The Kiss of King Kong

Copyright © 1999 by Jery Tillotson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

ISBN 1-58500-856-7

ISBN 978-1-4918-1084-2 (e)

Contents

About the Book

Acknowledgements

Dedication

PART ONE

PART TWO

PART THREE

PART FOUR

Bibliography

Author’s Profile

About the Book

The male hustler who became a superstar…the blonde dancer who dazzled Hollywood as its greatest drag queen…the stunning Adonis who became a stag film stud…they’re all stars of Jason Fury’s sweeping novel of old gay Hollywood… The Kiss of King Kong!

Set against the actual productions of such classics as King Kong, Wizard of Oz and Gone with the Wind, three gay men struggle to become part of that magical circle of immortal stars like Clark Gable, Garbo, Davis and Crawford. Only one succeeds—and ends up the worst of all of Hollywood’s tragedies.

In l929, MGM didn’t know what to do with a man as big and handsome as Mack Johnson. So they tossed him out on his can and he became a star of stag films. Moguls were appalled to see a man as swish and beautiful as Sunny St. James. They kicked him out, too, and he became the greatest of the Drag Queens. The Big Shots were thrilled with adorable, boyish Eddie Bostic. He became the new Clark Gable—and then scandalized the film colony with his orgies starring a cast of boy toys. All three actors nearly star in Gone With the Wind until tragedy strikes. They’re all here in Jason Fury’s powerful panorama of old gay Hollywood—The Kiss of King Kong!

Acknowledgements

I began working on this book about old gay Hollywood during the late eighties after it appeared as a short story in In Touch magazine, generating tremendous reader reaction. It went through numerous incarnations—and years of research—before ending up in the book you now hold. During this time, my ‘Jason Fury’ stories were appearing in all the leading gay magazines. Their editors, a group of brilliant, witty, young men, encouraged me greatly in taking my writing career seriously. The majority of them have gone on to other places, other jobs, and a few have passed away. It is now time I thanked them all. I’m thinking primarily of the terrific Bob Harris, Jack Veasey, Brandon Judell, Jerry Douglas and the late Lou Thomas of First Hand and Manscape—two feisty publications who welcomed my work when other publications rejected them as being too over-the-top; tireless and talented Sam Stagg, Freeman Gunter, Brett Lucas and William Delligan of Mandate, Playguy and Honcho; Stuart Kellogg of Advocate Men and Friction, who could always be counted upon to be brilliant, charming and very funny; gifted Bruce Fitzgerald, editor of the old Blueboy and Numbers, which published my very first stories and whose literary credo was: rewrite, tighten it up, redo it!; John Rowberry of Mach; Stan Leventhal, Tim Neuman and Christopher Volker of Torso; gay literary pioneer Winston Leyland of Gay Sunshine Press and Bob Stanford of In Touch, both warm, lively editors whose encouragement was welcomed in the often lonely life of an author; These are just a few of the gifted editors with whom I was fortunate to work with for a few years during the golden era of gay erotica.

Jery Tillotson

December 23, 1999

Manhattan

Dedication

For two great sisters who have always been there for me:

Jennifer Tillotson-Miller of Denton and Nancy Tillotson-Freeman of Smithfield, N.C.

November 19, 1929

The lights of the screening room dimmed.

Tendrils of smoke from a dozen cigars and cigarettes swirled up like swamp mist into the stark beam of light from the projector. Burning tobacco mixed in with the even more hedonistic aromas of gin, strong coffee and expensive cologne.

This is like prehistoric times, mused celebrated movie director, King Vidor, as he and the others settled into their seats to view the latest batch of screen tests from Astoria, New York.

Vidor put his hands into a praying position and thought of the essay which Motion Picture published recently and which had become much discussed by movie executives:

In the olden days, declared the article, priests and their votaries would gather in olive groves to conjure up their gods and goddesses. Only now, millions gather in movie temples around the world to worship at the shrines of their celluloid deities.

And we, thought Vidor, glancing around at his movie making cohorts, are the priests who can create these celestial beings. To find these jewels, though, hundreds, if not thousands, of film tests had to be watched. Fat singers, aging hacks, pretty girls with no talent, good looking cads with no sex appeal, Vidor had seen them all. But through all that dirt occasionally popped up a pearl of extraordinary wealth.

