Wilton's First Time was with Captain Kirk

Millions of Baby Boomer kids got their first glimpse of beefcake on Star Trek (1966-69) where, week after week, Captain Kirk  would take his shirt off to fight alien monsters or kiss alien babes. I didn't find him attractive -- he was too smug, too leery, and way too hetero.

Shatner continued to play Kirk in movies and parodies for 40 years, but he also appeared in a wide variety of movies and tv series, including starring roles in T. J. Hooker, Boston Legal, and Sh** My Dad Says.

Married four times, with a notorious eye for the ladies, Shatner has no gay rumors, that I know of.  George Takei, who played Sulu on Star Trek, reveals that the entire cast and crew knew that he was gay, except Shatner: "it went right over his head."  For him, gay people simply did not exist.



But in his early days, Shatner was quite different.

Montreal, September 1947

Wilton was 16 years old (model is over 18), a sophomore at West Hill High School in Montreal, and an aspiring journalist -- he had already published a poem about the War.

Physically, he was not so hot --  a tall stringbean, pushing through puberty with oversized hands and feet, oily skin, and constant horniness.

He didn't know that gay people were defined as "criminal psychopaths" in the Canadian penal code.  He didn't even know that gay people exist.

But he knew that Johnny Sheffield in a loincloth in Tarzan and the Huntress made him feel all hot and flushed.

And he had a picture of Alan Ladd with his shirt off hidden in a desk drawer in his room.

And he liked looking at the football players.  Some of them were nice, saying "hello" to him in the hallway and collaborating with him on class assignments,  but many of them were jerks.

Bill Shatner was a jerk.

Wilton had to admit that he was cute, with that curly reddish-brown hair and that bright Pepsodent smile. But he was a money-hungry, mercenary, soulless cog in the Cold War machine.  He wasn't interested in acting then, although he had done some children's theater.  He was all about money and getting rich -- offensive to Wilt's artistic sensibility.  He planned to get a football scholarship to McGill, major in economics, then start his own business.

But it wasn't just a difference in temperament.  Bill strutted around like he owned the place.  He wasn't even a star...he played an offensive end -- that's a minor position, but it made him a regular Jim Thorpe, in his own mind anyway.

When he was in a good mood, he ignored Wilton, walked right past like he was a ghost.  And God forbid he was in a bad mood -- he'd make with the nonstop jokes about Wilton's height, his acne, calling him ugly and a fruit, asking if he had pubic hair yet.

Wilton was a reporter for the school paper, and one day the editor gave him an assignment of interviewing one of the football players other than the quarterback -- anyone else he wanted.

He went into the locker room one day after practice to ask for volunteers -- and to gawk at the naked jocks, of course.

"Hi, I'm doing an article on what it's like to be on our football team," he began.  "And I was wondering if any of you would...."

Bill Shatner was walking from the shower wearing a towel, his chest hard and gleamng.  Wilton lost his train of thought.

"Um...would....would mind being interviewed."

"Hot-cha, Jackson!" he exclaimed with a smile.  "I'll be there with all my ears on."

Not that drip!  Wilton thought.  Anybody but him!   But he said "Ok, fine.  How about tomorrow lunchtime in the library?"

"No -- that's not private enough.  I don't want the whole world to know my deep, dark secrets.  Come to my house tonight after dinner."

So around 8:00 pm, Wilton knocked on the door of small flat-roofed house on rue Marcel, near the Bois de Saraguay.  He was surprised to see a mezuzah on the door frame -- he hadn't realized that the Shatners were Jewish.

Bill's father answered, and drew him into the living room, where his mother, aunt, and sister were listening to Family Theater on the radio.


"You're not going out to a soda shop, are you?"  Dad asked.

Going out?   "No, sir."

 "Good. You may not know that this is Erev Yom Kippur: tomorrow is the Day of Atonement, when we pray and fast to atone for our sins of the last year.  Nothing to eat from sundown to sundown."

