by Erik Tarloff
So I wrote to Chance telling him that my dad refused to buy a plane ticket so I couldn’t go, but I really appreciated the offer, it was almost enough all by itself. And within a few days I got a letter from Chance urging me to come anyway, and inside the envelope along with the letter was a round-trip plane ticket. So Dad could grumble all he liked, and that man sure did love to grumble, but after that he didn’t really have any grounds for not letting me go. He wasn’t gracious about it, but after he and Mom argued in the kitchen, argued loudly, he gave in.
It was a momentous, eventful visit. The first thing that happened, after Chance picked me up at the airport and we drove to his apartment and we walked through the door, there, standing right there waiting to say hello, was…I mean, you could have knocked me over with a feather, I recognized Gil immediately! Chance had been writing about his roommate Gil, relating funny incidents about him—he sounded like quite a character—but I wasn’t sophisticated enough to look at credits when I went to movies or watched TV, so although I knew the names of big movie stars, that was about it. Feature players and character actors were outside my range. But the thing is, I had seen Gil in a couple of TV shows—I think a Perry Mason and maybe a Science Fiction Theater—and in one detective movie where he played one of the bad guys. Not the main bad guy, but one of his henchmen. He usually was cast as a bad guy, which is funny, because in real life he was such a nice guy. But this was almost unbelievable to me…Chance’s roommate was an actor I’d seen on the screen! I mean, what an introduction to Los Angeles! I was going to be staying in the same apartment as a real actor!
And of course Chance had been in Plains and Hills, so he wasn’t just my brother anymore—he was almost a star. Sometimes we’d go out and someone would come up and ask him for an autograph or tell him how great he was. It made him uncomfortable, but I thought it was great. And a couple of times, women would come up and hand him a slip of paper. I’m talking about really beautiful women, women who must have been actresses or models. And I’m guessing the pieces of paper had their phone numbers on them. I have no idea if he ever called any of them, but it certainly was eye opening to see that happen. My own brother! Wow, right?
Chance and Gil were wonderful hosts. I guess I expected that would be true of Chance. He was my brother, for one thing, and he had invited me, so I didn’t think he’d just abandon me once I arrived. But the surprise was Gil. He had this tough-guy exterior, and he seemed like a guy who didn’t have a lot of patience for anyone else’s bull, but he joined us in almost everything we did. And they were both super-patient about doing dumb tourist things that couldn’t have been too interesting for them. They took me to Grauman’s Chinese Theater and the Egyptian Theater, and to that Rexall on La Cienega that at the time was supposed to be the world’s biggest drugstore, and up to the Griffith Park Observatory, and we had a picnic in Ferndell. We went to the Brown Derby for dinner one night and walked down to Barney’s Beanery another night, we had chili at Chasen’s and burgers at the Hamlet. There weren’t as many tourist attractions in LA then as there are now, but they found ways to make every day an adventure. The La Brea Tar Pits, the Southwest Museum. Disneyland had recently opened, and they said it would be too crowded to be any fun, so we skipped that. But I was almost eighteen years old, so missing out on Disneyland was only a mild disappointment.
And the thing is…God, I’ve hardly ever mentioned this to anyone else, not even my husband—who I guess will find out about it when he reads your book, assuming he ever reads your book—but the thing is, a kind of…there was this…I mean, Gil and me, we started developing this…thing. An attraction. He was sort of the opposite of Chance as a type, even though they were about the same age and both babes. Where Chance was slight and light-complexioned and had a shy, almost recessive kind of personality, Gil was swarthy and muscular and macho, and he had this swagger about him, and he always seemed to have a couple of days’ growth of beard on his face and his voice was real deep. He was kind of a walking, talking representation of a certain way of being a guy. The Marlboro Man way, I guess you could call it. Chance was the kind of man women wanted to mother—he brought out that caring, nurturing impulse—but I can’t imagine anyone wanting to mother Gil. They’d want to be protected by him, or even, I don’t know, mastered by him. And I found him just amazingly hot, although that isn’t the word we would have used back then. We’d say…we’d probably just say sexy. He oozed manliness. It was almost like he used testosterone as cologne, you could smell it on him. And consider…the only males I’d been exposed to so far as possible romantic partners were the boys in my high school, with their gawkiness and their acne and their voices breaking and cracking. Gil was…it was night and day.
