NYSocBoy's Beefcake and Bonding

William Shatner will forever be remembered as Captain James T. Kirk, who taught alien babes how to kiss and got his shirt ripped off by alien demigods on the first incarnation of Star Trek(1966-1969).

Or maybe as T.J. Hooker (1982-86), the veteran cop paired with rookie Vince Romano (Adrian Zmed). But in a 50-plus year career, he's played hundreds of characters, including some beefcake and buddy-bonding roles.

Especially early in his career:

Billy Budd,the young cabin boy who draws the erotic interest of the captain in a 1955 tv adaption of the Herman Melville novel.

The kind, sensitive, gay-vague Alexei in The Brothers Karamazov (1958), with Yul Brynner as Dmitri.

Peter Gifford in The Explosive Generation(1960), who causes a scandal by teaching sex ed in high school (his students include Lee Kinsolving, Billy Gray of Father Knows Best, and a very young Beau Bridges).

The gay Greek emperor Alexander the Great in a 1968 tv movie (heterosexualized, of course).

In Vanished (1971), a powerful presidential adviser (Arnold Green) vanishes. The White House tries to cover up the fact that he was gay. Shatner plays a reporter trying to uncover the truth.

Not a lot of gay roles, but he did appear on the drag queen-friendly Madame's Placein 1982, and he played a homophobic lawyer on a 2007 episode of Boston Legal, assigned the case of a judge who is suing a company for not "curing" his "same-sex attraction disorder."

And in his 2010-2011 sitcom $h*! my Dad Says, his Ed has a gay assistant.

I often hear complaints that "Gay culture is too youth oriented! Older guys are shunned!"

One of my dissertation respondents said "I hate being gay! It's ok now, but what about when I'm 50? I don't want to still be dancing at the Rage!"

Another said, in all seriousness, "There aren't any old gay men. They all die before they reach 40."

Crazy ideas. There are, and always have been, lots of gay men in their 40s. And 50s. And 60s, And so on.

And they have a big secret that they aren't sharing with the young guys:

Gay life gets better after 40. And better than that after 50.

If you haven't hit those milestones yet, here are 10 things the older guys don't want you to know:

1. Every twink in town will want to date you. The cute 20-somethings who give major Attitude to their peers will be pushing and shoving to get their phone numbers into your hand. Prepare to be annoyed by constant texts: "What u doing? Can I come over?"

2. Everyone will want to hear your stories. Forget about Grandpa Simpson, who bores everyone with his tales of jitterbugging on the Hindenburg. Everyone will be interested in your stories of the Dark Ages, when gay people were invisible, closeted, assumed not to exist. And the riotous years of Gay Liberation. Mention the concept of "sharing" one's roommates and boyfriends, and watch their eyes widen.

3. It won't take a lot of work to have a nice physique. Many guys over 40 fall victim to lowered metabolism and a sedentary lifestyle, and start to put on the pounds. Which means that just an hour in the gym every day -- or even every other day -- will make you stand out in the crowd. .

4. You'll have a lot more stuff. When I moved to West Hollywood in 1985, I had $100 in my pocket and everything I owned in the back seat of my 1975 Dodge Dart. Now I have roomfuls of furniture, 1000 books, 1000 DVDs and Blurays, 2 computers, about 50 shirts, a retirement account, and more than $100 in the bank..

5. You'll be able to stay home on Saturday night without guilt. In your 20s and 30s, you have to be going out on a date or out with friends, or inviting someone over, every Friday and Saturday night, no exceptions. Staying home alone is a sign that you are antisocial, socially inept, or a loser. Now I can stay home if I want, no explanations, no apologies.

6. You will have a ready-made excuse to get out of anything.
I can't do the laundry -- I pulled a muscle at the gym.
I can't go to dinner with your parents -- I'm coming down with a cold.
I can't make it to work today -- I ate something that disagreed with me.
Those excuses didn't work when you were 15, but at 45, no one disputes your body aches or finicky stomach.

7. No one will pressure you to date women. In your 20s and 30s, it's a constant, from everyone you're not out to, and quite a few that you are: Do you have a girlfriend? Are you looking? What about her? Or her? Or her?" In your 40s, the interrogations stop. If you're not married with children by now, they figure, you never will be. Peace at last!

8. You will have a toolkit to handle any problems that arise. Chances are, whatever happens to you -- romantic problem, boss from hell, noisy neighbor -- has happened to you before. You will know how to handle everyday hassles and even major crises.

9. You will remember a time when things were much, much worse. Today we tend to measure homophobia by whether or not you will cater a gay wedding. In the 1980s, it was whether or not you wanted gay people sent to concentration camps.

10. You will have a lot to look forward to. Chances are you'll live to age 80, or longer. If you came out at age 20, that means that only 1/3rd of your gay life is over by age 40.

You have 2/3rds of it left, in a well-furnished apartment with a decent physique, and an army of Cute Young Things banging at your door.

See also: A Guy with Daddy Issues Tears My Clothes Off; and 10 Easy Steps to Hooking Up with Twinks

The website cruisingforsex.com lists hundreds of places guys can go to cruise. The few bars, bath houses, and sex clubs are overwhelmed by the public places, dozens in every city: beaches, adult video stores, gyms, highway truck stops, and lots -- lots of public restrooms.

Some of them have holes between stalls where guys insert things. Otherwise you go under the barrier, or just use the same stall.

Why would you want to meet people that way, when there are community organizations, churches, bookstores, pride festivals, museums, art galleries, and any number of more comfortable places?

And if you meet someone in a t-room, why not take them home? T-rooms are gross and uncomfortable, and people could interrupt you at any moment. Not to mention the risk of arrest for "lewd behavior."

But, in the fall of 1996, my friend David, who cruised constantly in bars, bathhouses, public parks, and public restrooms, talked me into giving "tearoom trade" a try.

The rest of the story is too risque for Boomer Beefcake and Bonding; you can read it at Tales of West Hollywood.

On June 21st, 1985, I drove cross-country 1860 miles from my parents' house in Rock Island, Illinois to West Hollywood, my 10-year old Dodge Dart packed with bedding, dishes, clothes, and mementos. There was only room for one box of books, so I took an Italian-English dictionary, a world atlas, Death in Venice, Les fleurs du mal, Earthfasts, Alice in Wonderland, The Gayellow Pages, Pidgin to da Max, a complete Edgar Allen Poe, a guide to old movies, three Alix and Enak comics, three books from the Green Library, The Lord of the Rings trilogy -- and On the Road, by Jack Kerouac.

My heterosexist Modern American Literature professor mentioned the Beat Generation, briefly, as a literary movement that rebelled against 1950s conformity with drugs, jazz music, Eastern mysticism, and free love. He didn't mention that the "free love" was often gay. In fact, the main poem he assigned was: "Woman woman woman woman woman woman woman woman woman woman."

But when I looked more closely into the movement during the famous summer of 1981, I discovered lots of gay content:

William S. Burroughs, who wrote weird impenetrable "cut up" novel (where he tore the pages up and reassembled them at random), but the heroes were gay junkie outsiders.

Paul Bowles (right), who moved to Morocco in 1947, drawn by the Muslim nonchalance to same-sex practices. In 1960 he met a young Berber named Mohammed Mrabet (left), and translated his autobiographical novel about rent-boys, Love with a Few Hairs.

By the way, the 1959 movie The Beat Generation, with Steve Cochran, has nothing to do with the Beat Generation.

Allen Ginsberg (played by James Franco, top photo, in 2010), whose long poem Howl (1957) was about his alienation from materialist, heterosexist American society. It was tried for obscenity due to the overt references to gay sex.

Ginsberg's long-time lover Peter Orlovsky (right, with his brother), whose poetry was even more overtly homoerotic.

Leroi Jones, later Amiri Baraka, who renounced his gay identity to proclaim that gay men were devils.

