It was a simple life on the farm, but a tough one. In fact, nobody had it easy those days. I was only seven years old so I never fully understood the hows and whys of it but from overhearing teachers’ and adults’ conversation I knew that a disaster had befallen the nation the year before. All of us kids were aware that in October 1929 a place called Wall Street in New York City had “crashed.” People usually referred to the event as “That dang Black Tuesday,” and then they would cuss and fume and walk away shaking their heads, mumbling, “Sure cut us up good and well.”
We were now in the grip of something folks called the Great Depression. There was a shortage of everything: work, money, customers for our produce, even hope. Some people had even packed up their meager belongings and moved away, completely abandoning their farms. Where they went heaven only knew. One thing was for sure—the Depression had ruined lives and had redefined everything on the farmlands of the Midwest. But this was where I lived. It was the only place I knew.
I had been born on the farm on July 1, 1923. The property was 280 acres and was owned by my paternal grandmother, Anna Boltman. She was originally married to a man named William Bowers, who had died a few years before I was born. She then married a man named Boltman, became widowed again, and ended up living alone in a house in the nearby town of Ottawa. The little hamlet lay at the confluence of the Illinois and Fox rivers, about seventy-five miles southwest of Chicago.
Grandma Boltman’s second husband had left her his farm but she preferred to remain in town and let Dad run the place. As the matriarch of the family no one ever took issue with her and she invariably had the final word on everything. When I came along in 1923 she decided to call me George while Momma added the name Albert in memory of her late father. Although Momma detested it with a vengeance, George was the name that stuck. I didn’t much like it either but that’s how I was known. Well, at least at that time anyway. I didn’t become “Scotty” until much later on.
Momma was born Edna Ostrander, in 1900. Her father, Albert, was of Dutch descent. Her mother, Sarah, was a local girl from Ottawa. Momma was a slim, petite yet strong woman, and very even-keeled. She always had her dark brown hair pulled back in a tight bun and wore dresses that she made herself. She managed to ride out many storms and would live to within a few days shy of her hundredth birthday. A kinder, more decent and more caring woman you couldn’t find. Donald, Phyllis, and I all loved her dearly.
My father’s name was Glen. Born in 1901, he was a good man, a hard worker with solid values and rigid scruples. He was a big, muscular guy with a shock of black hair and blue eyes. In temperament he was more volatile than Momma and wouldn’t tolerate any insolence or misbehavior from us kids. But we loved him very much, too. We were lucky. We enjoyed a good relationship with our parents. Unfortunately, things between the two of them weren’t so good. Although they did their best to hide it from us kids, their marriage was foundering.
My brother Donald was two years older than me, and my sister Phyllis two years younger. We all got along pretty well, especially considering Momma and Dad’s wavering relationship and the harsh economic difficulties of the times. The workload on the farm was pretty heavy for kids of our age. Dad was really struggling to hold everything together and my parents began to squabble. On many a night I lay awake listening to them arguing behind the closed door of their bedroom. Whenever Grandma Boltman came from town to visit she tried mediating between them as best she could, but she was under great stress, too. Dwindling finances brought us close to losing the farm. But what did we kids know of such things? We had other matters on our minds. We did our chores, we went to school, and we grew up. Poverty deprived us of any toys or games to play with. Don and I didn’t even have so much as a football to toss around. We had no hoop, no basketball, no baseball bat. Phyllis had no dolls, no puzzles, no pretty frilly dresses to sew ribbons onto. We didn’t even have an indoor toilet! When I occasionally visited the neighbor’s kids the situation was much the same. They were as short of everything as we were.
