I Pick Up a Boy and His Daddy at an Airport in Montana

Helena, Montana, April 2013

In the spring of 2013, desperate to get out of Philadelphia, I sent out a lot of application portfolios, but being obviously over 40, with 13 years of temporary "visiting faculty" jobs, plus a resume-full of gay-themed research, made me less than desirable as a candidate.  I only got three interviews: a women's college somewhere in eastern Pennsylvania, a Catholic college in Montana, and a public university on the Plains (I took the Plains).

My flight to Helena, Montana gave me a 2-hour layover in Denver.

I don't mind layovers.  The Denver Airport has an artwalk with some of the most interesting public art in the U.S., plus a nice view of the mountains and a nice breakfast place.

Plus airports are great for physique watching: an endless variety of businessmen in suits, college boys in t-shirts and short pants, hot dads balancing their toddlers on their knees.

Helena Airport, on the other hand, is tiny, with a single lobby and a single restaurant, Captain Jack's Bistro and Bar.  Pictures of cowboys, pillars that look like trees.

After my interview, they took me to the airport at 3:00 pm for my 5:00 flight, even though I had my boarding pass and was through security in about 30 seconds.  Nothing to do but get on my laptop and look out at the dark clouds rumbling overhead and wonder if I was going to make it to Philadelphia.

Not a lot of beefcake to watch: a couple of high school athletes, a middle-aged cowboy with a nice basket.  Otherwise all women, kids, or elderly people.

And a twink: tall, slim, with weird wavy hair, a bearded oval face, prominent eyebrows, and those big round earrings, wearing a white button-down shirt and red jeans with a nice bulge.  Rather feminine, flaunting about with his carry-on.  I noticed that it had a rainbow flag on it.

My first gay guy in Montana, and he's not closeted!  Too bad that he's not my type.

Even though there were lots of empty seats, he plopped down next to me.

"Going to Denver?  Yeah, I guess we're all going to Denver.  I'm off to visit my sister in Tucson -- she just had a baby.  I haven't seen her in almost a year.  My name is Jacob."

"Congratulations," I said.   "My name is Boomer."

He grabbed my arm.  "Oh, I bet there's a story behind that."

"Three of them, in fact."  I don't usually make conversation in airports -- there's little point -- you'll both be flying off in different directions in a few minutes.  But -- the only gay person in Helena, Montana!   "I'm going home to Philadelphia.  I was here for a job interview."

"Oh,  Boomer, I hope you get the job.  I'd love to show you the sights!  Did you get a chance to see Cruse Avenue?"

"Cruise Avenue?  Is that the gay neighborhood?"

"No, silly!"  He slapped my shoulder.  "It's a great street that overlooks downtown and the mountains, so you can get a birds' eye view of everything! Oh, and I'd take you to the Holter Museum, and the 4J's -- that's our best casino, not like Las Vegas, but it's fun!  And if you like dancing, they have country-western line dancing at the Rialto."

"Boys dancing together?"

"Sure, whatever you want.  We're open minded in the Big Sky Country."

Did this guy work for the Tourist Bureau?  "I'm really more into classical music."

He grabbed my arm again.  "Babe, you're in luck.  My Daddy is one of the performers at the Montana Early Music Festival. That's why he's not going to Tucson with me --they're performing at St. Peter's tonight.  That's the Episcopal Cathedral downtown."

Daddy?  My ears perked up.  Adults did not refer to their parents as "Daddy," so Jacob was outing himself as the bottom in a fetish relationship that was about control rather than BDSM.  "So, how long have you and your...daddy been together?"

"About three years. I don't call him Daddy all the time, of course.  I call him Mike on campus and to his ex-wife.  She's not very accepting -- she thinks we're just roommates.  But most people in Helena couldn't care less.  It's live and let live up here."  Suddenly there was a rumble of thunder, and it started to pour outside.  The clouds were so dark they were almost black.

Jacob reached out and stroked my knee -- very open for an airport!  And how did he even know I was gay?   "It looks like we might be going to that concert after all."

About fifteen minutes later, our flight was indeed cancelled, so I was stuck in Helena overnight.  I could call the college and have them get me a hotel room, but whenever I've done that, I haven't gotten the job.  Besides, Jacob was already calling his Daddy to arrange for me to spend the night.

I wondered what Daddy looked like: older, of course, and an anal top, but...a stern leather master?  A cigar-chomping bear?  A hard-drinking, tattoo-covered redneck?

Well, it wouldn't hurt to meet him, anyway.

I got Jacob's full name and number, and emailed them to Troy in New York -- just a precaution -- then followed him to his car, clinging against him under his umbrella.

We had dinner at a Mexican restaurant -- he grabbed my knee under the table while I ate my arroz con pollo with guacamole, and briefly held my hand.

 Then we went to the Rialto, the country-western gay bar.  Deserted at 6:00 pm on a rainy Thursday night -- but we managed to find a secluded corner for kissing.

