The Face of Pure Evil

This is the Face of Pure Evil.  And the House Where Evil Dwells.

When I was a kid, it was painted grey, and that attic window had bars on it.

Rock Island, July 1969

I lived on the the north side of Denkmann Elementary School  My boyfriend Bill lived two blocks north.

To the east was Darry's house and eventually Country Style Ice Cream.

To the south was Dewey's Candy Store, Gary's house, and eventually the Nazarene church.

To the west was Schneider's Drug Store, where you could buy comic books.

But we never took the direct route.  We walked all the way up to 18th Avenue and around to the back, to avoid The Killer and his house.

There were lots of Mean Boys at Denkmann who would steal your lunch money, call you names, or pound you for infractions of the rules of grade school behavior. Like Dick, who hung out by Dewey's Candy Store and pounded you for being a "girl."  But The Killer was by far the worst.

He interpreted the most innocent statement or gesture, even standing too close to him, even looking at him, as an insult that must be redressed: "Now we have to fight!"

If you refused, he attacked on the spot, or if you were in school, ambushed you on the way home.

If you agreed to fight, you met your doom later, on the west side of the school yard, a desolate space of dead trees and yellow grass across the street from his house.

Snarling like a rabid dog, The Killer fought by punching and kicking you everywhere, in the face, the chest, the belly, the balls.  When you collapsed, bloody and sobbing, he poured dirt on you, spat in your face, and moved on.

When you tried to tell teachers, they simply said "No one likes a tattle-tale."

When you tried to tell parents, they  simply said "You have to learn to fight your own battles."

The only escape was to avoid the Killer: don't sit near him in the cafeteria, don't stand near him at recess, and at all costs stay away from the House of Evil.

But one day during the summer after third grade,  I was stupid.  Mom asked me to return a cake-decorating kit that she borrowed from the Old Lady Schoolteachers, who lived two houses south of the House of Evil.

 I should have walked all the way around Denkmann School, but it was hot, Cartoon Showboat was coming on soon, and besides, the Killer might not even be home.  So I cut diagonally across the parking lot and the schoolyard and came to 40th Street exactly parallel to the Old Lady Schoolteachers' house.

I peered at the House of Evil -- it looked deserted -- took a deep breath, and crossed the street.  I was in the yard -- almost up to the screen porch.  Almost safe.

"Hey, Fairy!"

The Killer!  He must have been lurking in the shadows, waiting for a victim to appear!  And now he was standing right next to me, fists clenched, a snake ready to strike....

My heart was racing.  "I'm not by your house!  The Old Lady Schoolteachers..."

"You sissy, making girly cakes!"  He knocked the cake decorating kit out of my hand.  "Now we have to fight!"

"No, it's my Mom's...." I began, before he punched me hard in the face.  Moaning, I dropped to my knees.  He kicked me in the stomach.

Then I heard someone yelling from a long distance: "Hey, what are you doing to that kid!"

I looked up to see a husky, muscular guy with shaggy red hair and a muscular chest, wearing only short pants and tennis shoes with no socks.  He had freckles everywhere.  He was holding the Killer's arm.

"You apologize!"  he snarled.  "Now!"

Glaring, the Killer muttered "Yeah, sorry, fairy...I mean, Boomer."

The Redhead drew me to my feet and put his arm around my shoulders.   "Now listen up: if I ever hear about you touching this kid again, or calling him names, or even looking at him the wrong way, I will personally see to it that you spend the rest of your life at Joliet State Penitentiary.  I'm in law school -- I know how!"

The Killer paled, but managed one more act of defiance.  "You don't even live here!"

"My Grandma does.  She sees everything you do from that porch.  She'll call me, and I can be here in 45 minutes.  Got it?"

The Killer nodded and scurried off, and the Redhead helped me pick up the cake decorating kit and walked me to the house.

"I'm Nick," he said.  "If that bully bothers you again, just tell my Grandma, and I'll come running.  Ok?"

