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A
really good-looking woman used to stop by periodically to buy gas. She must have been around forty or forty-five, and she had an absolutely gorgeous, much younger, girlfriend. The girlfriend was a classic all-American beauty. They were in a solid, loving relationship and they desperately wanted a baby. But they didn’t want to adopt. They had heard about me, and asked me if I would have intercourse with the young girl. I agreed. As I said before, I liked pleasing people. I would go to any length to help folks out if I could.

I went over to their place in Silver Lake one evening after I locked up the gas station. They had the lights turned down low and soft music playing. A few words passed between us and then the young lady went into the bedroom, got undressed, slid under the covers, and I went in, undressed, and made love to her. Even though she was a lesbian, I was horny as hell because she was a real beauty. She was slim, supple, and had fabulous bone structure. Her long brown hair was soft and smelled fresh. I was aching to kiss her but she didn’t let me go that far. I don’t know whether she enjoyed the experience as much as I did but she got pregnant and nine months later a healthy little baby girl was born.

They offered to pay me for my services but I declined. I was more than happy to be of assistance. The couple continued to live in Los Angeles until the child was ten and then they moved to Connecticut. I never saw them, or the child, again. I accepted the situation for what it was and that was that. In retrospect, it would have been nice for me to hear how she was doing as she grew up.

A few years after I left the gas station a similar circumstance unfolded, only with a heterosexual couple. A Stanford professor who I met at a party had a very good friend in Denver, Colorado. As it was explained to me, this guy was in his early forties and was an extremely wealthy businessman. I was also told that he was as square and as conservative as they come. After a business meeting in Colorado Springs one weekend he was driving back to Denver and, for whatever reason, the trip took him along the beautiful but treacherous road through Pikes Peak. As he was driving down the highway from the higher regions of the mountain he lost control of his car and it rolled over. The result was that he suffered a crushed spine. The injury caused permanent neural damage. That complication was exacerbated by the fact that aggressive medication had also been prescribed. The effect was that the poor guy became totally impotent. He lost all sensation in his penis and no longer produced semen or sperm. An added tragedy was that he and his wife were desperately anxious to have a baby. Fortunately, his wife was fertile and in the peak of health. Like the lesbian couple in L.A., they, too, did not want to adopt a child.

Eventually the guy heard about me from my Stanford contact, so he came out to Los Angeles to meet me. He wanted to see if I was as presentable as people had said I was. What did I look like? What was my personality like? What kind of a guy was I? Was I worthy enough to be considered as the possible father of his child? If I passed muster he agreed to pay me a tidy sum for my services. Once he had thoroughly checked me out—from the color of my eyes to my temperament to my state of health—he wanted to find out what stock I came from. He insisted on meeting my entire family. Sparing no expense, he flew to Illinois with me and met my mother, my father, my sister, and my grandparents. We never let on why we had come out to see them. The pretense was that I was with him on a business trip and that he had simply come along with me for the brief visits I managed to pay to all the folks back home. But in actual fact he studied every single one of them very carefully. He wanted to know about the health of my family, their lifestyle, their longevity, their demeanor. He questioned my mother about any illnesses I had as a boy. Was I a good kid? Did I ever get into any trouble? Was I a good student? Did I do well at school? What were my physical, mental, and emotional attributes as I grew up? In effect, in his mind he was doing a detailed genetic profile of me. On our return to L.A., he had a series of doctors run more exhaustive tests. They checked out my blood type and heart rate. Were my kidneys and liver okay? Were my lungs clear? I had to ejaculate into a petri dish and they studied my sperm motility under a microscope. There wasn’t a thing about me that the guy didn’t know when he returned to Denver, with the promise that I would soon be hearing from him.

