Hamlet might eye King Lear.
“Deah, deah Kate!” rasped Bette.
“Miss Davis’ clothes,” Kate told the crowd, “designed exclusively by K-Mart fashions!”
“Who is older, Kate?” Bette asked. “You or the Gobi Desert?”
“Quick!” Kate cried to an imaginary orchestra. “ Coco medley!”
“Coco?” asked Bette. “I pronounce it with cedillas: Soso! ”
“Well, you never won an Oscar!”
“You slept with Howard Hughes!”
“You made Beyond the Forest! ”
“Ladies, ladies!” urged the announcer. “Surely you great survivors can stop feuding and tell us of Hollywood’s golden age.”
The two stars fell into each other’s arms. “We’ll reminisce!” Kate swore; and Bette was overwhelmed. “Yes,” Kate went on, “yes, we knew them all: Gable, Hank Fonda, dear little Deanna Durbin, sweet as halvah. And, of course, Bette, I had my marvelous Spencer and you had no one, but they were great, great times!”
“I had William Wellman.”
“I want to ask you a very important question, Bette. Now, it may seem academic—and I know our guests are waiting for golden-age dish—but, seriously, Bette … you knew them all. The directors, the writers—”
“Such as F. Scott Fitzpatrick, my favorite, who wrote Tender Are the Damned! ”
“… the actors … and you knew what greatness was, as I did, and you knew the beauty of the art. You knew it! You knew it!” It was like Hepburn in The Lion in Winter, running, mounting, soaring. “Griffith and Gish! Gone With the Wind! The comebacks and the glory! And what I want to ask you is…”
“Yes?”
“Who had the biggest boner in Hollywood?”
And of course everyone laughed and clapped, and someone cried in a Tallulah voice, “ I did, dahling!,” and people refilled their glasses, and I was bowled over. I had come to New York for fast-moving hip, freedom from straights, and a touch of dada; here they all were at once. While musing on this, I suppose, I was unconsciously staring at the man who had played Hepburn. He was tall, not good-looking, and strikingly weightlifted; another year or two of iron and he could have entered a contest. The contrast between his physique and his performance was like a standoff between homosexuality as a feeling and gay as a style, the clipped hunk look warring with the camp. Half of him was more homo than gay, the other half more gay than homo. He was homogay; and he was, I suddenly noticed, aware that I was looking at him. He came over, posed, and said in a sultry voice through Jane Russell lips, “They call me Lorinda.”
“That was expert satire,” I told him. “You got television, Hollywood, and show-biz megalomania all at once.”
He was looking at me oddly; was I too stiff for this party?
“Go on,” he said, in his own voice. “Say something else.”
“Why?”
“Because I know you.”
“No, you don’t,” I told him, strangely fearful.
“It’s Bud Mordden, isn’t it?”
“Who are you?”
“So!” he screamed, Lorinda again. People were looking. “Have you forgotten that night in romantic Mahony City when you pledged to be true?”
It was Harvey Jonas. Most gays conquer an atrocious childhood by going either completely virile or completely fag. Harvey had done both. No wonder I hadn’t recognized him: he was twice disguised. Nearly speechless, I said the first thing that hit me: “You stole my bicycle pump.”
“But not your heart, I see.” He squeezed my thigh and “whispered,” “What are you doing after the game, fullback? Let me teach you some new positions.” More people were looking, and I backed away from him.
“Slow down,” I said.
“A hometown girl like me needs her sweetheart by her side!” He was screaming again; now half the party was watching, including, inches away, the Puerto Rican in the Melitta filter. Briskly switching over to Eve Arden, Harvey told the boy, “You have an emergency call—coffee for three in Room 308,” turned him around and
“Deah, deah Kate!” rasped Bette.
“Miss Davis’ clothes,” Kate told the crowd, “designed exclusively by K-Mart fashions!”
“Who is older, Kate?” Bette asked. “You or the Gobi Desert?”
“Quick!” Kate cried to an imaginary orchestra. “ Coco medley!”
“Coco?” asked Bette. “I pronounce it with cedillas: Soso! ”
“Well, you never won an Oscar!”
“You slept with Howard Hughes!”
“You made Beyond the Forest! ”
“Ladies, ladies!” urged the announcer. “Surely you great survivors can stop feuding and tell us of Hollywood’s golden age.”
The two stars fell into each other’s arms. “We’ll reminisce!” Kate swore; and Bette was overwhelmed. “Yes,” Kate went on, “yes, we knew them all: Gable, Hank Fonda, dear little Deanna Durbin, sweet as halvah. And, of course, Bette, I had my marvelous Spencer and you had no one, but they were great, great times!”
“I had William Wellman.”
“I want to ask you a very important question, Bette. Now, it may seem academic—and I know our guests are waiting for golden-age dish—but, seriously, Bette … you knew them all. The directors, the writers—”
“Such as F. Scott Fitzpatrick, my favorite, who wrote Tender Are the Damned! ”
“… the actors … and you knew what greatness was, as I did, and you knew the beauty of the art. You knew it! You knew it!” It was like Hepburn in The Lion in Winter, running, mounting, soaring. “Griffith and Gish! Gone With the Wind! The comebacks and the glory! And what I want to ask you is…”
“Yes?”
“Who had the biggest boner in Hollywood?”
And of course everyone laughed and clapped, and someone cried in a Tallulah voice, “ I did, dahling!,” and people refilled their glasses, and I was bowled over. I had come to New York for fast-moving hip, freedom from straights, and a touch of dada; here they all were at once. While musing on this, I suppose, I was unconsciously staring at the man who had played Hepburn. He was tall, not good-looking, and strikingly weightlifted; another year or two of iron and he could have entered a contest. The contrast between his physique and his performance was like a standoff between homosexuality as a feeling and gay as a style, the clipped hunk look warring with the camp. Half of him was more homo than gay, the other half more gay than homo. He was homogay; and he was, I suddenly noticed, aware that I was looking at him. He came over, posed, and said in a sultry voice through Jane Russell lips, “They call me Lorinda.”
“That was expert satire,” I told him. “You got television, Hollywood, and show-biz megalomania all at once.”
He was looking at me oddly; was I too stiff for this party?
“Go on,” he said, in his own voice. “Say something else.”
“Why?”
“Because I know you.”
“No, you don’t,” I told him, strangely fearful.
“It’s Bud Mordden, isn’t it?”
“Who are you?”
“So!” he screamed, Lorinda again. People were looking. “Have you forgotten that night in romantic Mahony City when you pledged to be true?”
It was Harvey Jonas. Most gays conquer an atrocious childhood by going either completely virile or completely fag. Harvey had done both. No wonder I hadn’t recognized him: he was twice disguised. Nearly speechless, I said the first thing that hit me: “You stole my bicycle pump.”
“But not your heart, I see.” He squeezed my thigh and “whispered,” “What are you doing after the game, fullback? Let me teach you some new positions.” More people were looking, and I backed away from him.
“Slow down,” I said.
“A hometown girl like me needs her sweetheart by her side!” He was screaming again; now half the party was watching, including, inches away, the Puerto Rican in the Melitta filter. Briskly switching over to Eve Arden, Harvey told the boy, “You have an emergency call—coffee for three in Room 308,” turned him around and
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