This is the most recently completed story. In chronological order, it would be the twelfth of the nineteenth finished so far.
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Driving to the Great Smokies to Get Naked (March 1971)
The two-room apartment was spare but homey. It was actually half of a small house. The other half had a separate kitchen. Mine had a front room and a back room and a bathroom. The front room was the "living" room, the back was the bedroom and kitchen. And the bed was barely a bed, more a cot and not a good one at that. I had moved there with a roommate who had bunk beds but when his ultra-conservative parents found out he was gay, they drove up from Chattanooga to take him home for therapy and took the bunk beds with them. That left me with a very modest and worn twin bed, one Charlie has offered me when I moved out of his and Danny's apartment.
The rest of the furniture was not much to speak of either, but it was adequate for my needs.
But it wasn't a place to bring a trick home to. A trick might not pay attention to the ratty couch or what barely passed for a dining table, but the bed would be another matter. It's difficult enough for two people to share a twin bed, but this particular bed presented even more of a problem.
In my previous apartment, the one I rented the day I fled Atlanta for Knoxville, I could easily move the two parts of the sectional couch together. The enormous living room allowed for that. The current living room was too small to make that convenient.
This all became apparent one night shortly after my roommate had been abducted, er, had left.
I was up for a trick or at least an evening of hunting for one. You know how hunters say they really aren't in it for the kill, but for the thrill of the hunt and being out in nature. I was a hunter of tricks. If I didn't find one, there was still the thrill of the hunt and being out in gayville.
Knoxville hadn’t yet entered the age of the gay dance club. K-town gave gay boys a choice: either a dive of a beer bar located down a dark alley or a dive of a beer bar located near another dark alley a few blocks away.
I took the first choice. Both bars were run by lesbians (most gay bars were then), but I liked the, um, ambience of the one down the alley. All bars, gay or straight, had to close at midnight sharp and would begin shutting down around eleven-thirty to be sure to be in compliance with any Knoxville Beer Board inspectors who might be driving around at that hour. Beer only. No booze, no setups, no BYOB. And, of course, no dancing. Sounds grim, but it could be fun.
What was grim this particular night was the crowd. There was no crowd. The bar staff outnumbered the customers and there were only four people working.
I was about to head for the other bar but decided to stay long enough for a beer. The other place sort of scared me, unless I was there with some friends. And since I was trick hunting, I was flying solo.
In scanning the empty booths to decide where I would sit alone I realized one of the booths wasn't empty. It was occupied by someone I didn't know, but someone I realized I would like to know. At least for a night. So I grabbed my beer and headed for his booth.
I don't recall what tired cliché I must have used to explain why, with all the other booths empty, I chose to sit in the one he was already occupying. I guess I just assumed he was looking for someone to join him. This was a gay bar, after all. He must have known that. If I wasn't what he was looking for he would certainly let me know. But he apparently had no problem with my joining him and the hunt was on.
Whether I was hunting for him or he for me didn't matter. If we left together, if we tricked together, it didn't matter who had propositioned whom.
The conversation–what there was of it–was awkward at first. That wasn't so unusual then. In later years, in a crowded dance bar full of buff, mostly shirtless men, a guy could be more direct with a pickup line. We knew where we were (a gay club) and we knew what we wanted (a trick.) In a back alley neighborhood beer bar, however, you had to exercise some care. Maybe he was just there for a beer. Maybe he didn't know it was a gay club. We didn't have rainbows everywhere then. And the place was almost empty he might have just figured it a good place to grab a beer or two.
This guy was too young, too small-town to be part of the vice squad and those guys didn't hassle the bars anyway, just the restrooms in public buildings. And they did that during the daytime.
Back then I never gave much thought to the possibility of what we now call gay bashing. Maybe it was because I was usually drawn to guys not likely to overpower me or who were so likely queer as to fear that I might bash them.
This guy was tough to figure out though. Most pickup conversations avoid direct propositions but this one was indirect to the point of near obscurity. I began to think the night would end right there in the booth.
Yet somehow, I don't recall how, he left with me and followed me in his car to my house.
We were undressed and in bed within minutes, perhaps seconds.
And then a problem arose. Or, rather, didn't, um, rise.
No, it wasn't what would be today a Viagra moment, but neither of us somehow could get turned on enough to do anything.
It wasn't our hormones' fault.
It was the bed's fault.
Then I got an idea.
“Why don’t we drive to the Smokies?”
“Huh?”
Somehow I managed to explain my idea. The bed just wasn’t working and maybe what we needed was something radically different. Like sex in a car on a lonely road. Or sex in the woods. I told him I knew of several out-of-the-way places in the mountains – about an hour away – where we could get it on. How this would be more comfortable than an a bed indoors wasn’t really clear to either of us. But he bought into the idea and off we went to the Great Smoky Mountains.
Now where did I ever come up with such an idea? A few years earlier I had worked for a radio station in the Smokies that was a thirty-mile drive from Knoxville. And most of that thirty miles was very rural, although the road was a wide four-lane. One day, while rounding one of the road’s many curves, I saw a young guy standing by the side of the road hitchhiking. Only as I passed did I notice something unusual. He was wearing jockey shorts. Just jockey shorts. For some reason—maybe I was just in a hurry to get work or didn’t believe what I saw—I continued on without stopping. But I didn’t stop thinking about what I saw. Or letting what I saw develop into a fantasy.
No, it wasn’t a fantasy about being stranded on a lonely highway in only my jockeys. On that stretch of highway I wouldn't want to be stranded fully clothed – and armed.
Instead I imagined being with this hitchhiker somewhere in the Smokies, somewhere secluded and safe. Somehow the phrase, "sex in the Smokies" kept running through my horny mind.
Now the guy in my bed wasn't the hitchhiker and he wasn't wearing jockeys. Or anything else. But, hey, fantasies are flexible and he was flexible enough to agree with the idea. So off to the Smokies we went.
Where exactly we were going I wasn't sure. And I was the one driving. But the nearest place I had in mind was almost an hour away so I had time to think. Or so I thought.
But after we had passed through Sevierville and Pigeon Forge on the way to the mountain bypass around Gatlinburg, I still wasn't sure of a safe destination so I pulled over into an parking area - a scenic overlook they call it - with a view of Gatlinburg far below.
Trick - let's just call him Trick - apparently thought this was our final destination. He began undressing, although I was so occupied I didn't notice. Until he spoke.
"I am now completely naked," he announced.
I looked to my right. He sure was. Completely.
So let's review. It's a weeknight and I'm parked at an overlook above Gatlinburg in the Great Smoky Mountains after midnight.
With a naked guy in the passenger seat.
A naked guy whose name I did not know. His name? I didn't even know him, much less his name. (Thus I’ll call him Trick.)
So, I wondered, what do I do now?
Option one: get naked as well. Option two: pretend I hadn't heard Trick and visually confirmed his nakedness. Option three: Stay clothed but take sexual advantage of Mr. Naked Trick.
I went with Option Four: Get naked and take sexual advantage of Mr. Naked Trick. Now that might have been easy if we’d been in the back seat of my Camaro, but we were in the front seat! In bucket seats. With a stick shift between us.
That configuration caused a number of problems. First of all, Trick had it easier getting undressed. He didn’t have a steering wheel to contend with. Or three pedals on the floor.
Second, even when I managed to get undressed without putting the car out of gear, I had that Hurst shifter between us. And the parking brake.
So, you say, why not get in the back seat? Let me draw you a picture.
We’re in a Camaro. It has two doors. To get from the front seat to the back seat you have to first, open the door nearest you and, second, step out of the car to move the seat forward in order to get in back.
Would you really want to do that naked?
(And, no, you wouldn't want to - or be able to - climb over the high-back bucket seats - either naked or clothed.)
True, there were no other cars parked on the overlook, probably because of the late hour on a weeknight in the fall. That was one of the reasons I chose the place. I certainly wouldn’t have done it in the heat of summer and the height of the tourist season. And there were likely not going to be any other cars, but how could we be sure?
The Camaro was becoming a much bigger challenge than my bed. Try as we might, there was no comfortable way to do, um, it, whatever “it” might be. The bucket seats, the stick shift, the parking brake, even the location conspired against us. Sure we could reach across the console and grab and grope each other, but what we both wanted was more than that; we wanted sex but we wanted full-body-contact sex. And that was just impossible in the front seat of a Camaro.
I signaled surrender by starting to get dressed. Trick followed my lead but only to the point of pulling up his underwear. We were halfway back to Knoxville before I convinced it might be a good idea - in the glare of city lights - to be a bit more clothed. He agreed.
We got back to my place just over two hours after we’d left it.
The hour was late, we both were tired, so we both made it back into my bed, but not to sleep. At least not right away.
Perhaps it was all that mountain air, but this time the bed didn’t cause us any problems.
Showing posts with label underwear. Show all posts
Showing posts with label underwear. Show all posts
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Story 15: Steve: When a Trick Becomes a Treat (1974)
Steve: When a Trick became a Treat (1974)
It probably wouldn’t surprise you to learn that there’s not a lot to do in Rockwood, Tennessee on a Wednesday night.
It was late winter of 1974. I’d moved to Rockwood in the fall of 1972 to join a daytime AM radio station as a disk jockey and ended up as program director doing the morning shift. Rockwood was just over forty miles west of Knoxville via I-40, but a world away for a gay boy.
