Rat Pack Party Girl: From Prostitute to Women’s Advocate

by McCormick, Jane

  Chapter 4

  Tyler the Pimp

  In 1960 I filed for a divorce from Bob. I wanted to keep my children and needed legal help, so I looked in the yellow pages, called one of the numbers, and a secretary put me through to a divorce attorney. I told him about my problems and what I wanted him to do. He said his office was near the Disneyland Hotel and that I should meet him in the lounge at noon the next day.

  Then I called Bob’s mother to watch the girls. She asked what had happened, and I said we had a bad fight after I caught him kissing another woman.

  “Oh, it will blow over. Everything will be okay,” she said.

  “No, not this time. I’m done with him not working and not being responsible.”

  The next morning Mae drove over to pick up the girls. Then I put on a nice white cotton dress and took a bus to the hotel. At the lounge I had to ask each of several men whether he was the attorney.

  Finally, a man waved to me from the end of the bar. He was at least thirty years older than me, with receding gray-streaked black hair, a mustache, thick black eyebrows, wire-rimmed glasses, and a tanned face. He wore a tailored, navy, pinstriped, double-breasted suit and big diamonds on each hand. He ordered a soft drink for me in a deep, commanding voice.

  As I told him my story, I noticed him staring at my breasts. He seemed more interested in the area below my neck than what was happening in my life. I ignored it. After a couple of drinks, he moved closer to me, holding my hand while I cried, eventually touching my leg with his.

  When the subject of his fee came up, I said I would not be able to pay him until I reached a settlement with Bob regarding child support and alimony. He winked, began to rub my back, and said, “Well honey, we could take it out in trade.”

  I didn’t know what “take it out in trade” meant.

  He moved closer, looked into my eyes and said, “You know what I mean.”

  I backed away. “No, I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Well, let’s go upstairs and I’ll show you.”

  Now realizing what he implied, I retorted, “You’ll get your money, but it will be winter in hell before I go to bed with you.” I shoved my stool back, slid my glass toward his, stormed from the bar, and took a bus back to the apartment.

  There I found an eviction notice taped to the door. We owed two months’ rent and if I didn’t pay it by the end of the week, we’d be out. I was scared. I could think about only one thing at a time. I called Mae and she brought the girls back to the apartment.

  When Mae arrived, I told her about the notice, saying I had no money for rent because Bob couldn’t keep a job. I explained that I had been taking care of the girls during the day while Bob “looked for work.” At night Bob watched the girls while I worked a second shift at the hospital. But with him gone, I had no one to watch the girls. I couldn’t afford a sitter, so I had to quit my job to take care of them.

  “Have you heard from Bob?” she asked.

  “No I haven’t.”

  “Bob is just like his dad. You know Bob’s dad left me right after Bob was born, and I never saw him again.”

  “Yes. He told me you had to take care of the three children alone before you married Clarence.” Even though I knew the story, I felt no remorse for Bob. His father’s actions didn’t give him permission to follow in his footsteps.

  I got the girls ready for bed and read Goldilocks and the Three Bears to them. They always laughed when I growled like the bears in the story. Sitting there, reading to them, I thought how I would have to let them stay with Mae and Clarence while I looked for work and a place to live.

  The only other thing I could think of was that the church down the street might help me. I hadn’t attended services there, but Mom had taken Dick and me to a Lutheran church on Sundays. Also Carol and I had sung in a church choir and attended summer church camp. We could easily walk to the church; someone there would be sure to help someone in trouble.

  So we walked. I carried three-month-old Roberta in one arm and held two-year-old Cindy’s hand in my free hand. We climbed the stairs to the church, but when I pulled on the door it wouldn’t open. It was locked and there was nobody around. I sat on the stairs and cried. Then Cindy started to cry, then Roberta. I felt my heart stop. I’d never felt so helpless. I had no choice but to trust Mae to care for my children until I found a new place to live.

