The Boy with Soft Hands

When I was growing up in Rock Island, Huey (not his real name) was one of my brother Kenny's friends.  Short, brown-skinned, a rarity among the pale Swedes and Germans of Rock Island, chubby, with black hair and soft black eyes, soft all over.  I especially remember his square soft hands with stubby fingers.

This story has been moved to RG Beefcake and Boyfriends

The Beach Boy and the "Fag"

Wilton Manors

"I've found him!" Kelly exclaimed over the telephone.  "The One!  We've only had one date, but that's enough to know!"

Kelly was one of the fitness trainers at Barney's Gym: in his 30s, about Yuri's height, with a long face, brown hair, good biceps and excellent abs and a smooth, less-than-spectacular chest.  Beneath the belt he was average, cut, with shaved pubes.  Somewhat shy and quiet, one of those high-school nerds who found self-confidence at the gym.

He would let you go down on him, to be polite, but he reciprocated only if  you were big in the belly.  The bigger the better.  Superchub, no problem.

His dream guy was fat, young, smooth, and supersized beneath the belt.

Not easy to find!  In Florida, where the beach is a few blocks away and guys wear next to nothing year round, the Wilton Manors norm was heavily muscled with 3% body fat.  Husky guys were uncommon, and fat rather rare.  Young fat guys practically unheard of.

And for whatever reason, fat guys tend to be a a little small beneath the belt.  

So who was this Tobias, the Man of Kelly's dreams?

On the night of their third date, they came over for dinner so Kelly could introduce him to his friends: Barney, Yuri, his boyfriend Jim, another fitness trainer, me, and Wade the Beach Boy.  Yuri made his famous moussaka.

Tobias was in his 20s, tall, chubby, with a smooth chest, employed as a bartender at a hotel near the beach.  Obviously smitten by Kelly: he kept his arm around him the whole evening.

But I was turned off by his greasy slicked-back hair, tattoos, rings, and unattractive leer.

And his speech, littered with profanity: "Little Kelly here, he's the best f*king c*ksucker in the business!  Holy f*k, I never c** so hard in my life!"

And the fact that he had been in prison: "There was a little queen at Kissimmee [juvenile detention center] that was on his knees every night, serviced the whole f*ing dorm, I kid you not!"


"What were you in juvie for?" I asked.

"Oh, please, we're queers.  We're all criminals, according to the hetero *holes that run this country.  Now let's get this f*ng party started.  Which of you c*ksuckers wants the first shot?"

He unzipped.  He was already fully aroused.  A perfectly shaped Kielbasa, with a round head and a small vein running up the side.

Well, I didn't mind a little profanity.

Still, I couldn't imagine quiet, shy Kelly getting along with brash, profane Tobias for long.

A week or so later, I flew out to New Mexico to visit Larry and cruise in the Navajo nation.  Then I visited Rock Island and Indianapolis for a few days.

When I got back, I saw Kelly at the gym and asked "So, is it still Paradise?"

"Oh, it's going great!  Wait -- you've been out of town.  Are you talking about Tobias?  He's history!"

"Why, what happened?"

Here's what happened:

A few days after I left for New Mexico, Wade the Beach Boy and Kelly had lunch.

"Oh, it's going great!" Kelly said.  "Great in bed!  I never met a guy with so much stamina.  I must do him like ten times a day!"

"What about outside the bedroom?" Wade asked.  "Do you have the same interests in, like movies?  Or music?  You're the world's biggest gym rat -- does Tobias even work out?"

"Not really.  He says he gets enough exercise in bed! But we go to the beach, we go dancing, we cruise together and bring guys home to share.  It's fun...but...um, have you ever heard of parties where guys have sex?  I don't mean sharing with friends -- I mean complete strangers?"

"Sure -- Bear Parties.  Boomer talks about them."

"Well, Tobias wants me to go to a Bear Party with him, down in Miami Beach. Fifty naked guys, maybe more."

"Sounds like a fun Saturday night," Wade said.  "Can I get an invitation?"

