M Y O B

Red arrow points to Alexandria

With occasional periods of vacation, local holidays and most weekends, it was possible to travel around in much of Egypt. Still, there is a lot of it I never saw. I wanted to get to the Siwah Oasis, but never did. Still, I got around, both by driving and by bus. I made it a point to blend in with the population: I bought my shoes and clothes in Egypt, I wore a (fake) elephant-hair bracelet and kept my mouth shut. As it happened, there were many Lebanese in Egypt then, and they tend to be lighter-skinned. So, most people took me to be Lebanese, and left me alone.

It helped that all of us had  a “Warrah”  (papers) which we carried at all times. I remember one occasion far west from Alex (actually, Ras el Hekma, about which more later) when our group of 4 was apprehended by a member of the Camel Corps. He made it clear we needed Warrah, and I happened to be the only one who had brought mine along. I handed it to the gentleman who studied it intently, holding it upside-down! I’m sure when he reported on us, he explained that he had “seen our papers”. Anyway, he let us go on our way without delay.

We carried our papers at all times

Readers may note that the papers mention Cairo: at some point in my first year in Alex, our contracts were expanded to include Cairo, and I eventually worked there for a while. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

My first forays out of Alex were to Port Said. At the time, Port Said had a large “duty-free zone” which drew Egyptians from all over to buy and bargain, often over some of the shoddiest crapola merchandise I ever saw!

The red arrow points to Port Said

The town itself was rather quaint:

Loading a bus in Alex: destination, Port Said

Some interesting older buildings survived in Port Said

Port Said town had not suffered much in the ’67 war

There was a nice town square in Port Said

I often took my friends with me on these trips, because I could carry things back for them they could not carry themselves: foreigners like me were never rigorously inspected as the Egyptians were when leaving Port Said. Even though PS was a “duty-free zone”, anything taken OUT of the zone had a duty to be paid, and the inspectors were adept at picking out the guys with 30 shirts on, or watches up to their arm-pits.

Port Said is one end of the Suez Canal; on the shore opposite Port Said is Port Fouad, which technically, is in Asia (minor). The shortest route from Africa to Asia is by boat across the Suez Canal at  Port Said: like everyone else, I did it once just to say I had.

That’s Asia over there!

Up the canal a short distant is Ismailia:

The red arrow points to Ismailia, Egypt

The town was not a lot in those days, but some views of the canal and of the Bitter Lakes could be had.

Actually, that’s part of the Suez Canal

Ships in the Bitter Lakes

The Bitter Lakes are part of the Suez Canal. A wonderful aerial view of them can be seen here:   The other end of the Suez Canal was at Suez (city). This was a bit longer trip from Alex. The shortest route was on the road which goes along the Canal, but we were often turned back from that route, I suppose because we looked like terrorists. But my Warrah did get me on to it a time or two, and there was almost nothing to see. In the town of Suez, there was still a lot of damage left from the ‘67 war.

The red arrow points to the town of Suez, Egypt

Ship in the Suez Canal

Damage inflicted by Israel in ’67

A number of us stationed in Alex did get out to the Qattara Depression.

The red arrow points to the general location of the Qattara Depression

The Qattara Depression is an area of about 26,000 km² which lies below sea level. Its lowest point is 134 meters below sea level. It is pretty remote!

On the road west from Alexandria

Yours truly at the wheel

Not the best place for a break-down!

A stray camel has crossed the road ahead

Nearly everything in this picture is below sea level

In all, it is a depressing place!

There are many fantastic forms in the depression

Erosion caused by wind-blown sand

Research station on the edge of the depression

Despite to lack of water, plants do thrive and bloom in the desert

I will describe more of my travels in Egypt in future pages.

I begin here a letter from Malaysia which ran to 9 pages before I closed and mailed it.

Major towns on the NW Malaysian Coast

Saturday 26 October 1968

Hello again to all~

After 6 thoroughly delightful days in Penang, I departed Friday AM. And lo! While driving around in Penang without bags and baggage I discovered that the rattle I’d thought was in the right muffler was actually just the rest-stand, having got slightly bent, rattling against the outside of the muffler—it was easily fixed. And I got & installed a new coil in Penang (even Bangkok didn’t have one) which has perked up the engine slightly. All in all, the Honda is running better now than since leaving Saigon—it will be hard to part with it in Singapore. I’d planned to go & stay in Taiping for a day. Just short of there, though, I had another flat tire—rear again. I pulled out two nails, then broke it down to find the nails hadn’t penetrated the tube, but that there was a casing-break that had worn a hole in the tube. Since the tire was getting pretty thin anyhow I replaced it in Taiping, and hopefully should have no more trouble of this sort. But Taiping really isn’t much, and one has to hire Rovers to ascend Maxwell’s Hill behind the city (it was cloud en-shrouded anyhow) so I decided to proceed to Ipoh. Although it was raining when I left Taiping, as soon as I got about 1/3 the way up the grade over the intervening mountains, the rain stopped & it was thence a lovely trip to Ipoh. This city is the Capital of Perak State, nestled at the foot of some nice mountains amidst a large number of tin mines. It’s a fairly large & reasonably up-to-date place, though certainly off the tourist track—I haven’t even seen any Aussies here! Naturally I went straight to the railway station. Now, apparently it was once otherwise, but the Malaysian RRY system is very poorly run & operated. I’ve not yet seen an engine that appears to have even been wiped in years, & the rolling stock looks pretty grotty. Nevertheless, I still hope to ride from K. Lipis to K. Bahuru on a steam train.

BACKSTORY: Instant coffee (from Africa!) had been introduced in Malaysia shortly before I got there, and it was rapidly adopted by larger restaurants. But by now, I had come to love the “local coffee”—the instant stuff was like drinking water. So, after taking dinner at a decent restaurant, I would seek out a “hole-in-the-wall” that still made the good stuff. In Ipoh that night, I found such a spot and repaired to a table with the brew. At another table was a group of 8 fellows, known as “cowboys” at the time. They were all handsome guys, but dressed somewhat sloppily with what some might have considered a rather menacing demeanor. To my great surprise, one of these fellows left his buddies and joined me at my table. He was curious about me—who I was, what I was doing there, why I was driving a moto—all information I shared willingly. Far more surprising was that he invited me to his place: we rode two-up, he directed me to a moderately decent home which had a cottage where he lived by himself. Once there, I was all but raped (insofar as the willing can be): it was one of the best romps I had on the trip, completely spontaneous, done with complete abandon. He was 20, and stunningly handsome. I got back to my hotel late, worn out!

Today, I departed around 9 for Lumut which is situated on the coast about 67 miles away. The drive out is lovely, going through an area knows as Dindings (for obscure reasons). Being off-season, the ferry (passengers only) to Pangkor Island was erratic, so I passed that one up, settling instead for exploration of some charming beaches, little by-roads and such. One of these ended at a very charming trail leading to a jungle-bound waterfall (not on map!) to reach which one has to wade—but the short wade is certainly worth it. I relaxed here for an hour, dangling my feet in the rushing water, which was cool, but not cold. Picked up no leeches during the wading. On the road to Lumut, incidentally, I passed a positively huge (& positively dead) snake that had gotten in the way of something: it stretched from the edge of the road out across the white line, which would be near 2 meters. Saw numerous smaller ones—guess this is good snake country!

