The Abduction

During the months after we’d moved back into the house on 68th Street, I attended a semi-private school for professional children on Manhattan’s West Side called Lincoln Square Academy (LSA). It allowed young actors, dancers, musicians and other professional kids the flexibility to audition and take on a limited amount of paid work, while attending school. Although I wasn’t actively pursuing the biz, I think my father and step-mother hoped that the environment would inspire me to jump in.

Instead, the school introduced me to a new group of peers, many from a housing project in the Bronx, who inspired me to smoke pot, experiment for the first time with LSD, and pursue sex with a passion.

I rode the cross-town bus, to and from school, taking me through the Central Park cut- through known as “the transverse”, with only short walks to and from the bus stops on both ends of the daily journey.

On a near perfect Friday in the Spring of 1967 at about 3:30 PM, I walked alone from LSA to the 65th Street Lincoln Center bus stop with my hi-top gym sneakers, tied at the laces and slung over my shoulder and my new suede Beatle boots on my feet. The sun shown bright and warm on my face.

My mind wandered as I walked. I was in obsessive lust with a girl from the Bronx named Michelle, who I’d seen naked in a bathroom at a school dance the previous weekend. A group of us had gone to the dance and discovered, much to our distress, that the dance had reached it’s limit of boys and school officials were allowing only girls to enter.

My friend Phil and I exchanged clothes – dresses, stocking - with Michelle and another girl, who then applied makeup, gave us their earrings and did our hair with an adequate level of professionalism to get us past the ticket sentry at the door. While in the girl’s bathroom, changing clothes back in to our own, Michelle had let me briefly touch her naked crotch, a first for me, which naturally caused me to fall in love with her. I couldn’t get her out of my mind, as I made my way to the bus stop.

I stood a foot back from the curb under some construction scaffolding, waiting for the bus. I was a relatively street-wise 13-year-old, out of school for the weekend, concerned only with what parties my friends and I would have available to us over the coming weekend and proud to be seen in my new black suede Beatle boots.

The construction site on 66th Street and Broadway would eventually become Avery Fisher Hall, the large theatre and concert facility that would become part of the new Lincoln Center complex. I walked a few steps out into the street, looking to see if the bus was in sight.

As I returned to the sidewalk, no more than two steps under the scaffolding, a large Hispanic man, around 20 years old, stepped in front of me, blocking my path. As I attempted to move around him he countered each step I took with one of his own and put one hand on my chest, moving in almost close enough to touch his whole body to mine. I looked up at him with mild disbelief, and smiled.

I was about say something when I felt the point of a knife poke into my abdomen.

“You feel that? Give me your money,” he said. “and don’t scream or say nothin’ or I’ll fuckin’ cut chou.” I didn’t doubt that he meant what he said. I could see the truth of it in his angry, glassy brown eyes. He was big - huge compared to me - and I felt even smaller, perhaps because of the knife sticking in my belly. The fact that it was a small knife did nothing to assuage my fear.

“All I got is bus fare, man.” I said meekly. It was true. I had nothing more than the fifty cents that would get me home. “Swear to God!”

Having uncovered only the fifty cents, he grew frustrated. He ordered me to take off my boots and socks. I felt a sense of disbelief as he backed me up against graffiti-covered plywood construction barrier. This guy was robbing me at knifepoint in broad daylight at one of the busiest intersections in the largest city in the United States and it was literally as if we were invisible. No one even looked - let alone stopped to help!

Frustrated, he cursed in Spanish, as if having no more money to rob me of was shameful. He covered most of the handle and blade of the knife with his right hand, leaving only a half-inch or so sticking out between his thumb and forefinger. He put his right arm around my right shoulder, sticking the tip of the blade right onto my carotid artery. I felt my pulse throbbing out onto the knife with each heartbeat.

“Walk with me like you’re my boy, and I won’t hurt you.” he said.

I did. No resistance from me whatsoever, as we walked south on Broadway, out from under the construction scaffolding and into the bright sunshine. We passed a police officer, leaning against a support pillar off to our right and I weighed the possibility of trying to attract his attention, but his focus was away from us and I didn’t see a way to attract his attention without endangering myself. Or maybe I could just try to break away from his grip. As I inventoried all of the contact points where he held me, the tension I felt told me that he was alert to any moves I might make. No way to make a break for it.

