Wing Man to a Muscle God

In the summer of 1998, just after I returned from visiting Jaan in Estonia (and cruising the Swedish bodybuilder in Tallinn), it was time to travel to Montreal, to the annual conference of the International Sociological Society, where I read a paper on queer theory (and investigated the mystery of Formosan men's endowment).

But I also had plenty of time for sightseeing: the Basilique Notre-Dame, the Musee des Beaux-Arts, the Centre d'histoire de Montréal ( full of people getting all excited over caricatures of local celebrities that I had never heard of).

And the Gay Village, an amazingly vibrant neighborhood cluttered with gay bars, restaurants, shops, and saunas.

At the Oasis, a gay sauna on the rue Ste. Catherine, I hung around the spa (a pool-sized hot tub) and started a conversation with an older guy named James, probably in his mid-60s, a member of the English-speaking minority of Montreal.  He didn't learn Québécois French until high school, and he still couldn't parse a sentence in Parisian French.

What was the difference?

Tu as...vouz avons
C'est de valeur...quel domage 
Chatons la pomme...nous flirtons

We were so busy discussing languages that I forgot gay sauna etiquette: casual conversations must be restricted to a few sentences, or the other guy will think you are interested.  And James was definitely cruising me!

He reminded me of John Fiedler, who starred in The Bob Newhart Show in the 1970s: short enough, but rather too old for me, and lacking the other characteristics that I find attractive: he was pale-skinned, scrawny, and unimpressive beneath the belt (James, not John Fiedler).,

But, I figured, we were having a nice conversation, so why not? So when James put his hand on my knee and asked "Do you want to come to our room?" I consented.

Wait...our room?

"Do you mind if my friend joins us?"

Two pale-skinned, scrawny, under-endowed 60-year olds?  But I was in this far...  "No, I don't mind at all.  The more, the merrier."

He turned and addressed someone on the other side of the spa.  "J'ai trouvé un garz!  Eu, Jérôme!" I found a guy!  Hey, Jerome!

Wait -- there weren't any pale-skinned, scrawny 60 year olds around...

But there was a massively-built bodybuilder.  In his 30s,  dark-skinned, rock-hard chest and abs, massive biceps, and more than adequate beneath the belt (see top photo).

He had been giving everyone in the sauna attitude -- including us. But now he raised up on one arm and grinned and said, "Ok, passons-nous à la cabine,"  Let's go to our room.

I was stunned.

When two friends cruised together, the most attractive always acted as the bait, piquing the target's interest so much that he was willing to accept the less attractive one as part of the bargain.

Why did James and Jérôme reverse the pattern?  Surely Jérôme could get any guy he wanted.

It would have been gauche to inquire, so I didn't, but later I surmised: because there was such a blatant difference in attractiveness, some targets in the past had agreed to Jérôme but fled upon seeing James.

The strategy of using James as the bait resulted in fewer hurt feelings.

They both turned out to be nice guys.  Later they took me on a tour of the Gay Village, where we had dinner at Cafe Saigon and finished up the evening watching the show at Le Stud.

In Search of Books and Boyfriends in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas

Hell-fer-Sartain, November 1984

I'm a big bibliophile.  When I move, it takes 30 boxes just for my books.

The highlight of visiting a new town is checking out the bookstores.

If I walked into this scene, I would check out the books before making out with the guy.

So during my awful year in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas, when I ran an ad in the Montrose Voice, Houston's gay newspaper, looking for a boyfriend, I specified "must like books."

It was a boyfriend ad -- I was 23 years old, conservative, romantic, not into "tricking" (the 1980s word for hookups).  I wanted dating, romance, a relationship.  So, to make sure we had a lot in common, I specified more than my sexual tastes:"into bks, tv, f/sf, mus, dts only.

Into books, tv, fantasy/science fiction, bodybuilding (muscles).  Dates only (they charged by the letter).

 Most guys who answered didn't even read the ad -- they just answered all of them, in search of an elusive hookup.

Others misunderstood, thinking I meant "pornographic books, transvestism, and fisting in San Francisco."

