First Day of Class Beefcake and Bulges

Plains, August 2016

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

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

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

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

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

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















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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I can't wait to start calling on them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

We make a coffee date for tomorrow.

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

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

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

Maybe he was in my class earlier today.

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

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

This will be a fun semester.

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

A Student Invites Me to Share His Bunk Bed

Jamaica, New York, February 2000

In the spring of 2000, I was living in the East Village,  taking classes at Setaukt University (two hours away) and teaching as an adjunct at Hofstra University (1 1/2 hours away), which took a little logistic planning.  Sometimes I spent the night with Yuri or a date to avoid going all the way back into Manhattan.

 That Thursday was one of my long days: up at 6, classes at LIU, teaching at LIU, gym, an hour train trip from LIU to Hofstra, teaching a three hour night class, and then an 1 1/2 hour train trip back to Manhattan.,

 By the time I got on the campus shuttle to the Hofstra train station at 9:30 pm, I was exhausted, and not looking forward to the next 1 1/2 hours.

Standing on the platform on a cold, snowy February night didn't help matters.

I wanted to doze or read.  I was in no mood for cruising or small talk.

No matter how cute the guy was.

So when Mason got on the train with me, I was not pleased.   He was one of the nondescript students in my introductory class last semester: a freshman, tall and thin, pale, with thick brown hair, glasses, a sharp nose, a weak chin, and acne.  Sort of cute, in a fresh-faced innocent way, but nothing spectacular.

He plopped down across from me and didn't say anything.  I saw a sizeable basket that I hadn't noticed in class.  Bratwurst, at least.

"Hi, Mason!" I said with my best smile.

"Hi, Mr. Davis," he said politely.  "Where you headed?"

"Penn Station.  "You?"

"Hey, me too!  I'm going to meet some friends at the Tunnel.  I've never been there before." 

A mixed gay-straight club on 12th Avenue, a few blocks from Penn Station.  Could Mason be gay?

He moved over next to me and started describing the club and his friends.  A few follow-up questions should reveal if Mason was gay or not.

But I didn't get anywhere.  Mason may be gay, but he wasn't open about it, and he wasn't cruising me.  I was too tired to press the issue, basket or not.

Another hour, with a change of trains at Jamaica Station and a short subway ride, and I'd be home in the East Village, where there were plenty of open, active gay guys around, most with sizeable baskets.

As we chatted, I found myself ignoring Mason to gaze out the window at the thick-falling snow.  It was coming down hard.  I wasn't worrried - trains can plow through anything.

At a little after 10:30, we stopped at Jamaica Station to catch the train to Penn.  Usually it was a five minute wait, or less.  But tonight, as we stood shivering on the platform for five, ten, fifteen minutes...

Could we have missed it?  It only came once an hour after 10:00 pm.

And the snow kept falling.

Just my luck.  Waiting on a freezing train station platform in the middle of the night with a nondescript, straight student.  

"Screw this!" Mason said suddenly.  "I'll go to the Tunnel some other time.  I'm getting a taxi, and going home."

"Ok, see you later."

He started to walk away.  Then he turned, saw me alone on the platform, shivering in the cold, and called "Hey, would you like to come home with me tonight?  Mom and Dad won't mind,  You can sleep in the guest room."

Suddenly Manhattan seemed an eternity away, and a warm bed in Mason's house sounded like a godsend.  

We got into a taxi and chugged about two miles through the snow to a duplex on 126th Street.  Mason paid, and led me through the front porch, instructing me to take off my snow-covered shoes at the door.

Mom and Dad were sitting on separate chairs in the tiny, old-fashioned living room, watching the 11:00 news on tv.

"I thought you were going into the City?"  Dad said, ignoring me.

"Snow is too bad out there -- we're almost snowed in."  He took my arm -- the first time we actually touched.  "This is my old professor, Mr. Davis -- I ran into him on the train, and I promised him Calvin's old room, if that's ok."

