A Naked Man for Christmas

Dan in college

This story has been moved to RG Beefcake and Boyfriends

"My Uncle's Queer": My Nephew's Transformation from Choir Boy to Punk Rocker

Rock Island, December 1999

I am in grad school in New York, visiting Rock Island and Indianapolis for the holidays, staying with my brother Kenny in his rundown, rambling house downtown.  The house is crowded with Kenny's children and stepchildren, plus a huge assortment of dogs, cats, hamsters, and parrots.

It's easy to miss Joel, Ken's youngest son, in the crowd: he's thirteen years old, short, slim, a quiet, polite Johnny Nazarene.  But a talented singer: he's toured in Iowa, Minnesota, and Sweden with the Moline Boys' Choir.  We go to their Christmas concert and hear his solo in "Come, O Come Emmanuel."

December 2000

Yuri and I are visiting Rock Island for the holidays. My family practices a "don't ask, don't tell" policy, so they don't know if we're friends or boyfriends or lovers.  Most of them probably don't even know that we are gay.  But Joel figures it out.  Although he claims to be straight, he asked us to teach him and his friend Max "how gay guys have sex."

Yuri and I teach him about gay kissing.





August 2001

I've completed my Ph.D., and I'm visiting Rock Island for a few days just before moving to Florida.  Joel is a cute 15 year old with short black hair, pale skin, and nicely rounded biceps.  Nazarenes aren't allowed to listen to "the devil's music," basically anything with guitars, but he likes Weezer, Nickelback, and other groups that I never heard of, but sound loud.

Oddly, ,my brother doesn't forbid it.  "It's his life," Kenny says.  "If he likes the devil's music, that's on him."

Joel asks why I didn't bring Yuri.  "You guys are, like, hot together, aren't you?"

Ken glares at me, accusing me of outing myself to his son.  "Boomer has a lot of friends, all kinds," he explains.  "Black, white, Jewish, Muslim, gay, straight.  He's so liberal, it hurts."



December 2001

It's only been six months since I saw him last, and the transformation is amazing.  Joel is a surly 15-year old, dressed all in black, who protests the "capitalist spending frenzy" of Christmas.  He spends most of his time in his room, listening to metal music.  He emerges to eat a bowl of Lucky Charms instead of Christmas dinner, and to ask "So, Uncle Gizmo, are the beach boys hot down in Florida?  I bet you get tons of action."

In front of the whole family, including relatives I wasn't out to!

"Um...well, I do ok," I stammer.

Later I ask Kenny if Joel is gay.

"Nope, nope, nope!" Kenny exclaims.  "He's totally hot for girls.  He's got a little gay friend, but that doesn't mean a thing."


June 2003

Maybe Kenny is angry about my accidental outing, or maybe he's just busy, but he doesn't invite me to Christmas in Rock Island in 2002. I don't visit again until June 2003.

Joel has just turned 17.  He has green hair, earrings,  and a pierced lip.  He gives me a hug and calls me "Beach Boy,"

He just got back from Hardcore Fest, where he heard Walls Of Jericho, Suicide Note, Saved By Grace, As We Speak, Provoke, How It Ends, Devastator, Preacher Gone To Texas, Blood In Blood Out, Too Pure To Die, For Death or Glory, Wings Of Scarlet, Uphold, Begin Again, King of Clubz, Pound for Pound, Undo Tomorrow, Haunted Life and Butt Lynt.

"Sounds like a great lineup," I tell him. I've never heard of any of them.

And naturally he's the lead vocalist in his own punk band, The Dead Eunuchs.

June 2004

Joel has a bright red mohawk and a nose ring.  The Dead Eunuchs has been performing all over the Quad Cities.  Tonight they have a gig at the Rusty Nail in Davenport.

"You should come," Joel says.  "We play a great set."

Well -- I'm not much for punk music in noisy heterosexual bars. "I don't think..."

 "You'll like one of our songs.  It's called 'My Uncle's Queer.'"


My face begins to burn.  Is Joel outing me in front of roomsful of drunken heterosexual rednecks?  "Queer?  Sounds homophobic!" I exclaim.

"The Dead Eunuchs are opposed to racism, sexism, homophobia, anti-Semitism, fascism, capitalism, brutality, and the police state," Joel recites.  "It's right there on our MySpace page. Come Saturday night.  You'll find out."

It's a small club with a bar and grille and a little stage.  About 20 people in the audience, some rednecks, but mostly bohemians of all shapes and sizes.  The Dead Eunuchs, five guys in their late teens or early 20s, perform in mohawks, shirtless (nice abs), with lots of crotch-grabbing and pretending to lick each other.

Their songs are the standard punk "life is meaningless" shtick, until they come to "My Uncle's Queer."

As far as I can tell from the screeching, the lyrics are:

My uncle's queer, you heard me right!
He won't tell Dad, he's scared to fight!
Break the system, break the wall,
Press your cock against my balls.
We're all dying from the fear
Inside out, everybody's queer!

Not very complementary, but at least it's inclusive.

Guitar riff, and then the second verse:


My sister kissed a dyke for [?],
My brother sucked a stud for Jesus
We all got cocks, we all got balls,
We all got faces pressed to the wall.
I am queer!  You are queer!
Hear that preacher, the world is queer!

"Nice inclusive message," I tell Joel later as he sits, shirtless and sweat-soaked, at my booth eating a hamburger.   "But not entirely accurate.  I've been out to your Dad since high school.  He was the first one I told when I figured it out."

