The Naked Goldenboys at Football Try-Outs

Rock Island, August 1975

"All entering sophomores invited to try out for junior varsity football," Dad reads from a brochure that came in the mail.

"That's nice," I say, immersed in a course catalog.  In just a few weeks, I'll be going to Rocky High, a mature, sophisticated, grown-up high schooler with tons of cool courses to choose from.

Arthurian Legend or Greek Mythology?
The Great Depression or The Civil War?
Advanced Spanish or Elementary Swedish?
I must have that course catalog memorized!

"You dropped out of wrestling and judo," he points out.  "You have to play some kind of sport in high school."

"Is that a rule?  I don't like sports. Besides, I'm going to be busy with orchestra, jump quiz, Spanish Club, Writers' Club..."

"Yes, it's a rule!  And stop pretending that you don't like sports.  You're a boy, aren't you?"

"Well...I wouldn't mind the track team, I guess."

"Why not football?"

"No way!" I exclaim.  "Football is gross!"  Of all the sports I hate, football is the worst.  Guys pounding each other into a pulp over some stupid little ball.  Why don't they just give everybody his own ball -- that way they wouldn't have to fight over it.

"Football players always get the cutest girls," Dad says, assuming that I, like "every boy," make decisions solely on their usefulness in acquiring girls.

"What kind of date can I go on in Intensive Care?"

"Don't get smart!  It won't hurt you to try out, at least."

When Dad says "Jump," you don't ask "How high?", you just jump.  I have no choice but to try out.

Rocky High is about 2 1/2 miles from my house, a straight shot down 18th Avenue to Longview Park, then left on 17th Street and down the hill.  I walk slowly, hoping to arrive too late.

I have only seen the high school from a distance.  Close up, it's vast and imposing, two huge limestone monoliths, a dozen outlying buildings, a huge parking lot.   Suddenly I feel very small.  How will I ever find my classes?  I was one of the top students at tiny, ordinary Washington Junior High, but here, surrounded by rich kids from the South Side, the children of Augustana professors...what if I...

Somehow I find the locker room.  It's deserted, silent except for the sound of a shower.  I walk over -- a heavily tanned, muscular guy, probably a senior, is soaping up.  Enormous penis.  But what I remember most is his trapezius, the muscle the goes across the top of the shoulder.  How did he ever get it so big?

I stand staring, open mouthed.  Is this what playing football is like?  Constant sausage sightings?

He smiles.  "You get lost, kid?"

"Um...I'm supposed to go to junior varsity football try-outs."

He points the way.

There are 30 guys already on the field, doing push-ups.  I know some of them from junior high -- well, knew of them, since they were too far above me on the social ladder to speak to.  They were the goldenboys who played every sport, led every school club, and presided over every assembly.  As handsome as Greek gods, and built, tall, broad shoulders, thick biceps, and huge hands.  They drank three cartons of milk at lunchtime, put their legs on the desk in front of them in class, came in late, left early without ever getting in trouble.  They could do no wrong: teachers and students alike were in love with them.

No doubt the other guys are goldenboys from their own junior highs.

I stand staring, open mouthed.  Is this what being on a football team is like?  Hanging out with Greek gods day after day?  Sitting with them in the cafeteria?  Pairing up with them for class projects?  Being invited to sleepovers at their house?

I'm in!  But wait -- that would mean playing football.  Gross!  There must be some way to hang out with goldenboys without having projectiles aimed at you!

 The Coach, a short, solidly built bulldog who will also be my gym teacher in the fall, takes my name, asks what position I want to play ("um...I dunno -- whatever he's playing"), and tells me to do push-ups..

 I haven't started weight training yet.  I can only do five.

Turns out we are just warming up.  After some sit-ups and jumping jacks, the real try-outs begin.  There are five tests.  After each, the coach walks up to a few of the guys, ones who did well and ones who didn't, and asks their names.

The Running Test.  I'm good at running -- I easily zip past most of the guys.  Only two pass me.

