The Leatherman Who Never Left South of Market

SOMA, South of Market,  was a San Francisco neighborhood of warehouses, factories, car repair places, tattoo parlors, dive bars, drug deals, graffiti, and general decay.

And Mickey, a tall, buffed leatherman in his 30s, with a scruffy beard, nipple rings, and a tattoo of Hot Stuff the Little Devil.

He was at every beer bust at the Eagle, standing in a dark corner in chaps and a leather jacket, never talking to anyone.  Guys who approached generally got Attitude.

He was at every underwear party at the Lone Star, standing in a dark corner in a leather jockstrap, never talking to anyone, although he would let guys grope him.

He was at every Bear Party, standing in a dark corner, naked except for a leather vest, never talking to anyone, although he would let guys go down on him.

And that's it.  I  never saw him exchange phone numbers or leave with anyone, or even talk to anyone, nothing but wordless groping and blow jobs.  Apparently he had no friends.

I was intrigued,  What caused a man to become isolated even from his own people?  But when I tried involving Mickey in a conversation, all I got was Attitude at the Eagle, my hand pushed down on his cock at the Lone Star, and my head pushed down on his cock at the bear parties. 

Then one Tuesday morning I was walking down 9th to my part time job at an architectural firm, and I saw Mickey walking down Folsom, looking out of place in his chaps and leather vest in the midst of a business day.

"Hey, Mickey!" I called.  He turned and looked at me, confused, threatened.

"Boomer.  From the bear party last night, remember?"

He stared at me for a long moment.  "Um...sure," he said finally, as if was a last resort.  "Um...how are you?"

"Fine, thanks.  I'm on my way to work. I'm an administrative assistant at McCracken. You?"

"Um, well...."  He looked around, confused, as if he never had a conversation that didn't involve sex. 

"Are you on your way to work, too?"  I suggested.  "Nice job that lets you work with your shirt off!"

"I work in a leather shop. Looking hot is good for business."

My information about Mickey had doubled!  Now was my chance!  "So...are you free for lunch?  There's a nice Chinese restaurant down on Bryant.  You might have to put on a t-shirt...."

He peered toward the south.  "I never go past Harrison.  Too homophobic. Sixth to Twelfth, Harrison to Market, that's my turf."

"Really?"  I was shocked. He had named a constrained world of about ten blocks!  Ok, it had the Eagle, the Lone Star, the house where they held the bear parties, and some gyms, tattoo parlors, and bike shops, but no banks, bookstores, hardware stores, parks, or movie theaters.  And... "Never?  You're missing the Castro! Gay heaven!"

"I'm not missing it much!"  Mickey grinned.  This was the first time I ever saw him express any emotion.

"Ok, how about if I come to you?  I'll pick up some Chinese food and drop by your shop."

"Is it a gay Chinese restaurant?" he asked pointedly. "I don't eat straight food."

Straight food?

Over gay kung pao chicken and gay pork dumplings, Mickey told me a bit more about his life:

1. He grew up in Missouri, and had a degree in visual arts from Washington University in St. Louis.
2. He was working as a graphic artist in St. Louis, but he was accidentally outed and fired.
3. He was the favorite uncle to his brothers' and sister's kids, but when he was outed, they cut off all contact.
4. While leaving Clementine's in St. Louis, he was jumped and beat up by a band of homophobes, and spent five days in the hosptial.  His brothers and sister didn't visit.
5. He had lived in San Francisco for about five years.  But he never visited the Castro.  He'd have to go through a homophobic neighborhood to get there.

Gradually I began to understand.  Some horrifying experiences with homophobia -- much worse than my own -- drove Mickey to bulwark himself in muscle and leather, entomb himself South of Market, and refuse human contact except when necessary for work or erotic release.

But gay neighborhoods were not about erotic release -- they were always about finding friends, family, a place where you belong.

And I knew exactly how to get Mickey there!

"The Metropolitan Community Church has an outreach program for gay youth," I said.  "Many of them are having a terrible time at home, with parents who are homophobic and treat them like dirt."

"That's awful!" Mickey exclaimed.

"One of the things we do is give them a place to hang out after school.  But right now it's unstructured, just some snacks and videos in the fellowship hall.  I think they need some structured activities, like sports, or maybe an art class."

He knew where I was going.  "No way -- I'm no teacher!"

"You don't have to know how to teach.  You have to know how to mentor.  You can be a favorite uncle again."

"But I'm an atheist!"

"The MCC doesn't discriminate."

"The MCC -- that's in the Castro, isn't it?"

"Yes, you'd have to go to the Castro. And you'd have to put on a shirt."

It took a bit more persuading over several days of gay Chinese food, but a few weeks later Mickey and I were in the pastor's office, discussing his art background.  And a few weeks after that, Mickey started his after-school art classes for LGBT youth.

The transformation was amazing.  Soon Mickey was talking to people at the Lone Star and the Eagle.  He was volunteering to work on the Mr. San Francisco Leather competition.  And he invited one of the guys who went down on him at a bear party to dinner -- at a gay restaurant, of course.

See also: The Slave Boy of Castro Street; The Leather Bear Shares his New Boyfriend.

Finding Larry's New Fetish

Santa Fe, New Mexico, July 2004

I've never understood how you can be friends with someone for years, and then there's an incident, and it's over.

They just stop answering the phone when you call, or responding to your emails.  They unfriend you on Facebook.

Or in the case of Larry, he orders you out of the house.

You remember Larry, the "lost soul" in Nashville with the crazy, obsessive lifestyle, who finally got involved in the gay leather community?

After I left Nashville, we called and emailed each other regularly.

He moved to Denver and then Santa Fe, New Mexico.  I moved to New York and then Florida.

In the summer of 2004, we hadn't seen each other face-to-face for years, so I decided to fly out to Santa Fe for a 10-day visit.  

Big mistake.

As Ben Franklin said, house guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days.

Day 1:  I arrived at 8:00 pm.  Larry picked me up at the airport, gave me a brief tour of the city, and then took me back to his house.

