Grandpa Prater's Banjo

This is the second erotic story about my Grandpa Prater.

It's the day after Christmas in seventh grade;  I just turned 12.  We're visiting my parents' relatives in Indiana.  Today we drive out to the farmhouse near Garrett to visit my Grandpa Prater, my mother's father, and bring him his Christmas presents.

Grandpa Prater is 70 years old, but still big and rugged, with thick arms and shoulders and huge hands. He wears overalls, sometimes with a white t-shirt underneath, sometimes without, so you could see his hard round pecs dusted with white hair.

He moved from Kentucky to Indiana with his family in 1942, to take advantage of factory jobs during World War II.  Now he is widowed, and all of his kids have moved out except Uncle Edd, who acts more like his brother than his son.

There's no car in the driveway, and no one answers when we knock, so we figure that they're out, at the store or visiting friends in town.  We drive down the road about half a mile to the Trailer in the Deep Woods, to visit my Cousin Buster and his parents and wait for them to return.

Cousin Buster shows me the guitar he got for Christmas, and tries to play "Your Mama Don't Dance," by Loggins and Messina.  He doesn't do well.  "I should have asked for a banjo," he says. "Man, I could really howl on that box." 

"Why don't you ask Grandpa if you can borrow his?"

Somehow we decide that it would be a good idea to sneak into the farmhouse while he's gone and "borrow" the banjo.  

We walk through the woods until we come to the side yard.  There's still no car in the driveway.

We climb onto the porch and go in through the parlor (country folk don't lock their doors).

I've been there a thousand times, but never when the house is deserted.  There's something eerie, even sinister, about the two overstuffed sofas, red with clawed legs, the old console radio with a black-and-white tv on top, the picture of Jesus on the Cross that changes to an Ascended Christ if you look at it right.  

The kitchen is familiar, too.  I've been there many times.  But there's something sinister about the plate of half-eaten toast and jar of Sue Bee Honey left on the kitchen table, as if someone suddenly rushed out.  Or was kidnapped.

I've never been inside Grandpa Prater's bedroom.  

First there's an anteroom, with some coats on hooks and shoes on the floor.  Then a big oak door.

More after the break

Grandpa Prater's Wrestling Moves

My Grandpa Prater, my mother's father, was a big man, towering over my father and uncles, and rugged even in his mid-60s, with thick arms and shoulders and huge hands.  He wore overalls, sometimes with a white t-shirt underneath, sometimes without, so you could see his hard round pecs dusted with white hair.

He was a man's man, always doing something with his sons and sons-in law and various friends: hunting, fishing, playing horseshoes, working on cars.

He had a thick Kentucky accent that was virtually incomprehensible, but he didn't say much anyway.  When the family gathered in the living room to play cards and exchange gossip, he kept silent unless someone asked him a question.  The indoors was uncomfortably stuffy; he'd rather be out with his friends and some dogs on a midnight hunt.

The only time he perked up was when someone asked him to play his banjo.  Then he'd play "Foggy Mountain Breakdown" or "Cotton Eyed Joe," as good, and as fast, as the Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs at the Grand Ole Opry.

There was a sadness about him that I didn't pick up on when I was a kid.  Something deep and dark, that the little joys of everyday life couldn't penetrate.  It wasn't just that he had lost his wife, three older brothers, and four of his eleven children.  It was a dream deferred, a hope from his childhood that he abandoned.

More about that later.

I have two good stories with Grandpa Prater.  The first is about judo.

The summer after fifth grade.  We're all at the farmhouse, but my brother and Cousin Buster are off somewhere, so I'm the only kid.  Dad and my uncles are up by the Old House, playing horseshoes.  I'm not allowed because I'm too little.  I don't necessarily like horseshoes, but I like hanging out with the men, especially when my only other option is sitting in the farmhouse with my Mom and aunts, gossipping about who did what with whom thirty years ago.

I'm wandering aimlessly through the side yard and the rhubarb patch when Grandpa Prater appears, wraps his huge paw around my shoulder, and says "I hear you're taking wrestling."

(I'm not going to try to transliterate his incomprehensible Kentucky accent.  Use your imagination.)

"Wrestling?  No, I'm studying judo.  It's a Japanese sport.  We wear white robes and throw each other."

"Judo?"  He repeats the unfamiliar word.  "Did you know I was a wrestler in high school?"

