Cruising in a Straight Bar

Plains, February 2017

I've dated or hooked up with men in 38 states and 20 countries, I've met them in art galleries, restaurants, museums, movie theaters, monasteries, doctor's offices, bookstores, comic book stores, department stores, bath houses, sex parties, bear parties, and on the street.

But tonight I'm going to try to meet men in a completely new and different place:

A straight bar.

For the first 55 years of my life, I never set foot in a straight bar, not even when I lived in Ohio and Upstate New York.  You couldn't meet guys there -- you couldn't even check out the beefcake without angry rednecks yelling "What are you looking at?"  And what if a woman tried to pick me up?

But on the Plains, there are no gay organizations  except for a student club, no meeting places except the gay-friendly coffee house,  which is not great for cruising.  And Grinder is getting old, with the constant "Top me, Daddy!" and "Send me pictures of your cock!"

Besides, most of the gay men in town are "post-gay" -- fully assimilated into the straight world, with mostly straight friends, hanging out at straight venues.  So, logically, where do they go to meet men?

Twice in a row, when I stopped into the Red Rock, the student bar-restaurant downtown, to grab a sandwich, I hooked up almost immediately -- without even trying!  I can only imagine my success if I give it my best shot!

9:00 am Saturday

I haven't gone to a bar to cruise -- look for guys for dates or hookups -- for years.  I remember many Saturday nights in West Hollywood, at Mugi, Basgo's, the Gold Coast, or the Faultline: blaring disco music, semi-darkness, the smell of cigarette smoke and poppers, of guys with beer bottles popping up from their crotches.  The interview -- the grope -- the joy of getting that phone number.  The agony of having the guy you like snatched away.

Giddy with anticipation,  I spend most of the day preparing, checking every detail.

No sore throat, sinus problems, cold sores, or flatulence.  No sex for at least 24 hours.  Get a hair cut.

Buy snacks and beverages to offer him.

Clean apartment.  Change the sheets -- use the good ones.  Hide the valuables.  Jar of condoms and "trick towel" ready.

Research current events and the local sports team for conversation topics.

3:00 pm

The gym.  No cardio.  Blast the chest and biceps.

5:00 pm

Light dinner, mostly easy-to digest carbs.  Shower, shave, mouthwash.

Cruising outfit: very tight black t-shirt, tight jeans, black shoes, leather jacket.  Carry keys, breath mints, handkerchief, money, driver's license, pen for writing down phone number.




9:00 pm

Show time!

Drive to Red Rock.  Leave wallet and cell phone locked up in the car.



It's a big, airy bar-restaurant, exposed brick, very high ceilings, paintings of a 1920s flapper party.

There are two bars in two rooms with wooden tables and booths, plus an outdoor patio, a little fireplace-lounge, a counter that sells t-shirts and mugs, and a long hallway to the bathrooms.

Pool tables, dart boards, wide-screen tvs, video games.  No dance floor.

Nothing like the gay bars I used to go to in West Hollywood.  No smoking.  Brightly lit.  The music is loud but not overbearing, and not disco, more like ballads of the 1960s and 1970s.   I recognize "Bridge Over Troubled Water," "Hey, Jude," and "Bad Romance."

It is crowded with male-female couples and groups.  Not just college kids: some in their 30s, a table of 40-somethings, one couple in their 60s eating dinner.  Men outnumber women two to one.

But no one is cruising!

No one is facing outward, looking out to see who's here, approaching someone new.  They stay tightly wrapped in the groups they came in with.

How am I supposed to cruise, when no one will make eye contact?  The only option is to wait until someone breaks out of a group.

I sit at the bar, order an orange juice, and wait, as the bar fills up even more.

9:20 pm

Finally a guy leaves the table where he's sitting with five friends, and goes to the bathroom.  I wait a few minutes and follow, meeting him on the way back.

He's in his 30s, tall, black-haired, short beard, round face.

"Hi, I think I've seen you at the gym.  I'm Boomer, from California."  My best opener.  Gym for flattery, California to pique his interest.

He introduces himself.  We chat briefly, but then he returns to his table without inviting me to join him.

Strike 1.



10:00 pm

I return to the bar and order a beer, so I'll have something cool to hold.  The bartender says "Here you go, Sir."

Sir?

The 40-year olds and the elderly couple are gone, leaving only the college twinks.  I wouldn't want to be one of the creepy old guys, unwelcome intrusions in twink bars, like when you were a teenager, and your parents wanted to hang out with you and your friends.


In my experience, when you are older than everyone else in the room, you shouldn't downplay it -- it's your strength.  Sexual experience, sophistication, money, power...and of course, having a chest doesn't hurt.