"The song isn't about you.  It's about everybody who's afraid to be who they are."

I hesitate about asking if Joel is really "queer" or not -- it would be contrary to his message of solidarity.

And no, he never invites me to "press my cock against his balls."  

Sausage Sighting of My Cousin Buster

Whenever we visited my parents' family in Indiana, I wanted to stay with my Cousin Buster, who lived in the Trailer in the Deep Woods. He was almost two years older than me, and much more adventurous, dragging me into adventures in the cornfields and patches of raw trees.  We made magic swords, dug for buried treasure, caught frogs that were really witches in disguise.

When I was little, I liked to stay overnight in the trailer, crammed beside him in his narrow bed,  giggling and talking and reading Casper comic books.  I always waited for him to fall asleep first, so I could watch his bare chest rise and fall, his eyebrows flutter, his lips purse together in a dream.

When I grow up, I thought, I'll sleep like this every night, with a boy next to me, warm and hard in the night, reading comic books.

Once we arrived late, and he was already asleep.  I slipped out of my clothes and slid into bed and put my arms around him.  He smiled.

But the last few visits, we stayed with my Aunt Nora in Rome City, who had "plenty of room," so there was no need for me to "bother" my cousin by spending the night in his bed. We just dropped in for brief visits.

I had just turned thirteen, and Cousin Buster was fifteen [all models in the illustrations are over 18].

He was built, with a hard chest and thick biceps visible under his brown t-shirt.  He a round face with thin blond hair and blue eyes.  Big hands.

We sat in his bedroom -- the comic books and G.I. Joes were gone -- and talked about classes and Adam-12 and the cute girls who hung out at the Blue Moon Drive In.

Cute girls?  What about spending the night with boys, reading comic books, cuddling, falling asleep in each other's arms? 

"I have a date tomorrow," Cousin Buster said.  "To go ice skating.  She could get a girl for you, and we could double."

I didn't want to date girls!  "Um...thanks, but we're staying in Rome City.  My parents wouldn't want to drive all the way back here to pick me up afterwards."

"You could spend the night.  Just like when we were kids."

Now I wanted to go!  I ran out to the living room to ask my parents if it was ok.

So on December 27th, I went ice skating on a frozen pond with Cousin Buster and two girls (I don't remember who drove, somebody's father or an older kid). Then we stopped for hot chocolate, the girls on one side of the booth and the boys on the other.

Eventually someone's father or an older kid dropped us off at the trailer.

 Finally the ordeal was over!  Now we could get back to our real life, the only life that made sense, two boys together, cuddling in the night.

Cousin Buster's Mom and Dad were already in bed, so we quietly raided the refrigerator for leftover Christmas pie.  Then he pulled some blankets and pillows out of a closet and made up the couch for me.

Wait -- we're supposed to sleep together! I thought frantically.  Two boys cuddling!  

But I didn't say anything.  I gamely slipped out of my clothes and climbed onto the couch.  Cousin Buster said "Goodnight" and vanished into his room.

It was a small trailer.  From my couch bed, I could see the light from under Cousin Buster's door.  I expected it to go off in a few minutes, but it didn't.

Was he reading?  Watching tv?

The light stayed on.

Maybe he was lonely.  Maybe he wanted two boys together, in spite of our evening with girls.  Maybe he wanted me to join him but wasn't sure how to ask.

I got up, walked gingerly across the bare floor, and pushed open his bedroom door.



The light inside was very bright, like a fluorescent lamp in a schoolroom, illuminating everything.  The first thing I noticed, oddly, was an open jar of Vaseline on the nightstand.

The second thing was Cousin Buster's chest, pale, smooth, with hard pecs and prominent nipples.

He was sitting up in bed, completely naked, with a magazine open in one hand and his penis in the other.

Fully aroused, straining as his hand stroked the thick shaft, easily a Kielbasa. The head was purple, glistening from the Vaseline.  His testicles bobbed up and down, round like two apples.

Our eyes locked.  He continued to work, his jaw set, beads of sweat on his forehead.

I was afraid to speak or to move.

Then he whispered "Shut the door."

Did he want me on the inside or the outside?

I took a step back, carefully closed the door, and returned to my bed.

Something that I've regretted ever since.

In the morning, neither of us spoke about what happened.

We continued to have brief, cordial chats, but during high school, my visits to Indiana became sporadic.  I was old enough to stay home alone, and often I had other things to do.

Eventually I stopped going to Indiana altogether.

I heard about Cousin Buster from my parents: working at the auto garage, moving into his own place, collecting vintage cars, going hunting and fishing with his buddies, getting girlfriends but never marrying.

He died in 1996, at the age of 38.

I didn't go to his funeral.  I couldn't afford to fly out from San Francisco on short notice, and besides, it was too late -- he was a stranger.

My Date with Santa Claus

San Francisco, December 1996

It was Christmastime, one of the years when I couldn't make it back to the Midwest, so I was even more depressed than usual.  To cheer me up, my friend David dragged me to the Bear Party (for husky guys and their admirers) held every Saturday night in a house South of Market in San Francisco.

As we wandering through the upstairs lounge area, where guys were chatting and eating Christmas cookies and drinking egg nog to "Jingle Bell Rock," David exclaimed "Look -- it's Santa Claus."

The guy he pointed out did look like Santa Claus, except for the jeans and red suspenders -- in his 60s, tall, thick muscular arms going to fat, a chubby belly, a white beard, his chest covered with white fur.  He was sitting on a leather couch, talking animatedly to a friend.

