The Boy Who Wouldn't Kiss

Levi, a tall, hirsute bear from Colorado, liked to tell this story as an entry in the "date from hell" contests:

West Hollywood, March 1990

Mickey was a short, muscular twink with thick brown hair, blue eyes, surprisingly red lips, and some acne on his cheeks. He had a smooth, hairless chest, big square hands, and a bubble butt.  Levi couldn't tell you about his cock. That was party of his mystery.

1. It was traditional in West Hollywood to tell your coming out story at a first meeting, but Mickey never said anything about his past -- or his present.  Levi never found out where he lived, what types of jobs he had, anything.  He never even got his telephone number.

2. Mickey never had any money.  Not that he was struggling financially -- he dressed nicely, obviously belonged to a gym, and brought nice gifts to dinner parties.  He literally carried no money or credit cards on his person.  If you took him out to eat, you paid.

3. He refused to go to the bars.  Not even "Mickey's," the twink bar in west West Hollywood.

4. There were huge gaps in his knowledge of everyday things.  He didn't know that you could get money from an ATM machine.  He didn't know that cars need oil changes.  When they went to the Japanese buffet, he piled his plate high, not realizing that he could go back.

5. But the big mystery: he didn't have sex.  Ever.

In West Hollywood, sex was a standard way of getting to know someone. You jumped into bed at the first meeting, offered to "share" with friends, went down on guys as readily as heterosexuals shake hands. To reject an offer was simply rude, unless you apologized and gave an explanation.  And the only acceptable explanations were "I have a fever of 102" and "My dog just died."

Mickey just...didn't.

Levi met him at the Change of Hobbit, the science fiction bookstore in Santa Monica.  Heterosexuals went there too, of course, but it took only a moment of cruising to recognize each other as gay.  Mickey rejected a grope, pushing Levi's hand away, but still accepted an invitation to dinner.  Probably afraid to do gay things in a heterosexual environment, Levi reasoned.

When Mickey arrived at the apartment, he hugged Levi and his current boyfriend Tom, but when they went in for a kiss, he moved his head away.  Later they sat on the couch watching tv, and each went in for a grope.  Mickey covered his crotch with a pillow.  They obviously weren't going to suggest "sharing" after such a rebuff!  Instead, they showed him the door.

To their surprise, Mickey suggested getting together again.  They went to the Japanese buffet, to Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (Mickey's choice), to Hollywood Boulevard to gawk at the tourists.

No groping, no kissing, no sharing.

They drove Mickey down to Long Beach for a birthday party for Tom's ex Charlie, which of course involved party games with prizes like "ten minutes in the bedroom with the guy of your choice."  Someone knelt to give Mickey a friendly blow job, but he crossed his legs.

Someone else cruised him, but when he went in for a kiss, Mickey turned his head away.

Later the guests split up into twos and threes to go into the bedrooms or go cruising at the bars. They drove home with Mickey, who left without "sharing."

"Hey, what's with your friend?"  Charlie asked later.  "He's a real wet blanket, isn't he?  Is he even gay?"

"Sure," Levi told him.  "He's totally into Johnny Depp on 21 Jump Street, and he drools over nearly every guy we see."

"So what's his story?"

Levi didn't know. During the next few days, he called most of the guys from the party to ask their opinion.  Speculation ran rampant.   HIV positive?  Suffering from internalized guilt over being gay?  Self-conscious about his small penis?  A Greek god, too good to sully his cock with a mortal mouth?

Levi had never even felt his cock.  Did he have one?  Maybe he was transgender.

(We hadn't heard of asexuals at the time).

His friend Boomer had an idea, "From what you've described, every time you try to get intimate with Mickey, it's been with more than one person around.  The Change of Hobbit.  The Japanese buffet.  The birthday party."

"When he comes to our apartment, it's always me and Tom, and sometimes some other guys," Levi added.

"Maybe he's shy in groups," Boomer told him.  "Maybe if you get him alone, he'll be all over you."

Levi grinned.

Here's what happened next:

When Mickey called and asked to get together again, Levi invited him to dinner, but first "I need some help: my friend Lane asked me to inspect one of the apartments he managed.  You know, to make sure that the cleaners did a good job, there's nothing broken, it's ready to move in.  Can you help?  I'll pay you."

Mickey agreed.   He met Levi at the apartment at 4:00 pm.  Levi handed him a clipboard, and they checked the windows and curtains in the living room, and the refrigerator, dishwasher, and garbage disposal in the kitchen.  When Mickey climbed on a foot ladder so he could check the top of the refrigerator, and Levi steadied him with hands on his waist.  When he knelt down to check under the sink, Levi "accidentally" fondled his butt.

Then they went into the bedroom.  The "tenants" had left a futon behind.  "Do you think we can move this out by ourselves?"  Levi asked.

Mickey shrugged.  He got on one side, and Levi on other.  But Levi "slipped," fell down onto the futon, and pulled Mickey down with him.  They stared at each other for a moment, and Levi moved in for a kiss.

Mickey jumped up.  "I'm tired," he said.  "Do you mind if I wait in the car?"

"No, but..."  Now Levi was angry.  "Hell, Mickey, what's the problem.  If you're going to live in West Hollywood, there are some things you have to do.  Like let a guy suck your cock every now and then."

He blushed crimson, making the acne stand out on his face.  "I know, but...well, I'm sort of nervous.  I've never had sex before.  Or kissed.  Or had a date."

Or kissed.  Or had a date?

"Mom and Dad are always trying to push me into asking a girl for a date, but I'm getting out of it.  I told them not until I had my driver's license. Man ,if they knew I'm gay...."

Um...

It seems that Mickey was only fifteen years old.

Trapped in a Dormitory with College Freshmen

Long Island, August 1997

On August 26th, 1997, at 10:00 pm, I got on an airplane with two suitcases, leaving friends, my boyfriend, most of my stuff, and memories of home, to go to graduate school at Setauket University in New York (not its real name)

Eight hours later, after a layover in Chicago, I arrived at LaGuardia.  I had never been to New York before. I expected skyscrapers and subways.  Instead, I found the suburban sprawl of the Straight World.

The admissions guy said that Setauket was 30 minutes from New York City.  He lied!  From LaGuardia Airport it took 2 hours by train, with a change at Jamaica station.

Exhausted after a night with no sleep, I got to the campus at a little after noon, only to find the Housing Office closed for lunch.

When I returned at 1:15, they had no idea who I was.  There was no application for graduate student housing on file.

I was standing in the middle of Long Island with two suitcases, a day before classes started, with no place to stay!

"Don't worry," the housing clerk said.  "We can move you into emergency housing until a graduate student apartment opens up.  It shouldn't be longer than a week or two."

She gave me a key to a room in the freshman dormitory!

