What's Funny About Kissing a Cute Boy?

Racine, Wisconsin, Spring 1967

When I was little, I was always being forced to hug and kiss ladies against my will, just because my parents knew them.  For an adult, that would be sexual harassment, but for a kid, it was "cute."

"Come kiss your Auntie June!  Come on, don't be shy -- give her a kiss!"

Ok, I've never seen her before in my life, she stinks of perfume and powder, she's wearing gross lipstick, and she's a girl!  Disgusting!

At least it was only on the cheek.  In the Midwest, we reserve kissing on the mouth for romantic partners.

But still, "Come kiss your Auntie Sadie!"  "Come kiss your Auntie Opal!"  "Come kiss your Grandma Davis!"  "Come kiss your Cousin Beth!"

It was like a kissing booth at a carnival.

I quickly noticed that they demanded that I kiss only women.  Men only got a handshake.

Why didn't I ever get to kiss my parents' male friends?

In Racine, Wisconsin, where I spent kindergarten, first, and second grade, we lived only a block from Lake Michigan, so Mom took me and my baby brother to the beach nearly every day (even though Nazarenes weren't allowed).

One day she started talking to a boy-girl couple, In my memory they're very young, but they were probably in their late 20s, the same age as Mom and Dad at the time.

Rory had shoulder-length curly hair, rather pale skin, and a firm, compact physique with prominent abs.  He was wearing sunglasses, which I thought were the coolest thing ever.

Ruth was wearing a bikini.

While Mom and Ruth chatted, Rory took me by the hand and led me into the surf.  We went so far in that water was lapping against the bottom of my swimsuit.

He let me put on his sunglasses.  The world turned a pale green.

I felt proud to be walking along the beach with a cute boy, like a grownup on a date.

When we returned, Ruth said "Look at the two big, strong men!"

Yeah!  Two big strong men on the beach together!


A few days later, just at dinnertime, there was a knock on the door.  It was Rory and Ruth!

Rory wasn't wearing sunglasses or a swimsuit anymore.  He was wearing a tan short-sleeved shirt with a picture of a man playing golf on it.  His biceps swelled nicely.

Ruth was wearing a tan dress, and had on red lipstick and nail polish.  She was carrying a pie.

Mom took the pie from her, and Dad ushered them into the living room.  They sat on the couch.

I stared.  Rory had his arm around the back of Ruth's shoulders!  They never touched each other at the beach.

Were they like boyfriend and girlfriend?

"Boomer, where's your manners?" Dad said.  "Say hi to your Uncle Rory and Aunt Ruth."

"Hi," I said politely.

"Hi, Squirt!" Rory said, holding out his hand to be shaken.

"Now you know what to do," Dad continued.  "Shake hands with Uncle Rory, and give your Aunt Ruth a kiss."

Ruth pressed a finger to her cheek to point out the spot where the kiss should be deposited.

Suddenly I had an idea.  I climbed onto Rory's lap, grabbed Ruth's small, many-ringed hand, and kissed Rory on the cheek!

Their eyes bulged in surprise.  Rory laughed.

"Boomer!"  Dad exclaimed, angry.  "Do it right!"

Mom had returned from the kitchen with some glasses of soda on a tray.  "Sorry about Boomer.  He likes to be funny."

"Kid's going to be a regular Jerry Lewis when he grows up," Dad told them.

I refused to budge from Rory's lap. He took his arm from Ruth and wrapped it around me.  "Looks like somebody needs a hug."

"You'll be a great father someday," Ruth said softly.

Yeah, right, father.  or boyfriend.

I remember Rory and Ruth coming to the house a few times after that, to watch tv or play Yahtzee with my parents.  I always shook hands with Ruth and kissed Rory.  They always laughed.

What was so funny about kissing a cute boy?

Mouth to Mouth Resuscitation

Rock Island, July 1970

Looking back to my childhood in Rock Island, it's hard to believe that we crammed so much activity into the 12 weeks of summer:
Camping in Michigan or Minnesota
Nazarene summer camp
Visiting relatives in Indiana
My birthday excursion
Vacation Bible School
The Denkmann School Carnival
The Pow Wow, the Celtic Festival, and the Beiderbecke Jazz Festival
Summer Enrichment Classes in astronomy, Spanish, archaeology, and music.

