Yuri and I Meet the Emo Boy of London

London, June 1, 2007

I arrive at Heathrow Airport at 5:00 am. Yuri picks me up and takes me to his tiny, incredibly expensive apartment near Soho Square, in the heart of London's gay neighborhood.

His boyfriend Michael is just getting back from the gym: a bodybuilder, naturally, in his 40s, ripped but going a little to fat in the belly, with an oval face, a severe haircut, and several tattoos.

He grunts and squeezes my hand too hard.

Over breakfast, I  evidence no knowledge of British football, and make the newbie mistake of complaining that the people in London are rude.  You never criticize the country you're visiting!


Michael glares at me.  "Gotta go to work, but we'll meet for dinner tonight, yeah?  Burger King?  Or do you prefer McDonald's?  Some other kind of burger?"

"Boomer likes Thai food!" Yuri exclaims, to defuse the situation.  "Patara on Greek Street, 6:00, ok?"

They kiss, and Michael leaves.

Yuri has taken the day off, so we go sightseeing: the British Museum, St. Paul's Cathedral, a walk along the Thames, shopping in Soho.



"Michael is a nice guy -- trust me," Yuri says.  "He just needs time to know you."

"I was hoping that we could get together in bed again.  Are you monogamous?"

"No, we share. But I didn't tell Michael about sharing with you.  He's jealous, I think, because we lived together for a long time.  You can ask tonight, maybe."

At dinner, Michael is still surly.  When we go back to the apartment and sit on the couch to watch tv, Michael sits between me and Yuri.  I grab his knee, but he pushes my hand away.  Then, overcome by jet lag, I doze off.  I vaguely remember someone stretching me out on the couch and putting a blanket over me.

June 2 (Saturday)
I get up at dawn and go into the bedroom to awaken Yuri and Michael with hugs, and hopefully get an invitation into their bed.

"Sorry we overslept, mate," Michael says, pushing me away.  "We'll be up soon -- just give us a minute for private time, right?"

I don't mind not "sharing" Michael -- I've been with lots of bodybuilders.  But I want to hold Yuri in my arms again.

We have breakfast and go to the gym together, where Michael and I can compete over who can bench-press the most.

Afterwards I try to score some points by suggesting that we go on a tour of Wembly Stadium, where Londoners gather to watch football, but Michael says "Sorry, I'm very busy today.  But you and Yuri go on.  Get your sunglasses and cameras, and take a tour of Buckingham Palace.  Maybe Prince William is taking a shower, yeah?"


He is joking, but since Prince William is 25 years old, it's obvious that he's into young guys.  Yuri is 31, but could pass for a teenager.

Yuri and two of his friends drive me out to Stonehenge, and later we rendez-vous with Michael at the Gay Hussar, near their apartment.  It isn't actually gay-specific; it serves Hungarian food.

"What do you want to do tonight?" Yuri asks.  "We can go cruising.  There are lots of nice gay bars in Soho."

"Sure, that would be great. Would you guys mind if I brought someone home?"

"Not at all," Michael says, "If you don't mind blankets on the floor."

I'll bet if I bring a twink home, Michael will suggest more than that.  

Yuri hands me a guide book.  All types of gay bars, just like in West Hollywood.  Leather -- drag -- older guys -- twinks -- and Indie!  Obviously British slang for Indian.  This must be a bar for South Asians and their admirers, like the bars for black and Asian men in West Hollywood.

"How about this Indie bar just off the Strand.  I love South Asian guys!"

"It doesn't..." Yuri begins.

"Now, Yuri, don't be rude, like Londoners.  If our guest wants to go to an Indie bar, he can go to an Indie bar."

So we go to the Retro Bar.

You guessed it -- Indie doesn't mean Indian.  It's a type of music: Independent, not signed on to a mainstream record label.  Often local groups with an eccentric sound.

How was I to know?  I haven't listened to popular music regularly since around 1985. I think Avril Lavigne is a French children's author, and Fergie is Sarah Ferguson, the Duchess of York.

Indie music is horrible, all screeching and incomprehensible lyrics.

And the patrons are very young, barely out of their teens.  Some are probably in their teens.  We are the only guys over 25 in sight.

I like twinks as much as the next guy, but I feel very out of place in their hangout.

Besides, they aren't clean-cut, muscular college jocks.  They are emo, Goth, and scene kids: thin, pale androgynous, with straight black hair, hoodies, shirts emblazoned with cartoon characters, mascara-ed eyes, multiple tattoes, and pierced everything.  Not my type at all! Certainly not worth bringing home in the hope of fondling Yuri.

