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

by Nancy Bacon

  ‘The only think they understand in this town,” said Byron, ‘is price. Make it expensive and they will buy it. I’ll raise the money and you open a shop, and charge fifty bucks a trim.’

  ‘A styling,’ said Jay.

  ‘That’s what I meant.’

  Ten years later the man sitting across from me was a tycoon, a millionaire with shops in three cities. One of them, in San Francisco, was backed by Abigail Folger, who was one of the bodies on the lawn that night of horror in Benedict Canyon.

  When we finished our coffee, Jay led me by the hand through the bar area of The Factory and down the grilled lift to the entrance. I had brought my own car, so he signaled for the parking attendant to bring it and moved toward his own Porsche, which was parked at the curb.

  ‘Follow me,’ he said.

  ‘Where?’ I shouted—but he was already in his car so I pulled out behind him. We drove over Sunset Boulevard, skimmed along the deserted Strip and headed for the canyon in which he was soon to die.

  The road up Benedict Canyon is narrow, rutted, and dark. His home squatted at the top of a flat mound like a black angular frog perched on a hillock. A twisting set of steps led to the front door, and as I parked I saw Jay waiting for me on the bottom step. Above him the stars were eerie in the darkness, lighted only by the muted glow of the moon. I trailed after him as he led me to the front door, and I felt the night air hang about us, ominous and heavy. I always got a chill when I walked into Jay’s strange, Moorish-Spanish house.

  Inside, he flicked on a light, and we went into the living room.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ Jay went to the fireplace and turned on the gas. Immediately, flames leaped high, casting tall shadows on the wall but doing nothing for the chill that lived there.

  ‘Get comfortable,’ he said, taking off his jacket and finding cigarettes and a lighter on the coffee table. He lit two, handed me one then reached into his pocket for the little vial of cocaine that he always carried with him. I wasn’t shocked. I had seen him go through the ritual before. He produced a small slab of silver, hollowed out on one end like a demitasse spoon, and dipped it into the cocaine, scooping up a small amount. Holding one nostril shut with an index finger, he sniffed the white powder into the open nostril—then changed, and filled the other nostril.

  Without speaking, he dipped into the vial again and brought out another ration and held it for me. I pressed first one nostril, then the other, and inhaled deep of the stuff on the spoon. Satisfied that I taken it, secure that I was now in his bag, Jay gave me one of those rare smiles.

  Rising, he hurried up the stone steps (the interior of the house was all stone, brick, and rough wooden beams) to the kitchen, returning a moment later with a bottle of some exotic and obviously rare liqueur. He filled glasses for both of us, lit a joint, and settled on the floor, resting his arms on his knees. The flames from the fireplace flashed mosaic patterns across his sad-handsome face and I was silent, waiting for him to speak. He said nothing, but I knew he had some to tell me so I waited.

  He reached to a gadget behind him and turned the flames up higher in the fireplace. Suddenly, dim lights flickered on outside the windows, casting the living room in long, trembling shadows. Jay filled the spoon again, four times—two for him and two for me. I made no protest.

  The strong drug was coursing through my bloodstream now, spinning my brain and sending my pulses pounding. The sticky liqueur burned my throat and the heavy, sweet odor of marijuana cloaked the room. I leaned back against the cushions, closed my eyes and put my feel upon the coffee table. I felt the butt of a cigarette against my lips and took a long pull, not surprised to find that it was a fresh joint. I felt Jay lean against my leg, resting his head on my thigh, and I stroked the curly dark hair, wanting to say something that would reward me with another smile.

  ‘You’re my friend, aren’t you.’ It wasn’t a question. The low, soft voice was muffled against my leg and I nodded. He felt the nod and his hand caressed my arm. ‘I know I can talk to you. You’ve never put me down. You don’t put anyone down.’ He stopped speaking but the gentle pressure of his fingers continued up and down my arm. ‘You’re kind—’

  I bent my head and kissed his closed eyes and his arms went around me and he held me so tight I couldn’t get my breath. ‘Don’t leave me tonight.’ His eyes were dark with emotion, fathomless sadness in their depths, and I said, ‘I won’t leave you, Jay.’ I felt his body relax in my arms, like a child reassured that nightmares aren’t for real, and I got my reward. He gave me one of his smiles. I think we both knew he had so few left to give.

