The Bear Party on the Prairie

In West Hollywood, I went to bear parties in the Hollywood Hills with fifty guys.

In New York, there were gay male nudist parties on Long Island with thirty or more guys.

Even in Dayton, someone put a lot of mattresses on the floor in his basement and held weekly M4M parties, with at least twenty guys.

Why should the Prairie be any different?

I kept a lookout for parties for months.  There was one advertised about 60 miles away, but it specified that "a fag" would be in attendance to service all the "studs."  No way was I going to a party hosted by someone so horrifyingly homophobic!

Another was about 160 miles away, a little far to drive to see guys naked.

So Troy and I decided to host our own.

Party #1

We turned the study into a dark room by nailing a blanket over the window, dragged all of the chairs in the house into the living room, put two mattresses on the floor in the bedroom, bought porn to put on the tv, made punch and lots of snacks, and printed out signs with hot guys on them.

I put ads up on craigslist and Men4SexNow, and planned a guest list of  25, making sure to have a variety of ages and body builds.

Then the questions started.  Weird, crazy, wacko, crazy questions.

"How many guys will be there?  Can I get their photos?"

"How many tops?"

"How many young tops?"

"How many muscular young tops?"

"How many muscular young hung tops?"

Come on, it's not West Hollywood!  What do you think the average guy looks like?

Which is fine with me, but if you're only into porn stars, a sex party might not be the place for you.

And by the way, everyone who specified a preferred sexual position was a bottom.  Everyone.

Results: RSVP list of 26, 10 guys showed up, including three young, muscular guys who had Attitude and wouldn't allow any else to get with them.  They didn't get invited back.

Party #2

We skipped the dark room and the clever signs, dragged some chairs into the living room, bought sodas and a bag of chips, put the same porn on the tv, and put up more ads.

More emails with questions about "how many young, muscular, hung tops?", plus a variety of other weird, crazy, wacko, and offensive questions:

"Is it discrete?  I don't want my boss to find out."

"How can I be sure that you're not sending me on a wild goose chase to retaliate against someone who rejected you?"

"Can you guarantee that the party won't be all black guys?"

"Can you guarantee that there won't be any old, fat guys?"

"Will there be any women there?"

"Can I wear my pretty pink panties?"

And, again and again, "What are your stats?  Are you a young, muscular, hung top?  Can I get a pic?"

Um...I'm the host.  I'm busy answering the door, checking clothes, making sure everybody has a good time.  I don't even take my clothes off.

Results: Another RSVP list of 26, but only 6 guys showed up, and three of them wouldn't even take off their clothes.


Party #3

We moved a couple of chairs into the living room, put out a few cans of soda, and put Absolutely Fabulous on tv.

I put up more ads with a detailed description of what to expect, plus provisos like "no attitude" and "you will be surrounded by guys of all sizes and shapes, so if you're extremely picky, this isn't the place for you."

More emails:

"How many hot, young, muscular, hung guys will be there?"

Results:

RSVP list of 16, 3 guys showed up.  One was fat, one old, one black  (not that these categories are mutually exclusive).  We watched Absolutely Fabulous.  After an hour, it was obvious that no one else was coming, so the five of us went into the bedroom, took off our clothes, and went at it.

Best M4M party ever.

My High School Game of Rating Bulges

When I was in high school, I dated a Nazarene girl named Rita, who was convinced that she would one day marry singer Donny Osmond.

Her reasoning was simple: God often tells us His will by "laying a burden on us."  She was worried that Donny, as a Mormon, was destined to an eternity in the Lake of Fire.  One night when she was praying for him to be saved, God "laid the burden" on her to be the one who would win him.

Of course, you can win someone's soul without marrying him, so she sealed the deal by asking God in Jesus' name to give her Donny Osmond as a husband.  God said that whenever we pray for anything in Jesus' name, we will get it.  Case closed.