Then Bill came bounding down the stairs wearing just his pants.  Wilt stared at his bare chest.  Suddenly he was flushed with erotic energy.

"Is that anyway to dress when you are entertaining a young man?" Mom asked.

"Sorry -- I just got out of the shower. "  He clapped Wilton on the shoulder.  "Howsa, Jackson -- let me spare you this agony -- come up to my room while I finish getting dressed, and then we'll blow."

Wilton followed Bill up to his room -- single bed, desk, pennant from McGill, bookcase with a few books on sports.  He carefully closed the door behind them.

"Where are we going?"

"Oh, I thought we could get some moo goo and meet some sweet petites [get ice cream and look for girls]. Better than hanging around this morgue, right?"     Bill dropped his pants -- he was wearing no underwear.  His cock was long, thick, cut.  Wilt stared.

"I never saw one that was circumcized before...."  His face was burning.  "Can I...touch it?"

Bill grinned.  "Be my guest."

Wilt knelt to get a better look.  He gingerly ran his fingers over the shaft, lifted the head. It began to stiffen.

Bill was caressing his hair, holding his shoulders, thrusting his pelvis gently forward and backward as his cock grew longer.

Wilton had never heard of oral sex before, but instinctively he opened his mouth and let Bill's cock slide in.  He grabbed the base to control it better, and bobbed up and down, licking the shaft like it was a lollipop.

"Suck it," Bill suggested.  "Make like you're a hoover [vacuum cleaner]."

Wilton began sucking and licking the head while masturbating the shaft.  He grabbed Bill by the butt to steady himself.

"That's it.  Good job," Bill murmured. ' Good boy."  He thrust hard, shuddered, and suddenly spurted an enormous load into Wilton's mouth.  He didn't know what to do with it -- he looked around, saw a box of tissues by the bed, and jumped up to deposit the load into one.

"Thanks, buddy-boy."  Bill took the tissue from his hand and threw it into the waste basket.  "He shoots -- he scores!"  He began putting on his clothes.

"Got anything to get the taste out of my mouth?"

"A smooth and creamy at Dairyland should do the trick."

"But...Yom Kippur.  The Day of Atonement."

"I've already atoned, Jackson.  I wanted to make up for all the times I was mean to you in the last year.  I knew what you wanted -- it's what all fairies want -- so why not give it to you?  And the soda is part of the deal, too."

They didn't become lovers -- Wilton didn't go down on another guy until college.  They didn't even become friends.  But Bill Shaner was a lot nicer after that.  And whenever they passed each other in the hallway, they shared a secret smile.

Climbing into Bed Naked with Richard Grieco

I am a strong supporter of your right to be as masculine, feminine, or androgynous as you want to be.  Slide some ladies' rings on those long, slender, fingers, get some lovely dangling earrings to accentuate your lovely face, splash on that makeup, get your glamour-queen do on, and work that room, girl!

But I don't find people who look like girls attractive, regardless of their gender, so Richard Grieco has always been a turn-off.   I tolerated him on 21 Jump Street (1988-89) and in If Looks Could Kill (1991),  but I haven't seen him in anything else.

I understand that he has been in relationships with a number of women, including Yasmeen Bleeth and Christina Applegate.  Kudos to them for not being straitjacketed by masculine expectations.

In the 1980s and 1990s I assumed he was gay, but only because of my internalized homophobia, the belief, drilled into me through childhood, that all feminine men were gay.  I never heard any rumors or hookup stories about him.

But wouldn't you know it, a sausage sighting story appeared in my email box.

Montreal, Fall 1990

You can call me Jason.  We're about the same age, but our tastes in men are completely different: I like androgynous types.  Rings are ok.  Ascots, no problem.  Back in the 1980s, when I was a Cute Young Thing, I used to hang out at the Toy Tiger, getting drinks sent to me by old rich guys.

We do have something in common.  I remember your story about dating Roger Rees.  Well, I dated him in the late 1980s.

