Dad Explains the Facts of Life

There are several traditional rites of passage between a boy and his Dad:

When he teaches you to shave.
When he lets you drive for the first time.
When you can beat him at arm wrestling.

But the biggest is The Talk, when Dad sits you down and explains The Facts of Life.

By which he means the mechanics of biological reproduction, how sperm and egg cells merge their chromosomes to turn into an embryo, and nine months later, a baby.

Why is this the sole subject matter of The Talk?

Finding out how you came to exist may be interesting, but it's irrelevant, the physiology of the past.  What about your respiratory, circulatory, nervous, and muscle systems?  What about the nutrition and exercise necessary to ensure that your body works properly?  Surely those are Facts of Life of more immediate importance.

The reason is obvious: The Facts of Life Talk isn't really about biological reproduction.  It's about Sex, aka heterosexual intercourse.

Dad assumes that the quest for heterosexual intercourse, will occupy your thoughts, color your decisions, throughout your life.  You will choose colleges and careers solely on the likelihood of heterosexual intercourse, marry to be ensured of a regular partner, get a job and a house and have kids to ensure that she sticks around, and spend your declining years on a park bench, gazing at "all the pretty girls" and wishing that you could have heterosexual intercourse with them.

By the time Dad sat me down for the Talk, I already knew all of the Facts of Sex, except for one.  I heard them through:

1. 7th Grade Health Class.  The teacher showed us a drawing of a man and a woman, facing us like the greeting to aliens on the Pioneer Space Probe, with the testicles and ovaries circled.  He explained that sperm from the man's testicles merged with eggs from the woman's ovaries, which was then embedded into the uterine wall and developed into a fetus.

Ok, but how did the sperm get to the ovaries, when they're a good five feet from each other?  Teleportation?

"Don't get smart!  You already know about sex!  That's all you kids think about!"

2. Sunday School.  Ok, so we reproduced through sex. That must be why Brother Dino admonished us not to have sex before marriage, or God would strike us with incurable diseases as a punishment.  He didn't want kids having kids.

But what exactly was sex?

"Good question!" Brother Dino said.  "It's not just sex.  God hates anything that defiles the body."

Which didn't answer the question.

3. Summer Camp.  At Nazarene summer camp the summer after seventh grade, I asked an older boy named Marty to explain the procedure.  He told me about going from first base (kissing) to second base (feeling the girl's breasts over her bra) to third base (feeling under).  He even demonstrated by feeling my chest under my shirt.  But then he got nervous and left before the home run.

How did feeling under a girl's bra make sperm go from your testicles to her ovaries?  The two organs were still a foot or more apart!

4. Mike. In eighth grade, my friends and the jocks claimed that they had sex often, a dozen times a week.  As we walked down the halls, they would say "I've had her...had her...had her..."  

I couldn't ask them, so I asked Bill's big brother, Mike.

"Ok," he said, "The home run: you put your penis inside the girl's vagina." (yes, he used the technical terms).  "That's an opening that leads all the way up to her ovaries. So the sperm comes out and goes right up the tube to the egg."

"But...but...pee comes out of your penis, too!" I exclaimed.  "How do you make sure that sperms come out instead?"

Mike began to blush.  "Um...when you get older, sometimes...you know, it gets bigger...and like turns into a baseball bat."

"Sure, I know all about...um, baseball bats," I said, feeling very grown up and sophisticated.  No one had ever mentioned that Fact of Life before.

"Well, when you're like that, only sperm can come out.  When you're not, only pee."

"But..you can't control when that happens.  How do you get it to happen when you want to have a baby?"

He laughed.  "Oh, you'll find out, Bud.  Believe me, you'll find out!"

So I sort of knew the procedure.  But Mike left out the most important Fact of Life.

5. Dad. In the fall of ninth grade, Dad took me out to the back yard, sat me in the grape arbor where, he said, someday he would host my wedding, and had the Talk.

"You had Sex Ed, right?" he started off.  "You know about sperm and eggs, and all that?"

"Sure."

"Do you have any questions?"

"Well..."  Yes, I had a question.  "I already learned about running the bases, and what to do with your penis if you want a baby.  But I hear guys talking all the time about having sex when they don't want to make a baby."

"Don't do it!" Dad said sharply.  "God will punish you with incurable diseases."

"Sure, sure...but...why would you want to?  I mean, if you don't want to make a baby, what's the point?"

"What's the point?" he repeated, staring at me.  "What do you mean, what's the point?  It's a girl -- let's say a really cute girl -- and you've been kissing her, and feeling her breasts."

I looked away, toward the garage.  "That's gross!  Girls are all soft, with no muscles, no penis.  Nothing cute.  I mean, why would you touch them like that, unless you had to?"  

I didn't realize that I had said too much until it was too late.  Dad stood abruptly, snarled "Don't be a wise guy!" , and nearly ran back to the house.

Dad left out the most important Fact of Life.  It took me years to figure out it out on my own:

Some boys want to hit a home run with boys, not girls.

The Farmboy, the Preacher, and the Security Guard

Louisville, Kentucky, Novembe 1982

During my first year at Indiana University, Roy the Farmboy and I drove to Louisville, Kentucky to go to the Metropolitan Community Church

I couldn't wait!  A church founded by and for gay people!  I had been looking for a MCC ever since I read the Rev. Troy Perry's autobiography a couple of years ago.  There were none in Indiana at the time.

We parked near the Brown Theater in downtown Louisville and walked to the Unitarian Church, an old Gothic grey-brick building.  There was a guy pacing outside the door: African-American, very dark skin, short, solidly built, in a pink shirt and tie. He looked like a pro wrestler.

I didn't have my list of the Five Traits I Find Attractive yet, but in retrospect, he had four: short, dark, muscular, and religious.  And probably the fifth, too -- beneath the belt gifts.


"Hi," I said, holding out my hand.  "I'm Boomer, here for the service.  And this is Roy.  You probably know him already."

"Hi, Roy!  Glad you're back!  How's Bloomington?"  He looked around to make sure no one was watching, then gave Roy a kiss.  I felt a pang of jealousy.

"Boomer, this is Terence.  He's the sound guy and security guard for the church."

"Hi!"  He leaned in for a brief kiss.  "You can't be too careful.  We've had bomb threats.  You never know if a visitor is going to try to kill you.  So, are you guys together?"

"Not yet -- but I'm working on it."

Terence laughed and clapped him on the back.   "Come to brunch with us after the service and we'll talk, ok?"

We walked on into the sanctuary.  It looked like any other congregational-style church -- bare of religious symbols except for a pulpit decorated with a cross.  There were King James Bibles and Methodist hymnals on the pews.

"You and Terence...." I began.

"Oh, no.  I haven't been with anyone in church.  Besides, Terence is Rev. Reid's spouse.   That's what they call them in MCC.  Life-long commitment, rejecting all others, and all that.

