Cruising East of Alvarado

West Hollywood, September 1993

"Where are all the Hispanic guys?' I asked Lane one day. "The population of Los Angeles is about 50% Hispanic, but you never see any here in West Hollywood.  We don't even have a Mexican restaurant."

"I can buy some Old El Paso at the Safeway if you want," Lane said, "And make tacos tonight."

"I'm serious.  We bring home lots of Asian guys, and lots of Anglo leather bears, but no Hispanic guys"

"What do you expect, when you cruise at Mugi, and I cruise at the Faultline?  If you want to meet Hispanic guys, you have to go where they are."

He was right.  The Hispanic gay population of L.A. had its own distinct culture, pre-dating West Hollywood.  If I wanted to meet them, I had to head east of Alvarado.

So on Saturday night, I dropped Lane off at the Faultline for his weekly cruise, and drove a mile farther to the corner of Sunset and Hollywood, and a bar called Basgo's.

It was not like the semi-darkness of Mugi: it was loud and gaudy, the walls painted an effervescent pink.  There were murals of naked Aztecs, plastic palm trees, stuffed parrots.

Pumped-up bartenders in their underwear gyrated to salsa music:

En la vida hay amores
que nunca pueden olvidarse
imborrables momentos
que siempre guarda el corazón

Drag queens made the rounds, flirting and kvetching with their huge brandy snifters sloshing with ruby-red margaritas.

Rent boys slouched by the pool table, displaying sock-enhanced mega-bulges.

The cruising protocol was closer to Catch One than Mugi.  Few Anglos, no English being spoken, few people by themselves except for rent boys and drag queens.  You saw someone you liked and drew him away from his rowdy group of friends to the dance floor, where the pre-hookup conversation occurred.

Con los anos que me quedan
Yo vivire por darte amor
Borrando cada dolor
Con besos llenos de pasion
Como te ame por vez primera

I was drawn to a very handsome young guy with an impish grin, talking nonstop with his friends.   Shorter than me, dark skin, a round face, and black curly hair.  Frayed jeans with an enormous bulge and an yellow shirt with most of the buttons undone, revealing a hard smooth chest.

I approached and asked -- or rather yelled -- "Quires bailar?"  He grinned and nodded.  I took his hand and led him to the dance floor.

We spoke -- or rather yelled -- in  clipped Spanish.  His name was Dario.  He was 23 years old, from Peru.  He came to L.A. last year with his brother and two cousins.  He worked in a warehouse.



Nice background story.  Time to seal the deal.  I led him to the bar and ordered two tamarind-flavored Mexican sodas.   He grinned.

"Que quieres hacer en la cama?" I asked.  What do you like to do in bed?

"Oh, me gustaria que tu me maman!" Dario said, eyes gleaming.  "Y otras cosas, por supuesto.  Y cojerte..." 

Getting oral, topping, and "other things," not bad.

I knew that closeted guys were sometimes only into the act itself, not the preliminaries, so I specified:  "Pero, mi amigo y yo, nos gustan besando y abrazando, tambien."  Kissing and hugging, full body contact, making out.

He nodded.  "A mi me gustan muchas cosas."

And one more thing: "Y es absolutamente necessario que tu duermas con nosotros."  No grab-and-go.  You have to spend the night, or no deal.

He nodded.  "Si, si.  Dormiremos."

Dario didn't have a car, so he drove with me to pick up Lane at the Faultline, then to the French Quarter, and then to our apartment in West Hollywood. 

We sat in the living room.  I ran my hand over his chest, cupped his crotch, tried to kiss him.

No besando.

WTF?

Well, maybe he was shy.

We brought Dario into the bedroom, stripped off his clothes, and put him down on the bed.  He had a beautifully curved, uncut Bratwurst.  I went down on him while Lane fondled his chest.

Were they kissing?  I looked up.  No.
  

I gave Lane a turn at the cock and tried to kiss Dano.   No.

Well, could I at least fondle his balls?  Ok.

 He pushed Lane's head down on his crotch, jerked his hips, and finished with a groan. 

Ok, so how about mamando us?  No.

I wasn't particularly into anal, but he said cojerte, so I turned over onto my stomach and asked "Hay condones?"  Do you have condoms?

Dario was pulling his shorts on.  "Hey, I thought you were spending the night!"  I exclaimed.  "Dormiremos juntos!"

