May 16

Lads in Leather

My date with a Leather Master:

Your blogger has been on a date with a porn star only once in his life. And that was with Paul Gerrior, a nude male model for (now vintage) Colt Studio magazines. Some years ago I was browsing vintage porn at a store in San Francisco (as one does), when I was drawn to a cover model known as "Ledermeister" (Colt Gallery #5, not the one pictured). Wow. Without hesitation I bought the magazine at an exorbitant price and headed right back to my hotel to attend to a rather urgent need, if you get my drift.

BTW: these magazines would have made great investments. The one pictured above, with a cover price of $8, is for sale right now for $125.

 That was in 2001, when I was on my way from the east coast to Australia, and I broke up those 22 hours of flying by stopping off in San Francisco for a few days. I shared the "Ledermeister" story with my friends who live in the Castro, and they said they knew this Colt model personally. "He plays the piano and flute at church".

What?

This hyper-masculine porn star with a hairy muscular chest to die for is a musician? "Yeah, and he's a stage actor, too. And he speaks fluent German".

Long story short. My friends put me in touch with Paul Gerrior (Ledermeister's real name), and we set up a dinner date for the next day. I was crazy with anticipation. I let Paul choose the restaurant, but I swear I can't remember the name, but it had a dress code. Jacket required, but no tie.  I had a jacket with me, because I was on my way to play an organ recital in Sydney.

But when Paul showed up he was dressed in a cardigan with a shawl collar. No jacket, but management had no quibble. Of course, he was the most masculine man in the room. But there was also an elegance about him. No wonder, with his military (Army) bearing, stage and screen experience.

Here I was sitting across the table from a man I had fantasized about and jerked off to not 24 hours earlier. I suppose he was accustomed to star-struck stares, but he put me at ease right away. We talked about travel, music, his passions for singing (!) and needlepoint (!), and we spoke a little German. He had been stationed in Germany (U.S. Army), and I used to live there as a university student. I never brought up the subject of a possible sexual encounter, nor did he. Anyway, we were both tops.

At the end of the meal I picked up the tab, we stood up, and he embraced me in front of the entire room of upscale (straight) diners. I'm sure I looked as if I had won the lottery.

I'm writing about this now because I just found out that Paul died in 2021 (cancer, not Covid) at the age of 88. It had been my privilege to make his acquaintance. And such a sweet memory.

March 5

I’ve never insisted that anyone read a particular book. We all have different tastes. But this book is exceptional in ways that defy comparison to any other novel. Swedish novelist Fredrik Backman wrote a wildly popular novel titled “A Man Called Ove”, described as “heartwarming”, etc., etc. Soon to be a major motion picture starring Tom Hanks. I gave ten copies as Christmas gifts. It’s not often that a book suits just about anybody. Your grandmother, your nephew, brother, mother. But it’s a bit long on treacle, so I figured once was enough. I never read another Backman novel.

But “Beartown” was recommended by so many friends who would not let up. I relented just to shut them up. I read “Beartown” over two days when I was laid up with a nasty head cold. It’s a lousy title. After the first few chapters I decided it wasn’t for me. The whole thing revolves around a small town down on its luck, and hockey is the only thing holding it together. Please. But I was too ill to go out and inflict my germs on anyone else, so it was just me, trapped indoors with this book, “Beartown.”

It gutted me. I lost sleep in order to finish it. I can’t even find words to describe its impact on me. And about the last thing you’d expect from a straight author writing a book about hockey is a gay subplot. But it’s in there. A coach accidentally sees one of his players, a teenager, kiss another boy. Here’s an excerpt. (I’ve left out the names so as not to spoil it for new readers)

(The coach) “drives back to town. Sits in the car crying with anger. He’s ashamed. He’s disgusted. At himself. He’s spent his whole life in hockey training a boy, has loved him like a son, been loved in return like a father. There’s no more loyal player... No one whose heart is bigger than his. How many times has (the coach) hugged (the boy) after a game and told him, ‘You’re the bravest bastard I know... The bravest bastard I know.’

And after all those hours in the locker room, all those nights on the team bus, all the conversations and all the jokes and the blood, sweat and tears, the boy didn’t dare tell his coach his biggest secret.

That’s betrayal. (The coach) knows it’s a huge betrayal. There’s no other way to explain how much a grown man must have failed as a person if such a warrior of a boy could believe that his coach would be less proud of him if he were gay.

(The coach) hates himself for not being better than his dad. That’s the job of sons.”

And when I finished this wrenching book, I realized it was not about hockey at all.

Read “Beartown.”