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

Stranded on the Isle of Dogs, and Other Hassles, Horrors, and Hookups of My First Visit to England

 

Sorry if you love London, or call it home.  I'm not a big fan, in spite of the architectural marvels and fascinating history.  I always get lost.  It's cold.  The streets are all dirty.  Everyone is rude all the time;  I've never seen anyone in London ever smile.  And the food's not great.

In 1993, my partner Lane was a delegate to the World Congress of GLBT Jews, to be held in London.  He invited me along as his guest.

This isn't him.  I have lots of pictures, but no nudes.  But he was (and still is) a husky, hairy bear with nice arms, like this guy.

I had been to France, Spain, Germany, and the Netherlands, and Lane spent a year in Israel, but for some reason neither of us had ever been to Britain.  So we planned lots of sightseeing: The Tower of London, the Sherlock Holmes Museum, Stonehenge, The Rude Man of Cerne Abbas, Canterbury Cathedral.  Not to mention the Gay Village of Soho.

Customs

The problems started the moment I arrived.  At customs I was questioned extensively about my reasons for coming to Britain, who I was staying with, did I know anyone here, and again, why did I come here????  He wouldn't believe that I was a tourist.  No one ever came to Britain as a tourist.  It was a tiny, backwater country with absolutely no sites of historical or artistic interest!  I must be planning something criminal.

I still wonder why he was so suspicious.  Do I have the same name as a terrorist?  Was it my leather jacket?  

The Isle of Dogs

If you were planning a World Congress with delegates from all over the world, most of whom have never been to Britain before, wouldn't you pick a hotel that was centrally located?

Nope: The Royal Britannia Hotel was on the Isle of Dogs, an industrial sleugh on the East End of London, surrounded by the Thames on three sides.  No pubs, no shops, nothing but block after block of dark industrial buildings.  

And no subway.  You could catch a bus into town -- about six miles to the Tower of London -- but it stopped at different places, depending on the whim of the driver, anywhere between six and twelve blocks from the hotel.

So you were standing at a bus stop, and it would drive past you and stop two blocks away.

On Thursday and Friday, while Lane was busy with meetings, I chased after a bus getting into town, visited the Tower, the British Museum, the Sherlock Holmes Museum -- and Clapham Common, because I took the wrong metro and ended up in the far south.  

Saturday was Shabbat, so no meetings were scheduled.  Lane and I returned to London to visit Westminster Abbey, Buckingham Palace, a science fiction bookstore, and  a gay sauna (for a gay conference, there was very little hooking up).  

We missed the last bus, so we had to take a taxi back to the hotel.

On Sunday the buses didn't run, so another taxi into London, where we found almost everything closed, and a taxi back (straining our resources).  

The Gay Jewish Conference

I didn't realize that by signing on as a guest, not a delegate, I was forbidden to go to any of the meetings, or any of the dinners.  

On Thursday night, there was an evening boat tour of the Thames, with box dinner provided.  Except for guests.  I stole one to avoid starving to death.

On Saturday night, they held a dance for conference delegates -- no one else, not even the partners.  I spent the night watching television -- the "Crazy Americans" hour, with four episodes of a tv sitcom that I never heard of (and don't recall the title of; it takes place in an office, but in one episode they're on a life boat for some reason).

On Sunday night they had a dinner -- for delegates only.  I'd have to make do with the hotel restaurant.  Whoops, it was closed on Sundays.  I would have starved to death again, but someone with a car drove into town and brought me (and the other guests) some fish and chips.

Is this any way to run a gay Jewish conference?

At least Lane brought a hookup back from the dance, so I got a little cock action.

It gets better after the break.  Sort of.

The Face of Pure Evil at Denkmann Elementary School

This is the Face of Pure Evil
 

And the House Where Evil Dwells.

When I was a kid, it was painted grey, and that attic window had bars on it.

I lived on 41st Street, the the north side of Denkmann Elementary School  My boyfriend Bill lived two blocks north, by 18th Avenue -- a busy street that I was not allowed to cross.

To the east was Darry's house (we hadn't met yet), and eventually  Country Style Ice Cream.

To the south was Dewey's Candy Store, Gary's house, and  eventually the Nazarene Church.

To the west was Schneider's Drug Store, where you could buy comic books. 

But we never took the direct route to Schneider's.  We walked all the way up to 18th Avenue and around to the back, to avoid The Maniac and his house.