Two bunk beds, four desks and chairs, two shared closets, bathroom down the hall. With three freshman boys as my roommates.

I know what you're thinking -- were they cute?  Did you get a sausage sighting?

The answer is, it never occurred to me.

1. I was not yet a twink magnet, not used to the idea of guys who were substantially younger.

2. I was already feeling self-conscious about my age, being the oldest graduate student in my program by about ten years. And now I was surrounded by 17 and 18 year olds.  They would think I was a freshman, too.  I was too humiliated to think of biceps and bulges.

3. Twinks were uncommon in San Francisco -- the money and energy it takes to live in Gay Heaven were beyond the means of most 20-year olds.  So I had spent the last two years surrounded by guys in their 30s, 40s, and 50s.  From my perspective, a 17 year old looked a little kid.

Sniveling homesick babies crying into their pillow and getting various fevers that made them go to the nurse constantly.

Rambunctious Bart Simpsons wearing "Dare to Misbehave" t-shirts as they skateboarded down the hallways at 2:00 am.

 The staff treated us like kids, too.  Nightly room inspections to make sure we don't have any contraband -- including free weights, musical instruments, open food containers, and porn magazines.

Daily "hall meetings," required even for me and the 10 or so other grad students put in emergency housing.  With required ice breaker activities like "You're going on a picnic.  Everybody has to bring something starting with the first letter of your last name."

I'm bringing dynamite.

The next day I went to the housing office to see if an apartment had opened up.  And the next.  And then it was Saturday; I took the train into Manhattan, but had to be back by the 11:00 pm curfew.

Yes, freshman dorms had curfews, even for 36-year olds.

Monday was Labor Day.  Campus offices are all closed.

On Tuesday I went to the housing office again -- nope -- and then started my classes: two graduate seminars and teaching assistant for an intro class.

Two of my roommates were my students!

Then I went back to the freshman dorm to sit at a table full of rambunctious kindergarteners for dinner, followed by a required "hall meeting" with  ice breaker activities for little kids.

"Write down three things about you, two lies and one the truth.  We have to decide which is true."

I had a four-way with Brad Pitt.
I went down on a guy with 11" backstage at the Hollywood Bowl.
I can suck a golf ball through a garden hose from 50 feet away.

No, I didn't use those.  I said something about having studied 10 languages, owning a pet iguana, and having starred in Star Trek: The Next Generation.

After the ice breaker they served ice cream sandwiches, but I wanted to high-tail it back to my room to hide from the humiliation of being treated like a 17 year old. But on the way, one of the freshman coat-tailed me.

His name was Jesse, and his true statemnt had been "I spend summers on a ranch."  He was tall and slim, with thick black hair, pale skin, and a snarky grin.

"Hey, sir, do you really speak 10 languages?"

"Studied, not speak.  Ni hau bu hau?"

"That's cool.  Want to play pingpong, sir?"  He emphasized the "sir" in a snarky way.

Why not?  It beat hiding in my dorm room, with no computer and no tv, for the next four hours, until lights out.

Still, as we played, I couldn't help thinking of the humiliation.  Having lived in my own apartments for 14 years, I was playing pingpong in the lounge of a freshman dorm with a little kid.

"If you don't mind my asking, sir, how old are you?" Jesse said.

"17, Sonny.  I stopped counting birthdays in 1978."

He did the math.  "You're only two years younger than my Dad.  Cool!"

Jesse also found it "cool" that I was from California, that I had studied Comparative Literature at USC, and that I knew a lot of celebrities, including Leonardo DiCaprio, Tom Cruise, and Brad Pitt (ok, so I made some up).

"I never met anyone yet.  I'm just a farmboy from Ulster County."

"How old are you?" I asked.

"42.  I'm young looking for my age.  So I guess you have to call me Daddy.  So, what brings you to college, sir?  Senior citizen tuition remission?"

"I like little boys, and this is the best place to find some," I said with a leer.

He stared at me for a moment, then laughed.  "You got a good sense of humor on you, sir.  Hey, do you want to see something cool?  I've been here for a week -- baseball practice -- so I know my way around.  Meet me in the 3rd floor bathroom at 11:30.  They don't do dorm checks until 1:00, so we'll have about an hour."

At age 36, having lived on my own for 14 years, I was in a freshman dorm, having a late-night adventure.  I just hoped Jesse wasn't taking me on a panty raid.

Jesse was carrying a blanket and a pair of binoculars.  He led me to a stairwell, up two flights of stairs, down a hall, up another stairwell, and we were on the roof.

It was a warm, clear night.  We lay side by side on the blanket, and Jesse handed me a pair of binoculars and pointed.

We could see directly through most of the windows of the dorm next door.  It was for upperclassmen, who had no curfew, so most of the windows were lit.  College guys sitting at desks, lying on bunks, roughhousing.

Bare chests, once a bare butt.

"It's like a dozen little live theaters. I keep hoping I'll see someone beating off, but it hasn't happened yet."

"The night is young."

I overcame my humiliation long enough to go down on Jesse (the age of consent in New York is 17). Small with a mushroom head, cut, big load.  He called me "sir."

But mostly from that night I remember the "live theater" of a dozen lit windows.

The next day an apartment opened up, and I met the roommate from hell.

See also: My Date with the Teenager and his Mom; Gay Panic and the Obnoxious Roommate; My Most Embarrassing Date

More Joy of Abs

If you have well-developed abs, you can skip the pec and delt exercises.  You have it all.

Ok, not really, but abs do work on your posture, strength, stamina, cardiovascular vitness, and overall health.  But you're turning heads, regardless of what you're packing.

Plus they're so hard to work on that they're more emblematic of physical fitness than the much easier muscles of the chest and shoulders.   It's the abs  that get masculine heads to turn at the beach.

















If you saw this guy on Grindr, would you really ask for a cock pic before sealing the deal?



















Ok, bad example, he has a beautiful face, too.

Take this guy: kind of a dorky expression and weird hair, but I'm still inviting him over, due to his precision-cut eight-pack.

More after the break.

Jerzy Has 24 Hours to Pick Up a Twink

West Hollywood, August 2017

I'm back in California for a week to visit my old friends and old haunts, staying in West Hollywood with Infinite Chazz.  We're having dinner at Sammy's Thai restaurant on Santa Monica: Chazz, Will the Bondage Boy, Lane, and their partners, plus two other guys.  Most of us are over 50.  Lane and Ben's friend Jerzy is the youngest one there: he just turned 40 a couple of days ago.

Jerzy immigrated from Poland with his parents and baby sister when he was eight years old, went to Cal State Los Angeles and now works in an office down in Lakewood .  He's tall and big-boned, with a rugged face and a severe military haircut, his muscular physique going to fat.  I haven't seen his penis.

