The Pentecostal Porn Star Hooks Up with a Norwegian Con Artist

West Hollywood, December 1985

Maybe the cold makes people want to hug, but I've found the wintertime to be good for starting a new romance: I started dating Fred the Ministerial Student in December, Verne the Preacher's Son in January, and my Celebrity Boyfriend in January.  Christmas is particularly erotic: kissing Brian under the mistletoe, meeting the bully in the gay bar, catching Cousin Joe in the act.

But you have to be careful if you're already in a relationship.  The last two weeks of December are a mine field, especially if you return to the Midwest and leave your boyfriend behind.

In the fall of 1985, shortly after I moved to Los Angeles, I liked Alan, one of the two ministerial students at All Saints Metropolitan Community Church (the gay church).  I'm a clergy groupie, and his former job as a porn actor sweetened the deal.

But it took a long time to incite his interest -- I was tall and rather muscular, and he liked small, slim guys -- so we didn't start dating until early November.

I assumed that we would be monogamous.  And we were.

For about six weeks.

On December 15th, a guy named Kristian appeared at church.  Small, slim, passive, smiling, handsome, early 20s. I could see Alan's face light up.

After the service, Alan practically knocked me over in a mad dash to cruise him during the coffee hour.  I followed and tried to butt in as much as possible.  His story didn't add up: 

1. Kristian was born in Norway, and moved to the U.S. with his parents at age 5.  His father was a professor of political science at the University of Pennsylvania, and his mother wrote children's books.

2. He graduated from UCLA's Film School and was now working as a production assistant at Paramount.

3. He had totalled his car in an accident that wasn't his fault, so now he was taking the bus everywhere.

4. He had just broken up with his lover, and needed a place to stay until January 1st, when his new apartment would be ready.

"You can stay with me!" Alan exclaimed.  "I have two roommates, but you can...um... camp out on our couch."

Watching my boyfriend's eyes gleam with erotic anticipation, I offered Kristian an alternative plan: "I'm going home to the Midwest on Tuesday,a and I'll be gone for two weeks, so you can have my apartment all to yourself."

I know what you're thinking -- hand over my apartment key to some guy I just met?  He'll steal everything I own, and turn the place into a crack house!

Those sort of misdeeds never occurred to me.  I was fixated on the fact that Kristian had no car, and Alan lived five miles away.  It would be impossible for them to get together!!

It never occurred to me that Alan had a car.  

When I returned to Los Angeles on January 2nd, Kristian had moved out of my apartment and into Alan's bed.  "Um...um...we didn't plan on it...it just happened," Alan told me. "Can we still be friends?"

Plus, during the few days he spent at my apartment, Kristian stole a pair of jeans, pawned my grandmother's silverware, and ran up $200 in phone calls to Norway.  Fortunately, Alan got my silverware back and wrote me a check for the $200, explaining that it was "a misunderstanding."  Kristian thought my grandmother's silverware was part of the deal?

By the end of January, Kristian had taken Alan for all he could and gone on to the other ministerial student at the church, and a month or so later he moved on to West Hollywood Presbyterian.  I don't know if he was a clergy groupie, or thought a minister would be a soft touch.

I did some checking: nobody with Kristian's name had graduated from UCLA Film School, or was working at Paramount.  I'll bet he wasn't even Norwegian.  He just let his soft, small, passive frame and killer smile work for him.

The Scream King Hooks Up with Ricky Schroder

Three days after his high school graduation in 1981, Mark Patton, a country boy from Kansas City, Missouri, was immersed in the gay mecca of Greenwich Village, Manhattan.  Ten day after, he landed a role as a gay country boy in the Broadway play Come Back to the 5 and Dime, Jimmy Dean, co-starring with the legendary Sandy Dennis.

Has any star ever risen so fast? he wondered.

When he moved to Hollywood to work on the film version of Jimmy Dean (1982), he thought "This is fate.  I am destined to become the first open, out actor in Hollywood!"

He went on some auditions, and got some jobs: a country boy bonding with his estranged father (Chuck Connors!) in Kelsey's Son (1983); the brother of a cloned girl in Anna to the Infinite Power (1983); and Jesse Walsh, a gay boy harassed by Freddy Krueger in Nightmare on Elm Street 2: Freddy's Revenge (1985).

He assumed that the character was written as gay, but his costar, Robert Rusler, said "Hell, no!  And if you know what's good for you, you won't mentions gays to David [writer David Chaskin], ever!  He'll have you fired and on the first bus back to Missouri!"

Mark had never been closeted, but he now found himself constrained by Hollywood homophobia.  His agent went through his closet and told him what "normal boys" wear, and refused to allow him to be interviewed by a gay magazine, not even about his gay character in Jimmy Dean.


 Jack Sholder, the director of Nightmare, peppered his speech with anti-gay slurs.

One of the producers, gay but closeted, told Mark that he absolutely could not set foot in West Hollywood.  If there was even a hint that he was gay, his career would be over, plus the box office for Nightmare 2 would plummet.

Most of the cast and crew shunned him, as if they were afraid that the "gay" would rub off.  Only Robert Rusler wanted to hang out with him.  They even went to gay bars together, Catch One, Basgo's (neither of them were in West Hollywood, right?).


 After the homophobic nightmare of Nightmare, Mark had had it; he was going to be out!  But his agent said that she'd drop him instantly if he told anyone in the Hollywood community, and no other agent would touch him, either. So he dutifully closeted himself on auditions, and got a couple of parts: a CBS Schoolbreak Special and an episode of Hotel.


And he got to know other closeted actors, like Wesley Eure and Dean Paul Martin.  They had no problem with making up girlfriends, introducing their boyfriends as "buddies," escorting girls to events while their boyfriends stayed home in the darkness!

Living a lie your whole life.  How could they stand it?

Mark knew that he'd never be able to stand it. He started auditioning as an open gay man, and was cast in a tv series where he'd play a gay character, "but you have to tell everyone you're straight in real life."  He ran.

He started taking classes in interior design at L.A. City College.

The kicker came in the spring of 1988, when Robert offered to set him up on a date with Ricky Schroder, who had played "poor little rich boy" Ricky Stratton on the Reagan-era glorification of excess, Silver Spoons (1982-87).

"He's just a kid!" Mark complained. "I like older guys.  And he's a blond-haired, blue-eyed Ken Doll.  I like my men tall, dark, and handsome, swarthy Mediterraneans, Latinos, black guys.  Now, set me up with Alfonso Ribeiro [his costar on Silver Spoons], and we'll talk."

"A kid, maybe," Robert said, "But the star of a top-rated tv show, with connections all over Hollywood.  Let him top you, and the offers will start pouring in."

"He's a top?"  Somehow Mark always assumed that Ricky was a bottom.

"Babe, a hard top!  With a super-sized sausage  -- and he knows how to us it.  He's plugged half the macho men in town, with or without a condom, your choice."

Super-sized sausage?  Well, it wouldn't hurt to have dinner....

