Fall 1991: Outing a Medieval Knight

Ever since my junior high boyfriend Dan and I plotted to escape to Saudi Arabia, I have been plagued by sudden obsessions with countries or historical periods: Russia, China, Renaissance Italy, the Middle Ages, and so on.   Suddenly it's all I can think of.  I buy 1,000 books, start learning the language, plan trips, and decide to devote my professional life to it.  For 3 months, 6 months, maybe a year, and then it fades away.

In 1991, I became obsessed with Ancient Israel. I bought 1000 books on the topic, studied Biblical Hebrew, planned a trip to Israel, and applied to university programs in Old Testament Studies.

Vanderbilt Divinity School in Nashville, Tennessee admitted me, so I drove out in August 1991, got a small apartment near the campus and an adjunct teaching job, and registered for classes.

My partner stayed in West Hollywood, but we had an open relationship, so I started dating.  The first guy I dated was a Medieval knight.

In the mundane world he was a buffed, bearded high-school history teacher named Larry, but in "real life" he was Lucien de Peletier from the Shire of Galedenfeld in the Kingdom of Meridies (the Society for Creative Anachronism, which "recreates the culture of Medieval Europe," divides the U.S. into regional "kingdoms").

Vanderbilt Divinity School

Lucien signed his letters "1191" instead of "1991," listened to Medieval music instead of rock or country-western, and pretended to know nothing of current events.

That was all fine with me.  The problem was, he was strictly closeted, not only at work (which was understandable), but among his SCA friends.

"But you dress in Medieval costumes and joust each other," I pointed out.  "Surely they would be ok with gay people."

"It's not historically accurate.  There weren't any gay people in the Middle Ages, so my character is straight."

No gay people in the Middle Ages?  Of course there were some. Lots.

In October he invited me to the SCA Harvest Banquet, but cautioned that we had to bring female dates.

After six years in West Hollywood, I wasn't going to stand for closeting!

The banquet was held in a private room at F. Scott's Restaurant and Jazz Bar, about 20 people in costume and a dozen in street clothes.  I came stag, and sat next to a heavily-embarrassed Lucien and his "date", a middle-aged English professor named Dame Lucille.




When it came time to dance, I walked up to a young, cute bard and said something like "Prithee, in my land of West Holly-Wood, it is customary for men to wont their troth upon whoever they find smokin', be they swains or maids.  Wouldst dance with me?"  (They don't really talk like that.)

The bard grinned.  "T'would be a scandal, milord!"

"If it be scandal, then let the tongues wag."

There were, indeed, a lot of stares and whispers as we joined a roundelay, breaking up the boy-girl-boy pattern.

I glanced over at Lucien.  He was staring ashen-faced.

When the dance ended, I approached Lucien and Dame Lucille.  "Ah, another goodly squire, pleasant of mien, hot of bod.  Lady, prithee allow me to borrow him for a dance?"

Giggling, she nodded, but Lucien growled, "Are you crazy?"

"If this be madness, then send me to bedlam, milord.  I die for a single dance."

"Stay in character!  There weren't any gay people in the Middle Ages!"

"Then, perhaps a kiss, such as that Sir Gawain bestowed upon his swain."

"He speaks sooth, milord," Dame Lucille said.  "It's in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight."

All eyes were trained on me as I bent down.  For a moment I thought Lucien was going to permit the kiss.   Then suddenly he pushed me roughly away, jumped up from his chair, knocking over a wine glass, and ran from the room.

The bard and I had to give Dame Lucille a ride home.  That was the last I heard of Lucien.

The story of my semester in Nashville continues here, with my date with the country-western singer.  At least, I thought he was a country-western signer.

Today gay people, "the blue feathers," are fully accepted in most kingdoms of  SCA.  In 2011 the Board of Directors ruled that barons could have same-sex consorts, but crown contenders "must be fighting for a consort of the opposite gender."

Finding Larry's New Fetish

Santa Fe, New Mexico, July 2004

I've never understood how you can be friends with someone for years, and then there's an incident, and it's over.

