The Naked Goldenboys at Football Try-Outs

Rock Island, August 1975

"All entering sophomores invited to try out for junior varsity football," Dad reads from a brochure that came in the mail.

"That's nice," I say, immersed in a course catalog.  In just a few weeks, I'll be going to Rocky High, a mature, sophisticated, grown-up high schooler with tons of cool courses to choose from.

Arthurian Legend or Greek Mythology?
The Great Depression or The Civil War?
Advanced Spanish or Elementary Swedish?
I must have that course catalog memorized!

"You dropped out of wrestling and judo," he points out.  "You have to play some kind of sport in high school."

"Is that a rule?  I don't like sports. Besides, I'm going to be busy with orchestra, jump quiz, Spanish Club, Writers' Club..."

"Yes, it's a rule!  And stop pretending that you don't like sports.  You're a boy, aren't you?"

"Well...I wouldn't mind the track team, I guess."

"Why not football?"

"No way!" I exclaim.  "Football is gross!"  Of all the sports I hate, football is the worst.  Guys pounding each other into a pulp over some stupid little ball.  Why don't they just give everybody his own ball -- that way they wouldn't have to fight over it.

"Football players always get the cutest girls," Dad says, assuming that I, like "every boy," make decisions solely on their usefulness in acquiring girls.

"What kind of date can I go on in Intensive Care?"

"Don't get smart!  It won't hurt you to try out, at least."

When Dad says "Jump," you don't ask "How high?", you just jump.  I have no choice but to try out.

Rocky High is about 2 1/2 miles from my house, a straight shot down 18th Avenue to Longview Park, then left on 17th Street and down the hill.  I walk slowly, hoping to arrive too late.

I have only seen the high school from a distance.  Close up, it's vast and imposing, two huge limestone monoliths, a dozen outlying buildings, a huge parking lot.   Suddenly I feel very small.  How will I ever find my classes?  I was one of the top students at tiny, ordinary Washington Junior High, but here, surrounded by rich kids from the South Side, the children of Augustana professors...what if I...

Somehow I find the locker room.  It's deserted, silent except for the sound of a shower.  I walk over -- a heavily tanned, muscular guy, probably a senior, is soaping up.  Enormous penis.  But what I remember most is his trapezius, the muscle the goes across the top of the shoulder.  How did he ever get it so big?

I stand staring, open mouthed.  Is this what playing football is like?  Constant sausage sightings?

He smiles.  "You get lost, kid?"

"Um...I'm supposed to go to junior varsity football try-outs."

He points the way.

There are 30 guys already on the field, doing push-ups.  I know some of them from junior high -- well, knew of them, since they were too far above me on the social ladder to speak to.  They were the goldenboys who played every sport, led every school club, and presided over every assembly.  As handsome as Greek gods, and built, tall, broad shoulders, thick biceps, and huge hands.  They drank three cartons of milk at lunchtime, put their legs on the desk in front of them in class, came in late, left early without ever getting in trouble.  They could do no wrong: teachers and students alike were in love with them.

No doubt the other guys are goldenboys from their own junior highs.

I stand staring, open mouthed.  Is this what being on a football team is like?  Hanging out with Greek gods day after day?  Sitting with them in the cafeteria?  Pairing up with them for class projects?  Being invited to sleepovers at their house?

I'm in!  But wait -- that would mean playing football.  Gross!  There must be some way to hang out with goldenboys without having projectiles aimed at you!

 The Coach, a short, solidly built bulldog who will also be my gym teacher in the fall, takes my name, asks what position I want to play ("um...I dunno -- whatever he's playing"), and tells me to do push-ups..

 I haven't started weight training yet.  I can only do five.

Turns out we are just warming up.  After some sit-ups and jumping jacks, the real try-outs begin.  There are five tests.  After each, the coach walks up to a few of the guys, ones who did well and ones who didn't, and asks their names.

The Running Test.  I'm good at running -- I easily zip past most of the guys.  Only two pass me.

The Obstacle Course Test.  "Run in between these giant things as fast as you can without knocking them over."

Easy, and sort of fun.  This might not be so bad after all.

The Throwing Test.  I have never touched a football before in my life, let alone thrown one.  The projectile goes way to the left of the target I am aiming at.

The Catching Test.  A gigantic projectile hurled at me.  I missed it by a mile.

