Pedro's Hookup with Philip McKeon

Since putting out the call for celebrity hookup stories, I've had three guys approach me claiming that they hooked up with Philip McKeon.  None before.

Here's the most detailed.  He didn't give a name, so I'll call him Pedro.

His story has been modified for grammar, pacing, and style:

Hollywood, 1986 or 1987

I've been in the business since I was five years old, but one of my favorite jobs was the horror comedy Return to Horror High (1987).  Scott Jacoby, George Clooney, Maureen McCormick -- we were all wild and crazy kids.  We had a blast.

I wasn't out yet, but everybody knew, and I got a lot of offers.  I'll tell you about George Clooney sometime. But the one I really wanted was Phil McKeon.

22 years old, this incredibly tall, incredibly hot Nordic god, with a smile that wouldn't quit, not to mention the huge bulge shifting around in his pants when he walked.  He never talked to a girl off-stage, and no girl picked him up after work -- he must be gay!  So one day I decided to find out.  I asked "Hey, Phil, can I talk to you about something in private?"

I led him to a secluded spot on the set.

"So, what's the big mystery?"

"Just this." I pulled his head down and kissed him without even groping him first!

We kissed for a minute, and then he broke away.  "Every guy in Hollywood has done that," he said, rather belligerently. :What do you have that's so special?"

"Eight inches of primo Latino meat," I said, pressing his hand against my aroused cock.

He scoffed.  "Just eight inches?  Why don't you take on a real manwich?"

That;s right, he said manwich.

I fell to my knees.  He unbuttoned his pants and pulled out a ten incher -- I swear, it was like a garden hose -- pale, cut, with a thick mushroom head.  I opened my mouth as wide as I could, felt the head push past my teeth, but it was all I could do to keep from gagging.  I grabbed his buns to steady myself and let him do all the work, thrusting back and forth.

Finally I beat him off with two hands while sucking his head. That got him off -- he spurted a nice sized load.

Then he buttoned up and pulled me to my feet.  I thought he wanted to kiss again, but instead he said "You got what you wanted, ok?  If you tell anybody about this,  I will have you fired."

And he just walked away.

He was kind of cool on the set after that, as if I had offended him in some way.

Plains, October 2017

You're probably wondering 2 things.

1. Who is Phil McKeon?

Alice (1976-1985) was a "single woman making it on her own" sitcom in which aspiring singer Alice Hyatt finds happiness and fulfillment working as a waitress in a small-town Arizona diner.

11-year old Broadway actor Philip McKeon was selected to play her son Tommy.

As he entered his teen years, Phil's blond-haired, blue-eyed, androgynous good looks made him an ideal teen idol candidate, so he honed his singing talent and sat for a few shirtless and semi-shirtless photo shoots in Tiger Beat.  

But the competition from Leif Garrett, Shawn Cassidy, and Robbie Benson turned out to be too intense.  After starring in a few horror movies, he dropped out of acting, although he still hits Hollywood on occasion to produce or direct.















2. Is Pedro telling the truth?

I have never heard any Phil McKeon hookup stories before, although many people point out that he "acts gay" or they get a "gay vibe" from him.

Phil, who died in 2019, never married or been linked romantically with a woman.  He spent his last years in Hays, Texas, a suburb of Austin, where he hosted the "Breakfast Taco" radio program.

According to his Facebook page, he liked the New York Yankees, Van Halen, Fox News, Sean Hannity, and Westerns.

He was a devout Roman Catholic who goes to confession and participates in "prayer chains"

What do you think?

See also: Philip McKeon after Alice

I Cheat on My Boyfriend with a Goblin

Davenport, Iowa, March 1980

In December 1979, when I was a sophomore at Augustana College, I got my first actual boyfriend: Fred, 27 years old, a graduate of McCormick Theological Seminary taking his internship year at the First United Methodist Church in Rock Island.

After Christmas I started spending two or three evenings a week with Fred -- dinner (he cooked), tv, and sex, then rushing home at 11:00 pm to tell my parents I had been studying late at the library.

By March  I had introduced them to Fred, and was openly spending the night on Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.

In June we moved to Omaha together.  After an execrable six weeks, we broke up, but stayed friends for the rest of his life.

Fred actually was from the Quad Cities, or nearby; he grew up in the small town of Aledo, about 30 miles south, and got his undergraduate degree in psychology at Knox College in Galesburg.  He was still in contact with several of his Quad Cities friends, some that knew he was gay, some that didn't.

One who did was Dale Schaefer-Shit (his real name, except for the shit part), a nasty little goblin, about 3 feet high, with a very thick, heavy torso, very long, hairy arms, long sharp claws, an ugly, warty face, pointy ears, green skin, prehensile toes, a tail...

