I Become a Birthday Present at the Horseman's Club

Amsterdam, March 2006

I used to go to Europe at least once a year, sometimes twice, usually at Christmastime or in the spring.  I flew into Paris or Amsterdam, whichever was cheaper, and split my time between those two cities, with an overnight in Brussels in between.

I was always careful to be in Amsterdam on Sunday night, for the Horseman's Club meeting at the Argos Bar on Warmoesstraat.

A club for guys with 20 cm (about 8 inches) or more beneath the belt.

I don't meet those standards, but I usually just took my shirt off and got waved through without measuring.  When they did measure, I was sometimes graded A (20 cm and over) and sometimes B (17-20 cm).

It was a social club -- no sex, but most guys sneaked into isolated corners for some groping or oral anyway.  You had to get naked or strip to your underwear.

I usually found someone to go home with.  In 2003, a 40-ish bodybuilder named Janik asked me to stay on in the Netherlands and become his lover.  I almost agreed.

In 2006, I met a Dutch-Caribbean-African guy with a gigantic Kovbasa.

The Dutch were leaders in the North Atlantic slave trade, and you see evidence all over Amsterdam, like this frieze of a muscular Moor carrying a bow and arrow.  But most of the slaves ended up in the Caribbean.

I never saw anyone black at the Horseman's Club until that night in 2006.

He was standing by himself near the pool table.  In his 20s, very dark, very tall and thin, wearing a green jumpsuit,  completely out of place amid the nude and underwear-clad men.

I figured he had just come in from the icy rain of an Amsterdam spring, and was cold.  I walked up to him and put my hand on his shoulder.  "Hi, can I warm you up?"

He stared at me -- not with Attitude, with a look of sheer terror, as if an underwear-clad man was a major threat.

"He must be in the wrong place," I thought.  "Maybe not even gay.  But surely he figured it out when he was fluffed for measurement."

I began to caress his thin shoulders and back, and he relaxed a bit and put his arm around my shoulders.

"Just so you know, there's a dress code.  You'll have to strip down to your underwear, or they'll kick you out."

"Ik spreek geen Engels," he said, before launching into a torrent of Dutch.

Everyone always uses English in Amsterdam, even residents talking to each other, so I've never learned much Dutch.  About all I can say is Goeiedag, Hoe gaat het?, and Ik kom uit Toronto (I always claim to be Canadian when I travel, to avoid being yelled at every five minutes.)

"Um...um...Ik heet Boomer, van Toronto. Hoe heet je?"

Huit Suriname.  Azi."

Suriname, the former Dutch colony in the Caribbean?  I was immediately interested.

About 2% of the Dutch population consists of recent immigrants from Suriname, and about half of them are black or mixed (they're called Maroons and Creoles).  But they are mostly working- and -lower class, isolated from the consumer-oriented bars, bathhouses, and sex shops of gay Amsterdam.

"Um...wanner je kom heer?"  When did you come to the Netherlands?

More very fast Dutch.  Then Azi reached out and groped me.  I felt for the front of his jumpsuit, where his Kovbasa had sprung to life.

"Sprichts du langsam, bitte," I said in German, hoping it was close enough to be comprehensible.

"Kom....naar....mijn huis, ok?"

Go home with him? But we just met, we hadn't said more than a dozen words, and he was a little too weird....

But...a Kovbasa...the biggest of the big....

I dressed.  Azi wrapped his arm around my shoulders and led me out onto Warmoessstraat.  We walked to the Centraal Station and got on the train to Ganzenhoef Station in southern Amsterdam, Azi talking nonstop in Dutch, me trying out my few words, supplemented with German and Spanish.

Azi had only been in the Netherlands for three years.  He worked in a cigarenfabriek.  Most of his family was back in Suriname.  The only family he had here was his moeder and his  jongere broer, who was studying computertechniek at the University.

Presumably Azi didn't live with them.

We got off the train in a multi-ethnic neighborhood called the Bijlmeer, and walked a few blocks through the darkness to a huge apartment complex. Orange and white lattices.  Balconies.  13 stories.

We took the elevator to the eighth floor, and got off in a small, cramped apartment.  There were books and newspapers scattered all over the living room. Kierkegaard, I noticed in surprise.  Azi read Danish philosophers?

Dirty dishes in the sink, overflowing clothes hamper.  Obviously Azi hadn't been expecting a hookup when he went out tonight.

As soon as the door closed, I wrapped my arm around Azi and went in for a kiss.  But he pushed my head away.

"Ben je hier?" he yelled.

Who else lived here?

 "In die slaapkamer!"  

Azi led me into a little hallway to an open door.  Small twin bed, unmade.  Underwear on the floor.

Sitting at the desk, apparently in an internet chatroom, was a young man.  Black, very dark, thin, very cute.  Naked. He quickly covered up and smiled at me.

