Nude Photos of TV Doctor Vince Edwards

Baby Boomer kids are familiar with Vince Edwards from Ben Casey (1961-1966), and their parents, with his many beefcake roles of the 1950s, such as Mr. Universe (1951) and Hiawatha (1952).

There's no evidence that he posed for gay physique magazines like Physique Pictorial, but there are nude photos of a young Vince Edwards floating around the internet.





He's around 20 here, so it's about 1948, when Vince was studying at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts   A classical Greek pose like you would see in physique magazines,  but there was no full nudity in print at the time.  This must have been a private photo shoot.














Older here, and bulked up, probably early 1950s, after he moved to Los Angeles.

Was he a member or hanger-on of the Hollywood gay scene?

The full post is on Boomer Beefcake and Bonding.

Hookup with Brothers at the Dentist's Office

Plains, June 2017

The Wednesday after my return from Amsterdam, I'm at the oral surgeon's office, waiting to get a wisdom tooth removed.

It's a more delicate procedure than you might think.

No solid food or exercise for the next 48 hours.

On the third day, I can try jogging and eating normally, but nothing with granules (rice, potato chips) for a couple of weeks.

Antibiotics and two pain medications, one narcotic.

No "sucking" for at least a week.  The oral surgeon probably means through a straw, but I imagine no oral, either.

While I am sitting in the waiting room, a woman comes in with her two sons.  I can't tell which is older.

Brother #1 is not exactly a supreme beauty, but he's very, very cute: shorter than me, slim, with a round open face, short black hair, prominent eyebrows, high cheekbones, dimples, and square workman's hands.

He's wearing a black t-shirt, short pants (no bulge), and sandals.

He sits on the side of his mother farthest from me,  immersed in nonstop texting.

Brother #2 is tall, with a square face, sharp features, glasses, and a slim physique.  He's wearing a button-down shirt with a white undershirt visible underneath, slacks (no visible bulge), and orange shoes.

He gives me an obvious face-crotch-face cruising gaze, then sits down to fill out a form.

Remembering when I have been cruised at doctor's offices before -- at the sports doctor, while waiting for a colonoscopy -- I wonder if I can follow through and land a date or a hookup.

Problem: he's with his mother and brother.  Not much maneuvering room.

Another problem: I'll be called any minute.

I check Grindr on my cell phone, on the off chance he's there.  Nope.

Brother #2 finishes the form and drops it off at the receptionist's desk.  I go up to pretend to ask where the bathroom is, and try to check his name.

All I can see in a brief glance is "Oliver."

I look back -- Oliver is watching me.  He smiles.

Since I asked, I have to actually use the bathroom.  It's out in the hallway, shared with the insurance agency next door -- one urinal, one toilet, one sink.    I go in, pretend to urinate, turn to wash my hands -- and Brother #1 is there!

"Hi," I say, startled.

He stands there -- waiting for me, of course.  I slide past him to the sink.  He still stands there waiting, nervous.

"Your brother's getting some dental work done," I say. "That must be a bummer.  No potato chips or pizza for a week."

"I guess."  He's staring at the floor.

I brush past him again to get a paper towel, accidentally touching his shoulder.

"Excuse me."

He doesn't respond.

I go back into the waiting room.  Oliver, the one who cruised me, is gone.

A moment later, my name is called.

I spend Thursday and Friday at home, eating ice cream, mashed potatoes, and protein shakes and not getting any exercise.   On Saturday my friend and I go to the campus hangout for breakfast -- eggs ad pancakes, but no toast.  I think I see Oliver at one of the other booths (it's a small town), but I'm not sure.  He doesn't cruise me.

That afternoon, I go on Scruff to see if there's anyone nearby.

There isn't, but I have a message from one those blank profiles.  Usually I ignore them, but today he says: "Hi, I saw you at the dentist the other day.  I like older guys.  Do you want to get together?"

It must be Oliver!

"Sure, I remember you!"

He introduces himself as Bob, not Oliver -- must be one of these skittish "discrete" guys.  I don't usually hook up with guys trapped in a pre-Stonewall closet, but the circumstances -- the dentist's office, the almost encounter at the restaurant -- make it intriguing.  It's almost like fate wants us to be together.

Bob is 19, a sophomore at the University studying economics, living with his parents and two brothers.

"I can't use my mouth for kissing or whatever for another few days," I tell him,  "Can we make it Tuesday?"

