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The Hollywood Hooker

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What it's like to be the call girl who shocked a nation! Only the fact that she was married kept lovely Marilyn from becoming a Rose Bowl Queen. But it didn't keep her from making headline's as one of the country's most successful call girls. Her clients ranged from Hollywood's most illustrious stars to crime syndicate leaders. What are they like when they let their hair down? In her own words, the girl who knows all lets it all hang out.


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The Hollywood Hooker
Marilyn Fraser
This page copyright © 2007 Olympia Press.
1. Come Visit the Jail!
“MARILYN, WHEN YOU WERE SCREWING THAT BIG loan shark in that Federal Hudson, New Jersey jail a few years ago, did you use his cell or a regular room?” Joyce asked me. “I used a regular room that had all the comforts. Man, that dude had a refrigerator, a table with a pitcher of ice water, a bottle of champagne, and a color television. His bed was plusher than mine at home.” “How did you get in?” “Just walked in. Konigsberg, the loan shark, had all the keys himself. They were all hanging from his belt buckle. He greeted me at the front door at eight o'clock at night and led me right in.” “The papers said he was, quote, 'king of the loan sharks,' and had more money than any shark in New York City; but his pictures show him a fat slob. Even Warden McFarland was played up as a grafter.” “Yes, Konigsberg had a thick wad of bills on him and made sure I saw them. And he was a four-hundred-pound slob. As for the warden, he was found guilty of accepting money for mighty unusual favors.” “Didn't you have a case similar to this one when you were in L. A.?” “Yes, and I had Grant Cooper as my lawyer. He beat the case for me, too. He had the Finch case about a year before this. That was the case where Carole Tregoff and her doctor-lover murdered his wife. Matter of fact, I used to date Mr. Tregoff. He had a bar in Pasadena.” “You really get around, kid. And now Cooper is doing the Sirhan Sirhan case on the killing of Robert Kennedy. He is one of the best lawyers in America. You beat that case and you beat this New Jersey case. You were very lucky, Marilyn.” “I should have beat them both because there was not a shred of evidence in either case; and they produced phony witnesses in the last Federal case.” “Explain to me exactly what happened,” Paulie said. “I never did hear this fantastic way-out tale completely. I only heard Joyce tell a few brief incidents. I know you made headlines and television for weeks.” “Well, my friend, who was a clerk in a lawyer's office, introduced me to this Konigsberg in jail. After the introduction, he split. I stayed about an hour. Then he picked me up on the front steps of the jail. We went home to Manhattan after we left the Federal jail. “The next thing I hear is six months later when I'm living with my girl friend on Seventy-sixth Street and Lexington. The Feds are at her door asking for me. I hurry and call my lawyer and he says 'Don't let them in'—he says to tell them to call his number. I then write the number on a piece of paper and slip it under the door. But my girl friend, being the stand-up broad she is, let them in and they started asking questions about the clerk in my lawyer's office. They asked me if he had driven me across the state line to Jersey to screw this Konigsberg. I said I didn't know what the hell they were talking about. “Finally they left me with a subpoena to appear in court a few days later for a hearing. “Although she was a cripple in a wheel chair, Frances Kahn was one of the best lawyers in the City. She told me they wire-tapped a conversation between her clerk and a friend of his, and that's how they got my name. I still don't know if that's true, but they did get me. At the time, I was almost angry enough to give this clerk up, too, because, I had laid him the week before and he had given me twenty dollars instead of twenty-five. Nothing used to make me angrier than somebody trying to give a dollar less than twenty-five because I never took less than
twenty-five at that time, remember? I trusted him to give me the money after we went to bed instead of before, when I should have known better. You both know the first rule of the Life is to get your money first even from a hundred-dollar John. But I learned that a lot of clients will leave or become very angry if they have to give money beforehand when they are giving fifty dollars or more. They figure it's too commercial. Anyway, you known damn well I wouldn't rat out anybody to the fuzz; even my most bitter enemy. “Because of this incident, my girl friend Lee said I had to leave her pad. Two weeks after I get a new pad on Ninety-sixth and Lexington, the Feds come in with a material witness hold on me. My bail was ten thousand dollars. I couldn't raise it at the time, so a week later my friend bailed me out at five thousand, to which it had been reduced. “The Feds kept asking me about the warden. How well did I know him? Was it true that anyone with money got girls, special food, telephone calls, and other privileges? If I testified against either the warden or my clerk friend I wouldn't have to do the five-year stretch I was facing for perjury. “A month later when I went on trial, the prosecution produced my girl friend Lee and two professional witnesses against me. These men were from the Jersey jail and had testified many times before in cases in order to reduce their own sentences. One guy was a Wop and the other was a Jew. Both were in their forties. Needless to say, I'd never seen the slobs in my life. “Well, the judge was a sweetheart. 