The Football Player Who Got Unstuck in Time

New York, November 2000.

You often hear stories about people who get unstuck in time.

Two British ladies touring Versailles slip into the era of Louis XIV.

A man makes a wrong turn in a department store and finds himself in an earlier version of the store from the 1930s.

A man in 19th century costume falls out of the sky.


Here's a photo of  a hipster dude, wearing a t-shirt and modern sunglasses, looking tremendously out of place amid the old people in fedoras witnessing the opening of a bridge in Canada in 1941.

He's probably not unstuck in time, just unstuck. .

There are a lot of unstuck people wandering around on Christopher Street in New York.

It's not exclusively or even predominantly gay: the few gay bars and restaurants are scattered amid weird boutiques, kids' clothing stores, pet supply stores, and the Finnish Lutheran Church.

But it's where Gay Liberation began, a sacred place, a site for pilgrimages for gay people from around the world.

Especially those who have been traumatized by homophobic hatred.

Lost, lonely, confused.  Ghosts. Revenants. Time travelers.

Like the guy who was wearing only white shorts and a black Amish hat, on a cold day in October.

And the Man in Black who just appeared, walking next to me, one day.

And Carey from Tuscaloosa.

I saw him in Christopher Park, staring at the Gay Liberation Monument as if he had seen anything so strange: in his 20s, medium height, solidly built, a little nerdy, with a square face, dirty blond hair, and thick eyebrows.  He was wearing brown slacks, a red sweatshirt with giant letter A on it, and a brown fedora, and carrying an old-fashioned knapsack rather than a backpack.

First rule of living in big cities: don't stop to talk to anyone you don't know.  They will con you, or rob you, or both.

But I am particularly attracted to "lost souls," so I stopped.  "Pretty great, isn't it?"

"Murder!"  he said with a smile.  " I knew the Big Apple was up-to-date, but so out in the open and all!  You sure couldn't get away with that jazz back home."  He turned to me and held out his hand.  "Hiya, kid.  I'm Carey, Tuscaloosa U. of A.  Go Crimson Tide!"

Later I figured out that he meant the University of Alabama football team. "Boomer.  You're a long way from home."

"Don't I know it!  We're on field trip to see the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State.  I sort of got side tracked on the Staten Island Ferry.  Say, you wouldn't know any eateries around here, would ya, Jackson?  I could eat a horse, hooves and all!"

I took him to a Thai place, where he was amazed by both the food and the prices.

Carey said he had always been attracted to guys, but he wasn't out to anybody, and he would probably get married, because "that's the way we do things in the South."  He had no idea that there were books on gay topics or gay characters on tv: "we don't look at a lot of television in the South."

I took him back to my apartment -- yes, my roommate was that way, too --  and showed him my tv set and bookcase full of books on gay history and culture.

"What's Stonewall?" he asked, pulling a book off the shelf. "Stonewall Jackson?  Was he that way?"

"It's the bar across from Christopher Park, where Gay Liberation began."

He stared at me, blank, confused.

"The Stonewall Riots?  Gay Pride Day?"

He put the book down and wrapped his arms around me. "I'm not much for history --  I like the present.  Two guys together, right here, right now, that's all that counts, dig?"

Nothing spectacular about the hookup.  Very nice physique, smelled of cologne.  Uncut, average sized, complained about having to use a condom.

Then he got dressed and said "Thanks, Boomer.  It's been swell, but I'd better be getting back."  And he vanished into the night, leaving me thinking.

His slang, his costume, his lack of familiarity with tv or the basics of gay history -- was Carey unstuck in time?  Or just a clueless Southern boy?

I looked up the roster of the Alabama Crimson Tide football team in the 1930s -- yes, those records are available -- and found a William Cary Cox from Bainbridge, Georgia, who played center from 1937 to 1939.   He looked kind of like my Carey.

After college, he served in World War II, and then ran an auto dealership in Alexandria City, Alabama.  He died in 1991, survived by his wife and two children.

A life lived fully, excessively in the Straight World.

Unless he took a  "jump to the left" one day in 1939 and ended up in the West Village.

My Sunday School Teacher's Stripper Sons

When I was a kid in the 1970s, my favorite Sunday school teacher was named Brother Dino (not his real name).  He was young, in his mid-20s, with black hair and a thick black moustache -- rare for Nazarenes.

He had only been saved for a couple of years -- before that, he was a Catholic! -- and he knew all about movies, dancing, drinking, card-playing, carnivals, circuses, and Catholic Masses. He framed them as destructive and evil: "Look how horrible my life was before I got Saved!" -- but the stories were brash, colorful, and seductive.

Brother Dino was our cabin counselor at Nazarene summer camp during the summer of 1974, just after eighth grade. One day I saw him naked in the shower.  He looked like this guy: muscular body, hairy chest and belly, very impressive beneath the belt.

Nazarenes typically didn't have many kids -- why bring kids into the world, when the Rapture would come at any moment -- but Brother Dino and his wife had lots, four girls (born 1968, 1970, 1973, 1975)  --and, just when they were giving up, two boys, Mickey and Dom (1977, 1978).   I didn't pay them much attention -- I left the Nazarene church when the oldest was only about 10 -- but my mother told me about the them their talent show and jump quiz triumphs, their dates with the new preacher's kid, their participation in International Institute, their colleges and marriages and children.

She never mentioned the stripping. But my brother Ken did.

At Christmastime 1999, I was back in Rock Island home for the holidays, and as my brother drove me away from the airport, we passed a low gray building.  "That's a new strip club," Ken announced.  "Where girls take off their clothes," he added, as clarification.

"Any male performers?"  I asked.

"As a matter of fact, Tuesday is lady's night, with guys taking their clothes off."

I didn't ask how he acquired that information.  "Hmm...lady's night, only women allowed, I guess."

"And you know who the top dancers are?  Brother Dino's kids, Mickey and Dom!  Brother Dino can barely hold his head up in church anymore!  What did he expect, when he gave them Catholic names?"

Mickey and Dom were now in college -- one at Augustana, the other at St. Ambrose, the Catholic college in Davenport.  And on Tuesday night they made extra money by performing at the strip club.

Men were allowed in "if accompanied by a lady," so I called an old college friend, and we went to the 10:00 show. I was the only man in a crowd of twenty or so women.

