Cruised by a Young Republican

Boca Raton, Florida, December 2002

When I was a teenager, I could get away with any stupid mistake by claiming that I had been trying to meet girls or impress a girl.  Actually, everyone assumed that the reason every boy did anything, from joining a school club to selecting a college, was to find a girl.

In gay communities, they don't automatically assume that you do things to find guys or impress a guy.

But that's exactly why I went to a meeting of the Log Cabin Republicans.

I don't have an excuse except -- did you see what he looked like?

He was a short, tightly-muscled, amazingly goodlooking 22-year old named Tom, who took my Sociology of Religion class at Florida Atlantic in the fall of 2002.

He kept grinning at me during class, especially during the lecture on gay Christians, and after the final grades were posted, he stopped by my office to cruise, just as I had with my own professor back at USC in 1986.

Over coffee, Tom told me that he grew up in, and was still attending, the Calvary Chapel, an ultra-fundamentalist mega-church.

Religious!  Just my type!  We bragged about the deprivations we faced growing up fundamentalist.  No movies -- no theater -- no eating out on Sunday -- and so on.

"Of course, I'm not out to my parents.  They would just start yelling.  Almost as loud as if I told them I turned Democrat!"

I interpreted this to mean that he was not out to his parents as gay or a Democrat.

"There's a Christmas party at the club next week," Tom offered.  "I'll have to introduce you as my professor, not my date, and we can't dance, but...anyhow, can you come?"

The Club turned out to be the St. Andrew's Club, the most exclusive and elegant of Boca Raton's many country clubs.

It was fun going undercover in a roomful of conservative, rich, straight people.  I met Tom's teenage brother and trio of hunky country-club buddies, and his parents, who said things like "Tom just thinks the world of you!  He found your class so enlightening!"

Everyone asked about "my wife."  I said she wasn't feeling well.

The dancing was a bit uncomfortable.  Tom had no problem cozying up to teenage debutantes, but I stood on the sidelines, being cruised by innumerable middle-aged ladies and not one man.



Afterwards we drove (in separate cars, of course) to the beach to walk in the moonlight, and then we went back to my house in Wilton Manors to spend the night.


Average beneath-the-belt gifts, a bit on the passive side, but who cares -- did you see what he looked like?

I should have guessed earlier, but I was having so much fun deceiving the straights that it didn't occur to me that Tom's conservative-speak was not part of the act.

I figured it out over breakfast in the morning, when Tom praised some statement by President Bush.

"That homophobic a*hole!" my housemate Barney exclaimed.  "He's worse than Reagan!"

"Reagan did a fine job, considering what he had to work with," Tom said.  "Remember, it was the 1980s."

Then Tom came out: he was a Republican!

"How can you be a gay Republican?" Barney asked.  "It's like being a Jewish Nazi, or a black Grand Dragon of the Ku Klux Klan!"

"You can be gay and still want a strong economy.  I know that some of the Republican leaders need to be educated."

"Educated?"  I said.  "President Bush is trying everything he can to keep us second-class citizens.  But he's a lot better than Governor Jeb Bush, who doesn't think we should grant civil rights to 'sodomites.'"

"What about the mayor of Fort Lauderdale, Jim Naugle?  He doesn't like the Sun-Sentinel because there are too many 'homos' on the staff, and he's a Democrat.  All of our leaders need to be educated about gay people.  That's what the Log Cabin Republicans are all about."

Log Cabin Republicans!

So this guy wasn't just pretending to be straight among his parents and their friends, to make sure he got his inheritance.  He was Tom the Uncle Tom, actively collaborating with our oppressors.

I should have showed him the door. But....

Remember what he looked like?

We went out again after I got back from my Christmas visit back home.

And I ended up going to a meeting of the Log Cabin Republicans with him!

It was full of doddering, elderly, elegant gay men wearing fancy rings, sipping martinis, complaining about America's faltering role in world politics, and cruising.  They approached the few young guys shamelessly, ignoring the rule that younger must always approach older.

I kept my arm tightly attached to Tom to signify that he was taken, but he still got extensively cruised.

"Guys who are into Daddy types must get a lot of action here," I whispered.

"Oh, you have no idea!" Tom said with a smile.

The "celebrity" guest speaker was Ruta Lane, an elderly actress who was in some Westerns and sitcoms during the 1950s.  She said "You should keep trying until the Republican Party gives you a place at the table."

"Wait -- your own party won't acknowledge you?"  I asked.

Tom squirmed in his seat, embarrassed.  "We're still working on them.  They need a lot of education."

So they weren't even Uncle Toms.  They were Uncle Tom Wannabes, just hoping for a chance to collaborate with our oppressors.

Or were they all just there to meet guys, or to impress a guy?

Tom and I went out two more dates.  I may be liberal, but I'm not crazy -- did you see what he looked like?

The Log Cabin Republicans were finally recognized by the California GOP in 2015.  The national organization still won't acknowledge them.

