The Rich Kid and the Crying Truck Driver

Upstate, September 2008

In 2008, my "visiting" position in Dayton was coming to an end, and I had to find a new job.  I only applied to colleges in Blue States.  First just in gay neighborhoods.

As January and February passed and the best jobs were taken, I expanded to an hour away from gay neighborhoods.

Then three hours.

Just as I was about to start searching in Red States, I was offered a job in New York!

Well, Upstate New York, about six hours by car from the gay neighborhoods of Manhattan, Boston, and Montreal.

I figured I would be driving to one or the other every weekend.  Maybe even renting a second apartment there.

But snow, car wear and tear, the expense, and being busy limited my weekend jaunts to once every couple of months.

So 98% of my life happened in the Straight World, in a small town Upstate with no gay bars, just one gay-friendly church, and no gay organizations except PFLAG.

Just like in Dayton, most adult gay men had fled to gay neighborhoods elsewhere,  Most of the others were living aggressively heterosexual public lives: they escorted women to events; they had no gay friends; they took their same-sex dates into the next town over to avoid being spotted at home.

But there was a coterie of gay men, a Gang of Twelve, who were out and open.

They were mostly in their 40s and 50s, one or two older or younger.  Most had lived their whole lives Upstate, so they knew the towns and the people: the restaurants where they could be served without a fuss, the stores where they could shop without rude stares, the clubs where no women would hit on them.

So, except for a few basic precautions like not holding hands on the street, they were not closeted.

The New Guy in Town is always popular, but Upstate, my social calendar filled up astonishingly fast.  All I had to do was meet one of the Twelve, and he told his friends, who told their friends. Phone calls were made, emails sent, meetings arranged.  By Christmas, I had been out on dates with five of the twelve.  By summer, nine (the others were involved or not interested).

Date #1: The Rich Kid (top photo) got "dibs": he was first in line for everything in the county.  He and his sister and parents owned most of the county, sat on every board of directors, donated to every charity.

I was impressed by his physique: short, compact, and quite buffed for someone in his 40s.

He took me to Alex and Ika's, a very expensive restaurant in Cooperstown, for sesame-encrusted wild salmon and a plantain and goat cheese salad.  Then back to his family's summer home -- a gigantic wood-lodge on Lake Otesaga, decorated in a weirdly incongruous Southwestern motif.

The Rich Kid was a bit on the domineering side, but he had two of the five traits I find attractive, and he was well-educated, articulate, and generous.  I would have gone on a second date, except before we got around to it, he ordered me to attend the Glimmerglass Opera Festival next Tuesday night  He was on the board of directors, and they needed ushers.

Drive 30 miles to be an usher at a production of Madame Butterfly? No, thanks.

One simple didn't say "no" to the Rich Kid.  He cancelled our second date, and sent out memos to the other 11 that I was "cute but stubborn."

Date #2: The Crying Truck Driver.  A tall, thin white guy with expressive hands and a cute British accent.  He invited me to his apartment for a "traditional Zambian dinner": a chicken breast, some kind of corn gruel, and mushrooms in peanut sauce.  I was still hungry afterwards.


Then he suggested that we watch a DVD from his collection of every British sitcom ever made.  I selected Are You Being Served.  But when I invited him to sit down next to me on the couch, Truck Driver hesitated and then yelled: "But I don't want to have sex with you!"

"Um...since when does sitting on the couch count as sex?  I've sat next to my brother lots of times!"

He ran into the bedroom, collapsed onto the bed, and started crying.

"I'm sorry," he sobbed.  'I just broke up with the Love of my Life.  My friends thought I should start dating again, but I'm not ready...I'm just not ready..."

He then told me all about the Love of His Life.  The relationship, from start to finish.  His faults, fetishes, faux-pas, and favorite foods.  What he should have said that time.  What happened at the Rich Kid's Christmas party.  Did I think there was any chance of them getting back together?

This turned out to be commonplace: most of the Gang of Twelve had dated most of the others, so on most dates, I got an earful of the others' problems with jobs and relatives, triumphs and defeats in cruising, and scandals from a decade ago.

And, since they all talked to each other, my size, shape, pecadillos, and preferences were soon common knowledge.

But this breakup was new, raw, and still painful.

I didn't realize at the time that the Truck Driver was describing the next guy on my social calendar!  Apparently the ex-boyfriend was also being advised to start dating again, and the Rich Kid gave him my email address.  We had a date tomorrow night!

See also: Picked Up by a Boy and His Dog.

I Land a Date with the Water Delivery Guy

Upstate,  April 2009

Chad the Satyr's housemate and I broke up around Valentine's Day, and I was ready to start dating and hooking up again.

I was getting tired of the Gang of Twelve, the guys in Upstate New York who all had dated each other over the years and knew each other's secrets and gossipped constantly.   So although I continued accepting dates with the Klingon, the Sword Swallower, and the Pitcher with a Secret Move, I started looking at other guys.

