Use Whichever Hand You Like

I’ve been so busy at work and bogged down in the never-ending nightmare of getting work done on our house (as I write this the interior of our home is draped in plastic sheeting, like we’re aspiring serial killers) that I almost let May slip by without posting anything. And I still might (I write slow), but I want to at least try to post something new before June.

So, let’s watch some classic gay porn!

Director Jack Deveau’s 1972 debut LEFT-HANDED, co-directed by Jaap Penraat (no, not the World War II resistance fighter) not only gets singled out as one of the first scripted gay porn films with an original musical score, but it’s lauded as much for its artfulness as it is for its eroticism. While I appreciate all those things, what drew me to the movie was its star, Ray Frank. The moment I saw Ray Frank’s photo on the cover of the Bijou Video DVD of Left-Handed—his hair damp from the shower, his body like a Greek sculpture if Greek sculptors were into man-sized penises, and wearing an expression that lets it be known that he’s just been fucked and ready to be fucked again—was the moment I knew I had to see this movie despite some initial reservations, which we’ll get to later.

No doubt his crotch would be censored if he
wore these pants on American television in 2023. 

When we meet Ray, he’s walking down a New York City street, wearing a Canadian tuxedo like it’s fetish wear. I swear his pants have been specially tailored to accentuate his crotch and ass. Ray covers a lot of ground in his post-credits walk, so it’s understandable he’d have to stop at a men’s room to drain the lizard at some point. While he takes a leak, we get a sampling of the graffiti adorning the walls, from jokey (“Please don’t throw toothpicks in the toilet—crabs pole vault”) to the usual offers of blow jobs with numbers for interested parties to call. Other people are advertising more specific needs: “I want to meat [sic] a young boy with a huge cock to fuck my ass and eat my cock who I can beat with a big wip [sic] and cat of nine tail [sic] and make bleed and cry and come in my mouth as I shoot off in my wife’s mouth.” (So, does he mean boy as in “young man” or as in “icky and illegal”? And is his wife just sitting around waiting until her husband is ready to nut? Maybe she could enter this harrowing scene as a cruel school mistress, taking that cat o’ nine tails to her husband every time he misspells a word, which will most definitely leave him bleeding and crying.)

Elton-Carvey is ready for another round!

The graffiti that piques Ray’s interest is a drawing of a large dick pointing at the last stall, with the accompanying plea to “lick my hot cock.” He opens the stall door to discover a bespectacled dude idly beating off, just waiting for someone to follow the dick drawing to his toilet stall lair. This might be more inviting if the man in the stall didn’t look like a cross between a young Dana Carvey and a young, de-glammed Elton John, neither of whom inspire instant lust. But Ray is clearly not focused on this tearoom queen’s face—the camera certainly isn’t—when he joins him in the stall and, as instructed by the graffiti outside, licks his hot cock, as well as sucks it.

Meanwhile, Woodstock-based drug dealer Bob (Robert Rikas), goes into the city to make a delivery. His client is Larry (Larry Burns), who owns an antiques store in NYC and sells pot on the side, or, more likely, the antiques store is just a front for his drug dealing as Larry seems to have zero interest in his antiques business.

This is Larry, hard at work.

It turns out that Larry’s antiques store is also Ray’s ultimate destination. He’s hoping to find a good deal on a Queen Anne tea table. OK, I’m kidding, he’s there to score some weed. Ray arrives at the shop about the time Larry and Bob are concluding their deal, and it’s lust at first sight. (One of the sights Ray sees is Bob lifting his sweater to stick his payment into the waist of his jeans, because sticking the money in his pocket like a normal person would deny Ray—and the viewer—a glimpse of Bob’s rippling abs.) Larry tells Bob to say hello to his girl for him. “What a waste,” Larry laments once Bob’s out the door. “That’s one we’ll never get.”

“Maybe you can’t get him. I bet I could,” replies Ray.

All this thirst for Bob might seem a bit mystifying if your only frame of reference is his unflattering photo on the cover of the Bijou DVD, on which he looks like Crispin Glover as an anthropomorphic steam shovel. However, Ray is more appealing in the movie proper, resembling a young Viggo Mortensen. Also, he’s got a rockin’ bod.

There’s no escaping straight people,
 even in gay porn.