He takes my hand and leads me up the hill toward the Old House.  It's difficult to understand him, but by interrupting with many questions, I get the gist of his story:

In the Kentucky hills in the 1920s, it was unusual to go past the eighth grade, but the adolescent Tony (who I assume looked like this) was smart as a whip, so his parents allowed him to go on through twelfth grade at Salyersville High School. His best subject was music -- he sang and played the banjo, like on the Grand Ole Opry. That got the bullies riled, so to prove that he was a he-man, he went out for wrestling and basketball, too.

I have that problem!  At Denkmann, raising your hand too often or getting high grades on too many tests draws the ire of Mean Boys.

By now we are on top of the hill, in the men-only zone behind the Old House.  Dad asks, "Wanna join us, Tony?"

He doesn't ask me.

"Well, sure, but right now Boomer's going to show you all his wrestling moves.  Judo, I mean."

I'm what?   Try to throw someone who is twice as tall as me, and a solid mass of muscle?  And my grandpa?  I don't think so!

But Dad and my uncles are gathered around to watch the show.

"C'mon, you can't hurt me.  I'm strong as an ox.  I was wrestling guys before your Daddy was born."

Sighing, I grab Grandpa by the shoulder and hip and try the easiest throw, basically tripping your opponent.  To my surprise, he goes down easily and pulls me on top of him.

"Dagnabit, you did it!" he exclaims.  "That there judo is powerful stuff.  Now pin me.  Come on, pin me to the ground!"

I scamper on top of him, feeling his hard firm chest, smelling his Aqua Velva cologne and hint of whiskey, and press his arms over his head.

He pushes his arms down and slides me down his trunk, as easily as one might push off a pair of pants.  I feel his hard belly and the mass of his crotch.

"Well, your pinning needs some work, but other than that, you're a natural.  Hear that, Frank?  You sign this boy up for wrestling!"

Dad grins at me as if I've achieved a major goal.  And maybe I have.  "C'mon, Boomer," he says, "Play horseshoes with us.  You're old enough now."

I did go out for wrestling a year later, when I started junior high.

The next story about my grandpa involves sneaking into his bedroom to "borrow" his banjo.

See also: Grandpa Prater and his Banjo

The Boy on the Prospect List

When I was growing up in Rock Island,  anyone who set foot inside the Nazarene Church for any reason, but didn't "get saved" and become a member, was placed on the Prospect List.

Even if they just came for Vacation Bible School, or to cheer for a friend at a Jump Quiz Tournament.

They stayed on that list forever, unless they asked to be removed or the Church Board decided to purge the list of names from many years ago.

Every August, about a month before the fall revival, our Sunday school teacher gave each of us the contact information for 10 age- and -gender appropriate Prospects.  We were supposed to make it our business to "win them for the Lord," or at least invite them to church.

During the next month, we received 1 point for each Prospect that we prayed for, 2 points for each letter or post card, 5 points for each telephone call, and 10 points for each in-person visit, plus an extra 10 point if they actually came to church.

The rest of this story is on Righteous Gemstones Beefcake and Boyfriends

I Hook Up with a Dakota Indian Boy, Sort of

Sioux City, South Dakota, August 2014

3 million people in the U.S. identify as Native Americans.  That's about 1% of the population.

But I've had rather poor luck trying to meet some.
1.  The Teenage Indian God at Smoky Mountains National Park was actually white.
2. So was the only guy I met while cruising the Navajo Nation.
3. And the museum guard I picked up at the Eiteljorg Museum of Native American Arts.

That leaves the Eskimo who I shared with my partner Lane in West Hollywood and the Dakota guy I met in Fort Lauderdale. And maybe a few other guys that didn't volunteer their race, and I thought were Hispanic, like this guy in L.A.

In 2013, I moved to the Plains, home to some of the biggest Native American tribes in the U.S., like the Sioux (185,000), the Chippewa (115,000), the Cheyenne (23,000), and the Dakota (20,000).  They held pow-wows (wacipi) and other celebrations almost every weekend from June through September.

So I started going to pow wows.  I wandered the stalls where they sold embroidery, jewelry, capes, books, and artwork, as well as scary conservative political slogans.  Many Native Americans are hard-core Republicans.

I ate fry bread, "Indian tacos," corndogs, or the healthiest alternatives I could find.

I listened to long speeches and watched processions, dances, and ceremonies.

There were a lot of cute guys around, but none of them cruised me.  They barely made eye contact.

