Leonard Bernstein, Aaron the Rabbi's Son, and a poem about masks on the verge of coming out

  

Link to the n*de photos

Sorry for two autobiographical stories in a row, but I'm trying to build up my Fiction/Travel Index, and there aren't many tv programs around in the summertime to review.

When I was a kid, my church had no problem with classical music, but my parents hated "that longhair stuff," so there was none in the house.  My first exposure to Bach, Berlioz, Beethoven, and Mozart came through a series of Young People's Concerts which appeared occasionally on Sunday afternoons, hosted by famous composer Leonard Bernstein.

Later, when I joined the school orchestra, I learned more about Leonard Bernstein.

I saw his gay symbolism-heavy musicals, On the Town (1949), starring Gene Kelly and Frank Sinatra, and West Side Story (1961), starring gay actor George Chakiris and assorted high-stepping hunks.

And his Symphony #3, Kaddish, named after the Jewish prayer for the dead.

He appeared on tv, conducting Gershwin, Mahler, and Beethoven.

No one ever mentioned that he was gay, of course, and his works revealed nothing, except maybe the Serenade for Solo Violin, Strings, Harp, and Percussion, after Plato's Symposium (1954).  The Symposium contains Plato's famous defense of same-sex love.

In the spring of my senior year, Aaron, the rabbi's son who was gay (but didn't know it yet), invited me to a performance of Bernstein's Mass, a musical theater piece based on the Latin Mass.  

"Wait -- isn't Bernstein Jewish?"

He nodded.  "That's what makes it interesting."

Nazarenes weren't supposed to associate with Catholics, or have anything to do with Catholic music, so of course I wanted to go.

There are three acts.

Act 1: Devotion and Celebration.  The celebrant invites the congregants to worship.  They begin authentically, but then doubt creeps in.  Nazarenes were told that it was a sin to doubt the existence of God, the inerrancy of the Bible, or the fundamental beliefs like the Virgin Birth: the Devil's primary temptation was not to do bad things, but to doubt. But here it is celebrated as part of the worship experience.  How can God be with us when there is so much suffering in the world?

Originally the congregants mentioned war, but in more recent versions, they mention racism and homophobia.

Act 2:  Crisis and Collapse: The anxieties and doubts of the congregants take their toll on the celebrant, who has a spiritual collapse, breaks the sacred objects, and screams in rage against God.

What  I say -- I don't feel.
What I feel -- I can't show.
What I show -- isn't real.
What is real?  Oh Lord, I don't know.

Suddenly I realized that he was mirroring the interrogation that I received constantly from parents, friends, teachers, my brother, the preacher at church,  "What girl do you like?  What girl?  What girl?  What girl?" 

Every boy has discovered girls at your age.  Every boy has experienced True Love, that fills "the hearts of boy and girl with mutual flame."  If you haven't, you must pretend.  Smile, grin, flirt, talk about how much you long for feminine smiles, every day, every hour, for the rest of your life.

In the third act, Resolution, a boy emerges from the congregation and sings "I will lift up my eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help," offering hope in the midst of despair.  The celebrant is restored, and the Mass continues.

But I wasn't paying attention.

More after the break

Dad throws away my Book of Cute Boys

Link to the photos of n*de dudes with books

I love books.  I love browsing through used bookstores, driving home from the mall with a Barnes and Noble bag beside me, checking my recommendations on Amazon.

And reading every night before turning out the light, unless I'm on a date.

Well, sometimes the guy I'm dating has a well-stocked bookcase that distracts me from the bedroom stuff.

I've been buying at least two books per week since college.  That adds up to nearly 5,000,  but actually I have only about 2,000.  Every time I move, I pare down my collection.

Where did this bibliomania start?  Maybe with my parents, who disapproved of books.  They were at best a waste of time, and more likely sinful.  The only way I could get away with reading was to claim that it was a school assignment (evidently my teachers assigned a lot of science fiction and fantasy novels).

Or maybe it's all due to a traumatic incident that happened when I was about four years old, when we were still living on Randolph Street in Garrett,  Indiana.

 I had a Little Golden Book  I couldn't read most of the words yet, but the front cover showed two boys hugging and waving.  So I called it my Book of Cute Boys.

I think it was a retelling of the Disney movie The Swiss Family Robinson (1960), starring James MacArthur (left) and Tommy Kirk. I would not see the movie or read the original novel for many years, but I could tell that it was about a family living in the jungle.

One day we were driving somewhere on a scary country road, and I was reading in the back seat (this was before car seats, or even seatbelts).  Dad yelled back, "Don't read in the car!"  