 Ok, he looked more like the top photo: Fred's age, tall, buffed, with a black beard and a hairy chest. But I always imagined him as a goblin.

I arrived at Fred's apartment, across the river in Davenport, about 4:30 pm -- dinner was at 5:00 pm, standard for the Midwest -- and at least once a week, often more than that, Dale Schaefer-Shit was there.  Apparently he  had some sort of late-night goblin job with the city, so he got up around 2:00 pm, and came to visit Fred in the late afternoon to do morning-type activities.

Sometimes he was sitting at the kitchen table, slurping on Cheerios.

Sometimes he was on the couch, watching Captain Ernie's Cartoon Showboat.  

Sometimes he was coming out of the bathroom, toweling off after a shower, naked, his hairy chest glistening, his cock and balls dangling between his legs.

I should have been turned on, but I wasn't.  Seeing Dale Schaefer-Shit made me angry.  I could be in a perfectly good mood, on top of the world, but when I walked in and saw the goblin, my hackles raised.  There was just something about him that seemed unclean, disturbing.  Evil.

I do not love thee, Doctor Fell.
The reason why, I cannot tell.
But this one thing, I know full well.
I do not love thee, Doctor Fell.

Apparently the feeling was mutual.  Dale Schaefer-Shit rarely spoke to me.  Usually he pretended I wasn't in the room.  And he never stuck around long after I arrived.  He said "See ya, Flintstone" to Fred, flashed me an evil smile, and slithered off to do nasty goblin things.

Where did Fred, the ministerial intern, the theologian, the trained pastoral counselor, even meet that creepy little gremlin?

"He's my oldest friend.  We grew up together.  We were both in the same Cub Scout troop.  We went to sleepovers together, and trick-or-treating on Halloween."

With that face, he must have gotten a lot of candy...

"We called each other Flintstone and Rubble, because my name is Fred.  He's the first one I told when I realized that I was gay."

I get it...he was your shadow-self, the yang to your yin, the darkness to your light, the squirrelly  snivelly Gollum to your Frodo.

"Well, he strikes me as...um.."  A nasty little gremlim!  "As sort of creepy."

"He's a little on the shy side, but he's a good guy, really."

One wet, blustery day in March, before we took our trip to Des Moines to visit the Priest with Three Boyfriends,  I arrived at the apartment to find Dale Schaefer-Shit sitting on the couch under a blanket, shirtless, eating cereal and...reading one of Fred's Playgirl magazines!

"Um...hi..."  I said tentatively.

"Fred's not here -- something held him up."  He laughed at a secret joke.  "Sit down.  Want some blanket?"

I couldn't think of any way around it, so I kicked off my shoes, threw my raincoat on the floor, and sat down next to Dale Schaefer-Shit.  I pulled the blanket over my legs. He slurped down the rest of his cereal and put the bowl aside.

"Hey, Boomer maybe you can help me.  I've always wondered about something, and Fred's too square to talk about it.  What do gay guys do in bed?  Like rub your cocks together?"

I should have said "None of your business," but Dale Schaefer-Shit had dark mystical powers.  I don't think I had a choice.  "Sometimes we do that. Fred's favorite thing is Greek, which is plowing into your butt, but he's too big for me.  I like French, which means giving the guy a b.j."

He flashed an evil grin.  "No kidding?  You suck his cock? Well, I see why Fred likes that, but what do you like about it?"  I felt a hairy leg brush against mine.  Schaefer-Shit was wearing short pants -- or naked...

Startled, and inexplicably getting aroused, I stammered "Um...I get a lot out of it.  It's totally erotic...getting a guy off."

"Yeah?  Cool!  I've got blow jobs before, with girls, but I never gave one."  He grabbed my hand under the blanket and pushed it against his naked, hairy cock.  I instinctively began masturbating him.

"I'll bet gay guys do it better, though.  You know what it feels like."  He grabbed me by the neck and pushed me down toward his crotch.

I hadn't yet learned about the custom of sharing, and besides, I couldn't stand the little goblin.  But I moved like in dream, depersonalized, watching the events from above.

I got on my knees, stuck my head under the blanket, and took Schaefer-Shit's goblin dick down my throat.  It was  average sized but hard as a rock, and covered with short hairs, like it had just been shaved.

It wasn't pleasant -- like having a hairy rock prodding at me -- so after awhile I moved on to his balls.  They were huge, what they used to call "bull balls."

