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.

Nephew Sausage Sighting #1: The Father-Son Retreat

We typically get our first sausage sightings from relatives, uncles, brothers or cousins, and they remain a reliable source through our lives, especially when the new generation of nephews and second cousins (your cousins' kids) starts to mature.

You don't have to have any erotic interest to enjoy seeing a nice penis, and there's always some curiosity: did they inherit your brother or brother-in-law's size?

My brother has three sons: Ethan (born June 1982), Frank (born October 1983), and Joel (born April 1986), plus a stepson.  I've gotten sausage sightings of all of them (after they grew up, of course).  First up: Ethan.




Manville, Illinois, June 2000

I am in grad school in New York, but visiting my parents in Indianapolis for a week before flying out to South Africa for a conference.  I offer to drive to Rock Island, to visit my brother, but Kenny says that he and his sons will be at a "father-son retreat" that weekend.

Held at Manville, the Nazarene camp in eastern Illinois.

Having spent innumerable summers fighting the flies, mosquitoes, heat, deplorable food, sports, flirting girls, and screeching sermons at Manville, I scoff.  "If you want to torture your kids, why don't you just tie them to an ant hill?"

"It's not like when we were little," Kenny says.  "They have tennis courts, hiking trails, and a gym now, and we stay in a 'family cabin' with its own bathroom and kitchen."

"No more walking down that terrible snake-strewn path to the toilets, huh?  But it still sounds awful."

"Why don't you come out on Friday, and see for yourself?  The cabin sleeps six, so there will be plenty of room for you."

I am definitely curious --  I haven't been to Manville since high school, over 20 years ago.  Besides, spending the night with Kenny and his sons will be fun, like the sleepovers we used to have as kids.  So on Friday I drive my rental car the three hours out from Indianapolis.

The long, low tabernacle is still there, and the dining hall/ snack bar where we bought hot dogs on innumerable nights after altar call.  There are still rows of damp, airy cabins.   But Ken is right about the new gym, the tennis courts, and the hiking trails that lead through the tall grass of the prairie.

Manville is occupied entirely by cute dads and their teenage sons.  Since there are no women around, they don't have to follow the rules prohibiting short pants or going shirtless.

The beefcake almost makes it worth the trip.

Of course I have to stay closeted, or they would chase me out of the camp with pitchforks, but Kenny still introduces me as his "brother from New York City."  Ulp!  That's one of the wicked "cities of the plain" that God plans to destroy during the upcoming Tribulation.  Labeled a "sinner" in need of salvation just by my residence, I get a lot of witnessing and shy attempts to start soul-winning conversations.

A very muscular high school boy named Kyle approaches me at the gym with the oldest soulwinning opening: "If you were to die tonight, and God asked why He should let you into His heaven, what would you say?"

I have to laugh: I used the same line in Kankakee 25 years ago!

I talk him into going hiking with me and Kenny.  Nothing erotic happens, but Kenny says "You can pick them up anywhere, can't you?"

The family cabin is cramped -- two stacks of bunk beds, a small couch, a table and four chairs, a kitchen area, and a bathroom with a toilet and shower -- but it beats those drafty cabins with the shower room half a mile away.

It has electricity, but no tv, and no heat or air conditioning -- and it's hot and sticky in the central Illinois summer.

But Kenny comes up with an interesting solution: we all go naked!

At first I balk, just stripping down to my underwear, but Joel says "Come on, Uncle Boomer, don't be a weenie," so I strip down too.

"Not bad," Joel says.  "Could be bigger."

Kenny glares at him. "Don't tease your uncle."

Cooking naked seems like a bad idea, but it's just hot dogs, canned baked beans, and potato chips.  Then we do the dishes, play a game of Bible Monopoly, pray while holding hands, and go to bed.

Ethan, Kenny's oldest son, will have psychiatric problems and an aggravated assault conviction in a few years, but at age 18, he's stiill a Johnny Nazarene, scrupulously following all the Nazarene rules, looking forward to his freshman year at Olivet (our college on the prairie). 

 He's a slow, soft, big-boned kid with a little belly, some hair on his chest, and long thick arms.

He sits with his legs spread, so you can get a good sausage sighting: a short, thick penis with a prominent head, like his father's.

Frank and Joel are naked too, of course, but they are 16 and 14 years old, so I don't count them as sausage sightings.  I'll have to wait until they turn 18.

