Merv Griffin- A Life in the Closet

by Darwin Porter

  “We have even more things in common,” Liberace said. “Rosemary Clooney told me about your new boyfriend, Hadley Morrell. That darling boy lived with me once for three weeks, but I had to get rid of him. Too clinging. I need my freedom.”

  Merv was astonished. “You and Hadley? He never said anything.”

  “Hadley's paying you a great compliment in linking up with you,” Liberace said. “He's a starfucker. If he's hitched his wagon to yours, it means he thinks you're going to the moon. He thinks you'll be big.” He glanced at his rings. “And rich.” Then he checked his diamondstudded watch. “I think I'm going to be late for my appointment with Mr. Douglas. He's directing my new picture. It's called Sincerely Yours.”

  “I've heard about it,” Merv said in a soft voice.

  “Say, I have this great idea,” Liberace said. “I'm throwing a little dinner party tonight for the Queen of Hollywood. No, I wasn't describing myself, you darling. I'd like you and Hadley to be my guests. It'd be a delight to see that stud one more time.”

  “Oh, I don't think so,” Merv said, “but thank you anyway. Just out of curiosity, who do you mean, the Queen of Hollywood? There are so many who fit that description.”

  Liberace laughed. “Mae West, you dear thing,” he said. “If you doubt it, ask her.”

  “Hot damn,” Merv said. “I'd swim a moat filled with alligators and crocodiles to meet Mae West. I think she's the cat's pajamas.”

  “Darling, you've got to update your vocabulary. Cat's pajamas was something to say back in the days when Clara Bow was fucking that divine Gary Cooper.”

  At that point the chauffeur came back from the men's room. “This is my driver, Paul Richardson,” Liberace said. The driver shook Merv's hand and smiled smugly as if he knew all about Merv.

  Before his exit, Liberace whispered in Merv's ear, “He's hung down to his knees.”

  After Liberace's departure, Paul made arrangements to pick Merv and Hadley up at seventhirty that evening.

  As Paul drove off with Liberace in the back seat, Merv stood staring at their dust. That scene with Liberace had happened so fast he suspected that it might have been a mirage. The Los Angeles sun seemed to be frying his brain. Liberace and Hadley. It was a mindboggling concept.

  Merv drove home, his heart beating fast. He had a few things to discuss with Hadley before the evening's upcoming dinner party.

  As he steered his car down the street where he lived, he said, almost as a whisper to himself, “Mae West! My God. I don't have a thing to wear.”

  ***

  In red silk lounging pajamas, Liberace received Merv and Hadley at his spectacularly overthetop home. He kissed both Merv and Hadley on the lips and told Hadley that he'd missed him but was happy to learn “you've found a good home with Merv here.”

  “You make me sound like some stray dog being passed around from master to master,” Hadley said defensively.

  “When you work the kennel, that's how the game is played, my darling boy,” Liberace smirked, inviting them inside.

  Hadley preferred to anchor at the bar, while Liberace shared his house treasures with Merv. After all, Hadley had seen it all before. During the tour, Liberace showed off an exquisitely crafted desk that he claimed had been the property of Louis XV at the Court of Versailles. Merv even got to bounce up and down on a bed once slept in by Rudolph Valentino and one of his lesbian wives. Back in the living room, Liberace invited Merv to play a piano which had once belonged to Fréderic Chopin.

  Paul Richardon had gone upstairs to change out of his pink chauffeur's uniform. Coming down the stairs to take drink orders, he emerged this time as the waiter. He wore some Basquelike outfit with a white shirt open to reveal his sixpack stomach and tight black trousers with a red sash fastened around his waist. He even wore a pink beret, a gift from Liberace. When Paul was out of earshot, Merv whispered to Liberace, “You really know how to pick ‘em.”

  “You should see my rejects,” Liberace said.

  “If only I could be so lucky.”

  At the ring of the doorbell, Liberace became hysterical. “My God, it's Mae. She's right on time.” Standing in front of a fulllength mirror, he asked everybody, “How do I look?”

  “Loverly,” Merv assured him.

  Paul tried to answer the door, but Liberace blocked his movement, preferring the honor for himself. Merv, who would later describe every nuance of the evening to his friends, said that “Mae West really knows how to make a grand entrance.”