Garbo had looked like a fat little farm girl in her tests, John Gilbert like a grinning idiot with bad teeth and bulging eyes, but both had exuded an animal like aura which the camera had fastened upon and adored.

But now they were on the verge of extinction because with the advent of the talkies last year…

Roll the fucking film, Charlie! shouted a man who was short and squat but who had the arrogant bearing of a potentate. No one wanted to displease the Rajah of Hollywood, the man who could make or break a star with just one grunt: Louis B. Mayer, the man who ruled MGM—the greatest movie studio in the world.

The screen flickered and the face of a young woman bloomed. She resembled a corpse, wearing hideous white make up and black lipstick and mascara. Her teeth needed fixing, thought Vidor, and she blinked nervously under the glaring lights.

A clapboard snapped in front of her face, making her wince:

Cynthia Vanderbilt, MGM Test. #3. October 3, 1929.

She glanced up fearfully at the microphone which hung over her head like a huge loaf of dark bread. An unseen voice asked her to describe her skit.

"I’m doing a brief scene from The Wild Duck, the play in which I’m currently appearing in on Broadway with Blanche Yurka."

There was a collective moan from the all-male group. Why did these New York actresses always insist on doing something so artsy-fartsy? Those brainy dames oughta see that Marion Davies screen test which was the rage of Hollywood! She was brilliant and had done nothing more than drink a bottle of champagne and then go into a shtick about eating ersters.

These men suddenly became still as they watched how this unknown Cynthia Vanderbilt was coming through on the screen. There was something striking about the way she talked, the way her eyes flashed with emotion.

She didn’t use that fake, drawing room kind of accent all the Hollywood girls had learned in elocution class, where can’t was pronounced as cawn’t and fire sounded like fie.

After the lights went up, the young man sitting next to Louis B.

Mayer leaned over and said: I think she just might have some possibility. We could use a young Nazimova or Pauline Frederick type right now. Dark, intense.

She talks outta the side of her mouth, Irving! protested Mayer to his right hand man, Irving Thalberg, the Boy Wonder of Hollywood, whose genius at taking bad movies and turning them into hits, was already legendary.

She sure ain’t no Crawford or Davies in the looks department! muttered Mayer. You see her boobs? Ain’t got none!

We could change all that in make-up and wardrobe, Thalberg assured him. "She’s got good notices and she has got a voice. We need them. She could be the serious girl who loses her boyfriend to the vamp."

Mayer chewed his cigar until it was black pulp. ‘Well, she does have a voice, I guess. Maybe we could puff up her boobs somehow. We’ll do that and get another test. Charlie, roll the goddamned film!"

Seven more tests were screened during the next two hours that November evening in an obscure, small smoke-filled room on the MGM lot. Here, the futures of a handful of young performers had been forged in years past and would be here again tonight. Each of the auditions ran from five to 10 minutes.

Only three of these seven tests elicited any excitement and for widely varying reasons.

#

Eddie Bostic. MGM Test #12. Oct. 4, 1929

Motherrrr, I’m sorrry, I wandered awayyyy….

They watched the handsome young man present an emotional rendering of the Al Jolson classic, Mother of Mine. And just as the tears seeped down the crooner’s freckled face, so did they well up in the eyes of Mayer. A notorious sentimentalist, he enjoyed weeping several times a day, especially if he saw a sad picture of a mother in a magazine.

There was more, much more about this good-looking youngster than his sobbing version of this sentimental ditty.

Eddie Bostic looked like an all-American version of Valentino.

His hair was slicked back into the patent-leather helmet style of the late Sheik. His eyes were big and dark and his expression so wholesome and charming, yet virile and sensual.

This kid was different! The fact that he was doing an exact imitation of Al Jolson didn’t bother them. He cried beautifully, but manly, too, and when he finished, he flashed a dazzling smile while wiping away his tears with the back of his hand.

He’s good! beamed Mayer. Damned good! Where’d they find him?

He was in some two-bit vaudeville show in New Jersey. Newark or some place. Did a few movie shorts on Long Island.

Goddamn but he’s got something! chortled Mayer. Sign’em up! Six months. We could use a singing voice. Who needs that goddamned Rudy Vallee?

The others eagerly agreed and nodded their heads and lit up fresh cigars. Jesus, but this kid might become the next Al Jolson of the Talkies!

This remarkable test was followed by one equally startling since it showcased the literal unveiling of an unknown by the name of Mack Johnson.

