Sharing the Optometrist's Boyfriend

Bloomington, October 1982

When I arrived for graduate school at Indiana University, 21 years old, fresh from a small town in the Midwest, my gay experiences were so limited that I never suspected Mark, the optometry student who lived down the hall from me in the graduate student dorm.

He was short and compact, with a flat face and a high forehead, cute, a little nerdy, not stereotypically swishy.

 I didn't suspect when he joined me in watching The Powers of Matthew Star on Friday nights, a superhero spoof notable only for teen idol Peter Barton.

I didn't suspect when I knocked on his door one Friday night in October, a couple of weeks after my visit to the adult bookstore where I found the Gayellow Pages, and Mark opened with his shirt disheveled, and I saw another guy with his shirt half off sitting on the bed.

I didn't even suspect when I noticed that the two twin beds in the room had been pushed together to make a double.

But I suspected the other guy -- tall, pale, with a slim, tight chest, blond hair, and a round, pretty face.  Effeminate!  Must be gay!

I grinned at the glimpse of beefcake as he quickly buttoned up.  My first gay guy in Bloomington!  "Hi, I'm Boomer."

Obviously unwilling to make introductions, Mark complied out of politeness.  "Boomer, this is Shaun.  My...um...cousin.  Visiting me."

Mark's cousin was gay!  Did he know, or was he oblivious?

I barged into the room, took Shaun's slim hand, squeezed it, and held it for a moment too long. He smiled. I began to feel flushed -- here I was, flirting with Mark's cousin right in front of him!

 "So...um...you guys up for The Powers of Matthew Star? It's stupid, but it has Peter Barton in tights."

"No, not tonight, sorry," Mark said.  I didn't catch his look that meant Get lost!

 "I'll go!" Shaun exclaimed.  Mark glared at him.  "Oh, relax.  It will be fun.  That other thing will keep!"

"Ok, then, you guys go ahead."  I didn't catch Mark's angry tone.  "I'll get some studying done.  But don't stay too long -- we don't want to be late for that other thing."

"Sure, sure.  See you in an hour." He touched Mark's shoulder affectionately, and stood, facing me.  Definitely cruising, I thought.  "Which way to the tv lounge?"

Each of the tv lounges in Eigenmann Hall was dedicated to a different channel (back then there were only six).  On Friday night, most residents were out, or watching Benson on the third floor or Dukes of Hazzard on the sixth.  We had the thirteenth floor lounge to ourselves.

Shaun and I sat on a big crimson-colored couch, so close together that I could feel the warmth of his thighs and glimpse his pale hard chest in the places where his shirt was still askew.

In those days you never just came out to someone -- the results were usually unpleasant, and sometimes violent.  You tip-toed around the question.

"So, are you in college?" I asked.

Of course, Shaun was actually an undergraduate psych major at Indiana, on a date with Mark -- this was their fifth date.  They had gone out to dinner, and they were just getting ready for intimacies when I barged in.  But he couldn't tell me that.  He had to stick to the "visiting cousin" story.

 "Oh yes, I'm a junior at Notre Dame.  My parents insisted -- I think they wanted me to become a priest.  Imagine, me a priest!  They about had a heart attack when I told them I wanted to major in music instead.  Voice."

We were good at making up impromptu stories in the 1980s.

"You'll have to sing for me sometime."

"Oh, I'll do more than sing for you."

I felt even more flushed with the heat of anticipation.  "Um...Peter Barton is quite an actor," I said.

"Yes.  I had a big crush...I mean, all the girls in my high school had a big crush on him."

That was out enough for me!  I checked the door to see if anyone was looking, then reached out and took Shaun's hand.  He squeezed it, and then moved it carefully to his lap.  "I haven't met anyone...you know...at IU yet," I said.

"Me, neither."

There was a gay student organization on campus, and a gay bar in town, but I was afraid to go to either.

"Does Mark know?" I asked.

You never outed a friend in the 1980s, so Shaun didn't say "He's my boyfriend."  He said "Oh, yes, he knows."

"And he's ok with it?"

"Perfectly.  You should tell him that you are -- it would be nice to have a friend on campus, wouldn't it?"  He paused.  "Besides me, of course."

"You'll be going back to Notre Dame soon."

"Oh, yeah.  Right."  The problem with making up stories is, you have to keep them consistent.  "But we have tonight, right?  And the night is young."

I wasn't much for hookups in the 1980s, but Shaun was the first gay person I met on a campus of 40,000, and besides, I hadn't been with anyone for a few months.  "You want to -- come back to my room?" I asked.

Now Shaun had a dilemma.  He had a boyfriend.  He was on a date.  But he  couldn't say so without outing Mark.

