My Boss Lets Out His Trouser Snake

At the beginning of my senior year in high school, my parents said "It's time you started earning your own money."  So I got a part-time job at the Carousel Snack Bar in Southpark Mall, about a ten-minute drive from home.

The Carousel Snack Bar had the curious idea that going to a mall was a rare, exciting event, not part of everyday life, so they sold the kind of snacks you would expect at a carnival: hot dogs, popcorn, cotton candy, and soft-serve ice cream.

There were benefits to the job: all the junk food I wanted, a bookstore down the hall, and a never-ending parade of high school and college jocks.

But I hated my boss, Mark Morris (not his real name).  He was about thirty, a little on the chunky side, with black hair, a square face with a little beard, and nerd glasses.  But what he lacked in physical presence, he made up for in raw machismo.

1. He swaggered.  He swore.  He barked out orders while swearing:  "Clean out the butter dispenser, damn it!"; "Restock the f*** ketchup!"; "Didn't I tell you to change the god** bun warmers!"

2. He kept us late every night, mopping, polishing, shining until an hour after the Mall closed. 

 I'm still fuming over being forced to stay late and mop out the store room, thereby missing the district jump quiz tournament and killing my chances of going to the regionals!


3. Every other sentence was a clever reference to penises or sex, or both:

"How's it hangin', Sarge?" (he called all the boys "Sarge").

"You guys better take your hands outta your pants and start pushing the cotton candy!"

"It's cold enough out today to turn an Eskimo dick into a popsicle!"

"Hey, dickless wonder, I said go chop the onions!"

Considering that we were sixteen and seventeen-year olds, his comments seem dangerously close to sexual harassment.  But the term was not in common use yet.  I thought sexual references were standard in the work world.

4. Mark was only obnoxious to the boys.  The girls got away with murder:

"Of course you can take tomorrow off, Dear. Your studies come first."

"Of course you can skip the mopping, Sweetheart, if you're too tired."

The Carousel Snack Bar didn't have a restroom, so we went across the hall to use the one at Flowerama.

5. When we asked permission to go to the bathroom, Mark always implied that we intended to masturbate:

"Gonna go choke the chicken, huh?"

"Gonna go spank the ol' trouser snake, huh?"

"Don't have too much fun over there, Sarge!"

"Sure, Sarge. Wanna borrow my Playboy?"

I wanted to quit, but my parents said "You have to stick to your commitments.  You'll be working for bad bosses your whole life."

Which is true, but no other boss has ever asked if I was going to "spank the ol' trouser snake."

Mark actually did keep a stack of Playboy magazines in the store room, and sometimes on a slow day he took one into the Flowerama restroom for fifteen or twenty minutes. We speculated that he was maybe "spanking" his own "trouser snake."

I pretended disgust, but actually, I wanted to see it.

Maybe I could think of a plan to get a glimpse of Mark's penis, and minimize the obnoxious comments at the same time.

A very cute Augustana music major who was working part-time at Flowerama, agreed to be an accomplice.  

First he put a wad of putty on the latch in the back stall in the bathroom, so it wouldn't lock.  Then we waited.

For a cold Tuesday night, when customers were scarce.  Suddenly Mark barked, "We won't sell any more cotton candy crap tonight, so clean out the machne.  I want it so shiny you can see your dick in it!"  Then he stuck a rolled-up Playboy under his arm and headed across the hall.

About five minutes later, Joel called the store.  "Nobody here. He's ready."

"I'm going on break," I announced to my coworker.

Flowerama was deserted except for Joel, who was pretending to be  immersed in a florist's magazine.  He nodded as I passed, walked to the back of the store and through the door marked "Employees Only."  It led to a corridor, with the employee restrooms across the hall.

I carefully opened the door to the men's restroom.  Two stalls, a urinal, and a sink.  I saw Mark's feet in the far stall.  And his pants and underwear.

Not gathered around his ankles.  All the way off, carefully folded, at his feet.

The plan was to burst into the stall and yell "Caught you!", but this was much better!

I sneaked across the floor, noiselessly, and scooped up his pants and underwear.

"Hey!" Mark yelled from inside.  "What 're you...."

I ran, bursting through the restroom door and the "employees only door" while Mark was still fiddling with the latch on the stall.  I deposited his clothes on a tray of lilacs, then ducked behind the checkout counter next a giggling Joel.

Mark burst out a moment later, naked from the waist down. 

He saw his pants on the lilac tray, stomped over and picked them up, glared at us, and then stomped back to the store room to get dressed.

I worked at the Carousel Snack Bar for another few months.  Mark never talked about what happened, but he made far fewer references to the penises and sexual appetites of his employees.

By the way, his trouser snake was huge.

Nude Photos of Leonardo DiCaprio

I watch mostly comedy and science fiction, and Leonardo DiCaprio doesn't do much of either, so I've only seen a few of his movies: Romeo x Juliet, Inception, The Great Gatsby, Once Upon a Time in Hollywood.  But I've heard of many: they win Critic Association awardss, get discussed at parties, head "my favorite movie" lists:

He is not a beefcake star, but a surprising number of his film appearances involve nudity.










In 1994, Arthur Rimbaud in Total Eclipse, Leo gave us full frontal and rear shots. (Don't worry, he's over 18 here).

This post has been moved to RG Beefcake and Boyfriends

Grandpa Prater's Wrestling Moves

My Grandpa Prater, my mother's father, was a big man, towering over my father and uncles, and rugged even in his mid-60s, with thick arms and shoulders and huge hands.  He wore overalls, sometimes with a white t-shirt underneath, sometimes without, so you could see his hard round pecs dusted with white hair.

