Memoirs of a Gay Leather Elder 09: Funny and Fun, Part One

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Up to now, I've been pretty intense in my writings, and I have revealed some heavy-duty parts of my past.  There will be more of those, but my path has included a lot of fun, too:  Light.  Frisky.  Playful and Childlike.

Sure, I have prevailed over challenges, but I have also been loved by many, and I've had some amazingly fine experiences. Every story that I relate is true, and every joke is mine, but you are welcome to use them as well...

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Pedigree Dog Food

I was in the audience at the Mr. San Diego Leather 1984 contest. My buddy Mark Holmes won the title that year. A heterosexual kinky man who I knew and loved walked up to me, with his two slave-girls.  We embraced and he kissed me right on the lips, as he usually did.  He was a very early straight ally.  Back then, he was the only one that I knew.  Now, there are hundreds of them in my life.

I said "I've been meaning to ask for your advice."  He said "Sure!  What's up?"

I asked "What dog food do you recommend?"  He said "WHAT?!??"

I repeated my question, and he asked "Why are you asking me that?"

I said "I'm thinking of changing my brand.  Pedigree claims that they are 'Recommended by Top Breeders'.  Since you are the only breeder who I know who is a Top, I thought that I'd ask YOU!"

Years later, he told me that he had re-told that story at least 500 times.

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Pogey-Bait

In the Navy, the phrase "Pogey-Bait" was used to describe some item (such as a snazzy car) that could be used to attract sexual playmates.

Well, I can personally attest to the fact that a 1969 Triumph TR-6 sports car in FLAMING RED!!! could not have been improved in any way for picking up attractive military men wandering through Balboa Park on a pretty San Diego day.

That is, if you could keep it running.  1960's British sports cars had to have been the least dependable cars ever made.  During the time that I had it, I spent dozens of hours just cleaning electrical connections (made by Lucas Electronics) with fine sandpaper.  For this reason, Joseph Lucas was known as the Prince of Darkness, because the headlights, dashboard lights and taillights would go dark at random.

However, if everything was running fine, then there was a fool-proof way to get laid, any time that I wanted:

I'd drive slowly through the park, revving the engine whenever I'd see a hot military man by the side of the road.  He'd turn, see the "MR FISTR" license plate, and yell out "Hey! Mister Fister!  Nice car!"

I'd pull up alongside, and say "Ya want a ride?"  Turns out, he always DID want a ride.  We'd start a nice slow tour around the Fruit Loop and beyond, and end up at my apartment building nearby.  Then, I'd fuck him.

One day, I got a surprise:

A very handsome Marine accepted a ride, and eagerly joined me in my bedroom.  We both got naked, and then he said "Wait!"  He pulled a pair of his wife's panties out of his pocket and slipped them on. Then, he laid on his back, and threw his legs up.

I maneuvered around so that we could consummate, but as soon as I was balls-deep, he started hollering "Make me your BITCH, Sir!  MAKE ME YOUR BITCH!"  Over and over.  I couldn't get him to shut UP, until I shoved a dirty jock in this mouth.

Well, the thing was, it was a hot summer Saturday afternoon, and all of the windows in my ancient apartment complex were wide open.  For months afterward, I'd go wash clothes in the apartment building's laundry room, and some neighbor would sidle up to me and say "SO… Did you ever make him your BITCH?"

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One More TR-6 Story

I was going to college, and would drive the completely undependable little sports car back and forth each school day.  One day, we had unusual weather for San Diego.  I got into my car, and as soon as I hit the freeway, HUGE amounts of rain started coming down. The car gasped and sputtered to a stop by the side of the freeway.

The gas gauge was lying.  It told me that I had at least a third of a tank left. but in fact, the car was completely dry.  So, I got out, climbed a chainlink fence and jogged a mile and a half to a pay-phone.  This was what people did, when cellphones did not yet exist.

I called my boyfriend David, and asked him to bring me a can of gasoline.  I went back and got inside my car.  After about an hour and a half, he showed up.  I stayed inside the convertible and let him pour the gas.  He hated being in the gushing, cold rain, and was grumbling continuously.

I had a bratty impulse:  I rolled down the window and said "As long as you're out there, would you mind checking the oil?"

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A Tenor's Tale

My sister painted this portrait of me, right around the same time.

A quarter of a century ago, Country-Western themed gay bars were super-hot.  Popular like crazy.  I had five cowboy hats, and at least as many pairs of cowboy boots. We'd go out dancing at least twice a week.

These are my favorite cowboy boots.  If the police and 

their dogs are chasing me, I can go straight up a chain-link 

fence without even slowing down!  😄

I loved to go two-stepping, down at Kickers, which was one of our local Country dance bars.  When I was young, I had an incredible vocal range.  I could sing baritone on the low end, and could sing so high (without going into falsetto mode) that I could reach notes almost as high as a Countertenor.

