Corbin's Choice: Handsome and Small or Sleazy and Gigantic

San Francisco, April 1996

A few weeks ago, Lane and I drove back to West Hollywood for the annual Oscar party.  Then, unexpectedly, he had to take care of something about the apartment building he inherited from his mother, so he stayed, and I took the bus back to San Francisco.

It's been three weeks, and he's still there:  "It's more complicated than I thought.  We need to completely remodel the foyer, and there's a zoning issue with the pool, and one of the tenants needs to be evicted."

Yeah, right.  The boy just likes being home.  Face it: he's not coming back at all.

To cheer me up, Drake the teddy bear artist and his boyfriend Zack ask me out to dinner at Almost Home, a Castro Street restaurant that specializes in "back home" cuisine: pot roast, fried chicken, chipped beef on toast.

There are dozens of Chinese, Japanese, Thai, Indian, Mexican, Greek, and Filipino restaurants in San Francisco, and I'm offered chipped beef on toast?  This evening won't go well.

They invite Zack's friend Corbin: in his 20s, tall, Mediterranean, very muscular, smooth hard chest visible beneath a white silk shirt unbuttoned five buttons.  Very handsome face, big black eyes, aquiline nose, a prominent chin.

Are they trying to fix us up?

He's very attractive, but there are thousands of eligible gay men within a five block radius.  Why Corbin in particular?

They know about my preference for extra-large beneath-the-belt gifts.  Maybe Corbin has a Kovbasa beneath the belt.

We choke down our down-home American food and start swapping stories of dates from hell, hookups with celebrities, and gigantic penises.  I tell about the time Alan and I accidentally picked up the kept boy.  Zack tells his coming out story.  Drake tells about his date with John Stamos, star of Full House.  Now it's Corbin's turn.

"I'm going to tell you about my choice: handsome or hung."

Bakersfield, California, Summer 1990

Corbin grew up in a conservative Armenian-American household in Bakersfield, about 100 miles north of Los Angeles. During college, he and his friends often went to drag shows and male strip shows at the Casablanca Night Club on N Street, downtown.

The gay community was rather small, so when you met a new guy, chances are one of your friends had dated him.

One night Corbin was approached by a rather ugly, sleazy looking guy with ridiculous hair.  His opening line was: "What would you like for breakfast tomorrow morning?  Besides me, that is?"

"Sleazy!" Zack exclaims.

Corbin almost gave Attitude, but then one of his friends gestured with his palms spread wide, indicating that the guy was super-hung.

Who cares if he was sleazy?  A penis is a penis.

There were no hookups in Bakersfield in 1990.  Corbin made a date with Sleazy for next Wednesday night.

After awhile, Corbin was approached a second time: tall, rugged male model looks with a little beard, very muscular bodybuilder physique and a honest opening line.

"Hi, do you mind if I stand here and talk to you awhile?"

Corbin practically swooned as they made initial small talk.

He glanced at his friends.  One signaled with his fingers that the guy was very small.  Princess Tiny Meat.

Who cares if he was tiny? Corbin made a date with Mr. Handsome for next Thursday night.

When he returned to the table, his friend said "Wow, what a stud you landed!  IHow are you going to break your date with Sleazy?"

 In Bakersfield in 1990, it was taboo to accept dates with more than one guy at a time. You had to evaluate the first, and get him evaluated by your friends, before you could go on to the second.

Corbin had to make a choice.

1. Sleazy but hung.
2. Handsome but tiny.

San Francisco, Spring 1996

"You stole that story from 'The Canterbury Tales,'" I protest.  "Where the man has a choice of a partner who is attractive during the day and ugly at night, or ugly during the day and attractive at night."

"Never read it," Corbin says.

"I'd pick Handsome," Drake says.  "He'll be the envy of all your friends, and you can work around the deficiencies in the penis department."

"I think I'd go with Sleazy," Zack says.  "No competition, everyone wondering what you see in him.  It'd be fun.  And you'd know what was waiting for you at home."

"Which one did you pick?" I ask.

Corbin grins. "Why, Handsome of course!  He had everything I was looking for in a guy, except for that one little thing.  And in the end, who cares about that?"

I look at Corbin.  Is he trying to tell me something, to "out" himself as small beneath the belt?

After all that buildup, there is no way I am going to reject Corbin.  After dinner and cruising at the Midnight Sun, I agree to go back to Drake's place for "sharing."

While we are all sitting on the couch, Drake and Zack start kissing.  I lean over to kiss Corbin.

"Wait -- before the festivities, could I take a shower?" he asks.  "I came to dinner directly from the gym."

"Sure -- we'll be in the bedroom," Drake says.

While Corbin is showering, we go into the bedroom and take off our clothes.  I go down on Zack and Drake while they're kissing.   Then Zack goes down on me while Drake watches.

Corbin comes out of the bathroom naked, toweling off.

Very well hung! Uncut Mortadella+, already semi-aroused.

"Hey, I thought you..." I begin.