They met briefly for coffee at a place in Hacienda Heights.  Then came the date:

First a messenger knocked on the door of Mark's apartment with a bottle of wine and a bouquet of flowers.

Then a delivery guy with Chinese food.

Finally Ricky arrived, dressed to the hilt, and pulled Mark into a long kiss and grope.  In a moment they were in the bedroom.  Mark went down on Ricky (average sized, but thick), then fell down on the bed so Ricky could enter doggy-style.  Instead Ricky pushed him onto his back and entered from the top.  Nice, but a little uncomfortable -- your legs only go up so far.  

Afterwards they sat on the couch, eating microwaved Chinese food and watching Miami Vice.

"I'm so glad I don't have to play fags anymore," Ricky said, looking at the fashion-conscious Crockett.

Mark stared, open jawed.  "But aren't you...."

"Liking guys is one thing.  Being a fag is another.  I can't stand those West Hollywood queens, with their parades where they wiggle their butts and squeal 'Look at me, I like dick!'  Keep it in the bedroom where it belongs, Mary!"

"But we have to work on social tolerance, civil rights.  The AIDS Crisis..."

"Keep it in the bedroom!" Ricky repeated.  "In ten years I'll have a wife and about a dozen kids, while West Hollywood queens are still wiggling their little butts, afraid to grow up."

"So you're going to give up on being gay?"

"That's another word I can't stand: 'gay.'  What does 'gay" have to do with getting your cock sucked? I like guys, sure, but I like girls, too.  What's gay about that?"

Mark was silent.  At that moment, he decided to fire his agent, stop the audition cycle, and get on with his life -- his real life, the one that mattered.

I met Mark at a party thrown by my roommate Derek in the summer of 1988: a cute twink, a little fey, with a slim physique and a respectable basket, dating one of Derek's friends.  Having never seen Nightmare on Elm Street, I didn't realize that he was an actor.  We didn't "share."

Today Mark lives in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, where he runs an art store, along with his husband Hector Mondragon.  He often appears at fan events as the first "scream king"

Ricky Schroder has appeared in a number of movies and tv shows, including Lonesome Dove and NYPD Blue.  He was married to Andrea Bernard from 1992 to 2016, and has four children.  He has made no public statements about "liking guys."

I got this story from Zack the Photographer, who heard it from his boyfriend Tim, who dated Mark in the 1990s.  It may have changed a bit in the countless retellings, but the sadness stays the same.

See also: Michael in the Boys' Room with Cole or Dylan Sprouse.

I Go Home with the Amazing Invisible Boy

San Francisco, May 1997

One Sunday afternoon, Kevin the Vampire and I were at the beer bust at the San Francisco Eagle, when a twink caught my eye .  He was wearing a white t-shirt with a weird dark stain at the belly, jeans torn at the knee, and a light brown jacket -- quite out of place amid the leather-clad bears and muscle daddies.

He was in his 20s, tall, slim, blond, very pale.  Not my usual type, but he had a handsome, almost angelic face, and he looked...lost.  Everyone was giving him major attitude.

"Poor guy wandered into the wrong bar," I told Kevin.

He looked around.  "Who do you mean?"

I pointed. "The cute twink in the brown jacket?"

He peered into the crowd.  "Sorry, I can't pick him out.  But cruise him, if you like.  I'll be more than willing to share anyone you find attractive."

Too late -- a drunken muscle bear with thick bear-hair on his chest and shoulders had already approached.  He had skipped the conversation stage of cruising, moving immediately into groping.  The twink looked uncomfortable, even frightened.  Didn't he know how to give Attitude?

That was my "in" -- coming to the rescue.  I grabbed a bottle of beer from the bartender, walked over, and said "Here's your beer, babe.  Sorry it took so long."

"Didn't know you spoken for," the muscle bear growled.  He dislodged his hand from the boy's crotch and loped off.

"Thanks for saving me.  I'm Mickey."  (Not the leatherman who never left South of Market -- another Mickey.)

"Boomer."  I tried to hug him, but he stiffened -- not interested?  Instead, he held out a slim hand to be shaken.

Yes, his hand was warm to the touch.

"I don't go to gay bars much, and I don't know the rules yet.  I thought if I just stood quietly, I'd be invisible."

"That's funny, it worked on my friend over there.  I tried to point you as 'the cute guy in the brown jacket,' but he couldn't see you.  Would you mind coming over so I can introduce you?"

I led him to where Kevin was standing.  "Introducing Mickey, the Amazing Invisible Boy!"

Kevin stared, visibly frightened.  "Um...very nice to meet you.  Boomer, could I borrow you for a moment to discuss that project?"

He pulled me out of earshot.  "You're out of your league with this one, Boomer.  Better leave him alone."

"Why?  Is he a hustler?  A druggie?"

"No, but...it's difficult to explain.  He's dangerous."

"He looks harmless to me.  A little lonely, and kind of starved for affection.  Why don't we invite him home?"

"No sharing tonight, sorry -- um, I'm not feeling well.  And I'd advise you to pick someone else.  I have to be running along now."

You never abandon someone in the midst of cruising -- it's just not done.  But Kevin did.

It would pay to be prudent, of course, and not invite Mickey home instantly, so I took him to a Thai place on Folsom.

Yes, he ate.

 And asked him the usual precautionary questions.  Mickey was eager to talk.

He lived with his parents and younger brother in a small white house on Custer Road in Hayward, in the East Bay.  He graduated from Tennyson High School.  He had a job in a department store, and he was taking classes at the junior college in the hope of becoming a bookkeeper.

I asked about the stain on his shirt.  He said it was probably spaghetti sauce, but he didn't remember where he got it.

It was starting to get dark.  "I have to get to the station soon," Mickey said, looking apprehensively out the window.  "The last train to Hayward leaves at 7:00 pm."

"Oh...I was hoping we could spend more time together.  Why don't you come back to my place and spend the night?  I'll spring for breakfast in the morning, and then put you on the BART."

He looked hesitant.  "You're sure it won't be any trouble?  I snore."

Back at my apartment, he took off his jacket and draped it on a kitchen chair.  We watched Nick Freno, The Simpsons, King of the Hill, The X-Files, some old sitcoms on Nick at Night, ate ice cream, and talked, talked, cuddled, kissed, and talked.

Mickey wasn't out to anyone, and hadn't had sex with anyone but a high school friend.  He turned 21 a few days ago.  On a whim he took  BART across the Bay, got off at the 16th Street Station, and looked for the nearest gay bar.  That turned out to be the Eagle.

Finally it was midnight, past my bedtime.  "I have to get up early," I said, "So we should go to bed.  We don't have to do anything, if you don't want.  We can just cuddle."

Mickey kissed me on the cheek.  "You're the first guy I met with who didn't try to push me into the bedroom right away,  But I have to go home now."  He stood and walked around the couch toward the door.

"BART's closed.  You'll have to spend the night..." I began.  But he was gone!

He was only out of my sight for a second.  He didn't have time to get to the door, and besides, it was still locked.  I opened it and looked out onto the balcony and the street below.  They were deserted.

