NYSocBoy's Beefcake and Bonding

In the 1980s and 1990s, gay men and lesbians both called West Hollywood home, but it was two different West Hollywoods that rarely interacted, with different bars, restaurants, gyms, bookstores, parties, and organizations. We came together for a few causes of common interest, like Gay Pride, but we rarely became friends.

If you did become friends, it was hard to find a place to hang out. Lesbian bars charged men exhorbitant covers to keep them out, and the various womyn's spaces in town didn't allow men inside at all.

But we all read Alison Bechdel's comic strip Dykes to Watch Out For in the local gay newspapers, and collected the small paperback reprint books: New Improved Dykes, Unnatural Dykes, Invasion of the Dykes, Split-Level Dykes.

They gave an interesting glimpse into lesbian experience, so close to our own: growing up amid a "what boy do you like?" brainwashing, being told that same-sex desire does not exist, escaping to a gay haven, looking for love in a paradise of feminine beauty.

But also so different. And, perhaps, with lessons we could learn.

1. Gay men paid little attention to events taking place outside West Hollywood, except for homophobes plotting our destruction. We barely knew that the Gulf War was happening, but Mo, the central character, was devastated by it. Ecology, big business, politics, poverty, patriarchy -- the Dykes to Watch Out For seemed less insular, ready to fight for many causes in the wider world.

2. Gay men knew other gay men, period. You might know heterosexuals at work, but you didn't number them among your friends. You could easily go for weeks without speaking to a woman. But the Dykes to Watch Out For sometimes had children from heterosexual marriages before they came out. That meant ex-husbands and the current partners of those ex-husbands, and so on, and so on, until their address books swelled with names of friends from every gender and sexual orientation.

3. The acronym LGBT had not yet caught on; gay men recognized same-sex desire, period. Even vague statements like "what a beautiful woman!" were likely to get you laughed at, if not branded a "traitor." But early on, Dykes to Watch Out For began to explore the fluidity of desire, with transwomen, bisexuals, and a woman who insists that she's a lesbian, not bisexual, even though she's in a relationship with a man.

See also: The Princess: Sometimes Boys Are Girls.

Did you ever wonder about the origin of the stereotype of gay men as wealthy, over-educated, over-sophisticated, and indolent, doing nothing all day but lounging on the beach, so they can spend their nights disco dancing, taking drugs, and having meaningless sex with strangers?

I blame the Violet Quill.

During the early 1980s, there was very little gay fiction available, even at gay themed bookstores like Wilde and Stein in Houston and A Different Light in West Hollywood. You could get a few classics, like Remembrance of Things Past, The Immoralist, The City and the Pillar, and Berlin Stories, but contemporary gay literature was dominated by novels published by the Violet Quill.

They were a group of young, sophisticated, wealthy gay men who lived in the Village and wrote about young, sophisticated, wealthy gay men who lived in the Village.

The seven novels that constituted Gay Literature:

1. Dancer from the Dance (Andrew Holleran, 1978). Sophisticated, indolent young hedonists divide their time between the Village and Fire Island, having lots of meaningless sex with strangers, and eventually die.

2. Nocturnes for the King of Naples (Edmund White, 1978): A stream-of-consciousness tale of lost love while having lots of meaningless sex with strangers. Don't be fooled: it's set in the Village, not Naples.

3. The Confessions of Danny Slocum (George Whitmore, 1980). His confessions involve lots of meaningless sex with strangers while searching for love in the Village.

4. Late in the Season (Felice Picano, 1981). More sophisticated, indolent young hedonists divide their time between the Village and Fire Island, while having lots of meaningless sex with strangers and competing over lovers. It's "late" because Fire Island empties out in September, not because of AIDS.

5. A Boy's Own Story (Edmund White, 1982): the boy lives in the Village, but goes back home to come out to his wealthy relatives, who are shocked.

6. Nights in Aruba (Andrew Holleran, 1983). Don't be fooled: the boy lives in the Village, but goes back home to come out to his wealthy relatives, who are shocked.

7. The Family of Max Desir (Robert Ferro, 1983). Max lives in the Village, but goes back home to try to reconcile with his wealthy relatives, who disowned him when he came out.

Noticing a pattern here? Sex, alienation, and death. Not a lot of Gay Pride here: it's a picture of gay life about as sordid and depressing as any of the homophobic novels of the 1930s.

And very, very insular. No one working class or poor, few racial minorities, and no one who doesn't live in the Village or on Fire Island.

Gay people simply do not exist elsewhere.

Later in the 1980s, Gay Literature became dominated by novels about gay men dying of AIDS. Strangely, they were no more depressing than the endless sex-drugs-and-alienation of the Violet Quill.

See also: Dancer from the Dance.

Do you know this man? You should.

Saved by the Bell (1988-93) was a mega-hit, especially among teenagers, so of course it spawned countless imitations (even a cartoon series, Tiny Toon Adventures). Suddenly Friday night and Saturday morning was crowded with buffed twentysomethings attending affluent high schools that required their students to be semi-nude most of the time.

In addition to the usual problems with parents, teachers, dating, homework, and sports competitions, California Dreams (1992-97) put the high schoolers in a band. The members kept changing, but they included Brent Gore, William James Jones, Jay Anthony Franke, and Aaron Jackson.

20-year old Michael Cade played Sly Winkle (yes, that was his name), the fast-talking, scheming manager of the band. Oddly, Sly was not the least concerned with heterosexual hookups. He liked modeling, wrestling, surfing -- anything that required his shirt to be off -- but he only dated girls in two or three episodes, and they were all designed to give him a comeuppance rather than demonstrate girl-craziness.

All of the male cast members were attractive enough to become the first crush of gay boys everywhere, but Michael Cade was stunning, a worthy successor to Mark-Paul Goesselar or even such 1980s hunks as Alan Kayser and Robby Benson. He also had a winning smile, and enough charisma to shine in even the most pedestrian plotlines.

After California Dreams, Michael continued to work in television and movies, mostly independents with limited release, such as Along the Way (2007), and shorts like The Trip (2007) and Customer Service (2009).

They may be difficult to find, but they're worth seeking out. Even without the shirtless shots.

Michael is a gifted performer, and his characters are usually immersed in groups of male friends, with no hint of a quest for heterosexual romance.

See also: Weird Science.

I always wonder if I have any gay relatives, or if I am alone on my family tree.

One doesn't discuss such things among conservative fundamentalists, and God forbid you ask! But by checking carefully for hints and signals, or by catching them "in the act," I have determined that among my 8 pairs of uncles and aunts and 18 cousins, one is gay, and another straight but "open to suggestions."

And I've been watching my nieces and nephews throughout their lives, looking for signs of gayness.

But Josh took me by surprise.

