William Faulkner and his Boyfriend Paint Robert's Penis Green

Call me Artie.  Your story about visiting Lynchburg, Virginia, the "scariest place on Earth," made me laugh.  I grew up in Marion, Virginia, about a hundred miles away, and Lynchburg was our beacon of culture and enlightenment!

This was long before Stonewall.  I graduated from high school in 1951  (don't do the math: I know how old that makes me!).   But we knew all about gay people; every town had its resident "queer," and there were private men-only parties where guys from 100 miles around would gather.

In Marion, the parties were held at the home of the high school drama teacher.  One of the regular guests was Robert Anderson: about 40, with a slim, slight build, a little moustache, a hairy chest, and a rather big cock, but a complete bottom.  In those days, young guys were always the "trade," going down on older, so it was quite a kick watching Mr. Anderson reverse the roles, going down on the twinks and Cute Young Things.

Mr. Anderson was the mayor and the editor of the local newspaper, plus he had a wife and daughter at home.  You may wonder, wasn't it dangerous, in Virginia in the late 1940s, with gay sex being a crime?  You see, if anyone told on Mr. Anderson, he would report on them, so we were all safe.

It wasn't just about sex.  We were a circle of brothers, a bulwark against the homophobia of the outside world.  We joked, gossipped, and told stories about gigantic penises and celebrity hookups, just like you did in West Hollywood parties years later.  Mr. Anderson liked to tell the one about his first three-way:

New Orleans, June 1925

New Orleans in the Jazz Age!  What could be more exciting for a teenager with an adventurous spirit, a famous father, and a stepmother who was trying to buy his love with endless gifts of clothes and cash?

Robert (never Bob) was fascinated by the new social and sexual freedom of the 1920s.  Women had the right to vote, and could drive autos, smoke, and wear pants, with barely an eyebrow raised.  Men wore perfume and marcelled their hair, and called it the latest style.  Black, white, Creole, Italian, Jew: all races mixed with equality and passion.  There were proponents of free love, birth control, anarchy, Bolshevism, vegetarianism, and Buddhism.


Robert's father was Sherwood Anderson, the literary flaneur whose Winesburg, Ohio (1919) is still required reading in schools.  Their apartment in the Pontalba Building, off Jackson Square, was a bona fide literary salon, a gathering-place for writers and artists of all sorts, from Carl Sandburg to F. Scott Fitzgerald.  But the writer who most fascinated him was Bill Faulkner.

William Faulkner is famous today for Southern Gothic classics like The Sound and the Fury, As I Lay Dying, Light in August, and Absalom, Absalom!, but in the spring of 1925 he had only published poetry, and only in college magazines.  He was working on his first novel under Sherwood Anderson's tutelage.

He was 28 years old, a short, small man, not a Charles Atlas "physical culture" type, soft-spoken, rather fey; yet his dark eyes and intense energy were immensely attractive.  Robert assumed that he was queer.  He wondered what queers did in the bedroom, and resolved to find out.

When Faulkner first moved to New Orleans in November 1924, he stayed with the Andersons, but by March 1925 he had fallen in love with Bill Spratling, a 23-year old instructor of architecture at Tulane University.  He moved into Spratling's apartment in Pirate's Alley, about a block away [now it's the home of Faulkner House Books], where they held court with a large group of artists, writers, bon vivants, and intellectuals, most of them queer men or women.

Robert barged his way into some of their soirees, and was disappointed to find no sex going on, just a lot of drinking, piano-playing, and discussions of Valentino, Kandinsky, Thomas Mann, and "Rhapsody in Blue."

Maybe if he caught them alone, they would be in the middle of an act, and he would be invited to watch -- or join in.  He had heard about the "French vice: that the New Woman liked to practice on her lovers -- what we call oral sex now -- there was no reason why a queer couldn't do that, too!

Robert was definitely interested in going down on Bill Faulkner, and maybe Spratling, too.  Maybe both together?  He started practicing on bananas, so he wouldn't gag on their enormous penises.

He began knocking on their door with various excuses at odd hours -- 8:00 am; 10:00 pm; noon.  But they were never "in media res."  They were sitting down to breakfast, or working in the garden, or one of them was out.

In June they announced an upcoming trip to Europe.  Robert knew that he had to act fast.  One evening around 10:00 pm, he knocked on their door, as usual, but when Spratling answered, he screwed up his courage and kissed him on the mouth.