We start talking about the problems of being a twink magnet, being approached by young guys constantly, having every hookup turn into a romantic date, being forced into the role of anal top whether you'd much rather be an oral bottom.

"I call b.s.!" Jerzy exclaims.  "Gay culture values youth -- when you turn 40, you're over the hill.  Certainly the twinks don't start lining up to get into your bed!"

"How do you explain my dating a 19-year old college student?" I ask.

"You're a professor, around college students all the time, so what else are you going to meet?"

"I met him at the dentist's office."


 "Expectations.  You think young guys are going to be interested, so you remember the one exception, and forget about the 99% that don't cruise you back."

"Ok, but...I picked up young guys at a restaurant, at the comic book store, at the grocery store, at Lane and Ben's wedding...."

"Well...you live on the Plains, where everybody is El Tubbo.  In L.A. the competition is fierce."

"I get cruised by twinks all the time, too," Chazz says.  "You can't get away from them."

"That doesn't prove anything.  You're Infinite Chazz.  Everybody is interested in you."

"Me, too," Will adds.  "I'm a bondage bottom, but they keep saying 'f** me, Daddy.'"

"You just haven't tried," I say.  "I guarantee that if you went to a twink bar or gym, or LGBT youth center, you'd be getting a phone number a minute."

"Yeah, right," Jerzy says.  "And I guarantee that if you went to a twink bar or gym, you'd die of frostbite from all the shade they'd be throwing."

"That sounds like a challenge."

Chazz smiles.  "How about this: I'll bet that Jerzy can find a guy under age 25  --- no, under 21 -- in the next 24 hours.  At the gym, at the Rage, on Grindr, whatever.  All you have to do is get his phone number."

"What do i get if I succeed?"

"I know you're the world's biggest oral bottom.  We'll meet at my apartment tomorrow night, and if you can prove that you got the phone number of a guy under 21, you can go down on each of us, one at a time -- and let me tell you, there are some massive cocks in this group.  But if you fail, you have to top one of us, whichever asks.  Ok, guys?"

Lane and Ben bow out, but the other guys agree.

Jerzy grins.  "Six cocks just for getting a twink's phone number.  How can I say no?"



Wednesday Night

Chazz offers to let Jerzy spend the night, so he won't have to drive all the way back to Lakewood.  After dinner the three of us hit the Rage, the biggest twink bar in West Hollywood.  Naturally, two guys in their 40s and one who's 56 are ignored by the munchkins buzzing about on the dance floor.

Next we go to the Faultline, the leather/bear bar where Lane and I used to spend many Sunday afternoons.  Not very crowded on a Wednesday night, and the guys there are mostly aging, seasoned leathermen.  I do manage to get cruised by an 20-ish otter, a young, thin guy with a hairy chest.  We make out for awhile, and he gives me his number.  But that's my pickup; Jerzy is mostly ignored.

When we get back to Chazz's apartment, we have a three-way.  Jerzy is good at kissing and very well hung, with a thick uncut Kielbasa.  Chazz and I both go down him, but we won't let him go down on us.

"That's for tomorrow night," Chazz says.  "If you can overcome your aging guilt enough to cruise a twink."

"What you need is a place to show off your muscles," I tell him.  We'll get up at 6:00 and hit the gay gym."


Thursday

Unfortunately, the gay gym is a little short on twinks at 6:30 am.

"Well, where do you go to meet the young guys?" Jerzy asks.

"Everywhere.  Today I was going to go to the Getty Museum, UCLA, and the Santa Monica Pier.  I'm bound to get cruised by a few guys there."

"Ok...I'll take off work today, and go with you.  We'll get the phone numbers of ten Cute Young Things before lunch."

At the Getty Museum, I am cruised by a high school boy on a field trip, but I don't get his phone number.  Jerzy is ignored.

Classes haven't started at UCLA yet, so there aren't many students around, but a cute blond in a UCLA t-shirt strikes up a conversation in the library.  He thinks Jerzy and I are gay dads checking out the campus for their kid.  When he discovers that I'm visiting from the Plains, he offers to take me on an "insider's tour" of Hollywood tomorrow.  Jerzy is ignored.

At lunch, the waiter cruises me.  Jerzy is ignored.

At the Santa Monica Pier, a skateboarding teenager almost runs into us.  In the ensuing conversation, I try to act as Jerzy's wingman, praising him to the hilt.  The skateboarder ignores him.

It's 4:00 pm.  We're suppose to meet at Chazz's apartment in three hours.

"How about a tea-dance at the Toy Tiger?" I suggest.  The bar where every boy is available, for a price.

"No hustlers.  That wouldn't be honest," Jerzy says.  "But I have one more place in mind.  Let me drop you off at Chazz's apartment.  I'l be back at 7:00 pm."

Thursday Night

Six guys gather at Chazz's apartment for snacks and sodas.  Stonewall is playing on tv.   We talk about life on the Plains, how West Hollywood has changed, and the current fascist government, and check the time, waiting for Jerzy to show up.  I tell them about our tour of Los Angeles, and his constantly striking out.  We have no doubt that he will strike out again on his last attempt, and show up empty-handed, and have to act as an anal top instead of an oral bottom.

Then there's a knock on the door.  Jerzy comes in -- with a kid.

A literal kid!  Preteen, maybe ten years old.

Our jaws drop in shock.

"Guys, this is Hunter, my sister's son.  I wanted to stop in and introduce him to all of my friends, and show you the smartphone I bought him.  By the way, I'm the first one he gave his number to."

Hunter politely shakes hands with each of us, and then demonstrates the features of his new phone.

"Ok, we're off for ice cream."  Jerzy grins.  "I'll be back later, after I take Hunter home, to collect my prize."

The deal was: the phone number of a guy under 21.  We never said that it had to be for a date.

See also: How to Attract Twinks

Hookup with Brothers at the Dentist's Office

Plains, June 2017

The Wednesday after my return from Amsterdam, I'm at the oral surgeon's office, waiting to get a wisdom tooth removed.

It's a more delicate procedure than you might think.

No solid food or exercise for the next 48 hours.

On the third day, I can try jogging and eating normally, but nothing with granules (rice, potato chips) for a couple of weeks.

Antibiotics and two pain medications, one narcotic.

No "sucking" for at least a week.  The oral surgeon probably means through a straw, but I imagine no oral, either.

While I am sitting in the waiting room, a woman comes in with her two sons.  I can't tell which is older.

Brother #1 is not exactly a supreme beauty, but he's very, very cute: shorter than me, slim, with a round open face, short black hair, prominent eyebrows, high cheekbones, dimples, and square workman's hands.

He's wearing a black t-shirt, short pants (no bulge), and sandals.

He sits on the side of his mother farthest from me,  immersed in nonstop texting.

