Dick Sargent and Randall Compete Over a Disney Adventure Boy

West Hollywood, June 1995

It's the night before Gay Pride, and Lane and I are having about a dozen guys over, so they'll be able to get to the staging grounds easily tomorrow, or find a good place to stand to watch.  As usual at West Hollywood parties, we swap celebrity dating stories: Tom Cruise, Rob Lowe, Mario Lopez, Dustin Hoffman.

Randall the Muscle Bear usually doesn't participate, although he knows a lot of actors, but tonight he may be trying to impress his date, Levi from Colorado, so he says "I'm going to tell you about the time Dick Sargent and I competed over a Disney adventure boy from the 1960s."

The room is abuzz as we discuss the Disney adventure boys, a stable of teen hunks who took their shirts off to demonstrate "wholesome American masculinity" during the late 1950s and early 1960s: Jeff East, Tim Considine, Roger Mobley, James MacArthur, Tommy Kirk.

"You'll have to hear the story, and guess.

Hollywood, May 1966

Randall, who would become the Muscle Bear with the Pierced Penis, was then Randy, a 26-year old twink, fresh out of the Navy, back in his home town of Los Angeles after eight years in Hawaii, Guam, and Germany.    He moved into a tiny apartment on Crescent Heights, in what would one day be West Hollywood, got a job in set design, and reunited with his old friends, including actor Dick Sargent (the future star of Bewitched).

Dick introduced him to 26-year old Tommy Kirk (Old Yeller, The Shaggy Dog, Swiss Family Robinson) who had been fired from Disney last year when the studio discovered that he was gay.  He was trying to keep his career afloat with some beach movies and low-budget thrillers, like It's a Bikini World and Psycho A-Go-Go.

The three of them were talking, and Randall mentioned his crush on a Disney Adventure Boy from a few years ago -- he'd be in his 20s by now.

"He's a really nice guy," Tommy said.  "He and Annette are the only two of the old Disney gang who will talk to me now.  But he's straight.  He's got a girlfriend."

"Maybe she's a beard," Dick suggested. A woman you date as a cover.  "And, straight or not, nobody can resist my impish grin."

"Or my...um...baseball bat," Randy bragged.  "I'll bet you I can convince him to drop his pants in just two hours."

"That's nothing!  I'll have him throwing my legs in the air in 45 minutes."

"Is that a challenge?"

"Sounds like an episode of Truth or Consequences," Tommy said.  "Tell you what -- I'll arrange the meetings -- that's the truth.  But I get to go down on the loser, the dude who doesn't get the boy.  Those are the consequences."

Dick Sargent's Date

Dick and Tommy and their beards met the Adventure Boy and his girlfriend at a Hollywood hot spot.  The music was loud and psychedelic; acid and pot were being passed around openly.  There were dancers in cages.  There were a number of celebrities grooving to the music, including George Segal and the Smothers Brothers.

 At 36, Dick felt a bit old for such a groovy hangout, but he gamely danced the frug and the watusi with his girl.  Then they sat at a red booth for drinks.

After awhile, the girls went off to "powder their noses," and Tommy found an excuse to make himself scarce. Dick slid across the booth and grabbed the Adventure Boy's shoulder.

"Hey, dude, you didn't hear it from me, but I think your chick digs chicks."

"Yeah, I know," he said.  "Doesn't bother me a bit.  She's the smartest, funniest girl I've ever met, regardless of who she sleeps with."

"But don't you want to...you know, get laid?"

The Adventure Boy smiled and patted his hand.  "To tell you the truth, sex with girls isn't much of a kick.  I never could figure out why everybody's so hepped up on it."

"Me, neither."  Dick reached down and grabbed his knee.  He didn't respond.

"There are so many more important things in life.  Art, literature, music, philosophy."

Dick moved farther in, found the Adventure Boy's crotch, and squeezed.  The Adventure Boy found his hand and moved it away.

"A sunrise on the beach is more satisfying than any number of blow jobs, I don't care if they're from a chick or a dude."

Dick backed off.  Later he went back to Tommy's house for his "penalty."

Randy's Date

Randy refused beards, offering Tommy and the Adventure Boy a "guy's night out."  Beginning, at his insistence, with the L.A. County Museum of Art.  He had never been there -- it only opened in 1961, and moved to its new building on Wilshire in 1965.

