Troy's First Video Booth

Montreal, October 2009

Guys who are young or newly out have usually been brainwashed -- I mean socialized -- into the heterosexual ideal of monotony - I mean monogamy.  Rejecting all others, sharing your life, heart, and body with just one person til death.  Which can't come soon enough.

So when I started dating 23-year old Troy in Upstate New York, he was not amenable to the idea of bringing in a third person to "share."

I pointed out that he went down on me and the Pitcher at the same time, and no one seemed to mind. (See The Satyr's Sinister Scheme.)

"That just happened.  I didn't plan on it.  But now we're together, and I should be enough for you."

"You're great, but there are a lot of cute guys out there.  I want to experience as much masculine beauty as I can."

"What about marital fidelity?" he asked, repeating a buzz word from his childhood.

"That whole mythos was based upon economics.  There was only way for a man to ensure that the children he was paying to raise were his own: forbid his wife from having sex with another man. Men don't get pregnant, so why not go for it?  Seize the day!"

"Ok...but...I want to warm up first, get used to this whole idea of fooling around on the side."

Well, let's invite someone we already dated into our bed.  Maybe Pete the Water Guy.

No, that would be too weird.

Hooking up with a stranger?

A stranger in my apartment?  Too risky!

How about a Sex Party?  Twenty guys, no waiting.

No.  Too many young guys.  I'm only into older.

A bath house?  There's one in Albany, and....

No.

There weren't a lot more options.

You know what I've always wanted to try?  A glory hole.  Where you're on one side of a wall, and he's on the other side.  

You only see his penis -- he can be anybody you want. 

A glory hole?  I had tried them at bath houses.  Uncomfortable, annoying, and a disembodied penis is not very erotic -- I like to see the guy I'm with, or at least feel him.

But ok.  The only place I knew of with such facilities was a video store on the Rue Ste. Catherine in Montreal, so we drove up for the weekend, and ignored the bars, bath houses, and sex shops.

Although we did see the Bonsecours Market and Centre d'histoire de Montréal, which seemed to be rather too inclusive of local celebrities from the 1970s.

Troy wanted to try out the glory hole at 10:00 pm on Saturday night, when most of the gay residents and visitors were out on dates, or at the bars, bath houses, and sex shops.... who was left to go to an adult video store?  Trolls, druggies, hustlers, closet cases...

We wanted into the brightly-lit front room, browsed among the gay videos and porn magazines, and then headed for the back, where there was a lounge area and two rows of small booths.

 There were about a dozen guys standing or sitting in the lounge, waiting for someone attractive to show up.  As I suspected, a rough crowd.  A lot of rumpled clothes, unshaven faces, and sallow, haunted looks.  Some guys were just trying to get out of the cold.

Definitely bottoms.  They wanted to be on the receiving end.  Troy wasn't going to get a lot of action tonight.

The booths were about the size of a telephone booth.  You went in, sat down, deposited a loonie (a Canadian dollar coin), and got to watch 5 minutes of a porn movie.  Another loonie, another 5 minutes.  You could also deposit $5 for 30 minutes, or $10 for 60.

This could get expensive.

We opened the door to an unoccupied booth, and saw that it had two glory holes, connecting to the booths on either side.  Both were deserted.

"I'm a little nervous," Troy said softly.  "What if the guy isn't my type?  I only like older guys, with muscles and chest hair."

"That's the point of the glory holes," I said.  "Disembodied cocks, no body type needed.  But tell you what -- I'll wait a few minutes, then go into that booth."  I gestured at the one on his left.  "Then you can pretend you don't know who it is, so it will be like going down on a stranger."

He smiled.  "Ok, let's try that for starters."

I left him alone.  The door shut, and the "Occupied" light came on.  I went back out to the entry area and scanned the video titles and got cruised by a scary-looking guy in a green trenchcoat.  To discourage him, I went out to the front room and browsed among the sex toys.

Then I returned and went to the booth to the left of Troy.  Scary guy followed, and went into the booth next to me.  His mouth immediately appeared at his glory hole.  I ignored him, unzipped, and squeezed through the glory hole into Troy's booth.

He ignored me.

I swayed a little bit.

He ignored me.

I pulled back in, knelt, and looked through the glory hole -- at the back of a guy's butt.

"Ahem!"  I cleared my throat and pushed through again.  I felt a hand giving me a desultory squeeze.