In the natural course of events every young boy experiences a physical phenomenon that he simply takes for granted and regards as something perfectly normal. I refer, of course, to erections. If you were in a group of young guys splashing around in the water or romping around a green field you couldn’t care less if you developed a hard-on. However, we wouldn’t want to be caught dead being seen with an erection in front of a parent or, even worse, a girl. Of course, every farm boy knows exactly what erections are for. Sex is around you all the time. I knew that once a boar had an erection and mounted a sow, a litter of piglets would be born just under four months later. From a very early age I saw frisky stallions galloping around paddocks and corrals sporting an erect penis more than three-feet long. Sometimes farmers would pay a breeder to bring a young stallion over to his farm to mate with one or more mares for the purpose of producing a foal. Intercourse was everywhere. Oh, what the heck, let’s call it what everyone calls it: fucking. Fucking was everywhere. Our dogs and cats were always doing it. Roosters mounted hens, rabbits mated in the fields, goats coupled in the barnyard. Bulls, birds, and bees did it, so sex was nothing new to me. As a matter of fact, before they started fighting, we kids occasionally heard Mom and Dad doing it, too. If their bedroom door was just a tiny crack open we’d take a peek. And why not? As far as I was concerned, they were only doing what nature intended them to do. But for some reason society seemed to follow more antiquated values.
Like generations before us, we boys were eager to find out as much as we could about the female of the species. I vividly remember during a school picnic or a social outing when we crossed the boundary into forbidden territory according to the rules of church, school, and society’s norms. A couple of guys and girls would sneak behind the bushes and expose their private parts to one another, playing the “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours” game. Lots of giggling would follow the briefest of glimpses. Of course, we hid such activities from parents and teachers but it was all in good fun and we never went as far as physically touching one another. We just looked. And every time I did so I would have to cover myself up because of my hard-on.
One warm September day I returned home from school on Babe’s back and led her to the stable where I watered and fed her. Watched over by Momma’s all-seeing eyes, Don, Phyllis, and I had lunch together and then got on with our homework seated around the kitchen table. As always, I was impatient to go outside. As soon as I completed the last mathematical problem in my homework book I looked up at Momma, grinned from ear to ear, slammed the book shut, and was dismissed from the table. While Don and Phyllis enviously scowled at me as they continued to scribble away at their assignments I ran outside and went racing across the yard, free as a bird. I sprinted over the fence and headed toward the Peterson’s house to find out what my friends next door were doing.
We managed to get up to some benign and forgettable mischief and then went racing across the folds of rich green grass that undulated around the farm. Toward late afternoon, satisfactorily exhausted, we returned to the house where Ma Peterson offered us refreshments. Just as I was about to return home to help with the evening milking her husband Joe walked in. He greeted me in his usual friendly manner.
Joe Peterson was a gentle, jovial sort of guy. Big and burly with bright eyes, he never talked down to the kids like so many adults did. We chatted for a few minutes and then I said I really had to go. Don would already be helping with the milking of the cows and would no doubt be wondering why I wasn’t home yet. Peterson got up from his chair and offered to see me part of the way home.
He came over, ruffled my hair, and, with his arm loosely slung over my shoulder, walked me outside. We went around the side of the house and continued to make small talk. I suddenly realized that I had an urgent need to urinate. I sheepishly told Peterson that I needed to pee and quickly slipped behind a tree to relieve myself. As I struggled with one of the buttons of my fly I looked up and was surprised to se
e him standing just a foot or two away from me. I hadn’t even heard him approach. He was staring at me with a look that I couldn’t quite figure out.
The next thing I knew Peterson came over and helped me unbutton my fly and then, to my surprise, thrust his hand inside my overalls. Before I could say anything he grabbed my penis, pulled it out, and then let go.
“There,” he said. “Go ahead and do what you have to do, son.”
I thanked him and began to urinate, but I couldn’t help noticing the intensity with which he was staring at me. He said that he thought I had a very nice penis. I didn’t know what to say so I merely shrugged my shoulders and smiled back. I’d never thought about it before. I finished, buttoned up, and excused myself by saying that I really had to run off right away or I would be in deep trouble not only with Don but also with Dad.
I thought no more about what had just happened. All I knew was that I was in for a solid hollering when I got to that cowshed.