December 2000: Yuri and I flew out to Rock Island to spend a week with my brother Ken. On Christmas Eve we would all drive out to my parents' house in Indiana, and stay there until January 3rd.

Ken lived in a huge, rambling house downtown Rock Island, really two houses crammed together, with two living rooms, two kitchens, four bathrooms, and eight bedrooms. Which he needed: he had eight kids, ranging in age from 19 to 2, plus a seemingly endless array of dogs, cats, parakeets, and hamsters.

While visiting, Yuri and I played it cool -- that is, we stayed closeted. Ken knew, but he was a conservative fundamentalist, and didn't like talking about it.

And since neither of us was dating anyone special at the time, there really wasn't much to talk about.

At bedtime, we got a small bedroom in an isolated corridor on the second floor, with two twin beds. Of course, we only used one of them.

At 6:00 am on the morning of our third day in Rock Island, I was awakened by an elated voice. "Aha, I knew you were gay!"

I opened my eyes. It was Ken's son Josh!

"Don't you knock before coming in someone's room?"

"It's my house -- I can go where I want." He grinned. "Don't worry, I won't tell my Dad."

"He's known since before you were born. Now do you mind if we get dressed?" I was painfully aware that we were both naked under the covers.

"Why do you care if we are gay?" Yuri asked.

"I don't -- not much, anyway. I mean, it's pretty weird, but as long as I don't have to watch, it's ok." He sat on the foot of the bed. "Did you bring any porn?"

"No! And anyway, it would be gay porn, right?"

"I guess."

Wait -- he wasn't letting us get dressed, and he wanted to see gay porn?

I'd been keeping close tabs on Ken's kids, looking for evidence of gayness, but I hadn't figured on Josh. He was always talking to girls on the telephone, and rushing off to dates with girls. Or was that a screen?

"Josh," I said, "Are you gay?"

"Me? No way!" he exclaimed, offended. "I like girls!" He paused. "So...have you had gay sex?"

"Yes, sure, why?" Yuri asked.

"Well, see..." He paused again. "My friend Max..he's not gay, either. But we were wondering what it's like. Could you...you know, let us watch?"

I thought for a moment. "Tell you what -- meet us for lunch today, and we'll show you how gay guys lose their virginity."

While Josh happily ran off to tell his friend about their upcoming orgy, Yuri punched me on the arm. "Ti choknutiy! You are crazy! We can't do sex with kids!"

"Don't worry, we won't. I said how gay guys lose their virginity. Remember what I told you about that?"

He grinned. "You are a genius!"

That afternoon we met for lunch at Mulkey's, up the street from Augustana College. Max was a cute football jock, wide-eyed at meeting two gay guys, one of them from Russia! We talked about growing up in a world where same-sex desire was never mentioned, where "what girl do you like" was a constant mantra. We told our coming out stories.

Max was more interested in gay culture. "So you were both dating Jaan?" he asked. "Didn't it make you jealous?"

"Not really. Straight guys want exclusive relationships, because they want to make sure that if the woman gets pregnant, the baby is theirs. But gay guys don't have that concern."

But Josh was anxious to get started. "When will we get to see you...you know, do it?

We went to Lincoln Park and walked along the snow-covered trails. I asked: "What are the steps you straight guys have to go through before going all the way?"

Reddening with embarrassment, Max listed the same steps that I heard as a kid, from #1 (Kissing) to #6 (Putting your penis into her).

"Do you know why Step #6 is last for straight guys?"

They shook their heads.

"Because the girl might get pregnant, so she has to be very careful, and reserve it for only very special relationships. But gay guys don't get pregnant, so they don't care."

"It's not special at all," Yuri added. "We don't even say that it is sex. It's playing around."

"Then what is special?" Josh asked, perplexed.

"This is Step #6 for us." I looked around to see if anyone was nearby, then drew Yuri into my arms and kissed him.

It took a few moments to disentangle myself and face them again. They were both staring.

"Kissing?" Max asked.

"Right. That's how gay guys lose their virginity. It's the most intimate thing you can do. Everything else is just foreplay."

"But...you can kiss anybody. You can kiss your grandmother."

"Not like this. Try it and see."

Josh and Max faced each other, leaned in -- and started to giggle. They leaned in again -- and Josh pushed Max away. Max kissed him on the cheek.

"I guess you're not ready for the advanced step yet," Yuri said. "Give it time."

We never talked about "gay sex" again, though sometimes when I visited at Christmastime, Josh would ask, with a knowing grin, "Are you...kissing anyone special?"

Josh is 28 years old now, with several ex-girlfriends and an eight-year old son. I'm not sure if he's bisexual, straight "but open to suggestions," or just plain straight, but I found Max among his Facebook friends. Max is gay.

See also: The Night I Lost My Virginity.

During the 1970s, 1980s, and 1990s, the first thing you did after "figuring it out" was pack all of your stuff and move to a gay neighborhood, where you could be free from stares and jeers and shrieks of "God hates you!"

Once you arrived, you never left, except when absolutely necessary, for work or required Christmas visits "back home." You wouldn't accept a date with anyone who lived outside, in the Straight World. On vacation, you visited other gay neighborhoods.

Many gay kids today don't grow up dreaming of a safe haven. Being gay is no big deal at school. Their families and straight friends are perfectly accepting. Why not stay where you are?

But the gay neighborhoods are still there, waiting for those of us who grew up in homophobic small towns, who are tired of the incessant heterosexism of the Straight World, or who want to see what it was like to have a home.

I've lived in four gay neighborhoods in the U.S. and Canada, and visited about a dozen others. Here are the biggest and best:

The Bravest:
The Montrose, Houston (top photo).
Today Houston has gay rights ordinances and a gay mayor, but when I lived in Texas in 1984, there were sodomy laws and rednecks with shotguns, and police cadets were warned about the "homosexual deviants" lurking at the corner of Montrose and Westheimer. Just walking down the street was perilous. In spite of the dangers, gay people carved out a newspaper, a bookstore, political action groups, and lots of fun cowboy bars.

The Most Political:
Dupont Circle, Washington, DC.
A bit cramped, hard to find parking, but an architectural gem, and only a mile from the White House.

Who would expect a thriving Community Center a stone's throw from government homophobes? Dupont Circle is home to over 50 gay organizations, everything from the Human Rights Campaign to the LGBT Fallen Heroes Fund.

The Most Literary:
Washington Square West, Philadelphia
Philadelphia has some of the world's best gay clubs and restaurants, and it's the site of the first Gay Rights demonstration in history. But its biggest claim to fame is Giovanni's Room, the second oldest and largest gay bookstore in the world, founded back in 1972, when there were almost no gay-positive books in existence, and certainly none available in mainstream bookstores.

It closed recently, bankrupted by online giants, and re-opened as a thrift store with proceeds going to AIDS services.

