The Boy with a Crush on My Dad

When I was growing up, I was fascinated by a photo of my father sitting on a burro in Tijuana.

Dad is tanned, muscular, smiling, wearing a sombrero that invites us to "Kiss My Ass!"

The photo is dated September 8th, 1959, a little over a year before I was born. There are two names written on the back, "Frank" and "Jared."

Frank is my father, but who is Jared?  The burro?

And how did this grinning, bawdy, irreverent 21-year old turn into the Dad I knew, conservative, somber, serious, who rarely laughed and never joked or fooled around?  What changed?

Here is all I knew:

June 1956

Frank graduates from high school in Indiana, and joins the Navy.  He spends the next three years seeing the world, visiting Japan, Korea, Singapore, Hong Kong, and the Philippines, learning to repair things deep down in the hulls of the big ships, and buddy-bonding.  He calls it the best time of his life.

June 1959

Frank returns to Indiana for a two-week long shore leave and reunites with his high school sweetheart, who is working at the A&W.  They impulsively get married, and drive with her sister and brother-in-law cross country to Long Beach, California.  They move into a tiny apartment.

The next year is a blank space in their lives.  They don't talk about it.  There are only a few mementos and photographs.  I know that they went to Knotts Berry Farm and Tijuana, that a couple of relatives flew out for a visit, and that Mom bought a set of encyclopedias from a fast-talking salesman, and that's all.

June 1960

Frank's four-year tour of duty ends.  His Captain asks him to stay on, with a promotion to Chief Petty Officer, but he refuses.  Instead, he and Mom return to Indiana and move into a house on South Randolph Street.  He goes to work in the factory, which he calls a "hell hole," even when he's not angry: "Well, I'm off to the goddam hell hole, back at 4:00."   and frequently evokes his Navy years as "the best time of my live."

Why did Dad abandon a Navy career he loved for a factory job he hated?  

I could have grow up in Long Beach!  I could have met Randall and Will the Bondage Boy early in my childhood.  I could learned about gay people and been part of the gay rights movement of the 1980s.  Instead I rumbled around Rock Island in utter silence, my same-sex loves ignored, my most casual friendship with a girl applauded as the meaning of life.

Why did they leave Long Beach?

Indianapolis,  May 2016

I'm visiting my parents on the way back from New York. My nephew is digitizing their old photos, and I see the "Kiss My Ass" burro photo again.  Emboldened, I decide to coax as much information out of them as possible.

Maybe the statute of limitations has passed, or maybe after nearly 60 years they don't care about their youthful transgressions anymore, but Mom and Dad both open up, describing their apartment, the corner grocery store, the movie theater where they saw Ben-Hur and Pillow Talk.

"You went to movies?" I ask, shocked.  Nazarenes are forbidden from setting foot inside movie theaters.


"That's not all!" Dad says with a laugh.  "We played cards.  We danced.  We even drank -- just beer, one time, but if the preacher or my parents found out, we'd be in big trouble!"

"We made friends with all sorts of people that would set my Mom and Dad off," Mom adds.  "Blacks.  Jews.  Catholics.  Mexicans.  And...well, you know..."

"Gays?" I suggest.

Suddenly Dad becomes somber.  "It was the Fifties.  We didn't know about things like that."

"Or if we did, we thought it was very rare," Mom adds, "You'd never meet anyone like that in a lifetime, which is good because it was the worst thing possible, like a sin and a crime and a sickness, all rolled up into one.  Then we met that boy, Jared"

"We were supposed to give him a copy of the photo," Dad says.  "That's why his name is on the back.  But we didn't get a chance."

More after the break

My Nephew Fixes Me Up with His Central Asian Friend

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He took me onto the screen porch.

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

But he said "Is David your boyfriend?"

"Uh -- no,"

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

"What?" A blind date?

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

"Oh, no problem, he sounds great."

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

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

"But won't David feel left out?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We met at a little restaurant on the south side.

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

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

Ryan's Three-Way with Harry Styles

Plains, October 2016

In search of celebrity dating and hookup stories, I've been asking all the gay men I know, with little luck.  But I got a good one last night, from of all places, Ryan H., the college track star I met two weeks ago while driving through small-town Illinois on the way back from a funeral.

Last night we were chatting on Facebook's instant messenger:

Ryan:  I have one for you.  Me and Harry Styles.

Me: For real, or a fantasy?  

Ryan:  Real.  Summer before last.

I quickly wikipedia Harry Styles.  Born 1994, member of the boy band One Direction from 2011 to 2015, five albums, five Brit Awards and four MTV Music Video Awards, "Live While We're Young" hit #3 on the U.S. charts, and "Best Song Ever" #2.  Just signed with Columbia as a solo artist.  

Google images shows Harry at several points in his life.  Rather cute in One Direction, but now he has androgynous long hair and a body-full of gross tattoos.


