The Roommate of the Boyfriend of the Roommate of the Date of my Roommate

West Hollywood, April 1986

In the 1980s, photographs of naked men were rare, even in West Hollywood.  There were a few gay porn magazines -- Mandate, In Touch, Blue Boy -- but they were hard to find -- the Different Light Bookstore didn't stock any, for fear of being raided.  The only place in town that I knew of where you could get them was Book Circus.  They were prohibitively expensive, two or three times what ordinary magazines cost.

As a result, we guarded our collections jealously, keeping them hidden in locked drawers, rarely bringing them out except to show at parties, and to impress dates with.

I was especially protective of my In Touch for Men magazine, #72, October 1982, which I bought at the adult bookstore in Bloomington.  It was the first gay magazine I ever bought.

Before setting foot in that adult bookstore, I thought that gay people had nothing but badly-mimeographed newsletters, but here was a big, bold, glossy magazine like the ones they sold at supermarket check-out stands, with articles, columns, and everything!

A  tribute to Steve Reeves.

A retrospective on gay icons of the 1960s, like Ron Ely of Tarzan.

And naked men!

It was one of my most prized possessions.

Tuesday, April 8th, 1986

 I got back from my night class at USC at 11:00 pm, exhausted, ready for bed.  My roommate Alan the Pentecostal Porn Star was sitting in the living room with a cute Asian guy, looking at my copy of The Celluloid Closet.  

"This is Dennis from Taiwan," he said. "We went to see Lucas -- Corey Haim in his underwear, pretty hot, huh?"

Dennis from Taiwan looked up and smiled. He was short, slim, a bit on the femme side, with pale skin, thick eyebrows, and horn-rimmed glasses.

"Hi," I said, staring at Alan.  I never knew him to spend the night of a first date reading.  Maybe things weren't going well.

"Hey...do you suppose we could borrow your 1982 In Touch?  I want to show Dennis the article on Steve Reeves.  He doesn't believe that the guy was a gay icon."

"Um...I'm really tired.  I was just going to go to bed."  Meaning: I won't be around to supervise.

"That's ok.  We'll just look at the article, and put it back in your room when we're done."

Well, anything to help him get Dennis from Taiwan off the couch and into his bedroom.

Wednesday, April 9th

In the morning when I woke up, Alan and Dennis were already gone.  I checked my desk and dresser.  No In Touch.  I checked the coffee table, the kitchen table, Alan's room, even the bathroom.  It was gone!

There were no cell phones in those days, so I had to wait for Alan to get home from work.  When he came in, the first thing I said was "Hey, where's my In Touch?"

"Oh, sorry.  I didn't think you'd mind.  Dennis wanted to take it home to make a copy of the article."

"Huh?"  I don't know if I was more mad over the "borrowing," or shocked that Dennis would take a gay porn magazine into Kinko's.

"He's going to use the copying machine at work, after everyone goes home," Alan explained.  "And he'll bring it back during our next date."

"You'd better call and remind him, pronto!" I exclaimed.

"Chill.  I can't call so soon.  Last night was our first date."  It was customary to wait 24-48 hours after the first date, to avoid appearing needy.  "I'll call tomorrow."

Thursday, April 10th

Obviously Alan couldn't call Dennis at work -- it would have to be in the evening, when I was at USC.  When I got back to the apartment at 11:00 pm, Alan was sitting up watching television.

"Dennis said 'no' to a second date," he said morosely.

"Bummer.  Where's my In Touch?"

"Oh, sorry, I forgot to ask him for it."

"His telephone number.  Now!"

It was a little late, but I called Dennis.  He invited me over to pick up the magazine that night, but I was too tired.

"Tomorrow night, then.  Can you get here before 7:00 pm?  I have a date."

I worked at the Community Redevelopment Agency until 5:00 pm on Fridays.  I could make it back to West Hollywood before 7:00, if I skipped the gym.

Friday, April 11th

Dennis lived in an apartment on DeLongpre, about a mile from us.

He answered the door in a towel -- quite a nice, tight physique -- and kissed me (the standard greeting in West Hollywood).

 "Sorry -- I was taking a shower.  Your magazine is in my room.  Come on in while I dress."

I barely managed to enjoy the sausage sighting as my roommate's date towelled off and put on his underwear and pants.  I was busy following his directions -- "It's probably on the desk -- no?  Try inside the night stand.  Maybe I put it with my other porn mags.  No?  Under the bed, next to the trick rag?  Hmm...where could it be?  I showed it to my roommate, Clay.  Could he have borrowed it?"

