Lane Brings Home a Sleazoid

West Hollywood, April 1990

Lane and I have been dating for almost a year.  Almost every night, he stays over in my house near Sunset and San Vicente, or I stay over in his apartment on Hacienda, about five blocks away.

But we still cruise.  On Friday and Saturday nights, if we don't have a dinner or party to go to, we go to Mugi or to the Faultline.

On Sunday afternoons we go to the beer/soda bust at the Faultline.

Of course, we never bring anyone home directly from the bar.  Only disgusting sleazoids stoop to hooking up, or what we call "tricking.  When we meet someone, we make a date with him for 3-4 days later, then go out to dinner or to a movie, and finally, bring him home to "share."

Tonight I have a sore shoulder, and I don't feel like cruising.  After dinner I tell Lane that I just want to stay in  and watch tv.

"Do you mind if I go out by myself?" Lane asks. "I'll come over afterwards to spend the night."

"Only if you bring me something," I say.  "Or somebody," I add as a joke.

He drives off at 9:30 pm, after the Golden Girls.   I watch tv, read a book.

11:00 pm.  We usually arrive at the bar by 10:00, and leave by 11:00.  Who can cruise longer than that?  Unless there's a special show or contest or something.

12:00 am.  Sometimes we stop at the French Quarter or the Hamburger Hamlet afterwards, but we're always home by midnight.  We're not night owls.

1:00 am.  We're absolutely always home by 1:00 am.  Did he forget about me, and go home to bed?

I walk the five blocks to Lane's apartment.  No light in the window.

I knock.  No answer.  I let myself in, and sit on the couch and turn on the tv.



1:36 am

I hear a car pull up, and go out to the balcony to look.  It's Lane!  With a rough-looking sleazoid!

He's tricking?  And without me?

Fuming, I wait for them to get up the stairs.  I pull the door open before Lane has a chance to put his key in the lock.

"Who's the sleazoid?" I snarl.

"Here you are!" Lane exclaims.  "We stopped by the house, but you weren't there.  You asked me to bring you something.  Well, here he is!"

"I'm your birthday present," the Sleazoid says with a laugh.  He hands me a paper bag. "Plus zucchini sticks and ranch dressing from the French Quarter."

"It's not my birthday."

"Ok, your St. Patrick's Day present. Erin go bragh!"

I look the Sleazoid over.  Tall, a bit chubby, a short beard, wearing leather chaps and a white t-shirt that reveals a hairy chest.  A tattoo of Hot Stuff the Little Devil on his skinny arm.

"Is this a trick?" I ask coolly.

"Oh, no.  We stopped at the French Quarter on the way home.  Dinner first makes this a date, right?."

"I'm Mal," the Sleazoid says, loping over to the couch and sitting with his legs spread.  Very nice basket, probably sock-augmented  "Short for Malachi.  I was raised ultra fundamentalist.  Then I was Episcopal, Wiccan, Shinto, Sufi, Baha'i, Zen Buddhist...."

"Let's put these zucchini sticks in a bowl," I say, grabbing Lane and dragging him into the kitchen.

"What gives?  You bring home a trick..."

"A date!" Lane corrects me.

"Technically, I guess.  But obviously not to share!"

"We went to your house to surprise you!" Lane exclaims.  "You can ask Derek if you don't believe me.  I thought you would like Mal.  He's into all those weird religions, like you are."

"Who cares about weird religions?  He's not at all my type, it's 1:36 am, and there's a half-drunk sleazoid with a tattoo of Hot Stuff the Little Devil on the couch!"

"That Sleazoid, as you call him, is about twice the size of Alan."

Huh?

Lane knows what I find attractive. #5, Gifted beneath the belt, trumps everything else.

We take the Sleazoid -- Mal -- into the bedroom and take turns going down on his Kielbasa (actually not quite as big as Alan, but still impressive).  Then Lane goes down on me while Mal and I kiss (he's surprisingly passionate).  Mal finishes by lying atop me and thrusting between my legs.

Very erotic, except for singing "Happy birthday to you" between thrusts.

By 1993, we were cruising separately on Fridays and Saturdays.

See also: Sharing the Eskimo; Victor and His Sleazoid Daddy

My Top 10 Turn Offs

You already know the characteristics that I find attractive: short, dark, massive, gifted beneath the belt, and so on.

