A high school boy gives me his underwear

When I was growing up, we visited my parents' home town in northeastern Indiana about twice a year, at Christmastime and during the summer.  My favorite part of the visit was when Grandma announced "Let's go to Fort Wayne!"

When we were very little, Mom and Dad came, too, and when we were older, my baby sister came with us, but for about five yeares it it was just Kenny and me, fighting over who would get to ride "shotgun" in Grandma's brown Chevy Impala as she drove down country roads through Butler Center and Laotto and Huntertown, and finally  Fort Wayne:

The biggest, brightest, most exciting city in the world.

It was unimaginably huge, bigger than Rock Island, Moline, and Davenport put together, and it had the most fascinating places I had ever seen.  There was always something new: a gigantic County Courthouse; a candy factory much nicer than that scary one in the Willy Wonka movie; a Children's Zoo with its own train; an art museum; the history museum at Old City Hall; Kern's Toy Store; a memorial to Johnny Appleseed.

Somehow Grandma always knew where there were a lot of cute boys:  playing basketball in schoolyards, crowded into booths at the soda shop, building snowmen at Lakeside Park,  running around in groups at street fairs.  Sometimes she let us play with them, while she sat on a bench, reading a magazine.

We usually stopped for lunch at the Famous Coney Island on Main Street: hot dogs with chili, cheese, and onions, and steamed buns.   Plus french fries, onion rings, and root beer floats (vanilla ice cream floating in a gigantic mug of root beer).

And a never-ending supply of cute high school boys in white shirts, black pants, and black bow ties who brought out your orders.

On a cold day just before Christmas in fourth grade, we were having lunch at the Coney Island, and my brother and I were rough-housing, stealing fries off each other's plates, shoving each other, and laughing.  Grandma Davis told us to settle down, so I stopped and picked up my root beer float.

Then Kenny shoved me again.  I dropped the heavy mug onto my chest, drenching my shirt with root beer.  More root beer splashed onto my pants, and the clump of melting ice cream fell right onto my lap.

Gross!  Cold and wet!  I pushed it onto the floor.

Kenny laughed and pointed.  "You peed your pants!"  

"Oh, no, you're soaked!" Grandma Davis exclaimed.  She grabbed some napkins and tried to dab me, but the root beer and ice cream had already soaked in.  "You can't ride all the way back to Garrett like this -- it's freezing out!"

A high school boy came running up: short, compact, muscular, with brown hippie-hair and a bright smile.  He was carrying a little pad and pencil.  I don't remember his name, if I ever knew it, so I'll call him Jim.

"Don't worry, Ma'am, I'll take care of your grandson," he said.  "Come on, champ, let's get you cleaned up."

 He took me by the hand and led me past the staring patrons to a little door marked "Employees Only."  Inside it looked like a kitchen, with tables and chairs and a little refrigerator.  There was a bank of lockers on on side, and a rack with a lot of coats hung up on it.

More after the break

My 24 favorite autobiographical stories: gay hints, sausage sightings, a wiener, a goblin, the Pentecostal Porn Star, and Kevin the Vampire

 I've posted dozens of more-or-less accurate autobiographical stories here and on Tales of West Hollywood, moving from my fundamentalist Nazarene childhood through high school, figuring it out, college, grad school at Indiana University, a horrible year in...ugh...Texas, and on to the heart of the Gay World.  Some of the stories are minimal -- I was trying to cover every gay hint, boyfriend, hookup, and sausage sighting  -- but some are well-written, insightful, humorous, and occasionally erotic.  Here are my 24 favorites.

Childhood

I Fall Asleep in a Sailor's Arms.  On the train on the way back from visiting South Carolina.  He warns me about making friends with "sissies."

The Face of Pure Evil.  The Old Lady Schoolteachers' grandson, who may not have looked like this, rescues me from the Maniac who stalks the hallways of Denkmann Elementary School.

The Answer to the Naked Man's Question. A psychedelic Alice in Wonderland on tv on a golden afternoon, and a naked man who asks a question that I still can't answer. 

Comic Books and Cocks at the Furniture Store. Cousin Buster pranks me by claiming that you can get comic books at the furniture store -- and the delivery guys take off their shirts.  And sometimes their pants.

Grandpa Prater's Banjo  On the day after Christmas, Cousin Buster and I sneak into Grandpa Prater's room to borrow his banjo.

My Wild Night: Pancakes, Massage, and a Wiener.  I broke like six of my parents' rules that night, and was grounded for two weeks.  But at least I got to feel a...

High School

On My Knees in a Cute Guy's Bedroom.  When we went on vacation, we had to go to a local church, where they mistook us for sinners and tried inept soul-winning lines.  But once it worked to my advantage: A cute boy invited me to his bedroom "to pray."

The Preacher Pops a Boner.  Our Bible College invited prospective students to a weekend of campus tours, ball games, nature hikes, classroom visits -- and the boys' dorm lounge, where the only couch invisible to the monitor got quite busy.

