NYSocBoy's Beefcake and Bonding

With Thanksgiving and Christmas approaching, I'm going to be visiting relatives. And once again, I'm going to notice something disturbing:

They think I'm a teenager. Or 21 at the oldest.

The problem is, every kid was expected to go through a series of milestones of maturity on the way to adulthood. There were many minor ones -- growing an inch, or moving from the kiddie pool to the big pool at Longview Park, being allowed to drink coffee -- but only 8 big, important ones, ones that the teenagers and adults talked about over and over, sometimes with joyful anticipation ("You'll be a man!"), sometimes with a nostalgic sadness: ("You won't be a little boy anymore.")

1. Your first date with a girl.
2. Your first kiss with a girl.
3. Your first girlfriend.
4. Your first part-time job.

5. Graduating from high school.
6. Your first full-time job.
7. Getting engaged to a woman.
8. Getting married to a woman.
9. Buying a house.

#1 and #2 happened, but not #3.

(The fact that I kissed five girls during high school, more than 30 years ago, caused me no end of headaches. Heterosexuals who find out always exclaim "See! You kissed girls! That means you're really straight!")

#4-6 happened, but #7-9 did not.

So, according to my parents and other relatives, I've never grown up.

This prejudice is called the "Peter Pan Syndrome": "You're gay because you're afraid to accept adult responsibilities. You want to just have fun all the time, and not settle down and raise a family."

No matter if you have kids: "Doesn't count, it's just playing house unless there's a man and a woman."

And who says that everyone, without exception, has to have kids?

The adults do.

Whenever I visit my parents, brother, sister, or other relatives, I face some annoying consequences to the belief that I have never grown up:

1. Birthday and Christmas presents tend to be things that college students would want. A popcorn popper or a dorm refrigerator -- even though I haven't lived in a dorm since 1982. A DVD set of Family Guy. A t-shirt with the Angry Birds on it. What the heck are the Angry Birds?

2. Money. When adults are alone, they have discussions of income tax, bank loans, mortgages, fixed annuities, increasing the equity of their investments, the pros and cons of retirement plans, the deductible in their medical insurance policies.

Sounds dreary. But even worse is the humiliation when I come in the room and they immediately clam up, like they've been discussing a big adult secret, and ask what my favorite tv programs are.

3. Cruising. Adults expect you go to out partying every night. A few years ago, when I was living in Dayton, I spent Christmas with my sister and brother-in-law, and sure enough, Tammy said: "It's Saturday night -- aren't you going out to the bars?"

"Gee, I don't think so. I'm 45 years old. The music is too loud, the guys are too young, and I fall asleep by 10:00."

"Nonsense! You're young -- go out and have a good time."

This from my baby sister.

4. College. The adults know that I'm associated with a college, but they assume that I'm a student. "Aren't you done with your education yet?" my uncle asked. "It's about time you grew up and got a job!"

"Um...I have a job. I'm a professor..."

"No, I mean a real job. Something that pays enough for you to buy a house."

Don't get me started on why they think houses are the end-all of maturity, and everyone who lives in an apartment is by definition a kid.

5. Boyfriends. Heterosexuals divulge their relationships to their relatives in a standard sequence, mentioning them casually, then discussing moving in together, then announcing an engagement and inviting them to a wedding. Gay people don't: they typically don't mention their relationships until they've moved in together, and there's rarely an engagement or wedding. It's "This is my boyfriend," period. So they remain "someone you're casually dating" even after 10, 15, and 20 years.

6. The Disney Channel. I like comic books, graphic novels, and juvenile tv -- they're not nearly as heteronormative as media for adults. But just let me try turning on the Disney Channel at my parents' house. They'll smile at each other as if to say "What did I tell you? Jeff is still a kid!"

Joe Manganiello, who starred as "Big Dick Richie" in Magic Mike (2012), is a strong gay ally, speaking at the HRC fundraiser in 2011, presenting buddy Matt Bomer (below) the GLSEN "Inspiration Award" in 2012, hanging out with gay friends, being relaxed, even flirty with gay fans.

But is there any gay content in his on-screen work?

His first starring role was as someone named Black Dildo in The Ketchup King (2002). I have no idea what that means.

Then he played Flash Thompson in Spider-Man (2002). I walked out after Tobey Maguire made his heterosexist "all stories are about boys and girls" speech.

The evening soap One Tree Hill (2008-2010): he played Owen Morello, a former alcoholic who becomes a bartender and dates lots of women. Nope.

How I Met Your Mother (2006-2012), about a guy taking an interminably long time to tell his kids how he met their mother: he played Brad Morris, who buddies with Marshall, although he dates women. He also says that he was "born a little different," so he may be intersexed. Some queering there.

Then we get to some gay-positive projects:

So NoTorious (2007), about the "real life" Tori Spelling: he played Scott, her crush who turns out to belong to a weird cult. But there's a gay character, Sasan (Zachary Quinto).

True Blood (2010-2013), about modern-day "out" vampires, with Martin Spanjers and Ryan Kwanten: he plays Alcide, head of a werewolf clan, who has sex with women. But there are several gay characters, mostly vampires, and the gay-vampire symbolism is played to the hilt.

So: No gay characters, but lots of gay-positive work.

Maybe his man-mountain physique disqualifies him from gay roles, since gay men are still stereotyped as soft, fragile, delicate, and wispy.

On surveys, only about 2% of the U.S. male population admits to being gay, and another 1% bisexual. Of course, most are leery of coming out on a survey questionnaire, and dissimulate. The actual population is probably much higher.

And I estimate that a huge proportion of the "straight" male population, about 80%, is open to sexual activity with men. .

20% are on the downlow: They are interested in relationships only with women, so they claim to be "straight," although they are attracted to both men and women. They seek out male-male action while telling their wives and girlfriends that they're out getting a loaf of bread. They're open for kissing, cuddling, reciprocation, whatever.

30% will settle. They are attracted only to women, but who cares? Sex is sex, and it's a lot easier to get a guy than a girl. No kissing, no reciprocation, they just want to lie back and think about lady parts.

30% will let you watch. They aren't attracted to guys, and they don't want you to touch them, but they are willing to engage in autoerotic activity with you present, as long as you don't let on that you are interested in watching.

In fact, a major form of "male bonding" for that 30% is to invite your buddies over, watch porn or just talk about girls, and engage in autoerotic activity without letting on that you are watching each other.

