On My Knees in the Teaching Assistant's Office

San Francisco, May 1997

I liked chemistry class in high school -- or rather, I liked the fact that it was 90% cute science nerds who carried calculators with the logo "Chemistry is Chool."

But in college, I had constant problems.

The professors taught for chemistry and physics majors rather than general education students. They started with five-dollar words and grad-school concepts.

"Today we will be discussing hydrogenic orbitals, and the failures of heteronuclear diatomics in predicting molecular bipolarity."

Um...atoms are the building blocks of molecules....

And the labs: Mind-boggling configurations of glassware and piping that required  mechanical genius to put together.   

I dropped Chemistry 101 twice, and took Physical Geography and Paleontology to fulfill my physical science requirement.


Over a decade later, in San Francisco, I was dating Kevin the Vampire, who was totally into the sciences, talking about atoms and molecules almost as much as he talked about hot guys.  Gradually I developed a passion for the sciences again.

"You liked chemistry in high school, didn't you?" he told me one day.  "Why don't you become a chemist?  You can get your undergraduate work done right here, at San Francisco State, and your doctorate in Berkeley, across the Bay, and give up this silly idea of going across the country to New York to do graduate work in...what was it...ring tossing?"

Kevin really didn't want me to leave.

"Are you kidding?  I'd have to start over, take elementary chemistry, calculus, physics, then the advanced classes, before going to graduate school.  It would probably take ten years.  I'll be 46 years old when I get my Ph.D."

"And how old will you be in ten years if you don't get your Ph.D.?"

So in the winter 1996-97 quarter, I enrolled in Chemistry Class #3.

San Francisco State University was only 5 miles from the Castro, 20 minutes away on the Muni, but still, I felt like I was going into another world.


90% of the students were male, cute science twinks but intensely heterosexist.  I was asked about my "girlfriend" and "wife,"asked to comment on this or that actress, nudged when an attractive girl passed.

Um...guys, the Castro...gay people exist...

Still, I liked the class enough to apply to study chemistry full-time at San Francisco State.  They said that with summer classes, I could finish a B.S. in Chemistry in two years, and go on to a M.S. in their new field of Biochemistry.  I wouldn't even need a doctorate.

In the Spring 1997 Quarter, I enrolled in Chemistry 102.  The lecture section was ok, but the lab was taught by a graduate teaching assistant, Seth.

Granted, he was rather cute: tall, slim, pale, with a shock of blond hair, blue eyes, horned-rimmed glasses, prone to wearing button-down shirts and black slacks that showed a substantial bulge.

But he was imperious, a stickler for the rules, rather nasty to the students, and very, very heterosexist.  Apparently he was from Marin County, the rich heterosexual enclave north of the Golden Gate Bridge, and he had never heard that gay people exist.

"Oh, guys, time to get your minds off girls and onto the experiment."

"This procedure is easy, like the first time you kissed a girl."

Or maybe he had heard of gay people:

"Better not spill that acid.  It would be more painful than if you went to prison and had a cellmate named Big Bad Bruce."

Homophobia?  In San Francisco in 1997?  Really?

Near the end of the spring quarter we had an experiment with a lot of different beakers,
Erlenmeyer flasks, condensers, pipettes, tube, and so on, just about everything in our lab drawer.   It took forever to assemble, run the experiment, and disassemble.

Afterwards, when I inventoried my drawer, I found that a beaker was missing!

I went to Seth, who told me that stealing was frowned upon.

"I didn't steal it!" I exclaimed.  "Someone else probably grabbed it, thinking it was theirs."

"So you broke it.  Same difference.  You have until Monday to replace it, or you fail the lab session, which means you fail the course."

"Where am I supposed to find a new beaker?  A chemical supply company?"

"If that's what you have to do.  Just get it done by Monday."

That night, when I complained during our date, Kevin said "Beakers shouldn't cost more than a dollar or two.  Why don't I'll have a little chat with this Seth?   I'm good at persuading the recalcitrant.  I persuaded you to date me, didn't I?"

Kevin the Vampire did have an uncanny "mind control" ability.  It didn't always work, but sometimes, if he looked at you right, you would do what he wanted.  

So the next day we took the Muni down to San Francisco State University and went to the teaching assistant office, a little windowless cubbyhole next to the chem lab storeroom.

Seth was actually in the lab storeroom, inventorying chemicals.  He turned and eyed us suspiciously.

"You were quite right, Boomer," Kevin said. "This teaching assistant of yours is quite attractive."

"Do you have the missing beaker?" Seth asked.

"Um...yes...about that," Kevin inched gradually closer as he stared in that way of his that turned your knees into jello.  "Surely you realize that it's silly to accuse Boomer here of stealing it."

"Well...if he broke it, he has to learn to be more careful."

"I'm sure if you inventory the adjoining lab drawers, you'll find it.  Or allow me to pay for it.  Here's a dollar."  He pulled out a dollar and pressed it into Seth's hand.  He began to tent noticeably.


"And one more thing.  You've been making some unfounded assumptions that every male student is attracted to women.  Well, at least one is attracted to men.  Perhaps, as a way of apologizing, you'd like to show him your penis."

"Um...well..."

"You want to, don't you?"

"Well...I guess that's fair."

Kevin stepped back and closed and locked the door.  Seth pulled a thick Bratwurst from his pants, fully aroused.

"Very nice.  Boomer, would you like to go down on our friend Seth?"

I got on my knees and started sliding up and down on Seth's very hard penis.  Meanwhile Kevin put his arm around Seth, unbuttoned his shirt, and reached inside to fondle his chest.  Soon they were kissing, and Seth was fondling Kevin through his pants.  I pulled Kevin's penis out and went to work on them both at the same time.

Seth finished very quickly, and nearly collapsed in Kevin's arms.  "That was intense.  I've been with guys before, but...that was intense."