And the counterculture classic that every hipster at Augustana College read, or claimed to: On the Road (1957), by bisexual Beat Generation guru Jack Kerouac (right), about his mostly unrequited love for Neal Cassidy. In the novel, Sal Paradise is in love with Dean Moriarity (played by Sam Riley and Garrett Hedlund in the 2012 movie), who keeps talking him into leaving The Girl for wild homerotic jaunts across American.

They like sex with both men and women (they disapprove of "fags," who like only men), but are suspicious of women, who lead to marriage, settling down, domesticity, and conformity, a loss of something essential and noble. Men represent freedom, adventure, nonconformity, being true to yourself. In the end Sal chooses domesticity and rejects homoromance as "selfishness."

But on the way they are obviously lovers, and that in itself was freedom enough in the dull furrowed Midwest in 1981.

You have to be careful watching tv. The producers, actors, and directors are not your friends; even when they are gay, they are often Uncle Toms. So it's impossible to avoid frequent statements that assert that everyone on earth is heterosexual, that you do not exist:
"Well, Joe, you're getting to that age when you start to notice girls"
"All guys look at girls. It's only natural."
"She's every man's fantasy."

If you are careful, you can usually avoid the more virulent statements that assert that you exist, but you are a swishy joke or a predatory monster.

I let my guard down one night in the summer of 1986. Who would expect virulent homophobia on Murder She Wrote?

I had no interest in the Sunday night old-person's series (1984-1996) about a small-town mystery writer (played by Angela Lansbury) who kept stumbling across -- and solving -- murders.

Usually the victim was a relative or friend -- "Oh, no, you invited Aunt Jessica to Thanksgiving! That means one of us will die!"

But Alan was a fan, for some reason, and that Sunday evening, we watched an episode called "Footnote to Murder" (10 March 1985).

Jessica goes to a mystery writer's convention full of petty jealousy, feuds, backstabbing, and vindictiveness, and of course someone ends up dead. Unfortunately, her best friend is the prime suspect.

Robert Reid, formerly the Brady Bunch dad, played swishy uber-stereotype Adrian Winslow, who is criticized for writing novels about "Greek boys mincing about."

"At least my books sell," he simpers.

Who's buying all of these mysteries about Greek boys mincing about?

Although an uber-swishy, lavender-laced, fruit-flavored 1950's stereotype who writes about swishy queens in in ancient Greece, he's also closeted. "The young man I was dining with last night was a reporter," he explains.

So the word "gay" is never used. Just a lot of condescending smirks and whispered innuendos.

At least he's not the murderer, just a swishy red herring.

At the time I didn't think anything of it -- virulent homophobia was commonplace on tv during the 1980s.

Then, in 1992, Robert Reed died. Of colon cancer, but he turned out to be HIV positive, resulting in crazy media headlines like "Mike Brady Had AIDS"!

And his Brady Bunch costars revealed that Reed was, in fact, gay. They all knew, back in the 1960s, but of course they couldn't say anything for fear that having "America's Favorite Dad" come out would destroy his career -- and their show.

So a gay man agrees to play this horrible 1950s stereotype?

He also hated The Brady Bunch, and actually refused to appear in some episodes that he thought were particularly stupid.

A paycheck is a paycheck. You did what you had to do, in those days.

See also: Christopher Knight/Peter Brady, Barry Williams/Greg Brady; and Razzle Dazzle: 1970s Variety Shows.

When I was a kid in the 1960s, I preferred science fiction and jungle adventures, but I didn't mind detectives, if they were Sherlock Holmes and Watson, or the Hardy Boys. Frank and Joe Hardy, high school aged sons of the famous detective Fenton Hardy, began by butting into their father’s cases in 1927, but soon found trouble enough on their own: they captured smugglers and counterfeiters, thwarted spies, investigated haunted houses that weren’t really haunted after all.

Although they are both in the same year of high school, the Hardys are a year apart in age. , but their personalities are complementary: the older Frank is reasoned, logical, and serious, while the younger Joe is impetuous, emotional, and something of a jokester. Since they managed to endure and even prosper while other boys’ book series failed during the 1960s, we may conclude that they provided something hard to find in the movies, tv programs, and comic books of the era.

1. Intensive beefcake. Frank and Joe share the Herculean physiques and breathtaking good looks of the boys in British boy annuals and American adventure series, and the covers and interior illustrations (not to mention the 1970s tv series, starring Shaun Cassidy) often show off their physiques.

2. Contemporary boy scientist Tom Swift was girl-crazy, but the Hardys lacked heterosexual interest. Frank has a “favorite among all the girls of his class,” Callie, and Joe has “an attachment” to Iola. However, Callie and Iola appear in only four of the first ten installments, and never as girlfriends. No individual boy-girl dates are planned or discussed, no romantic attachment fuels any plot, and the only fade-out embraces occur between siblings.

Callie and Iola dance with the Hardys at parties, invite themselves along on their picnics, and run into them downtown, not so much objects of hetero-romantic desire as emblems of the “ordinary time” that frames the call to adventure.

3. Intensive bonding. In the first six installments, the brothers have particular boy friends, whom they do invite out on dates, to picnics and movies and camping trips. Frank favors chubby, good-natured Chet, who frets over household chores, befriends girls, and eventually goes to art school. Joe favors Biff, with “muscles like steel,” who dislikes household chores, dislikes girls, and plays every school sport (he is named after a famous boxer relative).

Later, however, Biff is demoted to a minor character, and Chet becomes a ubiquitous best friend, confidant, tag-along, and comic relief. After the mystery is solved and explained, he returns the Hardys to ordinary time by saying something about sitting down to dinner or else “We’ve heard the story. Now let’s dance!” He no longer favor either brother. Instead, the Hardys live for each other.

The Hardys sleuth out clues together, piece together mysteries together, befriend the innocent and excoriate the guilty together, and in ordinary time attend all of the parties and picnics as a pair; one has to read through a great many pages to find a scene where they separate by choice. They touch wrists and shoulders; they finish each other’s sentences; they express a world with a glance. At least once per story, one of the brothers is captured, tied up, and threatened with torture or murder, and he is rescued by the other brother.

The two share the intensity, intimacy, and exclusivity of homoromance, and perhaps the permanence, since they never discuss their immanent entry into adulthood, except to vaguely declare that they want to become detectives. All that separates them from homoromance is the fraternal bond: their passion is the passion of brothers, not of lovers.

Why are Frank and Joe brothers? By boys’ book convention, they should be strangers who meet for the first time as competitors on a high school gridiron, or else in darkest Africa, when one saves the other from being sacrificed to the Leopard God.

Even the Hardy series must fudge a bit with the back story, alluding vaguely to an “illness” that kept Frank out of school for a year to explain why they are in the same grade. For that matter, why must they be in the same grade? They are rarely shown in school, so it would make little difference except that to establish that they cannot bear to be apart for even the fifty minutes of an algebra class. Real brothers sometimes require time alone, or with other friends. Not the Hardys.

Men in mass culture are often cast as brothers when the plot requires that they care deeply for each other, when one will be rescued or have a deathbed scene, since the fraternal bond allows for an intensity and a intimacy that would otherwise signify romance.

But the Hardys display none of the easy jocularity, the good-natured ribbing, the posturing and the bullying of real brothers, in mass media or in real life. They behave precisely as if their bond is romantic rather than fraternal, as if they are in love.

You probably know my top 10 turn-offs: tall, thin, long faced, wearing jewelry, alcoholic, sports nut, and so on, until we reach #10: feminine traits.

Politically, I'm a strong supporter of your right to be as butch, femme, or androgynous as you want to be. I won't blink an eye if you sashay across the room in bedazzled couture, stanking up the place with your Chanel #5, and call me "girlfriend." But it's not likely to get you the key to my bedroom.