There were lots of Mean Boys at Denkmann who would steal your lunch money, call you names, or pound you for infractions of the rules of grade school behavior. Like Dick, who hung out by Dewey's Candy Store and pounded you for being a "girl."  Or Mark, who hung out by the south door, and challenged smaller boys to fight him.  But The Maniac was by far the worst.

Most bullies choose one or two victims to torment; everyone else is safe.  But the Maniac was indiscriminate, targeting everyone except girls and bigger boys.  He interpreted the most innocent statement or gesture, even standing too close to him, even looking at him, as an insult that must be redressed: "Now we have to fight!"

If you refused, he attacked on the spot, or if you were inside the school, ambushed you on the way home.

If you agreed to fight, you met your doom later, on the west side of the school yard, a desolate space of dead trees and yellow grass across the street from his house.

Snarling like a rabid dog, The Maniac punched and kicked you everywhere, in the face, the chest, the belly, the balls.  When you collapsed, bloody and sobbing, he poured dirt on you, spat in your face, and moved on.

When you tried to tell teachers, they simply said "No one likes a tattle-tale."

When you tried to tell parents, they  simply said "You have to learn to fight your own battles."

The only escape was to avoid the Maniac: don't sit near him in the cafeteria, don't stand near him at recess, run home as fast as you could after school, and at all costs stay away from the House of Evil.  Don't go anywhere near 40th Street.

But one day during the summer after third grade,  I was stupid.  Mom asked me to return a cake-decorating kit that she borrowed from the Old Lady Schoolteachers for some PTA event.  They lived on 40th Street, two houses south of the House of Evil.

 

I should have walked all the way around Denkmann School, but it was hot, Cartoon Showboat was coming on soon, and besides, the Maniac might not even be home.  So I cut diagonally across the parking lot and the schoolyard and came to 40th Street exactly parallel to the Old Lady Schoolteachers' house.

(Model is over 18).

I peered at the House of Evil -- it looked deserted -- took a deep breath, and crossed the street.  I was in the yard -- almost up to the screen porch.  Almost safe.

"Hey, Fairy!"

More after the break

Oliver!, the Boy with Soft Hands, and "Cocks, Glorious Cocks"

 

When I was growing up in Rock Island, Huey (not his real name) was one of my brother Kenny's friends.  Short, brown-skinned, a rarity among the pale Swedes and Germans of Rock Island, chubby, with black hair and soft black eyes, soft all over.  I especially remember his square soft hands with stubby fingers.

My brother was 2 1/2 years younger than me, and three grades below (so in 9th grade when I was in 12th).  His best friend was Todd, a sports nut with sandy brown hair and blue eyes.

Huey was in a grade below them, so three or four years younger than me, a kid who they tolerated because he was funny.

He told knock-knock jokes.

While eating orange sherbet, he stuck out his tongue to demonstrate that it had turned orange.

He made his belly talk, long before Jerry Seinfeld did it.

On cool autumn afternoons they played baseball in the school yard, and then burst into the house for snacks and sodas, sweating, laughing, gossiping.

At least once, maybe more, Huey exclaimed "Feel how cold I am!", and lifted my shirt to press an icy hand against my belly.  I jumped back, and he laughed. 

Once I tried to retaliate by tickling him.  He grabbed my hands with his hands, and we did a sort of struggling dance.   Suddenly we were rolling on the living room floor.  But the dog started barking, thinking that I was being attacked, so we had to stop.

I remember them pretending to do kung fu moves. Huey was shirtless, his belly bouncing as he jumped around yelling "Hai-ya!"   It must have been during a sleepover, but I don't remember the rest.

One spring when Kenny was in high school but Huey was still at Washington Junior High, the whole family went to see him in Oliver!  He was in the chorus of orphanage boys.  During "Food, Glorious Food," his comedic mugs and pratfalls stole the show.

Food, glorious food!  Hot sausage and mustard!

While we're in the mood, cold jelly and custard!

Peas, pudding and saveloys!

What next is the question?

Rich gentlemen have it,  boys:  Indigestion!

The whole family went to see Kenny's friend, who was just in the chorus, not even one of the stars? Why?

Was he closer to Kenny than I thought?

