Mitch Dates George Clooney and a Former Teen Idol

Rosemary Clooney's nephew George rubs me the wrong way.  I like his liberal politics and the fact that he's a gay ally.  But he has a marginally attractive face, a nondescript physique, and no basket, yet he keeps being voted "Sexiest Man Alive" and "Most Handsome Man Alive."

And that annoying smug smile: "Hi, I'm George Clooney! You may worship me."

His movies are unwatchable.  I've actually only managed to sit through From Dusk to Dawn (1996), Batman and Robin (1997),  and The Fantastic Mr. Fox (2009), which, I didn't realize, was about genocide.  The others are stupid caper movies, with that smug smile intact.

I could only find one photo of a young Clooney with his shirt off.  The resolution is too low to tell whether he still had a smug smile back then.

Apparently he's had his share of gay rumors, although I can't imagine how he would find the time after bedding every lady in Hollywood.  However, I don't recall hearing a single George Clooney hookup story when I lived in West Hollywood.  He wasn't really famous until the late 1990s, so maybe no one who hooked up with him thought to mention it.  Or maybe I just zoned out.

But I got one in my handy email box yesterday.  I've modified some of the details and added dialogue.

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Hollywood, March 1991

You can call me Mitch.  In the 1980s, when I was still in my 20s, I was a make-up artist in Hollywood.  I worked on all of the great teen idols of the era, Mark-Paul Goesselaer, David Faustino, Scott Wolfe (yes, I've seen him in his underwear) -- but I'm most proud of my work on horror and sci fi.

In the summer of 1990 I got a job on ABC's Baby Talk, a sitcom based on the movie Look Who's Talking (1989).   Julia Duffy played Maggie Campbell, a single mom with a talking baby, and Clooney played Joe, incongruously a construction-worker boyfriend.  Tony Danza provided the baby's voice.  With canny placement between Who's the Boss and Roseanne, it was a modest success.  However, the network suits felt that Duffy and Clooney weren't clicking in the role, so after 11 episodes they were replaced with Mary Page Keller and Scott Baio.

Clooney was not a big star: he was 29 years old, still struggling with walk-on jobs, recurring roles on The Facts of Life and Roseanne, and studying at the Beverly Hills Playhouse.  Nor did we think of him as particularly hunky.  He had big 80s hair, no physique, and no basket.  He played what we called a "goofball," a quirky, nerdy type.

I knew he was a newlywed: his wife Talia was also making the rounds of guest-spots and recurring roles.  But he was definitely a man's man, always hanging out with Tony Danza, going out for drinks with the guys in the crew.  Everyone thought that was further proof of his heterosexuality, but it made my gaydar go off.  Tony Danza had a lot of gay rumors at the time, too, as you recall.  Could they be boyfriends?

I tried to invite myself along on one of their dates, but was unsuccessful.  So I decided that I had to catch them in the act.  Maybe they would invite me to join in...

My hopes were dashed when they had some kind of an argument or falling out and began ignoring each other.  That may be why Clooney wasn't invited back for the second season -- Danza had a lot of clout in Hollywood at the time.

Not to worry, Clooney soon found a new "boyfriend."   Erich Anderson, who played Rob in Friday the 13th: The Final Chapter (1984) and had a recurring role as Billy Sidel on Thirtysomething (1990-91), had a guest spot in one episode ("The Fever," air date April 16, 1991).  He was in his 30s, very buffed, with black hair and a classic movie-star face.

They apparently hit it off.  Soon Erich was coming to the set every day to pick Clooney up.  One day he even showed up at breakfast -- surely they had spent the night.

I cozied up to Erich -- he was far more my type than Clooney anyway -- and soon landed a date with him.  Standard West Hollywood date -- dinner at the Cafe Etoile, cruising at Mickey's, back to his place for making out and oral.  Erich had a smooth hard chest, very hairy legs (a big turn on for me) and a thick Bratwurst, uncut.  I went down on him twice.

But when I asked about Clooney, he said "Oh, we've never done it.  He's straight, or maybe bi -- I didn't think it was polite to ask."

"Too bad.  I was fantacizing about 'sharing' him with you."

Erich and I only dated a couple of times, but stayed friends.  At one of his parties in the fall of 1990, I met former teen idol Peter Barton, and asked him out on a date.

It was Chinese take-out and a VHS movie, very low key, but I really liked Peter: thick hair, beautiful face, smooth hard chest, hairy legs, average size down there (but you never felt anything so hard in your throat, literally like an iron rod).  I asked him for a second date that weekend.

When he came to the studio to pick me up, Clooney was walking by, so I introduced them.

His jaw practically dropped to the floor.  He was totally thunderstruck by the 34-year old former teen idol.

"Um...we were going out to dinner," I said.  "Would you like to join us?"

I know, inviting someone else along on a second date -- crazy!  I could tell that Peter wasn't happy about it.  But I didn't care --  I was obsessed with finding out if Clooney was gay or bi.

We went to dinner at a place on Wilshire -- Clooney paid, Peter looked uncomfortable.  We both came out -- he was perfectly nonchalant about being with two gay guys, but said nothing about his own sexual orientation.  He didn't even mention his wife.

Finally I said "I guess we'll say goodnight, unless you want to go back to my apartment for a cup of coffee."

Peter glared at me.  Clooney said "Sure."

The moment we got inside the door, Clooney said "Gentlemen, I'm sure you know I love the ladies.  But I also love blow jobs, and it's hard to find a lady who will oblige.  I would be more than happy to have one or preferably both of you working on my dick at this moment."

Peter frowned and said "Leave me out of this.  I'll be in the bedroom when you're done with your trick."

I was tempted -- I reached down and groped Clooney -- not hard yet.  He unzipped and pulled it out.  I began working on it with my hand while staring at him, wondering if I should kiss him -- average length, thick around, starting to get aroused.  But I was feeling very guilty about inviting him home on my second date with Peter, so I said "Thanks, but not tonight," zipped him back up, pushed him out the door, and went into the bedroom to apologize.

Peter and I dated for the next two months.  I never interacted with Clooney again.

Wouldn't you be embarrassed if a guy rejected you after fondling your cock?

See also: Pedro's Hookup with Philip McKeon.

