Monday, September 26, 2016

Nate Richert's Kielbasa

West Hollywood, March 2000

I was back in West Hollywood for my friend Larry's annual Oscar party.  On March 25th, the night before, Lane and Randall the Muscle Bear with the Pierced Penis took me out to all our old haunts: Bodhi Tree, Different Light, the French Quarter, the Gold Coast, and the Faultline.

But we never made it to the Faultline.

I was struck by a twink sitting at the bar in the Gold Coast. A little shorter than me, broad shoulders, very handsome round face with sandy hair and glasses, kind of a Harry Potter look except for the lumberjack shirt.

I sat next to him.  He said "Howdy, pardner," and held out his hand to be shaken.

I made a quip about Hogwarts.  He countered with a quip about Lemony Snicket's Unfortunate Events.

Our legs pressed together under the bar.  "Can I buy you another beer?" I asked.

"Heck, I'll buy you a beer.  I'll buy everybody a beer.  Drinks are on me!"

"Well, I don't really drink."

"A virgin margarita, then.  You have to let me buy you something.  I can afford it.  I'm Harvey, and I'm always going to be Harvey, no matter what they say!"

Was that name supposed to mean something?  All I could think of was Harvey the Giant Rabbit in the James Stuart movie.  "Ok, Harvey, a Coke will be fine."

He seemed a little soused, but not unbearably so.  I reached out, unbuttoned a couple of buttons of his lumberjack shirt, and slid my hand down to feel his firm, hairy chest.  Few twinks have that much hair -- I was hooked!

I reached down and groped him.

Nice bulge.  Maybe a Kielbasa beneath the belt.  I was even more hooked!

"Hey!" Harvey exclaimed.  "This place is dead!  Let's go to the Rage!"

The notoriously noisy twink bar?

"Well, I'm here with my friends.  We were going to the Faultline.  We're a little old for the Rage."

"Nonsense.  You're with me.  Harvey can open every door."

The Rage was only a few blocks from our old apartment.  Maybe it would be fun.

It wasn't.  The music was blaring, the air was thick with cigarette smoke and poppers, and there were swarming munchkins everywhere.  It was uncomfortable for everyone, especially the bears I dragged along.

They sat at one of the little round tables, Lane with a soda and Randall with a beer, while Harvey and I danced.  Or did whatever swaying movements we could with the press of gyrating twinks.

Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder.  It was Randall.

"Hey, either seal the deal and let's go home and screw," he yelled, trying to make himself understood over the roar, "Or drop this twink and let's go home and screw!"

"Ok, ok."  I took Harvey by the hand and led him to a dark area where couples went to kiss.

"What do you want to do now?" he asked, grinning.

"What do you think?"  I put my arms around him, and we started kissing.  He allowed only a brief kiss-- not very impressive.  I reached down and groped him again.  His Kielbasa became aroused, but he didn't t grope me in return.

A bit cool, but I was too into him to notice.  "Let's go back to my place.  I'm staying in my friends' guest room."

"You kidding!  The night is young, and there's about a dozen more clubs we haven't been to yet.  Let's go up to the Strip -- the Viper Room!"

"Well, I'm sort of ready to go home now," I said anxiously.

He put his arm around me, not affectionately, but as a way of steering me away.  "Another time, Bro. Let me give you my number."

Suddenly I remembered that lots of guys in West Hollywood don't do hookups. They want to date, get to know you better.

I handed him a notebook, and he scribbled a number and the name "Nate," not "Harvey."  I gave him mine, too.

"Are you free tomorrow night, Nate?  I'm going to an Oscar party at this great house in the heart of Old Hollywood."

"Sounds great!  Call me!"

I kissed him again, and reluctantly left him at the Rage.

Randall, Lane, and I went to the Faultline, but they cautioned "No more twinks!  Act your age!"

I was too embarrassed to try to pick up anyone else, anyway.

The next day I called Nate's number about noon and about 5:00 pm, and got an answering machine both times.

The day after that, I called the number again, got an answering machine again, and gave up.