The Obstacle Course Test.  "Run in between these giant things as fast as you can without knocking them over."

Easy, and sort of fun.  This might not be so bad after all.

The Throwing Test.  I have never touched a football before in my life, let alone thrown one.  The projectile goes way to the left of the target I am aiming at.

The Catching Test.  A gigantic projectile hurled at me.  I missed it by a mile.

Ok, this isn't going well.  It's not worth hanging out with Golden Boys if you have to throw projectiles, or get them aimed at you!

The Tackling Test.  "Hurl yourself with all your strength at that big square blue thing."

Forget that!  I run around it.

After the coach finishes marking things on his clipboard, he says "You all did a great job.  Hit the showers, and then wait in the locker room for me to call your name.  I'll tell you whether you made it or not in private."

Showering with the Golden Boys is exciting -- a roomful of hard pecs, washboard abs, and gigantic Mortadellas.  And fun -- the guys tease each other, snap towels, pretend that they're going to grab each other's penises.
 
I want to be part of this group, get sausage sightings and penis-grabbing every day.  But then...shudder...I'd have to play football!

Most of us are still half-dressed, some still toweling off, when the Coach starts calling names, and taking the boys one by one back to his office.  Anderson... Angelo... Bates... Bergstrom...  Callohill....

"I'm not too worried," says the boy to my right, whose Mortadella+ I gawked at just a few minutes ago.  "There are 20 guys on the JV team, and 27 of us -- I counted.  That means 3/4ths of us make it."

My heart sinks.  What if I make it?  There must be a position that's all running and obstacle-course.  Then I'll spend my first semester at Rocky High getting pummelled!

"There's going to be a pizza party Friday after practice, for the ones who make the team," he continues.  "Maybe..."

At that moment the Coach calls my name and waits for me to approach. But we don't turn left, to his office, like the other boys.   We turn right.  He wraps his arm around my shoulders and leads me to a little caged room with athletic equipment in it.

"Boomer, I know you gave it your best shot, but not everyone is cut out to play football.  I can see how much you love the game, though, so I had an idea.  Do you have your Red Cross First Aid Certificate?"

"Sure.  I got it last year."

"Well, how would you like a job as an athletic trainer?  You'd be part of the team, just as valuable as the quarterback."

And I could hang out with goldenboys without getting pummeled every day!  

By the way, I eventually saw the Coach naked, too.

See also: My Crush on the Girl Next Door's Boyfriend; and I Get a Job as an Athletic Trainer.

"He was Looking at Me!": Assaulted by a Naked Man in the Locker Room

Philadelphia, Fall 2012

I always try to join a gay gym, so I don't have to deal with heteronormative comments and lady-gawking, and so no one minds if I do a little gawking of my own.

During my terrible year in Philadelphia, I joined the 12th Street Gym, only about half a mile from my apartment.

It was an older facility, kind of musty, but crowded with cute gym rats.  Unfortunately it was "gay friendly" rather than "gay."  About half of the clientele consisted of gay men, and the rest straight men, who varied in their degree of comfort about being gawked at.

Some put on a show, swirling and wiggling their equipment.  Some were completely nonchalant.  Some were careful to turn their backs and wear towels, or avoided taking showers altogether, worried that to be seen and desired by a gay man would mean that they were gay, too.

 But after seven years in the straight world, I was adept at subtle glances.

I don't remember even glancing at Duane that day (I never got his real name.)  It was around 7 pm, and the gym was packed with the after-work crowd.  I finished my workout, undressed, and headed to the shower room, which was also packed.   You had to wait for a turn at the shower heads.     

Mindful of the crowd, I showered quickly without paying much attention to the other guys around, toweled off, and walked back into the locker room.

Just as I unlocked my locker and opened the door, I heard a man yell "Stop looking at me!"

I turned -- everybody in the locker room turned.  Duane was rushing across the bare floor.  He was in his 40s, tall, black, bald, not terribly muscular.   Naked, dripping wet from the shower.