So, here I am, all duded-up in tight jeans, boots, tight t-shirt and a nice Stetson hat.  I'm waltzing and singing along to Lorrie Morgan's song "Something In Red." while holding a buddy of mine from the Gay Men's Chorus in my arms.  I was matching Lorrie note for note, belting it out, and my friend was astonished.

He said "Wow! You really can sing high - You must be a tenor!"

I said "Yes!  Yes, I am."

"Wellll… I'm actually more of a 'nine-and-a-halfer,' but then, EVERYBODY exaggerates!"

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How I Got My Tattoo

Decades ago, tattoos were not popular.  Maybe a grizzled veteran from World War Two got a few tattoos when he was in the war, and they had blurred into black blobs by the time that he hit middle age.

Then, tattoos became trendy.  Everybody was getting them.  I resisted as long as I could, but when I made it all of the way through Mid-Life Crisis, I finally designed one for my shoulder, signifying "Love Around The Clock."  Of course, I never TELL people that.

If somebody asks me what my tattoo means, I say "I have no idea - It came with the body when I took it over.  It's so nice to be male again!"

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Cocker Spaniels

Back when I had two big black male mixed-breed dogs named Reggie and Stevie, I would take them to the dog park.  This was always a big deal for them.

This pic was taken on the same day as the story.  

That's Stevie chasing Reggie, and Reggie ignoring Stevie.

One day, I had brought the boys through the gate, and they started running along the perimeter fence; sniffing, peeing, pooping and being happy dogs.

Suddenly, two Cocker Spaniels ran up to Reggie, one on each side, and started licking his dick.  Lick-lick-lick.  You would have thought that there was ice cream coming out of his penis, the way that they were going at it.

Suddenly, the owner of the two dogs came running up to me.  He looked embarrassed. I said "You know, I never realized until now why they are called "Cocker Spaniels."

He was not amused, but I was!

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San Juan Capistrano

I used to have a gym-buddy named George.  George blushed.  A LOT.  Once I figured that out, I loved to use every trick in the book to get him to giggle and blush.

He didn't seem to mind at all, because I was a kind man, and silly, too.  I just loved seeing him crinkle up his handsome face, and it would turn beet-red.

One day, he came up to me to share some great news:  "Tony, I've got a new boyfriend!  We are going to spend the weekend in San Juan Capistrano!"

"Well, then, don't forget to SWALLOW, George!"

<<<blush>>> 

Memoirs of a Gay Leather Elder 08: Openly Gay in the 1970's Military, Part Two

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Memoirs of a Gay Leather Elder 07: Openly Gay in the 1970's Military, Part One

Hundreds more articles like this can be found

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The page listing all of the articles in this series can be found here, 

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In the Navy, we had a category of bragging called "Sea Stories", where we would compete to tell outrageous stories, and dare our buddies to disbelieve them.  

This is not that.  

Every story that I tell is never embellished.  At this end of my life, I don't care.  I will happily include stories where I fail, or look foolish.  My goal is to give witness to my life as it has been.  My life-story has been incredible enough for five average peoples' lifetimes, as you shall continue to see. 

I have lived my life on my own terms, always.

Every once in a while, I will post military stories from my life.  Don't expect these stories to be in chronological order.  I have a LOT more delightful stories than you might imagine.

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Blatant Homosexuality Aboard The Navy Ship

Onboard the ship, in my little office.

So… As I talked about earlier, I was openly gay on my ship, from 1976 until I left the Navy in 1979.  WHY?!??  What a seemingly foolish thing to do, with no obvious payoff.  Well, I started out idealistic as hell, and only became more so as time went by.  I was inspired by the words of my hero Harvey Milk, who I never met, unfortunately:

“Gay brothers and sisters... You must come out. Come out... to your parents... I know that it is hard and will hurt them but think about how they will hurt you in the voting booth! Come out to your relatives... come out to your friends... if indeed they are your friends. Come out to your neighbors... to your fellow workers... to the people who work where you eat and shop... come out only to the people you know, and who know you. Not to anyone else. But once and for all, break down the myths, destroy the lies and distortions. For your sake. For their sake. For the sake of the youngsters who are becoming scared by the votes from Dade to Eugene.” — Harvey Milk

I was self-righteously burning with a desire for massive, transformational, world-wide change.  Looking back, I would jokingly call myself a "Pie in The Face Homosexual".  This was because I took full advantage of my height to come out easily, often, and without really caring what the other person's take on the topic would be.

I'm one of the lucky ones.  I know that.  I have never broadcast "gay" on any channel.  It would have been exceedingly easy for me to have stayed in the closet.  Instead, I was a passionate agent of societal change.

Later on, I still came out at every possible opportunity, but entirely from a loving position.  That was a sure sign that I was growing as a human being.  I have never stopped doing so, even if it somehow caused me to make less money as a computer consultant.

I do have to admit, that I was a non-threatening fag.  I had plenty of "homo", but not a lot of "sexuality" in public view.  I was there to transform everybody's understanding, not grab ass with straight guys.

