Cruising in the Navajo Nation

Window Rock, Arizona

I grew up around Native Americans, at the annual pow wow and through visiting relatives (my Cousin Joe is half Potawatomie).  But I was never with a Native American guy, through all my years in college and in West Hollywood, except for the Inuit that Lane and I hooked up with.

When I visited my friend  Larry in New Mexico, I was determined to find a Native American guy.

Cruising in Santa Fe proved fruitless -- well, I brought home a cute college boy, but he was Anglo.

Albuquerque, Tucumcari, Roswell, Alamogordo, the same.  Lots of Hispanic guys, but not a lot of Native Americans.

So I decided to go to the heartland -- the Navajo Nation.

Semi-autonomous, 27,000 miles in parts of New Mexico, Arizona, and Utah, population 300,000, of whom 170,000 speak the Navajo language.  Capital Window Rock, Arizona, population 2,700.

I got a hotel room at the Quality Inn in Window Rock and set out.

Then I realized that I had no idea how to go about it.

I had been planning on cruising in straight bars, but there weren't any in Window Rock.

Not a lot of street cruising, either.  No one on the streets.  People drove cars and trucks.

There was a string of fast-food restaurants, but I didn't think much cruising went on at McDonald's and Church's Chicken.

The Window Rock itself was a very scenic natural formation, and the Navajo National Museum was interesting, but....Navajo men?

I found a locally-owned Mexican restaurant, but when I went inside, all eyes turned toward me with hostile stares.

In desperation, I asked at the front desk what "activities" there were around.  I got a list of dull things like camping, hunting, fishing, the Navajo Nation Zoo, and buying arts and crafts.

Was I being too blatant?  Or too desperate?

I spent the evening in online chatrooms.

Nothing.

In the morning I went jogging, early, before the sun got too hot.  I passed a group of high schoolers on the jogging trail.

In three hours I would be leaving for the airport.  And Indian country would be gone forever.

Suddenly I saw a man jogging by himself.   In his 20s, tanned, hairy chest.  

Good enough. I caught up to him and poured on the erotic energy.  "Hot one today, isn't it?" I began, an inane but effective way to start a conversation.

Instead of the usual hostile stare, he smiled.

His name was Ricky, and he worked in human services.  I spent four years in human resources, so we talked a bit about the problems of personnel.  Then about the problems of meeting people in the Navajo Nation.

"It's all close-knit family groups.  You don't get to be friends unless your great-grandparents knew each other.  And dating -- forget it -- drive down to Albuquerque."

"So -- you don't have a girlfriend or boyfriend at home?" I asked.

"Just me and my cat."

"I love cats!" I exclaimed,  pretending to be excited.

He glanced over and smiled.  "You want to drop by and meet her?"

You know what followed.  Briefly petting the cat, followed by a shower and a bedroom.  Nice physique, average beneath the belt gifts.

 Then Ricky drove me back to my hotel, so I could check out and drive to the airport.

A nice, unexpected hookup.  With only one problem.  Ricky was Anglo, too.

See also: Kyle Hawk: Gay or gay-ally wrestler, with a nude Native American bonus

Why Not Pick Up Russian?

Los Angeles, October 1988

I remember every class I took as an undergraduate at Augustana College (1978-1982), from Fiction Writing, which convinced me not to become a novelist, to Paleontology, taught by the professor with the handcuff parties, to Culture and Civilization of Modern Germany, with the professor who kept denying that modern Germany suffered from "the problem" of  Homosexualitat.

 I remember most of my classes at Indiana University (1982-1984), from Victorian Literature, with the professor who kept giggling "this author was a homosexual!", to Restoration Literature, where Viju and I tried to determine if our professor was gay.

But I remember almost nothing from the University of Southern California, where I was working on a doctorate in Comparative Literature (1985-1989).  Maybe because I was busy with Raul and my bed-switching roommate, cruising Richard Dreyfuss, and bankrupting the porn industry.

Or maybe because I hated everything about it.

Except for the cute fratboys, the statue of Tommy Trojan, and the reading room in the Philosophy Library.

1. The professors were very rich and very elitist, driving Porsches, reading The New Yorker (in Los Angeles), talking about their summer homes in Cabo.  One invited us to her house for pizza, and I thought "Finally, someone with regular tastes!"  Turned out to be goat cheese and arugula pizza.

2. The professors thought that they knew everything.  Unfortunately, what they knew was contradictory. One insisted that that all quotes in academic papers must be in the original language only, and another, that they be accompanied by English translations -- not a problem until they're both on your dissertation committee, ordering you to take the translations out and then put them in again.

3. They thought that graduate students were their personal servants.  One told me to go get him coffee.  Another wanted me to pick up his dry cleaning.

4. They were homophobic, insisting that I omit any reference to gay people from all of my papers.

5. They were insane. One went into a 5-minute tirade, loaded with personal invectives, whenever we said or wrote "the Renaissance mind."  We tried hard to avoid it, but it's such a common expression that occasionally someone goofed, and we had to listen to the tirade again.

6. Did I mention that they were insane?  My degree required a reading knowledge of French, German, and Italian, but my dissertation committee added "an ancient language."

So I spent a year cramming Latin.

Then when I changed my dissertation field from the Renaissance to the Symbolist Movement, the committee chair, Dr. Lazar, said "Oh, you should pick up another modern language.  How about Russian?"

"I don't think it's possible to pick up Russian in six weeks," I said.  "How about if I pick up a Russian instead?"

They stared, not comprehending.

"It's a joke.  Picking up a Russian...."

They stared.

"See, the phrase 'pick up' refers to meeting a stranger for an erotic encounter, so I said pick up a Russian...."

They stared.

I sighed.  "What about Turkish?"

Nude Photos of Pontius Gemstone

  

In Episode 3.4 of The Righteous Gemstones, Jesse Gemstone walks through the house brushing his teeth, and stumbles across his son Pontius having sex with his girlfriend -- in a downstairs study?  With the window wide open?  I see Pontius has inherited the Gemstone cluelessness. 

Pontius was rejected by every college he applied to, so he must be a high school graduate, therefore 18.  But I was still hesitant about posting a shot of his bare butt, since Kelton DuMont (Pontius) has not revealed his age online. Could he have been under 18 when the scene was filmed?

The full post is on Righteous Gemstones Beefcake and Boyfriends