The Amish Boy in Red Bikini Underwear

Rural Florida, August 2001

Whenever I tell someone about the rules in my childhood church: no dancing, movies, cards, mixed swimming, eating out on Sunday, secular literature, theaters, circuses, carnivals, jeans, earrings, makeup...they ask "Were you Amish?"

No, but  I have Amish roots.

My biological grandmother, Orpha Maye Young, was descended from an Amish family.  LaGrange County, where she and my biological grandfather lived, has the largest Amish population in the United States.  30% of the county speaks Pennsylvania Dutch (their German dialect).

By the way, many Amish work in factories, not on farms, and some do, in fact, use electricity.

When I was growing up, our visits to Indiana often included Shipshewana, the Amish capital, about 20 miles from Aunt Nora's house in Rome City. On the way we saw the Amish trundling down the country roads in their horse-and-buggies.

Once we arrived, we saw them at the Flea Market, at the Country Store, and on the streets, groups of boys, young unmarried men (without beards), and married men (with beards), all wearing their trademark black woolen hats, long-sleeved homespun shirts, and black pants (fastened with buttons because the Bible doesn't mention zippers).

I have a thing for religious men -- monks, priests, rabbis, imams, seminary students, Mormon missionaries -- and here was a whole tribe of them!

I found them fascinating, strangely erotic in spite of their attempt to appear modest. Or because of it. 

I'm not the only one, judging from the popularity of reality tv programs like Breaking Amish and Amish Mafia,  which seemed designed for the sole purpose of getting Amish men out  of their clothes.

Not to mention fictional tv series like Two Broke Girls, in which the sleazoid pair does their best to corrupt two innocent Amish boys (Jack DePew, Brandon Jones, top photo).

The largest concentrations of Amish in the U.S. are in Ohio, Indiana, and Pennsylvania; they are extremely rare elsewhere.  So I saw none while I was living in California or New York.

But in the summer of 2001, on my way from New York to Florida, I saw some in the most unlikely of places.

 On the I-95 South, just after crossing the Florida-Georgia border, you come to one of those mega-rest stops with gas, a restaurant, a video arcade, a convenience store, showers for truckers, and who knows what else?  I stopped, got gas, and sat down for a lunch of fried chicken, "dirty rice," and french fries.

Suddenly fifty Amish people came trundling in!

Later I found out that there are bus companies that specialize in transporting the Amish from Indiana, Ohio, and Pennsylvania to Sarasota, Florida.  Why wouldn't they want to go on vacation?

A dozen Amish men were heading to the rest room.  I jumped up from my seat and headed there, too.

It was trough-style.

 I took my place between an unmarried young man and a married older man, unzipped, and did my business while surreptitious glancing at my partners.

The older man unbuttoned his pants, pulled up his shirt, and pulled out an impressive-sized member.  No underwear.

The younger guy pulled his rather smaller member from a pair of red bikini briefs.

Red bikini briefs? 

I had to know more about this guy!

A few moments later, I found him standing by his bus, sipping a soda.   "Hi, I don't mean to bother you, but I couldn't help noticing -- you're not wearing the regulation uniform."

He smiled.  "Yah, I got them at Penney's.  I like yours, too."

Apparently he had been sneaking a peek at me while I was sneaking a peek at him!

But I was wearing regular white briefs.  He must be referring to something else....

"Name's Amos.  I'm eighteen in October."

"Boomer. Older than that."

We shook hands.  He had a hard, firm handshake that he held a moment "too long."

Wearing underwear was against Amish policy, especially red underwear., Amos said.  But the elders understood adolescent rebellion: "They don't get too mad if a teenager starts to wear fancy clothes.  Or if he learns to drive a car, or goes to a movie."

"Or goes to a gay bar?"

Amos started to blush red around his ears, and looked the other way.  "Nah, we don't like the gays too much.  God wants you to get wife and children."

He didn't sound very enthusiastic.  That, plus the red underwear -- and checking me out -- he was gay!

The other Amish were starting to lope toward the bus. .I only had a few seconds left.

"There are gay-friendly churches," I said.  "You don't have to choose between gay and God.  Do you go on the internet?"

"Yah.  You think I'm a dope?"

"Search for 'Metropolitan Community Church.'  They're all over."

