Grandpa Prater's Banjo

This is the second erotic story about my Grandpa Prater.

It's the day after Christmas in seventh grade;  I just turned 12.  We're visiting my parents' relatives in Indiana.  Today we drive out to the farmhouse near Garrett to visit my Grandpa Prater, my mother's father, and bring him his Christmas presents.

Grandpa Prater is 70 years old, but still big and rugged, with thick arms and shoulders and huge hands. He wears overalls, sometimes with a white t-shirt underneath, sometimes without, so you could see his hard round pecs dusted with white hair.

He moved from Kentucky to Indiana with his family in 1942, to take advantage of factory jobs during World War II.  Now he is widowed, and all of his kids have moved out except Uncle Edd, who acts more like his brother than his son.

There's no car in the driveway, and no one answers when we knock, so we figure that they're out, at the store or visiting friends in town.  We drive down the road about half a mile to the Trailer in the Deep Woods, to visit my Cousin Buster and his parents and wait for them to return.

Cousin Buster shows me the guitar he got for Christmas, and tries to play "Your Mama Don't Dance," by Loggins and Messina.  He doesn't do well.  "I should have asked for a banjo," he says. "Man, I could really howl on that box." 

"Why don't you ask Grandpa if you can borrow his?"

Somehow we decide that it would be a good idea to sneak into the farmhouse while he's gone and "borrow" the banjo.  

We walk through the woods until we come to the side yard.  There's still no car in the driveway.

We climb onto the porch and go in through the parlor (country folk don't lock their doors).

I've been there a thousand times, but never when the house is deserted.  There's something eerie, even sinister, about the two overstuffed sofas, red with clawed legs, the old console radio with a black-and-white tv on top, the picture of Jesus on the Cross that changes to an Ascended Christ if you look at it right.  

The kitchen is familiar, too.  I've been there many times.  But there's something sinister about the plate of half-eaten toast and jar of Sue Bee Honey left on the kitchen table, as if someone suddenly rushed out.  Or was kidnapped.

I've never been inside Grandpa Prater's bedroom.  

First there's an anteroom, with some coats on hooks and shoes on the floor.  Then a big oak door.

More after the break

The Rich Kid and the Muscle Bear: Dumped by Richie Rich

Louisville, Kentucky, April 1984

I was at Indiana University to get my M.A. in English, but on a campus that offered Elementary Lithuanian, Sufi Poets, Mongolian Civilization, and Serbo-Croatian Epics, who could stand still for dull William Wordsworth?

In the fall of 1983, I enrolled in Tibetan Culture (for both graduate and undergraduate students), and one of my classmates was Richie Rich.

Not his real name, of course: In Harvey comics, Richie Rich was a blond in a Lord Fauntleroy costume whose infinite wealth caused an infinite number of problems.

This Richie Rich was a slim, tanned blond who was majoring in Central Asian Studies, mostly to annoy his Dad, a state senator who played golf with President Reagan. and consistently voted anti-abortion, anti-Russia, and anti-gay.

Richie was vehemently opposed to his father's politics, but he didn't mind the infinite wealth.  He spent every summer at the beach house on Cape Cod.  He drove a new Jaguar.  He spend hundreds of dollars on bohemian-chic fashions.  He always looked like he was trying out for a road tour of Fame.

He had just discovered Bullwinkle's, where he chatted up guys but rarely hooked up; no one ever saw him taking anyone home.

Richie wasn't really my type: he was tall, thin, and blond, and even in 1983 I preferred short, dark, and muscular.

But he was interested in religion, and he was...well, rich, two points in his favor.

I wouldn't mind discussing Buddhism, Hinduism, and Zoroastrianism while tooling around in Richie's Jaguar, or spending the week in his summer house on Cape Cod.

So I cruised Richie Rich at Bullwinkle's.  He was attentive, even flirtatious, allowing me to grope him and fondle his chest.  But before I could go any farther, he said "Well, see you in class," and vanished.

I invited him to my Halloween party in October, but he didn't come.

He was a Unitarian, so one Sunday in November, I visited his church -- no Richie Rich.

The next day in class, I said "I went to your church yesterday."

His eyes widened.  "What for?"

I took Russian Folklore instead of Tibetan in the spring 1984 semester, but, having just broken up with Jimmy the Bodybuilder on Crutches, I was even more eager to land a new boyfriend, preferably Richie Rich.

But what would attract his attention?

He was interested in religion.   How about the Metropolitan Community Church?

A church founded by and for gay people!  Richie wanted to see that!

The nearest MCC was in Louisville, Kentucky, about two hours south of Bloomington.  Roy the Farmboy and I visited last year, and I spent the night with the preacher, Brother Reid: a tall, bearded bear in his 40s.

Brother Reid was into Cute Young Things, and would certainly cruise Richie.  To avoid the competition, I rented us a hotel room for Saturday night.

We would drive up on Saturday, have dinner, go to the bars, spend the night, then get up on Sunday, go to church, and head for home.

Foolproof, right?  I would certainly have Richie Rich in my bed, where my superlative physique and expert sexual technique would win him as my boyfriend!

The trip down to Louisville went great, except that Richie insisted that we take my car -- he didn't want his Jaguar to get dirty.   We talked, laughed, discussed Buddhism, flirted with a local boy at a rural gas station.

We checked into the very elegant, very expensive Brown Hotel downtown -- fortunately, Richie paid. I put my arm around him the moment we set down our suitcases, but Richie said "Come on, let's go on a tour of the town, and find someplace to eat."

We had dinner at a Mexican place, and then went to the Discovery, a gay disco.

Mostly gay men, a scattering of lesbians and what looked like one heterosexual couple.

We hit the dance floor, and I tried to hug Richie again, but he moved away from me.

After awhile, I saw him dancing with an older guy, Brother Reid's age, a husky muscle bear with a black beard and a thick mat of chest hair, damp from dancing.

