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).

Why Dad Was Proud of Me for Watching TV

When I was in kindergarten, first, and second grade, we lived in Racine, Wisconsin.  I have only a few memories from that period: going to the beach a few blocks from our house, going to the zoo, marrying the boy next door, my second grade teacher making me stand in the corner for refusing to square dance (she wouldn't believe that it was forbidden for Nazarenes, and at the age of 7 I was in no position to ask the preacher to telephone her).

And a very weird memory of my Dad being proud of me for watching a children's tv program.

Dad was in his late 20s, just out of the Navy, rather athletic, an avid swimmer (no, this isn't a picture of him), a stalwart Democrat and an avid Nazarene.  He worked on the assembly line at the J. I. Case Company, a job he would keep for the next 30 years.

The memory is vague:  Dad is sitting on the couch, half reading the newspaper, half snoozing, so he must have just gotten home from work, around 4:00 pm.  My brother and I are watching tv.  

Mom comes in from the kitchen and asks "What do you want to watch now?  Romper Room?"

"No," I say.  "The Land of Ziggy Zaggy."

Dad looks up.  "Ziggy Zaggy?  What kind of kookie show is that?"

Mom changes the channel, and we see a woman walking onto the stage, singing about the mystical land.

Dad laughs.  "Ok, I get it now!  You're starting early, just like your old dad!  A chip off the old block!  Come up here and sit by me."

I sit on the couch, and he puts his arm around me.  I'm thrilled.  Dad is usually kind of critical,but today I'm a chip off the old block!  I did something right, something that made him proud of me. But what?

50 years later, I don't remember anything about the show except for a woman singing "The land of Ziggy Zaggy," but after a few internet searches on various variations (zaggo, zongi, zuggi), I found it:

It was a local Chicago children's program, The Land of Ziggy Zoggo. Also called The Nancy Berg Show,   after the host.   Short lived, 1963-65.  We only moved to Racine in the summer of 1965, so I must have watched a few episodes at the end of the run.

There's a full episode on youtube.  Very amateurish, painted backdrop for a set, only one performer.  Three sketches, about 5 minutes each.

1. Miss Nancy visits a Middle Eastern land, where she meets a Go-Go Genie (herself) selling magic carpets in a parody of talky used-car salespeople.  She buys the carpet, kicking herself for being conned, but it works.  She then flies through the clouds while singing. 

2. The kimono-clad Miss Sukayaki (Nancy again), with a stereotyped "Ah so" accent, goofs up the  "ancient Japanese custom of flower arrangement." 

3. Miss Nancy flies a balloon to the African jungle to show film footage of various animals: a rhinocerous, a lion, a leopard.

No beefcake, no buddy-bonding, actually no male characters, but the exotic locations must have been appealing to me as a kindergartner.  And maybe the hint of social satire: you may get conned by a fast-talking salesperson.

But why was Dad so pleased?  Why was I "starting early" and a "chip off the block" for wanting to watch The Land of Ziggy Zoggo?

Easy.  He thought that I, at the age of 4 1/2, was lusting after Miss Nancy's bosom.  

Our Search for the Gayest Place in America

San Francisco, June 1996

After dropping out of USC in 1989, I worked as an editor at the Getty Consternation Institute, a juvenile probation officer, an architectural assistant, and a freelance writer.  But I really liked academe, so I planned to return to grad school and get a Ph.D. in a field of the social sciences, history, anthropology, or sociology.

Of course, I could only go to grad school in a city with a strong gay neighborhood.  The list of cities with strong gay neighborhoods and strong graduate schools was short: Atlanta, Austin, Boston, Chicago, Columbus, Minneapolis, New Orleans, New York, Philadelphia, and of course Los Angeles and San Francisco.

In the summer of 1996, I made plans to visit them.

To my surprise, my boyfriend/ex-boyfriend Lane, who had wimped out on San Francisco to move back to West Hollywood, offered to come with me.  "I could use a change," he said.  "And who knows? We might find a town that's gayer than West Hollywood."

So we took a Grand Tour, looking for the gayest towns in America.

Days 1-2: Chicago (U. of Chicago and Northwestern).  The City of Big Shoulders and non-nonsense men.  Boystown, the first gay neighborhood I ever visited, back in 1983.  Man's Country was still there, plus The Cellblock, the Sweat Lodge, the Jackhammer.  The only dark room I've seen in the U.S.  Plus private parties, biker runs, bear clubs, even a gay nudist group.

