NOTICE FOR ALL SENIOR COMMUNICATION MAJORS:  

March 19, 1984

Job Interviewers from across the country will be here, starting in two weeks, and lasting for one week. Portfolios of company descriptions will be available in the Dean's Office for your perusal.  Interviewees should prepare a folio of relevant course projects, internship output, individual artwork, etc. to provide information for interviewers. This university has an 84% success rate (1973-1983) in placing graduates in their first jobs. Let's improve that statistic this year.

Sign-up for interview appointments with Ms. Shadrack in the Dean's Office. Be on time; be presentable; be gracious; and be smart. Interviews are your first major step to future success.

==================================

"Hmmmmm. I'll have that final semester project in COMM 421, Advertising Creative Strategies... and some assignments in COMM 422, Media Planning... but that's about it" I thought. "I'll have a form-letter from John Brigham... he reserves the personal letters for his favorite students. But, what else?" And then it struck me. How about the ad ideas I put together for Troy and Rumors. But... gay leather? Full frontal nudity? Guys on guys? Should I show them that? If I hide the fact that I'm gay, it will come out sooner or later. If I reveal it now, however, I may miss some job offers, but the offers I might get would indicate an acceptance... willingness... maybe even an attraction. It could work both ways, positive and negative. But, just seeing the looks on their faces when they see naked men would be worth it! Into the folio it goes. Fuck'em! [The proposed ad layout for Rumors is included at the end of this chapter.]

It took two visits to the Dean's Office. Many of the company portfolios were checked out, even though we could keep them for only an hour. I picked six ad agencies, all in the Pittsburgh area.  Yeah, yeah, I could have tried for some of the big New York agencies, but I've always thought of the City as being a place for tricking, late-nights, and fucking... not a place to get up in the morning and go to work. Why sit at the banquet table with no fork? I know my way around Pittsburgh. It's big enough for me. I know all the places; I've got sort-of a reputation; and my adopted Mom is there. Debbie would kill me if I tried to leave Pittsburgh.

The first interview was with D & G G Advertising. I'll omit most of the gory details; the interviewer was about 80 years old... claimed he was responsible for the red-and-white Campbell's Soup can... and he only asked me three questions in the half-hour interview. This was not a company that I wanted to work for. When he looked at my folio and got to the Rumors ads, he finally put on his reading glasses... but he only commented on the font choice and never mentioned the photos. He probably hadn't seen a naked man for fifty years.

The second interview was with Ryder Advertising Partners, another influential agency in Pittsburgh and a few other cities for the last 20 years. The interviewer (I think it was Marty Ryder, himself) was about fifteen years older than I... fit, smooth, friendly (yes, I'd fuck him.)  And he showed some interest in the Rage ads.

"We do, primarily, branding for commercial businesses,'' he began, "and a few of our clients make men's underwear and swimsuits," he said, "Interacting with male models, makeup, photographers, writers, things like that. There's a team at Ryder that does this kind of thing for several menswear brands... not as explicitly at this," he said, glancing at the nude bodies. "But, perhaps you could fit-in there." I was imagining fitting into several male models. My mind started wandering at the word ‘But'.

The third interview was with Centra Tech Applications, a start-up company. There were three interviewers. I got the impression that they were the three start-up guys, with no other employees. They were young, casually dressed (well, that's even being generous)... they looked more like students. And they seemed to have no organized questions to ask. It was more like a conversation at a bar... and I was certain that at least two of them were gay. Troy had "tuned" my Gaydar to a fine degree of accuracy. I doubt that they are still in business.

Three more interviews, with companies I won't name, were unworthy of mention. They barely looked at the Rumors stuff. And they spent more time talking about their companies than they spent getting to know me. They were a waste of my time. Maybe college interviews were not my way of getting a job. If I did some research, got some names, or used the Gay Underground to identify good contacts, that might give me a chance. One-on-one, either in the sauna, the backroom, or the hot tub, I'm at my best. I could have an ad executive licking my balls!

On Friday, I decided to go back to Altoona... perhaps for the last time. I could meet my sex needs on campus now... so, no need to drive that far to spend the evening with the same crowd of guys. I had fucked the best. The University was a better "hunting ground" for the type of guys I like. But, it was only a few months until graduation. So many guys; so little time. And then, if I could find any kind of job in Pittsburgh... that would open up an entirely new collection of asses to penetrate. I'll bet there are a thousand guys in Pittsburgh that fit my criteria, "Bless their hearts."

I arrived in Altoona at 3:30 pm so that I could have time to talk with Troy before the bar opened that night. He answered the front door after I pounded on it for five minutes.