"Ahem!"  I zipped up, went over to Troy's booth, and opened the door.  He was on his knees in front of a beefy Bear, in his 40s, wearing a cowboy hat.  Why hadn't I seen him in the lounge area?

"Occupé!" he growled.

Troy looked up.  "C'est bon -- il est mon copain.  Boomer, this is Max.  He's a farmer.  Isn't that cool?"

"Enchanté!" Max grunted, obviously miffed at the coitus interruptus.

"You exchanged a lot of information through a glory hole!'

"He just opened the door to the booth, and we started talking.  It's a lot better than a disembodied penis, isn't it?"

Max pulled Troy to his knees and zipped up.  "Ta chum ne se souci pas?" Your boyfriend doesn't mind?

" Bien sûr que non!  Il était son idée!"  It was his idea!   He enveloped Max in a long kiss.  "Do you mind if Max comes back to the hotel with us?"

That was the end of Troy's insistence on monogamy, although he backslid a little when I made a teenage Friend with Benefits.

See also: Troy's Wild Ride in Hell-fer-Sartain and The Shy Boy at the Bathhouse.

A Naked Man Behind the Door

Speaking of sausage sightings, here's one for the record books:

There are several unisex bathrooms on campus, three in a row in a corridor of the Business School, three in a row in the Art Building, two in a row in Social Sciences.

They're designed for the disabled who can't negotiate the m/f restrooms, but also used by:

Non-binary and transgender people who might not feel comfortable in the m/f restrooms.

Guys who are shy about pulling it out in front of other guys.

And anyone who dislikes the gunkiness of the toilets in the m/f restrooms after about ten hours worth of students have been parking their behinds on them.

They are big, with big, square doors that can accommodate wheelchairs.  When you walk in, there's a sink directly in front of you and a toilet and sometimes a urinal five paces to the side.

No "occupied" indicators, like on airplanes.  You just try the door.  If it's locked from the inside, you move on.

That's a lot of buildup, but the payoff is worth it.

The other night I was walking through the Business School on the way back from the gym, and I decided to use one of the bank of unisex bathrooms. I chose the middle one for some reason.  Symmetry, I suppose. 

The doors are unexpectedly easy to open, and I had to go.  I swung it wide.

There was a man facing me!

Too old to be a student, probably in his 30s.  Tall, pale skin, buzz cut. Wearing a gray business suit.

Except his pants were down or off. I saw his bare, hairy legs, his thighs, his crotch, and a long, thick uncut cock hanging down.  About 4" soft.

I said "Excuse me" and swung the door shut again.

They don't slam.  It took a second.  He just stood there, motionless, staring.

Obviously he had not realized that the door was unlocked.

But one thing is bugging me:  he was nowhere near the toilet.  He was about three steps from the sink, facing away from it.  Facing the door.

What was he doing?

Maybe he was an exhibitionist, waiting for someone to expose himself to, with the safety of claiming "I didn't know the door was unlocked."

If so, he would have a long wait. There are several bathrooms in the Business Building, and not many people around.

Could he have been waiting for someone specific -- a bathroom hookup that I accidentally interrupted?

It beats shoving your cock under a toilet stall.

Going to Bed with the Boy Next Door

Rock Island, November 1968.

 A Thursday, two days after my eighth birthday.  Mom isn't feeling well, so she's in bed already.  Dad made macaroni and cheese for dinner.  My brother and I are in our pajamas, watching The Flying Nun and reading books.

Suddenly Mom calls Dad into the bedroom.  He returns a few moments later.  "Boys, get your coats and shoes on.  You're going on a sleepover."

Cool!  They said I could start going on sleepovers when I turned eight, but I didn't think it would be so soon after. But why does Kenny get to go?   He's only six!   

"Who with?"  I ask.

"Mike from next door."

Mike?  But we aren't friends -- he's a year younger than me, in the second grade.  We only played together once last summer, when he talked me into running through a sprinkler with my clothes on, and got me in trouble.  

But -- a sleepover, like the big kids have!  "I'll go pack some clothes and toys."

"No, there's no time.  I'll bring you some clothes tomorrow.  Just put your coats and shoes on right over your pajamas.  And you can pick out one toy apiece to bring.  But hurry up."