Having not seen the boys since Mickey was a toddler and Dom a babe-in-arms, I didn't know what to expect.  They came on stage dressed as college jocks in sweatpants and Augustana and St. Ambrose sweatshirts.  They pretended to argue about college rivalries, and in "anger" stripped each other out of everything but their jockstraps.

 They had smooth, muscular bodies -- rather surprising, given their dad's hairiness, and not as sculpted as the male models of West Hollywood, but certainly impressive.

They danced together on a little stage, then separated and worked the crowd.  I think it was the oldest, Mickey, who gyrated toward my side of the room.  I held up a dollar.

He approached, grinning, his smooth chest shining with sweat, and thrust his crotch suggestively toward me. "I'm an ex-Nazarene, too," I told him, shouting to make myself heard above the music.  "Your dad was my Sunday school teacher."

He looked surprised, but kept grinning.  "Small world!" he said.  "You gay or is she your girlfriend?"

"Just a friend."  He straddled my lap.  I shoved the dollar inside his jock strap and felt around to see if he was as big as his dad.  He was.

"Cool!  You guys the best tippers!  Wanna kiss?"

"Sure!"

He bent over and kissed me briefly on the lips, as I shoved another dollar into his jock strap.  The crowd squealed in shock or delight.  Then he rose and backed away and gyrated toward a woman who was holding up a dollar.

My mother tells me that both Mickey and Dom are married with children now, working in human resources and telecommunications, respectively.  Their stripping days are far behind them.  But I'm sure that they're gay allies.

Rock Island has changed.

See also: A Nude Party with the Golden Boy

My Date with the Estonian Mountain Climber

Long Island, September 1997

I was very busy in the fall of 1997, my first semester on Long Island.  I was taking  three graduate seminars in sociology; teaching an adjunct class at Hofstra University, 2 hours away by train; going into Manhattan every weekend; and being swarmed by undergrads.

Every twink, Cute Young Thing, and newly-out prettyboy on Long Island wanted my phone number, including Yuri, the Russian "teenager", and Jaan the Estonian mountain climber.

Jaan was a graduate student in physics who Yuri brought as a "date" to my 37th birthday party in November 1997: tall and blond, two turn-offs, but very, very muscular, with intense black eyes, and very persistent -- he kept following me around the room, staring shyly.

I hadn'd met anyone from Estonia, the Baltic country with the language similar to Finnish, since 9th grade, when George and Kristjan taught me Graeco-Roman wrestling. Jaan didn't speak English very well, but I managed to get him to tell me about growing up in Johvi, near Narva, on the Russian border (only two hours from St. Petersburg by car), mountain climbing in Scotland, and especially his best friend Arvi.

Eventually I disentangled myself and found Yuri.  "Do you mind if I ask Jaan for a date?"

He frowned.  "You mean like...um, a boyfriend?  No, why do I care?  I don't like guys."  He wouldn't admit to being gay until the Christmas party next month.

"Ok, thanks.  Oh -- by the way, he is gay, right?"

"You know, I didn't ask, but maybe he is.  Here in America, you are always careful.  Anybody might be gay."  He leaned in close.  "If you date him, tell me how big he is, ok?"

"Sure, no problem."

So I made a date to take Jaan to see Brad Pitt in Seven Years in Tibet, followed by dinner at the Curry Club, a very nice Indian restaurant in East Setauket.

I talked about how cute Brad Pitt is; how I always thought of Tibet as a "good place" where same-sex desire was open and free; and about Lee back in West Hollywood.

Jaan agreed that Brad Pitt was very handsome, and talked about how he and his best friend always wanted to go to Tibet to climb Mount Everest.  Our legs brushed together. Then he stared intently into my eyes and said "Do you want to come back to my room?"

Score!  New York was much more conservative than West Hollywood.  Inviting someone home on the first date was practically unheard-of!

Turns out that Jaan lived in a graduate student apartment, and shared his bedroom with a guy named Erik, who was watching tv out in the living room.

After the introductions, I put my arm around Jaan's waist, and led him into the bedroom.  Jaan got me a soda out of the mini-fridge and invited me to sit down on the bed.

At that moment Erik came tromping in. "Sorry, I need this book," he explained.

We sat on the bed side by side.  I took a few sips of my soda to be polite, then put it aside and leaned over to kiss Jann.  Then Erik came tromping in again.  "Sorry, I need a pen."

"He's trying to get a glimpse of us making out!" I exclaimed.  "Can you tell him we'd like some privacy?"

"He has as much right to be here as I do."

I shrugged.  Ok, if Jaan didn't mind, then I didn't either. Maybe Erik was gay and wanted to join in, as was the custom in West Hollywood.

I reached over, put my arm around Jaan, drew him close, and kissed him on the mouth.


Or tried to.  Before I got there, he leapt to his feet and ran to the other side of the room.  His face was ashen-pale.  "Mida sa teed?" he exclaimed "Mida sa teed?" (What are you doing? in Estonian.)

"Um...I was....um...going to kiss you," I said, shocked.

He stared.  "Why?"

"Are you nervous because of your roommate?  Because we can go to my apartment -- I have my own place, where we can be alone."

He stared.

"Um..because, you know, it's the end of our date.  You invited me to your room. That means you want to..."

He stared.

"Maybe I'd better be going."

The next day Yuri called.  "Hey, you really freaked out Jaan.  He doesn't know you are gay, and then suddenly you try to have sex with him!

"He didn't know?" I repeated, rather angry.  "How could he not know? It was a date, we talked about ex-boyfriends, and then he invited me back to his room.  That's a major tease!"

"Estonia is...what do you say...old fashioned."

"But... All during the date, talking about my boyfriends? Same-sex desire being open and free?  How could he be so oblivious?"

 "He didn't even know that there were gays until last night.  I had to explain it to him."  He paused.  "So anyway, he wants to know if you will date him again next Friday."

Blake and His Boyfriend: Are All Opera Singers Gigantic Beneath the Belt?

Manhattan, June 2009

A few weeks after I moved to the East Village in 1998, I started dating Blake, who lived in my building.  Seemingly an ideal boyfriend: in his 30s, black, muscular, religious (devout Episcopalian), with a Mortadella beneath the belt.  BUT he was pretentious, elitist, an opera buff, and always had a glass of wine in his hand.  Eventually I pawned him off onto Yuri, and they dated for about three months.