He grinned.  "Ok, thanks.  I gotta go."  He held out his hand for me to shake again.  This time he squeezed it hard. "Bye, now."

It's been almost exactly 13 years since that day in June.  Amos is 31 years old.  I hope he's out and proud.

I hope our five-minute chat helped.

See also: The Bodybuilder and the Teenage Underwear Thief; and A Glimpse of Supreme Beauty at a Highway Rest Stop

A Glimpse of Supreme Beauty in Greenfield, Indiana

This story has moved to A Gay Guide to Small Town America

A Glimpse of Supreme Beauty at a Highway Rest Stop in Iowa

Interstate highways have rest stops every 30-50 miles, so you don't have to get off the highway to do your bathroom business.

The older ones consist of just toilets and maybe some vending machines, but the modern ones have pathways through picnic grounds, flower gardens, and even wooded areas, so you can walk or jog.  I've covered 7 miles in a day just by stopping at a rest stop every hour and circling the path once or twice.

Rest stops are perfect places for sausage sightings.  Men typically need to urinate every 2-3 hours, so on a 6-hour road trip, they'll be at the urinal at at least twice.

 Rest stops are also perfect places for boy watching:  glimpsing handsome faces, muscular physiques, and spectacular bulges as dozens of guys walk past every minute,

But what happens when you encounter supreme beauty, and there's no time to make a connection before he's gone forever?

I-35 Rest Stop, May 2016

On the way back from visiting Troy and company in New York, I pulled into a rest stop near Northwood, Iowa.  It's a large facility with a tourist center, a coffee shop/bakery, and extensive walkways that wind through picnic areas.

I parked on the south side of the parking lot and walked to the sidewalk on the right side of the photo, past the green SUV.

A middle aged man and four guys in their teens or early twenties had just climbed out.  Two were walking toward the rest rooms.  Two were talking quietly.

And the last:

I stopped, speechless in the face of supreme beauty.

Impressions came all jumbled together in a single glance.  I categorized them and analyzed them later:

1. In his late teens or twenties, a college student.

2. Shorter than me, slim, tanned arms and hands, out in the sun in a t-shirt a lot. A tennis player or a farm boy.

3. Dirty blond hair, short, spiked.  Concerned with his appearance, knows his way around hair gel.

4. A round open face, prominent eyebrows, dark eyes.

5. Smiling.  He has been smiling every moment his whole life, probably because everyone he has ever met is in love with him.

6. Gray t-shirt with a Nebraska Cornhuskers logo, a little small, riding up above his outtie belly button.  University of Nebraska student for several years, maybe a senior.

7. Thin but hard biceps.

8. Calvin Klein underwear, white.

9. Blue jeans, torn at the knee, athletic shoes, no socks.

10. Traveling with a middle aged man and three peers on Memorial Day weekend.  Too late for a school field trip.  Maybe a father taking his son and three friends on a camping trip..

He looked at me and said "They have a bakery in there", thinking I was someone in his party.  Realizing his mistake, he looked down, embarrassed.  I smiled and moved on.

I walked around the picnic area for about five minutes, then went inside to use the restroom.  When I came out, he was walking down the stairs from the bakery with a cute guy in his early twenties.  They were eating cookies from an open box.

This time he definitely cruised me -- face, crotch, face.  

 I smiled and said "Hi."

He smiled back, but didn't speak.

I walked around the pathways for another five minutes, and headed toward my car.  He and his companion were standing by their SUV, talking to the middle-aged man.  The two other guys, both very cute in their own right,  were sitting at a picnic table nearby, occupied by their cell phones.

As I walked past, he looked at me while asking someone else "When we get there, will we have time to..."

He stopped.  I smiled. He stared, cruising again.  Face, crotch, face.

"Hot day" I said, addressing either him or the middle-aged man.

"Yeah," he said.

I couldn't start a conversation with his father or guardian right there!   I had to get him alone.  At least find out his name.

I circled half of the picnic area, and walked back.  Now he was standing by the picnic table with the duo, watching me curiously.  I quickened my pace, planning to say "Where you headed?" or  something.

Then the middle age man yelled "Are you ready to go?", and the three of them walked back to the SUV and climbed in.