Kenny and I run down the stairs to our basement room to get our shoes on, and then look for toys to bring.  My teddy bear (named Ted E. Bear) seems like an obvious choice, but I don't want to act like a little baby in front of Mike, so I choose a Tarzan action figure instead.

When we climb up the stairs again, Mike's Dad, Mr. Maartin, is standing in the living room.  "Ready to go, cowpokes?" he asks with a broad smile.

I smile back.  Mr. Maartin is tall and broad shouldered, with thick arms and a little tattoo of an anchor on his wrist.  He's way old, of course, almost 30, but sometimes old guys are nice to look at, too.  I wonder if I'll get a glimpse of his shame tonight, like with Cousin Joe last summer.

Dad helps us put our coats on over our pajamas, hands me a plastic bag with our toothbrushes and toothpaste in it, and gives us each a hug.

Mom comes out to say goodbye.  She has her coat on, and she is carrying a suitcase.

"Where is Mom going?" I ask.

Nobody answers.  Mr. Maartin takes our hands and leads us down the steps and across the fresh November snow to his house.  I see Mom and Dad walking across our back yard to the garage.

"Don't worry about a thing," he says as he opens the screen door.  "Your Mom will be fine.  This is all perfectly normal, the cycle of life."

My heart sinks.  Is she sick?  Is she going to the hospital?  Is she going to die?

I try to avoid thinking about my worries and enjoy my first sleepover.  It's not what I was expecting: no other boys except Mike.  Mr. and Mrs. Maartin right there all the time.  We watch Bewitched and That Girl and Dragnet, eat Jiffy Pop  Popcorn, read comic books, and play army men.  At 9:00, Mrs. Maartin brings us mugs of warm milk, and then sends us to brush our teeth.

9:00?  I thought you stayed up all night at a sleepover.       

Mr. Maartin stands at the bathroom door, already in his pajamas.  I see his broad pale chest with little hairs around his nipples, his thick biceps, his little belly.   "Ok, cowboys, which of you wants to bunk with Mike, and which wants to bunk with his old dad?"

"You!"  I exclaim.  Mike is cute, slim, brown-haired, blue-eyed, with small, hard biceps and an outtie belly button.  I like how his brown skin stands out against the white of his pajamas.  But -- Mr Maartin is big!  And I'll be able to see his shame!

"I want Mommy!" Kenny exclaims.

"She'll be fine, I promise," Mr. Maartin says.  He turns to me.  "Um...you know, pardner, if it's all the same to you, I think the little buckeroo might need a woman's touch tonight."  He takes Kenny by the hand and leads him down the hall.

Suddenly I realize that he meant him and Mrs. Maartin.  No way would I want to sleep with a lady!  All those disgusting powders and perfumes.  Besides, at church the preacher said boys should never sleep with girls unless they're married.

Mike smiles at me.  "Sometimes I snore, but all you have to do is shake me til I I wake up.  I don't care."

We climb into his single bed and wait for Mrs. Maartin to say goodnight and turn the light off.

The bed is very narrow.  I accidentally push my leg against Mike's thigh.

"Hey, stay on your own side!" he murmurs.

This isn't fair!  You get stuck with the second-best bed, far away from Mr. Maartin and his shame, and you can't even be comfortable!

"I don't got cooties!", I say, wrapping my leg over his leg and my arm over his thin chest.

I've never held a boy like this before -- it's amazing, warm, hard, intimate.  I flush with unexpected joy.

Instead of shrugging me off, Mike turns over onto his side.  My arm is around his chest, and my other arm slides against his butt.  After a few minutes, he begins to snore.  I kiss his shoulder.

I don't want to fall asleep, to miss even a moment of this joy.  I want to lie like this, with Mike in my arms, tonight and tomorrow night, and every night, for the rest of my life.

I never had another sleepover with Mike -- he was a year younger than me, an impassible age gap.  But in the next weeks, and months, and years, and decades, I had lots of sleepovers with lots of other boys and men.  Holding a boyfriend in your arms all night is way better than a sausage sighting.

By the way, as you probably guessed, Mom was having a baby.  In the 1960s adults never discussed such things with kids, so I was oblivious until Dad called the next morning to announce that I had a baby sister.

See also: I Get a Glimpse of Cousin Joe's Shame; My Third Grade Boyfriend; A Crush on the Girl Next Door's Boyfriend.