Brother #2 is tall, with a square face, sharp features, glasses, and a slim physique.  He's wearing a button-down shirt with a white undershirt visible underneath, slacks (no visible bulge), and orange shoes.

He gives me an obvious face-crotch-face cruising gaze, then sits down to fill out a form.

Remembering when I have been cruised at doctor's offices before -- at the sports doctor, while waiting for a colonoscopy -- I wonder if I can follow through and land a date or a hookup.

Problem: he's with his mother and brother.  Not much maneuvering room.

Another problem: I'll be called any minute.

I check Grindr on my cell phone, on the off chance he's there.  Nope.

Brother #2 finishes the form and drops it off at the receptionist's desk.  I go up to pretend to ask where the bathroom is, and try to check his name.

All I can see in a brief glance is "Oliver."

I look back -- Oliver is watching me.  He smiles.

Since I asked, I have to actually use the bathroom.  It's out in the hallway, shared with the insurance agency next door -- one urinal, one toilet, one sink.    I go in, pretend to urinate, turn to wash my hands -- and Brother #1 is there!

"Hi," I say, startled.

He stands there -- waiting for me, of course.  I slide past him to the sink.  He still stands there waiting, nervous.

"Your brother's getting some dental work done," I say. "That must be a bummer.  No potato chips or pizza for a week."

"I guess."  He's staring at the floor.

I brush past him again to get a paper towel, accidentally touching his shoulder.

"Excuse me."

He doesn't respond.

I go back into the waiting room.  Oliver, the one who cruised me, is gone.

A moment later, my name is called.

I spend Thursday and Friday at home, eating ice cream, mashed potatoes, and protein shakes and not getting any exercise.   On Saturday my friend and I go to the campus hangout for breakfast -- eggs ad pancakes, but no toast.  I think I see Oliver at one of the other booths (it's a small town), but I'm not sure.  He doesn't cruise me.

That afternoon, I go on Scruff to see if there's anyone nearby.

There isn't, but I have a message from one those blank profiles.  Usually I ignore them, but today he says: "Hi, I saw you at the dentist the other day.  I like older guys.  Do you want to get together?"

It must be Oliver!

"Sure, I remember you!"

He introduces himself as Bob, not Oliver -- must be one of these skittish "discrete" guys.  I don't usually hook up with guys trapped in a pre-Stonewall closet, but the circumstances -- the dentist's office, the almost encounter at the restaurant -- make it intriguing.  It's almost like fate wants us to be together.

Bob is 19, a sophomore at the University studying economics, living with his parents and two brothers.

"I can't use my mouth for kissing or whatever for another few days," I tell him,  "Can we make it Tuesday?"

I arrive at the gay-friendly coffee house 15 minutes early.  Picking up a twink is no big deal, but this has a special feel to it, a sense of destiny.

I'm nervous about my sexual performance.  I tried to eat a banana earlier, and could barely get my mouth around it.  A small penis will probably be ok, but if he's hung, I'm out of luck.

He's ten minutes late.  I'll give him another ten, and then chalk him up as a no-show.

The gay-friendly coffee house has two doors.  I keep looking back and forth, pretending to be nonchalant.

Suddenly Brother #1 comes in through the far door!  He stands by the pastry counter, looking at the scones and cookies.

When Oliver shows up, he'll see his brother, get skittish, and leave!  I have to get him out of there!

I walk over and say "Hello.  Remember me?"

He grins and grabs my shoulder "Sorry I'm late.  I had to wait until Mom left.  Is this really a gay place?"

Wait -- my date is with Brother #1?

The one who was busy texting in the waiting room, and ignored me in the bathroom, and never cruised at all?

A big surprise, but not unwelcome -- Bob was by far the cuter brother.

It will be a few more days before I can get my mouth around his uncut Bratwust, but he was fine with interfemoral and kissing.

And it turns out that his brother Oliver is bi.  Maybe there's a brother three way in the future.

See also: The Weirdest Place to Pick Up a Twink

My Embarrassing Date with the Teenage Farmboy

Long Island, September 1997

Friday, September 12th, 1997.  The end of the my first week of classes at Setauket University, my 10th day in New York.

10 days after moving to West Hollywood, I found a gay bar, a gay gym, and a gay church, I had about a dozen friends, and I had been on about four dates.

On Long Island, there are no gay bars, gay gyms, gay churches, gay anything.  There is nothing in walking distance of Setauket University but a hardware store and an Indian restaurant.  Unless you want to take the train two hours into Manhattan, you're stuck on campus, where all of the events and activities are for undergraduates.

I've met about 50 people: roommates, fellow graduate students, undergraduates, faculty.  But only on who is "openly" gay.

After 12 years in California, where I rarely saw or spoke to a straight person outside of work, I assume that all of the men are gay, except for those who mentioned wives or girlfriends, or who asked me if I had a wife or a girlfriend.  But we're not going to come out to each other in the Straight World and risk a homophobic assault or a stupid question like "Are you the boy or the girl?"

The only "openly" gay guy is Jesse, the 17-year old farmboy from Ulster County who I met while in "emergency housing" in the freshman dorm.  Tuesday night I went down on him while we were lying on blankets on the roof (see Trapped in a Dormitory with Freshmen).

10 days without talking to a gay person other than Jesse the 17-year old. No gay friends, no dates, no sex except for that night with Jesse.    I latch onto him as a beacon of hope, and ask him out, in spite of our monumental age difference.

Mistake.  Most embarrassing date of all time.

1.   Dinner at the Indian place, down a country road with no sidewalk.  You dress nicely for a date, but Jesse shows up in a white t-shirt with stains on it, short pants, and shoes but no socks.  I am embarrassed to be seen with him.

Then he orders the hamburger platter.  At an Indian restaurant!

2. A grad student mixer.  Ok, at 17, he is the youngest one there, but he doesn't have to go out of his way to call me "sir."

He introduces himself to the department chair as "a freshman in Mr. Davis' class."

He's not in my class -- he just wants to embarrass me.

The chair gives me a nasty look.

I think I just got outed.

3. A walk through the quad.  Jesse keeps trying to hold my hand!

I don't hold hands in public.  It's a sure way to get a homophobic jibe yelled out of a passing car.

Besides, it looks silly, and it's not necessary.  You don't need someone to guide you in the proper direction.

4. Back to my apartment.

We squeeze uncomfortably onto my single bed.  It is hot, and we are sweating.  We get naked.

I try kissing him, but he is facing away from me, and he won't turn his mouth around.

"Um..would you turn around so I can kiss you?"

"Oh, sure..."  We kiss for a moment, and then he turn around again, facing away from me.

Does he want me to do anal?  Forget it!

I scoot down, pull up his rather small cut penis, and start oral sex.  He gets aroused.

