Alan's Gift from Beyond the Grave

Indianapolis, January 2005

In January 2005, when I was back in Indiana for the holidays, I got a phone call saying  Alan, my ex-boyfriend, roommate, and close friend for 20 years, had died of AIDS-related cancer.  The memorial service would be held in Norfolk.

I didn't go -- I was too busy, it was too far away, I already had a flight reservation back to Fort Lauderdale, etc., etc.  But the truth is, I didn't want to think about Alan being gone.  I wanted to him to be in West Hollywood, cruising at Mugi, holding court at the French Quarter,  working out at the Holiday Spa, reliving those magic moments, unchanged, eternal.

About two weeks after the memorial service, I got an email from Tarik, Alan and Sandy's boy toy in the 1990s: "Can you come to Ocrakoke?  Alan left you something that you have to come here to pick up."

"What is it?" I responded.  "Can you just ship it to me."

"His instructions were that you have to come here to pick it up -- actually Norfolk, but since I live in Ocracoke now, I'll keep it for you here."

I had never heard of Ocracoke, so I rushed to look it up.  It's an island in the Outer Banks of  North Carolina: very isolated, accessible only by boat.  Permanent population 900, but a lot of tourists in the summer.  Nothing to do but swim, fish, look at wild horses, visit an iconic lighthouse, and go to a weird pirate museum (Blackbeard died there.)  Restaurants called the Back Porch Lunchbox and the Sweet Tooth Deli.  No gay bars, no gay organizations, 99% white.   Not the sort of place that a gay black urban guy would choose.

What was Tarik doing in Ocracoke?

I emailed him back.  "Can you tell me what the gift is?  Or give me a hint?  And what the heck are you doing in Ocracoke?"

"I got a job here.  So, Alan asked me to pass out the four gifts that he left to his old friends.  They all have to come to Ocracoke to get them.  I can't tell you what it is, but I can tell you that Alan picked it out especially for you."

The gift was probably a souvenir of West Hollywood, like a glass from Mugi or a menu from the French Quarter -- something nice, but not worth crossing the country for.  Still, I said that I would come during the summer.

"Great!  Come during Memorial Day Weekend.  Some of the other guys are coming then, too.  It will be a nonstop party!"

Ocracoke, May 2005

From Fort Lauderdale I flew to Norfolk, where I rented a car and drove 4 hours to Hatteras.  I barely made the last ferry, and arrived at Ocracoke at 1:00 am Saturday morning.

Tarik met me at the ferry terminal. He was in his early 40s, but still black-haired and buffed, with square workman's hands and a couple of new gold earrings. We hugged.

As we left the ferry station, he waved at people he knew.  "I'm one of like three black guys on the island, so everybody knows me.  It's like being a celebrity."

He drove m to a house on Back Street Road, around the corner from a coffee shop ("mostly gay") and a place called the Flying Melon ("gay-friendly").

"Sounds like quite a gay presence for a tiny speck of land in the Atlantic."

"It's a small community, mostly lesbians -- I know two other gay couples and about six single guys --but it gets much bigger in the summer.  You picked a good time to visit -- Memorial Day Weekend is nonstop cruising."

It was a big, airy house with hardwood floors, a piano in the front room, a patio out back.  Two dogs padded up to say hello.

There was a naked guy asleep on the sofa.

"We have a full house this weekend -- you know what it's like to live in a resort town!  But don't worry, you get your own room.  Um...my boyfriend is already asleep, so no sharing tonight -- but definitely tomorrow, ok?"

"Sure," I said, grabbing his butt.

The master bedroom was downstairs ("The owner of the house, and whatever Cute Young Thing he's convinced to come out from the mainland") and four bedrooms upstairs: "our room, the third roommate's room, guest room,, occupied, guest room for you,"  plus a finished attic, occupied ("I figured you wouldn't want to deal with the horny gay ghost").

He pointed out the bathroom, said "Breakfast is at 8:00," and left me alone.

The room was very dark, with heavy drapes and no night light.  When I turned off the lamp, I couldn't see anything at all.  Spooky!

