I've always been attracted to men in business suits, probably because I saw so few growing up. All of my friends' fathers worked in factories and wore coveralls, except to church on Sundays, where they put on the Ritz.
The preacher wore a suit (no Satanic clerical collars for Nazarenes!). I spent countless hours watching him as he paced and yelled and pounded the pulpit in outrage, until his tight bulldog body was slick with sweat and his bulge was very blatantly shifting about..
Whew.
So when Morris (not his real name) showed up one day at the Metropolitan Community Church, I was enthralled.
He was in his 40s, but distinctly old fashioned -- wearing a gray flannel suit in Los Angeles heat, complete with vest, pinktie, handkerchief in the front pocket and cuff links instead of buttons.
Thick gold watch, pinky ring, slicked-back black hair, cologne. Who was this guy, Humphrey Bogart?
The pinky ring and cologne were turn-offs, but not enough for me to avoid him during the after-service "coffee hour," aka the "cruising hour."
We didn't usually discuss our jobs in West Hollywood -- everyone made do on a variety of part-time and temp jobs while pursuing our various goals of acting, modeling, writing, or painting. But Morris asked first thing, and told us that he was a broker-sales-marketing something or other to do with business. Yawn. Other biographical details: he was new in town, transplanted from far-off Connecticut, he had only been out for a few years, and he was a non-practicing Catholic who had never been in a Protestant church before.
In other words, he was not at all assimilated into the gay community.Well, we could work on that.
"You need the grand tour of West Hollywood," I told him, "The bars, the Different Light, Mrs. Fields' Cookies,West Hollywood Park. I'm meeting my partner and boy toy for lunch in a bit. We could..."
"Thanks, but I have a lunch engagement of my own. Another time, perhaps?"
Thoroughly rebuffed, I retreated to the other side of the room and talked to other people until he was gone. Then I walked down to the French Quarter, and waited for Lane and Infinite Chazz.
In May 1994, I was 33 years old. Lane was five years older, shorter than me, buffed, bearded. Our boy toy, called Infinite Chazz because he was infinitely attractive to everyone who saw him, was in college in Orange County, but visited most weekends.
It was very crowded, and the French Quarter was set up with mostly tables-for-two, so we had to wait about 20 minutes to be seated -- at a table only 20 feet from Morris!
"That's the guy I cruised at church," I told them.
"Whoa, bummer!" Infinite Chazz exclaimed. "I mean, he's hot and all, but look who he's with!"
The rest of the story, with nude photos and sexual content, is on Tales of West Hollywood.