He was a man's man, always doing something with his sons and sons-in law and various friends: hunting, fishing, playing horseshoes, working on cars.

He had a thick Kentucky accent that was virtually incomprehensible, but he didn't say much anyway.  When the family gathered in the living room to play cards and exchange gossip, he kept silent unless someone asked him a question.  The indoors was uncomfortably stuffy; he'd rather be out with his friends and some dogs on a midnight hunt.

The only time he perked up was when someone asked him to play his banjo.  Then he'd play "Foggy Mountain Breakdown" or "Cotton Eyed Joe," as good, and as fast, as the Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs at the Grand Ole Opry.

There was a sadness about him that I didn't pick up on when I was a kid.  Something deep and dark, that the little joys of everyday life couldn't penetrate.  It wasn't just that he had lost his wife, three older brothers, and four of his eleven children.  It was a dream deferred, a hope from his childhood that he abandoned.

More about that later.

I have two good stories with Grandpa Prater.  The first is about judo.

The summer after fifth grade.  We're all at the farmhouse, but my brother and Cousin Buster are off somewhere, so I'm the only kid.  Dad and my uncles are up by the Old House, playing horseshoes.  I'm not allowed because I'm too little.  I don't necessarily like horseshoes, but I like hanging out with the men, especially when my only other option is sitting in the farmhouse with my Mom and aunts, gossipping about who did what with whom thirty years ago.

I'm wandering aimlessly through the side yard and the rhubarb patch when Grandpa Prater appears, wraps his huge paw around my shoulder, and says "I hear you're taking wrestling."

(I'm not going to try to transliterate his incomprehensible Kentucky accent.  Use your imagination.)

"Wrestling?  No, I'm studying judo.  It's a Japanese sport.  We wear white robes and throw each other."

"Judo?"  He repeats the unfamiliar word.  "Did you know I was a wrestler in high school?"

He takes my hand and leads me up the hill toward the Old House.  It's difficult to understand him, but by interrupting with many questions, I get the gist of his story:

In the Kentucky hills in the 1920s, it was unusual to go past the eighth grade, but the adolescent Tony (who I assume looked like this) was smart as a whip, so his parents allowed him to go on through twelfth grade at Salyersville High School. His best subject was music -- he sang and played the banjo, like on the Grand Ole Opry. That got the bullies riled, so to prove that he was a he-man, he went out for wrestling and basketball, too.

I have that problem!  At Denkmann, raising your hand too often or getting high grades on too many tests draws the ire of Mean Boys.

By now we are on top of the hill, in the men-only zone behind the Old House.  Dad asks, "Wanna join us, Tony?"

He doesn't ask me.

"Well, sure, but right now Boomer's going to show you all his wrestling moves.  Judo, I mean."

I'm what?   Try to throw someone who is twice as tall as me, and a solid mass of muscle?  And my grandpa?  I don't think so!

But Dad and my uncles are gathered around to watch the show.

"C'mon, you can't hurt me.  I'm strong as an ox.  I was wrestling guys before your Daddy was born."

Sighing, I grab Grandpa by the shoulder and hip and try the easiest throw, basically tripping your opponent.  To my surprise, he goes down easily and pulls me on top of him.

"Dagnabit, you did it!" he exclaims.  "That there judo is powerful stuff.  Now pin me.  Come on, pin me to the ground!"

I scamper on top of him, feeling his hard firm chest, smelling his Aqua Velva cologne and hint of whiskey, and press his arms over his head.

He pushes his arms down and slides me down his trunk, as easily as one might push off a pair of pants.  I feel his hard belly and the mass of his crotch.

"Well, your pinning needs some work, but other than that, you're a natural.  Hear that, Frank?  You sign this boy up for wrestling!"

Dad grins at me as if I've achieved a major goal.  And maybe I have.  "C'mon, Boomer," he says, "Play horseshoes with us.  You're old enough now."

I did go out for wrestling a year later, when I started junior high.

The next story about my grandpa involves sneaking into his bedroom to "borrow" his banjo.

See also: Grandpa Prater and his Banjo

Sausage Sighting of Christopher Atkins

When I was living in West Hollywood, I met a lot of actors, some famous ones: Adam West, Cesar Romero, Gregory Harrison, Greg Williams, John Amos, Lou Ferrigno, Michael J. Fox, Richard Dreyfuss.

But only one is a Facebook friend today: Christopher Atkins

Here's why:

West Hollywood, June 1994

In the spring of 1994, my friend Infinite Chazz began dating Kris, a 19-year old baby-faced ginger boy who had been in Los Angeles less than a year, but had already been in some movies and tv shows.

You might know him as Kristoffer Winters, who played the Zilbor in Dude, Where's My Car (2000) and Clayton Gallagher in Shameless (2011-2012), and who is reputedly the boyfriend of  Jeremy Renner.

The full post is on RG Beefcake and Boyfriends

Nude Photos of Willie Aames

Teen idol Willie Aames had an amazing physique, back in the day, and a rather impressive bulge.

Other than Charles in Charge (1984-90), he is best known for Paradise (1982), a knockoff of Blue Lagoon, with none of the scintillating dialogue or intriguing plot (ok, I'm joking.  Blue Lagoon didn't have those things, either.)

But you did get to see Willie's willie.

The full post is on RG Beefcake and Boyfriends

My Date with Richard Dreyfuss

West Hollywood

When I lived in West Hollywood, I  visited the Bodhi Tree Bookstore on Melrose almost every weekend.  It specialized in New Age books, everything from natural foods and aromatherapy to Buddhism, Hinduism, and the occult. I was mostly interested in the paranormal section: ghosts, vampires, ufos, mysterious disappearances, time slips. 