More after the break.  Caution: Explicit

Christmas on the Square: Be thankful that you haven't seen this movie. With Josh Serrano, Treat Williams, and random nude dudes

Brax Alexander is promoting his 2020 movie, Christmas on the Square.  Usually I stay away from Christmas romcoms that preach how wonderfully fulfilling small towns are, as opposed to those soulless, heartless monstrosities, big cities, because I grew up in a small town.  My parents rhapsodized, almost daily, about my destiny: find The Girl of My Dreams,  get married, go to work in the factory, buy a house, have kids, die.  There were no other options.  

There was no such thing as same-sex desire or romance.  You spent time with boys in order to talk about girls or strategize on how to get girls.  When you found Her, you would abandon male loves, instantly and without hesitation.  They were trivial, steps on the road to the Girl of Your Dreams destiny.

I kept looking for a place where I could escape, where I could go through an entire day without the "What girl?  What girl? What girl?" interrogation.  Where people cared about beauty, wisdom, and love, not just reproduction.  Maybe even recognized the existence of men loving men. 

After college, I lived in West Hollywood, New York, Fort Lauderdale, and Minneapolis: Bookstores, art museums, cathedrals, Ethiopian restaurants, Thai restaurants, stores with rainbow flags in the windows, guys holding hands as they walked down the street: heaven.    

Oh, sorry, you wanted me to review the movie.  

Christmas on the Square was written by gay icon Dolly Parton, and stars gay icon Christine Baranski, plus Josh Segarra (top photo and left), who has played gay characters several time (he even played RuPaul's boyfriend). Furthermore, Dolly promotes the movie in an interview in Pink News, the gay magazine.  Surely this is a gay-positive Christmas romcom.  So here goes:

Scene 1:  A sound-stage town square in the town of Prairie View, with folks making merry.  Some very hot guys rush past, doing a high-step dance number -- but they ruin it by double-taking, en masse, at the hot girl who walks by.  At the end of their dance, they pair off, each guy with a girl.  Yuck!  This is the same brainwashing  I grew up with: "Every boy will fall in love with a girl!  There's no way out, no escape!  You are doomed!" 

A car drives past, with the evil, sunglasses-wearing Christine Baranski.  She sings: "Forget the past, be free at last, gotta get out of this town."  I like her -- she's the voice of thousands of LGBT people growing up in homophobic small towns, longing for a place where they can be free.  Of course, she's the villain. 

Amid the dancing, frolicking characters, the white-haired guy who runs the general store, no doubt Christine's Love Interest (played by Treat Williams, left) sings that "lovers walk in pairs." We only see male-female lovers.

 Focus character Felicity drives up and greets the stereotyped 1950s mailman.  She's the assistant of evil Christine Baranski, who continues to sing: "I know in time I'll lose my mind, if I don't get out of this town."  I had the same thought many times, back in Rock Island amid the "what girl do you like? what girl? what girl? what girl?" interrogation!

I'm getting angry.  They should have a trigger warning for all LGBT people who get trapped into viewing this thing.  I won't last much longer.

Left: Treat Williams' butt.

Christine passes out eviction notices.  She's going to tear down the whole town.  Good! 

 

More nude dudes after the break, if you dare to continue. Caution: Explicit.

Big Boys: A gay university freshman tries to make friends, get laid, and find his tribe. With a lot of Dylan d*cks

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My Date with Michael J. Fox. Plus Marcus and the Scary Bulgarian Bodybuilder.

Friday, July 5th:  Two days after I arrive in West Hollywood, after my terrible year in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas, I am sitting in the human resources department at Paramount Studios, waiting to interview for a job as an administrative assistant, when Marcus comes in to drop something off.  He's my age, African-American, with very light skin, freckles, and a hairy chest.  I get his phone number.

You're probably wondering how I got a job interview two days after arriving, when one of those days was a federal holiday.  I had been applying for jobs for weeks, using my friend Tom's address and telephone number.

Saturday, July 6th: Our date, an inside tour of Paramount Studios (yes, we saw more stuff), followed by cruising at the Gold Coast and dinner at the French Quarter in West Hollywood.  He came to Los Angeles to become an actor five years ago, and has had some guest spots in tv shows and movies.

"Do you know anyone famous?" I ask with tourist zeal.

"Nobody really famous.  I mean, some guys on tv.  Robin Williams.  Tom Hulce.  I know Michael J. Fox from acting class."

I'm not impressed.  I've barely heard of Michael J. Fox -- he plays Alex P. Keaton, Reagan-loving son of liberal hippie parents on the sitcom Family Ties (1982-1989),  But I've only seen the show a few times.