Mayer slapped the arm of his chair and cried out: Jesus H. Christ, Irving! Who the hell is this guy?

He was appearing as a strong man in some circus near New York and I saw him and thought he’d make a fantastic Tarzan. Look at those muscles, that body! He’s a giant. The women went crazy when they saw him at the circus.

Jesus H. Christ! gasped Mayer once more. Looka those tits! You ever see a man’s tits as big as those? He’s got what that Cynthia whatsername didn’t have! Jesus H. Christ!

Mack Johnson had thrown off his cape to show viewers he was completely nude—except for a very well-filled posing strap. But it wasn’t just his near nakedness which caused the men to stare open mouthed.

A cloud of dark curls framed a striking face with eyes wide and child-like. A shy smile revealed perfect teeth and suggested an extraordinary charm. This unusual combination merely enhanced the unmistakable aura of intense sensuality which exuded from him.

Tell us something about yourself, Mack, a voice asked him off camera. How’d you get so darned big? You look like Hercules.

The young man had been flexing his stunning biceps, rippling his stomach and making his two huge pectorals jiggle.

Well, he began in a soft, Southern drawl, I’ve been working as the World’s Strongest Man in the Caravelle World Circus for three years. I always wanted to look like Sandow, the guy brought over here from Europe by Ziegfeld. They called Sandow the Most Perfect Man in the World. That’s what I want to be.

Can you turn around for us, Mack the unseen voice asked, and keep showing us all those muscles?

He obeyed and didn’t seem to mind one bit that his rump was completely exposed, except for a narrow strip of cloth that was sucked into his cleft. Smiling brightly, he faced the camera again, making all of his muscles quiver and jiggle.

The group watching this test stirred uneasily in their seats.

They weren’t used to seeing a man like this who looked bigger than life. These men were used to admiring guys who were slender, lightly muscled but nothing more.

Even the rugged George O’Brien was considered by some as slightly grotesque because his biceps were swollen up and his pectorals well defined. Forget Elmo Lincoln who had portrayed the first Tarzan back in the dark ages of movies. Everybody except the kids, the gals and the homo’s regarded him as a freak of nature.

Now, this extraordinary creature on the screen, out-did even Elmo Lincoln. Most of the viewers had no idea such men existed. Mack Johnson was like one of those comic strip heroes. Just impossibly well built.

Jesus H. Christ! bellowed Mayer again. He’s a fucking freak, Irving! Look at those tits! Can you see him with Crawford or Shearer? Jesus, he’d make them look like midgets.

We want somebody bigger-than-life when we cast our new Tarzan movie. Mack’s perfect. He’s worked around animals in the circus, he can swim like a fish, he wouldn’t need a stunt double. He’d drive the women viewers crazy. The kids would love him.

We’d have to put a brassiere on him to hold those tits! fumed Mayer.

But who else do we have to play Tarzan? Thalberg pointed out. You, yourself said we wanted an unknown. We don’t want another spindly legged idiot like we’ve had in the last few Tarzan movies. This guy would be dynamite. He wouldn’t have to talk hardly. He doesn’t mind appearing nearly bare assed naked.

Well, maybe, muttered Mayer. We’ll get another test made. Put him in some clothes. Test it out on the secretaries here. Charlie, run the next damned test. My ass is getting sore. I wanna play some cards before morning gets here. I need to take a leak but, damn, go ahead and roll it!

The blank screen suddenly blazed with a man of dazzling beauty.

Against a black backdrop, he startled with his radiant image, starting with his all-white attire—from sweater to slacks to shoes, and golden curls which gleamed like metal.

A warm smile instantly charmed his tough audience. With eyes both large and expressive and a figure perfectly proportioned, he seemed made for the camera.

Sunny St. James. MGM Test l0. Sept. 9, l929

The voice of an unseen director said: Okay, Sunny, you’re on. Tell us what you’ll be doing for us.

"I’ve been on Broadway in several Zeigfeld musicals and currently I do a special dance number in the musical revue, Radio Rhythm. I call my number, ‘The Chicochita,’ and this is what I’ll perform for my test. Okay, boys."

There were murmurs of approval from the small audience. This guy looked absolutely perfect for movies! He was boyish, probably five feet and four inches, handsome and charming. A trio of black musicians behind him began blasting out the music:

"Hey you! Yeah, you out there!

"Can You do—the Chiccochita?