Me: So summer of 2015.  You were...17?  

Ryan:  Right.  Just after my junior year in high school.

Me: So how did you meet Harry Styles in your small town in Illinois?

Ryan: No, LOL, it was in Indianapolis [two hours away].  My family goes down for the weekend several times a year.  We go to a Pacers game or a concert, go to the Children's Museum, that sort of thing.  Well, this time my friend Sam came along, and there were so many of us that we got our own hotel room.

Me:  Were you and Sam a couple?

Ryan: Sam?  LOL.  He's a year younger than me, and straight!  I just like older guys.  But he's a sweetheart, my cuddly bae.  So we had it all planned out.  After they were all in bed, I snuck out -- Sam covered for me, right -- and I walked about seven blocks to the Metro [a gay club on Massachusetts Avenue].

Me:  You got in ok?

Ryan:  I had a fake id, and besides, look at me!  I've been flashing a smile to get whatever I want since I was little.

Me:  Well, you are rather cute.

Ryan: Def!  So I'm into silver foxes, hot ones like you, and this one really hot guy piques my interest -- in his fifties, tall distinguished, white hair and beard, nice muscular chest.  But he's already hitting on this cute, long-haired twink.  I don't care -- I go up and flash my smile anyway.

Me: Planning to steal the Silver Fox away?

Ryan: I don't know.  I thought maybe a three-some -- I never had one of those before. So I flash my smile, and Silver Fox gets that dopey grin -- the one you got when you saw me, right?  And the guy he's with looks a little jealous.  And I see it's Harry Styles from One Direction.  I was never a big fan, but every girl in school was into him, so I recognized him instantly.

Me: What was Harry Styles doing in Indianapolis?

Ryan:  I didn't ask.  I pretended I didn't even know who he was.

[A quick look at One Directions' website reveals a concert in Indianapolis on July 31st, 2015.]

Me: Did Silver Fox invite the two of you home?

Ryan:  We went to the Sheraton -- the same hotel my family was staying in!  So we waste no time -- the minute we get inside, Silver Fox and Harry start kissing.  I unzip Silver Fox and -- OMFG!  #Hung to his knees  #Super-stud.  Almost as big as you.  Can I see a cock pic?

[I send him one.]

Ryan:  Hot!  So I go down on the Silver Fox -- I'm really, really good at oral, by the way.  My mouth and tongue are legendary.  I unzip Harry, too, and go down on him to be polite.

Me:  How big was Harry?

Ryan: Kind of small, but nice anyway.  Very firm.  When you tell the story, make him a Mortadella, ok?

Me:  Ok.

[This bulge pic suggests a probable Bratwurst]

Ryan: Anyway, I decide I want some kissing action -- so I stand up and try to kiss them both at the same time, you know.  But they ignore me, strip off their clothes, and Daddy turns Harry over onto his stomach and starts topping him.  I take off my clothes and sort of hang around.  Daddy reaches out and gives me a feel.  Come on, I have the biggest cock in Champaign County.  I deserve more than that!

Me: Then what happened?

Ryan: I kind of kneel over Harry, and he tries to go down on me.  But it's a weird position, and he gags.  So I kiss him while he's being topped by the Silver Fox.  Really nice, by the way.  Are you into kissing?

Me: Sure, I love kissing.

Ryan: I can't wait until Christmas.  I want to spend Christmas Eve on the couch with you, wearing fuzzy sweaters, drinking eggnog and cuddling and kissing.

Me: Sounds great.  So, what happened next?

Ryan:  Nothing much.  I kind of crawled under Harry and went down on him while he was being topped. Then Daddy finishes with a gigantic roar and goes into the bathroom to wipe off.  I keep going down on Harry, but he pushes me away and goes into the bathroom, too.  I figure he's going to pee and will be back in a few minutes.  Then I hear the shower going -- Silver Fox and Harry are taking a shower together, leaving me alone on the bed, aroused, all by myself!

Me: Not cool.

Ryan:  I mean, I think I'm pretty hot, don't you?  And I have a gigantic cock.  Why weren't they into me?

Me: I don't know.  I'm into you.

Ryan: So I got out of there and went down to the fifth floor to my room, and sort of started crying in Sam's arms. #Miserable.  #Jealous.

Me: Not a positive experience?

Ryan:  Not at all!  I'd rather have the guy all to myself.  I want to take my time, kiss him, fondle him, get to know him.  And cuddle!  If you don't spend the night, what's the point?

Me:  I hear that.

Ryan: I can't wait until Christmas.  There'll be a package for you to open under the tree.  [Sends me a selfie, aroused.]

Was Ryan telling the truth?

Harry Styles was in Indianapolis in the summer of 2015, and he has been the subject of gay rumors, but there's no evidence that he's into older guys, or is in the habit of hooking up with random strangers in bars.

