The Catholic Boy's Bulge at My Niece's Wedding

Kankakee, Illinois, Summer 2008

When I was a kid, the Nazarene church taught us to:

1. Pity "heathens," the Buddhists, Hindus, and Muslims who hadn't heard the Gospel.

2. Be suspicious of "liberal so-called Christians," the Methodists, Presbyterians, and Baptists.

3. Run in terror from Roman Catholics.  They drank, went to movies, and worshipped idols. Their Pope was the anti-Christ. They were probably demon-possessed.  We weren't supposed to make friends with them, set foot in one of their churches, or even walk on the sidewalk outside one of their houses, lest we be corrupted.

I left the Nazarene church around my freshman year of college, but my parents, brother, and sister are still active.






Ken is actually more devout than when we were kids.  He's ok with gay people, but he doesn't go to movies or the theater, doesn't shop or work on Sunday, and doesn't go to restaurants or stores with alcohol on sale.

He married in 1981, and had four kids.  Then he divorced his wife and married a woman who had three kids of her own, plus an elderly mother.  Ten people, four dogs, two cats, and a parrot all living together in a big, rambling house downtown.

Most of Ken's kids turned out less devoutly Nazarene than their parents.

The oldest spent time in prison for aggravated assault.

The second sang in a punk rock band.

The fourth got pregnant while still in high school.

But somehow the third, Katie, turned into a ultra-devout "Suzie Nazarene."

In high school, she was president of the NYPS and a delegate to the International Institute.

She enrolled at Olivet, the Nazarene college on the prairie, where girls generally majored in becoming a preacher's wife.

I wasn't out to her, or to any of my nieces and nephews, although some of them figured it out (my brother followed a  "don't ask, don't tell policy."  When I brought Lane or Yuri over for Christmas or a summer holiday, we stayed closeted.

I wasn't really close to them, anyway.  I didn't visit Rock Island much after my parents moved to Indiana in 1995, just an occasional Christmas, where they might or might not be present.  I sent them birthday cards with a check in it every year, but eventually I stopped that as well.

In the spring of 2008, when I was living in Dayton, I got Katie's wedding announcement in the mail.  I almost threw it out.  I usually boycott heterosexual weddings.

Then I saw that it was being held at St. Patrick's Catholic Church in Kankakee, Illinois.

Katie was marrying a Roman Catholic boy named Steve!

I had to see this!  How would my Nazarene relatives react?  Would they grit their teeth and go into a Catholic church?  Would they wait outside?  Would they disown Katie and refuse to talk to her again?

I emailed Katie.

"That's one of the things that brought us together," she said.  "Arguing about religion.  We can get into some heated debates, let me tell you!  But we also have a lot in common.  Nazarenes and Catholics both have really strict rules."

"How did you meet?"

"He was the barista in the coffee shop I used to go to.  Af first I tried to save his soul, but then we started talking about the differences between Nazarene and Catholic beliefs.  Of course, he was cute in his uniform, too. "

A Nazarene and a Catholic -- two of the more homophobic denominations.  I wondered how welcome I would be at their wedding.


Time to out myself.

Two nights before the wedding, all of Katie's relatives had dinner at a restaurant in downtown Kankakee, so they could meet Steve.

Steve was in his 30s, tall, husky, bearded -- with a huge bulge in his jeans!

I made a point of hugging him "hello," and sitting next to him to tell stories of West Hollywood, Florida, and New York. Without using the g-word, of course.

"How is Yuri?" Katie asked.  "You haven't brought him around the house since I was a kid."

Now was my chance!  "Oh, he's fine.  He's been with Michael for several years now."

Don't ask, don't tell!  My sister-in-law, Ken's wife, glared at me.  "Boomer has always been liberal, with lots of different kinds of friends."

"Yes...um...it fits in very nicely with my research on gay communities."

Now my mother was glaring at me.  "Oh, Boomer is always doing some kind of research.  That's why he's never had time to get married and raise a family."

"That, and the fact that I can't get married in the State of Ohio.  It's illegal.  But I date a lot, and I've had my share of long-term..."