"Yes, Boomer is quite the expert, I must say. Well, it's been nice chatting with you...and such."  He pulled me to my feet and led me toward the door.

"Wait...you...um, can't just leave.  Will I see you again?"

"There's a possibility," Kevin said with a smile.

In the only remaining lab session, Seth was cordial, but not overly friendly, as if the night in the lab store room never happened.  But shortly after classes ended, we began having him over for "sharing."

By July, Kevin and Seth were having dinner with each other, and leaving me out of it.

By August, Kevin had a new boyfriend, and I was in New York, studying for my Ph.D. in something besides chemistry.

I'm not saying that the two facts are connected, but they probably are.

See also: A Sausage Sighting of a Straight Philosophy Professor

Dr. Kirtis Offers Me His Bratwurst

Bloomington, May 1983

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

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

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

Well, mythology is sort of like folklore, right?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Separated?

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



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

"Homoerotic?"  he repeated, confused.

"Some hints that the characters are gay."

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

Close enough.

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

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




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

Gigantic bulge!  Definitely a Mortadella, very thick.

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

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

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

I looked at his crotch and said "Sure!"

He giggled.  He knew what I meant!

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

Still -- he knew.

My Hookup with the Son of Mr. Blowfish

Washington, Iowa, August 2003

The class I hated the most in high school was Public Speaking.  I didn't mind the speaking -- it was rather fun having an audience.  But the teacher, Mr. Blowfish!

Actually Mr. Lundquist, he was a prissy, snippy, ultra-swishy little gordito, balding, with a villain goatee, who lived to impress upon students that they were worthless.  He swept over the classroom, making condescending, sarcastic, and insulting remarks in his overmodulated, oversophisticated voice.

"Try speaking English.  Eng-Lish!"
"I have an idea.  Let's try to get it right."
"You can't be that stupid.  You must be putting me on."
"God, your parents must have been morons, to have you."

More than one student was reduced to tears, whereupon Mr. Blowfish would sneer "It's called real life.  Get used to it."

The whole class hated him.

I remember one piece of advice he gave us: When you're invited to a party, find out who's coming, and research their interests, so you'll have something to talk about.

Wait -- this miserable, mean-spirited little troll was invited to parties?

I eked by his class with a C-, which was pretty good.  No one got higher than a C, except for the two A's given to girls who, we assumed, were his relatives.

When I figured "it" out, the summer after my high school graduation, I realized that he was the first gay person I ever met.  A gay hint in junior high speech class!

The years passed.  I graduated from high school, moved to West Hollywood, then New York, then Florida.  When I came back to Rock Island to visit, I asked around the gay community.  No one had ever heard of Mr. Blowfish...um, I mean Lundquist.

Still, the little Truman Capote wannabe must be gay.  Nobody straight was that swishy.

Back in Rock Island in the summer of 2003, I finally found Mr. Blowfish: he was retired, living in Washington, Iowa, about 70 miles away.

Now, finally, I could find out if he was actually gay or just a swish!

I called and gushed, "You were my favorite teacher in high school!"

Naturally I got an invitation to visit.

On the hottest day of the year, I drove my sister-in-law's car to Washington, to a very nice grey-brick house with dormer windows.

27 years had passed since I took Mr. Blowfish's class, but still, I recognized the man who answered the door: a fat, bearded bear in his sixties, wearing only a swimsuit and flip-flops.  I saw a mass of thick white hair on the man-boobs of his chest.  I couldn't see a basket.

"Mr. Davis, how nice to see you again!" he said, offering a limp handshake.

"Dr. Davis, now."

"I know, I know!  Isn't that marvelous, even if you did go to a third-rate school!  You must be using the skills I taught you every day, or do you hide behind those dreary  -- what-do-you-call-it -- Powerpoint presentations?"

"Sometimes," I admitted.

"Cover-up for academic incompetence, I always say.  Well, why don't we go out to the back?  It's such a nice day."

Mr. Blowfish led me to the back yard, where there were lawn chairs, a little white table stocked with a pitcher of lemonade, and a children's wading pool amid miscellaneous toys.

My heart sank.  If he had kids, he couldn't be gay.  "Are those toys for the neighborhood kids?" I asked tentatively.

"Oh, those belong to the grandkids.  My boys are visiting just now.  No matter where they're living, they always visit at the same time -- safety in numbers, they say.  Stick around for a bit, and you'll meet them."

He sat his lawn chair, took off his flip-flops, and plopped his feet in the kiddie pool.  "Oh, feel free to take off your shoes.  And your shirt, too.  You obviously spend a lot of time in the gym trying to forestall the ravages of age, so you might as well show off the results."

I took my shirt off, to see if his eyes widened.  They didn't.  "So, how old are your boys?" I asked, still trying to salvage my lifelong belief that Mr. Blowfish was gay.

"Oh, Thanh is 32 now.   He was born just a couple of years after my late wife and I left Viet Nam. He lives in Des Moines, doing something idiotic with computers. Louie is 28.  He lives in Michigan.  He could have been a doctor, but he chose the stupid path, conducting low-paying research."

So Mr. Blowfish fought in Viet Nam?  I couldn't imagine it.  And when I was in high school, he spent his days berating, demeaning, and otherwise terrorizing his students, then going home to hold his five-year old and one-year old sons on his lap.  Named Thanh and Louie Lundquist.  The image was bizarre.

"...and Sam is 26.  He just got a tenure-track position in art history at Cornell College.  Not the good school -- the dinky one up by Iowa City. I told him to set his sights a little higher, but he chose the liberal arts. Now, I ask you, what good has lecturing on Rembrandt ever done the world?"

After about fifteen minutes of similar put-downs, there there was a roaring in the front of the house, and the back yard exploded with people and dogs and a flurry of voices.

"Grandpa, Uncle Sammy bought me an alligator!"

