It was obvious from a young age, three, I believe, that I was to become a meal ticket. How can I blame her? I was odd-looking, my hair was red and impossible, my feet were large as doorstops, I was ungainly, I never had a dance lesson because we couldn’t afford such a luxury, and yet her confidence that I was to become “a star” never wavered. How she accomplished it I still really do not know.
“Determination,” was what she told me later. When we were still speaking, that is. “Courage” was what I would have called it. That woman never let me down, well, in a way she did, selling me off like that, or at least turning a blind eye when it happened and pocketing the money that was never called a fee, simply a man’s recompense for taking my virginity. Actually, as I said before, I enjoyed it as much as he did, and as I was to do for the rest of my days. And nights.
This must make shocking reading, I know, but I promised when I started that I would tell the truth, the facts as they were, exactly what happened so the reader, whomever you might be and I shall never know, will understand how events took place that were beyond my control. It seemed I was always being “taken-care-of,” as they would put it. “Looked after,” as my mother said. “Exploited,” as I knew it.
Anyhow, that was my first time but certainly not my last. Having discovered the delightful art of making love, “sex” as men termed it, I knew which course my life would take. And I knew if it came along with my fame on stage, the richer my lovers would be. The more famous I became, the more aristocratic they would be. I knew “stage-door Johnnys” lined up outside the wonderful Josephine Baker’s theater, bearing gifts of diamond bracelets as well as armfuls of roses. I wanted that too. And succeeded before long—in fact by the age of fifteen—though I lied and claimed to be sixteen in order to get a permit to dance on stage but also so no man could be accused of taking advantage of my youth because he truthfully did not know it. Only my mother and myself knew and we both lied about it. Or rather she lied, I avoided the issue.
One night, perhaps a year later, I was in a chorus line of five girls. We were at the Folies theatre and were to follow the great Josephine. Well, not exactly follow. You did not “follow” a great star like her. She was wonderful, divine, sexy-black with shining limbs and naked breasts and hips that sniggled from side to side, back and forth, a bunch of bananas jiggling suggestively between her legs. God, she was good. She had the audience on their feet, applauding, yelling, whistling, begging for more.
After her, I went on with my young cast mates and did a sort of Isadora Duncan Greek dance, all floating arms and wreaths of lilies held over our heads. Except my red hair fell from its topknot and tumbled around my shoulders, and somehow my little Greek tunic slipped from one shoulder, baring one breast to the nipple, and with a tiny shake I allowed that to happen. And I was made.
36
My first true love was young, though not as young as I, and a little more experienced. He was English and had a title, which I am not going to write here because I have no wish to discredit his family’s reputation. He is a well-known member of the British House of Lords, a father, even a grandfather by now, I should think. I know he lives a peaceful life, happy with a woman a little older than himself, which I know to be a good thing because, despite being so attractive and so kind and so nice, he was a man that needed boosting up in the world if he were to make anything of himself.
He showed up at the stage door at the Folies, blond hair falling over his embarrassed pink face, blue eyes searching mine as he handed me the cheap cellophane-wrapped roses I knew came from the stall on the street corner. No diamonds here, I remember thinking. But my, he is delicious.
Delicious was the proper description for him. He was almost edible in his sweetness, his geniality, his desire to please, and the love he offered. Straightforward, no holding back. “I’m in love with you,” was exactly what he blurted out, and then he took a step back from me, as though I might slap his face at the impertinence.
“How very pleasant,” was my ridiculous answer. But in truth I had not expected such a direct approach. And my God, he was cute. His just-shaved chin had that sweet little haze of new beard already growing in, darker than his hair, which was fair and swept straight back from his wide forehead and had a dear little tuft at the crown, the way a small boy’s sometimes does.
I handed the pathetic roses to my dresser who was standing immediately behind me with a bodyguard, a burly, strapping fellow who used to be a policeman until he got injured in a robbery, when he took a pension and came to work for me, intimidating unruly admirers. It worked quite well. At least, so far it had.
“My name is Rex,” the young man said, all eagerness in his expression.
Of course I’ve changed his name to keep his anonymity, but he certainly was what you might expect a “Rex” to look like. A young king. And maybe, just maybe, I’m saying, he was.