Trying to Find a Quiet Night in Gay Heaven

San Francisco, March 1997

What is it like to live in Gay Heaven, to know that you have achieved something that most gay people can only dream of?  How can you go about your everyday activities, buy groceries, pay rent, work out at the gym, knowing that thousands of people would give anything to be in your position?

It's a big responsibility to live as a stand-in for a thousand gay men.  Every moment has to count.  Every night is a mad rush of beer busts, bear parties, AIDS benefits, book signings, art openings, film premieres, special events so frequent that they're not special at all.

Plus at least one party per week, probably two or three, to welcome new residents; to say goodbye to those who are leaving; to celebrate birthdays, anniversaries, new jobs, and new apartments; to introduce new boyfriends; to entertain a constant stream of out-of-town guests.

(Every gay man you have ever known, even if it was just a brief conversation ten years ago, will eventually show up on your doorstep, bags in hand, hoping to stay with you while he tries to move to Gay Heaven.)

Plus a round of holidays that require planning and discussion: the Castro Street Fair, Halloween, New Year's Eve, The Gay Film Festival, the AIDS Walk, Dore Alley, Christopher Street West

Plus constant dates and hookups, partly because there are so many men to choose from, new refugees from the Straight World arriving every day.

Partly because when you're a stand-in for a thousand gay men stuck in Straight World wastelands, it's your duty and obligation to have as much sex as possible.

I leave the apartment at 8:00 am, meet David at Orphan Andy's for breakfast, and am never alone again until I return at 11:00 pm -- even then, I usually have a date or hookup with me.

My computer and tv sit silent.  My kitchen is for storing sodas and snacks.  Books that I buy but don't have time to read accumulate in uneasy stacks by my bedside.

I'm an introvert. I hate blaring music, flashing lights, and especially crowds.  I need quiet and solitude to recharge and energize.

March 14: Friday Night.

I've been asked out to dinner by Roger, a guy I met at the gym -- he had a very impressive shower erection.  Plus my sort-of boyfriend Kevin wants me to go to an "open mike night" (the vampire can sing!),  I've been invited to a party to help my friend Corbin welcome his visiting ex-boyfriend, and there's the usual Bear Party south of Market.  But I've had it.  Tonight is my night to relax!

I write in my Calendar "Quiet Evening at Home!!!," refuse all invitations, and turn off the answering machine on my phone.  After work and the gym, I pick up Thai food and a pint of ice cream.  I go home, draw the shades, and lock the door.

For the next 12 hours, I will not see, talk to, or interact with another human being.  Sheer solitude!  Heaven in Gay Heaven!

7:30 pm.  I put on my bathrobe and turn on Nickelodeon to watch while I eat.  Kenan and Kel, a teencom about a pair of Laurel-and-Hardy fat-thin bickering-buddies played by Kenan Thompson (who gets them involved in crazy schemes) and Kel Mitchell (who groans his catchphrase, "Here it goes!").  The guys believe that their friend Roger (Malcolm Jamal-Warner) is a jewel thief.

The show has a strong gay subtext, and Roger is rather cute.  What a coincidence -- a cute guy asked me out to dinner tonight.  We would probably be eating right now.  Then we'd go to Corbin's party, then cruising at the Eagle, and back to his apartment....

8:00 pm: I turn the channel to Sliders, about college boy Quinn (Jerry O'Connor) trapped in an endless voyage among parallel universes, accompanied by the Girl, the Professor, and the Jazz Musician.   This week they're in a world where all 18-25 year olds must become organ donors for the oldsters.  Meanwhile there's a subplot about Maggie (Kari Wuhler), a team member they picked up a few parallel worlds back, having a parasite removed from her body.  It takes a hot guy to lure it out so it can breed.

Heterosexist -- even alien parasites fall into boy-girl categories -- and disgusting.  Besides, Quinn never takes his shirt off.

At Corbin's party tonight, the entertainment will be a guy stripping and going down on the guests, or maybe a "guess the penis" game.

9:00 pm.  Nothing good on tv.  I go to the bedroom, lie down on the bed, and pick up a book.

Kevin is probably at the open-mic night by now.  One doesn't expect a dour, sarcastic vampire to be a singer, but he is, with a wide repertoire of torch songs and show tunes.  "Cabaret" starts playing in my head:

Put away the knitting, the book, and the broom.  Listen to the music play.
Life is a cabaret, old chum.  Come to the cabaret....

9:30 pm.  I turn the tv back on.  Step by Step, a TGIF sitcom about the blended family of Frank (Patrick Duffy) and Carol (Suzanne Sommers), formerly of Dallas and Three's Company, respectively.

In this episode, Frank's son  J.T. (Brandon Call), Carol's daughter Dana (Staci Keanan), and  their friend Rich (Jason Marsden) end up in a Mexican prison over burritos.  Back home, Carol teaches Jean-Luc (Bronson Pinchot), her partner at the beauty salon, how to drive.

Strong gay subtext between J.T. and Rich, and I'm pretty sure Jean-Luc is supposed to be gay.  But...I don't need to worry about subtexts and stereotypes anymore.  I'm in Gay Heaven!

The bear party is usually busy about now.

There are thousands of gay guys trapped in the Straight World tonight, with nothing to do but watch Step by Step and dream.  But I live in Gay Heaven.  It's my duty to go out, whether I want to or not.

I pull on my clothes and catch the Muni to South of Market.

10:00 pm.  I arrive at the bear party.  My friend David is there, going down on a muscular guy in his 30s with a short beard, a tight hairless chest, and a nicely shaped Bratwurst+.  He moves aside and motions for me to take over.

Just a quiet night in Gay Heaven.

See also: The Amazing Invisible Boy

My Celebrity Boyfriend and I Hook Up With....

West Hollywood, February 1987

Valentine's Day

I've been dating the Celebrity, a former teen idol (he's still closeted, over 30 years later, so I promised not to reveal his name), for a little over a month, and he's met almost all of my West Hollywood friends: Alan, Raul, Marcus, Michael, Mitch, Thanh. But I've never met any of his.

