The Violet Quill: Sex, Drugs, Alienation, and Elitism in 1980s New York

Did you ever wonder about the origin of the stereotype of gay men as wealthy, over-educated, over-sophisticated, and indolent, doing nothing all day but lounging on the beach, so they can spend their nights disco dancing, taking drugs, and having meaningless sex with strangers?

I blame the Violet Quill.

During the early 1980s, there was very little gay fiction available, even at gay themed bookstores like Wilde and Stein in Houston and A Different Light in West Hollywood.  You could get a few classics, like Remembrance of Things Past, The Immoralist, The City and the Pillar, and Berlin Stories, but contemporary gay literature was dominated by novels published by the Violet Quill.

They were a group of young, sophisticated, wealthy gay men who lived in the Village (the gay neighborhood of New York City) and wrote about young, sophisticated, wealthy gay men who lived in the Village.

Their seven novels constituted Gay Literature:

1. Dancer from the Dance (Andrew Holleran, 1978).  Sophisticated, indolent young hedonists divide their time between the Village and the gay resort of Fire Island, having lots of meaningless sex with strangers, and eventually die.

2. Nocturnes for the King of Naples (Edmund White, 1978): A stream-of-consciousness tale of lost love while having lots of meaningless sex with strangers. Don't be fooled: it's set in the Village, not Naples.

3. The Confessions of Danny Slocum (George Whitmore, 1980).  His confessions involve lots of meaningless sex with strangers while searching for love in the Village.

4. Late in the Season (Felice Picano, 1981). More sophisticated, indolent young hedonists divide their time between the Village and Fire Island, while having lots of meaningless sex with strangers and competing over lovers.  It's "late" because Fire Island empties out in September, not because of AIDS.

5. A Boy's Own Story (Edmund White, 1982): the sophisticated, indolent young hedonist lives in the Village, but goes back home to come out to his wealthy relatives, who are shocked.

6. Nights in Aruba (Andrew Holleran, 1983).  Don't be fooled: the sophisticated, indolent young hedonist lives in the Village, but goes back home to come out to his wealthy relatives, who are shocked. 

7. The Family of Max Desir (Robert Ferro, 1983).  Max is a wealthy, sophisticated, indolent young hedonist who lives in the Village, but goes back home to try to reconcile with his wealthy relatives, who disowned him when he came out.

Noticing a pattern here?  Sex, alienation, wealthy relatives, lost loves, and death.  Not a lot of Gay Pride here: it's a picture of gay life about as sordid and depressing as any of the homophobic novels of the 1930s.

And very, very insular.  No one working class or poor (even middle class is rare), few racial minorities except as fetishes ("I'm in the mood for an Oriental tonight!"),  and no one who doesn't live in the Village or on Fire Island.

Gay people simply do not exist elsewhere.

Later in the 1980s, Gay Literature became dominated by novels about gay men dying of AIDS.  Strangely, they were no more depressing than the endless sex-drugs-and-alienation of the Violet Quill.

See also: Dancer from the Dance; Frank O'Hara

Halloween Horror: Cruising in the Scariest Place on Earth

Hell, October, 2017

We're only 30 miles from Hell.

I'm spending fall break with Jonathan Peng Lee, my hustler/engineer/paranormal enthusiast/gym rat friend who I met 12 years ago at Alan's funeral.  It's two days before Halloween, and he has promised to bring me to the scariest place on Earth.

I expected a haunted house, but no: we're spending two nights in Lynchburg, Virginia!

How did I let Jon talk me into this foolhardy trip?  Over an hour driving through the Shenandoah Valley that General Sherman burned, through Arkham...I mean Amherst...Stonewall -- no connection to the birthplace of gay rights -- Greif (grief misspelled by rednecks).

Now it's only 20 miles to Hell.

The site of Thomas Road Baptist Church, where Jerry Falwell, the biggest homophobe in the world, spewed his venom.  The site of Homophobia University, where the top homophobes in the country send 15,000 of their kids to be indoctrinated into how to hate us more.

We're going undercover as fundamentalists, but still, I doubt we'll make it out alive.

""Why would anyone name a city after the mob murders of thousands of African-Americans in the years after the Civil War?" I wonder.

"It was named before that, after its founder, who ran a ferry in the 1780s," Jon reads off wikipedia. "Hey, guess what?  He was an abolitionist.  Progressive, huh?"

"Oh, very.  I'll bet he was pro-gay, too."