A couple of hours later, I was awakened by a hand caressing my chest.  The gay ghost?  I thought -- no -- this guy was corporeal, with thick arms, a smooth hard chest, and a thick 7" cock.  Tarik was much bigger -- he must be one of the housemates or guests.

In a house occupied by four gay men and their boyfriends and hookup, it's not unusual for someone to get up in the middle of the night and end up in the wrong bed, accidentally or on purpose. I started kissing and fondling my unexpected guest, and soon I was going down on him.

"Yeah...like that..." he whispered.  "Do that...oh, I'm going to come..."

Afterwards I lay on top of him to do interfemoral.  "Wait -- I brought some lube."

When I finished, we lay in each other's arms.  Even with my eyes adjusted to the dark, I couldn't make out his face.  I went to turn on the lamp, but he said "Well, I should go wash off" and left.  I saw the outline of his naked backside as he opened and shut the door.

He never came back...apparently this was a secret mission.

I figured that in the morning I could figure out the identity of my mysterious visitor by process of elimination.

I awoke to the smell of coffee brewing, and the sound of laughter and clattering plates.  Downstairs, the owner's twink boyfriend, naked except for an apron, was making pancakes.  Other guys drifted out to the deck, where there were scrambled eggs, sausages, muffins, and pitchers of orange and tomato juice.  The owner, a burly bear; Tarik and his boyfriend; the asleep on the couch guy; Sandy from Norfolk and his date...and a buffed Asian guy wearing only red jockey shorts.

"It was...you?" I asked tentatively.

"Good morning," he said with a smile, and scooted over so I could sit next to him on the bench.  Jonathan Peng Lee, originally from Hong Kong, now a grad student in engineering at UNC Chapel Hill.

When the flurry of eating and gossip died down, Tarik clicked on a glass to get our attention.

"As some of you know, we invited Boomer, Sandy, and Mark here today to pick up the gifts that our friend Alan bequeathed them.  We'll start with Boomer.  Here's Alan himself to give the introduction."

He brought out his laptop and pushed a button, and suddenly I heard Alan!

"Greetings from the spirit world, Booooomer...." he said in a spooky voice.  "I have to get to my date with River Phoenix and Brandon Lee, so I'll make this brief.  One of my favorite memories of our time together is when we were sharing that tiny apartment in Japan, and I brought home a trick, who kept jumping into your bed.  Well, I recreated that experience for you.  I got a Japanese boy to sneak into your bed -- but don't freak out if there's another dick down your throat.  I just may pop in to share.   Enjoy!"

Everyone applauded.

"We couldn't find a Japanese guy," Tarik said,  "But I hope Jonathan is close enough."

"Sure, he's great."  I turned to Jonathan, who had his arm around my shoulders.  "Um...so you're a hustler?"

He grinned.  "It pays my tuition.  They hired me for the whole weekend, so anytime you want another session, just ask."

I reached down and fondled his crotch.  He immediately sprang to life.  "Pencil me in for this afternoon."

See also:  Jon Takes Me to the Scariest Place on Earth;  Ocracoke:Gay Ghosts, Pirates, and Beach Boys

The Security Guard on My Sausage List

Wilton Manors, September 2001

In West Hollywood, there were strict age limits on dating.  More than 5 years older or younger, and you were gossiped about and not invited to parties.

In New York, the lower age limit was gone.  It was perfectly acceptable, even expected, for someone in his late 30s to be seen with a 20-year old Cute Young Thing.

When I moved to Florida in 2001, the upper age limit was gone, too.  It was perfectly acceptable, even expected, for someone in his early 40s to be seen with a 60-year old Daddy.

Of course, the older still had to wait for the younger to approach, lest he be labeled a Creepy Old Guy.  So I never approached 60-something Troy at the Sunshine Cathedral, a gay church in Fort Lauderdale: we were "just friends."

We continued to be "just friends" when we started working out together at the Club Fort Lauderdale, and going out to dinner, usually to a Japanese fusion place called Kenji.