Dating a celebrity, I naturally expected to do some "sharing" with his celebrity friends.  John Travolta, or Rob Lowe, or Ralph Macchio.... 

But he doesn't even introduce me to anyone.

Maybe tonight will be different.  "I'm going to go all out," the Celebrity promises.  "This will be the most memorable Valentine's Day of your life."

Wow!  What's memorable to someone who starred in his own tv show?


200 doves flying out of a cake?

A charter jet taking us down to Tijuana for dinner?

Scott Baio naked in his bed?

Breathless with anticipation, I arrive at his house at 6:00 pm

There's a note on the door: "Door's open.  Follow the trail."

I go in.  There's a trail of paper hearts across the living room and dining room and down the hall.

The dogs, Rory and Max, are whining at the back door.  I assume they've just finished a potty break.  So I let them in.

"No, they have to stay outside!" the Celebrity yells in the distance.

Too late.  They scamper across the house, me following, to the spare bedroom, where the Celebrity is lying naked on a heart-shaped rug.   His penis and testicles are pushing through a hole in a Valentine's Candy Box.  He's desperately yelling "Sit!  Sit!" and grabbing up the candy before Rory and Max eat it.

 "Um...hi...this didn't turn out to be as sexy as I thought."

The candy put away, he removes the box.  The dogs sit.  I kneel and pet them.

"No, it's great.  Really creative."  I lie beside him, and we kiss.

He springs to life.  I go down on him.

No offense -- it's very nice, average sized, beautifully shaped, cut, ruddy.

 But in the last month I've gone down on him about 30 times.  Ok, now 31 times.  I was hoping for something...or someone...a little different.

We move into 69 position.  Rory and Max whine.  "Out!" he commands.

When we've finished, we order Chinese food and watch tv.

"Sorry the Valentine's surprise was a bust," the Celebrity says.  "Let's do something else tomorrow night, to make up for it.  Anything you want."

"Well, to be honest...have you heard about the West Hollywood 'sharing' thing?  Where couples bring in a third, one of their friends?"

He grins.  "Sure.  I didn't think you were into that."

"I haven't really done it before, but I'd love to give it a try.  If you...you know, are into it."

"Sounds hot!  I'm turned on already."  He kisses me.  "You just sit back and let me make all the arrangements.  I'll take care of everything!"

I move my hand to his crotch.  He springs to life again.

32 times.

I spend the next day bubbling with excitement.  What famous face and physique will I be "sharing" tonight?  Tony Danza? Mr. T from The A-Team?  Scott Baio?

I knock on the door at 6:00 pm.  The Celebrity answers, and draws me into a kiss.

"Did you...."

"Get you a Valentine's present? Absolutely.  Up-to-date model, with lots of new features."

"You got me a new tv?" I joke.

"No, it's way bigger than a tv set."


"Um... jet skis?"

"No, but I'll give you a hint -- it has a retractable hose."

"Curioser and curioser."

"Shall we go check it out?"

He takes me by the arm and leads me to the bedroom.

My mind is racing.  Paul Michael Glaser?  Leif Garrett?  Ted Danson?

He opens the bedroom door.

Can you guess who we "shared"?

Answer after the break.

The Face of Pure Evil

This story has been moved to RG Beefcake and Boyfriends

Showering with Two Boys at a Church Conference in Switzerland

When I was sixteen years old, I was selected to join 500 Nazarene teenagers from around the world in Fiesch, Switzerland for our International Institute.

It was like summer camp, with daily sermons, Bible studies, jump quizzes, and seminars on soul-winning, except we had afternoons and one full day off for field trips and sightseeing  We could go out on our own, as long as we:
1. Didn't try to make friends with the locals.
2. Didn't set foot in any Catholic church.
3. Were back by 7:00 pm.

But every good Nazarene knows how to bend the rules.

The full post is on RG Beefcake and Boyfriends.

My Date with Richard Dreyfuss

West Hollywood

When I lived in West Hollywood, I  visited the Bodhi Tree Bookstore on Melrose almost every weekend.  It specialized in New Age books, everything from natural foods and aromatherapy to Buddhism, Hinduism, and the occult. I was mostly interested in the paranormal section: ghosts, vampires, ufos, mysterious disappearances, time slips. 

It got very crowded on weekends.  We often saw actors, mostly the semi-celebrities who starred in tv shows a few years ago and were still recognizable.  Often browsing in the witchcraft section, trying to find a spell that would hasten their success or prevent their decline.

One Saturday afternoon, I found a short, rather husky guy standing directly in front of the section I wanted, immersed in a book.  I glared at him, cleared my throat a few times, and eventually he moved away. My roommate  Derek immediately clomped over.

"Did you ask him out, or what?" he demanded.

"Who?"

"You didn't even talk to him?  Do you know who that was?  Richard Dreyfuss!"

I hadn't even noticed.

Of course I knew who Richard Dreyfuss was:American Graffiti, Close Encounters of the Third Kind, The Goodbye Girl. Moon Over Parador, and Jaws, my which had the most obvious gay-subtext romance I had ever seen.  I just didn't recognize him in real life.

The next Saturday, same section, same short, rather husky guy, immersed in a book about vampires. This time I looked closely.  Yep, it was Richard Dreyfuss!  "I got my first kiss from a vampire" I said, as an icebreaker.

It didn't work.  He moved quickly away.

He wasn't there the next Saturday, but a couple of weeks later, I saw him in the paranormal section again.  I said "Hello," from one regular customer to another, and to my surprise he responded.  Soon we were chatting about Benjamin Bathurst, the British diplomat who arrived at an Austrian inn, walked around the horses, and vanished forever.

After that, we chatted regularly.  He was friendly, and I thought, a little cruisy, always paying special attention to the cute guys.  Could he be gay?  And more importantly, interested?

Important Clue #1: Cruising cute guys.

 I had already been in a relationship with a closeted celebrity.  I didn't need another. But still...he was Richard Dreyfuss!

