I Become a Birthday Present at the Horseman's Club

Amsterdam, March 2006

I used to go to Europe at least once a year, sometimes twice, usually at Christmastime or in the spring.  I flew into Paris or Amsterdam, whichever was cheaper, and split my time between those two cities, with an overnight in Brussels in between.

I was always careful to be in Amsterdam on Sunday night, for the Horseman's Club meeting at the Argos Bar on Warmoesstraat.

A club for guys with 20 cm (about 8 inches) or more beneath the belt.

I don't meet those standards, but I usually just took my shirt off and got waved through without measuring.  When they did measure, I was sometimes graded A (20 cm and over) and sometimes B (17-20 cm).

It was a social club -- no sex, but most guys sneaked into isolated corners for some groping or oral anyway.  You had to get naked or strip to your underwear.

I usually found someone to go home with.  In 2003, a 40-ish bodybuilder named Janik asked me to stay on in the Netherlands and become his lover.  I almost agreed.

In 2006, I met a Dutch-Caribbean-African guy with a gigantic Kovbasa.

The Dutch were leaders in the North Atlantic slave trade, and you see evidence all over Amsterdam, like this frieze of a muscular Moor carrying a bow and arrow.  But most of the slaves ended up in the Caribbean.

I never saw anyone black at the Horseman's Club until that night in 2006.

He was standing by himself near the pool table.  In his 20s, very dark, very tall and thin, wearing a green jumpsuit,  completely out of place amid the nude and underwear-clad men.

I figured he had just come in from the icy rain of an Amsterdam spring, and was cold.  I walked up to him and put my hand on his shoulder.  "Hi, can I warm you up?"

He stared at me -- not with Attitude, with a look of sheer terror, as if an underwear-clad man was a major threat.

"He must be in the wrong place," I thought.  "Maybe not even gay.  But surely he figured it out when he was fluffed for measurement."

I began to caress his thin shoulders and back, and he relaxed a bit and put his arm around my shoulders.

"Just so you know, there's a dress code.  You'll have to strip down to your underwear, or they'll kick you out."

"Ik spreek geen Engels," he said, before launching into a torrent of Dutch.

Everyone always uses English in Amsterdam, even residents talking to each other, so I've never learned much Dutch.  About all I can say is Goeiedag, Hoe gaat het?, and Ik kom uit Toronto (I always claim to be Canadian when I travel, to avoid being yelled at every five minutes.)

"Um...um...Ik heet Boomer, van Toronto. Hoe heet je?"

Huit Suriname.  Azi."

Suriname, the former Dutch colony in the Caribbean?  I was immediately interested.

About 2% of the Dutch population consists of recent immigrants from Suriname, and about half of them are black or mixed (they're called Maroons and Creoles).  But they are mostly working- and -lower class, isolated from the consumer-oriented bars, bathhouses, and sex shops of gay Amsterdam.

"Um...wanner je kom heer?"  When did you come to the Netherlands?

More very fast Dutch.  Then Azi reached out and groped me.  I felt for the front of his jumpsuit, where his Kovbasa had sprung to life.

"Sprichts du langsam, bitte," I said in German, hoping it was close enough to be comprehensible.

"Kom....naar....mijn huis, ok?"

Go home with him? But we just met, we hadn't said more than a dozen words, and he was a little too weird....

But...a Kovbasa...the biggest of the big....

I dressed.  Azi wrapped his arm around my shoulders and led me out onto Warmoessstraat.  We walked to the Centraal Station and got on the train to Ganzenhoef Station in southern Amsterdam, Azi talking nonstop in Dutch, me trying out my few words, supplemented with German and Spanish.

Azi had only been in the Netherlands for three years.  He worked in a cigarenfabriek.  Most of his family was back in Suriname.  The only family he had here was his moeder and his  jongere broer, who was studying computertechniek at the University.

Presumably Azi didn't live with them.

We got off the train in a multi-ethnic neighborhood called the Bijlmeer, and walked a few blocks through the darkness to a huge apartment complex. Orange and white lattices.  Balconies.  13 stories.

We took the elevator to the eighth floor, and got off in a small, cramped apartment.  There were books and newspapers scattered all over the living room. Kierkegaard, I noticed in surprise.  Azi read Danish philosophers?