I figured that Wacipis were mainly for connectiong with your cultural heritage and socializing with Indians from other parts of the country.  Outsiders were welcome, but meeting them was not a big priority.

Well, I'm Indian, sort of.  My father was adopted into the Potawatomi tribe, so I had Indian cousins and a grandmother, and my mother traces her ancestry back to Charles Renatus Hicks (1767-1827), an important Cherokee chief.

So I bought a t-shirt reading "Ask me about my tribe" and went undercover.

I got more eye contact and smiles when I wore my tribal t-shirt, and even a cruisy gaze from a hot teenage dancer, but I managed only a few very brief conversations.

Maybe everyone was too busy to meet new people.

Or else too attached to mothers and fathers, wives, cousins, and friends to respond to a same-sex cruise.

Wacipis are very family friendly (read: gay people erased and ignored).

One day in August 2014, at a pow wow in Sioux City, South Dakota, I stopped by a booth that advertised "Five Cousins Roshineers."

Roshineers is Midwestern for "roasting ears," roasted corn on the cob eaten as a snack.

There were only three cousins at the booth, two young teenagers and a very muscular twink with black hair and a smooth brown chest.  His t-shirt said Tyler.

"Where are the other cousins?" I asked after ordering my corn.

"There's actually only four of us now," Tyler told me, pausing to wipe his brow.  His t-shirt was damp with sweat.  "The fifth, that's my brother Deacon, he started the business, but he got a job in Minneapolis, you know, and can't do it anymore.  I'll probably drop out when I get out of college, too."

"Oh, you're in college!" I exclaimed.  "Where do you go?"

"Northern State in Aberdeen, right near Lake Travers, home of the Sisseton Dakota nation, you know."

He must have grown up on the reservation!

"What are you majoring in?" I asked, trying to keep up the conversation going.

"Geology.  But I'm minoring in American Indian Studies, and I'm on the wrestling team.  Want to see a picture?"

He pulled out his smartphone and showed me a picture of his hands on his opponent's crotch.

"Nice."  I saw my opening.  "You have quite a physique.  I used to work for Muscle and Fitness magazine in L.A, and I met all the bodybuilding greats -- Schwarzenegger, Ferrigno, Hanley."

His eyes lit up.  "Really?  Hey, do you think you could check out my form sometime?"

"Sure -- is today good?"

"Well, I'm a little busy today.  Tell you what -- come on out to the college -- it's right near the rez, you know -- and I'll give you the grand tour.   Let me call you, so you have my cell phone number, right?"

He sent me a nude selfie!

Aberdeen, South Dakota, September 2014

I drove out to Aberdeen, rented a hotel room, and met Tyler for the "grand tour."  A small but very scenic campus, a small, seedy looking downtown.  We had lunch at a place called Daddy's Bar and Grill -- way to remind me of our age difference!  I talked about growing up in the small-town Midwest, figuring "it" out, my years at Muscle and Fitness, working at Barney's Gym in Florida.

"You know so many bodybuilders!" he said.  "Are all of them gay?"

"Not all, but quite a few.  What about here at Northern State? A lot of gay guys?"

"No, man.  If they are, they're closeted.  And homophobic.  That's what I like about Indians -- you're open.  You don't care if someone likes guys or girls or both.  Have you heard about the two-souls?"

Tyler spent the night in my room: very nice physique, Kielbasa beneath the belt, very much into oral.  In the morning we had breakfast, and I said goodbye.

"Thanks for spending time with me," he said.  "So many Indians are into older guys, I didn't think you'd want a kid."

"Kids have their advantages."  Suddenly it dawned on me. "Wait -- do you mean that you're not Indian?"

"Me?"  Tyler laughed.  "Thanks for the compliment, but I'm German.  But I'm way into Indians.  That's one of the perks of working the pow wows, right?  I get to meet a lot of rez boys."

See also: Cruising in the Navajo Nation.

My Last Wrestling Match

Rock Island, May 1975

When I was in junior high in the early 1970s, I hated sports,  but my parents wouldn't believe me.  They demanded, "Boys like sports.  You must sign up for a sport."  Anything involving projectiles being hurled at me was out of the question, of course.  I liked to watch the swim team but not splashing around in water.

What about wrestling, my brother's favorite sport?  Hardbodied boys in revealing singlets grabbing, pawing, and laying atop each other?  And then stripping down in the locker room afterwards?  It sounded perfect!

