The Farmboy, the Preacher, and the Security Guard

Louisville, Kentucky, Novembe 1982

During my first year at Indiana University, Roy the Farmboy and I drove to Louisville, Kentucky to go to the Metropolitan Community Church

I couldn't wait!  A church founded by and for gay people!  I had been looking for a MCC ever since I read the Rev. Troy Perry's autobiography a couple of years ago.  There were none in Indiana at the time.

We parked near the Brown Theater in downtown Louisville and walked to the Unitarian Church, an old Gothic grey-brick building.  There was a guy pacing outside the door: African-American, very dark skin, short, solidly built, in a pink shirt and tie. He looked like a pro wrestler.

I didn't have my list of the Five Traits I Find Attractive yet, but in retrospect, he had four: short, dark, muscular, and religious.  And probably the fifth, too -- beneath the belt gifts.


"Hi," I said, holding out my hand.  "I'm Boomer, here for the service.  And this is Roy.  You probably know him already."

"Hi, Roy!  Glad you're back!  How's Bloomington?"  He looked around to make sure no one was watching, then gave Roy a kiss.  I felt a pang of jealousy.

"Boomer, this is Terence.  He's the sound guy and security guard for the church."

"Hi!"  He leaned in for a brief kiss.  "You can't be too careful.  We've had bomb threats.  You never know if a visitor is going to try to kill you.  So, are you guys together?"

"Not yet -- but I'm working on it."

Terence laughed and clapped him on the back.   "Come to brunch with us after the service and we'll talk, ok?"

We walked on into the sanctuary.  It looked like any other congregational-style church -- bare of religious symbols except for a pulpit decorated with a cross.  There were King James Bibles and Methodist hymnals on the pews.

"You and Terence...." I began.

"Oh, no.  I haven't been with anyone in church.  Besides, Terence is Rev. Reid's spouse.   That's what they call them in MCC.  Life-long commitment, rejecting all others, and all that.

My heart sank.  There would be no seeing Terence naked today, or any day.

There were about 50 people in the congregation, mostly gay men, mostly couples.  A scattering of lesbian couples, a few with children.  One heterosexual couple.

To my surprise, the service was all Nazarene -- old-time Gospel hymns, quotes from the King James Bible, hand-clapping, shouts of "Amen!," calling each other "Brother" and "Sister," and a sermon full of "God told me!" and "You got to get right with God!"

The only differences were:
1. The clerical robes.
2. The communion.
3. People typically kissed hello instead of shaking hands.  Same-sex on the mouth, opposite-sex on the cheek.
4. The sermon topic, Galatians 3:28: "There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor female: for ye are all one in Christ Jesus."  The preacher expanded it to include "there is neither gay nor straight."

The preacher, Brother Reid, was in his 40s, a tall, beefy bear who looked very much like Brother Tyler back home.  He even paced and pounded like that old bulldog.

It was nice, but I was expecting something less -- well, less Nazarene.

Afterwards, Terence, Brother Reid, and a few other guys took us out to the English Grill in the Brown Hotel, which specialized in a sort of turkey Eggs Benedict called a Hot Brown.  Brother Reid sat beside me with his arm draped over the back of my chair, and we shared childhood "horror stories" about repressive church rules.  No swimming!  No dancing!  No movies!  No shopping on Sunday!

He looked, and acted interested.  Meanwhile, Terence was sitting next to me, but totally taken by Roy the Farmboy.  What was going on?  Did they..um..do that sharing thing, like the Episcopal priest I met in Des Moines?

A preacher hooks up with guys other than his spouse?

"What are you doing later?" Brother Reid asked.

"We have to be heading back to Bloomington.  It's a two hour drive."

"Two hours -- that's nothing! Sometimes I drive two hours before breakfast.  You need the grand tour of Louisville, and then the drag show at Nowhere."

Preachers go to bars?  And drink beer?

"Sounds like fun," Roy said.  "I just turned 21 last month -- I haven't gone to the bars yet!"

"Then it's high time you started!  The drag show is at 10:00 pm."

I didn't want to go to a drag show in a bar! "But then we'd be driving on dark country roads all the way up to Bloomington at midnight!"

"Or -- or --"  Brother Reid said with a smile, "You could spend the night, leave at 7:00 tomorrow morning.  We can put you up in the spare bedroom."

Sighing, I agreed.  Another night with Roy, who was nice but not my type, all anal instead of oral, while a Greek god lay sleeping in the next room.

The four of us, behaving very much like two couples on a double date, spent the rest of the afternoon at  Conrad's Castle, which I found only moderately interesting, and Slugger Field, which I found not interesting at all.  We had dinner at a steak house, and then went to Brother Reid and Terence's apartment to listen to depressing country-western music and wait until it was time to go to the bar.

I staked out an easy chair, while the other guys got the couch.

"Plenty of room over here," Brother Reid said, patting the tiny bit of seat next to him.

"Oh, I'm fine here," I said petulantly.

Roy stood, came to the chair, and put his arms around me.  "Feeling neglected?"  Soon we were kissing.  I was vaguely aware of Brother Reid and Terence doing the same.

"Maybe we'll skip the drag show," Brother Reid said.  "It's been a long day.  Roy, you know where the spare bedroom is.  There are clean towels in the bathroom, if you want to shower."


Another night with Roy -- good kisser, but not particularly impressive with anything else.

Later I got up to "use the bathroom."   The other bedroom door was closed.

I returned to our bed. "Sh*t!" I whispered.

"Anything wrong, babe?" Roy murmured.