Like the water man.

That spring water coolers were all the rage.  Tap water was unsafe, or at least the media said so, so everybody installed a water cooler in the kitchen, with a 5-gallon, 40-pound tank that had to be changed every week.

It was tricky changing the tanks yourself without splashing water all over, so the water companies offered a service whereby "the water man" would knock on your door once a week with a new bottle to replace the old.

They hired only the most muscular guys for the job, and my water guy, Pete, was no exception: in his 30s, short, dark-haired, with a v-shaped torso, an oval face and big hands.  And a wedding ring.

None of the Gang of Twelve had ever heard of him.

Not gay.

Still, every Wednesday afternoon, when Pete arrived with my water, we chatted a little longer than usual, made a little extra eye contact.  Sometimes I "accidentally" had my shirt off to see if his eyes widened.

They did.

Pete told me he was from Long Island, where he and his wife owned a house.  He came to town studying music at the University.  It was very expensive trying to maintain a house and an apartment, so he took the water-delivery job to make extra money.

"What does your wife do?" I asked.

"Sally is a teacher back on Long Island," Pete said.  "We're separated."

Separated?  The precursor to a divorce?

It made perfect sense.  Why did he choose a music school upstate, when there were so many options closer to Long Island?  He wanted to get as far from his wife as possible, to make a fresh start as he explored the gay world.

Now I just had to seal the deal.

#1: Let him "figure it out."   Straight guys always assume that everyone in the world is straight, but gay guys are always looking for clues.  I said "I just broke up with someone, and I'm trying to rid my apartment of all of their stuff.  Could you use some cds of Haydn, Bach, and Tchaikovsky?"

His eyes lit up as he deciphered someone and their as closet-speak for a guy and his.

#2: Physical contact.  We had chatted several times during the winter and spring, but I never actually touched him.  I said, "Hey, could you teach me how to change the bottles?  In case I run out before the end of the week?"

I changed gigantic bottles of milk and soda when I was in grad school, but he didn't need to know that.

I "accidentally" slipped, spilling some of the water on the floor.  Pete grabbed me. Massive hard chest against my back, shoulders against my shoulders, both of us laughing and sliding.

"Are you ok?"

"I will be in a minute."  I turned.  We kissed.

Pete had more deliveries that day, of course, so he couldn't stick around.  He returned in the evening, ready to go -- apparently he wasn't newly out, but had been seeing guys "on the downlow" before he and his wife separated.

His beautiful physique was all from "genetics" and lifting bottles of water -- he claimed that he never worked out.  He was small beneath the belt, but still a top, which I didn't mind for a change of pace.  The only thing I didn't like were his fetishes.  The clothes pins and whips were ok, but I drew a line at the lady's underwear.

We dated for about three weeks, long enough to count as boyfriends, at least by gay community rules.  A movie, the opera -- Wagner's Das Liebesverbot -- and two music recitals at the college, plus the antique and collectible shops of Cooperstown -- Pete was big into the kitchy nostalgia of the 1950s.

Muscular, musical, and into pop culture -- there might be a future here!

But I was hearing an awful lot about Sally, the separated wife back on Long Island.  She loved Thai food.  She was a big fan of Elton John.  She was looking for a new job.

One day at breakfast in Morey's Restaurant, he mentioned that Sally had a head cold.

"Wait -- how do you know she has a cold?" I asked.

"I just talked to her last night," Pete said nonchalantly.

"What for?"

"I talk to her every night."

I started to feel hot.  "What for?" I repeated.  "You're separated.  You have a new life now.  Shouldn't you be severing ties?"

He stared.  "That's right, we're separated.  By 200 miles.  I think about her all the time.  I can't wait until we're back together again."

Not a legal separation, a physical separation!  Now I was feeling really hot.  My stomach was churning.  "But...but...then what are we?"

"Why, friends, of course."

"But we...we...in the bedroom...."

"Oh, we have an open relationship. In fact, if you're not doing anything on the 9th, how about coming back to Long Island for a visit?  Sally would love to watch us, or maybe join in.  Are you into three-ways?"

"What?  Are you crazy?"  The thought made me nauseous. "I gotta go...."  I bolted from the restaurant and fled to the safety of my car.

No more weirdness for me!  From now on, I'm meeting men the old fashioned way -- picking them up in bars.

See also: The Museum Guard in My Bed.; My 12 Porn Movie Hookups

My Sausage List

I am particularly attracted to guys who are gifted beneath the belt,

I've never rejected someone for having a Vienna Sausage.  Small can be just as nice, and in many situations it does the job better.

Besides, by the time I get around to checking, the guy has already won me over with his winning smile, sparkling conversation, or body by Michelangelo.

But bigger has a definite aesthetic appeal.  And when you get together with friends and swap stories, like fisherman bragging about their biggest "catch",  it's never about Vienna Sausages.  It's all about Polska Kielbasa:

So here are some of the biggest, or at least the most memorable, "sausages" I ever "cooked."







