I Cheat on My Boyfriend with a Goblin

Davenport, Iowa, March 1980

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Um...hi..."  I said tentatively.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Bye, Rubble."

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

Good.

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

Good.

I never told Fred what happened that day.

Good.

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

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

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

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

My Boyfriend's Secret Bookshelf

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

In the open, anyway.

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

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

I had never seen a nonfiction book about gay people.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Read his books for a model of good writing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Nebraska Football Player on the Great Redneck Roundup

July 1995, Omaha

The Great Redneck Roundup of 1995 yielded 20 hookups in 20 days, but, surprisingly, few actual
"rednecks."

We were looking for country boys:
1. Heavy-set, not fat but thick around the belly
2. "Macho" jobs as truckers or factory workers.
3. Lived in small towns or on farms
4. Drove pick-up trucks
5. Listened to country-western music
6. Most important: were very, very, very well hung.

Instead, we met a slim smooth Hispanic guy who wanted to be a chef, and a South Asian medical technician who took us to the ballet.

Nice, but we could meet guys like that back in West Hollywood.  Where were the cowboys, truckers, and farmboys of the Straight World?

On Day 7, we drove 10 hours from Denver to Omaha.

"We're bound to pick up a country boy here," I said.

When I moved to Omaha with Fred during college, I had never been so far west before, or lived in my own apartment, so it seemed a great adventure, like a pioneer in a wild, untamed frontier.   Even the sky seemed a darker shade of blue.

The Mutual of Omaha insurance building, with its Indian in a headdress that glowed at night, was visible everywhere downtown.

  What better place to find wild, untamed guys?

After we checked into our hotel and worked out, I went cruising alone (we usually cruised together, but I was worried that the elusive country boy would be intimidated by two sophisticated California guys together).

Of the three gay bars listed in my Gayellow Pages, the Omaha Mining Company seemed like the best place.

It was a small, rather seedy gay bar in an old building with parquet ceilings.  There were barrels of peanuts you could shell and eat while waiting for your watered-down drinks.  Two tv sets showing a football game.

Perfect!

Wait -- August wasn't football season.  Even I knew that.

I sat down at the bar next to an obvious redneck: about my age, formerly muscular but now a little chunky, with a round bearded face.  He was wearing a red shirt unbuttoned so you could see his smooth, cologne-doused chest, very tight jeans with a prominent bulge no doubt augmented by a few socks, and a baseball cap.

He was drinking a Coors beer and every now and then yelling "Yeah!" as he paid close attention to the game.



"What's going on?" I asked.  "It's not football season."

"Son, it's always football season!" he exclaimed.  "This is a preseason game, Pittsburgh at Buffalo."

I knew fans always favored the nearest city, but both of those were pretty far from Omaha.  "Which one do you like?"

"Pittsburgh, definitely!  You?"

"Oh..um...Pittsburgh, of course."

Suddenly someone scored a point or something.  The guy yelled "Awright!" and raised his hand for a high-five.  I complied.

"That was a Pittsburgh point.  You're not a big football fan, are you?"

"Not really."

"No shame in that.  I'm Kevin."  We shook hands -- very big hand, very rough.  Instead of letting go, he guided my hand down onto his crotch.

Wow, country boys worked fast!  "Um...I'm Boomer.  Visiting town from West  Hollywood."

"You're kidding!"  He punched my shoulder.  "Man, I would love to go there.  Gay central!  Hey, can guys go down on each other right on the street, like in the pornos?"

"It's not really like that.  More of a small town, just almost all gay."

Between guzzles of Coors, yells of "Awright!",and rubbing my hand against his crotch, , Kevin asked dozens of questions about West Hollywood: coming from California was as attractive to country boys as gigantic penises were back home.  I told him about Alan the Pentecostal Porn Star, my celebrity boyfriend, and meeting Lou Ferrigno when I worked at Muscle and Fitness.

Kevin came from a small town in Kansas ("I've heard all of the Dorothy and Toto jokes").  In college he played for the Nebraska Cornhusker football team as "defense" ("because I'm big -- son, you don't know how big").  Now he worked as a recruiter, traveling to high schools all over the country to get kids interested in the University of Nebraska.

