At 86, Tab Hunter finally revealed the names of the men he loved in silence.

 

 

Tab Hunter, America’s golden boy, had the kind of face that could launch movie deals and melt hearts without saying a word.

Blonde, blue-eyed, and charming, he was the epitome of 1950s Hollywood stardom.

Magazine covers, movie posters, and red carpets—Tab was everywhere.

But behind all the glamour, Tab was hiding a truth that could have ended his entire career—a truth about who he really loved.

Because Tab Hunter was gay, and for most of his life, he was forced to keep his heart locked away.

Loving in silence, afraid that one wrong move could bring it all crashing down.

But before he passed away, Tab did something extraordinary—he told the truth, not for sympathy, not for attention, but to finally reclaim his own story.

In his later years, he revealed the five men who shaped his hidden love life.

Some were sweet, some were cruel, one helped him find peace, and one, well, let’s just say person number three is the one you absolutely can’t miss.

Their name, when you hear it, you’ll understand why Tab had to keep that relationship buried deeper than all the others.

It’s unexpected. It’s complicated, and it changed everything.

So, don’t skip ahead. Watch until the very end because these aren’t just love stories; they’re survival stories.

In a time when love could cost you everything, Tab Hunter paid the price again and again.

If you believe that everyone deserves to love freely, no matter who they are, hit like, subscribe, and turn on the bell.

This is the story Hollywood never wanted you to hear.

And trust me, the third chapter will blow you away.

They met in 1956.

Two young actors at the height of their beauty, both rising fast in a Hollywood that loved pretty faces but feared real emotions.

 

 

Anthony Perkins was Broadway’s golden boy—tall, intelligent, with a gaze that seemed to hide a thousand thoughts.

Tab Hunter, well, Tab was the sun.

Together, they were magnetic, but only behind closed doors.

They lived just a block apart in West Hollywood.

They’d sometimes run into each other at premieres, award shows, or staged publicity events.

In front of cameras, they barely exchanged a glance.

But when the flashbulbs stopped popping, they’d slip away separately, often meeting later in rooms where the curtains were always drawn.

Tab would later say it was one of the most powerful, honest loves of his life.

And yet, he was never allowed to hold Anthony’s hand in public.

Never allowed to laugh too loud near him.

Never allowed to simply exist beside him like any straight couple could.

They lived in fear—fear of the press, fear of their studios, and most of all, fear of being exposed.

And then, it happened.

One night, a photographer from Confidential magazine snapped a photo of them walking out of El Coyote, a small Mexican restaurant on Beverly Boulevard.

They weren’t holding hands. They weren’t even being affectionate, just a quick smile, a pat on the shoulder.

But in 1957, that was all it took.

That grainy black-and-white image turned into a national scandal.

The article came out weeks later with the headline, “Hollywood’s golden boy seen whispering in the dark.”

No names, but everyone knew.

Tab’s fan mail dropped overnight.

Theaters in the South took down his posters.

A group called We Deserve Moral Stars gathered thousands of signatures demanding Warner Brothers fire him if the rumors were true.

Tab’s manager, Henry Wilson, went into crisis mode.

He released a statement claiming Tab was seriously dating a female magazine editor.

He booked him to sing Young Love live on the Ed Sullivan Show, a desperate move to remind America that their dreamboat still loved women.

That night, millions watched Tab smile and sing about innocent romance while his own was falling apart behind the scenes.

Because that very night, during the live broadcast, a note was passed to Tab from a stage assistant.

It was from Anthony.

It read, “I can’t do this anymore. They’ll destroy both of us. No goodbye, no explanation, just that one sentence.”

And just like that, it was over.

Tab never saw Anthony in the same way again.

Not because he stopped loving him, but because the world made love feel like a crime, a risk, a liability.

Years later, Anthony Perkins would go on to play Norman Bates in Psycho, a role that made him immortal.

Tab would fade quietly into less visible projects.

Still handsome, still kind, but carrying a heartbreak that never fully healed.

In interviews, Tab never blamed Anthony.

He understood he too had lived in fear.

But once, just once, he said something that told you exactly how deep it went:

“I was praised as the embodiment of masculinity. But I was never allowed to be a man in love.”

Before the tabloids, before the scandals, before the fear ever had a name, there was Ronnie.

 

 

Ronnie Robertson wasn’t just a world-class figure skater.

He was grace in motion.

Young, elegant, dazzling on the ice.

He moved like he had nothing to hide.

And for a brief moment, Tab Hunter envied that freedom.

Because with Ronnie, for the first time, love felt playful, sweet, almost safe.

They met through a friend in the early 1950s.

Before Battlecry, before Confidential magazine, before the eyes of the nation followed Tab’s every step.

Ronnie had a laugh that cut through all the noise in Tab’s head.

They didn’t have to say too much, just soft touches, small glances, and quiet hours spent listening to records in dimly lit rooms far away from Hollywood.

They couldn’t call it dating.

Not in public, but behind closed doors, it was everything.

They wrote each other letters—dozens, pages filled with inside jokes, flirty code names, and notes about secret meeting spots.

“Tuesday at 3, same trail in an Nino.”

Tab would hide them under his mattress, reading them after long filming days like little prayers that someone somewhere saw him—not the image, but the man.

For a while, Ronnie was the escape, the pause button.

Tab didn’t have to be perfect. He just had to be real.

 

 

But in 1952, everything changed.

That fall, Tab was arrested during a late-night party in Walnut Park.

Caught up in a police raid that wasn’t about justice, but about exposure.

Though he was never charged with anything serious, the media frenzy exploded.

Reporters camped outside his apartment.

Former friends turned into sources, and silence, once a shield, became a trap.

One day, in the middle of it all, Tab received a package, no return address.

Inside were copies of the letters he had written Ronnie, highlighted, underlined.

Alongside them, a typed note: “I have more. Reuters and Confidential are both interested. I need $10,000, three days.”

It was from Ronnie.

Tab never said what hurt more—the betrayal or the fact that it was written so cleanly.

No apology. No trace of the boy who used to skate backward while laughing like a child.

Just a demand.

Tab paid.

Almost all of his remaining savings from an ad campaign deal went into that hush money.

No lawyers, no confrontation—just silence again.

Silence to survive.

He burned the rest of the letters that same night.

Every envelope, every memory, gone in a kitchen sink ashtray.

Watching the paper curl and blacken, Tab said later, was the only time he felt like he was erasing love with his own hands.

Years would pass, and Ronnie faded into the past.

One name among many that Hollywood buried, but Tab never forgot.

How could he?

 

 

Ronnie was the first man who made him feel free.

Tab Hunter’s story is one of love and loss, filled with powerful moments of courage, betrayal, and survival.

It’s a reminder that sometimes the greatest struggles are fought quietly, behind closed doors, hidden from the world’s eyes.

But in the end, Tab found peace—living his truth, out loud, for the world to finally hear.