And when we got a free moment, swimming lessons.

When you live between two rivers, you learn to swim.  I took lessons every summer from 4th grade to 7th grade at the Longview Park Pool.

It was great.  Boys and girls classes met at different times, so my group consisted entirely of cute boys, including my best friend Bill, Greg (the vampire boy who gave me my first kiss), Craig (who joined the swim team in high school, and invited me to "get down" at his graduation party), and eventually my brother and his friends.

And the teacher was always a cute teenage boy, tanned and muscular in red Rocky High swim trunks.

Unfortunately, I never got to see them with their swim trunks off,  so no glimpses of a penis (the adults called it a shame).  We weren't allowed in the bath house (where the showers and lockers were).  After the lessons, we had to sit on towels, sopping wet, while one of our mothers drove us home.

It was fun learning to jump into the pool, float on your back, and kick against those floating surfboards.  Then the dog paddle, the breast stroke, the back stroke, and the side stroke.

But when we had to jump off the diving board into the deep end and swim to the side of the pool, I balked.

"It's over my head!  I'll drown!"

"It's easy," Matt, the hunky teenage teacher, said.  "You already know how to swim.  This is just in deeper water."

"I'll sink to the bottom and drown!"

I watched from several feet away as my friends, one by one, jumped off the diving board, sank into the bright clear water of the deep end, then rose to the surface and kicked their way across the pool to the side, where Matt was waiting to pull them out.

His muscular arms rippling in the sunlight....I wanted muscular arms around me....

But...no!  "It's over my head!"

Matt put a strong hand on my shoulder.  "Tell you what, Boomer.  I'll get into the water with you.  That way if anything goes wrong, I can carry you to the side."

Carry me?  "You promise?"

"Sure.  And even if you do drown, I know mouth-to-mouth resuscitation."

I didn't know what that meant, but I liked the mouth-to-mouth part.  I climbed onto the diving board.  It felt hot in the sun, and a little wobbly.  Matt, floating upright in the water, motioned me in.  He was smiling.

With a gulp I jumped off the board.  Cold, bubbly water enveloped me.  I couldn't hear, couldn't breathe.  The surface was miles away. How could I ever get up again? It was over my head!

Springing to the surface, I yelled "Help!"

Instantly Matt had his arm around me, and with two kicks had us on the side of the pool.  He lifted us up.  I felt a surge of joy as I clung to his chest, my hands clutching his thick hard shoulders.

I wrapped my legs around him.  Our swimtrunks pressed together.  I felt the thick mass of his shame beneath.

"See?  That wasn't so bad," Matt said, disentangling me. "It was actually kind of groovy, wasn't it?"

Flushed with a weird, tingly excitement, I nodded.  "Are you going to do mouth-to-mouth resuction?"

He laughed.  "Not this time, buddy.  You're fine."

I wouldn't figure "it" for years, but in retrospect, that was a major coming out moment.

I Prove I'm Not Gay By Kissing a Guy

Many non-runners don't realize that runners get harassed a lot.  People yell out criticisms, slurs, and epithets, Over the years, I've heard:

"Run faster!"
"Run!  Maybe you'll catch up with them!"
"Where's the fire?"
"You lost your pants?"

And the standard array of epithets:
"Fag!"
"Fruit!"
"Dork"
"Wimp!"

They throw things or spit out of cars.

They mimic your actions,

They try to trip you.

Sometimes they even attack.



Rock Island, June 1976

It was the summer after my sophomore year at Rocky High, about a month after my date with King Carl Gustav of Sweden.  I had been running for a few months, in preparation for joining the track team in the fall (which never happened).

I know now that you should always vary your route and time of day, to minimize the harassment, but in 1976 I  always followed the same route: down 20th Avenue to 38th Street, down to 31st Avenue, over to 24th, up to 18th, and back, about three miles.

At the same time of day.

Past a school.

I know, dumb!

