The past couple of blogs have got me to reminiscing about my days hanging out in gay leather bars.  There were several in Los Angeles:  The Spike, The Eagle, The Gauntlet, Cuffs, Faultline...

One night, in the late 90's; 1997 to be exact.  March of that year to be exacter; I was out at the Faultline.  I had just left my job (not really fired but "this just isn't working out...") at L____________ Entertainment, which was housed on the Paramount lot.  For four years, Paramount and its environs were my world (during the day).  It was wonderful for most of that time; but towards the end of 1996 and into 1997, things were going South.  But that's another story; maybe a book.  Did you know that the northern border of Paramount Studios abuts the Hollywood Forever cemetery?  It does.  When I worked there, it was just the "Hollywood Cemetery."  I always found this the height of irony.  Valentino found fame on the lot and then ended up on the other side of the lot; for eternity: mere feet from his former stomping grounds.  Still a draw.  I can recall right after the Northridge quake, walking through the mausoleum, utterly alone.  Some of the crypts had cracked open and there was police tape.  I recall being drawn past the tape and then running, terrified, out into the cold Los Angeles sunshine.
But I don't want to wallow in morbidity.  This is a story of uplift!  Yes, it's about ghosts; but it's uplifting!

The man above is a model.  Yes, he is a real person; but he is not the person of this story.  However he is a representation.  He is a...oh, what's the word...an icon?  A ne plus ultra?  Maybe?  But put him in a room with a bunch of gay men who are like-minded and he's the one that everyone is going to want.  To want to be.  To desire.
That night, when I was at the Faultline, there was a new icon on the scene.  He was the cocktail waiter.  He totally gave off the vibe of the dude above.  He was all muscle and mustache and squeezed quite fittingly into short-shorts and a tank-top.
Every man in the room desired him.  He was the Object of Desire.
He approached me and asked if I wanted a drink.  Of course I did.  I was in a bar.  I ordered a beer.  He was so physically imposing I was intimidated.  When he returned and handed me the beer he smiled.  This was someone else. He was not trying to live up to the machismo he naturally gave off.  I flirted with him; but I flirt with everyone.  I figured he'd leave; but he lingered.  Was he flirting back?​  I mean, guys like him rarely hit on me.  Oh, once or twice maybe; but it was rare.  I forget the specifics of how it happened; but he ended up coming home with me.  Here he is, the morning after:

You can't tell in clothes, but he was all that without them.  And why did I take a picture of him?  I hardly knew him.  And I wasn't in the habit of photographing my paramours du nuit.  Did I mention his name was "Taurus"?  Like the zodiac sign?  Like, just "Taurus."  Stand alone.  Like Cher or Madonna or Charo.
So here's the thing.  We slept together.  Yes, we slept together; but we didn't have sex.  I was going to say, "make love" but the phrase is corny.  In a way, though, we did make love. If you consider skin contact and interest as kinds of love (and I do). We laid on my bed together.  I'm not sure we were completely naked.  For some reason I recall us both in our underwear.  I expected him to be the aggressor.  I assumed he would "take" me.  But he didn't.  He seemed tired.  Sleepy.  I considered being the seducer for once.  Oh, yes, I touched every glorious inch of him; but the idea of having sex was...daunting.  He was just too much man for me.  And I'm not talking about his manhood (although there was plenty of uncircumcised that).  Let me put it this way: the idea of mounting him (literally and metaphorically) would have been like trying to scale Mount Everest without a Sherpa.  It was just so nice laying next to him.  I felt protected and safe.  Next to a perfect stranger. He smelled like spices from some densely peopled land. I forget the specifics of what we murmured about in the half-light (L.A. is never completely dark).  I probably asked him a lot of questions about his life...but maybe I didn't; because I don't remember any of the answers.  The next morning we went to a coffee shop in Silver Lake.  The name escapes me; but it's long gone now.  I remember one time I was there and Carrie Snodgress was in the booth behind me.