"Come on, let's go sit on Santa's lap!"

David was 43 years old, recently out, and anxious to try everything with everybody, but I was a little more picky,

"He's not into it!" I exclaimed.  Some guys came to the Bear Parties just to socialize with friends.  If you wanted sexual activity, you went down to the basement, where there were three rooms of mazes, mattresses, and dungeons.  "Besides, my idea of Santa Claus is a little younger, with a bodybuilder's physique."

"Don't tell me you never fantasized about Santa sliding down your chimney!"

"No, I can't say that I have."

"Scrooge!"  David dragged me across the room and knelt in front of Santa like a supplicant at an altar.  Smiling, he unzipped -- a very thick Kielbasa.  The friend made himself scarce.

While David worked, I sat next to Santa and fondled his chest and nipples.  He put a thick arm around me and drew me into a whiskery kiss.  It was all I could do to stifle a giggle as the song "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" played in my head.

David pushed my hand down onto Santa's penis, but I was a little weirded out and moved away.

After a few minutes, Santa zipped up and drew us both into bear hugs.

"Thank you, young man -- I had resigned myself to no erotic activity tonight -- you see, my knees aren't what they used to be, so I can't make it down the stairs.  But such things are forbidden in this part of the house.  Would you and your friend care to come back to my apartment?  By the way, my name is Bearnárd, with an accent grave.

"Well..."  David never felt that a Bear Party was a success until he'd been with at least five guys.

"I have wassail, and spiced apples, far superior to the Safeway gingerbread they're serving here. And condoms," he added with a wink.

"Sure, why not."

I didn't feel like going, but you should always bring someone along on a hookup.  I followed them out the door.

On the way home, Bearnárd told us that he majored in biology at Harvard, but now he wrote fantasy novels about King Arthur and his twin brother Mordred, one good, one evil, locked in an apocalyptic battle.

"They sell very well -- I've been called a new Tolkien, if that is in fact a complement."

"Any gay characters?" I asked pointedly.

"Oh, tons.  Of course, they didn't have the concept of gay in the Middle Ages, but there are many languorous looks between comrades in arms."

 Bearnárd's apartment in the Castro was completely Medievalized.  There were suits of armor, tapestries, halberds, and heavy oak tables.  He told us that he drew inspiration from the king's room in the Tower of London.

He did have a wassail bowl, full of hot apple cider and sliced apples, peaches, pears, and raisins, which we drew into bowls and ate like soup.

 Bearnárd changed into a red silk bathrobe which made him look even more like Santa Claus, and invited us to get naked, which made sitting on hard wooden benches rather uncomfortable.  He told us about the pagan origin of the yule log, the Christmas tree, the wassail bowl, chestnuts roasting over an open fire, and "Twelve Days of Christmas."

I had already heard of most of it, but Bearnárd acted as if it was an amazing revelation.

"And Saint Nicholas himself was no Madison Avenue marketing ploy, but the Wild Man of the Hunt, revered throughout Europe from prehistoric times, gone undercover when Christianity took control."

David and I exchanged pained expressions.  Who knew that Santa Claus was such a talker?

Trying to change the subject, I said "I know a guy in L.A. who went to Harvard.  My friend Fred's ex, Matt.  He majored in French and German."

"Matt, you say?  What's the surname?"

I told him.

"I may have tricked with him.  I go to all the alumni events, you see.  Cute boy, but completely insane!"

Time to take the bull by the horns, as it were.  I walked across the room, knelt, opened the red silk robe, and went down on Santa Claus.

He pulled my head up.  "My boy, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but there's plenty of time for that later!  We must listen to some music first.  I have Charpentier's Noels por les instruments."

We left the Bear Party at a little after 9:00 pm.  It was after midnight when we finally got into Bearnárd's bed.  And then it was mostly watching and fondling while David went down on him.

It took an hour to finish.  Several false starts.

But at least I can now say that I've been with Santa Claus.

The next day I called Matt and asked if he knew Bearnárd.

"The fantasy writer?  Sure -- we dated when I was a senior.  Well, not much of a date.  Not a lot going on in the bedroom.  And talk, talk, talk.  That man, il est tout fou!".

See also: 8 Harvard Yard Hookups; The Slave Boy of Market Street.

My Boyfriend Gets a BFF

Heinz flexes and cooks weiners

In West Hollywood in the 1980s, the boundary between friend and lover was fluid. A friend might invite you into his bed; a lover might cruise someone else. You might have a regular Saturday night date with a friend; you might not see a lover for weeks at a time.

So I'm not sure exactly when Raul and I broke up.

1. Maybe in August 1987, when my roommate Alan moved to Thailand to start a gay Pentecostal church.    I asked Raul to move in to help with the rent, but he refused: "too far from work" (he was now in customer service at a company on Wilshire). So I had to hustle to find a new place, with Derek on Sunset Boulevard.

2. Or in October 1987, when Raul's lease expired, and he moved into an ugly house with a German flight attendant or something named Heinz -- in West Hollywood, only two miles from my old apartment.

Heinz's Horrible House

3. Maybe when Heinz got to be really, really annoying.  He wouldn't let anyone walk in shoes or socks on his white shag rug -- we had to go barefoot.

He listened incessantly to a terrible German pop group -- "Come away wiz me tyu Molly-Byu, tyu Molly-Byu, tyu Molly-Byu."

