About a half hour later the guest of honor for the evening arrived. It was the Santa Monica chief of police and his wife. As soon as they entered the room they began to mingle among the crowd. The cop’s wife was known to be a bit of a boozer and she headed straight for the bar. Half an hour later she was well oiled and giggling away amid a crowd of her usual friends. Betsy and I helped ourselves to some food and maneuvered our way through the room. It was getting hot and stuffy inside. We reached a French-style glass doorway that opened onto a narrow balcony and stepped outside into the cool, fresh air. I leaned over the side and then looked across to the next balcony. At first I wasn’t sure what I was seeing but as my eyes adjusted to the shadows and the ambient splash of neon light from the building across the street I could clearly make out the form of the chief of police leaning with his back against the railing of the balcony. His legs were spread apart, his head was turned skyward, and he was moaning in agonized ecstasy. Kneeling in front of him with his faced buried in his crotch was Sascha. I could clearly see the wig on Sascha’s head bob up and down as he sucked on the big, burly cop. Clearly, the Santa Monica police chief had no idea whatsoever that this ravishing woman with the deft fingers, ruby red lips, and magical tongue was a man. If he did, I shudder to think what would have happened. He probably would have hurled Sascha over the balcony and then tossed the splattered leftovers into the Pacific. Fortunately, by the time the little balcony escapade had played itself out the cop’s wife was far too loaded to notice the dazzled look of satisfaction on her husband’s face as he happily stumbled back into the room, fumbling with his fly.
A BRITISH GUY in his late twenties by the name of Brian Epstein came into my life during the early sixties. He came from a wealthy Liverpool family and made a few trips across the pond to Los Angeles. Brian was gay, although he did his best to conceal the fact from his rather conservative Jewish family. Before his first visit to California a friend suggested that he contact me when he arrived in town so that I could set up a trick for him. He was a pleasant enough, unassuming sort of guy and, as things turned out, I tricked him myself. We became good friends. Brian was dark-haired, good-looking, and slightly stocky. He had a very pleasant disposition, was fairly quiet, and had a good ear for music. He started out as a salesman in a music store that was owned by his father in Liverpool. Keen to become acquainted with new bands, he visited clubs, bars, and dives around the city, writing about them in the local Mersey Beat magazine. It was then that he first came across the name of a little known rock group called the Beatles.
Brian loved their music. Ironically, he seemed to be the only one who did. Most of the critics and experts in Liverpool dismissed the “Fab Four” as “just another band.” But Brian was persistent. After attending many of their performances he signed a contract with the lads in early 1962, becoming their manager. He inspired them, coaxed them, pushed them, and encouraged them to write more songs. He made them change their image. He was responsible for their first recording session in London, and their first commercially released LPs. The rest, as they say, is history.
In 1964 Brian arranged the Beatles’ first visit to America. On February 9 of that year they appeared on the The Ed Sullivan Show. The night they appeared on TV, seventy-three million people in nearly twenty-four million households watched them, at that time the largest audience in American television history. “Beatlemania” began sweeping the world. Groupies—swarms of young girls who religiously followed the group, trying whatever means they could to get into bed with them—began harassing and prowling around after the foursome. By August of 1964 Brian had arranged a multicity North American tour for the group. On August 23, the boys arrived in Los Angeles from Vancouver. The moment their aircraft touched down Brian called me.
“We’re in deep trouble, Scotty,” he wailed. “We’re due to stay at the Beverly Hills Hotel and the groupies have already found out about it. They’ve completely encircled the place. I can’t risk putting the boys up there. They’ve got to get some rest and peace and quiet. They’ve got a performance tonight. Is there anywhere you know where we could put them up where they’ll be safe?”
Brian was clearly desperate. I had to think fast.
I wracked my brain and thought of my old pal, Charles Cooper, a very wealthy and successful couturier, whose clothes were very much in vogue on both coasts. Charley had a home in Manhattan and a luxurious one here in L.A., on Curson Terrace up above Sunset Boulevard, not too far away from the Chateau Marmont Hotel. The house commanded a stunning view of the city, and had an ambling secluded garden and a large pool. It was gated, surrounded by high walls, and perched on a steep parcel of land that made it virtually impenetrable. Anyone trying to access the house from the side or back would need mountaineering gear to scale the cliff side hill and reach the tall fence. I immediately called Charles in New York.
“You coming back into town soon, Charley?” I asked.
“No, Scotty,” he replied. “I’m out east for at least another month. Why? Need anything?”
“As a matter of fact I do,” I said.
“What?” he said. “I’ll do whatever I can to help, you know that.”
I told him that I needed his house for the Beatles and their manager. At first he didn’t believe me but finally he bought my story and said that it would be his pleasure to accommodate the boys. Not only that, but by midafternoon a constant stream of delivery vehicles arrived bearing flowers, fresh fruit, champagne, and mountains of food.
