The Gay Ghost of Ocracoke

Ocracoke, a community of 900on the Outer Banks of North Caroline, is so isolated that it has its own dialect,  the Ocracoke Brogue, with terms and usages leftover from Shakespeare's day.

buck: friend
mommick: to make a mess of
offshore: crazy
quamish: queasy
scud: a short trip

And it is full of ghosts.

Springer's Point, where Blackbeard the Pirate was beheaded, is haunted by a burly man with matted hair and red glowing eyes, who chases trespassers with an axe before disappearing.

The British Cemetery features a lady in Victorian costume who tells visitors that she lost her way en route to a party.

After closing, the employees at Gaffer's Bar often see an elderly man sitting at a booth by himself.  When they approach, he vanishes.

But the most unusual ghost lurks in Tarik's attic.

When Martin and his then-lover Paul bought the house in 1990, they expected the usual haunted house noises: footsteps, slamming doors, mysterious voices.  Maybe some things moved around.  But they didn't expect a horny ghost, a sex-crazed demon, or whatever it was.

The attic was once used as a library -- there were about a dozen thick, heavy bookshelves which absorbed all of the light and made the sloping rafters look forlorn and abandoned. They planned to use it as an overflow bedroom, so they put a in a futon, a nightstand, a lamp, and a couple of chairs.
One weekend a few weeks after they moved in, there were 7 guys in the house, so they put up their old friend Josh in the attic bedroom.

He came downstairs the next morning and said "I don't know which of you did it, but thanks.  That was the best blow job of my life!"

Everyone denied climbing up to the attic to give Josh a blow job.

"I actually didn't get a good look -- it was too dark.  Now that I think about it, I never even opened my eyes.  I didn't reach down to touch the guy's head or shoulders, either."

"How do you get a blow job without touching the guy?" Martin asked.

He shrugged.  "It just never occurred to me.  So, come on, 'fess up, guys -- which of you is the culprit, and can you come back tonight?"

Josh eagerly waited for his mysterious visitor the next night, but nothing happened.

The second guy to encounter the ghost or incubus, Michael, was not so pleased. After a long trip from the mainland, he went right up to bed.

He was lying on his back with his eyes closed, having a sexual fantasy, starting to masturbate, when suddenly he was frozen in place.  He couldn't even open his eyes.  It was like being paralyzed!

Then someone went down on him.  He couldn't feel a body, just the mouth bobbing up and down on his cock, the tongue licking his head, the suction of a demonic throat.

He didn't even like oral -- he got too sensitive -- and this was torture!  It seemed to last for hours.

Finally Michael had a painful orgasm.

He looked up to see a dark male figure, naked, vanishing into a bookcase!

He bolted downstairs, and slept on the couch for the rest of his visit.

Martin and Paul avoided placing guests in the attic room after that.

Martin tried to research the house, to see who the horny gay ghost might be.  Someone with unfinished business, who died without acknowledging that he was gay, or without having a sexual experience.

The house was built in 1906 as a summer home for a Dr. Carroll, a physician from Raleigh. One day in 1910, the village constable broke up a party there with "only men present."  Probably a gay party.

Dr. Carroll died in 1941 -- but not in the house.  And if he had been having sex parties for 30 years, it's unlikely that he died with unfinished business.

Next Dr. Carroll's married daughter took possession, but she and her husband lived in Norfolk, and rarely stayed in the house.  There was a series of summer tenants.

In the 1960s a psychic name Sandor bought the house, and saw hippie clients in the attic library, which at that time had its own private entrance.  He wasn't married -- gay?  He died in 1990 -- but in a hospital on the mainland, not in the house.  Could he be the horny ghost?

The only other possibility was a hippie who was staying in town for the summer in 1971.  He may have known Sandor, or he may have been a stranger -- the newspaper article was unclear.  One night, high on LSD, he was attracted by something in the attic window, and tried to climb up the wall instead of going up the stairs.  He lost his footing, fell, and broke his neck.

Whoever or whatever was giving nonconsensual blow jobs in the attic room, Martin and Paul thought it best to keep him under wraps.

They broke up in 1998.  Martin could no longer afford two mortgages, so he sold his house in Chapel Hill and moved to Ocracoke permanently.  To help with the loneliness, he got two roommates, both gay men, of course.  One of the roommates eventually got a boyfriend, Tarik.  Now there were four gay men in the house, with boyfriends and dates staying over, and mainland friends visiting all the time, and often there was no choice but the attic or a sleeping bag on the floor.

Martin and his roommates always warned the guys about the gay ghost.  Sometimes they hoped to get a ghostly blow job, but nothing happened.  Sometimes they laughed off the warning, only to run down the stairs ashen-faced with horror.

They tried sending couples up to the attic, but one of them got a blow job while the other slept, oblivious.

As the legend grew, gay men volunteered to be ghost busters from as far away as West Hollywood.

The neighbors started talking -- they were already famous as "the gay house," and now "the house with the gay ghost."

You don't need notoriety in a small town.

Then one weekend Tarik invited his Norfolk friend, Bammy, for a visit.  They called Bammy "Monster" because he was hung -- way hung.  8" long, thicker than a beer can -- and that was soft.  When aroused, he was 11" long, with a head as big as a baseball.

He was an oral and anal bottom, but not by choice.  No one had been able to give him a blow job  since he was 16 -- the most they could do was lick the shaft. Lots of guys wanted him to plow their butt, but he didn't get hard enough to enter -- his arousal was more like a spongy tumescence.

"Let me at this so-called ghost," Monster said.  "If he can take it, he's welcome to it."

So he spent the night in the attic room, naked, lying on his back, with the covers down, inviting.

Nothing happened.

About 2:00 am, Monster grew tired of waiting, and started to masturbate.  He displayed his aroused cock.

Nothing happened.

Finally he dozed off, and turned over onto his stomach.

Monster awoke to the feel of an erect penis pushing against him.  Figuring that Tarik had come up during the night, he lifted his head and opened his mouth.  The cock pushed up against his throat.  Average size, very hard, uncut, not cold or anything, just like a regular cock.