You know where this is going.

I can't tell the story on Boomer Beefcake and Bonding. You can read it on Tales of West Hollywood.

When I was living in San Francisco, a newcomer showed up in church one Sunday: mid 30s, very tall and pale, with a long face, long hair, and a weird Satanic goatee. He was wearing sunglasses, but otherwise dressed normally, not like a vampire.

He didn't join in the singing, but that wasn't unusual: many former Catholics and Lutherans didn't care for the rousing, evangelical-style hymns at MCC.

During the coffee hour after the service, he adopted the "stand and model" procedure of a cruise bar. That wasn't unusual, either. Lots of newcomers tried to cruise in church.

What was unusual was his approach: he walked up to me and said, without preliminaries, "I would like very much to f___ you."

My mouth dropped in shock. "Um...but I don't even know you."

"My name is Kevin, and life is too short for trivial small talk. I would like very much to f___ you."

I stared.

He took off his glasses. His eyes were very dark blue, almost purple. Creepy. "You find me attractive, don't you?"

Not at all. Tall, pale, long faced, with a potty mouth, definitely not my type -- but I found myself saying "Of course. But shouldn't we have dinner first?"

He sighed. "If you're intent on pursuing bourgeois courtship rituals, I suppose we can stop for a hamburger on the way."

No way was I going home with this guy!

But I found myself following him out the door.

Kevin took me way up to the Richmond District, 45 minutes from the Castro, to a place called Bazaar. It served nouvelle cuisine Japanese-Italian synthesis sandwiches that left me hungry.

I admit that he was interesting to talk to. We were both into the paranormal, and he had a wide repertoire of stories about ghosts, aliens, and the Illuminati, rumored to be controlling human history behind the scenes.

But he dismissed nearly everything else as "bourgeois" or "infantile," and when he kissed me, his mouth tasted of cigarettes and booze. I nearly gagged.

After lunch we walked down to the Green Apple Bookstore on Clement, where Kevin bought Jung's Psychology and Anarchy and Ego and Archetype by Edward Edinger. I had my eye on some gay comix, but I didn't want to look stupid, so I bought Robert Anton Wilson's Illuminatus trilogy.

Then he said, "Now that we've satisfied your infantile need for preliminary social activity, I believe we have an appointment to f____."

Kevin was unattractive, elitist, creepy, and vulgar. No way was I going home with him!

But I did.

For the rest of the story, see Tales of West Hollywood

Sometimes boys are girls.

Eight-year old Sarah may have male physiology, but who cares? She has been telling her family that she is a girl since she learned to talk.

Her father and aunt are ok with the dresses, the female pronouns, and the name "Sarah." Her mother, not so much; she insists on boy-clothes and the name "Seth," hoping desperately that "it's just a phase."

Nope, not a phase. Sarah is a girl, and every girl has a right to be a Princess.

While Mom is busy fretting over her child's future of bullying, transphobia, loneliness, and angst, Sarah is negotiating grade school admirably.

She has a coterie of friends:
1. Irma, a cisgirl who likes superheroes, monster movies, and wearing boys' clothes (cis means that your physiology and gender identity match).
2. Jordan, a teenage transboy who sometimes babysits (Mom doesn't realize that he's trans)
3. Chuck, a cisboy with a crush on Sarah.

Actually, it's the non-trans-related situtions that make the strip. It's no big deal: Sarah is a girl. Any questions? Ok, then let's get on with the story. In this case, Sarah and her friends playing restaurant.

This is one of the funniest child-oriented comic strips out there, on a par with Soup to Nutz and Frazz.

And, with its G-rated humor, perfect for gender-atypical kids of any age (and gender-typical kids, too).

Christine Smith has been publishing the webcomic The Princess twice a week since 2009 (older strips are archived on The Duck). There's a collection available through Prism Comics.

See also: Dykes to Watch Out For.

Ever since I turned 40, some fourteen years ago, I have a simple strategy for getting dates or hookups with twinks (guys under age 30):

1. Go to wherever they are.

2. Wait 30 seconds for one to approach and say "Take me home, please!"

3. If he's not attractive enough, politely refuse, and wait 30 seconds for the next.

But I've gotten lots of comments from other guys in the 40+ range:

"I can't get a date! Nobody will give a guy over 40 a chance!"

"It's awful! Nobody wants me!"

"Guys over 40 are shunned!"

After extensive thought about why their experiences are so different from my own, I think I've figured out the problem. Here are 10 easy steps to hooking up with or dating twinks (first step: never call them that):

1. Ask yourself, "Why a young guy?"

What do younger guys have to offer that guys your age do not?

Handsome faces, muscular chests, substantial beneath-the-belt gifts? Some younger guys have these qualities, some don't. And drop by any gym at 10:00 am to find retirement-aged gym rats with 18" biceps.

A high energy level? Sexual inexperience? A sense of wonder and excitement at the world? Again, some younger guys have these qualities, some do not, and some older guys do.

The answer is: you don't want a twink, necessarily. You're looking for certain qualities in a guy, regardless of age.

If you go out looking specifically for someone under 30, you're bound to fail.

2. Ask yourself, "Why me?"

What do you have to offer a 25-year old that guys his own age do not? A hairy chest, sexual expertise, wisdom, maturity, an intimate knowledge of gay history and culture? Play on your strengths.

Don't discount having money -- you don't need to be a sugar daddy, but theater tickets followed by dinner at the Gilded Truffle will open many bedrooms.

Just having a place to go can be enticing to guys living in dorm rooms or with their parents.

3. Get thee to a gym.

Younger guys tend to stereotype the older generation based on the heterosexual model, where men play sports in college, then spend the rest of their lives sitting on the couch eating potato chips and drinking beer. They think old and fat are identical. Give them a glimpse of hard, lean muscle and watch them get all hot and flustered.

4. Act your age.

You want to have something to talk about, so keep up with the basics of contemporary youth culture (be careful -- it changes fast). But don't try to adopt their clothing or slang. He can talk about Taylor Swift and Beyonce with any of his friends; he wants you in spite of the fact that you had a crush on David Cassidy in 1971. Or because of it.

5. Go to non-sexual venues.

Gay bars are where younger guys go to hang out with each other. You will be an unwelcome interloper -- one of those lonely oldsters sitting on a barstool by himself staring wistfully at the Cute Young Things like Charlie Brown wishing the Little Red Haired Girl would talk to him.

