Trying to Find a Quiet Night in Gay Heaven

San Francisco, March 1997

What is it like to live in Gay Heaven, to know that you have achieved something that most gay people can only dream of?  How can you go about your everyday activities, buy groceries, pay rent, work out at the gym, knowing that thousands of people would give anything to be in your position?

It's a big responsibility to live as a stand-in for a thousand gay men.  Every moment has to count.  Every night is a mad rush of beer busts, bear parties, AIDS benefits, book signings, art openings, film premieres, special events so frequent that they're not special at all.

Plus at least one party per week, probably two or three, to welcome new residents; to say goodbye to those who are leaving; to celebrate birthdays, anniversaries, new jobs, and new apartments; to introduce new boyfriends; to entertain a constant stream of out-of-town guests.

(Every gay man you have ever known, even if it was just a brief conversation ten years ago, will eventually show up on your doorstep, bags in hand, hoping to stay with you while he tries to move to Gay Heaven.)

Plus a round of holidays that require planning and discussion: the Castro Street Fair, Halloween, New Year's Eve, The Gay Film Festival, the AIDS Walk, Dore Alley, Christopher Street West

Plus constant dates and hookups, partly because there are so many men to choose from, new refugees from the Straight World arriving every day.

Partly because when you're a stand-in for a thousand gay men stuck in Straight World wastelands, it's your duty and obligation to have as much sex as possible.

I leave the apartment at 8:00 am, meet David at Orphan Andy's for breakfast, and am never alone again until I return at 11:00 pm -- even then, I usually have a date or hookup with me.

My computer and tv sit silent.  My kitchen is for storing sodas and snacks.  Books that I buy but don't have time to read accumulate in uneasy stacks by my bedside.

I'm an introvert. I hate blaring music, flashing lights, and especially crowds.  I need quiet and solitude to recharge and energize.

March 14: Friday Night.

I've been asked out to dinner by Roger, a guy I met at the gym -- he had a very impressive shower erection.  Plus my sort-of boyfriend Kevin wants me to go to an "open mike night" (the vampire can sing!),  I've been invited to a party to help my friend Corbin welcome his visiting ex-boyfriend, and there's the usual Bear Party south of Market.  But I've had it.  Tonight is my night to relax!

I write in my Calendar "Quiet Evening at Home!!!," refuse all invitations, and turn off the answering machine on my phone.  After work and the gym, I pick up Thai food and a pint of ice cream.  I go home, draw the shades, and lock the door.

For the next 12 hours, I will not see, talk to, or interact with another human being.  Sheer solitude!  Heaven in Gay Heaven!

7:30 pm.  I put on my bathrobe and turn on Nickelodeon to watch while I eat.  Kenan and Kel, a teencom about a pair of Laurel-and-Hardy fat-thin bickering-buddies played by Kenan Thompson (who gets them involved in crazy schemes) and Kel Mitchell (who groans his catchphrase, "Here it goes!").  The guys believe that their friend Roger (Malcolm Jamal-Warner) is a jewel thief.

The show has a strong gay subtext, and Roger is rather cute.  What a coincidence -- a cute guy asked me out to dinner tonight.  We would probably be eating right now.  Then we'd go to Corbin's party, then cruising at the Eagle, and back to his apartment....

8:00 pm: I turn the channel to Sliders, about college boy Quinn (Jerry O'Connor) trapped in an endless voyage among parallel universes, accompanied by the Girl, the Professor, and the Jazz Musician.   This week they're in a world where all 18-25 year olds must become organ donors for the oldsters.  Meanwhile there's a subplot about Maggie (Kari Wuhler), a team member they picked up a few parallel worlds back, having a parasite removed from her body.  It takes a hot guy to lure it out so it can breed.

Heterosexist -- even alien parasites fall into boy-girl categories -- and disgusting.  Besides, Quinn never takes his shirt off.

At Corbin's party tonight, the entertainment will be a guy stripping and going down on the guests, or maybe a "guess the penis" game.

9:00 pm.  Nothing good on tv.  I go to the bedroom, lie down on the bed, and pick up a book.

Kevin is probably at the open-mic night by now.  One doesn't expect a dour, sarcastic vampire to be a singer, but he is, with a wide repertoire of torch songs and show tunes.  "Cabaret" starts playing in my head:

Put away the knitting, the book, and the broom.  Listen to the music play.
Life is a cabaret, old chum.  Come to the cabaret....

9:30 pm.  I turn the tv back on.  Step by Step, a TGIF sitcom about the blended family of Frank (Patrick Duffy) and Carol (Suzanne Sommers), formerly of Dallas and Three's Company, respectively.

In this episode, Frank's son  J.T. (Brandon Call), Carol's daughter Dana (Staci Keanan), and  their friend Rich (Jason Marsden) end up in a Mexican prison over burritos.  Back home, Carol teaches Jean-Luc (Bronson Pinchot), her partner at the beauty salon, how to drive.

Strong gay subtext between J.T. and Rich, and I'm pretty sure Jean-Luc is supposed to be gay.  But...I don't need to worry about subtexts and stereotypes anymore.  I'm in Gay Heaven!