One day I got enough courage to invite him to the Abbey, a gay restaurant on Robertson, for coffee, and he consented.

Important Clue #2: Consenting to go to a gay restaurant.

 I told him about some of my own paranormal experiences, like the Naked Man in the Peat Bog. 

"You're lucky that your ghost was a hottie," he said with a smile. "All I saw was a little girl, wearing a pink dress and horn-rimmed glasses.  She stood by my bedside when I was in the hospital after a car accident."

Important Clue #3: The word "hottie" .

I decided to play my trump card.  "My ex-boyfriend saw ghosts all the time," I hinted. "And UFOs.  I felt so jealous."

"My wife is the same way.  I wish I was more attuned to the spiritual world."

Touché

Ok, not gay, not interested -- but super gay-friendly, especially for the 1990s.

No more coffee dates, but we continued to be "chatting at the bookstore" friends for awhile.   Then suddenly he stopped coming to the Bodhi Tree on Saturdays. 

Maybe he walked around the horses and vanished.

Or maybe he moved to New York.

I never got his phone number.

The Boy Who Cried "Fabulous"

Wilton Manors, April 2005

How is it possible to get into a relationship with someone that you don't even like?

I met Florian when the South Florida Gay Men's Chorus performed at our church.  He was a Cute Young Thing, a fencing champion back in high school, handsome, with a firm, hairy chest, a little too tall for my tastes. But his extremely upbeat personality won me over:

"Isn't a beautiful day?  Of course, every day in Florida is beautiful, isn't it? Gosh, it just doesn't get any better than this, does it?  Welcome to Paradise!"

Our First Date

Picking me up: "I didn't know if you gave me the right address or not.  If you didn't, that would have been ok.  I had a marvelous evening planned, either way.  What a fantastic house!  And the decor is fabulous!"

Dinner: "This is the best crab quesadilla I've ever had!  And, oh, gosh, this salad is marvelous!  And aren't the waiters gorgeous?  I've never had such a fabulous meal!"

The Filling Station: "Isn't that guy hot!  And him, too!  I've never seen so many gorgeous guys in one place before!  It's like a Mr. Universe contest!  I can see why you like coming here! It's the best!"

Back to my house: "This is the most wonderful evening I've ever had!  You are positively incredible!  I can't believe how lucky I am just to be sitting here beside you!"

The kiss: He leaned in for a kiss -- with a wide grin on his face.  You never smile when preparing to kiss! It looks idiotic.

The bedroom: nice physique, hair chest, thick Bratwurst beneath the belt, into kissing and receiving oral, but the "fabulousness" never stopped.  "Oh, this is fantastic!  The best ever!  I can' believe how hot you are!"  On and on and on.

The next morning, breakfast with Yuri and Barney: "This is the best coffee I've ever had!  And cinnamon buns!  Incredible!"

I walk him to the door: Gosh, your housemates are absolutely fabulous!  Barney is a cuddly old bear, and Yuri is just incredibly handsome!  I'm dying to ask you to share, but I guess it's a little too soon, isn't it?  I should be happy with the most gorgeous guy in the world!"

I slam the door and sigh loudly.  Florian was so goshdarn chipper, so in-your-face fantabulous, that I couldn't stand him!

But he was also very aggressive.  Before I knew it:

Our Second Date

The movie: "This is the funniest movie I've ever seen!  And the world's best popcorn!  I can't believe how good it is!"

The dinner:  "That shrimp tempura was marvelous, and this is absolutely the best red bean ice cream in the universe! And isn't that waiter gorgeous!  Do you know the Japanese word for super-stud?  I wouldn't mind eating cat food if he brought it out!"

Back to my house: "This is the most wonderful evening I've ever had! Gosh, everything was just fabulous!  I can't believe how lucky I am to be dating you!  You are absolutely the most gorgeous guy in the universe!"

One more superlative, and I'll pour my soda on your head!  But you'd probably think it was fabulous!


I could just refuse all future dates.  But I didn't have the will power, and he was very, very cute.  Besides, he hadn't actually done anything wrong -- he was just annoyingly chipper.

Maybe I could scare him off.  BDSM sometimes worked.

I suggest a BDSM Scene:  "I've never tried anything like that before, but it sounds perfectly marvelous!  Tie me up and use me, Daddy!  Or should I say Sir?  Gosh, it's just so exciting!"

The Scene: I gagged him, blindfolded him, attached clothespins to his nipples, and spanked him, while he kept up a nonstop dialogue through the gag.  "Th---uh----fab--lus."

The next morning:  "That was by far the most erotic evening of my life!  You were just fabulous! Seriously, I couldn't imagine a better scene!  But maybe we could get that super-stud Barney to join in next time! Two Sirs -- that would be incredibly amazing!"

Maybe some of life's sorrows would tone him down a bit.

Our Third Date

An auction at Out of the Closet. Discussion of George Bush:  "I'm sure that he'll be defeated in the election next month!  The straights are much less homophobic now than when I was a kid!"

Walk on the beach.  This is the spot where Yuri had rocks thrown at him from a carload of homophobes. "Well...um...isn't he lucky that nothing worse happened!  Um...he is by far the most gorgeous guy I've ever seen.  Gosh, he must get cruised a hundred times a day!"

Dinner at my house with Barney. When Barney's partner died, his family refused to come to the funeral:  "Well ...um......you know...he was lucky that...that he had a supportive partner...and...an alternate family...and....this is the best moussaka I've ever eaten!"

Movie: Philadelphia, with Tom Hanks as a lawyer with AIDS who loses his job.  Boxes of kleenix all around.  "This is...um...the most beautiful movie I've ever...um...seen.  Tom Hanks is a fabulous actor...and...um...more kleenix, please?"

Invitation to the bedroom:  "Sorry, I'm not really feeling well.  But it's been a fantastic day.  I've never had so much...um...fun in my life."

That was the end of my relationship with Florian. Instead of toning him down, I turned him off.

