Farshad's Hookup with Leonardo DiCaprio

I'm in Paris for the first time in eight years, visiting my old haunts and catching up with old friends.  Farshad, the French Moroccan on my Sausage List, and his roommate Michel have me over for dinner.

Farshad is approaching middle age, dark-skinned, bearded, with a hairy chest.  He's one of the founders of the first gay Muslim organization in France and a member of a gay-friendly masjid.  Michel is a second-generation French Tunisian in his 20s, short, slim, with a smooth chest.

The French are not as star-struck as Americans, so celebrity hookups are not a common dinner-party topic of conversation, but  I mention my relationship with Jimmy the Boy Toy, how my real-life celebrity boyfriend was not famous enough, so I invented a hookup with Gregg Sulkin of the Wizards of Waverly Place.

"Why didn't you tell him Leonardo DiCaprio?"  Farshad asks.  "He's more famous, and more believable.  Tout le monde a été dans son lit. [Everyone has been in his bed.]  Even me."

I nod knowingly.  Leonardo DiCaprio is not only immensely talented, he's very, very busy.  He has been involved in passionate romances with female supermodels from three continents, yet he still has the time and energy to rack up up gay rumors.  Nearly every guy I know claims to have been with him, or at least to have seen him kissing a bloke at a nightclub.

But Michel is impressed. "You and the star of Titanic!" he exclaims.  "I never knew that.  Did you say  'I'm king of the world!' when tu l'baisé? [when you topped him]"

Brussels, June 1995

Farshad was 18 years old, a new graduate from a lycee in Lille in northeastern France, planning to study languages at the university.  He had just figured out that he was gay, not just using garz as a substitute for girls, as many of his friends did, but interested in dating and romance.

But where did a conservative Muslim boy from conservative Lille, whose parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts, and two brothers were members of the Ligue Islamique du Nord, go to meet boys?  And avoid running into anyone he knew?

To Belgium, of course.

One weekend he took the train 1 1/2 hours to Brussels, got a dorm room in a youth hostel, and set about exploring the gay nightlife.

He found a club on the Rue du Lombard that had a bar and disco in the front and a darkroom in the back, and saw a blond minet on the dance floor, shirtless, gyrating vigorously, almost obsessively. Sweat glistened on his slim, smooth chest, rolled down his perfect belly.  He had long arms and shoulders, dirty blond hair, a beautiful angelic face.

Trop chaud!  Farshad thought.  Too hot for me.  I have no chance.

But he underestimated his Mediterranean charms.  Soon the garz sat down at the bar next to him and ordered an Orangina and asked "Que tu veux boire? [What would you like to drink?] with a strong American accent.

Surprised and excited, Farshad stammered "Um...quoi... an Orangina, too, please."

"You speak English?  Excellent!"

"English,  Italian, Arabic, and a little Tamazight, the native language of Morocco," Farshad said, hoping to impress him.

He did.  "That's fantastic!  I can barely handle French and German, and that's only because my mother is from Germany."

He introduced himself as Leo.  He was  an actor, in Belgium making a movie about Arthur Rimbaud, the famous boy genius who wrote startling poetry and had an affair with the middle aged, established poet Paul Verlaine.

"Was he gay?" Farshad asked.

"Gay?  No.  He was gay, straight, bisexual, and everything else.  He loved men, he loved women, he loved words and language, he loved beauty.  He found desire everywhere, even in the slightest touch on the wrist."

Leo touched Farshad's wrist. 

"I've never been with a garz before," Farshad admitted.  "Except for fooling around with my friends, fondling through their clothes, wanking them, that sort of thing.  Nothing romantic.  Nothing passionate."

"Well, it's about time you started," Leo said, moving in for a kiss.

Leo was very passionate, into kissing and full-body contact and oral.  He went down on Farshad, then topped him with his legs in the air so they could kiss.  Then they held each other in their arms and kissed and cuddled, and became aroused again and moved into 69.  And on and on all night.  Farshad didn't remember it all, just a blur of hands and mouths and aroused penises.

Farshad awoke to the sound of the shower running.  Soon Leo emerged from the bathroom, toweling off.

"What do you want to do today?" Farshad asked.  "Have you seen the Musees Royaux des Beaux Arts?"

"I have to be on the set in an hour."

"Ok, then...dinner later?"

"I'll be going back to America soon.  And you have to be getting back to Lille."

"Mais...mais..."