Somehow, it worked.  Plenty of my fellow sailors on the ship were quite supportive in wonderful ways.  Some stranger would pass me in the corridor, and burst out with the words "Oh, that Anita Bryant makes me SO MAD!"

I'd be befriended by the most ANNOYING straight guys, who were built like Greek gods, and who would chat with me for hours, naked, in the berthing (sleeping) area, scratching their balls, and oblivious to what they were doing to me.  Forty years later, I'm still clear that they were not flirting at all.  They were just early allies.

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An Early Crisis

This is not Jess, but his body was 

identical, except for his pale, creamy skin

I had a buddy named Jess.  Jess was a genetically-perfect example of a mesomorph.  He could glance at some barbells, and his muscles would grow to the size of boulders.  He had biceps like softballs, and he never went to the gym. Ever.

He and I were friends, but he wasn't sexually attracted to me.  So, we would travel together and sleep in the same bed, but not as fuck-buddies.  He was quite attracted to my black buddy John, though.  More about John later.

Anyways, our ship headed off overseas, and after a few days at sea, I came to the shop to report for work in the morning, and everybody was acting weird around me.  Nobody would tell me why.  Finally, I was informed that Jess had been groped in his bed in the middle of the night, and he assumed that it was me.  Out of 1,300 guys, I'd be the obvious choice to be the culprit, right?

I called my co-workers and management staff together, and made the following points:

I was Jess' friend, and if I wanted to grab his cock, I would ask him first, face to face.  The mere fact of my open and honest homosexuality made me the guy that everybody could trust.  I am the opposite of a sneak.  In those days, I was a well-known, rather self-righteously honest super-activist.  As far as I was concerned, I was Harvey Milk in a uniform.

I said "The ones that you want to watch out for are the repressed, fearful and closeted men.  On this big-ass ship, I am quite sure that there are a lot of them."  They all nodded, looked at each other, and agreed that I was off the hook.  My friendship with Jess continued on a basis of deep trust.

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The Two Master Chiefs

Each one of the stripes on this Master Chief's uniform sleeve 

represents four years of being in the Navy.

These guys had more than are shown here.

There were two Master Chiefs in my department, and they did NOT like me, since I was so bold and openly gay. One man had nothing to do with me, and the other one was always trying to verbally get the better of me. That never actually happened, because I was a bright, fearless young man who could think circles around him, for hours.  He'd say something mean or bitchy, and I'd respond with something funny, playful and true.

I never felt any fear or resentment.  I loved our interactions, really. I had discovered my wittiness, poise and my ability to take ownership of conversations. I was always exalted when I could stretch out my newfound abilities.

These guys were both married to women, and had children. They were the very definition of hyper-macho… Their forearms were covered in old, blurry tattoos and many nasty scars:

They'd get drunk together, and take a freshly-lighted cigarette and place it horizontally in between their forearms, pressed together.  Whoever pulled away first, lost the Supreme Butchness Competition.

Then, we went overseas.

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The Happy Bar in Olongapo

There were sixty men in my division on the ship.  We repaired electronics.  Being the bottom man on the totem pole, I chipped a lot of paint, and swabbed a lot of decks.

When our ship pulled into the Subic Bay Navy base in the Philippines for a six-month stretch, I was invited to head over to "our" bar and join my shipmates.  Every division had their own bar in Olongapo. Ours was the "Happy Bar".

So, I left the base by foot, and crossed the Shit River.  Olongapo had no septic system, and all of the sewage flowed directly into the river. Young Marines and sailors would throw coins into the river from the bridge, and Filipino children would dive for them. 

As I headed toward the bar, I would pass endless amounts of military men in tight, crotch-revealing uniform pants.  It was the fashion, up until they decided to get rid of such impractical uniforms.

This pic was found on the Internet, as are several others.

I include it to illustrate what I never photographed at the time.

Every time that I was in port, I would patrol that same sleazy strip in my role as part of the Shore Patrol, carrying a billy-club on a heavy belt, and wearing a black armband.  It was GREAT.  I could stare at men's crotches and asses with no fear at all.  They'd glance at the man checking them out, see the military police armband, and suddenly look everywhere but at me. This pleased me in a perverted way, and I took full, lusty advantage.

Shore Patrol on the strip

Moving along, I'd see dozens of bars, tattoo parlors, Jeepneys, open-air restaurants, beggars, wild dogs (and sellers of cooked dog and monkey meat on a stick, with the obligatory little paw on the end of the stick).  More than anything else, I saw the Filipina hookers.  Thousands of them.

In a photo like this, you could always tell who the single guys were.  They'd have a Filipina hooker with them in the picture.  After the photo was taken, the married men would welcome THEIR hookers back onto their laps.  This was the earlier version of Don't Ask, Don't Tell.

I finally found the bar, and came inside the door to find my entire team of sixty workmates in a crowded circle, whooping and waving cigarettes and bottles of beer as they counted upward together… "FORTY FIVE!  FORTY SIX!"  I pushed my way through the crowd, to see what the fuss was about.  

