NYSocBoy's Beefcake and Bonding

I don't drink anything alcoholic, I hate tea, lemon-lime sodas make me gag, and orange juice is for sick people. My only beverages are water and Diet Coke.

Two or three 12-ounce cans or one 20-ounce bottle per day.

That doesn't strike me as much. But:

1. Every time I am invited to dinner at someone's house, I have to bring my own. Nobody else that I know drinks it.

2. Every person I have ever met, without exception, has informed me that I shouldn't drink it because aspertame causes cancer in lab rats. Usually they say this the first time they see me with a can. I always say "Really? I had no idea! This is the first time I've ever been told this -- today!"

By the way, that's an urban legend. Aspertame does nothing to lab rats, or to humans. Your stomach breaks it down into aspartic acid, phenylalanine and methanol, which we consume all the time in organic foods such as meat and milk.

Those friends who are a little less intolerant concerning my vice think that Coca-Cola memorabilia would make a good birthday or Christmas present.

The problem is, Coke advertising overwhelmingly features attractive young ladies, trying to draw in straight men with the promise that "If you drink Coke, you'll get laid."

The only time you see guys alone are in humorous ads. Or creepy ones. The psychotic Sprite Boy was introduced in 1941 to force people to use the four-syllable "Coca-Cola" instead of their preferred "Coke."

Or in some of the bonding ads of the 1970s, with people of various races holding hands on hilltops and singing "I'd like to buy the world a Coke." Here they're alternating black and white to demonstrate that Coke is "the real thing."

But their knees are touching, anyway.

This ad from the 1940s shows a father and his wife and son, or maybe his daughter and son (who has a target on his muscle shirt). As they raise bottles to their frozen plastic faces, we are told that Coke is "a family affair."

Even this series of tv commercials from the 1990s, featuring Lucky Vanous ripping off his shirt to chug Diet Coke, puts him in the sight of the lustful ladies gazing from the office next door.

But during the Super Bowl, Coke broadcast a new commercial showing people of various races and religions engaging in wholesome activities while drinking Coke. Among them were gay dads teaching their daughter to bowl.

See also: Lucky Vanous, the Diet Coke Guy.

In 2008, my "visiting" position in Dayton was coming to an end, and I had to find a new job. I only applied to colleges in Blue States. First just in gay neighborhoods.

As January and February passed and the best jobs were taken, I expanded to an hour away from gay neighborhoods.

Then three hours.

Just as I was about to start searching in Red States, I was offered a job in New York!

Well, Upstate New York, about six hours by car from the gay neighborhoods of Manhattan, Boston, and Montreal.

I figured I would be driving to one or the other every weekend. Maybe even renting a second apartment there.

But snow, car wear and tear, the expense, and being busy limited my weekend jaunts to once every couple of months.

So 98% of my life happened in the Straight World, in a small town Upstate with no gay bars, just one gay-friendly church, and no gay organizations except PFLAG.

Just like in Dayton, most adult gay men had fled to gay neighborhoods elsewhere, Most of the others were living aggressively heterosexual public lives: they escorted women to events; they had no gay friends; they took their same-sex dates into the next town over to avoid being spotted at home.

But there was a coterie of gay men, a Gang of Twelve, who were out and open.

They were mostly in their 40s and 50s, one or two older or younger. Most had lived their whole lives Upstate, so they knew the towns and the people: the restaurants where they could be served without a fuss, the stores where they could shop without rude stares, the clubs where no women would hit on them.

So, except for a few basic precautions like not holding hands on the street, they were not closeted.

The New Guy in Town is always popular, but Upstate, my social calendar filled up astonishingly fast. All I had to do was meet one of the Twelve, and he told his friends, who told their friends. Phone calls were made, emails sent, meetings arranged. By Christmas, I had been out on dates with five of the twelve. By summer, nine (the others were involved or not interested).

Date #1: The Rich Kid (top photo) got "dibs": he was first in line for everything in the county. He and his sister and parents owned most of the county, sat on every board of directors, donated to every charity.

I was impressed by his physique: short, compact, and quite buffed for someone in his 40s.

He took me to Alex and Ika's, a very expensive restaurant in Cooperstown, for sesame-encrusted wild salmon and a plantain and goat cheese salad. Then back to his family's summer home -- a gigantic wood-lodge on Lake Otesaga, decorated in a weirdly incongruous Southwestern motif.

The Rich Kid was a bit on the domineering side, but he had two of the five traits I find attractive, and he was well-educated, articulate, and generous. I would have gone on a second date, except before we got around to it, he ordered me to attend the Glimmerglass Opera Festival next Tuesday night He was on the board of directors, and they needed ushers.

Drive 30 miles to be an usher at a production of Madame Butterfly? No, thanks.

One simple didn't say "no" to the Rich Kid. He cancelled our second date, and sent out memos to the other 11 that I was "cute but stubborn."

Date #2: The Crying Truck Driver. A tall, thin white guy with ruddy skin, expressive hands and a cute British accent. He invited me to his apartment for a "traditional Zambian dinner": a chicken breast, some kind of corn gruel, and mushrooms in peanut sauce. I was still hungry afterwards.

Then he suggested that we watch a DVD from his collection of every British sitcom ever made. I selected Are You Being Served. But when I invited him to sit down next to me on the couch, Truck Driver hesitated and then yelled: "But I don't want to have sex with you!"

"Um...since when does sitting on the couch count as sex? I've sat next to my brother lots of times!"

He ran into the bedroom, collapsed onto the bed, and started crying.

"I'm sorry," he sobbed. 'I just broke up with the Love of my Life. My friends thought I should start dating again, but I'm not ready...I'm just not ready..."

He then told me all about the Love of His Life. The relationship, from start to finish. His faults, fetishes, faux-pas, and favorite foods. What he should have said that time. What happened at the Rich Kid's Christmas party. Did I think there was any chance of them getting back together?

This turned out to be commonplace: most of the Gang of Twelve had dated most of the others, so on most dates, I got an earful of the others' problems with jobs and relatives, triumphs and defeats in cruising, and scandals from a decade ago.

And, since they all talked to each other, my size, shape, pecadillos, and preferences were soon common knowledge.

But this breakup was new, raw, and still painful.

I didn't realize at the time that the Truck Driver was describing the next guy on my social calendar! Apparently the ex-boyfriend was also being advised to start dating again, and the Rich Kid gave him my email address. We had a date tomorrow night!

Next: The Truck Driver's ex-boyfriend and the Grabby Male Nurse

When I was in grad school in Bloomington in 1982 and 1983, I was able to get copies of The Advocate at the adult bookstore. One of my favorite features was a series of single-panel New Yorker-style cartoons, "It's a Gay Life," by Donelan, lampooning the culture of 1970s gay neighborhoods: brunch, boyfriends, leathermen, queens, cruising, decorating, activism....

"Oh, please, girlfriend. Isn't brunch a little too early for attitude?"

Some cartoons were about the reaction of straights, those who knew -- and were ok with it. In a clueless, stereotyping way.

"I know a homosexual. George knows a homosexual. You must have so much in common. So here we are.

Others who didn't know, and didn't want to know.

"Did your roommate just say he was going to 'freshen his makeup'?"

I was most drawn to the cartoons depicting gay men in pairs and groups. There was a whole society out there somewhere, a place where being gay was commonplace, even expected, where straights were the interlopers and strangers.

"I'd be more impressed if you could name me one man here you haven't dated."

I wanted that world.

Gerald P. Donelan grew up in Plymouth, Massachusetts, and moved to San Francisco in the 1970s. He published "It's a Gay Life" from 1978 to 1993. There were two reprints of his cartoons: Drawing on the Gay Experience (1987) and Donelan's Back (1988). His work also appeared in Frontiers and in the Meatmen series of gay comic anthologies.

Today his work seems a bit dated, keying into feminine stereotypes a bit too much. But in the height of the homophobic 1980s, it was a revelation.

"Tell me again the difference between eclectic and tacky."

See also: Do You Have Anything Gay?

I am particularly attracted to guys who are gifted beneath the belt, but I've never rejected someone for having a Vienna Sausage. Small can be just as nice, and in many situations it does the job better.