Roger had a partner, Rick [Rick Elise], but they didn't live together, and in fact they were usually separated by a continent.  So they had an open relationship: each could date, and even have romances, as long as the other partner was there in body or spirit.
Every morning, Roger called Rick and gave him a blow-by-blow (or blow job by blow job).

 It got so I felt like I was in a relationship with them both, even though I had never met Rick in person.

In the fall of 1990, Roger was cast as the criminal mastermind Sterenko in the James Bond spoof If Looks Could Kill.  Richard Grieco starred as a high school student mistaken for a spy during a field trip to Paris.  The writer, the director, and a lot of the cast members were gay, and there were a lot of gay subtexts in spite of the boy-girl plot.  I thought it was great fun, though it bombed at the box office.

They all had to fly out to Montreal, a stand-in for Paris, to do the location shots, and Roger said "Why don't you come up for a few days?  I'll invite Rick, too, and we'll make an event of it."

I had never been to Montreal before, and I was anxious to meet Rick in person, so I eagerly accepted the invitation.

Montreal was great!  The Basilica, the Oratory, the theaters, the Rue Ste.-Catherine (best bath houses in the world!).

Rick was great, too.  Very smart, sophisticated, knowledgeable about Montreal -- he took me to some "off the beaten track" sights, like  Habitat 67, an architectural marvel designed for the 1967 Expo.

Plus he was in his 30s, tall, built, with a hairy chest, a bright open face, big hands, and a big...you know what.  We shared two nights in a row.

But on to the Grieco sighting.

On our last night in Montreal, the "three of us" went out to dinner at Ile Flotante with Darren [Star], Linda Hunt, and their partners.  All gay, as far as I knew -- we didn't really discuss such things in the Straight World back then.

Richard Grieco came alone.  Rick told me that he left his boyfriend home in L.A.

I didn't mind the three-way relationship when there were just three of us, but at a tableful of gay and lesbian couples, I felt, frankly, like a third wheel.  So I latched on to Grieco. I figured I could go back to his hotel room for some one-on-one action.  Besides, maybe Roger and Rick would like some alone time.

Grieco wasn't really my type, but you know what they say -- in a pinch, any cock will do.

We talked, cruised a bit -- I put my hand on his chest.  Nice definition!   He was was talkative, energetic.  He was a smoker, which I didn't like, and high on something.  I didn't have any aversion to a little coke now and then myself, so it wasn't a turn off, but his manner was a little aggressive, and he made a joke about AIDS -- not homophobic, but in poor taste.

As dinner progressed, Grieco added alcohol to his cornucopia of substances -- he downed an entire bottle of wine by himself.  His voice started to slur, and he said off-the-wall things like "You're all a great bunch of machines."

I have no idea what he meant.

I was getting a little turned off, but my mind was set on my goal of going to bed with Grieco.  So I told Roger and Rick that I was going to help him back to his hotel room.

When we got to the hotel, Grieco was all but unconscious.  I pulled down the covers and helped him undress and get into bed.  Then I took my clothes off and climbed into the bed next to him and turned off the light.

I started kissing his chest and reached down to fondle his cock -- average sized, cut, not aroused.  Big balls.

"Hey, what you doing?" he murmured. "Get off me."  He pushed me aside.

"What's wrong?"

"Wanna sleep.  Hands off."

Ok, I figured, he was too tired -- he wanted to wait until morning.

But what if he wasn't into me at all?  What if he wasn't even gay, and he woke up with me in his bed?  He might freak out!  I didn't need a homophobic hate crime ruining my trip to Montreal!

I got dressed, wrote him a note with my phone number, and left.

He never answered.

See also: Elijah Wood Dumps Roger for Jason Bateman

Not a Chris Demetral Hookup Story

In West Hollywood in the 1990s, gay men of certain level of affluence watched Dream On (1990-1996) on the premium cable channel HBO.  It was a quirky comedy-drama about an affluent New Yorker (Brian Benben) juggling his job, love life, and teenage son (Chris Demetral).

