Full Service (22 page)

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“Well, officer,” I replied, slightly stuttering, “I’m coming from a party.”

“At this time of the morning?” he asked.

“Well, yes,” I squeaked.

Cocking his head to one side he asked me what kind of a party it was. I was hesitant to tell him that it was a gay party. By now I was certain that whatever I said would get me into a load of trouble. The cops were generally homophobic. They didn’t like anyone who was different, especially folks who were involved with the movies or the arts. I suspected he would be only too keen to find the slightest reason to arrest me for something I hadn’t even done. I told him that it was a gathering of friends, just a bunch of guys celebrating the fact that one of their buddies had just got a part in a new movie. Well, that did it.

“Guys?” he asked. “Only guys?”

I couldn’t lie, so I nodded. I felt guilt written all over my face.

“Step out of the car, please,” he said. “Bring your driver’s license and insurance papers with you.”

I opened the glove compartment, took out my insurance papers, got out of the car, and pulled my driver’s license from my wallet. He eyed my every move. Taking my documents he looked at them under the light of a small flashlight that he had detached from his belt. Without so much as glancing at me he said, “I’ve seen your car around here quite a bit in recent weeks.”

“Yes,” I responded, getting more nervous by the second. “I get around a lot and this guy’s a good friend of mine.”

“You must be pretty popular,” the cop said, handing me back my license and insurance papers. “Who’s your friend, the party giver?”

“Pangborn,” I said. ”Franklin Pangborn.”

“The movie star?” he asked.

“The very one,” I said.

He stared at me for a moment or two, not saying a word. “Get back in your car and follow me,” he ordered.

I nervously got back into my car, started it up, and began following him as he drove off. We went about two blocks before he turned down a dark side street. Then he pulled into a driveway of a large unlit mansion and drove around to the back. I obediently followed. He motioned to me to turn off my engine and get into his car.

As I slid into the seat next to him he leaned back, sighed, and, without looking at me he explained that the owners of the house were away and that they had paid him to keep an eye on the place. He said he went to check on it twice every night. Then he looked at me.

“There’s not a soul here,” he said.

Before I knew it the big cop was all over me. He put one hand on my knee, unbuttoned my fly with the other hand, leaned over, and began sucking on my cock. I couldn’t believe this was happening but settled back and let him have his way with me. When it was all over his entire personality changed. He told me he was married, had kids, lived in faraway Covina and that his life was more frustrating than he could bear. In the next half hour he gave me his whole life story, spilled his deepest secrets, bared his soul. I hardly had a chance to say a word, so I just listened. And then listened some more. When he had finished what he had to say he thanked me for listening and said I could leave.

But not before he asked, “Can I see you again?”

I nodded. I felt for the guy. I sensed his pain, his frustration, his difficulty living a life in which he could not reveal his true self. I saw him periodically during the next two to three years. He often stopped me on the streets of Beverly Hills at night. He recognized my license plate, which had no numerals on it, only the word
DONNA
, after my daughter. After some time he just seemed to disappear. I never heard from him again and never found out what happened to him. I hope he found happiness.

L
IFE WENT ON
. Parties came and went.

One evening at a function where my friends Peter Bull and Brian Desmond Hurst were guests—it was sometime during the late fifties, I think—I was introduced to one of the most interesting Englishmen I had ever met. He was the highly acclaimed author and playwright Somerset Maugham. He was in his seventies and was in town working on an outline for a screenplay or a television script, I cannot remember which. His best-known novel was
Of Human Bondage,
published in 1915, yet he’d also written
The Moon and Sixpence, The Trembling of a Leaf, East of Suez, The Constant Wife,
and the brilliant antiwar play,
For Services Rendered,
by the time I met him. His later writings included
The Razor’s Edge, Catalina,
and
Quartet
. He was utterly charming, suave, and dignified. He was seldom dressed in anything but the finest, tailored double-breasted suit and tie but there were occasions when he was informally attired in a cashmere sweater, shirt, and cravat. The studio or production company that had been responsible for bringing him over from England for the writing assignment had put him up at the Beverly Hills Hotel. It wasn’t a suite but a regular-sized room and he was sharing it with his boyfriend-cum-secretary, Alan Searle. Because I was tricking the manager of the Beverly Hills Hotel, I was able to persuade him to arrange a nice larger bungalow for Maugham and Searle, where they would be more comfortable and private. Maugham’s full name was William Somerset Maugham so, once you got to know him well enough, you called him Willie. Already too old to serve in World War II he had spent the war years in Hollywood and the Deep South. Because he was bisexual he had quite a few affairs with women and was married from 1917 to 1928. An extramarital affair with the woman who became his wife produced a daughter, Liza.

Willie’s great love had been a man named Gerald Haxton. They spent many years together before Gerald died in 1944. I don’t think Willie ever got over his death. Nevertheless, once he met Alan Searle, a good-looking but rather opinionated and scandal-mongering fellow quite a lot younger than Willie, he took him under his wing and they became inseparable.

I found Willie and Alan to be delightful, and the three of us got along splendidly. They were also avid sexual voyeurs, seldom if ever getting involved in the action themselves. They had interesting and varied tastes and I would often fix up tricks for them in their bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Sometimes they wanted to watch two men who were lovers. Occasionally they wanted to see a guy and a girl together. At other times they wanted only two girls. Now and then I would bring three or four young couples to their bungalow and each pair would do something entirely different. One couple would be in the sixty-nine position, two gay males would take turns sucking one another off, two lesbians would perform cunnilingus on each other, a straight duet would be having sex in the missionary position, and so on. Willie would sit in an armchair fully dressed in jacket and tie, his legs elegantly crossed, sipping wine, and watching while Alan sat close by, observing everything with a deadpan expression on his face. Alan seldom showed his emotions. He was always as stiff-upper-lipped as an eccentric Englishman could possibly be. The lights were always turned down very low during these little sessions. I would cover all the lamp shades and reading lights with pillowcases or towels to keep the room very dim. Willie was generous to the young performers. The shows would go on for an hour or two and then conclude with him giving each of the performers a substantial tip.