He and Yuri stayed friends.  Sometimes when Yuri came to Manhattan for the weekend, he got all of us tickets to Broadway shows and operas.  I generally dislike operas, but the performers often wore bulgeworthy tights, and afterwards we often went to parties with big name celebrities in attendance, like Andrew Lloyd Weber.

Apparently Yuri stayed in contact.  When we came back to New York for a visit in June 2009, he suggested that we spend a day with Blake.

"And the night.  He's the ex-boyfriend for both of us, so it's polite to ask him to share."

"But he'll invite us to the opera!" I protested.

Yuri shrugged.  "You can live through an opera, if you look at the bulges."

Fact: all opera singers are huge beneath the belt. 

"Ok, I'll call him."

We met Blake and his new boyfriend, Kris, just after lunchtime on the Saturday of our visit.

After living in the straight world for four years, I was anxious to immerse myself in the gay world of the Village, pay my respects to Christopher Street and the Oscar Wilde Bookstore, go cruising at Boxers, with its outdoor patio, and so on.

Instead, after dropping our stuff off at Blake's apartment, we went to the Guggenheim and the Frick Museum.

Yuri and I had already been there!

Instead of dinner at a gay restaurant in the East Village, they took us to a place on 45th Street, near the New York Public Library.

Godawful, pretentious, all light and glass, with tiny $35 "plates" of broche cavatappia roule.  Lots of cocktails on the menu.  $5 for a Diet Coke.

And all female servers.  Half the fun of going out to eat is gawking at the hot waiters!

I wasn't in a good mood.

I nudged Yuri.  "Hot dogs later.  And cruising."

In the 8 years since I'd seen him last, Blake had gotten a little gray around the temples and chunky around the belly, but he was still quite attractive.

His boyfriend Kris wasn't bad, either.  A chubby twink, late 20s, with deep-set blue eyes, a short beard, and a hairy chest.  Except he outdid Blake in pretentious snark.

"Upstate New York?  All cow tipping and tractor pulls!"

"Television?  I watched that once.  It was dreadful."

"No, I don't work out.  Who wants to spend an hour sweating to narcissistic gym bunnies?  You know they're all swishy queens anyway!"

His only good quality:  he was an opera singer.

Fact: all opera singers are huge beneath the belt.

After dinner, I suggested going to a cruise bar, but Blake said he had a surprise for us.

Please, not the opera! I thought.

Fortunately, the New York opera season was over.  Instead, Blake took us to Blithe Spirit, a Noel Coward comedy, starring gay actor Rupert Everett, Angela Lansbury, and Christine Ebersole.

A gay playwright, a gay star -- you can't go wrong with that!

Except the play was entirely heterosexist.  It's about a man being haunted by the ghost of his ex-wife, which causes problems with his current wife.  Not a hint of beefcake or buddy bonding.

Afterwards, "drinks" -- another $5 Diet Coke -- at a straight bar.  With Rupert Everett, who proved even more pretentious than Kris, and borderline homophobic, bashing:


Gay subtexts: "Don't you hate dreary queens who think everything should be about them?"

Gay marriage: "A dreadful idea!"

Gay sex: "Be honest, doesn't it seem just a little silly to put your penis down a man's throat?"

I hoped Rupert wasn't planning to spend the night with us -- I was tired, hungry, upset, and not at all in the mood to put anyone's penis down my throat.

Thankfully, the evening soon came to an "early" end, around 1:00 am, and we stumbled back to Blake's apartment for a "nightcap."

My fifth Diet Coke of the day.  I anticipated getting up every hour all night.

"Now, about the bedroom arrangements," Blake said.  "There certainly isn't room for four of us in our bed, but I'm anxious to see -- and feel -- my ex-boyfriend again.  So, if you're amenable to it, I'll take Yuri into the master bedroom, and Boomer, you and Kris can have the guest room."

"Is it ok?" Yuri asked.

Kris leered at me.

Well, maybe I was up for having a man's penis down my throat after all.

"Sounds great," I said.  We gathered for a group hug and fondle, and then Kris took my hand and led me to the guest room.

Where I discovered three things:

1. Not all opera singers are huge beneath the belt.  Kris logged out at 5".

2. Plus he was an anal bottom.

3. Who didn't like cuddling.

See also: The Opera Buff and The Roommate Switch; Yuri and the Sausage Size Contest

I Break Every Rule of Gay Cruising

New York, Fall 2000

In the fall of 2000, I was depressed.    I was writing my doctoral dissertation, and my committee was making lots of unwelcome "suggestions":

Take out that section about gay people not being able to get married, and concentrate on the important issues.

Put in a section about the guilt and pain that all gay people feel.

But I followed each of the suggestions, worried that they would say "Sorry, your dissertation is on gay people, switch to something else," like my committee at USC did, the first time I tried getting a Ph.D.

Plus Yuri had moved to Florida, and my boyfriend Ari had just broken up with me.

So I wasn't thinking, and I didn't follow most of the rules of gay cruising.  Neither did my partner.

1. Select your cruising venue properly.  Check.  I met Jorge at the Eagle, the leather bar in Chelsea. He was shorter than me, in his mid-20s, dark-skinned, and very muscular.  Exactly my type.  Or so it would seem.

2. Cruise early.  No. It was nearly 2:00 am, and at last call people get desperate and weird.

3. Cruise with a buddy. No. I was by myself.

4. Do not drink while cruising. Check.

5. Gather information.  No. we only exchanged first names.

6. Don't discuss sizes or sexual acts.  No. We discussed in detail the sexual acts that we were interested in.

7. Word the invitation carefully.  No.  He just said "Let's go," and we went.

 8. Invite him to your place.  No. I followed him out into the cold New York autumn.

9. Take your own cars.  No. He drove us to New Jersey.  We had to drive around for about an hour to find a parking space on the street, and then walk about ten blocks through a desolate, scary neighborhood.  I was completely lost.  How would I ever find my way home again?

10. Make sure someone knows where you are. No.  I didn't even know where I was.


We walked into a row house, through the living room, and up the stairs.  "Be quiet, my mama and brother are asleep," Jorge said.

He lived with his parents!

11. Clean your apartment in advance.  No. His bedroom was a mess, unmade bed, dishes from a snack on his desk, the floor littered with bodybuilding magazines and gay porn.

12. Hide your valuables. No.

13. Bring condoms. Check.  But they weren't necessary.  We undressed and squeezed into his narrow single bed.  And Jorge promptly fell asleep.

