Bjorn's Hookup with his High School Teacher

Reykjavik, October 2016

Yuri and some of his advanced students are in Iceland, researching the impact of global climate change on the aurora borealis, and I flew out for a visit.

We're at lunch at a gay restaurant called Jomfruin, about a block from the harbor, when a local guy named Bjorn asks to join us.

It's not just a gay thing: in Iceland, it's commonplace for strangers to walk up to you and ask to join your group.

Bjorn is a film studies major at the University of Iceland: in his early 20s, shorter than me and rather buffed, with nice hard biceps, thick hair cut in an old-fashioned 1950s style, and a cute East London accent (maybe he learned English from watching EastEnders). He wears glasses and is constantly attached to his smartphone.

Bjorn has been cruising Yuri rather blatantly, and ignoring me.  In the hopes of deflecting his attention or at least being invited to "share," I've been trying to wow him with celebrity dating stories (Nate Richert, Gregg Sulkin, Dylan O'Brien).  That doesn't work, so I shift to enormous penises: the Satyr, who had 12 inches.

"12 inches?  Is that all?"  Bjorn scoffs.  "I can do more than that.  My first time was with a guy who had 16 inches!"

"16 inches! That's impossible!"  I say.  "Porn star John Holmes had only 13 inches."

"I've been with many guys,"  Yuri says, acting as my wing man.  "Some of them very big -- like Boomer.  But only one time did I find a guy with 13 inches.  16, no way!"

"It was my teacher at the gymnasium," Bjorn says.  "Doktor Ulrich."

Akureyri, December 2012

Akuryri is a small town of 18,000 on the northern side of the island, with not much to do but fishing, hiking, and whale watching.

Bjorn, a 17-year old student at the Menntaskólinn (high school), didn't like outdoor activities.  He was quiet, shy, an introvert.  He studied, worked out, watched television, and looked at the cute guys on the street or at the Lystigarður, the botanical gardens.

During the summer, there were always German, Danish, and American backpackers strutting around.  Bjorn dreamed of being invited to their room, of kissing them, feeling their chests and bulges, going down on them, becoming an anal bottom for them.

Not in December, though, when there were only four hours of daylight every day, and the temperature was always below zero (25 to 35 degrees Fahrenheit).  The youth hostels were deserted.  The Lystigarður was too cold for cruising.

 Then one day his German teacher got sick and had to take a leave, and the new teacher was Doktor Ulrich, originally from Switzerland; in his 20s, taller than Bjorn, very muscular, with thick black hair, a beard, a piercing gaze, and an enormous bulge, visible even in slacks.

Bjorn watched it shifting as Doktor Ulrich walked around the class.  When he stopped by Bjorn's desk, it was at eye level.  He couldn't help staring.

Once he stopped at Doktor Ulrich's desk after class to ask about a grade.  He looked down, and saw the enormous bulge, so close that he could reach out and touch it.  He began to get aroused, and quickly hid himself behind a textbook.

"It's ok," Doktor Ulrich said, noticing him.  "Es ist nur natürlich.  It happens to everyone."  He took Bjorn's hand and pushed it against his chest.  "You are a very attractive young man."

The next day he "accidentally" ran into Doktor Ulrich on the way out of the school.

"Hi!"  he said, embarrassed.  "Um...I....my German needs help.  Could I...see you..."

They went back to Doktor Ulrich's house.  Without speaking, Doktor Ulrich took him into the bedroom and began kissing and fondling him through his pants.  Bjorn fell to his knees and unzipped him and pulled out his penis.

Gigantic, bigger than guys on the internet! Sixteen inches, and as thick as a beer can!  Bjorn opened his mouth as wide as he could, but couldn't even get around the head.

"It's ok,"  Doktor Ulrich said.  "Most guys can't handle it.  Let's try it this way."  He lay Bjorn onto the bed and tried to mount him from the top.

That didn't work, either.

Anal was out of the question.

He ended up pushing between Bjorn's legs while kissing him, then going down on Bjorn until he finished.

They didn't get together again: Bjorn was too worried about someone finding out.

Besides, the sex wasn't too great.

Reykjavik, October 2016

"So," Yuri says with a grin, "In the story you don't tell us how big you are."

Bjorn looks down at the table.   "I am very big!  10 inches.  If you don't believe me, come to my room, and I can show you."

"Both of us?" I suggest.

"Why not?  I have not been with two guys before."