Almost every guy I have been with has had at least two, usually three of the characteristics.

But some characteristics are immediate turn-offs.

One or two might be ok, if you happen to also be a short, dark, muscular, gifted-beneath-the-belt Mormon missionary.

But three or four, and dating is out of the question.

Five or more, and we won't be hooking up, either, and sharing is out of the question, breach of etiquette or not.

Again, this is a matter of personal taste.  If you like these traits and I don't, that doesn't mean that I am bad, wrong, or stupid.    Everyone has different tastes in men, and that's fine. 

1. Tall and thin  Who wants to hug a telephone pole?  Who wants to hug a skeleton?

2. A long, narrow face, especially with a goatee, like a Disney villain.

3. Long, slender fingers/finger rings/tattoos/body art.  

 I hate long, slender, feminine fingers -- "nimble," like Tolkien's hobbits.  And jewerlry in a man is gross, except for dogtags or a pendant around his neck.  None of those plastic bracelets, and especially no rings.

If you ever want to get out of the mood fast, just imagine those long, slender, feminine fingers festooned with gross rings wrapped around your penis.  Instant shrinkage!

Same thing with body art. A small, tasteful tattoo that is easily ignored, ok, but plastering your body with ink like the Illustrated Man?  Your skin is perfectly attractive as it is.

.

4. Outdoors Nut/Sports Nut.  The outdoors is not a place; it's something you travel through to get to places.  You don't eat there, or sit on benches there, or hang out there. Spending time outside for its own sake is just nutty.

There is nothing more boring than listening to who won what game with what strategy in some sports match.

5. Fan of Horrible Music.  This includes country-western music, of course, but also whiny female vocalists, and especially torch songs.

The night is bitter
The stars have lost their glitter
The winds grow colder
And suddenly you're older

Yeah, I'm getting older by the minute, listening to this drivel.

6. Relationships with women/discussions of feminine beauty.   Long, long ago, some men didn't figure it out until after they obeyed the societal mandate to marry women, but not anymore.  If you're under 50, you have no excuse, except you were too scared to come out.

I know, it's possible to appreciate beauty in men and women, regardless of your sexual orientation, but after hearing "That woman is so hot!  There's not a man alive who wouldn't want to be with her!" constantly, hour after hour, day after day, I don't want to hear it from a guy I'm dating.

7. Alcohol, tobacco, or drug use. Raised Nazarene, I can't stand the sight or smell of beer, wine, or liquor. If you drink a beer in the bar occasionally and use mouthwash afterwards, ok, but I won't have it in my house.

Tobacco just smells gross.

And drugs -- who wants to be with a guy who's high?

8. Feminine Traits.  Politically, I'm a strong supporter of your right to be as butch, femme, or androgynous as you want to be. Work the room!  Sashay!  Say "Oh, Mary!" and "Puh-lease, girlfriend!"  But it's not going to get me romantically interested.

9. Elitist.   Rich is ok, celebrity is fine.  Well-read, multilingual, world traveler, no problem.  But don't throw your book-larnin' in my face and ridicule my plebian amusements:

"How can you watch television?  It's so mindless!"
"Science fiction?  All that Buck Rogers stuff?"

Or look down on the Midwest.  "Oh, you're from a dreary Ma and Pa Kettle state!  What did you do for fun, tractor pulls and cow tipping?"

Really, should someone who knows about Ma and Pa Kettle be criticizing me for growing up in Illinois?

10. Sleazoid.  Leering, vulgar language, aggressive cruising, constant double-entendres and dirty jokes.  Leave it in the cruise bar.  For that matter, it's annoying there, too.

See also: My Top 10 Turn-Ons

Yuri and I Share the Boy Toy and His Daddy

Wilton Manors, February 2004

The main rule about sharing boyfriends and hookups was: a couple brought in a third person.

During the 1980s, it was always romantic partners bringing in a close friend or roommate.

By the 1990s, the couple could also be a pair of close friends, and the third person a stranger, as long as there was a date first.

But you never shared with four.  I can remember only a few times when that happened.  It was always a little weird, and made me feel uncomfortable afterwards.