I found the two Master Chiefs, on the floor, drunk as skunks, pants around their ankles, laying on the floor on their sides, sucking each others' hard cocks.  The crowd was helping them to find out how long they could deep-throat each other without coming up for air.  Needless to say, I didn't know what to think at this point.  

Later, every time I would go to the bar after work, I'd see the same two guys sitting next to each other in a booth, across from my co-worker and ally Dave and his hooker.  The chiefs would be smoking, drinking heavily, and jacking each other off.  Later on, I asked Dave what the hell was going on.  He said "Everybody knows about them, and they are great guys.  We think that it's hilarious."

Once we got back home months later, the sassy Master Chief was trying to provoke me again, and I was a little irritated with him at long last.  I said "You know, science has proven that the man who is most upset about homosexuality is actually queer himself."

He replied "Oh, that's not true.  I'm 100 percent straight!"  My quick rejoinder:  "What about the Happy Bar?"  He said "Oh, that's on the other side of the International Date Line.  That's DIFFERENT!"

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The Marriage Trap

Subic Bay women were in Olongapo for one reason: To snare an American military man who would marry them, and take them to the USA, so they could send money off to their family in the Philippines.  It worked, too, and a lot more than you might realize. Some pretty young lady would be a young man's first sexual playmate, and she would pour on the charm.  He'd fall head over heels in love, and that would be that.  A mousetrap, with first-time pussy for bait.

The entire local culture was designed to make this happen.  The local women told us many times:  "Don't be a Butterfly!"  This was their phrase describing a man who would fuck a whore, leave her behind and keep fucking a different whore each time.  No, that was bad and rude, and these women would retaliate, so that NO woman would have sex with a known "butterfly."

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The Sexual Hunt

Needless to say, I was not in a market for female whores.  There were local "Benny Boy" bars, for those looking for Filipino drag queens and sissy boys.  Not my scene.

Being clever, I figured out the perfect way to cruise for hot older military men, no matter which port we pulled into, anywhere in the world.  We'd pull into port, and I would head directly for the military gym on base.

I'd work out, and I'd keep a sharp eye out for the man who would shift from the gym floor, to the steam room, to the locker room, and back again.  I'd see him head for the steam room.  I'd get naked and join him.  After "exchanging credentials," to our mutual satisfaction, I'd ask him "Where do all of the gay military guys hang out?"  He'd say something like "The Petty Officer's Club, every Wednesday night!"  I'd thank him, and make plans.

I'd show up, and look at the long tables, crowded with sailors and Marines.  I'd spot the table that did NOT have waitresses sitting on men's laps, earning extra tips by flirting. These girls didn't get ANY tips by flirting with anybody at that one table full of forty or fifty gay men, so they didn't bother.

I'd arrive in full Tom of Finland leather gear, and heads would whip around.  I'd pick up some hot Master Chief, Lieutenant or Chief, and we'd make plans to spend the weekend together.  We'd head off to the provinces on a motorcycle, and stay at a hotel. I'd breed his hungry ass repeatedly, and we'd have us some HONEYMOON, feeding each other delicious local food, getting drunk, and going back to fucking at the hotel.

I did this dozens of times, with a different man each time.  I was just FINE with being a Butterfly.  Noooo problem.

Memoirs of a Gay Leather Elder 06: Discovering the Secret Elders

Hundreds more articles like this can be found

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The page listing all of the articles in this series can be found here, 

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Learning To Bond With Men

I was a severely confused young homosexual male in my earliest years. There was a lot of mystery for me when it came to interrelating with other males.  I didn't have close, relaxed male friendships until the 7th grade, when I finally stopped being beaten by my father.  My mother FINALLY started believing my sisters when they complained about my father having sex with them, and divorced him when I was thirteen.

At that time, as a result of my no longer being a child, he was doing his best to drive me out of the family, as he had done to my three older brothers at ages eleven, fourteen and fifteen.  As a direct result of my liberation from my dad's torment, I was the first male in my generation who graduated high school.

My father had no interest in knowing me.  To my brothers (8, 10 and 12 years older than me), I was a rug-rat, and not worth bothering about.  After I came out as gay, they chose to never be my brothers again, even to this day, four decades later.  Both of my grandfathers had died, long before I showed up.  Any other male relatives lived on the other side of the USA.

I craved male company.  Yes, I wanted sex, but I craved interpersonal connections more.  Sex was an easy, easy way to gather males closer to me.  However, unending sex in a late-1970's "party-party!" context was like eating Styrofoam… Filling, but not nourishing.  I sensed that many of the men around me had fallen into a mindset where sex itself was an itch that could never be properly scratched.

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Social Entrée Into The Older Generations

When I met David Dollahite, he seemed like a dream of maturity and wisdom.  He was 42, and I was 21.  I was a Top, and he was a bottom.  It's just math:  21 goes into 42, more times than 42 goes into 21!

I intentionally took my thick eyeglasses off for some of these photos.