"I've been up on the third floor... with the sound system turned up, so I didn't hear the pounding until I came down to use the toilet," he said, giving me a gentle hug. He seemed sad, or muted, or uncomfortable. Was he embarrassed by what happened at the opening of the Labyrinth?  Had he had a big fight with Hammer? Was the business not doing well after the opening? All of these possibilities came flooding into my thoughts. "Are you okay?" I finally said as we broke the hug. 

"Are we okay?" I added.  

"Well, seeing you... just seeing you, brings back so many memories. It's like when you flush the toilet, and the new, clean water comes in... washes away all the waste and shit. I feel like my life just "flushed," he said quietly. "Come, let's sit."

We sat at a bare table in the bar. No drinks. "I came to talk... to tell you several important things," I began. "I'll try not to use the words ‘forever' or ‘never' in what I have to say. Nothing can be that definite as I take this new step in my life... after graduation." I patted the back of his hand. "You will always be my friend. I'll have your phone number, and you'll have mine.  Wherever I go, I'll tell you. Whenever I can, I'll come to Altoona. When I'm at the peaks of happiness or the depths of desolation, I will call you. All of this, I assume you will do, too." He shook his head in agreement, but he was crying. I continued, "You have poured out more love to me than anyone else in my life. You have given the greatest gift, yourself. I know this isn't what you want. But, it's what I have to give. And you can come to Pittsburgh... and we can fuck our brains out until the last few grey cells are left, and we'll have the combined intellect of two amoebas trying to eat each other." He looked up with sad eyes but shaking his head ‘Yes'.

"I probably said some hateful things at the opening. I should never drink... not the best occupation, bartender, if you're an alcoholic," he said quietly. I don't even want to remember what I said. It was such a God-damned awesome time... that ‘opening'... fulfilling one of my dreams... I just wanted to have it all... all I ever wished for. I even prayed... for you. Everything came together at once, and I was weak. And I'm still weak... I need to get control of myself."

"Do you need protection from Hammer?" I asked, moving my chair closer to him. "I've worried about that... since that night."  

"No," he replied. "No one has seen him or heard from him. He's not in Altoona, and no one saw him leave. There's a rumor that the house is going up for sale. His bike is gone. The truck is still sitting there, so he probably hasn't moved. Hardly anyone even talks about him anymore. I'd sure like to know where he is, because I'd like to feel reassured that he's not coming back. He may be dead in some roadside gully, or shacked up with a 13-year-old. I don't care either way.

Can I give you a kiss?" I asked, "before I leave?" His eyes brightened and he gave me a big smile. "I want to get another reminder-dose of that mustache fuzz," I added. We kissed then, ...like men kiss ...hard and urgent, from the first touch... with arms involved and pelvises grinding. I haven't kissed that many girls, but... it seems different, the way guys do it.

He walked with me to the door and stood under the canopy as I got into the car and drove away.  He had gone inside before I left the parking lot. Sunset was only an hour away. I could be in State College before dark.

The boring drive back to State College turned out to be eventful this time. After I crossed the bridge in Tyrone, on I-99, maybe a mile past it, there were four guys thumbing for a ride... all gangly and acting silly... each of them in shorts, two bare-chested and two with Penn State tee-shirts. I usually don't stop for hitchhikers. Too many crazies out there. But, this looked too good to be true. I pulled off to the shoulder, and I heard whooping and hollering behind me... then the crunchy sound of shoes on gravel. "What's the matter, man?" I said as I lowered the passenger window.  

"We need a lift... going back to State College. Are you going that way?" "We really need a ride," chimed-in another.

"Okay, hop in... but this better be a good story," I said. "They tumbled into my car like greyhounds... three in the backseat and one next to me. 

"We're part of the Crew, the rowing team," said the front-seat guy. "They call us ‘the Coxless Four..."

"An unfortunate name," I replied, shaking my head.

"Oh, ...No, ...it means we row a 4-man boat without a coxswain... the light-weight girl, usually, with a big mouth, who handles the rudder and shouts directions. We don't have one of those," he said, somewhat proudly. "We steer with the strength of our strokes... and we do it without directions."

"That covers who you are, but it doesn't explain why you're here in ...Tyrone, is it?"

"We have a big race on Sunday, the last race of the school year, so we thought we would give Jer, our new member, one more practice," he continued to explain, as ‘Jer' waved from the backseat. "I'm Jerimiah," he said, "but everyone calls me ‘Jer.'"