  Then he began talking and he told me about his fears and his dread of life. ‘People knock what they don’t understand,’ he said. ‘They think it’s got to be bad if they don’t dig it.’ Then he looked into my eyes, and there was pain and anguish in his voice when he said, ‘We all have different needs.’

  ‘I know, baby—that’s just the way it is.’ I stroked his head some more. He took my hand, and still holding it, reached to the coffee table for the liqueur bottle. He seemed especially concerned about the order of things. First came the liqueur, then the little vial of cocaine, then the joint of marijuana.

  ‘Jay, no more—’ I turned my head away as he held the coke-filled spoon under my nose. My protest sounded as weak to him as it had to me, and I dutifully sniffed in the white powder. ‘What the hell,’ I mumbled, but if he heard he gave no sign. I felt my body begin to relax and unwind, and I dug it.

  Jay reached to the coffee table again and leaned to me and kissed me. ‘I’m going to pop an Amie,’ he whispered against my mouth, and then there was a popping sound and he was holding something moist under my nose. ‘Breathe in,’ he ordered softly. ‘Breathe in deep’ And he pressed the Amie tight against my nose until I could breathe in only the fumes, no air. Immediately a feeling like nothing I’ve ever experienced filled me. I felt my head, my brain, expanding, filling with the nearness of him. His lips came down on mine, crushing, hard, passionate, and the nitrate swirled through my body, my veins, my blood; then I was lifted, flung upward with such a frighteningly beautiful force that I lay prone in its power, letting my body and soul expand, fill with an intoxicating, churning, vacillating, mind-blowing high. I could actually fill my body with his. My pores opened to allow him entry. There were no barriers. We were swirling, flying, winding, floating above the whole ugly world in a private paradise that only we could share. That only the two of us, now, at this moment, could feel. My body seemed to come apart, to unravel and expand into coils of sensual, animalistic wantoness. It was an exquisite blending, a melding of the flesh that needed nothing to bind it together. Just raw, animal emotion. We had no bodies. We were tossed up and out of our bodies, twisting, turning, climbing high, higher-aspirants to ecstasy. But the ecstasy was withheld.

  Our blood returned, reluctantly, to throbbing veins, and we drifted, floated, fell softly to the carpet and felt the coarse weave, and we found our bodies waiting there for us. And we slid into them and we both knew we had been to another place.

  We talked. We talked about everything from his hang-ups to my work, and we scooped into the vial more and more often. We were both on the floor now, sprawled out in a languid fashion, staring with drug-glazed eyes into the hypnotic flames that seemed to dance and leap for our pleasure alone. He told me about his desires, his needs, and I wasn’t shocked when he painted pictures of girls bound and straining against their bonds as he caressed their half-nude bodies. I was fascinated with the picture and I asked him to tell me more. I wanted to know why he dug it. But he couldn’t tell me. He could only suggest that I try it and see for myself.

  I think it was curiosity. Maybe it was boredom. It could have been my own latent sense of doom. I stood up and he pulled my jeans off and stood back and admired my body, clad in a pair of high-topped boots, black bikini panties, a see-through blouse and no bra. He left the room, returning a moment later with a beautiful vest of gold chains which he slipped over my
blouse. He then draped a gold chain belt about my waist, the many links falling around my hips. He stared at me for a full minute then ran up the stone steps again. He was gone for some time and I sat back down on the sofa and relit the joint which was now a short roach. I was so high I felt as if I was being lifted by invisible hands and held aloft as I surveyed the room below me. I heard Jay’s footsteps, and I looked down from my perch in limbo and saw him standing there. A funny half-smile rested like a frightened dove upon his lips, ready to take flight the moment I said the wrong tiling. But I couldn’t say the wrong thing for I couldn’t speak.

  My little friend, Jay Sebring, was showing me his soul. He wore a black silk Japanese robe that stopped where his thighs started. A wide leather belt accentuated his ridiculously small waist; high-heeled black boots hugged his calves and stopped at his knees, standing away from his thin legs. He looked like a waif in borrowed G.I. boots. The robe was very carefully opened two inches down the front. He wore nothing beneath it

  I didn’t know what to say. I don’t think there was anything to say. I smiled and hoped that my eyes were understanding. He gave me a look of gratitude and poured us another drink. When he offered the silver spoon I did not refuse.