"The Old Lady Schoolteachers are your Grandmas?" I asked in surprise.

Nick ruffled my hair.  "You know what -- I was just about to go down to Country Style for a malted.  You get your Mom and Dad's permission, you can come with."

I grinned.  It was almost worth getting pummelled to be asked out on a date by a cute guy!

After that I loved hanging out on the West Side.  The Killer never came near me, and every few weeks my "boyfriend" Nick came to visit.

See also: Were the Old Lady Schoolteachers Lesbians?

The Joy of Saying "Cock"

When I was a kid, the Nazarene Church prohibited us from using "the Lord's name in vain."  To the extreme.

No goddam, of course, or the word damn, except in the phrase God will damn you.  Even darn was too much.

Gosh, gee, and golly, all shortened forms of "God" and "Jesus," were forbidden.

The British term Lord was shockingly blasphemous.  I got in big trouble with my counselor at Nazarene camp for carrying around a copy of Tarzan, the Lord of the Apes:

"You're practicing idolatry!  You're worshipping a false god!  There's only one Lord!

I never tried zounds, which means "God's wounds."

God also hated words that were obscene or even risque.

The word sex could be used only as a noun: Adam was of the male sex.  Never to refer to coitus.  Instead, the preachers and Sunday school teachers always used the phrase: going to bed: "God will send you to hell for going to bed before you're married."

I can only imagine the younger kids in the congregation misinterpreting that statement and being terrified of bedtime.

You must go to the bathroom, never pee or piss.  So you might say, "I was in the bathroom, going to the bathroom."

We had a lot of fun with the King James Bible's prohibition against coveting "thy neighbor's ass," but referencing the animal was ok.  To reference a section of the anatomy, you had to say backside.  Never butt or ass.

You insulted someone by calling them sinner, heathen, or Catholic, never asshole.

You could imply that someone's parents were unmarried, but you had to use the term illegitimate, not bastard.  Although we sort of cheated with dastard.

For the frontside, you had to use the word shame, or if absolutely necessary, the technical term penis.  Never, ever cock, not even in reference to the rooster.

Once in high school Verne and I tried to joke about the rooster.
Verne:  "I have a cock at home."
Boomer: "Can I see your cock?"
Verne:  "Sure.  You can even play with my cock."

Claiming that we meant "rooster" didn't help.  We were both grounded for a week.

During my senior year in high school, tired of the restrictions and bigotry, I  started breaking away from the Church.

The guilt was heavily internalized, so it had to be gradual, skipping the Wednesday evening service and a Sunday evening service here and there, reducing the amount of money I gave during the four weekly collections, and systematically breaking the rules.  From the least to most horrifying:

1. Reading the Sunday newspaper.

2. Buying on Sunday.
3. Listening to rock music.
4. Wearing short pants in public.
5. Going bowling in an alley that served alcohol.
6. Dancing
7. Going to a movie

By the time I got to my freshman year in college, there were only a few rules left to break:

  

Drinking alcohol.  Too advanced for me.

Going to bed with a girl before marriage.  No way!

Using the Lord's name in vain.

If I said bad words, I could finally be free of the Nazarene guilt!  So I started throwing them into casual conversations with my friends, Mary and Bruce.

Gee, it's hot today.  
Golly, I don't think I can finish this pizza all by myself.

Not even an eyebrow raise.

Our goddam paper is due tomorrow!

 Only a few eyebrow raises.

Excuse me -- I have to pee.

Nope.

This class is a real pain in the ass.

 That got an eyebrow raise.

That asshole cut in front of me!

A brief stare, but no comment.

Ok, time for the ultimate of bad words, the word that horrified men and God alike.

I walked up to Bruce, and tried to say Men have c...

Nothing came out.

Again.  I looked at Bruce, he looked at me.  I said I have a big c....

"What?"

God was looking down at me.  All of the Nazarenes were watching.  It was time to take a stand.

Bruce was staring at me as if I was crazy.