I didn't know he was awake!  "Oh -- I was hoping to see those guys naked, but their door was closed."

"Why didn't you say something?  I can take care of that.  Hang on a minute."

He disappeared.  I heard the door to the other bedroom open.  A moment later, Brother Reid appeared in the doorway, naked, smiling.  He climbed onto the bed, pinned me down, and pressed his mouth against mine.  I felt his Bratwurst move against me.

When it was over, he returned to his own bed, and Roy returned to ours, having had a similar experience with Terence.

Apparently preachers do, in fact, hook up with guys other than their spouses, but they don't talk about it afterwards.

And I never did see Terence naked.

See also: The Farmboy Butches it Up; Dumped by Richie Rich

10 Black Guys in Bondage: The X-Rated Version

There are lots of Asian guys into BDSM, but very few black guys, and those few are mostly tops.

 When you're subject to constant discrimination, being followed around stores so you don't steal anything, having people clutch their purses when they pass you on the street, being stopped and searched for the crime of walking while black, going to prison -- one in eight black men in America are incarcerated at some point during their life -- you're unlikely to find being dominated particularly erotic.

I've met only two or three black BDSM bottoms in real life, and even photographs are rare: after years of collecting, I have only about 100 (not counting scenes from movies). Here are my top 10 favorites:

1. My favorite position, spreadeagle on the bed.  I love the look of angry defiance as he tests the leather straps.

2. My second-favorite position, on a chair with his hands tied behind his back.

3. An interesting background picture, glistening muscles.

4.  I don't know why the hands-above-the-head position is so popular with black BDSM bottoms.  This looks like a prison fantasy (notice the tattoos and the bars in the background),but what makes it is the super-sized schlong.

5.  :Sali," probably African.  That looks like the prow of a ship behind him.


More after the break

I Become a Birthday Present at the Horseman's Club

Amsterdam, March 2006

I used to go to Europe at least once a year, sometimes twice, usually at Christmastime or in the spring.  I flew into Paris or Amsterdam, whichever was cheaper, and split my time between those two cities, with an overnight in Brussels in between.

I was always careful to be in Amsterdam on Sunday night, for the Horseman's Club meeting at the Argos Bar on Warmoesstraat.

A club for guys with 20 cm (about 8 inches) or more beneath the belt.

I don't meet those standards, but I usually just took my shirt off and got waved through without measuring.  When they did measure, I was sometimes graded A (20 cm and over) and sometimes B (17-20 cm).

It was a social club -- no sex, but most guys sneaked into isolated corners for some groping or oral anyway.  You had to get naked or strip to your underwear.

I usually found someone to go home with.  In 2003, a 40-ish bodybuilder named Janik asked me to stay on in the Netherlands and become his lover.  I almost agreed.

In 2006, I met a Dutch-Caribbean-African guy with a gigantic Kovbasa.

The Dutch were leaders in the North Atlantic slave trade, and you see evidence all over Amsterdam, like this frieze of a muscular Moor carrying a bow and arrow.  But most of the slaves ended up in the Caribbean.

I never saw anyone black at the Horseman's Club until that night in 2006.

He was standing by himself near the pool table.  In his 20s, very dark, very tall and thin, wearing a green jumpsuit,  completely out of place amid the nude and underwear-clad men.

I figured he had just come in from the icy rain of an Amsterdam spring, and was cold.  I walked up to him and put my hand on his shoulder.  "Hi, can I warm you up?"

He stared at me -- not with Attitude, with a look of sheer terror, as if an underwear-clad man was a major threat.

"He must be in the wrong place," I thought.  "Maybe not even gay.  But surely he figured it out when he was fluffed for measurement."

I began to caress his thin shoulders and back, and he relaxed a bit and put his arm around my shoulders.

"Just so you know, there's a dress code.  You'll have to strip down to your underwear, or they'll kick you out."

"Ik spreek geen Engels," he said, before launching into a torrent of Dutch.

Everyone always uses English in Amsterdam, even residents talking to each other, so I've never learned much Dutch.  About all I can say is Goeiedag, Hoe gaat het?, and Ik kom uit Toronto (I always claim to be Canadian when I travel, to avoid being yelled at every five minutes.)

"Um...um...Ik heet Boomer, van Toronto. Hoe heet je?"

Huit Suriname.  Azi."

Suriname, the former Dutch colony in the Caribbean?  I was immediately interested.

About 2% of the Dutch population consists of recent immigrants from Suriname, and about half of them are black or mixed (they're called Maroons and Creoles).  But they are mostly working- and -lower class, isolated from the consumer-oriented bars, bathhouses, and sex shops of gay Amsterdam.

"Um...wanner je kom heer?"  When did you come to the Netherlands?

More very fast Dutch.  Then Azi reached out and groped me.  I felt for the front of his jumpsuit, where his Kovbasa had sprung to life.

"Sprichts du langsam, bitte," I said in German, hoping it was close enough to be comprehensible.

"Kom....naar....mijn huis, ok?"

Go home with him? But we just met, we hadn't said more than a dozen words, and he was a little too weird....

But...a Kovbasa...the biggest of the big....

I dressed.  Azi wrapped his arm around my shoulders and led me out onto Warmoessstraat.  We walked to the Centraal Station and got on the train to Ganzenhoef Station in southern Amsterdam, Azi talking nonstop in Dutch, me trying out my few words, supplemented with German and Spanish.

Azi had only been in the Netherlands for three years.  He worked in a cigarenfabriek.  Most of his family was back in Suriname.  The only family he had here was his moeder and his  jongere broer, who was studying computertechniek at the University.