Nope.  "Tengo que venir a mi casa.  Necessito levantarme temprano."  I have to get up early.

So we left Lane in bed and got dressed, and I drove Dario home -- to Silverlake, eight miles away.

"Why did you tell me that you are into besando y mamando?" I asked in frustration.

He stared out the car window at the glittering lights of Santa Monica Boulevard.  "I told you I like many things," he said.

"And spending the night.  You said voy a dormir contigo."

"Dormir...tener sexo, si?"

I smelled a rat.  Dario had played me, agreeing to anything just to get into my bed.

Then we arrived at the address he gave me -- a glass-and-steel building on Hyperion, in the heart of Silverlake's gay neighborhood.

This was the tiny, rundown apartment that Dario shared with his brothers and cousins?

"Could I come in to use the bathroom?" I asked.

It was a beautifully furnished one-bedroom, with hardwood floors and antique furniture.  A framed print of a bullfighter.

A coffee table book about painter Joan Miro.

"Porque me dices que eres pobre?" I asked.  Why did you tell me that you were poor?

"I didn't say I was poor," Dario answered -- in respectable English!  "You heard what you wanted to hear."

The brothers and cousins came to the U.S. with him -- they didn't live with him.

And his job in the warehouse?  He was the general manager, with a salary double what Lane made.

"You wanted a poor little Latino boy who says 'si, señor' and agrees to whatever you say, and I wanted a hot, built Anglo to go down on me.  We both got what we wanted, right?"

The next weekend I returned to Basgo's and met Manuel, from Nicaragua, who spoke almost no English -- I checked.

And I made sure we were besando and abrazando before we left the bar.

See also: The Waiter in the Mexican Restaurant; I Bring Home a Teen Hustler.

Yuri and I Share the Boy Toy and His Daddy

Wilton Manors, February 2004

The main rule about sharing boyfriends and hookups was: a couple brought in a third person.

During the 1980s, it was always romantic partners bringing in a close friend or roommate.

By the 1990s, the couple could also be a pair of close friends, and the third person a stranger, as long as there was a date first.

But you never shared with four.  I can remember only a few times when that happened.  It was always a little weird, and made me feel uncomfortable afterwards.

1. The multiracial four way with Lane.
2. The live sex show that we put on for Alan.
3. Victor and his Sleazoid Daddy

During the winter, hundreds of wealthy snowbirds from New York invade Wilton Manors, clogging the streets, crowding the bars and restaurants, throwing money around -- and prowling for beach boys.  Suddenly Daddies have some Sugar Daddy competition, so if you're over 40, and you don't have a boyfriend by Thanksgiving, you're likely to go dateless through Valentine's Day.

It was Valentine's Day 2004, I was 43 years old, and I hadn't had a date since Thanksgiving.  An occasional hookup, some afternoons at the Club, and not much else.

So when Victor at Barney's Gym stopped me in the locker room and asked me for a date, I consented, even though he wasn't exactly my type.  He was in his 20s, muscular, with a smooth chest and a nice uncut Bratwurst, but his long, narrow face, tattooed biceps, and rings were a turnoff.

Over dinner at a Thai place in Oakland Park, Victor told me that he was Cuban-American, from Miami.  He moved to Wilton Manors two years ago, had a job as some kind of juice distributor -- and had a boyfriend, Jauvier.

"He's a snowbird.  He lives in New York, and only flies down to Florida in the winter.  So we're allowed to date other guys, but when he's in town, we have to share."

Ok -- Lane and I engaged in that sort of dating quite often back in West Hollywood.  What does this Jauvier look like?


"Oh, he's very hot.  An older guy -- a Daddy, like you.  Shorter than me, very muscular, blond, a short beard, super hung."

Blond?  "Isn't he Hispanic?"

"Well, more of a redhead.   In Spanish, rubio could mean either."

It seems that there are a lot of redheads in Peru, mostly of Irish, German, and Scandinavian ancestry.  They tend to live in Lima and the other large cities of the north, and in racist Peruvian society they tend to be middle and upper class, so they rarely immigrate to the U.S,

"There aren't a lot of blond Hispanic guys around," Victor said.  "Jauvier really stands out in a crowd."