Only guys I actually went on dates with -- no glimpses in the shower room or cruising at the sauna (those are on my Sausage Sighting List). And only if I had an intimate experience with the guy -- just fondling doesn't count.

I'll use the following scale:

Kielbasa: supersized, 8 inches (20 cm)
Mortadella: the stuff of dreams, 9 inches (23 cm)
Kovbasa: Are you kidding? 10 inches (25 cm)

Add .5 inches for each +.

College
Peter, the Orthodox priest with the pushy Mom.  We dated when I was a senior in college.  I hadn't been with many guys at the time, so I didn't realize how remarkable he was beneath the belt. Mortadella+

Texas
Dick, my grade school bully. We met at JR's in Rock Island, when I was back home for Christmas in 1984, and got together whenever I returned for the next few years. Kielbasa+

Carl (left) the cowboy cop, who didn't approve of guys who believed in God. We dated briefly in Houston in 1984. Kovbasa

Jasper, the teenage hustler of Bourbon Street, who couldn't get fully aroused.  Kovbasa++++

West Hollywood
Alan, formerly a Pentecostal Porn Star (top photo).  When we met, he was Student Clergy at the Metropolitan Community Church.  We dated in 1985, just after I moved to West Hollywood. Kielbasa+

T, the thug wannabe who Alan and I met at the Catch One in Los Angeles. Mortadella+

Mohammed, the doctor who came by for a house call on Christmas Eve.  Mortadella

Halil, a Turkish bodybuilder who I met during my semester in Ankara in 1989.  He had a girlfriend, but still invited me to share his bed at a bodybuilding competition in Istanbul. Kielbasa+

Jester, the Blind Guy with the Footlong, who Fred dated after he broke up with Matt. Kovbasa++++

Infinite Chazz, the juvenile delinquent I met at work, called "infinite" for his Mortadella+ and for his infinite attractiveness to every man he met.










San Francisco

Corbin, the guy my friends Zack and Drake fixed me up with, who told a story about choosing a small but handsome guy over someone who was ugly but hung.  Mortadella+

New York

Garan.  We met in San Sebastian in 1999, when Yuri and I went to the Basque Country of Spain in search of the world's biggest penis.  He actually asked Yuri for the date, and was surprised but accommodating when I showed up, too. Kielbasa


Blake, who I dated in New York in the fall of 1998, and performed the "roommate switch" on. (left) Mortadella+

Ozzie, the NYU Undergrad from Morocco, who hooked up with John F. Kennedy Jr. and refused to leave my room in the rain Kovbasa+


Barry, the Colonial Williamsburg boy from Long Island.  Mortadella.

Jermaine, the Biggest Guy on My Sausage List: a very cute Harvard undergrad who I met in Boston in 2001.  He  had the annoying habit of asking "Who's your daddy?" every five seconds, even though I was substantially older. But he made up for it with his intellect, and with his Kovbasa+++++

Stefan, the Icelandic Photographer, who Fred dated after Jester.  Kovbasa

Florida
Janik, from at the Horseman's Club in Amsterdam in 2003.  He invited me to live with him in a small town in Friesland. I only lasted a few days. Mortadella

 Jake, the alpaca cowboy that Yuri and I shared.  Kovbasa+.
















Ohio

Remy the Jerk.  A Halloween party date from hell with a total *hole.  Even his Kielbasa couldn't save the evening.

Farshad  from Morocco.  We met in France in 2007. Mortadella+

Ari, the linguist in Dayton in the fall of 2007, who was cute and everything, but wouldn't shut up. Kielbasa


Upstate

The Satyr, one of the The Gang of 12 from Upstate New York.  We had one date in the fall of 2008, and then I switched to his boytoy/roommate/boyfriend (who must have felt like a muppet). Kovbasa+

Troy, the French major who became my partner for around five years. Kielbasa.

Plains

 Jimmy, the Boy Toy.  Or rather the roommate of my two platonic friends.  I expected a night of "sharing" but got a date.  Kielbasa

Jameer.  I became his Boy Toy, even though I was twenty years older.  Mortadella+

Gabe, the twink who wasn't interested, but we became friends, and shared on occasion.  Kielbasa+

Todd, the nephew of the guy I had my first sexual experience with, back in high school.  Kielbasa.

Justin, the shy supersized guy at the gym.  Not much of a physique, but: Kovbasa++++.

See also: My Sausage Sighting List; 12 Sausage Fondlings, Gropes, and Grabs

The Stonewall Veteran and the Bodybuilder in the Park

Upstate, May 2009

When I moved to Upstate New York my social calendar was soon crowded with invitations from members of the Gang of Twelve, guys who had known each other for years, and who shared everything, from gossip to boyfriends.
1-2. The Rich Kid and the Crying Truck Driver.
3-4. The Rapper, and the Grabby Nurse.
5. The Satyr and his roommate Chad, who I dated through the fall and winter.
6-7. The Klingon and the Sword Swallower.
8. The Pitcher with a Secret Move.