"We got ice cream, but we're still hungry for hot dogs!"

"Gross, your feet are in our swimming pool!"

After the introductions, Thanh and Louie set up for grilling hot dogs and hamburgers, their wives busied themselves with salads and pie, their four kids and three dogs roughhoused, and Mr. Lundquist yelled for everyone to keep out of his flower bed.  The youngest son, Sam, the one who lectured on Rembrandt, invited me for a walk down the silent, sizzling hot streets of Washington.  His eye-widening was unmistakable.

Yep, gay, not out to his family, but he was sure that they knew.  No one had inquired about a "girlfriend" for years.

"Was Dad really your favorite teacher?" he asked.  "A lot of people are turned off by his perfectionism."

"Well, maybe not my favorite.  But I thought he was gay, so we had kind of a kindred spirit."

"You thought Dad was gay?"  Laughing, he squeezed my shoulder.  "That's so bizarre!  After Mom died he was out with a different lady every night!  He always said that his three favorite things in life were wine, women, and...women."

"Mr. Blowfish...I mean Mr. Lundquist was a little swishy in class.  A lot swishy, actually."

"You called him Mr. Blowfish!  I love it!  Because you thought he liked...um...going down on guys?"

"No, no, because of his looks.  I never thought of that other connotation -- until now."

Sam smiled, and briefly touched my hand.   "That will be my nickname from now on -- Sammy Blowfish.  Apropos of nothing in particular, are you busy later?"

I ended up asking my sister-in-law if I could keep her car out overnight, and then driving home to Cornell with Sammy.

He was short, slim, dark-skinned, with a beautiful physique and nice beneath-the-belt gifts. And he lived up to the Blowfish nickname.

This story continues in Son of Mr. Blowfish

See also: I hook up with my "Uncle"; Getting the Chinese Delivery Guy into my Bed.

Bjorn's Hookup with his High School Teacher

Reykjavik, October 2016

Yuri and some of his advanced students are in Iceland, researching the impact of global climate change on the aurora borealis, and I flew out for a visit.

We're at lunch at a gay restaurant called Jomfruin, about a block from the harbor, when a local guy named Bjorn asks to join us.

It's not just a gay thing: in Iceland, it's commonplace for strangers to walk up to you and ask to join your group.

Bjorn is a film studies major at the University of Iceland: in his early 20s, shorter than me and rather buffed, with nice hard biceps, thick hair cut in an old-fashioned 1950s style, and a cute East London accent (maybe he learned English from watching EastEnders). He wears glasses and is constantly attached to his smartphone.

Bjorn has been cruising Yuri rather blatantly, and ignoring me.  In the hopes of deflecting his attention or at least being invited to "share," I've been trying to wow him with celebrity dating stories (Nate Richert, Gregg Sulkin, Dylan O'Brien).  That doesn't work, so I shift to enormous penises: the Satyr, who had 12 inches.

"12 inches?  Is that all?"  Bjorn scoffs.  "I can do more than that.  My first time was with a guy who had 16 inches!"

"16 inches! That's impossible!"  I say.  "Porn star John Holmes had only 13 inches."

"I've been with many guys,"  Yuri says, acting as my wing man.  "Some of them very big -- like Boomer.  But only one time did I find a guy with 13 inches.  16, no way!"

"It was my teacher at the gymnasium," Bjorn says.  "Doktor Ulrich."

Akureyri, December 2012

Akuryri is a small town of 18,000 on the northern side of the island, with not much to do but fishing, hiking, and whale watching.

Bjorn, a 17-year old student at the Menntaskólinn (high school), didn't like outdoor activities.  He was quiet, shy, an introvert.  He studied, worked out, watched television, and looked at the cute guys on the street or at the Lystigarður, the botanical gardens.

During the summer, there were always German, Danish, and American backpackers strutting around.  Bjorn dreamed of being invited to their room, of kissing them, feeling their chests and bulges, going down on them, becoming an anal bottom for them.

Not in December, though, when there were only four hours of daylight every day, and the temperature was always below zero (25 to 35 degrees Fahrenheit).  The youth hostels were deserted.  The Lystigarður was too cold for cruising.

 Then one day his German teacher got sick and had to take a leave, and the new teacher was Doktor Ulrich, originally from Switzerland; in his 20s, taller than Bjorn, very muscular, with thick black hair, a beard, a piercing gaze, and an enormous bulge, visible even in slacks.

Bjorn watched it shifting as Doktor Ulrich walked around the class.  When he stopped by Bjorn's desk, it was at eye level.  He couldn't help staring.

Once he stopped at Doktor Ulrich's desk after class to ask about a grade.  He looked down, and saw the enormous bulge, so close that he could reach out and touch it.  He began to get aroused, and quickly hid himself behind a textbook.

"It's ok," Doktor Ulrich said, noticing him.  "Es ist nur natürlich.  It happens to everyone."  He took Bjorn's hand and pushed it against his chest.  "You are a very attractive young man."

The next day he "accidentally" ran into Doktor Ulrich on the way out of the school.

"Hi!"  he said, embarrassed.  "Um...I....my German needs help.  Could I...see you..."

They went back to Doktor Ulrich's house.  Without speaking, Doktor Ulrich took him into the bedroom and began kissing and fondling him through his pants.  Bjorn fell to his knees and unzipped him and pulled out his penis.

Gigantic, bigger than guys on the internet! Sixteen inches, and as thick as a beer can!  Bjorn opened his mouth as wide as he could, but couldn't even get around the head.

"It's ok,"  Doktor Ulrich said.  "Most guys can't handle it.  Let's try it this way."  He lay Bjorn onto the bed and tried to mount him from the top.

That didn't work, either.

Anal was out of the question.

He ended up pushing between Bjorn's legs while kissing him, then going down on Bjorn until he finished.

