The Bed-Switching Freshman at the Chocolate Moose

I was saddened to learn that the Chocolate Moose, a landmark ice cream place on Walnut Street in downtown Bloomington, is going to be demolished to make way for a generic office building.  The distinctiveness of local culture vanishes for faceless uniformity, yet again.

The Chocolate Moose was a quirky little building shaped like a chocolate chalet.  You went to the  window to order soft-serve ice cream, floats, shakes, hot dogs, sloppy joes, that sort of thing.  No indoor dining, but there were a couple of picnic tables.

It was only a block from the apartment Viju and I shared during my second year in graduate school at Indiana University.

It was open until 2:00 am, so we often dropped by after cruising at Bullwinkle's, especially if we struck out (if we were successful, we took our hookups to Bob's Burgers instead).

The later it got, the better the sightseeing -- half-drunk fratboys pushing soft-serve cones into each other's faces, shirtless jocks licking on snow cones until their tongues turned blue.

In spite of the beefcake, there  wasn't a lot of cruising going on.
1.Most of the customers were straight.
2. There weren't a lot of places to hold private conversations.
3. Once you're ready for ice cream, you're probably too emotionally raw to handle a hookup.

But I have a good hookup story involving the Chocolate Moose.

Bloomington, May 1984.

Viju and I head out to Bullwinkle's, about five blocks from our apartment.

There's a boy pacing around the entrance, with that deliberate-but-nonchalant look of someone trying to get the nerve to go in.

He's very young, probably just 18 (which would make him five years younger than me), short, slim, pale, not my usual type, but very cute, with black hair, an oval face, very red lips, and a little blush in his cheeks.

We make eye contact.  I start to say something like "It's not so bad inside," but Viju pushes me through the door.

"What's the matter?  Didn't you think he was cute?"

"Oh, yes, definitely worth it!  But I was worried -- he might be an undercover cop.  The minute you say something sexy, bang!  You're finished!"

I wait awhile, but the Freshman never comes in.  Viju and I set out to cruise, but we really don't have our minds on it -- after seeing the super-cute guy at the entrance, everyone seems second-rate.

We cruise for an hour or so, but no one comes to mind.  Finally we leave.

On the way home, we pass the Chocolate Moose.  The line is half a block long.

"Want ice cream?" Viju asks.

"No, I'm not waiting in a line that size!  You go on.  I'll see you at the house."

I leave Viju waiting in line, return to the apartment, and sit down to watch tv and read a book.

A half hour passes.  Then 45 minutes.  How long was that line, anyway?

Did Viju decide to go back to the bar?  Did he get kidnapped?  Should I go out looking?

Then I hear footsteps on the stairs.  Viju comes in -- with the Freshman, still carrying his malt!

"This is Jerry," he says, his arm around the boy.  "He's a freshman, planning to major in economics."

"I saw you at Bullwinkle's," I say, trying to be nonchalant.  "So you finally went in?"

"Um...no...actually, we met at the Moose," Viju says.  "We started talking in line, and...well, you know."  He turns to the Freshman.  "Meet my roommate, Boomer."

The Freshman looks at me.  "Hi," he says softly.

"Do you need to go to the bathroom?"

He shakes his head.

"Then we'll just be going to bed.  Goodnight."

Viju draws him into a kiss right in front of me, almost as if he is trying to make me jealous.

Arm in arm, they vanish (there was no sharing in those days).  Soon I go to bed.

Our bedrooms are right next to each other, down a little hallway from the living room, and we always leave our doors open a crack for ventilation, so I hear everything that happens in Viju's room.

Usually it's fun, a lot of moaning and thumping and "Yeah, like that!" and "I'm getting close!", plus a glimpse of semi-tumescent penises as the hookups walk past my door to the bathroom to wash up afterwards.  But tonight I feel left out and jealous.  If only I had stopped for ice cream, the Freshman would be in my bed right now!

I wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of someone climbing into bed next to me.  The Freshman!

Naked, his tight smooth chest and skinny belly glowing in the pale light from the window, his penis average sized but beautifully shaped.  I can't see his eyes.  He must have gotten up to go to the bathroom, and accidentally picked the wrong door.

"Um...Viju's next door," I murmur.

"Shh," he whispers.  "I'll take care of everything.  Just leave everything to me."

He climbs atop me.  He kisses my chest, my abs.  His hand finds my penis.  I stand, aroused.  I feel his mouth and tongue.  

Bed-switching would be quite common in West Hollywood, but I've never experienced it before.

Will Viju be outraged tomorrow morning?  Will he accuse me of betraying him?  Am I betraying him?

Tomorrow can take care of itself.  I turn the Freshman over onto his back and finish by kissing him and thrusting between his legs.

See also: Bed-Hopping in Japan; The Ex-Con at the Ice Cream Stand

The Ex-Con at the Ice Cream Stand

Nashville, August 1991

I arrived in Nashville on August 18th, 1991, sad about leaving West Hollywood but looking forward to my new graduate program in Biblical Hebrew at Vanderbilt Divinity School.  I found an apartment and an adjunct teaching job, toured the campus, and looked for Nashville's gay life:

Three gay organizations, some bars, and a Metropolitan Community Church.