The only exceptions are bear and leather bars, where guys of all ages congregate.

You need a low-pressure, non-sexual environment to put you and the younger guy at ease. Try gay social groups, political groups, Gay Pride Festivals, Gay Film Festivals, gay positive churches, Karaoke Night at the Gay Community Center, Open-Mike Night at a gay coffeehouse.

If there aren't any gay-specific venues near you, try college and community theater or ballet -- that 15-minute intermission is perfect for mingling. Or after the performance, congratulating the players.

Or the gym, There are always gay guys in search of a spotter.

Or an individual sports competition, such as wrestling, martial arts, or track and field.

6. Go with friends.

Guys who are alone look -- well, lonely. When you are with friends, you seem more vibrant, energetic, someone worth meeting.

7. Do not cruise him.

"Cruising" is my generation's word for attempting to initiate a sexual liaison, by flirting, talking dirty, or just by making eye contact and then approaching.

Dont' do it -- you will be labeled a Creepy Old Guy.

Besides, when you initiate contact, you put yourself in a subordinate position: he has all of the power, to accept or reject you, to acknowledge your existence or give you Attitude. You must retain control. Wait for him -- he'll be there!

8. If in doubt, ask for an id.

Once I was asked out by a guy who I thought was in college. When I got home, I looked him up online -- he was a sophomore in high school! Of course, no date happened! If you don't know for sure that he's over 18, ask for an id. He won't mind -- he gets asked all the time.

9. Prepare to be a top.

Many younger guys will approach you because they want someone to take charge, dominate them in the bedroom. A hint of bondage always turns them on. Or at least being a top for backside activity. You can tweak the roles and positions later, but for the first time, you'll have to break out the condoms, or there probably will be no second time.

10. Prepare for romance.

With the numerous apps available for quick hook-ups, younger guys may be acquiring all of the "one-hour stands" they want without your contribution. They are looking for something else with older guys. Maybe a power-control scene (see #9), maybe a permanent, monogamous relationship -- which nowadays pften means marriage and children, even for gay men.

You may end up at the altar of a gay-friendly church nearby, with all of his relatives smiling at their new son-in-law.

I had a recurring dream, or an especially vivid memory, of being attracted to a boy in my earliest childhood, maybe even before I felt the biceps of the bodybuilder on the beach.

A very short house with a tall palm tree out front. A woman, blond in a flowered dress. A fat, blustery man. A girl eating strawberries with whipped cream. A baby. And the boy.

Older than me, but still a kid, and taller, with blond or dirty-blond hair. I remembered his name as Twilight.

There were three main images:

1. We are watching tv in a room with oak panels. I think that a guy on screen is cute, and turn to Twilight for validation. He smiles.

2. In a car, driving somewhere: Twilight is sitting next to me in the back seat. He says "Look at that" and reaches over my lap to point it out. His warm, tanned arm rests briefly on my thigh.

3. Twilight is trying to coax me into a warm, salty ocean. He splashes through the surf, yells, "Come on!" His dark-tanned skin glistens in the sun. There's a line of white on his back, where his swim trunks have ridden down.

Over the years Twilight grew in symbolic importance, until he became a Harlequin figure, a Jack of Shadows. The smile reveals the existence of same-sex love. The touch demonstrates that it can be be physical as well as spiritual. And the cry of "Come on!" invites me to embrace its warmth: "don't dream it, be it."

Or was he a real boy that I actually met?

In the fall of 2004, when I was living in Florida, still glowing with the success of tracking down my Grandma Dennis's gay friend from art school, I decided to try my sleuthing skills out on the mysterious Twilight.

1. First problem: we always took the same vacation, camping at a lake up north, in Michigan, Minnesota,or Canada. I remembered only one variation: when I was 12, to the Smoky Mountains National Park, where I met a teenage Indian god.

I called Mom and asked if we ever visited anywhere with palm trees and a beach.

"We went down to South Carolina in 1967 -- just after you were in 1st grade -- you took a bath with your Cousin George, remember?"

"What about a house with a palm tree out front, and a boy named Twilight?"

"Oh, you must mean Twyla! My friend in high school. She and her husband moved to Florida, so after we visited your Cousin George, we drove down there for a few days."

That explained Twilight. "Did they have a son about my age?"

"I don't think so. Just a daughter. What was her name...Suzie, maybe?"

2. Then who was the boy? (I still thought of him as Twilight.) My next step was to find Twyla and her husband Bill.

Mom lost track of them over the years. Their address and phone number from 1967 was no longer valid. But there weren't many people named Twyla in Florida, so I found one -- a student at Florida State -- and emailed her, hoping for the best.

3. The return email: "Oh, you mean my grandmother! I was named after her!"

Did she have a son who was around ten years old in 1967?

"No, my only uncle was born in 1965." The baby in my memory.

"Could I get in contract with your grandparents?"

They had both passed away, but Twyla gave me the email address of her mother -- Stacey, not Suzie. The girl eating strawberries.

4. "I used to play with a boy from down the street," Stacey wrote. "He might have come with us to the beach when you were visiting. His name was Teddy. I don't remember his last name, but I can tell you where he lived."

5. So I drove three hours from Fort Lauderdale to Titusville, and stood again in front of the "short house" (ranch style) of my recurring dream. It was a shock to see it again in real life.

I walked to the end of the block and knocked on the door of a pink-painted ranch house. A middle aged man answered -- tall, balding, bearded, husky, wearing a t-shirt advertising the Florida Gators. He eyed me suspiciously. "Can I help you?"

"I'm trying to track down a friend who used to live here when I was a kid. Do you know anyone named Teddy, about fifty years old?"

"That's me. You say we were friends?"

The mysterious Twilight was actually Ted Spencer, a computer systems engineer from Orlando, in town visiting his parents.

Straight: a wife and three kids, one in high school and "quite the ladies' man," the other two "married and out of the house." And a newborn grandson.

"So you only knew Ted during that one vacation when you were six years old?" The Wife asked as we lounged in the pool in the back yard. "He must have made quite an impression on you!"

"You have no idea!"

Twilight grinned and hugged her affectionately. "Haven't I always told you that I'm an unforgettable character?"

See also: The Muscles of Morris Street.

When I was a kid in the 1960s, our newspaper, The Rock Island Argus, had several interesting columns: Dear Abby, a criptoquip, and "Omar Sharif on Bridge."