The bear party is usually busy about now.

There are thousands of gay guys trapped in the Straight World tonight, with nothing to do but watch Step by Step and dream.  But I live in Gay Heaven.  It's my duty to go out, whether I want to or not.

I pull on my clothes and catch the Muni to South of Market.

10:00 pm.  I arrive at the bear party.  My friend David is there, going down on a muscular guy in his 30s with a short beard, a tight hairless chest, and a nicely shaped Bratwurst+.  He moves aside and motions for me to take over.

Just a quiet night in Gay Heaven.

See also: The Amazing Invisible Boy

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.

David Pulls It Out

San Francisco, March 1997

When I was living in San Francisco, my friend David and I walked down Castro Street every day on the way to and from work, even though it was strictly not necessary, to immerse ourselves in the heart of the heart of the gay world.

The Castro Theater -- Orphan Andy's -- Almost Home -- All American Boy -- Twin Peaks -- even the Walgreen's on the corner of 18th and Castro were icons of home.

I liked the morning best, when the street was quiet and calm, empty except for an occasional gym hunk on the way to his workout.

And the barfly.

Every morning, we passed a little bar -- now it's the QBar -- with big French doors open to the street, and in the darkness inside, a single guy, alone on a barstool, gazing out into the world.

He was older, white haired, rather well dressed for the denim-and-leather crowd, wearing a white shirt and a tie.  I couldn't tell what he was drinking, but it wasn't beer.

Who would be in a bar at 9:00 am?

"Drunks," David said with a disapproving scowl.  A former Baptist minister, he was vehemently opposed to alcohol.  "Has to get his fix."

Every morning, day after day, the barfly sat at the bar, looking out at the world.  Sometimes he nodded or waved at us as we passed.

I got so used to seeing him that when he wasn't there, I waited for a few minutes to see if he'd show up.

In the evening, when we passed again after work, the bar was usually packed with the Happy Hour crowd, but the barfly was still there.

In the same spot, as if he hadn't moved.

Who would stay all day and all night in a bar?  Didn't he have other things to do?

Gay people are very territorial.  They've been battered around the straight world so much that when they find a home, they stay.  Maybe this guy couldn't bear to leave the heart of the heart of the gay world, that one block of Castro Street between 17th and 18th.

But no one could spend their life on that block.  There were restaurants, bars, clothing stores, a drug store, a theater, and a hair stylist, but no gyms, bookstores, post offices, grocery stores, or banks. Or jobs.

For weeks David and I passed, morning and evening, and the barfly was there.

One evening, without warning, I headed into the bar.

David grabbed my arm.  "Wait -- don't tell me you're hot for that barfly?  He's cute and all, but he's a drunk!"

"I just want to hear his story.  Maybe he's lonely.  I could take him to a meeting of SAGE, the gay seniors group."

"He knows how to use the phone book!"

"Hey, I went with you to cruise in the men's room at Macy's.  The least you can do is help me cruise the old guy."

Grumbling, David followed me into the bar.  We sat on barstools on either side of the barfly and ordered cokes.

The barfly turned to David, grinning.  "What took you so long?"

"What?  Er..."

He held out his hand.  "I'm Karol.  Not a drag name -- it's Polish for 'Charles.'"

"David...and this is Boomer."

"Hiya," he said over his shoulder.  "I've been coming to this bar morning and night for weeks, .  I was about ready to give up."

"So...you don't spend all day here?" I asked.

Karol laughed.  "I don't think my clients would like that!"

It turns out that Karol was a graphic designer.  One day he stopped in at the QBar for a Bloody Mary on the way to work, and he saw us pass by.  He was so entranced that he made a point of coming to the bar at the same time every morning and evening, in the hope that David would stop and say hello.

"I should have chased after you, but I didn't want to be that Creepy Old Guy, you know."

"Come on, you're not that much older than us," I said.

"I'm over 40, by a few years.  I remember Poland before the War -- World War II, not Vietnam.  And I remember the Summer of Love -- I bet you were still in diapers."

"So you don't drink?"  David asked.

"A Bloody Mary now and then, and maybe a vodka and tonic.  But I don't drink a lot, no."

Then Karol turned to me, his back to David -- the guy he had a crush on.  What was his game?

He told me about growing up during the War, coming to America to find work as an artist, marrying, having kids, and then coming out and finding his way to San Francisco.

"I was here before AIDS, before Gay Liberation, back when Jose Serria was doing drag shows at the Black Cat Cafe."

Suddenly I glanced down -- while he was talking, Karol had been groping David, unzipping his pants, and now he had pulled it out!

You heard me.

Right out in the open.

This was my cue to leave!  "Have fun, guys," I said.

Later that night, David called me.

"So, how was the date with your secret admirer?"

"Well, that's just it.  You know how, when you finally get a guy you've been fantasizing about for a long time, the reality is always disappointing? Plus when you get older, things get more difficult.  And Karol had been drinking...."

"His mission was a failure, huh?"

"And that embarrassed me so much that my mission was a failure, too.  Big bust all around.  So...you want to go to the Bear Party?"

