A Boy, a Man, and a Caribbean Island: Two Stories of Hookups Gone Wrong

Norfolk, Virginia, Summer 1993

"Ok, I'm going to tell you about the white boy who turned me into the fine, upstanding gay man you see today," Sandy says.

Alan the Pentecostal Porn Star, his partner Sandy, their friend Tarik, and I are swapping stories of funny or memorable dates and hookups.  I tell about my date with Michael J. Fox.  Tarik tells about the blue-eyed demon.  Now it's Sandy's turn.

Sandy grew up in Washington, DC., graduated from Howard University with a degree in international relations, and went to work in the foreign service.  He was stationed in Senegal, the Comoros Islands, and finally Barbados, where he became the Public Affairs Director at the American Embassy.

Barbados was black-friendly, but not at all gay-friendly.  There were no gay bars or gay organizations.  Gay men were criminals, and homophobic violence was commonplace.  The few guys he met were on the downlow.

So, five to ten times a year, Sandy flew home to Washington, to take a sex holiday in the bars, dark rooms, bathhouses, and sex clubs.  He did everything with everyone.


"But I wasn't into that blue-eyed devil nonsense,"  Sandy says.  "I loved white boys.  Especially the blonds  Fresh-scrubbed all-American jocks, like Ricky Schroder."

"I had a crush on him, too," Alan says.  "When you were dating the Celebrity, I kept hoping he would fix us up."

"Um...I think Rick Schroeder is straight."

But last summer Sandy met his own Rick, a Howard University pre-law major, white, with dark blond hair, a round androgynous face, a tight smooth chest, thick biceps, and a super-huge cut Kielbasa.

"But his best feature was his mouth," Sandy says.  "I could kiss him for hours.  And when he went down on me, man, I thought I died and went to heaven!"

They saw each other for three days, and then, on a whim, Sandy bought him a plane ticket back to Barbados.  They settled into Sandy's house on Back Ivy Road, and Sandy looked into getting him a job at the Embassy.

But Rick was not used to the closeted, downlow lifestyle of Barbados.  He started cruising in straight bars, picking up tourists on the beach.

"What a jerk!" I exclaim.  "Sharing is one thing, but public sex!  No matter how big he was beneath the belt, I'd show him the door."

After only 10 days, he was arrested for going down on a guy in the woods behind the Yellow Bird Hotel and deported.

And he named names, outing Sandy as his boyfriend.  The State Department didn't cotton to "homosexuals": Sandy was promptly fired  He returned to the States, and found a job in public relations in Norfolk.

"But it was worth it!" Sandy says.  "I hated being closeted, doing things on the downlow with married men.  Thanks to Rick, I got the courage to be true to myself.  And...I met my soulmate, Alan."

I sigh. This Rick guy still sounds like a jerk.



New York, November 1999

"Ok, I'm going to tell you about my weirdest hookup," Barry says.

Yuri is in the City, spending the weekend with me.  Barry and I have taken him to  dinner, and now we are in my apartment, swapping stories about good, bad, and ugly dates, boyfriends, and hookups.  Yuri tells about how he tricked Ravi the Bear into sharing his boy toy.  Now it's Barry's turn.

Barry grew up in a very conservative Catholic household in Williamsburg, Virginia, so when he went to college, he went wild, cruising guys right and left, sneaking into gay bars and bathhouses, tricking every night, but always hoping to meet The One, the Man of His Dreams.

And one night he did: Guy, a tourist from St. Lucia, in his 40s, black, muscular, huge beneath the belt.  Plus a wealthy, sophisticated world traveler.  He worked for the Ministry of External Affairs, so he was traveling all the time, throughout the Caribbean, to Europe, to Asia.  He had just been to China to negotiate a trade agreement.  Barry had never been outside the U.S.

After a courtship of just three days, Barry packed a suitcase, grabbed his passport, and flew back to St. Lucia with Guy.  They moved into his house on Pansy Drive.

At first it was great.  Castries was beautiful, colorful red and yellow houses  set against the white beaches and mountains.  The population was mostly black.  Gorgeous guys everywhere.

Many states in the U.S. criminalized gay people, but Barry wasn't prepared for the ferocity of the homophobia, the constant diatribes, the deep closets.  There were no gay bars or bathhouses. Guys met on the downlow, in back alleys and public restrooms.

One day when Barry got home, the police were waiting for him.  They told him that Guy had been arrested for "public indecency" for going down on a guy in the woods behind the Captain's Cellar Restaurant.  They arrested Barry, too, as an "accomplice," but dropped the charges and sent him home on the condition that he never return to St. Lucia, and never try to contact Guy again.

He didn't listen.  The moment he got home, he wrote to Guy.  No answer.  Three letters and a long-distance phone call.  No answer.

"What an idiot!" Yuri exclaims.  "He just leaves you when things get bad."