Presumably Azi didn't live with them.

We got off the train in a multi-ethnic neighborhood called the Bijlmeer, and walked a few blocks through the darkness to a huge apartment complex. Orange and white lattices.  Balconies.  13 stories.

We took the elevator to the eighth floor, and got off in a small, cramped apartment.  There were books and newspapers scattered all over the living room. Kierkegaard, I noticed in surprise.  Azi read Danish philosophers?

Dirty dishes in the sink, overflowing clothes hamper.  Obviously Azi hadn't been expecting a hookup when he went out tonight.

As soon as the door closed, I wrapped my arm around Azi and went in for a kiss.  But he pushed my head away.

"Ben je hier?" he yelled.

Who else lived here?

 "In die slaapkamer!"  

Azi led me into a little hallway to an open door.  Small twin bed, unmade.  Underwear on the floor.

Sitting at the desk, apparently in an internet chatroom, was a young man.  Black, very dark, thin, very cute.  Naked. He quickly covered up and smiled at me.

"Dit is Boomer," Azi announced.  "Van der Horseman Club.  Mijn broer, Eli."

"Jij bent gek!" Eli exclaimed.  You're crazy!  They exchanged some angry words that I didn't understand, and Azi walked out. I heard a door slam.

Eli and I looked at each other.  "Um...what's going on?"


He spoke fairly good English.  "Mijn broer thinks I am too small to find boys.  Not enough big!  So tonight he says he will find a boy for me with a big lul -- down there, yes?  I say I don't want his help, but he goes out anyway, and now....don't be mad, you are very sexy...but..."

I finally began to figure it out.  "I thought my hookup was with Azi.  Is he even gay?"

"No.  He has a girlfriend, so he wants me to have a boyfriend.  I want a boyfriend, but my study is more important, yes?"

"So a straight guy went to the Horseman's Club to get groped by a dozen guys, all to find a hookup for his little brother?  That's above and beyond the call of duty.  He was only trying to help.  You should apologize."

He smiled.  "Mogelicht.  Sorry that Azi tricked you.  I will walk with you back to the train station, yes?"

"That would be great," I said, drawing him to his feet and wrapping my arms around him.  "In the morning."

In case you were wondering: not nearly as big as his brother, Bratwurst at best.  But very good at cuddling.

See also: A find a Boyfriend at the Horseman's Club; Eli's Dispatches from Oman; and A Jogging Date with a Somali Teenager

My Top 10 Turn-Ons

Why do we like what we like?  Gay men get asked that question every day, mostly phrased like "How could you possibly be attracted to ugly, hideous, disgusting men instead of gorgeous, beautiful women, like everybody else who has ever lived?"

But once you walk them through the concept of same-sex desire, they still balk: "Why would you like that kind of guy? He isn't attractive at all!  Only an idiot would be into him!"

Or: "Why don't you like him?  Everyone must find him gorgeous.  You're blind, evil, or stupid if you don't!"

Everyone has their own taste in men, and that's fine.  If I find something attractive and you don't, that doesn't make me bad, wrong, or stupid.  We like what we like.

So here are the top 10 traits I find attractive, and the reasons why.

1. Dark skin.  Black, Asian, Hispanic, Mediteranean.  It must be the exotic factor: I grew up in the Midwest, surrounded by fair-skinned Swedes, Germans, and Belgians,.  There was one black kid and one Asian kid in my junior high.  I didn't meet anyone Hispanic, other than my teachers, until college.

2. Shorter than me.  Maybe a dominant-submissive factor, but looking up at the guy is a turnoff.  I'm 6'1, so anyone under 6'0 is good.  5'4 is ideal.

Little people are a particular interest.  Have you ever noticed that they have very short legs, but regular size penises?  That hang down to their knees!

3. Mass.  Who wants to hug a skeleton?  Muscle, the bigger and harder the better, especially pecs, abs, and biceps.  Chubby/husky/fat is good, too.  Muscular torso with a little belly, ideal.

Since coming to the Plains, I've been meeting lots of skinny twinks, and there is something to be said for being able to put your arms all the way around someone.  Still, I'm going for mass.

4. A round or square face and square, solid hands.

Yes, I noticed the face and hands before the penis in this photo.

A round or square face seems open and friendly.  A long, narrow face seems sneaky, underhanded, or elitist.

Square hands are more masculine than those thin, slender, delicate things.  Also they look better wrapped around a penis.

5. Gifted beneath the belt.  Do I really need to explain that one?

But not super-sized: the footlongs are nice to look at, but impossible to actually do anything with.

I have a definite preference for cut over uncut.  More than once I've pulled back the foreskin to discover that the guy does not clean himself properly.

6. Religious, especially seminary students and clergy.  Any religion: Protestant, Catholic, Jewish, Muslim, Buddhist, Hindu, pagan, Afro-Caribbean, fine.

When you grow up in a fundamentalist church, you spend countless hours gawking at preachers, evangelists, Sunday school teachers, and choir directors, looking for biceps and bulges beneath their business suits.

7. Business suits.  My working-class relatives never wore suits to work, and academics never wear them, so the exotic factor kicks in.  Besides, they're so grown-up, so formal.  And since they're designed to obscure the body as much as possible, they become all the more erotic.

8. Down to Earth.  Someone who likes "regular" things, like hamburgers and tv sitcoms, who isn't going to judge me for my plebian tastes, or for being from the Midwest. I've been burned too many times by elitists.