I arrive at the gay-friendly coffee house 15 minutes early.  Picking up a twink is no big deal, but this has a special feel to it, a sense of destiny.

I'm nervous about my sexual performance.  I tried to eat a banana earlier, and could barely get my mouth around it.  A small penis will probably be ok, but if he's hung, I'm out of luck.

He's ten minutes late.  I'll give him another ten, and then chalk him up as a no-show.

The gay-friendly coffee house has two doors.  I keep looking back and forth, pretending to be nonchalant.

Suddenly Brother #1 comes in through the far door!  He stands by the pastry counter, looking at the scones and cookies.

When Oliver shows up, he'll see his brother, get skittish, and leave!  I have to get him out of there!

I walk over and say "Hello.  Remember me?"

He grins and grabs my shoulder "Sorry I'm late.  I had to wait until Mom left.  Is this really a gay place?"

Wait -- my date is with Brother #1?

The one who was busy texting in the waiting room, and ignored me in the bathroom, and never cruised at all?

A big surprise, but not unwelcome -- Bob was by far the cuter brother.

It will be a few more days before I can get my mouth around his uncut Bratwust, but he was fine with interfemoral and kissing.

And it turns out that his brother Oliver is bi.  Maybe there's a brother three way in the future.

See also: The Weirdest Place to Pick Up a Twink

The Weirdest Place to Pick Up a Twink

Upstate, June 2011

There's a moderately invasive medical procedure recommended for everyone over 50, to make sure everything in your colon is copacetic.  I turned 50 last November, so I'm up.

The preliminaries are rough:

3-4 days before, no whole wheat or fiber, and nothing red.

The day before, clear liquids only.  A lot of green jello, lemonade, and beef broth.

The night before, drink 2 liters of an awful-tasting liquid.  I cut it with a lot of lemonade mix.

Five hours before, drink 2 more liters.

Nothing to eat or drink two hours before.

After all that, who's in the mood to get cruised?  No matter how cute the guy is.

9:30 am.  

I'm in the small, cramped waiting room of the endoscopy clinic.

It's packed -- everybody wants to get the procdure done as early in the morning as possible, and you're not allowed to drive afterwards, so most patients have drivers with them.

You can instantly tell the difference: the patients tend to be elderly, dazed from hunger, and apprehensive, while the drivers tend to be young, bored, and knee-deep in their laptops and ipads.



As I'm sitting there, too tired to read the book I brought, an elderly woman and her driver come in.  She goes to the reception desk to fill out paperwork, and the driver glances around the room.

College age, very fair skin, dark blond hair, blue eyes, a little swishy.  Wearing a pink hoodie.  Carrying a laptop.

Our eyes meet.

He stares for a moment, open-mouthed, as if he has come face-to-face with the Man of His Dreams.  He smiles, looks away, and then smiles again.

I'm a little annoyed.  The boy is extraordinarily cute, but like most gay men over 40, I get cruised by teenagers and twinks all the time.  He can take a number.  And who cruises in a doctor's office waiting room?  Your target is nervous, not feeling well, and probably contagious.

Especially this waiting room, cramped, crowded with elderly people waiting for an invasive medical procedure?  When your target is loopy from 30 hours without solid food, tired from no sleep the night before, apprehensive, cranky, and miserable?

Maybe the boy is just overwhelmed by my superhuman gorgeousness, I think.  After he gets an eyeful, he'll leave me alone.

Nope.  He leaves Mom or Grandma sitting at the receptionist
desk, plops down next to me, and boots up his laptop.

He glances over at me, desperate to say something but too shy.

I decide to take pity on him.  "Are you here with your mother?" I ask.

He grins with palpable relief, and begins to talk very quickly and nervously.  "I'm driving my Grandma.  I'm the grandson without a job, so I was drafted.  Not that I'm a bum or anything, I'm in college, but I don't have any classes today.  My next class is tomorrow afternoon, Calculus.  It's pretty hard.  I thought I wanted to be a physics major, but now I think maybe...."

To shut him up, I smile and hold out my hand.  "I'm Boomer."

"I'm Kal, with a K, even though it's short for Calvin, with a C."  His hand is soft, and I think manicured.  "Boomer, wow!  I bet there's a story behind that name!"

"There is, but this isn't the right place to tell it."

"Right, right, I gotcha," Kal says, nudging me.  Then, expectantly: "Grandma says she wants to go to the Chinese Buffet afterwards and eat from one end to the other."

Ok, this is going to be a pickup, whether I want it to be or not.  "I might head over there myself.  You know, you can't have anything red for four days, so the General Tso chicken was out."