 I licked and sucked them -- one was a mouthful -- while beating him off, then returned to his cock in time for him to excrete a mouthful of lukewarm, salty goblin semen.

He pulled his pants up and found his shirt, and I returned to my place next to him on the couch.  We turned on the tv and watched a game show wordlessly.  Gradually my will power returned, and I realized that I had just sucked the cock of a vile little goblin.

"Don't tell Fred about this," I said, my eyes on the screen.

"Oh, no problem.  I can keep a secret.  I'm full of secrets."

Soon Fred appeared, carrying a grocery bag.  "You guys been watching tv?" he asked suspiciously.

"I've been keeping Boomer warm for you," Schaefer-Shit said. "But now I have to go to work.  See ya, Flintstone."

"Bye, Rubble."

The next time I saw him, the little goblin went back to his habit of ignoring me.

Good.

In June we moved to Omaha, and after six weeks Fred and I broke up.  I never saw or heard about Dale Schaefer-Shit again.

Good.

I never told Fred what happened that day.

Good.

Many years later, Fred revealed that he had been cheating on me with Schaefer-Shit.  Those times I ran into the little snivelly creep coming out of the shower, he had just been in the bedroom, being screwed by my boyfriend. 

I didn't blame Fred.  Schaefer-Shit had some kind of weird dark magic, and could get you to do what he wanted.

"Sometimes I didn't have a chance to clean up afterwards," Fred added, "So when you went down on me later, my cock had been inside...well, you know."

Yeah, I know.  Inside a goblin's butt.

The Marlon Brando Sex Photo

This is one of the most iconic images of the 1950s, Marlon Brando getting ready to yell "Stella!" in A Streetcar Named Desire.

Brando (1924-2004) was an early devotee of Stanislavski's Method Acting, getting into the character so deeply that you experience what he experiences.  He won Oscars for On the Waterfront (1954) and The Godfather (1972), and he starred in many other influential films, such as Guys and Dolls, The Young Lions, Reflections in a Golden Eye, Last Tango in Paris, and Superman.

He was pansexual, interested in men, women, anyone over 18 and human. His list of probably lovers include just about every gay, bi, and gay-for-pay actor in 1950s Hollywood: Wally Cox, Rock Hudson, Montgomery Clift, Merv Griffith,  James Dean, Sir Lawrence Olivier, Tennessee Williams, and even Richard Pryor.  Wally Cox was one of his great loves; after his death, Cox kept his ashes for thirty years.  When Cox died, his ashes were mixed with Brando's, and they were scattered together.

French actor Christian Marquand (Lord Jim, The Flight of the Phoenix, The Longest Day) was an important lover.  Brando named his son after him.

Wally Cox (Mr. Peepers, Underdog) was an early roommate and lover.  After Cox died in 1973, Brando kept his ashes for thirty years, until his own death, then had his own ashes mixed in and scattered in Death Valley.

According to Brando Unzipped, the penis belongs to Wally Cox.  Brando posed for it in 1952, when they attended one of Phil Black's legendary M4M Parties in Harlem. M4M parties.  You paid $10 for all the food, booze, and sex you could handle.

Days after the photograph was taken, it was on sale on the East and West Coasts.  Soon it was being sold openly on the streets of Paris.  Gay men of a certain age around the world had copies pinned to their bedroom walls.  It remains to this day the only photograph of a major Hollywood star engaging in fellatio.




But does  this look like Wally Cox's penis to you?

Where to Find Circumcized Men

I've never seen a penis I didn't like. Big or small, thin or thick, soft or hard, veined, curved, epispadias, hypospadias, who cares?  Any penis that the guy agrees to let me look at, fondle, or go down on is a good penis.

Well, not entirely.  There have been a few that were too ugly.  I don't like a red, shiny glans, smegma deposits under the foreskin, or wrinkled shafts.

And being uncut is not a deal breaker, but I have a definite preference for cut.














They're much more majestic.  The obvious urethral opening, the hard surface surface around the crown, the obvious differentiation between the glans and the shaft.


Beautiful.

















Much more interesting than having a tiny part of the glans peeking out from the foreskin.

And having to pull back a foreskin to see it.

Or the ones where the foreskin doesn't retract at all.

Good luck in finding cut cocks, though. Circumcision is required by Islam, so they're mostly in the Muslim-majority countries of the Middle East and North Africa.   Latin America, India, China, Japan, only a few cut guys. There are a lot in the U.S., Canada, and Australia, where faulty medical science decreed circumcized penises healthier up through the 1970s.

Well, I live in the U.S., so it shouldn't be a problem, except that the number of circumcized cocks varies by region.  70-80% in the Midwest, 20-30% on the East Coast and California.