Ryan's story was obviously a cautionary tale about what to do and not to do on our upcoming Christmas date, and an attempt to pique my interest with references to his penis size, proficiency at oral sex, and attractiveness to men.  But he could have used any sexual experience -- why invent a liaison with Harry Styles, who I don't find attractive in the least?

Unless he really did have a three way with Harry Styles and a Silver Fox the summer after his junior year in high school.

See also: Picking Up a College Track Star; West Hollywood Stories of Dating and Hookups with Celebrities; My Christmas Date with the College Track Star.

The Gay Painting in My Grandmother's Room

Garrett, Indiana

The cold, snowy day after Christmas.  Cousin Buster and I have already played with our toys, and we're tired of sitting around the living room of Grandpa Prater's farmhouse, listening to the adults complain about hippies and laugh about things that happened a thousand years ago.  So we go exploring, hoping to find a secret stash of comic books.

The kitchen
The furnace room
A little room used as as a pantry.
A room with a pump in it.
Some bedrooms.
Grandma Prater's Room.  Locked.  Off-Limits.

Grandma Prater died in 1966, when I was five years, old, so I have only a few random memories of her:  a short, fat, brown woman carrying bags of groceries, frying chicken, telling me a story about a mouse, giving me the nickname Boomer.  She had a thick Kentucky accent.

In a small farmhouse, they could use an extra bed, but after she died, no one ever slept in her bedroom again.  The adults went in to clean, or to look around, but kids weren't allowed: we might "break something."

The door was always locked, but when we played in the house, we always tried it anyway, just in case.

Today the knob turns, and the door stands ajar!  Cousin Buster and I glance at each other in surprise, then push the door open and look inside.

It is a very bright, airy room, not at all stuffy, with two windows and blue wallpaper.  A four-poster bed with a blue comforter,  the covers turned down, a Bible opened to the Psalms, as if Grandma Prater has just stepped out and would return at any moment.

A wooden dresser with photos of Kentucky kinfolk.  A bureau.  Clothes on hangers visible in the open closet door.  A rocking chair with knitting stuff on it.


And a painting: in a lush green forest, a boy is leaning against a tree, playing a flute.  He is wild, savage, naked except for an animal skin. A round red sack hangs from his side.

I stare in awe.  I am looking through a gateway into a "good place," where boys can hold hands and kiss without anyone asking "what girl do you like?"  The boy is a fairy, a mystical sprite, beckoning me, offering a way to the secret world.

After that, on most Christmas and summertime visits, I asked to see Grandma Prater's room.  I became familiar with the bed, dresser, bureau, and rocking chair.  I picked up her Bible, read the annotations, examined her sewing, turned the photos around to see who the subjects were.

But my favorite part of the tour was the painting.

Who was the boy?  Puck from A Midsummer Night's Dream?  A boy Hercules (was that a lion skin?).  I thought of the Piper at the Gates of Dawn in The Wind in the Willows, the painting that led to Narnia, the Road to Elfland in heroic fantasy.

And, as I learned more about my grandmother, the painting seemed more and more out of place.

She was born in 1900 in the desolate hills of Eastern Kentucky.  Although she graduated from high school, a rarity at the time, she lived in isolation and poverty.  During the Great Depression, they survived by making moonshine.  She lost four of her eleven children.  During World War II, she moved to Indiana, to another isolated farmhouse.

She believed in ghosts, haints, witches, and premonitions.  A few weeks before she died, she heard her mother calling her from beyond the grave.

She never read fantasy or mythology, or, as far as I could tell, any book but the Bible.  There was no other art in the house except for a picture of Christ on the Cross and a souvenir from Indiana Dunes.

I asked my mother where the painting came from, but she didn't know -- it had been there as long as she could remember, even back in Kentucky.

Were there art galleries in the Kentucky hills?

Et in Arcadia ego.

Grandpa Prater died in 1978, but Uncle Edd continued to live in the farmhouse until 1998, and, I assume, kept up the blue room and the painting.

 After I moved to West Hollywood, I visited my parents twice a year, first in Rock Island and then in Indianapolis, with little time leftover to visit my elderly aunts and uncles in northern Indiana.

Before I knew it, ten, twenty, thirty years had passed since I last went into Grandma Prater's room.

Indianapolis, December 2000

Yuri and I are spending Christmas with my parents.  We go into the room that they've turned into a home gym: two exercise bikes, some free weights...and hanging on the wall beside a towel rack, The Painting!

I stand speechless, staring, as memories rush back.

How did it get here?  Maybe when Uncle Edd moved out of the farmhouse, Mom claimed it.

Yuri touches my shoulder.  "Are you ok?"

"Sure...I mean...this is one of my favorite childhood memories, a picture from my grandmother's bedroom.  I thought it was a hint that gay people exist."

"Your grandmother had the Pastyr Devid?"

"You know it?"

Turns out that it was one of the illustrations in a book of Bible stories that Yuri's grandmother read to him.

