Is My Judo Master Gay?

Rock Island, January 1971

Denkmann Elementary School didn't have any sports teams, so I was spared the "play a sport...play a sport...play a sport" litany.  Until the beginning of fifth grade, the fall of 1970, when Dad suddenly came home with a pamphlet advertising "Rock Island Parks & Recreation Kids’ Sports.”

"It’s not just ball games, Skeezix,” Dad said. “They have boxing, judo, and karate. Those will be better at teaching you to fight anyway.”

“Couldn’t I join the orchestra instead?”

“Orchestra won’t teach you how to use your fists,” Mom pointed out. “You’re going to have to learn to fight sooner or later. All boys do.”

I sighed.  I get punched by a Mean Boy one time, and they start a "learn to fight" kick, insisting that people will be challenging me to fistfights regularly for the rest of my life.

Or maybe they were responding to the incident at the A&W, when Bill and I became "a Mama and a Papa."  Or asking for an Easy Bake Oven for my birthday.

“How about we make a deal?” Dad said. “You can join the orchestra if you take one of these classes, too. Boxing, judo, karate, whichever you want.”

Judo seemed the least horrible – no actual hitting, and you got snacks – so when the new kids’ classes began in January, I walked four blocks west to 38th Street, to the Rock Island Martial Arts Center. I changed into my stiff white judogi with the novice white belt, and learned about bowing, falling, and randori, or exercises on the mat.

I considered sneaking through the glass doors, looking at the comic books at Schneider’s for an hour or so, then going home and lying to Mom and Dad about how much fun I had. But it was too cold to go outside without a coat, and besides, most of the other students were cute junior high boys, and if I stuck around I might be able to see them take their judogis off in the locker room.



The sensei, or teacher, a Japanese guy named Sammy, was tall and broad-shouldered, with a smooth, golden chest slightly dampened with sweat (I don't have any pictures, but he looked like Japanese bodybuilder Hidetada Yamagishi). During the break, when we got to drink tea and eat almond cookies, he took me aside and wrapped a huge hard arm around my shoulders and said “Don’t worry that you are little. Some of our greatest champions are little guys. I bet in a month or two, you will be able to throw me.”

And, in a month or two, I did manage to throw Sammy (but he helped, practically leaping over my hip). I started to look forward to my Tuesday and Thursday afternoons at the dojo, with the tinkling Japanese samisen music, the faint smell of bleach and incense, the cute junior high boys, and Sammy’s fascinating stories.

One night during break, as we were eating almond cookies, Sammy said, “I better stock up. At home all we got is peanut butter sandwiches.”

“Why don’t you tell your wife to make pot roast?” I asked. “That’s what Uncle Charlie always makes on My Three Sons.”

“We never have that,” Sammy said with a weird half-smile. “Too complicated to make, too many ingredients.”

Why was pot roast too hard for his wife? I wondered. Weren’t all grown-up women expert cooks? But. . .boys couldn’t cook, or if we tried, it had to be something easy. When Mom was in the hospital having my baby sister, Dad made macaroni and cheese three nights in a row.

The answer was obvious: Sammy was married to a man, not a woman!

I didn't know the word "gay" yet, but I assumed that Sammy was in a same-sex relationship for almost a year.  Until the summer after fifth grade, when he invited some of his best students to his house for a cookout.

When Dad dropped me off and I walked onto the screened-in porch and knocked, the door was answered by a petite Caucasian woman in a flowered blouse and Capri shorts. I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. Sammy was married to a woman after all.

Where were all the men married to men?  Or were they all forced to marry women?  Maybe the litany "what girl do you like" shifted gradually, as you grew older, to "you must choose a wife!"  And if you refused, you would be forced.

Bill and I Find a "Little Bit O'Heaven"

Rock Island, May 1972

When I was a kid, one of my birthday presents was always an excursion for me and two or three friends to anywhere we wanted in the Quad-Cities.  Unfortunately, my birthday was in November, so most of the fun places were closed.

But then I got the bright idea of postponing the excursion to May: then my friends and I could go to Mother Goose Land, Longview Park, the Putnam Museum, or the Niabi Zoo.  Or, the spring of sixth grade, A Little Bit O' Heaven.

B. J. Palmer, son of the founder of chiropractic medicine, traveled the world collecting Chinese, Indian, and European art.  Now it was on display in a contemplative garden on the grounds of Palmer College of Chiropractic.

The commercials promised: "Mystical idols from the forbidden East! Treasures of Greece and Rome!  Dangers around every curve!"

I imagined a temple out of Johnny Quest, with statues of Greek gods and naked natives brandishing spears.  

As my boyfriend Bill and I talked it over, the Little Bit O' Heaven became bigger and bigger.  Acres of statues.  40-foot tall slabs of muscle. Flexing bodybuilders.  Natives who were completely naked!  Rows of penises that you could see and touch!

It was settled.  We were going to A Little Bit O'Heaven!

I invited Bill and two other friends who liked muscles: Joel, a cute curly-haired soccer player, and Greg, the boy vampire who gave me my first kiss.  My brother wanted to come, to do research for his own birthday excursion in June, and of course Dad drove us and paid the admission fee.

It started out ok: we walked through an ornate gate into a tropical greenhouse with macaws and parrots, and a 40-foot waterfall splashing through a miniature town.  Then a 10-foot tall statue of the Buddha, some totem poles, and a pond full of live alligators!

That was cool, but we were anxious to get to the acres of muscles and penises.

Next came a courtyard where you walked along a winding path, past statues.  A fat Buddha.  A naked lady.

Another turn, another naked lady.

"Where are the men?" Bill asked.

"They're coming up, probably saving the best for last," I assured him.