As I was on the air by 6 a.m. Monday through Saturday, Saturday night was about the only time I made it to the bright lights of the big city and the darkened rooms of its gay clubs. I was pretty much out to everyone at the station, the result of a visit by Joey a year ago when he got stranded at my place for four nights because of an ice storm. Before they come out, most gay guys assume they are the only one in the world. I pretty much knew I was the only gay guy in Rockwood.
Going to a bar in Knoxville on a weeknight was difficult. I had to be up at 4:30 the next morning for work and there wasn’t much “action” on those nights.
But one fateful night I couldn’t help myself. The aluminum walls of my mobile home were closing in, so I fired up my trusty Gremlin and headed for K-town.
For no special reason, I headed for Entrè Nous, a small club in Art Deco style just west of Gay Street. (Yes, Knoxville’s main street was named Gay Street.) Although it was a fairly chilly night, there seemed to be more guys standing outside in the parking lot than inside. I knew most of them, all except one.
He caught my attention for a number of reasons. He was dressed in jeans, a sweater and a waist length winter-weight jacket. He had black – very black – straight hair that fell over his forehead. And he was short. Not as short as me, for few people are, but short enough I could almost look directly into his eyes when talking to him. And talk to him I did. And he talked to me. His name was Steve.
Steve was a UT undergrad, major in communication design, UT’s fancy name for commercial art. He was assistant manager at an Arby’s and he shared a house with a straight roommate and, often, the straight roommate’s fiancé.
We talked for some time and then we made a date. Yes, a date. It seemed that I wasn’t the only one who had to be to work by 6 a.m. Fast food managers did too.
We agreed to meet at his house around 6:30 on Saturday. Besides my Rockwood radio work, I did afternoon shifts Saturday and Sunday on a Knoxville country station. Steve had Sundays off and I didn’t have to be to the station until noon. We’d go eat, maybe go see a movie, go to a club or two and then, well, we knew what was next.
He gave me his address and phone number and we said our goodbyes.
We had made a date, but I’m sure we both knew it wasn’t a real date; it was a prearranged trick. That was all I expected or thought I wanted and he later admitted that was all he had in mind. Little did we know.
Over the next days, I thought about Saturday night, but it didn’t obsess me. It was exciting to know who I’d be sleeping with that night, but I never got starry eyed or imagined I’d found a lover. Steve would be another trick. The only difference was I had gotten his phone number before instead of after the trick..
When Saturday morning arrived, I selected a change of clothes for the evening I thought would be appropriate and headed out for Knoxville and six hours of playing country “classics” (oldies) on WIVK-FM. After signing off at six, I went to the downstairs lounge and restroom to change, freshen up and call Steve. He told me he’d just gotten home and was going to take a bath. If he didn’t answer the door when I got there, I was to come in and wait in the living room and he’d be out shortly. I wondered that he said he was going to take a bath and not a shower, but I’d discover later that his house, where I would later live, had only a bathtub.
I arrived about 6:30 and, sure enough, there was no answer, so I let myself in. Steve heard me come in and called from the bathroom that he’d be out in a minute or so.
I felt a little unsure of what would transpire when he did come out. After all, this was a date and not the usual trick. We wouldn’t have just arrived at his place (or my place) after meeting and talking (and likely groping) at the bar, ready for, um, action. ONo, our plan was to go get something to eat, maybe see a movie, and then hit the club scene.
Steve seemed just as unsure, for when he did come into the living room, we just greeted one another, made obligatory comments on each other’s outfits and then sat down on the couch as if to engage in some small talk about how each other’s day had gone.
But that’s not what happened.
Within seconds we were in a tight embrace, kissing and hugging like long-lost lovers reunited. It was a couple of minutes – time seemed irrelevant – before we came up for air and then it started again within seconds. Gone were thoughts of dinner, a movie, and the club. Neither one of us wanted to let go, even to leave the couch.
Oh, I’d had somewhat similar encounters with tricks, but we were usually on our feet, one leading the other awkwardly in the direction of the bedroom. But neither Steve nor I was leading anywhere.
My mind was flashing alarm signals. This wasn’t the passionate foreplay of a trick. This was something else. Something dangerous. Something that, dare I even think it, began with the letter, “l.”
No, I knew, you don’t fall in love with a trick. You don’t even say the word in a casual way, the way you might say, “I love that song,” or “I love pizza.” Maybe the word would come after a series of encounters, and then only hesitantly. Love was dangerous. Love could hurt.
Yet I was in love. As a song from years later would put it, truly, madly, deeply.
What in hell was going on here?
Finally we were ready to leave the couch. How long we were there I don’t know, but it was now dark outside and I had arrived about an hour before sunset.
Clearly Steve was thinking the same things I was and we both agreed it was time to at least get something to eat. So we sat back on the couch, a bit apart from each other, and decided on a place to go.
Then it started all over again.
I guess we both realized it was too early for bed, but dinner, a movie or a night at the club seemed irrelevant now. The night was to be ours and ours alone.
So what did we do next, finally freeing ourselves from the passionate hold of the couch? We went shopping, of course.
Well, actually, we headed out for the “Strip,” the several block section of Cumberland Avenue that runs through the University, block after block of eateries, record shops, service stations and anything else to attract a college crowd. Steve lived about six blocks north of the Strip, just off 17th, and, no, I don’t remember a thing we talked about while walking there. Nights like that are like that, I guess, with certain moments recorded indelibly and others lost forever because, perhaps, they didn’t matter. They didn’t matter because all that was important was we were together. Neither of us had said the “L” word yet and not just because gay boys are afraid to say it. We both knew it was going to be said, but we had all the time in the world to say it.
I don’t even recall where we ate, but I’m sure we did. It was probably at the Krystal, as there was no McDonald’s yet on the strip. It was just one more thing not worth remembering.
Now had we been straight, and had Steve been a girl, we’d likely have gone to a nice restaurant (there were a few nearby) for a quiet dinner at a dimly lit table.
But since we were gay, and we were both guys, we did what a gay couple would do. We went shopping for clothes. Our styles were a bit different, but not conflicting it turned out. Steve looked at things he liked and I looked over and tried on things I liked and we each offered opinions on the other selections. Straight women do this. Gay women do this. Straight guys don’t do this. Gay guys do. (Think about this the next time you see two guys shopping for clothes and asking each other’s opinions.)
It turned out neither of us had enough money on us for big-ticket items, so we settled on something we both liked and agreed upon.
Underwear.
Yes, the first intimate gift I bought for Steve was a pair of briefs with a checked pattern that reminded me of a tablecloth. He bought me a pair that was pale blue. Only gay guys in love would do that.
I’m sure we both saw where this was leading. If we’d bought each other jackets, we could have put them on there and worn them home, showing them off wherever we went. But, practically, putting on the underwear would have to wait until we returned to Steve’s place. And, that, of course, would mean getting undressed. Together. I know this was what I was thinking and I’m sure Steve was too.
As I recall, we didn’t head straight home, but wandered through a few more of the shops on the Strip, likely England’s record store and probably the Vol Market, a local deli, to buy a Coke. We knew what the evening still held, but somehow we were in no hurry to get to that point.
Shopping, browsing, snacking, walking, all that seemed to matter was that we were together. We talked on the way back, I’m sure, but I don’t remember what we said. I guess we probably were just getting to know more about each other.
One of the reasons Steve had suggested we get together this particular night was that his housemate (and the housemate’s fiancé) would be away the whole night. Or so we thought. At least they weren’t there when we returned.
It was at this point I was glad we’d bought the underwear. Without it, neither of us would have known what to do next. Why? Well, because we’d never been in quite this situation before.
You see, when two guys meet in a bar and head to one of their places, the process is simple. A bit of small talk, maybe a quick tour of the digs, an offer of a drink, a little “mood” music on the stereo, and then it begins. First, the kissing, the embracing, the groping, then the slow undressing, all accompanied by a gradual movement toward the bedroom and the bed.
Both of us had dated girls in high school. We’d meet them, take them to dinner, maybe a movie, maybe go for a walk and then take them back home. And there, because we were gay guys, the evening ended.
A trick, on the other hand, began at this point. There was no dinner or movie or long walk beforehand, only some glances and dances at a bar, a bar we’d both arrived at alone, hoping we wouldn’t leave alone.
Steve and I had spent the entire evening together and only now were we in his bedroom. Now what?
We did what we knew. When you get home from shopping, you try on what bought. You show it off to each other. We had bought each other underwear.
It probably wouldn’t surprise you to learn that there’s not a lot to do in Rockwood, Tennessee on a Wednesday night.
It was late winter of 1974. I’d moved to Rockwood in the fall of 1972 to join a daytime AM radio station as a disk jockey and ended up as program director doing the morning shift. Rockwood was just over forty miles west of Knoxville via I-40, but a world away for a gay boy.
As I was on the air by 6 a.m. Monday through Saturday, Saturday night was about the only time I made it to the bright lights of the big city and the darkened rooms of its gay clubs. I was pretty much out to everyone at the station, the result of a visit by Joey a year ago when he got stranded at my place for four nights because of an ice storm. Before they come out, most gay guys assume they are the only one in the world. I pretty much knew I was the only gay guy in Rockwood.
