Legends and Lipstick: My Scandalous Stories of Hollywood's Golden Era Read online

  By the time the game was over I was completely fascinated by Griff’s outrageous exploits and was delighted that I had won the honor of taking him out to dinner. I wanted to know more about him and he complied, keeping me in stitches all the way to Ben Franks and throughout dinner. By the time we arrived back at my apartment, we both felt as if we’d known one another always. It was the beginning of a friendship that endured decades. (We did try, once, to see if there could be something more – but neither of us could stop laughing!)

  lust

  As Griff was temporarily between moves, I put him up on my sofa for the next few days and together we made the rounds of the studios, looking for work. Griff heard of a beauty contest and told me I should enter; the first prize was six weeks’ work in a feature movie. We went together, Griff for moral support, and I found myself parading around and around in a big circle on the dusty backlot in 115 degree heat while producer Albert Zugsmith sat in a tall director’s chair, shaded by a large umbrella, chewing on a disgusting, fat stogie and ogling the girls. The gimmick was that the press would be the judges and decide which girl was the fairest of them all and she would be given the role of Lust, the devil’s playmate in Zugsmith’s The Private Lives of Adam And Eve.

  Hollywood columnist James Bacon (no relation, although as we became pals over the years, he used to boast to people that I was his illegitimate daughter) picked me at once and marked his ballot in my favor, and by the time the circle had dwindled down to a precious few, I found myself cast as Lust in the worst bomb I was ever to witness!

  Martin Milner and Mamie Van Doren starred as Adam and Eve, frolicking in a papier-mâché Garden of Eden on Universal’s sweltering backlot. Mickey Rooney was the Devil, stalking about in red long johns (with an actual drop-seat in the back) and black rubber horns and pitchfork, his galley of slaves made up of a dozen scantily clad starlets. The first time I saw him, I was shocked by his diminutive stature and remember thinking, Jeez, he’s so short he must have stood on a chair to reach puberty! But he was a real, honest-to-God movie star and I was duly impressed.

  The plot of the film was confused and the dialogue was corny, consisting of dirty jokes told in leeringly bad taste. It was also one of the first movie roles for Tuesday Weld and Paul Anka (way before his nose job) although their parts were almost walk-ons; they were involved in a bus accident in the first ten minutes, went into a coma and never made it into Paradise, but surfaced again at the end of the picture mumbling something about having had a nightmare. I think everyone on the picture felt as if the ‘d been in the same nightmare by the end of the shooting on that turkey.

  Back then, of course, I was floating ten feet off the ground. This was it. My big break. I just knew a talent scout from MGM or Warner Bros. would see me and immediately sign me to a seven-year contract and make me a STAR! I showed up for work every morning at the ungodly hour of four-thirty in the morning to be in makeup (they tried to get in as much early morning shooting as possible before the temperature climbed to 100 degrees or more in the San Fernando Valley).

  Adding to the heat was the fact that as Lust I spent all my time in Hell, a semi-circle of papier-mâché cliffs painted red to look like flames, or sometimes in the top of a tree, trying to balance myself on a rather shaky wooden platform while the Devil and I peered down on Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. We were supposed to give the illusion of hovering in space, the Devil being magical and all, but it ended up being one of the funniest scenes in the movie. Half the time the audience could see the wooden platform sticking out between the sparse bits of foliage the set decorator had glued on it, or the microphone would dip down too low and be in the shot—it was really hilarious.

  Albert Zugsmith, not known for his good taste, was one of those producers who turned out a dozen quickie movies a year, the kind they used to show as the second feature in a drive-in movie. He stocked them with gorgeous, stacked, young girls, dressing them in sexy, scanty attire and parading them through almost every scene for no apparent reason. He always had a stable of beautiful, eager young women, willing to do almost anything to become a star. After my stint as Lust, I became one of Zugsmith’s girls with miraculous ease and was cast in the next dozen or so films with such speed my head spun. I shouldn’t have been surprised—after all, I had all the requirements—I was beautiful, star-struck and ignorant as a rock.