My heart sank.  There would be no seeing Terence naked today, or any day.

There were about 50 people in the congregation, mostly gay men, mostly couples.  A scattering of lesbian couples, a few with children.  One heterosexual couple.

To my surprise, the service was all Nazarene -- old-time Gospel hymns, quotes from the King James Bible, hand-clapping, shouts of "Amen!," calling each other "Brother" and "Sister," and a sermon full of "God told me!" and "You got to get right with God!"

The only differences were:
1. The clerical robes.
2. The communion.
3. People typically kissed hello instead of shaking hands.  Same-sex on the mouth, opposite-sex on the cheek.
4. The sermon topic, Galatians 3:28: "There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor female: for ye are all one in Christ Jesus."  The preacher expanded it to include "there is neither gay nor straight."

The preacher, Brother Reid, was in his 40s, a tall, beefy bear who looked very much like Brother Tyler back home.  He even paced and pounded like that old bulldog.

It was nice, but I was expecting something less -- well, less Nazarene.

Afterwards, Terence, Brother Reid, and a few other guys took us out to the English Grill in the Brown Hotel, which specialized in a sort of turkey Eggs Benedict called a Hot Brown.  Brother Reid sat beside me with his arm draped over the back of my chair, and we shared childhood "horror stories" about repressive church rules.  No swimming!  No dancing!  No movies!  No shopping on Sunday!

He looked, and acted interested.  Meanwhile, Terence was sitting next to me, but totally taken by Roy the Farmboy.  What was going on?  Did they..um..do that sharing thing, like the Episcopal priest I met in Des Moines?

A preacher hooks up with guys other than his spouse?

"What are you doing later?" Brother Reid asked.

"We have to be heading back to Bloomington.  It's a two hour drive."

"Two hours -- that's nothing! Sometimes I drive two hours before breakfast.  You need the grand tour of Louisville, and then the drag show at Nowhere."

Preachers go to bars?  And drink beer?

"Sounds like fun," Roy said.  "I just turned 21 last month -- I haven't gone to the bars yet!"

"Then it's high time you started!  The drag show is at 10:00 pm."

I didn't want to go to a drag show in a bar! "But then we'd be driving on dark country roads all the way up to Bloomington at midnight!"

"Or -- or --"  Brother Reid said with a smile, "You could spend the night, leave at 7:00 tomorrow morning.  We can put you up in the spare bedroom."

Sighing, I agreed.  Another night with Roy, who was nice but not my type, all anal instead of oral, while a Greek god lay sleeping in the next room.

The four of us, behaving very much like two couples on a double date, spent the rest of the afternoon at  Conrad's Castle, which I found only moderately interesting, and Slugger Field, which I found not interesting at all.  We had dinner at a steak house, and then went to Brother Reid and Terence's apartment to listen to depressing country-western music and wait until it was time to go to the bar.

I staked out an easy chair, while the other guys got the couch.

"Plenty of room over here," Brother Reid said, patting the tiny bit of seat next to him.

"Oh, I'm fine here," I said petulantly.

Roy stood, came to the chair, and put his arms around me.  "Feeling neglected?"  Soon we were kissing.  I was vaguely aware of Brother Reid and Terence doing the same.

"Maybe we'll skip the drag show," Brother Reid said.  "It's been a long day.  Roy, you know where the spare bedroom is.  There are clean towels in the bathroom, if you want to shower."


Another night with Roy -- good kisser, but not particularly impressive with anything else.

Later I got up to "use the bathroom."   The other bedroom door was closed.

I returned to our bed. "Sh*t!" I whispered.

"Anything wrong, babe?" Roy murmured.

I didn't know he was awake!  "Oh -- I was hoping to see those guys naked, but their door was closed."

"Why didn't you say something?  I can take care of that.  Hang on a minute."

He disappeared.  I heard the door to the other bedroom open.  A moment later, Brother Reid appeared in the doorway, naked, smiling.  He climbed onto the bed, pinned me down, and pressed his mouth against mine.  I felt his Bratwurst move against me.

When it was over, he returned to his own bed, and Roy returned to ours, having had a similar experience with Terence.

Apparently preachers do, in fact, hook up with guys other than their spouses, but they don't talk about it afterwards.

And I never did see Terence naked.

See also: The Farmboy Butches it Up; Dumped by Richie Rich

10 problems with liking men in suits

There are some definite problems with having a special interest in men in suits.

1. They are garments designed erase any hint of the man's physicality.  Women's outfits show curves and cleavage, and bare arms and backs, but men's outfits make their bodies invisible (obviously some sexist stereotyping going on).  So unless they're very buffed or aroused, you have no idea what's going on under the gabardine.

2.  Half the time, when you think you see a bulge, it's not actually their cock.

3. Men generally wear suits when they are busy with work or at a formal event, where they're unable or unwilling to cruise, and might not even recognize your interest.   So it's hard to meet them that way.

4. If you do manage to meet them while they're in a suit, 90% of the time they'll show up for the date dressed "casually," in a bicep-displaying shirt and bulge-displaying jeans

5. If they do show up in a suit for some reason -- they came directly from work, or you're going to a party at Andrew Lloyd Weber's house -- I guarantee that they will take it off and carefully hang it up before beginning any sexual act. No way this is happening.

More after the break.

The Baptist Student Union: Two guys give in to temptation

Naperville, Illinois

perville, Illinois

When I finally managed to drop out of the Nazarene church, my parents told me, "You don't have to be a Nazarene, but you can't be a heathen!  Find another church to go to!"  

So I tried Presbyterian and Lutheran churches, and, during my senior year at Augustana College, the Baptist Student Fellowship.

My parents were not pleased.

Nazarenes thought that Baptists were the most evil of the "so-called Christians." At least the Lutherans were open about worshipping idols, and the Presbyterians about tearing apart the Bible, but the Baptists were almost identical to Nazarenes.

The only differences that I could see:

1. Baptism.  The Nazarene Manual mentioned baptism, but in all my years as a Nazarene, I had never seen it done. Baptists required it for everybody.

2.  "Once saved, always saved."  Nazarenes believed that after you got saved, you could backslide -- commit more sins -- and have to be saved all over again.  For Baptists, once was enough -- after you were saved, you would go to heaven no matter what you did.  

When I was a kid, the older boys at church whispered that due to "once saved, always saved," Baptists had no morals: hey would "put out" for anybody.  So if you wanted a "sure thing" on a date, ask a Baptist girl. 

What about Baptist boys?  I joined the Baptist Student Union to find out.

The full story is on RG Beefcake and Boyfriends

I Go Home with the Amazing Invisible Boy

San Francisco, May 1997

One Sunday afternoon, Kevin the Vampire and I were at the beer bust at the San Francisco Eagle, when a twink caught my eye .  He was wearing a white t-shirt with a weird dark stain at the belly, jeans torn at the knee, and a light brown jacket -- quite out of place amid the leather-clad bears and muscle daddies.