Nazarenes weren't allowed to play cards, so I was only barely aware of what bridge was. Still, it seemed exciting that a famous actor would stoop to writing about something so mundane as a card game.

Born in 1932 in Egypt, Sharif got his degree in physics before becoming an actor. He starred in many Arabic movies before hitting Hollywood with a starring role in Lawrence of Arabia in 1962. A rarity in its day (and even now), the movie fails to heterosexualize the gay T.E. Lawrence, and even gives him a gay-subtext relationship with Arab leader Sherif Ali (Sharif).

Next came starring roles in the big-budget epics Doctor Zhivago (1965) and Genghis Khan (1965), plus dramas, Westerns, and musicals. He played revolutionary leader Che Guevara (Che!) and the mysterious Captain Nemo (The Mysterious Island).

This nude scene is from the Western MacKenna's Gold (1969). He plays an effervescent but amoral Mexican outlaw named John Colorado, who doesn't display any interest in women.

He became best friends with French actor Jean-Paul Belmondo after they starred together in Le Casse (The Burglars, 1971), as a jewel thief and the corrupt cop who wants his share of the loot.

By the way, bridge was not only a hobby for Sharif, it was a second career.

I don't know if the 81-year old actor is gay-positive or not, but his grandson, Omar Sharif Jr. is gay. Also an actor, he left Egypt in 2012 after the restriction of human rights, and came out in an article in The Advocate.

Ever since I wimped out on Raphael, the Gay Psychic Angel, who was perfect in every way except that his arms didn't work, I have felt guilty. I should have called -- I would have called -- except I kept imagining becoming his boyfriend, and being responsible for helping him eat and dress and use the bathroom -- how shallow!

So I decided that if I ever had such an opportunity again, I would go for it without hesitation.

The opportunity came in, of all places, at the Dork Den, a comic book store in southern Minnesota.

I always feel out of place amid the fanboys and fantasy gamers, self-conscious about my age more than anything, so I rush in, get what I need, and rush out again. But on that Saturday afternoon in May 2015, there were two guys standing in front of the New Arrival rack.

One was a hefty, bearded bear in his 40s. He was picking up titles and showing them to his friend, who was small, slim, in his 20s.

And had cerebral palsy.

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

In West Hollywood, gay bars always had a theme song that you would hear over and over, at least once an hour, every time you visited.

From 1985 to 1989, I went to Mugi, the Asian bar in Hollywood, almost every Saturday night, sometimes Wednesday or Friday, too. That means that I heard "One Night in Bangkok" at least 300 times.

From 1989 to 1995, I went to the Faultline, the leather bar on Melrose, near Los Angeles City College. There were some Asian guys there, too, of course.

I was there almost every Sunday afternoon, sometimes Friday or Saturday, too. So I heard their theme song over 300 times.

I never heard it anywhere else. I didn't know the title or the group, and I didn't bother asking.

It seemed to be a Gay Pride anthem:

Open up the closet door, watch out, here I come.

Although some of the lyrics seemed to involve a bar pickup:

You, I don't even know your name, baby.
You, something something, baby.

With a chorus:
Round, round, round, round, something something baby, round round round round.

Years later, I heard the song again, at the gym of all places, and it brought me back to those many nights and Sunday afternoons surrounded by shirtless and leather-clad men. When I got home, I did an internet search.

It's "You Spin Me Round (Like a Record)", by the British band Dead or Alive, released in December 1984, peaked at #4 on the dance charts in January 1985.

Boy, did I get the lyrics wrong! The "gay pride anthem":

Open up your lovin' arms, watch out here I come.

The bar pickup:

If I, I get to know your name, baby
Then I could trace your private number, baby

No specific gay content, although the lead singer of the bad was the fabulously feminine Peter Burns (bottom left), an androgyne in the mold of Boy George, who married a woman and then a man, but divorced him and declared in homophobic contempt that "gay marriage doesn't work. It's better to marry a woman."

Other members were Mike Percy, Steve Coy, and Tim Lever.

I'm still trying to figure out why an androgynous dance number was the theme song in a leather bar with no androgyny and no dancing.

See also: One Night in Bangkok

Everyone should have a repertoire of 10 good stories, 5 to use when cruising or meeting new people in general, and 5 to use on a date. Remember the rules:
1. They should be short.
2. They should present you in a positive light, but not resort to bragging.
3. Nothing harsh or extremely unpleasant (minor annoyances are ok).
4. No discussions of how different things were when you were a kid (especially if you're over 40).
5. No complaining.
6. No explicit sex.
7. No long, tedious coming-out stories.
8. No religion or politics (save controversy until you know them better).
9. If it's a date, no ex-boyfriends. If you have to mention them, call them "friends."
10. And make them interesting!

Ok, here are some more stories. Which would be appropriate for a first date?

(These are just outlines; the actual stories will be longer.)

A. When I was a kid, my boyfriend Bill's big brother took us to an Indian Pow-Wow. After awhile, we got bored, and took a walk through the woods, and saw one of the teenage performers, Naked! He saw us and screamed, and we ran back to the Pow Wow, terrified!

B. When I was a kid, A&W had 4 kinds of hamburgers: Papa, Mama, Teen, and Baby. We usually got the Teen burger. But one day when Dad was taking us out as a special treat, my boyfriend Bill and I ordered Papa burgers. My brother pointed out that we couldn't both be Papas, so we decided that I would be a Papa and Bill would be a Mama. Dad insisted that we order Teen burgers!

Answer: B.
B requires some explanations, but the gender-polarization is interesting, and Dad doesn't come across as negative, just confused. A. doesn't go anywhere: we see a naked guy, the end.

A. When I was in college, one of my professors held a handcuff party every semester for his advanced students. Anybody who wanted could get handcuffed -- guys only! I wanted to go, but it was only for students, so I enrolled in his advanced Paleontology class, and got invited to the party. I ended up handcuffing the professor!

B. When I was in college, I liked a cute nerd named Haldor. I talked him into a contest to see who could get the most dates (with girls!). I won, but as a "consolation prize," I invited Haldor along on our dates, and afterwards convinced him to come back to my room -- which was my plan all along!

Answer: A
The handcuff party is interesting, and easy to understand. The dating contest requires too much explanation (why did you date girls? were you bisexual?), and paints me in a negative light, since I basically manipulated Haldor into bed.