"I ask for the story of David the Sheep Boy..." Yuri began.

"Shepherd?"

"Ok, David the Sheepherd.  I asked Baba to read me that story many times.  I thought he was beautiful.  Maybe this is where I know I am gay?"

A continent apart, both our grandmothers inadvertently showed us a sign of gay potential.


I looked up the painting on the internet:  it's Shepherd Boy Playing the Flute, by Polish painter Henryk Siemiradzski (1843-1902), who specialized in Biblical and classical scenes.

Leaving two questions:

1. Was Siemiradzski gay?  I don't find a lot of beefcake in his works.  There's a couple of cute guys on the curtain he painted for the Juliusz Slowacki Theater.

2. How did my grandmother get a print of a work by a minor Polish painter in the hills of Eastern Kentucky?

Was Cousin Buster Gay?

When I was growing up in Rock Island, we visited my parents' family in Indiana two or three times a year, and I always wanted to spend the night with my Cousin Buster, who lived in the Trailer in the Deep Woods.

He was a year and a half older than me, and more adventurous, dragging me into mishap after mishap in the peat bog, the old barn, the endless corn fields, and the haunted House on the Hill.

At night we crammed into his narrow twin bed and read comic books until our eyes were bleary and he dozed off, and I could watch his bare chest rising and falling, and if I was very careful, reach over and gently caress him. One of my first stirrings of homoerotic desire, perhaps.

The last time I spent the night was at Christmastime in 1973, when I had just turned thirteen. I was very disappointed that he gave me the couch, although I did catch him masturbating later.

As a teenager, my visits to Indiana became sporadic.  I was old enough to stay home, I was very busy with school and clubs, and besides, it was different.  I was disgusted by my family's conservative politics and country-western music, and by Cousin Buster's macho interests in hunting, fishing, working on cars, and girls.

No more comic books.  No more adventures.  No more magic and mystery in life.  Just "I revamped the carburator, and put in a new gasket"  and "she had really big tits."


After high school, my visits became even more sporadic, and Cousin Buster was absent altogether.  His mother made excuses for why he couldn't come to family barbecues and picnics.  Fine with me: seeing him again would be awkward and embarrassing, like running into an ex-lover after a bad breakup.

I heard about him through my mother: working at an auto garage, collecting classic cars, going hunting and fishing with his buddies, dating girls but never settling down with anyone.

In August 1996, at the age of 38, Cousin Buster collapsed at work.  He was taken to the emergency room, then admitted to the hospital.  Two days later he was diagnosed with cancer.  He was moved into a hospice. He died a few days later.

I didn't go to the funeral; I had just visited my parents in Indianapolis and my friend Alan in Norfolk, and I didn't have the money for another expensive plane flight.  Besides, it would be awkward and embarrassing.  He was a stranger.

But recently I began wondering: we had so many plans as kids.  We were going to move into a house together, and have a room for comic books and a room for toys, and sleep in the same bed, cuddling in the night.  It sounds very much like two gay kids who haven't figured it out yet.  Could Cousin Buster have been gay or bi?

First I asked my only cousin from that side of the family that I was still in contact with, Uncle Gus's daughter Shelley, but she didn't remember Cousin Buster very well: "He was 12 years older than me,  I don't think he even knew that I existed."

I couldn't ask his elderly, conservative mother, who I wasn't out to...could I?

Turns out that I could.  When I was in Indianapolis last Christmas, my elderly, conservative mother wanted me to drive her up to northern Indiana to visit her two surviving sisters, and when we were visiting Aunt Mavis, I managed to steer the conversation to Cousin Buster.

"Oh, what a ray of sunshine!" she exclaimed.  "He was so busy with work and his friends, but he still took time to visit his old mother every day."

Old mother? Um...when he died Mavis was only 58 years old, still working full-time and a member of several clubs, hardly a shut-in.

"Speaking of friends, did he have anyone special?" I asked.  "Any best friends?"

"Nobody comes to mind. But just a minute -- I'll get his memorial book."

At the funeral, Cousin Buster's friends were asked to write their memories of him in a book:

"

"Interests: arrowheads, cruising, nudists, the good stuff, making jewelry, having friends."

"I'll miss you lots.  I'll miss your smile and our long talks."

"Hey, buddy, I still carry your rock with me every day."

"To the biggest pumpkin in the patch."  Huh?

"You were my best friend in all the world!"  (Two of these).

Some of the comments were suggestive.  I tried to track down the people in the memorial books, but was successful only with the "rock in my pocket" guy, Jack, now a 62-year old grandfather living in Indianapolis.

"Great guy!  I still think about him all the time."

"And his rock?"

"I still carry it with me, like a good luck charm." It was a smooth lavender agate.

Lavender?  The gay pride color?

"Another guy in the memorial book said that he was into nudity, cruising, and the Good Stuff."

