Alan's Gift from Beyond the Grave

Indianapolis, January 2005

In January 2005, when I was back in Indiana for the holidays, I got a phone call saying  Alan, my ex-boyfriend, roommate, and close friend for 20 years, had died of AIDS-related cancer.  The memorial service would be held in Norfolk.

I didn't go -- I was too busy, it was too far away, I already had a flight reservation back to Fort Lauderdale, etc., etc.  But the truth is, I didn't want to think about Alan being gone.  I wanted to him to be in West Hollywood, cruising at Mugi, holding court at the French Quarter,  working out at the Holiday Spa, reliving those magic moments, unchanged, eternal.

About two weeks after the memorial service, I got an email from Tarik, Alan and Sandy's boy toy in the 1990s: "Can you come to Ocrakoke?  Alan left you something that you have to come here to pick up."

"What is it?" I responded.  "Can you just ship it to me."

"His instructions were that you have to come here to pick it up -- actually Norfolk, but since I live in Ocracoke now, I'll keep it for you here."

I had never heard of Ocracoke, so I rushed to look it up.  It's an island in the Outer Banks of  North Carolina: very isolated, accessible only by boat.  Permanent population 900, but a lot of tourists in the summer.  Nothing to do but swim, fish, look at wild horses, visit an iconic lighthouse, and go to a weird pirate museum (Blackbeard died there.)  Restaurants called the Back Porch Lunchbox and the Sweet Tooth Deli.  No gay bars, no gay organizations, 99% white.   Not the sort of place that a gay black urban guy would choose.

What was Tarik doing in Ocracoke?

I emailed him back.  "Can you tell me what the gift is?  Or give me a hint?  And what the heck are you doing in Ocracoke?"

"I got a job here.  So, Alan asked me to pass out the four gifts that he left to his old friends.  They all have to come to Ocracoke to get them.  I can't tell you what it is, but I can tell you that Alan picked it out especially for you."

The gift was probably a souvenir of West Hollywood, like a glass from Mugi or a menu from the French Quarter -- something nice, but not worth crossing the country for.  Still, I said that I would come during the summer.

"Great!  Come during Memorial Day Weekend.  Some of the other guys are coming then, too.  It will be a nonstop party!"

Ocracoke, May 2005

From Fort Lauderdale I flew to Norfolk, where I rented a car and drove 4 hours to Hatteras.  I barely made the last ferry, and arrived at Ocracoke at 1:00 am Saturday morning.

Tarik met me at the ferry terminal. He was in his early 40s, but still black-haired and buffed, with square workman's hands and a couple of new gold earrings. We hugged.

As we left the ferry station, he waved at people he knew.  "I'm one of like three black guys on the island, so everybody knows me.  It's like being a celebrity."

He drove m to a house on Back Street Road, around the corner from a coffee shop ("mostly gay") and a place called the Flying Melon ("gay-friendly").

"Sounds like quite a gay presence for a tiny speck of land in the Atlantic."

"It's a small community, mostly lesbians -- I know two other gay couples and about six single guys --but it gets much bigger in the summer.  You picked a good time to visit -- Memorial Day Weekend is nonstop cruising."

It was a big, airy house with hardwood floors, a piano in the front room, a patio out back.  Two dogs padded up to say hello.

There was a naked guy asleep on the sofa.

"We have a full house this weekend -- you know what it's like to live in a resort town!  But don't worry, you get your own room.  Um...my boyfriend is already asleep, so no sharing tonight -- but definitely tomorrow, ok?"

"Sure," I said, grabbing his butt.

The master bedroom was downstairs ("The owner of the house, and whatever Cute Young Thing he's convinced to come out from the mainland") and four bedrooms upstairs: "our room, the third roommate's room, guest room,, occupied, guest room for you,"  plus a finished attic, occupied ("I figured you wouldn't want to deal with the horny gay ghost").

He pointed out the bathroom, said "Breakfast is at 8:00," and left me alone.

The room was very dark, with heavy drapes and no night light.  When I turned off the lamp, I couldn't see anything at all.  Spooky!

A couple of hours later, I was awakened by a hand caressing my chest.  The gay ghost?  I thought -- no -- this guy was corporeal, with thick arms, a smooth hard chest, and a thick 7" cock.  Tarik was much bigger -- he must be one of the housemates or guests.

In a house occupied by four gay men and their boyfriends and hookup, it's not unusual for someone to get up in the middle of the night and end up in the wrong bed, accidentally or on purpose. I started kissing and fondling my unexpected guest, and soon I was going down on him.

"Yeah...like that..." he whispered.  "Do that...oh, I'm going to come..."

Afterwards I lay on top of him to do interfemoral.  "Wait -- I brought some lube."

When I finished, we lay in each other's arms.  Even with my eyes adjusted to the dark, I couldn't make out his face.  I went to turn on the lamp, but he said "Well, I should go wash off" and left.  I saw the outline of his naked backside as he opened and shut the door.

He never came back...apparently this was a secret mission.

I figured that in the morning I could figure out the identity of my mysterious visitor by process of elimination.

I awoke to the smell of coffee brewing, and the sound of laughter and clattering plates.  Downstairs, the owner's twink boyfriend, naked except for an apron, was making pancakes.  Other guys drifted out to the deck, where there were scrambled eggs, sausages, muffins, and pitchers of orange and tomato juice.  The owner, a burly bear; Tarik and his boyfriend; the asleep on the couch guy; Sandy from Norfolk and his date...and a buffed Asian guy wearing only red jockey shorts.

"It was...you?" I asked tentatively.

"Good morning," he said with a smile, and scooted over so I could sit next to him on the bench.  Jonathan Peng Lee, originally from Hong Kong, now a grad student in engineering at UNC Chapel Hill.

When the flurry of eating and gossip died down, Tarik clicked on a glass to get our attention.