Perhaps to hammer home the challenge Ray faces in seducing the hunky dealer, we get a scene of heterosexual humping (not an uncommon occurrence in ’70s gay porn; Navy Blue and Passing Strangers, to name but a couple, also feature scenes of hetero fucking). I’m sure there will be queer viewers who will find this sequence unnecessary/repellant—the same ones who let out a horrified shriek whenever a woman doffs her top at Pride—but the camera is primarily focused on Bob’s body, which, again, is quite nice. His girlfriend (played by Cindy West) could just as easily have been a Fleshlight with a wig glued on top. At the end of the scene, as Bob’s unnamed girlfriend sucks him off, she suddenly declares in a voice over that “you’re all a bunch of bastards” because... he came in her mouth, maybe? It’s never explained.

We then join Ray back at his loft, where he strips down to a pair of fishnet briefs, lies back on his bed and rubs one out fantasizing about Larry, never mind that fantasizing about Bob makes more narrative sense. It’s still a hot scene, the fantasy action shot in black and white while Ray’s stroke session is captured in glorious, grainy color. Robert Alvarez, Left-Handed’s editor who co-founded Hand-in-Hand Films with his partner Deveau, said in an interview on the Bijou Blog that this sequence was meant to be a reverse of The Wizard of Oz. “I really loved the idea of creating a piece, a sex scene that had some rhythm to it and some sense of movies, of real movies, you know?” says Alavarez.

Ray enjoys some personal time.

Bob suddenly accepts the fluidity of human
sexuality.

Later—the next day, next week, next year, who knows—Ray and Bob meet up and head back to Ray’s place to smoke a couple joints (in stars-and-stripes rolling papers, no less). As the evening wears on Bob’s straightness begins to wear down. Next thing we know, the staunchly hetero Bob is tentatively reaching for Ray’s crotch, because no one is that straight. Ray drowsily rolls into Bob’s arms for a kiss. The camera then backs up into a wide shot to capture them naked and making slow, sensual love. They later hop in the shower for an energetic fuck.

This no one night stand but the beginning of an affair, with Ray spending weekends up at Bob’s place in Woodstock. Seems awkward, given that Bob lives with his girlfriend, but she seems content to just hang around the house, smoking cigarettes and staring pensively into the distance while Bob and Ray go off to the barn for a quick B.J., or to make out by a creek. Though we never get to see a direct confrontation between Bob and his girlfriend, we can tell by her body language that she’s not happy. Later, Ray tells Larry that Bob’s GF won’t be around much longer. She’s definitely not around when Ray spends another weekend with Bob, the two men doing ’shrooms before doing each other. Deveau and Penraat earn points for not resorting to the usual camera tricks used to portray onscreen drug trips—fly vision, fisheye lenses, kaleidoscope effects—but they still manage to find a filter that robs the scene of its erotic impact by making the action look like an animated Rorschach test.

Hot?

Alas, the high can’t last forever, with the beginning of the end signaled by Ray telling Larry that he’s ready for a change. Ray then makes the tragic decision to shave his beard.

Noooooo!

Becoming Al Pacino.

Ray Frank is an attractive guy with or without facial hair, but personally speaking, I found him 35% sexier with a beard. Ray’s decision to shave coincides with Larry’s invitation to attend a little orgy that he’s hosting, starting promptly at 8 p.m. This orgy also presents another argument against Ray shaving his beard: most of the orgy attendees are also dark-haired, clean-shaven men with slight, muscular builds (diversity is not one of the movie’s selling points), so Ray gets lost in the pile. Larry, another bearded dude, and a guy who kind of resembles Barry Gibb if you squint, end up being the only distinctive performers. This makes the final minutes of the film, when Bob—invited to show up at eleven, after all loads have been spilled—appears at the door and discovers his boyfriend is a cheating bastard, a lot less impactful since Ray blends in with the crowd.

 Or maybe Bob’s just sad that Ray shaved his beard.

It should also be mentioned that this final orgy scene includes a fisting sequence, something I could’ve done without, personally (it makes me think of animal husbandry, but that’s just me). In fact, that is why I was initially wary of seeing this movie, because I was sure its title alluded to there being a whole bunch of handballing going on. (Had Left-Handed been directed by Joe Gage I’d just assume it would be all about masturbation.) But the fisting in Left-Handed is not only brief but executed far more gently than is usually seen in gay porn (it’s all hearts and flowers compared to the PTSD-inducing anal assault seen in Fred Halsted’s Sextool.) More viewers will likely be put off by the scene’s boner-killing jazz rock score.