Going to a bar in Knoxville on a weeknight was difficult. I had to be up at 4:30 the next morning for work and there wasn’t much “action” on those nights.
But one fateful night I couldn’t help myself. The aluminum walls of my mobile home were closing in, so I fired up my trusty Gremlin and headed for K-town.
For no special reason, I headed for Entrè Nous, a small club in Art Deco style just west of Gay Street. (Yes, Knoxville’s main street was named Gay Street.) Although it was a fairly chilly night, there seemed to be more guys standing outside in the parking lot than inside. I knew most of them, all except one.
He caught my attention for a number of reasons. He was dressed in jeans, a sweater and a waist length winter-weight jacket. He had black – very black – straight hair that fell over his forehead. And he was short. Not as short as me, for few people are, but short enough I could almost look directly into his eyes when talking to him. And talk to him I did. And he talked to me. His name was Steve.
Steve was a UT undergrad, major in communication design, UT’s fancy name for commercial art. He was assistant manager at an Arby’s and he shared a house with a straight roommate and, often, the straight roommate’s fiancé.
We talked for some time and then we made a date. Yes, a date. It seemed that I wasn’t the only one who had to be to work by 6 a.m. Fast food managers did too.
We agreed to meet at his house around 6:30 on Saturday. Besides my Rockwood radio work, I did afternoon shifts Saturday and Sunday on a Knoxville country station. Steve had Sundays off and I didn’t have to be to the station until noon. We’d go eat, maybe go see a movie, go to a club or two and then, well, we knew what was next.
He gave me his address and phone number and we said our goodbyes.
We had made a date, but I’m sure we both knew it wasn’t a real date; it was a prearranged trick. That was all I expected or thought I wanted and he later admitted that was all he had in mind. Little did we know.
Over the next days, I thought about Saturday night, but it didn’t obsess me. It was exciting to know who I’d be sleeping with that night, but I never got starry eyed or imagined I’d found a lover. Steve would be another trick. The only difference was I had gotten his phone number before instead of after the trick..
When Saturday morning arrived, I selected a change of clothes for the evening I thought would be appropriate and headed out for Knoxville and six hours of playing country “classics” (oldies) on WIVK-FM. After signing off at six, I went to the downstairs lounge and restroom to change, freshen up and call Steve. He told me he’d just gotten home and was going to take a bath. If he didn’t answer the door when I got there, I was to come in and wait in the living room and he’d be out shortly. I wondered that he said he was going to take a bath and not a shower, but I’d discover later that his house, where I would later live, had only a bathtub.
I arrived about 6:30 and, sure enough, there was no answer, so I let myself in. Steve heard me come in and called from the bathroom that he’d be out in a minute or so.
I felt a little unsure of what would transpire when he did come out. After all, this was a date and not the usual trick. We wouldn’t have just arrived at his place (or my place) after meeting and talking (and likely groping) at the bar, ready for, um, action. ONo, our plan was to go get something to eat, maybe see a movie, and then hit the club scene.
Steve seemed just as unsure, for when he did come into the living room, we just greeted one another, made obligatory comments on each other’s outfits and then sat down on the couch as if to engage in some small talk about how each other’s day had gone.
But that’s not what happened.
Within seconds we were in a tight embrace, kissing and hugging like long-lost lovers reunited. It was a couple of minutes – time seemed irrelevant – before we came up for air and then it started again within seconds. Gone were thoughts of dinner, a movie, and the club. Neither one of us wanted to let go, even to leave the couch.
Oh, I’d had somewhat similar encounters with tricks, but we were usually on our feet, one leading the other awkwardly in the direction of the bedroom. But neither Steve nor I was leading anywhere.
My mind was flashing alarm signals. This wasn’t the passionate foreplay of a trick. This was something else. Something dangerous. Something that, dare I even think it, began with the letter, “l.”
No, I knew, you don’t fall in love with a trick. You don’t even say the word in a casual way, the way you might say, “I love that song,” or “I love pizza.” Maybe the word would come after a series of encounters, and then only hesitantly. Love was dangerous. Love could hurt.
Yet I was in love. As a song from years later would put it, truly, madly, deeply.
What in hell was going on here?
Finally we were ready to leave the couch. How long we were there I don’t know, but it was now dark outside and I had arrived about an hour before sunset.
Clearly Steve was thinking the same things I was and we both agreed it was time to at least get something to eat. So we sat back on the couch, a bit apart from each other, and decided on a place to go.
Then it started all over again.
I guess we both realized it was too early for bed, but dinner, a movie or a night at the club seemed irrelevant now. The night was to be ours and ours alone.
So what did we do next, finally freeing ourselves from the passionate hold of the couch? We went shopping, of course.
Well, actually, we headed out for the “Strip,” the several block section of Cumberland Avenue that runs through the University, block after block of eateries, record shops, service stations and anything else to attract a college crowd. Steve lived about six blocks north of the Strip, just off 17th, and, no, I don’t remember a thing we talked about while walking there. Nights like that are like that, I guess, with certain moments recorded indelibly and others lost forever because, perhaps, they didn’t matter. They didn’t matter because all that was important was we were together. Neither of us had said the “L” word yet and not just because gay boys are afraid to say it. We both knew it was going to be said, but we had all the time in the world to say it.
I don’t even recall where we ate, but I’m sure we did. It was probably at the Krystal, as there was no McDonald’s yet on the strip. It was just one more thing not worth remembering.
Now had we been straight, and had Steve been a girl, we’d likely have gone to a nice restaurant (there were a few nearby) for a quiet dinner at a dimly lit table.
But since we were gay, and we were both guys, we did what a gay couple would do. We went shopping for clothes. Our styles were a bit different, but not conflicting it turned out. Steve looked at things he liked and I looked over and tried on things I liked and we each offered opinions on the other selections. Straight women do this. Gay women do this. Straight guys don’t do this. Gay guys do. (Think about this the next time you see two guys shopping for clothes and asking each other’s opinions.)
It turned out neither of us had enough money on us for big-ticket items, so we settled on something we both liked and agreed upon.
Underwear.
Yes, the first intimate gift I bought for Steve was a pair of briefs with a checked pattern that reminded me of a tablecloth. He bought me a pair that was pale blue. Only gay guys in love would do that.
I’m sure we both saw where this was leading. If we’d bought each other jackets, we could have put them on there and worn them home, showing them off wherever we went. But, practically, putting on the underwear would have to wait until we returned to Steve’s place. And, that, of course, would mean getting undressed. Together. I know this was what I was thinking and I’m sure Steve was too.
As I recall, we didn’t head straight home, but wandered through a few more of the shops on the Strip, likely England’s record store and probably the Vol Market, a local deli, to buy a Coke. We knew what the evening still held, but somehow we were in no hurry to get to that point.
Shopping, browsing, snacking, walking, all that seemed to matter was that we were together. We talked on the way back, I’m sure, but I don’t remember what we said. I guess we probably were just getting to know more about each other.
One of the reasons Steve had suggested we get together this particular night was that his housemate (and the housemate’s fiancé) would be away the whole night. Or so we thought. At least they weren’t there when we returned.
It was at this point I was glad we’d bought the underwear. Without it, neither of us would have known what to do next. Why? Well, because we’d never been in quite this situation before.
You see, when two guys meet in a bar and head to one of their places, the process is simple. A bit of small talk, maybe a quick tour of the digs, an offer of a drink, a little “mood” music on the stereo, and then it begins. First, the kissing, the embracing, the groping, then the slow undressing, all accompanied by a gradual movement toward the bedroom and the bed.
Both of us had dated girls in high school. We’d meet them, take them to dinner, maybe a movie, maybe go for a walk and then take them back home. And there, because we were gay guys, the evening ended.
A trick, on the other hand, began at this point. There was no dinner or movie or long walk beforehand, only some glances and dances at a bar, a bar we’d both arrived at alone, hoping we wouldn’t leave alone.
Steve and I had spent the entire evening together and only now were we in his bedroom. Now what?
We did what we knew. When you get home from shopping, you try on what bought. You show it off to each other. We had bought each other underwear.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Story 13: Tom, the Discount Drug Dealer and Closet Case
Tom, the Discount Drug Dealer and Closet Case (1973)
I met Tom through Joe.
Joe was my afternoon DJ, an affable, heavy-set, baby-faced guy who had an affinity for smoking illicit substances.
In other words, Joe was a stoner.
Tom was his dealer.
And a more unlikely drug dealer I had never known. Tom was twenty, but looked about sixteen. His late parents (I never knew the circumstances of their death) had left him a trust fund but he didn’t have full control of it yet. It paid for his classes at the community college, but not much else. So he sold marijuana. The Roane County airport was lighted but unstaffed at night and, being located up on Roosevelt Mountain, was rather isolated. It was, therefore, a major drop-off point for marijuana shipments. At the time, apparently, most marijuana sold in the greater Knoxville area arrived at the Roane County Airport. Somehow Tom was part of the distribution network. As far as I know, Tom never dealt in any “heavier” drugs and he only did enough
dealing to pay his rent and basic expenses.
It was known to many that Tom was a dealer.
It was known to very few was that Tom was a closet case.
I didn’t know it at first. My gaydar barely went off when I first met him. I did find him very cute, however, in a “why can’t he be gay” sort of way.