He was afraid that I would get carsick and throw up.  It happened once, but I was never allowed to read in the car again.

More after the break

Dad buys me a n*ked man for Christmas

  

Link to the n*de photos

Not a real n*ked man, of course.

When I was a kid in Rock Island, three local celebrities were praised in the media, advertized in bookstores, and assigned by teachers: 

1. Jazz musician Bix Beiderbecke

2. Poet Carl Sandburg

3. Sculptor Isabel Bloom.

Born Isabel Scherer in 1908, she grew up in Davenport, across the river in Iowa, and studied at Grant Wood's Stone City Art Colony, where she met and married fellow artist John Bloom.  In the 1950s, she began producing distinctive sculptures carved out of Mississippi River stone or molded of mud mixed with concrete.  

They were absolutely atrocious. Angels, fairies, hugging children, mothers hugging babies, cats, doves, bridal couples, snowmen, Santa Clauses, the most maudlin, sentimental, and heteronormative dreck ever imagined.

But everyone in the Quad Cities loved them.  My parents loved them.There were two or three in every room.  Dozens more crossed the state with us to give to our Indiana relatives for Christmas presents.  When an out-of-town friend visited, they always went home with a Isabel Bloom fairy or hugging child.

So I should have anticipated what would happen.

I had just discovered Greek art -- rather, statues of muscular Greek gods, so for Christmas in ninth grade, I  asked for "a statue."  

I meant a desk-sized statue of a n*ked god, like the Belvedere Apollo, but Dad said, "Sure -- let's go down to Isabel Bloom's, and you can pick out the one you want."

I couldn't tell him "No, no...I wanted a naked Greek god, not some stupid boy holding a frog!", so my boyfriend Dan and I had to fake-grin our way through a mid-December visit to the crowded studio in the Village of West Davenport, as we sorted through Angel with Wreath, Unconditional Love, Lovebirds, Boy with Flag...

Eventually Dan wandered off, but my torture continued: Girl with Pumpkin, Newlyweds, Boy Offering Girl Flowers, Baby in Crib, Sleeping Cat...  

Then Dan came running excitedly from a side studio.  "Hey, what about this one?"  It was a n*de male figure, seated, his arms around his knees.   Stylized, not muscular, but a heck of a lot better than the other stuff.

"John's Thinker, " he read from the bottom. 

"Must be a statue of her husband," I said, carefully taking it from his hands.  It felt warm to the touch.  It was thrilling to think that I might be holding an exact likeness of a real n*ked man.

"No, she didn't do this statue, her husband John did," Dad said, frowning.  "It's not a real Isabel Bloom."

"That's ok.  It's different from the others.  I'll take it." 

He looked at me oddly.  "The others are lots nicer ones.  How about First Kiss?"  He held out a statue of a little boy kissing an embarrassed little girl on the cheek.

"I don't want any statues of girls."

"It's a boy and a girl.  That's like two statues for the price of one!"

Was he objecting to the price of John's Thinker?  No, First Kiss cost twice as much.  "This one's cheaper."  

"But..you could use it as a kind of model, you know.  When you want a girl to let you kiss her, just show her the statue."

"Gross!" Dan exclaimed.

"After you discover girls, I mean."

"John's Thinker, please," I said firmly.

Dad shrugged.  "Well, if you're sure that's the one you want.  But I don't know what you're going to do with it, Skeezix." 

 Later I figured out that he always called me Skeezix, after a character in the old Gasoline Alley comic strip, when I expressed same-sex desire, something bizarre and beyond imagining at the time.

I still have the statue.  And someone put an Isabel Bloom angel and cat on my father's grave.

More after the break

A high school boy gives me his underwear

 

Link to the NSFW version

When I was growing up, we visited my parents' home town in northeastern Indiana about twice a year, at Christmastime and during the summer.  My favorite part of the visit was when Grandma announced "Let's go to Fort Wayne!"

When we were very little, Mom and Dad came, too, and when we were older, my baby sister came with us, but for about five yeares it it was just Kenny and me, fighting over who would get to ride "shotgun" in Grandma's brown Chevy Impala as she drove down country roads through Butler Center and Laotto and Huntertown, and finally  Fort Wayne:

The biggest, brightest, most exciting city in the world.

It was unimaginably huge, bigger than Rock Island, Moline, and Davenport put together, and it had the most fascinating places I had ever seen.  There was always something new: a gigantic County Courthouse; a candy factory much nicer than that scary one in the Willy Wonka movie; a Children's Zoo with its own train; an art museum; the history museum at Old City Hall; Kern's Toy Store; a memorial to Johnny Appleseed.