You notice weird things at a time like that.  His penis swaying from side to side.  The wet marks his feet made.

"F*** fag, stop looking at me!"  

Homophobic language in Philadelphia's gay neighborhood?  And a straight guy who still thought of a gay man's gaze as a horrible insult?  I was shocked.  

The other guys were shocked, too.  They stared, motionless.  One said "Hey, now..." 

Wait -- Duane was rushing toward me!

His fists clenched, his face contorted with rage, prone to attack.

But..I hadn't been in a physical altercation since the Mean Boys of grade school.  Surely such things didn't happen anymore.  We were adults.  This was a gay neighborhood...

It only took a few seconds to cross the locker room floor, and Duane was....

Tackled by a tall slender guy: in his twenties, pale skin, smooth chest, curly brown hair, wearing only white briefs.  He must have been dressing.  Later I discovered that his name was Curtis.

Duane was knocked to the floor, his arm twisted behind his back.

Struggling wildly but subdued, he yelled "That fag looked at me!"   

"Yeah, dude, we're all looking at you," Curtis said.  "Now are you going to play nice?"

"But..."  

Curtis pulled him to his feet.  We faced each other.  I saw that his eyes were filled with tears, and his lower lip was trembling.

"But he looked at me," Duane whined.

"I didn't..." I began.

"So what if he did?  It's a compliment -- means he thinks you're hot. Now you gonna apologize, or do I put my black belt in karate to work?"

By now the club manager had appeared, so I didn't get my apology.  He waited for us to get dressed, then took us into the office and listened to our stories.  After some insulting questions about whether I had touched Duane inappropriately or "stalked" him, he told Duane to be "more tolerant" and let us go.

Curtis was waiting for me in the foyer.  He was wearing a white shirt and tan pants, with a photo nametag.  

"You ok, sir? That must have been quite a shock."

"I'm more shocked that Duane wasn't banned from the club."  

"Yeah, that kind of thing is...well, not common, but it happens.  When you mix gay and straight guys, you gotta expect it.  Not everybody is enlightened."  He paused.  "Can I buy you a drink?"

In case you were wondering: average beneath-the-belt gifts, top, bisexual, with a girlfriend.

And I didn't go back to the 12th Street Gym for a month.

See also: Brandon and His Angry Inch.

Trapped in a Junior High Locker Room

A few summers ago, I walked into the campus locker room after a long run, planning to shower and change clothes.  It was deserted, as one expects in the summer. But just as I dropped my underwear, the door burst open, and 50,000 kids ran in.

They were beside me, beneath me, above me, behind me, jostling, pushing, occasionally saying "Excuse me, sir," a blur of swim-sleek bodies and wet dripping hair and tiny hands fiddling with locks and swimsuits tossed to the floor.

Probably junior high age, at various stages of pubescence.  Some hard tight muscles, some thin, soft androgyny.  Some massive cocks and low-hanging balls, some nubs and pencil-dicks.  About half of them were aroused.

I grabbed my towel, wrapped it around my waist,  and inched my way through the crowd, murmuring "Excuse me, excuse me" as I collided with the occasional shoulder or arm, butt or dick.  A hand cupped my butt.  Whenn I turned, a freckled kid with braces was grinning "Sorry,  sir, I thought you were...."

Finally I extricated myself from the mass of bodies and found their handler, who was passing out towels as they pushed and shoved their way to the showers, three or four under each head.

"Junior high swim camp," he explained.

"I think I'll wait it out," I told him.  There would be no room for me to shower amid the throngs of exuberant 14-year old bodies anyway, and just looking made me uncomfortable.

Some of the physiques were impressive.  Some of the cocks were impressive.  And aroused.

Was it ethical to notice?









The high school wrestler in this photograph is 15 years old.  He's from Illinois, where the age of consent is 17, so it will be two years before an adult can legally date or engage in a sexual relationship with him.

