“Hey, you think Chuck would mind?”
“Mind?” I whispered back. “No, that’s the kind of thing he’d go for in a big way. But let me set it up for you.”
Of course, this was definitely
not
the kind of thing Chuck would go for in a big way. In fact, that may have been his greatest fear, the one possibility he dreaded most. Whenever he was going to put down another man, he would call him “that fag.”
A psychiatrist could probably explain this. All I have are suspicions. Chuck existed in a very narrow sexual area. Probably because of his experiences with his mother, he hated all women and could never just have straight sex with a woman. But he was also a former Marine and a gun nut; in that super-macho world, there was no room for gays. So where did that leave him? That left him with cruelty and animals and whatever other bizarre possibility he could dream up.
The room was pitch black except for a flickering light bouncing off a movie screen. Since Chuck was only a couple of feet away from us, he knew full well what I had just done with Sammy. He didn’t move at all—his eyes never left the movie screen—as I went over to him and reached out to unzip his trousers.
“Hey, you can’t just sit there and watch,” I said to Chuck. “You can’t just sit there.”
As I was talking to Chuck, I signaled for Sammy to come on over. Chuck grunted at me and shifted his weight, making it easier for me to do the job. He must have been really into the dirty movie because he didn’t realize what was happening until it happened. I was the one who unzipped his trousers, but I wasn’t the one who knelt in front of him.
A minute or two went by before Chuck realized that something was different. Then, although Chuck didn’t utter a sound, his eyes were screaming for help. He looked back at me, boiling mad now, and with his right hand gestured for me to come over and free him.
I just shrugged my shoulders and laughed. Perhaps this won’t seem like much revenge to the reader, but, finally, after all the awful things Chuck had done to me, I was able to put him through an ordeal, a sexual ordeal at that. You may not think he was suffering much. But that’s only because you weren’t there to see the agony on his face.
I was sure that Chuck would say something and end the little experiment but he didn’t say a word. That was so typical. He had such unnatural respect for anyone in a position of power that he didn’t dare complain. He let the scene go on and on without interrupting it.
Each time that Sammy showed signs of slowing down, I kept him going with instructional encouragement. It was, ironically enough, the same instruction that Chuck had once given me.
“No, no, Sammy,” I said, “push down a little more—he’ll like that. Yeah, that’s right. Keep going. You’re doing fine.”
Chuck was glaring at me but he didn’t utter a word. He would put up with anything rather than risk losing the friendship of Sammy Davis, Jr. He would rather have a heart attack than say no to a celebrity. The fact that Chuck was not responding didn’t seem to bother Sammy.
“Not so fast,” I said. “It’s better when you do it nice and slowly. That’s right, slow it down . . . yes, that’s right, that’s very good.”
In time, Sammy finally gave up on Chuck. I knew that I’d be punished, but this time it was worth it. The expression on Chuck’s face that night will be with me always.
The experience revealed something about Chuck that I hadn’t known. His cowardice. There he was, in pain and scared, but unable to speak up. He didn’t know how to handle it, didn’t know what to do. He expected
me
to save
him
. And this was really nothing at all, nothing at all compared to the things he made me do. And he couldn’t handle that. He couldn’t handle the littlest thing. It was really nothing and he flipped out!
My time with Sammy was almost at an end. One night soon after, to my great surprise, he wanted normal sex with me. It was the first time we ever had intercourse; the first time he ever made love to me. In effect, he was choosing me over Altovise. However, the first time we ever made love was also the last time. In a few days I would be free of Chuck and that whole way of life would be behind me.
nineteen
Living in Hollywood, you begin to forget that outside there is still a normal world with normal people. California is the land of the super-freaks and they all seem to come to Hollywood sooner or later. And when they were in Hollywood, they looked us up.
That’s why Chuck loved California. It was easy for him to find people as sick as himself. Remembering the kind of people he’d bring home still grosses me out.
Just one example, no more. But one example should be enough.
One day Chuck had a photographer taking pictures of me and the photographer showed Chuck some other pictures he had recently taken. Pictures of a blonde with empty eyes and a full chest.
“Yeah,” Chuck decided, “she looks like a freaky chick. What’s her phone number?”
The photographer looked up the girl’s telephone number in his appointment book. He said that her name was Brigit. While we were still there talking, Chuck picked up the phone and dialed her number. He introduced himself as Linda Lovelace’s manager and said that he had just been admiring her photographs.
“Nice body, honey,” he said. “I’ve got a feeling we may be able to help you out. Why don’t you come down here right now?”
Within ten minutes, Brigit was there. And Chuck had it right; she was a freak. I don’t know how someone can tell that by just looking at a photograph but Chuck had an instinct. The two of them talked for just a few minutes and the next thing I knew, we were all on our way home together. Brigit told us that she was just starting out as a model. Later she would be featured in many girlie magazines and even a pornographic movie or two, but then she was unknown.
