My Brief Modeling Career

Chicago, April 1979

One of the highlights of my freshman year at Augustana was my brief -- very brief -- modeling career.

I had my own radio program, the "International Pop Hour," where I played pop songs from Europe.  In between, I interviewed anyone who might have the slightest international connection, from the political science professor from China to the Italian-American manager of Langomarcino's Chocolates.

 One day in April, shortly after I got back from determining that my friend Mary's brother was "straight," I interviewed Lars Lundquist (not his real name), who came to Augustana as a foreign student in 1968 and now had his own photography studio in Chicago.

"I do everything -- kids, dogs, weddings, even passport photos," he said, "But I'm specializing in fashion.  I want to get some clients and go into talent management."  He paused.  "You know, you've got a nice fresh-scrubbed all-American look.  Did you play football in high school?"

"No, I was an athletic trainer.  But I saw more moldy towels and stinky athletic supporters than any football player."  I cued the laugh track.

"Can you come out to Chicago next week?  We'll do a shoot, and see what happens."

It's a scam!  My inner skeptic told me.  But then..."He's got a studio in Chicago, on Michigan Avenue!"  Besides, my listeners -- all 5 of them -- wanted to know what happened.

So the next weekend I drove out, and he took some shots of me wearing an orange leisure suit, a polo shirt and jeans, and a yellow turtleneck sweater with green pants (bright colors were "in" that year).

I quit my job at the Carousel Snack Bar, and through the spring and summer of 1979, except for my 10 days in Colombia,  I drove out to Chicago every few weeks and let Lars photograph me.  I got some work: see if you can find the Christmas 1979 catalog for the Marshall Fields department store, or Chicago Magazine in the spring of 1981.  I didn't keep any copies -- the photos were too embarrassing.

The money wasn't very good, and I was too busy with classes, clubs, and my job to drive out to Chicago every five minutes, so I was getting tired of it by the fall of 1979, when Lars asked, "Would you consider working for the gay market?"

"What?" I asked, stunned.  "What kind of market is there for gays?"

"All you have to do is pose nude -- there's no sex involved.  And the pay is good."

Was it legal?  And where could you go to buy nude pictures of men?

Apparently there were several gay porn magazines available in the adult bookstores of big cities.  Plus a mail order industry of nude male photos, marketed to gay men who couldn't get to big cities, and didn't want a porn magazine delivered to their home.

I could be a beacon of light to gay men in small towns!

But I would be out to millions of people.  Ok, hundreds.  They wouldn't be seeing my real name, but still...what if my mother saw the photos...or my friends at school....

A few days later, I met Fred, my ministerial student boyfriend.  I was sure that he would disapprove, so the nude photo shoot never happened, and my modeling career fizzled out (except for the adult movie I made, sort of, a few years later).

I Cheat on My Boyfriend with a Goblin

Davenport, Iowa, March 1980

In December 1979, when I was a sophomore at Augustana College, I got my first actual boyfriend: Fred, 27 years old, a graduate of McCormick Theological Seminary taking his internship year at the First United Methodist Church in Rock Island.

After Christmas I started spending two or three evenings a week with Fred -- dinner (he cooked), tv, and sex, then rushing home at 11:00 pm to tell my parents I had been studying late at the library.

By March  I had introduced them to Fred, and was openly spending the night on Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.

In June we moved to Omaha together.  After an execrable six weeks, we broke up, but stayed friends for the rest of his life.

Fred actually was from the Quad Cities, or nearby; he grew up in the small town of Aledo, about 30 miles south, and got his undergraduate degree in psychology at Knox College in Galesburg.  He was still in contact with several of his Quad Cities friends, some that knew he was gay, some that didn't.

One who did was Dale Schaefer-Shit (his real name, except for the shit part), a nasty little goblin, about 3 feet high, with a very thick, heavy torso, very long, hairy arms, long sharp claws, an ugly, warty face, pointy ears, green skin, prehensile toes, a tail...

 Ok, he looked more like the top photo: Fred's age, tall, buffed, with a black beard and a hairy chest. But I always imagined him as a goblin.

I arrived at Fred's apartment, across the river in Davenport, about 4:30 pm -- dinner was at 5:00 pm, standard for the Midwest -- and at least once a week, often more than that, Dale Schaefer-Shit was there.  Apparently he  had some sort of late-night goblin job with the city, so he got up around 2:00 pm, and came to visit Fred in the late afternoon to do morning-type activities.

Sometimes he was sitting at the kitchen table, slurping on Cheerios.

Sometimes he was on the couch, watching Captain Ernie's Cartoon Showboat.  

Sometimes he was coming out of the bathroom, toweling off after a shower, naked, his hairy chest glistening, his cock and balls dangling between his legs.

I should have been turned on, but I wasn't.  Seeing Dale Schaefer-Shit made me angry.  I could be in a perfectly good mood, on top of the world, but when I walked in and saw the goblin, my hackles raised.  There was just something about him that seemed unclean, disturbing.  Evil.

I do not love thee, Doctor Fell.
The reason why, I cannot tell.
But this one thing, I know full well.
I do not love thee, Doctor Fell.