9. Health Conscious.  Non-smoker, non-drinker, knows his way around a gym.  The explanation for that is obvious, too.


















10. Masculine.  I get angry when they call masculine "straight acting."  Straight men often have feminine traits: rings, cologne, hand gestures, a swishy walk, a nasal overmodulated voice.  And gay men usually have masculine traits.

Masculinity and femininity are culturally determined, varying across space and over time.  Pink was once a masculine color, and blue feminine.  But, that being said, I am attracted to the traits designated masculine by my culture: no rings, no cologne, the ability to speak with your mouth, not your hands, and a direct style of walking and talking.

If you like other traits, that's fine with me.  I do not pretend that my list is universal.  People like what they like.

See also: My Top 10 Turn-Offs

I Meet the Hottest Guy in the World

Durban, South Africa, July 2000

I am attracted to the following traits:

1. Clergy.  Preachers, priests, monks, rabbis, imams, seminary students, Mormon missionaries.

2. Dark skinned.  Black, Middle Eastern, South Asian, Hispanic.  Among Europeans, Spanish, Italian, Greek. 

3. Short, small, compact.  Under 5'8" is good, under 5'" better.  

4. Muscular, the bigger and harder the better, or else husky, chubby, fat. As long as there's some mass.   

5. Baseball bat.

There are exceptions --my Celebrity Boyfriend had none of the above.  But the guys I date generally have two, usually three::

Fred the Ministerial Student: 1, 4, 5

The Greek Orthodox Priest with the Pushy Mom: 1, 4, 5

Jimmy, the Bodybuilder on Crutches: 3, 4, 5

Alan, the Ex-Porn Star: 1, 4, 5

Raul in West Hollywood: 2, 3
Blake in Manhattan: 2, 4, 5
Joe, my Boyfriend's Roommate: 2, 3, 4, 5

There aren't many guys around with four of the traits, and only once in my life have I met someone with all five.

In the summer of 2000, I wrote a paper on the evangelical Christian response to to gay men with AIDS, and presented it at the 13th International AIDS Conference, held in Durban, South Africa.

There were 12,000 people attending and 5,000 presentations, including an endless number on religious responses to gay men with AIDS.

One of the presenters in my session was Sibusiso, or Sibu for short, a student at the Lutheran seminary in Pretoria.

He was short, very dark, handsome, and a member of the clergy!  I don't remember what his presentation was about, but he mentioned being gay.

After the session I approached him, suggested we collaborate on a paper about gay Christian men with AIDS, and invited him for coffee.

He accepted.

Conference Center, Durban

He was 24 years old, Zulu, raised in an African Pentecostal Church, but converted to the Lutheran Church at age 15.  He came out at age 18, while studying Biblical Languages at the University of Pretoria.

We had such similar backgrounds!  We must be destined to be soul mates!

I reached over and casually touched his arm, and met hard muscle.  Four out of five traits!  Incredible!

That night Sibu and two of his friends went dancing at the Lounge, one of Durham's gay clubs.  I was 39, too old for dance clubs, but I invited myself along anyway.

When he headed for the dark room, I followed. 

Baseball bat.

All five of the traits!

 It was settled: Sibu was, by definition, the Hottest Guy in the World.

The Lounge, Durban

The Lounge was dirty, dank, packed, and too noisy to talk.  And everyone else was under 30, making me feel decidedly out of place.  

And Sibu and his friends kept dancing.  My shirt was soaked with sweat; my hair reeked of cigarette smoke; I was exhausted. I wanted to go home to bed.

But I also wanted to spend the night with the Hottest Guy in the World.

It was 3:00 am when we finally headed back to his hotel.  I tried to put my arm around him in the back seat of the taxi, but he brushed me away.  Closeted, I figured.

He said goodbye to his friends, and we got in the elevator.  "What floor are you?" he asked.

What did he mean by that?  "The same floor as you."

We walked down the hall to his room.  He opened the door.  "Well, goodnight."
 

 "Aren't you going to invite me in?"  I asked in desperation.

"It's late..."

"Well...can I see you for breakfast tomorrow?"

He frowned.  "Look...I like you, you're a nice guy and all that, but you're not my type."

"Not your type?  But...I starred in a porn film...."

"I like guys my own age.  Sorry."  The door slammed in my face.

Just my luck.  I meet the Hottest Guy in the World, and it's ten years too late.

See also: The Quest for the Bushman Penis.; In Search of Sex and Languages in South Africa

My Date or Trick with Mario in the White Room

West Hollywood, September 1987

In spite of my nostalgia-infused memories of West Hollywood as a paradise, it had some big problems.  For one thing, it was completely segregated.  Only 3% of its residents were black, 5% Asian, and 10% Hispanic (compared to Los Angeles in general, 10%, 11%, and 47%).

You rarely saw anyone black on the streets, and when you did, he was with a white guy, and being charged a hefty cover to get into the bar, or waiting extra-long for the server to notice him in the restaurant.

But this isn't a story about institutional racism and microaggressions.  It's about a guy named Mario.

Nearly every day, I stopped into the Different Light Bookstore on Larrabee.  I joked that I was moving the entire stock into my room.

And one day I saw Mario browsing in the theater section.

He was rather feminine, thin and willowy, wearing gold rings, bracelets, and necklaces -- an immediate turnoff.  But he was shorter than me, dark skinned, with glasses that gave him a studious look.  So when he approached, started a conversation about gay literature, and invited me to dinner at the Greenery, I agreed.