  We walked back to the apartment. I ripped the eviction notice from the door and threw it to the floor. Inside, I gave Roberta a bottle and fed Cindy. Then I called Mae and told her she could come and pick them up in the morning. As I started to cry, Mae said, “Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of them. Everything will be fine.”

  So I put Cindy’s little shorts, shirts, and shoes and Roberta’s pacifier, diapers, dishes and spoons into a paper bag. I lay on the bed with the girls and held them close, holding back my tears. I wanted to be strong. But my heart sank when I saw Mae approaching the apartment the next day.

  I talked with her a few minutes until she said, “Well, we better get on with this.”

  I walked down the stairs with Roberta in one arm and holding Cindy’s hand with the other, just as I had the day before. In a trance, I put them in the backseat of Mae’s car. To this day, when I close my eyes, I can still see Cindy’s sad face looking out the back window as they drove off. I waved and blew a kiss. We waved to each other until they disappeared. I went back to the apartment, threw myself onto the bed, and bawled.

  A few hours later I went to see Carol. When I returned, the door to the apartment was padlocked. I couldn’t get my clothes or any of my belongings. I headed on foot to Mom and her boyfriend’s new house, six miles away, thinking about what I could do.

  A friend once told me that her sister worked in Hollywood as a cocktail waitress making three hundred dollars a night in tips. I was just a few months shy of nineteen and I needed Curly, Carol’s husband, who was Bob’s best friend, to get me a fake driver’s license saying I was twenty-one. I figured I could go to Hollywood, get a waitressing job, and soon afford a place for my daughters and me.

  But I had to get there first. I needed money for a train ticket and something nice to wear that made me look like I was at least twenty-one years old. So I went to Mom’s house in Fullerton.

  When I reached the house and found nobody home, I smashed a glass panel in the back door, headed straight to Mom’s bedroom closet, and pulled out a black dinner dress. It was a size seven, and I was about an eight, so the fit was tight. I put on black lace nylons and high heels, combed my hair, covered my face with makeup, and inspected myself in the full-length mirror. “It works,” I thought. “Nobody will suspect I’m not twenty-one!”

  Then I scavenged through the house for money. I looked in every closet, every drawer, every jar, and took every penny I found. In the bedroom I found a coin collection and poured the change into a shiny black clutch purse. I inspected myself in the mirror again and decided I was finally taking control of my own life. Whatever hit me next, I was going to be ready.

  I called Carol and asked her to take me to the Union Pacific station in Fullerton so I could get a ticket for Hollywood. I explained that needed to get a job, and when I had some money I’d be back for the girls. I told her that Bob’s mother was going to help with the girls while I was gone. On the way to Fullerton, Carol tried to persuade me to stay with her and Curly, but they had a small one-bedroom apartment. Besides, I’d made up my mind; I was sure I could get a job in Hollywood.

  “Oh my god Jane, you’d better not go there,” she said. “You don’t know anyone there.”

  “I’ll be okay. I have to do this for my girls.”

  At the station I bought a ticket, and just before boarding I promised Carol I’d call her as soon as I got a room.

  Once at Union Station in Hollywood, I caught a cab as naturally as if I knew what I was doing. “Take me to Sunset Boulevard.”

  MOVE THIS The cab driver let me out on Sunset Boulevard. I paid him from the coi
n collection and got a room at a motel for the night. After a short rest, I showered and put on Mom’s black dress again then walked down Sunset past Schwab’s Drugstore, where Lana Turner had been discovered. I kept going around the corner to a cocktail lounge called Sherrie’s. I sauntered into the bar as if I knew what I was doing and took a seat. I must have stood out from the crowd in my black dinner dress and furry sweater because the bartender looked at my fake I.D. and served me a drink. Soon several men in the bar offered to replenish it and in no time, I was lit. I noticed a good-looking man dressed in a suit sitting at the end of the bar watching me in the mirror behind the bartender. After I became aware of his staring, he smiled and winked and bought me a drink. Finally he walked over and said, “You sure are a pretty little thing. How old are you?”

  “Twenty-one,” I replied fuzzily.