They didn't get together again: Bjorn was too worried about someone finding out.

Besides, the sex wasn't too great.

Reykjavik, October 2016

"So," Yuri says with a grin, "In the story you don't tell us how big you are."

Bjorn looks down at the table.   "I am very big!  10 inches.  If you don't believe me, come to my room, and I can show you."

"Both of us?" I suggest.

"Why not?  I have not been with two guys before."

Bjorn has a flat on Baldursgata, about half a mile away; three small rooms, a roommate who's in class, and a purring black cat named Kristoffer.

We go into the bedroom.  While Bjorn and Yuri are kissing, I unzip them both, and pull out Bjorn's...5 inches!

Ok, I know guys exaggerate, and I shouldn't complain, but I'm already a little jealous that Bjorn is paying more attention to Yuri than to me, and I want to burst his bubble.

"Bjorn, this isn't 10 inches, it's 5, maybe 5.5.  You're off by nearly half."

He looks up, confused.  "No...it is 10 inches, 14 centimeters.  I measured it."

"Um...14 centimeters is not 10 inches," Yuri says.  "It's about 5 inches."


Bjorn hangs his head.  "I'm never good with mathematics!"  he exclaims.  "I'm a poet, I'm not a scientist."

"That's ok, it's hard to do.  My students make mistakes all the time."

"So your German teacher was really about 9 inches," I say.  "That makes more sense.  16 inches would be past his knees."

"Maybe he was only 9 inches," Bjorn admits.

"That is anyway a very nice size," Yuri says.

"And you have a very nice size, too," I add, kneeling to go down on him.

See also: Fred and the Icelandic Photographer

My Date with the Most Conservative Professor on Campus

West Hollywood, May 1986

The University of Southern California in the 1980s was extremely elitist, stuffy, and conservative, and Charles Bertan was the most elitist, stuffy, and conservative of the faculty.  A little shorter than me, slim, with an oval, slightly irregular face and a crooked smile.

He had stuffy degrees from Harvard and Princeton, always wore a suit, carried a briefcase, and spoke with super-correct grammar.

This isn't him -- I couldn't find a picture that did the conservatism justice, and also showed some muscle.

He was only a few years older than me, but he had already published a dozen books and articles on Restoration and Augustan literature: John Donne, Henry Fielding, Alexander Pope, 18th century pastoral...

His classroom skills weren't great: he called students "Mr." and "Miss", never joked, rarely smiled, and called out mistakes tactlessly.  When asked a pleasant question like "How was your weekend?" he fumbled and stammered.

Other students disliked him; I was fascinated.

What kind of life did this guy have?  What did he do at night? Who did he go home to?  Did he watch tv, collect antiques, volunteer at a homeless shelter, go camping at Yosemite?  Or were Tom Jones and An Essay on Man life enough? 

I could not imagine Dr. Bertan taking off his shirt, getting naked, lying in bed, kissing someone, having sex.  Not that he wasn't attractive. He just wasn't a sexual being.

Or was he?  Maybe I could find out.

If I cruised him, he would probably rush off in horror, like a squirrel when you get too close.  I had to be subtle, make him think that he was cruising me.

1. Setting the ground work.

I began working out just before class, so I would still be pumped, and came in with the tightest t-shirt I could find  to show off my chest -- 50", my best feature.  Dr. Bertan kept trying not to look.

We met in a conference room, around a rectangular table, with Dr. Bertan at the head.  I started sitting adjacent to him, so occasionally our legs would brush together "by accident."  Once he got flustered and scooted his chair to the far end, but the next class session, he was in the middle of the table again.

When he passed me a batch of papers to hand out, I made sure that our hands touched "by accident."  He quickly moved away -- I just smiled.  

2. Piquing his interest.

His reactions suggested that he was gay, but just to make sure, one day I said, "I know we skipped over John Wilmont, Earl of Rochester in our anthology, but I read him anyway.  One line has me puzzled.  What does he mean by There's a sweet soft page of mine, does the trick worth forty wenches."

"Oh, well...." Dr. Bertan blushed a little.  "No doubt Rochester is suggesting his preference for...um...homosexuality."

"Right, right!"  I pretended it had just now dawned on me.  "I know all about that trick."

The class laughed. "Pages or wenches?" someone asked.

I just smiled.  Dr. Bertan stared at me for a moment, as if expecting a response, and then moved on.

Definitely gay.

3. The seduction.

I waited until final grades were posted, in case he had scruples against hooking up with a student, and then went to his office.  It was small but elegant: walnut desk, two chairs, small couch, Persian rug, floor-to-ceiling bookcases.

"I just wanted to thank you for a very interesting semester," I  began," "accidentally" slamming the door behind me.  "Wow, I wish I had a library like this.  A copy of The Rape of the Lock, illustrated by Aubrey Beardsley!"  I pointed to an old book on the top shelf.  "I love Beardsley!  Can I take a look at it?"

He beamed at my interest.  "Why, of course.  That's a beautiful edition.  I picked it up at a bookstall in Paris."  

It was too far up to reach, so I had to stand on a chair.

"Wait -- it's rickety -- let me support you.  There's a stepladder in the main office, if...."  Dr. Bertan's hands were pressing on my sides.  I tried to steady myself with a hand on his shoulder.  I grabbed the book -- and the chair slid out from under me.  I collapsed onto the floor,

Dr. Bertan knelt beside me.  "Are you...are you all right?" he stammered.

I just planned to leaf through a book, but this was much better!  "Fine.  A little shaken. Maybe I better sit down."

"Of course, of course."  He helped me onto the couch, and sat beside me. "Do you want to go to the Student Health Center?"

"Oh, no,  I'm fine.  Except I think I hit the chair on the way down.  Could you check for bruises?"

"Um...ok."  I raised my t-shirt.  He reached out and gingerly ran his hand over my chest.  "Anything tender?"