Troy was a retired physician who had just come out upon his wife's death.

He was well-versed in Eastern mysticism, the paranormal, and the occult.  He had a gay Tarot cart deck.  We talked about Zen Buddhism and mysterious disappearances and my summer in Japan.    

But I adamantly rebuffed his attempts to get physical.  I was dating another guy from the Sunshine Cathedral, 24-year old Matt, who wasn't very bright, but had 3 of the 5 qualities that I find attractive: muscular, religious, and gifted beneath the belt (#1 on the list of the 15 biggest "sausages" I've ever encountered).

Matt was trying to write a novel about a hard-boiled noir detective who happened to be gay, and in the meantime worked as a night-time security guard.  We usually went out in the early evening, before his shift started.

The only time Matt and Troy saw each other was during Sunday morning services at the Sunshine Cathedral, and once or twice when I invited them both over for dinner.

Or so I thought.

That fall Troy went on a vacation to China and Tibet.  He brought me back a stamp shaped like monkey with Davis in Chinese characters:

丹尼斯 Dān ní sī, "Nice Redhead", which I suppose is is better than Boomer:  杰夫 Jié fū, "Outstanding Husband."

He brought Matt a silk shirt that beautifully highlighted his pecs.  But I didn't think anything of it at the time; he also brought back a souvenir for Yuri, who he barely knew.

I didn't think anything of it when Matt occasionally said that he was too tired to go out, and Troy was also busy.  In your 40s, you can stay home on Friday and Saturday night without feeling guilty.

So I went home for Christmas, to hear my old high school teacher make the most homophobic comment in the world.

After two weeks, I flew back from Rock Island, and Matt and I spent New Year's Eve together.

But on January 4th, Matt said he was too tired to go out before his shift, so I went to the Club by myself.

You know where this is going: Matt and Troy in a dark corner, k-i-s-s-i-n-g.

"We've been dating since Christmas," Matt explained. "I didn't know how to tell you."

Troy just grinned.  Age trumps beauty.

See also: The Georgia Boy and the Cute Young Thing; and The Coffee Drinker

Penis Sighting at a Chinese Restaurant

Rock Island, May 1974

When I was growing up in Rock Island in the 1960s and 1970s, there were no Chinese restaurants  in town.  I knew only a little about Chinese food:

1. On a 1967 episode of The Andy Griffith Show where Andy and his sidekick Barney go to a Chinese restaurant.  Andy orders a steak, a baked potato, and green beans, but Barney is so stupid that he actually orders from the menu, and receives platesful of disgusting horrors.

2. My mother's cookbook, Meals with a Foreign Flair, offered a Chinese meal: chow mein, cucumber salad, asparagus, and fortune cookies.

3. Chinese food was cooked and served by Chinese men.  I had never met anyone of Chinese ancestry before, except for the mysterious boy that Bill and I played with a long time ago.

I hadn't even seen many guys of Chinese ancestry!  But doubtless they were amazingly attractive.


With tree-trunk penises!

When I was in eighth grade at Washington Junior High, a Chinese restaurant, the Mandarin Kitchen, opened in the Quad Cities.

I was anxious to go, but it was across the river in Davenport, Iowa. I wasn't allowed to cross the river by myself.  Besides, no buses went over, and it was too far to walk.

My parents wouldn't take me:

"It's too expensive," Dad said.

"And you wouldn't like it," Mom added.  "I had Chinese food once, in Long Beach.  It was awful!  What's wrong with Harris Pizza?"

 Then I thought of my birthday excursion!

My birthday is in November, when everything fun is closed, so every May I got a "birthday trip": I could invite two or three friends to go anywhere I wanted in the Quad Cities.  We went to Mother Goose Land (it's not as lame as it sounds), the Niabi Zoo, the Putnam Museum, the "Little Bit O' Heaven" at Palmer College.  Why not go out to lunch at the Mandarin Kitchen?