I ran back and checked the bedroom and bathroom.  No.  Mickey had just vanished.

In retrospect, there were some weird things about him.
1. His invisibility.
2. Kevin's warning.
3. There aren't any junior colleges anymore.  They're community colleges.
4. Who in the computer age studies to be a bookkeeper?
5. He didn't know how to use a VCR.
6. He had never seen The Simpsons.
7. That weird stain, like a blood stain.
8. This was his first time in a gay bar, but he had taken several guys home before.

Had I been making out with a ghost?  Maybe a boy who came to the City for his 21st birthday, was killed in a hate crime, and ever after has been trying to find his way home.

What would have happened if I insisted on bedroom activities?

The next day Kevin called.  He said, "I was just jealous that you were so into that Cute Young Thing.  I'm sorry that my attempt to scare you away made you hallucinate."

By the way, I couldn't do a "Vanishing Hitchhiker" thing: Mickey took his jacket with him.


See also: The Leatherman Who Never Left South of Market; Ozzie Meets John Kennedy Jr.; and A Quiet Night in Gay Heaven.

David Picks Up a Homeless Teenager

Castro Street, September 1996

David was 43 years old, but an honorary twink.  He grew up in an ultra-conservative household in Arkansas, got married, and became a Baptist preacher -- then, on his 40th birthday, had his first same-sex experience.  He came out, quit his job, divorced his wife, and moved to San Francisco -- all in the same week!

He got an apartment and a job, joined a gym, bought a new wardrobe consisting mostly of leather, and went cruising.  Every day.  At lunchtime, after work, in the evening.  Sometimes on the way to work.

David was an equal-opportunity cruiser.  Young, old, black, white, rich, poor, he didn't care as long as you had either a nice smile or a big package.

But still, I was shocked when he cruised the teenage panhandler.




In San Francisco, panhandlers were everywhere, lined up outside ATM machines, restaurants, Muni stations, waving their cups, holding their signs that said "hungry!" or "Disabled veteran" or chanting  "Any change?  Any change?  Any change?"

Most people ignored them, figuring if you gave them money, you would be tagged as an "easy mark" and followed by many more.  Besides, you couldn't tell who was actually in need and who just wanted money for drugs.   There were many charities in town that could provide food and housing more equitably.

But even if you gave them money, inviting them home was quite a different thing.  No one did.  Ever.

Except David.

One day we went to Orphan Andy's for breakfast before work, and near the Muni station we passed a young panhandler, short, slim, probably in his 20s, wearing a baseball cap and an "Oakland A's" jersey.  His sign read: "Kicked out of the house for being gay!"

David dropped fifty cents into his cup, said "God bless you!", and moved on.

"Cute!"  he told me when we were out of earshot.  "I'll bet he's open for business!"

"You mean as a hustler?" I asked.  "Probably.  I hear that a lot of panhandlers will drop their pants and give you a show for a dollar.  Except they're not usually very attractive.  Living on the street, you don't get a lot of opportunities to hit the gym."

"Well, that twink was hot.  And I didn't mean as a hustler -- I meant as a date."

My mouth dropped.  "Are you crazy?  You can't cruise panhandlers!"

"Why not?  Worried that he'll stab me and steal all of my stuff?"  He patted my shoulder. "Just because they don't have a place to stay, they're automatically criminals, right?  Got a few prejudices there, Boomer?"

"It's not that," I said, embarrassed.  "But you know...."

"Oh, you're worried that he's poz (HIV positive).  I don't doubt it -- safe sex isn't exactly a priority on the street.  But I'm not stupid.  I never go downtown without a condom."

"Anyway, he's at least 20 years younger than you.  Middle-aged guys can't cruise twinks.  It's not done."

"Well, there's a first time for everything."

"Yes, but..."  I struggled to articulate.  "You're in a position of power over him.  Sex with him sounds like exploitation."

"Jesus had dinner with tax collectors and sinners," David said with a shrug.

The next morning we passed the same panhandler, and David gave him a dollar and shook his hand before saying "God bless you."

"I'm gay," the boy pointed out, as if that prohibited us from using the word "God" around him.

"The Metropolitan Community Church has an outreach program for homeless youth..."  I said.

"I know.  I've been there to take showers and get new clothes.  But I don't like churches much.  My Dad was a strict Baptist, and when he found out I was gay, he held my head under water to force the 'gay demon' out."

"I heard that!" David exclaimed.  "I used to be a Baptist minister -- they didn't get that being gay is a gift from God.  So is sex," he added.

The boy grinned.

"My name's David."

"Cole."

"Is this your usual spot?  Maybe I'll see you tomorrow."

As we walked away, David nudged me.  "Still worried about exploitation?"

"Sort of.  Give him some new clothes, buy him dinner, but having sex with him just seems exploitive."

"Would you like to supervise? Or share?"

I admit, I was curious.

On the third day, David gave Cole another dollar and a sausage-and-cheese bagel and invited him to have dinner at his apartment.  "Oh, and Boomer is coming, too."


That night, Cole arrived at David's doorstep, wearing a see-through t-shirt, and carrying a bouquet of flowers, of all things.

Over a dinner of chicken tetrazzini and tiramisu, Cole told us about his upper-middle class home in Tucson.  His father was a prominent lawyer.  He had three older brothers and sisters, one a lawyer, another married to a lawyer.

"And I'm the black sheep of the family.  Straight C's, suspended for fighting, arrested for smoking pot, and 'an abomination in the eyes of the Lord' to boot."

"You're not an abomination in anyone's eyes," David said.  They were holding hands under the table.

"You think so?  You should see how people at the Muni Station look at me.  Like I'm lower than dirt.  When they look at me at all.   They don't get that I'm just a regular, normal guy.  I like sports and stuff.  I like hot guys."

Soon they were kissing and ignoring their tiramisu. They moved into the bedroom.  I cleared the table and joined them.

Two weeks later, Cole was on a bus to Phoenix, where his older brother had agreed to take him in: "gay or not, he's still my brother."

What he needed the most was not money or a place to stay.  It was to be treated like a "regular, normal guy," not an abomination because he was homeless or gay.

See also: Pushing a Shopping Cart up Castro Street

The Sanderson Boys Get Naked

Manville, Illinois, July 1971

I never understood the Lionel Ritchie song "Easy like Sunday Morning."  In our house, Sunday morning was a flurry of activity, as five people rushed through breakfast, fed the dogs, put the potroast in the oven, dressed in our best clothes, and drove across town to make it to church for:

9:30 Sunday school (classes informing us of the things God hated)
10:30 Morning service (the preacher screaming about the things God hated)

11:30.  The altar call.  Depending on how many people decided to go down, and how long it took for them to Pray Through to Victory, you could get out at 11:40, 11:45, or 12:00.

Home for a change of clothes, the potroast, and a few hours off, then back to church for
6:30 Nazarene Young People's Society (NYPS)
7:30 More screaming at the evening service.

8:30. Another altar call.

9:00 Afterglow, a teen party.