My vision at the time was 20/1200.  

My reading distance was at the end of my nose.

Better still, David introduced me to a vast, gay-male underworld where thousands of homosexual males found me to be sexually attractive.  These older males wanted to be close to me, and were just plain nice to me. The trajectory of my life changed immensely… from dark depths, to a constant high of pleasure, with emotional and intellectual growth as a big bonus.

As much as I idolized David, I soon found out that he had emotional wounds that were driving him deeper into an early grave.  He had grown up in Texas, joined the Air Force and became a pilot.  He had gotten married and had a son.  Then, David's wife caught him having sex with a man.  During the divorce trial, his wife had taken everything, and the judge legally constrained David from ever seeing his son again.  For life. That was 1970's Texas-style justice.

So, David was spiraling downward in his grief, and I didn't know it for a while.  He was good at playing "The Good Time That Was Had By All."  I do know that I brought vast pleasure to his life with my endlessly-positive viewpoint and youthful wonder. He saw everything through my young and idealistic eyes, until the drugs and AIDS took him down permanently.

Still, I owe that man several lifetimes of gratitude. As a result of his outgoing ways, doors opened up to me that were invisible to everyone that I had known before.

For the first time in my life, I was on the inside.

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I Meet The Secret Elders, And It Doesn't Start Well

A VERY unfortunate truism is that it is too easy for gay men to be shallow, judging others solely by their looks.  I have fought against this for decades as a community leader.  However, as a callow young man in the 1970's, I was trying to fit in.  I had plenty of shallow, "A-List" buddies who were scornful of anyone who wasn't as sexy as we were.

Old people were "Trolls," and not worthy of consideration. Maybe next lifetime, buddy.

Look at all of these canyon slopes, providing

perfect climate and drainage for growing 

macadamia nuts and avocados.

So, I wasn't well-prepared when David brought me to a pool party, way up in San Diego's North County, where Old Highway 395 and Highway 15 came together. We arrived at a ranch house in a grove of hundreds and hundreds of avocado and macadamia trees.

First, we met the obese Labrador Retrievers.  They were covered in rolls of fat, and had the glossiest fur that I had ever seen. When an avocado dropped from a tree, and was covered by leaves, the immigrant workers may not have found it, but the dogs always did.  Yum!

These baby avocados will be ready in November

We were greeted by our hosts Clark and Joseph, who had been together 53 years.  This meant that they had met in 1924 (!!!)  They were out of shape, bent over, had age spots and smelled funny.  They didn't make much of a positive impression.  I was looking for the hot guys in bikini shorts at a pool party, not these old farts.

As time went by, more and more elderly couples arrived… about forty couples in all. Other than David, I was the youngest guy there by forty years, and I was not liking how this was progressing.  Everybody wanted to chat me up, and appeared to expect hugs from me.  This was creeping me out.  I was ready to leave.

Then, everybody stripped down naked and jumped into the pool.  I was the only one wearing shorts, and I was moving away from those ugly old men who wanted to get too close to my personal boundaries.

Finally, I was cornered at one end of the pool, and a couple of guys tried to get my shorts off.  I jumped out of the pool, ran inside the guest house and locked myself inside the bathroom.  I was furious.

After a short time, Clark tapped on the door and asked if he could come in.  He could tell that I was upset, and wanted to help.  So, I let him in, and I explained how I was feeling as we sat side by side on the wide edge of the bathtub.

After I was done, he kindly and patiently explained what was actually going on, and I listened with growing shame.  I was embarrassed for my terrible manners.  He told me that none of these men were trying to force sex upon me.  Instead, they could all tell that I was disconnected with everybody else for some unknown reason.  They were trying to jolly me up, and make me feel welcome as one of them.

I left the bathroom, apologized to everyone, stripped down, and jumped back into the pool.  Over the next year or so, David and I would attend these pool parties during the warm months.  Each party was held at a different ranch, owned by couples who had been together a minimum of 39 years (together since 1938), 42 years (1935), 48 years (1929), all of the way up to Clark and Joseph's 53 years.  Clark was the glue that bound everybody together, and the parties stopped when he died.

Up to this point, I had never known that gay-male relationships could last more than a couple of years.  These men were utterly invisible to the gay community, and the larger world, for very good reasons:

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Homosexual Dachau

Take a minute to read this article.  Here is an excerpt of David Mixner's words:

At Atascadero State Hospital, doctors (I use that term loosely) were permitted under an obscure California law to commit those who practiced sodomy into the hospital. Once admitted, normal men and women were rendered mentally disabled through the torture of castration, lobotomies, forced chemical treatments and experimental treatments. The horrors experienced by hundreds are almost too hard to comprehend in America.

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The Concentration Camps

In 2016, my husband and I took the Grand Tour of Europe to celebrate our 25th wedding anniversary.  When we arrived in Germany, our tour group visited the Dachau camp in Germany.  I was an abrasive, angry man that day, and I didn't want to be, but I had a towering rage.