They just stop answering the phone when you call, or responding to your emails.  They unfriend you on Facebook.

Or in the case of Larry, he orders you out of the house.

You remember Larry, the "lost soul" in Nashville with the crazy, obsessive lifestyle, who finally got involved in the gay leather community?

After I left Nashville, we called and emailed each other regularly.

He moved to Denver and then Santa Fe, New Mexico.  I moved to New York and then Florida.

In the summer of 2004, we hadn't seen each other face-to-face for years, so I decided to fly out to Santa Fe for a 10-day visit.  

Big mistake.

As Ben Franklin said, house guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days.

Day 1:  I arrived at 8:00 pm.  Larry picked me up at the airport, gave me a brief tour of the city, and then took me back to his house.

A three-room trailer in a desolate commercial strip on the outskirts of town.  Cluttered with terrible, mismatched thrift-store furniture.

I guess passions for leather and opera don't come cheap, so you have to economize in other areas.

We tried to squeeze into his small single bed for some ordinary vanilla sex, but the night was very hot, and we were both big, so I ended up sleeping on the floor.

Day 2:  I assumed that Larry would take off work so we could go sightseeing, like I always did when a friend visited me in Florida.  But no, at 7:00 he drove off, leaving me alone on Jemez Road with no car.

All of the art galleries, shops, missions, and museums were downtown, about six miles away.

I started walking, and eventually hit Airport Road, with a lot of fast food places and cars rushing by in the hot desert sun. There was a mall about a mile away, where I bought a t-shirt.  I found a gym, but they didn't have day memberships.

Larry returned at 6:00 pm.  "What's on for tonight?" I asked.  "Dinner, art walk, the clubs?"

"Oh, no, I'm too tired to go out.  I'll cook dinner here."

"Well...can we at least go to the gym first?"

So Larry drove me to his gym and bought me a day pass.  Then he baked a chicken for dinner. It wasn't ready until 10:00 pm.

"Four hours past dinnertime," I muttered.  "We should have just ordered a pizza."

"Too much saturated fat, and way too expensive!"

Some brief, noncommittal bedroom activity ended the evening.

Why wasn't I meeting his friends?  Why weren't we cruising?  What was going on?

Day 3:  I asked Larry if I could drive him to work and borrow his car for sightseeing, but he refused: "Nobody drives my car but me."

So I rented a car and visited The Plaza, The Museum of Indian Arts and Culture, and The New Mexico Museum of Art, and returned to Larry's gym for another day pass.

When Larry got home at 6:00 pm, I said, "Tomasita's tonight -- best Mexican restaurant in town, according to the internet!"

"Oh, no, that's much too expensive."

"My treat."

"Oh, no, you're my guest, I'll cook.  I can do Mexican, if that's what you want."

So he made low-fat enchiladas.  Afterwards he wanted to go to the gym.  I had already been, so I asked "Do you mind if I go to the clubs?"

He glared at me.  "No, the clubs will be dead on a Thursday night.  But when I get back from the gym, we can do a S&M scene, if you want.  I'm a top, you know."

So I watched tv all night, and then bottomed for an S&M scene.  I didn't like it.

Day 4:  While Larry was at work, I went to the Canyon Road Art Galleries, the San Miguel Mission, and the Cathedral of St. Francis of Assisi, and had lunch at Tomasita's.  Then I bought groceries.  When he got home at 6:00, dinner was on the table.

Surprisingly, he was annoyed.  "I'm the host, I should cook dinner.  Or don't you like my cooking?"

I ended up apologizing and waiting while he wrapped my dinner in cellophane for later and cooked a meal of his own.

Afterwards, I said "It's Friday night.  The gin joints should be hoppin'.  Where shall we go?"

"Oh, no, there aren't any decent gay bars in Santa Fe.  We'll go into Albuquerque tomorrow.  Let's just hang out and watch tv tonight."

"Well -- do you mind if I go to the clubs on my own?"