"Hey, now!" Spratling exclaimed, startled.  And then he called back into the house "Bill, did you order a boy to be sent over?"

Faulkner appeared wearing only pajama bottoms.  "Him again?  After all this time, you'd think the agency would send us a new one."

"I just...I mean..." Robert began.  He expected them to be all over him, kissing and touching his body.  Instead, they were joking, distant.  "I wanted..."

"It's been quite obvious what you want for some time," Faulkner said.  "The question is, why would I be disrespectful to my dear friend Sherwood Anderson by corrupting his first-born son?"

"It's not corrupting.  Not if I'm willing."

Spratling laughed.  "I think we can accommodate the pest...I mean, the young queer in training.  Shall we all adjourn to the boudoir?""

"No, your studio would be much more exciting than a boring old bedroom," Faulkner said.  "Don't you agree?"

They both put their arms around Robert and escorted him into the next room -- to Spratling's studio (he was an aspiring artist as well as an architect). 

Robert nodded mutely.  The Bills both stripped out of their clothes -- Faulkner was average sized, uncut, and Spratling very big.  Neither were aroused.  Following their lead, Robert took his clothes off -- he was most definitely aroused -- and approached Faulkner and groped him, and leaned in for a kiss.

Faulkner swung him around and pinned his arms behind his back.

"Wait...what...."

Spradling grabbed a brush and pallet and began painting his cock!

"Wait...this isn't..."  Robert said, straining against Faulkner's arms.

"Calm down, my dear.  Soon you'll be a work of art." Spradling pushed up Robert's still-aroused cock to paint the underside.  The brush felt like a tongue licking at his shaft, not at all unpleasant.  "You'll be in all the museums.  Your dick will be famous world-wide -- and much more impressive than Michelangelo's David, I might add."

"Do the balls, too," Faulkner suggested.

"Oh, no, the penis alone will be my masterpiece.  Besides, it's such a monstrous specimen, I'm sure I'll run out of paint."  He dabbed Robert's cock head with green.  "All done.  Now, shall we introduce young Master Robert to his adoring public?"

Before he knew what was happening, Robert was pushed, naked and dripping green paint, through the kitchen door into Cabildo Alley.  He banged on the door, but they didn't answerr.  The only thing to do was walk home, ignoring the stares and jeers of the evening crowd, without being arrested for indecent exposure.  At home, he told his parents that he had been the victim of a fraternity initiation.

Robert never visited the Two Bills again -- he sent a friend to retrieve his clothes.  But he did hook up with Spradley alone one night, after Faulkner moved away, and the next summer, in France, he and his brother "shared" Paul Robeson.  But those are stories for another time.

See also: Beefcake and Boyfriends of the Jazz Age

Sausage Sighting of My Cousin Buster

Whenever we visited my parents' family in Indiana, I wanted to stay with my Cousin Buster, who lived in the Trailer in the Deep Woods. He was almost two years older than me, and much more adventurous, dragging me into adventures in the cornfields and patches of raw trees.  We made magic swords, dug for buried treasure, caught frogs that were really witches in disguise.

When I was little, I liked to stay overnight in the trailer, crammed beside him in his narrow bed,  giggling and talking and reading Casper comic books.  I always waited for him to fall asleep first, so I could watch his bare chest rise and fall, his eyebrows flutter, his lips purse together in a dream.

When I grow up, I thought, I'll sleep like this every night, with a boy next to me, warm and hard in the night, reading comic books.

Once we arrived late, and he was already asleep.  I slipped out of my clothes and slid into bed and put my arms around him.  He smiled.

But the last few visits, we stayed with my Aunt Nora in Rome City, who had "plenty of room," so there was no need for me to "bother" my cousin by spending the night in his bed. We just dropped in for brief visits.

I had just turned thirteen, and Cousin Buster was fifteen [all models in the illustrations are over 18].

He was built, with a hard chest and thick biceps visible under his brown t-shirt.  He a round face with thin blond hair and blue eyes.  Big hands.

We sat in his bedroom -- the comic books and G.I. Joes were gone -- and talked about classes and Adam-12 and the cute girls who hung out at the Blue Moon Drive In.

Cute girls?  What about spending the night with boys, reading comic books, cuddling, falling asleep in each other's arms? 