 "It so happens that you get a perfect view of the Mutual Indian from my bedroom window," he said expectantly.

What kind of a dumpy apartment would a country boy have?  "Well -- I'm visiting with my partner.  He's back at the hotel.  Why don't we go there?"

"Hotels!  You're in hotels every night!  Time you boys spent the night in a real bed!"

I couldn't tell him that in our six days on the road so far, we had only spent three in a hotel room.

We picked up Lane and drove to Kevin's apartment in a tall brown building just west of downtown -- a silver two-door car, not a red pick up truck.

His apartment was nicely furnished, with a leather couch, black stalk lamps, a brightly-colored print of a nude man from the backside.

We didn't have much time to check out the views.   Almost the moment we got in the door, Kevin was on his knees, unzipping me.   He worked on both of us for awhile, then tore off our clothes and pulled us into the bedroom.

Very nice physique, smooth hard chest, a little belly, long, thick Kielbasa, cut.

"So, which of you is the top?"  Kevin asked.  "Lane, right?  The condoms are in that drawer over there.  The second drawer, next to the lube.

Lane laughed, no doubt remembering Barcelona last year, when Ramon mistook me for a bottom.

Kevin frowned and lay flat on the bed on his stomach.  "So Boomer, you're the top?  I'm up for you.  You'd be surprised what I can take!"

"We're actually not into Greek," I said.  "No one in West Hollywood is.  Too many bad memories."

"Oh...right...I hear you.  He rolled over to his side.  "You lost a lot of friends to AIDS, back in the day.  Well, come here, and let's cuddle.  I haven't had two guys in my bed in a long time."

We lay on the bed on either side of him and kissed and cuddled, and took turns going down on him. Then I climbed on top of him and thrust between his legs.

"I never did it this way before," he whispered.

"West Hollywood boys know lots of tricks."

In the morning he took us to breakfast at Lisa's Radial Cafe, and then we checked out of our hotel and drove on to Des Moines.

Let's review:

1. Heavy-set, not fat but thick around the belly. Check
2. "Macho" jobs as a trucker or factory worker.  No -- college recruiter, middle class.
3. Lived in small towns or on farms. No -- Omaha, population 400,000
4. Drove pick-up truck. No.
5. Listened to country-western music.  Check. We didn't listen to music, but I definitely saw some cowboy hats on the CDs piled up on his entertainment center.
6. Well hung. Check

Three out of six isn't a great score, but Kevin had the most important Country Boy trait: enormous beneath the belt.  Plus very enthusiastic.

And before the Roundup was over, I met a trucker and an honest-to-goodness cowboy.

See also: The Great Redneck Roundup; Fred and the Teenager Downstairs

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

The Blue Power Ranger Dates Fred and Matt

Fresno, November 1995

David grew up in Montana and Iowa, where gay people were assumed not to exist, except as monsters conjured up by the minister at church.   He was 14 when Rock Hudson died of AIDS in 1985, and he heard all sorts of horrible things about the movie star: "filthy diseased pervert," "should have been shot," "burning in hell."

He thought "that's me they're talking about!  They think I should be shot!  They think I'm going to hell!"

He spent his high school years praying, reading the Bible, and working out ferociously, trying to rid himself of his "evil thoughts."  He became an accomplished gymnast, and won state and regional awards. But no amount of prayer or exercise could keep him from remembering that, deep down inside, he was a filthy diseased pervert who deserved to be shot.

In college David discovered dramatics.  Creating a character, becoming a whole new person!  Surely that could shield him from the monstrousness of his evil.  He performed in college plays, and two days after graduation moved to Los Angeles to become an actor.  After only three months of auditions, he was cast as Billy, high schooler turned superhero in  Mighty Morphin Power Rangers (1993-96).

Each of the power rangers was a superhero, but they could also combine into the giant robot Megazoid, losing their individual identities for the greater good.  David wished he could do that in real life, dissolve into an ocean of life where male/female, black/white, gay/straight didn't matter.