I've had guys ask all kinds of silly or even insulting things during sexual encounters (see What Not to Say During Sex):

"Do you like that big cock?"
"Who's your Daddy?"
"You do that better than my girlfriend."
"You're a dirty boy, aren't you?"

But Jesse is the worst.  After about five minutes, he asks:

"Are you having fun?"

In the middle of a sexual encounter, he's bored?

I've never been so insulted!

I immediately pull my head up, and lie there fuming while he uses his hand to finish.  I say no  more than two or three words as he wipes off with a kleenix, pulls his clothes on, and leaves.

For several days, the kleenix stays on the floor where he missed the waste basket.  I don't want to touch it, or Jesse, again.

David is Hit On by a High School Boy

Castro Street, July 2014

I'm back in San Francisco, Gay Heaven,  visiting my friend David for a week.

When I met David in 1996, he newly out, with a wife and children back home.  He had just had his first same-sex experience just six months ago, on his 43rd birthday, and he was making up for lost time by cruising everybody in sight.

He's 60 now, a grandfather, craggy, with thick hard muscles and a shaved head, chest, and crotch.  But he hasn't slowed down.

He provides me with a Cute Young Thing to "share."
We go cruising at the Eagle.
We go to a bear party.

Tonight we're having dinner with David's friends Tim and Tutor, at an Indian restaurant, discussing gigantic penises, celebrity hookups, and the joys of getting older, like becoming a twink magnet.

I'm 53, and cruised by guys in their 20s all the time.  Earlier this summer I dated a 22 year old -- a 31 year age difference!

"That's nothing!"  Tim exclaims.  "I'm 56, and last week I had a date with a 20 year old -- a 36 year age difference!"

"That's nothing!" Tutor says.  "I'm 58, and last week I dated an 18 year old kid.  A 40 year age difference!"

We all look at David in expectation.

"An age difference of 46 years.  Maybe 47.  I can't be sure."

Wait -- David is 60.  That would make the other guy...

No way!

"Oh, don't worry," he says quickly.  "We didn't do anything.  I am absolutely not attracted to kids that age, and even if I was, I wouldn't do anything.  I'm not that crazy.  But I was definitely being cruised."


South of Market, June 2014

David was in the gym in the mid-afternoon, about 3:00, working on the shoulder press machine at 190 lbs, when the Kid came in.

He was short and a little husky, with close-cropped blond hair and brown eyes, wearing a red t-shirt and gym trunks.  High school aged.

Why was he alone?  David wondered.  Kids usually come to the gym in groups, and all work on the weight machines together.

He was dawdling by the bicep press, probably waiting for David to finish his set.

He finished and moved on to the vertical press machine, but the Kid didn't take his place on the shoulder press.  He moved on to the rowing machine, which was directly across from David, allowing him a good look.

Now David realized that the Kid wasn't even high school age.  He was barely pubescent, thirteen years old, fourteen tops.

"That's pretty young to be interested in sexual activity," I point out. "Are you sure he wasn't just being friendly?"

"You know that cruising look -- a brief glance down at your crotch, then back up, eyes narrowed, a half smile?"

I nod.

"He had it down pat at age thirteen!"

David moved into the free weight room.  The Kid waited a few minutes, and followed.

David was working out on a bench near the drinking fountain.  The Kid decided to get a drink of water, and walked by slowly, glancing while pretending not to glance.

Why was a 13 or 14 year old attracted to him?

At that age, David thought 30 was way old, and 40 a doddering antique.  No way would he be interested in someone old enough to be his grandfather!

"Besides, I never would have had the nerve to actively cruise a grown-up!"  Tutor says.

After a while, the Kid left the weight room.

Next David saw him on an elliptical machine in the aerobics room, grinning broadly as he worked.  He glanced at David as he walked past.

He had already finished his run for the day. Nothing to do but shower and change.

After he showered, David put on a towel and headed back to the lockers.  To his left was a little lounge area where you could watch tv and read newspapers.  It was also handy for watching for guys walking past naked.

The Kid was there, sitting with his shirt off, texting someone on his smartphone.  He looked up and smiled.

David had to smile at the Kid's inept attempt to attract his attention.

"Come back in five years, when you've put on about fifty pounds of muscle!"

"And grown a few inches beneath the belt!," I add.

When David finished dressing, the Kid was no longer in the lounge area.  He bought a protein bar and walked upstairs and out to the main entrance to the parking lot.

The Kid was standing there by himself, gym bag in hand.  His shirt was still off, tucked into his back pocket, even though it was a cold, rainy day.

They looked at each other.  The Kid smiled.

David didn't know what to say, but he had to say something.   "So, don't you get cold in this rain?"

"No, I like it."

"Um...do you have a way home?"

"Stupid!" I exclaimed.  "Now he'll ask you for a ride!  You should never let a stranger into your car, regardless of his age."

"Um...yeah, my Mom's picking me up.  Next time, though."

"Yeah, sure, ok."

"I usually play ball at Franklin Square -- when it's not raining.  I'll probably be there tomorrow."

"Great.  Well, see you later!"

David crossed the parking lot to his car just in time to see an orange minivan pull up, and the Kid get in.

Castro Street, July 2014

"Did you go to Franklin Square the next day?" Ted asks.

"No, and I made sure to be done at the gym before 3:00, too.  I didn't want to run into the Kid again."

"He probably didn't want a date or a hookup," I say.  "He probably just wanted a friend."

"I'm not big-brothering him!  His parents might think I was doing something, or he could get mad and accuse me of doing something. But it's nice to know gay kids today are more self-aware and self-assured than they were in our day."

"Well, this is San Francisco," Tutor says.  "You'd have to expect kids to be self-aware in Gay Heaven."

"They are in the Straight World, too," I say.  "Did I ever tell you about the high school kid who hit on me in Dayton?"

See also: Hit on by a High School Boy

A Homeless Teenager Invites Me Home

Plains, February 2017

I volunteer for a drop-in center for homeless youth: they can get showers and food, counseling, jobhunting training, or just hang out and play games or watch tv.  There are over 100 regular clients, about 30% LGBT or questioning, rejected by their parents after coming out.

Sometimes the gay boys get a little cruisy, probably because that's how they've learned to get what they need, but of course it would be unethical to date or hook up with them.

But the other night I did.  Almost.

It was at a fundraiser for the center held at the gay-friendly coffee house: live music, poetry readings, and a silent auction.  I staffed the table with a donation jar and some brochures.  It was across from the main door, so unless they used the side door, everyone saw me the moment they came in.  They also had to walk past me on the way to pick up their orders.

A lot of twinks and college students came in, some of the artsy bohemian regulars, plus a scattering of middle-aged people, one middle-aged gay guy with a nice chest in spite of his "Conky" t-shirt, an elderly guy in leather who said he had been an art history major in college, 40 years ago.