A Glimpse of Cousin Joe's Shame

Rome City, Indiana

When I was 7 1/2 years old, we moved from Racine, Wisconsin to Rock Island, Illinois.  My parents didn't want my brother and me  in the way during the move (yes, "me" is correct), so on July 18th, we left a fully-furnished house in Racine, and on July 28th, we returned to a fully-furnished house in Rock Island.

We spent the ten days in Rome City, Indiana, with my Aunt Nora.  She was a big, jolly woman who baked pies for a living -- we got pie every night for dessert! -- and who let us watch all the tv we wanted.  She and Uncle Henry (who died a long time ago) liked tv so much that they named her kids after popular tv stars:

1. Ed (left), 18 years old, after the star of The Ed Sullivan Show.
2. Eva Marie, 16 years old, after Eva Marie Saint, star of the The Phillco Television Showcase
3. Joe (top photo left), 14 years old, after the star of The Joey Bishop Show

Their house was only two blocks from the Limberlost Library, where kids could use the main room, not just the children’s room, and Cousin Joe let us check out books on his card. It was three blocks from Sylvan Lake, where we went swimming and fishing and rode pontoon boats.

Aunt Nora's house had a living room, dining room, kitchen, and three bedrooms downstairs (for Aunt Nora, Joe, and Eva Marie).  Upstairs there was one bedroom for Grandma Davis whenever she came for a visit (Kenny and I slept there), and an attic "pad" for Ed.

One night I woke up late and had to go to the bathroom, so I climbed out of bed and pieced my way gingerly downstairs and through the unfamiliar hallway. The bathroom door was ajar.  I shoved it open.

Cousin Joe was standing in front of the sink.

I saw him only dimly, in the silvery-black moonlight and the glow of a nightlight attached to a wall outlet, and only for an instant, but 40 years later, the image is still vivid:  a nude, muscular backside. A smooth chest visible in the mirror, and a belly -- thin, no abs.  A dark patch of pubic hair.  And what the grownups called his shame

I had only seen two shames before, my brother's and my Uncle Paul's.  I would see another two years later, at the Rock Island Pow Wow, but by that time I would know the correct term. This one was huge, a monster, a garden hose.  I wondered how he could fit it into a pair of pants.

Was he peeing in the sink?  No -- that was a trickle of water from the faucet.  He was washing it!

Why didn't he do that at bathtime?

Noticing me, Joe swung around, hands dripping, shame swaying from side to side. "What the hell are you doing!" he yelled.  "Get out of here!"

But I was transfixed.  I couldn't look away.

Suddenly the light came on in Aunt Nora's room, and I heard Cousin Ed's voice from upstairs -- Kenny woke up and started crying when I wasn't there.  Grunting, Joe brushed past me, and ran to his own room to put on a bathrobe.

Before long, everybody was gathered in the kitchen, talking furiously while Aunt Nora made hot chocolate.  Eventually it was decided that, though I had embarrassed Joe by seeing his shame, it was his own fault.  You should shut the bathroom door, even late at night when you think everyone is asleep.

I don't understand why they called it a shame.  It was certainly nothing to be ashamed of -- I'll bet it would win first prize at the Gay Horsemen's Club in Amsterdam, where I would find an A+++-sized boyfriend years later  -- and it provided me with a fond childhood memory.

Besides, I got hot chocolate.

Sausage Sightings of Adult Devon Sawa and Jonathan Taylor Thomas

Vancouver, Canada

Cal me Rick.  In 1999, I was a a senior at King George Secondary School in Vancouver, a Glee Club geek, pale, skinny, eyeglassed, kind of homely, with a pretty good voice but no social skills.  I knew I was gay, but I wasn't out yet.

Then my buddy told me about auditions for minor parts in Final Destination (2000), starring Devon Sawa (the 21-year old star of Casper, The Boys Club, Wild America, and Idle Hands).   I figured it would look good on my uni apps, and I had a little crush on Devon, so off I went.

 I got the part -- one line and crowd shots, took about an hour -- but somehow Devon noticed me.  We went out to lunch, and then to the Aquarium, and before I knew it I was coming out to him -- the first person I told!  And that weekend he escorted me to my first gay bar.

We never hooked up -- he said I wasn't his type.  But I never forgot the emotional connection and support.

One night he asked me, "Of all the actors in Hollywood, other than me, who would you most like to sleep with?"

Without a blink I said "Jonathan Taylor Thomas."

I watched every episode of Home Improvement (1991-1999), even though I despised that awful, homophobic Tim Allen, and the "real men" grunting, playing sports, and talking about tools.  I had enough of that growing up in Vancouver, thank you.  But Jonathan Taylor Thomas (1981-), a teen dream fave rave, an androgynous prettyboy with soulful grey eyes and puckered lips.

How could you help putting his poster on your bedroom wall and kissing it every night?

Even though your parents misinterpreted your interest in Home Improvement and kept giving you tools for Christmas.

"Jonathan's pretty cool," Devon said.  "We've been friends for years.  Tell you what -- come visit me in L.A. sometime, and maybe I can arrange a meeting."

When filming ended, he went back to L.A., and I went on to the Victoria Conservatory to study voice, but we stayed in touch.

I finally did visit at Christmastime in 2001, and was disappointed by two things:

1. Devon is straight, or maybe bi. He was dating Danielle Fischel of Boy Meets World!  I did get a date with Ben Savage out of the deail, but that's a story for another time.

2. Jonathan Taylor Thomas had left Hollywood to study philosophy at Harvard, and wasn't in town for a hookup.

The next few years of my life were rough: I flunked out of the Conservatory, broke up with my boyfriend, lost my brother, tried to make it as a singer, and finally went back to uni for my teaching credential.  I got my degree in 2008, and became a high school music teacher, first in Hamilton, Ontario and then in Toronto.

Devon and I became "Christmas and Birthday Card" friends.  I was invited to his weddings, to Jessica and Dawni, but didn't go.  The last time I saw him in person was in Montreal in 2006.

My schoolboy crush on Jonathan Taylor Thomas dimmed a bit when I saw his gay-themed movies, Speedway Junkie (1999) and Common Ground (2000), and read his homophobic response to the reporters' standard question: "Does playing a gay character mean that you are gay?"

