A Homeless Teenager Invites Me Home

Plains, February 2017

I volunteer for a drop-in center for homeless youth: they can get showers and food, counseling, jobhunting training, or just hang out and play games or watch tv.  There are over 100 regular clients, about 30% LGBT or questioning, rejected by their parents after coming out.

Sometimes the gay boys get a little cruisy, probably because that's how they've learned to get what they need, but of course it would be unethical to date or hook up with them.

But the other night I did.  Almost.

It was at a fundraiser for the center held at the gay-friendly coffee house: live music, poetry readings, and a silent auction.  I staffed the table with a donation jar and some brochures.  It was across from the main door, so unless they used the side door, everyone saw me the moment they came in.  They also had to walk past me on the way to pick up their orders.

A lot of twinks and college students came in, some of the artsy bohemian regulars, plus a scattering of middle-aged people, one middle-aged gay guy with a nice chest in spite of his "Conky" t-shirt, an elderly guy in leather who said he had been an art history major in college, 40 years ago.

It was fun taking the donations -- especially the $10 and $20 bills -- watching the money pile up -- plus I got a lot of cruisy smiles.

Suddenly a homeless guy came in, rubbing his hands from the February cold, looking around as if he'd never been there before -- a teenager, very tall and thin, with scruffy blond hair and a beautiful, angelic face, the kind that makes you melt.  He was wearing a thin hoodie and tattered jeans.

I didn't expect any clients to come, but I wanted to make him feel welcome.  "Hi, my name is Boomer. Here for the fundraiser?"

He looked blank.  "I...um...I'm Cade. Hi.  How much does it cost?"

"Nice to meet you, Cade.  There's no admission fee.  And if you ask nicely, someone might buy you a cup of hot chocolate."

He stared at the pastries in the display case.

"Um...or a sandwich, if you're hungry."

"That's ok, I'm fine."  He went into the main room and sat down to listen to a poetry reading, but eventually he wandered back.  He stared at me and the donation jar.

"Lot of donations tonight?"

"Yeah.  We're getting a lot of tens and twenties."

"If you want to, you know, go to the bathroom or something, I'll look after the table for you."

This guy was after the donation money! "Thanks, but I'm fine right now.  But...you can sit with me if you want."  I offered him the chair farthest from the donation jar.

He plopped down next to me.  "So...this center is open to gay kids, too?"

"Sure.  Lots of the clients are gay."


"That's cool, 'cause sometimes parents aren't ok with it.  When I told my Dad I was queer, he gave me a black eye.  Said he didn't want 'some pervert' looking at him!"

"That's awful."  Cade didn't have a black eye -- he must have been homeless for awhile.  "Are you sure you won't let me buy you a sandwich?  I'm having one."

He shrugged.  "Sure, ok, I'll eat if you're going to."  He brushed his knee against mine.

We ate our egg salad sandwiches  and scones, and talked about the problems of gay youth in a heterosexist society.  Cade came out at age 17, and he was now 23 -- that's a long time to be on the street!

When people came in, Cade smiled and pitched the center like a pro.

"Hey, you're good at this!  You should become a salesman!"  I said, wrapping my arm around his shoulders -- a friendly gesture, not meant to be erotic.  But he squeezed my knee under the table.

Definitely cruising me.  Extraordinarily cute.  And not a client of the center.  But no doubt he would become a client tomorrow.  I couldn't risk hooking up with him.

When the fundraiser ended, Cade helped me count the  money and give it to the director -- I introduced him as "my new assistant."  Then he said "I guess I'd better be going.  It's a pretty long walk back home."

"Can I give you a ride?" I could do that much, anyway.

We drove, Cade's hand on my shoulder, to a historic neighborhood near downtown, to an old Victorian house with gingerbread architecture.  Rather upscale for a homeless kid -- he must be crashing on someone's couch.

"Do you want to come in for a minute?" Cade asked.  "I could make us some coffee."

We just came from a coffee house.  But...

I was going in...

The living room: hardwood floors, leather furniture, big-screen tv.  Very upscale for a homeless kid.

