“Charles,” I said, “are you still shooting on that movie?”
“No, dear boy, why?” he replied.
“Well,” I said, trying to be as diplomatic as I could, “you still have your makeup on.”
“Most observant of you, dear boy,” he said, then turned around and swished off toward the bar. He hadn’t washed for almost a week!
Like the Midwestern farm boy that I was and, as with so many of his British counterparts, Charles was not circumcised or, as it is more commonly referred to, “uncut.” In fact, he had one of the largest foreskins I had ever seen. He had, in the nomenclature of the gay world at that time, a “BLC.” That stood for “big lace curtain.” Because Charles seldom washed, there was often a buildup of smegma, or a secretion of the sebaceous glands, under the foreskin. Uncircumcised guys have to retract their foreskins in the shower or the bathtub every day to wash this substance away or it accumulates, causing a slightly sour smell to build up. Charles, on the other hand, relished it. Many men—and women, I might add—who performed oral sex had developed a liking for the slightly pungent taste of smegma. It was, like oysters I suppose, a carefully honed or acquired taste! Some people referred to it as “cheese.” And it really is akin to an aged Gorgonzola or Roquefort.
Allow me to digress here for a moment. A very good friend of mine by the name of Bob Edelmann was heavily into giving head to uncut guys. Bob came from a wealthy Chicago family that had made their fortune producing brass fittings and other parts for the automobile industry. Bob hardly worked a day in his life. He had enough money to spend his time being a playboy, so he often came out to California to “play.” Bob was Jewish, which meant that he was circumcised. For some reason or another he had developed an obsession for guys with foreskins, and he loved it when those uncircumcised penises had a bit of cheese under the foreskin. I did him a favor by hooking him up with Charles Laughton one day and the two of them never looked back. Every time Bob was in town I would take him up to Charles’s house and the two of them would go at it for half an hour or more. This may all seem a little repulsive but I assure you that dear Bob was one of the sweetest, nicest men I ever knew. And so was Charles.
Charles had yet another rather odd habit. One day, at his request and while his wife Elsa was away on a shoot, I took a nice-looking young man over to his house. I really don’t remember his name so I’ll simply refer to him as Ted. The only thing I recall is that he was about nineteen or twenty years old, was blessed with a great body, and was very well endowed. When we arrived at Charles’s home on Curson Avenue in West Hollywood it was about two or three o’clock in the afternoon. Charles welcomed us, put a hand underneath Ted’s chin, squeezed his cheeks, and muttered, “Hmmm. Nice. Very nice.”
He said that he hadn’t had any lunch yet and asked if we would mind if he had a quick snack. He showed us into the kitchen where he darted from place to place making an awful lot of noise as he opened bread bins, drawers, and closets. He laid out a breadboard, plates, knives, and a napkin on a table and started slicing up a loaf of sourdough bread. He asked Ted to strip completely and perch up on a countertop where he could see him. I sat on a chair at the table. All three of us chatted while Charles placed the bread slices on a plate, buttered them, then removed some crisp lettuce leaves and tomatoes from the refrigerator. These he carefully washed under a faucet of running water at the sink. Every now and again he looked up at Ted, studied his groin and his large penis, which by now had grown fully erect. He kept commenting on how much he approved of his lean, well-formed torso and his muscular, hairy legs. Once he had finished washing the lettuce and tomatoes he sliced them, laid them out on the buttered bread slices, squeezed a couple of drops of lemon juice on them, and then sprinkled on a little salt and coarse, ground pepper.
Glancing up at Ted he smiled and said, “Almost ready.”
Ted and I looked at each other, wondering what the devil that remark implied but, no matter. Then Charles thoughtfully studied a shelf full of pans, pots, and skillets. He reached out for one of the smaller pots. Holding the pot with one hand he picked up the plate containing the bread slices with the other. Then he looked at Ted, and, in a very polite way, asked, “Could you follow me please, young man. This’ll only take a minute.”