  Being in Zugsmith’s movies also meant being at his parties, of which there were plenty. He loved to entertain and had a lovely, palatial mansion high above the valley, huge and sprawling with manicured lawns and fabulous gardens and an enormous pool which he encouraged all the starlets to use… please. I almost fainted when I saw Zsa Zsa Gabor and other big stars waiting in line with me as we helped ourselves to Ann Zugsmith’s sumptuous buffet and I was positive, now, that this was it. I had arrived. Wasn’t I rubbing elbows with this glittering collection of Hollywood jewels? And wasn’t I just as glittering in my hot red, skin tight, plunging-necked gown (trying to give Mamie a little competition!) and my spike-heeled, backless shoes? I was definitely the next sex pot of the silver screen. Well, sort of. My next role was in a goofy romp called Sex Kittens Go To College.

  swashbuckler

  I miss the heroes of old, the swashbucklers and gallant young men who overcame every obstacle in their path (and there were always outrageous adversities) to reach an inspired goal. They were filled with valor and always chivalrous to the end, dapper and poised even in a sword duel.

  I fell in love with Errol Flynn when I was a mere slip of a girl back home on the farm and sneaking off to the movies whenever I could. I would sit in that darkened theater, gazing up at the screen where Errol Flynn flashed his pearly smile and leaped nimbly twenty feet to the deck of a pirate’s ship (or the ballroom of a decaying Southern mansion or the stone stairway of a French palace or the foggy moors of a gloomy castle somewhere in England, it made no difference; I was enthralled). Needless to say, never in those adolescent early fifties did I think I would one day be held passionately by those same arms or kissed by those sexy and mocking lips.

  When I was under contract to Universal-International and would occasionally see Errol strolling along one of the wide streets. When we passed one another, he would give me a lingering glance that turned my knees to butter. I discovered he could be found almost nightly at The Garden of Allah (a famous nightclub-hotel) and talked Griff into escorting me there one evening.

  We sat at a small table near the glass doors that led outside to the swimming pool, sipping cocktails and watching all the beautiful people. The dance floor was crowded, the atmosphere romantically Polynesian. Griff and I got up to dance and in the dimly lit room I saw Errol Flynn swaying slowly not two feet away. My heart started beating faster and I hissed, ‘Griff! It’s Errol Flynn! Do something!’

  ‘Like what—trip him?’ growled the Bear, glancing idly in Errol’s direction.

  ‘I’ve got to meet him,’ I whispered into Griff’s ear. ‘Think of something.’

  ‘All you have to do,’ replied the Bear, barely concealing his boredom, ‘is wait until the dance floor is empty, then get up and walk across the room to the john.’

  I knew what he meant. I was wearing a new red strapless gown, skintight, that showed off every ample curve. All Errol had to do was get one look and he’d want to be in like Flynn! As if on cue the music ended and everyone went back to their tables. I waited a couple of beats, stood up, wet my lips, smoothed my red gown over my hips and slowly and sexily undulated across the empty dance floor and into the ladies’ room.

  When I stepped out a few moments later, Errol was leaning casually against the bar, drink in hand, that devilish smile upon his mouth as he watched my entrance. As I came abreast of him he bowed low, presented me with a tall, crimson drink, and murmured, ‘Would you care for a Singapore Sling, m’lady?’

  It was just like in the movies and I felt like Lady Wellington. However, my ability to speak chose that moment to abandon me and I just stared, blushing fu
riously. My affliction seemed only to amuse (and enchant) him and he chuckled softly and took my arm, drawing me close. ‘Here, little one,’ he said. ‘Drink this—it’ll make you feel better, and it matches your smashing red gown.’ He placed the frosty glass in my hand and gently guided it to my mouth. ‘Have you ever had a Singapore Sling before?’ he inquired politely as I swallowed and tried to shake my head at the same time. I downed half the drink at once and tears sprang to my eyes. ‘Not so fast, pretty, not so fast. These things have the kick of a mule.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I finally stammered and wiped the tears from my eyes. He leaned in close and gazed down into my face and I felt like I was flying. It felt like invisible arms had lifted me and now held me aloft, somewhere in limbo, enabling me to witness the scene below.

  The moon was a perfect globe, as yellow as daffodils, with just the right amount of stars scattered about. The bar was lighted with muted red clusters of grapes, the Polynesian decor so warmly romantic that I imagined myself to be on a Tahiti beach. And there beside me, holding my hand tenderly and smiling down at me as he charmed me with his cultured tones, was Don Juan, Captain Blood, the Earl of Essex, Don Quixote, Sir Walter Raleigh, Robin Hood—all rolled into one. Is it any wonder that I had difficulty breathing?