They had no problem hugging -- and kissing!

I went to the bar, bought a coke, and pulled Richie from the clench.   "Here's your drink."

"Thanks," he said, taking it from me while gazing into the eyes of the bear.

"Hi, my name is Boomer.  You guys are really hitting it off."

"Pleased to meet you," the bear said without looking at me.  They went back to kissing.

Hey, Richie is my date!

Jealous, outraged, I rushed to the nearest guy, a balding but buffed sleazoid in his 30s, and started cruising him.  After a moment, I looked over to see if it was having an effect.

Richie and the Bear were both gone!

I waited for an hour.  There were no cell phones in those days, so I couldn't call.

There was nothing to do but invite the sleazoid back to my hotel room and expend all my frustration on energetic, uninhibited oral and even some Greek.  Then I kicked him out.

Richie appeared in the morning, just as I was getting ready to call the police, all blustery and happy about the guy he tricked with last night.

I was furious.  You don't just dump guys at a bar.  Especially your date!

Ever since then, I have had an unbreakable rule: when you go out with someone, friend, boyfriend, hookup, or date, you stay with them to the end of the evening.  You can make dates for later, or you can share, but no abandoning them to pursue some guy.

You're probably wondering how church went.

He cruised Brother Reid.

Hiram and Ethan Escape from the Fair Folk

Preston's Station, Kentucky,  July 1800

In 1800 Kentucky was still called the Dark and Bloody Land, wild and lawless.  The state was only 8 years old; Hiram's town of Preston's Station (now Prestonsburg), only 3.  You never went into the woods at night, not because of any ghosts or will-o-the-wisps, but because of the highwaymen and renegades and savage Shawnee who might be prowling about.

But here was 16-year old Hiram (model is over 18), trudging down a road that was little more than a deer path, in the moonlight of the witching hour, tired, hungry.  And lost.

With worse waiting when he got home.

His father, 60-year old Aulse Hicks, was the preacher and schoolmaster of Preston's Station.   Well respected, a scholar -- he spoke five languages, and he had published a book proving that the Indians were descended from the lost Ten Tribes of Israel.  But he was strict, demanding, and unforgiving. He expected the son of his old age to spend his time at Greek and Hebrew lessons, and reject worldly temptations like dancing,  ninepins, and games of cards, to prefer -- or pretend to prefer -- the company of God's word to the layabouts down at the tavern

Yesterday Aulse sent Hiram to pray with two brothers from Virginia who had a homestead about five miles from town. He expected to be back before dark, but company was a rare thing in the hills, so they asked Hiram to stay for dinner, and then they sat up, gossipping  and singing and playing games. Before he knew it, the sun was down, and it was dusky twilight.

Five miles in the dark, on a road that was little more than a deer trail?  But there was no help for it, so Hiram set out.

Somehow he got lost --he should have been home in an hour, but the moon was high, the jackdaws were crying, and there was still no sign of the Preston's Station.

He decided to turn back and spend the night with the two brothers after all.  But he couldn't find the homestead again, and now it was the wee hours of the morning, and he was so tired and hungry that he thought he might faint.

Suddenly he saw a light -- not on the main trail, off through the woods.   He approached cautiously, worried that it might be a robber camp.  But it was a house, much bigger and grander than any he had seen in Kentucky.  Could he have walked all the way to Lexington?   (not likely -- Lexington is over 100 miles from Prestonsburg).

Lights and music -- a party going on! Where there was a party, there was food, and a fire.  So Hiram approached the house, and for a reason he couldn't explain later, he slipped in without knocking and made his way to a huge parlor all done up in Christmas red and green.

He couned about thirty people, men and women, all ages. Most were normal sized, but a few were so tall that they had to bow to avoid the chandeliers, and a few were so short that they could bump their heads into other guests' stomachs , Some had pale skin, others the deep purple of night, and still others bright red, like embers.  Even more surprising, some were naked.

They have queer customs in Lexington! he thought.

An elegantly dressed woman  (normal sized, ember-red skin),   approached.  "Why, Hiram Hicks, as I live and breathe! Welcome,welcome!" Before he could be surprised that someone in  Lexington knew him, she grabbed his arm and led him to one of the very tall folk, a leering, bug-eyed man.  "This is old Aulse the Preacher's boy."

"A Preacher's boy!" he exclaimed.  "How delicious!"

Hiram managed a bow. "Do you know Father?"

"Oh, delicately!"

"But you must be famished after your long walk," the ember-red woman said. "Come this way."

She led him to another room: empty except for a table was heavy-laden with every delicacy Hiram could ever imagine:  corn fritters, onion pie, leek pie, broccoli, asparagus, apple ginger, blueberry pie,  lemon cake, alma pudding, even orange marmalade.  But no meat.

He wondered why no one else was eating.  Perhaps it was not yet the dinner hour?

"You sit down to dinner very late in Lexington," Hiram murmured.

"Oh, we'll be eating and drinking through tomorrow,and the day after that," the ember-red lady said."Well, I'll leave you to it."

She wandered off into the main parlor. Hiram found a plate and a wooden fork, and began dishing out...then someone grabbed his arm.

 He turned to see the most beautiful boy in the world: about his age, normal height, dark brown hair, pale hairless skin, hard like a picture of David in one of his father's books.  And naked! .

"Don't eat anything," he said.  "That's how they trap you. Once you eat their food, you will be   theirs forever, forced to obey their every command."

Hiram dropped his plate in shock. It shattered onto the floor. A naked woman quickly appeared with a broom and dustpan to clean the mess.

The most beautiful boy in the world still had his hand on Hiram's arm, as if he was afraid that he would flee.  "My name is Ethan," he said.  "Or it was, once. Now I am no one at all."

"How long have you been here?"

"I don't know -- I lost count of the days and nights long ago.  Maybe years." He leaned close as if to kiss Hiram, and whispered.  "In all those years I've felt neither hunger nor thirst, nor have I slept, nor have I known a moment's peace.   I live only for their pleasure.  Go now, before you are trapped, too."

