A Boy With Daddy Issues Rips My Clothes Off

Plains, May 2015

Ever since I wimped out on Raphael, the Gay Psychic Angel, who was perfect in every way except that his arms didn't work, I have felt guilty.  I should have called -- I would have called -- except I kept imagining becoming his boyfriend, and being responsible for helping him eat and dress and use the bathroom -- how shallow!

So I decided that if I ever had such an opportunity again, I would go for it without hesitation.

The opportunity came in, of all places, a comic book store on the Plains.

I always feel out of place amid the fanboys and fantasy gamers, self-conscious about my age more than anything, so I rush in, get what I need, and rush out again.  But on that Saturday afternoon in May 2015, there were two guys standing in front of the New Arrival rack.

One was a hefty, bearded bear in his 40s.  He was picking up titles and showing them to his friend, who was small, slim, in his 20s.

And had cerebral palsy.

Back in college, I dated Jimmy, the Bodybuilder on Crutches, but his cerebral palsy resulted only in some stiffness, so he had to use crutches to get around, and some motor actions were difficult.

This guy had spastic movements (uncontrollable spasms in his arms), spasticity in his hands (they bent back), and gait disturbance (one leg dragged behind).

He turned and smiled at me. "We're almost done."

Slurred speech, too.

"Oh, don't worry.  Take your time."

He continued to smile.  The cruise was unmistakable.

I should say something else.  "Um...I heard that IDW is coming out with a new Donald Duck title.  Funny how Disney titles never last."

"Well, you know fanboys are fickle. My name is Andy."

"Boomer.  Pleased to meet you."

He swung his body to stretch out his curled, curved hand.  I took it and squeezed.  For some reason, I was surprised that it was warm.


By now his friend was staring at me suspiciously.  "This is my warden," Andy said in his slurred speech. "His job is to make sure I never have any fun."

"Roy -- Andy's Dad,"  he grunted.  "The one with the car."

Ok, I was being cruised by a guy who was thirty years younger than me, with spastic movements that kind of freaked me out, in a comic book store, in front of his father.

Time to seal the deal!

"Have you had lunch yet?  There's a pretty good Chinese place down the street that I like."

"We're going for pizza," Andy countered.  "You should come."

Roy grunted disapprovingly.  In retrospect, it must have seemed odd to watch his son pick up a strange guy twice his age.  Or did Andy do this all the time?

We had barbecue chicken pizza and garlic knots, while Andy's "spastic movements" kept rubbing his leg against mine.  I couldn't tell if Roy knew that his son was cruising me,  but it was obvious that he kept strict control over Andy's friends.  You had to prove yourself.

Turns out that Andy and I didn't have a lot in common.  He liked sports -- especially baseball -- and zombie movies and tv programs like The Walking Dead.

And he lacked most of the traits that I find attractive -- he was shorter than me, but slim, pale-skinned, and not religious.  I didn't get a chance to check on his beneath-the-belt gifts.

I was tempted to let the relationship slide,but then I thought of the Psychic Angel.  No way -- we were going forward, as far as Andy wanted!

Apparently I proved myself to Roy, as I got permission to solo with Andy the next day: a baseball game -- yawn -- then back to my apartment to kiss on the couch.

"I always liked older guys," Andy whispered, groping me with his curved hand.  "You're always so big!"

"It doesn't really get bigger as you get older."

"Ok, I guess I have Daddy issues, then."

"Well, your father is rather hot."

"Oh, I fantasize about him sometimes -- is that sick?  I want to tie him up and spank him.  You know, be the one in charge."

I could see where this was heading! "Sorry, I'm not really into that."  Andy probably couldn't tie ropes well, anyway.

"Ok, so...maybe I could like just tear your clothes off before we do it?  That would be erotic."

"Um...sure, I guess."

I put on an old t-shirt and jeans, and we went into the bedroom.  But old clothes are quite tough, apparently, and Andy's spastic hand movements couldn't get them to rip. I had to start the process with scissors.

The erotic activity that followed was a little disappointing.  Andy had a Bratwurst, very thick, with a foreskin that wouldn't retract -- but he was only into backside activity -- and a top.

I let him top me, but he worked so fast that I barely noticed.

Then I drove him home.

"This was fun," he said.  "Sometime you should meet my boyfriend.  He'd like you, too."

Boyfriend?  Wait -- I thought that Andy was a lonely shut-in who never got asked out, that I was doing him a favor by dating him.  "Is he an older guy?"

"Oh, no, he's in college.  All the college boys want to date me, but hardly ever anyone older.  But  older guys are fun -- they're always so grateful!   Well, bye!"

Wait -- was Andy doing me a favor?

See also Gay Psychic Angel; Cruised by my Mentally Disabled Neighbor

Five Three-Ways with Kevin the Vampire

San Francisco, December 1996

Sex with Kevin the Vampire, my sort-of boyfriend in San Francisco, was exhausting.  No simple ten-minute blow job for him!  It was a long, complicated ordeal that took two hours minimum.

There was massage with weird oils.

There were ice cubes and strawberries.

His hands and mouth went everywhere, kissing and licking places that I didn't even know I had.  How did he manage to get his tongue inside my penis hole?

He would bring you close to orgasm, stop, start again, stop, start again, stop, over and over until you were begging for it.

Then, after your orgasm, he kept on going.  While you were still sensitive!

 In order to survive, I would have to find some way to dilute Kevin's sexual energy.

Tiring him out with a hard workout?  No.

Depressing him with tales of childhood homophobia?  No.

Keeping him up late?  No.

One morning over our breakfast coffee (Kevin didn't eat), I suggested bringing in a third person.

"I'm really rather monogamous," he said with a frown. "I prefer to devote my full attention to my man, as you know."