Besides, by the time I get around to checking, the guy has already won me over with his winning smile, sparkling conversation, or body by Michelangelo.

But bigger has a definite aesthetic appeal. And when you get together with friends and swap stories, like fisherman bragging about their biggest "catch", it's never about Vienna Sausages. It's all about Polska Kielbasa:

"I dated a guy so big that he could fold it in half."

"That's nothing -- my ex-boyfriend was so big that he had to have an extra lining put into his pants all the way down to the knee."

"Back in the Village, I dated a guy who was so big that he could sit on the bed and use it to turn off the tv."

So here are the 15 biggest "sausages" I ever "cooked" (up to 2009).

Only guys I actually went on dates with -- no glimpses in the shower room or cruising at the sauna.

I'll use the following scale:
Bratwurst: a German sausage, memorable.
Kielbasa: a Polish sausage, super-sized.
Mortadella: an Italian sausage, the stuff of dreams.
Kovbasa: a Ukrainian sausage. Are you kidding?

1. Matt, a 20-something security guard (left) We dated for a few months in Florida in 2002, until Troy the retiree stole him away. Bratwurst

2. Alan, formerly a Pentecostal Porn Star, but when we met, he was Student Clergy at the Metropolitan Community Church. We dated in 1985, just after I moved to West Hollywood. Bratwurst

3. Peter. An undergraduate sociology major of Filipino ancestry, short and very slim. My professor set us up, at Stony Brook in 2001. We dated a few times. Bratwurst

4. Joe, the roommate of Blake (see below), a "regular guy" who I dated for about a year. Bratwurst+

(I probably forgot some of the Bratwursts.)

5. Garan. We met in San Sebastian in 1999, when Yuri and I went to the Basque Country of Spain in search of the world's biggest penis. He actually asked Yuri for the date, and was surprised but accommodating when I showed up, too. Kielbasa

6. Ari, the linguist in Dayton in the fall of 2007, who was cute and everything, but wouldn't shut up. Kielbasa

7.Dick, my grade school bully. We met at JR's in Rock Island, when I was back home for Christmas in 1984, and got together whenever I returned for the next few years. Kielbasa+

8. Halil, a Turkish bodybuilder who I met during my semester in Ankara in 1989. He had a girlfriend, but still invited me to share his bed at a bodybuilding competition in Istanbul. Kielbasa+

9. Janik, from at the Horseman's Club in Amsterdam in 2003. He invited me to live with him in a small town in Friesland. I only lasted a few days. Mortadella

10. Blake, who I dated in New York in the fall of 1998, and performed the "roommate switch" on. (left) Mortadella+

More after the break

11. Peter, the Orthodox priest with the pushy Mom. We dated when I was a senior in college. I hadn't been with many guys at the time, so I didn't realize how remarkable he was beneath the belt. Mortadella+

( I forgot about T, the thug wannabe who Alan and I met at the Catch One in Los Angeles. Mortadella+

12. Farshad (left), from Morocco. We met in France in 2007. Mortadella+

13. Carl, the cowboy cop, who didn't approve of guys who believed in God. We dated briefly in Houston in 1984. Kovbasa

14. The Satyr, one of the The Gang of 12 from Upstate New York. We had one date in the fall of 2008, and then I switched to his boytoy/roommate/boyfriend (who must have felt like a muppet). Kovbasa+

And the biggest of them:

15. Jermaine: a very cute Harvard undergrad who I met in Boston in 2001. He had the annoying habit of asking "Who's your daddy?" every five seconds, even though I was substantially older. But he made up for it with his intellect, and with his Kovbasa+++++

See also: The Biggest and Smallest Penises in the World; and Yuri and I Search for the World's Biggest Penis (that one doesn't count, since there was no date involved).

When I was making up my list of the 15 biggest "sausages" I ever "cooked," I completely forgot about T (for Thug).

Spring 1986: I had been in West Hollywood for about six months, and I was starting to notice that it wasn't all heaven.
Con artists, hustlers, pickpockets.
Poverty, homelessness.
And racism.

You rarely encountered Men of Color in West Hollywood; it was Anglo-white in all directions, as far as the eye could see.

And when you did see someone black or Hispanic, the clerk in the story was eyeing him suspiciously. Or the bar was charging him a cover charge of $10 ($1 for white guys). Or you overheard casual comments like "What's he doing here?"

Even my ex-boyfriend Alan, the Pentecostal Porn Star, chimed in: "I'm not racist, but I wouldn't date a black guy. I like to be the dominant partner."

So bedroom positions are based on race? Really?

I decided to educate Alan by dragging him along as I cruised for African-American men.

He agreed, but only if we went to Mugi to cruise for Asian men afterwards.

He told me that there were three "black gay bars." in Los Angeles. White guys went to the Study or the Zone, and Jewel's Catch One was black only.

So naturally, I wanted to go to Catch One.

But white guys couldn't get in, Alan protested. Or they were forced to pay an outrageous cover charge. And if you made it inside, you got such severe Attitude that you ran away sobbing.

Besides, it was in a "bad neighborhood," near the corner of Pico (bad) and Crenshaw (worse).

That settled it -- we were going to catch one at Catch One!

The evening started out fine: We weren't turned away at the door, and there was no enormous cover charge. There was no more Attitude than you would get at the Rage or the Gold Coast.

We walked through a lounge area and two beautifully decorated bars, one with a dance floor. The music was all R&B, all female black vocalists: Janet Jackson, Whitney Houston, Dione Warwick, Diana Ross, Aretha Franklin, Patti LaBelle.

We got our Cokes from a very cute bartender and found a place to prop up the wall.

After awhile, I said "Well, time to work the room!", yelling to make myself heard. When you cruised with a friend, you always split up to "work the room," or people would think you were a couple and refuse to make eye contact.

"No way!" Alan yelled into my ear. "You're not leaving me! We're the only white guys here!"

That came out startlingly loud. Everyone standing nearby overheard. One guy turned to stare at us: very tall, very muscular, shirtless, glowing with sweat from dancing. There were gold chains dangling around his neck.

He approached, and faced Alan, glaring. "Does yo' mind if I ax yo' boyfriend to dance?" he asked, in a stereotypical black accent. I saw that he had a tattoo on his chest, a rarity in 1986.

Alan paled. "Jeff's not...he's not my boyfriend."

He turned to me. "Does yo' wanna get down, white boy? The name's T, as in Thug."

I gave him my best cruising grin. "Sure, T!"

He stared in surprise. Obviously he had been expecting a rejection. "Um...ok, Let's go."

We danced to "Rhythm of the Night" and "That's What Friends Are For," and then moved into the lounge for drinks and kissing.

"Sorry about the 'white boy' stuff," T said, dropping the accent. "I figured you were out looking for thugs, and I'd give you what you came for. T is actually short for Thomas."

"I kind of realized that you were putting us on."

He grinned. "So, how about dinner Thursday night? You and Alan can come down to my house, if you're not scared of South Central."

Alan didn't want to go. South Central was notorious for its gangs, drugs, and drive by shootings! We'd never make it out alive!

So I drove down by myself. 8 miles to USC, and then 8 miles south on the 110, an hour's drive in rush -hour traffic, to Manchester Avenue, a neighborhood of small houses with square fenced-in yards. Other than the bars on all the windows, you'd never know you were in a high-crime area.

T lived with his mother, who introduced herself and then retreated to her room as he cooked and served chicken gumbo, a green salad, and a perfectly horrible bread pudding.

Then we sat on his couch, watching The Cosby Show, Cheers, and Night Court, and talking about his job -- I forget what it was now -- and my graduate school coursework, and his childhood in South Central and mine in Rock Island. Eventually we made it into the bedroom.

T was very nice, and extremely hot, but we didn't really have a lot in common, at least not enough to entice me into another hour-long drive in rush hour traffic. So we didn't see each other again. But we stayed in contact. He's now married to an Asian guy.

By the way, in case you're wondering: Mortadella+.

See also: Raul and My Bed-Switching Roommate; and Is it Racist to Have a Type?