"This is where it's at," the Adventure Boy said.  "Picasso, Rembrandt, Matisse will be here long after our beach-blanket dreck is forgotten.  Mod comes and goes, but the artistic spirit lives on forever."

Randy touched his shoulder.  "You're really very sensitive, aren't you?  Nothing like your buffed airhead persona in the movies."

He shrugged.  "It's a job.  Besides, it gives me an opportunity to scope out the action. The Body Beautiful in Technicolor."

Afterwards they drove to the Santa Monica Pier to have dinner and then walk along the beach at sunset.  Randy put his arm around the Adventure Boy's waist.  Tommy chuckled.

"Hey, you dudes should drop by my pad," Randy said.  "I got some righteous Sangria I picked up in Spain, and some maui wowie."

The Adventure Boy suggested that they go back to his house instead.  He put on a record of Debussy, offered them a joint, and then sat with his legs wide, his head back, his eyes closed.  His knee brushed against Randy's.

"Man, I could just lie here all night, letting the music flow through me.  This has been a far-out day."

Tommy went out to the kitchen in search of wine.  While he was gone, Randy knelt in front of the Adventure Boy and pressed down on his crotch.

"Art, music, pot, a walk on the beach, a couple of cool guys by your side. What more could you ask for?"

Randy unzipped him and pulled out his penis --very long, very thick around, pale in the dim light -- and fondled him.

He didn't get aroused.

Randy went down on him.  It was like going down on a limp noodle.  Completely soft.

After a few minutes, he tried his hand again.  Nothing.  He returned the Adventure Boy's penis to his pants and zipped him up.

A moment later, Tommy appeared with glasses and a bottle of wine.  "You guys been keeping yourselves busy in my absence?"

"No," Randy said, annoyed.

After a glass of wine, they said goodnight, and Tommy drove Randy back to his house to collect his "penalty."

West Hollywood, June 1995

We glance at each other.  Randall hasn't given us much to go on.

"Definitely Roger Mobley," Will the Bondage Boy says.

"James Macarthur," I suggest.

"Tim Considine?"

"Nope.  It was Aron Kincaid."

The blond hunk in all of those beach movies of the early 1960s -- Beach Blanket Bingo, Muscle Beach, Bikini Beach Party?  He was a lot hotter and more buffed than ostensible star Frankie Avalon, and a lot less interested in the ladies.  I don't remember him being in a Disney adventure boy movie, but then, growing up Nazarene, I only saw a few of them.

This was before you could look up such things readily, and by the time I was near a library, I forgot all about it.  Only recently did I look him up: Aron Kincaid was no Disney Adventure Boy.  His only work for Disney was The Happiest Millionaire (1967).  Randall was mistaken, or fibbing.

But at least both he and Dick Sargent dated a former Disney Adventure Boy: Tommy Kirk.



Was Aron Kincaid Gay?

It's possible that Aron was gay, but too tired or too high to get aroused, or too nervous with a third person there.

Or that he had no sexual desire at all; maybe he was asexual.

He was engaged to four women over the years, but never married.  When he socialized, it was with a man or a much older woman, like screen legends Rita Hayworth and Maureen O'Hara.   But mostly he preferred solitude.

In the 1970s, he moved to San Francisco and started a new career as a model.  He became friends with Armistead Maupin, author of Tales of the City, who named his chief villain Norman Neal Williams ( after his real name).  Later he moved to New York City, where he embarked on a third career as a painter of landscapes and seascapes.

 He lived alone through his life, and died in 2011.


See also: Dick Sargent, Cary Grant, and Groucho Marx, All in the Same Bed.

I Share Fred and His Boyfriend in His Parents' House

Rock Island, December 1980

In mid-December, just before classes end at Augustana, my ex-boyfriend Fred calls me from Omaha.  "Are you free Christmas night?" 

"Sure -- my family celebrates on Christmas Eve, so Christmas day is all down time."

"Great.  I'm bringing my boyfriend Toby up to meet my parents -- the first guy I've ever brought home -- and I want you to come along for moral support."

Last summer, when I was 19 years old, I moved to Omaha with Fred, a recent seminary graduate who had just taken a job as a youth pastor.  I hated every minute of it, and after five weeks escaped...um, I mean left and returned to Rock Island.  

Within a week, Fred rebounded into the arms of another 19-year old college student: Toby Meyer, who was starting his sophomore year at the University of Nebraska.  They moved in together after two dates.  Fred introduced him at church as his "nephew."