I invited Dan and Darry, my boyfriend and my best friend, plus my brother by default (but he didn't want to go) and Peter, the only Asian guy at Washington Junior High.  He was of Japanese ancestry, not Chinese, but I thought he might give us an air of authenticity, so we wouldn't look like tourists.

On a Saturday in May, shortly before the streaking incident, Dad drove us across the Centennial Bridge and into Davenport.  We turned down River Drive and drove through a rather seedy neighborhood, past shabby office buildings, taverns, tattoo parlors, and the Col Ballroom where sinners went dancing, until finally we reached the Mandarin Kitchen.

It was next to a dirty bookstore!

There was a neon cocktail-glass in the window.  They served booze!  Nazarenes weren't allowed to go into places that had alcohol.

"Do you want to go to Harris Pizza instead?" Dad asked.

I screwed up my courage.  "No, this will be fine."

"Ok.  I'll be back in an hour."  He handed me $20 to pay, deposited us on the curb, and drove away.

I took a deep breath and led Darry, Dan, and Peter through the glass door.

It was dark inside after the bright light of a May afternoon.  Red sashes everywhere.  Waving ceramic cats.  Rows of small tables.  And a lady holding menus!

She led us to a table, where another lady brought us tea.

It was only ladies in the whole restaurant!

When she came back to take our orders, I asked "Are there any men working here?"

She looked at me quizzically.  "Men?  Sure.  They in the kitchen."  She pointed to a narrow window where the cooks could put plates of food for the waitresses to pick up.

Sighing with disappointment, I ordered almond chicken, fried rice, and potstickers.

It was good -- but I didn't come all the way to Davenport and use up my birthday trip to look at Chinese ladies!

I was going to the kitchen!

I got up, walked down a hall marked "bathroom," and saw a beige door marked "employees only."

 A silvery space with a lot of black and silver pots.  Hot, steamy. Two Chinese men.

My heart sank.  Neither was very attractive.

A short, dumpy guy with glasses was bent over a sizzling pot.  A tall, gawky, rather geeky-looking guy was chopping vegetables.

"You want apply for job?" he asked.

"No...um...."  Thinking fast, I said "The bathroom is out of toilet paper."

"What the matter?"  the short guy said.  "You don't like Chinese food, gives you the runs?"

They both laughed.

They were making fun of me!  I hung my head in embarrassment.

The tall guy said "Ok, I show you toilet paper, but keep out of kitchen!  State law!"

He put his arm around my shoulders and ushered me to the door.  I felt the heat from his arm and chest, smelled the onion from his hands.  Cute or not, the proximity of his body was exciting.

He led me to a supply closet, grabbed a roll of toilet paper from a shelf, and then pushed me into the bathroom.

It had a toilet and a urinal.  There was a roll of toilet paper sitting on the tank.

The tall guy picked it up, grinning at me.  "You didn't see?"

"I guess not," I said, even more embarrassed.

He shrugged and sat the rolls down on the urinal.  "While I'm here, I go too.  You mind?"

"Um...no."  Suddenly I was interested -- maybe I could get a sausage sighting!

Slowly I dropped my pants and sat on the toilet.  The tall guy unzipped -- but he was facing away from me.

"Hey, I still need the toilet paper!" I said.

He laughed.  "I'm silly.  Here..."  He turned around.  I saw his cock -- not tree-trunk sized, but a good four inches soft, uncut.

He tossed a roll of toilet paper.  It landed too far for me to scoop up.

"That's ok, I get it."  He walked over, got the toilet paper, handed it too me, and returned to the urinal -- his cock hanging down the whole time!  I sat there in awe until he finished and washed his hands.

"You shy, huh?  Well, I lock door on the way out."

The moment he left, I stood, washed my hands, and walked out into the main room again.

'What were you doing back there all that time?" Dan asked.

"Applying for a job," I said with a goofy smile on my face.

See also: The Hookup at the Sleepover.

The Truth about the Formosan Penis

Montreal, July 1998

My doctoral program in New York (1997-2001) was not only about studying sexuality.  I spent a lot of time seeking out ethnic groups with legendary penises:

The Basque, reputedly the largest in the world.