In the spring of 1969, my friends and I began running home from school as fast as we could (my house was the closest) to catch the last ten or fifteen minutes of Dark Shadows (1966-71), a soap opera about the brooding, guilt-wracked vampire Barnabas Collins (Jonathan Frid) and his immensely wealthy, occult-obsessed family.

He enters the story when the slim, stuttering ne’er-do-well Willie Loomis (John Karlen, left), prowling around the Collins estate on the stormy coast of Maine, discovers a secret room in the old mausoleum, and inside it a chained coffin. At this point, most people would flag down the next bus to Boston, but the none-too-bright Willie decides to open the coffin. A bejeweled hand shoots up and grabs him by the neck.

The next day Barnabas Collins presents himself as a long-lost “cousin from England” and talks his way into possession of the ancient, decrepit Old House.

Willie inexplicably moves in with him, telling his friends that he has taken a job as Barnabas’ servant; yet he is obviously more than a servant. The two spend an inordinate amount of time together, and are on an altogether chummy first-name basis, a liberty taken by no other servant on the estate.

The truth, of course, is that Barnabas bit him, and now they are co-conspirators if not secret lovers. What is a vampire’s bite, after all, but a form of sexual congress?

Gossip about the early years of the series reveals that the producers were so skittish about potential homoerotic readings of the relationship that they gave Willie a heterosexual crush, and mandated that same-sex neck-biting must always occur off-camera.

Eventually the strain of living with a vampire is too much for Willie; he has a nervous breakdown, and is confined to Windcliff Sanitarium. Later, Barnabas misses Willie, and asks him to return. Willie eagerly agrees. Later that evening, their friend Julia Hoffman (Grayson Hall) is sitting alone in the drawing room of the Old House, evidently keeping guard, when someone comes to the door. “Barnabas isn’t here – he’s with Willie,” she says with a diffident glance upstairs – to the bedrooms. Exactly what is Barnabas doing up there to welcome Willie home?

When Barnabas announces his plans to cure his vampirism by transferring his spiritual essence into a different body, Willie worries that the new Barnabas will not be attracted to him (or, perhaps, that he will not be attracted to the new Barnabas):
Willie:Suppose he don’t like me?
Barnabas: He will be exactly toward you as I am.
Willie:You don’t know that! You might come out of this all different. . .It won’t be the same.

Although Barnabas barely acknowledges his affection, Willie obviously cares deeply for him, with an unstated and perhaps unconscious homoerotic desire.

As Barnabas zapped back and forth between time periods and parallel worlds, he encountered different characters played by the same cast members, and John Karlen managed to infuse all of his characters with a sometimes frivolous, sometimes dark and passionate attraction to the vampire hero.

When Barnabas visits Collinwood in the year 1897, he meets Karlen as Carl Collins, a fop only slightly toned down from Oscar Wilde’s green carnation crowd. Carl grabs his shoulder, touches his hand, takes his arm, and whispers softly in his ear “You look so nice! We’re going to be close friends, aren’t we? We’re going to be buddies!” And thereafter, whenever he has a problem (usually involving ghosts or werewolves), he throws himself into Barnabas’s arms, overtly presenting himself as a lover.

Many of the cast members were gay, including Joel Crothers, left (who played Maggie Evans' boyfriend and remained her best friend in real life) and Louis Edmonds (patriarch Roger Collins).

When Don Briscoe (werewolf Chris Jennings) took time off to appear in the gay-themed Boys in the Band (1969), he brought Chris Bernau and Keith Prentice back with him.

Most of the others were gay friendly, including Grayson Hall (who was nominated for an Oscar for her role as a repressed lesbian in Night of the Iguana), Katherine Leigh Scott (Maggie Evans), Roger Davis (who went on to star in Alias Smith and Jones), and the vampire himself, Jonathan Frid.

Most soap operas, like One Life to Live, were unremittingly heterosexist, requiring us to seek out subtexts, but Dark Shadows had ample male characters who were immune to the charms of eyelash-fluttering governesses and sought out each other: David Collins, heir to the family fortune; the fey Noah Gifford (Craig Slocum), who has an unspecified and “sinister” relationship with the golddigging Lieutenant Forbes (Joel Crothers); Aristede (Michael Stroka), a brooding, androgynous “manservant”; the nerdish mad scientist Cyrus Longworthy (Christopher Pennock); and the darkly sensuous Gerald Stiles (Jim Storm) who was not shy about expressing his devotion to werewolf/man-about-town Quentin Collins (David Selby).

No wonder we ran home from school as fast as we could to watch.

When I was living in the gay neighborhoods of California, New York, and Florida, cruising occurred in three distinct life stages, each with its own bars, cruising sites, protocols, and expectations.

1. Twink/Cute Young Thing

From coming out to age 30, though some guys who came out later became honorary twinks.

After growing up in a constant hum of heterosexist brainwashing, being told over and over that same-sex desire does not exist, the twink went crazy, trying to cram as many masculine experiences as possible into his schedule. He cruised constantly, in bars, on the street, on Grindr.

His mantra was: So many men, so little time!

2. Regular Guy

30s to mid-40s, though some guys graduated from Twinkdom early, and some stayed late.

Most Regular Guys had permanent partners, with shared apartments and dinners with their parents. They might still cruise, but only to find someone to share.

3. Daddy/Bear

Mid-40s up, though guys with the right physique might come directly from Twink the moment they reached age 30 (or admitted to it.)

The Daddy or Bear was usually partnered, but cruised extensively anyway, with or without his partner (usually without). Increasingly aware of his mortality, he wanted to cram as many masculine experiences as possible into his life, repeating the mantra of his youth: so many men, so little time!

While cruising, you were allowed to approach guys in your age group or higher. If you liked someone of a lower age group, you had to wait for him to approach you.

If you approached a younger guy, or even tried to make eye contact first, you were placed in Category 4:

4. Creepy Old Guy

The Creepy Old Guy was unaware of the protocols, or didn't care. He approached anyone, from Twinks to Daddies, but concentrated on Twinks, as if he was living a second childhood. He groped without checking for the appropriate body language, made obnoxiously sexual come-ons, and refused to be dissuaded by either Attitude or a firm "no."

I became a Creepy Old Guy quite suddenly, one night in 2012, at the River Street Club in Albany, New York. It was occupied primarily by guys in the Daddy/Bear category, with a sprinkling of Regular Guys but no Twinks.

Until Peter came in (I never got his real name): a twink, short, muscular, with a slightly hairy chest and a Kielbasa+ beneath the belt. Later I discovered that he was 23 years old, a student at Rennselaer Polytechnic Institute, a few blocks away.

He came into the gym as I was working out. You were supposed to pretend not to look, but I couldn't help sneaking a peak as I waited for him to finish with the bench press.

Maybe too long a peak. He finished his set and rushed away.

I ran into him a bit later in the sauna. There were protocols in place about who wanted to be touched; Peter wanted to be touched. But when I tried, he roughly pushed me away and left.

Everyone stared; I had forgotten that I was two age categories older than Peter! I had committed a major faux pas.

My friend chuckled. "Congratulations -- you just became a Creepy Old Guy!"

Later, I saw Peter in the maze, in a clench with another guy. Surely he wouldn't mind if I just stood there and watched! But when he looked up and saw me, he said something -- too low for me to hear -- then grabbed his partner's hand and rushed away.

Burning with embarrassment over being a Creepy Old Guy, I hung out in the shadows for awhile, and then decided to go to the hot tub, where people socialized. Peter was there!

I had had enough. I jumped into the hot tub and sat next to him. "I'm a member of this club, and I'm going to use the hot tub," I announced.

He pretended not to see me.

"You don't need to rush rudely away. I promise I won't commit the horrible sin of looking at you."

He stared. "What's your problem, man?"

"Well, I was a little offended when you cut your workout short just because I happened to be in the room."

"I was done, man! I just wanted to pump up a little, to show off my pecs!"

Hot with rage, I continued. "And what about in the sauna. You gave every sign of being open, but not when I got there! No, don't let the Creepy Old Guy near you!"

"I was trying to relax!" Peter exclaimed. "Any law that says you have to do things whenever some guy wants you to?"

"Well -- what about when you were in the maze, and I wasn't even good enough to watch you and the love of your life?"

