A Naked Man for Christmas

Dan in college

This story has been moved to RG Beefcake and Boyfriends

There's a Picture of Me and a Girl on My Parents' Dresser

Rock Island High School, Senior Year

Younger gay guys are often shocked to discover that I used to date girls. "Are you bisexual?" they ask. "Were you trying to 'turn' straight?"  Was it a screen, so no one would find out?" 

"No."

"Then...why?"

I think for a long time, wondering myself.   But in the end there's only one answer: "I had no choice."

During my childhood in the 1970s, heterosexual desire was assumed universal human experience.  Little boys might think "girls are icky!," but once they hit puberty, they would "discover the opposite sex," become obsessed with feminine curves and smiles.  Period.  No exceptions.  End of story.

So from birth relatives, teachers, preachers, coaches, camp counselors, judo instructors, Mean Boys, and friends subjected me to a flurry of interrogations: "Do you like girls yet?", by which they meant "Have you grown up?  Are you a man?"

When I turned 13, then 14, then 15, pubescent, yet still protesting a lack of interest, they shifted their tactics.  I was obviously "wild about girls," like every boy who ever existed. I just needed to find one who was my "type."  So they demanded: "Do you like that girl?  Or that one?  Or that one?"

They asked "What girl do you like?" more often than "How are you?"  I went to sleep each night with the interrogation ringing in my ears: "What girl do you like?  What girl do you like?  What girl? What girl?"

When I was hesitant about answering, or answered with the name of a head cheerleader too far out of my league to realistically pursue as a girlfriend, they -- literally everyone I knew -- tried to fix me up.

My father invited coworkers with teenage daughters over for dinner. Teachers assigned me female partners for projects.  Friends orchestrated chance meetings.  I was seated next to girls in the car, invited to parties only to discover that a "date" had been arranged for me, asked to fetch a book from a girl's house.  When the waitress smiled for her tip, I was advised "She likes you -- ask her out."

During high school, I succumbed to dates with 8 girls, including Julie, my date to the Senior Prom.

Everyone was going.  And during the spring semester, no one could talk about anything else. Finals, graduation, college plans?  Who cares!  Let's talk about corsages, tuxedos, dance steps, limousines, and fancy, expensive dinners at Jumer's Castle Lodge (which had rooms to rent upstairs, they told me with a leer).

Everyone wanted to know who I was bringing.  Friends I hadn't talked to in years accosted me in the hallway to ask "what girl?" "what girl?" "what girl?"

But...I didn't have a girlfriend!



"Ask someone -- anyone!  You have to go!  It's a rite of passage, the beginning of adulthood."

But...my church deemed dancing a sin, so surely my parents would never give me permission!

They did.  "Go! Stay out as late as you want! It will be the most important evening of your life!"

But...I didn't want to ask a girl!

My brother took care of that, fixing me up with an 11th grader named Julie, who was thrilled by the promise of hanging out with seniors.

It wasn't that bad.  We shared a limousine with Aaron (the rabbi's son who didn't realize that he was gay), Darry, and their dates, so it was much like a group of friends hanging out together.

This was the disco era, so we didn't need to touch as we danced to "Disco Inferno" and "Do You Believe in Magic."   It was easy enough to turn slightly and pretend to be dancing with a guy. And when we came to a slow number, like "You Belong to Me" by Carly Simon, I suddenly felt a desperate need for punch and cookies.

The only thing I hated was the slap-on-back congratulations, as if having Julie on my arm was the pinnacle of accomplishment.  I had fulfilled the hopes, dreams, and aspirations of everyone I knew!  No more uncertainty, no more sleepless nights of worry -- I had arrived.

There was a photographer, so Julie and I were photographed, me in my brown suit and Julie in her yellow dress.  20-wallet sized to send to all of our friends and relatives, and a full-size for the mantle.

After having dinner at Jumer's Castle Lodge and ignoring offers to get a room, I had the limo deposit Julie on her doorstep, with a "Thanks for a nice evening" but no kiss.  I never saw her again.

 But my parents put that picture on the mantle, amid pictures of me and my brother and sister and uncles and aunts and grandparents.

It stayed there, me and a girl smiling at the world, after I figured it out, after I dated Fred the Preacher and the Priest with the Pushy Mom and the cute cultist

It stayed there, me in a brown suit and a girl I never saw again, while I was living in Bloomington and Texas, discussing my date with the bodybuilder and my trip to India with Viju and my trip to Italy to track down my high school crush.