A three-room trailer in a desolate commercial strip on the outskirts of town.  Cluttered with terrible, mismatched thrift-store furniture.

I guess passions for leather and opera don't come cheap, so you have to economize in other areas.

We tried to squeeze into his small single bed for some ordinary vanilla sex, but the night was very hot, and we were both big, so I ended up sleeping on the floor.

Day 2:  I assumed that Larry would take off work so we could go sightseeing, like I always did when a friend visited me in Florida.  But no, at 7:00 he drove off, leaving me alone on Jemez Road with no car.

All of the art galleries, shops, missions, and museums were downtown, about six miles away.

I started walking, and eventually hit Airport Road, with a lot of fast food places and cars rushing by in the hot desert sun. There was a mall about a mile away, where I bought a t-shirt.  I found a gym, but they didn't have day memberships.

Larry returned at 6:00 pm.  "What's on for tonight?" I asked.  "Dinner, art walk, the clubs?"

"Oh, no, I'm too tired to go out.  I'll cook dinner here."

"Well...can we at least go to the gym first?"

So Larry drove me to his gym and bought me a day pass.  Then he baked a chicken for dinner. It wasn't ready until 10:00 pm.

"Four hours past dinnertime," I muttered.  "We should have just ordered a pizza."

"Too much saturated fat, and way too expensive!"

Some brief, noncommittal bedroom activity ended the evening.

Why wasn't I meeting his friends?  Why weren't we cruising?  What was going on?

Day 3:  I asked Larry if I could drive him to work and borrow his car for sightseeing, but he refused: "Nobody drives my car but me."

So I rented a car and visited The Plaza, The Museum of Indian Arts and Culture, and The New Mexico Museum of Art, and returned to Larry's gym for another day pass.

When Larry got home at 6:00 pm, I said, "Tomasita's tonight -- best Mexican restaurant in town, according to the internet!"

"Oh, no, that's much too expensive."

"My treat."

"Oh, no, you're my guest, I'll cook.  I can do Mexican, if that's what you want."

So he made low-fat enchiladas.  Afterwards he wanted to go to the gym.  I had already been, so I asked "Do you mind if I go to the clubs?"

He glared at me.  "No, the clubs will be dead on a Thursday night.  But when I get back from the gym, we can do a S&M scene, if you want.  I'm a top, you know."

So I watched tv all night, and then bottomed for an S&M scene.  I didn't like it.

Day 4:  While Larry was at work, I went to the Canyon Road Art Galleries, the San Miguel Mission, and the Cathedral of St. Francis of Assisi, and had lunch at Tomasita's.  Then I bought groceries.  When he got home at 6:00, dinner was on the table.

Surprisingly, he was annoyed.  "I'm the host, I should cook dinner.  Or don't you like my cooking?"

I ended up apologizing and waiting while he wrapped my dinner in cellophane for later and cooked a meal of his own.

Afterwards, I said "It's Friday night.  The gin joints should be hoppin'.  Where shall we go?"

"Oh, no, there aren't any decent gay bars in Santa Fe.  We'll go into Albuquerque tomorrow.  Let's just hang out and watch tv tonight."

"Well -- do you mind if I go to the clubs on my own?"

I didn't notice him glaring at me.  "No, of course not.  Just -- if you bring a hot leatherman home, I get to share."

Turns out that Larry was right -- there was only one gay bar in town, the Rouge Cat.  Unfortunately, it catered to the Cute Young Thing crowd, and twinks in New Mexico didn't have the Daddy fixation that they did in Florida.  After about an hour of getting Attitude, I was finally cruised by a cute University of New Mexico undergrad named Tom.

By the time we got back to the trailer, Larry was asleep in his single bed, so Tom and I slept on blankets on the living room floor.  He got up and left early; I didn't think Larry had even noticed.

He had.

Larry got up and made coffee as if nothing was wrong.  But when we sat down, he started in: "What did I tell you?  You bring a cute guy into my house, and I don't even get a peek!"

"Sorry, you were asleep, and...well, I didn't think Tom was your type.  You like them more mature."

"Why were you going out without me, anyway?  You're visiting me!," Larry continued, starting to rant.  "We're supposed to go out together!"

"You said it was ok.  You were too tired to go out."

"Well, excuse me for working for a living!  I don't have a rich sugar daddy who gives me free rent!"

Did he mean Barney?  "No, I pay rent..."

"Or a cute boy toy just waiting at home for me!"

Did he mean Yuri?  "No, we're just..."

"You know what?  If my house isn't good enough for you, why don't you just get out?  Take some of your sugar daddy's money and stay in a hotel!"

I stared.  "I didn't say your house wasn't good enough..."

I don't remember what else was said that morning, but it ended with my duffel bag deposited into my rental car.  I spent Days 6-10 in hotels, touring Tucumcari, Roswell, Allamogordo, Albuquerque, and the Navajo Nation.  I called Larry a couple of times, but when he heard my voice, he hung up.

Had I been bragging about my "sugar daddy" and "boy toy" back home in Florida?   Had I been complaining a little too much about the dreary accommodations and lack of sight-seeing?  I don't remember.

The trip wasn't a total loss.  I saw some interesting museums and art galleries, hooked up with a couple of cute guys, and discovered my grandmother's long-lost gay friend.

But I lost a friend of 13 years in the process.

See also: Finding Larry's Fetish; Cruising in the Navajo Nation; Cruising in New Mexico.

Street Cruising in San Francisco: 15 Gimmicks that Landed Me or My Friends

When I lived in San Francisco, street cruising was common: you happened to see an attractive guy on the street, and after minimal conversation, at most a drink in the nearest bar, invited him into your bed.

Street cruising was not planned.  You were on your way to the gym or to dinner or to the underwear party at the Lone Star, wending your way through the after-work crowds, when something about the guy incited your interest and prompted you to make contact.

If you wanted to be successful, you couldn't depend on your biceps and bulge alone.  Every guy in town could bench press 350, and was either super-hung or knew how to stuff socks down there.