I didn't notice him glaring at me.  "No, of course not.  Just -- if you bring a hot leatherman home, I get to share."

Turns out that Larry was right -- there was only one gay bar in town, the Rouge Cat.  Unfortunately, it catered to the Cute Young Thing crowd, and twinks in New Mexico didn't have the Daddy fixation that they did in Florida.  After about an hour of getting Attitude, I was finally cruised by a cute University of New Mexico undergrad named Tom.

By the time we got back to the trailer, Larry was asleep in his single bed, so Tom and I slept on blankets on the living room floor.  He got up and left early; I didn't think Larry had even noticed.

He had.

Larry got up and made coffee as if nothing was wrong.  But when we sat down, he started in: "What did I tell you?  You bring a cute guy into my house, and I don't even get a peek!"

"Sorry, you were asleep, and...well, I didn't think Tom was your type.  You like them more mature."

"Why were you going out without me, anyway?  You're visiting me!," Larry continued, starting to rant.  "We're supposed to go out together!"

"You said it was ok.  You were too tired to go out."

"Well, excuse me for working for a living!  I don't have a rich sugar daddy who gives me free rent!"

Did he mean Barney?  "No, I pay rent..."

"Or a cute boy toy just waiting at home for me!"

Did he mean Yuri?  "No, we're just..."

"You know what?  If my house isn't good enough for you, why don't you just get out?  Take some of your sugar daddy's money and stay in a hotel!"

I stared.  "I didn't say your house wasn't good enough..."

I don't remember what else was said that morning, but it ended with my duffel bag deposited into my rental car.  I spent Days 6-10 in hotels, touring Tucumcari, Roswell, Allamogordo, Albuquerque, and the Navajo Nation.  I called Larry a couple of times, but when he heard my voice, he hung up.

Had I been bragging about my "sugar daddy" and "boy toy" back home in Florida?   Had I been complaining a little too much about the dreary accommodations and lack of sight-seeing?  I don't remember.

The trip wasn't a total loss.  I saw some interesting museums and art galleries, hooked up with a couple of cute guys, and discovered my grandmother's long-lost gay friend.

But I lost a friend of 13 years in the process.

See also: Finding Larry's Fetish; Cruising in the Navajo Nation; Cruising in New Mexico.

My Date with the Country-Western Star

Nashville, Fall 1991

I spent the fall 1991 semester in Nashville, where I studied Hebrew at Vanderbilt Divinity School, taught English at a state college, outed a Medieval knight...and dated a country-western singer.  At least, I thought he was a country-western singer.

I'll call him Randy.

We met at a restaurant near near campus, when he saw me trying to translate a passage from the Hebrew Bible and came over to ask if I was "a Christian."  Turns out he went to Bible college, planning to become a missionary, but dropped out, and now he was working as a waiter and at a guitar store while honing his musical craft.

Naturally, I started going to the restaurant for lunch almost every day, at the end of the rush when he had time to chat.

Randy was a country boy, all about fishing, hunting, working on cars, and following sports, but he never mentioned a girl, so I figured he was gay. Besides, there was something about his open face and appreciative smile that made my gaydar go off.

Nashville was the country-western music capital of the world, so I started trying to impress him by listening to Johnny Cash, Hank Williams, Willie Nelson, Charlie Pride, and Roy Acuff.  I couldn't stand the dismal, depressing, ballads about being poor, tired, hungry, lonely, rejected, replaced, and generally miserable, but if they helped me get into Randy's good graces, it was worth the depression.

I asked his opinion of Clint Black, Alan Jackson, Garth Brooks,  and Randy Travis.

I did extensive research, until I was able to talk to him about the history and genres of country-western: honky-tonk, rockabilly, country pop, the Bakersfield sound.  Bluegrass, banjo pop, Outlaw Country, Western Swing, neotraditionalism.

After a few weeks of buttering him up, Randy finally made his move: "I'm performing this weekend.  I know it's not really your kind of music, but...you know, if you want, you could come.  And maybe we could have dinner afterwards."