I like cuddling with musclemen as much as the next guy.  But I couldn't sleep in such a cramped space, and Jorge did not respond to my attempts to wake him.

14. Don't kick him out afterwards.

We awoke to bright daylight that made his room look even messier, and a yell from downstairs, "Jorge, quieres desayuno?"  (Breakfast is ready!).

Jorge pushed me away and leapt to his feet.  "Dios mio, it's late!" he exclaimed.  "My girlfriend and her padres will be here soon, to go to Mass!"

He had a girlfriend!

"Quick, get dressed!"  He pulled on his briefs and started fumbling with his jeans.  "I'll sneak you out the back door."

"But...I don't know where I am."

"Go up to Clmumble-mumble and turn right, then turn left by the Dairy Queen, and go down West Side to the church, and you can catch the HBmumble-mumble.  It's only a couple of miles."

He led me downstairs, through a little foyer and into a laundry room.  I could hear a conversation in Spanish and clattering plates from a room nearby.

15. Don't pretend that you want a relationship.

He ushered me through to the back porch, and made the "call me" gesture before shutting the door.

Call him?  I never got his last name, email address, or telephone number.

The Satyr's Hookup with Sylvester Stallone

Upstate New York, August 2010

Troy, my boyfriend for the last year, has finally agreed to move in, and we're having a "housewarming" party to celebrate.  We invite his college friends Micah and Jordan; the Rich Kid and the Rapper from the Gang of 12, and their dates; and my ex-boyfriend Chad, who of course has to bring his housemate/Daddy, the Satyr.

The Satyr is a tall, husky, bearded bear, 62 years old, with an enormous Kovbasa++++ beneath the belt.  But I don't like him -- he's imperious, theatrical, sneaky: he has a manipulative relationship with Chad, and he tried to keep me and Troy from dating.  For what reason, I don't know.

Besides, he stifles my standard conversation topics at gay parties.

Enormous penises...he has the biggest I've ever seen.

Dates from hell -- there aren't any worse dates than our weird night in October 2008.

Celebrity hookups -- he claims to have been with everybody.

When he was a teenager, hustling in Times Square, his clients included Robert Redford, Peter Fonda, and...Christopher Isherwood. When he was a camera man in Hollywood, he dated Tom Selleck, Rob Lowe, and John Travolta, who flew him down to Cabo for a wild weekend with Tom Cruise.

I'm sure the Satyr is making all of this up.  I lived in West Hollywood for 10 years at about the same time, and met a lot of celebrities: Michael J. Fox, Richard Dreyfuss, Robin Williams, Christopher Atkins -- but I never dated any superstars.

Time to call his bluff.  "Details!  You have to tell us the whole story.  Date, location, who you were with, what he was wearing, how hung he was..."

The Satyr glares at me, but says "Sure.  I'll tell you about my first gay sexual experience, with Sylvester Stallone."

"Great!"  I've heard a lot of celebrity dating stories about Stallone, the Italian Stallion, the star of the Rocky and Rambo series, so I'll be able to spot a fib a mile away.

Manhattan, January 1970

The Satyr (then named Sparky) was 22 years old, living in Spanish Harlem, taking acting classes at CUNY and trying to make ends meet anyway he could.

Through hustling, of course -- his extra-large equipment made him very popular among a certain type of closeted queen (shown is porn star Rick Donovan).

He hadn't "come out" -- acknowledged that he was gay.  He was always "the trade" -- the one who gets the blow job.  In those days, the trade thought of himself as straight.

He also waited tables at a strip club, swept floors at an illegal gambling den, read Tarot cards, did astrology, and translated Japanese for the Consulate General of New York ("I was born in Japan, before my mother -- well, that's another story").

Through the New York occult community, Sparky met Morton Lewis, who had directed a few films on astrology and the paranormal.  He needed a camera man for a new hippie love fest film that his brother was bankrolling.  It wouldn't take much work -- just three sets, a bedroom, a living room, and an exterior to be shot in Central Park.  Two days max.

He neglected to mention that it was going to be a softcore porn, but Sparky wouldn't have minded anyway.  It was a job in the industry!  Anyway, he could easily ignore the women's naked bodies and concentrate on the men.

"Wait -- you said you didn't identify as gay," Troy protests, "But you liked looking at men."

The Satyr shrugs.  "It was 1970.  Gay people were criminals in the State of New York, and psychopaths, according to the American Psychiatric Association.  It took a lot to admit it to yourself."

The movie, Party at Kitty and Stud's, would star newcomer Mike Stallone, a very massive bodybuilder type with thick black hair, dark droopy eyes, a sensual smile, and a strange, slurry way of speaking.  He was beautiful!  Sparky was instantly hooked.


He struck up a conversation with Mike at lunchtime.  They had a lot in common.  Similar childhoods: Mike's mother was a professional astrologer, and his father was a hair stylist.  An interest in the occult.  Determined to make it in the business, scrounging around for any job they could find.  Mike's latest was cleaning out the lions' cages at the zoo.

"I was completely broke, man, sleeping in the bus station.   It was either take this job or rob somebody."

"You should try hustling," Sparky said.  "With your physique and dick, you could earn some primo bread."

"I'm not queer, though," Mike said with a smile.

"That's ok, you don't have to be.  A mouth is a mouth, right?  It's the guy going down on you that has to be queer."

Mike didn't actually have sex with anyone on camera, but he had to be aroused a lot, on both days, through multiple takes.  By the second day, he was having trouble keeping it up.

In one scene, he had to be a gigantic shaft ready to plow into one of the actresses.  Morty wanted Sparky to film him approaching slowly, and stopping just before he touched her vagina.  But Mike couldn't stay hard long enough.

"We're going to have to shorten the scene," Morty said.  "Unless somebody wants to be a fluffer -- go down on Mike until he gets hard. Ladies, I know it's not in your contract, but..."

Before any of the actresses could respond, Sparky said "I'll do it!"

Everyone stared.  No one admitted to being gay in 1970, at least not in public.

"Hah, hah, big joke!" one of the actors said.  "Like you'd really go down on a dude!"

Sparky's face was burning with embarrassment and fear -- would Morty fire him?  Would Mike beat him up?   He tried to concentrate on that beautiful body, and more -- Mike's painful childhood, his determination, his passion, his pride.