"As some of you know, we invited Boomer, Sandy, and Mark here today to pick up the gifts that our friend Alan bequeathed them.  We'll start with Boomer.  Here's Alan himself to give the introduction."

He brought out his laptop and pushed a button, and suddenly I heard Alan!

"Greetings from the spirit world, Booooomer...." he said in a spooky voice.  "I have to get to my date with River Phoenix and Brandon Lee, so I'll make this brief.  One of my favorite memories of our time together is when we were sharing that tiny apartment in Japan, and I brought home a trick, who kept jumping into your bed.  Well, I recreated that experience for you.  I got a Japanese boy to sneak into your bed -- but don't freak out if there's another dick down your throat.  I just may pop in to share.   Enjoy!"

Everyone applauded.

"We couldn't find a Japanese guy," Tarik said,  "But I hope Jonathan is close enough."

"Sure, he's great."  I turned to Jonathan, who had his arm around my shoulders.  "Um...so you're a hustler?"

He grinned.  "It pays my tuition.  They hired me for the whole weekend, so anytime you want another session, just ask."

I reached down and fondled his crotch.  He immediately sprang to life.  "Pencil me in for this afternoon."

See also:  Jon Takes Me to the Scariest Place on Earth;  Ocracoke:Gay Ghosts, Pirates, and Beach Boys

How Matt Began Renting Himself Out

San Francisco, April 1997

One night around 11:00 pm, I got a phone call out of nowhere.

"It's Matt, mon ami -- I'm at the Castro Street Muni Station.  Come pick me up!"

Matt the Cute Young Thing?

Nine years before, my college boyfriend Fred moved to Pomona, California, about an hour's drive from West Hollywood, to study at the Claremont School of Theology.

He brought Matt, 23 years old -- a scandalous age difference!

Plus Matt was an ultra-elitist snob, a graduate of the Andover Academy and Harvard University, who adored the opera, peppered his conversation with phrases in French and German, and complained that everything about my world was bourgeois or jejune:  the Midwest, West Hollywood, USC, Raul, the Greenery, the Different Light, you name it.

Plus he gossiped about everybody and everything, providing the weird voices.

Then Beau told his "Uncle,"  wink wink, "Be sure that yo' get mah new underweah in extra-extra-extra lahge."

But when you got beneath the sarcastic cover, Matt had a good heart.  And he was extraordinarily cute.

In the bedroom, while you were going down on him, he kept up a nonstop monologue of his progress, in three languages:

I'm getting there...un peu plus, mon chevalier.......je vais arriver...Mein Stollen, Mein Stollen...bien, bien...here I go...


We were never friends, exactly.  I only socialized with him -- and shared his bed -- because of Fred.  And that didn't happen often, maybe once every couple of months, and at Christmastime, when we all flew back to the Midwest.

Fred got his D. Min in 1993, and couldn't find a church, so he returned to his old job as a mental health counselor in San Bernardino, about 30 miles east of Pomona.

Ninety minutes from West Hollywood.

"I so envy you, mon ami!" Matt often said.  "So close to the action, the heart of the heart of the gay world, unsere Heimat!"

In 1995, shortly after we moved to San Francisco, Fred took a job at a congregational church in Fresno.

Three hours from West Hollywood

 "This town is even more dreary than San Bernardino!" Matt often said.  "And you're living in San Francisco, the heart of gay Heaven, Paradis."

In retrospect, I should have seen it coming.

I picked up Matt and his backpack at Castro Street Station and took him to Orphan Andy's for a hamburger.  He was 32 years old, no longer a Cute Young Thing, but quite buffed from hours at the gym.

"Fred and I are kaput! Over!  I caught him having sex with a kid in the youth group.  I'm all for sharing, but en cachette?  And I'm pretty sure the kid is underaged!"

"Well, you should at least hear his side of the story."

"No, I've had it.  J'ai trop mangé!  This isn't the first time, mind you, but I've put up with it because of my misguided sense of loyalty. But no more."

We returned to my cramped third-floor walk-up, over a hardware store, which he criticized as "impossibly bourgeois" and "a downscale dump," and spent the night.

It was my first time in bed with Matt without Fred being there.  He still kept up a nonstop monologue of his progress while I was going down on him: "Oui, mon ...étalon...comme ça...it won't be long now...a little more...bien, bien..."

In the morning, I called Fred and confirmed that this was no quarrel.  It was definitely over.  Matt's stuff was packed up and waiting for him in the guest room.

So we just had to get Matt the three essentials of life in Gay Heaven: an apartment, a gym membership, and a job.

The apartment came easy: a very nice second-floor in a Victorian on Dolores, near the Castro, for a frightfully high rent.

The next weekend, my friend David and I drove a U-Haul down to Fresno to pick up Matt's stuff: an antique grandfather's clock, a old secretary-style writing desk, ten boxes of books, and a lot of kitchen equipment, including a breadmaker and a pasta maker.  A second-hand store furnished the rest of the apartment.

The job was a problem. Matt stood to inherit several million dollars when his parents died, in fifty years, but for now his trust fund held only about $20,000.   And his resume was blank.

"I went straight from Harvard Yard to Fred's bed.  I've never actually had a job.  But I'm up for anything.  I'll sell my butt on Polk Street if I have to."  He turned around to display his butt.  It was indeed very nice.  His frontside, too.

"You're a little old for hustling," I said, hoping he wasn't serious.  "And not big enough for a career in porn.  But we'll find you something."

Ideas #1 and #2: Matt was fluent in French and German.  He could be a translator, or a guide for European tourists.

It turns out that everyone in the world was fluent in French and German -- I was fluent in French and German.  Aand European tourists usually came with guidebooks in hand.

Idea #3:  He was a Harvard alumnus, with lots of contacts in the City.  He called Santa Claus, aka Bearnard, the fantasy writer, and landed a job as his personal assistant.  But Matt's habit of criticizing everybody and everything did not sit well with Bearnard, and a few days later he was scanning the want ads again.