  “Hello, boys,” she said. “Feast your eyes on a real woman!” She stood under the glittering hallway chandelier for an inspection. Pink was her color of choice, from her satin gown to her satin shoes, and of course, for her fluttering feather boa as well. She also wore an ermine stole and diamonds — more than enough to justify those clichéridden comparisons to Diamond Lil.

  Before her introduction to Merv, Mae sized up both Paul and Hadley, beginning at their toes and spending far too long evaluating the potential of their crotches. “I've had the Montana Mule, Gary Cooper. And Mr. King Size, Steve Cochran. Oh, yes, and Mickey Hargitay, Mr. Universe as you know. If I recall, “beer can” David Niven had the time of his life, and even though he denies it, I've had everything that Anthony Quinn has got. There was Black Snake George Raft, and Bugsy Siegel carried his gun in the right place. A few moons ago, Mr. America, Richard DuBois, fell big for me. Even Harry Houdini didn't escape Mae's trap.” Mae had the habit of sometimes referring to herself in the third person.

  After a final onceover of both Paul and Hadley, she said, “Unless Mae is very, very wrong, and I'm never wrong about such things, I'd say you two studs have all those boys I mentioned beat. I bet I could take you two hunks from these two queens quicker than it takes Cary Grant to ejaculate. He was always premature, you know.” She smiled as Paul eased her fur from her shoulders. Putting one hand on her hip, she said, “Mae never has to take her clothes off in front of the camera like the Marilyn Monroe or the Jayne Mansfield sluts of today. Men can imagine what's underneath. Adolph Zukor once said, ‘When I look at that dame's tits, I know what lust means.’”

  “Mae, when I look you over, I know that you're the only woman in the world who could convert me,” Liberace gushed.

  She cast a skeptical eye toward him. “At least you're dressed for me. I hear you play the organ. Just how well do you play the organ?”

  “Just ask Paul or Hadley,” he said. “Either boy. They can give eyewitness testimonials to my talent.” Giggling, he reached for Merv's arm. “Oh, yes, Mae West meet Merv Griffin.”

  “Oh, yeah, the big band singer.” She sounded a bit dismissive. “I've already had two of the boys in the Freddy Martin band. But I'm sure you beat me to ‘em.”

  Embarrassed at her candor, he said, “Miss West, the greatest honor of my life. To me, you'll always be My Little Chickadee.”

  “Dream on, sugartit,” she said. “I'm too much woman for you. I could take on Paul and Hadley both, leave them exhausted, as I screamed for round two to come on. But if you guys love me so much, you could do Mae a big favor. Get Rock Hudson to ball me. I haven't sampled him yet. Have you both had him?”

  Liberace confirmed that they had.

  “Well, I hear he likes to fuck Golden Age stars. Jon Hall. Errol Flynn, Tyrone Power. Even that slutty dyke Joan Crawford. I'm sure Marlene Dietrich is running after that alleged ten and a half inches. Marlene tried to get my honeypot, but Mae doesn't make it with lesbians. Don't forget. Get Rock to come up and see me sometime.”

  “Mae, I'll see that he's delivered with a pink bow tied around it,” Liberace promised, as he ushered Mae into his candlelit living room. Paul took her order for green tea, as she said she didn't “touch the hard stuff, unless it's attached to a man.”

  Then, before the evening had really begun, she warned Merv and Liberace, “Mae works solo. Not even W.C. Fields could steal a scene from me. If there are any oneliners to be delivered tonight, Mae herself will do the honors.”

  As M
erv would later tell his friends, “Lee might wear more elaborate costumes on stage, but for sheer flamboyance, no one topped Mae West. She might call herself a real woman, but I've had my doubts. I think all those rumors about her being a drag queen are true. She's the mother of all female impersonators. In fact, I think she invented the gig just for herself.”

  Within the hour, Liberace bounced up out of his chair, announcing that he was to be the chef of the evening. “All the recipes are from my book, Liberace Cooks! ” he said.

  “I'm glad you're the chef,” Hadley said. “Merv's idea of cooking is to overboil spaghetti, then heat up catsup to pour over it.”

  “I'm sure the dear boy is good at other things,” Liberace said, leading the way to the kitchen with an impish wink.