He bobbed up and down on it, feeling the pubic hair against his face.  reaching up to grab two butt cheeks.  He saw nothing but a dark form.   Still thinking that it was Tarik.

The spurt came a few minutes later, a huge mouthful.  Bammy swallowed, and the dark form moved away.

"Thanks, man," Monster whispered. "Always happy to take your load."

Then the dark form moved off the bed.  Monster watched as it moved toward the bookcases -- and vanished!

With a shout he ran downstairs to Tarik's room, and jumped into the bed like a little boy afraid of the dark.

"That darn crazy ghost!  He couldn't go down on me, so he made me go down on him!"

That was the last anyone saw -- or felt -- of the horny gay ghost of Ocracoke.

Tony Dow and the Glory Hole at the Air Force Base

Last week 69-year old Jock, a retired landscaper and Uber driver from Tucson, told me a story of when he was in the California National Guard in 1966, and Tony Dow, the actor who starred as teenage hunk Wally in Leave It to Beaver, was in his barracks.  One day they all went out to the movies, and Wally and his friend picked up a high school boy.  Jock followed them, and watched as they had a three-way in the park.

But that's not the only story he has.

I'll use his words as much as possible.










Marysville, California, October 1966

When I was in boot camp, we got passes to go into town twice a week.  A lot of the guys tried to get some action with girls, but struck out  -- the Sexual Revolution hadn't yet hit Marysville -- you couldn't even get condoms -- so they couldn't wait to get back to the base and go to the latrine.

Boomer: Striking out made them want to go to the bathroom?

Let me set up the scenario.  All unmarried guardsmen under the rank of sergeant lived in barracks, or what they called dormitories.  One long, narrow room with 20 single beds and lockers, 10 on each side.

At the far end, you go through a lounge with two couches, some chairs, and a tv set, and then the latrine, two urinals and a toilet, right out there, not in a stall.  There was no window, so it was pitch-dark unless you turned on the light.  The switch, for some reason, was out in the lounge, by the tv set.

During my first few nights in the dormitory, I noticed that most guys who got up to use the latrine turned on the light -- you could see it glimmering under the lounge door.  But some didn't.  Why were they fumbling around in the dark?

Curious, I waited until someone went in without turning the light on, and followed, walking through the deserted lounge to the latrine door.  I pulled it open.

 It was musty, smelling of urine and someone's aftershave, and pitch-black except for a little gleam.  How could you even see where the urinal was?  I gingerly moved forward, my hand outstretched -- and suddenly I was touching a bare butt!

Boomer: Side or back?

Side. He was facing the toilet, like he was peeing into it.

"Wait your turn, buddy," the guy growled.

Wait your turn for what? I wondered.  There were two other urinals to pee into.  I reached down past the bare butt and felt a buzz-cut head, ears, neck, arms grabbing the guy's butt -- then my hand was batted away.

"I said fuck off.  I'm almost done."

The guy was getting a blow job!  I had no idea that g.i.'s had sex with each other, right there in the barracks!   My mind was majorly blown, let me tell you!

I retreated to the lounge and waited for the guy to leave.

"It's all yours," he whispered in passing.

I returned to the latrine and shut the door, and inched forward.  Someone grabbed my cock!

I reached down and felt that smooth hard chest again.  Farther down to the belly, pubic hair, and cock.   He was big -- at least 7" -- and aroused.

I fondled him for a moment, then stood directly in front of him, and he leaned down to blow me, his hands squeezing my bare butt.  I caressed his hair and face, squeezed his shoulders. When he started jerking me while licking my balls, that did it!

"I'm going to cum," I moaned.

"Shush," he murmured, and swallowed my load.

It was a perfect set up.!   Almost every night, about a half hour after lights out, the fag would get up...

Boomer: Watch your language.

Sorry.  That's what they called oral bottoms in those days.  Anyhoo, the oral bottom would go into the latrine without turning on the light, and we knew that he was ready to give blow jobs.  We were all young and horny, so he was busy.  On some nights there were two or three guys waiting.

 If someone turned on the light from the lounge outside, the guy getting the blow job would just turn around and pretend to be peeing at the urinal.

 Boomer: Was it the same guy giving the blow jobs every night?

Usually.  Sometimes another guy beat him to it.

Boomer: Did you ever get to be the oral bottom?

Once or twice he let me go down on him for a few minutes before he did me, but not usually, no.

But I didn't mind -- I'm still more of an oral top than a bottom, if you'd like to get together sometime and try me out.  Here's a recent photo.  Not bad for 69, huh?  And 69 is my favorite position, by the way.

Boomer: Mine, too.

Anyhoo, after 12 weeks of basic training, I shipped out to Moffett Airfield in Mountain View, California, where the latrine was right by the bunks, no way to hide.  Of course, guys still found ways to get it on. There was a supply closet off the tv lounge, and plenty of street cruising.

Not to mention San Francisco a short train ride away.  Golden Gate Park during the Summer of Love!  That was one far out trip, man!

Boomer:  Great story about being gay in the military in the 1960, but what does it have to do with Tony Dow?"

Oh, he shipped out somewhere else.  I don't remember where.  We weren't close, as I said.  He mostly pal-ed around with Kurt.

Boomer:  But you said this was a Tony Dow hookup story.  Was he one of the guys waiting in line for a blow job every night?"

Lord, no.  He was the f-- the oral bottom.

Boomer: The guy who sat on the toilet and gave blow jobs to anyone who wanted one?

Right.  I thought I made that clear.


Was Jock Telling the Truth?

Tony Dow has been linked with women only since 1968.

 I can see him engaging in some same-sex activity with a buddy, like his friend Kurt.  I can even see him as one of the guys waiting in line at the latrine, thinking that a mouth is a mouth.

But to seek multiple experiences with near-strangers in the equivalent of a glory hole?  I don't buy it.  I think time has clouded Jock's memories.

It's a good story though, even without a celebrity hookup.

See Also: Tony Dow and Kurt Hook Up with a High School Boy.