Victor wanted to take me home that night to "share" his boyfriend, but I wanted to at least meet him first.  We weren't as trusting in the 2000s as we were in the 1990s -- being alone with two guys you didn't know was a bit risky.  So I invited Victor and Jauvier over for dinner a few days later, with Yuri and Barney.

Yuri was also in the middle of a dating slump, so he peppered me with questions about Jauvier.  Is he a bodybuilder?  How big is he?  Does he like Russian guys?

"The four of us won't share," I warned him.  "Lane and I tried that a couple of times in West Hollywood, and it was just weird."

"There won't be four tonight, naturally.  But if we are friends, Victor and Jauvier will ask me to share on many other nights."  

Yuri usually specialized in Middle Eastern dishes, but Victor asked for "Russian," so he made vareniki (vegetable dumplings), chicken tabaka, and cold borscht.

Victor and Jauvier arrived at 6:00, carrying a bottle of wine (I forgot to warn them that I didn't drink).

My first impression: ugh.  Jauvier was shorter than me, with a substantial v-shaped torso and a hairy chest. When we hugged, I felt thick, heavy pecs and an impressive beneath-the-belt package.  But he stank of cologne, he was wearing rings, and his face -- not so much ugly as sinister, balding, with gray hair that used to be red, and a villain goatee.

Ugh.

But I had to go through with it -- at this point it would be impolite not to share.  Besides, when you're going down on a guy, who cares about his face?

Then the sleaziness began.  Jauvier used feminine pronouns, made sexual double-entendres out of everything, and made crass references to telephone poles, enemas. and tampons during dinner.

Sample:  "Oh, please, she spreads her legs so wide, you could fit the Queen Mary inside and have room left over for six maxi-pads."

About his ex-boyfriend!

Victor laughed uproariously at his boyfriend's so-called "humor."

After dinner, we gathered in the living room for coffee and baked apples, and Jauvier said "So, I never been in a gang bang with five guys before.  Who goes first?"

Barney glared at him, came down with a sudden "headache," and retreated to his room.

"I must meet my friend at the Manor," Yuri began, heading for the door.


I grabbed his arm.  "No -- stay!"  I mouthed the words "share."

Yuri shook his head.

"Please," I whispered.

He shrugged.

The four of us went into Yuri's bedroom and stripped.  I immediately dropped to my knees and went down on Jauvier's impressive Bratwurst, while Victor went down on Yuri, and Yuri studiously avoided kissing Victor.

Jauvier pointed his penis at Yuri, who shrugged and went down on him.  Then Jauvier tried to throw his legs in the air, but Yuri refused.  He turned to me. I refused.

"Come on, girls," he said.  "Somebody has to be up for anal tonight!"

Yuri and I got into the 69 position, leaving no orifice available for Jauvier, so Victor mounted him for anal.

After sharing, spending the night is mandatory, but when Victor finished, we claimed an early day and pushed them both out the door.

Yuri glared at me.  "I do you a favor, so now you must share a guy that I want.  Anybody I want, ok?"

And I didn't even get a chance to do anything with Victor.

See also: Yuri's Revenge: the Cowboy with the Kovbasa+; and Lane and I have a Multiracial Four-way.

In Search of Sex and Languages in Tijuana

I'm running low on Alan stories, but I hate to let him go. so here's the story of me, Alan, and the bathhouse in Tijuana.

Tijuana, August 1987

It's a sedate cultural center now, but in the 1980s, it was synonymous with sleaze.

Watch your wallet.
Drink only bottled water
Be careful of the bathrooms.
Don't walk too close to alleys.

"We should go," Alan the Pentecostal Porn Star said one day in 1987.  "You speak Spanish, so you can impress all the locals.  And the bathhouses are still open.  Have you been to one?"

"Just once, four years ago in Chicago.  My friend Viju took me.  I didn't like it."

"They're great!" Alan exclaimed.  "Darn homophobic Department of Health closed them down here, thinking we're all having unsafe sex and getting AIDS in them, but you can have unsafe sex anywhere.  You just have to be careful, stick to French.  That won't be a problem for us, right?"

Alan rarely topped anyone, and I never knew him to bottom.  Interfemoral, oral, and sometimes 69, although he was a little too big to do that comfortably.

"Sex with strangers?"  I said, dubious.  Even casual hookups were frowned upon in West Hollywood.