A couple of weeks later, I ran into him at the Filling Station with another guy: "Boomer, this is Philip!  Isn't he the most gorgeous guy you've ever seen?  And isn't this a fabulous place?  I had to bring him here for our second date -- I knew he would have positively the best night of his life!  Well, gosh, it's been great seeing you again!

Philip shot me a pained look as Florian led him away.

See also: 50 Ways of Saying "Fabulous"

Mario's Date with Rob Lowe

West Hollywood, September 1987

When I first arrived in West Hollywood in 1985, Rob Lowe was an androgynous prettyboy who took off his shirt a lot in Brat Pack classics like The Outsiders (1983), Class (1983), The Hotel New Hampshire (1984), Oxford Blues (1984), and St. Elmo's Fire (1985).

His fire faded a bit during the late 1980s, and his career almost fizzled out in 1988, after a tape surfaced of him and friend Justin Morritt having sex with a woman in a hotel room the night before the Democratic National Convention in Atlanta (there were actually two women there, but one doesn't appear on the tape).

Such shenanigans didn't ruin his popularity with gay fans, or the belief that he was probably gay himself. Even though he, and his Brat Pack buddies, made some of the most horrifically homophobic movies of the 1980s.  Even though he married Sheryl Berkoff in 1991 and had two children (Matthew and John Owen).

We still figured he was gay.  Why else would he star in the gay subtext-filled Bad Influence (1990) and The Finest Hour (1992), as  the psychiatrist treating the dead gay guy's sister in Suddenly Last Summer (1993), and as the mute, angelic, asexual Nick Stavros in The Stand (1994)?  Why else would he appear at so many AIDS Walks and AIDS benefits?

Why else would half the guys in West Hollywood claim to have dated him?

During my 10 years in West Hollywood, I heard about a dozen "my date with Rob Lowe" stories.  The one that sounds the most believable is from Mario, the wannabe actor who picked me up at the Different Light Bookstore.

He was black, rather feminine, thin and willowy, wearing gold rings, bracelets, and necklaces -- an immediate turnoff.  But he was also shorter than me, dark skinned, with glasses that gave him a studious look.

During dinner at the Greenery, I told him about my Celebrity Boyfriend, who dumped me for Alan the Pentecostal Porn Star.

He said, "Honey, forget those minor teen idol wannabes. You gotta start at the top.  Take me: I was in town about a month before I had a date with the super-hung superstar Rob Lowe!"

Hollywood, Spring 1981

Mario was 18 years old, a transplant from Richmond, Virginia, living in a tiny apartment off Selma with a drag queen named Esther Dicks, and eager to break into acting,   So far he had danced in a shoe commercial, and played basketball on a episode of Saved by the Bell.  

Then he got a starring role in a tv movie starring Vicki Lawrence (Mama's Family) as the owner of a hip jeans store.  He played the best friend of her son, Tucker:

A 16 year old actor named Rob Lowe.

Rob was a junior at Santa Monica High School, a handsome prettyboy with incredible eyes and a bulge that wouldn't quit.

Although he had starred in A New Kind of Family (1979-80) and an Afterschool Special, and had a few articles in teen magazines, Mario didn't know him.

He didn't come out, of course -- he invented a fake girlfriend back home in Virginia.  Rob said he hadn't dated much -- he was "shy" around girls.

"Uh-huh, honey, you know what that means."

They bonded during filming.  Rob invited him to a weekly basketball game that Garry Marshall (Laverne and Shirley) held at his house in Tarzana for every cute boy he could find.  Vince Van Patten and Ralph Macchio were there.

"So, Garry Marshall is gay?" I asked in surprise.

"Ain't nobody in Hollywood who's not gay, once they get a few beers in them."

One night Rob invited him over for dinner at his house in Malibu  -- "It wasn't no palace, by a long shot.  It looked like somebody air-lifted it from Wichita, Kansas. They didn't even have a swimming pool!"

Afterwards they went up to his room and watched Magnum, P.I. and drank beers they sneaked from the refrigerator.  They discussed whether Tom Selleck was gay, and whether he was hung.

"He's got nothing on me!"  Mario exclaimed.  "Why, when I get going, the honeys all be screaming 'It's too big!  It's too big!'"

They sat together on the floor, their knees touching.  Mario saw Rob starting to tent.

"Well, I'm not one to let an opportunity like that slip by!  I took the bull by the horns, by which I mean I fondled him until he pulled it out and let me go down on it.  Gigantic, baby!  8 inches!"

It took him a long time to finish -- not that Mario minded! But, Rob didn't reciprocate; afterwards he zipped up again, and they continued watching tv as if nothing had happened.

They got together a few more times after that.  Oral only -- Rob wouldn't go down on Mario, or even kiss him.  And when the filming ended, they moved on to other projects, and didn't stay in touch.

Evidence that Mario's story was accurate:

1. Rob Lowe did star in a pilot for Garry Marshall, Mean Jeans, with Vickie Lawrence as the owner of a hip jeans shop. He says it was in early 1980, not 1981.  His character was named Tucker.  That information was not readily available in 1987.

Here's a picture of his best friend -- I can't find the name, but he looks a lot like Mario.

2. Mario got other details right: living in Malibu, the "shy around girls," the basketball games at Garry Marshall's house, the size of his penis (before the sex tape made it common knowledge).

Evidence that he was exaggerating or making the whole thing up:

1. Wouldn't Mario remember that his first major acting job was in a tv pilot, not a movie?

2. A tv pilot takes about a week to shoot.  How did they have time to bond, play basketball, have dinner, and become intimate several times?

3. Rob Lowe doesn't mention any same-sex intimacies in his autobiography, Love Life, but he does say that he was into "experimentation" in high school.

See also:  Rob Lowe

What Made Sandy a #10

When I was an undergraduate at Augustana College (1978-82), boy-girl dating was pushed even more dramatically than in high school.

It was no longer a way of achieving prestige; it was serious business.  Men needed wives for career success, to escort to office parties and demonstrate their "family man" stability.  Women needed husbands to finance their club activities and to give them children. And we had to seal the deal before graduation.

