Friday, January 31, 2014


I'm the  weather girl for a small, regional television station in the mid-1960s. My hair is styled in a  copper penny colored That Girl flip ‘do, I'm wearing a  pastel A-line dress, and  pale-blue eye  shadow to go with my big flash eyelashes – television tasteful, of course, but in keeping with the period. Gazing directly at the camera, I smile my Yardley Slicker Girl smile, especially on those inclement days when an umbrella is absolutely necessary.

Serious and scientific, I chart cold-fronts, speak with concern about tornado activity in the Midwest,  earnestly predicting showers and possible thunder storms for the Eastern seaboard, in the Tri-State area specifically. Deftly, I attach snow-symbols to the board, with my gracefully tapered hands, their freshly polished Helena Rubenstein nails glinting the studio lights.

 I'm that perky little ray of sunshine in your partly cloudy morning!

I am the bass voice in the classic doo-wop group. I’m the smallest guy in the band, smiling one of those incredibly electric piano-key smiles, spiffy in my bow-tie and shiny sharkskin tuxedo. I start off all the songs with my unbelievably low, resonant voice drawing out the nonsense syllables… DI-DOO DOO DOO DOO DOO DIP DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO… until all the little girls scream in a frenzy and nearly wet their  white cotton panties.
HOW DOES SUCH A BIG VOICE COME OUT OF SUCH A LITTLE GUY? The deejays all chuckle in wonder.
It is whispered that I am hung like a horse and have women in every city, but at night, after the show, I  go back to my Colored Only hotel room, get out my rig, and shoot myself into warm oblivion. After years of doing the group’s Fifties hits over and over at fairs, car shows,  and Oldies revivals , I’m discovered one morning on the floor of a cheap motel room, needle still in my arm, cigarettes by the hundreds stubbed out in the amber glass ashtray.

 An illegible note is crumpled on the floor; a picture of an unidentified young man is clutched to my heart in my stiffened hand.

I am the person who throws the dummies in cheap horror and suspense films. It’s my specialty – I construct the dummies myself, and experiment with various ways of throwing them so that their arms and legs flail about in an alarmingly  life-like manner, simulating a person who doesn’t want to be falling off a cliff or from the roof of a very tall building. I fix the dolls so that their bodies twist and turn, working perfectly on a shoestring budget. I’m always on cue, and the dummies never miss their mark.

I am an expert in a highly specialized field.

I’m a whore sitting in a window in Amsterdam’s Red Light District, on a big, curvy rattan chair. The pinkish haze of the dull-finished Christmas lights surrounding my window give my slightly sagging breasts a rosy glow. My face is worn, ravaged, but still attractive in a dissipated way, the cheekbones and jawline poking sharply through slack skin that’s lost its adolescent resiliency. My eyes are dead, like a shark’s, and painted extravagantly, with black eyeliner that looks like velvet whips.
Some of the other girls are dozing; some have their curtains drawn, but I wait alertly, like a thief, smoking. When a likely party pauses in front of my window, I part my thighs ever so slightly, so that up a length of fishnet hose and satin garters, they can see a hint of pubic hair and the outline of my privates. I exhale a thing stream of smoke and casually let my left hand drop near my crotch; the suggestion of masturbation.

We haggle over a price. He wants me to remove my wig and keep my heels on. In a hoarse voice, I inform him that will be ten Euro extra. I close my shutters, take him to a back room, and wash his penis, inspecting it for sores.

 As he fucks me, I lay motionless on the narrow cot, my eyes fixed on the hammered-tin ceiling.


 These stories are from my book “Princess Of Hollywood” ( Incommuncado Press, 1997)
My  latest book, ‘Showgirl Confidential”, is available here:


  1. i'm just a little freaked out how today, i read your doo wop singer fantasy and it sadly coincided with philip seymour hoffman.