"Well -- it would be, ordinarily," Mom said, "But Aunt Joy's in there tonight, remember?"

"Oh, yeah."

I started to panic.  Another taxi ride back to the freezing cold train platform, for a train that came once an hour, maybe not at all..."I can sleep on the couch, no problem..." I began.

"How about I just put you up in my room?" Mason said.  "Don't worry, I don't snore."

I tried to remember the last time I shared someone's bed who wasn't a sex partner.  Not since I was a kid...or would he be a sex partner after all?

I wondered if Mason had planned all of this in advance.  A random encounter on the train -- the night his brother's room is occupied -- but how could he arrange for the snow, and the train that didn't come?  No, of course not...I was just goofy with fatigue.

"Sure, that will be fine."

Mason led me upstairs, past two bedrooms -- one with the door closed, presumably where Aunt Joy was sleeping -- and to the third.  Small, bookshelves, desk, dresser, posters, baseball mitt, dormer window looking down on the street.  And bunk beds.

"Um...would you like the top or bottom?" Mason asked.

I was too tired to answer.  "Be right back, got to go to the bathroom."  I found my toiletry kit in my knapsack and headed down the hall to brush my teeth.  When I returned, Mason was lying in the bottom bunk, shirtless, reading a book by a desk lamp.

"Hi, I thought I'd give you the top, since you're..." Mason began.  He didn't have time to say anything else.  "F* climbing," I thought, tearing off my shirt and pants and pushing into bed next to him.  "Scoot over, I don't do tops.  You like cuddling, right?"

"Sure."  He turned off the light and scooted down and held me.  Suddenly he was kissing my chest.

We didn't do much that night, but in the morning I found my way around Mason's firm, smooth physique and  uncut Bratwurst+.  I went down on him, and finished with interfemoral, with a lot of kissing afterwards, before his Mom called us "sleepyheads" and roused us to make the train back to Hofstra.

We ended up dating on and off for about six months, including "sharing" with Yuri and a weekend in Manhattan.

 I still sort of felt that Mason planned the whole thing.

See also: The Man in Black on Christopher Street.

The Best Date in the History of the Plains

Plains, March 2017

I met Reynard (not his real name) on Grindr at the beginning of the fall 2015 semester. He was 18 years old, a freshman theater arts major, and in my intro class!  I don't hook up current students, so I turned him down.

Then he dropped my class so we could date!

Thinking that he was unstable, I turned him down again.

Last week, a year and a half later, he contacts me.  He's transferred to another college about 100 miles away.  He'll be driving through town on the way home for spring break, and he wants to stop by.

This time I say "yes."

We've never met in person.  We've spoken barely a dozen words.  I know nothing about him except the fact that he's driving 100 mils for a meeting he's been anticipating for a year and a half.

Obviously a simple blow job won't do the trick.

I plan the Best Date in the History of the Plains.

I instruct Reynard to meet me at the gay-friendly coffee house in the early afternoon, after lunch, and to bring his jogging clothes.

2:00 pm: Coffee

He arrives at 2:00 pm sharp: cuter than his profile pic, with a round face, unruly black hair, and dark eyebrows that give him almost a Mediterranean look.  He's trying to smile, but can't quite make it -- he's almost trembling with nervousness.

We shake hands -- he has a loose, moist handshake.

"I've never done anything like this before," he says.

"What?  Gone out on a date?"

"Not with -- you know, a professor."

"Call me Boomer."

We sit down at a little table for coffee and scones, and I tell him about the schedule for our date.  I reach under the table and take his hand.  He tries to smile.




3:00 pm:  Jogging

It's a brisk March day, perfect for jogging.  We go to the YMCA, change into our jogging clothes -- I give Reynard a good view of my penis, but he turns his back -- and then go jogging on the trail that goes through the woods for about 5 miles (we just go 2).

This gives him an opportunity to dispel some of his nervousness and chat some more.