Between Ipoh & Beruas one crosses the Perak River; there were two bridges, but floods in January 1967 took out both. In one case the pylons were left, so some marvelously temporary steelwork & lumber truss-work has replaced the original roadway. The other bridge was totally destroyed, now a jumble of concrete chunks rapidly being broken up by the water. Hence I had to retrace my steps more than I’d have liked, but as it was now raining it really didn’t matter. Tomorrow, I hope to get a very early start, hoping to get to the turn-off & road to Cameron Highlands before it rains, then on the K. Buru for the night.

No ferry to Pangkor Island

Ferry crossing somewhere

There had been  many bridges destroyed the previous year; I failed to record where this crossing took place.

Monday 28 October 1968

Well, plans do change! I departed Sunday early as planned, reaching Tapah after a short 30+ mile drive along the base of the mountains. There I turned inland for the 38 mile drive to Cameron Highlands—and a stupendously beautiful drive it turned out to be. One climbs to not quite 5000 feet; it was cool, though not so much as I had expected. The road is about as twisty as one could ask, and the jungle beautiful!!  Many nice waterfalls, lovely birds, huge butterflies, and various “things” crossing the road here and there, including a millipede over 8 inches long that I stopped to investigate. A few snakes, though small ones. I got to half-way tea-house—with a beautiful collection of butterflies—and on to Tanah Rata about noon, rested there, then retuned to Tapah. The road down is perhaps more fun than up, though the last 8 miles or so it was beginning to rain. Stopped in Tapah for a leisurely late lunch, and decided to go back to the coast for a while. So I proceeded as far as Teluk Anson for a night, where, about 5:30 I lay down for a nap that ended at 8 PM! After a poor plate of fried rice, I went right back to sleep. Consequently, this morning, I awoke very early & was on the road about 7:30. I thought some of returning to Lumut for a longer stay; but when I got to Bagan Datok (at the mouth of the Perak River) the boats large enuf for me and the moto run alternate days, I found, and today was the “off” day. So instead I proceeded on down the coast; when I got to the turn-off to Rawang (towards which I was more-or-less heading) it was obviously raining inland; so I came to Klang (Kelang), where I am lodged in a cheap hotel. I drove out to Fort Swettenham, visited the Immigration Office there; they say I must go to K. Lumpur for my extension, so tomorrow I shall do that—quite possibly by taxi, as I expect to return to K. L. by moto later. Assuming I get the extension, I will go around K. L. towards K. Lipis, for the railway ride, then back to K. L. for a few days’ stay. But as mentioned, plans do change, so we shall see!

Built in 1885 as a water tower, still standing

The ride up to Cameron Highlands was one of the highlights of the entire trip. I love back roads, and they are best traversed on a motorcycle! I was so impressed with the trip that I took a dozen photos shown below. The half-way teahouse is still there, much enlarged!

Along the road to Cameron Highlands

There were streams and waterfalls everywhere

Lush scenery, lovely day

Twists and turns galore

One of many waterfalls along the way

A rare flat spot on the road, being repaired

Road marker

Incredibly lush vegetation typical of Malaysian mountains

Another waterfall: cool fresh water

Yet another stream

No part of the US has vegetation like this

Welcome to Cameron Highlands

Wednesday 30 October 1968

Yesterday was a lazy day. I just poked around Klang in the AM, & in the afternoon a chap I’d met in a store volunteered to drive me to K. L. to see the Immigration People about my visa extension. This was accomplished in a very brief time, getting 3 weeks more which ought to be more than I need. Did a bit of sight-seeing in K.L., but not so much, as I shall return there later; then back to Klang for the night, getting to bed early so I could get up early this morning. This I managed to do, getting on the road before 7:30. It was a typical grey day, and as planned I went around K. L. to the main N-S hiway, and north on it through Rawang to Kota Kubu Baharu; from there there is a fabulous drive through Fraser Hills to Raub. First a long but easy grade about 25 miles long up to about 4700 feet, then down into the valley where Raub is located. The road (surface fair to excellent) is a real twisty “stomach-churner & chain-stretcher”, passing through jungle all the way. Most of the large trees were cut when the road was put through, so one doesn’t see them from the road; but lots of logging is still going on away from the road, & they bring the logs out to the hiway, logs 4 & 5 feet in diameter oft-times. And bamboo that grows 30-40 feet high is everywhere. I think one of the astounding things about the jungle is the sheer volume or weight per unit area of the vegetation: it is amazing how much there is and how fast it grows. The roadways have to be constantly maintained, with about 6 feet of shoulder being mowed (sometimes cattle-cropped) which gives a park-like effect to all the routes.

From Raub, the road straightens out somewhat for a 38 mile stretch to Kuala Lipis, which I reached about 2 PM amidst light rain. As I’d expected, this town is a division point on the railway, so I spent some time there in the evening. There is a train departing for Kota Bharu at 7:00 AM tomorrow, which gets there (presumably) about 4:30 PM—I’ll stay over & return next day. Picked up a cheap flight-bag to carry essentials in, but will leave the moto & luggage in care of the “Hotel Paris” where I’m staying—it seemed the best of the 4 hotels in town, but is pretty primitive—but of course, cheap, too! Hope to get a steam engine, but am not so sure.

A beach on the Malaysian Coast

Islands off the West coast of Malaysia

Plenty of curves on the way to Raub

Spectacular limestone crags on the way to Raub

Raub lies in the valley below the Fraser Hills

My next post describes my ride  to Kota Bharu behind steam all the way!

FIFTH BIRTHDAY:

I hate cooked carrots: I love ‘em raw, or in carrot & raisin salad, but they (and most root-veggies) take on a bad flavor when cooked. Now, my folks generally would put up with my tantrum when Mom served carrots, asking me to “just eat a few”, but I was a stubborn tyke and they usually gave up. So, I thought it was a particularly bad choice to serve carrots on my BIRTHDAY, and I absolutely refused to eat any of them. My Dad must have had a bad day, because he was determined; so, as never before (or ever again), he took me out into the kitchen and forced those damn carrots down my throat! I suspect you know what’s coming: as soon as Dad turned his back, I launched those friggin carrots (and everything else in my stomach) all over the floor. My Mom (who I am sure was aghast at Dad’s behavior) made him clean up the mess. I never had to eat carrots again!

Carrots!

ALMONDS:

Our little spread of five acres had mostly almond trees, which — by golly — produced almonds! The problem was, we could not afford to have them harvested by others: we did it ourselves. Mostly, I was too young to get involved with the heavy work, but I could be pressed into service removing the hulls. (We sold the nuts to a co-op: they fetched a better price if they had no hulls, and money was tight in those days). Gad, how I hated that work! It was dirty, the fuzz got into your eyes, nose, and elsewhere causing severe itching. It should come as no surprise that I still do not like almonds!

OLIVES:

Across the road from our place was a group of olive trees. No one ever harvested them: they were just there. But, although olives eventually turn black while still on the tree, they taste HORRIBLE: olives must be “cured” before they become edible. But one of our favorite little tricks was to put a couple of the UNcured olives in the dish of olives Mom like to have if we had guests. We boys knew which ones were uncured, but the guests didn’t. With much giggling we’d watch a guest try to get one of the bad olives down without revealing they tasted awful. Mom, of course got on to us soon enough and would carefully inspect the dishes of olives she put out, thus ending that little prank.