He forced us to watch the Miss America pageant.  Why would a group of gay men want to watch the Miss America pageant?  "For the outfits!"

And he hung out with women.

In tv and movies, gay guys always have hetero girl bffs.  The writers think they're all feminine, so of course they want to hang out with girls.

But in West Hollywood in the 1980s, most gay men weren't feminine, and -- news flash -- preferred the company of men.  (Besides, a female friend would confound the fluid boundary between friend and lover).  So when Heinz started coming around with female friends, tongues started to wag:

He was trying to pass (Passing, pretending to be straight, was an unpardonable sin.)
He suffered from internalized homophobia.
He had been brainwashed to believe that men were incomplete without women.
He was secretly straight.

4. But most likely when Raul, following Heinz's example, got a female bff.  Gina from work, a secretary-aspiring actress who did two commercials and guest starred on a sitcom.

He brought Gina to Heinz's house several times, then to my house, to the bars, and to the French Quarter Restaurant, where the waiter asked if they were a couple (come on, this was West Hollywood!).

My other friends stopped inviting me places -- guilt by association.

But the last straw came in December, when their office had a Christmas banquet. Gina invited Raul. To be her date.

I was furious.  "Doesn't she know that we're a couple?  Or does she not care?  Gay relationships are meaningless, right?"

"You know I'm not out at work," Raul said.  "Going with Gina would be better than going alone."

"Surely you're not considering it?" I asked, aghast.

He was considering it.

I hate the holidays.

My Sunday School Teacher's Stripper Sons

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Any male performers?"  I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sure!"

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

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

Rock Island has changed.

See also: A Nude Party with the Golden Boy

A Ginger Boy for Christmas

Wednesday, December 24, 1986:

I'm 26 years old. living in West Hollywood, but back in Rock Island for the holidays.  After the traditional Christmas Eve pizza and gift-unwrapping, at my parents' house,  Fred picks me up.

He's my ex-boyfriend, 34, tall, athletic, with a stern, rugged face, a smooth chest, and impressive beneath-the-belt gifts.

When we met, he was student clergy.  During my sophomore year in college, he got a church assignment, and talked me into moving to Omaha with him.  I lasted for a miserable month.  Now he's working as a mental health counselor in Kansas City.

He's  home for the holidays, staying at his parents' farmhouse, about 30 miles south of Rock Island.

We're going to spend the night together, and then have the traditional Christmas morning breakfast and present-unwrapping at his house.

"I told my parents you might have a friend with you," Fred tells me.  "I didn't know if you were bringing Raul home from West Hollywood."

"We broke up a couple of weeks ago, so I'm single again.  I just met [My Celebrity Boyfriend], but we haven't arranged a date yet."

"That's ok.  Who knows?  You might make a friend tonight!"

"I'd rather have you to myself.  We haven't seen each other since last Christmas."  We may be broken up, but Fred is enormously attractive, and I'm feeling especially vulnerable tonight.

"So we'll share.  That's all the rage in West Hollywood, right?"

We go out to JR's, the biggest of Rock Island's 3 gay bars, a sort of country-western disco.  It draws both gay men and lesbians.

It's crowded.  A lot of people home for the holidays and trying to escape from their crazy fundamentalist relatives.  I grew up in Rock Island, but I don't see any of my old high school friends.

But Fred does.  "Hey, I knew that guy!" he exclaims, gesturing at a short, rather buffed ginger guy in a black lumberjack shirt [top photo].  "Scotty, from high school!  He was a few years younger than me, my little brother's age. Cute!  I had no idea he was gay!"

"Did he knew that you were?"

He grinned.  "Let's go find out."

"Well, I was hoping..."

Scotty says that he doesn't remember Fred at all -- even in a small high school, there are rigid barriers between classes. But he is happy to reunite.

Like us, Scotty is back in Rock Island spending Christmas with his family.  He is doing some kind of marketing work for Hallmark Cards in Kansas City.

"What a coincidence!" Fred exclaims.  "I'm in Kansas City, too.  A counselor at Prairie Ridge [Psychiatric Hospital]."

"You should get together after the holidays,"  I suggest.

"Or now," Fred said, fondling Scotty's chest.  "I told my parents I would be having a friend spend the night."

"If you don't mind two of us," I added.

Scotty seem to see me for the first time.  "Oh, no, two is great."

So I get to watch while Fred and Scotty become re-acquainted in the attic of his parents' farmhouse.  Scotty has a nice, tight physique, smooth, hairless, and a thick cut Bratwurst, but I don't get a chance to do much with it.  Or with Fred, for that matter.  They're attached to each other the whole night.

In the morning, we have breakfast and open Christmas presents.  Fred's parents think that Scotty is my boyfriend Raul, and ask him about his Hispanic heritage.

I don't know if Fred and Scotty date back in Kansas City or not.  I don't hear from him again except for brief post cards for over a year, when he appears outside the French Quarter with Matt the Cute Young Thing.

Monday, December 24th, 1990

I'm 30 years old, living with Lane.  He can't get off work for two weeks (and doesn't want to leave West Hollywood)., so I'm back in Rock Island alone, free to cruise other guys, as long as I bring a close friend along.

After our traditional Christmas Eve pizza and present unwrapping, Dick picks me up.

He's my old grade school bully, now my only gay friend in Rock Island: tall, tan, thickly-muscled, with a gigantic Kielbasa+ beneath the belt.  We always get together when I'm in town at Christmastime and during the summer, sometimes for dinner, sometimes to spend the night.