Gideon moves out of the friend zone: A Gideon x Keefe romance

 

"This is it," Gideon Gemstone told himself as he stood at the entrance of Woodpecker's Carpentry, watching the workers inside, and trying not to be noticed.  "Enough stalling.  You make your move now, or forget about it."

Suddenly a burly middle-aged man in a blue worker's suit appeared. "Hello.  I'm Bishop, the owner.  Can I help you with something?"

"I was just admiring the wood carvings.  I like that Grinch in a Santa Claus suit, and the bobble-head Trump...."  Thinking fast, he added. "But I was really looking for a birthday present for my Granddad.  Eli Gemstone -- you probably heard of him."

"The pastor at the Salvation Center? Sure, half my crew goes there, or watches the Praise Be to He hour on Sunday mornings. He's retired, isn't he? Who's the preacher now?"

"Jesse Gemstone.  I'm his son, Gideon."

He chuckled.  "How about that!   We're having a run on Gemstones today.  Your Uncle Kelvin was in earlier, probably shopping for the same thing.  He was talkin' up a storm with our new guy, Keefe."

Uncle Kelvin!  Gulp -- maybe it was too late.

For two years, Uncle Kelvin had been bringing Keefe to family dinners, barbecues, Christmas parties, everything: the hottest guy Gideon had ever seen. with shoulder-length blond hair, a short beard, an incredibly muscular chest inscribed faintly with a 666, a remnant of his former Satanism that made him even hotter.  

Were Kelvin and Keefe boyfriends?  The evangelical "don't ask, don't tell" policy meant that they would pretend to be just good buddies, regardless.  Even their social media pages were ambiguous.  But what if they were?  Being screwed by a guy who had screwed his uncle!  Forbidden romance, with a hint of incest -- could he get much hotter?  Gideon began fantasizing about Keefe -- a lot.

Then Keefe announced on his Instagram that he was moving out of the Gemstone compound. Two days later, that he was no longer working as assistant youth pastor: he had returned to his old job as a carpenter.  Obviously they had broken up -- if they were ever boyfriends in the first place. A perfect time for Gideon to move in!

Suddenly Gideon realized that the Burly Carpenter was staring at him, expecting him to say something.  "Sure, I know Keefe.  He used to be the assistant youth pastor at the Salvation Center.  I'll bet Uncle Kelvin wanted to commission a gift for Granddad.  Hey, maybe we could go in on a gift together.  Could I talk to him?"

"I'll go get him." Burly retreated to the work floor.  A moment later, Keefe appeared -- incredibly hot in a work shirt that left his arms and shoulders bare.  He smiled...a good sign, right?  "Hi, Gideon.  How's the family doing?"

The full story is on Righteous Gemstones Beefcake and Boyfriends

I Learn About Oral Sex in the Church Parking Lot

When I was a kid, our Nazarene church had only one preacher, whose main job was screaming and banging the pulpit for an hour three times a week (researching and writing sermons is more time-consuming than you may think).  

But when I was in ninth grade, we got a Youth Minister, in charge of kid and teen activities like Junior Joys, Nazarene Young People's Society, the Afterglow (a party after the Sunday evening service), and Canvassing (going door to door to witness).

The Preacher might be elderly, but the Youth Minister had to be young, cool, and attractive enough to keep kids interested.  Ours was Brother Bob, fresh out of Olivet, in his early 20s, tall, with enormously broad shoulders, a barrel chest, and gigantic hands.

Unfortunately, I never saw him shirtless -- he always wore a suit and tie, the Nazarene equivalent of a clerical collar.  But when I went down to the altar to get saved or sanctified, he came down and wrapped his huge hard arm around me, and I could feel his hard barrel chest against my back.

You could hardly miss the gigantic Mortadella+ swinging around in his pants every time he moved. Particularly in NYPS, when we were kneeling to pray, and he walked from person to person to see if we needed help: his crotch was exactly at eye level.  And at least once, when he hugged me after altar call, I felt it press against me like a salami stuffed in his pants.

One Sunday night during the summer after ninth grade, I walked out into the parking lot during altar call to escape from the frenetic shouting, and saw Terry and Dave, twelfth grade best buddies, talking in the shadowy area by the church bus.

The full story is on Rigtheous Gemstones Beefcake and Boyfriends

A Perfect Southern Gentleman: A Karl/Percy Romance. Chapter Two: The KOKK House

 

This is the second chapter of  A Perfect Southern Gentleman: A Cousin Karl and Percy Romance

Karl and Percy sat on the love seat in the master bedroom, drinking sparkling grape juice from wine glasses and kissing. Karl was fully aroused, an enormous tent in his pants. Percy resisted the urge to get on his knees -- not yet. He wanted this night to last.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Yessir. I think I been ready since the first time I saw you."

They stood and faced each other. Karl started to undress. "No, let me do that," Percy whispered. He carefully unbuttoned his own shirt, revealing his slight but firm chest and belly, Then Karl's shirt. Massive pecs, enormous arms, a mountain-man's belly. 

Their shoes and pants next -- no sexy way to take those off. Percy stared at Karl's cock -- at least eight inches, thick, veiny, sticking straight out in front of him.

"Like it?" Karl asked with a grin.

"It's perfect."

The full story is on Righteous Gemstones Beefcake and Boyfriends

A Perfect Southern Gentleman: A Karl/Percy Romance, Chapter One: Keefe's Secret

 

Percy really wasn't paying attention to the movie. Not only had he seen Victor/Victoria like six times, he was too conscious of Karl Montgomery sitting beside him, his massive arm pressed against him, his hand occasionally reaching across Percy's lap to grab some popcorn. It was incredibly exciting, but also comforting. It felt like home.

They only met three weeks ago, when his bff Kelvin Gemstone told him that Cousin Karl had just come out -- at age 43 -- and wanted Percy to play matchmaker. He found three "perfect" matches -- a bodybuilder to match Karl's Strong Man awards, a musician to match the Kentucky bluegrass that he played at the Pour House every Friday night, and a carpenter to match his job in landscaping, But Karl didn't want any of them -- he wanted Percy!

