A Hookup with the Nigerian with the Tattooed Penis

Bloomington, May 1983

When Viju started taking me to the bars, when we were in grad school in Bloomington in 1983, AIDS was practically unknown, there was little fear of being robbed or murdered, and the West Hollywood rule against casual sexual encounters did not exist.

We had casual sex.  Quick, practically anonymous.  We called it tricking.

I think it's because we were living in a world inundated by images of men and women together, being told a hundred times a day that gay people did not exist, or if they did, they were monsters, and this was our way of rebelling, of relishing the look, smell, and feel of the masculine.

The adults are lying -- only real is real.

We made the trick arrangements with little or no prior conversation, no screening, no introduction to friends (unless we happened to be at the bar together).  Sometimes only a first name, sometimes only a nod.

We followed him home without telling anyone where we were going.

We started the sexual encounter the moment we got in the door, with no coffee, no conversation, no making out on the couch.

When we finished, we threw on our clothes, scribbled down a phone number that might or might not be the right one, and left.  No cuddling, no spending the night.

We might return to the bar that same night to search for a new trick, and see him there, in search of a new trick. "Next!"

And we never tricked with the same guy twice.  "Been there, done that."


In retrospect, it was extremely dangerous, although nothing bad happened except a case of crabs.

And a feeling of emptiness afterwards, as if we had just eaten a big meal but were still hungry.

Whatever our desire for the masculine meant, it wasn't satisfied by tricking.

One night we saw an older black guy standing by the pool table, drinking a soda: in his 40s, taller than me, very muscular and very dark.  Since I was particularly interested in black guys, Viju said that I could "have him."

He introduced himself as Ollie with a slightly lilting accent.

"That's a very Swedish," I commented.

"Short for Olawale.  I'm from Nigeria."

We drank our sodas and talked.  Ollie was from the Yoruba people -- there are about 30 million in western Nigeria,  Many African-Americans are descended from them.

He attended university in Lagos, a big, sprawling city of 5 million, and moved to London, which he hated, then to Austin, Texas; Buffalo, New York, and Little Rock, Arkansas.  He had been in Bloomington for ten years.  He worked in the library, where he was in charge of the African Studies collection, and occasionally taught courses in Yoruba.

In five minutes, I got more biography from Ollie than from a dozen other hookups put together.

I wanted to know about the Yoruba language, of course, so he gave me a brief primer:   it's a tonal language, like Chinese.

All words have combinations of high, middle, or low tones that change their meanings:

igba (middle-low): rope
igba (middle-middle): two hundred
igba (low-high): egg
igba (low-middle): nonsense

I almost forgot about the hookup.  But a grope and a kiss reminded me.

We said good night to Viju, and drove back to Ollie's house, in an older neighborhood a few blocks north of the campus.  The living room was painted red, with African tapestries and masks on the walls.

"Would you like to eat?" Ollie asked.  "In Nigeria it is very impolite to have a guest in your house without offering food.  I have some fried plantains -- they come from a special store in Indianapolis -- and vanilla ice cream."

We ate our plantains and ice cream while I leafed through his coffee table book on African art, and looked at the wide, thick, black bookcases filled to overflowing with books on ceremonial magic, paganism, the occult, ghosts, the paranormal, voodoo, werewolves -- it was like a precursor to the Bodhi Tree, the New Age bookstore I would visit later in West Hollywood.

"Are you a pagan?" I asked.  "I knew a male witch in Rock Island."

"I've studied every magical path, but my heritage is the Yoruba religion."

According to the Yoruba, the Creator God Olorun is unknowable, so we revere his emanations, the 400 or so orishas: Ogun, Shango, Eshu.  They are very beautiful, many appearing as muscular, nude men, each with his distinct personality.  Some are benevolent and eager to assist the humans who offer them the proper respect.

Others are -- well, not evil, exactly, but not terribly concerned with human affairs, and likely to get cranky if importuned.