The next morning Karol was not on his usual bar stool on Castro Street.

My Nephew Fixes Me Up with His Central Asian Friend

Every year my father celebrated his birthday by hosting a barbecue for his family and friends, held on the Saturday afternoon closest to June 6th.  I always tried to schedule my summer visit to Rock Island or Indianapolis to coincide with it.

Dad died last year, so I assumed that the barbecues were over, until I got a Facebook Instant Message from my sister's son, Joseph, age 27, a doctoral student in Central Asian Languages, at Indiana University.

"I'm continuing Grandpa's tradition of Memorial Day Barbecues.  At my house in Bloomington.  Can you make it?  I want to talk to you about something."

"Sure, no problem," I responded, curious.  What could he want to talk about.  Maybe he wanted to come out!

I figured that Joseph had to be gay, or at least bi.  He was flamboyant and theatrical, swishing and limp-wristed, with that nasal "gay accent" voice.  He wears bright pastel shirts and tight bulging jeans and plastic bracelets. He belonged to an LGBT news group on Facebook, and he drove his Dad's vintage 1969 car in the Indianapolis Gay Pride Parade.

Definitely coming out.  Or -- had he turned fundamentalist, and wanted to quote Leviticus at me?

Better skip the staying-over invitation.  "Thanks, but I already accepted an invitation to stay with Tyler."  A friend in Indianapolis.

And I brought along David from San Francisco for moral support -- an ex-Baptist minister with a master's degree in Classics, an expert on the Biblical passages used to promote homophobia.

We arrived on Wednesday and saw my mother and my sister and brother-in-law, but not Joseph, not until Saturday afternoon, the barbecue: hot dogs and hamburgers grilled in the back yard of Joseph's 100-year old house just outside of Bloomington.

How did they afford it, when he and his roommates were all graduate students?

We said hello to Joseph and gave him a gift, then pushed our way through the crowd, saying hello, getting introduced.  I counted over 20 adults, plus kids.  All relatives, all heterosexual as far as I could tell -- with one exception.

A young guy on the far side of the yard, talking to someone I didn't recognize. Shorter than me, dark-skinned, square head with heavy eyebrows and a big smile, a v-shaped torso, a hard smooth chest with prominent nipples, a little belly, and heavy, square workman's hands.

"Dibs," I whispered to David, and walked over to introduce myself and cruise him.  Heavily.

Then Joseph grabbed me.  "Can I talk to you for a second.  Without David?"

He took me onto the screen porch.

Uh, oh -- this is it! I thought.  He's either going to come out or pull out a Bible!

But he said "Is David your boyfriend?"

"Uh -- no,"

"Ok, good.  I didn't expect you to bring anyone...um...so I got a date for you."

"What?" A blind date?

"I know what it's like to feel out of place at these family gatherings, so I invited Ravi, from Kazakhstan.  He's just come out, and looking to meet people.  And he likes older guys."  He grabbed my knee.  "I got you tickets to a dance concert tonight -- but I didn't know David would be here, so I just got two."

"Oh, no problem, he sounds great."

Kazakh, the language spoken by the Turkic tribes that descended on Central Asia a thousand years ago:

I like to eat big sausages.
Turkish: Büyük sosisleri severim
Kazakh:Men ülken şujıq jewge unaydı

"But won't David feel left out?"

Apparently Joseph had never heard of the gay community custom of "sharing."  It's not common on a first date, but not unheard-of.

Ravi (real name Ravil) turned out to be in engineering, not in Central Asian Languages: 23 years old, in the U.S. only about a year. He always knew that he liked guys, but only acknowledged that he was gay a few months ago.  He had never met any older gay men before, and peppered us with questions about how we came out, how we formed romantic relationships, if we ever wanted to get married and have kids, if we knew any gay Muslims.

Oddly, David refused to come along to the dance concert ("Dance is a Contact Sport", about dancers pretending to be football and baseball players, not very interesting), or cruising at the Metro afterwards.  Maybe he didn't want to horn in on "my territory."

When we got back to the apartment, David and Tyler were already asleep, so we took the guest room.

Ravi was very passionate, into kissing and fondling, with a very thick cut Bratwurst.   I went down on him until he spurted, then moved into the interfemoral position, which he had never done before.

In the morning Tyler -- but not David -- joined us.  I went down on them both while they were kissing, then fondled Tyler's testicles while they moved into the 69 position.  Then Ravi went down on me while Tyler pushed into my mouth.

David interrupted us.  "Hey,  I hate to ruin the party...."  He reached out and fondled Ravi.

"No, it's ok, join us," Ravi said.  "I would love your cock in my ass."

"Sounds tempting, but no time.   We should get going if we're going to make it to church.  I'm be waiting in the living room."

Ravi seemed a little put-out by David's reluctance.  He let me go down on him until he finished, then quickly dressed and left.  When I called later, he claimed to be too busy to get together again.

I never found out why David didn't want to "share."  Maybe Ravi wasn't his type, or maybe he was just tired after several days of Indianapolis cruising.

But I got to hook up with a beautiful guy from Central Asia, and hear the Kazakh language!

