The papers are filled with producer, Harvey Weinstein’s, inappropriate behavior with just about every actress in Hollywood short of Lassie, though she may bark today.
The legendary casting couch, has never been so featured.
Seems daily, someone new joins the chorus of showgirls who’ve been sexually assaulted by the big cheese of moviemakers, at one time or another.
Angelina Jolie, Gwyneth Palthrow and Ashley Judd to name three.
I too can recall being groped a few times. Once by a photographer who said he was fixing my dress, and another sleaze ball agent who, as I was reading copy, rubbed up against me from the back. I was in my late teens pretending not to notice.
“So, I think I better go,” I said, before backing out of his crummy office while my skin crawled. I remember calling the guy who sent me who laughed and said, “Well darlin, it’s part’a the business you wanna be in.”
Well, the jig is up, darlin, even if it took 40 years.
There was the manager claiming to represent singer Peter Frampton, who said if I got cozy with him, as he put it, he’d get me into Triad, a theatrical agency, big at the time. I was trying to get my Screen Actors Guild card and he said, they’d get me a TV commercial, and I’d be all set.
He also said, I didn’t have much time since in a year or two, I’d be considered old. I mean after all, a girl peaks at 20…
and the bedroom is right this way.
I was such a stupid kid, and had a mother, Connecticut’s most infamous femme fatale, as a role model, so there I was, humping with the oldies. He was old enough to be my father with a gold watch the size of Big Ben.
I remember his cigar, and how his stomach hung over his baggy boxers like a dinghy, illegally parked.
He called me schweetheart, and told me I needed a boob job.
I said, I’d only stay if he stopped smoking and turned out the lights.
After a series of innings that did nothing but make me cry afterwards, I realized, I was never meeting the people at the Triad Agency, and was taken for a ride.
In other words, I’d been Harvey-ied.
His name was Bill, and I see him once in a while. He’s ancient now, but still salivates at the sight of you.
“Don’t you remember me?” he said once, gripping my forearm.
“Yeah, sadly I do, you big creep. Get the fuck away from me.”
He looked stunned as I left him standing on the street in his black leather car coat and pinkie ring, like a dinosaur of another era.
I think of Bill Cosby who’s about to be back in court, and his brethren who must be shaking in their boots.
Stay tuned, because the truth always comes out, even if it takes a while.