"Dit is Boomer," Azi announced.  "Van der Horseman Club.  Mijn broer, Eli."

"Jij bent gek!" Eli exclaimed.  You're crazy!  They exchanged some angry words that I didn't understand, and Azi walked out. I heard a door slam.

Eli and I looked at each other.  "Um...what's going on?"


He spoke fairly good English.  "Mijn broer thinks I am too small to find boys.  Not enough big!  So tonight he says he will find a boy for me with a big lul -- down there, yes?  I say I don't want his help, but he goes out anyway, and now....don't be mad, you are very sexy...but..."

I finally began to figure it out.  "I thought my hookup was with Azi.  Is he even gay?"

"No.  He has a girlfriend, so he wants me to have a boyfriend.  I want a boyfriend, but my study is more important, yes?"

"So a straight guy went to the Horseman's Club to get groped by a dozen guys, all to find a hookup for his little brother?  That's above and beyond the call of duty.  He was only trying to help.  You should apologize."

He smiled.  "Mogelicht.  Sorry that Azi tricked you.  I will walk with you back to the train station, yes?"

"That would be great," I said, drawing him to his feet and wrapping my arms around him.  "In the morning."

In case you were wondering: not nearly as big as his brother, Bratwurst at best.  But very good at cuddling.

See also: A find a Boyfriend at the Horseman's Club; Eli's Dispatches from Oman; and A Jogging Date with a Somali Teenager

I Meet the Hottest Guy in the World

Durban, South Africa, July 2000

I am attracted to the following traits:

1. Clergy.  Preachers, priests, monks, rabbis, imams, seminary students, Mormon missionaries.

2. Dark skinned.  Black, Middle Eastern, South Asian, Hispanic.  Among Europeans, Spanish, Italian, Greek. 

3. Short, small, compact.  Under 5'8" is good, under 5'" better.  

4. Muscular, the bigger and harder the better, or else husky, chubby, fat. As long as there's some mass.   

5. Baseball bat.

There are exceptions --my Celebrity Boyfriend had none of the above.  But the guys I date generally have two, usually three::

Fred the Ministerial Student: 1, 4, 5

The Greek Orthodox Priest with the Pushy Mom: 1, 4, 5

Jimmy, the Bodybuilder on Crutches: 3, 4, 5

Alan, the Ex-Porn Star: 1, 4, 5

Raul in West Hollywood: 2, 3
Blake in Manhattan: 2, 4, 5
Joe, my Boyfriend's Roommate: 2, 3, 4, 5

There aren't many guys around with four of the traits, and only once in my life have I met someone with all five.

In the summer of 2000, I wrote a paper on the evangelical Christian response to to gay men with AIDS, and presented it at the 13th International AIDS Conference, held in Durban, South Africa.

There were 12,000 people attending and 5,000 presentations, including an endless number on religious responses to gay men with AIDS.

One of the presenters in my session was Sibusiso, or Sibu for short, a student at the Lutheran seminary in Pretoria.

He was short, very dark, handsome, and a member of the clergy!  I don't remember what his presentation was about, but he mentioned being gay.

After the session I approached him, suggested we collaborate on a paper about gay Christian men with AIDS, and invited him for coffee.

He accepted.

Conference Center, Durban

He was 24 years old, Zulu, raised in an African Pentecostal Church, but converted to the Lutheran Church at age 15.  He came out at age 18, while studying Biblical Languages at the University of Pretoria.

We had such similar backgrounds!  We must be destined to be soul mates!

I reached over and casually touched his arm, and met hard muscle.  Four out of five traits!  Incredible!

That night Sibu and two of his friends went dancing at the Lounge, one of Durham's gay clubs.  I was 39, too old for dance clubs, but I invited myself along anyway.

When he headed for the dark room, I followed. 

Baseball bat.

All five of the traits!

 It was settled: Sibu was, by definition, the Hottest Guy in the World.

The Lounge, Durban

The Lounge was dirty, dank, packed, and too noisy to talk.  And everyone else was under 30, making me feel decidedly out of place.  

And Sibu and his friends kept dancing.  My shirt was soaked with sweat; my hair reeked of cigarette smoke; I was exhausted. I wanted to go home to bed.

But I also wanted to spend the night with the Hottest Guy in the World.

It was 3:00 am when we finally headed back to his hotel.  I tried to put my arm around him in the back seat of the taxi, but he brushed me away.  Closeted, I figured.

He said goodbye to his friends, and we got in the elevator.  "What floor are you?" he asked.

What did he mean by that?  "The same floor as you."

We walked down the hall to his room.  He opened the door.  "Well, goodnight."
 

 "Aren't you going to invite me in?"  I asked in desperation.

"It's late..."

"Well...can I see you for breakfast tomorrow?"

He frowned.  "Look...I like you, you're a nice guy and all that, but you're not my type."

