by Gore Vidal
Schilling liked Jim, and, after they had played together several times, he allowed him to instruct. He also encouraged him to go into tournaments, but Jim was satisfied to continue as he was. The life was easy and healthy. He gained weight; his body thickened with muscle. He was popular with the people who used the courts, particularly the young girls who lived in the hotel. They flirted with him, and he always responded politely, if evasively, which made them think him sensitive as well as handsome.
He was now used to the sight of famous actors and actresses playing tennis and sunning themselves beside the pool. In fact, one brilliant old actress (almost forty) took lessons from him every day, swearing obscenely whenever she made a bad shot. He thought her most impressive.
Jim had also begun a social life. Several times he had gone on parties with the bellhops. Most of them wanted to be actors, which explained the somewhat detached air with which they did their various jobs around the hotel. Several took a fancy to Jim because he didn’t want to become an actor; also, he seemed sincerely to admire them. Jim was not without social guile. Yet his new companions puzzled him. Their conversation was often cryptic, their eyes quick-moving, searching. Ill at ease with outsiders, they were quarrelsome with one another. The one thing they had in common was the desire to move in splendor through the lives of others, to live forever grandly, and not to die.
They had many rich friends who gave parties, consisting largely of middle-aged women, widowed or divorced, and plump men with unpleasant habits when drunk. The women particularly took a fancy to Jim and he was often told that he was a “real person” and not like the others, whatever that meant. The plump men were also nice to him but, when through ignorance he did not respond to the suggestive ritual of their conversation, they left him alone.
Otto Schilling warned Jim about the bellhops. He explained that since they were not normal young men, they would try to corrupt him. Otto was stern as he explained these matters to Jim, who managed to look so shocked and unbelieving (he was surprised) that Otto spared him the full explanation of what he meant.
Jim went through several stages after his discovery that there were indeed many men who liked other men. His first reaction was disgust and alarm. He scrutinized everyone carefully. Was he one? After a while, he could identify the obvious ones by their tight, self-conscious manner, particularly when they moved, neck and shoulders rigid. After a time, as the young men grew used to Jim, they would talk frankly about themselves. Finally, one tried to seduce him. Jim was quite unnerved, and violent in his refusal. Yet afterward he continued to go to their parties, if only to be able to experience again the pleasure of saying no.
Late one afternoon, a bellhop named Leaper entered the tennis house just as Jim was finishing his shower. Leaper peered into the shower room. “Hey, Jim.”
Jim rubbed soap out of his eyes. “Hi!” Though Leaper was one of those he had refused, they had remained on good terms.
“You want to go to a party?”
“Where?” Jim turned off the shower, picked up his towel, and joined Leaper in the locker room. As he dried himself, he knew that he was being examined with passionate interest. He was more amused than irritated.
“At Ronald Shaw’s. In Beverly.”
Jim was surprised. “The movie actor?”
“The very same, and they say he is quite sympathetic.” Leaper made a feminine gesture. “He asked a friend of mine to collect some beauties so I thought of you. Of course you may be the only straight guy there, but then you can never tell, there might be some girl with red hair hanging on to the fringes.” Jim had developed a mythical reputation for liking girls with red hair. Leaper chattered happily about Ronald Shaw while Jim dressed.
“It’s really something to go to one of Shaw’s parties. He’s an honest-to-God Movie Star, with all the girls everywhere mad for him! That’s a joke, isn’t it? Why, when I worked in a picture with him at Metro…” Like most of the bellhops, Leaper had done extra work in the movies and he spoke often of stars he had “worked with.” “These Girl Scouts came around to give him some sort of prize and he said: ‘Will you please take these pubescent monsters and lay them end to end on the back lot.’ Of course they covered it all up, just like the time he was knocked down in a bar at Santa Monica by this Marine from Pendleton. Oh, that guy is something!”
“He’s pretty young, isn’t he?” Jim parted his wet hair in the mirror.
“Thirty, maybe. You can’t tell about those guys. Anyway, you better be warned, he’ll make a pass at you, which I bet you wouldn’t mind one bit.”
“Just let him try,” growled Jim into the mirror, aware that his suntanned face made him resemble a South Sea-movie islander. “Sure I’ll come,” he said, ready for adventure.
II
AT THIRTY-FIVE, RONALD SHAW was disturbingly handsome, with features of such ordinariness that they were, paradoxically, unique. Dark curly hair tumbled over a classic low forehead to give him a look often described as “impish” by admirers, “Neanderthal” by detractors. With his light blue eyes, he seemed typically “black Irish,” a type which occurs most often among Jews. Ronald Shaw had been born George Cohen. At one point he had thought that to be taken for George M. Cohan might be rewarding, but it was not, and so George Cohen became Ronald Shaw, a handsome, fiery young Irishman whose films made money. George Cohen of Baltimore had been very poor but now that Ronald Shaw was wealthy neither was going to be poor again. Shaw was notoriously mean, except with his mother in Baltimore. As every reader of movie magazines knew, his mother was his “best girl” and the reason that he was still a bachelor, which was exactly right, as any Freudian would agree.