And maybe it’s just that I was young and ripe and reasonably cute and…and around, you know? Constantly present in the apartment all week. It’s not like I was some sort of va-va-voom girl. But for whatever reason, something was developing between Gil and me, and we all knew it. Me and him, we were always laughing together and whispering together, and in just a couple of days we’d already developed little private jokes, and…and, you know, we were acting the way people act when they’re hot for each other. And he was attentive, more than simple good manners required. Chance may even have felt a little excluded, although he was always part of the party when we went anywhere. But still, something was going on and he wasn’t in on it. I don’t know if it bothered him, and I don’t know whether the two guys ever talked about what was happening, or whether Gil asked Chance for permission, or whether it was just assumed that everything was okay or on the contrary it was assumed this was forbidden territory, but anyway…
It was a two-bedroom apartment, so I slept on a sofa in the living room. It was perfectly comfortable. They gave me sheets and a blanket—I didn’t really need the blanket, it was hot in LA in the summer, plus there was a heat wave that year so it was even hotter than normal—and I slept on that sofa and I never had any complaints. But then one night, my last night in LA, in the middle of the night, Gil tiptoed in. I was semi-sleeping, but I heard him creeping in. And immediately my heart started racing. And then he knelt beside the sofa and began kissing me. I guess the thought of me lying on the sofa just a few feet away must have been keeping him awake, maybe for all I know it kept him awake every night I was there, and it finally, with me scheduled to leave the next morning, it finally must’ve become too powerful to resist. So like I say, he started kissing me, and I could feel the rough stubble on his cheeks, and I don’t know if this makes any sense or not, but that part was incredibly erotic all by itself. Everything about him was bristly, hard, hairy. Incredibly exciting. Of course I kissed back. I’d been fantasizing about something like this happening for most of the time I’d been there, so it wasn’t like a shock or anything. I’m not saying I expected it—I didn’t—but I wasn’t shocked and I sure as heck wasn’t upset.
I was still a virgin. I’d messed around a little, engaged in what we quaintly used to call “heavy petting,” but I’d never…well, we used to say “gone all the way.” I’d never come close to going all the way. And when he realized I hadn’t, he asked if he should stop, which was considerate. I think at that stage of things a lot of men wouldn’t have bothered to ask. Wouldn’t have listened even if the girl tried to call a halt. But he did ask if he should stop, and I said no, I wanted it to happen, I was ready. And I have to say, he was very gentle. Surprisingly gentle, I’d say, given the way he presented himself as gruff and tough. He did take control, which as a matter of fact I appreciated, seeing as how I was a total novice, but he didn’t do it in a selfish or bullying way. It was clear he was behind the wheel, but it was also clear he knew how to drive, if you see what I mean. Really knew. It was years before I found somebody else who understood my body the way he did.
Afterward, sitting side-by-side on the couch, snuggling—it was too narrow for us to lie down on next to each other—he obviously started having second thoughts. Or at l
east started to feel a little anxious, started to feel that what-have-I-done feeling. Because he whispered, “Now listen, you have to understand, you live so far away, and I’m really too old for you, and—” As if I might think we were going steady or I might expect him to marry me or something. So I told him to stop worrying, I didn’t expect anything more from him, it was a great way to lose my virginity, as perfect a way as I could ever have imagined, he’d been wonderful, it was everything I’d hoped it would be, and finally getting around to having sex was way overdue for me, I’d been thinking about doing it for a long time, and even though I’d developed a little crush on him over the past few days I wasn’t so naïve as to think it meant anything. Quite a mouthful, but I got it all out in a rush. I didn’t want him to start regretting what had happened. And I mostly meant it.