"Oh, I love General Tso chicken!  You know the best place in town to get it..."

Before he can tell me where, my name is called.  .

"Well, nice chatting with you," I say.

"You, too, Boomer.  Maybe I'll see you at the Chinese Buffet later."

11:30 am

I doubt it.  My appointment is before Kal's Grandma, and I ask for minimal sedation, so I can stay alert and watch the procedure on the little tv.  So my recovery time is short.  At 11:30, I'm on my way out, and no doubt Kal is still sitting in the waiting room.

I tell Troy about being cruised by Kal.

"I swear, you can be picked up anywhere!" he exclaims.  "I'm surprised that the doctor didn't slip you his phone number!  So, do you really want to go to the Chinese Buffet?"

"The nurse said have a light meal -- pancakes, eggs, something like that. But..."

"But...."  Troy grins.  "We're going to the Chinese Buffet, aren't we?"

I shrug.  "Well, it is only three blocks away."

It's not very crowded at 11:30 am on a Wednesday.  Troy and I pay, fill our plates with chicken and vegetables, and sit at one of the little booths near the entrance.

Sure enough, the moment we sit down, Kal comes in, pays, and makes a beeline to our booth.  He squeezes in next to me.

Hi!  I thought you'd be here!"

"You talked me into it.  Where's Grandma?"

"Oh, she's still at the hospital.  They said I could go, and they would call me on my cell phone when she's ready to be picked up."  He pauses.  "So is this your boyfriend?"

"How did you know?"  Troy asks.

Kal laughs.  "I didn't, for sure, but I was pretty sure.  You could be his son or his boyfriend.  I hoped you were his boyfriend, because that would mean Boomer was into younger guys."  He squeezes my knee under the table.  "Hey, I'm going to go get some food.  Stick around, ok?"

8:00 pm

Kal has a slim, smooth body, with nicely toned abs and an outtie belly button.  Average sized penis, but ready instantly, and able to finish three times in close succession, twice with me going down on him, once with Troy.

He won't let me do interfemoral, or to straddle and enter him, my two favorite positions.  He ignores Troy. He goes down on me, but I'm still  tired from the procedure, so I don't finish.

On a normal day, this would be an inadequate hookup experience.  But remember where I was just a few hours ago.

See also: The Trophy Boy at the Orthopedic Clinic; A Hookup with Two Brothers at the Dentist's Office

Hooking Up with the Trophy Boy and his Dad

Plains, April 2016

I'm at the Orthopedic Clinic to see a doctor about my knee injury.  I still have Troy as my emergency contact.

"What is he?" the receptionist asks.  "Your son, your brother...."

I look around to see if anyone can hear before outing myself with "My ex-boyfriend."

The lady behind me is staring at a cell phone, oblivious.

Behind her is a family:
1. The husband in his 50s, bearded, a little chunky, Anglo.  Rather attractive, but with a nasty scowl.
2. The wife, in her 40s, short, black-haired, Hispanic.
3. The son, a teenager with his arm in a sling.  Slim, dark-skinned, curly black hair, stunningly handsome.

If he was gay, he would be a Trophy Boy, so hot that guys would compete over him, and his boyfriend would have to fight off predatory cruising.

Obviously hetero -- he's wearing a t-shirt with semi-naked ladies on it. But...he's smiling at me!

I smile back.

I take a seat in the waiting area, fill out my medical history, and glance up every now and then.  The lady with the cell phone is at the receptionist's desk.  The Trophy Boy is still waiting with his parents.  He glances back and smiles.

When I finish, Trophy Boy is at the receptionist's desk.  I bring it up, say "Excuse me," and reach out to touch his arm (not the one in the sling). Dad pulls him back protectively.

His form is on the desk: Adam M---I can't read the rest.

I go back to my seat.  Trophy Boy tries to sit across from me, but Dad steers him away .

 They are called in first.

Will this be one of those glimpses of great beauty that we remember forever, even though we never speak and never touch?

The nurse leads me to an examination room just as Trophy Boy and his Dad are heading toward the x-ray room.  His shirt is off.  Smooth brown skin, flawless, small nipples, an outtie belly button.

"They got you going through the works," I say brightly.

"Yeah.  They think I broke my radial head bone.  You have to wait three weeks after the accident to take the x-rays."

 A moment later he is whisked away, but I definitely saw him checking out my crotch.

Trophy Boy is gay after all, or at least interested, and stunningly beautiful.