"Here's the thing.  I'm supposed to be the party's official 'fag.'"

"That is way offensive, dude."

"No, it just means a guy who likes oral sex."

Oral bottoms, guys who are into going down, are often denigrated in gay communities, even called "fags," to distinguish them from the "real men," the oral tops.  It's all sexist nonsense, based on the belief that women are oral bottoms, and being "like a woman" is reprehensible.

"But," Kelly continued,  "The 'fag" has to go down on anybody Tobias wants.  But you know I'm not into that unless the guy is chubby."

"Well then refuse, and just go with guys you find attractive."

"Yeah, but Tobias told me to.  He already told everyone I was going to do it.  He's kind of in charge in the relationship.  He calls himself 'the guy," like I'm 'the girl."

"Ok."  Wade thought for a moment.  "Here's what you do.  First, get me an invitation."

The party was held in one of those extraordinarily expensive glass-and-steel apartments with a picture window looking out onto the ocean and the tv hidden away in a teakwood cabinet.  There were about 30 guys, a good mix of older and younger, occupying the living room and two bedrooms.

Tobias stationed the "fag" on a stool in a small alcove.  Wade said he wanted to mingle, but stood close by anyway.

After a few minutes, Tobias returned with a tall, thin older guy, naked, with a sizeable Bratwurst.  "Is this the fag?"  he asked, looking at Kelly.

"No, I am," Wade said, kneeling and going to work.

Tobias glared at Kelly, but what could he do?  He wandered off, found a thin twink, and brought him to the alcove.

"Sorry, Kelly's taking a break," Wade said.  "But I'm free."  He fell to his knees and got to work.

Tobias walked off in a huff.

Afterwards Wade wandered around until he found a chubby guy, and invited him into the alcove, where Kelly eagerly went to work.

Tobias appeared with another tall, thin guy, saw that Kelly was busy, and exclaimed "Hey, what the f*k?  You refuse all the guys I bring over, but when Wade brings someone..."

"Don't worry," Wade said.  "I'll take care of him."

"That's not the point!  Kelly is supposed to be the f*ing c*ksucker, f*ing going down on whatever guy I say!"

"I think that's called pimping," Wade murmured.  "Is Kelly your boyfriend or your employee?"

That was the end of Kelly' romance with Tobias.

But he did meet someone else at the party: big belly, thick uncut Mortadella.

Ok, he was 55 years old, and had a hairy chest.

But at least he didn't call Kelly a "fag."

See also: The Beach Boy and the Giant; Carlos and his Two Secrets.

Body Shaming, Bullying, and Just Being Mean in Gay Communities

You grow up an outsider, constantly excluded, demeaned, and ridiculed for being gay.

You're called names, yelled at, told that you're a sinner, a pervert, a monster striving to destroy the society, as well as a frilly little lacy thing fit only for doing manicures and shopping for shoes.  You long for things to get better.  You long to find a place where you belong, a home.  And one day, you arrive.  You escape from the grim homophobia of the Straight World, find you way to West Hollywood or the East Village or another gay neighborhood.

Open up the closet door, watch out, here I come!

A new guy, nervous, scared, wounded from a lifetime of homophobia, but certain that here you will find friendship and love.

Instead, you are excluded, demeaned, and ridiculed.

Gay men -- your family, the place where you belong -- stare, snicker, and gossip about you.

Everyone travels in tightly-closed cliques, impossible break into unless you're dating one of them.

And dating is impossible.  The competition is rough, and you are constantly being rejected, for the most trivial of reasons,

You're too tall or too short, too fat or too thin,too old or too young.  Your chest is too hairy or too smooth.  Your penis is too small.  Your ears are too big.

I've never been shamed for my weight or size, but when I was a teen I got it for being too swishy, and in West Hollywood I got it for having a red birthmark on the back of my neck (of all the crazy things to notice!).  In the last few months my age has been starting to cause some "instant blocks" on dating apps.

I've never understood why many gay men are so quick to demean their brothers for a physical trait that they have no control over, as if it is a moral failure or evidence of weakness of character.