"Oh, don’t say you can’t man,

Untilyou’ve seen it, mannnn,

"So let me show you how to do

"The Chicochitaaaaa!

With his hands on his hips, the entertainer rolled his eyes while moving and swaying.

"You move your hips like thissss!

"And your feet like thisssss!

"And that’s all there is,

To the Chicochitaaaa!

His voice was clear and expressive, he photographed like a dream—but, as he danced, Louis Mayer and most of the others stiffened. Then some nudged their neighbor. One producer buried his face in his hands and shook it. One assistant director flipped his wrists and patted his hair delicately.

When the test ended, Mayer glared at Thalberg. Hell, Irving, this kid’s a flaming fagalah! Any moron would know he’s nothing but a pansy!

Taking his cue, one director executive howled: Put a dress on him and he’d be another Clara Bow!

We can hide that, Thalberg said calmly. We’ve done it enough times before with Billy Haines and Navarro and a few others. We desperately need a song and dance man. We can’t keep putting Charlie King in all our musicals. Let’s use Sunny in the revue and if he’s bad, we just cut him out.

There was more grumbling and sniping but eventually Mayer agreed. Warner Brothers was buying up all the really good Broadway talent, leaving the other studios with the dimmer lights, if not the dregs.

If we can sell a flaming fag like Billy Haines to the public, snorted Mayer, standing up and rubbing his butt, then I guess we can sell this blonde little faggot. Christ, I gotta take a piss bad!

PART ONE

Going Hollywood

or

A Star is Born…and Two others Murdered

*

"Out where they say

"Let us be gay

"I’m going Hollywood…

Bing Crosby in the l933 movie, Going Hollywood

*

He’s not my boy now—he belongs to the whole world!

Eugenie Besserer in the l927 movie, The Jazz Singer

* * *

"Carson City was recently thrilled with the visit of one of our former residents who has gone on to make it big in show business! Sunny St. James visited his father here while en route to Hollywood, California, where he has signed a big contract with none other than MGM movie studio! Several musicals have already been lined up for this brilliant young performer. As you may know, he has been most successful on Broadway for the past two years, appearing in the chorus of several Florenz Zeigfeld musicals.

"While here, his father, furniture and timber king, Mark St. James, threw a gala party for Sunny, who delighted the 60 or more guests by performing some of the musical numbers he was in from Rio Rita and Rosalie. He also performed the delightful Chicochita dance number from his latest Broadway triumph, Radio Rhythm.

Good luck, Sunny! We know that one day soon, we’ll all be seeing you up there on the big screen of our Jewel Theater! Three cheers and a tiger for yet another Carson City resident who has gone on to fame and fortune out there in that big, great world!

From The Passing Throng column, January 3, 1930

Reprinted courtesy of the Carson City Tribune

"Sunny St. James, open up this door, pronto! Clear out your nighties and your undies! You flopped in Night of Stars! You’re fired! Go on back to Carson City!"

Eddie Bostic, so help me God, I’m gonna kick that busy little ass of yours if you don’t cut it out!

Dancing into Sunny’s tiny dressing room on the MGM lot was a handsome young man in a dark tailored suit and black fedora.

Eddie leaned down to kiss his buddy’s cheek but raised his face to do what he enjoyed doing more than anything else in the world: to gaze upon his own beauty.

He patted the fake moustache above his upper lip, then ripped it off and placed it lower over his pink mouth.

Well, you flaming queen, look at what I’ve got? Say something, say something!

Oh, you’ve got a moustache. So what else is new, drawled Sunny and then burst out laughing. Eddie, you look just like Mr. Whatsisname? You know, Gilbert or something? The one with the golden pipes?

Eddie pretended to strangle the blonde man who knew that in Hollywood at that time, the worst thing you could say to another movie hopeful was to compare him to has-been movie stud, John Gilbert. From movie king, he had literally become movie clown overnight when fans heard for the first time his voice in His Glorious Night. He emitted a voice higher than his female co-star, leaving audiences hysterical with his piercing: I love you, I love you, I love you!

Don’t insult me, please, dahling! Eddie Bostic piped in a shrill voice. Don’t you know I love you, I love you, I love you!

Eddie, pipe down! hissed Sunny, as he dabbed on some mascara and powdered his face. He’s just down the hall, for God’s sake. He’s giving another party.

