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.

A Naked Man Behind the Door

Speaking of sausage sightings, here's one for the record books:

There are several unisex bathrooms on campus, three in a row in a corridor of the Business School, three in a row in the Art Building, two in a row in Social Sciences.

They're designed for the disabled who can't negotiate the m/f restrooms, but also used by:

Non-binary and transgender people who might not feel comfortable in the m/f restrooms.

Guys who are shy about pulling it out in front of other guys.

And anyone who dislikes the gunkiness of the toilets in the m/f restrooms after about ten hours worth of students have been parking their behinds on them.

They are big, with big, square doors that can accommodate wheelchairs.  When you walk in, there's a sink directly in front of you and a toilet and sometimes a urinal five paces to the side.

No "occupied" indicators, like on airplanes.  You just try the door.  If it's locked from the inside, you move on.

That's a lot of buildup, but the payoff is worth it.

The other night I was walking through the Business School on the way back from the gym, and I decided to use one of the bank of unisex bathrooms. I chose the middle one for some reason.  Symmetry, I suppose. 

The doors are unexpectedly easy to open, and I had to go.  I swung it wide.

There was a man facing me!

Too old to be a student, probably in his 30s.  Tall, pale skin, buzz cut. Wearing a gray business suit.

Except his pants were down or off. I saw his bare, hairy legs, his thighs, his crotch, and a long, thick uncut cock hanging down.  About 4" soft.

I said "Excuse me" and swung the door shut again.

They don't slam.  It took a second.  He just stood there, motionless, staring.

Obviously he had not realized that the door was unlocked.

But one thing is bugging me:  he was nowhere near the toilet.  He was about three steps from the sink, facing away from it.  Facing the door.

What was he doing?

Maybe he was an exhibitionist, waiting for someone to expose himself to, with the safety of claiming "I didn't know the door was unlocked."

If so, he would have a long wait. There are several bathrooms in the Business Building, and not many people around.

Could he have been waiting for someone specific -- a bathroom hookup that I accidentally interrupted?

It beats shoving your cock under a toilet stall.

My West Hollywood Date from Hell: Me, Morris, and the BFF

West Hollywood, May 1994

I've always been attracted to men in business suits, probably because I saw so few growing up.  All of my friends' fathers worked in factories and wore coveralls, except to church on Sundays, where they put on the Ritz.

The preacher wore a suit (no Satanic clerical collars for Nazarenes!).  I spent countless hours watching him as he paced and yelled and pounded the pulpit in outrage, until his tight bulldog body was slick with sweat and his cock was very blatantly shifting back and forth in his pants.

Whew.

So when Morris (not his real name) showed up one day at the Metropolitan Community Church, I was enthralled.

He was in his 40s,  but distinctly old fashioned -- wearing a gray flannel suit in Los Angeles heat, complete with vest, pinktie, handkerchief in the front pocket and cuff  links instead of buttons.

Thick gold watch, pinky ring, slicked-back black hair, cologne.  Who was this guy, Humphrey Bogart?

The pinky ring and cologne were turn-offs, but not enough for me to avoid him during the after-service "coffee hour," aka the "cruising hour."

We didn't usually discuss our jobs in West Hollywood -- everyone made do on a variety of part-time and temp jobs while pursuing our various goals of acting, modeling, writing, or art.  But Morris asked first thing, and told us that he was a broker-sales-marketing something or other to do with business.  Yawn.  Other biographical details: he was new in town, transplanted from far-off Connecticut, he had only been out for a few years, and he was a non-practicing Catholic who had never been in a Protestant church before.

In other words, he was not at all assimilated into the gay community.

Well, we could work on that.

"You need the grand tour of West Hollywood," I told him, "The bars, the Different Light, Mrs. Fields' Cookies,West Hollywood Park.  I'm meeting my partner and boy toy for lunch in a bit.  We could..."

"Thanks, but I have a lunch engagement of my own. Another time, perhaps?"

Thoroughly rebuffed, I retreated to the other side of the room and talked to other people until he was gone.  Then I walked down to the French Quarter, and waited for Lane and Infinite Chazz.

In May 1994, I was 33 years old.  Lane was five years older, shorter than me, buffed, bearded.  Our boy toy, called Infinite Chazz because he was infinitely attractive to everyone who saw him, was in college in Orange County, but visited most weekends.

It was very crowded, and the French Quarter was set up with mostly tables-for-two, so we had to wait about 20 minutes to be seated -- at a table only 20 feet from Morris!

"That's the guy I cruised at church," I told them.

"Whoa, bummer!" Infinite Chazz exclaimed.  "I mean, he's hot and all, but look who he's with!"