Kelvin sat on his other side, next to his partner Keefe. That was amazing, too -- back when they first met, when Percy was hired to design the new executive board room at the Gemstone Salvation Center,  the poor guy couldn't even acknowledge that he was gay. He pretended that his boyfriend was "just a good buddy"; God forbid that they ever appear together in public. Now, three years later, he was happy to be seen on a double date!

The full story is on Righteous Gemstones Beefcake and Boyfriends

Wilton's First Time was with Captain Kirk

Millions of Baby Boomer kids got their first glimpse of beefcake on Star Trek (1966-69) where, week after week, Captain Kirk  would take his shirt off to fight alien monsters or kiss alien babes. I didn't find him attractive -- he was too smug, too leery, and way too hetero.

Shatner continued to play Kirk in movies and parodies for 40 years, but he also appeared in a wide variety of movies and tv series, including starring roles in T. J. Hooker, Boston Legal, and Sh** My Dad Says.

Married four times, with a notorious eye for the ladies, Shatner has no gay rumors, that I know of.  George Takei, who played Sulu on Star Trek, reveals that the entire cast and crew knew that he was gay, except Shatner: "it went right over his head."  For him, gay people simply did not exist.



But in his early days, Shatner was quite different.

Montreal, September 1947

Wilton was 16 years old (model is over 18), a sophomore at West Hill High School in Montreal, and an aspiring journalist -- he had already published a poem about the War.

Physically, he was not so hot --  a tall stringbean, pushing through puberty with oversized hands and feet, oily skin, and constant horniness.

He didn't know that gay people were defined as "criminal psychopaths" in the Canadian penal code.  He didn't even know that gay people exist.

But he knew that Johnny Sheffield in a loincloth in Tarzan and the Huntress made him feel all hot and flushed.

And he had a picture of Alan Ladd with his shirt off hidden in a desk drawer in his room.

And he liked looking at the football players.  Some of them were nice, saying "hello" to him in the hallway and collaborating with him on class assignments,  but many of them were jerks.

Bill Shatner was a jerk.

Wilton had to admit that he was cute, with that curly reddish-brown hair and that bright Pepsodent smile. But he was a money-hungry, mercenary, soulless cog in the Cold War machine.  He wasn't interested in acting then, although he had done some children's theater.  He was all about money and getting rich -- offensive to Wilt's artistic sensibility.  He planned to get a football scholarship to McGill, major in economics, then start his own business.

But it wasn't just a difference in temperament.  Bill strutted around like he owned the place.  He wasn't even a star...he played an offensive end -- that's a minor position, but it made him a regular Jim Thorpe, in his own mind anyway.

When he was in a good mood, he ignored Wilton, walked right past like he was a ghost.  And God forbid he was in a bad mood -- he'd make with the nonstop jokes about Wilton's height, his acne, calling him ugly and a fruit, asking if he had pubic hair yet.

Wilton was a reporter for the school paper, and one day the editor gave him an assignment of interviewing one of the football players other than the quarterback -- anyone else he wanted.

He went into the locker room one day after practice to ask for volunteers -- and to gawk at the naked jocks, of course.

"Hi, I'm doing an article on what it's like to be on our football team," he began.  "And I was wondering if any of you would...."

Bill Shatner was walking from the shower wearing a towel, his chest hard and gleamng.  Wilton lost his train of thought.

"Um...would....would mind being interviewed."

"Hot-cha, Jackson!" he exclaimed with a smile.  "I'll be there with all my ears on."

Not that drip!  Wilton thought.  Anybody but him!   But he said "Ok, fine.  How about tomorrow lunchtime in the library?"

"No -- that's not private enough.  I don't want the whole world to know my deep, dark secrets.  Come to my house tonight after dinner."

So around 8:00 pm, Wilton knocked on the door of small flat-roofed house on rue Marcel, near the Bois de Saraguay.  He was surprised to see a mezuzah on the door frame -- he hadn't realized that the Shatners were Jewish.

Bill's father answered, and drew him into the living room, where his mother, aunt, and sister were listening to Family Theater on the radio.


"You're not going out to a soda shop, are you?"  Dad asked.

Going out?   "No, sir."

 "Good. You may not know that this is Erev Yom Kippur: tomorrow is the Day of Atonement, when we pray and fast to atone for our sins of the last year.  Nothing to eat from sundown to sundown."

Then Bill came bounding down the stairs wearing just his pants.  Wilt stared at his bare chest.  Suddenly he was flushed with erotic energy.

"Is that anyway to dress when you are entertaining a young man?" Mom asked.

"Sorry -- I just got out of the shower. "  He clapped Wilton on the shoulder.  "Howsa, Jackson -- let me spare you this agony -- come up to my room while I finish getting dressed, and then we'll blow."

Wilton followed Bill up to his room -- single bed, desk, pennant from McGill, bookcase with a few books on sports.  He carefully closed the door behind them.

"Where are we going?"

"Oh, I thought we could get some moo goo and meet some sweet petites [get ice cream and look for girls]. Better than hanging around this morgue, right?"     Bill dropped his pants -- he was wearing no underwear.  His cock was long, thick, cut.  Wilt stared.

"I never saw one that was circumcized before...."  His face was burning.  "Can I...touch it?"

Bill grinned.  "Be my guest."

Wilt knelt to get a better look.  He gingerly ran his fingers over the shaft, lifted the head. It began to stiffen.

Bill was caressing his hair, holding his shoulders, thrusting his pelvis gently forward and backward as his cock grew longer.

Wilton had never heard of oral sex before, but instinctively he opened his mouth and let Bill's cock slide in.  He grabbed the base to control it better, and bobbed up and down, licking the shaft like it was a lollipop.

"Suck it," Bill suggested.  "Make like you're a hoover [vacuum cleaner]."

Wilton began sucking and licking the head while masturbating the shaft.  He grabbed Bill by the butt to steady himself.