At least he got a hookup out of the deal: "Bien, bien...soon, soon...mon choux...comme ca...ich komme...."

Idea #4: I brought him over to "share" with Kevin the Vampire, my sort-of boyfriend, in the hope that he might have some supernatural suggestions.

"What have you being doing with yourself for all these years?" he asked.  "Sitting around watching soaps and waiting for Fred to come home, like June from Leave It to Beaver?"

"Basically," Matt admitted.  "I did all of the cooking and cleaning.  The marketing.  The laundry.  I was sein Hausmädchen, ja?"

"So you should get a job as a housemaid."

"Me as a housemaid?  That's hardly suitable for a graduate of the Andover Academy and Harvard University."

"And they only make about minimum wage," I added.

Kevin the Vampire smiled and touched his arm.  "But you could give it a Castro Street twist."

"What do you mean?"

"There are plenty of old queens in the City with more money than they know what to do with and absolutely no chance of bedding a Cute Young Thing.  They would pay premium rates for you to vacuum, dust, and prepare their afternoon aperitifs.  With your spectacular butt and sausage open for them to gawk at."

"A nude housekeeping service!" Matt exclaimed.  "Sounds like a way to syncretize my housekeeping skills, my entrepreneurial skills, and my physique.  And I could hire some twinks, in case clients like them younger.  A whole stable."


"Just be sure to specify that no sex is permitted, so San Francisco Vice stays off that spectacular butt of yours."

I moved to New York a few months later, but I understand that Matt soon had three assistants to handle about 20 clients per week.  His most popular service was "nude waiter" for dinner parties.

No sex during the housekeeping, of course, but nothing in the contract said that workers couldn't make a date for later.

"Mon etalon...a little more...ein bischen, ein bischen...almost there..."

See also: Fred and the Cute Young Thing; 8 Harvard Boys in My Bed; and Matt Gets on His Knees Behind the Bar

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

Houston Texas, January 1985

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Can you figure out why I was getting Attitude?

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An unmarked envelope containing five $20 bills.

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

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

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

See also: Topping and Bottoming in Texas

Three Eddie Mekka Hookup Stories

In the 1970s I had a big crush on Carmine Ragusa on Laverne and Shirley (right): he was short, broad-chested, and beautiful. And gay-coded: Shirley's platonic pal, variously working as a singer, dancer, hustler, and boy toy.  Surely, I thought, actor Eddie Mekka was gay in real life.

When I moved to West Hollywood in 1985, I expected to meet Eddie, or at least see him at bars, the gay gym, and the various gay events, but he never showed up anywhere.

I expected to meet guys who had dated or tricked with him, but he's only appeared occasionally as an aside fleshing out a story about someone else:

In a story about Scott Baio:  his first sexual experience was with Eddie Mekka when they were both starring in Blansky's Beauties (1977)

In a story about Sylvester Stallone:  he got a blow job from Eddie Mekka on the set of Tango and Cash, with the homophobic Kurt Russell nearby (1989).

In a story about David Yost: he accepted a date with Eddie Mekka in the early 1990s, but backed out when he heard that Eddie was married.

Now, in 2017, I have a lot more friends and friends of friends with ties to Hollywood and Broadway, so I sent out email requests to everyone I could think of, and ended up with a few Mekka-centric stories.

1. Eddie, Cesar Romero, and Scott Baio

Fall 1980

During his years on Laverne and Shirley, Eddie Mekka stayed in the limelight by accepting all the celebrity guest shots his agent offered him: The Love Boat, Fantasy Island, Circus of the Stars, miscellaneous talk shows.  And he nurtured sexual relationships with older stars, who could ease his way once he stopped playing the Big Ragoo.  Like 1940s Latin lover and 1960s Batman villain Cesar Romero.  He didn't find the 73-year old attractive, but most likely he would just want to give Eddie a blow job -- no big deal!

He got Cesar's number from Penny Marshall (Laverne) and asked him out to lunch, with the implication that sex would follow, and then casting-couch favors.  But Cesar said "Can you arrange to bring along that little hottie from Happy Days?  The one with the package?"

"Ron Howard?  Sure...I mean, I can ask."

"No, that little Chachi [18-year old Scott Baio]."

Eddie blanched.  Scott was his first and only real boyfriend -- he preferred the ladies for romance -- and the breakup had not been pleasant.  But he agreed, and as it turned out, Scott was also touring the bedrooms of Hollywood's elder statesmen.

To his surprise, Cesar wanted more than oral -- the former heartthrob was Greek active, still able to get it up, and enormous.  He topped Scott, but Eddie refused, and had little to do but stand there naked, looking pretty.  No casting favors resulted.












2. Eddie and the "Weird Science" Guy

Fall 1995

Everybody in West Hollywood watched Weird Science (1994-98), the sitcom about two teenagers who build a virtual-reality girl.  It was quite heterosexist, but beefcake-heavy: the stars were both very muscular, and often half-naked.  Plus Michael Manasseri (left) was gay.

In the episode "Men in Tights," which aired on January 13th, 1996, a misfired spell transforms the boys into professional wrestlers, and have to fight a seasoned wrestler called Der Blitzkrieg.  Eddie Mekka played fight promoter Tommy Svachino.

Like many gay boys, Michael had a crush on Carmine Ragusa in the 1970s and 1980s. Nearly 20 years later, Eddie was balding and going a little to fat, but still hot.  Michael went out of his way to welcome the celebrity guest star, introducing him to his current boyfriend Tutor, bringing him a Danish, even bringing him a script change personally in his dressing room.

"Tutor seems nice," Eddie said.  "I don't know what gay guys look for in romance, but he looks like he's got it all."

"Same as straights, mostly." Michael said, casually stroking Eddie's shoulder.  "Someone with an interesting personality, a good heart, and a dazzling smile."

"Is that it?  What about a gigantic cock?" Eddie asked, cupping his own impressive basket.