"Serves me right."  Barry takes a sip of his Coke.  "Serves me right for flying halfway across the world to be with a guy I just met."





Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, December 1999

I notice the parallels right away: college student and older man fly from Washington DC to a Caribbean island, where one of them is arrested.  The college student is white, and the older man is black. The two stories take place about the same year.

But: different islands, different names, different person getting arrested.  Barry is only average beneath the belt.  Sandy is slim and rather feminine, not muscular.

I show Barry a picture of Sandy.  "Nope, definitely not him!" he exclaims.  "My Guy was hot!"

I send a picture of Barry to Sandy.  "No, definitely not him!" he writes back.  "My guy was hot!"

Still not satisfied, I arrange for the two to meet.  Sandy and Alan have moved a few times since the last time I visited them: now they're in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, about two hours west of Manhattan.  We drive out for the weekend.

Barry and Sandy greet each other as strangers, but as they get to talking, sharing their memories, they realize that they were describing the same incident, perceived differently at the time, changed in the haze of years, and then changed again through the art of storytelling.

It was Barbados, although they did go to St. Lucia for a day.  Sandy was the one arrested.

Psychics tell us that we're surrounded by the same people in every lifetime.  They play different roles: our father in one life may be our sister in the next, our lover in a third, and a memorable hookup in the fourth.  But it's the same souls, over and over.

Maybe, in their next life, Barry and Sandy will be lovers.

See also: Barry and the Creepy Old Guy

Cooking and Cruising: Restaurant Hookups and Pickups

My memories of places often center on restaurants.  The food, the people I went with, and the waiters.  

A cute waiter can make the most miserable meal appealing, and haute cuisine loses something when served by a waitress.

And sometimes the waiters do more than flirt.














Rock Island

Harris Pizza.  Harris Pizza, no question, the best in the universe.  We ordered several times a year when I was growing up, and I always insisted on getting it when I returned for a visit.  Once I tried to pick up the college boy who worked at the counter, but my friend Dick did instead.  They've been together ever since.

The Hasty Tasty Shop, a pancake house where I had my wild night of debauchery in fifth grade.  Before the night was over, I got to give a massage to a high school boy and feel a wiener.

Sandy's, a fast-food chain where the waiters all wore cute Scotch tartan kilts, I assume with nothing on underneath.


Bloomington.

Bob's Burgers (no relation to the tv show).  Viju and I used to go there after an unsuccessful night of cruising at Bullwinkle's, and sometimes with out hookups after a successful night.  You could get a hamburger with a fried egg on top.  The waiters were paid extra to get enthusiastic over the food.  And they never gave us weird looks for being two (or four) men together.

Texas
 I didn't go to Houston very often, but when I did, it was to Baba Yaga, for wall to wall gay men and couples.  I took my clueless friend Bruce there when he was visiting, and he still didn't figure it out.





West Hollywood.  

The French Quarter, our go-to place for brunch, lunch, and an occasional dinner.  Remarkable for their 8" long fried zucchini sticks.  And for their cute waiters who flirted for tips.  If you sat at the little tables outside, sooner or later everyone you knew would pass by.

I never hooked up with one of the waiters, but my on-off boyfriend Raul did -- a buffed but rather feminine Afro-Cuban guy.  Unfortunately, I didn't get a chance to share.

La Azteca, a Mexican restaurant beyond the boundaries of West Hollywood.  Lane and I only went there once, but we managed to start a three-way romance with Mauricio, our waiter.

Hamburger Hamlet.  Burgers and fries rivaling anyplace in the world.  Marshall the Virgin and I used to go there after working out.

San Francisco.

Orphan Andy's, with a diner atmosphere, cute waiters, and even cuter clientele at the beginning of Castro Street.  It was also cruisy -- my friend David hooked up with a lot of guys there.  I didn't.












New York

Thai Palace. There were about 10 Thai restaurants in a 10 block radius of my apartment, but I always went to a little Thai restaurant near the Flatiron Building that's not there anymore.  Stuffed, deep-fried chicken wings with a sweeet sauce!  Never found them anywhere else. I brought Yuri there every time he visited me in Manhattan.

Paris.  

Suam Thai.  Speaking of Thai restaurants, during my summer in Paris I went to Suam Thai almost every night, and I tried to go back whenever I visited later.  No Angel wings, but good pad thai to go. I managed to hook up with Prasert, the chef -- while he was still working.

Florida.  

The Courtyard Cafe, Wilton Manors' answer to the French Quarter, with a huge patio where dozens of gay men gathered for brunch every Saturday.  Lunch was ok, too.  My friend hooked up with a waiter here, and dated him for six months.

Thai Sushi.  I'm not a fan of sushi, but I am a fan of cute waiters, and it was near The Club, the bath house of Wilton Manors.  Sometimes the guy at the next table ended up at The Club a moment later.

Amsterdam.  