One day in frustration I took it down and hid it in a drawer in my room, but the next year it returned like the raven in the Edgar Allan Poe poem, chortling "Nevermore!"

It stayed there when I moved to West Hollywood,  telling my parents all about dating Alan and Raul and my celebrity boyfriend and my date with Richard Dreyfuss.

Why did my parents leave it up?  What were they trying to say?  What were they trying to believe?

This isn't the photo

Finally, in the summer of 1988, a decade after my prom date, it vanished from the mantle, replaced by an Isabel Bloom sculpture. 

Thank God! I exclaimed.

Sometime during the 1990s, a picture of me and my partner Lee appeared on the mantle, in a group photo with my brother and sister and their spouses.  I figured that the prom photo was gone for good.  But no...

Rock Island, December 1994

During a Christmas visit,  my mother asked me to get something out of her bedroom.  I hadn't been in there for years.

That darned prom photo was sitting on their dresser!

As far as I know, it's still there.

Cartoon Characters in Bondage

Deviantart.com and yaoi sites are full of fan art depicting the cartoon characters of your childhood nude, aroused, or in bondage.

They call this "ruining your childhood," although I can't understand why adding an erotic component to a cartoon character ruins anything.

(All pictures courtesy of the original artists.)

1. A grown-up Bam Bam from The Flintstones

2. Child genius Dexter from Dexter's Lab grow into an adult science nerd, being whipped by his nemesis Mandark.

3. Bender prepping Fry from Futurama.

4. Max Goof aroused at the beach.  He never said "Hyuck."  That was his father Goofy.

5.  Mordecai and Rigby from Regular Show

6.  Fred and Shaggy from Scooby-Doo.

7.  Zim and Dib from Invader Zim

8. Moose from Archie comics.

9. Elmer Fudd?

10. "Superboy"?  Except Superboy has black hair .

The Gay Painting in My Grandmother's Room

Garrett, Indiana

The cold, snowy day after Christmas.  Cousin Buster and I have already played with our toys, and we're tired of sitting around the living room of Grandpa Prater's farmhouse, listening to the adults complain about hippies and laugh about things that happened a thousand years ago.  So we go exploring, hoping to find a secret stash of comic books.

The kitchen
The furnace room
A little room used as as a pantry.
A room with a pump in it.
Some bedrooms.
Grandma Prater's Room.  Locked.  Off-Limits.

Grandma Prater died in 1966, when I was five years, old, so I have only a few random memories of her:  a short, fat, brown woman carrying bags of groceries, frying chicken, telling me a story about a mouse, giving me the nickname Boomer.  She had a thick Kentucky accent.

In a small farmhouse, they could use an extra bed, but after she died, no one ever slept in her bedroom again.  The adults went in to clean, or to look around, but kids weren't allowed: we might "break something."

The door was always locked, but when we played in the house, we always tried it anyway, just in case.

Today the knob turns, and the door stands ajar!  Cousin Buster and I glance at each other in surprise, then push the door open and look inside.

It is a very bright, airy room, not at all stuffy, with two windows and blue wallpaper.  A four-poster bed with a blue comforter,  the covers turned down, a Bible opened to the Psalms, as if Grandma Prater has just stepped out and would return at any moment.

A wooden dresser with photos of Kentucky kinfolk.  A bureau.  Clothes on hangers visible in the open closet door.  A rocking chair with knitting stuff on it.


And a painting: in a lush green forest, a boy is leaning against a tree, playing a flute.  He is wild, savage, naked except for an animal skin. A round red sack hangs from his side.

I stare in awe.  I am looking through a gateway into a "good place," where boys can hold hands and kiss without anyone asking "what girl do you like?"  The boy is a fairy, a mystical sprite, beckoning me, offering a way to the secret world.

After that, on most Christmas and summertime visits, I asked to see Grandma Prater's room.  I became familiar with the bed, dresser, bureau, and rocking chair.  I picked up her Bible, read the annotations, examined her sewing, turned the photos around to see who the subjects were.

But my favorite part of the tour was the painting.

Who was the boy?  Puck from A Midsummer Night's Dream?  A boy Hercules (was that a lion skin?).  I thought of the Piper at the Gates of Dawn in The Wind in the Willows, the painting that led to Narnia, the Road to Elfland in heroic fantasy.

And, as I learned more about my grandmother, the painting seemed more and more out of place.

