Notch 10: Ernest

That September I got contact lenses. I’d been wearing glasses since I was in fourth grade and while I could see well enough, I wanted to try this thing of NOT having glasses. My eye doctor said that most people got contact lenses in their teens or early twenties and that I was now kind of old (in my cough early 30s) to make the change. But I wanted to try it, so I got a prescription and found I could wear contacts perfectly well. (I was so delighted, in fact, the very first thing I did when I left the eye doctor’s was duck into a drugstore and buy a pair of cheap sunglasses, my first since I was a kid.)

The doctor also explained that I must, MUST take out my contacts before going to sleep, to allow my eyes to rest and breathe. Well, that would work most of the time but by now, I knew well enough that on some nights I might very well end up not at home but in some guy’s bed. I’m still impressed that I asked my eye doctor quite bluntly, What do I do if I have a one-night stand?

Like my mom during Mary Tyler Moore, he didn’t bat an eye but told me simply, when I go out, take my contact lens case filled fresh fluid. Take out my contacts when I go to bed. The next morning, put my contacts back in and go home.

Excellent.

Wearing contacts was great and I loved the sudden freedom of not having glasses. What I didn’t expect, however, was how losing my glasses might work a little magic. Maybe it was my new haircut, now-visible blue eyes, or me being tall and slim. Whatever it was, suddenly I was getting attention in bars.

Men were looking at me.

 

One Saturday evening I went out to Wild Oats, a gay bar on DC’s Capitol Hill. I had a beer and was quietly standing off to one side when a young bear cub with deep eyes and a handkerchief in his back pocket walked up to me and said hi, being really, really friendly. He was also unusually handsome to the point of being pretty, like Czar Nicholas II, like very few men I’d ever seen let alone talked to (Hunter was a more masculine handsome). Wait, what did a young guy so good looking that he could easily have anyone, want with me?

He said his name was Ernest and after we talked a while, Ernest invited me back to his place. It turned out he was a student and had a little dorm room with a dinky little single bed. Ernest really liked massage, so we got naked and traded back rubs. I wasn’t very good at it, but Ernest was. He also discovered my lower back was a little ticklish and he teased me with it, just to see me twitch.

Ernest also had body jewelry. He had a ring pierced in either nipple but even more interesting to me, a much larger, heavier ring pierced through his bent (another one!) penis. He called it a “Prince Albert” which I’d heard of but never saw one up close―eventually up very close, clinking repeatedly against my teeth as I sucked on his dick, me trying somehow to work my tongue along his cock around this massive (so it felt) lump of metal. (Later I wondered how I would explain any chips to my dentist.)

I forget the details of whatever else sex we had that night but I’m pretty sure it was very cuddly and cummy all over us. Thinking of how amazingly handsome he was, I boldly asked Ernest why he picked me up in Wild Oats. He rolled his eyes and said because, duh, he thought I was hot. Hmmm.

Before we settled in for the night, I put a few clothes back on and went down the hall to Ernest’s dorm bathroom to take my contacts out, their first time out for the night elsewhere, then squinted my way back to Ernest. We ended up cuddling somehow on his tiny bed and even going to sleep squeezed pretty tight together, practically on top of each other, which I liked. A lot.

Ernest and I saw each other frequently for the next several months and I began to really like and respect him a lot. He was quick-witted, good with mathematics, and creative in bed. We also shared a love of foreign foods and met often after work at various restaurants in DC before going back to his dorm to share back rubs and orgasms. I started to feel like I wanted Ernest to be around all the time, like, I dunno, maybe I fell a little in love with him.

And I was finally, definitely, feeling much less of my old it’s not who I am, coming to regard myself as gay instead of just “knowing it” somewhere deep inside―having doubts about my doubts. It also might have been Ernest’s example of being out but not thinking about it; he just was. I’m sure his naturalness, even joy, rubbed off on me.

In fact, during some discussion about gayness, Ernest said, knowing what he knows now and if he’d been presented with the option (who knows; maybe we are!), he would have chosen to be born gay. He explained he loved the association of men, masculinity, sharing strength and stiff cocks, or something like that. Of course, I’d heard all the made-up religious bullshit about how being gay was merely a choice (while excusing themselves from explaining whom they thought would choose it) and never believed any of that for a second. But when Ernest said that out loud, I thought a lot about his words. (I don’t remember exactly how I thought about it, but in the long run, yeah, I’m quite content I’m gay. And born gay I was: that’s why they call it an orientation.)