"My Orisha is Erinle, the patron of gay people.  He breaks the boundaries of gender, and has relationships with men.  He walks hand in hand with his lover. Ochosi.  He's also the patron of physicians and fishermen.  Come, I'll summon him to bless our meeting."

He brought me into the bedroom, which had an enormous bed with a black conforter, a black-wood dresser, and a small table covered with African statues, silk cloths, beads, seashells, candles, a bottle of wine, and some incongruous items, like a can of sardines, a stethoscope, and a statue of Superman.

"Erinle likes fishing," Ollie explained.  "He blesses his disciples who eat fish.  And the stethoscope --he's the patron of physicians, right?"

"And the statue of Superman?"

"He's gay.  I thought he would find the muscles.appealing."

We took off our clothes and sat crosslegged before the altar.  Ollie lit one of the candles, bathing the room in eerie red light.  He poured a little of the wine into a cup, put it on the can of sardines, and began praying in Yoruba.

Later he told me that the words were "Fun mi agbara," give me power, a prayer for sexual potency.

He held out his penis for me to touch.  It was long and thick, with strange scarification: bumps all around the head.

"The penis is sacred to Erinle, too," Ollie said with a grin.

We moved to the bed.

Wow.

Ollie lay atop me, clamped his mouth on mine, and inserted his penis between my legs.  Several other positions followed, but what I will remember forever is Ollie's face above mine as he thrusts.  A broad open-mouthed grin.  His forehead beaded with sweat.  His eyes white with passion.

Afterwards we showered, and I spent the night.

We saw each other in the bar occasionally after that, but we didn't meet again.

But I learned something important.

If we go out searching for the archetype of masculinity, pure physique and penis, we can never be satisfied.  That is unknown and unknowable.  We must look for orishas, individual emanations of the divine, each with his own unique history, beliefs, and personality.

In other words, talk to the guy first, no matter how big he is beneath the belt.

See also: The 20 Most Beautiful Men in the World; and Encounters in the Darkroom of an American Gay Bar

The Zoroastrian Who Did It Six Times a Day

Delhi, India, June 1984

During the summer of 1984, just after we got our M.A. degrees in English, my friend Viju invited me to visit his family in India for two weeks.

Except for trips to Agra and Varanasi, we spent most of our time in Delhi, hanging out with his parents, sister Aruna, and old university friends, We went to a bodybuilding competition, a lot of shopping malls, and since I was interested in religion, a lot of temples and mosques.

There were no gay bars, bathhouses, community centers, or gay organizations  in India, but there was a lot of public sex in Jahanpanah City Forest.  You saw a guy you liked, nodded, and followed him into the bushes.

Viju said that it was perfectly safe: although "sodomy" was technically illegal,  the police didn't believe that it existed in India, so they didn't patrol.

I was a little hesitant, but when a tall, slim, very dark skinned guy in his 30s smiled at me, Viju whispered "Go for it!"  I followed him into a little copse, where he was already unzipped and aroused, his dark Bratwurst with a thick mushroom head a striking contrast to his white pants.  As I went down on him, I felt his hard muscular chest under his shirt, then moved around and grabbed his butt.  He groaned.

A moment later, he finished with a shudder, then pulled me to my feet and drew me into a kiss.  "My name is Arshad.  You are an American, yes?"

"Right.  I'm here visiting my friend."

"I guessed that.  I love American boys -- you have an energy, an excitement."  I felt him becoming aroused again.  "Would you have dinner with me tonight?"

"I'll have to ask if Viju has plans for us..."

"Invite him along, too.  The Host at 8:00?  But first, if you're not too tired..."

He pushed me to my knees again.  This time took a little longer, but not much.  Three or four minutes, and he groaned and shuddered and thrust deeply into my throat.

The Host turned out to be a very bright, airy, and expensive restaurant on Connaught Circus, about a half hour by car from Viju's house.

Arshad arrived with a date for Viju: Noel, slim, redheaded, with a British accent.  They were coworkers at an engineering firm.

"But originally I am from Ahmedabad, in Gujarat," Arshad told us.  "A Parsi.  Have you heard of us?" .