While Rita was waiting for God to deliver Donny, she had to keep herself pure, so no kissing, no holding hands, no nothing.

Of course, she could talk about cute guys.

If I have to date a girl, I definitely want one who doesn't want to hold hands or kiss, and who wants to talk about cute guys!

Rita rated guys on a scale of 1-9.  Since Donny Osmond was undeniably the most attractive boy who had ever lived, he was the only #10.  Everyone else lined up by how closely they resembled Donny Osmond in hair, eyes, smile, physique.

Unfortunately, there weren't a lot of androgynous pretty boys with shaggy hair and an Osmond smile at Rocky High, so none of the guys got higher than 3 or 4.

I had another idea.  "Since Donny Osmond is perfect in every way, he must obviously be perfect down there, in his sexual organs, right?"

"Right," Rita said dubiously.

"No one will ever come close to Donny's facial beauty, but they might come close down there.  Let's rate the source of masculinity itself!"

"But how can we tell what a guy is like down there without seeing him, you know, with his clothes off?"

So I showed her how to tell how it was hanging from the way a guy walked, from how he sat.

Boners while sleeping or kissing his girlfriend,  or for no reason at all.

Bulges in spandex.

Bulges in uniforms.

Boners at the pool.

Tenting in wrestling singlets.

Points:

1.  Can't see anything.
2.  Small bulge, could be a curve of his fabric.
3. Big bulge, but could be something else.
5. Visible cock outline.
6. Obvious semi.
7. Full tent.
8. He rearranges himself.
9. He pushes on it.
10.  It pops out!

The game lasted for months.  Neither of us thought it strange that two ultra-conservative Nazarene kids, who felt guilty over going to movies or eating in a restaurant that served alcohol, would eagerly look for evidence of guys' cocks and balls through their pants.

My friend Aaron the Rabbi's son asked to get in on the game, but soon he dropped out. 

"Guys' baskets are boring!" he told us. "Half the time you can't see anything at all, and even when you see something, how do you know it isn't his handkerchief or his wallet?  I'd rather rate guys on something more obvious."

Turns out he was more of a butt man.

A Student Invites Me to Share His Bunk Bed

Jamaica, New York, February 2000

In the spring of 2000, I was living in the East Village,  taking classes at Setaukt University (two hours away) and teaching as an adjunct at Hofstra University (1 1/2 hours away), which took a little logistic planning.  Sometimes I spent the night with Yuri or a date to avoid going all the way back into Manhattan.

 That Thursday was one of my long days: up at 6, classes at LIU, teaching at LIU, gym, an hour train trip from LIU to Hofstra, teaching a three hour night class, and then an 1 1/2 hour train trip back to Manhattan.,

 By the time I got on the campus shuttle to the Hofstra train station at 9:30 pm, I was exhausted, and not looking forward to the next 1 1/2 hours.

Standing on the platform on a cold, snowy February night didn't help matters.

I wanted to doze or read.  I was in no mood for cruising or small talk.

No matter how cute the guy was.

So when Mason got on the train with me, I was not pleased.   He was one of the nondescript students in my introductory class last semester: a freshman, tall and thin, pale, with thick brown hair, glasses, a sharp nose, a weak chin, and acne.  Sort of cute, in a fresh-faced innocent way, but nothing spectacular.

He plopped down across from me and didn't say anything.  I saw a sizeable basket that I hadn't noticed in class.  Bratwurst, at least.

"Hi, Mason!" I said with my best smile.

"Hi, Mr. Davis," he said politely.  "Where you headed?"

"Penn Station.  "You?"

"Hey, me too!  I'm going to meet some friends at the Tunnel.  I've never been there before." 

A mixed gay-straight club on 12th Avenue, a few blocks from Penn Station.  Could Mason be gay?

He moved over next to me and started describing the club and his friends.  A few follow-up questions should reveal if Mason was gay or not.