We rarely cruise together, but Dick has just broken up with his boyfriend (I'm not the only one who has relationship problems at Christmas).  So he's anxious to meet someone, and suggests JR's.  But he doesn't want to leave me out: "You can spend the night too, of course.  Whichever of us meets someone, the other will share, ok?"

"Sure, sounds great."

We go to JR's.  It's crowded again.  Dick chats with a couple of guys he knows, and I scan the room.

There's Scotty the Ginger Boy again!  A little older, of course, with longer hair and a short red beard.  I take Dick's arm.  "Hey, I know that guy!  Fred and I hooked up with him a few years ago."

"Not bad, not bad.  How was he in the sack?"

"Well, I don't know, really.  He and Fred were so into each other that I hardly got my mouth on anything of his.  Or Fred's.  And I had been looking forward to being with Fred again for weeks."

Dick laughs.  "Sounds awful.  How about an instant replay?  But this time, I'll see to it you have a place to put your mouth.  Leave it all to me."

We walk over and start talking to Scott, who doesn't remember me until I mention Fred.  No, they didn't stay in contact in Kansas City.  He got busy, you know?

This guy is a bit of a jerk.

But Dick is working his magic, and within a few minutes, Scotty has agreed to come home with him.

"Boomer will be there too, of course.  You're into both of us, right?"

"Who?" Scotty asks, confused.

I raise my hand.  "Remember me from your night with Fred?"

"Oh, sure, two of you will be fine," he murmurs.

Now this guy is totally into Dick.  How am I going to get any activity?

 We go back to Dick's house, across the street from Denkmann School, go into the bedroom, and strip.

Scotty tries to kiss Dick, but instead Dick kneels and goes down on me.  And stays there. No matter how much Scotty tries to draw him to his feet.  Finally Scotty lies down on the bed, and I get to kiss and go down on him, while Dick stays firmly attached to me.

 "Hey, could I get some of that?" Scotty asks, grabbing at Dick's enormous Kielbasa.

"Sure, be my guest."  Dick moves up, lies on his stomach, and starts kissing me.  Scotty isn't into anal, so he has no place to go but onto me.

We fall asleep in each other's arms, with Scotty between us.  I have access to him all night.

The best Christmas gift ever.  And don't feel sorry for Scotty -- he got a lot of action.

See also: Topped by the Mayor; The Muscle Bear with the Pierced Penis

Kevin the Vampire's Date with Satan

 

When I was living in San Francisco, my friend Kevin the Vampire told us the story of his meeting with Anton Lavey. founder of the Church of Satan

Kevin grew up in Tulsa and then Enid, Oklahoma, two of the most dreary, depressing towns in the Bible belt, with nothing to do but watch sports and talk about girls.  His parents belonged to the ultra-fundamentalist Bible Missionary Church, where everything but breathing was a sin.  He went through life terrified that he would commit a sin without knowing it.  He used to pray for God to kill him, so he wouldn't have to die unsaved, and spend eternity in hell.

It was especially terrifying once he recognized that he was gay ("thou shalt not lie with mankind as with woman; it is an abomination") and that he was a witch ("thou shalt not suffer a witch to live").

Oh, he couldn't zap himself across time and space, or turn mortals into toads, but:

He knew what people were thinking

He could see what was going to happen in the future

He could make himself invisible. People would walk right past without noticing him, very handy for dealing with bullies and getting out of chores.

His favorite power was mind-control.  It didn't always work, but sometimes, if he looked at you the right way, you would do what he wanted.  His mother let him have two desserts; his teacher changed the grade on a paper; a high school jock agreed to a blow job.

A lot of high school jocks agreed to blow jobs.

As a teenager, he struggled to overcome his fundamentalist guilt. He forced himself to "sin," to go to movies and watch tv, to smoke and drink alcohol, to stay home from church on Sunday, to use profanity, to go to Catholic churches and Buddhist temples.

At the University of Oklahoma, Kevin majored in biology, partially in order to commit the "sin" of believing in evolution (a few professors changed his exam grades from C- to A+).

He dated a football star who later went pro, and who heterosexuals have probably heard of, but he was never sure if the jock really liked him, or if it was just his mind control.

After college Kevin couldn't settle on a career: he dropped out of medical school after one year, tried graduate school in biology but hated it, and worked as a hospital orderly, nursing home attendant, and phlebotomist.  Finally he trained as a medical technician, a job which allowed him a lot of free time to read and hook up with men.

In his ongoing attempt to rid himself of fundamentalist guilt, Kevin committed even more "sins."  He tried hashish and cocaine.  He read books on paganism, atheism, and New Age philosophy.  He attended a Wiccan ritual.  He deliberately blasphemed God, the Trinity, and Jesus Christ.

In 1996, Kevin finally achieved the life-long dream of gay men everywhere: he managed to move to San Francisco.  He found a job at St. Mary's Medical Center, and an apartment nearby in the Richmond district, a bit far from the Castro, but still Gay Heaven.

But even in Heaven, he worried about hell.  The nagging doubt just wouldn't go away: "Is there a God who is passing judgment on me?  Am I doomed to an eternity in hell?"

He determined to engage in one great, final gesture of defiance against the religious oppression of his childhood.  He was going to have sex with the Devil.

That is, Anton Szandor LaVey, who founded the Church of Satan in 1966.  Rituals were held in the famous Black House at California Street and 23rd in the Richmond District -- just around the corner from Kevin's apartment.

