Full Service

by Bowers,Friedberg, Lionel,Scotty

  There was an extremely good-looking, well-groomed fellow who loved to take it in the “back door,” meaning, of course, that he was the passive partner, or the bottom, in anal intercourse. Edward was particularly fond of giving it to him that way while slowly sucking on my dick. That invariably ended up in an orgiastic eruption by the three of us at the same time. Eddy was a gentle lover. In fact, he was a gentleman through and through. He was considerate, very thoughtful of all his partners’ physical and emotional needs, and he was a damn good lover. He was a well-mannered, kind-hearted, and very decent man.

  Eddy and Wally had spent some time in the Greek Islands after they got married. They loved the Aegean and the freedom it offered them. One day while they were in L.A. a rather unusual coincidence occurred. A good friend of mine, a set decorator by the name of John Austin, had been over to Mykonos on location for a movie and had brought back an extremely good-looking nineteen-year-old Greek boy by the name of Damien. John’s intention was to have him here for a few months as a boy toy and then send him back home to Mykonos. He took the guy with him to many parties just to show off his great looks and physique and perhaps to foster a little envy among his friends. He also spread the word around that he would be grateful if anyone could find some part-time photographic modeling or film work for his young Adonis, to help him make a few bucks while he was out here. He called me about this one day and confidentially told me that even though the boy offered him great sex the kid was actually straight. In fact, he had a gorgeous dark-haired, brown-eyed Grecian goddess of a girlfriend back home. I tried to do what I could to help Damien earn a bit of money by arranging tricks for him with various men and women around town. He obliged them all and was grateful for the generous tip each of them provided.

  One day while I was driving him from the gas station to a trick at someone’s house he was telling me about his life back home in Greece. In his broken, heavily accented English he told me that he had met Edward and Wally during one of their trips to Mykonos. He said he knew that Edward was supposed to have been the king of England but that he had changed his mind in order to run away with the woman that he married. Oddly enough, Damien told me, both Edward and Wally preferred people of their own sex. He admitted that he would bring his girlfriend over to keep Wally happy while he and Eddy got up to mischief together. I told Damien that the couple were in town and asked him if he would like to see them. He was very keen to renew his friendship with them so one evening I surprised Eddy by walking into Albert’s guesthouse with Damien at my side. I thought Eddy was going to wet his pants with the sheer joy and excitement of seeing his handsome young Greek lover again. I had seldom seen such unbridled happiness. It was wonderful. However, I don’t recall whether they spent anymore time together or whether Eddy and Damien even became sexually involved again.

  Wally always behaved like a perfect lady. In public she was consistently sweet, charming, and exceptionally feminine. Unless I was personally involved in a three-way with her I never observed her alone with a woman but from what I could tell she was very much at ease letting her hair down and being completely relaxed. She was not in any way inhibited. She was very fond of dark-haired women, usually those with hair color similar to her own. Often I asked her if there was anything or anyone special that she needed and she would just smile, tilt her head slightly, and, with a twinkle in her eye, say, “Scotty, I totally trust you. You bring along whomever you please. I know she’ll be fine.”

  During threesomes, and certainly when she had sex with Eddy, she was fine with men but, like her husband, she definitely preferred homosexual sex. I brought a slim, trim little number over to her at Albert’s guest cottage one evening and when I returned later to take the young lady home she enthusiastically told me that she had never had such incredible sex in all her life. She couldn’t even remember how many times she had had an orgasm that night. Wally really knew what she was doing. She did it in style and with intense passion. As I said, I never told any of the girls I fixed her up with who she really was, and none of them ever found out her true identity.

  15

  At the Crossroads

  I was still seeing a lot of George Cukor. One member of his very extensive circle of friends was that great vixen of the silent era, Gloria Swanson. Other than a few exceptions, her career had foundered after the advent of sound, or the “talkies.” I think I met her while serving at one of George’s Sunday brunches and she and I became buddies. It was 1950, the same year that she was approached by writer-director Billy Wilder to play the lead of a has-been silent movie actress in Sunset Boulevard. She invited me to visit her on the set and, although it was great to watch her work, I have to confess that I found the whole experience boring. None of us at the time realized that this was a classic in the making. Perhaps if we did we might have been more respectful of it.

  Gloria was a tiny thing, barely five feet tall. She never wanted any of her costars to get too close to her, as that made her look too short. She felt especially intimidated by the height of William Holden, her tall costar in the movie. Whenever the two of them appeared in the same shot together Wilder would have cinematographer John Seitz lower the height of the camera slightly and place Gloria closer to the lens than Holden so that she would not be dwarfed by him. On some of the camera setups when they were alongside one another, Wilder and Seitz would choose a composition and lens that excluded the actors’ feet so that Gloria could stand on what was known as a two-by-four or an apple box to make her look a few inches taller. It was fascinating to watch all these cunning devices in use but I cannot help admitting that, to me, the pace of the movie-making process was excruciatingly slow. On one occasion during the filming of Sunset Boulevard I spent an entire night on the set on a location near Wilshire Boulevard. Most of the time it was dark, confusing, noisy, cold, and, from my perspective, little happened.

