Yacht Races

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

Robert Quinn died in 1979 wintering in Florida. He remains a historic Chicago icon