Derek the Fitness Model and the Teenage Cowboy

West Hollywood, September 1988

In West Hollywood, almost no one lived alone.  It was too expensive, and besides, we moved here in the first place to find community.  So we lived with a partner (we called them "lovers"), a roommate, or both.

There were two types of roommates.

Alan and I were Close Friends: We ate meals together, went out together, moved in the same social circle... and invited each other to "share" boyfriends.

When he moved to Thailand in the fall of 1987, I moved in with a fitness model-turned-realtor named Derek, a tall, muscular, hairy guy in his 40s, and his lover Chazz, a slim, androgynous twink.

They lived in a small but very nice house on Hilldale, just off Sunset.

Derek and I turned out to be Just Roommates: We scheduled different hours for cooking and eating meals.  We were invited to each other's parties by default, and on Saturday afternoons we went to the Bodhi Tree on Melrose to browse for New Age books, but otherwise we rarely socialized. We had different social circles.

And he never invited me to "share."

It was rather frustrating listening to the activity on the other side of the wall, and never being asked to join in.

Did I mention that Derek's physique was spectacular even by West Hollywood standards?  And that I saw his beneath-the-belt gifts in one of his old layouts in Mandate?

A few months after I moved in, Derek broke up with Chazz (who soon moved out).  He started bringing dates home.  Mostly slim, androgynous twinks.


Ok, now's my chance! I thought.  Maybe he was monogamous with Chazz, but he certainly won't mind sharing a boyfriend!

But he never asked, and when I invited him to share my on-off boyfriend, he gave me a weird, sad smile, and said "No, thank you," with exaggerated politeness.

What, not into sharing?  Or not into Raul?

Or not into me?

Impossible!  Everyone was into me!  I was never rejected -- except by Derek.

Then I met Calvin, the Cowboy of Sunset Boulevard, who was skittish about going down the hill to the gay part of West Hollywood, where someone might think he was...you know.  I invited Derek along on our date, figuring that the promise of two guys in his bed would trump Calvin's fear of "somebody I know seeing me."

It backfired: Seems that Derek was from Wyoming, grew up around cowboys, and had played one in a photo shoot for Playgirl.

They were so busy talking that I felt like I was tagging along on a date between Calvin and Derek.

So I wasn't completely surprised the next morning, when I got back to the house after walking Calvin to his car, and Derek asked "Are you going on a second date?"

"Probably not.  He was very passionate in bed, but we don't really have a lot in common."

"Then, do you mind if I ask him out?"

I sort of did.  Calvin was my project -- a shy, closeted young cowboy.  I drew him out of his shell, introduced him to an out, proud gay community. What had Derek done, except flex his biceps and talk about Wyoming?  But I said "No, not at all.  Wait a couple of days, of course."

In West Hollywood, the 48 hours after the first date was a tense waiting period.  Either of you could ask for a second date, or not.  What if one asked, and the other wasn't interested?  What if you saw each other on the street before you were ready to call?  If  48 hours passed without a request for a second date, you could relax and move on to other people..

 "Great, thanks!  I'll wait a week, just to be on the safe side.  Wouldn't want anybody to think I was rustling on your ranch, would we?"

But when I got home from Muscle and Fitness on Monday afternoon,  there was a message from Calvin on our machine.  He had called Derek exactly 48 hours after our date ended!

Derek wasn't really a fan of the Old West -- at least, I never heard him mention bronco busting or cow poking -- but he orchestrated a Western-themed date for Saturday night: dinner at a Mexican restaurant, followed by Oilcan Harry's, a bar in Studio City that specialized in country-western line dancing.

I snippishly decided to be home, watching tv in the living room, when they returned, about 11:00 pm.

"Have fun, guys?" I asked.

"Oh, it was great," Derek said.  "Really nice crowd at Oilcan Harry's."

"Well, come on, sit down and tell me all about it!"

Derek glared at me, as if to ask, Are you deliberately making this awkward?

Another West Hollywood rule: at the end of the date, your friend or roommate is anxious to get into the bedroom, so keep the conversation to a bare minimum.

He murmured "I have to make a pit stop," and disappeared into the bathroom.  Calvin sat down on the couch next to me.

"Hey...um...I want to apologize about blowing you off for your roommate."

"No need for apologize" I said, surprised.  "We only had one date -- we weren't in a relationship."

"Well, I feel bad anyway.  You're really nice and all, but Derek and me, we just have a lot more in common.  Did you know he was in a rodeo when he was a teenager?"

"Hey, who am I to stand in the way of two cowboys in love?"  That came out more sarcastic than I intended.

"I don't want to go into to the bedroom with Derek, and have you out here, all lonely and upset..."

"Well, if you'd rather I not be here, I can go to the Rage for an hour or so."

Calvin scooted over and put his arm around me.  "Or you could spend the night with us.  I'm sure Derek won't mind."

Derek appeared, wiping his hands on a towel.  "I won't mind what?"

