The music, lights, and energy, plus the availability of exotic drugs and liquor, topped off by the semiseclusion of the VIP room made for the perfect environment to host anonymous sex. And that’s why people went to Crisco Disco. They didn’t care to hang with the same people they’d arrived there with. The idea was to connect, however briefly, with nameless people you’d never see again. Everyone operated under the auspice that you didn’t go to Crisco looking for someone to take out to dinner.
By 10:00 a.m., I’d round up what was left of the Dawn Patrol and we’d head outside, blinded by the light of a new day as we headed uptown to breakfast, usually at the Empire Diner on Eighth Avenue. From there, everyone would head home or to whatever hotel they were staying at and crash. This went on for several years.
I’d take Valium to go to sleep, wake up around three in the afternoon, do several lines of coke to get myself going, and repeat the routine of yet another day. Either I didn’t realize it or didn’t want to admit that my lifestyle—which I loved so much—was doing me in. It was taking me deeper and deeper into a dark place I’d never been to before.
Chapter Twenty-Six:
Return to Paradise
The euphoria I experienced with Angel Dust was mind-blowing, but the bitch came with a hefty price tag.
Self-reflection about moral decay was the last thing on my mind in the spring of 1983. My reality was so twisted and distorted that reason and logic escaped me. The truth is that my pleasure center was in complete control and making all the decisions, which I believed to be absolutely brilliant.
Since willfully consuming myself with Studio 54, I paid no attention to the Virgin Isle Hotel. If you couldn’t snort it, dance to it, fuck it, or party with it, I was blind to it. So by 1983, without my focus and personal touch, the hotel property had become increasingly unprofitable. This was all brought to my attention one afternoon while under the grandiose influence of my new friend Angel Dust. I immediately jumped into action organizing a hotel and island promotional event that I believed would single-handedly save the hotel. Convinced that I was brilliant and had it all under control, I abruptly fired the hotel’s manager. He was not my appointee, but that of one of my partners, Fred Kasner, co-owner of the travel industry giant Liberty Travel. Fred became the hotel’s managing partner around the same time that I opened Studio 54 in New York.
I orchestrated a “Studio 54—Adventure in Paradise” trip to the Virgin Isle Hotel on Memorial Day weekend, 1983. Any rational person would have waited and invited everyone down in November, at the beginning of the next winter season, but no, not me. Angel Dust and I decided that we could convince our crowd and the rest of the traveling public to vacation in the Caribbean during the summer months instead of the Hamptons or other popular summer destinations. I was delusional. People were not going to go to St. Thomas in the summer. Martha’s Vineyard, yes; the Caribbean, no. The trip proved to be very expensive and produced absolutely nothing worthwhile—but it was insane fun.
As part of the entertainment, we booked Two Tons o’ Fun, the plus-size singing duo who later became The Weather Girls. The duo had released “It’s Raining Men,” a huge hit for them on the club scene, after making its debut at Studio 54 in 1982. We put The Girls on an American Airlines flight, but were forced to upgrade them to first class because they were too big to fit in the coach seats. I chartered a plane and flew sixty of Studio 54’s regular guests down to the island. I arrived a day early to make the many necessary arrangements for the party weekend. My guests got stoned and drunk on the plane ride down. After a pillow fight broke out, the pilot threatened to land the plane in Atlanta unless everyone returned to their seats immediately. My good friend, Paul Jabara, who wrote “It’s Raining Men,” flew down for the party, as did Rick James and Vitas Gerulaitis. The next day, I was there at the airport, waiting on the tarmac holding a big basket filled with magic mushrooms.
The Virgin Islands are the sailing capital of the Americas, thanks to the year-round trade winds. Friends and I frequently sailed to the nearby British Virgin Islands, where we would drop anchor off beautiful Tortola, and a local would take us in the late afternoon to a secret spot to search for psilocybin mushrooms found underneath cow patties on one particular side of the mountain above Road Town. Not only did we eat them on the spot, but then we’d return to the sailboat and make magic mushroom soup for dinner, which always helped make our already glorious surroundings even more magical. But, for this special occasion, I sent a bellhop to Tortola to secure the mushrooms so that I could be at the airport to greet my guests personally and pop a fresh mushroom in each person’s mouth right on the tarmac as they de-planed. I was nuts to do such a thing to my unsuspecting guests; within an hour everyone was so fucking high. It set the stage for a party that would last for days.