So he made a decision: "Let's go back to Mark's room instead."

"What?"

"He's got that big double bed.  We can really get to know each other there."

"But then he'll find out about me."

"Oh, don't worry.  He won't mind.  I'll...um...tell him to come in here and watch tv for an hour."

The prospect of being with Shaun trumped the fear of coming out to his "cousin," so I allowed him to lead me back to Mark's room.

Mark was sitting at his desk, reading a gigantic optometry textbook.  "Hi, how as the tv?" he growled without looking up. Shaun wrapped his arms around his shoulders and kissed him.

"What are you doing!" he yelled, pushing Shaun away.  "Um...Cousin Shaun, stop fooling around!"

"Yes, well, about that."  He carefully shut and locked the door, then put his arms around me. "I invited Boomer along on our date."

Date?

Mark stared for a moment, and then smiled.  "You mean he's....I really had no idea!"

Suddenly both of them had their arms around me. Shaun was unbuttoning my shirt and nuzzling Mark's neck at the same time. Mark was groping me.

"You're not really cousins, are you?"

And we were kissing.

Mark and I "shared" Shaun a few more times before they broke up. But the sharing wasn't as important as knowing that I was not alone at Indiana University.

See also: My First Visit to an Adult Bookstore and The Farmboy Butches It Up

Tad's Wild Night with the Rifleman and His Son

Readers have been asking for a story about a Chuck Connors - Johnny Crawford romance ever since I started this blog in 2015.

I don't know why.  Most Baby Boomers have never seen The Rifleman (1958-63), about single dad Lucas McCain (Chuck Connors) raising his son Mark (Johnny Crawford) in the Old West.  It was before our time during its first run, and who wanted to watch the reruns?  Westerns were square; the 1960s was all about blasting off in rocket ships and zapping aliens with ray guns.

Plus Johnny Crawford was 12 years old when The Rifleman began, so any sexual activity would be the predatory grooming of a pedophile.  During the last season, he was 16-17 years old, still off limits for any consensual romance.  But maybe later, when they were both adults.

Here are the 2 hookup stories I heard about them in West Hollywood.  The first comes from a guest at one of Will the Bondage Boy's parties in 1999, a young BDSM bottom.  I don't remember his name, so I'll call him Tad.  I added a few details.

Hollywood, Spring 1986

I was a Cute Young Thing, 19 years old, still living with my parents, working at a video store in Eagle Rock.  I was tall and skinny, kind of homely, with a big nose and acne scars, a small dick, no muscles, no selling point except my willingness to bottom, which as you know was unusual in the 1980s.

So every weekend I hung out on Hustler Corner, Highland and Santa Monica. Not hustling, though I wouldn't say no to a new shirt.  But the closeted married men who came out after their kids were tucked into bed didn't care that I was poor, homely, small, or didn't belong to a gym. All they cared about was getting off.

 I met a lot of closeted actors on Hustler Corner, cruising themselves or sending an assistant out to make the deal for them.

Well, one night this blue Camero pulls up, and a very handsome guy sticks his head out -- in his 30s, black curly hair, dark skin -- and asks if I like older men.  He's not really older, but I say "Sure" and get into the car with him.

We drive to the parking lot on Selma.  "Do you mind if I inspect the merchandise first?" he asks.

"Be my guest."  I pull out my dick, but he asks me to raise up so he can feel my butt.  "Nice and firm!  Do you do Greek passive?"

"As long as you use a condom."

"Great -- these days Greek passive is hard to find.  Is gang banging ok?"

"The more, the merrier."

"Bondage?"

I wasn' t ready to admit my BDSM interest yet, so I said "As long as there's no pain."

"Another plus.  And you're cute.  I think you'll do great."

"Thanks," I said, wondering if I was going to a trick or an audition.

"It's a bit of a drive, so my boss would like you to spend the night, and if things work out, the weekend.  It pay $200.  Is that ok?"

"As long as I'm back for work by noon Sunday."

He gets onto the 405 and drives us north, over the mountains and then farther through the San Joaquin Valley.  I don't mind -- there are snacks and beer in the car, and Mike has a lot of funny stories.  Originally from Albuquerque, he came to L.A. ten years ago to become an actor, but ended up a pool cleaner and lawn maintenance guy for some of the wealthy residents of Bel Air.  For the past three years, he has been a personal assistant for Chuck Connors.

Chuck Connors!  I can barely hide my excitement!  You may think I'm too young to remember The Rifleman, but when I was growing up, they were playing the reruns every day after school. I had lots of fantasies about Lucas McCain and especially his teenage son Mark.