We cross nameless suburbs, then the River Styx (I mean James).

My first view of Hell: Eerie yellow lights, a dark stormy sky, the dark tower like something out of Mordor.

We have a reservation at Craddock Terry Hotel on Commerce Street, "steeped in history."  There's a giant woman's shoe over the lobby.

"Fabulous, isn't it?"  Jon says sarcastically.

"Don't use that word.  Remember, undercover -- one room, two beds, and call me 'Brother.'"

"Whatever you say, darling."


We have dinner at a place called Bootleggers, a couple of blocks away.  You enter from the basement: "like you're entering a speakeasy."  There's a gigantic mural of old-time rednecks.  I order a turkey burger and truffle-laced french fries.

Rather elegant for Hell, I have to admit.

Afterwards we return to our hotel room and go on Grindr to look for a hookup.  I expect a lot of married closet-case-angst types, but we end up inviting over a student from one of the local colleges -- not Homophobia University.  He's a Humanities major, and on the swim team.

"You must be closeted among your teammates," I say.

"Oh, no, not at all.  Everyone on the team is completely supportive. The captain is majoring in Human Services with a concentration in LGBTQ Advocacy."

LGBTQ Advocacy?  WTF?

"Not everybody in town is as backwards as that other university," he says.  "Too bad you won't be here next spring.  They're doing The Laramie Project at the Renaissance Theater."

He spends the night, but doesn't go out for breakfast with us: waffles at the White Hart Cafe, which is also a used bookstore. No gay books per se, but I do find a biography of Truman Capote.

"What do you want to do today?" Jon asks.  He reads the possibilities from Trip Advisor: "A children's museum, the city museum, a historic mansion, the old cemetery with a Confederate Monument, the Pest House Medical Museum..."

"Have a lot of pestilence in Hell, do they?"

After breakfast we visit the old mansion, the Point of Honor, and go hiking at Blackwater Creek, where I could swear I am being cruised by a cute twink  AND I see what looks suspiciously like a couple of gay dads with their kid.  Lunch is Szechuan Shrimp (surprisingly not terrible) and Collector's Lair to look at new comics and graphics novels.

Then we hit Randolph College, a fine old brick college where the news magazine has an article about an alumnus who has returned to teach mathematics.  He's "involved with LGBTQ Advocacy Programs like the Change Project."

Change?  Uh-oh.  Sounds ex-gay.

We seek out his office hours.  Turns out the organization is meant to "elevate the voices of LGBTQ people throughout the Deep South."

"Most people in town are pretty progressive," he says.  "We try to distance ourselves from that university down the pike.  For instance..."  He closes his office door and points out the calendar.

Shirtless, muscular firemen!  WTF??

"Twelve local firefighters posed shirtless for this calendar, to raise money for cancer research." {Photo by Allison Creasy]

"Hmph!  For ladies only, I suppose. Heterosexist tripe!"

"Oh, no, it's for everyone.  'Everyone is welcome.'"

"So....I'll bet there are no gay organizations in town except for some closeted 'support groups.'"

"Well, there's the Diversity Center on Jefferson, sort of our gay community center. They have movie nights and First Friday art shows.  There's a gay community choir...."

"Yeah, sounds dismal...."

We just have time to check out the campus gym, to gawk at the muscular, bulge-worthy college students lifting weights and playing basketball before "Meditation Monday" at the Maier Museum of Art, led by a practitioner in Buddhist meditation.

Several of the regulars look like they could be Friends of Dorothy, including a tall, ripped guy in his 30s.  He introduces himself as Zeke, an IT director for a health care service in town.

"My...um...friend from the Midwest and I are visiting for the day," Jon says. "Maybe you could recommend someplace that's active on a Monday night?"

He grins.  "There aren't any bars in Virginia, really, but a lot of the restaurants draw an eclectic clientele.  Have you heard of the Kegney Brothers?  I'll be happy to show you..."

It's another brew pub in yet another historic building downtown (established 1879).  Practically deserted on a Monday night, and the few patrons are all male-female couples.  Our waiter is wearing a rainbow flag lapel, though.

I order the shepherd's pie.  Zeke, who is vegetarian, surprisingly, orders the curried vegetables.

"Sorry," Zeke says.  "I thought it would be more active.  Maybe later."

We decide that it's safe to out ourselves.  "Any gay activities in town?"

"They have a LGBT queer-e-oke at the Unitarian Church on Wednesday nights," Zeke says, "And I don't know if you're into it, but there's a sex party at a guy I know's house every other Saturday."