“Just like we best amigos, little boy, you hear me?” The tip of the blade on by throat guaranteed my compliance; left me no alternative to doing as he wanted.
“Okay” was all I could muster.

Once past the cop, with no warning, he grabbed my left wrist with his left hand.

“I show you something nice, boy, you wanna feel something nice?” I said nothing, having no idea what he was talking about. I continued, desperately now, to look around for an escape route, feeling the tip of the blade poking into my neck. Suddenly he jerked my hand over to his body and pressed it onto the front of his pants. I felt the half hardened swell of his penis as he pushed my hand onto it. I jerked my arm away and winced in total disgust. Now I felt sick to my stomach. Ha laughed and said: “You like that, little boy, eh?”

I managed a faint, whiny “No!”, as I tensed, shrinking away from as much as he’d let me. I was now so frightened, I couldn’t even think.

Then, as we started moving southwest, across the large plaza area of Lincoln Center, my captor gave me what turned out to be an invaluable piece of information. He turned to me as he guided me along, and with an evil, leering smile, he shared with me his plans for what awaited me.

“Little boy, you and me’s gonna have us some fun. I gonna take you home wit’ me, back to my project. I’m gonna tie ya ass down on my bed and I’m gonna beat cha ass with a chain.” His smile widened. “And then I gonna fuck you in da ass, little boy.” His smile remained, stretched even wider as he licked his lips and winked, as if to seduce me. My heart jumped into my throat. My fear was now so great, my body ached with it. My head tightened as I tried to think of what to do. I imagined him and I in a smelly, filthy, roach-infested room, him standing over me with that horrifying half smile……

We had changed direction as we crossed through the large open plaza area, past where one day a fountain would cascade water, and offer a rest area for tourists and locals. We were almost out of the relative safety of Lincoln Center, and heading for a cut-through to the housing projects he had spoken of. We headed towards the far building of the complex, beyond which the dazzling theatrical pomp and glitter of Broadway gave way to the dark side of this neighborhood. It was this area of gangs and projects on which the tale of West Side Story had been based.

I struggled to think clearly. What can I do? I asked myself. What can I possibly do?

The first option that came to me was: Stay calm and go with him. He said he wouldn’t hurt me if I didn’t cause trouble.

No way. I’ll die. After he rapes me, he’ll kill me, for sure.

Run back to the cop was my next thought. But how could I do it with the knife at my throat? I questioned my ability to pull it off without be slashed, perhaps fatally.

There was an incredibly strong pull just to keep walking and hope for the best, to believe that he wouldn’t hurt me if I didn’t resist. He hadn’t yet.

As we neared the far corner of the plaza, the point beyond which all my options would dwindle to none, a kind of mental lucidity kicked in and I began to think and plan in a linear and analytical way that seemed to appear from nowhere.

I began a sequence of extraordinarily logical, rational and quite astute thoughts that presented to me a plan that might allow me, if executed with precision and perfect timing, to escape.

First, it occurred to me that my sneakers, laces tied together and slung over my right shoulder, were within reach of my right hand. I noted peripherally that, with our bodies aligned side-by-side as they were, he was unlikely to see any small movements that I made with my right hand. I tested this by moving my hand slowly up and down my right side until, feeling certain that he didn’t notice, I hooked my thumb through the laces. I gradually tightened my grip until it was secure enough to control and maintain my grip on the laces. I glanced down toward the spot that he’d placed my hand on. I could judge fairly well the position of the sneaker and length of the laces as it banged on the right side of my back as we walked.

I realized I’d have to move towards him, ducking down and to the left, while I swung the sneakers, before I could break away. I’d have to move explosively fast as well as precisely.

I realized fully and with a degree of calm now, that whatever I chose, it wasn’t going to be easy and that, either way, I was taking a huge risk. But my plan seemed good and it was all I had.

He hadn’t let up the pressure of the knife on my neck at any time throughout our entire walk. He seemed ever cognizant that this was his means to keep his catch from escaping and, seemingly without thought, he kept it pressed firmly on my carotid artery, perfectly poised to stop any attempt I might make to escape.

Just as we arrived at the southwest corner of the Lincoln Center Plaza, almost out of view of anyone who might help, I swung the sneaker attached to the laces in my right hand and simultaneously ducked down and away from the blade. I drove the sneaker between his legs as hard and as fast as I could. The sneaker landed almost perfectly– well enough to double him over and cause him to yell out in pain. I straightened up and ran for my life.