"Not your type?  But...I starred in a porn film...."

"I like guys my own age.  Sorry."  The door slammed in my face.

Just my luck.  I meet the Hottest Guy in the World, and it's ten years too late.

See also: The Quest for the Bushman Penis.; In Search of Sex and Languages in South Africa

Cruised by a Young Republican

Boca Raton, Florida, December 2002

When I was a teenager, I could get away with any stupid mistake by claiming that I had been trying to meet girls or impress a girl.  Actually, everyone assumed that the reason every boy did anything, from joining a school club to selecting a college, was to find a girl.

In gay communities, they don't automatically assume that you do things to find guys or impress a guy.

But that's exactly why I went to a meeting of the Log Cabin Republicans.

I don't have an excuse except -- did you see what he looked like?

He was a short, tightly-muscled, amazingly goodlooking 22-year old named Tom, who took my Sociology of Religion class at Florida Atlantic in the fall of 2002.

He kept grinning at me during class, especially during the lecture on gay Christians, and after the final grades were posted, he stopped by my office to cruise, just as I had with my own professor back at USC in 1986.

Over coffee, Tom told me that he grew up in, and was still attending, the Calvary Chapel, an ultra-fundamentalist mega-church.

Religious!  Just my type!  We bragged about the deprivations we faced growing up fundamentalist.  No movies -- no theater -- no eating out on Sunday -- and so on.

"Of course, I'm not out to my parents.  They would just start yelling.  Almost as loud as if I told them I turned Democrat!"

I interpreted this to mean that he was not out to his parents as gay or a Democrat.

"There's a Christmas party at the club next week," Tom offered.  "I'll have to introduce you as my professor, not my date, and we can't dance, but...anyhow, can you come?"

The Club turned out to be the St. Andrew's Club, the most exclusive and elegant of Boca Raton's many country clubs.

It was fun going undercover in a roomful of conservative, rich, straight people.  I met Tom's teenage brother and trio of hunky country-club buddies, and his parents, who said things like "Tom just thinks the world of you!  He found your class so enlightening!"

Everyone asked about "my wife."  I said she wasn't feeling well.

The dancing was a bit uncomfortable.  Tom had no problem cozying up to teenage debutantes, but I stood on the sidelines, being cruised by innumerable middle-aged ladies and not one man.



Afterwards we drove (in separate cars, of course) to the beach to walk in the moonlight, and then we went back to my house in Wilton Manors to spend the night.


Average beneath-the-belt gifts, a bit on the passive side, but who cares -- did you see what he looked like?

I should have guessed earlier, but I was having so much fun deceiving the straights that it didn't occur to me that Tom's conservative-speak was not part of the act.

I figured it out over breakfast in the morning, when Tom praised some statement by President Bush.

"That homophobic a*hole!" my housemate Barney exclaimed.  "He's worse than Reagan!"

"Reagan did a fine job, considering what he had to work with," Tom said.  "Remember, it was the 1980s."

Then Tom came out: he was a Republican!

"How can you be a gay Republican?" Barney asked.  "It's like being a Jewish Nazi, or a black Grand Dragon of the Ku Klux Klan!"

"You can be gay and still want a strong economy.  I know that some of the Republican leaders need to be educated."

"Educated?"  I said.  "President Bush is trying everything he can to keep us second-class citizens.  But he's a lot better than Governor Jeb Bush, who doesn't think we should grant civil rights to 'sodomites.'"

"What about the mayor of Fort Lauderdale, Jim Naugle?  He doesn't like the Sun-Sentinel because there are too many 'homos' on the staff, and he's a Democrat.  All of our leaders need to be educated about gay people.  That's what the Log Cabin Republicans are all about."

Log Cabin Republicans!

So this guy wasn't just pretending to be straight among his parents and their friends, to make sure he got his inheritance.  He was Tom the Uncle Tom, actively collaborating with our oppressors.

I should have showed him the door. But....

Remember what he looked like?

We went out again after I got back from my Christmas visit back home.

And I ended up going to a meeting of the Log Cabin Republicans with him!

It was full of doddering, elderly, elegant gay men wearing fancy rings, sipping martinis, complaining about America's faltering role in world politics, and cruising.  They approached the few young guys shamelessly, ignoring the rule that younger must always approach older.

I kept my arm tightly attached to Tom to signify that he was taken, but he still got extensively cruised.

"Guys who are into Daddy types must get a lot of action here," I whispered.

"Oh, you have no idea!" Tom said with a smile.

The "celebrity" guest speaker was Ruta Lane, an elderly actress who was in some Westerns and sitcoms during the 1950s.  She said "You should keep trying until the Republican Party gives you a place at the table."

"Wait -- your own party won't acknowledge you?"  I asked.

Tom squirmed in his seat, embarrassed.  "We're still working on them.  They need a lot of education."