Ted stared at me momentarily, a puzzled look written all over his face, and then he hopped off the counter and followed Charles a short way down the hall, his erect penis bobbing proudly as it preceded him. I watched Charles take Ted into a bathroom and close the door. How odd, I thought. Why the bathroom and not the bedroom?
They were gone for about fifteen or twenty minutes and in their absence I whiled away the time by rummaging through a collection of Elsa’s cookbooks. Charles was the first to return. He put the plate with the bread slices on the kitchen table. I could see that the lettuce and tomatoes had been lightly smeared with a light brown substance. It looked like gravy or peanut butter or some sort of sandwich spread. Seconds later Ted appeared in the kitchen. His erection was gone and he was looking decidedly sheepish, perhaps even a trifle embarrassed. I stared at him curiously and he pulled a face, hoping that Charles wouldn’t notice. He pointed at the bread slices on the plate and then lightly patted his backside. Was this true? Had Charles asked Ted to defecate into the pot? Is that what he had smeared on his sandwich? Well, apparently it was.
Charles sat down, carefully placed one slice of bread on top of the other, neatly cut the stack in two, and then, without saying a word or even giving us a cursory glance, bit into it. After he had downed the entire sandwich, he got up and went to the sink to rinse off the plate.
As soon as Charles’s back was turned Ted quietly padded over to me and whispered, “Jesus, why did he even take the trouble to wash the fucking lettuce and tomatoes?”
Seconds later Charles turned around and gave Ted an enticing “come hither” sign with his index finger. As the poor fellow meekly followed Charles out of the kitchen and into one of the bedrooms down the hall, Charles called out to me, “Back in a jiff, Scotty. Make yourself comfortable.”
And then I heard the bedroom door close. Half an hour later Charles appeared in a dressing gown, followed by my young friend. They both looked a little sweaty but decidedly satisfied. Ted also looked noticeably happy as he clutched a couple of ten-dollar bills. Charles came up and stood beside me with his hand on my shoulder as we watched Ted pull on his jeans and T-shirt.
And then Charles whispered into my ear, “Great lay, Scotty. Wonderful trick. Thanks, old boy, and thanks for waiting.”
CHARLES LAUGHTON WASN’T the only person I knew who thrived on unusual fetishes. Tyrone Power had his, too. He liked what is commonly known as “water sports” or a “golden shower.” This entails being urinated on by a sexual partner. I eventually got to know quite a few people who derived infinite pleasure from lying in a bathtub, a shower cubicle, or beside a swimming pool, while a bunch of handsome young studs stood over them and urinated. Taking what Charles Laughton liked to an even more provocative level, Tyrone occasionally enjoyed it when his sexual partners—especially young ladies—“dropped a deuce” or defecated on him. In the gay world, people with that inclination were usually referred to as “doo-doo queens.” That kind of behavior may seem disgusting but, you know, it’s surprising how much of it goes on. Every now and again someone would call me and request a sex partner who was happy to indulge in that sort of thing.
“Got a nice young doo-doo queen—or dyke or girl—for me tonight, Scotty?” I was occasionally asked.
The practice certainly didn’t turn me on but it was patently clear that it was regarded as a normal and acceptable part of sexual activity by its devotees, with Charles Laughton being one of them, and Ty Power another. So who was I to judge? To each his own.
THE AUTHOR HECTOR ARCE used to cover the Hollywood celebrity scene for various magazines and also wrote rather good biographies of Groucho Marx and Gary Cooper. In the late seventies he wrote a very revealing biography of Tyrone Power
. Ty died in 1958, so Hector never met him personally. He had interviewed many who did know him and was relying on hearsay and other source material for his book. He knew that Ty and I had been close pals so he asked me to look over the manuscript when it was finished. In it were references to Ty’s passion for piss and poop. When I came across those paragraphs I immediately flagged them and discussed them with Hector.
“Where’d you get that information, Hector?” I asked.