She was born in 1900 in the desolate hills of Eastern Kentucky.  Although she graduated from high school, a rarity at the time, she lived in isolation and poverty.  During the Great Depression, they survived by making moonshine.  She lost four of her eleven children.  During World War II, she moved to Indiana, to another isolated farmhouse.

She believed in ghosts, haints, witches, and premonitions.  A few weeks before she died, she heard her mother calling her from beyond the grave.

She never read fantasy or mythology, or, as far as I could tell, any book but the Bible.  There was no other art in the house except for a picture of Christ on the Cross and a souvenir from Indiana Dunes.

I asked my mother where the painting came from, but she didn't know -- it had been there as long as she could remember, even back in Kentucky.

Were there art galleries in the Kentucky hills?

Et in Arcadia ego.

Grandpa Prater died in 1978, but Uncle Edd continued to live in the farmhouse until 1998, and, I assume, kept up the blue room and the painting.

 After I moved to West Hollywood, I visited my parents twice a year, first in Rock Island and then in Indianapolis, with little time leftover to visit my elderly aunts and uncles in northern Indiana.

Before I knew it, ten, twenty, thirty years had passed since I last went into Grandma Prater's room.

Indianapolis, December 2000

Yuri and I are spending Christmas with my parents.  We go into the room that they've turned into a home gym: two exercise bikes, some free weights...and hanging on the wall beside a towel rack, The Painting!

I stand speechless, staring, as memories rush back.

How did it get here?  Maybe when Uncle Edd moved out of the farmhouse, Mom claimed it.

Yuri touches my shoulder.  "Are you ok?"

"Sure...I mean...this is one of my favorite childhood memories, a picture from my grandmother's bedroom.  I thought it was a hint that gay people exist."

"Your grandmother had the Pastyr Devid?"

"You know it?"

Turns out that it was one of the illustrations in a book of Bible stories that Yuri's grandmother read to him.

"I ask for the story of David the Sheep Boy..." Yuri began.

"Shepherd?"

"Ok, David the Sheepherd.  I asked Baba to read me that story many times.  I thought he was beautiful.  Maybe this is where I know I am gay?"

A continent apart, both our grandmothers inadvertently showed us a sign of gay potential.


I looked up the painting on the internet:  it's Shepherd Boy Playing the Flute, by Polish painter Henryk Siemiradzski (1843-1902), who specialized in Biblical and classical scenes.

Leaving two questions:

1. Was Siemiradzski gay?  I don't find a lot of beefcake in his works.  There's a couple of cute guys on the curtain he painted for the Juliusz Slowacki Theater.

2. How did my grandmother get a print of a work by a minor Polish painter in the hills of Eastern Kentucky?

The Leatherman Who Never Left South of Market

SOMA, South of Market,  was a San Francisco neighborhood of warehouses, factories, car repair places, tattoo parlors, dive bars, drug deals, graffiti, and general decay.

And Mickey, a tall, buffed leatherman in his 30s, with a scruffy beard, nipple rings, and a tattoo of Hot Stuff the Little Devil.

He was at every beer bust at the Eagle, standing in a dark corner in chaps and a leather jacket, never talking to anyone.  Guys who approached generally got Attitude.

He was at every underwear party at the Lone Star, standing in a dark corner in a leather jockstrap, never talking to anyone, although he would let guys grope him.

He was at every Bear Party, standing in a dark corner, naked except for a leather vest, never talking to anyone, although he would let guys go down on him.

And that's it.  I  never saw him exchange phone numbers or leave with anyone, or even talk to anyone, nothing but wordless groping and blow jobs.  Apparently he had no friends.

I was intrigued,  What caused a man to become isolated even from his own people?  But when I tried involving Mickey in a conversation, all I got was Attitude at the Eagle, my hand pushed down on his cock at the Lone Star, and my head pushed down on his cock at the bear parties. 

Then one Tuesday morning I was walking down 9th to my part time job at an architectural firm, and I saw Mickey walking down Folsom, looking out of place in his chaps and leather vest in the midst of a business day.

"Hey, Mickey!" I called.  He turned and looked at me, confused, threatened.

"Boomer.  From the bear party last night, remember?"

He stared at me for a long moment.  "Um...sure," he said finally, as if was a last resort.  "Um...how are you?"

"Fine, thanks.  I'm on my way to work. I'm an administrative assistant at McCracken. You?"

"Um, well...."  He looked around, confused, as if he never had a conversation that didn't involve sex. 

"Are you on your way to work, too?"  I suggested.  "Nice job that lets you work with your shirt off!"

"I work in a leather shop. Looking hot is good for business."