"That's it.  Good job," Bill murmured. ' Good boy."  He thrust hard, shuddered, and suddenly spurted an enormous load into Wilton's mouth.  He didn't know what to do with it -- he looked around, saw a box of tissues by the bed, and jumped up to deposit the load into one.

"Thanks, buddy-boy."  Bill took the tissue from his hand and threw it into the waste basket.  "He shoots -- he scores!"  He began putting on his clothes.

"Got anything to get the taste out of my mouth?"

"A smooth and creamy at Dairyland should do the trick."

"But...Yom Kippur.  The Day of Atonement."

"I've already atoned, Jackson.  I wanted to make up for all the times I was mean to you in the last year.  I knew what you wanted -- it's what all fairies want -- so why not give it to you?  And the soda is part of the deal, too."

They didn't become lovers -- Wilton didn't go down on another guy until college.  They didn't even become friends.  But Bill Shaner was a lot nicer after that.  And whenever they passed each other in the hallway, they shared a secret smile.

I Catch Cousin Joe in the Act

Rock Island, December 1976

When I was in junior high, I caught my friend Brian trying to erase graffiti from the wall of Washington Junior High, "Brian gives free LBJs."  He wouldn't say what it meant, and I had no idea.  It endured season after season, year after year, ghostly pale but still legible, stubbornly resistant to the generations of custodians who attempted to erase it.  It was the biggest riddle of my childhood.

During the summer after 9th grade, I learned that the term "BJ" referred to oral sex, but I didn't make the connection to gay people until a cold Friday at Christmastime in 1976, my junior year at Rocky High, shortly after I discovered what "gay" meant.

Aunt Nora was visiting for the holidays, with two whole carloads of relatives.  Cousin Joe, a 22-year old college senior, was staying in the attic room with Ken and me, and his girlfriend Sandy was staying downstairs with my sister.

On the afternoon of Christmas Eve, everyone was out shopping or ice skating, but I didn't feel well and stayed in to read.  Joe and Sandy came in, said hello, then vanished somewhere into the house -- I assumed they went down to the basement rec room to play pingpong.

They weren't playing pingpong.

Soon I got a throbbing headache, so I took an aspirin and decided to go upstairs to bed.

The door at the bottom of the attic stairs didn’t lock, but the clatter of shoes on the bare wood was usually an adequate early-warning signal, giving you plenty of time to stop watching late-night tv, reading comics, or whatever else you didn’t care to have witnessed -- but today I was wearing only socks, and the throb in my head made me go slowly, one step at a time. So they didn’t hear me.

When I reached the top of the stairs, I saw Joe lying on the floor on his side of the room, and Sandy kneeling over him.  My first thought was that he had fainted. Then I saw a thick, heavy shaft the color of putty.  Joe's penis!

I had seen it several times before -- while changing clothes to go swimming, once while skinny-dipping.  I walked in on him in the bathroom when I was five.  It was always breathtaking.

Suddenly Joe saw me, pushed Sandy away, and quickly zipped up. “Um...we were....we were just..."   He was blushing red.

"I don't care, I'm sick."  I walked the five steps to the bed I was sharing with Ken, fell down face-first, and covered my head with a pillow.  "It's no big deal. You’re not the first person in this room to give a bj.”

They were both silent. I peered out from under the pillow to see them staring open-mouthed.

“What’s your problem?”


“You. . .give bjs?” Sandy asked.

“Of course I  give them!” I said angrily. “You think I’m a virgin? I’ve given them lots of times.”

Joe laughed. “Gee, you're dumb! Boys don’t give bjs, they get them.”

“No, I give them. . .boys give them.” My head was still throbbing, making it hard to concentrate.   "Why do you think it's called giving a bj?  Because you give your penis..."

"The girl gives the b.j. to the boy, Boomer."

“Well. . .to be fair, it doesn’t have to be a girl,” Sandy said. “Sometimes guys do give bjs.  At least they're sort of like guys."  She flashed a loose wrist.

My face burned as I realized what she was implying.

"Be nice!" Joe commanded.  He patting my shoulder.  "Boomer just got mixed up.  Don't tell Mom about seeing us...you know...ok?"

"Don't worry, your secret is safe with me."

"And your secret is safe with us!" Sandy managed to say before Joe grabbed her and dragged her down the stairs.

I lay in bed, mortified.  But now I understood -- LBJ, BJ with an "L" added.  Long ago some bullies had accused Brian of being gay. No wonder he worked so furiously to scrub the graffiti off!

It turns out that I was wrong.  Five years later, in the spring of 1981, I would discover that the phrase LBJ had nothing to do with sex.  But it did have quite a lot to do with being gay.

What Not to Say During Sex: 11 Words and Phrases That Kill the Mood

I've been engaging in regular sexual activity for a number of years, and I've heard everything imaginable before, after, and even during the act:  laughing, screaming, crying, yelling an ex-lover's name, Bible verses, dirty talk, French, German, Klingon.

I can ignore almost anything.

But some words and phrases are too grating and asinine to ignore.  They make me much less likely to invite you home in the first place, and they ruin the mood once we get there.  They're likely to elicit laughter or a groan of disapproval.  You'd be better off quoting Monty Python ("My nipples explode with delight), or just giving your vocal cords a rest.

Here are 11 sex words and phrases that will kill the mood:

1. Fit

Oh, aren't you fit!

 Physical fitness is a measure of your cardiovascular endurance,  muscle strength and endurance, flexibility, agility, and fat-to-muscle ratio, not your physical attractiveness.  Saying that someone is fit makes you sound like a leering, groping Creepy Old Guy.

2. Delicious/Mouth Watering.

 Your kisses are delicious!  Your cock is mouth-watering!

You use your mouth for both eating and sex, but otherwise the two activities are not at all related.  Sex has nothing to do with your taste buds; a hamburger can't be sexy, and a person cannot be delicious.

3. Breed.

I need a man to breed me.

Breed means encouraging animals to have sex so they will reproduce.  It's demeaning when you're talking about human beings, and completely inaccurate when you're talking about anal sex.  If you're an anal bottom, just say so.

