Why We Read "Playgirl" in Rock Island

Back before the internet allowed us to download 100 pictures of naked men before breakfast, you got a few pictures per month, in expensive, glossy magazines.

In West Hollywood, you could get In Touch for humorous articles  along with your porn, Mandate for hairy-chested machismo, Advocate Men for twinks, Drummer for leather, Inches for...well, inches.

 But you'd never dream of picking up Playgirl, except maybe when it featured a nude celebrity like Christopher Atkins. It was a magazine for women, with articles for women, ads for women, and heterosexual models disrobing for women.  Gay men absolutely, emphatically did not exist.  Who in West Hollywood could tolerate such a slap in the face?

 Not until the 2000s did the editors admit, privately, that some men bought the magazine, that men existed who liked looking at photos of naked men. 

But outside gay neighborhoods, in the homophobic small towns of the Straight World, gay magazines were often unavailable, so Playgirl was all you could get.  Many gay men had fond memories of nervously bringing a Playgirl to the counter at the 7-11, claiming "It's for my girlfriend" or "It's a gag gift for my sister."

 They found something quite different from what they would find in a few years, in the gay magazines in West Hollywood or the Village. 

The models in gay magazines were portrayed as overcome by a passion, grimacing, leering, inviting -- no, daring you to do the forbidden, to walk on the wild side.

 But the models in Playgirl were warm and safe, comfortable, disrobing for a wife or girlfriend, inviting you to engage in in a wholely conventional, expected, "normal" activity.

The models in gay magazines had perfect bodies and enormous penises.  They displayed themselves as a challenge. You would never meet anyone like them in real life, or if you did, they would shoot you down instantly. 

The models in Playgirl tended to be more "natural," not particularly muscular, not particularly hung.  They looked like men you might actually meet, who you might actually have a chance with.

So thousands of gay men moved to West Hollywood and the Village, expecting not endless nights of tricking with superstuds, but someone to cuddle on the couch with.

A Hook Up with Burt Ward on the "Batman" Set

On Tuesdays and Thursday afternoons in the spring of 1991, after my course in Biblical Hebrew at UCLA, I often drove up to Brentwood to visit Cesar Romero, the actor best known as The Cisco Kid in the 1940s and the Joker in the 1960s Batman series.  We didn't become friends, exactly; we sat in his living room drinking lemonade, while he told about the many celebrities he had hooked up with through his career: Johnny Sheffield, Tommy Cook, Desi Arnaz (father and son both), Cary Grant, Walter Pidgeon, Raymond Burr, Tony Perkins,  Tab Hunter, Rock Hudson.

And Batman and Robin both!

He had gone down on Adam West (Batman) several times at all-male parties before he began playing the Joker.  No big surprises there.

But Burt Ward was 21 years old, a sheltered, conservative college jock who was not even aware that same-sex acts exist until  Adam West explained.  He allowed Cesar to go down on him once ("Huge!  A Kielbasa!"), but was never really comfortable around gay people.

So this story leaves me with a few questions.

Warning: there is a bisexual scene.

Hollywood, Spring 1967

Call me Scott.  I was one of the writers for the Batman series in the 1960s.  I wrote for the villains, making them as camp as possible.  My favorites were the women: Catwoman; Black Widow; Olga, Queen of the Cossacks; Marsha, Queen of Diamonds, played by Caroline Jones (Morticia of The Addams Family).  

But the male villain had their charms.  Many of them were gay: Cesar Romero (The Joker), Burgess Meredith (The Penguin), Victor Buono (King Tut), Liberace (Chandell).  After filming we used to go out to the bars, or to Cesar's house for an all-male party.   Adam West (Batman) and one of the costume designers came on occasion, but not Burt Ward (Robin).

I definitely wanted an opportunity to make it with Burt.  Have you seen the bulge in his tights?  Well, I've seen it close up!

Everyone said he was a sheltered, shy kid who didn't even know that gay people existed.  Even Cesar Romero struck out, and he made it with every guy in Hollywood.

Well, one day I got my chance.

Remember all those cliffhanging scenes, with the Dynamic Duo tied up?  We filmed the start and finish at the same time, to ensure continuity, which means that they sometimes had to stay tied up for a couple of hours.  Often they were left alone on a secluded stage for 20-30 minutes, with nothing to do but get hit on.

Some of the girls in the crew were notorious for taking that opportunity to kiss and fondle the helpless victims.  They would even bring in their friends to get a handful.  I never saw any penis actually come out, but there was a lot of groping and tenting -- I've seen both Adam and Burt fully aroused.

Ok, maybe they weren't entirely helpless -- most of the props were rather flimsy, so if they really worked at it, they could escape.  And, one yell would bring a stage hand running.  Maybe they enjoyed the attention.

In an episode we filmed just before the 1967 summer hiatus, Burt was tied up alone, spreadeagle on a table.  I walked past during the staging, as usual, and saw two girls working on him, #1 kissing him and #2 rubbing his crotch.

I walked up, said "Let an expert show you how it's done," then pulled out his cock.