It was fun taking the donations -- especially the $10 and $20 bills -- watching the money pile up -- plus I got a lot of cruisy smiles.

Suddenly a homeless guy came in, rubbing his hands from the February cold, looking around as if he'd never been there before -- a teenager, very tall and thin, with scruffy blond hair and a beautiful, angelic face, the kind that makes you melt.  He was wearing a thin hoodie and tattered jeans.

I didn't expect any clients to come, but I wanted to make him feel welcome.  "Hi, my name is Boomer. Here for the fundraiser?"

He looked blank.  "I...um...I'm Cade. Hi.  How much does it cost?"

"Nice to meet you, Cade.  There's no admission fee.  And if you ask nicely, someone might buy you a cup of hot chocolate."

He stared at the pastries in the display case.

"Um...or a sandwich, if you're hungry."

"That's ok, I'm fine."  He went into the main room and sat down to listen to a poetry reading, but eventually he wandered back.  He stared at me and the donation jar.

"Lot of donations tonight?"

"Yeah.  We're getting a lot of tens and twenties."

"If you want to, you know, go to the bathroom or something, I'll look after the table for you."

This guy was after the donation money! "Thanks, but I'm fine right now.  But...you can sit with me if you want."  I offered him the chair farthest from the donation jar.

He plopped down next to me.  "So...this center is open to gay kids, too?"

"Sure.  Lots of the clients are gay."


"That's cool, 'cause sometimes parents aren't ok with it.  When I told my Dad I was queer, he gave me a black eye.  Said he didn't want 'some pervert' looking at him!"

"That's awful."  Cade didn't have a black eye -- he must have been homeless for awhile.  "Are you sure you won't let me buy you a sandwich?  I'm having one."

He shrugged.  "Sure, ok, I'll eat if you're going to."  He brushed his knee against mine.

We ate our egg salad sandwiches  and scones, and talked about the problems of gay youth in a heterosexist society.  Cade came out at age 17, and he was now 23 -- that's a long time to be on the street!

When people came in, Cade smiled and pitched the center like a pro.

"Hey, you're good at this!  You should become a salesman!"  I said, wrapping my arm around his shoulders -- a friendly gesture, not meant to be erotic.  But he squeezed my knee under the table.

Definitely cruising me.  Extraordinarily cute.  And not a client of the center.  But no doubt he would become a client tomorrow.  I couldn't risk hooking up with him.

When the fundraiser ended, Cade helped me count the  money and give it to the director -- I introduced him as "my new assistant."  Then he said "I guess I'd better be going.  It's a pretty long walk back home."

"Can I give you a ride?" I could do that much, anyway.

We drove, Cade's hand on my shoulder, to a historic neighborhood near downtown, to an old Victorian house with gingerbread architecture.  Rather upscale for a homeless kid -- he must be crashing on someone's couch.

"Do you want to come in for a minute?" Cade asked.  "I could make us some coffee."

We just came from a coffee house.  But...

I was going in...

The living room: hardwood floors, leather furniture, big-screen tv.  Very upscale for a homeless kid.

I took off my coat and sat on the couch.  Cade pulled a smartphone from his pocket, turned on some music, and sat next to me.  He moved in for a kiss.   His body was very cold from the thin hoodie.  Suddenly I remembered that this was a homeless guy.

I broke away.  "Will your roommates mind?"

"What roommates?  I live alone," he murmured, unbuttoning my shirt and kissing my chest.

"Then who pays for all of this?  Your parents?"

"I'll tell you all about my boring job at Mackenzie in the morning.  Right now I'm busy."  He got on his knees and began to kiss and lick my crotch.

Cade was a marketing manager at Mackenzie's Fun Zone, with a salary bigger than mine.  He was just into grunge.

I should have known better.  I mistook someone for homeless once before, in San Francisco.  See: Pushing a Shopping Cart Up Castro Street.

By the way, thin, smooth body, shaved crotch, two tattoos, uncut Kielbasa.  Mostly an anal bottom, but he let me go down on him and do interfemoral to finish.

The First Half of My Scary Date with the Teenage Lawnboy

West Hollywood, October 1992

The Boy Next Door didn't really live next door. He lived at one of Lane's mother's rental properties, a five-unit building on La Jolla.  When Rosa got sick in the summer of 1992, it became Lane's job to distribute the paychecks to her employees, including the Boy Next Door, who was in charge of mowing the lawn and trimming the hedges at his apartment.

One day when Lane was busy, he asked me to do it.

I found the Boy Next Door -- we'll call him James -- cutting the hedge around the building while his pet beagle watched.

He was as tall as me, shirtless: a slim, tanned physique, hairless, small nipples. Curly brown hair, a round face with blue eyes. A cute college-aged twink. I thought.

"Hi, are you James? I'm Boomer, Rosa's son's um...roommate. He sent me over with something for you."

"Sure, I've known Lane for a long time."

"Oh, how long have you worked for Rosa?"

"A couple of years now," James said noncommittally. "How is she?"

"Not good. She can't get around too well. She mostly stays in the house now. We had to hire a live in nurse."

"That's too bad. She was always nice to me, brought me cookies on Hannukah."

What a mature conversation!

"How long have you and Lane been boyfriends?", James continued, taking the check from my hand.


Only gay guys would use the term "boyfriend."  I sighed with relief: one of us!  "A little over two years."

"That's cool," he said, giving me the face-crotch-face gaze of a blatant cruise. "I'd like to have somebody like that someday."

"Um...we have an open relationship." It was rather an obvious gambit, but I was only 31 years old, not yet a twink magnet, and I found the attention of this Cute Young Thing flattering. Besides, I wanted to one-up Lane, who dated a 19-year old beach boy just last month.

"So you can date other people?" James said, pretending to turn his attention to the dog. "Like maybe you could date me?"

"Sure. How's Friday night?   We can have dinner at the French Quarter, then go cruising at the Gold Coast..." I began.

James frowned. "Well, I'm too young to get into bars."

"Oh, ok."  He must be nineteen, I thought, the same age as Lane's beach boy.  "A movie, then?"

"Ok. I wanna see The Mighty Ducks."

It was a G-rated Disney movie starring Emilio Estevez, aimed at an audience of kids.  That should have given me a clue, but it didn't.  "The Mighty Ducks it is. I'll pick you up at your apartment at 6:00."

"Um...let's meet at the Pollo Loco, ok?" A fast food place across the street from the French Quarter, and about five blocks from his house.

"Ok.  And just so you know," I said, "For the bedroom activity, Lane has to be there. If you're not into sharing, he can just watch."

James grinned. "That's ok. I like Lane And I've never been with two guys before. It will be hot.." He reached out and grabbed my hand. I leaned in for a kiss, but he moved his head away. "Not here," he whispered. "My...um...neighbors don't know I'm gay."