So every conversation with peers, parents, and professors involved "what girl are you interested in?", and every Tuesday night brought a flurry of phone calls as boys asked girls for weekend dates, with the subtext: "I want to evaluate you as a potential wife."

I had figured "it" out just after my high school graduation, and had a live-in boyfriend during my sophomore year, but, still, I was in no way excused.  I heard a constant "What girl do you like?", and every Tuesday night, "What girl will you call?"

I didn't want to date any girl, but I really had no choice.  You did not come out to anyone in small-town Illinois in the 1980s, ever.

Unfortunately, girls were evaluated solely on their physical attractiveness.  I knew a few basic rules: fat or short hair should elicit "Ugh!  Gross!", and slim with long hair "Wow, she's hot!"  Blonde should garner more enthusiasm than other hair colors.    But I simply could not distinguish between, say, the attractiveness of Barbara and Julie on One Day at a Time,  or Sabrina and Kelly on Charlie's Angels.  

Boys at Augustana were evaluated on the basis of their future wealth, power, and prestige.

10:  Fratboys were always "10," taking absolute precedence over everyone else.  It didn't matter what they looked like or whether they had the personality of an ass.  Any girl would drop a long-term boyfriend instantly just for the prospect of getting a coke in the Student Union with a fratboy.

7 to 9: Gold mine majors, like business and computer science, which would lead to mega-buck jobs.

4 to 6: Practical majors, like social work or psychology, which would lead to good, stable jobs. Dateable if no gold mine majors or  fratboys had asked you out for several weeks in a row.

1 to 3: Head case majors, fit only for lunatics who wanted to starve to death, like English and history.  Dateable if no one higher up had asked you out for several months in a row.






You could move up for one or more of: a car, an off-campus apartment, disco skill, a wild--and-crazy personality, an arrest record, a Robert Redford smile, a Sylvester Stallone physique,  an awe-inspiring penis, or if you were Jewish (I don't know why).

But you would move down for one or more of:  a part-time job, an interest in science fiction or fantasy, goody-goody morals, a clock-stopping face, a shy-and-quiet personality, a fat belly, facial hair, glasses, or a "Danish dick" (pipsqueak-sized).

And during your senior year, when you were getting desperate, everyone moved up a level.

I was majoring in English (head case) and Modern Languages (practical), I had a part-time job, an interest in science fiction, and goody-goody morals (I didn't drink or use drugs), but also a car, a physique, and a penis.  So I figured that I was a #5.

One day a female friend pointed out a boy who rated #10: Sandy, who I knew from my Renaissance history class.

Wait -- he was a history major (head case), tall and hulking, with black hair, a nondescript face, and a nondescript physique.  A little belly.  Wearing glasses.  He should be down around #1, undatable.  What pushed him up to #10?

She wouldn't tell me.

So I asked Sandy to "hang out" and did some sleuthing.

I had to pick him up at the dorm.

No car.  No apartment.

We got pizza at Alfano's, where getting him to talk was like pulling teeth.

No wild-and-crazy personality.

 Then he insisted that we go to the Cave to "look for girls."  I hated dancing and "looking for girls," but I agreed.

No John Travolta disco moves.

A bad boy with an arrest record?

No.

He got a little tipsy -- ok, a lot tipsy -- which put him around #1 in my book (I hate drunks)!

Our quest "to meet girls" proved fruitless, so he asked me to take him home.  I had to actually help him up to his dorm room!

I hate drunks, but this might prove fruitful.  I might get a blow job out of it, or at least a grope.

I helped Sandy undress and lie down on bed.  When I moved to climb into bed with him, he brushed me away.  But I managed to slide down his underwear and take a peek before leaving.

Enormous!  A fire hose.  A Swedish salami.  Big enough to push him up from #1 to #10.

And Jewish.

10 Things You Should Know About Dating an Introvert

Alan, Lane, David, Yuri, Troy, Gabe, Dustin -- almost all of my friends and boyfriends have been extroverts: outgoing, aggressive, the life of the party, never wanting to stay home, always eager to get out there and meet new people.

But Zack, the assistant manager of the Hy-Vee who I dated back in 2017, is an introvert.  Shy, quiet, doesn't like meeting new people, never wants to leave the house.

Not that I mind.

Dating an introvert has some intense pleasures, but it's very different from dating an extrovert. You have to be careful -- it's easy to misunderstand his intentions.

Here are 10 things you should know:





1. Cruising. Meeting new people is always intimidating for him, so even if you're a twink magnet, he won't make the first contact. He'll wait for you to approach him.

2. The Initial Interview.  Those small-talk exchanges of  "How are you? Fine -- how are you? Fine" make no sense to him.  He prefers to ask and answer real questions.

3. Getting Coffee. He doesn't understand why people hang out in coffee houses, gay-friendly or not. There's coffee at home. (Which is your excuse to get him home).

4. The Date.   Bright lights, noise, and crowds are not fun, they're exhausting.  They can deal with them for short periods, but they will need occasional breaks to go somewhere quiet and recharge.  Take him somewhere nice and quiet, like a play, or a museum.









5. Saturday Night.  Don't be surprised if he doesn't want to leave your apartment at all, even on Saturday night.  He thinks of staying in for an evening as a blessing, not a curse.  He looks forward to it.

6. The Kiss. Touching someone is always intimate, so he does it only if he has a strong emotional or erotic connection. He dislikes casual touching by strangers, like shaking hands.  Lay off the groping until the end of the date.

But once he's ok with touching, he won't stop.  You might never make it out of the bedroom.  Or the shower.

7. The Phone Call.  He won't initiate the after-date phone call or text.  It's not that he didn't have a good time, it's just that initiating contact with someone is very stressful, so he will constantly put it off.    You'll have to contact him.

8. The Duck Around. If he sees you on the street or in the hallway, he might duck around the corner to avoid contact.  He's not trying to be rude; it's just that seeing someone outside of a familiar context is very stressful.  What should I do?  What should I say?