Reynard has changed his major twice, first to psychology and then to biology, though he's still dancing.  He strikes me as a little flighty, not focused.  I tell him that I changed my major eight times as an undergraduate.

Afterwards we shower -- a good time to check each other out, and get some other sausage sightings -- and change back into our street clothes.

He's average sized but nicely shaped, cut, with low-hanging balls.



4:30 The Art Center

Just down the street from the YMCA, the Arts Center has monthly exhibits of local artists.  This month it's countless paintings of lakes and rivers, but at least it's cultural.  It gets the brain thinking about something other than getting laid.  And it allows for more chatting -- and, in one of the secluded galleries, a bit of kissing.

5:30 Dinner

We go out to dinner at an upscale seafood restaurant, sure to impress Reynard.  I don't usually emphasize the age difference on a first date, but tonight I tell him about my 13 years in West Hollywood, including my hookup with Michael J. Fox.

He's never seen Back to the Future -- he doesn't care for science fiction. But he's into fantasy like Harry Potter, and cosplay.  He likes to dress up like a wolf -- not for sex, I hope.

We discuss our favorite sexual positions.  He's an anal and oral bottom, naturally, and he's never tried interfemoral.  I promise to show him what it's like later.

7:00 Theater

Reynard has been stimulated in body and mind, and we've been talking on and off for four hours.  Time for a break.  I take him to a local high school production of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.  

Unfortunately, Joseph stays fully clothed the whole time, but the palace guards are shirtless.  This one is quite buffed.

9:30 Cruising

We go to the straight bar downtown to cap off the night with hot chocolate -- I don't drink, and Reynard is too young.  It's a straight bar, but on Saturday nights the clientele is mostly college boys.  Wall-to-wall beefcake, and a lot of cruising.

The function of cruising on a date is not only to look at the hot guys and get revved up for the sex later -- it's to get approached by other guys, thereby increasing your date's perception of your attractiveness.

But it's not working tonight.  Reynard becomes quiet, and even starts to doze off.

"I think it's about time to go home to bed," I announce.

He nods.

As we drive back to my apartment, he puts his head on  my shouler.

11:00 Sleeping

I skip the nightcap, since we already had hot chocolate, and bring Reynard into the bedroom.  I unbutton his shirt and kiss and fondle his chest.  He moans.  I pull down his pants.  He isn't aroused.

He lies down onto the bed, his butt in the air.

"I'm not into anal," I tell him.  "Could we do interfemoral?"

"Sorry, I didn't mean that.," he murmurs, not looking up. "Um...do you mind if we, like, just cuddle tonight?  I'm zonked -- been up since six, and all that stuff we did wore me out!"

"Sure, no problem."  I take off my clothes, climb into bed, and pull him into my arms.  In a few minutes he's snoring.  And I'm fully aroused.

The problem with the Best Date in History is: it leaves you too tired for sex!

6:00 am Sunday: Sex

Sunday morning, I wake him up with a blow job, enter his mouth before saying "hello," and then push between his legs in interfemoral to finish.  Twice before breakfast.

See also:  A Student Drops My Class So We Can Date.

The Shy Guy at the Gym with the Supersized Penis

Plains, November 2016

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

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

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

A rule of thumb for locker room cruising:

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he didn't.

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

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

I wasn't mistaken -- enormous.

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

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

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

"Um...vy Russii?"  I began.

Baby Face looked up, surprised to be spoken to.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

Justin refused to make eye contact. "Drastvutje."

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

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

But he didn't move.

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

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

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



I leaned in close and kissed him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tricking with Yuri's Student in Iceland

Reykjavik, October 2016

On Halloween, the second biggest holiday in the gay world, I'm sitting in the Culiacan Mexican Grill in Revkjavik, Iceland, spending $20 for a tasteless burrito.