It was a woman in her late 100s, who was doing everything she could to appear under 80.  Black wig, heavily made up face with bright red lipstick, evening gown, dripping with jewels.  Mink stole in 80 degree weather. Eating a steak with a knife and fork.

Never before or after did I see anyone eating a steak at the French Quarter.  Or using a knife.  I didn't even know that they had full "cuts of meat" on the menu.

"Miss Mae West is still alive!"  Lane exclaimed.

"Or Aunt Clara from Bewitched," Chazz suggested.  "Or...I know, I know -- Auntie Mame!"

"Maybe Auntie Mame is his mother, Mommy Dearest Mame?" Lane suggested.

"Taking your mother out to dinner!" Chazz exclaimed.  "Sick!"

"Or maybe Mr. Morris is...a gigolo!  Dinner, dancing, a kiss on the cheek, make the dowager princess feel loved."

"I'm trying to read the menu!  Stop making me sick to my stomach!"

"All I know is, I dodged a bullet there," I said.  "That Morris is crazy.  Imagine, hanging out with a woman!"

We weren't gynophobic, necessarily, but we grew up with parents, friends, teachers, coaches, and pastors constantly screaming at us, "What girl do you like?  What girl?  What girl? What girl?", hour after hour, day after day, constant asserting that "You are attracted to women, like every boy who has ever lived!  Your destiny lies in a woman's arms!  Heterosexual romance is the meaning of life!"

So it was an enormous relief to be able to relax and not have to think about, talk about, or look at girls. Any mention of a woman, could re-open old wounds, ruin our mood, put a damper on the whole day.  We looked up to guys who could go through a conversation, a whole day, or a lifetime without mentioning anything feminine.  They had the power!

It wasn't easy.  You had to pretend not to see actresses on tv (Dynasty?  Isn't that the show starring John Forsythe?), omit pronouns when talking about your relatives (instead of "I'm calling my mother," "I'm calling my parents"), and call your pets "he," even if they were female.

Lane and I weren't that assiduous, but friendships with women?  No way!

I was going to let Morris slide on by, but suddenly he got up, arm in arm with his lady bff, and approached our table!

"Fancy meeting you here!" he said. "I'd like you to meet Mae."

Lane nudged me under the table.

We made introductions all around, but did not deign to shake Miss Mae's small, many-ringed hand. Touching a woman?  Absolutely not!

Then Miss Mae returned to her steak, but Morris stayed behind.  "So, Boomer, you mentioned a tour of West Hollywood. Will next Friday night be ok?"

I hesitated.  He was friends...or something...with a woman!  But he was attractive, sophisticated, and wearing a suit.  And he probably had a penis. I liked penises. Why not?

"Sure, that will be fine."  I gave him my address.  "Call for me at 7:00."

"Marvelous.  Um...will your friends be joining us?"  He leered at Chazz.

I looked at Lane, who didn't share my fetish for business suits.  "Well, I go to schul -- temple -- on Friday nights, but I'll meet up with you later."

Lane and I were allowed to date other people, as long as we got together for the bedroom activity, to participate or watch.

"I'l be going to temple with Lane," Chazz said.  "But I'm up for after-schul dinner and cruising."

"Marvelous."  He reached out his hand to be shaken, gave Infinite Chazz a wink (was that how they cruised in Connecticut?), and returned to Aunt Clara.






We spent the week discussing the logistics for my Friday night date.

I would take Morris to the Different Light Bookstore and then the Cafe Etoille for dinner -- the ritzy place would justify his wearing a business suit.  Then cruising at the Toy Tiger (the oldster piano bar).  We would meet Lane and Chazz at the Gold Coast after temple.

Since Morris was new to the gay community, a four-way would probably be too much for him, so we agreed that only Lane would be present for the sharing.  Chazz would take the guest room, and join us in the morning.

On Friday night, I put on the tie that I wore only to job interviews and funerals, so Morris wouldn't feel too out of place.

7:00.  I waited.

7:10.  No Morris.

7:20.  No Morris.  This was before cell phones, so I couldn't call.

7:30.  I started changing into my regular clothes so I could go out by myself, when there was a knock on the door.

Morris.  Wearing a cut-off t-shirt and jeans.  Not a business suit!  Well, at least he had a hairy chest and a nice bulge.

"Parking is a nightmare in this town!" he said.  "Mae is still looking for a parking place.  She'll be up in a minute."

Mae?  Up in a minute?

He kissed me on the cheek.  "So, what marvelous plans do you have for us this evening?"

Mae?  Up in a minute?

Browsing at the Different Light Bookstore.  Dinner at the Cafe Etoille.  Listening to old show tunes at the Toy Tiger.  A good night kiss on the cheek.  Morris, Mae, and me.

I did manage to go down on Morris later, but that's a story for another time.

See also: Sex in the Office: I Finally See Morris's Member.