I took off my coat and sat on the couch.  Cade pulled a smartphone from his pocket, turned on some music, and sat next to me.  He moved in for a kiss.   His body was very cold from the thin hoodie.  Suddenly I remembered that this was a homeless guy.

I broke away.  "Will your roommates mind?"

"What roommates?  I live alone," he murmured, unbuttoning my shirt and kissing my chest.

"Then who pays for all of this?  Your parents?"

"I'll tell you all about my boring job at Mackenzie in the morning.  Right now I'm busy."  He got on his knees and began to kiss and lick my crotch.

Cade was a marketing manager at Mackenzie's Fun Zone, with a salary bigger than mine.  He was just into grunge.

I should have known better.  I mistook someone for homeless once before, in San Francisco.  See: Pushing a Shopping Cart Up Castro Street.

By the way, thin, smooth body, shaved crotch, two tattoos, uncut Kielbasa.  Mostly an anal bottom, but he let me go down on him and do interfemoral to finish.

12 Valentine's Day Dates, Hookups, and Boyfriends

My least-favorite holiday is Christmas, but Valentine's Day comes a close second: a corporate-controled paeon to heterosexual desire, with millions of male-female couples paraded out to proclaim that their emotional bond is the most important thing in the world, the meaning of life.

And therefore you should spend money on maudlin cards, boxes of gut-busting candy, and dead flowers.

In gay neighborhoods it was ok, but in the straight world, same-sex couples who try to participate get stared at in restaurants, laughed at at the flower shop, jeered at the candy store.  Or at least they feel hideously out of place amid the cooing boys and girls.

And God forbid you're single!

Here are the highlights of Valentine's Day seasons past, some ok, some bad, some horrendously bad.

Not counting childhood, when everybody in the class got a valentine from everybody else, regardless of gender.

1. My First Gay Bar. Valentine's Day, 1983. At Indiana University, my friend Viju talks me into driving up to Indianapolis.  I've never been in a gay bar, or any type of bar, before, and I'm blown away by the light, color, and camaraderie.  Nothing like the dark, sleazy, leering gay bars they show on tv.

2. T, the Thug from Catch On.  Valentine's Day, 1986.  There aren't a lot of black men in West Hollywood: if you want to meet them, you have to go to Jewel's Catch-One.  Alan and I go, and get cruised by a thug wannabe named T.

3. My Celebrity Boyfriend.  Valentine's Day, 1987.  The Celebrity and I have only been dating for about a month, and he says he wants to go "all out" for Valentine's Day.  I wonder what a famous ex-teen idol considers "all out."  A thousand doves swooping down from a helicopter?  A life-sized box of candy?  Sharing Scott Baio?  Turns out to be him on a heart-shaped blanket.

4. A Boy for Valentine's Day.  Valentine's Day, 1990.  I'm dating Lane, and still thinking of that "sharing Scott Baio" thing.  I don't actually pick up Scott Baio, but I get a nice substitute with Raul's friend Dominic, a cute Mexican twink.  While Lane and I are having dinner, Raul lets Dominic in the house, where he puts on a Cupid outfit and hides in the bedroom.  

5. The Estonian Word for Valentine.  Valentine's Day, 1998.  Yuri and I are both dating Jaan, the Estonian mountain climber, and we both want to impress him.  We plan a three-way date involving Estonian food, Estonian music, Estonian everything, until Jaan gets sick of it and kicks us both out.

But there's a nice side effect to gay dating: if the guy you both want rejects you, you can always spend the night with each other.

6. The Boy Who Cried Fabulous.  Valentine's Day, 2005.  What could be worse than to be dating the annoyingly cheerful, annoyingly upbeat Florian on hearts-and-flowers day?  Nothing.  A 5-pound heart-shaped box of candy, a dozen roses, a card two feet square with a horrible pun, and a teddy bear with a heart-shaped bib reading "I Wuv You."   He doesn't even love me, he wuvs me.

7. The Great Trick-Off of 2007.  I'm back in West Hollywood for a job interview, and Lane suggests that we hit the bars.  On Cupid Day?  It will be all depressed single guys.