Cruising has never been easier.  We met a tall, gruff bear with a short beard, a little belly, and a shaved Kielbasa beneath the belt, And a cute 30-ish film producer with a long Bratwurst.

"You'd never get any studying done," Lane complained.  "Too many distractions."

Days 3-4. Columbus (Ohio State).  German Village, near downtown, a gentrified neighborhood of small shops, boutiques, restaurants.  Gay presence, but not as strong as what we were used to.

The Book Loft, a "32 room book sale," almost sealed the deal for me.

In 2005 I would be moving to Dayton, an hour's drive away.

Days 5-6. Boston (Boston U. and Harvard).  Ok, my chances of getting into Harvard were nil, but I couldn't resist walking around the quads and cruising the crazy Harvard boys.

The gay neighborhood centered around Boyston Street, in the Back Bay.  A lot of bars and restaurants, but small, cramped, impossible to find your way around.

We met a Ecuadorian twink with pomaded hair, a slim muscular physique, and a cut Bratwurst.  Very nice, but not enough to seal the deal.

Days 7-8. New York (NYU and Long Island U.)  This was my first time in New York.  It was fascinating seeing all the places I knew from literature and film, and from Seinfeld: 42nd Street, Time Square, Greenwich Village, Central Park.

The Village is the best documented gay neighborhood in the world, the subject of countless histories and biographies.  Gay Liberation was born here.  During the 1970s and 1980s, a group of writers called the Violet Quill wrote a dozen novels set here.

And the twinks were everywhere! We met a Columbia University undergrad with blond hair and a tight smooth physique.

I loved it.  But Lane said "It's all about history.  It's a place to come from, not move to."



More after the break.

My First Bath House

Rock Island, June 3, 1983

I'm 22 years old, home from grad school in Bloomington, along with my friend Viju.  We've seen most of the sights in the Quad Cities, and I'm running out of ideas.

"We could go to the Amana Colonies, or to Starved Rock State Park...."

"You know what I always wanted to do?" Viju says.  "Go to a gay ghetto!"

I knew the term from The Advocate.  A neighborhood, a place where gay people can live in freedom, not hiding,   With bookstores stocking only gay-themed books!  Community centers!  Organizations!  Gay people walking hand in hand down the street!

According to The Advocate, there are seven gay ghettos in the U.S., in San Francisco, Los Angeles, New York, Philadelphia, Boston, Houston, and -- Chicago -- the nearest big city to Rock Island, about three hours away.

June 4th, 11:00 am

Viju and I take Interstate 80 to the 94, get off at the Loop, and drive up Lake Shore Drive to the North Side, to a sliver of streets between Clark and Broadway that our Gayellow Pages tells us is clustered with gay places.

We check into our hotel and walk around.  It's a little disappointing.  No gay couples walking hand-in-hand, or newsstands cluttered with gay magazines, or...well, anything.  It looks like a standard suburban neighborhood with small shops, restaurants, gas stations, a drug store. A lot of male-female couples.

You have to look carefully to see the gay presence.  Same-sex couples walk in pairs, close together but not touching.  Young single men are walking dogs, buying groceries, jogging.  

There are bars with closeted names: My Brother's Place, Closet, Carol's Speakeasy.

I want to go into Yosemite, which has a placard outside with  Yosemite Sam pointing a phallic gun in the air.

"Who is that?" Viju asks.  "Is he gay?"

"He's a cartoon character, one of my childhood icons.  On the placard of a gay bar!"  The gay and straight worlds are so complete separate, with such impermeable boundaries, that it is shocking to see an icon of one in the other, like seeing a unicorn on Main Street.

"Sounds stupid.  We'll go to another bar, something hotter, like the Glory Hole."

12:00 pm

It's too early for the bars, so we have lunch at Hamburger Mary's, a restaurant listed in The Gayellow Pages.  It has a picture of a big-breasted woman on the placard, but inside it's crowded with young buffed men, many reading Gay Chicago magazine.

Then we go to Gay Horizons, a community center, actually a small storefront.  There are fliers about AIDS support groups, drug and alcohol support groups, a political club, the Metropolitan Community Church, a gay synagogue, clubs for runners and square-dancers!

I grab Viju's arm.  This is amazing!  A year ago, I had no idea that any gay organizations existed except for bars.  This is a whole gay world, open, out there, only slightly closeted.