But six hours in church on Sunday wasn't the end of it.  We were expected to be in church "every time the doors were open," for choir practice, missionary society, prayer meetings, Bible studies, youth groups...

And as if that wasn't enough, twice a year, in the fall and the spring, there was a revival: a whole week of services led by an evangelist, who made his living going from church to church, trying to revv up the congregation and get them saved.

It was horrible.  Sunday morning screaming amplified by a thousand!  Especially near the end of the week, when just about everyone had been saved, and it got harder and harder to get those bodies of their seats and down to the altar.

The only bright spot was the gospel music group that appeared with the evangelist.  They sang fast-paced modern songs, not our usual ancient funereal hymns full of "thees" and "thous."

Getting ready today, moving out tomorrow
Gettin' sanctified through earthly sorrow
I'm looking for a brand new day
I've found the Lord, I'm almost there.

 They were accompanied by banjos, guitars, even tambourines.  Church elders used to tinny pianos and organs were shocked.

They were usually related, or groups of brothers, or pretend brothers, like the Calvary Boys (below).

I couldn't understand why at the time, but eventually I figured it out: traveling all over the country, living out of buses or vans, spending all of their time together, asleep or awake, there might be sexual temptations.  But not if they were related.

The men and boys were undeniably cute, clean-cut and fresh-scrubbed.  Unfortunately, their matching gospel outfits made it difficult to check for the bulge of a bicep (or anything else).

But sometimes when you went down to the altar, they rushed over to help you Pray Through to Victory, and there was a hard celebrity arm across your shoulders.

Or, when their van or bus was parked in the church parking lot all week, you could sometimes find an excuse to drop by the church in the afternoon and see them out of uniform.

During the spring revival in fifth grade, the musical group was The Sanderson Boys, three "brothers" in their mid-20s.  They were all tall, wide-shouldered, and grinning, but I liked Joe, the biggest and huskiest.  Unfortunately, he didn't come down to the altar to help me Pray Through, so I didn't get a chance to feel his hard celebrity arm across my shoulders.

And I never got a chance to drop by the church parking lot to see him out of uniform.

But that summer, at Manville Nazarene Camp (a few weeks before I visited Cousin George in South Carolina), I was surprised to find the The Sanderson Boys as our camp counselors (top photo)!

Every day we had an assembly where they asked us to yell "Boy, am I enthused!" and sing camp songs like "If you're saved and you know it, clap your hands." Then they split up to coach sports: Jim touch football, Jack basketball, and Joe baseball. Unfortunately, there was no swimming.

I picked baseball, just in case Joe got sweaty and took his shirt off.

He did!  Big shoulders, throbbing biceps, nicely ribbed abs!

But I wanted to see more.  So I devised a clever plan.

One day during a game I walked over to Joe and said  "Um...I have to...um...pee."

"Sure, go ahead."

"The bathroom's way over to the other side of the camp.  I don't think I'll make it," I said, squirming and looking distressed.

"Well, why don't you find a tree in the woods, and go there?"

I glanced toward the woods.  "With the spiders and bugs?  No way!"

"Come on, it's easy!"

I hung my head, looking like I wanted to cry.

"Would you like me to go with you, and show you how?"

I nodded.

So Joe took my hand and led me into the woods.  He found an oak tree out of sight of the other campers.  "Ok, now just unzip, pull it out, and aim toward the tree." He unzipped his own pants, pulled out a monster that rivaled my Cousin Joe's and let loose.

I was so elated that I almost forgot to let loose myself.

The Preacher Discovers Homa-Sekshuls

Rock Island, September 1977

When I was growing up, every Nazarene Preacher had a hobby-horse, some sin or social problem that he screamed about in every sermon, regardless of the topic: working on the Sabbath, playing cards, liberal Christians, Communists, hippies.

 In 1977, at the start of my senior year in high school, we got a new preacher, Brother Spearman, whose hobby-horse was the Unpardonable Sin.

 God didn’t distinguish between little sins (like falling asleep in church) or big sins (like going to a movie).  The punishment was always the same, burning for eternity in the Lake of Fire.  But,  if you went down to the altar and moaned and sobbed loud enough, God would forgive you for any sin, no matter how heinous.

With one exception. If you committed the Unpardonable Sin, you were doomed to the Lake of Fire, no matter how often you went to the altar and moaned and sobbed.  God wouldn't forgive you.

God's Word didn't tell us which sin was unpardonable, though occasionally a Sunday school teacher speculated that it was believing in evolution, setting foot inside a Catholic church, listening to rock music, or getting your hand stamped for re-entry into an event.  Preachers usually kept mum, because their jobs depended on a lot of sinners going down to the altar, and you wouldn't go down unless you thought you could be forgiven.

When Brother Spearman dangled the Unpardonable Sin in front of the congregation; he got people to the altar, but it kept backfiring.  God held grudges.  When you got to the altar, you had to work to persuade Him.  You had to cry hard, moan and gasp, and plead over and over, sometimes for ten minutes, sometimes longer.  But suddenly anyone who didn't feel the ecstatic release of Victory within a few seconds concluded that they were doomed.

One Sunday Laverne Larsen, son of the Sunday School Superintendent (yes, a boy was named Laverne), was having trouble praying through to Victory.  Suddenly he brushed off the hands of the church men, leapt to his feet, and screamed “God won’t forgive me! I committed the Unpardonable Sin!” He ran sobbing from the sanctuary.

Making church royalty doubt their salvation did not bode well for Brother Spearman’s continuing employment. He had to think of a new altar call draw, and fast!

He hit on the answer when he read a newspaper article about a town somewhere out west passing a law that prohibited normal people from speaking out against Homa-Sekshuls.

Suddenly Brother Spearman realized: the Unpardonable Sin was turning Homa-Sekshul!

God liked symmetry. The first sin, that got man expelled from the Garden of Eden, was Adam seeing Eve naked and realizing that men and women were different. So the last sin, the one that could never be forgiven, was a man rejecting that difference. God talked about it on practically every page of His Word.

When the hippie boys started acting like girls in the 1960s, we called them harmless lunatics. But Satan was able use their long hair and beads and rawhide fringes against them. He whispered “Men are just like women, so why not become a woman?” And countless thousands turned into Homa-Sekshuls. And now we were allowing Them to roam freely in the streets and appear all over the tv screen -- on Three's Company, Soap, Barney Miller.  

There were even teenage Homa-Sekshuls, Shaun Cassidy and Leif Garrett, who sang songs to brainwash kids into turning that way!

I had never heard gay people mentioned in church before, not once in thousands of sermons and lessons and meetings. But I took careful notes, and later I looked up the tv programs and teen idols he mentioned.

The effect was strong, and immediate.  The moment Brother Spearman signaled the altar call, a dozen teens and adult men rushed forward to beg God’s forgiveness, some for the sin of a momentary lapse in masculinity, others for the sin of thinking that Homa-Sekshuls were just harmless lunatics.

Brother Spearman had found his new hobby-horse!  After that he included Homa-Sekshuls in every sermon rant, regardless of his actual topic:



Why does God hate premarital sex? Because once you start having sex with anybody whenever you feel like it, it’s only a matter of time before you start looking funny at men.

