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

by Nancy Bacon

  The three of us broke up and I said, ‘Listen, Omar, if you want to smoke in here, follow me—I’ll show you where everyone goes.’

  We wound our way through the flesh-packed room, behind the poolroom bar, and outside to the roof. There, overlooking the parking lot, was a flat area that held a couple of chairs, a few wooden crates, etc., scattered about over the rooftop, and here everyone came to smoke grass during the long evenings they spent at The Factory. Omar was delighted with the set-up but still insisted that he was smoking ‘Turkish tobacco.’ (Sean Connery was another novice that I broke in on the roof; not so much smoking as necking! It was all good fun and the dapper Mr. Connery is an excellent kisser.)

  Another excellent kisser was Don Wilson, the founder of the rock group The Ventures – in fact, I married him! Don had seen me in some of those “nudie cutie” magazines before we met, but I had never heard Don’s music. I was more of a Sinatra gal. Regardless, I got to know it when I appeared on the cover of The Ventures’ album, Walk, Don’t Run Vol. 2.

  Don and I got married in Las Vegas on December 29, 1964, and I couldn’t have been happier. That is, until 1966, when we had a healthy daughter, Staci Layne (Don liked the name Staci, and I chose Layne after my friend from my modeling days). But I guess all good things must come to an end… Don and I were divorced in 1967.

  tommy smothers smothers me

  My next plunge into the party scene began with the end of my marriage. It was the evening of August 26, I967, and I was sitting in my Mercedes, waiting for a parking attendant to get to me. A tight throng of gawkers and star-gazers craned their necks and stared with awe at the thick stream of Rolls Royces, the cluster of shining Cadillacs, the softly purring Ferraris, Bentleys, and Maseratis. A gleaming Excalibur S.S. slid to a halt and a sleekly coiffed, expensively (but scantily) dressed starlet slithered out on the arm of an aging producer. Just another night at The Factory… or so I thought.

  I was swept along with the crowd and carried up one flight in a freight elevator that opened out onto the restaurant and dance floor. As my eyes grew accustomed to the dim I realized with a start that I recognized almost everyone there. Natalie Wood glimmered in gold stockings, gold lamé dress and gold dust as she chatted with her escort. Patty Duke swaggered by looking like some refugee from a long ago USO Club in her Bonnie & Clyde slacks. Hairdresser to the stars Jay Sebring sat hunched on the back of one of the black leather couches looking small and lost as he fondled his beads and half-listened to the lush young lady who pressed herself against him. Zsa Zsa Gabor swept past me into the poolroom leaving a fluttering trail of feathers behind her like a molting bird as she preened before admirers; diamonds flashed and sparkled at her throat, fingers, ears, and wrists, blinding those nearest her. She paused moment, gazed appraisingly at the teenyboppers in micromini skirts, and murmured, ‘I simply must shorten dresses, darling’—and the teenyboppers tugged at their skirts and wished they looked as elegant and sophisticated as Zsa Zsa.

  Joey Bishop ambled by wearing the same wrinkled pants and soiled orange sweater that he had worn for the past three months, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets and a personality stuffed deep into some impenetrable secret place. He went to the pool table and began shooting pool with Richard Dawson, and I stopped to watch. I was wearing a purple dress that consisted mostly of tiny straps and bare skin. I glanced up just as this tall blond guy rushed up to me, sank to his knees before me, and kissed me on the belly button! To my surprise (and delight) I saw that it was Tommy Smothers and everyone in the room was looking at chuckling at his wild antics. I took his hand and helped his feet.

  ‘You’re the most beautiful girl here. My name’s Tommy Smothers—who in the world are you?’ He took my arm and led me to the bar, where he continued to stare at me even as he ordered our drinks. He invited me to a taping of his show the following evening and I accepted.

  The rest of the evening Tommy and I were inseparable. We wandered through the huge, 13,000 square feet of private paradise, holding hands and gazing up, thirty feet, to be exact, at the steel-beamed ceiling, where row upon row of crystal chandeliers dripped their icy tear drops to the table-covered floor below. The blasting, blaring rock beat assaulted our senses, drowning out every word we spoke, so Tommy took my hand in a tighter grip and began elbowing his way across the floor that led to the poolroom in the back. It took us over an hour to reach it as we were stopped just about every three feet by friends or fans or just the surging mob. This was definitely the Pretty People’s Playground—Tommy dubbed it the Star’s Sandbox—and I saw more famous people there than I had seen at the Cannes Film Festival the year before.