"I have a date tomorrow," Cousin Buster said.  "To go ice skating.  She could get a girl for you, and we could double."

I didn't want to date girls!  "Um...thanks, but we're staying in Rome City.  My parents wouldn't want to drive all the way back here to pick me up afterwards."

"You could spend the night.  Just like when we were kids."

Now I wanted to go!  I ran out to the living room to ask my parents if it was ok.

So on December 27th, I went ice skating on a frozen pond with Cousin Buster and two girls (I don't remember who drove, somebody's father or an older kid). Then we stopped for hot chocolate, the girls on one side of the booth and the boys on the other.

Eventually someone's father or an older kid dropped us off at the trailer.

 Finally the ordeal was over!  Now we could get back to our real life, the only life that made sense, two boys together, cuddling in the night.

Cousin Buster's Mom and Dad were already in bed, so we quietly raided the refrigerator for leftover Christmas pie.  Then he pulled some blankets and pillows out of a closet and made up the couch for me.

Wait -- we're supposed to sleep together! I thought frantically.  Two boys cuddling!  

But I didn't say anything.  I gamely slipped out of my clothes and climbed onto the couch.  Cousin Buster said "Goodnight" and vanished into his room.

It was a small trailer.  From my couch bed, I could see the light from under Cousin Buster's door.  I expected it to go off in a few minutes, but it didn't.

Was he reading?  Watching tv?

The light stayed on.

Maybe he was lonely.  Maybe he wanted two boys together, in spite of our evening with girls.  Maybe he wanted me to join him but wasn't sure how to ask.

I got up, walked gingerly across the bare floor, and pushed open his bedroom door.



The light inside was very bright, like a fluorescent lamp in a schoolroom, illuminating everything.  The first thing I noticed, oddly, was an open jar of Vaseline on the nightstand.

The second thing was Cousin Buster's chest, pale, smooth, with hard pecs and prominent nipples.

He was sitting up in bed, completely naked, with a magazine open in one hand and his penis in the other.

Fully aroused, straining as his hand stroked the thick shaft, easily a Kielbasa. The head was purple, glistening from the Vaseline.  His testicles bobbed up and down, round like two apples.

Our eyes locked.  He continued to work, his jaw set, beads of sweat on his forehead.

I was afraid to speak or to move.

Then he whispered "Shut the door."

Did he want me on the inside or the outside?

I took a step back, carefully closed the door, and returned to my bed.

Something that I've regretted ever since.

In the morning, neither of us spoke about what happened.

We continued to have brief, cordial chats, but during high school, my visits to Indiana became sporadic.  I was old enough to stay home alone, and often I had other things to do.

Eventually I stopped going to Indiana altogether.

I heard about Cousin Buster from my parents: working at the auto garage, moving into his own place, collecting vintage cars, going hunting and fishing with his buddies, getting girlfriends but never marrying.

He died in 1996, at the age of 38.

I didn't go to his funeral.  I couldn't afford to fly out from San Francisco on short notice, and besides, it was too late -- he was a stranger.

Trying to Find a Quiet Night in Gay Heaven

San Francisco, March 1997

What is it like to live in Gay Heaven, to know that you have achieved something that most gay people can only dream of?  How can you go about your everyday activities, buy groceries, pay rent, work out at the gym, knowing that thousands of people would give anything to be in your position?

It's a big responsibility to live as a stand-in for a thousand gay men.  Every moment has to count.  Every night is a mad rush of beer busts, bear parties, AIDS benefits, book signings, art openings, film premieres, special events so frequent that they're not special at all.

Plus at least one party per week, probably two or three, to welcome new residents; to say goodbye to those who are leaving; to celebrate birthdays, anniversaries, new jobs, and new apartments; to introduce new boyfriends; to entertain a constant stream of out-of-town guests.

(Every gay man you have ever known, even if it was just a brief conversation ten years ago, will eventually show up on your doorstep, bags in hand, hoping to stay with you while he tries to move to Gay Heaven.)

Plus a round of holidays that require planning and discussion: the Castro Street Fair, Halloween, New Year's Eve, The Gay Film Festival, the AIDS Walk, Dore Alley, Christopher Street West

Plus constant dates and hookups, partly because there are so many men to choose from, new refugees from the Straight World arriving every day.

Partly because when you're a stand-in for a thousand gay men stuck in Straight World wastelands, it's your duty and obligation to have as much sex as possible.

