UNITED STATES—”I don’t envy your position… And what did you do?”
“I told him firmly and in no uncertain terms to remove his hands from my eyes.”
“I’m sure you comported yourself every inch a lady,” Mr. Disney said. “Could you demonstrate exactly what Mickey did? Please come around my desk.
I put my hands over Mr. Disney’s eyes, just as Mickey had done to me. Mr. Disney’s eyelids quivered under the palms of my hands.
“I see that is quite disconcerting having a stranger’s hands over your eyes. Rather, you don’t see.”
He got up from his desk chair and bid me to sit down. He put his hands over my eyes. “Mickey did it just like this,” he stood behind me. “Miss Andrews, show me what he did next.”
“It give me nausea just to think of it. If you must know, he took his rodent tongue and thrust it into my ear and said, ‘Hey, baby, how do you like it? And he babbled on, ‘This used to drive Minnie crazy and leave her trembling like a bougainvillea petal in a Santa Ana wind.'”
“Show me,” Mr. Disney said.
“Really, I can’t, I can’t,” I protested, blushing hotly. Well, I swallowed by pride and did it by gosh. Mr. Disney was one of the most recognizable men on the planet, who was I to deny his wishes. It was thoroughly repulsive. Thoroughly repulsive. If there’s anything more vilely disgusting than a four-fingered hand, it’s hairy ears. Though Mr. Disney was always immaculately tailored and groomed, he had a few bristles, like rebellious antennae, coming out of his ears. As I finished the repugnant act of sticking my tongue in his ear, he took my hand and brought it slowly down to his trousers.
“That’s little Mickey,” he said. “Little Mickey wants to meet you.” There was a mineral gleam in his eyes. Before I knew it, Mr. Disney was panting on top of me, his eyes crazy. He didn’t even undress. It was painful and ghastly as his putrid flesh penetrated me viciously and unfeelingly with Little Mickey. I simply wanted to curl up in a corner and die. Mr. Disney’s rhythmic thrusts became spaced closer and closer together. After what seemed an eternity, he gasped and his eyes rolled in the back of his head. He fell off of me like a sack of potatoes in Savile Row threads. For a few moments, due to Mr. Disney’s unnatural stillness, I feared that I may have a lot of explaining to do to the coroner.
“Miss Andrews, I don’t know what overcame me,” he finally spoke. “This has never happened before. Not even with Snow White. I controlled myself. Something overcame me. You look so much like my mother.”
Then he looked over and saw the blood on my milky thighs. The change was palpable. He cried like a little boy and moaned:
“I’m so sorry. So so sorry. I had no idea you were a . . . virgin.” He said the word with reverence. I tried to console him, and rocked his head gently against by breast.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be a virgin again in another week.” Stiff upper lip.
Graydon Miller is the author of “Later Bloomer: Tales from Darkest Hollywood” https://amzn.to/2HJKNPf.