My Night and Day with Sammy Blowfish

Mount Vernon, Iowa, July 2003

In the summer of 2003, I visited my old speech teacher, Mr. Lundquist, aka Mr. Blowfish, in Washington, Iowa.  I ended up asking my sister-in-law if I could borrow her car for another day, then driving an hour north to Mount Vernon, Iowa, to spend the night with his son, Sam.

Well, Sam was extremely hot: shorter than me, dark skin, red hair, and a tight, lean physique.

Besides, I was suffering from Florida's dearth of Asian men, and Sam was Asian (actually half Vietnamese, half Swedish)..

Besides, he had just taken a tenure track job at a small college in the heart of the Straight World.  I sensed that this might be my future, and I wanted to see what it was like.

He had literally just moved in to his apartment in someone's house a few blocks from the campus.  We had to walk through a clutter of boxes to get to the bedroom, where the bed was unmade and the lamps were sitting on the floor.

"Sorry about the mess," he said, wrapping his arms around me.  "When you drive down to spend the day with your Dad and brothers, you don't really expect to bring someone home."

Sam was very energetic and very passionate -- maybe too passionate.  We didn't get much sleep that night -- every time I dozed off, he would initiate another session.  Of course, he was 26 years old, but still, it seemed odd.

In the morning he took me to breakfast at a weird diner stuck in the 1950s, where scruffy men in overalls ordered things like "The Farm Boy": 3 eggs, 3 slices of bacon, 3 sausage links, hash browns, pancakes, and toast.  He tried to grab my crotch under the table, but I pushed his hand away.

Then we toured downtown -- 3 blocks of depressing brown brick buildings, mostly bars and small, deserted boutiques -- and the campus -- more of the same.

"Why Cornell College?" I asked.

"Well, I wanted a liberal arts college where I could really get to know the students.  And I'm basically going to be the entire art history program.  This year I'm teaching Italian Renaissance, Asian, and Precolumbian.   Try doing that at Stanford."

"Did you get an offer from Stanford?"

"Actually, my only other offer was in Utah.  Mormon country, full of rattlesnakes and homophobes!  Cornell is much more gay-friendly."

"But does it have a gay presence?"

"Um...I don't think so.  There's a gay bar in Cedar Rapids, about 20 miles away."

"20 miles isn't bad."  I didn't have the heart to tell him that I lived a 3-block walk from a dozen gay bars, restaurants, beaches, and boutiques.

"Besides, Des Moines is only 2 hours away, and Chicago is 4 hours.  I'll be driving to one or the other every weekend."

We both knew that he wouldn't -- once the semester began, he'd be too busy, or the weather would be too bad.  On most weekends, he'd be stuck in Mount Vernon.

Next Sam took me to his office, which was very nice, with real bookcases and a window looking out onto the quad -- actually, an alley, but if you stood right up against it and looked to your left, you could see the King Chapel.

He shut the door, drew me close, and started kissing me.

"Hey, wait -- this is your office!" I exclaimed, shocked.  "Anybody could walk in at any moment."  Besides, I was sweaty from walking around the campus on the second-hottest day of the year.

"Come on, it's Sunday -- there's nobody around," he murmured, nuzzling my neck.  He started to unzip my pants.

I've spent my whole life on college campuses, as student and professor.  But that was the first time I actually had a sexual encounter in a professor's office.

Sam drove us into Cedar Rapids that afternoon.  It was more of a city: there was a nice Vietnamese Restaurant, a nice park with jogging trails -- he tried to go down on me on the jogging trail, but I refused -- and an art museum that specialized in the work of Grant Wood.

He suggested that we finish the day in Cedar Rapid's one gay bar, but I was tired from lack of sleep, so we went back to his apartment in Mount Vernon and watched a movie instead.

Followed by another night of outrageously energetic bedroom calisthenics and another gut-buster breakfast.

"How long are you going to be in the area?" Sam asked.

"My flight to Fort Lauderdale is on Wednesday."

"Great, that gives us three more days...."

He wanted me to spend the rest of my visit with him?  But -- I came back to the Midwest to visit my family and friends! "Well, I have to get my sister-in-law's car back."

"No problem.  I'll follow you to Rock Island, you can drop off the car, and then we'll drive back."

"Um...it's about 70 miles."

"I don't mind...in the country, you have to drive a lot."

"Besides, I need to get to the gym," I continued.

"You can use the campus gym as my guest."

Suddenly I realized what was happening: Sam had latched onto me as an escape from Straight World isolation and tedium. If I didn't act fast, I would become "the boyfriend."  He might even ask me to stay in Mount Vernon.   "I have a better idea.  Let's spend the day in Rock Island -- I want to introduce you to some friends of mine.  I just have to make a couple of phone calls first."

After we worked out, Sam followed me to Rock Island, where we dropped off the car and toured all the old sights of his childhood.  In the evening we had dinner with Dick, my old bully, now a muscle bear in his 40s, and his partner Jack.

A night of energetic sharing followed.

The next day he drove back to Mount Vernon with their phone number in his pocket and an invitation to visit anytime.

And I got to visit my family and friends.

See: Mount Vernon Muscle on A Gay Guide to Small Town America.

A Hook Up with Burt Ward on the "Batman" Set

On Tuesdays and Thursday afternoons in the spring of 1991, after my course in Biblical Hebrew at UCLA, I often drove up to Brentwood to visit Cesar Romero, the actor best known as The Cisco Kid in the 1940s and the Joker in the 1960s Batman series.  We didn't become friends, exactly; we sat in his living room drinking lemonade, while he told about the many celebrities he had hooked up with through his career: Johnny Sheffield, Tommy Cook, Desi Arnaz (father and son both), Cary Grant, Walter Pidgeon, Raymond Burr, Tony Perkins,  Tab Hunter, Rock Hudson.

And Batman and Robin both!

He had gone down on Adam West (Batman) several times at all-male parties before he began playing the Joker.  No big surprises there.

But Burt Ward was 21 years old, a sheltered, conservative college jock who was not even aware that same-sex acts exist until  Adam West explained.  He allowed Cesar to go down on him once ("Huge!  A Kielbasa!"), but was never really comfortable around gay people.

So this story leaves me with a few questions.