So they weren't even Uncle Toms.  They were Uncle Tom Wannabes, just hoping for a chance to collaborate with our oppressors.

Or were they all just there to meet guys, or to impress a guy?

Tom and I went out two more dates.  I may be liberal, but I'm not crazy -- did you see what he looked like?

The Log Cabin Republicans were finally recognized by the California GOP in 2015.  The national organization still won't acknowledge them.

See also: I Hook Up with the Most Conservative Professor on Campus; and Arjun and the World's Weirdest Pickup Line.

The Boy from My First Three-Way

Omaha, July 1980

During the summer of 1980, just after my sophomore year in college, I was 19, stupid, and completely infatuated with my first boyfriend Fred.  So when he finished his ministerial internship and got a job as a youth minister at a Methodist church in Omaha (actually Gretna, Nebraska, about 20 miles away), I dropped out of college and moved with him.

It was awful.  We lived in a horrible apartment, I had a horrible job as a glorified paperboy. The people were rude. I had to pretend to be Fred's "cousin."

He had never had a live-in boyfriend before, so he became controlling and weird.

 After six weeks, I packed up my stuff and left.

My only positive memory from those six weeks is Michael Stevenson (not his real name), a boy from the youth group at church.  A high school jock, about my height, very short brown hair, square face, nice chest.  The other members of the congregation were standoffish and rude, but he always said "hello" to me and asked how I liked Gretna -- and one night Fred brought him over for dinner and "sharing."

I didn't know anything about sharing  -- I had only been with a few guys, and never more than one at a time.  And Fred didn't explain anything in advance.  After dinner, when I finished putting the dishes in the dishwasher, I went out into the living room to find Michael on his knees, going down on Fred!

"It's ok," Fred said, noticing my shocked expression.  "Michael is 17.  Yesterday was his birthday, in fact."

He thought I was worried about that?  No -- I thought that being gay was illegal for everyone.  I was worried about my boyfriend cheating on me right in front of my eyes, with a member of his youth group!

"I'm his birthday present," Fred continued.

Michael giggled.  "So are you."  He stood, walked over and kissed me.

Suddenly I was up for sharing.

I'll always remember that kiss -- warm, passionate but assertive, demanding.

And Michael's penis, small but thick, uncut, an iron shaft yet easy to go down on without gagging.  Not like Fred's monster cock

I went down on Michael while he was standing there in the entry-way, thrusting energetically up and down until he finished.  Then we went into the bedroom.  He had already sprang to life again, so I went down on him a second time while he was going down on Fred.  Then Fred tried to top him, but he was too big.  He made do with interfemoral.

My first sharing experience, and the best ever, with one of the nicest guys I've ever met!

We spent the night cuddling, and in the morning Michael showered and went to school.  He continued to chat with me in church, but he never came over for "sharing again."  After I left Omaha, Fred and I stayed friends, but he never mentioned Michael.

Maybe he was just a hookup, a one-night stand.  But I still remember him fondly, 36 years, 8 boyfriends, and 130 hookups later.

Plains, July 2016

I was successful in finding the Mormon missionary who I chatted with briefly in Beaver, Utah.  Why not try to find Michael?

I had even more clues than with the Mormon missionary: a first and last name, a United Methodist church, a high school and a birthday.

His last name is not as common as "Stevenson": there were only five in the Omaha area.  No Michael.   He wasn't listed in the alumni roster of his high school, which means he never checked in -- a bad experience with bullying and homophobia, no doubt.

 No doubt he moved to the nearest gay neighborhood as soon as he could.  That would be Chicago.

But maybe I could dig up a relative.

A search of Omaha newspapers revealed a Mike Stevenson who won a fishing contest in 2006, and took a school tour of Washington DC in 2010.  Maybe Michael's nephew or...gulp...son?

When he won a civic scholarship as a high school senior in 2013, Mike said that he was planning to attend Dakota Wesleyan University in Mitchell, South Dakota.

Wesleyan...fundamentalist...double gulp.

I found his campus address and sent him an email, saying that I was looking for an old friend with his name, who belonged to the Gretna United Methodist Church and graduated from Gretna High School in 1982.

He emailed back.  "Sure, that's my Uncle Michael!"

Success!  "Do you have his email address?  I'd love to get back in touch with him."

"I'm sorry to tell you this, but Uncle Michael died a few years ago.  Cancer.  I have mementos I can show you.  Can you come out to Mitchell?"

I didn't want to drive an hour and a half to meet with the nephew of a guy I had a one-night stand with 36 years ago, but I kept thinking of that night, that passionate, intense kissing, that penis standing hard and firm...so ok.

Mitchell, South Dakota is known for its Corn Palace, a castle-like building with Moorish-style domes and minarets, the walls covered with murals made of corn.  I took some photos, then met Mike at a brew pub a few blocks away.