The Friendliest:
Wilton Manors, Fort Lauderdale.
This was home for 4 years. There were great beaches, gyms, clubs, and restaurants, but what I remember most was the great sense of camaraderie.

Maybe it was because many residents were older, and had lived through the horrors of the pre-Stonewall police state.

Maybe it was because, once you left Wilton Manors, you ran into some of the most horrifying Bible-thumping redneck cities in the country.

But in Wilton Manors, everyone was welcome; everyone knew your name.

The Brawniest:
Hawthorne, Portland (Oregon).
I thought Texas had the biggest of everything, but when I visited Portland in 1995, I found a bookstore that covered an entire city block, a bath house with room for 3000 patrons, and a bar crowded with the biggest, most buffed men this side of Muscle Beach.

More after the break.

The Best for Cruising:
Boystown, Chicago
Halsted and Broadway, east of Clark, the first gay neighborhood I ever heard of, back in college. I haven't visited often -- an occasional conference or job interview -- but each visit has been an adventure. The Cellblock, the Sweat Lodge, the Jackhammer, Man's Country. The only dark room I've seen in the U.S. Plus private parties, biker runs, bear clubs, even a gay nudist group.

You'll be lucky if there's any time left over for the museums.

The Best for Food:
Rue Ste. Catherine, Montreal.
Montreal is one of my favorite cities in North America, with enough museums, architectural masterpieces, and cruising spots for a hundred memorable visits. But what I like most is the food. Especially Vietnamese, which is hard to find in the U.S.: The Cafe Saigon, Pho 21, La Gout de Vietnam. But also Moroccan, Greek, Mexican, Thai, Chinese, Japanese... You need to work out six hours a day just to keep up.

The Most Spiritual:
The Castro, San Francisco.
I'm not talking about Glide United Methodist Church, the first to open its doors to LGBT members. Or the Radical Faeries, the first gay pagan group. Or the many other gay religious groups based here.

I'm talking about the Castro.

Get off at the Castro Street Muni Station at dawn, when the air is chill and the sky is just beginning to turn blue. No one is around except a few early-risers having breakfast at Orphan Andy's. Walk south past the Castro Theater, past the rainbow flags, through the hush of morning,

You are in heart of the gay world, safe, and accepted, and loved. This is what heaven looks like.

The Most Historical:
The West Village, New York.
This is the best documented gay neighborhood in the world, the subject of countless histories and biographies. Gay Liberation was born here. During the 1970s and 1980s, a group of writers called the Violet Quill wrote a dozen novels set here, cementing the still-common belief that all gay people live in the West Village.

Even in Manhattan, most gay people live elsewhere. The West Village is home to an older, affluent, conservative gay crowd, the type who go to the opera and listen to Barbra Streisand. And remember their history.

The Best of the Best:
West Hollywood.
Home for 13 years. Crowded, expensive, no decent jobs, no place to park. Lots of hustlers, con artists, and wannabes. Lots of Attitude.

It's the best place in the world.

See also: Why San Francisco is Still Gay Heaven; The Top 10 Public Penises of Portland.

I've spent 28 years on college campuses, as student, grad student, and professor, but still, I often feel out of place.

When I'm not out, there's constant heterosexism:
"Will your wife be coming with you?"
"There will be a lot of single women at the party."
"There's not a man alive who wouldn't want to be with her!"

When I'm out, it changes to homophobia:
"How do you know you're gay if you've never tried it with a woman?"
"Why do gay men act so feminine all the time?"
"Are you the boy or the girl in your relationship?"

And the elitism is constant:
"How could you stand growing up in Illinois? Nothing to do but ride tractors and milk cows!"
"How could you stand growing up with parents who didn't go to college? They must have been so ignorant!"
"Why did you go to Augustana? It's such a third-rate clown college!"

Elitism and homophobia come together in The New Yorker, a weekly magazine for people who think that Manhattan is the center of the universe, regardless of where they happen to live.

I lived in Manhattan for three years, and none of the gay people I knew read it. But all heterosexual college professors did. And quite a few outside of New York, in California, Florida, and Ohio.

Why is it required reading for elite heterosexuals but anathema for gay people, regardless of their elitism?

1. It's the height of insularity. Manhattan is the center of the universe, California is full of wannabes, the rest of the U.S. is a "flyover" full of cows and rednecks, and the rest of the world doesn't exist.

Gay people know that West Hollywood is the center of the universe.

2. It's the height of heterosexism. Endless stories about elite heterosexuals agonizing over failed marriages and dying relatives.

Endless cartoons about heterosexuals saying things that make sense to them, but not to gay people. This guy tells his date, "I want Chardonnay, but I like saying 'Pinot Grigio." She is shocked. What's going on?

3. Gay people appear only as subjects of heterosexual discomfort. In a similar restaurant, perhaps the same one, two feminine stereotypes are arguing (notice the limp wrist). One says: "I wouldn't marry you if you were the last gay person on Earth."

Why is this funny? Because he specifies "last gay person?"

Because it's rather disquieting for a heterosexual to think about gay people discussing marriage?

4. An 18th century Dandy and an owl form the masthead "The Talk of the Town", a section of brief stories that elite heterosexuals in Manhattan find amusing. I find it disturbing. I don't even like to look at it.

Apparently the Dandy's name is Eustace Tilley, and he was featured on the first cover, drawn by Rea Irwin in 1925.

Occasionally The New Yorker gets something right. It rejected a homophobic "gay marriage" cover by Robert Crumb, and when the Supreme Court rejected DOMA, it printed a cover of Sesame Street's Bert and Ernie cuddling on a couch.

But those glimmers of "gay is ok" don't make up for that 18th Century Dandy and his owl. Shudder.

See also: Robert Crumb: From Fritz the Cat to Gay Marriage.

In a December 1984 episode of Diff'rent Strokes, Willis (Todd Bridges) inspires his paralyzed friend by introducing him to. . .Mitch Gaylord!!! The studio audience gasps in awe. Mitch Gaylord on the set, only a few feet away!!! Much more exciting than Arnold saying "What you talkin' about, Willis" for the 800th time!

Ok, the guy was extremely muscular, and I liked the sound of his last name, but why the awe? Was he, like, famous or something?

I started noticing him in ads for Diet Coke, Levis, Nike, and Vidal Sassoon Shampoo, and, when I moved to Los Angeles in 1985, sundry posters in gay bookstores.

After the hasty (and perhaps homophobic) firing of Scott Madsen, he became the new spokesman for Soloflex exercise equipment, flexing while lady fingers caressed his shoulder, with the risque tagline "A hard man is good to find."

In March 1985 he appeared with Lucille Ball, Scott Baio, Douglas Barr, and practically every other celebrity I had ever heard of on Night of 100 Stars.

Celebrity?