JTT: "Of course not!!!!!   I've played murderers.  Does that mean I'm a murderer?"

In his interview with The Advocate, his response was just as vociferous: "It's a blatant lie."

I didn't see him in any more movies, and assumed that he had left Hollywood for good.

[According to Popsugar, he graduated from Columbia in 2010 and left Hollywood, returning only to direct three episodes (and guest-star in four) of his pal Tim Allen's sitcom, Last Man Standing (2013-2016).  I don't know who the boyfriend is,]

Last summer, I had to go to Los Angeles for a conference, and I emailed my friend Devon to ask him to lunch.

"Lunch, nothing!" he responded.  "You're staying with me in Calabasas.  That is, if you don't mind a houseful of kids and cats."

Calabasas, California, July 2017

I flew into LAX on Thursday, rented a car, and drove up to Calabasas, in the San Gabriel Valley about an hour's drive away.  Nice house, very rustic, with mountains visible in the distance.

Devon was 38 years old, no longer blond, tall and tattooed and craggy -- but we've all gotten older, haven't we?

It was a little awkward at first, like you might imagine with someone you haven't actually seen in a decade, but soon we were talking about Vancouver in the 1990s, and coming out, and it was like old times.  Dawni was nice, but kept in the background, mostly running around with the kids, a toddler boy and a babe in arms.

"Are you going to be here Saturday afternoon?" Devon asked.  "We can go up into the mountains.  And I might have a surprise for you."

I had a couple of presentations to go to at the conference, but I promised I would be.

When I arrived on Saturday afternoon, Jonathan Taylor Thomas was sitting in the living room!

I didn't recognize him at first: he was 36 years old, no longer puppy-dog cute, more scholarly, like that cool philosophy professor who introduced you to existentialism and jazz.

Was Devon setting us up?

I played it cool, not sitting next to him, not gushing, and absolutely not bringing up Home Improvement.  Jonathan was quiet, a bit reserved.  Later Devon told me that they hadn't seen each other in about ten years.

After we chatted for awhile, Devon said "Ok, it's pool time.  Men only -- no wives, kids, or cats."

Jonathan shook his head.  "You're not going to get me that way again!  We're not fifteen anymore!"

"Maybe you're not, but I plan to stay fifteen forever!" Devon exclaimed.  "Rick, help me with grandpa here."

I didn't know what was going on, but I obliged.  We each took one of Jonathan's hands and pulled him through the living room and dining room, and out through the French doors to the pool.

"No!" Jonathan yelled.  "You jackass, I've got my smartphone in my pocket, and my wallet!  And I don't have a change of clothes!"

Devon laughed.  "You heard the man.  Get him out of his clothes, and don't be gentle!"

We quickly stripped Jonathan of his shirt, undershirt, shoes, pants, and underwear -- yes, I "accidentally" got a grope -- average size, cut.   Then we took him by his hands and feet and threw him into the pool.

"You jerks!  I'm going to get you for this!"  He hoisted himself out of the pool, naked and gleaming in the sun, his cock bouncing about.  Devon tried to run away, but Jonathan grabbed him and pushed them both into the pool.

Soon all three of us were naked, dunking each other, roughhousing like kids. Devon is quite well hung, by the way, a thick 4" soft.

There was no sex -- a bit of casual groping, maybe.  I never even found out if Jonathan is gay.  But being naked in the pool with my old friend and my childhood crush -- what could be better?

A Sleepover, Sausage Sighting, and Fondling of My Cousin Phil

When I was growing up in Rock Island, we traveled to northern Indiana once or twice a year to visit my grandparents and uncles and aunts and cousins.  Mostly on my mother's side of the family and my Dad's sister Nora.  We evern stayed with her sometimes.  My earliest  sausage sighting was of her teenage son, Joe, when I was 7 1/2 years old.

But Dad didn't get along with his other sister, Aunt Edna, so we never visited her, and saw her only rarely, at an occasional Thanksgiving Dinner.  I knew only a little about her family: her husband, Uncle John, fat and blustering; a grown-up daughter, who moved to California; and Cousin Phil, about ten years older than me.

As far as I can remember, I've only met Cousin Phil five times in my life.  One of them resulted in a sausage fondle.

Thanksgiving 1966

I was six years old, and Cousin Phil was a slim teenager with long hippie-hair, wearing a white t-shirt that displayed two pinprick nipples (I wanted to squeeze them).  He sat at the table looking at his hands.  When Grandma Davis told him to "dress properly and show some respect," he ran into the bedroom and wouldn't come out to eat.

Christmas 1968

I was eight, and Cousin Phil was in high school, old enough to drive a car, still thin and pale and long hair.  He wore a plaid shirt and frayed jeans, and three strands of love beads.  He flashed the peace sign at me, but otherwise we didn't speak.


Thanksgiving 1971

I was eleven, and Cousin Phil was a college man, majoring in one of the sciences (I think physics) at Tiffin University.  A little thicker in the arms and the chest, cute but not "dreamy," with short brown hair and dark blue eyes.   He was wearing an orange leisure suit.

He brought a friend, an Ethiopian guy named Malcolm.  They nudged each other and giggled all during dinner.  I assumed that they were boyfriends, that they had escaped the trajectory of job-house-wife-kids that the adults were plotting for us and found joy in each other.

I kept in contact with Malcolm for a few years, even going swimming with him the following summer, always assuming that he was my cousin's boyfriend.

Thanksgiving 1974

I was fourteen, and Cousin Phil was an adult, a college graduate who had a job working for the city of Montpelier, Ohio (I think in the waste water management plant).   His hair was long again, a little scraggy, and his face was pale.  He was thicker still in the arms, almost muscular.  He had a smooth heavy chest and a little belly.

Malcolm was not in the picture; instead, Phil brought a girlfriend!

I was devastated to discover that they weren't "best men," a gay couple, after all.

After Thanksgiving Dinner, Aunt Edna and her family stayed in Rome City with Aunt Nora, and my family drove back to Grandma Davis's farmhouse, about twenty miles away, to spend the night.  My brother and I were sent up to bed at 9:00 pm, while the adults stayed downstairs, playing Yahtzee and watching tv.