A. When I was living in Florida, I used to go to the Horseman's Club in Amsterdam, limited to guys with super-sized endowments. A super-sized bodybuilder named Janik invited me to come live with him, but he was from a small town in Friesland where there was nothing to do but drink and watch sports, so I eventually I got bored and went home.

B. When I was living in Florida, my roommates bet me that I couldn't get a straight friend to figure it out without having an actual "coming out" conversation. I tried hint after hint, but he continued to believe that I was heterosexual. Even saying "That guy is totally hot!" didn't do it. After I finally admitted defeat and "came out," he said "I had no idea! You hide it so well!"

Answer: B.

A doesn't really have much plot: the guy was cute but we didn't get along. And being admitted to the Horseman's Club sounds like bragging. B. has an interesting plot and a good punchline.

A. When I was a kid, I visited my Cousin George in South Carolina. We took baths together, and slept naked, because, he said "Only fools wear pajamas." Many years later, I was driving through South Carolina, and decided to look him up. His family wasn't in contact with him, but I finally tracked him down in Georgia -- he was gay, with a boyfriend -- who knew all about "only fools wear pajamas"!

B. When I was in Florida, a high school bodybuilder kept hitting on me. I was 44 and he was 18, but my roommate Barney talked me into giving it a try. Things were ok, except for the huge cultural difference, such as Green Day. So I called it off, and Barney immediately asked him out!

Answer: A.
B is mostly about the age difference, not terribly interesting, and it's about an ex-boyfriend. A is about Cousin George knowing that he was gay as a youngster, much more interesting.

A. When I was teaching in Texas, one of my students came running into the classroom late, wearing gym clothes, and started taking them off! First his shirt, then his pants! He then put on his street clothes. I asked what he was doing, and he said "I didn't want to be late!"

B. College students don't realize that professors can see everything they are doing at their desks. There's a lot of erotic daydreaming going on! Usually I just ignore it, but a guy named Raheem was grabbing himself so blatantly that I sent him an email warning him that what he thought was private really wasn't. He thanked me and stopped -- but he continued to tent through the semester, which was just as distracting!

Answer: B
This is a tough call, but in the end A is about inexplicable behavior, so not very interesting. B is about something that happens to every guy, and it has a good punchline. Mentioning penises is usually a problem but in this case ok, since it's somebody else's penis, and no vulgar terms are used.

See also: 15 Rules of Gay Dating and 5 Things to Talk About While Cruising.

After reading about the 38 gay events from my childhood -- marrying the boy next door, seeing my cousin Joe naked, getting kissed by a boy vampire, slow dancing in the school gym, my boyfriend Bill -- you might get the impression that I grew up in a homoerotic Eden, with muscular guys torn out of their shirts around every corner, all waiting for me to hug, kiss, or fondle them.

But those events are memorable because they were rare. There were countless days of boredom, fear, and misery. Life was rough, and there was no hint that it would ever get better.

1. Gender policing was constant. Boys could reveal that they were really "girls," and therefore reprehensible, by carrying their books wrong, by wearing the wrong socks, by using the wrong words (greetings consisted of "H'lo," not "Hi," and we used last names, not first names.)

2. Thus opening themselves up for a barrage of physical assaults from Mean Boys and miscellaneous bullies. And the adults never intervened. "You will be fighting every day for the rest of your life," they said. "You must learn to defend yourself."

3. Even more oppressive was the utter lack of civility in children's culture. You found a small group of friends and clung together to ward off the constant jibes and insults from members of other groups.

4. No one knew, or let on, that same-sex desire, behavior, or romance could exist. Same-sex friendships were portrayed as trivial, inconsequential, always abandoned instantly and without hesitation for the pursuit of the feminine.

5. That pursuit of the feminine was expected to be, or to soon become, our sole reason for living. So the interrogation of "What girl do you like?" What girl do you like?" never ended.

It got better. By high school, the gender policing was minimal -- it was ok to play in the orchestra, or say "delicious," or wear white socks. The physical assaults ended. Members of different cliques began to treat each other civilly.

But still, same-sex desire, behavior, or romance was never mentioned, presumed not to exist, and the "What girl do you like" interrogation intensified day by day, year by year.

That's why I hated it when a nostalgia-minded adult exclaimed "This is the best time of your life! All joy and freedom, no problems, no responsibilities!" I still do.

Where did that idiotic idea come from, anyway?

I blame Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712-1778), who disputed then then-current view of children as born evil, infested with original sin. He proclaimed that they were "noble savages," untrained but endowed with the best of human nature.

By the time of the Romantic Era (1815), William Wordsworth was proclaiming that we come down from heaven "trailing clouds of glory." Only later do "shades of the prison-house" close upon us.

During the late 19th century, more and more children were attending school instead of going to work, and gradually adults and children began to inhabit different spheres. They had different daily activities, games, toys, books, music; children were shielded from knowledge of sex and death, shielded, indeed, from any knowledge of adults except for relatives and childcare professionals. And the adults began to look back at that separate child sphere with nostalgic longing.

Lewis Carroll was only 28 years old when he wrote:
I'd give all the wealth that years have piled, the slow result of life's decay,
To be once more a little child for one bright summer day.

But the worst offender is "The Barefoot Boy," by John Greenleaf Whitter (1851), which millions of schoolkids were forced to memorize by adults trying to impress upon them that their lives were perfect.

You've probably heard of it, or some of its many parodies, such as Max Shulman's humorous novel, Barefoot Boy with Cheek

But have you actually read it? It's awful, even worse than James Whitcomb Rileys stuff. It's about a "barefoot boy with cheek of tan" who wanders around the countryside, investigating woodchucks, moles, tortoises, orioles, and wasps, which is something a thousand times better than anything adults do. The moral: we are born with an intimate connection to the natural world, but when we grow up, life stinks.

Ok, I never did any of those things when I was a kid, and the only cheeks of tan I was interested in were in a different part of the anatomy.

Instead of going to Europe every year, we now drive from Minnesota to the East Coast. Two weeks, 15 friends and relatives, 9 hotels, 8 museums, 5 guest passes at the YMCA, 4 horrible hotel gyms, 2 state parks, 2 bath houses, 1 baseball game.

And a hookup with a museum guard.

After pizza and Chinese food delivery guys, my biggest fantasy hookup is probably museum guards. Maybe because they follow you around with an eagle-eye, suspicious stare that looks a lot like cruising.