If anyone in the church found this suspicious, there's no record of it.

"So you want your ex-boyfriend to help you introduce Toby to your family."  I scoff-- I haven't seen Fred since our breakup, and now he wants me to hang out with his new boyfriend?  That would be mega-weird!

"Are you up for it?  Mom's a great cook.  And, if it sweetens the deal, you can join me in bed. Just come into my room after everyone's asleep.  I'd like to have you all night, but you know, I don't want to arouse suspicion."

That does sweeten the deal!  Fred is enormously attractive.  Besides, I've only been with one guy since our breakup, and that was a downlow thing after a screen date with some girls.

"Um...where are they going to put Toby?"

"Hopefully with me, but I can't be sure.  They think we're just roommates, you know.  I'm not out to anyone in my family." 


Well, he's sort of out.  Last summer Fred's Dad and older brother helped us move to Omaha. Virgil was in his 50s,hairy, grizzled, with hard shoulders and biceps, a do-or-die conservative Democrat who hated Ronald Reagan.  Dwight was in his 30s, a truck driver, tall, bearded, fat.  

They didn't say anything about us being gay, but they didn't mention girls, either, and they expressed no surprise when we had only one bed to move. They probably knew, but didn't want to talk about it. 

That's as out as you got in 1980.

This will be the first time I've seen Fred since we broke up.  That, plus meeting his boyfriend and most of his family, makes me very nervous.

I get even more nervous when I arrive before Fred and Toby -- they are still negotiating the snowy six-hour drive from Toby's parents' house in Sioux Falls.  

Virgil, Dwight, a little boy (Dwight's son), and a tall, slim black-haired guy (the boyfriend of Fred's sister) are sitting in the living room, watching a football game on tv.  

Virgil, gruff and a bit standoffish, introduces me as "Fred's former friend," and takes me back through the dining room to an enormous kitchen to meet the women:  Fred's Mom, short, fussy, and fat; Dwight's wife; and Fred's younger sister, a senior music major at Knox College.

They give me the choice of helping out in the kitchen or watching football.  I choose the kitchen, and make a salad while fielding questions about my major in college, whether I have a girlfriend, and why I left Omaha.

If there any doubts about Fred being gay, they are dissipated when he arrives with Toby, the most swishy little queen to ever sashay in a pink sweater and diamond earrings.  He spends the dinner saying things like "Mrs. A, this cauliflower casserole is delish!  You have to give me the recipe, so I can make it for Fred!" and "No pie for me, thanks -- I have to watch my figure!  Got to keep them interested, right?"

I am heavily embarrassed, and try to ignore him -- and Fred -- as much as possible, instead interrogating Jane and her boyfriend on Knox College.  

After dinner, the women set about to do the dishes, along with Toby ("Oh, I insist!  I love dishwashing -- I might even make it my career!")  The men go into the living room to watch more tv and wait for the women, so they can open presents.  I go to the bathroom.

Virgil is waiting for me at the door, glaring as if I took too long.  

"Sorry..." I begin.

"I have a question.  I'm glad you're trying to make up with Freddie -- you hurt him bad when you left Omaha.  But I want to know -- did you jump ship because he started dating a queer?"

"What?"  Stunned, I really want to say "WTF?"    

"Nothing wrong with queers," Virgil continues.  "They can set a table and keep a house as well as a woman can, and if that's what Freddie likes, it's up to us to make his friend feel welcome.  Not fly off the handle and run away."  

"Oh, no, that's not why I left at all."

"Good."  He grimaces menacingly.  "Cause I thought you looked a little piqued around Toby.  You don't want to hurt Freddie again, not in my house." 

"Oh, no.  In fact, to prove how much I accept Fred and Toby, I volunteer to spend the night in their room."

His grimace breaks into a grin. "Well, we were going to put you up in the spare room with Jane's boyfriend, and the boy in with his folks, but I'm sure that can be arranged."

We go back into the living room and exchange gifts.  I only brought one, a book for Fred, but receive three, from Fred, his parents, and Toby (a Nebraska Cornhuskers t-shirt:  "I saw a picture of you, and knew that red is your color!").  Then we watch more tv (a common entertaiment in the Midwest) until it's time to decide on the sleeping arrangements.