Don't ask, don't tell!  "Lots of pretty girls out there in Ohio," my brother said.  "Must be hard to stick to any one person."

Enraged, I excused myself and went to the bathroom.  Steve followed, and stood next to me at the urinal. I was too nervous to sneak a peek.

"Don't let it bother you," he said.  "My parents still insist on calling my brother's partner his 'roommate,' and they've been together for ten years.  But he's invited to all of the family functions.  That's something, right?"

I reddened.  No need to out myself -- Steve already knew.  Everyone already knew.  They may not use the g-word, but at least I was invited to all of the family functions.  And so were Lane and Yuri.  That's more than you can say for most fundamentalist relatives.

By the way, no one had a problem with Steve being Catholic.  I guess having a gay relative makes you tolerant.

And no, I never saw him like this.

See also;Yuri and I Teach My Nephew the Gay Facts of Life; Saving the Church Organist.; My Nephew Tries to Turn a Boy Gay

The Best Friend of Terry the Homophobe

Rock Island, July 1989

I'm in no mood to be back in Rock Island: I just got back to West Hollywood after my semester in Turkey, and I just started dating an amazing guy named Lane.  If I'm gone for too long, someone else will snatch him up.

But it's my baby sister's wedding, and I have to be in the wedding party, even though I detest the heterosexist ritual, and I'm not too fond of her fiancee Terry.

He's definitely cute: curly blond hair, round face, glasses, hard biceps, Bratwurst+ (yes, I got a sausage sighting).  But he is intensely boring, all about cars, sports, repairing things, and girls, girls, girls!.

And he drifts easily from heterosexist "She's every man's fantasy" to blatant homophobia, telling "fag" jokes, making limp-wrist gestures, exclaiming "Everybody with AIDS should be shot!" and "Why don't we just put the homos on an island and be rid of the problem?"

Tammy tries to squash him, not always successfully.  Hasn't she told him that I am gay?  Doesn't she know? We never actually had a coming-out conversation, but she met Fred and Viju, and she's heard all about Alan, Raul, my celebrity boyfriend, and most recently Lane.

Terry and Tammy dated during their last year of high school, a disastrous year of college, and a year in the workforce at the same auto dealership in Davenport, so I've seen him lots of times on Christmas and summertime visits.  I've met his parents and his three friends, who I call the Three Jerks.

They're rather hot also.


1. Rod, Terry's oldest friend (far left), a grinning, round-faced Augustana student (biology major) and jogging enthusiast.

2. Anky, his next oldest friend, a history major at the University of Illinois.  He is short and tightly-muscled, with swarthy Mediterranean looks (second from right).

3. Paul, a tall Nordic blond with a swimmer's build, slicked-back hair, and beady eyes, Terry's most recent friend.  He's a little older, about my age, and works at the car dealership.

Regardless of their hotness, the Three Jerks are loud and boisterous and way, way heterosexist.  The minute they burst into the house for a Christmas party or into the back yard for a Fourth of July Barbecue, they bore me with talk of cars and sports, and pepper me with questions about the "hot girls" of California, and how many have I bedded, and could I get them the telephone number of Heather Locklear?




Two Days Before The Wedding

Tammy is out somewhere. Terry and his three friends, aka the Three Jerks, still damp from swimming at Longview Park, descend upon our game room to yell loudly while playing foosball.  Then they settle down to watch a VHS tap of Big Trouble in Little China.

I join them, squeezed onto the couch between Anky and Paul -- it's rather fun to sit with hot guys, heterosexist or not, and  I can ignore the hooting at Kim Cattrell's breasts.

Paul nudges me.  "Is she as hot as your girlfriend in California?"

 I should respond according to the rules of survival drummed into my head in West Hollywood:


Never come out.  When asked about your girlfriend or interest in girls, lie. Make something up.

But I'm tired of being mistaken for straight. "Gross!  I don't have a girlfriend!"

"No girlfriend!" Anky exclaims.  "With all those foxes around in California?  Well, maybe you just need some Midwestern talent."