What’s wrong with the Catholics? They won't let their priests and monks get married, the way God intended, so they're bound to turn Homa-Sekshul.
Even at Christmas: When Joseph found out that Mary was pregnant, he could have left her, but he didn’t, because he was an honorable man, not a Homa-Sekshul.

I thought the whole thing was ridiculous.  What evidence did he have that Shaun Cassidy and Leif Garrett were gay?  How could you "turn" gay through heterosexual sex? Preachers always set up straw dogs, groups that it was easy to hate, so you could blame them for everything wrong with the world: Catholics, evolutionists,  liberal Christians, Hollywood movie producers.  Why were Homa-Sekshuls any worse?

My Hookup with the Son of Mr. Blowfish

Washington, Iowa, August 2003

The class I hated the most in high school was Public Speaking.  I didn't mind the speaking -- it was rather fun having an audience.  But the teacher, Mr. Blowfish!

Actually Mr. Lundquist, he was a prissy, snippy, ultra-swishy little gordito, balding, with a villain goatee, who lived to impress upon students that they were worthless.  He swept over the classroom, making condescending, sarcastic, and insulting remarks in his overmodulated, oversophisticated voice.

"Try speaking English.  Eng-Lish!"
"I have an idea.  Let's try to get it right."
"You can't be that stupid.  You must be putting me on."
"God, your parents must have been morons, to have you."

More than one student was reduced to tears, whereupon Mr. Blowfish would sneer "It's called real life.  Get used to it."

The whole class hated him.

I remember one piece of advice he gave us: When you're invited to a party, find out who's coming, and research their interests, so you'll have something to talk about.

Wait -- this miserable, mean-spirited little troll was invited to parties?

I eked by his class with a C-, which was pretty good.  No one got higher than a C, except for the two A's given to girls who, we assumed, were his relatives.

When I figured "it" out, the summer after my high school graduation, I realized that he was the first gay person I ever met.  A gay hint in junior high speech class!

The years passed.  I graduated from high school, moved to West Hollywood, then New York, then Florida.  When I came back to Rock Island to visit, I asked around the gay community.  No one had ever heard of Mr. Blowfish...um, I mean Lundquist.

Still, the little Truman Capote wannabe must be gay.  Nobody straight was that swishy.

Back in Rock Island in the summer of 2003, I finally found Mr. Blowfish: he was retired, living in Washington, Iowa, about 70 miles away.

Now, finally, I could find out if he was actually gay or just a swish!

I called and gushed, "You were my favorite teacher in high school!"

Naturally I got an invitation to visit.

On the hottest day of the year, I drove my sister-in-law's car to Washington, to a very nice grey-brick house with dormer windows.

27 years had passed since I took Mr. Blowfish's class, but still, I recognized the man who answered the door: a fat, bearded bear in his sixties, wearing only a swimsuit and flip-flops.  I saw a mass of thick white hair on the man-boobs of his chest.  I couldn't see a basket.

"Mr. Davis, how nice to see you again!" he said, offering a limp handshake.

"Dr. Davis, now."

"I know, I know!  Isn't that marvelous, even if you did go to a third-rate school!  You must be using the skills I taught you every day, or do you hide behind those dreary  -- what-do-you-call-it -- Powerpoint presentations?"

"Sometimes," I admitted.

"Cover-up for academic incompetence, I always say.  Well, why don't we go out to the back?  It's such a nice day."

Mr. Blowfish led me to the back yard, where there were lawn chairs, a little white table stocked with a pitcher of lemonade, and a children's wading pool amid miscellaneous toys.

My heart sank.  If he had kids, he couldn't be gay.  "Are those toys for the neighborhood kids?" I asked tentatively.

"Oh, those belong to the grandkids.  My boys are visiting just now.  No matter where they're living, they always visit at the same time -- safety in numbers, they say.  Stick around for a bit, and you'll meet them."

He sat his lawn chair, took off his flip-flops, and plopped his feet in the kiddie pool.  "Oh, feel free to take off your shoes.  And your shirt, too.  You obviously spend a lot of time in the gym trying to forestall the ravages of age, so you might as well show off the results."

I took my shirt off, to see if his eyes widened.  They didn't.  "So, how old are your boys?" I asked, still trying to salvage my lifelong belief that Mr. Blowfish was gay.

"Oh, Thanh is 32 now.   He was born just a couple of years after my late wife and I left Viet Nam. He lives in Des Moines, doing something idiotic with computers. Louie is 28.  He lives in Michigan.  He could have been a doctor, but he chose the stupid path, conducting low-paying research."

So Mr. Blowfish fought in Viet Nam?  I couldn't imagine it.  And when I was in high school, he spent his days berating, demeaning, and otherwise terrorizing his students, then going home to hold his five-year old and one-year old sons on his lap.  Named Thanh and Louie Lundquist.  The image was bizarre.

"...and Sam is 26.  He just got a tenure-track position in art history at Cornell College.  Not the good school -- the dinky one up by Iowa City. I told him to set his sights a little higher, but he chose the liberal arts. Now, I ask you, what good has lecturing on Rembrandt ever done the world?"

After about fifteen minutes of similar put-downs, there there was a roaring in the front of the house, and the back yard exploded with people and dogs and a flurry of voices.

"Grandpa, Uncle Sammy bought me an alligator!"

"We got ice cream, but we're still hungry for hot dogs!"

"Gross, your feet are in our swimming pool!"

After the introductions, Thanh and Louie set up for grilling hot dogs and hamburgers, their wives busied themselves with salads and pie, their four kids and three dogs roughhoused, and Mr. Lundquist yelled for everyone to keep out of his flower bed.  The youngest son, Sam, the one who lectured on Rembrandt, invited me for a walk down the silent, sizzling hot streets of Washington.  His eye-widening was unmistakable.

Yep, gay, not out to his family, but he was sure that they knew.  No one had inquired about a "girlfriend" for years.

"Was Dad really your favorite teacher?" he asked.  "A lot of people are turned off by his perfectionism."

"Well, maybe not my favorite.  But I thought he was gay, so we had kind of a kindred spirit."

"You thought Dad was gay?"  Laughing, he squeezed my shoulder.  "That's so bizarre!  After Mom died he was out with a different lady every night!  He always said that his three favorite things in life were wine, women, and...women."

"Mr. Blowfish...I mean Mr. Lundquist was a little swishy in class.  A lot swishy, actually."

"You called him Mr. Blowfish!  I love it!  Because you thought he liked...um...going down on guys?"

"No, no, because of his looks.  I never thought of that other connotation -- until now."

Sam smiled, and briefly touched my hand.   "That will be my nickname from now on -- Sammy Blowfish.  Apropos of nothing in particular, are you busy later?"

I ended up asking my sister-in-law if I could keep her car out overnight, and then driving home to Cornell with Sammy.

He was short, slim, dark-skinned, with a beautiful physique and nice beneath-the-belt gifts. And he lived up to the Blowfish nickname.