Mike Stevenson was 21 years old, the image of his uncle: same short hair, same square face, same muscular torso.  I almost reached out and kissed him, but caught myself and shook his hand instead.

"How did you know my Uncle Michael?" he asked.

I don't usually come out to strangers, especially those attending Wesleyan colleges, so I talked about spending the summer of 1980 in Omaha.  Michael befriended me, showed me around, really made me feel welcome.

"Was he your boyfriend?"

"Um..."  Ok, I guess I could come out.  "We sort of dated.  It was complicated."

"He never talked about high school.  I don't think he liked it very much -- it was probably hard, in those days when you had to be in the closet. So I was hoping you were like the one bright spot."

No, I was a one-night stand, I think, embarrassed.  "Sounds like you were pretty close to him."

 "He was like a second father to me.  I used to spend summers out in Sayville with him and Uncle Max.  After he died, Uncle Max gave me some old photos and stuff."

Photos, playbills, his passport, a certificate for winning a fishing contest, the contours of a life.

A photo of Michael and his partner in Sayville -- they were there when I was living on Long Island, but our paths never crossed.

Michael and his former partner in New Jersey.

Fishing trips and ski trips (with Mike in tow), the Tower of London, Gettysburg, Colonial Williamsburg.

The New York Gay Pride Festival.

An autographed picture of Barry Williams, Greg on The Brady Bunch.

"Uncle Michael said he knew he was gay when he saw The Brady Bunch as a kid.  He had a crush on Greg."

"I was more into Peter, myself."

The program of his college graduation.

A photo of Michael in college, his arm around his roommate (I assume).

A photo of Michael in high school.

And....a photo of Michael and me!

I didn't even remember that Fred took a picture that night: a 17 year old and a 19 year old, hugging, smiling at the camera.

It never occurred to me that this was Michael's first "sharing" experience, too.  An experience that bolstered him through the horrors of a homophobic adolescence.

A memory of a warm summer night that never faded.

For either of us.

See also: Fred and the Teenager Downstairs.

Fred and the Teenager Downstairs

Omaha, June 1980

In the spring of 1980, during my sophomore year at Augustana College, my boyfriend Fred the Ministerial Student ended his internship and landed a job as a youth minister at a church in Omaha -- actually Gretna, a small town about 20 miles south.

Great -- my first boyfriend who knew that he was gay, and after five months, he vanishes!

But what if I moved with him?  We could rent an apartment together.  I could transfer to the University of Nebraska to finish my degree, and meanwhile get a job to help out with the expenses.

It doesn't sound like a great idea, in retrospect, but I was 19 years old, and getting my own place with "my lover" sounded very grown-up and romantic.



Fred agreed, but with some ground rules.  He was closeted -- Methodists were more liberal than Nazarenes, but they still found being gay "incompatible with Christian practice."  So:

1. I was to introduce myself as his "cousin" staying with him while going to college.
2. I couldn't go to the gay organizations in Omaha, where someone might identify me and it would get back to the church.

I told my parents that Fred found me a summer job, and on June 7th, 1980, packed two suitcases and a box of books and drove out to join him.

We lived together for about six weeks, until July 20th, 1980.

There were lots of problems:

1. My job, Assistant District Circulation Manager at the Omaha World-Herald: a glorified paperboy
.

2. College: I would have to live in Nebraska for a year to get in-state tuition.

3. Fred had never had a live-in boyfriend before, and he soon became controlling and weird.  He cooked occasionally, but he never did any cleaning or laundry.  As the "preacher's wife," that was my job.

4. The small town on the prairie, with a Watermelon Feed, a Fourth of July Parade, and a Town Dance.  Do you have any idea what a Watermelon Feed is?  It doesn't often involve high school jocks.


5. The high school boy who lived downstairs, who Fred took under his wing, always inviting him to tag along when we went to dinners or movies.  I found some shirtless photos of the kid, which made me think that they were sleeping together (years later, Fred admitted that I was right).

The only bright spot was Michael, a high school boy from Fred's youth group who came over for my first three-way.

Then my friend Tom, called.  "You know, Omaha is halfway to Los Angeles.  You might as well come the rest of the way and pay me a visit."

So that Sunday, July 20th, I waited for Fred to go to church.  I packed while he was gone, got into my car, and drove cross country 24 hours to Los Angeles.

Nearly the minute I left, Fred found a new lover, a University of Nebraska freshman.  They were together for two years, introduced to parishioners as a "college kid I'm helping out."  Then Fred moved to Kansas, and met Matt, his partner for the next eight years.  They got along better.

Fred and I stayed friends.  Eventually he moved to California.

See also A Ginger Boy for Christmas; My First Three-Way

Dating the High School Bodybuilder

Wilton Manors, January 2005

I was always mature for my age, so I attracted guys a few years older than me.  So it came as quite a shock when I hit 40, and things were reversed. The guys staring at me, approaching me at parties, and asking me out were younger.  10, 15, 20, even 25 years younger!