"His penis..." Micah adds.

"Of course.  The penis is the doorway to the guy's soul.  A blow job is very spiritual."

"I'm serious," Sparky said, his voice trembling a bit.  "I'd love to help out."

"Let's cut the clowning," Morty said.  "Ladies..."

"No, let him do it," Mike said.  "It takes a lot of guts to admit you're queer, especially among you Neanderthals. I'm game."

Morton shrugged.  "Just get with it already.  I've got a movie to make."

"Come on, buddy," Mike said softly.  "Let's see what you got."

So Sparky knelt in front of the nude Stallone.  He had never gone down on a guy before, but he had received many blow jobs, so he knew what to do.  Soon Mike was an iron rod.

"That's enough!" Morton exclaimed.  "You want to get him hard, not have his baby."

Flushed with erotic excitement, Sparky returned to his camera, and they filmed the scene.

He "fluffed" Mike twice more before the day ended.

A few months later, Mike -- now named Sly -- got his big break, a starring role in Rebel (1970).  And Sparky moved to California, where he got a job as a camera man.  They never had sex again, they didn't even stay friends, but still, it was the defining moment of Sparky's life.

Upstate New York, August 2010

"Reading between the lines, it's kind of a sad story," Troy says.  "The guy you came out for wanted nothing more to do with you."

"But it was never about Stallone," the Satyr says.  "I liked him, sure, and he had a great physique, but it was about being true to myself.  It was the moment when I could finally stop lying to myself and say 'I am gay.'"

"My defining moment came with John Travolta," I tell them. "Picture it: the summer of 1978.  A sallow 17 year old..."

See also: Lane's Hookup with Batman, Robin, and the Joker; the Sylvester Stallone post on Boomer Beefcake and Bonding.

We Search for the World's Biggest Penis

Vittoria-Gasteiz. Spain, July 1999

The Basque language, spoken in northeastern Spain and southeastern France,  is not related to any other language on the face of the Earth.  It is the original language of the people who occupied the Iberian Peninsula, so old that some of its words come from the Stone Age:
Knife is labana, stone-that-cuts
Roof is teilatu, top-of-the-cave

I find that fascinating.  Who wouldn't find that fascinating?

My friend Yuri didn't.

Ok, how about this: the penises of Basque men are among the biggest in the world, topping the already-impressive 13.5 cm average of the rest of Spain.

The Basque word for man is gizon, which is similar to the phrase big penis (giz lun) in ancient Sumerian.  Coincidence?

Yuri was very interested in that! Last year he competed with me over Jaan the Estonian Mountain Climber solely because of his enormous proportions, and picked up Kalle, even though he looked like a serial killer.

So in the summer of 1999, when I was in Paris, he came to visit, and insisted that we take a side trip to Basque Country.

Um...the Basque Country is 8 hours from Paris by train! Couldn't we go to Amsterdam instead?  It's only 5 hours by train, and there's the Horsemen's Club, with a strict size requirement.  Or we could pop over to England and see the naked, aroused Rude Man of Cerne Abbas.

Ok, we'll go there, too, but first, Basque penises!

Any reasonable person would check to see if the ancient Sumerians were correct at a gay sauna, like Ego in Bilbao or Venconmen ("Come with men") in San Sebastian, but Yuri was a sports nut, and wanted to go to a bike race.

Basque Country is very rugged, with mountains and the seacoast, perfect for bicycling.  There are so many amateur races every year, it's almost the national sport.  We went to see the Euskaldun Tournament in Vittoria-Gasteiz.

I found it quite boring.  The cyclists all start with a flourish, and then you wait around for two hours for them to get back.

But the bulges made it worth the wait. The winne was 24-year old Ruben Oarbeaskoa (second from the right, later photo), from the Ollara-Ercoreca team.

He actually looked to be among the smaller of the team, but Yuri fell in love anyway, and said "I'm going to touch it!"

"How are you going to do that?"  I asked.  "Sneak up on him in the locker room?  There are reporters and fans everywhere."  The crowd was enormous.

"Russians are smart!  How do you say 'Writer for a sports magazine' in Spanish?"

I told him.  Wielding his camera, he began piecing his way through the crowd.  "Escritor para Sports Seminal!" he yelled, alternating with the Russian "Pisatel dl'ya Sportivnogo Zhurnale!

He made his way up toward Rubin. Eventually I couldn't see him anymore.  After awhile he came back, beaming.

"Basque men are the best in the world!" Yuri exclaimed.

Vittoria Gasteiz

"What happened?  Did you....?"

He grinned.  "I told Ruben I'm a writer, and I wanted to ask him some questions about the race.  He was surprised -- no Russian sports journals talked to him before.  So he reached out to shake hands.  And I fell....I show you."

He mimicked the motion of  reaching out, tripping, and "instinctively" steadying himself by grabbing at -- my crotch.

"Did he get mad?  Did he yell?"

"No, he laughed.  I said I'm sorry.  But boy, I'm not sorry!"  He put his arm around me  "Ok, so tomorrow we go to the gay sauna."

I think Yuri got the idea of the trip-and-grab from an episode of Seinfeld.

The Gay Russian Teenager Comes Out

Long Island, December 1997

In West Hollywood in the 1990s, we practiced a strict age segregation: dance clubs when you were a Cute Young Thing, then leather bars when you started greying, balding, or getting a belly.

If you had muscles, you could go anywhere you wanted, but you were expected to date guys within about a five year age range.  Much older or younger, and the tongues would wag.

In the fall of 1997, after trying several careers, I started a new graduate program on Long Island.  I was 36 years old, pushing 37, so I figured I would be dating guys in their 30s, maybe early 40s.

Instead, I was swarmed by Twinks, Cute Young Things, even teenagers.

On the first day of classes, I was walking toward the Social Science Building, when a slim, feminine guy who looked about 16 came rushing up.  "Vi iz Ruski?" he asked excitedly.

"Huh?



"Futbolku s Ruskoi Reki !" he said, pointing at my chest.  "Your football shirt -- it says 'Russia River.'"

Oh, right.  I forgot that I was wearing a t-shirt from the Russian River.  "It's a gay resort...um, a town where gays go."

He frowned.  "Ok, but what does gays mean?"

How long had he lived in New York?  "Gay...men who like men...for dates and falling in love."

"Oh, oh...goluboi...blue."  He grinned broadly.