"I don't like guys watching me! Neither of us had a room, and I thought we could get some privacy in the maze. Anything wrong with that?"

"Um..well...sorry. My mistake." I was mortified. I pulled myself up out of the hot tub to slink away. Then Peter stood, too.

"Look -- I've never been to this sort of place before. Sorry if I didn't play by the rules." He reached out and touched my chest. "You seem like a nice guy. Do you have a room?"

The Disney Channel used to be better than Nickelodeon in airing teencoms with gay subtexts, but the last couple of years, it's been slipping. Of the current crop, the only shows of much interest to gay kids are Austin & Allie (with Ross Lynch, who adds a gay subtext to everything) and Liv & Maddie (with Joey Bragg as the gay-vague older brother). I heard that Good Luck Charlie will be getting a "real" gay couple sometime this season. The other programs, like Jessie, are unremittingly heterosexist.

Take Dog with a Blog (2011-) -- please.

It's a standard "my secret" sitcom about a talking dog, Stan (voiced by Stephen Fuller), who uses the anonymity of the internet to write a blog about his family's adventures. The family, blended to provide conflict, consists of Mom and Dad, 13-year old Avery (G. Hannelius, a girl), 16-year old Tyler (Blake Michael, #8 on my list of Unexpected Disney Channel Teen Hunks), and the preteen Chloe.

Avery is the focus, so the recurring characters consist mostly of her friends, plus her evil nemesis, Karl Fink (LJ Benet), who suspects the secret.

Homophobia: Lots. Karl is a mincing, swishy, "quel domage!" homophobic stereotype.

Beefcake: none. Blake Michael, shown here partying with his buds, Eric Unger (Billy Unger's brother) and Mateus Ward (whose homophobic agent asked me to take down his post), is always fully clothed on camera.

Joe Larry Campbell plays Tyler's boss, The Hawk.

Bonding: maybe a little between Avery and her bff Lindsay. Other than that, Tyler keeps crushing on girls, Avery keeps crushing on guys.

Gay symbolism: Stan the Dog, the outsider masquerading as "normal," constantly in danger of discovery. Maybe a little.

Do you think the problem is co-creator Philip Stark, who was also responsible for the homophobic Dude Where's My Car (2000)?

I'm still being forced to watch the paranormal sci-fi series Fringe, set in a world -- actually, two worlds -- where gay people absolutely do not exist, and the mantra of "my wife! my wife! my wife!" motivates every mad scientist.

But at least there's substantial beefcake, a never-ending parade of musclemen in guest roles. We're up to Season 4.

1. Episode 1: Neither Here Nor There: FBI Agent Peter (read: Mulder) has saved the two parallel universes from imploding, but he's been erased from history, leaving his father, Walter, and True Love, Olivia (read: Scully), with inexplicable gaps in their lives. Meanwhile swishy gay-stereotype agent Lincoln Lee (Seth Gabel) is distraught over the death of his partner, played by the hunky Joe Flanagan.

2. Episode 2: One Night in October: Lincoln Lee joins the Fringe Team to investigate paranormal phenomena, and gets a crush on Olivia. Not gay -- no surprise there. They try to stop a serial killer. Underwear model Daniel Arnold (left) plays Agent Perez.

3. Episode 3: Alone in the World. The Fringe Team investigates yet another case of a serial killer making people die in grotesque, visually disgusting ways. Hot bear Gary Sekhon plays one of the medical technicians who is horrified by the bodies.

4. Episode 4: Subject 9 is the muscular Cameron James (Chadwick Boseman, left), who can manipulate electromagnetic energy. Once on a date he pulled a girl's fillings out of her teeth.

5. Episode 5: Novation. Peter returns. Clayton Chitty (left) plays a police officer.

6. Episode 6: And Those We Left Behind. The mystery involves Raymond, an electrical engineer, and his wife. (Remember the "My wife! My wife! My wife!" mantra?). But look for the muscular Chad Riley as an FBI Agent.

7, Episode 7: Wallflower. Someone is killing albinos, with Justin Breault as yet another beefcake actor hired to play an FBI Agent.

I don't have time to cover all of the underwear models and bodybuilders on the series, so let's fast forward.

8. Episode 10: Forced Perspective. A girl can predict people's deaths, quite a useful talent in the Fringe universe. Toby Levins plays a bomb technician.

More after the break.

9. Episode 11: Making Angels. Peter and Olivia track a killer who is using a poison that hasn't been invented yet. Chin Han, a superstar in East Asia, plays Neil Chung.

10. Episode 13: A Better Human Being. Peter and Olivia investigate a mental patient who appears to be orchestrating murders. Stuntman and caveman Colby Chatard (left) plays Silbiger.

11. Episode 15: A Short Story About Love. A killer is targeting couples, dehydrating the husband and smothering the wife (all couples in this world consist of a husband and a wife). Hunky actor and director Paul Andrich gets a role as Man in Park.

12. Episode 16: Nothing As It Seems. Lincoln (remember him?) is infected with a mysterious virus. At least this one doesn't make your head explode. Daniel Cudmore (left) plays Daniel Hicks.

13-14. Episode 17: Everything in its Place. A Lincoln-centric excellent adventure, with Zahl Paroo (left) as Bill and Biski Gugushe as Ted.

15. Episode 19: I haven't gotten that far, but IMDB says that "in the future, Observers rule, and the humans that survived the Purge serve them." Weird turn of events. Bradley Stryker (left) plays Rick.

It almost makes the disgusting head-explosions of the Serial Killer of the Week worthwhile.

But not the incessant chant of "aren't you glad gay people don't exist?"

See also: 12 Beefcake Stars of "Fringe"; and Prime-Time Dramas Think You Don't Exist.

The Beverly Hillbillies, one of the 1960s line of hayseed comedies (others included Petticoat Junction, Green Acres, Gomer Pyle, and The Andy Griffith Show), slogged on from 1962 to 1971, and your parents watched every week, so you couldn't avoid it. It was amazingly popular with adults: some of the regular episodes -- not even Christmas specials -- became the most watched episodes of all time.

The basic premise: a hillbilly from Bugtussle, Tennessee or Arkansas, Jed Clampett (Buddy Ebsen), becomes unbelievably rich when oil is discovered on his property, so he moves to a mansion in Beverly Hills, along with his crotchety mother-in-law Granny (Irene Ryan), his daughter Ellie Mae (Donna Douglas), and his dumb-lunk nephew Jethro (Max Baer Jr.).

Though they became marginally assimilated after nine years, they still wore hillbilly clothes, ate possum pie, and referred to their swimming pool as a "cement pond." Plots usually involved big city types trying to dupe and manipulate them, but their backwoods wisdom, orneriness, or dumb luck win out in the end.

The message: big city life is dehumanizing. Only in the country can real be real.

Other plots involved Ellie Mae's dating, Jethro's get-rich quick schemes (odd, since he already was rich), and Granny's dislike of all things big city.

There was never much beefcake in hillbilly comedies. Max Baer Jr., son of the famous boxer Max Baer, had a nice physique, but rarely showed it on camera. We were supposed to laugh at his dopiness, not sigh over his muscles.

Bonding was also rather uncommon. Most of the primary relationships were platonically male-female: Jed and Granny, Ellie Mae and Jethro, bank president Mr. Drysdale and his secretary, Miss Hathaway (Nancy Culp, who incidentally was gay in real life.)

But gay-vague was everywhere.

1. Mr. Drysdale's son, Sonny (Louis Nye) is sophisticated, well-educated, and not interested in girls. His parents keep trying to hook him up with Ellie Mae (so he will eventually inherit the Clampett millions), but he will have none of it. He and Ellie are just friends.

2. Hollywood star Dash Riprock (Larry Pennell), a parody of Rock Hudson, is handsome, suave, and not interested in girls. He vaguely courts Ellie Mae, but his heart isn't in it, regardless of how much his studio pushes them together.

Apparently the producers thought it hilarious to keep having Ellie Mae run into men who were not interested in girls.

3. Jethro had a "twin sister," Jethrine. She stayed back in the hills, and didn't show up often, but when she did, it was obvious that it was Jethro in drag. I got the distinct impression that everyone was just playing along, responding to his drag persona as if she was a different person.