Jack laughed.  "Well, I never saw him naked, and I don't know what the Good Stuff meant, but he was definitely into cruising."

"Really?"  Looking for hot guys?

"Did you see his 1972 Plymouth convertible?  Man, that was a gas."

I was tired of beating around the bush.  "Did he have anyone special in his life.  A girlfriend, or a boyfriend?"

He shrugged.  "Everybody was special to Buster.  He always acted like you were the most important person in the world.  And I guess, at that moment, you were."

I left not knowing if Cousin Buster was bi or gay, or asexual, or heterosexual.  He surrounded himself with people, male and female, young and old, and loved them all.

Who cares if he was in love with any of them?

PS: When I was in Indiana in August 2021, my Mom confirmed that Cousin Buster was gay (I think she meant bisexual).  She only just found out: her sister told her during a conversation about her transgender granddaughter.  Funny that they would keep that a secret for so many years.

David Has Explicit Sex with 5,000 Guys (with 8 Nude Photos)

Indianapolis, June 2017

David, the former Baptist minister from San Francisco, is the only guy I know who still uses the telephone instead of texting.

"I've got a couple of weeks off in June," he said.  "I'd like to fly out and visit you on the Plains."

Gulp!  David from San Francisco, on the Plains?  I had enough trouble trying to entertain Yuri, when he visited a couple of years ago!  And David has a requirement that Yuri doesn't....

"Sure, that would be great," I said, trying not to hesitate.   "It's been three years since we saw each other last, and I think it's your turn to visit me.  Except..."

"Except what?"

Except cruising opportunities here on the Plains are limited, especially during the summer, when all of the students have gone home.  Especially when you're 64 years old.  I might not be able to provide enough hookups to meet your quota!

David did't come out until age 43, and vowed to "make up for lost time" by hooking up with at least five guys per day. Five turned out to be too time-consuming, so he reduced his goal to two per day, then one.

But only someone new, that he hadn't been with before, counted.

And he couldn't visit a bath house or sex party and get a whole week's worth done at once. It had to be one hookup or date every day.

In gay communities, it's polite for you to provide the sex partners for out of town visitors.

"Except that I'm scheduled to be visiting my family in Indianapolis the weekend of June 6th," I explain.  "Maybe you could fly in there.  Believe me, there are a lot more fun things to do [more places to cruise] in Indianapolis than in a small town on the Plains!"

"Sure, I'd be happy to meet your family.  And cruise Hoosier farmboys."

Wednesday

I arrive in Indianapolis at noon, visit my mother, and then drive to the airport to pick up David at 3:30.  He's 64 years old, a bald, buffed Daddy with craggy features, a moustache, a tight hairy chest, thick biceps, and extra-thick beneath the belt gifts.  Since I saw him last, he got a pair of nipple rings, which, he said, played havoc with the metal detector at airport security.

We have dinner with Tyler, my ex-boyfriend Fred's 34-year old "son," who arranges a "West Hollywood Party" for us with about the same guests that were at his New Year's Eve Party: his ex-boyfriends, Jesse and Sandoval (both bears in their 40s), and Mike, the 23-year old waiter in the crazy retro restaurant, plus Mike's boyfriend, a soft, passive, dark-skinned student from Bangladesh (who happens to have 6" soft).

David doesn't have a type: young or old, fat or thin, if you're over 18 and have a penis, he's interested.  Everyone at the party eventually goes down on him (and I get to go down on everyone at the party),  but he doesn't have an orgasm until everyone else leaves, and Tyler and I are double-teaming him (both working on his penis at once).

Quota met.  But that's about everyone I know in Indianapolis.

Thursday

David and I have brunch with Tyler.  Then we visit the gym, the Eiteljorg Museum of Indian Arts, the Indiana State Historical Museum, and the zoo.  We have dinner with my sister and her husband, and then cruise the Waterworks.

It's like an ordinary bathhouse, but with no orgy room.  You have to do everything in the steam room or the shower.  David goes down on a bald bear in his 30s in the shower, while I make the rounds and go down on couple of collegiate twinks.

At 11:00 pm we're finished.  Tyler works until 2:00.  We let ourselves into his apartment and take the guest room.

Quota met.

Friday

I wake up to the sight of Tyler going down on David.  I join in by going down on Tyler.  Then we leave him to sleep a few more hours.  We drive down to Bloomington, to see my old hangouts at Indiana University.

It's been over 30 years since I was a student, but the campus hasn't changed much. We visit Eigenmann Hall, where I met my first open gay men; Ballantine Hall, where Viju and I speculated on whether our professor was gay; the Memorial Union; the Rare Books Library; Wylie House. Then we walk through downtown and have dinner at the Tibetan restaurant.

The Back Door, Bloomington's new "queer bar," is hosting the Limestone Comedy Festival.