A week or so later I was over at the Petersons again, cavorting around the property with their kids. At the end of the day we were sitting in the kitchen eating cookies and gulping down milk when Joe Peterson strode in and sat down. Once again he made small talk with me and then called my attention to the fact that darkness was falling outside. He said it was probably time I started out for home. I had been having such a good time that I hadn’t noticed how late it was getting. Once more I began to panic about not being at home to help Don, Dad, and the hired hand with the evening milking. Joe Peterson got up and in a very friendly manner said that he’d walk me across the road. Turning to his wife and kids he said he wouldn’t be gone long.
As his family started to prepare the table for dinner Peterson briefly looked at me and winked. I don’t know why but something clicked inside me. Was he trying to tell me something? I wasn’t sure, but the answer came as soon as we stepped outside.
He told me to follow him to the woodshed, where he said he wanted to show me something. He gently laid his hand on the nape of my neck and steered me toward the shed. He took me inside and closed the wooden door behind us. Then, in the nicest of ways, he invited me to sit down next to him on a large flat chopping block that filled the middle of the floor. He laid his hand on my knee. Looking me straight in the eye he whispered in a low voice and told me that he had something to say. I wasn’t sure what would come next but because of Peterson’s tender, reassuring demeanor I didn’t feel frightened or threatened. His tone and composure made me feel completely relaxed. I listened carefully as he searched for words, telling me that he liked me in a very special way, a way that I was to keep a closely guarded secret between us. He told me things I had never heard anyone say before. Within a few minutes I became aware of the fact that he had opened my fly, button by button, softly confessing how attractive I was to him. The next thing I knew he was fondling me. Our eyes were locked together as I felt strange sensations in my loins and my body. After a few minutes, Peterson closed my fly, gave me a pinch on the cheek, and then demurely leaned over and laid a kiss on my forehead. He made me swear not to tell anyone what had happened and I nodded in agreement.
I guess you could call that my very first sexual encounter. I was far too young to fully comprehend the implications of what had happened but that little session was my first personal portal into the mysterious world of human sexual dynamics.
In the weeks and months that followed, unbeknownst to anyone, Peterson and I had innumerable secret meetings. In fact, he replaced my father as the dominant male figure in my life. Unlike with Dad, Peterson and I could talk to each other on many levels. He cared about how I felt, what I thought, what my views were. Dad never had time for stuff like that. Peterson kept reminding me never to mention anything to anyone, especially my parents.
As the seasons came and went our private encounters became a little more open, with any prevailing inhibitions now cast aside. We would both undress completely and he encouraged me to touch his genitals as he played with mine. One winter’s day as a small fire crackled in the little stove in the corner of the shed he touched himself as he fondled me. Then he began to masturbate. With his eyes squeezed tightly shut, his mouth wide open, and his head thrust backward he groaned as he reached his climax. Although I had watched animals do it over the years, it was the first occasion that I had witnessed what happens when a human male experiences an orgasm. When it was over he looked at me as if either he was unsure of what he had just done in front of me or felt guilty about it. But then he relaxed, smiled, wiped himself off, and lightly kissed me on my forehead. I wasn’t in the least bit shocked or disgusted by what I had seen. Quite the contrary, I was grateful to Joe Peterson for opening up a whole new chapter of learning for me.
SUMMER CAME, but it was a summer I would rather forget. It was 1932. I was nine years old and the Great Depression was at its height. One day Grandma Boltman was driven over to our farm by her attorney. Donald and I slowly stalked around his big, shiny black car like wild animals encircling their prey. We didn’t dare touch the gleaming metal and chrome of that beautiful machine but we stood on tiptoe and peered inside, enchanted. Momma and Phyllis were in the kitchen while we boys hung around outside. Then Dad, Grandma, her attorney, and Momma went to sit in the parlor and were soon engaged in serious discussion. None of them looked happy. Through the curtains I caught sight of Momma wiping away tears. Don and I had no idea what was going on. We sauntered over to the porch stairs, then sat on the steps. Phyllis remained in the kitchen, busying herself with plates and cups and whatnot. That evening over supper, after Grandma had left to return to town, the subject of the adults’ big discussion was revealed to us. Dad informed us that economic reality would force us off the farm. Grandma Boltman had no alternative. She could not afford to keep the place going. She had explored every option, had searched the depths of her soul, and had no recourse but to sell off all the livestock and give the farm over to farmers from neighboring areas. They would work the land and if any profits were realized they would share half the income with her. The mere thought of leaving our home was devastating. That night both Don and I quietly sobbed into our pillows, crying ourselves to sleep. As for Phyllis, she spent the night lying next to Mom in her bedroom, both of them howling loudly while Dad sat in the parlor all alone, contemplating our fate and our future. Deep down inside I knew he was frantic. What was he going to do? What would we do? Where were we going to live? More importantly, how was Dad going to earn a living? Grandma Boltman was stone broke. She couldn’t help us at all.