The debauchery that took place over the next ninety-six-hour period was completely off the charts, even for this outrageous crowd, and me, their ever-present host. Aside from the unbridled sex, drugs, and 151-proof rum, my guests enjoyed the beach and playing all the games typical—and some not so typical—of a Caribbean beach vacation, thanks to Shelley Tupper. She arranged snorkeling excursions on Jacque Cousteau’s sailboat and endless matches of strip volleyball at the beach. We had a big turnout for the Treasure Hunt, the treasure being a nice little gift-wrapped bag of cocaine. Tennis great Vitas Gerulaitis played a match against Chris Atkins who had just starred in Blue Lagoon with Brooke Shields. My guest, fashion designer Stephen Burrows, advised me on the party décor, enhancing the atmosphere of the various staged events. Almost from the moment the plane landed, I was put in the position of arranging itineraries. Everyone there was my friend—and some were women I’d already had sex with—so many of them came to me with their requests, telling me who liked who, who wanted to sleep with who, and so on. For all I know, in the end, just about everyone wound up making it with everyone else on that trip. At first, I was occupied advising my guests about the various activities on the island and, as a good host, arranging the beach parties and a spectacular torchlit poolside dinner dance with entertainment by The Weather Girls. But finally, once everyone had settled in and were enjoying the arranged activities and their personal routines, I was free to pursue my own adventures.
One afternoon was an all-out sex fest that took place in my secluded poolside suite, the same place I had the tryst with the beauty queen five years earlier. This time, I was in the bedroom with a Ford model who was an undeniably stunning gal with a great body. We were making out on the bed, peeling each other’s bathing suits off, when I heard a knock at the door. Had I not been in the position of host for the weekend, I probably would’ve ignored it. But duty called.
Two women announced themselves through the door—one was a very attractive, slender sales representative for a major cosmetics company and the other her assistant and traveling companion, a large, well-built woman.
“We’re looking for coke,” said the assistant. “Do you have any?”
“Absolutely,” I said, pulling on a pair of shorts. I opened the door and said, “Come on in.”
I turned to my new guests, gestured to the bed, and said, “Would you like to join us?”
They looked to the bed, looked at each other, then looked at me and said, “Sure.”
And just like that, I was in my first foursome.
The three of us got naked, hopped into bed with the model, and I soon found myself lost in “paradise found.” Breasts were rubbing the side of my face, a nipple was in my mouth and I could feel a breast between my legs rubbing against me. I remember thinking, I have to color this moment on my brain, like indelible marker, so I can relive it again and again. I was getting sucked, licked, and swallowed. Hands and tongues were everywhere, making it nearly impossible to tell who was who and what was what. It was heaven. At first I wanted to make sure everyone was happy so I pulled out a vibrating dildo. But then I stopped trying to manage the experience and just
had fun. We were all over each other, laughing and giggling, taking our time teasing and taunting one another with fingers and tongues. We snorted coke to keep going. We finally hit our orgasms and collapsed in a pool of sweat—drained—satisfied and smiling. We lay like that for a few minutes utterly exhausted. And then, all I could think about was food. I jumped up, pulled on my bathing suit, the girls put on their bikinis and followed me out the door into the bright sun. We dove into the pool, swam up to the poolside bar, and ordered the most delicious rum drinks and island snacks. We relaxed by the sparkling pool eating and drinking under the most beautiful azure sky, listening to some mellow reggae music. After a while, and to my pleasure, one of the girls suggested we go back to my room for a little more action—and everyone agreed. I was in heaven. If only I could bottle this feeling. This moment. So we slipped back into my room, stripped down, and this time we rubbed coke on each other’s genitals. We enjoyed each other all over again, hit our marks, and fell asleep. I understand others on the trip had similar experiences.