The Church of Satan was very popular among the youth counterculture of the 1960s.  Over a million people bought copies of The Satanic Bible, and there were dozens of famous converts or well-wishers, such as the Beatles, underground filmmaker Kenneth Anger, and actress Sharon Tate, who was killed in the Charles Manson murders in 1969.

In 1975, most members of the Church of Satan left for the rival Satanic Temple of Set, and LaVey fell from the limelight.  But he was still living in the Black House, still promoting his philosophy through books and magazine articles, still conducting rituals for a small group of loyal followers.

Still Satan.

 In December 1996, just at the start of the Christmas season, Kevin got an invitation through a friend, and made his way, trembling with fear but also eager, to the Black House.

To his disappointment, Anton was not at all scary.  He looked like someone's doting grandfather, tall, gaunt, bald, and smiling.

They sat in a perfectly normal-looking living room. A coffee table with a pile of People magazines.   Pictures of family members on the mantle.  There was even a Christmas tree, though Anton called it "a memorial to the Dying God."

He told Kevin that Satanism was about being true to your animal nature: "We are animals, not gods.  We should do what pleases us, what gratifies us.  Everything else is bullshit."

"What about helping others?" Kevin asked, playing the devil's advocate.

"If that's what pleases you, fine.  But never do anything just because someone expects it of you. Not your mother, not your boss, not some old guy sitting on a cloud.  More tea?"

"So, by that logic," Kevin said, "Satanism itself is basically bullshit."

"Exactly.  I'm a stage magician, a flim-flam man.  But name me one religion, philosophy, spiritual system, or ethical system that isn't bullshit.  There are no gods, there are no spirits, there is no heaven and hell.  There is here and now.  Eating, drinking, fighting, f**king.  Especially f**king."  

They eventually got around to the sex.  Anton wanted to top Kevin, but he settled for a blow job.  On his knees in Anton's bedroom, thrusting up and down on his thin spearlike dick, Kevin was surprised to find no sense of guilt at all.  Not even when Anton yelled "Ave Satanas" as he came.

No gods, no monsters, no heaven, no hell.  Nothing but the here and now.

Anton didn't reciprocate.  There was no cuddling or kissing afterwards.  But still, Kevin was elated.

 He left the Black House and walked through the misting rain, and looked at the Christmas lights shining red and green on California Street.  Never had anything looked so beautiful.

Street Cruising in San Francisco: 15 Gimmicks that Landed Me or My Friends

When I lived in San Francisco, street cruising was common: you happened to see an attractive guy on the street, and after minimal conversation, at most a drink in the nearest bar, invited him into your bed.

Street cruising was not planned.  You were on your way to the gym or to dinner or to the underwear party at the Lone Star, wending your way through the after-work crowds, when something about the guy incited your interest and prompted you to make contact.

If you wanted to be successful, you couldn't depend on your biceps and bulge alone.  Every guy in town could bench press 350, and was either super-hung or knew how to stuff socks down there.

You had to have something special, a little boost that set you apart from the crowd.

Here are 15 successful street cruising gimmicks.  Each of them landed me or one of my friends.

1, The Leatherman. had a scuffy beard, nipple rings, and a tattoo of Hot Stuff the Little Devil.  He wore chaps, a leather vest, and no shirt everywhere, to the grocery store, to the dentist, to church. He never left South of Market, where such things are not completely bizarre.

2. The Unicyclist.  Another example of partial nudity, with a twist.  He rode a unicycle down the street, wearing only short pants and white gloves and carrying a little horn.  When he saw a guy he liked, he circled and beeped.

3. The Construction Worker.  San Francisco was all professionals and service industry workers, very few blue collar jobs, so everyone had rough-and-tumble fantasies about a guy in a yellow vest with a toolbelt covering his crotch.









4. The Teddy Bear Artist.  He was 53 years old, husky but muscular, with a hairy chest, prominent nipples, and nice biceps. Kielbasa+ beneath the belt.  He made a living building custom teddy bears: in leather jackets, in bondage gear, sporting gay pride flags.  There was always a small teddy bear hanging from his belt.

5. The Golden Retriever's Human.  Even if the guy's face and physique nothing to write home about, who's going to pass up an opportunity to play with the dog?











6. The Maserati's Owner.   You can hardly engage in street cruising while driving, but the Maserati's Owner simply sat in his frightfully expensive convertible, an ostentatious symbol of wealth (especially in San Francisco, where cars are a burden, not a necessity).


7. The Pie Man.  Whenever he wanted to cruise, he bought a pie at the bakery and carried it down the street.  Conversations involved asking for "a piece," asking if he could "eat something that big," and so on.  The next day he donated the pie to a homeless shelter.








8. Pushing a Shopping Cart.  Jake used a shopping cart to take his laundry to the laundromat.  being mistaken for homeless when he was obviously well-fed and well-housed got him a lot of attention.

9. The Golfer.  I've never met a gay man who was actually into golf, and Castro Street is probably five miles from the nearest golf course, but lugging one of those bags full of clubs down the street is definitely a conversation starter.

10. The Bible Boy.  My friend David picked up a "screamer," one of those guys who carry signs and Bibles and yell about "abominations."







11. The Edwardian.  He wore a waistcoat and a boater hat and carried a walking stick, looking for all the world like he was on the way to tea with E.M. Forster and P.G. Wodehouse

12. Santa Claus, aka Bearnard, a writer who had a bestselling series of fantasy novels set in the days of King Arthur.  He was eccentric in a lot of ways, but in the wintertime he capitalized on his resemblance to Santa Claus by wearing lots of reds and blacks.  A surprising number of guys asked him to slide down their chimney.