'I can see that you were angry about being bothered by the Federal agent and therefore you have an ulterior motive behind your testimony,' he said to Lee; 'and as for these two men, I don't believe they have ever laid eyes on Marilyn before now. Case dismissed.' Warden McFarland got a six-month suspended sentence, and even Frances Kahn got two and one half years on a trumped-up bribery charge, six months later. They say she had her clerk friend Izzy try to bribe a Guinea dope peddler into not finking out his big connect. Personally, I don't believe she did it and she tells me she didn't. They'd been trying to nail her for a long time on any charge they could dream up. Why they wanted her so badly, I don't know. But, when she got mixed up with this Mafia client, the fuzz were delirious with happiness. Sure, that was groovy, beating the case. But in the meantime, the publicity had killed my fantastic business. Nothing could have hurt me more. The Feds actually looked up the number on my telephone bill and went to the office where my clients worked and tried to intimidate them. I see nothing they could have gained by that, so it must have been a personal vendetta.” “Man, how did you get started in the Life anyway?” Paulie asked. “I can remember it, as that well-worn but adequate cliche states, as if it happened yesterday. The only difference is it seems like a million years ago.”
2.An Ordinary Childhood
I LIVED WITH VARIOUS FRIENDS OF MY MOTHER'S most of my life. Since my parents were divorced a year after I was born, I lived with more people than I can count. But when I was six years old, my old lady kept me with her in a furnished room. She worked in a laundry, making twenty-five dollars a week. In 1952 she was still working for twenty-five dollars a week when they closed the last of the hand laundries. Then she worked as a cookie packer in a factory at sixty-five a week. Last I heard, she was still working there, but it's been more than ten years since I've heard from her or about her. I guess you've already gathered that we didn't get along well. Actually, now I do rather feel sorry for her because she did try to keep me with her for a while, and I'm sure it couldn't have been easy on her with the wages she made. Plus, she had no life of her own regarding men because of me. Lucky for her she was a frigid woman, under these circumstances. Occasionally, she'd come home drunk and whip me with a wire hair brush, but she didn't do this often. She had one great burning drive, and that was to move. She used to move from one furnished room to another every two or three months. She'd always find something unbearably
wrong with the pad. I was forced to go to a great many schools. In the fourth grade alone I went to four schools. I went to twenty-four schools in all. That includes high school and college, too. You would think that changing schools so often would make me a poor student wouldn't you? But I was always the smartest kid in all my classes. I really think moving around had a lot to do with it because I was able to learn different things all the time. I even got a scholarship to Mount Carmel High School, as well as Loretta Heights Catholic College. When I was seven, after much pleading, my mother allowed me to live with her. She set the alarm for me to get up for school, as she left before I was awake. I didn't comb my hair correctly and I dressed haphazardly. Although I would almost pass out by lunch period, I never remembered to eat breakfast. I could have dumped dry cereal into a bowl of milk, but I never did. I still don't know why I never connected the dizziness with hunger. I seldom had anything for lunch. My mother would say “Tell the nun you forgot your lunch.” I hated to do this because it sounded phony when I used it more than once or twice a week. But the stupid nun should have realized I didn't have any food; she should have given me some. Instead, she always handed me a banana. That's it; just a banana. Didn't she think it was strange that I told her I could read no more, as I was getting dizzy? This happened every day when she asked me to read to the class. We lived in a roach-infested room with no refrigerator, but there was a community ice-box in the hall. As my mother worked in the laundry until 1952, we were literally starving. Every night we ate oatmeal. She