He was in his 20s, tall, slim, blond, very pale.  Not my usual type, but he had a handsome, almost angelic face, and he looked...lost.  Everyone was giving him major attitude.

"Poor guy wandered into the wrong bar," I told Kevin.

He looked around.  "Who do you mean?"

I pointed. "The cute twink in the brown jacket?"

He peered into the crowd.  "Sorry, I can't pick him out.  But cruise him, if you like.  I'll be more than willing to share anyone you find attractive."

Too late -- a drunken muscle bear with thick bear-hair on his chest and shoulders had already approached.  He had skipped the conversation stage of cruising, moving immediately into groping.  The twink looked uncomfortable, even frightened.  Didn't he know how to give Attitude?

That was my "in" -- coming to the rescue.  I grabbed a bottle of beer from the bartender, walked over, and said "Here's your beer, babe.  Sorry it took so long."

"Didn't know you spoken for," the muscle bear growled.  He dislodged his hand from the boy's crotch and loped off.

"Thanks for saving me.  I'm Mickey."  (Not the leatherman who never left South of Market -- another Mickey.)

"Boomer."  I tried to hug him, but he stiffened -- not interested?  Instead, he held out a slim hand to be shaken.

Yes, his hand was warm to the touch.

"I don't go to gay bars much, and I don't know the rules yet.  I thought if I just stood quietly, I'd be invisible."

"That's funny, it worked on my friend over there.  I tried to point you as 'the cute guy in the brown jacket,' but he couldn't see you.  Would you mind coming over so I can introduce you?"

I led him to where Kevin was standing.  "Introducing Mickey, the Amazing Invisible Boy!"

Kevin stared, visibly frightened.  "Um...very nice to meet you.  Boomer, could I borrow you for a moment to discuss that project?"

He pulled me out of earshot.  "You're out of your league with this one, Boomer.  Better leave him alone."

"Why?  Is he a hustler?  A druggie?"

"No, but...it's difficult to explain.  He's dangerous."

"He looks harmless to me.  A little lonely, and kind of starved for affection.  Why don't we invite him home?"

"No sharing tonight, sorry -- um, I'm not feeling well.  And I'd advise you to pick someone else.  I have to be running along now."

You never abandon someone in the midst of cruising -- it's just not done.  But Kevin did.

It would pay to be prudent, of course, and not invite Mickey home instantly, so I took him to a Thai place on Folsom.

Yes, he ate.

 And asked him the usual precautionary questions.  Mickey was eager to talk.

He lived with his parents and younger brother in a small white house on Custer Road in Hayward, in the East Bay.  He graduated from Tennyson High School.  He had a job in a department store, and he was taking classes at the junior college in the hope of becoming a bookkeeper.

I asked about the stain on his shirt.  He said it was probably spaghetti sauce, but he didn't remember where he got it.

It was starting to get dark.  "I have to get to the station soon," Mickey said, looking apprehensively out the window.  "The last train to Hayward leaves at 7:00 pm."

"Oh...I was hoping we could spend more time together.  Why don't you come back to my place and spend the night?  I'll spring for breakfast in the morning, and then put you on the BART."

He looked hesitant.  "You're sure it won't be any trouble?  I snore."

Back at my apartment, he took off his jacket and draped it on a kitchen chair.  We watched Nick Freno, The Simpsons, King of the Hill, The X-Files, some old sitcoms on Nick at Night, ate ice cream, and talked, talked, cuddled, kissed, and talked.

Mickey wasn't out to anyone, and hadn't had sex with anyone but a high school friend.  He turned 21 a few days ago.  On a whim he took  BART across the Bay, got off at the 16th Street Station, and looked for the nearest gay bar.  That turned out to be the Eagle.

Finally it was midnight, past my bedtime.  "I have to get up early," I said, "So we should go to bed.  We don't have to do anything, if you don't want.  We can just cuddle."

Mickey kissed me on the cheek.  "You're the first guy I met with who didn't try to push me into the bedroom right away,  But I have to go home now."  He stood and walked around the couch toward the door.

"BART's closed.  You'll have to spend the night..." I began.  But he was gone!

He was only out of my sight for a second.  He didn't have time to get to the door, and besides, it was still locked.  I opened it and looked out onto the balcony and the street below.  They were deserted.

I ran back and checked the bedroom and bathroom.  No.  Mickey had just vanished.

In retrospect, there were some weird things about him.
1. His invisibility.
2. Kevin's warning.
3. There aren't any junior colleges anymore.  They're community colleges.
4. Who in the computer age studies to be a bookkeeper?
5. He didn't know how to use a VCR.
6. He had never seen The Simpsons.
7. That weird stain, like a blood stain.
8. This was his first time in a gay bar, but he had taken several guys home before.

Had I been making out with a ghost?  Maybe a boy who came to the City for his 21st birthday, was killed in a hate crime, and ever after has been trying to find his way home.

What would have happened if I insisted on bedroom activities?

The next day Kevin called.  He said, "I was just jealous that you were so into that Cute Young Thing.  I'm sorry that my attempt to scare you away made you hallucinate."

By the way, I couldn't do a "Vanishing Hitchhiker" thing: Mickey took his jacket with him.


See also: The Leatherman Who Never Left South of Market; Ozzie Meets John Kennedy Jr.; and A Quiet Night in Gay Heaven.

My Hookup with the Son of Mr. Blowfish

Washington, Iowa, August 2003

The class I hated the most in high school was Public Speaking.  I didn't mind the speaking -- it was rather fun having an audience.  But the teacher, Mr. Blowfish!

Actually Mr. Lundquist, he was a prissy, snippy, ultra-swishy little gordito, balding, with a villain goatee, who lived to impress upon students that they were worthless.  He swept over the classroom, making condescending, sarcastic, and insulting remarks in his overmodulated, oversophisticated voice.

"Try speaking English.  Eng-Lish!"
"I have an idea.  Let's try to get it right."
"You can't be that stupid.  You must be putting me on."
"God, your parents must have been morons, to have you."

More than one student was reduced to tears, whereupon Mr. Blowfish would sneer "It's called real life.  Get used to it."

The whole class hated him.

I remember one piece of advice he gave us: When you're invited to a party, find out who's coming, and research their interests, so you'll have something to talk about.

Wait -- this miserable, mean-spirited little troll was invited to parties?

I eked by his class with a C-, which was pretty good.  No one got higher than a C, except for the two A's given to girls who, we assumed, were his relatives.

When I figured "it" out, the summer after my high school graduation, I realized that he was the first gay person I ever met.  A gay hint in junior high speech class!