"That's about something else altogether...."  Michael could take a hint.  He fondled Eddie's basket, then pulled out his cock -- 6.5", cut -- and went down on him.  Eddie closed his eyes and kept silent.

Michael worked for a long time, with few signals from Eddie.  He started alternating masturbating and sucking, then masturbating while darting his tongue around the head.  That got Eddie aroused -- after awhile he spurted wordlessly into Michael's face.

They didn't exchange phone numbers, and didn't see each other again.  Yes,  Michael and Tutor had an open relationship.


3. Eddie and the Hustler

Spring 2013

The homey small-town West Hollywood that Boomer knew is gone. Now it's all glitzy storefronts and partyboys in cages, out of towners driving in for a weekend of drinking, drugs, and sex.  Ghosts of long-dead or soon-to-be-dead partiers trudge along Santa Monica, begging for coke or cash or a blow job. Strangers are not your friends: they all carry guns.  Stay away from alleys,  Sunset Boulevard, and West Hollywood Park.

Winch came to Hollywood to be an actor five years ago.  In all those days and weeks and months, he had landed one modeling job.  He shared a terrible apartment with three other guys and their tricks du jour and spent his days at the gym, the bars, and the sex parties.  He kept up a steady supply of Coco Puffs, Ecstasy, and lube mostly through sex work: a cage boy at Mickey's; a stripper at gay parties; a hustler with discrete "generous" ads on craigslist.

One night an older guy answered his craigslist ad and promised to be "generous," so Winch invited him over.  He was in his 50s, short and rather chunky, with a flat face and gray frizzy hair.

"Yeah, you got me," he said.  "I'm the Big Ragoo."

Winch didn't know what that meant -- maybe this guy had been the mascot for Ragu Spaghetti Sauce in his past life -- but he buttered him up a bit.  "Oh,  I recognize you!  You were great back in the day!  What have you been doing lately?"

"Fiddler on the Roof  -- I play Tevye.  You know, 'Sunrise, sunset, swiftly flow the years'?  Oh, and I directed an episode of The Suite Life of Zack and Cody."

Winch had heard of that!  "Do you know Cole and Dylan?  Are they gay?"

The Big Ragoo grinned.  "Everybody's gay after they get a few beers in them."

Usually hustlers get blown, but the Big Ragoo wanted Winch to blow him.  About 7" and thick, but it took forever -- he had to masturbate while Winch licked his balls to finally finish.  Then he wiped off, paid, and left, and Winch got on his smartphone to try to find out who the heck the Big Ragoo was.










Are any of these stories true? 

That is, not an exaggeration or a pure fantasy?

Eddie has about the same physical traits and sexual interests in all three stories, but there's a problem with #1: I knew Cesar Romero in the 1980s, and he never mentioned sex with Eddie Mekka (although he did watch his friend Jason top Scott).  Plus he was only into oral.  Plus how was he going to help their careers?

#2 seems more likely, except that I've never heard any other dating/hookup stories about Michael Manasseri.

#3 seems the most realistic: Winch, who was born years after Laverne and Shirley, wouldn't catch the reference to the Big Ragoo.  A closeted actor may well seek out a hustler.  And it's more contemporary, not colored by nostalgia or faulty memory.

See also: Earle has public sex with Matt Dillon; Laverne and Shirley

The Gay Cannibal of Colombia

Itagui, Colombia, June 1979

During the summer of 1979, just after my freshman year at Augustana College, the Nazarene Church was looking for some able-bodied college students to help build ten new churches in Colombia.  I hadn't attended regularly for about a year, but you stay on the membership roster forever, so they called me.

They warned us: this was the jungle, where Jim Elliot was killed trying to bring the gospel to the Auca Indians in 1956.  Expect poisonous snakes, crocodiles, and naked cannibals.  They might try to eat us!

Um...did you say cannibals would be naked?

I'm in!

Actually, my group ended up in Itagui, population 200,000, a major industrial center with gleaming modern architecture, a gigantic soccer stadium, and restaurants called "Chocolate Chicken the Prince" and "Nice Sandwich and Juice."

No poisonous snakes, but lots of poverty, crime, and drugs.  We were cautioned to not leave the Youth Hostel at night, and not go into Medellin, about 5 miles away, where murder and kidnapping were daily events.

Heck with that!  I was going to find a nice Swedish leatherman to dance with, like in Switzerland, or at least a cute gay waiter, like when I visited Olivet.  Only now if he offered "Come back to my hotel! I have Schnapp!", I would know what to do.

But with no internet and no gay guidebooks (I had never heard of the Damron Guide), how could I find the gay men of Itagui?

It turns out that they found me.

I went downtown, to a small, brightly-lit taverno that seemed to have all men inside, mostly elegantly-dressed young adults.  I sat down at the bar and ordered a Postobon, an apple-flavored soda.

Five minutes later, a college-age boy named Marco sat down next to me: short, muscular, with black hair and intense black eyes. He was wearing a track suit, as if he was in a race -- rather out of place for such an elegant clientele, I thought.

 We chatted, in my pretty-good Spanish and his rudimentary English, mostly about the Sandinistas taking control of Nicaragua and Skylab falling out of the sky.  His leg brushed against mine, and he didn't move it away.  Then he said, apropos of nothing: "Necessitas marimba?"

Why would I want a xylophone?   Later I figured out that he was offering me marijuana.  "No, no...busco...um..."  What was the Spanish word for gay?  "Hombres que aman los hombres." (Men who love men.)

"Oh!"  His eyes lit up, and his hand fell onto my knee.  "100 lucas...200 dollars."

"Para que?  No quiero comprar algo."  I didn't want to buy anything!

"Ok, ok, 50 lucas!"

"No quiero comprar..."

"10 lucas!" he exclaimed in exasperation. "Que barato!" About $20.  What a bargain!

Finally I understood -- I had read The Happy Hooker, after all.  I just never realized that there were male hustlers, with male clients.

"No way!" I exclaimed, pushing aside his hand and getting up from the bar.