Around 11:00 pm, Dad burst into our room and turned on the light.  "Get your clothes on!" he barked.  "We're going home!"

"To Rock Island?" I asked.  "But we're supposed to stay until Sunday."

"Shut up and get into the car!  Hurry up!"

We pulled on our clothes, dumped our pajamas into our suitcases, and rushed down the stairs.  I stopped to use the bathroom.  Grandma Davis wasn't around.  Mom and Tammy were already in the car.  I could tell that Mom had been crying.

Adults never told kids anything, but I surmised that there had been an argument, and Grandma Davis ordered Mom and Dad out, or they decided to leave.

Dad gunned the engine, and we roared down the dark country roads.

"We can't drive all the way back to Rock Island!" Mom exclaimed.  "We wouldn't get home until dawn!  Besides, I want to visit my Dad and sisters tomorrow!"

"Well, where are we supposed to go?" Dad asked.  "To a hotel?  They won't rent us a room in the middle of the night!"

"Let's go back to Nora's house.  I can't wait to tell her about this.  She'll take my side, I guarantee."

So we drove back to Rome City, where Aunt Nora was conciliatory.   There were eight people in the house already, but she put Dad on the couch, Mom and Tammy in her room, and Kenny and me with Cousin Phil in the attic.


"Don't wake him up," she cautioned.  "Just take off your clothes and climb in bed with him.  He won't mind."

We crept up the attic stairs, carefully closed the door behind us, and undressed, dropping our clothes to the floor.  In the orange glow of the space heater, I could see that Cousin Phil was lying on the bed on his back.  He had kicked off the quilt and the comforter.

He was naked!  I could see his thick, smooth chest, his little belly with an innie belly button.  And his penis lying against the dark mass of his pubic hair.   Very thick Bratwurst+.

"I'll give you a dime if you touch it," my brother whispered.

"No problemo!" I climbed onto the bed and slid next to Cousin Phil.  I brushed my hand over his chest, down his belly, and slowly approached his penis.

But I didn't get there.

"Hey...what..." Cousin Phil murmured.  He opened his eyes and stared at me.  "Boomer...what.."

"We have to sleep here tonight.  Aunt Nora said so."

"Mm......hang on a minute."  He jumped off the bed and pulled on his underwear.  "Ok, hop in.  But no kicking, ok?"

I stayed awake for most of the night,  but eventually I got Cousin Phil to hold me in his arms.  I touched his belly and his hand, fondled his chest and his pinprick nipples, and reached down to briefly caress his warm, thick penis through his underwear.  I don't know if he was awake or not.

That was enough for a lot of fantasies during the next few years.

After breakfast in the morning, Aunt Edna and her family left.  We didn't return to Indiana for Thanksgiving again until 1980, and Cousin Phil wasn't there.  One thing led to another, and I didn't see him again for 40 years.

September 2016

We're both back in Indianapolis for a funeral.

Cousin Phil is 65, gray and craggy, shorter than I remember, and quite round in the belly.

He's retired from his job at City of Montpelier, still living in the house he bought shortly after his wedding in 1975.  His wife died last year.  He has two daughters and six grandchildren.

Job, house, wife, kids, the entire heterosexist trajectory.  I escaped it.  Cousin Phil didn't.

"Do you remember the sleepover, at Thanksgiving when I was fourteen?" I ask.  "Up in the attic at Aunt Nora's house?"

He pauses for a moment.  "Sure, I remember that.  I can't believe we were ever that young.  It was a different world, wasn't it?"

I want to say "No.  It's still my world.  I sleep in a man's arms most nights."  But I just smile.

Dr. Kirtis Offers Me His Bratwurst

Bloomington, May 1983

At Indiana University,  I was technically studying for a M.A. in English, but the variety of courses available at a gigantic university was overwhelming.  What 22 year old from a small town in the Midwest could resist:
Tibetan Culture and Civilization
Mesoamerican Archaeology
First Year Arabic
Or Russian Folklore?

I was at a definite disadvantage in the Russian folklore class, since I didn't speak Russian or know anything about the scientific study of folklore.

All of the other students were Russian majors, researching the folklore motifs in Dostoevski or Gogol.  I was interested in...um...um..the mythology of the ancient Slavs?

Well, mythology is sort of like folklore, right?

The Professor, Dr. Kirtis, was a Hungarian bear, in his 50s, white haired, bearded, a little chubby, with thick arms and chest hair peeking up over the top of his shirt.  A little old for me, but it was hard not to be attracted to his ravenous energy as he paced the classroom, arms flailing, as he pontificated on the Firebird Suite or Evenings on a Farm Near Dikanka or  Afanasyev's folktale collection.

Not to mention his obvious beneath-the-belt gifts, a gigantic Mortadella shifting around inside his black dress slacks.

Noticing that I was a bit out of my league amid the Russian majors, he made me his "project," bringing me articles and books and walking with me after class across the quad to his office.

I told him that I heavily disliked fairy tales as a kid.  "They're always about princes winning princesses, with marriage as the goal of the quest."  I paused, not wanting to accidentally out myself.  "But when you get married, the adventures end."

"But if the adventure continues, the story must go on," Dr. Kirtis said.  "And all stories must end."

All stories must end.  How profound, and rather depressing for someone just starting out in life.  But then I thought, Gay people can't get married.  Our adventures never end.

Like most married professors, Dr. Kirtis mentioned his wife every five minutes during his lectures .  She was in New York, doing some sort of work for the United Nations.  They saw each other once a month.

Separated?

He must have figured "it" out, overcome the brainwashing of our heterosexist society.   Obviously he was gay!



I brought up the subject, vaguely, to see how he would respond.  "Dead Souls, by Gogol, seems to have a homoerotic subtext."

"Homoerotic?"  he repeated, confused.

"Some hints that the characters are gay."

"Oh!"  He didn't display the usual disgusted frown that heterosexuals got when they were forced to think about gay people.  "Perhaps Gogol was writing with his subconscious, yes?  Such scandals he could never think of in his conscious mind, but who knows where the heart will take us?"

Close enough.

During finals week, Dr. Kirtis invited his advanced classes to his house for a pool party.