Dancing with a Swedish Leatherboy

Fiesch, Switzerland, June 1977

During the summer after my junior year at Rocky High, when I still belonged to the ultra-fundamentalist Nazarene Church and thought gay people were monsters, I was one of the delegates to the Nazarene Youth Society International Institute, 500 cream-of-the-crop teenage Johnny and Suzie Nazarenes from around the world meeting in an old army training camp (now the Sport und Ferienzentrum) in Fiesch, Switzerland.














What did we do for a week?

Boys-only swimming

1. Evangelization services, with altar calls every night.
2. Bible studies, prayer meetings, and workshops on personal evangelization.
3. The International Jump Quiz Tournament.
4. Swimming in the camp pool (boys only before noon, girls only after noon).
 5. Field trips to Rhone Glacier, Brig (for skiing), and Mount Eggishorn (for mountain climbing).

I tried to call Giovanni, the foreign-exchange student who I had a crush on, but the number didn't work.


We had some free time for sightseeing, as long as we followed the rules:

1. Don't make friends with the locals.
2. Don't go near any Catholic churches.
3. No dancing, movies, live theater, card games, or festivals. No restaurants that serve alcohol (in Switzerland they all do).
4. Be back at the base by 7:00 pm, and in your bunk 1/2 hour after altar call ends. 

Sport und Ferienzentrum, Fiesch

I started hanging out with Alex, whose dad was a missionary in France, and who had no qualms about breaking the rules.  We visited Sion Cathedral, chatted up some high school boys on the train, abandoned our lunch boxes for a restaurant.

And one night we snuck out after curfew, walked into town, and ended up in a disco (breaking three rules at once).

My eyes were drawn to an older guy, maybe 25, sitting with his friends: blond, glasses, wearing a leather jacket with no shirt underneath.  I glimpsed a stunning, sculpted physique like a marble statue, and a gigantic bulge.  So I dragged Alex over to talk to him.

Our barracks

In English, he said that his name was Christoffer, and he was an engineering student from Goteborg University in Sweden.

"I had lunch with King Karl Gustaf last year," I yelled, trying to make myself heard over the music.. "He told me to apply to Goteborg University."

"He doesn't know what he's talking about," Christoffer yelled.  I didn't realize it at the time, but in retrospect, he was very drunk. "You should be a model.  You have the right. . .um. . face for it. . .and you, too," he added, turning to Alex. "You should be models together."

Suddenly we heard the throbbing beat of Donna Summers' "I Feel Love."  "Come on, we dance," Christoffer said, throwing off his leather jacket and dragging us onto the dance floor.

I had never danced before, so I'm sure I was bad at it, but Christoffer wasn't paying attention.  He jumped and gyrated and lip-synched until his body started to glow with sweat.

I wasn't going back to camp without a touch, so I reached out and ran my palm lightly over that white-marble chest.  Christoffer grinned at me.  He reached over and undid a button of my shirt, and then another, and ran his hand underneath.

The Swedish leather boy

Then Alex pulled me away.  "We have to get back!" he yelled.

"No, stay!" Christoffer yelled.  "Come to my hotel.  We have Schnapps!"

An offer of alcohol quashed any erotic interest I might have had.  I said goodbye and quickly followed Alex out of the club and through the dark, cool night to our camp.

"I think I saved you from a fate worse than death back there," Alex said. "That Christoffer guy was gay."

"No way!" I exclaimed.  "Didn't you see his body?"  In Rock Island, we thought that muscles were a sure sign of heterosexual identity.

I never saw Christoffer again, of course, but I have often wondered what would have happened if we accepted his offer of "Schnapps."

See also: My date with the King of Sweden

Summer 1974: Engaged at Summer Camp

Manville, Illinois, Summer 1974

I have a confession to make: during the summer after 8th grade at Washington Junior High, shortly after my boyfriend Dan and I decided to run away to Saudi Arabia together, I got engaged.  To a girl.

Manville, our Nazarene summer camp on the prairie, had church services every morning and evening, with altar calls, sports, and jump quiz practice in between. 

 In Tuesday morning's chapel, I happened to sit next to a short, rather husky girl who bore an extraordinary resemblance to Jimmy on H.R. Pufnstuf: rounded features, red lips, houlder-length black hair. During the altar call, she glanced over at my Bible and saw Psalm 2:8 marked with the initials S.A.: “Ask of me, and I shall give thee the heathen for thine inheritance, and the uttermost parts of the earth for thy possession.”

“Who’s S.A.?” she whispered.