So how did I end up going home with Miss Chita Taboo?

Well, I didn't know about Miss Chita Taboo.

One night in the spring of 2002, Yuri dragged me to the Manor, the twink bar in Wilton Manors, and I was cruised by Victor, a slim, smiling twink from Brazil (this isn't him).

He had three of the five traits I find attractive -- shorter than me, dark-skinned, and religious (devout Catholic). And he had only a few feminine mannerisms, the sort that twinks get when they grow up in a super-macho environment where every hint of androgyny is punished -- they tend to go overboard, and sashay a bit. Not a big turn off.

Besides, he was very persistent. He taught me how to say "I want to kiss you." in Portuguese.

Eu quero te beijar

So I accepted the date.

I thought something might be up when I got to Victor's apartment, which was large, elegantly-furnished, and so close to the beach that you could hear the waves.

In his living room, instead of a couch, there was an enormous pink daybed with a zebra canopy and a photo of Madonna behind it.

"Who's the hunk?" I asked, pointing to a framed portrait of a very attractive older man, shirtless, with a hairy chest, gigantic pecs and delts.

"Oh, that's my Michael, my ex-husband," Victor said. "Bodybuilder -- he went to Barney's Gym, where you go. We broke up a long time ago. We're still friends -- we can share sometime -- but don't worry, you have no competition!"

Gay men did not call their partners husbands in 2002, unless they were modeling their relationships on heterosexual boy-girl models.

Ok, Victor was way too feminine for my comfort zone.

But I already agreed to the date -- I couldn't back out now.

We had dinner at a Brazilian restaurant, and then walked hand in hand along the gay beach.

"How can you afford that swanky apartment?" I asked.

"Oh, Daddy is the mayor of Belo Horizonte, He sends me money every month so I stay away from Brazil. I embarrass him. And I make money from my entertaining, too."

I didn't ask what his entertaining entailed, but I got an idea from the rest of our conversation, mostly about pop music. Victor was a big fan of Jennifer Lopez, Vanessa Carlton, Lee Ann Rimes, Brandy, Pink, and Aaliyeh, but he also liked the classics. He had just been to a Cher concert, and he had a copy of Madonna's first album (1983), which had her all-time best number, "Lucky Star." He began singing it for me, right on the beach, complete with hand gestures.

You may be my lucky star, but I'm the luckiest by far....

Getting serenaded by Madonna songs by moonlight is quite an experience.

Still, this guy was way too feminine. I decided to excuse myself and go home without the obligatory kiss. Then Victor cozied up to me and said, "I have a surprise for you. Bolo de rolo, guava cake. A special Brazilian dessert. I made it myself."

He already made the cake. It would be impolite to refuse.

We sat in Victor's elegantly furnished kitchen, eating small slices of the very rich, spicy cake and drinking coffee. I tried to steer the conversation away from popular music.

How about the gym?

"Oh, I do jazzercise every morning. I keep my girlish figure."

Movies?

"Oh, I want to see the Powerpuff Girls movie so bad! I love them so much -- Girl Power! Which one is your favorite, Blossom, Bubbles, or Buttercup?"

"Um...do you have any interests that involve men?" I asked.

"Horny already, you naughty boy? Wait a minute...I'll be back...." Before I could say anything, he vanished through the bedroom into the bathroom and shut the door.

Oh, no -- he thought I was interested in bedroom activities. I had to turn him down fast! I followed to tell him I was going home.

The bedroom contained:

A gigantic bed with a black bedspread and red plush pillows.

A chair shaped like a high-heel shoe.

A vanity desk cluttered with jars, vials, chalices, styluses, Eau de Parfum, nail polish, polish remover, lipstick, sponge applicators, brow gel, eyeliner, toner, moisturizer, bronzer, mascara, hair gel, moisturizer, pink razors, tweezers, powder.

And a framed photo of an elegant drag queen.

"Who's the drag queen?" I asked through the door.

"That's me -- Miss Chita Taboo. I've won Miss Gay Fort Lauderdale twice! I could go on to Miss Gay Florida last year, but that Yvette DeLong beat me out!"

"Oh,.,that's very interesting," I said. "I'm not..I mean, I support your right to do drag 100%. I just like men who are a little more...you know...masculine."

No answer.

"I think I'm going to be going. But thanks for the rolo de bolo. It was very tasty."

No answer.

Had he collapsed?

"Victor? Are you ok?"

No answer.

Was he sobbing over the rejection?

"Miss Taboo? Are you still there?"

The door breezed open. "Sorry, I didn't hear you with the toilet running."

Victor stood in front of me, naked, smiling. Hung.

Bratwurst+. Maybe bigger.

"What did you say, babe?"

"Um...um..I said I'd love to see your act sometime."

"How sweet! But why are your clothes on still!"

Well, I never turn down a Bratwurst+.

See also: The Pitcher with the Secret Move; and My Sausage List.

I'm getting sick of summer: it's too hot, there's nothing to do all day but course prep for the fall, I'm gaining weight from sitting around, and there's nothing on tv at night but reruns.

It was the same way when I was a kid. My favorite season was fall, when school started, with new books and classes, and the leaves started to change, and there was a little chill in the air. And it was marked the beginning of the great holiday season that began with Halloween, picked up momentum with my birthday and Thanksgiving, and careened into Christmas.

Winter was great, too, with bright skies and biting cold air, wrestling tournaments, sledding, and snow men. I even liked shoveling snow (my brother and I started a snow-shoveling business).

I didn't care much for spring: all rainy and muddy, and no good holidays. Valentine's Day? St. Patrick's Day?

And summer -- don't get me started!

Here are the Top 10 Things I Hated About Summer (and still do)

1. With school out, there was nothing to do.

2. It was too hot to play outside.

3. But my parents insisted that I play outside.

4. I could get sunburned in 10 minutes (in those days, we didn't use sunscreen).

5. There were thunderstorms almost every night, so we had to unplug the tv, thus missing our favorite programs.

6. There was nothing good on anyway, just reruns.

7. I had to go to bed when it was still daylight, and I could look out the window and see all the other kids in the neighborhood playing.

8. My parents kept holding barbecues, picnics, and other activities where you had to eat outside, off paper plates, with the bugs and the dirt, and the wind that blew everything away.

9. We always went on a horrible week-long camping trip, with nothing to do but swim in muddy water, hunt rabbits, and walk around in the woods. What gay kid wants to mess around with that gross stuff?

10. And I spent another week at Nazarene summer camp, sleeping in drafty cabins, with nonstop sermons (mostly about boys liking girls) and sports, and the bathroom down a mosquito-ridden path (where I saw Brother Dino naked in the shower).

But there were a few things that made summer bearable (almost).

See also: 10 Things That Made Summer Bearable; Roadside Beefcake; and the Kensington Runestone.

I've watched a lot of tv, mostly sci-fi and sitcoms. The set was on all the time when I was a kid. In adulthood, it's like comfort food, warm, predictable, mildly amusing. But is it really necessary to have so many plot conventions that strain credulity? Plus are sexist, heterosexist, or downright homophobic? Almost makes you want to pick up a book instead.

1. No one ever says a complete sentence; everyone takes turns. "This looks like the work of...""Two killers." "So we should..." ",,,get backup."

2. Whenever someone says "It's possible that...", as in "It's possible that the signals are coming from Mars" or "It's possible that the killer worked for the FBI," they mean "It's an absolute certainty."

3. Whenever someone says, "The chances against this working are a million to one," they mean, "It will absolutely work."

4. You cannot discuss the plan on the way to the site, even if it takes two hours to get there. You must always wait until you have arrived.