1. The multiracial four way with Lane.
2. The live sex show that we put on for Alan.
3. Victor and his Sleazoid Daddy

During the winter, hundreds of wealthy snowbirds from New York invade Wilton Manors, clogging the streets, crowding the bars and restaurants, throwing money around -- and prowling for beach boys.  Suddenly Daddies have some Sugar Daddy competition, so if you're over 40, and you don't have a boyfriend by Thanksgiving, you're likely to go dateless through Valentine's Day.

It was Valentine's Day 2004, I was 43 years old, and I hadn't had a date since Thanksgiving.  An occasional hookup, some afternoons at the Club, and not much else.

So when Victor at Barney's Gym stopped me in the locker room and asked me for a date, I consented, even though he wasn't exactly my type.  He was in his 20s, muscular, with a smooth chest and a nice uncut Bratwurst, but his long, narrow face, tattooed biceps, and rings were a turnoff.

Over dinner at a Thai place in Oakland Park, Victor told me that he was Cuban-American, from Miami.  He moved to Wilton Manors two years ago, had a job as some kind of juice distributor -- and had a boyfriend, Jauvier.

"He's a snowbird.  He lives in New York, and only flies down to Florida in the winter.  So we're allowed to date other guys, but when he's in town, we have to share."

Ok -- Lane and I engaged in that sort of dating quite often back in West Hollywood.  What does this Jauvier look like?


"Oh, he's very hot.  An older guy -- a Daddy, like you.  Shorter than me, very muscular, blond, a short beard, super hung."

Blond?  "Isn't he Hispanic?"

"Well, more of a redhead.   In Spanish, rubio could mean either."

It seems that there are a lot of redheads in Peru, mostly of Irish, German, and Scandinavian ancestry.  They tend to live in Lima and the other large cities of the north, and in racist Peruvian society they tend to be middle and upper class, so they rarely immigrate to the U.S,

"There aren't a lot of blond Hispanic guys around," Victor said.  "Jauvier really stands out in a crowd."

Victor wanted to take me home that night to "share" his boyfriend, but I wanted to at least meet him first.  We weren't as trusting in the 2000s as we were in the 1990s -- being alone with two guys you didn't know was a bit risky.  So I invited Victor and Jauvier over for dinner a few days later, with Yuri and Barney.

Yuri was also in the middle of a dating slump, so he peppered me with questions about Jauvier.  Is he a bodybuilder?  How big is he?  Does he like Russian guys?

"The four of us won't share," I warned him.  "Lane and I tried that a couple of times in West Hollywood, and it was just weird."

"There won't be four tonight, naturally.  But if we are friends, Victor and Jauvier will ask me to share on many other nights."  

Yuri usually specialized in Middle Eastern dishes, but Victor asked for "Russian," so he made vareniki (vegetable dumplings), chicken tabaka, and cold borscht.

Victor and Jauvier arrived at 6:00, carrying a bottle of wine (I forgot to warn them that I didn't drink).

My first impression: ugh.  Jauvier was shorter than me, with a substantial v-shaped torso and a hairy chest. When we hugged, I felt thick, heavy pecs and an impressive beneath-the-belt package.  But he stank of cologne, he was wearing rings, and his face -- not so much ugly as sinister, balding, with gray hair that used to be red, and a villain goatee.

Ugh.

But I had to go through with it -- at this point it would be impolite not to share.  Besides, when you're going down on a guy, who cares about his face?

Then the sleaziness began.  Jauvier used feminine pronouns, made sexual double-entendres out of everything, and made crass references to telephone poles, enemas. and tampons during dinner.

Sample:  "Oh, please, she spreads her legs so wide, you could fit the Queen Mary inside and have room left over for six maxi-pads."

About his ex-boyfriend!

Victor laughed uproariously at his boyfriend's so-called "humor."

After dinner, we gathered in the living room for coffee and baked apples, and Jauvier said "So, I never been in a gang bang with five guys before.  Who goes first?"

Barney glared at him, came down with a sudden "headache," and retreated to his room.

"I must meet my friend at the Manor," Yuri began, heading for the door.


I grabbed his arm.  "No -- stay!"  I mouthed the words "share."

Yuri shook his head.

"Please," I whispered.

He shrugged.

The four of us went into Yuri's bedroom and stripped.  I immediately dropped to my knees and went down on Jauvier's impressive Bratwurst, while Victor went down on Yuri, and Yuri studiously avoided kissing Victor.