The years passed.  I graduated from high school, moved to West Hollywood, then New York, then Florida.  When I came back to Rock Island to visit, I asked around the gay community.  No one had ever heard of Mr. Blowfish...um, I mean Lundquist.

Still, the little Truman Capote wannabe must be gay.  Nobody straight was that swishy.

Back in Rock Island in the summer of 2003, I finally found Mr. Blowfish: he was retired, living in Washington, Iowa, about 70 miles away.

Now, finally, I could find out if he was actually gay or just a swish!

I called and gushed, "You were my favorite teacher in high school!"

Naturally I got an invitation to visit.

On the hottest day of the year, I drove my sister-in-law's car to Washington, to a very nice grey-brick house with dormer windows.

27 years had passed since I took Mr. Blowfish's class, but still, I recognized the man who answered the door: a fat, bearded bear in his sixties, wearing only a swimsuit and flip-flops.  I saw a mass of thick white hair on the man-boobs of his chest.  I couldn't see a basket.

"Mr. Davis, how nice to see you again!" he said, offering a limp handshake.

"Dr. Davis, now."

"I know, I know!  Isn't that marvelous, even if you did go to a third-rate school!  You must be using the skills I taught you every day, or do you hide behind those dreary  -- what-do-you-call-it -- Powerpoint presentations?"

"Sometimes," I admitted.

"Cover-up for academic incompetence, I always say.  Well, why don't we go out to the back?  It's such a nice day."

Mr. Blowfish led me to the back yard, where there were lawn chairs, a little white table stocked with a pitcher of lemonade, and a children's wading pool amid miscellaneous toys.

My heart sank.  If he had kids, he couldn't be gay.  "Are those toys for the neighborhood kids?" I asked tentatively.

"Oh, those belong to the grandkids.  My boys are visiting just now.  No matter where they're living, they always visit at the same time -- safety in numbers, they say.  Stick around for a bit, and you'll meet them."

He sat his lawn chair, took off his flip-flops, and plopped his feet in the kiddie pool.  "Oh, feel free to take off your shoes.  And your shirt, too.  You obviously spend a lot of time in the gym trying to forestall the ravages of age, so you might as well show off the results."

I took my shirt off, to see if his eyes widened.  They didn't.  "So, how old are your boys?" I asked, still trying to salvage my lifelong belief that Mr. Blowfish was gay.

"Oh, Thanh is 32 now.   He was born just a couple of years after my late wife and I left Viet Nam. He lives in Des Moines, doing something idiotic with computers. Louie is 28.  He lives in Michigan.  He could have been a doctor, but he chose the stupid path, conducting low-paying research."

So Mr. Blowfish fought in Viet Nam?  I couldn't imagine it.  And when I was in high school, he spent his days berating, demeaning, and otherwise terrorizing his students, then going home to hold his five-year old and one-year old sons on his lap.  Named Thanh and Louie Lundquist.  The image was bizarre.

"...and Sam is 26.  He just got a tenure-track position in art history at Cornell College.  Not the good school -- the dinky one up by Iowa City. I told him to set his sights a little higher, but he chose the liberal arts. Now, I ask you, what good has lecturing on Rembrandt ever done the world?"

After about fifteen minutes of similar put-downs, there there was a roaring in the front of the house, and the back yard exploded with people and dogs and a flurry of voices.

"Grandpa, Uncle Sammy bought me an alligator!"

"We got ice cream, but we're still hungry for hot dogs!"

"Gross, your feet are in our swimming pool!"

After the introductions, Thanh and Louie set up for grilling hot dogs and hamburgers, their wives busied themselves with salads and pie, their four kids and three dogs roughhoused, and Mr. Lundquist yelled for everyone to keep out of his flower bed.  The youngest son, Sam, the one who lectured on Rembrandt, invited me for a walk down the silent, sizzling hot streets of Washington.  His eye-widening was unmistakable.

Yep, gay, not out to his family, but he was sure that they knew.  No one had inquired about a "girlfriend" for years.

"Was Dad really your favorite teacher?" he asked.  "A lot of people are turned off by his perfectionism."

"Well, maybe not my favorite.  But I thought he was gay, so we had kind of a kindred spirit."

"You thought Dad was gay?"  Laughing, he squeezed my shoulder.  "That's so bizarre!  After Mom died he was out with a different lady every night!  He always said that his three favorite things in life were wine, women, and...women."

"Mr. Blowfish...I mean Mr. Lundquist was a little swishy in class.  A lot swishy, actually."

"You called him Mr. Blowfish!  I love it!  Because you thought he liked...um...going down on guys?"

"No, no, because of his looks.  I never thought of that other connotation -- until now."

Sam smiled, and briefly touched my hand.   "That will be my nickname from now on -- Sammy Blowfish.  Apropos of nothing in particular, are you busy later?"

I ended up asking my sister-in-law if I could keep her car out overnight, and then driving home to Cornell with Sammy.

He was short, slim, dark-skinned, with a beautiful physique and nice beneath-the-belt gifts. And he lived up to the Blowfish nickname.

This story continues in Son of Mr. Blowfish

See also: I hook up with my "Uncle"; Getting the Chinese Delivery Guy into my Bed.

My Date or Trick with Mario in the White Room

West Hollywood, September 1987

In spite of my nostalgia-infused memories of West Hollywood as a paradise, it had some big problems.  For one thing, it was completely segregated.  Only 3% of its residents were black, 5% Asian, and 10% Hispanic (compared to Los Angeles in general, 10%, 11%, and 47%).

You rarely saw anyone black on the streets, and when you did, he was with a white guy, and being charged a hefty cover to get into the bar, or waiting extra-long for the server to notice him in the restaurant.

But this isn't a story about institutional racism and microaggressions.  It's about a guy named Mario.

Nearly every day, I stopped into the Different Light Bookstore on Larrabee.  I joked that I was moving the entire stock into my room.

And one day I saw Mario browsing in the theater section.

He was rather feminine, thin and willowy, wearing gold rings, bracelets, and necklaces -- an immediate turnoff.  But he was shorter than me, dark skinned, with glasses that gave him a studious look.  So when he approached, started a conversation about gay literature, and invited me to dinner at the Greenery, I agreed.


Wait -- he meant right now.  In West Hollywood, you always set up dates for the future. Was this one of those dreaded tricks, a pickup, sex for its own sake?

Tricking was frowned upon -- if this was a trick, I could never tell my friends about it.

While I ate a hamburger and Mario picked at a salad, we exchanged coming-out stories.  He grew up in Richmond, Virginia and fled to West Hollywood seven years ago.  He had a job as a secretary, but only until he got his big break as an actor.  He hadn't had much luck, but he did land a date with celebrity Rob Lowe.

I countered by telling him about my Celebrity Boyfriend.

"My boss wants me -- I can tell," Mario continued.  "But I saw him in the rest room -- a footlong, honey!  No way, nuh-huh, I can't handle that."