Date #9: The Stonewall Veteran

One day in the spring of 2009, the Rich Kid told me "There's a guy you have to meet."  I thought he was setting me up on another date, but instead, we drove to an assisted living facility in Cooperstown.  There was an elderly man in a wheelchair sitting by a window in the dayroom, reading a large-print version of Tales of the City.  The Rich Kid hugged him affectionately.

"Is this your lover?" the Stonewall Veteran asked.

"No, no.  We went out a couple of times, but it didn't work out."

"Your loss.  Can I have him?"

The Rich Kid grinned.  "Sure -- he's yours.  If you can handle him."

"Oh, I've handled some big ones in my time."  The Stonewall Veteran patted me on the knee.  "Let me tell you about my night with James Dean."

The Stonewall Veteran told me that he grew up in Cooperstown, served in the Korean War, worked as a longshoreman, slept with James Dean, belonged to the Mattachine Society (the first gay rights organization in the U.S.), and participated in the Stonewall Riots, the dawn of the modern gay world.

In 1982, he moved back Upstate to take care of his elderly parents, and got a job at the Otesaga Resort.  There he met the 18-year old Rich Kid, and became his first lover.

"He was quite a hunk!" the Rich Kid exclaimed.

Over the years, he was also in relationships with the Satyr, the Grabby Male Nurse, and the Truck Driver.  He was a fixture in the Gang of Twelve.

He retired in 1998, and lived on a fixed income in a tiny apartment in Cooperstown.

In 2005, the Rich Kid paid for him to move into an assisted living facility, and visited him every Saturday afternoon.

Not really a date, but nice.

Date #10: The Bodybuilder in the Park

I saw the Bodybuilder long before I knew he belonged to the Gang of Twelve.  Whenever I went jogging in the park near my apartment, he was there.  He had a weight bench on the grass, and he was doing some bench presses and bicep curls with weights that he brought over in a battered red pickup truck.

He was in his 50s, a little shorter than me, with a rather scraggy, unattractive face, but ripped!  Massive chest and shoulders -- six pack abs -- not an ounce of body fat anywhere.

Then I saw him at the Utica Gay Men's Social.

Asking around, I learned that he preferred younger guys -- both the Klingon and the Rapper had dated him -- so I figured I was out of the running.  But no, the Sword Swallower called him and arranged for us to meet in the park.

Right after his daily workout -- so he was positively shredded!

As we walked the three mile jogging path, the Bodybuilder told me the harrowing story of his life.  Growing up fundamentalist, marrying a preacher's daughter.  Guilt over same-sex desire pushing him into alcohol and drugs. Losing his job and his house, living on the streets for awhile. Having his first same sex experience at the age of 42, unprotected, and getting infected with HIV.

Now he was clean and sober, living in a residential hotel near the park, and in good health, thanks to the United Methodist Church, the Rural AIDS Project, and his AIDS Buddy, the Sword Swallower.

He recognized that this was a lot to spring on a guy on  the first date. But there was more.

He was on a strict macrobiotic diet, meditated for an hour every morning, went to bed at 9:00 pm without fail, and practiced only the safest of safe sex -- no deep kissing, condoms for everything else.  "Are you sure you want to go forward with this?"

Well...you know, he was shredded.  Besides, I was running out of gay men in Upstate. Why not give it a try?

So we went back to my apartment and did things that didn't require the exchange of body fluids.  Then the Bodybuilder said "I've been waiting all my life for this moment."

That was a little weird! But it was nothing compared to our second date.

We went to lunch at the Undercover Eggplant. a hippie-vegetarian place in Cooperstown, followed by the Catskills Art Fair.

Which was fun.  But the Bodybuilder's conversation wasn't:


"Can you come to church tomorrow?  I want to introduce you to some of the guys." Ok.

"We're having dinner with my brother and his family on Thursday. I said we'd bring a macrobiotic dessert."  Meeting the relatives on the third date?

"When's your birthday?  I want to start planning your party now."  Um...not for six months. What makes you think we'll be together then?

"I don't need to give notice at the hotel.  It goes week by week.  So I can move in whenever you want." Ok, too fast.  Way too fast!  What's next?  Cemetery plots?

Since we only went out twice, I didn't think there was any need for a formal break-up.  I just didn't call anymore.  Our only contact was at the Truck Driver's birthday party and in the park: I waved as I was jogging past.

Still, for months, the Bodybuilder told all of his friends and colleagues that we were a couple.  Two months later, I got an invitation in the mail to a support group for the partners of HIV Positive men.

The Klingon and the Rapper told me the same thing -- one or two dates, then no contact, and the Bodybuilder continuing to cling for months.

This turned out to be quite a problem with dating new guys.  They often hesitated, thinking that I was proposing an illicit affair.