  Merv was going to escort Mae, but Paul beat him to it. Looking up into his eyes, she said, “I've always had a healthy appetite both for the wellendowed male like yourself and for food that is aphrodisiac. Ever since Eve gave that apple to Adam, women have known down through the centuries what foods they should feed men to stimulate them sexually.”

  “I never knew that,” Merv said.

  Rhinestones, kleig lights, and Über-camp

  Mae West with Liberace

  “Tonight Lee and I will share some of our secrets in attracting men, other than our stunning good looks,” Mae said.

  Mae was speaking strictly privately. In the more public forum of her 1975 book, Mae West on Sex, Health, and ESP, she claimed, “I've never relied on food to turn on the guys in my life!”

  Propped on a stool, she suggested that there was something to the ancient belief that a man could stimulate his sex drive by eating the sexual organs of animals, especially those of a bull. “I once hired a Spanish chef from Barcelona, who prepared the most divine bull's testicles. I fed them to my men and found that after eating them they could go all night. Of course, in the case of Steve Cochran, he didn't need any stimulation at all.” She turned to Merv, “But, dearie, I'm sure you know that already after sharing that dressing room with him.”

  Merv was surprised that Mae even knew his name, much less the identity of a man he'd seduced.

  Sensing his surprise, she said, “I might not have made a picture since 1943, but Mae knows what's going on in this town. A cockroach doesn't cross Hollywood Boulevard without getting Mae's permission.”

  As Liberace, wearing a red apron, stood over his range, putting the finishing touches on dinner, Mae warned him to “cool it with the spices. I don't believe in using too many, perhaps a bit of curry. I have discovered, however, that a bit of freshly ground pepper in a dish can get a man's sexual glands working overtime.”

  Over an elaborate dinner table set with gold tableware, Mae claimed she always enjoyed an evening out “with the boys. Ever since my days in vaudeville, you boys have always adored Mae. I've always been your champion. I remember when the cops on Broadway in the 20s launched a cleanup campaign in the district and started roughing up you boys. I called the flatfeet together and gave them a piece of my mind. I reminded them that when they were clubbing one of you, they actually were beating up on a lady. After that, they let up on you homosexuals.”

  “Mae is an expert on homosexuals,” Liberace said with a touch of mockery in his voice.

  She did not pick up on this subtle put-down, accepting it as gospel. “That's because I understand you boys,” she said. “Homosexuality comes from the soul. When a man is born with a female soul, he becomes homosexual. When a male soul is trapped in a woman's body, she becomes a lesbian. It's an accident of nature. I have nothing but pity for you homosexuals.”

  “I'm sure some of us don't want your pity,” Hadley said. “We're having too much fun.”

  For the first time that evening, she seemed insulted but she carefully masked it. “Some homosexuals—obviously not the brightest—just think they're having a good time. They're deluding themselves. In fact, gay sex is only a form of masturbation. In the end, it doesn't satisfy.”

  Merv laughed at the double entendre, even though she didn't seem to realize why.

  “Only sex between a man and a woman can satisfy,” she went on. “Also gay sex is only transitory. Most gays end up sad old aunties.”

  Mae's pronouncements were met with stony silence at table. She got up to excuse herself to go to the toilet to repair her makeup.

  After she'd left the room, Merv in a soft voice said to Liberace, “I can't believe what I just heard. Mae West a homophobe? What if her millions of gay fans knew that? They'd turn against her, and they're the only fans she has left.”

  “The poor dear was born back in the Stone Age of 1893,” Liberace said. “For a woman of that century, Mae is considered enlightened. After all, she wrote that play Drag in the 1920s.”

  “I'm sure drag is something on which she is an expert,” Merv said sarcastically.

  Later that evening, the entire party went once again to Liberace's kitchen where he served Mae's favorite dessert, rice custard. Over her second helping, she talked about her novel, Babe Gordon, which had first been published in 1930. With the help of some collaborators, she had adapted it into the Broadway play, The Constant Sinner. “I deliberately set out to offend public taste. Let my critics scream, but I had them lined up with erections for me at the box office. I based the character of Babe on myself. Call me a daughter of joy. The French, or so I was told, call women like me les femmes amoureuses. We're not talking street walkers here. Daughters of joy might be the lowest tramp on the street or a queen in the fanciest of boudoirs. People have called Mae immoral. How wrong they are. Like my character of Babe Gordon, I'm non-moral.”