I expected a large crowd -- he taught Russian Folklore, Hungarian History, and Introduction to Hungarian.  But the classes were very small -- only three students on the campus of 40,00 were studying Hungarian -- so there were only about 15 of us, mostly boys, some very hot Russian and Central Asian Studies majors in swimsuits (Richie Rich wasn't there).




After greeting us, Dr. Kirtis went into the house for a few minutes, and returned in his own swimsuit.  A Speedo!

Gigantic bulge!  Definitely a Mortadella, very thick.

Ok, it doesn't count as a Sausage Sighting, but I swear, his Speedo was so tight that I could see the teeth marks!

There were lots of hot guys my age, but I kept close to Dr. Kirtis all night.

He served sausages and potato salad.  When they were ready, he asked "Boomer, can I serve you my Bratwurst?"

I looked at his crotch and said "Sure!"

He giggled.  He knew what I meant!

Nothing else happened.  After finals were over, Dr. Kirtis flew to New York to be with his wife.

Still -- he knew.

Sausage Sightings of Men in Kilts

Scottish men and boys have been wearing kilts since the 15th century.  They hang loose around your thighs, traditionally with no underwear, allowing your equipment to flap about freely.

And allowing for lots of sausage sightings, accidentally or on purpose.

I like the ones that are accidental.

Resting at a Celtic festival.

The kilt tends to ride up, so you have to be careful.

Nice balls.

This is the mother of all accidental sausage flashes.

More after the break.

My Boss Lets Out His Trouser Snake

At the beginning of my senior year in high school, my parents said "It's time you started earning your own money."  So I got a part-time job at the Carousel Snack Bar in Southpark Mall, about a ten-minute drive from home.

The Carousel Snack Bar had the curious idea that going to a mall was a rare, exciting event, not part of everyday life, so they sold the kind of snacks you would expect at a carnival: hot dogs, popcorn, cotton candy, and soft-serve ice cream.

There were benefits to the job: all the junk food I wanted, a bookstore down the hall, and a never-ending parade of high school and college jocks.

But I hated my boss, Mark Morris (not his real name).  He was about thirty, a little on the chunky side, with black hair, a square face with a little beard, and nerd glasses.  But what he lacked in physical presence, he made up for in raw machismo.

1. He swaggered.  He swore.  He barked out orders while swearing:  "Clean out the butter dispenser, damn it!"; "Restock the f*** ketchup!"; "Didn't I tell you to change the god** bun warmers!"

2. He kept us late every night, mopping, polishing, shining until an hour after the Mall closed. 

 I'm still fuming over being forced to stay late and mop out the store room, thereby missing the district jump quiz tournament and killing my chances of going to the regionals!


3. Every other sentence was a clever reference to penises or sex, or both:

"How's it hangin', Sarge?" (he called all the boys "Sarge").

"You guys better take your hands outta your pants and start pushing the cotton candy!"

"It's cold enough out today to turn an Eskimo dick into a popsicle!"

"Hey, dickless wonder, I said go chop the onions!"

Considering that we were sixteen and seventeen-year olds, his comments seem dangerously close to sexual harassment.  But the term was not in common use yet.  I thought sexual references were standard in the work world.

4. Mark was only obnoxious to the boys.  The girls got away with murder:

"Of course you can take tomorrow off, Dear. Your studies come first."

"Of course you can skip the mopping, Sweetheart, if you're too tired."

The Carousel Snack Bar didn't have a restroom, so we went across the hall to use the one at Flowerama.

5. When we asked permission to go to the bathroom, Mark always implied that we intended to masturbate:

"Gonna go choke the chicken, huh?"

"Gonna go spank the ol' trouser snake, huh?"

"Don't have too much fun over there, Sarge!"

"Sure, Sarge. Wanna borrow my Playboy?"

I wanted to quit, but my parents said "You have to stick to your commitments.  You'll be working for bad bosses your whole life."

Which is true, but no other boss has ever asked if I was going to "spank the ol' trouser snake."

Mark actually did keep a stack of Playboy magazines in the store room, and sometimes on a slow day he took one into the Flowerama restroom for fifteen or twenty minutes. We speculated that he was maybe "spanking" his own "trouser snake."

I pretended disgust, but actually, I wanted to see it.

Maybe I could think of a plan to get a glimpse of Mark's penis, and minimize the obnoxious comments at the same time.

A very cute Augustana music major who was working part-time at Flowerama, agreed to be an accomplice.  

First he put a wad of putty on the latch in the back stall in the bathroom, so it wouldn't lock.  Then we waited.

For a cold Tuesday night, when customers were scarce.  Suddenly Mark barked, "We won't sell any more cotton candy crap tonight, so clean out the machne.  I want it so shiny you can see your dick in it!"  Then he stuck a rolled-up Playboy under his arm and headed across the hall.

About five minutes later, Joel called the store.  "Nobody here. He's ready."

"I'm going on break," I announced to my coworker.

Flowerama was deserted except for Joel, who was pretending to be  immersed in a florist's magazine.  He nodded as I passed, walked to the back of the store and through the door marked "Employees Only."  It led to a corridor, with the employee restrooms across the hall.

I carefully opened the door to the men's restroom.  Two stalls, a urinal, and a sink.  I saw Mark's feet in the far stall.  And his pants and underwear.

Not gathered around his ankles.  All the way off, carefully folded, at his feet.

The plan was to burst into the stall and yell "Caught you!", but this was much better!

I sneaked across the floor, noiselessly, and scooped up his pants and underwear.

"Hey!" Mark yelled from inside.  "What 're you...."

I ran, bursting through the restroom door and the "employees only door" while Mark was still fiddling with the latch on the stall.  I deposited his clothes on a tray of lilacs, then ducked behind the checkout counter next a giggling Joel.

Mark burst out a moment later, naked from the waist down. 

He saw his pants on the lilac tray, stomped over and picked them up, glared at us, and then stomped back to the store room to get dressed.

I worked at the Carousel Snack Bar for another few months.  Mark never talked about what happened, but he made far fewer references to the penises and sexual appetites of his employees.

By the way, his trouser snake was huge.

Sausage Sighting of Christopher Atkins

When I was living in West Hollywood, I met a lot of actors, some famous ones: Adam West, Cesar Romero, Gregory Harrison, Greg Williams, John Amos, Lou Ferrigno, Michael J. Fox, Richard Dreyfuss.