There were sculptures in several places, showing colored triangles to represent the many types of people who had been tormented and killed in death camps. The only color missing, anywhere?  Pink.  There were no sculptures that included the pink triangles of the homosexuals, who were among the lowest of the low.  Sure, our gay predecessors were mentioned in small signs now, but only as footnotes, alongside Gypsies and the mentally weak.

When our wonderful, sweet guide wound up the tour with some words about Liberation Day for the death camps, I very passionately corrected her: the only people who did NOT enjoy "Liberation" were the homosexuals.  They went directly from death camps and concentration camps, into prison.

Homosexual men queuing in concentration camp, wearing the pink triangle

She had no idea, and thanked me for the information.  She promised to do more research for her fellow docents.  I asked her why there were no pink triangles in the sculptures.  She empathetically told me that they had been sculpted in 1963, when nobody was an advocate for homosexuals.

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Life Is So Much Better Now

As a result of my passionate advocacy, the rest of the heterosexual couples in our tour group grew much, much closer to us. They wanted to be our loving allies.  If we wanted to walk the streets in foreign countries holding hands, they would all do so as well, in a protective circle around us. Nobody asked them to... They just wanted to show us loving, unconditional support.

This attitude did NOT exist for my new elder friends, for their entire lives. They never had a single taste of it.  They never experienced a thousandth of the acceptance and celebration that we now enjoy. After being together for decades, they STILL kept separate bedrooms for when relatives came to visit the "roommates."  Nobody was fooled, but it was a terrible topic that could never be discussed.

They were wary, after a lifetime of fear.  They could have been fired at any time, thrown into prison, beaten and/or killed.  They had few allies.  They were suffering from PTSD, after a long lifetime of unending stress.

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Our Legal Marriage

On June 23, 2018, my husband Dennis and I will be celebrating our tenth legal marriage anniversary.  A month and a half later, we will be celebrating the 27th anniversary of our first wedding, long before it was legal, or trendy.  That story can be found here.

The left ring was worn by Dennis' uncle, 

stationed in Iran ("Persia") during WW2).

The ruby-and-gold ring on the right belonged to his great-uncle.

When same-sex marriage finally became the law of the land in California, we wore special rings.  Dennis had an uncle and a great-uncle who had never dated women, and never got married.  They had to live with their parents, and died alone.  In those days they were referred to as "Confirmed Bachelors."

Dennis owned rings that had belonged to both of those men, and we had them re-sized to fit our fingers.  We wanted to honor them, and to carry them in our hearts as we celebrated joys that had been denied to them.  We didn't want to forget them.  They are our family history.

Seeking out and honoring the graves of our gay ancestors 

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Blanket Parties

Those much-older brothers in the 1970's listened to my boastful, youthful bragging about how I had made it through the last 2-1/2 years of my Navy enlistment as an openly-gay man, and they were appalled and terrified for me.  One retired Navy Commander in the group told me about "Blanket Parties" from the 1950's and 60's:

If some sailor was suspected of being queer, he was not going to be allowed to live.  In the middle of the night, out in the middle of the ocean, the homo was woken by having his blanket wrapped tightly wrapped around him by many rough hands. He couldn't defend himself as he was dragged down the corridor.

He would be beaten, kicked and cursed, and then thrown over the side of the ship, to drown all alone, hundreds of miles away from land.  The relatives were told "He was lost at sea," and nothing was ever done about it.  This happened to many, many gay men in the dark years before we started liberating ourselves in the late 1960's and onward.

One of the other elders had been discovered to be homosexual in the military, and was going to be discharged at the age of thirty, but a gay psychiatrist filled out papers to have him classified as "mentally damaged" and got him an early retirement at FULL pay, for the rest of his life.

That same man told me that he had been in the Army during World War 2. He had a roommate who used to go out to the area near the gay bars.  He liked to assault gay men and take their money.  Then, one night, the roommate came home early, bloodied and bruised.  Missing a few teeth, too.  When asked what had happened, the roommate said "The last thing that I remember, was hearing 'The only thing that I like better than sucking cock, is beating up straight boys!'"

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Wisdom Personified

I strongly believe that I interviewed every one of these elderly, long-term gay couples during the time that I knew them.  I wanted every bit of long-term relationship advice that they could spare, including:

• Never go to bed angry.
• Be kind and generous - No sniping at each other.
• Every relationship is different.  Make agreements that work for the two of YOU.
• Men are going to fuck around.  If it happens, make new agreements and just keep going.  
• In fact, make him tell you every filthy detail, so that you can both get horny and fuck each other!

I give the eagerly-shared wisdom of these men credit for the last 28 years of ecstatic bliss in my life with my dear husband Dennis.  In Part Five of this series, I talk about how I was friends with Drew Mattison and David McWhirter. When the two men were researching long-term male couples for their book called The Male Couple: How Relationships Develop, I believe that they used these "elders in the avocado groves" as valuable research subjects.

