I Prove I'm Not Gay By Kissing a Guy

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

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

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

They throw things or spit out of cars.

They mimic your actions,

They try to trip you.

Sometimes they even attack.



Rock Island, June 1976

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

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

At the same time of day.

Past a school.

I know, dumb!

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

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

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

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

Then one day the Mean Boy and his cronies attacked.

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

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

They scattered in three different directions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Try me."

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

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

I shoved my tongue into his mouth.

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

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

"Oh, you want another kiss?"

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

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

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

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

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

But I definitely remember the kiss.

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

Picking Up a College Track Star in Front of My Brother

Small Town Illinois, September 2016

We're on our way back from a funeral, my brother and sister-in-law in the front seat, me in the back, driving down I-74 through a wilderness of small towns and vast plains: Danville, Farmer City, Mahomet, LeRoy, Downs, Carlock.

Katie points to the sign of a town with a quirky name.  "We should stop there for dinner.  It will probably have a cute Mom and Pop restaurant that all of the locals go to."

"Small town locals?  Sounds scary.  ZZ Top wannabes driving red pickup trucks with Confederate flags and 'I Heart Trump' bumper stickers."

"...and rows of cute boutiques and antique shops," Katie says.

"I think we should just press on to Bloomington.  According to Google Maps, there are three Thai restaurants..."

"I can't wait another hour!" my brother Ken exclaims.  "And I'm not eating rest-stop McDonalds!"

"It will be fine!" Katie jokes.  "If your hot pink tutu and drag queen bouffant attract rednecks, we'll tell them you're my hairdresser."

To get to the small town, you drive north from the highway through one of those horrible retail strips, with a Wal-Mart, fast-food restaurants, and car dealerships.  Then through a residential district of the same white-porch houses you see everywhere in Illinois, across a river, and to downtown:

A park with a bandshell.
A clothing store for Cowgirls.
Two closed banks, a closed antique store, a hair salon, a lot of deserted storefronts, and two restaurants, only one open: The Paradise Soda Shop.

We go into the soda shop.  Maybe it serves sandwiches, too.

It's in a historic building, with restored booths and seats from the 1920s,

There's a hot bear in an old-fashioned soda jerk costume behind the counter: in his 40s, chubby, black hair, beard, nice square hands.  His name tag reads "Seth."

I go into full cruise mode: eyes, crotch, eyes again.  Unfortunately, Seth's crotch is covered by an apron.  "Hi, Seth, my name is Boomer.  My associates and I are traveling through on the way to the big city, and we were wondering what kind of local delicacies you have."

He grins.  "Well, we have sodas, malteds, shakes, and phosphates."

"Phosphates?"

"Carbonated water with all different kinds of flavoring. They were popular in the 1920s.  But we have flavors they never thought of: watermelon, papaya, kiwi, sriracha..."

"Sriracha?  The hot sauce?"

Our eyes meet with that unmistakable vibe.  "It's an acquired taste."

"We were looking more for dinner," Ken says,

"Well, there are two restaurants in walking distance: Burger King and Pizza Ranch.  But be sure to come back for a phosphate later.  I'm here until 7:00."

So much for a down-home Mom and Pop restaurant that everybody goes to.

The Pizza Ranch is the franchise run by fundamentalists, with the goal of Glorifying God with bad pizza and deep-fried chicken.  Two buffet tables loaded down with fried stuff.  A salad bar consisting of wilted lettuce and sliced cucumbers, and some long rows of family-style tables.

Where the entire local high school football team is eating! Eight beefy guys squeezing past us to get to their table, then returning for more fried stuff and squeezing past us again.

Crotch view after crotch view!

Legs and thighs an inch away!
Chests and biceps in full view!
A smile and an "Excuse me, sir" as a guy shifts toward me to scoot around.

Plus a cute boy eating with two rednecks, a pair of men in muscle shirts, and the father of a nuclear family with a blatant bulge in his pants.

There are 23 men and 3 women in the room. My kind of restaurant!

I nudge Katie. "I think I'm going to move here, and eat at the Pizza Ranch every night."

"You do, and you'll be as big as a house," Katie says.

"Ok, I'll go somewhere else for the food, and come here for the view."

I try to push us through, so we can get back to the Paradise for phosphates and cruising.  Unfortunately, we arrive a little after 7:00, and Seth is gone.   A gruff older woman takes our phosphate orders.