"It's a foreign country.  Our rules don't apply.  And we're both single, right?"  He paused.  "Besides, I know a place where you can meet Indios."

Mexico is a racially segregated society.  The elites are white, of Spanish ancestry only.  The middle class is usually Mestizo, of mixed Spanish and Indian ancestry.  And the working class and poor are primarily Indio, from about 60 different language groups:

Nahuatl, the language of the Aztecs, like nothing else I have ever seen:
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year: Cualli netlācatilizpan īhuān yancuic xihuitl

Mayan, the language of the ancient Mayan civilization of the Yucatan, nothing like Nahuatl:
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year: Ki'imak Navidad yéetel ki'imak ja'aba' túumben

Mixtec, Zapotec, Otomi, Mazatec, Tlapenec

The prospect of hearing Indio languages convinced me.

So one Saturday in the summer of 1987, we drove down to Tijuana, skipped over the usual tourist haunts, and drove directly to a crazy galleria on the south side of town, where, Alan told me, the Banos Vica catered to Indios.

Talk about sleazy!  You undressed, dumped your clothes in a bag, and went upstairs through a dirty shower room, then wandered through creaking corridors, dimly lit by bare bulbs, paint chipping on the walls, trash on the floors, sleazy looking naked guys in the shadows.

There were steam rooms and showers, but mostly you just did things right there in the shadows.


"Oh, boy," I thought.  "Indios!  I'm going to meet some Nahuatl and Mayan speakers!"

The only question was, how did I actually meet them?

Alan stood in the shadows.  He only had to wait a few moments before a slim, smooth guy with a bubble butt knelt to go down on his porn star-sized Kielbasa.

I could hardly say "Hola!  Hablas Nahuatl o Mayan?"

I waited.  Another slim, smooth guy with a thin moustache went down on my smaller but still respectable Bratwurst+.

After a few moments, I drew him to his feet and tried to kiss him, but he turned his face away.  "Quenin timotōcā?" I said, one of the Nahuatl phrases I memorized.

He shrugged and moved on.

Idiot! I told myself.  There are 60 native languages.  He could speak any of them, or none!


I went down on another guy, short, with a round face,  a sly smile, and an uncut Bratwurst.  After a few minutes, someone else roughly pushed me out of the way to go down on him, so I stood and drew him into a kiss.  The on-his-knees guy worked on both of us for a few moments, then stood and left.

"Hablas Nahuatl?" I asked.

He didn't answer.

The third guy was dark, muscular, with average beneath the belt gifts.  I went down on him until he finished with a moan.

"Hablas algo lengua India?" I asked. Do you speak any Indian language?

"Como?"

Frustrated, I said loudly, "Hay alguien que hablan una lengua Indio?"  The men standing in shadows glared at me.

I sought out Alan, and we shared a light-skinned, curly-haired guy.  He went down on Alan while I went down on him.

Afterwards, I had almost given up, but I still managed to ask, "Hablas Mayan o Nahuatl?"

"Are you the one who was yelling earlier?" he asked in English.

"I wasn't yelling, I was just talking loudly."

He laughed.  "Got a Indio thing, huh?  Sorry to burst your bubble, but I'm from San Antonio."

We left after a couple of hours.

"Well, that was fruitless," I said.

"You were with about five guys," Alan said. "How is that fruitless?"

"I didn't meet anyone who spoke any Indian languages."

"Were you there for sex or languages?"

"Well, languages, mainly," I admitted sheepishly.

"Why didn't you say so?  No one talks in a bathhouse.  But I know a place we can go."

On the way out of town, we stopped at the Club Habanero, a gay bar on the Calle Benito Juarez that specialized in Indios.  We met Alejandro, a slim guy from Veracruz who spoke no English, just Spanish -- and Nahuatl!

By the way, the Nahuatl word for penis is huiloti, or "dove," but when it is aroused, it's a moquauhquetza.

Alan wasn't happy with my ability to monopolize the conversation.

And even less happy when I failed to seal the deal and get an invitation back to Alejandro's apartment.

Apparently you can learn the Nahuatl word for penis, or you can go down on a Nahuatl penis, but you can't do both.

