My Grade School Boyfriend and the Old Lady Schoolteachers

Rock Island, Fall 1984

You're probably wondering about my "boyfriend" Nick who saved me from The Killer one summer (I'm guessing the summer after 3rd grade, when I was eight years old).

The muscular, redheaded law student with freckles on his chest who took me out for an ice cream soda afterwards.

I don't have many more details, no long-ago smiles or glimpses of his shame.  He visited a few more times, that summer and the next -- once he took me and Bill for a ride in his convertible with the top down.

Then he vanished without explanation (or maybe he just happened to visit when I wasn't around.  I was busy every summer with Nazarene Bible camp and vacation and summer enrichment classes).


He left me with one connection: his grandmother.

Her name was really Mrs. Lindquist, and her companion was Miss Deverr or Devere, but everyone called them the Old Lady Schoolteachers because they had taught at Denkmann Elementary School for many years, beginning when it first opened in 1934.

I never knew their first names.

When I was growing up, Mom knew them from the PTA or the Safe House Program or something (Safe Houses had brown stars in the window, signifying that you could run there if a stranger tried to abduct you).  She used to go over and visit them -- maybe they reminded her of her own mother, who died in 1965.  Occasionally they sent banana bread or cookies back with her.

They always made popcorn balls for Halloween.

Sometimes my brother and I went over to shovel their sidewalks or mow their lawns.  We were supposed to do it for free, but they always tipped us a quarter each anyway.  They invited us inside once, while they fumbled about in their purses.  I remember dark, ponderous furniture, General Hospital on tv, and dozens of framed pictures of relatives. Nick was smiling in a graduation gown.

Miss Devere died when I was in high school, leaving Mrs. Lindquist alone in the house.

I brought my first boyfriend, Fred, over to meet her.  She gave us Swedish cookies and asked what we were studying in school.

Mrs. Lindquist died in 1984, during my year in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas.  Since I was 1000 miles away, I didn't go to the funeral, but Mom and Dad were there.  They talked to Nick briefly: he was a lawyer, living in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, with a wife and two kids. No doubt he was still buffed, with freckles on his chest.

The obituary they sent filled in the details in the life of Mrs. Lindquist: born in Galesburg in 1896, graduated from Augustana College, married Axel Lindquist, had two children.  She taught at several Rock Island schools, and at Denkmann from 1934 to 1961, when she retired. Her husband and her son Jonah preceded her in death.  She had four grandchildren and two great-grandchildren.

Miss Devere was not mentioned.

At the time I didn't think that they might be a lesbian couple.   After all, they lived on the next block!  They made banana bread!

But now I wonder: were they just heterosexual roommates, sharing the bills, describing the penises of their male lovers, on Friday nights gazing lustfully at aging sleuth Barnaby Jones on tv?

Or were they "together"?  Back in the 1930s, did they wear cravats and smoke cigarettes and read to each other from The Well of Loneliness?  Did they teach together, and then stroll across the grassy field to their house, a lesbian couple living freely and openly during the 1940s and police-state 1950s?

I might be able to find Nick on the internet, reunite with him, and ask for more details.  But I'm not sure I want to.  Living in Cedar Rapids, he's probably conservative, and might not amenable to the suggestion that his grandmother may have been a lesbian.

Besides, he's about 70 now.  I would rather remember the muscular redheaded teenager with freckles on his chest who rescued me on that hot summer day a thousand years ago.

See also: The Face of Pure Evil

My West Hollywood Date from Hell: Me, Morris, and the BFF

West Hollywood, May 1994

I've always been attracted to men in business suits, probably because I saw so few growing up.  All of my friends' fathers worked in factories and wore coveralls, except to church on Sundays, where they put on the Ritz.

The preacher wore a suit (no Satanic clerical collars for Nazarenes!).  I spent countless hours watching him as he paced and yelled and pounded the pulpit in outrage, until his tight bulldog body was slick with sweat and his cock was very blatantly shifting back and forth in his pants.

Whew.