Apparently the feeling was mutual.  Dale Schaefer-Shit rarely spoke to me.  Usually he pretended I wasn't in the room.  And he never stuck around long after I arrived.  He said "See ya, Flintstone" to Fred, flashed me an evil smile, and slithered off to do nasty goblin things.

Where did Fred, the ministerial intern, the theologian, the trained pastoral counselor, even meet that creepy little gremlin?

"He's my oldest friend.  We grew up together.  We were both in the same Cub Scout troop.  We went to sleepovers together, and trick-or-treating on Halloween."

With that face, he must have gotten a lot of candy...

"We called each other Flintstone and Rubble, because my name is Fred.  He's the first one I told when I realized that I was gay."

I get it...he was your shadow-self, the yang to your yin, the darkness to your light, the squirrelly  snivelly Gollum to your Frodo.

"Well, he strikes me as...um.."  A nasty little gremlim!  "As sort of creepy."

"He's a little on the shy side, but he's a good guy, really."

One wet, blustery day in March, before we took our trip to Des Moines to visit the Priest with Three Boyfriends,  I arrived at the apartment to find Dale Schaefer-Shit sitting on the couch under a blanket, shirtless, eating cereal and...reading one of Fred's Playgirl magazines!

"Um...hi..."  I said tentatively.

"Fred's not here -- something held him up."  He laughed at a secret joke.  "Sit down.  Want some blanket?"

I couldn't think of any way around it, so I kicked off my shoes, threw my raincoat on the floor, and sat down next to Dale Schaefer-Shit.  I pulled the blanket over my legs. He slurped down the rest of his cereal and put the bowl aside.

"Hey, Boomer maybe you can help me.  I've always wondered about something, and Fred's too square to talk about it.  What do gay guys do in bed?  Like rub your cocks together?"

I should have said "None of your business," but Dale Schaefer-Shit had dark mystical powers.  I don't think I had a choice.  "Sometimes we do that. Fred's favorite thing is Greek, which is plowing into your butt, but he's too big for me.  I like French, which means giving the guy a b.j."

He flashed an evil grin.  "No kidding?  You suck his cock? Well, I see why Fred likes that, but what do you like about it?"  I felt a hairy leg brush against mine.  Schaefer-Shit was wearing short pants -- or naked...

Startled, and inexplicably getting aroused, I stammered "Um...I get a lot out of it.  It's totally erotic...getting a guy off."

"Yeah?  Cool!  I've got blow jobs before, with girls, but I never gave one."  He grabbed my hand under the blanket and pushed it against his naked, hairy cock.  I instinctively began masturbating him.

"I'll bet gay guys do it better, though.  You know what it feels like."  He grabbed me by the neck and pushed me down toward his crotch.

I hadn't yet learned about the custom of sharing, and besides, I couldn't stand the little goblin.  But I moved like in dream, depersonalized, watching the events from above.

I got on my knees, stuck my head under the blanket, and took Schaefer-Shit's goblin dick down my throat.  It was  average sized but hard as a rock, and covered with short hairs, like it had just been shaved.

It wasn't pleasant -- like having a hairy rock prodding at me -- so after awhile I moved on to his balls.  They were huge, what they used to call "bull balls."

 I licked and sucked them -- one was a mouthful -- while beating him off, then returned to his cock in time for him to excrete a mouthful of lukewarm, salty goblin semen.

He pulled his pants up and found his shirt, and I returned to my place next to him on the couch.  We turned on the tv and watched a game show wordlessly.  Gradually my will power returned, and I realized that I had just sucked the cock of a vile little goblin.

"Don't tell Fred about this," I said, my eyes on the screen.

"Oh, no problem.  I can keep a secret.  I'm full of secrets."

Soon Fred appeared, carrying a grocery bag.  "You guys been watching tv?" he asked suspiciously.

"I've been keeping Boomer warm for you," Schaefer-Shit said. "But now I have to go to work.  See ya, Flintstone."

"Bye, Rubble."

The next time I saw him, the little goblin went back to his habit of ignoring me.

Good.

In June we moved to Omaha, and after six weeks Fred and I broke up.  I never saw or heard about Dale Schaefer-Shit again.

Good.

I never told Fred what happened that day.

Good.

Many years later, Fred revealed that he had been cheating on me with Schaefer-Shit.  Those times I ran into the little snivelly creep coming out of the shower, he had just been in the bedroom, being screwed by my boyfriend. 

I didn't blame Fred.  Schaefer-Shit had some kind of weird dark magic, and could get you to do what he wanted.

"Sometimes I didn't have a chance to clean up afterwards," Fred added, "So when you went down on me later, my cock had been inside...well, you know."

Yeah, I know.  Inside a goblin's butt.

My Boyfriend's Secret Bookshelf

When I first met Fred the Ministerial Student during my sophomore year at Augustana College, I tried to determine if he was gay by examining his bookcases for books by gay authors -- I only knew about Tennessee Williams, Oscar Wilde, and Shakespeare.  I didn't find anything.

In the open, anyway.

One day a few months  after we began dating, Fred asked me to get something from his bedroom closet, and I found a secret bookshelf, facing away from view, so even if the door was ajar, you wouldn't know what was there.

