On My Knees in the Teaching Assistant's Office

San Francisco, May 1997

I liked chemistry class in high school -- or rather, I liked the fact that it was 90% cute science nerds who carried calculators with the logo "Chemistry is Chool."

But in college, I had constant problems.

The professors taught for chemistry and physics majors rather than general education students. They started with five-dollar words and grad-school concepts.

"Today we will be discussing hydrogenic orbitals, and the failures of heteronuclear diatomics in predicting molecular bipolarity."

Um...atoms are the building blocks of molecules....

And the labs: Mind-boggling configurations of glassware and piping that required  mechanical genius to put together.   

I dropped Chemistry 101 twice, and took Physical Geography and Paleontology to fulfill my physical science requirement.


Over a decade later, in San Francisco, I was dating Kevin the Vampire, who was totally into the sciences, talking about atoms and molecules almost as much as he talked about hot guys.  Gradually I developed a passion for the sciences again.

"You liked chemistry in high school, didn't you?" he told me one day.  "Why don't you become a chemist?  You can get your undergraduate work done right here, at San Francisco State, and your doctorate in Berkeley, across the Bay, and give up this silly idea of going across the country to New York to do graduate work in...what was it...ring tossing?"

Kevin really didn't want me to leave.

"Are you kidding?  I'd have to start over, take elementary chemistry, calculus, physics, then the advanced classes, before going to graduate school.  It would probably take ten years.  I'll be 46 years old when I get my Ph.D."

"And how old will you be in ten years if you don't get your Ph.D.?"

So in the winter 1996-97 quarter, I enrolled in Chemistry Class #3.

San Francisco State University was only 5 miles from the Castro, 20 minutes away on the Muni, but still, I felt like I was going into another world.


90% of the students were male, cute science twinks but intensely heterosexist.  I was asked about my "girlfriend" and "wife,"asked to comment on this or that actress, nudged when an attractive girl passed.

Um...guys, the Castro...gay people exist...

Still, I liked the class enough to apply to study chemistry full-time at San Francisco State.  They said that with summer classes, I could finish a B.S. in Chemistry in two years, and go on to a M.S. in their new field of Biochemistry.  I wouldn't even need a doctorate.

In the Spring 1997 Quarter, I enrolled in Chemistry 102.  The lecture section was ok, but the lab was taught by a graduate teaching assistant, Seth.

Granted, he was rather cute: tall, slim, pale, with a shock of blond hair, blue eyes, horned-rimmed glasses, prone to wearing button-down shirts and black slacks that showed a substantial bulge.

But he was imperious, a stickler for the rules, rather nasty to the students, and very, very heterosexist.  Apparently he was from Marin County, the rich heterosexual enclave north of the Golden Gate Bridge, and he had never heard that gay people exist.

"Oh, guys, time to get your minds off girls and onto the experiment."

"This procedure is easy, like the first time you kissed a girl."

Or maybe he had heard of gay people:

"Better not spill that acid.  It would be more painful than if you went to prison and had a cellmate named Big Bad Bruce."

Homophobia?  In San Francisco in 1997?  Really?

Near the end of the spring quarter we had an experiment with a lot of different beakers,
Erlenmeyer flasks, condensers, pipettes, tube, and so on, just about everything in our lab drawer.   It took forever to assemble, run the experiment, and disassemble.

Afterwards, when I inventoried my drawer, I found that a beaker was missing!

I went to Seth, who told me that stealing was frowned upon.

"I didn't steal it!" I exclaimed.  "Someone else probably grabbed it, thinking it was theirs."

"So you broke it.  Same difference.  You have until Monday to replace it, or you fail the lab session, which means you fail the course."

"Where am I supposed to find a new beaker?  A chemical supply company?"

"If that's what you have to do.  Just get it done by Monday."

That night, when I complained during our date, Kevin said "Beakers shouldn't cost more than a dollar or two.  Why don't I'll have a little chat with this Seth?   I'm good at persuading the recalcitrant.  I persuaded you to date me, didn't I?"

Kevin the Vampire did have an uncanny "mind control" ability.  It didn't always work, but sometimes, if he looked at you right, you would do what he wanted.  