Somehow Grandma always knew where there were a lot of cute boys:  playing basketball in schoolyards, crowded into booths at the soda shop, building snowmen at Lakeside Park,  running around in groups at street fairs.  Sometimes she let us play with them, while she sat on a bench, reading a magazine.

We usually stopped for lunch at the Famous Coney Island on Main Street: hot dogs with chili, cheese, and onions, and steamed buns.   Plus french fries, onion rings, and root beer floats (vanilla ice cream floating in a gigantic mug of root beer).

And a never-ending supply of cute high school boys in white shirts, black pants, and black bow ties who brought out your orders.

On a cold day just before Christmas in fourth grade, we were having lunch at the Coney Island, and my brother and I were rough-housing, stealing fries off each other's plates, shoving each other, and laughing.  Grandma Davis told us to settle down, so I stopped and picked up my root beer float.

Then Kenny shoved me again.  I dropped the heavy mug onto my chest, drenching my shirt with root beer.  More root beer splashed onto my pants, and the clump of melting ice cream fell right onto my lap.

Gross!  Cold and wet!  I pushed it onto the floor.

Kenny laughed and pointed.  "You peed your pants!"  

"Oh, no, you're soaked!" Grandma Davis exclaimed.  She grabbed some napkins and tried to dab me, but the root beer and ice cream had already soaked in.  "You can't ride all the way back to Garrett like this -- it's freezing out!"

A high school boy came running up: short, compact, muscular, with brown hippie-hair and a bright smile.  He was carrying a little pad and pencil.  I don't remember his name, if I ever knew it, so I'll call him Jim.

"Don't worry, Ma'am, I'll take care of your grandson," he said.  "Come on, champ, let's get you cleaned up."

 He took me by the hand and led me past the staring patrons to a little door marked "Employees Only."  Inside it looked like a kitchen, with tables and chairs and a little refrigerator.  There was a bank of lockers on on side, and a rack with a lot of coats hung up on it.

The full story, with n*de photos, is on RG Beefcake and Boyfriends

See also: Comic Books and C*cks at the Furniture Store. With bonus Desi guys

The Answer to the N*ked Man's Question

Dillon Brady: Four-time Gemstone extra, IT guy, crabber, polar plunger, model, and Slytherin

Topper Guild: The youtube star breaks into tv. With Kaido Roberts, muscle men, Nick d*ck, and Topper

My 24 favorite autobiographical stories: gay hints, sausage sightings, a wiener, a goblin, the Pentecostal MovieStar, and Kevin the Vampire

 

Link to the uncensored version

I've posted dozens of more-or-less accurate autobiographical stories on RG Beefcake and Boyfriends and Tales of West Hollywood, moving from my fundamentalist Nazarene childhood through high school, figuring it out, college, grad school at Indiana University, a horrible year in...ugh...Texas, and on to the heart of the Gay World.  Some of the stories are minimal -- I was trying to cover every gay hint, boyfriend, hookup, and sausage sighting  -- but some are well-written, insightful, humorous, and occasionally erotic.  Here are my 24 favorites.

Childhood

I Fall Asleep in a Sailor's Arms.  On the train on the way back from visiting South Carolina.  He warns me about making friends with "sissies."

The Face of Pure Evil.  The Old Lady Schoolteachers' grandson, who may not have looked like this, rescues me from the Maniac who stalks the hallways of Denkmann Elementary School.

The Answer to the N*ked Man's Question. A psychedelic Alice in Wonderland on tv on a golden afternoon, and a n*ked man who asks a question that I still can't answer. 

Comic Books and C*cks at the Furniture Store. Cousin Buster pranks me by claiming that you can get comic books at the furniture store -- and the delivery guys take off their shirts.  And sometimes their pants.

Grandpa Prater's Banjo  On the day after Christmas, Cousin Buster and I sneak into Grandpa Prater's room to borrow his banjo.

My Wild Night: Pancakes, Massage, and a Wiener.  I broke like six of my parents' rules that night, and was grounded for two weeks.  But at least I got to feel a...

High School

On My Knees in a Cute Guy's Bedroom.  When we went on vacation, we had to go to a local church, where they mistook us for sinners and tried inept soul-winning lines.  But once it worked to my advantage: A cute boy invited me to his bedroom "to pray."

The Preacher Pops a B*ner.  Our Bible College invited prospective students to a weekend of campus tours, ball games, nature hikes, classroom visits -- and the boys' dorm lounge, where the only couch invisible to the monitor got quite busy.