couldn't cook, which makes it even harder when you have very little money for food. But on pay day, she bought a piece of meat for supper and burnt it thoroughly. I was eighteen before I realized medium-rare meat was cooked and ordered so, intentionally! She never failed to give me the larger potion of meat. I was so amazed at this that I questioned her about it. She said when you get older you'll do the same with your children. I remember thinking, “I won't like to, though.” Even kids as young as seven and eight recognize poverty and try to disassociate from it. A little girl in the second grade named Olivia was supposed to be my partner for the First Communion processional. She had a fit because she didn't want to be my partner. I had on funny shoes. Every kid had on white Sunday dress shoes. But my mother said we couldn't afford dress shoes; so I had to wear white oxfords. I cried for hours but she wouldn't change her mind. Today I think of this incident as funny and insignificant yet it must be very important to me as it's something I remember so vividly. Another time, my girl friend, a gorgeous little blonde, wore a long kimono in playing the part of an Indian princess. She gave me an old sweater in which to be an ordinary Indian. I sobbed so loudly her mother asked me what was wrong. “I don't look like an Indian,” I said. Childhood! You can have it. In high school they said I had an I.Q. of 133. And you know that I consider myself intellectually superior to almost everybody except scientists and mathematicians. Moving around this country and other countries in South America makes me have a slight edge on other people regarding attitudes, understanding, and ideas. I'm used to being Number One in brains and beauty. Modest I'm not. Being extremely poor in high school, I had nothing to hang on to, so to speak, except my virtue; so I cherished it highly. Unfortunately, in the slums, this is not a good arrangement. In spite of unusual beauty, I seldom had a date. In my hometown of Denver, Colorado, by age fifteen, almost everybody's been laid. Farther east to the Mississippi, I understand it goes down to age thirteen. So, because I couldn't get a date, whenever I went to a party I tried to compensate for my virginity (I wouldn't even pet!) by drinking as much liquor as the next guy. I even got a false I.D. to prove I was old enough to drink. And this was my big mistake, because I got busted with it in a bar when I was fifteen. The court took me away from my mother and gave me to my aunt in Phoenix, Arizona. She went to a fortune teller one day and the palmist told her to send me back
to my mother. This, after having spent three months with her. All this time I was a very religious girl. I never missed mass on Sunday. And I guarded my cherry closely for fear of eternal hell-fire if ever anyone were to touch me immorally in any way before I married. To this day I blame the Catholic Church for fucking my mind up and making me frigid. My mother certainly helped by telling me sex was something I had to put up with in order to have kids and a home. Moreover, of all the friends and relatives I lived with, only one home came equipped with a real male husband. What Freud could make of this! And you wonder why I'm screwed up! My aunt in Phoenix was a widow, so that was another manless home. This aunt sent me to another aunt back in Denver. This aunt was married to my father's brother. My father I saw approximately ten times in my life. He remarried, when I was five years old, a young woman who was content to let him live from her paycheck as a telephone operator. While living with this aunt and uncle, a prophetic thing happened. I went to a party at a dance-hall and met some boys who invited my hell-bent girl friend and me to a party afterwards. As it turned out, it was held in a whorehouse in East Denver. Girls kept running through the rooms in slips and pants and nothing else. Then they busted out the pot. First time I'd ever had any, too. Next day I told my girl friend at school about it after she told me she needed some place to go because her father kicked her out into the snow. Well, the broad got busted in a hotel room three weeks later and ratted me out. They came and got me at school and took me to Juvenile Hall. My mother came and told them to send me to reform school because I must be a madam since I still had my cherry. Because of this one incident I've hated my mother most of my life. It was only a year ago that I began to forgive her in my mind. I spent exactly two and a half months at the Good Shepherd's Convent. I was due to spend two years there but I broke through an iron door and barred windows instead, leaving the place forthwith. Before leaving, however, I almost managed to lose my complete mind. My dormitory companions, having no private room or cell, were forced to fuck in front of all two hundred girls. Since my medical record read “hymen intact” in the front office, I was fair game for all jokes, such as throwing apple cores to see who could hit me the