Later I instant messaged Joseph:  "Thanks for introducing me to Ravi.  He was very nice.  Too bad we won't have time to see each other again before I go home."

"You're leaving soon?" Joseph responded.  "We never had a chance to talk."

I thought Ravi was the talk!  "Ok, I have some time this afternoon."

Coming out, finally?  Suggesting a three way with Ravi?

We met at a little restaurant on the south side.

"I have a job offer at the University of Amsterdam," Joseph said. "I know you go there every year, so I wanted to ask your advice about living there."

Two years later, Joseph came out as transgender.  Sorry about the deadname and he/him pronouns, but that's what they used at the time.

David's First Gay Sexual Experience, at a Gas Station in Arkansas

Of all the hundreds of coming out stories I've heard, the one told by my friend David in San Francisco is the most remarkable.  A conservative Baptist minister in small-town Arkansas, married with children, figuring it out on his 43rd birthday, with not a hint before!

Fort Smith, Arkansas

Dave was born on January 6th, 1953 (Three Kings' Day) in Memphis, Tennessee.  When he was five years old, his family moved to Fort Smith, Arkansas.  He had an idyllic childhood, swimming in Creekmore Park, buying comic books at Coleman Drugs, having sleepovers with his friends from Sunnymead Elementary School..

"Sleepovers?  Lots of opportunities for seeing guys in their underwear, cuddling with them, maybe some groping?"

"Not that I remember."

In high school he started dating girls, but prided himself on treating them "like a gentleman," rejecting even a good-night kiss.  He often double-dated with his best friend, Steve.

"I'll bet you couldn't wait to drop the girls off so you and Steve could..."

"Not that I remember."

Fayetteville

At the University of Arkansas in Fayetteville from 1971 to 1975, Dave majored in Classical Studies and became competent in Latin, Greek, and German.  He first became aware of same-sex desire when he translated Virgil's Eclogue 2:

Corydon the Shepherd was in love with beautiful Alexis.

How could Corydon be in love with Alexis, when they were both boys?

The professor explained that the ancient Romans sometimes practiced "the unnatural vice."

"A little frisson of recognition?"  I ask. 


"Nope.  I don't remember feeling any strong emotion about it.  It was just something weird that the ancients did."

In college he kissed a girl for the first time.  It was ok, but he didn't see what all the fuss was about.

New Orleans

From 1975 to 1977, Dave studied for his M.A. in Latin at Tulane University in New Orleans.  His master's thesis was on Ovid's Metamorphoses.

"Lots of same-sex practices in there!" I exclaim.  

"Sure, I read about Zeus and Ganymede, and Hyacinth and Apollo.  But it was all way-out, exotic stuff, with no connection to my world at all.  

"Well...what about New Orleans?  The French Quarter, one of the hottest gay neighborhoods?"

Sometimes he and his friends went to the French Quarter to gawk at the  "fairies,"  They were all outrageously feminine, swishy, drag queens, with no connection to his world at all.

Louisville

David thought about going on to a doctorate in Classics, but worried about the job prospects.  Instead he spent 1977-1980 at the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary in Louisville, getting his M.Div. His research project was on the interpretation of the Koine Greek of the New Testament.

"What did you think about the so-called homophobic passages in Romans and Colossians?"

"I don't remember thinking anything at all," David says.  "I took all of my examples from the Gospels."

In order to get a church, you needed a wife, so Dave got engaged to Karen, a girl from a local church.  They waited until their wedding night to have sex.  It was ok, not disgusting or anything, just sort of mechanical.

"Did you fantasize about guys while having sex with your wife?" 

"To be honest, I didn't fantasize at all.  My body did all the work.  I was planning out my next sermon, or wondering what we were having for dinner tomorrow night."

Conway, Arkansas

In 1980, Dave and Karen moved to a church in Poplar Bluff, Missouri, and in 1983, to a much bigger church in Conway, Arkansas.  Karen got a job as a high school English teacher, but quit when she became pregnant.

The 1980s was a period of rampant homophobia, but Dave didn't berate gay people in any of his sermons.  In fact, he started the first AIDS buddy program in Arkansas.

The first gay man Dave met was a guy whose partner of ten years was dying of AIDS.  He couldn't figure out why God would punish them for falling in love.

"So, realizing that gay people aren't monsters -- that helped you come out?"

"No, but it put me at odds with my congregation in my fellowship.  I was criticized as too liberal, as not really a Christian.  Someone wrote 'fag lover' on my office door."


Fayetteville

In 1990, Dave and Karen moved to a church in Fayetteville, near the University of Arkansas.  It was slightly more liberal, with many more cultural activities.  They started going to concerts and the theater, including The Nutcracker every Christmas.

Dave found himself noticing the bulges and butts of the hot ballet dancers.

"Men are beautiful!  Why didn't I ever realize that before?"

When he turned 40, worried about his health in midlife, he joined a gym, and started doing cardio and weight training.  He looked at the other guys, stripping down in the locker room....

He wanted to touch them, to kiss them, to feel their butts and cocks against him.  Sometimes he became aroused just thinking about it.