Augustana College

The First Gay Rights March in Iowa. Passersby pull their friends out of stores to gawk.  The police watch closely, eager to arrest us if we happen to touch another marcher's hand

I Cheat on My Boyfriend with a Goblin.  The Goblin's name is Dale Schafer-Shit.  But Fred was cheating with him first.  Every friggin' day.

Sharing a Bed with Mary's Brother.  My friend Mary invites me to her horrible house in the suburbs for spring break.  But at least I get to share a bed with a cute bo.

More after the break

The Face of Pure Evil at Denkmann Elementary School

 Link to the n*de photos ( subjects over 18)

This is the Face of Pure Evil
 

And the House Where Evil Dwells.

When I was a kid, it was painted grey, and that attic window had bars on it.

I lived on 41st Street, the the north side of Denkmann Elementary School  My boyfriend Bill lived two blocks north, by 18th Avenue -- a busy street that I was not allowed to cross.

To the east was Darry's house (we hadn't met yet), and eventually  Country Style Ice Cream.

To the south was Dewey's Candy Store, Gary's house, and  eventually the Nazarene Church.

To the west was Schneider's Drug Store, where you could buy comic books. 

But we never took the direct route to Schneider's.  We walked all the way up to 18th Avenue and around to the back, to avoid The Maniac and his house.

There were lots of Mean Boys at Denkmann who would steal your lunch money, call you names, or pound you for infractions of the rules of grade school behavior. Like Dick, who hung out by Dewey's Candy Store and pounded you for being a "girl."  Or Mark, who hung out by the south door, and challenged smaller boys to fight him.  But The Maniac was by far the worst.

Most bullies choose one or two victims to torment; everyone else is safe.  But the Maniac was indiscriminate, targeting everyone except girls and bigger boys.  He interpreted the most innocent statement or gesture, even standing too close to him, even looking at him, as an insult that must be redressed: "Now we have to fight!"

If you refused, he attacked on the spot, or if you were inside the school, ambushed you on the way home.

If you agreed to fight, you met your doom later, on the west side of the school yard, a desolate space of dead trees and yellow grass across the street from his house.

Snarling like a rabid dog, The Maniac punched and kicked you everywhere, in the face, the chest, the belly, the balls.  When you collapsed, bloody and sobbing, he poured dirt on you, spat in your face, and moved on.

When you tried to tell teachers, they simply said "No one likes a tattle-tale."

When you tried to tell parents, they  simply said "You have to learn to fight your own battles."

The only escape was to avoid the Maniac: don't sit near him in the cafeteria, don't stand near him at recess, run home as fast as you could after school, and at all costs stay away from the House of Evil.  Don't go anywhere near 40th Street.

But one day during the summer after third grade,  I was stupid.  Mom asked me to return a cake-decorating kit that she borrowed from the Old Lady Schoolteachers for some PTA event.  They lived on 40th Street, two houses south of the House of Evil.

 I should have walked all the way around Denkmann School, but it was hot, Cartoon Showboat was coming on soon, and besides, the Maniac might not even be home.  So I cut diagonally across the parking lot and the schoolyard and came to 40th Street exactly parallel to the Old Lady Schoolteachers' house.

I peered at the House of Evil -- it looked deserted -- took a deep breath, and crossed the street.  I was in the yard -- almost up to the screen porch.  Almost safe.

"Hey, Fairy!"

The Maniac!  He must have been lurking in the shadows, waiting for a victim to appear!  And now he was standing right next to me, fists clenched, a snake ready to strike....

The full story, including what happened to the Maniac, is on RG Beefcake and Boyfriends 

See also:  Oliver!, the Boy with Soft Hands

The Boy on the Prospect List

How to Eat Fried Worms: They Tease You Because They Like You. With gay subtexts and Luke Benward grown up

Finn Kaifur: Icelandic college student studies ballet, takes a polar plunge, shows his stuff. With bonus Pete White and n*de model Shaun Ross  Mentions bullying

Björn Mosten: His "Love and Anarchy" n*de hugeness made him a star, but he's also played a gay boarding school bully and Oddgeir's buddy.

My date with Michael J. Fox. With Marcus and the Scary Bulgarian Bodybuilder

Link to the n*de dudes.

Friday, July 5th:  Two days after I arrive in West Hollywood from my horrible year in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas, I am sitting in the human resources department at Paramount Studios, waiting to interview for a job as an administrative assistant, when Marcus comes in to drop something off.  He's my age, African-American, with very light skin, freckles, and a hairy chest.  I get his phone number.

You're probably wondering how I got a job interview two days after arriving, when one of those days was a federal holiday.  I had been applying for jobs for weeks, using my friend Tom's address and telephone number.