Bedroom #1: Jane
Bedroom #2: Dwight and his wife
Bedroom #3: Fred, Boomer, and Toby.
Spare Room: Jane's boyfriend and Dwight's son

"Sorry we have to triple up, Freddie."  Virgil says.  "There's just not enough beds to go around."

"Oh, I don't mind a bit," Fred says with a grin.


When we get upstairs, Toby wraps me into a hug.

"How did you ever convince Mr. and Mrs. A. to let us share Fred's bed tonight?  We're not out to them, so they think we're just roommates having a sleepover."

"That must be the reason," Fred says, joining us in the hug.  "No chance of any hanky panky going on up here."

"Actually, Virgil knows that Toby is gay, and thinks that you're straight but 'into queers.'"

"See, Fred?" Toby says.  "I can't be in the closet!  Everybody knows the moment I say 'hello.'"  He turns to me.  "Do you like kissing?  Fred doesn't like to kiss."

In case you were wondering: slim physique, average-sized cut penis, French and Greek passive.   

We shared a few more times, when they came to Rock Island or I drove out to visit them in Omaha.  Then Fred got a new job, as senior pastor of the United Methodist Church in Horrible Small-Town Kansas. He and Toby broke up, maybe because Toby didn't want to move to Horrible Small-Town Kansas, or maybe because he knew he could never be closeted enough to be a preacher's partner.  Everyone knew the moment he said "hello."

See also: My Ex-Boyfriend Fred's Nine Lovers.

Joe Dallesandro's Date with Peter Pan

Last week I put the word out to all of my friends and friends-of-friends for celebrity hookup stories about Tony Dow.  I got a lot of other 1950s and 1960s teen idols instead: Jack Wild, "Dennis the Menace" Jay North, Jon Provost, Brandon DeWilde.  Some I'm holding off until I can do some fact-checking, but Bobby Driscoll seems pretty airtight.

It comes from a friend of Blake, my ex-boyfriend in Manhattan, who says he heard it from Wallace Berman.

The first generation of Baby Boomers remembers Bobby Driscoll (1937-1968) for only two vehicles: a young Jim Hawkins in Treasure Island (1950), and the voice and model of Peter Pan (1953).

In fact, he was a busy child star, working from the age of five, hired at the age of 11 to become Disney's first adventure boy, whose youthful masculinity and muscle would guide the way through the Cold War. 

But things didn't pan out.  Apparently he wasn't masculine or muscular enough to suit Walt.  Promised roles fell through, and finally Disney cancelled his contract altogether.  Bobby found himself scrambling for guest spots on tv shows, trying to survive in a high school where everyone ribbed him for being the androgynous Peter Pan, negotiating bouts of depression, trying every drug he could get his hands on. 

Around 1956, Bobby met Wallace Berman, an artist of the 1950s avant-garde, who introduced him to Beat poet Allen Ginsberg and underground filmmaker Kenneth Anger.  He thought Bobby had a great deal of artistic talent, and should concentrate on that rather than acting.

But Bobby continued to try to capitalize on his long-gone child star cuteness.  Former Disney chums took pity on him, and arranged for roles in Men of Annapolis, The Party Crashers, and The Millionaire, but he was increasingly deemed unemployable.  His last mainstream acting job was in a 1960 episode of Rawhide. 

He supplemented his very meager acting income with odd jobs, petty theft, and an occasional trick with female clients (he didn't have a great physique, but he was well hung, and always ready to rise to the occasion).  He was arrested many times for drug possession, burglary, assault, and theft, but amazingly, either the charges were dropped or he was sentenced to probation.  He only served six months in prison.

One day in 1965, after Bobby's latest arrest, he got a call from Berman, now living in Greenwich Village and quite a big name in avant-garde circles (he is one of the celebrities on the cover of Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band).

"Look, the straight world is doing nothing but giving you shit," Berman said.  Come to the Village and crash at my place.  Work on your art."

So Bobby and girlfriend Didi relocated to New York, and moved into Wallace's pad in Greenwich Village. 

Berman introduced him to Andy Warhol, and he began hanging around the Factory with the crowd of hustlers, transvestites, underground artists, and pop stars. They all made a fuss over him: he was immediately cast in the underground film Dirt (1965), and asked if he had any poetry to publish.

 Andy was particularly entranced with Bobby.  "Peter Pan finds a new way to fly," he said.  "The ironic rebirth of a lost boy.  I love it.  Take your clothes off."