Seth may be gone, but there's a cute college boy a nearby booth, eating ice cream with his two friends -- both girls, I notice.  He's tall and slim, with a long face and dirty-blond hair.  And he keeps looking over at me and smiling.

Seeing a chance to cruise, I excuse myself and go over to his booth.  "Hi, you look familiar..."

"You must have seen me at the meet.  I'm Ryan H**** -- I placed at 10.23."

I have no idea what he is talking about, so I say "That sounds very impressive.  Sorry I wasn't there to see it.  I'm Boomer -- my brother and sister-in-law and I are just passing through town."

His face falls.  "Are you interested in track and field?"

"Sure, I like all sports.  I used to write for a bodybuilding magazine."

"Cool!  What do you do now?"

While the girls text furiously on their smartphones, Ryan and I talk about college.  He's a freshman at the University of Illinois, where he's on the track team (10.23 is his personal best for a 2-mile run).   He wants to major in criminology and go to work for the FBI.

"I can tell you all about the field of criminology," I begin.  Then I see Ken and Katie gesturing at me and looking bored.  "But we should be going -- we have a long drive ahead of us.  But you and I should stay in touch.  I'll give you my email address."

He thanks me, but doesn't offer anything in return.  We shake hands and head out into the night.

"I'm definitely moving here!" I exclaim..  "This place is cruisier than the Rage on a Saturday night at last call!"

"Are you sure Ryan wasn't just being friendly?" Katie asks.  "There's a big difference between friendly and interested.  He didn't give you his phone number, did he?"

"No, but..."

"Anyway, he lives 600 miles from your town," Ken adds.  "A little far for dating."

"Well, I'll be passing through this way again at Christmastime."

Back home, I look up Ryan on twitter and Facebook.  Last summer he tweeted a picture of his friend's backside with the caption "Thank God for Sam's butt."  His Facebook page has a picture of him in his underwear -- nice basket -- with the caption:  "Only ___ High School boys party in their underwear."

I'm guessing he's gay.

Suddenly my cell phone buzzes.  Ryan has sent me a photo: nude, at a pool, his enormous Kovbasa semi-aroused.  Probably photoshopped, but who cares?

I'm guessing he's interested.  

Only three months until Christmas!

See also: My Christmas Date with the College Track Star; Hookup with the Waiter at a Christian Restaurant; and Ryan's Three Way with Harry Styles.

Wearing a Gay Pride T-Shirt in Public, on the Plains

Plains, October 2016

Unless I'm in a gay neighborhood, I'm never out in public.  No gay pride t-shirts, no lambdas, no pink triangles, no rainbow flags.  No holding hands with my date.  My book on a gay topic is turned inward so no one can read the title.

Being Out and Proud is fine, but I've heard too many stories about gay people getting assaulted and killed by random bigots.  Even if only one passerby in a thousand is inclined to kill you and has a gun in his pocket, that's too many for me.

But yesterday when I got to the gym, I discovered that I brought along a Gay Pride t-shirt by mistake.  A very open one, with literally the words "Gay Pride!!!" in big rainbow letters.

I didn't want to drive all the way home to get another one, or spend $15 on one of the gym's t-shirts that are completely covered with banal "keep moving" slogans.

So for the next 1 1/2 hours, I was going to be out in public.  In a small town in the Straight World.

It was my running day.  Was assault more likely on the treadmill or out on the wilderness trail?

I opted for the trail.  People see you for only a few seconds as they jog past in the other direction, but on the treadmill, they can get a good a good view for an hour.  Besides, it would probably be empty.  Who runs at 5:00 pm on a Sunday afternoon?


The Lobby

To get out of the gym, I have pass about a dozen people in the lobby, including two Somali women in hijabs, and a group of high school jocks.

They don't seem to notice, but Casey, who is running the front desk, does.

He isn't the usual collegiate twink the gym hires: he's in his 30s, buffed, with severely short black hair, a round face, and the hint of a hairy chest beneath his white shirt.  I'm thinking manager, filling in for a sick desk guy.

They're supposed to say "Hi" on your way in and "Have a nice day" on your way out, but instead Casey asks  "Going for a run?"

"Yeah, I thought I'd hit the wilderness trail.  It will be covered with snow soon."

"Well, be careful out there," he says with a frown.  "There are...um...well, this is snake season."

I think he means "homophobe season."