The Satyr and His Boy Toy

Upstate, October 2008

When I moved to Upstate New York, my social calendar was soon crowded with invitations from members of the Gang of Twelve, guys who had known each other for years, and who shared everything, from gossip to boyfriends.
1-2. The Rich Kid and the Crying Truck Driver.
3-4. The Rapper, and the Grabby Nurse.

All of them told me, "You have to meet the Satyr!"  But they all had different stories.

The Rich Kid: he's a muscle bear who used to work in porn movies.

The Truck Driver: he's cultured, artistic, and very romantic.

The Rapper: he's a Sugar Daddy with a fetish for black men.

The Grabby Male Nurse: he's a sexual dynamo, able to keep going all night (thus his nickname).


Date #5. The Satyr

He didn't send any photos or give any stats, so I didn't know what to expect when I drove to old Victorian on the west side of Cooperstown.  But I certainly didn't expect Chad, the waiter from the Neptune, to answer the door.

"Hey, Chad! I didn't know the Satyr had a roommate."

"I'm not his roommate," he said with a cryptic smile.  "He's still getting dressed -- come on in and wait in the parlor."

He ushered me into a room cluttered with heavy leather furniture, old black-and-white photographs, bookshelves, a coffee table made out of an old crate.

I was left alone for about ten minutes to leaf through coffee table books on Asian art and try to make friends with a skittish cat, until the Satyr finally came down the stairs.

A tall, husky, bearded bear, around 60 years old.  Broad shoulders, round belly.  And, when he gave me a hug, I felt that he had a baseball bat down there, all revved up and ready to go. 

"Don't take it personally," the Satyr said with a chuckle.  "I'm always like that when I meet a new guy."

"You're always like that when you're breathing!"  Chad re-appeared with a tray of cheese and crackers.

"I see you've met my boy toy."

"Housekeeper!"  Chad insisted.

"How many housekeepers get paid to keep the boss's bed warm?"

"How many boy toys hook up with studs of their own?"

I thought I'd seen every kind of relationship, but this was a new one.  I spent the evening looking for clues on how it worked.  Chad cooked dinner, and ate with us-- sesame chicken, fried rice, and seaweed salad.  But when we took our ice cream and coffee into the parlor, he vanished.

I was disappointed -- I liked Chad.  He was not a stereotypical hustler.  He was studying art history at the university, he spoke four languages, and he had some interesting stories about growing up gay in a conservative Korean-American family.

The Satyr, however, was annoying, rather boastful, and a name-dropper.  When he was a teenager, hustling in Times Square, one of his clients was Christopher Isherwood.

"Um...well, I met Andrew Lloyd Webber..."

When he was a camera man in Hollywood, he dated Tom Selleck, Rob Lowe, and John Travolta.

Um, well...I dated a former teen idol..."

While he was working at the American consulate in Japan, he had an affair with the son of Prime Minister Toshiki Kaifu that caused a major scandal.

I was not at all interested in a relationship with the Satyr, but who can turn down a baseball bat? So when he suggested we go upstairs, I consented.

"Chad!  We're ready for bed!" he yelled.

Wait...what?  You don't "share" roommates on the first date!  Or housemates, or boy toys, or whatever he is!

When we got upstairs, Chad was waiting, naked, in the Satyr's bedroom.  But he just gave us massages and left.

Very weird date, so far.

By the way, he had the second biggest "sausage" I've ever encountered.   Chad must have felt like a muppet.

Later, on my way to the bathroom, I passed Chad's bedroom. His door was open.  He was lying in his bed, watching Saturday Night Live.

"Hey, I haven't seen that in years!" I exclaimed.

"Well, come on in and watch it with me."  He grinned and pulled up the covers.

"Won't the Satyr mind?"

"Not at all.  Lots of his dates end up in my bed, or my dates end up in his bed, or our dates find each other and head to the guest room. You need a score card to keep track!"

We watched tv, talked, and cuddled, but no erotic activity happened-- "I want to take things slow with you, not just grab and go," Chad explained, rather paradoxically for a professional bed warmer.

I never shared the Satyr's bed again.  Chad and I dated through the fall and winter of 2008, but I always insisted that he come back to my apartment.  I was never really comfortable with the housekeeper-boy toy thing.

The Satyr turned out to be fiercely protective of Chad.

See also: The Satyr's Sinister Scheme.

The Pitcher with the Secret Move

Upstate, March 2009

When I moved to Upstate New York in the fall of 2008, my social calendar was soon crowded with invitations from members of the Gang of Twelve, guys who had known each other for years, and who shared everything, from gossip to boyfriends.

They had a hierarchy.  The Upper Class got the first shot at the New Kid in Town: The Rich Kid, The Grabby Nurse, and The Satyr .

Next came the Middle Class: The Truck Driver, The Rapper (though they cut in line due to the special circumstances of their breakup), The Klingon, and The Sword Swallower.