After about two hours, we come to a gated community up in the mountains near Bakerfield, and drive into what looks like a ranch called Medicine Hat Oak.  The main house is all done like a Wild West ranch, too, with wood paneling and deer and moose heads and guns on the walls, and that old-fashioned Colonial furniture.

Mike lets me use the bathroom, then takes me into a guest room.  More Wild West motif.

"You won't meet Mr. Connors until tomorrow," he says.  "Do you need anything?"

"A shower," I tell him.  "And maybe you could join me?"  We start kissing.  Soon our clothes are on the floor.  Mike has a great physique, hard smooth chest, big cock.  He goes down on me, teasing until I'm ready to explode, then turns me onto my stomach, puts on a condom, and pushes into me.  I've been screwed before, but the big head hits just the right spot, and I cum immediately.

Mike keeps on thrusting inside me for a long time.  I get aroused again, and start beating off.  Finally he finishes, takes the condom off, and turns me over for a long kiss.  Then he says "If you need anything, I'm just on the other side of the kitchen.  Breakfast is at 8:00."  He grabs his clothes and leaves.

In the morning I finally meet Chuck Connors.  He's in his sixties, white-haired and craggy, but still hot.  Mike and two other guys are there, too.  In their fifties, balding. I don't recognize them.

Breakfast conversation is mostly about horses.  I want to talk about The Rifleman, and mention my childhood crush on Mark McCain.

"Johnny will be up later," Connors says abruptly, cutting me off.  Apparently he doesn't want to talk about The Rifleman...or about me being gay.  "For the party.  I think Hank, too."

Is Hank a boyfriend?  I wonder.  A lover?  But the conversation turns to Hank' problem with a contract of some sort, and I don't think it's a good idea to ask.

After breakfast Mike drives me into Tehachapi to get some new underwear and a swimsuit.  We spend the day working out, swimming -- some kissing in the pool, but no sex -- and riding horses.  Connors joins us for tennis.  More guys arrive during the day, until by the time the cook sets out dinner by the pool, there are around 30.  All men, mostly in their fifties and sixties.  Like a gay party, except there's no touching, and no one is talking about sex.

Mike introduces me as "a friend from L.A."

I'm disappointed that there aren't more celebrities.  I recognize Charlton Heston from The Planet of the Apes and Gary Lockwood from 2001: A Space Odyssey, but that's all.  No Johnny Crawford.

I ask Connors where he is.

"I guess he'll be up later.  He had a thing to do in L.A. first."

Around 7:00 pm, Mike says "It's time for you to earn that $200."  He takes me back to the guest room, strips me out of my clothes, and has me lie down on my back, crosswise on the bed.  He ties my arms and legs together and blindfolds me.

I have never been tied up before. The loss of control is wildly exciting.  I'm already aroused.

"You'll be here for three hours.  If you need a bathroom or stretching break, just tell the guy you're with to come and fetch me.  They all know they have to use a condom, and no pain.  Any questions?"

For the next three hours, hands caress my body.  My nipples and balls are licked.  I am kissed.  I count four cocks in my butt, five in my mouth.  I lose count of the mouths on my cock.  I cum three times.

It's the best night of my life.

The only problem is, I have no idea which of the guys I have been with.  Chuck Connors?  Johnny Crawford?  Charlton Heston?

Afterwards Mike unties me, and I shower and go to bed.

He wakes me up in the morning before dawn, gives me $200, and drives me back to West Hollywood.  We stop for breakfast at a McDonald's on the way.

"You had quite a night," he says.  "Are you sore?"

"Not really.  It was great. By the way, did Johnny Crawford ever show up?"

"Yes, he was at the party."

"Did he screw me?"

"Sorry, that's classified information.  Mr. Connors likes to protect his guests' privacy."

"Did Mr. Connors screw me?"

He smiles.  "I can't tell you that.  All I can tell you is that one of the guys was me.  Butt and mouth both.  And I'd like to do it again sometime, except just the two of us, not a crowd."

"Sure.  As long as there's some bondage involved."

To this day I don't know if I had sex with Chuck Connors or Johnny Crawford, or both, or neither.

Not a Chris Demetral Hookup Story

In West Hollywood in the 1990s, gay men of certain level of affluence watched Dream On (1990-1996) on the premium cable channel HBO.  It was a quirky comedy-drama about an affluent New Yorker (Brian Benben) juggling his job, love life, and teenage son (Chris Demetral).

I couldn't see the attraction: sure, there were a couple of gay-themed episodes, and shots of Brian Benben's butt and bulge, but you had to endure endless ladies' breasts and hetero-maniacal dialogue.