Besides, I had been taking judo lessons for two years, so I knew all about throwing, falling, and pinning.

I did ok.  I actually won a few matches, and I grew confident enough to challenge the Estonian Wrestling Brothers, George and Kristjan.

Then came a tournament in the spring of ninth grade, at Centennial Hall, a big fieldhouse across the street from Augustana College.  

My opponent, a beautifully muscled African-American boy named Walter, came from a tough school in Peoria, but I still managed to pin him with one arm behind his head and the other between his legs. As Walter flailed about, trying to break, his crotch became noticeably thicker and harder, until my arm seemed to be pressing against a coke bottle.

Shocked, I jerked away, giving Walter an opening to break. He threw me over and lay atop my spread legs, wrapping his arms around my shoulders as if in embrace.  He was blatantly grinding our crotches together, his face oddly stoic, as if he didn't care that he would soon be displaying a baseball bat to two hundred people.

Walter wanted a boy, not a girl! He had escaped the "discovery of girls" that the adults were always going on about.  He had escaped the mind-numbing chant of "what girl do you like?  what girl?  what girl?  what girl?" Maybe later we would go out on a date, and hug and kiss!   I was flushed with exhilaration.

When the referee shouted the win, we rose shakily and shook hands, and Walter disappeared  -- into the congratulating arms of  a girl! She kissed him, her thin pale arms wrapped around his waist. His body, pressing against me just a few minutes ago, was now pressing against her!

I felt my stomach drop.

I shrugged off the coach's hand-on-shoulder condolence and walked through the arena, out into the foyer, and then to the sidewalk outside. I stopped at the box office and looked at the posters of upcoming events – a jazz festival, a comedian, a Quad Cities Symphony concert. I was vaguely aware that Dad had jumped up from his seat in the bleachers and followed me out.

“It’s not over yet,” he said. “You’ve got another match coming up.”

Traffic was moving briskly on 7th Avenue, which followed the course of the Mississippi west-ward into Downtown. Across the street, three college boys with books were climbing the steep granite steps toward Augustana’s Old Main. I reflected that none of them had the slightest idea what had just happened.
“I don’t feel very good,” I said. “My stomach feels funny.”

Dad retrieved Kenny, and we went home. I got into my pajamas, and lay on the couch and watched tv. Flipping the channels, I happened upon The Magic Sword, which for some reason was always broadcast on Saturday afternoons: Sir George (Gary Lockwood), a young, wide-eyed knight in chain mail and a Prince Valiant haircut was questing to rescue a plump princess from a gay-vague sorcerer, who planned to feed her to his pet dragon.

Suddenly Darry’s head appeared at the picture window. “Aw, I wanted to surprise you,” he said as Mom let him in. He shoved my legs aside so he could sit down, and handed me a Schneider's Drug Store bag containing three comic books. “Your brother told me you got your head broken in at your wrestling tournament.”

“I’m just sick to my stomach. But thanks for the comics."

“You do look kinda green! But I would get sick, too, if I had to jump around in those silly leotards. What ya watchin’?”

“The Magic Sword. I  just turned it on.”

Darry laughed. “I can see you’re turned on. That’s a foxy fairy princess, huh?”
Puzzled, I looked up at the screen. Sir George  was strung up in a courtyard, his shirt ripped off, his muscles taut and hard and gleaming. There was also a “foxy fairy princess” strung up on the other side of the courtyard,  awaiting the dragon. But who could possibly give her a second glance?

I wanted to nudge Darry and point out the knight. I wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him and yell “Wake up! Open your eyes!” But boys nudged each other about girls, only and always, and there was a girl waiting at the end of every tournament. I had to ignore – or pretend to ignore – the most beautiful man in the world.

“Yeah, she’s far out,” I said, hating myself, and hating Darry for making me say it.

The Estonian Wrestling Brothers

There are only about 25,000 people of Estonian ancestry in the United States, as opposed to 1.2 million of Swedish ancestry.  But when I was growing up in Rock Island, Estonia appeared in my life nearly as often as Sweden, giving me an early impression that it was a "good place," where same-sex desire was open and free.

1. In 4th grade at Denkmann Elementary School, Bill's parents took us to a performance by the Estonian National Ballet at Augustana College. I don't remember the piece (this is from Modigliani, the Cursed Artist in the 2012-13 season).

2. Our 4th grade teacher considered Estonia part of Scandinavia for some reason, and told us Estonian folktales and the story of Kalevipoeg.

