Charlie

The moderators have an unenviable job trying to deal with ambiguous material. I have been here forever, and I thought I understood the rules clearly, yet I got the same warning when, in a thread about personal experiences, I told a story about something sexual that happened to me when I was seventeen. Now when I describe something connected to my wild youth, I simply don't mention my age at the time.

Congratulations on your unretirement!

I guess his lesson really didn't make much impression on you, because it was Joseph Smith who founded the Mormons. (John Smith was saved by Pocahontas.)

"Cowboy" is the character in Boys in the Band who is brought to the party as a birthday gift.

I recently read a history of the Vikings, which led me to The Birth of the West by Paul Collins, about the historical importance of the 10th century, in which the simultaneous pressures of both the Vikings from the north and the Muslims from the south were critical in the creation of what became a recognizable western European civilization.

He wasn't called "Cowboy," was he?

I just learned that there were no honeybees west of the Rocky Mountains until early pioneers brought hives with them over the Oregon Trail.

My avatar is the formal portrait that was made when I was raised to the rank of earl.

When we moved to Palm Springs, we inherited the pool man used by the former owners of the house. He was in his early 40s, very handsome and built, but he never took off his shirt, because he was straight, and he said some of his customers made him uncomfortable by sitting and obviously staring at him as he worked. He worked for us for 13 years, and he looked as good in his 50s as he had when we moved in.

Given how hot it was, or how hot you were?

Thanks for that line! I think I will use it if anyone ever asks me directly (because it's true).

All three of our houses in Center City had flat roofs. All of them had water problems, regardless of whether they were built in the 1980s or the 1880s.

Our last two houses had flat roofs. The one in Philadelphia was a three story town house, and we hated it: there is nothing like climbing up onto the roof in the middle of the night during a blizzard to try to shovel snow off it, so that the bottom layer doesn't turn to ice from the heat of the house below, and later melt and find its way into the house. OTOH, the one in Palm Springs, a mid-century modern one story, was no problem at all, even on the rare occasions when it rained.

I never discuss anything specific about my sexual activity except with all you fellow sluts here. However, I have been open about my sexual orientation, with family, friends, co-workers, etc., since the mid-1960s.

I suspect it is Tagalog, but that is just a guess.

It's hard to let go of a really good photo just because it's old, but there is one escort on Rentmen whose opening photo is the same one he was using on Rentboy when I hired him 15 years ago. It wasn't fake then, but it has to be somewhat misleading now.

That's exactly what I was thinking of asking!

I know I have told this story before, but we old guys do like to tell the same stories over and over. It's the evening before Thanksgiving. I have just spent three gloomy weeks at my parents' home with my mother following my father's death. My aunt and uncle are coming to spend the holiday weekend with my mother, and on an impulse, I decide to return to my apartment in Manhattan. Since my partner was not expecting me, he has already left for the Midwest to spend the holiday with his family. I am feeling lonely, depressed and horny, so I pick up The Advocate, where I find an ad for an escort agency. I call them on my landline (cell phones and personal computers haven't been invented yet), and they give me an address, which turns out to be in Chelsea. The agency is in an old office building, and when I enter, there is a guy sitting at a desk, whom I vaguely recognize from the Village bars. He asks what I am looking for--it is definitely not either of the rather effeminate twinks lounging on a sofa in the office. I say I would like the proverbial tall, dark and handsome hunk. He says he will call a guy who fits the description, and tells me to go into another room to wait, where there is a double bed. I go in, take off my clothes, and get into bed. After about a half hour, there is a knock on the door, and a guy walks in. He is quite tall and dark, rather skinny and not what I would call handsome, but homely in a kind of sexy way, probably in his late 30s or early 40s. He is wearing a leather jacket and tight jeans. He walks over to the bed, unzips and pulls out a soft but enormous shlong. He grins and says, "Let's see if you can get it hard." I can, and we engage in rather mechanical intercourse. Within no more than 15 minutes we both have cum, he repacks his jeans, and leaves. I get dressed, return to the front desk, where the twinks are still lounging on the sofa, smirking. I pay the guy at the desk the $65 fee, and leave. I never go back. It's a long time before I hire again, and then it is through the individual ads in the "pink pages" of The Advocate.

Rock Hudson!

Been there? LOL! I was a charter member.

20 centimeters is impressive but not "huge." Neither is 6 ft and 185 lbs.

I have had people try to text me on my landline number without realizing it doesn't get texts, and I have accidentally written phone numbers down incorrectly that I don't use regularly. It sounds more like a genuine miscommunication rather than a deliberate avoidance. What do you have to lose by asking him to get together?

In August of 1968, I decided to spend a few days vacationing in Provincetown, on Cape Cod, at a gay guest house I had stayed at a few years earlier. On my last day there, another guest ® chatted me up. He said he was traveling with a friend (J), whose birthday it was, and he was trying to pull together a few of the guests to go to dinner to celebrate his friend's birthday; he invited me to join them. That evening eight of us from the guesthouse went to a local restaurant, and seated around a large table, I found myself next to the birthday boy. We started talking, and after a while I realized that no one else was speaking: they were all watching the two of us. We had become totally absorbed in our conversation. After dinner, we all went back to the guesthouse, and as probably everyone expected, J and I ended up in bed (our rooms turned out to be next to one another). Around 2am, I said to J, "You know, I think we are going to spend the rest of our lives together." We exchanged info and made arrangements to meet again in NYC the following weekend. The next morning J and R left to continue their travels around New England, and I went back home to Pennsylvania. The following weekend we did meet in NYC. By the end of the year, we had signed a lease on an apartment. And we have eaten dinner together on his birthday ever since.

Also appropriate for the multi-tasking thread.