I asked around, and discovered that Mitch Gaylord was a gymnast in the 1984 Summer Olympics. He won a gold medal, a silver medal, and two bronze medals.

I don't follow sports. Who knew?

Mitch Gaylord wasn't in the spotlight for long. He starred in American Anthem (1986), about two gymnasts, male and female, who fall in love while training for the U.S. Olympic team. He was nominated for a Razzi award for the Worst New Actor.

And in the Italian movie American riscio (1990), about an American college student framed for the murder of a televangelist's son, who teams up with a stripper and a witch to find the real killer (I'm not kidding).

And in a couple of softcore porn movies.

And as a contestant on American Gladiators (1994-95).

He hasn't made any public acknowledgement of his gay fans, but I guess that's better than Scott Madsen's homophobia.

Besides, he was the Hunk of the Month.

In Driving Lessons (2006), Julie Walters plays a free spirit actress who takes an interest in shy teenager Rupert Grint. She originally thinks that her protege is gay, so she knows that gay teenagers exist. But still, on the DVD commentary, she exclaims: "Those biceps! The girls will go mad!" She no longer believes that there is a single teenage boy in the world who might go mad over Rupert Grint's enormous biceps.

Heterosexism aside, in the Harry Pottermovies, Rupert Grint was well aware of the homoerotic undertones in the original novel between his character, Ron Weasley, and teen wizard Harry Potter. So in the movie series, he imbued his character with a tenderness, a vulnerability, and an eye-bulging desire that was not mitigated by the scripted romance with Hermione.

And after Harry Potter, he has chosen a number of buddy-bonding projects (as well as projects that allow him to display his respectably buffed physique and Burt Ward-sized package). Cherrybomb (2009), for instance, involves a sex-and-crime triangulation between Rupert's Malachy and Robert Sheehan's Luke.

In Wild Target (2009), a middle-aged hitman (Bill Nighy) takes on a young apprentice (Rupert) and a hostage (Emily Blunt), and proceeds to fall in love with both.

In Into the White (2012), Rupert plays a British pilot shot down over Norway during World War II. In order to survive, he must share an isolated mountain cabin with a German pilot. I haven't seen it, but it sounds like it's tailor-made for homoerotic buddy-bonding.

Rupert has not addressed the usual gay rumors, but there is no doubt that, like his Harry Potter costar Daniel Radcliffe, he is a gay ally.

When I moved to Upstate New York in the fall of 2008, my social calendar was soon crowded with invitations from members of the Gang of Twelve, guys who had known each other for years, and who shared everything, from gossip to boyfriends.
1-2. The Rich Kid and the Crying Truck Driver.
3-4. The Rapper, and the Grabby Nurse.

All of them told me, "You have to meet the Satyr!" But they all had different stories.

The Rich Kid: he's a muscle bear who used to work in porn movies.

The Truck Driver: he's cultured, artistic, and very romantic.

The Rapper: he's a Sugar Daddy with a fetish for black men.

The Grabby Male Nurse: he's a sexual dynamo, able to keep going all night (thus his nickname).

Date #5. The Satyr

He didn't send any photos or give any stats, so I didn't know what to expect when I drove to old Victorian on the west side of Oneonta. But I certainly didn't expect Chad, the waiter from the Neptune, to answer the door.

"Hey, Chad! I didn't know the Satyr had a roommate."

"I'm not his roommate," he said with a cryptic smile. "He's still getting dressed -- come on in and wait in the parlor."

He ushered me into a room cluttered with heavy leather furniture, old black-and-white photographs, bookshelves, a coffee table made out of an old crate.

I was left alone for about ten minutes to leaf through coffee table books on Asian art and try to make friends with a skittish cat, until the Satyr finally came down the stairs.

A tall, husky, bearded bear, around 60 years old. Broad shoulders, round belly. And, when he gave me a hug, I felt that he had a baseball bat down there, all revved up and ready to go.

"Don't take it personally," the Satyr said with a chuckle. "I'm always like that when I meet a new guy."

"You're always like that when you're breathing!" Chad re-appeared with a tray of cheese and crackers.

"I see you've met my boy toy."

"Housekeeper!" Chad insisted.

"How many housekeepers get paid to keep the boss's bed warm?"

"How many boy toys hook up with studs of their own?"

I thought I'd seen every kind of relationship, but this was a new one. I spent the evening looking for clues on how it worked. Chad cooked dinner, and ate with us-- sesame chicken, fried rice, and seaweed salad. But when we took our ice cream and coffee into the parlor, he vanished.

I was disappointed -- I liked Chad. He was not a stereotypical hustler. He was studying art history at the university, he spoke four languages, and he had some interesting stories about growing up gay in a conservative Korean-American family.

The Satyr, however, was annoying, rather boastful, and a name-dropper. When he was a teenager, hustling in Times Square, one of his clients was Christopher Isherwood.

"Um...well, I met Andrew Lloyd Webber..."

When he was a camera man in Hollywood, he dated Tom Selleck, Rob Lowe, and John Travolta.

Um, well...I dated a former teen idol..."

While he was working at the American consulate in Japan, he had an affair with the son of Prime Minister Toshiki Kaifu that caused a major scandal.

I was not at all interested in a relationship with the Satyr, but who can turn down a baseball bat? So when he suggested we go upstairs, I consented.

"Chad! We're ready for bed!" he yelled.

Wait...what? You don't "share" roommates on the first date! Or housemates, or boy toys, or whatever he is!

When we got upstairs, Chad was waiting, naked, in the Satyr's bedroom. But he just gave us massages and left.

Very weird date, so far.

By the way, he had the second biggest "sausage" I've ever encountered. Chad must have felt like a muppet.

Later, on my way to the bathroom, I passed Chad's bedroom. His door was open. He was lying in his bed, watching Saturday Night Live.

"Hey, I haven't seen that in years!" I exclaimed.

"Well, come on in and watch it with me." He grinned and pulled up the covers.

"Won't the Satyr mind?"

"Not at all. Lots of his dates end up in my bed, or my dates end up in his bed, or our dates find each other and head to the guest room. You need a score card to keep track!"

We watched tv, talked, and cuddled, but no erotic activity happened-- "I want to take things slow with you, not just grab and go," Chad explained, rather paradoxically for a professional bed warmer.

I never shared the Satyr's bed again. Chad and I dated through the fall and winter of 2008, but I always insisted that he come back to my apartment. I was never really comfortable with the housekeeper-boy toy thing.

Later The Klingon, Date #6, told me that he had dated Chad, too, and broke up with him for the same reason.

Want to see a man sitting naked in a bathtub for 2 hours?

I thought so.

You'll have to see Marat/Sade, a 1964 play by Peter Weiss set in the Charenton Asylum in France in 1808, where the inmates, led by the Marquis de Sade, are putting on a play about the assassination of Jean-Paul Marat.