As I passed, I always saw a group of three boys, one junior high age, two younger, playing basketball or hanging out in the school yard.  Sometimes they were in a kiddie pool in the front yard of one of the houses across the street.

The junior high boy was sort of cute, with thick brown hair, and a tan chest with pinprick nipples, but too young for me (I was 15, and he was probably 13 or 14).  So I didn't pay him much attention.

Not even the day he grabbed his crotch and yelled "Fag!" while his cronies laughed.

I shrugged, figuring that he was a junior high Mean Boy.  I was in high school, beyond that sort of bullying.  It wasn't worth changing my route over.

Then one day the Mean Boy and his cronies attacked.

They lay in wait in the bushes behind the school, and when I came past, they jumped out and surrounded me and squirted viciously with squirt guns and a squeeze bottle, looks of sheer malice on their faces.

Soaked, roaring with rage, I grabbed one of the squirt guns from a boy's hands and threw it onto the ground.

They scattered in three different directions.

I chased the Mean Boy, the oldest of the pack.  He ran across the street to the house with the kiddie pool, into the back yard, toward a play house, but before he could make it, I tackled him and dragged him to the ground.  I used my wrestling training to pin him.  I was holding his hands above his head, pressing our chests together, pressing our crotches together, panting.

"Get off me, faggot!" the Mean Boy snarled.  And then "Ow!  Help!"

What would you do if you had a cute boy pinned to the ground?

"I'll show you who's a faggot, faggot!" I yelled.

"What you going to do about it?" he asked, struggling.

"I'll tell you, tough guy.  I'm going to kiss you!"

He laughed.  "You wouldn't have the nerve!"

"Try me."

He continued to struggle.  "Ok, wise guy, let's see what you got."

The Mean Boy's eyes widened as my mouth clamped down onto his.  "Mmph!" he protested.

I shoved my tongue into his mouth.

This was my first "French kiss."   I seem to remember the Mean Boy responding, darting his tongue against mine.  but it might be my imagination.

After a few minutes, I backed up.  The Mean Boy didn't say anything.  He just stared.

"Oh, you want another kiss?"

He shook his head.  "I guess you're pretty tough."

I jumped to my feet and turned and ran on, trembling with rage and a strange erotic excitement.

 I glanced back.  The Mean Boy was propped up on one elbow, staring at me.

This story could end in several ways.  The boy could become my first boyfriend.  I could run into him years later, and discover that he was gay.

But actually I never saw the Mean Boy again.  I started running a different route -- several different routes, actually.  If he was two years younger than me, he must have been a sophomore at Rocky High during my senior year, but I don't remember him.

But I definitely remember the kiss.

See also: My Date with Carl Gustaf, the King of Sweden; My First Kiss, from a Boy Vampire.

Kissing A Boy Under the Mistletoe

Rock Island, December 1977

In junior high, Brian was on the outer edges of my social circle, really one of my brother's friends..  We never hung out.  And when I was in high school, he moved with his parents to Bettendorf, across the river, so I rarely saw him at all.  Yet he was there during some of the most memorable moments of my childhood (I haven't posted about all of them yet):

The first time I hear about gay people on tv.

The secret message at Washington Junior High

Philippine Tubes

The drawing in the basement

Finding out what the graffiti meant

And "How Deep is Your Love"

On December 23, 1977, when I was in twelfth grade (a month or so after the Black Student Union Dance and some six months before I Figured It Out), my brother Ken hosted a party for his Rocky High crowd.  He draped our basement rec room with tinsel and offered guests pingpong, foosball, Happy Joes pizzas, Christmas presents, and disco music (but no dancing -- against Nazarene rules). 

I played pingpong for awhile with a stocky, dull-eyed girl named Anne.  Then Brian arrived with a friend from Bettendorf (across the river in Iowa).  He was thin and taut with a misty smile, his hair much darker than in grade school.  He was wearing a green sweater awash with little red bells, and tight faded jeans that bulged like a teen idol’s. 

 After they said "H'lo" to Ken, they started mingling, and when they got to the mistletoe, I said "Hey, everybody, my first victims!" and kissed them both on the cheek.  Everybody laughed.