“Saudi Arabia,” I said.  I was framing our escape as a missionary endeavor. “God’s Will is for me to become a missionary to the Bedouins of the Empty Quarter."

“No, I don’t think so. God didn’t say anything about Arabia. He said you should go to West Germany."  Her voice was calm, matter of fact, as if she had said “No, the test is on Chapter Three, not Chapter Two.”

Germany was a bona fide Nazarene mission field, all Lutheran or Catholic.  Still, I was astonished.  “When did God tell you that?” I asked.

“In the service last night.  I was...um...looking at you, and God gave me a vision of you preaching in a big stadium in Munich.  You were leading an altar call, and hundreds of people were Praying Through."  She began to sing "Just as I Am," our altar call hymn, in German. “Oh, Gottes Lamm, Ich komme. . . .Ich komme.”

All Nazarene kids knew that God had a specific Will for us, usually a career for the boys and a marital partner for the girls.  He might reveal it through "a small still voice," or through "opening a door," or, most dramatically, through a Vision of Our Future.

"Why would God give you a vision of my future?"

“It was for both of us," she said.  "I was playing the organ, so obviously His Will is for you to become a missionary in Germany, and me to be your wife."

“No, I already heard His Will," I protested.  "It's to go to Saudi Arabia with my friend Dan.  Definitely with Dan."

"He told me Germany.  And who knows, this Dan guy might be there too, with his wife."

"That's crazy!  We're not going to have wives!  We're going to be missionaries together, like Paul and Barnabas."

The altar call was over, so I walked out with the others into the heat of mid July. The girl -- her name was Sarah -- followed me toward my Bible study class.

"You can't be a missionary without a wife!" she said.  "You have to go to the field as a team, like Adam and Eve."

I laughed.  "You're crazy!"

 But I found my cabin counselor, Brother Dino, who was my Sunday school teacher back home (the one whose sons became male strippers later).  He went to the office and dug up a list of requirements for the Nazarene ministry.  You had to be male, at least 21 years old, saved and sanctified, never divorced, never a Roman Catholic -- and married!

So, in order to escape to a "good place" with Dan, I would need a wife!  God said so!  Later I met Sarah in the snack bar and gave her my grim consent to our future wedding.

Manville Camp, with the woods on the right

We were engaged for part of Tuesday and all day Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday.  We ate our meals together in the camp canteen, sat together in chapel and the evening service, and even walked through the woods behind the tabernacle where boys and girls went to kiss -- though we never kissed.  Sarah hated "that mushy stuff" as much as I did.

I enjoyed being engaged -- being seen with a girl got me endless triumphant shoulder-pats, thumbs up, cries of "Awright!," and approving grins.  It meant absolute, unwaivering acceptance, none of that awkward confusion or the deliberate refusal to see that happened when I was with a boy.  Not bad!

Why did we call off the engagement?

On that last night, we were walking back from the kissing woods.  Someone was listening to the radio in the distance: John Denver's  "Annie's Song," which was at the top of the charts:

Come, let me love you

Let me give my life to you

Let me drown in your laughter

Let me die in your arms

Let me lay down beside you

Let me always be with you

Come, let me love you

Come love me again

That's how you were supposed to feel about "The One" that God intended for you to spend your life with.  You were supposed to dissolve into them, lose your soul, your individuality, become one.

I looked at Sarah walking beside me.  We were just reaching the girls' cabins.  I could go no further.  "Thanks, see yah," I said, and ran as fast as I could to my own cabin, and jumped under the covers of my bed and prayed for God to give me Dan.

Sausage Sighting #3: Brother Dino in the Boys' Shower Room

In the summer of 1974, just after eighth grade at Washington Junior High, I went to Manville, our summer camp on the prairie, and got engaged to a girl named Sarah, because she said God gave her a Vision of My Future.  But I had a mercenary aim -- Nazarene missionaries had to be married, so only by marrying  Sarah could I escape to Saudi Arabia with my boyfriend Dan.

We were engaged for exactly three days, from Tuesday to Friday.  Then God gave me a Vision of my own.

On Friday afternoon Sarah and I walked into the woods where boys and girls went to kiss, and stumbled across a counselor necking with his girlfriend (I don't remember his name, but he looked sort of like this guy).

Suppressing giggles, we hid behind bushes and watched as he pushed his hand under her shirt and felt her boobs, what Marty called "stealing third base"on this very spot two years ago.

 It occurred to me that every Nazarene preacher, every missionary, every minister of music had pushed his hand under the shirt of his girlfriend or wife and felt her boobs.    And had sex with her.  It was a job requirement.