Marat was a radical journalist, a vocal supporter of the Revolution. He was assassinated on July 13, 1793 while taking a medicinal bath for a mysterious skin condition. Since then, he has become an icon for revolutionaries.

He's the subject of the famous painting The Death of Marat, by Jacques-Louis David.

Back to the play: in 1808, Napoleon Bonaparte has become the Emperor of France. The asylum director, Coulmier, supports the new administration, but the inmates, led by the Marquis de Sade, believe that no political regime effects real change.

We've got new generals our leaders are new
They sit and they argue and all that they do
Is sell their own colleagues and ride upon their backs
And jail them and break them and give them all the axe

It all sounds hyper-political, and in fact Marat/Sade was understood as an indictment of the Vietnam War, Communism, and all sorts of local politics. And for gay liberation:

We want our rights and we don't care how
We want our revolution now

The film version (1967) features Patrick Magee as the Marquis de Sade and Ian Richardson as Marat.

Sade, by the way, wrote the 100 Days of Sodom, about libertines trying all of the sexual acts they could think of.

In the 1960s, when my friends and I watched the camp superhero series Batman (which, by the way, we didn't realize was camp), we zeroed in on Burt Ward's Dick Grayson/Robin, because he was a teenager, and because of incredibly bulgeworthy costume. We all but ignored Adam West's Bruce Wayne/Batman.

During the decades since Batman ended, Adam West has had a substantial career playing quirky, out-of-touch parodies of himself on everything from The Adventures of Pete and Pete to Family Guy (where he plays "himself" as the Mayor of Quahog). Delightfully quirky, but not much in the muscle department.

But before Batman, the future Caped Crusader was a bona fide beefcake star.

Born in 1928 in Walla Walla, Washington, West started his career in comedy, as the host of a live children's show in Hawaii and someone named "Ham Ector" on the Philco Playhouse, but in 1959 he moved to Hollywood to join the beefcake craze -- dozens of hunky actors, many discovered by Henry Willson, were tearing up the screens with shirtless and swimsuit shots.

He became very busy immediately, with 10 roles in 1959 alone, notably in The Young Philadelphians, as a man who cannot consummate his marriage for unspecified reasons (i.e., he's gay). He rushes off and dies in an auto accident. His wife has sex with someone else, and his "son" grows up to be Paul Newman.

During the next few years, West guest starred in Westerns -- Sugarfoot, Cheyenne, Bronco -- notably fighting "Tarzan" Jock Mahoney on Laramie. He starred in swinging detective dramas and sitcoms, and in 1961 he got his own tv series, The Detectives. His movie credits included Tammy and the Doctor, the gay-subtext classic Robinson Crusoe on Mars, and the hunk-meets-feral-girl Mara of the Wilderness.

Then came Batman, and everything changed. Beefcake roles were hard to come by: West played Cleander opposite William Shatner's Alexander in Alexander the Great (1968), and a two-fisted adventurer in The Girl Who Knew Too Much (1969), but his presence alone made them campy.

Like many men of his generation, West is somewhat homophobic; in the 1980s, he was flown to London to appear at an event, but when he discovered that it was gay-themed, he refused to appear. More recently he has commented on the gay undertones of Batman: "gay, straight, whatever. Add them to the ratings. If gays like the show, wonderful!"

When I moved to Upstate New York in the fall of 2008, my social calendar was soon crowded with invitations from members of the Gang of Twelve, guys who had known each other for years, and who shared everything, from gossip to boyfriends.

They had a hierarchy. The Upper Class got the first shot at the New Kid in Town: The Rich Kid, The Grabby Nurse, and The Satyr .

Next came the Middle Class: The Truck Driver, The Rapper (though they cut in line due to the special circumstances of their breakup), The Klingon, and The Sword Swallower.

By March 2009, I was getting calls from members who were not at all well off financially, but some of the more attractive of the Gang of Twelve. Like the Pitcher.

Date #8: The Pitcher with a Secret Move

He was, in fact, a former pitcher for the semi-pro Oneonta Tigers. Now he worked as a desk clerk at a hotel in Oneota, and was a volunteer umpire every year at the Cooperstown Dream Park.

The selfie he sent showed a guy in his 40s, broad-shouldered, muscular, clean-shaven, with "matinee idol" good looks.

He had been friends with several members of the Gang of Twelve for years, and dated a couple of them, but the usually-gossipy bunch didn't say much about his past, and nothing about his bedroom activities.

I was intrigued. Maybe he was spectacular, and they didn't want to ruin the surprise. Or awful, and they didn't want to ruin the surprise.

Turns out he was great, except for that sports thing, and one other problem.

See if you can guess what it was:.

First clue: He arrived at my apartment for our date all hot and sweaty from the gym, and asked if he could take a shower first. Of course I wanted a glimpse of his physique, and "accidentally" walked in while he was putting on his underwear.

Very distinctive: white mesh, extending from his waist to just above his knee.

"Are you a Mormon?" I asked.

"Oh, no, this is French. Very comfortable. And it shows off my basket nicely, don't you think?"

I had to agree that it did.

"I always wear it to gym It gets me lots of attention."

Second clue: We went out to dinner at a Thai restaurant (since he was not well-off financially, I paid).

The Pitcher didn't say a lot about his past, so I didn't bring up my usual stories of my date with Richard Dreyfuss, the bodybuilding contest in Turkey, or how I single-handedly bankrupted the porn industry. Instead, we talked about gay rights, tv -- he was a big fan of RuPaul's Drag Race -- and -- yawn -- sports.

"Which date with the Gang of Twelve have you liked best so far?" he asked. "Myself excluded, of course."

"I can tell you the one liked the least -- the Sword Swallower. He freaked me out!"

"I know!" the Pitcher said. "I've told him a dozen times to tell people what he's into, don't just spring it on them. For instance, I'm into a lot of things. But do I just jump into it? Of course not. I always talk to the guy first."

"What, exactly, are you into?" I asked.

"Oh, lots of things...bondage, spanking, water sports, master-slave scenes, talking dirty, underwear, leather, drag, porn, shoes, feet. Do you find any of that appealing?"

"Definitely the leather and the underwear," I said with a grin. "Of course, I like the guy best when he's out of his clothes."

Third clue: After dinner, I invited the Pitcher back to my apartment, but he refused. "I have to go to work at midnight. But how about next weekend? Come over Sunday night, and I'll fix you a nice big home-cooked dinner. Then afterwards we can see what happens."

So the next Sunday I went to the Pitcher's place -- a small house trailer in Milford -- for a dinner of brisket, matzah ball soup, mashed potatoes, beets, and hamentaschen (someone in the Gang of Twelve told him I was Jewish).

Then we sat on the couch, watching The Amazing Race and Desperate Housewives, and kissing and fondling.