Yuri turned out to be 23, a little older than I thought, but still much too young for me, a grad student from Russia, studying meteorology.  A pretty, feminine face with soft features, but nicely muscled -- from the day we met, he dragged me to the gym every afternoon to work out for two hours.



Remembering my brief obsession with Russia in college, I considered changing my age rule.  But was he gay?

He claimed to be heterosexual: "Some day I will get married and have a lot of kids."  But he had never met anyone gay before, and he wanted to know everything about it.

Everything.  Names, dates, sizes, positions.  Especially cock sizes.

"Tell me about Raul.  How big is he?  What does he do in bed?"

"When you were in West Hollywood, did you have sex with Tom Cruise?  How big is he?"

"Ok, what about Lane?  How big is he?  Do you have pictures with his clothes off?"

Most heterosexuals don't ask a lot of questions about sizes.  But I still wasn't sure.

In October, I invited Yuri to a Halloween party, and chased him around with a giant foam dildo.  He didn't mind a little surreptitious fondling in the back seat of the car on the way home, but when Josh, who was giving us a ride, asked "Do you want to be dropped off at your dorm or Boomer's place?" he said "Dorm!"

In December, I invited Yuri to a Christmas party.  Tickets cost $15, with a catered dinner and dancing. But he refused to dance with me!  Instead, he approached a girl and asked her to dance.

When he got back to our table, I told him, mostly in jest, "I paid for your ticket, so you owe me.  Either get up on that dance floor with me now, or get into my bed later."

He chose my bed.

See also: Yuri's First Boyfriend.

November 1999: A Hookup with Barry and the Poz Boy

In the fall of 1999, Barry, the traditional Catholic who had been exorcised from the homophobic demon, invited me to "share" his friend Jared.

"You'll like him," Barry insisted.  "He's from the Midwest, like you.  And an intellectual.  He knows everything about world history.  Just ask!"

"What's he look like?"

He send me a picture -- not my usual type.  In his 20s, tall, thin, pale, with long scraggly hair and a pretty, androgynous face.

"I like my guys with a little more heft to them,  Sorry."

"Well...he's gigantic beneath the belt," Barry said.  "And he really needs this.  He hasn't been with anyone for months."

"Why, what's wrong with him?"  I asked suspiciously.

"Nothing.  He's just been going through some things.  Some health problems.  He can explain."

I was intrigued by the mystery, so I agreed.

On a Saturday in late November, I took the train out to Barry's apartment in Sayville (he had given up on the traditional Catholic community).

Jared was slim and fragile, sitting shyly on the couch.  He had a soft, limp handshake.  I put my arm around him, and he sank against my chest, as if he were cuddling with a lover.

This guy was the polar opposite of the dynamic, loquacious Barry!   I wondered how they had ever become friends.

"So, what do you do?" I asked.

"I work at the Fashion Barn.  But I want to get into design someday."  He held me tightly and nuzzled my chest.  "Sorry if I'm a little forward...it's been awhile."

"That's fine.  I like being the object of attention."

He disentangled himself for dinner at the Sayville Inn.  He ordered only a salad, no dressing.

"How did you guys meet?" I asked.

"At church," Jared said.  "I gave up on the church when I came out, but a few months ago I came back.  Barry got me involved in Dignity [the gay Catholic group], and sometimes I go to Mass with Andre at the Catholic brotherhood."

He returned to the church a few months ago?  And he hadn't been with a guy for a few months?  What happened?  

Back at the apartment, the three of us hugged.  I kissed Barry, and then tried to kiss Jared, but he pulled his head away.  "Before we go any farther, I have to tell you something.  I'm poz."

He meant positive for the HIV virus.

"No problem," I said.  Actually, I was a little curious about what poz guys do in bed.   I had never dated anyone who was poz before, that I knew of, or even had any poz friends.   A couple of guys at the church, who I knew vaguely, and that was about it.

You're probably wondering how I managed to live in West Hollywood at the height of the AIDS crisis and not meet anyone poz.  Literature and film of the period always describes losing most of your friends to AIDS, a dozen in just a few months.

I've wondered about that myself.  I think it was just by accident.

The most common way to transmit HIV is through unprotected anal sex.  I was simply not interested in that, so when I was asked, I refused, and usually didn't see the guy again.  Since we typically chose our friends from among our ex-boyfriends, I built up a social circle of guys who also were not interested in anal sex, and remained negative.  By accident.

I'm not blaming the guys who practiced anal sex -- they had no way of knowing that it was unsafe at the time.

Jared had a huge Mortadella+, but he doesn't get a place on my Sausage List, since I wasn't permitted to do anything except fondle it.

He had sex by hugging me tightly, rubbing things together while Barry fondled his rear, having an explosive orgasm, and then starting to cry because "it's been so long."

We spent the night, had a replay in the morning, and then went out to breakfast.

"I thought my sex life was over," Jared said.  "No one wants to be with a poz guy.  But last night was great."

I hoped he wasn't implying that he wanted to start dating!  Our evening together was nice, but he wasn't really my type physically, he was kind of weird, and what was up with the no kissing?

I can do without oral, but no kissing?  The virus isn't transmitted that way!

A few days later, Jared called.  "I'm coming into the City for my birthday. Free to get together?"

"Well...um...I'm a little busy, with finals coming up and all."

"I want to try something.  I've been too nervous before.  But it's my birthday, and I thought you could help."

"What is it?"

"You go to the New York Bondage Club, right?"

So on Sunday Jared took the train into Penn Station.  We dropped into a diner for a piece of cake, and then went to a meeting.  He asked me to tie him to a St. Andrew's Cross, blindfold and gag him, and leave him open to all comers.

I monitored the situation as he was fondled, prodded, kissed, licked, tickled, teased, edged, and spanked.

Later, I untied him so he could try his hand at topping.

He became a bondage club regular.

Soon I saw him at Ravi's Bear Parties, too, wandering around, fondling, teasing, edging, but no oral.

And still no kissing.

See also: The Homophobic Demon; an All-Nighter at the New York Bondage Club; and The Colonial Boy's First Time.