By March 2009, I was getting calls from members who were not at all well off financially, but some of the more attractive of the Gang of Twelve.  Like the Pitcher.

  Date #8: The Pitcher with a Secret Move

He was, in fact, a former pitcher for the semi-pro Cooperstown Tigers. Now he worked as a desk clerk at a hotel in Oneota, and was a volunteer umpire every year at the Cooperstown Dream Park.

The selfie he sent showed a guy in his 40s, broad-shouldered, muscular, clean-shaven, with "matinee idol" good looks.

He had been friends with several members of the Gang of Twelve for years, and dated a couple of them, but the usually-gossipy bunch didn't say much about his past, and nothing about his bedroom activities.

I was intrigued.  Maybe he was spectacular, and they didn't want to ruin the surprise.  Or awful, and they didn't want to ruin the surprise.


Turns out he was great, except for that sports thing, and one other problem.

See if you can guess what it was:.

First clue: He arrived at my apartment for our date all hot and sweaty from the gym, and asked if he could take a shower first.  Of course I wanted a glimpse of his physique, and "accidentally" walked in while he was putting on his underwear.

Very distinctive: white mesh, extending from his waist to just above his knee.

"Are you a Mormon?" I asked.

"Oh, no, this is French.  Very comfortable.  And it shows off my basket nicely, don't you think?"

I had to agree that it did.

"I always wear it to gym  It gets me lots of attention."

Second clue:  We went out to dinner at a Thai restaurant (since he was not well-off financially, I paid).

The Pitcher didn't say a lot about his past, so I didn't bring up my usual stories of my date with Richard Dreyfuss, the bodybuilding contest in Turkey, or how I single-handedly bankrupted the porn industry.  Instead, we talked about gay rights, tv -- he was a big fan of RuPaul's Drag Race -- and -- yawn -- sports.

"Which date with the Gang of Twelve have you liked best so far?" he asked.  "Myself excluded, of course."

"I can tell you the one  liked the least -- the Sword Swallower.  He freaked me out!"

"I know!" the Pitcher said.  "I've told him a dozen times to tell people what he's into, don't just spring it on them.  For instance, I'm into a lot of things.   But do I just jump into it?  Of course not.  I always talk to the guy first."

"What, exactly, are you into?" I asked.

"Oh, lots of things...bondage, spanking, water sports, master-slave scenes, talking dirty, underwear, leather, drag, porn, shoes, feet.  Do you find any of that appealing?"

"Definitely the leather and the underwear," I said with a grin.  "Of course, I like the guy best when he's out of his clothes."

Third clue:  After dinner, I invited the Pitcher back to my apartment, but he refused.  "I have to go to work at midnight. But how about next weekend?  Come over Sunday night, and I'll fix you a nice big home-cooked dinner. Then afterwards we can see what happens."

So the next Sunday I went to the Pitcher's place -- a small house trailer in Milford -- for a dinner of brisket, matzah ball soup, mashed potatoes, beets, and hamentaschen (someone in the Gang of Twelve told him I was Jewish).


Then we sat on the couch, watching The Amazing Race and Desperate Housewives, and kissing and fondling.

He let me grope his fancy French underwear, but when I tried to reach under his shirt, he moved my hand away.

When Desperate Housewives was over, the Pitcher said: "Well, it looks like we've gotten to know each other.  Why don't you slip out of those clothes?  I'll be right back."

I assumed that he had to use the bathroom, but instead he disappeared into the bedroom. I heard the door lock -- no peeking this time!

He wanted to get undressed in private?  Weird.

I took off my clothes and waited on the couch.  And waited. And clicked through the channels. And waited. And wondered if it would be impolite to help myself to more hamentaschen.

Was he putting on some fancy fetish gear?  Preparing for a bondage scene?  I was about ready to knock on the door and see if he had fainted.

Finally the door clicked open, and the Pitcher appeared.

Have you figured it out yet?

More after the break:

The Pitcher was wearing mascara, fake eyelashes, lipstick, and a red wig.  Red press-on fingernails.

A bra, panties (not fancy French underwear), red lace pantyhose, and high heeled shoes.   .

WTF?  "Um...um..."  I was speechless.  It was like The Crying Game in reverse.

The Pitcher looked confused.  "What's wrong?  I told you I was into drag."

"Yeah, but it was one thing in a list of 30!  I thought we'd be doing a bondage scene."

He sat next to me on the couch.  "You definitely said you were into underwear."

"No, no...manly underwear!  Jock straps!  Not lady's underwear!"

Ok, in Florida I hooked up with Victor, AKA Miss Chita Taboo, but he wasn't wearing women's clothing during the act!

"Well, we seem to have had a miscommunication," the Pitcher said.

"That's a bit of an understatement!  Could you...you know, go back into the bedroom and take it off?"

" No -- no, I only like being with guys when I'm dressed up.  It's the only way I can relax and let myself get into it."  He put a red-nailed hand on my shoulder.  "Have you ever tried it with a guy who's dressed up?  You might like it."

