A High School Boy Gives Me His Underwear

This story has been moved to RG Beefcake and Boyfriends

The Amish Boy in Red Bikini Underwear

Rural Florida, August 2001

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

No, but  I have Amish roots.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suddenly fifty Amish people came trundling in!

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

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

It was trough-style.

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

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

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

Red bikini briefs? 

I had to know more about this guy!

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

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

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

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

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

"Boomer. Older than that."

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

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

"Or goes to a gay bar?"

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

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

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

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

"Yah.  You think I'm a dope?"

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

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

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

I hope our five-minute chat helped.

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

Men of Steel in their Underwear

The Superman costume centers on a red-and-yellow "S" on a blue field.  You can buy or make entire costumes, but why not just use the logo on underwear?  Thus you can highlight the part of your anatomy that is "super."

Of course, it helps if you have a bulge to fill it out.  No one wants to see a flat "Superman" logo.
















If you are well built, you can get away with it.

This guy has a whole Man of Sttel going on in his shorts.  Hard to see where his bulge begins.

Boxers give you a chance to display a lot of "S" logos.

More after the break.

Sausage Sighting of James Arness on Makaha Beach

I'm Ali, short for Alika, "Guardian."  I was born and raised in Makaha, the surfing capital of the world.

Kind of a bummer when you hate surfing.

I was a bit of a chubby kid, not at all athletic, and a "sissy" -- I got picked on a lot.   I liked to hang out on the beach and look at the surfers, but I didn't like hanging out with them.  They're, as a rule, macho, sexist, and way homophobic, surfing to "prove" their manhood, goading each other on with homophobic slurs.  Even today, there are no openly gay professional surfers.  You have to have a wife and kids back home.

Imagine what it was like when I was growing up in the 1960s!

The only surfer I could stand was my classmate Brian Keaulana  -- Native Hawaiian, with beautiful dark skin, brown eyes, and a smooth muscular chest.  He teased me all the time, but at least he wasn't mean.  No tripping, no hitting, just ribbing me on being momona (fat), and on watching tv all the time.

I did watch a lot of tv.  I longed to escape from the island, find my way into the world of Lost in Space (Billy Mumy, sigh!) or That Girl (I wanted to be Ann Marie, and get to kiss Donald Hollinger).

Or Gunsmoke.

Marshall Dillon (James Arness) was exactly my type: tall, broad-shouldered, deep-voiced, a Grade-A cowboy complete with 10-gallon hat and leather vest.  And what a bulge on him!  You could see it moving around every time he walked.  What I wouldn't give to be captured and tied up by the bad guys, and have Marshall Dillon burst in to save the day!  Maybe carry me off into the sunset, for lots of kissing and hugging!

Remember, I was like nine or ten years old.  I wouldn't be thinking about going down on guys for a few years.

One day I told my friend Brian about my crush on Marshall Dillon -- omitting the kissing and hugging, of course -- and he said "I know him.  We buddies."

"Not!"  I exclaimed.  Surely he was putting me on!

"No lie, Brah.  He's a surfer, and his son, too."

"Not a surfer, a cowboy!"I protested, angry.  He had no right to pull my Archetypal Cowboy out of his mythic setting in the Old West and plop him down into the mundane, every day world of Makana Beach!

"Don't be buggin', Brah!  He an actor, right, come over here from the Mainland to surf.  His son, too.  They tight with my dad, come for dinner, play Matchbook cars, like that."  His father was Buff Keaulana, a lifeguard and former surfing great.

"You lolo, or pull my leg!"

"I can prove it!  Next time James Arness comes to Hawaii, you come over for dinner, too."

I figured he was just blowing hot air, but sure enough, a few weeks later, Brian invited me to lunch at James Arness' house!

Apparently he really was a surfer -- he and Rolf rented a bungalow on Makana Beach two or three times a year, and flew out from L.A. for a surfing vacation.

When Brian and I arrived, James, Rolf, Buff, Corky, and a couple of guys I didn't know were sitting on deck chairs in swimsuits, eating take-out bentos full of poke (raw fish), tako (octopus), chicken and rice, and liliko (passionfruit).

 An all-male party full of hot guys in swimsuits!  My hormones should have been spilling out all over the place, but I couldn't my eyes off James Arness.  Broad shoulders, smooth chest, gigantic bulge visible in his swimsuit.

Brian introduced me, and he grabbed my hand with his huge paw.  "Are you a surfer?"  he asked.

Marshall Dillon was talking to me!  "Oh...um...I can't...I mean..."

"Ali is delicate" Brian said.  "Like a butterfly.  He'll melt in the water."

"I don't...um...I don't have the balance for surfing."

"It just takes a little confidence," James said, squeezing my shoulder.  "How about if after lunch I give you a lesson?"

A surfing lesson from Marshall Dillon!  The mind reels!  "I don't have my swim trunks with me, though."

"I'm sure we can find something for you to wear.  One of Rolf's spares."

"You joke?" Brian said.  "He so ono, can fit into Big Jim's trunks."

"Don't be mean!"  His father scolded.  "Ali can't help it he's big."

"No lie! He wears big boy pants!"

"I'll bet I could wear your trunks," I said.  Swim trunks that had been next to James Arness on my body!  The next best thing to touching him!

"I'm 6'7, and I weigh 275 pounds," Big Jim said.  "I've got a 48 inch chest and a 43 inch waist.  Two of Ali could fit into my swim trunks."

"I can prove it," Brian said.  "Take 'em off, and let Ali try them on."

I'm still not sure why Big Jim didn't get a spare swimsuit for me to try on, but he didn't.  He stood, put his bento to one side, and dropped his pants.  His penis hung down at least 5".

I gasped in awe.  I had never seen anything so beautiful!

