Full Service

by Bowers,Friedberg, Lionel,Scotty

  Kinsey also wanted to research pornography. But that was a totally taboo topic in those days. Unlike current times, pornography was extremely hard to come by during the fifties. It was illegal in every single state of the union. Certainly it existed, but it was always underground, always behind locked doors, always in back alleys, always in hushed and whispered tones in secret places. God help you if you were caught with explicitly sexual pictures. People used to come back from Europe with dirty postcards sewn into the linings of their suitcases or hidden in their unwashed laundry. Pornography was a passport to trouble. Over the years I was at a number of parties where pornographic photographs were being passed around among the guests and suddenly the vice squad appeared at the front door. They would interrogate everyone present and search the place. It didn’t matter if you were rich or famous, a pauper or a movie star. No one was above the law. If you were discovered to be in possession of pornographic material you were in deep trouble. Some people had clandestine screenings of 16mm or 8mm porno films at home. If the vice squad was tipped off they would raid the house and immediately seize the projector and films and any other equipment. Those present would be arrested without question and would have to explain themselves to the judge the next morning. Oddly enough, if you were found with photographs of a male and female engaging in normal heterosexual sex—usually a guy having intercourse with a girl in the missionary position—you might be able to get away with just a stern warning. The cops would most likely hand images like that back to their owners.

  However, if the photos depicted a woman performing fellatio on a man or a guy going down on a woman or, heaven forbid, two members of the same sex together, that would count as flagrant pornography.

  I have no idea how he came to the information but Kinsey always maintained that the biggest collection of pornography in the world was in the possession of the Roman Catholic Church in the Vatican. I found that hard to believe but he was convinced of it. According to him, the second largest selection was owned by ex-King Farouk of Egypt. When he told me that my interest was immediately piqued. The reason was because I had a direct connection to the Egyptian royal family.

  “Is that true, Alfred?” I asked him. “Because if it is I might be able to find out more for you.”

  “How?” he queried.

  “Well,” I said, “I know Farouk’s sister. She lives right here in Los Angeles and I occasionally work at parties and dinners for her.”

  Kinsey could hardly believe it and I said I would see what I could do.

  Princess Faiza Fouad Rauf was a sultry looking Beverly Hills socialite in her thirties who threw extravagant parties and lived the luxurious life of an Egyptian princess. Which is exactly what she was. She was one of the three sisters of King Farouk, monarch of Egypt. His full title was the very fancy sounding His Majesty Farouk I, by the grace of God, King of Egypt and of Sudan, Sovereign of Nubia, of Kordofan, and of Darfur. It doesn’t get more grand than that. The problem was that King Farouk was forced to abdicate in 1952 following allegations of corruption, an overly excessive lifestyle, pilfering valuable objects and artifacts from his hosts while on state visits abroad, a lack of empathy for his people, and, worst of all, the ramifications resulting from Egypt’s defeat during the 1948 Arab-Israeli War. He was deposed in a military coup led by Gamal Abdel Nasser and forced into exile. After he left Egypt he settled in Italy and Monaco but much of his wealth and treasures went with him. Twice divorced and now single, Farouk fancied himself a playboy, womanized wherever he went, continued to live the high life, spent a fortune on himself, and indulged in his passion for fine cuisine. The result was that he became chronically obese, weighing in at around three hundred pounds. He traveled extensively and occasionally visited his sister Princess Faiza in Beverly Hills. The story of how she came to settle on the west coast of America was fascinating and, I might add, not without tragedy.

  While still in Egypt, unlike her two sisters, she refused to marry into a Middle Eastern royal family or become a spouse to a ruler of the Arab world. Her sister Princess Fawzia did the opposite. She became the first wife of Mohammad Reza Shah Pahlavi, the last Shah of Iran. Princess Faiza yearned for something simpler than that, though not necessarily less luxuriant. She settled on her cousin, Mehmet Ali Rauf, a Western-educated scholar and grandson of the Khedive, Ishmael Pasha. Ishmael Pasha was the Turkish viceroy to Egypt during the time of the Ottoman Empire, but Mehmet Ali Rauf’s station in life was more that of a common man. No royal blood flowed in his veins. Princess Faiza’s brother, King Farouk, was never enchanted with the marriage but reluctantly accepted it. The couple made their home in the Zohria Palace in Cairo but their relationship was not a happy one. When Princess Faiza’s brother was forced to abdicate from the Egyptian throne she, too, became a victim of Nasser’s revolution and the banishment of the entire royal family. Much of her property was confiscated and the couple moved to Paris where they eventually divorced. Though she had lost much she still had sufficient funds and other resources to begin her life all over again. So she moved to California. She instantly fell in love with the place. She enjoyed the easy, relaxed lifestyle of Los Angeles and felt liberated to be able to mix with whomever she chose.