Ernest also told me about the concept of “fuck buddy”: someone you know and have sex with, no strings attached. Perhaps I should have seen that as a caution. I liked him enough to want to get to know him better and started to think about his relationship potential, but I think he saw me mainly as a fuck buddy―one of many, in fact, as I found out after a while that Ernest had other fuck buds. He generally kept other parts of his life private though I had glimpses. I might have felt a little jealous but if I did, it was manageable.

Another thing about gay culture I learned from Ernest was, there are “radical fairies,” an entire subculture of men who live in an idealized world of male but not macho sexuality, nature, and pastel fabrics. They even had a magazine, RFD, the acronym of which the editors amusingly re-defined for each issue (my favorite was “Rimming For Dingleberries”). Ernest wasn’t an especially hard-core faerie but he had a spiritual side and I think he appreciated that aspect.

Interestingly, the great Harry Hay, renowned founder of the early gay group Mattachine Society (and lover of actor Will “Grandpa Walton” Geer!), was a faerie and Ernest had met him once at some faerie resort in the South. (Years later I learned more about Harry Hay’s accomplishments in fostering gay pride—though it wasn’t called that back then—and I was sooo envious: imagine meeting the Harry Hay! I met Frank Kameny once, also pretty great.)

But Ernest wasn’t looking for a relationship, at least not then, or at least not with me. He moved away to finish his schooling and eventually landed a job in some fly-over state. He visited once, years later, after I got my own place, during a business trip to DC. As soon as he walked in, Ernest said he was exhausted and asked if he could just take a nap. Without waiting for my answer, he peeled off his clothes and burrowed his pretty, naked body deep into my bed, asleep in moments (I tiptoed out). He was just as adorable and I was smitten all over again.

We stayed in touch for a while (once being the time I faked being sick at work and drove up to spend a night (incomprehensible to dullard PDX residents, I learned a lot later) with him at his hotel in Baltimore), but eventually we lost contact.

After Ernest’s example, I tried nipple rings and eventually a Prince Albert (then walking around for three days with my bloody dick wrapped in toilet paper, a little mummy in my pants). My piercings, installed by a man in leather whose name sounded like “Logger” and who sterilized everything in his own autoclave, were fun at first and actually enhanced my sensitivity, especially if a pen in my shirt pocket bumped my nipple during staff meeting at work. But eventually I got bored by the constant vigilance required to not accidentally snag a ring and tear it out of my flesh. I lived in special terror of the Prince Albert, always hoisting it carefully out of my pants to pee.

I removed all the piercings after a year or so, and the nipple ring scars faded quickly. However, whatever mark the Prince Albert left inside my urethra ruined my formerly smooth pee stream, and for a couple of years I had to lean into urinals to go reliably.

The price one pays.

Notch 9: Joe

I had signed up for an August camping and canoe trip with the Adventuring outdoors group. I still felt a somewhat nervous about being “in public” with other gay men, imagining passersby would know, but I really enjoyed Adventuring trips so I braved up. I didn’t have a car, and the trip leader put me in touch with a guy named Joe with whom I could arrange to ride. It worked out well because I had a tent to share while Joe had a car to share. We also planned to be canoe buddies.

On the morning of the trip, Joe arrived at my house to pick me up and I was of course very happy to note he had a gentle personality as well as being a nicely bearded bear (thank you, Trip Leader!). I was more than a little turned on by his looks during the drive out to the camp site, while we set up my tent along with the many others also camping and canoeing and later, while we made supper by the tent. During an afternoon splash in the river, Joe revealed a lean body and wonderfully hairy chest that I wanted to rustle with my hands, tongue, and whatever else I could get up.

That evening Joe and I undressed and lay in my tent in our sleeping bags, quietly talking. I was feeling fairly horny for Joe but also still felt I wanted more than just another sex-for-sex’s sake. And I especially didn’t want to act once again like I had used someone. So, despite how sexy Joe was, I resolved to let myself get sleepy instead, and was just drifting off when I felt a light touch on my hand, waking me back up.

My resolve dwindling, I responded by putting my hand on Joe’s bare shoulder. We shifted our sleeping bags closer, unzipped them, and started kissing and feeling each other’s naked bodies up and down. Eventually I ended up on top of Joe, with my hand down between his legs, slowly massaging his stiff dick until he came.

