Yacht Races
Larry Jacobs
came to be my friend by way of an urban gay social group called “Professionals
Over Thirty” in Chicago. I was on the
board of this large organization . Larry was from Lake Geneva, where he was a life-long
resident. Larry knew everyone there , making him a fun social doyenne, and,
because Lake Geneva is so close to where I was living in Crystal Lake, we
became friends.
One time ,Larry
had received an invitation to a “do” at the summer farm of Chicago’s Fire Commissioner
Robert Quinn. He invited us ( Joe Szucs
and I) to come along, telling Quinn we would accompany him. Larry advised us Quinn was quirky but did not
delve deeper and I, knowing many gays in the city, knew “quirky” was a common
trait and did not ask more. Mistake.
This was to
be a luncheon afternoon event, so Joe and I arrived at Larry’s digs and all
motored together over to Quinns. The spread was on the outskirts of Lake Geneva,
isolated and, in what appeared to be an original old farm house that had been
added onto. Lots of large old shade
trees, a large pool, and extensive well
manicured grounds surrounded. It was very comfortable but not at all grand or
pretentious. Just a large old country home.
We were
greeted by Quinn, who was well into his 60’s but still working ( He had been
Fire commissioner for over 40 years) A very masculine, burly, and brusque man,
Quinn was often quoted as being of the opinion that Firefighters needed to be
very “manly” men. He took exception to
any of his firefighters having long hair.
I also recall an article where he was criticized as having two Chicago
Fire Academy cadets stationed up at his Wisconsin farm. His response was that
“they are good with animals.” Hmmm. But
he was very genial to us and I found him quick to smile and very attractive in
his presence.
Before being
escorted into his living room for appetizers and drinks, we were given a tour
of the house. I noted the upstairs was a series of “bunkrooms,” giving indication this was a domicile seeing
a LOT of overnight traffic. Then downstairs again, the conversation turned to
“toys.” I was very much the neophyte in
the genre and asked questions. Quinn was
delighted by my naïveté and gleefully brought out a large trunk to “show-and-tell”
the various items. I had to admit I was
fascinated by the novelty of it all, and Quinn as much by my interest, was
going through each item with ribald demonstration. We came to a electric cattle prod. I had no idea that cattle even needed
prodding. Laughter all around. Quinn
explained that in sexual encounters it was fun to “prod” your partner in areas
to titillate their participation.
Obviously an S & M appurtenance, I indulged more information. Quinn eagerly energized the prod. I
hesitated. After all, he had already
explained the prod had to be used below the chest so as not to cause a heart
aberration (Cardiac infarction or stoppage). All right, he said, he would set
the appliance of lowest energizing, and just barely touch my thigh. I was on the spot. “O.K.,” I said. ZAP ! Oh Jesus Christ, MOTHER OF GOD that HURT !
Enough. The room was in laughter. Quinn
along with all around guffawed, and I was given a double Scotch. And it wasn’t
even afternoon yet. Zowie, I was not
asking any more questions and soon the bottom of the trunk was reached, (There
is a LOT of shit people can buy to enhance sex, I learned that day) and it was
lunch time.
We repaired
(apt term for me) to the dining room. Wow- If I was interested by the “toy box”
I was really taken aback by the dining room. An opulent table for 16 set with
finest linen and china and beautiful Daum stemware. This was the least of it. Remember, this is
the guy with a long stated reputation of being a crusty “manly man.” After
being seated, a lovely Semillon was poured.
The amazement was the pouring was done by four beautiful youthful and
muscular men. Naked men with only leather strapping, chains, cock-rings, boots,
and dog collars with leads from their necks.
I was just astounded. Quinn had a
cat-‘o-nine tails at his setting and would flog the servers as he found them
lacking or slow, yanking on their leads. Not brutally hard or to inflict pain,
but for pleasure that, from the smiles on the waiters faces, not entirely
reserved for his own enjoyment.
Lunch was
exquisite: Pike Quenelles with Mousseline sauce. There was other stuff but I can’t remember at
all what it was. I just recall the
entrée as I had asked Larry if Quinn cooked, and Larry laughed, telling me he
(Quinn) was a big customer of the same caterer that did all the Lake Geneva
grand mansion summer soirees. Well, the food was good but the service was way better.
The Commissioner called us from table to his pool . I commented to Larry and Joe we had not
brought suits and I was still a bit of a prude to go “skinny dipping” in this
crowd of mostly strangers . Larry “shushed” me.
Sangria was served and it was announced the “Yacht Races” would ensue.
Now, with the previous events, that should have clued me in, but I really had the idea there would be model
boats that would race, and we would bet on them. Sometimes I even amaze myself
at how dense I actually can be.
Here was the actual real plan. Aforementioned waiters, now unencumbered
with extraneous paraphernalia, presented nude at the pool, which had dilineated
lanes . Four of them in the pool. There
was a inflated float for each to lie prone upon, facing sunward up. These young
men were the “yachts,” or more aptly,
sailboats. They each had a small piece
of lightweight fabric that was somehow attachable to their manhood. “ The
“hankie sails” I lovingly like to remember them as. Joe grossly called them
“cum rags.” Each ‘Yacht” was attended to
by another young man whose sole purpose was to be the “wind.” By manipulating the “masts” of the boats of
their attendance, they could cause a condition of “full blow” wind so to speak
with an erect “mast.” Under this condition the “winds” could push the “yachts”
forward in the lane in a race. “Sailing”
was entirely dependent on tumescence. I
was thoroughly attentive. I don’t think anyone really cared who won. I had no
idea who was refilling my wine glass repeatedly but these races must have
delightfully gone on for a long time as I was most completely snockered. After the races I noticed the young men were
attentive to the guests and some were repairing to inside the house, evidently
to enjoy the summer “breezes” (in a manner of speaking) in a more indulgent and
personal manner.
Larry, Joe , and I decided we had enough “afternoon” . Or
rather, in hindsight, Joe and Larry had had enough of me . I know that had I stayed it would have been a
very carnal tryst for me. I was so horny I lost all focus, but screwing sloppy
drunk is no fun, so it was very considerate of them to drag me home. I crashed
at Larry’s house that night. So much Bea
Arthur as Vera Charles in “Mame.” But I
can tell you without any doubt this was the most decadent day I have ever
spent, one that lives in memory also as one of my best times ever.
We never went to another time at Quinn's because, shortly,
a few years later, Quinn was relieved of his position by new Mayor Bilandic in 1978. He died a year
later. There were a few whispered comments about Quinn that never made it into
the mainstream media as he had such a strong image to Chicagoans and the city’s
history. I often wonder if he became so jaded he used that prod above the waist. Never to know. Even Joe and Larry are gone now, leaving me
alone to tell you about some of the boisterous veiled history “back in the day”
So that is my true story of “Yacht Races.”
©Jerry
Wendt 2016
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Robert Quinn died in 1979 wintering in Florida. He remains a historic Chicago icon
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