Brandon DeWilde in Paul Newman's Bed

Born in Brooklyn, New York in April 1942, Brandon DeWilde was performing on Broadway at age 7.  At age 11, he was nominated for an Academy Award for Shane (1953).  That fall he got his own tv series, Jamie (1953-1954).

He was a big star.  And already sexually active. 

He always said that he was born horny.  As a teenager he rarely went more than a day without going down on a man or letting a man or woman go down on him.  Usually two or three.  He and a buddy often teamed up to work on a third guy or girl, then do each other.

How did he find all those willing partners, at a jailbait age, in the police-state 1950s, when sodomy and fornication would get you a prison sentence?  It helped that he had a stunning face and an enormous penis that kept getting bigger and bigger every year.  And that he looked...well, innocent.  Everybody thought they were his first.

Right, his first today.

Brandon wasn't sure whether he liked sex with men or women better -- why choose, they were both great!  But for sheer physical attraction, that jolt that hits you in the pit of your stomach, it was always men. 

Especially older, sophisticated, powerful men, the kind who would take you out and show you a good time before tearing your clothes off and throwing your legs in the air.

And maybe help your career.   Brandon's first real boyfriend was novelist James Leo Herlihy, who got him cast in the film versions of Blue Denim (1959) and All Fall Down (1962).

Not that they were monogamous -- no matter how many times they had sex the night before, Brandon still found himself getting aroused at the sight of muscular stage hands and pretty-in-pink script girls -- and he got a lot of invitations.  How could he refuse? 

In 1962, shortly after he and James broke up, Brandon landed a dream role --  Lonnie in Hud, an adaption of Larry McMurtrey's 1961 Western novel Horsemen Pass By, about a gay teenager who falls in love with his no-good uncle.

Ok, he wasn't explicitly gay, in the script, but that's how Brandon intended to play him!

Especially when he discovered that Hud was to be played by 37-year old Paul Newman, star of gay-subtext movies like The Long Hot Summer and Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.   A major sex symbol, arguably the most beautiful man in the world.  How could Lonnie not be in love with him?

How could Brandon not be in love with him?

"Dream on," James said, still smarting a little from the breakup.  "Paul Newman can have any guy he wants, and he likes them big and built, like Brando, Yul Brynner, and Rocky Graziano -- why would he pick a skinny 20-year old kid?  Besides, you're both bottoms.  What are you going to do, exchange recipes?"

"I can screw with the best of them, Daddy-O!" Brandon exclaimed.  "And I can seduce with the best of them."

On May 21, 1962, location filming began in the town of Claude on the Texas Panhandle.  Cast and crew stayed at several hotels in Amarillo.  Brandon seduced the desk clerk at Paul's hotel into letting him into his room.  Paul came in later to find Brandon on the bed naked.

"I've been waiting all afternoon to suck the cock of Paul Newman," he announced.

Paul was hesitant at first -- he wasn't into skinny kids, even those with angelic faces and enormous penises -- but Brandon was very persistent.  Soon they were having sex every night, with each other and with whatever men or women they invited along -- both of them got a lot of offers! 

Brandon was mostly a bottom with men, but one night he topped a guy who was going down on Paul at the same time.  Then he switched positions -- what a kick!  He never topped Paul, though -- Paul had a smaller cock, but he was older, and a bigger star, therefore always dominant.

When the Texas shooting ended and they returned to Los Angeles, Paul said, "Look, it's been swell, but I'm a one-man man.  If we're going to do this, you're going to have to be faithful.  No other guys...or chicks either, unless you're married to them."

Brandon was completely captivated.  Paul's fame, his money, his connections that could push a career -- none of it mattered.  Even the sex wasn't important.  He wanted to be with Paul, share his bed, share his life, no matter what.

So he tried monogamy.  He cut back on the hookups.  He got married, to take some of the pressure off.  But he and Paul had different commitments, and just couldn't see each other often.  They had to make do with an occasional weekend fling.

What was Brandon supposed to do on the other days?  Sex with his wife Susan, of course.  But he got aroused so easily, and he had so many offers -- it was simply impossible to turn them all down. 

Brandon tried visiting Paul on the set for an occasional dressing-room blow job, but Paul didn't like that -- too dangerous.  If anyone found out about them, both their careers would be over.

Still, Brandon longed for some public recognition of their relationship, if only in code.

In 1968, Paul signed on as Butch in the intensely homoerotic buddy-Western Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.  Brandon thought that he should play Sundance -- a perfect way to display their commitment! 

Besides, his career was in the dumps -- he had barely worked in three years.  What good was having a superstar boyfriend, if he refused to use his influence to get you jobs?

Paul argued that it would look suspicious for him to promote Brandon for the role. The producers wanted Steve McQueen.