4. Fuck

Oh, fuck me, fuck me.

The word fuck is used for many things besides sexual acts, mostly bad things.  It's vulgar, coarse, and low-class.  Besides, it's vague.  Exactly what act are you proposing?  Do you want to be an anal top, an oral bottom?  Do you want to do interfemoral?  Be specific!





5. Cock sucker/sucking cock

I want you to suck my cock!

Cock sucker is a long-standing derogatory term for gay men.  It's demeaning to oral bottom, and completely inaccurate.  You only suck at the end of the act.  Say "go down on me" instead.

6. It feels good/great

The success of oral sex is dependent on how attractive you find your partner, how erotic you find the situation, how comfortable you are in the room, and a host of other conditions, some seemingly trivial (whether or not you are hungry).  "It feels good/great" reduces the act to a pure sensation.

7. Fag

There will be a fag at the party to service you.

Fag is another derogatory term for gay men, implying that that they are objects rather than people, far inferior to heterosexual men.  And why would you refer to just one of the gay men at a party as a fag?  They're all gay.

8. Dom/Sub

I'm a sub into getting whipped and spanked, looking for a dom.

Dom (dominant) and sub (submissive) are terms taken from heterosexual master-slave scenes, infused with the heteronormative depiction of sex as always involving a "boy" and a "girl."  It brands you as a newcomer to gay communities: we say top and bottom.

9.  Big cock

Suck that big cock!  Do you like that big cock?

I'm a big fan of extra-large equipment, but it's annoying to be asked "Do you like that big cock?" in the middle of a sexual encounter. Especially when they ask you over and over.

Um...of course I like that big cock.  Why else would I be here?

The irony is that guys who ask that are usually average-sized.

10. Yeah

Yeah, do that. Yeah...yeah.

In porn, it's guys watching the act who say "yeah...yeah" every thirty seconds.  In real life, it's the guy you're having sex with, whether or not you've asked him a question.

11. Cum

I'm gonna cum....

Why bother to announce it?  It's usually obvious, unless you're one of those guys who produces no semen, so nothing comes out.  And if you do want to announce it, why use that unelegant phrase?  Try:

Russian: Ya zankochen (I am finished).
German: Ich spritze (I squirt).
Spanish: Yo rocio (I splatter).
French: Je jouis (I am glad).

See also: 6000 Ways to Say Penis; What is the Difference Between a Pizza and a Penis?

Topped for the First Time by Fred the Ministerial Student

Davenport, Iowa, December 1979

There are a practically infinite number of bedroom acts you might want to engage in during a date with this guy, but for most gay men, the Big Four are anal top and bottom and oral giving and receiving, or in the terms we used in the 1980s:

French active/passive
Greek active/passive

French was the mainstay.  You didn't even need to ask; you could just assume that any guy you met was up for oral, both giving and receiving.  It's just what you expected to happen in the bedroom.

It's the only major activity that I knew about for 1 1/2 years after figuring "it" out.

Well, where was I supposed to learn about Greek?

There was no gay porn then, at least none that I had access to.

The Joy of Gay Sex had been published but wasn't on the shelves at the Waldenbooks in the Mall.

I had only been with about three guys, and none of them suggested Greek, or even mentioned it.


Then, on December 16, 1979, during my sophomore year in college, Fred the Ministerial Student asked me for a date.  He was 27 years old,  immensely attractive, my height, with an open smiling face, a tight swimmer's build, nice biceps, and an "innie" belly button.

We had dinner in a Chinese restaurant in Davenport and then returned to his tiny two-room apartment, where I tried the "yawn and stretch" maneuver to put my arm around him.

After kissing for awhile, we went into the bedroom, tore our clothes off, and fell onto the bed, where I went down on him.  I was being French passive, although I was doing all the work.

He wasn't quite as big as the guy in this photo, but still a lot bigger than any of the three I had been on before.   I gagged and choked.

"That's ok," Fred said.  "I get that a lot.  It's the curse of the well-hung man."

He pushed me back onto the bed.  I thought he was going to go down on me, making me French active, but instead he threw my legs into the air.  It was uncomfortable, hard to breath with all that weight on my chest.

Hey, what's going on?  What's he doing?

He spat on his hand, rubbed it on his penis, and tried to push it inside me!

The pain was intense!  "Hey, wait!" I yelled.  "What are you doing?"

He pulled out.  "Sorry -- I thought you were a bottom."

"Huh?"

"Are you Greek active?  I figured you were Greek passive."

I had no idea what he was talking about.

"What's Greek?"

"I'll explain later."  He moved into the 69 position.

During our second date, Fred showed me a copy of The Advocate, which had personal ads with code like French p, Greek a/p.  The two main gay activities were French (oral) and Greek (anal).  For each you could be active (inserting) or passive (receiving), or versatile.  You could like both equally, or prefer one.

I was so surprised that gay magazines existed that I barely paid attention to the code.

"So, I know you're French passive.  Are you Greek active or passive?"

"I don't know.  I've never done that Greek thing before."

"Why didn't you say so?"  If you're a virgin, it's easier from the rear.  And I'll lube more, don't worry."

"Couldn't we, like, kiss and stuff?" I asked.

"Oh, no, it's great.  You'll see.  You just have to relax." He fondled my butt.  "Nice!"

When we went into the bedroom and got naked, he turned me over on my stomach.  He took a jar of vaseline from the nightstand, and, I assume, smeared it on his penis.  "Just relax," he repeated.  "I'll take it slow."

And he was inside me again.  It still hurt, but it was tolerable, and it was kind of nice feeling Fred's body push against me.  But then another problem arose -- apparently pressing against the prostate triggered my urination reflex.  I had to go, now!

I pushed Fred off and headed to the bathroom.  Back in the bedroom, Fred said "Yeah, that happens sometimes.  I should have warned you.  Ready to try again?"

We tried again a few more times.  I got used to it, at least enough to allow myself to be talked into it, but I still couldn't see the attraction.  Either you couldn't breathe, or you were facing the wrong way. You couldn't kiss.  It hurt.  It was messy.  It ruined the mood to ask "have you cleaned down there?"