hardest, etc. This, because I was unique in that I had no children whereas most girls had at least one child; and they were capable of almost anything, including murder. Arson was quite prevalent. An eleven-year-old girl used to be smuggled in from downstairs for the girls to abuse but she used to set the bed on fire as a bit of revenge. I lost a job marking dirty shirts in the laundry because I refused to play ball with a fifty-year-old nun. Then I had to take a tougher gig of ironing clothing for seven hours a day, six days a week. Maybe I shouldn't have complained, though, because my old lady spent ten years in this same institution. And when she was there the chicks had tattoos from head to foot, not just on their breasts, legs, arms. Suicides were more rampant then, too. After I split, I lived with a couple of female friends of my father's. Angie, a young divorcee, had a nine-year-old daughter I used to watch. Angie was the greatest broad I ever met. She never told me not to do anything. Everything I did was okay with her. She used to take me out to the bar with her at nights. She was the salt of the earth. One night when we were at the Starlight Lounge on Colfax Boulevard, I ran into a boy I had had two dates with when I was fifteen. To this day, I think he's the handsomest man I ever met. But if you think my problems are bad, well his were gruesome. He was twenty-two years old when I was fifteen. He had just divorced a girl he knocked up when they were both seventeen. And now he paid alimony to an ex and two kids. Here he was at this bar; he asked me for a date for the following evening. When he found out I still wasn't putting out, he must have considered me either a challenge or an interesting alternative to the Vegas chorus girl he'd just left. We went steady for about six months and planned to be married. Now he felt entitled to my cherry. I was afraid of pregnancy but would use no birth control because of the Catholic
Church; so he decided to leave for California until school was out and we could wed. But it was already too late, I was pregnant. Still I would not get married until I was graduated from high school. We moved to California and he resumed the bricklaying trade. But he hated it. He hated life. He hated his first wife, whom he blamed for his having to work at manual labor. Had he not got the broad pregnant, he would have gone on to college as he wanted and planned. He says she chased him day and night and interfered with his school work. Though we tried to make a go our marriage for five years (separating every six months), we each had too many sets of conflicting complexes. And though I still liked the guy, our problems together would always remain insurmountable, I'm sure. Shortly after leaving him, I started college and a part-time job. One night I met a photographer who was actually legitimate. I started doing all the girlie magazines you can name. Then I made a few minor films. No, they weren't “blue” films—if they were, I'd be rich today. One night I met a rich old Jewish fellow at a party. He told me he'd give me free rent at his plush hotel on Wilshire Boulevard. I accepted as soon as he threw the Cadillac into the deal. After I'd been there a week, he told me I could make a lot of bread by treating his friends nice. I had to get drunk to make this scene for the first time and the next twenty times thereafter. I just kept shoving the money in the top dresser drawer. One month later I took the bread out and counted it—forty-five hundred in cash! The least I accepted was twenty-five, and now I had enough to buy a new Corvette Chevy. I brought a red one and drove it to my classes at the University of Southern California every day. I got all A's at this school, just as I had at Pasadena College for the two previous years. When I wasn't hooking, I was doing homework. Next I bought $500 worth of United States Steel stock. Then I bought a couple of diamonds and a pearl necklace, a smokey topaz dinner ring, a few expensive dresses, and, finally, the services of Grant Cooper, the famous lawyer. Yes, I was busted for procuring, no less. Such a ridiculous charge. I wouldn't involve myself with a felony, nor would I send another girl to take care of a client and wind up with only part of the line. This was my first introduction to newspaper headlines. At the hearing, the judge said, “This girl is not a panderer so far as I can see. She is merely another call girl, therefore I shall dismiss the charges so far as she is concerned.” The other four men were held for trial. My benefactor got a six-month suspended sentence from it. But he shouldn't have got that, because he never took so much as a penny from me. I got free rent. And after the second week in this hotel, I stopped laying him altogether. That poor man. All he got from me was grief. Fully expecting to be held as a material witness against my benefactor, I copped an airline and got in the wind. I registered at the Flamingo Capri and maintained a six-week residency for the sole purpose of divorce.