“Aw, c’mon, Scotty,” he said. “It’s common knowledge. Everyone knows about the weird stuff Power was into.”
“Who told you about it?” I wanted to know.
“Oh, jeez,” he said. “I know at least fifteen guys who’ve told me everything. They all did that to him.”
“Well,” I said adamantly, “it’s lies. All lies. They’re just feeding you that nonsense for its sensational value. I can’t believe you’re accepting it like it was all true.”
This put Hector’s fenders up. No author wants to provoke arguments that may lead to accusations of inaccuracy, libel, or character defamation. He wasn’t sure what to do so he asked me what I thought. I told him to take all those sections out.
Reluctantly, Hector rethought the matter and finally deleted all the potentially contentious passages. Although he exercised caution about what he had said about the people who knew Ty personally he included a couple of paragraphs in the book about me. But he had cunningly changed my name from Scotty to Smitty, just in case. I laughed out loud when I read those sections. When The Secret Life of Tyrone Power was published by William Morrow in May 1979 it got good reviews and almost instantly became a coast-to-coast best seller. Needless to say, people who knew me well enough instantly recognized me as the “Smitty” character in the book. But I didn’t mind. I had nothing to hide, nor anything to feel ashamed about. To celebrate its publication I went over to Hector’s place one evening.
As we toasted the book—he with champagne, me with soda water—I said to him, “You remember those parts you took out about Ty, the ones about the pee and the poop?”
“Yes,” he said. “What about them?”
“Well,” I said, clinking my glass against his, “they were absolutely true.”
At first he was so angry that I thought he was going to tear me apart, limb from limb. Eventually he simmered down and agreed that I had made him do the right thing. It was still too soon after Ty’s death to be shattering the myth of one of Hollywood’s golden boys. Twenty years after his death Ty was still looked upon as an idol. It was right for us to protect his fans from any disappointment or disgust they may have felt after reading about his odd sexual habits. Today I have no compunction about exposing them. Much time has passed and, as we know, time heals everything. Perhaps Ty’s followers are more ready for the truth now than they were thirty years ago when the book was first published. Hector Arce himself is also long dead. The truth is that I never cared one iota about how people got their rocks off in private, just as long as they weren’t hurting anybody. We all have our secret preferences and weaknesses, call them whatever you will. So, bless Ty, my old friend. What he did cannot and will not diminish my fondness for him, his greatness as an actor, or his reputation as one of the nicest people who ever inhabited this crazy place called Hollywood.
22
The Young and the Restless
As the fifties drew to a close I decided it was time that Betty and Donna should have a nice, comfortable, quiet house to live in. Up until then we had been moving around town from one rented property to the next, mainly shoebox-size apartments. Betty deserved better than that. The fire may have gone out of our relationship but I still cared for her. I wanted her to be happy. Also, I figured that my beautiful little daughter Donna had a right to a nice room of her own and a garden in which to play. It was time for me to invest what little I had saved up in a property of my own. I told Betty to keep a lookout for something affordable.
One day she excitedly told me that she had found out about a little property from a local realtor that sounded perfect. It was a charming little three-bedroom place with a small garden, on a side street called North St. Andrews Place, surprisingly just up the road from the gas station where I used to work. It sounded ideal. We went over to look at it and fell in love with it right away. According to the realtor the owner had died without leaving a will and there were no known survivors or descendants. As a result, the place was in probate. If I wanted it I would have to go down to city hall and discuss it with someone in the judiciary service.
I was informed that the asking price would be in the region of $20,000. I dug into my savings and stuffed everything I had, $22,000, into a large manila envelope. With this in my jacket pocket I marched into the judge’s office. To my dismay I was told that another buyer was also after the property. He was called into the room with me so that the judge could decide who to favor.
Shuffling in his chair the judge put his elbows on his desk, gently tapped his fingers together, looked at both of us, and said, “Well, gentleman, if you want to purchase the property the price is $22,000.”