 Yes, but your full attention is exhausting!  "I like a bit of variety from time to time."

"Well, I'm perfectly agreeable to an open relationship.  You may certainly attend your Bear Parties, and go out with your friend David to cruise for Cute Young Things."

I took his hand.  "But I want the other guy to experience you in the bedroom.  Your hotness.  Your enthusiasm.  Your power."


He chuckled.  "Flattery has its uses.  By all means, then, bring on the barbarian hoards."


Three Way #1: Corbin the Gym Rat

Corbin and I worked out together and went to services at the MCC, the gay church.  He was about 10 years younger than me, tall, Mediterranean, very muscular, with a handsome face, big black eyes, aquiline nose, a prominent chin.  And a Mortadella+ beneath the belt.

After my birthday dinner in November, Kevin and I invited him home.

For four hours of hands and thighs and tongues, incense and oils, hot wax and feathers. Corbin was brought to the point of orgasm a dozen times until he was crying. Kevin allowed me to take his spurt, then turned me over on my back and told Corbin exactly how to use his mouth and tongue, what to stroke, what to lick.

It was almost dawn when I finished, and Kevin was still fully aroused!

Three Way #2: Lamar

Maybe Kevin was too attracted to Corbin to dispel his sexual energy.  Maybe if I found someone he wasn't attracted to at all?

He liked tall, broad-shouldered, muscular guys, He despised "short, fey twinks with earrings and squeaky little voices."

So I went to Twin Peaks in the Castro and picked up Lamar, a short, fey twink with a smooth, sallow chest, and long, skinny legs. We kissed and groped for awhile, and then I invited him home to meet Kevin.

I went down on him while he went down on Kevin, who finished almost immediately and then rolled over and fell asleep.

Rather disappointing -- I wanted to diminish the intensity of Kevin's passion, not extinguish it altogether.

Three Way #3: Orson

Ok, someone who was closer to Kevin's type, but not too close: a hairy muscle bear.  So I went to the Eagle and picked up a leather daddy named Orson -- about ten years older than me, balding, with a grizzly beard and a thick mat of white chest hair.

He turned out to be an anal top.  Neither of us were into anal, so Kevin and I took turns going down on him and fondling each other.

When he finished, Orson turned over onto his stomach and began to snore.  Kevin and I fell asleep soon, too.  No orgasms.

This was like the Three Bears story -- too hot, too cold.  I needed to find a guy who was "just right"






Three Way #4: Marius

Our fourth three-way was with one of Kevin's friends.  Actually his only close friend -- and boss at St. Mary's -- Marius, a beefy muscle bear in his 40s, with a heavy beard and a thick mat of chest hair.  He was from Argentina, but his parents were German.  He was somehow related to famous theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer..

This time Kevin was all over both of us, kissing and fondling, running his tongue over cocks and balls and nipples and armpits.  I went down on Marius twice, and Kevin three times, until my jaw ached.  He brought us near orgasm a dozen times before allowing us to spurt together.

Ok, what was the difference between Marius and Orson?  They were both hung muscle bears.

What did Kevin find attractive other than muscular physiques and gigantic sausages?

I couldn't ask him openly, of course, but I hinted around and got three characteristics:
1. Intelligence.
2. Innocence/naivete.
3, Religious devotion.

Suddenly it struck me:
Corbin and Marius: Muscle and religion (too hot)
Lamar: Neither (too cold)
Orson: Muscle only (too cold).

How about religion only?

Three Way #5: Wayne

Our fifth-three way was with Wayne, one of David's friends: a former Greek Orthodox priest who ran an interdenominational Orthodox fellowship in Berkeley.  He was in his 30s, handsome, cleanshaven, not muscular, with a pale chest, thin arms, and a Bratwurst beneath the belt.

Religion only.

Kevin was attentive to both of us, but not extravagant.  Kissing, oral, 69, interfemoral, no edging or weird oils.  One orgasm apiece.  Finished before dawn.

Now I just had to find a lot more skinny religious guys.

See also: Kevin the Vampire's Date with Satan.

A Craiglist Hookup on the Plains

Plains, December 2016 (Thankfully)

It's been a terrible semester, the worst I can remember, with bereavement, job problems, financial problems, a pulled muscle that has kept me from running, worries over our new fascist president, and almost no social life at all.  No M4M Parties, no Gay Men's Group. Most of my friends have vanished or gone incognito, and I haven't made any new ones. Just a couple of dates with undergrads that didn't go anywhere (see A Hookup with the Nephew of my First Time and The Boy at the Urinal with the Kovbasa++++).

Yesterday I turned in the final grades, and decided to celebrate by cruising.  But not on Grindr -- I have had enough of twinks calling me "Daddy."  I placed an ad on Craigslist.

Yep, the bottom of the barrel in cruising, where all sorts of crazies, sleazoids, and downlow guys hang out.

I submitted a chest pic and this ad.

Middle aged, athletic, work out daily, hairy chest, looking to host tonight at my apartment near downtown. Into kissing, cuddling, and oral, not into anal.  Any age/race, prefer bigger guys.  Send photo. 

Notice the not into anal?

Here are the responses, copied word for word, with their photos.

1. DJ (top photo).  

I might make it.  I am vers top, like rimming and sucking.

No way -- rimming is a complete turn-off!


2. Ted R.

You still looking?  8" here, bottom, really want a cock inside me tonight.

If you're a bottom, why are you telling me your cock size?  Besides, no way that's 8".  I give it a 5.

3. Pimpboy

Send me pics lol.

The name "Pimpboy" says it all.  I'm sure that photo is from the internet.