His fundamentalist roots kicked in. Could hanging around with gay men be "turning him" gay?

"You can't turn gay.  You are or you aren't."

"That's what my friend at the AIDS Foundation said.  He told me that straight guys sometimes find themselves attracted to men.  It doesn't mean anything.  It's who you love that counts."

And he loved Karen.  He liked hanging out with her, discussing old movies, playing with the kids. He didn't even mind the sex.  It was warm and comfortable, like sleeping under a quilt on a cold day.

January 6th, 1996 was Dave's 43rd birthday, a Saturday.  He and his family celebrated with brunch (his favorite meal) at the Cracker Barrel.  They gave him presents.

He spent the afternoon in his study, working on his sermon for the next day, "New Beginnings."  It was going to start with the story of Saul on the road to Damascus, who had a transforming vision of Jesus Christ and became Paul.

At 3:00 pm he drove to Planet Fitness to work out.  On the way he stopped at the Shell Station to get gas and a Gatorade.

The most beautiful guy in the world was sitting behind the counter.  In his twenties, with thick, almost shaggy black hair, a scruffy beard, deep soulful eyes, and a bewitching half-smile.  He was wearing a red t-shirt that accented his slim, tight physique.  His name tag read "Shawn."

Dave stared open-mouthed.  Shawn smiled.

"Will that be all?" he asked, pointing to Dave's Gatorade.  He didn't have a Southern accent.

"Um...um...today's my birthday," he stammered.  "I'm 43."

In retrospect, not the best pick-up line.

"Well, happy birthday!  I'll have to give you a present.  What would you like?"

"I'd like to kiss you," Dave admitted.

This wasn't a gay neighborhood.  It was redneck, homophobic, Bible-belt Arkansas.  But Shawn said "Sure."  They went into the restroom and locked the door, and Shawn wrapped his arms around Dave, and they kissed.  It was a long, deep, eager kiss.  Their bodies and cocks pressed together.  Shawn lifted Dave's shirt to feel his chest, unzipped his pants to work on his very hard Kielbasa.

"What about Shawn's penis?" I ask.

"Nice.  But it was mostly about the kiss."


It took only a few minutes for Dave to spurt into Shawn's hand.  He washed off in the sink and said "Well, I better get back to work."

Dave caught his arm.  "Can I see you later?"

Shawn smiled.  "Sure thing, babe.  I get off at 7:00.  But I didn't get your name."

"It's David."

"I was Dave for 43 years.  I don't know why I said David.   Except that Shell Station was my Damascus Road."

See also: David's Top 20 Hookups and One-Night Stands; a Glimpse of Supreme Beauty at a Rest Stop in Iowa.

Desperately Seeking Kevin the Vampire

San Francisco, March 14th, 2003

A Friday.  I'm living in Florida, but back in San Francisco for five days, anxious to visit my old hangouts and re-unite with my old friends:

Drake the Teddy Bear Artist.
Corbin, the Gym Rat with the Mortadella+:
Clay, who I picked up in the restroom at Macy's
Wayne the Ex-Priest.
Matt, my ex-boyfriend's ex-boyfriend

And especially Kevin the Vampire.  When I left San Francisco, I was actually relieved to be rid of him:  his smoking, his elitism, his weird paranormal powers, his exhausting bedroom calisthenics.  But at least dating him was never dull.

David, the ex-Baptist minister who is trying to make up for lost time by hooking up with at least two guys every day, picks me up at the airport.  On the way to his apartment on Alvarado in the Castro, he tells me that Drake, Corbin, Clay, and Wayne have all moved away or gone incognito.

I'm disappointed.  Back in West Hollywood, almost everyone I knew is still there.  I could walk into the French Quarter or the Fautline, and it would seem like I never left.

David shrugs.  "It takes a lot to live in Gay Heaven.  Not only money, but stamina, determination, passion.  Most guys get burned out in a few years."

"Well, surely Kevin the Vampire is still around.  I can't imagine him living anywhere else."

"Dunno.  I just hung out with him because of you, so we haven't been in contact.  Why don't you give him a call?"

I am embarrassed to admit that in a year of dating, I never got Kevin's phone number.  He always called me, or showed up at my door.

"Well, do you know his address?"  David asks.  "We could do a drop-in."

"I never got his actual street address, either, but I know where his apartment is.  I've been there a hundred times."  I hesitate.  "Only...we might not be able to find it.  One of Kevin's paranormal powers was confusing visitors.  If he wasn't expecting you, you would get lost."

"Desperately seeking Kevin the Vampire, a paranormal adventure!" David exclaims.  "I'm in -- but only if we can hook up with some of the leads.  I'm running a little low on my quota."








Saturday, March 15th

We have breakfast at Orphan Andy's, and then take the Muni out to the Richmond, where we find Kevin's apartment with no problem.  It's on the third floor of a Victorian on 12th Avenue, just south of Clement.

When we knock, a cute black-haired twink answers the door, bleary-eyed, wearing only pajama bottoms.  He introduces himself as Rome (or Roam) and invites us in for coffee.