9. The Introductions.  By the third or fourth date, you will want to introduce him to your friends.  Don't do it with a party -- he is uncomfortable in large groups.  He will stick to your side and not mingle (See #1.)  Introduce him to one friend at a time.

10. The Intensity.  Be prepared for nights of quiet intensity, where every statement is meaningful and every touch is passionate.  In the morning you will be physically and emotionally exhausted, but anxious to see him again.

The G-rated version of this list is on Boomer Beefcake and Bonding.

See also: 15 Simple Rules of Gay Dating.

My Boyfriend Goes to Bed with the Baseball Player

Rock Island, June 1979

I've been putting off the story of Carl the Nazarene boy, because it's kind of embarrassing.

He was one of my brother Kenny's friends, a 16-year old sophomore at Rocky High (all models in the nude photos are over 18) .  I had seen him around, and talked to him a few times, but we didn't start dating until Kenny invited him over for a party on May 25th, 1979, the summer after my first year at Augustana College.

He was short, with a round baby face, wavy brown hair, dark brown eyes, a smooth pale chest, and slim abs with an outtie belly button.

Obviously too young for me: I was in college, a mature adult, and he was still a "little boy."  It would be social suicide if anyone at Augustana saw me hanging out him, even if they didn't think we were gay.

But he was cute, and very enthusiastic, and besides, how many gay guys had I met during the year since I figured "it" out?  Two, and neither of them wanted to date me.  You take what you can get.

As it turns out, we started dating at the worst possible moment: the Friday before Memorial Day Weekend.

 I had a trip to Colombia and a week in Indiana coming up, and he had a family vacation to Minnesota and a week at Nazarene summer camp.

So between May 28th and the end of July, we had three "dates," but really sort of hookups.

1. Swimming at Longview Park Pool (with Kenny along as a chaperone).  Afterwards we went upstairs to our bedroom to change clothes.  Kenny finished quickly, but Carl and I dawdled so we could have some time alone for kissing and fondling.  Carl was just starting to go down on me when Kenny called up "You guys want ice cream?"

2. Carl and I sat together in church, and then he came over for Sunday dinner.  Afterwards we went up to my office, got naked, and kissed and fondled, and I went down on him.   But it was uncomfortably hot, so we ended up just beating each other off.


Finally I asked Carl out on a real date.  Unfortunately, he was a Johnny Nazarene, strictly devout in spite of the preacher who screamed about "homa-sekshuls" in every sermon, so:
No movies
No theater
No bowling
No restaurants that served alcohol
No Quad City Angels baseball game (they had beer).

3. Our date consisted of broasted chicken at Mulkey's and then parking on the levee to watch the sunset over the Mississippi.  We made out and fondled each other through our clothes, and when it got dark Carl went down on me.

This wasn't working.  I wanted to hold Carl in my arms, feel his head against my chest, cuddle with him all night.  I wanted us to sleep together, like I used to do with Bill, but with full knowledge that we were boyfriends, that this was "real."


How to get him into my bed?

"Could you host a sleepover next weekend?" I asked Kenny.

"I'm sixteen," he said gruffly.  "I'll be a junior in the fall."

Sleepover were common in grade school, our main social event: four or five boys,with your brother invited by default.  They became increasingly uncommon in junior high, and they generally ended by high school.  But not always...

"You can still have them in high school, for sort of nostalgia.  Invite your old friends.  It will be fun."

"Hey, I practically had to pay you to get to have my last sleepover!"  Kenny exclaimed.  "Why are you so hot to have one now?"

"Well, you could invite Carl, and then..."

"You're not going to do weird gay sex stuff in front of a bunch of normal guys, are you?"

"No, of course not.  Well, maybe a little, after everybody is asleep.  But we'll be able to kiss and cuddle under the covers, like boyfriends."

"Who knew that homos like to kiss?  I thought you were all about the dick."

"Well, dicks, too, of course, but kissing, cuddling, all of that romantic stuff."

"Ok, ok, you don't need to draw me a picture."  He patted my shoulder.  "I wouldn't dream of standing in the way of two homos in love!  Don't worry, I'll give you your gay make-out sleepover. "

So Kenny invited four of his friends over Saturday night for a sort of "ironic" sleepover:
1. Carl
2. Todd, his best friend.
3. Marshall, who was at his last sleepover, a baseball player with a stunning physique and bulge to match.
4. Pete, a sports nut who was Marshall's best friend.

A few days before the sleepover, Marshall broke his leg sliding into home at a baseball game.  He would be in a wheelchair for 10 days, and then crutches for two months.

"Mom and Dad said I should cancel," he told Kenny.  "I can't play a lot of rough games, and I can't climb the stairs to your room."

"Don't be stupid," Kenny said.  "We can't have the sleepover without you.  We'll just play games that you don't need legs for, and carry you up and down the stairs.  It will be fine."

"But I also need to keep my leg elevated at night, so I have to sleep with a special attachment to my bed."

"We can get that!  No problem at all."

So we carried the fold-out bed from the basement to our attic room, and installed the special rise.

Carl in my bed all night!  Cuddling, kissing, our chests pressed together, my legs wrapped around him!  I couldn't wait.

Saturday night we used the living room instead of the basement rec room.  We played Risk and Trivial Pursuit and watched Chuck Acri's Creature Feature.

I noticed that Carl was being very helpful to Marshall, bringing him sodas, helping him maneuver in his wheelchair, but I didn't think anything of it.  He was just being nice.

He was sitting next to me on the couch, after all, and we were sharing the same bowl of popcorn.

When it was time for bed, Kenny and I helped Marshall up the stairs to our attic room.

"I hope you did all the bathroom business you need for the night," Kenny joked.  "I'm not carrying you downstairs again."

The best part of every sleepover was deciding who got the beds, and who got the sleeping bags on the floor.  But this time there were three beds, mine, Kenny's, and the fold-out bed for Marshall, so no one would get the floor.