13. The Martian.  A very tall black guy, bald, dressed all in white with a gold medallion hanging on his neck, he looked exactly like the an emissary of the Galactic Council in a "Space Brothers" UFO cult.  He gave his name as Darvon Klaa, and said he was from "A small planet very, very far away."

14. Brad Pitt.  Actually just a guy who looked like him.  But he played up his resemblance to the hunky star of Thelma and Louise, Johnny Suede, A River Runs Through It, and Interview with the Vampire, and celebrity sightings were so rare in San Francisco that he caused a sensation of autograph-seeking and cruising.


15. The Skateboarder.  There aren't a lot of twinks in San Francisco: living in the City requires stamina and financial resources beyond the reach of most 20-year olds.  So those few twinks around were exotic, like visitors from a distant country.  What better way to attract attention than to emphasize your alienness, skateboarding in a flannel t-shirt, baggy jeans, and a backward baseball cap?

The Pentecostal Porn Star Hooks Up with a Norwegian Con Artist

West Hollywood, December 1985

Maybe the cold makes people want to hug, but I've found the wintertime to be good for starting a new romance: I started dating Fred the Ministerial Student in December, Verne the Preacher's Son in January, and my Celebrity Boyfriend in January.  Christmas is particularly erotic: kissing Brian under the mistletoe, meeting the bully in the gay bar, catching Cousin Joe in the act.

But you have to be careful if you're already in a relationship.  The last two weeks of December are a mine field, especially if you return to the Midwest and leave your boyfriend behind.

In the fall of 1985, shortly after I moved to Los Angeles, I liked Alan, one of the two ministerial students at All Saints Metropolitan Community Church (the gay church).  I'm a clergy groupie, and his former job as a porn actor sweetened the deal.

But it took a long time to incite his interest -- I was tall and rather muscular, and he liked small, slim guys -- so we didn't start dating until early November.

I assumed that we would be monogamous.  And we were.

For about six weeks.

On December 15th, a guy named Kristian appeared at church.  Small, slim, passive, smiling, handsome, early 20s. I could see Alan's face light up.

After the service, Alan practically knocked me over in a mad dash to cruise him during the coffee hour.  I followed and tried to butt in as much as possible.  His story didn't add up: 

1. Kristian was born in Norway, and moved to the U.S. with his parents at age 5.  His father was a professor of political science at the University of Pennsylvania, and his mother wrote children's books.

2. He graduated from UCLA's Film School and was now working as a production assistant at Paramount.

3. He had totalled his car in an accident that wasn't his fault, so now he was taking the bus everywhere.

4. He had just broken up with his lover, and needed a place to stay until January 1st, when his new apartment would be ready.

"You can stay with me!" Alan exclaimed.  "I have two roommates, but you can...um... camp out on our couch."

Watching my boyfriend's eyes gleam with erotic anticipation, I offered Kristian an alternative plan: "I'm going home to the Midwest on Tuesday,a and I'll be gone for two weeks, so you can have my apartment all to yourself."

I know what you're thinking -- hand over my apartment key to some guy I just met?  He'll steal everything I own, and turn the place into a crack house!

Those sort of misdeeds never occurred to me.  I was fixated on the fact that Kristian had no car, and Alan lived five miles away.  It would be impossible for them to get together!!

It never occurred to me that Alan had a car.  

When I returned to Los Angeles on January 2nd, Kristian had moved out of my apartment and into Alan's bed.  "Um...um...we didn't plan on it...it just happened," Alan told me. "Can we still be friends?"

Plus, during the few days he spent at my apartment, Kristian stole a pair of jeans, pawned my grandmother's silverware, and ran up $200 in phone calls to Norway.  Fortunately, Alan got my silverware back and wrote me a check for the $200, explaining that it was "a misunderstanding."  Kristian thought my grandmother's silverware was part of the deal?

By the end of January, Kristian had taken Alan for all he could and gone on to the other ministerial student at the church, and a month or so later he moved on to West Hollywood Presbyterian.  I don't know if he was a clergy groupie, or thought a minister would be a soft touch.

I did some checking: nobody with Kristian's name had graduated from UCLA Film School, or was working at Paramount.  I'll bet he wasn't even Norwegian.  He just let his soft, small, passive frame and killer smile work for him.

The Gay Russian Teenager Comes Out

Long Island, December 1997

In West Hollywood in the 1990s, we practiced a strict age segregation: dance clubs when you were a Cute Young Thing, then leather bars when you started greying, balding, or getting a belly.

If you had muscles, you could go anywhere you wanted, but you were expected to date guys within about a five year age range.  Much older or younger, and the tongues would wag.

In the fall of 1997, after trying several careers, I started a new graduate program on Long Island.  I was 36 years old, pushing 37, so I figured I would be dating guys in their 30s, maybe early 40s.

Instead, I was swarmed by Twinks, Cute Young Things, even teenagers.

On the first day of classes, I was walking toward the Social Science Building, when a slim, feminine guy who looked about 16 came rushing up.  "Vi iz Ruski?" he asked excitedly.

"Huh?



"Futbolku s Ruskoi Reki !" he said, pointing at my chest.  "Your football shirt -- it says 'Russia River.'"

Oh, right.  I forgot that I was wearing a t-shirt from the Russian River.  "It's a gay resort...um, a town where gays go."