He wasn't out at work, but he must have had the Mark of Cain on his forehead, since the jokes and slurs started almost immediately.

 "Why don't you have a girlfriend?"
"You looking at my butt, fag?"
"Don't you ever worry about the kids watching you prance around like a little faggot?"
 "Why are you the Blue Power Ranger?  Shouldn't it be Tutti-Frutti?"

David didn't participate in the gay world at all.  He never set foot in a gay bar, never picked up The Advocate or Frontiers, never dated, just an occasional hookup to relieve the pressure, mostly from Power Ranger groupies and sleazy older guys.  Once he accepted a date with Eddie Mekka, Carmine on Laverne and Shirley, but then he found out that Mekka was married, cheating on his wife, and called it off.

That only confirmed his belief that gay life was tawdry and sinister, that gay people were disrespectable, lurking in public restrooms, preying on kids.

He prayed a lot, and went to church, trying Episcopalian, Presbyterian, Baptist, Mormon, Pentecostal.  Plus Buddhist meditation and New Age past-life regressions.

A hookup told him about an actual gay minister, out to his congregation. His name was Fred, and he lived in Fresno with his partner Matt.  They talked several times on America Online.

One Saturday in November 1995, David drove 3 1/2 hours north to meet them.

Fred was in his 40s, tall, handsome, with thick brown hair tinged with gray, and very muscular: broad shoulders, thick biceps, big hands. Matt was about David's age, shorter, sandy-haired, with small, tight muscles.

"I'm many things: a polyglot, a flaneur, a bottom, a Hausfrau, but not a gym rat," Matt said.  "Still, a few hours a week in the gym works wonders.  Rather a sumptuous behind, n'est pas?"  He grabbed David's hand and pressed it onto his butt.

David was shocked.  Flirting with him, right in front of his partner? A minister?

Fred the minister was quite knowledgeable about the Bible and church history.  It seems that same-sex unions were commonplace in the early days of the church, not condemned until the late Middle Ages.  Today there were several Christian denominations that accepted gay people, and some gay-specific denominations, like the Metropolitan Community Church.

David had never heard of it.

"Oh, you should go, aussitôt que possible!"  Matt exclaimed.  "Not only is it gay-friendly, but it's packed with all of the hunks in tight jeans you could imagine!"

So among gays it always boiled down to sex, even at church.

After dinner Fred and Matt suggested that they hit Fresno's gay bars, but David claimed to be too tired.  Instead they went back to the apartment and had dessert and discussed movies and church and weight-training regiments.

David was sitting on the couch with Fred and Matt on either side of him, Matt casually fondling his arm and shoulder.  "But, mon petit etalon, shall I show you my absolute favorite exercise?  Parfait for the muscles of the neck and jaw..."

Before he knew what was happening, Matt had him unzipped and was going down on him.

Wait -- Fred was right there!

But it felt so right, so natural....

Soon Fred had his cock dangling in front of David's face.  He opened his mouth and let the minister enter him.  A man of God, sacred, spiritual, meant for a life of prayer and contemplation, his thick hard cock ramming against David's throat while his partner licked David's cock head..  He wanted this...

But it was wrong!

Later he let Fred top him while he was going down on Matt.  He spent the night warm and safe in their arms, then went to church the next day, to watch the man whose cock exploded inside him  last night give a sermon on compassion.

Could God have compassion on him, after last night?

On Monday morning, after the first snide comment, David walked off the set and never returned.  He checked himself into an ex-gay conversion center and endured two years of aversion therapy, forced heterosexual encounters, all-night prayer sessions, a constant drug haze, and plans of suicide.

Finally he had enough.  "God, this is it," he prayed.  "I'm gay and alive, and I have no choice: I have to be both.  So get ready, I'm coming out."

He moved to San Francisco, found a pro-gay therapist and a pro-gay church, read up on gay history, and started dating.

The first person he called was Fred.

See also: How Matt Began Renting Himself Out

We Stick It to the Wicked Witch of the North

Hell-fer-Sartain, April 1985

Near the end of my horrible nine months and 22 days in horrible Hell-fer-Sartain, the worst place in the world, my ex-boyfriend Fred came to visit.