Randy's gig was in the Paradise Park Trailer Resort, a dark, dingy redneck bar downtown where the floors were coated with Astroturf (I'm not kidding).  There was lawn furniture against the walls.  There was a Spam exhibit.  The other patrons looked like refugees from Duck Dynasty. 

I got there at 9:00, just as Randy was going on.  He walked onto the small, dingy stage with guitar in hand, nodded at me, and sang:

Farm people, book wavers, soul savers, love preachers!  Lit to pop and nobody is gonna stop!

It sounded familiar...wait...was it "Stop," by Jane's Addiction?

Then:
That's me in the corner, that's me in the spotlight, losing my religion, trying to keep up with you.

What kind of country-western singer performs "Losing My Religion," by R.E.M.?


And then his own composition:

The world keeps on turnin'
I can't decide if it's night or day
Your jaws keep on movin'
I can't decide if you know the way

Protest conformity, rage against the machine, raise your fist against the injustice of the world!  Indie rock!

All this time, I had just been assuming he was a country-western singer!

Later, over dinner, I praised his song effusively.  Randy said "That's a relief!  You're such a big fan of country-western music, I didn't think you would find anything to like in indie rock."

"Oh, I'm versatile," I said with a suggestive leer.  "I can find something to like in just about everything."

The Ex-Con at the Ice Cream Stand

Nashville, August 1991

I arrived in Nashville on August 18th, 1991, sad about leaving West Hollywood but looking forward to my new graduate program in Biblical Hebrew at Vanderbilt Divinity School.  I found an apartment and an adjunct teaching job, toured the campus, and looked for Nashville's gay life:

Three gay organizations, some bars, and a Metropolitan Community Church.

On my first Saturday, I went to two of the bars, both on dismal country roads beyond the city limits.  The first was completely deserted except for a woman who tried to pick me up -- a real woman -- and the second was about half drag queens, half rednecks.  No one I found attractive.

I missed Mugi and the French Quarter.

Disappointed, I left after about an hour.  On the way back into town, I stopped at an old-fashioned ice cream place called Bobbie's Dairy Dip, ordered a hot fudge sundae, and sat at one of the picnic tables outside.

"'Scuse me, sir, do you mind if I join you?"

I looked up:  A country boy, barely out of his teens: tall and thin, scruffy black hair, handsome round face, unshaven, wearing a button-down shirt, jeans, and dirty tennis shoes.  Holding a dish of frozen custard.

Shocked, I motioned "ok."  He sat across from me and stuck out his hand.  Very dry, firm handshake.

"You were looking at me at that other place we was at, but I didn't have the nerve to come say hi.  The name's Red."

Was this the way people cruised in Nashville?

Red was very talkative: he was 25 years old, grew up in a small town outside Nashville, and worked at a gas station.  He just got out of prison a few months ago -- DUI and resisting arrest.

Not the best pickup line!  

But he "turned his life around." He was sober, he had his GED, and he was taking classes at the community college.  He wanted to go to Middle Tennessee State and study zoology.

"You been to college, ain't you?" he asked.  "I can tell by the way you talk."

"Yep, I almost got a Ph.D.  I'm at Vanderbilt now, studying Biblical Hebrew."

"Whoa, Biblical Hebrew, that's hard.  I can tell, just talking to you, that your brain is working at like three or four levels above mine.  Let me ask you something."  He reached under the table and rubbed his foot against mine  "Do you think it will ever be legal for people like us to get together?"

At that moment, some kids at another started table laughing.  Red jumped up and ran to his car.

I joined him.  "They weren't laughing at us, you know."

"It's not safe here.  You're from California, you don't know -- we got to keep a low profile.  Could we go to your house?"

Red was cute, with the "lost soul" look I liked  But I was a bit nervous about inviting a scruffy-looking stranger, an ex-con, back to my apartment.  "I like to take things slow, get to know the guy," I said  "How about we go out to dinner Tuesday night?"

"Ok.  But someplace safe."  He thought for a moment.  "How about Bucky's, down in Columbia."