I took a cab to the Beverly Hills Hotel to meet Brian. I knew he had a limo for the boys, plus a minibus for their luggage, gear, and musical instruments. I planned to ride to Charley’s N. Curson Avenue property with them. Although I had some trouble getting through security and fighting my way through an army of young girls intent on breaking into the hotel I eventually got to the suite where Brian was staying. He was more than relieved to see me and immediately took me over to another suite where the boys were holed up, patiently waiting to be moved to their new digs. I didn’t know what to expect as the security guard let us in. I was half expecting to see four stoned young men surrounded by clouds of pot smoke. Instead, I found the four of them just sitting around trying to stave off boredom. They were the sweetest, nicest young men I had met in a long time. Spiriting them out via a back entrance, we bundled them into the limo and drove them to Charley’s house, the minibus following close behind us. By late afternoon they were happily splashing in the pool. The next morning the private security company I hired to keep an eye on things told me that at least a dozen young women, using flashlights in the dead of night, had actually managed to scale the cliff and reach the perimeter fence around the house. Fortunately, they were all apprehended before they could enter the house itself. If I had my way, I would happily have let them in. Why shouldn’t those four talented young men have had some fun? Don’t you agree?
BY THE MIDSIXTIES I had become very good friends with one of the most charismatic and feisty ladies in town, the singer and actress Carol Channing. I had first met Carol at a private dinner party and subsequently worked for her, too. She was a bombshell of a woman and her personality was dynamite. She was a devout member of the Christian Science movement and was committed to living a healthy lifestyle. Whenever she was invited to a cocktail party or a dinner she always brought her own bottled water with her. Many of her friends and associates found the habit funny, as this was long before bottled water became as trendy and as widely used as it is today. She would arrive at a function with her distilled water in special glass containers that had been designed for storing blood plasma. They were completely airtight. Carol was terrified of viruses, bacteria, and germs. When she was seated at a dinner table she would ask me to bring over one of the containers that she had brought with her and that I had earlier stowed in the refrigerator. Heaven forbid if I or anyone else dared try to open it for her. She also brought her own food to parties and wouldn’t touch anything else.
I met Carol while she was still m
arried to her second husband, Alexander Carson, with whom she had a son named Channing. She absolutely adored and worshipped that boy. In the early fifties I introduced her to a producer and publicist friend of mine, a guy by the name of Charles Lowe. Charley was the original producer of the long-running TV comedy series The George Burns and Gracie Allen Show. I remember his offices, which were in the old Carnation Building on Wilshire Boulevard. Charley was gay and I often fixed up tricks for him. He was an efficient and respected professional, much admired by everyone in the business. One day, at a friend of mine’s party at the Chateau Marmont, I suggested to Charley that he manage Carol because she really needed someone reliable, responsible, and honest to take care of her business affairs and to book gigs for her. I thought Charley was the ideal person to represent her. Further coaxing got Charley and Carol together, and within a short while she appointed him as her business manager and publicist. I was thrilled. They saw a lot of each other, often dining out and frequenting popular nightspots and supper clubs together. But Carol had lots on her mind. She had recently separated from her husband, Alexander Carson, and began to worry about losing custody of her son Channing. One evening after she bared her soul to me I pondered how I might be able to help her. I got an idea. I called my old friend Frank McNamee, a judge in Nevada. At the time he was the second highest judge in the state. I explained Carol’s problems to him. Frank was immediately sympathetic and asked me to get Carol to contact him. I did so and within days Carol was on her way to Nevada to meet with Frank. He turned out to be an absolute angel. He put her up for three days in the guest suite of his apartment in Las Vegas and gave her advice. Later on he helped her out further by signing an affidavit stating that Carol had spent thirty days staying with him in his home. In Nevada that was usually construed as being evidence that two people were having a relationship, and, according to state law, it entitled Carol to a divorce from Carlson. It also gave her custody of her son.
When Carol offered to pay Frank for doing all this for her he simply smiled and said, “You’re a friend of Scotty Bowers, aren’t you? That makes you a friend of mine. You don’t owe me a dime, my dear.”
Although Carol’s custody battle ended happily, other aspects of her life remained problematic. In 1956, to the surprise of many—myself included—Carol and Charley Lowe got married. As I said, Charley was openly gay. I immediately saw the writing on the wall. I felt guilty about it; after all, I was the one who had introduced them. Although they remained married for over forty years it was a marriage in name only. Throughout it Charley continued to play the field in the gay world. In 1998, shortly before Charley died, Carol filed for divorce. I heard that after divorcing Charles she said indignantly that they’d been married for forty-two years and in all that time he’d only had sex with her once.
ON THE HOME FRONT, Betty continued to man the fort in our little house on North St. Andrews Place and my daughter Donna had become a lovely young teenager. She was studious, popular among her friends, and was attending Hollywood High School. I saw her whenever I could but, to be truthful, that wasn’t nearly as much as I should have. I probably missed out on some of the best years of her life. Nevertheless, whenever we spent time together she was always overjoyed to see me. As, indeed, was Betty. Bless them both.