10:15 pm

I take the bull by the horns and pick the youngest guy in the room, sitting by himself at one of the booths.  He looks like he's about sixteen (since the bar is also a restaurant, it's open to all ages).

 I approach without making eye contact and give him my best non-creepy smile: open, friendly, but displaying no erotic interest whatever.  "Hi, I'm tired of sitting at the bar -- could I join you?"

"Sure, no problem,  My friends will be here in a few minutes, though.  We're going to play darts.  Do you know how to play?"

I play darts with Bill and his friends, but can't find a way to get him alone.

Strike 2.

11:00 pm

The longer you spend in a bar, the lower your chances.  First hour -- excellent.  Second hour -- poor.  Third hour -- nil.

I have nothing to lose, so I try the craziest long-shot in the book: the bartender.

He's a college boy in his early twenties, medium height, not particularly buffed, but I like his deep-set eyes, scruffy beard, and square workman's hands.

I order a Diet Coke and say "Busy night," rather a lame conversation-starter.

"Yeah, but I like it busy.  More ladies to look at, you know."

Strike 3.

11:20 pm

I pay for my Diet Coke and walk out into the cold February night.

Suddenly a guy approaches me -- in his 20s, very tall and thin, dressed too nicely to be a panhandler.  A gay basher?  I turn quickly and head back toward the bar.

"Hey -- I wanted to talk to you in Red Rock, but you were always with someone...."  He smiles shyly and holds out his hand.  "My name is Liam...do you, like, want to go get some coffee?"

1:20 am

I don't usually care for tall, thin guys, but Liam is into kissing and cuddling, and he's got an enormous 9-incher!  My jaw will be aching tomorrow!

Besides, I picked him up in a straight bar.

See also: In Search of Beefcake on the Plains ; A Time Traveler from the Past Brings Me Guys.

A Time Traveler from 1979 Brings Me Guys

Plains, September 2016

I'm having a terrible month: my father is sick, my boyfriend has moved away, and my classes are going horribly.  Depressed, I go jogging, and then stop into the gay-friendly coffee house for a post-jog smoothie.

Bruce is standing in line with a friend!

Not the Bruce I know now, chubby and bald, fighting health problems and chronic depression.  The Bruce I knew in college in Rock Island: tall and slim, with a sharp face, blue eyes, unruly dark-blond hair, a short beard, an impish smile.

The Bruce I knew in 1979, when we were 19 years old, full of pep and optimism, ready to take on the world.

I am so shocked that I just stand there, staring.

This guy doesn't just look like Bruce from 35 years ago.  He has the same stance, the same gestures, the same bemused, sardonic expression.

Years slip away.  I want to go up to him and ask about the assignment in Modern American Literature class. I swear I hear "Shadow Dancing" playing in the background.

Gaining control of myself, I stand in line behind "Bruce" and his friend.

They are talking about science fiction!  Bruce loved science fiction.

I've rekindled lots of old relationships since moving to the Plains: my Dad's old navy buddy, my grade school boyfriend, the nephew of my first sexual experience.  This must be a relative.

But Bruce doesn't have any children.  He has a sister; it must be a nephew.. 



"Bruce" and his friend get their orders -- coffee and chocolate-walnut bars -- and walk past me to the tables.  I stare.  "Bruce" ignores me.  The friend smiles.

They are both in their 20s, probably college students.  The friend is of medium height, rather cute, with short brown hair, prominent eyebrows, and an attractive "lost boy" expression.

I get my order and sit across from them, close enough to hear their conversation without drawing attention to myself.  Bruce's profile on Facebook lists no nephews.  Nobody of college age on his friend list.

This makes me more anxious to talk to this guy, to find the connection with my Bruce from 35 years ago. 

Of course, I'm not about to walk up to him and say "You look just like someone I knew 35 years ago."  I don't want to draw attention to my age, and besides, it's the oldest pickup line in the book.  I'd get sneered at.

Besides, I'm afraid.  Could this be my Bruce, zapped to the future in a weird time warp?

Suddenly the friend stands and heads toward me.

Uh-oh.  Was I cruising too obviously?  This is only a gay-friendly coffee house, after all.  Most of the customers are straight.

"Hi, I'm Jordan.  May I join you?"

"Sure, but what about your friend?"

"He has to get back to work.  I'm done for the day."  He sits adjacent to me at the table, so our legs press together.  "Are you a professor?"

We end up back at my apartment, kissing and going into the 69 position before I go down on him.  Jordan has a slim, smooth body and a cut Bratwurst+.  I don't care for his annoying habit of talking during sex: "Yeah...yeah...that feels good...that feels great..."

I try to steer the post-hookup conversation to his friend, without it being too obvious.  They only met a few days ago, when "Bruce" came to work in the computer repair store down the street.