But I didn't get anywhere.  Mason may be gay, but he wasn't open about it, and he wasn't cruising me.  I was too tired to press the issue, basket or not.

Another hour, with a change of trains at Jamaica Station and a short subway ride, and I'd be home in the East Village, where there were plenty of open, active gay guys around, most with sizeable baskets.

As we chatted, I found myself ignoring Mason to gaze out the window at the thick-falling snow.  It was coming down hard.  I wasn't worrried - trains can plow through anything.

At a little after 10:30, we stopped at Jamaica Station to catch the train to Penn.  Usually it was a five minute wait, or less.  But tonight, as we stood shivering on the platform for five, ten, fifteen minutes...

Could we have missed it?  It only came once an hour after 10:00 pm.

And the snow kept falling.

Just my luck.  Waiting on a freezing train station platform in the middle of the night with a nondescript, straight student.  

"Screw this!" Mason said suddenly.  "I'll go to the Tunnel some other time.  I'm getting a taxi, and going home."

"Ok, see you later."

He started to walk away.  Then he turned, saw me alone on the platform, shivering in the cold, and called "Hey, would you like to come home with me tonight?  Mom and Dad won't mind,  You can sleep in the guest room."

Suddenly Manhattan seemed an eternity away, and a warm bed in Mason's house sounded like a godsend.  

We got into a taxi and chugged about two miles through the snow to a duplex on 126th Street.  Mason paid, and led me through the front porch, instructing me to take off my snow-covered shoes at the door.

Mom and Dad were sitting on separate chairs in the tiny, old-fashioned living room, watching the 11:00 news on tv.

"I thought you were going into the City?"  Dad said, ignoring me.

"Snow is too bad out there -- we're almost snowed in."  He took my arm -- the first time we actually touched.  "This is my old professor, Mr. Davis -- I ran into him on the train, and I promised him Calvin's old room, if that's ok."

"Well -- it would be, ordinarily," Mom said, "But Aunt Joy's in there tonight, remember?"

"Oh, yeah."

I started to panic.  Another taxi ride back to the freezing cold train platform, for a train that came once an hour, maybe not at all..."I can sleep on the couch, no problem..." I began.

"How about I just put you up in my room?" Mason said.  "Don't worry, I don't snore."

I tried to remember the last time I shared someone's bed who wasn't a sex partner.  Not since I was a kid...or would he be a sex partner after all?

I wondered if Mason had planned all of this in advance.  A random encounter on the train -- the night his brother's room is occupied -- but how could he arrange for the snow, and the train that didn't come?  No, of course not...I was just goofy with fatigue.

"Sure, that will be fine."

Mason led me upstairs, past two bedrooms -- one with the door closed, presumably where Aunt Joy was sleeping -- and to the third.  Small, bookshelves, desk, dresser, posters, baseball mitt, dormer window looking down on the street.  And bunk beds.

"Um...would you like the top or bottom?" Mason asked.

I was too tired to answer.  "Be right back, got to go to the bathroom."  I found my toiletry kit in my knapsack and headed down the hall to brush my teeth.  When I returned, Mason was lying in the bottom bunk, shirtless, reading a book by a desk lamp.

"Hi, I thought I'd give you the top, since you're..." Mason began.  He didn't have time to say anything else.  "F* climbing," I thought, tearing off my shirt and pants and pushing into bed next to him.  "Scoot over, I don't do tops.  You like cuddling, right?"

"Sure."  He turned off the light and scooted down and held me.  Suddenly he was kissing my chest.

We didn't do much that night, but in the morning I found my way around Mason's firm, smooth physique and  uncut Bratwurst+.  I went down on him, and finished with interfemoral, with a lot of kissing afterwards, before his Mom called us "sleepyheads" and roused us to make the train back to Hofstra.

We ended up dating on and off for about six months, including "sharing" with Yuri and a weekend in Manhattan.

 I still sort of felt that Mason planned the whole thing.

See also: The Man in Black on Christopher Street.