CREAM:

But we had lots of other pranks! One was to put a table-spoon of vinegar into the coffee urn at church socials. It does nothing to the flavor of the coffee, but it makes any added cream curdle. Here we were in the middle of farm country, where fresh cream was the very finest, but it curdled. We three really were hellions, and  soon became suspect whenever anything “went wrong”.

ENTRAILS:

All of us loathed beef-kidneys and beef-liver. I still do! But Dad loved them, so Mom would buy them from time to time. She always left them out prominently, so the three of us would be absolutely beastly all day, and would be punished by being put to bed without any dinner. Mom always relented, and allowed us to come down later to eat bread and milk with sugar and cinnamon on top, which we all loved. Only many years later did I realize the whole thing with entrails was a charade: when Mom & Dad wanted a quiet dinner alone, serving something we hated was their way of getting it!

TONGUE:

On the other hand, we all loved tongue, and in a farm community, they were plentiful and cheap.

The only problem was, we kids got the back part, where there were all those veins and things that were kinda “icky”. It took me many years to appreciate the fact Mom saved the front—the good part—to put in Dad’s sandwiches which he always took to work.It was the same thing with chicken: we had one in some form every Sunday. But there were three of us boys and only two drumsticks. So we fought over who got what part and who had the take the back (”yuck”). The second-joint (thigh) we never saw! These were set aside for Dad to take to work. Once I got away from home and discovered chicken thighs, I couldn’t get enough of them. I still can’t…

Mom took very good care of my Dad: he got the goodies while we got the scraps. Not that we were not well fed: all through the war we had beef on the table because we raised and slaughtered our own cows.

Beef Tongue

WORLD’S FAIR:

Shortly after we moved to Carmichael, I tripped while running and happened to fall on a board that had a rusty nail sticking up: that nail went right into my left knee. Ouch! The local Doctor fixed me up, and as I was young, things healed quickly enough. Nevertheless, I malingered long after I was able to walk without a limp, and climbed the stairs to my bedroom on all-four. So, one day,  Mom casually remarked, “If that knee of yours doesn’t heal, you won’t be able to go with us to the Fair.”

World’s Fair Treasure Island 1940

“The Fair” was the World’s Fair on Treasure Island, held over into most of 1940. Needless to say, my “wounded knee” healed right up, and our little family of five spent a day at the Fair. I still have the 16mm films Dad took there, which form the real basis for my memories of the event.

FARM BOY

My upbringing on the farm led to my writing Animal Crackers, (1993) (it’s on Nifty), and a neighbor’s old Fordson tractor, like this one

Old Fordson Tractor 1942

is mentioned in Heartbreak Motel (2002), except that Ted’s Fordson, once new like this, had long since become a massive pile of rust. Still, the first harbinger of Spring for me was always finding Ted grinding the valves, getting it ready for spring discing, as I dropped in to beg for cookies from his wife.

BULLS:

A neighbor had a bull that he kept for breeding purposes. When there was a cow in heat around, he acted as all bulls do, but the rest of the time he was as docile as a lamb.

Dad used to have students from the city out to the farm now and then: city-slickers, we called them, and we had a series of tricks to pull, besides the raw olives mentioned earlier. One of these was to visit the American River that flowed not far from us. There were any number of ways to get there, but our favorite was through our neighbor’s paddock. As we walked along the fence to a stile, we would explain that the bull was ferocious, and if he moved towards us, we had to run as fast as we could back to the stile.

The bull was curious, of course, about anyone who came into his territory, so inevitably he’d start moving toward our little group: “RUN FOR YOUR LIVES” we’d shout and watch our friends run helter-skelter back to and over the fence. When they stopped and looked back, we’d be hanging all over that bull; I was usually up on his back.

ANIMALS:

We didn’t have any horses ourselves, but many people in the community did, so learning about horses came naturally. One of the girls I’ll call Betty at our school lived on a spread with quite a few horses, and she was as “horsey” a person as I’ve ever known. Her “doodling” in the margins of papers and so forth was always sketches of horses. She was a tall, lanky blond, and with my interest already turning away from females, I was not much interested in her. But I was interested in the horses, particularly in the huge dongs the stallions had.

I never knew  why, but whenever I visited Betty’s place and she showed me her horses, the stallions always dropped for her. It was probably a matter of pheromones, but of course she might have been diddling those beasts herself, something I really wanted to try but was too ashamed to admit and afraid to ask.

That pleasure – jerking off a real horse –  was provided by a guy in my 5th-grade class I’ll call Carl. He had this ancient old beast, near dead, that could still “get it up” when Carl went to work under his belly, and once or twice he let me “get a grip”. These events found their way into two of my stories. Likewise, the old black dog that we called “Bouncer” and several others through the years provided a bit of kinky entertainment for me, as well as “entertainment value” in some of my stories.

VACATIONS:

While Dad was teaching, he had summers free. He loved to drive, but during the war, with gasoline rationed, our excursions were somewhat curtailed. Nevertheless, most summers we managed to get to Bliss Park at the south-west end of Lake Tahoe, where we spent the entire season. In those war years, we might see one or two other families camping there in the course of a whole summer! Nowadays, you have to make reservations in advance! As a closely knit family, the lack of other folks around didn’t bother us a bit!

SAN FRANCISCO:

From time to time, we would drive to San Francisco, mostly I think to let Mom do a bit of shopping. I don’t recall what my brothers did, but Dad would give me a pocket-full of nickels and I would ride cable-cars and iron monsters all morning, all by my self. I had to be at Compton’s Cafeteria for lunch, then I could get a few more hours of riding before we set off for home. Those old streetcars were fabulous machines, very basic but built to last. Hurtling through the dark tunnels was exciting, but the cable-cars on the hills were great fun as well. In those days a little kid like me could ride the running-board just like the “big folks” and no one said boo about it!

We occasionally went out to Ocean Beach, since the ocean was something we did not see every day:

That’s little me at Ocean Beach, oblivious to the rip-tides.

Although the Oakland Bay Bridge was in place, Dad loved the ferries, and we usually got to San Francisco on the Vallejo or Benicia auto ferry. Once the car was secured, the rest of my folks would go topside to enjoy the views and freshets. Not me! I made a bee-line for the nearest opening through which I could watch the huge steam engines at work down in the hold. Even then I was already a size-queen! I never saw the San Francisco sky-line: when the whole ferry shuddered as the engines reversed, I knew the folks would soon be by to collect me to continue the trip.

SCHOOL PAGEANT:

I no longer know what the pageant was about, but it seems I was “Uncle Sam”, and I could very well have “wanted” George, there on my left: he was very handsome and liked to toss me over his shoulders for rides around the house.

Me and George

George was one of Dad’s students who had been to our home often, and who was home on leave from the US Army: this was 1942. My folks were absolutely color-blind: we had all sorts of students out to the farm as the years rolled by, which probably accounts for my own eclectic preferences later on. About those, much more will be said in due time.

UNDERWEAR:

Toward the end of my sixth year in Elementary School, Dad began dickering on a pair of cabins near Lake Tahoe: there were two cabins on a single lot, one just for sleeping. The owner let us use the cabins one weekend, hoping to seal the deal no doubt, but for other reasons that did not happen. I remember the occasion well, however for ONE event that remains seared in my memory, and which likewise explains some of my later, and current, preferences.

