husband Jack Fisk is directing!”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah…but will Beverly D’Angelo be around much?”
“She got in yesterday and she’s a lovely girl, you two will really hit it off.”
I screamed and locked myself in the bathroom.
When I got to Texas, the movie was shooting in an old ranch house out in the middle of nowhere. I stood around watching the rehearsal in the living room with my eyes glued to Beverly D’Angelo. She was really small. She has terrific boobs, a tiny waist, tons and tons of blond hair, and a real husky voice.
When we were introduced she was sweet, but she dismissed me immediately, as she was concentrating on the rehearsal. Not to be daunted, I spoke up and addressed the whole cast when they were on a break: “Listen, y’all, I’m driving into the Galleria in Dallas this afternoon if anyone needs anything.”
Sure enough, Beverly came running over. “Sweetie, do you think you could buy me some panties? I packed so quickly I forgot my underwear. Can you believe it?”
She was digging in her bag for some money. I was dumbfounded. I supposed she thought I was one of the production assistants for the movie. Why else would she ask someone she barely knew to buy her something so personal? I later learned that was just the way she was. Very free-spirited! I had almost forgotten that she was in Hair running around practically naked with a young Treat Williams.
I said, “I certainly don’t mind buying you…panties. But I have to tell you I have no earthly idea what kind or size or anything about women’s…panties.”
“I’m easy to please. Size four and they have got to be cotton crotch. Wait a minute, come in here with me.”
She paraded into the makeup room lugging her bag and I followed, sheepishly. She shut the door behind us and whispered as she continued to dig around in her enormous catchall, “I really wear a size six. I did not want any of the women overhearing my panty size. You know how women are.”
“Size six,” I replied.
“Cotton crotch,” she repeated. “Don’t forget that. Here’s a hundred dollars. Just see what you can come up with.”
I set off for Dallas like a man on a mission from God. In my hot little hand I held the crumpled hundred-dollar bill Beverly D’Angelo had given me. Scared to death I would forget, I whispered her instructions over and over on the drive to Dallas.
“Size six, cotton crotch. Size six, cotton crotch.”
This was many years ago, before Victoria’s Secret was so well known. When I saw the front of the store in the mall I thought, Well, this looks like the place to buy panties for a movie star!
The salesclerk was a rail-thin, impossibly chic older woman. She looked me up and down. She had on those half-moon reading glasses on a gold chain, and she peered over them like a whooping crane.
“May I help you?” She spoke like all those actresses from the 1940s.
I was so nervous my voice cracked. “Yes, ma’am. I’d like to buy some underpants…uh…for my wife.”
“I see.” She gave me a sly smile like she knew what was up. I swear she thought I was buying panties for myself! “Yes. Well, dear, what size panties does your…wife…wear?”
I blurted out my instructions. “Size six, cotton crotch.”
“Well, dear, all our panties are cotton crotch. Follow me and I’ll show you our vast selection.”
She pulled out drawer after drawer. The selection was overwhelming. This was in the days before girls started wearing those little bitty butt-floss panties, but there were still some teeny-tiny pairs. I had no idea what kind of panties to buy for Beverly D’Angelo.
Miss Sand-in-Her-Vagina tried to steer me to some of the panties in bright, trashy colors, but I was raised in a home where four things were always white: bedsheets, bath towels, toilet paper, and paper towels for the kitchen. I naturally assumed that panties should always be white as well. I finally selected some nice panties—size six, cotton crotch,
“Yeah, yeah, yeah…but will Beverly D’Angelo be around much?”
“She got in yesterday and she’s a lovely girl, you two will really hit it off.”
I screamed and locked myself in the bathroom.
When I got to Texas, the movie was shooting in an old ranch house out in the middle of nowhere. I stood around watching the rehearsal in the living room with my eyes glued to Beverly D’Angelo. She was really small. She has terrific boobs, a tiny waist, tons and tons of blond hair, and a real husky voice.
When we were introduced she was sweet, but she dismissed me immediately, as she was concentrating on the rehearsal. Not to be daunted, I spoke up and addressed the whole cast when they were on a break: “Listen, y’all, I’m driving into the Galleria in Dallas this afternoon if anyone needs anything.”
Sure enough, Beverly came running over. “Sweetie, do you think you could buy me some panties? I packed so quickly I forgot my underwear. Can you believe it?”
She was digging in her bag for some money. I was dumbfounded. I supposed she thought I was one of the production assistants for the movie. Why else would she ask someone she barely knew to buy her something so personal? I later learned that was just the way she was. Very free-spirited! I had almost forgotten that she was in Hair running around practically naked with a young Treat Williams.
I said, “I certainly don’t mind buying you…panties. But I have to tell you I have no earthly idea what kind or size or anything about women’s…panties.”
“I’m easy to please. Size four and they have got to be cotton crotch. Wait a minute, come in here with me.”
She paraded into the makeup room lugging her bag and I followed, sheepishly. She shut the door behind us and whispered as she continued to dig around in her enormous catchall, “I really wear a size six. I did not want any of the women overhearing my panty size. You know how women are.”
“Size six,” I replied.
“Cotton crotch,” she repeated. “Don’t forget that. Here’s a hundred dollars. Just see what you can come up with.”
I set off for Dallas like a man on a mission from God. In my hot little hand I held the crumpled hundred-dollar bill Beverly D’Angelo had given me. Scared to death I would forget, I whispered her instructions over and over on the drive to Dallas.
“Size six, cotton crotch. Size six, cotton crotch.”
This was many years ago, before Victoria’s Secret was so well known. When I saw the front of the store in the mall I thought, Well, this looks like the place to buy panties for a movie star!
The salesclerk was a rail-thin, impossibly chic older woman. She looked me up and down. She had on those half-moon reading glasses on a gold chain, and she peered over them like a whooping crane.
“May I help you?” She spoke like all those actresses from the 1940s.
I was so nervous my voice cracked. “Yes, ma’am. I’d like to buy some underpants…uh…for my wife.”
“I see.” She gave me a sly smile like she knew what was up. I swear she thought I was buying panties for myself! “Yes. Well, dear, what size panties does your…wife…wear?”
I blurted out my instructions. “Size six, cotton crotch.”
“Well, dear, all our panties are cotton crotch. Follow me and I’ll show you our vast selection.”
She pulled out drawer after drawer. The selection was overwhelming. This was in the days before girls started wearing those little bitty butt-floss panties, but there were still some teeny-tiny pairs. I had no idea what kind of panties to buy for Beverly D’Angelo.
Miss Sand-in-Her-Vagina tried to steer me to some of the panties in bright, trashy colors, but I was raised in a home where four things were always white: bedsheets, bath towels, toilet paper, and paper towels for the kitchen. I naturally assumed that panties should always be white as well. I finally selected some nice panties—size six, cotton crotch,
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