What Do You Have Under the Hood?

When I was growing up in Rock Island, most boys were obsessed with being "men," doing exactly what men were supposed to do and nothing else.  The slightest of shifts in your hips as you walked, the most subtle of wrist movements, the tiniest bit of animation in your voice was proof positive that you were not a man at all, but a sissy, a "fag," or a girl.

Even if you got your body gestures, walking, and talking perfected, you could still give away your inner girlishness by not being knowledgeable and enthusiastic about three things: girls, sports, and cars.

The only one I had any hope of accomplishing was cars.

There was no way I was going to kiss and hug girls, sports were too confusing, but I had just got my driver's license, and Mom let me borrow her car sometimes.  Knowing how to fix a car was an attainable goal.  Masculinity within my reach!

The only problem: I was an aesthete, an intellectual, into Renaissance poetry and statues of naked men.  I couldn't tell a hammer from a nail. I got a D- in shop class.  I got carpentry and building toys for Christmas, and left them untouched in their boxes.



But I perservered.  In August 1977, I went to my father and asked him to teach me how to "fix cars."

"You?"  he asked in surprise.  "You hate mechanical stuff."

"Well, most mechanical stuff.  You couldn't pay me to solder an iron onto a lathe, or whatever.  But a car is different."

"Ok, I can give you some pointers.  There are three things about cars that every guy should know: how to change a tire, how to change the oil, and how to repair a carburetor."









1. Change a Tire.  

Dad took me out to the garage, popped open the trunk, and showed me where the jack and spare tires were stored.

"You've seen the ladies with flat tires on the side of the road, waiting for someone to help.  If you can change a tire, you'll be sure to get their phone number!"

What about a guy on the side of the road?  I thought.  

  And of course, if you're on a date and the tire goes flat, you'd better be able to change it, or the girl will think you're a sissy."

He showed me how to jack up a car and "unscrew the lug nuts."

I couldn't get the wrench to work.  It just slid along the nuts.  Finally Dad grabbed the wrench and did it himself.

"Well, you get the idea, anyway."

2. Change the oil.

"A garage will do this for you, but imagine how impressed the girls will be when they find out you can change your own?"

"And the guys,"  I said.

This involved getting under the car and unscrewing a gross greasy thing.

I balked.  "I'll impress the girls with my wit and charm, thanks."











3.  Fix the carburetor.

Next Dad showed me how to open the front hood and prop it up.

"Knowing what's under here is the key to impressing girls."

It was an incomprehensible mass of wires and pipes.

"Here's your fan belt, your carburetor, your radiator, your angler, your glockenspiel."

I stared into oblivion, imagining a hot guy with his shirt off straining over the engine.

"Loosen the rod here, angle the pipe so the screw goes counter-clockwise, then re-up the uptake on the valve here.  This knob goes with this fuel injector.  Then you just sort of squeeze the triangulator down the revolver, and gently push the socket into the wrench."

I stared into oblivion, imagining a hot guy with his pants off straining over the engine.  Dad hadn't mentioned the benefits of not knowing how to fix cars.

"Now you try."

I turned and headed back to the house.  "Thanks, anyway.  I'll just pay someone to do it."

Preferably a guy with his pants off.

Heterosexual for a Day

Remember "What do the Simple Folk Do?" from Camelot:

What do the simple folk do

To cheer them when they're feeling blue?

When they're beset and besieged, the folk not noblesse obliged,

How do they manage to shed their weary lot?

In West Hollywood, it was easy to cheer up when you were feeling blue: buy some books, look at art, have lunch at the French Quarter, go cruising at the Gold Coast.  But West Hollywood is 2000 miles away, and I'm surrounded by heterosexuals.

What do you do on gloomy Saturdays in November, at the start of the "Ho Ho Ho" madness, when all of the melancholy songs are playing but it's not even your birthday yet, and your 5K running speed is down by 5 minutes, and West Hollywood is 2000 miles away and you're surrounded by heterosexuals?

"How do hetero men spend their Saturdays?"  I ask my boyfriend Bob, who is 19 years old and has lived in the Straight World his whole life.  He writes me out a list, then leaves for work.

It sounds like a fun game: see how the other half lives.  Spend a day as a heterosexual, doing everything that hetero men do.

9:00 am: They work on cars.

You mean, like, open the hood and stuff?   In gay neighborhoods we walk or take the subway.  I know how to put gas in those car things, and steer them, and that's it.  But maybe I could get an auto mechanic to do something, like change the oil.

Score!  The guy at the Jiffy Lube is in his 30s, short and buffed, with a round face and square workman's hands.  And he squirts things with lube all day....

10:00 am: They hunt things.

Like, um...cuddly bunnies and such?  I've never once in my life held a gun, but I can certainly hunt.  How about antiques?  I can look for some additions to my beefcake art collection.

Score!  "A Surf Boy Tiki Mug" from Orchids of Hawaii, a restaurant supply company operating out of the Bronx during the tiki craze of the 1960s.  An evil Dennis the Menace.

Besides, there;s a hot father and college-aged son at the Antique Mall, scoping out some antique model cars.  I make eye contact with the son, and get a cruisy smile.

11:00 am:  They play baseball.

I would prefer to avoid having projectiles hurled at my head.  But working out the gym is the same thing, nght?

1:00 pm: They have lunch at Five Guys Burgers and Fries

I would gain ten pounds just walking into that joint. Fortunately, there's a Jersy Mike's next door, which not only has turkey subs, it has some cute college boys for me to exchange witty banter with.

2:00 pm: They shop for tools.

Kitchen supplies count as tools, right?  I go to Cooks Plus and buy a frittatta pan.

3:00 pm: They drink beer and watch the game.

Diet Coke will have to substitute for the beer, and I can't watch sports on tv -- I only get Netflix.  But I happen to have some old bodybuilding contests on DVD.  Will the 1985 Mr. Olympia, with Lee Haney, do?'














6:00 pm: Bob comes home and cooks dinner (frittattas).  

"How did your day as a heterosexual go?" he asks.

"Great!  I worked on cars, hunted things, played sports (if bench pressing counts), had lunch, shopped for tools, and watched a game.  There's just one thing on the list I didn't get around to.  I thought of it after you left this morning."

I show him the last thing that hetero men do.

"I'm totes up for that!  After dinner and some making out, that is.  We can't do it until about 9:00 anyway."

After a day of beefcake and cruising, I'm up for more than making out.  I go down on Bob while beating off, then push him onto the floor for interfemoral, with him on top.

Then we watch tv until it's time for the last item on the list:



9:00 pm: They go out to try to pick up babes.

Preferably babes with handsome faces, hard smooth chests, and gigantic penises.

See also: Searching for Twinks on the Plains