Bjorn has a flat on Baldursgata, about half a mile away; three small rooms, a roommate who's in class, and a purring black cat named Kristoffer.

We go into the bedroom.  While Bjorn and Yuri are kissing, I unzip them both, and pull out Bjorn's...5 inches!

Ok, I know guys exaggerate, and I shouldn't complain, but I'm already a little jealous that Bjorn is paying more attention to Yuri than to me, and I want to burst his bubble.

"Bjorn, this isn't 10 inches, it's 5, maybe 5.5.  You're off by nearly half."

He looks up, confused.  "No...it is 10 inches, 14 centimeters.  I measured it."

"Um...14 centimeters is not 10 inches," Yuri says.  "It's about 5 inches."


Bjorn hangs his head.  "I'm never good with mathematics!"  he exclaims.  "I'm a poet, I'm not a scientist."

"That's ok, it's hard to do.  My students make mistakes all the time."

"So your German teacher was really about 9 inches," I say.  "That makes more sense.  16 inches would be past his knees."

"Maybe he was only 9 inches," Bjorn admits.

"That is anyway a very nice size," Yuri says.

"And you have a very nice size, too," I add, kneeling to go down on him.

See also: Fred and the Icelandic Photographer

Fred and the Icelandic Photographer

New York, August 2000

"Boomer, guess what!" Fred said breathlessly, in those days before texting overtook the telephone.  "I got a new job, in Bemidji, Minnesota!"

Last I heard, my ex-boyfriend Fred and his partner Jester -- a blind guy who taught high school history -- were in Sandusky, Ohio, where Fred was working as an assistant pastor at a congregational church. Granted, a step down for someone with a doctorate in theology and ten years of pastoral experience, but Sandusky was a gay resort town.

What in the world were they doing in Bemidji, Minnesota?

Population 14,000.  Near nowhere at all (3 1/2 hours to Minneapolis, 4 1/2 hours to Winnipeg).

Famous for nothing in particular except a statue of Paul Bunyan, which isn't all that impressive.

One mixed bar, a campus gay organization, and that's it.

What else?  A job.

"I'm Protestant chaplain and director of Religious Life at Bemidji State University!"

Granted, a step up, but Bemidji, Minnesota?  Farther from the gay world than even Fresno.  What did Jester say?

"He's on board with it," Fred said curtly.   He never discussed his relationships unless forced, and then only briefly, the product of years of being closeted at work.

I was very busy during my last year in grad school, working two jobs, finishing my doctoral dissertation, and applying for every job in a gay neighborhood I could find, so I didn't contact Fred much.  Then in the spring I saw an ad for a job at Bemidji State University!

It might not be so bad.  Fred, Jester and I could start a gay political group, or maybe a weekly bear party like the one on Long Island.  And Minneapolis was close enough for weekend trips.

So in April I flew out for the interview.




Bemidji, Minnesota, April 2001

I soon discovered that the department were just inviting me so they could congratulate themselves on being so liberal.  They would never hire someone who researched gay topics, or as one interviewer called it, "sex education."

After dinner on Thursday night, they dropped me off at my hotel, and Fred picked me up for dessert at Rudy's, followed by cruising at the mixed bar.

Sitting beside him in his car was not Jester, but a Cute Young Thing I had never seen or heard of before.

He was  tall and skinny, with shoulder-length hair, a moustache, and a hard smooth chest.  There was a map of Iceland tattoo on his arm.

He introduced himself as Stefan, from Iceland, an art major at Bemidji State.

Where was Jester?  

"Oh, Jester is back in San Bernardino," Fred said dismissively.  "He came out for a couple of months, but then decided to go home."

"I can understand that.  It's hard for blind people to adapt to new environments, and I'll bet teaching credentials don't transfer from state to state.  He'd have to go back to school in order to teach here, right?"

"No, he just didn't like the cold weather," Fred said.

"And he missed the California beach boys," Stefan said in fluent English, with a little lilt in his voice.  "Never anything on his mind but sex, sex, sex, all day and all night!"

That didn't sound like Jester.  Time to change the subject.  "I love Iceland!  I visited when I was in college.  Reykjavik is beautiful."

"Reykjavik is too big and noisy.  Gritty.  Have you ever been to Akureyri?  It's still quiet, no tourists.  You can hear yourself think."

"Um...no.  I've just been to Rekjavik, and to a hot springs about an hour away."

