13 Country Boys, Cowboys, Farmboys, Truckers, and Rednecks

Both of my parents grew up on farms, and everybody who finds out that I'm from Illinois makes a crack about farming, so I've never found country boys particularly exciting. I was always into short, dark-skinned, muscular, not tall, chunky, and Anglo-pale.

Besides, I spent my childhood trying to avoid football, pick up trucks, country western music, hunting, fishing, and beer  Why would I want to hang out with someone interested in those things?

Still, country boys are often attractive, perhaps due to their hard iconic masculinity.

And the gay ones are so unexpected.  What causes someone to resist the siren call of West Hollywood and spend his life amid the vast fields?

Here are my top 12 country boys dates and hookups.












Texas

1. Ole Miss.  On my way south from Rock Island to my horrible year in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas, I stopped in Oxford, Mississippi, and in one of my few experiences in street cruising, picked up a University of Mississippi undergrad named Elmer (really)

2. Carl the Cowboy Cop.  Texas had fewer country boys than one would expect, though lots of guys pretended to be.  Carl was 6'8, lanky, blond, and from a ranch near Abilene.  On our first date, he bought me a pair of cowboy boots and took me country-western line dancing.









West Hollywood

3. The Cowboy of Sunset Boulevard was actually a college music major from the San Fernando Valley, but he pretended to be a cowboy, and hit it off on my Montana-born roommate, Derek.

4. Frozen Custard and Gay Bashing.  During my semester in Nashville, I got a date with a country boy who wanted to go through my photo album, insisted that we didn't do it in the bed near the open window.  And smoked.

5. The Country Western Singer, also in Nashville. At least, a singer.  Adter I crammed Country-Western into my brain to impress him, he turned out to be into pop.

6. The Nebraska Cornhusker.  In 1995, Lane and I took a road trip from West Hollywood to Rock Island: The Great Redneck Roundup, 20 hookups in 20 days.  But few actual country boys.  A highlight was the Nebraska Cornhusker, a former football player who now worked as a college recruiter, and had three of the six characteristics of Country Boys.

7. The Honest-to-Goodness Cowboy of Missoula, Montana, another highlight of our   He made his living in rodeos.

New York

8. The Bear Who Wasn't into Sharing.  My boyfriend Joe's ex, a carpenter who lived in rural Rhinebeck, New York.  We thought he wasn't into sharing, and he thought Joe wasn't, until two of his friends convinced us otherwise.

9. The Football Player Who Got Unstuck In Time, Carey the Alabama Farm Boy who was going to the University of Alabama, and got lost on a field trip to New York, either in 1939 or 2000.

Florida

10. The Florida Cowboy.  Did you know that there were ranches in Florida?  The ranchers are called "cowhunters" or "crackers." But the tall, buffed guy that Yuri and I shared actually worked on an alpaca ranch.

11. Tucumcari Two-Step.  When I was visiting Larry in New Mexico, I met a guy from Tucumcari, on old Route 66. He had never heard of the tv series.

Ohio

Not a lot of country boys in Ohio.








Upstate

12.  The French Canadian Farmboy.  When I took Troy to Montreal to go to his first glory hole, he hooked up with Max.  Troy was impressed that he was an actual, honest-to-goodness farmer.

Plains

13, The Dakota Boy.   When I went to a Pow-Wow, I expected to meet a member of the Dakota Indian Nation, but instead I got a farmboy of German ancestry.  Cute, though.

Tad's Wild Night with the Rifleman and His Son

Readers have been asking for a story about a Chuck Connors - Johnny Crawford romance ever since I started this blog in 2015.

I don't know why.  Most Baby Boomers have never seen The Rifleman (1958-63), about single dad Lucas McCain (Chuck Connors) raising his son Mark (Johnny Crawford) in the Old West.  It was before our time during its first run, and who wanted to watch the reruns?  Westerns were square; the 1960s was all about blasting off in rocket ships and zapping aliens with ray guns.

Plus Johnny Crawford was 12 years old when The Rifleman began, so any sexual activity would be the predatory grooming of a pedophile.  During the last season, he was 16-17 years old, still off limits for any consensual romance.  But maybe later, when they were both adults.

Here are the 2 hookup stories I heard about them in West Hollywood.  The first comes from a guest at one of Will the Bondage Boy's parties in 1999, a young BDSM bottom.  I don't remember his name, so I'll call him Tad.  I added a few details.

Hollywood, Spring 1986

I was a Cute Young Thing, 19 years old, still living with my parents, working at a video store in Eagle Rock.  I was tall and skinny, kind of homely, with a big nose and acne scars, a small dick, no muscles, no selling point except my willingness to bottom, which as you know was unusual in the 1980s.

So every weekend I hung out on Hustler Corner, Highland and Santa Monica. Not hustling, though I wouldn't say no to a new shirt.  But the closeted married men who came out after their kids were tucked into bed didn't care that I was poor, homely, small, or didn't belong to a gym. All they cared about was getting off.

 I met a lot of closeted actors on Hustler Corner, cruising themselves or sending an assistant out to make the deal for them.

Well, one night this blue Camero pulls up, and a very handsome guy sticks his head out -- in his 30s, black curly hair, dark skin -- and asks if I like older men.  He's not really older, but I say "Sure" and get into the car with him.

We drive to the parking lot on Selma.  "Do you mind if I inspect the merchandise first?" he asks.

"Be my guest."  I pull out my dick, but he asks me to raise up so he can feel my butt.  "Nice and firm!  Do you do Greek passive?"

"As long as you use a condom."

"Great -- these days Greek passive is hard to find.  Is gang banging ok?"

"The more, the merrier."

"Bondage?"

I wasn' t ready to admit my BDSM interest yet, so I said "As long as there's no pain."

"Another plus.  And you're cute.  I think you'll do great."