He was obviously relieved to hear all that, although at the same time he was also enough of a gentleman to pretend his feelings were hurt. “You mean you were only after me for one thing?” he said.
“Yep,” I said, “that’s pretty much how it was.” Which at least got a chuckle out of him.
Then he told me he thought it was probably a good idea for him to go back to his own room. “For appearances,” he said.
I said, “So this is supposed to be a secret? Even from my brother?”
And he said, “I think that might be best.”
I don’t know for certain whether Chance ever figured out what had happened. The drive to the airport the next morning was peculiar, to say the least. We tried to act normal and probably didn’t exactly manage it. But comings and goings, hellos and goodbyes, are always awkward, so Chance might have just put it down to that.
For the next two or three weeks, I was afraid I might have gotten pregnant. I mean, no planning was involved, so we didn’t take any precautions or anything. That worried me for a little while, although I didn’t mention it to Gil. No reason to alarm him. And of course I wasn’t.
A shrink—the only other person I ever admitted this episode to—suggested the experience really represented my displaced incestuous feelings for Chance. And listen, I’ve learned enough in my life not to deny anything a shrink says whether you believe it or not, because they’ll only take denial as confirmation. I can’t deny I adored Chance, so maybe that feeling had an erotic component, who can say? All I can say is, it sure didn’t feel like that. It felt very specifically about Gil.
And either way, it was a great visit. Beyond my wildest expectations. From start to finish, but especially the finish. Which had the added benefit of proving all of my father’s misgivings were absolutely justified. My only regret was that I didn’t have the guts to tell him what had happened.
Hector Mennen (acquaintance)
Yeah, I got a lot of flak for my book. A lot. Some people called me a liar. In fact, a lot of people called me a liar. Not much I could do about that. I could have sued, but…well, I didn’t, for all sorts of reasons. One lawyer told me it would be a waste of time and money. Besides, let them call me a liar. I’ve been called worse. And other people did that whole tsk-tsk thing, how it might be true but you shouldn’t kiss and tell. How rude! But hell, the guy was dead, I thought people would want to know the truth. Just setting the record straight, not trying to create a scandal.
And anyhow, Chance was just one chapter. I’m not sure why that’s the one that got all the attention. I outed a number of Hollywood guys. Chance might have been the most famous, but some of the others were pretty well-known too. But I only outed dead ones. ’Course, the law says you can’t libel the dead, but that wasn’t my reason. Truth is, I was being discreet. I don’t know why I don’t get more credit for that. I didn’t want to hurt anybody or destroy anybody’s career.
What? Oh yeah, right, that’s true, those two were still alive when the book was published, you’re right. But they were already out. Someone else had already outed them, a couple of tactless bastards who didn’t care about what damage they were doing, so I wasn’t betraying any secrets; I was just telling what it was like to be with those guys. My book was a memoir, not an exposé.
Sure I needed money at the time. I’m not going to pretend they didn’t pay me for the book or that I wasn’t glad to get paid. But I didn’t have any reason to lie.
I met Chance at the House of Ivy, that bar on Cahuenga. It doesn’t exist anymore, but it was one of the go-to places back in the day. Chance used to show up there from time to time. Always hesitated at the entrance, looked around, made sure nobody was going to react to him or do some kind of big double take. But people were cool at the House of Ivy, there was a kind of unwritten law: you mind your own business and respect everyone’s privacy. People who went to the Ivy understood about staying on the down-low, especially where well-known people were concerned. And management policed people’s behavior—if you didn’t mind your manners, you might be asked to leave. That might be one of the reasons Chance went there instead of some of the more flamboyant gay bars in town. It was pretty low-key. You could relax. No one gawked or asked for autographs or any of that shit. And the cops mostly stayed away, and that was a pretty big deal, since the LAPD could be real bastards in those days. They liked to catch a big fish every once in a while. For the publicity. And to flex their muscle. Were they being paid off? Wouldn’t surprise me. The department was pretty dirty at the time. Everybody knew it.
