Common Sense	Common Sense Archive

Not long ago I had a pleasantly disturbing experience. I was on the subway, sitting in the sole seat at the end of the car, busy reading a newspaper. The subway was, surprisingly, not very crowded. At the next stop, people got on. One of these people was a tall man who stood in the car directly opposite me.

I certainly checked out this man. He was tall, had a ruggedly handsome face. He wore a knit short-sleeve shirt which emphasized his pumped-up torso. His trousers were a light color and very tight, almost in the early/mid-1960s way. He was dressed right. He radiated sexual energy -- broadcast it, actually, at 50,000 watts. I looked him up and down, then again. Went back to reading. But I only wanted to stare. For the entire ride. I was smitten. I then looked about the subway car. No one else seemed to have taken any notice of this Apollo.

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Next stop, more people got on. I took the occasion to gaze at my subway god yet again. I did wonder how many glimpses of this man's body I could get without seeming to be an ogler. I turned on my inner Amy Vanderbilt: what is the etiquette of cruising on the subway? Did this man know he was a knock-out? I assumed he must have known, as why dress as he did, if not to reveal his physical assets? Don't exhibitionists like the attention? On the other hand, I wouldn't like to have someone on the subway stare at me, even though I've had a history of amateurish exhibitionism, which met with limited response. Boston being Boston, there's a standard behavior on the subway in the morning, at least my branch of it. People keep to themselves, sit quietly or read, stare at their cell phones (the new masturbation), or talk in a low voice with their companion.

Another thing about Boston: it's not a city of strikingly good-looking people. The core enterprises in this fair city are Meds & Eds, not show business. People, thus, are somewhat plainer and more demure than I suspect they are in NYC and LA and other venues.

But there was this gorgeous man standing just across from me. I had to think about him. Did he like men or women? Or both? What did he look like in the nude? What did he sound like? What was his cock, nicely outlined in his tight trousers, like -- both flaccid and hard? How did he utilize his imposing sexual aura? Was he the sexual aggressor? Or did others pick him up? I decided that his face not being pretty made him even sexier.

I also had to ask myself: why was I so taken? I'm 60 years old. My libido has been on vacation for some years now. Other people are of less interest to me now than when I was younger. Yet, here was one man, a complete stranger, entering a subway at 7 a.m. on a weekday morning, and I was his slave. I think my cock actually tingled, a high rise for so early in the morn.

Were I he, how would I handle the management of so much sexual radiance? His seemed to be unidirectional -- aimed at me. Perhaps some folks don't have the receptors. Hard to imagine, but some seem to lack the appreciation of an incredibly sexy man or woman. It takes all kinds -- but what are they missing as not to notice? It must be the pagan in me: great beauty and radiant sexuality are the exceptions in our species and worthy of notice, and, usually, appreciation. And staring.

Taking communion at the altar

I recall back in the mid 1980s when I hosted a "book event" for Scott Madsen. Scott was, at that time, the model used in the TV ads for Soloflex, which was, I think, home gym equipment to pump up your body. These were the years of the Bruce Weber-infused ad culture; hot guys were top dogs, and Scott was one of them. A picture book of Scott, in his skimpy workout outfit, doing physical culture stuff, was duly knocked out, and Scott traveled about promoting it. The event I hosted, at the bookstore, was at noon. (The publicist had told me to enforce a strict policy of not letting anyone touch Scott. I asked why. "There was an incident in Washington." She said no more. I assumed some quean pawed Scott at the DC venue -- book tours are hard, particularly when you're not an author, but, honey, when in Rome....)

At any rate, several dozen gay men showed up to see Scott, buy his book, get the books signed, eat the food, etc. Scott spoke briefly, thanking every and all. And here's the part that was new to me. Scott sat there in his chair, and the gay men formed a circle around him and just stared at him. This went on for ten minutes or so, not a motion or a gesture by Scott or his adoring throngs; the eyes did all the work. I thought to myself: how can they just stand around -- life being short -- and stare at this guy (who was good-looking but not my type); I just didn't get it.

But flash forward two decades-plus, and there I am on the subway, my eyes all over this stranger, undressing him, redressing him, conjuring up all sorts of scenarios of him and me during a very brief subway ride.

Author Profile:  Mitzel
	Mitzel was a founding member of the Fag Rag collective, and has been a Guide columnist since 1986. He manages Calamus Books near Boston's South Station.
	Email:	mitzel@calamusbooks.com
	Website:	calamusbooks.com