As the next few weeks went by his wife was subjected to equally intensive physical examinations. When it was determined what dates she would be fertile and most likely to get pregnant I was summoned. With the help of two doctors everything had been carefully prepared. I received a telegram and an airline ticket from him. I arrived in Denver, was met by a chauffeur-driven limousine, and was taken to the very plush and expensive Brown Palace Hotel downtown. At the desk a welcome note and a check awaited me. Also in the envelope was an agreement that I was required to sign. It stipulated that I would never mention our little arrangement to anyone, that I would never give out the name of the family, and, if the pregnancy was successful, that I forego all rights to see the child. In short, if a healthy child was born I was never to see him or her. Ever.

The next day a driver was sent to pick me up and I was taken to the couple’s large home on the outskirts of town. There was no sign of the guy or his wife. A maid showed me in and I was offered a drink and a snack. I was asked to wait in the study, where a doctor joined me. Strict instructions were given to me. I was told that nothing should be said when I met the woman, that no words should pass between us. I was instructed to take a shower and put on a robe. I was told that when I was taken into the bedroom I should get into bed and do what I had to do as quickly and as quietly as possible.

At precisely eight o’clock that evening I was led into a dark room where the couple lay naked in bed. As the door closed I could discern that the guy was necking with his wife. An aphrodisiac ambience permeated the room. There was just a trace of soft music in the background and the place was filled with the aromatic scent of either fresh flowers or an expensive perfume, I’m not sure which. The man continued to kiss his wife, fondle her breasts, and manually stimulate her as I crawled under the covers beside her on the other side of the bed. She lay between us. After a few minutes the guy tugged at my arm, indicating that I should mount his wife. By then I was rock hard and had no trouble penetrating her. She was warm, moist, and snug inside and it took only a couple of dozen thrusts before I ejaculated. As arranged, I then got out of the bed, slipped on the robe, and quietly left the room.

I had sex with her four times over a two-day period, just to try to make sure that she would get pregnant. Then I flew back to Los Angeles. Nine months later the woman gave birth to a healthy baby girl. Three months after that I was sent for again and after another two-day session with her she gave birth to a bouncing little baby boy. I never knew the woman’s name and I was never told the names of the two children. There has never been any further contact between the husband and me. It may sound like a corny thing to say but, in all honesty, I feel deeply grateful to have been able to help the family out. No one in my circle of friends ever learned about this episode. I certainly never told anybody about it, including Betty. It was a very personal matter and I respected the Denver family’s wishes for complete privacy. Over the years I often longed to know how those two children were doing but I never broke the agreement that I had signed. I only hope the kids grew into healthy, happy adults and are now living prosperous, meaningful lives.

O
ne fine spring evening in 1950 a few of my buddies, their girlfriends, and I were sitting around the gas station, shooting the breeze, and making small talk. It was one of those deliciously balmy endings to a lovely Southern California day. We sat on the little raised paved island on which the gas pumps stood in the middle of the driveway. One or two guys stood a safe distance away puffing on cigarettes. A few miles to the west, on Hollywood Boulevard, brilliant white searchlight beams fingered the sky, slowly crisscrossing the heavens to indicate that a movie premiere was taking place, probably at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. Business at the station was quiet. A guy and a girl were at it in the trailer but, other than that, not much was happening.

That was the night the phone rang, opening another chapter in my life. The details are now sketchy and I can no longer recall exactly how the conversation ran but, as I remember it, it was my friend Randolph Scott, Cary Grant’s lover, on the phone. He told me that they were having a party the next Saturday evening but that their regular bartender was not going to be able to make it. Could I help out? Would I fill in for him? I protested, reminding Randy that as a teetotaler I knew absolutely nothing at all about mixing drinks. But he was persuasive and said that he and Cary would really appreciate it if I could help out. So, what’s a guy to do? Remember, I had been tricking both Cary and Randy for years. I was really fond of them both and so I agreed.

