My First Visit to an Adult Store

Bloomington, Indiana, fall 1982

I "figured it out" during my senior year in high school, but my real "coming out" was at the beginning of my first year in grad school at Indiana University.

As an undergraduate at Augustana College, I had worked hard, very hard, to find gay people, and I found a few -- my ex boyfriend Fred; an Episcopal priest in Des Moines; Prfessor Burton, who held handcuff parties for campus hunks.  You had to go through word of mouth, through a friend of a friend of a friend.

Now I was at a vast university with 40,000 students, and as far as I could tell from conversations and signals and interests, every single one of them was heterosexual.

My friends, classmates, and coworkers all, without exception, maintained the "what girl do you like?" whine of my childhood.  I had to leave Playboy magazines in my room, and think of logical reasons why I didn't have a girl on my arm every second.

My classes were as empty of gay references as they had been at Augustana.  Every writer who had ever lived was heterosexual.  Every poem ever written was written from man to women.  The Eternal Feminine infused all our lives.

And, as far as I knew, this was the way life was everywhere and for everyone.  A vast emptiness, hiding, pretending, unyielding silence.

That Saturday night I had been watching Silver Spoons and Mama's Family in the 13th floor tv lounge of Eigenmann Hall.  At 9:00, my roommate Jon said "Let's go to the grad student mixer.  I'm hot to get laid tonight."

I had no interest in getting laid.  At least, not as Jon understood it.  But I walked with him across the vast, silent campus, past empty buildings, past towers of Indiana limestone erected by heterosexuals long ago, to the Memorial Union, where a party for heterosexual grad students was in session.

Then I said goodbye and went to the campus library.  There were uncountable millions of books in the vast stacks, rooms as long as a football field, but only two listed under "homosexuality" in the card catalog: the memoirs of Tennessee Williams, and Nothing Like the Sun, by Anthony Burgess, about Shakespeare's romance with the Dark Lady of the sonnets.

I walked alone down Kirkwood Avenue, past student bars and little Asian restaurants and hamburger stands.  Just before the Baskin Robbins closed at 10:00, I stopped in and bought an ice cream cone.  Two scoops, strawberry on the bottom and Rocky Road on the top.  30 years later, I still remember that ice cream cone.

There was a gay bar in Rock Island, a dark closet bar with a nondescript name and no windows, where you entered through the back so no one could see you.  But surely Bloomington was too small for such a place.

 I stopped into a weird eclectic bookstore called the White Rabbit. No gay books -- it was illegal to display them openly, as Fred told me when I found his secret bookshelf two years ago.  So I bought a novelization of the 1980 Popeye musical starring Robin Williams, set in the port town of Sweethaven:

Sweet Sweethaven!  God must love us.
Why else would He have stranded us here?

A church tower had a cross that lit up white at night, and I looked up it and prayed "Why did you strand me here?"

I wandered for a long time through quiet residential streets, houses where heterosexual husbands and wives were asleep, their children in the next room surrounded by "what girl do you like?" brainwashing toys and games.  I walked past a public park, but was afraid to go in.  After dark, monsters roamed through the dark swaying trees.

It occurred to me that I was one of the monsters.  After all, being gay was illegal in the United States.  I was a criminal.  (Actually, Indiana's sodomy law was repealed in 1976.)

Somehow I found myself at a small, nondescript building on College Avenue.  The sign on the marquee advertised "Adult Books."

They probably wouldn't stock any gay porn.  But it wouldn't hurt to check.  The most they could do is call me a "fag."

The rest of the story is on Righteous Gemstones Beefcake and Boyfriends

I Bring Home a Teen Hustler

West Hollywood, April 1994

My boyfriend Lane and I had different tastes in men.  We both liked hefty, muscular or chubby guys, but he liked them older, tall, hairy, and fair skinned, and I liked them my age, short, smooth, and dark skinned.  So we got the idea of cruising separately and looking for our preferred types.

On Friday or Saturday nights, there was usually a party or a dinner to go to early in the evening.  If it didn't end in bedroom activity, Lane went to the Faultline or the Eagle in search of bears and leathermen, and I went to Mugi or Basgo's in search of Asian or Hispanic guys.

We would cruise from about 9:30 pm to 11:00 pm (if you don't meet someone within the first hour, you're not going to).  At 11:30 we met at the French Quarter to have a late snack and make the introductions.  Then we went home to share.