"Jer has, or should I say ‘had', a car, so we put the 4-man shell on top, roped it down, and headed for Bald Eagle State Park... where we usually race and sometimes practice. But Jer, having never been to the lake, turned the wrong direction on I-99... headed toward Bald Eagle, the town, which is about 40 miles in the wrong direction. Being ‘goof-balls,' none of us noticed until we got to the bridge in Tyrone... so, there we are, now, 80 miles from the lake, and right beside a river, the Little Juniata, ...so we decided to row there. Not as good as the lake, ...rocks and shallow spots, ...but, at least, Jer got his butt into a boat for a few hours to know how it feels. We train on rowing machines... which don't capsize and throw you into the cold water."  He stopped to take a long breath. "But when we got back to the car and strapped the boat on top, the car wouldn't start."

"If it's the battery, I've got jumper cables," I volunteered.

"Nope, the batteries' fine... must be something else", he said, shaking his head. "But Jer's mom always insists that he carry his Triple-A card with him, so we called, and they said there was no local representative in Tyrone... and the closest tow truck could get there after dark and would tow it to some repair place. And that's how we ended-up here, along the highway."

I started my car.  "I'll do anything to help Penn State athletics", I said ...avoiding the over-used "I'm a big athletic supporter." 

"We're a club, not a team," said Jer from the backseat.

"To me, ...you're just hitchhikers, I said, knowing that it wasn't totally true. These guys had tremendous shoulders, long triangular backs, long legs... the perfect body-build for rowing... and other ‘sports'. "I usually don't stop for hitchhikers," I continued. "If you get a crazy guy in your car, you never know what could happen. But a group of four? Even if one of you is crazy... I paused, while Jer waved again from the backseat, "the other three can help me restrain Jer. (You can see where this conversation is leading.)

"We'll pick up the car on Sunday or Monday, and use another 4-man boat for the race," Mark said. (The passenger-seat guy finally told me his name.)

"Do you guys live in the dorms," I asked innocently.

"Yea," said Mark. "Crew guys usually get single rooms because no one wants to room with a guy who goes to bed at 9:00 and wakes up at 5:00am to be in the gym or on the lake for practice. But, two crew guys together are okay ...so I room with Jer, and Tommy rooms with Carl. "They waved from the backseat after being silent for about 4 miles.

"Do you live in South Hall?" I asked. "When  I lived in the dorms, that's where I stayed."

"Yes, we're all in South Hall," said several voices from the backseat.

"Tell me," I said. "Is that guy still living there? ...the one who gives a blowjob to any guy who knocks on his door." There was silence for five seconds, and then a bit of acknowledging head-shaking. "They say he was particularly fond of athletes..." A long pause. "But, ...who needs that if you've got a willing roommate." There was a stifled giggle from the back seat. I continued. "I'm gay, guys. If that's a problem, I can pull over and let you out. But, if you're gay, too, or just accepting... I can pull something else." "All four of us," Mark said. "Jer's probably the least experienced, Carl's the most, ‘the Ringleader', we call him. We get naked, ...fool around... no drinking or drugs, though. How about you?"

"The story is too long to tell here," I said. "I've just learned to say it up front, to tell guys what I want, and to make the first move. No apologies, and no regrets."

"I can't wait to hear what you want!" shouted Jer, leaning forward to shout it in my ear.

"I have a small apartment in State College. I can drive straight there. We can have a couple of hours of Five-Man Naked Wrestling, no booze, no drugs... and you can be in your beds before your self-imposed curfew... or, ...we could just fuck all night." There was another long pause, and then "I'm in." "I'm in." "I'm in." from the backseat. "I'm totally in," said Mark.

I pressed the accelerator a bit harder to get this crew to the starting line.

As soon as I unlocked the apartment door, the rowers tumbled into the room and clothing was tossed in the corner. It was a contest to see who could hit the mattress before the others. I love athletes; they'll compete about anything.

It is difficult to explain the next two hours... and you've probably had enough of my feeble attempts to describe sexual acrobatics, so I will restrain myself. (Even that sounds sexual!) In the dim light of sunset, it became impossible to determine who was doing what with whom. In even-number orgies, guys pair-up and partner changes are usually reciprocal. The sensory factor stays about the same. That's the glorious thing about an odd-number orgy. Guys pair up, and there's one guy left out. So, he has a great incentive to join one of the couples, an incentive to steal a partner and to change the scenario. His presence may distract one of the pair, who becomes odd-man-out... and the cycle begins again. Someone is always the odd man trying to get in, and the sensory level rises as partners change. Tricks, wrestling holds, distractions, teases, double fucking, sixty-nine sucking, changing partners, lube all over, double licking a cock, spit-roasting, throat fucking, twink-sandwiching, quad-tonguing a guy's body, rimming, gang raping, just plain power fucking, and ultimately a jizz shower for everyone. We did it all, I believe. They walked to their dorm in various stages of undress... and, if that didn't get them "juiced" enough to win the race on Sunday, nothing ever would. Perhaps I could get a job training the 8-man boat crew. And there are two; light-weight and heavy-weight. The permutations and combinations are thrilling to contemplate.