Ok, feminine and into anal.  Date or trick, this wasn't going to work.  I put $5 on the table to pay for my dinner, and politely excused myself.

"Come on, honey, don't leave me hanging!" Mario exclaimed.  "After I put myself out to cruise you!  I don't meet many nice guys, who are willing to take things slow and get to know you.  Everybody wants to just jump into bed right away."

This was awkward!  "Well...um...I don't think we're compatible."

"Is it because I'm black?  You're afraid what your friends will say?"

"What?  No!"  My face burned.  That was the farthest thing from my mind,  But now we were definitely going through with the date, or trick.



So we walked down the street to Mickey's, the twink hangout, and danced and flirted and groped and fondled.

No kissing!  Was he shy or what?

But, date or trick, I was ready to go home with him.

Mario lived in a very nice apartment building, white with pink trim, on Romaine Street just off Fairfax.  He made me take off my shoes and socks to avoid tracking lint on the carpet.

"Do you want to take your shower first?" he asked.  "There are fresh towels in the bathroom, and a douche under the sink."

Douche?  Was he an anal top?

All of the towels in the bathroom were white, like at the gym.

I showered and came out to find Mario in the kitchen.  "Now put your clothes in the washer, and I'll do a load tomorrow morning before you go home.  Don't worry, no one will touch your stuff."

"My clothes...but...."

"You can't get dressed into dirty clothes, can you?"

I did as he asked.  Mario went to take his shower.  I wandered around the apartment -- only a few books, all on acting -- and found the bedroom.

It was completely white: rug, curtain, dresser, nightstand, lamp, bedspread, everything.  It made my eyes hurt.

I stood there, afraid to touch anything.  A song by Cream ran through my head: "In a white room with black curtains...wait in the place where shadows run from themselves..."

Soon Mario appeared, wearing only a white towel.

"Oh, don't worry -- the sheets and bedspread are clean.  I change them every day."

"Every...day?  I have like three sets of sheets, tops.  Don't you run out?"

"Oh, honey, I wouldn't run out for a month.  I buy sheets the way other guys buy shoes.  But I do the laundry every day anyway.  Who wants dirty clothes in the hamper for a week?"  He groped me.  "Now give me that towel.  I'll hang it up so it won't get mildewed."

He took off his towel, too -- Kielbasa, beautifully shaped.  I sat on the bed, naked, until he returned.

I moved in for a kiss.  "Sorry, I'm not into that," he said, turning his face away.

We lay on the bed, not kissing.  Mario's body was cool to the touch.  He didn't turn the light off -- the bright lights against the white background were dazzling.

He handed me a condom and turned over on his stomach.  He wanted me to screw him!

No dice.

He tried to put the condom on me.  I wasn't aroused.  "I'm really not into that," I said.

"No problem, honey.  I know lots of ways to please my man."

Mario moved down below the belt and started go go down on me.

The weirdness, the whiteness, the femininity, the lack of kissing -- nothing was happening.  I wasn't getting aroused!

A unpardonable sin, for either a date or a trick.

After awhile, he gave up, ran into the bathroom for some mouthwash, and returned.  "Well, I love cuddling with my man, too."

Wait -- didn't I get a chance to go down on him?    When I reached down there, he shooed my away.

And he didn't turn off the light!  I was stuck spending the night with him -- it would have been gauche to leave -- in a room as glaringly white as a hospital bed.

After an hour or so, I got up, gauche or no gauche, retrieved my clothes from the washer, and woke Mario with some excuse about why I had to leave.

"Sorry, honey," he murmured.  "I guess you're just not into black guys."

No, I was definitely into black guys, just not glaring white rooms.

I ran into Mario occasionally after that, at the Different Light, the gay Safeway, or on the street, and he always smiled sadly, as if to say "I know your secret shame."

That wasn't fair.  No one can be expected to perform in a white room, with someone who won't kiss and calls him "honey."

See also: Mario's Date or Trick with Rob Lowe and  The Truth about the Black Penis

March 1975: Could a Man Have Sex with a Man?

 

Rock Island, around 1975

I'm 14 years old, growing up in the Midwest, and although Stonewall was seven years ago, nobody knows that same-sex desire, behavior, relationships, or gay people exist.  Or if they do, they pretend not to.  All I see on tv, all I hear in the classroom or in church or from my parents or friends, with anxiety or smug assurance, everbody and everything tell sme that jeterosexual desire is universal human experience.

 Even the "fairies," those poor pitiable boys who pretend to be girls, long for girls.  

Every boy who ever lived, or who ever would live, or who ever would be written about in a book or shown on a tv screen, aches with desire for feminine curves and smiles. 

 I don't not yet, but everyone I know is certain that my "discovery"is  imminent.  One day soon, I will see The Girl walking in slow motion across the school yard, her hair blowing in the wind, and in an instant I will know what everyone else in the world knows.   From that moment on, I will devote my life to the pursuit of the feminine.

But what about the "Best Men" who inform my life, Doug, Dan, Bill.  I imagine us growing up and living together forever, finding a "Good Place."  What about my flurry of excitement over Bomba the Jungle Boy, Peter Brady, David Cassidy, Bobby Sherman?  My Book of Cute Boys from before kindergarten?

They do not signify same-sex desire, to me or to anyone else.  Same-sex desire is simply beyond the boundary of what can be imagined.  No boy ever touches another boy, except for brief ritualistic gestures like shaking hands.  If they touch by accident, they spring away, too disgusted for words.  Boys enjoy and desiredonly the touch of a girl.  

But there have been hints throughout my childhood, looks, gestures that didn't fit into this heteronormative universe.

Hippie leader Charles Manson wanted to get revenge on Terry Melchior, a record producer who had rejected his songs.  So on August 8th, 1969, he sent his is "family" to kill everyone in the house.  Melchior was no longer living there; the hippies killed actress Sharon Tate and her houseguests.  The next night, they killed the LaBianca family to throw the police off their trail.

Manson did not actually commit the murders, but ordering his disciples to do it was enough: he was found guilty of seven murders, and sentenced to death (later changed to life in prison).  

Tonight I'm up late -- my brother is out.  I'm flipping through the channels on the small black-and-white tv -- not difficult, there are only three -- when I chance  upon long-haired, long-bearded hippie in a prison suit being interviewed on a late night news program.

I was only eight years old at the time of the murders, so I didn't hear about them, and I don't recognize the man as Charles Manson was.  Just a long-haired, long-bearded hippie in prison.

"What do you miss most about life on the outside?  The interviewer asks.  "Sex?"

"Sex? No!" The hippie scoffs.  "There's lots of sex in prison."  

Then he stares menacingly at the camera, and the interviewer goes on to the next story.

Sex in prison? But...it's all men.  How could you have sex? 