You had to have something special, a little boost that set you apart from the crowd.

Here are 15 successful street cruising gimmicks.  Each of them landed me or one of my friends.

1, The Leatherman. had a scuffy beard, nipple rings, and a tattoo of Hot Stuff the Little Devil.  He wore chaps, a leather vest, and no shirt everywhere, to the grocery store, to the dentist, to church. He never left South of Market, where such things are not completely bizarre.

2. The Unicyclist.  Another example of partial nudity, with a twist.  He rode a unicycle down the street, wearing only short pants and white gloves and carrying a little horn.  When he saw a guy he liked, he circled and beeped.

3. The Construction Worker.  San Francisco was all professionals and service industry workers, very few blue collar jobs, so everyone had rough-and-tumble fantasies about a guy in a yellow vest with a toolbelt covering his crotch.









4. The Teddy Bear Artist.  He was 53 years old, husky but muscular, with a hairy chest, prominent nipples, and nice biceps. Kielbasa+ beneath the belt.  He made a living building custom teddy bears: in leather jackets, in bondage gear, sporting gay pride flags.  There was always a small teddy bear hanging from his belt.

5. The Golden Retriever's Human.  Even if the guy's face and physique nothing to write home about, who's going to pass up an opportunity to play with the dog?











6. The Maserati's Owner.   You can hardly engage in street cruising while driving, but the Maserati's Owner simply sat in his frightfully expensive convertible, an ostentatious symbol of wealth (especially in San Francisco, where cars are a burden, not a necessity).


7. The Pie Man.  Whenever he wanted to cruise, he bought a pie at the bakery and carried it down the street.  Conversations involved asking for "a piece," asking if he could "eat something that big," and so on.  The next day he donated the pie to a homeless shelter.








8. Pushing a Shopping Cart.  Jake used a shopping cart to take his laundry to the laundromat.  being mistaken for homeless when he was obviously well-fed and well-housed got him a lot of attention.

9. The Golfer.  I've never met a gay man who was actually into golf, and Castro Street is probably five miles from the nearest golf course, but lugging one of those bags full of clubs down the street is definitely a conversation starter.

10. The Bible Boy.  My friend David picked up a "screamer," one of those guys who carry signs and Bibles and yell about "abominations."







11. The Edwardian.  He wore a waistcoat and a boater hat and carried a walking stick, looking for all the world like he was on the way to tea with E.M. Forster and P.G. Wodehouse

12. Santa Claus, aka Bearnard, a writer who had a bestselling series of fantasy novels set in the days of King Arthur.  He was eccentric in a lot of ways, but in the wintertime he capitalized on his resemblance to Santa Claus by wearing lots of reds and blacks.  A surprising number of guys asked him to slide down their chimney.

13. The Martian.  A very tall black guy, bald, dressed all in white with a gold medallion hanging on his neck, he looked exactly like the an emissary of the Galactic Council in a "Space Brothers" UFO cult.  He gave his name as Darvon Klaa, and said he was from "A small planet very, very far away."

14. Brad Pitt.  Actually just a guy who looked like him.  But he played up his resemblance to the hunky star of Thelma and Louise, Johnny Suede, A River Runs Through It, and Interview with the Vampire, and celebrity sightings were so rare in San Francisco that he caused a sensation of autograph-seeking and cruising.


15. The Skateboarder.  There aren't a lot of twinks in San Francisco: living in the City requires stamina and financial resources beyond the reach of most 20-year olds.  So those few twinks around were exotic, like visitors from a distant country.  What better way to attract attention than to emphasize your alienness, skateboarding in a flannel t-shirt, baggy jeans, and a backward baseball cap?

Will and Scott Have a Wild Night with Keanu Reeves

When I met Will the Bondage Boy in November 1987, he was the picture of a Silverlake leatherman.

He was in his 30s, short and compact, bearded, with a muscular, hairy chest and a little belly.

He worked as a bartender at the L.A. Eagle, he wore chaps, boots, and a leather jacket almost everywhere, and he had a fully equipped dungeon in his basement.

Will wasn't averse to going down on guys, especially if they were big beneath the belt, but he preferred S&M.  He was into intricate, complicated scenes with dialogue and plots, like "prisoner of war" or "interrogated spy."

I naturally assumed that he had been into leather as long as he had been out.  But no: not too long ago, he was a West Hollywood twink, with a closet full of polo shorts and cargo pants, Duran Duran on his car stereo, and no bondage experience except for a few vague fantasies.

He claimed that his awakening came in the summer of 1986, during a wild night with film star Keanu Reeves.

West Hollywood, July 1986

Although Will and I were both living in West Hollywood during 1985-86, our paths never crossed, that I know of.  I was into the Metropolitan Community Church, Asian guys, and Muscle and Fitness.  He was into musical theater, fashion, and...well, dancing.

He and his best friend, Scott, were at the Rage, the twink dance club, with occasional forays to Mickey's and Studio One, four or five times per week, every week, month after month, year after year, dancing and cruising, dancing and cruising.

"It was like we were killing time, just waiting around for our life to begin," Will says.

One night in July, a couple of weeks after Gay Pride, Will and Scott were in the Rage, as usual, when Scott started cruising a Cute Young Thing: tall, thick black hair, sharp features, a soft, smooth chest, and an enormous basket.

His name was Keanu, which he said meant Breeze over the Mountains in Hawaiian.  His parents were native Hawaiian and British, but he grew up in Canada.  He just moved to L.A. a few months ago.  He was living with his stepfather and trying to make it as an actor.

After they danced and fondled for awhile, Keanu said "Let's get out of here!"

Scott blanched -- "tricking," bringing someone home after just meeting, was taboo in West Hollywood.  Besides, you didn't abandon a friend in the middle of the evening.

"Oh, I don't mean anything like that," Keanu said.  "I meant let's go have some fun.  Both of you, of course."

Wondering what could be more fun than dancing at the Rage, they followed him out of the club and got into his battered Volvo.