Grittier than Boys in the Sand, yet Weirdly More Romantic

Ray gives Bob a hand.

Left-Handed was released shortly after Wakefield Poole’s Boys in the Sand, and while it’s not quite as polished a movie, it’s no less effective. In fact, I’d argue that it’s more effective than Sand. Sand is pretty to look at, and the sex is fairly hot, but it’s strictly fantasy, while Left-Handed’s gritty style and story arc, simplistic thought it may be, make it more involving. Consequently, though Sand has the more romanticized presentation of gay sex, it’s the grungy looking Left-Handed that’s the more romantic movie, the fisting notwithstanding. It even features a couple ballads worthy of any second-rate Vegas crooner’s set list.

Left-Handed is available through
BijouWorld.com, and can be streamed on
PinkLabelTV.com and GayHotMovies.com

As much as I enjoyed this movie, and really think it’s hot, I realize it’s a tough sell to present-day audiences. Even if you’re cool with the scraggly hippie look and aren’t turned off by the early ’70s fashions (they are a hoot, but the guys usually aren’t dressed very long for them to be a distraction), the sex scenes will likely not appeal to current sensibilities. For that reason, Left-Handed is best approached as a movie to be watched in its entirety, rather than a mere masturbation aid. The sex scenes are plentiful, but usually last for only 5-10 minutes, and the acts aren’t always captured in explicit detail, a fact that Alvarez acknowledges: “Our [movies] were more like—at least I felt, and Jack felt—to capture the sensuality of the sex or the dynamics of a sex scene, and whatever shot said that the best is the shot that we used. So, we didn’t go in for, like, where you can see every pubic hair, you know?” I didn’t think Deveau’s approach is any less powerful, though I will admit there were a couple scenes—the tearoom blowjob; Ray and Bob in the barn—that could’ve benefited from better lighting.

Above all, what really makes Left-Handed worth a watch are the two lead performers, Ray Frank and Robert Rikas. When so many current porn videos look like endurance tests, it’s nice to see performers who 

What’re you looking at?

appear to actually enjoy sex. Frank is the more dynamic performer, as well as the more charismatic presence, though Rikas proves to be more sensual than his stone-faced expression would have you believe. Yet, despite being such a natural, it was Frank who bowed out of the industry after two movies, his only other credit being in Deveau’s follow-up feature, Drive, while Rikas went on to appear in several more movies, his last IMDb credit being 1976’s Fetishes of Monique. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find anything else out about either performer. Alvarez wasn’t any more enlightening about the Left-Handed’s two leads when asked about them by Bijou: “[Jack Deveau] used to put out casting calls. And, I think, we knew the guy who played the lead. We knew both of them. And so, they agreed to be in it.”   

Considering how often I’m disappointed when I learn more about performers’ personal lives, maybe that’s all I really need to know.

The Reality, Fiction and Fantasy of Fire Island

Cherry Grove Stories is
currently streaming on Tubi.

Though we got a welcome—and, frankly, surprising—Supreme Court ruling this month that extends federal workplace protections to the LGBTQ community, there’s been very little about this June to remind you it’s Gay Pride Month. Given the ongoing Dumpster fire that is America 2020, you’d be forgiven for just wanting to get away from it all. Unfortunately, the only traveling we should be doing is vicariously (though some remain unconcerned). Luckily, that’s also the cheapest way to travel. So, let’s go to Fire Island, specifically, Fire Island of the past.

I was aware of Fire Island being a popular vacation destination for gay New Yorkers as far back as my freshman year of high school, well before I ever came out. I’m not sure how I knew this. My best guess is it was referenced in some sleazy bestseller I read, or possibly it was mentioned in one of the two books by Fran Lebowitz that I read. Regardless, the reputation of this island off Long Island’s south shore was great enough that it even reached me, a teenager in Mississippi (or maybe I was still in California; my family moved around a lot).

Michael Fisher’s 2018 documentary CHERRY GROVE STORIES provides a good overview of life on Fire Island’s gay beach. Using home movies, archival news footage and interviews with frequent vacationers and longtime residents, Fisher not only provides the audience with an informal history of Cherry Grove, but of gay life as well.

“We arrived at the dock and I looked down and I saw all of these beautiful men in high heels and Speedos, and I thought I had died and gone to heaven,” says one of the interviewees. Another describes the island as a “gay Shangri La.” Some of the people interviewed remember vacationing on the island as far back as the late 1940s, when the houses didn’t have running water and were lit by kerosene lanterns (the island didn’t get electricity until 1960s; “I can’t imagine putting on a drag show with a generator,” quips one of the interview subjects).