I mean, she wasn't there when I was with Taurus.  I remember sitting there with him...that warm, safe feeling already falling away, in the unforgiving flat light, because I was jobless and had very little on the foreseeable horizon and I was scared and I knew this would be the last time I saw Taurus.  We had little in common; but for whatever reason, we were drawn to each other that night.  He bought me breakfast and gave me what reassurance he could.  I remember he had a steak and eggs for breakfast.  A big, thick steak for a big, thick man.  I mean, what else would someone called Taurus have for breakfast, besides steak and eggs?

I'll admit I'm a magical thinker.  I'm superstitious.  I believe in ghosts.  I believe in a little of everything.  I think maybe I was meant to meet Taurus.  I think Taurus, who was all in white the night I met him, was maybe an angel sent to help me through some dark night of the soul.  Maybe his words that I can't quite remember were words of wisdom I was meant to hear at that time and place.  Maybe that's the only reason I'm sitting here, now, typing this.
I wonder what became of Taurus but I also don't.  Because, in a way, for me, he only existed that one night and I can't wonder what happened to him because the whole encounter was so strange that...how could it have been real?
But I've never forgotten him.
That coffee shop is gone now; like so many others.  I'm pretty sure every single one of those bars I mentioned is gone now.  Gone.  Like torn down.  So even the ghosts can't go back.

But I still have that picture of Taurus.  That picture I took because...?
I think I'll frame it.
​See, I told you this would be uplifting.

​CFR  12/29/22

So, yesterday was my birthday.  I turned 57.  In numerology you add the five with the seven and get twelve.  Then you add the one and the two and get three.  I have no idea what that means.  But as School House Rock taught us: three, is the magic number!

So, that picture of me above is from 1998*.  That was a period when I was over Los Angeles and the whole Hollywood thing. So I moved back to Boston, which still had a few gay bars: before Grindr came along and destroyed a lifestyle.  It was at one of these bars, The Ramrod, that I met this guy named Tom.  He was a photographer.  He asked me if I would pose for him.  He must've assumed I was into the leather scene, as The Ramrod was a leather bar.
Originally called "Herbie's Ramrod Room," then later shortened to simply Ramrod, it was Boston's "go to" fetish bar.

Free buffet!  I wonder what was on the menu.  So, when I first went there in the mid 80's, the ads went from slave dungeon (I don't think I ever saw anyone on a leash there...and I was there quite a bit) to more Tom of Finland does Beantown:

I was never really "into" leather.  Oh, I had a biker jacket and boots and leather pants and would sometimes wear those items; but as far as being erotically aroused by cowhide and/or getting a boner over being tied up and/or mildly beaten or doing same to another person...not so much.  Okay, I guess we're going to go into some TMI territory here.  This blog is turning into something of a confessional.

Hey guys!
Please be advised that further perusal of this blog may contain information you may not want to be privy to.  Although I won't be showing you pictures of my asshole, I may be talking out of it.  Or, if you'd like me to recreate the Mapplethorpe "bull whip" photo; be sure to hit the "like" button!

So, anyways...I'm pretty vanilla.  That's not to say I haven't had my kinky moments.  We all have!  Why do people seem to think that people who have "kinks" are often assumed to be into "scat?"  You know, I've been around.  I've dipped my toes into the water.  But not once did I ever meet a guy who was into poop.  In any shape, form or fashion.  Now, you would think that sometime between 1981 and 1999 someone in the gay community would've brought it up.  Perhaps suggested it.  Just one.  But no.  Pee-pee?  Sure!  Poo-poo? No!  I mean, with Golden Showers you're not going to get a lot of variety.  Warm yellow liquid, generally.  But #2?  Like Forrest Gump said: "Number two is like a box of chocolates...you never know what you're going to get."