Warning: there is a bisexual scene.

Hollywood, Spring 1967

Call me Scott.  I was one of the writers for the Batman series in the 1960s.  I wrote for the villains, making them as camp as possible.  My favorites were the women: Catwoman; Black Widow; Olga, Queen of the Cossacks; Marsha, Queen of Diamonds, played by Caroline Jones (Morticia of The Addams Family).  

But the male villain had their charms.  Many of them were gay: Cesar Romero (The Joker), Burgess Meredith (The Penguin), Victor Buono (King Tut), Liberace (Chandell).  After filming we used to go out to the bars, or to Cesar's house for an all-male party.   Adam West (Batman) and one of the costume designers came on occasion, but not Burt Ward (Robin).

I definitely wanted an opportunity to make it with Burt.  Have you seen the bulge in his tights?  Well, I've seen it close up!

Everyone said he was a sheltered, shy kid who didn't even know that gay people existed.  Even Cesar Romero struck out, and he made it with every guy in Hollywood.

Well, one day I got my chance.

Remember all those cliffhanging scenes, with the Dynamic Duo tied up?  We filmed the start and finish at the same time, to ensure continuity, which means that they sometimes had to stay tied up for a couple of hours.  Often they were left alone on a secluded stage for 20-30 minutes, with nothing to do but get hit on.

Some of the girls in the crew were notorious for taking that opportunity to kiss and fondle the helpless victims.  They would even bring in their friends to get a handful.  I never saw any penis actually come out, but there was a lot of groping and tenting -- I've seen both Adam and Burt fully aroused.

Ok, maybe they weren't entirely helpless -- most of the props were rather flimsy, so if they really worked at it, they could escape.  And, one yell would bring a stage hand running.  Maybe they enjoyed the attention.

In an episode we filmed just before the 1967 summer hiatus, Burt was tied up alone, spreadeagle on a table.  I walked past during the staging, as usual, and saw two girls working on him, #1 kissing him and #2 rubbing his crotch.

I walked up, said "Let an expert show you how it's done," then pulled out his cock.

Burt didn't protest -- he was busy kissing Girl #1.  I don't think he even noticed me.  I licked his balls, then his shaft, then drew all 8" into my mouth, sucking on the head while masturbating him.

He moaned, probably thinking that Girl #2 was going down on him.  Then she said "Who invited the fairy to the party?"

Burt looked up. I immediately moved my mouth away from his cock, but continued to masturbate him.

"Hi," I said.  Not much else to say in that situation.

"Oh, hi."  Burt looked at me for a long moment.  I couldn't tell if he was mad or not.  "Say, can you get Dick a girlfriend? [Dick Grayson, Robin's alter ego]. Fans are starting to talk."

"Sure, buddy, no problemo."  I returned to his cock.  Girl #2 shrugged and moved up to kiss him.  A few moments later, he spurted into my throat -- enormous load!  I wiped him off with my handkerchief, and moved on.

I tried to keep my word, but my "Dick's Girlfriend is Kidnapped" idea didn't make it.  But I did manage the next best thing: The premiere episode of the third season introduced Yvonne Craig as Barbara Gordon, Batgirl!

And no, I never had the opportunity to go down on Burt again.

David's First Gay Sexual Experience, at a Gas Station in Arkansas

Of all the hundreds of coming out stories I've heard, the one told by my friend David in San Francisco is the most remarkable.  A conservative Baptist minister in small-town Arkansas, married with children, figuring it out on his 43rd birthday, with not a hint before!

Fort Smith, Arkansas

Dave was born on January 6th, 1953 (Three Kings' Day) in Memphis, Tennessee.  When he was five years old, his family moved to Fort Smith, Arkansas.  He had an idyllic childhood, swimming in Creekmore Park, buying comic books at Coleman Drugs, having sleepovers with his friends from Sunnymead Elementary School..

"Sleepovers?  Lots of opportunities for seeing guys in their underwear, cuddling with them, maybe some groping?"

"Not that I remember."

In high school he started dating girls, but prided himself on treating them "like a gentleman," rejecting even a good-night kiss.  He often double-dated with his best friend, Steve.

"I'll bet you couldn't wait to drop the girls off so you and Steve could..."

"Not that I remember."

Fayetteville

At the University of Arkansas in Fayetteville from 1971 to 1975, Dave majored in Classical Studies and became competent in Latin, Greek, and German.  He first became aware of same-sex desire when he translated Virgil's Eclogue 2:

Corydon the Shepherd was in love with beautiful Alexis.

How could Corydon be in love with Alexis, when they were both boys?

The professor explained that the ancient Romans sometimes practiced "the unnatural vice."

"A little frisson of recognition?"  I ask. 


"Nope.  I don't remember feeling any strong emotion about it.  It was just something weird that the ancients did."

In college he kissed a girl for the first time.  It was ok, but he didn't see what all the fuss was about.

New Orleans

From 1975 to 1977, Dave studied for his M.A. in Latin at Tulane University in New Orleans.  His master's thesis was on Ovid's Metamorphoses.

"Lots of same-sex practices in there!" I exclaim.  

"Sure, I read about Zeus and Ganymede, and Hyacinth and Apollo.  But it was all way-out, exotic stuff, with no connection to my world at all.  

"Well...what about New Orleans?  The French Quarter, one of the hottest gay neighborhoods?"

Sometimes he and his friends went to the French Quarter to gawk at the  "fairies,"  They were all outrageously feminine, swishy, drag queens, with no connection to his world at all.

Louisville

David thought about going on to a doctorate in Classics, but worried about the job prospects.  Instead he spent 1977-1980 at the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary in Louisville, getting his M.Div. His research project was on the interpretation of the Koine Greek of the New Testament.

"What did you think about the so-called homophobic passages in Romans and Colossians?"

"I don't remember thinking anything at all," David says.  "I took all of my examples from the Gospels."

In order to get a church, you needed a wife, so Dave got engaged to Karen, a girl from a local church.  They waited until their wedding night to have sex.  It was ok, not disgusting or anything, just sort of mechanical.

"Did you fantasize about guys while having sex with your wife?" 

"To be honest, I didn't fantasize at all.  My body did all the work.  I was planning out my next sermon, or wondering what we were having for dinner tomorrow night."

