Friday, November 16, 2018

Cesar Hooks Up with the Entire Male Cast of "I Love Lucy"

Brentwood, California, April 1991

I'm not exactly friends with Cesar Romero, the 85-year old Latin hearthrob who played The Cisco Kid in the 1940s and the Joker on Batman in the 1960s.  In West Hollywood, your friends were generally your ex-boyfriends and their current boyfriends, and Cesar and I have never dated, never even tricked (although I've watched him and Lane go at it).

But after my Biblical Hebrew class at UCLA, I like going over to visit him in his modern glass-and-leather apartment in Brentwood, to drink lemonade, get flirted with, and hear stories about hookups with the stars of Golden Age Hollywood.  Today he promised to tell me about the time he hooked up with the entire male cast of I Love Lucy (1951-57).

The vintage sitcom was before my time, but I've seen lots of episodes in syndication.  I love "Job Switching," where Lucy and Ethel (Lucille Ball, Vivian Vance) get jobs on an assembly line at a candy factory, with disastrous results.  And "Lucy Does a TV Commercial," where Lucy gradually gets drunk while selling the vitamin tonic Vitameatavegimen.



Lucy and Ethel were the stars.  The husbands, Ricky and Fred (Desi Arnaz, William Frawley) were mostly there to say "no, you can't have a new dress" and do slow burns after a catastrophe.  

But Desi was impossibly cute, and I recalled a scattering of other hot actors.  I wonder which Cesar has been with.

"Where to begin..." Cesar says.  "I've gone down on so many of the cast members.  Not the women, of course.  But..."

"Begin with Desi," I tell him.  "He was the hottest."

"And the biggest," Cesar adds with a wink.


Hollywood, April 1940

Cesar Romero was 33 years old, and already an established actor.  Never a contract player, he worked for various studios, playing heavies, gangsters, handsome leading men, and sundry adventurers, most recently the sardonic cowboy hero The Cisco Kid.

But what made him the most well-known face in Hollywood was his social life.  He was out every night, to movie premieres, gallery openings, charity events, nightclubs.  He practically lived at the Coconut Grove.  He was always seen on the arm of an attractive lady, usually an up-and-coming starlet; but he was a complete gentleman, seeing the lady to her front door with nothing more intimate than a kiss on the cheek.  There was no hint of scandal about him.

Last fall he dated Lucille Ball, the glamorous contract player for RKO.  When she asked, "Why don't you ever make a pass at me?", he replied, "Nothing personal.  It's just that I'm queer."

She was the first person he ever told.   After that they became close friends and confidants, sharing notes on eligible and not-so eligible men.

It was Lucy who told him about Desi Arnaz, a 23-year old singer and dancer who had come to Hollywood to play Manuelito in Too Many Girls.

"He's Cuban, like you!" she exclaimed.  "And a dancer!  And he's dreamy besides!  You're sure to get along fabulously."

"Are you sure he's that way?" Cesar asked.

"Sure as shooting, Jackson!  He didn't even try to make love to me. [Make love is the old term for flirting.]  If that's not proof, I don't know what is!"

So Cesar took the charismatic young dancer to the Coconut Grove.  Where he couldn't stop talking about Lucy.

Ok, normal [the 1940s term for "straight"].  Just shy.

Still, they became friends.  When Desi started seeing Lucy, they often double-dated with Cesar and whatever beard the studio provided.

It didn't take long for Desi to figure "it" out:

"Mira!"  he said one night, while the girls were powdering their noses.  "You don't have to hide.  I know you're a maricon!"

Cesar started to protest.  "Did Lucy say..."

"She said nothing.  I know from how you look at me.  I've seen that look before."

"Sorry..."

Me resbala, acero!  [No problem, buddy.], I know you can't help it.  But you should know, I like girls, not boys.  I can't be your chaval."

After that Cesar became more open, telling Desi about his trysts with this or that guy, Hollywood stars and others, about the parties he went to at the USO.

And maybe more aggressive at cruising him, since one night Desi said "Bueno, let's do it.  We'll get it over with, and then we can be friends.  But just this one time, ok?  I like girls, not boys."

They went back to Cesar's house in Beverly Hills, went into the bedroom, and Desi unzipped.

"How big was he?" I asked.