Ok, this isn't going well.  It's not worth hanging out with Golden Boys if you have to throw projectiles, or get them aimed at you!

The Tackling Test.  "Hurl yourself with all your strength at that big square blue thing."

Forget that!  I run around it.

After the coach finishes marking things on his clipboard, he says "You all did a great job.  Hit the showers, and then wait in the locker room for me to call your name.  I'll tell you whether you made it or not in private."

Showering with the Golden Boys is exciting -- a roomful of hard pecs, washboard abs, and gigantic Mortadellas.  And fun -- the guys tease each other, snap towels, pretend that they're going to grab each other's penises.
 
I want to be part of this group, get sausage sightings and penis-grabbing every day.  But then...shudder...I'd have to play football!

Most of us are still half-dressed, some still toweling off, when the Coach starts calling names, and taking the boys one by one back to his office.  Anderson... Angelo... Bates... Bergstrom...  Callohill....

"I'm not too worried," says the boy to my right, whose Mortadella+ I gawked at just a few minutes ago.  "There are 20 guys on the JV team, and 27 of us -- I counted.  That means 3/4ths of us make it."

My heart sinks.  What if I make it?  There must be a position that's all running and obstacle-course.  Then I'll spend my first semester at Rocky High getting pummelled!

"There's going to be a pizza party Friday after practice, for the ones who make the team," he continues.  "Maybe..."

At that moment the Coach calls my name and waits for me to approach. But we don't turn left, to his office, like the other boys.   We turn right.  He wraps his arm around my shoulders and leads me to a little caged room with athletic equipment in it.

"Boomer, I know you gave it your best shot, but not everyone is cut out to play football.  I can see how much you love the game, though, so I had an idea.  Do you have your Red Cross First Aid Certificate?"

"Sure.  I got it last year."

"Well, how would you like a job as an athletic trainer?  You'd be part of the team, just as valuable as the quarterback."

And I could hang out with goldenboys without getting pummeled every day!  

By the way, I eventually saw the Coach naked, too.

See also: My Crush on the Girl Next Door's Boyfriend; and I Get a Job as an Athletic Trainer.

Junior High: 77 Signs that You're a Fairy

In my junior high, the worst possible fate was to be a "fairy."  Not a boy who was interested in boys -- we didn't have the slightest inkling that same-sex desire existed, anywhere in the world.  A boy who suppressed his natural masculine instincts and  pretended that he was a girl.

We didn't know why fairies pretended to be girls. Malice, stupidity, sheer perversity?  But they were in deadly peril.  Most obviously, every boy's sole reason for living was to get girls, and girls only liked real men.

But there was another, more sinister peril that the older boys whispered about: if you pretended to be a girl long enough, you might actually turn into a girl, or rather a swish, a nightmarish  hybrid reature.

Fairies had to be convinced to stop it! and act like boys again, by any means necessary.  Friends tried gentle persuasion; enemies, catcalls and jeers; mean boys, public humiliation, and if that didn't work, pummeling in the schoolyard.

Teachers rarely intervened.  After all, it was for the fairy's own good.  He had to be convinced to stop it! and act like a boy again.

There were dozens of signs that you were a fairy, or in danger of becoming one.  Here are the top 77:

Clothes

1. A shirt with a little loop in back (called a fruit loop)

2. An undershirt.
3. A green shirt.
4. A turtleneck sweater.
5. "High water" pants that revealed your socks.
6. Pants with buttons instead of a zipper.
7. Glasses
8. A bow tie.
9. Buttoning the top button of your shirt.
10. Jewelry, especially rings.
11. Being excessively neat.

Language and Deportment

12. Wiggling hips

13.  Hand gestures.
14. Wrist movements

15. An enthusiastic voice (it must be angry or a monotone).
16. Using too many adjectives.
17. Using correct grammar.

Before and After School

18. Talking to/ walking with girls.

19. Carrying books home with you.
20. Carrying a violin case home with you.

21. Refusing to fight when challenged.
22. Fighting ineptly.
23. Crying for any reason.

24. Telling a teacher or parent about bullying.

In Class

25. Carrying a pencil case.
26. Sitting in the front row.
27. Volunteering the answer to a teacher's question.

28. Not referring to the teacher by her last name only ("Mrs. DeSmet" instead of just "DeSmet")

29. Taking French (a fairy language) instead of Spanish.

30. Using a protractor.
31. Having neat homework assignments.
32. Getting good grades on purpose (saying "I studied hard", for instance)
33. Worrying about/asking about grades.