This story continues in Son of Mr. Blowfish

See also: I hook up with my "Uncle"; Getting the Chinese Delivery Guy into my Bed.

My Uncle and His Boyfriend in the Kentucky Hills

Eastern Kentucky, Summer 1973

It's the summer after seventh grade.  We're visiting my Uncle El, the only one of Mom's family to stay behind when the rest of them moved to Indiana.  Dinner is over, and we're telling stories of long-ago times, before I was born, when Mom was a little girl.   Sometimes the adults laugh at jokes I don't understand.

Uncle El's wife tells about the time she rode her bicycle all the way into Salversville to see a boy, but when she got there he was spooning with someone else.  (she obviously did not mean "sleeping front-to-back."  It was probably something like "making out.")

An elderly lady I don't know tells a story about witches.

Now it's Uncle El's turn.

"I'm going to tell about my brother, Manus, and his friend Graydon, two boys with the same soul."

I've been dozing off, but now I perk up -- sounds like this will be interesting!



Eastern Kentucky, Fall 1939

Manus and Graydon, the boy from down the holler, were born at the same moment, and some said they shared the same soul.

Oh, on the outside, they was as different as night and day:

Graydon was tall and dark, with thick arms and a tight chest, fond of wrasslin' and huntin' and fishin'.

Manus was short and slim and pale-skinned, a moody boy, always readin', but a good singer, with a clear tenor voice.

They was different down below, too.  You don't have much privacy in the hills, when you sleep three to a bed, and I saw them many times jumping nekkid into the creek, or lying on the soft grass.

Lordy, did that Graydon have a whopper!

"Eliot!  There are children present!"  the elderly lady snaps.

"Why, Marcy, surely they know that boys have something down there!"

Yet for all of their differences, Manus and Graydon were never separated, from sunup to sundown, when their parents forced them into different cabins for dinner.  Even then, they sometimes sneaked out to have secret adventures in the darkness.

Life was hard in the hills during the Depression.  Eight people in a four room cabin.

Kerosene lamps for light, a wood-burning stove for heat, and the woods outside for an outhouse.

They raised chickens and grew corn, beans, taters, and maters.  For everything else, they depended on Dad's job at a factory in Hueysville, eight miles away.

Still, they had fun. There were church socials and square dances.  In the evenings the neighbors came around to tell ghost stories and sing songs.  There'd be no dry eye in the house when Manus  sang "Barbara Allen."

Oh mother, mother, make my bed,
Make it long and make it narrow.
Sweet William died for me today,
I'll die for him tomorrow.

"I always hated that song," Mom says.  

In the summer of 1939, Graydon bought and fixed up an old clunker car.  Now they could drive all the way to Salyersville, 20 miles down the pike, to get malteds and go to the movies.

They liked Little Tough Guy, with the Dead End Kids, and Out West with the Hardys, with Mickey Rooney.

In late October of 1939, Graydon and Manus took ill, maybe from going swimming nekkid in the cold Brushy Fork Creek.  

They gave them herb medicine and mustard plasters and poltices, and Manus got better, but Graydon got sicker and sicker, and he died on November 5th, the day of the first snowfall.

His dad and older brother built a pine box to put him in, and they buried him in the graveyard up atop  the hill.

Well, needless to say, Manus was inconsolable.

He cried and cried, and after he stopped crying he wouldn't eat, he wouldn't sleep, he just sat on the bed in the room he shared with me and Edd, staring out the window, up at the hill where Graydon was buried.

Then one night he yelled to the family, "Hey, there's a light up on the hill!"

It was a swaying yellow light, like from a kerosene lamp.  But who would be up there in the middle of the night?  It was pitch dark, with just a narrow trail through the brush and trees.  

"I'm going up!"  Manus yelled, pulling on his coat.


But Mom and Dad forbade him.  It was too dangerous. He could wait until morning to investigate.

"No, I gotta go now!  I gotta!"  He tried to push past them out the door.  Dad grabbed him by the arms.  He fought.

There was no help for it: they had to lock Manus up in the room, where me and Edd could look over him.

Well, Manus paced and rumbled, and yelled, and cried, and finally sat down in a chair, still staring up at the light on the hill.  Finally Edd and me fell asleep.

The next morning, when we woke up, Manus was gone!

The door was still locked from the outside.  The window hadn't been touched.  There was no way Manus could have gotten out!

Some say one of his sisters let him out, and he went dashing up the hill and fell in a ditch, and got eaten by a bear.

El glances pointedly at my mother.  But she was only two years old at the time.

Some say a neighbor sneaked him out, and drove him to Salyersville, where he bought a bus ticket Out West, like the Hardys.

Some say Graydon came for him.

Whatever happened, no one ever saw Manus again.

But that night, up on the hill, we saw two glowing lights.

See also: My Kentucky Kinfolk; The Naked Man at the Crossroads; Erotic Story about Me and My Grandpa #1

I Hooked Up with a 48-Year Old! At the Gym! On the Plains!

Plains, July 2017

Four things you need to know to understand how amazing that is:

1. Plains is crowded with twinks and Cute Young Things.  They're everywhere, in the campus gym, at the gay-friendly coffee house, on the street.  You go on Grindr for 10 minutes, and 10 guys who just turned 18 (they claim) are sending you selfies of their aroused penises taken in the bathroom while Mom and Dad are at work.

2. But hardly any gay men over 30.  Every twink and Cute Young Thing, without exception, plans to move to West Hollywood, Chicago, Denver, or Minneapolis.  I can't blame them -- I would too, if it was financially possible.   And very few adult gay men move here for jobs -- if you had a choice of the Plains or a big city, or even a middle-sized city, which would you choose?

As a result, the number of gay men over 30 in town is infinitesimal.  I know two, and they are planning to move to Phoenix.

3. As you get older, the guys who cruise you get younger.

It's a weird inverse relationship:

In your 20s, you get cruised, approached, and asked out mostly by guys 10-20 years older.

In your 30s, mostly guys your age, or a few years older or younger..

In your 40s, it's mostly Twinks, under thirty but grown up, living on their own, with jobs and cars.

In your 50s, it's mostly Cute Young Things, in their late teens or early twenties,  living in college dorms or with their parents


I don't want to know what happens in your 60s.



It makes some kind of sense.  Younger guys typically have the good looks, the muscles, and the sexual stamina, and older guys tend to have the sophisticated style, the money, and the sexual experience.  As one diminishes, the other increases, and you want a good counterpart.

So I'm 56 years old.  Every 18-year old in town is lining up to get into my bed, but on the rare occasions that I meet a guy over 30, he's not interested.

Except for "married (to women)," "discrete," closet cases who don't know anything about the rules of gay culture and will go with any willing mouth.

I can't even remember the last time I was with an actual gay guy over age 30 on the Plains.  Probably in 2014, when Yuri visited and I arranged some hookups for him.