Is it ethical to notice him?  Can you appreciate the aesthetic beauty of someone with whom physical activity would be inappropriate?

Certainly. Physical activity and aesthetic appreciation are two different things. You can enjoy the attractiveness of your boss, your students, your brother-in-law, your nephew, a stranger on the street, people who you would never consider dating or hooking up with. 

One proviso: no cruising or aggressively staring, which moves from aesthetic appreciation to sexual intent and, outside of a bar context, makes nearly everyone uncomfortable.  Straight men tend to think of it as a threat, and gay men, as creepy.











Another proviso:   Only persons aged 18 or older may be depicted aroused or in a sexual situation in photographs, film, or any visual art.  Teens can be arrested for taking selfies of themselves.

Nudity is permitted, but why take chances?  Never photograph anyone under 18 nude, with or without their permission.  [The guy taking this selfie is obviously in his 20s.]

A third proviso: Obviously, no dating or hooking up.  If your hookup looks young, card him.

Does noticing mean that you are a  p___?

Certainly not.

This is a pre-pubescent athlete.  Notice the big head compared to the body, the soft, square torso, the baby face.  He looks like a child, which of course he is.  You may find him cute, like a puppy dog, but not at all beautiful.
















These athletes are post-pubescent.  Notice the small heads compared to their bodies, the long, lean, muscular torsos, the tight faces.  They look like adults, and which of course they are, physiologically if not socially.

Noticing means that you are attracted to men, not children.

First Day of Class Beefcake and Bulges

Plains, August 2016

I love the first day of class.  The campus has been mostly deserted all summer, but today it springs to life with thousands of new students and faculty members, dozens of new opportunities.

8:30 am.  Meeting with my new teaching assistant, a tall, buffed former football player who just began grad school.

I can't wait to start sending him on errands.

9:30 am.  Office hours.  I walk out into the hallway to go to the bathroom, and hit a huge crowd of students waiting for the large lecture hall to clear.

I get five smiles and three cruisy eye-crotch-eye looks.

11:00 am.  My first class.  112 students in the large lecture hall.  I never stand on that stage; I always make a circuit of the aisles while lecturing, to make it easier to call on random students.  Cute, nervous freshmen, nerds in button-down shirts, collegiate jocks fidgeting in their chairs.  Biceps and bulges everywhere.  A shirt lifts up so I can see a flash of abs.  A hand moves absently onto the crotch.















12:30.  Lunch.  I eat lunch in my office to avoid the crowds at the Student Union.  Five students are sitting on the couches in the main office, waiting to talk to faculty members, in front of a plate of brownies left over from a meeting last Thursday.  I walk over and ask "Do you think these brownies are still good after five days?"

A slim hipster says "Let's find out."  He picks one up and tries to feed it to the cute boy sitting next to him on the couch.

"I'm not eating that!" the cute boy exclaims.

"Why not? You've had worse things in your mouth."  He grins at me.

2:00 pm  My advanced class.  The buffed blond guy from my intro class last semester is sitting in the front row.

3:30 pm.  My other advanced class.  There he is again!  He's enrolled in both.

I also see the Hispanic bodybuilder who was in my intro class twice (he failed the first time).

I can't wait to start calling on them.

5:00 pm.  Gym.  It's packed with the "new year's resolution" students, who vow to get in shape every fall semester.  It's like the gym in January.  I have to wait for my turn on the machines.

Two guys who were in my intro class earlier today are using the shoulder press, at 40 pounds.  I lift four times as much.  They stare.

Another cute guy is using the incline press, at 60!  I move it down to 180.  

"How can you lift so much?" he asks.

"I used to work for a bodybuilding magazine," I tell him.

"That must have been exciting.  Did you meet anybody famous?"

We make a coffee date for tomorrow.

6:00 pm.  I go upstairs to walk around the indoor track a few times.  There are at least four shirts vs. skins basketball games going on.  I did a long run yesterday, but nothing says I can't do a nice mile and gawk.