"I'm pretty sure I wouldn't.  Sorry."

I don't mean to imply that the Pitcher's problem was enjoying bedroom activities in drag -- there's nothing wrong with wearing lady's clothing, whenever and wherever you like.  His problem was keeping it a secret, especially from the guys he planned to take into his bedroom.  Or revealing it in impenetrable code, as if it were something shameful.

See also: The Drag Queen on my Sausage List.

The Klingon and the Sword Swallower

Upstate, February 2009

When I moved to Upstate New York in the fall of 2008, my social calendar was soon crowded with invitations from members of the Gang of Twelve, guys who had known each other for years, and who shared everything, from gossip to boyfriends.
1-2. The Rich Kid and the Crying Truck Driver.
3-4. The Rapper, and the Grabby Nurse.
5. The Satyr and his roommate Chad, who I dated through the fall and winter.

A few days after Chad and I broke up in February, the Klingon emailed me for a date.

We met last fall, and saw each other occasionally at the Neptune or the Gay Men's Potluck in Utica.  But when I asked him out, he refused.  Later I figured out that the Gang of Twelve was a class-based society.

The Upper Class -- the Rich Kid, the Male Nurse, and the Satyr -- got the first chance with all of the New Kids in town.

If no romance resulted, or if a romance began and then ended, The Middle Class got their turn. (The Truck Driver and the Rapper were middle class, but cut in line due to the special circumstances of their recent breakup).

So the Klingon had to wait until the Upper Class guys (and Chad) were finished with me.

Date #6: The Klingon

He was in his 30s, shorter than me, husky, with a round face,  a beard, and a very hairy chest, very cute.  And a science fiction fan!  I figured we would be wildly compatible, maybe even soul mates.

On our date, we saw Coraline, an animated movie about a girl who discovers a secret world, followed by gyros and a visit to the Bearded Dragon Comic Book Store, and then back to the Klingon's apartment.

In case you don't know, Klingons are an alien species on Star Trek with cranial ridges and a warlike culture, a favorite for costume play at fan conventions.  A linguist developed a complete Klingon language, which people learn and use to talk to each other.  At the San Diego Comic Con, trolley signs are posted in Klingon.

Discussing the Klingon language was lots of fun, but I got a little bored hearing about role playing games, anime, manga, and the Dark Knight.  He was like the Comic Book Guy, who I dated in Florida.

Except the Klingon's bedroom was perfectly comfortable.

On our second date, we ordered Chinese food and watched a DVD of X-Men: The Last Stand.  His bedroom was still perfectly comfortable.

On our third date, we drove 1 1/2 hours into Albany for a very boring role-playing championship at the Zombie Planet, followed by a visit to the bear bar, and then 1 1/2 hours back to Delhi, where the Klingon lived.

The 3 hour trip and 2 hour role-playing made me realize that the Klingon and I would have been soul-mates in college, or maybe in West Hollywood, but not anymore.  I hadn't played role-playing games, bought comic books, or read fantasy and science fiction for about 30 years.  I last saw a Star Trek movie in 1982, and a Star Wars movie in 1983.  It was like hanging out with my teenage self.  Time to yell "Next!"


There was only one problem: in gay communities, after the first or second date, it's perfectly acceptable to just not call him back.  But on the third date, you become a romantic couple, and you have to go through the same break-up process as couples who have been together for years.

I invited the Klingon to lunch, but before I could say anything, he gave me the "it's not you, it's me speech."  Then he sent notes to the Gang of Twelve: "Cute, but dull!  Doesn't have any hobbies or interests!"










Date #7: The Sword Swallower.  This one didn't take long.

I invented all of the other nicknames, but the Gang of Twelve really did call this guy Sword Swallower.  I assume because he liked to swallow...um...swords and things.

He was in his 40s, tall, lanky, with a long face and thick, wavy hair.  Long fingers and rings -- an immediate turn-off.  ...

On our date, we went to dinner at the Mid Town Grille in Delhi, where he talked about his rather dull job doing things with numbers, and I talked about my job teaching sociology.

Things were a little awkward, but when he invited me back to his apartment, I thought "Well...he's good at swallowing..um, swords and things."

We sat on the couch, talking and drinking coffee. And talking and drinking coffee.  He didn't make any moves.  He didn't even touch me.  I checked the clock. Then, suddenly, he reached over and took my hand.

"Well, it's not sword swallowing, but it's a start," I thought.

Staring intently, he brought my hand to his lips as if he intended to kiss it -- but instead he swallowed it!

 My hand was in his throat!  Saliva and mucus,and his tongue!

With a shriek I ran into the bathroom, splashed water on everything I could think of, and then said I wasn't feeling well and ran out the door.

It wasn't a lie.  I felt like I was going to be sick.

I went home and called the Satyr.  "Oh, he does that with everybody. And then the poor boy wonders why he doesn't get many second dates."