In a loud, clear voice, almost a yell, I said I like to look at cocks!

He laughed.  "Me, too.  And ducks and geese and cows and horses, down on the farm.  Ok, now I have one: want to hear a dirty joke?  The boy fell in the mud!"  

Bruce didn't get it, but by saying cock in public, I was free of Nazarene guilt.  I could go through life without expecting God to strike me dead every moment.

And I had come out.

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

West Hollywood, October 1994

It is the evening before the AIDS Walk, an event almost as big as Halloween or Gay Pride, and Lane and I are having some guys over for dinner, including Will the bondage boy, Randall, the muscle bear with the pierced penis, and Scott from MCC.

 During the time between dessert and sharing or hitting the bars, we swap stories about gigantic penises, homophobic home towns, and hookups with the captain of the football team, and the question comes up, "Who's the biggest celebrity you've ever been with?  Big in stardom, or big in size?"


Scott: David Hyde Pierce, star of Frasier
Lane: Batman and Robin
Me: Michael J. Fox
Will: Peter Fonda

Randall the muscle bear sits back in his chair, looks slowly around the room, and says "Cary Grant, star of North by Northwest and Indiscreet."

The famous movie star!  We all wait expectantly.  I haven't heard this story before.

"Dick Sargent, who played Darrin Stevens on Bewitched," he continues.

"Um...I'd rather hear the Cary Grant story."

"...and Groucho Marx.  All on the same night, in the same bed."

Hollywood, Summer 1958

A hot day in June.  Randy was 18 years old, newly drafted into the navy, enjoying his last few weeks of freedom before shipping out.  He went to a Dodgers game with his brother, ate his mom's chocolate chip cookies, watched The Red Skelton Show with his grandmother -- and went cruising.

Los Angeles was still a netherworld.   Police chief William H. Parker hated "perverts." The sodomy law wouldn't be revoked until 1976.   There were bar raids, entrapment scams.  Randy was afraid to go to the bars.

So he stood on the corner of Hollywood and Highland, outside of Coffee Dan's, and waited for someone to pick him up.

He looked much different than the muscle bear that we met 33 years later. Cleanshaven, a boyish face, short black hair in a military crewcut.  Thinner but still built, smooth chest, nice biceps.  And a Kielbasa, which he augmented with a balled-up sock in his jeans.

It didn't take long to get offers.  He rejected two before climbing into the car with a guy in his 30s with a round face and a warm smile.  They drove to a deserted parking lot off Selma, and kissed and talked, and the guy went down on his massive Kielbasa -- not pierced yet.  He offered $1, but Randy rejected the money and went down on him in return.  Then they sat and kissed and talked some more.

It turned out to be Dick Sargent, 28 years old, making a name for himself in Westerns and movies.

"The second Darrin on Bewitched!" Lane exclaims.

"So..." Will says.  "How big was he?"

Bratwurst, uncut.

Randy knew him from  Bernardine (1957), about a high school boy who invents a fictional girlfriend.  Dick was doing that a lot in the studios!

One of his buddies in the movie was played by his ex-boyfriend Hooper Dunbar, who had also dated James Dean and Sal Mineo.  He left Hollywood for Central America, where he would become a painter and important Bah'ai leader.







His other buddy was played by singer Pat Boone, straight but open to suggestions.  His "Long Tall Sally" which hit #8 on the charts in 1956, was about a drag queen.

"I haven't slept with him." Dick said.  "But I've seen him in action.  Not bad."

"Sounds like everybody in Old Hollywood was gay," Lane says.

"That's what I told  Dick."

"You don't know the half of it.  There are so many guys like us in the studios.  Some of them you'd never guess.  Marlon Brando,  Wally Cox, who plays Mr. Peepers on tv.  Cary Grant.  He's such a ladykiller, you'd never know he's in the fraternity."

"Cary Grant!  I loved him in Indiscreet!"

"Would you like to meet him?  There's a party Sunday afternoon, if you can make it."