"Thanks," I said, wondering if I was going to a trick or an audition.

"It's a bit of a drive, so my boss would like you to spend the night, and if things work out, the weekend.  It pay $200.  Is that ok?"

"As long as I'm back for work by noon Sunday."

He gets onto the 405 and drives us north, over the mountains and then farther through the San Joaquin Valley.  I don't mind -- there are snacks and beer in the car, and Mike has a lot of funny stories.  Originally from Albuquerque, he came to L.A. ten years ago to become an actor, but ended up a pool cleaner and lawn maintenance guy for some of the wealthy residents of Bel Air.  For the past three years, he has been a personal assistant for Chuck Connors.

Chuck Connors!  I can barely hide my excitement!  You may think I'm too young to remember The Rifleman, but when I was growing up, they were playing the reruns every day after school. I had lots of fantasies about Lucas McCain and especially his teenage son Mark.

After about two hours, we come to a gated community up in the mountains near Bakerfield, and drive into what looks like a ranch called Medicine Hat Oak.  The main house is all done like a Wild West ranch, too, with wood paneling and deer and moose heads and guns on the walls, and that old-fashioned Colonial furniture.

Mike lets me use the bathroom, then takes me into a guest room.  More Wild West motif.

"You won't meet Mr. Connors until tomorrow," he says.  "Do you need anything?"

"A shower," I tell him.  "And maybe you could join me?"  We start kissing.  Soon our clothes are on the floor.  Mike has a great physique, hard smooth chest, big cock.  He goes down on me, teasing until I'm ready to explode, then turns me onto my stomach, puts on a condom, and pushes into me.  I've been screwed before, but the big head hits just the right spot, and I cum immediately.

Mike keeps on thrusting inside me for a long time.  I get aroused again, and start beating off.  Finally he finishes, takes the condom off, and turns me over for a long kiss.  Then he says "If you need anything, I'm just on the other side of the kitchen.  Breakfast is at 8:00."  He grabs his clothes and leaves.

In the morning I finally meet Chuck Connors.  He's in his sixties, white-haired and craggy, but still hot.  Mike and two other guys are there, too.  In their fifties, balding. I don't recognize them.

Breakfast conversation is mostly about horses.  I want to talk about The Rifleman, and mention my childhood crush on Mark McCain.

"Johnny will be up later," Connors says abruptly, cutting me off.  Apparently he doesn't want to talk about The Rifleman...or about me being gay.  "For the party.  I think Hank, too."

Is Hank a boyfriend?  I wonder.  A lover?  But the conversation turns to Hank' problem with a contract of some sort, and I don't think it's a good idea to ask.

After breakfast Mike drives me into Tehachapi to get some new underwear and a swimsuit.  We spend the day working out, swimming -- some kissing in the pool, but no sex -- and riding horses.  Connors joins us for tennis.  More guys arrive during the day, until by the time the cook sets out dinner by the pool, there are around 30.  All men, mostly in their fifties and sixties.  Like a gay party, except there's no touching, and no one is talking about sex.

Mike introduces me as "a friend from L.A."

I'm disappointed that there aren't more celebrities.  I recognize Charlton Heston from The Planet of the Apes and Gary Lockwood from 2001: A Space Odyssey, but that's all.  No Johnny Crawford.

I ask Connors where he is.

"I guess he'll be up later.  He had a thing to do in L.A. first."

Around 7:00 pm, Mike says "It's time for you to earn that $200."  He takes me back to the guest room, strips me out of my clothes, and has me lie down on my back, crosswise on the bed.  He ties my arms and legs together and blindfolds me.

I have never been tied up before. The loss of control is wildly exciting.  I'm already aroused.

"You'll be here for three hours.  If you need a bathroom or stretching break, just tell the guy you're with to come and fetch me.  They all know they have to use a condom, and no pain.  Any questions?"

For the next three hours, hands caress my body.  My nipples and balls are licked.  I am kissed.  I count four cocks in my butt, five in my mouth.  I lose count of the mouths on my cock.  I cum three times.

It's the best night of my life.

The only problem is, I have no idea which of the guys I have been with.  Chuck Connors?  Johnny Crawford?  Charlton Heston?

Afterwards Mike unties me, and I shower and go to bed.

He wakes me up in the morning before dawn, gives me $200, and drives me back to West Hollywood.  We stop for breakfast at a McDonald's on the way.

"You had quite a night," he says.  "Are you sore?"

"Not really.  It was great. By the way, did Johnny Crawford ever show up?"

"Yes, he was at the party."

"Did he screw me?"

"Sorry, that's classified information.  Mr. Connors likes to protect his guests' privacy."

"Did Mr. Connors screw me?"

He smiles.  "I can't tell you that.  All I can tell you is that one of the guys was me.  Butt and mouth both.  And I'd like to do it again sometime, except just the two of us, not a crowd."

"Sure.  As long as there's some bondage involved."

To this day I don't know if I had sex with Chuck Connors or Johnny Crawford, or both, or neither.

Derek the Fitness Model and the Teenage Cowboy

West Hollywood, September 1988

In West Hollywood, almost no one lived alone.  It was too expensive, and besides, we moved here in the first place to find community.  So we lived with a partner (we called them "lovers"), a roommate, or both.

There were two types of roommates.

Alan and I were Close Friends: We ate meals together, went out together, moved in the same social circle... and invited each other to "share" boyfriends.

When he moved to Thailand in the fall of 1987, I moved in with a fitness model-turned-realtor named Derek, a tall, muscular, hairy guy in his 40s, and his lover Chazz, a slim, androgynous twink.

They lived in a small but very nice house on Hilldale, just off Sunset.

