hudson, I'll give you that."

Then Randy went down on Cary -- much easier.  He finished in a few minutes with a monumental shudder.

"Time for the floor show," Groucho said.  "Live on stage, Randy and Dick, the Magic Wand Twins."

Dick topped Randy, his legs in the air -- bareback -- no condoms in those days!  Then he kissed Randy and helped him finish, while Cary and Groucho watched.

Then Groucho gave Randy $5 and sent him and Dick out the door.

A week later, Randy was on a ship headed for Guam.  He wouldn't be back in Hollywood for four years.

"I never saw Cary Grant or Groucho Marx again," Randall says.  "But Dick and I stayed friends.  He and Bert used to have me over for dinner and sharing.  He wasn't happy with my Prince Albert."

Dick Sargent came out in 1991, and became a "retroactive role model" for gay youth.  He and Elizabeth Montgomery, his Bewitched co-star, were the grand marshalls of the 1992 West Hollywood Gay Pride Parade.  He died on July 8th, 1994.

The Nebraska Football Player on the Great Redneck Roundup

July 1995, Omaha

The Great Redneck Roundup of 1995 yielded 20 hookups in 20 days, but, surprisingly, few actual
"rednecks."

We were looking for country boys:
1. Heavy-set, not fat but thick around the belly
2. "Macho" jobs as truckers or factory workers.
3. Lived in small towns or on farms
4. Drove pick-up trucks
5. Listened to country-western music
6. Most important: were very, very, very well hung.

Instead, we met a slim smooth Hispanic guy who wanted to be a chef, and a South Asian medical technician who took us to the ballet.

Nice, but we could meet guys like that back in West Hollywood.  Where were the cowboys, truckers, and farmboys of the Straight World?

On Day 7, we drove 10 hours from Denver to Omaha.

"We're bound to pick up a country boy here," I said.

When I moved to Omaha with Fred during college, I had never been so far west before, or lived in my own apartment, so it seemed a great adventure, like a pioneer in a wild, untamed frontier.   Even the sky seemed a darker shade of blue.

The Mutual of Omaha insurance building, with its Indian in a headdress that glowed at night, was visible everywhere downtown.

  What better place to find wild, untamed guys?

After we checked into our hotel and worked out, I went cruising alone (we usually cruised together, but I was worried that the elusive country boy would be intimidated by two sophisticated California guys together).

Of the three gay bars listed in my Gayellow Pages, the Omaha Mining Company seemed like the best place.

It was a small, rather seedy gay bar in an old building with parquet ceilings.  There were barrels of peanuts you could shell and eat while waiting for your watered-down drinks.  Two tv sets showing a football game.

Perfect!

Wait -- August wasn't football season.  Even I knew that.

I sat down at the bar next to an obvious redneck: about my age, formerly muscular but now a little chunky, with a round bearded face.  He was wearing a red shirt unbuttoned so you could see his smooth, cologne-doused chest, very tight jeans with a prominent bulge no doubt augmented by a few socks, and a baseball cap.

He was drinking a Coors beer and every now and then yelling "Yeah!" as he paid close attention to the game.



"What's going on?" I asked.  "It's not football season."

"Son, it's always football season!" he exclaimed.  "This is a preseason game, Pittsburgh at Buffalo."

I knew fans always favored the nearest city, but both of those were pretty far from Omaha.  "Which one do you like?"

"Pittsburgh, definitely!  You?"

"Oh..um...Pittsburgh, of course."

Suddenly someone scored a point or something.  The guy yelled "Awright!" and raised his hand for a high-five.  I complied.

"That was a Pittsburgh point.  You're not a big football fan, are you?"

"Not really."

"No shame in that.  I'm Kevin."  We shook hands -- very big hand, very rough.  Instead of letting go, he guided my hand down onto his crotch.

Wow, country boys worked fast!  "Um...I'm Boomer.  Visiting town from West  Hollywood."

"You're kidding!"  He punched my shoulder.  "Man, I would love to go there.  Gay central!  Hey, can guys go down on each other right on the street, like in the pornos?"

"It's not really like that.  More of a small town, just almost all gay."

Between guzzles of Coors, yells of "Awright!",and rubbing my hand against his crotch, , Kevin asked dozens of questions about West Hollywood: coming from California was as attractive to country boys as gigantic penises were back home.  I told him about Alan the Pentecostal Porn Star, my celebrity boyfriend, and meeting Lou Ferrigno when I worked at Muscle and Fitness.

Kevin came from a small town in Kansas ("I've heard all of the Dorothy and Toto jokes").  In college he played for the Nebraska Cornhusker football team as "defense" ("because I'm big -- son, you don't know how big").  Now he worked as a recruiter, traveling to high schools all over the country to get kids interested in the University of Nebraska.

 "It so happens that you get a perfect view of the Mutual Indian from my bedroom window," he said expectantly.

What kind of a dumpy apartment would a country boy have?  "Well -- I'm visiting with my partner.  He's back at the hotel.  Why don't we go there?"

"Hotels!  You're in hotels every night!  Time you boys spent the night in a real bed!"

I couldn't tell him that in our six days on the road so far, we had only spent three in a hotel room.

We picked up Lane and drove to Kevin's apartment in a tall brown building just west of downtown -- a silver two-door car, not a red pick up truck.

His apartment was nicely furnished, with a leather couch, black stalk lamps, a brightly-colored print of a nude man from the backside.

We didn't have much time to check out the views.   Almost the moment we got in the door, Kevin was on his knees, unzipping me.   He worked on both of us for awhile, then tore off our clothes and pulled us into the bedroom.

Very nice physique, smooth hard chest, a little belly, long, thick Kielbasa, cut.