"You just leave everything to us," Paul says.  "We'll check out the guest list, and make sure you get laid tomorrow night -- right, Terry?"

Terry shoots him a pained look, but says, "Sure, I'll see what I can do."

The Day Before the Wedding

We gather at the United Methodist Church for the rehearsal.

The wedding is going to be entirely heterosexist, with the men filing down the church aisle, arm in arm with the women, separating for the ceremony, and then coming together, arms around each other in heteronormative bliss, for the photo.  Then we're going to be seated together at the reception.

Sure enough, the Three Jerks have fixed me up with Charlene, one of the bridesmaids, Tammy's friend from high school.  She's heavily made up and stinking of perfume.

"You are so lucky, bud!" Paul grins at me. "Cream of the crop!  A lot better than those fags in California, right?"

Terry shoots him a pained look.

Anky presses his hand on my back.  "And I hear she puts out.  You'll definitely have a story to tell all your friends back in California."

We start down the aisle:

Anky, the Best Man, with a girl.  Then: Paul, me, Rod, and my brother Ken, each of us arm-in-arm with our corresponding girl.

But instead of grabbing onto Charlene, I take one step back and latch onto the arm of Paul!  He looks stunned, but walks a few feet with me until the preacher stops us and tells us to try again.

This time I take a step forward and latch onto Rod!

"Boomer!" My mother commands.  "Do it right, or don't do it at all."

I grudgingly comply.

Later, at the rehearsal dinner, Anky buttonholes me.  "What's up, man? It looked like you were deliberately trying to ruin Terry's wedding."

I am sick of hiding.  "Oh, no, I just have a hard time figuring out the moves.  I'm not used to boy-girl pairs.  Back in West Hollywood, it's all boy-boy pairs."

"Boy-boy pairs?"  He repeats, staring.  Then he breaks into a wide grin.  "I had no idea you were...we'll talk later, ok?  After dinner."

After dinner Anky walks me out into the parking lot and reveales that he is gay!

"I've seen you maybe eight, ten times over the last three years.  Why didn't you tell me before?  I ask.

He shrugs.  "Why didn't you tell me?"

Well, why didn't Terry tell me that his best friend was gay?  Or tell his best friend that his fiancee's brother was gay?

Turns out Terry didn't know.  Neither of us lisped or swished, so he couldn't "tell" from visual clues, and everybody who did know was following the rule:  Never come out. 

And he still won't know.  Anky makes me promise not to out him.

He still goes to Terry's bachelor party.  I claim a headache and bow out.






The Day of the Wedding

Anky and I sit together at the reception, and then visit my ex-bully Dick for dinner and "sharing."  He has a slim but firm physique, nice hands, and an average-sized but beautifully shaped penis that presses straight up against his abdomen.  He goes down on Dick and me at the same time, and then he lies on his back so I can go down on him while Dick is topping him.

We get together a few more times, when we're both back in Rock Island for Christmas or the summer, but eventually we lose contact.

Terry stopped being homophobic,by the way.  In 2016, he lent his son his vintage 1969 Chevy Camero to drive in the Indianapolis Gay Pride Parade.

See also: How We Survived the Homophobic 1980s; My Date with the Groom's Grandson at a Gay Wedding; and Sausage Sighting of My Parents' Contractor

My Date with the Grooms' Grandson at a Gay Wedding

Salt Lake City, Utah, September 2015

One day in the summer of 2015, a few weeks after the Supreme Court decision that legalized same-sex marriage in the U.S., I get a wedding invitation in the mail, and a request to be in the wedding party!

Heterosexuals complain that they're constantly going to weddings, as their friends one by one tie the knot.  I've never had that problem.  Until recently, gay people were not permitted formal, official ceremonies, and they rarely had informal ones.  The boundary between boyfriend and partner was too fluid, and besides, your parents and the other heteros often didn't know that you were with someone, sometimes didn't even know that you were gay.

A gay wedding!  I can't wait.

Besides, it's from Lane, my ex-partner, so all of my West Hollywood friends will be there.

I've only met his partner Ben once, when I flew back to West Hollywood for a week-long visit.  A week was way too long!