For once, Chuck didn’t have to push a thing. As soon as the car was moving toward home, I felt a hand on my thigh. Glancing down, I saw that Brigit had one hand on me and the other hand on Chuck. Besides being ambidextrous, she was a non-stop talker. She was just
thrilled
to meet me; she was just
crazy
about dildoes; her special favorite was giving and receiving enemas.
“Oh yeah?” That interested Chuck. “Far out!”
Once we got home, Brigit was all over me. The more I looked at her, the more I saw Chuck. She was a strange mirror image of him, a woman as perverted as he was. Chuck supplied the dildoes and she supplied the imagination. For a long time, Chuck contented himself with watching her work on me. And then—it must have been four o’clock in the morning—she had a suggestion for him.
“If you’ve got a douche bag,” she said, “I really feel like an enema.”
“We’ve got a douche bag,” Chuck said.
“Wow, I’m really sleepy,” I said. “I’ve just got to get some sleep.”
“You just stay there,” Chuck said. “I want you to watch this.”
Well, watching was better than doing. And so, while I became the observer, Chuck became a participant. What happened next was enough to make me feel physically sick, but I didn’t dare leave the bathroom.
The scene came down in the bathtub. Chuck was lying down flat in the bathtub and Brigit was squatting over him. She bent over so that he could give her an enema. She kept it in her as long as she could and even then she was saying, “More, more!” When it was impossible for her to take any more, she squatted directly over his face. He pulled out the plug and the stuff was all over his face and his shoulders. Then she sat down in that mess. The next thing, Chuck was taking his fingers and rubbing it through the stuff and then he was wiping it over her face and into her mouth. It was all I could do to keep from throwing up. They were so wrapped up in what was coming down, they forgot all about me.
Okay, that was Brigit. And to me, that will always be California.
I have to admit that California was also the land of opportunity. If the people were easy, so was the money. Sometimes it looked to me as though people were trying to force money on Chuck.
We were there for just a few weeks and Chuck found himself working on a dozen different deals. Head Shampoo was talking about my doing commercials; another guy was printing posters; someone wanted to back a Las Vegas act; there was talk of record albums, movies, books, you name it.
Not that the money ever became part of my life. Whatever money came in went right to Chuck and his bank accounts. If I needed money, say, to have a tooth fixed, he’d delay it as long as he could. First he’d have to see if I was covered by any insurance; then he’d want to know whether it was something that really had to be fixed; and then maybe —just maybe—he’d have it fixed legitimately. Trying to get Chuck to part with my money was never easy.
And whenever an offer came up that genuinely interested me, Chuck managed to ruin it. The country-and-western album was just the first of many busted balloons. One deal that really excited me was a movie that Buck Henry wanted to make with Milos Forman. They wanted me to star in it. This would have been legitimate, quality, the big time. Even Chuck was impressed. In fact, Chuck was so impressed that he made the two film-makers a counter offer.
“If you guys really want to make a movie with Linda,” he said, “then you could have her for a week.”
That took care of that little deal. I didn’t know much about Buck Henry or Milos Forman then, but I could tell they were serious people. I also knew that I could be in any movie they might make without embarrassment. When the deals did fall through, it was generally because Chuck did not know how to operate in the straight world. He never realized that someone somewhere might do something without expecting a sexual payoff.
Although I was terribly let down after that, there was one good side to the experience. The more that decent people became interested in me for decent reasons, the stronger I became.
Every other day, Chuck had new papers for me to sign. Releases, deals, contracts that tied me to him forever. Everything that was put in front of me I signed. There was only one small moment of rebellion. We once flew from California to Florida to meet with Philip Mandina and sign papers forming one corporation or another. As they piled up the papers for me to sign, I thought I’d throw a scare into them.
“I don’t think I should sign anything until I show it to my lawyer.”
The bottom fell out of Mandina’s face and Chuck spun toward me.
“What’s this about a lawyer?” he said. “What’s this fucking talk about a fucking lawyer?”
“Come on, Linda,” Mandina said. “Be smart. You know you’re going to do what your husband tells you to do.”
My little ploy had gotten a large reaction. But the experience didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know. These two men had raped me every way it was possible for one human being to rape another. And never, at any time, had either one of them considered my interests in anything.
I’ve still got the contract for employment that I signed that day. Right below my signature is Chuck’s signature. And there’s a salary clause that grants me 3 percent of my gross earnings. The contract is for ten years and was renewable for another ten years beyond that. No wonder they were frightened that I might have another lawyer look at it.
That summer of 1973, Chuck decided that I should star in a musical review. He had found a backer, a Gerry Brodsky, and he was willing to put up a mountain of cash. He found a theater in Miami that wanted me. He had gotten calls from Las Vegas. And now, using Brodsky’s money, we were going to interview producers who knew how to put together a musical stage show.