Burt didn't protest -- he was busy kissing Girl #1.  I don't think he even noticed me.  I licked his balls, then his shaft, then drew all 8" into my mouth, sucking on the head while masturbating him.

He moaned, probably thinking that Girl #2 was going down on him.  Then she said "Who invited the fairy to the party?"

Burt looked up. I immediately moved my mouth away from his cock, but continued to masturbate him.

"Hi," I said.  Not much else to say in that situation.

"Oh, hi."  Burt looked at me for a long moment.  I couldn't tell if he was mad or not.  "Say, can you get Dick a girlfriend? [Dick Grayson, Robin's alter ego]. Fans are starting to talk."

"Sure, buddy, no problemo."  I returned to his cock.  Girl #2 shrugged and moved up to kiss him.  A few moments later, he spurted into my throat -- enormous load!  I wiped him off with my handkerchief, and moved on.

I tried to keep my word, but my "Dick's Girlfriend is Kidnapped" idea didn't make it.  But I did manage the next best thing: The premiere episode of the third season introduced Yvonne Craig as Barbara Gordon, Batgirl!

And no, I never had the opportunity to go down on Burt again.

My Date with the Nastiest Guy in the World

Kew Gardens, New York, April 1998

During my first year in New York, I was living in graduate student housing near the university on Long Island, nearly 2 hours from Manhattan by train, and trying to figure out a way to move to a gay neighborhood.

While looking, I spent a lot of time in gay chatrooms.

You actually met people by "instant messaging" them.  Inside the room itself, the conversations were usually limited to "anybody here?", stats, and insults.

A guy named Troy terrorized the Long Island chatroom.  There all the time, making insulting comments about everybody and everything.

Me: Grad student in sociology.
Troy: There's an exciting degree.  The art of studying the obvious!

Me: I lived in West Hollywood for 13 years.
Troy: How many auditions did you bomb before you gave up on your dreams of stardom?
Me:  I just got back from visiting my parents in Indiana.
Troy: How fun, chawin' tobaccy at the general store with Ma and Pa Kettle!

Even his profile was obnoxious: "I take care of my body and expect you to.  No fats, femmes, or grandpas.  If you aren't extra large beneath the belt, don't bother."

So I was surprised one day when I announced, "Looking for a room in Manhattan or nearby," and Troy instant messaged me.  He wanted to share his apartment in Kew Gardens, only 25 minutes from Manhattan on the Long Island Railroad.

"How far is it from the train station?" I asked. "I don't have a car."

"Only five minutes."

It sounded ideal, but -- share an apartment with the nastiest guy in the world?  Well -- maybe if he was in his room most of the time, making snarky comments in chatrooms.

So one Wednesday afternoon I took the train to Jamaica Station, and Troy picked me up.

He was much older than his profile picture, with a weird Satanic goatee, but quite muscular, almost a bodybuilder's physique.  If it wasn't for the nastiness, I could see us dating.

We drove down Jamaica Avenue, three, five, six blocks.

This was a little far to walk every day.

Under the Van Wyck Expressway -- then to Kew Gardens Road, then to Lefferts Boulevard.  Finally we pulled up to a weird apartment complex 1.5 miles from Jamaica Station!

"This is easily a half-hour walk, across two busy streets and under a freeway!" I exclaimed. "I told you I don't have a car."

"Oh..I thought your car was in the shop."

That was crazy.  Most people in New York didn't have cars.  "No way can I live here!"

"I guess not."  He paused.  "Tell you what -- I feel bad for bringing you all the way out here, so how about I buy you dinner, and then I'll drive you home."

"Sure, ok."  He owed me that much.

He took me to Mehak, an Indian restaurant with very good tandori chicken, with ice cream for dessert.  I refused the wine.

Troy turned out to be very nice in person.  No snark, not even when said that my mother was from Kentucky.

"Why are you so nasty online?" I ventured.

"I'm not nasty, I'm just honest.  I won't lie to you.  I'll tell you if you're a chubbo, or you have a twig down there."

"Most people prefer a little tact. You know, to avoid hurting someone's feelings."

"It's not tact, it's lying."

Maybe I actually found him attractive, maybe I was flattered that he hadn't called me a chubbo with a twig down there, or maybe I wanted my "money's worth" for the wasted time, but when he suggested that we go back to his apartment, I agreed.  

After kissing, cuddling, and criticizing Wednesday night sitcoms, Troy suggested that we move into the bedroom, and I agreed again.

He started to pull out the couch.

Then it dawned on me -- this was a studio apartment!

"Wait -- I've heard of guys with one bedroom apartments renting out their living rooms, but in a studio -- where did you expect me to sleep?"

Troy looked away.  "I...well, actually, I don't really need a roommate.  I just wanted to meet you."

"So you conned me into coming over?" I asked, stunned.  "Ever hear of asking someone for a date?"

He grinned.  "This way worked, didn't it?"

It did.  I spent the night with him anyway.

The next day, online, The Nastiest Guy in the World was back: "Boomer is bigger than me, but inside he's just a little sissy boy.  Oh, use a little tact!  Oh, you're hurting my feelings! Wah, wah, wah!."

See also: A Search for a Roommate in Philadelphia