5. All discussions of plans must begin with the phrase: "And that's the plan. First we...."

6. Whenever someone asks "What's for dinner?", the answer must always be "Your favorite."

7. The only people who can eat dinner at home are heterosexual nuclear families: The Man in a lumberjack shirt, a son and a daughter under age 10, and The Woman, usually blond. The Man always says "Great meal, honey."

8. The only people who can eat in restaurants are four young adults, divided into male-female couples. One is always shown shoving a forkful of food into someone else's mouth. Sometimes this happens in groups, too.

9. Whenever anyone turns on the tv, they must hear a news story pertaining to their situation.

10. If they are shown watching tv alone, it should be an old black and white movie, usually a Western.

11. Except for kids and serial killers, who must always watch public domain cartoons from the 1930s.

12. The only people who can watch tv in groups are heterosexual nuclear families, and they are always sharing a gigantic bowl of popcorn. No one in the real world eats popcorn while watching tv.

13. If someone wants to talk to you, they can't call, they must drive across town to get there.

14. And the drive is extremely short.

15. And the door is unlocked, so they just walk in.

16. Whenever you enter a scary place, someone must say "This place gives me the creeps." But no one in real life ever says this.

17. People always complain that they don't have enough money to pay bills, but have thousands to spend on expensive props.

18. Poor people live in huge, well-appointed houses. Middle-class people live in mansions. There is no such thing as an apartment, except in New York.

19. Men may not be shown engaging in any housecleaning activity. Ever. They can be asked to cook, to "help their wives out," but they must flub the job and take the kids to McDonald's.

20. The main characters must be white, but the captain, chief, or judge who appears in just one episode should be black, to demonstrate that racism no longer exists.

21. Everyone belongs to a huge number of clubs and organizations, but only for one episode apiece. Then the club is never mentioned again.

22. Funerals always occur in the rain.

23. All college classes, even advanced seminars, must be taught in giant lecture halls, with never an empty seat.

24. College professors must all be elderly, wear bow ties, and have gigantic offices and personal secretaries.

25. All high school teachers must be bitter and depressed, or sadistic jerks who, in real life, would be fired in 30 seconds.

26. You can struggle with failing grades throughout high school and still get into a top college. Even the Ivy League.

27. Action-adventure series must always begin with a flashback in which the central character's heterosexual romantic partner is killed.

28. Movie trailers must always contain a heterosexual kiss, even if there aren't any in the actual movie.

29. When a male character dresses in drag, he always does a horrible job, with chest hair and moustache, and he must have a startlingly deep voice.

30. Preteens must always be portrayed as heterosexual and boy- or girl-crazy, no matter what their age.

31. All teenage boys must be portrayed as crazy about sports, rock music, and girls.

32. Single adult heterosexuals must make jokes about how horny they are every five seconds.

33. Married heterosexual men hate their wives, especially having sex with them, and will do anything to avoid it.

34. A transwoman should always like women before transitioning and men after, to ensure viewers that everyone on Earth is heterosexual, regardless of gender identity.

35. Gay men must always be portrayed as swishy queens obsessed with fashion, skin-care products, and show tunes.

36. They rarely have gay friends, but they are crazy about hanging out with heterosexual women.

37. There are no lesbians, just "girls gone wild" who can easily "switch back" to heterosexual again.

38. Men with feminine traits are always evil.

39. Space explorers always get their shirts ripped off.

See also: 10 Gay Movies I Hated; and 12 Songs I Hated.

When I was growing up, the best pizza in town came from Harris Pizza on 14th Avenue, about a half mile from our house.

The best in the world -- I've never found anything close. Ground sausage, with the cheese on top. Real, fresh mushrooms, not the canned stuff.

We never got delivery -- why wait around, and then have to tip the delivery boy? Dad just drove over and picked it up.

After I moved to West Hollywood in 1985, I went back home for visits twice a year, at Christmastime and in the summer, and I always insisted on getting Harris pizza at least once.

My parents moved to Indiana in 1995, so I didn't get back to Rock Island often, maybe every two years. I stayed with my brother, who lived downtown, a long way from 14th Avenue, but I still insisted on ordering it at least once during my visit.

During the summer of 2001, a few weeks before I moved from New York to Florida, I was back in Rock Island visiting Ken, and for some reason I got the job of driving my sister-in-law's car to pick up the pizza.

I had never actually been inside Harris Pizza before. I was surprised by how small the space was, how much it smelled of sausage and mushrooms, and how hot the guy at the counter was.

He was stunning! College age, oval face, sparkling black eyes, wavy black hair, nice chest and biceps. His name tag said "Jack."

I couldn't decide which I liked better: the smell of the Harris Pizza, or Jack saying "May I help you?"

My pizza wasn't quite done, so we chatted a bit. "I grew up in Rock Island. Whenever I visit, I always come back for a Harris Pizza."

"Where do you live now?"

"New York. I have an apartment in the East Village." (I didn't mention that I would be vacating it in three weeks.)

Jack grinned. "Wow, that's exciting! I'd love to live in New York someday. I'm studying theater arts at Augustana, so Broadway is my dream."

"Hey, I know lots of theater people. If you visit New York, I could introduce you to my friend Blake, who works for...."

Then my pizza slid up from the kitchen. I paid and left -- forgetting to give Jack my name or phone number.

The next day I went to Harris Pizza at about the same time. No Jack -- and it would be pushy to ask the staff about him.

And I was leaving tomorrow!

Thinking fast, I called my friend and former bully, Dick.

"Harris Pizza!" he exclaimed. "All that fat and sodium! I never go near that place -- you might as well be eating a deep-fried Big Mac!

"The pizza might be bad, but you should see the pizza boy! His name is Jack, he's a theater student at Augustana, and he's incredible!"

"Your type, huh? A short bodybuilder with dark skin, an extra big sausage, and a degree in theology?"

"Well -- rather tall and fair skinned, actually. More your type. But gorgeous with a capital G! And he was obviously cruising me! Except I'm flying back to New York tomorrow, so I don't have time to pursue him."

"So you want me to pursue Jack for you?"

"Just go to Harris Pizza, mention me, maybe wow him with the list of celebrities I've seen naked -- feel free to add Tom Cruise to the list -- and maybe get his number. I'll take it from there."

"I don't know, Potsie," he said, referring to Happy Days. "Sounds like a crazy scheme. What's in it for me?"

"Well...if Jack and I hit it off, I'm willing to share. Besides, you owe me for the 3,000 times you called me a 'sissy,''wuss,' and 'girl' back in grade school."

"Ok, ok," Dick grunted. He didn't like to be reminded of his bullying days. "I'll see what I can do."

The next day I went back to New York, and got so immersed in packing and truck rentals and lease walk-throughs that I forgot all about it. Dick didn't say anything in his emails.

Then in November he emailed me: "Are you coming back to Rock Island for Christmas?"

"I wasn't planning to. I was just there last June -- I don't want to wear out my welcome at my brother's house."

"You can stay with me. I have a special present for you. Come the day after Christmas -- but not until 6:00 pm. That's when the present is coming."

Puzzled, I agreed. I spent Christmas with my parents, then rented a car and drove out to Rock Island on the 26th, timing my trip to arrive at 6:00 sharp.

Dick opened the door in a Christmas sweater, gave me a bear hug, and took his present -- a rather expensive set of wine glasses. I noticed that the table was set for three.

"So, you mentioned a special present?"

"Right, right." He yelled "Okay, now!" into the back of the house. "Whatever Lola Wants, Lola Gets" from Damn Yankees started playing.

And a shirtless twink in a Santa hat and red jockstrap came dancing seductively out of the bedroom.

Whatever Lola wants, Lola gets,
And little man, little Lola wants you!

"Merry Christmas!" he said, grinding against me.

I helped myself to a grope. "You got me a twink? How thoughtful!"

Dick grinned. "You idiot, this is Jack -- the famous hot pizza boy you were all crazy about!"