"Inviting Boomer to spend the night with us."

He stared with deer-caught-in-the-headlights horror - but he said: "Um...um...sure, that would be great."

I'm still not sure why he agreed -- they weren't in a relationship, so sharing was weird.    But we ended up in his bedroom with Calvin between us, taking turns kissing him and working beneath the belt.

Then we both topped Calvin -- one of the few times I've ever topped anyone.

I got only limited access to Derek -- no kissing, just a little fondling.  But it was fun seeing him in action.

They dated for about three months, and I ended up sharing their bed a few more times, always with passionate attention from Calvin and some basic fondling from Derek.  

That was enough.

See also: My Date with Richard Dreyfuss; The Naked Man in the Bathtub; Derek and the Pop Star

The Daddy with a New Lover Every Week

West Hollywood, March 1990

"I thank God for bringing me my new lover," Cal announced during the "joys and sorrows" segment of the service at the West Hollywood MCC.  We all looked eagerly, and with some envy:

Cal had only been attending the church for a few weeks.  He was new to West Hollywood, newly out, with an ex-wife and kids back in Baltimore.  Middle aged but too scrawny to be a bear, bald, eyeglassed, not attractive.

But he was holding hands with a stunningly handsome, curly haired beach boy in tight jeans.

During the coffee hour after the service, several guys approached the new lovers to congratulate them and invite them to "do brunch," perhaps hoping that they would be able to "share" Cal's prize.

The next week, Cal sat in church alone, brushing off the questions of "Where's your lover?"  During the "joys and sorrows," he announced, teary-eyed, that he and the beach boy had broken up.  "It's been hard on me, but I trust that God has a plan, and He'll get me through this!"

During the coffee hour after the service, several guys approached Cal to offer their sympathy and invite him to "get back out there."

The next week, Cal sat  with a stunningly handsome, curly-haired gym rat in a white tank top.

"I thank God for bringing me my new lover," he announced during "joys and sorrows."
I stared.  How did he find a new lover so fast?

It was the height of the AIDS crisis, and tricking (our term for hookups) was strongly condemned.  You never went home with someone you had just met; you asked him for a date (in four or five days, to avoid appearing over-eager).

The first date involved going out to dinner, a movie if there was a beefcake-heavy one playing, dancing, cruising (looking at cute guys), and then home to spend the night.

The second date was more of the same, except that at some point you met his friends, who approved or not.

The third date was a momentous step: it marked you as lovers (permanent partners).

Treated as a couple by all of your friends.
No other sex partners except for shared friends
Planning to move in together.

And requiring a tearful, face-to-face,  "it's not you, it's me" breakup.

There were a lot of first and second dates in West Hollywood, but not many thirds.  In a decade, I only had about five.  How did Cal manage to get two in two weeks?

The next Sunday, Cal was sitting alone in church again.  He explained that his lover wasn't feeling well.

But the following Sunday, he was praising God for giving him a new lover -- a slim, curly haired twink who worked as a waiter at the Cafe Etoile.

Ok, what was going on?  Did Cal meet guys on Tuesday, have the dates Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, become lovers in time for Sunday morning congratulations and brunch invitations, and then break up?

Why would you do that?

Unless you were using "lovers" as a socially acceptable way of tricking, going through guy after guy at the speed of light?

I decided to do a little sleuthing.  I tagged along on one of the brunch invitations to start a friendship with Cal.  Then, the next Sunday, when he announced that he and his lover had broken up, I invited him to dinner next Wednesday, with Lane.

And a guy from the gay synagogue: Joel, a lawyer, early 30s, pale, bookish, with glasses and a sparse beard (top photo).  Black curly hair. Conservative, not into "sharing" (we tried -- he's #5 on my list of the Guys Who Got Away).

 And most importantly, an interest in older guys.

The matchmaking worked fine: Cal and Joel were both impressed, exchanged phone numbers, and went home (separately).

At Shabbat on Friday night, Joel told us that for their first date, Cal was taking him to dinner at in the restaurant at the top of the Westin Bonaventure Hotel.

"He really wants to impress you!" I exclaimed.  Entrees started at $30.

"Yeah, it's really more of a third date place," Joel agreed.  "He said he works for Paramount.  Maybe he has money."

The date was on Saturday night.

On Sunday morning, like clockwork, Cal announced "I want to thank God for sending me my new lover.  He's Jewish, so he's not here today."

Lover? Permanent partner?  How was that possible?  They had only been on one date!

At the coffee hour after church, invitations to brunch were scarce, perhaps because there was no hunk on Cal's arm, or because congratulating people becomes tiresome when they have a milestone every week.

"So, you and Joel hit it off pretty well?" I asked, tentatively.

"Pretty well!" Cal exclaimed.  "He's fantastic!  I never met anyone like him before.  We have everything in common.  We're soulmates, for sure."

"After one date?"

"When it's The One, you know after one glance!  He's moving in next weekend."