He let me grope his fancy French underwear, but when I tried to reach under his shirt, he moved my hand away.

When Desperate Housewives was over, the Pitcher said: "Well, it looks like we've gotten to know each other. Why don't you slip out of those clothes? I'll be right back."

I assumed that he had to use the bathroom, but instead he disappeared into the bedroom. I heard the door lock -- no peeking this time!

He wanted to get undressed in private? Weird.

I took off my clothes and waited on the couch. And waited. And clicked through the channels. And waited. And wondered if it would be impolite to help myself to more hamentaschen.

Was he putting on some fancy fetish gear? Preparing for a bondage scene? I was about ready to knock on the door and see if he had fainted.

Finally the door clicked open, and the Pitcher appeared.

Have you figured it out yet?

More after the break:

The Pitcher was wearing mascara, fake eyelashes, lipstick, and a red wig. Red press-on fingernails.

A bra, panties (not fancy French underwear), red lace pantyhose, and high heeled shoes. .

WTF? "Um...um..." I was speechless. It was like The Crying Game in reverse.

The Pitcher looked confused. "What's wrong? I told you I was into drag."

"Yeah, but it was one thing in a list of 30! I thought we'd be doing a bondage scene."

He sat next to me on the couch. "You definitely said you were into underwear."

"No, no...manly underwear! Jock straps! Not lady's underwear!"

"Well, we seem to have had a miscommunication."

"That's a bit of an understatement! Could you...you know, go back into the bedroom and take it off?"

" No -- no, I only like being with guys when I'm dressed up. It's the only way I can relax and let myself get into it." He put a red-nailed hand on my shoulder. "Have you ever tried it with a guy who's dressed up? You might like it."

"I'm pretty sure I wouldn't. Sorry."

I don't mean to imply that the Pitcher's problem was enjoying bedroom activities in drag -- there's nothing wrong with wearing lady's clothing, whenever and wherever you like. His problem was keeping it a secret, especially from the guys he planned to take into his bedroom. Or revealing it in impenetrable code, as if it were something shameful.

Next: The last of my dates with the Gang of 12, the Stonewall Veteran and the Bodybuilder in the Park.

When I was working on my doctorate at USC, I spent the summer in France, and I watched a soap called Summer Bay (original title Home and Away), an Australian soap opera (1989-) centered on a group of foster children, their parents, and the residents of a nearby trailer park. I'm not much for soap operas, but this one seemed to feature a lot of buddy-bonding. No gay characters, but enough gay subtexts to fill a book (and a lot more swimsuit and semi-nude scenes than One Life to Live).

Blake Dean (Les Hill) moves to town, clashes with adult authority figures, and can't find a true friend until the hunky Simon (Richard Norton) moves to town.

Nick Smith (Chris Egan), a foster kid on the run from a drug lord, buddy-bonds with Duncan Stewart (Brendan McKesey), until Duncan's bad behavior forces a breakup.

The foster child relationships themselves provided moments of homoromantic buddy-bonding, as with school principal Donald (Norman Coburn), who opens his house to a surprisingly number of hunky teens, including Sam Marshall (Ryan Clark).

Even when there was no subtext, there were lots of hunky actors, such as Geoff Campbell (Lincoln Lewis). Nearly every hunky actor in Australia started his career with a season or two as a troubled teen on the beach: Heath Ledger, Julian McMahon, Guy Pearce, Ryan Kwanten....

Juvenile lit with gay characters almost invariably is about straight juveniles coming to terms with the gay adults in their lives. So I was intrigued by the premise of Brent Harlinger's Geography Club (2003), which was made into a play in 2004, and is now a movie (2013), making the gay film festival circuit. It really should be seen by high school students, not the film festival crowd. It's rated PG-13 due to the existence of gay people.

Two gay high schoolers, the nerd Russell Middlebrook (Cameron Stewart, left, of Pitch Perfect) and the jock Kevin Land (Justin Deeley, below, of 90210), want to form a gay club, but they are strictly closeted, and besides, the homophobic backlash would be life-threatening. So they get faculty permission to start a "geography club," presuming that no one but their LGBT friends would come anywhere near it.

I don't know; geography was my favorite subject in school. Who wouldn't want to know about far-off, exotic countries?

A heterosexual girl who actually is interested in geography shows up. After some harrowing moments when they believe that their secret will be revealed, she argues that she should be allowed to stay in the club, because she has an alcoholic mother: "The whole world has to tell me how normal they are and how different they are from me." The gay kids can certainly relate, so she's in.

I'm not happy with the extreme closetedness, which seems a little anachronistic for 2003.

Meanwhile Russell is pressured into dating and trying to have sex with girls by the jock Gunnar (Andrew Caldwell). When he has difficulty performing, Gunnar retaliates by submitting an application for a "Gay-Straight Alliance" under Russell's name. Homophobic reprisals result, with Kevin participating to keep his cover. Gunnar later apologizes.

In a noble act of self-sacrifice, the oddball outsider Brian (Teo Olivares, the gay-vague Crony on Ned's Declassified School Survival Guide) submits a new application under his name, thus relieving Russell from suspicion.

In the end they form a Gay-Straight Alliance after all.

It's all very depressing, but thinking about the horrors of high school for gay kids is always depressing. Heterosexism reigns supreme, more intense and demanding than at any time before or after, augmented by incessant homophobic slurs, jokes, and "accusations."

And only about 10% of LGBT adolescents know that there's a gay culture and community out there, in spite of adult assurances that "it gets better." (30% are aware that gay bars exist, and the other 60% think that there's nothing out there but homophobia and silence).

Rock Island had a large Scandinavian population --we even rated a visit from Carl Gustaf, the King of Sweden -- and our teachers, from grade school through college, felt it their duty to introduce us to "our" heritage (mostly Swedish, but also Norwegian, Danish, Icelandic, Finnish, and even Estonian). I liked Vikings and Norse mythology, but not much else:

1. The horrible fairy tales of Hans Christian Andersen, which usually ended with a kid dying
2. The Wonderful Adventure of Nils, about a boy who visits every single one of Sweden's 25 provinces.
3. A Doll House, about a woman in an unhappy marriage
4. The Growth of the Soil, about a married couple trying to eke out a living on sparse ground.

Wait -- I could be reading The Lord of the Rings instead of this stuff, or parked in front of the tv watching Chips.

5. But the worst was Peer Gynt, the 1867 Ibsen play set to music by Edvard Grieg. I had to read it, play it, perform in it. During my freshman year in college, I had to write a paper analyzing it.

Ok, here's my analysis: Peer Gynt is an irreverent rapscallion, like Tom Jones, whose adventures mostly involve sex with women. After having sex with the sister of his true love Solveig, plus three dairy maids and a mysterious Lady in Green, Peer ends up in the Hall of the Mountain King, a haven of trolls.