It also took me a while to figure out just why Tom was hanging around the radio station so much. In a small-town radio station, things can get a bit informal. Friends do drop by and most of them know the protocol if we let them in the control room. When the red light goes on, shut up! At first I didn’t know just whose friend Tom was. Then I realized he was usually around during Joe’s afternoon shift, which ran from two to six. Since I did the six to ten a.m. shift, I was usually busy with production work when Tom would come around. Or I’d be ready to leave for the day.
But then Tom began showing up when Joe wasn’t there. I really doubted he was dealing to any other staff members. The owner and his wife preferred margaritas as their drug of choice. The news director was a family man into church activities and martial arts. The station secretary’s idea of living on the edge was extra sugar in her morning coffee.
That left just me. And my drug of choice was, well, tricking.
Perhaps Tom wanted to be my “dealer” too. Or maybe he just liked hanging out at the station between classes.
But then he started dropping by during my Saturday morning shift – when I was the only one at the station.
Mostly we talked about music, not unusual considering we were in a radio station control room, listening to music I was playing.
And then, one day, he invited me to his apartment.
To listen to music.
Tom’s apartment was in the back of a large old house. It was really a studio with one L-shaped room serving as dining area, kitchen, living room and bedroom. The living room furniture consisted of two chairs and his bed.
I quickly realized that Tom knew I was gay. Perhaps he’d heard about the hickey incident with Joey. Perhaps he had gaydar. Perhaps he was gay. I wasn’t yet sure.
In fact while we talked about me being gay, Tom seems at pains to indicate that he was not gay. At first he played the, “Oh I’m straight, but I’m very cool with gay guys.” I’d heard that from a lot of guys. Some I’d ended up having sex with. Others just became friends.
Tom was fun to be with, fun to discuss music with, so I pretty much played along with his claim of heterosexuality.
Until the back rubs started.
Tom was only a few inches taller than me, but very slender, basically a healthy version of skin and bones. From his energy and his healthy appearance, I suspected he did little or none of the drugs he sold. In fact we never smoked weed together. Maybe he knew I wasn’t a stoner; maybe he wasn’t a stoner, just a businessman.
One night I arrived just as Tom had finished a shower and he was wearing only his jockeys when he let me in, although he was holding his jeans as if in the process of getting dressed.
“Do you know any massage techniques?” he asked. It was an interesting conversation starter, not the usual, “Hi, come on in. Can I get you a drink?”
“Not in a professional way,” I replied, “but I was in sports and I know some things about sore muscles.” Who knows, I thought, maybe he strained a shoulder lifting a bag of Colombian.
“I really need a back rub, man. I’m really tight and tense.”
He apparently took my silence for assent and, dropping his jeans on a chair, lay face down on his bed. I was still standing by the door and hadn’t yet taken off my jacket. Just over a minute had passed since I’d knocked on Tom’s door and now I was removing my jacket and Tom was lying face down on his bed in his jockey shorts.
The boy is fast, I thought. And I’d always prided myself on cutting to the chase with a trick. But I’d never gotten them undressed and on a bed this quickly.
I got up on the end of his bed on my knees and leaned forward to begin working on Tom’s shoulders. I was no professional masseuse, but I’d seen enough – and experienced enough – muscle massages during my years as a college athlete to know the basics. I worked down from his shoulders to his upper back. He was indeed quite tense and tight and he told me it felt good, so I continued. I moved down the middle of his back and then his lower back toward the waist band of his briefs. Up to now, although I was enjoying the experience, I treated it as one guy giving another a back rub. I’d done this for teammates in college and been the recipient a few times as well. No big deal up to this point.
But then I got a bit silly – or maybe just horny – and snapped the waist band of his briefs as if I were planning to go lower. I wasn’t sure if straight-proclaiming Tom would tell me stop right then and there.
Instead he reached back with both arms and slid his briefs down below his butt cheeks.
That had never happened to me in college.
Straight-proclaiming or not, Tom was about to get his butt cheeks massaged. He had a small, smooth, not-quite-bubble butt. I began where the waistband had been snapped, then smoothly over each cheek, then ran my fingers across the bottom where the leg openings had been. Then, sensing no objection, I pulled his briefs down further and went to work on his legs, then slipped his jockeys all the way off, even giving his freshly-showered feet a bit of a rub.
It was like a fantasy, the inspiration for a wet dream. Me, kneeling at the end of a boy’s bed while said boy lay face down and naked and asking for a back rub.
Tom lay still for a moment. I remained still too, wondering what would happen next. What would he say? What would he do? Where would we go from here?
Sorry to disappoint, but what follows isn’t an erotically arousing tale of passionate, unbridled sex that lasts late into the night.
Didn’t happen. Not that night.
Tom slid off his bed, retrieved his underpants, put them on, finished dressing in jeans and a flannel shirt and asked if I wanted a Coke.
“You’re good,” he told me.
I thanked him and then we spent the rest of the evening talking about and listening to music.
But the next time I visited Tom he wanted another “back rub.” And the time after that. And the time after that.
Eventually no visit to Tom’s was complete without him stripping to his briefs and lying face down on his bed.
And, eventually, it led to something more.
Never was a word said about Tom’s sexuality, the conversation of the evening remaininged about music or about the radio station or about school. Tom never spoke about his drug-dealing sideline and we never consumed any of his product. (I didn’t know - or want to know - where he kept his “stash.”)
Then one night when Tom had stripped down to his briefs I stripped down to mine too and went to work giving Tom a “back rub.”
When I finished I asked if he would return the favor, the favor I had offered so many times now.
He seemed to be confused by the request. Maybe he hadn’t heard me, I thought. Maybe I’d sent him into such a state of bliss with the back rub that he was having trouble receiving communication from here on Earth and, for a moment, he remained motionless, lying still face-down on his bed.
Suddenly he got up, keeping his back to me, reached down for his briefs and put them on, then turned around and gestured for me to lie face down on the bed. As I did, I couldn’t help but notice that either Tom’s briefs were rather loose or he was somewhat aroused. Not wanting to ruin the moment, I said nothing and just lay down awaiting Tom’s touch.
I was curious as to how this role reversal would work. Until now I had given the “massages” and Tom had received them. And I had been making it all up as I went along, trying to recall post-practice massages from the college athletic trainer. As far as I knew, Tom lacked any such memories.
But it didn’t seem to matter. Tom was either a natural or he was channeling my college trainer. Of course, my trainer’s hands never went some of the places that Tom’s hands were going.
For the most part Tom followed my pattern. He began with the shoulders and the upper back, then the lower back, all very legitimate moves my college trainer would have approved.
He also followed my moves around the waist and below. Down came my briefs – followed by Tom’s caressing hands – all the way down to my ankles.
As he finished and I lay there face down, I found the answer to my earlier question about Tom’s briefs. No, they weren’t loose.
I was about to discreetly get up and retrieve my underwear when Tom’s hands grabbed my waist and turned me over on my back. And "massaged" away any of my remaining stiffness.
I met Tom through Joe.
Joe was my afternoon DJ, an affable, heavy-set, baby-faced guy who had an affinity for smoking illicit substances.
In other words, Joe was a stoner.
Tom was his dealer.
And a more unlikely drug dealer I had never known. Tom was twenty, but looked about sixteen. His late parents (I never knew the circumstances of their death) had left him a trust fund but he didn’t have full control of it yet. It paid for his classes at the community college, but not much else. So he sold marijuana. The Roane County airport was lighted but unstaffed at night and, being located up on Roosevelt Mountain, was rather isolated. It was, therefore, a major drop-off point for marijuana shipments. At the time, apparently, most marijuana sold in the greater Knoxville area arrived at the Roane County Airport. Somehow Tom was part of the distribution network. As far as I know, Tom never dealt in any “heavier” drugs and he only did enough
dealing to pay his rent and basic expenses.
It was known to many that Tom was a dealer.
It was known to very few was that Tom was a closet case.
I didn’t know it at first. My gaydar barely went off when I first met him. I did find him very cute, however, in a “why can’t he be gay” sort of way.
It also took me a while to figure out just why Tom was hanging around the radio station so much. In a small-town radio station, things can get a bit informal. Friends do drop by and most of them know the protocol if we let them in the control room. When the red light goes on, shut up! At first I didn’t know just whose friend Tom was. Then I realized he was usually around during Joe’s afternoon shift, which ran from two to six. Since I did the six to ten a.m. shift, I was usually busy with production work when Tom would come around. Or I’d be ready to leave for the day.
But then Tom began showing up when Joe wasn’t there. I really doubted he was dealing to any other staff members. The owner and his wife preferred margaritas as their drug of choice. The news director was a family man into church activities and martial arts. The station secretary’s idea of living on the edge was extra sugar in her morning coffee.
That left just me. And my drug of choice was, well, tricking.
Perhaps Tom wanted to be my “dealer” too. Or maybe he just liked hanging out at the station between classes.
But then he started dropping by during my Saturday morning shift – when I was the only one at the station.
Mostly we talked about music, not unusual considering we were in a radio station control room, listening to music I was playing.
And then, one day, he invited me to his apartment.
To listen to music.
Tom’s apartment was in the back of a large old house. It was really a studio with one L-shaped room serving as dining area, kitchen, living room and bedroom. The living room furniture consisted of two chairs and his bed.