Wait -- he meant right now.  In West Hollywood, you always set up dates for the future. Was this one of those dreaded tricks, a pickup, sex for its own sake?

Tricking was frowned upon -- if this was a trick, I could never tell my friends about it.

While I ate a hamburger and Mario picked at a salad, we exchanged coming-out stories.  He grew up in Richmond, Virginia and fled to West Hollywood seven years ago.  He had a job as a secretary, but only until he got his big break as an actor.  He hadn't had much luck, but he did land a date with celebrity Rob Lowe.

I countered by telling him about my Celebrity Boyfriend.

"My boss wants me -- I can tell," Mario continued.  "But I saw him in the rest room -- a footlong, honey!  No way, nuh-huh, I can't handle that."

Ok, feminine and into anal.  Date or trick, this wasn't going to work.  I put $5 on the table to pay for my dinner, and politely excused myself.

"Come on, honey, don't leave me hanging!" Mario exclaimed.  "After I put myself out to cruise you!  I don't meet many nice guys, who are willing to take things slow and get to know you.  Everybody wants to just jump into bed right away."

This was awkward!  "Well...um...I don't think we're compatible."

"Is it because I'm black?  You're afraid what your friends will say?"

"What?  No!"  My face burned.  That was the farthest thing from my mind,  But now we were definitely going through with the date, or trick.



So we walked down the street to Mickey's, the twink hangout, and danced and flirted and groped and fondled.

No kissing!  Was he shy or what?

But, date or trick, I was ready to go home with him.

Mario lived in a very nice apartment building, white with pink trim, on Romaine Street just off Fairfax.  He made me take off my shoes and socks to avoid tracking lint on the carpet.

"Do you want to take your shower first?" he asked.  "There are fresh towels in the bathroom, and a douche under the sink."

Douche?  Was he an anal top?

All of the towels in the bathroom were white, like at the gym.

I showered and came out to find Mario in the kitchen.  "Now put your clothes in the washer, and I'll do a load tomorrow morning before you go home.  Don't worry, no one will touch your stuff."

"My clothes...but...."

"You can't get dressed into dirty clothes, can you?"

I did as he asked.  Mario went to take his shower.  I wandered around the apartment -- only a few books, all on acting -- and found the bedroom.

It was completely white: rug, curtain, dresser, nightstand, lamp, bedspread, everything.  It made my eyes hurt.

I stood there, afraid to touch anything.  A song by Cream ran through my head: "In a white room with black curtains...wait in the place where shadows run from themselves..."

Soon Mario appeared, wearing only a white towel.

"Oh, don't worry -- the sheets and bedspread are clean.  I change them every day."

"Every...day?  I have like three sets of sheets, tops.  Don't you run out?"

"Oh, honey, I wouldn't run out for a month.  I buy sheets the way other guys buy shoes.  But I do the laundry every day anyway.  Who wants dirty clothes in the hamper for a week?"  He groped me.  "Now give me that towel.  I'll hang it up so it won't get mildewed."

He took off his towel, too -- Kielbasa, beautifully shaped.  I sat on the bed, naked, until he returned.

I moved in for a kiss.  "Sorry, I'm not into that," he said, turning his face away.

We lay on the bed, not kissing.  Mario's body was cool to the touch.  He didn't turn the light off -- the bright lights against the white background were dazzling.

He handed me a condom and turned over on his stomach.  He wanted me to screw him!

No dice.

He tried to put the condom on me.  I wasn't aroused.  "I'm really not into that," I said.

"No problem, honey.  I know lots of ways to please my man."

Mario moved down below the belt and started go go down on me.

The weirdness, the whiteness, the femininity, the lack of kissing -- nothing was happening.  I wasn't getting aroused!

A unpardonable sin, for either a date or a trick.

After awhile, he gave up, ran into the bathroom for some mouthwash, and returned.  "Well, I love cuddling with my man, too."

Wait -- didn't I get a chance to go down on him?    When I reached down there, he shooed my away.

And he didn't turn off the light!  I was stuck spending the night with him -- it would have been gauche to leave -- in a room as glaringly white as a hospital bed.

After an hour or so, I got up, gauche or no gauche, retrieved my clothes from the washer, and woke Mario with some excuse about why I had to leave.

"Sorry, honey," he murmured.  "I guess you're just not into black guys."

No, I was definitely into black guys, just not glaring white rooms.

I ran into Mario occasionally after that, at the Different Light, the gay Safeway, or on the street, and he always smiled sadly, as if to say "I know your secret shame."

That wasn't fair.  No one can be expected to perform in a white room, with someone who won't kiss and calls him "honey."

See also: Mario's Date or Trick with Rob Lowe and  The Truth about the Black Penis

Anal and Astrology in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas

Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas, September 1984

I'm 23 years old, just graduated from Indiana University with my M.A. in English, with a new job at a state college in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas.

I hate the bugs, the humidity, the rednecks, the country-western music, the hour-long drive to the nearest gay bar.

But I like the men: they grow them BIG in Texas.

I take out an ad in the Montrose Voice, trying to find guys for dating and romance.  They charge by the letter, so:

GWM, 23, 6'0, 180, musc, into bks, tv, f/sf, mus, dts only.

Who knew that some of these acronyms are used for fetishes?

After a few rather inappropriate responses, I pay for the extra vowels: into books, television, fantasy/ science fiction, muscles. Dates only.  

A few more inappropriate responses, including a guy who just breathes heavily into the phone, and then Raymond: a medical technician, 32 years old, from Detroit, in Texas five years. Reads science fiction.  Favorite authors: Asimov, Heinlein, LeGuin.