Mac the mechanic stood in for me that Saturday night while I went over to Cary and Randolph’s place behind the Chateau Marmont. It was quite a gathering of Hollywood glitterati, both male and female. It was a costume party. There were some gorgeous women there, many of them wearing skimpy see-through veils, body-hugging silks, and little else. And they weren’t all dykes. There were lovers, sweethearts, hookers, and maybe even a wife or two among them. Under the muted lighting the crowd looked gorgeous. It was what the paparazzi would have called a gathering of the beautiful people. Of course, Randolph had totally underestimated the demands his guests would make on my less-than-limited bartending skills. People were asking for drinks I had never heard of before. While I could get by meeting requests for beer, scotch, vodka, champagne, and wine I had no clue how to mix a daiquiri, a Manhattan, a Rob Roy, or a caipirinha. I wasn’t too good at martinis either. Fortunately, Cary and Randolph had neatly laid out all the necessary liquor and mixers on the long bar counter in their comfortable living room so, with a little bit of help from others, and aided by the low lighting to conceal my lack of expertise, I somehow fumbled through the evening and got away with it. It was a lot of fun. And there was a lot of exposed flesh around to bump into, which made things easier. You get what I mean?

That evening sealed my fate. Or my fortune. Or my future. I’m not sure which. The point is that because people had seen me bartending that evening I would often be invited to bartend at private parties in the months and years to come. In fact, bartending would eventually open up a whole new career for me.

As was typical at events like that particular evening, eventually the public rooms emptied while the party shifted to the bedrooms, where a lot of sucking, fucking, and other activities would go on until dawn. At around midnight I was tidying things up around the bar counter when, through the cigarette smoke and gloomy lighting, I caught sight of a man across the room smiling at me. I recognized him as my pal, movie actor Vincent Price. Someone—I no longer remember who—had introduced me to him as a trick a few months earlier.

Vinny—I always called him that—was thirty-nine years old at the time. He was a suave, debonair, handsome movie star who stood six feet two inches tall. With his smooth, low-pitched voice, thick crop of immaculately groomed dark hair, and his beautifully coordinated, slow movements he was a box-office draw. He had starred in films that included
The House of the Seven Gables, Brigham Young, The Song of Bernadette, Laura, Leave Her to Heaven,
and
The Three Musketeers.
But it was in the horror genre where he would eventually become most famous.

At the time I met him, Vinny had recently married his second wife, Mary Grant. She was a competent costume designer who worked on about a dozen motion picture productions. They had a daughter together but Vinny was decidedly gay and the marriage would not last. However, in 1974 he would marry Australian-born actress, Coral Browne. She worked primarily in England and although she was a dyke—I know because I would fix her up with many tricks with young women in future years—the couple were devoted to one another. They had virtually no sex life together but they cared deeply for each other. I tricked Vinny for years. Sex with him was pleasant, unhurried, gentle. There was what I can only refer to as a kind of refinement about it. It was erotic, tantalizing, fulfilling. High class stuff all the way. What else can I say?

Vinny was an avid art collector, a connoisseur of fine wines, a lover of English and American poetry, and an outstandingly good gourmet chef. Over the years I would enjoy many delicious meals that he personally prepared for guests at his various homes, including one at the top end of Doheny Drive in Beverly Hills, one on Miller Drive, and at his Malibu beach house. In due course I would also bartend for him, meeting his wide circle of influential and fascinating friends, many of whom made up the intelligentsia of Tinseltown.

One of Vincent Price’s closest friends was a wealthy member of the British aristocracy by the name of Arthur Brown, though many affectionately referred to him as Albert. Albert lived in England for part of each year, and in the Pacific Palisades in L.A. for the rest. His family were industrialists and worth a fortune. I recall him telling me that his ancestors had amassed vast sums of money when the Industrial Revolution got underway during the nineteenth century. Albert was an extremely articulate, softly spoken, distinguished-looking man in his late thirties or early forties. He wanted for nothing. He spent his years enjoying the fineries of life. Good food, good company, good books, good music, travel, and sex. He took an instant liking to me and I would trick him myself or bring over some of my most dapper and refined-looking young male friends to amuse him. He had the peculiar English habit of seldom referring to me by my real name and preferred calling me “Ducks” or “Ducky.” It was a very English thing. I thought it really cute.