(All models are over 18.)

In 2005, when I was going to Barney's Gym in Florida, three boys from Cardinal Gibbons High School came in almost every afternoon to work out.  Two were just fooling around, but the third, Stanton, short and sandy-haired, was serious about weight training and nutrition.  He was developing quite a muscular physique, nearly ready for amateur competitions.

And he was obviously gay, staring at biceps and baskets.

And apparently into me, following me around, asking questions, trying to maneuver to see me naked in the shower.

I did the same things in high school!

I decided that I was going to mentor this kid, make sure he didn't have the same trouble I had:  assumed heterosexual, not aware that gay people exist.

But this was 2005, in a gay neighborhood.  Things had changed!

One day in late January, he approached me when I was alone in the locker room. "That guy you always work out with -- is he your boyfriend?"

WTF?  "Um..um...you mean Yuri?  We're just friends.  I don't have a boyfriend.'

"Me, neither."  He grinned.  "You into younger guys?"

"Are you kidding? I've been out since before you were born.  What are you, about sixteen?"

"Hey, I'm eighteen!" Stanton exclaimed, offended.  "And I can prove it.  Wanna see my id?"

I checked.  Eighteen years and two months.  "But...shouldn't you be cruising guys your own age?"

"What's cruising mean?"

At that moment, someone else came into the locker room, and Stanton quickly moved away.

The next day Stanton approached me again.  "My basketball team is playing against Dillard on Saturday.  It's the semi-quarterfinal.  Do you want to come?  And we could go for pizza afterwards."

"Will you be bringing a girl?" I asked.

"What?  No!  Why would I bring a girl?"

"Just joking," I said, smiling as I recalled how Verne and I went on basketball-and-pizza dates in high school, only we had to bring girls along as a screen.  "Anyway, I can't go -- previous engagement.  But thanks for the offer."

Next he invited me to see Lemony Snicket's Series of Unfortunate Events, the movie based on the series of children's books.

I declined, mostly because I was worried that everyone in the theater would think we were father and son.

Later I told Barney and Yuri about my teen admirer.  "Why don't you just date him?" Barney asked. "He's of legal age, and he's cute, so what's the problem?"

"The problem is, he was born 2 years after I moved to West Hollywood! His first childhood crush was Richard Lane Jackson on Saved by the Bell: The New Class!"

"So what?  When Christopher Isherwood met Don Bachardy, he was 48, and Bachardy was 18.  It was a match made in heaven!"

A few days later, Stanton invited me to Sebastian Street, the gay beach in Fort Lauderdale, where we could swim, sunbathe, and ogle cute guys all afternoon.  I agreed, but insisted on bringing Barney and Yuri along. Stanton countered by bringing his two high school buddies, Ronnie and Keaton.

In addition to discussions of the measurements of passersby and the actors they would like to "get with," they talked incessantly of Green Day.  When I put on a tape of Olivia Newton-John singing "Let's Get Physical," they cupped their ears and pretended to gag.

Afterwards, Stanton suggested that the three of them come back to our house to "party," but I refused.  I permitted a good-night kiss in the car, though.

Next Stanton invited me to a bodybuilding competition at Florida International University in Miami.  I said ok, but insisted on double-dating with Barney and his boyfriend.

And another good-night kiss in the car.

"Don't go bragging to all your friends about how you scored," I joked.

"Huh?"

He didn't get the term score, or the reference to second season of The Simpsons.


We dated a few more times -- yes, he eventually made it into my bedroom -- but it was obvious that the relationship wasn't going anywhere.  For one thing, Stanton was entering his prime partying years, and I was perfectly happy staying home on Saturday night.

For another, he would be going off to college soon, and I was sending out applications in the hope of getting a job in Europe.

For another, Green Day.

So I called it quits.

When I told Barney, he immediately asked if it was ok for him to ask Stanton out.  The age difference didn't bother him a bit.

See also: Liam's 18th Birthday Present and Hooking up with the Hitchhiker.

Mario the Teen Fashion Model

New York, September 2000

When I was living in West Hollywood, there was a strict age segregation.  If your boyfriend was more than five years older or younger, tongues would wag.  More than ten years, and there would be snubs and disinvitations to parties.

So when I moved to New York in 1997, near my 37th birthday, I assumed that my boyfriends would be in the late 30s - early 40s range.

Instead, I was cruised by every Cute Young Thing in sight, guys in their 20s, even teenagers.

What did I have in common with guys 10 or 20  younger than me?  I had never heard of Puff Daddy or the Spice Girls.  I didn't watch Dawson's Creek.  I didn't play Grand Theft Auto.  And I was ready for bed by 10:00 pm.