I quickly realized that Tom knew I was gay. Perhaps he’d heard about the hickey incident with Joey. Perhaps he had gaydar. Perhaps he was gay. I wasn’t yet sure.
In fact while we talked about me being gay, Tom seems at pains to indicate that he was not gay. At first he played the, “Oh I’m straight, but I’m very cool with gay guys.” I’d heard that from a lot of guys. Some I’d ended up having sex with. Others just became friends.
Tom was fun to be with, fun to discuss music with, so I pretty much played along with his claim of heterosexuality.
Until the back rubs started.
Tom was only a few inches taller than me, but very slender, basically a healthy version of skin and bones. From his energy and his healthy appearance, I suspected he did little or none of the drugs he sold. In fact we never smoked weed together. Maybe he knew I wasn’t a stoner; maybe he wasn’t a stoner, just a businessman.
One night I arrived just as Tom had finished a shower and he was wearing only his jockeys when he let me in, although he was holding his jeans as if in the process of getting dressed.
“Do you know any massage techniques?” he asked. It was an interesting conversation starter, not the usual, “Hi, come on in. Can I get you a drink?”
“Not in a professional way,” I replied, “but I was in sports and I know some things about sore muscles.” Who knows, I thought, maybe he strained a shoulder lifting a bag of Colombian.
“I really need a back rub, man. I’m really tight and tense.”
He apparently took my silence for assent and, dropping his jeans on a chair, lay face down on his bed. I was still standing by the door and hadn’t yet taken off my jacket. Just over a minute had passed since I’d knocked on Tom’s door and now I was removing my jacket and Tom was lying face down on his bed in his jockey shorts.
The boy is fast, I thought. And I’d always prided myself on cutting to the chase with a trick. But I’d never gotten them undressed and on a bed this quickly.
I got up on the end of his bed on my knees and leaned forward to begin working on Tom’s shoulders. I was no professional masseuse, but I’d seen enough – and experienced enough – muscle massages during my years as a college athlete to know the basics. I worked down from his shoulders to his upper back. He was indeed quite tense and tight and he told me it felt good, so I continued. I moved down the middle of his back and then his lower back toward the waist band of his briefs. Up to now, although I was enjoying the experience, I treated it as one guy giving another a back rub. I’d done this for teammates in college and been the recipient a few times as well. No big deal up to this point.
But then I got a bit silly – or maybe just horny – and snapped the waist band of his briefs as if I were planning to go lower. I wasn’t sure if straight-proclaiming Tom would tell me stop right then and there.
Instead he reached back with both arms and slid his briefs down below his butt cheeks.
That had never happened to me in college.
Straight-proclaiming or not, Tom was about to get his butt cheeks massaged. He had a small, smooth, not-quite-bubble butt. I began where the waistband had been snapped, then smoothly over each cheek, then ran my fingers across the bottom where the leg openings had been. Then, sensing no objection, I pulled his briefs down further and went to work on his legs, then slipped his jockeys all the way off, even giving his freshly-showered feet a bit of a rub.
It was like a fantasy, the inspiration for a wet dream. Me, kneeling at the end of a boy’s bed while said boy lay face down and naked and asking for a back rub.
Tom lay still for a moment. I remained still too, wondering what would happen next. What would he say? What would he do? Where would we go from here?
Sorry to disappoint, but what follows isn’t an erotically arousing tale of passionate, unbridled sex that lasts late into the night.
Didn’t happen. Not that night.
Tom slid off his bed, retrieved his underpants, put them on, finished dressing in jeans and a flannel shirt and asked if I wanted a Coke.
“You’re good,” he told me.
I thanked him and then we spent the rest of the evening talking about and listening to music.
But the next time I visited Tom he wanted another “back rub.” And the time after that. And the time after that.
Eventually no visit to Tom’s was complete without him stripping to his briefs and lying face down on his bed.
And, eventually, it led to something more.
Never was a word said about Tom’s sexuality, the conversation of the evening remaininged about music or about the radio station or about school. Tom never spoke about his drug-dealing sideline and we never consumed any of his product. (I didn’t know - or want to know - where he kept his “stash.”)
Then one night when Tom had stripped down to his briefs I stripped down to mine too and went to work giving Tom a “back rub.”
When I finished I asked if he would return the favor, the favor I had offered so many times now.
He seemed to be confused by the request. Maybe he hadn’t heard me, I thought. Maybe I’d sent him into such a state of bliss with the back rub that he was having trouble receiving communication from here on Earth and, for a moment, he remained motionless, lying still face-down on his bed.
Suddenly he got up, keeping his back to me, reached down for his briefs and put them on, then turned around and gestured for me to lie face down on the bed. As I did, I couldn’t help but notice that either Tom’s briefs were rather loose or he was somewhat aroused. Not wanting to ruin the moment, I said nothing and just lay down awaiting Tom’s touch.
I was curious as to how this role reversal would work. Until now I had given the “massages” and Tom had received them. And I had been making it all up as I went along, trying to recall post-practice massages from the college athletic trainer. As far as I knew, Tom lacked any such memories.
But it didn’t seem to matter. Tom was either a natural or he was channeling my college trainer. Of course, my trainer’s hands never went some of the places that Tom’s hands were going.
For the most part Tom followed my pattern. He began with the shoulders and the upper back, then the lower back, all very legitimate moves my college trainer would have approved.
He also followed my moves around the waist and below. Down came my briefs – followed by Tom’s caressing hands – all the way down to my ankles.
As he finished and I lay there face down, I found the answer to my earlier question about Tom’s briefs. No, they weren’t loose.
I was about to discreetly get up and retrieve my underwear when Tom’s hands grabbed my waist and turned me over on my back. And "massaged" away any of my remaining stiffness.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Story 5: "I like to hit my boyfriend"
“I like to beat up my boyfriend” (February, 1970)
After Danny and I broke up, I didn’t have another long-term relationship the remainder of my time in Atlanta. And since Danny and I lasted slightly less than three weeks, my definition of “long-term” was clearly a flexible one.
So what did I do the remaining eight months in Hot’lanta?
I tricked.
A lot.
But I did it respectably. I never picked up street trade and never, ever used a public restroom for other than its intended purposes. I wanted to get to know the guy, if only for the night. Or part thereof.
Sometimes I’d meet someone at a club. Other times I’d meet someone at a party. Sometimes I’d meet someone at a club and we’d go to a party.
In the my early months in Atlanta, I worked a basic nine-to-five shift at the radio station, doing middays on the air, trying to sell ads, producing commercials and trying to keep the automation on the FM side working. This meant I could stay out fairly late on weeknights, as I didn’t have to leave for work until about 8:30 in the morning. For someone with experience getting up at 4:15 to be on the air at 6 a.m., this was like sleeping in all day.
One night, through circumstances I do not recall, I ended up at a party.
Party, in this case, simply meant a gathering of gay guys at someone’s apartment for the purpose of doing what we had originally gone to club for – to drink and have sex. It could be a rather desperate gathering as being at the party indicated one had not already found someone to “go home with,” so to speak.
Not only do I not recall how I got invited to this particular gathering, I don’t remember knowing anyone there. Apparently some guys at whatever bar I was at saw me and asked me to join them. If this sounds bizarre, it wasn’t unusual. If the hour was late, the bar was about to close, and one was still alone, it wasn’t difficult to get included in a group of strangers heading for some party somewhere.
There were maybe a dozen of us, maybe an even number, maybe not, but almost immediately the “pairing off” began and couples began to form. For all I know, some may already have been couples, but other “pairs” may have been total strangers. Just as I was considering my options, the guy whose apartment this apparently was decided to “pair off” with me and led me to his bedroom. He suggested I undress and told me he’d be right back.
The party, at this point, was about five minutes old.
I hesitated about undressing right away. I’d always regarded disrobing as part of foreplay, but maybe I was just old-fashioned in that way. Or maybe modest. Modest? Nah. But it did seem awkward. I didn’t know him; I didn’t know any of the others in the living room. Throwing caution to the wind (and my clothes to the bed), I stripped to my briefs and awaited his return. The strangeness I felt standing alone in a stranger’s bedroom in only my white nylon Jockeys was soon to be surpassed by even greater strangeness.
He (no, I never got his name) returned, put his arms around me as I stood by his bed and moved his hands down to my waist. “Mmm. Fancy underwear!” he exclaimed, which surprised me since nylon Jockey briefs weren’t all that uncommon at the time and mine were at least white. But he liked them and wanted me to keep them on. He undressed but left his briefs on and we lay down side by side, on our backs on his unmade bed. Well, it was more than unmade; there was only a bottom sheet and two pillows.
And then he asked me the strangest question.
“Do you like to get hit?”
“Excuse me?”
“I liked to hit my ex when we were in bed – right here.” He pointed to my chest.
“Uh, may I ask why?” I wasn’t sure I really wanted to know. I wasn’t sure I really wanted to be there.
“Oh, it’s fun to do,” he said, almost giggling. “So, do you like to be hit?”
Now you might expect that I’d immediately say something like, “No!” or “Not really.” But I hesitated, not because I liked to be hit or wanted to be hit, but because I wasn’t sure just where he was going with this question. He didn’t seem the S&M type, but maybe there was some kinky subculture I hadn’t yet learned about. I’d only been “out” less than a year at this point and in Atlanta only about four months. He seemed normal enough otherwise. He had a relatively slim and smooth body, dirty blond hair and a nice smile (even as he spoke of hitting ex-boyfriends.) I just couldn’t get a read on this boy.