Comedy clubs aren't the best place to cruise, but I manage to attracted Jake, a pre-pharmacy student:  early 20s, tall, slim, with short reddish-brown hair, thin lips, smooth chest, and an average size penis, mostly a bottom.  We return to his apartment, where he goes down on David while I'm going down on him.  Then David tops him.

But he doesn't finish; after a few minutes he rolls over and goes to sleep, leaving me to get into the interfemoral position with Jake.  I guess he has a type after all, and Jake isn't it.

Quota met.

Saturday

I go down on Jake while David watches.  Then we have breakfast and return to Indianapolis to work out.  After visiting my mother, it's time for the annual family barbecue at my nephew's house.

 Joseph didn't realize that David would be coming, and he has set me up on a date for Saturday night!  Ravi, a very muscular grad student in Central Asian Languages.

"That's ok," David says.  "Just drop me off at Tyler's apartment.  I've got some books to read, and I'm binge watching Orange is the New Black on Netflix."

"On Saturday night?  Are you sure you don't want to come out with us?"

"Absolutely!  You have fun.  Anyway, Tyler will be home at midnight to keep my bed warm."

But...your goal of being with a new guy every day?  

I spend the date worrying about whether David is sick, or angry with me.  After dinner and cruising, I bring Ravi home to "share"  -- rather unusual on a first date, but I don't want things to be weird with David.  But he's already asleep in Tyler's arms, so we take the guest room.

Quota not met.

Sunday

Tyler joins us for sharing in the morning; David does not.  But he seems fine for church, Sunday dinner at my mother's house, and the Brown County Antique Mall with my sister and brother-in law.

Afterwards we have dinner with Tyler and visit the Gay Men's Club Indianapolis, a weekly sex party.  I go down on a cute twink named Len, and a couple of other guys.  David just watches!

Then we return to Tyler's apartment and fall asleep in his bed.  Tyler and I make out for awhile and then do interfemoral, but David just falls asleep.

Quota not met!

Monday

I'm running out of cruise ideas.  Maybe David could work some of his magic: four years ago, when he visited me in Philadelphia, he hooked up with 15 guys in 24 hours!

We visit Splash Mountain to look at the beefcake, but pick no one up.  We have dinner with my nephew and his wife, and then cruise at the Metro, the gay bar in downtown Indianapolis.  But David wants to leave at 9:00, before it gets crowded.   Tyler gets home from work at midnight and joins us in the guest room, but David is already asleep.

Quota not met.

Tuesday

"It's our last night day in Indianapolis," I say.  "We should do something fun.  How about inviting a guy from Grindr over for a four-way?"

"Let's have dinner and then stay in for the evening," David says.  "I have an early flight."

Ok, I can't restrain myself anymore.  "What about your quota?  A new guy every day, 365 per year, making up for lost time? Goal of 5,000 hookups?"

He smiles.  "Oh, that.  Well, you see, Boomer, as you get older, sex just becomes less important.  It's still enjoyable, but it's not always necessary.  Sometimes I just want to watch, or cuddle, and sometimes I'm not in the mood at all.  I'd rather go to bed with a good book."  He puts his arm around me.  "Anyway, I came here to see you, not get laid."

Wednesday 

We wake up at 4:00 to get David to the airport by 7:00.  Tyler got home at 2:00 am, so we're planning to let him sleep.  But as we pass his room, he calls, "Hey, I brought you a going away present."

He turns on the light.  There's a slim guy lying in bed next to him: short hair, beard, very hairy chest, what they call an "otter."  He smiles. "Which of you is David?"

Quota met. 


See also: My New Year's Eve Party with the Small-Town Track Star;  David Hooks Up with 15 Guys in 24 Hours; Joseph Sets Me Up on a Date

Summer 1965: The Muscles of Morris Street

Indianapolis, Summer 1965

A few days ago, one of the readers of this blog told me that he grew up in Morris, Illinois, about 120 miles from Rock Island.

Reading the name instantly aroused the conmingling of joy, anxiety, and erotic energy that I associate with a "good place," a country or city where, as a child, I imagined same-sex love to be open and free.  Like Tibet, or Middle Earth, or even the Los Angeles of The Lucy Show.

The name brought back the memories of:
1. A very, very old man sitting in a rocking chair with a collie next to him.
2. The collie whining softly like Lassie.

3. Muscles!  Hundreds of men and boys, maybe thousands, more than I had ever seen before, shirtless, in swimsuits, their bodies gleaming in bright sunlight, flexing their biceps, adjusting themselves, running, jumping, hugging.

Could that beefcake paradise have been Morris, Illinois?  But I didn't remember ever visiting.

We passed often.  At least once a year, often two or three times, we took Interstate 80 from Rock Island across the Illinois prairie on the way to visit my relatives in Indiana.  I got to know the route intimately, I can still list the towns along the way: Geneseo, Kewanee, Princeton, Lasalle, Peru, Ottawa, Morris, Joliet, Chicago Heights.