Later I ran into Brian alone, and sat with him on the couch. "Cool joke!" he said.

We about talked his classes, AP English and German.  We talked about my college applications.  We talked about Pajama Game and Ragtime, Happy Days and The Great Gatsby, and a hundred other things I couldn’t recall later. We played pingpong and foosball.  We went outside to look at the stars. Then, because his friend didn’t want to leave yet, I drove him through the black, bitter cold night to his house in Bettendorf.

We parked against the hard-packed snow and sat for awhile in the darkness. In a stumbling goodbye, I said “Just because you live in Bettendorf doesn’t mean we can’t get together once in a while.” And then I reached over and hugged Brian. I felt his slim taut chest, looked down at his belt buckle glimmering in the darkness. His breath smelled of cough drops. I hugged him tighter. 

“Sure, I’ll call you,” Brian said. He disentangled himself and crunched across the ice to his back door.

When I got home and went back downstairs to the party, Ken immediately tromped over. “You’re a regular Fonzie!” he exclaimed. “When’s the big date?”

“Are you calling me a Swish?” I exclaimed. “I was just giving him a ride home.  No way am I a Swish!” (That was our high school word for "gay.")

Ken rolled his eyes. “Cool it, Captain Spazz! Everything isn’t always about Swishes. I saw you cozying up to Anne before.”

“Oh. . .Anne’s not my type. I don’t date 10th graders.”

Suddenly very tired, I went upstairs to our attic room and crawled into bed and turned on my clock radio.  The #1 song of the season was playing, "How Deep is Your Love," by the BeeGees:

Cause we're living in a world of fools, breaking us down

When they all should let us be.  We belong to you and me

I lay in bed, my thoughts blurred, varying between "I wonder if he'll call?" and "No way am I a Swish!"

Brian didn't call.

Why Infinite Chazz Broke Up with the Ginger Boy

West Hollywood, June 1994

We gave Chazz the nickname Infinite because he was infinitely hung, with at least a Mortadella, and because he was infinitely attractive.  Every guy in sight cruised him.  He would go out to the bars and come back with six telephone numbers.

We met when I was working at a camp for juvenile delinquents, but we didn't become friends until February 1994, when he was 20 years old, taking classes at Cal State Fullerton and working at Disneyland.

For the next two months, he drove up to West Hollywood nearly every Friday or Saturday, whichever day he had off, to go to dinners, parties, and Shabbat services.

He was a big hit at parties, where he usually won the "biggest penis" or "most easily aroused" contests.

He always shared our bed, unless he was out on a date.

In April 1994, a week or two after Passover, Infinite Chazz started dating Kris, a 19-year old aspiring actor, fresh out of high school in New Jersey.

"He's super-hot, and super-talented," Chazz gushed on the telephone. "He's only been in town six months, but he's already been in some movies and tv shows."

"So, you've been on three or four dates," I pointed out.  "When do we get to meet him?" It was customary to introduce the prospective boyfriend to the friends on the second date, to get their approval.  Barring that, the fourth or fifth date -- to share.

So the next weekend they had us over for dinner at Kris's terrible one-bedroom apartment on DeLongpre, just south of Sunset in Hollywood.

Kris was a ginger boy with a bright open face and a wide mouth.  Good for kissing, able to accommodate the biggest of Kovbasas.

But Chazz didn't invited us to share!

Too soon?

During the month of May, I saw Chazz and Kris often.

They came to Shabbat services at Beth Chaim Chadashim, followed by dinner at the French Quarter.

No sharing afterwards.

I had lunch alone with Kris while Chazz was at work.

No sharing afterwards.

They came to our friend Jason's party in mid May.  Kris won the "biggest penis" contest, beating out Infinite Chazz by a full inch when they were both aroused.  As his prize, he could invite anyone he wanted into the bedroom for 10 minutes.

He chose Chazz.

Still no sharing!



This was becoming awkward!  It was ok to wait a couple of weeks, but it had been over a month!  Not offering to share was unforgivably rude, like saying "You're not good enough for us!"