It got very crowded on weekends.  We often saw actors, mostly the semi-celebrities who starred in tv shows a few years ago and were still recognizable.  Often browsing in the witchcraft section, trying to find a spell that would hasten their success or prevent their decline.

One Saturday afternoon, I found a short, rather husky guy standing directly in front of the section I wanted, immersed in a book.  I glared at him, cleared my throat a few times, and eventually he moved away. My roommate  Derek immediately clomped over.

"Did you ask him out, or what?" he demanded.

"Who?"

"You didn't even talk to him?  Do you know who that was?  Richard Dreyfuss!"

I hadn't even noticed.

Of course I knew who Richard Dreyfuss was:American Graffiti, Close Encounters of the Third Kind, The Goodbye Girl. Moon Over Parador, and Jaws, my which had the most obvious gay-subtext romance I had ever seen.  I just didn't recognize him in real life.

The next Saturday, same section, same short, rather husky guy, immersed in a book about vampires. This time I looked closely.  Yep, it was Richard Dreyfuss!  "I got my first kiss from a vampire" I said, as an icebreaker.

It didn't work.  He moved quickly away.

He wasn't there the next Saturday, but a couple of weeks later, I saw him in the paranormal section again.  I said "Hello," from one regular customer to another, and to my surprise he responded.  Soon we were chatting about Benjamin Bathurst, the British diplomat who arrived at an Austrian inn, walked around the horses, and vanished forever.

After that, we chatted regularly.  He was friendly, and I thought, a little cruisy, always paying special attention to the cute guys.  Could he be gay?  And more importantly, interested?

Important Clue #1: Cruising cute guys.

 I had already been in a relationship with a closeted celebrity.  I didn't need another. But still...he was Richard Dreyfuss!

One day I got enough courage to invite him to the Abbey, a gay restaurant on Robertson, for coffee, and he consented.

Important Clue #2: Consenting to go to a gay restaurant.

 I told him about some of my own paranormal experiences, like the Naked Man in the Peat Bog. 

"You're lucky that your ghost was a hottie," he said with a smile. "All I saw was a little girl, wearing a pink dress and horn-rimmed glasses.  She stood by my bedside when I was in the hospital after a car accident."

Important Clue #3: The word "hottie" .

I decided to play my trump card.  "My ex-boyfriend saw ghosts all the time," I hinted. "And UFOs.  I felt so jealous."

"My wife is the same way.  I wish I was more attuned to the spiritual world."

Touché

Ok, not gay, not interested -- but super gay-friendly, especially for the 1990s.

No more coffee dates, but we continued to be "chatting at the bookstore" friends for awhile.   Then suddenly he stopped coming to the Bodhi Tree on Saturdays. 

Maybe he walked around the horses and vanished.

Or maybe he moved to New York.

I never got his phone number.

What Do You Have Under the Hood?

When I was growing up in Rock Island, most boys were obsessed with being "men," doing exactly what men were supposed to do and nothing else.  The slightest of shifts in your hips as you walked, the most subtle of wrist movements, the tiniest bit of animation in your voice was proof positive that you were not a man at all, but a sissy, a "fag," or a girl.

Even if you got your body gestures, walking, and talking perfected, you could still give away your inner girlishness by not being knowledgeable and enthusiastic about three things: girls, sports, and cars.

The only one I had any hope of accomplishing was cars.

There was no way I was going to kiss and hug girls, sports were too confusing, but I had just got my driver's license, and Mom let me borrow her car sometimes.  Knowing how to fix a car was an attainable goal.  Masculinity within my reach!

The only problem: I was an aesthete, an intellectual, into Renaissance poetry and statues of naked men.  I couldn't tell a hammer from a nail. I got a D- in shop class.  I got carpentry and building toys for Christmas, and left them untouched in their boxes.



But I perservered.  In August 1977, I went to my father and asked him to teach me how to "fix cars."

"You?"  he asked in surprise.  "You hate mechanical stuff."

"Well, most mechanical stuff.  You couldn't pay me to solder an iron onto a lathe, or whatever.  But a car is different."

"Ok, I can give you some pointers.  There are three things about cars that every guy should know: how to change a tire, how to change the oil, and how to repair a carburetor."









1. Change a Tire.  

Dad took me out to the garage, popped open the trunk, and showed me where the jack and spare tires were stored.

"You've seen the ladies with flat tires on the side of the road, waiting for someone to help.  If you can change a tire, you'll be sure to get their phone number!"

What about a guy on the side of the road?  I thought.  

  And of course, if you're on a date and the tire goes flat, you'd better be able to change it, or the girl will think you're a sissy."

He showed me how to jack up a car and "unscrew the lug nuts."

I couldn't get the wrench to work.  It just slid along the nuts.  Finally Dad grabbed the wrench and did it himself.

"Well, you get the idea, anyway."

2. Change the oil.

"A garage will do this for you, but imagine how impressed the girls will be when they find out you can change your own?"

"And the guys,"  I said.

This involved getting under the car and unscrewing a gross greasy thing.

I balked.  "I'll impress the girls with my wit and charm, thanks."











3.  Fix the carburetor.

Next Dad showed me how to open the front hood and prop it up.

"Knowing what's under here is the key to impressing girls."

It was an incomprehensible mass of wires and pipes.

"Here's your fan belt, your carburetor, your radiator, your angler, your glockenspiel."

I stared into oblivion, imagining a hot guy with his shirt off straining over the engine.

"Loosen the rod here, angle the pipe so the screw goes counter-clockwise, then re-up the uptake on the valve here.  This knob goes with this fuel injector.  Then you just sort of squeeze the triangulator down the revolver, and gently push the socket into the wrench."