The more that I knew about these sweet old men, I realized how wonderful they were.  They were my "Loving Uncles" - they fussed over me, and loved me unconditionally. They taught me coping-mechanisms, success techniques, and life wisdom.  Their well-earned fears colored their advice, but they meant to help me to succeed, in what had been an unbearably hostile world for all of their lives.

I would give anything to go back to those days, and record every word of their stories.

Memoirs of a Gay Leather Elder 05: Seeking Mentors

Hundreds more articles like this can be found

at the Kink Mentoring Archives… Spread the word!

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The page listing all of the articles in this series can be found here, 

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After my momentous decision in Part Four, I now had a path to follow, eventually leading to deeper wisdom, powered by a belly full of FIRE, to move me further along that path.

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The Fruit Loop

After hearing from a wise, kind older gay man (the Navy shrink), I was ready for more useful life-wisdom, but looking to my young peers was turning out to be a dead-end:

I used to head over to the "Fruit Loop" (official name: Marston Point in San Diego's Balboa Park), every weekend.  This was right along the part of the park where men had unending sex in the bushes, yards away from oblivious families. Years later, the bushes were all torn down.

Back in those days, I joined about eighty other young men, to "work on our tan-lines".  This meant that we'd slather ourselves with baby-oil (SPF MINUS TWENTY), and we'd lay out in the hot summer sun to burn, peel and eventually gain dark, "healthy" tanned skin.  The higher the contrast between the bikini-shaped white section, and the dark tan, the more sexual desirability and status.

We knew NOTHING about skin-cancer.  The topic never came up,

I was doing deep work on understanding context, and gaining coping-mechanisms back then.  This was not true for my buddies.  They'd be nattering on and on, talking trash all day.  Popular topics:

Who's Fucking Who?
Where Do You Get The Best Drugs?
Where's The Party?

Are They Still Together After Two Weeks?  And WE Said That They'd Never Last!

This would go on for hours, until I could finally get a word in edgewise. I'd say "Guys, I'm having some big issues with my dad…." and then I'd go into specifics, ending with an invitation for some suggestions.  There would be a long, dead silence, until somebody would say "Well, ANYWAY…" and the conversation would snap back to normal.

Duly noted.  Not gonna get what I want, here.

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David Dollahite

I had started attending self-help workshops by this time.  I was active with San Diego's Gay Youth Group, and with the Advocate Experience:

David Goodstein and Dr. Rob Eichberg created The Advocate Experience. Loosely based on the then-popular EST (Erhardt Seminars Training), it was a two-weekend, all-day series of extensive self-realization workshops to bring self-acceptance, awareness and tolerance within the LGBT community. 

Well, I took to those concepts of self-responsibility and living in integrity, and made them MINE.  I had renounced my upbringing and Catholic brainwashing, and was rapidly filling-in the gaps with new, life-sustaining concepts that worked very well for me.  I didn't always handle them well at first, being young and damaged.  I was a classic "est-hole," frankly.  Once I mellowed-out, I was better.

That's me in the middle.

So, I was going to march in the 1978 San Diego Pride Parade with the other gay men from the Advocate experience.  I did, for a while, until I saw a strikingly handsome, dapper man in his forties, wearing a chalk-stripe dark suit, standing on the sidelines.  I walked over, and invited him to join us. This was David Dollahite, the man who would help me immensely along my path.

David, typically naked.  I thought up the license-plate: "MR FISTR"

That 1969 Triumph TR-6 was perfect bait for young, bi-curious Marines.

We flirted, and he invited me to join him at his apartment after the parade.  When I showed up at his seven-room suite with a balcony overlooking the park, I found the place jammed with every kind of people, all laughing, hugging and joyful.  There was a twelve-foot Bösendorfer grand piano in the middle of the living room, and David was seated there, playing Chopin,.

Stark naked.

David and I, 1978

David loved to be naked, as he had a gorgeous penis, and loved to show it off. He urged me to stick around after the party.  I was charmed by his charisma, so I agreed. Once we were in a private play-space with a sling, he asked me to "fist" his ass.  I had never heard of such a thing, and didn't see the point, but I agreed.

Joseph and me, the day that I met David.

As it turned out, I loved the deeply intimate connection that we made, and I had some real talent already, due to my quick learning and happy energy.  Plus, I had a very large fist.  Just like that, David dumped his boyfriend Joseph, and David and I were boyfriends.

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My Introduction To Flogging

At David's urging, I attended a kinky weekend event, and saw somebody "flogging" somebody else.  This was news to me, and I had a rather bad attitude when I watched the demo in progress.  The instructor said "Who would like try it?" and my hand shot up high.  I looked up at it in surprise!

I was guided to the proper location and position, and I expected pain and torment, like when my father had beaten me.  My attitude was "Bring your worst, fucker - I am not afraid of you!"  I was shocked as the scene progressed.  The Top was skilled and sensitive.  He formed a wonderful power-flow between us.  I experienced no pain at all. The thought came to me:  "I could fall asleep while this is going on!"