"Precisely," Lane says.  "We can spend the night tricking, like we did before AIDS -- pick someone up, bring him home, do him, kick him out, back to the bar for the next guy."

"But we were Cute Young Things back then.  I'm 46!"

"So what?  I'm 51!"

8. The Asian-American Family Valentine Dinner.  Valentine's Day, 2009.  I'm dating Chad, who is second-generation Korean-American.  He invites me to dinner with his family, which turns out to be like a Korean Thanksgiving: tons of food, relatives you only see once a year, and innumerable questions about the new guy Chad is dating.

9. The Guilt Trip. Valentine's Day, 2010.  I'm dating Troy, a newly-graduated French major who says "Oh, I hate Valentine's Day.  Let's not celebrate at all."  Fine with me.  Until February 14th, when I awaken to candy, flowers, expensive jewelry, and dinner reservations.  Fooled you!

10. I Become a Creepy Old Guy.  Valentine's Day, 2012.  #9 is probably the reason I hate Valentine's Day now.  I insist that we don't celebrate.  At all.  We go to a bathhouse instead, the River Club in Albany, where I become a Creepy Old Guy.








11, The Youngest Guy I've Ever Dated.  Valentine's Day, 2015.  A 22 year old theater major.  Fortunately, we start dating too close to the Day to celebrate it.

12, My Ex-Student Naked in the Locker Room.  Valentine's Day, 2016.  A 19-year old political science major who wants to become a lawyer.  Our first date is the night before.  I wake up, go down on him, give him a bagel, and kick him out.

I get to spend The Day alone in my apartment, doing course prep, downloading porn from the internet, and watching The Walking Dead.  

Best Valentine's Day ever!

Cruising in a Straight Bar

Plains, February 2017

I've dated or hooked up with men in 38 states and 20 countries, I've met them in art galleries, restaurants, museums, movie theaters, monasteries, doctor's offices, bookstores, comic book stores, department stores, bath houses, sex parties, bear parties, and on the street.

But tonight I'm going to try to meet men in a completely new and different place:

A straight bar.

For the first 55 years of my life, I never set foot in a straight bar, not even when I lived in Ohio and Upstate New York.  You couldn't meet guys there -- you couldn't even check out the beefcake without angry rednecks yelling "What are you looking at?"  And what if a woman tried to pick me up?

But on the Plains, there are no gay organizations  except for a student club, no meeting places except the gay-friendly coffee house,  which is not great for cruising.  And Grinder is getting old, with the constant "Top me, Daddy!" and "Send me pictures of your cock!"

Besides, most of the gay men in town are "post-gay" -- fully assimilated into the straight world, with mostly straight friends, hanging out at straight venues.  So, logically, where do they go to meet men?

Twice in a row, when I stopped into the Red Rock, the student bar-restaurant downtown, to grab a sandwich, I hooked up almost immediately -- without even trying!  I can only imagine my success if I give it my best shot!

9:00 am Saturday

I haven't gone to a bar to cruise -- look for guys for dates or hookups -- for years.  I remember many Saturday nights in West Hollywood, at Mugi, Basgo's, the Gold Coast, or the Faultline: blaring disco music, semi-darkness, the smell of cigarette smoke and poppers, of guys with beer bottles popping up from their crotches.  The interview -- the grope -- the joy of getting that phone number.  The agony of having the guy you like snatched away.

Giddy with anticipation,  I spend most of the day preparing, checking every detail.

No sore throat, sinus problems, cold sores, or flatulence.  No sex for at least 24 hours.  Get a hair cut.

Buy snacks and beverages to offer him.

Clean apartment.  Change the sheets -- use the good ones.  Hide the valuables.  Jar of condoms and "trick towel" ready.

Research current events and the local sports team for conversation topics.

3:00 pm

The gym.  No cardio.  Blast the chest and biceps.

5:00 pm

Light dinner, mostly easy-to digest carbs.  Shower, shave, mouthwash.

Cruising outfit: very tight black t-shirt, tight jeans, black shoes, leather jacket.  Carry keys, breath mints, handkerchief, money, driver's license, pen for writing down phone number.