"I've lived here for two years now, but I know who you're talking about.  He was here when I came to look at the place.  Not my type -- I like them muscular, like you guys."  He puts his hand on David's knee.  "But big eyes.  Weird, hypnotic."

"Definitely one of his selling points," I say.

"Well, he sold me.  I ended up going own on him, right in front of the landlord.  And I'm never a slut!  Weird, huh?"  He pauses, lightly stroking David's knee.  "Sorry I can't help you out.  I have to go take a shower and get ready for work.  So...unless you want to join me..."

I wait in the bedroom while David and Rome make out in the shower.  When they emerge, I go down on Rome while David is topping him.  Smooth hairless chest, average sized, cut, a lot of moaning.

That night David hosts a party in his apartment.  He invites four guys, including Matt, the crazy Harvard boy who was with my ex-boyfriend Fred for ten years.  Now he runs a nude housekeeping service.  Matt's date is, of all people, Seth!

A cute science nerd in his 30s with a surprisingly muscular physique, a hairy chest, and a Bratwurst+ beneath the belt.  The teaching assistant in my chemistry class in 1997, now a chemistry professor at San Francisco City College.  He and Kevin dated after we broke up (or maybe before we broke up).

The ex-boyfriend of my ex-boyfriend is dating the ex-boyfriend of my ex-boyfriend!

The mind boggles.

"Kevin and I didn't really have a friendly break-up," Seth tells me.  "There was yelling, and crying, and throwing things, and that was just my friends, when I told them about it.  So I haven't seen him since.  Sorry I can't be of any help."

Well, Seth was of some help.  I got to go down on him again during a game of "Guess the Penis."





Monday, March 17th

While David is at work, I go to St. Mary's Hospital to see Marius (top photo), the Argentine German who was Kevin's boss and best friend.  He's in his 40s, a hairy muscle bear with an enormous uncut Mortadella, and religious, a devout Lutheran who once planned to become a minister.  I'm sure we would have dated, except that I only met him after I began dating Kevin the Vampire.

"Kevin quit a couple of years ago, and moved out of town," Marius tells me.

"Out of San Francisco altogether? That's odd."

"I know.   But with rents going sky-high, he just couldn't afford to stay here on his salary any longer."

So Kevin the Vampire abandoned Gay Heaven for the most mundane of reasons, his checkbook?  I am strangely disappointed.

"I have his address and telephone number back at my apartment, if you'd like to stop by later."

"Sure, that'd be great."

He smiles.  "We could have dinner first, if you're free."

I check with David -- he's fine with not feeding me.  So Marius and I have dinner at Thai Thai, and then go back to his apartment in the Richmond to spend the night.  I go down on him, and he finishes with interfemeral while we're kissing.

Tuesday, March 18th

The telephone number that Marius gave me for Kevin doesn't work.

Wednesday, March 19th

My last night in San Francisco.  I have to get up early to catch my plane, so David and I are staying in.  He's busy in the kitchen, making arroz con pollo with a salad and fresh fruit, when there's a knock on the door.

"Could you get that?" David yells.  "And if he's hot, invite him to stay for dinner."

Through the peephole I see -- Kevin the Vampire!

Shocked, I pull the door open.  "Kevin...what...how..."

He grins.  "Aren't you going to invite us in?"

"Sure, come in."  Us?  

He comes in, followed by a buffed guy in his 30s with a short beard, a v-shaped torso, and impressive biceps.

David appears from the kitchen, staring.  "Kevin...how did you get here?"

"By BART, of course.  I live in Milpitas now, in an actual house, just like Ma and Pa Kettle.  This is Charlie -- quite a beautiful specimen, isn't he?  And you should see his penis -- well, most likely you will, before the evening is over."

Charlie shakes hands with us, unfazed at being called a "specimen."

"How did you know I was back in town?" I ask.

"Well, Boomer, you've been calling me for five days.  You must have known that, sooner or later, I would answer."

"I haven't been calling you...the phone number Marius gave me didn't work."

He laughs.  "I didn't mean by telephone."

By the way, Charlie did have a very nice penis.

Our Hook Up with Brad Pitt

San Francisco

One night when I was visiting my friend David in San Francisco, we went out to dinner at Thai Thai.  He wanted to introduce me to his friend Corbin, a gym rat from Oakland with, he said, an awe-inspiring Mortadella.

Corbin was late.  We were about to order without him when he came bursting in, giddy and excited. "I brought someone -- I hope you don't mind.  He's out looking for a parking space."

Actually, I did. If  Corbin brought a date, we would be divided into two couples, and no Mortadella+ for me.  

But David said "No problem.  Is your date hot?"

"Is he hot!"  He sat and took David's arm.  "Out parking the car right now is none other than Brad Pitt!"

The hottest actor in Hollywood?  The star of Thelma and Louise, and Johnny Suede, and A River Runs Through It?  And Interview with the Vampire, where he and Tom Cruise played a gay vampire couple?  Sure, he always had a lady on his arm, but he must be bisexual -- straight men just don't get abs like that!

"How did you..."  I asked.