"You got into a car with a guy you didn't know?" I ask, shocked.

"Well, there were two of us and one of him, so we thought it would be safe.  Besides, Scott was really into him."

They drove all the way through Beverly Hills, Century City, and Santa Monica to the Pier, where they got out and walked along the beach.

Gay men in West Hollywood simply didn't go to the beach, so it was quite an adventure walking on the sand, Scott and Keanu holding hands and kissing.  Will, feeling left out and a bit jealous, pushed himself into the group and kissed and fondled them both.  Soon he was going down on them.  Scott had a Kielbasa+, and Keanu had an uncut Mortadella.

After a few minutes, Keanu pulled him to his feet, zipped up, and said "This guy can't wait, can he?  We'd better cool him off, or he'll never last the night."

They climbed back into the car and drove into Beverly Hills.  Keanu parked in a back alley off Rexford Drive.

"Is this where you live?" Will asked.

"No, I live three doors down.  But this house has something my stepdad doesn't.  A pool."

"Wait," I protest.  "You were just on the beach.  Why didn't..."

"What can I say?  It was a wild night."

Before they could question, Keanu was taking his clothes off, leaping over the fence, and diving headfirst into a stranger's pool.

Scott eagerly followed.  Will followed, too, reluctantly.

"What if the people inside hear us?  We'll be arrested -- and you know what that means."

 In 1986, the LAPD was notoriously homophobic.  They would be laughed at, called names, lectured on the book of Leviticus, and probably assaulted.

"Spoilsport!" Keanu exclaimed, splashing him.   "I know these people -- well, I've seen them, anyway.  From a car as we drove past."  He got on his knees and tried to go down on Scott underwater.

Will pulled him to his feet.  "Are you crazy!  Now it's not just indecent exposure and trespassing, it's lascivious behavior -- a felony!"

Keanu tried to grab Scott's penis, but Will pushed him away.

"Sounds like somebody needs some discipline," he said.  "You ever been spanked, boy?"

It was oddly exciting to be called "boy" by a Cute Young Thing barely out of his teens, and the prospect of a spanking...maybe it could be a teacher-student thing, like in his high school fantasies...besides, anything to get them out of the pool!

So they stopped at Laurel Hardware for some clothesline and clothes pins -- rather a popular purchase at 2:00 am -- then returned to Will's apartment in West Hollywood.   Will stripped to his underwear, and Keanu tied him to a chair with his hands behind his back.

He was gagged, fondled, whipped lightly with a belt.  Clothespins were attached to his nipples.

Then Keanu said "We've been lovers for ten years.  You never knew that I've been seeing other guys on the side.  One day you come home unexpectedly to find me with my boyfriend.  We tie you up, make fun of your tiny penis, and force you to watch."  He led Scott to the bed and kissed him passionately, then moved him into the 69 position.

Will was already a little jealous, and he found himself getting into the role easily, struggling against the ropes, yelling into the gag, feeling real anger and betrayal -- and becoming tremendously aroused.

They took their time, making the act as slow and romantic as they could, which aroused Will even more.  He really believed that he was watching his long-term lover cheating on him!  Keanu looked over a couple of times and smugly fondled Scott's Kielbasa.

When Keanu finished, he lay there for a moment, then came over to Will,  took off the gag, and untied him.  Will pulled him into a long kiss.

"Did you like that?" Scott asked anxiously.  "Or was it a little too weird for you?"

Will stood,  still sticking straight out, and made his way shakily to the bed.  He grinned. "Are you going to punish me for being late to class, Teacher?"

They never saw Keanu again, but the next Saturday night Will was standing at the entrance of the L.A. Eagle, wearing chaps and a leather vest.

Were Will and Scott telling the truth?

1. Guys often have a second "coming out" into the leather scene, but Will's transition from vanilla sex only to complicated role-playing bondage games seems a little abrupt.

2. They got some biographical details wrong: Keanu was born in Lebanon, not Canada, and in the summer of 1986 he was already established as an actor. 

3. But he did drive a battered 1969 Volvo, and he was living in Beverly Hills with his former stepfather, director Paul Aaron.

4. Keanu apparently has a rather small penis, not a Mortadella.  But that might just be the convention of West Hollywood storytelling, where everyone is enormous.

5. In 2014 a female intruder went skinny dipping in Keanu's pool.  He called the police and had her arrested.  He never mentioned any similar acts in his youth.

6. There's no evidence that Keanu Reeves is gay.  Although he is unmarried, he has been linked with several women over the years, including Winona Ryder, Cameron Diaz, Parker Posey, and most recently trans actress Jamie Clayton.  He is a strong gay ally, so surely if he was gay or bi, he would have outed himself by now.

Dancing with a Swedish Leatherboy

Fiesch, Switzerland, June 1977

During the summer after my junior year at Rocky High, when I still belonged to the ultra-fundamentalist Nazarene Church and thought gay people were monsters, I was one of the delegates to the Nazarene Youth Society International Institute, 500 cream-of-the-crop teenage Johnny and Suzie Nazarenes from around the world meeting in an old army training camp (now the Sport und Ferienzentrum) in Fiesch, Switzerland.














What did we do for a week?

Boys-only swimming

1. Evangelization services, with altar calls every night.
2. Bible studies, prayer meetings, and workshops on personal evangelization.
3. The International Jump Quiz Tournament.
4. Swimming in the camp pool (boys only before noon, girls only after noon).
 5. Field trips to Rhone Glacier, Brig (for skiing), and Mount Eggishorn (for mountain climbing).

I tried to call Giovanni, the foreign-exchange student who I had a crush on, but the number didn't work.


We had some free time for sightseeing, as long as we followed the rules:

1. Don't make friends with the locals.
2. Don't go near any Catholic churches.
3. No dancing, movies, live theater, card games, or festivals. No restaurants that serve alcohol (in Switzerland they all do).
4. Be back at the base by 7:00 pm, and in your bunk 1/2 hour after altar call ends. 