4. This particular gym is low on men aged 20 to 70.  At least in the mid-afternoon, when I go.  A lot of kids (real kids, 12-13 year olds), a lot of elderly retirees, but few others.  So seeing any guy in his 40s is unusual, and meeting one who is gay and interested in going home with me is as rare as meeting a gay Jewish Bushman.

I didn't even see him working out.  It was my running day, and I got there late, when the treadmills are typically taken, so I made a beeline for the first open one I saw, and didn't get off it for 45 minutes.  Then I did some quad, thigh, bicep, and tricep sets, never going into the free weight room.

Just as I was finishing my shower, he came in and chose the shower cubicle across from me -- naked, carrying one of the small workout towels, which means that he expected towels to be provided -- a visitor.  Very tall, with a long, lean physique and a bubble butt.

I dawdled, waiting for him to turn around.  Soon he did.  Black hair, sharp features, a full beard, a very hairy chest, and an enormous penis, easily 4" soft, with low-hanging balls.  I didn't care much for the pierced nipples or the long, slender hands, but otherwise he was hot!

Our eyes met.  He didn't cruise, but he didn't look away in disgust either.

I dried off, taking my time, exaggerating the butt and cock.  He turned off the water.

"The workout towels are surprisingly absorbent," I said.  "I've used them sometimes when I forget to bring my own."

Not the best pickup line, but  a. it marked me as a regular; and b. it broke the ice.

While he was toweling off, I further established that I was an expert on Plains (thus opening the way for questions, like "is there a gay bar in town?").

We walked out into the locker room together.  He was in the same locker bank as me.  Chatting, I learned that his name was Taylor; he was from Minneapolis (figures), he worked as a dean of students at a university (not the University of Minnesota), and he was in town visiting for Independence Day.

Suddenly a twink in a sweaty blue t-shirt appeared and grabbed his shoulder.  "You finished already?  And I thought I was the gym rat."

In his early 20s, my height, very muscular, with broad shoulders and thick veiny biceps.  Rather a long face, short brown hair, a little femme in mannerisms.

I missed him, too?  I really had to spend more time in the free weight room!

Taylor put his arm around his waist.  "This is Austin.  We're here visiting his folks."

Like virtually every twink I've ever seen since turning 40, Austin cruised me -- face, crotch, eyes -- as he reached out a sweaty hand to be shaken.  "Annual 4th of July Barbecue, then fireworks, yawn. It was that kind of dreary stuff that made me want to escape to the Cities. You're not from around here, are you?"

"No, I'm from West Hollywood," I said, outing myself once and for all.

He smiled broadly.  "Wow, impressive!  We've visited, of course, but to live there!  It would be a dream come true."

"Minneapolis is nice, too.  I was just there last weekend for Pride."

"Hurry and shower," Taylor said, a bit annoyed.  "I want to get dinner."

"In a minute, in a minute."  Austin turned to me.  "Tomorrow it's all nuclear family boredom from dawn to dusk, but tonight the Dean and I are going to howl!  You wouldn't happen to know of any our kind of bars in town?  Or dare I hope -- bathhouses."

We ended up going to dinner, then to the gay-friendly coffee house for dessert and live music, and then back to my house.

Austin and I kissed on the couch while Taylor fondled us, and then Austin went down on me while I went down on Taylor -- who turned out to have a very thick Kielbasa when aroused.

We switched position, and I went down on Austin while he was working on Taylor -- average sized, uncut.

Finally we made it up to the bedroom, where Taylor topped Austin bareback while I continued to go down on him.  It took him only a few moments to spurt down my throat ("Go deep!  Go deep!" he murmured.  I didn't know which of us he was talking to).

Taylor pulled out of Austin's butt just before he finished.  Then I lay atop Austin to finish with interfemoral, my penis between his legs.

Afterwards they got dressed and left -- "The family will be suspicious if we stay out all night" -- but not before Austin gave me his social media info  said "Text me if you ever get back to the Cities."

Ok, in retrospect, Austin was the one actually interested in me; the boyfriend just came along to be polite.  I'm surprised he didn't sit on a chair and watch tv while we went at it.

But that's a matter of semantics.  No one can deny that I hooked up with a 48-year old.  At the gym.  On the Plains.

That Bathhouse in West Hollywood

Last night I dreamed about that bathhouse in West Hollywood again.

We used to go there every Sunday afternoon, after church and the French Quarter.  It was on a street lined with bright, glittering shops and restaurants, always crowded with people.

You entered through a huge glass storefront and paid a squinting, suspicious elderly woman or drag queen.

After depositing your clothes in a locker, you took an elevator upstairs to a vast series of pools, some warm, some cool, all bathed in semi-twilight.  There were hundreds of men, maybe thousands, all naked or wearing towels.

There was never much sex going on, but it was warm, and safe, and I felt an amazing sense of belonging,  This was home.

Sometimes in my dreams I'm back there, at the bathhouse or gym or whatever it was, feeling that warmth and safety and belonging.

But more often I'm trying to find it.

I drive around, but the streets are unfamiliar and confusing.

I cross a vast night-dark field, knowing that it's just at the bottom of that hill, but it's too late, there's not enough time.

It's not open yet, I must come back later.

It's gone, turned into artist studios or a boys' school, and the new proprietor gets all flushed and nervous when I ask about what was there before.

The problem is: That bathhouse never existed.

There were no bathhouses in West Hollywood when I lived there.  The only such place that I have ever gone to regularly was The Club in Fort Lauderdale, which looked nothing the place in my dreams.

So what am I dreaming about?

Death and rebirth?
A screen memory for an alien abduction?
A desire to find that elemental belonging again, to go home?

Update: In more recent dreams, the bathhouse has been turned into an apartment building.  I tell the person at the front desk that this used to be a bathhouse, and he is surprised.  

More recently still, I go to long, boring meetings in one of the apartments, with snacks in the kitchen and someone taking the minutes Then I leave to walk through the darkness of the pre-dawn city; it's too late to go to the bars, so I head home.  

In my last dream, they weren't having a meeting, for some reason, and the guys who lived in the apartment were out.  I hung around by myself for a long time before giving up. 

See also: 15 Reasons You Should Go to a Bathhouse; The Late for Class Dream and Oral Sex 101

Oliver Hooks Up with Andy Taylor and Opie

West Hollywood, September 1985

I've been in California for only a couple of months, but I'm completely star struck!  I've met a dozen gay or gay-friendly stars --  Michael J. Fox, Scott Valentine, Robin Williams, Dean Paul Martin, Chris Makepeace -- I can't even keep track  -- and heard about a lot more.

I'm asking every guy I meet about the celebrities they dated or tricked with.  Sylvester Stallone, Scott Baio, Rob Lowe, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Ted Danson...I could write a book!

It's the morning after my date with Artie, a chubby older guy with weird rings and gold chains around his neck, reeking of cologne -- not at all my type.  I just accepted the date because I thought he would have a lot of celebrity dating stories (he didn't).

While Artie is frying bacon and eggs, his roommate comes out of the bedroom.  Naked.

A black guy in his mid-30s, slim, short black hair, round face, bleary-eyed.  His thin Kielbasa+ semi-aroused!