So when Morris (not his real name) showed up one day at the Metropolitan Community Church, I was enthralled.

He was in his 40s,  but distinctly old fashioned -- wearing a gray flannel suit in Los Angeles heat, complete with vest, pinktie, handkerchief in the front pocket and cuff  links instead of buttons.

Thick gold watch, pinky ring, slicked-back black hair, cologne.  Who was this guy, Humphrey Bogart?

The pinky ring and cologne were turn-offs, but not enough for me to avoid him during the after-service "coffee hour," aka the "cruising hour."

We didn't usually discuss our jobs in West Hollywood -- everyone made do on a variety of part-time and temp jobs while pursuing our various goals of acting, modeling, writing, or art.  But Morris asked first thing, and told us that he was a broker-sales-marketing something or other to do with business.  Yawn.  Other biographical details: he was new in town, transplanted from far-off Connecticut, he had only been out for a few years, and he was a non-practicing Catholic who had never been in a Protestant church before.

In other words, he was not at all assimilated into the gay community.

Well, we could work on that.

"You need the grand tour of West Hollywood," I told him, "The bars, the Different Light, Mrs. Fields' Cookies,West Hollywood Park.  I'm meeting my partner and boy toy for lunch in a bit.  We could..."

"Thanks, but I have a lunch engagement of my own. Another time, perhaps?"

Thoroughly rebuffed, I retreated to the other side of the room and talked to other people until he was gone.  Then I walked down to the French Quarter, and waited for Lane and Infinite Chazz.

In May 1994, I was 33 years old.  Lane was five years older, shorter than me, buffed, bearded.  Our boy toy, called Infinite Chazz because he was infinitely attractive to everyone who saw him, was in college in Orange County, but visited most weekends.

It was very crowded, and the French Quarter was set up with mostly tables-for-two, so we had to wait about 20 minutes to be seated -- at a table only 20 feet from Morris!

"That's the guy I cruised at church," I told them.

"Whoa, bummer!" Infinite Chazz exclaimed.  "I mean, he's hot and all, but look who he's with!"

It was a woman in her late 100s, who was doing everything she could to appear under 80.  Black wig, heavily made up face with bright red lipstick, evening gown, dripping with jewels.  Mink stole in 80 degree weather. Eating a steak with a knife and fork.

Never before or after did I see anyone eating a steak at the French Quarter.  Or using a knife.  I didn't even know that they had full "cuts of meat" on the menu.

"Miss Mae West is still alive!"  Lane exclaimed.

"Or Aunt Clara from Bewitched," Chazz suggested.  "Or...I know, I know -- Auntie Mame!"

"Maybe Auntie Mame is his mother, Mommy Dearest Mame?" Lane suggested.

"Taking your mother out to dinner!" Chazz exclaimed.  "Sick!"

"Or maybe Mr. Morris is...a gigolo!  Dinner, dancing, a kiss on the cheek, make the dowager princess feel loved."

"I'm trying to read the menu!  Stop making me sick to my stomach!"

"All I know is, I dodged a bullet there," I said.  "That Morris is crazy.  Imagine, hanging out with a woman!"

We weren't gynophobic, necessarily, but we grew up with parents, friends, teachers, coaches, and pastors constantly screaming at us, "What girl do you like?  What girl?  What girl? What girl?", hour after hour, day after day, constant asserting that "You are attracted to women, like every boy who has ever lived!  Your destiny lies in a woman's arms!  Heterosexual romance is the meaning of life!"

So it was an enormous relief to be able to relax and not have to think about, talk about, or look at girls. Any mention of a woman, could re-open old wounds, ruin our mood, put a damper on the whole day.  We looked up to guys who could go through a conversation, a whole day, or a lifetime without mentioning anything feminine.  They had the power!

It wasn't easy.  You had to pretend not to see actresses on tv (Dynasty?  Isn't that the show starring John Forsythe?), omit pronouns when talking about your relatives (instead of "I'm calling my mother," "I'm calling my parents"), and call your pets "he," even if they were female.