Over dinner (for which Jack got dressed), I heard the story: last summer Dick went to Harris Pizza as I requested, but Jack wasn't there, so he gave up. But in September, he read that the Augustana Theater Department was performing Death of a Salesman, with someone named Jack as Biff. He wasn't a big theater fan, but he went to the performance, talked to Jack afterwards -- sure enough, it was the same guy. And they started dating.

"Since you're kind of responsible for us meeting, Dick wanted to surprise you," Jack added. "But not recognizing me kind of ruined it."

"Well, I only talked to you for five minutes, six months ago. But it's a nice surprise now -- you're even hotter than I remember."

"You are, too," Jack said.

"Ok, enough grade school 'Oh, you're cute!' bull!" Dick exclaimed. "Everybody thinks everybody is hot -- now let's get busy. We have some sharing to do!"

Jack moved in with Dick a few months later. They've been together ever since.

See also: Hooking Up with My Old Bully

There have been three major comic strips devoted to the naivete, colorful traditions, and homespun wisdom of the hillbilly:
Li'l Abner, about a backwoods Adonis allergic to hetero-romance.
Snuffy Smith, who doesn't seem particularly romantic toward his towering wife Loweezie (they have no progeny, although they are raising a nephew).
And Pogo, about the animal residents of Okefenokee Swamp in Georgia.

Created by Walt Kelly for a line of Dell comic books in 1941, Pogo premiered in The New York Star in 1948, and entered national syndication in a year later.

The titular Pogo, "a possum by trade," is laconic and soft-spoken, the foil, best friend, and sometime domestic partner of the loud, blustering Albert the Alligator. (we see a similar "forbidden" predator-prey relationship in the animated Sitting Ducks).

They are intimates, sharing a house and a bed. Moreover, their physicality, the grabbing of arms and shoulders, the hugging, the casual pressing against each other, is quite surprising for the 1950s, and suggests a homoerotic subtext even more strongly.

Pogo's other friends include the turtle Churchy LaFemme ("Ah loves yo', Churchy"); the misanthropic Porky Pine, who doesn't like anybody -- except Pogo; Howland Owl; Beauregard the Hound Dog; and the young "sprat" Rackety Coon Chile, who is studying to become an elephant when he grows up.

But Pogo makes new friends easily, with a zeal that veers into the homoerotic. In a 1951 continuity, a carrier pigeon arrives with a "secret message," and the next day the two are shown walking off together, a new male bond formed. One wonders what the "secret message" was.

The swamp animals have little use for heterosexual romance. The flirtatious French skunk Mam'zelle Hepzibah is sometimes an object of affection, but more often a "sivilizing" attempt to introduce culture into their backwoods idyll.

On November 10th, 1950, the entire cast watches the sunset, dismal over the conservative turn in the midterm elections (the Democrats lost 28 seats in the House and 5 in the Senate). And the political satire began.

Pogo ran for President regularly, with a campaign platform supporting various liberal causes.

Political figures were regularly satirized, beginning with witch-hunting senator Joseph McCarthy, and moving on to Barry Goldwater, Richard Nixon, Hubert Humphrey, and Spiro Agnew.

But the gay subtexts continued unabated until the strip ended with Walt Kelly's death in 1973.

Although probably not intended in this "Gay and Fey" association between Albert the Alligator and his creator.

Everyone sees Albert in Pogo's bed, and assumes that they're married.

A male flea asks Beauregard Dog to marry him.

A male male cat begins chucking bricks at Beauregard, and the other characters conclude that he is in love with him.

On and on, giving us the impression that everyone in Okefenokee Swamp is either gay, or nonchalant about gay people.

See also: Krazy Kat, the First Gay Comic Strip Character; and The Surprising Gay Origin of "Deck us all"

Most heterosexuals go about their daily lives as if they are alone in the universe. If asked, they will say "Sure, some men are gay, which means they're into men, not women," but in the next moment, they'll announce "There's not a man alive who wouldn't want a date with Angelina Jolie or whoever.

The IMDB biography of Dennis Cole assures us that "Females couldn't get enough of him," while males idolized his athleticism. That's right, every woman and no man swooned over him.

What about his early modeling in beefcake magazines, notably the gay-oriented Physique Pictorial and Bob Mizner's Athletic Model Guild?

Or his work as the hustler Cowboy in a San Diego production of the gay-themed Boys in the Band?

Or King Marchand, the man who falls in love with a woman he thinks is a drag queen, in the national touring company of Victor/Victoria?.

He didn't play any gay characters on tv, but really, between 1965 and 1995, there weren't many gay characters to play, especially if you were too muscular to pull off a thin, willowy queen. But he played around gay and LGBT characters:

"The Fourth Sex" episode of Medical Center (1975), with Robert Reed as a transgender doctor.

"Star Struck," an episode of Three's Company (1983), with Jack Tripper pretending to be gay.

Early in his career, he went the buddy-bonding route, with two homoerotic detective partners: Howard Duff in Felony Squad (1966-69) and Rod Taylor in Bearcats! (1971).

Dennis was married three times, for a few years each (his second wife was Jacyln Smith of Charlie's Angels.) When his son Joey was killed in a robbery attempt in 1991, he refused to be associated with any violence in movie or tv productions, which limited his options. He acted on screen only a few more times before his death in 2009, though he continued to work in theater.

When I was living in San Francisco, my friend David and I walked down Castro Street every day on the way to and from work, even though it was strictly not necessary, to immerse ourselves in the heart of the heart of the gay world.

The Castro Theater -- Orphan Andy's -- Almost Home -- All American Boy -- Twin Peaks -- even the Walgreen's on the corner of 18th and Castro were icons of home.

I liked the morning best, when the street was quiet and calm, empty except for an occasional gym hunk on the way to his workout.

And the barfly.

Every morning, we passed a little bar -- now it's the QBar -- with big French doors open to the street, and in the darkness inside, a single guy, alone on a barstool, gazing out into the world.

He was older, white haired, rather well dressed for the denim-and-leather crowd, wearing a white shirt and a tie. I couldn't tell what he was drinking, but it wasn't beer.

Who would be in a bar at 9:00 am?

"Drunks," David said with a disapproving scowl. A former Baptist minister, he was vehemently opposed to alcohol. "Has to get his fix."

Every morning, day after day, the barfly sat at the bar, looking out at the world. Sometimes he nodded or waved at us as we passed.

I got so used to seeing him that when he wasn't there, I waited for a few minutes to see if he'd show up.

In the evening, when we passed again after work, the bar was usually packed with the Happy Hour crowd, but the barfly was still there.

In the same spot, as if he hadn't moved.

Who would stay all day and all night in a bar? Didn't he have other things to do?

Gay people are very territorial. They've been battered around the straight world so much that when they find a home, they stay. Maybe this guy couldn't bear to leave the heart of the heart of the gay world, that one block of Castro Street between 17th and 18th.

But no one could spend their life on that block. There were restaurants, bars, clothing stores, a drug store, a theater, and a hair stylist, but no gyms, bookstores, post offices, grocery stores, or banks. Or jobs.

For weeks David and I passed, morning and evening, and the barfly was there.

One evening, without warning, I headed into the bar.

David grabbed my arm. "Wait -- don't tell me you're hot for that barfly? He's cute and all, but he's a drunk!"

"I just want to hear his story. Maybe he's lonely. I could take him to a meeting of SAGE, the gay seniors group."

"He knows how to use the phone book!"

"Hey, I went with you to cruise in the men's room at Macy's. The least you can do is help me cruise the old guy."

Grumbling, David followed me into the bar. We sat on barstools on either side of the barfly and ordered cokes.

The barfly turned to David, grinning. "What took you so long?"

"What? Er..."

He held out his hand. "I'm Karol. Not a drag name -- it's Polish for 'Charles.'"

"David...and this is Jeff."