On my first Saturday, I went to two of the bars, both on dismal country roads beyond the city limits.  The first was completely deserted except for a woman who tried to pick me up -- a real woman -- and the second was about half drag queens, half rednecks.  No one I found attractive.

I missed Mugi and the French Quarter.

Disappointed, I left after about an hour.  On the way back into town, I stopped at an old-fashioned ice cream place called Bobbie's Dairy Dip, ordered a hot fudge sundae, and sat at one of the picnic tables outside.

"'Scuse me, sir, do you mind if I join you?"

I looked up:  A country boy, barely out of his teens: tall and thin, scruffy black hair, handsome round face, unshaven, wearing a button-down shirt, jeans, and dirty tennis shoes.  Holding a dish of frozen custard.

Shocked, I motioned "ok."  He sat across from me and stuck out his hand.  Very dry, firm handshake.

"You were looking at me at that other place we was at, but I didn't have the nerve to come say hi.  The name's Red."

Was this the way people cruised in Nashville?

Red was very talkative: he was 25 years old, grew up in a small town outside Nashville, and worked at a gas station.  He just got out of prison a few months ago -- DUI and resisting arrest.

Not the best pickup line!  

But he "turned his life around." He was sober, he had his GED, and he was taking classes at the community college.  He wanted to go to Middle Tennessee State and study zoology.

"You been to college, ain't you?" he asked.  "I can tell by the way you talk."

"Yep, I almost got a Ph.D.  I'm at Vanderbilt now, studying Biblical Hebrew."

"Whoa, Biblical Hebrew, that's hard.  I can tell, just talking to you, that your brain is working at like three or four levels above mine.  Let me ask you something."  He reached under the table and rubbed his foot against mine  "Do you think it will ever be legal for people like us to get together?"

At that moment, some kids at another started table laughing.  Red jumped up and ran to his car.

I joined him.  "They weren't laughing at us, you know."

"It's not safe here.  You're from California, you don't know -- we got to keep a low profile.  Could we go to your house?"

Red was cute, with the "lost soul" look I liked  But I was a bit nervous about inviting a scruffy-looking stranger, an ex-con, back to my apartment.  "I like to take things slow, get to know the guy," I said  "How about we go out to dinner Tuesday night?"

"Ok.  But someplace safe."  He thought for a moment.  "How about Bucky's, down in Columbia."

I'd never heard of Columbia, but I assumed it was a suburb of Nashville, where Red lived.

Of course, I got his contact information, and gave it to Lane back home.

Columbia turned out to be about 50 miles away, and Bucky's a heterosexist "family restaurant" that served "chicken an dressin'."

Red was wearing a plaid button-down shirt and a red tie.  He gave me a plastic rose, the kind they sell at 7-11.  A little weird.

"I never had a real date with a guy before," he said with a shy smile.  "Usually they just want to do you and go home."

We ate our "chicken an dressin'" while Red fondled my leg under the table with his foot and smoked cigarettes.

I hated smokers!

Afterwards he wanted to go to the club up in Nashville, where they had drag shows on Tuesday nights.

Then why did I drive all the way down here?  For Southern Country Cooking?

But I had already invested time and energy in this guy, so we went. It was ok, if you like drag shows.

On the way back to our cars, a pick-up truck pulled up next to us, and the passenger-side door opened.  It was all dark inside. "Hey, faggots," someone whispered.  "Get in."

Red grabbed my hand, and we ran back to the bar.  We waited a half hour before trying to leave again.

It was after midnight  I was tired and scared.  I just wanted to go home -- alone.  But when I suggested that we call it a night, Red looked so disappointed that I invited him home.

We sat on the couch in the living room, kissing -- Red was admittedly good at that.  But the moment I tried to go down on him, he said "You got any photo albums?  I want to know everything there is to know about you."

So we watched TV and leafed through my photo albums.  I showed Red photos of my parents and brother and sister, my friends at Denkmann, Washington, Rocky High, Augustana, Indiana, and West Hollywood.  He kept up a constant stream of questions

It was 2:00 am!  Time for bed!

I drew Red to his feet and pulled him into the bedroom.  He stared at the bed next to the window.

"We can't sleep there!  Too risky."

I was too tired to argue.  I spread some blankets and pillows out onto the living room floor and tore off Red's shirt and tie.  Hard hairy chest, lanky arms.  I pulled his pants down and went down on his cut Kielbasa+.  He groaned.

"Hey, you know what would be good?  Some music."

So I turned MTV on, and we moved into 69 position to Madonna's "Express Yourself."

So if you want it right now, make him show you how
Express what he's got, oh baby ready or not

Red was very eager -- he finished while I was going down on him during "Express Yourself," and again on top of me, with his penis between my legs.  Then he went down on me twice.

But the evening was too weird -- a 45 minute drive for chicken, a drag show, gay bashing, photo albums, MTV -- I decided not to see him again.

The next Sunday, I went to services at the MCC, the gay church.  And Red was there, sititing in the front row!

See also: The Country-Western Star; the Bed-Switching Freshman at the Chocolate Moose.