I leave the apartment at 8:00 am, meet David at Orphan Andy's for breakfast, and am never alone again until I return at 11:00 pm -- even then, I usually have a date or hookup with me.

My computer and tv sit silent.  My kitchen is for storing sodas and snacks.  Books that I buy but don't have time to read accumulate in uneasy stacks by my bedside.

I'm an introvert. I hate blaring music, flashing lights, and especially crowds.  I need quiet and solitude to recharge and energize.

March 14: Friday Night.

I've been asked out to dinner by Roger, a guy I met at the gym -- he had a very impressive shower erection.  Plus my sort-of boyfriend Kevin wants me to go to an "open mike night" (the vampire can sing!),  I've been invited to a party to help my friend Corbin welcome his visiting ex-boyfriend, and there's the usual Bear Party south of Market.  But I've had it.  Tonight is my night to relax!

I write in my Calendar "Quiet Evening at Home!!!," refuse all invitations, and turn off the answering machine on my phone.  After work and the gym, I pick up Thai food and a pint of ice cream.  I go home, draw the shades, and lock the door.

For the next 12 hours, I will not see, talk to, or interact with another human being.  Sheer solitude!  Heaven in Gay Heaven!

7:30 pm.  I put on my bathrobe and turn on Nickelodeon to watch while I eat.  Kenan and Kel, a teencom about a pair of Laurel-and-Hardy fat-thin bickering-buddies played by Kenan Thompson (who gets them involved in crazy schemes) and Kel Mitchell (who groans his catchphrase, "Here it goes!").  The guys believe that their friend Roger (Malcolm Jamal-Warner) is a jewel thief.

The show has a strong gay subtext, and Roger is rather cute.  What a coincidence -- a cute guy asked me out to dinner tonight.  We would probably be eating right now.  Then we'd go to Corbin's party, then cruising at the Eagle, and back to his apartment....

8:00 pm: I turn the channel to Sliders, about college boy Quinn (Jerry O'Connor) trapped in an endless voyage among parallel universes, accompanied by the Girl, the Professor, and the Jazz Musician.   This week they're in a world where all 18-25 year olds must become organ donors for the oldsters.  Meanwhile there's a subplot about Maggie (Kari Wuhler), a team member they picked up a few parallel worlds back, having a parasite removed from her body.  It takes a hot guy to lure it out so it can breed.

Heterosexist -- even alien parasites fall into boy-girl categories -- and disgusting.  Besides, Quinn never takes his shirt off.

At Corbin's party tonight, the entertainment will be a guy stripping and going down on the guests, or maybe a "guess the penis" game.

9:00 pm.  Nothing good on tv.  I go to the bedroom, lie down on the bed, and pick up a book.

Kevin is probably at the open-mic night by now.  One doesn't expect a dour, sarcastic vampire to be a singer, but he is, with a wide repertoire of torch songs and show tunes.  "Cabaret" starts playing in my head:

Put away the knitting, the book, and the broom.  Listen to the music play.
Life is a cabaret, old chum.  Come to the cabaret....

9:30 pm.  I turn the tv back on.  Step by Step, a TGIF sitcom about the blended family of Frank (Patrick Duffy) and Carol (Suzanne Sommers), formerly of Dallas and Three's Company, respectively.

In this episode, Frank's son  J.T. (Brandon Call), Carol's daughter Dana (Staci Keanan), and  their friend Rich (Jason Marsden) end up in a Mexican prison over burritos.  Back home, Carol teaches Jean-Luc (Bronson Pinchot), her partner at the beauty salon, how to drive.

Strong gay subtext between J.T. and Rich, and I'm pretty sure Jean-Luc is supposed to be gay.  But...I don't need to worry about subtexts and stereotypes anymore.  I'm in Gay Heaven!

The bear party is usually busy about now.

There are thousands of gay guys trapped in the Straight World tonight, with nothing to do but watch Step by Step and dream.  But I live in Gay Heaven.  It's my duty to go out, whether I want to or not.

I pull on my clothes and catch the Muni to South of Market.

10:00 pm.  I arrive at the bear party.  My friend David is there, going down on a muscular guy in his 30s with a short beard, a tight hairless chest, and a nicely shaped Bratwurst+.  He moves aside and motions for me to take over.

Just a quiet night in Gay Heaven.

See also: The Amazing Invisible Boy