We were together for only about six months back in 1980, when I was a stupid 19-year old college student.  We lived together, moved to Omaha together -- big mistake -- and broke up -- but stayed friends.  He had given up the ministry -- the only churches he could get were in horrible small towns -- and was working as a mental health counselor.

Near the end of his visit, he asked, "Boomer, when are you coming back to the Midwest?"

"May 8th.  The minute classes are over!"  I told him.  I'm dropping off my last grade, getting in my car, and heading north, and not stopping until I'm out of Hell-fer-Sartain!"

"That's perfect!  You can help me stick it to the Wicked Witch of the North."

"Who?"

"You know, She Who Must Not Be Named... my ex-fiancée...Diane?"

In 1976, Fred moved to Chicago to study for his M.Div. at McCormick Theological Seminary. He had been with a few guys, and even had some gay relationships, but he knew that a theological career required a wife and kids, so he started dating 28 year old Diane, daughter of his professor of Christian ethics and the granddaughter of a big wig in the United Methodist Church -- a prize catch for any upwardly mobile young theologian.

Plus she came with a ready-made family -- David, a 9-year old son from a marriage in her wild hippie youth.  Within a few months, they were engaged.

Diane knew her way around church hierarchy, and made sure that Fred went to the right parties and met the right people.  There was some tension between them -- she wanted sex a lot more often than Fred was willing to give, and she disapproved of his goal of becoming a small-town pastoral counselor -- why not aim for the top, an administrative position at the United Methodist Headquarters in Nashville?  But generally they got along well.

Fred completed his coursework in the spring of 1979, and got an internship at a church in Rock Island.  The plan was for Diane to stay in Chicago, until he completed his internship and got called to a church.  Then they would get married.  But in August 1979, the night before he was to leave for Rock Island, he decided to come out. He still wanted to get married...he promised to stay faithful...but she deserved to know the truth.

Diane did not take it well.  Crying, screaming, throwing things, calling him names, accusing him of being a pedophile: "I can't believe I almost married a queer!"  "You took my dad's class so you could get into his pants!" "You're moving to Rock Island so you can screw homos in public restrooms!" "You're just dating me so you can seduce my son!"

She wouldn't allow him to return to the apartment to pick up his things.  Or send a friend: "Nobody from your child molester club is setting foot in my house!"  Finally her brother offered to do it.

Fred tried to stay in touch -- he hated losing friends -- but Diane hung up on him when he called, and sent his letters back with a terse note: "Refused. Return to pervert."  He did manage to stay in touch with her son, sending letters and gifts to him through his Uncle John, making telephone calls when Diane was at work. David even managed to come to Christmas dinner one year by claiming that he was going to visit a friend.

When Fred came out to him, David said "Yeah, I always knew.  Even when you and Mom were dating.  I figured that's why you never stayed over."

"You may have...um...mentioned her," I said.  "But why did you call her the Wicked Witch of the North?"

"She and her husband live in Dubuque, 60 miles due north of Rock Island."

Figures.  I had driven through Dubuque many times, but never stopped.  It always gave me a frisson of dread.  Nazarenes considered it the epitome of evil. the Mordor of the utter north.

"David is 18 years old now," Fred continued.  "Can you believe it?  Where does the time go?  Anyway, he's going to graduate from high school -- and he sent me an invitation.  I thought you could come as my date.  Just up for the day and back, no overnight."

I was curious.  About Mordor, and about the Wicked Witch of the North.

"Will there be yelling?  I hate it when homophobes start yelling about Leviticus."

"Don't worry -- Diane won't start yelling in public.  One thing she always hated was 'Making a scene.'"

"Sounds great.  I'm in."

Dubuque, June 2, 1985

Fred picked me up at my parents' house at 10:00, and we drove north for an hour to Dubuque. There was enough time for a brief tour of the city -- surprisingly mundane - and a a sneaky-drive past the house where the Wicked Witch of the North lived -- not a castle, an older two-story frame house, painted green -- before going to Dubuque Senior High School.