A college classmate of my Dad was passing through the weekend we spent in that cabin, so they went along with us. These folks had several kids, including one fellow they had adopted while working in India. He was about 16 at the time, quite tall and very brown. As I lay half-awake one morning on my cot in the sleeping room of the cabin, Presad walked through the room on his way to the toilet, clad only in a pair of bright white Y-fronts pushed out to their limit by his morning piss-hard. What a splendid sight!

A lovely sight!

I thought it one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen, even though I did not fully understand what was going on beneath that sparkling fabric. I’ve since learned, of course, and I thank the internet daily for the thousands of similar images of hunky guys clad in shorts that I have on my hard-drive. I actually have more pictures of guys dressed (well, more or less) than of them nude.

SUMMER OF ‘46:

Dad taught at UC Berkeley that summer: we exchanged homes with a Cal Prof, so we lived in El Cerrito. I quickly found the “F” end-of-the-line station for the Key-System trains that ran to San Francisco, and spent whole days riding back and forth: if I did not de-train at either end, I could ride paying only once. Usually I was right up front, and now and then the motorman would put up the shade that covered the window into his cab, so I could watch his operation. I was in hog-heaven! Naturally, I wanted to be a Motorman  ”when I grew up”.

The key-System trains were massive affairs, built like the proverbial brick latrines, and they ran for years and years. Just three sets remain: two at the Railway Museum in Rio Vista, CA, and one badly deteriorated one in the Orange County Railway Museum, Perris, CA:

The Key-System Train, Orange County Railway Museum, California

Key-Systems Train Detail

Superficially, these resembled the Boeing-Vertol train-sets now used by MUNI, but they were more massively built. Most were scrapped when the system was shut down in 1958. In its place we have BART, train-sets of which are now being replaced after less than 20 years of use. We once knew how to build things to last, but not any more!

The summer of 46 was also noteworthy, because while living in El Cerrito, we learned Mom had cancer, which proved fatal five years later.

To be continued …

PeeYes: I’ll try to add to this blog most Fridays, that being a day off for me.

I INTERRUPT MY NARRATIVE …

… to discuss a matter of some importance to several large segments of our population: pornography.

I’m old enough to remember vividly the days when there was NO commercial porn. What porn there was consisted mostly of typewritten material, often second-and third- carbon-copies, occasionally with crude drawings included. A friend of mine had a HUGE collection of this stuff. Later, when the firm for which we both worked got a dry copier, he made Xerox copies in large quantities. Since he was the “key operator” for the machine, he got away with it for many months, until he left an “original” on the platen which someone else found. There was a bit of a dust-up, of course, but only a very few knew he was the perp, so he went on with it, being more careful! But I digress…

As I completed college, I found there were some magazines available here and there: these were not really pornographic in today’s sense of the word. There were no “dirty-book stores”: only a few magazine-stands would carry these off-color rags. One of these was a tiny (like, 5″ X 7″) black and white booklet called Tomorrow’s Man. It was mainly devoted to body-builders, posing (often oiled) in miniscule thongs and jock-straps. Penises were generally stuffed out of the way, which gave rise to the notion that most body-builders are not well hung. (The porn revolution has busted that myth!) Fizeek was another of these magazines, very similar in design and scope and there were several others.

Then there was AMG (Athletic Model Guild), in a slightly larger format, also black and white. This was produced in Southern California and appeared to contain mostly navy guys (”seafood”) earning a little extra cash (to buy booze and girls, of course). I suppose a collection of these magazines would be worth some money nowadays. In the early issues the boys were mostly dressed, usually shirtless, and showing some basket (sometimes enormous ones—I often suspected salamis had been substituted for the real thing). The intent of these photos was certainly to provoke a salacious reaction in the reader, and I suppose it was successful for some: but the other intent was to “push the envelope” and get porn main-streamed. As time went on, the guys wore less and less and various symbols (often scratched on the negatives) were used to indicate sexual preferences, physical statistics and so forth. It is difficult, now, to believe that to state (or even suggest) that someone was “gay” or -gasp- homosekshull, was forbidden! [When someone implied Liberace was homosexual, he sued (libel), and WON!] The cute stuff in AMG was all designed to avoid prosecution for distributing “obscene” material under a whole bunch of court rulings generally lumped together and called “obscenity laws”

TM eventually disappeared (a copy from 1954 was available recently for $95.00), but AMG pushed on pushing, their material becoming more prurient and occasionally in color. Then, in 1973, came “Miller v. California”, which, while not opening the flood-gates exactly, did make it obvious the definition of obscene was not an easy task. It gradually dawned on people in general and on the courts, that obscenity was as much “in the eye of the beholder” as in the producer: by this time, AMG was definitely obscene, and was to become far more-so before it folded.

However, from the 70’s on, pornography “took off”. Large-format magazines that had kept the air-brushes busy removing “lumps” began including explicit (and occasionally real) hard-ons: the air-brushes went to work enhancing rather that deleting! With the useful addition of “adult” bookstores where all this stuff could be displayed and sold, the pornography market exploded. Specialty-subject mags appeared, including kiddie-porn, which as quickly as it appeared was legislated out of existence. My favorite title of the “niche rags” was Stump, and I leave it to my readers to imagine its contents!

Professional pornographers were quick to exploit technology: even amateurs quickly saw the possibilities of the Polaroid camera! I had a neighbor in the early 50’s who took photos of every hard-on he could find (he’s immortalized in Piece on Earth at Nifty). Prior to that, all porno had been produced on conventional film, an expensive and laborious process given that one had to find places to develop film that would NOT call the cops if they found a hard-on (or worse). The advent of the electronic camera for production (professional and otherwise), and the internet (for distribution) has radically changed the whole “porno” scene. Kids growing up today have this phenomenal wealth of porn available if they want it, and the ready means to produce and distribute it themselves if so inclined:  and they do, as I’m sure my readers know.

It’s all pretty amazing stuff for old farts like me who have watched it all unfold.  My own career, such as it is, writing “fuck stories” began in 1987 with First and Second Cousins: it has been on Nifty practically from its inception.

PeeYes: I’m also old enough to remember that the Nifty (gay) Archive was originally accumulated by someone at Cornell University: whether student or faculty I’ve never known. Its original URL ended in cornell.edu! I suppose someone eventually discovered it and forced it off-site! But it still exists here and contains thousands of original gay stories; many are fine examples of “one-handed-reading”.

I INTERRUPT MY NARRATIVE …

… to discuss a matter of some importance to several large segments of our population: pornography.

I’m old enough to remember vividly the days when there was NO commercial porn. What porn there was consisted mostly of typewritten material, often second-and third- carbon-copies, occasionally with crude drawings included. A friend of mine had a HUGE collection of this stuff. Later, when the firm for which we both worked got a dry copier, he made Xerox copies in large quantities. Since he was the “key operator” for the machine, he got away with it for many months, until he left an “original” on the platen which someone else found. There was a bit of a dust-up, of course, but only a very few knew he was the perp, so he went on with it, being more careful! But I digress…

As I completed college, I found there were some magazines available here and there: these were not really pornographic in today’s sense of the word. There were no “dirty-book stores”: only a few magazine-stands would carry these off-color rags. One of these was a tiny (like, 5″ X 7″) black and white booklet called Tomorrow’s Man. It was mainly devoted to body-builders, posing (often oiled) in miniscule thongs and jock-straps. Penises were generally stuffed out of the way, which gave rise to the notion that most body-builders are not well hung. (The porn revolution has busted that myth!) Fizeek was another of these magazines, very similar in design and scope and there were several others.

