HELLO AMERICA!—It was quite a surprise to hear from a few students from the L.A. Drama Society; they asked what I knew about Mae West. They watched one of her films and were fascinated with her style, it was captivating. Even though it dated me, I must admit I was flattered that I could respond to them in a very positive way and share a very exciting time with one of the most fascinating film stars ever.
When returning home from a major appearance in Washington, I received an invitation from my alma mater, U.S.C. to attended tribute gathering for the likes of Tennessee Williams, Karl Malden, Lawrence Harvey and John Voight. It was quite exciting, the creme de la creme were there applauding some of the most gifted writers and actors of our industry. I was quite moved by the experience. When producer Bill Castle who was also a dear friend insisted, I meet Mae West and I of course, jumped at the chance.
We immediately took to each other and she invited me to visit her the next day. She lived on Rossmore in Hollywood where only the very wealthy could afford; Mae resided in the penthouse of the building she owned. When I arrived at her place, I was met by Mark, a young stud with muscles who was introduced as her partner-caretaker. He showed me into the living room. Everything there was white, rug, wall, piano, curtains, paintings, the only black thing in the place was ME.
When Mae made her grand entrance, she was dressed completely in white, looking amazingly youthful and unbelievably stunning.
“Well, Michael,” she purred. “You made it. Hope I didn’t keep you waitin’ too long. So, relax, sweetie,” she insisted. “Anything good, really good, takes time. If you know what I mean.” She quickly began talking about sex. She claimed that Cary Grant was a beautiful man but nothing to brag about in bed. “He was like a nice piece of jewelry. She explained, “Nice to have around your neck for an occasion, but I wouldn’t want to make it a habit.”
She was suddenly filled with sudden energy when recounting her wild, sexual excursion with a certain Black boxer of the thirties. “He had seventeen orgasms,” she told me with an absolute straight face. Shocked obviously, I quickly asked, “How did you know?” “Easy!,” she continued. “Every time he had an orgasm, I put a mark on the wall.”
Mae also admitted she was tired of people saying she was a man not a real woman. She asked me to feel her shoulders and neck, she worked out every day, this is possibly why she comes across so athletic. She further insisted, “Please let your readers know that what I have between my legs wasn’t put there by no surgeon. All of it is the real thing!”