The graduation ceremony was held in the fieldhouse: about 200 students, so it was easy to find David in the staging area.  He was very tall, with thick brown hair, blue eyes, and a long chiseled chin.  I couldn't tell anything about his physique under the graduation robe.  He hugged us both and asked if I was "the...um...you know."

Fred handed him an envelope containing a graduation-present check and said "No, we tried, but it didn't work out. Where's your mother?"

"Oh, milling around, I guess.  Can you come to the party later?  You can see her then."

"Will we be able to?" I asked. "Or will your mother...um...start screaming?"

He gave me a weird confused look.  "No problemo.  Mom only screams when the Hawkeyes score a touchdown."

We took our seats.  Fred looked around, and finally pointed out the Wicked Witch, wearing a black robe and a pointed hat, carrying a sign saying "I'll Get You, My Pretty."

Ok, not really.  But I swear, there was a dark shadow hovering over her.

When each graduate crossed the stage, their family and friends cheered.  David was in the W's, toward the end.  When he crossed, Fred stood and bellowed loudly "Yeah!  Go, David!"

The Wicked Witch froze in her seat, staring.

After the ceremony, we hung out for awhile, cruising the cute guys (I was only 24 years old, so 18 was ok for me), then headed over to the party at the Witch's house.  There was a sign on the front door: "Come to the back," so we walked around to the back yard, where there were picnic tables festooned with white and blue (the school colors) laid out with hamburgers, bowls of chips, veggies, and potato and macaroni salad, two kinds of cake, and various sodas.  "Rhythm of the Night" was playing from a boom box.

We saw David talking to a group of friends, and headed in his direction. But then someone grabbed my shoulder.  I turned.

The Witch!  Aka Diane.  A short, petite woman with her hair done up in a bob.  Smiling broadly.  Grabbing our hands.

"Fred, it's so great to see you again!  And this must be your boyfriend!"

Being nice to us?  Not screaming?  Fred was just staring, his jaw open, so I jumped in: "I'm Boomer.  We dated for awhile, but it didn't work out.  But we stayed friends...Fred hates losing people."

"Me, too!  When I lost my first husband, I vowed to never lose anyone I cared about again, if I could helpit"  She took Fred's arm.  "We'll have a nice long chat to catch up.  But first let me introduce you to my husband.  You'll love him -- but hands off, he's taken."   She laughed and turned to me.  "But David is single, Boomer."

People can change a lot in six years.

Fred and Diane stayed in contact for the rest of his life.

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

Fred and the Cute Young Thing Visit

West Hollywood, February 1988

If you sit at one of the tables outside the French Quarter on Santa Monica Boulevard long enough, every gay person you know will walk by.

David Johnson, son of the Professor on Gilligan's Island.  

David Cameron, whose mother starred him in the classic novel The Wonderful Flight to the Mushroom Planet.

And, in the spring of 1988, my first live-in boyfriend, Fred.

We met during my sophomore year in college, when he was a ministerial student.  When he got a job at a church in small-town Nebraska.  I moved with him, but it was a disaster -- he cheated on me with the teenager downstairs -- so I returned Rock Island.

We kept in contact, mostly through mutual friends, and hooked up occasionally at Christmastime.  He stayed in horrible small-town Nebraska until 1982, then moved to horrible small-town Kansas, and in 1985 left the ministry for a job as a mental health counselor in Kansas City.

One morning in February 1988, my roommate Derek, my ex-boyfriend Raul, and some other people were having brunch at the French Quarter, when suddenly Fred strolled by on the sidewalk outside, accompanied by a Cute Young Thing.

The French Quarter

I did a few double takes, then rushed out and grabbed him by the shoulder.

"Boomer!"  He gave me a friendly hug.  "I would have called, but I have your old number listed in my address book."

In those days, whenever you moved, your phone number changed.

I dragged him and the Cute Young Thing back to our table to join us.  "What are you doing in town?"

He was visiting seminaries, planning to enroll in a D.Min. (Doctor of Ministry) program to hopefully land a church in a decent town.  He had already interviewed at Yale and Vanderbilt, and now Claremont School of Theology, out in the San Gabriel Valley.

