Fantasy Hookup with the Chinese Food Delivery Guy

Dayton, October 2005

After the wealth of Asian guys available in California -- Chinese, Japanese, Thai, Korean, Vietnamese, Cambodian, Burmese, Malaysian, Filipino --  I felt deprived when I moved to New York -- during four years, I was only with six Asian guys:
1. Peter, the Filipino undergrad who is #3 on my Sausage List
2. Jun, a Japanese gymnast who I met in Montreal
3. An undergrad history major from Shanghai. We had just one date.
4. A guy I met at the Eagle, whose name I don't remember.
5. Mario the teen model.
6. And  the Man in Black, a priest or something who cruised me in the street.

I felt even more deprived in Fort Lauderdale.  In four years, I was with only two Asian guys, and one of them, the Son of Mr. Blowfish,  I met while back in Rock Island for a visit..

By the time I got to Dayton,  I was desperate.  If I didn't get some Asian action soon, I'd be hopping the next plane to Hong Kong.

Unfortunately, the population of Dayton is less than 1% Asian, and I wasn't meeting any.

Then I ordered Chinese food.

Who hasn't wanted to do this to the delivery guy?

He's always the son or brother of the owner, young, cute, and smiling -- not like the grungy ex-cons who deliver Domino's.

He doesn't speak English well, so whatever you ask, he nods in agreement.

And he brought you food, so subconsciously you think you're on a date.

The guy from the Dragon Palace who delived my Hunan chicken was young, black-haired, and smiling, but darker and more muscular than I expected.  Three of the five traits I find attractive -- and I was deprived of Asian companionship.

This guy was getting in my bed.

One way or another.

"Um...I don't have any money for your tip.  Can I write you a check?"

"Ok, check," he said, grinning.  "My name is Long Wei Chan, but you can say Bobby Chan."

He walked into the kitchen while I wrote out his 50% tip.

"This is very nice apartment  You live all alone?"

"No, I have a roommate." I didn't really, but you never reveal to strangers that you live alone.

"How much you pay?"

I told him.

"Nice," he said, and left, while I kicked myself for not having a game plan prepared in advance..

I intended to wait a couple of days and try again, after I developed a cruising strategy, but a couple of hours later, Bobby knocked on the door.

"Hi -- did I forget something?"

"No, no -- sorry to bother you.  I want to ask you something -- can I come in?"

Absolutely!  Come inside, take your clothes off!  I yelled in my mind.  But I just said "Sure.  Come in and sit down.  What's up?"

Bobby sat on a chair, not the couch (Darn it!!!) and explained that he was planning to move out of his parents' house, and he wanted to bring his "friend" around to see how nice my apartment was -- maybe they could move into my building.

A hookup with Bobby and his "friend"?  Well, he didn't actually say "a hookup," but still -- what else could he mean?  My mind reeled.

We agreed to meet the next night for coffee and dessert. I invited Chuck, my "friend with benefits" over, because it isn't wise to entertain two strangers by yourself.

The "friend" turned out to be a Caucasian guy named Thad, a few years older than Bobby, and a lot more muscular, but a little too tall for me, with a long, bearded face that's one of my turn-offs.

They looked at my bookshelves full of gay books, beefcake movie posters, and statue of Michelangelo's David without surprise or comment.  Obviously a gay couple.

Still, I was a little disappointed -- I had been expecting another Asian guy.


I got even more disappointed.

"A place like this would be great for us," Thad said after the tour.  "You know, Bobby really wanted to move in with his girlfriend, but his parents said 'no way'!"

Girlfriend!!!!!!

"Together for two years!" Bobby bragged.


I excused myself, went into the bathroom, and ranted.

When I came out, Thad was waiting in the hallway.

"Oh, sorry.  It's all yours."

"Wait."  His hand pressed against my chest.  "Do you mind..." he stammered.  "I just want to see...I want to..."  Then he was kissing me.

I broke away.  "I though you and Bobby were straight."

"Oh, he doesn't know about me.  Frankly, he's a little naive.  He didn't even figure it out from your beefcake poster.  I mean, who wouldn't figure it out from that?"

Later conversations revealed that Thad had a special interest in Asian guys -- he met Bobby through an unsuccessful cruise.

He had a whole address book full of gay Asian friends and former boyfriends, including a very hot graduate student in political science at Ohio State.

So I didn't get the delivery boy, but I did finally meet some Asian men.

See also: Hooking Up with the Museum Guard; and the Hookup with the Water Delivery Guy.

Meeting my First Bisexual

Bloomington, Spring 1983

When I was in grad school in English in the early 1980s, we had to learn all about Great Literature, which meant long, boring novels about heterosexual men lusting after women.

And we had to watch Great Movies, which meant long, boring movies about heterosexual men lusting after women.