  ‘I love your perfume,’ he said. ‘It’s Joy, isn’t it?’ I nodded and he continued. ‘I love beautiful fragrances. I have more than a hundred different kinds that I have collected from all over the world. Would you like to see them?’ I nodded again, not really trusting myself to speak, and heard his high-heeled boots clumping up the barren stairway and into his bedroom. He was gone a long time and I waited, curious now and perhaps just a little sorry that I had allowed myself a peek into his tortured world.

  ‘Oh, Jay,’ I breathed, looking up in surprise as he entered the room carrying a large, hand-carved, mirrored tray edged in gold. It was literally covered with tiny, exquisite glass bottles and jars. Each one held a different fragrance. Some were liquid, some lotions, and some thick, smooth cream. He took all the caps off and the odors blended in a potpourri of scents; sickly sweet, pungent, strong, exhilarating.

  ‘I want to rub them on your body.’ He didn’t ask. He got to his feet and disappeared again, returning this time with a length of rope. ‘Will you let me tie you?’ He was a small child asking for a treat that he was afraid would be refused. I nodded, and he looped the rope loosely around my wrists, asking, ‘Is it too tight?’

  ‘No, it’s all right.’ I tried to catch his eyes, but his head was bent and he fumbled with the slim white rope. ‘Jay.’ My voice pulled him up and those dark questioning eyes were upon me. ‘I don’t like pain.’ I made my voice steady and tried to convey to him, with my eyes, that I would not allow it to happen. ‘I want to make you happy, to do what brings you pleasure, but I won’t allow you to hurt me.’ The eyes penetrated. I licked suddenly dry lips and tried again. ‘I’m not knocking it. I don’t put anyone down for it—it’s just not my thing.’

  ‘I understand,’ he said at length. He raised himself and kissed me, and his lips were warm and dry. He looped one end of the rope over a beam above the fireplace and tied it, asking if it was too tight. I shook my head and watched as he secured the other rope to another beam on the other side of the fireplace. I was standing on the rough stone hearth in front of the crackling fire, my arms outstretched, wrists bound with thin white rope that stretched to wooden beams on either side of the fireplace mantle. He stood back and admired his handicraft. I looked down at myself and felt—What was it? Pride in my body? Pride in my ability to bring that sexy and passionate look to his eyes? Was I turned on by this new and bizarre scene? I didn’t know. I only knew that I wasn’t frightened. That I trusted him. And I was curious and anxious to see what he would do next.

  ‘You’re so beautiful,’ he murmured, and his eyes swept my body with such desire I felt as if I had been touched. He sank to his knees and ran trembling hands over my thighs, my legs, my leather boots. He was so gentle it felt like a butterfly wing and I writhed against the hand, wanting it to be harder. But he stopped caressing me and reached for a bottle of perfume. He poured a large amount into the palms of his hands and moved slowly toward me and spread it over my breasts and belly and thighs. He worked it in slow, circular motions, spreading, massaging, working the perfume into my flesh. He filled his hands with another fragrance and massaged it into my skin.

  Again and again he reached to the coffee table, coming back each time with yet another scent, a cream, a lotion, a liquid, and he spread them over my body, onto my transparent blouse, between the chain links of my heavy gold vest, over the draped gold belt, and slithered them down my perfumed and slick legs. A lotion rested like whipped cream on the tops of my boots and glistened like satin in the eerie glow of the flames. It mingled with the perspiration of my body and shone wet and gleaming and still he did not stop. He caressed and massaged and spread layer upon layer of perfume onto my now reeking body. Then he took out a hairdressers’ plastic bottle with a spray head and he squirted me all over with warm water. The heat of the water sent the fumes up to my nostrils.