"As a Christian, I cannot leave without you,"  Hiram said.  "There must be a way for both of us to escape  this foul place."

Ethan thought for a moment.   "They keep us naked. Perhaps it is not to degrade us, but needful for the glamour of the house.  If  I were dressed...but you cannot clothe me.  You have only what you are wearing."

"Perhaps my shirt will be enough."

Hiram tore off his shirt and gave it to Ethan, and they made their way through the parlor. The odd folk ignored Ethan, but they constantly grabbed at Hiram's bare arm and chest, murmuring "But the night is young!"; "You haven't yet eaten!"; "You're just in time for a game of quist!"; and  It's so late -- you must stay the night."

They crossed the threshhold and ran to the trail, afraid to look back. No one followed. And in a few moments, they saw the steeple of the Preston's Station church in the distance.

They agreed to tell no one about the mysterious house. Instead they made up a story:  Ethan was traveling from Virginia with his parents, when they were beset-upon by Indians, who killed his parents, stripped him naked, and held him captive for ten days, torturing him as they pleased.  Eventually he managed to escape.   He was wandering through the woods, delirious with pain and grief, when Hiram found him.

Ethan stayed with Preacher Aulse, and eventually became a preacher himself.  He and Hiram lived together happily for many years, and never told anyone about the mysterious house.

I heard this story from Uncle El during our visit to Kentucky, but added the nudity to make it more interesting.   He said he heard it from his grandfather, who heard it from his grandfather, Hiram Hicks.

There's a real  Hiram Hicks in my ancestry:  son of Aulse "Preacher" Hicks, born in Russell County,Virginia in 1783, moved to Prestonburg, Kentucky (then called Preston's Station) about 1797, died there in 1840.   There is no Ethan living with him in the 1830 census.

Grandpa Prater's Wrestling Moves

My Grandpa Prater, my mother's father, was a big man, towering over my father and uncles, and rugged even in his mid-60s, with thick arms and shoulders and huge hands.  He wore overalls, sometimes with a white t-shirt underneath, sometimes without, so you could see his hard round pecs dusted with white hair.

He was a man's man, always doing something with his sons and sons-in law and various friends: hunting, fishing, playing horseshoes, working on cars.

He had a thick Kentucky accent that was virtually incomprehensible, but he didn't say much anyway.  When the family gathered in the living room to play cards and exchange gossip, he kept silent unless someone asked him a question.  The indoors was uncomfortably stuffy; he'd rather be out with his friends and some dogs on a midnight hunt.

The only time he perked up was when someone asked him to play his banjo.  Then he'd play "Foggy Mountain Breakdown" or "Cotton Eyed Joe," as good, and as fast, as the Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs at the Grand Ole Opry.

There was a sadness about him that I didn't pick up on when I was a kid.  Something deep and dark, that the little joys of everyday life couldn't penetrate.  It wasn't just that he had lost his wife, three older brothers, and four of his eleven children.  It was a dream deferred, a hope from his childhood that he abandoned.

More about that later.

I have two good stories with Grandpa Prater.  The first is about judo.

The summer after fifth grade.  We're all at the farmhouse, but my brother and Cousin Buster are off somewhere, so I'm the only kid.  Dad and my uncles are up by the Old House, playing horseshoes.  I'm not allowed because I'm too little.  I don't necessarily like horseshoes, but I like hanging out with the men, especially when my only other option is sitting in the farmhouse with my Mom and aunts, gossipping about who did what with whom thirty years ago.

I'm wandering aimlessly through the side yard and the rhubarb patch when Grandpa Prater appears, wraps his huge paw around my shoulder, and says "I hear you're taking wrestling."

(I'm not going to try to transliterate his incomprehensible Kentucky accent.  Use your imagination.)

"Wrestling?  No, I'm studying judo.  It's a Japanese sport.  We wear white robes and throw each other."

"Judo?"  He repeats the unfamiliar word.  "Did you know I was a wrestler in high school?"

He takes my hand and leads me up the hill toward the Old House.  It's difficult to understand him, but by interrupting with many questions, I get the gist of his story:

In the Kentucky hills in the 1920s, it was unusual to go past the eighth grade, but the adolescent Tony (who I assume looked like this) was smart as a whip, so his parents allowed him to go on through twelfth grade at Salyersville High School. His best subject was music -- he sang and played the banjo, like on the Grand Ole Opry. That got the bullies riled, so to prove that he was a he-man, he went out for wrestling and basketball, too.

I have that problem!  At Denkmann, raising your hand too often or getting high grades on too many tests draws the ire of Mean Boys.

By now we are on top of the hill, in the men-only zone behind the Old House.  Dad asks, "Wanna join us, Tony?"

He doesn't ask me.

"Well, sure, but right now Boomer's going to show you all his wrestling moves.  Judo, I mean."

I'm what?   Try to throw someone who is twice as tall as me, and a solid mass of muscle?  And my grandpa?  I don't think so!

But Dad and my uncles are gathered around to watch the show.

"C'mon, you can't hurt me.  I'm strong as an ox.  I was wrestling guys before your Daddy was born."

Sighing, I grab Grandpa by the shoulder and hip and try the easiest throw, basically tripping your opponent.  To my surprise, he goes down easily and pulls me on top of him.

"Dagnabit, you did it!" he exclaims.  "That there judo is powerful stuff.  Now pin me.  Come on, pin me to the ground!"

I scamper on top of him, feeling his hard firm chest, smelling his Aqua Velva cologne and hint of whiskey, and press his arms over his head.

He pushes his arms down and slides me down his trunk, as easily as one might push off a pair of pants.  I feel his hard belly and the mass of his crotch.

"Well, your pinning needs some work, but other than that, you're a natural.  Hear that, Frank?  You sign this boy up for wrestling!"