The troll king offers to scratch his eye so that he can see clearly, know things as they are, but Peer refuses and runs away. After many adventures as a brigand and a businessman, he returns home, elderly and bitter, and reunites with his true love Solveig on her death bed.

The troll king asks "What is the difference between troll and man?"

The answer is the same as in Pippin: men don't aspire, don't dream, and certainly don't try to see things as they are. They stay home and marry women, meekly accepting their destiny in job, house, wife, and kids. They aren't gay.

I got a B-.

In spite of my antipathy, Peer Gynt is very popular. There have been at least 20 film and television versions in French, German, Norwegian, Dutch, English, and Hungarian. Versions with street people as performers, with Peer as a young boy, with Peer as a hillbilly.

A 1971 German miniseries had 7 actors playing Peer Gynt in various stages of his life.

A 1941 student film had a very young Charleton Heston (future star of Ben Hur) as Peer Gynt (top photo)

There was a 1960 cartoon called Peer Gynt's Adventures in Arabia.

The 2006 tv movie was set in modern times. Robert Stadlober played a gay character in Summer Storm, but his performance was still entirely heterosexist.

Plus many stage versions and ballets.

There's a Peer Gynt festival every year in Vinstra, Norway, featuring a performance of the play next to Lake Gala, where Grieg found his inspiration.

In Glimpses of the Devil (2005), psychiatrist M. Scott Peck, who wrote the excellent Road Less Traveled, goes crazy. Peering into closets and under beds for evidence of demons, he latches onto the "the darkest, ugliest book" in the world, Gods' Man, by Lynd Ward.

The author was certainly possessed by demons, Peck yells, and anyone foolish enough to read it is in grave spiritual danger!

So, naturally, I had to dig up a copy.

Turns out that Lynd Ward (1905-1985) was not at all obscure. He illustrated over 100 books, including Frankenstein, Beowulf, stories of O. Henry and Ambrose Bierce, modern bestsellers, and children's classics.

And he was not a Satanist. The son of a Methodist minister, he was a conservative Christian. His six wordless "novels in woodcuts," forerunners of the modern graphic novel, all excoriate the decadence and decay of a modern civilization that has turned its back on God.

Gods' Man (1929): a man sells his soul to a Mysterious Stranger in exchange for artistic fame, but hates the decadence, decay, and sexual licentiousness of the art world. He tries to find happiness in the woods with a wife and kids, but it's too late: the Stranger comes for him.

Madman's Drum (1930): a demonic drum from Africa destroys a man's life. His wife and two daughters succumb to sexual licentiousness and die, and then, driven insane, he consorts with his wife's lover.

Wild Pilgrimage (1932): a factory worker escapes from the decadence and sexual licentiousness of the modern world by fleeing to the woods, but sexual licentiousness follows him there.

And so on...

Grotesquely over-moralizing contempt for modern society, and especially for sexual desire. An over-idealized heterosexual nuclear family provides the only salvation from the horrors of sex.

Both men and women stand at the gate of Hell.

And the woordcuts show them. In detail.

Stylized art deco muscles. Men shirtless and nude. Bulges. Backsides. Penises.

The physiques mostly belong to monsters, or to men who are doomed by their sexual licentiousness. But still....Lynd Ward liked drawing men.

He also drew nude women, symbols of the sexual licentiousness that leads men to destruction.

He was an equal opportunity Puritan.

Maybe his temptations...and his passions...extended to both men and women.

By the way Ward's protege, Don Rico (1912-1985), published many novels about gay men and lesbians: The Man from Pansy, The Odd World, Brand of Shame, Women Like Me, School of Lesbos, The Gay and the Savage.

In 1998, Yuri and I were in Johvi, Estonia for Jaanipäev, St. John's Day, a national holiday.

The day before, June 23rd, is Võidupüha, Victory Day, commemorating the Estonian War of Independence, and the struggle for freedom of all of the Baltic nations.

St. John's Day, June 24th, is the longest day of the year. The sun doesn't set until 11:00 pm.

People go swimming, have barbecues, get drunk, and most importantly, light bonfires to signify the triumph of summer over winter.

It's warm -- in the 60s -- so everybody's shirt comes off. It's a parade of Baltic beefcake.

You're supposed to jump over the bonfire for luck. It's a good idea to do it in your underwear, so your clothes don't catch on fire.

Adherents of Estonian paganism, Maausk, sometimes jump nude.

When it finally gets dark, people pair off and head out into the woods to look for a special fern that just blooms once a year.

Yeah, right, that's what they're doing.

There are similar midsummer festivals all over the Balkans and Scandinavia. In Finland they involve both bonfires and saunas, naturally.

In the Slavic countries, St. John's Eve is like Halloween, a time when the barrier between our world and the spirit world fails, and there are ghosts and goblins running around. Gay Russian writer Nikolai Gogol's short story "St. John's Eve" is about a man who searches for a treasure that can only be discovered that night, but meets the devil instead.

See also: Yuri and I Cruise in Estonia.

During my first year in New York, I was living in graduate student housing at SUNY Stony Brook, nearly 2 hours from Manhattan by train, and trying to figure out a way to move to a gay neighborhood.

While looking, I spent a lot of time in gay chatrooms.

You actually met people by "instant messaging" them. Inside the room itself, the conversations were usually limited to "anybody here?", stats, and insults.

A guy named Troy terrorized the Long Island chatroom. There all the time, making insulting comments about everybody and everything.

Me: Grad student in sociology at SUNY Stony Brook.
Troy: There's an exciting degree. The art of studying the obvious!

Me: I lived in West Hollywood for 13 years.
Troy: How many auditions did you bomb before you gave up on your dreams of stardom?

Me: I just got back from visiting my parents in Indiana.
Troy: How fun, chawin' tobaccy at the general store with Ma and Pa Kettle!

Even his profile was obnoxious: "I take care of my body and expect you to. No fats, femmes, or grandpas. If you aren't extra large beneath the belt, don't bother."

So I was surprised one day when I announced, "Looking for a room in Manhattan or nearby," and Troy instant messaged me. He wanted to share his apartment in Kew Gardens, only 25 minutes from Manhattan on the Long Island Railroad.

"How far is it from the train station?" I asked. "I don't have a car."

"Only five minutes."

It sounded ideal, but -- share an apartment with the nastiest guy in the world? Well -- maybe if he was in his room most of the time, making snarky comments in chatrooms.

So one Wednesday afternoon I took the train to Jamaica Station, and Troy picked me up.

He was much older than his profile picture, with a weird Satanic goatee, but quite muscular, almost a bodybuilder's physique. If it wasn't for the nastiness, I could see us dating.

We drove down Jamaica Avenue, three, five, six blocks.