Gym/Sports
34. Not going out for a sport.
35. Pretending to be ignorant of the results of last night's game.
36. Pretending to be ignorant of a player's statistics.
37. Calling gym "p.e. class"
38. Not being able to play a sport adequately.
39. Being selected last for a team.
40. Wearing a towel around your waist on the way to the showers.
41. Having insufficient muscles.
42. Having an insufficient penis.
43. Having insufficient pubic hair.










Leisure/Extracurricular Activities
44. Belonging to an academic organization (Spanish Club or Chemistry Club)
45. Participating in student government.
46. Playing in the band or orchestra.
47. Performing in student plays or musicals.
48. Studying dance.
49. Studying art.
50. Going to libraries, museums, art galleries, or concerts.
51. Not going bowling.
52. Watching The Brady Bunch, The Partridge Family, or any variety show.
53. Not watching Adam-12. 
54. Listening to David Cassidy, the Captain and Tennile, or Elton John.
55. Not listening to The Eagles.
56. Reading teen magazines.
57. Not knowing about cars.
58. Not knowing about guns.
59. Disliking hunting, fishing, and camping.
60. Having never been on an airplane.
61. Having to be home before dark.
62. Calling your parents to tell them your whereabouts.
63. Hanging out with girls.


Lunch/Food

64. Sitting with girls in the cafeteria.

65. Carrying a lunch box instead of a paper bag.

66. Eating grapes.
67. Eating jello.
68. Drinking chocolate milk.
69. Using a napkin instead of your sleeve.
70. Depositing apple cores in the trash instead of on the ground.
71. Eating in an excessively neat fashion.
72. Knowing how to cook.

Dating/Sex
73. Being a virgin.
74. Having sex with fewer than five girls per week.
75. Being attracted to athletic girls.
76. Dating a girl who is overweight or wears glasses.
77. Walking hand-in-hand with a girl.

Bonus (for Rock Island only)
78. Coming in through the back entrance of the school (past the girls' locker room).
79. Going to Little Caesar's (a pizza place next to a hair salon)

Jump Quiz: The Nazarene Sport of Bibles and Butts

Rock Island, October 1978

When I was growing up in the Church of the Nazarene, most of the high school boys and a few girls competed in the jump quiz.

They announced the book of the Bible every year during summer camp, and we started preparing immediately, memorizing verses, quizzing each other, and doing set after set of lunges, squats, kickbacks, and leg-lifts.

This was a strenuous sport!

The local eliminations were held in October.  The quizmaster began a question, and the moment you though you could answer, you jumped up out of your seat.  No hands -- leg and butt movement only.

With 20 questions per round, and 4 or more rounds per tournament, you needed really strong quads, hamstrings, and glutes.

If more than one contestant jumped up, the coach decided whose butt cleared the chair first.

That's right -- an adult man  had the job of staring intently at the butts of high school boys (and a few girls).

The top five players became our church's Jump Quiz Team, and went on to the District tournament in January. 

The Regionals were in March, the Nationals in June, and Internationals in July. Plus there were invitationals along the way  And trophies, prizes, pictures in church magazines, fawning invitations to parties, and even requests for autographs.

I had bad luck with the jump quiz.  In 9th grade, District interfered with a wrestling tournament, and I picked wrestling.

In 10th grade, my grandmother died, and we had to be in Indiana during the locals.  

In 11th grade, I got sick, and missed District.

In 12th grade, my jerk of a boss at the Carousel Snack Bar forced me to mop out the store room, thus missing District again!

But I was becoming disillusioned with the Nazarene Church anyway.  The Preacher had discovered homa-sekshuls, and was blaming them for everything from droughts to divorce.  And I was tired of the long list of nos: NO movies NO dancing NO cards NO comic books NO eating out on Sunday NO theater...

I couldn't drop out all at once, with my parents still going, and the church police knocking on your door after every absence.  So I started out skipping the evening services, then occasional Sunday morning services.  During my freshman year at Augustana, I was skipping most services, and usually Sunday school, too.

So I was surprised when the Preacher called one evening and asked me to coach the jump quiz.

"Um...why me?  I have a pretty poor jump quiz record."