3. At a garage sale in 5th or 6th grade, I bought a book written in Finnish. I couldn't read it, of course -- the lady at sale told me that the title meant Come to Estonia-- but there were some nice pictures of Estonian houses, monuments, and the naked statue of Kalevipoeg by Kristjan Raud, plus some shirtless Estonian men (not this photo).


4. In 9th grade at Washington Junior High, I was playing the violin and coveting the position of first chair, when one day in the spring, a slim, sandy-haired 7th grader named George (top photo, left) appeared out of nowhere and easily won the audition.




A few weeks later, I entered a chess tournament, and George was my first opponent.  A 7th grader -- an easy win! I thought.  Nope, he trounced me in five moves!

It was annoying to be beaten in everything, but George was cute, and my boyfriend Dan was becoming more and more distant, so I thought of making "the switch."  I told George that I was on the wrestling team, and offered to show him some moves.  "I'll show you Estonian wrestling!" he offered.

It turned out to be Graeco-Roman wrestling.  He pinned me easily.  

George's parents were refugees from Communist Estonia.  His father worked in the factory, but he had been an athlete of some sort back home.  There was a picture of him and his muscular, shirtless teammates on the mantle (not this one).


George had a older brother, a 11th grader named Kristjan, who was just as accomplished.  One day all three of us practiced Estonian wrestling in their basement rec room.

We never became close friends, but I still have warm memories of two muscular bodies pressed against me.

(Photo from Alo Paistik, an Estonian artist living in Paris, whose Applied Art for a Gay Club is on display at gay clubs around Europe.)

5. At Augustana College, the professor who taught my first-year music theory class was Estonian (no doubt he was the one who arranged to have the Estonian National Ballet visit a few years before).  He gave me a B- on my paper on Peer Gynt.  He wore jeans to class -- a remarkable feat of daring for a professor in the 1970s, and one which offered proof of why Kristjan Raud always depicted his models nude.

Nude Wrestling in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin

Rock Island, July 2017

Bob and I are on a road trip from the Plains to New York. We spent the night in Rock Island, Illinois, my home town.  Now we're having egg white omelets and fruit cups at the Quad Cities Pancake House.

"So, what's on the schedule for today?"  Bob asks.

"Chicago, about three hours from here.  We'll hit a couple of the museums, spend the night, and then drive on to Cleveland tomorrow."

"Would you mind if we take a little side-trip first?  I have a cousin I haven't seen since we were kids.  It's a couple of hours out of the way."

"Where?"

"Fond du Lac, Wisconsin."

4 hours out of the way!  But this is Bob's trip, too, so he should have a say in the itinerary.  Besides,  I have a history with Fond du Lac.


During my senior year in high school, although I was still Nazarene, I became obsessed with all things Catholic.  I read The Seven Story Mountain and The Dark Night of the Soul, learned to say the Rosary, and even went incognito into a Catholic Mass. I didn't actually convert, but I was considering it.

 And I considered applying to Marion College in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin.

Dad even drove me up for a tour.  I remember a vast snow-covered campus with round white buildings, pristine, pure, as quiet as a cloister.

You could feel the presence of God everywhere.

I imagined living in an austere dorm room, all white, empty except for a bed with white covers, some statues of saints, and a shelf of contemplative classics: the Little Flowers of St. Francis,  The Cloud of Unknowing.  Of walking among buildings of brilliant white other-worldly splendor every day, en route to my classes in medieval philosophy, Catholic theology, Ecclesiastical Latin, and Koine Greek.


Saying the rosary, walking the Stations of the Cross, going to Novenas, blessing myself with holy water before daily Mass.


Spending every day in communion with the Divine.

I decided to go to Augustana instead, but ever since, Fond du Lac has remained entrenched in my mind as a place of peace and serenity, as close as you can get to heaven in this life.

"Could we go to a Catholic Mass while we're there?" I ask.

Bob blinks.  "Well, it's Wednesday, and I'm not Catholic, but...ok, if you want.  I'll text my cousin."

On the four hour drive to Fond du Lac, Bob tells me more about Cousin Tark (short for Tarkington).  He's older than Bob, a big brother who used to babysit him and sneak him into R-rated movies, until he went away to college in Wisconsin, and then got a job in Fond du Lac.

"Was he cute?" I ask.

Not an athlete, but big and tall, with a thick beefy chest and nice biceps.