When Joe Peterson heard about our plight a couple of days later he came over with Ma Peterson to express their sorrow and sympathies. But Peterson admitted that he, too, was on the verge of closing down his own farm. It was the first I’d heard of it. On his way out that evening he gave me a look that I will never forget. It was one of genuine love, of pity, of remorse, of affection for me. But he couldn’t say anything and neither could I. Deep down I knew I was going to miss him. He was a warm, tender man, and in a very special way I knew that he cared for me. But all that was soon to be over.
Fortunately, Dad had a few good friends in Ottawa. As luck, fate, and providence would have it—I don’t know which was more applicable—one of them came through with help. I don’t recall the guy’s name but Dad told us that he worked for the Stateville Penitentiary near the town of Joliet, about halfway between Ottawa and Chicago. He had managed to find Dad a job as a guard with the prison service. Dad was overjoyed, but when he came home and told Momma about it she simply accepted it without showing too much enthusiasm.
The worst part about the whole business was having to say goodbye to our beloved animals and livestock. It was sad enough finding good homes for the cats and dogs but I was heartbroken the day I watched my beloved pony Babe being shipped off in a horse trailer to her new owner. She and I had grown up together and had spent many happy years trudging down the dirt road to school, come rain, hail, sunshine, or snow. I felt my heart being torn to pieces as I heard
her hoofs echoing on the metal floor of the trailer as she clip-clopped into it, and then there was that dreadful thud as the door was closed. We were sad to see the chickens and the hogs go, too. Each one of them had a name and a distinctly individual personality. Especially upsetting was seeing the cows and the horses go. Momma sobbed as they were taken away. Don and I, the ones who knew them best, were horribly cut up about it. I hugged my favorite cow before she was coaxed up the ramp onto the trailer that took her and five of the others to the farm of our friends the Jones’s, ten or twelve miles away.
But that was that. Our days on that glorious piece of Midwestern farmland were over. And the day Dad, Mom, Don, Phyllis, and I drove off for the last time I knew I had left a piece of me behind.
4
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Hollywood was probably about the most different place from my Illinois hometown that I could have ever chosen to move to. And I ended up spending my days right in the very heart of it. Because car culture was so dynamic and essential to the city, a gas station was the best place I could possibly be to arrange tricks for people from all tiers of society. And my gas station became the focal point for everyone looking for a trick. It became the crossroads of the city’s sexual underbelly.
The station was ideally located, convenient to most of the major movie production centers in town: Warner Bros., Universal Studios, Republic Pictures, and Walt Disney Studios in Burbank. It was just a couple of miles away from Paramount Pictures, RKO Radio Pictures, Samuel Goldwyn Studio, Columbia Pictures, General Service Studios, and the Charlie Chaplin Studios in Hollywood. Slightly farther away, between Santa Monica Boulevard and West Pico Boulevard, lay the sprawling studio complex of Twentieth Century Fox. A few miles beyond that in an area known as Culver City was the vast Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer complex, Hal Roach Studios, and another huge RKO studio lot that was once home to Selznick International Pictures, makers of Gone with the Wind. With the war over and the American economy booming, film production was at an all-time high. The town was buzzing. And, like a glowing oasis offering something very special in this frenzied firmament was the little gas station where I worked on Hollywood Boulevard.
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