"One of the biggest.  A footlong!  I could barely get my mouth around the head.  And he was quick, too.  A few thrusts, and he was spurting down my throat.  Huge load!"

One time turned out to be a regular thing.  Once a week or so, they would go out to dinner, then back to Cesar's house.  No reciprocation, no kissing, just a blow job, a friendly gesture between friends.

In November 1940, Lucy and Desi married.

Cesar heard all about their tumultuous relationship.  Desi liked women -- and men -- too much.  He was devoted to Lucy, yet he always seemed to have one or two affairs going on the side, plus innumerable hookups.

Eventually, in one of his many failed attempts to stay faithful, Desi put an end to the "friendly gestures."

Brentwood, California, April 1991

I'm a bit disappointed.  I've already heard a lot about Desi Arnaz's bisexuality, and a "double date" doesn't really count as "hooking up with the entire cast of I Love Lucy."  

"What about the other male stars?" I ask.  "William Frawley, who played Fred Mertz?"

"No," Cesar admits. "Even when I first met him, back in 1936, he was bald.  Ugh!"

I can't think of anyone else offhand, but I came prepared.  I pull out my Complete Guide to Prime Time TV Shows, and ask Cesar about his hookups with the rest of the actors, directors, and miscellaneous cast members.

Director William Asher?  No.

Head writer Bob Carroll, Jr?  No.

Richard Keith, who played Lucy and Ricky's infant son, but would now be in his 40s? No.

Ok, there are lots more in the cast list.  I go through them, one by one.

Cesar has gone down on Bennett Green, who played various bit parts in 21 episodes, and Marco Rizo, the music director.  And that's it.

"Three isn't bad," Cesar says.  "Besides, Desi and I were close friends for fifty years, And in the end, isn't friendship more important than any number of cocks?"

Of course, but I came here to learn about cocks..  "Ok, let's go on to your hookup with Desi's son, Desi Arnaz Jr."

See also: Lane's Date with Batman, Robin, and the Joker; I Love Lucy; Cesar's Three Way with the Sons of Desi Arnaz and Dean Martin

Thursday, November 15, 2018

Baseball Butts

I'm definitely a frontside fan.  When I see a backside, I always want to tell the guy, "Turn around!"

90% of the attraction comes from the face, not the back of the guy's head.

And the interplay of muscles in the pecs and abs.  Who cares about the latissimus dorsi?

And, of course, the penis is infinitely more fascinating than the butt.  It comes in different sizes and shapes.  You can watch it move and bulge.  When he is aroused, it takes on a life of its own, getting bigger and firmer, and you can use it to bring him to an orgasm.    

What does the butt do?  Just sits there.  

But a couple of days ago I was trapped in a baseball game.  I'm not into sports -- I can't tell a triple play from a touchdown -- but if I'm forced, I'll go for the snacks, and to cruise the spectators in the stands.  They're often quite a hunky lot, and those thin-silk athletic shorts make for some nice bulge watching.

Unfortunately, I was seated next to a Creepy Old Guy who kept trying to involve me in conversations about baseball (go figure).  

Our seats were on the ground level, just to the left of home plate, so with a good view of the players, too, as they waited their turn at bat.  A few glimpses of bulges, but mostly backsides.

I never noticed before how -- well, big -- baseball players' butts are.  They strain and shift against the fabric of their pants.

"Do those uniforms have some kind of butt padding?" I asked, "In case they want to slide into home?"

"No, no padding," my friend answered. 

These are their natural butts, getting ready to burst out of their pants as the player adopts the squat, knee-bent batting stance. 






I guess there's something to be said for a nice pair of glutes, after all.

Remember the "Big Butts" song?  (It's actually "Baby Got Back," by Sir Mix-A-Lot).

I like big butts, and I cannot lie.
You other brothers can't deny.
That when a guy walks in with an itty bitty waist,
And a round thing in your face,
You get sprung, want to pull up tough,
Cause you noticed that butt was stuffed.

Of course, the song was originally written about ladies' butts. With men, you have the added attraction of knowing that there's more to see, more to feel, more to touch and taste.




You just have to tell him, "Turn around!" 

See also: Top or Bottom?


