He followed me out into the street and yelled, "Oye, chino!  Medio  luca!"  About $1.00.

"Estas burlando?"  I asked.  "Are you kidding?  That's about the cost of a Postobon!   It's not even worth it."

He grabbed my arm and started speaking very quickly in Spanish. "You're very cute, but you have to pay...I'm not a pillow-killer...I'm a cannibal...it's only for the money."

I threw him off and walked away, through the warm tropical night toward the youth hostel.  I was gratified that there were enough gay men in Itagui to make hustling profitable, but upset that Marco couldn't bring himself to acknowledge that he was gay, a "pillow-killer."  He was a "cannibal" (apparently slang for "hustler" or "on the downlow"): telling himself over and over again that it was about the money, not about desire.

So I met a cannibal after all.  Just not the kind that goes fishing in the nude.

See also: The Top 12 Public Penises of South America; The Teenage Hustler of Bourbon Street.

Tad's Wild Night with the Rifleman and His Son

Readers have been asking for a story about a Chuck Connors - Johnny Crawford romance ever since I started this blog in 2015.

I don't know why.  Most Baby Boomers have never seen The Rifleman (1958-63), about single dad Lucas McCain (Chuck Connors) raising his son Mark (Johnny Crawford) in the Old West.  It was before our time during its first run, and who wanted to watch the reruns?  Westerns were square; the 1960s was all about blasting off in rocket ships and zapping aliens with ray guns.

Plus Johnny Crawford was 12 years old when The Rifleman began, so any sexual activity would be the predatory grooming of a pedophile.  During the last season, he was 16-17 years old, still off limits for any consensual romance.  But maybe later, when they were both adults.

Here are the 2 hookup stories I heard about them in West Hollywood.  The first comes from a guest at one of Will the Bondage Boy's parties in 1999, a young BDSM bottom.  I don't remember his name, so I'll call him Tad.  I added a few details.

Hollywood, Spring 1986

I was a Cute Young Thing, 19 years old, still living with my parents, working at a video store in Eagle Rock.  I was tall and skinny, kind of homely, with a big nose and acne scars, a small dick, no muscles, no selling point except my willingness to bottom, which as you know was unusual in the 1980s.

So every weekend I hung out on Hustler Corner, Highland and Santa Monica. Not hustling, though I wouldn't say no to a new shirt.  But the closeted married men who came out after their kids were tucked into bed didn't care that I was poor, homely, small, or didn't belong to a gym. All they cared about was getting off.

 I met a lot of closeted actors on Hustler Corner, cruising themselves or sending an assistant out to make the deal for them.

Well, one night this blue Camero pulls up, and a very handsome guy sticks his head out -- in his 30s, black curly hair, dark skin -- and asks if I like older men.  He's not really older, but I say "Sure" and get into the car with him.

We drive to the parking lot on Selma.  "Do you mind if I inspect the merchandise first?" he asks.

"Be my guest."  I pull out my dick, but he asks me to raise up so he can feel my butt.  "Nice and firm!  Do you do Greek passive?"

"As long as you use a condom."

"Great -- these days Greek passive is hard to find.  Is gang banging ok?"

"The more, the merrier."

"Bondage?"

I wasn' t ready to admit my BDSM interest yet, so I said "As long as there's no pain."

"Another plus.  And you're cute.  I think you'll do great."

"Thanks," I said, wondering if I was going to a trick or an audition.

"It's a bit of a drive, so my boss would like you to spend the night, and if things work out, the weekend.  It pay $200.  Is that ok?"

"As long as I'm back for work by noon Sunday."

He gets onto the 405 and drives us north, over the mountains and then farther through the San Joaquin Valley.  I don't mind -- there are snacks and beer in the car, and Mike has a lot of funny stories.  Originally from Albuquerque, he came to L.A. ten years ago to become an actor, but ended up a pool cleaner and lawn maintenance guy for some of the wealthy residents of Bel Air.  For the past three years, he has been a personal assistant for Chuck Connors.

Chuck Connors!  I can barely hide my excitement!  You may think I'm too young to remember The Rifleman, but when I was growing up, they were playing the reruns every day after school. I had lots of fantasies about Lucas McCain and especially his teenage son Mark.

After about two hours, we come to a gated community up in the mountains near Bakerfield, and drive into what looks like a ranch called Medicine Hat Oak.  The main house is all done like a Wild West ranch, too, with wood paneling and deer and moose heads and guns on the walls, and that old-fashioned Colonial furniture.

Mike lets me use the bathroom, then takes me into a guest room.  More Wild West motif.

"You won't meet Mr. Connors until tomorrow," he says.  "Do you need anything?"

"A shower," I tell him.  "And maybe you could join me?"  We start kissing.  Soon our clothes are on the floor.  Mike has a great physique, hard smooth chest, big cock.  He goes down on me, teasing until I'm ready to explode, then turns me onto my stomach, puts on a condom, and pushes into me.  I've been screwed before, but the big head hits just the right spot, and I cum immediately.

Mike keeps on thrusting inside me for a long time.  I get aroused again, and start beating off.  Finally he finishes, takes the condom off, and turns me over for a long kiss.  Then he says "If you need anything, I'm just on the other side of the kitchen.  Breakfast is at 8:00."  He grabs his clothes and leaves.

In the morning I finally meet Chuck Connors.  He's in his sixties, white-haired and craggy, but still hot.  Mike and two other guys are there, too.  In their fifties, balding. I don't recognize them.

Breakfast conversation is mostly about horses.  I want to talk about The Rifleman, and mention my childhood crush on Mark McCain.

"Johnny will be up later," Connors says abruptly, cutting me off.  Apparently he doesn't want to talk about The Rifleman...or about me being gay.  "For the party.  I think Hank, too."

Is Hank a boyfriend?  I wonder.  A lover?  But the conversation turns to Hank' problem with a contract of some sort, and I don't think it's a good idea to ask.