See also: My First Bathhouse; In Search of Sex and Languages in South Africa

Raul and my Bed-Hopping Roommate

West Hollywood, September 1986

In the fall of 1986,  shortly after I returned from Japan, I was living with Alan, who dragged me to the gay Asian bar Mugi twice a week.  Our other roommate, Chaiyo, was from Thailand.  I was taking a class in Chinese literature at USC (as part of my doctoral study in comparative literature).  Three days a week, I drove downtown to my job at the Community Redevelopment Agency, which was in the midst of revitalizing Little Tokyo.

With all of that Asian influence, you might expect me to meet a lot of Asian guys.  But I didn't.  The problem was, they found Alan so infinitely attractive that I couldn't compete.  Even if he didn't do anything.

One day in September 1986, I brought an Asian guy home.  Alan was watching tv in the living room, so I introduced them casually as we passed through.

 "Wow, your roommate is hot!" my date exclaimed. Sometime during the night, he got up to use the bathroom and "accidentally" stumbled into the wrong room, and into Alan's bed!

Alan didn't mind, but I wasn't yet comfortable with the West Hollywood custom of "sharing" with one's roommates.

Besides, "sharing," was only for committed partners, not casual dates!

Besides, "sharing" meant both of you participating!

Not to worry, there were lots of non-Asians around. L.A. was ethnically diverse.  In fact, it was 50% Hispanic.

50%!  I liked those odds!  On October 4th, 1986,  I went to the Plaza or the Silver Platter (I forget which) and met Raul from East L.A., a cook in a Filipino restaurant, short and slim with small hard muscles.

Was it safe to bring him home, or was Alan infinitely attractive to Hispanic guys, too? (This was before we started going to Tijuana.)

I decided to take the bull by the horns:  I invited Raul over for dinner Friday night "with my roommates."

He insisted on cooking -- "I'm a professional chef, I do all the work" -- chicken adobo, broccoli, and a Filipino rice cake called puta (no connection to the homophobic slur).

Raised in Iglesia Pentecostal Jesucristo, Raul was fascinated by Alan's plan to start a gay Pentecostal church in Thailand.  "But...how can you be cristiano, if you are gay? The Bible says that God hates gays."

After dinner, Alan grabbed his Bible and his Greek New Testament and started explaining how they didn't condemn gay people at all, starting with the story of Sodom -- it's about lack of hospitality, not gay people.

I already knew all about it, so I quickly got bored.

Famous gay couples, Ruth and Naomi, David and Jonathan.  Chaiyo fled to his room to watch The Golden Girls.  Raul jumped up and took the place he vacated next to Alan on the couch.

Ephesians and Romans: incorrect translation from the original Greek.  Arsenokoitai means "male prostitute," not "gay man." Alan's arm was wrapped around Raul's shoulders.

In the Book of Acts, Philip meets an Ethiopian eunuch, and invites him to spend the night.  Eunuchs were usually gay.  Adam whispered something in Raul's ear and tried to fondle his leg; Raul laughed and pushed his hand away.

I knew where this was headed.  "Hey, sounds like you guys have a lot to talk about," I said. "It's late.  I'm going to bed."

"Ok," Raul said, barely noticing me as he looked down at a passage in the Greek New Testament -- or was he looking at Alan's bulge?  "We will be done soon."

Yeah, right!  I thought.  I'll see you at breakfast!  

I went to my room, got undressed, and lay in bed with a book, fuming with jealousy.  I heard muffled conversation from the living room, then a burst of laughter.  Then an ominous silence...were they kissing?  And footsteps heading down the hall to Alan's room.  Someone used the bathroom.

Then my door opened.  It was Raul!

"Man, that Alan...talk, talk, talk," he said, stripping off his shirt.  "I mean, it was interesting, but come on, man! I'm on a date!"

He slid out of his pants and climbed in bed next to me.  "And he's so grabby!  If I didn't know better, I would think he was cruising me!  You weren't waiting too long, were you?"

"Not at all."  I turned off the light.

The Horrifying Hispanic Rebuff of Eigenmann Hall

Indiana University, August 1982

I was 21 years old, a new college graduate, just starting graduate school at Indiana University.  Classes woudln't start until Monday; we were supposed to spend this week getting used to the gigantic campus that took 20 minutes to walk across.  The  library with stacks as big as a football field.  Eigenmann Hall, the 13-story high graduate men's dormitory that housed more people than a small town, with its own snack bar, gym, and library.  A 20-page brochure advertised every conceivable student club,  from bird-watching to Marxism (no gay groups, of course).