He must have noticed my hesitation and sought to change the subject.
“So, what do you like to do?”
Oh no, not that question! I’d almost prefer, “Do you like to be hit?”
It’s amazing that a gay guy can be bold enough to come on to a total stranger in a club, invite him to his place or agree to go to the other guy’s place, both with total confidence in what they are doing. Yet when the moment arrives, when they are both in bed, both undressed, the question arises:
“So, what do you like to do?”
Granted, this question is sometimes asked at the club, but seemingly the answer is either ignored or left for consideration at a later time, in bed that is. Or it can be used to get away from someone at a club, as in:
“So, what do you like to do?”
“Improve my skills as a serial killer.”
Right now, in this room, in this bed, with this guy, didn’t seem the time for levity.
Finally, instead of words, I replied with action. No, I didn’t hit him. I embraced him. I came on to him. I started making out with him. Choose your cliché.
I wasn’t so much trying to be “butch,” or a “top,” as would be said today. But someone had to take charge of the situation and better I take charge than someone who likes to hit ex-boyfriends.
It worked. We had sex. We fell asleep.
In the morning I left him, still asleep on his bed, stepped gingerly over the sleeping bodies sprawled around the living room, and went downstairs to my car. It was 8 a.m. I started the car. Nothing happened. The battery was dead. I’d left the car’s lights the night before. I had gotten “hit” after all.
After Danny and I broke up, I didn’t have another long-term relationship the remainder of my time in Atlanta. And since Danny and I lasted slightly less than three weeks, my definition of “long-term” was clearly a flexible one.
So what did I do the remaining eight months in Hot’lanta?
I tricked.
A lot.
But I did it respectably. I never picked up street trade and never, ever used a public restroom for other than its intended purposes. I wanted to get to know the guy, if only for the night. Or part thereof.
Sometimes I’d meet someone at a club. Other times I’d meet someone at a party. Sometimes I’d meet someone at a club and we’d go to a party.
In the my early months in Atlanta, I worked a basic nine-to-five shift at the radio station, doing middays on the air, trying to sell ads, producing commercials and trying to keep the automation on the FM side working. This meant I could stay out fairly late on weeknights, as I didn’t have to leave for work until about 8:30 in the morning. For someone with experience getting up at 4:15 to be on the air at 6 a.m., this was like sleeping in all day.
One night, through circumstances I do not recall, I ended up at a party.
Party, in this case, simply meant a gathering of gay guys at someone’s apartment for the purpose of doing what we had originally gone to club for – to drink and have sex. It could be a rather desperate gathering as being at the party indicated one had not already found someone to “go home with,” so to speak.
Not only do I not recall how I got invited to this particular gathering, I don’t remember knowing anyone there. Apparently some guys at whatever bar I was at saw me and asked me to join them. If this sounds bizarre, it wasn’t unusual. If the hour was late, the bar was about to close, and one was still alone, it wasn’t difficult to get included in a group of strangers heading for some party somewhere.
There were maybe a dozen of us, maybe an even number, maybe not, but almost immediately the “pairing off” began and couples began to form. For all I know, some may already have been couples, but other “pairs” may have been total strangers. Just as I was considering my options, the guy whose apartment this apparently was decided to “pair off” with me and led me to his bedroom. He suggested I undress and told me he’d be right back.
The party, at this point, was about five minutes old.
I hesitated about undressing right away. I’d always regarded disrobing as part of foreplay, but maybe I was just old-fashioned in that way. Or maybe modest. Modest? Nah. But it did seem awkward. I didn’t know him; I didn’t know any of the others in the living room. Throwing caution to the wind (and my clothes to the bed), I stripped to my briefs and awaited his return. The strangeness I felt standing alone in a stranger’s bedroom in only my white nylon Jockeys was soon to be surpassed by even greater strangeness.
He (no, I never got his name) returned, put his arms around me as I stood by his bed and moved his hands down to my waist. “Mmm. Fancy underwear!” he exclaimed, which surprised me since nylon Jockey briefs weren’t all that uncommon at the time and mine were at least white. But he liked them and wanted me to keep them on. He undressed but left his briefs on and we lay down side by side, on our backs on his unmade bed. Well, it was more than unmade; there was only a bottom sheet and two pillows.
And then he asked me the strangest question.
“Do you like to get hit?”
“Excuse me?”
“I liked to hit my ex when we were in bed – right here.” He pointed to my chest.
“Uh, may I ask why?” I wasn’t sure I really wanted to know. I wasn’t sure I really wanted to be there.
“Oh, it’s fun to do,” he said, almost giggling. “So, do you like to be hit?”
Now you might expect that I’d immediately say something like, “No!” or “Not really.” But I hesitated, not because I liked to be hit or wanted to be hit, but because I wasn’t sure just where he was going with this question. He didn’t seem the S&M type, but maybe there was some kinky subculture I hadn’t yet learned about. I’d only been “out” less than a year at this point and in Atlanta only about four months. He seemed normal enough otherwise. He had a relatively slim and smooth body, dirty blond hair and a nice smile (even as he spoke of hitting ex-boyfriends.) I just couldn’t get a read on this boy.
He must have noticed my hesitation and sought to change the subject.
“So, what do you like to do?”
Oh no, not that question! I’d almost prefer, “Do you like to be hit?”
It’s amazing that a gay guy can be bold enough to come on to a total stranger in a club, invite him to his place or agree to go to the other guy’s place, both with total confidence in what they are doing. Yet when the moment arrives, when they are both in bed, both undressed, the question arises:
“So, what do you like to do?”
Granted, this question is sometimes asked at the club, but seemingly the answer is either ignored or left for consideration at a later time, in bed that is. Or it can be used to get away from someone at a club, as in:
“So, what do you like to do?”
“Improve my skills as a serial killer.”
Right now, in this room, in this bed, with this guy, didn’t seem the time for levity.
Finally, instead of words, I replied with action. No, I didn’t hit him. I embraced him. I came on to him. I started making out with him. Choose your cliché.
I wasn’t so much trying to be “butch,” or a “top,” as would be said today. But someone had to take charge of the situation and better I take charge than someone who likes to hit ex-boyfriends.
It worked. We had sex. We fell asleep.
In the morning I left him, still asleep on his bed, stepped gingerly over the sleeping bodies sprawled around the living room, and went downstairs to my car. It was 8 a.m. I started the car. Nothing happened. The battery was dead. I’d left the car’s lights the night before. I had gotten “hit” after all.
Story 4: Measuring Boys' Inseams
Measuring Boys’ Inseams (February 1970)
Charlie had a thing for measuring teen boys' inseams. Charlie was Danny's roommate and ex-lover, and in his bedroom door was the alleged bullet hole.
By day, Charlie was a banker, although I never really ascertained just what sort of work he did. I just know that he worked in a bank. He looked like a banker. Though he was likely in his mid-to-late twenties, just slightly older than Danny and me, he affected the appearance of one approaching middle age. His well-kept mustache, his conservative attire – even when dressed for clubbing – and his slight paunch created an impression of aging betrayed only by his youthful complexion.
Whatever Charlie did at the bank, it apparently didn't pay well enough, for he worked several evenings a week in the teen and young men's department at Davidson's, a major downtown Atlanta department store.
And while Charlie never said much about his banking duties, he regularly regaled us with tales of his Davidson's customers. It wasn't that he talked about how cute or studly some of his customers were. Most any gay guy does that. Charlie's particular joy came when a customer needed to be measured for slacks and Charlie had to measure the lad's inseam.
Charlie was sensible enough never to take liberties with any of his customers, especially since most, at best, were of the age so often described as "barely legal," and some likely wouldn't be legal for sometime. Oh, Charlie was careful, but he was also very observant.
Charlie provided me with quite an education. I'd never really been aware that some males dressed with their, um, equipment, to the right side and some to the left. I also learned from Charlie that such positioning was not a matter of chance, but personal preference. I thought it rather odd that, after 24 years of life as a male, I’d never given any thought to the matter of “positioning.”
Especially exciting – and perhaps risky – for Charlie were those occasions when the boy to measured what wearing shorts. Boys at this time didn’t wear the khaki knee-length shorts one finds at Gap or Banana Republic, or the long nylon shorts favored by today’s basketball players, ones that can almost be stretched to one’s ankles. Shorts were, well, short. Very short. Boys and young men wore briefs. Boxer underwear was not yet in fashion for any male under the age of, say, 60. Boxers wouldn’t have worked in a time when the look in clothes was the tighter, the better.
As a result, Charlie often got an eyeful or at least a glimpse of underwear. And sometimes – on very rare occasions – Charlie got a glimpse of no underwear. That surprised me. Oh, I had heard once that Elvis (who, at the time was very much alive and on the comeback trail) never wore underwear, but I had assumed he was probably the only male who did so. And I doubted that – in 1970, at least – many of Charlie’s young male customers were Elvis fans.
After I found an apartment of my own, I came to miss Charlie’s nightly tales of adventures in inseam measurement. But when I would occasionally encounter him at a club, I’d be sure to ask him about any recent inseam exploits.
