Bedtime Stories

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November 19, 2003
THE LOINCLOTH IN SUMMER

It was a hot summer in 1960. I was back home, so to speak, on the set of "The Private Lives of Adam and Eve" at Universal Studios. I had left Universal after the birth of my son Perry in 1956. Since then, I had been a free agent, going from studio to studio to independent producer making movies. Now I had come full circle.

My dressing room was a comfy bungalow situated between two male stars who were making the sword-and-loincloth spectacular "Spartacus" on the Uni lot. I found myself doing a lot of thinking about loincloths. There was Martin Milner, my co-star in "Private Lives . . .etc.," who wore a loincloth throughout our movie. Marty liked me and I knew it, but he didn't really trip my trigger. Then there was the loincloth that was worn by Kirk Douglas, Spartacus himself in the bungalow on my right. He was handsome and interested, to be sure. He'd invited me over several times and we'd chatted, but . . . that's a story for another time. The loincloth that I was obsessing over was handsomely worn by none other than my former co-star in the "All American," Tony Curtis.

Flashback.

It was late in 1952 that I played a bit part as a nightclub singer in "Forbidden" starring Tony Curtis and Joanne Dru. Universal executives happened to see the scene being shot and were so impressed that they offered to sign me. In 1953, I slipped in under Louella Parsons' vicious early warning system and got my contract with Universal Studios. Louella had already blocked me from getting a contract with Paramount because she was jealous of her boyfriend, songwriter Jimmy McHugh, who was my manager.

I was a starlet still wet behind the ears, newly christened Mamie Van Doren, and nervously trying to find myself in my first starring role in the "All American" opposite--yes--Tony Curtis. Tony helped me a lot. Showed me many of the ropes. So you see, Tony and I had some history.

Tony Curtis is one of the all-time, world class, sexy movie stars. We worked for weeks in "All American" and the sight of him never failed to make me, um, tingle. The trouble was that it was extremely risky to have an affair with a fellow contract player. It could mean the end of your career in a big hurry.

Now, in 1960, I was a star in my own right. I was also a free agent with nothing to fear from the once dreaded studio execs. I began keeping track of that loincloth. I ran into Tony a couple of times over the course of the shooting and we spoke. Since we were dressing room neighbors, I invited him over for a drink.

Tony stood at my dressing room door in that loincloth, fresh off the "Spartacus" set. Handsome? My clit stood at attention. Tony closed the door without a word. I slipped off the robe I was wearing over my little Eve outfit and peeled out of the costume. Tony was out of that loincloth before you could say Gladiator. We fell onto the bed in a hot embrace.

I suppose in the name of good taste I should just fade to black here. But, fuck good taste. Let's have some details.

Tony was one great lover. This gladiator had a weapon that was just what the doctor ordered, and he wasted no time in putting it to it's proper use. We worked up a sweat as we fucked, and our body makeup ran and smeared the bed spread. One of the hair pieces I wore with the Eve costume ended up on the floor as we went at each other with total abandon. When we climaxed, we lay in each other's arms for a few moments. Then, professionals that we were, we got back into our costumes to go to work. Very much more relaxed than we had been. I kissed Tony deeply on the mouth when he left. He smiled and waved as he walked out onto the lot.


I still see Tony at parties. We still embrace and kiss. And there is a familiar look that passes between us that only we know the meaning of. Until now.



November 11, 2003
The following two stories, The Penis Master Debate and The Penis Master Debate Revisited appeared approximately a year apart. The first was written for Glamour Girls: Then and Now in response to a survey about the penis sizes women prefer. The second was a kind of follow up. I am posting them here since it is as plain as the nose on your face or the dick in your pants that penis size is a national obsession--at least on the internet. I must receive 150 emails a day claiming that they can increase my penis size at least three inches. Really? They're addressed to "Mamie" for pete's sake! Do they think someone named "Mamie" needs a bigger dick? (Well, come to think of it...) Anyway, herewith my responses to the concerns about a guy's best friend, favorite toy, and lifelong playmate.