I'd never heard of Columbia, but I assumed it was a suburb of Nashville, where Red lived.

Of course, I got his contact information, and gave it to Lane back home.

Columbia turned out to be about 50 miles away, and Bucky's a heterosexist "family restaurant" that served "chicken an dressin'."

Red was wearing a plaid button-down shirt and a red tie.  He gave me a plastic rose, the kind they sell at 7-11.  A little weird.

"I never had a real date with a guy before," he said with a shy smile.  "Usually they just want to do you and go home."

We ate our "chicken an dressin'" while Red fondled my leg under the table with his foot and smoked cigarettes.

I hated smokers!

Afterwards he wanted to go to the club up in Nashville, where they had drag shows on Tuesday nights.

Then why did I drive all the way down here?  For Southern Country Cooking?

But I had already invested time and energy in this guy, so we went. It was ok, if you like drag shows.

On the way back to our cars, a pick-up truck pulled up next to us, and the passenger-side door opened.  It was all dark inside. "Hey, faggots," someone whispered.  "Get in."

Red grabbed my hand, and we ran back to the bar.  We waited a half hour before trying to leave again.

It was after midnight  I was tired and scared.  I just wanted to go home -- alone.  But when I suggested that we call it a night, Red looked so disappointed that I invited him home.

We sat on the couch in the living room, kissing -- Red was admittedly good at that.  But the moment I tried to go down on him, he said "You got any photo albums?  I want to know everything there is to know about you."

So we watched TV and leafed through my photo albums.  I showed Red photos of my parents and brother and sister, my friends at Denkmann, Washington, Rocky High, Augustana, Indiana, and West Hollywood.  He kept up a constant stream of questions

It was 2:00 am!  Time for bed!

I drew Red to his feet and pulled him into the bedroom.  He stared at the bed next to the window.

"We can't sleep there!  Too risky."

I was too tired to argue.  I spread some blankets and pillows out onto the living room floor and tore off Red's shirt and tie.  Hard hairy chest, lanky arms.  I pulled his pants down and went down on his cut Kielbasa+.  He groaned.

"Hey, you know what would be good?  Some music."

So I turned MTV on, and we moved into 69 position to Madonna's "Express Yourself."

So if you want it right now, make him show you how
Express what he's got, oh baby ready or not

Red was very eager -- he finished while I was going down on him during "Express Yourself," and again on top of me, with his penis between my legs.  Then he went down on me twice.

But the evening was too weird -- a 45 minute drive for chicken, a drag show, gay bashing, photo albums, MTV -- I decided not to see him again.

The next Sunday, I went to services at the MCC, the gay church.  And Red was there, sititing in the front row!

See also: The Country-Western Star; the Bed-Switching Freshman at the Chocolate Moose.

Finding Larry's Fetish

Nashville, November 1991

I spent the fall of 1991 in Nashville, studying Biblical Hebrew at Vanderbilt Divinity School and dating country-western stars.

I also met Larry, one of the "lost souls" that I'm always drawn to.

He was 35 years old, with dark hair, a respectable physique (he worked out every day) -- and not bad beneath the belt.

But he grew up in a Bible-belt fundamentalist church -- nearly as bad as the Nazarenes -- and didn't come out until two years ago.  During that time, he had five dates.  And never a second date.

He had so many personal quirks that he turned everyone off.

His life was regimented to the point of obsession.  He got up at the same time every morning, went to bed at the same time every evening, and had the same breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day.

He worked at the IRS Office on Broadway in Nashville, the most  sinister, soulless building you can imagine.

His only off-work passion was opera.  He bought all of the operas on cd that he could find, and had season tickets to both the Nashville and Memphis Operas.  Once a year he drove all the way to Santa Fe, New Mexico, for their opera festival (which he considered the best in the world).

With all of the expenditures on opera, Larry had little money for anything else.  He never went to a movie, or out to dinner.

His living room was completely bare except for one reclining chair,  a stereo, and a bookcase containing 130,000 opera cds.

