This post depicts a late-night Halloween "party" (and orgy) that I attended at the Hollywood home of a notorious movie director who made gay porn films. He was a self-proclaimed warlock and devotee of paganism.
In order not to shock my innocent blog readers, I've scoured the x-rated parts and rendered it Disneyesque.
The night before Halloween. It's late, unnervingly dark. I'm driving along Mulholland in the Hollywood Hills, which - at this ungodly hour - seems more remote and isolated than the far side of the River Styx. I'm searching for a house, which is actually more than a house. It's an over-sized, ancient, dilapidated estate. A convincing version of a haunted house with a direct link to Hollywood's forgotten past. I've been here before. But things look a heckuva lot different at midnight than they do in benign daylight. It's difficult to find.
There's nothing unusual about this clandestine nocturnal adventure. It's simply another chapter in an endless series of Hollywood nights. I'm twenty-two years old and always eager for intriguing experiences. I've been nursing a bottle of Bacardi Rum all night with occasional swigs of Coke for a chaser. I'm delightfully mellow and open to all realms of the Halloween season - - warlocks and black magic included.
When I was a Hollywood spirit
and haunter of the night
A butler answers the door. Technically he's not a butler, but rather an aging "houseboy" and long-time "employee" of the warlock movie director. He eyes me with evil intentions, then leads me up the massive staircase to the secret room on the third floor where the midnight ceremony is to take place. The room is large, darkly draped in ancient velvet, and dimly lighted with sporadic candles and jack-o-lanterns. In the center is a makeshift altar, arrayed with mysterious magical paraphernalia and black candles.
The room isn't empty. It's inhabited by a delectable assortment of Hollywood pretty boys - some young, and some who are feigning youth and have seen better days. All are waiting with restless impatience for the master of ceremonies to arrive.
He appears suddenly and not too soon, making a theatrical entrance worthy of Norma Desmond. He's attired in a hooded, long black robe. Only his pale face is exposed, dark penetrating eyes, black mustache and goatee. Looks like a facsimile of Mephistopheles. Everything about him reeks of phony Hollywoodism - but there's something intriguing about the entire production nevertheless. Perhaps the intrigue is inspired by too much Bacardi Rum.
The midnight warlock, in fact, is a producer/director of gay porno films. I've seen his work. I've met his actors. I've rejected his offers to appear in his films. The entire inside mechanism of the porn industry intrigues me but not to the point of participation.
Our black-clad host embarks on a rambling, less than persuasive, drug-induced speech concerning mysticism and sensuality. He goes through the motions of a black magic mass - - chanting, reciting, invoking, suggesting......
Incense is lighted and joints and coke are passed around to enhance the mood. Not the kind of Coke I had with my rum. I pass on the coke, but take a few token puffs on a joint. It's potent stuff. Soon the room is reeling amicably and the entire situation is assuming surrealistic but very appealing aspects.
In order to inspire an aura of eroticism and induce a sense of unity and brotherhood, we - the collection of chosen sinners - are encouraged to shed our clothes and inhibitions. Mephistopheles has abandoned his black robe and is displaying his pale and proud nakedness.
The debauchery has begun, an orgy has ensued, the assemblage of unclothed manhood is mingling, bonding, exploring, uniting. Most of the participants are indifferent to the fact that two cameramen have entered the room and are filming. In time, everyone is too busy to be concerned.
And me? I'm merely shirtless, so far. Drunk. Stoned. Inspired. Yielding to exploring hands, hungry mouths, and ample suggestions. Yet, I'm somewhat annoyed at the unexpected cameras and documentation. I will be giving a Los Angeles piano recital in a week. I'm not about to submit to the filming and probable distribution of my private sexual antics. Somewhere beneath my unholy decadence is a smidgen of pride.
I slip into an adjoining room with a willing participant where we embark on private journey of sexual exploration - without the rude company of cameras.
When I finally emerge from the private room - - the Babylonian feast of uninhibited sexuality and raw naked flesh is still in progress and cameras are still rolling. I feel like I'm walking through the imitation of a dream, on clouds that are far removed from heaven. I maneuver towards the outside hallway. Naked Mephistopheles notices my attempted exit and follows me, temporarily blocking my way. He's standing so close that I can feel his heat and smell the booze and weed.
"You're not leaving so soon," he says. "My beautiful angel of the dark."
It's a moment of superb theatrical tackiness. Before I can answer, he kisses my lips gently but seductively. I can taste the poison and its potency.
"Dawn awaits," I tell him. "And sunlight can purify even the darkest of angels."
He smiles grimly, almost sadly.
I never return.