I ran straight back across the large plaza to the policeman, who was where we had passed him. Out of breath, shaking and frightened, I ranted: “Sir that man over there, he robbed me, he has a knife! He told me he was gonna take me to his house and beat me and rape me and do a lot of things to me. Please!! Get him!!”

The officer looked at me, a smile calmly breaking across his face.
“Now son, what did you do to get yourself involved a him to begin with?”

“No, sir, he robbed me. He has a knife. He took my bus fare and then he put the knife on me and started taking me home with him. Look – he’s right there. You can get him!”

Nothing.

“Son, tell you what. Here’s fifty cents.” He reached into his pants pocket, fishing for change. Came out with some. Pulled out a quarter, two dimes and a nickel. “You go on home now and stay out of trouble, you hear?”

I was stunned. I looked at the change in my hand. I started to back away from the cop, unable to believe what he’d just said to me. I turned and walked away, looking across the plaza and watched as the guy who wanted to rape and beat and probably kill me, a grin on his ugly face, turned the corner at the far end of the Opera House, and disappeared.

I took the bus home and sat in my room, shaking for the better part of the afternoon.

I never told anyone what happened that day until nearly thirty years later, when I began teaching women’s self-defense classes. Turns out my story had a lot in common with those of many women who go through the horror of being raped and other trauma.

It wasn’t until I’d told this story in workshops many, many times, that I finally remembered that my abductor had forced me to touch his crotch. I’d simply buried that, way down in the recesses of my memories, as if I refused to know it anymore. The trauma of abuse is huge, a monster that terrifies and injures way more deeply than just the physical scars show. Just when we think we’ve cut the monsters head off, it jumps out laughing from behind a door that we thought we had closed long ago.

The First Time For Everything

I’d been playing pool in the small, cinderblock room that adjoined the gymnasium. Since coming to Grove School almost a year earlier, I’d developed a habit and gotten reasonably good at the game. House rules dictated that the duration of your play depended on winning. If you won, you remained at the table to face the next challenger. The fact that I’d been playing for a couple of hours straight when the announcement came meant that I was on a roll.

Earlier in the day, two of my friends, both named Pete, had gone off campus for a date with two girls that they had recently met in town. They’d rubbed my nose in the fact that they were going on this outing, that they would probably be getting laid, and that, hardy-frickin’-har-har, I wasn’t. This taunting neither crushed not surprised me, it was expected of peers our age, but I sure was envious. I laughed good-naturedly as I said goodbye to the Petes, silently cursing their good fortune. I let it go and walked through the sprinkling rain, back to the gym and played pool.

The P.A. system blasted out that I had a phone call in my dorm, which was straight across the circular grove in the center of the schools’ many buildings (presumably the very grove after which the school was named).

I had no idea who was calling and was surprised to hear Pete V. on the other end of the phone.

“Guess what” Pete said, and I could hear the smile that was almost a laugh, poised and waiting just beyond his question.
“You’re naked.” I said, still out of breath. “You don’t have to rub it in”.
“Well, close, but not yet”, he said, laughing.
“Okay, good luck. What do you want from me?” What could hepossibly want with me?
“There’s an extra girl here.”
“Great. I said don’t rub it in, not stick my face in it, asshole!” Talk about crappy friends…
“No, dummy! There’s one too many girls, and we need you to come out here. She’s uncomfortable and her friends are all nasty about it and we need another guy, get it?” Oh, I got it.
But then I thought about it.
“What’s she look like?” Smart thinking, Kerry.
“You’ll see”, said Pete, with a dangerous hint of slyness in his voice. “Just get out here. I’ll give you directions.”
My heart thumped like a base drum, but I couldn’t help imagining the girl that would be sitting patiently, waiting for me. No doubt, she was a three hundred pound, bonnet-wearing Mormon girl.
“C’mon, Pete, what’s she like? You gotta tell me before I ride all the way out to bumfuck for this.”
Pete didn’t miss a beat. “Listen, is Phil there, cause, I know he’ll come without a goddamn full-scale interrogation.”
“Okay, gimme directions.” And he did.