If all that wasn't enough to scare guys off, Larry had many more quirks:

1. He did not own a television.
2. He changed his sheets and towels every day.
3. No food or beverages could be consumed in his apartment, except while sitting at the kitchen table.
4. He frequently said "yum" while eating.
5. He kept an exact count of every penny he spent in a little notebook.
6. He showered, and insisted that his partner shower, both before and after sexual intimacy.

No wonder he had only been on five dates.

"You have to get out into the gay community," I told him.  "Find guys who share your interests."

"I hate gay guys!" he exclaimed.  "All they're into is sex and dancing."

"That's just the party crowd.  There are plenty of other gay activities."

So I took him on a grand tour of Nashville's Gay Scene.

1. The Metropolitan Community Church
"Reminds me too much of my childhood church!"

2. Black and White Men Together
"What will I do if I'm into a white guy?"

3. A gay cowboy bar
"Ugh!  Country-Western music!"

4. Nashville AIDS Network
"Too depressing!"

5. The Imperial Court
"I'm not into drag queens!"

6.  A gay soccer team
"I hate sports!"

8. Gay nudists
"I'm too shy!"

9.-15. Politics? Gay Pride Planning Committee?  Gay fathers?  Gardening? Chubby chasers?  Board games?  Motorcycle club?

16. Um...S&M?

"I'm not into pain!  Well...maybe we could try it."

So we tried various configurations.  Top, bottom, ropes, chains, clamps clothes pins, gags, blindfolds, vibrators, whipping, flogging, spanking....

"Could we do this with opera in the background?"

It makes sense: his life was all about control, so his fetish was about giving up control.

Larry soon found his way into the gay leather world.  In 1993 he was a participant in the International Mr. Leather competition.   1994 he became one of the founders of the Tennessee Leather Tribe.

It's all about finding your niche. Or in Larry's case, your fetish.

See also: Finding Larry's New Fetish

Larry is Spanked by an Alabama Boy

Huntsville, Alabama, November 1991

It's the weekend before my 31st birthday, and I'm in Nashville, Tennessee, 2,000 miles from West Hollywood,  taking classes in Biblical Hebrew and Protestant theology at Vanderbilt Divinity School.

Back home I would go to a museum during the day and then have a party, but I have no gay friends here except Larry, who just came out at age 35.  So he has no gay friends, either.

"At least we can do the museum," Larry said.

"Ok, well, I've already been to the Parthenon, and I'm not really interested in the Country Music Hall of Fame...."

"Something a little less country-western:  I'm thinking the Space Center down in Huntsville."

"Alabama?" I said dubiously.  "Isn't that a little redneck?"

"It's fine -- I go down there all the time for work.  And while we're in Alabama, I thought we could try to fulfill my biggest fantasy."

"What, a bondage scene?"  Larry had only just recognized an interest in BDSM a few weeks ago.

"Being spanked by an Alabama boy."

Beg pardon?

He explained:  For years his job had taken him through the small towns of Alabama.  He saw the hot Southern boys on the side of the road, with their slim chests and sweat-soaked t-shirts and bulging jeans, and he wondered what it would be like to be dominated by them.

In his fantasy, Larry was the stuck-up Northern boy who took a wrong turn through the woods, and came across three Alabama boys working on an old pick-up truck and drinking beer.  One was in his 30s, very muscular, with a hairy chest.  The second was in his 20s, smooth chest, short beard.  The third was a teenager with big hands and a big basket.

He stopped and asked for directions to Chicago.  They didn't know the way, so he insulted them, called them "ignorant barbarians wallowing in filth."

"Now that's not very neighborly," the older one said.  "I reckon we're going to have to teach you some manners."  The two younger ones grabbed him and tore his clothes off and tied his hands behind his back.  He tried to run away, but they tripped him and threw him down into the dirt.

"You're a naughty little boy," the teenager said in his hot Alabama accent, "So now you're going to get spanked."