"No."  I put my hand over his and squeezed.  "You have a soft touch."

"Um...thanks."  He was staring in deer-in-headlight terror.  I had to make my next move carefully.

I retrieved the book, sat down beside him again, and put my arm around his shoulders, squeezing hard so he could feel my bicep rise. His hand moved to my lap.

"So, ready to look at those Beardsley illustrations?  Or did you have something else in mind?"

Dr. Bertan blushed red, and drew his hand away.  "I don't...I don't...I mean, I've never...."

"Well, isn't it about time you did?  We're the same age, and I'm not your student anymore, so what's stopping you?"

"Um...well...um...I suppose we could have dinner."

 So I didn't get a hookup, but I did get a date: very nice dinner at the Cafe Etoille  -- he was a little nervous, but warmed up quickly -- followed by a walk through West Hollywood, a stop at the Different Light Bookstore, then back to my apartment to spend the night.

We dated once or twice more, but then I flew off to Australia and Japan for the summer, and he went to London to research Alexander Pope, and by the time we returned, the moment had passed.

Besides, I kept calling him Dr. Bertan instead of Charlie.

See also: Cruised by a Young Republican; 8 Harvard Yard Hookups

Spending the Night with My Music Teacher and His Favorite Boys

Iowa City, November 1978

To fill my fine arts requirement at Augustana College, I registered for a class called "Music Cultures of the World."  It sounded more interesting than "Music Appreciation."

The professor, Dr. Morrow, grew up in Indiana and got his Ph.D. in music from Northwestern. He was the first African-American professor I had ever had to that point, so I took advantage of every opportunity to gaze at his very solid, muscular frame, with impressive shoulders and biceps.  I'm not usually into backsides, but when he turned his back to write on the blackboard, my interest was piqued.

 For some reason that I haven't yet figured out, I was the only white kid in a class of twenty.  The others were African-American, five girls and one boy (a sizeable percentage of the twenty or so on campus).

They may have been expecting more African culture.  Instead, we covered:
1. Native North America
2. South America
3.Australia, New Guinea, and Oceania (like the Australian didjeridoo).
4. China, Japan, and Korea
5. Southeast Asia and Indonesia
6. India and Pakistan
7. Central Asia and the Middle East
8. Europe
9. And, finally sub-Saharan Africa.





Since I was the only white student in the class, Dr. Morrow was very careful to make me feel welcome.  He was always calling on me, asking me questions, lending me books and recordings to drop off at his office later.  He liked my paper on traditional Chinese musical instruments so much that he kept a copy and put it on reserve in the library for students in future classes to read (it was still in Special Collections in 2014).

On the weekend of November 10th, there was a festival of Indonesian music at the University of Iowa, about a 45-minute drive away.  The headliner was Sumarsam, a 34-year old Javanese musician, expert on the gamelan, currently an artist-in-residence at Wesleyan University.

Anybody could go, of course, but Dr. Morrow said the department would pay for three students.  I don't know how many applied, but he selected me, Manny (a senior music major) and Kurt (a sophomore from his Rock class).

Three boys, no girls. What a coincidence!

Oh, and bring your swimsuit.  The hotel has a heated indoor pool.

We left right after everyone's last class on Friday, arriving around 4:00 pm.  "Dinner's not until 6:00," Dr. Morrow said.  "Plenty of time to take a dip.  Who's up for it?"

I didn't need to be asked twice!

Dr. Morrow was very impressive, as muscled as a bodybuilder, with an amazing bulge in his swimsuit, but I was jealous of the attention he lavished on Manny.  I thought I was his only favorite!

 Dinner was Indonesian, which is very similar to Filipino: rice, fish, dumplings, peanut sauce.

The first concert was good.  No naked male dancers, but a lot of interesting music.

Afterwards we went back to the hotel room, where there were two double beds.

We all stripped to our underwear, except for Dr. Morrow, who went into the bathroom and came out wearing pajamas.

 "Ok, who's bunking with me?" he asked, climbing into one of the beds.  "I'm not picky -- I'll sleep with anybody."

Manny jumped into bed next to Dr. Morrow before I had a chance to say or do anything.  I don't know if they hooked up during the night.

I slept in the same bed with Kurt, but nothing erotic happened.

In the morning I got a nice sausage sighting from Kurt, but not Manny or Dr. Morrow.

Another question: Were Manny and Dr. Morrow romantic partners?  I suspected as much, but when when I asked a knowledgeable senior about gay people at Augustana, she didn't mention either.

Dr. Morrow still teaches at Augustana.  He is in his 70s, with children and grandchildren, and he's written a major textbook on ethnomusicology.

See also: 15 Teachers I May Have Hooked Up With.

A Sausage Sighting of a Straight Elitist Philosophy Professor

Plains, May 2016

8:45 am.  I go to a seminar on teaching writing, led by a philosophy professor named Taylor.  There's no space left at the conference table, so I have to sit all by myself in a little chair off to the side.

I'm already in a bad mood.

This Taylor guy is about my height, in his 30s, with rather long hair, combed back, and a beard.  He is wearing a pink button-down shirt, a sports jacket, jeans, and yellow shoes.

Who wears a sports jacket with jeans?  Who wears a pink shirt with yellow shoes?  How pretentious can you get?

When I approach the table, he is talking about Lisbon, "off the beaten path," so it's not so touristy as other European capitals.

Yeah, yeah, I've been places, too, but I don't go around place-dropping.  "Oh, Reykjavik is so off the beaten path, and have you been to Tegucigalpa?"

I hate elitists.

Then comes the proclamation of heterosexuality.  Straight men can't go more than a sentence without proclaiming their straightness, either by referencing their wives or by making a universalizing statement like "my son is at the age when boys begin to notice girls." Taylor does both.

I go to the break room for a banana and yogurt.  He appears and says "I can't resist the siren call to get another bagel."