Joe moaned out loud as he came and I froze, instantly mortified that everyone within a mile could hear. I lightly pressed my hand over his mouth, giggling like a naughty schoolgirl, and softly hissing shhh! into his ear. Fortunately, Joe ignored silly me, and in the morning, of course, no one from the nearby tents looked at us twice. (Gay men are the best!)

I saw Joe again not long after the camping and canoe trip. He had me over to his house for dinner, which I accepted but prefaced by saying I would need to go home that evening. We ate, then cuddled in front of the TV, which pretty readily turned into sex about which I don’t remember anything except I discovered he had rather coarse skin on his back that I didn’t like touching (how did I miss this in the tent?). We moved to the bedroom to get more comfortable, and Joe kindly drove me home after we finished whatever we did to make each other cum.

In retrospect, it would have been kinder for me to have just slept over but believe it or not, I still felt somewhat uptight about “indulging” gay sex―becoming it’s not who I am! Or maybe…?―still wanting to feel in some sort of control over my destiny. Even though he was a nice guy and might have become a friend if I had given him a chance, I never saw Joe again and wondered what happened to him.

Notch 8: Hunter

Months earlier I had noticed a small, separate building in DC with a sign out front reading “Chesapeake House,” and I learned from an ad in the Washington Blade that it was another gay bar. One Saturday night I decided to check it out, having become bored by the same-old-same-old over on P Street. After walking over from Metro, I paused at the front door of Chesapeake House, surprised to find this bar charged an admission fee. But I was curious and paid the small fee.

The room was long and narrow, extending way back. The bar along the right wall was crowded with customers, and on top of the bar were several good-looking young men dancing to pulsating club music, naked except for gym socks into which customers were stuffing dollar bills in exchange for, as near as I could make out, a few minutes’ of feeling up the dancer’s balls.

But after a few minutes it was clear this place wasn’t going to be all that interesting, as none of the dancers had facial or body hair. Many of them even had shaved armpits and groins. Huh. So I found a stool in the back against the wall and skimmed a copy of the Washington Blade, feeling immune to the snake-like nudity all around me but determined to get some time for my $5.

After about twenty minutes I got up, and on my way out asked the bouncer about another bar I had heard of in the area, something about a “leather” bar. He grinned and said that I meant the DC Eagle up on New York Avenue, just a couple of blocks away.

I headed off to find this DC Eagle, walking up 7th Street in the cool night air, past the Chinese shops, eventually crossing Massachusetts Avenue and then a short way along New York Avenue. The neighborhood was starting to look a little run down, but it wasn’t late at night so I wasn’t too worried.

I was amazed, just stunned, when I walked in the door. Taken aback, even. The DC Eagle was completely unlike any other bar I had ever been in. The room was open and mostly empty, the floor a bare concrete slab, the light dim, the walls plain, and the music rock. There was a TV mounted on the wall showing porn with men in leather vests fucking each other. The bartender and the patrons were dressed down in jeans and T-shirts and vests and work boots, like they just got off their shift at a gay steel mill.

But what else got me was the smell. In addition to the ubiquitous cigarette smoky smell, there was another distinctive, almost sweet, mechanical odor that was somehow really familiar but I could not place it.

I got a beer and still smelling that smell, took a stroll around the bar. The main room was long and narrow, and extended back to a row of pinball machines a large, glowing digital clock face, and restrooms. On one side there was a staircase leading up to a second floor where there was another bar plus walking space all around, a pool table, and country music instead of rock.

After another beer, I caught Metro and headed home in a glorious daze but feeling like I never, ever wanted to go home again. (Weeks later I realized that sweet, mechanical odor was just like, of all things, railroad stations in Asia. The strange looks I got when I mentioned this, however, made me stop mentioning it.)

Now that I discovered the Eagle, I only ever went back a couple of times to the hairless attitude bars on P Street. The Eagle had the men and the feel I had been looking for but never knew it: the guys with beards and hairy chests and sometimes, friendly hands. Blue jeans or leather clothing seemed to come with the hairy territory and that was OK. 

