Legends and Lipstick: My Scandalous Stories of Hollywood's Golden Era

by Nancy Bacon

  He pulled me out of the car and led me through the door into the living room. His home was lush, lavish, expensive, immense—the great white mansion on the hill. We went to the bar where he made drinks and then a couple of guys walked in and he introduced us. I later learned that Rod was never alone. His producer, director, manager, friends, and flunkies were constantly hovering around him, ready to do his bidding. But this time Rod seemed not at all pleased at having so much company, so he invited me into a large building adjoining the main house, which was a combination bar, playroom, and projection room. It was a vast area, long, wide, big, with a wall-to-wall screen at the far end. He told me he had a movie that he was exceptionally proud of and asked if I wanted to see it. He had written the screenplay, produced, directed, and starred in the flick, he explained. Of course I wanted to see it—no matter that it was after two in the morning. We snuggled up on the sofa together, drinks in hand, and watched the credits unreel.

  Charm flashed across the screen and as the credits continued to roll he wrapped me up in his arms and caressed me in a rough, yet tender way as he pointed out several shots and locations in the film. Soon we were wrapped up in another kiss that took my breath away. If I had thought that Newman was frail, even too tender, Rod was made of steel as he bent me backward on the sofa, his body covering mine. The kiss grew in intensity and everything seemed to haze together as our clothes magically fell away. Flesh burned into flesh and our breath came hard and fast as the music score of the film mounted and grew to a crescendo of drums that beat in time with our movements.

  It was such a wild feeling. A storm had just come up on the screen—lightning flashed and thunder rumbled and the black night of make-believe was highlighted in muted color and crashing drums as rain pelted down from the turbulent skies. It seemed so appropriate, a storm on the screen and another one raging on the sofa.

  When both storms had subsided we lay quietly, side by side, and watched the cowboys round up the stampeded herd of cattle. Then there was a close-up of Rod there on the screen, bigger than life and in Technicolor, and I turned to look at the real Rod Taylor’s face—close, tender, just inches from mine, and I felt like I was in some weird fantasyland.

  We smoked a cigarette, finished our drinks, and after a while began making love again. Only this time it was easier, slower, dreamier—and less like sex-starved animals.

  The sun was peeking over the Hollywood Hills when Rod finally drove me home. We kissed long and deep and he asked me how long it would take me to get ready for dinner. I thought for a moment that he planned on coming inside to wait!

  He called for me at seven that evening and we went to the Tail of the Cock for dinner. Of course, every female in the restaurant found some excuse to walk by our table and ogle Rod, but if he noticed he paid no attention. His eyes were for me alone and I must admit that I loved the envious stares from the ladies as they paraded by.

  After about a month of seeing Rod almost every night, the gossip columnists had us engaged and then secretly married. At first it was fun to read that bunk and laugh about it, but soon it became a bore. It seems that every time someone in the public eye finds someone he can be comfortable and happy with, the gossip columnists try their best to blow it. Rod was going through a lot of shit at that time-both professionally and personally. His ex-wife was giving him a bad time and he was having trouble getting the right roles because the parts he wanted to play were hard to land. I knew it bothered him. I mean, here he was, Rod Taylor, superstar and one hell of a fine actor, and he was losing parts.

  I could never understand that about Hollywood. They have a great actor, good-looking, oozing sex appeal, marvelous personality and easy to work with—then they give the juicy roles to some pretty-faced newcomer. I have seen Rod in countless films and he was great in every one of them. He was what is known as an actor’s actor. He was admired and congratulated by his peers, but the roles he should have been playing, went to somebody else. You figure it out. Remember him in the V.I.P.’s?—he stole that movie from everyone who was in it, including that old pro Dame Rutherford.

  If Rod was hot about other actors getting the parts he should have gotten, he never let on. Oh sure, we talked about it a lot, but he was never petty or jealous about the new pretty face that was currently making it. He was always happy, laughing, teasing—the most perfect lover I’ve ever had.