"I stopped in at the gym before coming here.  Just walking down Market, and there he was!  Everybody was staring, and a guy stopped and asked him for his autograph -- he refused.  But I played it cool, like you told me you did in West Hollywood.  I pretended I didn't even know who he was."

In West Hollywood, when we encountered big stars, we pretended not to recognize them.  No fawning, no gushing, no autograph requests.  We approached, or let him approach, as if he was just another hot guy.

But San Francisco had no movie and tv studios, no actor population, so celebrities appeared only when they were visiting, or starring in something on stage.  And most residents moved directly from homophobic small towns, so they never developed big city nonchalance.  So apparently they fawned and gushed and stammered, and called all their friends.  It took a studied indifference to incite Brad Pitt's interest.

"So we talked, and before you know it, he agreed to come to dinner with us."

"Ok," I told David.  "So the key to dealing with celebrities is, don't scare them off.  Don't discuss their movie career unless they bring it up.  Don't ask which celebrities are gay.  Stick to coming out stories and the biggest penis you've ever seen."

Brad arrived just in time to hear me say that, but he remained nonchalant, grinning broadly as he shook our hands.

He was about my height, lanky, with a sharp chin, deep blue eyes, long scruffy hair, almost exactly like this photo of Brad Pitt at the Golden Globes in 1996, except cleanshaven.

He sat and put his arm around the back of Corbin's chair.  "Nice to meet you all.  San Francisco is such a great city, and the guys are super-hot.  I wish I could visit more often."

"I loved Interview with a Vampire!" David blurted out, starstruck.

"Yeah.  You know, I met Anne Rice, at a book signing in Boston.  She told me that she always intended the character of Louis to be gay all along."  

This seemed strange.  He met Anne Rice at a book signing?  Wouldn't she have been on the set?  Wouldn't she have discussed her character with the actor portraying him?

But maybe not.

For the rest of the dinner, we avoided talking about movies.  Instead we discussed our miserable fundamentalist childhoods (Brad and David both grew up in Southern Baptist households, and I was Nazarene).  

Then we discussed the gay pride celebrations and other gay festivals in San Francisco.  Brad told us that in 1987, when he was 18, he marched in the very first gay pride parade in Oklahoma City.

Brad and Corbin held hands under the table, but I also saw a few brushes of Corbin's leg against David's, and Brad occasionally reached over and groped me.  A good sign that we weren't dividing into two couples.  Before the night was over, I would definitely be experiencing a Corbin Mortadella and a Brad Pitt Kovbasa+++.

Sure enough, after dinner David invited us back to his apartment on Waller, just off Haight, for "dessert."

He served three-day old cookies that no one touched.  Instead Corbin and Brad sat on the couch, kissing, while David went down on Corbin.

I pulled Brad over and kissed him and unbuttoned his shirt.  He had six-pack abs, hard and smooth, tight muscled, the stuff of legend in gay communities ever since he flashed them in Thelma and Louise.

Brad tried to push my head down onto his crotch, but I resisted.  Later -- I'd gone down on lots of guys.  I'd never have the opportunity to feel abs like that again!

We went into the bedroom, where I went down on Brad while he went down on Corbin and David at the same time.  Definitely a monster, a Kielbasa, cut, with a mushroom head.  He finished in a few minutes, but almost instantly sprang up, ready for more.  Then David pulled out a condom and topped Brad while Corbin and I just sort of lay there.

Spending the night after "sharing" is usually obligatory, but David's small bed wouldn't hold four, and Brad had to get to the airport early in the morning, so he left -- without giving us his phone number.

I doubt that it was really Brad Pitt himself, but still, David, Corbin, and I added "a hookup with" to our repertoire of celebrity dating stories. 

See also: Nude photos of Brad Pitt

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?

How Matt Began Renting Himself Out

San Francisco, April 1997

One night around 11:00 pm, I got a phone call out of nowhere.

"It's Matt, mon ami -- I'm at the Castro Street Muni Station.  Come pick me up!"

Matt the Cute Young Thing?

Nine years before, my college boyfriend Fred moved to Pomona, California, about an hour's drive from West Hollywood, to study at the Claremont School of Theology.

He brought Matt, 23 years old -- a scandalous age difference!

Plus Matt was an ultra-elitist snob, a graduate of the Andover Academy and Harvard University, who adored the opera, peppered his conversation with phrases in French and German, and complained that everything about my world was bourgeois or jejune:  the Midwest, West Hollywood, USC, Raul, the Greenery, the Different Light, you name it.

Plus he gossiped about everybody and everything, providing the weird voices.

Then Beau told his "Uncle,"  wink wink, "Be sure that yo' get mah new underweah in extra-extra-extra lahge."

But when you got beneath the sarcastic cover, Matt had a good heart.  And he was extraordinarily cute.

In the bedroom, while you were going down on him, he kept up a nonstop monologue of his progress, in three languages:

I'm getting there...un peu plus, mon chevalier.......je vais arriver...Mein Stollen, Mein Stollen...bien, bien...here I go...


We were never friends, exactly.  I only socialized with him -- and shared his bed -- because of Fred.  And that didn't happen often, maybe once every couple of months, and at Christmastime, when we all flew back to the Midwest.