Derek and I turned out to be Just Roommates: We scheduled different hours for cooking and eating meals.  We were invited to each other's parties by default, and on Saturday afternoons we went to the Bodhi Tree on Melrose to browse for New Age books, but otherwise we rarely socialized. We had different social circles.

And he never invited me to "share."

It was rather frustrating listening to the activity on the other side of the wall, and never being asked to join in.

Did I mention that Derek's physique was spectacular even by West Hollywood standards?  And that I saw his beneath-the-belt gifts in one of his old layouts in Mandate?

A few months after I moved in, Derek broke up with Chazz (who soon moved out).  He started bringing dates home.  Mostly slim, androgynous twinks.


Ok, now's my chance! I thought.  Maybe he was monogamous with Chazz, but he certainly won't mind sharing a boyfriend!

But he never asked, and when I invited him to share my on-off boyfriend, he gave me a weird, sad smile, and said "No, thank you," with exaggerated politeness.

What, not into sharing?  Or not into Raul?

Or not into me?

Impossible!  Everyone was into me!  I was never rejected -- except by Derek.

Then I met Calvin, the Cowboy of Sunset Boulevard, who was skittish about going down the hill to the gay part of West Hollywood, where someone might think he was...you know.  I invited Derek along on our date, figuring that the promise of two guys in his bed would trump Calvin's fear of "somebody I know seeing me."

It backfired: Seems that Derek was from Wyoming, grew up around cowboys, and had played one in a photo shoot for Playgirl.

They were so busy talking that I felt like I was tagging along on a date between Calvin and Derek.

So I wasn't completely surprised the next morning, when I got back to the house after walking Calvin to his car, and Derek asked "Are you going on a second date?"

"Probably not.  He was very passionate in bed, but we don't really have a lot in common."

"Then, do you mind if I ask him out?"

I sort of did.  Calvin was my project -- a shy, closeted young cowboy.  I drew him out of his shell, introduced him to an out, proud gay community. What had Derek done, except flex his biceps and talk about Wyoming?  But I said "No, not at all.  Wait a couple of days, of course."

In West Hollywood, the 48 hours after the first date was a tense waiting period.  Either of you could ask for a second date, or not.  What if one asked, and the other wasn't interested?  What if you saw each other on the street before you were ready to call?  If  48 hours passed without a request for a second date, you could relax and move on to other people..

 "Great, thanks!  I'll wait a week, just to be on the safe side.  Wouldn't want anybody to think I was rustling on your ranch, would we?"

But when I got home from Muscle and Fitness on Monday afternoon,  there was a message from Calvin on our machine.  He had called Derek exactly 48 hours after our date ended!

Derek wasn't really a fan of the Old West -- at least, I never heard him mention bronco busting or cow poking -- but he orchestrated a Western-themed date for Saturday night: dinner at a Mexican restaurant, followed by Oilcan Harry's, a bar in Studio City that specialized in country-western line dancing.

I snippishly decided to be home, watching tv in the living room, when they returned, about 11:00 pm.

"Have fun, guys?" I asked.

"Oh, it was great," Derek said.  "Really nice crowd at Oilcan Harry's."

"Well, come on, sit down and tell me all about it!"

Derek glared at me, as if to ask, Are you deliberately making this awkward?

Another West Hollywood rule: at the end of the date, your friend or roommate is anxious to get into the bedroom, so keep the conversation to a bare minimum.

He murmured "I have to make a pit stop," and disappeared into the bathroom.  Calvin sat down on the couch next to me.

"Hey...um...I want to apologize about blowing you off for your roommate."

"No need for apologize" I said, surprised.  "We only had one date -- we weren't in a relationship."

"Well, I feel bad anyway.  You're really nice and all, but Derek and me, we just have a lot more in common.  Did you know he was in a rodeo when he was a teenager?"

"Hey, who am I to stand in the way of two cowboys in love?"  That came out more sarcastic than I intended.

"I don't want to go into to the bedroom with Derek, and have you out here, all lonely and upset..."

"Well, if you'd rather I not be here, I can go to the Rage for an hour or so."

Calvin scooted over and put his arm around me.  "Or you could spend the night with us.  I'm sure Derek won't mind."

Derek appeared, wiping his hands on a towel.  "I won't mind what?"

"Inviting Boomer to spend the night with us."

He stared with deer-caught-in-the-headlights horror - but he said: "Um...um...sure, that would be great."

I'm still not sure why he agreed -- they weren't in a relationship, so sharing was weird.    But we ended up in his bedroom with Calvin between us, taking turns kissing him and working beneath the belt.

Then we both topped Calvin -- one of the few times I've ever topped anyone.

I got only limited access to Derek -- no kissing, just a little fondling.  But it was fun seeing him in action.

They dated for about three months, and I ended up sharing their bed a few more times, always with passionate attention from Calvin and some basic fondling from Derek.  

That was enough.

See also: My Date with Richard Dreyfuss; The Naked Man in the Bathtub; Derek and the Pop Star

Carl, the Cowboy Cop on My Sausage List

Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas, April 1985

You probably know the type of guys I find attractive:

1. Short, the shorter the better.
2. Muscular or husky.  Fat is good.  Bodybuilder too.
3. Dark-skinned.  Black, Asian, Hispanic.  If you're Caucasian, then maybe Italian, Greek, Spanish.
4. Religious, or better yet, clergy.
5. Gifted beneath the belt.

So how did I end up with a guy who was taller than me, thin, a fair-skinned blond, and not religious?

Well, at least he met trait #5: he was the third biggest guy I've ever met.

It was during my horrible year at Hell-fer-Sartain State College in Texas, the worst place in the world.  I drove into the Montrose, the gay neighborhood of Houston, to the Wilde and Stein Bookstore.  While I was browsing in the fiction section, a guy approached me -- very tall, at least 6'8" to my 6'1, lanky, blond, wearing tight jeans and a lumberjack shirt.