Andy photographed Bobby nude several times (the photos have been lost), and invited him to an orgy with Ondine and Ultra Violet (he refused).

"Suck Andy's cock!"  Berman advised one day in 1966. "It will do you a world of good."

"Naw, I'm no homo," Bobby said.  "Besides, he's ugly."

"Well, suck somebody's cock.  Mine, if you want."

"I'm straight," Bobby protested.  "I've got three kids.  I've got a girlfriend.  We screw almost every night."

"Yeah, while you're thinking about that little hustler with the great ass.  All your problems, they're not the Man's fault -- it's your hang-ups.  You're a homo, and you don't want to be."

Bobby laughed it off at the time, but later he thought, maybe I am a homo after all. 

Only one way to find out. 

But who could he go with?  Not Andy Warhol.  Not Berman: he wasn't into old guys.  Not Allen Ginsberg: he wasn't into fat guys.  Certainly not Candy Darling: if he was going to go with a man, it would have to be all man.

Suddenly he hit on it: Joe Dallesandro, 19-year old hustler "Little Joe," 5'6" but with a 7" cock, the biggest, most buffed, and most hung of the Factory regulars, and unabashedly bisexual.  Perfect!

Joe was up for it: "Me and Peter Pan, what a trip!" he exclaimed. 

They "warmed up" by going down to the docks and looking at the buffed sailors, then having dinner at a Village dive notable for its gay clientele.  Then they went back to Joe's pad, put on some Jefferson Airplane, dropped some acid, and started making out. 

Bobby had never kissed a dude before.  It was nice. 

He let Joe go down on him, which didn't feel much different from a girl doing it.  Then he pushed Joe down on the couch and swallowed his gigantic cock.  It rammed the back of his throat.  He gagged and pulled back, but he was eager for more.  Joe's cock, everything that made Joe a man -- inside him! 


He worked on the shaft, while Joe whispered directions: "Watch your teeth.  More tongue action."  It didn't take long for Joe to ejaculate.  Bobby lifted his head just in time to watch the spurt.  Beautiful!

"Hey, you're not bad, man," Joe said.  "You sure you never sucked a cock before?"

"Only in my fantasies," Bobby told him, pushing his head down so Joe could suck him off.

The sex was cool, and it was nice to finally be able to admit his interest in muscular men.  He spent the next year making up for lost time.

But coming out didn't solve Bobby's problems.  When Didi caught him with a guy, she moved out.  He continued using drugs.  He tried to paint, but he couldn't bring himself to paint homoerotic scenes, and everything else turned dark on his canvass. 

In late 1967, he contracted hepatitis.  When the Factory gang went to Arizona to film Lonesome Cowboys in January 1968,  he was too sick to go with them. 

When they returned, Bobby had vanished.  In February 1968, he wrote to Allen Ginsburg, saying that he had been arrested and needed money for bail.  Why not Warhol?  Why not Berman?  No one knew.

No one heard anything else about him until the end of March, when his body was discovered in an abandoned building at 371 East 10th Street, in the East Village.  A tragic end to someone who had once been a promising actor and artist..

Was Blake's Friend Telling the Truth?

The rather extensive biography of Bobby Driscoll on his memorial website doesn't mention any same-sex activity, nor do any of the biographies of Andy Warhol.  Bobby's poetry is mostly about girls.

But Warhol's Factory crowd was all about going beyond the sexual and social limits imposed by 1960s society, and Bobby had a lot of gay and bi friends.  His last letter was written to a gay man.  It makes sense that he would try to escape his self-destructive spiral by embracing the feelings that he had been fleeing from his whole life.

See also: Nude Photos of Joe Dallesandro

I Visit Alan, his Boyfriend, and their Boy Toy in Virginia

Norfolk, Virginia, June 1993

After our horrible trip to London for a gay Jewish conference on the Isle of Dogs, Lane flies back to West Hollywood.  I stop in Norfolk, Virginia, to spend a few days with my old friend Alan.

As the plane crosses Chesapeake Bay and descended into Norfolk, I become very, very nervous.  

We were best friends for years, in spite of his globetrotting, to Japan, Thailand, and France.  Then last summer he sent a long letter detailing how he had "repented of his sinful lifestyle" and couldn't hang out with his old "sinful associates" anymore.   

I figured we were through.