Then there was AMG (Athletic Model Guild), in a slightly larger format, also black and white. This was produced in Southern California and appeared to contain mostly navy guys (”seafood”) earning a little extra cash (to buy booze and girls, of course). I suppose a collection of these magazines would be worth some money nowadays. In the early issues the boys were mostly dressed, usually shirtless, and showing some basket (sometimes enormous ones—I often suspected salamis had been substituted for the real thing). The intent of these photos was certainly to provoke a salacious reaction in the reader, and I suppose it was successful for some: but the other intent was to “push the envelope” and get porn main-streamed. As time went on, the guys wore less and less and various symbols (often scratched on the negatives) were used to indicate sexual preferences, physical statistics and so forth. It is difficult, now, to believe that to state (or even suggest) that someone was “gay” or -gasp- homosekshull, was forbidden! [When someone implied Liberace was homosexual, he sued (libel), and WON!] The cute stuff in AMG was all designed to avoid prosecution for distributing “obscene” material under a whole bunch of court rulings generally lumped together and called “obscenity laws”

TM eventually disappeared (a copy from 1954 was available recently for $95.00), but AMG pushed on pushing, their material becoming more prurient and occasionally in color. Then, in 1973, came “Miller v. California”, which, while not opening the flood-gates exactly, did make it obvious the definition of obscene was not an easy task. It gradually dawned on people in general and on the courts, that obscenity was as much “in the eye of the beholder” as in the producer: by this time, AMG was definitely obscene, and was to become far more-so before it folded.

However, from the 70’s on, pornography “took off”. Large-format magazines that had kept the air-brushes busy removing “lumps” began including explicit (and occasionally real) hard-ons: the air-brushes went to work enhancing rather that deleting! With the useful addition of “adult” bookstores where all this stuff could be displayed and sold, the pornography market exploded. Specialty-subject mags appeared, including kiddie-porn, which as quickly as it appeared was legislated out of existence. My favorite title of the “niche rags” was Stump, and I leave it to my readers to imagine its contents!

Professional pornographers were quick to exploit technology: even amateurs quickly saw the possibilities of the Polaroid camera! I had a neighbor in the early 50’s who took photos of every hard-on he could find (he’s immortalized in Piece on Earth at Nifty). Prior to that, all porno had been produced on conventional film, an expensive and laborious process given that one had to find places to develop film that would NOT call the cops if they found a hard-on (or worse). The advent of the electronic camera for production (professional and otherwise), and the internet (for distribution) has radically changed the whole “porno” scene. Kids growing up today have this phenomenal wealth of porn available if they want it, and the ready means to produce and distribute it themselves if so inclined:  and they do, as I’m sure my readers know.

It’s all pretty amazing stuff for old farts like me who have watched it all unfold.  My own career, such as it is, writing “fuck stories” began in 1987 with First and Second Cousins: it has been on Nifty practically from its inception.

PeeYes: I’m also old enough to remember that the Nifty (gay) Archive was originally accumulated by someone at Cornell University: whether student or faculty I’ve never known. Its original URL ended in cornell.edu! I suppose someone eventually discovered it and forced it off-site! But it still exists here and contains thousands of original gay stories; many are fine examples of “one-handed-reading”.

AND NOW, FOR A SPECIAL COMMENT

With apologies to Keith Olbermann! He and Rachel Maddow are the freshest breaths of air to hit televised news in years! I’m sorry they have to share MSNBC facilities with that loathsome “Predator” series and the interminable, disgusting “Lock-up” crap, but at least they are ON THE AIR!

So far in this blog, I’ve described some of my life up to the age of 15, when I finally discovered what the thing between my legs could be used for besides taking a whiz. In today’s environment, especially in San Francisco, I can’t imagine a boy reaching the age of 15 without making this wonderful discovery much earlier. Indeed, polls at many of the blogs I read suggest that it’s fairly typical for boys to get their first blow-job around 12, by which time, one presumes, they had been jerking off for some time. [Now that the “Fondling Fathers” have been largely put out of business, this age-level may rise a bit]  {chuckle}.

But, it is fair to ask, how did I manage to get to 15 without even masturbating? Even after a cousin had been so kind as  to show me how!

Well, for one thing, my “hormone treatments” were late to arrive. I had my own bedroom always, so it was unusual to see even my brothers nude. I rarely saw my parents in the altogether either, and seeing any other people nude, in fact or photos, simply did not happen in those days. While I’m sure there was an underground trade in “smut”, it was never seen or discussed in my family. And remember, in those days, even Batman & Robin, always fully dressed, didn’t show a lot of basket, and genitals were routinely air-brushed out in most of the illustrations in the National Geographic! I do remember poring over the Monkey-Wards and Sears catalogues, looking at the underwear ads. Even there, though, “bumps” were not prominent, body hair was generally de-emphasized (on those guys and men who would have had any to start with), so there was really almost nothing salacious for a budding young queer to enjoy! I was not into sports or swimming, so even a classmate in a bathing-suit was a rare sight.

I remember being fascinated by a boy named Frankie in my Carmichael days: I was particularly attracted to his arms, which were finely shaped. He was many shades darker than me due to some mediterranean blood I suppose. I joined the Cub-Scouts, not because I had any interest in badges and all that stuff, but because the pack generally met at his house where his mom was den-mother. When it turned out all they ever did was play tag football on the huge expanse of lawn there, I lost interest in the scouts and retreated into my fantasies of touching Frankie’s lovely limbs. I still enjoy a well-shaped arm. It does not have to be particularly muscular; in fact, many of the photos I see nowadays are of guys whose arms are too muscular. My favorite pics are of naturally well-built fellows without the evidence of “pumping iron” so common nowadays.

There were lots of “pin-up girls”, but I was utterly uninterested in them: the belief that I ought to be interested led to a lot of grief!

Neither my own parents nor any others I knew were particularly demonstrative. Anything beyond a casual embrace was reserved for times when we kids were in bed! There were no TV shows for me to watch: Dad didn’t allow a TV into the house until good color-sets became common (late 1950’s).

Carl (he of horse fame) did show us (often) his dad’s collection of porno pictures, clearly obtained through underground sources. But these were straight porn, all in grainy black & white, and mostly in a tiny wallet-size format. Despite being dog-eared and grimy, they seemed to do it for Carl and his friends: they did nothing for me!

But the most telling feature that led to my remaining so innocent so late was my belief that I was some sort of one-off freak. In those days, “gay” meant light-hearted and charming; “queer” meant odd or strange; a “fairy” was something that took a tooth in the night. It would be years before I heard the word “homosexual” uttered by anyone, even though throughout most of my high-school years, the faculty and administration thought I WAS ONE!

WHY THE F*CK DIDN’T THEY TELL ME?!

I learned, years later, they all thought I was sucking every cock in the school. If they had only told me, I’d have obliged, willingly!