"We're leaving tomorrow, unfortunately," Jon says.  "But if you want to call the guy you know, we can have a mini-party."

So we visit the guy Zeke knows, an organist at the Holy Cross Catholic Church -- there are Catholics in Hell?  In his 40s, rather portly, collects spoons, of all things.  With a rather hot twink boyfriend.

After a five-person mini-sex party, we stumble back to our hotel room and go to bed.

In the morning, we have breakfast in the hotel and a brief workout at the downtown YMCA before it's time to head back to Charlottesville and a gay Halloween party.

"Boy, am I glad to be out of that place!" I say.  "I couldn't have stood it for another minute!"

"I know -- it was awful!"  Jon exclaims.  "Now I know what Hell feels like."

An explicit version of this story, with nude photos, is on Tales of West Hollywood.

See also:  Alan's Gift From Beyond the Grave.

Social Media Stalking

Stalking:
1. Repeatedly following or contacting a person with the intent of harassing or intimidating.
2. Using social media to check on your ex-lovers and other people who don't want anything to do with you.
3. Using social media to find out about people you don't know or barely know.

#1 is a crime, #2 is pathetic, but what's wrong with #3?  Why can't I use social media to find out what I can about a person I've just met?  It allows me to determine what we have in common to enhance the relationship.

And what's wrong with learning about people you don't know?  You can use the information to decide whether to pursue a relationship.

Besides, they post photos.



Isn't it nice to know that the guy who takes your order at the gay-friendly coffee house has a chest like this?

You can't date your students, but it certainly makes class more interesting to know what he has under his shirt.

There's no rule saying that you can't date your student's friends.

If you're interested in the guy who lives in the apartment down the hall, this photo might encourage you to ask him out.

More after the break

Hi, Guy!: Cruising in a 1970s TV Commercial

Between 1969 and 1972, and then again in 1978, Right Guard deodorant aired a series of commercials in which an unsuspecting apartment dweller (Bill Fiore) opens his medicine chest, only to discover he's sharing it with the apartment next door.

The other occupant (Chuck McCann) opens his side of medicine chest.  He's big, brash, leering, apparently high.  I remember them both being shirtless, but I guess they weren't.

"Hi, guy!" McCann says, obviously cruising the uncomfortable Fiore, before extolling the wonders of Right Guard (which seems unnecessary, since Fiore already uses it).

By the way, the medicine chests contain nothing but two cans sticks of Right Guard deodorant, facing with the labels out regardless of which side they're on.

"Hi, guy!" became a catchphrase.  Everyone at Denkmann Elementary School tried to match Chuck McCann's intonation and leer, without realizing that we were imitating a gay pick-up line.

Bill Fiore was a cute, unassuming comedian of the 1970s.  He appeared on The Corner Bar, which had the first ongoing gay character on tv, Love, American Style, Mary Tyler Moore, Laverne and Shirley, Three's Company, and Alice.  

As this photo suggests, he had quite a nice physique.

Former children's show host Chuck McCann was also a comedy staple of the 1970s.  One of his more interesting roles was W.C. Fields in the 1982 biopic Mae West. He's played Santa Claus several times, notably in an ongoing role on the soap Santa Barbara (1987-88).

No indication that he was gay, or intended a gay reading to his leering "Hi, guy!"

But it's impossible to say without an innuendo.  Try it.

See also: The Eastwood Insurance Cowboy

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

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.

Corn on the Cob, Fireworks, and Naked Men: 34 Reasons to Like Summer

Summer is my least favorite season, and we're right in the middle of it, with the heat, humidity, tv reruns, people forcing you to play outside, all of your friends away on vacation, long, boring days with nothing to do, and unnaturally bright evenings where the sun refuses to go down.

Here are the things I liked about summertime when I was a kid.  Maybe I can translate them into adult activities.

1. All of the boys and teenagers in the neighborhood walked around with their shirts off.  Even the adults, sometimes.  I remember two super muscular grownups sitting on lawn chairs on their patio, drinking beer.

2. The Denkmann Summer Carnival.  Games, cotton candy, and a sort of flea market where you could get comic books cheap.

3. The bookmobile came every Tuesday.  It wasn't just a place to get books.  I met lots of cute boys there.

4. Sitting on a blanket late at night to watch the 4th of July Fireworks.

5. Mother Goose Land.  It's not as lame as it sounds.  They had an Old West town, where you could ride burros and pan for gold.