Fred got his D. Min in 1993, and couldn't find a church, so he returned to his old job as a mental health counselor in San Bernardino, about 30 miles east of Pomona.

Ninety minutes from West Hollywood.

"I so envy you, mon ami!" Matt often said.  "So close to the action, the heart of the heart of the gay world, unsere Heimat!"

In 1995, shortly after we moved to San Francisco, Fred took a job at a congregational church in Fresno.

Three hours from West Hollywood

 "This town is even more dreary than San Bernardino!" Matt often said.  "And you're living in San Francisco, the heart of gay Heaven, Paradis."

In retrospect, I should have seen it coming.

I picked up Matt and his backpack at Castro Street Station and took him to Orphan Andy's for a hamburger.  He was 32 years old, no longer a Cute Young Thing, but quite buffed from hours at the gym.

"Fred and I are kaput! Over!  I caught him having sex with a kid in the youth group.  I'm all for sharing, but en cachette?  And I'm pretty sure the kid is underaged!"

"Well, you should at least hear his side of the story."

"No, I've had it.  J'ai trop mangé!  This isn't the first time, mind you, but I've put up with it because of my misguided sense of loyalty. But no more."

We returned to my cramped third-floor walk-up, over a hardware store, which he criticized as "impossibly bourgeois" and "a downscale dump," and spent the night.

It was my first time in bed with Matt without Fred being there.  He still kept up a nonstop monologue of his progress while I was going down on him: "Oui, mon ...étalon...comme ça...it won't be long now...a little more...bien, bien..."

In the morning, I called Fred and confirmed that this was no quarrel.  It was definitely over.  Matt's stuff was packed up and waiting for him in the guest room.

So we just had to get Matt the three essentials of life in Gay Heaven: an apartment, a gym membership, and a job.

The apartment came easy: a very nice second-floor in a Victorian on Dolores, near the Castro, for a frightfully high rent.

The next weekend, my friend David and I drove a U-Haul down to Fresno to pick up Matt's stuff: an antique grandfather's clock, a old secretary-style writing desk, ten boxes of books, and a lot of kitchen equipment, including a breadmaker and a pasta maker.  A second-hand store furnished the rest of the apartment.

The job was a problem. Matt stood to inherit several million dollars when his parents died, in fifty years, but for now his trust fund held only about $20,000.   And his resume was blank.

"I went straight from Harvard Yard to Fred's bed.  I've never actually had a job.  But I'm up for anything.  I'll sell my butt on Polk Street if I have to."  He turned around to display his butt.  It was indeed very nice.  His frontside, too.

"You're a little old for hustling," I said, hoping he wasn't serious.  "And not big enough for a career in porn.  But we'll find you something."

Ideas #1 and #2: Matt was fluent in French and German.  He could be a translator, or a guide for European tourists.

It turns out that everyone in the world was fluent in French and German -- I was fluent in French and German.  Aand European tourists usually came with guidebooks in hand.

Idea #3:  He was a Harvard alumnus, with lots of contacts in the City.  He called Santa Claus, aka Bearnard, the fantasy writer, and landed a job as his personal assistant.  But Matt's habit of criticizing everybody and everything did not sit well with Bearnard, and a few days later he was scanning the want ads again.

At least he got a hookup out of the deal: "Bien, bien...soon, soon...mon choux...comme ca...ich komme...."

Idea #4: I brought him over to "share" with Kevin the Vampire, my sort-of boyfriend, in the hope that he might have some supernatural suggestions.

"What have you being doing with yourself for all these years?" he asked.  "Sitting around watching soaps and waiting for Fred to come home, like June from Leave It to Beaver?"

"Basically," Matt admitted.  "I did all of the cooking and cleaning.  The marketing.  The laundry.  I was sein Hausmädchen, ja?"

"So you should get a job as a housemaid."

"Me as a housemaid?  That's hardly suitable for a graduate of the Andover Academy and Harvard University."

"And they only make about minimum wage," I added.

Kevin the Vampire smiled and touched his arm.  "But you could give it a Castro Street twist."

"What do you mean?"

"There are plenty of old queens in the City with more money than they know what to do with and absolutely no chance of bedding a Cute Young Thing.  They would pay premium rates for you to vacuum, dust, and prepare their afternoon aperitifs.  With your spectacular butt and sausage open for them to gawk at."

"A nude housekeeping service!" Matt exclaimed.  "Sounds like a way to syncretize my housekeeping skills, my entrepreneurial skills, and my physique.  And I could hire some twinks, in case clients like them younger.  A whole stable."


"Just be sure to specify that no sex is permitted, so San Francisco Vice stays off that spectacular butt of yours."

I moved to New York a few months later, but I understand that Matt soon had three assistants to handle about 20 clients per week.  His most popular service was "nude waiter" for dinner parties.

No sex during the housekeeping, of course, but nothing in the contract said that workers couldn't make a date for later.

"Mon etalon...a little more...ein bischen, ein bischen...almost there..."

See also: Fred and the Cute Young Thing; 8 Harvard Boys in My Bed; and Matt Gets on His Knees Behind the Bar