I'm not used to seeing naked roommates, especially ones who are cuter than the guy I'm on a date with, and I flash him a cruisy smile.  Artie notices and frowns with obvious jealousy.

"Boomer, this is Oliver.  He was just leaving."

"Pleased to meet cha," Oliver says.  He crosses over to the kitchen and pours himself a cup of coffee, then sits at the table, his knee "accidentally" pressing against mine.  "Are you in the business?  I'm an agent -- Cloris Leachman is one of my clients.  I definitely could get you some work."

Before I can answer, Artie brings over the bacon and eggs on a plate and squeezes in between us, trying to defuse the cruise.  "Boomer's studying Renaissance Italian at USC,  He can speak five languages.  He's not into anything so low-brow as movies."

 "Actually, we were just talking about celebrity dating stories," I tell him.  "You must have some good stories."

"I'm afraid Oliver doesn't have time to..."

"I got plenty of time, bro."  He thinks for a moment.  "How about this one: the very first big stars I ever got down my throat.  Andy Griffith."

"No way!" I exclaim.  Not The countrified hick of No Time for Sergeants!  The harbinger of conservative American "just plain folks" values on The Andy Griffith Show, about a small-town Southern sheriff in the days when folk loved Law and Order just as much as Aunt Bee's prize-winning apple pie!

"Please!" Artie exclaims.  "He trained to become a Moravian minister, and released an album of Country Gospel songs.  No way he's gay!"

"Well, maybe not gay for white boys, but definitely into dark meat."

Hollywood, September 1970

Oliver wanted to be a dancer as long as he could remember.  When he was only fifteen, he was dancing on American Bandstand and on The Swinging Times Review at the Palm Theater in Detroit.  After high school, he enrolled in the Dayton Dance Academy, but after a year he dropped out and moved to Hollywood, where he crashed with a friend and made the rounds of auditions.

In the summer of 1970, his lithe physique landed him a walk-on role on The Headmaster (1970-1971), with 44-year old Andy Griffith trying to escape country-hick typecasting by playing the headmaster of an elite private school in California.  Oliver played a track star who jostled his buddy and said something like "Dig the cool cat."

Just one line in an annoying jive -- did the writers really think that Afro-Americans talked like Sambo? -- and Andy Griffith wasn't even in the scene.  But Oliver saw him watching all during the taping, and figured he must be doing something right.

Sure enough, he was immediately cast in the next episode, as Normie in "The Experiment."  This time he had a whole conversation with the Headmaster, and a hand-on-shoulder moment that, for some reason, took a dozen takes -- Andy kept flubbing his lines and laughing.

The next day Andy called Oliver's agent and asked him to come to his house to discuss "making Normie an ongoing character."

This was rather unusual, but he figured, big stars are eccentric.  And he had the chance to play an ongoing character in a show that was sure to run for years!  So on Saturday he drove out to the house in Beverly Hills.

Andy answered the door in a swim suit  -- not very attractive, old and out of shape -- and escorted Oliver out to the pool.  "Feel free to take a dip," he offered.

"I didn't bring my swim suit."

"That's ok, the neighbors can't see anything.  Here, I'll show you."  He ripped off his swimsuit and dove into the pool.

"How big was he?" I ask.

"Kind of small.  For some reason, the bigger the star, the smaller the dick.  You ever notice that?"

Oliver stood and watched while Andy did a few strokes, then climbed out of the pool and sat on a cabana couch.  "I have some nice old Scotch, if you're interested."  He patted the seat next to him.

Suddenly Oliver realized that this was a casting couch.  He had nothing against going down on guys to further his career -- in fact, it was one of the perks of auditioning!  But an old, out of shape guy who was not his type at all, and didn't even have a very big cock....

The doorbell rang, and Andy said "Excuse me" and put a bathrobe on to answer it.  Oliver heard voices from inside the house -- "No, Barbara moved back to Anaheim, and took the kids with her.  It looks like this might be the end of it..."

Then Andy came out with Ron Howard, the 18-year old actor who played his son Opie on The Andy Griffith Show, and would go on to Happy Days and a career in directing.

"Um...This is the Oliver.  I'm thinking of making him a permanent cast member of The Headmaster.  Oliver, meet Ronnie Howard."

Oliver stood up to shake his hand.  Now this was a casting couch he could support!  Ron was tall and goodlooking, with broad shoulders and an impish smile.

"We were just going into the pool," Oliver said.  "Do you want to join us?"

Ron grinned.  "You're pretty eager, aren't you?"

"Well, it's a hot day."

"Well, I suppose I could use a dip," Ron said, ignoring Andy's "cut it" motions.  He took off his shirt -- not muscular, but solid, with a thick chest and a little hair on his belly.  Then he saw Oliver watching and slowly lowered his pants.

A huge, thick, uncut Kielbasa!

Oliver didn't even wait for an invitation.  He fell to his knees and went down on Ron, squeezing his legs and butt and balls while the instantly-aroused cock slammed against his throat.  He became aroused himself, and started beating off while sucking.

After a few moments, Andy said "Ahem.  Whose party is this?"  Oliver looked up to see Andy beside them, naked, playing with his own cock.

Oliver politely leaned over and went down on him for a few minutes before returning to Ron, who spurted down his throat with a monumental "Yeah!"  Then: "That was outta sight!  You should give up acting and make that your career."

Smiling, Oliver stood and tried to push Ron down on his knees to reciprocate, but he refused:  "We should be polite.  This looks like a job for Super-Andy!"

But Andy was walking into the house.

"Want some of this action?" Oliver called.

He didn't turn back.  "Not my style, boys.  But you go ahead.  Let yourselves out when you're done."

Of course, Oliver didn't get the job -- but The Headmaster folded after half a season anyway. He dated Ron Howard a few times, but seeing a teenager was just too difficult, so he called it quits.  After a few years of making the rounds, being cast as Black Thug #2 a lot, Oliver became an agent and publicist.

West Hollywood, September 1985

"Why didn't you say this was a story about Ron Howard?"  I ask.  "He's the one you actually dated."

"Just goes to show," Oliver says, reaching around his roommate to squeeze me on the shoulder, "That what you came for isn't necessarily what you gonna get."

Was Oliver Telling the Truth?

Andy Griffith was starring in The Headmaster in 1970, and there's an Oliver listed in the cast in two episodes. His wife Barbara would divorce him in 1972.   He played a gay character later in his career, and he joked that he and Don Knotts were so close, "You'd think we were gay."

In September 1970 Ron Howard was 16, not 18, and he seems rather homophobic, peppering his movies with heteronormativity and erasing gay characters.  In 2010 he got in trouble for putting a homophobic joke in The Dilemma.

I can see Andy Griffith having an interest in black men, the "forbidden fruit" to someone who grew up in the segregated South.  But I think Oliver made up Ron Howard to create a parallel with our own situation, on a date with an older guy when a younger, more attractive one wants in.

By the way, nothing happened between me and Oliver.

See also:Looking for Muscles on the Andy Griffith Show