My Kentucky Kinfolk

Eastern Kentucky, Summer 1973

My mother was born in the hills of eastern Kentucky, and moved to Indiana as a child.  She always felt like an exile; the hills were her true home.  So she was a big fan of all things Southern, from hayseed comedies to Glen Campbell

We drove down in a camper in the summer of 1973, about a month after I saw two boys kissing at Longview Park Pool, to visit her older brothers, uncles and aunts, and sundry kinfolk left behind in the hills.

My Uncle El lived in a cabin like that in the Beverly Hillbillies, with electricity from a generator outside, and tv, but no running water.  There was an outhouse back by the chicken coop.

There was no town, just a feed store a mile away, where you could get ice cream and candy, if you didn't mind eating it beside giant bags of fertilizer.

No books of any sort.  Not even comic books.  I saw a Bible in a great-aunt's house.

No teen idols -- even the teenagers listened only to Country-Western music.

They only got one tv station, from West Virginia, with The Brady Bunch and The Partridge Family on Friday nights, but otherwise nothing good on.

But:  Uncle El and his wife had something around 12 kids, with three teenage sons and some toddlers still at home. My cousins (El, Graydon, and Dayton, who I met for the first time at Uncle Paul's wedding) had tight, muscular chests and thick biceps, and wore only overalls or cut-off jeans.

At night, since water had to be trotted up from a pump outside, we had to bathe together.  And we slept three to a bed, wearing only underwear, pressed together in the night.

They had two friends, Robbie and Sam -- I never knew if they were brothers, cousins, or lovers -- who drove us in a rickety red pick-up truck up the mountain to a stream where we all went swimming.  Nude.

Not one of them ever mentioned a girl, or asked me about what girl I liked.

One night they drove us into Salyersville, about 10 miles away, for a drive in movie: Cahill, U.S. Marshall, starring John Wayne as a sheriff whose two sons escape from prison and rob a bank. Later the Duke and Danny (Gary Grimes) try to return the money.  They were father and son, but the erotic tension between them was palpable, especially on a hot night in the hills, sitting in the back of a pickup truck with a group of tanned, shirtless musclemen.

I know now that Eastern Kentucky is one of the least gay-friendly regions in the U.S.

But in 1973, I wanted to stay forever.

Instead, we spent a week at Great Smoky Mountains National Park.

See also: The Shy Boy at the Bathhouse; and My Grandpa Howard's Gay Connection

Tracking Down the Greek Boy of Mykonos

June, 2016

My friend Doc just returned from a holiday on Mykonos, the Greek island five hours from Athens by boat (or a direct flight from London, Paris, Brussels, and Vienna).   He invited me but I refused.  I've already done enough traveling this year, and besides, I don't like gay resorts.

1. They're beaches, with no museums or art galleries for miles around, and nothing to do but get sunburned and incredibly bored.
2. There's an awful lot of booze and drugs floating by.
3. They're packed with white upper-class elitists.  I can get those at home.

But it did give me the idea of tracking down the Greek boy of Mykonos.

When I was a kid, I loved the "My Village" books by Sonia and Tim Gidal, photo-stories about real 10-12 year old boys living in traditional villages in Japan, Israel, Denmark, Morocco, Finland, and so on.  Although they were published during the 1950s and 1960s, the modern world had very little impact on the villages: the house might have electricity, but automobiles were rare, and there were certainly no tv sets, fast-food restaurants, or tourists.

The stories were told in the first person, present tense ("I get up and..."), with very minimal plots, mostly involving going to school, learning a little of the country's history, meeting colorful villagers, and taking a trip to a nearby big city.  But since the boys were all extraordinarily cute and not the least interested in girls, I found them kindred spirits, hints of gay potential amid the incessant "what girl do you like?" interrogations of my childhood.

My Village in Greece, published in 1960, starred a boy named Yannis, who lives on the island of Mykonos, in the Aegean Sea.  His story involves going to school, catching octopuses on the beach, buddy bonding with his friend Markos, learning about Odysseus and Theseus, picking figs, and visiting the Island of Delos.

Yannis and Markos are inseparable, and neither mentions having a girlfriend!  A gay paradise!  There's even a statue of Hercules in the museum by the harbor.

When I read the book as a kid, I didn't realize that the Gidals were manipulating us into thinking that Mykonos was tiny, isolated, and untouched by the modern world.

Yannis mentions that there are nine coffee houses in town, an archaeological museum, and 350 families.  That's a total population of 2,000, a small town, not a village.  But even a town of 2,000 doesn't need nine coffee houses, unless there are a lot of visitors.

It turns out that in the late 1950s, Mykonos was already a thriving tourist destination, a playground of the rich and famous.  During the 1960s and 1970s, tourism boomed; annual arrivals increased by 800%.  Mykonos became more famous for its trendy nightclubs than for its whitewashed houses and narrow cobbled streets.