Sensitive to the problem of kids getting bored on car trips, and probably getting bored themselves, Mom and Dad always found new, interesting places to stop on the way: Starved Rock State Park, Culver's Frozen Custard; a haunted theater in Chicago Heights; the glass octagon of the Valparaiso University Chapel.

Could we have stopped in Morris?

I got a map and checked the possibilities: Norwegian Settlers Memorial, Gebhart Woods State Park, Morris Diner & Pancake House, Boz Hot Dogs.  Nothing seemed particularly homoerotic.

Anyway, the old, old man didn't seem like a random encounter.  We visited his house.  We knew him.

He was too old to be one of my parents' friends.  He must be a relative.

I emailed my mother and asked if we ever visited any relatives in Morris, Illinois.

"No," she wrote back. "All of your Dad's family are in Indiana, Michigan, and Ohio, except for your Cousin George in South Carolina.  And my family is in Indiana and Kentucky."

Maybe I had the wrong Morris?  There's a Morris in Indiana, a Morris Township in Ohio, and a Mount Morris in Michigan.

Eva Marie, my Cousin Joe's sister, is big on family genealogy. She helped me track down the gay connections of our biological grandfather, and she has gedcoms that trace our ancestry through a dozen different lines back to Canada, England, Ireland, and France, all the way back to Charlemagne.  I emailed her and asked if anyone in our family lived in a town called Morris between 1960 and 1970.


"No," she wrote back.  "You had a third-cousin on a Morris Street.  Does that help?"

Yes!

David Scholle, grandson of Grandpa Davis's  sister, lived on Morris Street in Indianapolis in the 1970s.  But my memory is from the 1960s, and he's too young to be the old man of my memory.

"David moved into his grandfather Otto's house after he died," Eva wrote.  "Otto Scholle, your great-uncle.  He turned 75 in July 1965, and we all went down to Indianapolis for his birthday party. Mom, Dad, your parents, Grandma Davis.  But you were only four years old.  Could you be remembering that?"

Back to Google Maps.  I didn't recognize the house Eva mentioned.  But two blocks north was Rhodius Park, which has a softball field and a swimming pool.

Now I can figure out what happened:

A hot day in July, before we moved away from Indiana.

  A birthday party for an old, old man on "Morris Street."  A house full of strangers.  After the cake, Eva, Joe, and Larry get bored.  Their parents suggests that they go to the park, and take their 4 1/2-year old cousin Boomer.

They walk past the crowded swimming pool.  Through the chain link fence, Boomer sees dozens of half-naked men and boys,splashing, flexing, hugging, adjusting themselves, a stunning homoerotic spectacle that stays with him forever, even after he forgets everything else about the day.

Except for the old, old man, the collie whining, and the name "Morris."

"The President's Not Cute!": My Meeting with President Johnson

Indianapolis, Summer 1966

Everyone in the Boomer generation and older knows where they were on November 22, 1963, when they heard of the assassination of President John F. Kennedy.

My Cousin Joe remembers a murmur going through the school, a teacher crying, and being sent home early.

I was barely three years old, so all I have are some vague, confusing memories of people being sad.

I didn't know he was dead, or that Lyndon B. Johnson was the new President.  There were so many pictures of John F. Kennedy on tv and in books, and people talked about him so much, that I thought that he was still the President 2 1/2 years later.

All the pictures showed John F. Kennedy as handsome and athletic.  There were shirtless photos in Life magazine.  He had muscles!

And the movie PT-109 (1963) showed him rescuing a buddy from a sinking ship during World War II!  My friends and I made him a key player in our "my hero" games.

So I was thrilled one day in the summer of 1966, when we were visiting Indiana, and my Aunt Nora, my father's sister, suddenly announced "You're going to meet the President!"

Later I found out that Indiana was celebrating its Sesquicentennial, 150 years of statehood, and my grandmother's family was important, descended from pioneers.  She and some other "pioneer women" had been selected to shake hands with the President at the festival in Indianapolis.

We drove down with my Grandma, my Aunt Nora and two of my older cousins, Joey  and Eva Marie.

I remember a parade with boy scouts, some people walking around in pioneer costumes with a covered wagon, and a merry-go-round like at a carnival (but it wasn't a "carnival," forbidden for Nazarenes, it was a "festival").

 But the highlight was to be the address by the President.

My cousins and Aunt Nora and I stood at the head of the crowd, very near the row of chairs where Grandma was sitting and the podium where he would speak.  I couldn't wait.  Maybe he would come out in a swimsuit, like in the photos in Life magazine.  Or at least take his shirt off -- it was a hot July day, and lots of guys in the crowd had their shirts off.

"Isn't this exciting, Squirt?" my Cousin Joe said.  He was a grown-up, 12 years old (top photo looks like him), holding my hand so I wouldn't get lost. "Seeing the real, live President, just like on tv. Maybe he'll shake your hand!"