4. Jim

I saw your cl ad  and would be interested in joining you  I am a young 51 married discreet professional athletic masculine handsome 6'2" 200# 8.5 uc bottom and into hot sweaty man sex

What you need?  I am vers bottom.  You top or bottom?

On the downlow, and he said "bottom" three times in response to my "not into anal."  Not good at listening.

And look at the way he's sucking in that gut!  Didn't he notice that I like guys with guts?

5. Azi

Still looking ? 25 190 6.5 Asian here.  A threesome would be fun. Are you a top or a bottom?

I can come tonight we can have some beers what you say?  I'm horny as hell.

Way too over-eager, but he only mentioned "bottom" once.  I invited him over, but he never showed up.

6. Max

Saw your ad.  I'm 18, bi, never been with a guy before but want to try. I want a big one.  No car, so you have to pick me up.

No way I'm going to coddle some guy's first time.  Besides, he looks underage.  

7. Country Boy

Hi, I am 25, 5'7", 250, verst  ddf  not out  very discreet   like  oral  both ways rimming  and flip fucking.  Can't get pics on my email, wife checks.  Give me address and where to park.

That is not a 25 year old.  He's on the downlow, "discrete", and likes rimming.  No way.

8. Glen

Very hot hung musc ddf, not into fats or femmes, 420 friendly, bottom.

No 420 (marijuana), another bottom, but what the heck, whichever of the guys this is, he's got a physique.  So, after #5 chickened out, I invited him over.

He looked nothing like either of the two guys in the photo. He was not hot, hung, or musc.

But at least he was into oral.

The Shy Guy at the Gym with the Supersized Penis

Plains, November 2016

At the YMCA the other night, when I was stripping down after my workout, the guy at the locker next to mine found an excuse to play around on his cell phone instead of taking off his gym trunks.  He was obviously going to wait until I was gone.

He was in his 20s, probably: his round baby face and short dark-brown hair made him look like a teenager.  Very tall, at least 6" taller than me, pale, with a smooth soft chest and a little belly.

"Poor thing," I thought.  "Being so tall will make his tiny meat look even smaller."

A rule of thumb for locker room cruising:

Guys with big ones walk to the showers with their towel in hand rather than around their waist, then stand around chatting nude at their lockers.

Guys with small ones hide behind a towel at all times, even putting on their underwear beneath it.  Sometimes they even refuse to take off their clothes until the bank of lockers around them is deserted.

I locked my locker, grabbed my towel (I never wrap it around my waist), and headed for the showers.  I was nearly finished when Baby Face finally arrived, and chose the stall across from me.  He carefully and deliberately faced the shower head, so none of the othe guys could see anything but his backside.

I soaped up a second time, hoping to get a glimpse of his penis, tiny or not.

A glimpse: my mouth dropped.  It was enormous!  Kovbasa+++ hanging halfway down to his knee, easily 7", ruddy, uncut.  Horse hung.

Come on -- you have to turn around sometime!  You have to shower your back!

But he didn't.

Eventually I had no more excuses to hang around, so I toweled off and returned to my locker and began to dress -- slowly.

Soon Baby Face re-appeared, hiding beneath a towel.   He turned his back to me to put on underwear, but I got another glimpse as he swung around.

I wasn't mistaken -- enormous.

He turned back to the locker without making eye contact.  I pretended to fool around with my gym pack.

He put on a sweatshirt that said Россия моя страна {Russia, my country).

An in!  My best friend is Russian!  I learned a little of the language.  

"Um...vy Russii?"  I began.

Baby Face looked up, surprised to be spoken to.

"Ya uznal russkiy yazk tri goda."  I studied Russian for three years.   That's a lie,  but I was thinking fast.


"Huh...oh, I don't speak Russian.  I got this shirt in Sioux Falls.  I'd like to learn someday, though."   He turned away again.

Think!  Pique his interest! "I can give you some basic conversation, like 'Where's the train station.'  Gde poyezd."

"Gde poyezd.  That's cool."  He picked up his gym bag.  To walk away forever!

"'Um...um...kiss and cake are the same word, potseluy, so you have to be careful when you go to a bakery."

He laughed.  "Or you might get a kiss!"

"I teach Russian history at the University."  Why was I lying so much?   Was I blinded by the glimpse of a Kovbasa?

Baby Face -- whose actual name was Justin -- had to rush off to meet his friends, but we exchanged phone numbers, and he agreed to come over the next night at 7:00 pm to "learn Russian."

I spent the day feverishly transforming myself into a Russian history professor.  I put out lot of souvenirs from Russia, years of birthday and Christmas presents from Yuri.  I dug up my few books on Russian history and literature, and bought a few more, at the used bookstore, so it would look like I had them for years.  I reviewed my Russian language lessons, especially slang and dirty words.



I want to eat your sausage:  ya khochu yest' vashu kolbasu
Let's go to the bedroom: mi idem v spal'nyu

7:00 came and went, and no Justin.  I texted him, but no answer.

At 7:30, he finally knocked on the door, ruddy, nervous.  "Um..sorry I'm late.  I almost didn't come."

We sat down on the coach -- Justin as far from me as he could get, looking down at his hands, nervous, miserable.

Ok, I would have to take this nice and slow, maybe not do anything at all. 

"Ok, Justin, first lesson. In Russian class they tell you that 'hello' is 'zdravstvutje', but my friend Yuri just says privet.  Repeat."

Justin refused to make eye contact. "Drastvutje."

"Look at me, so I can see if you're saying it right."

He looked up, but only for an instant.  "To be honest, I didn't come here to learn Russian.  It's cool and all, but...this was crazy.  Maybe I should go."

But he didn't move.

I scooted over to the other side of the couch and touched his shoulder.  He caught his breath.