"Maybe Kris is HIV positive," Lane suggested, "And doesn't want to spread the virus around."

"Then he should say something!" I complained.  "And besides, we'd be having safe sex."

"Well, maybe they're monogamous."

"No sex outside the relationship?  The old heterosexual 'wife as property' model?"

"It's not very common, but it happens," Lane said.

"Ok, but they still should say something, apologize and explain, not give us the air!  It's just rude.  I'm about done with Chazz!"

"Maybe it's not Chazz's fault.  Maybe it's Kris.  He's newly out, after all, and he hasn't lived in West Hollywood long.  He doesn't know the rules.  Weren't you the same way, when you first moved here?"

So I gave Chazz another chance.  On Memorial Day weekend, we invited them to a barbecue, and hinted strongly that we should spend the night together.  But...nothing happened.

Kris was starring in a low-budget car-chase film called Smoke and Lightnin, and in June he invited me to a cast picnic as his "date."  A boring, heterosexist, outdoor affair, the monotony broken only by a nice sausage sighting of Christopher Atkins.

And by Kris saying: "Let's find a secluded spot and make out."

This is it!  I thought.  After two months, it is finally time to share!  

We didn't find a secluded spot during the picnic -- Christopher butted in -- but afterwards we went to the Rage, the twink bar, where we would be meeting Chazz after work (they didn't checked ids, if you were  cute).  We found a dark corner and kissed and groped.

But when Infinite Chazz arrived, we hung out for a bit, then had dinner at the Greenery and browsed at the Different Light, and went home.

No sharing!

A few days later, Lane and I left for Spain.  When we returned, I called to invite Infinite Chazz and Kris to lunch.

"Kris is still on location in Florida," Chazz explained.  "And anyway, we're not boyfriends anymore, so you'll have to invite him separately."

"You broke up? Why?"

"The oldest story in the book, Dad: I found out he was unfaithful.  Someone caught him in the act, and told me, but he didn't deny it."

"Sex with other guys!" I exclaimed, pretending to be horrified.  So they were monogamous after all!

"Oh, no, sex would be ok.  We had an open relationship, like you and Lane.  But I had a basic rule: no romance. No falling in love."

"And..?"

"He and this other guy were kissing!" I imagined Chazz's face contorted with disgust.  "Can you believe it?"

Suddenly I realized that I had gone down on Chazz a dozen times, but never kissed him.  It was the most intimate of activities in the gay world, far more intimate than oral or anal, often reserved for one's boyfriend.

So...that day at the Rage, Kris and I jumped past the "play" of simple erotic contact to romance...

"I don't know who the other guy was," Chazz said softly.  "My friend didn't recognize him, and Kris wouldn't say.  But if I ever find out..."

Gulp!

"So I have a question," I said.  "You were dating for two months.  Why didn't you ever invite us to share?"

"Why, were you into it?  You're always talking about how much you like black guys, Asians, Hispanics, swarthy Mediterranean types like Lane.  I didn't think you liked redheads.  I didn't want to put you on the spot."

See also: A Sausage Sighting of Christopher Atkins

The Demolish Boys Get Naked

Rock Island, June 1975

One Saturday in June of ninth grade, we were driving through Moline, the next town over from Rock Island, and we passed a building I had never seen before: a three-story tall tombstone, all skeleton-white, with sinister black windows and odd symbols on the roof.  The sign said "Scottish Rite Cathedral."

"Rite" meant "ritual," and "Cathedral" sounded Catholic, which to Nazarenes meant the epitome of degradation, debauchery, and unbrindled evil.

"Is that a Catholic church?" I asked breathlessly.

"Worse than that," Dad said.  "It's a Masonic Temple.  A secret society, like a club for men.  They go in there to get naked and drink human blood and worship Satan.  And they especially like to drink boys' blood, so be sure to stay far away."

"Secret societies" were on the list of things forbidden to Nazarenes.  But they were near the end of a very long list, and preachers and Sunday school teachers usually devoted their time to more immediate sins, like going to movies or eating out on Sunday.  And I wanted to know more about men getting naked.