Jauvier pointed his penis at Yuri, who shrugged and went down on him.  Then Jauvier tried to throw his legs in the air, but Yuri refused.  He turned to me. I refused.

"Come on, girls," he said.  "Somebody has to be up for anal tonight!"

Yuri and I got into the 69 position, leaving no orifice available for Jauvier, so Victor mounted him for anal.

After sharing, spending the night is mandatory, but when Victor finished, we claimed an early day and pushed them both out the door.

Yuri glared at me.  "I do you a favor, so now you must share a guy that I want.  Anybody I want, ok?"

And I didn't even get a chance to do anything with Victor.

See also: Yuri's Revenge: the Cowboy with the Kovbasa+; and Lane and I have a Multiracial Four-way.

Corbin's Choice: Handsome and Small or Sleazy and Gigantic

San Francisco, April 1996

A few weeks ago, Lane and I drove back to West Hollywood for the annual Oscar party.  Then, unexpectedly, he had to take care of something about the apartment building he inherited from his mother, so he stayed, and I took the bus back to San Francisco.

It's been three weeks, and he's still there:  "It's more complicated than I thought.  We need to completely remodel the foyer, and there's a zoning issue with the pool, and one of the tenants needs to be evicted."

Yeah, right.  The boy just likes being home.  Face it: he's not coming back at all.

To cheer me up, Drake the teddy bear artist and his boyfriend Zack ask me out to dinner at Almost Home, a Castro Street restaurant that specializes in "back home" cuisine: pot roast, fried chicken, chipped beef on toast.

There are dozens of Chinese, Japanese, Thai, Indian, Mexican, Greek, and Filipino restaurants in San Francisco, and I'm offered chipped beef on toast?  This evening won't go well.

They invite Zack's friend Corbin: in his 20s, tall, Mediterranean, very muscular, smooth hard chest visible beneath a white silk shirt unbuttoned five buttons.  Very handsome face, big black eyes, aquiline nose, a prominent chin.

Are they trying to fix us up?

He's very attractive, but there are thousands of eligible gay men within a five block radius.  Why Corbin in particular?

They know about my preference for extra-large beneath-the-belt gifts.  Maybe Corbin has a Kovbasa beneath the belt.

We choke down our down-home American food and start swapping stories of dates from hell, hookups with celebrities, and gigantic penises.  I tell about the time Alan and I accidentally picked up the kept boy.  Zack tells his coming out story.  Drake tells about his date with John Stamos, star of Full House.  Now it's Corbin's turn.

"I'm going to tell you about my choice: handsome or hung."

Bakersfield, California, Summer 1990

Corbin grew up in a conservative Armenian-American household in Bakersfield, about 100 miles north of Los Angeles. During college, he and his friends often went to drag shows and male strip shows at the Casablanca Night Club on N Street, downtown.

The gay community was rather small, so when you met a new guy, chances are one of your friends had dated him.

One night Corbin was approached by a rather ugly, sleazy looking guy with ridiculous hair.  His opening line was: "What would you like for breakfast tomorrow morning?  Besides me, that is?"

"Sleazy!" Zack exclaims.

Corbin almost gave Attitude, but then one of his friends gestured with his palms spread wide, indicating that the guy was super-hung.

Who cares if he was sleazy?  A penis is a penis.

There were no hookups in Bakersfield in 1990.  Corbin made a date with Sleazy for next Wednesday night.

After awhile, Corbin was approached a second time: tall, rugged male model looks with a little beard, very muscular bodybuilder physique and a honest opening line.

"Hi, do you mind if I stand here and talk to you awhile?"

Corbin practically swooned as they made initial small talk.

He glanced at his friends.  One signaled with his fingers that the guy was very small.  Princess Tiny Meat.

Who cares if he was tiny? Corbin made a date with Mr. Handsome for next Thursday night.

When he returned to the table, his friend said "Wow, what a stud you landed!  IHow are you going to break your date with Sleazy?"

 In Bakersfield in 1990, it was taboo to accept dates with more than one guy at a time. You had to evaluate the first, and get him evaluated by your friends, before you could go on to the second.

Corbin had to make a choice.