Leo sat on the bed.  "The world is full of hot guys, Farshad.  Not just one, not ten, not a hundred -- thousands.  They'll come and go, but there will always be more.  Your job on this planet is to experience as much beauty as you can before it all fades away."

They didn't exchange telephone numbers.  They never saw each other again.



"That's rather a sad story," I say.

"Sad!" Farshad exclaims.  "I see only happiness.  I spent the night with a man who has a beautiful body and a beautiful soul.  Can you expect more of life?"

"You shall certainly travel from stage to stage," Michel says, quoting the Qur'an.  "Nothing lasts forever.  What counts is the beauty in front of me at this moment."  

Was Farshad Telling the Truth?

Leonardo DiCaprio was filming Total Eclipse in 1995, and several scenes were shot in Brussels.  But his conversation seems too intellectual, even cerebral.  DiCaprio is more of a plain talker.

DiCaprio doesn't have blond hair, and is smaller beneath the belt than Farshad said.

The bedroom activity Farshad describes doesn't mesh with the descriptions of DiCaprio's bedroom activity from some of the women in his life, but that could be merely a matter of performing differently with men and women.

DiCaprio is a strong supporter of the gay community who has played gay or bisexual characters several times.  You'd think that if he was bisexual, he wouldn't keep it a secret.

But the gay rumors continue to rack up.

See also:  Nude Photos of Leonardo DiCaprio

Teen Hunk #10: Jean, the Violinist

I played the violin in junior high, but I didn't have the dedication to put in hours of practice every day -- or to face the bullies who disapproved of the existence of boys carrying violin cases -- so I didn't get very proficient, and in high school I switched to the viola:

A bigger, bolder instrument responsible mainly for harmonies.

The viola turned out to be my forte, the Rocky High Orchestra my home.

I had a crush on Mr. Hart, the orchestra director, slim, red-haired, horn-rimmed glasses, with an amazing bulge shifting as he conducted.  He signed me up for contests and competitions, and taught a special class in music theory in the predawn hours.

My first sexual experience was with a violinist named Todd at music camp, during the summer after 10th grade.

Another violinist was unbearably cute.

Two of the cellists were inseparable partners, perhaps a gay couple.

Other orchestra boys were surprisingly uninterested in girls.

Home.


But in college I had too many other interests and activities to pursue music further, so I put my viola back in its case,  It came along when I moved to Omaha with Fred, and stayed there when I left.  He said it was in his parents' attic, waiting for me to come and pick up.  It might still be there.

But I still listen to classical music, go to the symphony, and crush on musicians, especially those who remind me of those halcyon days.

In the spring of 2004, I went to Europe for my usual Paris-Brussels-Amsterdam circuit, and dropped in to the Bains d'Odessa, near the Luxembourg Gardens.

There wasn't much activity going on in the late afternoon hours, but as I was dressing to leave, I saw a very cute guy in the locker room, also getting dressed: in his 20s, tall, broad shouldered, with pale, smooth skin, tight muscles, nice bulge.  We made eye contact, but didn't interact: I followed the rule that younger guys must always approach older.

He put on a white shirt and blue jeans, and then pulled a violin case out of his locker.

A violinist!  I wasn't going to let this one get away!

I walked over to him.  "I played the viola in high school."

He glared at me.  "Très fascinant."

Well, that was rather a lame pick-up line.

He headed for the door.  I followed.   "Um...um....the first guy I had sex with played the violin."

"Vous devriez lui téléphoner."  Then you should call him.

I was sinking fast!  He paused to pick up his valuables from the lock box.  "Um...um...my high school music teacher had an enormous penis.  Almost as big as mine."

"Vraiment?"  He turned and smiled.  "Je m'appelle Jean."

When all else fails, go for the penis.

Over coffee, Jean told me that he only went into the sauna to work out and use the steam room.  "Sex in a bath house is disgusting, don't you think?"

"Oh, yes, I hate it," I lied, "So uncomfortable."

He was 22 years old, a student at the École Normale de Musique, working toward his diplôme supérieur d'exécution, a performance degree.  "They have degrees in teaching, too, for students with abysmal talent, perhaps those who went to a provincial lycee."

What an elitist!  "I studied at the University of Southern California and Setauket University...." I began.

"Sorry, I don't know them.  The only true universities in America are Harvard and Yale, don't you think?"

"Well, Setauket has an excellent program in history"

"History!  How can you stand it?  It is the most dull of all subjects."

Ok, I was working really hard to get this jerk into my bed.  He'd better be spectacular!