Dad grins at me as if I've achieved a major goal.  And maybe I have.  "C'mon, Boomer," he says, "Play horseshoes with us.  You're old enough now."

I did go out for wrestling a year later, when I started junior high.

The next story about my grandpa involves sneaking into his bedroom to "borrow" his banjo.

See also: Grandpa Prater and his Banjo

My Uncle and His Boyfriend in the Kentucky Hills

Eastern Kentucky, Summer 1973

It's the summer after seventh grade.  We're visiting my Uncle El, the only one of Mom's family to stay behind when the rest of them moved to Indiana.  Dinner is over, and we're telling stories of long-ago times, before I was born, when Mom was a little girl.   Sometimes the adults laugh at jokes I don't understand.

Uncle El's wife tells about the time she rode her bicycle all the way into Salversville to see a boy, but when she got there he was spooning with someone else.  (she obviously did not mean "sleeping front-to-back."  It was probably something like "making out.")

An elderly lady I don't know tells a story about witches.

Now it's Uncle El's turn.

"I'm going to tell about my brother, Manus, and his friend Graydon, two boys with the same soul."

I've been dozing off, but now I perk up -- sounds like this will be interesting!



Eastern Kentucky, Fall 1939

Manus and Graydon, the boy from down the holler, were born at the same moment, and some said they shared the same soul.

Oh, on the outside, they was as different as night and day:

Graydon was tall and dark, with thick arms and a tight chest, fond of wrasslin' and huntin' and fishin'.

Manus was short and slim and pale-skinned, a moody boy, always readin', but a good singer, with a clear tenor voice.

They was different down below, too.  You don't have much privacy in the hills, when you sleep three to a bed, and I saw them many times jumping nekkid into the creek, or lying on the soft grass.

Lordy, did that Graydon have a whopper!

"Eliot!  There are children present!"  the elderly lady snaps.

"Why, Marcy, surely they know that boys have something down there!"

Yet for all of their differences, Manus and Graydon were never separated, from sunup to sundown, when their parents forced them into different cabins for dinner.  Even then, they sometimes sneaked out to have secret adventures in the darkness.

Life was hard in the hills during the Depression.  Eight people in a four room cabin.

Kerosene lamps for light, a wood-burning stove for heat, and the woods outside for an outhouse.

They raised chickens and grew corn, beans, taters, and maters.  For everything else, they depended on Dad's job at a factory in Hueysville, eight miles away.

Still, they had fun. There were church socials and square dances.  In the evenings the neighbors came around to tell ghost stories and sing songs.  There'd be no dry eye in the house when Manus  sang "Barbara Allen."

Oh mother, mother, make my bed,
Make it long and make it narrow.
Sweet William died for me today,
I'll die for him tomorrow.

"I always hated that song," Mom says.  

In the summer of 1939, Graydon bought and fixed up an old clunker car.  Now they could drive all the way to Salyersville, 20 miles down the pike, to get malteds and go to the movies.

They liked Little Tough Guy, with the Dead End Kids, and Out West with the Hardys, with Mickey Rooney.

In late October of 1939, Graydon and Manus took ill, maybe from going swimming nekkid in the cold Brushy Fork Creek.  

They gave them herb medicine and mustard plasters and poltices, and Manus got better, but Graydon got sicker and sicker, and he died on November 5th, the day of the first snowfall.

His dad and older brother built a pine box to put him in, and they buried him in the graveyard up atop  the hill.

Well, needless to say, Manus was inconsolable.

He cried and cried, and after he stopped crying he wouldn't eat, he wouldn't sleep, he just sat on the bed in the room he shared with me and Edd, staring out the window, up at the hill where Graydon was buried.

Then one night he yelled to the family, "Hey, there's a light up on the hill!"

It was a swaying yellow light, like from a kerosene lamp.  But who would be up there in the middle of the night?  It was pitch dark, with just a narrow trail through the brush and trees.  

"I'm going up!"  Manus yelled, pulling on his coat.


But Mom and Dad forbade him.  It was too dangerous. He could wait until morning to investigate.

"No, I gotta go now!  I gotta!"  He tried to push past them out the door.  Dad grabbed him by the arms.  He fought.

There was no help for it: they had to lock Manus up in the room, where me and Edd could look over him.

Well, Manus paced and rumbled, and yelled, and cried, and finally sat down in a chair, still staring up at the light on the hill.  Finally Edd and me fell asleep.

The next morning, when we woke up, Manus was gone!

The door was still locked from the outside.  The window hadn't been touched.  There was no way Manus could have gotten out!

Some say one of his sisters let him out, and he went dashing up the hill and fell in a ditch, and got eaten by a bear.

El glances pointedly at my mother.  But she was only two years old at the time.

Some say a neighbor sneaked him out, and drove him to Salyersville, where he bought a bus ticket Out West, like the Hardys.

Some say Graydon came for him.

Whatever happened, no one ever saw Manus again.

But that night, up on the hill, we saw two glowing lights.

See also: My Kentucky Kinfolk; The Naked Man at the Crossroads; Erotic Story about Me and My Grandpa #1

Sausage Sighting of an Indian God in Tennessee

When I was a kid, my Dad got a 2-week vacation every year.  We would always spend the first week visiting our relatives in Indiana, and the second camping up north,  usually in Minnesota.

But in 1973, just after seventh grade, for some reason we spent the first week visiting my Kentucky Kinfolk and the second in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, about sixty miles south on the border of Tennessee and North Carolina.

A whole week of nothing to do but sleep outside, fish, hike, and ride horses.

Gross! Where were all the historic sites? Where was all the beefcake?

Then Mom and Dad announced that we were going to spend a day at the Cherokee Indian Reservation.  We would see the Cherokee Museum, the Oconaluftee Indian Village (a replica of an 18th century Cherokee village), and Unto These Hills, a drama about Cherokee history performed in a gigantic outdoor theater.