I couldn't see the attraction: sure, there were a couple of gay-themed episodes, and shots of Brian Benben's butt and bulge, but you had to endure endless ladies' breasts and hetero-maniacal dialogue.

As Chris Demetral grew from 14 to 19, he got more and more plotlines, and gushing articles in teen magazines.  He was fey, foppish, artistic.   In one episode, his character is tied up by a woman into "rough trade."  And gay men of a certain level of affluence concluded that he was "one of us."

I never heard any dating or hookup stories about him, but he was still a teenager when I left California.  There wasn't time.

After conducting some research, I conclude that it is unlikely that Chris Demetral is "one of us."

1. He didn't like Hollywood, and for a time commuted from his home in Royal Oak, Michigan.  What gay man doesn't like Hollywood?

2. He's a Lakers fan.  That's a L.A. basketball team.  I knew a few sports fans in California, but none who were basketball fans.  Football players have more muscular physiques.

3. He's a disciple of the Orange Goblin.

4. His twitter feed states states that he is "a Christian," which usually means "I hate gay people.  Leviticus, you know."

5. And a "devoted husband and father," which usually means "See!  Proof that I'm heterosexual!  If you publish any horrifying gay accusations about me, I will sue!

Therefore this is most definitely not a gay hookup story about Chris Demetral.

Montreal, Summer 1999

Call me René.  I grew up in the tiny town of Saint-Maurice, but moved to Montreal for college, and stayed. I had a flat on the Rue de Champlain in the Gay Village and jobs at the Musée d'art contemporain and a men's boutique.

I worked out every day, cruised at the bars twice a week, and went to a lot of parties like those you describe in West Hollywood: sex games, nudity, discussions of gigantic penises and dates from hell.

Not many celebrity hookup stories, though one of my friends claimed to have gone down on William Shatner.

In the summer of 1999, I was 25 years old, a buffed gym rat with a smooth chest and 14" biceps.  Dirty-blond hair, blue eyes.  20 cm, in case you're interested.

 One night I was out cruising at a bar on the rue Ste. Catherine,  when I saw Michel Courtemache, a Quebecois comedian, sitting at a table with two other guys.

Not at all attractive, but celebrity sightings are rare in Montreal, so I went over to say hello and gush a bit, "I was your biggest fan," that sort of thing.

Obviously flattered by the attention, he asked me to join them, and introduced me to his friends.  Another Michel, and Chris.

Suddenly I recognized Chris -- Chris Demetral, Jeremy Tupper from Dream On!  One of my big childhood crushes!  Now around 23 or 24,  strikingly handsome, with a strong jaw, piercing eyes, and a presentable physique.  I couldn't see a basket.

I shook his hand and kept holding it, the standard cruising gesture in Montreal.  He looked alarmed and jerked it away.

"He's never been to a gay bar before," Michel said in French.  "Go easy on him."

Um...ok.  "Would you like to dance?"  I asked.

"I don't think so," Chris said.  "I'm a little tired."

"It wouldn't hurt for our baby Chris to dance with an admirer," the other Michel said.

"Go on -- who knows, you might get lucky."

I took Chris by the hand and led him to the dance floor.  "Living La Vida Loca" was playing, not really a slow dance, but I put my hands on his waist anyway.  He followed my lead.

"What brings you to Montreal?"  I asked.  The music was very loud, so I had to yell.

"We're working on a tv series.  It's science fiction -- I play a young Jules Verne who fights vampires and cyborgs."  [The Secret Adventures of Jules Verne, 2000.  Michel Courtemache played Verne's companion, Passepartout]

"Quite a big change from your earlier work."

"Not really.  I've done Star Trek and Lois and Clark (about Superman)."

I drew him closer with the pretense of trying to hear him.  Our crotches pressed together.  I definitely felt a bulge -- the guy was definitely into me!

