Zack Hooks Up with the Prince of Sweden

Providence, Rhode Island, April 2000

In West Hollywood when we swapped stories about hookups and dates with celebrities, I usually didn't talk about actors.  My friends had much better actor stories: how could hugging Michael J. Fox, coffee with Richard Dreyfuss, or dating a minor teen idol compare with motorcycling through Wales with David Cassidy, hooking up with Alan Alda on the set of M*A*S*H, or topping Cary Grant while he went down on Groucho Marx?

Instead, I usually told about Carl XVI Gustaf, King of Sweden.

In 1976, during my sophomore year in high school. the young, athletic king visited Rock Island, and dropped in to Rocky High to have lunch with some student leaders.  I sat next to him at a big round table, answered a few polite questions, and "accidentally" brushed my leg against his.

I just had to add some colorful exaggeration -- a tour of the high school, an empty chemistry lab, an arm around my shoulders that strayed down to my butt -- and voila!  A story that trumped running into Peter Fonda at a bathhouse in Tijuana.

But I don't tell my Carl Gustaf story anymore.  Here's why:

April 2000: I''m in graduate school in New York.  Zack the Photographer, who I met four years ago when he was dating Drake the teddy bear artist, is now enrolled in the MFA Program at the Rhode Island School of Design in Providence.  Yuri and I take the train up to for a weekend visit.

Zack is 23, a twink with smooth, pale skin, a thick chest, prominent nipples, xylophone abs, and an uncut Mortadella.

He lives in an apartment in an old Victorian about half a mile from the RISD, with Seth:  in his 30s, with short brown hair, a rugged face, and a hairy barrel chest; and Mikey, a shaggy-haired twink with blue eyes and a smooth lean physique.  

On Friday night we have dinner in an Indian place near campus, go cruising at a gay bar called the Stable, and then return to the apartment, where Yuri and I "share" Zack.

I go down on Zack while he goes down on Yuri, and then we get into Zack's favorite position, 69, while Yuri watches.

I've been with Zack several times; not terribly impressive.  He's too thin for me, and that Mortadella is too big to go down on comfortably, especially when you're on your back with him on top.

I'm more interested in Seth and Mikey.

On Saturday we have breakfast and go to the gym, and then Zack takes us on a driving tour of Providence: Brown University, the Marble House, the Touro Synagogue, the RISD Museum of Art and Design.  We go back to the apartment for dinner: Yankee pot roast, soda bread, a green salad, and a fruit compote.

We start telling stories of long-ago tricks, gigantic penises, and dates from hell.  Yuri tells about how we went to Basque Country last summer in search of the world's biggest penis.

Then Seth asks: "You lived in West Hollywood for so many years, you must know a lot of famous people.  Who's the most famous guy you've every been intimate with?"

"Depends on what you consider intimate?  Kissing, oral, a walk hand in hand through Beverly Hills?"

Mikey sets the ground rules:  "Intimacy will here mean any deliberate contact with his penis or butt."

I think carefully. Which story will impress them enough to get an invitation to share tonight?

No doubt about it: Carl Gustaf.  

I just add some details about the King bringing me into the empty chem lab and hugging and fondling me, pressing my hand against his aroused Bratwurst.  Voila!

Zack is silent during my story. Then he says: "Isn't that a coincidence?  I spent the night with his son, Prince Carl Philip."

Everyone turns and stares.





Kent, Connecticut, Fall 1994

Zack grew up in Westchester County, New York, where his father was a dermatologist to the stars.  He went to the exclusive Kent School in Connecticut, with famous alumni including Ted Danson, Treat Williams, James Cozzens, and  Cyrus Vance.  So he was no stranger to fame, and having the son of the King of Sweden in his class was no big deal.

During his sixth form at Kent (twelfth grade), he met the 15 year old Lippi -- Prince Carl Philip.  Tall, broad-shouldered, handsome, with a broad friendly face, dark eyes, curly brown hair.

