We were the most glamorous thing since Lily St. Cyr's pasties

epub or mobi, with thanks to the original sharer

By this time I had affairs with several girls and they were all satisfactory and painless. But I had never been with a butch. So I was curious. I was dying to know what a dyke like that did to a girl. My car was in for repairs and Miss Summers casually said she'd be glad to drop me off. Well, we stopped for a drink somewhere and ended up at her penthouse apartment on the Strip. She didn't waste any time. She was like a man — but a wolf man. The minute I got into that place she got the clothes off me and five minutes later I was on the bed — a victim of her unnatural desires which ranged from a kiss on the lips to perversions I had never even heard about, let alone experienced! In our women's jails, perversion runs rampant. Matrons close their eyes to affairs among the girls. In fact, sometimes they join in in some cities. A girl can enter a jail completely normal in her sex relations and come out all twisted up and a lez. I was friendly with an eighteen-year old secretary who beaned a boy friend with a beer bottle one night in a bar because he put his hand up her dress in front of everybody. She got a hundred dollar fine and two days. She came out of that madhouse after two hardened dykes had affairs with her as twosomes and threesomes. It was as if someone spun her around until she was reeling and then shoved her into a wild party. Now she had to have a girl. One night she picked a young hustler up at a bar, paid her and they went to her apartment. It was like a girl on pot. She had to have this one hustler. And the hustler made her pay dearly for the privilege. One night in bed the hustler refused to cooperate unless she got double her usual price. My friend didn't have it. She pleaded and pleaded but the hustler just shrugged, put on her clothes and left. My friend slashed her wrists and took pills.

“He wants me to talk dirty and he'll be licking my legs like a dog.”

 

epub or mobi, with thanks to the original sharer

“The bedroom was a mess, crowded with clutter and filth. The floor was strewn with clothes and papers, blank music scores, half-eaten hamburgers, and even apple cores and popcorn. The bed was in disarray where the body had been covered with a blanket, bedclothes flung about and the sheets were stained with blood. We even found traces of blood on the mattress covering. Other areas of the house yielded more bloodstains, even on the edge of the desk in the bedroom. There were bloodstains on the door and walls and on the headboard of the bed. We discovered bloodstained clothing in a washing machine, which we figured to be clothing worn by Spade Cooley. The garments were sent to the crime lab for analysis, along with a .22 caliber rifle and a kitchen broom. The furthest end of the broom handle revealed what appeared to be traces of bodily fluid and Vaseline.”

He tore pages from the Holy Bible to wipe his rectum

epub

I find myself re-reading one of my favorite showbiz memoirs, a book that got almost no attention here in New York when it was published back in '97 (I assume it must have made a stink in L.A. because when I was there in '97 living at the Chateau Marmont just a mention of Gilmore's name would send folks into seismic frenzies of denial), but I assure you this is a book you want to read: Laid Bare by John Gilmore. Gilmore's clear eyed, lucid prose captures Janis Joplin years before fame as a down and out North Beach tramp ("She fucks like a truck," he said. "She wants to get on top and jam up and down. She practically busted my rib cage.'') , Hank Williams at the Opry on the verge of superstardom and then pissing his pants months before his death, the only account of James Dean I've ever read that made him seem like a real person, scathing looks at Steve McQueen ("I'd see him stealing tips from bars and from tables in coffeehouses."), Dennis Hopper, the underbelly of Hollywood - the Black Dahlia, Manson, Mickey Cohen, and wait, a side trip to Tucson to cover the trial of Charles Schmidt, the Pied Piper Of Tucson, sleaze galore from Barbara Payton and Franchot Tone, sad sack Tom Neal, the sadly forgotten John Hodiak, Brigitte Bardot in Paris, Jane Seberg, Lenny Bruce, Vampira, every page of this book is fascinating. I can't remember who turned me onto it, I've given away a dozen copies over the years and have read every other book Gilmore's written, but Laid Bare is something truly special, a tell all that tells the truth, and it is written so well it sparkles like jewels on the page. I'm going back to my sick bed for a few days, I suggest you hunt down a copy of Laid Bare for yourself.- The Hound.

Burroughs knew where to find the best absinthe in a section of Paris he called "the sewer," and I went with him and another poet named Frank Milne, from Hoboken, who wore some sort of turban on his head with a bunch of fake jewels stitched to the front above the eyes. Burroughs kept staring at my crotch and almost obscenely licking his lips, or making strange remarks about "a penis colony in the desert." He drank quickly, painfully, and at one point began sweating and shaking. His eyes rolled up like an epileptic's, and he seemed to go into a kind of fit. I got up and away from him when he started frothing at the mouth and shitting his pants.