Conway, Arkansas

In 1980, Dave and Karen moved to a church in Poplar Bluff, Missouri, and in 1983, to a much bigger church in Conway, Arkansas.  Karen got a job as a high school English teacher, but quit when she became pregnant.

The 1980s was a period of rampant homophobia, but Dave didn't berate gay people in any of his sermons.  In fact, he started the first AIDS buddy program in Arkansas.

The first gay man Dave met was a guy whose partner of ten years was dying of AIDS.  He couldn't figure out why God would punish them for falling in love.

"So, realizing that gay people aren't monsters -- that helped you come out?"

"No, but it put me at odds with my congregation in my fellowship.  I was criticized as too liberal, as not really a Christian.  Someone wrote 'fag lover' on my office door."


Fayetteville

In 1990, Dave and Karen moved to a church in Fayetteville, near the University of Arkansas.  It was slightly more liberal, with many more cultural activities.  They started going to concerts and the theater, including The Nutcracker every Christmas.

Dave found himself noticing the bulges and butts of the hot ballet dancers.

"Men are beautiful!  Why didn't I ever realize that before?"

When he turned 40, worried about his health in midlife, he joined a gym, and started doing cardio and weight training.  He looked at the other guys, stripping down in the locker room....

He wanted to touch them, to kiss them, to feel their butts and cocks against him.  Sometimes he became aroused just thinking about it.

His fundamentalist roots kicked in. Could hanging around with gay men be "turning him" gay?

"You can't turn gay.  You are or you aren't."

"That's what my friend at the AIDS Foundation said.  He told me that straight guys sometimes find themselves attracted to men.  It doesn't mean anything.  It's who you love that counts."

And he loved Karen.  He liked hanging out with her, discussing old movies, playing with the kids. He didn't even mind the sex.  It was warm and comfortable, like sleeping under a quilt on a cold day.

January 6th, 1996 was Dave's 43rd birthday, a Saturday.  He and his family celebrated with brunch (his favorite meal) at the Cracker Barrel.  They gave him presents.

He spent the afternoon in his study, working on his sermon for the next day, "New Beginnings."  It was going to start with the story of Saul on the road to Damascus, who had a transforming vision of Jesus Christ and became Paul.

At 3:00 pm he drove to Planet Fitness to work out.  On the way he stopped at the Shell Station to get gas and a Gatorade.

The most beautiful guy in the world was sitting behind the counter.  In his twenties, with thick, almost shaggy black hair, a scruffy beard, deep soulful eyes, and a bewitching half-smile.  He was wearing a red t-shirt that accented his slim, tight physique.  His name tag read "Shawn."

Dave stared open-mouthed.  Shawn smiled.

"Will that be all?" he asked, pointing to Dave's Gatorade.  He didn't have a Southern accent.

"Um...um...today's my birthday," he stammered.  "I'm 43."

In retrospect, not the best pick-up line.

"Well, happy birthday!  I'll have to give you a present.  What would you like?"

"I'd like to kiss you," Dave admitted.

This wasn't a gay neighborhood.  It was redneck, homophobic, Bible-belt Arkansas.  But Shawn said "Sure."  They went into the restroom and locked the door, and Shawn wrapped his arms around Dave, and they kissed.  It was a long, deep, eager kiss.  Their bodies and cocks pressed together.  Shawn lifted Dave's shirt to feel his chest, unzipped his pants to work on his very hard Kielbasa.

"What about Shawn's penis?" I ask.

"Nice.  But it was mostly about the kiss."


It took only a few minutes for Dave to spurt into Shawn's hand.  He washed off in the sink and said "Well, I better get back to work."

Dave caught his arm.  "Can I see you later?"

Shawn smiled.  "Sure thing, babe.  I get off at 7:00.  But I didn't get your name."

"It's David."

"I was Dave for 43 years.  I don't know why I said David.   Except that Shell Station was my Damascus Road."

See also: David's Top 20 Hookups and One-Night Stands; a Glimpse of Supreme Beauty at a Rest Stop in Iowa.

Tony Dow and the Glory Hole at the Air Force Base

Last week 69-year old Jock, a retired landscaper and Uber driver from Tucson, told me a story of when he was in the California National Guard in 1966, and Tony Dow, the actor who starred as teenage hunk Wally in Leave It to Beaver, was in his barracks.  One day they all went out to the movies, and Wally and his friend picked up a high school boy.  Jock followed them, and watched as they had a three-way in the park.

But that's not the only story he has.

I'll use his words as much as possible.










Marysville, California, October 1966

When I was in boot camp, we got passes to go into town twice a week.  A lot of the guys tried to get some action with girls, but struck out  -- the Sexual Revolution hadn't yet hit Marysville -- you couldn't even get condoms -- so they couldn't wait to get back to the base and go to the latrine.

Boomer: Striking out made them want to go to the bathroom?

Let me set up the scenario.  All unmarried guardsmen under the rank of sergeant lived in barracks, or what they called dormitories.  One long, narrow room with 20 single beds and lockers, 10 on each side.

At the far end, you go through a lounge with two couches, some chairs, and a tv set, and then the latrine, two urinals and a toilet, right out there, not in a stall.  There was no window, so it was pitch-dark unless you turned on the light.  The switch, for some reason, was out in the lounge, by the tv set.

During my first few nights in the dormitory, I noticed that most guys who got up to use the latrine turned on the light -- you could see it glimmering under the lounge door.  But some didn't.  Why were they fumbling around in the dark?

Curious, I waited until someone went in without turning the light on, and followed, walking through the deserted lounge to the latrine door.  I pulled it open.

 It was musty, smelling of urine and someone's aftershave, and pitch-black except for a little gleam.  How could you even see where the urinal was?  I gingerly moved forward, my hand outstretched -- and suddenly I was touching a bare butt!

Boomer: Side or back?

Side. He was facing the toilet, like he was peeing into it.

"Wait your turn, buddy," the guy growled.

Wait your turn for what? I wondered.  There were two other urinals to pee into.  I reached down past the bare butt and felt a buzz-cut head, ears, neck, arms grabbing the guy's butt -- then my hand was batted away.

"I said fuck off.  I'm almost done."

