Ted C Blind Item

Toothy Tile, doll-hon, you’ve met your homo match. ‘Cause there’s a new rising, closeted star in town (actually, he’s been rising for, like, ages now, but, whatev) who’s putting your clandestine, closeted—not to mention kinky!—ways to shame. Maybe you know him? Name’s Crotch Uh-Lastic. Ring a bell, babe? Thought so.

Now, keep in mind, Toothy and Crotch have never made a flick together, though they do both go in for the same roles rather often. Similar brooding thing going on. You know, that tough yet tangible, touchable, almost boyish loveliness, a little crusty on the sides, too. Know the type? Oh who cares about actor oeuvre, let’s get to the dirty part and oozing sex outta control, my little horn-hons!

So Crotch, like a lot of his hetero counterparts in this Biz, is all wrapped up in fantasy. Whereas Toothy likes it dangerous and out in the open—Hollywood parking lots, anybody?—Crotch prefers his assignations played out as if they were the plots of one of his artier flicks (he's had plenty). This is how the boy likes it: He chooses a stud, latest one being a straight—wink, wink, right—trainer who’s busy trying to get a modeling/acting/smoldering-look career going and asks him to come over to the Hollywood pad. Mr. U.-L. has an East Coast home, too, but the pool in his Hollywood hang is so much fun for game playing. The man-meat Crotch has selected is told, beforehand, to await his limo ride to the Hell-Ay house and, once he arrives, to head straight to the pool area, adorned with chaise lounges. On these tastefully tufted settees, like little lost Saks Fifth Avenue summer catalog lovelies, lay various box-cut (never Speedo, how Matthew McConaughey!) swim trunks.

Silently, oh so discreetly, the stud-for-hire is then told to take off all his clothes and put on any of the suits he likes, at which point Crotch struts out and the inevitable seduction, complete with end-of-the-show water works, begin. And Crotch can only get the ol’ equipment up and hosing, I’m told, if said scenario is pursued.

How damn exhausting. Whatever happened to a little sweat, not too much intrigue and even fewer props? Is that so old-fashioned? For Crotch, the answer would be yes.