We commandeer a pedestal-table and order expensive juice drinks.

"The guys here are cute, yeah?" Michael says with an evil grin.  "So many Desis (South Asians)!  But the music is horrible, all screeching and shaking.  Not a lot of David Cassidy!"

I'm not going to let him know how uncomfortable I am!  "No, Indie music is great.   I had no idea.  I really love - the Futureheads."

"A Daddy who likes the Futureheads?"  someone says.  "And an American!  That's random, isn't it?"

I turn.  It's an emo kid, short, slim but with some muscle, dark skin, and a fringe of beard on his mascara-ed face.

"I'm Nehal.  Care to dance?"

Apparently my superheroic attractiveness to twinks works in England as well as America.  And, as it turns out, Nehal is a South Asian emo kid.

We dance, flirt, kiss.

"I'd invite you home," Nehal says, "But I stay with my parents, and they're old school conservative and that."

 "I'm staying with my friends.  They said I could bring someone over, as long as you don't mind blankets on the floor."

He glances at the pedestal table, where Michael is watching Nehal hungrily, and Yuri is looking bored and gesturing at his watch.

"Three Daddies!  Hot!"

First time I ever heard the youthful-looking Yuri described as a "Daddy."

"Maybe I could convince them to move us into the bedroom tonight, yeah?  If you don't mind sharing the wealth."

Before the night is over, I see both Michael and Nehal naked.  But more importantly, I hold Yuri in my arms again.  It feels like going home.

Paul, the Boyfriend Who Was Too Good in Bed

Dayton, September 2006

Would you like a boyfriend with such a prodigious sexual appetite that he wants to have three rounds of vigorous bedroom activity every day, morning, mid-afternoon, and evening (more if his interest is aroused in the most trivial way possible, like seeing a cute guy in bicycle shorts pass the apartment).

How about if each round of bedroom activity lasts for an hour or more?

Sound good?

Maybe not.

In the Straight World of Dayton, Ohio, most guys are very, very closeted, taking ladies to office functions, insisting on driving an hour out of town for your dates, never inviting you back to your apartment lest their roommate "find out."

Therefore you don't see boyfriends often, maybe once a week.  On other nights they are busy with family or work functions that you are not invited to, or just skittish about being seen.

So I dated Paul, the office drone/aspiring writer, for six months without noticing anything unusual.  Sure, he was very passionate, and extremely eager .  When he spent the night, I never got any sleep: hour-long sessions at bedtime, in the morning, and sometimes in the middle of the night.

But I figured, he was young -- in his 20s -- and really, really into me.

Besides, isn't everyone like that when you first start dating?  You always have to meet him at the venue, because if he comes to your apartment, or you go to his, you'll never leave.

I didn't think anything of it until my second boyfriend, Charlie, turned out to be Paul's roommate -- each thought the other was straight.  He moved out in embarrassment, and Paul needed a new roommate.

"Why don't we move in together?"  he suggested.  "We've been dating for six months -- it's about time."

"Won't people suspect?" I asked sarcastically.

"Oh, no, we'll move most of your stuff into the second bedroom, and introduce you as my 'roommate.'  It's a perfect plan!"

I still had six months left on the lease on my old apartment, so I just moved some books and clothes, and some mementos, like the armoire from India and the tapestry from Paris.  I assured Paul that the rest would be coming at the end of July.

We settled down into domestic bliss.

Sort of.

 Picture this:

1. I got up at 6:00 am so I could work out for a couple of hours before my first class.  But he required an hour of sex first.  No time to get to the gym.

2. We  took turns cooking dinner.  Preparation usually took about an hour, and I liked to eat at 6:00.  But Paul got home at 5:30, and required sex the moment he walked in the door.  So preparation didn't begin until 6:30, and we ate at 7:30.
"Paul, I get low blood sugar if I eat so late."
"So eat a snack.  I can't wait."

3. He wouldn't go to the theater in Dayton -- we had to drive to Columbus, an hour away, which means leaving at 6:30, or 5:30 if we wanted dinner first. But Paul got home at 5:30, and had to go into the bedroom right away.
"Can't it wait until later?  We've already done it for like 3 hours today already."
"Nonsense!  There's plenty of time!"
 No theater.