Ulysses reference?  Ugh!

Then: "My wife loves..."

Proclamation of straightness again?  What is it about this guy?

9:00: Morning Session

Pretentious heterosexual lit.  Have we read The Unbearable Lightness of Being?  It's about a Czech intellectual who is a womanizer, but abandons his many affairs to find true happiness with his wife in Geneva.

Yeah, Geneva, off the beaten path.  Lovely this time of year.

This is going to be a long day.

Then Taylor scoots back in his chair and spreads his legs.

Enormous bulge, full outline of what has to be a semi-aroused Kielbasa+, hanging to the left!

Doesn't he notice?  Or does he not expect anyone to look beneath the belt?

How to introduce pretentious heterosexist lit into your classes.  Students like writing that addresses their interests, like how to get along with the opposite sex.

Ugh.

"When we were in Vienna last summer, my wife and I...."

Double Ugh.

At least there's a memorable bulge to look at, and I might even get a sausage sighting out of the deal.




11:00: Bathroom Break

Taylor heads for the bathroom.  I wait a moment, then follow, timing my entry to get there just as he has unzipped.

He's not at a urinal, he's in a stall!

30 free urinals, and he picks a stall.  Is he that worried about another guy seeing his Kielbasa+?

Back to the seminar.  We discuss technology and student writing, using Turnitin to catch plagiarism, how foreign students don't have the same understanding of plagiarism as we do in the U.S.

Taylor spreads his legs again, letting his heterosexual semi air.

12:00:  Lunch.

Instead of eating the turkey sandwiches, chips, and cookies provided, I hit the gym and lift weights.

 Pumped up, I am cruised a couple of times by callow undergrads on the way back to the seminar room.  A nice break from the heterosexual pretentiousness of my seminar.

1:00: Afternoon Session.

Grading student writing assignments.  Using rubrics.

Watching Taylor spread his legs.

Sample free-writing exercises:
What do you find most attractive about the opposite sex?

Describe your last date as if it was a story.  Begin with the boy calling the girl....

Ugh.

"I was visiting Robert Bly at his summer house in the south of France, and..."

Double ugh.

Taylor's hand falls against his bulge and gives it a brief squeeze.

Everyone pretends not to notice.

3:00: The seminar ends.

I go upstairs to the second floor stacks, anxious to immerse myself in gay lit after a day of heterosexual pretension.  But first I have to use the bathroom.  My favorite facility is secluded, down a hallway from IT Services, with a long row of urinals and three stalls.

The restroom is deserted.  I choose the farthest stall.

It doesn't occur to me that it might be occupied.  Really.The door isn't latched.  I push it open.

Taylor is sitting on the toilet, looking at something on his cell phone.  Aroused.

A Kielbasa+ sticking straight out from beneath his pink shirt!

"Oh, excuse me!" I exclaim, and hastily retreat.

It almost makes the day of heterosexist elitism worthwhile.

See also: My Sausage Sighting List; Teacher Hookups

A Sausage Sighting of The Ex-Wrestler

Long Island, April 2000

You're not supposed to think of people at the workplace as sexual beings.  Supposedly it distracts you from doing your job properly.

Work clothes are designed to minimize his physicality, keep the biceps and bulges under wraps, prevent you from imagining him naked.

But in fact, work clothes become all the more erotic because they're not supposed to be.

College students dress informally of course, wear tight jeans stuffed with socks or shorts that obviously bulge left or right, and as you walk up and down the aisles, you often get a good view of not only bulges but tents, as they struggle with an unexpected arousal.

But college professors dress a bit more formally, with shirts and slacks that keep things hidden.  You rarely see a bulge, never a tent.

Still, you can imagine what they look like naked.

Cruising -- leering, touching, and statements of erotic interest  -- is inappropriate in the closed environment of a workplace, but anyone can look, and once in a while you get to see him in real life.

He may ask you for date or hookup.  In thirteen years as a college professor, not including adjuncting, I've been approached by dozens of students, but never by another professor.  

You may run into him at a Bear Party or a bathhouse.  This is the stuff of porn movies, but it has happened to me only once.

You may see him in the locker room.  That's happened to me three or four times.

You may be standing at the urinal in the restroom at the same time.

That's happened a lot more often, maybe fifteen times.

Ok, most college professors are straight -- the gay ones burnout or get fired quickly -- so they're not asking you for dates or going to bear parties.  They usually don't work out, or not at the same time as you.  But they all stand at urinals.

You can even predict when: academics will use the restroom closest to their office, typically just after teaching a class (after dropping their stuff off in their office) or going to lunch, or just before they leave campus for the day.

Or during those long, boring committee meetings.  He'll probably check out after about an hour and a half into it to use the restroom; or if not, he's sure to jump in the moment the meeting adjourns.

If they're open urinals, with no barrier between, you got it made.

When I was a graduate student at Setauket University, New York, I wanted a sausage sighting of Dr. Chester, a former professional wrestler who taught the history and sociology of sports.

 He was in his 50s, massive, with a huge barrel chest, a bull neck, gigantic wrists and hands.  Unfortunately, he wore a business suit, uncharacteristic for college professors, with slacks that hung straight down and didn't offer a bulge.

He had a wife and kids, so he probably wouldn't be asking me for a date, or showing up at Ravi's Bear Parties on Long Island.

He didn't use the campus gym.

He never taught classes at any time convenient for "accidentally" using the fourth floor restroom.

Besides, during the 1999-2000 year, I was living in Manhattan, commuting to Long Island three times a week, teaching three classes, working on my qualifying exams, going to weekly Bear Parties, and hooking up with the BDSM Birthday Boy, a Man in Black, a teenage model, and Andrew Lloyd Webber.  I was a little too busy to do a lot of strategizing over a mere sausage sighting.