Parsis -- Zoroastrians!  The ancient monotheistic religion that competed with Christianity in the first and second centuries.  Ahura Mazda and Ahriman, light and darkness, order and chaos.   The Avestas.  Zarathustra.  Fire temples!

"You are very intelligent as well as handsome," Arshad said, cutting me off.

"Boomer is very interested  in religion," Viju said.  "Me, not much.  I look toward the future, not the past."  He grabbed Noel's hand -- or crotch, I couldn't tell -- under the table.

"Then you must let me take you on a tour of the spiritual sites of Delhi.  I will take tomorrow off from work.  There are temples for Hindus, Sikhs, Jains, Baha'is..."

"Christian churches, mosques..."  Noel added.

"A Zoroastrian fire temple?" I asked eagerly.

"Of course, of course," Arshad said, looking down at the menu.  "We will tour that as well."

 We finished the evening at Arshad's apartment.  Noel and Viju took the guest room, and Arshad brought me into the master bedroom, where I went down on him four more times, with kissing in between.

Six times in one day!  My jaw ached, and my throat hurt from the constant banging.   Yet Arshad never touched me beneath the belt.

Oh, well, at least tomorrow I would see a Zoroastrian fire temple.

After breakfast -- and two more throat-bangings  -- Noel and Viju left, and Arshad drove me out to Ahinsa Sthal, about a half-hour drive south of his apartment.  Sacred to Jainism, with a 13-foot statue of Mahavira.

That was impressive.

Then another half-hour drive east to the Lotus Temple, sacred to the Baha'i religion.

Ok, but what about the Fire Temple?

Back into town, 30 minutes north to the Jama Masjid, a huge mosque.

I already saw it, but ok, I didn't mind seeing it again.

Back to Arshan's apartment for lunch and another bedroom session.  Twice in ten minutes!

Ok, my jaw is sore.  What about the Fire Temple?

Another 30 minutes around Connaught Circus to the Lakshi Narayan Mandir, a Hindu temple that I had already visited.

It was late afternoon.  We had been reverent all day.  I was getting "church fatigue."  Not to mention "jaw fatigue."  Who would ever have thought that you could get tired of oral sex?

"Next the Sacred Heart Cathedral" Arshad said. "It's only a few blocks from here."

Interesting, but I had seen Catholic churches before.

"Could we go to the Fire Temple now?  It's getting late."

He looked away.  "Sure, sure, I suppose.  It's only a few blocks away."

We got into his car and drove east on Nehru Boulevard.  Just past a gigantic hospital complex, we turned right on Bahadur Shah Road.

"The Parsi Anjuman is there on the left," Arshad said as we zipped by.

It was a small, square building with a pillared portico and some vaguely Babylonian fretwork.

"Hey, aren't we going to stop?"

"Oh, there's nothing much to see inside.  And I'm getting hungry.  Shall we have dinner?"

"Hey, what gives?  We spend all day touring the sacred sites of Jains, Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs, Bahai's, and Christians, but when it comes to your own religion, you zoom past at 80 miles an hour."

"Sorry.  But...it's just that..."  He stroked my knee.  "One who is unclean may not enter the temple."

"Non-believers?  That's ok, I don't mind not going in."

"Not you -- me.  I'm unclean. I'm the one who has spilled his seed.  My religion teaches that those who do such things are like dogs, filthy beasts."

I looked at Arshad.  Did he actually believe that nonsense, think of himself as a filthy beast?  It was hard to tell.  "Well...my childhood religion, the Nazarenes, have some crazy beliefs, too.  I suppose I wouldn't want to give you a tour of the their church either."

But still, the "filthy beast" statement made me feel uncomfortable.  After dinner, I refused another bedroom session, and asked Arshad drop me off at Viju's house.  We exchanged addresses, but didn't write.

Modern Zoroastrians seem to be more accepting of gay people, at least in the U.S.  I saw an article on a gay Christian-Zoroastrian wedding held at the chapel of Northwestern University.