In December he sent me another letter, bright and cheery but very brief:  "I'm living in Norfolk, Virginia.  It's beautiful here -- I've never been happier.  Can you come and visit?  You can stay with me and Sandy."

Ok, I know Alan has an older sister -- is her name Sandy?  I can't remember.  Or is he still "ex gay," with a girlfriend?  Or a beard?    

Still, I hate losing friends.  I promised to come after the Isle of Dogs conference.  And reserved a hotel room, just in case.

What am I getting myself into?  I wonder.  Five days of homophobic Bible-thumping?  Five days of hanging out with a gay guy trying to pretend that he's straight?  

Alan meets me at the gate.  Blue button-down shirt, white pants.  His earring is gone.  He's lost a lot of weight -- he's thin, almost gaunt, and old -- he is only 37, but he looks about 60.  Yet I still see the vibrancy in his eyes the joie-de-vivre, in his bright smile.  

He wraps his arms around me and hugs me.  It feels like old times.

"Come on -- we'll go on a little tour of the town, and then I'll take you home.  Sandy is cooking dinner."

Sandy is...cooking dinner?  I get an image of a 1950s housewife in an apron and pearls, checking the potroast.  Has Alan become Ward Cleaver?


Norfolk is very beautiful, an old Navy town and seaport.  Alan drives me past the Wells Theater, the Myers House, and the Oriental Garden, and shows me Chesapeake Bay.

"Any good gay bars in town?" I ask.

He frowns.  "I wouldn't know...I don't go the bars anymore.  I cleaned up my life.  No more bars, bathhouses, street cruising -- remember how much time we wasted on all that nonsense?

Not a good sign.  "Last time I visited you, in Paris, you took me to a different dark room or bathhouse every night.  Remember how you picked up the cop in about thirty seconds?"

"I remember."  He flashes a sad, wistful smile.  "Weren't we a couple of libertines!  Thank God that's all behind me now."

Not a good sign.  "Well...um...Lane and I...."

"Whoa, look at that guy!" Alan exclaims, pointing out a hunky college-age boy, very muscular, shirtless.  "Norfolk is completely overrun with eye candy. Sailors and marines from the Shipyard, cute Jewish boys from B'Nai Israel...."

Ok, so Alan's not pretending to be "ex-gay" anymore. At least when Sandy's not around.

"Whoa, there's a whole pack of hotties!"  He pointed to three shirtless black guys peering under a car hood.  "You know, the civilian population of Norfolk is 50% black!  You're still into black guys, I hope."

What does he mean, I hope?  "You know it!"

Alan pulls up to a square white apartment building with white picket-fence balconies  My heart sinks -- after living in the glamour of West Hollywood and Le Marais, this is quite a decline and fall.

We go to an apartment on the third floor.  

The living room is bright, with tapestries and vivid colors, and wall-to-wall beefcake.  A painting of a naked man over the couch.  A statue of Michelangelo's David and nude African dancers on a shelf.  

"We're here!" Alan yells, dropping my suitcase.

Two guys appear from the kitchen! Both African-American. Alan introduces me to Sandy and Tarik.

Sandy is in his 40s, a little shorter than me, slim, wearing glasses. He has diamond studs in both ears. Tarik is amazing: about my age, short, dark-skinned, very muscular, with a handsome round face, bright eyes, and thick square hands. When he reaches out his hand to be shaken, I pull him into a hug instead.

We sit down to a very healthy dinner of chicken breasts covered in mango chutney, asparagus, cauliflower, and green salads, with iced tea to drink (they thoughtfully provide a Diet Coke for me).

I'm surprised -- Alan was always into pastas, pies, pastries, and chips. He only ate vegetables when they were doused in butter and cheese.

"We got you a guest pass at our gym," Sandy tells me. "Hope you're up for step aerobics, tomorrow at 6:00.'

"We'll have breakfast after," Tarik says with a grin. I figure he's a roommate.

"So, how did you get from Parisian roue to...this?" I ask.

"The Hong Kong Hustler," Alan says. Last summer he visited Hong Kong, and, feeling deprived after the sexual freedom of Paris, hired a hustler and bottomed. Without a condom.

"Well, he was cute. I always let my pants do my thinking for me."

A few months later, he discovered that he was HIV positive. Deeply depressed, he moved in with his sister in Norfolk, Virginia, became "ex gay", and cut off all contact with his former "sinful associates."