Even after my revelation in the gym, overhearing two boys discussing their alleged shooting prowess, I did not immediately realize my peers were probably doing and thinking the same sexual things I was because I was convinced they would all be thinking in terms of doing it with girls. Even when I kind-of figured out that guys might be relieving themselves just as I was soon doing daily, the idea of approaching any of them to do it with me remained beyond the pale. Much as I wanted to, I could not bring myself to proposition any of the guys I lusted after and dreamed about. Damn!

So, I blundered on, oblivious to what adults around me thought I was up to. I was a Junior in college before I learned there were, in fact, other guys with feelings similar to mine, willing to act on those impulses. I was in my 20’s before I got or gave a blow-job, but that’s for another page later on.

To be continued …

The hiatus in posts occasioned by a software glitch seems to be over, so I can resume my tale. When last heard from, I was in Chumphon about to depart for Ranong and Phuket.

The arrow points to Ranong

Friday, 10 October 1968

Sorry about the mix-up in days—it’s hard to keep track—but I noticed last nite this letter and my diary didn’t quite agree! Well, it’s Ranong, period! I left Chumphon before 7. The road was beautiful, twisting its way up into mountains rapidly. I soon got into a rather cool fog, which apparently is more or less perpetual at this time of year. But the jungle was lovely, the road fun. About half-way through, the road construction began, so it not to be pavement all the way. The construction ranged from almost impassable to fair. Roads under construction here tend to be worse than Canadian ones, and the process seems much the same, only longer. And, they tear up very long stretches at a time, rather than finishing it piece-meal. Kraburi was not much of a town, and of course Burma, across the river didn’t look any different from Thailand. From Kraburi on a ways the road was completed and excellent, until it reached a large river (I think the upper reaches of a dammed lake) where the concrete bridge is apparently collapsing, so a new one is being built beside it. From here on to Ranong the road was under construcion again, and not very good. Passed a beautiful waterfall, and many elephants, the latter being used extensively hereabouts in the timber industry. It was nearly 11 by the time I got to Ranong and after exploring a couple of side roads I arranged the hotel and, as it was beginning to rain, relaxed a couple of hours while that was in progress. Later, I explored some more side roads; it commenced raining again around 5:30 & did so until after dark; some of this is written during that period. After supper I arranged to have a Thai massage: this is more on the order of a visit to a chiropractor, since you get completely mauled and unhinged in the process. But is is relaxing, and cheap, and it felt good after about 6 hours of spring-breaking dirt roads on the Honda. Ranong is quite an up-to-date little place, lumber, fish & tin mines being the principal activities. Near the edge of town is a long stone wall, all over-grown by jungle that probably enclosed something worth excavating. What little of the wall you can see reveals excellent workmanship, and one gateway (or what remains) I would say shows chinese influence. I have no idea what all this was. No one has yet been able to tell me, though I have run into a couple of people here who speak english. Tomorrow off to Phuket. The map shows no town likely to have a hotel between here and there, and it is 311 Kayems away. The road is said to be good, but Shell Oil Co’s ideas & mine of an “all weather road” don’t seem to quite agree!

BACKSTORY: Ranong was one of the few places I failed to “make out”. It did not take long to spot the local procurer: they tend to hang around the hotels. Unfortunately, the language barrier being what it was, he brought me a succession of girls. Despite fairly graphic sign-language, I could not persuade him to fetch me a boy. Eventually I took care of things by myself. That’s the best way to meet someone you like, anyway!

Somewhere on the Isthmus of Kra, River crossing

Saturday, 11 October 1968

It is certainly going to be a “new me” you see whenever I get back: my face is peeling again!  Got an early start from Ranong this morning. It was cool, a bit misty and foggy here and there. The highway—some of it quite new—ranged from excellent to quite poor: apparently the original topping put down was only about an inch thick, and heavy trucking has beat this up pretty bad in places. The road passes inland for a ways, then goes along the coast for a while where very spectacular views of the shore-line and ocean are seen. There are myriad villages, but no towns of consequence. Many rubber plantations, some coconut groves, banana groves and so forth. Not much rice here—not enuf flat land. I arrived about noon at the bridge connecting the mainland with the island Phuket is on, and lazed along the road to Phuket [town] admiring first an immense unspoiled beach, then more rubber plantations, and tin mines. Saw some elephants earlier, and on Phuket island another of those huge lizards. They aren’t iguanas, but have that general shape. They can move quite swiftly when so inclined. They are probably eaten by the natives, who I have seen apparently catching them.

The arrow points to Phuket

Phuket (the “welcome” sign says Bhuket) is quite a large and obviously old city, with rather a “Virginia City”-ish flavor, situated in a valley rimmed with tin mines. It’s about 1 km inland from what I suspect was once a lovely beach, but which is now vast mud-flats, washings from the mines, which are all worked hydraulically. Tomorrow, off to Trang, where I meet a branch of the RSR and where (steam trains permitting) I hope to take another rail excursion, this time up (and across the isthmus again) to Nakorn Sri Thamarrat, the place I didn’t get to before. I’m going to seal this letter up tonight—tomorrow being Sunday, I shall probably not be able to mail it, though, as it has now grown to 10 pages!

Much love to all, of course,

Bruce

PS: Passed up what is surely a gourmet delight on the menu here tonight: “Fried crap and asparagus”!! (Crab, I think)

BACKSTORY: On the east side of Phuket was one of the most idyllic beaches I ever found anywhere. I went skinny-dipping with a charming fellow I had met who showed me around the island, riding behind me on the bike. There was no one at all on this lovely beach, perhaps three miles long, lined with palms. I regretted not having a bathing-suit with me, but my friend explained we really didn’t need them, and before long we were splashing around in the water. Once out of it, having no towels, we could only lie on the warm sand and let the sun dry us off. One thing led to another, and we ended up having sex right there on that beach! After another splash and dry, we eventually returned to town, where we dined with his wife and three charming kids (alas, all girls).

Forty years later, this was the very beach (and all the build-up which had occured on it) that was heavily damaged by the Tsunami.

More “train”ing in store! Stay with me.

MONEY

I try to retain a few good examples of the local currency from the places I visit. The Cambodian bills were very lovely, printed in Germany, and featured numerous scenes for which the country is justly famous. I saw a good many of these places in actuality.

12 September 1968

Hello again~

Who would believe this trip? Amid threatening clouds, I left Kep (after a restful day there—swimming at 7:00 AM!!) bound for Bokor. As expected, I got into rain fairly soon, and to put the end at the beginning, I drove through rain all the way to Sihanoukville!

BACKSTORY: I met a young fellow in Kep who reminded me of why I enjoy formerly-french countries! He was completely unabashed about sex, and we had a fine romp. However, when I told him I planned to visit Bokor, he assured me I should not go there. Unfortunately, the language barrier made it difficult for me to know what his objections were. (There’s usually no language barrier where sex is concerned!)

The road to Bokor is unbelievable! It goes up 1000 meters in about 22 kilometers, hacked through dense jungle all the way (except along the top of the mountains, where it is quite bare). Wonderful switch-backs and so forth, about 12 feet wide and paved fairly well.

The Road to Bokor

See below for a much later photo of this “road”, when it had become just a cow-path!