The guy was getting a blow job!  I had no idea that g.i.'s had sex with each other, right there in the barracks!   My mind was majorly blown, let me tell you!

I retreated to the lounge and waited for the guy to leave.

"It's all yours," he whispered in passing.

I returned to the latrine and shut the door, and inched forward.  Someone grabbed my cock!

I reached down and felt that smooth hard chest again.  Farther down to the belly, pubic hair, and cock.   He was big -- at least 7" -- and aroused.

I fondled him for a moment, then stood directly in front of him, and he leaned down to blow me, his hands squeezing my bare butt.  I caressed his hair and face, squeezed his shoulders. When he started jerking me while licking my balls, that did it!

"I'm going to cum," I moaned.

"Shush," he murmured, and swallowed my load.

It was a perfect set up.!   Almost every night, about a half hour after lights out, the fag would get up...

Boomer: Watch your language.

Sorry.  That's what they called oral bottoms in those days.  Anyhoo, the oral bottom would go into the latrine without turning on the light, and we knew that he was ready to give blow jobs.  We were all young and horny, so he was busy.  On some nights there were two or three guys waiting.

 If someone turned on the light from the lounge outside, the guy getting the blow job would just turn around and pretend to be peeing at the urinal.

 Boomer: Was it the same guy giving the blow jobs every night?

Usually.  Sometimes another guy beat him to it.

Boomer: Did you ever get to be the oral bottom?

Once or twice he let me go down on him for a few minutes before he did me, but not usually, no.

But I didn't mind -- I'm still more of an oral top than a bottom, if you'd like to get together sometime and try me out.  Here's a recent photo.  Not bad for 69, huh?  And 69 is my favorite position, by the way.

Boomer: Mine, too.

Anyhoo, after 12 weeks of basic training, I shipped out to Moffett Airfield in Mountain View, California, where the latrine was right by the bunks, no way to hide.  Of course, guys still found ways to get it on. There was a supply closet off the tv lounge, and plenty of street cruising.

Not to mention San Francisco a short train ride away.  Golden Gate Park during the Summer of Love!  That was one far out trip, man!

Boomer:  Great story about being gay in the military in the 1960, but what does it have to do with Tony Dow?"

Oh, he shipped out somewhere else.  I don't remember where.  We weren't close, as I said.  He mostly pal-ed around with Kurt.

Boomer:  But you said this was a Tony Dow hookup story.  Was he one of the guys waiting in line for a blow job every night?"

Lord, no.  He was the f-- the oral bottom.

Boomer: The guy who sat on the toilet and gave blow jobs to anyone who wanted one?

Right.  I thought I made that clear.


Was Jock Telling the Truth?

Tony Dow has been linked with women only since 1968.

 I can see him engaging in some same-sex activity with a buddy, like his friend Kurt.  I can even see him as one of the guys waiting in line at the latrine, thinking that a mouth is a mouth.

But to seek multiple experiences with near-strangers in the equivalent of a glory hole?  I don't buy it.  I think time has clouded Jock's memories.

It's a good story though, even without a celebrity hookup.

See Also: Tony Dow and Kurt Hook Up with a High School Boy.

Notre Dame, a Catholic Boy, and a Warm Summer Night

Notre Dame, Indiana,

When I was 26 years old, in grad school at the University of Southern California, I had a paper on "Boccacio and the Jews" accepted at a Medieval Studies Conference at the University of Notre Dame in Indiana.

I flew into Rock Island to visit my parents for a few days.  Then they dropped me off at Notre Dame on the way to visit their relatives in Garrett, Indiana, about an hour's drive away.

I loved Notre Dame!  It was like a Medieval university, with archways, pillars, Gothic buildings, crucifixes, small side chapels, and statues of saints everywhere.

I expected Duns Scotus to walk by at any moment, discussing De consolatione philosophiae with Thomas Aquinas, while St. Hildegard of Bingen sang "O nobilissima viriditas!"

And did I mention the beefcake? Hot Catholic boys walking around, their scapulars gleaming against their hard brown chests, talking about the Bangles and Robocop and last night's baseball game like any students at any secular college.

There were no conference activities scheduled for Saturday night.  Most of the participants went out to dinner with their husbands and wives and boyfriends and girlfriends.  My roommate went to the Linebacker Lounge, hoping for a heterosexual pickup.  My Gayellow Pages listed one gay bar in South Bend, but it was too far to walk.  I was stuck on campus.

Lonely, bored, I wandered into the library, like I used to at Augustana on Saturday nights, when I felt overwhelmed by my friends' chants of  "girls! girls! girls! let's get some girls!  let's look at some girls!" 

Nostalgic for Augustana, I walked into the stacks and browsed through the PD section (Scandinavian Literature).  Nathan was sitting at an isolated study carrell, surrounded by thick books.

No, he wasn't naked.  But he was cute -- 20 years old, short, slim, pale, with curly brown hair and a boyish face.

"Studying Norwegian?" I asked.

He looked up and smiled.  "Oh -- no, Spanish.  This was just a quiet place to study."

"Yo hablo Espanol tambien.  Podimos discutir cosas intimas, si?"

"Whoa, whoa, I'm just first year!"

"Sorry.  I'm in grad school in Spanish.  In Los Angeles."

"Wow, Los Angeles -- that must be great!  All the movie stars everywhere.  Who's the biggest star you've met?"

Every heterosexual guy who found out that I lived in Los Angeles inevitably asked me about "hot girls."  Nathan was gay!

"Met, or saw naked?" I asked with a leer. "I could tell you some things about Tom Cruise..."

Soon we were eating hamburgers in the Student Center, while Nathan told me about growing up in an all-Catholic neighborhood of Buffalo, New York, not knowing anyone who was black, Protestant, or gay.  He came out during his freshman year, but he only knew three gay guys on campus, two students and a professor, and he had never had a boyfriend.

"There's lots of sex at Notre Dame," Nathan said.  "I could get a dozen guys a night, if I wanted.  But just once, I'd like one of them to say hello to me the next day."  He reached under the table and took my hand.  "Is that the way it is in Los Angeles, too?  Lots of secret stuff with straight guys who are thinking about girls the whole time?"

"Oh, no.  Everybody in West Hollywood is gay, so we don't need to trick with straight guys.  We date.  We fall in love. We have permanent partners."

