NYSocBoy's Beefcake and Bonding

When I was a kid in the 1960s, my staple was Harvey comics: gay-vague pacifist Casper the Friendly Ghost saving the world from science-fiction threats. I liked the Gold Key jungle comics, Little Lulu, Archie, and occasionally a Marvel or DC title, but I hated the bottom-of-the-barrel Charlton comics: cheaply printed on bad paper, amateurish illustrations, horrible dialogue, stupid stories.

Until one day my boyfriend Bill suggested that I take another look: "They're all full of best men."

That was our word for gay romantic partners.

I wasn't convinced. "No way. Harveys are lots better." I picked up the first on the pile. "Abbot and Costello? My Grandma talked about them -- they were on tv like a thousand years ago."

"The big guy has to rescue the little guy all the time."

A same-sex rescue was our main test of whether two guys were friends or "best men."

"What about Timmy the Timid Ghost? It's stupid!"

It was a blatant knock-off of Harvey's Casper the Friendly Ghost. There was even a tough derby-wearing ghost, Manny, a blatant knock-off of Harvey's Spooky the Tuff Little Ghost

"Do Casper and Spooky live together?" Bill asked pointedly.

No. Casper lived with his uncles, and Spooky lived alone. Their paths rarely crossed in the vast Enchanted Forest.

Domesticity -- male characters living together -- was our second test of best men!

The only original characters made no sense, like Surf n' Wheels: good surfers vs. evil motorcyclists in one issue, then crime fighting surfer-motorcyclists in the next.

But Bill pointed out that they had their shirts off for about half of every issue, more than you ever got with Harveys.

Beefcake -- guys taking their shirts off, or even better, wearing only underwear or swimsuits -- was our third test!

Bill pointed out that some Charlton titles, like Hercules, Jungle Jim, and Robin Hood, were even more beefcake-heavy than the Gold Keys.

Beefcake, same-sex rescues, and domesticity. What else could you ask for in a comic book?

Good stories, interesting artwork, and dialogue that made sense. I still didn't like Charlton.

Nashville, August 1991

I arrived in Nashville on August 18th, 1991, sad about leaving West Hollywood but looking forward to my new graduate program in Biblical Hebrew at Vanderbilt Divinity School. I found an apartment and an adjunct teaching job, toured the campus, and looked for Nashville's gay life:

Three gay organizations, some bars, and a Metropolitan Community Church.

On my first Saturday, I went to two of the bars, both on dismal country roads beyond the city limits. The first was completely deserted except for a woman who tried to pick me up -- a real woman -- and the second was about half drag queens, half rednecks. No one I found attractive.

I missed Mugi and the French Quarter.

Disappointed, I left after about an hour. On the way back into town, I stopped at an old-fashioned ice cream place called Bobbie's Dairy Dip, ordered a hot fudge sundae, and sat at one of the picnic tables outside.

"'Scuse me, sir, do you mind if I join you?"

I looked up: A country boy, barely out of his teens: tall and thin, scruffy black hair, handsome round face, unshaven, wearing a button-down shirt, jeans, and dirty tennis shoes. Holding a dish of frozen custard.

Shocked, I motioned "ok." He sat across from me and stuck out his hand. Very dry, firm handshake.

"You were looking at me at that other place we was at, but I didn't have the nerve to come say hi. The name's Red."

Was this the way people cruised in Nashville?

Red was very talkative: he was 25 years old, grew up in a small town outside Nashville, and worked at a gas station. He just got out of prison a few months ago -- DUI and resisting arrest.

Not the best pickup line!

But he "turned his life around." He was sober, he had his GED, and he was taking classes at the community college. He wanted to go to Middle Tennessee State and study zoology.

"You been to college, ain't you?" he asked. "I can tell by the way you talk."

"Yep, I almost got a Ph.D. I'm at Vanderbilt now, studying Biblical Hebrew."

"Whoa, Biblical Hebrew, that's hard. I can tell, just talking to you, that your brain is working at like three or four levels above mine. Let me ask you something." He reached under the table and rubbed his foot against mine "Do you think it will ever be legal for people like us to get together?"

At that moment, some kids at another started table laughing. Red jumped up and ran to his car.

I joined him. "They weren't laughing at us, you know."

"It's not safe here. You're from California, you don't know -- we got to keep a low profile. Could we go to your house?"

Red was cute, with the "lost soul" look I liked But I was a bit nervous about inviting a scruffy-looking stranger, an ex-con, back to my apartment. "I like to take things slow, get to know the guy," I said "How about we go out to dinner Tuesday night?"

"Ok. But someplace safe." He thought for a moment. "How about Bucky's, down in Columbia."

I'd never heard of Columbia, but I assumed it was a suburb of Nashville, where Red lived.

Of course, I got his contact information, and gave it to Lane back home.

Columbia turned out to be about 50 miles away, and Bucky's a heterosexist "family restaurant" that served "chicken an dressin'."

Red was wearing a plaid button-down shirt and a red tie. He gave me a plastic rose, the kind they sell at 7-11. A little weird.

"I never had a real date with a guy before," he said with a shy smile. "Usually they just want to do you and go home."

We ate our "chicken an dressin'" while Red fondled my leg under the table with his foot and smoked cigarettes.

I hated smokers!

Afterwards he wanted to go to the club up in Nashville, where they had drag shows on Tuesday nights.

Then why did I drive all the way down here? For Southern Country Cooking?

But I had already invested time and energy in this guy, so we went. It was ok, if you like drag shows.

On the way back to our cars, a pick-up truck pulled up next to us, and the passenger-side door opened. It was all dark inside. "Hey, faggots," someone whispered. "Get in."

Red grabbed my hand, and we ran back to the bar. We waited a half hour before trying to leave again.

It was after midnight I was tired and scared. I just wanted to go home -- alone. But when I suggested that we call it a night, Red looked so disappointed that I invited him home.

We sat on the couch in the living room, kissing -- Red was admittedly good at that. But the moment I tried to go down on him, he said "You got any photo albums? I want to know everything there is to know about you."

So we watched MTV and leafed through my photo albums. I showed Red photos of my parents and brother and sister, my friends at Denkmann, Washington, Rocky High, Augustana, Indiana, and West Hollywood. He kept up a constant stream of questions

It was 2:00 am! Time for bed!

I drew Red to his feet and pulled him into the bedroom. He stared at the bed next to the window.

"We can't sleep there! Too risky."

I was too tired to argue. I spread some blankets and pillows out onto the living room floor and tore off Red's shirt and tie. Hard hairy chest, lanky arms.

"Hey, you know what would be good? Some music."

So I turned MTV on: to Madonna's "Express Yourself."

So if you want it right now, make him show you how
Express what he's got, oh baby ready or not

The erotic encounter was ok, but the the evening was too weird -- a 45 minute drive for chicken, a drag show, gay bashing, photo albums, MTV -- I decided not to see him again.

The next Sunday, I went to services at the MCC, the gay church. And Red was there, sititing in the front row!

The uncensored story, with nude photos, is on Tales of West Hollywood.