"Don't I know you from somewhere?" he asked, in retrospect the oldest line in the book.  But we chatted, and it was a relief to meet someone who wasn't deeply closeted or was overloaded with weird quirks.

 His name was Carl, he was 27 years old, and a real life cowboy -- he grew up on a ranch near Abilene.

We went to dinner at the Hobbit Cafe, which, in spite of its name, served Mexican food, to the mall to buy me a pair of cowboy boots, dancing -- at a regular gay disco, not a cowboy bar, and then back to his apartment.

 It was such a relief to meet someone who wasn't closeted or kooky that I didn't mind his lack of the traits I usually find attractive, or that he lived in Pasadena, on the south side of Houston, a good 40 miles from me.

During the usual date small-talk, Carl told me that he worked in human services.  Now, sitting on the couch in his apartment, he said "You know what?  I'm just going to come out with it.  I'm not exactly in human services."

"What, then?"

"I'm a cop."

I felt the blood draining from my face.  Same-sex acts were illegal in Texas (they would be until 2003), and the police actively sought to entrap "homosexual deviants" in the bars and bookstores of Montrose.  Put your hand on his shoulder, you're under arrest for lewd conduct.  And we had been dancing together, groping, and kissing....

"It's not like that," Carl said, sensing what I was thinking.  "I'm gay.  In the closet, of course."

"Of course."  If he were discovered, he would be instantly fired.  "Um...the gay community doesn't have a very good attitude toward the police."

"I know.  That's why I don't usually tell people until the second or third date.  It scares them off faster than finding out that I'm bisexual."  He conked himself on the head.  "Whoops, I let another one slip out, didn't I?"

"You sure did.  Any more closets you want to open?"

"Yeah.  I'm an atheist. I grew up in a fundy household, and all of that God crap just riles me up!"

Hmm-- I believed in God, and went to church, but I decided to not mention those few details.  I wanted to see this guy in the bedroom!  "Bisexual, atheist, cop," I joked.  "I'm surprised you haven't been lynched!"

We went into the bedroom, and Carl revealed that, although he was missing traits #1-4, he more than made up for it with #5.

On our second date, he came up to my apartment, with a pizza -- 45 minutes late.  He explained that he had stopped to help a lady fix her flat tire.

A good Samaritan, too.  This one might be a keeper.

We sat in the living room, eating our pizza from the coffee table.  Carl started checking around the room.   An Eastern Orthodox icon.  A Catholic crucifix on the wall.  A small bronze statue of The Madonna of Regensburg that I got during my semester abroad.  A bookcase containing Church and Society, Halley's Bible Handbook, Dag Hammarskjold's Markings, Three Treatises of Martin Luther, God in the Dock by C.S. Lewis...

"Don't tell me you're into that God crap!" Carl exclaimed, his mouth full of pepperoni.

"Well...um, I was raised Nazarene, but they're way homophobic, so when I was in grad school I started going to the Metropolitan Community Church.  There's one in Houston.  I don't get there very often, but...."


"Church is church.  It's all about hating homos!"

"No, the MCC is different.   It was founded by the Rev. Troy Perry, who's gay, and most of the members are gay."

"Self-loathing, no doubt."  His voice changed to a squeaking falsetto.  "Oh, I'm gay, I'm so worthless, I need God to wipe my sins away."

"But the MCC teaches that gay is ok.  God loves gay people, and..."

"Enough is enough!  I didn't come here to listen to the whole God spiel!"

I was starting to get angry.  "Well, Carl, if I don't mind that you're an atheist, you shouldn't mind that I believe in God, right?  Difference of opinion and all that?"

"I don't have to respect ridiculous opinions.  What if you thought the moon was made of green cheese?  Should I respect that?"

We went on like that for awhile, and Carl ended up leaving.

Turns out that I was lacking one of the traits that the bisexual cowboy cop found attractive.

The Great Redneck Roundup: 20 Hookups in 20 Days

Summer 1995, the Wild West

When Dad turned 62, he and Mom retired, sold their house in Rock Island, and moved back to their home state of Indiana.  They told me that I had to come out by August to pick up any of my stuff that was still in the house, or it would go to Goodwill.

I wanted my desk, two chairs, a couple of books, two paintings, and some other mementos.

And Lane had never been out of California, except for flights to New York, Israel, and Europe.  Time for a road trip!

The only problem is, after a lifetime in West Hollywood, even Ojai seemed intolerably homophobic to him.   And we would be driving through some of the scariest, most conservative, most homophobic states in the country.

But we could see the sights, I told him.  The Grand Canyon, Mount Rushmore...and Rednecks, hairy-chested guys with farm-hard muscles and gigantic Mortadellas, who didn't like gay people but on Saturday night, after a few beers, happily went down on the guys they met at the tractor pull.

"Well...I do like cute redneck farmboys."

"Why not make a game of it?" I suggested.  "We'll see if we can hook up with a cowboy or redneck every day, bring a little same-sex action to the straight world.  How about it: 20 days, 20 sausages?"

Lane agreed to the Great Redneck Roundup of 1995:

Day 1: Phoenix, Arizona

This one was easy.  We stayed with a couple Lane knew, transplants from the gay Jewish community in Los Angeles, who took us on a tour of Phoenix's gay neighborhood and later invited us into their bed.  Sausage Count: 2

Day 2: Flagstaff, Arizona

After seeing the Grand Canyon, we drove down to Flagstaff to spend the night.  At a gay-friendly bar, we hooked up with a young Hispanic guy who worked as a waiter. Sausage Count: 3

Day 3: Provo, Utah

The heart of the Mormon world.  We were getting cocky, figuring that we could pick up a guy anywhere in Redneck Country, like on the campus of Brigham Young University.  Bust.