3.My First Client
HIS NAME WAS IRVING, AND HE DIDN'T BELIEVE ME when I told him that I had never done this before. “Sure, baby,” he said, with just the faintest hint of sarcasm in his voice. He placed an envelope on the hotel dresser next to my bottle of Chivas Regal and poured himself a drink. He seemed amused that there was barely enough Scotch left to fill his glass. “Mazeltov,” he said, and as he gestured with the glass his eyes took on the smooth glitter of the glass. They were large, searching eyes and they never left me. Irving was an older man, as Carl my benefactor had promised. Carl, being a senior citizen himself, claimed that the older boys were easier to handle, and on the whole were a much more generous group. That made good sense to me. So I junked my plans to street-walk with a girl friend of mine and allowed Carl to guide my career. He had been in the hotel business for over thirty years in L. A. and had enough contacts to make any good prostitute a millionaire. I was
determined to become good—and very rich—in the shortest time possible. But right now my determination was waning fast. I had no idea what Irving had in mind, and worst of all I didn't know if I'd be any good at it. If he didn't like me he could squelch the whole idea with Carl. Or he might even get rough. Irving looked docile enough, but those old guys can fool you. I had a wild urge to run, hop on a bus back to Frisco and my husband and daughter, but two very important considerations kept me there—the envelope on the dresser (Carl had said Irving was good for a hundred), and the large quantity of Scotch that I had drunk. There was no logic to backing out now. I sank deeper into the well of my cushioned chair and decided to let things take their natural course. Irving removed his clothes with the nonchalance of a man who bought women every day of the week. He folded his dark summer-weight suit over the sofa arm, patting out the creases with a deft hand, and went about removing his shoes. He was short and heavy-set, the hair thinning and jet-black. I could tell that it was dyed by the purplish cast of the edges. His face was deeply lined, and the nose which was peeling badly was almost comical for its length. He reminded me of pictures I had seen of Ari Onassis, except that Irving was taller. “Classy,” he said, and I didn't know if the cliche referred to the suit of clothes or my thigh, which had pushed free of the kimona. I watched his eyes glance over as he stared at me and I decided that it was my body that had prompted the remark. “Thank you,” I said, my voice betraying my nervousness. He nodded and advanced toward me. Not knowing what to do or say next, I acted on impulse. I stood up and dropped my kimona to the floor, revealing my lean twenty-year-old assets. My bikini panties were a burst of red and fit like a second skin. I wore no bra, and my full, creamy breasts contrasted dramatically with my dark tan. I slipped two fingers delicately under the panties and drew them down to my ankles. There was a rustling sound as they slipped down my legs. Irving's tongue rode along his lips, and suddenly his breath was deep and rasping. A large bulge protruded from under his shorts. He moved closer with quick bow-legged strides. At that point I had to sit back down. I was a fool to have drunk so much Scotch. Standing up so quickly had set a hammer banging in my head and shivers of weakness were running through me. For a moment I saw two Irvings advancing toward...
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