A group of English grad students went to the Nuart Cinema for "art films" every couple of weeks.  All horrible AND heterosexist:

Tempest, with John Cassavetes having sex with Susan Sarandon on the beach.
The Return of Martin Guerre, about a Medieval Frenchman who comes back to his loving family.
Sophie's Choice, about a young writer (Peter MacNicol) who falls in love with an elderly concentration camp survivor.
Koyaanisqatsi, shots of crowded city streets and things going by on conveyor belts.
The Year of Living Dangerously, with Mel Gibson falling in love in Indonesia
Liquid Sky,  about heroin users who kill each other while aliens watch.
Fanny and Alexander, 3 hours of Swedish kids watching their relatives do boring things.

I dragged my friend Joseph, one of the "Gays of Eigenmann Hall," along to share in the torture.

Joseph ("Joe" in the straight world) was a grad student in history, concentrating in Enlightenment Europe, fluent in French and German, and a fencing enthusiast with an impressive physique.

I tried hard to date him, and he did consent to share my bed a couple of times, but he wasn't particularly interested.  He liked husky, hairy blue collar types, auto mechanics and repairmen.  One day he was elated because he had managed to seduce the custodian at Ballantine Hall, right down in the boiler room!

At the Nuart, we were strictly closeted, of course -- coming out to a heterosexual friend in 1983 would result in, at best, a horrified stare and a stammer of  "Whoa, back off, man!"

So I didn't talk about gay subtexts, or point out attractive men on screen.

But Joseph went even farther to maintain a heterosexual facade. He joined in the nonstop discussions of feminine beauty, saying things like "You'd have to be an idiot to leave a hottie like Nathalie Baye (in Martin Guerre)"  and "I kept waiting for Susan Sarandon (in Living Dangerously) to show her breasts!"

One night he kept it up even after we said goodnight to the other guys and returned to Eigenmann Hall: "I can't believe how sexy Meryl Streep (in Sophie's Choice) was!"

"Don't you mean Peter MacNichol?"

"Oh, right, right."  He grinned sheepishly.  "Sorry, I was still pretending to be straight."

But I was suspicious.

When you grow up being told over and over that same-sex desire does not and cannot exist, you become very sensitive to subtle signs of erotic interest: a glance that is a little too open, a little too much attention to detail.

Gradually I became aware that Joseph noticed women.  When I referred to a female classmate, I might say "She sits behind us in Chaucer class."  He would describe her hair and face.  He looked women up and down, evaluating their breasts and curves in the same way that he evaluated the biceps and baskets of burly truck drivers.

Was it possible that Joseph could be bisexual, and not know it?

One day I invited him to my room for a Domino's pizza, and asked "Did you ever have sex with girls, before you realized that you were gay?"

"Oh, yeah, sure, who hasn't?  How could you avoid it?  When you're on the fencing team, the girls are all over you. Hotties, too!"  He caught himself.  "I mean...well, you know what I mean..."

"Not really.  I'm not attracted to women at all."

"Me, neither!" Joseph protested.  "I'm gay!  I mean, what straight guy fantasizes about big, burly truck drivers with gigantic stick shifts?"

"It's not always a matter of one or the other.  Some guys like both."  I picked up a copy of Playboy (displayed prominently on my desk to keep up my heterosexual facade) and opened to a page at random.  "For instance, if she walked into this room and offered to kiss you, would you accept?"

"Well, sure, who wouldn't?  Being gay doesn't mean I'm dead!"

"I wouldn't.  No way!"

He stared.  "But...I like guys...." he said in a small voice.

"I know.  It's like, after a lifetime of heterosexual brainwashing, realizing that you like guys is a joyous, liberating experience.  Then, when you find yourself attracted to women, you think that the brainwashing worked after all.  You feel like a traitor.  But let's face it -- some guys like guys, some guys like girls, and some guys like both.  There's nothing you can do about it."

Joseph denied it again, but soon he revealed, with a sigh of relief, that for dating, romance, and long-term relationships, it was men only.  But for sex, and for noticing attractive people on the street, he was into both hairy, husky truck drivers with gigantic stick shifts, and thin, athletic women with long brown hair.  It was nice to not have to hide anymore.  At least among his gay friends.

Fine, always nice to help someone recognize their true nature.  Except Joseph somehow got the idea that all gay men were attracted to thin, athletic women with long hair.  He began pointing them out to me with the avidness of a hetero-horny jock.


One Sunday night he knocked on my door to tell me that I had missed a really good episode of One Day at a Time.  

"Why, did Max (Michael Lembeck) take his shirt off?" I asked.

"What?  Are you kidding?"  he exclaimed.  "There was a really hot close-up of Barbara (Valerie Bertinelli), cleavage and all!"

"But...she's a woman.  Why would I...."

"Who cares if you're gay or straight?  If Barbara's cleavage doesn't get you going, man, you don't have a pulse!"

Um...some people are straight, some are bi, and some are gay.  They all have pulses.

Waking Up to a Straight Boy in My Bed at the Gilroy Garlic Festival

Gilroy, California, July 1997

In the 1980s and 1990s, when you found a gay haven, you stayed there.   You ventured into the straight world only when absolutely necessary, and then you stayed closeted, undercover, careful not to let your guard down for a moment.  If the straights found out that you were gay -- or even suspected -- they would scream "God hates you!" and grab the nearest baseball bat to attack.