 

One drizzly Saturday evening (winter in DC is mostly dreary) I was bored, so I braved a little wet, cold weather to go out to the Eagle. After I arrived and got a beer, I noticed a tall, bearded guy talking with some people, a man more good looking than any I’d ever seen in person. I could not take my eyes off Oh. My. Man. God. He was absolutely calendar-model hot. Tall. Lean. Thick beard. Deep eyes. Handsome face. A period after every noun. And a slightly open shirt offering a glimpse of a perfectly hairy chest. I was instantly inadequate.

But who knew pinball is my best friend? When I noticed Man God later, alone in the corner playing pinball, I took a chance, screwed up my courage, and sidled casually over to say hi. Turned out his name was Hunter and he had beautiful eyes and a really shy smile. Yikes.

After chatting a while over his pinball games, he said he was leaving and OH MY GOD invited me back to his place. I was still dizzy with Eagle-ness and leather-ness and denim-ness and then a man like Hunter invites me back to his place.

It was now lightly snowing (an actual dark and stormy night!) as we drove to his house. We sat down on a rug in front of the fireplace, which he lit. Can you believe this? A cold, snowy night sitting by the fire with a genuine Man God. Hunter approached getting-to-know simply but very sensuously. As we sat there, face-to-face talking, he pulled off his shirt, then gently pulled one of my feet into his lap and tugged off my shoe and sock, running his fingers over my bare foot and around my toes. I’m only a little ticklish on my feet but somehow what Hunter was doing was anything but ticklish. It was trusting. It was nice. I never felt anything like it before, this much being with a man.

At one point Hunter pointed out that the crotch of my jeans had a very large wet spot, which I had not noticed. He expressed his amazement, asking if I had already cum, and cum so much I soaked through my jeans. I hadn’t. I explained that I was a very good pre-cummer and it was just pre-cum, a lot of pre-cum. Still, even I was impressed that I was so turned on I produced enough pre-cum to soak a huge spot right through my jeans.

Hunter asked to see, so I got up on my knees and unbuckled my pants. Yep, my boxers in front had a huge, sopping wet spot fairly dripping with my pre-cum, like I painted it on with a brush. I moved to pull my pants back up and Hunter stopped me, saying to just take them off the rest of the way. He took off his pants and pulled me into a big hairy naked roll on the rug. In front of the fire. On a winter night. In his arms.

We eventually moved to his bed and had orgasms of course though I― sorry, folks!―forget the specifics now. I fell asleep with my arm around him, woke up with his chin on my shoulder, and he drove me home in the morning. Hunter smoked, and kissing him was kind of like licking an ashtray; the tradeoff was that he had no morning breath. I assumed whatever was in the smoke had killed off the halitosis bacteria.

As I was giving him driving directions to my house, at one intersection I said, “OK, now straight ahead.” He coughed and said, “You mean gaily forward.” He also referred to the flag man on a road construction crew we passed as a flaggot. (I was learning.)

Besides the best-ever sensuous, playful, barefoot, evening-by-a-fire a guy could have, Hunter also gave me something that turned out to be very important to my developing identity: what a “bear” is. Hunter was a bear and he was into bears. I was into bears too; I just didn’t know there was a word for it until Hunter explained that a bear is a bearded hairy guy (for me, the opposite of twink).

He also had a few copies of a magazine named Bear, a black-and-white publication with cheerful taglines like, “naked hairy homo smut” or “the finest in one-hand reading.” Bear was filled with erotica about hairy guys having sex, personal ads by hairy guys and, BEST OF ALL, pictures of naked bearded hairy guys. Really good looking naked bearded hairy guys, lean and muscular. Like they stepped off the cover of Men Loving Men.

Hunter was most enthusiastic about the cover model of Bear Number 10, Jim Donohue, a very pretty, bearded man―bear―with his bright smile, perfect chest, and as displayed in the centerfold, an impressive pair of low hangers.

Hunter eventually moved on to a new guy and we drifted into separate circles. But I never had another fantasy moment like that first, barefooty, cuddly, snowy evening in front of Hunter’s fire.

And many, many years later I discovered Hunter had passed away. I’m not sure of what, but I remember most of all is his gentleness.

 

 Aside: If you want a better idea of why I was so gaga over Hunter’s looks, search online for the book The Bear Cult by Chris Nelson. A photo of Jim Donohue, whom Hunter resembled quite a lot except with better eyes, is on the book cover [image below].

Venite adoremus.