The Quest for the Bushman Penis

Durban, South Africa, July 2000

When I was in junior high in the 1970s, I read Lost World of the Kalahari, by Laurent Van Der Post, about the Bushmen or San.  Today it seems rather simplistic and colonialist, full of "noble savage" myths, but to a 15-year old in the Midwest, it was fascinating:

1. The Bushmen lived in the arid Kalahari desert, the most inhospitable place on Earth
2. Their culture hadn't changed in 40,000 years
3. They drew rock paintings similar to those of our cave man ancestors.
4. Their language used a distinctive pattern of clicks.
5. They were a distinctive race, yellow-skinned, wrinkled, with steatopygia (I had to look it up: large buttocks).

6. And, most intriguingly, the men "were born, lived, and died" in a semi-aroused state.   They were proud of their difference from other men, and called themselves Qhwai-xkhwe ("always standing") to openly proclaim it.

I had to see that!

The book had no illustrations, so one day I went to the Rock Island Public Library and checked out The Harmless People and Hunters of the Desert Land.  Nothing.

I didn't think about it again until college, where our library offered an Interlibrary Loan service.  So I requested The Khoisan Peoples of South Africa, Pygmies and Bushmen of the Kalahari, The Bushmen, and Namibia Old and New.  Nothing, although Bushmen rock art regularly depicts men in a state of arousal.

In college I saw The Gods Must Be Crazy (1980), about a Bushman who finds a discarded Coke bottle, the only relic of Western civilization he's ever seen, and tries to return it "to the gods."  He concludes that the "gods" are crazy.  Some nice physiques, but even if you look carefully, you can't see anything.

In West Hollywood, I saw A Far Off Place (1993), about two Western kids forced to flee across the Kalahari with the assistance of a helpful Bushman boy.  Nothing.

I didn't think about it again until I visited Durban, South Africa  in 2000.  There weren't any Khoisan or San speakers at the conference, that I know of.  There was a tourist attraction called the Bushman Caves, in the Drakensburg Mountains on the border with Lesotho, but no "real" Bushmen.

Then, the night after my regrettable experience with the Hottest Man in the World, I went back to the Lounge (it was the only gay bar in town).  This time there was a more working-class crowd.  And I saw a Bushman -- proper term, "San" or "Khoisan."  At least I think he was -- short, yellow-skinned, kind of wrinkled and wizened-looking.

Should I go up, introduce myself, and grab?  Follow him into the bathroom?  Hope that he went to the dark room?

I decided to introduce myself.

"Hi, my name is Boomer," I said.  "I'm from Montreal.  I used to work in porn films."

"Jerry." (Probably not his real name.)  He reached out to shake my hand, and kept on holding it.

He didn't speak English very well, but I got that he was Khoisan, he lived in Port Elizabeth, about 10 hours away by bus, and he was here for the conference.  AIDS was increasing rapidly among his people, due to a lack of awareness about safe-sex practices, and a refusal to believe that same-sex behavior existed.

Of course, it did.  It was everywhere.

He hadn't stopped holding my hand!  And now he was running his other hand against my thigh. 

Time to check.   On the small side, at least by African standards, but definitely aroused.

And it stayed that way for the whole night.

Se also: The Hottest Guy in the World.; In Search of Sex and Languages in South Africa

Spring 2001: Are You Ever Mistaken for Gay?

East Village, Spring 2001

In the spring of 2001, I was finishing my Ph.D. with a concentration in Gender/Sexuality (read: Gay Studies) and a dissertation on gay community strength (but my committee insisted that I excise the word "gay" from the title).  And I set out looking for an academic job in Gay Studies.

Problem: There weren't any.

Well, there was one, but it went to a Lesbian of Color who was doing research on Transnational Feminisms.

What about Gender?

Lots of those.  I sent out about 30 application portfolios --  but the jobs all went to women, preferably Women of Color who were doing research on Transnational Feminisms.  I toyed with the idea of changing my name to "Denise Davis" and going to interviews in drag. 
 
 By the end of January, when Gender jobs are usually filled, I hadn't had a single interview.

What about my minor field, Social Deviance? (General rule-breaking activity; why people do weird things).

Lots of  jobs there, too.  I sent out my portfolio to about 30 colleges and got 10 interviews.

But deviance scholars tend to dislike gay people.  Even at prestigious, liberal colleges.

Academic interviews usually last for two days, giving them many opportunities to find out if I was, in fact, gay.  Or else they made the heterosexist assumption that I must be heterosexual, which I found even more aggravating:

"Will your wife be moving with you?"
"How many kids do you have?"
"This area has lots of beautiful women, doesn't it?"
"Our department secretary is single.  Another perk if you come here, right?"
"Aren't you worried that, spending so much time around gays, it might rub off on you?"
"Researching gay topics, are you ever mistaken for gay?"

March, April, and May passed, with no offers.  Finally in desperation I applied for a deviance job at a college in a horrible town in Montana.  The nearest gay neighborhood was in Calgary, a 6-hour drive.

I got the offer, but I really, really didn't want to move to a horrible town six hours from the nearest gay neighborhood.

Then my friend Yuri, who helped me look for the World's Biggest Penis two summers ago, said.  "Why do you want to be a college professor, anyway?  It's dumb!"

This from a guy who finished his dissertation in 2000 and fell right into a cushy tenure-track position in Climate Science at Florida Atlantic University.





"Come down to Florida and live with me!" he offered.  "I live right next door to a lot of gay bars, and near to the beach.  More hot guys than you know what to do with!  And have you heard of Spring Break? Wow!"

"What about a job?"

"There are lots of jobs here.  Maybe you will teach as an adjunct when you're not on the beach, looking at hot guys."

So I turned down the Montana job, sent 20 boxes of books via UPS, packed up a rental car with everything else, and drove south on I-95 for three days.  It felt very much like my move to West Hollywood in 1985.

Elijah Wood Dumps Roger for Jason Bateman

New York, October 1999

For about a month, Yuri has been dating John Benjamin Hickey, the 36 year old actor who starred in Love! Valour! Compassion! and Finding North, and now plays Clifford Bradshaw in Cabaret on Broadway.  Not his usual type -- balding, rather sallow chest, not a gym rat.

Well, he does have one characteristic that Yuri likes.

I think Yuri is star-struck, dating John for his address book rather than his wit, charm, and physique.  Who wouldn't accept a date that involved meeting  Nathan Lane and  Liza Minelli?

Yes, we shared.  I'm kind of interested in that address book, too.

When Yuri invites me to dinner at John's house, I assume it will be a standard West Hollywood party, with nudity and oral sex, and guests including aging mega-hunks that I had crushes on in the 1970s: James Naughton, Matthew Broderick, Tom Wopat, and Lou Diamond Phillips.

