around that day, and it was patently clear to me that he and Cary Grant were more than mere friends. The proof arrived that first weekend that I spent with them. The three of us got into a lot of sexual mischief together. Aside from the usual sucking—neither of them were into fucking, at least not fucking guys, or at least not me—what I remember most about that first encounter was that Scott really liked to cuddle, and talk, and was very gentle. Grant was nice as well, though Scott was even more of a gentleman. He even drove me back down the coast to Camp Elliott in San Diego on Sunday evening—a four-hour drive each way, undertaken during the difficulties of wartime gas rationing.
I really liked those two men, and they were obviously very good for one another. In future years I would be seeing a lot of them. Theirs was a relationship that would last a long time, with the two of them eventually sharing a home together behind the famed Chateau Marmont Hotel in Hollywood as well as the Malibu beach house. I don’t know if their wives ever knew what was going on between them. I never asked.
On another local weekend pass I was on my way to pick up a pretty sixteen-year-old girl I had met in the nearby town of El Cajon, near San Diego. I really had the hots for her and planned on taking her downtown, where I intended to rent a room at a once plush hotel on Broadway called the San Diego. We duly met and went there, both of us eager to hop into the sack. As we walked through the door I was surprised to see my fellow Marine, movie idol Tyrone Power, in the lobby. Ty was in the Marine Air Wing as a trainee pilot. He was a major box-office star and a heartthrob for millions worldwide. My girlfriend was utterly speechless when she saw him. He was already very famous for his roles in films such as Jesse James and A Yank in the R.A.F. but his real claim to fame was as a swashbuckling hero in historic movies such as The Mark of Zorro and Blood and Sand . Power was a dark and strikingly handsome man. His brilliant smile could knock you off your feet. The ladies worshipped him and he had a huge international bevy of fans, both male and female. Every woman on the planet wanted to bed him and every man wanted to look exactly like him. Yet here he was, in a joint notorious for renting rooms by the hour.
With my girl clinging to my arm in awestruck wonder, Power and I planned our strategy. We went up to my rented room for a series of exciting ménage à trois sexcapades. Ty Power was married at the time but I had heard rumors that the relationship was on the rocks, mainly because of meddling from the studio bosses at Twentieth Century Fox, where he was on contract. As we romped around that rather grimy little hotel room that night it was patently clear to me that Ty had a healthy and inventive sexual appetite, but one that was infinitely more focused on me than it was on my girlfriend. I felt truly sorry for the poor guy. It must have been very tough for him to have to perpetually hide who he really was. We would get to know one another very well after the war but, at that time, there was still a great battle to be fought.
B ACK AT CAMP ELLIOTT , as my pal Bill Nall’s and my own departure for the Pacific approached, we grew impatient. In between training we spent hours in camp drumming our fingers and tapping our feet, nervously awaiting our call to duty. Fortunately, on weekends, a lot of the guys would still get passes. On Monday mornings we always had the awkward task of covering for buddies who hadn’t made it back in time. At roll call the sergeant would call out names, one at a time. As he did so he’d hear a loud, “Here!,” “Here!,” “Here!”
When he was finished the sergeant would look around, squint at us suspiciously, and then yell, “You little bastards! I called out sixty names and all of them answered! But look around you! There are only twenty of you bozos on parade! Get down and gimme twenty.” And down we
I really liked those two men, and they were obviously very good for one another. In future years I would be seeing a lot of them. Theirs was a relationship that would last a long time, with the two of them eventually sharing a home together behind the famed Chateau Marmont Hotel in Hollywood as well as the Malibu beach house. I don’t know if their wives ever knew what was going on between them. I never asked.
On another local weekend pass I was on my way to pick up a pretty sixteen-year-old girl I had met in the nearby town of El Cajon, near San Diego. I really had the hots for her and planned on taking her downtown, where I intended to rent a room at a once plush hotel on Broadway called the San Diego. We duly met and went there, both of us eager to hop into the sack. As we walked through the door I was surprised to see my fellow Marine, movie idol Tyrone Power, in the lobby. Ty was in the Marine Air Wing as a trainee pilot. He was a major box-office star and a heartthrob for millions worldwide. My girlfriend was utterly speechless when she saw him. He was already very famous for his roles in films such as Jesse James and A Yank in the R.A.F. but his real claim to fame was as a swashbuckling hero in historic movies such as The Mark of Zorro and Blood and Sand . Power was a dark and strikingly handsome man. His brilliant smile could knock you off your feet. The ladies worshipped him and he had a huge international bevy of fans, both male and female. Every woman on the planet wanted to bed him and every man wanted to look exactly like him. Yet here he was, in a joint notorious for renting rooms by the hour.
With my girl clinging to my arm in awestruck wonder, Power and I planned our strategy. We went up to my rented room for a series of exciting ménage à trois sexcapades. Ty Power was married at the time but I had heard rumors that the relationship was on the rocks, mainly because of meddling from the studio bosses at Twentieth Century Fox, where he was on contract. As we romped around that rather grimy little hotel room that night it was patently clear to me that Ty had a healthy and inventive sexual appetite, but one that was infinitely more focused on me than it was on my girlfriend. I felt truly sorry for the poor guy. It must have been very tough for him to have to perpetually hide who he really was. We would get to know one another very well after the war but, at that time, there was still a great battle to be fought.
B ACK AT CAMP ELLIOTT , as my pal Bill Nall’s and my own departure for the Pacific approached, we grew impatient. In between training we spent hours in camp drumming our fingers and tapping our feet, nervously awaiting our call to duty. Fortunately, on weekends, a lot of the guys would still get passes. On Monday mornings we always had the awkward task of covering for buddies who hadn’t made it back in time. At roll call the sergeant would call out names, one at a time. As he did so he’d hear a loud, “Here!,” “Here!,” “Here!”
When he was finished the sergeant would look around, squint at us suspiciously, and then yell, “You little bastards! I called out sixty names and all of them answered! But look around you! There are only twenty of you bozos on parade! Get down and gimme twenty.” And down we