Sounds good, but what does he look like?  Newspaper ads don't include photos.

Black, tall, slim, bearded, hairy chest, gym-toned, .

I've not much into tall or slim guys, or beards, but I'm definitely into black guys!

We meet at Mother's in the Montrose for "drinks."  Raymond is attractive, with a round open face and a disarming smile.

 He turns me off by drinking three beers and flirting with the waiter, but this is my first date in Texas, so I can't complain.

He's into astrology.  We're Taurus and Scorpio,  opposite sides of the zodiac.  Explosively passionate in the bedroom.

I'm dubious.  Scorpios are dark, aggressive, easily angered, often melancholy.  We need a laid-back, amiable sign.  My first boyfriend Fred was a Virgo, and Jimmy the Bodybuilder on Crutches was a Libra.

But we both have the Sun in the Third House, Raymond points out.  We both need lots of physical activity, and we're endlessly curious, eager to try new things.  We could have a very fulfilling relationship.

Next we browse at Wilde and Stein, the gay bookstore, then dinner at a Mexican place, where Raymond drinks another beer and flirts with the waiter.

And back to Raymond's apartment in the Montrose.  We sit on the couch kissing, and I gradually slip off his shirt and unbutton his pants.

Huge cut Mortadella! He can put two hands around that thing and still have two inchs to spare!

I go down on him as well as I can, choking a bit, while he moans.  Then he says "Come on, let's go into the bedroom."

We fall onto the bed, kissing,  He pushes down my throat while I am lying on my back and thrusts while playing with my penis.  Then suddenly he pulls away and bounces off the bed.

I look up, Raymond is at the dresser, rolling a condom over his Mortadella.

"I always use condoms.  You don't mind, do you?"  Without waiting for an answer, he throws my legs in the air.  I feel a burst of pain as a giant baseball bat pushes into me.

"Wait...you're too big!" I exclaim.

He pulls out.  "There's no such thing.  It's just a matter of relaxing your muscles. Here, I'll open you up a little."  A finger with a sharp nail goes inside me and feels around.  "Ready?"  A burst of pain again.

I pull away.  "I'm not really into Greek."

"But you're a Scorpio.  All Scorpios are into Greek."

"Um...I'm not really into astrology, either."

He squeezes my buttocks.  "You'll see.  You're a Scorpio.  Once I'm inside, you'll like it.  And I can keep going for hours."

He pushes inside again.  This guy is about two inches longer and way thicker than Fred was!  I yell out in pain as he begins to thrust, and finally yell "Get off!  Get off!"

He pulls away.  "Ok, then, just go down on me, alright?"

I make him go into the bathroom and wash off first.

Of course, there's no second date.

A few days later, I get a phone call from Sayid, who explains that Raymond gave him my number.  He's 26 years old, a professional dancer -- "and a Virgo."  A soft, sweet, laidback sign.

"It's hard to talk over the phone," he says.  "Can I come up?"

He has a rather feminine, high-pitched voice, but I haven't been with many guys in Texas, so ok.

An hour later, he appears at my door: black, rather light skinned, tall, bearded, but very muscular, with thick biceps and six-pack abs.  We sit on the couch, drinking sodas and talking -- he was raised Baptist in rural Alabama, but now doesn't hae any particular religion, although he's "very spiritual."

We kiss, and I run my mouth over his chest and abs, and unzip his pants.  He has a manageable Bratwurst, uncut, with shaved pubic hair.

We move onto the floor and get into the 69 position.

Finally someone paying attention to my beneath-the-belt gifts!

After awhile, he jumps up and pulls me into the bedroom.  He leaps onto the bed and turns over onto his stomach.

I turn him back onto his back and go down on him until he finishes.

"That was nice," he says, "But don't you want to do me?"

"Um...I just did," I say, confused.

"But you're a Scorpio.   All Scorpios are into Greek."

He turns over onto his stomach again.  "Take me!  Take me!  Do whatever you want with me!"

Of course, there's no second hookup.

See also: Topped for the First Time; Hank's Book Collection; How Much Does Astrology Know about Your Sex Life?

Six Hours at a Sex Club

When I lived in Florida, there was a sex club, called just The Club II, a few blocks away, so I went regularly, at least once a week.  I exercised, hung out in the sauna, and wandered around until I had sex with at least five guys.  It typically took about two hours, maybe three if the place wasn't crowded.

I always choose vacation spots based on museums and penises, so I've been to saunas or sex clubs across Europe, plus in Chicago, Cleveland, Philadelphia, and New York, and I never spend more than two hours, three at the most.  You can spend only so much time walking down narrow hallways in a towel while loud disco movies throbs in your ear.

But last weekend, I spent six hours at the Works, a sex club in Indianapolis, and had sex with so many guys that I lost track after the first ten minutes.

It was a Monday, and all of the museums were closed, so there was nothing else to do, so we drove out after lunch, and stayed until rush hour traffic was over, 1:00 pm to 7:00 pm.

The Works has four floors.
1. Basement.  
Lockers
Dry sauna: two guys at once, both older. I asked if they were partners, and they said "We are now."

Steam room: two guys at different times, one older and not very hung, one younger and hung.

Gym equipment squished together so it's impossible to actually use

Glory hole booth: very hard, very large cock, could never figure out who it belonged to.

Leather chairs facing tvs with both gay and straight porn: muscular Asian guy who wanted to kiss.  There was a muscular Hispanic guy beating off furiously to straight porn, but I was afraid to approach him, since he looked like he was ready to finish.