So the next day we took the Muni down to San Francisco State University and went to the teaching assistant office, a little windowless cubbyhole next to the chem lab storeroom.

Seth was actually in the lab storeroom, inventorying chemicals.  He turned and eyed us suspiciously.

"You were quite right, Boomer," Kevin said. "This teaching assistant of yours is quite attractive."

"Do you have the missing beaker?" Seth asked.

"Um...yes...about that," Kevin inched gradually closer as he stared in that way of his that turned your knees into jello.  "Surely you realize that it's silly to accuse Boomer here of stealing it."

"Well...if he broke it, he has to learn to be more careful."

"I'm sure if you inventory the adjoining lab drawers, you'll find it.  Or allow me to pay for it.  Here's a dollar."  He pulled out a dollar and pressed it into Seth's hand.  He began to tent noticeably.


"And one more thing.  You've been making some unfounded assumptions that every male student is attracted to women.  Well, at least one is attracted to men.  Perhaps, as a way of apologizing, you'd like to show him your penis."

"Um...well..."

"You want to, don't you?"

"Well...I guess that's fair."

Kevin stepped back and closed and locked the door.  Seth pulled a thick Bratwurst from his pants, fully aroused.

"Very nice.  Boomer, would you like to go down on our friend Seth?"

I got on my knees and started sliding up and down on Seth's very hard penis.  Meanwhile Kevin put his arm around Seth, unbuttoned his shirt, and reached inside to fondle his chest.  Soon they were kissing, and Seth was fondling Kevin through his pants.  I pulled Kevin's penis out and went to work on them both at the same time.

Seth finished very quickly, and nearly collapsed in Kevin's arms.  "That was intense.  I've been with guys before, but...that was intense."

"Yes, Boomer is quite the expert, I must say. Well, it's been nice chatting with you...and such."  He pulled me to my feet and led me toward the door.

"Wait...you...um, can't just leave.  Will I see you again?"

"There's a possibility," Kevin said with a smile.

In the only remaining lab session, Seth was cordial, but not overly friendly, as if the night in the lab store room never happened.  But shortly after classes ended, we began having him over for "sharing."

By July, Kevin and Seth were having dinner with each other, and leaving me out of it.

By August, Kevin had a new boyfriend, and I was in New York, studying for my Ph.D. in something besides chemistry.

I'm not saying that the two facts are connected, but they probably are.

See also: A Sausage Sighting of a Straight Philosophy Professor

Cute Nerd or Creepy Old Guy?

Rock Island, August 1979

The summer after my freshman year at Augustana College.

There were no gay organizations in town, no gay books in the library, no gay dating sites on the internet.  There was a gay bar, but I was only 18 years old, and you had to be 21 to get in.

There was no way to meet gay men -- or straight men on the downlow -- except randomly, in the course of your daily activities.  Of course, neither of you would come out, for fear of violent reprisal.  So you played a game.

You made eye contact for a little longer than usual.
He glanced at your crotch, and made sure that you noticed.
You glanced at a hot guy passing by, and made sure that he noticed.
He asked if you had a girlfriend.
You asked if he lived in the dorm or with his parents.

When you were quite sure, you got him alone and made an undeniable move: you touched his face or his basket, or leaned in for a kiss.  But you were never completely sure.

He might jump away and yell "Whoa, man!  That's not my thing!"
Or call the Dean and have you expelled.
Or kill you.

During my four years at Augustana, I only met two or three guys that way.

One was a cute nerd.  Or maybe a creepy old guy.  I couldn't decide which.

In the main reading room of the Augustana Library, there was a bookcase filled with discards and donations.  You could get a hardback for fifty cents and a paperback for a dime.  Many students browsed there, sometimes a faculty member, but rarely anyone from the community.

I had a part time job in the library, and I often noticed Trevor (not his real name), a slim, rather cute guy in his 30s or 40s, with brown wavy hair and horn-rimmed glasses, who always dressed formally and spoke in over-grammatically correct English.  He came in most Tuesday afternoons at 3:00, just as the new books were put out.  He bought at least three, sometimes four or five, week after week.

When he came up to the circulation desk to pay, we made eye contact for a little longer than usual.  I glanced at his crotch, and made sure that he noticed. He glanced at a hot guy, and made sure that I noticed.  I asked if he lived in the dorm, and he said, "Oh, no, I'm not a student.  I live in town."