After breakfast Mike drives me into Tehachapi to get some new underwear and a swimsuit.  We spend the day working out, swimming -- some kissing in the pool, but no sex -- and riding horses.  Connors joins us for tennis.  More guys arrive during the day, until by the time the cook sets out dinner by the pool, there are around 30.  All men, mostly in their fifties and sixties.  Like a gay party, except there's no touching, and no one is talking about sex.

Mike introduces me as "a friend from L.A."

I'm disappointed that there aren't more celebrities.  I recognize Charlton Heston from The Planet of the Apes and Gary Lockwood from 2001: A Space Odyssey, but that's all.  No Johnny Crawford.

I ask Connors where he is.

"I guess he'll be up later.  He had a thing to do in L.A. first."

Around 7:00 pm, Mike says "It's time for you to earn that $200."  He takes me back to the guest room, strips me out of my clothes, and has me lie down on my back, crosswise on the bed.  He ties my arms and legs together and blindfolds me.

I have never been tied up before. The loss of control is wildly exciting.  I'm already aroused.

"You'll be here for three hours.  If you need a bathroom or stretching break, just tell the guy you're with to come and fetch me.  They all know they have to use a condom, and no pain.  Any questions?"

For the next three hours, hands caress my body.  My nipples and balls are licked.  I am kissed.  I count four cocks in my butt, five in my mouth.  I lose count of the mouths on my cock.  I cum three times.

It's the best night of my life.

The only problem is, I have no idea which of the guys I have been with.  Chuck Connors?  Johnny Crawford?  Charlton Heston?

Afterwards Mike unties me, and I shower and go to bed.

He wakes me up in the morning before dawn, gives me $200, and drives me back to West Hollywood.  We stop for breakfast at a McDonald's on the way.

"You had quite a night," he says.  "Are you sore?"

"Not really.  It was great. By the way, did Johnny Crawford ever show up?"

"Yes, he was at the party."

"Did he screw me?"

"Sorry, that's classified information.  Mr. Connors likes to protect his guests' privacy."

"Did Mr. Connors screw me?"

He smiles.  "I can't tell you that.  All I can tell you is that one of the guys was me.  Butt and mouth both.  And I'd like to do it again sometime, except just the two of us, not a crowd."

"Sure.  As long as there's some bondage involved."

To this day I don't know if I had sex with Chuck Connors or Johnny Crawford, or both, or neither.

Nude Photos of Christopher Atkins

Christopher Atkins (1961-) is probably the first teen idol to go full frontal on the big screen.  Several times.

Here he shows off in his iconic but immensely heterosexist Blue Lagoon (1980).












The full post is on Righteous Gemstones Beefcake and Boyfriends

Barry and the Creepy Old Guy

You remember Barry, the shy, slim boy growing up in a conservative household in Colonial Williamsburg, who sought escape by getting drunk and experimenting with drugs?

How did he get from there to the health-conscious gym rat I knew in New York, who didn't drink or use drugs, who would never even set foot in a bar?

After his first sexual experience, when he was 16, Barry was angry and bitter over the Big Lie, the conspiracy to keep him from knowing that gay people exist, as well as the everyday heterosexism of "what girl do you like"?  So he continued his smoking and drinking, and moved from marijuana to prescription drugs.

He spent the next two years driving into Norfolk and using a fake id to get into the bars, where he would drink, dance, and hook up, usually for money.  Often with two or three guys in a night.

"Norfolk is 50% black," he said.  "Can't get much better odds than that."

"How did you find the time to go home with so many guys on the same night?"

"I didn't usually go home with them.  We did it in a parked car, or in an alley off Stockley Gardens."

By some miracle Barry managed to graduate from high school with a 3.5 GPA.  His search for black men led him to 80% black Howard University in Washington, DC, as a pre-law major.  Again, he spent most nights going to the bars on Dupont Circle with his fake id., dancing, drinking, trying Ecstasy, tricking, and hustling.


He was arrested twice, once for propositioning an undercover cop (DC had sodomy laws until 1995) and once for "indecent exposure" in a public restroom.

"I'm all for exploring masculinity in all its variety," I said, "But it sounds like you were obsessed."

"I thought that's what gay life was about.  Drinking, dancing, drugs, and hooking up."

He felt very guilty after his hookups, especially the anonymous encounters where a guy would go down on him without even a kiss first.  How degrading!  This wasn't what sex was supposed to be about.  What happened to the affection, the caring?  Sometimes he prayed afterwards to turn straight, so he could have a "normal," caring relationship.

"Did you date?"

"Just once."  During the summer of 1992, he fell in love with a tourist from St. Lucia -- his first romantic relationship, four years after coming out!  After a courtship of only a few days, he returned to St. Lucia with his new boyfriend.  But he soon grew bored, returned to DC, and resumed his life of drinking, dancing, tricking, and hustling (See A Boy, A Man, and a Caribbean Island for what really happened).

"Did you use condoms with your tricks?" I asked.

"Not usually. I didn't really care about HIV or hepatitis.  It's a miracle that I'm negative now."

He graduated from Howard University, with a C+ average.  Not good enough to get into a reputable law school.

So he moved to West Hollywood, got a clerical job, and spent his nights at Mickey's and the Rage, dancing, hooking up, drinking, and using drugs. He graduated from Ecstasy to cocaine and crystal meth.

The demon at his exorcism happened to disapprove of an evening where one of his tricks went down on him at the notorious hustler hangout, a donut shop on the corner of Highland and Santa Monica.

(It's under new management and not a hustler hangout anymore.)

"I loved West Hollywood," I said.  "The gym, the bookstores, the restaurants.  Did you go to the French Quarter?"

"Not really."

"Lots of spiritual activities, too.  The Metropolitan Community Church, Beth Chaim Chadashim Synagogue, Evangelicals Together."

"I didn't really join any groups."

"Not even gay Catholic groups?"