  He made me (and most all women he came in contact with) feel special. I know that I felt cherished and protected and loved with him. He never left any doubt in anyone’s mind that I was his lady. He was a two-fisted drinker, a barroom brawler, successful in his chosen field, and a magnetic lover—what more could any man wish to be? After Newman and his moods, I was in for a real treat during my eight months or so with Rod. We went out often. Usually to the Luau (one of Rod’s favorite spots) and almost every time we had dinner there some big, burly dude at the bar would cast an eye in Rod’s direction, get a little drunker, then finally swagger over and say something like: ‘You don’t look so damn tough to me, movie star.’

  Things like that really happen to actors. If they are known on screen as a tough-guy type, they’re fair game for any drunk who happens to spot them in a bar and decides to invite them outside. Rod never turned down an invitation. He would try, as nicely as possible, to discourage the bum or talk him out of it, but if they persisted, he obliged. And the challenger usually went away with a shiner to remind him of just how tough this particular movie star was! Sometimes some joker would call the cops and then the scene got real cute. I remember once when the sirens wailed and the red lights flashed and a whole army of cops leaped out of their black and white chariot and fell, en masse, upon Rod. They had him by the arms and were tugging him God knows where, when suddenly one cop said, ‘Oh, sweet Jesus—it’s Rod Taylor!’ And every other cop there dropped their arms and stepped back a respectful five feet or so. I cracked up and so did Rod.

  I simply adored being with Rod. I think we would have fallen in love and set up housekeeping together if we hadn’t been such good friends. We loved each other, there was never any doubt of that, but we were not in love with each other. We had such a merry time just laughing it up, doing crazy things, making love until the small hours of the morning; we exercised together, played together, and even tried writing a screenplay together. (It was a disaster!)

  I think, looking back now, I’d have to say that Rod Taylor was the most complete man I have ever known. He was wonderful both in and out of bed. I was working on a novel that was quite important to me at the time, and every time Rod and I had a date he asked me to bring along my manuscript so he could see how much I had completed. He would take the pages, pour us a drink, and then sit down on the sofa and read every line. This impressed me more than anything else. I mean, what other actor, or other person, for that matter, would show so much interest in what someone else is doing? Most people in show business are notoriously selfish and care only about what they are doing at the moment. But Rod was different. He was an honest critic as well. He would frown over my pages, reread them, and finally tell me how to fix them so they would read smoother and more realistically. He was a marvelous help to me and showed me many tricks with a shooting script. I don’t think there was anything about the movie industry that he did not know.

  I suppose it’s my fault that Rod and I broke up at last. Marijuana had made its debut in the Hollywood circles and I was an early (and eager) advocate of the weed. Rod was not. He is an old-fashioned man in many ways, one who believed anything that is called ‘dope’ is bad for you. I don’t think I ever saw him take a pill of any kind, not even an aspirin. Anyway, he told me I was crazy to be smoking that wanton weed known as marijuana and that it would destroy my mind and ruin my talent. He said I was wrong, dead wrong, to think I could handle it. We quarreled and I walked out in a huff.

  Of course, whenever he called I would go to him and we’d have another fantastic evening together. I was sad to hear it when he passed away in 2015, but my m
emories are most fond.

  two affairs to forget

  Whenever I think of the creeps I have known (and, surprisingly, there have not been that many) I cannot help but think of two of filmdom’s most respected citizens: Ben Gazarra and James Farentino.

  I met Ben Gazarra at The Factory one evening and we shot some pool, had a few drinks and some good, stimulating conversation and I guess both of us knew that we were very much attracted to one another. We left early and went to my house, where I mixed drinks while Ben raided the refrigerator, then we sat on the sofa and talked, laughed together, really digging one another.

  He was extremely charming and polished in his approach and we necked on the sofa like newlyweds until we both said at the same time, ‘Let’s go to bed,’ and he scooped me up in his arms and carried me into the darkened bedroom. I lit a candle and he kneeled down and took my hand, gently licking my fingers even as I tried to get out of my clothes. He stroked and kissed each part that I uncovered, telling me over and over again what a beautiful and fabulous woman I was, how difficult it was for him to find someone who was the least bit intelligent, and on and on.