You don't get a small penis because you are a bad person or have an inadequate personality.  It's purely a matter of genetics.  And there's nothing whatever you can do about it.

You can't help getting older. It is a fact of life, not evidence of a moral shortcoming.

If you are fat or thin, you can theoretically go to the gym, but for many people weight management is very, very difficult, a life-long struggle with their metabolism.

Demeaning and rejecting someone on the basis of his physical appearance is known as body shaming today, but back in West Hollywood, we called it "being mean."

It's a form of violence.  It sends a clear message that the person being shamed does not deserve friendship or love, should not be seen in public, indeed does not deserve to exist at all.

That's a very strong message to be sending with a sneer.

In West Hollywood, my friends and I never refused to interact with people based on their physical traits.  If they said "hello," we said "hello."  And if asked to share a friend's boyfriend, we never refused, even if the sharing meant just fondling or going down on the guy for a few seconds.  It was basic courtesy.

This is a new world, but still, there are ways to be inclusive and welcoming without going home with guys you find unattractive.




1. Remove specific requirements from your online dating profile.  Reading "must be height-weight-proportionate, hung, under 30, masculine" over and over is like getting a dozen rejections without even talking to anyone.  Don't mention your tastes in men at all.  You won't be inundated by gorgons, believe me -- you're not all that. And it won't kill you to chat with someone skinny, swishy, small beneath the belt, or over 30.

2. Save Attitude for the rude guys.  In public cruising spots, people often give Attitude, pretend not to see, guys they are not attracted to.  Again, you can feel rejected a dozen times without ever interacting with anyone.  Save you Attitude for guys who make crass, boorish come-ons, and deserve to be ignored.









3. Talk to guys outside your comfort zone.  If you usually hang around with bodybuilders, talk to a fat guy.  If you like them under 30, talk to a 60 year old.  You'll find that they aren't much different from your usual contacts.  They have the same desires, dreams, hopes, and fears as everyone else.

4. Find something to like in everybody.  The most hideous guy on the planet has something attractive about him.  He tells bad jokes, has an interest in Star Wars memorabilia, or he spent a summer in Brazil.

If nothing else, he has survived a childhood of incessant attempts to force him to comform to the heterosexist mandate or kill himself.  He's still here.  That, in itself, is impressive.










5. Don't reject guys automatically.  Sure, you are especially attracted to guys who are muscular, hairy-chested, big beneath the belt, big-eared, between 40 and 50 years old, and have pierced nipples.  The gay world is small, and there aren't ,many guys who will fit your exact requirements, be into you and available, and have personalities that you can stand.  I would love to date some hairy bears in their 40s, but I'm surrounded by twinks, so I date twinks.

Try someone who does not fit your ideal of the perfect man. It won't kill you, and if after a date or hook-up you still don't like him, no harm done.

And maybe he'll cook breakfast in the morning.

6. Reject guys based on social criteria.  If you must reject someone, before or after a hookup, say "sorry, I don't think our personalities are compatible" or "sorry, I don't think we have enough in common," not "you're too fat" or "your penis is too small."  That is, something that is no one's fault, rather than a physical inadequacy.

See also: Is It Racist to Have a Type?

10 Reasons Chubs Rule

For the last thirty years, I've spent about two hours a day at the gym.  I've dated, hooked up with, and socialized with countless bodybuilders and gym rats.  But I have always been attracted to chubby guys, too.  In some ways, I like them better.

Here are 10 reasons chubby guys rule:

1, For every gym rat with 3% body fat, there are 20 guys with bellies.  A lot more guys to choose from.











2. And a lot more variety.  Muscular physiques, though undeniably attractive, all look about the same.  Visceral fat (around the organs) comes in infinite variety: belly only, with or without muscle, around the glutes, around the pecs, around the biceps, with varying size and hardness.

3.  And a lot less competition.  Chubby guys have their admirers, of course, quite a lot of them, but not nearly as many as gym rats.  You might be the only guy at the bar who is interested in him.