I stared into oblivion, imagining a hot guy with his pants off straining over the engine.  Dad hadn't mentioned the benefits of not knowing how to fix cars.

"Now you try."

I turned and headed back to the house.  "Thanks, anyway.  I'll just pay someone to do it."

Preferably a guy with his pants off.

The Preacher Pops a Boner

Kankakee, Illinois

When I was growing up in the Nazarene Church, we spent a lot of time at Olivet, our college on the prairie of eastern Illinois.  The church wanted to make sure that we went there after high school instead of some secular university where we would be taught liberalism, atheism, and evil-lution.

So there were ball games and special concerts, and beginning in ninth grade, an annual Olivet Weekend every fall, with a party, a nature hike, a church service, classroom visits, and the opportunity to spend the night in a real college dormitory.

It was actually sleeping bags on the floor of the lounge in the freshman men's dorm, but still, I was surrounded by cute college men!

In ninth grade, our host was David, a senior religion major (and baseball player) who told us how he was hoping to get a church near his home town, and his girlfriend Ruth, who mostly bragged about how she had scored the "handsomest guy on campus."

The full post is on Righteous Gemstones Beefcake and Boyfriends

Alan, the Pentecostal Porn Star

West Hollywood, October 1985

When I moved to West Hollywood in 1985, I began to attend the All Saints Metropolitan Community Church, a gay-specific church.  It wasn't very big.  The MCC tends to thrive in communities where mainstream churches are homophobic, but in West Hollywood you had many other gay-friendly congregations.

So every Sunday only 30 or so people gathered in a sort of chapel on the second floor of a building on the corner of Santa Monica and Fairfax, down the street from the French Quarter Restaurant, for a service that borrowed heavily from Roman Catholic liturgy, with robes and incense and chants of "Peace be with you," but old-fashioned Methodist hymns and a conservative evangelical-style sermon.

(Most members of MCC were raised in homophobic denominations, usually either Protestant fundamentalist or Roman Catholic, so the church tried to accommodate both.)

Many newcomers believed that the Bible disapproved of gay people, or that AIDS was God's punishment for being gay.  The pastor had to minister to them, so every sermon was about how God is not homophobic, the Bible is gay-friendly, you can be gay and Christian.

For those who attended every Sunday, it got a little redundant.

There was a pastor and two student clergy, quite a lot for such a small congregation, but the positions were highly prestigious -- ministering in the heart of the Gay World!  -- and therefore sought-after:

I have a thing for clergy.  The pastor was in a long-term monogamous relationship, and one of the student clergy was a bit too old for me (a Baptist minister, married with children, before he came out).

That left Alan, a tall, husky former Pentecostal who had trained to become a missionary.

He had a boyfriend, too, but by mid-October, they had broken up, and I saw my chance to move in.  I wrangled an invitation to his house for dinner on the Saturday after Halloween.

Alan and his two roommates lived in the bottom half of a brown stucco duplex, about 10 blocks from the church, near Plummer Park where all of the male hustlers hung out, and the Formosa Cafe, where Hollywood celebrities used to hang out.

He turned out to be a former theology student and English major who almost went to grad school in Medieval poetry.  He had been in West Hollywood for six years; in his early days he acted in gay porn, alongside such greats as Kip Noll and Jeff Stryker.

So you'd think that we would have a lot to talk about.  Still, the date didn't go well.

1. He served canned ravioli, with no salad or vegetables in sight.  This is what you serve to impress a date?

2. Instead of The Golden Girls, the West Hollywood staple, he wanted to watch The Love Boat.  Geez, my grandmother watched that!

3. An hour of mind-numbing boredom later, I said, "Are you ready to go out?"  Nearly all dates in West Hollywood included an hour or so at the bars, mainly because being in a gay-friendly public place was so new and novel for most of us.

"Ok.  We can go to the baths."

A bath house!  On a date?  Unheard of!  And, for that matter, weren't clergy supposed to be into monogamous relationships, not hookups?

4. "Never mind, we'll just stay here," I said.

"Ok.  Go in the bedroom and take off your clothes.  I'm going to take a shower first."

Huh?

I just sat there, speechless, infuriated.  The student clergy was treating me like a hustler!  I heard the shower run, then go off.  Alan came out in a towel.

"I thought you would be naked in my bed by now."

"You didn't pick me up at Plummer Park" I yelled.  "This is supposed to be a date, not a sales contract!  And you call yourself student clergy!"

"Hold it-- I didn't mean to offend you," Alan said, perplexed.  "I was just trying to speed things up. I'm nervous -- I like you a lot.   Um...do you still want to go in the bedroom?"

"No, I want to go to the bars, and find someone who acts like a gentleman.  Like about a thousand other guys in West Hollywood!"

I stood and moved toward the door.

"Come on, I said I was sorry..."  He rushed toward me.  His towel fell off.  A gigantic Kielbasa+.

Whoa, what do you call that thing?  I stared.  He smiled.  "Did I mention that I used to do porn movies?"

I forgave him.  Turns out that being gifted beneath the belt (see my Sausage List) got Alan out of a lot of faux pas.

We dated for about six weeks, until I went home for Christmas, and a Norwegian con artist moved in.

Nude Photos of TV Doctor Vince Edwards

Baby Boomer kids are familiar with Vince Edwards from Ben Casey (1961-1966), and their parents, with his many beefcake roles of the 1950s, such as Mr. Universe (1951) and Hiawatha (1952).

There's no evidence that he posed for gay physique magazines like Physique Pictorial, but there are nude photos of a young Vince Edwards floating around the internet.





He's around 20 here, so it's about 1948, when Vince was studying at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts   A classical Greek pose like you would see in physique magazines,  but there was no full nudity in print at the time.  This must have been a private photo shoot.