"But you were on the team four years in a row, and you have lots of valuable skills. NYPS President, International Institute, wrestling team, athletic trainer..." He was apparently reading from a list.  "And I heard you're taking Biblical Greek at that Lutheran college, so you'll really be able to get into the Scripture with the kids."

"But...I haven't been coming to church much lately."

"Maybe this is just what you need to bring you back to the Lord."

So that was his game -- conversion through coaching!

"Besides, won't you feel good knowing that you're making a difference in a boy's life?  Why, your influence might be the only thing that protects him from turning into a homa-sekshul."

My face began to burn. "Well, when you put it that way, how can I refuse?"

So during my freshman year at Augustana, I returned to the Nazarene Church once a week to drill high school boys on the Book of Luke, and lead them in set after set of lunges, squats, kickbacks, and leg-lifts.

Sometimes we met at the YMCA swimming pool, for water resistance training, so I was forced to check out the athletes in swimsuits (don't worry, they were only two or three years younger than me).

During the local elimination, I had to keep my eye on their butts, of course.

We didn't make it to State.

The next year, I was in Germany during the fall semester, but I was back in time for the District tournament in January.  I was dating Fred, so my boyfriend was in the audience while I kept my eye on the butts of high school boys to ensure that they didn't turn into homa-sekshuls.

We didn't make it to State.

Is My Judo Master Gay?

Rock Island, January 1971

Denkmann Elementary School didn't have any sports teams, so I was spared the "play a sport...play a sport...play a sport" litany.  Until the beginning of fifth grade, the fall of 1970, when Dad suddenly came home with a pamphlet advertising "Rock Island Parks & Recreation Kids’ Sports.”

"It’s not just ball games, Skeezix,” Dad said. “They have boxing, judo, and karate. Those will be better at teaching you to fight anyway.”

“Couldn’t I join the orchestra instead?”

“Orchestra won’t teach you how to use your fists,” Mom pointed out. “You’re going to have to learn to fight sooner or later. All boys do.”

I sighed.  I get punched by a Mean Boy one time, and they start a "learn to fight" kick, insisting that people will be challenging me to fistfights regularly for the rest of my life.

Or maybe they were responding to the incident at the A&W, when Bill and I became "a Mama and a Papa."  Or asking for an Easy Bake Oven for my birthday.

“How about we make a deal?” Dad said. “You can join the orchestra if you take one of these classes, too. Boxing, judo, karate, whichever you want.”

Judo seemed the least horrible – no actual hitting, and you got snacks – so when the new kids’ classes began in January, I walked four blocks west to 38th Street, to the Rock Island Martial Arts Center. I changed into my stiff white judogi with the novice white belt, and learned about bowing, falling, and randori, or exercises on the mat.

I considered sneaking through the glass doors, looking at the comic books at Schneider’s for an hour or so, then going home and lying to Mom and Dad about how much fun I had. But it was too cold to go outside without a coat, and besides, most of the other students were cute junior high boys, and if I stuck around I might be able to see them take their judogis off in the locker room.



The sensei, or teacher, a Japanese guy named Sammy, was tall and broad-shouldered, with a smooth, golden chest slightly dampened with sweat (I don't have any pictures, but he looked like Japanese bodybuilder Hidetada Yamagishi). During the break, when we got to drink tea and eat almond cookies, he took me aside and wrapped a huge hard arm around my shoulders and said “Don’t worry that you are little. Some of our greatest champions are little guys. I bet in a month or two, you will be able to throw me.”

And, in a month or two, I did manage to throw Sammy (but he helped, practically leaping over my hip). I started to look forward to my Tuesday and Thursday afternoons at the dojo, with the tinkling Japanese samisen music, the faint smell of bleach and incense, the cute junior high boys, and Sammy’s fascinating stories.

One night during break, as we were eating almond cookies, Sammy said, “I better stock up. At home all we got is peanut butter sandwiches.”

“Why don’t you tell your wife to make pot roast?” I asked. “That’s what Uncle Charlie always makes on My Three Sons.”

“We never have that,” Sammy said with a weird half-smile. “Too complicated to make, too many ingredients.”

Why was pot roast too hard for his wife? I wondered. Weren’t all grown-up women expert cooks? But. . .boys couldn’t cook, or if we tried, it had to be something easy. When Mom was in the hospital having my baby sister, Dad made macaroni and cheese three nights in a row.

The answer was obvious: Sammy was married to a man, not a woman!