"Any sausage sightings?"

"Man, we used to wrestle in the nude.  I remember it getting hard once!  Really big -- and thick!  Man, that thing was like a beer can!"

 A beer-can penis somehow seems out of place in a world of quiet contemplation.  Surely trivial matters like sex fade away when you are in the presence of the Divine.

Fond du Lac, Wisconsin

We arrive in Fond du Lac at around 2:00 pm.  Tark doesn't get off work until 5:00 pm, so we go to Lakeside Park and walk along the lake.

I try to imagine how different my life would have been if I had gone to Marian, and stayed in Wisconsin, instead of going to Augustana, then Indiana University, and then West Hollywood.  Would I have been to 10,000 daily masses by now?  Said the rosary 20,000 times?  Spent my life in quiet contemplation of the Divine?

Next we go to St. Paul's Cathedral.  No Mass is going on, but I bless myself with holy water and light a candle in front of a statue of the Blessed Virgin, while Bob texts on his cell phone.

Then Marian College itself, which is a disappointment: an Erbert and Gerbert's sandwich shop in the student union, a jazz concert coming up on Friday, a sports team called the Dockspiders, and "A Beginner's Guide to Star Wars" in the student newspaper.  Hardly contemplative or otherworldly!

At 5:30 we go to Joe's Fox Hut, a rather scary dive bar next to the army induction center, with a Schlitz Beer sign out front.

The server takes us into a dark, dismal room with country-western music blaring, and hands us menus: pizza! corn dogs!  garlic bread!

Nothing healthy on the menu.  Even the chicken breast comes with french fries and cole slaw.

Suddenly a very tall, chubby guy with short hair and a reddish-brown beard sneaks up behind Bob, motions for me to keep quiet, and grabs him.  Bob yells.

"Gotcha!"

Bob hugs him.  "Hi, Cousin Dweeb. This is my boyfriend, Boomer."

Tark slides into the booth next to me and shakes my hand.

"Cousin Dork, you're all grown up -- sort of.  You're still scrawny -- and dating your professor!  How did you pull that off?"  He nudges me.  "I'll bet the little guy gets all A's, huh?"


"He's not actually in any of my classes."

"Well, there's always next semester."

He orders a sausage-mushroom pizza with mini corn dogs on the side, and tells us about his job as an auto detailer.

"It's great -- they bring the cars right to my house, and I do the work in my driveway.  No overhead.  Sure beats working in a stuffy office all day -- or teaching a bunch of whiny brats."

"True," I say.  "But some of those whiny brats are cute."

"I heard that.  Man, if I was a professor, I'd be inviting every gal in sight for some extra tutoring in my office.  Maybe a little oral exam, huh?"

I don't like him.  In a world of quiet contemplation, all he can think of are corn dogs and oral sex.

Eventually his girlfriend Diane joins us: a music professor at Marian specializing in jazz history.

Jazz?  Not Gregorian chants?  

We go to a place called the Backstage Bar and Grille to drink beer (soda for me and Bob) and listen to live music, more pop than jazz.  Loud!

Then we go back to Diane and Tark's house to drink more beer, listen to more music -- loud! -- and play with their dogs and cat,.  Finally it's time for bed: they put us up in an upstairs bedroom with race car posters and stuffed animals.

Bob and I strip down.  "They seem nice," I say.

"Yeah.  He hasn't changed.  A little fatter, but still like a big brother."

We start kissing and fondling.  Bob pushes me down onto the bed.

I look up to see Tark.  Grinning, naked.

He motions me to keep silent.  Bob is kissing my chest.  Suddenly Tark grabs him from behind.

"Nude wrestling!" he yells, dragging a giggling Bob to the floor.  "Rowdy Roddy Piper versus the Dynamic Dork!"

No, we didn't "share."   But I did get a sausage sighting of his beer-can penis.

Yes, that makes up for the absence of quiet contemplation in Fond du Lac.

Wrestling Bulges

Wrestlers wear singlets -- one piece lycra or nylon suits that fit tightly over their body, so there are no folds for their opponents to grab.  They may wear a jockstrap underneath, or they may wear nothing at all.  And they're young men.  Arousal happens frequently.














At the worst possible moment.

When it happens at a match, with your parents, little sister, and hundreds of other people watching, what do you do?

Pretend that it's not happening.

And everyone else will pretend that it's not happening, too.

Except for the gay men and boys in the audience who come to wrestling matches precisely for moments like this.