As Chris Demetral grew from 14 to 19, he got more and more plotlines, and gushing articles in teen magazines.  He was fey, foppish, artistic.   In one episode, his character is tied up by a woman into "rough trade."  And gay men of a certain level of affluence concluded that he was "one of us."

I never heard any dating or hookup stories about him, but he was still a teenager when I left California.  There wasn't time.

After conducting some research, I conclude that it is unlikely that Chris Demetral is "one of us."

1. He didn't like Hollywood, and for a time commuted from his home in Royal Oak, Michigan.  What gay man doesn't like Hollywood?

2. He's a Lakers fan.  That's a L.A. basketball team.  I knew a few sports fans in California, but none who were basketball fans.  Football players have more muscular physiques.

3. He's a disciple of the Orange Goblin.

4. His twitter feed states states that he is "a Christian," which usually means "I hate gay people.  Leviticus, you know."

5. And a "devoted husband and father," which usually means "See!  Proof that I'm heterosexual!  If you publish any horrifying gay accusations about me, I will sue!

Therefore this is most definitely not a gay hookup story about Chris Demetral.

Montreal, Summer 1999

Call me René.  I grew up in the tiny town of Saint-Maurice, but moved to Montreal for college, and stayed. I had a flat on the Rue de Champlain in the Gay Village and jobs at the Musée d'art contemporain and a men's boutique.

I worked out every day, cruised at the bars twice a week, and went to a lot of parties like those you describe in West Hollywood: sex games, nudity, discussions of gigantic penises and dates from hell.

Not many celebrity hookup stories, though one of my friends claimed to have gone down on William Shatner.

In the summer of 1999, I was 25 years old, a buffed gym rat with a smooth chest and 14" biceps.  Dirty-blond hair, blue eyes.  20 cm, in case you're interested.

 One night I was out cruising at a bar on the rue Ste. Catherine,  when I saw Michel Courtemache, a Quebecois comedian, sitting at a table with two other guys.

Not at all attractive, but celebrity sightings are rare in Montreal, so I went over to say hello and gush a bit, "I was your biggest fan," that sort of thing.

Obviously flattered by the attention, he asked me to join them, and introduced me to his friends.  Another Michel, and Chris.

Suddenly I recognized Chris -- Chris Demetral, Jeremy Tupper from Dream On!  One of my big childhood crushes!  Now around 23 or 24,  strikingly handsome, with a strong jaw, piercing eyes, and a presentable physique.  I couldn't see a basket.

I shook his hand and kept holding it, the standard cruising gesture in Montreal.  He looked alarmed and jerked it away.

"He's never been to a gay bar before," Michel said in French.  "Go easy on him."

Um...ok.  "Would you like to dance?"  I asked.

"I don't think so," Chris said.  "I'm a little tired."

"It wouldn't hurt for our baby Chris to dance with an admirer," the other Michel said.

"Go on -- who knows, you might get lucky."

I took Chris by the hand and led him to the dance floor.  "Living La Vida Loca" was playing, not really a slow dance, but I put my hands on his waist anyway.  He followed my lead.

"What brings you to Montreal?"  I asked.  The music was very loud, so I had to yell.

"We're working on a tv series.  It's science fiction -- I play a young Jules Verne who fights vampires and cyborgs."  [The Secret Adventures of Jules Verne, 2000.  Michel Courtemache played Verne's companion, Passepartout]

"Quite a big change from your earlier work."

"Not really.  I've done Star Trek and Lois and Clark (about Superman)."

I drew him closer with the pretense of trying to hear him.  Our crotches pressed together.  I definitely felt a bulge -- the guy was definitely into me!

"You must let me show you the city.  I know the out-of-the-way places."

"Sure, that would be great."

"I'll give you my number."  I leaned in for a kiss -- closed-mouth, nothing exciting.  Then Chris broke away and returned to the table.  I followed and sat next to him and put my arm around him.

"You see, that was painless!" Michel exclaimed.  "Gay men won't bite you -- unless you ask nicely."

"Would you like to...."  I began.

Chris turned to me.  "I'm really tired, and we have to be up early, so..."

Tabarnak!  No hookup!  "Me, too, I said reluctantly."  I scribbled my phone number on a scrap of paper and put it in his pocket, then leaned in for another kiss.  He turned his head away.

A few moments later, Chris and the other Michel left.  Michel Courtemache stayed behind.

"Sorry that he beat you cold," Michel said.  "He is very shy.  Not like me -- I'm not shy at all."  He pulled me close and kissed me.  

I never saw Chris Demetral again, but in the end I went down on Michel Courtemache.  Very big penis, uncut.  And no, he didn't make any of his crazy noises.

See also: Nate Richert's Kielbasa