All I have to do is find out who he is, make sure he's of legal age, and draw him away from his overprotective father.

1.  I scour all of the friends lists of my Facebook friends, figuring that if he's gay, he must know one of them.

Nope.

2. I look for him in Grindr, Scruff, and Adam4Adam.

Nope.

3. I check the University directory for an Adam M---.  Too many names pop up.

4. A sports injury three weeks ago.  What sport is played in March?  It's too early for baseball, too late for basketball.

Radial head bone -- an elbow injury.  Tennis!

5. It's too early for anyone to be playing on an outdoor court, but interscholastic tennis is a possibility.  I check the schedules of all of the high schools and colleges in the area.

Bingo!  He's Adam Martinez, a senior at East High, on the honor roll, the debate team, and the tennis team.

Senior, of legal age.

6. He's not going to be playing, certainly, but he will be watching the last game of the season.

So will I, after doing some research on the sport.

7. The game isn't well attended -- it's easy to spot Adam in the bleachers, and "accidentally" pass him.

"Hi!" he calls immediately.  "I didn't know you were a tennis fan."

"Oh, yeah, big time," I lie.

He scoots over so I can join him.  Our legs rub together.  He's definitely cruising me!

Tennis games are long and boring, giving us lots of opportunities to chat.  Adam is out to his parents.  They like his boyfriend, and treat him like family. They have an open relationship like the one Lane and I had in West Hollywood -- both partners have to be there for the bedroom activities.

After the game, Adam invites me to his boyfriend's apartment to "share."

What does the boyfriend of a Trophy Boy look like?  Two stunningly handsome twinks in my bed! I'm dying with anticipation.

We drive to one of the big apartment complexes near the campus.  Adam slides his key into the lock, pushes open the doorway, and yells "It's me.  I brought someone."

"Great, bring him in!" a voice calls.

We walk into the living room.  A gay porn movie is playing on tv.  And sitting in an easy chair, naked, fondling himself:

"Wait...you're Adam's Dad!"

Adam laughs.  "Are you crazy?  I mean, I like older guys, but....anyway, Dad's not hot."

"But...at the doctor's office."

"Dad had to work, and Mom and me don't have cars, so Stuart offered to drive us."

Overwhelmed, I sit on the floor.  Adam's Faux Dad holds out an aroused Mortadella that would be impressive if I wasn't so embarrassed.

"Don't worry, it happens all the time," he says.  "Good for keeping our relationship closeted.  But there's a big difference between me and Adam's Dad. Want to see what it is?"

"I think I have a pretty good idea already."  I kneel and go down on him while Adam deftly unzips me.

The night turns out fine: Stuart is a macho top, only interested in receiving oral and topping, but Adam is versatile at oral and a good kisser.

By the way, uncut Bratwurst beneath the belt, and versatile in spite of having an arm in a sling.

 Unfortunately, they have another rule: you can bring home any guy you want, but only once.  And we can't even become friends.  Next month, right after graduation,  they're moving to Bozeman, Montana together.

How come, after three years in Plains, I never met them?

Well, three years ago, Adam was fifteen.

At least I spent the night with a Trophy Boy.  And his Dad.

See also: The Boy with Daddy Issues; Alan Hooks up with a (Real) Father and Son; and The Weirdest Place to Pick Up a Twink.

The Doctor Makes a House Call on Christmas Eve

West Hollywood, December  18th, 1987

My second year in West Hollywood.  I was planning to fly home for Christmas the next day, but I woke up sick: feverish, dizzy, headache, sore throat.

"Why do I always get sick at Christmastime?" I asked myself savagely.  The answer came: Too busy, too much stress, too much fat and sugar, not enough exercise.

I cancelled my flight, and waited to get better.

December 22nd

I could hardly eat anything due to the sore throat. It was time to see the doctor.

 I called my regular doctor, but he was out of town, so they offered to get me an appointment with a substitute.

I blanched.  Overall, health care professionals are more homophobic than any other professional group, and in the 1980s, at the height of the AIDS crisis, even moreso.   You didn't go to a doctor, ever, who didn't advertise in the Gayellow Pages or who wasn't recommended by friends.

But any port in a storm.  I figured I could just be very closeted, maybe invent a girlfriend.

My appointment was that afternoon.  I was too dizzy to drive myself.  Alan was in Thailand, and my roommate Derek and off-on boyfriend Raul were both out of town for the holidays, so I called my friend Mitch to drive me to the UCLA Medical Plaza.