My information about Mickey had doubled!  Now was my chance!  "So...are you free for lunch?  There's a nice Chinese restaurant down on Bryant.  You might have to put on a t-shirt...."

He peered toward the south.  "I never go past Harrison.  Too homophobic. Sixth to Twelfth, Harrison to Market, that's my turf."

"Really?"  I was shocked. He had named a constrained world of about ten blocks!  Ok, it had the Eagle, the Lone Star, the house where they held the bear parties, and some gyms, tattoo parlors, and bike shops, but no banks, bookstores, hardware stores, parks, or movie theaters.  And... "Never?  You're missing the Castro! Gay heaven!"

"I'm not missing it much!"  Mickey grinned.  This was the first time I ever saw him express any emotion.

"Ok, how about if I come to you?  I'll pick up some Chinese food and drop by your shop."

"Is it a gay Chinese restaurant?" he asked pointedly. "I don't eat straight food."

Straight food?

Over gay kung pao chicken and gay pork dumplings, Mickey told me a bit more about his life:

1. He grew up in Missouri, and had a degree in visual arts from Washington University in St. Louis.
2. He was working as a graphic artist in St. Louis, but he was accidentally outed and fired.
3. He was the favorite uncle to his brothers' and sister's kids, but when he was outed, they cut off all contact.
4. While leaving Clementine's in St. Louis, he was jumped and beat up by a band of homophobes, and spent five days in the hosptial.  His brothers and sister didn't visit.
5. He had lived in San Francisco for about five years.  But he never visited the Castro.  He'd have to go through a homophobic neighborhood to get there.

Gradually I began to understand.  Some horrifying experiences with homophobia -- much worse than my own -- drove Mickey to bulwark himself in muscle and leather, entomb himself South of Market, and refuse human contact except when necessary for work or erotic release.

But gay neighborhoods were not about erotic release -- they were always about finding friends, family, a place where you belong.

And I knew exactly how to get Mickey there!

"The Metropolitan Community Church has an outreach program for gay youth," I said.  "Many of them are having a terrible time at home, with parents who are homophobic and treat them like dirt."

"That's awful!" Mickey exclaimed.

"One of the things we do is give them a place to hang out after school.  But right now it's unstructured, just some snacks and videos in the fellowship hall.  I think they need some structured activities, like sports, or maybe an art class."

He knew where I was going.  "No way -- I'm no teacher!"

"You don't have to know how to teach.  You have to know how to mentor.  You can be a favorite uncle again."

"But I'm an atheist!"

"The MCC doesn't discriminate."

"The MCC -- that's in the Castro, isn't it?"

"Yes, you'd have to go to the Castro. And you'd have to put on a shirt."

It took a bit more persuading over several days of gay Chinese food, but a few weeks later Mickey and I were in the pastor's office, discussing his art background.  And a few weeks after that, Mickey started his after-school art classes for LGBT youth.

The transformation was amazing.  Soon Mickey was talking to people at the Lone Star and the Eagle.  He was volunteering to work on the Mr. San Francisco Leather competition.  And he invited one of the guys who went down on him at a bear party to dinner -- at a gay restaurant, of course.

See also: The Slave Boy of Castro Street; The Leather Bear Shares his New Boyfriend.

Bill and I Find a "Little Bit O'Heaven"

Rock Island, May 1972

When I was a kid, one of my birthday presents was always an excursion for me and two or three friends to anywhere we wanted in the Quad-Cities.  Unfortunately, my birthday was in November, so most of the fun places were closed.

But then I got the bright idea of postponing the excursion to May: then my friends and I could go to Mother Goose Land, Longview Park, the Putnam Museum, or the Niabi Zoo.  Or, the spring of sixth grade, A Little Bit O' Heaven.

B. J. Palmer, son of the founder of chiropractic medicine, traveled the world collecting Chinese, Indian, and European art.  Now it was on display in a contemplative garden on the grounds of Palmer College of Chiropractic.

The commercials promised: "Mystical idols from the forbidden East! Treasures of Greece and Rome!  Dangers around every curve!"

I imagined a temple out of Johnny Quest, with statues of Greek gods and naked natives brandishing spears.  

As my boyfriend Bill and I talked it over, the Little Bit O' Heaven became bigger and bigger.  Acres of statues.  40-foot tall slabs of muscle. Flexing bodybuilders.  Natives who were completely naked!  Rows of penises that you could see and touch!

It was settled.  We were going to A Little Bit O'Heaven!