On the Thursday before classes began, there was an International Student Mixer in the Eigenmann Hall Snack Bar. Come and meet your dorm mates from more than 20 countries!  Everyone welcome!  Refreshments provided!

Rock Island was very homogenous.  Everyone's grandparents and great-grandparents were from Sweden, but there were no, or almost no recent immigrants. There were no international students at Augustana except for one guy from Sweden. I wanted to meet people from Argentina, Bolivia, Britain, Germany, India, Japan, Korea, Samoa, South Africa,  Taiwan, Thailand, and Venezuela.  I was there!

You know what happens at these functions, right?  No international mingling. Everyone clung together with people from their own country, eating brownies and drinking punch and giggling and gossipping.  They never even glanced at the students from other countries.  .  

And I was the only American, wandering around, pretending to be very interested in the announcements posted on the bulletin board, being rebuffed by the Brits, the Indians, the Japanese, and the Samoans like a ball in a foosball game.

I wasn't having it!  I came here to meet people from different countries, and I was going to meet people from different countries!  Besides, I hadn't met anyone gay on campus yet, and some of these guys were cute.

I chose four guys standing by the refreshment table, having an animated conversation in Spanish.

Today, when 13% of the population of the U.S. speaks Spanish, it is difficult to imagine the linguistic desert of the 1970s.  In eight years of studying Spanish, I had never heard anyone speaking it in real life, never had a conversation in Spanish except with classmates (and a guy from church once).  This was my opportunity.

I sidled up and pushed my way into the Spanish-speaking group.  They stopped talking. 

I looked at the leader, a tall, muscular guy about a foot taller than the others, smiled, and said "Hola!"

He glared at me. "Practicing your Spanish?"

Another thing about Spanish class -- we studied countless scenarios in which an American meets someone from Mexico or Peru or Spain, and they are always friendly, always eager to chat about the color of their socks or the difference between "ice" and "ice cream."

"Um...um..." I stammered.  "People...um...like it when you take the trouble to learn their language.  I...um...studied Spanish for eight years...I'm fluent...."

"That's great.  What prize did you win?"

It occurred to me: he thought I was an "ugly American,"  looking down on his country, thinking he was stupid.

"Of course I know that you speak English," I said, not sure if I was more embarrassed or angry.  "You have to speak English to enroll at this university.  I was just trying to be friendly...trying to be nice."

Seeing a pale 21-year old kid trembling, almost in tears, the guy toned back his hatred a bit and started asking me questions.  "Where are you from?", that sort of thing.  I don't remember my answers.  After a few minutes, I got out of there.

You're expecting this story to end with the guy inviting me back to his room for a night of sex.

Nope.  I never saw him again.  I never got his name, or the country he was from.

But I learned that people in the U.S. who are speaking a language other than English do not like you to chime in.  They are not pleased that you speak their language.  They consider it an insult.  I'll do it only if they start the conversation in their language, or if they are obviously struggling with English.

And over 30 years later, that "Practicing your Spanish?" rebuff still stings.  

Six Hours at a Sex Club

When I lived in Florida, there was a sex club, called just The Club II, a few blocks away, so I went regularly, at least once a week.  I exercised, hung out in the sauna, and wandered around until I had sex with at least five guys.  It typically took about two hours, maybe three if the place wasn't crowded.

I always choose vacation spots based on museums and penises, so I've been to saunas or sex clubs across Europe, plus in Chicago, Cleveland, Philadelphia, and New York, and I never spend more than two hours, three at the most.  You can spend only so much time walking down narrow hallways in a towel while loud disco movies throbs in your ear.

But last weekend, I spent six hours at the Works, a sex club in Indianapolis, and had sex with so many guys that I lost track after the first ten minutes.

It was a Monday, and all of the museums were closed, so there was nothing else to do, so we drove out after lunch, and stayed until rush hour traffic was over, 1:00 pm to 7:00 pm.

The Works has four floors.
1. Basement.  
Lockers
Dry sauna: two guys at once, both older. I asked if they were partners, and they said "We are now."

Steam room: two guys at different times, one older and not very hung, one younger and hung.

Gym equipment squished together so it's impossible to actually use

Glory hole booth: very hard, very large cock, could never figure out who it belonged to.