They didn't hang out much -- Zack was quiet, intellectual, artistic, and Lippi was more interested in big, bright, explosive things: sports, especially swimming and skiing, NASCAR racing, and the tv show Married...with Children. 


They bonded at the campus gym, where Zack taught Lippi how to use the free weights.  And once they went on a walk together in search of interesting buildings to photograph.

"Were you out at the time?" Mikey asks.

"Sort of.  I was looking at gay porn online, but I wasn't quite ready to identify as gay, and I hadn't done anything yet, with anybody."

Killington, Vermont, February 1995

Then, in February 1995, the ski club took a weekend trip to the Killington Resort in Vermont, and Lippi and Zack shared a bed in the hotel.

Zack hadn't expected anything to happen.  He was almost asleep when he felt Lippi's hand gingerly caressing his chest.  He lay perfectly still as it moved down his belly and grasped his aroused Mortadella.  Then he pulled Lippi close and kissed him, and pushed his head down into oral.

They fumbled around.  Neither of them knew what they were doing.  Somehow they discovered 69, with Lippi on top.  He was cut, average sized but thick.

Afterwards he moved to his own side of the bed to fall asleep.

In the morning they were polite to each other, but they didn't discuss what happened. They didn't become lovers, or even friends.

A few months later, Zack graduated and moved to Berkeley, where he came out.

"Ok, ok," Yuri says with a laugh. "So you have been with a King and a Prince.  Do you know that I was with the last of the Romanovs, the Tzars of Russia?"

"And I was with President Bush's sons, George W. and Jeb," Seth announces.  "We invited Colin Powell, but there wasn't enough room in the bed."




I didn't get to share Seth and Mikey's bed that night.

I don't tell my King of Sweden story anymore.

So, is Zack's story of a high-school hookup with the Prince of Sweden true, or a colorful exaggeration?

Prince Carl Philip was indeed attending the Kent School during the 1994-1995 year.

As an adult he has been linked to several women, including Madonna, Emma Pernald, and Sofia Hellqvist, who became Princess Sofia in 2015.

Still, the gay rumors have been flying since he was a teenager, and there's always room in the most heterosexual of lives for late nights and sharing beds with buddies.

See also: Sharing the Bear's Boyfriend; My Date with the King of Sweden

Naked in the Shower with Randy Travis

Born in 1959, country-western singer Randy Travis has a face that would send me running for the exit: long and narrow, with a gigantic forehead and tiny, beady eyes -- and he wasn't much cuter when he was young.

I've never heard his voice, but it has apparently won him a shelf-full of Grammies, CMA, ACM, and AMA awards (whatever those are).

His discography looks rather heterosexist, with a liberal addition of Jesus-Saves Gospel: "It's God's Amazing Grace that brought me this far."

Is it just me, or do people who mention God in every other sentence tend to be homophobic?

Not much gay content in his acting career.  I thought he played Will's wealthy cowboy client on Will and Grace, but that was Harry Connick Jr.  Travis has been in some cowboy movies and Christian dramas.

He's apparently been "plagued" by "accusations" of gayness, which he "vehemently denies." Sounds you think being gay is about the worst thing in the world, cowboy.

He's been married twice.   In 1991 he married his manager, Libbie Hatcher, who was 20 years older than him (yeah, I know, a double standard).  They divorced in 2010, and in 2015 he married Mary Davis.

No kids.  A lot of "family, Family, FAMILY" lyrics, though.

Not very good fodder for a gay sausage sighting story, but I have one:

Warwick, Rhode Island, August 1984

Call me Carlo.  I'm a Rhode Island boy.  I drink coffee milk, say "cah" instead of "car," and know who won the Governor's Cup in 2017 (Brown). I can't imagine living anywhere else.

When I was growing up in Warwick, Rhode Island in the 1960s and 1970s, the Warwick Musical Theater was a place to stay far away from, if you had any interest in being cool.  They called it "The Tent," although in 1967 the original circus tent was replaced by a gaudy, candy-colored theater-in-the round.