Dirty dishes in the sink, overflowing clothes hamper.  Obviously Azi hadn't been expecting a hookup when he went out tonight.

As soon as the door closed, I wrapped my arm around Azi and went in for a kiss.  But he pushed my head away.

"Ben je hier?" he yelled.

Who else lived here?

 "In die slaapkamer!"  

Azi led me into a little hallway to an open door.  Small twin bed, unmade.  Underwear on the floor.

Sitting at the desk, apparently in an internet chatroom, was a young man.  Black, very dark, thin, very cute.  Naked. He quickly covered up and smiled at me.

"Dit is Boomer," Azi announced.  "Van der Horseman Club.  Mijn broer, Eli."

"Jij bent gek!" Eli exclaimed.  You're crazy!  They exchanged some angry words that I didn't understand, and Azi walked out. I heard a door slam.

Eli and I looked at each other.  "Um...what's going on?"


He spoke fairly good English.  "Mijn broer thinks I am too small to find boys.  Not enough big!  So tonight he says he will find a boy for me with a big lul -- down there, yes?  I say I don't want his help, but he goes out anyway, and now....don't be mad, you are very sexy...but..."

I finally began to figure it out.  "I thought my hookup was with Azi.  Is he even gay?"

"No.  He has a girlfriend, so he wants me to have a boyfriend.  I want a boyfriend, but my study is more important, yes?"

"So a straight guy went to the Horseman's Club to get groped by a dozen guys, all to find a hookup for his little brother?  That's above and beyond the call of duty.  He was only trying to help.  You should apologize."

He smiled.  "Mogelicht.  Sorry that Azi tricked you.  I will walk with you back to the train station, yes?"

"That would be great," I said, drawing him to his feet and wrapping my arms around him.  "In the morning."

In case you were wondering: not nearly as big as his brother, Bratwurst at best.  But very good at cuddling.

See also: A find a Boyfriend at the Horseman's Club; Eli's Dispatches from Oman; and A Jogging Date with a Somali Teenager

Yuri and I Go to Amsterdam to Visit the Horsemen's Club

Amsterdam, June 2017

June has been a month for visiting old friends, or having them visit me -- first David, then Lane, and now Yuri, who I met in grad school in New York in 1997.  He's an atmospheric scientist, 43 years old, short and rather buffed, smooth chest, bright open face, thick brown hair.  No wrinkles, no grey hair, could easily pass for 30.  He must have a picture in an attic somewhere.

He lives in London, but I usually arrange to meet him somewhere else in Europe: Minsk in 2009, Paris and Amsterdam in 2011, Iceland last October.  And now Amsterdam again.

Except this year we'll be in town for the Horsemen's Club!

It used to meet every Sunday afternoon at the Argos Bar on Warmoesstraat: a club for men with at least 20 centimeters (about 8 inches) -- they measured you at the door. No sex, but a lot of groping, fondling, and cruising.

Then they changed it to big men and their admirers.  Everyone was welcome, but 20+ centimeters got in free.  And they allowed safe sex.

I used to go every year, but now that it only meets on the third Sunday of the month, it's hard to arrange trips to coincide with it.  This year, though, I arrange my vacation with Yuri to be in Amsterdam on June 18th.

Thursday

My flight to Amsterdam arrives at 8:15 am.  I take the train to the Central Station  and go cruising at Drake's Boutique on Damrak, near the Oude Kirk.    I go down on three guys: older, wearing a business suit; a burly truck-driver type; and a tall, slim Asian guy.

If it's this busy in the morning, what's it like at 9:00 pm?

Yuri arrives at 11:30.  We have lunch and then take the train to Utrecht, an hour away, to visit my Suriname friend Eli: 29 years old, very dark skin, handsome face, average penis.

He takes us on a city tour, and to dinner at Djakarta, an Indonesian restaurant, then back to his apartment for "sharing."  He's into kissing and cuddling, but also an anal top.  After I go down on him, he tops Yuri.

I'm too jetlagged to pay much attention.

Friday

 After breakfast, we take the train back to Amsterdam and check into our hotel, which is right next door to the Nieuwe Kirke.  We visit the Rijksmuseum and the Stedelijk Museum of Modern Art, work out at Health City, and then go to PRIK and Dirty Dicks.