  I began working for her pretty soon after her arrival in town. She was a very beautiful woman and extremely popular among the Hollywood crowd. Honoring my pledge to Dr. Kinsey, while I was over at her home one evening I mentioned to her that I would like to talk to her brother, the former King Farouk, about an important medical research matter. She said that should pose little problem as her brother was due on the east coast of the United States in a couple of weeks and was then planning on visiting her in Beverly Hills.

  “In fact,” she added, “I’m planning on having a party for him here and would be delighted if you took care of the dinner and bar arrangements for me.”

  I was at her home a day or two before Farouk arrived. Because he had abdicated from the throne, the title of king had been dropped from his name. However, as an important VIP with past diplomatic connections to the State Department he was accorded the full protective treatment of the Secret Service. I was present when they came out ahead of him to check everything out. They went over the house with a fine-tooth comb, looking underneath tables, beds, and chairs, opening closets and wardrobes, checking telephone and electrical cables, searching behind paintings and wall hangings to look for bugs, and making absolutely certain that his security would not be compromised. I myself was questioned extensively and they insisted on knowing what would be served at the dinner, where the food would be coming from, and what the seating arrangements around the table would be.

  When the evening of the party finally arrived I found Farouk to be very easy to talk to. He enjoyed everything we served—mainly rich French cuisine—and ate enough for half a dozen men. He kept up a conversation with the princess’s guests and was most appreciative of the trouble we had taken to prepare a meal to his liking. He was staying in Princess Faiza’s guest suite during his visit to L.A. and when the party concluded that evening he and I sat for a nice, long, private chat. When I brought up the subject of Kinsey and his research work in Indiana, Farouk broke into a roaring belly laugh and told me that he had heard all about Kinsey and his sexual investigations. Being as fond of the ladies as Farouk was he wanted to know more about the Institute of Sex Research so we talked about it until the early hours of the morning. Farouk made no attempt to hide the fact that he liked sex just as much as the next person. Somewhere during the course of our discussions I jokingly mentioned that Kinsey was very interested in pornography. I told him that there was a rumor that he, Farouk, had quite a collection of his own.

  When he heard that he leaned over to me and whispered, “I’ve got warehouses full of the stuff, so much that I’ll never be able to look at all of it.”

  And then he winked at me. Apparently his collection of pornography was so extensive that it was kept in storage in warehouses in Rome, Monaco, and, unbeknownst to Egypt
’s new president, Nasser, even in secret locations in Cairo.

  I implored him to send some of it over to Kinsey for study at the ISR in Bloomington. By the time the dawn light began to creep across the landscaped lawns of Princess Faiza’s estate Farouk had agreed to have his associates in Europe pack up several crates of his collection and ship them out to Kinsey in Indiana.

  Kinsey was thrilled when I told him this, but when the consignment arrived in the United States a few months later he called me in a panic from Bloomington. He said the U.S. Customs in New York had impounded it. After lengthy enquiries I eventually learned that a lot of the material was one-of-a-kind sophisticated artwork. There were oil paintings, brasses, ivory carvings, and leather-bound drawings. Much of it was antique and of inestimable value. The problem was that a lot of the images depicted Arab men having sex with young boys. There was a lot of homosexuality in the collection and that’s why the customs people were holding it.

  I immediately called Princess Faiza and begged her to please ask her brother to send a signed letter from his home in France to Kinsey, informing him that the material was strictly on loan to Indiana University for a limited period and was intended for research purposes only. Farouk obligingly did as he was asked, Kinsey submitted the letter to customs, and that did the trick. Because the authorities now viewed it as academic research destined for a university, within weeks the entire shipment was released and arrived safely in Indiana. Kinsey got his porn and everyone was happy. The results of this little episode provided invaluable data for the institute’s future findings on the role of pornography in society, from ancient to modern times.