Introducing: David Winters. David Winters was well known as both a choreographer and a producer. He had been in
West Side Story
, had worked on Elvis Presley movies, and had put together successful musical acts for Ann-Margret, Raquel Welch and many others.
All I knew about David Winters was that he had a reputation for extravagance. I was told that if the budget was $20,000, he would manage to bring in a show for $60,000. But he also had a reputation for bringing in nothing but winners.
Describing David Winters as flamboyant is to seriously understate the case. He habitually wore stretch pants and boots, a loose chemise with puffed sleeves, and a pocketbook with jingling little bells on it. As I met David Winters for the first time, he handed me a single long-stemmed rose.
I took one look at David Winters and decided he was wonderful. Chuck took one look at David Winters and decided he was “a fag.”
We both decided to hire him. And David immediately assembled a team that had worked with him before, the best talent money could buy. Voice and dance coaches, a back-up team of dancers and singers, a choreographer named Joe Cassini, and a writer, Mel Mandel.
On August twenty-first we signed contracts to open at Miami’s Paramount Theater on November first. The salary was to be $15,000 a week for two weeks. Three twenty-minute shows a day. There was only one bad clause in the contract, this one inked in: “Lovelace agrees to appear nude at a point in time during the act.” Chuck signed it and I signed it and it was co-signed and guaranteed by a certain Philip Mandina, Esq.
It wasn’t a perfect contract. So Susan Hayward never had to sign a contract calling for her “to appear nude at a point in time during her act.” At least I was going to be doing honest work. And it
was
work. I started immediately working with the vocal coaches where our first problem was trying to find out what my key was. And then trying to find songs I could sing. We had to begin by agreeing that I wasn’t an Ella Fitzgerald or a Judy Garland; I had a range that could most politely be described as limited. But I could carry a tune. Some tunes anyway.
Actually, I
love
music—I’ve always loved music and I still love it today. It’s my favorite escape. If someone turns on a radio, my feet want to dance. Just listening to music gives me a feeling of well being. When Chuck realized that, it became one of his favorite punishments; he would forbid me to listen to music. And now, for the first time, music itself became an important part of my whole life.
At the same time I was learning how to sing, I was practicing dancing. And, also at the same time, I was going over the comedy routines that Mel Mandel was writing for me. The script was a collection of double-entendres joined together by this comic theme: Being Linda Lovelace is not easy; in fact, it’s hard to make even casual conversation.
The opening went something like this: “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, thank you for
coming
. . . Oh, excuse me, I can’t say that. It’s so
hard
. . . oops . . . it’s so difficult for me to say anything. Every time I open my mouth . . . oops, sorry about that.” It was a little crude, but it was also a little cute. If I’d been in the audience, I might have giggled at some of the lines.
Once the rehearsals started, I began to feel good, really good. I never worked harder in my life, but it was decent work. Singing and dancing and learning new things. And somehow, the more I did, the more I was able to do. And the less important Chuck seemed.
Chuck must have seen the danger here. Although he didn’t say anything to me, he seemed to be doing everything possible to undermine the production. At this time he was into partying in a big way, staying out until four o’clock every morning, sleeping until noon. The only trouble was that my rehearsals were supposed to begin at nine in the morning.
This was one of the few times in my life I found the courage to speak up to him.
“Chuck, this is just no good. I’ve got to get to my rehearsals on time. If I’m going to get up on a stage and sing and dance, I don’t want to make a fool of myself. I’ve got to know what I’m supposed to do.”
“Hey, Babe, take it easy there.”
“This just makes basic sense,” I said. “We’re renting the rehearsal space. We’ve hired all these people to teach me and—”
“Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?” he said. “Just who the fuck do you think you are?”
After that, Chuck had me missing one appointment after another. If my singing lesson was for 11:30, he’d get me there at 12:15. If the rehearsal hall was available at ten, he’d lead me in around noon. David Winters and Mel Mandel finally had a talk with Chuck. They told him that unless I started making it to rehearsals, they’d have to take their names off the act.
This was the final straw, the ultimate indignity, and I found myself hating Chuck more than I ever had. He didn’t care whether I ever learned how to sing or dance. He cared about only two things, the steady streams of money and sex that came to him because he was married to Linda Lovelace.
Maybe my pathetic little career was doomed from the start. Here I was, going on a stage, and I had never even seen a live play. I was going to be dancing in front of people, and I had never seen a professional dancer. Of course I was going to make a fool of myself. A fool twice over. I was already a fool to think Chuck would ever let me do anything on my own.
On the day I finally ran away from Chuck, he was particularly angry with me. All that morning he had yelled and screamed at me. Then, while I was rehearsing, he came barging into the rehearsal hall and told me he was calling off my work for the rest of the day.
“No!” I screamed right back at him. “I’m not going. This rehearsal is too important to me. You can go back to the office until I’m finished here and then you can come and get me.”