Sport und Ferienzentrum, Fiesch

I started hanging out with Alex, whose dad was a missionary in France, and who had no qualms about breaking the rules.  We visited Sion Cathedral, chatted up some high school boys on the train, abandoned our lunch boxes for a restaurant.

And one night we snuck out after curfew, walked into town, and ended up in a disco (breaking three rules at once).

My eyes were drawn to an older guy, maybe 25, sitting with his friends: blond, glasses, wearing a leather jacket with no shirt underneath.  I glimpsed a stunning, sculpted physique like a marble statue, and a gigantic bulge.  So I dragged Alex over to talk to him.

Our barracks

In English, he said that his name was Christoffer, and he was an engineering student from Goteborg University in Sweden.

"I had lunch with King Karl Gustaf last year," I yelled, trying to make myself heard over the music.. "He told me to apply to Goteborg University."

"He doesn't know what he's talking about," Christoffer yelled.  I didn't realize it at the time, but in retrospect, he was very drunk. "You should be a model.  You have the right. . .um. . face for it. . .and you, too," he added, turning to Alex. "You should be models together."

Suddenly we heard the throbbing beat of Donna Summers' "I Feel Love."  "Come on, we dance," Christoffer said, throwing off his leather jacket and dragging us onto the dance floor.

I had never danced before, so I'm sure I was bad at it, but Christoffer wasn't paying attention.  He jumped and gyrated and lip-synched until his body started to glow with sweat.

I wasn't going back to camp without a touch, so I reached out and ran my palm lightly over that white-marble chest.  Christoffer grinned at me.  He reached over and undid a button of my shirt, and then another, and ran his hand underneath.

The Swedish leather boy

Then Alex pulled me away.  "We have to get back!" he yelled.

"No, stay!" Christoffer yelled.  "Come to my hotel.  We have Schnapps!"

An offer of alcohol quashed any erotic interest I might have had.  I said goodbye and quickly followed Alex out of the club and through the dark, cool night to our camp.

"I think I saved you from a fate worse than death back there," Alex said. "That Christoffer guy was gay."

"No way!" I exclaimed.  "Didn't you see his body?"  In Rock Island, we thought that muscles were a sure sign of heterosexual identity.

I never saw Christoffer again, of course, but I have often wondered what would have happened if we accepted his offer of "Schnapps."

See also: My date with the King of Sweden

The Slave Boy of Castro Street

San Francisco, October 1996

The Castro and South of Market may have been Gay Heaven, but the rest of San Francisco was not.

You might see an occasional hand-holding gay couple or rainbow flag, but mostly you were deluged by heterosexual power-couples and cooing Moms and Pops on holiday.

Some neighborhoods were quite homophobic  I have had slurs yelled out of passing cars at me only five times in my life: once in Maine, once in Texas, and three times in San Francisco.

So most gay people in San Francisco wanted to move to the Castro.

It was tough. There were no apartment buildings, just Victorian houses chopped up into apartments with rents averaging $4000 per month, that came available only when someone died.

And the competition was fierce.  Once I looked at a one-room basement apartment, with an impossibly low ceiling and glazed windows that wouldn't open.  Unliveable!  But not to the dozen people inside frantically filling out applications!

I was living in a cramped third-floor walk-up, over a hardware store, down the street from a liquor store, and within a few block's walk of seven Baptist churches, a Pentecostal church, and the United House of Prayer for All People.

It was nearly as homophobic as Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas.

But only a mile from the Castro!

Late in September 1996, I had the opportunity to move closer.

There were no bath houses or saunas in San Francisco; they had all been closed down by Public Health.  But there was a weekly Bear Party (for big, hairy, husky guys) held at a private house South of Market.  Upstairs there was socializing and snacks; downstairs, a maze, a dark room, a dungeon, and a room full of mattresses for erotic activity.

The highlight of the party was the Slave Boy, a different guy each week tied to a St. Andrew's cross, naked, his mouth held open by a metal stirrup.  He stayed there all evening, available to be used for erotic activity by anyone who passed by.

Beside him was a box of erotic toys: whips, paddles, clothespins, a violet wand, and so on.

Some party guests became quite busy trying out the various toys, but I was usually content to just watch.  Until one night when the Slave Boy was particularly attractive: short, dark-skinned, and muscular.  Near the end of the party, I approached, took off the stirrup, and kissed him.

And kept kissing him.

When I pulled away, he pulled me back in.


After about ten minutes, he whispered "Would Sir like to come home with me tonight?  My name is Oliver."

A hookup with a slave boy?  "Aren't you too tired by now?"

"Oh, no, Sir, I'm always ready."  We kissed for awhile longer.  "I'll ask my Sir, ok?"

So I hung around until a muscle bear named Rick and another guy in a slave collar arrived to untie Oliver.  They had a brief conversation, and Rick motioned me over.

"My Boy would like you to share his bed tonight.  Are you interested?"

"If it's ok with you, Sir."

"Fine, fine. Boy's been very good tonight, and he deserves a reward."  He pushed the still-naked Oliver toward me.  "But no pain, ok?"

We were so busy kissing in the backseat that I wasn't paying attention to where we were going until we arrived.

It was a narrow Victorian on Eureka at 19th, in the heart of the Castro!

Rick led us into a parlor with hardwood floors and parquet ceilings, furnished all in black leather and glass.  A naked guy who had been watching tv sprang up to take our coats.

"Gene, look at the present Sir got me for being good!" Oliver exclaimed.  "I can't wait to unwrap him."

"Would Sir like a beer or a soda?" Gene asked.  "Or me?" he added with a leer.

"No, thanks.  I think I'd just like to go to bed."

Oliver grinned, took my hand, and led me upstairs to a beautiful bedroom with a four-poster bed and an antique mahogany dresser.  There was a copy of The Short Stories of O. Henry on the nightstand.

"Nice room,"  I said.  "You slaves got it made."

"This is the guest room.  I sleep in the slave quarters with Gene and Mike, when I'm not in Sir's bed."  He put his arms around me.  "Would Sir like to undress while I take a shower?"