"If you have been to Iceland," Stefan continued, "You must learn the Icelandic language.  It is the most pure of languages, unchanged since the days of the sagas.  No modern influences.  Ég vil sjá hala þínum, I want to see your penis."

Ruby's was an old-fashioned ice cream parlor that served tin roofs, black cows, and phosphates.  Stefan talked about the Old Icelandic sagas and the travels of Norse kings.  He was actually sort of interesting.  But he wouldn't eat anything -- "I don't want to turn into a fattie, like the Americans."

"Where have you been in the U.S. besides Bemidji?" I asked.

"Minneapolis, and a few days in New York."

"I live in New York.  Great, isn't it?"

"What a dump!" Stefan spat.  "It smells like a garbage can, and the people do nothing all day but watch the television.  How can you live in such a place?"

Ugh.  Stefan was as elitist as Fred's ex-boyfriend Matt.  I hate elitists, but apparently Fred couldn't get enough of them!

The mixed gay-straight bar was dark and rather seedy, with scary-looking guys propping up beer bottles like phalluses.

"Trolls!"  Stefan exclaimed.  "In Iceland, trolls are big, clumsy fellows who eat people.  Here they are just ugly and smell of armpits.  But we will dance, Boomer, ok?  Fred won't dance with me."

There was no one dancing.  "No, thanks," I said.

"Americans are so in the closet!  No one will shoot us if we just dance together!"

But I continued to refuse, and Stefan sat pouting for awhile, silent as Fred and I caught up on old friends, except for an occasional rude interjection:

"Lane just lives on his mother's money?  Is he handicapped?  In Iceland everyone must work."  

I didn't really feel like sharing this elitist jerk, but it had been about two years since I was in Fred's bed, so I consented to go back to his apartment.  The moment we came through the door, Stefan ran to the bathroom -- "I can't use the sickening, dirty bathroom at the bar!"

Fred nudged me.  "Isn't he great?  So cosmopolitan!  We'll be together for the rest of our lives, I guarantee.  I've never met anyone like him before!"


"Really?"  He seemed exactly like Matt, in his Cute Young Thing days, before he turned down the sarcasm and started trying to be friendly.  "Stefan doesn't remind you of any of your old boyfriends?"

"Um...no one comes to mind.  Well, he does remind me of Jester in one way."

"His interest in history?"

"No."  He grinned.  "Something else."

"So, are we ready for the sharing?"  Stefan walked out of the bathroom, already naked, a Kovbasa++ just as big as Jester's swinging between his legs.

I stared.

"Don't just look.  Who wants to go down on me first?"

You're probably wondering about the mechanics of going down on a guy with 11".  It works best with two guys, one working on the head and the other working on the shaft.  Unfortunately, Fred was a top, and not really into giving oral, so I had to handle the entire job.  Not that I minded.

After that night, Fred never mentioned Stefan again.  No doubt they broke up.  His job at Bemidji didn't last long, either.

See also: The Naked Nordic God of the Icelandic Hotsprings; The Tacher with Sixteen Inches

The Slave Boy of Castro Street

San Francisco, October 1996

The Castro and South of Market may have been Gay Heaven, but the rest of San Francisco was not.

You might see an occasional hand-holding gay couple or rainbow flag, but mostly you were deluged by heterosexual power-couples and cooing Moms and Pops on holiday.

Some neighborhoods were quite homophobic  I have had slurs yelled out of passing cars at me only five times in my life: once in Maine, once in Texas, and three times in San Francisco.

So most gay people in San Francisco wanted to move to the Castro.

It was tough. There were no apartment buildings, just Victorian houses chopped up into apartments with rents averaging $4000 per month, that came available only when someone died.

And the competition was fierce.  Once I looked at a one-room basement apartment, with an impossibly low ceiling and glazed windows that wouldn't open.  Unliveable!  But not to the dozen people inside frantically filling out applications!

I was living in a cramped third-floor walk-up, over a hardware store, down the street from a liquor store, and within a few block's walk of seven Baptist churches, a Pentecostal church, and the United House of Prayer for All People.

It was nearly as homophobic as Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas.

But only a mile from the Castro!

Late in September 1996, I had the opportunity to move closer.

There were no bath houses or saunas in San Francisco; they had all been closed down by Public Health.  But there was a weekly Bear Party (for big, hairy, husky guys) held at a private house South of Market.  Upstairs there was socializing and snacks; downstairs, a maze, a dark room, a dungeon, and a room full of mattresses for erotic activity.