"What?"

"I thought your story was a way of coming out as small."

He laughs.  "I've never been accused of that before!   It was to make you feel at ease, to tell you that I don't mind that you're small.  Zack and Drake told me."

"Me, small?"  I exclaim, offended.  I push Zack's head off me and display my Bratwurst+.  "How's that?"

Corbin lies down on the bed and begins fondling me. "Hey, who cares about size?  Small ones slide down my throat just fine."

He goes down on me.  After a few minutes, we move to the 69 position, but I can't take him.

"Don't worry about it," he says.  "We regular-sized guys get that all the time."


Regular sized?

Well,  I am the smallest guy in the room.

That's the risk you run when you prefer the gigantic.

See also: Sharing the Bear's Boyfriend; Corbin, David, and I Hook Up with Brad Pitt; and The Edwardian with the Footlong

Rating Guys in West Hollywood

Remember how precisely potential boyfriends and husbands were rated back at Augustana, my undergraduate college? Mostly on their future bank account, but also on their independence (living away from home, having a car), their coolness (disco moves, being bad), and their face and physique.

I have been trying to think how we rated potential boyfriends in West Hollywood.

Their physique was the most important factor. You were generally safe dating someone up to one level higher or two levels lower than you.  For instance, a 7 could date anyone from 5 to 8.  Any higher, and there would be too much competition from other guys trying to steal him away.  Any lower, and everyone would always wonder why you were so desperate; you must have some hidden flaw.

9-10. Bodybuilder. Competitive-style basketball-size biceps, xylophone abs, and traps like knotted cords hands down.  Your personality and bank book didn't matter; if you could bench 300, everyone was in love with you. Who cared that it was like hugging a marble statue?

7-8. Gym Rat. Not competitive but nicely muscled, with a tight chest, heavy biceps, and thin abs, the sort of physique you get with only 2 hours a day at the gym.

5-6. Chubby.  Some guys shunned the chubby, yelling "no femmes or fats" in their personal ads, but most guys liked a little heft, whether it was muscle or fat.

3-4. Skinny.  I'm not sure why. Maybe skinny guys were suspected of being sick.  Or, since a main focus of West Hollywood dates and parties was eating, they were suspected of being antisocial.

2-1. Feminine.  There's just no way around it.  In spite of our belief that people should "be who they are," in spite of our awareness that gender norms are social constructs designed to promote sexism and homophobia, feminine guys were at the bottom of the barrel.  A lilt in your voice, a sashay in your step, a flutter in your hands, and we were noping our way to the other side of the bar.

Having a big cock, a handsome face, or an outgoing personality could push you up one or two levels, so a #3 with all of these traits would become a #5.  Conversely, having a small cock, a ugly face, or a shy-and-quiet personality, so a #9 could find himself treated like a #7.

Having friends on higher levels could also push you up (think of the sharing possibilities!).  But friends on a lower level pushed you down.

Being a sleazoid (leering, joking, making sexual innuendos) pushed you down a level.

But having money did not push you up, nor did being poor push you down, as long as you weren't homeless or living in a residential hotel.  Most of us had chosen West Hollywood over careers, so we were living on various service jobs, and couldn't afford our own apartments.   

Any discussion of heterosexual relationships in your past, or hint of heterosexual desire (such as pointing out the attractiveness of a passing woman) immediately pushed you down to a 1.  Regardless of your other qualities, you were essentially undateable.    

You could even go down a level for mentioning interests that fairly or not, we defined as "too hetero":  science fiction and fantasy, action-adventure movies, the beach, and sports of all sorts.

I was a gym rat with a face and a cock, which pushed me up, but my interest in science fiction pushed me down, so I evened out at about a 7.  I went out with a lot of gym rats and chubby guys, but hardly ever a bodybuilder, even when I worked on Muscle and Fitness.

But it wasn't an exact science.  Often you would choose a guy who had your friends saying "That's not his type at all. What's the attraction?"

See also: What Made Sandy a 10?

A Hookup in the Sauna with John Amos

West Hollywood, 2017

I'm having dinner with my ex-boyfriend Lane and his husband Ben and some of their conservative, assimilated Orange County friends, who surprisingly have quite a treasure-trove of celebrity hookup stories.  Earle has just told about public sex with then-teen idol Matt Dillon.

"Kid stuff!" Stan exclaims.  He's in his sixties, chubby, balding with a white goatee.  "Anybody can hook up with a twink -- they're so horny, they don't even care who they're with.  But it takes style and finesse to seduce a real man.  And back in the 1980s, I had the biggest and the best -- John Amos."

"Wow -- I used to see him at the gym," I say.  "Hung like a garden hose."

Born in 1939, former pro football player John Amos was very visible during the 1970s, playing Gordy the Weatherman on Mary Tyler Moore, the Dad on Good Times (1974-76),  and the older Kunta Kinte on Roots (1977).  During the 1980s, he did a lot of guest spots, and went to the gym a lot.  He was very dark and very buffed, with easily a 50" chest ant 18" biceps, plus about 6" soft.