  Before departing that night—“I've got to get my beauty sleep”—Mae gave Merv some unsolicited career advice. “If you want to succeed in show business, you've got to have a gimmick, a personality that audiences can immediately identify. With me, all I have to do is flash some diamonds. Perhaps walk across the stage in my distinctive way. I have my costumes — my spectacular hats, my hipswirled gowns. Lee here takes after me. All he has to do is swish out onto the stage in bejeweled drag and seat himself at his glasstopped piano with his flickering candelabra. The world will get to know you, Griffin, if you find a gimmick. That's what show business is all about. Jean Harlow was nothing until she discovered peroxide. Monroe followed her example. Veronica Lake had those peekaboo bangs. When she cut them off, her career was over. You've got to create a vivid personality to get the suckers to part with their greenbacks. Get a gimmick, for God's sake. Being a bland Mr. Nice Guy doesn't make it in show business. Maybe in hardware. It's okay to sing those romantic ballads. But crooners are a dime a dozen. You've got to get a sound like Frank Sinatra. Hell, you don't need a great voice to become a sensation as a singer. Billie Holiday, when she wasn't drugged, thrilled audiences and she couldn't sing a note. But we listened to her. Take Louis Armstrong and that foghorn voice. See how far you can go even with no talent.”

  “I'll take your advice, Miss West,” Merv promised.

  And suddenly the evening came to an abrupt end, Merv remembering Mae's departure as a vision in pink encased in ermine. That vision would remain in his memory forever.

  ***

  “Ain't Mae grand?” Liberace asked, settling himself later on a chaise longue by his pianoshaped pool.

  “Narcissistic as hell and maybe touched in the head with some of those opinions, but completely adorable,” Merv said.

  As Hadley and Paul came out onto the patio, Liberace asked the two men to take off their clothes and go skinnydipping in his pool. “That would amuse Merv and moi,” he said.

  Without the slightest hesitation, Hadley stripped down like he'd done so many times before and jumped into the pool. Like a professional stripteaser, Paul slowly removed his Basque outfit. Standing before the two voyeurs, he took off his white shirt, revealing a powerful chest—long, lean, and beautifully muscled. A thin line of golden hairs trickled from the center of his chest to his navel, contrasting with the rich tan of
his entire body. His broad pectoral muscles tapered to a slim waist. Merv looked on with anxious excitement. The pathway of Paul's golden hair led to a curly, lustrous bush of golden pubic hair. His extremities—legs, fingers, and arms were lean, his cock long and thick. After he was assured that both had taken a satisfying look, he ran to the edge of the pool, jumping in to join a nude Hadley. The two men yelled and splashed about in the water.

  Alone at last:

  Liberace at home

  “That is some piece of meat,” Merv said.

  “Let's make a deal,” Liberace said. “I can have Paul any night, but I'd like to shack up tonight with Hadley for old time's sake. You can take Paul to my guest room for fun and games. A deal?”

  “You're on, buddy” Merv said. “There are side benefits to our friendship that I am only now beginning to realize,” Merv said.

  “You ain't seen nothing yet, Fannie Mae,” Liberace promised.

  Merv would later confide to Paul Schone and Bill Robbins. “Paul Richardson took me into dreamland. I'd been a good boy until I met Liberace. But I have a feeling he's going to teach me how to live. You can say that that night at his house officially launched me into my Age of Decadence. Incidentally, my new nickname for him is Sadie. He calls me Fannie Mae.”

  ***

  Merv appeared on the set of East of Eden, released in 1955, for a reunion with James Dean. The two men had talked and smoked cigarettes for only fifteen minutes during a break in filming before they noticed two other men walking toward them.

  Merv immediately recognized both figures. One was Humphrey Bogart, the other was Solly Biano, head of casting at Warner's. Under his breath, Merv whispered to James, “I hope Solly does more for your career than he did for mine.”

  Ignoring Merv, Solly introduced Bogie to the rising young star, who completely avoided eye contact with the screen legend. Solly had thought that Bogie and James would hit it off, because both of them were graduates of the “I Don't Give a Fuck” school.