Older here, and bulked up, probably early 1950s, after he moved to Los Angeles.

Was he a member or hanger-on of the Hollywood gay scene?

The full post is on Boomer Beefcake and Bonding.

Nude Photos of Ewan McGregor

This post has been moved to Righteous Gemstones Beefcake and Boyfriends

My Sunday School Teacher's Stripper Sons

When I was a kid in the 1970s, my favorite Sunday school teacher was named Brother Dino (not his real name).  He was young, in his mid-20s, with black hair and a thick black moustache -- rare for Nazarenes.

He had only been saved for a couple of years -- before that, he was a Catholic! -- and he knew all about movies, dancing, drinking, card-playing, carnivals, circuses, and Catholic Masses. He framed them as destructive and evil: "Look how horrible my life was before I got Saved!" -- but the stories were brash, colorful, and seductive.

Brother Dino was our cabin counselor at Nazarene summer camp during the summer of 1974, just after eighth grade. One day I saw him naked in the shower.  He looked like this guy: muscular body, hairy chest and belly, very impressive beneath the belt.

Nazarenes typically didn't have many kids -- why bring kids into the world, when the Rapture would come at any moment -- but Brother Dino and his wife had lots, four girls (born 1968, 1970, 1973, 1975)  --and, just when they were giving up, two boys, Mickey and Dom (1977, 1978).   I didn't pay them much attention -- I left the Nazarene church when the oldest was only about 10 -- but my mother told me about the them their talent show and jump quiz triumphs, their dates with the new preacher's kid, their participation in International Institute, their colleges and marriages and children.

She never mentioned the stripping. But my brother Ken did.

At Christmastime 1999, I was back in Rock Island home for the holidays, and as my brother drove me away from the airport, we passed a low gray building.  "That's a new strip club," Ken announced.  "Where girls take off their clothes," he added, as clarification.

"Any male performers?"  I asked.

"As a matter of fact, Tuesday is lady's night, with guys taking their clothes off."

I didn't ask how he acquired that information.  "Hmm...lady's night, only women allowed, I guess."

"And you know who the top dancers are?  Brother Dino's kids, Mickey and Dom!  Brother Dino can barely hold his head up in church anymore!  What did he expect, when he gave them Catholic names?"

Mickey and Dom were now in college -- one at Augustana, the other at St. Ambrose, the Catholic college in Davenport.  And on Tuesday night they made extra money by performing at the strip club.

Men were allowed in "if accompanied by a lady," so I called an old college friend, and we went to the 10:00 show. I was the only man in a crowd of twenty or so women.

Having not seen the boys since Mickey was a toddler and Dom a babe-in-arms, I didn't know what to expect.  They came on stage dressed as college jocks in sweatpants and Augustana and St. Ambrose sweatshirts.  They pretended to argue about college rivalries, and in "anger" stripped each other out of everything but their jockstraps.

 They had smooth, muscular bodies -- rather surprising, given their dad's hairiness, and not as sculpted as the male models of West Hollywood, but certainly impressive.

They danced together on a little stage, then separated and worked the crowd.  I think it was the oldest, Mickey, who gyrated toward my side of the room.  I held up a dollar.

He approached, grinning, his smooth chest shining with sweat, and thrust his crotch suggestively toward me. "I'm an ex-Nazarene, too," I told him, shouting to make myself heard above the music.  "Your dad was my Sunday school teacher."

He looked surprised, but kept grinning.  "Small world!" he said.  "You gay or is she your girlfriend?"

"Just a friend."  He straddled my lap.  I shoved the dollar inside his jock strap and felt around to see if he was as big as his dad.  He was.

"Cool!  You guys the best tippers!  Wanna kiss?"

"Sure!"

He bent over and kissed me briefly on the lips, as I shoved another dollar into his jock strap.  The crowd squealed in shock or delight.  Then he rose and backed away and gyrated toward a woman who was holding up a dollar.

My mother tells me that both Mickey and Dom are married with children now, working in human resources and telecommunications, respectively.  Their stripping days are far behind them.  But I'm sure that they're gay allies.

Rock Island has changed.

See also: A Nude Party with the Golden Boy

Our Hook Up with Brad Pitt

San Francisco

One night when I was visiting my friend David in San Francisco, we went out to dinner at Thai Thai.  He wanted to introduce me to his friend Corbin, a gym rat from Oakland with, he said, an awe-inspiring Mortadella.

Corbin was late.  We were about to order without him when he came bursting in, giddy and excited. "I brought someone -- I hope you don't mind.  He's out looking for a parking space."

Actually, I did. If  Corbin brought a date, we would be divided into two couples, and no Mortadella+ for me.  

But David said "No problem.  Is your date hot?"

"Is he hot!"  He sat and took David's arm.  "Out parking the car right now is none other than Brad Pitt!"

The hottest actor in Hollywood?  The star of Thelma and Louise, and Johnny Suede, and A River Runs Through It?  And Interview with the Vampire, where he and Tom Cruise played a gay vampire couple?  Sure, he always had a lady on his arm, but he must be bisexual -- straight men just don't get abs like that!

"How did you..."  I asked.

"I stopped in at the gym before coming here.  Just walking down Market, and there he was!  Everybody was staring, and a guy stopped and asked him for his autograph -- he refused.  But I played it cool, like you told me you did in West Hollywood.  I pretended I didn't even know who he was."

In West Hollywood, when we encountered big stars, we pretended not to recognize them.  No fawning, no gushing, no autograph requests.  We approached, or let him approach, as if he was just another hot guy.