Day 4: Laramie, Wyoming

In a few years, the murder of Matthew Shepherd would make Laramie famous as haven of homophobia, but in 1995, we were just thinking cowboys.  We went to the campus of the University of Wyoming, visited the Art Museum, and the Museum of the Plains.

Nobody in Laramie, but on the road: when you go to a rest stop at dawn, there are always a lot of trucks parked, where the drivers spent the night.  Curious, I walked among them.  One of the doors was open, and the driver was sitting inside, legs spread, waiting for a passerby to strike up a conversation -- and be invited into the cab.  He turned out to be from Chicago, into kissing and oral. Sausage Count: Boomer 4, Lane 3

Days 5-6: Denver, Colorado

After four days in the Straight World, it was a relief to get to Denver, with its strong, well-organized gay neighborhood.  And meeting guys was easy. A South Asian guy named Ravi took us back to his apartment.

On Day 6, we toured the Museum of Decorative Arts and then met Ravi and his friend Jason for dinner.  We all went to a ballet at the Opera House, and then back to Ravi's apartment again. Sausage Count: Boomer 6, Lane 5












Day 7: Omaha, Nebraska.

I wanted to see the old places I knew from my month in Omaha with Fred.  And found that saying "I'm from West Hollywood" attracts guys as readily as saying "I have a gigantic penis."  We hooked up  with a Cornhuster, an extremely buffed former University of Nebraska football player who now worked as a college recruiter.  He was an anal bottom.  Sausage Count: Boomer 7, Lane 6

Day 8: Des Moines, Iowa.

Thomas, the gay Episcopalian priest who took me to my first Gay Rights Rally in 1981, was still living in Des Moines, a Silver Daddy who still managed to attract Cute Young Things.  We "shared" his latest boyfriend. Sausage Count: Boomer 9, Lane 8.

Days 9-11: Rock Island, Illinois

Along with visiting my parents and brother, packing up and shipping my stuff, and going to my old haunts, we had time to hang out with my old friend Dick and his partner.  I also sent Lane out to JRs by himself, so we would be even.  Sausage Count: 11

Day 12: Sioux Falls, South Dakota

We saw the famous Stave Church and went to a gay bar downtown, hoping to hook up with a Viking.  Instead we hooked up with a black guy on the downlow, whose wife was an English professor at the University. Sausage Count: 12

Day 13: Rapid City, South Dakota

We were so tired from driving and seeing Mount Rushmore and the Crazy Horse Monument that we forgot to cruise.  Bust.






Day 14: Billings, Montana

We ended up in Sturgis, South Dakota, during the famous Sturgis Bike Rally.  Hundreds of hot motorcycle guys riding around shirtless, beer in hand.  But there was no place to stay in town, so we had to drive on to Billings, Montana.  Again, too tired to cruise.  Bust.

Day 15: Missoula, Montana

We loved Missoula.  A very nice art museum, historic churches, antique shops, bookstores.  I saw one of the most beautiful men on Earth fishing off a bridge, a cut-off t-shirt revealing enormous biceps.  Lane stayed at the hotel, saying I could hook up by myself, so I went to a country-Western bar and met Jared, a real, actual cowboy (or so he said).  Sausage Count: Boomer 13, Lane 12

Day 17: Spokane, Washington

It was scary driving through Idaho, where the anti-sodomy law brought a maximum penalty of life in prison.  But then we arrived in Spokane, Washington, a little gay mecca, drawing gay guys from all over the redneck states.  They were low-key, closeted; no "real" gay bars, but lots of gay-friendly bars and restaurants, and a lot of "street cruising."  But we didn't pick up anyone.  Bust.

Day 18: Portland, Oregon

A gigantic gay mecca, with a bathhouse that took up nearly a city block and a nice country-western bar.  We did some cruising separately at the bathhouse (3 guys for me, 4 for Lane so we would be even).  Sausage Count: 16







Day 19: Redding, California

Two days left, 4 guys to go.  We pulled into Redding, a town of 90,000 near the Oregon border and Mount Shasta, where Bigfoot has been sighted.  There was only one, small gay bar, and it wasn't very active.

"We can pick up the rest in San Francisco," Lane pointed out.

"Sure, but we're supposed to be getting guys in the Straight World, cowboys and truckers and rednecks."

I went up to the bartender and asked "Do you know of any clubs where you could meet several guys tonight?"

He told me about a bear party going on that night in a place called Happy Valley, where we got our remaining four!  Sausage Count: 20.

Day 20: San Francisco, California

When you drive into town from the north, you go over the Golden Gate Bridge, an iconic San Francisco moment.  We were too overwhelmed by being home, in the heart of the gay world, to bother with cruising.  But we had already had 8 dates or "sharing" experiences, 4 bar hookups, 1 public encounter, and 7 guys from bear parties or bath houses, for a total of 20 sausages in 20 days.

Oh, and we saw the Grand Canyon, too.

Lane on the Plains: Twinks, Daddies, Cowboys, and a Rabbi

Plains, June 2017

"It's not fair," I told David.  "Since I left San Francisco, you've been out to visit me four times.  Since he moved to London, Yuri has been out to visit me four times.  But Lane won't leave West Hollywood.  I always have to fly out to visit him."

"What's wrong with West Hollywood?"  David asked.

"Nothing -- I love it there.  But it's a long, expensive flight, and Lane has more money and more free time than I do.  He should do some of the visiting."

When I met Lane in 1989, he was 33 years old, and he had only been out of Southern California twice, to visit relatives in New York and spend a year on a kibbutz in Israel.

"Why should I go anywhere?" he always said.  "I'm already here."

During the seven or eight years we were together, I convinced him to go on trips to Europe and two road trips across the United States, but after we broke up, he had a relapse.  For the last twenty years, he has only left Southern California once, to get married in his partner's home town of Salt Lake City.

