The Truth about the Black Penis

I am particularly attracted to guys with darker skin, black, Asian, Hispanic, Mediterranean.

The myth of the extra-large beneath-the-belt gifts has nothing to do with it.

But I do seem to encounter extra large black guys rather often.

Here are my most memorable black boyfriends and hookups.  Let's check on their size.

1. Tyrone, my weight-training partner, who I may or may not have done something with in a car in the Rocky High parking lot. Bratwurst.

2. Julian, the radio station manager at Augustana who was self-conscious about his size.  Bratwurst.

3. Raymond, the Texas hookup who kept saying "if you relax, it won't hurt." Mortadella.

4. Sayid, his friend, who kept turning over on his stomach and saying "Take me! Take me!"  Bratwurst.

5. T, the Thug on my Sausage List, who Alan and I picked up at Jewel's Catch One.  Mortadella+

6. Mario, the feminine guy who changed his sheets every day.  Kielbasa.

7. The first guy that Yuri and I shared, in New York.  He just wanted to kiss.  Average.

8. Blake the Opera Buff , who I dated for a few months before switching to his roommate. Mortadella+

9. Jerry the !Kung, the Bushman I met in South Africa. Small.  But I don't know if Bushmen count as black or not.

10. Sibu, the Hottest Guy in the World, the seminary student I met in South Africa.  I saw him in the dark room of the bar, but he wouldn't invite me up to his place.  Bratwurst.

11. The custodian I hooked up with in France.  Kielbasa.

12. Jerome, the Biggest Guy on My Sausage List, who I met in Boston at a job interview.  Later we visited his uncle in Delaware.  Kovbasa+

13. Tye, the Florida guy I shared with Yuri. Average

14. Azi, the Dutch Afro-Caribbean guy at the Horseman's Club in Amsterdam.  Kovbasa.  But I only actually dated his brother Eli.  Bratwurst.

15. Keaton, the 18-year old friend of the High School Bodybuilder. Bratwurst+.

16. Leronne, the guy I shared with my boyfriend Charlie in Dayton, another guy who was self-conscious about his size.  Average.

17. Justin, who Yuri and his boyfriend hooked me up with in London. Bratwurst.

18, The Rapper in Upstate New York.  Bratwurst.

19. Malik, the small guy whose enormous dog broke the leash and bit me.   Bratwurst.

20. Deonte, the regular at our M4M Parties who insists on wearing a condom for oral.  Mortadella.

So, in my sample of 20 black guys from 3 continents, 25% are small or average, 40% big, and 35% enormous.

Of course, the sample might be skewed.  Maybe I don't remember the smaller guys, or my memory is making them bigger.

Or  it's mostly the bigger guys who are self-confident enough to approach me.

Or, when you date a black guy, you can expect beneath-the-belt gifts.  No problem, as long as that's not the only reason you're interested.

See also; My Sausage List.

Is Professor Singer Gay?

Bloomington, March 1984

In my second year at Indiana University (1983-84), I had to choose two historical eras for my Comprehensive Exams.  I decided on the Romantic Era (1770-1830), mostly because of the homoromantic exuberance of the Frankenstein monsters, vampires, and dying poets, and the Restoration-Augustan Era (1660-1770), mostly because of Dr. Singer (not his real name).

He was a new professor of Restoration Literature, a Wunderkind with a Ph.D. from Johns Hopkins and a book coming out, though he was only 26 years old (I was 22).  Tall, thick hair, broad shoulders, nice biceps, a smooth muscular chest peeking up through the casually-unbuttoned top buttons of his shirt.  He used his hands a lot while lecturing, said "apposite" more in one class session than most people in a lifetime, and criticized; my; use; of; semicolons.

Both Viju and I got major gaydar from Dr. Singer; flamboyant, precise, and not averse to gay content, such as Lord Rochester's "Love a Woman? You're an Ass!", about how gay sex is better than hetero sex.  When we got to John Milton: he showed us an illustration from William Blake's allegorical biography, and quipped: "I'll bet you didn't know that Milton looked like that!"

We had two goals during the semester.  First, to determine if Dr. Singer was gay.

Viju's strategy: He got some confederates, male and female, to invite Dr. Singer out for "a beer" after our Tuesday-night seminar, and checked to see whether he spent more time gazing at men or women.  My boyfriend Jimmy, the Bodybuilder on Crutches, tagged along.

Dr. Singer deliberately made eye contact with each student in turn, and didn't gaze at anyone else.

My strategy: I wrote a paper on the gay subtexts in Paradise Lost: naked Satan, etc.  I got a B (a failing grade in grad school, where everyone gets an A on everything).

Ok, so the "gay" test was inconclusive.  Our next goal: to determine if Dr. Singer was available. We waited until the spring semester, when I was single again after dating Jimmy the bodybuilder on crutches.