David was 43 years old, but an honorary twink. He grew up in an ultra-conservative household in Arkansas, got married, and became a Baptist preacher -- then, on his 40th birthday, had his first same-sex experience. He came out, quit his job, divorced his wife, and moved to San Francisco -- all in the same week!

He got an apartment and a job, joined a gym, bought a new wardrobe consisting mostly of leather, and went cruising. Every day. At lunchtime, after work, in the evening. Sometimes on the way to work.

David was an equal-opportunity cruiser. Young, old, black, white, rich, poor, he didn't care as long as you had either a nice smile or a big package.

But still, I was shocked when he cruised the panhandler.

In San Francisco, panhandlers were everywhere, lined up outside ATM machines, restaurants, Muni stations, waving their cups, holding their signs that said "hungry!" or "Disabled veteran" or chanting "Any change? Any change? Any change?"

Most people ignored them, figuring if you gave them money, you would be tagged as an "easy mark" and followed by many more. Besides, you couldn't tell who was actually in need and who just wanted money for drugs. There were many charities in town that could provide food and housing more equitably.

But even if you gave them money, inviting them home was quite a different thing. No one did. Ever.

Except David.

One day we went to Orphan Andy's for breakfast before work, and near the Muni station we passed a young panhandler, short, slim, probably in his 20s, wearing a baseball cap and an "Oakland A's" jersey. His sign read: "Kicked out of the house for being gay!"

David dropped fifty cents into his cup, said "God bless you!", and moved on.

"Cute!" he told me when we were out of earshot. "I'll bet he's open for business!"

"You mean as a hustler?" I asked. "Probably. I hear that a lot of panhandlers will drop their pants and give you a show for a dollar. Except they're not usually very attractive. Living on the street, you don't get a lot of opportunities to hit the gym."

"Well, that twink was hot. And I didn't mean as a hustler -- I meant as a date."

My mouth dropped. "Are you crazy? You can't cruise panhandlers!"

"Why not? Worried that he'll stab me and steal all of my stuff?" He patted my shoulder. "Just because they don't have a place to stay, they're automatically criminals, right? Got a few prejudices there, Jeff?"

"It's not that," I said, embarrassed. "But you know...."

"Oh, you're worried that he'spoz (HIV positive). I don't doubt it -- safe sex isn't exactly a priority on the street. But I'm not stupid. I never go downtown without a condom."

"Anyway, he's at least 20 years younger than you. Middle-aged guys can't cruise twinks. It's not done."

"Well, there's a first time for everything."

"Yes, but..." I struggled to articulate. "You're in a position of power over him. Sex with him sounds like exploitation."

"Jesus had dinner with tax collectors and sinners," David said with a shrug.

The next morning we passed the same panhandler, and David gave him a dollar and shook his hand before saying "God bless you."

"I'm gay," the boy pointed out, as if that prohibited us from using the word "God" around him.

"The Metropolitan Community Church has an outreach program for homeless youth..." I said.

"I know. I've been there to take showers and get new clothes. But I don't like churches much. My Dad was a strict Baptist, and when he found out I was gay, he held my head under water to force the 'gay demon' out."

"I heard that!" David exclaimed. "I used to be a Baptist minister -- they didn't get that being gay is a gift from God. So is sex," he added.

The boy grinned.

"My name's David."

"Cole."

"Is this your usual spot? Maybe I'll see you tomorrow."

As we walked away, David nudged me. "Still worried about exploitation?"

"Sort of. Give him some new clothes, buy him dinner, but having sex with him just seems exploitive."

"Would you like to supervise? Or share?"

I admit, I was curious.

On the third day, David gave Cole another dollar and a sausage-and-cheese bagel and invited him to have dinner at his apartment. "Oh, and Jeff is coming, too."

That night, Cole arrived at David's doorstep, wearing a see-through t-shirt, and carrying a bouquet of flowers, of all things.

Over a dinner of chicken tetrazzini and tiramisu, Cole told us about his upper-middle class home in Tucson. His father was a prominent lawyer. He had three older brothers and sisters, one a lawyer, another married to a lawyer.

"And I'm the black sheep of the family. Straight C's, suspended for fighting, arrested for smoking pot, and 'an abomination in the eyes of the Lord' to boot."

"You're not an abomination in anyone's eyes," David said. They were holding hands under the table.

"You think so? You should see how people at the Muni Station look at me. Like I'm lower than dirt. When they look at me at all. They don't get that I'm just a regular, normal guy. I like sports and stuff. I like hot guys."

Soon they were kissing and ignoring their tiramisu. They moved into the bedroom. I cleared the table and joined them.

Two weeks later, Cole was on a bus to Phoenix, where his older brother had agreed to take him in: "gay or not, he's still my brother."

What he needed the most was not money or a place to stay. It was to be treated like a "regular, normal guy," not an abomination because he was homeless or gay.

The comedy team George Burns and Gracie Allen spent years on Vaudeville and in movies about George being exasperated by Gracie's daffiness, but anxious to date her anyway. They moved into radio in 1932, and onto television in 1950, playing "themselves" in The George Burns and Gracie Allen Show. They were technically famous comedians who had celebrity friends and occasionally had to go down to the studio to film something, but otherwise they had "ordinary" problems like a burnt roast or a late car payment.

Attuned to growing numbers of teenagers in the potential audience, the duo added their real-life son Ronnie to the cast in October 1955, and made him gay.

Ronnie was soft, sweet, and sensitive, studying to become a serious actor at the Actor's Studio (with alumni including the gay couple Paul Newman and James Dean). He expressed a haughty disdain for his parents' lowbrow comedy, and briefly changed his name to Cobb Cochran, a parody of the macho name changes that casting agent Henry Willson mandated for his stable of gay, bi, or gay-friendly clients (Rock Hudson, Ty Hardin, and so on).

He had an ongoing "friend," fellow actor Jim Boardman (Hart Sprager), with whom he took an apartment in the bohemian Greenwich Village.

Several plotlines involved people being shocked when they stumbled upon Ronnie kissing a girl or discussing marriage with a girl -- what's Ronnie doing with her? He's not...you know....

It was always a misunderstanding: the two were rehearsing a play, or the girl was confiding in Ronnie about her boyfriend problems.

The gay Ronnie lasted for only about a season and a half. In the spring of 1957, for unknown reasons, he suddenly became an ordinary college student, with a new best friend, Ralph (the very bulge-worthy Robert Ellis, also seen on Meet Cloris Archer). Both were obsessively girl-crazy.

Maybe the network couldn't handle such a strong gay subtext.

Trying to quash the gay rumors, George arranged for his son to become a "heterosexual" teen heart-throb like Ricky Nelson, but he only recorded one song, "She's Kinda Cute" (1958), which didn't chart. He got little exposure in teen magazines, just this article that insists that he is a "real regular guy," not. . .um. . .you know, gay.

When the series ended, Ronnie starred in Happy (1960-61) and Anatomy of a Psycho (1961), and a few other projects. So closely aligned were tv personalities with their characters that he was the subject of gay rumors throughout his life. He never made any public statements, but he wasn't part of the 1950s gay Hollywood scene, and he had two long-term marriages.

See also: Robert Ellis.

Spartacus (111-71 BC) was a gladiator who led a slave revolt against the Roman Republic, and became an inspiration for rebels of all sizes and shapes, from Toussaint Loverture to Bulgarian soccer teams. He has appeared in many novels, movies, and tv series, most recently in Spartacus (2011-2013), a popular series on the STARZ network. I heard it was the "gayest show on television," so I caught up with Spartacus to see just how gay it was.

Thank you for taking the time from your busy slave revolt to talk to me.

Happy to be here. Give my regards to your wife.

Um...tell me about your life in Thrace before you were sold into slavery.

It was Paradise! My wife and I spent all our days gazing into each other's eyes! Every moment with my wife by my side was ecstasy! Every moment without my wife was unspeakable agony! I only wish that your readers could know the ecstasy of a man and his wife!

Well, most of my readers are gay.

Oh. Ok, that's fine, too. To each his own, I always say. Did I mention my wife?