Indrapura, an Indonesian restaurant notable for its chicken and beef satay, was on Rembrandtplein, just across the street from the guest house I always stayed in, and less than a mile from the Horseman's Club.  I never hooked up with any waiters, but I did get a date with a regular.

 Dayton.  

Lone Star Barbecue.  We always went to the Lone Star Barbecue for breakfast.  Pancakes, "cowboy potatoes," and brisket-omelettes.  Plus Josh a long-haired hipster waiter with a ripped chest and huge biceps.  I saw him naked at the gym, too. (See my Sausage Sighting List).

The Dragon Palace, my go-to place for Chinese food.  Usually I got it delivered.  I tried to hookup with the delivery guy, Bobby Chan, but ended up with his Anglo friend instead.












Upstate New York


The Neptune Diner, one of those old-fashioned glass and steel diners that advertises "steaks and chops," whatever those are, but has a menu 30 pages long. I liked the gyros, the moussaka, the pancakes, and the chicken.  Chad, the housemate of the Satyr , who I dated in the fall of 2008, was a waiter there.

Applebee's.  Yes, the chain.  Troy always wanted to go to the one in the mall for lunch Saturday, because the bartender/waiter was his type: older, muscular, hairy. Unfortunately, he wore an apron that kept his bulge hidden.

The Plains

The Pizza Ranch. A horrible fundamentalist Christian pizza chain that offers gut-busting deep-fried chicken and Bible verses, but the hottest waiters imaginable.  I managed to hook up with a gay guy going undercover.

Rainbow Coffee.  There are no gay bars or restaurants in town, but there's a gay-friendly, lesbian-run vegan coffee house where you can meet lots of bohemian artistic gay-friendly types, like the cute English major Warren from the fundamentalist college on the hill.  I haven't actually seen him like this yet, but he's just a sophomore, so there's plenty of time.

Indianapolis

Charlie's Bar and Grille, a crazy retro restaurant where I got picked up by a waiter named Mike.

See also: My Top Sausage Sightings.

The Tuesday Night Conundrum: "Who You Gonna Call?"

When I was in high school in Rock Island, Tuesday was the worst day of the week.  It was the day you had to call a girl to ask for a date for Saturday night.

All day long your clique at school kept interrogating each other: "Who you going to call?  Is she hot?  How big are her boobs?"

 All night long your parents kept prodding: "Who are you going to call?"  "When are you going to call?  What are you going to say?"

The pressure was intense.  Getting a "yes" meant tearful "Our boy is growing up!" exclamations from your parents, plus an extra $5 allowance to pay for the date; it meant back-slapping congratulations from friends and even teachers in school the next day.  It meant that you were a person of value; you had accomplished something marvelous.

Getting a "no" meant, at best, hand-on-shoulder consolation, as if you were suffering through a major tragedy, and more likely jeers and put-downs; it meant that you were worthless, a failure.  You were a child, not an adult; a "fag," not a man.

The date request call put lot of pressure on the girl, too.  It told her "You are the Girl of My Dreams.  You are my One True Love.  This request is not for one evening together, but for a lifetime."

No wonder mean girls would laugh and slam the phone down, and nice girls would make stuttering, embarrassed excuses: "Oh...um...well, I think I'm...er...busy...hang on, I'll check...Dad, do we have that thing on Saturday night?"

For that reason, there was no such thing as serial dating.  That telephone call was the equivalent of a marriage proposal.  If the date went well (whatever that meant), you would henceforth be "going together."  You would walk to class together, sit together at lunch, telephone each other every night.  You would have to "break up" in order to date someone else.

If the date went badly, the girl and her friends would never speak to you again.

So who are you going to call?  Most discussions in school for the duration of the week involved imagining the sexual ecstasies awaiting on Saturday night (if she said yes), or evaluating prospects for next Tuesday night's call (if she said no).  There were many stipulations:
1. No one older, not even by a few months.
2. No one who you had called before.
3. No one who had dated one of your friends.
4. No one who was a friend (if she said "no," she would never speak to you again).
5. No one who was fat, wore glasses, or had inadequately sized breasts (I'm not sure why; there would be no babies around to breast-feed, so what did it matter?).

You're probably wondering why a gay kid bothered to participate in such a stressful, high-pressure ritual.
1. I hadn'd figured "it" out yet.  I had no idea that gay people existed, that same-sex desire existed.  I thought that no boy was actually attracted to girls; we dated them because it was required.
2. The long night of sexual ecstasies turned out to be optional -- girls were perfectly satisfied with a good-night kiss on the cheek.  You just had to make something up when your friends asked the next day.
3. Gay people might not exist, but "fags" did, boys who were so frustrated at their inability to attract girls that they decided to become girls.   Every "no" moved you a step closer to that precipice.  Eventually you would be swishing down the hallway in a cloud of lavender perfume, carrying a handbag and calling everyone "Sweetie."  We made that Tuesday night call because the alternative was disaster.