Could a man have sex with a man?

But...men spring away from the slightest touch.  How could he put his penis in another man without being overcome with disgust?  And where would he put it?  

And why was it never mentioned?  All of the dozens of times I 've heard about "making love" from family, friends, on tv, in movies, it is always men and women.

I decide that women must sneak into the prison to have sex with him, or else there are male prison guards.  Problem solved.

But still the question haunts me.  Could a man have sex with a man?

See also: I Learn About Oral Sex in the Church Parking Lot

The Catholic Priest in My Bed

Akron, Ohio, April 2007

In the spring of 2007, I was teaching at the University of Dayton, and dating Paul, an aspiring writer who had just graduated from Ohio Dominican University. He had four of the characteristics I find attractive: short, husky, gifted beneath the belt (Bratwurst+), and religious (devout Catholic).

Devout Catholic.

1. He got his name by being born on June 29th, the Feast Day of Saint Paul.  Lucky he wasn't born on June 30th, the Feast Day of Saints Clotsindus and Ostianus.

2. He went to Catholic schools and a Catholic college.

3. His older brother was a priest.

4. He wore a scapular around his neck, except at the gym.

5. He had a little basin of holy water in his apartment, which he used to cross himself.

6. When he spent Saturday night with me, he insisted on going to Mass the next day.

7. And fasting before, so no Sunday brunch.

Being closeted, Paul didn't want anyone to know that we were gay.  He wouldn't take me to his regular church in Huber Heights, or go to a church near me in Fairborn, where someone might recognize.

We often drove all the way into Columbus to find a relatively gay-friendly Catholic church.  If not, we went to Holy Family, the most conservative church in town, where statues outnumbered people, and elderly nuns sat in the front row with rosary beads, and priests still heard confessions.

The nice thing about conservative churches is that it's easy to be closeted.  It never occurs to anyone, ever, that a member of the congregation -- or a visitor -- might be gay.  Paul and I could sit together, hug, answer questions as a couple, and everyone just assumed that we were heterosexual friends, or father and son (I was 45, and he was 25).

Besides, one of the priests was very cute.  Father Christopher, 26 years old, a new graduate of the Pontifical College Josephinum.  Tall, dark-haired, with glasses and a hint of a respectable physique, who threw references to Harry Potter and Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy into his homilies.


I have a thing for clergy: Catholic, Protestant, Jewish, Muslim.  There's something about the juxtaposition of the physical and the spiritual, the erotic thoughts that leak into sacred spaces, the penis hidden beneath those gaudy robes and black cassocks.

No chance that we would ever hook up!  He was a graduate of the most conservative seminary in the U.S., and a priest at the most conservative church in Ohio!

Just looking was enough.

One Sunday Father Christopher announced an upcoming spiritual retreat, centered on the contemplative works of Thomas Merton.  Participants would car-pool to the Loyola Retreat House, near Akron, Ohio, about three hours away.

I liked Thomas Merton, and I really liked Father Christopher, so I signed up.  Paul couldn't make it.

A group of 10 of us drove up in three cars, leaving at dawn and arriving just in time for lunch.  Then an afternoon of meditation workshops, book discussions, lectures, free time for contemplation, dinner, and Mass.  It was like a Nazarene camp meeting.

The next morning, we had another Mass, followed by breakfast, more workshops, discussions, and lectures, lunch, and more free time for contemplation.  Then we headed home.

I got to spend a lot of time with Father Christopher.  My life story had to be strictly closeted, of course, but I still managed to complain about the Nazarene church of my childhood, and share lots of stories about how much they hated Catholics.

 He was shocked -- he had believed that everyone loved and respected the Catholic Church, even Protestants.

But the best part was bedtime.  Since Father Christopher and I were the only non-couples at the retreat, we were assigned to share a room.

I didn't intend to try anything, of course -- the last thing I needed was to be ejected from a retreat center a three hour drive from home.  But I was hoping for a Sausage Sighting.

Father Christopher changed into his pajamas in the bathroom, then climbed into bed with rosary beads.  "Hail Mary, full of grace," he began.  "Oh -- Boomer, I hope this won't disturb you?"

"Not at all."  I waited..

No chance of seeing any autoerotic activity later.  I looked it up: Catholics consider masturbation "intrinsically evil," like being gay.

But sometimes the penis has a mind of its own.  Especially when you lack a regular sexual outlet.

I watched.

Father Christopher finished his rosary, kissed it, put it aside, and crossed his arms over his chest like a vampire.  Soon he began to snore. 

I watched.

After about half an hour, it began to rise.

It stood at full attention.

I didn't dare touch it, but...could I move off the covers, and get a peek?

I reached over and carefully tugged at the covers.

Father Christopher murmured something, and I retreated.

It was still standing at full attention.

I tried again.

It stood, peeking out of his underwear, ready for action, a Bratwurst with a mushroom head.

Eventually he turned over.  He hadn't awakened, or even touched anything.

Later I discovered that the average person has about 5 dreams per night.  10% of those dreams have sexual content, and 5% of the sex dreams result in a spontaneous orgasm.

So if you watch most men all night, you have a 1 in 40 chance of seeing a spontaenous orgasm.  But since Father Paul didn't have an access to an ordinary sexual outlet, my chances were probably like 1 in 10.

Still, my luck was amazing.

In the morning Father Paul showered and changed, and we continued the retreat.

I don't think he even knew that his erotic life came alive every night in dreams.

See also: Barry and the Creepy Old Guy; and Paul Gives Up Men for Lent

Sharing a Bed with Mary's Brother

Chicago, March 1979

Shortly after my 18th birthday in 1978, my friend Mary, a member of the bookstore gang and big Andre Norton fan, told me that she suspected her kid brother of being gay.  She invited me to visit her home  for spring break in March 1979, shortly after I revealed my boss's "trouser snake,"  to "check." I had not yet met any gay people, so I eagerly agreed.

Mary's family -- blustering Archie Bunker father, mousy devout-Catholic mother, hippie older brother (away visiting his girlfriend), and possibly-gay kid brother Jake






They lived in one of the dull, faceless suburbs of Chicago, in a small two-story house surrounded by thousands of other small two-story houses.

Her father needed the car to drive to work, and there were no buses in the suburbs. Mary’s friend drove us to the Mall and for pizza, and one day we all drove to Axehead Lake.  Otherwise we were stuck in the house  for five days and six nights.

Mary’s "kid brother" Jake was sixteen (all models are over 18), slim, lightly tanned, with short blond hair.  He had a naturally tight, hard physique that would, with a little weight training, develop into something spectacular.

Don't worry about his age: a 16 and an 18 together were legal in Illinois in 1979.  At the  the time, I thought that all same-sex activity was illegal everywhere.