More after the break

A Sausage Sighting of The Ex-Wrestler

Long Island, April 2000

You're not supposed to think of people at the workplace as sexual beings.  Supposedly it distracts you from doing your job properly.

Work clothes are designed to minimize his physicality, keep the biceps and bulges under wraps, prevent you from imagining him naked.

But in fact, work clothes become all the more erotic because they're not supposed to be.

College students dress informally of course, wear tight jeans stuffed with socks or shorts that obviously bulge left or right, and as you walk up and down the aisles, you often get a good view of not only bulges but tents, as they struggle with an unexpected arousal.

But college professors dress a bit more formally, with shirts and slacks that keep things hidden.  You rarely see a bulge, never a tent.

Still, you can imagine what they look like naked.

Cruising -- leering, touching, and statements of erotic interest  -- is inappropriate in the closed environment of a workplace, but anyone can look, and once in a while you get to see him in real life.

He may ask you for date or hookup.  In thirteen years as a college professor, not including adjuncting, I've been approached by dozens of students, but never by another professor.  

You may run into him at a Bear Party or a bathhouse.  This is the stuff of porn movies, but it has happened to me only once.

You may see him in the locker room.  That's happened to me three or four times.

You may be standing at the urinal in the restroom at the same time.

That's happened a lot more often, maybe fifteen times.

Ok, most college professors are straight -- the gay ones burnout or get fired quickly -- so they're not asking you for dates or going to bear parties.  They usually don't work out, or not at the same time as you.  But they all stand at urinals.

You can even predict when: academics will use the restroom closest to their office, typically just after teaching a class (after dropping their stuff off in their office) or going to lunch, or just before they leave campus for the day.

Or during those long, boring committee meetings.  He'll probably check out after about an hour and a half into it to use the restroom; or if not, he's sure to jump in the moment the meeting adjourns.

If they're open urinals, with no barrier between, you got it made.

When I was a graduate student at Setauket University, New York, I wanted a sausage sighting of Dr. Chester, a former professional wrestler who taught the history and sociology of sports.

 He was in his 50s, massive, with a huge barrel chest, a bull neck, gigantic wrists and hands.  Unfortunately, he wore a business suit, uncharacteristic for college professors, with slacks that hung straight down and didn't offer a bulge.

He had a wife and kids, so he probably wouldn't be asking me for a date, or showing up at Ravi's Bear Parties on Long Island.

He didn't use the campus gym.

He never taught classes at any time convenient for "accidentally" using the fourth floor restroom.

Besides, during the 1999-2000 year, I was living in Manhattan, commuting to Long Island three times a week, teaching three classes, working on my qualifying exams, going to weekly Bear Parties, and hooking up with the BDSM Birthday Boy, a Man in Black, a teenage model, and Andrew Lloyd Webber.  I was a little too busy to do a lot of strategizing over a mere sausage sighting.

Then, one day in April 2000, late in the afternoon, I was on my way out of the Social Science Building to meet Yuri for dinner.  I didn't really have to go, but I decided to do a pre-emptive, just in case.

I unlocked the outside door and walked through the swinging security door into the faculty men's room.  It was very small, really only big enough for one person, with a toilet stall and a single urinal right next to the sink.  And there, at the urinal, was Dr. Chester, just starting to unwrap the most massive Kovbasa I had ever seen!

It was like a fire hose.  It took two hands to hold it.  Very thick, uncut.

How could he walk around with that thing in his pants?

He glared at me.  "Good afternoon, Boomer," he said  coolly, obviously not happy to be disturbed.  " I'll be through in a moment."

"Oh, sure, take your time," I managed.

He let loose, oblivious to my staring, or thinking that I was just impatient.

When he finished, he played with it for a moment, then turned, still hanging out.  I stepped back to let him past me.  He stood in front of the mirror and played with it a little more, while I watched.

Guys always wrap up while standing in front of the urinal.  They never walk to the mirror, still hanging out.  Unless they want to give you a show.

Was he suggesting something?  Was he offering me that gigantic Kovbasa?

Or was he testing me, to see if I was one of those "predatory" gay guys who accost straight men in urinals?

 I wasn't about to find out.  I went to the urinal and conducted my business, while Dr. Chester wrapped up, washed his hands, and left.

To this day, I wonder what would have happened if I had reached over and touched it.

See also: The Homophobic Student in the Shower; Twelve Teacher Hookups