The Cute Young Thing (CYT), was barely out of his teens, slim with dirty-blond hair, an ostentatious diamond earring, a blue t-shirt, and tight blue shorts with a bulge that caused heads to turn even in bulge-heavy West Hollywood. I don't know where Fred found him.

A CYT

He looked askance at our Crabcakes Benedict, Mardi Gras Omelette, and Strawberry Crepes, called us all "fatties," and ordered the Diet Plate.  Then he criticized the French Quarter as "bourgeois."

You don't often see such an annoying combination of hotness and snark.

We went sightseeing, and then to dinner and to the clubs, while the CYT kept up a constant stream of criticism:

West Hollywood was "tacky," the Pacific Design Center "tired," Beverly Hills "bourgeois."

I had a job at Muscle and Fitness as "a glorified file clerk for narcissists," I was getting a "worthless degree" at a "second rate school," my car was "tacky," and my clothing was "hayseed."

To add insult to injury, the Cute Young Thing kept cruising me.




The next day Fred had to do a sample sermon and have lunch with the committee, and somehow he talked me into taking the CYT out for more sightseeing.  I dragged Raul along to share the pain.

The criticism continued:  I was from the Midwest, "nothing but hayseeds and cows," and a "geezer" at age 27.  Raul was "fat," wore a "glorified pimp" outfit, and should "learn to speak English."

The cruising also continued, and the CYT had the nerve to suggest that we come back to his hotel. Behind Fred's back!

Something had to be done about this menace!

Fortunately, we had a plan.

We went back to the hotel, kissed and fondled a bit, and stripped the CYT out of his clothes.  Then we broke away.

"Whew!  That's some gut you got!"  Raul exclaimed, pointing at his six-pack abs. "How did you hide it? Sorry, man, I'm not into fatties."

"What?  I....um..." the Cute Young Thing stammered.

"And what do you call that?" I said, pointing at his enormous package.  "I never saw one so small before."

"Maybe Fred likes them tiny?" Raul suggested.

"How does he even know it's there?  Sorry, buddy, I'm not into pencil stubs."

We got up and left the CYT speechless and staring on the bed.

Later that evening Fred called.  "What did you say to the CYT?  He insisted that I turn Claremont down!  He said the guys in West Hollywood are too fat and ugly!"

As it turns out, Fred and Matt stayed together for about 10 years, and we often "shared."

I never figured out what Fred saw in him.

Maybe you can?

See also: 8 Harvard Yard hookups; Matt's First Night with Fred and His Brother

Cruising the Miracle Mile

West Hollywood, July 1980

The summer of 1980.  I am 19 years old.   I have just finished my sophomore year in college and moved to Omaha with  my boyfriend Fred.    After five weeks, I have met only three gay people.  As far as I know, there are no others in Omaha.

As far as I know, there are no gay magazines, newspapers, bookstores, political organizations, or social clubs anywhere in the world, nothing out there at all but a few furtive closet bars and some porn magazines.

The relationship is stormy.  Fred is controlling, demanding, and even what I would call abusive today.  He doesn't want me to continue college, doesn't want me to have a career.  I can't go out to the bars without him. He gets upset when I talk to another guy, but he's been seccretly hooking up.  I have to get out.

My friend Tom, who moved to California after high school and is now going to UCLA, invites me to visit.  This is a perfect opportunity to escape!  One day while Fred is out, I pack some of my things and drive west on Interstate 80, intending to never come back.

While visiting, I stay in Tom's room in his cousin's house in Westwood.  They are both attractive, but nothing happens except for what I call the "heterosexual huddle," what straight guys do while thinking about girls.


We see all of the touristy landmarks: Mann's Chinese Theater, the Cinerama Dome, Griffith Park, and the Hollywood Sign.  We cruise down Santa Monica Boulevard, Hollywood Boulevard, Sunset, Melrose, the streets that have been familiar throughout my life, ever since The Lucy Show suggested that Los Angeles might be a "good place."

It feels like home.