Sooner or later, Sarah would expect me to do that.

But it wasn't going to happen. Watching the counselor fondling his girlfriend's boobs, I knew that intimate acts with a girl were out of the question, period.

But if I didn't get married and have sex with girls, I couldn't become a missionary.  Then  how could Dan and I escape to Saudi Arabia?

I left Sarah at her afternoon crafts class and walked down the mosquito-infested pathway toward the boys' cabins.  "God, give me a Vision," I prayed.  "Tell me your Will for my life."

I stopped at the low cream-colored building called the Boys' Bath House.  It was deserted -- most boys used the bathroom in the cafeteria, or went in the woods, and only showered when forced to.  It was disgusting, stinking of urine and bleach, and there were spider webs in the toilet stalls.

But today I heard the shower running, and felt its hot, moist steam on my face.  Who would be showering in the middle of the afternoon?  I walked over and peeked beyond the yellow stone wall.

It was Brother Dino, my counselor (and back home, my Sunday School teacher).  Standing under the stream, briskly soaping his firm, hairy chest.  Rivulets of water ran over his muscular belly and down into his patch of dark pubic hair and onto his enormous penis.  I could definitely imagine stealing third base and hitting home runs with him!

Before Brother Dino could turn around and see me, I ducked behind the stone wall, did my business at a urinal, and rushed back to my cabin.

That was the vision!  I thought excitedly.  God has shown me His Will -- He wants me to be with a man!

What the College Boy was Doing Under the Sheets

Manville, Summer 1973

Every summer from 5th through 10th grade,  I spent a week at Manville, the Nazarene summer camp.  Actually five days: drive in Monday morning, leave Saturday afternoon (so you could be home for church Sunday).

Up every morning at 6:00 am for breakfast, Bible study, chapel, and lunch, followed by jump quiz practice or music practice, sports, dinner, rap groups, a fire-and-brimstone sermon, an hour of free time, and lights out.

In the most horrid cabins imaginable.

One bare light bulb, screens but no glass in the windows, bare board floors, 10 rusty, squeaking army-cots with paper-thin mattresses, placed so close together that you could reach across and touch your neighbor, with  a double bed at the front for the counselor.

The only thing I liked about them was:

10 boys and the counselor bedding down in pajamas or, more likely, their underwear.

The counselor was usually a member of the gospel singing group or an adult volunteer, with a muscular physique and the promise of an underwear bulge, but for some reason in the summer of 1973, when I was twelve years he wasn't either of those.  Titus was tall, thin, and boney, gawky, with big, sweaty hands and clodding feet, not at all the outdoorsman-type you expect as camp conselor. He was a college boy, a "music ministry" major at Olivet,  but unlike most ministerial students, he didn't have a wild side; he was a Johnny Nazarene, one of those super-devout types who follows every rule in the Manual and makes up some of his own.

 He didn't have breakfast with us, or come to any of the morning activities. He showed up at 10:00 am chapel, yawning, as if he just climbed out of bed.

I found out why Tuesday night: he didn't sleep. He stayed up all night, reading his Bible or a book on soulwinning or Nazarene history by the light of a desk lamp.  Plus every fifteen minutes or so, he got up and walked slowly down the aisle between the beds, shining a flashlight.

Not at our faces. At our crotches. 

What could he possibly be checking on?

I found out on Wednesday during the "rap session" before the fire-and-brimstone sermon. Titus was talking about the need to keep ourselves pure before marriage, so of course premarital sex, touching of private areas, or kissing was out of the question. But you also had to be careful to not look a girl in an unchaste way.  It could lead to  self-abuse.

I had never heard the term before, so I asked:  "What's self-abuse?"

Titus looked down at his hands. "Well, you know, it's not because you're wasting your seed -- that's a Catholic superstitution. It's because in God's eyes, thinking about doing something is just as bad as doing it, and when you do...that, you have to be thinking unchaste thoughts about girls,right?"

That didn't answer the question, so later I asked one of my friends:  when you think about a girl "unchastely," your penis gets bigger, and if you're not careful, you can have sex right there, even if no girls are around.

They get bigger?  I had no idea!  I heard some of the older boys talking about "popping a boner," but I thought they meant your wiener accidentally pushing through your underwear, not getting bigger and bursting out!

So Titus was shining a flashlight on everyone's crotches, he was checking to make sure that no one's wiener was getting bigger in preparation for "self-abuse."