Curious, I pulled a book out.  Familiar Faces: Hidden Lives: The Story of Homosexual Men in America Today, by Howard Brown.

I had never seen a nonfiction book about gay people.

"There are a few others," Fred told me.  "I have almost all of the nonfiction, I think.  Of course, it has to be hidden."

"I've never seen a gay book in a bookstore."

"Not likely.  They wouldn't stock any -- it's illegal to put them out on the shelves -- and besides, who would walk up to the counter and try to buy one?"   "It's all by mail.  You don't have to give them your name, just a money order and post office box."

With Fred's permission, I spent the afternoon going through the seven gay books in existence.
1. Familiar Faces, Hidden Lives.
2. Greek Homosexuality
3. The Homosexual Matrix
4. Is the Homosexual My Neighbor?: Another Christian View
5. Jonathan Loved David: Homosexuality in Biblical Times
6. Iolaus, An Anthology of Friendship, by early gay activist Edward Carpenter
7. A slim hardback, On Being Different: What it Means to be a Homosexual, by Merle Miller.

(Fred was actually mistaken; there were about 30 nonfiction books about gay people in print in the U.S. in 1980.)

The only author I recognized was Merle Miller.  My English and journalism teachers were always praising him:

Born right next door to Rock Island, in Marshalltown, Iowa,  a graduate of the University of Iowa, and now look at him!  A famous journalist, novelist, and historian, biographer of presidents!

Read his books for a model of good writing.

Novels like The Winter, Island 49, and The Sure Thing.

His book on the television industry, Only You, Dick Darling (1964).

And especially Plain Speaking: An Oral Biography of Harry S. Truman (1973).

They didn't mention, or they didn't know, that in in January 1971, Merle Miller came out in an article in The New York Times  Magazine: "What It Means to Be a Homosexual."  

It was a response to Jacob Epstein, who wrote in the September 1970 issue of Harper's that "If I had the power to do so, I would wish homosexuality off the face of the Earth. I  would do so because I think it brings infinitely more pain than pleasure to those who are forced to live with it..and because, wholly selfishly, I find myself completely incapable of coming to terms with it."  

Merle Miller responded, “I am sick and tired of reading and hearing such goddamn demeaning, degrading bullshit about me and my friends."  Being homosexual" caused pain only because of bigots like Epstein.

His rebuttal received 2000 responses (back when you had to write physical letters), many positive, and was reprinted, with an afterward, in On Being Different,  the slim hardbound volume that I found on Fred's hidden bookshelf. It was republished again in 2012, with a foreward by conservative gay columnist Dan Savage.

In What it Means, a two-person play that premiered at Wilton's Music Hall in London in 2023, Miller (Richard Cant) speaks directly to the audience about "the importance of standing up for what you believe in andd taking a courageous step onto the platform that is offered to you." 

The Boy from Pittsburgh (Cayvan Coates) isn't so sure.  Coming out was not a major risk for the wealthy, famous Merle Miller.  He could just retreat to his summer home in upstate New York.  For the Boy, coming out could lead to rejection by his family, homelessness, assault, murder.  In London or Pocatello.  In 1971 or in 2022. 

Merle Miler stayed invisible.  When he died in 1986, the New York Times refused to mention his partner of 22 years, David W. Elliott (who, paradoxically, wrote a novel entitled Listen to the Silence).

LGBT people are still invisible.  How many times, in researching an actor profile, have I heard "he's every woman's fantasy" or "here's a shirtless picture for the ladies"?  Or in researching a movie, "It's about every boy's life: bullies, homework, girls."

When I was checking in at the doctor's office the other day

The Joy of Saying "Cock"

When I was a kid, the Nazarene Church prohibited us from using "the Lord's name in vain."  To the extreme.

No goddam, of course, or the word damn, except in the phrase God will damn you.  Even darn was too much.

Gosh, gee, and golly, all shortened forms of "God" and "Jesus," were forbidden.

The British term Lord was shockingly blasphemous.  I got in big trouble with my counselor at Nazarene camp for carrying around a copy of Tarzan, the Lord of the Apes:

"You're practicing idolatry!  You're worshipping a false god!  There's only one Lord!

I never tried zounds, which means "God's wounds."

God also hated words that were obscene or even risque.

The word sex could be used only as a noun: Adam was of the male sex.  Never to refer to coitus.  Instead, the preachers and Sunday school teachers always used the phrase: going to bed: "God will send you to hell for going to bed before you're married."

I can only imagine the younger kids in the congregation misinterpreting that statement and being terrified of bedtime.

You must go to the bathroom, never pee or piss.  So you might say, "I was in the bathroom, going to the bathroom."

We had a lot of fun with the King James Bible's prohibition against coveting "thy neighbor's ass," but referencing the animal was ok.  To reference a section of the anatomy, you had to say backside.  Never butt or ass.

You insulted someone by calling them sinner, heathen, or Catholic, never asshole.

You could imply that someone's parents were unmarried, but you had to use the term illegitimate, not bastard.  Although we sort of cheated with dastard.

For the frontside, you had to use the word shame, or if absolutely necessary, the technical term penis.  Never, ever cock, not even in reference to the rooster.

