SEX, LIES AND VIDEOTAPE
(Cartoon By Joel Roi Aronowitz)
I'm not trying to outgross horrid Howard or usurp his position as emperor of bad or bawdy taste, but this is an X-rated story. To read any further, you must be accompanied by an adult. This is not a gossip column and this item is too ancient to be considered gossip anyway, but, essentially, this is the story of how one of the many marriages of a very famous movie director ended. His marriages always seemed to end up as front-page news but this story didn't.
This tale concerns a tiny bathtub in his home. This very famous movie director wasn't there at the time but his then-wife was. As I've indicated, I don't mean to inflict my own or anyone else's bad or bawdy taste on you, but this director more recently has been accused of indulging in a bit of bad or bawdy taste himself. My rationale for unearthing this dirt is to preserve for historians of American mores some of the bawdy behavior that passed for recreation among some of the show business trend-setters of the pre-AIDS '60s. Besides, to insiders, this story is old news. The small army of people who were witness to what happened in that tiny bathtub have already told a small army of others, who have gotten as many chuckles from it as they have from the movies made by the movie director, who happens to be the author of some very hilarious flicks, none of them pornographic, by the way.
I don't claim to be an angel. Back in those pre-AIDS days, I stuck myself into as many sexual situations as I could, which , of course, never turned out to be as many sexual situations as I wanted to stick myself into. In my adolescence, I day-dreamed of becoming a romantic hero like the late Harry James, the famous bandleader who married all the outstandingly luscious pinups of his day, one at a time, of course. There's no use crying over spilled milk, but the truth is that although I wished I was born with the sexual charisma of a skinny rock 'n roll star instead of with the blah wannabeism of a compulsive writer destined for the blacklist, I never had the balls to be a hero. Frankly, I'm jealous of this director.
As I said, he wasn't home at the time, but his then-wife was. Also with her was her entourage, which included her lover, who was a singer in a trend-setting folk group when the '60s began, and which also included the Sheherazade who told me this story. As the evening's entertainment for the audience, the director's then-wife and her lover proceeded to take off their clothes, get in the tiny tub and perform oral sex with each other while demanding approval from the entourage, including those busily videotaping the scene. Eventually, the videotape apparently was left unmarked and also carelessly left lying around. The director, who usually stars in his own films, was in the habit of practicing his comedy bits in front of his own video camera and inevitably picked up the unmarked bathtub tape and put it in the VCR to see what was on it.
As I said, that ended that marriage. Meanwhile, my Sheherazade has a thousand more tales to tell. ##
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