  I forgot completely about Griff, so I was startled when he tapped me on the shoulder and said, ‘You seem to be in good hands so I think I’ll split.’

  ‘This is my brother, Griff,’ I said quickly, not wanting Errol to think I had a date. I saw the amusement in his eyes and felt like a real dummy, but he played along and offered to buy Griff a drink. I was kicking Griff in the shin and prodding him in the back until he got the message and declined. (Some years later Griff and Errol became close friends and Griff nicknamed him ‘Doc.’)

  The rest of that evening has gone down in my memory book as one of the most romantic nights of my life. Errol and I sat at a small, round table, holding hands, gazing into one another’s eyes, our knees pressed close together, the passion building like a head of steam in a pressure cooker. The music was soft, painfully lovely, sounding of yearning and desire but with an undercurrent of raw native sexuality. I didn’t need any more Singapore Slings to know that I was a goner. He traced a finger across the tops of my breasts (which were heaving above the low-cut gown) and said teasingly, ‘You seem to have trouble breathing, princess, shall we get out of this smoky bar and into some fresh air?’

  ‘Yes, it’s awfully warm,’ I panted, shoving away from the table and taking his hand. He led me outside and we stood looking at the moon for a moment. Then his arms went around me, pulling me so close I gasped and my toes barely touched the sidewalk as he crushed his lips down hard on mine. I thought I would drown before he stopped kissing me and led me to a cottage in the back. He made drinks and we sat on the sofa together. Before I had even tasted my drink his arms went tight around me and he was kissing me again in that breathless way he had. His hands were at the top of my gown and before I knew it, my breasts were in his hands and my dress was crumpled about my waist.

  ‘God, what delightful tits you have,’ he murmured and proceeded to bury his face in their softness. I could feel my nipples grow hard and hot from his touch and my face was flaming and my hair grew sticky and damp on my forehead. With one hand, he tore my gown away. I heard the fabric rip but it was a faraway sound and then his naked body was on me and his burned and sang against mine. He whispered the most outrageous things to me as his hands moved urgently across my body, grasping my buttocks and holding me up to meet his swift thrust. I know I cried out, but his mouth soon cut off any more sound except the soft moans that now emitted from my parched throat.

  It was over in five minutes, but I felt like I had been glued to him for two days. I lay back against the cushions, eyes closed, too embarrassed to look at him, and he leaned over me and gently kissed my eyelids. ‘You are a rare gem, little one,’ he whispered. ‘A real find...’ I felt the couch give with his weight as he got to his feet and I lay there wondering if I should get dressed and sneak out before he got back.

  Quite frankly, I was a bit of a novice at this love game and did not know what was expected of me.

  ‘Come to Papa,’ Errol said softly and I opened my eyes to see him sitting next to me, a wet washcloth in his hands. He tenderly washed my breasts and belly and thighs complimenting me on each one as he did so. Then he tossed the cloth onto the floor and handed me my drink, settling in close and putting an arm about my shoulders. ‘Look at that moon,’ he said, taking a drink and then gesturing with his glass. ‘Reminds me of the moon in Jamaica.’ He laughed softly, huskily. ‘But then, I suppose it is the same moon, heh, little one?’

  I shook my head ‘yes’ and took a long pull of my drink. I felt completely dehydrated, drained. He placed a cigarette against my lips and I took a drag, then I sighed and let my head fall against his shoulder. His voice was so wonderful as he spun stories of his flamboyant and often hilarious life. I was completely captivated by his earthy good humor and his lust for living. He had lived it to the hilt, to be sure. Many people thought that Errol had become a tragic figure in his later years, but this was not exactly true. He had merely become tired. He had had all the fun he could stand. He had done everything he had always wanted to do and then some; he had paid his dues, therefore, whatever way he chose to live out his remaining years was his choice alone. I admire him for that. He answered to no one.