This was before the internet, and there were no books on the Masons in the school library, so the only way to get more information was to ask two older boys in NYPS (the Nazarene Young People's Society):  Dave was a member of church royalty, with perfectly cut black hair, perfect teeth, and an athletic physique.  Last summer I got a Sausage Sighting at summer camp: impressive, maybe a Bratwurst, cut.  Terry was slim, with dirty-blond hair almost too shaggy to meet Nazarene standards, an aspiring Gospel singer from an unsaved family.  He backslid every few weeks and had to go down to the altar again, so I got to go up and hug him while he "prayed through to victory."  Hard, tight muscles, warm body.

The next afternoon, during the down time between youth choir and NYPS, they were playing basketball in the church parking lot.  I approached.

"Think fast!" Dave yelled, throwing the basketball at me.  I dodged it -- I hated sports.

"What a dork!"  Terry exclaimed as he ran to retrieve it.  They ignored me to continue their game.

"Um...I was wondering...what do you know about the Scottish Rite Cathedral in Moline?  Dad said they kidnap and torture kids inside."

Dave stopped playing, and grew quiet and solemn.  "Oh, your Dad's right.  You don't want to go near that place.  Terry was trapped by them for awhile, before he got saved."

"The Masons have a special cult for boys called the DeMolay," Terry said.  "That's short for demolish."

"What do they do to the boys?" I asked.

"Oh, all sorts of weird, disgusting things.  Like...they make them drink blood."

"And eat human eyeballs!" Terry said.  "Don't forget the eyeballs."

Dave nodded.  "And they make the Demolish boys run across hot coals. And take off their clothes so everybody can see their wieners."

Terry wrapped his arm around my shoulders and leaned in conspiratorily.  "Then they make the poor scared boys kiss each other on the lips!"

"Bogus!" I exclaimed, although I didn't really think it was bogus at all.

Dave wrapped his arm around my shoulders also.  "That's not the worst of it.  While they're kissing, the Demolish boys have to touch each other down there!"

"Gross!"

"They're having a Demolish Boy meeting Wednesday night," Dave said.  "We may be able to arrange a little sneak and peek, if you're interested."

"If you have a strong stomach," Terry added.  "It's intense."

 "I have a strong stomach! I've been inside a Catholic church before, with the idols and candles and everything!"

I was pretty sure Dave and Terry were putting me on, but there was at least a chance that I could see boys kissing and touching each other down there.  Besides, I would be hanging out with two cute guys.

They insisted that I bring a friend along -- "safety in numbers" -- so I invited Craig from Washington Junior High.

They picked us up at 7:00 pm Wednesday night and took us to Alfano's, the high school hangout, for pizza and more spooky stories about the Masons and the "Demolish Boys."  Then we went to levee and walked around in the gathering darkness.

"Demolay Meetings are always late at night," Dave said.  "The witching hour."

Finally we drove to Moline and parked in a dark alley behind the Scottish Rite Cathedral.  It looked bigger and scarier from up close.  The windows were all dark.  There were only two cars in the parking lot.

"Are you sure there's a meeting?" Craig asked.

"Sure," Terry said.  "You don't think they would advertise it, do you?  They don't want the fuzz breathing down their necks."

 They led us to a side door.  It wasn't locked.  Down a long, narrow hallway.  I heard sinister music playing from somewhere deep inside the building.

Up a narrow stairway to a small room like a dressing room: racks of white robes, a full-length mirror, belts and shoes on little racks.  A small window looked out onto the empty Masonic stage.

"The main ritual area is right down there," Terry said.  "We'll be able to watch the ceremony from here.  But we'll have to keep the lights off and be very quiet, so they don't...."

Suddenly the door burst open.  A Mason!  A tall man in a white robe, his face obscured by a white mask, a sword in his hand.  "What the hell are you doing here?" he exclaimed in a deep rough voice.

We glanced at each other, terrified, not sure what to do.  The Mason was blocking the only way out.  Maybe if we apologized, he would let us go....

"We're sorry...." I began.

"Looks like Satan provided us with some new boys for the sacrifice," the Mason said with a chuckle. He pointed his sword at Craig and me.  "You boys take off your clothes!  Now!"