I passed close to his car.  He was in the back seat, passenger side, watching me through the solid glass of the window.  I waved.  He smiled and waved.

We were only inches apart.

I returned to my car.

The SUV started to pull out.

I took out my cell phone and snapped a picture of it.








I don't know why.  He's not visible, except for a small, blurry image of his hand holding on to the seat in front of him.   It's just a picture of a green SUV with Nebraska plates.

With the most beautiful guy I have ever seen in the back seat, passenger side, going away forever.

At the end of our lives, we will remember glimpses of supreme beauty more fondly than any number of sexual encounters.

See also: I Pick Up a Boy at a Gas Station in Iowa, Sort Of; Picking Up the Checker in the Grocery Store; and The Amish Boy in Red Bikini Briefs.

A Glimpse of Supreme Beauty at the World's Largest Truck Stop

I love driving crosscountry through Iowa.  The rest stops are interesting, with jogging trails that wind through prairies and woods, and there is a steady stream of cute guys walking to and from their cars.

But yesterday it was raining hard all day, plus nonstop construction -- you'd inch you're way through a construction zone, drive half a mile, and then see yet another sign "Construction Zone Ahead."

Only short rest stops, stuck inside, not enough time to explore.

Finally, late in the day, hours behind schedule, we made it to the World's Largest Truck Stop, also known as the Iowa 80 Truck Stop in Wolcottville, Iowa.




The World's Largest Truck Stop, also known as the Iowa 80 Truck Stop in Wolcottville, Iowa is a veritable trucker's mall, with every car part you could imagine, a food court, clothing, toys, accessories.    Plus a lot of services for truckers: a movie theater, a laundry, even a dentist and a chiropractor.

It gets thousands of visitors a day.  Usually a good place for beefcake watching, if you like beefy truckers and their broods.

But yesterday it was nearly empty.  Not a single hot guy to be found.  At least not in the food court; Bob rushed me in and out so fast that I didn't have time to check anywhere else.

Tired, frustrated, beefcake-bereft, we stopped into one of the gigantic gas stations with 10,000 lanes to get gas before pushing on to Rock Island.

Suddenly one of those small white panel trucks pulled up into the lane to our right and a little ahead.  The driver jumped out.  Young, in his twenties, pale, muscular, shaggy brown hair, wearing a dark green athletic shirt and short pants.

Intensely, insanely handsome, with the kind of face that makes you freeze in awe.

Our eyes met.  He smiled.  Then he began pumping the gas, his body shifting back and forth so that sometimes he was hidden behind a pillar.

What could I do?  I couldn't roll down my window and talk to him.  We were at a gas station in Wollcottville, Iowa, off to separate lives.

But I cold take a picture.

I pulled out my cell phone, waited for the camera function to load, and waited for him to sway in my direction.

But then Bob appeared, cleaning the windshield with a squeegee.

I didn't want him to know that I was snapping a photo of a stranger at a gas station, so I waited for him to stop.

Supreme Beauty swayed in and out, in and out.  How long did it take to fill a panel truck gas tank?

Finally Bob moved away.  He would now get into the car and start driving.

I had to act now.  Swaying or not, I snapped a picture of the most handsome guy I had ever seen.

It came out blurred, his supremely handsome features almost impossible to discern, his muscular frame reduced to a simple bicep bulge.

But at least I have the photograph to jog my memory.

And a reason to go back to Wolcottville

See also: A Gay Connection at a Gas Station in Rural Illinois

A Gay Connection at a Gas Station in Rural Illinois

Rural Illinois, July 2017

On our way back from New York, we stop at a travel plaza: a Sinclair station with a giant dinosaur outside.  I haven't seen one since I was a kid.  It gives me a weird feeling of going into the past, being dislocated in time.

Something important is about to happen.

While Bob is getting gas, I head toward the convenience store.   A family is just leaving, walking toward the Subway sandwich place next door.

Mom wears a veil, like the Blessed Virgin in art.  I briefly wonder if the family is Amish. Are there Amish people around here?

The teenage son smiles and says "Hi."

I'm so surprised that I stop and stare without responding.

He is wearing an orange t-shirt with a sports team on it and short black pants with a bit of a bulge.  He's tall, a little chubby, deeply tanned,with short black hair, dark eyebrows, flawless smooth skin, and square workman's hands.  He's holding a cell phone.