Another turn, another fat Buddha.  And another naked lady.

"You said there would be Greek gods," Greg protested.

"Naked," Joel added.

"Um...maybe they're in storage," I said.  My stomach was starting to hurt.  "Dad, where are the men?"

Another turn, another naked lady.

"It's art," he said with a shrug.  "That means women."  

"Gross!" Bill exclaimed.  "Who wants to see that?"

I was hot with disappointment, outrage over the false advertising -- and embarrassment.  I promised my friends muscles!  "Dad -- let's get out of here!  Can we go to the Putnam Museum instead?"  

"No way, Skeezix!  This is your birthday trip, and it cost me a fortune."  He always called me Skeezix when I failed to demonstrate heterosexual interest.  "Now quit whining and enjoy it!"

My friends never forgave me for subjecting them to the Little Bit O'Heterosexual Heaven.

Although getting ice cream on the way home helped.

Are Mike and Calvin Friends or Lovers?

Wilton Manors, October 2004

You're at a heterosexual party, and you want to know if it's ok to flirt with that hot person who came with the hetero guy.  Are they just friends, or lovers?

Easy: if it's a man, they're friends.  You may occasionally be mistaken, but 99 times out of 100, you can distinguish between friends and lovers by gender.

If you're not sure, check their level of physical intimacy.  Heterosexuals rarely sit with their hands on their friend's knee, or make out with them, or go down on them.

If you're still not sure, find out if they live together.  Heterosexuals over age 25 usually shy away from living with friends, thinking of it as "juvenile": grown-ups should only live with lovers.

With gay men, it's not so easy.

1. Both friends and lovers are men.

2. Friends have no qualms about physical intimacy.  They are perfectly willing to make out with you, or to go down on you.  But sometimes lovers are sexually incompatible, and rarely do anything.

3.  Friends often live together, and lovers sometimes do not.

4. Guys often have very close, inseparable friends.

But you have to be able to distinguish.  It's extremely rude to invite one lover but not the other to a party, to give a Christmas present to one but not the other, or even to hold a conversation with one without asking "How's your boyfriend?"

It's even more rude to cruise a guy's lover.

Mike and Calvin were two guys who worked out at Barney's gym: both in their 30s, buffed but not bodybuilders, with smooth chests and big biceps.  Mike was taller, pale/Anglo, and a little more buffed.  Calvin was shorter, dark/Hispanic, with longer hair, and a bigger penis (I saw them both in the shower).

I was interested in Calvin.  But I couldn't cruise him openly, until I knew whether they were friends or lovers.

And of course I couldn't just ask.  It was a complete taboo to ask "Are you guys together?"  It reminded us of growing up in the straight world, where two guys together were automatically assumed friends, where gay people were assumed not to exist.

So I had to figure it out some other way.  In weight room conversations, I learned that Mike was from Ohio, and had lived in Florida for three years.  He worked in the hospital.  Calvin grew up in Miami, and worked in a souvenir shop.  

That's all very interesting, but are you friends or lovers?

"Do you live together?" I asked.

"Oh, no, Mike has his own place," Calvin said.  "You should see his roommate!  Super-hot, but not into sharing."

That wasn't conclusive: you could share with friends or lovers.

They always lifted together, but they did separate cardio: Calvin on a treadmill, Mike on an elliptical (nobody jogged outside in Florida).  So I chose the treadmill next to Calvin and quizzed him for more details.  He came out as a teenager; his parents, conservative Catholics, tolerated him but didn't allow him to bring friends or boyfriends around: "They've never met Mike."

Suddenly Mike appeared on the treadmill on the other side of Calvin, and started a conversation of his own.

Jealous?  Trying to steer Calvin away? They must be lovers!

But at least I could have sex with Calvin.  Sharing seemed out of the question, but I could invite them to a party with sex games...

I approached them in the locker room.  "Barney, the gym owner, is having a party Saturday night, and we'd like you to come."

"I think we're busy," Mike said.

"Oh, come on," Calvin said, "You're always complaining that we don't meet any normal gay guys, just club kids into nonstop dancing and sex.  Won't it be nice to just hang out and have a conversation, without a lot of pressure to get naked?"

Uh-oh.  Getting naked was exactly what I had in mind!

So I planned a sedate, non-erotic dinner party, with Trivial Pursuit and a gay-themed DVD instead of sex games, and invited Yuri and his boyfriend Keith, Barney, Wade the Beach Boy, and Mike and Calvin.

When it came time for the celebrity dating stories, I told about my lunch with Michael J. Fox, without turning it into an energetic session of oral sex.

Mike and Calvin sat together on the couch, occasionally grabbing each other's knee or whispering in each other's ear.

When we played Trivial Pursuit, Mike and Calvin were on my team.  I tried to sit next to Calvin, but Mike pushed his way between us.

Possessive much?

Before we started the movie, Yuri and I went into the kitchen to dish out the dessert (low-fat pumpkin fluff with graham crackers).  Calvin followed.

"You guys need any help?"

"We got it, thanks," I said.

He wrapped his arms around me from the rear.  "So when you going to ask me out, Papi?"



I turned to face him.  Our crotches pressed together.  "Um...I thought..."

I glanced over at Yuri for help.  He was bent over the coffee maker, pretending not to notice.

"I know, Mike isn't being very nice.  He thinks you're not good enough for me.  But he's not my Daddy -- I can pick my own men."  He kissed me briefly.  "So, about that date..."

Calvin and Mike were friends after all!

In case you were wondering: anal bottom, but I talked him into letting me go down on him and doing interfemoral.

We only had one date, and I never got to share with Mike, who still didn't approve.