That Bathhouse in West Hollywood

Last night I dreamed about that bathhouse in West Hollywood again.

We used to go there every Sunday afternoon, after church and the French Quarter.  It was on a street lined with bright, glittering shops and restaurants, always crowded with people.

You entered through a huge glass storefront and paid a squinting, suspicious elderly woman or drag queen.

After depositing your clothes in a locker, you took an elevator upstairs to a vast series of pools, some warm, some cool, all bathed in semi-twilight.  There were hundreds of men, maybe thousands, all naked or wearing towels.

There was never much sex going on, but it was warm, and safe, and I felt an amazing sense of belonging,  This was home.

Sometimes in my dreams I'm back there, at the bathhouse or gym or whatever it was, feeling that warmth and safety and belonging.

But more often I'm trying to find it.

I drive around, but the streets are unfamiliar and confusing.

I cross a vast night-dark field, knowing that it's just at the bottom of that hill, but it's too late, there's not enough time.

It's not open yet, I must come back later.

It's gone, turned into artist studios or a boys' school, and the new proprietor gets all flushed and nervous when I ask about what was there before.

The problem is: That bathhouse never existed.

There were no bathhouses in West Hollywood when I lived there.  The only such place that I have ever gone to regularly was The Club in Fort Lauderdale, which looked nothing the place in my dreams.

So what am I dreaming about?

Death and rebirth?
A screen memory for an alien abduction?
A desire to find that elemental belonging again, to go home?

Update: In more recent dreams, the bathhouse has been turned into an apartment building.  I tell the person at the front desk that this used to be a bathhouse, and he is surprised.  

More recently still, I go to long, boring meetings in one of the apartments, with snacks in the kitchen and someone taking the minutes Then I leave to walk through the darkness of the pre-dawn city; it's too late to go to the bars, so I head home.  

In my last dream, they weren't having a meeting, for some reason, and the guys who lived in the apartment were out.  I hung around by myself for a long time before giving up. 

See also: 15 Reasons You Should Go to a Bathhouse; The Late for Class Dream and Oral Sex 101

Oliver Hooks Up with Andy Taylor and Opie

West Hollywood, September 1985

I've been in California for only a couple of months, but I'm completely star struck!  I've met a dozen gay or gay-friendly stars --  Michael J. Fox, Scott Valentine, Robin Williams, Dean Paul Martin, Chris Makepeace -- I can't even keep track  -- and heard about a lot more.

I'm asking every guy I meet about the celebrities they dated or tricked with.  Sylvester Stallone, Scott Baio, Rob Lowe, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Ted Danson...I could write a book!

It's the morning after my date with Artie, a chubby older guy with weird rings and gold chains around his neck, reeking of cologne -- not at all my type.  I just accepted the date because I thought he would have a lot of celebrity dating stories (he didn't).

While Artie is frying bacon and eggs, his roommate comes out of the bedroom.  Naked.

A black guy in his mid-30s, slim, short black hair, round face, bleary-eyed.  His thin Kielbasa+ semi-aroused!

I'm not used to seeing naked roommates, especially ones who are cuter than the guy I'm on a date with, and I flash him a cruisy smile.  Artie notices and frowns with obvious jealousy.

"Boomer, this is Oliver.  He was just leaving."

"Pleased to meet cha," Oliver says.  He crosses over to the kitchen and pours himself a cup of coffee, then sits at the table, his knee "accidentally" pressing against mine.  "Are you in the business?  I'm an agent -- Cloris Leachman is one of my clients.  I definitely could get you some work."

Before I can answer, Artie brings over the bacon and eggs on a plate and squeezes in between us, trying to defuse the cruise.  "Boomer's studying Renaissance Italian at USC,  He can speak five languages.  He's not into anything so low-brow as movies."

 "Actually, we were just talking about celebrity dating stories," I tell him.  "You must have some good stories."

"I'm afraid Oliver doesn't have time to..."

"I got plenty of time, bro."  He thinks for a moment.  "How about this one: the very first big stars I ever got down my throat.  Andy Griffith."

"No way!" I exclaim.  Not The countrified hick of No Time for Sergeants!  The harbinger of conservative American "just plain folks" values on The Andy Griffith Show, about a small-town Southern sheriff in the days when folk loved Law and Order just as much as Aunt Bee's prize-winning apple pie!

"Please!" Artie exclaims.  "He trained to become a Moravian minister, and released an album of Country Gospel songs.  No way he's gay!"

"Well, maybe not gay for white boys, but definitely into dark meat."