The highlight of the party was the Slave Boy, a different guy each week tied to a St. Andrew's cross, naked, his mouth held open by a metal stirrup.  He stayed there all evening, available to be used for erotic activity by anyone who passed by.

Beside him was a box of erotic toys: whips, paddles, clothespins, a violet wand, and so on.

Some party guests became quite busy trying out the various toys, but I was usually content to just watch.  Until one night when the Slave Boy was particularly attractive: short, dark-skinned, and muscular.  Near the end of the party, I approached, took off the stirrup, and kissed him.

And kept kissing him.

When I pulled away, he pulled me back in.


After about ten minutes, he whispered "Would Sir like to come home with me tonight?  My name is Oliver."

A hookup with a slave boy?  "Aren't you too tired by now?"

"Oh, no, Sir, I'm always ready."  We kissed for awhile longer.  "I'll ask my Sir, ok?"

So I hung around until a muscle bear named Rick and another guy in a slave collar arrived to untie Oliver.  They had a brief conversation, and Rick motioned me over.

"My Boy would like you to share his bed tonight.  Are you interested?"

"If it's ok with you, Sir."

"Fine, fine. Boy's been very good tonight, and he deserves a reward."  He pushed the still-naked Oliver toward me.  "But no pain, ok?"

We were so busy kissing in the backseat that I wasn't paying attention to where we were going until we arrived.

It was a narrow Victorian on Eureka at 19th, in the heart of the Castro!

Rick led us into a parlor with hardwood floors and parquet ceilings, furnished all in black leather and glass.  A naked guy who had been watching tv sprang up to take our coats.

"Gene, look at the present Sir got me for being good!" Oliver exclaimed.  "I can't wait to unwrap him."

"Would Sir like a beer or a soda?" Gene asked.  "Or me?" he added with a leer.

"No, thanks.  I think I'd just like to go to bed."

Oliver grinned, took my hand, and led me upstairs to a beautiful bedroom with a four-poster bed and an antique mahogany dresser.  There was a copy of The Short Stories of O. Henry on the nightstand.

"Nice room,"  I said.  "You slaves got it made."

"This is the guest room.  I sleep in the slave quarters with Gene and Mike, when I'm not in Sir's bed."  He put his arms around me.  "Would Sir like to undress while I take a shower?"

I had never met a 24/7 Slave before, and I was interested in how it worked.  Oliver told me that all of the slaves had jobs, but they signed their paychecks over to Sir, who gave them a weekly allowance and put some money into their savings accounts. They could have their own friends and outside activities, even hookups, with Sir's permission.  They were always on call -- even if they were performing an appendectomy, when Sir called, they dropped everything and rushed home.

"What if Sir is abusive?"  I asked "What if he orders you to do something dangerous?"

"Sir always respects my limits!" Oliver exclaimed, offended.  "But if he did something to hurt me...it would be a tough decision, but the relationship might have to end."

I envied Oliver-- he could walk one block to the MCC.
Two blocks to Almost Home and the Oyster Bar.
Three blocks to the Midnight Sun, the gay Walgreens, and the Different Light.
Four blocks to Thai Thai, Marcello's Pizza, Twin Peaks, and Orphan Andy's.
Nothing but gay people for five blocks in any direction!

"It almost sounds worth it, just to live in the Castro!"

"You think so?"

In the morning, we went downstairs to a flurry of activity as Gene flipped pancakes (while nude), Mike made coffee (while nude), and Rick put on a business suit to go to work.

"Did you enjoy yourself last night?" he asked.

"Yes, Sir!  Boomer is very hot -- not nearly as hot as Sir, of course.  And...he told me he was interested in becoming your new boy!"

I blanched. "What?  No...I..."

Rick turned to me.  "Have you had any experience, Boy?"

"No..." I stammered.  "I just said..."

"It's not S&M, you know., although some slaves need that.  It's total domination -- I control everything about your life, even what you have for lunch.  That's a big commitment, for both of us.

"I know.  Oliver has been telling me about it."

"We'd have to try it out for a couple of weeks, before signing the contract."

A couple of weeks...in a beautiful Victorian on Eureka, in the heart of the Castro?  In the center of the gay universe?  In gay heaven?

It wasn't worth it.

But I did get to spend the night with Oliver again, the next time he was the Bear Party's Slave Boy.

See also: My Date with Santa Claus.