The Trail

As it turns out, the wilderness trail is busy.  I constantly encounter joggers going in the other direction, on their way back t the gym.

On the Plains, you're supposed to say hello or wave to those you encounter on the street or wilderness trail -- a very hard habit to break when you're jogging somewhere else.

Usually it's about 70% "hellos" or waves, 20% Attitude (they pretend not to see you), and 10% hostile stares. .

With my Gay Pride T-Shirt on, I estimate about 25% "hellos" or waves," 50% Attitude, and 25% hostile stares.



Men are most likely to give Attitude; women most likely to either say "hello" or give a hostile stare.

Teenagers and kids usually smile.

The older people start with smiles, but when they get close enough to read my "Gay Pride!!!!", the smiles turn into hostile stares.

Usually when you encounter  a male-female couple jogging together, the man says "hello," the woman gives Attitude -- presumably she doesn't want to be accused of flirting.  But today in my Gay Pride T-Shirt, it is the opposite: the woman says "hello," the man gives Attitude.

Presumably he doesn't want to be accused of flirting.

 The "hellos" and waves seem bigger and broader, even congratulatory, and the hostile stares considerably more hostile, grim and menacing.  But that might just be my imagination.

Verdict: most heterosexuals on the Plains are surprised to discover that a gay person lives among them.

At least no one yells at me or starts quoting Leviticus.

Back at the Gym

I run five miles in 50 minutes, not a great time, but a good solid 6 mph, then return to the gym.

Casey is still at the front desk. "How was your run?"

"Great! I saw a deer about three miles in, and almost stepped on a garter snake."

"That sounds scary!"

"Not as scary as some of the other joggers."

"Well, this is the Plains, after all."  He laughed.  "Need a towel?"

"No, thanks."  The gym doesn't give out towels -- you have to subscribe to a towel service for $10 extra per month.  I bring my own.

"On the house."  He passes a towel at me.  "If you need any help stretching or anything, let me know."

Casey is definitely going out of his way to indicate that he is a gay ally -- or gay himself.


The Locker Room

I have to use the urinal and the drinking fountain, so I walk through the locker room in my Gay Pride T-Shirt.

This is fun.  Not Attitude so much as deer-in-the-headlights stares as guys read my t-shirt and turn away.  Wouldn't want the gay guy to get ideas!

There's a twink in a wheelchair who always works out in the late afternoon, taking forever: 20 minutes on the incline press machine, never moving or letting someone else squeeze in between sets.  Then an older guy, his father or brother or boyfriend, helps him shower and dress.  Right now the twink is naked in the wheelchair, his uncut Bratwurst hanging out.  He reads my t-shirt and smiles.  His father or brother or boyfriend quickly grabs a towel and covers him.

I'm tired of these epater le bourgeois  antics.  I shower, change clothes, and head back upstairs to see what Casey is up to.

Hit on by a High School Boy

Fairborn, Ohio, April 2008

A warm afternoon in April.  I am jogging in Fairborn Community Park in Fairborn, Ohio.  The jogging path is about mile long, through woods, over Beaver Creek, and then past the high school. 

I occasionally see high school and college boys passing me, going the other direction.  Sometimes they sprint past me.

Suddenly there is a boy jogging beside me beside me.  He doesn't pass -- he keeps pace.  Shorter than me, slim with brown hair and dark eyes.  He's wearing a green-and-yellow University of Dayton t-shirt and yellow jogging shorts.

"Hey, U. of D.!" I exclaim.  "I'm a professor there."

He looks over and smiles.  "Cool."

"What year are you in?"

"Sophomore."

"I never saw you here before.  A long way from campus, isn't it?"

"I like the woods."

We chat as we jog, the boy giving short, cryptic answers. I learn that he lives with his parents, and he wants to be a writer.

When a group of college-aged joggers approach, he looks alarmed, says "See ya!" and rushes off.

He appears again the next day.  This time no group of college-aged joggers interrupts us.  I learn that his name is Austin, he plays on the junior varsity football team, he has an older brother in the air force, and he hates zucchini.

At the end of the jog, Austin asks "Where are you going now?"

"Home to take a shower, I guess."

"Cool.  I could use a shower, too.  Can I come? You can drop me off here later."

I stare in surprise.  I get hit on by younger guys all the time.  It wasn't hard to recognize the shy, reticent way they express interest.  But they don't usually make such blatant propositions!

