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Thursday, August 28, 2003
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Basement Files: Fiona II

The further weblog musings of Fiona Waterston... world traveler, storyteller and courtesan to the stars.

Jay Sebring

Posted: 07.21.03

Friends,

True story. It was August of 1969 when my dear friend Abigail Folger asked me to join her (and guests) for dinner with Sharon Tate. The Polanski home was charming, but it must be said that dinner was a nightmare. At Roman's request, Sharon was taking classes in French cuisine and her efforts brought little glory to her instructor, scant pleasure to her guests. She announced that we were having "canard," which she managed to mangle with her hard, Midwestern vowels until it sounded like a cruise ship line.

At some point in the evening, I found myself on the balcony with the stunningly handsome Jay Sebring. We stared in silence as night fell on Benedict Canyon, our arms occasionally brushing in the softest possible contact. (Is there a more delicious form of anticipation?) I could feel his piercing eyes drinking in my beauty and it was all I could do not to turn and press my hungry lips to his. Instead, I searched the skies for a single star above the light-drenched basin of Los Angeles.

"Tell me," he said in that dreamy bedroom voice of his, "have you ever considered feathering your hair into an ultra-mod shag?"

I turned to hold his eyes in mine and said, "Feathering? Whatever do you mean?"

"Come with me," he said, taking my hand with the command and assurance of yesterday's jetset playboy, and nothing at all like today's timid girl-boys.

We retired to a guest room, where I sat in a scrumptious Eames chair while Jay made his considerable magic. To perfect my bangs, Jay straddled the chair and my palm began surveying the dimensions and heft of the barber's pole. (Yummy!) At that exact moment, Sharon burst in and, eyeing me coldly, announced, "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave."

Well, leave I did, but with Jay Sebring's number (all too soon disconnected) and my head held high. I know what you're thinking...I was extraordinarily lucky to escape the night's carnage. Perhaps, but I often wonder if the whole unpleasantness might have been avoided. Suppose I had stayed and the hunky Tex Watson had gotten but one look at me in my delicious new Klute cut? I can see lust ensuing (he was but a man, after all), but bloodlust? No. Certainly not.

Randy Newman

Posted: 08.23.02

Friends,

I had the pleasure of having sex with Randy Newman back in 1975 during the Good Old Boys tour. He played a small auditorium at UC Santa Clara ("A Wedding in Cherokee County" just brought the house down) and a group of us retired to his hotel suite. By 3, almost everyone had cleared out. The adorable Leland Sklar (even then with his full, Whitmanesque beard) had passed out on a couch. I was tending to Mr. Newman's oral needs when I felt a series of stinging slaps against my taut butt cheeks. Well, it was the scrumptious Jim Keltner executing a difficult flamadiddle passage with some stock Ludwig 5A drumsticks (remember, this was long before the days of graphite sticks and nylon tips, but it's exquisite to think of the same scenario with today's polymers). "Jesus," Jimmy said, "this shit's tighter than Remo heads." Well, of course I blushed. What girl wouldn't?

Mohammed Atta

Posted: 10.17.01

Friends,

True story. The late spring of 2000 found me sitting in a cave just outside of Jalalabad as the guest of Osama bin Laden and his top deputy, Ayman al-Zawahri. I wish I could describe the homey quality of this cave, the light from its oil lamps flickering across ancient tapestries and rich brocades. I suppose I should have been frightened, but the exotic romance of it all, that feeling of being trapped in a Paul Bowles short story, was breathtakingly erotic.

I sat to bin Laden's left as his stubby fingers gently probed at my moist recesses. I must say I marveled at his restraint. No matter how I purred and sighed, he never suffered the slightest break in concentration. The two men argued incessantly over America's ultimate destruction. (You know how men can be.) It was al-Zawahri's contention that death must be brought to America's leaders, while bin Laden argued that a paralyzing fear must be brought to the hoi polloi.

"Osama, dear," I interjected, "one must never say THE hoi polloi as it's both redundant and vulgar."

Well, of course he ordered me beheaded. In fairness, I had left him so little choice. A young lieutenant was dispatched to deal with my impertinence. As the two of us walked toward the killing ground, I attempted to engage him in discussion.

"Your first beheading?"

"Yes," he said, his eyes never meeting mine.

"Well, I'm sure you'll do fine. One mustn't stint."

As he gallantly offered me a blindfold, I slipped my hand into his loose garments and felt there the first stirrings of a long-repressed desire. As I slid to my knees, I said, "Mohammed, dear, why take head when one can...well, enough of this silly talk."

Naturally, I was set free. A sturdy walking stick, a brisk pace and an indomitable spirit carried me north, where I was taken in by a Bedouin tribe. They passed me from tent to tent, as my Paul Bowles short story became a Paul Bowles novel.

When, last month, I saw Mohammed's joyless mugshot splashed across the network news, I called the FBI to say that I felt certain his DNA might still adhere to my Stella McCartney burka. The most delicious agent appeared at my door, but that's a story for another time.