"I'm going to be servicing two Daddies tonight," Jacob murmured, running his  hand over my chest.  "One for each end.  Oh, I can't wait.  I hope you're as hung as my Daddy is."

"How hung is he?" I asked.

"Well, let's just say we grow them big in Montana!

We got to the concert just as it was starting. Jacob ushered me into one of the first rows and pointed to the choir.  "That's Mike," he whispered.  "Isn't he hot?"

"He sure is!" I said, although I didn't know exactly which of the elderly, portly singers he was referring to.

I'm not a big fan of Renaissance music, but the concert was interesting, mostly through the incongruity of hearing it in Montana, looking at a row of middle-aged bears and wondering which was the "daddy" of the twink beside me.  The husky, white haired baritone?  The chubby tenor?  The elderly, eye-glassed bass?

Afterwards Jacob led m up to the stage, past all of the middle-aged bears, to....another twink?

Mike was a professor of music at the college, slim, eyeglassed, blue-eyed...and in his mid-30s.  No more than five years older than Jacob!

This Daddy-Boy relationship was obviously not based on age.  Was it based on penis size?

Back at their house on the oddly-named Flowerree Street, Mike revealed a slim, firm, hairy chest and an uncut, average sized penis.  He was mostly an anal top, but agreed to let me go down on him.

Then Jacob went down on me while Mike topped him.

In the morning we went back to the airport for our flight to Denver.  They gave me their phone number, and said if I got the job, we would get together.

I didn't get the Montana job, but the Plains is only 900 miles away.  I might drop in sometime





By the way, Jacob, the bottom. had a Mortadella+. Go figure.

And I still don't understand how he knew I was gay.

See also: 36 Hours of Cruising at Lambeth International Airport.

A Sausage Sighting in Fairbanks, Alaska

Fairbanks, Alaska, February 2008

In the spring of 2008, when my temporary visiting position at the University of Dayton was winding down, I applied for about 50 academic jobs.  Most were in or near gay neighborhoods, but I also applied to some in places that would be interesting to visit.

A free trip to some exotic locale, a guided tour of the city, free meals in the best restaurants. And who knows?  Maybe I would like it so much that I would take the job.

So I applied to the University of Alaska at Fairbanks,

I always keep a scorecard of pros and cons, to decide whether to take the job, if I get the offer.

Fairbanks Pros

You can see the aurora borealis. 5 points

The University has a gay student group. 5 points

The Museum of the North. 5 points.

My office would have a window. 10 points (you'd be surprised how important this is).

The University offers classes in Yupik, Inupiaq, and Tlingit. 10 points

10% of the population is Native American, and 10% Hispanic. 10 points


There are 14 Thai restaurants. 10 points

Total Pros: 50

Fairbanks Cons

It's low and flat, and very spread out, 32,000 people in 32 square miles  -5 points.

It was 10 below zero degrees outside.   -5 points.

In the 2004 presidential election, 61.5% of Fairbanks voted Republican. -10 points.

The governor of Alaska was wack job Sarah Palin. -10 points

The university had no wrestling or male swim teams. -10 points.

No gay bars, although I heard that the Palace Saloon was "gay" after 11:00 pm. -20 point.

The nearest gay neighborhood was in Seattle, 3 1/2 hours away by plane.   -20 points

Total cons: -80.


Grand total: -30.  Not interested in that job.


I was on my own for dinner the second night.  I tried to find a place within walking distance of the downtown Marriott (which, in 10 below zero weather, means two blocks).

All I could find was Soapy Smith's Old Tyme Restaurant and the Cafe de Paris.

Ok, the Cafe de Paris.

When I got there, I found an ugly yellow space decorated by case after case of wine bottles.

I hate alcohol!  I almost went to Soapy Smith's Old Tyme Restaurant instead, but it was too cold to trudge through downtown Fairbanks again.

So I sat down and looked at the menu.

Lobster, steak, chops.  Nothing of interest.  Did I go through a time warp into the 1950s?

No -- the cheapest item on the menu was $30.

I ordered two appetizers and a Diet Coke, which came watered down in a bar glass, with one of those little red straws and a cherry.

Figures.

It was quite early, so there were only a few people around.  Hetero couples mostly.  I felt out of place.

After finishing, I said "no" to an expensive dessert and went to the restroom.

It had two urinals, very close togethr, with no barrier between them.  The far one was in use: a tall, husky, dark-skinned guy, probably Native, in his 20s, with a round face and prominent cheekbones.  I couldn't judge his physique under his sweater and heavy coat, but I got a good view of his penis.

Huge!  He could barely wrap his hand around that garden hose, soft!  It had to be a Kovbasa++++,  a footlong, aroused!

I stood, trying not to stare, imagining going down on that monster.  Were all Native men hung?

He finished, shook it a little, and turned to me, smiling, Kovbasa still in full view.  He somehow managed to cram his penis back into his pants, zipped up, and squeezed past me to the sink to wash his hands.

"Not much room in here, is there?" Footlong said.

"No, not much room," I stammered.

Was he referring to the bathroom or to his pants?