25
True Love
Of the many women that have come into my life, two alone stand out above the rest. They brought me not only pleasure, carnal delight, and intense satisfaction, but taught me what real love was. When Betty and I first met after the war I thought I was in love with her but, as I pointed out earlier, the passion didn’t last. We continued to care for one another. She was the mother of my daughter. We had a home together—even though I didn’t spend much time there. So although we cared for one another, love had long ago gone out of the relationship.
I screwed many women. In fact, I probably screwed more women than men. But love, per se, was never part of any of those short encounters. And then something extraordinary happened.
The year was 1965. My friend Jerry Herman, the guy who wrote the music for the hit Broadway musicals Hello, Dolly!, Mame, and La Cage aux Folles, and who was nominated for five Tony Awards, winning twice, called me up from New York. He told me he was coming out to the coast with his secretary to negotiate the screen rights for one of his shows with a local studio. I had met Jerry back in 1961 and we had remained friends ever since.
The day after Jerry arrived I went over to the Beverly Hills Hotel where he was staying with his secretary. I went in, waited in the lobby, and Jerry came down to meet me. Then he introduced me to his secretary, whom he had asked to come down and join us for dinner. Her name was Sheila Mack. She was twenty-seven years old and a little on the heavy side, but she had a lovely, open, friendly face. She had light brown hair, gorgeous brown eyes, was about five feet eight, and wore very little makeup. Her complexion was like the proverbial peaches and cream. She seemed extremely calm, content, and peaceful. She radiated an indefinable warmth. As she softly shook my hand, my heart melted. I have no idea why, but I instantly fell head over heels in love with her.
After dinner that night Sheila and I went to her room. It was a wonderful night. It wasn’t just sexy, it was romantic. As we coupled it wasn’t merely a matter of having sex, but of making love. Oh, if only more people could realize the difference. If only more of us could discern the subtle dividing line between lust and love. That night, more than ever before, I learned what love was. Our passion was intense. But our feelings for one another, on some kind of mysterious, esoteric, indefinable level far exceeded the raw beauty of the physical experience. The next morning when I awoke next to her, sensing the softness and feminine magic of her body next to mine, I knew that I had never really, fully, deeply known a woman before. It was a revelation. We were totally, inexorably in love.
Sheila was originally from California. She came from a very wealthy and closely knit family that owned a department store outside San Francisco. The business was run by her brother, apparently a very smart and pleasant guy. As for Sheila, when she left home she went to a finishing school in New York. She remained there and got married quite young. Alas, the marriage lasted less than six months. She divorced and got a job as Jerry Herman’s secretary, which consumed just about all of her time.
Jerry was a very busy man, much in demand, and he relied totally on Sheila to keep his professional and business affairs on track. They weren’t here in town very long before they had to fly back east but I spent every single moment that I could with Sheila. Those nights with her in the Beverly Hills Hotel were bliss. Unforgettable. But, as so often happens, all good things eventually come to an end. It was very wrenching for both of us to say good-bye. By now Jerry had picked up on our intense relationship and when he bid me farewell he said that if ever I got out to New York I was welcome to stay at his place. With that, he and Sheila glided out of the Beverly Hills Hotel driveway in a limo en route to the airport.
As the car joined the traffic I caught sight of Sheila’s hand sticking out of the side window frantically waving to me. As the vehicle disappeared I felt a terrible sense of loss. I was devastated to see her go. But I was overjoyed when, two weeks later, a telegram arrived from Sheila inviting me to spend a weekend with her in New York. I responded with an immediate “Yes!” Within a few days a first-class air ticket turned up in my mailbox. To Betty’s credit—bless her soul—when these items were delivered to the house she never even queried me about them. I have to admit that I probably never really gave her the recognition and respect she deserved.
When I got to New York, Sheila met me at the airport and we took a cab to Jerry Herman’s place at 50 West Tenth Street in Greenwich Village. Sheila was staying there because Jerry was traveling out of town. His home was remarkable. It had once been a fire station but had been converted into a very fancy place by its previous owner, an old queen and a good friend of mine by the name of Maurice Evans. Maurice was a Shakespearean actor on the Broadway a
nd London stages but I guess his real claim to fame was the role he played as the character Samantha’s father in the hit comedy TV series, Bewitched. When Maurice bought the building from the New York Fire Department he wanted to maintain the integrity and style of the place. He didn’t even remove the original brass pole that extended down from the upper two floors to the ground level where the fire trucks used to be parked. It was down that pole that the firemen used to slide from their sleeping quarters to the engines whenever there was an alarm call. The building had great charm with immense spaces everywhere. The ground floor area could easily accommodate six or eight cars.
Sheila and I spent most of that wonderful weekend oblivious to the world, happily, intoxicatingly, crazily in love and entwined in Jerry’s large double bed. I adored her. Unreservedly.
Full Service Page 23