Yes, five times so far. So you were both sold into slavery. You ended up in Capua, in the gladiator-training school run by Batiatus. How did you like it there?

Every moment without my wife was unspeakable agony, of course, but I took solace in the fact that Batiatus agreed to find my wife for me. Every match that I won brought me closer to that moment when I would be reunited with my wife. Did I mention my wife?

Yes, you did! Did the Romans generally treat you well?

They gave me the honors befitting a champion. But their customs were barbaric. Men didn't spend every moment gazing into the eyes of their wife. They slept with whoever they wanted, not realizing that the bond between a man and his wife is sacred. Like my bond with my wife. Every moment without my wife was unspeakable agony. Did I mention my wife?

Um...I believe so. Did you make any friends among the other gladiators?

My best friend was Varro. He was amazing!

Strong gay-subtext buddy-bond, huh?

No, it's not that. I respected him. He sold himself into slavery in order to support his wife and child. Every moment without his wife was agony, of course, but he did what he had to do. His only goal in life was to make his wife happy. Just as it should be for all men. What good is a man without a wife? My wife was my reason for living! Did I mention my wife?

Any gay guys among the gladiators?

Well, there was Barca, the Beast of Carthage. Instead of a wife, he hooked up with the young twink Pietros -- I even stumbled upon them having sex one night when I was moaning about my wife. But then he was killed, and Pietros committed suicide. They were nice guys. Did I mention my wife?

Were they major characters?

Not really. Only a few scenes, and they died rather quickly in the first season.

You were eventually reunited with your wife, but she was mortally wounded, and died in your arms.

The worst moment of my life! Life is meaningless without a wife!

Did you move on, to concentrate on your profession, meet other women, and so on?

Oh, no! I moaned about the memory of my lost wife in every episode, and I would never consider looking at another woman. The bond between a man and his wife is eternal! I just wish that you readers could know the ecstasy a man feels when he gazes into the eyes of his wife! It is the reason for existing! It is Paradise! It is...

Um...remember, most of my readers are gay?

Oh, right. Whatever turns you on! Barca had a boyfriend before Pietros, you know. I wasn't around, but you hear about it in the second season, a prequel, set before I was sold into slavery, when I was still gazing into the eyes of my wife! A man and his wife....

Got it! So, is there any other gay content in the ludus? Any beefcake?

Sure, lots. We all have bodybuilder physiques, and we work out in posing straps with gigantic bulges -- the ladies in the audience really like it, you see. And some of the gladiators who don't know the infinite joy of having a wife are assigned to sleep with Roman women. You see full frontal nudity as they are inspected.

So there's nudity, but only in the context of women's desire for men?

Right. I mean, it's not the infinite joy of having a wife, but it's what men and women do. What man would give up the opportunity to sleep with a beautiful woman, except those who have wives?

Gay men generally aren't interested in women

Oh, right, your readers. I keep forgetting. The topic just never comes up in the ludus. Most of the men spend all their time talking about the beautiful women they've been with, or want to be with. I, of course, moan over the loss of my wife. My wife! My wife! My wife!

Ok, calm down. So I take it there's a lot of heteronormativity in the series?

Of course not! We don't discriminate! There are several gay characters. Agron, one of my top aides in the rebellion, is in love with Nasir. They last until the end of the series. There's Castus, Nasir's friend. And...and...well, that's about all. But more than you'll see on 300.

Besides, isn't every good tv series really about a man and his wife? The only thing that gives life meaning is a man gazing into the eyes of his wife! Without a wife, you're nothing! My wife! My wife! My wife! My wife!

Um...ok, that's all we have time for today. Thanks for coming in.

My pleasure. Give my regards to your wife.

March 24, 1975. The Monday before Easter. I check the TV Guide and find a special, Mitzi and a Hundred Guys.

I don't know who Mitzi is, but anything with a hundred guys is going on my DVR List.

Just kidding -- in those days you watched it in real time or not at all. So I plop myself in front of the tv. My parents are surprised that I want to see something with "singing and dancing" in it; usually I hate variety shows.

There's a lot of singing and dancing, interspliced with comedy skits like Carol Burnett. But the hundred guys make up for the tedium.

They include included practically every male tv star, plus some movie and radio stars. I divide them into:

Hot guys that I know.

Hot guys that I don't (such as Rich Little, left).

Ugly guys that I know.

Ugly guys that I don't.

But the highlight is Mitzi crooning the Irving Berlin torch song "Always" while bodybuilders in jock straps surround her.

At least, I remember jock straps. But, thanks to the internet, I see that they were wearing white pants. And I can identify them.

1, Don Peters (1931-2001), a five-time Mr. America winner who also posed for the gay-porn photos of Bruce of L.A.

2. Kent Kuehn, a three-time Mr. America who appeared with Arnold Schwarzenegger in Stay Hungry (1975), the film that popularized bodybuilding.

3. Bob Birdsong (b. 1948), who appeared in two gay porn films, California Supermen (1972) and Loadstar (1973) before winning the 1975 Mr. Universe title. He later "found Jesus," got a "beautiful wife" and started a ministry.

4. Ric Drasin (b. 1944, recent photp), a bodybuilder, professional wrestler, and actor, with credits ranging from Ben (1972) and Sextette (1978) to The Shield (2004). He is also a spokesman for Gold's Gym and a wrestling instructor.

One Saturday in the fall of eighth grade, my friend Craig and I rode our bikes through Lincoln Park in Rock Island, and then past Alleman, the Catholic High School.

Nazarenes said that Catholics were dangerous, demon-possessed, anxious to brainwash you with their weird Latin chants. I didn't really believe it -- but still, the sense of danger was exciting, like approaching a cage of roaring tigers.

Across the street from the Catholic school was a big white house with a fence of spiked logs, like they used in the Old West.

"See that house?" Craig asked. "Do you know why it has such a big, spiked fence?"

"Because it's full of Catholics?"

"No, because it's full of men with guns. If you go in there, they'll shoot you."

Men with guns?

I wasn't afraid of guns. My Dad and uncles had been taking me hunting ever since I learned to walk. I liked the all-masculine preserve, and the phallic symbolism of a gigantic gun pushing up from a guy's crotch.

"So...what do the Men with Guns look like?"

"Oh, they're big. With big muscles. They can tear a steel girder in half with their bare hands."

Being a naive twelve-year old, I didn't realize that Craig was putting me on.

"Let's take a look!" I exclaimed. I was anxious to see these muscular men polishing their guns and tearing steel girders in half.

"Um...er...we can't do that. We'll get shot."

Ignoring him, I parked my bike, walked around to the back, and peered through the gaps in the wooden spikes. I could vaguely see a grassy yard, two trees, and some lawn chairs -- wait -- was that a guy in a swimsuit?

I needed a better look.

No way was I going to try to climb that fence! In fifth grade, I nearly killed myself falling into an outhouse while looking for Uncle Edd's gun, and last summer, I banged my head into the side of the pool trying to see if my boyfriend Dan was kissing another guy.

How about just going to the door and knocking?

I had an excuse: the preacher was always talking about the importance of soul-winning, going door to door to win strangers for Christ, or at least inviting them to church. Two or three times a year, the high school kids divided into groups of three and went soul winning in different neighborhoods in Rock Island and Moline.

I was too young to go with them, but maybe I could convince my Sunday school teacher, Brother Dino, to bring me.

The next day in church I told him, "There's a house by the Catholic school, and it's full of Catholic sinners. I rode past on my bike yesterday, and God laid a burden on my heart to win the souls inside."

"Are you sure?" Brother Dino asked. "You're a little young for soul-winning."

"I'm mature for my age,"

"But...Catholics are advanced. Satan has a strong grip on them. They'll try to brainwash you."

"You're big and strong," I said, taking his arm. "You can protect me from anything, I bet."

So the next Saturday, I went soul-winning with Brother Dino and a high school girl named Cecilia (two women weren't safe going out together, and two men were intimidating, so you always went soul-winning in a mixed-sex group of three)

We walked up to the door, and Brother Dino knocked. I felt my heart racing. Any moment now, I would see the inside of the house, with muscular men cleaning their guns.