6. A trip to Indiana to visit our relatives, but it was always followed by a horrible week camping in the Northwoods.

7, Nazarene summer camp.  I complained at the time -- nothing to do but Bible study, sports, and church -- but I got to hang out with lots of cute guys, and our counselors were always hunky teenagers.  Besides, I got to see Brother Dino naked in the shower.

8. Sitting in the kiddie pool, those round plastic things that you filled with a garden hose.

9. My birthday excursion, where I could bring 3 or 4 of my friends to any place in town that I wanted.  My birthday is actually in November, but I always postponed the trip to summertime, when the fun things like Niabi Zoo were open.

10. The Indian Pow Wow at Black Hawk Park.

11. Summer Enrichment Classes sponsored by the Department of Parks and Recreation.  I remember taking Spanish, astronomy, and archaeology. They also had physical fitness classes.

12, Sodas at Country Style.  In the Midwest, a "soda" is a concoction of ice cream and root beer or cola.  If you want the soft drink alone, it's called "pop."  I started calling it "soda" when I was living in California, which got me lots of weird looks back in Rock Island.

13. Swimming lessons at Longview Park.  One summer the teacher coaxed me into jumping into the deep end with the promise that if I drowned, he would give me mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

14. By the way, the only time I ever saw African-Americans in the segregated 1960s was at Longview Park Pool.  In swimsuits.  Something to look forward to!

15. Dinners comprised solely of corn on the cob (which my parents called roshineers) and tomatoes.

16.  Dinners comprised solely of newly-picked green beans with bacon and onions.

17.  The Prospect List.  Every year the Nazarene Church had a contest to see who could contact the most prospects, people who had attended church or Sunday school just once.  It was lots of fun trying to track them down and hearing their stories: "Well...um...I found a new church that...um...I like better.

18.Playing in the sprinklers in the front yard.

19. Walking barefoot on the hot concrete of the sidewalk.

20. Sleepovers.  Ok, we had sleepovers during the schoolyear, too, but during the summer they often entailed sleeping in tents in the back yard.

21. Summertime boyfriends: guys who you would hang out with while your regular boyfriend was on vacation or otherwise unavailable.

22. Road construction.  It's a pain for adults, but for kids too young to drive, it's fun to watch the construction workers walking down the highway in their yellow jackets and sunglasses.

23. Summer replacement series.  Back before tv series began and ended year round, the summer reruns were sometimes augmented by 10-episode miniseries, weird comedies, musical-variety shows, and even cartoons.

24. Shakespeare, for free, every summer in Lincoln Park. You brought lawn chairs and snacks or even a dinner.  Actually, I didn't go to any performances until college, but I'm sure it was there.

25. Practicing for cross country in the fall by running five miles, all the way downtown and back.

26. Kentucky Fried Chicken. The stores are open year round, but for some reason we just had it in the summer.

27. Baseball games.  The games were rather boring, but I liked looking at the players.

28. Fudgsicles, push-ups, and ice cream sandwiches.

29. Watermelon.

30. My brother and I making extra money by mowing lawns for the Old Lady Schoolteachers and other elderly neighbors.


31. Bicycle Safety Classes.

32. Watching Days of Our Lives and One Life to Live with my mother.  I wasn't a big soap opera fan, but it was a bonding opportunity.

33. For that matter, being able to watch Dark Shadows all the way through, instead of catching the last fifteen minutes after running home as fast as I could.

34. Seeing miscellaneous workmen with their shirts off at unexpected moments.

So, 32% involve seeing cute boys or men, 23% food, 20% excursions, 12% bonding with family members, and 9% the heat.

I think I can turn those things into adult activities.

Only 67 days to go.

See also: Cruising at the Bookmobile; How to Avoid the Top 10 Problems of Summer; Do Seasons Affect Your Dating Success.

The 10 Best Gay Neighborhoods in America

During the 1970s, 1980s, and 1990s, the first thing you did after "figuring it out" was pack all of your stuff and move to a gay neighborhood, where you could be free from stares and jeers and shrieks of "God hates you!"

Once you arrived, you never left, except when absolutely necessary, for work or required Christmas visits "back home."   You wouldn't accept a date with anyone who lived outside, in the Straight World.  On vacation, you visited other gay neighborhoods.

Many gay kids today don't grow up dreaming of a safe haven.  Being gay is no big deal at school.  Their families and straight friends are perfectly accepting.  Why not stay where you are?