I was too embarrassed to invite him back to my one-star tourist hotel, so I said I had a roommate.  Jean offered to take me home -- his parents and younger brother were away on holiday.

He lived in a small but elegantly furnished apartment in the 14th Arrondissement, about 20 minutes away by Metro.

When we arrived, Jean sat me down on the couch and opened his violin case.  "Now I will play for you, and you will tell me if I am as good as the violinist who was your first boyfriend."

He pulled out a cake of rosin for his bow.  Memories came rushing back.  "Um...do you mind if I try?"  I asked, reaching across the couch.  I gingerly lifted the violin from its case.

He snatched it out of my hand and sprang to his feet.  "No!  Are you crazy!  You must never touch another man's instrument!"

Elitist and crazy! "Je suis désolé...I didn't know."

"How can you not know?" Jean yelled, his eyes flashing.  "Did they not teach you anything in your second rate lycee in the provinces?"

"Ok, ok, I will not touch your instrument.  Is it ok if I touch your penis?"

The bedroom activities turned out to be very nice -- Jean was passionate, versatile, and not at all demanding.  He even insisted on cuddling all night.


But in the morning he started up again: "Next August I will visit you in America.  I want to see this second rate lycee where you teach stupid people about sociology.  How do you ensure that they do not sleep during your lectures?"

I ran.

See also: 12 Teacher Hookups; 20 Teenagers and Twinks; and Spending the Night with Todd.

The Pentecostal Porn Star's Top Boyfriends, Tricks, Scenes, and Hookups

I hope Alan isn't reading these stories in the afterlife, or I'm in for a major haunting.  He would hate being called a Pentecostal Porn Star.  He didn't like talking about his porn career.

Actually, he didn't like talking about his past at all.  Most guys in West Hollywood  loved swapping stories about coming out, seducing a straight man, or seeing a celebrity penis, but Alan generally kept mum:  "Who cares about the past?  It's dead and gone.  We're young, we're hot, we're in the greatest place in the world.  This is our time to LIVE!"

Still, when he was tired and loaded up on sugary snacks, he could tell a good story.  Here are his top 20 boyfriends, hookups, and back room exploits.

Alan was born two days before Halloween, 1956, under another name, in a small town near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.  When he was ten years old, he began going to a Pentecostal church, got saved and filled with the Spirit, and began speaking in tongues.

1. The Pentecostal Boy.  His first sexual experience was at age 16, with one of his Pentecostal buddies.  Neither of them had any idea that gay people existed, but they fumbled around and discovered oral.

2. The Preacher at the Bathhouse.  After graduating from high school in 1974, Alan enrolled in the ultra-fundamentalist Waynesburg College.  He majored in either English or History, and played football to become more "macho."

There's an investigation of Waynesburg College on Small Town Beefcake

 He also began going to the bathhouses of Pittsburgh, where he ran into the minister of his hometown Pentecostal church.

After he got his degree in either English or history, he told his parents that he was gay.  They had a big blowup, and didn't speak to him for years.  He moved to Los Angeles, and got a job teaching ESL to new immigrants.

3. The Son of a Gilligan's Island Star.  One of his first boyfriends was David Johnson, son of Russell Johnson, the Professor on Gilligan's Island.

4. Will on Land of the Lost.  Alan made the rounds of closeted and semi-closeted celebrities, including Wesley Eure,  who played the teenage son on the Saturday morning live-action series Land of the Lost.

5. Porn Star Kip Noll.  He also began going to the bathhouses and bars of pre-AIDS Los Angeles.  One night he met someone who, impressed by his size, introduced him to porn director William Higgins, who cast him in a movie about a boy who wanders around West Hollywood picking up guys.  Kip Noll went down on him.  He refused to do anal.

6. The Football Coach.  Later that year Alan starred in a movie about a football player who gets blown by his teammates and tops his coach.  The exteriors were filmed at UCLA.  While doing research, he met and began dating the football coach of a L.A.-area university.  He wouldn't say which one, although I'm quite sure the name would mean nothing to us.

In all, Alan appeared in five porn movies, but his star potential was limited due to his reluctance to do anal, and by his lack of serious gym time -- he was getting a little chunky.

7. The High School Boy.  He got a job teaching English at a Catholic school, and began seeing one of his students -- after class, right in the classroom.

8. A Drag Queen Fairy Godmother.  After a series of crises in the early 1980s, including getting fired from his teaching job, the death of a close friend, and a sexual assault by a vice cop, Alan turned "ex gay," proclaimed that God had "cured" him, and joined Homosexuals Anonymous.  To prove to himself that he was really straight, he went to one of the dive bars in Hollywood and picked up a "woman" -- who turned out to be a drag queen.