We exchanged phone numbers, and I said goodbye and went on to deliver the other paychecks.

That night I told Lane that I had met a Cute Young Thing, but I didn't say it was James from his mother's property. I wanted it to be a surprise. But I did say that there would be a present for him in bed when he got back from synagogue.

On Friday night James wore a muscle shirt that displayed hard, firm muscles, and very, very tight jeans. I think he put some socks in there.

At Pollo Loco I tried to get him into a conversation about his classes, but he was noncommittal. Instead we talked about tv: he was a big fan of The Simpsons and Tiny Toons.

Ok, Tiny Toons was a kids' show on the WB Network, but lots of adults in West Hollywood watched for the gay subtexts.  "Hey, you're never too old for Warner Brothers animation."

Next came the very boring Mighty Ducks. We sat in the darkness, our knees pressed together, our arms sharing a single arm rest, eating out of a single box of popcorn.

The movie got out at 10:00. So did the synagogue service. I figured Lane would get home before us, so I brought James in and said "Surprise!"

No answer.

"Well, I guess he's not home yet. We'll have to wait." We sat down on the couch and turned on the tv. I put my arm around James and went in for a kiss.  Instead he moved his head down and started unbuttoning my shirt and kissing and fondling my chest.

"Hey..um...Lane's not here yet.  We should wait."

"He can watch when he gets home. Come on." He stood and took my hand and pulled me toward the bedroom.

At that moment Lane came in. "So, who's the big surprise..." He stopped stared open-mouthed at James.

"Hi, Lane. Boomer said it was ok for me and him to go on a date."

He continued to stare.  "Did you tell him how old you are?"

"Um...he's 19, isn't he?" I said in a small voice, suddenly feeling very embarrassed.

"19?  Boomer, did this conniving scalawag tell you he tried to make me last year? When he was --what was it, 14 years old?"

My heart sank as I realized what I almost did.  14? So this year he was...15? "What. No, he's 19.  He..."

James grinned sheepishly. "I'm fifteen and a half. I figured by the time you found out, you'd be so turned on you wouldn't care."

"Not care about committing a felony?" I said angrily.

"Oh, come on, it's illegal just to be gay. I'm not going to tell anyone.  And  I'm bigger than most guys my age. Wanna see?"

"No! Do you know how much trouble you could have gotten me into, you reckless idiot!  Don't you have any sense of propriety?  This isn't a game!  Now get the f*** out of here!"

James hung his head.

"Wait -- he's just a kid.  He doesn't know any better."  Lane went over and drew James into a hug. Misunderstanding, he tried to kiss him. "When's your birthday, James? When do you turn 16?"

"March 5th."

"Ok, your eighteenth birthday is March 5th, 1995, in two years and six months. That's when we'll finish this date. Mark it on your calendar. You, me, and Boomer will spend the night together. But not even a grope until that moment."

"Well, maybe a hug," I said, drawing us into a three-way hug.

Then we all drove to the French Quarter and had sundaes.

Lane and I figured that by the time March 5th, 1995 rolled around, James would forget all about us.


But he didn't.

Next: The Last Half of My Scary Date with the Teenage Lawnboy

See also: Hit on by a High School Boy; Artan the Beach Boy

The Bodybuilder and the Teenage Underwear Thief

Wilton Manors,  Summer 2001

I have just moved from New York to Wilton Manors, Florida, to live with Yuri and his housemate, bodybuilder turned gym owner Barney.  On my first weekend in town, in an attempt to fix me up with an instant boyfriend, they have invited two guys over for dinner: Kevin, a bodybuilder in his 30s, and Jordi, a slim, eyeglassed twink from Romania, who teaches at Florida International University.

After dinner, we sit in the living room with dessert (yogurt-covered strawberries), cruise, decide who is going to share who, and exchange stories about dates from hell, celebrity hookups, and gigantic penises.  Kevin asks Barney, "Do you think they'd like my story of the Great Underwear Thief?"

"I think so," Barney says, "It starts out weird, but I like the ending."

Buffalo, New York, Summer 1995

Kevin was 25 years old, a recent graduate of Canisius College, working in an office and training hard for the Mr. Olympia contest in Atlanta (he didn't place).

Bodybuilder or not, when you live in apartment, you spent a morning once a week trudging a clothes hamper to the laundry room at the other end of the hall or down the stairs, putting my clothes in the washer for 30 minutes and the drier for 45 minutes, returning to your apartment to wait in between.

He didn't worry about thieves.  Washers don't open during the cycle, and who'd want to break into a drier to get damp clothes?  Especially when they don't know what's there?  Could be the wrong size, the wrong gender, crappy?  It's not worth the trouble, right?

"Well, maybe for a pair of your Speedos, I would take the trouble," Jordi says.

Kevin laughs.  "That's exactly what happened."

One week he couldn't find his favorite blue briefs that cost him 50 francs in Paris.  He checked under the bed, in all the drawers, even under the couch.  He figured a hookup stole them.

Then he couldn't find his favorite Speedos.

Then, when he was folding laundry, he found only two pairs of underwear.  There should have been seven.

Was he being targeted by an underwear thief?

Kevin decided to catch the culprit in the act.  The laundry room was adjacent into the boiler room, a perfect place to hide and see who was coming and going.

He  put the laundry in the drier, and then instead of returning to my apartment, hid.

Sure enough, after about 30 minutes -- long enough for the clothes to be dry, but before anyone would be coming back -- someone came in, knelt, and stared going through his stuff.

A kid!  Teenage, tall, slim, long dirty-blond hair, brown eyes.  Big hands and feet.  Bubble butt.

"Hi!"  Kevin said,  jumping out from behind the boiler.

The kid froze.

"Thanks for your help, but that's ok, I can take it from here."

He stood, staring at Kevin, petrified with terror.

Kevin emptied the remaining clothes.  "You know what?  Why don't you give me a hand with these?"  He shoved the basket into the kid's hands, put his arm around his shoulders, and pushed him up the stairs and down the hall.

The kid didn't resist.  He didn't look at me or even speak.

They went into the apartment and the bedroom.  "Just put those down anywhere."

He deposited them in a corner and stood, trembling.

"What's your name kid?"

"K...K...Kyle."  This was the first time Kevin heard anyone stutter from fear in real life.

"How old are you?"

"I'm...I'm....eighteen...."

"What did you want with my ratty used underwear?"

"I don't know."  Suddenly he started to cry.  Instinctively Kevin went over and wrapped his arms around him.  Kyle hugged him and sobbed and murmured.

"My underwear wouldn't fit you, anyway."

"I didn't think...I don't...don't tell my Mom, ok?"  

"I"m not going to tell your Mom.  But just tell me why..."