"What you have to do is sell the Plains," David said.  "Give him some overwhelming reason to come here -- other than seeing you, that is. What is he interested in?"

#1. He likes a strong Jewish presence. But there are like 400 Jewish people in the whole state, two synagogues, one full-time rabbi.

"Ok, don't stress the Jewish angle.  Anything else he's passionate about?"

#2. Science fiction.  He's read every science fiction novel ever written.  But there aren't a lot of sci-fi bookstores on the Plains.

"Anything else?"

#3. Leather/bears/motorcycles.  There's a motorcycle rally in Sturgis, but not until August.

"Well, what about men?"

"#4. Older guys, beefy Daddy types.  But they're in short supply on the Plains.  I can go on Grindr and get ten twinks in an hour, but...

#5. Thai, Indian, and Vietnamese food.  

Both a rarity Finally I hit on it .  #6: Mount Rushmore!

"The great stone faces that Cary Grant climbed at the end of North by Northwest?  What's so great about them?"

"I don't know, but we missed them on our road trip in 1995 -- the highway was too packed to get through -- so it might be a big enough draw to get him out here."

It worked -- a promise of a trip to Mount Rushmore got Lane on a plane.  He came during my week "off" between Indianapolis and Amsterdam.

Thursday

Lane arrives at 4:30 pm -- alone..  He's 61 years old, balding, eyeglassed, but more buffed than when we were together, with thick hairy arms, a bulky chest, and a full beard.    I take him to dinner a place that serves Ethiopian food on weekends, and then to the gay-friendly coffee house for dessert.

"I didn't arrange for any sharing," I tell him.  "Since you and Ben are married, I figured you are monogamous."

He grins.  "Well, actually, we've been bringing in third guys, sort of like when you and I were together.  And when we're traveling, a close friend can substitute.  So if you have a friend you'd like to introduce me to..."

"Well, guys our age are in short supply here on the Plains.  I know a lot of twinks, but..."

To my surprise, he says: "Sure, no problem, I can handle being a Daddy.  As long as he's not young enough to be my grandson."

So I go on Grindr and arrange a hookup with a physical therapy major named Dack: short, slim, smooth body, kind of feminine, rather small penis.  Into kissing and anal (but Lane and I talk him into going down on us).

He's 19, young enough to be Lane's grandson, but in the heat of the moment Lane doesn't mind:  "Wait until I tell Ben!  He thinks 40 year olds are kids, and I went down on a 19 year old!"


Friday

We drive to Rapid City, South Dakota, and see the 19th century Norwegian stave church, the Berlin wall exhibit, and the art walk downtown.  At Mitzi's Books on Main Street, Lane buys a rare first edition of Logan's Run, the 1967 dystopian science fiction novel that was adapted into a 1976 movie. (#2: Science Fiction).

We have dinner at a Vietnamese restaurant (#5: Vietnamese food), work out in the hotel gym, and then go cruising.

Rapid City has three gay-friendly mixed bars.  We go to the Brass Rail, which looks like a straight bar except for the complete lack of women and guys hugging and kissing.  We end up going home with a black guy who asks us to call him "Daddy," although he's only in his 40s, tops (#4: Daddies).

Oh, well, he has a reasonably buffed physique, a hairy chest, and a massive Kielbasa.  A little too into nipple play, and an anal top, but he settles for me going down on him while he goes down on Lane.

Then we go back to our hotel.

"This has been a great day!" Lane exclaims.  "I can't wait to text Ben.  Imagine -- a 1967 first edition of Logan's Run!"

Leave it to Lane to find a science fiction novel more impressive than a Kielbasa.

Saturday

Mount Rushmore is 23 miles from Rapid City, but the traffic is bumper-to-bumper due to construction, an accident, and summertime crowds. So we give up and backtrack to Deadwood instead.

It's an old gold rush town, full of Wild West lore -- and Jews!

 In the 19th century, it had a large Jewish population, including Blanch Colman, who became the first female lawyer in the state, and Sol Star, who became a state senator (played by John Adams on the tv series Deadwood).  One third of the buildings on Main Street were owned by Jewish merchants (#1: A Jewish presence).

We tour downtown and then go to Mount Moriah Cemetery, where Wild Bill Hickok and Calamity Jane are buried.  It has a "Hebrew Hill" with over 80 tombstones.

There's also a small synagogue, one of three in the state.  We missed Shabbat services last night, but the student rabbi meets us for dinner at the Deadwood Grille.  He's in his 30s, handsome, with black wavy hair.  We don't hook up, but there are a couple of cute guys working out shirtless in the hotel gym.

"A synagogue in the middle of nowhere!" Lane exclaims.  "That rabbi really had some guts to take a congregation way out here!  I guess he did it for the history."

Sunday

We have breakfast, go to the St. John's Episcopal Church in Deadwood, and then drive over to Sturgis, the home of the annual bike rally.

On other days of the year there's not a lot to do, but we see the Sturgis Motorcycle Museum and have lunch in the Loud American Road House before heading down to Mount Rushmore again (#3: Motorcycles).

Bumper-to-bumper traffic again.  We stop at the Reptile Gardens and then go on Grindr, and find someone interested in hosting on a ranch on Rockerville Road, about 20 miles away: Steve, in his 30s, who works as a paramedic and rents out the ranch.  He travels to Europe every year, and has also been to Israel, Egypt, Morocco, Algeria, and Tunisia.

A husky, scruffy bear with a hairy chest and belly, thick hard hands, and a cut Bratwurst (#3: Bears).  And he does ride a motorcycle.

I go down on him while he's going down on Lane, and then I finish with interfemoral.

By the time we say goodbye, it's too late to go to Mount Rushmore, so we drive back to Rapid City.

"I can't wait to tell Ben that I hooked up with a real cowboy!" Lane exclaims.