That night he was an anal bottom for the first time.

In the morning he realized that God loves gay people after all.  He retired from porn, changed his name to Alan, turned blond, grew a beard, and joined the gay-positive Metropolitan Community Church. He became Student Clergy.

9. The Norwegian Con Artist.  Alan and I met in the fall of 1985.  We dated briefly, until he dumped me for a Norwegian con artist (the relationship didn't last long).  Then we became friends, and roommates for about a year.

10. The Bed-Hopping College Boy. In the summer of 1986, Alan returned to his old idea of becoming a missionary, with a gay twist: he moved to Japan to start a gay Pentecostal church, but returned  to West Hollywood at the end of the summer.  When I went to visit him, he picked up a college boy named Minoru, who kept switching between our beds all night.










11. My Celebrity Boyfriend.  In the spring of 1987, I dated the Celebrity, a still-closeted former teen idol.  Alan asked him out immediately after we broke up -- or maybe before -- and they dated twice.

12. The Kept Boy.  Alan found three in a bed distracting, so he didn't do much "sharing."  Our first "sharing" experience was accidental, with a kept boy who we didn't realize was drunk

13. The Parisian Cop.  In the fall of 1989, Alan moved to Paris to...well, start a gay Pentecostal church.  But soon he gave up that idea, and became a permanent Parisian.  When I came to visit, he picked up a Parisian cop.

14. The Father and Son. While in France, Alan took a trip to Hong Kong, and picked up a father and son -- a biological father and son!

15. The Lapp.  The nice thing about Paris is, everyone in the world eventually gets around to visiting, including a member of the Sami people, the nomads of northern Scandinavia.

16. The Hong Kong Hustler.  Alan loved Hong Kong, and visited as often as he could.  Unfortunately, it didn't have quite the sexual freedom as Paris.  In the summer of 1992, feeling deprived, he hired a hustler, and bottomed.  Without a condom.

A few months later, Alan discovered that he was HIV positive.  Deeply depressed, he moved in with his sister in Norfolk, Virginia, became "ex gay" again, and cut off all contact with his former "sinful associates."

17. Sandy.  Soon Alan changed his mind -- God loved gay people after all.  He started going to the Norfolk Metropolitan Community Church, where  he met Sandy: middle-aged, African-American, rather feminine, almost as big beneath the belt as he was, also a recovering Pentecostal.  They stayed together until the end of his life.

18. The Substitute.  I visited them twice in the early 1990s, once in Norfolk and once in DC.  Since becoming HIV positive, Alan insisted on monogamy -- no "sharing," not even with safe sex.  But when I spent the night with them, they brought in a substitute.  Ok, that's my scene, not Alan's.

19. The Colonial Williamsburg Boy.  In New York in 1998, I met Barry, who grew up in Colonial Williamsburg and went to Howard University in DC.  Turns out that he had dated Sandy!, Ok, that's Sandy's.

20. The Male Nurse.  We gradually lost contact in the 2000s, as friends who live across a continent from each other do.  But one day in 2005, Sandy called to tell me that Alan had died of AIDS-related cancer.  He was in good spirits during his last days, content with his life and certain of his place in heaven.  Almost his last words were "Isn't that male nurse hot?"

Alan LIVED until the end.

How Many Sex Partners Should You Have?

I've never understood people who brag "I've had only five sexual partners my whole life," or "I've only had two," or even "I've only had one."  And everyone congratulates them, as if they've accomplished something magnificent.

Why is depriving yourself of beauty a good thing?

Should you also brag that you've only seen two movies in your whole life, or only five paintings?   Is never crossing the Pont Royal from the Tuilieres Garden to the Musee d'Orsay something to brag about?

But when you say you've had 50 partners, or 100, they sternly disapprove.  You're a sexual compulsive.  You have no self control.  You're a slut!

Does seeing 50 movies in a year mean that you're a movie compulsive?  Does having an ice cream sundae or a pizza once a month, 700 during your lifetime, mean that you have no self control?






I think this fear of multiple partners comes from the 19th century notion that sexual behavior is inherently dangerous, apt to lead to physical and mental deterioration and even death, so you have to be very careful, treat every partner as if he's your last.

Or from the 20th century notion that sexual behavior is an infinitely transforming experience, to be shared only with the One, the person with whom you have a permanent, lifelong romantic commitment.