The play (written by Kermit Hunter in 1950) was big on "noble savage" myths and short on historical accuracy (a new, more accurate version was introduced in 2006).

But it had lots of white-Indian buddy-bonding: future President Andrew Jackson befriended Chief Junaluska, and William Holland Thomas, a white boy adopted by the Cherokee, befriended Chief Yonaguska.

And lots of semi-nude male dancers.  I especially liked the head Eagle Dancer, a super-muscular teenager whose bare hard chest glimmered in the firelight.  I kept waiting for his white loincloth to flip up so I could see what was underneath.

He reminded me of the Naked Indian God at the Pow Wow in Rock Island three years ago, but I was just a little kid then, and didn't know how to handle the situation.  Now, a 12 year old grown-up, I knew exactly what I wanted -- to meet the Teenage Indian God, and hopefully see him naked.

 After the performance, I asked my parents if I could go get his autograph. They said ok, but hurry.

I pushed my way through the crowds to the little staging area behind the amphitheater, where the performers were wiping off their makeup.  I found the Teenage Indian God, surprisingly, alone.  He had already exchanged his loincloth for a pair of jeans, but his chest was still bare, smooth and hard, his pecs outlined in blue paint, and, as he was pulling them up, I got a sausage sighting -- dark, thick, uncut!

"Hi!  You were great!"  I said breathlessly, trying to memorize his physique and penis. "Can I have your autograph?"

"Sure."  He signed my program.  Our hands touched as he passed it back.

What could I say to get him interested?  "Um...I want to be a dancer, too, but the Mean Boys at school say it's just for girls."

"Don't let Mean Boys push you around," the Teenage Indian God told me.  "Do what makes you happy.  I'm the only boy in my ballet class -- one boy and twenty girls!  Nice odds, huh?"

Wait -- was he studying dance just to get girls?  What about the muscular male bodies?  What about the buddy-bonding?

"Gross!" I exclaimed.

He laughed. "Just wait a few years -- let me tell you, there's nothing like holding a foxy chick in your arms..."

"Don't you ever dance with boys?"

"If you're going to be a dancer, you have to dance with girls," he said, looking at me oddly.  "They're always going to be your partners, for the rest of your life."

They're always going to be your partners.  What a bleak future!

Blinking back tears of outrage, I rushed off, forgetting to thank him for the autograph.

When we got back to the camper, I looked at my program.  Kevin Martin.  

He wasn't even a real Indian.

I took it out into the woods and threw it away.

Researching this post, I found out more about Kevin Martin.  After high school, he studied dance in New York, and then spent twenty years performing for dance companies in Cincinnati, Louisville, and Washington.  Today he is the director of the men's dance division of the Nutmeg Conservatory for the Arts in Connecticut.

Hopefully he hasn't done it all just to get girls.

20 Uncles, Cousins, and Nephews on My Sausage Sighting List

Many guys have told me that their first inklings of same-sex desire came when they saw a cousin or uncle naked.  Sometimes they even had their first sexual encounter with a relative.

It makes sense -- uncles and cousins live far away, so you don't see them often, and the "mystery" necessary for sexual desire is retained, but there's a familial intimacy that makes sausage sightings much more likely than with strangers.

Here are my top 20 family-member sausage sightings, gropes, and grabs.

My Family

Ken, my brother.  Lots of times.

Terry, my sister's husband.  A bit homophobic, but still, I got a glimpse in the locker room when we stripped down to work out together.














Dad's Family, the Davises

Cousin Joe.  My very first sausage sighting, when I was 7 1/2 years old and went to the bathroom late at night, to see my older cousin there, washing off in the sink.  I saw him again, fully aroused, in high school.

Cousin George.  From South Carolina, exactly my age.  When I went to visit him at age 10, we took a bath together, and slept in the same bed, naked: "only fools wear pajamas."

Uncle George.  His father.  When we went swimming, we all changed clothes in the same room, and I got a good view of his cut Mortadella+ hanging down.







Cousin Phil.  One Thanksgiving evening my brother and I had to share a room with my older cousin.  I got not only a sausage sighting, but a sausage grope and fondle.

Cousin Donnie.  Actually my third or fourth cousin, from Canada.  Grandma Davis brought us out to visit one summer.  I got a good view in a bathhouse at the beach.















Mom's Family, the Praters

Uncle Paul, my mother's youngest brother.  He taught me how to pee "against the wind," and of course had to pull it out to demonstrate.  But I'm sure that the Naked Man in the Peat Bog was one of his friend.

Cousin Graydon, his son.  When he was grown up, I tried to get a sausage sighting, but didn't make it.  But my boyfriend Troy got one.

Uncle Edd.  When I was ten years old, Cousin Buster and I spied on him in the outhouse, hoping to get a glimpse of his "gun."  I saw something else instead.

Cousin Buster.  We spent a lot of time together, so I got several sausage sightings, including one when he was fully aroused.

My Kentucky Cousins.   The summer when I was twelve years old, we went down to Kentucky to visit my Uncle Ell and his family.  My three boy cousins and their two friends and I went skinny dipping in the creek.  Lots of butts.

Uncle Ell.  They didn't have running water in Kentucky, so they took baths by heating water on the stove and pouring it in a bathtub.  Uncle Ell went first.








My Indian Relatives

There was a complicated story that I didn't figure out until I was an adult.  As a kid all I knew was that we sometimes visited Grandma Rani in the Potawatomie Nation.

Cousin Javon.  Grandma Rani's grandson, so my cousin.  During an "enemy interrogation" game, I pulled down his pants and got a sausage grope.

Uncle Clyde.  I had to go to the bathroom while he was taking a shower.  He invited me to come in anyway. A glimpse of his massive penis through the opaque curtain.