9:00 pm

Show time!

Drive to Red Rock.  Leave wallet and cell phone locked up in the car.



It's a big, airy bar-restaurant, exposed brick, very high ceilings, paintings of a 1920s flapper party.

There are two bars in two rooms with wooden tables and booths, plus an outdoor patio, a little fireplace-lounge, a counter that sells t-shirts and mugs, and a long hallway to the bathrooms.

Pool tables, dart boards, wide-screen tvs, video games.  No dance floor.

Nothing like the gay bars I used to go to in West Hollywood.  No smoking.  Brightly lit.  The music is loud but not overbearing, and not disco, more like ballads of the 1960s and 1970s.   I recognize "Bridge Over Troubled Water," "Hey, Jude," and "Bad Romance."

It is crowded with male-female couples and groups.  Not just college kids: some in their 30s, a table of 40-somethings, one couple in their 60s eating dinner.  Men outnumber women two to one.

But no one is cruising!

No one is facing outward, looking out to see who's here, approaching someone new.  They stay tightly wrapped in the groups they came in with.

How am I supposed to cruise, when no one will make eye contact?  The only option is to wait until someone breaks out of a group.

I sit at the bar, order an orange juice, and wait, as the bar fills up even more.

9:20 pm

Finally a guy leaves the table where he's sitting with five friends, and goes to the bathroom.  I wait a few minutes and follow, meeting him on the way back.

He's in his 30s, tall, black-haired, short beard, round face.

"Hi, I think I've seen you at the gym.  I'm Boomer, from California."  My best opener.  Gym for flattery, California to pique his interest.

He introduces himself.  We chat briefly, but then he returns to his table without inviting me to join him.

Strike 1.



10:00 pm

I return to the bar and order a beer, so I'll have something cool to hold.  The bartender says "Here you go, Sir."

Sir?

The 40-year olds and the elderly couple are gone, leaving only the college twinks.  I wouldn't want to be one of the creepy old guys, unwelcome intrusions in twink bars, like when you were a teenager, and your parents wanted to hang out with you and your friends.


In my experience, when you are older than everyone else in the room, you shouldn't downplay it -- it's your strength.  Sexual experience, sophistication, money, power...and of course, having a chest doesn't hurt.

10:15 pm

I take the bull by the horns and pick the youngest guy in the room, sitting by himself at one of the booths.  He looks like he's about sixteen (since the bar is also a restaurant, it's open to all ages).

 I approach without making eye contact and give him my best non-creepy smile: open, friendly, but displaying no erotic interest whatever.  "Hi, I'm tired of sitting at the bar -- could I join you?"

"Sure, no problem,  My friends will be here in a few minutes, though.  We're going to play darts.  Do you know how to play?"

I play darts with Bill and his friends, but can't find a way to get him alone.

Strike 2.

11:00 pm

The longer you spend in a bar, the lower your chances.  First hour -- excellent.  Second hour -- poor.  Third hour -- nil.

I have nothing to lose, so I try the craziest long-shot in the book: the bartender.

He's a college boy in his early twenties, medium height, not particularly buffed, but I like his deep-set eyes, scruffy beard, and square workman's hands.

I order a Diet Coke and say "Busy night," rather a lame conversation-starter.

"Yeah, but I like it busy.  More ladies to look at, you know."

Strike 3.

11:20 pm

I pay for my Diet Coke and walk out into the cold February night.

Suddenly a guy approaches me -- in his 20s, very tall and thin, dressed too nicely to be a panhandler.  A gay basher?  I turn quickly and head back toward the bar.

"Hey -- I wanted to talk to you in Red Rock, but you were always with someone...."  He smiles shyly and holds out his hand.  "My name is Liam...do you, like, want to go get some coffee?"

1:20 am

I don't usually care for tall, thin guys, but Liam is into kissing and cuddling, and he's got an enormous 9-incher!  My jaw will be aching tomorrow!

Besides, I picked him up in a straight bar.

See also: In Search of Beefcake on the Plains ; A Time Traveler from the Past Brings Me Guys.