"Ok, Todd goes with Kenny," I said.  "Who's going with Marshall?"  Obviously Pete, since Carl would be in my bed, but I didn't want to make it obvious that we were a couple.

Then out of nowhere Carl said "I'll go with him."

My face started to burn.  I felt like I had been kicked in the stomach.  "Huh?  But...you..."

"I've never slept on a fold-out bed before," he said with a grin.  "It will be fun."

I glanced at Kenny, who was staring open-mouthed.  "Don't you want to...." he began.

"Don't I want to what?"  Carl asked, blinking innocently.

He was my boyfriend!  The whole point of this sleepover is to give us a chance to sleep together!

But of course I couldn't say anything as he took off his shirt and pants and climbed into bed next to Marshall.  Pete, meanwhile, stripped down and climbed in bed next to me.  Kenny shrugged and turned off the light.

I've thought a thousand times about what I should have done.  I've replayed a thousand scenarios in my head.

But I was eighteen years old, still an adolescent, and completely new to all of this, so what actually happened was:

I never spoke to Carl again.

See also: The Juvenile Delinquent's Bare Butt; My Little Brother's Friend is Gay

In Search of Books and Boyfriends in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas

Hell-fer-Sartain, November 1984

I'm a big bibliophile.  When I move, it takes 30 boxes just for my books.

The highlight of visiting a new town is checking out the bookstores.

If I walked into this scene, I would check out the books before making out with the guy.

So during my awful year in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas, when I ran an ad in the Montrose Voice, Houston's gay newspaper, looking for a boyfriend, I specified "must like books."

It was a boyfriend ad -- I was 23 years old, conservative, romantic, not into "tricking" (the 1980s word for hookups).  I wanted dating, romance, a relationship.  So, to make sure we had a lot in common, I specified more than my sexual tastes:"into bks, tv, f/sf, mus, dts only.

Into books, tv, fantasy/science fiction, bodybuilding (muscles).  Dates only (they charged by the letter).

 Most guys who answered didn't even read the ad -- they just answered all of them, in search of an elusive hookup.

Others misunderstood, thinking I meant "pornographic books, transvestism, and fisting in San Francisco."

Others were "into books," but strongly disapproved of the "mindless, infantile dreck" on the rest of my list.

Finally, after about two months of running the ad, I got a response from a guy named Hank, who seemed ideal.

He was from Ottumwa, Iowa (about two hours from Rock Island); he had a bachelor's degree in psychology (I had a master's degree in English); and he claimed a love of books, movies, tv, and science fiction (at least he knew what sf meant).

So I agreed to a date.

When I arrived at Hank's apartment on Kipling Street in the Montrose, Houston's gay neighborhood, he answered the door in bathrobe.

Cute: short black hair, deeply-set eyes, sharp chin, high cheekbones.  From what I could see through the bathrobe, a nicely toned, smooth chest with flat nipples and a hint of six-pack abs.

"I'm still getting ready," he said apologetically.  "Have a seat, and I'll be with you in a minute."

It was a small one room apartment with a single window that looked out onto a fire escape, and nowhere to sit but an unmade bed.  A kitchenette with unwashed dishes in the sink and open boxes of cereal on the counter.  A coffee table with more unwashed dishes on it.  A small dresser and a black and white tv.

I shouldn't complain -- I had a small apartment, too.  But at least I knew how to wash dishes and make a bed.

As I looked around the tiny room, I noticed something missing.  No books.

I have books in every room in the house, including the bathroom.  Hank had none.   A bookcase full of knicknacks; snow globes, toys, figurines.  No pile of novels waiting to be read.  No coffee-table books for visitors to browse through.  Nothing.

For that matter, no magazines or newspapers, either.

Hank bounced out of the bathroom in a t-shirt that revealed a v-shaped torso and very thick hard biceps.  He plopped down on the bed next to me.  "So, what do you want to do?  Go out to eat, go to a movie, go cruising?"

He had never had Japanese, Indian, Thai, or Vietnamese food.  We went out to dinner at a...yawn...steakhouse, where I subtly quizzed Hank on how much he really liked the four things on my list.

Books: His favorite author was...um..Shakespeare.  His favorite gay author was...well, what difference did sexual orientation make, as long as the book was good?

TV: He used to watch The Brady Bunch when he was a kid.  He had a crush on Greg.  Contemporary shows?  Well, he didn't have much time for tv.

Fantasy/Science Fiction:  Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom is science fiction, right?

Bodybuilding: He went to the gym.

After dinner I suggested that we browse in the Wilde and Stein Bookstore, which specialized in gay fiction.  I bought The Boy Who Picked the Bullets Up, a gay coming-of-age story.  Hank looked bored.

We returned to his book-free apartment and sat on the bed.

I was ready to bolt.  This guy was cute and all, but I was looking for a boyfriend, someone who shared my interests.

"I don't think this will work out," I said, sighing.  "We don't have much in common.  I'm really looking for a guy who is into books."

"I read books!" Hank protested.  "I have a whole pile of them!"  He opened a drawer under the bed and displayed...some well-worn children's books.

Charlie an the Chocolate Factory
The Little House on the Prairie
The Boxcar Children
The Hardy Boys

"Um...have you read anything lately?" I asked.

"Well, I don't have time to read a lot, but look -- have you ever read The Phantom Tollbooth?  It's about a boy named Milo, see..."

"I don't think...." I began.

"Look..."  Hank wrapped his arm around me to draw my attention to the book.  A hard bicep against my back, a big hand on my shoulder.  I fell against his chest.

There was a definite bulge in his pants.

"We don't have to look at my books," Hank said, "If there's something else you'd rather do."

There was something else I wanted to do: kiss and lick his chest, and gradually move my way down to his beautifully shaped Bratwurst+.   I eagerly thrust up and down until Hank lay on the bed and pulled me on top of him for interfemoral and kissing, then into 69.

Ok, there are some things I like more than books.

See also: Anal and Astrology in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas

Fred and the Icelandic Photographer

New York, August 2000

"Boomer, guess what!" Fred said breathlessly, in those days before texting overtook the telephone.  "I got a new job, in Bemidji, Minnesota!"