He quickly moved his hand for a brief grope.  "So, wanna make out?"

"Make out?  Um...where?  I have a roommate."

"Me, too.  Let's take a walk."

He led me across the dark, quiet campus to a footpath that led around St. Joseph Lake.  It was heavily wooded, but I could still see the Basilica of the Sacred Heart across the lake; St. Mary, who topped the Golden Dome, had her back turned to us.

Nathan pointed out the Moreau Seminary, a priests' residence.
And the Sacred Heart Parish Center.
And the Our Lady of Fatima shrine.
And the Solitude of St. Joseph, a retreat house for monks.

"This must be the most Catholic place on Earth!" I exclaimed.  "Except maybe the Vatican."

"Yeah.  And the woods are busy all the time.  Not a lot of college kids, but priests, monks, professors.  I swear I had a Cardinal one night."  He grinned in the darkness.  "Creepy old guy, but Italian, you know.  Gigantic."

We started kissing and groping.  Once we had to move aside as a fratboy and his girlfriend passed, giggling with erotic anticipation, but otherwise we were alone.  Soon my pants were down, and he was on his knees.

It felt weird, being semi-naked in the summer night.  It reminded me of when I was a kid, and Uncle Paul showed us how to pee against the side of the barn.

Nathan and I stayed in contact.  The moment he graduated from Notre Dame, he fled to the gay haven of San Francisco, where he went to work in a store on Union Square.  It wasn't exactly the career his parents intended for him, but at least he was home.

How We Invented Sex Parties

West Hollywood, November 1992

In West Hollywood in the 1980s and 1990s, hooking up was frowned upon.  You dated, shared your boyfriend with your friends, and played party games with a sexual component, but bringing home a stranger with no preliminaries -- deviant, dangerous, disgusting.

We knew about bathhouses and backrooms as relics of an earlier age of innocence, but there were none left in Los Angeles, and few of us went to them when traveling abroad.

And no one had ever heard of sex parties or bear parties, roomfuls of guys who get together explicitly for sexual activity with complete strangers.

The first one ever was Lane's idea.  But I helped.

Lane grew up in the Spanish Colonial house on Crescent Heights Boulevard that his parents bought when they got married.  It was no mansion, but it was huge by West Hollywood standards: an enormous living room, a family room, two dining rooms (one for everyday, one for special occasions), four bedrooms, two and a half baths, an enclosed porch, and a basement (rare in Los Angeles).  Plus a back yard with a huge hedge around it.

When his mother  died in November 1992, and Lane inherited the house, I expected him to immediately put it on the market, but instead he said "We should live there. The old-fashioned furniture will have to be replaced, and the kitchen needs remodeling, but it will be just like having a house in the suburbs."

I balked.  "Too stiff and formal.  And too much space for just two people.  It would hardly be cozy, would it?"

"It's walking distance to the French Quarter and the Metropolitan Community Church."

"But a mile from the Different Light. I just like our apartment better.  It's home."

But Lane prevailed, and we rented a U-Haul to bring over our bed, our tv, some paintings, six boxes of books, and some miscellaneous odds and ends.  There was something wrong with each of the bedrooms (where his parents slept, where his mother died, his old room, etc), so we moved the stuff out of the cavernous family room and moved our bed and an old dresser in.

And we set about trying to deal with the sound of silence.

We got no sleep the first night.

On the second night we invited someone in to "share."

On the third night we went out to the Faultline, even though it was a Tuesday.

But no matter how late we stayed out, no matter who shared our bed, we still couldn't sleep in that cavernous room, knowing that there were seven other equally cavernous rooms, an infinite space between us and the rest of the world.

"How did you handle all this space when you were growing up, with just you and your parents?"  I asked,

"It wasn't just three.  We had a housekeeper, my grandparents lived with us, my cousin spent summers, friends of my parents visited.  The house was usually full of people.."

"Then we should have a party," I told Lane.

"A housewarming party?"

"No, bigger than that. .  Twenty or thirty people to fill this place up.  I want them overflowing the living room,, spilling out into the enclosed porch and into the back yard. I want every one of these cavernous bedrooms full."

"Bedrooms occupied?" Lane repeated with a grin. "Sounds like you want some sharing to happen at this party."

"Definitely.  Sharing in the bedrooms, making out in the formal dining room, oral in the second dining room, anal in the parlor, bondage in the basement.  Guys showering together in the bathrooms, walking down the hall with their penises swinging in the wind.  Like a bathhouse without the Attitude."

"A bathhouse-themed party!" Lane said, his eyes glowing with party-planning fervor.  "We could pass out those scratchy white towels, label rooms 'steamroom' and 'darkroom' and such, play bathhouse games -- I don't know what,   we'll figure it out!"

A standard West Hollywood party has six to ten guys, are all friends or friends' dates.  But a bathhouse experience needs a lot more, and they have to be strangers.

We invited ten friends and asked them to bring a guest, and also passed out fliers to random guys who looked hot at the gym and the French Quarter. It had a photo of a shirtless model and this invitation:

Boomer and Lane's First Annual Bathhouse Party, Saturday night 8:00 pm!  Admission fee $2.00 to cover the snacks and sodas.  Men only, all ages (21+), shapes, and sizes welcome.  No drugs or alcohol, no hustlers, no Attitude, just hot guys in towels doing what guys in towels do.  

We locked up the valuables, bought 50 gym towels and a lot of condoms and lube packets, and installed a row of fake lockers.  Blaring disco music, flashing red and blue lights, and a mist machine added to the bathhouse effect.

Over 50 guys came, including about 30 that I had never seen naked before, and 20 that I didn't know at all.  Collegiate twinks, chubby bears, taciturn leathermen, swishy queens from the Rage, Hollywood semi-celebrities, all stripped down, wearing towels or nothing, socializing, playing party games -- and wandering down to the basement "maze" for sexual encounters.

I lost track of the number of guys I went down on, had go down on me, or kissed and groped -- there were some repeats.  But more than at a real bathhouse.

Around 10:00 pm, guys started getting dressed and going home or to the bars.  By 11:00 there was no one left but Randall, the Muscle Bear with the Pierced Penis, who we invited to spend the night.