We "share" a tall, thin twink from Germany who has a Mortadella+: Yuri and I take turns kissing him and going down on him, and then he goes down on us at the same time.

Afterwards we go to The Eagle, a leather cruise bar, and pick up Eser, a Turkish bear in his 30s with a hairy chest, hairy arms, a small belly, and a cut Kielbasa.  He lets me go down on him while he's kissing Yuri, and then he tops Yuri while he's going down on me (try it).

Saturday

We go to the Rembrandt House, the Museum Van Loon, and the Tropenmuseum, and go jogging at Ooster Park.

Eser meets us for dinner at Montmatre, and takes us cruising at Spijker and the Web.  Yuri and I go to the dark room and kiss while guys we can't see are going down on us.  

Then Eser invites us both back to his apartment to "share" his hookup: Paul, a French otter (slim with a hairy chest), in his 20s, with a long face and a Bratwurst+.

I go down on Paul while Yuri is going down on Eser, and then we switch positions.  Surprisingly, Paul turns out to be into anal, so he tops Yuri (with a condom, of course).  Eser asks to top me, but I refuse; instead, I talk him into interfemoral.

Afterwards we return to our hotel.

Sunday

I go to services at the Old Lutheran Church while Yuri works out, and then we meet for lunch at a Thai place.

"The Horsemen's Club open at 3:00," I tell him.  "I can't wait -- it's been too long!"

Yuri looks down at his plate.  "Maybe you will go alone.  I will go to the Bijbels Museum and meet you later."

Huh?  "But the Horsemen's Club is the reason we came to Amsterdam!"  I'm not a big fan of the city overall -- it's dirty, rundown, a little rough, very sleazy, and there are entirely too many drunk and high foreigners making fools of themselves.

"The reason you came, maybe.  I came here to see you."

"But...you're totally into bigger guys!  If it's under 8 inches, you throw it back!"

"Yes, but..."

"Is it because of your size?  I don't measure up either, but I always got in, even when it was 20 centimeters only.  Now it's open to all big guys and their admirers."

"My size is good, thanks."

"Your age?  So you're in your 40s.  I'm 56 years.  Being older is only a problem if you don't like twinks cruising you all the time."

"My age is good, too.  But...since we came here, I am topped four times.  That is more than usually for me in a month.  My butt is sore, and I am tired.  It is too much cruising.  On our last day in Amsterdam.  I want to do quiet, peaceful things."

So we go to Vondel Park and look at the cute guys running shirtless through the grass.

We go to a street market, where I buy a 19th century ex libris plate.

We stop for ice cream.

We browse in the Book Exchange.

In the evening we stay in our hotel room and watch tv.

Best day in Amsterdam ever.

See also: I Become a Birthday Present at the Horseman's Club

Janik, the Frisian Bodybuilder at the Horseman's Club

Amsterdam, June 2003

Just after getting my Ph.D., when I was living in Florida (2001-2005), I tried to go to Europe every year at Christmas or spring break: a weekend in Amsterdam, a night in Brussels,two or  three days in Paris, and then home. I always liked to be in Amsterdam on Sunday nights, when the Horsemen met at the Argos Bar on Warmoesstraat.   It was a social club -- no sex allowed -- but members all had to be nude. Their guests had the option of nudity or underwear.

The membership fee varied depending on your size (yes, they took measurements).  "A" got in free.

So the majority of men drinking beer, playing pool, and cruising had the endowments of porn stars.

It was quite a nice place for sightseeing, and sometimes guys would invite you back to their house.

In the spring of 2003, I met Janik, smooth, muscular, balding, in his early 40s, in the A category and then some, as big as my Cousin Joe, or bigger  (#9 on my Sausage List).

He was pleasant to talk to -- even after I admitted to being American (usually I claimed to be Canadian to avoid being asked why Americans were such idiots).  And at the end of the evening, he invited me back to his place -- in Heerenveen.

Heerenveen, Netherlands, Summer 2003

90 miles north of Amsterdam, 2 hours by train, in Friesland (where most people speak Frisian, not Dutch).  Janik had a tiny apartment on the same block as the "Dirty Duck Coffeeshop" and a heterosexual dance club called "Party Cafe Salsa," which made it quite noisy at night.

