Tab Hunter, Actor and '50s Hollywood Golden Boy, Dies at 86
Hunter, who starred in such films as 1955's "Battle Cry," 1956's "The Burning Hills" and the 1958 musical "Damn Yankees," also parlayed his onscreen success into music, scoring a Billboard hit with the 1956 single "Young Love."
The star later found a younger cult audience following a role in John Waters' 1981 film "Polyester" and Paul Bartel's 1985 film "Lust in the Dust."
In his 2005 memoir "Tab Hunter Confidential," he disclosed that he had remained a closeted gay man in Hollywood's golden age — with studio-approved relationships with female co-stars like Natalie Wood to cover for his actual affairs with men like "Psycho" star Anthony Perkins.
Hunter's memoir was adapted into an award-winning documentary in 2015.
His three-year affair with Perkins is also the subject of a newly announced film, "Tab & Tony," with star Zachary Quinto and producer J.J. Abrams.
The actor was in a relationship with producer Allan Glaser ("Lust in the Dust") for three decades.
"Tab passed away tonight three days shy of his 87th birthday," his Facebook page announed late Sunday night. "Please honor his memory by saying a prayer on his behalf. He would have liked that."
Sorry for the late response. I like Therapy and Industry in Hell’s Kitchen. Good crowd...lots of eye candy in their 20s and 30s. I always have a good time.
Sorry for the late response. I like Therapy and Industry in Hell’s Kitchen. Good crowd...lots of eye candy in their 20s and 30s. I always have a good time.
Watch her while I am only the treadmill. I think they give the people an intelligence test and if you fail, you get on the show. Amazed at the stupidity of people.
I messed around with a guy that I met off of an app about eight years ago, and fucked him a couple of times. We had great chemistry. One day after I moved out of the area, and was looking at some porn on-line, I saw that he was in porn and he began escorting. Thought it was hot...don’t think he was in the business that long though.
We did...they've become somewhat regulars now. We've gotten really comfortable with them. She loves watching him get fucked and he gets off on her getting off. Not sure I understand, but it works for them.
Ben was born in the hills of West Virginia where he roamed and survived on skills learned and honed, until he was brought into the throes of civilization, at about the time of his first birthday. Civilization, being what it is, placed him in a cage and handed down a death sentence to be performed within 10 days. Such is the fate of millions of domestic animals in the US each year. Ben, his captive name and the only one he would have, waited for the death knell. Given what I came to know of his nature, he likely lay peacefully in the back of the cage and stayed a fair distance from anyone who might have the notion to spare him from this fate. Despite this, a group came and took him from the cage and brought him to Castle of Dreams. Castle of Dreams is not a Castle and it is not something many would find dreamy, but they do offer "3 hots and a cot" or more accurately, 1 cold and a hold. And for several months, he ate the one cold and stayed in his hold and waited for something different, something better. At Castle of Dreams, each rescued animal gets a title long with with the captive name and so brown dog #73 as he was originally known, became Sir Ben, knighted by the sword of fate that smote the lock of his death row cell and brought him to this place. Reports are that he interacted well with other dogs, but his interactions with humans was guarded and skittish. He was hand shy and cowered at loud noises and loud voices, even if directed elsewhere. I hate to consider what manner of nature, beast or man could instill such fear into the what I came to know as a serene soul wrapped in long brown fur and with one of the coldest noses to ever wake a man from a sound sleep.
When I went to Castle of Dreams, it was to meet Princess Rose, a pretty lab mix puppy who caught my eye on a day I had the intestinal fortitude and the tissue supply necessary to go onto Petfinder. A phone call later and a marriage had been arranged. I was to meet the fair lady and whisk her off from her Castle to my Castle. The required two days passed and I arrived in my chariot to escort fair lady home. As fate would have it, another suitor suit her better and she was gone. However, Sir Ben was there, in the back of a cage which neighbored the cage that the Princess had vacated. He was offered as a sort of consolation prize and that is just what he was, a great prize of great consolation and just a bit unknowable.
In the 14 or so years we shared a home, Ben never got over his fear of loud noises, and a hand raised to get a glass or swat a fly might send him skittering off, sliding on the tile floors which were never his friend. He joined the two other dogs living with me and he apprenticed himself, or more accurately he became squire to Fred, a large black street dog, likely a Newfoundland/Lab mix, who like Ben, led a life out on his own and who eventually allowed himself to let down his guard enough to live with me in out home. Street royalty brought in to teach others what can be accomplished from humble beginnings.
Fred was old by this time and his time was short and so he quickly taught Ben the essentials. This is how we guard the perimeter. This is we mark our territory. This is our area for exercise and this is the area of hygienic purpose. Ben learned quickly. He slept with Fred, usually in a different room than I, while Rusty, the other dog sought solace in my bed and at my foot. They ate together, they played together. They huddled together in thunderstorms and then they said goodbye as I carried Fred out, an old soldier who had just no more life left.
Ben became the pater familias to the other dogs that came into my home, and three of them have been lying silently in canine grief, near his spot on the couch. Anyone who has ever witnessed the loss of a pack member from a pack of dogs knows the real grief these animals feel and I think if dogs could cry, my home would be flooded and washed out to sea in the torrent of canine tears that these three would be shedding. As it is, my tears will have to be the outward sign of their inner angst and sadness.
I will not go into great detail about Ben's life as a dog in my home. Suffice it to say, he was the most difficult of the pack to know. He would never take a treat first, even as four dogs looked up waiting to hear their name called, he would not take his first. If he name was called first, he would gently nuzzle away the offered treat until another name was called. After that, he was ready. It seemed he wanted to be sure that he was not being singled out for some special reward. That he wanted to be part of a team and that he would be assured that others were reaping rewards.
Friday night I returned from work. I am dogsitting a friend's dog and when I came in, Ben did not get off the couch. I opened the door and let the others our and I patted him on the head and moved on the change my clothing. I came out and he was lying by the front door. He preferred the front area, but I usually did not indulge him in this foray around the main entrance area. This day, I did and upon opening the door he did get up to look and smell and guard and dig and do all manner of his usual activities. He stood up and then sat and then laid down again. He did not seem to be in pain, but he seemed tired. I thought, too much instruction for the guest puppy had tuckered him out. Later, he walked a few steps and again seemingly without pain, stopped and then lay down. Working on the theory that this was just old age muscles, I escorted him to my bed, gave him a non steroidal medication and a treat and left him lying there. Later, he left the bed and in the middle of the night, I saw him sitting by his water bowl, by water bowl I mean the bathroom toilet bowl. Though there were always plenty of water bowls around, Ben loved cold water. In the winter, a water bowl outside would be assiduously licked to unleash its cold refreshing liquid and at other times, the cold toilet water was his beverage of choice. He could not be dissuaded from this. This fount of cold water was his fount of life. That fateful night, he stood and took a few laps of water and then lay down on the bathroom rug. I pet his head and went to bed and two hours later I awoke and walked to check on him. I found him lying peacefully at that same spot. I stroked his head, there was barely a motion of the tail and then a sigh and then no more. I took some of the cold toiler water and swathed his lips. My only hope is that last drink was really cold and really refreshing. That the cold water brought to his mind the cold streams of the mountains of West Virginia and a puppyhood that shaped the dog that shared my life. I hope those last drops quenched the fires of fear that had slowly faded over the years and that in that final pet on the head, he was able to fully accept that he was worthy of a special reward.
Thanks for sharing your life with me Ben. Last night I had a dream and this song played in it, and I think this was meant for you. I wont bore you all with the details of a golf game with donald trump which played a role in that same dream.
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