Others were "into books," but strongly disapproved of the "mindless, infantile dreck" on the rest of my list.

Finally, after about two months of running the ad, I got a response from a guy named Hank, who seemed ideal.

He was from Ottumwa, Iowa (about two hours from Rock Island); he had a bachelor's degree in psychology (I had a master's degree in English); and he claimed a love of books, movies, tv, and science fiction (at least he knew what sf meant).

So I agreed to a date.

When I arrived at Hank's apartment on Kipling Street in the Montrose, Houston's gay neighborhood, he answered the door in bathrobe.

Cute: short black hair, deeply-set eyes, sharp chin, high cheekbones.  From what I could see through the bathrobe, a nicely toned, smooth chest with flat nipples and a hint of six-pack abs.

"I'm still getting ready," he said apologetically.  "Have a seat, and I'll be with you in a minute."

It was a small one room apartment with a single window that looked out onto a fire escape, and nowhere to sit but an unmade bed.  A kitchenette with unwashed dishes in the sink and open boxes of cereal on the counter.  A coffee table with more unwashed dishes on it.  A small dresser and a black and white tv.

I shouldn't complain -- I had a small apartment, too.  But at least I knew how to wash dishes and make a bed.

As I looked around the tiny room, I noticed something missing.  No books.

I have books in every room in the house, including the bathroom.  Hank had none.   A bookcase full of knicknacks; snow globes, toys, figurines.  No pile of novels waiting to be read.  No coffee-table books for visitors to browse through.  Nothing.

For that matter, no magazines or newspapers, either.

Hank bounced out of the bathroom in a t-shirt that revealed a v-shaped torso and very thick hard biceps.  He plopped down on the bed next to me.  "So, what do you want to do?  Go out to eat, go to a movie, go cruising?"

He had never had Japanese, Indian, Thai, or Vietnamese food.  We went out to dinner at a...yawn...steakhouse, where I subtly quizzed Hank on how much he really liked the four things on my list.

Books: His favorite author was...um..Shakespeare.  His favorite gay author was...well, what difference did sexual orientation make, as long as the book was good?

TV: He used to watch The Brady Bunch when he was a kid.  He had a crush on Greg.  Contemporary shows?  Well, he didn't have much time for tv.

Fantasy/Science Fiction:  Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom is science fiction, right?

Bodybuilding: He went to the gym.

After dinner I suggested that we browse in the Wilde and Stein Bookstore, which specialized in gay fiction.  I bought The Boy Who Picked the Bullets Up, a gay coming-of-age story.  Hank looked bored.

We returned to his book-free apartment and sat on the bed.

I was ready to bolt.  This guy was cute and all, but I was looking for a boyfriend, someone who shared my interests.

"I don't think this will work out," I said, sighing.  "We don't have much in common.  I'm really looking for a guy who is into books."

"I read books!" Hank protested.  "I have a whole pile of them!"  He opened a drawer under the bed and displayed...some well-worn children's books.

Charlie an the Chocolate Factory
The Little House on the Prairie
The Boxcar Children
The Hardy Boys

"Um...have you read anything lately?" I asked.

"Well, I don't have time to read a lot, but look -- have you ever read The Phantom Tollbooth?  It's about a boy named Milo, see..."

"I don't think...." I began.

"Look..."  Hank wrapped his arm around me to draw my attention to the book.  A hard bicep against my back, a big hand on my shoulder.  I fell against his chest.

There was a definite bulge in his pants.

"We don't have to look at my books," Hank said, "If there's something else you'd rather do."

There was something else I wanted to do: kiss and lick his chest, and gradually move my way down to his beautifully shaped Bratwurst+.   I eagerly thrust up and down until Hank lay on the bed and pulled me on top of him for interfemoral and kissing, then into 69.

Ok, there are some things I like more than books.

See also: Anal and Astrology in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas

A Glory Hole at a Rest Stop in Arkansas

Forestville, Arkansas, May 1985

In 1984, just after getting my M.A. from Indiana University, I took a job in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas.