Star Trek fans will recognize Chris Demetral from his role as Riker's son on a 1990 episode of The Next Generation. The 14-year old Michigan native had only been in Hollywood for two years, but he had already landed guest spots on several high-profile tv series, including Mr. Belvedere, The Wonder Years, and The New Lassie, and he would go on to guest on several more.

Chris became best known for playing Jeremy Tupper, son of book editor Martin Tupper (Brian Benben) on the HBO series Dream On (1990-96). Advertised as an "adult sitcom," it mostly featured Martin pursuing women (with lots of cable-tv nudity). Jeremy has his share of dates and romances, and even has sex during the December 18, 1993 episode.

But the heterosexist part didn't prohibit buddy-bonding elsewhere. In the spring of 1993, Chris became a series regular on Lois and Clark, playing a homeless teenager named Jack, whom Clark/Superman (Dean Cain) takes in. Designed as a replacement for Jimmy Olsen, with some buddy-bonding and nick of time rescues, Jack didn't click with Superman purists, and he was written out.

In Blank Check (1994), Chris plays Damian, the brother of the 12-year old who cashes a check for $1,000,000. Damian's relationship with his brother Ralph (Michael Faustino, younger brother of David Faustino) is called into question when a computer repeats "Ralph and Damian sleep butt to face."

Chris's last major role was in The Secret Adventures of Jules Verne (2000), a Canadian tv series. The French science fiction writer travels around with his friends, Phileas and Rebecca Fogg (Michael Praed, Francesca Hunt), and his servant Passepartout (Michel Courtemanche), fighting monsters and the League of Darkness.

Not much buddy-bonding, but Jules is certainly gay-vague. Whenever the group meets a damsel in distress, the horny Phileas takes over. Jules spends most of his time striking up conversations with strange men.

Chris disliked the "Hollywood lifestyle," so he retired from acting and moved back home to Michigan. He currently works for talkhumor.com, where his bio states that he is "a reformed smartass" known for his love for his wife, family, friends, the Lakers, and his saviour Jesus. I didn't find any gay-positive or homophobic content on the site.

Every now and then the Disney Channel airs a movie over-brimming with teenage and young adult beefcake, only to hide it in a vault and refuse to release it on DVD, as if the network bigwigs find it embarrassing: Jumping Ship, Luck of the Irish, Johnny Tsunami, Full-Court Miracle. But the most egregious is The Thirteenth Year (1999), which seems little more than an excuse to display 17-year old Chez Starbuck and his friends in swimsuits.

Chez plays Cody Griffin, a "normal" 13-year old whose main problems are: 1) the swim team, where he competes with star athlete Sean (Tim Redwine, left), and 2) his marine biology project, where he is partnered with the uncool science nerd Jess (Justin Jon Ross). Oh, and his body is changing, and not just the expected changes of puberty: he's developing gills and scales.

Jess performs some tests, and concludes that Cody is turning into a mermaid -- or rather, a merman. Turns out that his mother is a mermaid, and he will eventually transform altogether.

In spite of the "keeping my secret" hilarity, the movie is rather disturbing. The transformation is painful and traumatic, and when it is complete, Cody will no longer be human. He must abandon his human friends and seek out "his own kind" in the ocean.

But there's substantial gay content, and not just the endless swimsuit shots.

1. Although Cody has a girlfriend -- this is Disney, after all -- he ends up buddy-bonding with Jess. The climactic rescue comes when he saves Jess from drowning, and then uses his mermaid electrical power to revive him.

2. None of the main characters other than Cody express any heterosexual interest. They all seemed extraordinarily focused on him.

3. The "fish out of water" looking for a place where he can be himself. Ok, gay symbolism.

Chez Starbuck hasn't done much acting since The Thirteenth Year. He played a jock in Time Share (2000) and got undressed in the MTV series Undressed. He appeared as himself in the reality series The Real L-Word (2011), about real lesbians, and for some reason made a plaster cast of his penis.

Norfolk, Virginia, Summer 1993

"Ok, my turn," Tarik says. "I'm going to tell you about my date with a blue-eyed demon."

I'm in Norfolk visiting my friend Alan the Pentecostal Porn Star, his boyfriend Sandy, and their friend Tarik. We're swapping stories of celebrity hookups, deplorable dates, and guys with baseball bats beneath the belt.

"Do you mean a real demon?" Alan asks, paling. He's a recovering fundamentalist, and still believes that demonic powers wander the Earth, oppressing and possessing mortals.

"You'll have to wait till the end of the story to find out," Tarik says with a smile.

Tarik grew up on 36th Street in Norfolk. He was raised by his older sister Tamisha and her husband Jameer, who belonged to the Nation of Islam, and took him to the Friday services at Masjid William Salaam.

There he learned that blacks were the only true humans, the Tribe of Shabazz, and whites were monsters created by the evil scientist Yakub 6,600 years ago, who broke free from their cages and set out to destroy the world.

The imam said, "Be polite, smile, but don't let your guard down. If they can, they will take what is yours.. They will even kill you. Never invite one into your home, or accept an invitation into one of their homes. You may not make it out alive."

There weren't any white kids in Tarik's neighborhood, or in his school. About the only white people he saw were the cops, who drove through constantly, looking for an excuse to humiliate the brothers, call them racial slurs, beat them up, and arrest them

"Well, you have to admit, most cops are homophobic bastards," Sandy says.

The imam didn't like gay people, either -- they were blue-eyed demons, sent by the evil Yakob to seduce black men and spread AIDS through the communities.

"So...this story is about sex with a white guy?" Sandy asks. "That's not no thing -- I did that last night. You did too."

"Not just any white guy," Tarik tells us.

Tarik was a good kid. He didn't use drugs, or hang out with the gang-bangers. But he liked guys who played against the rules: sneaking into of the Virginia Zoo after hours, going skinny-dipping in the Lafayette River, that sort of thing. Often their evening adventures ended with a heavy session of making out and oral sex, but Tarik never associated that with being gay.

Fall 1985

After graduating from high school, Tarik enrolled at the all-black Norfolk State University as a Food Science major. He was the only boy in most of his classes. Jameer and Tamisha disapproved: "Next you'll be turning into a cheerleader, shaking your pom-poms around!"

He went out for cheerleading, just to spite them.

He met some guys who were "in the life," and began dating. They told him about the racism and discrimination in the gay community, and advised him to stay with his own people.

But...when he watched Miami Vice, about buddy cops Crockett and Tubbs, he found himself imagining the nude form of the white Don Johnson, not the black Philip Michael Thomas.

"No way!" he chided himself. "No way!"

Fall 1989

After graduation, Tarik was certified as a dietician, and went to work at the Norfolk General Hospital. It was fun -- and nonstop beefcake! He got to plan the dietary regimes of injured men, interview them about their allegies and food preferences, consult with cute male doctors and orderlies. Many were white,,,,

"No way!" He chided himself. "No way!"

"Once you go white," Sandy says, "You're never uptight!" He laughs. " I just made that up now."

One day Tarik had to interview a new patient, a young man with a broken leg.

White. And amazingly beautiful: short brown hair, flawless pale skin like marble, piercing blue eyes.