A few days later, I do a work drop-in.  Jordan is there, but not "Bruce."  I ask about him as casually as possible: he quit the same day I saw him at the gay-friendly coffee house.  Jordan doesn't know anything else.

I'm too spooked to tell my Bruce about his 20-year old doppelganger.

Plains, December 2016

The end of the worst semester in history, with bereavement, romance problems, health problems, and job problems.  I'm glad it's over, so I can spend the next couple of weeks in Indianapolis and forget about the Plains altogether.

Depressed, I walk through the Performing Arts on the way to the parking lot.  I pause to look at the student artwork.  Suddenly "Bruce" and a friend come out of a classroom and head in the opposite direction.

"Bruce" looks the same as in September, except for a brown coat.  The friend is medium height, rather buffed, with a broad, open face, prominent ears, and unruly dark-red hair.   

 This time I turn back and walk abreast with them.  "Sorry to bother you, but you look exactly like someone I know."

The friend smiles.  "Yeah, I get that a lot.  My name is Cliff."

"Bruce" says "I'll see you later" and vanishes through a side door.

"Um...actually, I meant your friend.  He looks like a guy I used to know in college."

"Hm...maybe he's a nephew or cousin or something.  I don't know him very well -- we just sat together in art class."

We go out for coffee, and I end up taking Cliff back to my apartment, where we get naked -- he has a thick, muscular chest brushed with hair, an innie belly button, and a gigantic Mortadella, uncut.  He throws his legs in the air and says "Top me, Daddy!"   Instead I go down on him, then finish with interfemoral.

I get the course roster online, but can't find "Bruce's" name.  Nor is he on the list of art majors.  Maybe he is a time traveler from 1979.

Plains, February 2016

I'm writing a story about Yuri -- has it really been twenty years since we met, when I was in grad school in New York, sharing an apartment with the roommate from hell?  Time keeps on slipping into the future....

The program director wants us to attend campus sports events to "promote the program," so I go to the least objectionable winter sport the University offer, wrestling.  Afterwards I stop into the straight bar downtown for fish and chips.  "Bruce" is sitting at the bar, talking to a friend.

The friend is  of medium height, slim, thick brown hair, prominent eyebrows, small moustache.

I know the routine: distract me with a cute friend so I won't dig into the mystery of why you look so much like my Bruce from 35 years ago.  But this time I won't be fooled.  I squeeze between them, put my arm around his shoulders so he can't escape, and say "Hi, I've been meaning to talk to you. You look like my friend Bruce ___.  Does that name ring a bell?"

"No, sorry," he says with a frown.  "My name is ___, and this is Josh."

I ignore Josh.  "Have you ever been to Rock Island, Illinois?" 

"No, I'm from Colorado.  This is the farthest east I've ever been."

Didn't Bruce live in Colorado for a few years?  "Well, what's your mother's name?  Maybe..."

"Excuse me," he says.  He ducks through the front door and is gone.

Josh grins.  "I guess you came on a little strong."

"Beg pardon?"

"You were trying to pick him up, weren't you?"

"No...um...."

"I don't blame you -- he's hot.  I was trying to pick him up, too.  But the  'you look like someone I know' is the oldest line in the book.  You need some pointers on how to approach today's youth."

Josh invites me back to his apartment to hear his "pointers."  I go down on him -- average sized, uncut.  Then I push him onto his back and "face-fuck" him.

The "Bruce" doppelganger is not enrolled at the University.  I can't find him on Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram.  I have no idea who he is.  But as long as he keeps on bringing cute guys to cheer me up whenever I'm depressed, a little time travel is ok.

Next time, how about a black guy?

See also: Don't Call Bruce Gay

The Joy of Guys Who Aren't Naked

Have you ever noticed that some guys look better with their clothes on?  Seeing them naked doesn't add to their charm, and may even detract from it.

Clothes were originally designed as ornamentation, after all, to increase your attractiveness by giving the illusion of muscle, by drawing attention to the face or crotch, and by adding color and contrast.

Without clothes, this soldier is homely and a bit too skinny.  But the uniform gives him a square, stern face and a nicely tapered physique.






Here the black tie and sweater contrasts beautifully with the pale skin and reddish-blond hair.  Nude, the paleness would be overwhelming.


















After years of beefcake-watching, I'm quite sure what this guy is packing.  It won't be impressive.  But the bright-red, ribald t-shirt is a perfect counterpart to his expression of farmboy innocence.

With a sharp, severe face and sculpted physique, seeing what his penis looks like would be anticlimactic.

Keeping it hidden can be more erotic than openly displaying it. The mystery is half the fun.  Hairy or smooth?  Muscular or slim?  Mortadella or Kielbasa?

More after the break.