That's the last time I let Bob, the19-year old economics major, arrange a hookup for us. On the way east to New York, he somehow found the most disgusting guy of all time, and on the way back, he got the wrong guy!
We stayed overnight in Rock Island again, and went to the Figge Museum of Art, across the river in Iowa.
I had never been there before. It opened in 1997, after my parents moved to Indiana, and on the rare occasions that I returned to the Quad Cities, there wasn't time for much sightseeing.
The second floor had galleries devoted to Spanish Colonial art, Haitian art, Grant Wood, and contemporary art. The third floor was devoted to a corn maze, and the fourth floor to a collection of black dolls.
Some of the galleries had a nice view of the Mississippi.
No beefcake art to speak of, although I did notice a surprising number of Cute Young Things and twinks among the patrons. A lot of cruisy smiles and up-and-down glances going on.
I found out why when I heard a lot of raucous noise from downstairs, and left Bob in the Haitian Art gallery to investigate.
The downstairs exhibition room was full of people, very cute college-age boys in grey t-shirts with "Metro Arts" logos, some girls, a few kids, very well dressed adults mingling with glasses of wine and little sandwiches. Some were already sitting on folding chairs facing a stage. There were t-shirts for sale, and tables of snacks.
Was this a private function? In my t-shirt and jeans, I looked more like one of the college boys than an adult.
I milled about, pretending to belong, trying to find someone alone, not in a group, to pump for information.
No luck. Some of the teenagers were in groups, doing voice exercises and giving each other encouragement. Some were talking to groups of adults. No one was alone.
As usual, I got cruisy glances from the twinks, suspicious glares from the adults.
The adults were parents, friends, and community leaders. Later I discovered that the mayors of both Davenport and Rock Island were there.
First up in the showcase: a comedy improv with three performers. I milled about, taking photos.
Soon Bob joined me, drawn by the noise. I apprised him of what was happening, and we watched in silence for a few minutes.
My eyes were drawn to a father and son standing alone, with no mother. Gay?
The full story, with nude photos and sexual situations, is on Tales of West Hollywood.