"Well, after the dust is settled, invite us over for dinner.  We're the guys who brought you together."

"Sure -- but no sharing!" Cal said with a smile.  "I want Joel all to myself."

I didn't get a chance to talk to Joel during the week, but at Shabbat on Friday, I asked, "How are things going with Cal?"

"Things aren't actually going," he said.  "We went out Saturday night, then again on Tuesday, but no more.  He's nice and all -- I know he's your friend -- just not my type."

"That's funny -- in church on Sunday he announced that you had become lovers."

"That's the thing.  During the first date -- we had only just barely climbed into bed -- he started saying we were soulmates, meant to be together, he had never met anyone like me before, and so on and so on.  Sunday morning he talked about moving in together!  It was way too fast!"

So Cal wasn't using dating as a substitute for hookups.  Quite the opposite.  He fell in love instantly, like many guys do who have been deprived of same-sex relationships until midlife.

"Poor guy.  I'm surprised you hung around for the second date."

"Well, I thought he would calm down a little.  Besides, I wanted another chance in bed with him."

"Good in bed, huh?"

Joel grinned and spread his hands apart like a fisherman. "Biggest I ever saw."

Unfortunately, I never saw it, but from other guys who dated Cal, I'm estimating a Kovbasa+.

See also: My Top 15 Sausage Sightings; 10 Guys who Got Away

The Horrifying Hispanic Rebuff of Eigenmann Hall

Indiana University, August 1982

I was 21 years old, a new college graduate, just starting graduate school at Indiana University.  Classes woudln't start until Monday; we were supposed to spend this week getting used to the gigantic campus that took 20 minutes to walk across.  The  library with stacks as big as a football field.  Eigenmann Hall, the 13-story high graduate men's dormitory that housed more people than a small town, with its own snack bar, gym, and library.  A 20-page brochure advertised every conceivable student club,  from bird-watching to Marxism (no gay groups, of course).

On the Thursday before classes began, there was an International Student Mixer in the Eigenmann Hall Snack Bar. Come and meet your dorm mates from more than 20 countries!  Everyone welcome!  Refreshments provided!

Rock Island was very homogenous.  Everyone's grandparents and great-grandparents were from Sweden, but there were no, or almost no recent immigrants. There were no international students at Augustana except for one guy from Sweden. I wanted to meet people from Argentina, Bolivia, Britain, Germany, India, Japan, Korea, Samoa, South Africa,  Taiwan, Thailand, and Venezuela.  I was there!

You know what happens at these functions, right?  No international mingling. Everyone clung together with people from their own country, eating brownies and drinking punch and giggling and gossipping.  They never even glanced at the students from other countries.  .  

And I was the only American, wandering around, pretending to be very interested in the announcements posted on the bulletin board, being rebuffed by the Brits, the Indians, the Japanese, and the Samoans like a ball in a foosball game.

I wasn't having it!  I came here to meet people from different countries, and I was going to meet people from different countries!  Besides, I hadn't met anyone gay on campus yet, and some of these guys were cute.

I chose four guys standing by the refreshment table, having an animated conversation in Spanish.

Today, when 13% of the population of the U.S. speaks Spanish, it is difficult to imagine the linguistic desert of the 1970s.  In eight years of studying Spanish, I had never heard anyone speaking it in real life, never had a conversation in Spanish except with classmates (and a guy from church once).  This was my opportunity.

I sidled up and pushed my way into the Spanish-speaking group.  They stopped talking. 

I looked at the leader, a tall, muscular guy about a foot taller than the others, smiled, and said "Hola!"

He glared at me. "Practicing your Spanish?"

Another thing about Spanish class -- we studied countless scenarios in which an American meets someone from Mexico or Peru or Spain, and they are always friendly, always eager to chat about the color of their socks or the difference between "ice" and "ice cream."

"Um...um..." I stammered.  "People...um...like it when you take the trouble to learn their language.  I...um...studied Spanish for eight years...I'm fluent...."

"That's great.  What prize did you win?"

It occurred to me: he thought I was an "ugly American,"  looking down on his country, thinking he was stupid.

"Of course I know that you speak English," I said, not sure if I was more embarrassed or angry.  "You have to speak English to enroll at this university.  I was just trying to be friendly...trying to be nice."

Seeing a pale 21-year old kid trembling, almost in tears, the guy toned back his hatred a bit and started asking me questions.  "Where are you from?", that sort of thing.  I don't remember my answers.  After a few minutes, I got out of there.

You're expecting this story to end with the guy inviting me back to his room for a night of sex.

Nope.  I never saw him again.  I never got his name, or the country he was from.

But I learned that people in the U.S. who are speaking a language other than English do not like you to chime in.  They are not pleased that you speak their language.  They consider it an insult.  I'll do it only if they start the conversation in their language, or if they are obviously struggling with English.

And over 30 years later, that "Practicing your Spanish?" rebuff still stings.