A few weeks later, back in New York, I happened to be home on Friday night, switching through the tv channels, and I ran into Sabrina the Teenage Witch, the sitcom based on the Archie comics series.  I hadn't seen it since the first season.

There was Harvey, Sabrina's boyfriend, played by 22-year old Nate Richert.

I had gone out with a celebrity, without realizing it!

I watched Sabrina as often as possible after that, and paid attention to Nate's later career.

He tried to distance himself from his squeaky-clean TGIF roots with horror and indie projects, like Are You a Serial Killer? and Demon Island (about a haunted pinata, no kidding).

His last acting role was H-e-n-r-y (2006), a short about a basketball game in a prison yard.

But he became an accomplished musician, producing music videos and a 2004 album (Tone Control) with a sort of rockabilly-blues beat.  A lot of songs about lost loves and problematic relationships, some heterosexual, some ambiguous, like "Peace of Mind."

I don’t believe in your fairytale.
Dreams come and go with the light of the moon.
You kick the black cat right out of our trail.
It may not last forever but it won’t be over soon

Nate has had several girlfriends, and was married to his childhood sweetheart, Catherine Hannah, for several years.  The couple has since divorced.

So what did that night at the Gold Coast and the Rage mean?

Was Nate gay and closeted?

Bisexual, just starting to explore his attraction to guys?

Straight, trying to make friends, not sure how to respond to aggressive cruising?

I have no idea.

See also Michael J. Fox Beneath the Belt; My Date with the Star of "Wizards of Waverly Place" and My Date with the Nickelodeon Boy

Saturday, September 24, 2016

The Nude Photos of Louis Agassiz

Here are some of the best-preserved and most attractive of the nude African men photographed by Louis Agassiz in South Carolina in 1850 and Brazil in 1865.

Nice biceps, well hung, and I think he's smiling at the camera.

Even nicer biceps, very thick endowment, and a cute beard.

An old guy with a very long arms and a little belly.  In West Hollywood today he would be a twink magnet.

The xylophone abs almost draw attention away from the massive endowment.

The full post is on Boomer Beefcake and Bonding.

Dick Sargent's Three Way with Pat Boone

West Hollywood, March 2003

Conservative superstar Pat Boone, the World's #1 homophobe, had a three-way with Darrin of Bewitched?

I'm back in West Hollywood for a post-Oscar party thrown by Lane and his roommate Randall, 62 years old, but still a hot muscle bear with a pierced penis and a coterie of leather bear, cub, and otter friends.

The conversation moves inevitably toward celebrity hookups, and Randall begins telling the story of how, as an 18 year old in 1958, his friend Dick Sargent (who would star in Bewitched in the 1960s) took him to a gay party in Beverly Hills, where they hooked up with Groucho Marx and Cary Grant.  On the same night, in the same bed.

He's at the part where he and Dick are sitting in a parked car, making out and discussing who's gay in Hollywood.  Sal Mineo.  James Dean.  "Pat Boone. I haven't actually been with him, but I've watched him in action."

"Wait, wait, wait!" someone exclaims.  "Pat Boone is a total homophobe.  He writes books on how to 'be saved from the dangerous homosexual lifestyle.'  Are you trying to tell us that he's gay?"

"According to Dick, he's straight, but open to 'fooling around' with guys," Randall says.  "They had a three-way with a teenage fan while they were working on a  movie together."

Hollywood, March 1957

Bernardine, filming at 20th-Century Fox in the spring of 1957, was a frothy comedy about three high school boys who enter a fictional woman's name into a contest. Hilarity and romance ensue.  The big draw would be Pat Boone, a 22-year old teen idol with a string of hits:  "Ain't That a Shame," "Long Tall Sally," "Love Letters in the Sand, "April Love."  This was his first acting job.  

Costar Dick Sargent was 26 years old, with two years of acting under his belt, including a starring role in the tv series West Point, so he became a sort of mentor to the young star.  After work Pat often invited him home for dinner with his wife and three young daughters.  He became like one of the family.

One night when they were alone in the living room -- Shirley was off putting the girls to bed -- Dick did something that you never did in the 1950s: he came out!