Once in high school Verne and I tried to joke about the rooster.
Verne:  "I have a cock at home."
Boomer: "Can I see your cock?"
Verne:  "Sure.  You can even play with my cock."

Claiming that we meant "rooster" didn't help.  We were both grounded for a week.

During my senior year in high school, tired of the restrictions and bigotry, I  started breaking away from the Church.

The guilt was heavily internalized, so it had to be gradual, skipping the Wednesday evening service and a Sunday evening service here and there, reducing the amount of money I gave during the four weekly collections, and systematically breaking the rules.  From the least to most horrifying:

1. Reading the Sunday newspaper.

2. Buying on Sunday.
3. Listening to rock music.
4. Wearing short pants in public.
5. Going bowling in an alley that served alcohol.
6. Dancing
7. Going to a movie

By the time I got to my freshman year in college, there were only a few rules left to break:

  

Drinking alcohol.  Too advanced for me.

Going to bed with a girl before marriage.  No way!

Using the Lord's name in vain.

If I said bad words, I could finally be free of the Nazarene guilt!  So I started throwing them into casual conversations with my friends, Mary and Bruce.

Gee, it's hot today.  
Golly, I don't think I can finish this pizza all by myself.

Not even an eyebrow raise.

Our goddam paper is due tomorrow!

 Only a few eyebrow raises.

Excuse me -- I have to pee.

Nope.

This class is a real pain in the ass.

 That got an eyebrow raise.

That asshole cut in front of me!

A brief stare, but no comment.

Ok, time for the ultimate of bad words, the word that horrified men and God alike.

I walked up to Bruce, and tried to say Men have c...

Nothing came out.

Again.  I looked at Bruce, he looked at me.  I said I have a big c....

"What?"

God was looking down at me.  All of the Nazarenes were watching.  It was time to take a stand.

Bruce was staring at me as if I was crazy.

In a loud, clear voice, almost a yell, I said I like to look at cocks!

He laughed.  "Me, too.  And ducks and geese and cows and horses, down on the farm.  Ok, now I have one: want to hear a dirty joke?  The boy fell in the mud!"  

Bruce didn't get it, but by saying cock in public, I was free of Nazarene guilt.  I could go through life without expecting God to strike me dead every moment.

And I had come out.

My First Pridefest...I mean, Gay Pride Parade....I mean, Gay Rights March. With Mickey Muscle.

June 1982, after my junior year at Augustana College.  Thomas, the former Episcopalian priest who I met with my ex-boyfriend Fred last year, calls to invite me to Des Moines for the annual Iowa Gay Rights March.

I have never heard of such a thing.

"We march to protest police harassment, discrimination in jobs and housing, sodomy laws, that sort of thing.  We had one last year.  It's always close to June 28th, the anniversary of the Stonewall Riots."

I have never heard of the Stonewall Riots, either.  But count me in.

The full story, with nude photos, is on RG Beefcake and Boyfriends

The Baptist Student Union: Two guys give in to temptation

Naperville, Illinois

perville, Illinois

When I finally managed to drop out of the Nazarene church, my parents told me, "You don't have to be a Nazarene, but you can't be a heathen!  Find another church to go to!"  

So I tried Presbyterian and Lutheran churches, and, during my senior year at Augustana College, the Baptist Student Fellowship.

My parents were not pleased.

Nazarenes thought that Baptists were the most evil of the "so-called Christians." At least the Lutherans were open about worshipping idols, and the Presbyterians about tearing apart the Bible, but the Baptists were almost identical to Nazarenes.

The only differences that I could see:

1. Baptism.  The Nazarene Manual mentioned baptism, but in all my years as a Nazarene, I had never seen it done. Baptists required it for everybody.

2.  "Once saved, always saved."  Nazarenes believed that after you got saved, you could backslide -- commit more sins -- and have to be saved all over again.  For Baptists, once was enough -- after you were saved, you would go to heaven no matter what you did.  

When I was a kid, the older boys at church whispered that due to "once saved, always saved," Baptists had no morals: hey would "put out" for anybody.  So if you wanted a "sure thing" on a date, ask a Baptist girl. 

What about Baptist boys?  I joined the Baptist Student Union to find out.

The full story is on RG Beefcake and Boyfriends

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.

Getting Naked with a Male Witch

Augustana College, Freshman Year

When I was a freshman at Augustana College, I knew a lot of guys who liked guys only at night, and spent their days arm-in-arm with women.  But I had never met a real, actual gay person.  There was a gay bar downtown, but I was too young to go to it. There were no gay organizations, no gay-themed movies playing at the Cineplex, no gay books in the college or public library.

But surely I couldn't be alone in all of Rock Island!  I did extensive research, interrogating my friends, making discrete inquiries of knowledgeable seniors, asking around at the radio station, and eventually got a few names.

 
A middle-school teacher who was discovered, fired, and moved away.
The manager of a flower shop who was discovered, fired, and moved away.
Peter, who attended Augustana for a few years, but was discovered and expelled.

Only Peter was still in town!

"Be careful!" My informant cautioned.  "He's not only a homo, he's a witch."  He went on to describe demons conjured with a Ouija board, pins stuck into voodoo dolls, Tarot cards, crystal balls, potions, incantations, nude rituals in the moonlight.