Photos from the documentary Cherry Grove Stories.

The documentary never delves into exactly when or why Cherry Grove became a gay destination. Even interviewees who vacationed on the island as children with their families only refer to Cherry Grove as this wonderful oasis that was just there for discovery. “I knew it was a queer community,” says one. Another says he learned of Cherry Grove in high school when he saw a picture of two guys holding hands on its beach.

Cherry Grove draws a gay crowd but not
a diverse one. This is one of the few people of
color shown in Cherry Grove Stories.

As one would expect, especially in the decades pre-dating AIDS, sex was very easy to come by in Cherry Grove, especially for the men. “Coming out here with a boyfriend was like going to a whorehouse with your wife,” says an interviewee who first came to the island in 1957. (By the way, interview subjects not being named isn’t laziness on my part; it’s because Fisher doesn’t identify any of them onscreen.) I remember being aware of the island’s cruising grounds—the Meat Rack, a.k.a. the Rack—shortly after learning about the island’s existence, before I even knew what cruising meant. There is a rumored spot for lesbians, a so-called Donut Rack, but no one interviewed believed it existed. “There were maybe 24 lesbians when we were there,” says one woman. There are even fewer people of color. One of the men interviewed is of Asian descent, and there are a couple Black men shown in the home movies, but otherwise Cherry Grove is an all-white community, a fact I wish Fisher had touched on.

Once Cherry Grove Stories got on the subject of the Meat Rack I thought the documentary would devolve into a litany of people recounting how they did rails of cocaine and sucked a mile of cocks, but more is made about how the Rack was targeted by police. One bartender even kept a reserve of cash on hand to bail out anyone unfortunate to be caught in a police raid. Of course, by the time a man was bailed out of jail the damage had been done as the man’s name, address and telephone number (holy shit!) would have already been published in the newspaper.

Cherry Grove still retains its status as a prime “gaycation” spot today, though it’s changed considerably. AIDS, understandably, hit the island hard. “We invited some straight relatives out here,” recounts an interviewee, “and they came home thinking it was sort of a leper’s colony.” Yet the AIDS crisis led to an even greater sense of community on the island. It also changed the Meat Rack, which is still there but not the “free-for-all” it once was, a fact not only attributed to AIDS, but the Internet as well. “With all the gay apps, no one needs to go out and see each other anymore,” remarks one of the younger men interviewed.

These changes aren’t necessarily seen as being for the better, with several people remarking that for all the freedoms gained by the LGBTQ community over the past two decades, the island has become less free, with the police more vigilant about ticketing people for public nudity and loitering. Says an island old timer: “We’re going right back to the way things were 50 years ago.” Yet the affection Fisher’s subjects have for the island remains as strong today as when they first got off the ferry. As one puts it: “If I could never return to Cherry Grove, then I would die.”

‘The Biggest Camp of the Season’

The 1970 movie STICKS AND STONES also provides a snapshot of life in Cherry Grove, albeit a fictional one. The central characters in this ensemble piece are Buddy (J. Will Deane, a.k.a. Jesse Deane), a playwright who’s retreated to the island with his young “English” boyfriend, Peter (Craig Dudley) to drink away the memories of his failed play. He also might be cheating on Peter, but then, as we get to know Peter, who can blame him? Peter is a whining nag who’s got a stick so firmly planted in his ass that he likely can’t bottom anymore. Dudley’s attempt at an English accent, which lands somewhere between Joan Fontaine in Rebecca and Baltimore, doesn’t help Peter’s cause. Conversely, though Buddy’s a cad, Deane’s talent for dry sarcasm makes him a more enjoyable screen presence.

“George is dressed differently
than we are.”

It’s clear within minutes of being introduced to Buddy and Peter that the couple has no future and needs to break up pronto. But since there would be no movie if they did, the couple goes ahead with their planned Fourth of July party, the “biggest camp of the season.” On the guest list are George, a middle-aged leather queen who’s bought a new leather vest for the occasion (“George is dressed differently than we are,” warns a mutual friend); Bobby, a newly out man making his “virgin trip” to the island (“I wish you’d call it something else”); Jimmy, a dizzy queen with a mop of blonde hair who, along with his mustachioed friend, makes homosexuality appear classifiable as a mental disability (watching these two attempt to change a flat tire is like the set-up to a homophobic joke); the Lavender Guru, a cute caftan-wearing hippie who only shuts up when he’s got a dick in his mouth (sample dialog: “I’m not sure some days whether the world that I live in is a world I created, psychologically, or whether it’s a world everyone else has created”); and June (adult film actress Kim Pope), the femme to butch Lou, though she’s about as staunch a lesbian as Anne Heche.

