Manson in His Own Words

by Nuel Emmons

With the abundance and variety of drugs available in the Spiral Staircase, time was never a factor. Of course, if you were one of those “straight-by-day” types you had to hurry home in time to reappear as a model citizen, but time had no relevance for the rest of us, who were not pretending and lived in the full swing of the lifestyle we had adopted. If your pleasure was to continue a high that was starting to subside, a move to the nearest container provided all that was needed to keep the high intact.

  That first party was one of the very few times I allowed myself to get so wasted that I lost a handle on what was happening or even whether it was day or night. At some point—it could have been the same night or next night—I found myself sitting alone in the bus. I was sweaty and on the funky side so I filled a pan with water and gave myself a whore’s bath, using a large white beach towel to dry myself. Clean and dry with the towel draped around my shoulders, I was running a comb through my hair when a topless, barefoot Sadie entered the door of the bus. She hesitated and looked at me and the towel covering most of my body. Her feet were dirty, and the pan was still full of water, so I said, “Here, let me wash those dirty feet.” And I did. Directly behind Sadie was a guy, also shirtless and barefoot; I’m sure Sadie had him in tow for sex. After I washed Sadie’s feet she turned and washed the feet of her friend. Sadie later spoke of that scene as some kind of religious experience for her. She has insisted: “Charlie was dressed in a white robe, and I had so much love for him, I thought he was Jesus.” Except maybe in jest, no one else ever said that shit. If a white towel, some very dirty feet and some words from a dopetaking, ding-a-ling broad can lead a bunch of people into believing a guy is some kind of God, I feel there are a lot of people in this world who are crazier than most would like to believe I am.

  If privacy was what Sadie and her friend were looking for, I wasn’t going to take it away from them. I left the bus and started back, but I had taken only a few steps when several of the girls came from the house. They had some new acquaintances with them. All quickly turned me around, and back in the bus we went. Twelve girls and five guys add up to an uneven seventeen, but we were without conscience or inhibition and full of drugs, defiance and curiosity about the challenging thrill of sex. We didn’t have any problems at all.

  The balling, partying, oral-copulating, heterosexual, homosexual, masturbating orgy that occurred in the bus that night was not initiated or programmed by me. I won’t deny that for some of the girls I was instrumental in erasing the previous inhibitions that at one time would have prevented them from engaging in such a scene, but I did not originate that one. In fact, to me it was like a red light flashing, like, “Hey, stop! Things are getting out of hand here.” Without some kind of control, pretty soon I’d find myself standing in the middle of the road watching the ass end of the bus getting farther and farther away from me. I had to start using more discretion, at least when we were in someone else’s territory.

  Jealousy is a hell of a thing, and I ain’t going to cop to ever being jealous of any of those kids. Individually, they could always go any route they chose, but as a group we couldn’t pull up to some pad and be used. Though the orgy had included only four who were not part of our group, I saw that there would be more outsiders next time if things didn’t tighten up some. Pretty soon the girls would become victims of more than just being sex objects. If outsiders moved in so easily for sex, they could just as easily start maneuvering some of the girls into heavier shit—like chains, whips, blood-drinking, animal death and even human sacrifice. It was a hard-core multiple-devil worshipping bunch of people who passed through the doors of the Spiral Staircase. I had picked those girls up from the streets because they were looking for something. I didn’t want any of those self-styled priests, priestesses and gurus using the kids or me. So when those early changes started happening in our lives, I took charge. It wasn’t that I was trying to play leader—I had a feeling of responsibility. I wanted them to love and to be free to go on, just as I wanted my own life to continue as it had been for the last several months. At that time, not in a million years could I have been convinced that things would turn out bloody and bad.