Hollywood, September 1970

Oliver wanted to be a dancer as long as he could remember.  When he was only fifteen, he was dancing on American Bandstand and on The Swinging Times Review at the Palm Theater in Detroit.  After high school, he enrolled in the Dayton Dance Academy, but after a year he dropped out and moved to Hollywood, where he crashed with a friend and made the rounds of auditions.

In the summer of 1970, his lithe physique landed him a walk-on role on The Headmaster (1970-1971), with 44-year old Andy Griffith trying to escape country-hick typecasting by playing the headmaster of an elite private school in California.  Oliver played a track star who jostled his buddy and said something like "Dig the cool cat."

Just one line in an annoying jive -- did the writers really think that Afro-Americans talked like Sambo? -- and Andy Griffith wasn't even in the scene.  But Oliver saw him watching all during the taping, and figured he must be doing something right.

Sure enough, he was immediately cast in the next episode, as Normie in "The Experiment."  This time he had a whole conversation with the Headmaster, and a hand-on-shoulder moment that, for some reason, took a dozen takes -- Andy kept flubbing his lines and laughing.

The next day Andy called Oliver's agent and asked him to come to his house to discuss "making Normie an ongoing character."

This was rather unusual, but he figured, big stars are eccentric.  And he had the chance to play an ongoing character in a show that was sure to run for years!  So on Saturday he drove out to the house in Beverly Hills.

Andy answered the door in a swim suit  -- not very attractive, old and out of shape -- and escorted Oliver out to the pool.  "Feel free to take a dip," he offered.

"I didn't bring my swim suit."

"That's ok, the neighbors can't see anything.  Here, I'll show you."  He ripped off his swimsuit and dove into the pool.

"How big was he?" I ask.

"Kind of small.  For some reason, the bigger the star, the smaller the dick.  You ever notice that?"

Oliver stood and watched while Andy did a few strokes, then climbed out of the pool and sat on a cabana couch.  "I have some nice old Scotch, if you're interested."  He patted the seat next to him.

Suddenly Oliver realized that this was a casting couch.  He had nothing against going down on guys to further his career -- in fact, it was one of the perks of auditioning!  But an old, out of shape guy who was not his type at all, and didn't even have a very big cock....

The doorbell rang, and Andy said "Excuse me" and put a bathrobe on to answer it.  Oliver heard voices from inside the house -- "No, Barbara moved back to Anaheim, and took the kids with her.  It looks like this might be the end of it..."

Then Andy came out with Ron Howard, the 18-year old actor who played his son Opie on The Andy Griffith Show, and would go on to Happy Days and a career in directing.

"Um...This is the Oliver.  I'm thinking of making him a permanent cast member of The Headmaster.  Oliver, meet Ronnie Howard."

Oliver stood up to shake his hand.  Now this was a casting couch he could support!  Ron was tall and goodlooking, with broad shoulders and an impish smile.

"We were just going into the pool," Oliver said.  "Do you want to join us?"

Ron grinned.  "You're pretty eager, aren't you?"

"Well, it's a hot day."

"Well, I suppose I could use a dip," Ron said, ignoring Andy's "cut it" motions.  He took off his shirt -- not muscular, but solid, with a thick chest and a little hair on his belly.  Then he saw Oliver watching and slowly lowered his pants.

A huge, thick, uncut Kielbasa!

Oliver didn't even wait for an invitation.  He fell to his knees and went down on Ron, squeezing his legs and butt and balls while the instantly-aroused cock slammed against his throat.  He became aroused himself, and started beating off while sucking.

After a few moments, Andy said "Ahem.  Whose party is this?"  Oliver looked up to see Andy beside them, naked, playing with his own cock.

Oliver politely leaned over and went down on him for a few minutes before returning to Ron, who spurted down his throat with a monumental "Yeah!"  Then: "That was outta sight!  You should give up acting and make that your career."

Smiling, Oliver stood and tried to push Ron down on his knees to reciprocate, but he refused:  "We should be polite.  This looks like a job for Super-Andy!"

But Andy was walking into the house.

"Want some of this action?" Oliver called.

He didn't turn back.  "Not my style, boys.  But you go ahead.  Let yourselves out when you're done."

Of course, Oliver didn't get the job -- but The Headmaster folded after half a season anyway. He dated Ron Howard a few times, but seeing a teenager was just too difficult, so he called it quits.  After a few years of making the rounds, being cast as Black Thug #2 a lot, Oliver became an agent and publicist.

West Hollywood, September 1985

"Why didn't you say this was a story about Ron Howard?"  I ask.  "He's the one you actually dated."

"Just goes to show," Oliver says, reaching around his roommate to squeeze me on the shoulder, "That what you came for isn't necessarily what you gonna get."