And, though they come in all sizes and shapes, a surprising number are stunningly handsome.

If you live in town and can be a regular, it's possible. My friend Alan picked up a guard at the L.A. County Museum of Art just by showing up every day until he got a phone number.

But I usually visit museums when I'm leaving town forever in a few hours, so there's no time to make contact. The sheer inaccessibility makes the museum guard the stuff of erotic fantasy.

But last Saturday, out of nowhere, it happened!

We arrived in Indianapolis around noon, planned to have lunch and do some sightseeing, then dinner with my parents and sister, overnight at a hotel, and on to Rock Island on Sunday.

Jeremy is doing research on the Iroquois, so he wanted to spend a lot of time at the Eiteljorg Museum of American Indian Art. As we walked through the gallery devoted to Edward S. Curtis, who photographed many Native Americans at the turn of the twentieth century, we got a cruisy smile from a guard: in his 20s, tall, broad-shouldered, stunningly handsome, with a square face, bronze skin, and straight black hair, probably Native American himself.

Later, while Jeremy was taking notes and smartphone photos, I returned to the gallery on my own. The guard approached.

"Is your boyfriend writing a book?" he asked with the same cruisy smile.

Obviously gay, to catch on so fast! "Jeremy's working on a term paper," I said. "These pieces are marvelous. I'm Jeff."

"Ryan." We shook hands.

"Curtis was an expert at drawing complex emotions from his subjects. I'm studying art at IUPUI, and I often come here for inspiration."

"He picked very handsome models, too. I think he had a thing for Native Americans."

"You think these are hot, you should see some of the stuff that's not on display. Come with me..."

Ryan led me downstairs. "I got a special access," he announced to an older guard before unlocking a door that read "Archive." It was a vast, empty room with statues under tarps and shelves of old books, and on one wall six more Edward S. Curtis photographs, including some very muscular Native American men.

"They don't put these out. Too risque for the kiddies."

Suddenly I realized that we were alone. It was very warm in the room, and a stunningly handsome guy was standing very, very close to me. "Sitting Eagle, Crow Indian, 1905," I read.

"His lover. Well, one of his lovers. He slept with most of his male models." Ryan wrapped his arm around my shoulders. "Do you and your boyfriend have an open relationship?"

"We can...um...see other guys..." I said. And then we were kissing and groping.

Then, suddenly he pulled away. "Wait -- wait. This isn't exactly private. Can we get together later? I work until 6:00."

"Well...we're having dinner with my parents tonight. We're free afterwards, maybe at 9:00. but our hotel is in Franklin, about 30 miles south of here."

"Perfect!"

"You don't mind driving 30 miles?"

"Babe, I'd drive a thousand miles to get my hands on those pecs." He brushed his hand against my chest. "What's the hotel?"

At exactly 9:00 pm, Ryan knocked on the door of our hotel room, carrying a bottle of wine (I neglected to mention that I don't drink).

He didn't look Native American at all -- it must have been the power of suggestion.

And, in a t-shirt and short pants instead of a museum guard uniform, he wasn't stunningly handsome anymore -- cute, with a smooth, solid chest, and nice beneath the belt gifts. But rather ordinary, not much different from the twinks who cruise me every day at home.

I shouldn't complain. I fulfilled a fantasy and met a nice guy, who offered to get together again when we go back to Indianapolis at Christmastime.

Still...

I've been watching the Mad Max movies. Well, sort of watching them -- they're 90% Wacky Races, colorful post-Apocalyptic figures in weird cars chasing each other through the Australian desert.

With an obvious good vs. evil plotline, and guess what? The good guys are all patiently described as straight, and the bad guys as over-the-top gay.

Mad Max (1979), set in an Australia that just started to break down, pits good, noble, uber-heterosexual Family Man Max, who has a wife and daughter, against an outlaw gang of mohawk-haired gay guys who hug and kiss all over each other.

Oddly enough, Max wears a leather-fetish outfit that looks like it belongs on Folsom Street.

Mad Max 2: The Road Warrior (1981), is set about 10 years after the Apocalypse, with the kind, gentle, white-clad, and uber-heterosexual residents of Gasoline Town hounded by a gang of post-Apocalyptic gays. Their leaders look like refugees from Folsom Street.

There's also an explicit gay couple, the psycho Wezand and his boyfriend//slave, the Golden Youth, who gets killed.

The heterosexuals escape and flee north to a heterosexual future.

Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome (1985), the only one of the franchise I saw at the time of its release, stars gay-fave Tina Turner as Aunty Entity, leader of an evil Bartertown full of grotesque gay men.

By now AIDS is in the news, so the gay men are all diseased, like this leather-clad, tattooed Angry Anderson with his drag-queen totem.

But Max shuts it down, with the help of a group of kids and hunky teenagers living in a heterosexual Blue Lagoon Paradise. They fly off to the fabled Tomorrow-morrowland and a heterosexual future. In the last scene, they've all reproduced.

How many different ways are there to demonize gay people?

Looks like three.

Among my favorite summertime sights are the dunking booths at festivals, county fairs, Celtic games, school carnivals, summer camps, and various parties.

They are descended from the old dunk tanks used as punishment in the Middle Ages, where people accused of witchcraft or other "crimes" would be tied to a chair and dunked underwater.

In modern dunking booths, you just get wet.

The "victim" sits on a level platform suspended above a tank of water. People line up to try a feat, like hitting a target. If they are successful, the platform falls away, and he falls into the water.

Sometimes there's no feat; you pay for the privilege of pushing a lever and dunking the victim.

The tank is often made of clear plastic so you can watch him flailing around.

The victim is usually male, often a teacher, preacher, camp counselor, college football star, or other high-prestige figure, to make the dunking a kind of "revenge."

But don't worry: Dunking only occurs on hot days, when being dunked repeatedly is rather refreshing.

And you get to see a lot of attractive men in short pants or swimsuits.

See also: Celtic Festivals

You may know that I have a thing for religious boys, especially clergy. I love the juxtaposition of the spiritual and the physical, the penises hidden beneath their gaudy robes, the erotic desire that surely presents itself soon after they celebrate the mystery of death and resurrection at that gaudy altar.

My dating and hooking-up record among Men of the Cloth is limited. Lots of religious guys, and some lapsed clergy and seminarians, but no currently active Catholic priests, evangelical preachers, Buddhist monks, Jewish rabbis, or Muslim imams.