Nonsense.

Sexual behavior means experiencing the beauty of another person's face, physique, and sex organs. Certainly you should do it with people you care about, but why limit it to them?  Why not experience as much beauty as you can in life?

Ok, you're thinking, but what about the risks?

When you interact with strangers, there's always a risk of theft or assault, but if you do a screening interview, have a friend on call, and keep him in your sight at all times, the victimization risk is minimal.

And if you inspect his penis before oral and insist that he wraps it before anal, the health risk is minimal.

And remember what you have to gain:

A universe of men, 18 year olds and 80 year olds, tall and short, masculine and feminine, chubby, muscular, skinny, hairy and smooth, Kielbasas and pencil nubs, facial hair, tattoos, different colors of hair and skin, different races, ethnic groups, religions, languages, an infinite variety to see, feel, touch, and taste.

 But how many partners is optimal?  How many guys should you shoot for during your lifetime?

If you come out at age 20, and are sexually active until age 80, you will have 22,630 sexually active days, or 3224 weeks, or 744 months.

One a day:  Impossible!  It takes at least an hour, maybe two, to find someone who is attractive and interested in you, another hour for the introductory interview, and a third for the sexual activity.  No one has time for that every day, with work, gym, meals, social events, and other leisure pursuits.

Besides, unless you have a large circle of friends who are constantly getting new boyfriends to "share," you'll have to find the guy from scratch every time.  Even in a gay neighborhood, the number of suitable options is limited.  If you try to find one hookup per day with no repeats, you will soon run out, or have to take whatever sleazoid or downlow guy you can get.

One a month?  Not nearly enough.  That means experiencing new masculine beauty for only 1 day out of 30, only 3% of your sexually active days on Earth.   I wouldn't dream of going for a whole month without buying a new book or seeing a new movie, and certainly not without a new experience of the masculine.


One a week?  Better, but still, it means experiencing new masculine beauty on only 14% of your sexually active days on Earth.

Two or three a week?  I think that's optimal.  New experiences of masculine beauty on 30-40% of your days.

 I suggest one new date, hookup, or sharing experience every week, and then, once a month, going to a bathhouse or sex party and getting with five guys.  That's an average of 2.5 per week, not including repeats, and easily doable, unless you are really picky or live a hundred miles from civilization.

Look for variety, not the same type every time.  If you like them young, try an old guy.  If you like them hirsute, go with smooth. Everyone is attractive in his own way.

At the end of your sexually active life you will have fond memories of 5,600 men.

It may seem like a lot if you've been raised with the "one partner forever" myth, but compare it with the number of movies you will see, or the number of paintings, with how many ice cream sundaes and pizzas you will eat, and with how many times you will cross the Pont Royal from the Tuilieres Garden to the Musee d'Orsay.

16 Naked New Yorkers

I lived in New York from 1997 to 2001, while in graduate school at Long Island University: a year in a graduate student apartment on campus, and three years in the East Village, sharing an apartment with Edward the Art Appraiser.  It never felt like home, in the way that West Hollywood was home; I always felt like a visitor, dropping in on other people's lives.

But the hookup opportunities were enormous.  Maybe we knew so much about safe sex that anonymous encounters no longer seemed risky, or maybe  the East Village never developed the "date first, bedroom later" culture of West Hollywood, but cruising was constant, and intense.

Here are my top "bedroom first, dating later" stories from four years in New York.

Year 1

1. Conrad, who came to my room to fix my computer.

2. Dustin, who invited me to an all-nighter after a meeting of the New York Bondage Club.

3. The fireman who came by when my crazy roommate left an open can of tuna in his room during Christmas break.  We thought something died in there.

4. The Lebanese guy I met online, who asked "do you want to hang out?" by which he meant come to my room for oral.

Year 2

5. The older bear who lived only a few blocks from my parents' house in Indianapolis.  I dropped in for a "quickie" on the way to the bars.

6. The unhung hippie who Yuri and I shared after a conversation of about five minutes.

7. I was conducting a research project that required me to interview gay men.  Carl refused to be interviews, but agreed to show me his Kielbasa+.

8. Prasert, the chef in a Thai restaurant in Paris.  I ate there almost every night.  One night he invited me into the kitchen to show me a "new recipe."  In the stock room.

Year 3

9. Barry, on the night we exorcised the homophobic demon.

10. The Man in Black who cruised me on Christopher Street.

11. When Yuri came to Manhattan for the weekend, we went cruising at the Eagle, and he was approached by a Korean gym rat.  He was reluctant, having heard that Asians are small beneath the belt, but I talked him into it.