Of course, none of the groups meet on Saturday afternoon.  

2:00 pm

Seven hours until the bars get busy.

"Let's go to the Museum of Science and Industry," I suggest.

"No!  We came to see a gay ghetto, and that's what we're going to do."

"But there's nothing open on Saturday afternoons."

"Here --"  he showed me the listing in The Gayellow Pages.  "Man's Country.  A bathhouse, open 24 hours."

I read about bathhouses in gay novels.  "No way!  They're dangerous.  Old guys grab you while you're sleeping."

"So who says we'll be sleeping?"

It's an older 2-story building on Clark Street, far north of the gay ghetto, almost in Evanston.  We pay for two lockers and go through a green door into a vast expanse of black and chrome, dimly lit, with a musky smell.  

2:30 pm

We take off our clothes, wrap towels around our waists, and walk through a maze of small cabana rooms.  Some of the doors are open; we peer inside at guys with their penises or butts in the air, waiting.

Therer's a sauna, a steam room, a small gym, and a room with glory holes.  Guys in towels kissing and going down on each other.  A couple doing anal while a crowd watches.

2:45 pm

An older guy -- way old, probably in his forties, with a hairy chest and beard -- is receiving oral sex from a kid our age.  Viju and I watch.  Suddenly the Kid reaches out, pushes my towel aside, and goes down on me, then both of us in turn.   Hairy Chest pulls Viju close and kisses and fondles him.  

When Hairy Chest finishes, he walks off without a word.  The Kid stands and walks off, too.  

I glance at Viju.  "Not a lot of conversation, is there?"

3:00 pm

I say "hello" to a very young guy, college age or younger, sitting by himself in the lounge.  He says "I'm resting."

3:15 pm

In the steam room, I go down on two guys without learning either of their names.  While I'm working on the second,  an anonymous hand starts fondling me from behind.  I turn and say "Hi!" to a buffed blond in his 30s.

He looks flustered and walks away.

"What's the point of being around a bunch of gay men if you never talk to any of them?" I say in a loud, angry voice. I stomp out.  Viju, who has been working on a thickly muscled Hispanic guy, follows.

"Do you want to go?"

I put my arm around him.  "No.  I came here to meet guys, and I'm going to meet some."

"Maybe they're just here for sex, not talking."

"Well, I'm not leaving until I have a conversation with someone."

3:30 pm

I lower myself into the hot tub, where two middle-aged men are chatting, and introduce myself.  They give me bar-style Attitude.

3:45 pm

I go to the front desk, where an older guy is browsing among the sex toys and lubricants for sale.  He's in his 30s, very muscular, with a hard smooth chest and a military-style buzz cut.

"Hi, I'm Boomer, from Rock Island."

"I'm resting," he says without looking up.

"Me, too.  But my friend and I are visiting, and I was wondering if you could recommend a nice bar?'"

"That depends on what you're into.  Leather, bears, twinks, hustlers?"  

"A bar where you can actually sit down and have a conversation with someone."

"Oh, a piano bar!"  He glances at me, smiling.  "You don't look old enough to be a daddy.  Let me give you a taste of the real Chicago.  You and your friend meet me here at 9:00."  He writes an address down on a slip of paper.  "My name is Mike, by the way."

The address he gives is for Yosemite.  It turns out to be a cowboy bar, actually named after the park.

10:00 pm

Yes, we did go home with Mike, but I don't remember much about the bedroom activity.  My biggest memory is seeing a cartoon character from my childhood in the gay world. 

See also: The Shy Boy at the Bathhouse; Three Days of Cruising in Chicago

An Unsolved Murder and Two Super-Hung Redheads

When I was growing up in Rock Island, I often heard about the biggest unsolved murder in Chicago history.  It appeared in "Spooky Chicago" television pieces every Halloween, and in newspaper articles on the anniversary.  We discussed it in the schoolyard, even in class.

When I moved to West Hollywood, I often told the story, along with the story of my meeting with Mark Percy in 1977.  But then something weird happened.













Kenilworth, Illinois, September 17th, 1966

Charles H. Percy, wealthy industrialist, president of Bell and Howell Electronics, was running for the U.S. Senate.  On the night of September 17th, he and his wife and three of his six children went to a campaign fundraiser.  His daughter Valerie, age 21, a recent graduate of Cornell University, refused dates with two boys and stayed home.  Everyone was in bed by midnight.