Saturday, July 6th: Our date, an inside tour of Paramount Studios (yes, we see more stuff), followed by cruising at the Gold Coast and dinner at the French Quarter in West Hollywood.  He came to Los Angeles to become an actor five years ago, and has had some guest spots in tv shows and movies.

"Do you know anyone famous?" I ask with tourist zeal.

"Nobody really famous.  I mean, some guys on tv.  Robin Williams.  Tom Hulce.  I know Michael J. Fox from acting class."

I'm not impressed.  I've barely heard of Michael J. Fox -- he plays Alex P. Keaton, Reagan-loving son of liberal hippie parents on the sitcom Family Ties (1982-1989),  But I've only seen the show a few times.

Back to the Future, which will propel Michael to fame, premiered on July 3rd, but I haven't heard of it.

Marcus and I don't have any romantic sparks, so no more dating.  But we stay friends (that's how you made friends in West Hollywood).

Wednesday, July 10th: I start working at Muscle and Fitness, two days a week as a "contributing editor," aka gopher.  

Wednesday, July 17th: I meet Ivo, a stringer for the magazine, about 30 years old, a Bulgarian bodybuilder, with short brown hair, a boyish open face, massive shoulders, and slates for abs.

Saturday, July 20th: My first date with Ivo.  I'm curious about Back to the Future, the new time travel comedy starring Michael J. Fox.

"No way, man!" Ivo exclaims.  "That Mike Fox thinks he's a big deal, but he's terrible under the covers.  They should call him Princess Teeny-Tiny!"

Weird coincidence!  I think.  I've been in town less than a month, and already I've met two people who know Michael J. Fox, and one of them is his ex-boyfriend!

Sunday, July 21st: I have brunch with Marcus at the French Quarter, and tell him about my date.

"Strange," he says.  "I'm completely out to Mike, and he's never said anything about being gay.  Sounds like Ivo is one of these celebrity name-droppers who claims to have been with everyone from Harrison Ford to Arnold Schwarzeneggar."

"But he wasn't bragging.  He got upset.  He said Michael was bad in bed and should be called Princess Teeny-Tiny."

Marcus laughs.  "Well, I don't have any information on Mike beneath the belt.  But tell you what -- he's in London right now.  When he gets back, we'll all get together, and you can ask him yourself."

Ask Michael J. Fox about his size?  I don't think so!  But it would be fun to meet him.

Left: This is Bulgarian bodybuilder Radoslav Angelov, not Ivo.

I date Ivo three or four more times, but his stories become more and more bizarre.

His father was the Bulgarian ambassador; he used to hang out at the White House.  

He has a degree in economics from Harvard, but turned down a professorship because he wanted to be a writer. When he returned to Bulgaria to help his cousin, he was arrested and imprisoned for six months. He has a book on his experiences coming out next year.  

Paramount is producing his screenplay about a college student who discovers that he is half-alien.  Scott Baio will be the star. They dated for awhile.

Saturday, August 3rd:  Marcus and I see Back to the Future.  I'm not impressed with the heteronormative plotline.  But -- Michael is back in town.  Could we schedule that lunch for next Saturday?

Monday, August 5th: Ivo has me over for dinner.  While he is chopping celery, I tell him about the lunch.  He freezes, and his face turns bright red.  "Can't you ever talk about anything but Michael J. Fox?  Day after day, hour after hour, nothing but Michael J. Fox!  And now you have a date with him!"

I try to remember when I last mentioned him. "No, no, it's just a lunch.  Marcus is coming, too."

"Bah!  If you love him so much, why don't you move in with him?"

"It's just..."

"F** Mike Fox, always stealing everybody's boyfriends!  Well, let me tell you what happened to the last guy Mike Fox stole from me!"  He stabs the air with his knife.

I am shocked -- and terrified.  Ivo is twice as strong as me, and carrying a weapon. "Fox sounds like a real jerk!" I tell him.  "I'm definitely cancelling that lunch!  Um...you know what?  I forgot to bring in the dessert -- there's a peach pie in the car.   I'll just go get it." 

 I clatter out the door and down the stairs.  

Thursday, August 8th: He comes into the editorial office at Muscle and Fitness to drop off a story, and pretends not to know me.

Saturday, August 10th: The promised lunch with Marcus and Michael.

The full story, with n*de photos and ex*plicit situations, is on RG Beefcake and Boyfriends

See also: Hung Harvey: I hook up with the boyfriend of Sabrina the Teenage Witch

A date with Kris (who may not be Jeremy Renner's boyfriend) leads to Christopher Atkins' dick

Riley Polanski: From "Xanadu" to "Ashes," with bonus Michael J. Fox