\



2. Ground floor
Lounge with soda machines, one of which stole my dollar.

Video room playing regular tv.

3. Second floor
TV lounge playing 13 channels of porn  Here's where I lost track: I started with a guy lying there who called me "honey," then went out and came back, went down on a bear with big balls but a small penis, then a weird guy who looked like Tom Selleck, then the Hispanic guy who had been beating off downstairs.

I returned again and again, and there were always new guys, maybe five in all.  The only one who rejected me was a younger black guy who just wanted to talk about mass shootings.

Room with leather floors and porn playing.  Two guys at different times.

Sling room.  I went down on an older guy.

Private rooms.  I got one to retreat for rest: a gigantic bed shoved against both walls.  Only one guy, the Tom Selleck before, came in and mounted me from above.

I also had a conversation with the second guy who rejected me:
"Hi, Darlin', let me see that big cock of yours."
"I'm into giving, not getting."
"Me, too, darlin.  That makes us sisters."

Then back to the tv room, or down to the lockers.  In West Hollywood, parties sometimes featured "entertainment," guys who would strip , masturbate, or go down on the guests.   It was not especially honored, but it wasn't deviant, either.

I think I was the "entertainment," going down on anyone I wanted (with those two exceptions).  In the end I didn't even wait for a signal, I just knelt in front of the guy, or reached over and fondled.  No one ever brushed me away, except for the two or three black guys at the club, who never did anything with anybody.

Finally at 7:00 pm, we figured that the rush hour traffic was over, and went to get dinner.

"How did you do?" I asked Bob.

"Six guys, four oral, two anal," he said.  "What about you."

"I lost track a long time ago.  But, you know what -- I'm still not happy."

He blinked.  "But...your goal is five.  You must have been with more than that."

"A lot more.  But only one wanted to kiss, only one actually finished, and the others -- one Asian, one Hispanic, one twink.  The others were all over 50, white, hairy chested.  It was like going down on the same guy over and over."

I have a new rule -- five guys, and they have to differ in age, race, body build, or some other factor, and they have to kiss.

Heinz' Boyfriend: When Sharing Went Wrong

The West Hollywood custom of sharing developed in response to AIDS. Sex with strangers seemed dangerous, especially before we knew what transmitted the HIV virus, so you kept it "in the family."
1. Emotional-commitment sex with a boyfriend.
2. Recreational sex by "sharing" the boyfriend with other close friends.

The AIDS crisis first became noticeable in gay communities in the summer of 1981.  I moved to West Hollywood in the summer of 1985, just four years later, but sharing had developed remarkably fast, with a complex series of procedures and protocols.

Sometime after the second date, but not too long after (typically after about two weeks), you chose a friend to share (have a three-way), and report back to the group on his size, stamina, and favored sexual positions. If they approved of the match, then he would become "one of the family," open to sharing with the others.  If not, you might find yourself off the guest list for parties.

Of course, if he had a different circle of friends, he chose one of his to "share" with you.

To fail to make the invitation within a reasonable period of time was an unforgivable snub.

It was equally unforgivable to refuse.

The guy you chose to share could not be in a relationship, and he could not be someone new, someone you hadn't been with before.

However, he had to be someone your new boyfriend had not been with before.

In a small community where social circles overlapped, these rules made the choice could be very complicated.

For instance, let's say I am dating the ex-boyfriend of one of my friends, A.

My social circle consists of A, B, C, D, and E.

When my new boyfriend was dating A, he shared B.  Both out.

I've never been with C before.  Out.

D is currently in a relationship.  Out.
That leaves E.

No wonder it was unforgivable to refuse.

Which leads to the point of the story:

One day my ex-boyfriend Raul's housemate, Heinz the German Geezer, called and asked me to "share" his new boyfriend.

Huh?  Why me?  I didn't even think of Heinz as a friend.  He was there by default when I hung out with Raul, and he came to a couple of my parties. I didn't know who was in his social circle, so how was I supposed to report back to them?

Heinz explained.  "Arnie and I have known each other for years.  We shared friends and lovers lots of times -- but since his lover died last month, we only now started seeing each other as boyfriends."

"There must be someone else.  What about Raul?"

"Raul dated him.  Just once -- I don't know why they didn't go any farther."

Ok, so I the only guy who had been with Heinz but not with Arnie?  "Scraping the bottom of the barrel?" I asked.

"Not at all.  I remembered when you and I made love -- it was fantastic."

Not too fantastic.  Heinz wasn't at all my type physically: tall, thin, elderly, pale, with a thick white moustache and a small cock.  Besides, he was a neat freak who didn't let you eat in the living room and got mad when you walked across the carpet in stocking feet.  And his annoying song "Come away wiz me tu Molly-bu, tu Molly-bu, to Molly-bu..." kept going through my head.  I went down on him to its beat!

But...refusing was inconceivable. "I would be honored to do it," I said with a sigh.  "I'll just need a list of your friends to call.  And I get to pick the music."

We agreed to meet for dinner at the Greenery on Tuesday night. But first I called Raul to pump him for information.

"He's a nice guy, a little dazed.  Too many drugs in his wild hippie past, I guess."

"Hot."



"He's black, in his 40s, a bit of a belly, and hung...but..."  He paused.

"What?"

"I should let you find that out yourself."

Curioser and curioser!

Arnie and Heinz turned out to have a sort of Mutt and Jeff thing going on: tall/short, thin/chubby, pale/dark, talkative/reticent.  I couldn't get his coming out story, or any tales of celebrity hookups, or even where he was from:  "Oh, I've been around."