"You must let me show you the city.  I know the out-of-the-way places."

"Sure, that would be great."

"I'll give you my number."  I leaned in for a kiss -- closed-mouth, nothing exciting.  Then Chris broke away and returned to the table.  I followed and sat next to him and put my arm around him.

"You see, that was painless!" Michel exclaimed.  "Gay men won't bite you -- unless you ask nicely."

"Would you like to...."  I began.

Chris turned to me.  "I'm really tired, and we have to be up early, so..."

Tabarnak!  No hookup!  "Me, too, I said reluctantly."  I scribbled my phone number on a scrap of paper and put it in his pocket, then leaned in for another kiss.  He turned his head away.

A few moments later, Chris and the other Michel left.  Michel Courtemache stayed behind.

"Sorry that he beat you cold," Michel said.  "He is very shy.  Not like me -- I'm not shy at all."  He pulled me close and kissed me.  

I never saw Chris Demetral again, but in the end I went down on Michel Courtemache.  Very big penis, uncut.  And no, he didn't make any of his crazy noises.

See also: Nate Richert's Kielbasa

Troy's First Video Booth

Montreal, October 2009

Guys who are young or newly out have usually been brainwashed -- I mean socialized -- into the heterosexual ideal of monotony - I mean monogamy.  Rejecting all others, sharing your life, heart, and body with just one person til death.  Which can't come soon enough.

So when I started dating 23-year old Troy in Upstate New York, he was not amenable to the idea of bringing in a third person to "share."

I pointed out that he went down on me and the Pitcher at the same time, and no one seemed to mind. (See The Satyr's Sinister Scheme.)

"That just happened.  I didn't plan on it.  But now we're together, and I should be enough for you."

"You're great, but there are a lot of cute guys out there.  I want to experience as much masculine beauty as I can."

"What about marital fidelity?" he asked, repeating a buzz word from his childhood.

"That whole mythos was based upon economics.  There was only way for a man to ensure that the children he was paying to raise were his own: forbid his wife from having sex with another man. Men don't get pregnant, so why not go for it?  Seize the day!"

"Ok...but...I want to warm up first, get used to this whole idea of fooling around on the side."

Well, let's invite someone we already dated into our bed.  Maybe Pete the Water Guy.

No, that would be too weird.

Hooking up with a stranger?

A stranger in my apartment?  Too risky!

How about a Sex Party?  Twenty guys, no waiting.

No.  Too many young guys.  I'm only into older.

A bath house?  There's one in Albany, and....

No.

There weren't a lot more options.

You know what I've always wanted to try?  A glory hole.  Where you're on one side of a wall, and he's on the other side.  

You only see his penis -- he can be anybody you want. 

A glory hole?  I had tried them at bath houses.  Uncomfortable, annoying, and a disembodied penis is not very erotic -- I like to see the guy I'm with, or at least feel him.

But ok.  The only place I knew of with such facilities was a video store on the Rue Ste. Catherine in Montreal, so we drove up for the weekend, and ignored the bars, bath houses, and sex shops.

Although we did see the Bonsecours Market and Centre d'histoire de Montréal, which seemed to be rather too inclusive of local celebrities from the 1970s.

Troy wanted to try out the glory hole at 10:00 pm on Saturday night, when most of the gay residents and visitors were out on dates, or at the bars, bath houses, and sex shops.... who was left to go to an adult video store?  Trolls, druggies, hustlers, closet cases...

We wanted into the brightly-lit front room, browsed among the gay videos and porn magazines, and then headed for the back, where there was a lounge area and two rows of small booths.

 There were about a dozen guys standing or sitting in the lounge, waiting for someone attractive to show up.  As I suspected, a rough crowd.  A lot of rumpled clothes, unshaven faces, and sallow, haunted looks.  Some guys were just trying to get out of the cold.

Definitely bottoms.  They wanted to be on the receiving end.  Troy wasn't going to get a lot of action tonight.