I borrowed a bike and peddled what must have been twenty miles through a steady drizzle and actually found the house. It was a plain, brick ranch, probably two bedrooms, nothing fancy. The neighborhood was squalid, rural, with wire fencing around many of the houses, barking dogs, a lot of dirt and junk on lawns that should have had less dirt, more grass. Pete S. opened the door, shirt unbuttoned all the way and a big smile. I could hear a TV in the background.

“Hello my friend, Kollmonster” he said, raising his eyebrows. “Welcome to the party”
He stepped back from the door and waved me in. The living room was plain, a modest couch with chairs on either end, one of them a Lay z Boy. A small coffee table in the middle and the TV playing The Price Is Right. Pete V. sat, shirtless on the left side of the couch.

“This is Judy” he said, indicating a brunette with a perm next to him. I said hello as Steve S. came around the left side of the couch and sat down, patting his thighs, an invitation for the girl he introduced to me as Ashley.

“Hi.”, I said to Ashley, as she plopped down onto Petes lap, causing him to wince. I tried to smile at everyone, distractedly looking around, now wondering if this was some kind of joke. Two girls. Two Petes. And me. Damn it.

I heard something behind me and turned around to see the absolute cutest girl I’d seen in the entire time I’d been at Grove walking into the room. I turned back to the couch to make sure that both Petes were with girls and that I could be sure those girls were their dates. And indeed they were. Which I took to mean, through the use of my elaborate deducing facilities, that this other girl, a dead ringer for what in modern terms could accurately be described as Charleze Theron, was mine!

I was speechless, and remained that way for the rest of the afternoon. This, as it turned out, was okay, because much to my delight, my date, Mandy was her name, wasn’t there to talk.

By the time I’d wiped the drool off my mouth, I noticed that Pete V. and Judy had disappeared into the bedroom, door shut, and Pete S and Ashley were wrapped around each other tearing away at each others clothes and sucking frantically at each others faces.

What am supposed to do now? I thought to myself. And what does Mandy expect out of this deal? I wondered. I offered to get us drinks from the kitchen and she said okay and by the time I’d gotten them and brought them back to the living room, Mandy had moved into one of the empty spaces on the couch, an invitation, I deduced, for me to sit next to her. Which I did, handing her a Coke. This is going well, I thought. We spoke about nothing interesting or important. for a time and then Pete V. and his date emerged from the bedroom, both giggling, silly grins from ear to ear. Pete S and Tracey immediately stood and headed for the bedroom and closed the door. I looked at Mandy and a tiny, knowing smile crept across her lips.

It was at that moment that I realized, for the first time, the extent of what was about to happen. And it was paralyzing. I had no idea what to do. To grasp my fear and apprehension fully, one must understand that I had not, up to that day, ever had an orgasm. Hadn’t masturbated. Hadn’t had a wet dream. No porn to date, either. Didn’t comprende what to expect in that whole departamento. Yeah.

And so, it unfolded, like a dream in which the best possible outcome occurs at the exact right time. I leaned toward her and, as naturally as if we’d known each other intimately for years, she kissed me. Her lips were like butter, her skin, as I touched the side of her face as smooth as silk and suddenly, if only momentarily, everything was alright.

And then, sure as the sun rises each morning, the bedroom door opened and it was almost as if someone had shouted “BATTERRR UP!!” and Mandy grabbed my hand and pulled me into the bedroom. I smiled at Pete S. as he and Judy, slid by, slamming the door shut behind us. I found myself instantly thrown back into a state of panic. I literally began to shake. Whether a result of my fear or the searing heat that my body experienced as we proceeded through what followed, I can’t remember.

I took off my shirt as I watched her take off hers. She wasn’t wearing a bra and her perfect breasts stared at me, begging me to undress faster. She smiled seductively as she wriggled out of her jeans. Which revealed tiny, white bikini underwear. Wow, I don’t know if I deserve this, I thought. Yes I do. I deserve this absolutely. I stared at Mandy, the first fully naked woman I had ever seen. This was happiness.

Oh my God, she’s like something out of a movie, I thought, and as I began to think of what lay ahead, I began sweating. I hesitantly pulled my own pants down, wondering what in God’s name I was doing, praying for guidance as she pulled her panties off and slipped effortlessly, like a lovely little imp, between the sheets. Silently cursing my inexperience, I left my underwear on and jumped under the sheets, cold now, frightened of the task ahead and my imminent failure and shame. I rolled over on top of her and kissed her.