Lane and I weren't that assiduous, but friendships with women?  No way!

I was going to let Morris slide on by, but suddenly he got up, arm in arm with his lady bff, and approached our table!

"Fancy meeting you here!" he said. "I'd like you to meet Mae."

Lane nudged me under the table.

We made introductions all around, but did not deign to shake Miss Mae's small, many-ringed hand. Touching a woman?  Absolutely not!

Then Miss Mae returned to her steak, but Morris stayed behind.  "So, Boomer, you mentioned a tour of West Hollywood. Will next Friday night be ok?"

I hesitated.  He was friends...or something...with a woman!  But he was attractive, sophisticated, and wearing a suit.  And he probably had a penis. I liked penises. Why not?

"Sure, that will be fine."  I gave him my address.  "Call for me at 7:00."

"Marvelous.  Um...will your friends be joining us?"  He leered at Chazz.

I looked at Lane, who didn't share my fetish for business suits.  "Well, I go to schul -- temple -- on Friday nights, but I'll meet up with you later."

Lane and I were allowed to date other people, as long as we got together for the bedroom activity, to participate or watch.

"I'l be going to temple with Lane," Chazz said.  "But I'm up for after-schul dinner and cruising."

"Marvelous."  He reached out his hand to be shaken, gave Infinite Chazz a wink (was that how they cruised in Connecticut?), and returned to Aunt Clara.






We spent the week discussing the logistics for my Friday night date.

I would take Morris to the Different Light Bookstore and then the Cafe Etoille for dinner -- the ritzy place would justify his wearing a business suit.  Then cruising at the Toy Tiger (the oldster piano bar).  We would meet Lane and Chazz at the Gold Coast after temple.

Since Morris was new to the gay community, a four-way would probably be too much for him, so we agreed that only Lane would be present for the sharing.  Chazz would take the guest room, and join us in the morning.

On Friday night, I put on the tie that I wore only to job interviews and funerals, so Morris wouldn't feel too out of place.

7:00.  I waited.

7:10.  No Morris.

7:20.  No Morris.  This was before cell phones, so I couldn't call.

7:30.  I started changing into my regular clothes so I could go out by myself, when there was a knock on the door.

Morris.  Wearing a cut-off t-shirt and jeans.  Not a business suit!  Well, at least he had a hairy chest and a nice bulge.

"Parking is a nightmare in this town!" he said.  "Mae is still looking for a parking place.  She'll be up in a minute."

Mae?  Up in a minute?

He kissed me on the cheek.  "So, what marvelous plans do you have for us this evening?"

Mae?  Up in a minute?

Browsing at the Different Light Bookstore.  Dinner at the Cafe Etoille.  Listening to old show tunes at the Toy Tiger.  A good night kiss on the cheek.  Morris, Mae, and me.

I did manage to go down on Morris later, but that's a story for another time.

See also: Sex in the Office: I Finally See Morris's Member.

The Gay Kid in the Farmhouse in Plains

February 22nd, 1986: A Saturday.  I'm living in West Hollywood. Alan and I go cruising at Catch One, a club that specializes in African-American men.  I meet the wannabe thug T.

February 20th, 1996: A Tuesday.  Lane and I are living in San Francisco.  I walk down Folsom Street on my way to my part-time job, and run into Mickey, the leatherman who never leaves South of Market, not even to go to the Castro.  We have lunch at a gay Chinese restaurant, and I talk him into participating in the youth outreach program at the MCC.

February 19th, 2006: A Sunday.  I'm visiting Amsterdam.  I have dinner at an Indonesian restaurant, and then go to the Horseman's Club on Warmoestraat, for men with gigantic beneath-the-belt gifts.   I meet Azi from Suriname, who has a Kovbasa+ .  He invites me home to be a "birthday" present for his college-aged brother, Eli.

February 23rd, 2016:  A Tuesday.  I live in Plains, a small town in the vast Midwestern wilderness.