  CHAPTER 6

  I THINK by now it is obvious that being shy isn’t part of my makeup. I do come on pretty strong, but boldness and aggressiveness is sometimes just an effort to hide fear, weakness and doubt. And while I am reluctant to cop to it, the fact I’d been out of the joint for seven months and hadn’t made a move to kick off my dream of making it in the music world suggests I wasn’t as loaded with confidence as I pretended. I believed in my talent and ability, but knowing how hard it is to break the ice, I’d been living with the fear that a hasty recording session might close a door on me before I really got started. Then too, in past years, I’d had my burns and disappointments when I put too much faith in a convict’s word. So though I was pretty good friends in prison with the guy who provided the Universal contact, I was halfway afraid he was blowing smoke when he said he could introduce me to a guy who would arrange a recording session. I thought his friend might not be anything more than some clerk or glorified messenger boy.

  Still, I had come to L.A. on the strength of that phone call. As it turned out, the contact was a man big enough at Universal to have his own clerk and several messenger boys. The first meeting with him wasn’t a session, but more to get acquainted. I was impressed by his position at the studio, and by the time he heard me play some music, he was so impressed with me he arranged for a full-fledged recording session. The recording date was set up for two days down the road. In the meantime, he wanted to know all about me, my lifestyle and all the things I was into. It was astonishing to him that I was living in a bus with twelve girls. Right away he wanted to know what my hold over them was. “No hold,” I assured him, “we’re just a few people who happened to hook up and each of us is our own person. The girls do what they want to do and so do I. It just happens they dig looking out for me, and for the good they do me, I return an equal good. If you’re interested in meeting them and seeing for yourself how we live, you’re welcome to visit with us.”

  The Universal guy was interested, but rather than have him see the things that went on at the Spiral Staircase, I scheduled things so that I could come by the studio and pick him up. Because I wanted things to be smooth, I thought of postponing the day’s meeting until I could put myself and the girls in more impressive surroundings. But, “Fuck it,” I thought, “this is me and this is the way I’m living.” When I parked across the street from Universal the following day, the exterior of the bus, though scrubbed and clean, was still a pretty seedy sight. I paid very close attention to his reaction when he saw our home on wheels, and when he displayed an amused smile, I was glad I had chosen to stay with things as they were. Once inside, the amused smile was replaced by a look of amazement. With Lyn at the helm, the crew of girls had broken their asses cleaning and decorating the interior. And their game at impressing someone was just beginning.

  With the burning incense, the hanging tapestry, and the wall-to-wall sleeping and living arrangement neatly in order, the living area looked like something out of the Arabian Nights. For an added touch, eight pretty girls—some had been left elsewhere—had placed themselves in comfortable and enticing positions. When I started introducing them to my new friend, I was amazed at their poise and cordiality. As soon as we sat down, one placed a cold beverage in our hands while another brought out hors d’oeuvres. I was handed a lit cigarette. One girl massaged my neck and shoulders while two others got out my guitar and carefully polished it before returning it to the case and placing it in an overhead compartment. The way they catered to me, I was afraid they were overdoing their little act. The attention given to us made it seem as though man was king and woman his servant, and the effect on our guest was great. He spent considerable time with us, and by the end of the recording session he really thought I had the right hold on life.

  After the recording session, our new-found supporter thought we could g
et something on the market immediately, but he was not the final voice. Others at Universal thought more work and arranging was needed before recording for the market. I was not disappointed, since my initial session had shown a lot of promise and there was a standing offer from Universal for another shot when I “rounded things out more solid.” I was also introduced to a lot of the bigwigs at Universal, and as a result of our conversations about my religious beliefs, philosophy of life and outlook on the future, I was offered the opportunity to act as a technical advisor on a religious film they were thinking about producing.

  I associated with a lot of celebrities, whose names, for their sake, I will keep to myself. I can’t pull the covers off anyone who hasn’t been associated with me in previous writings, but I do wonder why more of my associations with some of Hollywood’s elite didn’t surface. In that respect I think we are back to society’s old double-standard bullshit. Some people, regardless of how dirty their hands are, have the juice to smother things and appear lily white, while those without juice are made to look dirty if they are only in the vicinity of bad happenings. I could authenticate experiences with some of those in Hollywood that would make the sexual practices I enjoyed look pure and innocent.