4. Success is practically guaranteed.  When chubby guys are rejected, it's not "Sorry, you're not my type," but a very hostile "You're gross, disgusting!  You shouldn't be allowed in the bar!"  As a result, they are very sensitive to rejection, and unlikely to say "no."

5. You can relax on the date.   Sometimes you don't want to compete with your date to see who can order the healthiest meal.  Many chubby guys are very health conscious, but most won't raise a judgmental eyebrow if you order the bacon-cheeseburger and fries.

More after the break

Comic Book Guy's Date with Porn Star Jeff Stryker

West Hollywood, November 18,  1987

It's the day before my 27th birthday, a Wednesday, about 11:00 pm.  I have spent the last hour and a half cruising at Mugi, the gay Asian bar in Hollywood.

In West Hollywood in the 1980s, in the first years of the AIDS epidemic, you don't go to the bars looking for someone for that night -- only sleazoids and druggies go home with someone they picked up right then.  You talk, maybe kiss and grope a bit, and make a date for a few days later.

Which presents a problem:  After two hours of looking at hot guys, and probably kissing and groping more than one of them, you're revved up, full of energy, excited, horny, and rather lonely.

I've been striking out, which makes the horniness and loneliness worse.  I'm tempted to go to the Gold Coast, the sleaze bar on Santa Monica and La Jolla, and pick up a sleazoid, someone I don't even find attractive.

Instead I use my usual plan for assuaging the horny/loneliness: I go back to my childhood, when I used to buy comic books at Schneider's Drug Store.

Book Circus, on La Jolla across the street from the Gold Coast, sells mostly gay porn, but there's an eclectic selection of used books -- I've bought 19th Century Russian Literature, the Bhagavad-Gita, and The Fleischer Story (about the studio that produced Betty Boop and Popeye Cartoons).  Plus general interest magazines like Time and Newsweek, and comic books.


It's mostly empty at this hour: I see a sleazoid who struck out at the Gold Coast recharging his engine with a copy of Advocate Men; an elderly bespectacled queen browsing in the used books; a couple of street kids or hustlers, hard to say which, wandering aimlessly about without looking at anything.

The night manager  looks up from his half-eaten hamburger and french fries and glares at me.  His name is Jacob, but I'm going to call him Comic Book Guy, after the character on The Simpsons, because now I can't see or hear him in any other way: in his 40s, dark beard, fat, with chubby hands and a gigantic belly, always dressed in a tank top and shorts, even in the winter, nasal sarcastic voice, elitist disdain of anything you decide to buy.

Oddly enough, Comic Book Guy is not without friends.  He usually has two or three guys hanging out by his counter, Sometimes they sneak him over gin-and-tonics from the Gold Coast, in spite of the "No Food or Beverages" sign.

Sometimes they go back through the "Employees Only" door with him.  To do what, I can only guess.

The comic book section is well-stocked with non-DC and Marvel titles.  Gladstone reprints of classic Uncle Scrooge stories from the 1950s.  The perennial teen beefcake of Archie.

It's like I'm back in Rock Island, browsing at Schneider's Drug Store, like I'm warm and safe in my attic room, while Mom and Dad watch tv downstairs, and there's leftover Harris pizza waiting for me in the refrigerator.

I choose two Ducks and two Archies, plus an Advocate and the porn magazine Inches, brace myself for Comic Book Guy's  sarcasm, and head for the checkout counter.

Sure enough, he wipes his hands on a napkin and announces  my titles, loudly: "An infantile news magazine...a magazine for men who have struck out at the bars to beat off to...two infantile picture-books about talking ducks...and Archie comics!  I take that back...you plan to beat off to Reggie Mantle!"

Everyone is looking.  I redden with embarrassment.

"Give me a break!" I exclaim.  "Lots of guys read comic books."

"Do you have someone at home to sound out the big words for you?" Comic Book Guy says with a sneer.

I pull out my wallet and try to hand him a bill.  "Just can the sarcasm and ring me up."