4. I was in the midst of the season finale of Ugly Betty, the scene where Santos is shot just as his son, Justin, is performing in West Side Story, when my hand accidentally brushed against Paul's lap.  He said, "We have to go into the bedroom now."
"Are you kidding?  I want to see if Santos lives."
"You can watch tv any time.  Let's go!"

5. I went out jogging, and came home soaked with sweat, ready for a shower.  Paul said "Good, you're home.  I saw a cute guy on the street, and I'm ready to go in the bedroom."
"Can it wait until I shower?  I'm soaked."
"No, I've waited too long already.  Let's go!"

6. I got dizzy and collapsed onto the floor, accidentally brushing against his butt on the way down.  He exclaimed, "I'm calling an ambulance!  But we have to go into the bedroom first!"
Ok, I just made that one up. 

Refuse, you say?  "No" means "no"?

I tried that.  Paul got hurt feelings.  "Don't you find me attractive anymore?  You like that tv more than you like me!  Why can't you be more understanding?"

Or else he would satisfy his longings himself, which took twice as long.  Still no theater, and dinner at 8:30!

After a dozen missed plays, concerts, tv shows, and workouts, about fifty late dinners, and who knows how much soreness. enough was enough.  I moved my stuff back into my old apartment.

First time anybody has ever been dumped for being too good in bed.

See also: Dating Two Guys At Once.

The First Half of My Scary Date with the Teenage Lawnboy

West Hollywood, October 1992

The Boy Next Door didn't really live next door. He lived at one of Lane's mother's rental properties, a five-unit building on La Jolla.  When Rosa got sick in the summer of 1992, it became Lane's job to distribute the paychecks to her employees, including the Boy Next Door, who was in charge of mowing the lawn and trimming the hedges at his apartment.

One day when Lane was busy, he asked me to do it.

I found the Boy Next Door -- we'll call him James -- cutting the hedge around the building while his pet beagle watched.

He was as tall as me, shirtless: a slim, tanned physique, hairless, small nipples. Curly brown hair, a round face with blue eyes. A cute college-aged twink. I thought.

"Hi, are you James? I'm Boomer, Rosa's son's um...roommate. He sent me over with something for you."

"Sure, I've known Lane for a long time."

"Oh, how long have you worked for Rosa?"

"A couple of years now," James said noncommittally. "How is she?"

"Not good. She can't get around too well. She mostly stays in the house now. We had to hire a live in nurse."

"That's too bad. She was always nice to me, brought me cookies on Hannukah."

What a mature conversation!

"How long have you and Lane been boyfriends?", James continued, taking the check from my hand.


Only gay guys would use the term "boyfriend."  I sighed with relief: one of us!  "A little over two years."

"That's cool," he said, giving me the face-crotch-face gaze of a blatant cruise. "I'd like to have somebody like that someday."

"Um...we have an open relationship." It was rather an obvious gambit, but I was only 31 years old, not yet a twink magnet, and I found the attention of this Cute Young Thing flattering. Besides, I wanted to one-up Lane, who dated a 19-year old beach boy just last month.

"So you can date other people?" James said, pretending to turn his attention to the dog. "Like maybe you could date me?"

"Sure. How's Friday night?   We can have dinner at the French Quarter, then go cruising at the Gold Coast..." I began.

James frowned. "Well, I'm too young to get into bars."

"Oh, ok."  He must be nineteen, I thought, the same age as Lane's beach boy.  "A movie, then?"

"Ok. I wanna see The Mighty Ducks."

It was a G-rated Disney movie starring Emilio Estevez, aimed at an audience of kids.  That should have given me a clue, but it didn't.  "The Mighty Ducks it is. I'll pick you up at your apartment at 6:00."

"Um...let's meet at the Pollo Loco, ok?" A fast food place across the street from the French Quarter, and about five blocks from his house.

"Ok.  And just so you know," I said, "For the bedroom activity, Lane has to be there. If you're not into sharing, he can just watch."

James grinned. "That's ok. I like Lane And I've never been with two guys before. It will be hot.." He reached out and grabbed my hand. I leaned in for a kiss, but he moved his head away. "Not here," he whispered. "My...um...neighbors don't know I'm gay."

We exchanged phone numbers, and I said goodbye and went on to deliver the other paychecks.

That night I told Lane that I had met a Cute Young Thing, but I didn't say it was James from his mother's property. I wanted it to be a surprise. But I did say that there would be a present for him in bed when he got back from synagogue.