Before the party George gives Bobby a brief tour of Cherry Grove, noting that every house has a name, like Lust and Found and Olay, a house which was actually referenced in Cherry Grove Stories. Bobby is overwhelmed by it all, but mostly he’s just creeped out by George. They are joined by Jimmy and his friend, whereupon Jimmy, claws extended, starts making bitchy jokes at George’s expense (“You’ll never live to be as old as you look, dahling”). I got the idea the two may have had a fling that turned sour, though that’s strictly conjecture on my part (this movie isn’t big on backstory). What I couldn’t excuse was Bobby acting like Jimmy was rescuing him from a serial killer’s basement, his only reason for not liking George, who had been perfectly nice if a tad flirtatious, was Bobby found his being into leather weird. Well, fuck you, Bobby!

Peter (left) has the better body but Buddy has the better line delivery—
and the bigger bulge.

Meanwhile, back at Buddy and Peter’s house, the Lavender Guru goes on and on (and on) about some existential bullshit for the benefit of his handsome acolyte Gary, a sequence that would’ve been unwatchable had it not been intercut with the two having some spirited softcore sex. As for Buddy and Peter, they’re walking around the island in their Speedos, first to greet their guests at the dock, then to buy supplies for the party, though they’re never shown shopping for any. Of course, Peter has a lot to say, making it clear why Buddy always has a drink in hand. A favorite exchange during this banana hammock walkabout: Peter whines that Buddy just doesn’t understand the social pressures he’s under, to which Buddy, after waiting a beat, deadpans: “I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”

Kim Pope is sick of the Lavender Guru’s shit.

The party itself is a bit underwhelming. A dark-haired hunk in flowered pants sings and strums a guitar, and later deflects a pass from Buddy. Outside on the deck the Lavender Guru lectures a group too polite to flee (Kim Pope’s expression during this scene is priceless). George is wearing a pair of fishnet bell bottoms, commando, but he's upstaged by another leather queen, Fernando, showing off his Prince Albert. Jimmy sings a show tune, then tries to get Peter, sulking in the bedroom, to return to the party, a good deed that is sufficiently punished. “You’re nothing but a goddamned queen!” Peter screams (can’t say I disagree). Peter quickly begs forgiveness, then tells Jimmy about killing his pet dog when he lived in London (“I loved that dog”). Back in the living room, June dances nude with Fernando because why hire Kim Pope if she’s not going to get naked? Buddy, not to be outdone, then strips so his guests can appreciate his skinny, leathery body and, I must say, decent-sized cock. The fireworks for this Fourth of July bash don’t go off until after the party, however, when the hosts fight, possibly to the end of their relationship.

Sticks and Stones was written by Tom O’Keefe, but its loose structure and the rambling nature of the dialog suggests much of the movie was improvised. If that’s the case, director Stan Lopresto did a commendable job of getting something approximating The Boys in the Band Go to the Beach, which is to say Sticks and Stones, while not a good movie, isn’t the total piece of shit it could have been. The characters are all types—the leather queen, the swish, the nervous Nelly—rather than fully formed people, and the acting is strictly amateur hour (Pope and Deane, who also appeared in a couple hardcore films, deliver the best performances). On the plus side, the movie is leagues above the crap Jeff London cranks out. The gratuitous nudity, some of which is quite nice, also helped.

‘I Should’ve Known I was in the Wrong Place’

The last movie on our tour of Fire Island is nothing but gratuitous nudity, though I guess the nudity isn’t exactly gratuitous when said movie is a porno, namely director Jack Deveau’s 1978 film DUNE BUDDIES. Bet you thought I was going to write about Wakefield Poole’s Boys in the Sand, didn’t you? I’ll get to Wakefield, but not today. Besides, Dune Buddies has something that makes it just as noteworthy in the annals (yes, with two n’s; just because it’s a porn movie doesn’t mean our minds have to stay in the gutter) of gay porn: a connection to Brian DePalma’s Scarface.