​Anyways, enough of this poop talk.
So, the reason I was in a leather bar was not so much that I was into leather; but rather, I was kind of into guys that were into leather…if that makes sense.  The leather bars seemed to me to be friendlier.  Sure, you might think that gay leather men are all tough and imposing; thin lipped and cruel…like the dudes in Cruising.  But no; it’s kind of the exact opposite.  People who embrace their kinky side, who “let their freak flags fly,” so to speak; are usually way more accepting of other people.  Usually, gay bars (are they even a thing anymore?) were full of men who were there to be looked at or being cliquey and/or stand-offish.  Frankly, the atmosphere at some gay places could be downright hostile.  So, that’s why I preferred the leather bars.  The Ramrod had a Thursday night event where a part of the bar was cordoned off and you couldn’t enter unless you had on leather or took your shirt off.  So most of the men were shirtless.  And in close quarters, there would be a lot of skin touching skin.  That to me was more erotic than any piece of leather.  However, I have been wanting a quirt for some time.  And/or a riding crop.  They're both good for precision work.  Have I ever used one?  Well, I'm not one to squirm and tell; but I have been informed by those in the know that they can be very...oh, what the word?  Invigorating?

So, in any event, Tom takes a series of photos of me in and out of leather.  Spring progresses into summer.  I'm not sure if I signed a model release; but I must've...because one night, in late summer of that year, I go to the Ramrod and what is the first thing I see when I walk in?  That very picture of me, blown up to gargantuan proportions (it must've been a good ten feet wide by twenty feet tall) and hung above the bar.  I was kind of in shock.  I had no idea that Tom was going to do that.  He never asked me for my permission.  I wasn't paid.  But there I was, in billboardian proportions.  I do not have photographic proof of this.  It was right before smart phone cameras became ubiquitous.  I never went back to take a picture of it with a regular camera, as I ended up going back to Los Angeles.  I only saw it the one time.  I remember being slightly embarrassed: for as "phallic" as my thumbs look; I couldn't help thinking I looked like the Fonz doing his "Aaaayyyyyy!" thing on Happy Days.  Sometimes I wonder if I dreamed this; but I didn't.  It really happened!  I was a Ramrod leather daddy...and I don't have the pictures to prove it!

Over the years the place expanded.  Where you can see the first green awning, above, was the main entrance.  The bar ran from the street all the way to the back of the building.  Then, they acquired the building next door, broke through the wall and opened up that space.  Then, they went down into the basement and opened a nightclub called "Machine," which was quite popular for a while.  But now it's all gone.  All of it.  Gutted.  Some kind of mixed use high-rise went up.  In fact, there are high rises rising along Boylston Street all over the place now.  Back in the day, there was nothing higher than four stories or so.
So, remember that time when I set out to become the world's oldest male prostitute in my mid-20's? If not, please see my blog The World's Oldest Profession and Moi for some background.  So, now that I am, at 57, actually considered old; I was thinking I should throw caution to the wind and introduce the world to "Daddy Chris."  Not "Zaddy Chris" (Mr. Meloni has a lock on that); just Daddy.  See, Daddy Chris, like Macho Chris, is one of my alter egos: like the way Yosemite Sam might be a cowboy or a pirate or a knight and so on.

I suppose I should say that "Daddy Chris" is going to be a new alter ego (that sounds so pretentious!  How about "character"?  Yeah, let's go with that).  You see, Macho Chris is kind of loud and boisterous; but Daddy Chris, it seems to me, needs to be cool.  Or chill.  Like, chill to the point where he might be on Quaaludes.  His voice barely rises above a whisper.  He sometimes mumbles.  Maybe you can't quite make out what he's saying; but be assured, it will be reassuring.  Maybe he'll be sort of ASMR.  He says things like: "Yeah, let Daddy Chris show you how to do a squat the right way..."  Maybe he'll have work out videos!  Maybe I should look into OnlyFans for Daddy Chris.  I mean, Daddy Chris will be naughty and super-suggestive; within limits.  He will not be triple XXX.  Maybe what they used to call "soft core." Maybe NC-17 or NC-18 to be safe.  Yeah, my husband is cool with Daddy Chris...even if Daddy Chris is niche.  Like so niche, he's only into like one thing.  Like the only thing Daddy Chris will let you see is his BOBB (if you have to ask, you don't want to see it).  