Still, we had a very nice evening, and in the morning Janik said, "Stay here with me.  We can be lovers. I can get you a work visa."

Living in Europe with a muscle god in the A+++ category vs. teaching sociology in Florida?  It sounded like a good deal.

So I cancelled my day in Brussels.

On Monday morning Janik went to work, leaving me to go sightseeing in Heerenveen.  Unfortunately, there was not much to do except walk around and look at the houses and canals.  I ended up buying a Frisian phrase book and a depressing French novel about Tintin's sexual problems.  Janik came home, and we went to the gym, then got Japanese take out and watched soccer on tv.

I hate sports and Japanese food.

But we had a very nice evening later, so I cancelled my train to Paris.

On Tuesday, while he was at work, I took the train into Groningen and saw the Martinitoren (St. Martin's Tower) and the Netherlands Stripmuseum (a museum of cartoon and comic strip art).  But the train was so crowded with rush hour traffic that I didn't get home until 7:30 pm.  We got Indonesian take out and watched The Simpsons dubbed in Dutch.

I would have to learn both Dutch and Frisian to live here.  I like languages, but I'd really rather learn something that would be useful outside of Friesland.

On Wednesday, I signed up for a Frisian class and then went out looking for jobs on my own.  The manager of the only gay bar in Heerenveen, Le Clochard, said he could use a waiter who spoke English and German.  That night Janik and I went to the gym, then got Japanese take out and watched soccer on tv.

I still hate sports and Japanese food.

Waiting tables and watching sports with a muscle god in the A+++ category, or teaching sociology in Florida?

On Thursday I took the train to Amsterdam and got on my 5:00 pm flight back home.

See also: The Surprise in the Dutch Afro-Caribbean Horseman's Bedroom

Eli's Dispatches from Oman, Mostly About Arab, Pakistani, Greek, and Iranian Men

Plains, July 2013

My email to my friend Eli in Amsterdam contained only one word: "WTF????"

He had just told me that he was taking a job in Oman.

That's right, Oman, the sultanate just south of Saudi Arabia, on the Indian Ocean.

I called.  "But...but...but it's the Arabian Peninsula!  I wouldn't set foot in any country where being gay brings the death penalty."

"No, that is Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates.  In Oman the penalty is only three years in prison."

"Only three years in prison?"

"Most of the states in the U.S. had worse penalties.  Besides, it is only if you are discovered."

"But...you live in Amsterdam, where everything is open.  Gay life in Oman must be incredibly closeted.  No bars, no bathhouses, no organizations."

"They have Grindr.   And it is a very good job, and it will last only one year."

"Whatever.  If you want to be scared, closeted, and celibate, go for it."

Eli's Dispatches from Oman (modified slightly for grammar).

September 2013

"You were thinking mud streets and minarets, yes?  Oman is modern!  The Food Court in the Muscat Grand Mall has Charley's Grilled Subs, Curry in a Hurry, Hungry Bunny, KFC, Papa John's, Mr. Pretzels, and Wok and Roll."

"Half the people here are guest workers from India, Pakistan, and Bangladesh.  Last night I met a very cute boy from Bangladesh on Grindr.  He never met a black guy before.  We went to my flat and kissed for awhile, and then I went down on him.  Kovbasa+, at least 25 centimeters, uncut!  Here's a picture (top photo)."



October

"Muscat, the capital, is beautiful!  There are so many interesting sights!  I like the Omani French Museum, the Bait al Zubir, and the Museum of Modern Art.  And there are two beaches!

 "The assumption is that gay people exist only in the West, so straight guys have no qualms about hooking up with each other while waiting to marry.  Today I hooked up with a Pakistani guy on a crowded bus.  He just started fondling me!  Before I knew it, I was aroused, and he was doing me through my pants!  When I finished, he moved away like nothing happened.

November

"Another Grindr hookup, this time with a real Omani Arab named Jamal.  Because I am black, he thought I was from Kenya  He wanted to know if all Kenyans are gay.  I told him 'Most.'