6:30 pm.  The locker room is packed!  Stripping down next to me is a tall, thin guy.  He turns his back to change underwear, but I still get a glimpse of an enormous package.  Then a third guy returns from the shower and needs to get to the locker between us.  We step out of the way as he removes his towel, his gigantic penis in full view, and fumbles with his lock.

7:30 pm.  Back home, I order dinner from the pita place downtown.  The delivery guy gives me a shocked smile and starts stammering.  "Hi!  Um...your total is...I mean, here's your pita..," like I'm a famous movie star.

Maybe he was in my class earlier today.

8:30 pm.  Do I dare go on Grindr?  First week of class, all of the new guys will be on.

Sure enough, there are dozens of new profiles within a mile radius.  I change my profile picture from chest to face, but still, I get a barrage of "Hi, Daddy!" and "Come over and do me!"

This will be a fun semester.

See also: Wagner's Top 10 Turn-Ons; Classroom Bulges

The Shy Guy at the Gym with the Supersized Penis

Plains, November 2016

At the YMCA the other night, when I was stripping down after my workout, the guy at the locker next to mine found an excuse to play around on his cell phone instead of taking off his gym trunks.  He was obviously going to wait until I was gone.

He was in his 20s, probably: his round baby face and short dark-brown hair made him look like a teenager.  Very tall, at least 6" taller than me, pale, with a smooth soft chest and a little belly.

"Poor thing," I thought.  "Being so tall will make his tiny meat look even smaller."

A rule of thumb for locker room cruising:

Guys with big ones walk to the showers with their towel in hand rather than around their waist, then stand around chatting nude at their lockers.

Guys with small ones hide behind a towel at all times, even putting on their underwear beneath it.  Sometimes they even refuse to take off their clothes until the bank of lockers around them is deserted.

I locked my locker, grabbed my towel (I never wrap it around my waist), and headed for the showers.  I was nearly finished when Baby Face finally arrived, and chose the stall across from me.  He carefully and deliberately faced the shower head, so none of the othe guys could see anything but his backside.

I soaped up a second time, hoping to get a glimpse of his penis, tiny or not.

A glimpse: my mouth dropped.  It was enormous!  Kovbasa+++ hanging halfway down to his knee, easily 7", ruddy, uncut.  Horse hung.

Come on -- you have to turn around sometime!  You have to shower your back!

But he didn't.

Eventually I had no more excuses to hang around, so I toweled off and returned to my locker and began to dress -- slowly.

Soon Baby Face re-appeared, hiding beneath a towel.   He turned his back to me to put on underwear, but I got another glimpse as he swung around.

I wasn't mistaken -- enormous.

He turned back to the locker without making eye contact.  I pretended to fool around with my gym pack.

He put on a sweatshirt that said Россия моя страна {Russia, my country).

An in!  My best friend is Russian!  I learned a little of the language.  

"Um...vy Russii?"  I began.

Baby Face looked up, surprised to be spoken to.

"Ya uznal russkiy yazk tri goda."  I studied Russian for three years.   That's a lie,  but I was thinking fast.


"Huh...oh, I don't speak Russian.  I got this shirt in Sioux Falls.  I'd like to learn someday, though."   He turned away again.

Think!  Pique his interest! "I can give you some basic conversation, like 'Where's the train station.'  Gde poyezd."

"Gde poyezd.  That's cool."  He picked up his gym bag.  To walk away forever!

"'Um...um...kiss and cake are the same word, potseluy, so you have to be careful when you go to a bakery."

He laughed.  "Or you might get a kiss!"

"I teach Russian history at the University."  Why was I lying so much?   Was I blinded by the glimpse of a Kovbasa?

Baby Face -- whose actual name was Justin -- had to rush off to meet his friends, but we exchanged phone numbers, and he agreed to come over the next night at 7:00 pm to "learn Russian."