"So, which of you is the top?"  Kevin asked.  "Lane, right?  The condoms are in that drawer over there.  The second drawer, next to the lube.

Lane laughed, no doubt remembering Barcelona last year, when Ramon mistook me for a bottom.

Kevin frowned and lay flat on the bed on his stomach.  "So Boomer, you're the top?  I'm up for you.  You'd be surprised what I can take!"

"We're actually not into Greek," I said.  "No one in West Hollywood is.  Too many bad memories."

"Oh...right...I hear you.  He rolled over to his side.  "You lost a lot of friends to AIDS, back in the day.  Well, come here, and let's cuddle.  I haven't had two guys in my bed in a long time."

We lay on the bed on either side of him and kissed and cuddled, and took turns going down on him. Then I climbed on top of him and thrust between his legs.

"I never did it this way before," he whispered.

"West Hollywood boys know lots of tricks."

In the morning he took us to breakfast at Lisa's Radial Cafe, and then we checked out of our hotel and drove on to Des Moines.

Let's review:

1. Heavy-set, not fat but thick around the belly. Check
2. "Macho" jobs as a trucker or factory worker.  No -- college recruiter, middle class.
3. Lived in small towns or on farms. No -- Omaha, population 400,000
4. Drove pick-up truck. No.
5. Listened to country-western music.  Check. We didn't listen to music, but I definitely saw some cowboy hats on the CDs piled up on his entertainment center.
6. Well hung. Check

Three out of six isn't a great score, but Kevin had the most important Country Boy trait: enormous beneath the belt.  Plus very enthusiastic.

And before the Roundup was over, I met a trucker and an honest-to-goodness cowboy.

See also: The Great Redneck Roundup; Fred and the Teenager Downstairs

The Football Player Who Got Unstuck in Time

New York, November 2000.

You often hear stories about people who get unstuck in time.

Two British ladies touring Versailles slip into the era of Louis XIV.

A man makes a wrong turn in a department store and finds himself in an earlier version of the store from the 1930s.

A man in 19th century costume falls out of the sky.


Here's a photo of  a hipster dude, wearing a t-shirt and modern sunglasses, looking tremendously out of place amid the old people in fedoras witnessing the opening of a bridge in Canada in 1941.

He's probably not unstuck in time, just unstuck. .

There are a lot of unstuck people wandering around on Christopher Street in New York.

It's not exclusively or even predominantly gay: the few gay bars and restaurants are scattered amid weird boutiques, kids' clothing stores, pet supply stores, and the Finnish Lutheran Church.

But it's where Gay Liberation began, a sacred place, a site for pilgrimages for gay people from around the world.

Especially those who have been traumatized by homophobic hatred.

Lost, lonely, confused.  Ghosts. Revenants. Time travelers.

Like the guy who was wearing only white shorts and a black Amish hat, on a cold day in October.

And the Man in Black who just appeared, walking next to me, one day.

And Carey from Tuscaloosa.

I saw him in Christopher Park, staring at the Gay Liberation Monument as if he had seen anything so strange: in his 20s, medium height, solidly built, a little nerdy, with a square face, dirty blond hair, and thick eyebrows.  He was wearing brown slacks, a red sweatshirt with giant letter A on it, and a brown fedora, and carrying an old-fashioned knapsack rather than a backpack.

First rule of living in big cities: don't stop to talk to anyone you don't know.  They will con you, or rob you, or both.

But I am particularly attracted to "lost souls," so I stopped.  "Pretty great, isn't it?"

"Murder!"  he said with a smile.  " I knew the Big Apple was up-to-date, but so out in the open and all!  You sure couldn't get away with that jazz back home."  He turned to me and held out his hand.  "Hiya, kid.  I'm Carey, Tuscaloosa U. of A.  Go Crimson Tide!"

Later I figured out that he meant the University of Alabama football team. "Boomer.  You're a long way from home."

"Don't I know it!  We're on field trip to see the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State.  I sort of got side tracked on the Staten Island Ferry.  Say, you wouldn't know any eateries around here, would ya, Jackson?  I could eat a horse, hooves and all!"

I took him to a Thai place, where he was amazed by both the food and the prices.

Carey said he had always been attracted to guys, but he wasn't out to anybody, and he would probably get married, because "that's the way we do things in the South."  He had no idea that there were books on gay topics or gay characters on tv: "we don't look at a lot of television in the South."

I took him back to my apartment -- yes, my roommate was that way, too --  and showed him my tv set and bookcase full of books on gay history and culture.

"What's Stonewall?" he asked, pulling a book off the shelf. "Stonewall Jackson?  Was he that way?"

"It's the bar across from Christopher Park, where Gay Liberation began."

He stared at me, blank, confused.

"The Stonewall Riots?  Gay Pride Day?"

He put the book down and wrapped his arms around me. "I'm not much for history --  I like the present.  Two guys together, right here, right now, that's all that counts, dig?"

Nothing spectacular about the hookup.  Very nice physique, smelled of cologne.  Uncut, average sized, complained about having to use a condom.

Then he got dressed and said "Thanks, Boomer.  It's been swell, but I'd better be getting back."  And he vanished into the night, leaving me thinking.

His slang, his costume, his lack of familiarity with tv or the basics of gay history -- was Carey unstuck in time?  Or just a clueless Southern boy?

I looked up the roster of the Alabama Crimson Tide football team in the 1930s -- yes, those records are available -- and found a William Cary Cox from Bainbridge, Georgia, who played center from 1937 to 1939.   He looked kind of like my Carey.

After college, he served in World War II, and then ran an auto dealership in Alexandria City, Alabama.  He died in 1991, survived by his wife and two children.

A life lived fully, excessively in the Straight World.

Unless he took a  "jump to the left" one day in 1939 and ended up in the West Village.