If you don't count Christmas and spring breaks, 7 1/2 months, 210 miserable days in the worst place on earth: hot, humid, construction everywhere, heavy traffic constantly, every chore taking hours, flat tires several times a week, tiny apartment with no airconditioning, illliterate boozing landlord, heavy-metal blaring neighbor, an hour's drive to the nearest gay neighborhood, and all the gay people into hookups instead of dating and romance.

I hated every minute of it, except for my Italian class and the few occasions when a well-hung redneck shared my bed.

On May 8th, 1985, I packed my stuff into my car -- actually, I threw most of it out in order to travel light -- dropped off the apartment key to my horrible illiterate landlord, and drove to the horrible campus of Longhorn State University, where I gave my last final exam to my last horrible class, graded it, and turned in the grade forms to the horrible department office.  Then, at 3:05 pm, I walked out into the parking lot, got into my car, and drove.

The quickest route to Rock Island took you through godforsaken Texas for five hours, and I wanted out as soon as possible.  So I drove east for two hours, not stopping for food, gas, or bathroom breaks until I saw that "Welcome to Louisiana" sign, breathed deeply, and vowed never to set foot in Texas again.

And I haven't.

I planned to drive the whole 20 hours home straight through, but I'd been up since before dawn grading papers and cleaning my apartment, so at around 12:30 am, I couldn't drive anymore.  I  stopped at a rest stop on Interstate 40, near Forrestville, Arkansas.

In the 1980s you were allowed to park at rest stops and sleep.

After an hour or so, I had to go to the bathroom.  so I went into the little bathroom building, chose a stall, and and sat down.  It had a glory hole looking directly into the next stall!

I knew from my experience at Lambert Airport in St. Louis and the public parks of New Delhi that public restrooms were sometimes used for sex, so I waited there for awhile, peering through the glory hole.  Maybe a horny redneck trucker would stop by and push a Mortadella+ through.

Soon someone came into the next stall.  From what I could see, it was a young guy, probably my age, medium height, pale skin, square hands, smooth chest and belly.  Wearing a blue shirt and jeans.  Holding a magazine.

Did he know I was in the next booth?  Was he interested in public sex, or just doing his business?

I waited.

He sat on the toilet, leafed through the magazine, and started fondling himself.  His penis was average sized, ruddy, cut, with a thick head.  Soon he was aroused.

Put it through the hole!  I thought savagely.

He began masturbating, intent on the magazine. Soon his penis was standing straight up.  He spat on his hand and continued to work it.  But he didn't put it through the hole.

Didn't he know I was there?  I made some coughing noises.

He didn't stop, but he ignored the glory hole.

Maybe he thought I was just doing my business.  I stood, flushed the toilet, and obviously stayed in the stall.

He kept working.

I put my head right up to the hole, so he could see my open mouth.

Nothing.

Why doesn't he want me to go down on him?

I put my eye right up to the hole and looked into the stall.  Nice tight body, taunt, breathing heavily.  Pants around his ankles.

He spurted with a sigh, wiped off with toilet paper, and flushed the toilet.

Feeling rejected and embarrassed, I waited until he zipped up, left the stall, washed his hands in the sink, and swung through the doors.  Then I gave him another few minutes to get into his car and leave.

No such luck -- he was staring at the snacks in in the vending machine.  A very cute college boy with curly red hair and flawless pale skin.

"Hi,"  I said.

He didn't answer.

I got into my car and drove, not stopping again until I reached St. Louis about 7 am.  I stopped at a diner for breakfast.

There was a  cute guy sitting by himself at one of the little tables: about my age, thin, with thick sandy hair, dark eyebrows, and pink lips.

Having been awake for over 24 hours, except for short catnaps, my discretion was gone.

"Hi!  I've had a rough night.  Can I join you?"

He smiled.  "Sure."

I haven't been back to Arkansas in 32 years, either.

See also: Public Cruising in Mississippi in 1984; The Joy of Public Sex; A Hookup in the College Restroom