He was in his early 60s, tall, rather buffed -- he spent every afternoon at the gym -- with greying salt-and-pepper hair and a moustache. Attractive, but elitist, conservative, and a bit crotchety.

No sharing, no parties, no going out to the bars to cruise.  I couldn't even invite a guy over to spend the night with me.

I pointed out that Lane and I went to every bath house in Europe, plus bear parties and sex clubs, and nearly every Saturday night we were at the Faultline or Basgo's, looking for someone to "share."

Lane shrugged.  "I grew up."

Grew up, or got stodgy under Ben's tutelage?

And when I was asked out by a 20-year old, all hell broke loose:

"What are you doing dating a guy young enough to be your son?"  Ben exclaimed.  "Stick to guys your own age!"

"Um...I'm a twink magnet.  I can't help it."

"Nonsense.  You just like twinks because you can't handle the responsibilities of a grown-up relationship."

I almost walked right out the door, but I thought, this is Lane.  You've been friends for nearly twenty years, and Ben will probably be out of the picture in a few months.

Guess he's still in the picture.

I check the invitation again.  It's not even in West Hollywood.  It's at Saint Mark's Episcopal Cathedral in Salt Lake City, Utah

A gay wedding in Salt Lake City?  Homophobic redneck country?  Whatever for?

Friday

I arrive at Salt Lake City International Airport at 3:00 pm.  Lane picks me up and drives me directly to the church for the rehearsal.

"So, why are we in Salt Lake, and not West Hollywood?" I ask.

It seems that Ben grew up Mormon in Bountiful, a suburb of Salt Lake.  He married, had two sons, and remained faithful to the church until he started trying to deal with his gayness in the 1990s.  Saint Mark's was where he first felt accepted as a gay person, so it's got a special significance.  Besides, his ex-wife, one of his sons, and many other relatives are still in Salt Lake.

Heterosexuals are invited to a gay wedding?  I figured they'd be picketing and thumping Bibles, or Books of Mormon.

The wedding party isn't divided into bridesmaids and groomsmen, like in a hetero wedding.  There are six people: Ben's sons and grandson, a lesbian couple, and the ringbearer, his five-year old granddaughter.  And me, feeling out of place.

After the rehearsal, the wedding party and their husbands, wives, and kids are all going out to dinner at an Italian restaurant.  "You're riding with us and Jan and her wife," Lane says.  "It will be a little cramped..."

"Hey, Grandpa Ben, I'll drive him over."  It's Brandon, the grandson, tall and thin with thick brown hair and "wholesome" movie star looks: blue eyes, dimples, a cleft chin.

Ben glares at me, probably thinking that I'm going to try to seduce the boy, but consents.

"I heard you lived in New York," Brandon says when we get in the car.  "That must have been great, Broadway shows every night."

"It wasn't really like that.  You spend so much on rent and food that there's not much left over for shows."

"Still, you were in New York!  I'm moving there soon.  I graduated from U.U. in May, and right now I'm doing choreography for Fiddler on the Roof at the Pioneer Theater.  I've been interrogating Lane about Jewish folk dances.  He was really into it, back in the day."

My gaydar goes off.  "So, your church doesn't have any objections to Ben and Lane getting married?"

"Please!  I haven't set foot inside a church since I was ten!  I'm just Mormon for the culture  -- and to get a starring role in The Book of Mormon!"  He reaches over and grabs my knee.

Is this boy cruising?  I know I'm a twink magnet, but...a friend of his grandfather? 

I imagine flirting with one of Grandpa Prater's hunting buddies...and burst out laughing.

Brandon quickly moves his hand away, frowning.

"Sorry, I wasn't laughing at you.  I just thought of something funny."

At the restaurant, Brandon tries to sit next to me, but Ben says "You're up here," and places me between him and one of the lesbians.

During dessert, Brandon comes up again and presses against the back of my chair.  "Have you ever seen Temple Square at night?  It's really breathtaking..."

Ben presses my arm.  "Sorry, we need Boomer to talk over some details of the ceremony."