 The store is huge, selling food, souvenirs, DVDs, auto supplies, even coats and jackets.  There's a fountain in the middle.

I pace around, pretending to look at the merchandise.  The clerk eyes me suspiciously.  I pick up a banana to buy so he won't think I'm shoplifting.  My mind is racing.

I should have said "hi" to that boy.

What for? You're cruised by a hundred twinks a day.  You should know the difference between a cruise and being friendly.  That was just being friendly.

Friendly, at a gas station in rural Illinois?

He's not even hot.  Kind of cute, but not beautiful, certainly not the "supreme beauty" that you remember forever.  And no athlete...he had a little belly on him!

This is close to where Ryan H., the college track star, lives.  Maybe he knows him.  That could be my in.

Who says he lives near here?  He could be from anywhere.

Yes, but....

What were you planning to do?  Pick him up in front of his parents? Go down on him in the bathroom?   Mutual jo in your car, while Bob watches?

No, but...

Get his phone number, exchange selfies for six months, and then drive 500 miles back here for a date with him?

No, but...it was rude to just stand there.  

It's a gas station in Illinois!  He'll get over it!

I want him to know that he has a kindred spirit, that he's not alone.

Not alone in what?  He's probably straight!  And if he does happen to be gay, how would he know that you are?  He probably thinks that you're Bob's father.  If he's given you a second thought, which no doubt he hasn't.

I should have said hello.

Bob has finished getting gas and parked the car.  He goes into the convenience store to use the restroom and buy some snacks.  I walk around to the Subway and look in the window.

Feeling very much like a perv, I watch the family ordering.  The teenage son splits from the group to look at the rack of chips, trying to decide on one.

I walk into the Subway and head toward him, planning to pretend to browse among the chips and fruit and strike up a conversation.  But as I approach, he decides on Cool Ranch Doritos and turns back toward his family.

As we pass each other, he smiles and says "Hi."

I smile back and say "Hi."

I look at the chips for a moment, take one last look at the boy, and leave the Subway.  Bob meets me.

"Are you hungry?" he asks.

"No.  I'm satisfied."

Who cares that we never dated, or hooked up, that we never really even met?  We shared a moment of joy.

Bob and I return to the car and drive off into rural Illinois.

I've had dates and hookups with men of all types, from bodybuilders to chubs, from teenagers to grandpas.  I've gone down on dozens of men.  I've had dozens of men go down on me.

 But an experience that I will cherish for the rest of my life is saying "Hi" to a cute guy at a gas station in rural Illinois.

See also: A Glimpse of Supreme Beauty at a Rest Stop in Iowa; Picking Up a College Track Star in Front of My Brother.

Warning: Explicit Beauty Ahead

When every guy with a cell phone posts nude selfies on the internet, there are thousands of fabulous faces, sculpted physiques, and gigantic penises on display every time you boot up your computer.

Some photos stand out from the crowd by paying pay special attention to background, light, color, and composition, display some striking emotion, provide a backstory.  Others add a single tiny detail that transforms the photo from merely depicting a cute guy to being beautiful in itself.

1. The pale sculpted physique is offset by the dark checkered shirt and hat, and the cock and balls are offset by the jeans.  But it's the food cooking on the stove that give this photo a lifelike, homey feel: it's a moment of real life.  Dinner is almost ready.

2. Ok, some nicely rounded muscles, and two hands on his enormous uncut penis.  You expect a bragging smirk, or at least a cruisy smile, but this guy's expression is soft and vulnerable, his head against a soft beige pillow.  He's worried that he won't meet your expectations.

3. Slim backside, scruffy hair, aroused penis almost hidden.  What makes this photo is the bright hippie-graffiti  that fills the wall and reflects the multi-colored blanket.  This is a hipster just waking up after a long night of jazz music, Beat poety, and discussions of the meaninglessness of life.

4. Sculpted physique, flawless skin glowing in strong light, jeans drawn down just enough to suggest that they're about to fall off.  The gold watch draws attention to the hands.  Blurry urban background suggest the dangers and delights of the street.

