My mother and I had a hell of a relationship, liberal, confidential, and she kept my secrets. A wise and wonderful women, never judgemental. In time I explained that I wasn’t gay, just into the sex – funny, but I think that was a disappointment. A New Age Jewish mother, being gay would’ve been perfectly fine. Very Broadway. Very Hollywood. She passed 20 years ago. I’m still not really convinced that she bought into my marriage, at 25, to my wife Sarah. Whom she loved just as well.
I arrived at McGill at age 18, at the end of August, 1978. An awkward kid and still every bit the math nerd that I’d always been. Socially awkward at a time when the “free love” generation was reaching its peak. Thanks to mom, I had a single room in Molson House, the most prestigious and expensive men’s dorm building on campus. It was an art-deco building from the 1920s, with 210 rooms on three floors, mostly populated by older students from money. McGill at the time had nearly 40,000 students, with about ten percent living on campus – most of the others, in the rooming houses and student apartments surrounding it’s downtown Montreal campus. It was a world of its own. Prestigious. Canada’s equivalent of Oxford, or Columbia in Manhattan.
I was homesick and anxious for weeks, just trying to fit into the crush of student life. Although it was never too far from my mind, the last thing I tried to pursue was my sexual interest in men. It took about a month to really settle in, classes became a routine, and I learned that the best time on campus was Saturday nights at the Student Union Pub. Every week it was hosted by the university’s active Gay-Lesbian-and-Bi Student Collective. Always the best entertainment, best crowds and cheap beer. I’d never been in a bar and it scared me a little, but on the weekend before Halloween that year, I decided to check it out.
All the advance billing was right. Imagine a rock-and-roll venue with about 600 university students swilling beer. Mind-blowing for an otherwise innocent kid like me. I stood for a while by the bar, sipping a beer, when a guy came by and struck up a conversation. He was a second-year engineer I’ll call Red. A husky guy who looked like he played football. When we could actually chat, he informed me of the Saturday night protocol – that guys standing alone by the bar were indicating there “availability”. So, Red wanted to know, was I? Available for what? Sex. Excuse me? He said that was the routine. If I didn’t want to get hit on, I should move to a table.
I laughed that off and Red continued to chat me up. We got past small talk about placement and classes and he persisted. I looked like someone who did the “Hall” – so was I? I didn’t know what that meant, so he explained over the loud music. The Hall was an underground connector between the Student Union Building and the school’s administrative offices. About a 100 yards long, with dark nooks and doorways along its length. It was the one place on campus where, on Saturday nights, campus security overlooked it for casual sexual encounters. The idea that it was better to focus it here than in more public places. So, did I do the Hall? What about it?
I don’t know where I got the nerve, but I told him to show me.
Red happily led me out of the pub and through a short maze of vacant hallways, down a set of stairs, and into the Hall. As we entered, we passed about a half dozen nooks where there were shapes in the shadows. Some figures standing, some kneeling. Most in pairs, at least one with a group of three or more.
And so, I discovered the Wall. I returned to it that night four more times, with four different guys that I met just standing wide-eyed by the bar. Never had to buy another beer. Back in my door room that night I masturbated so hard and so long I was raw. I thought I’d meet guys in college, but I never imagined it could be like this. Every Saturday night through the end of the year, I was a fixture at the pub, on my own with a beer near the bar. Always three or more guys a night. And before long, on a regular schedule all week. Dorm rooms around campus, morning, noon and night.
By the second semester in my freshman year, I had a dozen guys getting regular service. Each two or three times a week around scheduled classes or nights when I needed to study. It grew to 18 by the end of the year and I had to cut out the pub nights completely.
Cocksucking. Getting blown in the 70s was the campus standard for casual sex. At big schools like McGill, gender was much of an issue. If you were a straight, horny male, finding a guy who gave head was easy. One in 40 in that demographic, they said at the time, so at least 50 guys who were ready and willing and minutes away, though you might be waiting in line. Girls? Plenty put out, but the process took time. I became one of those 50. Word gets around. When I began my second year at McGill, half they guys I’d been blowing returned to school and my schedule. Eight guys from day one. Twenty four blowjobs a week, which for me was enough to get grounded and started.
Get into that kind of casual sex, and you learn things about people. I found three kinds of guys, all self-described “straight”. One, the most common, were guys who discovered the ease of getting sexually serviced by someone like me. A comfortable relationship, not publicly friends, but friendly, and a connection they chose to keep private. Casual to the point of being business-like. Two, were guys who wanted sex with male partners. I fit the that bill to a tee. An attractive guy with mild, almost feminine features. Blond, baby-faced and in my case, always a little detached and serene. Never overly excited or demonstrative during sex. Gay guys sometimes get a bit prissy and carried away. I always performed oral sex a bit icily, giving head with the confidence that I’m pretty good at it. And three – the needy. Shy guys who couldn’t connect with a woman if they tried. In college, I can tell you, there are plenty of these. Once they work up the nerve to connect, they’re the ones who keep coming around. Sometimes at all hours. You always get the sense that you’d done them a really big favor.
In my four undergrad years at McGill, I became very comfortable with my bisexuality. The label I guess was a little confusing, as until then I still hadn’t had sex with a woman. That would come in my first post-grad year when I was 22. I can tell you that it suited me, rounded me out sexually. In those four years, I had about 110 male sexual partners. Give or take. I routinely gave 25-30 blowjobs a week. The surprise, I suppose, is that I was nowhere near the sexually active guy like me on campus. I knew guys who competed, getting blow-banged by as many guys in one afternoon session. I stuck to just doing what I liked. Giving really good head, quietly, one guy at a time.
More to follow…
David B