"I saw him, too," Stan says.  "But I did more than look, let me tell you!"

"Wait -- was this the Holiday Spa on LaBrea?"

He nods.

From 1986 to 1990,  I went to the Holiday Spa five times a week (not to be confused with the Hollywood Spa, a sex hotel). There were closer gyms, and gayer gyms  -- only about 50% of the patrons were gay men --  but the Holiday Spa got the most celebrities.  Not big names, but recognizable: Ron Glass from Barney Miller; Peter Scolari from Newhart; Tom Villard from We Got it Made; Jimmie Walker from Good Times. Some were gay, and some just worked nearby.  It was fun to speculate on who was who.

John Amos often worked at the same time as I did.  He became one of those "nodding acquaintances" you develop at the gym.  You nod, ask "can I squeeze in between your sets," maybe say "nice workout today" if you see him in the locker room, but nothing more.

I never saw him having a cruisy conversation with anyone.

Lane lived five blocks from the West Hollywood Gym (now Basecamp Fitness), so around 1990, I started going there most of the time, dropping into the Holiday Spa only when I happened to be in the neighborhood. I rarely saw John Amos after that.

That's the end of my John Amos story.

But Stan has a lot more.  He doesn't remember the year, probably 1987 or 1988.

Hollywood, 1987

Stan was 33 years old, black-haired, built, and horny.  The AIDS crisis didn't stop his tricking: you can't stop living your life just because of some virus.  Just put a condom on it and be careful.

His favorite gym was the Holiday Spa, 90% gay men, 100% cruisy.  Guys would display erections in the shower, get blow jobs in the sauna.  Of course, you had to be careful, only hooking up late at night when most of the straight guys were gone.

He went down on a few gym rats in the shower, had a cute Asin twink go down on him in the sauna, but John Amos was special, the stuff of memories.

It was about 10:00 pm on a Thursday night, and Stan had just arrived at the Holiday Spa. He usually showered, hit the pool for cardio, did his weight training (lower body on Thursdays), and then hit the shower again.  The locker room was nearly deserted, so he took his time showering, hoping that someone would show up and he could at least get a sausage sighting.

He got one: John Amos, the tv star, came strutting down the rows, naked, carrying a towel and grooming kit at his side.  He wasn't very tall, surprisingly, but he had a v-shaped torso, a flat outtie belly button, and a huge cock that swung between his legs like a pendulum!

"Like the view, boy?" Amos said with a smile.  He chose the shower next to Stan and turned it on.  Water streamed down his massive chest, formed a little rivulet off his cock.

"I'm not a twink, I'm 33," Stan protested.

"When you get to be my age, all of you pretty little white boys look like twinks."  He squirted out some liquid soap and started soaping up his cock.

"That's a big job," Stan said.  "Can I give you a hand."

"Ok by me -- but use your tongue."

 Stan knelt on the shower floor, wrapped his hands around Amos' butt, and started on his cock.  It immediately hardened to about 8", with a huge head.  Stan bobbed up and down while squeezing Amos' balls.

After awhile, Amos said "Come on, boy -- we're wasting water."  He turned off the shower, grabbed his grooming kit and towel, and led Stan to the steam room.

It was moist and drippy, but not very hot -- no one had added more steam for awhile.  Still aroused, Amos opened his grooming kit and pulled out a condom.

Stan froze -- he was an anal top!  He rarely bottomed, and then only for very small guys.  "I'm not sure I can take all that."

"It's not for me, white boy -- it's for you."  Amos pressed the condom into his hand and bent  over the bleachers, manipulating himself with one hand.  "I haven't had a white cock in me in two months.  Now get busy!"

"Yes, sir!"  Stan manipulated his own 6.5" until it was hard, then rolled on the condom and pushed into Amos' very tight butt.  Amos groaned but pushed against him, and tightened his sphincter.  Stan thrust slowly at first, then faster and faster while Amos groaned "That's it, white boy.  You know where it goes."

Finally Stan spurted into the condom.  He pulled out and rolled it up.

"Ready to take it, boy?" Amos said, working frantically, his eyes closed.  He stood.  "Get ready for it..."

Stan knelt and took Amos' load.

Afterwards they took another shower, and Amos left and Stan continued his workout.  They didn't exchange phone numbers.

Stan went to the gym at the same time every night for a week, but he never saw John Amos again.

Was Stan Telling the Truth?

I don't remember the Hollywood Spa being nearly that active.

John Amos has been married three times, most recently to Elisabete De Sousa (since 1982).  He has played gay characters, and is very gay-positive in real life.  That strikes me as someone who is heterosexual.

I could see a blow job in the shower, under the "a mouth is a mouth" theory of straight-gay hookups. But being an anal bottom?  Surely Stan made that up to give his story some added zing.

See also: Earle Has Public Sex with Teen Idol Matt Dillon