"Your new boyfriend?" Brandon sniped.  "What, does he suck your cock better than me?  Or does he have a tighter ass?  Here I've been trying my damnedest to stay faithful, and you're shacking up with every Tom, Dick, and Harry!"

The argument escalated, and became public -- they were nearly outed on the spot.  Paul angrily broke up with Brandon. 

Worried about being caught in the middle of a gay love triangle, McQueen backed out of the role, and Robert Redford took over.

Devastated by the breakup, Brandon divorced Susan -- they were mostly together for Paul's sake, anyway -- and distanced himself from Hollywood, returning to his old love, theater.  In March 1972 he remarried.  In July 1972, while starring in Butterflies are Free, he was driving through Lakewood, a suburb of Denver, when he swerved to avoid a drunk driver and was killed.

Paul Newman had a legendary career, in such memorable movies as The Sting (1973), Fort Apache, the Bronx (1981), and The Color of Money (1986).  Never openly bisexual -- his 2010 biography just mentions Brandon as his costar in Hud -- he was married to Joanne Woodward for 50 years, and had three children.  He was a strong supporter of gay rights. 

Most of this story comes from Randall the Muscle Bear, who never met Brandon, but knew some men who tricked with him in the 1960s.  I took some details from Darwin Porter's 2009 biography of Paul Newman, but I found it to be generally unreliable.

See also: Paul Newman and Rocky Graziano

The Nude Car Wash

Dayton, May 2006

At the end of every semester, students fill out a Teaching Evaluation, answering questions about how much they liked the class.  They should like it a lot. The Evaluations are used to decide whether you keep your job, and "adequate" is typically an average of 3.5 or 4.0 (on a scale of 1-5).

That means that being out in the classroom is simply out of the question.  Just one homophobe giving you a "1" on everything can lower your class average to below "adequate," and a class of 20 is guaranteed to contain at least 3 homophobes.

So how do I stay "in the closet" in class, at least to the3 or more homophobes?  It's really not difficult, even though I mention gay people or gay issues in every class. Heterosexuals are so eager to believe that there are no gay people in the world that just a few tricks can maintain their illusion.

1. I never mention my romantic relationships at all, ever. Hetero professors throw in their husbands and wives every ten seconds:  "Today we're covering chi square.  My wife hates chi square," or "I would have finished grading your exams, but it was my wife's birthday, and..."  Not me.

2. Several times during the semester, I mention something that happened "at church."  Heterosexuals tend to believe that being religious and being gay are polar opposites: all gay people are anti-religion, and all religious people are anti-gay.  So of course if I go to church, I must be heterosexual.

3. I mention my background in wrestling, judo, and bodybuilding.  Things haven't changed much since I was in high school thirty years ago: heterosexuals still tend to believe that all gay men are frail, wispy things allergic to muscles, so anyone who knows his way around a gym must be heterosexual.

My "secret" is usually safe.  Occasionally I get statements on course evaluations like "I think the professor is a fag!", but not often.

So I was surprised in the spring of 2006, when I taught a course in "Drugs and Alcohol in American Society" in Dayton.

  There was no unit on gay people, although I think I mentioned early medical attempts to connect AIDS deaths to gay men using poppers (amyl nitrite).  At the end of the semester, a conservative fratboy business major named CJ, who was squeaking by with a C-, told me, "If you let me turn in an extra credit assignment, I'll mow your lawn every week all summer with my shirt off."

I stared, too shocked to speak.

"Ok, all the yardwork.  All summer.  Come on, a whole summer of eye candy!"

Finally I managed to say,  "I don't have a lawn.  I live in an apartment."

"Ok, then I'll wash your car all summer-- wearing only a jockstrap!  You'll never get a better deal than that!"

His girlfriend -- or a girl he flirted with often -- approached and took his shoulder.  "Dr. Davis isn't interested in that sort of thing," she advised.

So the girl didn't "catch on," but the hunk did?  Maybe he saw my eyes widen when he yawned-and-flexed.

"Oh...well, maybe you have a gay friend. I can be like a gift certificate."

"Wait -- I have an idea.  You can put your talents to use, and share it with the whole university community."

So during finals week, CJ's fraternity held a car wash for charity -- they wore speedos, not jock straps, but there was still a lot of muscle on display.

I brought my car in three times.

See also: Summertime Car Washes

Cruised by a Waiter at a Crazy Retro Restaurant

Indianapolis, December 2016

Who ever talked me into going to this crazy restaurant?

I guess my friend Tyler, Fred's "son," did.  It's a few blocks from where he works, so good for having dinner while waiting out rush-hour traffic.

But Tyler is an expert in the culinary arts.  Surely he could drive a few miles to a more...um...modern place, rather than Charlie's Bar and Grille.

Decor from the fifties.

Clientele consisting entirely of heterosexual couples in their 90s.