The rain on the way up was not bad, and perhaps the jungle is at its best when wet. I stopped (both ways) many times to shut off the machine & listen to the marvelous sounds—and occasionally to inspect the various animals crossing the road: mostly bright pink land crabs, but some spectacular snakes & things, too. The sounds are like nothing I’ve ever heard (naturally) and while one itches to take up a machete & go in search of the sources, without a guide & so forth that’s hardly recommended! By the time I got to Bokor itself, the storm was a veritable blizzard, visibility less than 30 feet. But amidst all this, the Auberge Royale was open and I got a good hot meal (about 9:30 am). After a quick tour of the casino (doing a thriving business) I set forth once again, this time to Popokville, about 4 km away. The rain let up slightly for this leg of the trip for which I was thankful. Just as the road (paved about 1/2 way) petered out into a couple of muddy ruts, and I was going to turn back, I heard the roar of water & saw a “parking” sign a little further on. So I thrashed on through, there to find the famed falls of Popokville (I wonder if Todd made this same pilgrimage?). Now, with all the rain, there was lots of water. The river is about 1/2 the size of the Merced at high water; the falls are a couple of hundred feet, in several stages. Very spectacular, very wet, and in the jungle setting, truly wonderful. There was not another soul around, although there are nice little pathways, rickety bridges & so forth (a la mist-trail [in Yosemite]) which I poked around in (carefully!) for about 1/2 hr.

Recent shot of the he famed falls of Popokville

I found this picture on the net, taken many years after I was there. These visitors had better weather!

When the rain re-commenced, I remembered the road I had to traverse back to pavement, & decided to push on. Back down that wonderful road. More sounds, more animals, rain. Some views were blocked by clouds, but I got some good looks down to the delta & sea 2-3000 feet below. Alas, no pictures—too little light [and too wet].

The remainder of the trip was uneventful, but very wet. At times the road was nearly flooded. The rainfall varied from moderate to very heavy. My poncho leaked, and when I finally reached S-ville I was soaked through. My luggage leaked slightly (as you can see by the stains made by some carbon-paper I foolishly brought along!) but I had dry clothes when at last I found the center of S-ville and a hotel.

Sihanoukville may turn out to be the only disappointment of this trip. The weather has not helped—it has rained steadily through today and shows no sign of stopping: tres inclement! But the city itself is not much. It has recently been turned into a free port, but until the railway to the interior is finished I doubt this will make much difference. There are a couple of ships at anchor and the town is full of a sorry lot of French merchant seamen. There is a rather lurid “strip”, a couple of strings of shops, the inevitable central market and information center—and that’s about it! The setting, though, is splendid and the beaches extensive and inviting—given proper weather. I should imagine that in 5 or 10 years this could be another Riviera.

You will not believe what this trip is doing to my diet!! Every now and then I order the Plat du jour, not always knowing just what to expect. In Phnom Penh I got as an entré one night some sort of small fowl, roasted (whole, I discovered) with petit pois & sauce. I will never know what it was (too small for pigeon) but it was not bad. Today, here, I had “orderves” (fresh crab, paté fois gras, sliced ham, chick-peas & onions) followed by a dozen clams on the half-shell (I know you won’t believe it but I ate them all), followed by fresh diced pineapple & café au lait; all for 80 riels (about $1.50).

Assuming it is raining still in the morning, I’m heading for the interior again—Kirirom. The weather there should be better. This cuts two days off my planned stay in S-ville, but without being able to swim & sun on the beach, there’s really almost nothing else to do; besides, constant rain depresses me. Hence,

More later!!

Bruce

So much for my planned sun and swim on the beaches in Sihanoukville (formerly, Kampong Som). I’m not really a swimmer: I was more interested in seeing skimpy bathing-suits on the local guys! Of these, there were none, the weather being foul as mentioned. Indeed, it was off-season, and there was only one hotel in Kep that was anything like “open”, and that barely. No restaurant. But there was a restaurant open in the town, where I had the meal mentioned, and where I cruised up the trick also mentioned (above). In Sihanoukville, the seamen were mostly drunk and probably after girls, but the locals had locked up every youngster (with good reason: with the french and ME in town, none of them was safe)!

I’ve since learned that Bokor was built up by the French as a refuge from the heat of the dry season, Although one web-site says it was abandoned after WWII, it was going strong when I was there in 1968, and it was quite a sumptuous place. It was abandoned (and looted) soon after the K-R took over, and now stands derelict:

Bokor Bokor

I understand that Bokor is now a nature preserve and is patrolled to prevent poaching, but it is likely a losing battle: development as some sort of resort seems inevitable. The grand old Auberge will unquestionably be demolished, along with the Catholic church in Bokor and perhaps a Royal Residence as well.

By the time this picture was taken (found on the web) the “road” to Bokor had been over-grown by the jungle:

Cows on the Road to Bokor Now

A later picture shows it as even worse, open only to dirt-bikes!

But, time marches on. And the next day I decided to visit Kirirom. Stay tuned!

June 29, 2009

BEFORE I COMMENCE MY TALE

June seems to be “Pride Month”. I think it is misnamed.

Being homosexual for me has never been anything I’m proud of. I’m not ashamed of it, either. It’s simply part of who I am, or at least who I have been all these years. Although I have no qualms about telling the few people who ask that I’m, “gay”, I often now say I “was gay”: at 73, my homosexuality is physically no longer much of an issue. Mentally, I’m still as queer as I ever was, possibly more-so, judging by the time I spend surfing the net for photos of good-looking guys!

Anyway, back to “pride”. I take pride in many things, not the least that I have tried all my life to get through it without hurting anyone. I haven’t always succeeded, often due to ignorance or conditions beyond my control, but avoiding making other people feel bad has always been one of my goals. I wish it were a goal shared by everyone! There seem to be some who live for the opposite: to hurt as many as they can. I’ve been the victim of a few of these, but have learned to avoid them.

But “proud” of being queer I am not, and never have been: homosexuality and pride are concepts that simply do not fit in the same category as far as I am concerned.

ONE MORE THING:

I’m recovering rapidly from the gall bladder operation. I’ll stay away from my work the rest of this week, there being a holiday Friday anyway. I have the first post-op visit with the surgeon Thursday. All is well!

SHRINKAGE

As my depression deepened over the failure of my hopes for a life with Cornell, I had the sense to realize I needed some help. My doctor put me on Dalmane to assist with sleep, but recommended a psychiatrist. I spent nearly a year in “fifty-minute hours”, initially several a week. At first, whenever I tried to tell him what happened, I just fell apart and cried, but eventually he began to lead the discussion, and led me to some discoveries about myself.

One of these was how I interpreted Cornell’s behavior in bed. He always “came” as result of frottage: I never did. I thought anyone who could induce me to cum that way would have to be someone very special indeed. Ergo, I believed he found ME someone very special indeed. This was not the case at all: it was his MO, the way he always got off, no matter who he was with! I had very little to do with his orgasms: I was something convenient to rub against. Period. It was an ego-deflating notion, but it explained the facts. It was the first step in getting over this guy.

Cornell probably had his first orgasm sitting on an uncle’s knee, or being bounced of someone’s leg, or just rubbing himself on his mattress at night. Whatever, it came to be his preferred method of getting his kicks. I eventually met others who had encountered him, and they told the same tale: frottage was “it” for him.