The booths were about the size of a telephone booth.  You went in, sat down, deposited a loonie (a Canadian dollar coin), and got to watch 5 minutes of a porn movie.  Another loonie, another 5 minutes.  You could also deposit $5 for 30 minutes, or $10 for 60.

This could get expensive.

We opened the door to an unoccupied booth, and saw that it had two glory holes, connecting to the booths on either side.  Both were deserted.

"I'm a little nervous," Troy said softly.  "What if the guy isn't my type?  I only like older guys, with muscles and chest hair."

"That's the point of the glory holes," I said.  "Disembodied cocks, no body type needed.  But tell you what -- I'll wait a few minutes, then go into that booth."  I gestured at the one on his left.  "Then you can pretend you don't know who it is, so it will be like going down on a stranger."

He smiled.  "Ok, let's try that for starters."

I left him alone.  The door shut, and the "Occupied" light came on.  I went back out to the entry area and scanned the video titles and got cruised by a scary-looking guy in a green trenchcoat.  To discourage him, I went out to the front room and browsed among the sex toys.

Then I returned and went to the booth to the left of Troy.  Scary guy followed, and went into the booth next to me.  His mouth immediately appeared at his glory hole.  I ignored him, unzipped, and squeezed through the glory hole into Troy's booth.

He ignored me.

I swayed a little bit.

He ignored me.

I pulled back in, knelt, and looked through the glory hole -- at the back of a guy's butt.

"Ahem!"  I cleared my throat and pushed through again.  I felt a hand giving me a desultory squeeze.

"Ahem!"  I zipped up, went over to Troy's booth, and opened the door.  He was on his knees in front of a beefy Bear, in his 40s, wearing a cowboy hat.  Why hadn't I seen him in the lounge area?

"Occupé!" he growled.

Troy looked up.  "C'est bon -- il est mon copain.  Boomer, this is Max.  He's a farmer.  Isn't that cool?"

"Enchanté!" Max grunted, obviously miffed at the coitus interruptus.

"You exchanged a lot of information through a glory hole!'

"He just opened the door to the booth, and we started talking.  It's a lot better than a disembodied penis, isn't it?"

Max pulled Troy to his knees and zipped up.  "Ta chum ne se souci pas?" Your boyfriend doesn't mind?

" Bien sûr que non!  Il était son idée!"  It was his idea!   He enveloped Max in a long kiss.  "Do you mind if Max comes back to the hotel with us?"

That was the end of Troy's insistence on monogamy, although he backslid a little when I made a teenage Friend with Benefits.

See also: Troy's Wild Ride in Hell-fer-Sartain and The Shy Boy at the Bathhouse.

The Truth about the Formosan Penis

Montreal, July 1998

My doctoral program in New York (1997-2001) was not only about studying sexuality.  I spent a lot of time seeking out ethnic groups with legendary penises:

The Basque, reputedly the largest in the world.

The Bushman, reputedly always in a tumescent state.

And the Formosan of Taiwan.

When I first moved to New York in 1997, I had to live in a grad student apartment, where I was assigned 3 roommates: Max, the most obnoxious guy on the planet; a beefy Turkish guy who mostly kept to himself; and a Taiwanese guy named Huang, who also happened to be a fellow grad student in the Sociology Department.

Huang was not nearly as muscular as Max, but also not as obnoxious.  His only faults: he occasionally had a girl over to giggle in his bedroom, and he called his family back home every Saturday at 4:00 am.

In each case I could hear him quite clearly through the wall.

My Mandarin was limited to Wǒ xǐhuān zhōngguó rén, "I like Chinese men,"  but at least I could recognize the language.  And when Huang spoke to his family, he wasn't speaking Mandarin.

Turns out that he was fluent in Mandarin (and Hokkien, French, and English), but his native language was Paiwan, from the Formosan family, related the Tagalog of the Philippines and the Javanese of Indonesia.

There are about 400,000 Formosan aboriginals in Taiwan, about 2% of the population, mostly living in the mountainous south.