But only one is a Facebook friend today: Christopher Atkins

Here's why:

West Hollywood, June 1994

In the spring of 1994, my friend Infinite Chazz began dating Kris, a 19-year old baby-faced ginger boy who had been in Los Angeles less than a year, but had already been in some movies and tv shows.

You might know him as Kristoffer Winters, who played the Zilbor in Dude, Where's My Car (2000) and Clayton Gallagher in Shameless (2011-2012), and who is reputedly the boyfriend of  Jeremy Renner.

The full post is on RG Beefcake and Boyfriends

My Uncle Gus's Wiener

Indiana, July 1970

When I was growing up in Rock Island, we drove six hours east to my parents' hometown in Indiana two or three times a year.  When we visited in the summertime, my mother's family gathered for a barbecue or picnic at Grandpa Prater's farmhouse: four uncles, five aunts, two cousins, and sometimes family friends.

In the summer of 1970, when I was 9 years old,  my Aunt Lynn brought a friend.  She was only 10 years older than me -- I remembered her with schoolbooks in hand, waiting for the bus -- and cool, modern, with an Indiana accent amid the Kentucky drawls, up on Laugh-In and the Beatles, even willing to talk about comic books with us (although she preferred Richie Rich to Casper).

While the aunts placed tablecloths on tables in the side yard, and put out bowls of jello salad and trays of deviled eggs, Lynn waited.   And waited.  And leafed through a movie magazine and waited.    Then suddenly a red pick-up truck appeared.  The world's coolest car!  It zoomed onto the grass beside the other cars, and Gus jumped out.

A teenager, tall and thin, with short brown hair and jug-ears and a head that was too big for his neck, wearing a red shirt with an orange ascot and  tight white pants.  Not very attractive, and his leering arrogance made it worse.  He looked at everybody and everything as if they were his private playground.

"Hey, Gus!" Cousin Buster called "Give me a nickel."  (His actual name was Joe, but I'm calling him Gus to avoid confusion with my Cousin Joe).

Gus had one waiting in his pocket, and threw it over in a flash of color.

"Can I have one, too?"  I asked.  "And one for my brother?"

"Big family, huh?"  Gus said. He flicked two more nickels at me.  I dropped them on the grass.   Buster scurried to pick them up,  and he threw them again.  I missed again.  He laughed.

"Well, keep working on it, Bud.  You'll be a slugger someday, and all the girls will be beating down the door to get at you!"

Girls?  I definitely didn't like him.

But Gus stuck around.  For the rest of the afternoon.

December 1970

We were back Indiana for Christmas.   When we gathered at Grandpa Prater's farmhouse to to exchange presents, Gus was there again!  He and Aunt Lynne gave me a present "together": a baseball glove.  Gross!

I definitely didn't like him.

We were staying with Aunt Nora, my father's sister, and on the day after Christmas there was a constant stream of visitors from Dad's side of the family: Aunt Nora's husband's brothers and sisters, miscellaneous cousins, some friends from town.  And, at dinnertime, to my surprise, Grandma Davis, with Aunt Lynn and Gus!

Wait -- Mom's family was Kentucky hillfolk, hardscrabble farmers and factory workers, lapsed Baptists, smoking, drinking, card-playing heathens.  Dad's family was middle-class, with aristocrats in their ancestry, nice houses, summer vacations, and mostly devout, "never set foot in a theater" Nazarenes.  How woudl my Grandma Davis know Aunt Lynn?  Or Gus?

(Later I discovered that Gus was a Nazarene, the son of one of Grandma Davis' friends.  She had known him since he was born.)

Dinner was pizza, which Dad and my Cousin Joe went out to pick up. Gus asked  for "mangos"on his.  He meant green peppers.

We played a board game involving bidding for commodities like wheat, rice, barley, and oats.  When Gus's team won he threw his cards down, butted chests with Cousin Joe, and began chanting "We're Number 1!"

I definitely, definitely didn't like him.  I started imagining him tied up, like in a Tarzan movie, with a gag in his mouth so he couldn't talk.

July 1971

I was 10 years old, and Gus was now my Uncle Gus.  He and Aunt Lynn lived in a big stone house in Auburn, about 5 miles from Garrett.  So now there was no escape.  

When we visited Mom's family, he was there. 

 When we visited Dad's family, he was...there.  

Plus we made an extra stop on our circuit of relative visits just so Mom could spend an afternoon gossipping with Aunt Lynn, while Uncle Gus "entertained" the boys.  Mostly by sitting in the kiddie pool in the back yard.   


I saw him in a swimsuit: pale, a scattering of chest hair, not very attractive.  But he obviously thought he was attractive, which made things worse.

I didn't like him, and when we went to the Trailer in the Dark Woods the next day, I told Cousin Buster so.

"Oh, Uncle Gus is ok," he said.  "He gives you a nickel every time you ask."

"Can't bribe me to like him.  He's too big, too rough, too..."  I didn't know the word 'heterosexist,' but that's what I meant.

"Weren't you in the pool yesterday?  Didn't you see his best part?"  Cousin Buster grinned and held out his hands like he was measuring a fish.  "Bigger than Uncle Edd's even."

"His wiener?  You're not going to make me go through a whole big thing to see Uncle Gus's wiener, are you?  I still have a bump on my head from last time." (See: Uncle Edd's Gun).

He shrugged. "No sweat.  If you don't like big wieners, I don't care."

I suspected that Cousin Buster was putting one over on me, trying to get me into trouble by bursting into Uncle Gus's room.  But a wiener is a wiener.  And maybe he did have a big one.

July 1972

During our visit to Indiana in July 1972, when I was 11 years old, we had a picnic at my Grandpa Prater's farmhouse.  Uncle Gus was there, of course.

The farmhouse didn't have a bathroom, just an outhouse in the barn, with old Sears catalogs to use for toilet paper.  Uncle Gus was a city boy....so.....

When he got up without explanation and walked toward the barn, I saw my chance.  I rushed to catch up with him.

"You got to go too, huh?" I said.

"Yep."

"The outhouse is gross, isn't it?  I mean, it stinks, and if you look inside, it's all gross down there.   I know a better place.  Outside."