And it was really annoying to hear Fred whisper in my ear "Just relax!" as he tried to drive a baseball bat into my butt.

Through college and grad school, I was asked to be Greek active or passive on occasion.  I usually refused.

By the time I got to West Hollywood, Greek was implicated as a main way to transmit the AIDS virus, and thus extremely rare. Guys rarely requested it.  Between 1985 and 1997, I was Greek passive with only three people, and Greek active with two.

But lately I've noticed a big increase in Greek.  On the Plains, most of my dates throw their legs in the air the second we get into the bedroom.

Is it became I'm older, a "daddy"?
Or are guys in the Straight World less concerned about AIDS?
Or is it just the 2010s?

Go figure.

See also: I learn about oral sex; My second Greek passive experience; Fred hooks up with Ron Reagan Jr.

In Bed with My Girlfriend's Boyfriend

Rock Island, March 1976

When I entered tenth grade at Rocky High (age 14-15), boy-girl dating was not optional.  It was a requirement.  Every day, parents, friends, preachers, teachers, and coaches asked "What girl do you like?"  It was an endless litany.  "What girl? What girl? What girl?  What girl?"

And on Tuesday night, when you typically made the phone call to request a Saturday-night date, "Who are you going to call? Why haven't you called yet?  Call!  Call!  Call!"

I tried various ways to get out of it.

1. Calling girls who were way out of my league, the cheerleader-cover girl types who laughed in my face and slammed the phone down, then rushed to call their friends to laugh about my audacity.

2. Unrequited love.  Everyone knew that you fell in love only once, and stayed in love for the rest of your life.  If the other person didn't happen to be in love with you, you were screwed. No matter where you went or who you met for the next sixty years, you would never fall in love again.

3. Lame activities.  Nazarenes weren't allowed movies, dances, fairs, festivals, or rock music anyway, so Nazarene boys usually asked girls out to dinner, or to sports matches.  I went even lower: a chess tournament, a poetry reading, a classical music concert. Faced with those prospects, even girls in my league would give me the "just friends" speech while holding out for something better.


"How about Nazarene girls?" my brother asked.  "They won't mind lame dates.  You could even ask them to church."

"Out of the question," I said.

"Why?  What's wrong with them?"

The real reason was:  after  I rejected the blatant sexual advance of church royalty Debbie at summer camp, she and her cronies -- all of the regulars -- made a big show of whispering "fag!" and running away when I came within 100 yards of them.  But I couldn't tell him that, so I said "We grew up together.  They're like sisters."

"What about a new girl, someone who just joined the church?"

"Sure -- if any show up."  Although our goal in life was reputedly to save souls, new converts were rare. We got about a dozen per year, barely enough to make up for the drop-outs. I couldn't remember the last teenager.

But fate was against me.  In January of my sophomore year, a new girl named Becky came to church with a friend and got saved at the altar call.   

I don't remember what she looked like.  Who cares?  The pressure was on. My brother, my friends, my parents all started pushing me at her.  "Go on -- don't be shy!"  "Don't be a dweeb!"  "Ask her out!"

I resisted for a long time.  She was nearly two years older than me -- a massive age difference in high school!  And she lived in Green Rock, about 20 miles away.  How was I supposed to get there to pick her up?  Ask Dad to drive me?

It didn't matter.  "The Lord has provided!  Don't be a dweeb!  Ask her out!  Ask her!  Ask her!"

So one Tuesday in March I called and asked her to a jump quiz competition Saturday night.  She was going anyway, so we would meet at the church, sit together, and go out for ice cream afterwards.

To my consternation, she agreed.  But over ice cream sundaes, she said "I should let you know that this can't go anywhere.  We can't go steady or get married."

My jaw dropped.  Dating was a means of finding a marital partner, but no one admitted it so blatantly. "Why not?"

"I'm already in love with someone else.  Do you want to see his picture?"

Yes, every guy wants to see the picture of his date's boyfriend!

Scott was a fresh-faced teenager, thin, bushy-haired, grinning at the camera.  He seemed pleasant enough.

"Why aren't you with him?" I asked.  "Is it unrequited?"

"Oh, no, Scott's in love with me, too," Becky said quickly.  "It's just that he's not a Christian, so we can't date anymore.  Be not unequally yoked with unbelievers."

"Couldn't you like, um, win his soul?"

"I tried, but he's not interested. He thinks the Bible is just a book of fairy tales. He doesn't go to church at all.  He hasn't admitted it, but I think he might even be an...atheist!"

"Wow! An atheist!"  I exclaimed, barely able to conceal my excitement.  I had never met an atheist before, but I heard all about them in Sunday school and soulwinning class.  Atheists had no morals, so they did whatever they wanted: grew their hair long, went to movies, smoked pot...gulp...had sex.

I imagined Scott naked, aroused, his enormous cock pushing up against his flat belly, smiling, inviting...to get or give a b.j.

Focus!  I told myself.  You're at Country Style, eating a sundae, on a date with a girl....

"Atheists are definitely a challenge," I continued. "The standard soulwinning oepnings don't work with them, and they don't respond to quotes from the Bible.  But I learned a few tricks.  How about if you introduce us?  I'll have him on his knees in no time."

On his knees....to get or give a bj....

"Wow, that would be great!" Becky said.  "It's so sweet of you to do this."  She leaned over and tried to kiss me on the cheek, but I backed away

The meeting was in a dorm room at St. Ambrose College in Davenport -- Becky forgot to mention that her boyfriend was two years older, a college freshman -- and a Roman Catholic.

Catholic and atheist --  Double the evil!  I couldn't wait!

To my disappointment, the room looked perfectly normal.  So did Scott.  He shook my hand warmly and hugged Becky.  She refused a kiss.

She took the desk chair, and Scott sat on the bed.  I didn't want to squeeze in next to him, so I sat on the floor, my arm draped across the mattress, a few inches from his legs.