"We get discrimination," Huang told me.  "The Chinese think yuánzhùmín are uncivilized, barbarians.  Like the Indians in America."

There are statues of muscular, half naked Formosans all over Taiwan, like the statues of Native Americans in the U.S.

The Formosan Aboriginal Cultural Park in Yuchi, about 150 miles south of Taipei, invites Chinese tourists to see aboriginals performing traditional arts and native dances, like the pow wows in the U.S.

"But the Chinese woman like us," Huang added with a grin.

"Oh, why is that?"

"Yuánzhùmín men are bigger than Chinese men." He pointed to his crotch.  "Dá jībā!"  Apparently that meant big penis.  

I reddened, shocked that a straight guy would be comfortable enough to discuss his penis size with me.   Or maybe he was bisexual, and expressing interest.  "Well -- I'm sure some of the Chinese men like Formosan dá jībā, too."

"No, they are jealous."

Not bisexual!

"When you tell a woman you are yuánzhùmín," Huang continued, "She always ask if the stories are true, and she want to see it."

"Well - are the stories true?"  I asked.  "Can I see it?"

"No, no, not for gays." He giggled. "Just for women."

I'm not usually deterred so easily, but after Huang's startling display of confidence, I felt guilty about plotting any complex schemes to get a glimpse of his jībā.  

Maybe I could see it by accident?

No -- he didn't go to the gym, and he didn't strut around the apartment in a towel.

When I moved out of graduate student housing to a place in Manhattan, I lost hope of ever finding out if the stories about Formosan men are true.

But my hope was restored in July, shortly after I returned from my trip to Estonia with Yuri and Jaan.  Some of the sociology students drove up to Montreal for the International Sociological Association World Congress, and Huang and I shared a hotel room.

Surely he would change clothes in front of me, or sleep in revealing briefs.

No -- he changed clothes in the bathroom, and slept in pajama bottoms.  Not even a bulge was visible!

One night I was planning to go to the Keynote Speech, then "out" (actually to the Oasis, where I met the Muscle God and his Wingman).  I told Huang I would not be back until after midnight.

But after the Keynote Speech, I realized that I had left my jacket in the hotel room -- it was rather chilly in Montreal -- and rushed back upstairs.

I slid the key card through the slot and pulled the door open.

The first thing I noticed was cheesy 1970s music.

The second was the heterosexual porn playing on the tv.

The third was Huang lying on his bed, naked, doing what heterosexual men do when they watch porn.

He yelled and pulled the covers over himself.  But he was still tenting.

"I forgot my jacket," I said, stepping forward to grab it from the coat rack.

"I'm sorry...I'm sorry....I thought you are not coming back until very late."

"Don't worry about it.  By the way, you're right -- it really is a dá jībā."

I'm certainly not going to make a joke about Huang and hung, but he was.

See also: The Secret Identity of the Elevator Hookup

A Public Encounter on an Elevator

Photo: Michael Stokes Photography

Montreal, August ____.

Tommy was 22 years old, tall and very slim with short black hair, a smooth chest, nicely developed legs, and a rather small penis.  He was a political science major at Ohio State University, on the debate team and the swim team, visiting Montreal for the International Political Science Association conference..

This was his first professional conference, his first time in Canada, and his first time staying in a gleaming multi-story hotel!

Tommy was gay but not out.  He had never been in a gay bar or bathhouse.  He had only been with a few guys.  But he fantasized -- a lot.  

He liked older guys, in their 40s and 50s.  Uniforms of all sorts: cops, firemen, priests.  Businesmen.  Professors.  Politicians.  And especially bodybuilders.  Maybe not scary-massive, like Arnold Schwarzenegger, but big enough to be impressively masculine, to take charge.

He had never told anyone, but his favorite fantasy for alleviating morning wood involved going down on his middle-aged but still muscular political science professor in his office, with people walking by in the hallway a few feet away.