I had never met a 24/7 Slave before, and I was interested in how it worked.  Oliver told me that all of the slaves had jobs, but they signed their paychecks over to Sir, who gave them a weekly allowance and put some money into their savings accounts. They could have their own friends and outside activities, even hookups, with Sir's permission.  They were always on call -- even if they were performing an appendectomy, when Sir called, they dropped everything and rushed home.

"What if Sir is abusive?"  I asked "What if he orders you to do something dangerous?"

"Sir always respects my limits!" Oliver exclaimed, offended.  "But if he did something to hurt me...it would be a tough decision, but the relationship might have to end."

I envied Oliver-- he could walk one block to the MCC.
Two blocks to Almost Home and the Oyster Bar.
Three blocks to the Midnight Sun, the gay Walgreens, and the Different Light.
Four blocks to Thai Thai, Marcello's Pizza, Twin Peaks, and Orphan Andy's.
Nothing but gay people for five blocks in any direction!

"It almost sounds worth it, just to live in the Castro!"

"You think so?"

In the morning, we went downstairs to a flurry of activity as Gene flipped pancakes (while nude), Mike made coffee (while nude), and Rick put on a business suit to go to work.

"Did you enjoy yourself last night?" he asked.

"Yes, Sir!  Boomer is very hot -- not nearly as hot as Sir, of course.  And...he told me he was interested in becoming your new boy!"

I blanched. "What?  No...I..."

Rick turned to me.  "Have you had any experience, Boy?"

"No..." I stammered.  "I just said..."

"It's not S&M, you know., although some slaves need that.  It's total domination -- I control everything about your life, even what you have for lunch.  That's a big commitment, for both of us.

"I know.  Oliver has been telling me about it."

"We'd have to try it out for a couple of weeks, before signing the contract."

A couple of weeks...in a beautiful Victorian on Eureka, in the heart of the Castro?  In the center of the gay universe?  In gay heaven?

It wasn't worth it.

But I did get to spend the night with Oliver again, the next time he was the Bear Party's Slave Boy.

See also: My Date with Santa Claus.

Yuri Helps Me Make the Roommate Switch

East Village, October 1998

I met Blake in the fall of 1998, when I was in grad school in New York.  At first he seemed like an ideal boyfriend, with four of the five characteristics I find attractive: religious (devout Episcopalian), dark-skinned, muscular, and mega-gifted below the belt (#10 on my Sausage List.)

(Two years later, I would meet a guy with all five, by definition the Hottest Guy in the World).

But there were problems:
1. He was pretentious, one of those intellectual-artsy guys who doesn't own a television set, has season tickets to the opera, and won't eat at any restaurant without a Zagat rating.

2. He was closeted, bringing a female "beard" to work-related events. Who in 1990s Manhattan was closeted?

3. He always had a glass of wine in his hand.  I can't stand drinking.

4. He slept to opera music.

Time to dump Blake, right?

Except I was entranced by his roommate,  Joe.

The Roommate: Regular Guy

Short, muscular (a Chelsea gym rat), Mediterranean, and a "regular guy": I could hear him listening to Friends in his bedroom while Blake inflicted opera on me.  And he cooked: every time I stayed over, I woke up to the smell of bacon frying (Mom always told me to marry a guy who can cook.)

But how to get Joe?  I couldn't date him behind Blake's back, and if I dumped Blake, or did something heinous to get dumped, I would be labeled "bad news," undateable.

I had to get Blake to dump me without any character flaws or wrongdoings of my own.


Strategy #1: Kink

I had never yet met a black guy who was into S&M, getting tied up, spanked, whipped, and so on.  It sounded like a great way to get a "sorry, we're not compatible" speech.

Blake is into bondage

One night after dinner, I told Blake, "I'm really into S&M.  Do you think we could do a scene?"

He stared for a moment.  "Oh, wow, I didn't think you were up for that!"  He took me into the bedroom and opened a dresser drawer containing a large collection of whips, chains, handcuffs, and miscellaneous bondage toys.

"You're a top, right?  Could you flog me to Der Fledermaus?"

Strategy #2: The Menage.

On an episode of Seinfeld, Jerry likes his girlfriend's roommate, so he comes up with a scheme to make "the switch." He'll suggest a "menage a trois," thus insulting the girlfriend into dumping him, but intriguing the roommate enough to date him afterwards.



Back in West Hollywood in the 1980s, "sharing" one's boyfriend with friends and roommates was commonplace, even expected, but New York in the 1990s was much more conservative.  It might just work.

One night I said "Joe is kind of hot.  Do you think we could invite him to join us?"

Blake didn't even hesitate.  "Sure, no problem."  He yelled into the back bedroom, "Hey, Joe, wanna join us?"

That just made it worse.  Joe was warm and affectionate and passionate.  I had to find some way to make the Switch!

The Queen Victoria

Strategy #3: Yuri.

Since coming out last year, the Russian meteorology major had been a firestorm of dating activity (including competing with me over Jaan the Estonian Mountain Climber).

My friend Alan in West Hollywood could get any Asian guy he wanted, but Yuri could get anybody, period. Whatever you liked, he had it. Bodybuilder physique.  Pretty, somewhat feminine Cute Young Thing face. Good dancer.  Sexy Russian accent.

So I invited Yuri into the City for a Saturday of sightseeing, followed by dinner with Blake at the Queen Vic in the East Village.

I saw Blake's hungry look as they shook hands for a little too long; how he wrapped his arm around Yuri's shoulders to help him read the menu; how he suggested "off the beaten path" outings, like Roosevelt Island and the Cloisters, with the implication that I might not be coming along.

He didn't cruise Yuri, not exactly.  But he was obviously thinking about a Switch.

After dinner and a stop at the Eagle, we took Yuri to Penn Station to catch the train back to Long Island.  Blake offered to send him a book on the Episcopal Church, but he'd need his address.  Yuri helpfully provided his phone number, too.  And a goodbye hug.

Later I asked,  "Do you think he took the bait?"