Back to the Future, which will propel Michael to fame, premiered on July 3rd, but I haven't heard of it.

Marcus is a good kisser, with a nice physique and a respectable size.  But he likes nude wrestling: I have to pin him before I can go down on him.  Then he doesn't reciprocate, he just grabs me, puts me in sort of a headlock, and falls asleep.  Not my idea of a romantic evening!  

So no more dating.  But we stay friends (that's actually how we made friends in West Hollywood).

Wednesday, July 10th: I start working at Muscle and Fitness, two days a week as a "contributing editor," aka gopher.  '

Wednesday, July 17th: I meet Ivo, a stringer for the magazine, about 30 years old, a Bulgarian bodybuilder, with short brown hair, a boyish open face, massive shoulders, and slates for abs.

Saturday, July 20th: My first date with Ivo.  I'm curious about Back to the Future, the new time travel comedy starring Michael J. Fox.

"No way, man!" Ivo exclaims.  "That Mike Fox thinks he's a big deal, but he's terrible in bed.  They should call him Princess Teeny-Tiny!"

Weird coincidence!  I think.  I've been in town less than a month, and already I've met two people who know Michael J. Fox, and one of them is his ex-lover!

But Ivo is apparently better in bed -- very passionate, a top but open to doing interfemoral instead of anal -- kissing during interfemoral is a new one for me.  And open to oral -- twice before the night turns to morning, and again before breakfast.  

Sunday, July 21st: I have brunch at the French Quarter with Marcus, and tell him about my date with Ivo.

"Strange," he says.  "I'm completely out to Mike, and he's never said anything about being gay.  Sounds like Ivo is one of these celebrity name-droppers who claims to have been with everyone from Harrison Ford to Arnold Schwarzeneggar."

"But he wasn't bragging.  He got upset.  He said Michael was bad in bed and should be called Princess Teeny-Tiny."

Marcus laughs.  "Well, I don't have any information on Mike beneath the belt.  But tell you what -- he's in London right now.  When he gets back, we'll all get together, and you can ask him yourself."

Ask Michael J. Fox about his size?  I don't think so!  But it would be fun to meet him.

I date Ivo three or four more times, but his stories become more and more bizarre.

His father was the Bulgarian ambassador; he used to hang out at the White House.  

He has a degree in economics from Harvard, but turned down a professorship because he wanted to be a writer. When he returned to Bulgaria to help his cousin, he was arrested and imprisoned for six months. He has a book on his experiences coming out next year.  

Paramount is producing his screenplay about a college student who discovers that he is half-alien.  Scott Baio will be the star. They dated for awhile.

Saturday, August 3rd: Marcus and I see Back to the Future.  I'm not impressed with the heteronormative plotline.  But, he says, Michael is back in town.  Could we have lunch next Saturday?

Monday, August 5th: Ivo has me over for dinner.  While he is chopping celery, I tell him about the lunch.  He freezes, and his face turns bright red.  "Can't you ever talk about anything but Michael J. Fox?  Day after day, hour after hour, nothing but Michael J. Fox!  And now you have a date with him!"

I try to remember when I last mentioned him. "No, no, it's just a lunch.  Marcus is coming, too."

"Bah!  If you love him so much, why don't you move in with him?"

"It's just..."

"F** Mike Fox, always stealing everybody's lovers!  Well, let me tell you what happened to the last guy Mike Fox stole from me -- I cut him good!"  He stabs the air with his knife.

I am shocked -- and terrified.  Ivo is twice as strong as me, and carrying a weapon. "Fox sounds like a real jerk!" I tell him.  "I'm definitely cancelling that lunch!  Um...you know what?  I forgot to bring in the dessert -- there's a peach pie in the car.   I'll just go get it." 

 I clatter out the door and down the stairs.  

Wednesday, August 7th: He comes into the editorial office at Muscle and Fitness to drop off a story, and pretends not to know me.

Saturday, August 10th: The promised lunch with Marcus and Michael.

Marcus picks me up and drives me to a small, bare-brick cafe on Melrose.  We are just ordering drinks when Michael comes in, wearing a white shirt, buttoned down to reveal a soft smooth chest, tight bulging jeans, and sunglasses.

He's my age, short, slim, androgynous  The feminine teen idol type.

He hugs Marcus and reaches out to shake my hand, then says "What the hell" and hugs me, too.

I feel a definite bulge pressing against me.


"So, are you guys together?" Michael asks as he scans the menu.