My Nazarene sensors went off.  Occult -- Evil! Evil! Evil!  Maybe the preacher was right -- maybe gays were all Satanic.

Nonsense!  I chided myself for my irrational fear.  Peter was the only gay person in Rock Island, and I was going to meet him, witch or not!  Near Valentine's Day, I called, said I wanted to interview him for my radio program, and got an invitation to visit.  He lived with his parents in small, normal-looking house near Longview Park.

 He was nothing like what I expected -- and nothing like this photo -- taller than me, very hairy, and quite chubby.   He had long blond hair and a blond beard that somehow made me think of Santa Claus.

We sat in his living room -- which looked perfectly normal -- and chatted about Augustana for a few minutes.  Then suddenly he said "Let's get naked!"

I hadn't said anything about being gay!  "Um...I'm not...I didn't come here for sex," I stammered.

"No, no, I didn't mean that -- frankly, you're not my type -- I just like being skyclad. Close to Mother Earth."

So we took off our clothes, and Peter told me about paganism: a religion of the Earth, older than Christianity, attuned to the spiritual dimension, and not oppressed by a lot of "thou shalt nots": "an it harm no one, do what ye wilt."

"Sounds like paganism is ok with gays."

"Not really.  The rituals are boy-girl-boy-girl. But I'm working to change all that.  There's a group out in California, the Radical Fairies, that's working to bring gay men into the Craft."

"Do you know any gay people in Rock Island?"

"A couple.  Mostly they move out to California.  It gets a little lonely."  He paused.  "How about a skyclad hug?"

I nodded.

I was enveloped in a warm, hairy bear hug.  It was not erotic, though we groped a bit.  It was like we were connecting on the spiritual plane.  Suddenly, without understanding why, I started to cry.

"I'm going to perform a spell for you," Peter said.  "It will help you find what you're looking for."  He chanted something about the God and the Goddess and blew on a small pink crystal, which he pressed to my forehead.  I left with the pink crystal and a book, Witchcraft and the Gay Counterculture, which I still have.

The spell worked.  Less than a month later, my friend Mary invited me to visit her family for spring break, and try to determine if her teenage brother was gay.  And  before I graduated from Augustana, I met a number of gay people: a student preacher, an ex-priest with a pushy mom, a bookstore manager, an d little-person postal worker.

During the 1990s, Peter was a guiding force behind the Radical Faeries, and instrumental in opening the pagan movement to LGBT persons.  Renamed Sparky T. Rabbit, he became a nationally recognized writer, singer, chanter, storyteller, pagan activist, gay activist, fairy, and bear.   He died on July 9, 2014.

See also: Tony Cavalero's Magick, with a nude neopagan bonus

What Made Sandy a #10

When I was an undergraduate at Augustana College (1978-82), boy-girl dating was pushed even more dramatically than in high school.

It was no longer a way of achieving prestige; it was serious business.  Men needed wives for career success, to escort to office parties and demonstrate their "family man" stability.  Women needed husbands to finance their club activities and to give them children. And we had to seal the deal before graduation.

So every conversation with peers, parents, and professors involved "what girl are you interested in?", and every Tuesday night brought a flurry of phone calls as boys asked girls for weekend dates, with the subtext: "I want to evaluate you as a potential wife."

I had figured "it" out just after my high school graduation, and had a live-in boyfriend during my sophomore year, but, still, I was in no way excused.  I heard a constant "What girl do you like?", and every Tuesday night, "What girl will you call?"

I didn't want to date any girl, but I really had no choice.  You did not come out to anyone in small-town Illinois in the 1980s, ever.

Unfortunately, girls were evaluated solely on their physical attractiveness.  I knew a few basic rules: fat or short hair should elicit "Ugh!  Gross!", and slim with long hair "Wow, she's hot!"  Blonde should garner more enthusiasm than other hair colors.    But I simply could not distinguish between, say, the attractiveness of Barbara and Julie on One Day at a Time,  or Sabrina and Kelly on Charlie's Angels.  

Boys at Augustana were evaluated on the basis of their future wealth, power, and prestige.

10:  Fratboys were always "10," taking absolute precedence over everyone else.  It didn't matter what they looked like or whether they had the personality of an ass.  Any girl would drop a long-term boyfriend instantly just for the prospect of getting a coke in the Student Union with a fratboy.

7 to 9: Gold mine majors, like business and computer science, which would lead to mega-buck jobs.

4 to 6: Practical majors, like social work or psychology, which would lead to good, stable jobs. Dateable if no gold mine majors or  fratboys had asked you out for several weeks in a row.

1 to 3: Head case majors, fit only for lunatics who wanted to starve to death, like English and history.  Dateable if no one higher up had asked you out for several months in a row.






You could move up for one or more of: a car, an off-campus apartment, disco skill, a wild--and-crazy personality, an arrest record, a Robert Redford smile, a Sylvester Stallone physique,  an awe-inspiring penis, or if you were Jewish (I don't know why).

But you would move down for one or more of:  a part-time job, an interest in science fiction or fantasy, goody-goody morals, a clock-stopping face, a shy-and-quiet personality, a fat belly, facial hair, glasses, or a "Danish dick" (pipsqueak-sized).

