I pray through to Vic-tray, with Phil's hand on my butt

When I was growing up in the Nazarene Church,  most church services ended with an altar call: an invitation (or exhortation) to come down to the front of the sanctuary, kneel at the long, low wooden rail, and Pray Through to Victory (all preachers had a Southern accent, so they said "Victray). 

 It was similar to Catholic confession, with no priest: you asked God to forgive all the sins you could think of, and if He decided to, you became a Christian or got saved (from an eternity in hell).

Praying through to Victray  wasn't easy -- you had to work, sobbing and begging and moaning, for at least ten minutes, sometimes more.  And afterwards, the most trivial of sins -- an angry word, a lustful thought, a glance at the Sunday newspaper -- would negate your salvation, so you'd have to start all over again.  It was not unusual to go down several times a year, and some especially sensitive types went down at almost every service.

Usually just adults went down -- kids were excused, and teens had regular invitations to "bow your head right here and ask God to forgive you" in Sunday School (just before the morning service) and NYPS (just before the evening service), so we were usually saved by the time the altar call came around.

But in ninth grade, the first year that I was officially a teenager, I discovered a benefit to going down to the altar (other than the not going to hell thing).

Praying Through  was such hard work that you needed someone by your side, entreating God on your behalf.  So whenever you went to the altar, Christians of the same sex rushed down to help.  Two, three, or even more, depending on your popularity. 

They pressed against you, hugging and holding, arms around waists and shoulders, even pressed on your butt as if trying to push you into heaven, and when you successfully Prayed Through, you became a single mass, bear-hugging and back-slapping and pressing together.  During those moments, I felt a lifetime's worth of hard muscle, and sometimes even private parts pressed surreptitiously against me.

Going down to the altar allowed me to get hugged, held, and caressed by the preacher, the preacher's son, my Sunday school teacher  and lots of other cute boys and men.

And the next service, if I was still saved, I had carte blanche to go down and touch, hold, hug, and fondle any guy I liked.

The full story is on RG Beefcake and Boyfriends 

Why Dad Was Proud of Me for Watching TV

When I was in kindergarten, first, and second grade, we lived in Racine, Wisconsin.  I have only a few memories from that period: going to the beach a few blocks from our house, going to the zoo, marrying the boy next door, my second grade teacher making me stand in the corner for refusing to square dance (she wouldn't believe that it was forbidden for Nazarenes, and at the age of 7 I was in no position to ask the preacher to telephone her).

And a very weird memory of my Dad being proud of me for watching a children's tv program.

Dad was in his late 20s, just out of the Navy, rather athletic, an avid swimmer (no, this isn't a picture of him), a stalwart Democrat and an avid Nazarene.  He worked on the assembly line at the J. I. Case Company, a job he would keep for the next 30 years.

The memory is vague:  Dad is sitting on the couch, half reading the newspaper, half snoozing, so he must have just gotten home from work, around 4:00 pm.  My brother and I are watching tv.  

Mom comes in from the kitchen and asks "What do you want to watch now?  Romper Room?"

"No," I say.  "The Land of Ziggy Zaggy."

Dad looks up.  "Ziggy Zaggy?  What kind of kookie show is that?"

Mom changes the channel, and we see a woman walking onto the stage, singing about the mystical land.

Dad laughs.  "Ok, I get it now!  You're starting early, just like your old dad!  A chip off the old block!  Come up here and sit by me."

I sit on the couch, and he puts his arm around me.  I'm thrilled.  Dad is usually kind of critical,but today I'm a chip off the old block!  I did something right, something that made him proud of me. But what?

50 years later, I don't remember anything about the show except for a woman singing "The land of Ziggy Zaggy," but after a few internet searches on various variations (zaggo, zongi, zuggi), I found it:

It was a local Chicago children's program, The Land of Ziggy Zoggo. Also called The Nancy Berg Show,   after the host.   Short lived, 1963-65.  We only moved to Racine in the summer of 1965, so I must have watched a few episodes at the end of the run.

There's a full episode on youtube.  Very amateurish, painted backdrop for a set, only one performer.  Three sketches, about 5 minutes each.

1. Miss Nancy visits a Middle Eastern land, where she meets a Go-Go Genie (herself) selling magic carpets in a parody of talky used-car salespeople.  She buys the carpet, kicking herself for being conned, but it works.  She then flies through the clouds while singing. 

2. The kimono-clad Miss Sukayaki (Nancy again), with a stereotyped "Ah so" accent, goofs up the  "ancient Japanese custom of flower arrangement." 

3. Miss Nancy flies a balloon to the African jungle to show film footage of various animals: a rhinocerous, a lion, a leopard.

No beefcake, no buddy-bonding, actually no male characters, but the exotic locations must have been appealing to me as a kindergartner.  And maybe the hint of social satire: you may get conned by a fast-talking salesperson.

But why was Dad so pleased?  Why was I "starting early" and a "chip off the block" for wanting to watch The Land of Ziggy Zoggo?

Easy.  He thought that I, at the age of 4 1/2, was lusting after Miss Nancy's bosom.  