He was about 30 years old, tall, bearded, with a smooth chest, a Bratwurst+ beneath the belt.  I let him top me with my legs in the air. "

"Today I had lunch with Jamal at a place called The Steak Company.  He's married, but often has boyfriends on the side.  His wife doesn't mind -- she often has boyfriends on the side, too."

December

"Jamal and I shared one of his boyfriends, an Indian boy in his 20s with long hair and a little goatee.  He had about a Mortadella+, but he was a total bottom, only interested in going down on me and having Jamal top him.

The Arabs are really attracted to Indians, almost as much as to black guys."

January 2014

 "Today I hooked up with a guy from Zanzibar.  A tall black guy with big muscles and an enormous penis.  I went down on him in a secluded spot on the beach.  Can you believe it?"

 "I know you are into languages.  I've been studying Arabic, but I rarely get a chance to use it -- everyone speaks English all the time.  Did you know that Oman has 7 Semitic languages besides Arabic?  Also they speak Baluchi, which is a language from Iran, and Urdu and Swahili."

February

"You think that Oman is all Muslim, but about 20% of the population is Hindu or Christian.  There's a big Catholic church.  I went with my friend Jacob, who is an American, a blond-haired blue-eyed cowboy.  You think that black guys are popular here, you should see all the action blonds get!"

."I started dating an Arab guy named Mohammed, or Mo.  He is in his 20s, slim, rather feminine, but super-hung, with a thick Kielbasa.  He's only into oral, but I don't mind -- because I'm black, everybody wants me to top them.

Most of Mo's friends are gay.  No one notices, not even when they 'camp' at lunch.  He says his family knows, and doesn't care.  This is the first guy I've hooked up with who spends the night."

March

"Mo and I drove out to Nizwa, about 1 1/2 hours from Muscat, to see the Nizwa Fort. It's really a giant palace that dates from the 17th century, where the walis would govern during the Caliphate.  Nizwa is an old, traditional city with adobe buildings and an open-air souk, but also a Domino's Pizza on the outskirts of town!

There was a boy, about 17, working there, very handsome with big eyes and a slim frame.  We brought him back to our hotel and took turns going down on him.  Then he topped me.  Bratwurst+, but rather thin, so I didn't mind.

April

"I hooked up with another Arab guy on the street.  We met at the Family Bookshop, which has a good selection of English books (you can't find Dutch books in Oman).  He had a remarkably hairy chest and a Kielbasa+.  I went down on him while he kept talking from a porn movie 'Yeah, yeah, go down on that big cock, yeah, yeah.'"



May

"Mo took me to meet his family.   They asked me if we would get married!  Of course, same-sex marriage is illegal in Oman, but legal in the Netherlands, so if Mo comes back with me.  I'm not realy looking for a permanent relationship.  I think it's time to say goodbye to Mo."

June

"All of the guys I've met so far, Arab, Indian, even American, have been super-hung.  So I was disappointed when the Grindr hookup I had last night, an Arab guy with a thin beard and nice pecs, turned out to be only average."

July
"My year in Oman is almost over.  Would it be ok if I come and visit you on the Plains before I return to Amsterdam?  I could use a quiet, peaceful vacation after the nonstop sex of Oman."

See also: The Dutch Caribbean at the Horseman's Club; My Best Day in Amsterdam

Lane and I Track Down the Gay Baron of Eindhoven

West Hollywood, February 1992

Have you ever wondered what happened after Allies liberated the Jews and other prisoners from the concentration camps in 1945?

A few of the prisoners returned to their homes.  But 800,000 had no homes to return to, or refused to go back to the neighbors who wanted to kill them.

 They were put into displaced persons camps or residential facilities for up to two years, until a friend or relative could send for them, or until they could be repatriated

When she was liberated from Auschwitz, Lane's mother Rosa was sent to a residential facility run by some Catholic nuns in Weert, Netherlands, just over the border from Germany.  She spent her first two weeks walking up and down the streets, stopping in every pastry shop, and eating all she could hold.

Then she set about returning to life again.  She was planning to become a journalist before the War, so she found a typewriter and began writing.  She brought articles around to the local newspapers, first in German, then, as she learned the language, in Dutch.  Soon she was making enough money to move into an apartment with a female friend.

