My Date or Trick with Mario in the White Room

West Hollywood, September 1987

In spite of my nostalgia-infused memories of West Hollywood as a paradise, it had some big problems.  For one thing, it was completely segregated.  Only 3% of its residents were black, 5% Asian, and 10% Hispanic (compared to Los Angeles in general, 10%, 11%, and 47%).

You rarely saw anyone black on the streets, and when you did, he was with a white guy, and being charged a hefty cover to get into the bar, or waiting extra-long for the server to notice him in the restaurant.

But this isn't a story about institutional racism and microaggressions.  It's about a guy named Mario.

Nearly every day, I stopped into the Different Light Bookstore on Larrabee.  I joked that I was moving the entire stock into my room.

And one day I saw Mario browsing in the theater section.

He was rather feminine, thin and willowy, wearing gold rings, bracelets, and necklaces -- an immediate turnoff.  But he was shorter than me, dark skinned, with glasses that gave him a studious look.  So when he approached, started a conversation about gay literature, and invited me to dinner at the Greenery, I agreed.


Wait -- he meant right now.  In West Hollywood, you always set up dates for the future. Was this one of those dreaded tricks, a pickup, sex for its own sake?

Tricking was frowned upon -- if this was a trick, I could never tell my friends about it.

While I ate a hamburger and Mario picked at a salad, we exchanged coming-out stories.  He grew up in Richmond, Virginia and fled to West Hollywood seven years ago.  He had a job as a secretary, but only until he got his big break as an actor.  He hadn't had much luck, but he did land a date with celebrity Rob Lowe.

I countered by telling him about my Celebrity Boyfriend.

"My boss wants me -- I can tell," Mario continued.  "But I saw him in the rest room -- a footlong, honey!  No way, nuh-huh, I can't handle that."

Ok, feminine and into anal.  Date or trick, this wasn't going to work.  I put $5 on the table to pay for my dinner, and politely excused myself.

"Come on, honey, don't leave me hanging!" Mario exclaimed.  "After I put myself out to cruise you!  I don't meet many nice guys, who are willing to take things slow and get to know you.  Everybody wants to just jump into bed right away."

This was awkward!  "Well...um...I don't think we're compatible."

"Is it because I'm black?  You're afraid what your friends will say?"

"What?  No!"  My face burned.  That was the farthest thing from my mind,  But now we were definitely going through with the date, or trick.



So we walked down the street to Mickey's, the twink hangout, and danced and flirted and groped and fondled.

No kissing!  Was he shy or what?

But, date or trick, I was ready to go home with him.

Mario lived in a very nice apartment building, white with pink trim, on Romaine Street just off Fairfax.  He made me take off my shoes and socks to avoid tracking lint on the carpet.

"Do you want to take your shower first?" he asked.  "There are fresh towels in the bathroom, and a douche under the sink."

Douche?  Was he an anal top?

All of the towels in the bathroom were white, like at the gym.

I showered and came out to find Mario in the kitchen.  "Now put your clothes in the washer, and I'll do a load tomorrow morning before you go home.  Don't worry, no one will touch your stuff."

"My clothes...but...."

"You can't get dressed into dirty clothes, can you?"

I did as he asked.  Mario went to take his shower.  I wandered around the apartment -- only a few books, all on acting -- and found the bedroom.

It was completely white: rug, curtain, dresser, nightstand, lamp, bedspread, everything.  It made my eyes hurt.

I stood there, afraid to touch anything.  A song by Cream ran through my head: "In a white room with black curtains...wait in the place where shadows run from themselves..."

Soon Mario appeared, wearing only a white towel.

"Oh, don't worry -- the sheets and bedspread are clean.  I change them every day."

"Every...day?  I have like three sets of sheets, tops.  Don't you run out?"

"Oh, honey, I wouldn't run out for a month.  I buy sheets the way other guys buy shoes.  But I do the laundry every day anyway.  Who wants dirty clothes in the hamper for a week?"  He groped me.  "Now give me that towel.  I'll hang it up so it won't get mildewed."

He took off his towel, too -- Kielbasa, beautifully shaped.  I sat on the bed, naked, until he returned.

I moved in for a kiss.  "Sorry, I'm not into that," he said, turning his face away.

We lay on the bed, not kissing.  Mario's body was cool to the touch.  He didn't turn the light off -- the bright lights against the white background were dazzling.

He handed me a condom and turned over on his stomach.  He wanted me to screw him!

No dice.

He tried to put the condom on me.  I wasn't aroused.  "I'm really not into that," I said.

"No problem, honey.  I know lots of ways to please my man."

Mario moved down below the belt and started go go down on me.

The weirdness, the whiteness, the femininity, the lack of kissing -- nothing was happening.  I wasn't getting aroused!

A unpardonable sin, for either a date or a trick.

After awhile, he gave up, ran into the bathroom for some mouthwash, and returned.  "Well, I love cuddling with my man, too."

Wait -- didn't I get a chance to go down on him?    When I reached down there, he shooed my away.

And he didn't turn off the light!  I was stuck spending the night with him -- it would have been gauche to leave -- in a room as glaringly white as a hospital bed.

After an hour or so, I got up, gauche or no gauche, retrieved my clothes from the washer, and woke Mario with some excuse about why I had to leave.