Another fine talent from across the pond whom I got to know extremely well was Britain’s master of mirth, myth, and music, Noël Coward. In fact, he was often referred to by his nickname, the “Master.” During conversation, his fellow Brits and many of his American friends would easily switch between calling him Noël and Master. I cannot recall where I met him, though it must certainly have been at a private Hollywood dinner party where I was working.

I remember his engaging British accent as he removed his long cigarette holder from his mouth, flashed his white teeth at me, firmly shook my hand, and said, “How utterly splendid it is to meet you, Mr. Bowers. I have heard so much about you.”

I knew he meant it. I was proud of the fact that my reputation was preceding me. Just as things used to be at the gas station a few years back, if any kind of tricking was involved, people knew that all they had to do was call me.

I must have been introduced to Noël sometime around the midfifties because I clearly remember him talking to the dinner guests about his upcoming cabaret debut in Las Vegas and about a series of planned CBS television shows with Mary Martin, fresh from her role as Ensign Nellie Forbush in Rogers and Hammerstein’s smash hit Broadway musical,
South Pacific
. Noël was in town often, usually staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel. He was always jotting down notes and scribbling things on pieces of paper. Like so many other talented and successful British artists and performers at the time, Noël had left his native England to avoid the country’s excessively high taxation rates. He first settled in Bermuda and later bought homes in Jamaica and Switzerland. He was highly critical of Prince Edward, the Duke of Windsor, for abdicating in order to marry Wallis Simpson. He thought it “irresponsible.” Oddly, he never mentioned anything in my presence about Edward’s homosexuality. I’m certain he must have known about it.

Noël had many lovers in his day, including Prince George, the Duke of Kent; actors Alan Webb and Louis Hayward; and playwright Keith Winter. His longest relationship was with the South African actor Graham Payn, who featured in a few of his London stage productions. But he was usually alone when he was in Los Angeles. We were attracted to one another and so I tricked him often. However, for the Master, penetrative sex was out. It was strictly oral, with lots of bodily touching, caressing, and kneading in between. We had many long steamy sessions together. I knew exactly what he liked and he always commended me on my skills. When it comes to sex every single person is different, but those differences are usually so slight, so subtle, that unless you’re really tuned in you can overlook them or not even be aware that they exist. Good sex is all about how much is too much, how little is too little, about that thin dividing line between consistency and variety, between meeting the expected and surprising with the unexpected. It is about that delicate moment of touch in exactly the right place at the right moment to heighten the experience, to create a sizzling electrical charge that permeates the full body from head to toe. Noël had distinct likes, dislikes, and preferences and I quickly learned which of his buttons to press. On one of his visits to town he tried to get me to return to his home in the Caribbean with him. He even handed me a first-class return steamer ticket but I had to turn down the enticing offer. There was just too much going on in L.A., which prevented me from being away for that long. On another occasion Noël asked me to spend a vacation in Tahiti with him but, again, I had to refuse. Instead, I sent quite a few young guys down to the Caribbean for him. They would stay at his home with him for a few weeks, keeping him happily distracted as he continued to write. He paid all their expenses and fares, no questions asked.

Noël had an incredible intellect. He was witty, wise, and had an infectious sense of humor. When he was in stimulating company he always had something new to say. He
never
repeated himself. His command of the English language was astonishing. One night Noël and the actress Tallulah Bankhead were at a party where I was working. Tallulah was a very bright lady who had once been a member of the famed Algonquin Round Table. The guests at this particular party were having a lively competition to determine who could come up with the cleverest, wittiest, most incisive statement about a subject that everyone had agreed upon. Try as she might, Tallulah could not beat Noël at the game. He would always top whatever she said.

One evening Noël was a guest at yet another party where I was bartending and Maxene Andrews walked in, arm in arm with a girlfriend. Maxene was one of the three famous Andrews sisters who had boogie-woogied their way to the top of the hit parade and sang to the troops during World War II. Maxene was a lesbian, and quite open about it.

As they swished past the chair where Noël was sitting he closed his eyes, raised his eyebrows, flicked the ash off the end of the cigarette in his long cigarette holder, and uttered quite loudly, “Good gracious me. How odd of God to waste three cunts on the Andrews sisters. He could have done well enough with two.”

And then he turned to his companion and continued whatever conversation they had been having. Everyone in the room exploded with laughter. Fortunately, Maxene and her companion were out of earshot.

As time went by my circle of friends continued to grow. My services as a host and bartender at private dinners, cocktail parties, birthdays, and all sorts of social gatherings were in ever greater demand. I became well-known for a special little trick that I started performing. I can’t remember when I first did it but people began demanding that I do it, especially at gay parties. This was my “Swizzle Stick Trick.” Since nature endowed me with a cock of which I have always been proud I would often whip it out and stir drinks with it. Folks loved that. At mixed parties where the women knew me well enough I would also do it. People loved to order cocktails and watch me stir them with my flaccid penis. Needless to say, I would always add ice to the drink only after I’d stirred it!

Those were wild and wonderful days. Often just before I drifted off into sleep I would stare up at the ceiling and simply count my blessings, feeling overwhelmingly grateful for my lot in life. There was no doubt about it, Hollywood was simply the most marvelous place in the world for anyone to be.