And I immediately felt a sensation different from any I’d ever experienced. I was harder than granite (that in itself was a relatively new feeling) and my whole body seemed to swell as I rubbed against her. I reached down and tore my underwear off and got back on top of her. The head of my penis touched the soft hair between her legs and my body started to heat up like a geyser. I reached down and spread her legs apart, feeling totally out of control, as if my body was about to leave me behind and, guiding myself in between her legs, pushed into the moist space I found there. Immediately my body continued to tighten and swell and tingle, and as I moved in and out, only a few precious times, I felt that overwhelmingly incredible feeling, for the very first time, that defies any truly accurate description….

And I exploded. There was no controlling my body as it took its imminent, natural course. Not that I had any idea of how to control such a function. I simply burst like Mt. Vesuvious into her, and there was nothing that could have stopped me.

I was overwhelmed with the physical experience my body had just undergone. I could not have imagined what to expect, I suppose, but if I had, what happened would have exceeded it by miles. It was heaven - only better.

I remember riding my bicycle back to the school and that it was as if I wasn’t even touching the pavement as I rode. I was happy. I was now a man.

I never even got Mandy’s number. We didn’t talk much immediately after the event that day (it was certainly an event for me. No doubt it wasn’t her first experience.) I ran into her one time in New Haven about a year later and she seemed not to recall our encounter, which, I have to admit, hurt. But I got over it.

And so it was, that at Grove School, in my second year, at the age of fifteen, that the fateful convergence of certain friends, magical circumstances and wild coincidence lead me to lose my virginity and experience my first orgasm simultaneously.

You could have knocked me over with a feather.

Sweet Jane

At the end of the winter of 1961, my mother decided to throw a surprise party for my dad. The surprise wasn’t in the party, so much as in the special guest who she invited to attend. The guest was a big celebrity, the kind any man would appreciate having over to his house. It was the sort of hip surprise that celebrities enjoyed – flaunting other stars in front of their friends and families. It was chic.

Jane Mansfield was one of the great sex symbols of the 1950’s and ‘60’s. A playboy centerfold when the magazine was a mere two years old, she fit the classic “blonde bombshell” mold and was often compared to Marilyn Monroe. Although she spoke five languages and allegedly boasted a genius level I.Q., her audience focused on her other assets, which she seemed more than willing to expose for their scrutiny.

There’s a notorious photo of Jane, sitting next to Sofia Loren (herself no slouch in the looks department) at a table at Romanoff’s restaurant in Beverly Hills. Loren is glaring, eyebrows raised, almost as if she’s disgusted, at Jane’s breasts, which appear to be about to spill out onto the dinner plate in front of her. Jane, either oblivious to or delighting in the effect that she’s having on Sophia, appears to be having the time of her life.

My parents threw parties fairly regularly at our house. Located on the upper east side of Manhattan, it was a beautiful five-story brownstone with a small Otis elevator and both front and rear staircases. The front of the ground floor had a reception area, complete with a large powder room, a small mail room/alcove as well as the bottom flight of the main stairwell. When you looked up from the bottom, you got a view straight up through the center of the house to the skylight on the roof. During the winter holidays when the house was decorated, dozens of giant snowballs, snowflakes and other ornaments hung down from the top, through the entire staircase.

Through a door at the back of the entry area, past the elevator, was a room that contained the bottom flight of the back stairs, as well as the poorly lit area where we stored bicycles and sleds. Beyond the stairs was a doorway leading to the servant’s quarters, as well as a sewing room and a long hallway to the servants’ small living room. This room also had the door to the back yard, and across from it, another door that led up to the kitchen on the second floor.

The staff was comprised of James and Evelyn Clement, a married couple that served as chief cook and butler. They lived with us in the house, their children a few years older than me. To me, they were friends more than servants. Hiding many of my fiendish pranks and missteps from our parents, covering up for me when necessary, they were always on my side, this I knew, and seemed always willing to help beyond their duties as servants.

Ellen O’Hara, a stooped, yet dynamically energetic elderly Irish woman, was the kindest, warmest person in household of my childhood. More a grandmother figure to me than my own grandmother, her presence in my daily life was stabilizing and calming. She, perhaps more than anyone in that house made me feel taken care of in the most elemental sense. Ellen lived to serve.

James, Evelyn, Ellen O’Hara and a couple of servants rented for the festivities bustled to fro in preparation for the arriving guests. Two bars were set up, both along the main hallway on the second floor, each manned by a bartender in tux who made and passed the drink orders off to the other servants to distribute to the guests.