  For a period of time, I had the run of Universal. Naturally, when possible, I shared some of that with the girls. Before too long, Charlie, his way of life and his girls were on the let’s-get-acquainted list of many of the not-so-straight idols of the movie world. We were invited to private parties in Beverly Hills, Malibu and other exclusive areas. A lot of the movie people shot up heroin, smoked opium, free-based and snorted cocaine. As much as the girls and I were into the hallucinogenics and marijuana, hard, habit-forming drugs were not our thing. We had long ago chucked our inhibitions about sex, but chains, whips, torture and other weirdness were not part of our routine. Until mixing with the movie set, performances were not us either.

  One guy at Universal (I’ll call him Mr. B) latched on to me shortly after I first showed up around the lot. It was no secret that I was an ex-con, and all he wanted to talk about was the sex available in confinement. Not being a dummy, I just flat asked him, “What is it you want, a dick in your ass or in your mouth?” He wanted both, so after that I visited his dressing room on a regular basis. That was long before the gays came out of the closet—everything was still hush-hush.

  But it didn’t end there. One day he said, “Charlie, will you come by the house tonight? I want you to meet my wife.” Sure, I told him, how many girls do you want me to bring? “No, no girls. Come alone,” he replied. I’m game for almost anything, so showing up alone was no problem. When I got there I was introduced to his wife, who had been in a couple of minor roles on television. She was a pretty brunette, thirty-five or forty, and very shapely. He was dressed in a pair of satin pajamas and she was in a sexy transparent pink nightgown. In the beginning the two of them were nervous and conversation was tense, but by the time we smoked some very potent grass and drank some wine we were relaxed and horny. She and I were on the couch and he was sitting in a chair watching us. She had her tongue in my ear and was unbuttoning my shirt, so it was a natural move on my part to place my hand between her thighs. She began removing my pants. I really expected Mr. B to come over and start giving me some head, which I didn’t want to happen because I wanted the broad. To my joy, B remained in his chair with his hand on his own dick and Mrs. B and I got it on. She did most of the maneuvering and I was just along for the ride—after all it was their party. The only noise in the room had been Mr. B’s sighs and grunts, but at the peak of orgasm, Mrs. B broke the silence by saying, “Bite me, bite me.” Since I was in her from behind I couldn’t reach her neck or shoulders, so I bit her a couple of times on the back. They weren’t skin-breaking bites, but they were hard enough for her to get the sensation she wanted, and left teeth prints that would last a few days. After a few minutes she rolled us over and I was on top of her. It was time for B to make his move, and he did. Now, taking it in the ass ain’t my thing. I told about getting raped when in Plainfield; well, ain’t no dicks been in my ass since. When B made his move, I thought I was going to have to bring this party to an end, but instead of trying to nail me, he started licking Mrs. B’s toes and legs and working his way up to us. When she and I made it he pushed me aside and buried his face in her crotch and jacked himself off. I got a lot of satisfaction out of making it with a TV actress while her movie-star husband got his rocks off and a lot of laughs thinking how long their fan clubs would last if our little scene could be aired. As I walked out the door, B slipped five one-hundred dollar bills in my pocket. It was a scene we repeated several times with a few different twists before my stay at Universal ended.

  The film I was consulting on had to do with the Second Coming of Christ. On occasion, I would have rap sessions with a couple of writers. I’d lay out how I interpreted the Bible, where I thought the world was headed, my belief in reincarnation, and what I thought would balance out the world. The writers would take a lot of notes and then bury themselves in structuring the material into a movie script. Sometimes we would meet once or twice a week and then maybe not at all for several weeks.

  With that type of schedule, the bus and anyone who cared to come along did a lot of roaming around, but we always seemed to return to the Spiral Staircase. My bad vibes about the place never did leave me, but the challenge of arguing philosophies and beliefs with those who visited the place kept bringing me back. It was also a testing station for me. Those leaders of communes and occult groups and rich bastards from the city all had eyes for my girls. Their efforts to lure my people away from me allowed me to see where the love and loyalty was. When not one girl ever left me to join one of those groups, I started to realize the strength of our togetherness. Other people started noticing it too, and we often left with more people than we had when we arrived.