Suddenly Kevin understood.  An underwear fetishist!  Some bodybuilders he knew made good money selling their underwear.

 "I don't know, I just did it."  He stopped crying but still hugged Kevin tightly.  I don't have to go, do I?  Tell me I can stay."

"Oh, you can stay, Underwear Thief," Kevin said.  "But you need to return my stuff, and you need to be punished.  You can do some chores...or maybe you'd rather be spanked."

Kyle looked up, flushed with anticipation.  "Yes, sir.  Spanking sounds good."

"Or you could let me kiss you," Kevin added.

"So, what was he like?" Yuri asked.  "How big was he?"

They never dated, but they got together for hookups frequently during the next year, until Kevin moved to New York.

Kyle was a college freshman, gay but not out to anyone.  Smooth, slim physique, cut Mortadella beneath the belt, an anal bottom, but he liked to mount Kevin from the top.  Also into kissing and oral, with Kevin going down on him.

"A twink admirer!" I exclaim.  "I know the feeling.  But I never had anyone steal my underwear before."

"He wasn't really an underwear fetishist -- it was just to get  my attention," Kevin says.  "I think..."

By the way, I ended up sharing Yuri and Kevin.  Barney wasn't into hookups, so he and Jordi went out to the bars.

See also: Zack Hooks Up with the Prince of Sweden; The Bodybuilder and the Teenage Underwear Thief.

Liam Gives Me a Present on his 18th Birthday

When I applied to grad school on Long Island, the admissions director said "Oh, yes, we're only eight miles from New York City.  You can get there in ten minutes."

He meant eight miles from the hinterland of Queens, by car, without traffic.

When I arrived, I discovered that the gay neighborhoods of Manhattan were thirty miles away, two hours by train!

Cut off from the usual venues for meeting people, I started hanging out in online chatrooms -- you waited there until someone attractive showed up, then started an Instant Message conversation.

But you had to be careful.  Profile pictures might be ten years old, or of someone else entirely.  Guys dropped 20 pounds, added a few inches, and changed their age.  Sometimes they were really much older. Sometimes much younger.

Once I had made the date and was getting ready to go out the door when the guy said "By the way, I'm not really 25.  I'm 15."

I ran.

Soon I learned some strategies to weed out the underaged:
1.  They didn't want to talk about their jobs or school.
2.  They talked about their parents a lot.
3.  They wanted to "hang out," not go out on a date.
4.   They wanted to know "what it's like" to have sex with a guy.

Of course, some older guys who were closeted might be eliminated, too, but it didn't matter. There were lots of choices in the chatrooms.

Liam started hanging out in the Long Island chatroom in the fall of  1998.  I didn't need clues: he told me right off that he was in high school.

I immediately crossed him off the list of potential boyfriends, but we continued to chat. We had a lot in common.  He was from a working-class household: his dad was a truck driver, and his older brother was an auto mechanic.  He wasn't out to anyone.  He liked Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Pokemon, and the Harry Potter books, and he was taking piano and judo lessons.

We didn't talk about sex -- that was my #1 rule in chatrooms, regardless of age -- but we talked about cute guys, dating, coming out, and gay culture.   I heard about his crushes on his judo sensei and his English teacher, and encouraged him to come out to his best friend.  He heard about my research projects and my romances with Blake and his roommate Joe.

Liam began his senior year in high school in the fall of 1999.  I heard about his senior project, his first date, coming out to his brother and his parents.  One day in February 2000 he emailed me: "Hey, I'm coming to the City to talk to some admissions reps at NYU.  We should hang out while I'm there."

Did he mean hang out or hook up?  He was a senior in high school, of legal age --  but  a 20 year age difference?  What would my friends back in West Hollywood say?

"Oh, and my brother wants to meet you, too."

In that case, fine.  

Liam turned out to be a little shorter than me, firm but not muscular, with sandy blond hair and blue eyes and a warm handshake.  His brother, Ozzie, had massive biceps and a ready smile.

We browsed at the Different Light and went to a Japanese restaurant, and once Ozzie took me aside and said "Thanks for being such a good friend to my brother.  You really helped him."

I did that?

"None of us knew anything about being...you know, gay.  You really helped."

I did that?

"And it was so great that you haven't put any pressure on him to have sex.  You could have really taken advantage of him."

"Well...you know, I can restrain myself."

Liam decided to attend NYU, and in August 2000, he moved into the Goddard Residence Hall on Washington Square East, about a mile from my apartment.

"Only a mile away!" he emailed me.  "We should definitely hang out.  Guess what -- my 18th birthday is coming up on Friday!"

"18!  The big one!  What are you going to do to celebrate?"

"Nothing really.  It's too soon to go home for the weekend, and I don't really know anybody on campus yet."

"You're in the biggest party town in the world. We'll figure something out.  I'll invite Yuri."

But Yuri couldn't make it, so Liam and I went out alone, to a barbeque place in the West Village, then for frozen yogurt, then for a walk along Christopher Street, where Gay Liberation began.

"You're old enough for a 18+ dance club," I said.  "Do you want to go?"

"Maybe later.  Right now I'd like to see your apartment."

Did he mean....?

"I want to look at your books on gay history."

A little disappointed, I said "Ok, fine."

We returned to the apartment I shared with Edward the Art Appraiser.  He was camped out in the living room, so after saying hello, we went into the bedroom.  I sat on the desk chair, and Liam looked through my bookcase.  Eventually he took down the massive 1978 edition of Gay American History and sat down on the bed to leaf through it.

"You can sit next to me, if you want."

"Well, it's a little warm in here."

"Yeah.  We should take our shirts off."

We sat on the bed, side by side, shirtless, thighs and arms touching.   I wasn't going to push myself on Liam, not after his brother's vote of confidence, not without a clearer signal.  But there weren't any clear signals.  We were two friends  leafing through a book.

Sigh.

Suddenly Liam looked around the room.  "Do you know what time it is?"

I checked my clock.  "A little after 11:00.  Why?"

He put the book aside, leaned over my lap, and started kissing and groping me.  I responded.

The next morning we had another session, then got up and went out to breakfast.  "I had no idea that you were interested," I said.

"Well, I don't think we should be like boyfriends, but I wanted to thank you for being so nice.  Sort of a birthday present."  He laughed.

Ok, I was a little disappointed, but who can complain about a night with a hot guy?  "Why did you ask the time before making a move?"

"I didn't want to get you in trouble, so I waited until it was legal for us to be together.  I was born at 10:36 pm, so technically I wasn't 18 until 10:36 pm last night."

"Well -- thanks for being cautious."

I didn't have the heart to tell him that the legal age of consent in New York is 17, not 18.


See also: My Date with the Teenage Model and The High School Bodybuilder.; Yuri and the Penis Size Contest