See also: 20 Preacher Penises; a Bodybuilding Contest in India

Arjun and the World's Strangest Pickup Line

Boca Raton, Florida, May 2003

Arjun was a student in my Sociology of Religion class in the spring of 2003, the semester after Tom the Young Republican: college age, South Asian, short, dark skinned, handsome, with a tight, solid physique.

He didn't talk very much in class, gave short, halting answers when called on, and turned in a series of nondescript, C-level essays.

Until we got to the lecture on New Age Religions.

Seems that he was devotee of the Urantia Book, written between 1925 and 1934 by seven spiritual beings, who  delivered it, page by page, over 2000 in all to Chicago physician William S. Sadler and his disciples. At first they wanted to keep the amazing revelations to themselves, but finally in 1955 they consented to publish it.

There are no churches, ministers, rituals, or dogmas of any kind.  People meet in small study groups.

In my brief research for my Sociology of Religion lecture, I didn't, see a lot of moral instruction or discussions of our ultimate purpose n the universe.  It's mostly a compendium, an Encyclopedia Galactica.

The government, politics, demographics, and economics of the hundreds of planets in our universe (and other universes), with the jobs and duties spelled out as precisely as any human resources handbook.

Gabriel is the Chief Executive of our universe, Nebadon.  Beneath him are the Supreme Council, the Council of Supreme Santion, and a number of High Commissioners, Celestial Commisioners, Most High Assistants, and so on.

Whoa.


Well, it goes on like that.  For volume after volume:

"Spiritual status is the measure of Deity attainment, Adjuster attunement. The achievement of finality of spirituality is equivalent to the attainment of the maximum of reality, the maximum of Godlikeness. Eternal life is the endless quest for infinite values."

Yeah, I don't get it either.

Of course, our job in Sociology of Religion is not to evaluate the worth or validity of a religion, but to look for the sociological factors in its membership.  Why do people follow it?  How do they practice it?  How does it fit into the rest of their lives?

Arjun knew: "I grew up Hindu," he told us.  "There's no evidence that the gods exist.  But the Urantia Book is scientific.  It's concrete.  It's about real life, not myths.  If you read it, you'll know."

You can't argue with someone about their beliefs in the classroom, so I let it slide and moved on to another New Age religion.


But after class Arjun approached me.  "Have you read it?"

"The whole thing?  Well, I do have to research more than 30 religions in this class..."

"I can show you the most important parts, that deal with the life of Jesus Christ."  He hesitated, and looked down at the floor.  "Are you free later?  We can get a cup of coffee, and talk about it...."

Every student who belongs to a proselytizing religion tries to convert me, and besides, I have a rule against socializing with my current students, so I politely refused.

A couple of weeks later, Arjun appeared at my desk after class again.  "Ron Tramontino, the head of our Urantia Study Group, is giving a talk on Saturday.  He's a great guy.  He runs a karate studio and writes books.  Maybe you would...."  he trailed off.

Was he still trying to convert me?  Regardless, I don't socialize with current students, so I said, "I'm busy Saturday, sorry.  Another time."

At another time, he brightened.  "When?"

"Um..well, after classes are over.  Next summer I'm free."

"Ok!!"

He finished the class, got a C, and vanished.  I didn't think anything more about it until a couple of weeks after finals, when I was busy prepping for my summer school class.  Arjun knocked on my office door.

I thought he wanted to petition for a higher grade, but instead he said, "Professor...er, now that classes are over, may I call you Boomer?"

"Sure, I guess."

"I know you like karate, so I got tickets to the AAU National Championships, at the Convention Center in Fort Lauderdale."  He paused.  "And afterwards I know a place that has Nepali food."

Finally it dawned on me -- Arjun was asking me for a date!

Well, he wasn't my student anymore, and he was cute, so why not?

I braced myself for more discussion of the Urantia Book, but instead Arjun talked about sports -- he was a devotee of judo, karate, and mallauddha, or Indian wrestling.  A little boring.  I actually tried to push the conversation back to the Urantia Book, or at least a New Age topic, but he didn't seem interested.