He did talk about some of his ailments: no HIV, but Crohn's disease (whatever that was), some sort of back problem, diabetes, and something that lowered his blood pressure so much that he fainted sometimes.

When he wasn't talking about his diseases, Arnie was being a slob to contrast to Heinz's neat freak.  He picked up his chicken with his hands, spilled polenta all over his t-shirt, had broccoli in his teeth for the rest of the evening, and reached over to take a forkful of my pie without asking.

If this had been a date with me, I would have walked out.  But it was my duty to share.  Besides, maybe Arnie was hung.

Next we went back to Heinz' house to watch a movie on VHS (watching a movie at home was still an unusual experience). We sat on either side, Heinz with his arm around Arnie's shoulders, and me holding his knee.  But when I moved my hand farther in, toward his crotch, Arnie moved it away.

Um...we're sharing tonight, remember?

I decided to kiss him, broccoli or not.

Gross -- his breath smelled of garlic!  And he didn't have anything with garlic for dinner.

Finally it was time to go upstairs to the bedroom. While Heinz  and Arnie kissed, I unzipped Heinz and went down on him. I tried to unzip Arnie, too, but he pushed my hand away.

Curioser and curioser.

I stood and pulled up Arnie's t-shirt so I could kiss his chest.

"Be careful of the colostomy bag," he murmured.

The what?

I looked.

Ok, this was really killing the mood.

I knelt again and went down on Heinz for awhile, pushed his cock against Arnie's crotch, and tried again.  This time he let me pull down his pants and shorts.  A huge, thick cock sprang out, soft, uncut.

And no matter what I did, it stayed soft.

"Nothing's going to happen down there," Arnie said.  "I haven't been hard since 1981.  My ___" (I don't remember what disease he named).

Nope, nope, nope, nope, nope.

I let Arnie go down on me while Heinz topped him. It would have been impolite not to.

And I gave a glowing review to Heinz' friends.

Let them find out for themselves.

Spending the Night with My Music Teacher and His Favorite Boys

Iowa City, November 1978

To fill my fine arts requirement at Augustana College, I registered for a class called "Music Cultures of the World."  It sounded more interesting than "Music Appreciation."

The professor, Dr. Morrow, grew up in Indiana and got his Ph.D. in music from Northwestern. He was the first African-American professor I had ever had to that point, so I took advantage of every opportunity to gaze at his very solid, muscular frame, with impressive shoulders and biceps.  I'm not usually into backsides, but when he turned his back to write on the blackboard, my interest was piqued.

 For some reason that I haven't yet figured out, I was the only white kid in a class of twenty.  The others were African-American, five girls and one boy (a sizeable percentage of the twenty or so on campus).

They may have been expecting more African culture.  Instead, we covered:
1. Native North America
2. South America
3.Australia, New Guinea, and Oceania (like the Australian didjeridoo).
4. China, Japan, and Korea
5. Southeast Asia and Indonesia
6. India and Pakistan
7. Central Asia and the Middle East
8. Europe
9. And, finally sub-Saharan Africa.





Since I was the only white student in the class, Dr. Morrow was very careful to make me feel welcome.  He was always calling on me, asking me questions, lending me books and recordings to drop off at his office later.  He liked my paper on traditional Chinese musical instruments so much that he kept a copy and put it on reserve in the library for students in future classes to read (it was still in Special Collections in 2014).

On the weekend of November 10th, there was a festival of Indonesian music at the University of Iowa, about a 45-minute drive away.  The headliner was Sumarsam, a 34-year old Javanese musician, expert on the gamelan, currently an artist-in-residence at Wesleyan University.

Anybody could go, of course, but Dr. Morrow said the department would pay for three students.  I don't know how many applied, but he selected me, Manny (a senior music major) and Kurt (a sophomore from his Rock class).

Three boys, no girls. What a coincidence!

Oh, and bring your swimsuit.  The hotel has a heated indoor pool.

We left right after everyone's last class on Friday, arriving around 4:00 pm.  "Dinner's not until 6:00," Dr. Morrow said.  "Plenty of time to take a dip.  Who's up for it?"

I didn't need to be asked twice!

Dr. Morrow was very impressive, as muscled as a bodybuilder, with an amazing bulge in his swimsuit, but I was jealous of the attention he lavished on Manny.  I thought I was his only favorite!

 Dinner was Indonesian, which is very similar to Filipino: rice, fish, dumplings, peanut sauce.

The first concert was good.  No naked male dancers, but a lot of interesting music.

Afterwards we went back to the hotel room, where there were two double beds.

We all stripped to our underwear, except for Dr. Morrow, who went into the bathroom and came out wearing pajamas.

 "Ok, who's bunking with me?" he asked, climbing into one of the beds.  "I'm not picky -- I'll sleep with anybody."

Manny jumped into bed next to Dr. Morrow before I had a chance to say or do anything.  I don't know if they hooked up during the night.

I slept in the same bed with Kurt, but nothing erotic happened.

In the morning I got a nice sausage sighting from Kurt, but not Manny or Dr. Morrow.

Another question: Were Manny and Dr. Morrow romantic partners?  I suspected as much, but when when I asked a knowledgeable senior about gay people at Augustana, she didn't mention either.

Dr. Morrow still teaches at Augustana.  He is in his 70s, with children and grandchildren, and he's written a major textbook on ethnomusicology.

See also: 15 Teachers I May Have Hooked Up With.