"No," Marcus says.  "We dated once, but you know some guys can't handle ten inches."

"They just need a little practice, like that one night after acting class."  He nudges Marcus affectionately.

What night?  Did Marcus and Michael hook up?  Michael is either gay or amazingly gay-positive!

"So..I was dating another guy who claimed to know you," I say.  "Ivo the Bulgarian bodybuilder."

Michael frowns. "Doesn't ring a bell.  But you know how it is, you get a tv show, and suddenly every guy you have ever said hello to claims to be your bosom buddy."

"Or your ex-lover," Marcus adds.  But if he was making it up, why did he get so upset?

More after the break

Arabic and Class Rings: Cruising at West Point during my junior year in high school

It's the beginning of my junior year in high school, time to register for the ACT and the SAT, the college entrance exams.  But my parents are vehemently opposed to the idea of college.

They can't afford it.

It's unnecessary -- I'm already smart enough to go to work in the factory.

It's un-Christian, full of Catholics and atheists.

But I've been insistent, littering the house with catalogs and brochures, and finally Dad gives in:  "Ok, you can go to college, as long as it's Olivet.  Or West Point."

A dull, Sunday school-like Bible  college on the prarie or the U.S. Military Academy?  "I understand why you want me to go to Olivet," I tell him, "But why West Point?"

"I'll tell you why: full tuition, room and board, plus a stipend.  All you have to do is sign up for five years of active duty afterwards."

"Five years in the Army!  That sounds awful!"

Dad's eyes narrow.  "I was in the Navy for four years.  It was the best time of my life.  A real man's world.  You don't know what real friends are until you've fought side by side."

"Um...a man's world?  Real friends?"  I imagine sitting in class surrounded by hunky collegiate athletes, the cream of the crop, the most muscular in America, stripping down next to them in the locker room, sleeping beside them in the dorms...  "But...um... I'm not big on military science.  I want to major in Arabic."

"They have Arabic," Dad says, leafing through the catalog.  "And Chinese.  You can major in both, if you're that into languages.  Plus, it's only an hour from Manhattan.  You like all that Broadway musical stuff, right?"

Arabic, Broadway musicals, and army hunks?  It wouldn't hurt to apply....

The application process begins during your junior year, with the SAT, a medical exam, and a physical fitness test: push-ups, pull-ups, sit-ups, a 400-yard dash, a mile run, and a basketball throw (you don't actually have to make a basket).

In April, I receive a letter stating that I've passed the first set of requirements.  Now I have to get a nomination from my Senator, Representative, or the President of the United States.

No problem: I already know Tom Railsback,  the representative from the 19th district for as long as I can remember.  He is a local boy, and a counterculture hero, having drafted the articles of impeachment against President Richard Nixon.

He says that there are four guys in the 19th district asking to be nominated, the most in a decade.

Just to be on the safe side, I approach our senator, Charles H. Percy, too, even though he's a Republican and I'm a staunch Democrat.

In June, my acceptance into the official applicant pool arrives.  Now I have to fill out some more forms, submit some letters attesting to my moral character, get a psychological evaluation, and come in for an interview.

 "More hoops to jump through, just to join the army!" I complain.  "You know, Olivet offered me a scholarship, and I'll bet I could get one at Augustana, too."

"Do they offer Arabic?" Dad asks. 

I keep silent and continue the application process.

The psychological evaluation is  administered by the school counselor: MMPI, with several questions designed to weed out the gay prospects, some blatant ("I am attracted to members of my own sex") and some keying into gay stereotypes ("I am closer to my mother than to my father.").

This actually comes as a relief.  I have not yet figured "it" out, and I am immersed in the homophobic Evangelical subculture.  I am literally afraid of gay men. If a feminine guy appears on tv, I leave the room..  No way could I go to any college that allows gays in!

Admissions interviews are being held in Chicago and Des Moines. but Dad insists that we go to West Point itself, so I can see how great it is.

In July, we leave Mom and my brother and sister visiting our family in Indiana, and drive out with my Uncle Paul: twelve hours on the highway, a very long trip even with the three of us sharing the driving.  Then a day at West Point, and another very long day driving back.

The campus is very beautiful, stately Gothic architecture on a bluff overlooking the Hudson River.  Some of the buildings date from the Revolutionary Era.

 But soon I notice some problems:

Arabic is no longer offered as a major.  You can take two years of classes while you major in something else.

More after the break.  Caution: explicit

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