12. When I was visiting Zack in Providence, we went to a bar that had a little enclosed patio, the equivalent of dark rooms in European bars.  I went down on a guy while he was staring straight ahead, pretending to not even know I was there.  You can't get more anonymous than that!

Year 4

13. I broke every rule of cruising, and followed Jorge out into the cold, dark night with only an exchange of first names.

14. Shen the Chinese history major.  We spent the whole evening in his room, watching tv.

15. Carey, the Football Player Who Got Unstuck in Time.

16. The NYU undergrad who came to my apartment in the rain and refused to leave until the sun was out.  The next afternoon.

Alan Cruises a Cop

Paris, March 1989

During my terrible semester teaching in Ankara, Turkey, my friend Alan the Pentecostal Porn Star sent me a airplane ticket to visit him in Paris.

Alan was my best friend in West Hollywood, fun but exhausting, rushing headlong from wild scheme to wild scheme, his frenetic energy making him constantly "up."  No quiet nights at home, no nice safe museums or art galleries: lights! colors! music!

Plus he had no sense of tact, decorum, or the consequences of his actions.

The morning after we broke up, he called and asked me to have brunch with him and his new boyfriend.

When he saw a high school boy aroused in class, he asked "Do you want to go to the bathroom and take care of that?"

And now he wanted me to drop everything and fly to Paris for a week?

Well, it was Paris, after all.  And I was anxious to see Alan again after six months.

He had put on a few pounds -- actually about 20, a victim of French sauces and limited gym facilities.  But he still had the same frenetic energy, the same fervor -- and the same unbrindled erotic desire.

On the way into town on the Metro, he kept pointing out cute lycee boys, burly working-class men, languid immigrants, and timid tourists.  "It's like a candy store, isn't it?  So many men, so little time!"

He had a tiny one-room apartment on the fifth floor of a building on rue Chapon, in the heart of Le Marais, about two blocks from the Pompidou Center, walking distance from  Notre Dame and the Louvre.

He didn't mention the gay Pentecostal church, his ostensible reason for moving to Paris: he had a job teaching literature at the American School went to the American Church on the Quai d'Orsay, and had a circle of friends, mostly ex-patriots.  He showed every intention of staying in France permanently.

During the daytime, I was on my own.  I had only been to Paris once before, so I did all the tourist things -- the Louvre, the Luxembourg Gardens, Montmartre, even the Eiffel Tower.

Paris was great for jogging, but gyms were rare -- I finally found a health club with an assortment of free weights, but I had to buy a month membership to get in.

At night we cruised.

There weren't a lot of gay organizations in Paris -- at least, not as many as in West Hollywood.  But the venues for sex made up for it.

Bathhouses, bars with back rooms, video stores with glory holes.  A different one every night.

"I'm in vacation mode," I told Alan one morning at breakfast in a patisserie -- which, as the name implies, offered no choices that weren't 98% sugar.  "So the West Hollywood rule against tricking doesn't apply.  But you've been here six months.  Have you been tricking every night?"

"It's another world," he said, chomping on an eclair.  "Sex isn't something shameful -- it's an ordinary part of life.  Did you know gay sex has been legal here since 1805?  Guys think nothing of going into a bar with a dark room on the way home from work and going down on five guys.  Even straight guys, with wives and girlfriends waiting at home."

"Straight guys?  You're kidding!"

"Boomer, straight and gay don't apply here.  I swear to you, 80% of the men in this city are available right now, and the other 20% you have to buy a drink first.  Come on -- point out a guy, anyone you like, and I'll bring him home for you tonight."

Yeah, right -- an ex-porn star would have no trouble picking up someone in a gay-owned patisserie full of gay men in the heart of Le Marais.  But what about a straight guy out on the street?

"Ok -- what about -- him?"  I pointed out the window at a police officer watching us suspiciously, to make sure no one was having sex.

He was undoubtedly cute, a square face, short hair, muscular chest, meaty arms, big bulge.  But in 1989 the police were not our friend.

They were homophobes, out to arrest us for solicitation for saying "hello," lewd conduct for holding hands, sodomy for kissing.  They stood around outside gay bars, hoping to intimidate people from going in.  Even crime victims weren't safe from jeers, name-calling, and assaults.

A vice cop almost arrested Alan in the early 1980s.  No way was he going to risk another arrest!.

Alan paled a little, but gained fortitude from another bite of eclair.  "Not a problem, no problem at all.  I'll just go invite him over after work tonight."