It was held at a gay casting agent's house in Beverly Hills.  About thirty men, all ages from oldster to teenager, talking, dancing, flirting, swimming naked in the pool.  Randy had never seen anything like it.




Some guys he had heard rumors about:
Van Johnson, who starred in Brigadoon.
Tab Hunter, whose "Young Love" caused bobby-soxers to swoon.
Antony Perkins, who almost won an Oscar for Friendly Persuasion (left).

Others he had no idea of:
Ronnie Burns, the teenage son on the Burns and Allen Show
Rock Hudson, who starred in a lot of war movies.
And Groucho Marx!

The star of all those anarchic 1930s comedies like Duck Soup and Monkey Business, and now the host of the game show You Bet Your Life on Thursday nights.  He was sitting by himself, smoking his trademark cigar and drinking whiskey and being ignored: at 68, he was a bit too old for all the cruising going on.  Besides, the cigar stank.

Randy left Dick to mingle and approached him.  "Hey, Groucho, what's the secret word?" he said, stupidly, kneeling in front of him like an acolyte. "I didn't know you belonged to the fraternity."

The aging jokester grinned.  "How old are you, Beany Boy?"

"Eighteen."

"Two years younger than my grandson Andy.  Well, Beany, in my day tricks weren't just for fairies.  Any red-blooded all-American could grab his buddy's penis, no questions asked."   He put his hand on Randy's shoulder and pushed him forward.  "Now, how much do you charge to go a little lower?"

Then Dick appeared, arm in arm with the handsome, svelte 54-year old Cary Grant.

"Hello, what's this?" Cary exclaimed.  "The party's getting a bit wild, isn't it?"

Randy stood, embarrassed by the implication.  Dick and Cary towered over him.   "It's an honor to meet you, Mr. Grant."

Cary took his hand and held it for a long time.  "And you as well.  Dick, my boy, how do you conjure up all these foxes?  You must have a magic wand."

"Well, I do, actually," Dick said.  "But it's nothing compared to Randy's."

"Hey, Mr. Blanding, take a number," Groucho called.  "I believe the bobby-soxer had a previous commitment."

Cary grinned.  "You're into the Geritol set, huh?  Well, maybe we can work something out."

They ended up going to Groucho's house on Hillcrest Road, a few blocks away ("Don't worry, the wife is in Europe, playing 'Marco Polo' with an Italian gigolo").   Groucho served them all whiskey sours and put on a record of Dinah Shore singing "It's So Nice to Have a Man Around the House."  Dick and Randy kissed and fondled, while Cary and Groucho watched.  Then they all took off their clothes and went into the master bedroom.

Cary had a Bratwurst+, and Groucho -- incredible!  A Kovbasa++, easily a foot long once it sprang to life!  While Cary went down on Dick, Randy tried his best to go down on Groucho.  He just managed to get the head.

"Noble attempt, kid," Groucho said.  "Better than Rock Hudson, I'll give you that."

Then Randy went down on Cary -- much easier.  He finished in a few minutes with a monumental shudder.

"Time for the floor show," Groucho said.  "Live on stage, Randy and Dick, the Magic Wand Twins."

Dick topped Randy, his legs in the air -- bareback -- no condoms in those days!  Then he kissed Randy and helped him finish, while Cary and Groucho watched.

Then Groucho gave Randy $5 and sent him and Dick out the door.

A week later, Randy was on a ship headed for Guam.  He wouldn't be back in Hollywood for four years.

"I never saw Cary Grant or Groucho Marx again," Randall says.  "But Dick and I stayed friends.  He and Bert used to have me over for dinner and sharing.  He wasn't happy with my Prince Albert."

Dick Sargent came out in 1991, and became a "retroactive role model" for gay youth.  He and Elizabeth Montgomery, his Bewitched co-star, were the grand marshalls of the 1992 West Hollywood Gay Pride Parade.  He died on July 8th, 1994.