But San Francisco had no movie and tv studios, no actor population, so celebrities appeared only when they were visiting, or starring in something on stage.  And most residents moved directly from homophobic small towns, so they never developed big city nonchalance.  So apparently they fawned and gushed and stammered, and called all their friends.  It took a studied indifference to incite Brad Pitt's interest.

"So we talked, and before you know it, he agreed to come to dinner with us."

"Ok," I told David.  "So the key to dealing with celebrities is, don't scare them off.  Don't discuss their movie career unless they bring it up.  Don't ask which celebrities are gay.  Stick to coming out stories and the biggest penis you've ever seen."

Brad arrived just in time to hear me say that, but he remained nonchalant, grinning broadly as he shook our hands.

He was about my height, lanky, with a sharp chin, deep blue eyes, long scruffy hair, almost exactly like this photo of Brad Pitt at the Golden Globes in 1996, except cleanshaven.

He sat and put his arm around the back of Corbin's chair.  "Nice to meet you all.  San Francisco is such a great city, and the guys are super-hot.  I wish I could visit more often."

"I loved Interview with a Vampire!" David blurted out, starstruck.

"Yeah.  You know, I met Anne Rice, at a book signing in Boston.  She told me that she always intended the character of Louis to be gay all along."  

This seemed strange.  He met Anne Rice at a book signing?  Wouldn't she have been on the set?  Wouldn't she have discussed her character with the actor portraying him?

But maybe not.

For the rest of the dinner, we avoided talking about movies.  Instead we discussed our miserable fundamentalist childhoods (Brad and David both grew up in Southern Baptist households, and I was Nazarene).  

Then we discussed the gay pride celebrations and other gay festivals in San Francisco.  Brad told us that in 1987, when he was 18, he marched in the very first gay pride parade in Oklahoma City.

Brad and Corbin held hands under the table, but I also saw a few brushes of Corbin's leg against David's, and Brad occasionally reached over and groped me.  A good sign that we weren't dividing into two couples.  Before the night was over, I would definitely be experiencing a Corbin Mortadella and a Brad Pitt Kovbasa+++.

Sure enough, after dinner David invited us back to his apartment on Waller, just off Haight, for "dessert."

He served three-day old cookies that no one touched.  Instead Corbin and Brad sat on the couch, kissing, while David went down on Corbin.

I pulled Brad over and kissed him and unbuttoned his shirt.  He had six-pack abs, hard and smooth, tight muscled, the stuff of legend in gay communities ever since he flashed them in Thelma and Louise.

Brad tried to push my head down onto his crotch, but I resisted.  Later -- I'd gone down on lots of guys.  I'd never have the opportunity to feel abs like that again!

We went into the bedroom, where I went down on Brad while he went down on Corbin and David at the same time.  Definitely a monster, a Kielbasa, cut, with a mushroom head.  He finished in a few minutes, but almost instantly sprang up, ready for more.  Then David pulled out a condom and topped Brad while Corbin and I just sort of lay there.

Spending the night after "sharing" is usually obligatory, but David's small bed wouldn't hold four, and Brad had to get to the airport early in the morning, so he left -- without giving us his phone number.

I doubt that it was really Brad Pitt himself, but still, David, Corbin, and I added "a hookup with" to our repertoire of celebrity dating stories. 

See also: Nude photos of Brad Pitt

Swimming with a Boy Named Twilight

Titusville, Florida, Summer 1967

I had a recurring dream, or an especially vivid memory, of being attracted to a boy in my earliest childhood,

A very short house with a tall palm tree out front.  A woman, blond in a flowered dress.  A fat, blustery man.  A girl eating strawberries with whipped cream. A baby. And the boy.

Older than me, but still a kid, and taller, with blond or dirty-blond hair. I remembered his name as Twilight.

This guy is over 18.  I didn't remember how old Twilight was.

There were three main images:

1. We are watching tv in a room with oak panels. I think that a guy on screen is cute, and turn to Twilight for  validation.  He smiles.

2. In a car, driving somewhere: Twilight is sitting next to me in the back seat.  He says "Look at that" and reaches over my lap to point it out.  His warm, tanned arm rests briefly on my thigh.

3. Twilight is trying to coax me into a warm, salty ocean.  He splashes through the surf, yells, "Come on!"  His dark-tanned skin glistens in the sun.  There's a line of white on his back, where his swim trunks have ridden down.

Over the years Twilight grew in symbolic importance, until he became a Harlequin figure, a Jack of Shadows. The smile reveals the existence of same-sex love.  The touch demonstrates that it can be be physical as well as spiritual. And the cry of "Come on!" invites me to embrace its warmth: "don't dream it, be it."

Or was he a real boy that I actually met?

In the fall of 2004, when I was living in Florida, I decided to try my sleuthing skills out on the mysterious Twilight.

More after the break

Gideon moves out of the friend zone: A Gideon x Keefe romance

 

"This is it," Gideon Gemstone told himself as he stood at the entrance of Woodpecker's Carpentry, watching the workers inside, and trying not to be noticed.  "Enough stalling.  You make your move now, or forget about it."

Suddenly a burly middle-aged man in a blue worker's suit appeared. "Hello.  I'm Bishop, the owner.  Can I help you with something?"

"I was just admiring the wood carvings.  I like that Grinch in a Santa Claus suit, and the bobble-head Trump...."  Thinking fast, he added. "But I was really looking for a birthday present for my Granddad.  Eli Gemstone -- you probably heard of him."

"The pastor at the Salvation Center? Sure, half my crew goes there, or watches the Praise Be to He hour on Sunday mornings. He's retired, isn't he? Who's the preacher now?"

"Jesse Gemstone.  I'm his son, Gideon."

He chuckled.  "How about that!   We're having a run on Gemstones today.  Your Uncle Kelvin was in earlier, probably shopping for the same thing.  He was talkin' up a storm with our new guy, Keefe."