1. Sleazy but hung.
2. Handsome but tiny.

San Francisco, Spring 1996

"You stole that story from 'The Canterbury Tales,'" I protest.  "Where the man has a choice of a partner who is attractive during the day and ugly at night, or ugly during the day and attractive at night."

"Never read it," Corbin says.

"I'd pick Handsome," Drake says.  "He'll be the envy of all your friends, and you can work around the deficiencies in the penis department."

"I think I'd go with Sleazy," Zack says.  "No competition, everyone wondering what you see in him.  It'd be fun.  And you'd know what was waiting for you at home."

"Which one did you pick?" I ask.

Corbin grins. "Why, Handsome of course!  He had everything I was looking for in a guy, except for that one little thing.  And in the end, who cares about that?"

I look at Corbin.  Is he trying to tell me something, to "out" himself as small beneath the belt?

After all that buildup, there is no way I am going to reject Corbin.  After dinner and cruising at the Midnight Sun, I agree to go back to Drake's place for "sharing."

While we are all sitting on the couch, Drake and Zack start kissing.  I lean over to kiss Corbin.

"Wait -- before the festivities, could I take a shower?" he asks.  "I came to dinner directly from the gym."

"Sure -- we'll be in the bedroom," Drake says.

While Corbin is showering, we go into the bedroom and take off our clothes.  I go down on Zack and Drake while they're kissing.   Then Zack goes down on me while Drake watches.

Corbin comes out of the bathroom naked, toweling off.

Very well hung! Uncut Mortadella+, already semi-aroused.

"Hey, I thought you..." I begin.

"What?"

"I thought your story was a way of coming out as small."

He laughs.  "I've never been accused of that before!   It was to make you feel at ease, to tell you that I don't mind that you're small.  Zack and Drake told me."

"Me, small?"  I exclaim, offended.  I push Zack's head off me and display my Bratwurst+.  "How's that?"

Corbin lies down on the bed and begins fondling me. "Hey, who cares about size?  Small ones slide down my throat just fine."

He goes down on me.  After a few minutes, we move to the 69 position, but I can't take him.

"Don't worry about it," he says.  "We regular-sized guys get that all the time."


Regular sized?

Well,  I am the smallest guy in the room.

That's the risk you run when you prefer the gigantic.

See also: Sharing the Bear's Boyfriend; Corbin, David, and I Hook Up with Brad Pitt; and The Edwardian with the Footlong

Jason Bateman Dates the Porn Star

West Hollywood, March 1987.

Even though my celebrity boyfriend and I dated for only about six weeks, our breakup was devastating -- particularly since he dumped me for my roommate Alan!

For three days I called in sick to work and sat at home in my bathrobe, eating ice cream, watching game shows on tv, and bursting into tears at random moments.  I didn't go out, except for work, for over a week, and when I finally hit the bars again, it was in a self-destructive daze, trying to pick up the ugliest, most disgusting sleazoid I could find.

On the second Friday night after the breakup, I padded my crotch with a balled-up handkerchief, went to a sleazy bar called the Rawhide, and propped up the wall.  Lots of leering, ugly guys there, but the one who came over was the ugliest of the lot: Tall, super-thin, pale as a ghost, with a long thin face, a thick Tom Selleck porn stash, an...ugh!...tattoo, and two...ugh!...rings.  Plus he was smoking!

The only conversation I got from him was: his name was James [not Jim], he was a porn star, and he wanted to f* me sideways with Mr. Big.

Perfect!  Getting f* sideways by Mr. Big would be the perfect remedy to our breakup.  To seal the deal, I pulled James into a kiss.

Gross! Sloppy, boozy, smoky, and his teeth scraped my tongue.

In 1987, even sleazoids were worried about AIDS, and wanted to date rather than trick, so I suggested that we meet for brunch Sunday morning at the French Quarter.  Alan and Peter would be there, and see how pitiful and self-destructive I had become, and feel guilty.

James arrived in a stupid pink muscle shirt that displayed his slim, hairy chest, which was doused -- doused! in cologne.  Obviously he wasn't hired to do porn for his physique -- his very tight jeans showed an ample basket.  But to get a chance at his penis, I'd have to endure a lot of James.  Perfectly gross.