Augustana College

The First Gay Rights March in Iowa. Passersby pull their friends out of stores to gawk.  The police watch closely, eager to arrest us if we happen to touch another marcher's hand

I Cheat on My Boyfriend with a Goblin.  The Goblin's name is Dale Schafer-Shit.  But Fred was cheating with him first.  Every friggin' day.

Sharing a Bed with Mary's Brother.  My friend Mary invites me to her horrible house in the suburbs for spring break.  But at least I get to share a bed with a cute bo.

More after the break

Comic Books and Cocks at the Furniture Store. With bonus Desi guys

 When I was a kid, we drove to northeastern Indiana to visit my parents' relatives at least twice a year.  I loved it: haunted houses, hidden rooms, long-ago ghosts, endless fields and country roads, magic, glamour, the rough cold beauty of my uncles going hunting, the sleek shivering beauty of my cousins in the swimming pool, the delight of cuddling against Cousin Buster as we fell asleep in his narrow bed in the Trailer in the Dark Woods.  A sense of almost mystical belonging.

But as I grew, the sense of belonging faded away.  I began to find the visits boring or uncomfortable,  the world of northeastern Indiana more and more alien.

It wasn't just that I couldn't go home again.  What really hurt was, I didn't want to go back.

All tied up with that world was Harvey Comics  -- the ghosts, witches, devils, and other paranormal beings in the bucolic Arcadia of the Enchanted Forest.

You couldn't get them in Rock Island.  I had only the few that my Indiana relatives gave me, and memories of reading as many as possible in Cousin Buster's room while spending the night.

It never occurred to me for an instant that the stories were supposed to be funny.  I found them deadly serious.  Casper, Spooky, Wendy, and Hot Stuff fight space aliens, mad scientists, evil wizards, save their friends or the whole world countless times.

But really, the stories were irrelevant: it was the comics themselves, the physical books that I could hold in my hands and remember what Indiana used to mean.

One day when I was about ten years old, I asked Cousin Buster where he got his collection of Harvey Comics.  Were there stores with huge racks of them on open display?

"I get them at the Walgreens."

"We have Schneider's Drug Store in Rock Island, but all it has are Gold Key and superheroes.  Anyplace else?"

"Whenever I go to a movie, I check the comic books at Manuel's Newsstand next door."  

"No newsstands in Rock Island.  Where else?"

He thought for a moment, and then said "The furniture store."

"Furniture? Like davenports and dining room tables and junk?" 

"They have comic books, too."

It didn't seem logical, but Cousin Buster was two years older than me, and not a Nazarene, so he knew about all sorts of "worldly" things that I was kept from.  

"When I was a little kid, I didn't know that you could actually buy furniture," I told him.  "I thought it came with the house.  How could a store be big enough to display it?  What car could big enough to carry it home?"

"It comes in a big truck."

I started to fume.  Of course I knew that now.  Did he think I was a baby?

"And the guys who unload it -- they take their shirts off," he said in a low conspiratorial voice.

I was shocked.  Where did Cousin Buster get the idea that I liked looking at guys with their shirts off?  Only my boyfriend Bill knew about that.  It was shameful, a sissy thing, just for girls.    

I had to deflect, restore my masculinity.   Maybe with wieners?  Everybody liked looking at them.  Cousin Buster and I once climbed up into the loft in the barn to peek down at my uncle as he "cleaned his gun." 

"Do they take their pants off," I asked, "So you can see their wieners?"

He shrugged.  "Sometimes, if they're big enough."

So I could get Harvey comic books and see some wieners at the same time?

But how to convince Mom and Dad to take me to a furniture store? I couldn't say that I wanted to buy comic books there.  Or see naked men.

I had to talk them into buying a piece of furniture.

A new bed!

"I'm getting too big to sleep in the same bed with Kenny," I told them.  "I have a later bedtime, so every time I go to bed, I wake him up.  And he kicks!"

"Maybe you're right," Mom said.  "Boys your age shouldn't sleep together.  We'll go pick out two twin beds for you on Saturday."

Uh-oh.  Mom and Dad never took us shopping, except to buy new school clothes every August.  They left us with the neighbors, or one went shopping and the other stayed home.  But I had to actually go to the furniture store to get my comics and see the naked men!

"No!  We want to pick them out!  Me and Kenny.  To see..um....if they're cool enough."



I spent the week imagining the furniture store, with its racks of Harvey Comics, Casper, Spooky, Hot Stuff, Ghostland, Devil Kids, Witch World, an endless array of intriguing, brightly-colored covers and evocative stories.

I didn't spend any of my 25 cent allowance all week, and there'd be another 25 cents on Saturday morning.  Plus I found a dime on the floor, and I borrowed 50 cents from Bill for a total of $1.10.  I'd be broke for nearly a month, but I could buy 9 comic books!