"Why are you so nervous?  I'm not going to try anything."

Justin sighed deeply and continued to look down at his hands. "The thing is, I've seen you on Grindr.  I was too scared to say anything.  Then I saw you in the gym, and...well, it doesn't matter.  You just want to be my teacher.  I should go."



I leaned in close and kissed him.

Soon we were on the floor, where Justin went down on me while working on his super-size.  I flipped him over onto his stomach and pushed between his legs.  He moaned and spurted onto my stomach.

"Sorry," he said.  "It doesn't take me long."

"That's ok.  I'll get something to wash off with."

I wondered if Justin was the same super-sized guy I saw in the locker room on campus last year.  That guy tried to hide, too, but he had red hair, not brown.

"Have you dyed your hair recently?" I asked while carefully wiping him off.

He grinned.  "Yeah.  How did you know? I go red sometimes, or I get green and blue highlights."

What about Monster Cock from the urinal in the bathroom outside my office?

"I've seen you around the campus.  Are you taking Psychology 101 in ___ Hall this semester?"

"No, I'm not in college.  I graduated last spring."  He drew me down on top of him again as his Kovbasa++++ began to rise.  I could barely get my mouth around the head.

So there are still two mysteries:
1. Who is Monster Cock?
2. Why was Justin so intent on hiding his Kovbasa++++

See also: The Boy at the Urinal with the Kovbasa++++; A Gigantic Sausage Sighting in the College Locker Room; and The Smiling Boy at the Gym

Is My Nephew Gay?

Indianapolis, September 2016

My sister and her husband moved to Indianapolis shortly after they married.  Terry worked as a car salesman, then ran a car detailing service, while Tammy worked as a secretary, office manager, and finally Assistant Director of Sports Information at a small Methodist college.

It soon became obvious that their son Joseph, born in 1990, had no interest in either cars or sports.  He liked acting, singing, dancing, and modeling.  When he was eight years old, he appeared in some local tv commercials.  When he was twelve, he starred in a community theater production of The Little Prince.

He was also interested was cooking.  He won a chili cookoff at age thirteen, baked homemade bread and pasta, and insisted that the family try every ethnic restaurant in Indianapolis, from Ethiopian to Indonesian.

He started taking Japanese in junior high and went on a study tour of China in high school.

As a teenager, Joseph was tall and slim, with curly blond hair and striking brown eyes, very handsome, and very fey, swishing and limp-wristed, with that nasal "gay accent" voice.  He wore bright pastel shirts and tight bulging jeans and plastic bracelets.

Definitely gay, I thought.

His parents didn't think so.


At age 12:  "He's got a girlfriend at school he hangs out with!"
At age 13:  "He joined the community theater to meet girls!"
At age 14:  "He'll be discovering girls soon, and then, watch out!"
At age 15:  "He's so handsome, all the girls will be lining up to date him."
At age 16:  "He's shy around girls, but he'll come around...."
At age 17:  "He's much too busy to date...."
At age 18:  "There are so many girls he likes, he can't settle on one, so he's going to the senior prom in a group of friends."

I tried my best to let Joseph know that it was ok to be gay, without actually saying that I thought he was:

I gave him a box of books, including several young adult novels on gay topics.

We had conversations about gay writers Yukio Mishima, Oscar Wilde, and Tennessee Williams.

I invited him to visit "me and Yuri" in Florida (he didn't come).

I invited him and "whatever friend you want" to see Angels in America (he came alone).

In 2008, Joseph enrolled at Indiana University, planning a dual major in East Asian Languages and theater.  He wanted to study the "Noh Theater" of Japan.


And he got a girlfriend!

Jan, a fellow theater major from a small town in southern Indiana.

In 2010, my boyfriend Troy and I drove to Indianapolis for Christmas, and met her at Christmas Eve Dinner.

Or at least we met the back of her head.  The rest of her was attached to Joseph.  Every moment they weren't eating or unwrapping a present, they were exploring each other's tonsils.

Her conversation was: "I'm planning [kiss] to concentrate  [kiss] in children's [kiss] theater [kiss]."

Tammy and Terry beamed.  I imagine they were feeling anxious about the possibility of Joseph being gay through his whole life, and now they were validated!  He was straight after all!

I was devastated.  I had spent the last ten years mentoring a gay kid...but he wasn't!

When they graduated in 2012, Joseph enrolled in the doctoral program in Central Asian Languages in Bloomington, and Jan got a job at the Children's Museum in Indianapolis.  They moved into an apartment together in Franklin, Indiana, about halfway between.

Straight -- but...

I found a profile on a gay dating app of a guy who looked like Joseph and was the right age.

Joseph belonged to a couple of gay groups on Facebook, including a Queer News Service.

Half of his Facebook friends were men.

In 2016, he borrowed his father's 1969 Chevy Camero to drive in the Indianapolis Gay Pride Parade (because 1969 was the year of the Stonewall Riots, the beginning of the modern Gay Rights Movement).

Straight ally?  Bisexual?  Genderqueer?

Last September, back in Indianapolis for a funeral, I determined to find out.

I couldn't ask, or -- God forbid -- cruise him, but I could use the age old "eye-widening" technique.



There were a lot of pictures on my phone from my trip to Mexico, including the standard sights, some random friends, and some swimsuit pictures of hot men.  I showed them to Joseph, checking to see which he spent time on and which he flipped through quickly.

He spent time on the hot men.

See also:Nephew Sausage Sighting #5;  We Teach My Nephew the Gay Facts of Life

How We Survived the Homophobic World of the 1980s

A few days ago, we discovered that over 40% of the U.S. population believe that all Mexicans are rapists and all Muslims are terrorists, that African-Americans are inferior, that the handicapped should be ridiculed, and that sexual assault is ok.    It gives one pause, but it's not without precedent.