  The rollicking party finally broke up about five in the morning, and after a breakfast of eggs Benedict and icy champagne, Tommy walked me to my car and we kissed goodnight. As I drove along the winding Mulholland Drive on my way to my own white mansion on the hill, I thought about the meeting with Tommy. He was the first guy I had met since my divorce that I had been interested in. I hoped he felt the same way.

  I didn’t see Tommy when I arrived at CBS. I was met by a stage manager or some such person and taken to a seat in the front row so that I might watch the show. When Tommy and Dick came on (to a cheering, foot-stamping ovation) his eyes searched the audience until he found me, and he smiled and threw me a kiss. The show was hilarious, as always, and when it was over I went backstage to meet Tommy. ‘Damn, you’re the most sultry looking girl I’ve ever seen,’ were his first words. (As our affair progressed, I learned that Tommy was always complimentary and flattering to his dates.)

  We went to his dressing room where, after a fast smoke and a cocktail, he showered and changed clothes. Then we were outside in the parking lot and he was helping me into his tiny sports car. He lit up again as soon as we were under way and we shared it as we drove to The Factory. We had a marvelous dinner followed by coffee and Cherry Heering between kisses. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said, and signed the check and steered me toward the door.

  I was fairly flying from all the booze and now a joint really had me turned on. Then, suddenly, Tommy said, ‘Oh, no—’ and I looked up and saw a red light in the rear-view mirror. Naturally I panicked and had to swallow the short roach. Tommy casually rolled down his window and got his smile in place for the big, burly cop who was swaggering up alongside. I was suddenly very conscious of the heavy odor of marijuana in the small, smoke-filled car and prayed that the cop wouldn’t recognize the aroma.

  ‘What’s your hurry, pal?’ the cop glowered, and leaned down, almost stooping, as he looked inside the car. He sniffed once, frowned—my heart stopped beating—then a broad grin split his craggy face and he shoved his cap back and boomed, ‘Well, well I’ve caught myself a celebrity!’ He smacked the hood of the car with an open palm and the whole car shook. ‘Tommy Smothers, ain’t’cha?’ He stuck his hand (which looked like a whole Virginia ham) inside the car and pumped vigorously at Tommy’s rather reluctant clasp. ‘I’ll be damned. Me and the wife watch you and your brother every week. Wouldn’t miss it’ He reared back on his heels and roared with laughter. ‘I sure do love the way you give them big shots in Washington a bad time. That was a real funny act you did on President Johnson a couple weeks back—never laughed so damn hard in my life.’ He laughed some more to show us what he meant, then took out a pad and pencil and shoved it through the window. ‘How about your autograph, pal? The wife’ll love it.’

  I could hear Tommy’s sigh of relief as he quickly scrawled his name. ‘Much obliged,’ said the officer, tucking the autograph into his uniform pocket. He turned to go. Tommy started his engine. ‘Say—just one thing more.’ We held our breath and he turned back and gave Tommy a wink. ‘Watch that speed, you hear?’ He walked a few steps, still grinning, and called over his shoulder, ‘And them funny cigarettes, too!’

  Both Tommy and I almost died. We sat stone still until the cop had driven away (with a merry wave) then we collapsed into one another’s arms, hysterical with laughter.
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  We went to my house and shot pool for a while and had a couple of drinks, but we seemed to be paying more attention to each other and less to the game. Finally he just threw down his pool stick, scooped me up into his arms and carried me to the bedroom. He kicked open the door—stopped, and stared. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he said.

  I had just recently had my bedroom redecorated and it was a sight to behold. It was done in emerald green velvet and white chiffon. A round bed, eight feet in diameter, was draped in emerald velvet and completely circled in white chiffon panels that were held back by green silk braid. By pulling a green velvet cord the panels fell together, completely enclosing the bed, which was built upon a platform and surrounded by a sea of ankle-deep white carpet. Antique veined mirrors, crystal chandeliers, a sunken marble tub, twenty-four caret gold faucets, velvet-flocked walls, and plush furnishings completed my private boudoir. He sat me down and walked about the room. ‘Is this for real?’ he said.