I spent the day feverishly transforming myself into a Russian history professor.  I put out lot of souvenirs from Russia, years of birthday and Christmas presents from Yuri.  I dug up my few books on Russian history and literature, and bought a few more, at the used bookstore, so it would look like I had them for years.  I reviewed my Russian language lessons, especially slang and dirty words.



I want to eat your sausage:  ya khochu yest' vashu kolbasu
Let's go to the bedroom: mi idem v spal'nyu

7:00 came and went, and no Justin.  I texted him, but no answer.

At 7:30, he finally knocked on the door, ruddy, nervous.  "Um..sorry I'm late.  I almost didn't come."

We sat down on the coach -- Justin as far from me as he could get, looking down at his hands, nervous, miserable.

Ok, I would have to take this nice and slow, maybe not do anything at all. 

"Ok, Justin, first lesson. In Russian class they tell you that 'hello' is 'zdravstvutje', but my friend Yuri just says privet.  Repeat."

Justin refused to make eye contact. "Drastvutje."

"Look at me, so I can see if you're saying it right."

He looked up, but only for an instant.  "To be honest, I didn't come here to learn Russian.  It's cool and all, but...this was crazy.  Maybe I should go."

But he didn't move.

I scooted over to the other side of the couch and touched his shoulder.  He caught his breath.

"Why are you so nervous?  I'm not going to try anything."

Justin sighed deeply and continued to look down at his hands. "The thing is, I've seen you on Grindr.  I was too scared to say anything.  Then I saw you in the gym, and...well, it doesn't matter.  You just want to be my teacher.  I should go."



I leaned in close and kissed him.

Soon we were on the floor, where Justin went down on me while working on his super-size.  I flipped him over onto his stomach and pushed between his legs.  He moaned and spurted onto my stomach.

"Sorry," he said.  "It doesn't take me long."

"That's ok.  I'll get something to wash off with."

I wondered if Justin was the same super-sized guy I saw in the locker room on campus last year.  That guy tried to hide, too, but he had red hair, not brown.

"Have you dyed your hair recently?" I asked while carefully wiping him off.

He grinned.  "Yeah.  How did you know? I go red sometimes, or I get green and blue highlights."

What about Monster Cock from the urinal in the bathroom outside my office?

"I've seen you around the campus.  Are you taking Psychology 101 in ___ Hall this semester?"

"No, I'm not in college.  I graduated last spring."  He drew me down on top of him again as his Kovbasa++++ began to rise.  I could barely get my mouth around the head.

So there are still two mysteries:
1. Who is Monster Cock?
2. Why was Justin so intent on hiding his Kovbasa++++

See also: The Boy at the Urinal with the Kovbasa++++; A Gigantic Sausage Sighting in the College Locker Room; and The Smiling Boy at the Gym

A Gigantic Sausage Sighting in the College Locker Room

Plains, April 2016

Getting Sausage Sightings in the locker room at the gym is harder than it sounds.

First, you have to be discrete, "accidentally" turning your head at the exact moment he drops his pants.

Second, you can't gawk.  A momentary sidelong glance, no matter how big it is.

Third, guys know that other guys are trying to check out their equipment.  Some walk around swinging in the breeze, or even semi-aroused, but most turn their backs at the moment of truth, put on their underwear under a towel, or even head for the showers in their underwear.

My campus gym is even worse: most guys don't even bother with the locker room.  They stash their coats, work out, then put on their coats and leave.

And we have single-stall showers with a little curtain, so you can't even get a shower sighting.

But today, against all odds, I got the mother of all Sausage Sightings, a Kovbasa+++ for the record books.

I was trying to get a sausage sighting of a muscular gym rat at a locker parallel to me about ten feet to my left, but he turned his back to the exact angle to prohibit me from seeing anything but his butt.

Then a younger college kid came in and stood at a locker behind me and about five feet to my right.

Very young, probably a freshman.  Very tall, round baby face, red hair, pale complexion, not a very impressive physique, but I figured, a sausage sighting is a sausage sighting.