The Great Debate
(Is Bigger Better?
Or Is More than a Handful a Waste?)

by
Mamie Van Doren


In my autobiography,"Playing the Field," I was one of the first to discuss the penis size of the men I knew. Because of that, the book caused quite a stir in its day. (I'll be re-issuing "Playing the Field" in a new, expanded Collector's Edition in 1999.) Talk show hosts, especially men, were very intimidated by a woman who frankly evaluated men the way men had evaluated women over the years—by inches. (How many times have we heard, "...And the new Miss America's measurements are 36-24-36...") I'm very happy that Steve Sullivan asked me to do this little color commentary for Glamour Girls: Then and Now, allowing me to sound off about every girl's favorite subject.

I don't pretend to speak for all women. Judging from the other ladies' responses to the survey, we all differ greatly in our opinions, requirements, and desires. Diversity is everything, loves. What follows are the opinions of one woman who has, let's say, seen a few. Penis size has been, for me, one of those things that, um, comes and goes. There have been times in my life when bigger was better, and there have been times when less was more. I think that may be hard to understand if you're not vagina-equipped. Suffice to say that, over time, my tastes changed, sometimes leaning toward a lover who was not King Kong, and other times revisiting that Big Banana.

This is stuff that girls really talk about, fellas. And when they do—look out! Your date last night is probably giving her friends a shrewd evaluation of your firmness, angle, size, and shape (more about that in a minute). Most likely she'll have a critique of your ability to make her come, your willingness to do so, your imagination in achieving it, and the duration of your enthusiasm for the task.

Now...shape. I can't recall seeing any studies on this subject, but as a girl with any experience at all will tell you, there are some weird curves and contours behind those zippers out there. And some of them, no matter how suave and sexy the operator is, just don't fit that well. Okay, here's the long and short of it. Size is important, but we're talking about sex here, not calling up roto-rooter. There is such a thing as pleasure. And while a big dick can be really fun, it's not always a ticket to paradise for me. Not always.

I dated a guy for some time who was really huge—we're talking major kielbasa here—a highly sexed Latin who, as luck would have it, had lots of money to go along with a really enormous penis. For a while, it was like having a new yacht or a fast car, and it was fun to take it out for a spin whenever I got a chance. But after the initial novelty wore off, it became sort of an ordeal, jousting with a dick, so to speak. He acted like he had to defeat me with the thing each time we had sex. Before long, I became bored with his game of let-me-amaze-you-with-my-wang. If anything else went wrong in the relationship (and, believe me, things started going wrong in a big hurry—he was possessive and jealous!), he assumed that he could fix it with that big tool.

In the Survey, I said that 7 1/2 inches was the ideal size for me. What, you may ask, is the basis for such a specific measurement? It is a complicated equation, to be sure—part astrology, part East Indian Kamasutra, and part old-fashioned carpenter's tape measure. And experience. It's the Scientific Method: experimentation. Go figure. It's the right size.

Since a lot of guys are reading this, pay close attention. If you have a BIG one, you may have quite an asset. And if you have a small one, it probably works about as well as any of them. But neither of you is necessarily toting a passport into the famous fucker hall of fame in your shorts. You still have to pay attention to the little things—attitude, humor, creativity. Guys packing the really heavy artillery may not be as creative in their love-making as some of the smaller caliber men. Often they don't need to be.

Small guys tend to be more creative, but not always. And sometimes it's so little there's just nothing you can do. I went for an evening with a really famous muscle man (he was Mr. Universe and you'd know his name, believe me! Never mind the year.) He was very full of himself and his minor acting career, but I brought him back to my hotel room after dinner anyway and we got down to it. We necked hot and heavy, and undressed each other. I marveled at his gorgeous body as I peeled away his clothes. Until, that is, the bikini underwear came off and revealed what must have been THE WORLD'S SMALLEST PENIS! It was difficult not to laugh because it looked like a toy—just like a big one, only really teeny-tiny. I developed a headache and he had to leave, un-consummated. That's not something that's happened to me often, but, with this guy, it was his bearing of wise ass and micro phallus that put me off. You see, some small guys have an attitude too. They're cruising, cocky (so to speak), and always hitting on the next girl they see to prove that they're adequate.

Over the past few years, there's been a lot of talk about Presidential cocksmanship. Gennifer Flowers held press conferences during the first Clinton term to say that the President was not hung much better than average. I'm reminded of a quote of Truman Capote's from "Capote: A Biography" by Gerald Clarke. Truman had stayed at Gloria Guinesses' house in Palm Beach, which shared a private beach with the nearby Kennedy compound. From the window of his guest cottage, Truman had watched Jack, Bobby, and Ted swimming nude in the surf at various times, and was later quoted as saying, "...I don't understand why everyone said the Kennedys were so sexy. I know a lot about cocks—I've seen an awful lot of them—and if you put all the Kennedys together you wouldn't have one good one." Truman must have been looking through his binoculars. Maybe it was the cold Atlantic water.