  ‘Please, Jay, it’s too much,’ I pleaded. The odor was reeling my drug-churned head. I was afraid I would be sick. ‘The fire’s too hot.’ My voice seemed to come from another place, and I was surprised when he moved quickly and turned down the flames. Then he stood and surveyed his masterpiece. His eyes were seeing a beauty that only he could see. I was sorry that I was unable to share it with him. I guess I was even envious of his secret world. My wrists had begun to ache and my head was pulsing with the emotion of the evening and Jay was suddenly by my side, loosening the ropes, rubbing my wrists, and whispering, ‘Are you alright? It wasn’t bad, was it? It wasn’t bad.’ And he kissed my reddened wrists and smoothed my hair back from my damp face and wiped the perspiration from my forehead.

  I sank to the floor and asked him, ‘Why?’

  He lowered his head and the flames made the dark sweat-curled hair glow auburn. He scooped up a spoonful of cocaine and sniffed it in jerkingly. He held it for me, and he did not answer me. Instead he said, ‘Can we do it again as soon as you’ve rested?’

  I knew my answer would be yes. I had committed myself to this point and it would have been unfair and cruel to stop him now. We shared another joint, a glass of wine, and he asked anxiously, ‘Are you alright? Can we do it again?’

  I watched him go through the procedure that I knew now, and I smiled sadly at his bent head as he wrapped thin white rope around my ankles, stretching my legs apart until I was standing in a spread-eagle pose. Then he began again with the perfume and warm water. Every so often he would stop and offer me a cigarette, holding it while I dragged in the smoke, and he asked me how I felt, if the fire was too hot or the ropes too tight. He seemed very concerned about me. And more and more often he left the room, staying away for longer periods of time and when he came back he always carried a new ‘toy’ with him.

  First it was a small gold bell on a black leather thong which he tied loosely around my waist, the bell resting on my pubic mound. Thereafter, whenever he left the room, his voice would float back to me: ‘I can’t hear the bell. I want to hear that bell ringing.’ And, smiling, amused, I would do a bump and grind, pleased at the thin tinkle of the bell and his voice saying, ‘Fine—fine—keep it ringing—that’s just fine—’

  One trip he returned wearing a black satin hood that covered his head and shoulders. Two holes, edged in black leather, enabled him to see his way into the room. In his hand he carried a small whip with several thongs of leather, each tipped with a knot. He sank to the floor, staring, the whip la in his hand, and I began to get frightened.

  ‘No, Jay, not the whip,’ I said, and pulled against my bonds a little to see how much play I had. I was helpless. The ropes were rather loose around my wrists but tied tightly to the beams and the loops were too small to allow my hands to slip through. My legs were beginning to tire and I tried to shift my weight. It was impossible. I was immobile. ‘No whips, Jay,’ I sa
id again, peering into the black holes of his hood. I searched for his eyes, knowing that if I could get him to look into mine he wouldn’t hurt me. But I couldn’t see into the bottomless pits that were now his secret way of seeing me.

  ‘I won’t hurt you,’ he said and I was shocked by his voice. It was hoarse, deep, and his breath came fast from behind the satin folds of his hood, fie flicked the whip, snaked it out of nowhere and it just brushed the gold bell and set it to ringing. I flinched and maybe I cried out for he suddenly clasped me around the hips and buried his face in my stomach. ‘I won’t hurt you—please-’ His voice was muffled, sounding of pain and unshed tears and I longed to free my arms and hold him to my breast and tell him everything would be all right. But I was frightened. Frightened about the strange sensations I was feeling, the pity I had for him, the newness of being high on cocaine, the bizarre, strangely fascinating emotion of being tied and bound, spread-eagled in front of a roaring, leaping fire, the curious desire to see into his hood, into his soul…

  ‘It’s all right,’ I murmured and he raised his head and for an instant I caught a glimpse of his eyes and they were shiny and they were not the eyes of my friend. The whip snaked out of the shadows and flicked the bell again and I gasped. This time I seemed to have lost my pity for him and I was just frightened. He had hurt me. He promised me he wouldn’t. I felt the whip again, harder this time and I shrank away from it. But not before it had licked a red path across my thigh. ‘No, Jay, no!’ I pulled back as far as I could and felt the heat of the fire and I screamed. I felt the tears in my throat even before I cried out again. My body writhed against the bonds that held me helpless and I began to sob. ‘Don’t—don’t—oh, God, don’t!’