 He took off his shirt.  I was busily tying my shoe.

He took off his gym trunks.  I had a "problem" with the knot.

He deliberately turned his back to take off his jock strap.

Without realizing that I got a clear view in the mirror behind him.

I didn't even have to sneak a peak.  I faced the mirror and pretended to check my hair.

I restrained a gasp.

Gigantic!  Kovbasa+++ hanging halfway down to his knee, easily 7", ruddy, uncut.  That's 11+ inches aroused.

Being unaware that I could see everything he had, the college kid stood fully visible and carefully primped at his hair.

Wait -- he was primping in the mirror.  He knew that the mirror was there!  He knew that I could see him!

He picked up his towel and wiggled a bit so his gigantic Kovbasa would swing from side to side to a pendulum.

Then he wrapped up, glanced at me with a little smile, and headed for the shower.

No, I didn't stick around until he came back, but I'm going to the gym at the same time today, to see if he's there.  I'll tell you how it turns out.

See also: My Ex-Student Naked in the Locker Room

Is Professor Singer Gay?

Bloomington, March 1984

In my second year at Indiana University (1983-84), I had to choose two historical eras for my Comprehensive Exams.  I decided on the Romantic Era (1770-1830), mostly because of the homoromantic exuberance of the Frankenstein monsters, vampires, and dying poets, and the Restoration-Augustan Era (1660-1770), mostly because of Dr. Singer (not his real name).

He was a new professor of Restoration Literature, a Wunderkind with a Ph.D. from Johns Hopkins and a book coming out, though he was only 26 years old (I was 22).  Tall, thick hair, broad shoulders, nice biceps, a smooth muscular chest peeking up through the casually-unbuttoned top buttons of his shirt.  He used his hands a lot while lecturing, said "apposite" more in one class session than most people in a lifetime, and criticized; my; use; of; semicolons.

Both Viju and I got major gaydar from Dr. Singer; flamboyant, precise, and not averse to gay content, such as Lord Rochester's "Love a Woman? You're an Ass!", about how gay sex is better than hetero sex.  When we got to John Milton: he showed us an illustration from William Blake's allegorical biography, and quipped: "I'll bet you didn't know that Milton looked like that!"

We had two goals during the semester.  First, to determine if Dr. Singer was gay.

Viju's strategy: He got some confederates, male and female, to invite Dr. Singer out for "a beer" after our Tuesday-night seminar, and checked to see whether he spent more time gazing at men or women.  My boyfriend Jimmy, the Bodybuilder on Crutches, tagged along.

Dr. Singer deliberately made eye contact with each student in turn, and didn't gaze at anyone else.

My strategy: I wrote a paper on the gay subtexts in Paradise Lost: naked Satan, etc.  I got a B (a failing grade in grad school, where everyone gets an A on everything).

Ok, so the "gay" test was inconclusive.  Our next goal: to determine if Dr. Singer was available. We waited until the spring semester, when I was single again after dating Jimmy the bodybuilder on crutches.

Viju's strategy: He went to Dr. Singer's office in Ballantine Hall and said he was having a crisis.  He was attracted to guys!  Did that make him gay?  But his parents back in India would be scandalized -- they would cut off their support, and he would have to drop out of college!  His career plans would be ruined!  He began to cry.  Dr. Singer offered him hand-on-shoulder sympathy, but didn't reveal anything (a student used the same tactic on me in Texas a year later).

My strategy: I found out that Dr. Singer went to the campus gym to lift weights every morning at 7:00 am.  I went in and timed my workout so we would end up in the shower together.  I complemented him on his physique.

"You really know how to work on those abs," I said.  "Maybe we could work out together sometime?"

"Um...er...I'm sort of busy."

"Well, it doesn't have to be at the gym," I said, soaping myself suggestively.  "I've had some of my best workouts at home."

That did the trick.

Moral: When all else fails, try nudity.

See also: Dr. Kirtis Serves Me His Bratwurst.