"Don't worry," Yuri said.  "It was easy.  He's going to call me by Tuesday."

He was mistaken.  Blake didn't call for a week.  Not until after he gave me the "this isn't working out" speech.

Yuri and Blake went out once.

A few days later, I asked Joe to have coffee and "talk about my feelings."

We dated for almost a year.

My First Indian Sausage Sighting and BDSM Scene

Dowagiac, Michigan, March, 1971

Dad always claimed that he was half Indian, from the Potawatomi tribe of southern Michigan.   But he didn't mean by blood: when his big sister Nora married a Potawatomi man (my Uncle Henry), he was sort of adopted by the family.  When I was a kid, we occasionally drove to Dowagiac, Michigan, about four hours from Rock Island, to visit Grandma Rani, a small, brown, wrinkled woman who always said "You've grown as big as a beanstalk!"

One day in fifth grade, Dad told me "We're going out to Michigan for your Grandma Rani's 90th birthday.  All of your uncles and aunts and cousins are throwing her a big party."

Cousins?  Potawatomi boys my own age?

I remembered the naked Indian boy that Bill and I saw at the Pow Wow last summer -- huge beneath the belt.

And Cousin Joe, half Indian -- huge.

Suddenly I was very interested in meeting my Indian cousins.

When we visited before, Grandma Rani lived in a farmhouse in the wild birch woods, but this time she was living with her daughter and her family in a rather rundown gray house on a side street in Dowagiac

There were a lot of people.  Some I knew, like my Aunt Nora and Cousin Joe.  Most I didn't.  We ate cake or pie (not both), leafed through photo albums, and helped the now wheelchair-bound Grandma Rani unwrap presents.

Indian parties turned out to be like every other grownup party, except that you got a piece of cake with a lit candle on it, and an old guy gave a long speech about how "Rani has honored our people," accompanied by a slow, steady drum.

A very long speech.  I asked Mom if I could go out and play.

I wasn't the only one.  There were a dozen kids in the back yard.  I walked up to a couple of guys about my age and one older, almost a teenager.  They had black hair and dark eyes and smooth coppery skin. My Indian cousins were cute!  But were they big?

"Do you like Daniel Boone?" I asked, to break the ice. Then I kicked myself -- I only thought of it because the theme song said "Daniel Boone was a big man."  But it was a Western, about   wild, savage Indians!  Of course they wouldn't watch that!

"It's pretty cool," the older one said.  "I dig his coonskin cap.  I'd like to make one myself, if I can hunt down a coon."

I relaxed.  One faux pas over. Soon the guys -- Javon (13), his brother Rodney (10), and their cousin Mike (9) were showing me around.  Downtown was only a three block walk away -- it had an ice cream store and a newsstand where you could get comic books.

I was full of cake from the party, and I had just spent my allowance on comic books at Schneider's on Monday, but I pretended enthusiasm.  I really wanted my Indian cousins to like me.

I squirmed when I saw Turok, Son of Stone among the comics -- it was about two Indians with feathered headdresses and loincloths trapped in a prehistoric land.  But my Indian cousins didn't seem to notice.

When we finished looking at (but not buying) comic books, Javon said "Come on, let's play in Mill Pond Park"

  My heart sank.  I didn't like playing outside, and I didn't really know how.  "Um...what do you like to play?" I asked.  "Hide and seek?  King of the hill?  Cowboys and..no..."

Javon grinned.  "Those are baby games.  Let's play Green Berets.  It will get us ready for the army when we grow up."

The game was basically Cowboys and Indians combined with Hide and Seek.  set in Vietnam.  The Viet Cong (our enemy) capture an American G.I., tie him up, and torture him for information.  Two or more Green Berets (an elite military group) have to find him, subdue the Viet Cong and rescue him.


We ran back to the house, got some rope and toy guns, and set to work.

As the oldest, Javan got the pivotal role, the G.I.  I volunteered to be the Viet Cong officer.

While Rodney and Mike waited, I put a t-shirt on Javon's head as a hood and led him into the woods.  We turned a few times to make it more difficult to find us.  Then I tied his hands behind a tree. He was still wearing a hood.

"So you won't talk!" I exclaimed.

"Not so loud!" Javon said  "They'll find us too soon."

"We'll make you talk."  I whispered.  I carefully unbuttoned his shirt and ran my hand over his smooth, hard chest.  "You won't be able to stand this torture for long."


"You won't get anything out of me!"

"Oh, no?  Not even if we hit you on the wiener?"  I undid his belt, unbuttoned his pants, and slid them down.  I heard a sharp intake of breath.

A little disappointing -- much smaller than my Cousin Joe's.  But I didn't get to see many wieners, let alone touch them.

"We'll see how brave you are when we're hitting you on the wiener!"

I reached out and grabbed it: soft and warm to the touch, with a rubbery foreskin.  Then Rodney and Mike came war-whooping out of the bushes.   Rodney pushed me away with a fake karate move, and Mike shot me with his toy gun.  I collapsed onto the ground, "dead."

In the next iteration, Rodney was the G.I., and Mike the Viet Cong officer.  Then we had to pack up and go home.

I saw my Indian cousins only once after that, at Grandma Rani's funeral.  We haven't stayed in contact.  I wonder if Javon still likes getting tied up.  And by who.

See also:The First Boy I Tied Up; An All-Nighter at the New York Bondage Club; and Cruising in the Navajo Nation.

Randall, the Muscle Bear with the Pierced Penis

Rock Island, December 25th, 1990

My boyfriend Lane and I have an open relationship: bedroom activity with other guys is fine, as long as we are both present, "sharing" or at least watching.  In emergencies, like when I'm back in Rock Island for two weeks, a close friend can substitute.

So on Christmas Day, I call Lane and tell him how my friend Dick and I went to JR's last night and hooked up with the Ginger Boy.  And he tells me about how he went to a bear contest at the Faultline, and got the phone number of the winner, Randall.

