Peter Berlin: "That Boy" uses his physique and his cock to show us the wonder of the Gay World

His actual name was Peter Berlin, but all you needed to say was That Boy, and the old guys of West Hollywood (that is, men over 30) would remember: the Boy sunning himself on the beach, the "Dancing Queen" at the disco, the leatherman glaring from the back bar, all blond hair, bronze muscles, and hard cock.

He was not handsome -- actually, he had an unremarkable long horse-face.  Nor was he blond. And the world he traveled was more often graffiti- and gang-strewn Tenderloin than the Fire Island of the A-gays.  But that didn't matter.  You saw him half on screen, half in your dreams.

There was no such thing as a closet in Peter Berlin's world, no such thing as homophobia.  Only endless nights of cruising -- but not the meaningless, destructive tricks that the straights condemned us for.  A glorious sexual freedom that was, in itself, fulfilling enough to be the sole purpose of life.

 

 That Boy (1974) was a defining moment of my coming out, the first gay porn film I ever saw, in 1984, during my second year in grad school at Indiana University.  My friend Viju and I drove into Indianapolis to go to the bars, and someone invited us to see it with him.  There was a midnight showing in a sleazy theater near Monument Circle.

Peter is not actually the boy of That Boy.  He plays an unnamed sexual Everyman who wanders through the Castro and the Tenderloin of  a straight-free San Francisco, cruising on the street and in back rooms, looking at men, and being looked at.  He finds the gaze, being the object of desire, more glorious than the sex acts themselves.  But then he looks at That Boy, but the boy does not look back.

Could this be the one person in the Gay World who does not desire him?  No, the boy is blind!  Peter is intrigued, and invites him for coffee and conversation. They walk hand in hand through the park and sit by the pond to look at (or hear) the ducks, making a romantic connection before heading to the back room.

Peter was born Armin Hagen Freiherr von Hoyningen-Huene. the son of a baron, in December 1942, and raised in Berlin, in a family of diplomats and fashion photographers.   After secondary school, he worked as a photographer for a German interview program, met famous people like Alfred Hitchcock and Brigitte Bardot, and cruised.  

A double life, respectable by day, sleazoid by night, was a standard part of the gay experience in the 1960s, when straights and gays alike believed that we were destined to be permanent outsiders, constantly hiding, denizens of a seedy underworld.  But Armin took pride in being gay.  He cruised in outfits of his own design, photographed himself and his tricks, turned the gay sex act into a work of masculine beauty,

More after the break.  

Zach Galligan: The "Gremlins" guy ruined my childhood, sort of. Plus his dick, Michelangelo's David, and Bubba's bulge

The spring of 1984 was dark and dismal, endless days and weeks and months of trying and failing.  A degree in English and Modern Languages with professors who said "You can do anything you want. Go into advertising, or public relations, or book publishing."  A hundred resumes sent to advertising agencies, public relations firms, and publishing houses all over the country, with no answer or "no openings."  By the end of May, my friends had all gone home for the summer or graduated, so I walked the streets of Bloomington alone, looking up at the cross on the tower of a distant church and wondering if there was anything ahead but dead ends.

On the evening of June 15th, I saw Gremlins,  starring 20-year old Zach Galligan as a teenager who accidentally feeds his mogwai after midnight, thus turning it into a rampaging monster.

 The movie itself was of minimal interest. Zach may have had a buddy-bonding friendship with fellow mogwai enthusiast Corey Feldman on the way to winning the Girl of His Dreams.

It was Zach's jaw-dropping handsomeness that convinced me that there was some good left in the world, leading to a job in Texas and eventually to West Hollywood.

During the next years and decades, I didn't learn much more about Zach.  I never saw him in any other movie or tv show, except maybe a 1998 episode of Star Trek: Voyager, where I didn't recognize him.

