Hollywood parties were a far cry from the idea of America usually projected on the big screen, for producers and directors were not allowed to have actresses strip off for their films, or to show kisses that lingered too long, or embraces that were too lascivious, and as a rule nothing at all that went on below the waist. Good taste and propriety were required for all bedroom scenes. The sanctity of marriage must be preserved at all costs, and the maxim was that a film should never imply the occurrence of adultery or overly lustful acts. All these requirements were laid out in the Hays Code, a strict set of rules designed to maintain decency in the movie industry. America wished to project purity in its customs and distractions, and yet that purity was projected from a place on the west coast called Hollywood, the city of vice. Its actors and actresses lived mostly in Beverly Hills, and could be spotted frequenting the luxury boutiques of Sunset Boulevard or Rodeo Drive, and more often at the great, indecent parties that gave tabloid readers so much to gorge upon. The stars of the big screen were portrayed by reporters as lost women lurching from one orgy to the next, caught up in the arms of vain fops within a world of luxury poisoned by alcohol, drugs, debauchery and folly.
“Lana Turner and Ava Gardner are sharing the same lover!” a waiter whispered proudly to his colleague.
“Only in Hollywood,” sighed another waiter as he prepared a tray of canapés.
Among the guests gathered this evening, one woman stood out for her allure and her low-cut dress. Her perfume had stolen into every nostril. Even Frank Sinatra, the man they called the ‘Tarzan of the boudoir,’ was slack-jawed at the swaying of her hips. Everyone knew her as a B-list Hollywood actress and a regular feature at the parties, but above all else she was infamous as a centrefold. The wait staff all recognised her legendary behind, but did their best to observe it discreetly. She’d posed for Playboy, unveiling the captivating curves of her naked derriere to all of America, earning her the nickname ‘The Back.’ She had not the pretentiousness of Ava Gardner, nor the notoriety of Marilyn Monroe, nor the elegance of Audrey Hepburn, but her rear end could open the doors to the most exclusive of Hollywood parties. In the mansions of the Hollywood hills, the guests were welcomed in an ambiance that was both luxurious and risqué. Here, the set decorators became interior designers, allowing the honoured guests to amuse themselves amidst the beauty of a Chinese boudoir, a black marble bathroom or a gold-painted salon. Throughout the mansion’s many rooms, the guests were having the time of their lives.
Frank Sinatra saw The Back from across the room, and got up. She was jaw-dropping this evening, and now was his chance to talk to her – after all, you never knew where things might lead. Frank Sinatra was not the sort to play games; he was a sincere and serious person, but when he saw that actress's derriere he could not resist.
“I read the latest Playboy – you are one eye-catching woman!” he told her.
“You read it or you saw it? There’s not much to read in Playboy,” she smiled. “I saw you with Grace Kelly in High Society. You’re a fine actor yourself.”
“Well, it’s not hard to be an actor when your whole life’s a performance...a bottle of champagne, please,” Sinatra asked a waiter.
The waiter returned a moment later with an ice bucket and a small firework that sparkled and crackled in the great reception room. Frank Sinatra removed a wad of notes from his jacket pocket, as the waiter looked on in amazement.
“What’s the biggest tip anyone ever gave you?” the singer asked him.
“A hundred dollars, Sir,” the waiter answered politely.
“Here’s two hundred.”
As the delighted waiter took his leave, Sinatra caught his arm.
“Out of curiosity, who tipped you that hundred dollars?”
“Well, you did Mr. Sinatra – just last week.”
The Back burst out laughing; Frank Sinatra had seduced her, albeit quite unintentionally.
Alan Alfredo Geday
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