When I finished and returned to the main room, Footlong was standing by a table, helping a young lady put her coat on.  Our eyes met as they walked out into the night.

She was in for a surprise later!  If Footlong was too much for her, I'd be happy to give it a try.

Pro: Sausage sighting of a huge Native guy: 100 points!

The travel-guide version of this story is on Small Town Beefcake

Jermaine, The Biggest Guy on My Sausage List

Boston, February 2001

#12 on my Sausage List, the biggest guy I've ever met, was a 21-year old political science major from Harvard.

We met in the spring of 2001, when my doctorate in sociology was nearing completion, and I landed a dream interview: Assistant Professor of Gender Studies at Boston University!

I was so certain that this job was my "destiny" that I started looking for apartments and hanging out in Boston gay chatrooms.  One of the guys I chatted with was Jermaine.

Instead of the usual "stats? size? top or bottom?", we talked about gender discrimination laws, hate crimes, and heteronormativity in the classroom.  Quite heady stuff for a chatroom!  And we made plans to meet for coffee and dessert at the end of my first day of interviews (the committee was taking me to dinner).

The interviews were atrocious -- snobbish faculty, snobbish grad students, questions that were heterosexist, combative, dissmisive, or just plain rude.  No way I was getting this job!  No way did I want it!

It was a relief to extricate myself from the badgering and walk from my hotel to the House of Blues, an upscale soul food restaurant with live music, where Jermaine was waiting.  Very attractive: shorter than me, dark-skinned, solidly built, with glasses and a bright smile.  Now I was even more depressed.  Were all Boston boys so hunky?

We ordered appetizers --  Voodoo Shrimp and Fried Pickles -- and then dessert -- Bread Pudding -- while I complained (you never complain on a first date, but I figured we would never see each other again, anyway).

"Don't worry about the job," Jermaine said. "You'll find something great."

He talked about his law school applications -- Stanford, Columbia, Berkeley, Yale -- and then a career fighting gay oppression: "We've made some strides, but there's still so much to do. Sodomy laws, health care, partner benefits, gay youth. The fight is only beginning."

Then he started talking about his volunteer work with homeless gay youth at the MCC, but he stopped himself after a sentence or two.  "I'm hogging the conversation, aren't I?  Time for you to talk: what's your favorite thing about living in New York?"

After all that, it felt sort of sleazy to be cruising him, but after awhile I reached down to stroke his thigh. He smiled, but moved my hand away.  Then, oddly, he asked, "Who's your Daddy?"

Um...well, I'm twice as old as you, about six inches taller, and I'm pretty sure I could beat you in arm wrestling.  So you ain't my Daddy, son!

I didn't say that.  I just smiled and kept silent.

After awhile Jermaine wanted to go to the Machine, a 18+ dance club, but I was too tired for the blaring techno-rock of the Cute Young Thing crowd.

"Why don't we go back to my hotel?" I suggested.

He stared at me.  "Who's your Daddy?" he asked again.

"Um...that would a 65-year old retired factory worker in Franklin, Indiana."



"Ok, let's go," he said with a smile.

On the way, Jermaine got into an actual conversation with a panhandler.  Never in my life had I seen such a thing -- you ignore them, or at best drop some coins into their plastic cup while looking away.  And he talked about so many charities that I felt like a piker.

Was it ok to bring Jermaine into my bed?  It would be like seducing a saint.

We got to my room and began kissing and fondling and undressing each other, but when I moved my hand to his crotch, Jermaine pushed it away and asked "Who's your Daddy?" again.

This time I said "Why don't you wait and see?"

Finally I was completely naked, but Jermaine was still wearing pants.

"Isn't it about time for the Full Monte?"

"Ok, sure," he said, strangely reluctant.  He stood, unbuckled his belt, and started to lower his pants.

And lower them.

And lower them.

I stared.  It was a baseball bat.  It was a Kovbasa+++++.

"Yeah," Jermaine said, embarrassed.  "At this point most guys drool and make sleazy jokes."

I caught myself, and returned my gaze to his face.  "About what?  You have a very nice physique.  Your pecs are really hot."

He laughed and knelt in front of me.  "That's the right answer."


Later Jermaine told me that he was sick of being fetishized, desired for nothing but his beneath-the-belt gifts.  The question "Who's your Daddy" was designed to see if I would try to pressure him into being a super-top pile-driving sex machine.  He wanted to kiss and cuddle, and fall asleep in the guy's arms.

I was happy to oblige.

We saw each other again about two months later, when Jermaine went down to Delaware for his Uncle's 50th birthday party, and invited me along as his date.

Otherwise our schedules never synched, and in the summer of 2001 he moved to Berkeley.  But we continued to chat online, and as the months passed and I didn't get a job, he kept saying "Don't give up -- you'll find something great!"

   
Jermaine is the biggest guy I've ever known.  But not because of his Kovbasa+++++.

See also: Skinny-Dipping with the Biggest Guy on My Sausage List; 8 Harvard Yard Hookups; and Hooking Up on a Job Interview