"When you have a crazy fetish, you should tell people in advance, not just dig in!"

"It's a rite of passage around here," the Rapper told me.  "Once you've been swallowed by the Sword Swallower, you know you belong."

The Sword Swallower sent notes to the rest of the Gang of Twelve: "Cute, but not into sex.  I tried my best move, but I couldn't get him interested!"

The Rapper and the Grabby Male Nurse

Upstate, September 2008

In the fall of 2008, I was living in Upstate New York, dating guys from the Gang of Twelve, who had all known each other for years and talked to each other about everything.  Especially their hookups, dates, and boyfriends.

The Rich Kid set me up with the Truck Driver, and then, without telling me, his ex-boyfriend, the Rapper. Days after they broke up.

Date #3: The Rapper.   The photos he sent with his introductory email were amazing.  He was in his 20s, African-American, short, muscular but tending to fat, and super-sized beneath the belt.  Exactly my type!

He grew up in the City, and came Upstate to study music management at SUNY Cooperstown.  Now he was working in an insurance agency, but hoped to launch a rap career.

On our date, the Rapper took me to a program of African dance and music at the university, and then back to his apartment, where he performed one of his rap numbers

.I hate rap, but I politely said "You're very talented.  You should have no trouble getting a record contract."

Of course, I spent the night.  In the morning, over breakfast, I told him about my dates with the Rich Kid and the Truck Driver.

"The Truck Driver!" he exclaimed.  "That's my ex!  Figures that the Rich Kid would fix you up with both of us, and wait to see the fireworks!"

I stared, feeling stupid.  How could I have gone through dates with both of them and not noticed?  

"He was exactly my type, " the Rapper continued.  "I'm into tall white dudes with muscles and an extra-big package. Man, he had everything!"

"Well, I don't like to brag, but..."

He grinned.  "Don't get jealous on me, man. You have everything, too."

"Do you think the Truck Driver will mind us dating?" I asked.

"Well, it's kind of soon after the breakup, so don't tell him, ok?  Or the Rich Kid.  Not for awhile, anyway."

But there were only a small number of gay-friendly venues Upstate, and the guys in the Gang of Twelve. all talked to each other.

For our second date, the Rapper and I drove into Cooperstown to the Fenimore Museum and dinner at Alex and Ika's -- where one of the Gang of 12 saw us and made some phone calls.

The next morning we were getting ready to go to breakfast, when the Truck Driver banged on the door.

"You don't waste any time, do you?" he yelled in his cute British accent.  "How long did you wait before cruising the New Kid?  Twenty minutes?"

"You had a date with him before I did!" the Rapper exclaimed.

"But nothing happened!  We just talked. But not you -- you sent him X-rated pictures before you even met!"

"How did you find out about that?"  He glared at me.  "Not much for keeping secrets, are you, New Kid?"

"I didn't say anything!"

No third date.  But other members of the Gang of Twelve were waiting for their turn.



Date #4: The Grabby Male Nurse.  In his 40s, formerly muscular but now a little paunchy.  On our date, we went shopping at some of the antique shops in town.

For all his interest in secrecy, the Rapper gossiped as much as everyone else in the Gang of Twelve. He gave the Nurse notes: "can't keep a secret"; plus moment-by-moment accounts of our two nights together.

So the Grabby Male Nurse was expecting a porn star.

He was a sleazoid, one of those obnoxious guys in the clubs who keep leering and groping regardless of how much Attitude you display.  Of course, in public, he had to leer and grope subtly, when no one was looking.  Which made it all the more annoying.

Plus he turned everything I said into a sexual reference.

"I taught in Dayton for three years."
Wow, hot college boys!  How many of them did you offer a little...um....extra credit in your office?  Leer, leer.

"I grew up in Illinois."
Ooh, Chicago!  I bet you got a lot of action there!   Leer, leer.

"My grandmother studied art."
I see -- Grandma liked painting those nude male models, did she?" Wink, wink, nudge, nudge, say no more!

We had dinner at the Neptune Cafe, one of those East Coast diners with a 30-page menu, everything from moussaka to tacos. The owner was gay-friendly, so lots of the Gang of Twelve hung out there.  But it was still a straight place.

Yet the Nurse acted like he was in a cruise bar, trying to grope me, leering at the male patrons.  He knew the waiter -- an Asian guy named Chad -- and openly flirted with him, even asking him an inappropriate question about the size of the Asian penis. I gave him an extra big tip to make up for the embarrassment.

Then the Nurse suggested that we go back to his apartment.

I was done.  "Sorry...my favorite tv show is on."

"You can watch it at my place."  He grabbed my crotch. "Or we can watch porn.  Your choice."

I disentangled myself and ran home and hid.

The Nurse sent notes to the rest of the Gang of Twelve: Nice guy, but all he can think about is sex.

I saw Chad again during Date #5: The Satyr and his Boy Toy.