It also varies by race: nearly 90% of non-Hispanic white men are circumcized, but only 70% of non-Hispanic black men, and 40% of Mexican-Americans.











Plus the overall the number of circumcisions performed in the U.S. is decreasing.  It's hovering around 60% now.

So unless you can find some Midwestern white guys over 50, it's increasingly likely that your date or hookup will be uncut.

Oh, well.  There are plenty of Jewish and Muslim men to choose from.


See also: Cut or Uncut

13 Guys in One Night at Bath House in Cleveland

Cleveland, July 2017

On the way back from New York earlier this week, we stopped in Cleveland.  I wanted to go to the Flex Club, a great gay resort/bath house.  Bob didn't want to go, but he said it was ok if I went by myself.

It's hit and miss.  Sometimes I can wander around the video room, the dark room, the leather room, and the saunas for two hours and get completely ignored by everybody and everything.  Sometimes I'm very popular.

I think of a night at the Flex Club as a success if I meet five guys in two hours.  But the other night, I was with 13!

1. Within a minute of going upstairs to the video room,  I was kissing a red-haired twink with a scrawny body but an enormous Mortadella.

2.That wasn't unusual: I tend to attract twinks.  So I still didn't know if this was going to be a good or bad evening.

A few minutes later, in the dark room, I saw a very handsome, hairy-chested guy in his 30s with someone else, so I joined in.  The second guy left, leaving me with Hairy Chest.  When I got on my knees, I saw that he was wearing lady's panties.  Weird, but a cock is a cock.  About 6".

3-5.  I sat on a bunk in the dark room, and an older black guy approached.  Big cock, one of those giant hernias.  He brought his two friends and "ordered" them to pull it out and let me go down on them.  Nice physiques, big cocks.

6.  A young bear lying on a bunk wanted to kiss and do interfemoral.

7. His friend, a chub in his 40s, joined us.  He went down on me.

8.  I started talking to an older guy in the leather room, and told him I was going to the dark room.  He followed me, but on the way I passed the room of someone I liked better: in his 30s, glasses, smooth chest, enormous penis.  He turned out to be a biology teacher.

More after the break

My Favorite Sexual Activity

Quickly, without thinking about the answer, what would you like to do with this guy?

The answer is probably: touch him.

Erotic desire is about touch: his chest, his mouth, his penis, using your hands, your mouth, and your penis.

What we call "sex" is actually about touch: fondling him, kissing him, putting his penis into you, putting your penis into him.

You can enter his mouth, but then you won't be able to fondle him anymore. You can enter his butt, but then you won't be able to kiss him anymore. But guess what: he has a third place for you to enter while still being able to fondle and kiss:

Between the legs.

It's called intercrural (Latin for "between the legs") or interfemoral (from the  femur bone that extends down the thighs).

Your partner lies down, face up, and squeezes his legs together. You lube your cock, lie on top of him, and enter just beneath his scrotum, the area called the perineum.

While you're thrusting, you can kiss and fondle as much as you like.

Interfemoral allows you to feel his entire body, not just his mouth or his penis.

Your partner will be able to feel your entire body, too, and he will find the thrusting on his perineum very erotic.  The pressure on his cock and balls usually pushes him to orgasm.

I generally like to start the erotic session with kissing, fondling, and oral.  When the guy finishes, I enter for interfemoral (the perineum is particularly sensitive after an orgasm).

If you're big or husky, he might find the pressure uncomfortable.  In that case, you can enter in an arched position.

If there's a major size difference, I suggest putting your partner on top.

You can also turn him onto his stomach and enter that way, as an alternative to anal.

Interfemoral is completely safe. The only problem might be a friction burn on your penis, which can be avoided by using lube.

 You and your partner can't do interfemoral simultaneously, but the next best thing is called frottage or the Princeton Rub (because Princeton students used it as an alternative to anal):

You press your cocks together and manipulate them with your hands, or use the pressure of your bodies.

Frottage works best when the cocks are the same size.  If one is substantially smaller, it gets lost.

Interfemoral doesn't work with three people.  I've tried entering between his legs while the third guy enters his mouth, and entering from the front while the third guy enters from the rear, but it's a complex operation with little erotic payoff.

Interfemoral requires you to focus all of your time, concentration, and erotic energy on one person, on exploring his body as fully as possible.

Isn't that what sex is all about?

See also: The Ins and Outs of Oral Sex; The Most Underrated Sexual Act; How Intimate is Your Sex Life?