Although Shaw had been a star for five years, he had never bought a house in Hollywood. He preferred to rent large impersonal houses where he could give parties for young men behind thick walls and an elaborate burglar-alarm system. In his way, he was discreet. Yet everyone in the homosexual world knew that he was one of them. Naturally there were rumors about other actors, but where in other cases there was often some vestigial doubt in the minds of even the most passionate apologists for Socratic vice, there was none in Shaw’s case. He was always mentioned by the great fraternity with pride, envy, lust. Fortunately, the women of America remained in ignorance, regarding him as a satisfying love object, unattainable but useful as a companion in dreams, the boy-man of advertising come alive thirty times life-size upon the screen.
Ronald Shaw had it made, and since he was nothing if not human, he found most human relationships disappointing. His sexual partners were selected for a combination of physical beauty and hard masculinity. Each affair began as though the creation of the world was to be reenacted, and each usually ended in less time than it took the Old Testament Creator to put up the sky. No one could please Shaw for very long. If a boy came to love him (and to disregard the legend) Shaw was affronted and endangered; yet if a lover continued to be dazzled by the idea of him, he soon grew bored. Nevertheless, Shaw was a happy man, and if he had not been told about romantic love, it would never have occurred to him to take coupling seriously.
Jim was much impressed by the magnificence of Shaw’s house. An interior decorator had done it for nothing; unfortunately, the affair had ended before the bedrooms were done. Nevertheless, the downstairs was a success, a riot of Spanish baroque with a huge drawing room whose windows looked down upon Los Angeles, glittering to the west. Over a cavernous fireplace hung a portrait of Ronald Shaw, half again as large as life. The original of this glamorous work of art stood at the center of the room, graciously directing the party’s traffic. It was an odd group. For one thing, there were three times as many men as women. Jim recognized several character actors: Ronald Shaw needed only the flimsiest support. The women were all elegant, with high voices, large jewels, towering befeathered hats. They were not, Jim was assured by the knowing Leaper, lesbians. They had simply passed the age of being able to attract normal men
and so, still craving attention, they were drawn into the world of hairdressers and couturiers. Here they could gossip and make stage love and avoid boredom, if not despair.
“Isn’t this swell?” murmured Leaper, in his awe forgetting his role as sophisticate and guide.
Jim nodded. “Where’s Ronald Shaw?”
Leaper pointed to the center of the room. At first, Jim was disappointed. Shaw was smaller than he had expected. But he was handsome, there was no denying that. In contrast to the others, he wore a dark suit, which gave his slim figure dignity. At the moment he was surrounded by women. The young men were more circumspect; they held to the periphery of the party, waiting.
“You better meet him,” said Leaper.
They crossed to the group of women and waited until Shaw had finished telling a story. Then, during the sharp, loud laughter, Leaper said hurriedly, “You remember me, Mr. Shaw, don’t you?” Shaw looked blank but Leaper kept right on talking. “It was Mr. Ridgeway who asked me to come tonight, and I brought this friend of mine with me, Jim Willard. He’s real keen to meet you….”
Ronald Shaw smiled at Jim. “How do you do?” His hand was cool and hard.
“I…like you in the movies,” said Jim, to Leaper’s horror. This was impossibly bad form. With movie stars, one was supposed to appear unimpressed.
But admiration never offended Ronald Shaw. He grinned, showing white teeth. “That’s nice of you to say so. Come on, let’s get you a drink.” Gracefully, Shaw extricated himself from the women and together they crossed to the far end of the room.
Acutely embarrassed, Jim was conscious of many eyes watching him. But Shaw was serenely at ease as he stopped a waiter and took a glass from the tray. “I hope you like martinis.”
“Well, I don’t drink very much.”
“Neither do I.” Shaw’s voice was low and confiding, as if the only person in the world whose company and good opinion he sought was the bedazzled Jim. And though he asked only the usual questions, his warm voice made those familiar phrases sound significant, even the inevitable “Are you an actor?”
Jim quickly told him what he was.
Shaw grinned. “An athlete! Well….You look too young to be an instructor.” They were standing now at one of the large windows. Out of the corner of his eye, Jim noticed that his fellow guests were preparing to close in on Shaw and recapture him. They did not have much time. Shaw sensed this, too. “What’s your name again?” Jim told him. “You must,” said Shaw, looking thoughtfully down at the city, “come see me someday. When are you free?”
“I’m not working Thursday afternoon,” said Jim, startled at the speed of his own response.
“Then why don’t you drop by here Thursday. If I’m still shooting, you can swim until I get back. I’m usually through at five.”
“Sure. I’d like to.” Jim felt his stomach contract with fear and expectancy.
“See you Thursday.” Then Ronald Shaw, with a distant polite nod calculated to deceive his audience, allowed the young men to surround him.
Leaper joined Jim. “Well, you’re in.” His eyes glittered. “He fell for you like a ton of—”
“Shut up, will you?” Jim turned away angrily.
“Don’t con me. You hooked him. Everybody saw you. They want to know who you are. So I’ve been telling them you’re straight as a die, which just makes their mouths water all the more. You’re a hit, boy. Look at them all staring at you.” Jim looked but caught no one staring. “So what did Shaw talk to you about?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh, sure! Well, you better put out this time. He can do a lot for you.”