  He spoke softly and kissed me even softer, his lips barely brushing my skin as he grazed my eyelids, mouth, breasts, thighs. He took my drink from my hand and pressed me back against the cushions, whispering, ‘Now that I’ve had a taste of you I will show you the true joy of lovemaking.’ He seemed unhurried, floating, fully enjoying each moan of ecstasy that I emitted. His lips lingered on mine, driving me into a fine fit of insanity until I clung to him and begged him to make love to me.

  ‘Not so fast, little one,’ he chuckled. ‘Good love takes time.’’ And he held my breasts in his hands, kissing them before he moved down between my thighs. His tongue was magic. I writhed against him, not completely understanding why this new form of sex should feel so damn good. I mean, I had heard all my life that it was ‘dirty’ and ‘perverted’ to let someone kiss you there. But Errol made it seem like a special favor.

  By the time we finally lay side by side, almost an hour and a half later, my body was soaked with perspiration and I was completely exhausted from the multitude of orgasms. If this was what it was all about then I certainly intended to do a lot more of it! That was the first time in my young life that I knew the difference between making love and just fucking. Errol taught me well about romance, love, atmosphere, the beauty of the act itself. He was a superb master. I, a most willing pupil.

  I awoke at dawn with the first hangover I’d ever experienced. I thought I would die. I’d always enjoyed perfect health so this incredible pain was shocking. It felt like someone was pounding me over the head with a sledge hammer and I couldn’t stop barfing—even after the last red vestige of Singapore Slings had swirled away down the toilet, I was still racked with dry heaves. I crawled into bed and huddled under the covers, shaking and sweating, ignoring the telephone when it rang and rang. I made a pact with God: If you let me live, I’ll never drink Singapore Slings again. I should have said booze of any kind but I was young and thought I had the soldier of fortune.

  I remember one very funny scene that happened a couple of months after Errol and I met. We were in bed, making love, when suddenly we smelled smoke. Rolling over we discovered that a carelessly discarded cigarette was burning a hole in the pillow. With one leg still wrapped around his waist, keeping him in place, I picked up a glass of champagne and casually poured it over the smoldering pillow. ‘Now,’ I murmured, ‘where were we?’

  ‘By Jove, I think you’ve got it!’ Errol crowed like Professor Higgins in My Fair Lady and laughed out loud. ‘That’s the perfect attitude, my little beauty, never let anything come before romance. There’s
so little love in the world we must give what we can...’ Then he proceeded to prove his point.

  I miss Errol. I miss all the old friends and lovers who taught me so much about life and living. It wasn’t all sex with Errol; he was a very wise man in many ways. He had traveled extensively, knew many languages, had had firsthand experiences with the natives of many countries-as well as with the ladies of many countries—and people from all walks of life. It is said of Errol that he was the most-fucked man in the world. Everywhere he went, movie actresses, waitresses, princesses, wealthy widows, teenyboppers, airline stewardesses, wives of powerful men threw themselves at him like bitch cats in heat. They were his for the taking, all of them, and, being the courtly gentleman that he was, he rarely had the bad manners to say, ‘No, thank you.’

  In his early life, before Hollywood beckoned, he had had numerous experiences abroad; a true soldier of fortune and one of the real expatriates of our time. He was born in Tasmania so he came by it naturally, I suppose. His pals were King Farouk, Prince Ranier, Orson Welles, Rita Hayworth, Ali Khan. He fought in small wars, like New Guinea, and had a bankful of experience to draw upon that would captivate and enthrall any listener.

  Being something of a reporter of Americans overseas, he had firsthand information about the expatriates that overflowed the European countries. It wasn’t all glamour and taxes that kept many Americans abroad, he told me. There were uglier reasons that our citizens lived overseas. One of them was that exiles liked to kill people. They called themselves mercenaries, or soldiers of fortune, and they lived in Madrid or Brussels, and from there they liked to fly to the wars, usually in Africa, and killed for the joy of it and, of course, the salaries that ran as high as a thousand dollars a month as long as the war lasts.

  Errol loved Europe and the islands, Tahiti, Haiti, Jamaica. He once said of Jamaica: ‘My dream of happiness: A quiet spot by the Jamaica seashore, looking out at the activity of the ocean, hearing the wind sob with the beauty and the tragedy of everything. Looking out over nine miles of ocean, hearing some happy laughter nearby; sitting under an almond tree, with the leaf spread over me like an umbrella, that is my dream of happiness.