When I asked in private,  Jake told me that he had a girlfriend, a cheerleader with very large breasts. Her name was Tessa, or maybe Tina, and she lived in Aurora, or maybe Naperville (the details changed from day to day). Of course they  had sex, frequently and enthusiastically, whenever she came to town to cheer for her team.

Today I would find this story suspect, but in 1979 I took it as proof positive of heterosexual identity.

At night, we shared a room. We stripped down to our briefs and lay atop mussed sheets on single beds, separated only by a nightstand.

Just after midnight on Saturday, my last night in Chicago, I awoke to a door slamming, footsteps, and a furious discussion between two voices, then three, then four. I surmised that Mary’s older brother (I don't remember his name) had come home unexpectedly after a fight with my girlfriend. Not willing to be kicked out of my bed,







I kept my eyes tightly shut and pretended to be asleep. After awhile I heard footsteps, a whispered conversation with Jake, and then scuffling and bed-creaking. When I dared open my eyes, a big, thickly-muscled jock in white underwear lay in the opposite bed, cradling Jake in his arms. Both were facing me, asleep or pretending to be. Their legs were intertwined.

“Jake,” I murmured. “Move over here.  More room."




A moment later Jake was under the covers, his head against my chest.  Then our legs intertwined. After awhile there were mouths and hands, and a murmured “Don’t wake up my brother."

At some point during the night, Jake returned to his brother's arms.

After an egg-and-bacon casserole, roasted potatoes, and rolls with orange marmalade, our friend Rich and his girlfriend picked us up for the three-hour trip back to Rock Island.

In the car, I announced that Jake was definitely straight.  He even had a girlfriend.

David and I Pick Up a Hitchhiker

Key West, Florida, August 2003

A common porn scenario is picking up a hot hitchhiker, who happens to be gay, gifted beneath the belt, and interested in you.

I've only done it once.

In West Hollywood you saw guys hitchhiking all the time, but they were usually hustlers.  I never picked anyone up.

In San Francisco and New York, I didn't have a car.

In Florida I was too apprehensive, until David visited.

You remember David, the effusive, ultra-horny former minister who got me into lots of scrapes in San Francisco.  In August 2003, he flew out for a five-day visit.

I hadn't seen him for six years.  He was a little more bald, a little more chunky, but still a beefy, bearded, bear, and as effervescent as ever.

I asked "What do you want to do while you're here?" expecting him to say Disney World, but he said "Let's go to Key West!"

I love Key West, 120 miles off the coast of Florida on a highway that crosses the ocean.  A compact, small town of 20,000, one of the most gay-friendly resorts in the world.  But it's a four-hour drive from Fort Lauderdale, a bit much for a weekend.

"I'll help out with the driving," David said.  "I always wanted to go there."

So we made a reservation at a gay B&B.  We started out at about noon on Friday, and planned to stay two nights and return early Sunday morning.

On the way south, you take an Interstate to Homestead, but then it's a surface road, Highway 1.  Sometimes we saw pedestrians along the road, and occasionally a hitchhiker.

In Key Largo, David called out, "Hey, that hitchiker is cute! Let's pick him up!"

"Are you kidding?  That's dangerous!"

Hitchhiking was a common means of getting around for the hippies and bohemians of the 1960s.  But it fell out of favor in the U.S. during the 1970s.

 "Hitchhikers are all psycho-killers!" TV commercials screamed.  "They will rape, strangle, and eat you!"

There have been actually only a few cases of hitchhikers robbing or killing the drivers who pick them up, but it was a common theme in pop culture.

"Don't be silly," David said.  "It's a great way to meet guys."

"Hustlers, you mean?"

"Regular guys.  Straight, but available.  90% of hitchhikers will let you go down on them in exchange for the ride."

"What about the other 10%?  Raging homophobes?"

"Come on -- you're on vacation.  Take a chance!."

"Ok, ok.  Next cute hitchhiker, we pick him up.  But we're not coming out to him, just driving him into Key West, that's all."

We rejected the next two hitchhikers as not cute enough, but the third, was a lean, muscular twink with his shirt off, standing outside the Dolphin Research Center in Marathon with a sign reading "Key West."  He didn't have a backpack.

"Is he ok?"  I asked David.

"Ok?  He's perfect!"

We slowed down, checked to make sure he was alone, then stopped.  I moved into the back seat, and the hitchhiker -- his name was Jesse -- got into the front seat next to David.

He was eighteen years old, a few inches shorter than me, tanned, with short brown hair, a smooth chest, lean, hard muscles, and big hands.


Jesse told us that grew up on a potato farm in Aroostook County, Maine, farther north than Montreal or Quebec City, about as far north as you could get in the United States.  When it came time to choose a college, he wanted to go as far south as possible, so he decided on  Florida International University in Miami.

They held a Freshman Orientation before classes started -- a week of tours, lectures, workshops, and "ice breakers."  Boring!   And he was anxious to get as far south as you could go.

So yesterday morning he got on a bus to Key West.  But he missed his transfer in Homestead, and he didn't want to wait three hours for the next bus, so he walked out onto Caribbean Boulevard and thumbed a ride south.

No, he didn't take off his shirt to attract drivers -- it was just a hot day.

The first guy who picked him up was driving all the way to Key West, but Jesse asked to be let off in Marathon.

"Why'd you stop in Marathon, with your destination so close?" I asked.

"Oh -- I wanted to swim with the dolphins.  You don't get many opportunities to do that, up in Maine."  He paused.  "So, um, are you guys gay?  It's ok if you are -- I'm not prejudiced.  I watch Will and Grace.   I just never met anybody gay before.  We don't have any in Maine."

"There are lots of gay people in Maine," I said. "I visited when I lived in New York."

"You lived in New York?  Awright!"  He turned and gave me a "high-five" gesture.  "That must have been cool."

"And I'm from San Francisco."  David said..

"Oh, I heard all about San Francisco!"  Jesse turned back to me. "Are you guys like,  lovers?"

"No, just friends,  But we've been in bed together.  Gay friends like to share each other's dates and boyfriends."

"You kidding? Wow --  I wish straight guys would do that!"  He paused.  "So, what's it like?  Cornholing, I mean.  Does it hurt?"

"A lot of gay men aren't into anal sex at all.  There's lots of other things to do.  Like oral sex -- I'm sure you've done that with girl."

"Oh, sure, lots of times," Jesse said with a bit of hesitation, turning his head toward the road.   "But I'll bet guys do it better, since they know what a guy likes."

"Do you have a place to stay in Key West?" David asked.

"Not really.  I figured I would just go as far south as I could, then turn around and go home."

Jesse was apparently a big flighty.

"Better not set out until tomorrow morning," David suggested.  Was he fondling Jesse's crotch in the front seat?  I couldn't tell.  "You can stay with us, if you want.  Of course, the B&B just has one bed, but you can camp out on the floor."