Intellectually, he knew it was ridiculous, but he still associated blue eyes with gay people. A gay white man!

"No!" he told himself. :Be polite, be professional, nothing more!"

"Um...um..." he began, speechless. "I'm your dietitian, Tarik."

"Howdy! I'm your patient, Jim." He held out his hand.

How could just a simple handshake be so erotic? Tarik felt like he was going to faint. He sat down next to the bed, and looked at the guy's chart. James Masterson. A cop!

"Um... the doctor said you can eat normally, so I just need to check your food preferences. For breakfast, you have a choice of an omelette and wheat toast or oatmeal..."

He returned after breakfast to see if James Masterson -- Jim -- was eating right. And the next day. And for the next two weeks. And when Jim was ready for his release, Tarik was the one who drove him to his apartment, made sure he could get around ok, and spent the night.

"Details!" Alan exclaims. "How big was he? What did you do? Give us a blow-by-blow."

[See Tales of West Hollywood for details.]

Dating one of the racist oppressors! What was he going to tell his friends? What was he going to tell Tamisha and Jameer?

He decided not to beat around the bush. He called, said he had met someone, and arranged for them all to have lunch together at the Handsome Biscuit on Granby Street -- in public, in case there was yelling.

Jim wore his uniform to make a good impression. Tarik helped him through the restaurant door and to the booth where Tamisha and Jameer were waiting. Their smiles turned to stares, then back to smiles, as they greeted Jim, asked polite questions, and sent him on their way.

"So they were more supportive than you thought!" Alan says. "Very nice story."

"Just wait."

The next day Tamisha called. "I have a bone to pick with you about that white boy of yours."

Uh-oh, Tarik thought. Here it comes -- the screaming. Traitor! Brainwashed!. Bringing AIDS into the community!

He braced himself. "What about Jim?"

There was a moment of silence on the phone. Then: "Now, I know you like a little danger in your men, but really, Tarik, a cop? He's going to be shipped off to Lord-knows-where, and you'll be at home worrying that he'll get his head blown off by some Iraqi sniper! You won't get even a minute of peace!"

"They were fine with me being gay, and dating a white guy, but they didn't like him being a cop!" Tarik laughs. "Doesn't that take the cake?"

"It could have been worse," Alan says. "Imagine if Jim was a soldier."

"A white boy in uniform!" Tarik exclaims. "C'mon, Boomer, let's go cruising."

The uncensored post, with nude photos, is on Tales of West Hollywood .

Someone asked "How can you remember all this stuff? Names, dates, the exact restaurant you went to?"

Cruising in Tucumcari in 2004
The Great Redneck Roundup of 1995.
Having lunch with Michael J. Fox in 1985.
Learning about oral sex in the church parking lot in 1975
My first date with a boy, in 1968, when I was only 7 years old.

Here's how:

1. In gay neighborhoods, when friends get together, they often swap stories of erotic, romantic, and homophobic encounters. I've told some of these stories dozens of times.

2. I fill in the details with research. I didn't remember the name of the bar where I met the Nebraska Cornhusker in 1995, so I looked up a likely suspect -- hopefully it didn't just open in 2015.

3. I take artistic license for the purpose of plotting. I'll invent conversations, modify details, change the people involved, in order to get from incident to story.

4. I have a Little Black Book.

When I was 13 years old, one of my Christmas presents was a diary -- a red, square book with gold-laminated pages and a lock and key, one of the few times that my parents consented to give me a girly gift rather than macho sports equipment.

I used it as a date book, to keep track of my concerts, parties, church activities -- and, of course, boys that I liked.

At Indiana University, when Viju and I began picking up guys in bars, I kept records, as a safety precaution. If you came down with a STD, you should call all of the guys you've been with recently.

In West Hollywood, there were so many things going on, dates, dinners, movies, parties, classes, jobs, festivals -- that you needed a calendar to keep track of it all. I recorded almost all of my social activities, so now I can go back and see what happened on my first date with Alan, or my third date with Raul, or with the guys that Lane and I shared.

In the early 1990s, I transferred it all to a computer file, and I've kept it up, sometimes faithfully, sometimes not.

When I have a partner and don't hook up often, I tend to go into more detail.

Here, for instance, is my entry for the night of my first experience as a bottom in ten years, in Barcelona in 1994:

June 24th. Worked out, very nice gym. Sagrada Familia, Picasso Museum. Bear Night/Sauna Condal.

Busy! Raul, Chinese Catalan, grandparents didn't speak Mandarin, spoke Wu. "Have you eaten?" = "Hello." Him and a muscle bear at the same time. Into Catalan Independence Movement. Went to El Quatre Gats, where Picasso hung out. Dinner with roommate, big hairy bear, curved dk. Trinxat, cabbage quiche. Split for bedroom, me and Raul, small, passionate, was G.A. (!). No breakfast.

With that prompt, I remembered a lot more. I just had to add some conversations and a few details.

But here is my entry for my date with the Nastiest Guy in the World, in New York in 1998:

February 11th. Crazy Troy from chatroom said he had room to rent in the City, actually had a studio, tricked me into going there just for a date!

Other than that entry, what I remembered was Troy belittling everyone in the chatroom, him picking me up at the train station, driving forever to get to his apartment, and sitting on the couch, where I suddenly realized that it was a single.

I had to make up whole conversations, the restaurant we went to -- I just remembered Indian -- and what his apartment looked like.

It's an odd experience going through the entries, recalling people that I knew back then, as friends, boyfriends, dates, or hookups, who are probably still living and breathing and going about their daily lives in some city far away.

I wonder if they remember.

When they're sitting around with their friends, swapping stories of dates from hell, gigantic penises, guys with too many weird quirks to date a second time, and beautiful men who got away, does my name come up?

And which one am I?

The sexual liberation of the hippie generation led to a number of plays with momentary nudity and casual references to sex, but Oh! Calcutta! was all-sex, all-nude. It debuted off-Broadway in 1969 and ran for 1,314 performances, with an additional 5,959 performances in the 1976 revival. There was also a 1972 movie version, plus references in tv shows such as All in the Family and One Day at a Time, making it one of the iconic musicals of the era.

In case you are wondering, the title comes from the French phrase "O quel cul t'as!", "What a nice butt you have!"

It's a series of not-very-funny comedy sketches, written by such high-brow luminaries as Sam Shepherd, Jules Feifer, and Samuel Beckett. A boy tries to rape a girl; a girl learns to become less inhibited; a young couple investigate wife-swapping; a boy learns to masturbate.

Notice what's missing?

Right -- no gay people, no reference to same-sex desire or behavior of any sort.

Author and producer Kenneth Tynan was an old-school libertine, into many different heterosexual activities with multiple partners, but tremendously homophobic -- he invented the term "gay Mafia," which he called "the homosexual Mafia," in 1967. He insisted that there be no crossdressing or "perversion," by which he meant gay people.

In the end, for its pretense of controversy, Oh! Calcutta! preaches the heteronormative message of boys and girls gazing into each other's eyes.

Still, it's an interesting study of mainstream resistance to changing sexual mores, with an amazing amount of full-frontal male nudity.