In the early 1970s, Italian artist Piero Aversa settled there and opened the island's first gay bar. By the late 1970s, it was a gay mecca.

Yannis and Markos, iconic figures of my childhood, emblems of gay potential, grew up in a gay mecca.

Could I track them down, find out if they were gay?

There are actually 10 villages on Mykonos, but the only one with 2000 people, an archaeological museum, and views of the islands of Tinos and Siros from the harbor, is the main city, called Mykonos City or Chora.

And the Gidals give the full names: Yannis Nikou and Markos Constantinou, as well as names of other people in the village.

Surely they were pseudonyms?

No -- an internet search revealed five entries for Yannis Nikou from Mykonos, under various spellings.  In 1973, the society page of the San Mateo, California Times announces the engagement of one Jill Carson to Yannis, described as a "merchant and exporter."  He would be about 24 years old.

Other newspaper articles describe their wedding and their move back to Mykonos.

There's also a reference to his export business.  It specialized in women's clothing.

Jill lives alone in San Mateo now.  I don't know if she's widowed or divorced.

Ok, Yannis was probably heterosexual, but what about Markos?

Several of those -- it's a common name in Greece.

One Markos from Mykonos currently lives in Luxembourg.  He was in the Greek Air Force from 1970 to 1973, got certified in aircraft maintenance, and now works for an aircraft company.

I'm going to guess heterosexual.

But another is probably gay.  At least he works at the Elysium Hotel -- expensive ($400 per night), predominantly gay but "straight-friendly."

And it's a 10-minute walk from "Marco's house" on the map on the flyleaf of My Village in Greece.

I'm not sure that he's the Markos from the book.  He might be a son or grandson or some other relative, or someone not related at all.

But it's nice to imagine that one of the iconic books of my childhood features a straight boy and his gay best friend.

See also: The Gay Villages of Sonia and Tim Gidal

In Search of Australian Aboriginal Men

Brisbane, Australia, July 2002

In 1986, I followed an Australian cowboy to his home on Kangaroo Island, with only the briefest of layovers in Sidney before going on to visit Alan in Japan.

This summer, same problem: my conference is in Brisbane, and I don't have the time or money to spend more than two days in Sydney.

Still, a week in Australia!  A chance to meet Aboriginal men!

Of course, there's nothing wrong with Anglo-Australians (80% of the population), or Chinese or Indian-Australians (8%) of the population).  But I can meet Anglo and Asian guys at home, or in Europe.  When will I be able to meet an Aboriginal Australian again?

Their culture is at least 40,000 years old: they began their migration to the continent during the Middle Paleolithic Era.

Most of the tribes practice so-called "ritualized homosexuality," in which the older men initiate the young men into the community through oral sex.

Initiate, right.

There are 27 language families, with over 100 languages in daily use, as distinct as English and Navajo.

The Wagiman word for "penis" is lagiriny, "tail."

The Ngarluma word for "erection" is jurdu, a cognate of jurdurn, "mountain peak."

Now that I've got to see!

Aboriginal Australians have a distinctive look, with dark-skin, frizzy hair, and broad noses. I couldn't find any nude photos on online bulletin boards (the precursor of blogs), but I imagine they have rather impressive mountain peaks..

They constitute only about 3% of the population, concentrated mostly in the north and the west.  Fortunately, I will be visiting during NAIDOC, a week of celebrations of Aboriginal culture, when many more from the outlying villages will descend upon Brisbane.

Sunday, June 30th

It's a 22 hour flight from Fort Lauderdale to Sydney, with stops in Los Angeles and Fiji, somehow arriving at noon on the same day I left.  I'm too exhausted to do anything on Sunday, but on Monday and Tuesday I visit the Sydney Opera House, the Museum of Contemporary Art, the Jewish Museum, the Sydney Sauna, and a sex club called the Signal.

Wednesday, July 2nd.

An hour and a half flight from Sydney to Brisbane, then a half hour train trip downtown, arriving around 2:00 pm.  I can't afford the Brisbane Hilton, so I am staying at a hip 3-star hotel nearby.

The desk clerk, whose nameplate reads "Chad," smiles professionally.  He's in his early 20s, brown-skinned, with straight hair, a sharp face, and a tight, muscular frame.  I figure he's South Asian, or maybe Polynesian.

"If I can do anything to make your stay more pleasant, let me know.  I'm here every afternoon until 5:00 pm."  Our hands touch as he gives me the key.  "I'm an authority on Brisbane, so if there are any particular sights you are interested in, just ask."

Very friendly bloke.