I didn't know the word "gay" yet, but I assumed that Sammy was in a same-sex relationship for almost a year.  Until the summer after fifth grade, when he invited some of his best students to his house for a cookout.

When Dad dropped me off and I walked onto the screened-in porch and knocked, the door was answered by a petite Caucasian woman in a flowered blouse and Capri shorts. I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. Sammy was married to a woman after all.

Where were all the men married to men?  Or were they all forced to marry women?  Maybe the litany "what girl do you like" shifted gradually, as you grew older, to "you must choose a wife!"  And if you refused, you would be forced.

The Naked Baseball Player in My Kitchen

Wilton Manors, August 2003

I hate sports!  Especially playing them:  I could never understand the allure of waiting for a hard round projectile to come zooming out of the sky and hit you in the head.

But also watching them: why watch a bunch of guys who don't even have their shirts off chase a little projectile around?

I had seen only one half of a baseball game in my life, until I was living in Florida, and Yuri started dating one of the Florida Marlins.


They were pro-gay.  They bought ads in gay magazines, and the Fort Lauderdale Gay Men's Chorus sang before the game on AIDS Awareness Day.


But that didn't stop Jim the Baseball Player (not his real name) from being closeted.

Yuri met him online sometime in May 2003.  He always went down to Miami for their dates, so even after three months, I had never met Jim.

But I saw pictures.  Extraordinarily cute, and, according to Yuri, surprisingly gifted beneath the belt.

"You've got to bring Jim up to Wilton Manors," I told Yuri.  It was customary to introduce the boyfriend to the roommates and invite them to 'share.'

 "He doesn't want to come," Yuri said.  "It's a gay neighborhood, and he's afraid that someone will see him and find out that he is gay."

Typical closet case -- worried that armies of heterosexuals are scrutinizing your every move for tell-tale signs of gayness.

I had already given up hope when, one night early in August 2003, I woke up late and had to go to the bathroom.  I had to walk through the kitchen to get there.


There was a naked man peering into the open refrigerator.

I was so awestruck by his physique that it took me a moment to look up at his face: it was Yuri's boyfriend, Jim the Baseball Player!

"Mind if I make myself a sandwich?" he asked.

"Um...um...go ahead.  You must be Jim.  My name's Boomer."

"Oh, sure, Nice to meet you.  Yuri talks about you all the time."

"You, too.  I didn't think he'd ever manage to drag you up to Wilton Manors."

"It's a gay neighborhood -- you can't be too careful.  But we drove up to Boca Raton, and it was so late...I'll be out early tomorrow, before anyone sees me."

He wasn't looking at my face, either.  I looked down...my bathrobe was hanging open.

"So..um...go ahead and make a sandwich.  I have to ask Yuri about something..."

"He's asleep..." I heard as I rushed through the living room and down the hallway to Yuri's room.  It was dark.  I heard Yuri breathing softly.

I leapt onto the bed and shook him.  "Yuri, are you awake?"

"Mmmm...kochu spat."  (I want to sleep.)

"Yuri, you've got to invite me to share your boyfriend!"

His eyes fluttered open.  "Oh, hi, Boomer.  What's going on?"

"Jim is spending the night!  Invite me to share!" I repeated.

"Oh, yeah.  I wanted to invite you, but you were asleep when we came home."

"Well, what about now?"

"Now?"  He glanced over at his clock radio.  "Boomer, it's 3:00 in the morning.  I'm not even into it now.  The next time he comes to Wilton Manors, for sure.  Now let me sleep, ok?"

"Ok, ok, sorry."  I stumbled out into the hallway, used the bathroom, and then returned to the kitchen.  Jim the Naked Baseball Player was sitting at the table, eating his sandwich and drinking a can of soda.

"G'night," I murmured, trying not to stare at his magnificent physique and obvious gifts beneath the belt.

Jim was gone by the time I woke up.

But apparently I made an impression.  A few days later, Yuri brought home tickets to the August 12th game.  "Jim said be sure to bring you, and after the game we will go back to his apartment."  He grinned.  "To spend the night."

By the way, the Marlins beat the Los Angeles Dodgers 5-4.

I'm told -- I fell asleep.

See also: Yuri and the Bodybuilder; Yuri Steals My Boyfriend, Sort Of; and Third Wheel to a Muscle God

The Nazarene Sport of Bibles and Butts

When I was growing up in the Church of the Nazarene, most of the high school boys and a few girls competed in the jump quiz.