"Hiya," he said over his shoulder. "I've been coming to this bar morning and night for weeks, . I was about ready to give up."

"So...you don't spend all day here?" I asked.

Karol laughed. "I don't think my clients would like that!"

It turns out that Karol was a graphic designer. One day he stopped in at the QBar for a Bloody Mary on the way to work, and he saw us pass by. He was so entranced that he made a point of coming to the bar at the same time every morning and evening, in the hope that David would stop and say hello.

"I should have chased after you, but I didn't want to be that Creepy Old Guy, you know."

"Come on, you're not that much older than us," I said.

"I'm over 40, by a few years. I remember Poland before the War -- World War II, not Vietnam. And I remember the Summer of Love -- I bet you were still in diapers."

"So you don't drink?" David asked.

"A Bloody Mary now and then, and maybe a vodka and tonic. But I don't drink a lot, no."

Then Karol turned to me, his back to David -- the guy he had a crush on. What was his game?

He told me about growing up during the War, coming to America to find work as an artist, marrying, having kids, and then coming out and finding his way to San Francisco.

"I was here before AIDS, before Gay Liberation, back when Jose Serria was doing drag shows at the Black Cat Cafe."

Suddenly I glanced down -- while he was talking, Karol had been groping David, unzipping his pants, and now he had pulled it out!

You heard me.

Right out in the open.

This was my cue to leave! "Have fun, guys," I said.

Later that night, David called me.

"So, how was the date with your secret admirer?"

"Well, that's just it. You know how, when you finally get a guy you've been fantasizing about for a long time, the reality is always disappointing? Plus when you get older, things get more difficult. And Karol had been drinking...."

"His mission was a failure, huh?"

"And that embarrassed me so much that my mission was a failure, too. Big bust all around. So...you want to go to the Bear Party?"

The next morning Karol was not on his usual bar stool on Castro Street.

See also: A Hookup in the Restroom at Macy's and The Leatherman Who Never Left South of Market

If you thought Mongolia was remote for Westerners, try Easter Island (aka Rapa Nui). From New York, you fly to Miami, then to Panama City, and finally to Santiago, Chile (about 24 hours). From there, only one airline flies to the town of Hanga Roa on Rapa Nui, once a day (about 6 hours).

It's a tiny island, about 15 miles long and 8 miles wide, alone in the Pacific Ocean, probably settled from the Marquesas Islands, 2000 miles away.

Once the early Polynesians got there, they became very interested in the penis.

1. Most Rapa Nui men incorporated the word Ure, "Penis," into their names, but in the 19th century Christian missionaries put an end to the practice.

2. The Moai, "Easter Island Heads," are actually complete torsos, over 800 of them, 20-30 feet high, weighing over 80 tons, sculpted and installed over a period of 300 years (1200-1500 AD). They took so much time and energy that the islanders had little time left for other pursuits, and so many trees were felled to facilitate transport that the island is now almost entirely treeless.

The noses of the figures have often been interpreted as phallic symbols. Indeed, some scholars interpret the Moai themselves as giant phallic symbols, representing the sexual potency of the Rapa Nui men. There's a legend still common on the island that a penis served as the model.

3. Rongo Rongo, the Easter Island script, appears on dozens of tablets and ceremonial objects. By the time the Europeans arrived, no islander remembered how to read it, and it remains untranslated. But at least one of the glyphs is called "Tangata Ure Huki""Man with Erect Penis"

4. The Tapati Fesival, held every year during the first two weeks of February, is a celebration of the island's history, culture, and penises. There are parades, dances, athletic contests like haka pei (sliding down a mountainside on a tree trunk), and a race called the Tau'a Rapa Nui: men wearing only skimpy loincloths race through town carrying bunches of phallic-symbol bananas.

See also: The Beefcake Festival of the Andes.

Back before Nickelodeon, the Disney Channel, Netflix, and DVDs, you got your dose of kids' tv in two places:

1. On a sugar-rush five hours of cartoons every Saturday morning.

2. Weekdays after school, on local kids' tv shows hosted by an army of clowns, hobos, cowboys, and pirates.

The Quad Cities was on the Mississippi River, so we had Captain Ernie's Cartoon Showboat.

The tall, commanding Captain Ernie (Ernie Mims) stood on the deck of the Dixie Belle, to announce Bugs Bunny and Hanna Barbara cartoons and Three Stooges shorts. Then he opened his "Treasure Chest" and passed out prizes to the kids in the studio audience.

When I was in fourth grade, my boyfriend Bill and I were in the audience. I got a plastic "pirate cape," and he got a cardboard sword.

The cartoons and prizes weren't the only attraction: Captain Ernie was cute, with squarish hands, a hairy chest, and a pleasant suggestion of muscle.

Sometimes he performed skits with his "First Mate," Sidney.

I didn't know what a "first mate" was, but it was obvious that Captain Ernie and Sidney lived together on the Dixie Belle, and neither had girlfriends or wives. Obviously a gay couple!

I found out that they weren't really a couple in fourth grade: one of the kids in my class at Denkmann was Captain Ernie's nephew. Turns out Ernie Mims had a wife and kids after all, and Sidney was just an intern, a student at the Palmer College of Chiropractic, up the street from WOC TV.

Still, many of the iconic moments of my childhood took place in front of Cartoon Showboat, or with Captain Ernie: a local celebrity, he appeared at the Celtic Festival, the Bix Beiderbecke Jazz Festival, the Pow Wow, the annual Christmas parade, and various ribbon-cuttings and supermarket openings.

During the 1970s, our first PBS station brought the competition of the kinder, gentler Mr. Roger's Neighborhood and frenetic but non-violent Sesame Street, and in 1974 Cartoon Showboat was cancelled. By that time, I was in junior high, too old to watch.

Ernie Mims went on to become the weatherman.

The last time I saw him was in the spring of 1979, during my freshman year of college I was working at the Carousel Snack Bar when Captain Ernie -- not in character -- came up and ordered an ice cream cone.

As I passed it to him, our hands touched.

I wanted to say "Thanks for a great childhood," but I played it cool.

Summer is my least favorite season, and we're right in the middle of it, with the heat, humidity, tv reruns, people forcing you to play outside, all of your friends away on vacation, long, boring days with nothing to do, and unnaturally bright evenings where the sun refuses to go down.

Here are the things I liked about summertime when I was a kid. Maybe I can translate them into adult activities.

1. All of the boys and teenagers in the neighborhood walked around with their shirts off. Even the adults, sometimes. I remember two super muscular grownups sitting on lawn chairs on their patio, drinking beer.

2. The Denkmann Summer Carnival. Games, cotton candy, and a sort of flea market where you could get comic books cheap.

3. The bookmobile came every Tuesday. It wasn't just a place to get books. I met lots of cute boys there.

4. Sitting on a blanket late at night to watch the 4th of July Fireworks.

5. Mother Goose Land. It's not as lame as it sounds. They had an Old West town, where you could ride burros and pan for gold.

6. A trip to Indiana to visit our relatives, but it was always followed by a horrible week camping in the Northwoods.

7, Nazarene summer camp. I complained at the time -- nothing to do but Bible study, sports, and church -- but I got to hang out with lots of cute guys, and our counselors were always hunky teenagers. Besides, I got to see Brother Dino naked in the shower.

8. Sitting in the kiddie pool, those round plastic things that you filled with a garden hose.

9. My birthday excursion, where I could bring 3 or 4 of my friends to any place in town that I wanted. My birthday is actually in November, but I always postponed the trip to summertime, when the fun things like Niabi Zoo were open.

10. The Indian Pow Wow at Black Hawk Park.

11. Summer Enrichment Classes sponsored by the Department of Parks and Recreation. I remember taking Spanish, astronomy, and archaeology. They also had physical fitness classes.