  I had to laugh. It did look like something out of the Arabian Nights. ‘When do the dancing girls come out with their veils?’ he asked as he pulled me down on the bed. I threw back the velvet spread and he whistled as he ran his hands over the heavy folds of the creamy white satin sheets. My pet ocelot chose that moment to leap upon the bed and fix Tommy with a level stare from her enormous yellow eyes. She flicked her tail at him, stretched a paw out, and gave him a token sneer. She looked like a young leopard lounging in the jungle, and I had to laugh at Tommy’s expression. ‘Who are you?’ He asked at length, then immediately pinned my arms to my sides and held me captive on the bed. ‘I’m afraid you’re going to disappear into a puff of smoke,’ he said, holding me closer. I felt my heartbeat quicken, and I pulled my arms free and put them around him and drew him nearer. I sneaked out a foot and gently prodded the cat off the bed—then turned my full attention to Tommy.

  Wow! He may have been the slow one on his television show but in bed he was something else. He really had a beautiful body. Lean, muscular, smooth as silk—and he’s a fantastic lover. We made love twice before we stopped to catch our breath, and I was hooked. Obviously he was, too, because that was the beginning of a very steady affair between us.

  Hollywood was changing in the middle sixties and I seemed to be in on the ground floor. It was a heady time. Movie stars had taken to openly hawking for causes and political candidates, and grass had replaced booze in most swinging homes. The drudgery of workday life in Hollywood, which is boring at best, is intolerable to most artists after a while without some release from tension. It used to be that many actors drank and often lurched through long shooting sessions, sometimes at the end of the day literally staggering from the effects of booze. The lucky ones became accustomed to working smashed, and it seldom showed. But the lesser tipplers usually began to show signs of the grog after just a few belts and very often had to be sent home early—a great expense in shooting time.

  Tommy and I were fast becoming what Hollywood calls ‘an item.’ We had a marvelous time together. Weekdays he stayed in town at a home he had in the Hollywood Hills, and on weekends he went to his apartment in Marina del Rey where he kept his sailboat. Mason Williams shared the Hollywood house, so Tommy usually stayed at my place during the week when he was rehearsing his show. It seems like I was always stoned, or at least high, during that time. Everyone was. It was like a replay of the twenties and Prohibition. The young, rich, famous set seemed determined to try every new drug as fast as it came out, even seeking a higher high. Perhaps it was the unpopular conflict in Vietnam and the confused state of our government that made everyone run as fast as they could toward a new kick.

  Mason Williams was one of the writers on the Smothers Brothers Show and he also shared a close friendship with Tommy. When I first met him he was a shy, cherub-faced, slightly wistful young man. Equally adept at song writing and poetry, he also had a fantastic flair for comedy. But no one had ever looked quite deep enough to see the genius just below the surface. No one, that is, until Tommy took him over and turned him on to the better things of life. He gave it to him in one fast lesson, including how to convince a girl that two guys in bed are better than one. And Mason was an apt pupil. He let his hair grow-much longer than Tommy’s. And when his pen moved across the paper now his words took wings and flew beyond the realm of fantasy into truth. But it was his truth and he didn’t want anyone else singing his truth. He cut a record. He appeared on television. (No more behind-the-scenes for him.) First on Tommy’s show, then others began calling and Mason was a star.

  I remember the night we all celebrated his first album. We were at the Hollywood house; Tommy and I had just returned from Marina del Rey, where we had spent the weekend on his boat, and we were dirty and tired. Mason fixed something to eat while Tommy and I showered and slipped into some robes, then we turned on the tube to watch Tommy’s show. We smoked, drank, and ate ourselves silly. I had some new grass that was dynamite and so, of course, I couldn’t wait to try it.

  Dynamite was too mild a word. The stuff was a grenade! We tottered upstairs to the balcony to watch the heavy rainfall streaking the windows: Deep thunder belched from the throat of the sky, and lightning cut the blackness in a jagged arc of brilliance. I flung open the glass door and stepped out into the rain. It pelted down, soaking me through in less than a minute, it seemed, but it felt incredible on my skin. I felt arms go around me and looked up to see Tommy stark naked—and he began to take my clothes off in what seemed to be slow motion.