Rick James was with a gorgeous very well-known model, at the top of her game in the world of fashion, whose name I am forbidden to mention. They stayed in Rick’s room for the entire four days, requesting an endless supply of candles, magnums of champagne, and food from room service, and blasting music from Rick’s boom box—dancing, fucking, and playing in the white powder. Rick had his own connection for cocaine on the island, and from what he told me later, he included Chris Atkins in his order for their four days in paradise. It was wild—no one was left out of the action. All my guests were occupied and happy.
Though guests Count Enrico Carimati, business impresario Bo Polk, shaving heir Warrington Gillette, and a number of others paid their own way, many of the girls and celebrities paid half-price, and some were comped by us in full. It turned out to be a very expensive trip, but I hoped that the buzz we generated would catch on and people would return to St. Thomas and the Virgin Isle Hotel. But those hopes were dashed with the onslaught of Hurricane Klaus several months later. The storm ripped through St. Thomas. It hit the island directly, and the eye of the storm went through the harbor of Charlotte Amalie just below the Virgin Isle Hotel. Every window in the hotel was blown out, and the entire structure was nearly destroyed. Even though we were insured, our coverage was insufficient to rebuild and only provided enough money to pay off the mortgage. Sadly, it was the end of the Virgin Isle Hotel.
I was a train wreck waiting to happen. This was clear to everyone except me. Victoria Leacock was the most down-to-earth of all my assistants. She worked out of the penthouse apartment with me. Upon her arrival, each day at noon, she knocked on my bedroom door to ask how many coffees she should serve, never knowing whether there was one woman in bed with me that day, or two, maybe three. Victoria did her job well and was always calm and levelheaded in a time of crisis. She recently recalled how she entered my bedroom late one afternoon and found me lying on the floor next to the safe where I kept all my drugs. I did not appear to be breathing. Not knowing what to do, she called my best friend, Dr. Bob Millman, who had more clinical knowledge of drugs than practically anyone else alive. She asked Bob if she should call 911.
“Is there any drug paraphernalia around?” he asked.
“Only a vial of coke,” said Victoria.
Bob thought about that for a moment, then said, “Don’t call nine-one-one. If he really is dead, he’s dead. You can always call later. On the other hand, if the police show up and find him alive and in the possession of drugs, he’ll be really upset with you.”
Bob knew how sensitive the authorities were to any mention of drug use at Studio 54, and he clearly knew me very well. In any event, he made the right call. I woke up a few hours later and didn’t remember a thing.
I had developed such an insatiable appetite for drugs and kinky sex, I continued to pick up late-night strays and bring them home. One night, I arrived home with two bimbos who joined me in the Jacuzzi and then in bed where we enjoyed a wild sex scene until I passed out. The next thing I knew, it was morning and my father was in my bedroom waving his arms and yelling at me, “Meshuggena. Look at you. Is this any way for a man to carry on? Your poor Mother, she should never know from this. Mark, I’m talking to you, are you listening?”
The girls had double-locked the front door and taken the phone off the hook. They were having so much fun they decided they didn’t want to leave. My apartment was inviting. Floor-to-ceiling glass sliding doors and terraces that opened up to the Manhattan skyline at night, and everywhere you went was beautiful cream-colored plush carpeting. My kitchen pantry was always chock-full of goodies—ice cream, candies, pastries, imported cheeses, and lots of champagne. The girls had a blast—and passed out. When Victoria Leacock arrived to work that morning she reported to the front desk of the building that she was locked out. Security was called and when they couldn’t rouse anyone inside the apartment, they called my father. My father arrived, frantic and thinking the worst. He feared I was dead. He immediately ordered a locksmith to open the door. They barged into my bedroom and found me with two naked girls, one dildo, and two vibrators. I was sound asleep! My father lost it. Now that I was alive, he wanted to kill me.