When I was living in West Hollywood in the 1980s and 1990s, most heterosexuals believed that gay people were pedophiles and violent criminals, that we were inferior and should be ridiculed, and that physically assaulting us was ok.

We heard incessant "fag! fruit! fairy!" jibes from family, friends, and classmates, while politicians, judges, teachers, preachers, and psychiatrists joined their voices together in an incessant shout of "You're crazy, evil, sinful, criminal!  You shouldn't exist!"

After surviving all that hatred, it was hard to imagine that heterosexuals were even human.  Surely they were soulless monsters who spent every waking moment plotting new ways to defame, humiliate, and kill us.

So we carved out our own Safe Space.

Our world, the only place where we could let our guard down and be free, was bounded by Sunset to the north, Melrose to the south, Doheny to the west, and Highland to the east. At each of those boundaries there was an invisible barrier separating us from the wilderness.

Of course, we had to travel outside our world sometimes, for jobs, to go to concerts and museums, to get to gay bars like Mugi.

But we were very careful: the woods were full of wolves.  We followed strict rules for survival.

1. Be inconspicuous: keep your voice low and your hands at your side.

2. Closet any signs of gayness: no rainbow flags, gay pride t-shirts, Advocate magazines.

3. Never speak to anyone you don't know, unless it is absolutely necessary.

4. Never take anything that a stranger tries to give you.  It will probably be a tract about how sinful you are.

5. Never go to a straight bar or restaurant.  It will be full of homophobes.

6. Avoid heterosexual books, newspapers, movies, and tv shows.  They will be full of homophobia.


What about the heterosexuals you must interact with daily, your classmates and coworkers:

1. Keep the conversation strictly professional.  Be polite but aloof.

2. Don't volunteer any personal information.  If asked, be vague and noncommittal.

"What did you do last weekend?""

"Oh, I just hung around.


3. When they ask about your girlfriend or interest in girls -- which they always do within a few seconds of "hello" -- lie.  Invent one.  Never come out to them, and never say you don't have a girlfriend, or they will try to fix you up with one.

4. When they say something homophobic -- which they always do shortly after asking about your girlfriend -- don't respond.  End the interaction and retreat.

5. What if you are accidentally outed?

If they start screaming, then obviously you should retreat.  If they merely ask insulting questions like "Which of you is the boy, and which is the girl?", use your own judgment about whether to respond.

6. Never accept invitations to parties, dinners, or other social events.  You will be fixed up with a girl or asked to discuss your interest in girls.

7. NEVER cruise them, regardless of how hot they are, or how friendly.  They will interpret your interest as a humiliating insult, and attack.

I have a story about the rules, but writing them all down took up too much space.  It will be up next: Picking Up the Best Man at My Sister's Wedding.

I Shag Oscar the Irish Bodybuilder and His Twink Boyfriend

Philadelphia, November 6th, 2012

Election Night.  Following my tradition of Election Night Hookups, I went out to Woody's, an enormous twink bar with nonstop cruising.  There was a surprisingly large crowd, some watching the returns on a big-screen tv, but most ignoring them, believing that politics was a game for homophobic heterosexuals, not for us.

At 51, I was one of the older guys there, but I'm a twink magnet, so I was getting cruised by a number of Cute Young Things.

I was NOT being cruised by Oscar the Grouch, a short, very muscular guy, probably my age or a little older, with a round face, a stern military haircut, and a constant scowl.

Oscar was not being cruised by anyone, in spite of his physique.  Maybe his age and scowl were turn-offs.  He stood by himself at a little counter, beer bottle at his side, grimacing at everyone.

I never do well with older guys, but I thought, he's got an amazing physique,why not give him a try?

I sidled up and introduced myself.   The first thing he said was:  "Aren't twinks the worst?"

"Um...beg pardon?"

"Frilly little wankers, so soft and sassy, wouldn't know what to do with a real man if he bit them on the arse."

Well, this was a twink bar....what did he expect? "I'm from West Hollywood..."  I began.

Before I could finish my sentence, he continued, "Why is America full of stooks?"

"Um...beg pardon?" I said, trying to place his accent.

"Idjits.  You get into a big row over gay marriage, when civil unions do the same job.  What's the difference?"

Um...


"And your tv is bollocks!  The other night I was watching Parks and Recreation.  'Oh, you have to watch,' my friend said.  It's cor deadly, right?'  Infantile drivel, more like."

Ok, he was annoyingly downbeat, but I was entranced by his enormous pecs and huge round biceps -- and by his the accent, which I finally placed as Irish.

Oscar (not his real name) grew up a fell jackeen in Kilkenny, Ireland, a small town known for its Medieval castle and abbeys, and the nursery rhyme about the Kilkenny cats:  there were two of them, but "each thought they were one cat too many," so they fought, and now there's none at all.

"We're fighters in Kilkenny," Oscar told me.  "Always ready to get our hop on.  Not like you American ponces."  He grinned.

I reached out and felt his chest, and moved my hand down to his crotch.  Thick mass, semi-aroused.  Talking of fighting turned him on!

After getting his degree at Trinity College, he moved inside the Pale, downtown Dublin, the biggest, best gay neighborhood in the world.  West Hollywood  is all tacky and tawdry, full of dosser twinks with nothing to do but file their nails and tool, but in the Pale, there's a big leather bar, the Boiler Room, a stone's throw from Parliament, and the George is just down the street from Triners!  You can see the Book of Kells and ride a bloke on the same afternoon!

I was starting to bristle.  I defend West Hollywood as if it were my home town -- which, in many respects, it was.  But I kept my eye on the prize, a hookup with an older guy, and a bodybuilder to boot.