My heart leaped within my breast. It was exactly how much I had on me!
“That’s too much,” the other buyer objected. “I just can’t afford that.”
The judge looked at him and then turned to me.
“And you, Mr. Bowers,” he said, “what about you?”
I felt my pulse racing as I pulled out the envelope with the money and handed it over to the judge.
“I’ll take it, Your Honor,” I panted.
The judge took the envelope, tore it open, pulled out the cash, counted it, and smiled. “Sold, to Mr. Bowers,” he said. “Congratulations.”
He handed me a receipt, a deed of sale, and all the necessary legal papers and I walked out of his office into a clear California day, now a man of property and substance. It sure felt good to be alive. That evening Betty and I had dinner together and then made love for the first time in more than a year. It was wonderful. I knew she was happy and I knew Donna was going to like it in her new home. A couple of weeks later we moved in.
Fortunately, my bartending talents were as much in demand as ever. And I was still Hollywood’s go-to guy for setting up tricks. Some folks around town even began calling me “Mr. Sex.”
“Whatever you need,” they would say, “just call up Mr. Sex, Scotty Bowers. He has whatever you want.”
And that was true. If I couldn’t satisfy the request personally, I had access to literally scores of men and women of all types, persuasions, ages, and talents who could. Unless I was performing the sex myself—be it straight, gay, or bi—I still was not making any money off arrangements I made for other people. All financial transactions between them were strictly their own affair. I just wanted to see folks happy. I was simply reacting to the ancient ritual of supply and demand. The only difference between me and, say, a farmer, a carpenter, or a storekeeper, was that I specialized in sex. Sex was what I offered, pure and simple. And what better way to calm the soul, heal the body, and make the spirit soar than sex?
As time went by I met a lot of people who dabbled in offbeat, unusual practices in their search for physical gratification. I learned not to question them, especially those who were into the bondage, domination, and sadomasochism or BDSM scene. What people did in private was entirely their own affair, not mine. As long as nobody was getting hurt I had no objection to what folks did. If it helped them get their rocks off, cemented a relationship more closely, offered them some fun, or just made them feel good why not do it? Of course, whenever people called me up to arrange unusual tricks for them I had to make sure that whoever I sent over was also happy to engage in any planned bondage and domination activities. I didn’t want to get any of the young people in my little black book hurt.
The baritone-voiced actor John Carradine, who appeared in almost 350 movies, including John Ford’s original 1939-version of Stagecoach, was another person who asked me to arrange tricks for him. John also
liked it rough. In fact, the rougher the better. Unlike a lot of my friends and acquaintances, John was one hundred percent straight. He loved women. He adored them. Actually, he just about worshipped them. He occasionally invited me over to his place “for some fun” and when I arrived he was always with some young lady or other. The kinky stuff was usually well under way by the time I got there. John was invariably tied up, bound hand and foot, sometimes gagged and submitting himself totally to the lady’s whims and will.
“Join in, Scotty!” he would yell as the girl—usually wearing high-heeled patent leather boots and a studded leather belt—pulled roughly on the ropes with which John was tied up, or flogged him with a stick or a fly whisk. John had an immeasurable capacity for having a good time and always leaned toward something in the S&M field. His son David had similar tastes. I knew him well, too. Like his father, David Carradine was a very accomplished and busy actor. David indulged in many different sexual practices, some of which were downright dangerous. One of his favorites is clinically referred to as autoerotic asphyxia. It entails inducing borderline unconsciousness to increase excitement and heighten the effect of the sex act. But games like that can be deadly. On June 3, 2009, David’s naked body was discovered in the closet of a Bangkok hotel room. He had been bound with a rope slung around the clothes rail in the closet, with one end tied around his neck and the other around his genitals. To this day it is not clear whether he committed suicide or suffered the consequences of extremely unsafe sexual activities. Whatever the case, something horrible had occurred. Dave’s death was a sad and tragic loss. He was a fine actor and a good friend of mine.
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