As I waited for Alan and Peter to show up so I could make out with James, we discussed gym routines, porn, poppers, and penises. You should never mention ex-boyfriends during a date, but I did anyway, talking about that last party in detail.

James shrugged.  "The bigger they are, the flightier they get." Then:  "Hey, you want to meet my ex?  He's having a party next Friday night.  Bringing you along would make him die of envy."

So James was on the rebound, too?  Was I his idea of the sleaziest, ugliest guy possible?

"He's famous, totally closeted, and completely full of himself," James continued, "So showing up with an Iowa farmboy would really stick it to him."

"I'm from Illinois, not Iowa, and I never lived on a farm.  So who is this movie star?"

"Did you ever watch Valerie?"

The nuclear family sitcom (1986-1991) starred Valerie Harper (Rhoda) until she left after a salary dispute.  Then it became the TGIF classic The Hogan Family.  "Sure.  But Josh Taylor [Dad Michael Hogan] isn't all that famous."

"No -- David."  Teen heart throb Jason Bateman!

"But he's under age, isn't he?"  In West Hollywood you never discussed the attractiveness of kids under 18, and you never, ever admitted doing anything with them.

"Hey, hey, hey, none of that!" James protested.  "He was 18 when we met -- and let me tell you, he had been around the block a few times!  No way anybody can take my cock unless they're experienced."

Studio City, January 1987

In addition to his porn work, James worked on set design and painting, and did some acting.  He was working on Valerie and very much enjoying the view -- his ex who worked in casting filled every extra slot with a cute gay guy -- but he was still surprised when Jason Bateman, who was always surrounded by girls, approached with a cruisy smile.  After apprising that he was of legal age, James invited him out for coffee.

"Sure, I like girls," Jason said.  "Who doesn't?  But there's one thing I especially like that girls can't give me.  Unless they use one of those gross plastic strap-ons.  Nothing like the real thing."

Mr. Big started to stir in James' pants.  Jason reached down and cupped it.

"So you're into Greek [anal]?"  James asked. "That's not safe these days.  How about French [oral]?"

"I can get a girl to do that," Jason said with a shrug.

So James put a condom on Mr. Big, threw the tall, slim Jason's legs over his head, and topped him -- his first anal in three years!  Jason was tight, and for all his bragging, had never had 8.5 inches before -- but after some initial pain, he got into it.  James worked slowly, trying to make it last --  and he knew how!  Jason had an orgasm about halfway through without even touching himself.

They dated for about six weeks.  James knew, on some level, that Jason was just interested in him for his cock -- he never spent the night, he would barely kiss, he would barely cuddle.  He was seeing other people, guys and girls both.But James didn't care -- it was a real relationship, a romance.

He left little gifts in Jason's dressing room.  He caught himself humming show tunes as he drove to the studio every day ("Strange, dear, but true, dear, when I'm close to you, dear, the stars fill the sky...").  One night he even said "I love you."

That was too heavy for a closeted 18-year old. He gave James the old "It's not you, it's me" speech, said "I hope we can still be friends."

At that moment Alan and Peter came in, so I pulled James into a long, boozy kiss.  I took him home and went down on him -- well, it was big, and a penis can't stink of cigarettes and booze. -- but didn't take him up on his offer of anal -- or of attending his ex boyfriend's party.

Was  James Telling the Truth?

1. I have heard no other dating or hookup stories involving Jason Bateman, except for one that's really about Elijah Wood.

2. Jason has only been linked with a few women.  He married Amanda Anka in 2001.

3. He has played several gay characters, and is perfectly comfortable "pretending" to be gay.

James may have been telling the story to convince me to do anal, but then what would have happened if I agreed to go to the party?

See also: My Celebrity Boyfriend

The Four Fugly Hookups of Minneapolis

I'm in Minneapolis for a conference, and so far I am not happy.  Bitterly cold in late March.

This is supposed to be the gay neighborhood, but it's sketchy and dissolute, lots of derelicts sleeping in doorways and people walking slowly while talking to themselves, not many gay people.

I did find a gay store, in a little galleria where they were triple-parked.  The moment I walked inside, the clerk said suspiciously "Can I help you find anything?"

"Um...you sell souvenirs and gifts.  I didn't come here with a shopping list.  I want to browse."

The food is frightfully expensive -- $20 for breakfast?  My travel allowance is $10.