Eddie opened the door and stuck his head out. Sounds of a phonograph playing Dixie land jazz could be heard, people laughing, ice cubes clicking in glasses.

Coming back, he fluffed Sunny’s gold curls. He’s always giving parties. I saw Joan Crawford and Ramon Novarro in his room yesterday. He should be learning how to talk and sing—like us.

He lowered his head and bellowed out in deep bass the opening stanza to Asleep in the Deep.

Sunny was slipping on a new sport jacket and fixed his bow tie in the mirror. His voice isn’t that bad, Mr. Stud. I’ve talked to him, Eddie. He thinks Louie B. sabotaged the sound on his talkie. John’s voice sounds great. It’s clear, musical. It makes you wonder.

The usually effervescent Eddie became silent, as he, too, seemed to realize just how fragile success was in those hysterical times. It was like they were living in a haunted house, inhabited by the ghosts of once great movie stars whose voices had killed their screen glories: the glorious, golden Vilma Banky, Mary Pickford of the long curls and charismatic smile, the radiant Corrine Griffith, or ‘The Orchid Lady’ as they dubbed her; and crazy, wonderful Mae Murray, who had worn the wildest outfits on the screen. All doomed, all vanished, because their fans actually heard them speak, like real people, and didn’t like what they heard.

Don’t we look like Hollywood stars? Sunny murmured as they paused before the mirror to take a last look at themselves.

One day, we’ll think about this moment, murmured Eddie, and remember: we were so innocent and unsuspecting before we became overnight sensations.

Eddie had reason to believe the talkies would welcome him. He knew he was rugged, handsome, but with an impish expression on his good looking face. His dark eyes could glimmer with tears or smolder with sexual heat. His false moustache gave him the endearing quality of a lively young boy pretending to be a tough gangster.

Beside him, though, glowed a man so beautiful that he caused film crews to stop what they were doing to stare at him. Curls the color of sunshine radiated from a round, feminine face.

His lips were girlish and pink, the eyes a striking blue, made even more so by the touch of mascara. He could easily be a stand in for Marion Davies or Crawford for he was exactly their size: five foot three.

Even he laughed when people jokingly said he resembled a beautiful woman pretending to be a man.

That’s my life story, he sighed but it was a sigh of amusement. Close friends like Eddie Bostic discovered he had a woman’s wardrobe which would be the envy of any movie queen. Sunny made a stunning drag queen and was already appearing on weekends as one of the glittering beauties who strutted their stuff down the promenade of the legendary queer hangout for the film colony, The Purple Club.

Shhh! hissed Sunny. Listen! Can you hear her up there?

Oh, my God! It’s her! The real thing! mocked Eddie but like Sunny, he listened to the steady footsteps overhead. Above them was the real Queen of the Silver Screen, Greta Garbo.

I’ll bet she’s scared too death! whispered Sunny. Nobody’s heard her talk yet. She could die overnight like all the others.

"I hear they’re putting together that old war horse, Anna Christie! murmured Eddie. If her voice fucks up, then she’s outta here."

And I’ll get her dressing room.

As they hurried out to Eddie’s firehouse red roadster, Sunny gushed: Just think, Eddie, if they like us tonight, we’ll be in! I’ll be the new Clara Bow of the Talkies.

And I’ll be the new Valentino!

For tonight was the biggest moment in their lives: they were making their debut in MGM’s lavish musical extravaganza, Night of Stars. A sneak preview was being held in nearby Rosemont and no one was supposed to know anything about.

But Eddie’s buddy in make-up, Simon Sawyer, had given away the secret and now the two would be stars planned on sneaking in and seeing what MGM had done to them.

As the handsome couple jumped into the car, Sunny glanced down the street and made a sound of disgust.

There’s the monster, he muttered. I’ll give you a dollar if you run him down.

Who? Oh, Mr. Big Shit Howie. Don’t worry about him. He wouldn’t dare screw up our voices. Fuck ‘em. Think about me. You’re my girl tonight, ain’tcha, honeybun?

But Sunny found it difficult not to feel a sense of dread as he watched the tall, gangly man throw down his cigarette and return to the sound stage. He had propositioned Sunny every chance he could when they were filming his musical segment for Night of Stars.

For by this time, Sunny had heard that the real gods of the studios weren’t the directors or performers but the sound engineers, an arrogant, repulsive breed of men who enjoyed showing performers how stupid they were. They were known to double the treble and delete the bass on performers they didn’t care for, causing the victim to sound like parrots.