5.  I love photos where the aroused penis stands tall, taking up half of the frame, but this photo adds to its intrigue by displaying the guy's jarhead and khaki shirt and belt.  He must be in the military.  There's a poster showing a tropical beach over his shoulder: he's looking for an escape, a "good place."

More after the break

What Happened on My Date with the Grocery Boy

Plans, March 2017

You're probably wondering what happened on my date Monday night with the grocery boy, aka the face of supreme beauty, aka Zack, the assistant manager at the Hy-Vee.

I picked him up in the check-out line on Saturday afternoon, and invited him over for dinner.  I planned to serve chicken a l'orange, arugula salad, and fried plantains.

7:10

Zack arrives.  I invite him to sit down in the living room while I finish the chicken and make the salad.











7:12

The chicken can simmer for awhile.

7:20

I'm not usually into anal, but who can say no to that face?

7:50

I ask Zack to start on the salad while I finish the chicken and heat the casserole.

7:55

I don't even know his last name yet.

8:10

I'm usually good for just once a night, but....

















8:30

We can do without the salad.  Let me just take the chicken off the burner, reheat the broccoli-cauliflower casserole, and open a can of artichoke hearts.  I ask Zack what he would like to drink.

8:32

He tells me.

8:35

This time Zack calls the shots.

9:00

The chicken and casserole are cold.  I put them in the refrigerator and order a vegetarian pizza from Domino's.  We turn on Netflix while waiting for it to arrive.





9:20

This is why on the first date, you always go out to dinner.

See also: 10 Things You Should Know about Dating an Introvert;  Picking Up the Grocery Boy

Picking Up the Grocery Boy

Plains, March 2017

I hate shopping for groceries, especially:

1. The old people who act surprised that they actually have to pay, and rummage through their purse for their checkbook.

2. And who can't figure out how to use the card swipers.

3. The checkers who get into long, involved conversations with their friends.

4.  And who let their friends cut in line.

So I have a system: I go only on Tuesday mornings around 10:00 am (no old people, and the checkers' friends haven't arrived yet), and I go only to the Food Co-Op, which is much less crowded, and doesn't take coupons. Besides, it stocks fresh fruit and vegetables you can't get anywhere else, like jicama and carambola,

But today I need some things that can't wait until Tuesday --  mouthwash, bananas, protein bars, a can of cream of broccoli soup, that sort of thing -- and I'm too busy to drive all the way out to the Food Co-Op.  So I take a deep breath, grit my teeth, and go to the Hy-Vee.  On a Saturday afternoon.

It's packed, of course. but I'm an expert at choosing the shortest line -- only five people, no full shopping carts, no one elderly.  And the checker....

The most beautiful guy I have ever seen -- or at least, the most beautiful guy since the highway rest stop in Iowa last summer.  A glimpse of supreme beauty in a supermarket on the Plains.

In his 20s, about my height, rather slim, but with a dreamy teen idol face. Sharp, classic features, dark eyebrows, a dazzling smile.

I feel a little shaky.  Even at age 50-something, supreme beauty makes me weak in the knees.

I watch him work, gazing at his face and hands, glancing down to see if he has a physique or a bulge, grinning like a teenager at a boy band concert, strategizing how to ask him out.

Get ahold of yourself! This is a supermarket. He's 30 years younger than you, probably underaged, and probably straight!  Besides, he's busy.  You can't cruise a guy at work.  

Now there's only one person ahead of me, a middle-aged lady who fishes around in her big purse for her small purse, pulls out a check book, and laboriously writes a check, including the memo line, then records the amount in her ledger.  Ordinarily I'd be fuming.

He sees me watching, mistakes my gaze for impatience, and says "It will just be a minute, sir."

I'm tongue-tied.  He's so stunning, I can't think! This must be what the ancients felt when Zeus or Apollo appeared before them.

His nameplate says Zack: Assistant Manager.

"Um...um...no problem, Zack...I'm in no hurry.  I've got nowhere to go this afternoon except the gym.  It's chest and shoulders day."  I unzip my leather jacket. Underneath I'm wearing a blue sweater that accents my pecs.

He looks!

He turns to my items while the bag boy is still bagging the middle-aged lady's stuff, and flashes that smile again.

"Bananas and cream of broccoli soup!  I'd like to see the recipe that calls for those."