"Sorry, honey," he murmured.  "I guess you're just not into black guys."

No, I was definitely into black guys, just not glaring white rooms.

I ran into Mario occasionally after that, at the Different Light, the gay Safeway, or on the street, and he always smiled sadly, as if to say "I know your secret shame."

That wasn't fair.  No one can be expected to perform in a white room, with someone who won't kiss and calls him "honey."

See also: Mario's Date or Trick with Rob Lowe and  The Truth about the Black Penis

Fred and the Cute Young Thing Visit

West Hollywood, February 1988

If you sit at one of the tables outside the French Quarter on Santa Monica Boulevard long enough, every gay person you know will walk by.

David Johnson, son of the Professor on Gilligan's Island.  

David Cameron, whose mother starred him in the classic novel The Wonderful Flight to the Mushroom Planet.

And, in the spring of 1988, my first live-in boyfriend, Fred.

We met during my sophomore year in college, when he was a ministerial student.  When he got a job at a church in small-town Nebraska.  I moved with him, but it was a disaster -- he cheated on me with the teenager downstairs -- so I returned Rock Island.

We kept in contact, mostly through mutual friends, and hooked up occasionally at Christmastime.  He stayed in horrible small-town Nebraska until 1982, then moved to horrible small-town Kansas, and in 1985 left the ministry for a job as a mental health counselor in Kansas City.

One morning in February 1988, my roommate Derek, my ex-boyfriend Raul, and some other people were having brunch at the French Quarter, when suddenly Fred strolled by on the sidewalk outside, accompanied by a Cute Young Thing.

The French Quarter

I did a few double takes, then rushed out and grabbed him by the shoulder.

"Boomer!"  He gave me a friendly hug.  "I would have called, but I have your old number listed in my address book."

In those days, whenever you moved, your phone number changed.

I dragged him and the Cute Young Thing back to our table to join us.  "What are you doing in town?"

He was visiting seminaries, planning to enroll in a D.Min. (Doctor of Ministry) program to hopefully land a church in a decent town.  He had already interviewed at Yale and Vanderbilt, and now Claremont School of Theology, out in the San Gabriel Valley.

The Cute Young Thing (CYT), was barely out of his teens, slim with dirty-blond hair, an ostentatious diamond earring, a blue t-shirt, and tight blue shorts with a bulge that caused heads to turn even in bulge-heavy West Hollywood. I don't know where Fred found him.

A CYT

He looked askance at our Crabcakes Benedict, Mardi Gras Omelette, and Strawberry Crepes, called us all "fatties," and ordered the Diet Plate.  Then he criticized the French Quarter as "bourgeois."

You don't often see such an annoying combination of hotness and snark.

We went sightseeing, and then to dinner and to the clubs, while the CYT kept up a constant stream of criticism:

West Hollywood was "tacky," the Pacific Design Center "tired," Beverly Hills "bourgeois."

I had a job at Muscle and Fitness as "a glorified file clerk for narcissists," I was getting a "worthless degree" at a "second rate school," my car was "tacky," and my clothing was "hayseed."

To add insult to injury, the Cute Young Thing kept cruising me.




The next day Fred had to do a sample sermon and have lunch with the committee, and somehow he talked me into taking the CYT out for more sightseeing.  I dragged Raul along to share the pain.

The criticism continued:  I was from the Midwest, "nothing but hayseeds and cows," and a "geezer" at age 27.  Raul was "fat," wore a "glorified pimp" outfit, and should "learn to speak English."

The cruising also continued, and the CYT had the nerve to suggest that we come back to his hotel. Behind Fred's back!

Something had to be done about this menace!

Fortunately, we had a plan.

We went back to the hotel, kissed and fondled a bit, and stripped the CYT out of his clothes.  Then we broke away.

"Whew!  That's some gut you got!"  Raul exclaimed, pointing at his six-pack abs. "How did you hide it? Sorry, man, I'm not into fatties."

"What?  I....um..." the Cute Young Thing stammered.

"And what do you call that?" I said, pointing at his enormous package.  "I never saw one so small before."

"Maybe Fred likes them tiny?" Raul suggested.

"How does he even know it's there?  Sorry, buddy, I'm not into pencil stubs."

We got up and left the CYT speechless and staring on the bed.

Later that evening Fred called.  "What did you say to the CYT?  He insisted that I turn Claremont down!  He said the guys in West Hollywood are too fat and ugly!"

As it turns out, Fred and Matt stayed together for about 10 years, and we often "shared."

I never figured out what Fred saw in him.

Maybe you can?

See also: 8 Harvard Yard hookups; Matt's First Night with Fred and His Brother

Guys Tied Together

I've always had a fantasy about two guys tied together, probably dating to those old Tarzan movies where Tarzan and Boy would be tied together. You can make them anyone you want: police officers, captured soldiers, coworkers, televangelists, teammates, thieves.

















.  Fathers and adult sons.

Enemies tied together mouth to mouth, as if they are kissing.

I'm not a big fan of back to back, since the bottoms aren't able to interact much.

But it does allow you to interact with them more freely.

Face to face, with mouths and cocks touching, is my favorite.

More after the break.