Was Oliver Telling the Truth?

Andy Griffith was starring in The Headmaster in 1970, and there's an Oliver listed in the cast in two episodes. His wife Barbara would divorce him in 1972.   He played a gay character later in his career, and he joked that he and Don Knotts were so close, "You'd think we were gay."

In September 1970 Ron Howard was 16, not 18, and he seems rather homophobic, peppering his movies with heteronormativity and erasing gay characters.  In 2010 he got in trouble for putting a homophobic joke in The Dilemma.

I can see Andy Griffith having an interest in black men, the "forbidden fruit" to someone who grew up in the segregated South.  But I think Oliver made up Ron Howard to create a parallel with our own situation, on a date with an older guy when a younger, more attractive one wants in.

By the way, nothing happened between me and Oliver.

See also:Looking for Muscles on the Andy Griffith Show

My Top 10 Turn Offs

You already know the characteristics that I find attractive: short, dark, massive, gifted beneath the belt, and so on.

Almost every guy I have been with has had at least two, usually three of the characteristics.

But some characteristics are immediate turn-offs.

One or two might be ok, if you happen to also be a short, dark, muscular, gifted-beneath-the-belt Mormon missionary.

But three or four, and dating is out of the question.

Five or more, and we won't be hooking up, either, and sharing is out of the question, breach of etiquette or not.

Again, this is a matter of personal taste.  If you like these traits and I don't, that doesn't mean that I am bad, wrong, or stupid.    Everyone has different tastes in men, and that's fine. 

1. Tall and thin  Who wants to hug a telephone pole?  Who wants to hug a skeleton?

2. A long, narrow face, especially with a goatee, like a Disney villain.

3. Long, slender fingers/finger rings/tattoos/body art.  

 I hate long, slender, feminine fingers -- "nimble," like Tolkien's hobbits.  And jewerlry in a man is gross, except for dogtags or a pendant around his neck.  None of those plastic bracelets, and especially no rings.

If you ever want to get out of the mood fast, just imagine those long, slender, feminine fingers festooned with gross rings wrapped around your penis.  Instant shrinkage!

Same thing with body art. A small, tasteful tattoo that is easily ignored, ok, but plastering your body with ink like the Illustrated Man?  Your skin is perfectly attractive as it is.

.

4. Outdoors Nut/Sports Nut.  The outdoors is not a place; it's something you travel through to get to places.  You don't eat there, or sit on benches there, or hang out there. Spending time outside for its own sake is just nutty.

There is nothing more boring than listening to who won what game with what strategy in some sports match.

5. Fan of Horrible Music.  This includes country-western music, of course, but also whiny female vocalists, and especially torch songs.

The night is bitter
The stars have lost their glitter
The winds grow colder
And suddenly you're older

Yeah, I'm getting older by the minute, listening to this drivel.

6. Relationships with women/discussions of feminine beauty.   Long, long ago, some men didn't figure it out until after they obeyed the societal mandate to marry women, but not anymore.  If you're under 50, you have no excuse, except you were too scared to come out.

I know, it's possible to appreciate beauty in men and women, regardless of your sexual orientation, but after hearing "That woman is so hot!  There's not a man alive who wouldn't want to be with her!" constantly, hour after hour, day after day, I don't want to hear it from a guy I'm dating.

7. Alcohol, tobacco, or drug use. Raised Nazarene, I can't stand the sight or smell of beer, wine, or liquor. If you drink a beer in the bar occasionally and use mouthwash afterwards, ok, but I won't have it in my house.

Tobacco just smells gross.

And drugs -- who wants to be with a guy who's high?

8. Feminine Traits.  Politically, I'm a strong supporter of your right to be as butch, femme, or androgynous as you want to be. Work the room!  Sashay!  Say "Oh, Mary!" and "Puh-lease, girlfriend!"  But it's not going to get me romantically interested.

9. Elitist.   Rich is ok, celebrity is fine.  Well-read, multilingual, world traveler, no problem.  But don't throw your book-larnin' in my face and ridicule my plebian amusements:

"How can you watch television?  It's so mindless!"
"Science fiction?  All that Buck Rogers stuff?"

Or look down on the Midwest.  "Oh, you're from a dreary Ma and Pa Kettle state!  What did you do for fun, tractor pulls and cow tipping?"

Really, should someone who knows about Ma and Pa Kettle be criticizing me for growing up in Illinois?

10. Sleazoid.  Leering, vulgar language, aggressive cruising, constant double-entendres and dirty jokes.  Leave it in the cruise bar.  For that matter, it's annoying there, too.

See also: My Top 10 Turn-Ons