Instead, there are just four of us -- the fourth, apparently my blind date, is Roger Rees, who I remember as Robin Colcort, Rebecca's crush, on Cheers (1989-1993), and as the Sheriff of Rottingham in Robin Hood: Men in Tights (1993).

Not at all my type: I like short, husky, and dark-skinned, and he's tall, thin, and gaunt, with an unattractive long face. I like working-class "regular guys," and he's a sophisticate.  I'm a teetotler, and he likes his wine.

But I figure, Rees probably has an address book even bigger than Hickey's.

Besides, to quote a show tune, "In the dark they are all the same."

"I can't tell you how refreshing it is to meet a mature man for a change," Roger tells me, fondling my knee under the dinner table.

"I'm only 38..."

"38, eh?  Brace yourself -- the tidal wave is coming.  Ever since I turned 40 --er, 40-something [he was actually 56], the twinks have been positively throwing themselves at me.  Why, I just broke up with the most obnoxious Cute Young Thing you can imagine."

Great -- he's on the rebound.  I glare at Yuri for setting me up with this guy, big address book or not.

"Granted, he was cute, but a pretty face is no substitute for substance."

His hand works its way up to my crotch.

"And he dumped me out of nowhere, when he found someone that he thought would further his career -- Jason Bateman, can you believe it?"

"I dated Jason Bateman's ex..." I say, trying to steer the conversation away from Roger's Cute Young Thing ex.  "Porn star, gigantic penis...but nothing compared to the guy I met in Texas."

Too late.  Rees has already begun.

Too late.  Rees has already begun the story.

New York, Fall 1999

Roger's first love was the theater, and regardless of how much Hollywood beckoned, he was determined to stay put, in the Manhattan he so dearly loved.  He only took the role of Dr. Croft, an evil mad scientist sort who runs an asylum for amnesiac and dying children (in The Bumblebee Flies Anyway), because he could stay in New York, and because he was a fan of Robert Cormier, who wrote the original novel.

He hadn't anticipated a problem -- most of the cast consisted of actors in their teens and early twenties, and age 40-something, Roger was a full-fledged twink magnet.  Half the cast wanted to date him!  Or at least go down on him in his dressing room.  He usually had a rule against dating costars, but some of them were very persistent, such as 18-year old Elijah Wood.

"Oh, I hate him!"  I exclaim.  "An insufferable kid in gut-wrenching movies like 'Radio Flier' and 'The Good Son.'  He manages to drain the gay subtexts from everything he does, even 'Huck Finn.'"

"He took his shirt off in 'Flipper,'" Hickey adds, "Giving the teen dream crowd something to dream about.  Not me, though."

"Well, he's a little more mature than that by now," Roger says.  "Not much, but a little."

Eventually a cute face and persistence wore Roger down.  "Look, I know we have some chemistry together," Elijah said one day, cornering him in his dressing room."Why don't we just admit it?"

Roger allowed a kiss and a grope, but then broke away.  Who was this young succubus?  "We both have jobs to do here...." he stammered.  "We can't let something so mundane as sexual attraction get in the way of our art."

"Well -- the filming won't last forever.  What are you doing for Christmas?"

So  after the filming was over, Roger agreed to some simple, uncomplicated dates -- a walk through Central Park, a quiet dinner at home.  The most public they got was seeing Liza Minelli at the Palace Theater.

Elijah was very, very horny.  He wanted to go down on Roger three or more times a day -- even in his salad days, Roger could never have been a match for that voracious appetite, and now his libido was waning.  What about kissing and cuddling, just holding each other as the darkness enveloped them?

Then there was the porn -- gay and straight -- the three-ways -- the discussions of women's breasts and vaginal whatchamacallits!  Disgusting!  Apparently Elijah was into everybody and everything.

"How big was he?" Yuri asks.

"Not very, maybe 5" aroused," Roger says.  "And anyway, he was strictly an oral bottom, into giving head but not getting."

"I wonder how he handles it when he's with a woman," I say.  Then, embarrassed, I figure it out.

A couple of weeks ago, Elijah came as Roger's date to a party at Liza's apartment.  Among the guests was Jason Bateman, who Roger knew from Hollywood: 30 years old, rather a nebbish sort but still cute, with a pretense of naiveté that had gotten him into more bedrooms than Jeff Stryker dildos.  He was as horny as Elijah, with an open relationship with his girlfriend, carte blanche to cruise everybody and everything in sight.    

Roger gamely introduced the two, then wandered off in search of more stimulating company.

Awhile later, he saw them still talking.  Maybe standing a little too close...but well, nothing wrong with that.  Probably comparing notes on the horrors of being child stars, the poor tykes.

Still...was Jason starting to tent?

Roger forced himself to back off and talk to the other guests.  When he looked again, Jason and Elijah were both gone!

Very bad form -- you don't abandon your date at a party! Could Elijah be going down on Jason right there?  Enraged, he started searching for them.  The living room...the parlor...the music room...the kitchen.  The master bedroom...

They wouldn't be in the master bath, would they?  But...the guest bath was too busy...if they wanted seclusion.

The door was locked.  Roger dangled the knob.

"Just a minute!" Eliza called.

Roger was too embarrassed to search the rest of the apartment.  He got his coat and left.

Elijah called the next day:

"Sorry to ditch you, but I couldn't let Jason get away.  I really need someone who has some ins in Hollywood.  Broadway is great, but..."

"That's fine," Roger said, gritting his teeth.  "These things happen.  You either have chemistry, or you don't."

"So, could we come over later to share?  Maybe I could go down on you while Jason is topping me?"

Roger hung up on him.

Was Roger Telling the Truth?

Roger Rees was a celebrity with a long-term partner, and so had nothing to gain by inventing a celebrity hookup.  And Elijah Wood has been the subject of countless gay rumors, although he dismisses them as "the fantasies of people with too much time on their hands."

But Jason Bateman hasn't been the subject of many rumors.  And I'm actually surprised that the sophisticated, elitist Rees would know the former teen idol, who hadn't yet become famous for adult roles.

By the way, I did go down on Roger before the night was over.  About 7.5", uncut.  And an even bigger address book.

See also: My Date with Andrew Lloyd Webber; Sausage Sighting of Richard Grieco