I wanted to see that, too. So on Wednesday and Thursday nights, I tried to stay awake, checking the bunks on either side of me for bulges under the thin sheets, or maybe even a  rhythmic movement as a boy had sex "with no girls around." And when Titus walked down the aisle, shining his light on crotches, I watched, as far as I could, discretely, pretending to be asleep.

I never saw anything, but after two nights without sleep, I was a zombie. On Friday morning I made it to breakfast, then went to the nurse's office with an upset stomach. She prescribed 7-Up  and "rest in bed" until I was feeling better.

So I walked back past the classroom building and the tabernacle, to the cabins, deserted and off-limits during the daytime. I walked up the stairs slowly, still with an upset stomach, and trudged toward my bunk. Titus was still in bed. His white t-shirt was the same color as the sheets.

I briefly thought that it was unfair to let counselors sleep in when we had to get up at 6:00 am. But he was a volunteer, not getting paid, so...

Then I noticed the bulge at crotch level. 

His wiener was pushing out of his underwear, bursting up against the sheet.

I carefully slid out of my shoes and pants and climbed into my bunk, never taking my eyes off the bulge. It trembled a bit, moving with the rhythm of Titus's breathing.  His hands were both under the covers. "Self-abuse"?

Suddenly Titus's eyes opened. He sawme watching, and quickly rolled over onto his stomach.  "What are you doing here?" he asked angrily.

"Sick. The nurse said I should go to bed. Don't worry, I didn't see anything."

"See what?  There was nothing to see."  As if to demonstrate, he kicked off the sheets. He was wearing pajama bottoms -- no crotch bulge. He quickly drew his pants on and pulled on his shoes. "Gotta go to the bathroom. I hope you feel better."

I've seen a lot of morning wood since then, and watched a lot of masturbation. But I'm still not sure what Titus was doing under the sheets.

20 Nazarene Bulges, Boners, and Sausage Sightings

I spent the first 20 or so years of my life in the Church of the Nazarene, a hardcore fundamentalist church that was against everything, from rock music to Roman Catholics to wearing short pants. AND required us to go to church three times a week, carry a Bible everywhere, pray before meals (even in the school cafeteria) and try to win the souls of our friends, classmates, and perfect strangers.

Shudder.

I complain endlessly about the draconian rules; the utter absence of art and literature; the tedium of Sunday school class; the preacher screaming about God's hatred three times a week; .  But I also remember having a lot of fun. Finding loopholes in the rules, or ways to ignore them altogether, was a never-ending game.  Protesting worldly evil was exciting.

And the homoerotic activity was constant.  There was as much, or more, hugging and fondling going on as in any gay bar in the world.

Here are 20 Nazarene grabs, gropes, bulges, boners, and sausage sightings, plus a few guys that I just crushed on.

Elementary School

1.No Divorce.     They told me incessantly that my destiny was to marry a girl.  But Brother Hanson married a girl and then got out of it through a "divorce."  Of course, he couldn't be Minister of Music afterwards, but that was a small price to pay for the freedom to live with a boy.

2. No Movies.  We weren't supposed to even set foot inside a movie theater.  But when a cute boy named Gary invited me to a movie, I had to make a choice.  The first of many spiritual crises in my childhood.

3. Gospel Singers.  Sometimes we had guest singers, usually all-male groups that pretended to be brothers, lest anyone suspect.  When the  Sanderson Brothers became our summer camp counselors, I found an ingenious way to get a Sausage Sighting.

Junior High

4. No Premarital Kissing.  Or sex, either.  This was fine with me, but it left the question of what sex involves.  One year at Manville Camp, an older boy named Marty was happy to demonstrate.  Definite bulge, maybe a boner.

5. No Dancing.  Not even in physical education class or "in the guise of folk dancing."  Except at Washington Junior High, we had a required dance every Friday afternoon.  In eighth grade, I convinced a black-haired 7th grader named Brett to dance with me and psych out the teachers.

6. No Evolution.    The Bible Missionaries were even more conservative than Nazarenes, and thought of us as heretical libertines.  I thought it was quite a coups when Micah the Bible Missionary Boy accepted an invitation to my house to fight a common enemy, "evil-lution."

7. Summer Camp.  A week every summer of deadly-dull Bible studies, sports, and endless screaming sermons.  But when our junior high Sunday school teacher, Brother Dino, became our counselor one year, I saw him naked in the shower.  Major Sausage Sighting.