A cute guy in a black shirt with no buttons answered the door. He eyed our Bibles suspiciously. "May I help you?"

"I'm Brother Dino, and this is Jeff and Cecilia. We're here to share some Good News with you."

"Good news? What...."

"The Good News that God has a place in heaven waiting for you. All you have to do is accept Jesus Christ as your personal savior."

"Um...ok, won't you come in?"

He ushered us into the most Catholic room I had ever seen. A framed portrait of the Pope! Statues of saints and the Virgin Mary! Crucifixes, rosaries, candles! A scary, evil Catholic Bible on the coffee table! Catholic magazines!

"This is the rectory of Saint Mary's Church," he said. "I'm Father Benedict. Father Andrew is puttering around in the garden somewhere."

Seeing our faces drained of blood, he grinned. "Maybe you'd like some tea before you tell me about Our Lord?"

Brother Dino turned and ran from the house as if he was being chased by monsters. Cecilia and I followed. We jumped into the car and zoomed away, and didn't stop until we got back to the Nazarene church.

Then he started yelling. "Catholic priests! You brought me to a houseful of Catholic priests! Do you have any idea how dangerous they are? We were lucky to get out of there alive!"

But I couldn't help thinking: There were two men living in the house without wives. They had found a way to escape the "what girl do you like?" brainwashing, not with guns, but with Catholic cassocks. .

In the fall of 2008, I was living in Upstate New York, dating guys from the Gang of Twelve, who had all known each other for years and talked to each other about everything. Especially their hookups, dates, and boyfriends.

The Rich Kid set me up with the Truck Driver, and then, without telling me, his ex-boyfriend, the Rapper. Days after they broke up.

Date #3: The Rapper. The photos he sent with his introductory email were amazing. He was in his 20s, African-American, short, muscular but tending to fat, and super-sized beneath the belt. Exactly my type!

He grew up in the City, and came Upstate to study music management at SUNY Oneonta. Now he was working in an insurance agency, but hoped to launch a rap career.

On our date, the Rapper took me to a program of African dance and music at the university, and then back to his apartment, where he performed one of his rap numbers

.I hate rap, but I politely said "You're very talented. You should have no trouble getting a record contract."

Of course, I spent the night. In the morning, over breakfast, I told him about my dates with the Rich Kid and the Truck Driver.

"The Truck Driver!" he exclaimed. "That's my ex! Figures that the Rich Kid would fix you up with both of us, and wait to see the fireworks!"

I stared, feeling stupid. How could I have gone through dates with both of them and not noticed?

"He was exactly my type, " the Rapper continued. "I'm into tall white dudes with muscles and an extra-big package. Man, he had everything!"

"Well, I don't like to brag, but..."

He grinned. "Don't get jealous on me, man. You have everything, too."

"Do you think the Truck Driver will mind us dating?" I asked.

"Well, it's kind of soon after the breakup, so don't tell him, ok? Or the Rich Kid. Not for awhile, anyway."

But there were only a small number of gay-friendly venues Upstate, and the guys in the Gang of Twelve. all talked to each other.

For our second date, the Rapper and I drove into Cooperstown to the Fenimore Museum and dinner at Alex and Ika's -- where one of the Gang of 12 saw us and made some phone calls.

The next morning we were getting ready to go to breakfast, when the Truck Driver banged on the door.

"You don't waste any time, do you?" he yelled in his cute British accent. "How long did you wait before cruising the New Kid? Twenty minutes?"

"You had a date with him before I did!" the Rapper exclaimed.

"But nothing happened! We just talked. But not you -- you sent him X-rated pictures before you even met!"

"How did you find out about that?" He glared at me. "Not much for keeping secrets, are you, New Kid?"

"I didn't say anything!"

No third date. But other members of the Gang of Twelve were waiting for their turn.

Date #4: The Grabby Male Nurse. In his 40s, formerly muscular but now a little paunchy. On our date, we went shopping at some of the antique shops in town.

For all his interest in secrecy, the Rapper gossiped as much as everyone else in the Gang of Twelve. He gave the Nurse notes: "can't keep a secret"; plus moment-by-moment accounts of our two nights together.

So the Grabby Male Nurse was expecting a porn star.

He acted like one of those obnoxious guys in the clubs who keep leering and groping regardless of how much Attitude you display. Of course, in public, he had to leer and grope subtly, when no one was looking. Which made it all the more annoying.

Plus he turned everything I said into a sexual reference.

"I taught in Dayton for three years."
Wow, hot college boys! How many of them did you offer a little...um....extra credit in your office? Leer, leer.

"I grew up in Illinois."
Ooh, Chicago! I bet you got a lot of action there! Leer, leer.

"My grandmother studied art."
I see -- Grandma liked painting those nude male models, did she?"Wink, wink, nudge, nudge, say no more!

We had dinner at the Neptune Cafe, one of those East Coast diners with a 30-page menu, everything from moussaka to tacos. The owner was gay-friendly, so lots of the Gang of Twelve hung out there. But it was still a straight place.

Yet the Nurse acted like he was in a cruise bar, trying to grope me, leering at the male patrons. He knew the waiter -- an Asian guy named Chad -- and openly flirted with him, even asking him an inappropriate question about the size of the Asian penis. I gave him an extra big tip to make up for the embarrassment.

Then the Nurse suggested that we go back to his apartment.

I was done. "Sorry...my favorite tv show is on."

"You can watch it at my place." He grabbed my crotch. "Or we can watch porn. Your choice."

I disentangled myself and ran home and hid.

The Nurse sent notes to the rest of the Gang of Twelve: Nice guy, but all he can think about is sex.

I saw Chad again during Date #5: The Satyr and his Boy Toy.

Teen idol careers are painfully short, 3 or 4 years. The 12 year olds who discover your picture in Teen Beat and moon over your bubblegum pop will eventually turn into teenagers, start dating boys of their own, and relegate you to childhood memories. Unless you can reinvent yourself as a adult performer, you've had it.

David Cassidy, whose last charting single was in 1972 in the U.S. (though he was still selling records in Germany and the U.K.), tried to reinvent himself as a serious dramatic actor. In 1978, he played a cop who goes undercover as a high school student in "A Chance to Live", an episode of Police Story.

He was nominated for an Emmy, and NBC was so impressed that they created a series for his character, giving undercover cop Dan Shay (David) a wife, a daughter, and a superior officer to butt heads with (Simon Oakland as Sgt. Abrams).

Unfortunately, they didn't learn from the example of Bobby Sherman in Getting Together. They made a lot of mistakes.

Mistake #1: The title. Everybody thought that David would be playing himself, a sort of teen idol secret agent.

Mistake #2: the wife and kids. Teen idols should be single, so the fans can fantasize about getting them for themselves.

Mistake #3: his costumes. All tight jeans and shirts unbuttoned to the navel. It was the style in 1978, and it was nice to see a basket, but it didn't mesh with the androgynous shoulder-length hair.

Mistake #4: the middle aged superior officer (Simon Oakland). Too hippie vs. establishment for the 1978. Dan should have had a peer partner.

Mistake #5: instead of going undercover in a high school, Dan went undercover as a different ludicrous character every week, to snoop out a different ludicrous crime. See if you can tell which is which:

He went undercover as a: biker, college student, drifter, high school student, hot rodder, junkie, medical patient, pimp, prisoner, trucker, weapons buyer.

To crack the crime of: baby selling, biker gang, drugs, homicide (several times), and supermarket break-ins.

Mistakes #6 and #7: Premiering it on Thursday nights, opposite the youth-hits Barney Miller and Soap, in November, when everyone is too busy preparing for the holidays to try out new tv shows.

Eight episodes aired during the Thanksgiving-Christmas season 1978, and another two were burned off in the summer of 1979, and David Cassidy: Man Undercover went into the records of "worst series ever."

David Cassidy found the experience painful. After 1979 he concentrated on his music, and limited his tv and film work to occasional guest star spots. Recently he starred in Ruby and the Rockits with his brother Patrick and current teen idol Austin Butler.

During the early years of the 20th century, finding beefcake was a problem. Silent movies rarely featured male nudity. Neither did pulp magazines. Bodybuilding was in its infancy.