Monday

It's time to drive back home.

"Sorry we never got a chance to see Mount Rushmore," I say.

"Oh, I can always see photos.  I got science fiction, Vietnames food, a Jewish community, a Daddy, a rabbi, and a cowboy.  I'd say that's more than enough for one visit."  He pauses.  "So, tonight, do you know any twinks we could hook up with?"

See also: 21 Surprising Facts about Lane; Why You Should Visit Sturgis, South Dakota Next August.

The Florida Cowboy with the Footlong

Sebring, Florida, February, 2004

A Saturday morning.  Yuri bursts into my room at 6:00 am.

"Time to get up!" he exclaims.  "We must go soon.  Jake has many plans for us today."

"Jake...what?  Who?"  I murmur.

"You made me go with the sleazoid Jauvier last week, so now it is my turn.  I told you before, remember?  Jake, I met him on the internet?  We will visit today, and stay the night, and share."

"The whole day and night?" I complain.  "I just inflicted Jauvier and Victor on you for a couple of hours."

"Sure, but it takes three days to get the smell of his odekolon out of my room."

"Well -- can I at least see a picture of this guy in advance?"

"No.  It will be a surprise."

Gulp.  Yuri knows all of my turn-ons...and turn-offs.  Is he going to fix us up with the date from hell?

Worse...a cracker.  A Florida cowboy

After breakfast and the gym, we drive two hours north from Wilton Manors, to the redneck center of the state, to Sebring, a small town of 10,000 known primarily for its racetrack -- it hosts a 12-hour long Grand Prix every year.

"Maybe Jake will take us to a race tonight." Yuri says with an evil grin.  "But he will probably want to go to a basketball game.  You like basketball, yes?"

Turn-off #1: Sports nut 

When we arrive at Jake's house, he's in the front yard, doing some sort of yard work with his shirt off.  He's in his 40s, with a long, angular face, deep-set haunted eyes, and a goatee.

Turn-offs #2 and #3: Long faces and goatees.

He has a respectable physique: tall, muscular, a little pudgy around the belly, hairy pecs.  But nipple rings and several tattoos spoil the effect.

Turn-off #4: Tattoos.

We go in the house, say hello to Jake's teenage daughter Charity and drink lemonade.

Jake came out about eight years ago.  He and his wife are divorced, but they're still on good terms.  They have joint custody of Charity, who stays with him every weekend.

Turn-off #5: Men who were married before coming out.

I catch Yuri's eye and glare.  He smiles.

"Will she be here tonight?" I ask, scandalized.  You can't have a date overnight with a teenager in the house!

"Oh, no, she's got a sleepover at her friend's house.  Tonight it will be just us men."



After our lemonade, we walk out to Jake's alpaca ranch.

Jake and his co-owners raise alpacas mostly for their wool, but tourists like to drop by and pet and feed them.

Alpacas are cute, like small, cuddly llamas, but they smell bad and make a weird screaming noise.  And they're so starved for affection that the moment we enter their pasture, we are mobbed and almost nudged to death.  "Pet me!  Pet me!" they scream.

"Don't scare them," Jake warns.  "They spit."

There's a souvenir shop, a petting zoo for the kids,  and a little museum of alpaca history, beginning with when they were first domesticated by Peruvian Indians about 6,000 years ago.

"Have you been to Peru?" Jake asks.

"Um...no.  I've been to Colombia."

"Manchu Piccu is the trip of a lifetime.  Very spiritual."

Yuri nudges me.  "Spiritual!" he whispers.  "You like guys who are religious, right?"

Next Jake suggests horseback riding, but I have been on horses only twice in my life, so I opt for a nice, safe hike instead.

Of course, hikes take twice as long.  And with the blazing Florida sun and sauna humidity, I'm soon soaked, sunburned, bug-eaten, and exhausted.  I just want to go home -- my own home -- and go to bed.

Turn-off #6: Outdoor nut.

We go back to Jake's house to shower, apply itch cream, and change clothes.  Charity says goodbye as she rushes off with her friend, and Jake takes us to dinner at a place called the Cowpoke's Watering Hole.

It looks like a tiki bar, but serves cajun grub, like crawfish and alligator tail, plus steaks and seafood.  And there is live music playing.

Turn-off #7: Country-Western Music

"This place is really hopping on Tuesday nights," Jake says.  "That's when ladies get their drinks half off.  A lot of romance in the air, let me tell you."

Turn-off #8: Discussions of Feminine Beauty

"Let's make this a male-only zone," I suggest.  "No discussions of ladies or feminine charms, just a night of raw masculinity."

Jake nods.  "I get you.  Shall I ask the band to play 'It's Raining Men'?"

When Jake leaves to "hit the head," I tell Yuri, "Ok, you've got your revenge for Jauvier.  Can we just go home?"

He frowns.  "Why?  Jake is nice, right?"

"No, he's been a perfect gentleman. But he's got 8 of my top 10 turn-offs.  Besides, I'm tired, I'm sunburned, I'm freaked out by the rednecks.  I just want to go home."

"But Jake spends the whole day with us.  It is rude to go away now.  And it's a long drive, and I'm tired, too."

I sigh.  "Ok, we can spend the night.  But do we have to share?  No way Jake is my type."

"No, it's ok.  Jake and I will go to the bedroom, and you will sleep on the couch."

We go back to the house for a "nightcap" -- whiskey for Jake, beer for Yuri, soda for me.

Then Jake says "Well, we don't need these clothes anymore, do we, boys?"  He rips off his shirt, right there in the living room, kicks off his boots, and fumbles with his belt.

"Boomer is too tired," Yuri begins. "He is not..."

Jake's pants come down.  He unwraps an enormous, super-thick Kovbasa+, one of the biggest I've ever seen!