8. The Prospect List.  People who came to Sunday school or church, even once, were put on a special list.  We were supposed to call, write, or visit them regularly to invite them back and try to win their souls. It rarely worked, but one summer I managed to befriend Frank, a boy my age who went to the Catholic school.

9. Olivet.  If we went to college at all, it had to be Olivet, the Nazarene college on the prairie, where all of the boys were training to be ministers, and all of the girls, to be their wives.  While we were visiting during a prospective student weekend, a ministerial student named Rick, kissing his girlfriend on a couch on the other side of the room, became obviously aroused.

10. The Altar Call.  At the end of most services, the preacher invited those who needed to "get right with God" to come down to the altar and kneel, whereupon members of the same sex would grab, hug, and hold them to help them "pray through to victory."  I got a lot of hugging, groping, and bulge-viewing that way, but I especially wanted Phil, the President of the Youth Society, the cutest and coolest boy I ever met.  But he never went down.  I had to get him to sin, so he would go.

High School

11. Vacation.  You weren't excused from church just because you were on vacation, even though casual visitors were often mobbed by wannabe soulwinners.  One summer in Minnesota, I got on my knees in a cute boy's bedroom.

12. Preacher's Kids.  When you grow up in a fishbowl, scrutinized and judged by the entire congregation, you typically turn into a teenage wild child, staying out late, breaking all the Nazarene rules, and leaving a score of romantic conquests in your wake.  So when I asked out Verne, the Preacher's Son, I was shocked that he accepted.

13. The International Institute.  Every four years, an International Institute was held for select Nazarene youth, to teach us how to win souls for Christ worldwide.  There was very limited sightseeing, but I managed to sneak out of the dorm, go to a bar, and dance with a Swedish leatherboy, breaking eight rules at once.

14.Soulwinning.  Getting strangers to accept Jesus Christ as their Personal Savior was easier in theory than in practice.  I was too nervous to try most of the time, and when I did try, with the gay waiter at Olivet,  he had heard the spiel a hundred times before. And I didn't even get to see his bulge.

15. Afterglow.  After the Sunday evening service, the Nazarene Young People's Society held a special party called "Afterglow."   It was supposed to be a soulwinning device: kids who would never accept an invitation to church might come to a party.  If they didn't mind sodas, snacks, and stupid party games.  Few outsiders came, except one night, Danny, a very muscular boy with a leg brace, who I remembered from Denkmann years before.


College

16.The Jump Quiz was the Nazarene sport of Bibles and butts.  The object was to get your butt off your chair fast enough to answer a Bible question.  I didn't have a very good record, but when I was a freshman in college, the preacher asked me to be the Jump Quiz Coach.  I had to coach a whole teamful of cute guys.

17. Missionaries.  During the summer after my freshman year, the church asked for volunteers to build a new Nazarene church in Colombia.  I had dropped out by that time, but I wasn't going to turn down a free trip to Colombia.   And I met Marco the Gay Cannibal.

Recent

18. The Alabaster Box.   Nazarenes were expected to give 10% of their pre-tax income, minimum, as a "tithe." Additional offerings often took up another 10%.  Plus you kept an Alabaster Box on your shelf for spare change. Brother Byron, the Church Treasurer, was responsible for accumulating and calculating the money.  And, years after I left the church, I dropped in to find out why he never married.

19. Catholics.  Nazarenes hated Catholics.  Innately evil, brainwashed idolators who would kill you as soon as look at you.  So how did the family react when my niece married a Catholic guy?  How about one who had a beard and tattoos, rode a motorcycle, played a guitar, and had the biggest bulge I ever saw?

20. The Church Organist.  We sang all the time in the church, mostly dour funereal hymns from the Victorian era, accompanied by either a piano or an organ -- all other musical instruments were suspect, or downright Satanic.  The Minister of Music was always male, but the pianist and organist were always female.  Any boy who expressed an interest in becoming a church organist was ridiculed.  Even the preacher's son.

My First Time: Spending the Night with Todd

Decorah, Iowa, June 1976

Although Dan and I would not be escaping to Arabia after all, my interest in the Middle East remained strong when I started at Rocky High in the fall of 1975, so I was delighted to meet a real Arab!  A sophomore violinist named Todd.

He was actually half Arab – his mother’s parents were from Lebanon – and Christian, not Muslim.  He didn’t know any Arabic except salaam (“hello”) and tayta (“grandma”). But still, he had roots in the "good place" where same-sex loves were free and open!  And he was beautiful, small and compact in a green turtleneck with flawless olive skin and dark shining eyes.