We drive to the hotel.  To my surprise, I don't get my own room -- I'm sharing with Ben and Lane.

"The wedding is tomorrow at noon, and then after the reception we're leaving for our honeymoon," Ben says, "So this room will be all yours tomorrow night, for cruising or having orgies or whatever."

"And this will be the last time we see you until you visit again," Lane added.  "So I thought we should share?"

"Really?  But..."

"It's a special occasion."

Ben has a very nice uncut Bratwurst.  He offers to top me, but I refuse, going down on him instead.  Then he does interfemoral with me while kissing Lane.

I rarely finish more than once in an evening, but tonight it's two, then three times, and Ben is still ready for more, his mouth and hands everywhere.

The night before his wedding, he is way over-exuberant with another guy?  Something is off here. Is he trying to tire me out so I won't "seduce" Brandon?

Saturday

In the morning I'm too exhausted to go to the hotel's exercise room.  We meet the lesbian couple for breakfast, have a brief tour of the city, and then go to the church.

Brandon catches me in the foyer.  "Did you have a good night?"

Yes, I went down on your Grandpa! "It was busy," I tell him.  "You'd be surprised how many details have to be ironed out."

"Um...." he begins, then stops.  "Um...I was thinking, if you don't have any plans for tonight, you should see Fiddler.  It's a great show.  I'll be backstage, but we can hook up afterwards and have dinner."  

"Sure, that would be great."

"Ok!  I'll reserve the ticket, and pick you up at the hotel at 6:30."  He looks around to see if anyone is watching, then leans in for a brief kiss.  "I can't wait!"

It was a great show.  Lane reads this blog, so I'm not going say what, if anything, happened afterwards.

But, after all, Brandon is not my grandson.


See also: 21 Surprising Facts about Lane; Cruising My Cousin's Son at a Funeral; and Picking Up the Best Man at My Sister's Wedding.

My Best Man

Indiana, June 1969

When I was a kid, I knew that a boy who liked a particular girl called her a "girlfriend."  But no one gave a name to a boy who liked a particular boy.  It wasn't "boyfriend" -- I tried that, and got corrected.  Superman called Jimmy Olsen his “boy pal."  On My Three Sons, Robbie Douglas called the boys he liked "buddies."  But I found out the real word in the summer of 1969, just after third grade, when we went to my parents' home town of Garrett, Indiana to watch my Uncle Paul get married.

Uncle Paul was my favorite uncle because he was still a teenager, in high school, and he wanted to be called "Paul," not "Uncle" anything.  When I visited, we did cool things, like going swimming or catching frogs or playing hide-and-seek in the cornfield.  He drove us to movies (my parents didn't know) and to the Blue Moon Drive-In, where he bought us milkshakes and introduced us to all his high school friends.

There was no bathroom in my grandparents' house, so you had to use the outhouse or pee into the wind.  Paul taught us how, giving me my first glimpse of an adult penis.

 But in the summer of 1969 (the same summer I saw the Naked Man in the Peat Bog), Paul was a grownup, and like all grownup men he had to go to work in the factory and get married.  He was marrying a petite girl with small hands and freckles, who said we should call her Lana, not "Aunt" anything.

At the wedding, five men and boys lined up on the little stage next to Uncle Paul, and five women and girls lined up next to Lana. My Cousin Buster, only one year older than me, got to stand up there, but not me; I had to sit in the wooden pew next to my parents and little brother and baby sister.

“Don’t worry about it,” Mom said, noting my disappointment. “Someday when you get married, you can have anybody you want standing next to you.”

“Bill?”

“Sure. He can even be your best man.”

I beamed. When Mom said boys don’t get married, she meant they didn’t have wives, they had best men! So when I grew up, I would stand on that little stage with my best man, Bill or someone like him, and we would get married while all of our friends and relatives clapped.  Then we would go on a honeymoon trip to Hawaii to look at muscular surfers, and afterwards we would move into a house together.

Nearly a years passed before I discovered that "best man" meant something else altogether.  But I still used it as code, calling the boy I liked my "best man" through high school.

Meanwhile, my parents kept snapping those pix.