  My good friend Alex Tiers, the fellow who had surprised me with a hand job in the park, was infatuated with Gloria. There was nothing physical or sexual about it at all. He was simply obsessed by her star quality, her personality, her character. He would often invite her for dinner at his home. I would come along and prepare the food for them. He would rent a tuxedo for me and I would play the butler, waiter, and bartender, just for the two of them. Due to his substantial inheritance, Alex was never short of money. He gave Gloria expensive gifts: luxury items like diamond earrings, necklaces, bracelets, brooches, rings. During dinner the lights had to be turned down low, and there were candelabras on the table. I had to make sure that there was a nonstop flow of romantic music in the background. Gloria arrived by chauffeur-driven limousine in flowing furs and fancy gowns. She was not a meat eater and was always on a strict diet. She usually toyed with her food, drank little more than a glass of champagne, accepted the gift from Alex, and then, after allowing Alex to kiss her on the hand or subtly on the cheek, she would have me summon her chauffeur. In a flourishing swish of fur, stole, silk, and lace she would laughingly disappear into the night.

  AS MY TWENTY-EIGHTH BIRTHDAY neared I decided it was time to take stock of my situation. The moment was right for me to reassess my lot in life. Where are you heading, Scotty Bowers?, I asked myself. It was 1950. I’d been in L.A. for just five years since I’d come back from the war. I was receiving more and more offers to bartend, and that was beginning to bring in much better money than I was making at the gas station. Besides, the tricking business was getting totally out of control. The number of calls that I was receiving at the station became too many to handle. It was getting out of proportion and more than I could deal with. And I was increasingly fearful of being busted by the ever-lurking vice squad. Perhaps it was time to move on, to change careers.

  My daughter Donna was nearly four years old and it was critical that I start putting money away for her education. Betty and I continued to live together but even though we cared for one another, as I said before, there wasn’t much of a sexual relationship left between us. Nevertheless, I didn’t want h
er to have to go out and work; I wanted to be the breadwinner and I was adamant about supporting her and Donna. Bartending would pay better, but even that would have to be augmented by the odd day job painting fences, mending roofs, trimming trees, laying concrete, and the like. I wasn’t scared of an honest day’s work. The big dilemma was whether I had the balls to hand in my notice to Bill Booth. He had come to rely on me so much and I didn’t want to make any waves in his little world. I didn’t want him to feel that I was letting him down. I mulled over the situation, carefully examining it from every angle. But whichever way I looked at it the time seemed right for a change. However, I kept putting off my decision. It was driving me crazy and I wasn’t sure what to do.

  Finally, with much regret and trepidation, I submitted my written resignation to Bill. He reluctantly accepted it, indicating that he understood it was time for a guy of my age to move on in the world, and wished me the best of luck. Meantime, I put out word that I was available for freelance bartending gigs anywhere in town, at any time, day or night. I then informed all my friends and contacts that I was no longer going to be available at the station for arranging tricks. I received a lot of feedback about that decision, most of it expressing disappointment that Richfield Gas on Hollywood Boulevard was no longer going to be the place to go for a quick trick, or the place where you could arrange to meet pretty people or pick up folks for sex.

  Bill soon hired someone to take my place and continued to operate his gas station without ever having even the slightest notion of what had been going on there for the previous five years. He was such a sweetheart, but oh so naive. I loved him dearly and I knew I was going to miss him. I also knew I was going to miss those evenings hanging out with my friends in the driveway. I was going to miss the endless ringing of the telephone at night and the pile of messages waiting for me when I checked in for work at five o’clock the next day. I was going to miss those requests for an hour in the trailer out in the back, or the five titillating minutes peeking through the hole in the wall of the washroom. All of that was now over. History. It was time for the next chapter. When I finally hung up my blue Richfield Oil uniform and walked out of the gas station at the end of 1950, it was in every way the end of an era.

  16

  Moving On

  A lot of the gay guys who had asked me to arrange tricks for them during the gas station days were bitterly disappointed when I decided to move on. Although I was still available to arrange tricks for them, many had preferred the system we had going at the gas station. They liked to be able to drive in, arrange a trick, and quietly disappear into the night with a young man of their choice. Now they would have to resort to calling me up on the phone and, at times, leaving their name and number with Betty. To some of them this eroded the spontaneity and secretive nature of their sexual liaisons. But there were still many places in town where they could go to pick up men.