  20

  Close Encounters of Every Kind

  Edith Piaf was forty years old when she first came to American shores in an attempt to repeat her phenomenal success in Europe as a cultural icon singing French ballads. Her songs had an earthiness, a sandpaperlike edge to them because they were rendered in her wonderfully raspy, tobacco-hardened voice. I loved the gravely way she spoke and how she rolled those r’s off the back of her tongue and throat. She spent the war years singing in nightclubs in German-occupied France. In 1946 she made the haunting “La Vie en Rose” her signature number, but she is also remembered for other marvelous titles that include “Non, Je ne Regrette Rien,” “Hymne à l’amour,” and “La Foule.” Many still regard her as France’s greatest popular singer.

  The way I met her was quite interesting. My friend Alex Tiers—the guy who jerked me off in the park while I was sleeping—had a wealthy cousin by the name of Cornelius “Neil” Tiers. Neil’s hometown was New York. He had inherited a family fortune and spent his life playing and partying. When war broke out, just for the hell of it he bought his way into the French Foreign Legion and traveled with them in North Africa. When he had had enough of war he simply bought his way out of the Legion. However, while he was serving with them in Paris he met Edith Piaf at a nightclub and was smitten by her, though it never developed into anything more than a platonic friendship. Neil had a house on Coldwater Canyon in Beverly Hills and I often stayed there when he went to New York, usually with someone I was tricking. When Edith was signed to come out to California and sing at the exclusive Mocambo Night Club it was arranged that she would stay at Neil’s home. Because Neil was away I spent a lot of time there, and so Edith and I met, immediately hit it off, and began a nice sexual relationship.

  The Mocambo was a Hollywood landmark. It was a wildly popular Brazilian-themed venue located at 8588 Sunset Boulevard. Owners Charlie Morrison and Felix Young had lavished a lot of time, money, and attention on it. They created a unique interior at the club that included glassed-in aviaries holding live macaws and cockatoos. It was a perfect venue for Edith and she was signed to play there for a month. Edith was a sweet, dark-eyed, dark-haired short little thing who wasn’t exactly pretty but she had an interesting face. I thought she was sexy as hell but she was a sad person who seemed to be on the verge of tears all the time. During sex she would say sing-songy things in French, purring in a low, sugary kind of way. We had sex nearly every night for the four weeks she was out here.

  I used to drive her down to the Mocambo, where she performed twice nightly. During the first two weeks of her Los Angeles engagement she played to packed houses. Then the audiences started shrinking. Finally, no one came. Edith was shattered. She felt rejected, alienated, scorned. She believed that because she was so different, her songs so mournfully reflective of Parisian life, she could not reach out and touch Americans. In her dressing room after the show she would chain-smoke strong, foul smelling imported French cigarettes such as Gitanes and Gauloises and weep. I tried my best to keep her spirits up and bring a little joy into her life. After the show I would take her home, brew her strong black coffee laced with a little liqueur and keep her company all night long. And that meant only one thing, making long, slow love to her until she dozed off as dawn broke. She was an acutely vigorous sexual being with a very big heart and she loved the time she spent with me before returning to Paris. In the years following she would send me gifts of little Lalique ashtrays and other objects like that.

  MANY WONDERFUL WOMEN came into my life during the fabulous fifties. One of the liveliest and most incorrigible was Mae West. She was never boring, never banal, and always managed to stir up controversy whatever she did and wherever she went. At the age of thirty-three in 1926, Mae was jailed for appearing in a play in Manhattan called Sex. A couple of years later she hit the boards on Broadway with Diamond Lil. In 1932 she made her first movie in Hollywood. Entitled Night After Night it costarred George Raft. Mae was already pushing the envelope in that one, performing in risqué scenes and delivering dialogue using words that audiences had never heard before. She wasn’t afraid of cussing or of nudity or of subject matter that spoke of real people in real situations in a way never before seen on-screen. She was witty and charming and she oozed sexuality. Mae became an instant box-office draw, going on to make a film she wrote herself, She Done Him Wrong, costarring Cary Grant. The film was nominated for an Academy Award and allowed Mae to go on immediately to make her next movie, I’m No Angel. Conservative audiences around the country were in uproar about the raunchy style and tone of her work. Theater owners were taken aback. Critics had no idea what to say. The result of the brouhaha was the birth of what was known as the Motion Picture Production Code. Introduced in 1930, it was more commonly called the Hays Code, deriving its name from its primary author, Will H. Hays.