Last I heard, my ex-boyfriend Fred and his partner Jester -- a blind guy who taught high school history -- were in Sandusky, Ohio, where Fred was working as an assistant pastor at a congregational church. Granted, a step down for someone with a doctorate in theology and ten years of pastoral experience, but Sandusky was a gay resort town.

What in the world were they doing in Bemidji, Minnesota?

Population 14,000.  Near nowhere at all (3 1/2 hours to Minneapolis, 4 1/2 hours to Winnipeg).

Famous for nothing in particular except a statue of Paul Bunyan, which isn't all that impressive.

One mixed bar, a campus gay organization, and that's it.

What else?  A job.

"I'm Protestant chaplain and director of Religious Life at Bemidji State University!"

Granted, a step up, but Bemidji, Minnesota?  Farther from the gay world than even Fresno.  What did Jester say?

"He's on board with it," Fred said curtly.   He never discussed his relationships unless forced, and then only briefly, the product of years of being closeted at work.

I was very busy during my last year in grad school, working two jobs, finishing my doctoral dissertation, and applying for every job in a gay neighborhood I could find, so I didn't contact Fred much.  Then in the spring I saw an ad for a job at Bemidji State University!

It might not be so bad.  Fred, Jester and I could start a gay political group, or maybe a weekly bear party like the one on Long Island.  And Minneapolis was close enough for weekend trips.

So in April I flew out for the interview.




Bemidji, Minnesota, April 2001

I soon discovered that the department were just inviting me so they could congratulate themselves on being so liberal.  They would never hire someone who researched gay topics, or as one interviewer called it, "sex education."

After dinner on Thursday night, they dropped me off at my hotel, and Fred picked me up for dessert at Rudy's, followed by cruising at the mixed bar.

Sitting beside him in his car was not Jester, but a Cute Young Thing I had never seen or heard of before.

He was  tall and skinny, with shoulder-length hair, a moustache, and a hard smooth chest.  There was a map of Iceland tattoo on his arm.

He introduced himself as Stefan, from Iceland, an art major at Bemidji State.

Where was Jester?  

"Oh, Jester is back in San Bernardino," Fred said dismissively.  "He came out for a couple of months, but then decided to go home."

"I can understand that.  It's hard for blind people to adapt to new environments, and I'll bet teaching credentials don't transfer from state to state.  He'd have to go back to school in order to teach here, right?"

"No, he just didn't like the cold weather," Fred said.

"And he missed the California beach boys," Stefan said in fluent English, with a little lilt in his voice.  "Never anything on his mind but sex, sex, sex, all day and all night!"

That didn't sound like Jester.  Time to change the subject.  "I love Iceland!  I visited when I was in college.  Reykjavik is beautiful."

"Reykjavik is too big and noisy.  Gritty.  Have you ever been to Akureyri?  It's still quiet, no tourists.  You can hear yourself think."

"Um...no.  I've just been to Rekjavik, and to a hot springs about an hour away."

"If you have been to Iceland," Stefan continued, "You must learn the Icelandic language.  It is the most pure of languages, unchanged since the days of the sagas.  No modern influences.  Ég vil sjá hala þínum, I want to see your penis."

Ruby's was an old-fashioned ice cream parlor that served tin roofs, black cows, and phosphates.  Stefan talked about the Old Icelandic sagas and the travels of Norse kings.  He was actually sort of interesting.  But he wouldn't eat anything -- "I don't want to turn into a fattie, like the Americans."

"Where have you been in the U.S. besides Bemidji?" I asked.

"Minneapolis, and a few days in New York."

"I live in New York.  Great, isn't it?"

"What a dump!" Stefan spat.  "It smells like a garbage can, and the people do nothing all day but watch the television.  How can you live in such a place?"

Ugh.  Stefan was as elitist as Fred's ex-boyfriend Matt.  I hate elitists, but apparently Fred couldn't get enough of them!

The mixed gay-straight bar was dark and rather seedy, with scary-looking guys propping up beer bottles like phalluses.

"Trolls!"  Stefan exclaimed.  "In Iceland, trolls are big, clumsy fellows who eat people.  Here they are just ugly and smell of armpits.  But we will dance, Boomer, ok?  Fred won't dance with me."

There was no one dancing.  "No, thanks," I said.

"Americans are so in the closet!  No one will shoot us if we just dance together!"

But I continued to refuse, and Stefan sat pouting for awhile, silent as Fred and I caught up on old friends, except for an occasional rude interjection:

"Lane just lives on his mother's money?  Is he handicapped?  In Iceland everyone must work."  

I didn't really feel like sharing this elitist jerk, but it had been about two years since I was in Fred's bed, so I consented to go back to his apartment.  The moment we came through the door, Stefan ran to the bathroom -- "I can't use the sickening, dirty bathroom at the bar!"

Fred nudged me.  "Isn't he great?  So cosmopolitan!  We'll be together for the rest of our lives, I guarantee.  I've never met anyone like him before!"


"Really?"  He seemed exactly like Matt, in his Cute Young Thing days, before he turned down the sarcasm and started trying to be friendly.  "Stefan doesn't remind you of any of your old boyfriends?"

"Um...no one comes to mind.  Well, he does remind me of Jester in one way."

"His interest in history?"

"No."  He grinned.  "Something else."

"So, are we ready for the sharing?"  Stefan walked out of the bathroom, already naked, a Kovbasa++ just as big as Jester's swinging between his legs.

I stared.

"Don't just look.  Who wants to go down on me first?"

You're probably wondering about the mechanics of going down on a guy with 11".  It works best with two guys, one working on the head and the other working on the shaft.  Unfortunately, Fred was a top, and not really into giving oral, so I had to handle the entire job.  Not that I minded.

After that night, Fred never mentioned Stefan again.  No doubt they broke up.  His job at Bemidji didn't last long, either.

See also: The Naked Nordic God of the Icelandic Hotsprings; The Tacher with Sixteen Inches