To this day, every time I need some pants shortened – to my 24-inch inseam – I think of Charlie and what he taught me. And I wonder if the clerk doing the measurement takes note of my “positioning.”
Charlie had a thing for measuring teen boys' inseams. Charlie was Danny's roommate and ex-lover, and in his bedroom door was the alleged bullet hole.
By day, Charlie was a banker, although I never really ascertained just what sort of work he did. I just know that he worked in a bank. He looked like a banker. Though he was likely in his mid-to-late twenties, just slightly older than Danny and me, he affected the appearance of one approaching middle age. His well-kept mustache, his conservative attire – even when dressed for clubbing – and his slight paunch created an impression of aging betrayed only by his youthful complexion.
Whatever Charlie did at the bank, it apparently didn't pay well enough, for he worked several evenings a week in the teen and young men's department at Davidson's, a major downtown Atlanta department store.
And while Charlie never said much about his banking duties, he regularly regaled us with tales of his Davidson's customers. It wasn't that he talked about how cute or studly some of his customers were. Most any gay guy does that. Charlie's particular joy came when a customer needed to be measured for slacks and Charlie had to measure the lad's inseam.
Charlie was sensible enough never to take liberties with any of his customers, especially since most, at best, were of the age so often described as "barely legal," and some likely wouldn't be legal for sometime. Oh, Charlie was careful, but he was also very observant.
Charlie provided me with quite an education. I'd never really been aware that some males dressed with their, um, equipment, to the right side and some to the left. I also learned from Charlie that such positioning was not a matter of chance, but personal preference. I thought it rather odd that, after 24 years of life as a male, I’d never given any thought to the matter of “positioning.”
Especially exciting – and perhaps risky – for Charlie were those occasions when the boy to measured what wearing shorts. Boys at this time didn’t wear the khaki knee-length shorts one finds at Gap or Banana Republic, or the long nylon shorts favored by today’s basketball players, ones that can almost be stretched to one’s ankles. Shorts were, well, short. Very short. Boys and young men wore briefs. Boxer underwear was not yet in fashion for any male under the age of, say, 60. Boxers wouldn’t have worked in a time when the look in clothes was the tighter, the better.
As a result, Charlie often got an eyeful or at least a glimpse of underwear. And sometimes – on very rare occasions – Charlie got a glimpse of no underwear. That surprised me. Oh, I had heard once that Elvis (who, at the time was very much alive and on the comeback trail) never wore underwear, but I had assumed he was probably the only male who did so. And I doubted that – in 1970, at least – many of Charlie’s young male customers were Elvis fans.
After I found an apartment of my own, I came to miss Charlie’s nightly tales of adventures in inseam measurement. But when I would occasionally encounter him at a club, I’d be sure to ask him about any recent inseam exploits.
To this day, every time I need some pants shortened – to my 24-inch inseam – I think of Charlie and what he taught me. And I wonder if the clerk doing the measurement takes note of my “positioning.”
Story 3: About that Bullet Hole in the Door
About that Bullet Hole in the Door . . . (January 1970)
The dog had found a home all right – for about a month. My relationship with Danny didn't last that long – about two weeks.
Oh, it started out fine, even passionately. Danny and Charlie shared a rather spacious two-bedroom apartment and I shared Danny's bedroom. And I don’t just mean that Danny and I shared the bed. We did that, of course, but we also shared the bedroom. I worked days at the radio station, basically nine-to-five, and Danny worked the graveyard shift at Dunkin Donuts next door to the apartment complex. He slept days; I slept nights. And between night and day, from just after his arrival home around 6:15 until my departure for work around 8:45, we slept together. We had our evenings and weekends too, but that proved to be too much time together.
What led to our break up? That's never easy to say, but there were at least three factors: astrology, opera and inappropriate laughter. Oh, and a bullet hole in a bedroom door.
Astrology. “Aquarius and Taurus should never fall in love,” observed Danny that first night we shared together. Whatever, I thought to myself. He was Aquarius; I was Taurus. He took star signs seriously; I didn’t. Perhaps I should have. Danny’s birthday was Valentine’s Day. My birthday was once observed in most southern states as Confederate Memorial Day. Lovers or would-be lovers exchanged cards on Danny’s birthday. Southerners put flowers on graves on my birthday. And Hallmark didn’t make cards for Confederate Memorial Day.
Opera. Danny was the first opera queen I'd met and he introduced me to several others. Now, I didn’t hate opera, but I guess the opera “marker” was missing from my gay DNA. (I was later to realize I was also missing the “show tune” marker.) But Danny was passionate about opera. Saturday afternoons meant listening to live Met broadcasts. When we went to the nearby branch library, I checked out books; Danny checked out opera recordings. He knew each work, he knew each performer – he even knew their nicknames, for gosh sakes. Love Danny, love his favorite operas. Love me, love rock and roll.
Inappropriate laughter. One evening one of Danny’s fellow opera queens dropped by. Despite his passion for opera, Danny was a fairly butch boy. Not so his friend, the ultimate overweight screaming queen, manifesting every effeminate gay stereotype imaginable. I’d never been comfortable with gay guys referring to one another as, “she,” but here I made an exception. The conversation was pleasant enough – even fun – for a while, until we began to regale one another with tales of bad tricks we’d had. “What really turns me off,” she said, “is to get some gorgeous stud home and discover he’s wearing silk panties!”
We all laughed. But then I kept laughing, recalling Danny’s attire that first night at the motel. And I kept laughing. I couldn’t stop. Even as Danny glared at me, I couldn’t stop. I don’t really think I was laughing at Danny, more likely at the thought that this outrageous effeminate queen would take offense at a trick wearing female underwear. But the damage was done. Danny was livid. And he never forgave me.
Which brings up the matter of the bullet hole.
During my first day tour of the apartment, as Danny showed me Charlie's bedroom, he pointed to a hole in Charlie’s bedroom door. “That’s from a bullet I fired once – when we had a fight.” For some reason, this chilling revelation didn’t, well, chill me at first. But now that I’d made Danny really angry, I thought again of the bullet hole. Did he still have the gun? I didn’t really want to stay around and find out. The next day I began apartment hunting.
The dog had found a home all right – for about a month. My relationship with Danny didn't last that long – about two weeks.
Oh, it started out fine, even passionately. Danny and Charlie shared a rather spacious two-bedroom apartment and I shared Danny's bedroom. And I don’t just mean that Danny and I shared the bed. We did that, of course, but we also shared the bedroom. I worked days at the radio station, basically nine-to-five, and Danny worked the graveyard shift at Dunkin Donuts next door to the apartment complex. He slept days; I slept nights. And between night and day, from just after his arrival home around 6:15 until my departure for work around 8:45, we slept together. We had our evenings and weekends too, but that proved to be too much time together.
What led to our break up? That's never easy to say, but there were at least three factors: astrology, opera and inappropriate laughter. Oh, and a bullet hole in a bedroom door.
Astrology. “Aquarius and Taurus should never fall in love,” observed Danny that first night we shared together. Whatever, I thought to myself. He was Aquarius; I was Taurus. He took star signs seriously; I didn’t. Perhaps I should have. Danny’s birthday was Valentine’s Day. My birthday was once observed in most southern states as Confederate Memorial Day. Lovers or would-be lovers exchanged cards on Danny’s birthday. Southerners put flowers on graves on my birthday. And Hallmark didn’t make cards for Confederate Memorial Day.
Opera. Danny was the first opera queen I'd met and he introduced me to several others. Now, I didn’t hate opera, but I guess the opera “marker” was missing from my gay DNA. (I was later to realize I was also missing the “show tune” marker.) But Danny was passionate about opera. Saturday afternoons meant listening to live Met broadcasts. When we went to the nearby branch library, I checked out books; Danny checked out opera recordings. He knew each work, he knew each performer – he even knew their nicknames, for gosh sakes. Love Danny, love his favorite operas. Love me, love rock and roll.
Inappropriate laughter. One evening one of Danny’s fellow opera queens dropped by. Despite his passion for opera, Danny was a fairly butch boy. Not so his friend, the ultimate overweight screaming queen, manifesting every effeminate gay stereotype imaginable. I’d never been comfortable with gay guys referring to one another as, “she,” but here I made an exception. The conversation was pleasant enough – even fun – for a while, until we began to regale one another with tales of bad tricks we’d had. “What really turns me off,” she said, “is to get some gorgeous stud home and discover he’s wearing silk panties!”
We all laughed. But then I kept laughing, recalling Danny’s attire that first night at the motel. And I kept laughing. I couldn’t stop. Even as Danny glared at me, I couldn’t stop. I don’t really think I was laughing at Danny, more likely at the thought that this outrageous effeminate queen would take offense at a trick wearing female underwear. But the damage was done. Danny was livid. And he never forgave me.
Which brings up the matter of the bullet hole.
During my first day tour of the apartment, as Danny showed me Charlie's bedroom, he pointed to a hole in Charlie’s bedroom door. “That’s from a bullet I fired once – when we had a fight.” For some reason, this chilling revelation didn’t, well, chill me at first. But now that I’d made Danny really angry, I thought again of the bullet hole. Did he still have the gun? I didn’t really want to stay around and find out. The next day I began apartment hunting.