Maybe Daddy Chris will be more like one of those dudes who you can't quite make out what they are or what they're into.  Kind of like a gay?-leather-long-haired-musician?-hippie-will probably love the one they're with no matter who they're with...?  You know that type...

Don't bogart the milk, dude!

*So, that picture is an nth generation of the original.  The original was not all Lichtensteiny Ben-Day dots.  I wonder if that massive poster of me still exists...or the rest of the photos.  I'll have to see if I can track down Tom the photographer; which I probably can't.  Isn't it funny, when time goes by, and you find yourself a detective in your own life?

​CFR  12/22/22

11-15-23: In rereading this, I've realized that I've misspelled Msr. Chalamet's last name wrong at least once (and asterisked it with no accompanying footnote, which is a personal pet peeve--my bad!).  I also misspelled his first name, throughout.  "Timothy." The Anglicanized version.  It is, in fact "Timothee," with an accent on that last "e." No, wait...the first "e."  How does that work?  But I digress.  In any event, I have no idea how to accent letters on this site.
Now, generally, I would ask for proof as to this spelling, accepting nothing less than a birth certificate.  However, in this case, as Msr. Chalamet is both a citizen of the of the United States and France and is fluent in French (although not necessarily in English--kids today!), I will heartily give him the benefit of the doubt.  I will not, however, go back and amend the misspellings.  My apologies to Msr. Chalamet if I've contributed to his "cross-cultural identity issues."  Rest assured, I will be supporting Msr. Chalamet by going to see "Willy Wonka" at a theater, even though I feel a third version of Willy Wonka it two versions too many.
CFR

Be On the Alert for a Spoil-Sport!
That's a still from Call Me by Your Name, which arguably made Messrs. Chalemet* and Hammer Stars with a capital "S."
​Lots of questions.  'Frinstance: What's peeping out of Armie's shorts?  How did a love story involving a minor ever get made and when it was, with nary a concern from the culture?  If "gay" movies are considered to be not commercially viable; why does everyone remember this and Brokeback Mountain?  A line from the latter has actually entered the lexicon: "I wish I knew how to quit you."  Did straight men go to see these movies?  If so, did they enjoy them?  I mean, somebody was going to see them.

More questions: Don't you think Timothy looks a lot younger than 17?  He looks about 14 to me, even though he's 20 here.  Why was this choice made?  Also, why did the author of the book, who is straight, get a pass to write about gay culture?  Or was 2007 before "cultural appropriation" entered the lexicon.
So, we all know what Armie Hammer has been accused of and that he's been pretty much cancelled.  It all started when his "cannibalism fantasies" were made public.  But they were just fantasies. As far as we know, Armie never actually tried to eat anybody.
Which brings us to this:

​The above movie, which has recently been released, is based on a YA novel.  The subject matter?  Teenage cannibal lovers on a road trip.  "Teenage cannibals Chris?" you ask.  "Surely you don't mean literally?"  Yes, I reply.  Literally.  They eat human flesh.  Sometimes "Bones And All."  "Like, the entire body of a grown adult?" Not all the time; but they are capable of it.  Like when the heroine was a little girl, she ate most of her baby-sitter.  Not all, but most.  "But wait Chris, how could a baby physically consume most of something at least five times bigger than they are?  How would that be physically possible?"  Hey, don't ask me.  The movie completely glosses over the mechanics of its cannibalism.
"Wait a second...I'm still stuck on the cannibal thing?  You're telling me they make meals of other humans and actually devour their flesh?" Yes!  "Do they need to do this to survive?"  It's not clear; the movie shows them eating normal food like pancakes and Lucky Charms.  "And they can chew through bones?"  According to the script.  You see, they're called "Eaters" and they can find others like themselves through super-powered smelling.  "They smell?  Or they can smell one another?" Both.  "Okay...do they ever eat one another?" Apparently; although some "eaters" draw a line at eating their own kind.  Others not so much.  "Can you give me an example?"  Sure!  Apparently Timothy C. killed and ate his own father "all up."  "You're telling me he completely consumed his own father?  Including his father's...you know..."
Your guess is as good as mine.  Apparently he's a bi-sexual eater.  And incestuous.  "And this was all in a novel for "young adults"?  Yep.  "Wow...that's kind of twisted.  And then they went and made it into a movie that's Rated R; so ostensibly "young adults" can't see it without "old adults?"  Uhh-huh.