This model is much older, but he has Todd's face and physique.

 Unfortunately, Todd had been engaged since the fifth grade to a girl named Faith, and now they were attached whenever possible by hand or hip or mouth. You couldn’t address a question to one without both answering.

Maybe I was just rebounding from Dan, but I couldn't take my eyes off Todd. Even the air around him and his tan desk etched with graffiti seemed vivid and alive.  One lunch hour I lost twelve consecutive games of chess, unable to strategize or think of defense because Todd was sitting next to me. I wanted. . .I wasn’t sure what, but the desire burned hot and raw and panting. I churned the covers off my bed at night, restless, unable to sleep.

If you asked God to do anything in Jesus' name, He was honor-bound to do it.  My friend Rita used God's Infallible Promise to "get" Donny Osmond as a husband.  So one cool Sunday in November 1975, after the evening service, I walked out into the alley behind the church, looked up at the stars,  and asked God in Jesus' name to give me Todd.

 It took months, but eventually God kept His Infallible Promise and delivered Todd.  Or at least we were both selected, alone out of the entire orchestra, to go to the prestigious Dorian Music Festival. An entire week with Todd all to myself!

Luther College

The festival was held at the end of June 1976, after our family vacation in the northwoods and a few weeks before our Nazarene church camp,  at Luther College, on the bluffs of the Mississippi. Though Todd was only cautiously cordial at Rocky High, at the Festival he clung to me as a familiar face. On Thursday  we skipped afternoon rehearsal to explore the town.  We visited a rock cavern and then bought blueberry muffins at a bakery festooned with red and green streamers.

We even went to a movie, my first since I started becoming a "Johnny Nazarene."  I put my arm against the center arm rest, as Dan used to do.  I moved closer and closer to the hard curve of Todd’s body until I could feel the fibers of cotton in his shirt and smell Dial soap and, very faintly, his own scent of vineyards and bleached stone, but I dared not move that tantalizing quarter inch that defined the difference between a casual and a willful touch.


On Saturday night, after the Grand Concert, it was hot in our room, so Todd took off his undershirt, and I noticed a thin gold chain around his neck. When Todd climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to his chest, it stood out against his brown skin, gleaming like a fiery ring. On the front, against his collarbone, lay a small plate with what looked like a portrait of a man.

“Is that a surfing symbol?” I asked, stupidly.

“No,” Todd said in a dim lazy voice. “It’s a scapular. . .like a medal.”

“Oh. . .what did you win?”

Boy with scapular

“No, it’s a religious symbol.” He carefully pulled the plate up from his chest. “See, the Sacred Heart on one side, Mary Mother of God on the other.”

With a shudder I realized that Todd was talking about being a Catholic. “I thought you were a Christian!”

“I am,” Todd said defensively. “Maronite Catholic.  But I go to St. Pius."

Nazarene preachers told us to never go near a Catholic church, or we would be dragged inside to an unspeakable fate, and never talk to a Catholic, or we would be brainwashed into worshipping idols and drinking blood.

I chided himself for my irrational fear.  I had been friends with Frank, a Catholic boy, for two years!  Catholics weren't monsters and demons. Sometimes they were perfectly nice.

And what else had I heard about Catholics: "They have no morals, they're up for anything. If you want a good time, call a Catholic."

I stared at the scapular, and at Todd’s neck, golden in the brash light of our dorm lamp, with two moles close together on the left side like a vampire bite.

Finally I said, “I’ve never. . .seen a scapular before.  Can I touch it?”

“Sure.” But instead of taking it off, Todd motioned for me to come closer.

St. Pius Church, Rock Island

I got up, wearing only cotton briefs, and sat on Todd’s  bed.  Todd’s body was hot, and soft yet firm. I touched the scapular. Then slowly I moved my hand down and stroked Todd's chest.  He moaned and closed his eyes.

After some other things happened, Todd refused to kiss or cuddle, so I returned to my own bed.

When I awoke, Todd was already gone.  I dressed quickly and wandered around the campus for a long time, looking for him, but I didn't see him again.  After breakfast Dad arrived to drive me home.

Back at school, Todd returned to being cautiously polite, nodding hello as we passed in the hallway but refusing all attempts to talk. Sometimes I saw him across the cafeteria, laughing with his Crowd, cozying up to Faith. Sometimes the sunlight glinted off his scapular, which he was now wearing on the outside of his shirt.