The most hunky of the cast was the muscular and gifted-beneath-the-belt George Welbes (top photo), who appeared in only three movies before he died in 1974.

But the most famous was certainly Bill Macy, who played the husband of the "uncompromisin', enterprisin', anything but tranquilizin'"Maude (future Golden Girl Bea Arthur) from 1972 to 1978. When I was in high school, we whispered that he had been a "porn star" and watched hoping to get a glimpse of his superheroic endowment. Unfortunately, we never saw anything.

In 1976, The First Nudie Musicalappeared, with lots more 1970s tv stars.

New Mexico, Summer 2004

Remember my trip to visit Larry in Santa Fe, New Mexico, in the summer of 2004? After four deplorable days, we had a gigantic argument, and I packed up my stuff and drove away, never to speak to or hear from Larry again.

During the next three days, I met three guys, and hooked up with one. You have to guess which.

Hint: I hate losing friends, so I was quite upset, and not following my usual rules about public cruising or hooking up with complete strangers.

Day #1: The Tucumcari Twink

Tucumcari, an iconic town on Route 66! The stuff of James Dean, Sal Paradise, Peter Fonda in search of America!

I arrived just before noon, had lunch at the Pow Wow Restaurant, and explored. Very run down, a lot of vacant lots and boarded-up buildings, old hotels with faded signs, a thrift store, a Chinese buffet, a boarded-up theater. A community college, a single low adobe building. I didn't see a downtown; there was no there there.

I stopped in Tee Pee Curios, a tee-pee shaped store that sold Route 66 merchandise: t-shirts, books, Stuckey's candy (whatever that was), license plates that read "Bad Girl" or "Billy the Kid," right-wing patriotic slogans, religious slogans. Whatever.

But...the guy behind the counter was remarkable: in his 20s, thick brown hair, handsome face, tight muscular frame barely hidden beneath an orange t-shirt. He was reading a Harry Potter book. I approached.

"You must hear about Route 66 so much you get darn sick of it."

I'll bet he never heard that from a tourist before. He looked up with a big smile. "You have no idea, sir! Route 66 this, Route 66 that. We've had an interstate through here since the 1970s. Get with the 21st century!"

"Like Harry Potter?"

Embarrassed at reading a "kid's book," he tried to hide it.

"Oh, I'm a big fan. I especially like how Harry and Ron are so devoted to each other, like a romantic couple."

"Hm...you know, I never really thought about it, but maybe you're right."

"Fan fiction is loaded with Harry-Ron shipping."

Day #2: The Roswell Redneck

The town made famous by the 1947 UFO crash was about three hours south of Tucumcari. I was surprised by the contrast: a beautiful, vibrant downtown with trees and green spaces. Restaurants, shops. A used bookstore. Mexican restaurant for lunch.

The Museum and Art Center, with an excellent selection of Southwestern Art.

Around 4:00 pm, I visited the International UFO Museum. As a long time devotee of the UFO phenomenon, I didn't see much that I hadn't seen a hundred times before.

There were only a few tourists. Later I discovered that a big UFO festival had just ended, so all of the true believers were gone, leaving a nuclear family, a teenage boy and girl holding hands, and a guy by himself, looking at an exhibit with some very muscular classic grey aliens.

"Who knew that aliens worked so hard on their delts?" I asked.

He laughed. "And their abs." He was his 30s, shorter than me, round face, a little beard, solidly built with respectable biceps and a smooth chest visible beneath his half-unbuttoned short-sleeved shirt.

"Maybe there's a Gold's Gym in outer space."

"They've got to do something to pass the time., what with no willies and all."

"I'd think I'd rather have a willy. Especially on Saturday night," I added suggestively. This was definitely a cruising conversation!

"This is Sunday," he pointed out.

"Even worse. Sunday night is the loneliest night of the week." That came out a little more depressed than I intended.

"I hear you, buddy. You traveling by yourself?"

"I was visiting my friend in Santa Fe, but we kind of had an argument."

"Well, maybe it's time for you to make some new friends."

Day #3: The Alamogordo Gordito

Around 11:00 am, I arrived at Alamogordo, a "big city" of 30,000, including the nearby air force base. An old army town with broad streets and low mountains in the distance.

I went to the New Mexico Museum of Space History, stopped for lunch at the Country Kitchen, and then headed out to the White Sands National Monument, a vast sea of sand dunes with nature trails for hiking.

And, apparently, cruising.

I was staring at a multicolored snake, wishing I was back in nice, safe Wilton Manors, when a tall, husky older guy approached (top photo).

"He's harmless -- as long as you don't get too close."

"Don't worry, I have no intention of saying hello." I turned -- he had a flat clean-shaven face, a little double chin, a barrel chest and thick biceps. Hair was peeking up over his t-shirt.

"Pretty cool, huh? I've been hiking all over the state, but this is my favorite trail. Near dusk you can see bobcats and coyotes."

"I just hope they've had dinner before they see me."

"It's all about the adventure, isn't it? I'm retired Air Force, enjoying life and trying out new things. Meeting new people, too." He held out his hand to be shaken.

Day #4

On to Albuquerque! I was feeling better, having seen some interesting sites, met three guys, and spent the night with one.

Can you figure out which?

a. The Tucumcari Twink
b. The Roswell Redneck
c. The Alamogordo Gordito

Answer, along with the uncensored photos, is on Tales of West Hollywood.

Back before physique magazines, Johnny Weissmuller movies, and superhero comics, there were few options for beefcake: J.C. Leyendecker's magazine ads, statues of Greek gods -- and the circus.

The 3 Moros (the Three Moors) was a brother act.

Actually, they were mostly brother acts, whether they were actually related or not.

Unfortunately,it was beefcake only, and the guys didn't appear alone; there were usually scantily-clad women in the act.

Not a lot of gay symbolism. In fact, the whole drama of highwire acts, with a woman tumbling and a man catching, replays a heterosexual drama.

The circus is so soaked in heterosexual imagery that it's hard to find references to gay performers. Bob Yerkes of the Flying Alexanders was married for 40 years, and a born-again Christian, so probably not.

The acrobat tradition started failing in the 1950s, facing stiff competition from tv and movies. The last world-famous acrobat was probably Jimmy Cavaretti, and he supplemented his circus fame with appearances on tv and a spread in Playgirl.

For instance, why wasn't Scott Osgood (top photo) a superstar? He performed with the Sailor Circus in Orlando in the 1980s, and got excellent reviews. Today he owns a rigging design company.

Plains, February 2016

When I first arrived in the Plains, twinks were approaching me right and left. I couldn't walk through the student union without getting a dozen cruisy smiles. I couldn't go on Grinder without getting 20 messages in 10 minutes.

But during the last few months, things have become decidedly quiet. Fewer cruisy smiles. Dead silence on Grindr.

In January 2016 I "shared" my friend Gabe's date, had a date of my own with a college boy named Dustin, went to a couple of M4M Parties...and that's it.

In February, nothing.

What could be causing this dating slump?