You weren't supposed to engage atheists in intellectual debate, but I couldn't resist a few Biblical-inerrancy zingers, like Where did Cain get his wife?  (Obviously he married his sister).

When I handed Scott my Bible to show him the passage, our hands touched. I began to feel flushed.

"Becky, would you mind waiting down in the Student Union?"  I asked.  "I want to  talk to Scott privately."

When she left, I looked up at Scott and said, in my most dramatic voice, "You think that if there's no God, you're free, you can do what you want, but you're wrong.  There are still rules.  You have to get a job, you have to get married and have kids.  None of us are free.  Not even Christians.  What do you think I'd like to be doing right now?"

I reached out and gently stroked his knee.

He spread his legs  I could see that he bulged to the left. The room was very hot, and very quiet.  Time was standing still.

I reached out and touched his bulge. Scott smiled and pressed my hand down.  I unzipped and pulled out his cock -- 7", thick, uncut -- and went down on him.  He moaned softly.  His cockhead rammed against my throat, gagging me.  Then we were lying on the bed, naked, bodies pressed together, cocks pressed together, kissing, his tongue darting into....

Was this atheist-Catholic mind control?

I moved my hand away.

"Then what good is it to be a Christian?" Scott asked.  "It just leads to more things you can't do.  No movies, no dancing.  No sex."

I was supposed to say something like "You feel indescribable joy all the time," or at least "You won't go to hell when you die," but instead I said "None of us are free.  Let's go find Becky."

Nothing happened between me and Scott.  Nothing except fantasy.  But I continued to "date" his girlfriend, to the back-slapping praise and adoration of my parents, brother, friends, preacher, Sunday School teacher....

None of us are free.

Face to Face with John Stamos' Bulge

In 1984, when I was living in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas, the one moment of joy in my miserable life came on Wednesday nights, when I could watch Scott Baio in Charles in Charge, followed by 21-year old John Stamos as an aspiring singer in Dreams.  How could you avoid falling in love with him? Thick black hair, a smooth tan chest, a basket that wouldn't quit, and a smile that stayed with you for days.

It only lasted for 12 episodes, but John Stamos got the full teen idol treatment, with posters in teen magazines and articles on "What It's Like to Date John."

I wanted to date John, sure, but I also wanted the big-city Philadelphia freedom he was living.  He was an emblem of hope, an awareness that there was life out there, over the rainbow.

 After I moved to West Hollywood, I saw John in You Again? (1986-87), as Jack Klugman's teenage son, but not in Full House (1987-1995),  the ultra-conservative TGIF sitcom about three straight guys raising a family together in a strictly gay-free San Francisco.

It was rather depressing.  Could the guy who got me through the horrors of Hell-fer-Sartain be homophobic?






West Hollywood, June 1990

At Gay Pride in June 1990, when I was marching with Beth Chaim Chadashim, I saw John in the crowd of spectators.

I nudged Lane.  "Look.  John Stamos, the teen dream I had a crush on in Texas!  Is he gay?"

"I don't think so," Lane said. "Gay actors never come to Gay Pride -- somebody might recognize them.  He must be straight but a supporter."

"That takes a lot of guts in homophobic Hollywood.  I'd like to go over and shake his hand."

"Who are you kidding?  You just want to meet your childhood crush!"

"Young adult crush, actually.  I'm two years older than Stamos."

By this time we had long since passed by.





Santa Monica, September 1991

Lane and I were at the Divine Design fundraiser for Project Angelfood, which provides meals for people living with AIDS.  I saw several celebrities  I knew in the crowd, such as Michael J. Fox and Patrick Stewart -- and John Stamos!

But instead of going over to say hello, I stood frozen in place, staring.

"What's the matter?" Lane asked.

"John Stamos."

"So why don't you go over?"  He paused.  "Don't tell me you're nervous!  You see celebrities at the gym every day.  You dated a teen idol, remember?"

I reddened, embarrassed to be having such a strange reaction.  "This is different.  John Stamos was...special.  I'm afraid I'll gush."

"Ok, so he turned you on.  He's just a guy.  He's not even built.  Have you seen his chest recently?"

"Thanks for making me think about his chest! Now I'll never get up the nerve to go over."

Lane grinned.  "Sorry.  What I meant was, he doesn't even have a very big cock.  I imagine that when it's hard, it's not more than five inches. You could go down on it and have room for his balls."

"This isn't helping!"

Hollywood, October 1993

I was walking in the AIDS Walk along with about 1,000 other people.  I stopped to sit on the curve to tie my shoe, while Lane and Infinite Chazz walked on.  When I looked up, John Stamos was right there, just a few feet away, walking quickly while talking to a male friend.

No way I was letting an opportunity slip away again!  I was going to shake his hand!  I would jump to my feet, run two yards over to him, and say "Hi!  I just wanted to thank you for helping me get through a dark time in my life!"

I jumped up, but my shoe was still untied.  I came up to within a few feet of Stamos and said "Hi!  I just wanted..."

He stopped walking and turned to face me.

At that moment, I tripped on something.

I'm still not sure how it happened, but I ended up falling onto my hands and knees, hard, with my face against John's crotch!

"Whoa, dude!" John and his friend helped me to my feet.  "Are you ok?"

"I think so."  Actually, my wrist hurt and my knee was scraped and bleeding.  "Did I hurt you..um...down there?"

"No, man.  You didn't hit me hard."

His friend laughed.  "John's gotten head lots of times, but they usually buy him dinner first."

I should have said something like "Ok, I'll buy you dinner."  At least I should have gone into my "you helped me through a dark time" spiel.  But I was too dazed and embarrassed.  I just stood there.

"You sure you're ok?  You look a little out of it.  You want me to call anybody?"

"My friends are right over there.  Thanks, though."

John and his friend walked on, while I stood there, thinking.

My mouth had been pressed against John Stamos' cock, separated by only a thin mesh!  That counts as oral sex, right?  Even though neither of us consented to it.

I've told several people this story over the years.  Not one believed that it was really an accident.

And no, I can't comment on his size.

See also: Nate Richert's Kielbasa.