"That'd be great, guys! As long as you don't try anything, of course"

We did some sightseeing, took Jesse to the Southernmost Point in the United States, had dinner at a Cuban restaurant on Duval Street, pointed out various gay men, and then checked into our B&B.

As we laid blankets out on the floor for him, Jesse said "Ok, now I've been dying to see what you guys do in bed."

"Not much," David said.  "We're just friends, remember.  Now, if there was a hot guy in the bed with us..."

Jesse blushed.  "Um..um...well, can't you just do a little demonstration?  Just so I know."



"Ok, but if we're going to be naked, you have to be naked, too."

We all undressed and lay on the bed, Jesse as far to the right as he could, his hands covering his crotch. David and I started to kiss.

"Holy cow!" Jesse exclaimed.  "I didn't know gay guys kissed!"

"Sure -- it's my favorite thing.  Don't you like it?"

"Yeah...um...I like it ok, I guess."

David moved down and started to work on me.  Jesse's eyes widened, and he started to squirm.  He moved his hands away from his crotch.  He was rather small, ruddy, and uncut.

I leaned over and pulled him close.

"Just to see what it's like?"  he said.  Then we were kissing.

In the morning we took Jesse to the Greyhound Station to get on his bus back to Miami.

"See?"  David said.  "Jesse turned out to be a nice guy, and super-hot."

We stopped for another hitchhiker on the way back to Fort Lauderdale.  Nothing happened.

See also: Waking up to a Straight Boy in My Bed; My 12 Porn Movie Hookups; and The High School Bodybuilder.

Finding a Private Place to Have Sex with Guys

Sometime in 7th grade:

I start to hear that guys' beneath-the-belt equipment turns into a gigantic baseball bat at random moments, with no prior warning.

The process is called "getting a boner," or "popping a boner," when it happens in an embarrassing situation, like when you are visiting your grandmother or giving an oral presentation in class.

I occasionally feel a stirring down below, but no baseball bats.

8th grade, around my 13th birthday:

I start experiencing my own baseball bats at random moments, in the locker room, in science class, at church.  They are usually easy to cover up with a hymnal or a science textbook, so no one notices.

I assume that other guys are covering up, too, since I rarely see any at school, or any tell-tale signs like squirming in your chair or suddenly looking for something to cover up with.  Occasionally I see one in the shower, and once a college boy at Olivet "pops a boner" while he is kissing his girlfriend.

Late in 8th grade:

I notice a pattern: baseball bats happen most often when I am looking at or talking to a cute guy, like my boyfriend Dan or Micah the Bible Boy.  Pictures of Korak Son of Tarzan in a Gold Key comic book will do it.  And Desi Arnaz Jr. on Here's Lucy on Monday night.  I begin bringing a giant math book to the living room with me.

Even thinking about a cute guy might cause a baseball bat, especially if you fantasize about kissing or hugging him.

Early in ninth grade:

The other guys are constantly talking about getting baseball bats while talking to cute girls.

Bill's big brother Mike tells me that you always get a baseball bat when you're having sex with a girl.  It's necessary to get the sperm into the girl's ovaries, so she can have a baby.

I figure that Dan and I are the only guys in the world who think about boys while it happens.

Ninth grade, around my 14th birthday:

I discover that if you continue to think about kissing and touching cute guys,  you can bring the baseball bat to the culmination that the older boys call "blowing a load."

Of course, it would be nice to have the cute guy there instead of just thinking about him, but when I approach my boyfriend Dan, he refuses.  So it's just me and the baseball bat.

The problem is, finding a place to do it, in a tiny house crammed with five people, including parents who never go out at night and a brother and sister who constantly have friends over.

Summer after ninth grade:

We move to a new house, considerably bigger, with a separate dining room, a screened in porch, a basement rec room, a double yard.    But still, finding a place to do it is a problem.

My bedroom: No, my brother and I share, and he and his innumerable friends could show up at any moment.

The bathroom: One for a family of five, right off the dining room, next to my sister's bedroom where she and all of her friends are constantly hanging out  Besides, my parents aren't aware of the concept of privacy.  They will walk right in while I am on the toilet, to put something in the linen closet or get clothes out of the hamper.

The basement: There is a large rec room, a laundry room, and an artist's studio belonging to the last resident, Mr. Kint.  No one has touched it since the day he died.  It freaks me out.   Besides, anyone walking into the rec room could look in and see what I was doing.

The attic! Just off our bedroom, there is an attic room, about 8 by 20 feet, unfinished, with one small window.  I could move the boxes and old furniture so that the back of the room is hidden from the door.

Now I just need my parents' permission to...um...do it there.

"I want to make a little study in the attic," I announce.

"But you have a desk and a bookcase in your room," Mom says.  "What else do you need?"

"It's too noisy.  Kenny is always playing his music loud, or having his friends over, and I can't get any work done."

"But there's no heat or air conditioning in there," Dad protests.  "You'll freeze in the winter and burn up in the summer."

"It has electricity, so I can get a space heater for the winter, and a window fan for the summer.    Besides, I won't be there very long, just an hour or so before dinner, when I'm doing homework."

They finally consent, and I move boxes around to make a safe haven of about 8 by 10 feet.

 I put out a sleeping bag and some pillows, a small bookcase with some books and writing tablets (I am supposed to be doing homework, remember?), and some baseball bat aids, like this Tarzan comic.

10th grade, around my 15th birthday:

I have brought in an old chair, an end table, a lamp, a clock, and a radio.  A space heater for winter.  Some pictures of Tarzan and Bomba the Jungle Boy on the wall.

I have started doing homework there for real, and working on my heroic fantasy novel.

It is  my sanctuary, a "good place" of my own, free from the "what girl do you like" interrogations of the outside world.

I start bragging to a couple of my friends about my sanctuary, where I can do anything I want.

"I can't get any privacy at home, either," Tom tells me.  "Could I...um...use your sanctuary sometime?"

"You can't bring a girl in there!" I exclaim, horrified.  "It's boys only!"

"No, no...by myself.  I'll just bring in some magazines, and...you know."

I think it over.  Watching a cute guy would be almost as good as kissing and hugging him!

"Ok, but you can't bring pictures of naked girls -- they're gross. And I have to be there, too.  My parents would get suspicious if some kid used my sanctuary when I wasn't around."

Eleventh grade:

Two guys come to my sanctuary: Tom and Aaron.  Not too often, maybe once every other week.  I discover that Darry has his own sanctuary.

Sometimes my brother is out in the bedroom, but he never gets suspicious.

Nor do my parents.

Twelfth grade:

Now it's three guys: Tom, Marty, and Aaron. Alternating, once a week, so each gets a turn once a month.

I don't get to touch anything, but still, I'm with a cute guy and his baseball bat!

See also: Dad explains the facts of life; The Most Underrated Sex Act; and the Preacher Pops a Boner.