  Dianne Lake was the first. Dianne, who we later called Snake, was a pretty fourteen-year-old who had been living with her parents in a commune up in the hills called the Hog Farm. With her, it wasn’t a question of escaping from abusive or stern and restrictive parents, nor was it sex, for in their communal lifestyle at the Hog Farm, Dianne had seen a lot. She had her parents’ consent to make a trip into the desert with us, and after spending some time traveling in the bus she did not want to return to her previous life.

  Bobby Beausoleil was a handsome twenty-year-old who, due to fast living, was far from being a kid. He’d been on his own for several years. A great musician, he had been involved with the movie industry and he always managed to be living with more than one girl at a time. He and I had a lot in common. Though he didn’t travel with us immediately, he eventually became very much a part of our circle, and it was through him that Cathy (Gypsy) Share, Leslie Van Houten, Gary Hinman, Kitty Lutesinger and a few more became part of our group.

  The first day Bobby showed up at the Spiral Staircase, I thought I saw too much vanity and conceit in his make up to ever like him, but when I heard him play his guitar and sing, I had a lot of respect for his ability. The two of us could jam and improvise in perfect harmony, always anticipating the other’s moves. Universal had mentioned the need for more accompaniment and background to my music, so, if for no other reason than to get together to play music, I got Bobby’s address. He and one of his girl friends were staying with Gary Hinman, and it was through Bobby that I met Gary.

  After a lot of traveling, we finally shook the Spiral Staircase and came up with a place of our own. We needed it! Twenty people traveling in a bus can be an adventure, and although the bus gave us a fair amount of comfort, even a gypsy needs some kind of headquarters. You can live without fresh hot and cold running water, electricity, a shitter that you can fart in without everyone looking at you and the other conveniences of a house, but goddamn, it’s nice to stretch out every once in a while. The place we moved into was not all that far from the Staircase. It was more an oversized cabin than a full-size home, but since our sleeping arrangemen
ts were mostly mattresses on the floor, there was plenty of room for all of us.

  On occasion we would catch some overflow from the Staircase or friends, but unlike the Spiral Staircase, we weren’t open to everyone for extended visits. If someone knocked and we liked them, fine, but if not, there was no invitation to stay.

  One night, like most nights, we were sitting on the front room floor talking and playing music. A warm glowing fire in the fireplace furnished both heat and light. The girls, pretty little nymphs that they were, were either nude or very scantily clad because of the comfortable warmth of the fire. A knock on the door brought Brenda (Nancy Pitman, a girl who had just recently joined us) to her feet. At the door was a small kid, about seventeen or eighteen, who was looking for the fellow who used to rent the house. When he saw Brenda’s bare breast he did a little stuttering before his words were intelligible. She asked him in, and when he saw the rest of the girls, he didn’t have the presence of mind to formulate speech. I was amused as he tried not to be obvious in checking out asses and tits. “Uh, uh, I, I, I was looking for Jay. Uh, uh, he used to live here,” he finally managed to say. To help the kid relax I asked his name and then introduced him to all those in the room.

  His name was Paul Watkins but we called him Little Paul. He had been on the road for several years and said he had visited several communes, but the way he couldn’t take his eyes off the nude bodies, I wasn’t sure he’d ever seen a girl in the raw before. His interest and ogling made him human and I was enjoying his efforts at trying to be a cool cat, so I asked if he wanted to sit down and join us. He did, and with a little nod of my head, Brenda and Snake motioned for him to sit between them. They passed him a joint and before long he was as high as the rest of us. I think he was in more of a fantasy land than he had ever dreamed possible. The grass took effect, the rhythm and lyrics of good music started us toward sensuality, and he found himself with two girls caressing him and removing his clothes. He spent the night and left the next morning, but returned a couple of months later. At first a part of our circle, he later became a Judas.