  “You’re just barely twenty-one, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Well honey, you are just a beautiful girl.” He sat down next to me and introduced himself as Tyler Wilson. He was in his early thirties, nearly six feet tall, slim and athletic. His dishwater-blond hair was slicked back on both sides of his face and a slight wave in front accented his blue eyes and square jaw.

  I wasn’t used to drinking, and I’d had way too much. I was laughing and giggling like the teenager I was.

  “Come on up to my place and I’ll make you something to eat,” Tyler invited.

  I was hungry.

  At his apartment, Tyler fixed me a sandwich and made small talk until he had me where he wanted me—in bed. Afterwards, he said I was the “wildest gal” he’d ever been with, and I told him about my situation and that I needed a job.

  “Well if you really want some help, I can connect you with some people who can pay you cash for your services,” he said.

  “What do you mean by services?”

  “My father and I run a car lot and could put you up in a room for a week, about seven miles away. I know quite a few fellows who would spend good money to be with you for a few minutes.”

  “What do you mean ‘be with me’?”

  “Well, they’ll give you some money for a roll in the hay.”

  “No way! I’d never do anything like that. Are you kidding? That is the lowest thing a girl could ever do! I’d be called a whore! Can’t you just help me get a cocktail waitress job somewhere?”

  “Do you want to make some money or not?”

  I hesitated. I thought about the fact that I had little more than the clothes on my back. I had barely enough money to last the week and I needed to do something fast. I wondered how I could live with myself if I went to bed for money. I knew it was wrong.

  “Okay.” I started to cry. “I guess I might be able to do that but I think I’ll need some speed or something to mask my feelings.” I felt like scum making this request, but I was afraid booze just wouldn’t be enough to get me through it. My heart was pounding so hard I thought I was going to be sick having to live with this unacceptable secret.

  “Oh honey, you’ll be able to do it. Hell, men will do anything to be with a girl as pretty as you and who knows what she’s doing in bed. You won’t have any problem making fast cash! Believe me; those guys will be knocking your door down.”

  “What do I do?” I asked.

  “I’ll tell the guys at work how great you are in bed, then I’ll call to let you know who’s coming. You can put on something sexy before he gets there. When the man gets inside the room, ask him what he wants. Then make him give you cash up front before you do anything. Hell, a man will gladly give you ten or fifteen bucks just to look at you for a few minutes.”

  I felt myself giving in. “What do I do with them?”

  “After the man pays you, you take him into the bathroom and wash his dick with cool, soapy water and check to see if he’s got any sexual diseases. But remember, don’t wash him too good, or he’ll get his rocks off before you have a chance to earn your money.”

  “Okay Tyler. I’ll try it. But only until I find a real job.”

  The next day Tyler moved me into the Sunset Plaza Hotel and told his buddies about me. He called to tell me that a fellow salesman would visit me at 5 P.M. I put on my mother’s black dress and waited for him to arrive.

  When the man knocked on the door, I opened it. I was nervous but relieved to find that, as Tyler had said, he was a clean-cut man in his early thirties. I could tell he liked the way I looked as his eyes scanned over my body. I asked him what he wanted and he said, “I’d like a blow job.”

  “Could you pay me ten bucks for that?” I asked, trying to be “professional.” My heart pounded.

  He saw that I was scared and said, “Yes. Are you going to be okay?”

  “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

  The man smiled and patted me on the head then pulled out his wallet and handed me a ten. Then he turned around and left.

  Alone in the room I thought how easy it was to cry and make them feel sorry for me. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad deal after all.

  A half hour later another guy came to the door and he wanted a straight screw.

  “First I have to wash you up,” I said, trying to act experienced.

  I took him to the bathroom, inspected his privates for diseases, then washed his penis gently, carefully avoiding arousal. Then he led me to the bed, saying, “Just try to relax, it will be okay.” I sat him down on the bed, crawled on top of him, and he came right away. He thanked me, put on his pants and tie, and was gone.