"That's where I come in," Sandy says. "The miserable fool thought God was punishing him for being gay. Even Pentecostals don't think God is that crazy. He met a sister at the Norfolk Apostolic Church who took pity on him and gave him my number."

"Our first date was on Christmas Eve," Alan says. "It lasted until New Year's Day. It took me that long to get used to being with someone bigger than me."

"Oh, stop it!" Sandy exclaims, hitting him on the shoulder. "You fell in love with my sweet nature and strength of character, not my nether regions!"

Bigger than Alan? This I have to see. I decide to bring up the subject of sharing.

They both attend the gay-positive Metropolitan Community Church, eat a high-protein, low-fat diet, exercise, meditate...and are monogamous. No cruising in bars, no bathhouses, no pickups, no sharing...."

"Yeah, picking up guys in bars is just sleazy," Tarik says. "I don't see how anybody could go down on a perfect stranger."

Ok, maybe I won't suggest sharing.

We take our dessert to the living room -- a berry-yogurt parfait and decaf coffee. Tarik sits very close to me on the couch, so close that our thighs are touching.

As soon as I finish my parfait, I wrap my arm around his shoulders. He takes my hand and smiles.

What's going on? Does he want a date? But I told him about Lane back home. And he's not into hookups: "I don't see how anybody could go down on a perfect stranger."


Sandy asks what I want to do during my visit: "We could drive up to DC -- I stayed there until last summer, I can give you an insider tour. Colonial Williamsburg is worth a visit. Or we could go hiking down in the Dismal Swamp -- it's not really dismal at all."


It's 3:00 am London time, and I've had an strenuous day. I start to doze off. Tarik stands up and draws me to my feet and puts his arm around me.


"Looks like this boy is all in," Sandy says. "Tarik, you have the spare bedroom. See that he gets a little TLC. Or a lot, if he's up for it."


"Wait -- that almost sounded like you're expecting Tarik and me to..."


"Well, why not?" Alan asks. "Don't you think he's hot? I know what your type is...short, dark-skinned, muscular, religious, and big beneath the belt. I didn't ask about that last thing, but we can assume...."

Tarik grins.

"But you're not into casual encounters..."

"What's casual about it?" Tarik asks. "Alan told me all about you, from head to toe."

"Alan told us how much you like sharing," Sandy says. "Since we're monogamous, we can't provide that. So we got you a substitute."

I turn to Tarik. "You want to share my bed as a substitute?"

"Hey, man, I'll be whatever you want, whatever gets me and you kissing the quickest."

In case you were wondering: very passionate, into kissing and oral, Bratwurst+.

See also: Alan Picks Up a Father and Son; Tarik Hooks up with Jonathan Brandis; and A Live Show for Alan

Nude Photos of Saudi and Bedouin Men

These are the uncensored photos of Saudi and Bedouin men from the post on Boomer's Beefcake and Bonding.

Perfect in every way except for the weird haircut.

Does he strike you as a little small?



















Or are you so used to seeing this size that 7" seems small by comparison.



















I couldn't post this one on the other blog; censoring the penis took up half the frame.

The Football Star's Date with Tarzan

Rock Island, June 1972

One day in the summer of 1971, when I was ten years old,  my boyfriend Bill and I were out riding bikes near Longview Park, when we came to a big house "on the register of historic places."  There was an old guy in the back yard, sitting in a lawn chair reading a newspaper.

He had his shirt off!

He was very muscular, with a thick hairy chest, big shoulders, hairy flat abs, and square hands.  Balding on top.  A round open face.

"Hey, I know that guy from church!" Bill exclaimed.  [He was a heathen Presbyterian]  "Hi, Mr. Franck!"

Frank -- like my Dad?

He looked up.  "Hi, Bill.  Who's your buddy?"

We went into the back yard through a little gate, and Mr. Franck stood up and shook both our hands -- not many adults did that!  He told us to call him Sonny -- everybody did, even kids.  He was a teacher at Rocky High, so he would see us both in his biology class in a few years.

After that, the promise of beefcake brought us past Sonny's house quite often.  He was often in his back yard in mid-afternoon, giving us just enough time to gawk at his muscles and get home in time to watch Captain Ernie's Cartoon Showboat.

During the school year, we went on Saturday afternoons.  Sometimes he wasn't there, of course, but often he was, sometimes in back yard, sometimes on the front porch, often with his shirt off, even in October.  He always waved, and talked to us when we stopped.