"With all these people around?" Uncle Gus said doubtfully.

"They won't be able to see anything."  I led him to the backside of the barn, where a little alcove jutted out, making an L-shape.  The red paint was scratched and stained, suggesting that generations of boys and men had gone there to avoid the stench of the outhouse.

I unzipped my pants and held my wiener out.  Uncle Gus hesitated for a moment, stood beside me and started to unzip.  But before he got his wiener out, he looked over.   Of course, I didn't actually have to go, so nothing was happening.

"Stage fright?"  he asked.

"A little, I guess."

"I can wait until you're done."  He zipped back up and walked around to the side of the barn to wait.

Grr...

I definitely, definitely, definitely didn't like him.


Thirty years later, I had a similar problem trying to get a sausage sighting of Gus's son, my Cousin Graydon.

Sausage Sighting of the Preacher's Son

Rock Island, May 1977

When I was in high school, Verne the Preacher's Son was my kind-of boyfriend (at least when there were no girls around).

Nothing erotic happened, but we hugged, and I got a number of sausage sightings.

This guy is over 18, older than Verne at the time, but he has the grin, the same chest and shoulders, and the same beneath-the-belt gifts, a sizeable Bratwurst.

During my junior year, I applied for early admission to Olivet, our Bible College on the prairie, because Verne was going.   It offered 30 majors, but everyone assumed that I would be studying to become a preacher, evangelist, minister of music, or missionary.

As the days and weeks of my junior year at Rocky High passed, Verne began to conjure an idyllic future for us.  We would be roommates at Olivet, of course, and take lots of the same classes. He would play football, and I would be an athletic trainer.

Then, when we graduated, we would get called by the same church, maybe as preacher and minister of music.  They often worked as a team.  We would plan church services together.  We would go on retreats, prayer breakfasts, and sabbaticals. Our wives would exchange recipes in parsonage kitchens.  Our children would grow up together, and eventually marry each other.

Sometimes these conversations involved hugging.  Sometimes they involved playfully grabbing at each other while changing clothes.  I had already seen Verne nude in the locker room, and on our camping trip, but there was something especially erotic about nude horseplay, in his bedroom at the parsonage on a Saturday afternoon.

A random guy

One day in May 1977, shortly after Scott the Cornetist disappeared (later we discovered that he died), we were changing clothes after jogging, and I got tired of the "wives and kids" litany.  "Why will we need wives?" I asked.  "Why can't it just be the two of us?"

He looked at me like I was crazy.  Then, after a long pause: "Have you ever seen a Nazarene preacher that didn't have a wife?"

"Um. ...no."

"Every preacher -- every man --  has to get married.  It's  a fact of life.  But friends are just as important.  Maybe more."  He put his hands on my shoulders and drew me into a warm, sweaty, hug "The Bible says that David loved Jonathan 'more than the love of women.'"

I wasn't satisfied.  "Why can't David and Jonathan live together without women?"

Verne laughed and broke away.  "Man, you get the craziest ideas!  Without women, they would be Swishes!"

The Sanderson Boys Get Naked

Manville, Illinois, July 1971

I never understood the Lionel Ritchie song "Easy like Sunday Morning."  In our house, Sunday morning was a flurry of activity, as five people rushed through breakfast, fed the dogs, put the potroast in the oven, dressed in our best clothes, and drove across town to make it to church for:

9:30 Sunday school (classes informing us of the things God hated)
10:30 Morning service (the preacher screaming about the things God hated)

11:30.  The altar call.  Depending on how many people decided to go down, and how long it took for them to Pray Through to Victory, you could get out at 11:40, 11:45, or 12:00.

Home for a change of clothes, the potroast, and a few hours off, then back to church for
6:30 Nazarene Young People's Society (NYPS)
7:30 More screaming at the evening service.

8:30. Another altar call.

9:00 Afterglow, a teen party.

But six hours in church on Sunday wasn't the end of it.  We were expected to be in church "every time the doors were open," for choir practice, missionary society, prayer meetings, Bible studies, youth groups...

And as if that wasn't enough, twice a year, in the fall and the spring, there was a revival: a whole week of services led by an evangelist, who made his living going from church to church, trying to revv up the congregation and get them saved.

It was horrible.  Sunday morning screaming amplified by a thousand!  Especially near the end of the week, when just about everyone had been saved, and it got harder and harder to get those bodies of their seats and down to the altar.

The only bright spot was the gospel music group that appeared with the evangelist.  They sang fast-paced modern songs, not our usual ancient funereal hymns full of "thees" and "thous."

Getting ready today, moving out tomorrow
Gettin' sanctified through earthly sorrow
I'm looking for a brand new day
I've found the Lord, I'm almost there.

 They were accompanied by banjos, guitars, even tambourines.  Church elders used to tinny pianos and organs were shocked.

They were usually related, or groups of brothers, or pretend brothers, like the Calvary Boys (below).

I couldn't understand why at the time, but eventually I figured it out: traveling all over the country, living out of buses or vans, spending all of their time together, asleep or awake, there might be sexual temptations.  But not if they were related.

The men and boys were undeniably cute, clean-cut and fresh-scrubbed.  Unfortunately, their matching gospel outfits made it difficult to check for the bulge of a bicep (or anything else).

But sometimes when you went down to the altar, they rushed over to help you Pray Through to Victory, and there was a hard celebrity arm across your shoulders.

Or, when their van or bus was parked in the church parking lot all week, you could sometimes find an excuse to drop by the church in the afternoon and see them out of uniform.

During the spring revival in fifth grade, the musical group was The Sanderson Boys, three "brothers" in their mid-20s.  They were all tall, wide-shouldered, and grinning, but I liked Joe, the biggest and huskiest.  Unfortunately, he didn't come down to the altar to help me Pray Through, so I didn't get a chance to feel his hard celebrity arm across my shoulders.

And I never got a chance to drop by the church parking lot to see him out of uniform.

But that summer, at Manville Nazarene Camp (a few weeks before I visited Cousin George in South Carolina), I was surprised to find the The Sanderson Boys as our camp counselors (top photo)!