  After he closed the door, I thought, “Oh my god, what have I done?” I felt sick and started to cry. Then I got down on my knees and prayed to God to help me out of the mess I was in. After regaining my calmness, I wondered why this married man with a family wanted to go to bed with a stranger. I could be the same age as his daughter! I felt sick when I thought of it.

  Still, I needed the money, and an hour later another man came to my door. He was older and reminded me of Woody. He was dressed in a suit and wanted straight sex. I asked for thirty bucks, and he put the money near my purse. I washed him up, took off my nylons, and did the job. He thanked me with a fifteen-dollar tip, dressed, and left the room.

  These men acted as if they’d just gone through a carwash. In and out, then home to the wife and kids, a loving family man. They didn’t care about me. And when I counted the sixty-five I’d earned in less than an hour, I was happy. I didn’t like the work, but the money was great. “Lots of people live this way,” I rationalized. And pretty soon, I was earning two hundred dollars in one afternoon!

  I was of two minds about what I was doing. In the moments I felt dirty and degraded, I reminded myself that if I made a lot of money I could go get my girls. Whenever I started to hate myself, I counted the money again, blocking out how I had earned it. I had to have enough to get an apartment. I would do whatever it took to get the girls back. I convinced myself that putting the welfare of the children above my own pride made it all worth it.

  I was so naïve that I didn’t see any of this as abuse—not by the men or by myself. But in reality, I was a misguided nineteen-year-old, selling my body to complete strangers.

  After about three days, Tyler came to my room and told me all the men had called to say I was a beautiful girl who had pleased them. We lay on the bed to cuddle as I told him that I didn’t realize how many older men were okay with hiring prostitutes. I also didn’t realize that ninety-five percent of them would be married and committing adultery by doing so. He was aroused immediately, and he made love to me with a passion I’d never seen in Bob or anyone else. He said I was what every man on Earth would want and that I should be making lots of money every day. That’s the last thing I heard as I fell asleep.

  The next day, three weeks after I’d left home, I took the train back to Anaheim using the money I’d earned three days before, which I had split fifty-fifty with Tyler. I had five-hundred dollars in my purse when I got off the train in Fullerton. I was determined to ge
t my girls back and start again.

  I took a cab to Mae’s home in Anaheim. She was there, but she opened the front door only an inch or two, and I couldn’t see or hear my babies.

  “Bob lives here now so you’ll have to speak to him. He says you can only talk to the girls in front of him. But he’s not here now so you’ll have to come back,” she mumbled through the crack. No amount of pleading was changing her mind.

  So I pushed the door open and called for Cindy. She ran to me. I held her tight and told her how much I loved her. Mae grabbed her arm and yanked it hard, so I let go. Then she pushed me to the floor and kicked me. I couldn’t believe what was happening. I struggled to the door, pushed the screen open, and fell out onto the porch.

  “If you weren’t so old, I would kick your ass!” I yelled. I thought Mae loved me like a daughter. Now she had my children and wouldn’t let me see them. But I didn’t want Cindy to see me hit her grandmother—so I left the house without them. I didn’t know what else to do. Again, I was out in the cold, asking God to help me.

  I called my mom but she wasn’t home. She probably wouldn’t have helped me anyways, even though I told her I was sorry about breaking into her house while she and her boyfriend were gone. She’d say, “You made your bed. Now lie in it.” With nowhere else to turn, I could only head back to Hollywood and Tyler. I took the next train to Los Angeles, went to the hotel, and told him I was not doing sex for money again.

  A couple days later, a friend of Tyler’s told me about an opening for a cocktail waitress at a bar on Sunset Boulevard. I applied, lied about my age, and got the job. My uniform consisted of a black bodysuit with a low-cut, form-fitting top, black mesh stockings, and black spiked stilettos. A huge red bow was pinned on my behind. I hated the outfit because it emphasized my breasts, which the male customers stared at when I took their orders. But at least I had a real job.

  At the end of the first week, I was miserable from twenty hours of walking around in high heels with the black mesh of my stockings cutting into my feet. I could hardly stand it, but I had to go back.