Then, one day in April 2000, late in the afternoon, I was on my way out of the Social Science Building to meet Yuri for dinner.  I didn't really have to go, but I decided to do a pre-emptive, just in case.

I unlocked the outside door and walked through the swinging security door into the faculty men's room.  It was very small, really only big enough for one person, with a toilet stall and a single urinal right next to the sink.  And there, at the urinal, was Dr. Chester, just starting to unwrap the most massive Kovbasa I had ever seen!

It was like a fire hose.  It took two hands to hold it.  Very thick, uncut.

How could he walk around with that thing in his pants?

He glared at me.  "Good afternoon, Boomer," he said  coolly, obviously not happy to be disturbed.  " I'll be through in a moment."

"Oh, sure, take your time," I managed.

He let loose, oblivious to my staring, or thinking that I was just impatient.

When he finished, he played with it for a moment, then turned, still hanging out.  I stepped back to let him past me.  He stood in front of the mirror and played with it a little more, while I watched.

Guys always wrap up while standing in front of the urinal.  They never walk to the mirror, still hanging out.  Unless they want to give you a show.

Was he suggesting something?  Was he offering me that gigantic Kovbasa?

Or was he testing me, to see if I was one of those "predatory" gay guys who accost straight men in urinals?

 I wasn't about to find out.  I went to the urinal and conducted my business, while Dr. Chester wrapped up, washed his hands, and left.

To this day, I wonder what would have happened if I had reached over and touched it.

See also: The Homophobic Student in the Shower; Twelve Teacher Hookups

Kept After School by my Science Teacher

Rock Island, November 1974

Mr. Peterson, who taught chemistry and physics, was the most physical teacher at Washington Junior High. Most teachers hide their bodies, trying to become pure intellect, but as he danced, ran, and skipped around the classroom, Mr. Peterson obviously had a chest and shoulders and biceps -- and, if you looked closely, a Bratwurst shifting in his slacks

He always wore his tie half-undone, as if his body was aching to burst out.

 When he walked down the row of lab tables to check on our work, you could feel his heat.

In the fall of ninth grade, Dan and I enrolled in his physics class, expecting discussions of black holes, teleportation, and Star Trek-style warp drive mechanics -- what could be more exciting?

Unfortunately, physics turned out to be deadly dull.

Levers and inclined planes and how pulleys work. Put this wire into that box.



Mr. Peterson tried to make it fun by singing songs and making silly puns, but still:

Gravity, friction, inertia. AC and DC currents. Calculate the velocity of a pitched ball.

Yuck!  We tweaked by with C's. And spent a lot of time whispering and giggling and making funny drawings in our notebooks.

One day we collaborated an elaborate picture of the ancient Greek view of the universe: a flat world surrounded by a vast ocean, with a dome of heaven above.  We labeled it "What we learned in Mr. Peterson's class."

We were so engrossed that we didn't hear Mr. Peterson approach and look over my shoulder.  "Looks like you guys have a lot of free time on your hands," he said with an incongruous smile.  "We'd better put you to work.  Report to the Chemistry Lab at 3:00 to wash test tubes."

Test tubes?

Five big boxes of them, a new shipment for Advanced Chemistry.  Before they could be used, they had to be soaked -- one at a time -- in a solution of hydrochloric acid, then washed in a special detergent and rinsed in de-ionized water.  Who knew it was such a complicated process?

Fun, though.  We got to wear goggles and gloves.

As we worked, Mr. Peterson tried the usual adult conversation starter: girls.  Do you have girlfriends?  What girl do you like?  Girls always go for scientists! And so on.

Finally I got tired of it and exclaimed "Girls are gross!"

Dan kicked me under the table.  In ninth grade, you couldn't express a lack of interest in girls.  The adults would say "Don't get smart!" or redouble their efforts to hook you up with "the girl of your dreams."

But Mr. Peterson said "Yeah, I guess girls are pretty gross," without even blinking in surprise.  "So, what do you like?"

I was too shocked to lie.  "Um...um...guys with muscles."

"Muscles?"  He stared, but only for a moment.  "Right, physical fitness is important.  You guys like Bruce Lane?  Wow, he had some muscles on him!"  He began doing fake kung fu moves and singing. "Everybody was kung fu fighting..."

"Donny Osmond is cute, too," Dan said.  "He took off his shirt in Tiger Beat."

"When I was a kid, we liked Elvis Presley.  Did you ever see him in Blue Hawaii?  He spends about half the movie in a swimsuit!"

The three of us spent the rest of detention talking about cute and muscular guys, from Greg Brady to Tarzan!

Mr. Peterson framed his comments in heteronormative terms: "I bet the girls go for him!" or "He must get all the girls he wants!"  But grownups always tried to make everything about girls.  It was easy to ignore the side-comments, and just feel proud and happy to be talking about muscles.

When we were finished with the test tubes, he said,"You've been such good assistants, I want to treat you to a hamburger."

We didn't care that dinner was in about an hour.  He drove us to Mulkey's, and we sat in a booth on either side of him, close enough so our legs and thighs were inches away from his, and we could feel the warmth from his body.

When the waitress asked  "Are these your sons?", he said, "No, my research assistants.  We're scientists, conducting a very important experiment."

"On what?"

"Muscles!"  Dan exclaimed.  We all laughed.

Best detention ever!

We never got detention again, but we took Mr. Peterson's chemistry class in the spring semester, and occasionally he tapped my shoulder and asked "Seen any musclemen lately?"

My brother and sister both took his classes when they were in junior high, and he always asked about me.

Since he's on the list of Teachers I may have hooked up with, you're probably wondering if we did.

Answer after the break:

Not unless you count my fantasies.

I don't know about Dan.  Mr. Peterson hooked him on science.  He majored in physics in college, and finally became an computer engineer of some sort.  Maybe they reunited years later.