  I thought, my God, don’t tell me he’s falling in love with me? (He was really an excellent actor, folks!) I was thinking, good heavens, the poor man hasn’t had any loving for months to respond this strong and passionately, and I immediately took care of that problem.

  I’ve always had a thing about Italian men and Ben did not disappoint me. His lips and hands were every place at once until I felt like there were two other guys in bed with us. We made love until dawn, then Ben looked over at me, grinned, and said, ‘Come here, fox,’ and tucked me under his arm and we fell asleep that way.

  Upon awakening, we made love several more times, talking quietly in between, sneaking trips to the fridge for nourishment, and, all in all, just having one hell of a grand time of it.

  A couple of nights later I was at The Factory again and saw Ben standing with a group of people in the pool room. I was headed that way, so I paused and said, ‘Hi, Ben, how are you?’

  ‘What the hell do you want?’ he snarled, his otherwise handsome face looking ugly and surly. I was taken aback, but I put my hand on his arm and said, ‘Hey, I just wanted to say hello, how are you—that’s all.’

  ‘Well, you’ve said it, now get lost. I’m with my friends.’ He angrily shook my hand off and turned his back, cutting me dead.

  I stood there for a moment, not believing the scene. I mean, here was a guy who, just two short days ago, had spent twenty-four hours at my house, professed love and passion for me, ate my food, drank my booze, used my home, soiled my sheets, and he didn’t even have the common decency to respond to a simple ‘hello.’

  I tapped him on the shoulder and when he turned, scowling in a most ugly manner, I said sweetly, ‘Ben Gazarra, you are a prick.’ Then I walked away and went into the poolroom where I saw friendlier faces.

  The only other creep I had a sexual encounter with is the boyish James Farentino. We had met several times and talked together. I knew he was married and I wasn’t even that attracted to him, but he was cute and fun and we had some conversations. We always kidded around if we saw one another. Then one night we were both a little bombed and we stumbled together into a back booth; giggling and necking and carrying on, mostly in fun. We were both young then, of course, and were acting like a couple of crazy teenyboppers.

  ‘Wow,’ he said, running his hand through his crisp, curly black hair. ‘Baby, you’re really turning me on—let’s go home and fuck.’

  ‘Let’s do it,’ I laughed, and we were off. We got to my house quite late and fell into bed almost immediately. We made mad, passionate love until dawn, doing everything to each other that was humanly possible, and Jim promised me a million thrills from then until we were both too old to appreciate them. I declined any kind of relationship because, quite frankly, I was not into being the mistress or the other woman anymore. And also because by this time I had sobered up sufficiently to realize who I was with, and I discovered that he really didn’t turn me on all that much. He wanted to spend the day and (hopefully) the next night, but I told him I was leaving town for a couple of days so he would have to split. He seemed a little hurt as he left, kissing me hungrily and with much intensity, making me promise to let him know the moment I got back in town.

  About a week later I ran into him at The Factory and saw that he was with a group of friends, drink in hand, chatting about show biz. I wasn’t even going to say anything because I didn’t want to get into another scene with him but he looked right at me as I started to walk by. I gave him a little wave, said, ‘Hi, Jim’ and continued on my way.

  ‘I don’t know you,’ he said loudly, loud enough for his friends to hear. Then he did something really stupid. He reached out and grabbed my arm, pulling me close, shoving his face next to mine. ‘I don’t know you,’ he repeated. ‘What the hell are you trying to do—break up my marriage?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I said, pulling away, but he followed a quick couple of steps and grabbed my arm again.

  ‘I don’t know you, lady, I’m a married man—got it?’ He shoved his face in close, sneering menacingly and squeezing my arm awfully hard. ‘You leave me alone, you understand?’

  I was completely and utterly shocked and disbelieving. I really could not accept what was happening. He had a death grip on my arm, still leaning in close, glowering at me.

  ‘Saying ‘Hi, Jim,’ is going to break up your marriage?’ I said in genuine bafflement. ‘Hey, man, you’d better have your head checked out.’

  ‘Don’t start any trouble,’ he warned. ‘I’ll tell everybody I don’t know you.’