 Back home there is an endless round of parties, dinners, parades.  You spend weeks deciding on the best costume, putting up decorations, buying candy for the trick-or-treaters (in gay neighborhoods, cute guys, not kids).

They don't celebrate Halloween here.

Why am I in Reykjavik?  And not in West Hollywood, or New York, or even back home on the Plains?



Yuri is so deeply rooted in gay culture, living in the heart of London's gay neighborhood, hanging out only with gay men, discussing masculine beauty and gigantic penises at every opportunity, that it is difficult to imagine him outside that world.  But in fact, he's a well-known atmospheric scientist who has published important research on climate change.

He has brought five of his advanced students to Iceland to see the aurora borealis, and test how they have changed due to global warming. Something about emission spectrography and astronometric oscillations.  I'm along for the ride.

 I was hesitant:  from what I recalled from my college field trip, Iceland was cold and barren, with no gay culture.

""You are joking!" Yuri scoffed.  "It's not cold, it's as nice as New York.  And Iceland is the most gay country in Europe!  Even the prime minister is gay!"

[Actually, the lesbian Prime Minister, Jóhanna Sigurdardóttir, was in office from 2009 to 2013]

Granted, it's not cold: 42 degrees Fahrenheit, about the same as on the Plains, maybe even a little warmer.  The sun rises about 45 minutes later, and sets about 45 minutes earlier, no big deal."

But there's no gay culture.  One gay bar, only open on weekends, one mixed restaurant, no bathhouses, no bookstores, no gay churches, no gay neighborhoods.  Gay people are completely assimilated.

I can't even spend the night with Yuri.  He's out to his students, but not out enough to share his hotel room with me.  After the bedroom activity, I go back to my own room, as if I am a hookup, not a close friend for nearly twenty years.

Anyway, he goes to bed at 9:00 pm, since the scientific studies take place at 3:00 am.  I went once: sitting on lawn chairs at Thingvellir National Park, drinking hot chocolate from thermos bottles and taking radiometric measurements.  Not my thing.

So I'm mostly on my own.  I've been to the National Museum, the National Gallery, the Art Museum, and the Museum of the Penis by myself.  Yuri and I have had lunch and dinner, and hung out at Kiki, the city's mixed gay bar, without picking up anyone -- it's for socializing, not for cruising.

In four days I've only met one local guy, Bjorn, and he was actually Yuri's hookup.  I was just along for the ride.

His students are cute -- five guys in their early 20s, fresh-faced science students, boisterous and energetic.  But I don't even know if they're gay, and besides, I can't cruise Yuri's students.  I'm like a chaperone.

Today I ran into two of them in the lobby of our hotel, texting on their smartphones: Jon is tall, with thick brown hair and a heavy-lidded, Mediterranean look.  Maury is a redhead, short and rather buffed, with horn-rimmed glasses that make him look middle-aged.

"Happy Halloween!" I said brightly. "Fara til rethur safninu?"  Are you going to the penis museum?

They stared, puzzled.  "Sorry, just practicing my Icelandic.  Where are you guys off to today?"

"Haukadalur," Jon said.  "The neovolcanic zone with geysirs and hot springs."

"Not as much fun as trick-or-treating, I'll bet."

Maury grinned.  "Dr. B. told us about you living together in Florida.  I'll bet you had some fun Halloweens there."

I was too nervous to say anything more.

I dump my tasteless $20 burrito and head to Hreyfing Heilsulind, a gym with day memberships.  At least I can get a decent workout in, and maybe get some sausage sightings in the steam room.

Nope.  Only a couple of older guys in the cardio room, no one in the steam room.

Kiki, the queer bar, has a Halloween display.  Rather a low key things, ghosts and Frankenstein monsters surrounded by orange crepe.  Anyway, it's closed today.

I go to Bokavarthan, Reykjavik's used bookstore, and find, of all things, a German book about cowboys.  Then a whale burger at Grillmarkathurinn, and back to the hotel to watch The Simpsons with Icelandic subtitles.   It's the annual Halloween Special.