But in Britain, you could always go to a boxing match, and see biceps and bulges as muscular guys punched, pounded, grabbed, hugged. It was a quasi-homoerotic ritual that millions of men watched every week.

Boxers became superstars, both for their prowess and their physique.

I like guys who are short, and British featherweight Dick Corbett (1908-1943) was only 5'4".

Nipper Pat Daily (1913-1988), the world's youngest professional boxer, was a flyweight contender ate age 15. He won 99 of his 119 fights before retiring at age 17 to become a trainer and run a gym. He never married.

Actually, many of the early 20th century boxers never married. They were most comfortable in a masculine world of boxing rings and gyms.

Scottish light heavyweight Bert Gilroy (1918-1998) won 88 of 121 fights in a long career that lasted for 13 years, then retired to be a manager and trainer, spending the rest of his life near the ring.

Welsh boxer Johnny Basham (1890-1947), known as the Happy Wanderer, became the European welterweight champion.

Welterweight Brian Curvis (1937-2012) fought in the 1950s and 1960s, when awareness of gay identity made immersion in a male-only world suspect. He got married.

See also: Jerry Quarry, Boxer with Something Extra.

#15 on my Sausage List, the biggest guy I've ever met, was a 21-year old political science major from Harvard.

We met in the spring of 2001, when my doctorate in sociology was nearing completion, and I landed a dream interview: Assistant Professor of Gender Studies at Boston University!

I was so certain that this job was my "destiny" that I started looking for apartments and hanging out in Boston gay chatrooms. One of the guys I chatted with was Jermaine.

Instead of the usual "stats? size? top or bottom?", we talked about gender discrimination laws, hate crimes, and heteronormativity in the classroom. Quite heady stuff for a chatroom! And we made plans to meet for coffee and dessert at the end of my first day of interviews (the committee was taking me to dinner).

The interviews were atrocious -- snobbish faculty, snobbish grad students, questions that were heterosexist, combative, dissmisive, or just plain rude. No way I was getting this job! No way did I want it!

It was a relief to extricate myself from the badgering and walk from my hotel to the House of Blues, an upscale soul food restaurant with live music, where Jermaine was waiting. Very attractive: shorter than me, dark-skinned, solidly built, with glasses and a bright smile. Now I was even more depressed. Were all Boston boys so hunky?

We ordered appetizers -- Voodoo Shrimp and Fried Pickles -- and then dessert -- Bread Pudding -- while I complained (you never complain on a first date, but I figured we would never see each other again, anyway).

"Don't worry about the job," Jermaine said. "You'll find something great."

He talked about his law school applications -- Stanford, Columbia, Berkeley, Yale -- and then a career fighting gay oppression: "We've made some strides, but there's still so much to do. Sodomy laws, health care, partner benefits, gay youth. The fight is only beginning."

Then he started talking about his volunteer work with homeless gay youth at the MCC, but he stopped himself after a sentence or two. "I'm hogging the conversation, aren't I? Time for you to talk: what's your favorite thing about living in New York?"

After all that, it felt sort of sleazy to be cruising him, but after awhile I reached down to stroke his thigh. He smiled, but moved my hand away. Then, oddly, he asked, "Who's your Daddy?"

Um...well, I'm twice as old as you, about six inches taller, and I'm pretty sure I could beat you in arm wrestling. So you ain't my Daddy, son!

I didn't say that. I just smiled and kept silent.

After awhile Jermaine wanted to go to the Machine, a 18+ dance club, but I was too tired for the blaring techno-rock of the Cute Young Thing crowd.

"Why don't we go back to my hotel?" I suggested.

He stared at me. "Who's your Daddy?" he asked again.

"Um...that would a 65-year old retired factory worker in Franklin, Indiana."

"Ok, let's go," he said with a smile.

On the way, Jermaine got into an actual conversation with a panhandler. Never in my life had I seen such a thing -- you ignore them, or at best drop some coins into their plastic cup while looking away. And he talked about so many charities that I felt like a piker.

Was it ok to bring Jermaine into my bed? It would be like seducing a saint.

We got to my room and began kissing and fondling and undressing each other, but when I moved my hand to his crotch, Jermaine pushed it away and asked "Who's your Daddy?" again.

This time I said "Why don't you wait and see?"

Finally I was completely naked, but Jermaine was still wearing pants.

"Isn't it about time for the Full Monte?"

"Ok, sure," he said, strangely reluctant. He stood, unbuckled his belt, and started to lower his pants.

And lower them.

And lower them.

I stared. It was a baseball bat. It was a Kovbasa+++++.

"Yeah," Jermaine said, embarrassed. "At this point most guys drool and make sleazy jokes."

I caught myself, and returned my gaze to his face. "About what? You have a very nice physique. Your pecs are really hot."

He laughed and knelt on my lap. "That's the right answer."

Later Jermaine told me that he was sick of being fetishized, desired for nothing but his beneath-the-belt gifts. The question "Who's your Daddy" was designed to see if I would try to pressure him into being a super-top pile-driving sex machine. He wanted to kiss and cuddle, and fall asleep in the guy's arms.

I was happy to oblige.

We saw each other again about a month later, when Jermaine came down for his Uncle's 50th birthday party, and invited me along as his date.

Otherwise our schedules never synched, and in the summer of 2001 he moved to Berkeley. But we continued to chat online, and as the months passed and I didn't get a job, he kept saying "Don't give up -- you'll find something great!"

Jermaine is the biggest guy I've ever known. But not because of his Kovbasa+++++.

See also: The 15 Biggest Sausages I've Ever "Cooked."

Ryan Kwanten began acting at age 15, and first became known outside Australia as a boy trapped in an East Asian fantasy world inSpellbinder(1997). Since then, he has become famous for his physique. Whenever he comes on screen, his shirt comes off.

He's appeared in his underwear, in a towel, in a diaper, in a swimsuit, naked in bed, naked in the shower, stripped for torture, and wearing only a sock.

He's never played a gay character, or a character who spends much time with guys -- directors are too busy pushing him into ladies' arms.

He played horndogs on the soap Home and Away (1994-2002) and Summerland (2004-2005).

In Griff the Invisible, Griff (Ryan) falls in love with a female superhero. In Red Hill, young sheriff Shane (Ryan) has a wife and a baby. In Not Suitable for Children (2012), Jonah (Ryan) has to impregnate as many women as possible in a month.

But sometimes beefcake is enough.

Ryan has a gay brother, and would be perfectly happy playing a gay character. He praises his sheriff Jason Stackhouse in True Blood (2008-2013), the angst-y series about vampires struggling for their civil rights (with Joe Manganiello and Martin Spanjers).

Jason Stackhouse began as rather homophobic and vampire-phobic, but over the course of five seasons, learned to tolerate and finally accept both gay people and vampires. In 2012, when he discovered that a gay vampire had a crush on him, he responded: "Look, I accept who you are, whether it's a vampire, whether it's a gay man, or both. But that's not the way this dog barks."

Jason has a love-hate relationship with head vampire Eric Northman (Alexander Skarsgard) which has resulted in a lot of slash fiction.

Ryan would be happy to have the two men take their relationship to the next level and embark on a human-vampire romance.

The Coca Cola Kid

The Rich Kid and The Crying Truck Driver

Donelan: It's a Gay Life

The 15 Biggest "Sausages" I've Ever "Cooked"

The Thug on my Sausage List

Dark Shadows: Barnabas and Willie

The Night I Became a Creepy Old Guy

Homophobic Dog with a Blog: The Disney Channel's Worst Show

15 More Beefcake Stars of "Fringe"

The Beverly Hillbillies

Fall 1996: The Preacher and the Homeless Teenager

Ronnie Burns: Gay Teen of the 1950s

An Interview with Spartacus: Gay Characters, Gay Subtexts, and His Wife

March 24, 1975: Mitzi and a Hundred Guys

Fall 1973: The House Full of Men with Guns

Fall 2008: The Rapper and The Grabby Male Nurse

David Cassidy: Man Undercover

British Boxing Beefcake

The Biggest Guy on my Sausage List

Ryan Kwanten, Vampire Buddy