My Kentucky Kinfolk

Eastern Kentucky, Summer 1973

My mother was born in the hills of eastern Kentucky, and moved to Indiana as a child.  She always felt like an exile; the hills were her true home.  So she was a big fan of all things Southern, from hayseed comedies to Glen Campbell

We drove down in a camper in the summer of 1973, about a month after I saw two boys kissing at Longview Park Pool, to visit her older brothers, uncles and aunts, and sundry kinfolk left behind in the hills.

My Uncle El lived in a cabin like that in the Beverly Hillbillies, with electricity from a generator outside, and tv, but no running water.  There was an outhouse back by the chicken coop.

There was no town, just a feed store a mile away, where you could get ice cream and candy, if you didn't mind eating it beside giant bags of fertilizer.

No books of any sort.  Not even comic books.  I saw a Bible in a great-aunt's house.

No teen idols -- even the teenagers listened only to Country-Western music.

They only got one tv station, from West Virginia, with The Brady Bunch and The Partridge Family on Friday nights, but otherwise nothing good on.

But:  Uncle El and his wife had something around 12 kids, with three teenage sons and some toddlers still at home. My cousins (El, Graydon, and Dayton, who I met for the first time at Uncle Paul's wedding) had tight, muscular chests and thick biceps, and wore only overalls or cut-off jeans.

At night, since water had to be trotted up from a pump outside, we had to bathe together.  And we slept three to a bed, wearing only underwear, pressed together in the night.

They had two friends, Robbie and Sam -- I never knew if they were brothers, cousins, or lovers -- who drove us in a rickety red pick-up truck up the mountain to a stream where we all went swimming.  Nude.

Not one of them ever mentioned a girl, or asked me about what girl I liked.

One night they drove us into Salyersville, about 10 miles away, for a drive in movie: Cahill, U.S. Marshall, starring John Wayne as a sheriff whose two sons escape from prison and rob a bank. Later the Duke and Danny (Gary Grimes) try to return the money.  They were father and son, but the erotic tension between them was palpable, especially on a hot night in the hills, sitting in the back of a pickup truck with a group of tanned, shirtless musclemen.

I know now that Eastern Kentucky is one of the least gay-friendly regions in the U.S.

But in 1973, I wanted to stay forever.

Instead, we spent a week at Great Smoky Mountains National Park.

See also: The Shy Boy at the Bathhouse; and My Grandpa Howard's Gay Connection

The Naked Ghost at the Crossroads

Eastern Kentucky, June 1905

[This is the story that my aunt told me when I was about nine years old, in the trailer in the big woods, while a cold wind howled outside.]

Mary Shepherd was only 16 when her parents announced that they had arranged for her to be married to 33-year old Ell Hicks.

She didn't mind: he was a good catch.  He had a nice farm near Pyramid, Kentucky, about 14 miles south of Prestonburg.  And he was handsome, athletic, and "well-knit."  Girls had been trying unsuccessfully to land him for years.

Ell turned out to be a good provider.  He bought Mary the latest fashions, and took her to moving picture shows, and in 1904 they became one of the first families in the hills to own a new horseless carriage.

He was always kind to her and the children.  He never raised his hand in anger.

There was only one problem, something that Mary couldn't tell anyone about except her mother.  And many years later, her favorite daughter, Gracie.

Ell wasn't...um...we'll, he wasn't keen on his...um...on doing his duty as a husband.

Mary had to coax and cajole him, and even then it happened only once in a blue moon.

She blamed Ell's friends.  That's why he waited so long to marry -- he preferred the company of men.  Especially that wastrel Silas.  Why, they were joined at the hip, like Frick and Frack!

Sometimes those two stayed out carousing until midnight, leaving Mary rumbling around the house all by herself.

Finally Mary put her foot down.  "You can't visit Silas unless I go with you!"

That quieted things down, for awhile.

One day in the summer of 1905, Ell told Mary that Silas's elderly grandmother was sick, very sick, and everyone was gathered at the house to "sit up" with her, like you did in the hills.  She gave her consent for him to "sit up," too, as long as he was back by suppertime.

Well, suppertime came, and then sundown, and no Ell.  At first Mary was worried.  Then she got angry.  Maybe he wasn't sitting up with Silas's grandmother at all.  Maybe the old woman wasn't even sick!  No doubt it was just an excuse to go carousing with that wastrel!

Near midnight, Mary had enough. She woke Dewey, her toddler, wrapped six-month old Gracie in blankets, and set out to catch Ell in the act.

Ell took the carriage, so she had to walk.

It was very dark, but she could see well enough in the moonlight.

She went down the dirt road for about a mile, and then she came to a crossroads.  The left fork led to Pyramid, and the right on to Prestonburg.

There was something glowing on the side of the Prestonburg Road!

At first she thought it was someone holding a lantern.  But no -- the light was pale and cold, like moonlight.

It was like a human figure with legs spread and arms akimbo.  But much bigger -- at least ten feet tall! She couldn't make out a face.

It moaned like a ghost.

Mary was petrified with fear, but she couldn't run away, with Dewey clinging to her legs and Gracie howling.

She thought of going back, but Silas's house was closer, and there were people there.  So she persevered, walking slowly, with the boy still clinging to her legs and the baby still howling.

Finally she made it to the house, where she discovered that Ell was telling the truth.  It was full of people sitting up with Silas's grandmother, who died at the precise moment that Mary saw the figure in the woods.

But there was a problem: the figure was definitely male.  It was naked.  She distinctly remembered seeing...um...manly parts. . .dangling between its legs.

If it wasn't Silas's grandmother, who was it?  What was it?

Gracie didn't remember the incident, of course.  Mary told her about it when she was a teenager, just before she married my grandfather.

Years later, Gracie told the story to each of her daughters, just before they married.

Aunt Mavis broke with tradition, and told me.

No doubt the details changed over time, but I'm certain that the core of the story is intact: the wastrel, the sick grandmother, and the ghost in the woods that couldn't have been her.

What kind of cautionary tale is this for mothers to pass on to their daughters?