Suddenly there's a knock on the door: Yuri and Maury, wearing devil horns and carrying plastic bags with pumpkins on them.

"Trick or treat!"  Maury yells.  "I've always wanted to say that."

"We bring you a Halloween party," Yuri says.

They brought "fun sized" Snickers bars and ghost cupcakes that they found in a bakery somewhere.  Yuri and I sit on the bed with Maury between us to watch Hocus Pocus on Netflix on his ipod.

I put my arm around Maury, feel his tight shoulders, run my hand over his earlobe.  He moves his elbow down to my crotch.  I become aroused.

Suddenly Yuri stands up.  "It's late -- I must go to bed.  But you guys stay here, finish the movie, have fun."

After Yuri leaves, Maury says "You don't really want to finish the movie, do you?"

I take the ipod from his hand.  "I know how it turns out.  Omri Katz moves to Israel and goes to work in gay porn."

Maury has a very firm, muscular physique, more buffed than you would expect, and a very thick Bratwurst+.  He's an anal top, but willing to settle for 69, with cuddling and kissing afterwards.

In the morning I go down on him again, and top him between the legs.  Then he says "Rethur safninu í dag?" Do you want to go to the penis museum today?

I stare in embarrassment.  "You knew what I was saying yesterday?"

"Yep, my Mum's Norwegian, and Icelandic is close enough to make out.   How do you think I got the nerve to come to your room for trick or treating?"

See also: Bjorn's Hookup with His Teacher; The Icelandic Penis Museum

I Become Jameer's Boy Toy

Plains, August 2014

I love the first day of class: new classes, new opportunities, and acres of new beefcake to scope out: collegiate jocks in tight t-shirts, nervous freshmen, cute nerds, chubby mid-life students with chest hair peeping out over their shirts.

I see Jameer in all three of my classes, front row center.

He's hard to miss: not a lot of black guys on campus, especially black guys in "midlife," returning to college after several years away, typically in their late 20s or 30s.  He is taller than me, broad-shouldered, and extraordinarily handsome, with a broad flat face, dark eyes, and thin-cropped furry hair.

"You can't be in the advanced class without taking the intro class first," I tell him.

"Oh, I want to finish my second degree in a year," he says, flashing a dazzling smile that has probably been getting him exceptions to rules his whole life.  "I'll work hard, I  promise."

"Won't you get sick of looking at me three hours a day?"

He smiles again.  "No, not at all."

Jameer turns out to be one of those guys who answers every question, comments to everything, and stays after class to ask my advice on everything from how to deal with a crazy roommate to what career he should prepare for.  But after three weeks he suddenly drops every class.  No warning, no nothing -- he just vanishes.

I feel hurt.  Did I offend him somehow?

October 2014

I run into Jameer in the Mexican restaurant near the campus.  He's elegantly dressed in a business suit.

"Hey, Professor, sorry to cut out on you," he says.  "But they offered me a managerial job for like ten times the salary I had before, so I had no choice but  to take it.  Can I make it up to you by buying you dinner?"

I agree, expecting a free dinner at the Mexican restaurant.  Instead he says "Great, how about Whiskey River?  I'll pick you up at 7:00 pm tomorrow night."

Whiskey River is one of the more expensive restaurants in towns, usually reserved for birthdays and anniversaries.  I plan to order just a salad, but Jameer insists that we have appetizers, drinks, expensive entrees, and dessert, for a tab of nearly $100 -- which, true to his word, he pays for.  "Hey, nobody goes hungry on my watch."

We tell our coming out stories.  Jameer talks about growing up black and gay in a small town in South Dakota, his first experience -- with his high school swimming coach -- and his first degree, in psychology. A job in social services that he hated.  A series of office jobs.  A sudden midlife urge to return to academe, forestalled by an offer of a managerial job.