We drive through the gay mecca of West Hollywood, but I am not aware that it exists, so I don't notice anything different.

We stop at Book Soup on Sunset Boulevard, three blocks from my future house.

I see a section marked Gay and Lesbian.

I assumed that there were only Geight ay and Lesbian books in existence: Witchcraft and the Gay Counterculture, which Peter gave me, and the seven on Fred's  secret bookshelf.  It is amazing that they have a whole section at Book Soup .

Isn't it illegal to openly sell books about gay people? Fred said it was all done by mail order, without using anyone's real name.

I'm afraid to stand in front of the section, lest anyone think that I'm. . .you know.  I pretend to be immersed in a section nearby, Psychology, and steal surreptitious glances.

I see: Loving Someone Gay, The Best Little Boy in the World, The Penguin Book of Homosexual Verse, Gay American History, Christopher and His Kind....far more than eight!  (There were actually about 30 nonfiction books about gay people in print at that time, plus fiction.)

Finally I gather my courage, snatch a small paperback called The City and the Pillar from the shelf as I rush past, hide it under some science fiction novels, and go to the cash register.  I don't realize until I get there that there are two naked guys on the cover, but it's too late to back out now.

I expect the cashier to scream "The sting worked!  Call the police!", or at least yell "Price check on the gay book! This weirdo wants to buy a gay book -- he must be gay!  How much does the gay book cost?"  But she just looks at me funny.

Tom meets me, and we go out to the car. "What did you buy?" he asks.

"The Ringworld Engineers and Lord Valentine's Castle," I tell him, naming two science fiction novels.  "And some other stuff."

Later we're driving down Wilshire Boulevard when the Billy Joel song "It's Still Rock and Roll" comes on the car radio, with the line "are you going to cruise the Miracle Mile?"

"This is the Miracle Mile!" Tom exclaims.  "How's that for a coincidence?"

It feels even more like home.

I stay for a week, then drive home to Rock Island to enroll in my junior year at Augustana.  But I'll be back.

Fred and the Icelandic Photographer

New York, August 2000

"Boomer, guess what!" Fred said breathlessly, in those days before texting overtook the telephone.  "I got a new job, in Bemidji, Minnesota!"

Last I heard, my ex-boyfriend Fred and his partner Jester -- a blind guy who taught high school history -- were in Sandusky, Ohio, where Fred was working as an assistant pastor at a congregational church. Granted, a step down for someone with a doctorate in theology and ten years of pastoral experience, but Sandusky was a gay resort town.

What in the world were they doing in Bemidji, Minnesota?

Population 14,000.  Near nowhere at all (3 1/2 hours to Minneapolis, 4 1/2 hours to Winnipeg).

Famous for nothing in particular except a statue of Paul Bunyan, which isn't all that impressive.

One mixed bar, a campus gay organization, and that's it.

What else?  A job.

"I'm Protestant chaplain and director of Religious Life at Bemidji State University!"

Granted, a step up, but Bemidji, Minnesota?  Farther from the gay world than even Fresno.  What did Jester say?

"He's on board with it," Fred said curtly.   He never discussed his relationships unless forced, and then only briefly, the product of years of being closeted at work.

I was very busy during my last year in grad school, working two jobs, finishing my doctoral dissertation, and applying for every job in a gay neighborhood I could find, so I didn't contact Fred much.  Then in the spring I saw an ad for a job at Bemidji State University!

It might not be so bad.  Fred, Jester and I could start a gay political group, or maybe a weekly bear party like the one on Long Island.  And Minneapolis was close enough for weekend trips.

So in April I flew out for the interview.




Bemidji, Minnesota, April 2001

I soon discovered that the department were just inviting me so they could congratulate themselves on being so liberal.  They would never hire someone who researched gay topics, or as one interviewer called it, "sex education."

After dinner on Thursday night, they dropped me off at my hotel, and Fred picked me up for dessert at Rudy's, followed by cruising at the mixed bar.

Sitting beside him in his car was not Jester, but a Cute Young Thing I had never seen or heard of before.