Rock Hudson, who I recently wrote about in Bedtime Stories had a very respectably sized one. On the night I describe, Rock proved to my satisfaction that he was at least bisexual. Steve McQueen was also spectacularly outfitted, and my adventures with him and LSD are featured in a Bedtime Stories piece as well.

My old friend, the late Forrest Tucker was rumored to have one of the biggest cocks in Hollywood. He was a tall, good-looking guy with blond hair and a great tan even in his mid-sixties, and it wouldn't have been surprising. Forrest and I were in a show back in the mid-1980's, and after a performance one night we took a limo to a Polynesian restaurant for drinks and dinner. On the ride to the restaurant, I asked him if all the rumors were true and he told me the following story.

Forrest and another actor were drinking at Slapsy Maxy's, a famous Hollywood watering hole back in the 1940's owned by the prizefighter, Slapsy Maxy Rosenblum. On this evening everyone got pretty well oiled and there was considerable bragging about sexual exploits. It finally got down to the size of their penises. The argument got more and more serious, and by closing time, money started getting thrown on the bar and a sizable bet was made. Slapsy rummaged around under the bar and came up with a ruler, and the contestants unzipped to settle the matter then and there.

"I pulled mine out, Mamie," Forrest told me while the limo driver strained to hear from the front seat, Aand it was between eleven and twelve. I thought I had the bet won! Then this guy who could not have been more than five feet three or four hauled his out..."
He paused for effect. "And? And?" I asked.

"And it hung over the end!"

"Who was it, Forrest?" I asked.

He grinned. "Never underestimate those short guys. It was George Raft."

Like Kurt Vonnegut said in Breakfast of Champions, you never know who's going to get one. So it goes. No one gets to choose their penis size. If you did, I'm sure all of you would choose a big one. But its an unfair world and in the process of being born, all you guys get to play in the penis lottery. Afterward, you spend the rest of your lives playing with the penis lottery. We girls are lucky because we get to watch and reap the benefits. So take my advice and make the best of what ever tool size you got. How? By tuning in to your partner's needs and giving up some dedicated, honest love-making. What else can you do?

The Penis Master Debate Revisited


There has been a god awful controversy since I wrote about penis size. This is a throbbing issue among men as well as women. After printing my preference for certain, um, dimensions, I have had communiqués from disgruntled guys who fall short and fellows who, well, exceed expectations.

From a German fan....

"...I am 28 centimeters and I would like to take care of you all night long..."

My husband whips out his handy metric conversion tool, plays with it a moment, and says, "Jesus, that's nearly eleven inches."

"Tempting," I say. "Maybe he'll send just his penis over." "Just have him leave it on the doorstep."

I get pictures of guys with their dicks in their hands and captions that read, "Mamie, this could all be yours." Guys jerking off in the glare of the flash. What are they thinking? I always wonder who took the pictures.

Small guys write complaining that they're missing the boat. Not so. There's only a certain amount of pounding a girl can take from one of those anacondas. Ask Pam Anderson. No matter what a guy's size, there's a girl somewhere that will make a good fit. Truly.

Big dicks get a lot of good press. Small ones get a lot of jokes. The same with breasts. And you can be sure that a guy with a whale-sized wang has some of the same problems as a girl with large hooters. Care and maintenance can be a drag. You can't jog, or sit down, or wear normal clothes. Oh, sure, there's always that moment of truth when you slip a hand down some guy's pants and a big, big smile spreads across your face. Just remember that day after day, year after year, he's got to carry it around and pee out of it and buy that special pouch underwear.

Small guys, please don't come crying to me. It is not the end of the world. You've probably compensated beautifully by developing a great sense of humor or becoming a smooth lambada dancer or a skillful bridge player. Or maybe you've trained your tongue to do things not even imagined by the guys with the maxi-salamis.

For that sacrifice, you boys who can get a dime out of a coke bottle with only your tongue, my pants are off to you.





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Nicky Hilton

Jeff Chandler: Better Than B

Tom Jones: It's Not Unusual

Jack Palance: The Conquering Hun

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Revised November 19, 2003
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