And the city is downright ugly!  Beat up, boarded up buildings, dismal storefronts, broken sidewalks, busy streets that you have to run across.

The Walker Museum of Art doesn't look like this.  The facade is completely covered by construction tarps, and you have to wait for three stoplights across a major highway to get there.

And the hookups!  Lord have mercy!

I put ads on Grindr, Adam4Adam, Scruff, and Men4SexNow, and get nothing except for three hustlers in a row.  "Could I get some gas money?"  "You generous?"  "You pay me for cock?"

Finally I get a decent guy: Carlo, a tall, muscular guy in his 30s who sends me two buffed body pics and two cock pics (top photo).  I invite him over for a blow job.  He's supposed to arrive at 8:00.

8:00, 8:10, 8:20.  No Carlo.  Meanwhile someone named UseMeSir chirps:  "Oh, sir, I want you to fuck me."

"Oral only."

"I'll do anything you want.  I want you to completely dominate me.  Take complete control."

"Well, I don't have any ropes."

"Oh, I'll provide those, sir.  Just take me and use me, make me your slave."

A hotel room BDSM scene?   Might be interesting, and Carlo is definitely a no show.  I invite UseMeSir over at 9:00.

Fugly #1: Carlo

9:00 sharp.  Carlo arrives, an hour late!  "I'm sorry, I couldn't find a parking space."

Nothing like his photo, a slim feminine guy with pomaded hair and a fragrance, but I figure, what the heck?  I'll do him and get him out of there fast.

"We have to be quick," I tell him.  "I have another guy coming at 9:00."

"Another guy?"  His eyes widen.  "I should be going."  And he rushes out so fast he makes a zooming sound.

Oh, well, I can wait for UseMeSir.

9:10, 9:15, 9:30, no UseMeSir.  Obviously a no show.

BoatGuy is a buffed blond who says he lives in Wisconsin, 45 minutes away, but is willing to drop everything in a heartbeat and drive in.

Ok, I'm desperate.  He says he'll be here at 10:30.

At 10:30 sharp UseMeSir arrives!

"Oh, sir, I'm sorry I'm late, I got drunk to boost my courage enough to come here, and then I lost my cell phone, and a lady found it for me."

He's hideous, about my height, skinny, ugly face, sore on his forehead, more open sores on his arms and legs.  Do people get Karposi's Sarcoma anymore?

"Are you sick?" I ask.  "You have open sores."

"That's just eczema.  Everybody in my family has sensitive skin."

He's hideous, but I figure, he's already here, and BoatGuy will probably be a no show.  So I order him to get naked, and tie him to a chair.  Then I gag him, blindfold him, and attach clothespins to his nipples.

And BoatGuy knocks on the door!  He showed up after all!

Fugly #2: BoatGuy.  A buffed blond with a barrel chest.  Very hot.  But I  have a hideous ugly guy tied to a chair.

BoatGuy's eyes widen.

"This is my 9:00 -- he arrived a little late.  You can watch, or participate, or wait in the lobby for about 20 minutes until the scene is over, whichever you want."

But he scrams out of there as if all of the demons of hell are chasing him.

I can't blame him.  I'm mortified with embarrassment.

Fugly #3: UseMeSir.

I am really angry with UseMeSir for depriving me of two hookups!  You don't do a BDSM scene when you are angry, so I untie him and get him out of there.

Outraged, I go back on Grindr.  Someone named Top You Now sends me just a cock picture and says it's 7.5".  I know, bad idea, but I'm even more desperate, so I invite him over.

Fugly #4: Top You Now:  About 1000 years old, with a drooping face, bad yellowed teeth, and skin tags and moles everywhere.  I can hardly stand to look at him.  He wants to kiss, but no way I'm putting my mouth on that face!

It's not 7.5".  More like 4.5".

I go down on him anyway.

Wouldn't you?

Tomorrow I'm not even going to try.  Museums and art galleries only.  Congratulations, Minneapolis, you beat out Houston as my least favorite city in the U.S.

The Rapper and the Grabby Male Nurse

Upstate, September 2008

In the fall of 2008, I was living in Upstate New York, dating guys from the Gang of Twelve, who had all known each other for years and talked to each other about everything.  Especially their hookups, dates, and boyfriends.