Leather chairs facing tvs with both gay and straight porn: muscular Asian guy who wanted to kiss.  There was a muscular Hispanic guy beating off furiously to straight porn, but I was afraid to approach him, since he looked like he was ready to finish.










\



2. Ground floor
Lounge with soda machines, one of which stole my dollar.

Video room playing regular tv.

3. Second floor
TV lounge playing 13 channels of porn  Here's where I lost track: I started with a guy lying there who called me "honey," then went out and came back, went down on a bear with big balls but a small penis, then a weird guy who looked like Tom Selleck, then the Hispanic guy who had been beating off downstairs.

I returned again and again, and there were always new guys, maybe five in all.  The only one who rejected me was a younger black guy who just wanted to talk about mass shootings.

Room with leather floors and porn playing.  Two guys at different times.

Sling room.  I went down on an older guy.

Private rooms.  I got one to retreat for rest: a gigantic bed shoved against both walls.  Only one guy, the Tom Selleck before, came in and mounted me from above.

I also had a conversation with the second guy who rejected me:
"Hi, Darlin', let me see that big cock of yours."
"I'm into giving, not getting."
"Me, too, darlin.  That makes us sisters."

Then back to the tv room, or down to the lockers.  In West Hollywood, parties sometimes featured "entertainment," guys who would strip , masturbate, or go down on the guests.   It was not especially honored, but it wasn't deviant, either.

I think I was the "entertainment," going down on anyone I wanted (with those two exceptions).  In the end I didn't even wait for a signal, I just knelt in front of the guy, or reached over and fondled.  No one ever brushed me away, except for the two or three black guys at the club, who never did anything with anybody.

Finally at 7:00 pm, we figured that the rush hour traffic was over, and went to get dinner.

"How did you do?" I asked Bob.

"Six guys, four oral, two anal," he said.  "What about you."

"I lost track a long time ago.  But, you know what -- I'm still not happy."

He blinked.  "But...your goal is five.  You must have been with more than that."

"A lot more.  But only one wanted to kiss, only one actually finished, and the others -- one Asian, one Hispanic, one twink.  The others were all over 50, white, hairy chested.  It was like going down on the same guy over and over."

I have a new rule -- five guys, and they have to differ in age, race, body build, or some other factor, and they have to kiss.

10,000 Naked Men, Part 2: Kilts to Pairs

I'm reviewing my collection of 9,248 pictures of men collected from 20 years of internet bulletin boards and blogs.

Last time: Asian to Hung.

Kilts.  Several dozen photos, both posed and candid, demonstrating that Scottish guys go commando under their kilts.

Latino.  Men from Latin America, or Hispanic men in the United States. They can be of any race. This guy from Mexico City has been reading Garfield before demonstrating his Kovbasa+.

Matadors.  I think the enormous bulges are part of the costume, symbolic of the matador's virility and power.  I also have some where the bull's horns have ripped open the costume, leaving the penis exposed.  It's not spectacular.

Middle East.  Arabs, Turks, Persians, and Israelis.  Bedouins a plus.  And a Kurdish guy with the most enormous Kovbasa+++.

The problem is always where to classify.  This guy could easily fit into Muscle and Outdoor as well.  I downloaded a program to find duplicates.

Military, Police, and Guards.  Men in uniform, including border and castle guards, hot cops from various countries, and cute soldiers taking selfies.  They can't get too far out of uniform, or you can't tell that they're military.

Muscle.  Most of the guys in the collection are muscular, but this folder is reserved for the ones who stand out as particularly buffed, and don't fit into any of the other categories.

Nerds.  You know you're a nerd when you spend more time trying to see what book he's reading than looking at his penis.  Guys wearing glasses or bow ties, reading books, or doing science fiction or superhero cosplay.

Old Guys, Chubs, and Bears.  Guys of the more mature persuasion, of heftier girth, or with an exceptionally hairy chest.  It's surprising how often all three come together.  This guy has only two of the three qualities, but he has a nice smile.

Orcs and Other Fantasy Beings.  It started with Orcs -- who would have thought that some guys find Tolkien's baddies sexy?  Here's a very well endowed Orc captured and forced to carry heavy weights around.  The folder also contains elves, dwarfs, hobbits, fairies, goblins, angels, demons, and furries (animal people).