Then a band began to play "Hail to the Chief," someone announced "Ladies and Gentlemen, the President of the United States,"  and....

An old, ugly guy marched onto the stage!

I tugged at Cousin Joe's shirt.  "Where's the President?"

"Why, that's him.  Doesn't he look the same as on television?"

There had been a terrible mistake!  Where was the hunky muscleman who ripped his shirt off and dived into shark-infested waters to rescue his buddy?  

This trip had been one big lie!

Outraged by the betrayal, I tore myself away and ran headlong through the crowd.  Cousin Joe ran after me, with Aunt Nora and Eva Marie following.  They caught up with me by the cotton candy machine.


"What on Earth is the matter with you?" Aunt Nora exclaimed.  "You're a big boy, too old for temper tantrums!

"It's your fault!" I said, starting to cry.  "You said we would meet the President!"

"Who do you think is talking up there, Bub?" Cousin Joe asked.

"Not the President!"

"What makes you say that?"

"He's not cute!"

Years later, Cousin Joe said that he "knew" that I was gay at that moment.

Nephew Sausage Sighting #2: Gay Dudes Have Purple Cocks

Indianapolis, June 2013

The nice thing about having heterosexual relatives is, they tend to reproduce. And their kids grow up into a whole new group of mega-hunks.

My brother has three sons: Ethan, Frank, and Joel, plus a  stepson, Robbie.

My sister has a transgender daughter whom we thought of as a son until she came out at age 28.

 I've gotten sausage sightings of all of them (I only count the ones that took place after they turned 18, of course).

Frank (born October 1983)

Frank was the athlete of the family, playing baseball and basketball almost as soon as he could walk, going out for every sport at in junior high and high school.  He played Varsity football and basketball made all-State in something or other, and became a letterman.

He was definitely a mesomorph, maybe tending toward endomorph, with thick, hard muscles in his chest and shoulders, thick biceps, and a little belly.  In his 30s he went to fat.

After 1995, when my parents moved to Indianapolis, I stayed with Kenny during my Christmas and summertime visits to Rock Island.

He had a very big, very crowded house, so he put me in a tiny room with a single bed and a sewing machine, at the end of a long, narrow corridor.  The room Frank and Ethan shared was next door, and a half-bath (toilet and sink only) next to that.

I often heard Frank's loud snoring through the wall.

The bathroom had no lock on the door, so it was not uncommon for someone to burst in during the night and get an eyeful before the half-asleep occupant could say anything.  

I saw Frank sitting on the toilet or standing to urinate on several occasions when he was a kid.  And he saw me a lot -- so often that I suspected he was lying in wait, listening for my footsteps in the hallway.

He graduated from high school in 2001 and joined the army, and when his military service was over, found a job in Nashville or Memphis or somewhere like that.  So I saw him once a year, at Christmastime, and sometimes not even then.   

My sausage sighting came in the summer of 2013, when my niece (then male-identified as Joseph) got married in Indianapolis.  Frank, now age 29, came to the wedding, along with a wife, son and daughter that I had never met before.

He was not an athlete anymore: he had thick arms and a belly.  Thick hair, a beard, a little redneck looking.  Tattoo, cowboy hat, chain-smoker.  And a card-carrying GOP conservative, even more conservative than my other crazy relatives.

I steered clear of him.

Except for some reason he and his family were staying at my parents' house.  They got the guest bedroom, and I was stuck on the pull-out couch in the home gym.

I almost called my ex-boyfriend Fred in Indianapolis to see if I could stay with him instead, but it wouldn't have been polite.

So for three nights, I lay on the fold-out bed, listening to Frank's loud snoring through the wall.

One night, late, the snoring stopped.  I heard padding in the hallway -- Frank in the guest bathroom?

I waited, but didn't hear a flush.  He must be out in the kitchen, getting a snack.

Feeling the urge myself, I put on a bathrobe and walked out to the guest bath.  I opened the door and flipped on the light.

Frank was sitting on the toilet in the dark, looking at something on his cell phone.  He had his hand on his cut Bratwurst+.  Semi-aroused.

Was he masturbating?  

Well, he had been sleeping in a small room with his two kids for the last three nights.

"Hey, turn out that light!" Frank whispered.

"Sorry.  I didn't know you were in here."  I flicked the light off, but his face and penis were still visible in the glow of his cell phone.

In the morning I took Frank aside and said "Sorry about last night.  Mom and Dad really should put a lock on that door."

"That's ok.  I guess we're even now.  Remember all the times I burst in on you while you were in the bathroom?"


"Yeah.  It happened a lot."

"I'll tell you a secret -- I was doing it on purpose." He leaned in conspiratorily. "My crazy brother said gay dudes have purple cocks, and I wanted to see if it was true."