The Rich Kid set me up with the Truck Driver, and then, without telling me, his ex-boyfriend, the Rapper. Days after they broke up.

Date #3: The Rapper.   The photos he sent with his introductory email were amazing.  He was in his 20s, African-American, short, muscular but tending to fat, and super-sized beneath the belt.  Exactly my type!

He grew up in the City, and came Upstate to study music management at SUNY Cooperstown.  Now he was working in an insurance agency, but hoped to launch a rap career.

On our date, the Rapper took me to a program of African dance and music at the university, and then back to his apartment, where he performed one of his rap numbers

.I hate rap, but I politely said "You're very talented.  You should have no trouble getting a record contract."

Of course, I spent the night.  In the morning, over breakfast, I told him about my dates with the Rich Kid and the Truck Driver.

"The Truck Driver!" he exclaimed.  "That's my ex!  Figures that the Rich Kid would fix you up with both of us, and wait to see the fireworks!"

I stared, feeling stupid.  How could I have gone through dates with both of them and not noticed?  

"He was exactly my type, " the Rapper continued.  "I'm into tall white dudes with muscles and an extra-big package. Man, he had everything!"

"Well, I don't like to brag, but..."

He grinned.  "Don't get jealous on me, man. You have everything, too."

"Do you think the Truck Driver will mind us dating?" I asked.

"Well, it's kind of soon after the breakup, so don't tell him, ok?  Or the Rich Kid.  Not for awhile, anyway."

But there were only a small number of gay-friendly venues Upstate, and the guys in the Gang of Twelve. all talked to each other.

For our second date, the Rapper and I drove into Cooperstown to the Fenimore Museum and dinner at Alex and Ika's -- where one of the Gang of 12 saw us and made some phone calls.

The next morning we were getting ready to go to breakfast, when the Truck Driver banged on the door.

"You don't waste any time, do you?" he yelled in his cute British accent.  "How long did you wait before cruising the New Kid?  Twenty minutes?"

"You had a date with him before I did!" the Rapper exclaimed.

"But nothing happened!  We just talked. But not you -- you sent him X-rated pictures before you even met!"

"How did you find out about that?"  He glared at me.  "Not much for keeping secrets, are you, New Kid?"

"I didn't say anything!"

No third date.  But other members of the Gang of Twelve were waiting for their turn.



Date #4: The Grabby Male Nurse.  In his 40s, formerly muscular but now a little paunchy.  On our date, we went shopping at some of the antique shops in town.

For all his interest in secrecy, the Rapper gossiped as much as everyone else in the Gang of Twelve. He gave the Nurse notes: "can't keep a secret"; plus moment-by-moment accounts of our two nights together.

So the Grabby Male Nurse was expecting a porn star.

He was a sleazoid, one of those obnoxious guys in the clubs who keep leering and groping regardless of how much Attitude you display.  Of course, in public, he had to leer and grope subtly, when no one was looking.  Which made it all the more annoying.

Plus he turned everything I said into a sexual reference.

"I taught in Dayton for three years."
Wow, hot college boys!  How many of them did you offer a little...um....extra credit in your office?  Leer, leer.

"I grew up in Illinois."
Ooh, Chicago!  I bet you got a lot of action there!   Leer, leer.

"My grandmother studied art."
I see -- Grandma liked painting those nude male models, did she?" Wink, wink, nudge, nudge, say no more!

We had dinner at the Neptune Cafe, one of those East Coast diners with a 30-page menu, everything from moussaka to tacos. The owner was gay-friendly, so lots of the Gang of Twelve hung out there.  But it was still a straight place.

Yet the Nurse acted like he was in a cruise bar, trying to grope me, leering at the male patrons.  He knew the waiter -- an Asian guy named Chad -- and openly flirted with him, even asking him an inappropriate question about the size of the Asian penis. I gave him an extra big tip to make up for the embarrassment.

Then the Nurse suggested that we go back to his apartment.

I was done.  "Sorry...my favorite tv show is on."

"You can watch it at my place."  He grabbed my crotch. "Or we can watch porn.  Your choice."

I disentangled myself and ran home and hid.

The Nurse sent notes to the rest of the Gang of Twelve: Nice guy, but all he can think about is sex.

I saw Chad again during Date #5: The Satyr and his Boy Toy.