But guys in my age range were usually in long-term monogamous relationships or married to women and closeted.  Or else they had major personality flaws.  So why not try the Cute Young Things?

But they had drawbacks of their own.


Fall 2000. I meet Mario (not his real name) at a party.  He's somewhat more feminine than what I usually like, but short and muscular, two of the five traits I find attractive (the others are dark skin, being religious, and having a large endowment).

A student at Columbia University, majoring in education -- "I've always loved kids"  -- and a professional model. He did some fashion catalogs and a nude photo shoot for Freshmen.

I call him the next day.  "Would you like to see Saving Silverman next Friday night?  I hear there's a lesbian character in it.  And afterwards we could go to the Empellon Taqueria.  That's where I went on my date with Andrew Lloyd Webber."

He giggles.  "Dinner and a movie?  So old-fashioned!  Sounds great!"

We see the movie, which is entirely heterosexist, all about "changing" lesbians.  Then, over quesadillas and chiles relleno, we discuss my brief modeling career and porn movie, compare growing up fundamentalist in the Midwest with growing up Catholic in New Jersey, and reveal our lists of favorite cities (mine are Paris, Tallinn, and Brussels, his are Paris, London, and New York).

That's when he tells me that he's only 19 years old.

I can count on one hand the number of teenagers I've been with, and the dates usually end up badly.  What would the guys back in West Hollywood say?

But I figure, We're having a nice conversation.  Why not give it a shot?

It's 10:00.  I'm ready for the evening to end with a kiss on the doorstep, or an invitation inside, but Mario says "Let's go to Webster Hall!"

It's an 18+ dance club, bright with flashing lasers, throbbing with techno-indie music, crowded with teenagers wearing glowing neon tubes and sucking on pacifiers.  Mario and I dance until I'm sweat-soaked and wishing I hadn't eaten that quesadilla, and then he dances some more, grinding and flirting with every guy in sight.

I'm fuming.  I rush over, pull him from the embrace of some guy, and tell him, "You don't cruise when you're on a date!  It's not done!"

He doesn't stop dancing.  "What's cruising mean?"

"Flirting with guys!"

"Oh, come on, don't be jealous!  I'm just having a good time!"

It's midnight.  My head is throbbing, and my shirt reeks of cigarette smoke.  "Can we go somewhere quieter?"  I ask.

"Sure.  I know a place."

We take a taxi to a dark, scary warehouse-type building.  We pay a $10 admission fee, deposit our clothing into lockers, and enter a dimly-lit maze where guys are walking around in towels.

"You brought me to a bath house?" I exclaim, astonished at his chutzpah. "But we're on a date!"

"Don't be a prude! Seeing all the hot guys will get us all excited for later, right?"

There are lots of hot guys around, more and more as time passed, until the hallways are just as packed as the dance club.  You have to push your way through, being grabbed a dozen times on the way.

At least I can to take a shower.

2:00 am.  I lose track of Mario for a long time, and think he's gone for good.  I'm about ready to get in a taxi and go home when he appears, nude and smiling. .

"You lost your towel," I point out.

"Oh, yeah," he says absently.  "I must have left it in someone's room. So, where to now?"

"Home!"

"But I'm starving.  A quick bite first, ok?"

Mario's "quick bite" is The Cafeteria in Chelsea, an all-night eatery patronized by actors, models, and wannabes.  While we wait for our signature macaroni and cheese with grilled green beans, two of Mario's model friends come in, and they sit and gossip, and gossip, and gossip.

4:00 am.  The four of us walk out onto the cold, dark streets of Chelsea.  "Home!" I exclaim.  I mean that we should go to our own separate homes, but I'm too groggy to protest as Mario pushes me into a cab and gives the driver his address -- a dormitory on 114th Street.  He has his own room, with a sink, but the bathroom is down the hall.

All I can think of is sleep, but Mario has other ideas. Lots of them.

I wake up at the same time every day, no matter when I go to bed.  So I'm up at 6:00 am, after about 45 minutes of sleep.  I take an early-morning subway back to my apartment.

The Gay Community Center is advertising a meeting of SAGE, the gay senior citizens club.  I think I'll find my next boyfriend there.

See also: Liam's 18th Birthday Present; My Most Embarrassing Date.

The Brazilian Twink

Wilton Manors, March 2002

You probably know my top 10 turn-offs: tall, thin, long faced, wearing jewelry, alcoholic, sports nut, and so on, until we reach #10: feminine traits.

Politically, I'm a strong supporter of your right to be as butch, femme, or androgynous as you want to be.  I won't blink an eye if you sashay across the room in bedazzled couture, stanking up the place with your Chanel #5, and call me "girlfriend."  But it's not likely to get you the key to my bedroom.

So how did I end up going home with Miss Chita Taboo?

Well, I didn't know about Miss Chita Taboo.