Winward, their sprawling mansion in the Chicago suburb of Kenilworth, was silent and peaceful for the next five hours.  But about 5:00 am, the family, including ten-year old Mark, awakened to the sound of muffled screams.  They ran into Valerie's bedroom to see a stranger bent over her.  He fled, leaving nothing behind but a bloody palm print and a glove.

Valerie had been stabbed 14 times.

Was it a burglary attempt?  A mob intimidation that went wrong?  A jilted lover seeking revenge?


The killer used a glass cutter to get in through a downstairs window and went directly to Valerie's room.  He was targeting Valerie, not Charles.  AND he knew his way around the house.

He walked past a room where two dogs were sleeping.  They didn't bark.  It was someone they knew.

The FBI interviewed 10,000 people, including 1,226 suspects, but the killer was never apprehended, and no motive was ever discovered.

Charles Percy won the election and served as senator from Illinois from 1967 to 1985.  He was named a presidential possibility in 1968 and 1972.







Chicago, May 1977

During my junior year in high school, I was applying to West Point, and needed recommendations from a U.S. Senator or Representative.  I had already contacted Representative Tom Railsback, but just to be on the safe side, I called Charles Percy's office in Chicago.

He wasn't there, but his son Mark offered to meet with Dad and me.  He even took us out to lunch at an Italian restaurant.

22 years old, a tall redhead with a broad, open face, Mark had just graduated from Stanford, and was on his way to Yale for a M.B.A.

I was very nervous, both because I was trying not to think about the murder, and because Mark was incredibly cute.  I couldn't take my eyes off him.

We chatted about Star Wars and my interest in Arabic, and, I think, shared a cruising moment.  He promised that he would ask his dad for the recommendation.

When I told the story in West Hollywood later, I turned it into a full hookup at Winward, with a tour of the murder room, and gave Mark an enormous Mortadella+.

After getting his MBA, Mark became president of his father's compay, Charles Percy and Associates.  He now lives in Newport Beach, California.

Here's where it gets weird.

San Francisco, July 2013

I'm visiting my friend David in San Francisco.  He brings in one of his friends to share: James, mid-twenties, slim, black haired, a short beard, who graduated from Stanford with degrees in Computer Science and Arabic, with the idea of working for the Department of Homeland Security, but then came out and is working in a library.

"That sounds like my life!" I exclaim.  I tell him about applying to West Point, and my interviews with Tom Railsback and Mark Percy, son of the U.S. Senator, who had an enormous Mortadella+ and now lived in California.

"Percy?" he repeats. "I dated a guy with the last name Percy when I was at Stanford. A cute redhead with an enormous Mortadella+, just like Mark."

"Weird coincidence.  I wonder if it's his son?"

We do a quick google.  James' Percy turns out to be Mark's nephew, a 2007 Stanford graduate now working for Microsoft.

So a guy I hooked up with in San Francisco in 2013 dated the nephew of a guy I cruised in Chicago in 1977, who was a witness to an unsolved murder that I heard about all the time in the 1960s.

Sooner or later, everyone you know will hook up with everyone else you know.

See also: Arabic and Class Rings; Zack Hooks Up with the King of Sweden

My Ex-Boyfriend Hooks Up with the President's Son

Claremont, California, August 1988

My ex-boyfriend Fred has just moved to California to study at the Claremont School of Theology, about 40 miles east of West Hollywood, along with his boyfriend Matt, a twink who is very cute and very well hung, but crazy as a loon.  Alan, Thanh, Will the Bondage Boy, and two other guys whose names I don't remember descend upon them for a housewarming party.

We have Vietnamese spring rolls in rice paper,  bánh bao   (meat rolls), and lemongrass chicken, plus a fruit salad for dessert.

After dinner Matt becomes the "entertainment," stripping, gyrating on our laps, and going down on me and Alan before Fred angrily tells him to cool it.  Then we sit around telling stories about the biggest penises we've been with, dates from hell, and hookups with celebrities.

Everyone in West Hollywood had a good celebrity dating story or two.  Alan tells about Scott Baio.  Will the Bondage Boy tells about Keanu Reeves.  My real-life celebrity boyfriend isn't famous enough to wow anyone, so I tell about Michael J. Fox, with our innocent hug at lunchtime transformed into a wild night of sexual excess.