"We should have these parties on a regular basis," Lane said.  "But a different theme every time.  Fire Island, maybe..Castro Street...a t-room..."

"Or no theme," Randall said.  "Why bother?  Guys don't want a lot of fancy props and complicated party games -- they come for the socializing and sex."

After more sleepless nights in the cavernous space, we called it quits, put the house on the market, and moved back into our cozy two-bedroom apartment.  So we had to go back to small, intimate dinner parties.

But one of our guests started hosting "bear parties," for husky, hairy men and their admirers, at his house in the Hollywood Hills.

And the tradition spread.  Within a year, nearly every guy with a house was inviting friends and strangers over for socializing and sex.  Some specialized in BDSM, oral, or anal.  Some specified that you had to be young, fit, or big beneath the belt.

And some said "all ages, sizes, and shapes welcome," just like Lane and I did in our invitation to the very first sex party.

See also: Helping Marshall Lose His Virginity

A Hookup in the Sauna with John Amos

West Hollywood, 2017

I'm having dinner with my ex-boyfriend Lane and his husband Ben and some of their conservative, assimilated Orange County friends, who surprisingly have quite a treasure-trove of celebrity hookup stories.  Earle has just told about public sex with then-teen idol Matt Dillon.

"Kid stuff!" Stan exclaims.  He's in his sixties, chubby, balding with a white goatee.  "Anybody can hook up with a twink -- they're so horny, they don't even care who they're with.  But it takes style and finesse to seduce a real man.  And back in the 1980s, I had the biggest and the best -- John Amos."

"Wow -- I used to see him at the gym," I say.  "Hung like a garden hose."

Born in 1939, former pro football player John Amos was very visible during the 1970s, playing Gordy the Weatherman on Mary Tyler Moore, the Dad on Good Times (1974-76),  and the older Kunta Kinte on Roots (1977).  During the 1980s, he did a lot of guest spots, and went to the gym a lot.  He was very dark and very buffed, with easily a 50" chest ant 18" biceps, plus about 6" soft.

"I saw him, too," Stan says.  "But I did more than look, let me tell you!"

"Wait -- was this the Holiday Spa on LaBrea?"

He nods.

From 1986 to 1990,  I went to the Holiday Spa five times a week (not to be confused with the Hollywood Spa, a sex hotel). There were closer gyms, and gayer gyms  -- only about 50% of the patrons were gay men --  but the Holiday Spa got the most celebrities.  Not big names, but recognizable: Ron Glass from Barney Miller; Peter Scolari from Newhart; Tom Villard from We Got it Made; Jimmie Walker from Good Times. Some were gay, and some just worked nearby.  It was fun to speculate on who was who.

John Amos often worked at the same time as I did.  He became one of those "nodding acquaintances" you develop at the gym.  You nod, ask "can I squeeze in between your sets," maybe say "nice workout today" if you see him in the locker room, but nothing more.

I never saw him having a cruisy conversation with anyone.

Lane lived five blocks from the West Hollywood Gym (now Basecamp Fitness), so around 1990, I started going there most of the time, dropping into the Holiday Spa only when I happened to be in the neighborhood. I rarely saw John Amos after that.

That's the end of my John Amos story.

But Stan has a lot more.  He doesn't remember the year, probably 1987 or 1988.

Hollywood, 1987

Stan was 33 years old, black-haired, built, and horny.  The AIDS crisis didn't stop his tricking: you can't stop living your life just because of some virus.  Just put a condom on it and be careful.

His favorite gym was the Holiday Spa, 90% gay men, 100% cruisy.  Guys would display erections in the shower, get blow jobs in the sauna.  Of course, you had to be careful, only hooking up late at night when most of the straight guys were gone.

He went down on a few gym rats in the shower, had a cute Asin twink go down on him in the sauna, but John Amos was special, the stuff of memories.

It was about 10:00 pm on a Thursday night, and Stan had just arrived at the Holiday Spa. He usually showered, hit the pool for cardio, did his weight training (lower body on Thursdays), and then hit the shower again.  The locker room was nearly deserted, so he took his time showering, hoping that someone would show up and he could at least get a sausage sighting.

He got one: John Amos, the tv star, came strutting down the rows, naked, carrying a towel and grooming kit at his side.  He wasn't very tall, surprisingly, but he had a v-shaped torso, a flat outtie belly button, and a huge cock that swung between his legs like a pendulum!

"Like the view, boy?" Amos said with a smile.  He chose the shower next to Stan and turned it on.  Water streamed down his massive chest, formed a little rivulet off his cock.

"I'm not a twink, I'm 33," Stan protested.

"When you get to be my age, all of you pretty little white boys look like twinks."  He squirted out some liquid soap and started soaping up his cock.

"That's a big job," Stan said.  "Can I give you a hand."

"Ok by me -- but use your tongue."

 Stan knelt on the shower floor, wrapped his hands around Amos' butt, and started on his cock.  It immediately hardened to about 8", with a huge head.  Stan bobbed up and down while squeezing Amos' balls.

After awhile, Amos said "Come on, boy -- we're wasting water."  He turned off the shower, grabbed his grooming kit and towel, and led Stan to the steam room.

It was moist and drippy, but not very hot -- no one had added more steam for awhile.  Still aroused, Amos opened his grooming kit and pulled out a condom.

Stan froze -- he was an anal top!  He rarely bottomed, and then only for very small guys.  "I'm not sure I can take all that."

"It's not for me, white boy -- it's for you."  Amos pressed the condom into his hand and bent  over the bleachers, manipulating himself with one hand.  "I haven't had a white cock in me in two months.  Now get busy!"

"Yes, sir!"  Stan manipulated his own 6.5" until it was hard, then rolled on the condom and pushed into Amos' very tight butt.  Amos groaned but pushed against him, and tightened his sphincter.  Stan thrust slowly at first, then faster and faster while Amos groaned "That's it, white boy.  You know where it goes."

Finally Stan spurted into the condom.  He pulled out and rolled it up.

"Ready to take it, boy?" Amos said, working frantically, his eyes closed.  He stood.  "Get ready for it..."

Stan knelt and took Amos' load.

Afterwards they took another shower, and Amos left and Stan continued his workout.  They didn't exchange phone numbers.