A psychiatrist never cures anything: he leads one to new discoveries. We talked about the various categories people fall into, and I realized I am a classic “nest-builder”. I suppose it was because of my happy family life as a kid, that I would want to re-create this as best I could with a lover. (Nowadays, we see gay guys raising families: nest builders!) Unfortunately for me, Cornell was not a nest-builder. He was a classic “home-wrecker”. There had been no possibility of a “long term relationship” between the two of us from the get-go.

The psychiatrist agreed that I was ready to end our sessions after a year, and I felt far better than when I’d begun. I see it as the way to go, when depression sets in or the going gets tough.

EPILOGUE

Oddly, Cornell’s star was crossed with mine whether he liked it or not. I kept running into him in unexpected places, usually at professional conferences (we were in somewhat similar lines of work). Years later in Manila (of all places!) I glanced up from my breakfast and saw a back-side in the lobby I recognized instantly: it was Cornell, picking up a colleague who was staying in the same hotel I was. We got together over drinks at the Peninsula Hotel that evening. That’s where I learned he had AIDS. (I had to assume he had learned another way of getting off). He told me no male member of his family had ever lived past 55, and he did not exect to do so either. He didn’t.

ONE MORE THING:

A reader asked me what I look like: it’s gratifying to know someone wants that information. Here’s the first passport I ever got, at the tender age of 20. Unlike most passport photos, this one was a pretty good likeness.

Me at 20

Thank you for asking! [email protected]

Coming up next: I get into it with the IRS

March 6, 2009

BEFORE I BEGIN THIS EPISODE

Even I was out of my seat several times as President Obama spoke to Congress–and to us–last week. It is so very refreshing to hear someone who can put thoughts into words and words into sentences! Listening (which I admit I was rarely able to do) to Ex-President Bush the last eight years was painful! Watching him I simply could not manage.

The republican response from Bobby Jindal was excruciating. Choosing him, presumably because his background vaguely resembles Mr. Obama’s, was tacky: that Bobby felt obliged to capitalize on it was even tackier. That his speech had been prepared without having heard the President is inexcusable. If Bobby Jindal is the best the repugnants can put forth to articulate their message, there’s little to fear from them. As usual, Rachel Madow summed it up best here.  To top it off, now we find he lied!  Sheeesh!

ONE MORE THING:

The router for my LAN gave up the ghost last weekend, necessitating purchase and installation of a new one. I have to say this for LinkSys: they’ve finally gotten their gadgets together with their installation disc and made the configuration far easier than it used to be. I actually managed to get the new router up and working without calling the Geek Squad or other assistants. Of course, there’s a down-side to that: some of those Geeks are really, really cute! But, on with my narrative.

SAN JOSE STATE

Although the summer job I took was located in Santa Clara, I elected to live in San Jose, not far from the State College campus. I had been so uncomfortable at UR, with all its rich kids, that I quickly decided SJS was a better fit for me. Additionally, it became apparent I could work part time at my new job and attend SJS in the fall. The job was far from onerous, in a small shop that specialized in repairing furniture and other “stuff” that had been damaged in transit. The boss had  contracts with several trucking companies and railroads, so a never-ending stream of broken, crushed and battered items came in. What could be repaired satisfactorily usually went to the customer who had ordered it. Some items were beyond repair (we were the deciders) and went to the dump. Some items that could be repaired but which the customers did not want went to various outlets. The work was varied and sometimes challenging and it fit well with the “fixit” mentality I had developed early on, which went back to my days in Carmichael and which found their way into Heartbreak Motel, one of my stories available at Nifty.

Come fall, I enrolled it SJS (now SJU) and discovered they had something called a “General Major” which led to a BA in “General Studies” (I think the program has long since been abandoned). Essentially, I could take courses in any department I wanted! I went back to Chemistry (my first love), but filled out the days with all sorts of other subjects: law, religion, music, physics, social studies, philosophy: I read the catalogue, and if a subject looked interesting I enrolled! It was a very interesting year-and-a-half: the extra semester was necessary to amass the necessary units and to pass, finally, the American History course I’d blown back in Junior College.

CONFUSION SETS IN

Soon after I entered San Jose State, Dad got married for the third and last time. My new stepmother and I did not get along all that well, but it was clear she loved my Dad and he loved her likewise: seeing him happy at last, I began to feel the usual family pressure to marry and settle down, despite my near-certainty a different life-style was preferable. So I began seeing the only girl who had ever paid much attention to me way back in High School: we had gone on a few trips with the Horseless Carriage Club together back when I was “into” old cars. No sooner than we got together on a couple of dates did I decide to propose marriage! I’ve really never figured out why I did this. I had absolutely NO interest in her physically: in fact, her body was quite repulsive to me when I saw more of it than I cared to when we went swimming.

Unfortunately, not long after this “affair” began, I recalled some of the descriptions of cruising I’d heard from my friend back at Redlands. One Saturday night I went to a local theater and sat in the very back row of the nearly empty place. A chap came in and sat right next to me and began a game of “kneesies”. When he departed, I followed him to the john, but invited him to follow me back to my little room. He was somewhat older than I, and no beauty, but it was he who first shoved a cock in my mouth: right there and then I knew I was born to be a cocksucker! I knew instinctively this was the kind of sexual activity I wanted, as often as possible!

My poor betrothed! She no longer had a chance! I maintained the charade for a while. Driving to visit her in Hayward, I would pick up hitch-hikers in the hope one would proposition me: none did. It slowly dawned on me that if I was ever going to have any guy-sex, I would have to initiate the action. It would be a while before I got comfortable with that idea.

Meanwhile, after about 6 months of living the lie, I called off our engagement. Darley was devastated, saying my being queer would not make any difference, and so forth and so on. But I was NOT going to put her through all that, so we parted, never to see each other again. When I announced to my folks what I’d done, my  new Stepmother’s reaction was, “Oh, thank goodness: for a while there, I thought you were really going through with it!”  She knew far more than she let on, but I continued to dissemble to my family out of worry they could not handle my being queer. In reality it was I who was having the trouble dealing with my sexuality.

MORGAN

During my first Semester at SJS, I met Morgan, a musician, and one of the most beautiful guys I ever met. He was a preacher’s son, and we got along famously, except for one thing: I wanted to get into his pants in the worst way, but was afraid of rejection, so I never could bring myself try it. We took some trips into the hills and did some camping together, but the subject of sex never came up, dammit! At the end of that year, he went off to Juilliard. We corresponded, and his letters came back filled with “hairpins”! It seems he had had the hots for me, but could never bring himself to say so. Bummer! However, when summer vacation time rolled around, he returned to San Francisco, stayed with his parents, and took a temporary job in a local church while their regular organist was on vacation.

After a joyous meeting at my place, where “all was revealed”, we fell into a routine where I would drive up to San Francisco in time to appear at the door of the church as if I had attended the service. When Morgan’s Postlude was finished, we would repair to a twinkie-bar for a couple of drinks (the speciality of the house was a “Thunder Collins”: Thunderbird wine watered with Collins-mix. Just the thought of it now makes me gag!) Then we would return to the church: the sunday-school room had a carpet on the floor, and we would have an afternoon of wild sex! Fortunately, no one ever came back for something they forgot: we were never interrupted.

But at the end of that summer, Morgan went back to Juilliard, and eventually settled in Chicago. I rarely ever saw him again. Our “relationship” had been entirely one of wild, crazy sex: there had been no thought of love, permanence, or anything except getting together and getting off!

To be continued: Finally, I come out!

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