On Saturday after breakfast we drove to a place called Carson Piri Scott, in Moline.  I remembered their ads on tv.  It was huge warehouse like structure with entire living rooms set up, like a hundred houses all crammed together.

"The beds are on the second floor," Mom said, steering us toward the escalator.

"Wait -- um...." Where were the comic books? The huge display case must be against an outer wall.  "Um....I have to go to the bathroom."

"Ok.  Do you want Dad to take you?"

"No, I see where it is.  I'll be up in a minute."

More after the break

The Answer to the Naked Man's Question

 

Today summer lasts for 12 weeks; I can see its beginning and end.  But when I was nine years old, lasted for months or years, or never ended: somewhere it's still that childhood summer, an endless succession of days, all bright green and dazzling.  

A week in Indiana, visiting my parents' family.

A week camping in Minnesota and Canada.  

Nazarene summer camp.  

Swimming lessons at Longview Park Pool.

The bookmobile every Tuesday. 

The Denkmann School Carnival.

  

Malts at Country Style. 

Vacation Bible School

Gold Key comic books at Schneider's Drug Store.

Dark Shadows.  H.R. Pufnstuf.  Tarzan Theater.

Posters of teen idols.

And the Naked Man's Question:

 All on a golden afternoon, probably a Saturday in July, in my Grandma's farmhouse in northern Indiana.  It's a big house, white frame.  The living room is pink, with flowered wall paper and thick drapes.

My brother and I are alone.  I don't remember why.  Maybe Mom and Dad have gone off somewhere, on an expedition of their own, leaving Grandma Davis to babysit, and she has stepped out.

We have just come in from something or other -- puttering around in the apple orchard, playing fetch with the dogs next door, exploring the old barn where Grandpa used to milk cows.  We kick off our shoes at the door.  

Maybe we're going to head up to our room which happens to be Dad's old room, with his pictures and schoolbooks and baseball glove), or up to the attic to sort through the bundles of old magazines in search of comic books.

I stop in front of the tv set, a big piece of furniture, wood-brown, with curved pillars on the sides.  There's an empty candy dish and a photo of my Cousin Phil on top. 

At our house the tv is almost always on, whether anyone is watchng or not, a stable, comforting background noise.  But Grandma keeps it off unless someone wants to watch a specific program.  It seems unnatural, wrong somehow.

I reach down and turn it on.

Kenny asks "What do you want to watch?"

I shrug. "I don't know.  Maybe Tarzan Theater."  On Saturday afternoons in Rock Island, when there isn't a game on, you can see old Tarzan and Bomba the Jungle Boy movies.

The black and white screen flickers, and then pops on.  A game.

I turn it to the next channel.  Some people talking.

"Find some cartoons," Kenny suggests.

There are only three channels, so only three choices.  I turn to the third.

A naked man.

In my memory he's naked, although he was probably wearing a leotard.  Shirtless, though, with taut hard pecs and very thick hard biceps.

You never saw naked or even shirtless men on tv in those days, except in Tarzan movies, so I stand dumbstruck, frozen in place, realizing that I will remember this moment forever.

"What's this?" Kenny asks.

The naked man twirls and high-steps, bulging his bare calves, across a bare stage to a young blond woman.  Then, dancing a sort of tap dance, he asks "Who....are...youuuuuu?"

She starts a tap dance of her own, dances in front of him, and says "I....don't...know. Who...are...youuuuu?"

He stops dancing and glowers at her, his eyes dark, and replies.  "I am the Magic Mushroom."

At that moment, Grandma appears at the window leading to the kitchen.  "There's nothing for kids on now," she says. "Turn the tv off."

"Wait...I..."  I begin.   But Kenny obligingly turns it off.  

"Now who wants to help me bake a pie for dinner tonight?"

All in a golden afternoon.

More after the break

Dane's Polar Plunge: A 365 day Lake Tahoe Challenge. With Scott Gaffney, Danish dicks, and nude guys at Notre Dame

 

I don't usually do profiles of non-actors, but this is amazing.  His name is Dane, he's a student at North Tahoe High School, and he's jumping into Lake Tahoe every day for a year.   Even on Day 190: Water temperature 39.3, air temperature 32.  That's Fahrenheit. 

 

Day 173: Gray, cloudy. Water temperature 37.3, air 33.0.  Dane walked through the snow-- barefoot! -- toward his icy plunge.

On Day 184, he brought his Dad, professional skiier Scott Gaffney Water temperature 48.5, air 55.

On Day 120, he brought the North Tahoe High School Varsity Basketball Team -- at least the ones brave enough to try. Water temperature 39 degrees, air with wind chill 19.  

The Wildflour Baking Company in Tahoe donated some donuts.  How about space heaters?

I can't imagine being interested in the aesthetics of the penis after all that icy plunging, but here are some guys running naked through the snow.

More after the break.  Caution: Icy.