"Um...well, you know, my apartment's a mess."

"I don't care.  You should see my room!"

"Maybe another time, ok?"  I reach out my hand.  He squeezes it hard.  

On the third day, Austin ups the ante: he has his shirt off, displaying a slim, smooth chest, solid but not muscular, with nice abs. And I'm can't be sure, but it looks like he stuffed a sock into his pants.

"How did you know I was gay?"  I ask.

"I just figured.  You jog here every day, and there's never a girl with you."

"There's never a girl with you, either.  Or a guy."

"Oh, the guys at school are jerks.  I like older men."

"How many older men have you been with?"

"Only one.  I was jogging, and he sat in his car in the parking lot watching me, and one day he offered me a ride home.  He was way old, though.  Maybe 40!"

"I'm 46."

"Yeah, but you work out!  And I bet you got a big one!"

At the end of the jog, Austin asks, "Can I come over for that shower now?"

"Tell you what -- tomorrow's Friday.  How about a real date?  Dinner at Thai Nine, out to the bars, then we'll see what happens."

"Cool.  Meet me here at 5:00.  I have a 10:00 curfew, just so you know."

"No problem, I'll get you home before that."  We clasp hands again, and I drive home, wondering "What college student has a 10:00 curfew?"

Every since my "date" with another 15 year old in West Hollywood in 1992, I have learned to check the guy out if there's any doubt.  I go onto the University website.  There's no Austin listed on the Junior Varsity Football team.  So I google "Austin," "Fairborn, Ohio," and "football."  

Austin Alvarez.  There's a photo of him in the newspaper, sitting on Santa's lap. A little kid.  Five years ago.

He went to a junior high tennis camp. Two years ago.

This year, he was on the junior varsity football team -- at Fairborn High School.

Austin is fifteen years old! Sixteen, tops!

No way is this date happening, for obvious reasons: 

1. The age of consent in Ohio is sixteen.

2. I don't want to key into the myth that gay men are folk devils, out to seduce children.

3. He's a kid!

Back in Florida, I dated an eighteen-year old, and it was dreary.  We had nothing in common.  This would be much, much worse!

But I don't want to abandon Austin altogether.  Gay kids grow up in a world of silence and fear.  They don't know any gay people.  They have no way to learn about gay history or culture.  They have no idea that "it gets better."

Friday I don't go jogging.  I meet Austin in the park at 5:00 as scheduled.  He's wearing a nice button-down shirt and pants.  He looks like one of those kids you see on tv who are all nervous at the beginning of a heterosexual date, while their parents take pictures and coo "My son is growing up!"  I'll bet no one took pictures tonight!

"I don't know how this works," Austin says as he climbs into the car.  "Should we, like, make out?"

"Traditionally you start with dinner."

We have dinner at Thai Nine, as promised, and I tell Austin about the gay neighborhoods of West Hollywood and Wilton Manors.  He didn't know that such things existed. 

He doesn't say much.  He's busy trying to hide the fact that he's a sophomore in high school, but a few tell-tale signs give him away.  Like he hates his algebra teacher.  College students have professors, and typically take calculus, not algebra.

After dinner, we get back into the car and drive into the warm Ohio night.  Austin gets very quiet.

But I don't take him home.  We drive to a small, non-descript building in downtown Dayton.  The LGBT Community Center.

"What the..." Austin begins.  "Is this one of those sex clubs?"

"It's the Zone, a safe space for LGBT youth, aged 14 to 21.  They have games, videos, discussions, dances.  A great place to meet gay guys your age.  I think tonight is game night."

"You knew?  Well...don't you want to go home anyway?"

"Give it a try.  I'll pick you up in two hours.  If you still want to, we'll talk."

When I pick Austin up at 9:00, he is bubbling with excitement over the guys he met.  He even knew one from Fairborn High!"

"Total nerd.  Into The Big Bang Theory! Always got a portable chess set with him, if you can believe that.  Wants to be a chemist."  He pauses.  "Cute, though.  I invited him to see a movie tomorrow night."

"Your first date.  You must be excited!"

"Second date.  This one counts, even though you were sneaky about it."  He leans over and kisses me on the cheek.  "I'm ready to go back to my house now, if that's ok."  

We continued to jog together occasionally during the spring and summer, until I left for Upstate New York.

See also: My Date with the Teenage Lawnboy;  The High School Bodybuilder; David is Cruised by a Kid