He was living with his conservative Hindu parents, who knew that he was gay but didn't approve, so we had to go back to my house to spend the night.

Nice physique, nicely shaped Bratwurst, a little reserved in bed.  He just lay there.  I had to do all the work.

We dated for a few weeks, mostly going to boring martial arts tournaments.  Arjun never wanted to talk about the Urantia Book again, no matter how often I brought it up.

Had he just been using it as a very weird cruising line?

See also: Cruised by a Young Republican.

I Come Out to the Gay Cult Member

Rock Island, April 1981

My goal during my junior year at Augustana College was to find one gay student.  Lots of guys were willing to do things in the dark, in secret, like Haldor who challenged me to a "dating contest," or the fratboys who cruised the levee, but in the daylit world they chanted "girls! girls! girls!"

I wanted just one guy out of the 1,036 male undergraduates who dreamed only of men.  (It didn't occur to me to look for lesbians.)  But with no organizations, no meeting places, and everyone pretending to be straight, finding gay men required research.  You look for a rote recitation of the desirable traits in girls, as if they had memorized a list; a glint in the eye when a cute guy passed; a reticence about evening and weekend activities, or else too glib an answer.





Through assiduous research, I found three "probably gay" undergrads: the first was a freshman Asian Studies major named Corey: tall, slim, very handsome but not very muscular.  I sat next to him in Eastern Religions class in the spring quarter of 1981, and noticed that he never gazed at or flirted with any of the girls in the class -- my first clue!

One day I saw him and a friend having lunch in the Student Union Snack Bar -- a male friend, my second clue!  I grabbed a sandwich and coke and joined them.

Corey glanced at his friend, who suddenly remembered an appointment and split, leaving us alone.  My third clue!

We chatted about classes and clubs -- never once mentioning girls.  Corey was from a small farm town in Illinois, forced to come to Augustana because his parents were Lutheran, but he was into spiritual exploration -- Krishna Consciousness, Zen Buddhism, Nichiren.  Next year he was transferring to Maharishi International University!

Maharashi Mahesh Yogi, Hindu mystic and founder of Transcendental Meditation, ran a university in Fairfield, Iowa, about a hundred miles from Rock Island. His followers had been widely accused of brainwashing, mind control, and miscellaneous deviltries, so locals were up in arms about the "cult" establishing a base nearby.

 A cultist! But I kept my cool.  "I've always been interested in meditation," I said.  "Maybe you could teach me sometime."

"That's just the first step,"  I want to learn how to fly."

Apparently the most adept of the Maharishi's followers could "fly," or actually levitate a foot or two off the ground.

This was a skill I wanted to learn!


So that night after dinner I went to Corey's room in the freshman dorm -- no pictures of girls on the wall, another clue -- and he showed me how to sit cross-legged on the floor, facing each other, and clear our minds of distracting thoughts.

"Surrender your worries, your concerns, your desires.  Especially your sexual desires.  Don't think about girls."

Girls?  Uh-oh.  "Is it ok to think about guys?"

He didn't know what I meant.  "Sure, think about all the guys you want."

"What if they're a distraction?"  I maneuvered so that our knees were touching, and stared into his eyes.

"How can a guy be a distraction?  It's a guy!"

Not only was Corey heterosexual, he didn't even know what gay people were! Time to enlighten him. "Some guys find guys a distraction.  You know...if they're like...into guys."

He blushed bright red.  "Um...oh...well, they didn't have sexual perversions in Vedic times, but I'm sure Transcendental Meditation has a cure."

Great -- as if I don't get enough homophobic nonsense from the Nazarenes.  Now I have to hear it from a cult!

We had a few more conversations about religion, and at the end of the year he transferred to the University of Iowa to study Chinese.

But the story has a happy ending.  If you hang out in front of the French Quarter in West Hollywood long enough, every gay person in the world will walk by, and one day in the 1990s I saw Corey.  He and his partner were living in San Francisco, where they were members of the Gay Buddhist Sangha.

Most Western Buddhists are, in fact, gay-positive.  And so is Transcendental Meditation.