Fred sits silent.  No one really expects him to have a story -- where will he meet anyone, spending his life in the Midwest?  We're not judging him on his lack, we're trying to entice him with tales of the joys of living in West Hollywood.  Who knows, tomorrow he might run into Tom Cruise at the Gold Coast!

Then Matt tells us about how, as a freshman at Harvard, he spent the night with Bronson Pinchot, the androgynous star of Perfect Strangers (1986-1993).  He does the "don't be ridiculous!" Myposian accent perfectly, although Bronson Pinchot doesn't really talk that way.

Suddenly, in a weird accusatory tone, Fred says "Well, I can top that.  In fact, the first guy I ever topped was Ronnie Reagan Junior!"

The room becomes silent.  We all stare.

Everybody knows that the evil President Reagan, sworn enemy of gay people, tireless fighter against gay rights, has a gay son -- a tall, thin, svelte ballet dancer!  What an embarrassment to the blathering homophobe!  Three weeks after he was elected in 1980, Reagan forced Ronnie to closet himself with a sham marriage.

But no one in West Hollywood has ever claimed to have dated or hooked up with him.  Maybe because he doesn't live in Los Angeles, so you wouldn't run into him on the street.  Or because in order to mention Ronnie you'd have to mention his father, the most hated person in the gay world, sure to put a damper on any party.

Chicago, Summer 1979

Fred was 26 years old, a student at McCormick Theological Seminary preparing for his "internship" year at a church in Rock Island.  He had been with a few guys before, but only oral and 69.  He wanted to "go all the way," top someone, but  he was very well hung, and everyone balked at his size.

He needed to find an experienced guy, and what better place than a bathhouse?

Man's Country was packed that night, all ages from twink to geezer, all shapes from svelte to superchub.  Fred had a few guys go down on him, and kissed and fondled a few others, before he saw Ronnie sitting by himself in the sauna-- in his early 20s, tall and svelte, with a long handsome face, sleepy eyes, a tight, smooth chest, and an average sized penis.

They kissed and fondled, and then went to Ronnie's cubicle.  Ronnie went down on Fred and then Fred turned him over onto his stomach.

"Wait -- I've never done anal before," Ronnie said.

Fred was looking for someone experienced, but it would be impolite to leave now.  "Me, neither.  I'll try to take it easy."

Ronnie stood and knelt over the bed.  Fred spat on his penis and pushed it in slowly.  Ronnie groaned but didn't protest.  He began thrusting, slowly at first, then more vigorously, while fondling Ronnie's back and shoulders and penis. Soon Ronnie started working on himself.  They finished at almost the same moment, wiped off with a towel, and then collapsed onto the bed for a long kiss.

"Wow, that was great!" Ronnie exclaimed.  "I should have been doing this a long time ago!"

"It didn't hurt?"

"Not much.  You knew exactly what to do."

They exchanged telephone numbers, as one does, but didn't call, and a few weeks later, Fred moved to the Quad Cities for his ministerial internship. He met Boomer, his first real boyfriend, in December.

Fred didn't know who Ronnie was at the time.  The presidential campaign hadn't started yet, and he had barely heard of Ronald Reagan, the governor of California.  It wasn't until the following summer that he realized that he had topped Reagan's son.

"So," Thanh says, "Don't keep us waiting.  Show us the penis that the guys in Chicago couldn't take."

Fred unzips and takes it out.

"Very nice."

"Very nice?" Matt exclaims, as if he's personally offended. "Is that all?  The length, the shape, the...the circonférence? Merveilleux!  Like no other man!  You just have to see it aroused, to get the full effect.  I'll show you."  He kneels and starts going down on Fred.

Was Fred Telling the Truth?

Ron Reagan was indeed living in Chicago in 1979, but he never called himself "Ronnie," and he's heterosexual, although he doesn't mind the rumor: "It's not perjorative, it's simply incorrect."  He is a strong advocate of gay rights, including gay marriage.

And his marriage to Doria, which lasted until her death in 2014?   There was no pressure from his parents -- they didn't approve of her, and and didn't even know about the wedding until it was over.

I think Fred was feeling left out because he had no celebrity dating stories, and jealous that Matt was going down on us as the evening's "entertainment." Especially Alan the ex-porn star.  So he invented a story about a celebrity that he could have believably met  in the Midwest, and one that accentuated his size and sexual prowess.

See also: Topped for the First Time.

Lane Has a Three-Way with His Brother

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