  Hollywood Boulevard itself was full of gay bars at that time. Some of the better known ones were Slim Gordon’s, Bradley’s, and the Jade Room. In earlier days there was also the famous Streets of Paris, located below street level in a basement near Cherokee Avenue. In its restroom one wall alongside the urinals was set aside for “glory holes.” What’s a glory hole? Well, it is a commonly known fact that men love fellatio. All men. And in the gay world it is arguably the commonest form of sexual release. Many gay men gain added pleasure by having their dicks sucked by complete strangers. And that’s what a glory hole is for. The penis is thrust into a hole in the wall and someone completely unknown sucks it off from the other side. No names, no faces, no identities, no nothing. Just sheer erotic carnal pleasure. The Streets of Paris had a row of about six or seven glory holes. Each one was separated from the one alongside it by a waist-high wall, purely for semiprivacy reasons. But a lot of guys got an added kick by being able to see the guy next to him with his loins thrust up against the wall squirming with pleasure until he reached full sexual release. Then the guy would pull his cock out of the hole, slip his trousers back up, and go back into the bar. The person who had just satisfied him sexually would remain completely incognito. During the fifties and sixties I tended bar at the private parties of many queens who had glory holes in their homes. These were often in fancy, palatial, marble-clad corners just off the pool area or situated in a room alongside the guest bathroom or bedroom.

  Gay bars were a dime a dozen along Hollywood Boulevard during the fifties. Just between Highland Avenue and Vine Street, a distance of six or seven short blocks, there were at least ten gay bars, all of them well-patronized.

  John Walsh was a singer who appeared at both gay and straight bars and at high-class nightclubs. I had been tricking him regularly for years and we had become good friends. He managed two extremely successful nightclubs. Café Gala, on the Sunset Strip, was owned by a wealthy British-born widow, the Baroness Catherine d’Erlanger. It was a top-class joint, frequented by the Hollywood crowd, and it had a spectacular view overlooking the city from the main dining area. Then there was the Plymouth House, also on Sunset; it was an extremely fashionable and expensive restaurant, also popular with Hollywood movie stars, producers, writers, directors, songwriters, and composers.

  Just about the time I left Richfield Gas to go it alone I got a call from Johnny inviting me to join him starting a new upscale club to be located at 881 North La Cienega Boulevard. At that time there were still many private houses in that part of town. Baroness d’Erlanger had bought one of them and wanted Johnny to turn it into one of the best nightclubs in town. The place would take its name from its address and would simply become known as the 881 Club. It was to be a chic, expensive establishment with a fully equipped kitchen specializing in French cuisine. Johnny was very enthusiastic about the project and pleaded with me to join him in the process of converting the 1920s house into one of the classiest places in the city. I was thrilled. I had just resigned from the gas station and here I was being offered this gig. It came at just the right time.

  We dove into the project. I cut lumber, laid down bricks, installed windows, built a bar, helped with the plumbing, lent a hand with electrical rewiring, changed the ceilings, laid down new floors, and did whatever I could with a small army of helpers. When the manual labor was over John and I stood back, put our hands on our hips, stared at our handiwork, and slapped each other on the back. We had done it and we were mightily proud of pulling it all off in a matter of only a few months. The 881 Club was ready for business.

  Johnny knew that I had been dabbling in bartending at private parties for some time and as he had not yet found a professional bartender he liked he asked me if I would temporarily man the bar for him. I told him that I would happily do it for a couple of weeks but that I really wanted to get on with my life and build up my own party bartending business. Johnny was most grateful that I agreed to help out so, on opening night, armed with a veritable tower of how-to manuals on mixing exotic drinks tucked under the counter, and wearing a brand-new dress shirt and black tie, I proudly took my place behind the bar at the 881.

  Things went very well that first week. Spurred on by rave reviews in the press, on the radio, and on TV, and by word of mouth, new clients flocked to the restaurant. Pretty soon we were taking reservations a month ahead of time. After the first couple of weeks I asked Johnny whether he had interviewed any candidates to take my place behind the bar but he said that he hadn’t and asked if I could stay on for a few more weeks. I happily agreed; the truth is that I was enjoying myself enormously. With the help of my manuals and a bit of advice from some of our more patient customers, I was doing very well dispensing cocktails, aperitifs, wine, champagne, and after-dinner liqueur.

  After our first month in business the Baroness d’Erlanger called a special meeting. She had been coming in for dinner every night and was thrilled with the quality of the food and the service. But she felt there was something missing. She was adamant that John, the maître d’, the waiters, the bartender, and all staff who had direct conta
ct with customers learn to speak fluent French.

  “This is a French restaurant, bar, and club,” she reminded everyone in her high-pitched and perfect British accent. “The menu, the wine list, the ambience, the food is all French. It is important, therefore, that we all speak French. We owe it to our customers. Oui?”

  Oui indeed. Over the next few weeks the entire staff, myself included, armed ourselves with language courses on vinyl records and with dictionaries and training manuals to master the rudimentary elements of the French language. Whenever the baroness came in for dinner and asked us how things were progressing we all lied through our teeth by telling her that we were doing wonderfully with our studies.

  My weeks behind the 881 Club bar slowly turned into months. Every time I broached the subject of my replacement with Johnny he would dismiss it with an excuse like, “I’m really sorry, Scotty, but there’s just no one out there who comes even close to your level or expertise. But I’ll keep trying.”