Another 'borrower"!  I thought savagely.  My roommate's date's roommate.  "Where is this Clay person now?"

"Probably having dinner with his boyfriend Rusty, out in Silver Lake.  And then he'll spend the night.  Listen -- " he touched me on the shoulder.  "I hope it's not too soon, but I thought we had some chemistry the other night, and I was wondering if you wanted to go out to dinner..."

He leaned in for a kiss.  I kissed and groped him for a moment, and then said "Telephone number, now!"

No answer at Rusty's.  There was nothing to do but wait until the next day, and call Dennis's roommate's boyfriend again.

Saturday, April 12th.

I called early, so they wouldn't be off getting brunch.

"Hm...sure, your magazine is here," Rusty, the boyfriend of my roommate's date's roommate, told me. He had a brief conversation with someone else in the room.  "Sorry, Clay thought it belonged to Dennis, so there'd be no problem borrowing it.  He'll bring it to the house later, and you can pick it up there."

"No, stay where you are!" I exclaimed.  "I'm coming to you."

"Ok, but knock loud.  We're going back to bed."

The address he gave was all the way out in Silverlake, a 45 minute drive from West Hollywood.  I still managed to arrive before 10:00.

A cute blond in his 30s answered the door.  Wearing only a red bath robe.  Smooth tight chest, hard biceps, square workman's hands.

"Hi, I'm Rusty," he said, kissing me. "I sent Clay out for bagels, and there's coffee on."

"Thanks," I said.  "Do you have my magazine?"

"That was a great article about Steve Reeves," Rusty said.  "It gave me a new appreciation for the old Hercules sword-and-sorcery movies. Whoa, it's hot in here.  Do you mind if I take my bathrobe off?"  Without waiting for my answer, he stripped.

"Yeah, it was great," I said.  "So, where is the magazine?"

"Oh, we left it on the coffee table.  Go take a look.  How do you like your coffee?"

"Black."

He walked toward the kitchen, his huge uncut meat swinging between his legs. "So, are you and Clay good friends?  Like up for sharing?"

"Actually, we haven't even met yet.  He's the roommate of my roommate's date."

"Darling, you're practically brothers."

I sorted through the Frontiers, Advocates, and coffee table books.  Then to the end table, with Architectural Digest.  The magazine holder.

"No In Touch here!" I called.

"That's funny, I know we left it on the coffee table."  He appeared in the doorway, naked.  "Hey, you know what?  I'll bet my roommate, Arturo, came in late last night and borrowed it.  He's in the room at the end of the hall -- you want to go wake him up?  Tell him we have bagels coming."

I went to the end of the hall and opened the door without knocking.  A guy I assumed was Arturo, the roommate of my roommate's date's roommate's boyfriend,  was lying on the bed -- in his 30s, very buffed, olive skin, thick black hair, a short beard.  A Mortadella+, fully aroused.  He was beating off!

He smiled at me.  "Hi.  See anything you like?"

"In Touch?"

"You can touch anything you want."

"No, In Touch, the magazine.  Do you have the October 1982 issue?  With the Steve Reeves retrospective?"

"Oh, that.  I thought it was Rusty's."  He took his hand off his cock.  "Over on the desk."

"Thanks."  This time it actually was on the desk!  "By the way, bagels are almost here."

"I'll be out in a bit."

I didn't stick around for the beating off.  Or the bagels.  I was anxious to get In Touch back into the locked drawer in my bedroom.

Later it dawned on me that I had passed up opportunities to date Dennis, share Clay and Rusty, and go down on Arturo.

But at least I got my magazine back.

See also: Comic Book Guy's Date with Jeff Stryker; My First Visit to an Adult Bookstore.

The Shy Boy at the Bathhouse

January 7th, 2011.  Cleveland, Ohio.

My boyfriend Troy and I are traveling crosscountry from Upstate New York to Indianapolis to visit my relatives.  Cleveland is a convenient halfway point, so we get a room at the Flex Club, which offers a full gym, two swimming pools, a steamroom maze, and a bar downstairs, and bathhouse facilities and hotel rooms upstairs.

7:00 pm

After we check into our room, Troy hits the cruising area, and I go to the gym.  The only other guy there is not particularly muscular, obviously not a gym regular, gamely trying to figure out how to bench press.

I go over and offer to spot him.