We usually ended up with one guy in our bed, but almost never two.  I don't know why.

That night in April 1994, I was having a dry spell: ever since I got back from Atlanta, nothing. Three Saturday nights in a row, Lane picked up hirsute, hung leathermen old enough to be my father, who might, if I was lucky, let me lick their balls while they were doing 69 with Lane.  I never got to take a load, or give one.

I felt like a third wheel in my own bedroom.

"Ok, that's it!" I exclaimed after the latest hirsute, hung leatherman had his coffee and left.  "I'm tired of the old, hairy guys!  Next Saturday night, I'm going cruising by myself -- you can stay home and watch a VHS tape of Star Trek -- to a twink, bar, where I'll pick up the smoothest, softest twink who ever twirled on a dance floor to the music of Sound Factory."

"That's easier said than done," Lane pointed out.  "You're 33 years old.  Infinite Chazz thinks you're hot, but the average twink wants somebody his own age."

"Not a problem -- I'll just flash my biceps and basket, and they'll follow me anywhere. In fact, I'll do you one better.  Next Saturday night in our bed, there will be a Cute Young Thing."

The youngest, softest, most innocent of twinks, barely legal, too young for the bars, age 18 to 21.

"Ok. Let's make it interesting.  If you bring home someone under 21, I'll do the chore you hate the most for a month."

"That's grocery shopping!" I exclaimed.  "And if I bring home someone over 21, or nobody at all, I'll do the chore you hate the most for a month."

"That would be laundry.  And I think it's about time to wash all the comforters and bedspreads in the house. You'd better stock up on Fab."  He paused.  "But no fair bringing home one of Infinite Chazz's friends.  You have to meet him through cruising."

I knew that I was in trouble.  I'm a twink magnet now in my 50s, but in my 30s young guys usually ignored me.  And how was I supposed to meet a Cute Young Thing, when they're too young to go to the bars?

9:00 pm: Different Light Bookstore.  Maybe they were browsing among the coming out manuals.

9:30 pm:  The Rage.  Maybe they got a fake id to go dancing inside.

10:00 pm:  Mrs. Fields' Cookies.  Cute Young Things like cookies, right?

11:00 pm.  The Cinerama Dome.  Maybe they were hanging out at the video game area of the theater.

11:30 pm. I found a pay phone and told Lee I would be a little late.

12:00 am.  The Toy Tiger, for old guys and their admirers.

1:00 am.  Book Circus, in desperation, to hire a hustler.

Book Circus was a small, sleazy bookstore on Santa Monica and La Jolla, only a few blocks from the French Quarter.  It sold mostly porn, but you could find some interesting other things.  There's nothing like buying a remaindered version of The D'Oyly Carte Picture History of Gilbert and Sullivan at 2:00 in the morning, while bleary-eyed patrons stare.

The patrons: guys who didn't get laid at the bars, eyeing old copies of Blueboy and Mandate to give them ideas before they go home to beat off.  And, if they don't want to go home alone, there were always hustlers wandering around.

Hustlers are not denigrated in gay communities, not looked down up or pitied.  They're merely capitalizing on their special gifts, generally an enormous penis,  How is making money from their penis any different than making money from musical talent or a big brain?  And the activity they engage in is enjoyable, not demeaning.  Why not get paid for doing it?

However, their clients are almost always bisexual, married, or downlow men.  Gay men have so many options for sex that they rarely have the need or the interest to patronize a hustler.

Except in an emergency.

Lane said I had to meet a Cute Young Thing through cruising.  He never said I couldn't pay for him.

It had to be a young looking guy, fresh-faced, innocent, right off the bus -- that's quite a tall order, for a hustler.  And he couldn't be drunk or high -- Lane hated drugs and alcohol.

Paydirt!  A very cute, very young looking guy, short, buffed, with black hair and dark skin, maybe Hispanic, pretending to read The Advocate.  He looked up at me and smiled.

"This place has a great selection," I said.  "I come here all the time."

He smiled.  "I usually wait until I get home."

An old joke.

We talked and cruised for a few minutes. He was Tai, from San Jose in northern California, 19 years old, in town for about six months.  He had a part-time job in a pizza place, but L.A. was expensive, and he was making money any way he could.