  ‘Cool,’ I said. ‘You’ll be doing me a favor.’ And with that I shook him loose and walked away.

  Can you believe it? What a character. All this crazy, stupid conversation for one simple roll in the hay when we were both feeling horny. You don’t break up a marriage for something like that. Besides, it was a one-nighter for me; I had no eyes to make it anything else. If he wanted to play around he should at least have had the class and the balls to be cool about it. I certainly did—and still do, quite frankly,

  I really can’t stand dopes who want to play the bigshot in public and the rake in private. I’ve never been the type to blow the whistle on anyone and I’m also very friendly. When I see a guy I’ve been to bed with I usually manage to say ‘hello’—it only seems polite.

  With the exception of those two guys, all the other movie stars I had anything to do with were really super guys and considerate gentlemen. I have had brief affairs with married men, and when we ran into one another in public they were always warm, friendly, and seemed genuinely glad to see me. If they were with wife or friends they would introduce me, knowing, I suppose, that I had enough class not to blow it for them. Messrs. Farentino and Gazarra, however, showed their own lack of class by snubbing me. If they were truly all that sophisticated they would obviously pick a paramour who would be discreet in public. The very fact that they panicked when they saw me proved their ignorance and insufferable boorishness.

  orgy to the death

  The little man held the yellow, cotton-covered ampule almost lovingly in his hand between thumb and forefinger, almost as though he wanted to squeeze it and release the amber fluid so that it would flood and saturate the cotton and fill his nostrils with the pear-scented gas that would send his mind soaring in ecstasy, blow it reeling into a private heaven. ‘It’s in there,’ he said softly. ‘The highest high I know.’

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘Amyl Nitrate,’ he said. ‘An Amie.’ He wanted badly to squeeze it now. Wanted to go with the fumes on a trip, but he withheld the pressure. ‘It accelerates your heart beat,’ he said. ‘Opens you up so the blood roars. For a few seconds you are on the precipice, a step away from death. If you dig Amies, you’ll really dig dying. That’s the next stop.’ He frowned slightly, sadly. ‘I’ve been on the edge so many tim
es. One day I’ll go over—the whole trip. Maybe soon. I don’t think I’ll really mind.’

  A month later, Jay Sebring went over the edge. He flew higher than the highest high of the Amie and died from multiple stab wounds, a hood over his head, tied with knotted rope to the body of a beautiful woman, Sharon Tate, in the most bizarre murder in the history of Hollywood.

  Jay Sebring, barber, little man with a craving to live it all the way and a passion to die, collapsed into a tiny bundle of his own dead flesh; the blood that once roared seeped into the carpet of a plush home never to flow again, silent forever now, near the corpses of the celebrated people he needed to be around. I miss him. (But he would have loved it, for his greatest social deficiency was that he was a name-dropper.)

  The conversation about the Arnie had taken place at The Factory, the ultraelegant former machine shop that then served as Hollywood’s escape hatch for the jades who sleep on satin and drive to their restless occupations on kid leather in their Porsches and Rolls Royces. He slipped the Amie into his pocket and helped me from the bar stool. We went into the dining room and sat beneath the crystal-dripping chandeliers and ate silently. We didn’t speak much because we didn’t need to. We communicated mentally as we had for several years. We were friends.

  Over the coffee table, I watched him as he fidgeted tensely. He was a handsome man with a sad-eyed look about him. Short in stature, he looked like a boy who hadn’t fully grown up. But in those eyes that never twinkled, beyond the glaze of secrecy, there lurked an almost animal urgency that could account for the success he had achieved in just a few years. His background was wretched. He had been a junkie, hooked on heroin, confined for cures in several cities, by occupation a barber in whatever shop in whatever city would have him until he came to Hollywood more than ten years before. In Hollywood his good looks and his cool had brought response from a number of fairly important people. One particularly was Jim Byron. Jay had worked on Byron’s receding hairline and styled it in such a way that the press agent was no longer fretting about his baldness. And he was grateful. Together they came up with an idea that was to make the little barber himself a celebrity. The going rate for a twenty-minute seat in a clipper’s chair at that time was two dollars.