not in our stars, but in ourselves
At present, I am madly scrambling to finish something for my not-quite-day-job, but I found this and just had to share. The following extract is purportedly from a diary kept by Mary Astor while she was having a hot and heavy affair with George S. Kaufman:
His first initial is G, and I fell like a ton of bricks. I met him Friday. Saturday he called for me at the Ambassador and we went to the Casino for lunch and had a very gay time! Monday—we ducked out of the boring party. It was very hot so we got a cab and drove around the park a few times and the park was, well, the park, and he held my hand and said he’d like to kiss me but didn’t.
Tuesday night we had a dinner at ‘21’ and on the way to see Run Little Chillun he did kiss me—and I don’t think either of us remember much what the show was about. We played kneesies during the first two acts, my hand wasn’t in my own lap during the third. It’s been years since I’ve felt up a man in public, but I just got carried away.
Afterwards we had a drink someplace and then went to a little flat in 73rd Street where we could be alone, and it was all very thrilling and beautiful. Once George lays down his glasses, he is quite a different man. His powers of recuperation are amazing, and we made love all night long. It all worked perfectly, and we shared our fourth climax at dawn. I didn’t see much of anybody else the rest of the time—we saw every show in town, had grand fun together and went frequently to 73rd Street where he fucked the living daylights out of me.
By the way: she is talking about this guy.
Now, I mentioned this in my very first post, but there are a few more of you reading now than there were then, and so I am going to repeat myself. Besides, this is the kind of Hollywood apocrypha I just live for. My old mentor, Steven Bach, told a group of his starry-eyed American Film History students about Miss Astor’s diary when we were about to watch The Maltese Falcon (1941). He told us that Astor’s husband at the time found the diary and submitted it as evidence during their divorce trial. The only entry in the entire journal that wasn’t too utterly filthy to be read aloud in court read as follows, in full:
SEVENTEEN TIMES! MY GOD!!!
Mary, if you can hear me at all: I like your style.