I was still mostly sure that this was a prank, so I nonchalantly pulled my t-shirt off and undid my belt.  Craig looked uncertain, but took off his shirt, too.

"Come on, be quick about it!  Show me your wieners!"  He turned to Dave and Terry.  "You, too.  You have thirty seconds to get your clothes off, or I cut your head off."

My heart started to race.  Dave and Terry would never agree to be the butt of the joke.   This was real!

"No, don't cut my head off," Dave said, his voice trembling.  "We're sorry.  We'll do anything you want."

"What I want is to see you kissing each other on the lips and touching each other down there.  Now get busy!"

Craig was already naked, his pale, slim body glowing in the fluorescent light, his small penis thickening, partially aroused.

I was getting partially aroused, too, wondering if I would get to kiss Dave and Terry, too, or just Craig?  Would I get to fondle all three of them?

Suddenly Terry started laughing.  "Ok, Joe, we've tortured the kids enough for one night."

The Mason put down his sword and took off his mask and robe -- a high school boy!

Dave put his arm around Craig's shoulders.  "You can get dressed, buddy.  I hope we didn't scare you too much."

Craig shook his head.  "I wasn't scared at all."

"And Boomer!" Terry exclaimed.  "I thought you were a little wuss, but you have nerves of steel! If I didn't know better, I'd think you actually wanted to get naked and kiss Craig on the lips."

"And touch him down there," Dave added with a grin.

By the way, the DeMolay is a real youth fraternity affiliated with the Masons, with about 15,000 members in the U.S.  They do character-building and charity work.   They don't actually require you to get naked and touch each other.

Some famous people who belonged to the DeMolay Society  as kids include Mel Blanc, John Steinbeck, John Wayne, Walt Disney, and Bill Clinton.

See also: I learn about oral sex in the church parking lot; The Sausage Sighting Prank at the Funeral Home.

How Intimate is Your Sex Life?

We have sex for many reasons:

To express erotic desire.

To experience beauty

To boost our self esteem

To be polite

For recreation

To establish and maintain intimacy.

Intimacy: that feeling of intense closeness, of opening not only your body but your soul, is essential for starting and maintaining a romantic relationship, the only way to distinguish friends and roommates from lovers.

These are sexual acts rated on a scale of 1 (least intimate) to 10 (most intimate).

To determine the intimacy of your sex life, score yourself for each of these acts that you engaged in with a partner during the last week, then divide by the number of sessions.

For instance, if you had five sessions last week, twice as as an anal top, three times as an oral bottom, three times as an oral top, and and one mutual masturbation, your score is 6.0

But, if you had five sessions last week, all involving kissing, plus twice as an anal bottom and three times as an oral bottom, your score is 12.8.

Note:  They are rated on intimacy only, not on other ways to judge a sexual act, such as skill required, degree of erotic stimulation provided, and facility at producing an orgasm.

Anal Top.  Anal takes preparation and equipment (condoms and lube don't come cheap), and the top has to be minimally attracted to the bottom, or it won't work.   But if you go in from the rear, you're facing the wrong direction, and even if you go in with his legs in air, you can't see much.

Plus you have to concentrate on proper technique.  If you are big, how to minimize the pain?  If you are small, how to keep from popping out at every thrust.  2 points

Anal Bottom.  The same problem as with topping -- facing the wrong way, or you can't see much.  But the pain and sense of risk work to increase the intimacy. 4 points

BDSM Bottom.  Letting a guy bind and gag you  requires a lot of trust, and he's producing not only erotic pleasure but domination, control, and pain.  5 points


BDSM Top.  BDSM requires even more preparation and equipment than anal, but it's not just a matter of plowing in. You have to pay careful attention to the bottom's reactions, and modify your actions accordingly.  5 points.

Interfemoral/Frottage, Top or Bottom: No advance preparation or technique to worry about, and you're facing each other, feeling each other's entire body, not just a penis.

Frottage (through the clothes): 3 points.
Interfemoral (naked): 7 points.