After that scene, I was wildly endorphinated - I was blissfully high on natural brain-chemicals. I was convinced that this was going to be a big part of my life.  It was yet another life-passage for me:

Coming Out As Gay
Coming Out As Leather (an erotic fetish, based upon how you look)
Coming Out As Kinky (based upon what you do).

I made it my business to learn everything that I could about impact play, and have stayed in that mode for the next forty years.

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Entering the Blue-Ribbon Party Circuit

I could not have predicted how my life would change by meeting David. Every weekend involved massive play-parties.  I suddenly became hugely popular with hundreds and hundreds of older men, as David's guest.  Being young, energetic, dominant, and possessed of a large cock, I was a rising new star.  I was younger than the average attendee by around twenty years, minimum.  My dance-card was full.

Sling-Room.  The goal is to lift the legs so that the bottom in the sling can relax.  

David was wealthy, making $400,000 per year - he was employed as a consultant who helped wealthier people find ways to hide their money from the tax collectors. Every home that we stayed in had a sling-room. We lived in that room a lot.

I had my own agenda.  I used my talents as a passionate young Top to attract older gay males.  As soon as I was done playing with a man, I would ask him "How could I have done that in a better way?"  Every man was flattered to be asked, so he would TELL me.

 I did this with every man that I played with.  For years.  Thousands of men.  I became a Tenth-Degree Black Belt Topman, thanks to what these glorious late-1970's sexual athletes taught me.

I had endured a childhood entirely lacking in male role-models and mentors.  Now, I was loved and respected by SO many glorious men.  They could see that I was young, but I was deep, too. I paid attention to wisdom, and followed through.  I was an uncommon young man.

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Soft Skills, Hard Skills

After twelve years of sexually-restrictive Catholic school, I was super-motivated to learn how to be the best at kinky play and homosexual pleasures.  No man has ever been in a better environment for those goals. Being a gay, kinky Leatherman in the late 1970's was a paradise.  David and I traveled to major parties in Washington DC, New York, Los Angeles and San Francisco.

Hard skills are specific, teachable abilities that can be defined and measured, such as step-by step knowledge of how to perform a kinky technique. By contrast, soft skills are less tangible and harder to quantify, such as etiquette, getting along with others, listening and how to connect easily on an interpersonal level.

I was mildly interested in hard skills at first, and quickly mastered the popular kinks back then.  In a short time, I realized that I had a greater talent for, and interest in, soft skills. I learned how to connect with any playmate on an intensely deep level.  I could establish trust and commonality in seconds. I could guide any play-partner to the best ecstasy that he had ever experienced, IF he wasn't stoned out of his mind. That never worked well for me.

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Name-Dropping

Richard Locke's home in the high desert. I used to stay there periodically.  

I'd also fuck Al Parker in his big Dodge van.  He was very short, and a sensational cuddler.

I started forming friendships with "Big Names" in our community. I grew up in the San Fernando Valley, going to school alongside the children of movie and TV stars.  As a result, I didn't get all gloopy and star-struck when I met famous people.  I'd meet a porn-actor, and he'd be just another man that I would swarm all over during a play-party.  They found this attitude to be charming. They wanted to be friends with me, because I didn't CARE who they were, to their admiring public.  I treated them like wonderful men who were worth knowing.

I was also a confidant with a lot of men who were locally famous in California, such as Laud Humphreys, David Goodstein and Bruce Voeller. I admired them deeply. They were action-oriented, and were moving gay rights forward, in their own ways.  I didn't always agree with their viewpoints, but there was never any rancor between us.

The Male Couple

I was friends with Drew Mattison and David McWhirter, who were a couple that lived in La Jolla. They were working on the superb book called The Male Couple: How Relationships Develop.  I consider it to be THE shop-manual for successful, long-term male couples.  I give that massive credit for the fact that my husband and I are about to celebrate 28 ecstatic years together.

I remember visiting Drew and David at their home in the summertime for jacuzzi and cocktails.  We were all waiting for their very special guest, driving in from Palm Springs.  He was quite late, and we were getting worried.  After a couple of hours, he arrived in terrible shape. He was wearing nothing but a red speedo, and was so sunburned, you couldn't tell where the bathing-suit ended, and where his red flesh began.

In the late 1970's, the only way that you could get a new convertible is if a local shop sawed the roof off of a sedan or coupe, and added a convertible top.  He had rented a Lincoln four-door convertible, and started driving toward La Jolla.  He pulled over after getting out of the desert, and tried to put the top up.  The motor simply couldn't handle the weight, so he had had to continue on his trip with no shade for about 120 miles!

It was fun for all of us, tenderly rubbing soothing cream on his suffering flesh.

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As Usual, I Have To Say It

Every man who I have mentioned by name in this article, died of AIDS in the 1980's and 1990's.  None of them survived, except for me.  I knew some of the finest men in our Tribe, and I still suffer sometimes from Survivor's Guilt, which is classified these days as a form of PTSD.