Hubris? Just before my dry spell began, I was bragging to Gabe that I could get any guy under 30. Maybe the hookup gods are punishing me.

Supply and Demand? There must be a finite number of 20-29 year olds who are gay, single, living in the Plains, and into older guys. Maybe I've met everyone available.

Physique? . I had an accident in October that limited my running and upper body work, and then the Halloween-to-Christmas sugar rush began. Now I have a little belly, plus I'm no longer lifting more than any other guy at the gym. Did I lose my competitive edge?

Age? I turned 55 in November. Could that be the upper limit of attractiveness? 40 to 54, hot Daddy, and 55+, Geezer?

Why should this bother me? I can get all of older guys I want. Who cares if I'm not a viable bed partner to someone who was born in 1997?

Is it because the new generation is going on happily without me, my contributions unneeded, obsolete?

Is it reminding me of my upcoming decline and fall?

Second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

Nonsense! Barring accidents and unexpected calamities, I have at least 20 active years yet.

And I've never been one to go gently into that good night. I've got a lot of tricks up my sleeve.

1. Pile on the wit and charm

Many people who are deficient in jaw-dropping gorgeousness get more than their fair share of phone numbers by making themselves the life of the party.

I revise my online dating, Facebook, and Twitter profiles, making the descriptions fun, sharp, and witty, throwing in quotes from Verlaine, The Rocky Horror Picture Show, and Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, claiming to be interested in indy music and video games. Then I sit back and wait for the "hi!" messages to begin.

Crickets. Nothing.

2. Show your smarts

If your wit and charm don't work, there's always your intelligence. Mention your published books and articles. Throw around a few graduate-school words like liminal and discourse. The younger crowd goes wild over erudition.

I go to the Black History Month lecture on the political importance of the "Black Lives Matter" movement. The lecture hall is full of politically-involved, socially-aware, articulate, intellectual African-American men looking to demonstrate that they are not uncomfortable with interracial hookups.

At the reception afterwards, I see a likely candidate, tall and slim, wearing a bright purple t-shirt. Short-cropped hair and four earrings, two for each ear.

Drink in hand, I approach. "Hi, do you think there are social parallels between Black Lives Matter and the Zoot Suit Riots of the 1940s?"

Presumably he'll have no idea what the Zoot Suit Riots were, so I can explain, and one thing will lead to another.

"That's an interesting idea, sir."

Sir?

No eye-widening, no smile, no spark. Nothing. Our intellectual conversation is purely intellectual.

Maybe the 40+ crowd isn't so bad. Of course, on the Plains, most of the older gay men have vanished into gay neighborhoods far away, leaving the married, bi-curious, downlow, "I love women, but sometimes I want to be with a guy,""I've never tried anything like this before,""Let's do it while my wife is out shopping."

Shudder.

3. Flex your muscles

Ok, I've lost a little muscle mass, and I've put on an inch or so around the belly, but darn it, I still have a 48" chest and 15" biceps, and I can do 50 push-ups in a minute, more than 90% of the twinks at the gym.

I go to the campus gym, put on a t-shirt a size too small, grey to show the outline of my physique better, and start pumping. Vigorously.

The college athletes walk around me, oblivious I'm not part of their world.

I walk up to a thin, pimpled guy struggling with the Nautilus incline press. "Can I squeeze in between your sets?"

He says "Of course, sir."

Sir?

I push the pin down to twice the weight he's lifting. He ignores me and goes onto his cell phone.

My workout over, I go to the locker room. Just down from my locker, I see Eli, who was in my big lecture class last semester. Not a great student; he got mostly C's. But he was memorable even in a class of 100 for coming in late every day, and for the muscle shirts he wore even in winter: his hard bare shoulders and hint of a smooth chest livened many a winter lecture.

Today, as he's changing into his gym clothes, I get a better look. Short, slim. Round, angelic face. Firm chest, swimmer's build, tattoo of a lion over his left nipple.

He is ignoring me.

"Hi, Eli," I say. "I didn't know that you worked out here."

He looks up without smiling. "Oh, hi, Professor. I usually work out with the team."

"Football?"

"Swim team." He turns his back to me to take his pants off. Purple underwear, nice butt.

I understand -- I always avoid getting naked in front of my ex-students. There is some information I don't want to become general knowledge on campus.

But today I'm mad at the world, and I figure, "What the heck? Give him an eyeful."

I wrap my towel around my shoulders instead of my waist and turn back to Eli just as he has finished pulling up his gym trunks. He looks at me. His eyes go to crotch level.

"I used to be a big swim fan," I say. "I'll have to come to one of your matches. Who are you going against next?"

He looks up, embarrassed. "Northern State. Um...you know...um...I can score you with some tickets, if you want..."

"Only if you let me take you out to dinner afterwards."

"Sounds great! KIK me at Lion342."

4. When all else fails, show them your penis.

It doesn't even have to be big. The fact that you still have one, that you don't suddenly become a eunuch at age 40, is endlessly surprising...and erotic.

The details of our date, and uncensored photos, are on Tales of West Hollywood.

Bubba Lewis is best known as the BFF of teen idol Zac Efron -- the two have been passionate heterosexual life partners for eleven years, ever since they starred together as autistic twins in a sappy tv movie, Miracle Run (2003).

But the Georgia-born singer, dancer, and good old boy -- who took the name "Bubba" to emphasize his country-fried heritage -- does more than bask in the glory of High School Musicalfever. He has a resume of his own, full of serious dramatic vehicles.

Very serious.

Snap (2005): A teenage boy must defend himself from a killer (Ian Ford) who has invaded his home and murdered his parents.

Flags of Our Fathers (2006): About the six men who raised the flag at Iwo Jima during World War II. Bubba plays one of them as a boy.

The Bottom (2007): A boy working at a gas station "in the ruins of America."

It's Dark Here (2013): A boy has a schizophrenic breakdown in front of his horrified parents.

Plus episodes of Saving Grace, Medium, ER, Numbers, and Dexter.

He doesn't do many comedies.

Just Weather Girl (2009), about a Seattle weather girl who moves in with her little brother and romances his bff (Patrick J. Adams, Ryan Devlin).

And The In-Betweeners (2012-2013): A sitcom about four misfit boys in high school who band together. And, apparently, take their clothes off.

Notice that Bubba hasn't played any heterosexual romantic leads. Not one. It's all about the BFFs. Which is always good for gay subtexts.

My least-favorite holiday is Christmas, but Valentine's Day comes a close second: a corporate-controled paeon to heterosexual desire, with millions of male-female couples paraded out to proclaim that their emotional bond is the most important thing in the world, the meaning of life.

And therefore you should spend money on maudlin cards, boxes of gut-busting candy, and dead flowers.

In gay neighborhoods it was ok, but in the straight world, same-sex couples who try to participate get stared at in restaurants, laughed at at the flower shop, jeered at the candy store. Or at least they feel hideously out of place amid the cooing boys and girls.

And God forbid you're single!

Here are the highlights of Valentine's Day seasons past, some ok, some bad, some horrendously bad.

Not counting childhood, when everybody in the class got a valentine from everybody else, regardless of gender.