I check in at the conference, look at some of my literature, and explore downtown a bit.  The opening session last from 7 to 9.  Afterwards I'm too tired to go out.

Thursday, July 3rd.

Conference presentations in the morning and early afternoon, but at 3:00 pm it's time to head out to NAIDOC events and cruise for Aboriginal men.

"Have you been to the Queensland Cultural Centre?" Chad the Desk Clerk asks. "It's on Grey Street, on the other side of the river, just across Victoria Bridge.  A nice walk."

"That's next on my list!" I exclaim.  But first, the "NAIDOC Tea Dance" at the River Plaza on Scott Street.

I've never heard the term "Tea Dance" except in a gay context, so I assume that the River Plaza is a gay bar, with a 4:00 pm Tea Dance where Aussie blokes of all races, sizes, and shapes mingle and hook up.

When I get there, it turns out to be a retirement community.  I read the listing wrong; it's not a "Tea Dance," it's a "Tea" for elderly Aboriginal Australians!

I leave with egg on my face, go back to my hotel, have dinner, and then check my Spartacus Guide for real gay bars and bathhouses.

The Cruise Club, a bar with a dark room is only about 10 blocks away.   Nearly deserted on a Thursday night at 9:00 pm, but I manage to go down on a rather ugly, moustached, greasy-haired bloke who sports an enormous penis, easily a Mortadella, as thick around as a beer can.

He rushes off when he finishes.  I didn't even have a chance to say hello.

Friday, July 4th.

A national holiday back home, but of course not here.  More presentations in the morning.  I cut out at noon and ask Chad the Desk Clerk where I can rent a car.

"Taking a road trip?  I suggest Sandgate.  It's a beautiful seaside village about a half hour north of here.  There's a great place for high tea there, Olga's.  If you can wait until..."

"Thanks, but I've had enough tea for a lifetime!", I exclaim.

Instead I drive through heavy weekend traffic to Toowomba, about 1 1/2 hours west of Brisbane.

It would probably be a very pretty city, full of interesting colonial-era architecture, except that it's mid-winter,  I'm freezing in my light jacket, and I'm starving.  I stop at an outrageously overpriced sushi bar, and i don't even like sushi.

Finally I make it to the NAIDOC event:  a presentation on aboriginal culture at a Lutheran Church.  I'm expecting a vast cathedral packed with hundreds of people.  No -- it's held in the fellowship hall downstairs.  Twenty aboriginal families, a few Anglo members of the congregation, and me, feeling distinctly out of place.

I drive back to town, have dinner at a Korean place, and find a bath house about 2 miles from the hotel.  It's not terribly crowded, but I manage to meet another greasy-haired guy with an enormous penis (they must be a staple in Australia) and  a middle-aged South Asian guy on the downlow.

Later I hook up with the only black guy in the bath house: in his 20s, with frizzy hair, a tight muscular frame, and an uncut nine-incher.  An Aboriginal Australian!

After we kiss for awhile, he throws his legs in the air for me to top him.  Instead I go down on him for a few minutes.

"Are you sure you don't want to f*** me?" he asks.

Wait -- that's an American accent.

I lift up my head.  "Where are you from?"

"Atlanta.  So, how about if I f** you?"


.

Saturday, July 5th.

After the conference presentations in the morning, I drive out to East Brisbane for the last NAIDOC Event on my list, a program of Aboriginal dance at Coorparoo Secondary College (a  high school).

I sit in an auditorium, surrounded by schoolkids and their parents, watching Aboriginal dances performed by little boys.

The dances are interesting, but still -- I feel out of place, and rather guilty, as if I'm perving on the kids.

Afterwards I leave quickly, skipping the refreshments, drop off my rental car, and walk back to my hotel.

Chad the Desk Clerk says "You look like you're not enjoying our great city as much as you should be."

"A bunch of wild goose chases!"

"Well, maybe you need a knowledgeable tour guide.  Are you free tomorrow?  It's my day off, and....?"

Chad is asking me out!

"Um..,actually, I'm getting on a plane back to America tomorrow.  What about tonight?"

He frowns.  "Sorry, I have a family thing tonight.  It's NAIDOC Week, you know.  Got to pay my respects to the elders."

"Huh?"

"I'm Aboriginal -- Turrbal nation. We're the original owners of Meanjin, all the land around Brisbane -- so obviously I could give you an in-depth tour, if you know what I mean."

I've been searching for Aboriginal men all week, and there was a cute, gay Aboriginal guy right here in the hotel!  "Will you be done later?" I ask in a rather desperate tone.  "We could get together then."

"Well, these things run rather late," he says doubtfully, "But we'll see.  Maybe I'll ring you up."

He doesn't ring me up.

See also: In Search of Sex and Languages in South Africa and The Cowboy of Kangaroo Island.