Except I'm not in town; I'm at a farmhouse, gazing at the dark vastness of snow-covered fields through the window.  (Photo from National Geographic)

And then at the country-kitchen style living room, where heterosexuals are occupying couches and chairs, listening to a middle aged woman named Claire read poetry.

West Hollywood, San Francisco, Amsterdam, farmhouse.  How the mighty have fallen!

Her poems are sort of like Spoon River Anthology, telling the story of a farm family during the Great Recession of 2007-2008: middle-aged Jo (that must be Claire), her worry-laden husband, Grandpa and Grandma, her teenage daughter who wants to be a farmer, and her teenage son, who wishes he was a thousand miles away.

Me, too.  It's about a thousand miles to the Flex Club in Cleveland.  It's probably busy right about now.

Do the poems at least describe the husband's hard muscles glistening in the sun, or dark-eyed farmboys going skinny-dipping in the creek?

Nope. Lots of lines about grandpa smelling soft earth, Jo's smooth skin starting to mottle with age, the husband's inner strength that guides you through adversity, and the son looking up at bluebirds flying to Oz.

Maybe he escaped to the nearest gay neighborhood.

West Hollywood, San Francisco, Amsterdam, farmhouse.  Where are the snows of yesterday?

I hated Spoon River, I hate these poems, and I hate farmhouses.  What am I even doing here?

The hostess invited me.  She's a professor at the University, so it's a good career move.

I look around at the other poetry aficionados. Mostly elderly women, a couple of middle-aged men.  A slim, creepy-looking bald guy leading an even creepier-looking bald guy by the arm.

Lovers -- no -- father and son.

At the last heterosexual gathering I went to, I hooked up with Dustin, the host's son.  But no cute college boys burst in to fill the room with life and excitement.  I am alone.

West Hollywood, San Francisco, Amsterdam, farmhouse. 

 Years go falling in the fading light.  Buy me a ticket on the last train home tonight.

Question time. I raise my hand.  "Are the son and daughter based on your real-life children?"

"To an extent.  But Jane is the one who didn't want to become a farmer -- she's living in New York.  Kyle loved farm life."

Didn't he escape to a gay neighborhood?  "What's he doing now?"

"He majored in agriculture at the university, and now he's an agronomist up in Yankton."

Someone else raises a hand to ask about the dramatic structure of the poems.  My wheels spin.

Evidence that Kyle is gay:
1. He longed to escape.
2. He would be around 30 now, and Claire didn't mention a wife and kids.
3. A reference to Judy Garland in The Wizard of Oz.

Evidence that Kyle is hetero:
1. He works as an agronomist
2. In Yankton, South Dakota.
Can you imagine anything more stultifying than standing in a vast field, beneath a blank sky, looking at plants?  For a living?

But I really want him to be gay.  I want there to be gay people in farmhouses in vast fields, beneath blank skies.

It's easy to look Kyle up: he's one of Claire's facebook friends.

He has indefatigably hetero country interests: Brad Paisley, Lonesome Dove, sports, sports, and sports.  But he also likes Modern Family, and he's a proponent of marriage equality.  Besides, no wife or kids mentioned.

I friend him with a "Hi, I know your Mom."

The next day, we chat.

Kyle:  I see you've lived in L.A., New York, and Fort Lauderdale.  What are you doing on the Plains?

Boomer:  A job, what else?  What are you doing in Yankton?

Kyle:  I love it here!  It's my sister Jane who's the big city gal.  She and her girlfriend live right in the heart of the East Village.  Hey, maybe they were your neighbors!"

Jane and her...girlfriend?  I was so obsessed with finding a gay boy in the farmhouse that I never thought about the girl: growing up thinking she was all alone, getting crushes on cheerleaders instead of football players, discovering what "lesbian" meant on the internet, plotting her escape to a gay neighborhood in the biggest big city she could find.

West Hollywood, San Francisco, Amsterdam, farmhouse.  Et in Arcadia ego.

Well, every story can't be about a hookup.