1. My First Gay Bar. Valentine's Day, 1983. At Indiana University, my friend Viju talks me into driving up to Indianapolis. I've never been in a gay bar, or any type of bar, before, and I'm blown away by the light, color, and camaraderie. Nothing like the dark, sleazy, leering gay bars they show on tv.

2. T, the Thug from Catch On. Valentine's Day, 1986. There aren't a lot of black men in West Hollywood: if you want to meet them, you have to go to Jewel's Catch-One. Alan and I go, and get cruised by a thug wannabe named T.

3. My Celebrity Boyfriend. Valentine's Day, 1987. The Celebrity and I have only been dating for about a month, and he says he wants to go "all out" for Valentine's Day. I wonder what a famous ex-teen idol considers "all out." A thousand doves swooping down from a helicopter? A life-sized box of candy? Sharing Scott Baio? Turns out to be him on a heart-shaped blanket.

4. A Boy for Valentine's Day. Valentine's Day, 1990. I'm dating Lane, and still thinking of that "sharing Scott Baio" thing. I don't actually pick up Scott Baio, but I get a nice substitute with Raul's friend Dominic, a cute Mexican twink. While Lane and I are having dinner, Raul lets Dominic in the house, where he puts on a Cupid outfit and hides in the bedroom.

5. The Estonian Word for Valentine. Valentine's Day, 1998. Yuri and I are both dating Jaan, the Estonian mountain climber, and we both want to impress him. We plan a three-way date involving Estonian food, Estonian music, Estonian everything, until Jaan gets sick of it and kicks us both out.

But there's a nice side effect to gay dating: if the guy you both want rejects you, you can always spend the night with each other.

6. The Boy Who Cried Fabulous. Valentine's Day, 2005. What could be worse than to be dating the annoyingly cheerful, annoyingly upbeat Florian on hearts-and-flowers day? Nothing. A 5-pound heart-shaped box of candy, a dozen roses, a card two feet square with a horrible pun, and a teddy bear with a heart-shaped bib reading "I Wuv You." He doesn't even love me, he wuvs me.

7. The Wild Night of Tricking. Valentine's Day, 2007. I'm back in West Hollywood for a mid-February visit, and Lane suggests that we hit the bars. On Cupid Day? It will be all depressed single guys.

"Precisely," Lane says. "We can spend the night tricking, like we did before AIDS -- pick someone up, bring him home, do him, kick him out, back to the bar for the next guy."

"But we were Cute Young Things back then. I'm 46!"

"So what? I'm 51!"

8. The Asian-American Family Valentine Dinner. Valentine's Day, 2009. I'm dating Chad, who is second-generation Korean-American. He invites me to dinner with his family, which turns out to be like a Korean Thanksgiving: tons of food, relatives you only see once a year, and innumerable questions about the new guy Chad is dating.

9. The Guilt Trip. Valentine's Day, 2010. I'm dating Troy, a newly-graduated French major who says "Oh, I hate Valentine's Day. Let's not celebrate at all." Fine with me. Until February 14th, when I awaken to candy, flowers, expensive jewelry, and dinner reservations. Fooled you!

10. I Become a Creepy Old Guy. Valentine's Day, 2012. #9 is probably the reason I hate Valentine's Day now. I insist that we don't celebrate. At all. We go to a bathhouse instead, the River Club in Albany, where I become a Creepy Old Guy.

11, The Youngest Guy I've Ever Dated. Valentine's Day, 2015. A 22 year old theater major. Fortunately, we start dating too close to the Day to celebrate it.

12, My Ex-Student Naked in the Locker Room. Valentine's Day, 2016. A 19-year old political science major who wants to become a lawyer. Our first date is the night before. I wake up, go down on him, give him a bagel, and kick him out.

I get to spend The Day alone in my apartment, doing course prep, downloading porn from the internet, and watching The Walking Dead.

Best Valentine's Day ever!

The full post, with nude photos, is on Tales of West Hollywood.

West Hollywood, February 1987

Valentine's Day

I've been dating the Celebrity, a former teen idol (I promised not to reveal his name), for a little over a month, and he's met almost all of my West Hollywood friends: Alan, Raul, Marcus, Michael, Mitch, Thanh. But I've never met any of his.

Dating a celebrity, I naturally expected to do some "sharing" with his celebrity friends. John Travolta, or Rob Lowe, or Ralph Macchio....

But he doesn't even introduce me to anyone.

Maybe tonight will be different. "I'm going to go all out," the Celebrity promises. "This will be the most memorable Valentine's Day of your life."

Wow! What's memorable to someone who starred in his own tv show?

200 doves flying out of a cake?

A charter jet taking us down to Tijuana for dinner?

Scott Baio naked in his bed?

Breathless with anticipation, I arrive at his house at 6:00 pm

The rest of the story, with nude photos, is on Tales of West Hollywood

When I was a kid in the 1960s, Dad would call me Skeezix when I misbehaved:
"Put down that comic book and clean your room, Skeezix!"

Particularly when my misbehaving had some connection to same-sex desire, like when Bill and I became a "mama and a papa", when I was disappointed at the lack of muscles at A Little Bit O'Heaven., or when I asked for a statue of a naked man for Christmas.

He never used that name on my brother or sister, just me. I had no idea why.

Many years later, I stumbled upon a book in my Aunt Nora's attic, starring a boy named Skeezix. Turns out that he was from the long-running comic strip Gasoline Alley (1918-). Originally about four buddies who hung around in an alley to talk about cars, it took a domestic turn on February 14, 1921, when Walt Wallet found a baby on his doorstep, and named him Skeezix.

The strips were now about a single dad raising a small child -- who aged in real time.

By the late 1930s, when my father was a kid, Skeezix was a teenager, and the undeniable star of the comic strip. He sold toys, clothes, shoes, ice cream, coloring books, pin-backs, sheet music, and a full line of big little books.

He starred in three radio series and two movies (played by Jimmy Lyndon of Tom Brown's School Days fame, with the bisexual Scotty Beckett as his brother Corky).

The strip was not known for beefcake -- Walt was rather pudgy -- but Skeezix got some shirtless and underwear shots, and displayed a nice physique.

And he had a buddy to bond with, Spud, who accompanied him on the adventures Skeezix in Africa (1934) and Skeezix at the Military Academy (1938).

So my father connected my homoerotic hijinks to the shirtless, buddy-bonding, arguably gay Skeezix of his childhood.

The gay symbolism didn't last. Skeezix got a girlfriend, Nina Clock. He graduated from high school, served in World War II, and returned to run the gas station. He married Nina, and had two kids: Chipper and Clovia.

Clovia grew up, managed the gas station, and married Slim Skinner. They had two kids: Gretchen and Rover (born in 1978).

Rover grew up, graduated from high school, and married Hoogy Boogle. They had a son, Boog, in 2004.

And so on and so on. In fact, you'd be hard pressed to find anyone in the six-generations of the Wallet family to date who isn't involved in a hetero-romance. There are no confirmed bachelor uncles or maiden aunts anywhere to provide queer subtexts (except for the outsider characters Rufus and Joel). Gasoline Alley remains a holdout from the time when gay people were assumed not to exist.