12, Sodas at Country Style. In the Midwest, a "soda" is a concoction of ice cream and root beer or cola. If you want the soft drink alone, it's called "pop." I started calling it "soda" when I was living in California, which got me lots of weird looks back in Rock Island.

13. Swimming lessons at Longview Park. One summer the teacher coaxed me into jumping into the deep end with the promise that if I drowned, he would give me mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

14. By the way, the only time I ever saw African-Americans in the segregated 1960s was at Longview Park Pool. In swimsuits. Something to look forward to!

15. Dinners comprised solely of corn on the cob (which my parents called roshineers) and tomatoes.

16. Dinners comprised solely of newly-picked green beans with bacon and onions.

17. The Prospect List. Every year the Nazarene Church had a contest to see who could contact the most prospects, people who had attended church or Sunday school just once. It was lots of fun trying to track them down and hearing their stories: "Well...um...I found a new church that...um...I like better.

18.Playing in the sprinklers in the front yard.

19. Walking barefoot on the hot concrete of the sidewalk.

20. Sleepovers. Ok, we had sleepovers during the schoolyear, too, but during the summer they often entailed sleeping in tents in the back yard.

21. Summertime boyfriends: guys who you would hang out with while your regular boyfriend was on vacation or otherwise unavailable.

22. Road construction. It's a pain for adults, but for kids too young to drive, it's fun to watch the construction workers walking down the highway in their yellow jackets and sunglasses.

23. Summer replacement series. Back before tv series began and ended year round, the summer reruns were sometimes augmented by 10-episode miniseries, weird comedies, musical-variety shows, and even cartoons.

24. Shakespeare, for free, every summer in Lincoln Park. You brought lawn chairs and snacks or even a dinner. Actually, I didn't go to any performances until college, but I'm sure it was there.

25. Practicing for cross country in the fall by running five miles, all the way downtown and back.

26. Kentucky Fried Chicken. The stores are open year round, but for some reason we just had it in the summer.

27. Baseball games. The games were rather boring, but I liked looking at the players.

28. Fudgsicles, push-ups, and ice cream sandwiches.

29. Watermelon.

30. My brother and I making extra money by mowing lawns for the Old Lady Schoolteachers and other elderly neighbors.

31. Bicycle Safety Classes.

32. Watching Days of Our Lives and One Life to Live with my mother. I wasn't a big soap opera fan, but it was a bonding opportunity.

33. For that matter, being able to watch Dark Shadowsall the way through, instead of catching the last fifteen minutes after running home as fast as I could.

34. Seeing miscellaneous workmen with their shirts off at unexpected moments.

So, 32% involve seeing cute boys or men, 23% food, 20% excursions, 12% bonding with family members, and 9% the heat.

I think I can turn those things into adult activities.

Only 67 days to go.

See also: Cruising at the Bookmobile; How to Avoid the Top 10 Problems of Summer

I was a horny little kid. I wasn't thinking about sex yet, of course, but I loved looking at, talking to, hanging out with, and hugging cute boys and men. I had a steady boyfriend, plus I cruised at the bookmobile, got kissed by a boy vampire, hooked up with boys at sleepovers, and got crushes on any number of grownups.

But the most obviously erotic of my crushes was on Randy.

He was a Denkmann School celebrity, one of those golden boys who seem perfect in every way. Tall, lean, muscular, tanned, with wavy hair and bright eyes and a smile. Good at schoolwork, good at sports, plus friendly to everybody, just plain nice.

How hard is it to be a muscle god and nice at the same time?

But he was way out of my league. A year ahead of me in school, almost two years older, with "grown up" friends and activities.

And he was hit on by everybody all the time: boys, girls, teachers, parents, puppy dogs. He had a dozen invitations every weekend.

How could I ever break through Randy's army of admirers and incite his interest enough to ask him to play, or get comic books, or go to a movie downtown?

Strategy 1: I joined in his kickball game at recess. That didn't work -- I was too terrible at sports to impress anyone.

Strategy 2: Randy and his coterie left the school through the south doors, and walked past Dewey's Candy Store on the way home. I rushed out of the school before them and stood in front of the store, planning to invite him to get a candy bar.

But you never went to Dewey's without a friend or two for protection -- my bully, Dick, hung out there! "Hey, wuss!" he yelled. "Sissy! Girl!"

I had to run away before Randy passed by.

Strategy 3: Randy lived on one of the few streets in Rock Island with a name, not a number: Berkshire Drive. Have you ever heard of anything so glamorous? I rode my bike past his house a few dozen times, hoping he would come out. No dice.

Strategy 4: Surprisingly, the houses on Berkshire Drive were rather small and rundown. Randy was poor, so maybe I could impress him with wealth.

My family was lower-middle class, but Moline, the city next to Rock Island (about five blocks east), was well known for its wealth and power. Bringing Randy to Moline would impress him. And I could throw in some cute boys to sweeten the deal!

One day in the cafeteria, I stood very near Randy's table and told my accomplice, Bill: "My Dad is taking me to Moline tomorrow night. To a swim meet at the high school!"

We had no such plans, but I figured I could cross that bridge later.

"Wow, high school boys!" Bill exclaimed. "I'd give anything to go with you!"

Randy looked up at us. "I bet you'll have fun."

"You can come if..."

But he had already returned to his coterie.

I was about ready to give up when, a few days before the end of school in May, Denkmann held an assembly where all of the little kids got to look at the sixth graders' projects in history, science, art, and so on.

Randy's project was on the Aztec Empire, how they worshipped the god Quetzalcoatl and performed human sacrifices, and how Tenochtitlan was way bigger than any city in Europe at the time.

Strategy 5: Every year for my birthday, I got to invite two or three of my friends to go to anywhere in the Quad Cities. Except my birthday was in November, when all of the fun places were closed, so I postponed it to May, after school let out.

"Have you been to the Putnam Museum in Davenport?" I asked Randy. "It has a real Aztec calendar stone, maybe thirty feet high! And the god Quetzalcoatl is in the middle, sticking out his tongue!"

"I never been there," Randy said, his eyes gleaming. "It sounds cool."

"Well...you know, me and my friends are going there for my birthday next Saturday. You can come with, if you want."

"That would be great!"

My birthday trip actually wasn't for a few weeks yet, and I had been planning on the Niabi Zoo, not the Putnam. But it was a simple matter to make the changes.

That Saturday on the way to the museum, I got to squeeze between Randy and Bill in the back seat of the car. We talked about tv and comic books and Aztecs, like regular friends. Afterwards we had hamburgers and cake and opened presents. Randy gave me a Hardy Boys book, which I still have. Then, when his mother picked him up, he gave me a warm, tight handshake.

Best birthday ever!

But it gets better.

A couple of weeks later, Randy invited me to a sleepover. I guess his mother insisted. I didn't get to share his bed, but still -- hanging out with hot, muscular sixth graders -- and seeing the Golden Boy in his underwear!

We didn't stay friends. A year was an impossible age gap, and we had little in common besides Aztecs. I saw Randy occasionally in the hallway at Washington and Rocky High, but that's all.

That was enough.

See also: the hookup at the sleepover; and Bill and I find a Little Bit O'Heaven.

Speaking of show business dynasties, character actor Jack Cassidy (who starred with Paul Anka in Look in Any Window) married musical theater star Shirley Jones in 1956 (they divorced in 1974). They had three children of their own. After their divorce in 1974, Shirley Jones married comedian Marty Ingels, who helped her raise the youngest two.

1. David was born to Jack Cassidy and his first wife Evelyn Ward in 1950. By 1970 he was starring with stepmom Shirley Jones in The Partridge Family (1970-74) and establishing himself as the top teen idol of his generation. But he also did some tv and movie work, including his own series, David Cassidy: Man Undercover (1978-79).

