Whippoorwill

Yeah, don't make it weird, it doesn't need to be. San Francisco, my hometown, is a small place, and over the years my regular masseurs and I inevitably bump into each other. Give a nod of recognition, or say hi and move on, as you would with any other acquaintance. Neither you nor he have exclusive rights to the gym. You don't embarrass him, he doesn't embarrass you. Easy. Don't overthink it.

Graham Patrick Martin

Taylor Zakhim Perez and Nicholas Galitzine

Regarding the proper positioning on the toilet for easiest evacuation...I lived in the Middle East for two years, when pretty much all there was were squat toilets...basically a ceramic tile hole in the floor, with foot pads on either side. It took some months for the intestine to rearrange itself in order to achieve complete evacuation. And likewise, upon returning to the US, to rearrange itself for sit down toilets. The joke among expats was "When you get back to the States you'll be leaving footprints on the toilet seat for a couple of months,." And it was true.

T-Rooms are a sacred place...over thousands of years, many of us had our first gay experiences with a stranger there. Before gay was "in", before the internet, before porn was readily available, when you were too young to be in a bar...T-rooms opened a whole new world we had been unknowingly searching for our entire lives. They were a revelation, a source of first gay friends, a sex education manual. etc. Don't knock the practice.

Slightly off topic, but I have getting PT and the therapist wears rubber gloves and a mask. I hate it because he is a very cute 20-something year old hunk, and just my type. I can't figure if he is gay or straight. I see him through my HMO at no charge, and he is doing wonders with my issue. We are both fully clothed and doing nothing in the nether regions, but I really hate the barrier to touch. I have concluded he really needs to get the bejesus fucked out of him so he's not so germaphobic. Unfortunately, that won't happen with me.

I was mentioning this thread to some young(er) (early 60s couple) friends who had recently been to a pool party, hosted by an older couple they slightly know. Now in my day, pool party = orgy. I asked how it was...and the answer was "Lots of handsy old guys, and a sprinkling of young bucks who obviously wanted to be there. We're so glad that these guys are still going for it...the flesh may sometimes be weak but the spirit was there." Thank goodness there are still holdouts from the purity police.

It's called reading the room. Gay bars, baths, clubs, etc. are places to be with other gay men...that's why they exist, that's why we go there. What each of us are looking for at any moment in any venue, we generally signal with our body language, our dress, our eyes, etc. It takes being alert to what we are signaling to others, and what they are signaling to us. Mistakes are made...but take it as a learning experience, both ways.

On my first European trip, in 1964, almost all hotels, in all countries, kept your passport the first night. Always made me nervous.

42 +/-

My first visit to the then-Soviet Union was during Perestroika, when the country was beginning to open up. I was on a month-long cultural exchange, and the first quick stop was one night in Moscow. I was bunking with a gay (platonic) friend from the U.S., and during our training had met several other gay guys in the group. Having grown up during the Cold War, I/we imagined all kinds of terrible things about the country, including a dangerous homophobia. (Even my mother had warned me about picking up tricks there!) Imagine our surprise when we arrived at Sheremetyevo Airport and up walks our tour manager Dimitri, who was blasting out gay vibes in all directions. Could this really be? (Indeed he was a screaming queen, and later followed me back to the States, but that is another story). We got signed into our hotel, giving up our passports, and several of us went to check out the Bolshoi Ballet. We were in luck...Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake was playing that night and there were tickets available. We got seats in one of the mid-level balconies, where the whole stage was in full view, if a bit far away. It was magnificent. During the intermission, we wandered to the lobby and were amazed to find not only a bar serving champagne and other alcoholic delights, but an elaborate dessert buffet laid out...and...all free (or I should say, included in the admission ticket price). I imbibed a couple of coupes of champagne and a sampling of beautiful petits fours. Before heading back to my seat, I thought it prudent to stop in the Gent's, and what a surprise awaited! There were all kinds of fun and games going on at the urinals. As a new face in town/American, a bevy of young gentlemen descended on me. I couldn't believe it, but even visions of my exile to Siberia didn't stop me from grabbing a luscious uncut cock in each hand as another guy went down on me. It was either so crowded in there, or straights were just obliviously going about their business, or this particular mens' room was the designated orgy zone, but no one batted an eye. Eventually two guys, a gay couple, invited be back to their dacha for the night. This was too much for even me...would I be murdered in bed, or arrested by the KGB, sent to Siberia, or kidnapped and never make it back to my hotel in time for the next day's flight to the provinces? In one of the few times I ever exhibited such good judgement, I declined, despite continuing advances. If it hadn't been during my first few hours in the country, I would have gone for it...the USSR turned out to be filled with gay guys ignoring their government just as much as we ignore ours when it comes to dick. But alas, it took a few days of getting the lay of the land, and confiding with Dimitri, to be my usual slut, there in the land of the hammer and sickle.

I am fortunate enough to live in San Francisco, so no need to import boys from elsewhere. When I am in Honolulu I typically meet traveling boys from Los Angeles, who also travel to San Francisco on occasion. I always think about doing a reprise with them in S.F., but tend not to because my local squeese(s) keep(s) me busy. Ah, enjoying this plentitude of riches.

Many of us say we want to live only while we are healthy, active, have our marbles, etc...and that we will know when it's time to go, and will let go. Would that we will be so lucky. Having seen many friends die of AIDS in the '80s and '90s, and now of the diseases of old age, if you want to control whether or not you have a good death, you have to die before you are ready. That is, stop eating and drinking, stop taking your meds, or actively kill yourself while you still are lucid enough and well enough to do so. I have seen people, after a lifetime of saying, let me die when it's time, hang on for months or years because they no longer have the mental acuity or physical strength to do the deed. If you are taken to an emergency room, their remit is to save you, no questions asked. They don't ask for your Advance Health Care Directive. If you are in a Senior Living Center, every time you sneeze, you're surrounded by a phalanx of medical professionals intent on keeping you alive. If you are asked if you want treatment, chances are you will say "yes" even though in your former right mind the answer would have been "no." States that have end of life option laws are a great help, but even then...in California where I live, you have to request the drug twice, 48 hrs apart, then make the request in writing, then sign a consent to the pharmacy, then get someone to get the drug from the pharmacy, then take it yourself. Many people lose the ability to complete all the steps, and end up lingering for weeks or months. My only question is, will I have the mental strength to do myself in before it is physically necessary? I hope so.

A major reason many people (like us) use hotel rooms is for "illicit" sex of one kind or another. Everyone knows and no one cares as long as your screams of ecstasy don't disturb the neighbors or you pull the chandelier out of the ceiling hanging on it. Oh yes, for the sake of the maid, strip the bed and wrap the sheets around the towels and leave on the floor...the maid knows what that means.

It's good to know that there's nothing new about debauchery The Sublime Sewer Club - The Gay & Lesbian Review GLREVIEW.ORG