"Today he would be setting himself up for screaming and Bible thumping!" I exclaim.  "It must have been much worse in the 1950s!"

"Actually," Randall says,  "The conservative Christians hadn't discovered us yet.  Back then they were screaming mostly about divorce and premarital hetero-sex.  Everybody hated queers, of course, but Dick was tall and studly, a graduate of military academy, not a queer queer, if you know what I mean. 

"I don't really like girls," Dick told Pat.  "I dig boys.  In fact, I've been in bed with one of our costars -- I can't tell you who, of course."

"I hear you, Daddy-o," the teen idol responded.  "Who doesn't dig boys?  I mean, I would never dream of cheating on Shirley, but it's not cheating when it's with a dude, reet?"  And I'll tell you a secret --"  he leaned in conspiratorily.  "When I sing 'Love Letters in the Sand,' it's not just bobby-soxers who moan and sigh and send me their phone numbers."

Dick was intrigued, and more than a little interested in the handsome Pat Boone, so he agreed to "fool around" with one of his regular "playmates," a teenage fan named Gerry.

After work a few days later, they drove up to Van Nuys, to one of those cheap hotels where the rooms have private entrances.  Pat waited in the car while Dick paid.  Inside, Pat made a phone call, and after about half an hour, Gerry arrived.

He was in his late teens, shorter than Dick, with brown curly hair, dark eyes, pouting lips, and a full, hard physique -- what they used to call "well knit."

After shaking hands with them both, he sat on the bed and began fondling himself through his chinos.  No preliminaries!

Shocked, Dick said "Shouldn't we kiss or fondle a bit first?"

Gerry frowned.  "You think this is a Sweet Sixteen Party, Howdy Doody?"

"No, but..., I like the way a dude looks and feels.  It's not just about the act itself."  He turned to Pat for validation, but Pat had already pulled out his own average-sized penis.

"I agree with the kid," he said, fondling himself to full arousal. "Hearts and flowers for the ladies, cocks and balls when it's just us cool cats."  He walked over to the bed. Gerry started going down on him.

Sighing, Dick lay on the bed, pulled out Gerry's impressive Kielbasa, and went down on him.  Gerry stayed aroused but didn't moan or say anything.

Dick pulled Gerry's shirt up to feel his hard chest and squeeze his nipples, but the kid  still didn't react.

After a few minutes, Gerry got on his knees, pulled out Dick's Bratwurst, and went to work.  That's what it seemed like -- doing a job.

Dick leaned over and tried to pull Pat close enough to go down on, but got shooed away.  "You can't fool around with your friends," Pat murmured, fondling himself.

Who else can you fool around with?

He and Gerry moved into the 69 position, still mostly clothed.  Gerry worked vigorously and enthusiastically, but still, Dick had trouble staying aroused.  He wanted Gerry's arms around him.  He wanted kissing.  He wanted the sight, touch, taste of the masculine!

Gerry finished soundlessly, with a gigantic spurt -- two mouthsful! -- and then turned his attention back to Pat, who continued to stand, continued to be fully clothed.  Dick stood and fondled his butt and tried to nuzzle his neck, but got shooed away.  Finally he sat down and beat off while watching Gerry bring Pat to orgasm.

Then Pat gave Gerry a dollar and sent him home, and they drove home, too.

They stayed friends, but when Pat suggested that they hook up with other boy fans, Dick refused.  He didn't like just fooling around with guys.  He wanted touching and kissing and fondling.  He wanted dating and romance.  He was a queer queer.

Was Dick telling the truth?

I got this story third hand, and it took place nearly sixty years ago, so it's impossible to determine what actually happened and what was embellished at some point along the way -- or made up altogether.  Today Pat Boone makes frequent homophobic statements, but who can say what he was thinking at the age of 22?  Maybe he really did think that "fooling around" with guys was fine, as long as you returned to your wife's bed at the end of the day.

After all, he was enough of a libertine to have someone photograph his penis in a box.

See also: Dick Sargent, Groucho Marx, and Cary Grant in the Same Bed; and Pat Boone, Teenage Heartthrob