Maybe to be careful -- some of your husband's infidelities might not involve women.

But wait -- did Mary even know that gay men, or men on the downlow, existed?  Did Gracie? Or Aunt Mavis?

See also: The Ghost Lovers of Eastern Kentucky

The Shy Boy at the Bathhouse

January 7th, 2011.  Cleveland, Ohio.

My boyfriend Troy and I are traveling crosscountry from Upstate New York to Indianapolis to visit my relatives.  Cleveland is a convenient halfway point, so we get a room at the Flex Club, which offers a full gym, two swimming pools, a steamroom maze, and a bar downstairs, and bathhouse facilities and hotel rooms upstairs.

7:00 pm

After we check into our room, Troy hits the cruising area, and I go to the gym.  The only other guy there is not particularly muscular, obviously not a gym regular, gamely trying to figure out how to bench press.

I go over and offer to spot him.

His name is Lester.  He's in his 20s, of medium height, unruly black hair, black eyebrows, and sharp features, not handsome but pleasant in a quirky bohemian way,  He has a thin chest, prominent nipples, and nicely rippled abs, plus a soft Southern accent that I find attractive.  He reminds me of my Kentucky Kinfolk.

 I steer him toward the Nautilus machines and demonstrate proper form.

"So, are you from Cleveland?" he asks.

"New York, actually.  I'm just here for the night.  My boyfriend and I have a hotel room upstairs."

"Wow, I just have a locker.  I heard the hotel rooms were nice -- I've never been in one."

"Well, come on up, and I'll give you a tour."

7:30 pm

Before we go upstairs, Lester wants to go to the indoor pool and introduce me to his friends Max and Jason-- rather an odd precaution in the bathhouse.  But ok.  They are college-aged, not particularly muscular but well hung. They grin broadly and hug Lester, as if he has accomplished something spectacular.

All he did was hook up at a bathhouse -- not particularly difficult!

It is a very strange feeling to walk down one of those red-painted, dimly lit bathhouse corridors, with disco music pounding away and guys walking around in towels, open a door, and bam!  You're in a 3-star hotel room with a queen-sized bed, a tv, an alarm clock, and a private bath.

"I like to take things slow," Lester says as I steer him toward the bed.

"Ok, I have plenty of time."  We kiss and fondle, go down on each other, kiss some more.  Eventually he puts his penis -- a very thick Bratwurst -- between my legs and finishes.  I don't finish, wanting to save myself for later in the evening.

Afterwards we cuddle and chat.  Lester grew up fundamentalist in rural Kentucky, attended the homophobic Cedarville University, and didn't come out he was 20.  He transferred to Ohio State, and now he is in law school at Case Western Reserve University.  He's been in one "real" relationship, with an older guy; it lasted for two years, and ended last November.

Ok, well...I was hoping to hook up with some other guys tonight...

He keeps on cuddling.  He's a big fan of Harry Potter, Glee, and The Rocky Horror Picture Show.  I tell him some of my good stories, about my date with Michael J. Fox, the Amazing Invisible Boy, and Cousin George ("only fools wear pajamas").  Eventually I push him down onto me to finish.

He grabs me and holds on tight again.

8:30 pm.

I've been driving all day, and I want to hook up with some other guys tonight....how do I extricate myself from this guy?  I can't just kick him out!

The door opens, and Troy comes in.  After the introductions, he joins us, going down on Lester and me in turn.  Then I get up, leave the two of them cuddling on the bed, and go cruising.  Let Troy kick him out.

10:00 pm.

I return to the room.  Troy and Lester are still there. They must have hit it off!  I join them for another session of Lester's penis between my legs, and we all fall asleep together.







January 8th, 6:00 am.

I get up, eat a power bar and two bananas, run on the treadmill, and return to the room to dress.

7:00 am.

Troy goes off to exercise, leaving Lester and me alone in the room.

"I have to go -- my locker is expiring," he says.  "What are you guys going to do today?"

"Breakfast, then the museums.  Then we're leaving for Indianapolis.  It's about five hours away."

"Great, then you'll be in town for lunch.  Let me take you and Troy to my favorite place.  It's right near the campus.  I'll invite some of my friends."

He writes down the address, kisses me, and leaves.

1:00 pm.

Troy and I spend the morning at the Cleveland Museum of Art, the Museum of Natural History, and the Botanical Garden.  Then we walk to a place called the Jolly Scholar, on the campus of Case Western Reserve.  It's empty on a Saturday morning before classes have started.

Lester arrives with three of his friends, Max and Jason from last night, plus a portly young lady named Michelle.

"So someone finally took pity on our little Lester!" Michelle says, hugging us both in turn.

"We thought he'd never meet anyone...." Jason adds, sliding into the booth next to me.

Lester blushes.  "Guys, knock it off!"

Meet anyone?  "Well, we're not actually dating.  Troy and I are off to Indianapolis after lunch."

"So you mean you just used Lester for his body, with no intention of following through with a relationship?"

"Um...well...."

"Just kidding!"  Jason grabs my knee under the booth.  "That was the whole idea.  Little Lester has only been with a few guys in his whole miserable life."

"...including two years of monotony with that jerk David," Max says.

"So last night we dragged him kicking and screaming to the Flex Club, and told him he couldn't leave until he went down on at least five guys..."

"Or one guy five times..."

"Did you keep a tally?" Michelle asks.

Lester puts his head into his hands.  "Boomer, you took judo.  Make them stop.  Throw them out the window!"

See also: My Kentucky Kinfolk; 10 Bathhouse Boys; and I Get With Every Guy in the Bath House

The Farmboy, the Preacher, and the Security Guard

Louisville, Kentucky, Novembe 1982

During my first year at Indiana University, Roy the Farmboy and I drove to Louisville, Kentucky to go to the Metropolitan Community Church

I couldn't wait!  A church founded by and for gay people!  I had been looking for a MCC ever since I read the Rev. Troy Perry's autobiography a couple of years ago.  There were none in Indiana at the time.

