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

The Heterosexual Victor Mature's Heterosexual Hollywood Penis

This is purportedly a nude photo of  heterosexual Hollywood star Victor Mature (The Robe, Samson and Delilah).  Looks real to me.












The only problem: his "supersized" heterosexual penis is not terribly impressive, a Bratwurst at best.  I guess that counted as well-hung in Heterosexual Hollywood.

The full post is on Boomer Beefcake and Bonding.

Dick Sargent, Cary Grant, and Groucho Marx in the Same Bed

This story has moved to Boomer's Gay Celebrity Stories.

Picking Up a College Track Star in Front of My Brother

Small Town Illinois, September 2016

We're on our way back from a funeral, my brother and sister-in-law in the front seat, me in the back, driving down I-74 through a wilderness of small towns and vast plains: Danville, Farmer City, Mahomet, LeRoy, Downs, Carlock.

Katie points to the sign of a town with a quirky name.  "We should stop there for dinner.  It will probably have a cute Mom and Pop restaurant that all of the locals go to."

"Small town locals?  Sounds scary.  ZZ Top wannabes driving red pickup trucks with Confederate flags and 'I Heart Trump' bumper stickers."

"...and rows of cute boutiques and antique shops," Katie says.

"I think we should just press on to Bloomington.  According to Google Maps, there are three Thai restaurants..."

"I can't wait another hour!" my brother Ken exclaims.  "And I'm not eating rest-stop McDonalds!"

"It will be fine!" Katie jokes.  "If your hot pink tutu and drag queen bouffant attract rednecks, we'll tell them you're my hairdresser."

To get to the small town, you drive north from the highway through one of those horrible retail strips, with a Wal-Mart, fast-food restaurants, and car dealerships.  Then through a residential district of the same white-porch houses you see everywhere in Illinois, across a river, and to downtown:

A park with a bandshell.
A clothing store for Cowgirls.
Two closed banks, a closed antique store, a hair salon, a lot of deserted storefronts, and two restaurants, only one open: The Paradise Soda Shop.

We go into the soda shop.  Maybe it serves sandwiches, too.

It's in a historic building, with restored booths and seats from the 1920s,

There's a hot bear in an old-fashioned soda jerk costume behind the counter: in his 40s, chubby, black hair, beard, nice square hands.  His name tag reads "Seth."

I go into full cruise mode: eyes, crotch, eyes again.  Unfortunately, Seth's crotch is covered by an apron.  "Hi, Seth, my name is Boomer.  My associates and I are traveling through on the way to the big city, and we were wondering what kind of local delicacies you have."

He grins.  "Well, we have sodas, malteds, shakes, and phosphates."

"Phosphates?"

"Carbonated water with all different kinds of flavoring. They were popular in the 1920s.  But we have flavors they never thought of: watermelon, papaya, kiwi, sriracha..."

"Sriracha?  The hot sauce?"

Our eyes meet with that unmistakable vibe.  "It's an acquired taste."

"We were looking more for dinner," Ken says,

"Well, there are two restaurants in walking distance: Burger King and Pizza Ranch.  But be sure to come back for a phosphate later.  I'm here until 7:00."

So much for a down-home Mom and Pop restaurant that everybody goes to.

The Pizza Ranch is the franchise run by fundamentalists, with the goal of Glorifying God with bad pizza and deep-fried chicken.  Two buffet tables loaded down with fried stuff.  A salad bar consisting of wilted lettuce and sliced cucumbers, and some long rows of family-style tables.

Where the entire local high school football team is eating! Eight beefy guys squeezing past us to get to their table, then returning for more fried stuff and squeezing past us again.

Crotch view after crotch view!

Legs and thighs an inch away!
Chests and biceps in full view!
A smile and an "Excuse me, sir" as a guy shifts toward me to scoot around.

Plus a cute boy eating with two rednecks, a pair of men in muscle shirts, and the father of a nuclear family with a blatant bulge in his pants.

There are 23 men and 3 women in the room. My kind of restaurant!

I nudge Katie. "I think I'm going to move here, and eat at the Pizza Ranch every night."

"You do, and you'll be as big as a house," Katie says.

"Ok, I'll go somewhere else for the food, and come here for the view."

I try to push us through, so we can get back to the Paradise for phosphates and cruising.  Unfortunately, we arrive a little after 7:00, and Seth is gone.   A gruff older woman takes our phosphate orders.

Seth may be gone, but there's a cute college boy a nearby booth, eating ice cream with his two friends -- both girls, I notice.  He's tall and slim, with a long face and dirty-blond hair.  And he keeps looking over at me and smiling.

Seeing a chance to cruise, I excuse myself and go over to his booth.  "Hi, you look familiar..."

"You must have seen me at the meet.  I'm Ryan H**** -- I placed at 10.23."

I have no idea what he is talking about, so I say "That sounds very impressive.  Sorry I wasn't there to see it.  I'm Boomer -- my brother and sister-in-law and I are just passing through town."

His face falls.  "Are you interested in track and field?"

"Sure, I like all sports.  I used to write for a bodybuilding magazine."

"Cool!  What do you do now?"

While the girls text furiously on their smartphones, Ryan and I talk about college.  He's a freshman at the University of Illinois, where he's on the track team (10.23 is his personal best for a 2-mile run).   He wants to major in criminology and go to work for the FBI.

"I can tell you all about the field of criminology," I begin.  Then I see Ken and Katie gesturing at me and looking bored.  "But we should be going -- we have a long drive ahead of us.  But you and I should stay in touch.  I'll give you my email address."

He thanks me, but doesn't offer anything in return.  We shake hands and head out into the night.

"I'm definitely moving here!" I exclaim..  "This place is cruisier than the Rage on a Saturday night at last call!"

"Are you sure Ryan wasn't just being friendly?" Katie asks.  "There's a big difference between friendly and interested.  He didn't give you his phone number, did he?"

"No, but..."

"Anyway, he lives 600 miles from your town," Ken adds.  "A little far for dating."

"Well, I'll be passing through this way again at Christmastime."

Back home, I look up Ryan on twitter and Facebook.  Last summer he tweeted a picture of his friend's backside with the caption "Thank God for Sam's butt."  His Facebook page has a picture of him in his underwear -- nice basket -- with the caption:  "Only ___ High School boys party in their underwear."

I'm guessing he's gay.

Suddenly my cell phone buzzes.  Ryan has sent me a photo: nude, at a pool, his enormous Kovbasa semi-aroused.  Probably photoshopped, but who cares?

I'm guessing he's interested.  

Only three months until Christmas!

See also: My Christmas Date with the College Track Star; Hookup with the Waiter at a Christian Restaurant; and Ryan's Three Way with Harry Styles.