He spanked Larry's bare butt while the other young guy fondled his cock, insulting its size.  Then they forced him to rim them and go down on them, shoving their gigantic Mortadellas savagely down his throat while he gagged and sputtered.

They tied him to a tree, gagged him, and took turns plowing into him while pinching his nipples, squeezing his balls, and slapping his cock.  Each of them screwed him twice, the teenager first.  Then they forced him to masturbate while they drank beer and watched, and left him tied to the tree to be discovered with dried semen all over him.

"That's quite an elaborate fantasy," I told Larry.

"I know -- I've been thinking about it for quite some time.  But maybe we could do the basics, just get an Alabama boy to spank me."

So we drove south two hours to Huntsville and took a tour of the Space Center -- not very interesting, driving past rockets 500 yards away.  We had dinner at a Chinese restaurant, waited around a few hours, and then hit Huntsville's only gay bar, Deja Vu.

Larry had no experience cruising and was too skittish to try, so he sat at one of the small red booths while I tried to find someone to fulfill his fantasy.

It was crowded, so there were a lot of prospects.  I figured that older guys were more likely to be BDSM tops, or at least open to the possibility.  So I systematically tried to make eye contact with the guys over 40, mostly gathered by the pool table and the jukebox.

No luck -- until finally an older black guy returned my eye contact.  In his 40s, taller than me, shaved head, sort of chunky.

Black guys were unlikely to be into BDSM, but I approached anyway, introduced myself, pointed out Larry, and said we were visiting for the weekend.

His name was Smith ("Yep, that's my first name. My mama found it in the phone book").  He worked at a restaurant on the west side. While I was groping him -- 8" -- he complained about the governor, Guy Hunt. We needed a man like George Wallace -- "He got things done!"

A black guy was praising George Wallace, the white supremacist Dixiecrat, who said "segregation forever" and ran for president on the "Make America White Again" platform?  Ok, that was like a gay guy praising Jerry Falwell, just crazy!  But I figured it wouldn't make a difference for a night of "sharing."

Unfortunately, the only way to determine BDSM interest for a hookup that night was to ask during the initial conversation -- rather risky!  You weren't supposed to discuss sexual activities at all, and the thought of BDSM turns many guys off.  But I dutifully hinted that Larry was a bad boy, and needed some discipline.

Smith's eyes lit up.  "Sounds like he needs a good old fashioned ass-whomping."

I described Larry's fantasy, as well as I remembered it, and Smith said he would oblige.  We drove out to Smith's tiny one-story house on the run-down west side, went into the bedroom, and ordered Larry to strip.

We tied his hands behind his back with a belt, and forced him to go down on us.  Then Smith bent him over his knees and spanked him.  Larry refused anal, so I went down on Smith until he finished.  Then we tied Larry to the bed by one hand, and forced him to masturbate with the other, and left him tied up for an hour while we watched tv.



After all that, it seemed anticlimactic to spend the night, so we got dressed, said goodbye, and headed back to our hotel.

"Did you enjoy having your fantasy fulfilled?" I asked.

"It was fine," Larry said.

That was a surprising reaction!  "We did the force, the oral, the spanking, and the humiliation with an Alabama guy.  What did we do wrong?"

"No, it was fine.  It's just that -- well, my fantasy involves Alabama boys.  Young guys.  Three of them, a teenager, a twink, and a guy in his 30s.   And...well...."

"What?"

"White.  I like black guys, of course, but for my fantasy they have to be white."

It was a very specific fantasy.

See also: Finding Larry's Fetish

Dates from Hell

Since I figured "it" out, during the summer after my senior year in high school, I've gone out on dates with about 130 guys (a "date" is defined as a social event followed by bedroom activity).

Maybe 10% were spectacular, the stuff of memories and blog posts.

80% were pleasant, just everyday life in a gay neighborhood.

But 10% were Dates from Hell.  Sometimes the social event went wrong.  Sometimes the bedroom activity was miserable.  But most often the guy turned out to be mess.

Here are some dates that I would like to forget.