But I did get a Catholic priest sausage sighting. Big time.

The rest of the story is too risque for Boomer Beefcake and Bonding. Read it on Tales of West Hollywood

During the 1960s, Captain Ernie's Cartoon Showboat often showed Popeye cartoons. They were awful, nothing but heterosexist morality plays. In every single one of them, the absurdly macho sailor Popeye and Bluto vied for affections of sexist stereotype Olive Oyl, they fought, and Bluto was pulverized (even though he had a far superior physique).

Then in 1979, I stumbled upon a book called Popeye: His First Fifty Years, which talked about Castor Oyl, Ham Gravy, King Blozo, Tor, and Oscar. Who were these people?

I discovered that the cartoons were the latest incarnations of E.C. Segar's "Thimble Theater" comic strip, which began in 1919, starring get-rich-quick schemer Castor Oyl and his wise-cracking sister Olive. In a 1929 continuity, Castor hired gruff one-eyed sailor Popeye for a sea voyage. He became so popular that Segar added him to the cast, honed down his rough edges, and eventually made him the star of the strip. It continues to run in some newspapers today.

There have been Popeye comic books almost continuously since 1948, published by Dell, Gold Key, Charlton, Harvey, and IDW.

There's a lot of gay content in the comic strip and comic book Popeye:

1. He's sweet on Olive Oyl, but his main emotional bond is with Castor. They run a detective agency together, rescue each other from danger, argue, break up, and reconcile.

2. Popeye has no interest in women other than Olive, but he develops several gay-subtext male friendships, notably with King Blozo.

Similarly, he becomes the object of desire of several men. Reformed villain Tor keeps trying to kiss Popeye and saying that he loves him.

In fact, male friendships drive far more plots than quests for heterosexual romance.

3. The comic strips and comic books mostly occur in male homosocial spaces -- ships, boxing rings, detective agencies. But Olive constantly disrupts those spaces. The other characters keep telling her to "wait here" or "stay home where it's safe," but she is a full participant in every adventure. And when there's trouble, she proves herself a competent fighter, as good or better than Popeye himself.

4. Popeye has no qualms about gender transgressions. He frequently dresses in women's clothing to accomplish some plot point. When he becomes the ward of the infant Swee'Pea, he joins a women-only parenting class.

All that changed in the heterosexist "every man's fantasy" world of the cartoons.

See also: My review of the 1980 Popeye movie.

Friday
I arrive at Heathrow Airport at 5:00 am. Yuri picks me up and takes me to his tiny, incredibly expensive apartment near Soho Square, in the heart of London's gay neighborhood.

His boyfriend Michael is just getting back from the gym: a bodybuilder, naturally, in his 40s, ripped but going a little to fat in the belly, with an oval face, a severe haircut, and several tattoos.

He grunts and squeezes my hand too hard.

Over breakfast, I evidence no knowledge of British football, and make the newbie mistake of complaining that the people in London are rude. You never criticize the country you're visiting!

Michael glares at me. "Gotta go to work, but we'll meet for dinner tonight, yeah? Burger King? Or do you prefer McDonald's? Some other kind of burger?"

"Jeff likes Thai food!" Yuri exclaims, to defuse the situation. "Patara on Greek Street, 6:00, ok?"

They kiss, and Michael leaves.

Yuri has taken the day off, so we go sightseeing: the British Museum, St. Paul's Cathedral, a walk along the Thames, shopping in Soho.

"Michael is a nice guy -- trust me," Yuri says. "He just needs time to know you."

"I was hoping that we could get together in bed again. Are you monogamous?"

"No, we share. But I didn't tell Michael about sharing with you. He's jealous, I think, because we lived together for a long time. You can ask tonight, maybe."

At dinner, Michael is still surly. When we go back to the apartment and sit on the couch to watch tv, Michael sits between me and Yuri. I grab his knee, but he pushes my hand away. Then, overcome by jet lag, I doze off. I vaguely remember someone stretching me out on the couch and putting a blanket over me.

Saturday
I get up at dawn and go into the bedroom to awaken Yuri and Michael with hugs, and hopefully get an invitation into their bed.

"Sorry we overslept, mate," Michael says, pushing me away. "We'll be up soon -- just give us a minute for private time, right?"

I don't mind not "sharing" Michael -- I've been with lots of bodybuilders. But I want to hold Yuri in my arms again.

We have breakfast and go to the gym together, where Michael and I can compete over who can bench-press the most.

Afterwards I try to score some points by suggesting that we go on a tour of Wembly Stadium, where Londoners gather to watch football, but Michael says "Sorry, I'm very busy today. But you and Yuri go on. Get your sunglasses and cameras, and take a tour of Buckingham Palace. Maybe Prince William is taking a shower, yeah?"

He is joking, but since Prince William is 25 years old, it's obvious that he's into young guys. Yuri is 31, but could pass for a teenager.

Yuri and I drive out to Stonehenge and back, and rendez-vous with Michael at the Gay Hussar, near their apartment. It isn't actually gay-specific; it serves Hungarian food.

"What do you want to do tonight?" Yuri asks. "We can go cruising. There are lots of nice gay bars in Soho."

"Sure, that would be great. Would you guys mind if I brought someone home?"

"Not at all," Michael says, "If you don't mind blankets on the floor."

I'll bet if I bring a twink home, Michael will suggest more than that.

Yuri hands me a guide book. All types of gay bars, just like in West Hollywood. Leather -- drag -- older guys -- twinks -- and Indie! Obviously British slang for Indian. This must be a bar for South Asians and their admirers, like the bars for black and Asian men in West Hollywood.

"How about this Indie bar just off the Strand. I love South Asian guys!"

"It doesn't..." Yuri begins.

"Now, Yuri, don't be rude, like Londoners. If our guest wants to go to an Indie bar, he can go to an Indie bar."

So we go to the Retro Bar.

You guessed it -- Indie doesn't mean Indian. It's a type of music: Independent, not signed on to a mainstream record label. Often local groups with an eccentric sound.

How was I to know? I haven't listened to popular music regularly since around 1985. I think Avril Lavigne is a French children's author, and Fergie is Sarah Ferguson, the Duchess of York.

Indie music is horrible, all screeching and incomprehensible lyrics.