One night in the spring of 2002, Yuri dragged me to the Manor, the twink bar in Wilton Manors, and I was cruised by Victor, a slim, smiling twink from Brazil (this isn't him).

He had three of the five traits I find attractive -- shorter than me, dark-skinned, and religious (devout Catholic).  And he had only a few feminine mannerisms, the sort that twinks get when they grow up in a super-macho environment where every hint of androgyny is punished -- they tend to go overboard, and sashay a bit.  Not a big turn off.

Besides, he was very persistent.  He taught me how to say "I want to kiss you." in Portuguese.

Eu quero te beijar

So I accepted the date.

I thought something might be up when I got to Victor's apartment, which was large, elegantly-furnished, and so close to the beach that you could hear the waves.

In his living room, instead of a couch, there was an enormous pink daybed with a zebra canopy and a photo of Madonna behind it.

"Who's the hunk?" I asked, pointing to a framed portrait of a very attractive older man, shirtless, with a hairy chest, gigantic pecs and delts.


"Oh, that's my Michael, my ex-husband," Victor said.  "Bodybuilder -- he went to Barney's Gym, where you go.  We broke up a long time ago.   We're still friends  -- we can share sometime -- but don't worry, you have no competition!"

Gay men did not call their partners husbands in 2002, unless they were modeling their relationships on heterosexual boy-girl models.

Ok, Victor was way too feminine for my comfort zone.

But I already agreed to the date -- I couldn't back out now.

We had dinner at a Brazilian restaurant, and then walked hand in hand along the gay beach.

"How can you afford that swanky apartment?" I asked.

"Oh, Daddy is the mayor of Belo Horizonte, He sends me money every month so I stay away from Brazil.  I embarrass him.  And I make money from my entertaining, too."

I didn't ask what his entertaining entailed, but I got an idea from the rest of our conversation, mostly about pop music.  Victor was a big fan of Jennifer Lopez, Vanessa Carlton, Lane Ann Rimes, Brandy, Pink, and Aaliyeh, but he also liked the classics.  He had just been to a Cher concert, and he had a copy of Madonna's first album (1983), which had her all-time best number, "Lucky Star."  He began singing it for me, right on the beach, complete with hand gestures.


You may be my lucky star, but I'm the luckiest by far....

Getting serenaded by Madonna songs by moonlight is quite an experience.

Still, this guy was way too feminine.  I decided to excuse myself and go home without the obligatory kiss. Then Victor cozied up to me and said, "I have a surprise for you. Bolo de rolo, guava cake.  A special Brazilian dessert.  I made it myself."

He already made the cake.  It would be impolite to refuse.

We sat in Victor's elegantly furnished kitchen, eating small slices of the very rich, spicy cake and drinking coffee.  I tried to steer the conversation away from popular music.

How about the gym?

"Oh, I do jazzercise every morning.  I keep my girlish figure."

Movies?

"Oh, I want to see the Powerpuff Girls movie so bad! I love them so much -- Girl Power!  Which one is your favorite, Blossom, Bubbles, or Buttercup?"

"Um...do you have any interests that involve men?"  I asked.

"Horny already, you naughty boy?  Wait a minute...I'll be back...."  Before I could say anything, he vanished through the bedroom into the bathroom and shut the door.

Oh, no -- he thought I was interested in bedroom activities.  I had to turn him down fast!   I followed to tell him I was going home.

The bedroom contained:

A gigantic bed with a black bedspread and red plush pillows.

A chair shaped like a high-heel shoe.

A vanity desk cluttered with jars, vials, chalices, styluses, Eau de Parfum, nail polish, polish remover, lipstick, sponge applicators, brow gel, eyeliner, toner, moisturizer, bronzer, mascara, hair gel, moisturizer, pink razors, tweezers, powder.

And a framed photo of an elegant drag queen.

"Who's the drag queen?" I asked through the door.

"That's me -- Miss Chita Taboo.  I've won Miss Gay Fort Lauderdale twice!  I could go on to Miss Gay Florida last year, but that Yvette DeLong beat me out!"

"Oh,.,that's very interesting," I said.  "I'm not..I mean, I support your right to do drag 100%.  I just like men who are a little more...you know...masculine."

No answer.

"I think I'm going to be going.  But thanks for the rolo de bolo.  It was very tasty."

No answer.

Had he collapsed?

"Victor?  Are you ok?"

No answer.

Was he sobbing over the rejection?

"Miss Taboo?  Are you still there?"

The door breezed open.  "Sorry, I didn't hear you with the toilet running."

Victor stood in front of me, naked, smiling.  Hung.

Bratwurst+.  Maybe bigger.

"What did you say, babe?"

"Um...um..I said I'd love to see your act sometime."

"How sweet!  But why are your clothes on still!"

Well, I never turn down a Bratwurst+.

See also: The Pitcher with the Secret Move; and My Sausage List.