And during your senior year, when you were getting desperate, everyone moved up a level.

I was majoring in English (head case) and Modern Languages (practical), I had a part-time job, an interest in science fiction, and goody-goody morals (I didn't drink or use drugs), but also a car, a physique, and a penis.  So I figured that I was a #5.

One day a female friend pointed out a boy who rated #10: Sandy, who I knew from my Renaissance history class.

Wait -- he was a history major (head case), tall and hulking, with black hair, a nondescript face, and a nondescript physique.  A little belly.  Wearing glasses.  He should be down around #1, undatable.  What pushed him up to #10?

She wouldn't tell me.

So I asked Sandy to "hang out" and did some sleuthing.

I had to pick him up at the dorm.

No car.  No apartment.

We got pizza at Alfano's, where getting him to talk was like pulling teeth.

No wild-and-crazy personality.

 Then he insisted that we go to the Cave to "look for girls."  I hated dancing and "looking for girls," but I agreed.

No John Travolta disco moves.

A bad boy with an arrest record?

No.

He got a little tipsy -- ok, a lot tipsy -- which put him around #1 in my book (I hate drunks)!

Our quest "to meet girls" proved fruitless, so he asked me to take him home.  I had to actually help him up to his dorm room!

I hate drunks, but this might prove fruitful.  I might get a blow job out of it, or at least a grope.

I helped Sandy undress and lie down on bed.  When I moved to climb into bed with him, he brushed me away.  But I managed to slide down his underwear and take a peek before leaving.

Enormous!  A fire hose.  A Swedish salami.  Big enough to push him up from #1 to #10.

And Jewish.

Adam and I Sleep Together, Sort Of

Madison, Wisconsin, July 1981

When I was in college in the early 1980s, gay people were never mentioned in class or on the quad.  They never appeared on tv or in movies.  There may have been a few gay people around, but they never came out willingly.  To find them, you had to look for clues.

How about Adam Horowitz, manager of the Student Union bookstore?  You never saw him with a girl.  When pressed, he claimed to be in love with an icy Hitchcockian blonde, but gave no more details.

Of course, you never saw him with a boy, either.   We had a "date" in March 1981, with a thwarted kiss under the Bell Tower,  but that was the only time I saw him away from his counter in the bookstore.

Until the summer of 1981,  when the Film Club took a road trip to Madison, Wisconsin, about 3 hours away, for an Italian Film Festival, two days of Fellini, Antonioni, Pasolini, and Zeffirelli. Though Adam wasn’t a member, not even a student, he asked if he could tag along. The president gave her eager consent, obviously planning an aggressive seduction – she was a senior, with less than a year until graduation, and landing a mature “older man” who owned his own business would trump even a Fratboy.  But Adam ignored her and spent all of his time with me.

On Saturday night, after Pasolini’s Canterbury Tales, we had a late dinner at a Mexican restaurant called Casa de Lara, and then the others suggested that we drop into the nearby Whiskey River Saloon for a beer – but I wasn’t 21 yet, and besides, I was still too Nazarene to stomach such places. As I weighed my choices, enduring the disgusting hospital smell of a saloon or being abandoned on the street, Adam wrapped a paternal arm around my shoulders and pushed us off into the night.



We strolled jauntily through the crowds on State Street, talking of Pasolini and then of  A Many Colored Land by Julian May, which had just been published to delirious acclaim among science fiction fans. We browsed through a record store and a hippie bookstore, where I bought a copy of Allen Ginsburg’s long beat poem Howl.

When we finally arrived at the hotel room that four of us were sharing,  Adam did endless sit-ups in his underwear while I lay atop his bed, watching.

"How should we arrange this?" I asked.

"What?"

"The...um...sleeping arrangements."  My face began to burn. "Um...maybe we should bunk together.  Then Bruce and Lars won't wake us up when they come in.”

“They’ll probably be back any minute, though."

“It'll be easier," I insisted.

 "I guess."  We climbed into bed.  Adam pulled the covers up only as far as his waist, so if I glanced casually over I could see his belly, hard and flat and xylophone-ribbed, his thick chest just brushed with hair, his heavy, blue-veined arms and shoulders. He continued to talk, desperately, of underground comix and Scrooge McDuck and Isaac Asimov and The Prisoner, while I waited, so close that I could feel the heat from his skin.

"Did you know that Allen Ginsberg is gay?"  I interrupted.

Adam turned on his side, so he was facing away from me.  "No, I didn't.  Well, goodnight."  He turned off the light.  And, a moment later, Bruce and Lars arrived, rowdy and joking.


Adam permitted some touching and fondling during the night, but attempting anything more got me rudely shoved away.  I couldn't tell if Adam was inhibited because Bruce and Lars were in the next bed, because I wasn't his type, or because he was straight, so I gave up.  And next day, after Pasolini's Arabian Nights, we drove back to Rock Island.

Later in the summer, Adam went to a comic book convention in Chicago, where he met and fell in love with a graduate student in art history from Ohio State University.  He returned to pack some things and lock up his bookstore -- the college later sold the stock cheap and turned it into a tv lounge -- and move to Columbus, without ever naming his...girlfriend?  boyfriend?  or using a pronoun.  I got one postcard, stating how deliriously happy he was.  And then silence.