  Mason was standing nearby and there descended over all of us a feeling of incredible closeness. I put my arms around both Tommy and Mason and we stood for a moment and let the rain fall upon our bodies. I don’t know who moved first, maybe we moved as one, but then we were inside and I dove for the bed and buried myself under the warm blankets. Mason threw me a towel and disappeared into the bathroom while Tommy tried to push me out of my warm burrow. We wrestled, giggling and making with the hip quips, higher than hell by this time. Tommy finally succeeded in pinning me to the mattress and then he kissed me and my body arched up to meet his, and the gaiety of a moment ago was quickly replaced with a surging passion like none I’d ever known.

  We made love on a cloud that night. Soft. Gentle. Passionate. Deep. I don’t know when Mason joined us, but in the soft gray room I saw his face close to mine and my arms were around him even as Tommy kissed me. Everything melded and interlayered and vacillated after that. It was a hazy, dreamy, unreal fantasy. A fantasy that quickly became reality.

  Now I knew what all those men meant when they said there was nothing greater than making it with two girls at once. If it made them feel like a king, then you can well imagine that I felt like a queen bee! (Ladies, don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it!)

  Summer was over and the thespians were returning to the studios for their fall shows. I was a bit at loose ends so I decided to go back to work. Besides, I had just about as much fun as I could stand!

  ‘bobby kennedy wants to meet you!’

  It was late fall of I967 and even though Tommy and I were still dating from time to time, the magic was fading into a bad color print that bled at the edges. I threw myself into my writing and began working on a novel that I hoped would make me as famous as Edna Ferber—or as infamous as a female Harold Robbins. I was also doing fan magazine articles and, naturally, I had to be out on the town just about every evening so that I could catch some unsuspecting star in the act of being a star, and then do a story.

  There was much unrest in Hollywood at that time. The new drug permissiveness and sexual promiscuity shattered the remaining barriers of exclusiveness for movie stars—Old Hollywood was dead. The glamour was fading. Young actresses boasted (on national television) of their children born out of wedlock, while others openly lived with the lover of their choice without benefit of marriage. In the middle sixties, anything went. It was a time of change. Movie stars, political candidates, millionaires, and fallen kings were as available as the boy next door. I remember the co
mmotion Bobby Kennedy caused when he showed up at The Factory with Frank Sinatra to have a look at the pretty people’s playground. I was in the poolroom when I heard all the murmurings and whispering, and I asked a waiter what was up.

  ‘It’s Bobby Kennedy-over there with Peter Lawford and Frank Sinatra!’ he stage-whispered, and I followed his pointing finger. It was so dark I couldn’t see anyone, so I shrugged and went back to my pool game. I was not unaware of Robert Kennedy, boy wonder, next in line for the Presidency of the United States. Even though I was not politically minded, I would have had to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to notice the splash he had been making in the papers and on television.

  Actually, I had met Bobby eight years before with his brother, John (aka, Jack). In 1960 I was dating Jim Henaghan. He knew Jack Kennedy quite well and invited me along on a dinner date with him. We met at Romanoffs Restaurant and Jack, charming, witty, sexy, spent most of the next four hours explaining, very seriously, why he would never become President of the United States. He said the people might like him (he admitted he had charisma) but they would never elect a Catholic President, or one so young, or so rich, or one who had a reputation of being a bit of a playboy. Jack and Frank Sinatra were close pals then, and I suppose a little of Sinatra’s swinger image had tarnished Jack’s Boston-Catholic image. It was a delightful evening, one I remember with fondness and more than just a little yearning.

  The next morning Jack sent his car for Jim and I, and we donned the straw hats with KENNEDY emblazoned on the band (handed over solemnly by a silent chauffeur) and attended the Democratic National Convention at the Sports Arena. It was total bedlam. Thick smoke shrouded the entire room like a giant dark cloud; people dashed everywhere at once; voices shrilled out of nowhere, crying orders or just chanting for ‘Kennedy’—I had never seen so many young, beautiful women (or so many showbiz folks) milling about all in one place—all wearing the straw hats with KENNEDY on the sweatband. It seemed to me a farce, a circus. I remember asking Jim: ‘Is this the way a president is really elected?’ I suppose I expected there should be some order or dignity. There was none. The crowd was hysterical. Even Kennedy aides seemed a bit hysterical.