But the gay neighborhoods are still there, waiting for those of us who grew up in homophobic small towns, who are tired of the incessant heterosexism of the Straight World, or who want to see what it was like to have a home.

I've lived in four gay neighborhoods in the U.S. and Canada,  and visited about a dozen others.  Here are the biggest and best:

The Bravest:
The Montrose, Houston (top photo).
Today Houston has gay rights ordinances and a gay mayor, but when I lived in Texas in 1984, there were sodomy laws and rednecks with shotguns, and police cadets were warned about the "homosexual deviants" lurking at the corner of Montrose and Westheimer.  Just walking down the street was perilous.  In spite of the dangers, gay people carved out a newspaper, a bookstore, political action groups, and lots of fun cowboy bars.

The Most Political:
Dupont Circle, Washington, DC. 
A bit cramped, hard to find parking, but an architectural gem, and only a mile from the White House.

Who would expect a thriving Community Center a stone's throw from government homophobes?  Dupont Circle is home to over 50 gay organizations, everything from the Human Rights Campaign to the LGBT Fallen Heroes Fund.

The Most Literary:
Washington Square West, Philadelphia
Philadelphia has some of the world's best gay clubs and restaurants, and it's the site of the first Gay Rights demonstration in history. But its biggest claim to fame is Giovanni's Room, the second oldest and largest gay bookstore in the world, founded back in 1972, when there were almost no gay-positive books in existence, and certainly none available in mainstream bookstores.

It closed recently, bankrupted by online giants, and re-opened as a thrift store with proceeds going to AIDS services.

The Friendliest:
Wilton Manors, Fort Lauderdale.  
This was home for 4 years.  There were great beaches, gyms, clubs, and restaurants, but what I remember most was the great sense of camaraderie.

Maybe it was because many residents were older, and had lived through the horrors of the pre-Stonewall police state.

Maybe it was because, once you left Wilton Manors, you ran into some of the most horrifying Bible-thumping redneck cities in the country.

But in Wilton Manors, everyone was welcome; everyone knew your name.

The Brawniest:
Hawthorne, Portland (Oregon).  
I thought Texas had the biggest of everything, but when I visited Portland in 1995, I found a bookstore that covered an entire city block, a bath house with room for 3000 patrons, and a bar crowded with the biggest, most buffed men this side of Muscle Beach.

More after the break.

Trauma, Terror, and Beefcake of Junior High Shop Class

I read somewhere that the number of shop classes in elementary and high schools has dropped 75% during the last 20 years.

This is a cause for celebration.  Shop class was the biggest trauma of junior high.

Washington Junior High was segregated by gender.  All girls had to take home economics, to prepare them for their future as housewives, and all boys had to take woodshop, to prepare them for their future as...um...carpenters?

It was horrible.  The "teacher," Mr. Worse Than Hitler, was the nastiest, meanest, most despicable martinet who ever lived.  You tried to be as quiet and inobtrusive as possible: if he noticed you, he would criticize you, call you stupid, berate you for having a "smart mouth."  And God forbid those times he walked around the class.

Head down, hands at your side, no eye contact.

Like being in prison.  No, worse.

And what, exactly, did Mr. Worse Than Hitler teach?

If I taught a shop class, I would start off by explaining what the various tools were called and what they were used for.  Maybe some safety tips.

Then the types of wood, what each was used for.

Demonstrate some simple projects.

Explain how this stuff would be useful to us in the future.

Nope -- he just let us loose: "The tools are over there -- the wood is over there.  Go to it."

I had no idea what to do, and I didn't dare ask Mr. Worse Than Hitler.  He would glare at me, call me stupid, or give me detention for having a "smart mouth."

Finally I figured it out -- I was already supposed to know all about working with tools.  All boys were.  It was part of our DNA.

Claiming ignorance about something that was innate?  You might as well claim that you didn't like sports, or girls.

There were no tests, quizzes, or graded projects.  But still, I got a D- for the semester.

Plus detention four times.
1. Not keeping my eyes lowered when Mr. Worse Than Hitler walked by.
2. Hammering a nail wrong.
3.-4.  Just because he felt like it.

But there was a bright side.

Washington Junior High was also segregated by social class.  Middle class kids, got college-preparatory science, math, English, and foreign languages.

Working class kids were channeled into remedial English, bonehead science, and "business math."

The only time we saw each other was in the classes required for everyone: gym, woodshop, and metal shop.