Uncle Kelvin!  Gulp -- maybe it was too late.

For two years, Uncle Kelvin had been bringing Keefe to family dinners, barbecues, Christmas parties, everything: the hottest guy Gideon had ever seen. with shoulder-length blond hair, a short beard, an incredibly muscular chest inscribed faintly with a 666, a remnant of his former Satanism that made him even hotter.  

Were Kelvin and Keefe boyfriends?  The evangelical "don't ask, don't tell" policy meant that they would pretend to be just good buddies, regardless.  Even their social media pages were ambiguous.  But what if they were?  Being screwed by a guy who had screwed his uncle!  Forbidden romance, with a hint of incest -- could he get much hotter?  Gideon began fantasizing about Keefe -- a lot.

Then Keefe announced on his Instagram that he was moving out of the Gemstone compound. Two days later, that he was no longer working as assistant youth pastor: he had returned to his old job as a carpenter.  Obviously they had broken up -- if they were ever boyfriends in the first place. A perfect time for Gideon to move in!

Suddenly Gideon realized that the Burly Carpenter was staring at him, expecting him to say something.  "Sure, I know Keefe.  He used to be the assistant youth pastor at the Salvation Center.  I'll bet Uncle Kelvin wanted to commission a gift for Granddad.  Hey, maybe we could go in on a gift together.  Could I talk to him?"

"I'll go get him." Burly retreated to the work floor.  A moment later, Keefe appeared -- incredibly hot in a work shirt that left his arms and shoulders bare.  He smiled...a good sign, right?  "Hi, Gideon.  How's the family doing?"

The full story is on Righteous Gemstones Beefcake and Boyfriends

The Beach Boy and the "Fag"

Wilton Manors

"I've found him!" Kelly exclaimed over the telephone.  "The One!  We've only had one date, but that's enough to know!"

Kelly was one of the fitness trainers at Barney's Gym: in his 30s, about Yuri's height, with a long face, brown hair, good biceps and excellent abs and a smooth, less-than-spectacular chest.  Beneath the belt he was average, cut, with shaved pubes.  Somewhat shy and quiet, one of those high-school nerds who found self-confidence at the gym.

He would let you go down on him, to be polite, but he reciprocated only if  you were big in the belly.  The bigger the better.  Superchub, no problem.

His dream guy was fat, young, smooth, and supersized beneath the belt.

Not easy to find!  In Florida, where the beach is a few blocks away and guys wear next to nothing year round, the Wilton Manors norm was heavily muscled with 3% body fat.  Husky guys were uncommon, and fat rather rare.  Young fat guys practically unheard of.

And for whatever reason, fat guys tend to be a a little small beneath the belt.  

So who was this Tobias, the Man of Kelly's dreams?

On the night of their third date, they came over for dinner so Kelly could introduce him to his friends: Barney, Yuri, his boyfriend Jim, another fitness trainer, me, and Wade the Beach Boy.  Yuri made his famous moussaka.

Tobias was in his 20s, tall, chubby, with a smooth chest, employed as a bartender at a hotel near the beach.  Obviously smitten by Kelly: he kept his arm around him the whole evening.

But I was turned off by his greasy slicked-back hair, tattoos, rings, and unattractive leer.

And his speech, littered with profanity: "Little Kelly here, he's the best f*king c*ksucker in the business!  Holy f*k, I never c** so hard in my life!"

And the fact that he had been in prison: "There was a little queen at Kissimmee [juvenile detention center] that was on his knees every night, serviced the whole f*ing dorm, I kid you not!"


"What were you in juvie for?" I asked.

"Oh, please, we're queers.  We're all criminals, according to the hetero *holes that run this country.  Now let's get this f*ng party started.  Which of you c*ksuckers wants the first shot?"

He unzipped.  He was already fully aroused.  A perfectly shaped Kielbasa, with a round head and a small vein running up the side.

Well, I didn't mind a little profanity.

Still, I couldn't imagine quiet, shy Kelly getting along with brash, profane Tobias for long.

A week or so later, I flew out to New Mexico to visit Larry and cruise in the Navajo nation.  Then I visited Rock Island and Indianapolis for a few days.

When I got back, I saw Kelly at the gym and asked "So, is it still Paradise?"

"Oh, it's going great!  Wait -- you've been out of town.  Are you talking about Tobias?  He's history!"

"Why, what happened?"

Here's what happened:

A few days after I left for New Mexico, Wade the Beach Boy and Kelly had lunch.

"Oh, it's going great!" Kelly said.  "Great in bed!  I never met a guy with so much stamina.  I must do him like ten times a day!"

"What about outside the bedroom?" Wade asked.  "Do you have the same interests in, like movies?  Or music?  You're the world's biggest gym rat -- does Tobias even work out?"

"Not really.  He says he gets enough exercise in bed! But we go to the beach, we go dancing, we cruise together and bring guys home to share.  It's fun...but...um, have you ever heard of parties where guys have sex?  I don't mean sharing with friends -- I mean complete strangers?"

"Sure -- Bear Parties.  Boomer talks about them."

"Well, Tobias wants me to go to a Bear Party with him, down in Miami Beach. Fifty naked guys, maybe more."

"Sounds like a fun Saturday night," Wade said.  "Can I get an invitation?"

"Here's the thing.  I'm supposed to be the party's official 'fag.'"

"That is way offensive, dude."

"No, it just means a guy who likes oral sex."

Oral bottoms, guys who are into going down, are often denigrated in gay communities, even called "fags," to distinguish them from the "real men," the oral tops.  It's all sexist nonsense, based on the belief that women are oral bottoms, and being "like a woman" is reprehensible.