Stan went to the gym at the same time every night for a week, but he never saw John Amos again.

Was Stan Telling the Truth?

I don't remember the Hollywood Spa being nearly that active.

John Amos has been married three times, most recently to Elisabete De Sousa (since 1982).  He has played gay characters, and is very gay-positive in real life.  That strikes me as someone who is heterosexual.

I could see a blow job in the shower, under the "a mouth is a mouth" theory of straight-gay hookups. But being an anal bottom?  Surely Stan made that up to give his story some added zing.

See also: Earle Has Public Sex with Teen Idol Matt Dillon

A Glory Hole at a Rest Stop in Arkansas

Forestville, Arkansas, May 1985

In 1984, just after getting my M.A. from Indiana University, I took a job in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas.

If you don't count Christmas and spring breaks, 7 1/2 months, 210 miserable days in the worst place on earth: hot, humid, construction everywhere, heavy traffic constantly, every chore taking hours, flat tires several times a week, tiny apartment with no airconditioning, illliterate boozing landlord, heavy-metal blaring neighbor, an hour's drive to the nearest gay neighborhood, and all the gay people into hookups instead of dating and romance.

I hated every minute of it, except for my Italian class and the few occasions when a well-hung redneck shared my bed.

On May 8th, 1985, I packed my stuff into my car -- actually, I threw most of it out in order to travel light -- dropped off the apartment key to my horrible illiterate landlord, and drove to the horrible campus of Longhorn State University, where I gave my last final exam to my last horrible class, graded it, and turned in the grade forms to the horrible department office.  Then, at 3:05 pm, I walked out into the parking lot, got into my car, and drove.

The quickest route to Rock Island took you through godforsaken Texas for five hours, and I wanted out as soon as possible.  So I drove east for two hours, not stopping for food, gas, or bathroom breaks until I saw that "Welcome to Louisiana" sign, breathed deeply, and vowed never to set foot in Texas again.

And I haven't.

I planned to drive the whole 20 hours home straight through, but I'd been up since before dawn grading papers and cleaning my apartment, so at around 12:30 am, I couldn't drive anymore.  I  stopped at a rest stop on Interstate 40, near Forrestville, Arkansas.

In the 1980s you were allowed to park at rest stops and sleep.

After an hour or so, I had to go to the bathroom.  so I went into the little bathroom building, chose a stall, and and sat down.  It had a glory hole looking directly into the next stall!

I knew from my experience at Lambert Airport in St. Louis and the public parks of New Delhi that public restrooms were sometimes used for sex, so I waited there for awhile, peering through the glory hole.  Maybe a horny redneck trucker would stop by and push a Mortadella+ through.

Soon someone came into the next stall.  From what I could see, it was a young guy, probably my age, medium height, pale skin, square hands, smooth chest and belly.  Wearing a blue shirt and jeans.  Holding a magazine.

Did he know I was in the next booth?  Was he interested in public sex, or just doing his business?

I waited.

He sat on the toilet, leafed through the magazine, and started fondling himself.  His penis was average sized, ruddy, cut, with a thick head.  Soon he was aroused.

Put it through the hole!  I thought savagely.

He began masturbating, intent on the magazine. Soon his penis was standing straight up.  He spat on his hand and continued to work it.  But he didn't put it through the hole.

Didn't he know I was there?  I made some coughing noises.

He didn't stop, but he ignored the glory hole.

Maybe he thought I was just doing my business.  I stood, flushed the toilet, and obviously stayed in the stall.

He kept working.

I put my head right up to the hole, so he could see my open mouth.

Nothing.

Why doesn't he want me to go down on him?

I put my eye right up to the hole and looked into the stall.  Nice tight body, taunt, breathing heavily.  Pants around his ankles.

He spurted with a sigh, wiped off with toilet paper, and flushed the toilet.

Feeling rejected and embarrassed, I waited until he zipped up, left the stall, washed his hands in the sink, and swung through the doors.  Then I gave him another few minutes to get into his car and leave.

No such luck -- he was staring at the snacks in in the vending machine.  A very cute college boy with curly red hair and flawless pale skin.

"Hi,"  I said.

He didn't answer.

I got into my car and drove, not stopping again until I reached St. Louis about 7 am.  I stopped at a diner for breakfast.

There was a  cute guy sitting by himself at one of the little tables: about my age, thin, with thick sandy hair, dark eyebrows, and pink lips.

Having been awake for over 24 hours, except for short catnaps, my discretion was gone.

"Hi!  I've had a rough night.  Can I join you?"

He smiled.  "Sure."

I haven't been back to Arkansas in 32 years, either.

See also: Public Cruising in Mississippi in 1984; The Joy of Public Sex; A Hookup in the College Restroom

Alan's Arrest: The Vice Cop, the Gay Basher, or the High School Boy?

West Hollywood, July 1988

"Ok, do you guys want to pick at ice cream like little sissy girls, or do you want to EAT ICE CREAM?"  Alan asks.

If you say EAT,  you get six scoops "for starters."

We're at a barbecue at Derek's house near Sunset Boulevard. About 10 of us, including Fred, Matt, Raul, Marcus, and Will the Bondage Boy, are swapping our best stories about disastrous dates, gigantic penises, or hookups with celebrities.  Now it's time for dessert, and Alan's turn:

"I'm going to tell you about the time I was arrested."

This should be good.  Alan does everything BIG.  A Pentecostal theology student turned porn star turned English teacher, he is exuberant, effervescent, full of crazy schemes.  He says whatever pops into his head, does whatever he wants without considering the consequences.  It's not hard to imagine a lot of circumstances where he would draw the wrath of the heterosexual police state.

"Better yet, I'll tell you about three incidents, and you have to decide which resulted in my arrest.  They all happened in the early 1980s, before any of you met me."

"What do we win if we get the right answer?" Raul asks.

"Twenty minutes alone in the bedroom with me.  Anything you want: make out, give me a blow job, discuss Dynasty...."

We glance at each other and grin.  Alan is very big beneath the belt.

#1: The Vice Cop

Alan didn't approve of public cruising -- not because of any immorality in anonymous contacts, because it was dangerous.  Undercover cops were everywhere, waiting to haul in "perverts" on "lewd conduct" charges, even if they did nothing but talk.