  The code was endorsed and implemented by the Motion Picture Producers and Distributors Association of America. It strictly regulated what could and could not be seen and heard in movies. It stipulated that, among other things, “no motion picture shall lower the moral standards of those who see it. The sympathy of the audience should never be thrown to the side of crime, wrongdoing, evil, or sin.” With regard to sex, the code stated that “the sanctity of the institution of marriage had to be rigidly upheld.” Motion pictures were not allowed to imply that “low forms of sexual relationships” are an acceptable or common form of behavior. Adultery could not be explicitly treated, justified, or presented. Scenes of passion should be avoided if they were not directly essential to the plot. Excessive and lustful kissing and embracing, suggestive postures and gestures were not to be shown. Passion was not to be treated in a way that “stimulated the lower and baser element.” Sexual perversion of any type or inference was forbidden. Miscegenation, or sexual relationships between whites and blacks, was condemned. Venereal diseases were not to be considered as subjects for motion pictures. Scenes of childbirth—even if depicted in silhouette—were forbidden. Sex organs were never to be seen. Obscenities in word, gesture, reference, song, joke, or by suggestion were outlawed. Complete nudity of males or females, whether in shadow or observed at a great distance, was not permitted. Dancing that suggested or represented sexual actions or “indecent passions” was taboo. Husbands and wives could only be depicted fully clothed and in separate beds. The list went on an
d on.

  Everything the Hays Code demanded was contrary to what Mae believed in but the Code didn’t stop her. She continued to push the envelope. In scenes in her movies she simply introduced a whole new set of words and phrases that carried double meanings, thereby bypassing the rigid limitations imposed by the code. Mae made many movies during her career, then eventually moved on to star in her own live variety shows in Las Vegas during the fifties. It was the time when smooth-skinned, hormone-filled musclemen were all the rage. As long as they wore even the skimpiest of black or white briefs or a posing pouch, and as long as they pumped iron, they were considered “athletes” and not pornographic models. So as far as the law was concerned, people could watch them, and collect pictures of them. And many did, both male and female. Mae knew the erotic value of a handsome muscleman, so she always had a few of them appear with her in her Las Vegas shows.

  Now remember, most muscle boys were straight. One of the better known bodybuilders at the time was Steve Reeves, but there were many others. I once sent Steve Reeves over to George Cukor as a trick. Steve was a little hard up at the time and did it purely for the cash.

  Gay guys would congregate around Muscle Beach in Venice Beach, just to watch the musclemen pump iron and work out. Many queens would also hang around gymnasiums in town. Lurking in the shadows or sitting close to the workout areas, they would have their hands in their pockets playing with themselves as they ogled the bodybuilders showing off their muscles. As they watched they would jerk off in their pants.

  In 1955, at the age of sixty-seven, about the time I met her, Mae West had fallen in love with one of these muscled guys. He was more than thirty years younger than she was, a veritable Adonis, and a former “Mr. California” wrestling champion. He went by the name of Paul Novak. She was thrilled when she found him and immediately invited me over to meet him. She was infatuated with him. When he was around she behaved like a kid. She was constantly all over the guy, stroking his hair, kissing his forehead, showing him off. She told me how adept he was at sending her to the heights of ecstasy in bed. She boasted about his incredible stamina, about his ability to stay hard all night long. She simply worshiped her beloved Paul and spoiled him rotten. It wasn’t long before he moved in with her. I worked at parties for them often and saw them at many get-togethers around town. As her performing career began to wind down she moved from her luxurious Ravenswood apartment building penthouse to a smaller and less expensive apartment in a fine old building called the El Royale on Rossmore Street, which was a southerly extension of Vine Street, near Hancock Park.