I, not we.  Not married.  Maybe gay, maybe interested.

But there was only one way to be sure.

One day he found a treasure: a ten-volume set of the works of Martin Luther in German (the library had just received a new edition).  "I'll take the first five volumes now, and come back for the others."

"I'll be happy to help you carry them to your car."

"I don't have a car.  But don't worry -- it's just five blocks."

I thought for a moment.  "Hey, we're running a special for our best customers -- free taxi service.  My car's parked out back."

He hesitated.

"It's 90 degrees out there.  You can pay me back with a bottle of pop."

Trevor lived five blocks from campus, where 5th Avenue turns industrial.  There was a factory across the street and an Irish pub next door.  No neighbors.

"Do you live alone?" I asked.

"It was just Mother and me until she died five years ago.  Now it's just me."

Suddenly I thought that this might not be a good idea.  Serial killers always lived alone, or with Mother.

Or with Mother's corpse.

Trevor piled the books on the enclosed front porch and fumbled about for his key.  "Your payment awaits within -- one bottle of pop," he said with a weird lunatic grin.

Besides, in a big house isolated from all the others, if he got violent...

Today I would never set foot inside that house.  But I was 18....

Trevor opened the door onto a large, rectangular parlor with parquet ceilings and two old chandeliers.  And books. Books and books. Wall-to-wall bookcases crammed with books.  Books piled on the sofa, on the coffee table, books in neat piles stacked near to the ceiling.

At a glance, I saw Modern Astronomy, Reading Norwegian, Shakespeare's Festive Comedy, Gargantua and Pantagruel, Look Homeward Angel, Murder on the Orient Express, five Complete Works of Shakespeare, and about a dozen paperback copies of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.

"I run a rare book service for collectors," he said, noting my surprise. "This is some of my inventory."

He pushed aside a pile of books from a 1950s-style couch, invited me to sit down, and disappeared down a book-lined hallway.  A grey cat appeared out of nowhere and jumped onto my lap.

Other than purring, the room was utterly silent.  I imagined the terrible emptiness at night.  There wasn't even a tv or radio.

Trevor returned with two A&W root beer mugs filled with soda and a plate of cookies. The tray depicted a weird scary Santa Claus drinking a Coke.  "The cookies are homemade.  My secret ingredient is allspice," he said with a nervous giggle. "I see you've met my roommate,"

"Your roommate?"

"George the Cat."  He put the tray down, sat next to me on the couch, and started to pet George, his hand coming perilously close to my crotch.  I began to redden.  "You're quite athletic, aren't you?  How many push-ups can you do?"

"Um...I don't know.  I never checked.  Don't you get lonely here?  Or do you have friends over every night?"

"No...I'm afraid I don't get many guests.  Sometimes a client stops by.  But usually it's just George and me, and my books."

I wasn't worried about Trevor being a serial killer anymore.  I was worried that he was me in the future, going through life alone, with no friends, no lovers, just a cat and piles of books, the only gay person in a world of husbands and wives, a creepy old guy trying to pick up college boys.

Suddenly a phone rang.  I jumped a foot -- I hadn't noticed it behind a pile of books on the end table.  Trevor excused himself and answered.  "No, I haven't started yet...chocolate fudge, I suppose....ok, then, lemon...."

He hung up.  "Sorry about that. I've been drafted into making a cake for a birthday party tonight. You're welcome to stay, if you like.  We can talk while I bake."

A life devoted to cats, books, and cooking. Even worse. "Thanks, but I have to be going."

I didn't stop to ask who he was making the cake for.  I figured a nephew or neighborhood kid.

Trevor continued to come to the library book sales, but in the fall my schedule changed, and we rarely saw each other.  Two years later Professor Burton, who held the famous handcuff parties, "introduced" him as one of his gay friends.

I heard about his wide circle of friends in the Cat Club, the Iowa City Rare Book Club, the Friends of the Library, the Celtic Heritage Society, his cooking classes at the community college.  Male, female, gay, straight.

Trevor had carved out quite a nice life for himself.  Even though he was rather weird.  And lived in a small town full of heterosexual husbands and wives.