"You should have seen him!  A classic muscle daddy, in his 50s but not grey, a military haircut, a short-cropped beard, thick arms, nice muscular hairy chest!  I groped him -- feels like a gigantic Kielbasa down there!"

"Sounds hot," I say.  Not really my type though.  I just turned 30, so I'm not into the over-40 crowd.  I figure if they date, I'll just be the "watcher."

"And really into S&M: mummification, water sports, you name it."

I like some minor bondage, but Lane isn't into it at all.  What does he see in this guy?  "So, when is the big date?  You can bring Max along to share, if I'm still in the Midwest."

"No, we'll wait until you get back.  How about if we have dinner with him on the 5th?"

West Hollywood, January 5th, 6:00 pm

I expect Lane to drive me to a West Hollywood address -- San Vicente, Crescent Heights, Fairfax, La Brea.  But instead we get on the 410 and drive south for 45 minutes, to Long Beach!

The other side of the world?  What does this guy have that the 20,000 gay men in West Hollywood don't?  

Long Beach, 7:00 pm

We meet Randall at a restaurant on East Broadway, in the heart of Long Beach's gay neighborhood.  He is very attractive, very dynamic, in spite of being 23 years older than me.  Maybe I'll do more than watch.

I start bringing out my best stories.  I spent a summer in Japan.

"Really?  I lived in Japan for five years, after I got out of the navy. Nihonjin dansei ga miri kitekidesu!"

How about my celebrity boyfriend?

"Oh, I met him at a party a few years ago, when he was still in that tv show.  He let me tie him up, but I couldn't do anything else.  You know who's really into S&M scenes?  I'll give you a hint -- he's on Murphy Brown!"

Ok, my writing career.   "I worked for Muscle and Fitness for four years," I tell him, omitting the fact that I was a proofreader.  "But now I've moved into freelance.  I just had an article published in Frontiers [the local gay newspaper]."

"That's great.  I write a monthly column on the leather world.  You've probably seen it -- Randall's Ropes?"

Grrr.

10:00 pm

After cruising at the Mineshaft, a local leather bar, we go back to Randall's house, a square Spanish colonial flanked by palm trees.  Not much furniture: a nearly bare living room, a playroom with a pool table and a fireplace, a study with some paperbacks leftover from his college days.  But a well-stocked basement dungeon.

"Who's up for a scene?" Randall  asks.  "Boomer, you look like a bottom."

"Nope, a top.  Lane bottoms on occasion, but he's not really into it at all."

"Not tonight," Lane says.  "I want to try the dominance thing."

"Come on, Boomer -- you can't say no to two tops.  At least let us put you in my new leather-braided restraints and play with you a bit."

So I take off my clothes, and Randall wraps my wrists and biceps in tight leather bands.  He fondles my chest, and Lane goes down on me.  

But I'm not used to restraints, and it's very, very tight.  "Enough, enough!" I exclaim.

"But I was going to put clamps on your nipples!"

"Let me out of this thing!"

He unties the braids.  "Would you be up for a midnight swim instead?   In my pool, not in the ocean, so there will be no fish to nipple on your toes"

11:00 pm

Randall strips, revealing a nice muscular chest and a gigantic Kielbasa -- with a Prince Albert, what looks like a 3" thick metal hook through his glans.

Lane and I follow him upstairs and into the back yard.  It's January in Long Beach, 53 degrees out, jacket weather.  I assume that his pool is heated.

No.

Randall and Lane dive into the deep end.   I climb carefully into the shallow end and stand there, shivering.

Randall swims over and gropes me.  "Hey, Boomer, have you ever gone down on a guy underwater?"

Put my head under that ice shelf?  I don't think so.

I climb of the pool and go back in the house.  Randall follows.

"Sorry, you're from the Midwest, so I figured you wouldn't mind a little chill.  Let me warm you up."  He slaps my back -- vigorously. It hurts!

"Ouch!  Get away!"

"Sorry!  Well, let's get busy."  He grabs Lane, pushes him down on the couch, and starts aggressively kissing and fondling him.  His gigantic Kielbasa becomes aroused.  Who am I to turn down a Kielbasa?   I kneel and go down on him.

It feels like I'm going down on one of those old-fashioned hitching posts.


"Could you take that thing out?" I ask.  "It's breaking my teeth."

"Well, I prefer leaving it in.  Oral sex is much better that way.  Try this -- it will help you relax your throat."

He shoves a poppers vial at me.  I refuse.

Tired of getting my teeth knocked out, I move over and go down on Lane.

"Shall we go to the bedroom?" Randall asks.  He doesn't wait for an answer -- his fully aroused hitching post leads the way.

He sits on the bed, his back against the headboard, and Lane crawls between his legs and goes down on him.  I sit next to him.  We kiss for awhile.  Then he opens a carved wooden box and pulls out a homemade cigar.  "Want to get high?"

I don't drink.  What makes him think I do drugs?  I've never even seen marijuana before.  "Um...no, thanks."

"How about you, Lane?"

Lane looks up.  "Thanks, but I'm high enough as it is.  It's not every day that I get to go down on someone as big as you."

"Hey, he's not that much bigger than me!"  I exclaim.

"Just keep working, boy," Randall says, patting his head.  He lights up.  An acrid-sweet smell fills the room.

After awhile, he pushes Lane away and tries to turn me over onto my stomach.

"Um...I'm not into anal."

 "Just relax, boy." He spits on his penis and pushes it between my legs, while I'm facing the wrong way.  After a few dozen thrusts, he finishes with a yell.

All in all, a less than optimal evening.

But Lane loved it.  Randall was like a bigger, more accomplished, more adventurous version of me.  We visited him in Long Beach, or invite him up to West Hollywood, every couple of weeks until we moved to San Francisco in 1995.  And after we broke up, Lane and Randall became roommates.

Today Randall is 78 years old, still living in that house in Long Beach, still inviting Cute Young Things over to swim in his pool, try out his dungeon, and break their teeth on his Prince Albert.

See also: A Golden Boy for Christmas; Darren, Cary Grant, and Groucho Marx in the Same Bed.