There was an occasional photo or reference on one of the gay celebrity websites that we had back in the days of America Online and Myspace.  They revealed that: 

1. Zach was tied up in a lot of his movies.  This shot appeared over and over.  

And:

2. He was gay in real life.  I never questioned this.

A few days ago, I noticed a run on my earlier profile of Zach Galligan, so I started researching him for a new profile.   

First, n*de photos.  

A butt pic was easy.

A frontal, a little harder to find.  I don't think this is him.

More after the break.  Caution: Explicit.

Indiana University: My first visit to an adult bookstore

I "figured it out" during my senior year in high school, but my real "coming out" was at the beginning of my first year in grad school at Indiana University.

As an undergraduate at Augustana College, I had worked hard, very hard, to find gay people, and I found a few -- my ex boyfriend Fred; an Episcopal priest in Des Moines; Prfessor Burton, who held handcuff parties for campus hunks.  You had to go through word of mouth, through a friend of a friend of a friend.

Now I was at a vast university with 40,000 students, and as far as I could tell from conversations and signals and interests, every single one of them was heterosexual.

My friends, classmates, and coworkers all, without exception, maintained the "what girl do you like?" whine of my childhood.  I had to leave Playboy magazines in my room, and think of logical reasons why I didn't have a girl on my arm every second.

My classes were as empty of gay references as they had been at Augustana.  Every writer who had ever lived was heterosexual.  Every poem ever written was written from man to women.  The Eternal Feminine infused all our lives.

And, as far as I knew, this was the way life was everywhere and for everyone.  A vast emptiness, hiding, pretending, unyielding silence.

That Saturday night I had been watching Silver Spoons and Mama's Family in the 13th floor tv lounge of Eigenmann Hall.  At 9:00, my roommate Jon said "Let's go to the grad student mixer.  I'm hot to get laid tonight."

I had no interest in getting laid.  At least, not as Jon understood it.  But I walked with him across the vast, silent campus, past empty buildings, past towers of Indiana limestone erected by heterosexuals long ago, to the Memorial Union, where a party for heterosexual grad students was in session.

Then I said goodbye and went to the campus library.  There were uncountable millions of books in the vast stacks, rooms as long as a football field, but only two listed under "homosexuality" in the card catalog: the memoirs of Tennessee Williams, and Nothing Like the Sun, by Anthony Burgess, about Shakespeare's romance with the Dark Lady of the sonnets.

I walked alone down Kirkwood Avenue, past student bars and little Asian restaurants and hamburger stands.  Just before the Baskin Robbins closed at 10:00, I stopped in and bought an ice cream cone.  Two scoops, strawberry on the bottom and Rocky Road on the top.  30 years later, I still remember that ice cream cone.

There was a gay bar in Rock Island, a dark closet bar with a nondescript name and no windows, where you entered through the back so no one could see you.  But surely Bloomington was too small for such a place.

 I stopped into a weird eclectic bookstore called the White Rabbit. No gay books -- it was illegal to display them openly, as Fred told me when I found his secret bookshelf two years ago.  So I bought a novelization of the 1980 Popeye musical starring Robin Williams, set in the port town of Sweethaven:

Sweet Sweethaven!  God must love us.
Why else would He have stranded us here?

A church tower had a cross that lit up white at night, and I looked up it and prayed "Why did you strand me here?"

I wandered for a long time through quiet residential streets, houses where heterosexual husbands and wives were asleep, their children in the next room surrounded by "what girl do you like?" brainwashing toys and games.  I walked past a public park, but was afraid to go in.  After dark, monsters roamed through the dark swaying trees.

It occurred to me that I was one of the monsters.  After all, being gay was illegal in the United States.  I was a criminal.  (Actually, Indiana's sodomy law was repealed in 1976.)

Somehow I found myself at a small, nondescript building on College Avenue.  The sign on the marquee advertised "Adult Books."

They probably wouldn't stock any gay porn.  But it wouldn't hurt to check.  The most they could do is call me a "fag."

More after the break