"I'm sorry, the kiddie lit is only for sale until 10:00 pm.  If you would care to return in the morning..."

"That's not a rule, and you know it!"

He smiles and looks blatantly down at my crotch.  "Or I could give you the books tomorrow at 6:00 pm sharp, when you arrive here to take me out to dinner."

Weird way to ask a guy out!  "I'm sorry, tomorrow is my birthday.  I'm having a party...."

Comic Book Guy grins.  "I would be delighted to be your date at your birthday soiree!  Pick me up here at 6:00 pm. sharp."

I'm tired, horny, lonely, and dazed.  Almost by rote, I say "Sure, that will be great."

  He takes my money, counts out my change,, and bags my books so quickly that I'm not sure what happened. "Don't beat off to Reggie too much tonight.  You'll need your strength."

November 19, 1987

I spend the next day going to USC, the gym, and Muscle and Fitness, and agonizing.  I don't find Comic Book Guy attractive -- he's too old, too fat, and too sarcastic for me -- plus you never invite someone on a first date to your birthday party -- plus the other party guests will be West Hollywood gym rats who won't accept a sarcastic chub.

But I didn't get his number, so I can't call and cancel.  Just not showing up would be rude...and I wouldn't be able to go into Book Circus again...

I end up telling Marcus, who is hosting the party, to expect one more, then driving out to Book Circus to pick up Comic Book Guy.  He's wearing a different tank top and shorts.  He pulls me into a wet kiss, then puts a flabby arm around my shoulders and escorts me to my car.

"I'll take the back seat -- do you mind?  It's hard for me to fit into the passenger side.  Besides, we need room in the front seat"

"You're bringing a guest?" I ask, fuming.  My date has a date?

"We have to pick up your present.  Sorry I didn't have time to wrap it.  Here's the address."

Grudgingly I drive us to an apartment in Westwood.

"We're going to be late," I growl.  "What's the big..."

"Patience, young grasshopper."  Comic Book Guy gets out of the car and goes inside.  About ten minutes pass, while I stare at my watch and wonder if I should just leave him there.  Finally he emerges with my present.

Jeff Stryker, the most famous gay porn star of the 1980s.

Apparently he often did personal appearances at Book Circus, and he and Comic Book Guy became friends.

I don't get to go down on Stryker: he wins the "who can get aroused fastest" contest, but refuses his prize,  -- ten minutes in the bedroom with me.  He sends Jacob instead.

 Jacob turns out to be good at kissing, cuddling, and oral, with a presentable 6" penis.  And a lot of porn star friends.

No, we don't date again.

See also: Nude Photos of Jeff Stryker

The Friend I Didn't Have Sex With

 This month I will have lived in the Straight World for seven years.  Granted, there's a gay-friendly coffee shop with a huge rainbow flag in the window a few blocks away, and every year during Pride Month about half the shops nearby have "Happy Pride" signs up.  But heterosexism, heternormativity, and overt homophobia is commonplace.

  I get asked about "my wife" by nearly everybody I meet.  

You hear homophobic slurs at the mall.  

On campus, out LGBT professors are commonly denied tenure (except in the music and drama departments), and LGBT students are commonly denied admission to some programs, like law enforcement and social work.  

But I expected that.  It's just life among heterosexuals.  

Almost all of the gay men in town are under 30.  As soon as they can afford it, they move to a gay neighborhood in Chicago or Minneapolis (no one chooses West Hollywood anymore).  

I know only one gay male couple over age 30, but I don't socialize with them; they are too deeply immersed in the lives of the ex-wives and kids they had before coming out.

Almost every guy who came to my pre-COVD sex parties was married to a woman, bisexual or on the downlow.

But I expected that, too.  Gay men growing up in the Straight World have two options: conform to social expectations by marrying a woman, or get out. (I got out, but then the necessity of getting a job pushed me back in.)

What I didn't expect about life in the Straight World:

You don't have sex with your friends.  Even your gay friends.  They draw a strict line between friendship and romance.  Ex-boyfriend?  Stay out of my bedroom!  Sharing?  Unheard-of!