“Sorry, I got no plans to shack up with him. Or anybody else.”
Leaper looked at him with genuine surprise. “So maybe you’re not queer, but this is an exception. Why, this is something people dream about. You could make a fortune out of him.”
Jim laughed and moved away. He tried to appear relaxed and at ease, but he was neither. Soon he would have to make a decision, on Thursday to be precise. What to do? Mechanically he moved through the evening, his heart pounding. When it came time to say good-bye, Shaw smiled and winked. Blushing, Jim turned away. He said not a word to Leaper as they rode home in the bus.
III
JIM WILLARD’s EROTIC LIFE took place almost entirely in dreams. Until that day with Bob beside the river, he had dreamed of women as often as of men, and there had seemed no set boundary between the two. But since that summer day, Bob was the constant dream-lover, and girls no longer intruded upon their perfect masculine idyll. He was aware that what he dreamed of was not what normal men dreamed of. But at the same time he made no connection between what he and Bob had done and what his new acquaintances did. Too many of them behaved like women. Often after he had been among them, he would study himself in a mirror to see if there was any trace of the woman in his face or manner; and he was always pleased that there was not. Finally, he decided that he was unique. He was the only one who had done what he had done and felt the way he did. Even the elegant, long-haired youths all agreed that he was probably not one of them. Nevertheless, women expected him to make love to them, and when he didn’t (he could never quite explain to himself why he didn’t) they felt that it was they who were lacking, not he. None suspected that he dreamed every night of a tall boy by a river. Yet as Jim got more and more involved in Leaper’s world, he found himself fascinated by the stories they told of their affairs with one another. He could not imagine himself doing the things they said they did. Yet he wanted to know about them, if only out of a morbid desire to discover how what had been so natural and complete for him could be so perfectly corrupted by these strange womanish creatures.
In a mood of indecision, Jim went to see Ronald Shaw, and what he suspected would happen did happen. He allowed himself to be seduced, impressed by Shaw’s fame and physical beauty. The act was familiar except that this time he was passive, too shy to be the aggressor. With Bob he had taken the initiative, but then that was a different occasion and a more important time.
The affair began. Shaw was in love, or at least he talked of love, and how they would spend the rest of their lives together (“like those two ancient Greeks—you know the ones, Achilles and so-and-so—who were such famous lovers”). Not that there was to be any publicity. Hollywood was a merciless place and they would have to be extremely discreet. But for those who did know about them, they would be worshiped as a dazzling couple, two perfect youths, reenacting boyhood dreams behind the stucco walls of the house on Mulholland Drive.
Although Jim was flattered by Shaw’s protestations of love, the older man’s body did not excite him. Jim was oddly reluctant to touch a mature man’s flesh, no matter how handsome he was. Apparently only those his own age had the power to attract him. Yet when he shut his eyes, he enjoyed himself, for then he would think of Bob. And so the affair began, or the “relationship,” as those who had undergone analysis would say. It was a new experience for Jim and not entirely a pleasant one.
The first skirmish with the world occurred when Jim told Otto Schilling that he was going away.
Schilling was surprised. “I don’t understand,” he said. “I don’t understand why you want to leave here. You get more pay somewhere else?”
Jim nodded.
Schilling looked at him sharply. “Where? How?”
Jim was uncomfortable. “Well, you see, Ronald Shaw, the actor, and these other people” (he added vaguely) “want me to teach, you know, on their courts, and so I said I would.”
“Where will you live?”
Jim could feel the sweat trickling down his side. “I’ll stay at Shaw’s place.”
Schilling nodded grimly and Jim kicked himself for not having lied. Everyone knew about Shaw. Jim felt ashamed. “I didn’t think you were like that,” said Schilling slowly. “I am sorry for you. There is nothing wrong with seeing a
person like Ronald Shaw, there is nothing so wrong with being that way, but to be a kept boy, ah, that is bad.”
Jim wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Is there anything you want me to do before I go?”
“No,” said Schilling wearily. “Tell Mr. Kirkland you’re leaving. That’s all.” He turned away.
Shaken, Jim went to his room and started to pack. Leaper joined him. “Congratulations!” he exclaimed. “Beginner’s luck, you can’t beat it.”
“What’re you talking about?” Jim packed furiously.
“Come off it. It’s the talk of the circuit how you’re going to live with Ronald Shaw! So what’s he like?”
“I don’t know.” Jim felt his facade of normality crumbling.
“So what’re you going to be, his cook?”
“I’m going to teach him tennis.” This sounded idiotic even to his own ears. Leaper brayed contempt. But Jim stuck doggedly to his story, explaining how Shaw was to pay him fifty dollars a week, which was true.
“Ask me over sometime,” said Leaper as Jim finished packing. “We could play doubles.”
Jim merely glared. Yet in all of this one thing surprised him: Leaper, believing that Jim was heterosexual, took it for granted that any normal boy would live with a famous actor, given the chance. In Leaper’s world all men were whores and all whores were bisexual.