Dune Buddies’ main character is a guy named Paul Hazzard (Malo), a dramatic arts professor who’s wanting to escape New York because he can’t walk three feet in the city without tripping over a hot guy begging for Paul’s hot beef injection. (“It got so crazy, in fact, that I stopped enjoying it.”) So, yeah, our hearts bleed for him. Anyway, to get away from all those beckoning dicks in the city, he heads to Fire Island. If you think that’s a stupid vacation destination for a man seeking solitude, Paul agrees with you, but his real estate pal Ed got him a good deal on a rental in the Pines so, what’re you gonna do?

Paul’s plans for a quiet vacation-for-one are dashed the moment he enters the bedroom of his rented beach house and finds one of his students, Dennis (Larry Page), passed out and pants-less on the bed. When Dennis comes-to, he explains Paul’s secretary revealed his itinerary when Dennis bribed her with three Quaaludes (this movie is very 1978). Paul quickly forgives his student (you would, too, if you saw Page’s ass), but they’ve barely gotten into foreplay when Paul’s friend Gordon (Hugh Allen) cock blocks him with a phone call. I wouldn’t have answered, personally, but Paul does, learning that Gordon’s at the ferry landing, waiting for him. (“If you meet me at the dock in the Grove in 45 minutes, I’ll let you buy me a drink at the Monster.”)

Maybe it’s just me, but Larry Page looks a lot like a young Thomas Haden Church.
(No, I’m not suggesting THC has a secret.)

And so begins what is supposed to be a comedy of errors. Paul heads out for Cherry Grove, leaving Dennis to juggle tennis balls and jack off in an outdoor shower. But Gordon, who’s a bit of an asshole, gets cruised by hunky John (Will Seagers, billed as Matt Harper here) and decides he’d rather ride in John’s boat—and on John’s cock—than wait for Paul. Paul, annoyed at having missed Gordon, heads back home, only to be intercepted by his real estate friend Ed (Gary Hunt), who needs a voyeur if the two cute young exhibitionists back at his house (Pepe Brazil and D. Paolo Gorsky) are to perform. No, seriously. Paul’s resistant, but Ed pours liquor down his throat until he agrees to stay. Despite being recruited to watch and having downed three glasses of vodka, Paul is an active participant in the scene, at least for a while. By nightfall he’s stumbling over the dunes and into the camp of another one of those hot, horny men Paul’s always running into. The camper is Ed Wiley (billed as Myles Longue), though given the scene’s minimal lighting and iffy focus it could be Tom Selleck for all we know.

Gordon (Hugh Allen) spreads for Will Seagers.

Meanwhile, Gordon finds his way to Paul’s pad. Dennis isn’t too enamored by Paul’s new guest, however: “After giving it some thought, I’ve come to the conclusion that you, Gordon, are an inconsiderate fuck.” Gordon counters with, yeah, but you know we’re going to make it anyway. And this argument works, because of course it does. But Gordon is just something to keep him occupied until the movie’s (mild) surprise ending.

Dune Buddies doesn’t come close to matching Boys in the Sand’s artsy erotica, but it’s very close to matching the Fire Island of my fantasies, including the royalty-free disco. And unlike the previous gay porn film I reviewed, almost all the men of the cast have a sexiness that stands the test of time, provided you have a high tolerance for ’70s hairstyles—and really, by now you should because, honey, we all have ’70s hair at this point. I just wish some scenes were better lit. The scene between Malo and Wiley is like watching two shadow puppets fucking.

About that Scarface connection: Dune Buddies’ star, Malo, later found some mainstream success as Arnaldo Santana, appearing in two Al Pacino movies, Cruising and Scarface. He also had a small part in the 1983 TV movie Rage of Angels and was a regular cast member in the failed Norman Lear sitcom a.k.a. Pablo. Amusingly, the trivia section on Santana’s IMDb page states that it was the actor’s weight gain—hey, maintaining that Dune Buddies physique had to be exhausting—that prevented him from landing bigger roles, not his gay porn past. Santana passed away in 1987 at age 37. No cause of death was given, and I found nothing online to confirm my suspicions, so I won’t speculate here.

From Dune Buddies to Scarface, from Malo to Arnaldo Santana.

An actor’s death is a sad conclusion to a blog post, but, then again, who isn’t at least a little sad at the end of a vacation, even a vicarious one? Especially when we know we have to return to 2020. <sigh>