In gay neighborhoods, your ex-boyfriends continued to share your bed on occasion, and your friends invited you to "share" their boyfriends on the third or fourth date.  Failing to invite was considered extremely rude, as was refusing the invitation.  

Friends went cruising together and brought home a third person to "share."

At the parties we held almost every week, oral sex was a party favor.

I can only think of one friend in West Hollywood whom I didn't have sex with: Mickey.

Mickey was a short, round chub of indeterminate age, soft and smooth, extremely fragile; you felt like if you hugged him too hard, he would dissolve.  But that would not, in itself, be sufficient cause for refusing to share.

He  latched on to us somehow in 1992 or 1993.  I don't remember how; one day he was just there.  No "coming out" story, no growing up stories, no background at all.  It was as if he was just conjured up out of the dew at that moment.  This was not unusual in West Hollywood: many guys had experienced such trauma in their homophobic small towns that they wanted to forget everything and start afresh.

After a friendship of six or seven months, he vanished.  No goodbye, no note; he just stopped showing up.  This was not unusual in West Hollywood, either: when you moved home or to a new gay neighborhood, you were immersed in a new social circle, and forgot about all but your very closest friends.  

He may have been living in his car; his financial situation was unclear.  But that wouldn't be a cause for refusing to share.  Most jobs, even in gay neighborhoods, required you to stay in the closet; being out often led to poverty.  

 I remember watching our usual Monday night tv lineup (The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, Blossom, Murphy Brown), going out to dinner (he didn't know how a buffet worked, and piled his plate embarrassingly high).  I remember buying comics at the Book Circus, getting Pollo Loco after the gym, Shabbat services at the gay synagogue.  But we never invited him to any party where sex was going on, or to spend the night in our bed.

A few random conversations: cats (liked), baked beans (yuck!), the Holocaust (horrified by), and BDSM (would like to try it). 

So why didn't I offer to tie him up, at least?

Some other conversations:

"I wish I could find a relationship like you guys have, with a lover who was faithful to me, who never even looked at another guy."

"Guys in Weho are such sleazoids!  I met someone at the Gold Coast last night, and he wanted me to go home with him!  Not even a date, just sex.  Disgusting! I'm so glad you guys aren't like that."

During the whole six or seven months of our friendship, Lane and I had to pretend to be monogamous!

More Joy of Abs

If you have well-developed abs, you can skip the pec and delt exercises.  You have it all.

Ok, not really, but abs do work on your posture, strength, stamina, cardiovascular vitness, and overall health.  But you're turning heads, regardless of what you're packing.

Plus they're so hard to work on that they're more emblematic of physical fitness than the much easier muscles of the chest and shoulders.   It's the abs  that get masculine heads to turn at the beach.

















If you saw this guy on Grindr, would you really ask for a cock pic before sealing the deal?



















Ok, bad example, he has a beautiful face, too.

Take this guy: kind of a dorky expression and weird hair, but I'm still inviting him over, due to his precision-cut eight-pack.

More after the break.

Abs: A Man's Third Best Feature

Big pecs and biceps are the stars of the male physique, but abs are a close third.  They're much harder to develop, not about size but about definition, so they're the signature of the well-developed man.

There are actually four sets of muscles on the trunk:
The rectus abdominus in the front, which give you the "xylophone" effect
The serratus on the upper sides, which connect the abdomen and the pecs.
The transverse abdominus
The obliques on the lower sides, the biggest of the abdominal muscles.

Everybody tries crunches and sit-ups for their abs, but they are almost impossible to do effectively.  I suggest the plank (reverse push-up) and side twists.

And cardio: since abs are a matter of definition rather than bulk, you need to get your body fat down.

The definition is most noticeable when the abs are hairless.

But hairy abs have a charm of their own.

A thin line of hair going down the abdominal ridge is called a "glory trail," since it draws the eye to the crotch.  Charlie McDermott made the glory trail famous by displaying his in nearly every episode of The Middle.

More after the break.

