Hookup with the Waiter at a Christian Restaurant

Plains, April 2015

Restaurants in the Straight World are a gamble.  You never know which are gay friendly, and which are homophobic, until you get there.

Except for the Pizza Ranch.

I ate there for the first time a couple of weeks after I moved to the Plains.

It had an annoying cowboy theme and a gut-sloshing buffet: deep fried chicken, mashed potatoes, fried potatoes, chicken wings, bacon pizza, sausage pizza, taco pizza, and dessert pizza with frozen custard.

The "salad bar" consisted of macaroni salad, coleslaw, pudding, and a few paltry carrots and cucumbers.

The other patrons were all obese heterosexual couples with passles of kids.

All were obese.  Every last one of them.

And it was openly Christian.  Bible verses on the walls, Christian music for sale at the front counter, a prominently posted Mission Statement:  “To glorify God by positively impacting the world."

By serving taco pizza and deep-fried chicken?

Its website doesn't say a lot about pizza, but it does offer resources on godly marriage, and spiritual discipleship, and a place where you can submit a prayer request.

Homophobic groups from Focus on Family to Mike Huckabee supporters hold their rallies there.

The only highlight was the wait staff, who were there mostly to bus tables.  They were all male -- rare for servers on the Plains -- teenage and college-age boys -- and incredibly cute.

There were photos of the staff members who weren't there, engaging in wholesome activities like singing, playing a violin, playing football, fishing, and...um...just posing in a studly fashion.

Surely they're hired for their hotness, I thought.  This is a male version of Hooters.

That thought might not be far from the truth.  In 2001, co-founder Lawrence Vander Esch, the founder, was sentenced to 10 years in prison in 2001 for sexually assaulting his male employees.  He fondled them and persuaded them to donate sperm samples for "medical research." While he watched. (He is no longer mentioned on the website.)

The hotness of the staff almost made up for the deplorably unhealthy food and deplorably fundamentalist ambiance.  I've been persuaded to return several times by gay friends, who usually say things like "Who cares about their politics, when the eye candy is so incredible?"

 Besides, it's rather fun to go undercover, mimicking their language and demeanor, knowing that if the staff and other patrons found out about me, they would be shocked.  They would either run from the restaurant in terror or pull out a Bible and start screaming about Leviticus.

Oscar Wilde called it "feasting with panthers."  One false move, and you're history.  The deception is the excitement.

One day in the spring of 2015, I wondered, How far can I go without being discovered?

I didn't want to actually get outed, and be banned from the nightly hunk fest for life -- or worse, rile the fundamentalists so much -- Imagine!  A sodomite in this holy pizza restaurant! -- that they would move from screaming to punching and kicking.

But how close could I get to the edge?





Experiment 1: Come with a guy.

I brought Chad, a regular at the M4M Parties.  We loaded up on the least-greasy pizza we could find, cucumber slices, and carrots, and sat in one of the booths under Wild West wagon train mural.

No stares, no snickers.  Since you pay in advance, there wasn't even a question of "Separate or together?"

Experiment 2: Discuss gay topics at the table.

"So, I had a date with Scott the theater major last week."

"How did that go?"

"Oh, he's super-hot, but we don't have a lot in common."

"Yeah, you can't always judge by how hot the guy is."

Nothing.

Experiment 3: Hold hands under the table.

Nothing.

Experiment 4: Wear a gay pride t-shirt.

I didn't want to wear it while paying, or I wouldn't be let in at all.  So I wore a black button-down shirt over it, and unbuttoned when we started hitting the pizza buffet.

Jackpot.

Stares, gasps, pointing mumbled conversations.  The wait staff kept running into the back to get their coworkers to come out and look.  There were several people at the pizza buffet, but when I approached they suddenly decided they didn't want pizza and hurried off.

I spent extra time at the pizza and salad bar, then returned to my booth.

Suddenly one of the wait staff approached.  College-aged, light brown hair, thin, pale skin with two moles on his neck like vampire bites, handsome, smiling.  "Pardon me, sir, may I join you?"

This was it!  I was going to get screamed at!

Without waiting for an answer, he sat across from me and pulled a small New Testament from his pocket.

Bring it on!  I can argue verse by verse, in the original Greek!

"I've seen you here before.  You're so hot!  Where do you work out?"

WTF?  "Um...campus gym and the YMCA, depending on the day," I said, staring, clueless.

"I've been wanting to start a weight-lifting program.  With so many gay guys around, getting buffed up would give me a competitive edge, don't you think?"

"Oh, I don't know.  You look like you do all right."

He grinned, fumbling about with his New Testament.  "I wonder if you would be willing to give me a few tips?  I get off at 9:00 tonight.  I'm Willy, by the way."

WTF?

Of course, when we got back to my apartment, we did more than discuss weight training.

Smooth body, into kissing and oral, gigantic uncut Mortadella.

"Pizza Ranch is great," Willy told me.  "They think all gay men are swishy queens who live in San Francisco, so as long as you don't swish, you can get away with murder.  I cruise guys all day long -- coworkers and customers!  But you're the first one who made it this easy by actually wearing a gay t-shirt."

See also: We Hookup with the Waiter at a Mexican Restaurant; I Pick Up a Track Star in Small-Town Illinois; Cruised by the Waiter in a Crazy Retro Restaurant.

Lane and I Hookup with Waiter in a Mexican Restaurant

West Hollywood, April 1993.