Viju's strategy: He went to Dr. Singer's office in Ballantine Hall and said he was having a crisis.  He was attracted to guys!  Did that make him gay?  But his parents back in India would be scandalized -- they would cut off their support, and he would have to drop out of college!  His career plans would be ruined!  He began to cry.  Dr. Singer offered him hand-on-shoulder sympathy, but didn't reveal anything (a student used the same tactic on me in Texas a year later).

My strategy: I found out that Dr. Singer went to the campus gym to lift weights every morning at 7:00 am.  I went in and timed my workout so we would end up in the shower together.  I complemented him on his physique.

"You really know how to work on those abs," I said.  "Maybe we could work out together sometime?"

"Um...er...I'm sort of busy."

"Well, it doesn't have to be at the gym," I said, soaping myself suggestively.  "I've had some of my best workouts at home."

That did the trick.

Moral: When all else fails, try nudity.

See also: Dr. Kirtis Serves Me His Bratwurst.

Picked Up by the Museum Guard

Indianapolis, July 2015

Instead of going to Europe every year, I now drive from the Plains to the East Coast.  Two weeks, 15 friends and relatives, 9 hotels, 8 museums, 5 guest passes at the YMCA, 4  horrible hotel gyms, 2 state parks, 2 bath houses, 1 baseball game.

And a hookup with a museum guard.

After pizza and Chinese food delivery guys, my biggest fantasy hookup is probably a museum guard.  Maybe because they follow you around with an eagle-eye, suspicious stare that  looks a lot like cruising.

And, though they come in all sizes and shapes, a surprising number are stunningly handsome.

If you live in town and can be a regular, it's possible.  My friend Alan picked up a guard at the L.A. County Museum of Art just by showing up every day until he got a phone number.

But I usually visit museums when I'm leaving town forever in a few hours, so there's no time to make contact. The sheer inaccessibility makes the museum guard the stuff of erotic fantasy.

But one Saturday in the summer of 2015, out of nowhere, it happened!

Troy and I arrived in Indianapolis around noon, planned to have lunch and do some sightseeing, then dinner with my parents and sister, overnight at a hotel, and on to Rock Island on Sunday.

Troy is doing research on the Iroquois, so he wanted to spend a lot of time at the Eiteljorg Museum of American Indian Art.  As we walked through the gallery devoted to Edward S. Curtis, who photographed many Native Americans at the turn of the twentieth century, we got a cruisy smile from a guard: in his 20s, tall, broad-shouldered, stunningly handsome, with a square face, bronze skin, and straight black hair, probably Native American himself.

Later, I returned to the gallery on my own.  The guard approached.

"Is your boyfriend writing a book?"  he asked with the same cruisy smile.

Obviously gay, to catch on so fast!  "He's working on a term paper," I said.  "These pieces are marvelous.  I'm Boomer."

"Ryan." We shook hands.

"Curtis was an expert at drawing complex emotions from his subjects.  I'm studying art at IUPUI, and I often come here for inspiration."

"He picked very handsome models, too.  I think he had a thing for Native Americans."

"You think these are hot, you should see some of the stuff that's not on display.  Come with me..."

Ryan led me downstairs.  "I got a special access," he announced to an older guard before unlocking a door that read "Archive."  It was a vast, empty room with statues under tarps and shelves of old books, and on one wall six more Edward S. Curtis photographs, including some very muscular Native American men.

"They don't put these out.  Too risque for the kiddies."

Suddenly I realized that we were alone.  It was very warm in the room, and a stunningly handsome guy was standing very, very close to me.  "Sitting Eagle, Crow Indian, 1905," I read.

"His lover.  Well, one of his lovers.  He slept with most of his male models."  Ryan wrapped his arm around my shoulders.  "Do you and your boyfriend have an open relationship?"

"We're sort of broken up..."  I said.  And then we were kissing and groping.

Then, suddenly he pulled away.  "Wait -- wait.  This isn't exactly private.  Can we get together later?  I work until 6:00."

"Well...we're having dinner with my parents tonight.  We're free afterwards, maybe at 9:00. but our hotel is in Franklin, about 30 miles south of here."

"Perfect!"

"You don't mind driving 30 miles?"

"Babe, I'd drive a thousand miles to get my hands on those pecs."  He brushed his hand against my chest.  "What's the hotel?"

At exactly 9:00 pm, Ryan knocked on the door of our hotel room, carrying a bottle of wine (I neglected to mention that I don't drink).

He didn't look Native American at all -- it must have been the power of suggestion.

And, in a t-shirt and short pants instead of a museum guard uniform, he wasn't stunningly handsome anymore -- cute, with a smooth, solid chest, and nice beneath the belt gifts.  But rather ordinary, not much different from the twinks who cruise me every day at home.

I shouldn't complain.  I fulfilled a fantasy and met a nice guy, who offered to get together again when we go back to Indianapolis at Christmastime.

Still...

See also: A Good Old-Fashioned Trick; My Big, Flashy, Flamboyant Cousin; and Topped by a Vietnamese Twink