While I stared open mouthed, he walked out the door, walked right up to the cop went over and struck up a conversation.  He pointed me out.  The gendarme smiled and waved at me, and a moment later walked away.

Alan returned.  "Ok, his name is Antoine, he gets off at 6:00, so he'll be at the apartment a little after.  You'll be going down on him by 6:30."

I stared, open-mouthed.

"We won't go out to dinner until afterwards, ok?"

Was he putting me on?

"I have to get to work.  See you tonight."

I went to the gym, the  Lachaise Cemetery to see Oscar Wilde's grave, the Shakespeare and Company bookstore, Luxembourg Gardens (again), and finished up wandering around the Sorbonne, thinking about my upcoming "trick."  Was Alan putting me on?  Or would he bait and switch, picking up a guy who looked sort of like the cop?

At a little after 6:00, I returned to the apartment.

Alan had pulled the couch out into a bed, and was sitting next to Antoine the Cop!  Not in uniform -- wearing a black button-down shirt and jeans.

Of course, you change into street clothes after work.

"I brought you a little present," Alan said.

Antoine the Cop didn't even wait to be introduced -- he pulled me down onto the bed on top of him.  I unbuttoned his shirt and ran my mouth over his smooth, very hard chest while he and Alan kissed.  Soon I had worked my way down to his crotch.  After fondling him for awhile, I unzipped him and pulled out his long uncut Bratwurst.  No public hair -- he must shave.

I started going down on him. At the first stroke, I felt Alan's hand on my shoulder.

 It's too soon for your turn! I thought.  But I looked up.

He was gesturing at the clock.  6:30 exactly.

See also: Alan and I Share the Kept Boy;  Alan's Three Arrests; Alan's Substitute for Sharing

The Glory Hole Bait and Switch at a Paris Bathhouse

Paris, June 2015

I've got nothing against small guys.  I'll gladly go home with either of these two, or both:

But I hate bait-and-switch.

The Bains d'Odessa, a gay bath house in Paris, has a series of alcoves with glory holes -- holes placed in the wall at penis-height.

One guy puts his penis through the hole, and the other goes down on him, "anonymously."

Some guys like the sense of fantasy -- the penis could belong to anyone you wanted.

Others want sex without going through the trouble of cruising.

Of course, it isn't usually anonymous -- the guys will usually scope out each other before beginning.

But sometimes you are walking by, and someone has already begun, pushing his penis through the glory hole in search of a taker.

One day I was walking by and saw this staring out at me.

One of the biggest I've seen in awhile, easily a Mortadella, uncut.  I estimated that the guy it was attached to was tall, tan, and hairy.

Naturally, I went for it.

After awhile, the guy began to moan and gasp.  Deep voice, very sexy.

After he finished, he pulled back. I saw him put on a towel.  He appeared at the entrance to the alcove, smiling.

A very attractive twink, thick brown hair, blue eyes, hairy chest.  Shorter than I expected.

He drew me into a kiss, but pulled away when I tried to grope him.

"You were very good," he said in heavily accented French.  His voice was higher than I expected. "My name is Ludek."

"Boomer."

"You will have dinner with me?"

We walked about five blocks to Flam's, a fast-food place that specialized in an Alsatian pizza called Flamenkueche, and talked in a melange of English, French, and German.

Ludek was originally from the Czech Republic, but he grew up in Hamburg, and now he was living in Paris, working on a graduate degree at the ECE, the engineering school.

"I don't go to the bath houses very often," he said.  "I am very shy."

"I don't understand why.  You are very attractive.  You must be approached often."

"No, not very often, and then only by guys who are desperate."

"Just take your towel off and go naked.  You are so big, you are bound to get many admirers."

He smiled coyly.

After dinner we walked through the Luxembourg Gardens and eventually made our way back to my tourist hotel in Le Marais, the gay neighborhood, where we kissed and groped for awhile, and Ludek went down on me.

Eventually we took our clothes off to climb into the bed.

He didn't have a Mortadella!  It was rather small, average at best!

"Wait -- you're not the guy from the glory hole!"

"Of course not.  That was my friend.  I was just fondling his rear as you worked on him."

"But...but...surely you realized that I thought it was you?"

Ludek blinked, confused.  "Why would you think that?  I look nothing like my friend."

"But I didn't see him when he went in the alcove! Or you, either!"

"So you saw only his penis," Ludek said slowly.  "But you saw all of me except for my penis.  Are you disappointed?"