His name is Lester.  He's in his 20s, of medium height, unruly black hair, black eyebrows, and sharp features, not handsome but pleasant in a quirky bohemian way,  He has a thin chest, prominent nipples, and nicely rippled abs, plus a soft Southern accent that I find attractive.  He reminds me of my Kentucky Kinfolk.

 I steer him toward the Nautilus machines and demonstrate proper form.

"So, are you from Cleveland?" he asks.

"New York, actually.  I'm just here for the night.  My boyfriend and I have a hotel room upstairs."

"Wow, I just have a locker.  I heard the hotel rooms were nice -- I've never been in one."

"Well, come on up, and I'll give you a tour."

7:30 pm

Before we go upstairs, Lester wants to go to the indoor pool and introduce me to his friends Max and Jason-- rather an odd precaution in the bathhouse.  But ok.  They are college-aged, not particularly muscular but well hung. They grin broadly and hug Lester, as if he has accomplished something spectacular.

All he did was hook up at a bathhouse -- not particularly difficult!

It is a very strange feeling to walk down one of those red-painted, dimly lit bathhouse corridors, with disco music pounding away and guys walking around in towels, open a door, and bam!  You're in a 3-star hotel room with a queen-sized bed, a tv, an alarm clock, and a private bath.

"I like to take things slow," Lester says as I steer him toward the bed.

"Ok, I have plenty of time."  We kiss and fondle, go down on each other, kiss some more.  Eventually he puts his penis -- a very thick Bratwurst -- between my legs and finishes.  I don't finish, wanting to save myself for later in the evening.

Afterwards we cuddle and chat.  Lester grew up fundamentalist in rural Kentucky, attended the homophobic Cedarville University, and didn't come out he was 20.  He transferred to Ohio State, and now he is in law school at Case Western Reserve University.  He's been in one "real" relationship, with an older guy; it lasted for two years, and ended last November.

Ok, well...I was hoping to hook up with some other guys tonight...

He keeps on cuddling.  He's a big fan of Harry Potter, Glee, and The Rocky Horror Picture Show.  I tell him some of my good stories, about my date with Michael J. Fox, the Amazing Invisible Boy, and Cousin George ("only fools wear pajamas").  Eventually I push him down onto me to finish.

He grabs me and holds on tight again.

8:30 pm.

I've been driving all day, and I want to hook up with some other guys tonight....how do I extricate myself from this guy?  I can't just kick him out!

The door opens, and Troy comes in.  After the introductions, he joins us, going down on Lester and me in turn.  Then I get up, leave the two of them cuddling on the bed, and go cruising.  Let Troy kick him out.

10:00 pm.

I return to the room.  Troy and Lester are still there. They must have hit it off!  I join them for another session of Lester's penis between my legs, and we all fall asleep together.







January 8th, 6:00 am.

I get up, eat a power bar and two bananas, run on the treadmill, and return to the room to dress.

7:00 am.

Troy goes off to exercise, leaving Lester and me alone in the room.

"I have to go -- my locker is expiring," he says.  "What are you guys going to do today?"

"Breakfast, then the museums.  Then we're leaving for Indianapolis.  It's about five hours away."

"Great, then you'll be in town for lunch.  Let me take you and Troy to my favorite place.  It's right near the campus.  I'll invite some of my friends."

He writes down the address, kisses me, and leaves.

1:00 pm.

Troy and I spend the morning at the Cleveland Museum of Art, the Museum of Natural History, and the Botanical Garden.  Then we walk to a place called the Jolly Scholar, on the campus of Case Western Reserve.  It's empty on a Saturday morning before classes have started.

Lester arrives with three of his friends, Max and Jason from last night, plus a portly young lady named Michelle.

"So someone finally took pity on our little Lester!" Michelle says, hugging us both in turn.

"We thought he'd never meet anyone...." Jason adds, sliding into the booth next to me.

Lester blushes.  "Guys, knock it off!"

Meet anyone?  "Well, we're not actually dating.  Troy and I are off to Indianapolis after lunch."

"So you mean you just used Lester for his body, with no intention of following through with a relationship?"

"Um...well...."

"Just kidding!"  Jason grabs my knee under the booth.  "That was the whole idea.  Little Lester has only been with a few guys in his whole miserable life."

"...including two years of monotony with that jerk David," Max says.

"So last night we dragged him kicking and screaming to the Flex Club, and told him he couldn't leave until he went down on at least five guys..."

"Or one guy five times..."

"Did you keep a tally?" Michelle asks.