Once he invited us in for lemonade.  There were pictures of cute, muscular guys all over his parlor.  Sonny must like men with muscles, too!

"Is this your friend?"  I asked, pointing to a teenage bodybuilder lifting an enormous barbell.

"It's me, when I was about your age.  Sports were sort of my bag, back then.  You boys like football?"

"Sure!"  We actually hated football, but it seemed polite to say we liked it.

 Sonny told us that he was an All-American wingback at the University of Minnesota, and then he was a halfback for the New York Giants.

"They're good," Bill offered.  "I like...um...."

"Randy Johnson?"

"Right, him."

Having to hear about football was almost a deal-breaker, but beefcake was hard to find in Rock Island, so we continued to visit Sonny.   We could see his hairy chest, and maybe someday we would even get a glimpse of his shame (his beneath the belt gifts).

No sausage sighting, but the next summer, when I was 11 years old, we biked past Sonny's house, and he was sitting in the back yard, drinking lemonade with Tarzan!

Jock Mahoney, who starred in three movies that we saw on Tarzan Theater on Saturdays: Tarzan the Magnificent (1960), Tarzan Goes to India (1962), and Tarzan's Three Challenges (1963).

Not my favorite Tarzan: too scrawny, with stupid slicked-back hair.  But he had a kid sidekick, a Indian boy named Jai, which allowed for all sorts of role-playing fantasies: "Let's pretend that you're Jai, and the cannibals have tied you up, and Tarzan has to rescue you."

We biked up.  'Wow, Sonny, I didn't know you knew Tarzan!" I exclaimed.

"Come in and sit down, boys," Sonny said.  "I'd like to introduce you to my old friend, Jock Mahoney."

We shook hands.  Tarzan had a strong, pleasant grip.

"How do you know each other?" I asked.  "Did you live in Hollywood?"

"We go way back, long before Hollywood," Sonny said.  "Jocko and I went to Davenport High School together."

A famous actor grew up in Davenport, right across the Mississippi!

"Sonny was two years older than me," Jocko said.  "And a  Golden Boy, a track star, a football star.  Way out of my league, But I eventually won him over."  He leaned in close.  "Always remember this, Boomer: the key is, be persistent.  Show up where he is.  Pretend to be interested in the things he's interested in.  Eventually he'll see the light."

Wait -- this wasn't how friends talked.  Were Jocko and Mr. Franck boyfriends?

"Wrong, as usual!" Sonny exclaimed.  "I noticed you right away.  Why do you think I joined the Glee Club -- because you were in it!"  He turned to us.  "Imagine me, trying to hold a tune!  I may have been older, and an athlete, but Jocko was taller, and bigger.  A lot bigger."

They looked at each other, paused for a moment, and laughed.

At the time I didn't know what he meant.  Now I do.

"Remember the night of the Harvest Dance?" Jock asked.  "We both had dates, but we dropped them off early so we could go down to the Mississippi and..."

"That's a lie!" Sonny exclaimed, but he was smiling.  "Sheer rumor-mongering!  Nobody can prove it happened."

At the time I didn't know what he meant.  Now I do.

"What about after high school, when you grew up?" Bill asked.  "Did you live together?  Boomer and I want to live together in a house."

"Sonny was recruited to play football for the Golden Gophers, in Minnesota" Jock said.  "I went to the University of Iowa,  Then during the War we both joined the Marines, but we weren't in the same unit.  Then I moved to Los Angeles to become a stuntman and actor, and Sonny played for the Giants and later became a teacher."

"Life takes you in different directions, and you can't always be with the people you care about," Sonny added. "But that doesn't mean you lose them.  You can keep in touch, write letters, visit.  And you always have memories."

"Like that night when your folks were out of town..." Jock began, "And I brought over a bottle of tequila..."

"Lies!  All lies!"  Sonny exclaimed.  "Defamation of character, that's what it is!"  And they both laughed.

Were Mr. Franck and Jock Mahoney Boyfriends?

George "Sonny" Franck (1918-2011) was married for 57 years, although I don't remember a wife being present when we visited.  He had four daughters.  

Jock Mahoney (1919-1989) was married three times, and had three children and four stepchildren.  One of his stepdaughters is actress Sally Field, whose son Sam is gay.

See also: Zack Hooks Up with the Prince of Sweden; My Third Grade Boyfriend