So, this movie was directed by Luka Guadagnino who directed Call Me by Your Name; which of course starred Timothy C. and Armie.  So is there a cannibalistic connection here?  I mean, if not, isn't that kind of a huge coincidence?
And let's go back to that initial unravelling of Mr. Hammer's life.  I'm not trying to dismiss the more disturbing allegations against him.  However, the first insinuations of Mr. Hammer's "cannibalism" were more than less taken at face value.  Like people were acting like he really was a cannibal when it was just a fantasy.  A weird fantasy; but a fantasy none the less.  
Some more questions/concerns: So it was okay for Timothy's character to kill gay men as opposed to men who might have a wife and kids?  I mean, there's a scene where he seduces a male carny worker, cuts his throat while he's jerking him off from behind and then Timothy and Maren (Taylor Russell) proceed to bite nice bloody chunks off of his naked body, which is shown quite graphically.  When they find out later this guy had a wife and children, Maren has a crisis of conscience; the implication being that it would've been okay if he was just, you know, a fag.  Speaking of fags.  The movie uses the word "Faggot."  Timothy's sister in the movie says: "You look like a faggot in that shirt!" (shirt seen above).  I mean, there's no good reason for it.  She could have said a million other things.  Like "stupid" for example. Or, "a girl."  It was just mean spirited.  And it's coming from a director who's gay himself.  There's been a lot of queer self-loathing in Hollywood lately.  Just watch American Horror Story: NYC.  Tell me I'm wrong.  I really hope the actor who played the carny goes on to bigger and better things.  He stole his scenes right out from under Timothy C. and that's not easy to do.  He out-charisma-ed him!  His name is Jake Horowitz.

Yes, there's somehow an undercurrent of homophobia in this movie.  And age-o-phobia.  'Frinstance, Mark Rylance's character explains that his first human meal was his grandfather, who was already dead.  Sure, why not?  Just the sort of spicy detail a book aimed at teen-age girls needs!  Where was all the freaking out over cannibalism when this book came out; or when it was chosen to be made into a movie.  No one at MGM thought, hmmmmm...just who is this movie for?  Armie Hammer?
And I just gotta ask...why wasn't Mr. Hammer in this movie?  He clearly inspired it.  Or would that have been a little too on the nose?  Or did the filmmakers have the bad taste enough to have asked him and he declined?
Did Armie Hammer have the good taste in this scenario?
Why does Armie Hammer get obliterated and a movie based on his kink (come on, it has to be) get a pass?  With kids yet?
And why wasn't this song on the soundtrack of a movie about cannibals in 1988?

CFR  12/6/22

Before several of them passed away...addiction sucks.
Maybe their best song?  And look how much fun they're having! 

This band meant a lot to me.  Maybe as much as the B-52's, which is strange, because they couldn't have been more different.  As a matter of fact; way back in the day I used to receive the B-52's Fan Club Newsletter and one time there was a questionnaire.  One of the questions was: "Who are your other favorite bands?"  When the results came back, the Pretenders were named as the most popular second choice.  They even toured together once!  
That is all.
​CFR   12/2/22​