"There are museums in Los Angeles, too.  The L.A. County Museum of Art, the Getty...and....and Pacific Design Center..."

"Please, those blue and green building blocks?"

"So...what made you leave the gay paradise of Dublin for our tawdry, twink-infested U.S.?" I asked.

"Me fella had a job here. If we ride it tonite, we'll be sharing with him.  Doug. You'll like him -- all the Yank brills think he's savage hot."

Two older guys, and probably bodybuilders with Irish accents? I'm there!

"I hate America though.  I keep telling Dougie boy we should leg it back to Dublin, or at least move to Canada, where people are a little more civilized, right?"

Insulting my country on Election night?  I was about to give him shade and leg it out of there, two bodybuilders or not, but then Oscar put his arm around me and squeezed hard, and leaned in for a boozy kiss.  I felt his huge hand on my back, his hard bicep, his aroused Kielbasa pushing against me.

"Well, I'm locked and fell langered.  Why don't we pop off to me gaff?"

I assumed that meant go home with him.

Oscar took me by the hand and led me toward the door.  " At least you're a real man, not one of these barmy goslings with piercings everywhere and too-tight jeans.

"Yeah, I get swarmed by twinks all the time, too.  It will be nice to hang out with a couple of guys my own age for a change."

 We left the bar around 11:00 pm, took the metro to the 52nd Street SEPTA station and walked three blocks to an upstairs apartment on Peach Street: small, cluttered living room, kitchenette, dining room, two bedrooms.  Doug, the partner, was already asleep, snoring softly under the covers in the darkness of the master bedroom.

"Go ahead and jump in bed," Oscar said.  "Snog, if you like, for a bit of a larf."

Worried that I was about to be the butt of a practical joke, I gingerly took off my shirt and pants and climbed into bed next to the snoring mass of Doug.  I reached over and felt for a hairy, chubby bear -- and got a slim, smooth chest, skinny arms, and an average sized penis that hardened under my touch.

A twink!

"Did you bring me a present?" Doug murmured.

American accent!

So Oscar the Grouch hated twinks and Americans, but his partner was an American twink?

Well, a penis is a penis.

After we kissed -- snogged -- and fondled, Doug went down on me while I was kissing Oscar, and then we double-teamed Oscar's very thick uncut Kielbasa until he finished.  I finished between Doug's legs while fondling Oscar.

At least I got to shag one older guy that night.

See also: The Surly, Crazy-Eyed Guy

10 Election Night Hookups

Rock Island is staunchly Democrat, and my parents were the most staunchly Democrat of all.  I spent my childhood going to election rallies and passing out bumper stickers, and falling asleep on election night listening to the returns on tv in the next room.

But when I grew up, my political interests ended altogether.  Politicians seemed to be competing to see who could express the most homophobic hatred.  Why bother to support candidates where the choices were "I promise to keep your children safe from homo recruitment!" and "I promise to keep homos from shoving their sick lifestyles down your throats!"?

I still voted in most presidential elections, if I could figure out which candidate hated us the least.  And, to assuage my feeling of persecution and victimization, I started a tradition of Election Night Hookups.

1. Professor Burton.  November 4, 1980.  The first time I was able to vote: my junior year at Augustana College.  After voting, I had dinner with Professor Burton, a husky bear in his 40s who taught geology.  I went down on him in the living room, while he was watching election returns.

Results: "Gay menace" Ronald Reagan enjoyed a landslide victory over the only mildly homophobic Jimmy Carter and John Anderson.

2. Dan the Chain Smoker.  November 6, 1984.  During my horrible, depressing year in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas.  After voting I hooked up with a guy named Dan: in his 30s, short, slim, bearded, smoked constantly.  I had an ash tray in my apartment, but instead he used a damp napkin on a saucer.  Nice sized Bratwurst, though.

Results: "Gay menace" Ronald Reagan got 58% of the popular vote over Walter Mondale, who, when  asked to say something about gay people at a campaign stop, angrily walked off stage.





3. Turning Japanese.  November 8, 1988.  Depressed over my doctoral dissertation, broke, lacking a boyfriend, I paid no attention to the presidential race, and didn't vote.  I went to Mugi, the gay Asian bar.  A Romanian twink named Stash approached and asked where in Asia I was from.  I don't know why -- I don't look at all Asian.  For some reason I told him "Japan" and had to go with that through our entire first date.

Results:  George Bush, Reagan's vice president of homophobia, beat out Michael Dukakis, who hated gay people and was a fierce opponent of gay adoption.

4. Alan's Ex.  November 3rd, 1992.  After we voted, Lane and I went to an Election Night Party held by the Stonewall Democrats, and ended up going home with Alan's ex-boyfriend, who, like Alan, was an ex-porn star.

Results:  Bill Clinton, the first candidate to mention gay rights (he promised to end the military ban on gay people), got 72% of the gay vote and 43% of the heterosexual vote, beating out George Bush.

5. The City Councilman. November 5th, 1996.  David and I went to another Election Night Party.  I didn't actually get a hookup, but I got a date with Tom Ammiano, who was on the San Francisco Board of Supervisors.

6. I Break Every Rule of Gay Cruising: November 7th, 2000.  In New York, I lived within easy walking distance of about 20 gay bars, but I rarely went cruising.  But on the night of November 7th, I was depressed, so I went to the Eagle, broke every rule of gay cruising, and ended up somewhere in New Jersey with Jorge, and having to sneak out of his parents' house in the morning with no idea how to get home again.

Results:  George W. Bush, who hated us even more than his Dad, or  Al Gore, who just thought we were second class citizens?   Gore won the popular vote, but Bush got the electoral vote.