College

 Jack Kerouac and his Bratwurst.   I spent two weeks hanging out in the Student Union with Jack Kerouac, aka Jurgen, a hipster writer who smoked a pipe and wrote horrible poetry.  I finally got the nerve to ask him out, to a meeting of the Quad Cities Writers Club.  When I got to his house, I was greeted by his live-in girlfriend!  But I did get a sausage sighting.

 I was visiting Des Moines for my first gay rights march, when I asked a cute guy wearing a mesh t-shirt for a date.  He agreed.  At the end of the date he said  "Follow me home."  He drove like a maniac, zooming around corners, running stop lights.  Finally I lost him.

West Hollywood

The Kept Boy who Alan and I picked up at Mugi.  He had a fantastic physique, but neither of us realized that he was drunk.  And getting drunker by the minute.

Mario in the White Room.  A neat freak with a pristine white-draped apartment like a hospital room, who made me put my clothes in the washer before we could climb into bed.  Where he called me "honey" and was not into kissing (too many germs).







 In Nashville, I accepted a date with a closeted country boy, a student at Vanderbilt, with an infinite number of rules and quirks.  After a truly miserable date, he ended up giving me the wrong number.  I got revenge by looking him up in the student directory and calling him anyway.


 The Worst Date in West Hollywood History.  Ok, Ryan the Dwarf was nice, and very cute, but everything went wrong: a rainstorm when we wanted to go sailing, turned ankle when we wanted to go dancing, missing the concert, Ryan getting drunk, losing Lane (who was supposed to join us).

The Bear with the Pierced Penis.  The pierced penis wasn't the worst thing about the date.  Or the swimming pool on a chilly winter night.  Or the pot.  Or the poppers.

New York

The Most Embarrassing Guy in the World.  Jesse the 17 year old college freshman, who ordered a hamburger platter in an Indian restaurant, wore short pants and shoes with no socks to a grad student party, and said the most insulting thing I've ever heard during oral sex.

The Nastiest Guy in the World.  Terrorized an online chatroom with his constant abrasive, abusive comments.  I agreed to the date only because I was desperate to move into Manhattan, and he had a room to rent.  Actually, he didn't. He lied in order to get me to go out with him.

 Mario the Teen Model.  I was 39, and he was 19.  And I learned a valuable lesson: make sure you're back home, kissing on the couch, by 10:00 pm.  Otherwise you may end up eating macaroni and cheese in a diner at 4:00 am.

Florida

Breaking Every Rule of Gay Cruising.  This one was my fault: I didn't screen the guy well enough in advance.  So I ended up in a half-built house in the swamp, cruised by two crazy roommates and invited to use drugs.

The Coffee Drinker.  Drank coffee instead of beer at the Filling Station every day.  I tried to say hello, and he said "I'm not into a relationship."  Then Yuri landed a date with him, and invited me to share!

Ohio

Remy the Jerk.  I was cold, hungry, insulted, and abandoned.  It almost didn't make it worth Remy's Kielbasa.

The Huber Heights Horror.  This one was his fault.  He completely misrepresented himself and his intentions.  I drove 20 miles in the middle of the night for a "date." and ended up with a hookup.

Upstate

The Grabby Male Nurse, one of the Gang of Twelve, gay guys who had known each other for years and had all dated each other.  This one kept leering and groping, and made every word I said into a sexual double-entendre.

My Friend with Benefits.  My boyfriend Troy was ok with "sharing," but when I started seeing another guy regularly, something had to give.

The Transman and His Angry Inch.  Ok, so I read his online profile wrong.  Not his fault.  Still, what I found down there was rather surprising.  And embarrassing.

Plains

Ricky with a Y, from last November, spent the entire date psychoanalyzing me.  Even in the bedroom.  "Is your aversion to anal sex a sign of internalized homophobia?  Do you believe that if you don't go 'all the way,' you're not really gay?"

Brett, the Hookup from Hell, who lied about his age twice, suggested a bisexual three way, and then decided that he was going to start a new career as a hustler.