"Oh, yeah, I'm big there, too," Big Jim said, with a smile.  He lifted his legs one at a time, so his swimsuit would slide off, then handed it to me. "Do your worst."

Without taking my eyes away, I took off my shoes, then my pants, leaving my underwear on.  I pulled Big Jim's swimsuit on -- way too big, of course.

"Wait, wait!" Brian exclaimed.  "I'm heading in, too, pardner."  He stripped to his underwear, then climbed into the swim trunks and slid them up.  They got to just above our knees.  "See, two of us!"

I was standing face to face with Brian Keaulana, our crotches and thighs pressed together, while a naked James Arness stood behind us.  Can you think of a better fantasy scenario?

I never did get that surfing lesson, and I never saw James Arness again.  Apparently when his son graduated from high school, he lost interest in surfing, and James didn't want to fly out to Hawaii without him.

When I was fifteen, Brian Keaulani and I started having sex.  But that's another story.

The Bodybuilder and the Teenage Underwear Thief

Wilton Manors,  Summer 2001

I have just moved from New York to Wilton Manors, Florida, to live with Yuri and his housemate, bodybuilder turned gym owner Barney.  On my first weekend in town, in an attempt to fix me up with an instant boyfriend, they have invited two guys over for dinner: Kevin, a bodybuilder in his 30s, and Jordi, a slim, eyeglassed twink from Romania, who teaches at Florida International University.

After dinner, we sit in the living room with dessert (yogurt-covered strawberries), cruise, decide who is going to share who, and exchange stories about dates from hell, celebrity hookups, and gigantic penises.  Kevin asks Barney, "Do you think they'd like my story of the Great Underwear Thief?"

"I think so," Barney says, "It starts out weird, but I like the ending."

Buffalo, New York, Summer 1995

Kevin was 25 years old, a recent graduate of Canisius College, working in an office and training hard for the Mr. Olympia contest in Atlanta (he didn't place).

Bodybuilder or not, when you live in apartment, you spent a morning once a week trudging a clothes hamper to the laundry room at the other end of the hall or down the stairs, putting my clothes in the washer for 30 minutes and the drier for 45 minutes, returning to your apartment to wait in between.

He didn't worry about thieves.  Washers don't open during the cycle, and who'd want to break into a drier to get damp clothes?  Especially when they don't know what's there?  Could be the wrong size, the wrong gender, crappy?  It's not worth the trouble, right?

"Well, maybe for a pair of your Speedos, I would take the trouble," Jordi says.

Kevin laughs.  "That's exactly what happened."

One week he couldn't find his favorite blue briefs that cost him 50 francs in Paris.  He checked under the bed, in all the drawers, even under the couch.  He figured a hookup stole them.

Then he couldn't find his favorite Speedos.

Then, when he was folding laundry, he found only two pairs of underwear.  There should have been seven.

Was he being targeted by an underwear thief?

Kevin decided to catch the culprit in the act.  The laundry room was adjacent into the boiler room, a perfect place to hide and see who was coming and going.

He  put the laundry in the drier, and then instead of returning to my apartment, hid.

Sure enough, after about 30 minutes -- long enough for the clothes to be dry, but before anyone would be coming back -- someone came in, knelt, and stared going through his stuff.

A kid!  Teenage, tall, slim, long dirty-blond hair, brown eyes.  Big hands and feet.  Bubble butt.

"Hi!"  Kevin said,  jumping out from behind the boiler.

The kid froze.

"Thanks for your help, but that's ok, I can take it from here."

He stood, staring at Kevin, petrified with terror.

Kevin emptied the remaining clothes.  "You know what?  Why don't you give me a hand with these?"  He shoved the basket into the kid's hands, put his arm around his shoulders, and pushed him up the stairs and down the hall.

The kid didn't resist.  He didn't look at me or even speak.

They went into the apartment and the bedroom.  "Just put those down anywhere."

He deposited them in a corner and stood, trembling.

"What's your name kid?"

"K...K...Kyle."  This was the first time Kevin heard anyone stutter from fear in real life.

"How old are you?"

"I'm...I'm....eighteen...."

"What did you want with my ratty used underwear?"

"I don't know."  Suddenly he started to cry.  Instinctively Kevin went over and wrapped his arms around him.  Kyle hugged him and sobbed and murmured.

"My underwear wouldn't fit you, anyway."

"I didn't think...I don't...don't tell my Mom, ok?"  

"I"m not going to tell your Mom.  But just tell me why..."

Suddenly Kevin understood.  An underwear fetishist!  Some bodybuilders he knew made good money selling their underwear.

 "I don't know, I just did it."  He stopped crying but still hugged Kevin tightly.  I don't have to go, do I?  Tell me I can stay."

"Oh, you can stay, Underwear Thief," Kevin said.  "But you need to return my stuff, and you need to be punished.  You can do some chores...or maybe you'd rather be spanked."

Kyle looked up, flushed with anticipation.  "Yes, sir.  Spanking sounds good."

"Or you could let me kiss you," Kevin added.

"So, what was he like?" Yuri asked.  "How big was he?"

They never dated, but they got together for hookups frequently during the next year, until Kevin moved to New York.

Kyle was a college freshman, gay but not out to anyone.  Smooth, slim physique, cut Mortadella beneath the belt, an anal bottom, but he liked to mount Kevin from the top.  Also into kissing and oral, with Kevin going down on him.

"A twink admirer!" I exclaim.  "I know the feeling.  But I never had anyone steal my underwear before."

"He wasn't really an underwear fetishist -- it was just to get  my attention," Kevin says.  "I think..."

By the way, I ended up sharing Yuri and Kevin.  Barney wasn't into hookups, so he and Jordi went out to the bars.

See also: Zack Hooks Up with the Prince of Sweden; The Bodybuilder and the Teenage Underwear Thief.