Wild, surly boys from the "wrong side" of 18th Avenue, wearing tight jeans and shirts with three buttons unbuttoned, smelling of their older brothers' cologne.

Italians and Greeks with thick biceps and big hands and dark slick-backed hair.

The only black kid at Washington, tall, lithe, with an enormous Afro that he combed constantly.

Catholic boys, future priests wearing scapulars.  

Hints of transgression, lawbreaking, sexual profligacy.

It was almost worth the daily trauma of Mr. Worse Than Hitler.

But I still run fast in the opposite direction whenever I am asked to do something involving hammers, nails, or screwdrivers.

See also: What is Gym Class For?

Is Sex Fun?

I get annoyed when people on dating apps say they are up for "some fun."  Especially the one who keeps sending me Grindr messages that consist of his penis and the phrase "Fun Fun."

I never thought of sex as fun, like riding on a roller coaster or watching a stand-up comedian.

It's pleasurable, of course, but you can't use the term "fun" to mean any pleasurable act.  Fun is lighthearted, frivolous, provoking laughter.  When you are having fun, you are laughing, or at least smiling.

No one ever smiles when they're anticipating sex, or laughs while doing it.  Arousal and response is serious business.














I find all of these activities pleasurable: doing historical research, doing the laundry, studying languages, having dinner, jogging, watching tv, looking at bulges, reading, going to museums, buying books, listening to a lecture, sleeping, writing blog posts, holding conversations, sex, lecturing in front of a large crowd, lifting weights, playing "fetch" with dogs, hanging out in coffee shops.

But most of them aren't "fun."

We decide to participate in an activity based on a "hedonistic calculus": calculating the amount of pleasure it will provide, minus the cost.

If the theater and a movie are equally pleasurable, but theater tickets cost $40 and movie tickets cost $10, we will probably decide on the movie.

If a good restaurant is ten miles away, and a terrible restaurant is right next door, we will probably decide on the good restaurant.

Sex is relatively low cost: little risk of disease or victimization if you follow the right procedures, not very time consuming, and free.

(You can't count the time, money, and energy expended in trying to find the sex partner).

And it provides a great deal of pleasure of five types.

1. sensual (expressing erotic desire)

2. aesthetic (appreciating his physique)

3. emotional (making an emotional connection).

4. psychological (boosts our self-esteem).

5. social (gives us something to discuss with our friends).

Therefore the pleasure far outweighs the cost, making it one of our most preferred activities.

But I still can't say it's fun.

The x-rated version of this article, with nude photos, is on Tales of West Hollywood.

Bullfighter Beefcake

Bullfighting, known in Spanish as corrida de toros, or "running of the bulls" is a spectacle of man against animal, or rather male against male, since both the toreros and the bull evoke powerful masculine energy.

It dates back to ancient Roman times, when devotees of the god Mithras sacrificed bulls, but the modern bullfight, with the torero on foot, dates only to the 18th century.    It is popular in Spain, southern France, and the Spanish-speaking countries of Latin America.

Juan Belmonte (1892-1962) is credited with developing the popular bullfighting technique where you stand nearly motionless and invite the bull to approach, moving out of the way at the last moment.

The bullfight is a highly stylized ritual, with three parts and multiple players, including picadores, banderilleros,  and various assistants, but the star is the matador.

The chief torero, the matador, wears a traije de luces based on the flamboyantly feminine costume of the 19th century dandy: glittering sequins, gold thread, tassles, and ultra-tight tights that place his sex organs in obvious full view (most too explicit to show here).  What Ernest Hemingway, in his classic Death in the Afternoon, called a "male figure complicated by femaleness."

The bull's sex organs are in full view, too.  Its penis when erect is 2-3 feet long.  And it's often erect as it charges the matador, making you think that it intends a sexual assault.

Thus the spectacle becomes a ritual triumph of civilization over savagery, artifice over nature, complicated by gay symbolism.

Although toreros live in an ultra-masculine world, surrounded by other men, most aren't "really" gay.

But the spectacle has more than a few gay fans.  A number of toreros have posed for gay magazines, and in 2009 a European company struck a deal with matador Joselito Ortega to advertise an energy drink called Gay Up on his cape.

Purists were outraged -- not because of the gay ad, because he was lowering himself to product placement.

There are bullfighter bulges on Tales of West Hollywood.

Also check out the anti-bullfighting protests, including the Running of the Nudes in Pamplona.