Internet research reveals that Adam is now a newspaper editor in a small town in the Midwest, still deeply involved in comic book fandom, and...gay, straight, bi?  Asexual?  I still don't know.

People of our generation were trained to keep silent.  I imagine Adam is sitting in his newspaper office right now, thinking "Was Boomer gay, straight, bi?  Asexual?"


See also: Kissing Adam at the Bell Tower.

Jump Quiz: The Nazarene Sport of Bibles and Butts

Rock Island, October 1978

When I was growing up in the Church of the Nazarene, most of the high school boys and a few girls competed in the jump quiz.

They announced the book of the Bible every year during summer camp, and we started preparing immediately, memorizing verses, quizzing each other, and doing set after set of lunges, squats, kickbacks, and leg-lifts.

This was a strenuous sport!

The local eliminations were held in October.  The quizmaster began a question, and the moment you though you could answer, you jumped up out of your seat.  No hands -- leg and butt movement only.

With 20 questions per round, and 4 or more rounds per tournament, you needed really strong quads, hamstrings, and glutes.

If more than one contestant jumped up, the coach decided whose butt cleared the chair first.

That's right -- an adult man  had the job of staring intently at the butts of high school boys (and a few girls).

The top five players became our church's Jump Quiz Team, and went on to the District tournament in January. 

The Regionals were in March, the Nationals in June, and Internationals in July. Plus there were invitationals along the way  And trophies, prizes, pictures in church magazines, fawning invitations to parties, and even requests for autographs.

I had bad luck with the jump quiz.  In 9th grade, District interfered with a wrestling tournament, and I picked wrestling.

In 10th grade, my grandmother died, and we had to be in Indiana during the locals.  

In 11th grade, I got sick, and missed District.

In 12th grade, my jerk of a boss at the Carousel Snack Bar forced me to mop out the store room, thus missing District again!

But I was becoming disillusioned with the Nazarene Church anyway.  The Preacher had discovered homa-sekshuls, and was blaming them for everything from droughts to divorce.  And I was tired of the long list of nos: NO movies NO dancing NO cards NO comic books NO eating out on Sunday NO theater...

I couldn't drop out all at once, with my parents still going, and the church police knocking on your door after every absence.  So I started out skipping the evening services, then occasional Sunday morning services.  During my freshman year at Augustana, I was skipping most services, and usually Sunday school, too.

So I was surprised when the Preacher called one evening and asked me to coach the jump quiz.

"Um...why me?  I have a pretty poor jump quiz record."

"But you were on the team four years in a row, and you have lots of valuable skills. NYPS President, International Institute, wrestling team, athletic trainer..." He was apparently reading from a list.  "And I heard you're taking Biblical Greek at that Lutheran college, so you'll really be able to get into the Scripture with the kids."

"But...I haven't been coming to church much lately."

"Maybe this is just what you need to bring you back to the Lord."

So that was his game -- conversion through coaching!

"Besides, won't you feel good knowing that you're making a difference in a boy's life?  Why, your influence might be the only thing that protects him from turning into a homa-sekshul."

My face began to burn. "Well, when you put it that way, how can I refuse?"

So during my freshman year at Augustana, I returned to the Nazarene Church once a week to drill high school boys on the Book of Luke, and lead them in set after set of lunges, squats, kickbacks, and leg-lifts.

Sometimes we met at the YMCA swimming pool, for water resistance training, so I was forced to check out the athletes in swimsuits (don't worry, they were only two or three years younger than me).

During the local elimination, I had to keep my eye on their butts, of course.

We didn't make it to State.

The next year, I was in Germany during the fall semester, but I was back in time for the District tournament in January.  I was dating Fred, so my boyfriend was in the audience while I kept my eye on the butts of high school boys to ensure that they didn't turn into homa-sekshuls.

We didn't make it to State.

My Boyfriend Goes to Bed with the Baseball Player

Rock Island, June 1979

I've been putting off the story of Carl the Nazarene boy, because it's kind of embarrassing.

He was one of my brother Kenny's friends, a 16-year old sophomore at Rocky High (all models in the nude photos are over 18) .  I had seen him around, and talked to him a few times, but we didn't start dating until Kenny invited him over for a party on May 25th, 1979, the summer after my first year at Augustana College.

He was short, with a round baby face, wavy brown hair, dark brown eyes, a smooth pale chest, and slim abs with an outtie belly button.

Obviously too young for me: I was in college, a mature adult, and he was still a "little boy."  It would be social suicide if anyone at Augustana saw me hanging out him, even if they didn't think we were gay.

But he was cute, and very enthusiastic, and besides, how many gay guys had I met during the year since I figured "it" out?  Two, and neither of them wanted to date me.  You take what you can get.

As it turns out, we started dating at the worst possible moment: the Friday before Memorial Day Weekend.

 I had a trip to Colombia and a week in Indiana coming up, and he had a family vacation to Minnesota and a week at Nazarene summer camp.

So between May 28th and the end of July, we had three "dates," but really sort of hookups.