And the patrons are very young, barely out of their teens. Some are probably in their teens. We are the only guys over 25 in sight.

I like twinks as much as the next guy, but I feel very out of place in their hangout.

Besides, they aren't clean-cut, muscular college jocks. They are emo, Goth, and scene kids: thin, pale androgynous, with straight black hair, hoodies, shirts emblazoned with cartoon characters, mascara-ed eyes, multiple tattoes, and pierced everything. Not my type at all! Certainly not worth bringing home in the hope of fondling Yuri.

We commandeer a pedestal-table and order expensive juice drinks.

"The guys here are cute, yeah?" Michael says with an evil grin. "So many Desis (South Asians)! But the music is horrible, all screeching and shaking. Not a lot of David Cassidy!"

I'm not going to let him know how uncomfortable I am! "No, Indie music is great. I had no idea. I really love - the Futureheads."

"A Daddy who likes the Futureheads?" someone says. "And an American! That's random, isn't it?"

I turn. It's an emo kid, short, slim but with some muscle, dark skin, and a fringe of beard on his mascara-ed face.

"I'm Nehal. Care to dance?"

Apparently my superheroic attractiveness to twinks works in England as well as America. And, as it turns out, Nehal is a South Asian emo kid.

We dance, flirt, kiss.

"I'd invite you home," Nehal says, "But I stay with my parents, and they're old school conservative and that."

"I'm staying with my friends. They said I could bring someone over, as long as you don't mind blankets on the floor."

He glances at the pedestal table, where Michael is watching Nehal hungrily, and Yuri is looking bored and gesturing at his watch.

"Three Daddies! Hot!"

First time I ever heard the youthful-looking Yuri described as a "Daddy."

"Maybe I could convince them to move us into the bedroom tonight, yeah? If you don't mind sharing the wealth."

Before the night is over, I see both Michael and Nehal naked. But more importantly, I hold Yuri in my arms again. It feels like going home.

See also: Stranded on the Island of Dogs.

For fifty years children's tv has been a heteronormative wasteland, where same-sex desire exists, at best, in code and innuendo. But during the last two years, two programs on the Cartoon Network have introduced recurring same-sex couples.

Steven Universe (2013-) is about three extraterrestrial gem-creatures -- Garnet, Amethyst, and Pearl -- who live on the East Coast of the U.S. and fight evil, particularly the corrupt gems from their homeworld who want to destroy all humans.

Steven (voiced by Zach Callison, left) is the son of a fourth gem-creature, Rose, and her human partner, Greg Universe (a traveling musician who lives in a van).

He has inherited his mother's super-powers, so he assists the others, meanwhile engaging in ordinary kid adventures:

Steven gets upset when his favorite brand of ice cream sandwich is taken off the market.
He helps place a Moon Goddess statue atop the ruined Lunar Sea Spire
He is banned from his favorite restaurant.
He fights two corrupt gems who want to destroy the world.
He watches scary movies (after the last episode, one wonders what scares him).

The gems, including Steven, can fuse to produce new beings with their own distinct personalities. Steven fuses with his girlfriend Connie to produce Stevonnie, a tall, long-haired, androgynous being who is intensely attractive to boys and girls alike.

It turns out that Garnet is actually a fusion of Ruby and Sapphire, two smaller gems who fell in love and fused together so they would never be separated. They sometimes talk to each other beneath Garnet's personality.

When they appear separately, Sapphire is a passive, pretty blue woman with long blue hair, wearing a long dress, and Ruby is a more aggressive, macho red woman with short hair, wearing a maroon tank top.

Did I mention that they're both female? And their romance has been the focus of one episode, and referenced in three others?

Not exactly regular characters, but it's a start.

Now let's see some gay men.

See also: The First Gay Couple in Children's TV

Before you come out, "best friend" is often code for "boyfriend," or someone who would be a boyfriend if only you knew that gay people existed.

After you come out, you realize that a "best friend" is something entirely different.

Not a romantic partner, although you may share boyfriends and hookups.

Not a roommate, although you may live together.

Someone with whom you share a fraternal bond, someone closer than a brother, closer than a lover, who stands beside you as boyfriends and jobs and years pass.

I don't know how best friendships begin. You meet, and it's like you've known each other forever. He moves instantly into an empty space in your life that you didn't even know existed.

You may mistake the instant connection for passion, and date for awhile, but after a few weeks or a few months, you realize the truth: your connection is on another level altogether.

I know how best friendships end:

1. They require constant contact. When one or the other moves out of town, a daily barrage of letters and emails gradually diminishes to once a week, then once a month, then "it's been a long time -- how you doing?"

2. They are exclusive. They can withstand casual boyfriends, but not a serious relationship.

When one of you moves in with a partner, the other becomes an ordinary friend, one of several who you call every few days, part of the rotation of guys invited over for dinner every few weeks.

Since coming out, I've had six best friends.

Bloomington: Viju.
Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas: nobody
West Hollywood: Alan, then Raul
San Francisco: David
New York and Florida: Yuri
Ohio: Chuck
Upstate: nobody

All but Viju and David were ex-boyfriends. All but Alan and David were younger than me. All were outgoing, flashy, and uninhibited, drawing me into adventures that I would never consider on my own (I'm always the one in the group who says "I don't think that's a very good idea.").

Sometimes we become so engrossed in the search for passion that we forget the joy of having someone just sitting beside you on the couch.

(Illustrations borrowed from the Hot Guys of Facebook tumblr).

See also: 15 Rules of Gay Cruising.

Heterosexuals Think Gay Men are Still Kids

Joe Manganiello: Gay Best Friend

Six Naked College Boys, Five Sausage Sightings, and One Date

Fall 1996: My Date with the Vampire

The Princess: Sometimes Boys are Girls

How To Date Younger Guys (When You're Over 40)

A Boy Named Twilight

Omar Sharif and His Grandson

A Guy with Daddy Issues Tears My Clothes Off

"Open Up the Closet Door": The Theme Song of 300 Nights in a Leather Bar

10 Good Stories for Gay Dating

Who Says Childhood is the Best Time of Our Lives?

July 2015: A Museum Guard in My Bed

Mad Max: Beyond Homophobia

Summertime Beefcake at the Dunking Booth

Sleeping with a Priest

Popeye: The First Gay Superhero

My Night with Yuri, His Boyfriend, and the Emo Boy

Gay Characters on Children's TV: Steven Universe

Best Friends