Yuri and the Sausage-Size Contest

Long Island, June 2009

In June 2009, Yuri flies back to the States for a two-week visit. He hasn't been back since he moved to London in 2005, although I went out to visit him two years ago.

I want to see Yuri again, of course, but I also want to see some of my old friends and go to some of my old haunts in New York. Even though Upstate is only five hours away, I haven't gone back.

We meet at JFK, and then drive to a townhouse on Powers Street in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, where we will stay with his ex-boyfriend Daniel, a history professor into Beat poetry and jazz.

Daniel is a buffed daddy in his 40s, balding, bearded, with thick hard muscles and a few piercings.

He has two roommates:

Brandon, a tall, slim twink with a round face, a bright smile, and olive skin, maybe Hispanic or Asian, a nurse at a hospital nearby.

Tighe (pronounced Teeg), a gym rat in his 30s, rather short with curly red hair and a short beard, who doesn't have a job but does all of the cooking and cleaning to cover his share of the rent.

   

On the first night, we're too tired from our trip to do anything more than go out to dinner, watch tv, and go to bed. We share with Daniel, but not much sharing goes on, just a little kissing and some oral without completion.

In the morning, Yuri and I take the subway into Manhattan to check out the Strand Bookstore, my old gym, Christopher Street, Central Park, and the Museum of Natural History. We return in time for some brief cruising at the Metropolitan before the dinner party.

Daniel and the two roommates are there, plus:

Liam, the boy who gave me a present on his 18th birthday back in 2000, still a cute blond twink, slim and a little swishy.

My friend Barry, the Colonial Williamsburg boy, in his 30s, with a slim compact frame and a square Eastern European face.

His boyfriend, another Daniel (sorry), in his 50s, short-haired, very buffed, with a hairy chest.

Dinner is a grilled eggplant salad, lamb curry, and a Mediterranean fruit soup, discussions of the new Star Trek movie, Ugly Betty, celebrity hookups, dates from hell, and bulge-watching.

"Bulges are nice," Yuri says. "But they lie.  Some big guys don't show, and some small guys look like they are showing.  You look at their hands and feet, talk to them, see their face."

"Face?" Barry repeats.  "What does that tell you?"

"Big guys have a look.  They are confident, fearless.  Small guys are shy.  They look down.  They are afraid.  That is how I always know if the guy is big or small."

"Then how do you end up on dates with small guys?" I ask. "Like the Unhung Hippie. Remember him?"

Yuri shrugs. "I always know if the guy is big or small, but sometimes the big ones aren't worthwhile.   In Russian we say luchsheye vrag khoroshego, if you look for the best, you miss out on the good."

"Well -- " Daniel begins, "If I'm counting right, there are five guys in the room that you haven't seen naked."

Yuri looks around.  "Right.  Just you and Boomer. I met Barry before, but we didn't share."

"How about a little game?  You guess the sizes of the other five guys, through their pants, without feeling them or seeing them aroused."

"Hum!  Easy!  What do I get if I win?"

"Every guy you guess right has to buy you lunch or dinner while you're in town."

"And if I lose?"

"You have to go down on each guy you are mistaken about.  Two minutes, orgasm not necessary.  Ok, guys?"

They nod their assent.

"Easy!  No problem.  The only guy I go down on tonight is Boomer!" 

He asks them to stand in a row with their hands behind their backs.

Can you figure out their sizes without looking?

Yuri looks at them each, face and crotch, shakes their hands, smiles, asks them a few questions, while they all try to appear confident and fearless.  He writes his size estimate down in a notebook, quickly changes the centimeters to inches, and announces:

Daniel 2:  9"

Brandon:  7.5"

Liam: 8"

Tighe: 10"

Barry:  6"

Next it's time to measure.  Yuri asks them, one at a time, to take it out and bring it to full arousal, with a fluffer if necessary.   I'm ready with a tape measure.  

Daniel 2: Wrong!  7"

Brandon: Wrong!  5"

Liam: Wrong! 6"

Tighe: Wrong!  7.5"

Barry: Wrong!  8"

"Oh, well.  I am having an off day," Yuri says with a shrug.  "Boomer, help me with these guys.  I cannot do them all myself."

I don't need to be asked twice.  I go down on Brandon and Liam, while Yuri works on Barry, Daniel 2, and then Tighe.

Before long Brandon, Liam, and I are off to one bedroom, Daniel, Daniel 2, and Barry to another, and Yuri and Tighe to a third.  But while Yuri and Tighe are kissing, I grab the notebook from his pocket.

He got every measurement right.

"Hey, you lost on purpose!"  I exclaim.

He shrugs, and his hand moves down to Tighe's crotch.  "Wouldn't you?"