"No, of course not.  You are very attractive.  But..."

To this day I think Ludek was lying in wait on purpose, using his friend's Mortadella to his advantage, out of a misguided belief that his penis was too small.

His friend, by the way, was not really my type.

See also: The Smallest Guys on My Sausage List; the Darkroom Bait and Switch.

Tomor the Mongolian Shaman of Paris

Paris, July 1999

I spent the summer of 1999 in Paris, ostensibly researching French social thought, but really just...well, being in Paris. Every day I took the metro to the National Library to do research for a few hours.  In the afternoon I visited the parks, churches, and museusm, and in the evening, just after work, I dropped by a gay bar or bath house.  The Parisians were very friendly, very willing to talk. More often than not, they invited me out to dinner.

The tourists were not so friendly -- they came to Paris to meet Parisians, not Canadians with bad accents (I always claimed to be Canadian to avoid the hostility).  So one night at the Duplex Bar, , when I saw an Asian guy holding the wall up, I kept my distance.

He was cute though, slim, hard-torsoed, golden -skinned, with dark eyes and a beard and moustache.  And there weren't a lot of Asians in Paris.  So eventually I thought "What's the worst that can happen?" and approached.

"Bonjour.  Je suis Boomer, dans Toronto," I began.  

"Tomor.  Dans Mongolia."

"Mongolia!"  I repeated, thinking of all that I had heard about Silk Road, the empire of Genghis Khan, the stately pleasure dome of Kublai Khan, the semi-nude wrestling competitions; the penis statues. the men.

"I'm not Khalka, I'm Baad," he said in fluent French.. "From the Uvs Province, near the Russian border."

"Ok, ok.  My friend Yuri is Russian.  He loves Mongolian guys.  Especially if they have a lied grand."  Yuri had never expressed a particular interest in Asian men, but he was into super-sized lieds.

"Et moi aussi."  

Tomor told me that he had come to Paris to study history at the Sorbonne, and to get away from the homophobia at home.  It was the Khalkha, the ruling tribe of Mongolia, that instituted homophobia, he said.  And the Buddhists and the Communists.  In the early days, before the Buddhists came, same-sex relations were honored.  They made warriors brave.

"Wait -- the Buddhists?" I asked.  "Aren't most Mongolians Buddhists?"

"Most, maybe.  Not me.  I worship the old gods.  Tengri the Sky Father.  We journey in spirit to the other worlds."

With a start I realized that it was 8:00 pm, early for dinner for most Parisians, but late for me.  We walked down the street to a Vietnamese restaurant near the Rambuteau Station, and then took the Metro to Tomor's apartment, which he shared with another Mongolian

"Is he Tengrin, also?" I asked.

"Oh, no, Buddhist.  I'm not out to him.  Well, I'm out as gay, but not as Tegrin."

In his bedroom, instead of a statue of the Buddha, he had a photograph of a mountain he called Burkhan Khaldun.

I thought of Ibn Khaldun, the famous Medieval explorer, but Tomor said there was no relation.

Tomor said that the shamans of his religion were all bisexual, because they could look beyond the physical gender to the beauty of the soul.  During their spirit journeys, they usually changed gender, men becoming women, women becoming men.

Then he showed me a mask called a Tsam, a demon who could scare off the forces of darkness, including the force of homophobia.

I could use one of those back in my apartment in New York.

Suddenly I looked at the time.  It was 11:00!  I had been so busy talking that I forgot about our hookup!

"My apologies!" I exclaimed.  "I'm sure that you did not invite me here to talk about your religion!"

"But I did," Tomor said.  "Every guy wants sex, but nobody wants to hear about what is really important, the world of the spirits.  But what good is a physical act without the spiritual?"

"Sorry, I don't understand."

He touched my shoulder.  "Sex is one of the gate to the other world.  Your lover takes on the spirit and becomes your guide.  Otherwise it's just recreation, like going to a movie."

This sounded a lot like Tantric Buddhism, in which sexual acts of various sorts lead to enlightenment.  But I wasn't going to tell Tomor that, and offend him with more Buddhist contamination of the old religion.  I wanted some enlightenment.

He had a nice physique, and a surprising Bratwurst+ beneath the belt.  But the activity itself was unconfortable, a lot of jabbing and twisting, and weird pretzel positions.

Still, how many guys can say that they've been with a Mongolian shaman?

See also: The Ten-Foot Penis of Mongolia; 20 Preachers, Priests, and Religious Guys on My Dating List.