They announced the book of the Bible every year during summer camp, and we started preparing immediately, memorizing verses, quizzing each other, and doing set after set of lunges, squats, kickbacks, and leg-lifts.

This was a strenuous sport!

This post has been moved to Righteous Gemstones Beefcake and Boyfriends

Baseball Butts

I'm definitely a frontside fan.  When I see a backside, I always want to tell the guy, "Turn around!"

90% of the attraction comes from the face, not the back of the guy's head.

And the interplay of muscles in the pecs and abs.  Who cares about the latissimus dorsi?

And, of course, the penis is infinitely more fascinating than the butt.  It comes in different sizes and shapes.  You can watch it move and bulge.  When he is aroused, it takes on a life of its own, getting bigger and firmer, and you can use it to bring him to an orgasm.    

What does the butt do?  Just sits there.  

But a couple of days ago I was trapped in a baseball game.  I'm not into sports -- I can't tell a triple play from a touchdown -- but if I'm forced, I'll go for the snacks, and to cruise the spectators in the stands.  They're often quite a hunky lot, and those thin-silk athletic shorts make for some nice bulge watching.

Unfortunately, I was seated next to a Creepy Old Guy who kept trying to involve me in conversations about baseball (go figure).  

Our seats were on the ground level, just to the left of home plate, so with a good view of the players, too, as they waited their turn at bat.  A few glimpses of bulges, but mostly backsides.

I never noticed before how -- well, big -- baseball players' butts are.  They strain and shift against the fabric of their pants.

"Do those uniforms have some kind of butt padding?" I asked, "In case they want to slide into home?"

"No, no padding," my friend answered. 

These are their natural butts, getting ready to burst out of their pants as the player adopts the squat, knee-bent batting stance. 

I guess there's something to be said for a nice pair of glutes, after all.

Remember the "Big Butts" song?  (It's actually "Baby Got Back," by Sir Mix-A-Lot).

I like big butts, and I cannot lie.

You other brothers can't deny.

That when a guy walks in with an itty bitty waist,

And a round thing in your face,

You get sprung, want to pull up tough,

Cause you noticed that butt was stuffed.

Of course, the song was originally written about ladies' butts. With men, you have the added attraction of knowing that there's more to see, more to feel, more to touch and taste.

You just have to tell him, "Turn around!" 

See also: Top or Bottom?

The World Naked Bike Ride

In 2006, fourteen men and women got naked and rode their bicycles through the streets of Melbourne, Australia, in order to demonstrate that bicycling is a safe, environmentally-friendly form of transportation.

During the last twelve years, the World Naked Bike Ride has grown to include thousands of riders in Melbourne and over 50 other cities around the world, including Chicago, St. Louis, and San Francisco in the United States.

Public nudity is illegal in most cities in the U.S., and many riders have had encounters with the police.  There have been only few arrests, however.


















Sometimes they try to bypass public nudity laws by wearing elaborate body paint instead of clothes.  I think this guy is dressed as a pineapple.

A cloud, maybe?

Riders also take the opportunity to post political or inspirational messages.

















Or messages of other sorts.

Participants come in all sizes and shapes.



















Of course, nothing in the rules says that you have to wear body paint.  You can be "as bare as you dare."

















The next World Naked Bike Ride is March 18th in Melbourne.  In the United States, it will be in June.

Did Swim Teams Once Compete Naked?

While researching my article on old swim team photos, I discovered an unusual sidebar of beefcake history: up until the 1960s, men and boys on swim teams competed naked!

I discovered these photos on the internet.  At first I thought it was a spoof website -- surely men didn't swim naked in the the skittish 1940s and 1950s, where male nudity was forbidden in magazines and in movies, and pants were designed to eliminate bulges.

And some of these photos seem faked.  The fonts are off, and there's no way nude photos would appear in high school or college yearbooks.

And the boys in the photos look a little old to be in high school or even college.  Maybe they are ordinary nudists, with a swim team caption photoshopped in.

Plus there are ample photos of high school, college, and Olympic swim teams of the 1920s-1950s wearing body hugging suits, with bulges but nothing else.

But I've gotten verification in legitimate magazine articles and personal reminiscences.  Men and boys in some schools actually did compete naked during the period.