See also: I Hook Up with the Most Conservative Professor on Campus; and Arjun and the World's Weirdest Pickup Line.

Topped for the First Time by Fred the Ministerial Student

Davenport, Iowa, December 1979

There are a practically infinite number of bedroom acts you might want to engage in during a date with this guy, but for most gay men, the Big Four are anal top and bottom and oral giving and receiving, or in the terms we used in the 1980s:

French active/passive
Greek active/passive

French was the mainstay.  You didn't even need to ask; you could just assume that any guy you met was up for oral, both giving and receiving.  It's just what you expected to happen in the bedroom.

It's the only major activity that I knew about for 1 1/2 years after figuring "it" out.

Well, where was I supposed to learn about Greek?

There was no gay porn then, at least none that I had access to.

The Joy of Gay Sex had been published but wasn't on the shelves at the Waldenbooks in the Mall.

I had only been with about three guys, and none of them suggested Greek, or even mentioned it.


Then, on December 16, 1979, during my sophomore year in college, Fred the Ministerial Student asked me for a date.  He was 27 years old,  immensely attractive, my height, with an open smiling face, a tight swimmer's build, nice biceps, and an "innie" belly button.

We had dinner in a Chinese restaurant in Davenport and then returned to his tiny two-room apartment, where I tried the "yawn and stretch" maneuver to put my arm around him.

After kissing for awhile, we went into the bedroom, tore our clothes off, and fell onto the bed, where I went down on him.  I was being French passive, although I was doing all the work.

He wasn't quite as big as the guy in this photo, but still a lot bigger than any of the three I had been on before.   I gagged and choked.

"That's ok," Fred said.  "I get that a lot.  It's the curse of the well-hung man."

He pushed me back onto the bed.  I thought he was going to go down on me, making me French active, but instead he threw my legs into the air.  It was uncomfortable, hard to breath with all that weight on my chest.

Hey, what's going on?  What's he doing?

He spat on his hand, rubbed it on his penis, and tried to push it inside me!

The pain was intense!  "Hey, wait!" I yelled.  "What are you doing?"

He pulled out.  "Sorry -- I thought you were a bottom."

"Huh?"

"Are you Greek active?  I figured you were Greek passive."

I had no idea what he was talking about.

"What's Greek?"

"I'll explain later."  He moved into the 69 position.

During our second date, Fred showed me a copy of The Advocate, which had personal ads with code like French p, Greek a/p.  The two main gay activities were French (oral) and Greek (anal).  For each you could be active (inserting) or passive (receiving), or versatile.  You could like both equally, or prefer one.

I was so surprised that gay magazines existed that I barely paid attention to the code.

"So, I know you're French passive.  Are you Greek active or passive?"

"I don't know.  I've never done that Greek thing before."

"Why didn't you say so?"  If you're a virgin, it's easier from the rear.  And I'll lube more, don't worry."

"Couldn't we, like, kiss and stuff?" I asked.

"Oh, no, it's great.  You'll see.  You just have to relax." He fondled my butt.  "Nice!"

When we went into the bedroom and got naked, he turned me over on my stomach.  He took a jar of vaseline from the nightstand, and, I assume, smeared it on his penis.  "Just relax," he repeated.  "I'll take it slow."

And he was inside me again.  It still hurt, but it was tolerable, and it was kind of nice feeling Fred's body push against me.  But then another problem arose -- apparently pressing against the prostate triggered my urination reflex.  I had to go, now!

I pushed Fred off and headed to the bathroom.  Back in the bedroom, Fred said "Yeah, that happens sometimes.  I should have warned you.  Ready to try again?"

We tried again a few more times.  I got used to it, at least enough to allow myself to be talked into it, but I still couldn't see the attraction.  Either you couldn't breathe, or you were facing the wrong way. You couldn't kiss.  It hurt.  It was messy.  It ruined the mood to ask "have you cleaned down there?"

And it was really annoying to hear Fred whisper in my ear "Just relax!" as he tried to drive a baseball bat into my butt.

Through college and grad school, I was asked to be Greek active or passive on occasion.  I usually refused.

By the time I got to West Hollywood, Greek was implicated as a main way to transmit the AIDS virus, and thus extremely rare. Guys rarely requested it.  Between 1985 and 1997, I was Greek passive with only three people, and Greek active with two.

But lately I've noticed a big increase in Greek.  On the Plains, most of my dates throw their legs in the air the second we get into the bedroom.

Is it became I'm older, a "daddy"?
Or are guys in the Straight World less concerned about AIDS?
Or is it just the 2010s?

Go figure.

See also: I learn about oral sex; My second Greek passive experience; Fred hooks up with Ron Reagan Jr.

A Three-Way with Danny and His Boyfriend

Rock Island,  Fall 1969

At the beginning of fourth grade, there was a new boy sitting in the back of the class: short, slim, with brown hair and glasses, wearing a red sweater.