Lester puts his head into his hands.  "Boomer, you took judo.  Make them stop.  Throw them out the window!"

See also: My Kentucky Kinfolk; 10 Bathhouse Boys; and I Get With Every Guy in the Bath House

The Truth about the Formosan Penis

Montreal, July 1998

My doctoral program in New York (1997-2001) was not only about studying sexuality.  I spent a lot of time seeking out ethnic groups with legendary penises:

The Basque, reputedly the largest in the world.

The Bushman, reputedly always in a tumescent state.

And the Formosan of Taiwan.

When I first moved to New York in 1997, I had to live in a grad student apartment, where I was assigned 3 roommates: Max, the most obnoxious guy on the planet; a beefy Turkish guy who mostly kept to himself; and a Taiwanese guy named Huang, who also happened to be a fellow grad student in the Sociology Department.

Huang was not nearly as muscular as Max, but also not as obnoxious.  His only faults: he occasionally had a girl over to giggle in his bedroom, and he called his family back home every Saturday at 4:00 am.

In each case I could hear him quite clearly through the wall.

My Mandarin was limited to Wǒ xǐhuān zhōngguó rén, "I like Chinese men,"  but at least I could recognize the language.  And when Huang spoke to his family, he wasn't speaking Mandarin.

Turns out that he was fluent in Mandarin (and Hokkien, French, and English), but his native language was Paiwan, from the Formosan family, related the Tagalog of the Philippines and the Javanese of Indonesia.

There are about 400,000 Formosan aboriginals in Taiwan, about 2% of the population, mostly living in the mountainous south.

"We get discrimination," Huang told me.  "The Chinese think yuánzhùmín are uncivilized, barbarians.  Like the Indians in America."

There are statues of muscular, half naked Formosans all over Taiwan, like the statues of Native Americans in the U.S.

The Formosan Aboriginal Cultural Park in Yuchi, about 150 miles south of Taipei, invites Chinese tourists to see aboriginals performing traditional arts and native dances, like the pow wows in the U.S.

"But the Chinese woman like us," Huang added with a grin.

"Oh, why is that?"

"Yuánzhùmín men are bigger than Chinese men." He pointed to his crotch.  "Dá jībā!"  Apparently that meant big penis.  

I reddened, shocked that a straight guy would be comfortable enough to discuss his penis size with me.   Or maybe he was bisexual, and expressing interest.  "Well -- I'm sure some of the Chinese men like Formosan dá jībā, too."

"No, they are jealous."

Not bisexual!

"When you tell a woman you are yuánzhùmín," Huang continued, "She always ask if the stories are true, and she want to see it."

"Well - are the stories true?"  I asked.  "Can I see it?"

"No, no, not for gays." He giggled. "Just for women."

I'm not usually deterred so easily, but after Huang's startling display of confidence, I felt guilty about plotting any complex schemes to get a glimpse of his jībā.  

Maybe I could see it by accident?

No -- he didn't go to the gym, and he didn't strut around the apartment in a towel.

When I moved out of graduate student housing to a place in Manhattan, I lost hope of ever finding out if the stories about Formosan men are true.

But my hope was restored in July, shortly after I returned from my trip to Estonia with Yuri and Jaan.  Some of the sociology students drove up to Montreal for the International Sociological Association World Congress, and Huang and I shared a hotel room.

Surely he would change clothes in front of me, or sleep in revealing briefs.

No -- he changed clothes in the bathroom, and slept in pajama bottoms.  Not even a bulge was visible!

One night I was planning to go to the Keynote Speech, then "out" (actually to the Oasis, where I met the Muscle God and his Wingman).  I told Huang I would not be back until after midnight.

But after the Keynote Speech, I realized that I had left my jacket in the hotel room -- it was rather chilly in Montreal -- and rushed back upstairs.

I slid the key card through the slot and pulled the door open.

The first thing I noticed was cheesy 1970s music.

The second was the heterosexual porn playing on the tv.

The third was Huang lying on his bed, naked, doing what heterosexual men do when they watch porn.

He yelled and pulled the covers over himself.  But he was still tenting.

"I forgot my jacket," I said, stepping forward to grab it from the coat rack.

"I'm sorry...I'm sorry....I thought you are not coming back until very late."

"Don't worry about it.  By the way, you're right -- it really is a dá jībā."

I'm certainly not going to make a joke about Huang and hung, but he was.

See also: The Secret Identity of the Elevator Hookup