"ESPECIALLY not gay Catholic groups.  I wouldn't even trick with a guy if I knew he was Catholic.  Once a guy took off his shirt, and I saw a crucifix around his neck.  I ran away like a vampire."  He paused.  "Maybe I was a vampire."

Then, in the summer of 1998, a trick took him to a very nasty apartment complex near downtown.

Sagging, peeling wallpaper, threadbare carpets damp with mysterious stains, dim light from sickly yellow lamps, stultifying heat,  It was insufferably hot and damp.

As they were walking down the hallway, they passed a couple on the way out.

One was a creepy old guy in a business suit.

"What's wrong with old guys?  I'm 14 years older than you."

"Some of them are hot, but this guy was the worst: smelly, sweaty, with warts and claw-hands, slicked-back hair, and that creepy leer, you know, that they get when they won't take 'no' for an answer."

His companion was a blond guy in his 30s, but very worn and craggy, with bloodshot eyes and a scraggly beard, sweating in an old-fashioned leisure suit and gold chains.

As they passed, the blond guy locked eyes with Barry and mouthed the words "Help me!"

Barry noticed a crucifix around his neck.

"Do you think it was a kidnapping?  Or a hustler changing his mind about a trick?"

"I think it was a glimpse into my future.  I was seeing myself in ten years."

Barry was too freaked out to follow through with his own trick.  He ran back to his car and zoomed home, and said the Rosary for the first time since high school.

"I felt the presence of the Blessed Virgin, as if she had been watching over me all along, waiting for me to come home again." 

A week later, he was back in his parents' house in Williamsburg.

He gave up the bars, went to drug counseling, joined a gym, began practicing Zen meditation, and started going to Dignity, the gay Catholic group.

For the first time in his life, he had gay friends.

Maybe the Blessed Virgin had watched over him for a purpose.  He should become a monk.  But it had to be a pro-gay monastery.

Asking around Dignity, he discovered Andre's Traditional Catholic Community, and applied to join as a postulant.  That's when I met him, on the night of his exorcism.

Barry decided that he didn't have a monastic vocation, but he continued to go to Mass, say the rosary daily, and live a clean, almost monastic lifestyle. An hour of meditation and two hours at the gym every day.  No drinking, no smoking, no drugs, no bars.  No hookups, just dating and sharing with friends.

Today, thanks to the Blessed Virgin and a Creepy Old Guy, Barry is still DDF, still going to the gym and meditating daily.  He and his partner Daniel run a gay bed and breakfast on Long Island, near the Hamptons.

Daniel, by the way, is twenty years older than Barry.

See also: The Colonial Williamsburg Boy Finds Out What Gay Means; The Catholic Priest in my Bed; and The Homophobic Demon.

15 Boy Toys, Hustlers, and Boyfriends for Pay

We like to think that our boyfriends and partners are some mystical predestined soulmates, but in fact we often select them based on some quite mercenary factors:
1. Does he live far away?
2. Does he have nice roommates?
3. Will he be a a social asset, getting me noticed by the right people, invited to the right parties, invited to "share" by the A-list of the gay community?

Even: does he have money?  You can be persuaded to accept a mediocre physique, annoying personality, and inadequate penis if it means spending the night on sheets with a 1200 thread count and getting expensive presents when it's not your birthday.

The mercenary factors are most evident with three types of relationships:

Hustler: He's on the clock.

Boyfriend for Pay: Not literally, but if the gifts dry up, he'll likely head for the door.  He's not a hustler, but he sure ain't free.

Boy Toy:  He's with you mainly for the free dinners and late-model car, and you're with him mainly for the social status his hotness brings, but you like each other for other things, too.

During my 20s and 30s, I was a Hustler just once, and never a Boy Toy, that I know of.  But I met a few:


West Hollywood

1. The Kept Boy, aka Zack, who ordered a Flying Grasshopper at Mugi one night, got completely smashed, and tried unsuccessfully to have a three-way with us before we took him back to his wealthy boyfriend.  Definitely a Boyfriend for Pay











2. Scott, the Cute Young Thing who came to my Celebrity Boyfriend's post-Oscar party with a famous director, and nonchalantly cleared the dessert plates while naked. Boyfriend for Pay.

3. Benny from Basgo's.  He was a regular at Basgo's, the Hispanic bar, who made his living picking up bi-curious and downlow men, one or two per night, but went home with open gay guys for free.  Hustler.

4. Danny the Trophy Boy, who Lane dated before me: 19 years old, stunningly attractive, didn't do anything all day except watch Duck Tales, hang out with his friends, and buy clothes (55 shirts, 21 pairs of shoes, and 32 belts). Boy Toy.

I'm not counting Infinite Chazz, who started out a boy toy, but became one of the family.  He started calling me "Dad."  Still does.

Castro Street

5. The Nephew.  There were a lot of older, closeted gay men in San Francisco, who were afraid to come out, even in a gay neighborhood.  The elderly guy getting drunk on martinis at Twin Peaks introduced his companion du jour as his "nephew," even though they were groping and kissing each other.  Boyfriend for Pay











East Village

6. Claude, the super-hung English boy who was living in Ravi's gigantic house on Long Island, and hosted sex parties but wasn't allowed to do anything himself. Boy Toy

7. Barry the Colonial Williamsburg boy spent time in West Hollywood, working as a Hustler before an encounter with a Boyfriend for Pay convinced him to give up the life.  Hustler.

8.My roommate Edward, an older, rather fey art appraiser, had a "secretary" named Andrew Marvel (look it up).  The boy didn't have much to say, but then nobody wanted him for his sparkling conversation. Or his secretarial skills. Boyfriend for Pay. 

Florida

By the time I got to Florida, I was 40 years old, a twink magnet, with a car and a house (actually sharing Barney's house), old and well-off enough to attract Boy Toys of my own.  But I found very few.  Most guys either paid for the date or insisted on paying for their half.  The Young Republican had more money than me.