Grotesquely outdated music playing in the background, syrupy-slow versions of the most depressing songs possible.

"Yesterday"
"If You Could Read My Mind"
"Sad Songs"

And my personal non-favorite, "Times of Your Life":

You wake up and time has slipped away
And suddenly it's hard to find
The memories you left behind
Remember, do you remember, the times of your life?

Just what I need -- a reminder that time is slipping away, and most of my life is over, in a horrible retro restaurant a few days before New Year's Eve.

Sighing, I look at the menu:  steaks, chops, veal cutlet, Salisbury steak, chicken a la king.

What the heck is a chop?

I order the Turf and Surf, sirloin steak with a stuffed lobster tail, which my Encyclopedia of Bad Taste calls "a paeon to 1950s excess" and a "middlebrow status symbol of our parents' generation."

Shouldn't it come with a martini and a slice of banana cream pie?

The waitress, the only person under 90 in the restaurant, is intrusive, overly aggressive, telling us in detail where every menu item is located, as if we have never seen a restaurant menu before, and coming back twice to ask "How's everything tasting?"

I hate the "How's everything?" question.  It always comes at the exact moment when your mouth is full or you're discussing something embarrassing.  But I hate the "How's everything tasting?" question even more.  I order food for its nutritional value and visual appeal. Who cares about the taste?

And to make matters worse, a second person, a maitre-d or wine steward or something, comes up and asks "How's everything tasting?" a third time!

I'm not answering this time.  Let Tyler do it.

"It's great," he says.

But he's not going to let me off the hook.  He wraps his arm around my shoulders and asks "How about you?"

Shocked, I shrug him off.   He retreats.

"What was that all about?" Tyler asks.

"No idea.  In gay neighborhoods, the waiters cruise you -- flirt with you --- to get a bigger tip."

"But this is Indianapolis, not West Hollywood.  And how would he know you're gay?  He probably thinks that we're father and son."

"Maybe he picked up a vibe."

"But he's not even our waiter, so he won't be getting a tip."

"There are other reasons to flirt with people..."

"No way!" he exclaims.

Suddenly the maitre d' or wine steward or whatever is back.  This time I get a better look: in his twenties, medium height, on the thin side, with a round face, heavy eyebrows, and short brown hair.  White shirt, black pants, apron, so I can't see a bulge.  Sort of cute, in a cornfed Midwestern way.

"Hi, I didn't get your names."  He holds out his hand to be shaken.  "I'm Mike."

What wine steward or maitre d' or something asks for your names?  This guy is definitely cruising!

"I'm Tyler, and this is my friend Boomer, from West Hollywood, California."

"California!  Cool!  I'll bet you know lots of movie stars."

"Sure.  I car-pool with Cary Grant.  Humphrey Bogart's kid mows my lawn.  Last week I went out to dinner with Tyrone Power."

"Funny!"  He pauses.  "I'm a big fan of old movies."

"Working here, you'd have to be."

He touches my shoulder. "Rear Window is playing at the Royal.  If you guys have time this evening, you should check it out.  I'm going after work."

He vanishes.

"Definitely cruising -- trying to pick me up," I tell Tyler.  "Not even being subtle about it."

"Don't be ridiculous!" he protests.  "This isn't a gay bar!"

I shrug.  "Seems weird to me, too, but can you think of another explanation?"

"Um...being friendly?"

"That's an awfully touchy-feely friendliness."

"Ok, then, if you think he's flirting, ask him out.  I'd love to see the look on your face when he runs away in a panic."

What if he is just being friendly?  Asking out a random waiter in a straight-world restaurant could be very embarrassing.  Especially in this weird retro 1950s restaurant.  "That won't be necessary.  I like to meet my men the old fashioned way.  On a dating app on my smartphone."

Our real waitress arrives to clear our dishes and ask if we'd like to order dessert.  We refuse, so she goes to get our check.

Suddenly Mike returns with plates of apple pie a la mode.  "On the house," he says, "Because you had to wait so long."

"We didn't have a long wait, but thanks..." Tyler says.

"Hey...um...about Rear Window...the theater is kind of hard to find, so I thought if you could wait until 7:00, when I get off work, you could follow me over."

"We're busy tonight,"  I tell him.  "But I'm free tomorrow."

"Great!  Meet me here at 7:00.  We can go to the movie, and then get drinks or whatever."   He touches my shoulder again, and rushes off.

Tyler stares.  "Does this sort of thing happen to you often?"

"That would be telling."

Actually, it's only happened 3 or 4 times in my life.

In case you were wondering: smooth chest, two tattoos, average size, uncut.  Oral bottom.  Pushed me down on the bed to get into the interfemoral position, but spurted before he could insert anything into anything.

See also: I Spend the Night with Fred's Son; Hookup with the Waiter at a Fundamentalist Restaurant; and Cooking and Cruising.