Outdoors.  Guys at festivals, nude beaches, nude bike races, or just displaying their goods in public places, like this Hungarian maintenance man.

Pairs.  I'm not big into action shots, but I like pairs of guys, brothers, friends, or lovers, kissing, hugging, or just hanging out side by side.

Next:Punks through Urinals

20 Hispanic Boyfriends, Dates, Hookups, and Sausage Sightings

55 million people in the U.S. are Hispanic, with ancestry in one of the Spanish-speaking countries of Latin America.  Most from Mexico, followed by Puerto Rico, El Salvador, Cuba, the Dominican Republic, and Guatemala.  About half are foreign-born.

They can be of any race, but the most common configuration is mestizo, with both white and Indio roots.  Straight black hair, brown skin, smooth chest, huge beneath the belt.

I speak fluent Spanish, and lived in places with high Hispanic populations: Los Angeles (49%), New York (27%), and Florida (25%), so I've managed to attract the attention of a few Hispanic hunks, boyfriends, dates, and memorable hookups.

1. Marco the Gay Cannibal.  After my freshman year in college, we went to Colombia to build a church, and I encountered a gay hustler ("cannibal").  We didn't actually do anything, but I'm going to count him anyway.

West Hollywood

2. Arman, the first Hispanic guy I remember dating,  few weeks after I arrived in West Hollywood, shortly after my date with Michael J. Fox.  He was a rough-looking tattooed guy who everyone was ignoring at the Gold Coast.  Our date involved going to his cousin's quinceanera and meeting his abuela.

3. Raul from East L.A., who I met at the Silver Platter in 1986, when I was tiring of Alan stealing all my Asian dates.  We dated, on and off, for the next three years.

4. Bathhouse Boy Alejandro.   Alan and I went cruising in Tijuana and met several guys at the bathhouse, but we met the Indio Alejandro at a bar.  His first language was Nahuatl.

5. The Silverlake Stud.  In the fall of 1993, I went cruising at Basgo's, east of Alvarado, and met the Silverlake Stud, who pretended that he was poor and didn't speak English.

6. The Multiracial Four-Way.  One night at Basgo's I picked up a black Hispanic guy from Venezuela, while Lane picked up an Asian guy from Mexico.

7.Mauricio, the Waiter in the Mexican Restaurant, who was actually from Macon, Georgia, but put "Mexico City" on his name tag because it sounded better.

8. Enrique,  a gay Hispanic singer-songwriter who performed at the MCC in 1994.  He also had a bodybuilder's physique and an enormous Kielbasa beneath the belt.

9.During the Great Redneck Roundup of 1995, Lane and I met a Hispanic guy in Flagstaff.  He worked as a waiter at a gay-friendly bar, but he was actually studying anthropology at Northern Arizona University.

San Francisco

10. At the Gilroy Garlic Festival.  David and I shared Hector, who ran the garlic ice cream stand.

New York

11. Mario the Teen Model.  The youngest guy I had ever dated up to that point, a 19 year old fashion model and Columbia University student who took me on a wild night that never ended, no matter how often I said "Let's go home."

12. Breaking Every Rule of Gay Cruising.  I didn't cruise in bars in New York much.  This is probably why.  Jorge was attractive and all, but he sneaked me into his parents' house, and then had to sneak me out again while they were all having breakfast in the morning.  Plus I got lost somewhere in New Jersey.

Florida

13. Andre, who wore a Flowah Powah T-shirt and took me on the worst date in Florida history, involving a half-built house, an alligator, a crazy roommate, and drugs.











14. Remy, a regular at the Filling Station.  We were "bar friends" for two years before we finally got around to hooking up.

15. Victor, who Yuri and I shared in 2004. I didn't know he was Hispanic until he wrote down his last name.

16. His boyfriend Jauvier, a blond Hispanic guy from Peru.

Ohio

17. Carlos and his Two Secrets.  First secret: instead of "a few extra pounds," he was a superchub.  Second secret: his boyfriend was an incredible muscle god.

Upstate

18. The Shared Stud.  Troy tries being a top, but it doesn't work out well.

Plains

19. The straight guy's first time.  CJ, a time traveler from the distant past, had crazy, outdated ideas about gay people.

20.The Trophy Boy, met at the doctor's office, where I had to pry him away from his overprotective Dad.