9. Darvon from Keokuk, who used the stereotype of a Midwestern farmboy (and the term Keokuk rhymes with) to draw clients.  Hustler.

10. Victor the Gym Rat, who "shared" us with his sleazoid Daddy.  Boy Toy












11. Yuri!  He had a Ph.D. in Atmospheric Science and spoke five languages, but the college adminstrator who started dressing him in $500 Gucci shirts didn't seem to notice. Boy Toy.

Dayton

Boy Toy relationships are rare in the Straight World: they can't increase your social standing among heterosexuals, who generally think of all gay relationships as inferior to their own.  Besides, they rarely notice, assuming that older-younger pairs must be father and son.

Upstate

12. The Satyr, about 60, fat, with the biggest Kovbasa++++ I have ever seen.  His housemate was a young, slim Asian guy who did the cooking and cleaning.  I was pretty sure that he was a Boy Toy.

13. Troy, my boyfriend for five years.  He wasn't really a Boy Toy, but he was extraordinarily cute, and didn't have a job for the first two years we were together.  I was paying for his rent, utilities, food, gas, and just about everything else, so all of our friends just assumed....




Plains

14. Jimmy the Boy Toy.  My Platonic friends were in their 50s, and their "housemate" Jimmy had a beautiful face and a gigantic Mortadella+.  They enjoyed sporting him around the gay community, even though they weren't actually having sex.

15. Jameer.  He was in his late 20s, some 20 years younger than me, but when we started dating, he insisted on paying for everything and giving me expensive gifts: "I want my man to look good."  I think I was the Boy Toy!

Hookup from Hell on the Plains

Plains, April 2017

I thought all the crazies were back in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas in 1984.

It was my fault: the guy had no profile picture on Grindr, the photo he sent me was a penis only, and his profile said "I'm Up for Anything," definite warning signs.

And I skimped on the interview: his name was Brett, he was 23, ok with no anal, and "you going to invite me over or what?"

But I was mad because a hookup failed to show up earlier after endless emails going back and forth, so I thought "Why not?  He's hung."

The Hookup from Hell

First Brett goes to the wrong building. Then when I direct him to the right building, he can't find the front entrance, and I have to go downstairs and fetch him.

He's slimmer, paler, and younger than the buffed guy in the photo, AND he won't shake hands.

He stares at the building.  "This place is pretty big.  Does anybody know you're...?"

"Some of them.  Why?"

"Don't talk to me or look at me.  Just walk to your apartment, and I'll follow."

A 23 year old in 2017, as skittish as a pre-Stonewall closet queen?  Weird!  But I'm in it this far....

Brett comes into my apartment and looks around.  "Are we alone?  Is anybody else here?"

"Um...no.  Why?"

Great, he's going to rob me!  But I'm three times his size!  

"Just making sure.  Got any wine?"

"No, I have Diet Coke, orange juice, and cranberry juice."

"No, thanks.  Let's just go in the bedroom."

I lead him into the bedroom and start kissing and fondling him.  He says "I'm really nervous" and breaks away.

Mr. "Up for Anything" is nervous?

"Ok, let's talk for awhile." .I sit him on the bed and put my arm around him.  "Where are you from?"

"[Small town nearby]. I'm only 15."

Whoa....

I remove my arm.  "Ok.  Let's go online and find you some gay youth groups."

"I'm not 15, I'm 23.  I just wanted to see how you would react."

 I'd better card this jerk.  "Can I see your id?"

He shows me.  Nineteen.  So he's lied twice...

"Have you ever been with a guy before?" he asks.

"Um...yeah."

"Who?  Show me their pictures."

I'm getting tired of this guy, but I take out my phone and show him some pictures.

"He's young.  You like young guys?"

"Um...yeah."

"You got a wife?"

"No...gay, remember?  I have a boyfriend."

"Does he care if you do things with other guys?"

"No.  We even do things together."

"Call him.  Invite him here."

He's really making me work for it!  "Sorry, my boyfriend is at work."

"Well, call another guy you been with, have him come over here for a three way."

"Why don't you call one of the guys you've been with?" I counter.

"You want to have a three way with my girlfriend?"  Brett asks, grinning.

Girlfriend?  "No!  Gay, remember?"  I put my arm around him again.  "What's wrong with just the two of us?"

"Nothing, I guess. So, you got $20 for gas?"

Great, now he's a hustler!  "Sorry, I never pay for hustlers."

"Hustler?" Brett repeats.  "What's that?"

"Paying for sex."

He brightens, as if the idea has just occurred to him.  "That's right.  You want some of my cock, you got to pay me $20."

"No, no, you can't say it like that.  It's illegal -- you could get arrested.  You have to phrase it like 'can you lend me some money?'"

"Ok...you want some of my cock, you got to lend me some money."  He begins fondling himself.

"You going to show me the merchandise first?"

Brett pulls it out.  Aroused, maybe five inches.

"I don't know, that's pretty small," I tell him.  "Hustlers should have big cocks."

"It gets bigger."

"Let me get my mouth on it, and we'll see."  I reach over to fondle it.  He puts it back in his pants.

Enough is enough.  "Ok, well, it's been nice chatting, but I have a lot to do today."

He laughs.  "You do not!  You're just mad 'cause I won't let you go down on me."

"Well, yeah.  I invited you here for sex, and instead I get a bunch of underage, bisexual three-way, and hustler nonsense,  It's been..interesting, but time for you to go."

He gets up and heads out into the hallway.  I follow, to make sure he doesn't steal anything on the way out.

"You don't have to escort me out."

I stand in the foyer, watching him.

Brett walks toward the door, then turns back, puts his arms around me, and kisses me.  A long, deep, passionate kiss.

I break away, and check to make sure my wallet is still there.

"Just a taste of what you're missing out on, Fool."

And he is gone.

See also: The Worst Date in Ohio History; Dates from Hell.; My Hookup with the Bodybuilder Goes Wrong.