The Bushman, reputedly always in a tumescent state.

And the Formosan of Taiwan.

When I first moved to New York in 1997, I had to live in a grad student apartment, where I was assigned 3 roommates: Max, the most obnoxious guy on the planet; a beefy Turkish guy who mostly kept to himself; and a Taiwanese guy named Huang, who also happened to be a fellow grad student in the Sociology Department.

Huang was not nearly as muscular as Max, but also not as obnoxious.  His only faults: he occasionally had a girl over to giggle in his bedroom, and he called his family back home every Saturday at 4:00 am.

In each case I could hear him quite clearly through the wall.

My Mandarin was limited to Wǒ xǐhuān zhōngguó rén, "I like Chinese men,"  but at least I could recognize the language.  And when Huang spoke to his family, he wasn't speaking Mandarin.

Turns out that he was fluent in Mandarin (and Hokkien, French, and English), but his native language was Paiwan, from the Formosan family, related the Tagalog of the Philippines and the Javanese of Indonesia.

There are about 400,000 Formosan aboriginals in Taiwan, about 2% of the population, mostly living in the mountainous south.

"We get discrimination," Huang told me.  "The Chinese think yuánzhùmín are uncivilized, barbarians.  Like the Indians in America."

There are statues of muscular, half naked Formosans all over Taiwan, like the statues of Native Americans in the U.S.

The Formosan Aboriginal Cultural Park in Yuchi, about 150 miles south of Taipei, invites Chinese tourists to see aboriginals performing traditional arts and native dances, like the pow wows in the U.S.

"But the Chinese woman like us," Huang added with a grin.

"Oh, why is that?"

"Yuánzhùmín men are bigger than Chinese men." He pointed to his crotch.  "Dá jībā!"  Apparently that meant big penis.  

I reddened, shocked that a straight guy would be comfortable enough to discuss his penis size with me.   Or maybe he was bisexual, and expressing interest.  "Well -- I'm sure some of the Chinese men like Formosan dá jībā, too."

"No, they are jealous."

Not bisexual!

"When you tell a woman you are yuánzhùmín," Huang continued, "She always ask if the stories are true, and she want to see it."

"Well - are the stories true?"  I asked.  "Can I see it?"

"No, no, not for gays." He giggled. "Just for women."

I'm not usually deterred so easily, but after Huang's startling display of confidence, I felt guilty about plotting any complex schemes to get a glimpse of his jībā.  

Maybe I could see it by accident?

No -- he didn't go to the gym, and he didn't strut around the apartment in a towel.

When I moved out of graduate student housing to a place in Manhattan, I lost hope of ever finding out if the stories about Formosan men are true.

But my hope was restored in July, shortly after I returned from my trip to Estonia with Yuri and Jaan.  Some of the sociology students drove up to Montreal for the International Sociological Association World Congress, and Huang and I shared a hotel room.

Surely he would change clothes in front of me, or sleep in revealing briefs.

No -- he changed clothes in the bathroom, and slept in pajama bottoms.  Not even a bulge was visible!

One night I was planning to go to the Keynote Speech, then "out" (actually to the Oasis, where I met the Muscle God and his Wingman).  I told Huang I would not be back until after midnight.

But after the Keynote Speech, I realized that I had left my jacket in the hotel room -- it was rather chilly in Montreal -- and rushed back upstairs.

I slid the key card through the slot and pulled the door open.

The first thing I noticed was cheesy 1970s music.

The second was the heterosexual porn playing on the tv.

The third was Huang lying on his bed, naked, doing what heterosexual men do when they watch porn.

He yelled and pulled the covers over himself.  But he was still tenting.

"I forgot my jacket," I said, stepping forward to grab it from the coat rack.

"I'm sorry...I'm sorry....I thought you are not coming back until very late."

"Don't worry about it.  By the way, you're right -- it really is a dá jībā."

I'm certainly not going to make a joke about Huang and hung, but he was.

See also: The Secret Identity of the Elevator Hookup