Tony Dow and the Glory Hole at the Air Force Base

Last week 69-year old Jock, a retired landscaper and Uber driver from Tucson, told me a story of when he was in the California National Guard in 1966, and Tony Dow, the actor who starred as teenage hunk Wally in Leave It to Beaver, was in his barracks.  One day they all went out to the movies, and Wally and his friend picked up a high school boy.  Jock followed them, and watched as they had a three-way in the park.

But that's not the only story he has.

I'll use his words as much as possible.










Marysville, California, October 1966

When I was in boot camp, we got passes to go into town twice a week.  A lot of the guys tried to get some action with girls, but struck out  -- the Sexual Revolution hadn't yet hit Marysville -- you couldn't even get condoms -- so they couldn't wait to get back to the base and go to the latrine.

Boomer: Striking out made them want to go to the bathroom?

Let me set up the scenario.  All unmarried guardsmen under the rank of sergeant lived in barracks, or what they called dormitories.  One long, narrow room with 20 single beds and lockers, 10 on each side.

At the far end, you go through a lounge with two couches, some chairs, and a tv set, and then the latrine, two urinals and a toilet, right out there, not in a stall.  There was no window, so it was pitch-dark unless you turned on the light.  The switch, for some reason, was out in the lounge, by the tv set.

During my first few nights in the dormitory, I noticed that most guys who got up to use the latrine turned on the light -- you could see it glimmering under the lounge door.  But some didn't.  Why were they fumbling around in the dark?

Curious, I waited until someone went in without turning the light on, and followed, walking through the deserted lounge to the latrine door.  I pulled it open.

 It was musty, smelling of urine and someone's aftershave, and pitch-black except for a little gleam.  How could you even see where the urinal was?  I gingerly moved forward, my hand outstretched -- and suddenly I was touching a bare butt!

Boomer: Side or back?

Side. He was facing the toilet, like he was peeing into it.

"Wait your turn, buddy," the guy growled.

Wait your turn for what? I wondered.  There were two other urinals to pee into.  I reached down past the bare butt and felt a buzz-cut head, ears, neck, arms grabbing the guy's butt -- then my hand was batted away.

"I said fuck off.  I'm almost done."

The guy was getting a blow job!  I had no idea that g.i.'s had sex with each other, right there in the barracks!   My mind was majorly blown, let me tell you!

I retreated to the lounge and waited for the guy to leave.

"It's all yours," he whispered in passing.

I returned to the latrine and shut the door, and inched forward.  Someone grabbed my cock!

I reached down and felt that smooth hard chest again.  Farther down to the belly, pubic hair, and cock.   He was big -- at least 7" -- and aroused.

I fondled him for a moment, then stood directly in front of him, and he leaned down to blow me, his hands squeezing my bare butt.  I caressed his hair and face, squeezed his shoulders. When he started jerking me while licking my balls, that did it!

"I'm going to cum," I moaned.

"Shush," he murmured, and swallowed my load.

It was a perfect set up.!   Almost every night, about a half hour after lights out, the fag would get up...

Boomer: Watch your language.

Sorry.  That's what they called oral bottoms in those days.  Anyhoo, the oral bottom would go into the latrine without turning on the light, and we knew that he was ready to give blow jobs.  We were all young and horny, so he was busy.  On some nights there were two or three guys waiting.

 If someone turned on the light from the lounge outside, the guy getting the blow job would just turn around and pretend to be peeing at the urinal.

 Boomer: Was it the same guy giving the blow jobs every night?

Usually.  Sometimes another guy beat him to it.

Boomer: Did you ever get to be the oral bottom?

Once or twice he let me go down on him for a few minutes before he did me, but not usually, no.

But I didn't mind -- I'm still more of an oral top than a bottom, if you'd like to get together sometime and try me out.  Here's a recent photo.  Not bad for 69, huh?  And 69 is my favorite position, by the way.

Boomer: Mine, too.

Anyhoo, after 12 weeks of basic training, I shipped out to Moffett Airfield in Mountain View, California, where the latrine was right by the bunks, no way to hide.  Of course, guys still found ways to get it on. There was a supply closet off the tv lounge, and plenty of street cruising.

Not to mention San Francisco a short train ride away.  Golden Gate Park during the Summer of Love!  That was one far out trip, man!

Boomer:  Great story about being gay in the military in the 1960, but what does it have to do with Tony Dow?"

Oh, he shipped out somewhere else.  I don't remember where.  We weren't close, as I said.  He mostly pal-ed around with Kurt.

Boomer:  But you said this was a Tony Dow hookup story.  Was he one of the guys waiting in line for a blow job every night?"

Lord, no.  He was the f-- the oral bottom.

Boomer: The guy who sat on the toilet and gave blow jobs to anyone who wanted one?

Right.  I thought I made that clear.


Was Jock Telling the Truth?

Tony Dow has been linked with women only since 1968.

 I can see him engaging in some same-sex activity with a buddy, like his friend Kurt.  I can even see him as one of the guys waiting in line at the latrine, thinking that a mouth is a mouth.

But to seek multiple experiences with near-strangers in the equivalent of a glory hole?  I don't buy it.  I think time has clouded Jock's memories.

It's a good story though, even without a celebrity hookup.

See Also: Tony Dow and Kurt Hook Up with a High School Boy.