In March 2000, I was back in West Hollywood for my friend Larry's annual Oscar party. March 25th, the night before, Lane and Randall (the bear with the pierced penis) took me out to all our old haunts: Bodhi Tree, Different Light, the French Quarter, the Gold Coast, Mugi, the Faultline.
But we never made it to the Faultline.
I was struck by a twink sitting at the bar in the Gold Coast. A little shorter than me, broad shoulders, very handsome round face with sandy hair and glasses, kind of a Harry Potter look except for the lumberjack shirt.
I sat next to him. He said "Howdy, pardner," and held out his hand to be shaken.
Our legs pressed together under the bar. "Can I buy you another beer?" I asked.
"Heck, I'll buy you a beer. I'll buy everybody a beer. Drinks are on me!"
"Well, I don't really drink."
"A virgin margarita, then. You have to let me buy you something. I can afford it. I'm Harvey, and I'm always going to be Harvey, no matter what they say!!"
Was that name supposed to mean something? All I could think of was Harvey the Giant Rabbit in the James Stuart movie. "Ok, Harvey, a Coke will be fine."
He seemed a little soused, but not unbearably so. I reached out, unbuttoned a couple of buttons of his lumberjack shirt, and slid my hand down to feel his firm, hairy chest. Few twinks have that much hair -- I was hooked!
I reached down and groped him.
The full post, with nude photos (not of Nate Richert), is on Tales of West Hollywood