Sounds like my life, English and modern languages forestalled, a midlife urge to return to academe.  Except I completed my second degree rather than being lured by high salaries.

After dinner we go back to Jameer's house near the campus, an older Queen Anne style with hardwood floors and parquet ceilings.  We sit on a leather couch, surrounded by African art -- he shows me several statues of gods and chiefs of the Igbo tribe -- and kiss and grope.



Then we go into the bedroom.  Jameer has a tight, firm physique, smooth except for a little hair around his belly, and a cut Mortadella+, which he lets me go down on a little, but he's not really into it.  He prefers to go down on me, and finishes with his penis between my legs while we're kissing.

Sounds perfect so far, except I'd like a little more alone time with his Mortadella+.

He shows up for our second date with presents: an expensive silk shirt and tie.  "Hey, I like my boys to be dressed properly."

Boys?  I'm twenty years older than you.


A silk shirt and tie seems a little much for karaoke night at the gay-friendly coffee house, but I change.  Then he says: "No two-bit karaoke for my boy.  We're going to see John Legend."

"Who?"

He laughs.  "I love Midwestern farm boys.  You're so sheltered!"

Ok, I never lived on a farm, and I've walked down Hollywood Boulevard at Highland at 2:00 in the morning.  Sheltered?  And about that "boy" stuff -- is it some sort of African-American slang?

Turns out that John Legend is a famous R&B singer and songwriter, who's won 10 Grammy awards, a Golden Globe, and an Oscar.

He looks good shirtless, too.

We go back to my apartment to spend the night.  In the morning I make breakfast.

"That's the way I like to see my boys," Jameer says.  "Hot, naked and in the kitchen."

Our next date will be #3, when all of his friends get to meet you and judge your potential.  Jameer shows up at my apartment with another gift, a very expensive gold chain.

"I'm not much for jewelry," I tell him.

"I want my man to look good," he says.  At least that's a step up from "boy."  "Besides, how am I going to impress my friends with you unless you are looking super foxy?  You could go in naked."

So I wear the chain.  We drive an hour south to the nearest big city.  Jameer introduces me to five friends, three African-American, two white, all in their 30s and 40s.  We have  a very campy, double-entendre laden dinner at a Chinese restaurant, and then go back to someone's apartment for dessert and more double-entendres.

"If you're lucky," Jameer says, "My boy will do a little strip show for you, show off his cute butt and basket."

He wants me to be the entertainment?  

"Does his mouth come with the show?"  one of his friends asks with a leer.

"If I tell him to, it does."

Ordinarily I would have no objections to going down on a boyfriend's friend, but the way he describes it makes me sound like a sex slave.

"I feel a cold coming on," I say curtly.  "I'd better not."

Jameer looks surprised, but says "That's fine, that's fine.  I just thought you might like going down on some of these very well-hung gentlemen.  You can't give anybody your cold that way."

After a few more double entendres, we leave.  On the drive home, I ask Jameer, "Do you think they liked me?"

"Sure, sure.  They would have liked you more if you showed them some of your fine mouth action, but there's plenty of time for that later.  I like to share my boys."

"I'm all for sharing, but I think..."

He reaches over and caresses my knee.  "My boy don't have to think.  He just has to sit there and look hot, and make my friends go green with envy."

I'm 20 years older than you, two inches shorter, and two inches smaller beneath the belt, but I'm your boy toy!  You're dating me solely for my face and physique, and I'm dating you for the...gifts?

I ask Jameer to take me home rather than spending the night.  The next day when he calls to ask me for Date #4, I say "I think I'm going to be busy for awhile."  Translation: Get lost!

A few days later, there's a package in my mailbox on campus, with a note from Jameer.

"Sorry I made you mad.  Hope we can be friends."

Inside the box was a heavy gold bracelet.

Jameer likes his friends to look good, too.

See also: 15 Boy Toys, Hustlers, and Boyfriends for Pay