On Friday night James wore a muscle shirt that displayed hard, firm muscles, and very, very tight jeans. I think he put some socks in there.

At Pollo Loco I tried to get him into a conversation about his classes, but he was noncommittal. Instead we talked about tv: he was a big fan of The Simpsons and Tiny Toons.

Ok, Tiny Toons was a kids' show on the WB Network, but lots of adults in West Hollywood watched for the gay subtexts.  "Hey, you're never too old for Warner Brothers animation."

Next came the very boring Mighty Ducks. We sat in the darkness, our knees pressed together, our arms sharing a single arm rest, eating out of a single box of popcorn.

The movie got out at 10:00. So did the synagogue service. I figured Lane would get home before us, so I brought James in and said "Surprise!"

No answer.

"Well, I guess he's not home yet. We'll have to wait." We sat down on the couch and turned on the tv. I put my arm around James and went in for a kiss.  Instead he moved his head down and started unbuttoning my shirt and kissing and fondling my chest.

"Hey..um...Lane's not here yet.  We should wait."

"He can watch when he gets home. Come on." He stood and took my hand and pulled me toward the bedroom.

At that moment Lane came in. "So, who's the big surprise..." He stopped stared open-mouthed at James.

"Hi, Lane. Boomer said it was ok for me and him to go on a date."

He continued to stare.  "Did you tell him how old you are?"

"Um...he's 19, isn't he?" I said in a small voice, suddenly feeling very embarrassed.

"19?  Boomer, did this conniving scalawag tell you he tried to make me last year? When he was --what was it, 14 years old?"

My heart sank as I realized what I almost did.  14? So this year he was...15? "What. No, he's 19.  He..."

James grinned sheepishly. "I'm fifteen and a half. I figured by the time you found out, you'd be so turned on you wouldn't care."

"Not care about committing a felony?" I said angrily.

"Oh, come on, it's illegal just to be gay. I'm not going to tell anyone.  And  I'm bigger than most guys my age. Wanna see?"

"No! Do you know how much trouble you could have gotten me into, you reckless idiot!  Don't you have any sense of propriety?  This isn't a game!  Now get the f*** out of here!"

James hung his head.

"Wait -- he's just a kid.  He doesn't know any better."  Lane went over and drew James into a hug. Misunderstanding, he tried to kiss him. "When's your birthday, James? When do you turn 16?"

"March 5th."

"Ok, your eighteenth birthday is March 5th, 1995, in two years and six months. That's when we'll finish this date. Mark it on your calendar. You, me, and Boomer will spend the night together. But not even a grope until that moment."

"Well, maybe a hug," I said, drawing us into a three-way hug.

Then we all drove to the French Quarter and had sundaes.

Lane and I figured that by the time March 5th, 1995 rolled around, James would forget all about us.


But he didn't.

Next: The Last Half of My Scary Date with the Teenage Lawnboy

See also: Hit on by a High School Boy; Artan the Beach Boy

Hit on by a High School Boy

Fairborn, Ohio, April 2008

A warm afternoon in April.  I am jogging in Fairborn Community Park in Fairborn, Ohio.  The jogging path is about mile long, through woods, over Beaver Creek, and then past the high school. 

I occasionally see high school and college boys passing me, going the other direction.  Sometimes they sprint past me.

Suddenly there is a boy jogging beside me beside me.  He doesn't pass -- he keeps pace.  Shorter than me, slim with brown hair and dark eyes.  He's wearing a green-and-yellow University of Dayton t-shirt and yellow jogging shorts.

"Hey, U. of D.!" I exclaim.  "I'm a professor there."

He looks over and smiles.  "Cool."

"What year are you in?"

"Sophomore."

"I never saw you here before.  A long way from campus, isn't it?"

"I like the woods."

We chat as we jog, the boy giving short, cryptic answers. I learn that he lives with his parents, and he wants to be a writer.

When a group of college-aged joggers approach, he looks alarmed, says "See ya!" and rushes off.

He appears again the next day.  This time no group of college-aged joggers interrupts us.  I learn that his name is Austin, he plays on the junior varsity football team, he has an older brother in the air force, and he hates zucchini.

At the end of the jog, Austin asks "Where are you going now?"

"Home to take a shower, I guess."

"Cool.  I could use a shower, too.  Can I come? You can drop me off here later."

I stare in surprise.  I get hit on by younger guys all the time.  It wasn't hard to recognize the shy, reticent way they express interest.  But they don't usually make such blatant propositions!