He frowned.  "Ok, but what does gays mean?"

How long had he lived in New York?  "Gay...men who like men...for dates and falling in love."

"Oh, oh...goluboi...blue."  He grinned broadly.

Yuri turned out to be 23, a little older than I thought, but still much too young for me, a grad student from Russia, studying meteorology.  A pretty, feminine face with soft features, but nicely muscled -- from the day we met, he dragged me to the gym every afternoon to work out for two hours.



Remembering my brief obsession with Russia in college, I considered changing my age rule.  But was he gay?

He claimed to be heterosexual: "Some day I will get married and have a lot of kids."  But he had never met anyone gay before, and he wanted to know everything about it.

Everything.  Names, dates, sizes, positions.  Especially cock sizes.

"Tell me about Raul.  How big is he?  What does he do in bed?"

"When you were in West Hollywood, did you have sex with Tom Cruise?  How big is he?"

"Ok, what about Lane?  How big is he?  Do you have pictures with his clothes off?"

Most heterosexuals don't ask a lot of questions about sizes.  But I still wasn't sure.

In October, I invited Yuri to a Halloween party, and chased him around with a giant foam dildo.  He didn't mind a little surreptitious fondling in the back seat of the car on the way home, but when Josh, who was giving us a ride, asked "Do you want to be dropped off at your dorm or Boomer's place?" he said "Dorm!"

In December, I invited Yuri to a Christmas party.  Tickets cost $15, with a catered dinner and dancing. But he refused to dance with me!  Instead, he approached a girl and asked her to dance.

When he got back to our table, I told him, mostly in jest, "I paid for your ticket, so you owe me.  Either get up on that dance floor with me now, or get into my bed later."

He chose my bed.

See also: Yuri's First Boyfriend.

I Catch Cousin Joe in the Act

Rock Island, December 1976

When I was in junior high, I caught my friend Brian trying to erase graffiti from the wall of Washington Junior High, "Brian gives free LBJs."  He wouldn't say what it meant, and I had no idea.  It endured season after season, year after year, ghostly pale but still legible, stubbornly resistant to the generations of custodians who attempted to erase it.  It was the biggest riddle of my childhood.

During the summer after 9th grade, I learned that the term "BJ" referred to oral sex, but I didn't make the connection to gay people until a cold Friday at Christmastime in 1976, my junior year at Rocky High, shortly after I discovered what "gay" meant.

Aunt Nora was visiting for the holidays, with two whole carloads of relatives.  Cousin Joe, a 22-year old college senior, was staying in the attic room with Ken and me, and his girlfriend Sandy was staying downstairs with my sister.

On the afternoon of Christmas Eve, everyone was out shopping or ice skating, but I didn't feel well and stayed in to read.  Joe and Sandy came in, said hello, then vanished somewhere into the house -- I assumed they went down to the basement rec room to play pingpong.

They weren't playing pingpong.

Soon I got a throbbing headache, so I took an aspirin and decided to go upstairs to bed.

The door at the bottom of the attic stairs didn’t lock, but the clatter of shoes on the bare wood was usually an adequate early-warning signal, giving you plenty of time to stop watching late-night tv, reading comics, or whatever else you didn’t care to have witnessed -- but today I was wearing only socks, and the throb in my head made me go slowly, one step at a time. So they didn’t hear me.

When I reached the top of the stairs, I saw Joe lying on the floor on his side of the room, and Sandy kneeling over him.  My first thought was that he had fainted. Then I saw a thick, heavy shaft the color of putty.  Joe's penis!

I had seen it several times before -- while changing clothes to go swimming, once while skinny-dipping.  I walked in on him in the bathroom when I was five.  It was always breathtaking.

Suddenly Joe saw me, pushed Sandy away, and quickly zipped up. “Um...we were....we were just..."   He was blushing red.

"I don't care, I'm sick."  I walked the five steps to the bed I was sharing with Ken, fell down face-first, and covered my head with a pillow.  "It's no big deal. You’re not the first person in this room to give a bj.”

They were both silent. I peered out from under the pillow to see them staring open-mouthed.

“What’s your problem?”


“You. . .give bjs?” Sandy asked.

“Of course I  give them!” I said angrily. “You think I’m a virgin? I’ve given them lots of times.”

Joe laughed. “Gee, you're dumb! Boys don’t give bjs, they get them.”

“No, I give them. . .boys give them.” My head was still throbbing, making it hard to concentrate.   "Why do you think it's called giving a bj?  Because you give your penis..."

"The girl gives the b.j. to the boy, Boomer."

“Well. . .to be fair, it doesn’t have to be a girl,” Sandy said. “Sometimes guys do give bjs.  At least they're sort of like guys."  She flashed a loose wrist.

My face burned as I realized what she was implying.

"Be nice!" Joe commanded.  He patting my shoulder.  "Boomer just got mixed up.  Don't tell Mom about seeing us...you know...ok?"

"Don't worry, your secret is safe with me."

"And your secret is safe with us!" Sandy managed to say before Joe grabbed her and dragged her down the stairs.

I lay in bed, mortified.  But now I understood -- LBJ, BJ with an "L" added.  Long ago some bullies had accused Brian of being gay. No wonder he worked so furiously to scrub the graffiti off!

It turns out that I was wrong.  Five years later, in the spring of 1981, I would discover that the phrase LBJ had nothing to do with sex.  But it did have quite a lot to do with being gay.