Time to seal the deal.  "It's pretty late.  Do you have a place to stay tonight?"

"Not if you're offering yours."

"Sure.  I live just about six blocks from here.  But kust you know, there'll be two of us.  Will that be extra?"

He frowned. "I don't do ladies."

"No, no -- my boyfriend.  He' a couple of years older than me, hairy chest,  cut 7.5."

"Sounds like just my type.  Oh -- before we go, could you lend me $10 for some cigarettes?"

Rather a cheap fee for a hustler, but I figured he'd charge us the rest later.

We went back to the house, where Lane was waiting up.  He was surprised to see the Cute Young Thing with me, but not so surprised that he didn't invite him into the bedroom and go down on him while we kissed.

Wait -- you didn't examine him for crabs! I thought.  But I'd be doing laundry tomorrow anyway.

Tai had a hard, smooth chest and a surprisingly small penis for a hustler.  Weren't they supposed to be gifted?  But when it became aroused, it hit flat against his belly.



I went down on Tai while he went down on Lane.  Soon I was taking his load.  Then I pushed him down onto the bed into interfemoral position, while he was still sensitive.  He groaned, gasped, and became aroused again.

Staying power!  A good quality for a hustler!

Now Lane went down on Tai again, while I entered his mouth from the top.  When I finished, Tai pushed me down onto his penis to spurt for me a second time.

Then we shared Lane's penis.  At the last moment, Tai pushed my head over so I would take Lane's load.

"That wasn't necessary," I said, gasping.  "I go down on Lane every day anyway.  We brought you in to share."

"Ok, then I'll take the next one.  But I'm warning you -- I'm keeping track."

Was he going to charge me by the orgasm?

After Lane finished his second orgasm, he got up and went to take a shower.  Tai lay his head on my chest.  I wrapped my arms around him.

"I should cover your payment now, while Lane isn't around," I whispered.  "How much do I owe you for the night?"

Tai began kissing my chest.  "How much do you owe me for what?"

"For...you know.."  My face began to burn. You weren't supposed to actually mention the contract openly.  "Um...don't you....um...charge?"

He smiled.  "Maybe, if the guy is a crazy closet case who won't kiss or go down on me.  Maybe not.  You'll never know."

And I still don't know for sure if Tai was a hustler or not.

By the way, total score: me 1, Lane 2, Tai 4.

See also: The Teenage Lawnboy; Cruising East of Alvarado.

The Five Gay Guys of Eigenmann Hall

Bloomington, September 1982

After meeting no gay people  at all (that I knew of) in high school, and only a few in college, I moved to Bloomington, Indiana in 1982 to work on my M.A. in English, and within a few weeks I met four!

Four gay men right in Eigenmann Hall, the graduate student dorm, right in the 13th floor tv lounge!

Well...sort of.

1.  On Friday nights, some of the guys liked to watch The Powers of Matthew Star n the 13th floor tv lounge.  One night I knocked on the door of an optometry student named Mark to tell him it was time, and he was sitting cozily on his bed next to another guy.

 "Who's this?"  I asked, grinning.
 "My...um...cousin, visiting for the weekend," Mark told me.

2. On the night of September 25th, I went to an adult bookstore and asked "Do you have anything gay?"  The resulting Gayellow Pages got me the number of a gay student group.  I was afraid to go to meetings, since they said that they were "monitored by the police" (I thought that being gay was illegal in Indiana).  But I did contact the group's secretary, Rick (not his real name), a doctoral student in philosophy who lived two floors down.

3. Rick introduced me to Joseph, an undergraduate in history.

4. I don't remember how I met Andrei, an engineering student from Poland.  He was on the down low: "In my country, you are expected to get married and have children, but other than that, no one cares what you do."  He would go out with his girlfriend, then call me at 2:00 am: "I'm so horny I could **** a cow!  Please come to my room!"  It wasn't hard to resist such a gracious invitation.

Honorary #5: Terry, a MFA student in theater, was flamboyantly swishy, with an overmodulated voice, fluttering hands, a fabulous wardrobe, and metrosexual hair care products.  But he claimed to be straight, and regaled the 13th floor with tales of seducing a different lady every night.

So much for Eigenmann Hall.

See also: Sharing the Optometrist's Boyfriend.