1. Swimming at Longview Park Pool (with Kenny along as a chaperone).  Afterwards we went upstairs to our bedroom to change clothes.  Kenny finished quickly, but Carl and I dawdled so we could have some time alone for kissing and fondling.  Carl was just starting to go down on me when Kenny called up "You guys want ice cream?"

2. Carl and I sat together in church, and then he came over for Sunday dinner.  Afterwards we went up to my office, got naked, and kissed and fondled, and I went down on him.   But it was uncomfortably hot, so we ended up just beating each other off.


Finally I asked Carl out on a real date.  Unfortunately, he was a Johnny Nazarene, strictly devout in spite of the preacher who screamed about "homa-sekshuls" in every sermon, so:
No movies
No theater
No bowling
No restaurants that served alcohol
No Quad City Angels baseball game (they had beer).

3. Our date consisted of broasted chicken at Mulkey's and then parking on the levee to watch the sunset over the Mississippi.  We made out and fondled each other through our clothes, and when it got dark Carl went down on me.

This wasn't working.  I wanted to hold Carl in my arms, feel his head against my chest, cuddle with him all night.  I wanted us to sleep together, like I used to do with Bill, but with full knowledge that we were boyfriends, that this was "real."


How to get him into my bed?

"Could you host a sleepover next weekend?" I asked Kenny.

"I'm sixteen," he said gruffly.  "I'll be a junior in the fall."

Sleepover were common in grade school, our main social event: four or five boys,with your brother invited by default.  They became increasingly uncommon in junior high, and they generally ended by high school.  But not always...

"You can still have them in high school, for sort of nostalgia.  Invite your old friends.  It will be fun."

"Hey, I practically had to pay you to get to have my last sleepover!"  Kenny exclaimed.  "Why are you so hot to have one now?"

"Well, you could invite Carl, and then..."

"You're not going to do weird gay sex stuff in front of a bunch of normal guys, are you?"

"No, of course not.  Well, maybe a little, after everybody is asleep.  But we'll be able to kiss and cuddle under the covers, like boyfriends."

"Who knew that homos like to kiss?  I thought you were all about the dick."

"Well, dicks, too, of course, but kissing, cuddling, all of that romantic stuff."

"Ok, ok, you don't need to draw me a picture."  He patted my shoulder.  "I wouldn't dream of standing in the way of two homos in love!  Don't worry, I'll give you your gay make-out sleepover. "

So Kenny invited four of his friends over Saturday night for a sort of "ironic" sleepover:
1. Carl
2. Todd, his best friend.
3. Marshall, who was at his last sleepover, a baseball player with a stunning physique and bulge to match.
4. Pete, a sports nut who was Marshall's best friend.

A few days before the sleepover, Marshall broke his leg sliding into home at a baseball game.  He would be in a wheelchair for 10 days, and then crutches for two months.

"Mom and Dad said I should cancel," he told Kenny.  "I can't play a lot of rough games, and I can't climb the stairs to your room."

"Don't be stupid," Kenny said.  "We can't have the sleepover without you.  We'll just play games that you don't need legs for, and carry you up and down the stairs.  It will be fine."

"But I also need to keep my leg elevated at night, so I have to sleep with a special attachment to my bed."

"We can get that!  No problem at all."

So we carried the fold-out bed from the basement to our attic room, and installed the special rise.

Carl in my bed all night!  Cuddling, kissing, our chests pressed together, my legs wrapped around him!  I couldn't wait.

Saturday night we used the living room instead of the basement rec room.  We played Risk and Trivial Pursuit and watched Chuck Acri's Creature Feature.

I noticed that Carl was being very helpful to Marshall, bringing him sodas, helping him maneuver in his wheelchair, but I didn't think anything of it.  He was just being nice.

He was sitting next to me on the couch, after all, and we were sharing the same bowl of popcorn.

When it was time for bed, Kenny and I helped Marshall up the stairs to our attic room.

"I hope you did all the bathroom business you need for the night," Kenny joked.  "I'm not carrying you downstairs again."

The best part of every sleepover was deciding who got the beds, and who got the sleeping bags on the floor.  But this time there were three beds, mine, Kenny's, and the fold-out bed for Marshall, so no one would get the floor.

"Ok, Todd goes with Kenny," I said.  "Who's going with Marshall?"  Obviously Pete, since Carl would be in my bed, but I didn't want to make it obvious that we were a couple.

Then out of nowhere Carl said "I'll go with him."

My face started to burn.  I felt like I had been kicked in the stomach.  "Huh?  But...you..."

"I've never slept on a fold-out bed before," he said with a grin.  "It will be fun."

I glanced at Kenny, who was staring open-mouthed.  "Don't you want to...." he began.

"Don't I want to what?"  Carl asked, blinking innocently.

He was my boyfriend!  The whole point of this sleepover is to give us a chance to sleep together!

But of course I couldn't say anything as he took off his shirt and pants and climbed into bed next to Marshall.  Pete, meanwhile, stripped down and climbed in bed next to me.  Kenny shrugged and turned off the light.

I've thought a thousand times about what I should have done.  I've replayed a thousand scenarios in my head.

But I was eighteen years old, still an adolescent, and completely new to all of this, so what actually happened was:

I never spoke to Carl again.

See also: The Juvenile Delinquent's Bare Butt; My Little Brother's Friend is Gay