He was  tall and skinny, with shoulder-length hair, a moustache, and a hard smooth chest.  There was a map of Iceland tattoo on his arm.

He introduced himself as Stefan, from Iceland, an art major at Bemidji State.

Where was Jester?  

"Oh, Jester is back in San Bernardino," Fred said dismissively.  "He came out for a couple of months, but then decided to go home."

"I can understand that.  It's hard for blind people to adapt to new environments, and I'll bet teaching credentials don't transfer from state to state.  He'd have to go back to school in order to teach here, right?"

"No, he just didn't like the cold weather," Fred said.

"And he missed the California beach boys," Stefan said in fluent English, with a little lilt in his voice.  "Never anything on his mind but sex, sex, sex, all day and all night!"

That didn't sound like Jester.  Time to change the subject.  "I love Iceland!  I visited when I was in college.  Reykjavik is beautiful."

"Reykjavik is too big and noisy.  Gritty.  Have you ever been to Akureyri?  It's still quiet, no tourists.  You can hear yourself think."

"Um...no.  I've just been to Rekjavik, and to a hot springs about an hour away."

"If you have been to Iceland," Stefan continued, "You must learn the Icelandic language.  It is the most pure of languages, unchanged since the days of the sagas.  No modern influences.  Ég vil sjá hala þínum, I want to see your penis."

Ruby's was an old-fashioned ice cream parlor that served tin roofs, black cows, and phosphates.  Stefan talked about the Old Icelandic sagas and the travels of Norse kings.  He was actually sort of interesting.  But he wouldn't eat anything -- "I don't want to turn into a fattie, like the Americans."

"Where have you been in the U.S. besides Bemidji?" I asked.

"Minneapolis, and a few days in New York."

"I live in New York.  Great, isn't it?"

"What a dump!" Stefan spat.  "It smells like a garbage can, and the people do nothing all day but watch the television.  How can you live in such a place?"

Ugh.  Stefan was as elitist as Fred's ex-boyfriend Matt.  I hate elitists, but apparently Fred couldn't get enough of them!

The mixed gay-straight bar was dark and rather seedy, with scary-looking guys propping up beer bottles like phalluses.

"Trolls!"  Stefan exclaimed.  "In Iceland, trolls are big, clumsy fellows who eat people.  Here they are just ugly and smell of armpits.  But we will dance, Boomer, ok?  Fred won't dance with me."

There was no one dancing.  "No, thanks," I said.

"Americans are so in the closet!  No one will shoot us if we just dance together!"

But I continued to refuse, and Stefan sat pouting for awhile, silent as Fred and I caught up on old friends, except for an occasional rude interjection:

"Lane just lives on his mother's money?  Is he handicapped?  In Iceland everyone must work."  

I didn't really feel like sharing this elitist jerk, but it had been about two years since I was in Fred's bed, so I consented to go back to his apartment.  The moment we came through the door, Stefan ran to the bathroom -- "I can't use the sickening, dirty bathroom at the bar!"

Fred nudged me.  "Isn't he great?  So cosmopolitan!  We'll be together for the rest of our lives, I guarantee.  I've never met anyone like him before!"


"Really?"  He seemed exactly like Matt, in his Cute Young Thing days, before he turned down the sarcasm and started trying to be friendly.  "Stefan doesn't remind you of any of your old boyfriends?"

"Um...no one comes to mind.  Well, he does remind me of Jester in one way."

"His interest in history?"

"No."  He grinned.  "Something else."

"So, are we ready for the sharing?"  Stefan walked out of the bathroom, already naked, a Kovbasa++ just as big as Jester's swinging between his legs.

I stared.

"Don't just look.  Who wants to go down on me first?"

You're probably wondering about the mechanics of going down on a guy with 11".  It works best with two guys, one working on the head and the other working on the shaft.  Unfortunately, Fred was a top, and not really into giving oral, so I had to handle the entire job.  Not that I minded.

After that night, Fred never mentioned Stefan again.  No doubt they broke up.  His job at Bemidji didn't last long, either.

See also: The Naked Nordic God of the Icelandic Hotsprings; The Tacher with Sixteen Inches