"Um...well, you know, my apartment's a mess."

"I don't care.  You should see my room!"

"Maybe another time, ok?"  I reach out my hand.  He squeezes it hard.  

On the third day, Austin ups the ante: he has his shirt off, displaying a slim, smooth chest, solid but not muscular, with nice abs. And I'm can't be sure, but it looks like he stuffed a sock into his pants.

"How did you know I was gay?"  I ask.

"I just figured.  You jog here every day, and there's never a girl with you."

"There's never a girl with you, either.  Or a guy."

"Oh, the guys at school are jerks.  I like older men."

"How many older men have you been with?"

"Only one.  I was jogging, and he sat in his car in the parking lot watching me, and one day he offered me a ride home.  He was way old, though.  Maybe 40!"

"I'm 46."

"Yeah, but you work out!  And I bet you got a big one!"

At the end of the jog, Austin asks, "Can I come over for that shower now?"

"Tell you what -- tomorrow's Friday.  How about a real date?  Dinner at Thai Nine, out to the bars, then we'll see what happens."

"Cool.  Meet me here at 5:00.  I have a 10:00 curfew, just so you know."

"No problem, I'll get you home before that."  We clasp hands again, and I drive home, wondering "What college student has a 10:00 curfew?"

Every since my "date" with another 15 year old in West Hollywood in 1992, I have learned to check the guy out if there's any doubt.  I go onto the University website.  There's no Austin listed on the Junior Varsity Football team.  So I google "Austin," "Fairborn, Ohio," and "football."  

Austin Alvarez.  There's a photo of him in the newspaper, sitting on Santa's lap. A little kid.  Five years ago.

He went to a junior high tennis camp. Two years ago.

This year, he was on the junior varsity football team -- at Fairborn High School.

Austin is fifteen years old! Sixteen, tops!

No way is this date happening, for obvious reasons: 

1. The age of consent in Ohio is sixteen.

2. I don't want to key into the myth that gay men are folk devils, out to seduce children.

3. He's a kid!

Back in Florida, I dated an eighteen-year old, and it was dreary.  We had nothing in common.  This would be much, much worse!

But I don't want to abandon Austin altogether.  Gay kids grow up in a world of silence and fear.  They don't know any gay people.  They have no way to learn about gay history or culture.  They have no idea that "it gets better."

Friday I don't go jogging.  I meet Austin in the park at 5:00 as scheduled.  He's wearing a nice button-down shirt and pants.  He looks like one of those kids you see on tv who are all nervous at the beginning of a heterosexual date, while their parents take pictures and coo "My son is growing up!"  I'll bet no one took pictures tonight!

"I don't know how this works," Austin says as he climbs into the car.  "Should we, like, make out?"

"Traditionally you start with dinner."

We have dinner at Thai Nine, as promised, and I tell Austin about the gay neighborhoods of West Hollywood and Wilton Manors.  He didn't know that such things existed. 

He doesn't say much.  He's busy trying to hide the fact that he's a sophomore in high school, but a few tell-tale signs give him away.  Like he hates his algebra teacher.  College students have professors, and typically take calculus, not algebra.

After dinner, we get back into the car and drive into the warm Ohio night.  Austin gets very quiet.

But I don't take him home.  We drive to a small, non-descript building in downtown Dayton.  The LGBT Community Center.

"What the..." Austin begins.  "Is this one of those sex clubs?"

"It's the Zone, a safe space for LGBT youth, aged 14 to 21.  They have games, videos, discussions, dances.  A great place to meet gay guys your age.  I think tonight is game night."

"You knew?  Well...don't you want to go home anyway?"

"Give it a try.  I'll pick you up in two hours.  If you still want to, we'll talk."

When I pick Austin up at 9:00, he is bubbling with excitement over the guys he met.  He even knew one from Fairborn High!"

"Total nerd.  Into The Big Bang Theory! Always got a portable chess set with him, if you can believe that.  Wants to be a chemist."  He pauses.  "Cute, though.  I invited him to see a movie tomorrow night."

"Your first date.  You must be excited!"

"Second date.  This one counts, even though you were sneaky about it."  He leans over and kisses me on the cheek.  "I'm ready to go back to my house now, if that's ok."  

We continued to jog together occasionally during the spring and summer, until I left for Upstate New York.