But in July 1997, shortly before I left San Francisco to go to graduate school in New York, my friend David suggested that we drive down to Gilroy for the annual garlic festival.

"Are you crazy?" I exclaimed.  "It will be full of straight people!  We'd never make it out of town alive!"

"I was there last year.  It's fine -- nobody says anything.  The straights might not like us very much, but they don't mind taking our money.  Besides, it's full of the cutest small-town rednecks you'd ever hope to meet."

"You don't....cruise straight men?"  I asked, aghast.  "That's just asking to get beat up!"

"Boy, you've got to get over this straight-o-phobia of yours.  Straight guys get just as horny as you and me.  Tell you what -- we'll get a hotel room, spend the night, and if you don't trick with a straight guy, I'll pay for the whole trip."

Gilroy, "the garlic capital of the world," was a  town of 40,000 about two hours south of San Francisco, surrounded by vineyards and farms.  Its annual Garlic Festival drew thousands of people from all over the country.

There was music, art exhibits, and cooking contests, but the main draw was the food -- garlic-infused everything, from burgers and pizza to muffins and ice cream (plus some non-garlic items).  There were booths sponsored by town restaurants, charities, churches, and clubs.

Most of the crowd were aggressively hetero families or teenagers, but there was a scattering of gay people, in groups of four or five for protection.

David selected his straight guy to cruise right away -- a cute, muscular blond in a trucker cap who was staffing the petting zoo.

 But I was uncomfortable trying to cruise among straight people.  Finally I gave up and stopped at the garlic ice cream booth.

Hector, one of the workers, was short, Hispanic, husky, with nice muscular arms.  Cute, but too young for cruising material -- the booth was sponsored by the Gilroy High School football team.

"Do you get much business?" I asked as he poured a bowl of diced garlic into the ice cream maker.

"Not too much in the afternoon.  It's mostly a 'friends-dare-you' kind of thing, so we do good business at night, after the guys have a few beers in them."

"You work that late?"

He smiled. "I'm here until midnight, except for a dinner break at six."

The ice cream wasn't bad -- vanilla with a slightly spicy undertone.  But definitely a fad item.

"Do you eat the ice cream yourself?"

"You know what -- I shouldn't tell you this, but I've been working here five years in a row, and I've never had a taste.  Garlic isn't really my thing."

"Five years!" I exclaimed.  "How old are you?"

"Twenty.  I graduated two years ago.  I go to UC Santa Cruz now, but the guys always ask me to work this booth -- it's tradition."

We chatted for a few minutes, and then Hector got a line, so I wandered away, looking for someone to cruise.  Not much luck: straight guys made eye contact with strangers only to issues threats ("You're too close, back off!), or to respond to them ("You got a problem?").

After awhile, I returned to Hector.

"Can't get rid of you, can I?" he exclaimed.

"What can I say?  I'm hooked!"

"I'll get you the recipe, so you can make your own, when you get back to..."

Suddenly David had his arm around my shoulders.  "About to seal the deal with my guy.  Who's this?"

"Hector.  He's run the garlic ice cream booth for five years, but never tried it."

"Well, you should try it!" David said with a leer.  "You never know what you're missing."

Hector scowled with unmistakable homophobia.

"Um...Hector, this is my friend David," I said.  "We came down from the City together."

"What can I get you?" he said icily.

We retreated.

"Was that your guy?"  David asked.

"No, we were just chatting, but when he found out we were gay, he turned into a first class homophobe!  I have half a mind to go cruise him just to watch him squirm!"

We drove back into Gilroy, had dinner, and worked out in the hotel gym.  Then I settled in for a night of HBO, but David wanted to go out.  "Pete -- the petting zoo guy -- said he might stop in at Stubby's for a drink later.  I'm going to check it out."


"Cruising at a straight bar?  That doesn't sound safe."

"Don't worry, Mom, I'll be careful.  Up for sharing?"

"Sure, if he agrees.  But don't stay out too late -- I'm tired."

At midnight, David wasn't back yet, so I went to bed.

I awoke about an hour later to the warmth and pressure of someone between my legs, fondling me.  David! I thought.  He must have been unsuccessful.  

Wait -- then who was lying beside me in the darkness?  I reached over and felt hard biceps, a smooth hard chest.

Pete?

I tried to make out his face.  Young, Hispanic, smiling.


Hector!

 He drew me close, and we kissed.  I ran my hand down, over his firm abs, down below his waist -- and found David, working on us both.

We changed positions a few more times, and then we fell asleep with Hector between us.

"I thought you were lovers," he told me in the morning.  "That's why I got all bitchy -- how would you like it if you were just about to seal the deal with a hot guy, and his lover showed up?  But then David came by the booth and explained the situation, and invited me over."

I still had to pay for my half of the trip, since Hector was technically David's pickup.  And he wasn't straight.

See also: David pulls "it" out;  David and I Pick Up a Teenage Hitchhiker; The Boy Selling Pickles at the Farmer's Market