I laugh.  "I'll invite you over to sample it."

He's cruising!

Get ahold of yourself!  This is a supermarket checkout line, not a gay bar!  Besides, do I really want to see him naked, his thin chest bare, his small penis aroused?  Perfection becomes imperfect very quickly in the cold light of the bedroom

"Any coupons today?"

Even his voice is dreamy!  I glance up and down, checking for a bulge. "Um...no."

"Any discounts?"

"No."

"Card?"

"What?  I've never been here before.  You'll have to explain that to me."

"It's a super-saver card that gets you..um...gas and stuff.  I can sign you up in a few minutes. I just need your email address or phone number."

My heart races.  Zack wants my phone number!  Then reason kicks in:  no, he doesn't.  He wants to sign me up for a card.

"No, thanks."

"Ok, your total is $21.06."

I pull out my wallet and fumble around for my debit card.  "So, assistant manager.  Why do they have you on checkout?"

"We're short a couple of people. I'm usually in the back.  But it's kind of fun coming up front and talking to the people.  Reminds me of when I first started here."

"You can't have been here that long.  What are you, 25?"

"23," Zack says. "But thanks for the compliment."

I hand him my debit card.  He shows me how to put it into the chip reader, and hands it back  It doesn't work the first couple of times.

He's going to think I'm some geezer who doesn't know technology.

I get it to work.  He grins.  "Success!"

"Not yet."  Why did I say that?  Was it a pick up line?  A pretty lame one.

"Paper or plastic?"

 "Um...paper please.  I try to be environmentally conscious."

Ask him out!

Do I really want to date him?  Do I really want to hear about his psychological traumas, job issues, problems with his parents?  To hang out with his crazy friends, and endure his boring conversation about sports?  

"Me, too."  Zack hands me the receipt.  Our hands touch.  Our eyes meet.

Ask him out!

"Do you need help getting this stuff to your car?" Zack asks.

Does he think I'm an invalid?  I bench press 300 pounds! Ok, so I won't ask him out.

"No, thanks."

"Have a nice day, sir."

"Thanks, Zack.  You, too."

I grab my bag and walk away, feeling a bit shaky.

I should have asked him out!  But he was working!  Besides, supreme beauty should stay ethereal, unsullied by the real world.

Maybe he'll be working again tomorrow...

No, he's an assistant manager, usually in the back...this was my one chance.

Feeling decidedly nauseous, I turn back.  The twenty steps to Zack's check-out lane seem to take forever. It's like walking through molasses.

The face of supreme beauty is busy with another customer.  He looks at me and frowns.

"Did you forget something, sir?"

"Yeah...um...the banana and cream of broccoli soup recipe...I promised to invite you over to sample it....um...here's my card.  Text me."

Still frowning, he snatches it from my hand and puts it into his front pocket.  "Thanks."

I turn away and walk slowly out of the store, to my car, where I sit for a few minutes, fuming.

I made a complete fool of myself.  No way I'm ever setting foot in Hy-Vee again!  What was I thinking, trying to pick up a checker in a grocery store?

Twenty minutes later, I'm just pulling into the gym parking lot.  My cell phone buzzes.



The most beautiful guy in the world is coming over for dinner Monday tonight!

Now I just need to find a recipe calling for bananas and cream of broccoli soup.

Next: What Happened on My Date with the Grocery Boy

See also: A Glimpse of Supreme Beauty at a Highway Rest Stop; My Date with Jack the Vacuum Cleaner

The Adonis at the Gay-Friendly Coffee House

Plains, March 2016

Earlier today I was on my way to the gay-friendly coffee house down the hill from my apartment.  Just as I got to the side door, a red car pulled into an empty parking spot, and Adonis jumped out.

Adonis.  The most beautiful mortal on Earth.  Lover of Aphrodite in Greek mth.  The subject of Shakespeare's Venus and Adonis.  The subject of Shelley's Adonais: An Elegy on the Death of John Keats.

Adonis.  Twenties, shorter than me, dirty blond hair, stunningly beautiful face,insouciant smile.  He was wearing a pink button-down shirt,  short sleeved, very thin for March, unbuttoned to reveal a smooth muscular chest and hard biceps.  Blue jeans bulging left. A gold chain around his neck. A gold class ring.