One day Alan and his friends had a picnic in Griffith Park, and he decided to go on a hike.  A cute guy cruised him.  In his twenties, with blond curly hair and a smooth chest -- well, who wouldn't follow him into the woods?  Besides, there was no way a vice cop would be prowling this far from a gay neighborhood!

They found a secluded spot.  The cute guy unzipped Alan's pants and pulled it out.  He fondled Alan's aroused penis for a few minutes.

Then he flashed a badge.  "LAPD Vice!"

I go into the kitchen and bring Alan another soda.  Obviously the contest is over -- this must be the one.

#2: The Gay Basher

In the early 1980s, before people knew about AIDS, "tricking" was commonplace -- you went out to the bars, met someone, and brought him home that night, without waiting for a date or introducing him to your friends or anything.

One night at the Gold Coast Alan met a truck driver -- in his 30s, very tall and muscular, with a beard and a hairy chest.  Alan usually preferred soft and smooth -- but what a bulge!

The guy said "I want take you home and pound you!"  Alan was not usually into anal sex, but he figured, with someone that hot, he would make an exception.

They went back to Alan's apartment.  When they walked in the door, Alan drew him in for a kiss.  The truck driver called him a  "f*king faggot", and punched him in the face.

Alan sprang back in shock, and the guy was on top of him, punching and kicking and yelling "f*king faggot."

"More ice cream?" Alan asks.  "I brought lots."

#3: Staying After Class

Every high school teacher and college professor knows that male students often get aroused in the classroom. You're supposed to pretend that you don't notice.  But Alan doesn't pretend.

He was so cute!  18 years old, tall, slim, Hispanic, a little feminine, with thick black hair -- and what a bulge!  He had a Mortadella, easily.  And he was tenting outrageously right in the middle of the lecture.

Alan leaned down and whispered in his ear, "Do you want to go to the bathroom and take care of that?"

The boy blushed and shook his head.  But after school he came back to "talk about his grade."  His bulge returned.  So did Alan's.

The school was empty except for some kids doing after-school activities and the the janitor making his rounds.  So Alan unzipped his pants, and the boy knelt and went down on him.  Right at his desk!

"Ding, ding!" Alan exclaims.  "Write your answer on a slip of paper, and I'll tally the results."

Most guys guess The Vice Cop.  I mean, come on, the guy flashed his badge!

"No," Alan says. "He let me off with a warning -- after he went down on me.  He was on a power trip -- he got off on intimidating guys into sex."

Some guess Staying After Class.  Sex with one of your students, right in the classroom!  Who cared that he was of legal age -- the police would have a field day!

"No," Alan says,  "We hooked up after class several times.  We're still in contact -- he went to UC Santa Cruz, majored in philosophy."

Only Will the Bondage Boy, who has never met Alan before, guesses The Gay Basher.  "You look like you can take care of yourself," he says. "I bet the basher ended up in the hospital, and that didn't sit well with the straights."


"Precisely!" Alan exclaims.  "He got a broken nose and three broken ribs.  My crazy roommate called the police, and of course they arrested me for 'enticing' a poor innocent straight boy."

So Will and Alan go into the bedroom for 20 minutes.  They don't tell us what happened there.  Probably something like this.

See also: Sharing the Kept Boy with Alan; and the Bear with the Sweeney Todd Fetish.

August 1984: Public Sex in Mississippi

Oxford, Mississippi, August 1984

Studying for my M.A. at Indiana University was lots of fun, but an academic failure.
1. Faced with 3,000 possible courses, I went crazy: South Asian Anthropology, Russian Folklore, Mandarin Chinese, Tibetan Culture, Languages of Africa.  Competing with students majoring in these topics, I didn't do well, and eked by with B's (failing grades in grad school).
2. I planned to become a book editor, not a literature scholar, so why did I need to read Ralph Roister Doister, Pamela, The Mill on the Floss, Love's Alchemy, The Vicar of Wakefield, Sartor Resartus, Ulysses, , The Waste Land, and The Duchess of Pembroke's Arcadia?  I got B's in my English classes, too.

So there was no question of going on for a Ph.D. -- it wasn't going to happen. Instead, in the spring of 1984,  I sent out resumes to 130 publishing companies, 48 newspapers,  34 television stations, and 16 translation agencies.

Nothing.

Then one day in July, Ben the Fairy Godfather asked "Why don't you teach?  They always need English professors."

"But...I hate teaching!  Surly students who never do the assigned readings, fall asleep in class, and make homophobic comments!"

"Do you hate it more than making sandwiches?"

He gave me a copy of the Chronicle of Higher Education, which lists academic job openings.  It was mid-July, so there weren't a lot of jobs for the fall still open, and most required a Ph.D.  But I applied for five teaching positions, and in mid-August, I got a phone call from a college near Houston, Texas:  "Classes start in a week: Intro to Literature, Survey of American Literature, and two Freshman Comps.  How soon can you be here?"

Houston, Texas or making sandwiches?

The Lyceum, Ole Miss

On August 19th, 1984, I packed my car with two suitcases and two boxes of books, and drove 1000 miles south through Kentucky, Tennessee, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, and finally Texas.

As I was driving through Tennessee, I saw two country boys with guns (top photo), and thought "This is a good sign."

I spent the night in Oxford, Mississippi, and walked onto the campus of Ole Miss, the University of Mississippi.  The Lyceum was brightly lit in the darkness.

 I wondered if I would see Luster and Quentin from The Sound and the Fury, or Bo and Luke Duke from The Dukes of Hazard, or at least more country boys with guns.

The Lyceum pointed the way to the Mississippi equivalent of the Levee in Rock Island,  a wooded area outside William Faulkner's Rowan Oak, with grassy walkways and secluded groves of oak, elm and magnolia trees, where men met each other in secret, in the dark.

Lots of men -- rugged Ole Miss Rebel football players, well-kept businessmen-types, bears, blue collars, rednecks who drove a dozen miles to stand in seclusion in the warm, humid night. Lots of muscles.  The smell of beer and cigarettes and sweat.

And a cute U. of M. undergrad named Elmer.

Another good sign.  Maybe Texas wouldn't be so bad after all.

See also: 36 Hours of Cruising at Lambert International Airport.