I invited Bill and two other friends who liked muscles: Joel, a cute curly-haired soccer player, and Greg, the boy vampire who gave me my first kiss.  My brother wanted to come, to do research for his own birthday excursion in June, and of course Dad drove us and paid the admission fee.

It started out ok: we walked through an ornate gate into a tropical greenhouse with macaws and parrots, and a 40-foot waterfall splashing through a miniature town.  Then a 10-foot tall statue of the Buddha, some totem poles, and a pond full of live alligators!

That was cool, but we were anxious to get to the acres of muscles and penises.

Next came a courtyard where you walked along a winding path, past statues.  A fat Buddha.  A naked lady.

Another turn, another naked lady.

"Where are the men?" Bill asked.

"They're coming up, probably saving the best for last," I assured him.

Another turn, another fat Buddha.  And another naked lady.

"You said there would be Greek gods," Greg protested.

"Naked," Joel added.

"Um...maybe they're in storage," I said.  My stomach was starting to hurt.  "Dad, where are the men?"

Another turn, another naked lady.

"It's art," he said with a shrug.  "That means women."  

"Gross!" Bill exclaimed.  "Who wants to see that?"

I was hot with disappointment, outrage over the false advertising -- and embarrassment.  I promised my friends muscles!  "Dad -- let's get out of here!  Can we go to the Putnam Museum instead?"  

"No way, Skeezix!  This is your birthday trip, and it cost me a fortune."  He always called me Skeezix when I failed to demonstrate heterosexual interest.  "Now quit whining and enjoy it!"

My friends never forgave me for subjecting them to the Little Bit O'Heterosexual Heaven.

Although getting ice cream on the way home helped.

The Nude Photos of the Icelandic Artist in a Box

Here are the nude photos of Almar Atlason, the Icelandic art student who spent a week naked in a box in a performance open to the public and live-streamed on youtube.

How did he lie down in there?

I couldn't go for a week without exercise.  Well, I guess he got some exercise engaging in the most private of acts.

Here we get a good view of his tattoo, his belly, and his penis.

Chris Redfield in Peril

While browsing through my tumblr feeds of BDSM art, I happened to notice a lot of pictures of someone named Chris Redfield, stern, muscular, very well hung, being menaced.  

Often tied to some sort of milking machine.

Or captured by a tentacle-monster.

Or both.

Rarely any consensual sexual scenes.

I figured he must be a tv character, so I looked on IMDB, and found Resident Evil: Afterlife (2010), wtth Wentworth Miller as an ex-con who fights zombies along with his sister.  He doesn't appear in any of the three previous Resident Evil movies.

He originally appeared in the video game franchise Resident Evil (1996-), a member of a special police force fighting supernatural bogies.  Later he joins a paramilitary group to fight bio-terrorism. 

That explains the monsters, but it doesn't explain why this rather obscure character is so popular.

Some fans think that Redfield is canonically gay.  He doesn't get a female love interest, and he's rescuing his sister, turning over the trope of rescuing the girlfriend.

(all pictures copyright by their respective owners)

Kalabro: The Art of Action Hero BDSM

How many times did you get tired of Tarzan or Conan fighting off 100 guys?  Surely they should lose a fight once in a while, especially against those odds.

Or when they were captured, they were tied up with flimsy ropes and...nothing, just standing there.  They have just foiled your diabolical plan -- wouldn't any self-respecting villain want to rough them up a bit?










Fortunately, we have Kalabro, an artist who specializes in action heroes with enormous penises losing a fight.























Or captured -- and not just standing there.

Their assailant is usually a gigantic monster (with an enormous penis)  in a heroic fantasy setting, but occasionally there are paranormal or science fiction themes.

Kalabro explains:  "I've been fascinated with muscles, men, and sword and fantasy along with bondage and S&M for...well, a very long time. I always wanted to see...more...happen to Tarzan or Conan if they got caught by "bad guys."

















He has ongoing characters, Anak, Omari, Shane, and the Jungle Boy, all extremely muscular, extremely well hung, and naked.



















There are no ongoing plots, just situations: the hero is fighting a rock monster, attached to a milking machine, about to be eaten by a giant spider.

There's lots of CBT, but not much sex, and only as part of the assault. 

You're not here for the sex, you're here to see the heroes getting pummeled, punched, hoisted, tied to trees, and attacked by monsters.

Kalabro's work is not exactly erotic, but it's certainly a lot of fun.


See also: Why is Bomba the Jungle Boy Always Tied Up?