He went inside a moment before me, without waiting and holding the door open.

We stood at the counter together, waiting for the guy in front of us to finish ordering.  There were two baristas: a lesbian teenager named Jane was taking the orders, and a middle-aged woman I'd never seen before was staffing the cash register.

I smiled.  Adonis ignored me.

Yes, you read that right.

A twink ignored me.

I am never ignored by any guy under age 30.  Ever.  They approach constantly.

I can't go on Grindr without getting a chorus of "Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi!"

 I can't get any work done at the gay-friendly coffee house.  The moment I sit down, someone asks to join me.

If they don't approach, they smile shyly.

My favorite ones just stare with a dopey smile and start to bulge.


What was wrong?  Did I have bad breath this afternoon?

He ordered a hazelnut latte with a splash of caramel.

I looked over.  He didn't look back.

Could he be straight?

Only about a third of the patrons of the gay-friendly coffee house are actually gay, so you cruise at your own risk.  Straight guys don't know how to give Attitude.  They don't realize that they are being cruised, so they might give you all the wrong signals, until it is too late, and you have asked them out on a date, or worse yet, tried to kiss them.

Guys who ignore you aren't straight.  They're gay, giving Attitude.

Could it be that Adonis wasn't interested?

I ordered a scone and an orange, to go.  I have a very deep, commanding voice.  Adonis didn't look over.

He went to the cashier, paid, and started chit-chatting with her.

I took off my jacket.  I was wearing a green sweater that gave me a nice v-shaped torso.  That always impresses them.

He laughed at something the middle-aged woman said.  Was he flirting with her?

What's he see an a lady that old? I thought jealously.  Then I realized: I'm that old, too.

Maybe he's not attracted to older guys.

Or maybe I just needed to pile on the wit and charm.

I stood next to him at the cash register and said "Hi."

Ok, lame line, but it usually works.

Adonis glanced at me.  "Oh, sorry."  He backed away and hovered by the creamers, waiting for his order to be done.

Great!  As soon as I paid, I would drop back, stand next to him, and start a conversation.

The cashier slowly and carefully looked for "oranges" on the register pad.

"That's ok.  If you can't find it, I can do without the orange."

"Oh, no problem.  I'm just new, so it's hard to find.  There it is -- 'fruit.'  Do you have a rewards card?"

Sighing, I gave her the number -- my phone number.

"What area code is that?"

"New York.  I lived in Manhattan before I moved out to the Plains," I said, loud enough for Adonis to hear me.  I glanced over -- he was staring into space.

"Oh, were you in the theater?" the cashier asks. "My daughter is a theater major at the University.  Last summer we went out to Cooperstown for the Glimmerglass Opera Festival.  She loved it!"

"Yeah, it's um....great."

His order was up.  He took it and went back to the creamers and fumbled about.

Maybe he would sit down, and then I could join him.

"My son did, too.  Well, not the theater so much.  He was more interested in the Baseball Hall of Fame."

Was she flirting with me?

There were several cute guys in the coffee house, mostly college students working on papers.  One of them, a very muscular guy in a white muscle shirt, grinned at me.  Has he been watching the debacle?

"I'm a professor at the University," I said, a last ditch effort to impress Adonis.  It didn't.  He loped through the door.

"Oh, how exciting.  My son..."

Enough about your son!  I thought as I watched Adonis vanish forever.

My order was up a moment later.  I grabbed the scone, put the orange in my pocket, and left through the side door.

Adonis was sitting at one of the outdoor tables.  He must be freezing, I thought.

"Hi!" he said brightly.

"Um...hi."  I walked over.

He moved over and motioned to a place beside him, not across from him.  "I'm Jason."

"Boomer."

"Nice nickname.  You do have a booming voice."

"Thanks."  Bewildered, I sat down.  He brushed my knee under the table.

"Um...I was trying to get your attention inside, but you looked like you were ignoring me."

He laughed.  "Well, what did you expect?  I couldn't really try to pick you up in front of my mother, could I?"

His mother was the cashier?  

That's a new one.

We haven't gotten together yet, but here's a picture to tide you over.

See also: Yuri and the Coffee Drinker; My Date with a Teenage Boy and His Mom