Yet for kids growing up in the 1930s, there was Skeezix.

See also: Was My Grandfather Gay?

Michael Landon arrived in Los Angeles at age 19 and immediately started landing roles as tortured outcasts and juvenile delinquents, such as the gay-vague protagonist in I Was a Teenage Werewolf (1957). He also cut some teen idol records and posed for innumerable beefcake shots before landing the role of Little Joe, youngest of the three sons of widowed rancher Ben Cartwright (Lorne Green) on Bonanza in 1959.

For the next 14 years, Little Joe played the part of "teen hunk," strutting about shirtless and bulging, giving thousands of boomer kids their first crushes. Unfortunately, he had little significant buddy-bonding, as he was constantly consorting with women, culminating in a marriage -- and the tragic demise of his bride -- 1972.

When Bonanza finally ended in 1973, Landon had acquired a reputation as a stable, solid, and "wholesome," a conservative remedy to the endless sexual innuendo found elsewhere on prime time.

But his next series, Little House on the Prairie (1974-83), was not exactly conservative. It offered cynicism, backstabbing, contemporary social issues -- and an endless supply of beefcake. According to Alison Arngrim, who played the bitchy Nellie Oleson, Michael Landon was quite aware of the program's gay male fans, and catered to them by mandating that the cute guys on the show often appear shirtless -- and engage in some buddy-bonding plotlines.

Never far from a tv screen, Landon continued after Little House with Highway to Heaven (1983-89), about a wayfaring angel who displays little heterosexual interest and travels with a male companion (Victor French).

He was in declining health, but he lived until 1991, long enough to express his support of his gay son, 16-year old Christopher.

Born in 1956, Steven Ford was the youngest son of Gerald Ford, President of the United States from 1974 to 1977. By that time he was in college far from the White House, studying ranching at Utah State University. But the acting bug bit, and he started making the rounds.

With or without the cachet of having a famous Dad, he got lots of two-fisted roles in Escape from New York, The Eleventh Commandment, and Body Count.

But his blond hair, square jaw, and chiseled physique got Steve more attention as a heartthrob. From 1981 to 1987, he starred on the soap The Young and the Restless as private detective Andy Richards (right), where he buddy-bonded with fellow p.i. Paul Williams (Doug Davidson, left). The extremely girlish-looking bottom guy is Michael Damian, who played singer Danny Romalotti.

Afterwards Steve hosted the tv series Secret Service and continued to act, with roles opposite action heroes like Al Pacino in Heat, Richard Griego in Against the Law, and Casper Van Dien in Starship Troopers. Today he spends most of his time on his ranch and giving motivational speeches about alcoholism.

Steve has never married, so he's been the subject of lots of gay rumors.His Mom, former First Lady Betty Ford, was a proponent of gay marriage.

August 22, 1984

I've just finished my M.A. degree, and I'm on my way south to Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas, a far northern suburb of Houston, where I will be teaching English at Lone Star State College. I stop for the night in Oxford, Mississippi, the home of Ole Miss.

I tour the university and the William Faulkner house, get take-out fried chicken from Lenora's Family Restaurant, and check in to my hotel to settle down for an evening of Family Ties, Cheers, and Night Court.

I'm not planning to go out. I have to take occupancy of my new apartment by 5:00 pm tomorrow, or I'll be stuck in hotels all weekend. That means getting up at 5:00 am.

Besides, I'm in Mississippi, the heart of the heart of the most horrifyingly homophobic state in a horrifyingly homophobic country. Where is there to go?

My Gayellow Pages listed only 1 bar in the whole state, in Jackson.

And I definitely am not going to go to a straight bar!

Still, I'm restless. I have to go somewhere.

The rest of the story, with nude photos and sexual situations, is on Tales of West Hollywood.

There are lots of threatened gay-vague kids in movies and tv, but not many are threatened by their own parents. Flowers in the Attic (1987) is an exception. It was based on a 1979 novel by Virginia Andrews, about four children who go to live with their grandmother because their mother doesn't like them. But Grandma doesn't like them either; she locks them in the attic for several years, and finally tries to poison them. The eldest two, Chris and Cathy, develop an incestuous romance.

The movie omits the incest, thus omitting any hint of heterosexual interest, transforming Chris (Jeb Stuart Adams) into a gay-vague teenager. Grandma (Louise Fletcher) struts around with a Bible, accusing Chris and the other kids of "sin," which of course adds to the gay symbolism.

The incest angle, murderous relatives, and some nasty plot elements made the film controversial, but it didn't help Jeb's career.

Blond goldenboy Jeb Stuart Adam looked like he sprang up from the Appalachia of the Dukes of Hazzard, but he was actually the son of gay actor Nick Adams and his wife, Carol Nugent, and he grew up among the Hollywood glitterati.

His angelic smile and a smooth, firm but not muscular chest, making him perfect for roles as threatened kids: threatened by drug dealers on Quincy ME (1982), a bad father in His Mistress (1984), and a hippie cult on Airwolf (1985).

He also had significant supporting roles in The Goonies and Once Bitten, plus a 7-episode story arc (1977-78) on Baa Baa Black Sheep, about World War II fighter pilots led by Pappy Boyington (Robert Conrad).

After Flowers in the Attic, Jeb was threatened a few more times, in They Live (1988), Dragnet (1990), and Sworn to Vengeance (1993), but you can't play threatened kids forever. He retired from acting and moved into production design and stuntwork.

Today Jeb has a successful real estate business in Ventura, California, specializing in the million-plus market.

In the spring of 2006, ABC Family started showing ads about a new series, with a teenage boy raising his shirt to display his abs.

Oh, wait, is he supposed to be showing us that he lacks a belly button? I missed that.

But there's a midriff-bare girl gazing longingly at him, and I suppose he's named XY to accentuate gender polarization -- guys are guys, and guys like girls! Heterosexist garbage. So I didn't watch.

But upon hearing that star Matt Dallas is gay (here showing his real-life navel, along with Tahj Mowry, Jean-Luc Bilodeau, and Derek Thaler) I thought I'd check to see if there were any subtexts.

The online episode guide suggests that Kyle XY (2006-2009) was indeed about Kyle and the Girl of His Dreams working together to investigate the mystery of his origin (I'm guessing he's a clone). There are also some teenage allies, who fall in love and break up in staid heterosexual pairs. Season 2 ends with Prom Night.

There were a lot of characters, and most of the girls had boys' names and boys had girls' names, making it difficult to ascertain homoerotic liaisons without a score card, but I think I came up with three possibilities:

1. A security guard, Foss (Nicholas Lea), takes a paternal interest in Kyle: "Everything I did was to protect you, to keep you safe. You've got to trust me." He doesn't have a girlfriend.

2. High school ally Declan (Chris Olivero) sleeps with lots of girls, but becomes Kyle's best friend, and they team up to solve this week's mystery.

3. Kyle's foster brother, Josh (Jean-Luc Bilodeau), sleeps with a girl named Andy, but he helps Kyle meet with a grounded girlfriend by hiding in her bed in a blond wig, thus fooling her mother and moving into drag.