It specialized in dinosaur acts: Wayne Newton, Tom Jones, Andy Williams, Perry Como (who we called Perry Coma). No rock, unless you count Sha Na Na.  No black performers, except once Sammy Davis Jr.

I graduated from high school in 1975, majored in English at Roger Williams and the University of Rhode Island, moved to Providence, and in 1982 got my first job, as an entertainment reporter for The Cranston Herald.  But I tried to steer clear of the Tent. A kid's ballet recital!  A society luncheon! Anything but that.

But one day, the editor told me that on Sunday, August 5th, the Tent was having "A Night with Barbara Mandrell and Randy Travis."  He ordered a review, plus an interview of one or the other.

I had heard of Barbara Mandrell, but I couldn't name one of her song.  I had never heard of Randy Travis, but his picture showed a nice physique and a considerable basket.  Besides, I figured, a guy is a guy.

Buster Bonoff, the owner of the Tent, would pick them up at the airport about noon on Sunday, bring them to their hotel, and give them about four hours to relax or rehearse before picking them up for the concert at 6:00.

My interview was scheduled at 5:00 pm at a waterside restaurant called Doughboy's, where Top of the Bay is now.

I prepared by going to the record store to look for Randy's albums -- there were none (Randy Travis: live at the Nashville Palace had been released, but the record store didn't stock it).  Nor did the radio station have any of his singles.

The country-western radio station in New Bedford had a single by Randy Traywick (his original name): "Dreamin'" and "I'll Take Any Willing Woman."

Way heterosexist.  I thought about going with Barbara Mandrell instead.

On the 5th, I drove down to Warwick early to take some pictures.  Then I discovered that I had a couple of hours to kill, so I decided to work out -- always a good idea to get buffed before interviewing a guy -- you never know what will happen.  Remind me to tell you about my interview with Sha Na Na.

I didn't have time to drive all the way back to Providence, so I stopped at the YMCA in Warwick, which happened to be down the street from Randy's bed and breakfast.  I used to go there all the time as a kid -- free weights, some Nautilus, and plenty of action in the sauna and shower.

Today I didn't have time for action.  I did some upper-body weight training and a little cardio, and hit the showers.

I had just begun to soap up, when I turned around, and there was Randy Travis, or at least someone who looked like him, not ten feet away, putting his towel on a hook. He chose the shower next to mine, turned it on, and stood under it.  Surprisingly not very tall, a lean physique with big biceps, smooth chest, and a very nice cut cock.

He turned around to wet himself, squirted some soap into his hand, and began lathering up his cock and balls, all the while grinning at me.  I instinctively felt for my own cock and started manipulating it.

We were alone in the locker room -- Sunday afternoons are dead time at the Y.  Did he want me to do more?

Newspaper reporters are not psychiatrists.  No rule prohibits us from going down on our interview subjects.  I took a step over and reached out my hand, ready to  fondle his penis.

That's when I made my fatal mistake.

"Hey, are you Randy Travis?" I asked.

His face fell into a frown, and his hands moved to cover his crotch.  "Yeah, why?  You a fan?"

I pretended that I had stepped over to shake his hand.  "I'm Carlo.  I'm supposed to interview you later for The Herald.  Take a picture, too."

"Cool.  I'll be there," he said with a suspicious frown.

Surprised by the sudden cold shoulder, I turned off my shower and grabbed a towel.  "Ok, so I'll see you a little later."

The interview went very badly.  I kept trying not to look at Randy's crotch, and his matronly manager kept butting in.  And the concert: let's just say that me and country-western music don't mix.

But to this day, I'm wondering: I was all over that YMCA for an hour before going to the showers, and I didn't see Randy Travis anywhere.  The only place he could have been is the sauna.  But he would have no reason to hang around the sauna for an hour.

Except....

See also: Hank Williams Nude