When called up into his office one night, after hours of grueling work, Sunny found Howie leaning back in his chair—with an erection in his hand.

Just watching you gets me all steamed up—like this, he’d grinned, showing yellow buck teeth.

I’ve heard that from others, too, Sunny drawled pleasantly.

If you be nice to me, I’ll be nice to you, muttered Howie, staring from his manhood back to Sunny. Your voice sounds a little too high. Maybe I could make it sound better so you don’t end up like John Gilbert.

I think he sounds wonderful, laughed Sunny. Excuse me. I’ve got to freshen up.

Howie had said nothing more to him during the filming but Sunny had felt his eyes on him, drilling into him, and now he wondered: did I do something incredibly stupid in refusing him? Because of this breed of men, glittering careers before the cameras ended literally overnight. It was because of these monsters, brooded Sunny, that one of his favorite movie deities, the outrageous Mae Murray, who posed and slinked and danced to her own muse, having made millions. Now, she performed eight times a day in some vaudeville act. Her life was cheap hotel rooms, renting clothes and warming soup over a hotplate in small towns in Idaho and Wyoming—crazy little Mae, who married that fake prince who who stole her fortune and kicked her out to starve.

#

Eddie had raced the car to the exit of the MGM parking lot and waited impatiently for the traffic to clear so he could be on his way.

While they sat there, he and Sunny studied the regulars of desperate, would-be stars who haunted the sidewalk before the world’s largest dream factory.

Sunny saw them every morning at dawn when he entered the MGM premises and they were the last thing he saw at night when leaving, sometimes at midnight.

Where do these people live, Eddie? he mused. When do they eat, go to the bathroom, take a shower? Look at the tall guy there in the tuxedo, the one with the animals. He’s my favorite.

The man in question wore a suit too small so that he resembled a clown but his grin was too desperate to be that of a funnyman. Seeing Eddie and Sunny watching him, the man put his tiny menagerie through their paces. A scruffy terrier pranced around on his hind legs with two canaries perched on his head.

Around and around the pitiful creature hopped. When it finally fell to all fours, their trainer made a sweeping gesture toward the exhausted dog, as if awaiting applause.

A few feet away, another skinny man with a desperate expression on his face, paced back and forth on the sidewalk, wearing a wooden sign which read: I AM A TALENTED ACTOR. HAVE PERFECT VOICE FOR MICROPHONE. PLEASE GIVE ME WORK. I AM STARVING.

Yet, another man, attired in a ratty opera cape and top hat was bellowing: I’m the barber of Sevilleeeeee…. He had no teeth and warts dotted his face.

Behind him was a juggler who tossed beer bottles and a baseball bat in the air, there was a sketch artist peddling crude sketches of Garbo, Tom Mix and Rin Tin Tin the Wonder Dog.

Standing close to the guard station were two plump women, dressed in identical dresses of pink, harmonizing to Bye, Bye, Black Bird.

Good God, snorted Eddie, all we need out here now is that Mr. Adonis to show up. He’d cause a traffic pile up all the way to the beach.

Mr. Adonis had caused a sensation even among the star packed finale of their movie, Night of Stars. They had discussed him incessantly, ever since his electrifying appearance on the sound stage. He was a powerful looking stud, looking dramatic in his cape, string up sandals and wearing a wreath of olive leaves.

In this finale, the entire roster of MGM, except for Garbo, had been collected to stand on plywood layers of a giant birthday cake.

Sunny stood between Joan Crawford and bubbly, blonde Marion Davies, Eddie between Norma Shearer and the cutie-pie, Ramon Novarro but this unknown giant was to stand on the very top tier alone, his arm upraised with a sword, the wind billowing his cape away from his formidable torso, completely bare except for the fig leaf.

The face of Mr. Adonis was disguised by a gold mask and this merely enhanced his glorious torso. Sunny nor Eddie nor anyone else on the set had ever seen muscles so big on a man who resembled a giant.

The finale took several hours to film because the mike wasn’t picking up all the voices well. There were several breaks, with the stars being waited on by their lackies with cold drinks. Eddie and Sunny had joined several other gay performers to drool over the fabulous muscle man who remained in place. He seemed totally indifferent to all the stares and giggles and raised eyebrows. He had his face buried in a crime magazine.

He vanished right after the director had shouted over the