I thought Jean-Luc Bilodeau was either Popeye's antagonist or a French crooner from the 1930s, but surprise, he's only 23.

And then there's the implicit homoeroticism of the nudity.

A lot of nudity.

Norfolk, Virginia, Summer 1993

"Ok, I'm going to tell you about the white boy who turned me into the fine, upstanding gay man you see today," Sandy says.

Alan, his partner Sandy, their friend Tarik, and I are swapping stories of funny or memorable dates and hookups. I tell about my date with Michael J. Fox. Tarik tells about the blue-eyed demon. Now it's Sandy's turn.

Sandy grew up in Washington, DC., graduated from Howard University with a degree in international relations, and went to work in the foreign service. He was stationed in Senegal, the Comoros Islands, and finally Barbados, where he became the Public Affairs Director at the American Embassy.

Barbados was black-friendly, but not at all gay-friendly. There were no gay bars or gay organizations. Gay men were criminals, and homophobic violence was commonplace. The few guys he met were on the downlow.

So, five to ten times a year, Sandy flew home to Washington, to take a sex holiday in the bars, dark rooms, bathhouses, and sex clubs.

"But I wasn't into that blue-eyed devil nonsense," Sandy says. "I loved white boys. Especially the blonds Fresh-scrubbed all-American jocks, like Ricky Schroder."

"I had a crush on him, too," Alan says. "When you were dating the Celebrity, I kept hoping he would fix us up."

"Um...I think Rick Schroeder is straight."

But last summer Sandy met his own Rick, a Howard University pre-law major, white, with dark blond hair, a round androgynous face, a tight smooth chest, and thick biceps.

"But his best feature was his mouth," Sandy says. "I could kiss him for hours."

They saw each other for three days, and then, on a whim, Sandy bought him a plane ticket back to Barbados. They settled into Sandy's house on Back Ivy Road, and Sandy looked into getting him a job at the Embassy.

But Rick was not used to the closeted, downlow lifestyle of Barbados. He started cruising in straight bars, picking up tourists on the beach.

"What a jerk!" I exclaim. "Sharing is one thing, but public sex! No matter how big he was beneath the belt, I'd show him the door."

After only 10 days, he was arrested for public sex in the woods behind the Yellow Bird Hotel and deported.

And he named names, outing Sandy as his boyfriend. The State Department didn't cotton to "homosexuals": Sandy was promptly fired He returned to the States, and found a job in public relations in Norfolk.

"But it was worth it!" Sandy says. "I hated being closeted, doing things on the downlow with married men. Thanks to Rick, I got the courage to be true to myself. And...I met my soulmate, Alan."

I sigh. This Rick guy still sounds like a jerk.

New York, November 1999

"Ok, I'm going to tell you about my weirdest hookup," Barry says.

Yuri is in the City, spending the weekend with me. Barry and I have taken him to dinner, and now we are in my apartment, swapping stories about good, bad, and ugly dates, boyfriends, and hookups. Yuri tells about how he tricked Ravi the Bear into sharing his boy toy. Now it's Barry's turn.

Barry grew up in a very conservative Catholic household in Williamsburg, Virginia, so when he went to college, he went wild, cruising guys right and left, sneaking into gay bars and bathhouses, tricking every night, but always hoping to meet The One, the Man of His Dreams.

And one night he did: Guy, a tourist from St. Lucia, in his 40s, black, muscular, huge beneath the belt. Plus a wealthy, sophisticated world traveler. He worked for the Ministry of External Affairs, so he was traveling all the time, throughout the Caribbean, to Europe, to Asia. He had just been to China to negotiate a trade agreement. Barry had never been outside the U.S.

After a courtship of just three days, Barry packed a suitcase, grabbed his passport, and flew back to St. Lucia with Guy. They moved into his house on Pansy Drive.

At first it was great. Castries was beautiful, colorful red and yellow houses set against the white beaches and mountains. The population was mostly black. Gorgeous guys everywhere.

Many states in the U.S. criminalized gay people, but Barry wasn't prepared for the ferocity of the homophobia, the constant diatribes, the deep closets. There were no gay bars or bathhouses. Guys met on the downlow, in back alleys and public restrooms.

One day when Barry got home, the police were waiting for him. They told him that Guy had been arrested for "public indecency" in the woods behind the Captain's Cellar Restaurant. They arrested Barry, too, as an "accomplice," but dropped the charges and sent him home on the condition that he never return to St. Lucia, and never try to contact Guy again.

He didn't listen. The moment he got home, he wrote to Guy. No answer. Three letters and a long-distance phone call. No answer.

"What an idiot!" Yuri exclaims. "He just leaves you when things get bad."

"Serves me right." Barry takes a sip of his Coke. "Serves me right for flying halfway across the world to be with a guy I just met."

Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, December 1999

I notice the parallels right away: college student and older man fly from Washington DC to a Caribbean island, where one of them is arrested. The college student is white, and the older man is black. The two stories take place about the same year.

But: different islands, different names, different person getting arrested. Barry is only average beneath the belt. Sandy is slim and rather feminine, not muscular.

I show Barry a picture of Sandy. "Nope, definitely not him!" he exclaims. "My Guy was hot!"

I send a picture of Barry to Sandy. "No, definitely not him!" he writes back. "My guy was hot!"

Still not satisfied, I arrange for the two to meet. Sandy and Alan have moved a few times since the last time I visited them: now they're in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, about two hours west of Manhattan. We drive out for the weekend.

Barry and Sandy greet each other as strangers, but as they get to talking, sharing their memories, they realize that they were describing the same incident, perceived differently at the time, changed in the haze of years, and then changed again through the art of storytelling.

It was Barbados. Sandy was the one arrested.

Psychics tell us that we're surrounded by the same people in every lifetime. They play different roles: our father in one life may be our sister in the next, our lover in a third, and a memorable hookup in the fourth. But it's the same souls, over and over.

Maybe, in their next life, Barry and Sandy will be lovers.

The rest of the story, with nude photos, is on Tales of West Hollywood.

Charlton Comics: More Gay Subtexts than Casper

Country Boy #4: The Ex-Con

Chris Demetral: Dream On

The Thirteenth Year

Tarik's First White Cop

My Little Black Book

Oh, Calcutta!: The First Nudie Musical

Cruising in New Mexico: The Tucumcari Twink, the Roswell Redneck, or the Alamogordo Gordito?

Your Grandfather's Beefcake: Circus Acrobats

February 2016: An Ex-Student Naked in the Locker Room

Bubba Lewis: Not Just Zac Efron's Life Partner

12 Valentine Dates, Boyfriends,and Hookups

February 1987: My Celebrity Boyfriend and I Hook Up With....

Skeezix of Gasoline Alley: 1930s Gay Icon

Michael Landon, Gay Ally

Steven Ford: from President's Son to Soap Hunk

Public Cruising in Mississippi in 1984

The Goldenboy in the Attic: Jeb Stuart Adams

Kyle XY

A Boy, a Man, and a Caribbean Island: Two Stories of Hookups Gone Wrong