As pursuing a doctorate in music seemed more hopeless to me over three years’ time, I gained much greater fulfillment when I began my work-study job at the school’s AV plant. I eventually developed the kind of small social network I never could at the music department; I ended up working there five more school years (to the distress of my personal debt, naturally). But it made up for the personal frustration I endured at the music school. In fact, becoming a projectionist was my only real learning experience there, absorbing an infinite amount from all the films I ran for the various classes and student cinema groups.

I became fast friends with the AV department’s main staffers, especially the main supervisor, Dan, whom I found a great mentor. He patiently showed me all the ropes, never blew his stack when I goofed, and at the end of my second year reported me as an “excellent, dependable worker.” When my parents drove up from Colorado another summer, he told them “This is a real good boy you’ve got here.”

After my third year we once ate out together and had more opportunity for real nitty-gritty talk. I told him of my torment in dealing with the associate dean at the music school, and he said, “Oh, that dickhead? He’s an asshole.”

Dan then told me that he was bisexual; his brother, too. He told stories of their boyhood days on the farm, when they regularly positioned themselves on a wooden barn fence pole for some sexual kicks with the livestock. He thought it was fun, “except for the times they shit on you.”

About a year before the music school had decided they’d had enough of me—after shuttling me from degree program to degree program—Dan drove me to his place after I helped him with a project and showed me the nude-sunbathing shack he’d built out in the yard. I told him I’d just gotten into nudism, taking long walks simply to improve my circulation; it was at a special secluded resort some ten minutes south of Eugene, named Glassbar Island. He’d never heard about it, so we instantly arranged to both go there that Saturday.

His pickup packed with blankets, beverages, and sunbathing gear, we bid good riddance to Eugene and greetings to the healthy outdoors. I gave directions; once there, we hiked up the long (1/3 mile) and twisting path of thorns and dense underbrush, ten feet high. The parking lot was more or less safe, as there were (to my limited knowledge) few instances of vandalism, and one could hide one’s money and identification under one’s car seat.

We trudged on further. One hint we reached our destination was a few clearings in which males, clothed and otherwise, could take a leak—their fannies always facing the passers-by. Soon we saw a sign alerting everyone we were entering an area with liberal nudity. Finally we reached the bank of the Willamette River. It was here that people left their clothes and shoes and put on sandals; we all (more or less) trusted one another. Folks swam there, though it was muddy.

I led Dan some two hundred yards up to the forest area where I always exercised. I showed him the start of the hiking path, with a nice view where anyone could stand to survey the activity down below. He found this a perfect spot for sunbathing, so we spread out the blanket and paraphernalia; he applied his tanning solution while I put on my sunblock (you see, both my father and I were born with white skin that’s extremely susceptible to sunstroke, so I took frequent intervals in shaded areas; for nude walking, I wore simply the top to my long-sleeved jogging suit, zipper undone).

As the two of us lay on our backs side by side, on the same blanket, our packages and our potbellies toward the sun, I was well aware of the implication. This had most of the makings of a regular date. At least, to any of the fully clothed passers-by, I imagined them having this thought. I merely vanquished this notion and pulled my Gatsby over my sunglasses for a nap I didn’t end up having. I then retreated to the shade and began my usual walk. Generally a smooth afternoon.

A few Saturdays later I made my weekly solo sojourn to Glassbar Island. Dan was there, like always. We conversed a bit, then Dan told me to follow him to a special tall fir he’d seen. It was in the deep woods, so our naked selves went further and further, till the forest had no sunlight to speak of. We reached the fir—pretty gigantic alright, its branches reaching the ground.

I followed him inside to where the trunk was; and he suddenly turned and made a grab for my nuts, stopping just short of actually touching them. In a quivering falsetto I asked, “What the hell are you doing?” He made his pitch: “Can I give you a blowjob?” He followed quickly with, “You got a nice cock.” My shock faded slightly and he said, “I’d like to see that thing hard.”

I never had anyone praise my equipment, certainly not my two prior (female) partners. And not a fairly well-hung, uncut guy like Dan. But it eventually entered my mind that this was his standard spiel, his proposal to any guy.

Dan had previously told me of a couple of one-time-only encounters at this park. When I asked how he checked his partners for diseases, he told me he simply checked their arms for needle marks. No one to exchange body fluids with, I thought.

And I knew already there were likely hundreds of other men before me: Dan did his time in Vietnam, and of his hetero experiences out there he grinningly told me, “I probably have lotsa kids that I don’t know about.”

But above all else, this was a married man, and I wasn’t about to be a home wrecker no matter how many one-night-stands he had.

Scarcely in a ready mood, I answered him in the negative. My nerves more or less restored, I stomped out of our would-be trysting place, with him following me all the way back to the sunbathing area, huckstering with, “That’s what you really need is a good blowjob.”

I never shook off the feeling he was right. Having my equipment praised was an alien phenomenon for me. But succeeding trips to Glassbar Island had me slowly gathering that, to several guys, I really was eye candy—let’s get right out and say it: a piece of meat.

And having my non-Michelangelo frame admired soon grew into a realization that overweight, middle-aged, hairy men seemed to have the mutual hots; a network of attraction, as it were.

To all of us, it was just a cheap and easy way to get our jollies; after all, isn’t that all we men think about? We satiated ourselves and each other; to hell with commitment.

But still,I gotta say--What a bastard!