Giving spectators an eyeful, even with the shrinkage.

The full article on swim team photos is on Boomer Beefcake and Bonding.

Dating the High School Bodybuilder

Wilton Manors, January 2005

I was always mature for my age, so I attracted guys a few years older than me.  So it came as quite a shock when I hit 40, and things were reversed. The guys staring at me, approaching me at parties, and asking me out were younger.  10, 15, 20, even 25 years younger!

(All models are over 18.)

In 2005, when I was going to Barney's Gym in Florida, three boys from Cardinal Gibbons High School came in almost every afternoon to work out.  Two were just fooling around, but the third, Stanton, short and sandy-haired, was serious about weight training and nutrition.  He was developing quite a muscular physique, nearly ready for amateur competitions.

And he was obviously gay, staring at biceps and baskets.

And apparently into me, following me around, asking questions, trying to maneuver to see me naked in the shower.

I did the same things in high school!

I decided that I was going to mentor this kid, make sure he didn't have the same trouble I had:  assumed heterosexual, not aware that gay people exist.

But this was 2005, in a gay neighborhood.  Things had changed!

One day in late January, he approached me when I was alone in the locker room. "That guy you always work out with -- is he your boyfriend?"

WTF?  "Um..um...you mean Yuri?  We're just friends.  I don't have a boyfriend.'

"Me, neither."  He grinned.  "You into younger guys?"

"Are you kidding? I've been out since before you were born.  What are you, about sixteen?"

"Hey, I'm eighteen!" Stanton exclaimed, offended.  "And I can prove it.  Wanna see my id?"

I checked.  Eighteen years and two months.  "But...shouldn't you be cruising guys your own age?"

"What's cruising mean?"

At that moment, someone else came into the locker room, and Stanton quickly moved away.

The next day Stanton approached me again.  "My basketball team is playing against Dillard on Saturday.  It's the semi-quarterfinal.  Do you want to come?  And we could go for pizza afterwards."

"Will you be bringing a girl?" I asked.

"What?  No!  Why would I bring a girl?"

"Just joking," I said, smiling as I recalled how Verne and I went on basketball-and-pizza dates in high school, only we had to bring girls along as a screen.  "Anyway, I can't go -- previous engagement.  But thanks for the offer."

Next he invited me to see Lemony Snicket's Series of Unfortunate Events, the movie based on the series of children's books.

I declined, mostly because I was worried that everyone in the theater would think we were father and son.

Later I told Barney and Yuri about my teen admirer.  "Why don't you just date him?" Barney asked. "He's of legal age, and he's cute, so what's the problem?"

"The problem is, he was born 2 years after I moved to West Hollywood! His first childhood crush was Richard Lane Jackson on Saved by the Bell: The New Class!"

"So what?  When Christopher Isherwood met Don Bachardy, he was 48, and Bachardy was 18.  It was a match made in heaven!"

A few days later, Stanton invited me to Sebastian Street, the gay beach in Fort Lauderdale, where we could swim, sunbathe, and ogle cute guys all afternoon.  I agreed, but insisted on bringing Barney and Yuri along. Stanton countered by bringing his two high school buddies, Ronnie and Keaton.

In addition to discussions of the measurements of passersby and the actors they would like to "get with," they talked incessantly of Green Day.  When I put on a tape of Olivia Newton-John singing "Let's Get Physical," they cupped their ears and pretended to gag.

Afterwards, Stanton suggested that the three of them come back to our house to "party," but I refused.  I permitted a good-night kiss in the car, though.

Next Stanton invited me to a bodybuilding competition at Florida International University in Miami.  I said ok, but insisted on double-dating with Barney and his boyfriend.

And another good-night kiss in the car.

"Don't go bragging to all your friends about how you scored," I joked.

"Huh?"

He didn't get the term score, or the reference to second season of The Simpsons.


We dated a few more times -- yes, he eventually made it into my bedroom -- but it was obvious that the relationship wasn't going anywhere.  For one thing, Stanton was entering his prime partying years, and I was perfectly happy staying home on Saturday night.

For another, he would be going off to college soon, and I was sending out applications in the hope of getting a job in Europe.

For another, Green Day.

So I called it quits.

When I told Barney, he immediately asked if it was ok for him to ask Stanton out.  The age difference didn't bother him a bit.

See also: Liam's 18th Birthday Present and Hooking up with the Hitchhiker.