The Dayton Chub and His Two Secrets

Dayton, May 2008

For many gay men, the ideal is on the left: thick biceps, shoulders like epaulets, xylophone-abs, minimal or no chest hair, with the icy perfection of a Greek god.

For others, he is on the right: soft and warm, with liberal body hair, and a belly so big it feels like a pillow beneath your head.

I like them both.  As long as he has some mass, I don't care if the guy is a marble statue or a plush teddy bear.

So when I saw Carlos' profile on gay.com stating that he was shorter than me, Hispanic, with  "a few extra pounds" and extra beneath-the-belt gifts, I thought "Just my type!"

Everyone on the internet misrepresents themselves, so he probably had 20-30 extra pounds.  A cute bear!  Great.

I didn't even mind when he wanted to meet at the Iron Chef, the worst Chinese buffet in Dayton, housed in a transient hotel next to a pool room.


Carlos was waiting for me on a bench outside the restaurant.




Guess what "a few extra pounds" meant:

You got it.  He was a superchub.

Easily 400 pounds, as wide as he was tall, with hanging breasts, sagging arms, and multiple bellies.


A lot of guys like their men massive, the heftier, the better.  They even practice forced-feeding to increase the heft of their objects d'amour to room-size.

But I do not.  Aside from the lack of masculine body contours, superchubs probably don't share my interest in physical fitness, and they're beset-upon by major health issues.

Besides, their penises get lost in the folds of flesh.

But I couldn't just walk away from this poor guy grinning sheepishly at me.

And I couldn't call him on his "a few extra pounds" misrepresentation -- who hasn't dropped pounds or years, or added inches in personal ads?

The least I could do was have lunch with him.

As Carlos ate a remarkably petite plate consisting of a dab of kung pao chicken, a single fried chicken wing, one egg roll, and a lot of cucumber slices, grapes, and pineapple chunks, we talked about his attempts to lose weight, Weight Watchers and fad diets and liposuction.  He was down to a svelte 250 at one point, but it all came back.

We talked about his weight-related health problems, from hypertension to diabetes to a broken ankle that still wasn't healed (he walked with a cane).

We talked about the everyday hassles of being a superchub -- having to buy two seats on an airplane, the look of horror when he sat down next to someone at the movies, the stares and whispers.

I was feeling more and more guilty about my plans to dump him after lunch.

And especially in gay communities: Carlos was refused entry to bath houses and back-rooms.  He was ignored in twink bars and even in bear bars. Guys he met online usually rejected him outright, without taking the time to get to know him.

I couldn't dump him -- I would feel guilty forever.

"Gay men can be so shallow.  There's a lot more to me than being big!  I speak two languages, I write poetry, I go to church, I have a niece and nephew who love me."


Ok, enough is enough.  I was going through with this date to its logical conclusion -- Carlos's apartment!

The bedroom activities were actually quite nice. Carlos was very passionate, and so creative that I hardly missed the lack of access to his frontside and backside.

Afterwards we watched a movie, he read me some of his poetry, he invited me to a pro-gay Methodist church where he worked as a deacon, and I found myself asking him for a second date.

"That sounds great," he said, "Do you mind if I share you with my partner?"

"Partner?" I repeated in shock.  What happened to the constant rejections?  I had been congratulating myself for taking pity on this guy, and he had a partner?

"Jerry -- we've been together for 8 years now.  He has his own place in Columbus, but he drives out to Dayton on the weekends.  And during the week, we can hook up or date other guys -- but only once.  The second time, we have to share."

"Does that happen a lot?" I asked weakly.

"Not often -- once is usually plenty," Carlos  said.  "I get tons of action -- you'd be surprised how many guys are hot for superchubs, and the rest get guilted into it.  But most of them are just plain lousy in bed.  They don't know how to handle a real man."

"Well...um...I'm flattered that I meet your standards."

He laughed.  "What can I say?  I'm picky."

Jerry turned out to be a Hispanic muscle god with gigantic arms, a hairy chest, and a bratwust+.

So much for a waif who can't get a date.