Kissing.  So intimate that some guys won't do it at all, and others, only with a romantic partner.  10 points.

Mutual Masturbation.  But isn't that what kids do before they figure out more advanced techniques?  Sure, but think of what you are doing: you and your partner have your hands on each other's most sensitive body part, which requires a great deal of trust.  You are gazing into each other's eyes.

And you have to be very aware to your partner's response to move toward a simultaneous orgasm.  Very intimate.  7 points







Oral Bottom. Not very intimate at all.  Most guys will go down on anyone who offers, regardless of face, physique, or personality -- a penis is a penis, and beneath the belt they're all the same.   You can even go down on a disembodied penis, through a glory hole or in a dark room, and have no idea who he is or what he looks like.

And the thrusting requires so much concentration, so much attention to technique and breath control, that you don't have much time left to establish emotional intimacy.  2 points

Oral Top.  A little more intimate.  Just as with oral bottoms, most guys will drop their pants for anyone who asks (as long as they are male and over 18) -- a mouth is a mouth.  But putting your penis into a position where you could get bit requires a minimum of trust, and at least you can look at at your partner.  4 points

See also: The Ins and Outs of Oral Sex

Three Unscreened Hookups on the Same Night

Plains, September 2016

You're probably wondering why I've been posting so many bereavement stories.  This was a bad summer for people I know getting sick and passing away.  Other guys eat when they're upset.  I hook up.

So earlier this week I got on Grindr, put up a photo of my chest, said "Free tonight," and specified in my profile "Kissing, cuddling, and oral essential."

I was not in the mood to screen them carefully -- I just wanted someone in my bed to kiss and cuddle with.  So I did minimal screening, not worrying about age or size, rejecting only the downlow, 420-friendly (marijuana smokers), and "top me, Daddy!"  After that, the first three guys who asked got an invitation, scheduled at 6:00, 7:00, and 8:00 pm.

6:00:. Jarhead, age 28., buffed, hairy chest, hung to his knees, totally into kissing, cuddling, and oral.  

Jarheads are Marines, right?

He wasn't a Marine, and he wasn't 28 -- more like 68-- a chubby, hairy Grandpa.

Nothing wrong with a Grandpa, but why would you knock 40 years off your profile?  What if the guy you meets is not into older?

Turns out when he said he was into kissing, he just meant kissing on the body, not kissing on the mouth.  What kind of grade school dissimulation is that?  I sent him on his way.

7:00: Mike, age 25, tall, black, muscular, 8", totally into kissing and cuddling and oral.  

Well, he was tall and black, and in his 20s.  But very husky, even fat, not muscular at all.  With a gross nose ring.

And not into kissing and cuddling.  He wanted a blow-and-go.

What the heck -- he had a nice sized penis, a very thick 6" (everybody adds an inch), and I hadn't been with a black guy for awhile.

So I went down on him while he was sitting on a chair in my living room.  He forcibly pushed my head down onto his penis to take his load, and then said "thanks" and left.







8:00: Romeo, age 28, hairy, bearded, Hispanic, 8", totally into kissing and oral.

Guys push their age up in online profiles, too -- Romeo was only about 21, with a tiny bit of chest hair and a sparse beard.  Average sized uncut penis.

Not into kissing, yet again!  He wanted me to top him.  I refused.  He asked to top me.  I refused.

"What about oral?"  I asked.

He wouldn't go down on me, but he grudgingly consented to let me go down on him.

And down.  And down.  And down.

My jaw got tired after about twenty minutes, and I asked him to finish himself.   After twenty more minutes, he conceded that it wasn't happening.  "I'm really just into anal," he admitted on his way out.


9:00: I showered, changed clothes, and went down the hall to knock on the door of my mentally disabled neighbor, Timmy, who I had a date with last month.

"Hi, Boomer!" he said.  "I'm watching tv."

"What program?"

"Austin and Ally.  It has singing."  A Disney channel teencom.

"Can I watch with you?  We can cuddle and kiss."

At least I knew that Timmy was into kissing.  And underwear stuff.

See: Don't Be Nervous: My Date with My Mentally Disabled Neighbor