I was happy just to be talking about muscles.

Hooking Up with My "Uncle"

Rock Island, June 1988

Sunday, June 5th

I'm back in Rock Island for a week.  A swishy, flamboyant older guy named Gene approached me during the coffee hour after morning services at the MCC.

"Your last name is...what?"  he asked, offering a multi-ringed hand to be shaken. "Oh, Mary!  I tricked with your Dad."

"My Dad? I don't think so,..he's pretty straight."

"Your uncle, then. Steve Davis. Girl, she was such a hottie, back in the day!"

I shook my head.  "I'm not related to anybody in Rock Island.   My family is from Indiana."

"Distant cousin, then!  When that Cute Young Thing came into the Hawaiian Lounge, all the queens just swooned.  She was picky, though, wouldn't go home with just anybody.  You had to have class."

Could he mean Mr. Davis, my grade school math teacher?  Everybody assumed that he was my uncle back then.  He wasn't -- but I had a major crush on him!  Black hair, sharp features, big, expressive hands.  He wore a thin white shirt with no t-shirt, so in the right light you could see the contours of his body as he moved.  And tight pants -- the first time I ever fantasized about a guy's basket was in his class.

"But that was, like, twenty years ago. He'd be...."

"In his 40s?  A big burly muscle daddy?"

My interest piqued, I asked "Is he still in town?"

"Oh, no, Mary.  I heard she fell in love with one of those big burly rough trade types and now manages a glory-hole truck stop in Ottumwa."

Monday, June 6th

In the 1980s, you looked people up in telephone books, one for each town.  I went to the public library and looked for a Steve Davis in Ottumwa, Oscaloosa, Osceola, and Indianola.  Nothing.

I invited Gene to lunch the next day.

Tuesday, June 7th

"All this trouble just to trick with your Uncle, sweetheart?  And he might not even be hot anymore!"

"Well, yeah," I admitted, embarrassed.  "He was my first crush, he's gay -- how could I pass up the opportunity to at least meet him?  And maybe see if his basket lives up to my fantasies."

"Well, Mary, you're in luck.  I've been asking around, and one of the girls has it on good authority that Miss Thing is now running a stud farm in Keokuk. Rhymes with...you know."

Back to the library.  Keokuk, Iowa, about two hours south of Rock Island, had a Steve Davis listed!

I called.  The number was disconnected.

Wait -- Dick, my former bully and current friend, had Mr. Davis in class, too.  Maybe their paths crossed.

I called him and got invited to dinner.


"Sure, I know Steve -- we dated for awhile, back when I first came out. He lives down in Normal now."  Two hours from Rock Island, the site of Illinois State University.

"Why didn't you mention that you dated our grade school math teacher?"

He shrugged.  "I thought he was your uncle.  Who wants to hear that his friend had sex with his uncle?"

Wednesday, June 8th
I called the number Dick gave me, and Mr. Davis -- Steve --answered!  He remembered me -- it's hard to forget a kid who everyone thinks is your nephew -- and even suspected that I was gay. He invited me to visit on Saturday.

The day before I was scheduled to fly back to Los Angeles.

Saturday, June 11th
Aching with anticipation, I borrowed my sister's car and drove out to Normal, to a small white-paned house a few blocks from the campus.

A Cute Young Thing answered the door: probably an Illinois State student, mid-20s, slender, with thick black hair and a short beard.  He was wearing a yellow shirt, unbuttoned to reveal a slim, hairy chest, and very tight short pants.



"I'm Maier, Steve's lover," he said with a smile. "He's asleep, but I'l try to wake him up.  He's really looking forward to seeing you again.  Not a lot of his former students turn out to be gay."

Asleep, at 1:00 in the afternoon?  When you're expecting company?

He led me through the living room, down a hallway, to a closed door.  He knocked, and a weak voice called "Come in."

A rather buffed, 40-something guy was lying in bed in his undershirt, propped up on pillows.  A couple of books beside him -- I remember A Brief History of Time.  A box of kleenix and an assortment of vials and bottles on the nightstand.

I stared -- the situation seemed unreal.  He had a beard now, and some crags and lines, but it was definitely Mr. Davis, who I used to gaze longingly at in sixth grade math class!  Memories came rushing back.  The smell of big math binders, the feel of chalk squishing against blackboards,  That white shirt with his body visible underneath.  The basket....

"Hi, 'nephew.' Nice to see you again," Steve said with a weak smile.  A little raspy, but the same voice I remember talking about multiplying and dividing fractions.  "Sorry I look so awful.  Fever of 102. Some kind of summer bug."

"No, you look great.  Same as you did back in sixth grade."

"You don't -- you've grown into quite a hunk."

Maier and I sat on chairs a few feet from the bed.  I told my best West Hollywood stories, about my date with Richard Dreyfuss, my stalled porn career, and Alan helping me thwart a celebrity at Mugi.

Steve didn't say a lot, but Maier told me about him leaving Denkmann to take care of his ailing mother, moving briefly to Chicago, and then getting a job teaching middle school in Normal.

"I wish you could visit again in a few days, when I'm feeling better," Steve said, reaching for a kleenix.  "We were hoping that you would be up for sharing."

"Too bad I'm flying back to L.A. tomorrow."  I looked at him hopefully.  "Um...this is a little embarrassing, but...I was wondering...could I...get a grope?

"Sure, if I can grope you, too -- I'm sick, I'm not dead."  He pulled back the covers -- he was naked underneath.  Rather small, but that didn't matter -- I approached him and fulfilled a 20-year old fantasy.

I promised to visit when I came back to Rock Island again, but at Christmastime it was too snowy for a two-hour drive, and the next summer I was too busy, and so on, and so on.  It never happened.

But that moment of intimacy at Mr. Davis's sickbed was worth a dozen nights of passion.

See also: My Night with the Son of Mr. Blowfish.