Story 2: Dog Catches Car
Dog Catches Car (January 1970)
My first pickup line had worked. Danny had agreed to go home with me, “home” being a cheap motel in Marietta. Since Danny lived in Atlanta, in what I would later realize was the gay ghetto, he followed me in my car to our tryst in suburban Cobb County.
As I drove, checking my mirror periodically to be sure I hadn’t lost him in traffic, I pondered what I’d just done. I was a bit like a dog that chases a car. The dog has no idea what it will do if it catches the car. I had caught Danny. Now what would I do?
Remember that this was my first pickup, my first “catch.” Before this, I had been the one who was chased and caught. Well, I thought, Danny had done this before. I’ll just take my lead from him.
Upon arriving at the motel room, I checked all my worldly belongings I had earlier unloaded from the car and introduced Danny to Athena, my two-year-old tabby cat. He petted her a bit, she sniffed his clothes and checked him out a bit, then headed for a corner to nap, leaving Danny and I to check each other out.
Then began the customary embrace-fondle-grope-explore routine, the start of most all making out, straight or gay. Standing face to face, we embraced, then began exploring each other with our hands, first all around the back, then down toward the waist, then back up again, kissing all the while, first the lips, then the cheeks, then the lips again, whatever we desired. Once I glanced aside to the corner. Athena was sound asleep. As a cat, she apparently was uninterested in what a dog does when it catches a car.
My hands continued to explore Danny’s back, his shoulders and spine, then his waist. And then, remembering what others had done to me, I slid my hands down and began caressing and, I think, squeezing his butt. He returned the favor.
Then I almost screwed up. I slid my hands up and slipped them under the waistband of his jeans, and over his underwear. Boxers or briefs, I wondered, but I couldn’t tell. Well, one way to find out. I removed my hands and slipped them between us to undo his belt. And then he – rather gently – pushed me away.
“Uh, can I use your shower? I really need one before we go any further.”
I was taken aback, suspecting he had some concern other than personal hygiene. Had I come on too strong? Did he have second thoughts? Though I was new to all this, I knew most guys showered before heading to the club, in order to be ready for just such an occasion as this. But he insisted, saying he hadn’t planned to go out that night, so he’d just gone to the club for a couple of drinks and really needed a shower.
Stupidly, perhaps, I wasn’t buying any of it. Much to my surprise I pulled him back toward me and proceeded to undo his belt buckle and top jeans button. I had to wrestle him as well as his zipper as he continued to protest – though not at all violently – that he really, really needed a shower. His protest failed, the zipper came down, followed by his jeans. It was then I saw his concern.
He was wearing blue nylon panties.
A brief awkward silence. “Well, I guess that answers the ‘boxers or briefs’ question,” I said, smiling. “Actually, they look quite good on you,” I continued, and they actually did, but this boy would have looked good in anything.
“Uh, they’re not mine,” he stammered, “I don’t usually, uh . . .”
“Relax,” I lied, “I’ve got a pink pair just like them.”
I don’t know if he believed me or if he was just relieved I didn’t ridicule him, but he seemed to relax a bit. “Go take your shower,” I said, gently patting his pantied behind, another first time experience. I needed time while he showered to think about what would – or should – happen next. Actually, I needed time to consider my own behavior up to that point, being rather surprised at the aggressiveness I’d just shown. I was still too new to all this to have any understanding of male-male roles, of “top” or “bottom.” I had assumed Danny would “take the lead,” but my libido seemed to have other ideas. That would soon change.
Danny emerged from his shower, a towel wrapped around him. I was still fully dressed, but Danny soon remedied that situation, then dropped his towel and pushed me on the bed.
What exactly happened next – and for the next few hours – isn’t nearly as important as the fact that Danny was still there with me in the morning. Today was to be my first day at my new job, selling advertising for a local radio station. Danny didn’t have to be to work until just before midnight as an assistant manager of a Dunkin Donuts franchise located next door to his apartment complex.
He asked, “What are you doing tonight?” I told him that I was going to ask off early to locate a place to live.
“Well, you can come and stay with me and Charlie for a while.” His reply was so quick, I was sure he’d already thought about the offer. I reminded him that it wouldn’t be just me, but my beloved cat, which would join them. “No problem,” he replied, again appearing to have already considered the matter.
I had just about an hour to get cleaned up, properly dressed and presentable for my first day of work, so I agreed. He wrote the address and drew a sketchy map on a piece of motel stationery, kissed me goodbye and left.
The night of “firsts” had continued into morning. My first pickup line had resulted in my first pickup and my first pickup had been my first sexual encounter to stay the entire night and now he was to become my first gay roommate.
No, we hadn’t said the “L” word. Yet. But when – and if – we would (and we would), it would be another first.
The dog had caught the car. Now the dog had apparently found a home.
My first pickup line had worked. Danny had agreed to go home with me, “home” being a cheap motel in Marietta. Since Danny lived in Atlanta, in what I would later realize was the gay ghetto, he followed me in my car to our tryst in suburban Cobb County.
As I drove, checking my mirror periodically to be sure I hadn’t lost him in traffic, I pondered what I’d just done. I was a bit like a dog that chases a car. The dog has no idea what it will do if it catches the car. I had caught Danny. Now what would I do?
Remember that this was my first pickup, my first “catch.” Before this, I had been the one who was chased and caught. Well, I thought, Danny had done this before. I’ll just take my lead from him.
Upon arriving at the motel room, I checked all my worldly belongings I had earlier unloaded from the car and introduced Danny to Athena, my two-year-old tabby cat. He petted her a bit, she sniffed his clothes and checked him out a bit, then headed for a corner to nap, leaving Danny and I to check each other out.
Then began the customary embrace-fondle-grope-explore routine, the start of most all making out, straight or gay. Standing face to face, we embraced, then began exploring each other with our hands, first all around the back, then down toward the waist, then back up again, kissing all the while, first the lips, then the cheeks, then the lips again, whatever we desired. Once I glanced aside to the corner. Athena was sound asleep. As a cat, she apparently was uninterested in what a dog does when it catches a car.
My hands continued to explore Danny’s back, his shoulders and spine, then his waist. And then, remembering what others had done to me, I slid my hands down and began caressing and, I think, squeezing his butt. He returned the favor.
Then I almost screwed up. I slid my hands up and slipped them under the waistband of his jeans, and over his underwear. Boxers or briefs, I wondered, but I couldn’t tell. Well, one way to find out. I removed my hands and slipped them between us to undo his belt. And then he – rather gently – pushed me away.
“Uh, can I use your shower? I really need one before we go any further.”
I was taken aback, suspecting he had some concern other than personal hygiene. Had I come on too strong? Did he have second thoughts? Though I was new to all this, I knew most guys showered before heading to the club, in order to be ready for just such an occasion as this. But he insisted, saying he hadn’t planned to go out that night, so he’d just gone to the club for a couple of drinks and really needed a shower.
Stupidly, perhaps, I wasn’t buying any of it. Much to my surprise I pulled him back toward me and proceeded to undo his belt buckle and top jeans button. I had to wrestle him as well as his zipper as he continued to protest – though not at all violently – that he really, really needed a shower. His protest failed, the zipper came down, followed by his jeans. It was then I saw his concern.
He was wearing blue nylon panties.
A brief awkward silence. “Well, I guess that answers the ‘boxers or briefs’ question,” I said, smiling. “Actually, they look quite good on you,” I continued, and they actually did, but this boy would have looked good in anything.
“Uh, they’re not mine,” he stammered, “I don’t usually, uh . . .”
“Relax,” I lied, “I’ve got a pink pair just like them.”
I don’t know if he believed me or if he was just relieved I didn’t ridicule him, but he seemed to relax a bit. “Go take your shower,” I said, gently patting his pantied behind, another first time experience. I needed time while he showered to think about what would – or should – happen next. Actually, I needed time to consider my own behavior up to that point, being rather surprised at the aggressiveness I’d just shown. I was still too new to all this to have any understanding of male-male roles, of “top” or “bottom.” I had assumed Danny would “take the lead,” but my libido seemed to have other ideas. That would soon change.
Danny emerged from his shower, a towel wrapped around him. I was still fully dressed, but Danny soon remedied that situation, then dropped his towel and pushed me on the bed.
What exactly happened next – and for the next few hours – isn’t nearly as important as the fact that Danny was still there with me in the morning. Today was to be my first day at my new job, selling advertising for a local radio station. Danny didn’t have to be to work until just before midnight as an assistant manager of a Dunkin Donuts franchise located next door to his apartment complex.
He asked, “What are you doing tonight?” I told him that I was going to ask off early to locate a place to live.
“Well, you can come and stay with me and Charlie for a while.” His reply was so quick, I was sure he’d already thought about the offer. I reminded him that it wouldn’t be just me, but my beloved cat, which would join them. “No problem,” he replied, again appearing to have already considered the matter.
I had just about an hour to get cleaned up, properly dressed and presentable for my first day of work, so I agreed. He wrote the address and drew a sketchy map on a piece of motel stationery, kissed me goodbye and left.
The night of “firsts” had continued into morning. My first pickup line had resulted in my first pickup and my first pickup had been my first sexual encounter to stay the entire night and now he was to become my first gay roommate.
No, we hadn’t said the “L” word. Yet. But when – and if – we would (and we would), it would be another first.
The dog had caught the car. Now the dog had apparently found a home.
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