When I lived in West Hollywood, our go-to restaurant was the French Quarter.  Saturday morning breakfast, brunch after church, first dates, last dates, browsing the gift shops, watching out for the stray celebrity or gay royalty.  But we did go to other places: the Greenery, the Cafe d"Etoille, Hamburger Hamlet, Pink's Hot Dogs, Mrs. Field's Cookies, Thai Thai, the Hunan Kitchen, the Abbey, and sometimes places outside of West Hollywood altogether.

But when you left West Hollywood, you had to be careful.  Restaurant patrons and staff could be bitingly homophobic.  Stares and laughter at the least, maybe derisive comments.  You could be kicked out, or assaulted in the parking lot.  If it didn't have a reputation for being gay-friendly, you stayed away.

But one night in 1993, Lane and I went to a movie at the Cinerama Dome, the giant "shower cap" on Sunset, and  on the way home, about 8 blocks from the border of West Hollywood, we saw a Mexican restaurant called La Azteca  (Now it seems to be called La Numero Uno).

There were no Mexican restaurants in West Hollywood at that time, so we decided to stop.  A change of pace from the French Quarter.  What's the worst that could happen?

1. A dining area packed exclusively with pairs of men and women.  No same-sex couples anywhere.  It seemed outlandish and bizarre after years in West Hollywood.

2. The hostess asked "How many in your party?" and her neck to look for the women we were meeting.

3. She took us to a table for four, and didn't remove the other two place settings, apparently not believing that there were no women on the way.

4. Heads turned to stare, gossip began to be whispered.  What was up with these two guys dining together on a Saturday night?  Could they be brothers?  College roommates?  A celebrity and his bodyguard?

5. A woman sitting at the bar smiled at me with unmistakable intent.  Did heterosexuals cruise each other?

We buried our noses in the menus.

The waiter approached -- he was young, in his 20s, short, solid, light-skinned, with a black buzz cut. His name tag said "Mauricio. Mexico City."

 "Have you guys been here before?" he asked.

Finally, a nonchalant heterosexual!  Attentive, too, bringing us water and chip refills several times.  He even flirted, putting his hand on Lane's shoulder to point out the desserts.

Did waiters in heterosexual restaurants flirt for tips?

He asked "one check or two?", so he didn't realize that we were a couple.  We concluded that he was just being friendly as part of his jobs.

The next day I got up early so I could work out before church, and there, amid the power-lifting semi-celebrities was our waiter, Mauricio!

We spotted each other and chatted, exchanging the four main pieces of information you got from a new acquaintance:
1. Where are you from? 

Macon, Georgia, but "Mexico City" looked better on his name tag.  Anyway, his parents were from Mexico.

2. How long have you been in L.A.?

3 months.  He lived with his cousin on Poinsettia Boulevard in Hollywood.

3. Are you out at work and to your family?
Not at work.  Yes to his family, but "we don't talk about it."

4. What is your career goal?
To become an actor.

The preliminaries over, Mauricio asked "That guy you were with last night -- was that your lover?"

I nodded.  "Lane. We've been together for three years."

"Wow, congratulations! You got a good thing going on -- he's so hot!  I love big bears!  Is he a top or a bottom -- please say bottom."

Yes, we did have conversations like that with near-strangers in West Hollywood in 1993.

I was so used to being cruised all the time that I was a little put-off.  But I figured, fixing him up with my lover would be almost as good as dating him myself.  "We have an open relationship," I continued.  "If you want, I can give you our phone number."


"Wow, that'd be great!  Thanks!"

Dating when you were in a relationship was almost identical to dating while single.  You called, made the date for four or five days in the future, then went out for dinner, a movie, a concert, or cruising.  The only difference was, when you got home, your lover was waiting, to either watch the bedroom activities, or preferably join in.

So the next Friday night, I waited while Lane and Mauricio went out to dinner at the French Quarter, followed by cruising at the Faultline.  They came in at a little after 11:00, groping and kissing each other, and stumbled into the bedroom.  I followed.

And watched.

Mauricio had a smooth,solid body and an impressive Bratwurst+ beneath the belt, but whenever I tried to pay attention to him, he became embarrassingly unaroused.  A brief kiss, a desultory grope, and I was relegated to watching while he and Lane kissed, groped, fondled, and tried various positions for oral and anal.

Two hours later, they were still at it, and I was resisting the urge to turn on the tv.

I did get a little hugging when we all fell asleep in each other's arms, but the next morning it was Lane and Mauricio again, followed by breakfast.

After he left, I exclaimed, "What was that about?  You ignored me all night, and then again this morning!"

He smiled.  "Sorry -- it's just first date syndrome, you know, when you can't get enough of the guy.  We'll pay more attention to you on our second date, I promise."

The second date was two nights later.  Mauricio came over to dinner with a couple of our friends, and we rented a movie.

This time Lane and Mauricio went into the bedroom alone, while the rest of us stayed in the living room.  Eventually the others left, and I joined them.

I got a little action, mostly from Lane, but I still felt like turning on the tv, and letting them go at it.

When you're in a relationship, the third date is just as critical as when you are single.  Afterwards, you are officially together, a three-way romance.

Three-way romances were quite common in West Hollywood.  Who invented the heterosexist myth that you could only love one guy at a time?

Often the third liked one or the other more, so it was really more like a guy with two lovers. But never was the third simply left out of the equation.

I made sure there was no third date with Mauricio.

See also: A Hookup with the Waiter at a Christian Pizza Restaurant; The Silverlake Stud