2. Shaun, born in 1958, became a tv star of his own in the gay-subtext Hardy Boys Mysteries (1977-79). He also had a teen idol career before becoming a writer, director, and producer.

3.Born in 1962, Patrick began his acting career in the anti-drug cautionary tale Angel Dusted (1981), and played gay characters twice: a West Point cadet in Dress Gray (1986), and an actor with AIDS in Longtime Companion (1989). He is still involved in raising consciousness about AIDS.

He's appeared in lots of other tv series and tv movies, including two versions of the Superman myth: he played the villainous Leslie Luckinbill in three episodes of Lois and Clark (1996) and Henry Small, the father of Superboy's girlfriend Lana Lang, on Smallville (2002-2003).

On stage, he got to display his physique in two renditions of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. He's also been in The Music Man, Annie Get Your Gun, Camelot, and 42nd Street.

4, Ryan, born in 1966 (bottom, with his mother, Patrick, and Shaun), wasn't interested in an acting career.

But he guest starred on three episodes of The Facts of Life (1985) with Mackenzie Astin (left) which made the teen magazines go wild -- and in the buddy-bonding Jesse Hawkes (1989) with several other celebrity kids, including Chad McQueen, Ethan Wayne, and Ramon Sheen. Then he moved behind the scenes as a set designer.

See also: David Cassidy.

Ok, I didn't really have a date with Jack Kerouac -- he died when I was eight years old. But Jurgen came close.

During my freshman year at Augustana, I often saw him sitting by himself in the Student Union lounge -- in his twenties, tall, husky, bearded, with wavy brown hair and brown chest hair sneaking up over his lumberjack shirt. He would smoke a pipe, of all things, drink coffee, and read a book or scribble into a little spiral notebook. Too old to be a student -- we didn't have any "nontraditional" students at Augie -- but certainly not a professor. Was he a townie who for some reason liked the ambience of the Student Union at a small Lutheran college?

Athat point I hadn't met any gay people yet, and I didn't know how to go about finding any, so I figured: he's not with a woman, he dresses oddly, must be gay.

So one Tuesday afternoon I got a cup of coffee myself -- even though I hated the stuff -- and sat down in the chair across from him.

"What are you writing?"

He looked up and smiled. "Just a poem I'm working on. 'Tucumcari Two-Step: Heat in the Year of the Drought.'"

"Cool. I want to be a writer. I'm going to take the Creative Writing class next spring."

"Who are your favorite authors?"

"Oh...um...Isaac Asimov, of course. Robert Heinlein, Andre Norton,..."

"Sci fi -- that's for Adam's Bookstore Babies!" He gestured at the bookstore where Adam sold science fiction and comic books. "You need a real man's literature. Hemingway, Kerouac, Miller. Here -- try Wallace Stevens."

Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds

I had no idea what the poem was about, but a muscular guy with a big...um...cigar was far superior to anything in English class.

Jurgen (not his real name) was a student after all, an English major, 28 years old -- he was drafted right out of high school, then "bummed around" Southeast Asia for a couple of years, then hitchhiked from Los Angeles to Rock Island (where his parents lived) to go to college.

In all his life history, he didn't mention women. He must be gay!

The next day I had to work, but on Thursday I hung out with Jurgen again Neither of us came out, or said anything about gay people; it was the Student Union, after all, crowded with students who might overhear us.

But we didn't mention liking girls, either.

That was enough to endure his conversations about horribly depressing novelists and poets. His favorite was Robinson Jeffers:

While this America settles in the mould of its vulgarity, heavily thickening, to empire and protest, only a bubble in the molten mass, pops and sighs out, and the mass hardens, I sadly smiling remember that the flower fades to make fruit, the fruit rots to make earth.

That wasn't even a poem! But at least it had a gay reference:

Boys, be in nothing so moderate as in love of man

I even started writing poetry the way Jurgen (and Robinson Jeffers) did:

As we drove down from the Eggishorn into the Wilerwald, I saw lights like stars floating in the darkness and thought heaven was below, not above, where men are strong and know about love.

We "dated" like that for a few weeks, talking over coffee in the Student Union for an hour or so after my Tuesday and Thursday Spanish class. We didn't hug or kiss, but sometimes when I sat next to Jurgen on the couch, our knees brushed together, and sometimes when he handed me a book, our hands touched.

That counts as dating, right?

Our knees touched as we sat astride on the green couch, yet only the fabric of our denim drawers knew the strength of our longing.

Better than Robinson Jeffers, anyway.

I kept waiting for Jurgen to invite me to dinner and a movie, or to his house, where we could talk about gay topics openly -- and get intimate!

Finally I made the first move. "Do you know about the Quad Cities Writers' Club? They meet once a month at the Hauberg House."

"Yeah, I've heard of them," Jurgen said. "Never been. Don't they like talk about children's books?"

"Oh, no, it's all kinds of writing. In fact, I'm going to read some of my poetry at their meeting on Thursday night. Do you want to come and listen? We can go together, and go out to eat afterwards."

"Ok, sure."

"Can you pick me up?" I hinted. "My car isn't working."

"I don't actually have a car at the moment."

No car? I imagined that Jurgen drove a cool 1965 Jaguar, or a motorcycle. "Oh...um..ok, I guess I can borrow my mother's car."

I told Jurgen that I would pick him up at 6:30. But I arrived at 6:15, figuring we could get some intimate time in before leaving.

He lived only a few blocks from the Hauberg, in a big white Victorian that had been chopped up into apartments.

Nervous but eager, I knocked on the door.

A woman answered!

In her 30s or 40s, rather plump. His mother?

"I'm Sally, but you can call me Sally," she said incongruously. "Jurgen's still in the shower, but he'll be ready in a moment."

Not his mother, or she'd give a last name. His sister?

Jurgen came out of the bathroom wearing a towel, his chest gleaming. "Hi, Jeff. Come on in the bedroom -- we can talk while I get dressed."

I watched as Jurgen took off the towel and put on underwear, jeans, a lumberjack shirt, socks, and shoes. Nice Bratwurst. But all the while I was thinking "Sister? Cousin? Friend?"

"So, Sally...."

"Isn't she great! She's funny and sexy both at the same time!"

Sexy?

We went back out into the living room. "Don't keep Jurgen out too late, now," Sally said, putting her arms around him. "My baby needs his beauty sleep."

They kissed. I looked away.

Sally was his live-in girlfriend!

Cohabitation, unmarried heterosexual couples living together, was still scandalous in Rock Island in the 1970s. In fact, you would be expelled from Augustana for cohabitating just as quickly as for being gay.

So Jurgen and I were both keeping secrets.

At least I got a Sausage Sighting out of it.

See also: Why I'm Not a Novelist; and My Top 15 Sausage Sightings

In the 1980s and 1990s, when you found a gay haven, you stayed there. You ventured into the straight world only when absolutely necessary, and then you stayed closeted, undercover, careful not to let your guard down for a moment. If the straights found out that you were gay -- or even suspected -- they would scream "God hates you!" and grab the nearest baseball bat to attack.

But in July 1997, shortly before I left San Francisco to go to graduate school in New York, my friend David suggested that we drive down to Gilroy for the annual garlic festival.

"Are you crazy?" I exclaimed. "It will be full of straight people! We'd never make it out of town alive!"

"I was there last year. It's fine -- nobody says anything. The straights might not like us very much, but they don't mind taking our money. Besides, it's full of the cutest small-town rednecks you'd ever hope to meet."

"You don't....cruise straight men?" I asked, aghast. "That's just asking to get beat up!"

"Boy, you've got to get over this straight-o-phobia of yours. Straight guys get just as horny as you and me. Tell you what -- we'll get a hotel room, spend the night, and if you don't trick with a straight guy, I'll pay for the whole trip."

The rest of the story is too risque for Boomer Beefcake and Bonding. You can read it at Tales of West Hollywood.

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