My world was spiraling out of control, but I was determined to hang on, full steam ahead. After all, I was the host of the party. It was who I was and who I was destined to be. Studio 54 couldn’t survive without me. But the truth is, I was going deeper and deeper into a place where the party never ends. I was so happy with my drugs, alcohol, and wild sex—the kind of sex you attract when you stay up all night doing insane amounts of coke and other exotic drugs.
Sycophants were in abundance, always trying to give me new drugs—I never turned them down. On a few different occasions I tried both crack and heroin and got so high, and enjoyed it so much, that I never did either one again. They are both highly addictive and, back in the 1980s, very expensive. I decided to remain true to my friends Angel Dust, cocaine, Quaaludes, vodka, and scotch. They were loyal, dependable, affordable, and I was able to function productively and undetected. I was cool, smooth, and taking care of business. Or so I thought.
One night (early morning) I hooked up with an older, very attractive European princess. She’d been partying all night with friends in the club but at one point left her group to dance and hang out with me. After inviting her to my office for drinks and cocaine gifted to me from some guy in the hope that I would agree to book his son’s bar mitzvah, I ended up in her Park Avenue apartment having sex until the drugs ran out. I was accustomed to really good coke but this stuff had been cut with something that made me so jittery that I had to take three or four Valium to calm my nerves. I passed out in her bed.
When I awakened, I realized it was the next day—very late the next day. I called my answering service and listened to several hysterical messages from one of my live-in assistants, wondering where I was. There were also at least five hysterical messages from Carmen D’Alessio. She was screaming into the phone in her thick Peruvian accent, “We have Veeee Eye Peeees coming to deeener in your apartment.” I had agreed to host a dinner party for French fashion designer Guy Laroche that evening, which I had completely forgotten about. The guest list included many important people in the fashion industry. I fucked up. With just four hours to go until the guests arrived at my penthouse, I called Studio 54, as they were setting up for the evening, and ordered ice, champagne, a bartender, and a busboy to help me with dinner. I then raced to the market and bought baguettes, an assortment of cheese, shrimp, pasta, salad ingredients, fruit, and petit fours. I transformed it all into a beautiful candlelit buffet just as my guests were arriving at my front door. They loved it. However, it was subpar by my standards. It was then that I realized I was losing it.
It became one of many dinner parties I managed to pull off just in the nick of time, in large part because I had assistants who made a valiant attempt to cover my ass whenever I was out of con
trol. There were moments when I admitted to being out of control and that I was no longer taking care of business as I had been so well-trained to do at Cornell. But they were just “moments,” nothing life-changing. I continued to drink and do more and more blow and Angel Dust. I’d spent so much time “being” the owner of Studio 54, building this persona that centered around “him,” that I had no idea who I was if I wasn’t “him,” and I wasn’t the least bit curious to find out. I was having so much fun that I didn’t want it to stop. Ever.
I continued to submit to the darker side of the Studio 54 effect, living a hedonistic lifestyle of drugs, alcohol, kinky sex, and celebrity. I was in a perpetual state of sensory overload and I was losing my mind. I failed to follow up on details that I knew to be important and then I’d compensate for my lapse in judgment or behavior by turning it around in a positive way. That’s how I was getting away with a lot of shit. That’s what happened in a story that begins at my penthouse after a very long night at Crisco Disco.
Denise Chatman and Shelley Tupper, who worked out of my office at Studio 54, had arranged a coveted meeting for me with two representatives from the Children’s Home Aid Society. These ladies were often referred to as the Mayflower Ladies, suggesting they were so very serious and uptight because they still had the splinters in their asses from the voyage to America on the Mayflower. New York High Society—Bluebloods to the core. Anyway, it was 3:30 p.m. and my assistants couldn’t wake me. My appointment at Studio was at 4:00 p.m. Denise and Shelley were understandably nervous. I finally woke up when I heard someone screaming, “There are two very straight-laced ladies from the Children’s Home Aid Society due to arrive in your office at four, and that’s thirty minutes from NOW.” I couldn’t afford to lose this kind of charity event—it was always a prestigious happening on the Society Calendar and in the newspapers.
Inside Studio 54 Page 25