"This is Danny," Miss Johnson told us.  "He just moved to Rock Island this summer.  He wears a leg brace and walks on crutches, so he will need a special friend: someone to carry his books and lunch tray, and play quiet games at recess."

Danny reddened with embarrassment.

"Would anyone like to volunteer to be Danny's special friend?

A boy named Joel shot his hand up. Danny grinned at him -- apparently they had already become "special friends" over the summer.  

But I raised my hand, too, and for some reason Miss Johnson gave me the honor.

Maybe she remembered that I was the new kid last year.  Or maybe she just liked me better.

Joel sat fuming.

For the rest of the day, I carried Danny's books and lunch bag around.  I helped him look up "bats" in the Golden Encyclopedia, showed him the cafeteria and the nurse's office, and carried his lunch tray, while his friend Joel glared at me.

Danny glanced over at him and smiled, enjoying the attention.

The quiet games at recess?  Showing off, doing complicated hanging routines on the monkey bars -- his arms worked fine.

Danny had muscles!  And he was so cute that I couldn't stop looking at him.

Maybe I could get him to come over to my house, and cuddle on the couch while we watched Dark Shadows and Captain Ernie's Cartoon Showboat.  

I didn't get a chance to ask.

Just as the final bell rang, and I started helping Danny collect his books, Joel and Bill approached.  "Danny lives two houses down from me," Joel said firmly.  "I can walk home with him."

"Well -- Miss Johnson told me to."

"That's only in school.  She can't tell us what to do when school is out."

He had a point, but I wasn't going to give up on cuddling that easily.  "You should come home with me," I told Danny.  "I have naked army men, and Mom probably made some cookies."

 Nudity and cookies?  Danny smiled, thinking it over, enjoying having two boys fight over him.

"You have to go up three steps to get in your house," Bill said.  "He'll never make it up."

"Well, we can...."

"And your bedroom is in the basement," he added with a triumphant grin.  He didn't want me hooking up with Danny, either.

So we separated, Danny and Joel heading east, and me and Bill heading north.

The next day, Joel asked for and received the privilege of being Danny's "special friend."

I made one more attempt to hook up with Danny: I invited him to a sleepover at my house, along with Joel, Bill, and Greg the Boy Vampire. Danny didn't come.  I shared my bed with Greg.

At some point during the fourth grade, Danny vanished.  I don't remember when, or why. Presumably he moved: people often started out in Rock Island, because housing was cheap, and then moved to a more prestigious community, like Moline, or Bettendorf, across the river in Iowa.


Joel turned out to be another boy who "liked muscles," my preteen code for "was attracted to boys."  We stayed friends through junior high.  But I never heard anything about Danny.

Until my senior year in high school.

Rock Island, March 1978

On Sundays we spent six hours in church: Sunday school and morning service from 9:30-12:00, and then 6:00 Nazarene Young People's Society, 7:00 evening service and altar call, and 8:30-10:00 Afterglow: a party in the Fellowship Hall with contemporary Gospel music, sodas and snacks, and crazy party games.

It was technically a venue for soul-winning: your unsaved friends, who wouldn't dream of setting foot in a church service, might accept an invitation to a party.

But it was really a Nazarene-sanctioned dating venue.  Boys and girls paired off to go.  You could even bring a non-Nazarene date, in spite of the rule against being "unequally yoked with unbelievers," under the pretense of trying to get him saved.

One evening Cecilia, who lived across the river in Bettendorf, brought an unsaved boy: tall, brown-haired, very muscular upper body.  Wearing a leg brace, but no crutches.  She introduced him as Dan.

Danny, from fourth grade!

I eagerly latched on to him, and peppered him with questions.  He was a senior at Bettendorf High School, planning to go to the University of Iowa and study chemistry. He still did complicated gymnastics, he was in the chess club, and he liked science fiction movies.  He didn't have a girlfriend; this was his first date with Cecilia.

"You know," I said, "Back in fourth grade, I kept trying to get you into my house for a sleepover, but Joel and Bill kept talking you out of it.  I think they were jealous."

He grinned.  "Well, no time like the present.  Why don't you come over Saturday night?  I'll invite Rich, my best friend, and maybe some of the other guys."

"A sleepover in high school? Isn't that a little juvenile?"

"Not if we stay up all night!"

So with our parents' permission, five guys, me, Danny, his younger brother, his boyfriend Rich, and another friend named Steve had a sleepover.

Rather, we stayed up all night, eating pizza, watching Creature Feature, playing Risk and ping pong, doing chemistry experiments, and talking on his CB radio.  

No cuddling or groping, but some incidental touching, and a sausage sighting: Danny and I both had to go to the bathroom at the same time, and he suggested we share.  Average size, nicely shaped.

Danny lived about 10 miles away, and the spring of my senior year in high school was very busy -- and very emotionally intense -- so we didn't hook up again.

I wonder if he's writing a blog right now, and talking about the sausage sighting he got of me.

See also: The Hookup at the Sleepover.