We parked near the Brown Theater in downtown Louisville and walked to the Unitarian Church, an old Gothic grey-brick building.  There was a guy pacing outside the door: African-American, very dark skin, short, solidly built, in a pink shirt and tie. He looked like a pro wrestler.

I didn't have my list of the Five Traits I Find Attractive yet, but in retrospect, he had four: short, dark, muscular, and religious.  And probably the fifth, too -- beneath the belt gifts.


"Hi," I said, holding out my hand.  "I'm Boomer, here for the service.  And this is Roy.  You probably know him already."

"Hi, Roy!  Glad you're back!  How's Bloomington?"  He looked around to make sure no one was watching, then gave Roy a kiss.  I felt a pang of jealousy.

"Boomer, this is Terence.  He's the sound guy and security guard for the church."

"Hi!"  He leaned in for a brief kiss.  "You can't be too careful.  We've had bomb threats.  You never know if a visitor is going to try to kill you.  So, are you guys together?"

"Not yet -- but I'm working on it."

Terence laughed and clapped him on the back.   "Come to brunch with us after the service and we'll talk, ok?"

We walked on into the sanctuary.  It looked like any other congregational-style church -- bare of religious symbols except for a pulpit decorated with a cross.  There were King James Bibles and Methodist hymnals on the pews.

"You and Terence...." I began.

"Oh, no.  I haven't been with anyone in church.  Besides, Terence is Rev. Reid's spouse.   That's what they call them in MCC.  Life-long commitment, rejecting all others, and all that.

My heart sank.  There would be no seeing Terence naked today, or any day.

There were about 50 people in the congregation, mostly gay men, mostly couples.  A scattering of lesbian couples, a few with children.  One heterosexual couple.

To my surprise, the service was all Nazarene -- old-time Gospel hymns, quotes from the King James Bible, hand-clapping, shouts of "Amen!," calling each other "Brother" and "Sister," and a sermon full of "God told me!" and "You got to get right with God!"

The only differences were:
1. The clerical robes.
2. The communion.
3. People typically kissed hello instead of shaking hands.  Same-sex on the mouth, opposite-sex on the cheek.
4. The sermon topic, Galatians 3:28: "There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor female: for ye are all one in Christ Jesus."  The preacher expanded it to include "there is neither gay nor straight."

The preacher, Brother Reid, was in his 40s, a tall, beefy bear who looked very much like Brother Tyler back home.  He even paced and pounded like that old bulldog.

It was nice, but I was expecting something less -- well, less Nazarene.

Afterwards, Terence, Brother Reid, and a few other guys took us out to the English Grill in the Brown Hotel, which specialized in a sort of turkey Eggs Benedict called a Hot Brown.  Brother Reid sat beside me with his arm draped over the back of my chair, and we shared childhood "horror stories" about repressive church rules.  No swimming!  No dancing!  No movies!  No shopping on Sunday!

He looked, and acted interested.  Meanwhile, Terence was sitting next to me, but totally taken by Roy the Farmboy.  What was going on?  Did they..um..do that sharing thing, like the Episcopal priest I met in Des Moines?

A preacher hooks up with guys other than his spouse?

"What are you doing later?" Brother Reid asked.

"We have to be heading back to Bloomington.  It's a two hour drive."

"Two hours -- that's nothing! Sometimes I drive two hours before breakfast.  You need the grand tour of Louisville, and then the drag show at Nowhere."

Preachers go to bars?  And drink beer?

"Sounds like fun," Roy said.  "I just turned 21 last month -- I haven't gone to the bars yet!"

"Then it's high time you started!  The drag show is at 10:00 pm."

I didn't want to go to a drag show in a bar! "But then we'd be driving on dark country roads all the way up to Bloomington at midnight!"

"Or -- or --"  Brother Reid said with a smile, "You could spend the night, leave at 7:00 tomorrow morning.  We can put you up in the spare bedroom."

Sighing, I agreed.  Another night with Roy, who was nice but not my type, all anal instead of oral, while a Greek god lay sleeping in the next room.

The four of us, behaving very much like two couples on a double date, spent the rest of the afternoon at  Conrad's Castle, which I found only moderately interesting, and Slugger Field, which I found not interesting at all.  We had dinner at a steak house, and then went to Brother Reid and Terence's apartment to listen to depressing country-western music and wait until it was time to go to the bar.

I staked out an easy chair, while the other guys got the couch.

"Plenty of room over here," Brother Reid said, patting the tiny bit of seat next to him.

"Oh, I'm fine here," I said petulantly.

Roy stood, came to the chair, and put his arms around me.  "Feeling neglected?"  Soon we were kissing.  I was vaguely aware of Brother Reid and Terence doing the same.

"Maybe we'll skip the drag show," Brother Reid said.  "It's been a long day.  Roy, you know where the spare bedroom is.  There are clean towels in the bathroom, if you want to shower."


Another night with Roy -- good kisser, but not particularly impressive with anything else.

Later I got up to "use the bathroom."   The other bedroom door was closed.

I returned to our bed. "Sh*t!" I whispered.

"Anything wrong, babe?" Roy murmured.

I didn't know he was awake!  "Oh -- I was hoping to see those guys naked, but their door was closed."

"Why didn't you say something?  I can take care of that.  Hang on a minute."

He disappeared.  I heard the door to the other bedroom open.  A moment later, Brother Reid appeared in the doorway, naked, smiling.  He climbed onto the bed, pinned me down, and pressed his mouth against mine.  I felt his Bratwurst move against me.

When it was over, he returned to his own bed, and Roy returned to ours, having had a similar experience with Terence.

Apparently preachers do, in fact, hook up with guys other than their spouses, but they don't talk about it afterwards.

And I never did see Terence naked.

See also: The Farmboy Butches it Up; Dumped by Richie Rich