Yuri and I both stare for a moment.  Then he continues.  "Um...Boomer is too tired.  He is not into..."

"Not into what?" I exclaim, cutting him off.  "I'm into anything you can throw at me!  Jake, put on some more Waylon Jennings, and let's get this party started!"

Turn-on #1: Super-sized beneath the belt.

See also: Yuri and I Share the Boy Toy and His Daddy; My Top 10 Turn-Offs; and The Worst Date in Florida History

Waking Up to a Straight Boy in My Bed at the Gilroy Garlic Festival

Gilroy, California, July 1997

In the 1980s and 1990s, when you found a gay haven, you stayed there.   You ventured into the straight world only when absolutely necessary, and then you stayed closeted, undercover, careful not to let your guard down for a moment.  If the straights found out that you were gay -- or even suspected -- they would scream "God hates you!" and grab the nearest baseball bat to attack.

But in July 1997, shortly before I left San Francisco to go to graduate school in New York, my friend David suggested that we drive down to Gilroy for the annual garlic festival.

"Are you crazy?" I exclaimed.  "It will be full of straight people!  We'd never make it out of town alive!"

"I was there last year.  It's fine -- nobody says anything.  The straights might not like us very much, but they don't mind taking our money.  Besides, it's full of the cutest small-town rednecks you'd ever hope to meet."

"You don't....cruise straight men?"  I asked, aghast.  "That's just asking to get beat up!"

"Boy, you've got to get over this straight-o-phobia of yours.  Straight guys get just as horny as you and me.  Tell you what -- we'll get a hotel room, spend the night, and if you don't trick with a straight guy, I'll pay for the whole trip."

Gilroy, "the garlic capital of the world," was a  town of 40,000 about two hours south of San Francisco, surrounded by vineyards and farms.  Its annual Garlic Festival drew thousands of people from all over the country.

There was music, art exhibits, and cooking contests, but the main draw was the food -- garlic-infused everything, from burgers and pizza to muffins and ice cream (plus some non-garlic items).  There were booths sponsored by town restaurants, charities, churches, and clubs.

Most of the crowd were aggressively hetero families or teenagers, but there was a scattering of gay people, in groups of four or five for protection.

David selected his straight guy to cruise right away -- a cute, muscular blond in a trucker cap who was staffing the petting zoo.

 But I was uncomfortable trying to cruise among straight people.  Finally I gave up and stopped at the garlic ice cream booth.

Hector, one of the workers, was short, Hispanic, husky, with nice muscular arms.  Cute, but too young for cruising material -- the booth was sponsored by the Gilroy High School football team.

"Do you get much business?" I asked as he poured a bowl of diced garlic into the ice cream maker.

"Not too much in the afternoon.  It's mostly a 'friends-dare-you' kind of thing, so we do good business at night, after the guys have a few beers in them."

"You work that late?"

He smiled. "I'm here until midnight, except for a dinner break at six."

The ice cream wasn't bad -- vanilla with a slightly spicy undertone.  But definitely a fad item.

"Do you eat the ice cream yourself?"

"You know what -- I shouldn't tell you this, but I've been working here five years in a row, and I've never had a taste.  Garlic isn't really my thing."

"Five years!" I exclaimed.  "How old are you?"

"Twenty.  I graduated two years ago.  I go to UC Santa Cruz now, but the guys always ask me to work this booth -- it's tradition."

We chatted for a few minutes, and then Hector got a line, so I wandered away, looking for someone to cruise.  Not much luck: straight guys made eye contact with strangers only to issues threats ("You're too close, back off!), or to respond to them ("You got a problem?").

After awhile, I returned to Hector.

"Can't get rid of you, can I?" he exclaimed.

"What can I say?  I'm hooked!"

"I'll get you the recipe, so you can make your own, when you get back to..."

Suddenly David had his arm around my shoulders.  "About to seal the deal with my guy.  Who's this?"

"Hector.  He's run the garlic ice cream booth for five years, but never tried it."

"Well, you should try it!" David said with a leer.  "You never know what you're missing."

Hector scowled with unmistakable homophobia.

"Um...Hector, this is my friend David," I said.  "We came down from the City together."

"What can I get you?" he said icily.

We retreated.

"Was that your guy?"  David asked.

"No, we were just chatting, but when he found out we were gay, he turned into a first class homophobe!  I have half a mind to go cruise him just to watch him squirm!"

We drove back into Gilroy, had dinner, and worked out in the hotel gym.  Then I settled in for a night of HBO, but David wanted to go out.  "Pete -- the petting zoo guy -- said he might stop in at Stubby's for a drink later.  I'm going to check it out."


"Cruising at a straight bar?  That doesn't sound safe."

"Don't worry, Mom, I'll be careful.  Up for sharing?"

"Sure, if he agrees.  But don't stay out too late -- I'm tired."

At midnight, David wasn't back yet, so I went to bed.

I awoke about an hour later to the warmth and pressure of someone between my legs, fondling me.  David! I thought.  He must have been unsuccessful.  

Wait -- then who was lying beside me in the darkness?  I reached over and felt hard biceps, a smooth hard chest.

Pete?

I tried to make out his face.  Young, Hispanic, smiling.


Hector!

 He drew me close, and we kissed.  I ran my hand down, over his firm abs, down below his waist -- and found David, working on us both.

We changed positions a few more times, and then we fell asleep with Hector between us.

"I thought you were lovers," he told me in the morning.  "That's why I got all bitchy -- how would you like it if you were just about to seal the deal with a hot guy, and his lover showed up?  But then David came by the booth and explained the situation, and invited me over."

I still had to pay for my half of the trip, since Hector was technically David's pickup.  And he wasn't straight.

See also: David pulls "it" out;  David and I Pick Up a Teenage Hitchhiker; The Boy Selling Pickles at the Farmer's Market