It seemed that some boys liked boys only at night.  You could see them, and touch them, but in the morning they would become cool and aloof, brushing past you as they searched for girls.

40 years later and 500 miles away, I hooked up with his nephew.

See also: Dating My Boyfriend's Girlfriend; My Hookup with Todd's Nephew;  I Learn About Oral Sex.

Summer 1972: Marty Goes Past First Base

Manville, Summer 1972

In the summer after sixth grade, shortly after I was disappointed over the lack of muscles at Little Bit O'Heaven, I spent a week at Manville Nazarene Camp (ironic name unintended) as a "grown up."

Kids who had just finished 3rd, 4th, and 5th grades went to separate boys' and girls' camps, but then you went to co-ed junior high camps (6th-8th grade) and high school camps (9th-11th grade).

Boys and girls were camping together for the first time, and the staff was determined to make us know it .

Last year our counselors were the Sanderson Brothers, but this year it was a ministerial student named Brother Dexter: tall, wide-eyed, and thickly-built,  and obsessed with pushing boys and girls together. When I sat anywhere in the vicinity of a girl, he grinned and punched my shoulder in congratulations. But once when I sat next to a cute boy,  he said “Cheer up! You’ll find someone!”, as if being with a boy was exactly the same as being alone.

During the daily boys-only "rap sessions," Brother Dexter sat on a chair backward and made painful attempts to use "with-it" slang as he advised us on our upcoming rush of hetero-horniness: only date Christian girls, don't go to dances or movies, don't ready dirty magazines like Playboy, and no matter how you are tempted, keep yourself "pure."  "Don't go past First Base until your wedding night!"

First Base?  What was he talking about?

That night after altar call, when the kids were waiting in line at the snack bar or taking walks in the darkness, I asked a boy named Marty, a tall, skinny 9th grader with strawlike hair and a pie-pan face.  He wasn't cute, but he was three years older than me and knew everything.

Marty took me into the woods behind the tabernacle, where boys sometimes gathered to sneak cigarettes and kiss girls, and explained that sex came in stages, like running bases in baseball.

“Ok, so stealing first base is hugging, and scoring first base is kissing her on the mouth.  That's as far as Johnny Nazarenes ever go.  So stealing second base is necking."

“Biting the girl on the neck, like a vampire?” I interrupted, remembering Greg’s mouth on my neck.  I could still feel the pinpricks of his fangs. Had Greg stolen second base?

Chuckling at my ignorance, Marty put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed hard. And left his hand there! “No, Gomer, it means kissing and hugging at the same time. Ok, so scoring second base is petting over. Do you know what that is?”

Manville Camp. Tabernacle on far left

He hadn't moved his hand!  I felt flushed with excitement. Maybe he wanted to score bases with me!  Not like Bill, who moved away every time I tried to kiss him.

"Sure," I said.  "I pet dogs and cats all the time.”

“No, petting over means feeling the girl's chest over her bra.”

"Oh, like this, you mean."  I reached out and lightly ran my open palm over his shirt.  Suddenly the night seemed very hot.

 "Um...yeah, that's right.  So stealing third is petting under. You feel under her bra.”

"Like this?"  I unbuttoned three buttons of his shirt and slid my hand inside.  His chest wasn't hard steel, but it was warm and solid. I wanted his arms around me.

Marty moaned.  His eyes half closed, he reached out and ran his hand over my chest.  He pushed my hand against his pants.   Did he have a baseball bat down there?  

 "So. . .um. . scoring third is where she touches you down there. . .below the belt, but with your pants on.  And stealing home, when your pants come off."

 "Can a boy steal home?"  I asked.

"Um...like, if you're keeping yourself pure until your wedding night, guys are ok."

Now it was time for the kiss!  I leaned up so our faces were close together, expecting him to draw me close, but instead he tried to push me down to my knees.

I resisted.  This was no time to be praying!

He released me.  We stood facing each other awkwardly in the dark.

What had just happened?  Did I do something wrong?  Of course -- I skipped some bases.  It was hugging, kissing, necking, petting, touching!  I reached out and tried to start over with a hug, but Marty pushed me away.

"Kay, so, we better get back to our cabins.  See ya.” He turned and practically bolted away, leaving me blinking in surprise.

Forty years later, I'm still not sure what I expected to happen that night.  Or what Marty expected to happen.  But I suspect that he wanted me on my knees for something other than prayer.

See also: I Learn About Oral Sex.