Tuesday, November 13, 2018

David and I Brave the Wilds of Sebastopol

San Francisco, November 1996

"Do you feel like taking a drive up to Sonoma County the day after Thanksgiving?" My friend David, the former Baptist minister, asked."

"What for? We're already here."  

"Come on, the whole world doesn't revolve around Castro Street."

"No, just the gay world."  San Francisco was Gay Heaven, the impossible dream of gay men trapped in homophobic small towns around the world.  Those few who managed to live there were honor-bound to spend every moment in a whirl of activity.  To leave even for a day seemed like a betrayal.

"Believe it or not, there are gay men outside of San Francisco. I met one online in a chat room."

"Computerized cruising!" I exclaimed.  "What will they think of next?  Still, Sonoma County is a long way to go for cock.  Does he live in a town, or out in the woods somewhere like a hermit?"

"Sebastopol."

Hmm..Sebastopol sounded Russian.  I knew that the Russians were the first settlers in the region.  Could they have left traces in Sebastopol, like a Russian Orthodox Church?  Golden onion-dome towers, walls of icons of Cyrillic saints, priests in black robes...

"Ok, I'm in.  But only if we get a tour of the city before or after the cock."

"No problem.  I'm sure Rick will be happy to accommodate us."

This was before wikipedia, so I couldn't look up the history of the town.  And finding a phone book meant going all the way downtown to the public library, so I didn't bother to check whether there was actually a Russian Orthodox Church.

Sebastopol was an hour's drive up the 101, just an ordinary wine country town, known for its Gravenstein apples.  And its traffic.  Clogged streets, no parking lots or garages, just very tight parallel parking.  We passed two Thai and a Nepalese restaurant on the way to the place Rick wanted to meet, the Gypsy Cafe, which you could only get to by driving down a one-way street and turning left onto another.  We circled three times before finding a parking space 10 blocks away, and tried to maneuver the rental car into place while an endless line of cars honked at us or zoomed around.

We still managed to arrive early, and wait around for 30 minutes in the greasy spoon, which was uber-crowded with rich heterosexuals touring the wine country, in spite of the fact that they just served sandwiches and french fries (and wine).

To this day, I have never had Nepalese food.  But I've had sandwiches and french fries.








Rick was not really my type: tall and thin, with a long face, dirty blond hair, and a blond beard.  But he had two things I wanted in Sebastopol:  a cock, and a knowledge of the town.

"So, was Sebastopol founded by Russian immigrants during the days of the Tsars?"  I asked.

He frowned.  "I doubt it.  I think it was after the California Gold Rush in 1849."

"Then where did the name come from?"

"I don't know." [Wikipedia: it was named after the British siege of Sevastopol, Russia, during the Crimean War.

"So...any interesting sights?  Any old churches?"

"Sure, I can take you on a tour.  But you'd better move your car -- they're very pick about the two hour parking limit."

No Russian heritage.  No Russian Orthodox Church.  We drove right past a used bookstore and the Sebastopol Center for the Arts without stopping.  Just driving through endless bumper-to-bumper traffic while Rick said "I think it's over here...oh, wait, I missed the street, we'll have to circle around.

We finally inched our way to the Barlow, a sort of permanent farmer's market.  I bought some apple butter.

Then we had to go back and move our car again.

After many twists and turns and "Wait...this isn't the right way," we ended up at Gold Ridge, the farm where Luther Burbank experimented on plants.  David was an Arkansas country boy, and knew something about plants.  I had bought flowers maybe twice in my life.

If I wasn't so stressed out from the endless traffic, and claustrophobic from the narrow streets, I'd be bored.

Finally, after a day of traffic and boredom and no Russian heritage, we retrieved our car and followed Rick back to the house he shared with an older gay couple (not at home).  After driving around fot 20 minutes looking for a parking space, we played with his dogs for awhile, then went into the bedroom and got naked.

Rick had a soft, hairy body with a thick, hairy 8" cock and low-hanging balls. David and I took turns going down on him, and then David topped him while we kissed.  I finished with interfemoral.

Not bad, but the sort of friendly sharing that David and I could do any day.  Without having to rent a car and drive all the way into Sebastopol.

Rick asked us to spend the night, but we refused.  San Francisco beckoned, with its street cruising and bear parties.

And better parking.












And a Russian Orthodox church.


L

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