That afternoon Tommy was on his way to the lobby to go to a session on "Race, Ethnicity, and the Politics of Coalition Building."  Wearing a suit, because he mistakenly believed that everyone would be wearing suits, and he brought no other clothes.


12th Floor:  Tommy got on and pushed "Mezzanine."

5th Floor, the floor with the health club and pool: the elevator doors opened, and his Fantasy Guy got in!

Tommy froze in place, staring open-jawed.  It was like a dream!

In his 40s or 50s, tall, broad-shoulder, thick hard biceps, He was wearing a blue t-shirt, damp with sweat, that displayed his massive hairy chest.  His blue athletic shorts displayed a visible bulge.

Fantasy Guy smiled as he brushed past Tommy to push the button for the 20th floor.

"Oh, we're going down," Tommy said.

"Darn.  I was going up, back to my room."  Very sexy deep voice.  "I can't very well go to the bars looking like this."

He must be gay!  And so open, out to a complete stranger!  

"Certainly not,"  Tommy said.  "You have to shower and...um...things."

Their eyes locked.

Start a conversation!  "Are you here for the political science conference?"

"Just a vacation," Fantasy Guy said.  "First time in Montreal?"

Before Tommy could answer, the elevator stopped.

3rd floor: A crowd got in.  Tommy and Fantasy Guy were pushed together, chest to chest.

"Sorry," Tommy said.  His hand accidentally brushed Fantasy Guy's crotch.

"Oh, no problem.  I don't mind close quarters at all.  His hand was on the bar at the back of the elevator, against Tommy's back.  

Mezzanine.  Tommy's floor!  Most of the people got off.  Tommy stayed.

Lobby.  The rest got off.  No one got on.  Fantasy Guy watched quizzically as the elevator doors closed.
"Weren't you going down?"

Tommy hit the button for the 12th floor.  "I...um...I forgot my wallet."

Fantasy Guy pushed the button for the 20th floor.    

They were now alone in the elevator, but they didn't move to separate sides.  Fantasy Guy pushed Tommy's hand onto his crotch.  A beautiful uncut Mortadella+ sprang up through his gym trunks.  Instinctively Tommy dropped to his knees and went down on it.

15th floor:  The elevator stopped, and the doors opened.  Fortunately, no one was waiting.  Fantasy Guy pulled Tommy to his feet.  They kissed.

20th floor.  Wordlessly they walked down the hall to Fantasy Guy's room.

They fell onto the bed, and Tommy pulled up Fantasy Guy's  shirt to kiss and lick his chest.  He moved down to his firm belly, to his huge bull-balls, and finally returned to the Mortadella+. Meanwhile the muscle bear's massive hand was fondling Tommy.

Fantasy Guy quickly undressed Tommy and went down on him.  It was a little embarrassing to have such a super-hung muscle guy pay attention to his rather small, cut penis -- but also incredibly erotic.  He would have finished in a few moments, but Fantasy Guy had more in mind.

He pushed Tommy down onto his back and entered between his legs.  Chest to chest, crotch to crotch, the Mortadella pushing masterfully against his balls.  Tommy had a thunderous orgasm.  He barely noticed when Fantasy Guy spurted against his crotch and then collapsed onto him.  They lay in bed, kissing and talking, for a long time.

"Can I see you tomorrow?" Tommy asked.

"Sadly, no.  I've got an early flight.  But let's exchange numbers -- there will be lots more vacations."

Tommy kept the number, but he didn't call.  He didn't really want to.  He wanted this memory to be perfect.

Now you have to guess who the Fantasy Guy was.
A. Boomer
B. Alan
C. David
D. Yuri

Some hints:
a. I'm a college professor.
b. Alan was an uninhibited former porn star.  He loved Montreal, and visited as often as he could.
c. David likes hooking up in public places.
d. I lived in Ohio for three years.
e. Yuri and I lived in New York, a short drive from Montreal.
f. We're both uncut.

Answer after the break.