"But," Kelly continued,  "The 'fag" has to go down on anybody Tobias wants.  But you know I'm not into that unless the guy is chubby."

"Well then refuse, and just go with guys you find attractive."

"Yeah, but Tobias told me to.  He already told everyone I was going to do it.  He's kind of in charge in the relationship.  He calls himself 'the guy," like I'm 'the girl."

"Ok."  Wade thought for a moment.  "Here's what you do.  First, get me an invitation."

The party was held in one of those extraordinarily expensive glass-and-steel apartments with a picture window looking out onto the ocean and the tv hidden away in a teakwood cabinet.  There were about 30 guys, a good mix of older and younger, occupying the living room and two bedrooms.

Tobias stationed the "fag" on a stool in a small alcove.  Wade said he wanted to mingle, but stood close by anyway.

After a few minutes, Tobias returned with a tall, thin older guy, naked, with a sizeable Bratwurst.  "Is this the fag?"  he asked, looking at Kelly.

"No, I am," Wade said, kneeling and going to work.

Tobias glared at Kelly, but what could he do?  He wandered off, found a thin twink, and brought him to the alcove.

"Sorry, Kelly's taking a break," Wade said.  "But I'm free."  He fell to his knees and got to work.

Tobias walked off in a huff.

Afterwards Wade wandered around until he found a chubby guy, and invited him into the alcove, where Kelly eagerly went to work.

Tobias appeared with another tall, thin guy, saw that Kelly was busy, and exclaimed "Hey, what the f*k?  You refuse all the guys I bring over, but when Wade brings someone..."

"Don't worry," Wade said.  "I'll take care of him."

"That's not the point!  Kelly is supposed to be the f*ing c*ksucker, f*ing going down on whatever guy I say!"

"I think that's called pimping," Wade murmured.  "Is Kelly your boyfriend or your employee?"

That was the end of Kelly' romance with Tobias.

But he did meet someone else at the party: big belly, thick uncut Mortadella.

Ok, he was 55 years old, and had a hairy chest.

But at least he didn't call Kelly a "fag."

See also: The Beach Boy and the Giant; Carlos and his Two Secrets.

My First Visit to an Adult Store

Bloomington, Indiana, fall 1982

I "figured it out" during my senior year in high school, but my real "coming out" was at the beginning of my first year in grad school at Indiana University.

As an undergraduate at Augustana College, I had worked hard, very hard, to find gay people, and I found a few -- my ex boyfriend Fred; an Episcopal priest in Des Moines; Prfessor Burton, who held handcuff parties for campus hunks.  You had to go through word of mouth, through a friend of a friend of a friend.

Now I was at a vast university with 40,000 students, and as far as I could tell from conversations and signals and interests, every single one of them was heterosexual.

My friends, classmates, and coworkers all, without exception, maintained the "what girl do you like?" whine of my childhood.  I had to leave Playboy magazines in my room, and think of logical reasons why I didn't have a girl on my arm every second.

My classes were as empty of gay references as they had been at Augustana.  Every writer who had ever lived was heterosexual.  Every poem ever written was written from man to women.  The Eternal Feminine infused all our lives.

And, as far as I knew, this was the way life was everywhere and for everyone.  A vast emptiness, hiding, pretending, unyielding silence.

That Saturday night I had been watching Silver Spoons and Mama's Family in the 13th floor tv lounge of Eigenmann Hall.  At 9:00, my roommate Jon said "Let's go to the grad student mixer.  I'm hot to get laid tonight."

I had no interest in getting laid.  At least, not as Jon understood it.  But I walked with him across the vast, silent campus, past empty buildings, past towers of Indiana limestone erected by heterosexuals long ago, to the Memorial Union, where a party for heterosexual grad students was in session.

Then I said goodbye and went to the campus library.  There were uncountable millions of books in the vast stacks, rooms as long as a football field, but only two listed under "homosexuality" in the card catalog: the memoirs of Tennessee Williams, and Nothing Like the Sun, by Anthony Burgess, about Shakespeare's romance with the Dark Lady of the sonnets.

I walked alone down Kirkwood Avenue, past student bars and little Asian restaurants and hamburger stands.  Just before the Baskin Robbins closed at 10:00, I stopped in and bought an ice cream cone.  Two scoops, strawberry on the bottom and Rocky Road on the top.  30 years later, I still remember that ice cream cone.

There was a gay bar in Rock Island, a dark closet bar with a nondescript name and no windows, where you entered through the back so no one could see you.  But surely Bloomington was too small for such a place.

 I stopped into a weird eclectic bookstore called the White Rabbit. No gay books -- it was illegal to display them openly, as Fred told me when I found his secret bookshelf two years ago.  So I bought a novelization of the 1980 Popeye musical starring Robin Williams, set in the port town of Sweethaven:

Sweet Sweethaven!  God must love us.
Why else would He have stranded us here?

A church tower had a cross that lit up white at night, and I looked up it and prayed "Why did you strand me here?"

I wandered for a long time through quiet residential streets, houses where heterosexual husbands and wives were asleep, their children in the next room surrounded by "what girl do you like?" brainwashing toys and games.  I walked past a public park, but was afraid to go in.  After dark, monsters roamed through the dark swaying trees.

It occurred to me that I was one of the monsters.  After all, being gay was illegal in the United States.  I was a criminal.  (Actually, Indiana's sodomy law was repealed in 1976.)

Somehow I found myself at a small, nondescript building on College Avenue.  The sign on the marquee advertised "Adult Books."

They probably wouldn't stock any gay porn.  But it wouldn't hurt to check.  The most they could do is call me a "fag."

The rest of the story is on Righteous Gemstones Beefcake and Boyfriends