7. November 2nd, 2004.  I was living in Florida with Barney and Yuri.  No hookup.

Results: George W. Bush beat out John Kerry for another term with 50.7% of the popular votes.  I was so worried about round-ups and concentration camps that started applying for jobs outside the U.S., planning an escape.

8. The Bathhouse Bonanza. November 4th, 2008.  I was living in Upstate New York.  On the night of November 4th, I drove down to Albany and went to the River Club, a small bathhouse.  I usually didn't have much luck there, but tonight for some reason I was absurdly popular, accepted by everyone I approached.

Results: Barack Obama and John McCain were both against gay marriage, but Obama vowed to support gay rights, and McCain said there was no anti-gay discrimination in the U.S.  Obama got 53% of popular votes.

9. Oscar the Grouch. November 6th, 2012. During my horrible, terrible year in Philadelphia, I went out cruising on Election Night, and hooked up with Oscar the Grouch: a short, very muscular guy from Ireland who complained incessantly about everything American.  Kielbasa beneath the belt, though.

Results: Barack Obama, who had now changed his mind and favored gay marriage, got 51% of the popular votes, beating Mitt Romney, who was still against it.

10. November 8th, 2016: Plains.  Hillary Clinton, who has repeatedly affirmed her commitment to gay rights, or Donald Trump, who thinks it's pretty weird to "choose" to become gay and wants to dump gay marriage?

I invited Monster Cock, aka Brandon, over for a homemade vegetarian pizza and election returns.  This will was first time voting.

Coincidentally, he might become a geologist, like Dr. Burton, my first Election Day Hookup.

Results: We sat there open-mouthed, speechless as the Der Fuhrer stormed through all of the swing states.  Then I was too upset to do anything in bed.  He still wanted to.  Not the best second date!

See also: The Boy at the Urinal with the Kovbasa++++

How Many Sex Partners Should You Have?

I've never understood people who brag "I've had only five sexual partners my whole life," or "I've only had two," or even "I've only had one."  And everyone congratulates them, as if they've accomplished something magnificent.

Why is depriving yourself of beauty a good thing?

Should you also brag that you've only seen two movies in your whole life, or only five paintings?   Is never crossing the Pont Royal from the Tuilieres Garden to the Musee d'Orsay something to brag about?

But when you say you've had 50 partners, or 100, they sternly disapprove.  You're a sexual compulsive.  You have no self control.  You're a slut!

Does seeing 50 movies in a year mean that you're a movie compulsive?  Does having an ice cream sundae or a pizza once a month, 700 during your lifetime, mean that you have no self control?






I think this fear of multiple partners comes from the 19th century notion that sexual behavior is inherently dangerous, apt to lead to physical and mental deterioration and even death, so you have to be very careful, treat every partner as if he's your last.

Or from the 20th century notion that sexual behavior is an infinitely transforming experience, to be shared only with the One, the person with whom you have a permanent, lifelong romantic commitment.

Nonsense.

Sexual behavior means experiencing the beauty of another person's face, physique, and sex organs. Certainly you should do it with people you care about, but why limit it to them?  Why not experience as much beauty as you can in life?

Ok, you're thinking, but what about the risks?

When you interact with strangers, there's always a risk of theft or assault, but if you do a screening interview, have a friend on call, and keep him in your sight at all times, the victimization risk is minimal.

And if you inspect his penis before oral and insist that he wraps it before anal, the health risk is minimal.

And remember what you have to gain:

A universe of men, 18 year olds and 80 year olds, tall and short, masculine and feminine, chubby, muscular, skinny, hairy and smooth, Kielbasas and pencil nubs, facial hair, tattoos, different colors of hair and skin, different races, ethnic groups, religions, languages, an infinite variety to see, feel, touch, and taste.

 But how many partners is optimal?  How many guys should you shoot for during your lifetime?

If you come out at age 20, and are sexually active until age 80, you will have 22,630 sexually active days, or 3224 weeks, or 744 months.

One a day:  Impossible!  It takes at least an hour, maybe two, to find someone who is attractive and interested in you, another hour for the introductory interview, and a third for the sexual activity.  No one has time for that every day, with work, gym, meals, social events, and other leisure pursuits.

Besides, unless you have a large circle of friends who are constantly getting new boyfriends to "share," you'll have to find the guy from scratch every time.  Even in a gay neighborhood, the number of suitable options is limited.  If you try to find one hookup per day with no repeats, you will soon run out, or have to take whatever sleazoid or downlow guy you can get.

One a month?  Not nearly enough.  That means experiencing new masculine beauty for only 1 day out of 30, only 3% of your sexually active days on Earth.   I wouldn't dream of going for a whole month without buying a new book or seeing a new movie, and certainly not without a new experience of the masculine.


One a week?  Better, but still, it means experiencing new masculine beauty on only 14% of your sexually active days on Earth.

Two or three a week?  I think that's optimal.  New experiences of masculine beauty on 30-40% of your days.

 I suggest one new date, hookup, or sharing experience every week, and then, once a month, going to a bathhouse or sex party and getting with five guys.  That's an average of 2.5 per week, not including repeats, and easily doable, unless you are really picky or live a hundred miles from civilization.

Look for variety, not the same type every time.  If you like them young, try an old guy.  If you like them hirsute, go with smooth. Everyone is attractive in his own way.

At the end of your sexually active life you will have fond memories of 5,600 men.

It may seem like a lot if you've been raised with the "one partner forever" myth, but compare it with the number of movies you will see, or the number of paintings, with how many ice cream sundaes and pizzas you will eat, and with how many times you will cross the Pont Royal from the Tuilieres Garden to the Musee d'Orsay.