The phone rang at 8 o'clock on Sunday morning. "This better be important," I thought.

It was Lindsay Peterson, an old friend from Pittsburgh whom I had encountered frequently on the Penn State Campus. She sounded desperate and was talking so fast I could barely understand what she was saying. She apparently never stopped to inhale. "Oh, Brian, I need your help. I'm so upset. It's only a week until graduation and I never thought my parents would come because they moved to Arizona but now they say they are coming and I've told them, over the last year, that I had a boyfriend and I used your name because I didn't really have a boyfriend and you know I never would have a boyfriend so they're coming to meet him, or to meet you actually, and I hadn't told you about this, but you're such a good friend, and are you going to skip the graduation ceremony or will you be there... or could you be there so that they can meet you and maybe take us out to lunch and you could pretend you're my boyfriend, but we could ‘break-up' in a month or two and they would never know the difference... and I'll make the break-up all my fault so my father won't try to search for you and kill you or something like that..." She finally paused. I was so overwhelmed, I couldn't say anything for a moment.

"You're right, Lindz, I had decided not to go to commencement... mostly because of the gown, the funny hat, and the long speeches. But, recently, I changed my mind and decided to go. I want to walk across that stage in front of John Brigham and the rest of the faculty, and maybe give him ‘the finger' as I pass him because I'm graduating in spite of him, not because of him. So, yes, I can meet your parents. I promise not to kiss your Dad; I'll use my best manners at lunch, and I'll even be charming and attentive to you. You've covered my butt a few times, so I'll cover your... never mind the anatomy, and I'll even write a sad note to you after our break-up that you can show to your mother. But, when are you going to tell them... the truth? I got lots of "Thank you's" but no answer to my question.

Five letters had arrived. On the basis of my grades, my personal statement, my folio, and my interview I had not been selected for a job. "Fuck ‘em,"

The last letter to arrive was from Ryder Advertising. I held it up to the sunlight streaming through my window. I couldn't read it. I laid it on the table and did other things, never out of sight of it.  They (or Marty, himself) had been my first choice. Waiting wouldn't change what the letter said... so, I opened it, almost like a ritual sacrifice. I had expected the most formal, hyper-ventilated, rejection.

"Brian,...You're our first choice. As soon as graduation is over, get your butt to our office ...no appointment needed. You can even take a few days to celebrate. We'll talk about salary, responsibilities, vacations, ...all that good stuff when you're here. Deedee will have papers for you to sign. Just one rule... lay off the new, young, copy/delivery boy. He's my wife's nephew.

(signed) Marty" ...followed by a large scribble that looked, to my gay eyes, like a cock and balls. (It turned out to be his scribbled signature... but I never told him what it looked like.)

===================================

"Rumors" was my incubator. I arrived as an insecure, secretive, loner... seldom able to make a first sexual move... a watcher, not a participant. I had two unsuccessful loves and two terrible examples of marriage behind me, a church that said it loved me but hated the very essence of me, a jury-rigged ‘family' for support, and a hint of self-loathing.

At Rumors, I felt the unconditional love of one man; I experienced the self-serving domination of another; and I gained the respect, the appreciation, and the lust, of a large group of men who were gay, like me. I learned to appreciate and improve my body. I learned to seduce. And I learned to dominate.

That all sounds so serious. But I also learned that a quick quip, a short joke, or a mocking comment can brush away all that serious stuff ...and I could just have a good time, celebrating myself. 

I am, today, a totally different creature than I was in high school.

And I think I have told you enough.  Although, there's no such thing as Enough!

Sample 1-

Explicit; appeals to the leather/biker crowd; chain chest-harness is appealing; the kiss attracts attention.

Good for magazines like: ‘Mach', ‘Drummer', ‘Leatherman', ‘Bound and Gagged', ‘Honcho', and ‘Iniquity'.

Sample 2- 

Gorgeous torso, perfect abs; Romantic and erotic. It might be better if the guy on the right were whispering something in blond-boy's ear.

Good for magazines like: ‘Jock', ‘Obsession', ‘Torso', ‘All Man', ‘Hot Male Review', ‘Advocate'.

Sample 3-

Good pecs and shoulders. Perhaps not ‘dark' enough to fit ‘Rumors' image. (Uncut cock seems small).

Sample 4-

Too ‘Twinkie' probably. Guys like this seldom come to ‘Rumors'. The Calvin underwear is the wrong image too. The whispering is good though... and the subtle cock view. We could do something like this with older models... and without the tighty-whiteys.