But in August 1947, an American cousin found Rosa and offered to bring her to Los Angeles.

Palm trees and movie stars!  She eagerly agreed.

That's all we knew about Rosa's life in the Netherlands until after she died unexpectedly in February 1992, a few days after her 67th birthday.

When Lane and I were sorting through four decades of cards, bills, business papers, old school assignments, clipped magazine and newspaper articles, Jewish society newsletters, playbills, programs, and miscellaneous records, we found a packet of old letters addressed to Rosa at the Zusters Birgittinessen, and then at her apartment in Weert, and finally at her cousin's house in Los Angeles, with the postmark Eindhoven, Netherlands.

It's hard to decipher one side of a conversation in a foreign language after 47 years, but we got the general plot: Rosa was dating a member of the Dutch nobility, a Baron Hein Van Tuyll, who lived about twenty miles away in the Eymerick Castle.

In February 1947, Hein apparently proposed, and Rosa turned him down.  She explains why: Je niet moet trouwen.  We zullen vrienden altijd (You should not marry. We will always be friends).  

He gamely continued to write to her every week through 1947, when the letters suddenly stop.

The Van Tuyll family is important in the Netherlands.  Hein's father was the first president of the Dutch Olympic Committee.  This statue outside the Olympic Stadium was erected in his honor.

This is the family coat of arms: three hounds, a crown, and two half-naked wild men carrying flowers.

"You should not marry," I repeated.  "Maybe Hein wasn't the marrying kind.  Could your Mom have been dating a gay guy?

"We should go to the Netherlands next summer," Lane said, "And look him up."

"Look up your mother's old boyfriend, and ask if he's gay?"

"It wouldn't hurt.  Or...maybe he has a hot gay son who will invite us to live in his castle.  We would be sort of like brothers, after all."

I was hesitant.  We spent last summer looking up Lane's heritage in Poland, and now we had to do it in the Netherlands?  But I could wrangle a side-trip to Amsterdam out of it, and maybe even Paris, so I agreed.

In the days before Google, family research was tough.  We couldn't track down Hein, but we found his son: 41 year old Sammy, the current Baron Van Tuyll.  We made the call, and got an invitation to visit.

Disappointingly, he didn't live in the family castle.  He had a house in Den Haag, where he worked for the Dutch Ministry of Finance.

Den Haag, Netherlands, June 1992

We spend three days in Paris (not nearly enough time), overnight in Brussels to look at the Grand-Place and the Mannekin Pis, and then take the 2 1/2 hour train trip across the border to Den Haag.

We're only going to spend a few hours: in the late afternoon, we'll get on the train to Amsterdam, where the bars and bathhouses of Warmoesstraat await.

But we have time to see the Escher Museum, walk through the Haagse Bos, an ancient forest in the city center, and meet the Dutch deputy minister of finance at the Allard Restaurant.

Sammy is youthful-looking and athletic, surprisingly hip, a rock musician as well as an economist.   But straight -- he shows pictures of his wife and four children.  We show him the letters.

"You must not marry.  We should be friends," he translates.  "I can't imagine what your mother meant.  Papa married in 1947.  There were never any problems between him and my mother, none that I could see."

Remembering the evidence that my grandfather was gay, I ask "Did he have a lot of male friends?  Maybe Rosa didn't want to compete."

"Oh, yes, Papa was very sociable.  He had a passion for sports.  He was always bringing home athletes: football players, rowers, bodybuilders...."

Lane and I exchange glances.  "Was he into bodybuilding?" I ask.  "I used to work for Muscle and Fitness."

"He didn't lift weights himself, but he loved bodybuilding as an art form.  I remember when Reg and Marian Park came to dinner -- a former Mr. Universe -- he was as excited as a schoolgirl with a crush on a pop star.  And this in a man who is the godfather of Queen Beatrix!"

A crush on Reg Park?  Shouldn't marry?  Was Hein gay or bi?

We keep our suspicions to ourselves.

Lane offers Sammy some of the letters. He takes four, including the last, written to Rosa in Los Angeles.

It ends with "After all, my dear Rosa, vriendschap is het enige dat telt."

Friendship is all that matters.

See also: A Beefcake Tour of Amsterdam