Tricking with Yuri's Student in Iceland

Reykjavik, October 2016

On Halloween, the second biggest holiday in the gay world, I'm sitting in the Culiacan Mexican Grill in Revkjavik, Iceland, spending $20 for a tasteless burrito.

 Back home there is an endless round of parties, dinners, parades.  You spend weeks deciding on the best costume, putting up decorations, buying candy for the trick-or-treaters (in gay neighborhoods, cute guys, not kids).

They don't celebrate Halloween here.

Why am I in Reykjavik?  And not in West Hollywood, or New York, or even back home on the Plains?



Yuri is so deeply rooted in gay culture, living in the heart of London's gay neighborhood, hanging out only with gay men, discussing masculine beauty and gigantic penises at every opportunity, that it is difficult to imagine him outside that world.  But in fact, he's a well-known atmospheric scientist who has published important research on climate change.

He has brought five of his advanced students to Iceland to see the aurora borealis, and test how they have changed due to global warming. Something about emission spectrography and astronometric oscillations.  I'm along for the ride.

 I was hesitant:  from what I recalled from my college field trip, Iceland was cold and barren, with no gay culture.

""You are joking!" Yuri scoffed.  "It's not cold, it's as nice as New York.  And Iceland is the most gay country in Europe!  Even the prime minister is gay!"

[Actually, the lesbian Prime Minister, Jóhanna Sigurdardóttir, was in office from 2009 to 2013]

Granted, it's not cold: 42 degrees Fahrenheit, about the same as on the Plains, maybe even a little warmer.  The sun rises about 45 minutes later, and sets about 45 minutes earlier, no big deal."

But there's no gay culture.  One gay bar, only open on weekends, one mixed restaurant, no bathhouses, no bookstores, no gay churches, no gay neighborhoods.  Gay people are completely assimilated.

I can't even spend the night with Yuri.  He's out to his students, but not out enough to share his hotel room with me.  After the bedroom activity, I go back to my own room, as if I am a hookup, not a close friend for nearly twenty years.

Anyway, he goes to bed at 9:00 pm, since the scientific studies take place at 3:00 am.  I went once: sitting on lawn chairs at Thingvellir National Park, drinking hot chocolate from thermos bottles and taking radiometric measurements.  Not my thing.

So I'm mostly on my own.  I've been to the National Museum, the National Gallery, the Art Museum, and the Museum of the Penis by myself.  Yuri and I have had lunch and dinner, and hung out at Kiki, the city's mixed gay bar, without picking up anyone -- it's for socializing, not for cruising.

In four days I've only met one local guy, Bjorn, and he was actually Yuri's hookup.  I was just along for the ride.

His students are cute -- five guys in their early 20s, fresh-faced science students, boisterous and energetic.  But I don't even know if they're gay, and besides, I can't cruise Yuri's students.  I'm like a chaperone.

Today I ran into two of them in the lobby of our hotel, texting on their smartphones: Jon is tall, with thick brown hair and a heavy-lidded, Mediterranean look.  Maury is a redhead, short and rather buffed, with horn-rimmed glasses that make him look middle-aged.

"Happy Halloween!" I said brightly. "Fara til rethur safninu?"  Are you going to the penis museum?

They stared, puzzled.  "Sorry, just practicing my Icelandic.  Where are you guys off to today?"

"Haukadalur," Jon said.  "The neovolcanic zone with geysirs and hot springs."

"Not as much fun as trick-or-treating, I'll bet."

Maury grinned.  "Dr. B. told us about you living together in Florida.  I'll bet you had some fun Halloweens there."

I was too nervous to say anything more.

I dump my tasteless $20 burrito and head to Hreyfing Heilsulind, a gym with day memberships.  At least I can get a decent workout in, and maybe get some sausage sightings in the steam room.

Nope.  Only a couple of older guys in the cardio room, no one in the steam room.

Kiki, the queer bar, has a Halloween display.  Rather a low key things, ghosts and Frankenstein monsters surrounded by orange crepe.  Anyway, it's closed today.

I go to Bokavarthan, Reykjavik's used bookstore, and find, of all things, a German book about cowboys.  Then a whale burger at Grillmarkathurinn, and back to the hotel to watch The Simpsons with Icelandic subtitles.   It's the annual Halloween Special.

Suddenly there's a knock on the door: Yuri and Maury, wearing devil horns and carrying plastic bags with pumpkins on them.

"Trick or treat!"  Maury yells.  "I've always wanted to say that."

"We bring you a Halloween party," Yuri says.

They brought "fun sized" Snickers bars and ghost cupcakes that they found in a bakery somewhere.  Yuri and I sit on the bed with Maury between us to watch Hocus Pocus on Netflix on his ipod.

I put my arm around Maury, feel his tight shoulders, run my hand over his earlobe.  He moves his elbow down to my crotch.  I become aroused.

Suddenly Yuri stands up.  "It's late -- I must go to bed.  But you guys stay here, finish the movie, have fun."

After Yuri leaves, Maury says "You don't really want to finish the movie, do you?"

I take the ipod from his hand.  "I know how it turns out.  Omri Katz moves to Israel and goes to work in gay porn."

Maury has a very firm, muscular physique, more buffed than you would expect, and a very thick Bratwurst+.  He's an anal top, but willing to settle for 69, with cuddling and kissing afterwards.

In the morning I go down on him again, and top him between the legs.  Then he says "Rethur safninu í dag?" Do you want to go to the penis museum today?

I stare in embarrassment.  "You knew what I was saying yesterday?"

"Yep, my Mum's Norwegian, and Icelandic is close enough to make out.   How do you think I got the nerve to come to your room for trick or treating?"

See also: Bjorn's Hookup with His Teacher; The Icelandic Penis Museum