Every day we had an assembly where they asked us to yell "Boy, am I enthused!" and sing camp songs like "If you're saved and you know it, clap your hands." Then they split up to coach sports: Jim touch football, Jack basketball, and Joe baseball. Unfortunately, there was no swimming.

I picked baseball, just in case Joe got sweaty and took his shirt off.

He did!  Big shoulders, throbbing biceps, nicely ribbed abs!

But I wanted to see more.  So I devised a clever plan.

One day during a game I walked over to Joe and said  "Um...I have to...um...pee."

"Sure, go ahead."

"The bathroom's way over to the other side of the camp.  I don't think I'll make it," I said, squirming and looking distressed.

"Well, why don't you find a tree in the woods, and go there?"

I glanced toward the woods.  "With the spiders and bugs?  No way!"

"Come on, it's easy!"

I hung my head, looking like I wanted to cry.

"Would you like me to go with you, and show you how?"

I nodded.

So Joe took my hand and led me into the woods.  He found an oak tree out of sight of the other campers.  "Ok, now just unzip, pull it out, and aim toward the tree." He unzipped his own pants, pulled out a monster that rivaled my Cousin Joe's and let loose.

I was so elated that I almost forgot to let loose myself.

Sausage Sighting of My Parents' Contractor

Rock Island, July 1989

Monday

My sister has gotten married and moved out, the last of the kids to do so, and my parents are taking advantage of the newly-empty house by remodeling.  Her bedroom will become a tv room.  The kitchen will get new cabinets.  There will be a shower in the bathroom.

First up: the kitchen.  For the next five days, we'll have to eat out for every meal.

But it will be worth it: the contractor is a buffed, tanned demigod named Tyler: about 30 years old, with a handsome model-face: black curly hair, blue eyes, square jaw, unshaven scruff of a beard.  He's wearing a blue muscle shirt that reveals  massive shoulders, a hairy chest, and thick veiny biceps.

His tight jeans reveal a bubble butt and an enormous bulge on the right side.  I'm guessing a Kielbasa.

I try starting a conversation.  He speaks mostly in monosyllables and grunts, but I gather that we went to high school together -- he graduated two years before me (which makes him 31).  He has a live-in girlfriend.  

Straight!

I quickly closet myself, saying that I live in "Los Angeles," not "West Hollywood."

That night I look Tyler up in my old yearbook.  He was a jock, a football player and a wrestler.  I worked as an athletic trainer, so I must have seen him in the locker room.  I must have gotten a sausage sighting.

But that locker room was wall-to-wall beefcake. I don't remember Tyler, or his sausage.

Well, maybe I'll get the chance now.  He'll be here for a week --  he'll have to use the bathroom sometime.


Tuesday

I discover that if I sit on the couch in the living room, I can look directly through the dining room into the kitchen, where Tyler is working on cabinets, his bubble butt moving rhythmically up and down, up and down.

I call Anky, the best man at my sister's wedding who I hooked up with a few days ago:  "You've got to see my parents' contractor!  He's incredible!"

An hour or so later, Anky stops by.  We sit on the couch, drinking lemonade, chatting, and gazing through the dining room into the kitchen at Tyler's bubble butt.  Or when he faces us, his supersized bulge shifting and throbbing and....

Once Tyler goes to the bathroom, walking through the dining room and down the hallway.  He says "Excuse me, guys," as he passes.

Anky and I look at each other.

"Should I burst in and offer him a towel?" I ask.

That night I work out and go to the bars with Dick, my old junior high bully. I tell him about the contractor's bubble butt and bulge.

"Sounds hot!" he exclaims.  "Can I watch?  I get off work at 3:00, so I could be there by 3:30."

Wednesday

Anky and Dick arrive at 3:30, with popcorn and a VHS tape. We pretend to watch Beetlejuice while gazing at Tyler as he works on cabinets and light fixtures and wall wainscoting.

He's on a high ladder, doing something in the ceiling.  Anky rushes out and grabs him by the sides, to steady him.

"Thanks, but that's not necessary."

"Oh, I insist," Anky says, grinning back at us.

I kick myself for not thinking of it first.

Thursday

Anky arrives at 3:00 with a college friend, a biology major named Wayne.  Dick arrives at 3:30 with Terence, the theater nerd he's dating.  We sit around the dining room table, where there's an even better view of Tyler's bubble butt and bulge, pretending to play Risk.

Tyler is working on something directly above the refrigerator.  I go in and clap him on the shoulder and say "Sorry to disturb you, but we need more sodas."

"No problem, fella."  He steps out of the way.  I open the refrigerator, lean down to get the sodas, and get a beautiful close-up view of Tyler's crotch.

I return to the dining room.  "Someone throw water on me," I murmur.  "I'm about to faint."

Friday

The kitchen will be finished today.  Tyler just has to do some "clean-up and trim."

Dick takes off work and arrives at 11:00, bringing not only his boyfriend but his boyfriend's ex and a middle-aged queen who I know vaguely from church.  Anky arrives with Wayne.

My mother, getting ready to leave for an afternoon of errands and shopping, looks at us suspiciously.  "Are you sure you boys wouldn't be more comfortable in the rec room?  That's what it's there for."

"Thanks," I say, 'But we're going to have lunch soon.  I'm sending Dick out to get Kentucky Fried Chicken."

She shrugs.  "Ok, but don't leave a mess up here for me to clean up."

After she leaves, the six of us sit in the living room, four on the couch and two on the floor, pretending to talk and listen to music but actually gazing at Tyler's bubble butt and crotch as he...

Walks into the living room and stands facing us....

"I don't charge extra for a show," he says.  He begins to dance to Madonna's "Express Yourself."

The shirt comes off.  We stare at his massive, hairy chest

"You should come see me at Teaser's in Iowa City on Tuesday night,  It's Ladies' Night, but I can get you in."

The pants come off, revealing black bikini briefs.  Then they come off, and his thick, meaty Kielbasa swings between his legs.

I stare, rapt, not sure if I should offer him a dollar or a blow job.

When "Express Yourself" ends, Tyler picks up his clothes from the floor and wordlessly disappears into the bathroom.  He emerges fully clothed.

"You guys have a good day," he says, returning to work..

See also: Picking Up the Best Man at My Sister's Wedding; My Sausage Sighting List