See also: My Date with the Teenage Lawnboy;  The High School Bodybuilder; David is Cruised by a Kid

The Night I Became a Creepy Old Guy

Albany, New York, January 2012

When I was living in the gay neighborhoods of California, New York, and Florida, cruising occurred in three distinct life stages, each with its own bars, cruising sites, protocols, and expectations.

1. Twink/Cute Young Thing

 From coming out to age 30, though some guys who came out later became honorary twinks.

After growing up in a constant hum of heterosexist brainwashing, being told over and over that same-sex desire does not exist, the twink went crazy, trying to cram as many masculine experiences as possible into his schedule.  He cruised constantly, in bars, on the street, on Grindr.

His mantra was: So many men, so little time!

2. Regular Guy

30s to mid-40s, though some guys graduated from Twinkdom early, and some stayed late.

Most Regular Guys had permanent partners, with shared apartments and dinners with their parents.  They might still cruise, but only to find someone to share.

3. Daddy/Bear

Mid-40s up, though guys with the right physique might come directly from Twink the moment they reached age 30 (or admitted to it.)

The Daddy or Bear was usually partnered, but cruised extensively anyway, with or without his partner (usually without).   Increasingly aware of his mortality, he wanted to cram as many masculine experiences as possible into his life, repeating the mantra of his youth: so many men, so little time!

While cruising, you were allowed to approach guys in your age group or higher. If you liked someone of a lower age group, you had to wait for him to approach you.

If you approached a younger guy, or even tried to make eye contact first, you were placed in Category 4:

4. Creepy Old Guy

The Creepy Old Guy was unaware of the protocols, or didn't care.  He approached anyone, from Twinks to Daddies, but concentrated on Twinks, as if he was living a second childhood.  He groped without checking for the appropriate body language, made obnoxiously sexual come-ons, and refused to be dissuaded by either Attitude or a firm "no."

I became a Creepy Old Guy quite suddenly, one night in 2012, at the River Street Club in Albany, New York. It was occupied primarily by guys in the Daddy/Bear category, with a sprinkling of Regular Guys but no Twinks.

Until Peter came in (I never got his real name): a twink, short, muscular, with a slightly hairy chest and a Bratwurst+ beneath the belt.  Later I discovered that he was 23 years old, a student at Rennselaer Polytechnic Institute, a few blocks away.

He came into the gym as I was working out.  You were supposed to pretend not to look, but I couldn't help sneaking a peak as I waited for him to finish with the bench press.

Maybe too long a peak.  He finished his set and rushed away.

I ran into him a bit later in the sauna.  There were protocols in place about who wanted to be touched; Peter wanted to be touched. But when I tried, he roughly pushed me away and left.

Everyone stared; I had forgotten that I was two age categories older than Peter!  I had committed a major faux pas.

My friend chuckled.  "Congratulations -- you just became a Creepy Old Guy!"

Later, I saw Peter in the maze, in a clench with another guy.  Surely he wouldn't mind if I just stood there and watched!  But when he looked up and saw me, he said something -- too low for me to hear -- then grabbed his partner's hand and rushed away.

Burning with embarrassment over being a Creepy Old Guy, I hung out in the shadows for awhile, and then decided to go to the hot tub, where people chatted without any sexual expectation.  Peter was there!

I had had enough. I jumped into the hot tub and sat next to him.  "I'm a member of this club, and I'm going to use the hot tub," I announced.

He pretended not to see me.

"You don't need to rush rudely away. I promise I won't commit the horrible sin of looking at you."

He stared. "What's your problem, man?"

"Well, I was a little offended when you cut your workout short just because I happened to be in the room."

"I was done, man!  I just wanted to pump up a little, to show off my pecs!"

Hot with rage, I continued. "And what about in the sauna.  You gave every sign of being open, but not when I got there!  No, don't let the Creepy Old Guy near you!"

"I was trying to relax!" Peter exclaimed.  "Any law that says you have to do things whenever some guy wants you to?"

"Well -- what about when you were in the maze, and I wasn't even good enough to watch you and the love of your life?"

"I don't like guys watching me!  Neither of us had a room, and I thought we could get some privacy in the maze.  Anything wrong with that?"

"Um..well...sorry.  My mistake."  I was mortified.  I pulled myself up out of the hot tub to slink away.  Then Peter stood, too.

"Look -- I've never been to this sort of place before.  Sorry if I didn't play by the rules."  He reached out and touched my chest.  "You seem like a nice guy.  Do you have a room?"

See also: 10 Easy Steps to Hooking Up with twinks; and My First Creepy Old Guy