This was a little far to walk every day.

Under the Van Wyck Expressway -- then to Kew Gardens Road, then to Lefferts Boulevard. Finally we pulled up to a weird apartment complex 1.5 miles from Jamaica Station!

"This is easily a half-hour walk, across two busy streets and under a freeway!" I exclaimed. "I told you I don't have a car."

"Oh..I thought your car was in the shop."

That was crazy. Most people in New York didn't have cars. "No way can I live here!"

"I guess not." He paused. "Tell you what -- I feel bad for bringing you all the way out here, so how about I buy you dinner, and then I'll drive you back to Stony Brook."

"Sure, ok." He owed me that much.

He took me to Mehak, an Indian restaurant with very good tandori chicken, with ice cream for dessert. I refused the wine.

Troy turned out to be very nice in person. No snark, not even when said that my mother was from Kentucky.

"Why are you so nasty online?" I ventured.

"I'm not nasty, I'm just honest. I won't lie to you. I'll tell you if you're a chubbo, or you have a twig down there."

"Most people prefer a little tact. You know, to avoid hurting someone's feelings."

"It's not tact, it's lying."

Maybe I actually found him attractive, maybe I was flattered that he hadn't called me a chubbo with a twig down there, or maybe I wanted my "money's worth" for the wasted time, but when he suggested that we go back to his apartment, I agreed.

After kissing, cuddling, and criticizing Wednesday night sitcoms, Troy suggested that we move into the bedroom, and I agreed again.

He started to pull out the couch.

Then it dawned on me -- this was a studio apartment!

"Wait -- I've heard of guys with one bedroom apartments renting out their living rooms, but in a studio -- where did you expect me to sleep?"

Troy looked away. "I...well, actually, I don't really need a roommate. I just wanted to meet you."

"So you conned me into coming over?" I asked, stunned. "Ever hear of asking someone for a date?"

He grinned. "This way worked, didn't it?"

It did. I spent the night with him anyway.

The next day, online, The Nastiest Guy in the World was back: "Jeff is bigger than me, but inside he's just a little sissy boy. Oh, use a little tact! Oh, you're hurting my feelings! Wah, wah, wah!."

See also: My Date with Richard Dreyfuss.

Nude Yul Brynner

I had a friend in West Hollywood, Larry, who did some acting in the 1970s and early 1980s, and now worked in the casting department at Paramount. He had a very nice house in the heart of Old Hollywood, walking distance to Mann's Chinese Theater, and every year he held an Oscar party for 20 or 30 gay men.

We had to mark little ballots about who we thought would win Best Picture, Best Actor, Best Costume, and so on, and the one who got the most categories right won a prize-- a nude photo of Yul Brynner (bisexual star of The King and I), an anatomically correct Oscar statue, or a camp music album like The Odd Couple Sings.

If you got too many categories wrong, you got a spanking, bare butt, one slap on one cheek, by each of the other guests in turn.

The problem is, except for blockbuster science fiction, I saw only movies with gay characters, a promise of gay subtexts, or significant beefcake, so my knowledge was limited. Check the best picture nominees that I had actually seen at the time of the Oscars. And my spankings.

Larry's House

1985: Only Kiss of the Spider Woman. Winner: Out of Africa. Spanking.

1986: I went to the Oscar party with my celebrity boyfriend instead.

1987: None of the nominees. Winner: The Last Emperor. Spanking

1988: I was in Turkey.

1989: None of the nominees. Winner: Driving Miss Daisy.

1990: Ghost (which I thought would be paranormal) and Goodfellas. Winner: Dances with Wolves.

1991: Bugsy and JFK. Winner: Silence of the Lambs.

1992: Howard's End and The Crying Game. Winner: Unforgiven.

1993: I went to another party.

1994: I went to another party.

1995: None. Winner: Braveheart. Spanking.

1996: Fargo. Winner: The English Patient. Spanking

1997 and 1998: I was in New York.

1999: Larry didn't do it, but another guy hosted. None Winner: Shakespeare in Love.

2000: I had actually seen the Best Picture Winner, American Beauty, plus nominees The Sixth Sense and The Cider House Rules.

2001, 2002, and 2003: I was in Florida.

2004: Finding Neverland. Winner: Million Dollar Baby.

4 spankings in 11 Oscar parties!

It wasn't all bad. Some of the guys turned the spanking into a grope, and by the end of the evening I usually had a few telephone numbers.

But still, either I have to start watching more heterosexual dramas, or Hollywood has to start nominating more movies with gay content.

When I was in grad school at Indiana University, the only place you could get gay books and magazines was in the adult bookstore. Of course, they had porn, too.

I was particularly drawn to two albums from Zeus Studios featuring wordless comics drawn by someone named Cavelo:

The Cavelo Portfolio (1979).
Hercules (1981).

He drew buffed, fully nude men in mild bondage and S&M situations, usually in the historic past: ancient Rome, the old West, the French foreign legion.

The models had amazingly ripped physiques, drawn darker and with much more contrast than the characters around them.

There was no sex, no activity of any sort. Cavelo always depicted the men in the moment before.

He published three albums, plus cartoons and illustrations in six issues of Drummer magazine, all between 1978 and 1985. A limited repertoire, compared to his contemporaries, Sean and Tom of Finland.

Then his work ended, leaving fans to wonder: where did this spectacular beefcake artist come from? Where did he go?

Thirty years later, they are still wondering.

Recently many of the great gay artists who published anonymously during the 1970s and 1980s have been identified, their stories told, their contributions lauded. But Cavelo remains a mystery.

We know only that he lived in Los Angeles, and his real name was Leon Carvalho.

There's a Leon Carvalho living in Los Angeles today, a marine recruiter. Probably not the same one.

See also: Tom of Finland; Sean and the World of Gay Leathermen

Why Gay Men Read "Dykes to Watch Out For"

The Violet Quill: Sex, Drugs, and Elitism in 1980s New York

Michael Cade

Fall 2000: I Teach My Nephew the Gay Facts of Life

The 10 Best Gay Neighborhoods in America

Here at the New Yorker: Homophobia, Elitism, and a Scary 18th Century Dandy

Mitch Gaylord: Hunk of the Month

Rupert Grint's Biceps Drive Boys Mad

Fall 2008: The Satyr and his Boy Toy

Marat Sade: We Want a Revolution

Adam West: Playing Gay before Batman

Spring 2009: The Pitcher with a Secret Move

Home and Away: Gay Subtext Soap Opera

Geography Club: Gay and Straight High Schoolers

Peer Gynt: Your Grandfather's Heterosexism

Gods' Man: Lynd Ward

Jaanipaev: The Midsummer Beefcake Festival of Estonia

My Date with the Nastiest Guy in the World

Getting Spanked at the Oscars

The Mystery of Cavelo