I was there lots of nights, looking to hook up. I was young and crazy back then, always out for a good time, maybe make a little bread. One night Chance came in, and after a few minutes I could tell he was checking me out, ’cause he was a celebrity and so I was sort of keeping track of him out of the corner of my eye while pretending not to. And then, after a while, he came over and offered to buy me a drink, and one thing led to another. The way it does. And soon we were…well, I wouldn’t exactly say we were going together, he had his regular life and I wasn’t part of it, but we spent a lot of time in each other’s company.
Chance was majorly discreet and insisted I be discreet too. We rarely went anywhere in public, except occasionally to grab some lunch at Dolores’s or Tiny Naylor’s, some drive-in where we’d stay in the car and wouldn’t be too visible. He had a convertible in those days, but he kept the top up, at least he kept the top up when we were in the car together. He wasn’t as big a star as he was about to become, not at the time we started seeing each other, but he already was enough of a public face that he wanted to be careful.
And by the way—you might find this interesting—he was pretty inexperienced when we first got together. I don’t think I was necessarily his first, but probably one of his firsts. He came from some small town in the Midwest, didn’t really know the scene at all. So I was his guide, if you like. His Sherpa. Showed him around, introduced him around. I think he valued that. I write about all this in my book. Like the time I got him to try reefer for the first time. That was way before the hippies. Pot wasn’t part of the culture yet. It was like a big secret. So I had to talk him into it. He was scared the first time. And pot was the least of it. Bunch of other stuff too. He was usually scared the first time he tried anything. But he was usually game after a little prodding.
The thing is, we were pretty close for a while there. I’d even say intimate. We talked about our lives and about our hopes and dreams. It wasn’t just some greasy little hook-up. It was a real relationship. Maybe I even fell in love a little bit. I wish I could say the same for him, but it probably isn’t true. Oh, he liked me well enough, and I don’t deny he helped me out on a regular basis, a little bit here or there, but I’m not sure he was someone even capable of love. Too driven, too ambitious. He cared about acting and his career a lot more than he cared about people.
He ended things very abruptly. No warning, no nothing. One morning he just said, “Hector, this isn’t working for me anymore. It’s over.” No explanation. No regrets. No warmth, even. I tried to have a conversation with him, maybe to try to talk him out
of it or maybe just to understand what had happened. He wouldn’t engage. He was done with me.
Did he—?
Yeah, he gave me some money. Yeah. He wrote me a check. A pretty sizable one, actually. To keep me quiet? Oh, I don’t know…I don’t think that was it. I wasn’t threatening him or anything. I’m not a blackmailer. I don’t think he was afraid of me talking. He probably just felt some sort of obligation. And listen, the money was welcome. I was always kind of skint in those days—any help was appreciated. But frankly, I would have been happier with a hug.
Dennis O’Neill (detective, LAPD Vice Squad, Retired)
We had a list. We maintained a list, constantly updated, of all the fairies in Hollywood. And by Hollywood I don’t mean the district as such, I mean the industry, the people whose names you might know. It was partly for their protection, although that frankly wasn’t a big part, and partly because the studios were eager to keep tabs on the people working for them and stay apprised of potential problems, and we always had good relationships with the studios—they did favors for us and we did favors for them in return; favors that included keeping them informed, giving them a heads-up if something was brewing—and partly just because it was useful to know what was going on in our beat. But also…well, I don’t want to get into details, but the Department was a complicated place in those days, and not everything we did was 100 percent kosher, okay?
Anyway, you’re asking about Chance Hardwick, and as far as I know he was never on any list. Now if you ask me does that prove he wasn’t a fairy, I can’t be that definite. It’s proving a negative. The fact he wasn’t on the list doesn’t mean he wasn’t a fairy, all it means is that none of our sources ever suggested he was. But we had good sources and our list was mighty thorough, so if I had to guess, I’d say no.