The nurse called me into the little room, took my temperature and blood pressure, and had me sit on the little table covered with paper to wait for the doctor.

He arrived a few minutes later: in his 30s, tall, broad-shouldered, dark-skinned, very handsome, with a round face, dark eyebrows, dark eyes, and curly black hair.  I noticed big, square hands and no wedding ring.  Very hot.

His nametag read "Dr. Mohammed al-Khouri."

Uh-oh.  In the 1980s, Muslims were stereotyped as very homophobic.  I hope my regular doctor didn't write anything about being gay in my files.

But I was especially attracted to guys from the Middle East -- my first sexual experience was with a Lebanese boy -- and you didn't meet many in West Hollywood.  I wished that I was well enough to cruise him.

Dr. al-Khouri was cheerful, almost jovial, as he examined my chest and abdomen.  "You're in great shape," he said casually.  "Are you a pro athlete?"

"No, I just go to the gym for fun," I said in my brackish cough-voice.  "But I do work for Muscle and Fitness."

"That must be exciting.  Can you get any work done, with all of the bodybuilders coming through all the time? Turn your head to the left."

He was trying to feel me out, to see if I was gay!  "No, I'm a professional," I said noncommittally.  "I'm not distracted easily."

"Ok, let's have a look at that throat."  He peered down. "Ok, Boomer, you've got strep throat.  Better lay off the guys for a few days"

I was so worried about the strep throat that I didn't notice "lay off the guys."

He painted my throat with something, ordered a penicillin injection, and gave me a prescription for medicine.  "You'll need to take it easy for about three days.  Stay home, no bars, no parties  Do you have anyone to take care of you?"

"My roommate Derek.  But he's going out of town for Christmas.  My friend Raul, too..."

"Tell you what," Dr. al-Khouri said.  "I'll drop by in a couple of days to see how you're doing."

"I didn't know doctors made house calls anymore."

"Some do.  How about Thursday night, around 7:00 pm."

"But that's Christmas Eve. Don't you have..."  Suddenly I remembered that he was Muslim.  "Oh, sorry."

"No, I'm free as a bird.  And you'll be free, too.  Doctor's orders."


December 23rd  

I spent the next day alone in my house, except for brief visits from friends.

December 24th.

My sore throat was gone, I felt better except for a little tiredness, and I was still stuck in the house. At noon I walked down to the Different Light and had lunch at the Greenery, luxuriating in being able to eat crunchy things again.

Then I went home.   I kept thinking of the gym, of the French Quarter, and of all the things I was missing back in Rock Island: Christmas caroling, light displays, our traditional Christmas Eve pizza and present-opening.  I kept hearing "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," my most detested song in all the world, playing from somewhere far away.

I ordered a pizza for dinner, and watched a Christmas special on tv.

At 7:00 pm sharp, Dr. al-Khouri knocked on the door.

I didn't expect him to really show up!  I was in my bathrobe!

He was carrying one of those medical bags like in the movies, but dressed in a regular short-sleeve shirt and jeans, not in a doctor's uniform.   Now that I was feeling better, I definitely noticed his broad chest and muscular arms, not to mention his impressive basket.

I rushed into the bathroom, splashed water on my face, gargled some mouth wash, and returned to sit next to him on the couch.  There was definitely some heat between us.

He took my temperature and blood pressure, looked down my throat, and said.  "I pronounce you cured.  You're not even contagious anymore."

"Um...does that mean I can go out tonight?"

"I wouldn't suggest that.  You still need some rest. But if you want to invite a boyfriend over for some tlc, that's perfectly fine."


"How did you...know?" I asked in surprise.

"Please, you live in West Hollywood, you have a man listed as your emergency contact, and you keep trying to sneak a peak at my basket."

I looked at it openly.  Very impressive.   "Well that just means I'm feeling better, right, doctor?  So what about kissing? Um...I mean, can I do that?"

He draped his arm across the couch behind me, and touched my shoulder. "Go ahead and kiss...um...anybody you want.  Tell you what.  As of this moment, I'm not your doctor anymore.  I'm a friend visiting to help you celebrate the holiday.  Got any eggnog?"

"I think there's some in the refrigerator.  Um...and there's some mistletoe around here somewhere, too."

We didn't need the mistletoe.  A moment later, I was kissing anybody I wanted.

In case you were wondering: Mortadella.

December 25th

What do Muslims do on Christmas Day?

They spend the day in bed.