People began arriving around 6:30 p.m., early for a party, but it was the usual insiders: Bob Lynch, my father’s best friend and a raging alcoholic, was the first to arrive. It was as if Bob thought that despite having all the money in the world, we might just possibly be running out of Scotch by seven o’clock. Early arrival guaranteed him enough booze.

As their coats were taken, Betty White and Allen Ludden greeted me with hugs and kisses. Always cheerful, they allowed me to take them to the elevator rather than simply walking up a flight, slowing their journey to the second floor, but making me feel useful and in control.

Others arrived, first in small waves and building to a steady stream. Finally, at about nine o’clock Ellen O’Hara came into the living room wearing a worried look on her face and whispered something to my mother, who was delicately fingering some hors d’oeuvres. What had been whispered became clear moments later, when we heard what sounded like a loud double thump coming from the top of the second floor stairs, just outside the living room. This thump was followed immediately by a collective series of “Whoopsie!”s and “wo-boy!”’s and “Careful there!”’s, some embarrassed laughter and then a shrill yell: “Isss okay, jeez! I’m fine!” from a female voice that was unfamiliar to me.

My mother maintained a smile as placed her glass on a coaster. she rolled her eyes and began to stand. Behind her the folding doors abruptly pushed further open. Into the room limped our guest of honor, a wide-eyed grin plastered on her well made up face, her right high-heel held in her left hand.

“Hi Dorothy! Iss so gud t’see you” she slurred.
My mother wrapped both of her hands around Janes’ shoulders and leaned in for a double air kiss.
“Oh dear! Are you alright Jane? What happened?”, my mother asked.

Jane pulled away and grabbed the back of one of the love seats and struggled to keep her balance as she slipped her shoe back on, my mom watching and feigning concern about her ankle.

“No, issokay, relly.” she said. “I’ll jus sit and have a drink”.

And she did. Several, in fact. My mother excused herself and went to get my father, the very lucky recipient of this wonderful gift. Afeter my mother cleared the doorway, seeing my opportunity, I went and stood next to the love seat where Jane had perched and was talking to some of the guests. I unassumingly, nonchalantly, and quite calculatingly reached past her to get to a chip. And then it happened.

“Well, look who’s here! Hi, little man, who’re you?” said Jane looking at me with absolute sincerity. It was then that I saw who she was. She was an extraordinarily gorgeous woman. And I noticed also that she was wearing a bright red dress that plunged dramatically right in the middle of her chest and hung rather low, cupping what I was noticing – perhaps for the first time in my life – were breasts, somehow very different breasts from the ones my mom had.

“I’m Kerry Kollmar” I said, giving her as much information as I thought she’d need to possibly fall in love with me.

“Well aren’t you the handsomest little man!” she said. Yes, I am, I thought. The handsomest little man you’ll ever meet.

“C’mon ‘n sit in my lap, you handsome little man..” Okay, I will do that, I thought, and proceeded to turn around and back into her knees so that she could grab me up and sit me on her long, lean stockinged legs, which she did. She turned me sideways on her lap, so that we could look at each other and speak face to face.

However, once seated, I had gained an unintentionally intimate perspective on what I would later learn was a cleavage. It was fantastic, captivating and spellbinding. I could not take my eyes away. Although only seven years old and still many, many years from experiencing anything close to a climax, something happened in my body as I sat in that woman’s lap, looking down. Call it an “awareness”, perhaps. For the first time in my innocent, young life, my body experienced that response to a female that I presume is common to all male animals. I felt Attraction. Sexual Attraction. I was spellbound. I felt lighter than air. I stared dumbly.

My father finally came around to say hello to his “special guest”. Jane, though, was so comfortable that she merely raised the back of her hand toward my father, who limply wagged it back and forth and, after a few minutes of polite exchange, went off, probably to drink with Bob for the rest of the night.

What happened next, fanned the flame of my desire even more.

“Hey my little man – Jane has to go potty. Do you think you could show me to a rest room?” Oh, boy. Could I show you to a rest room. I thought.

“Okay, I’ll take you to my mom’s.” I offered enthusiastically, reluctantly hopping off her lap.
“That’s a sweet little man…” Jane said seductively. I am sweet, alright. So, so sweet, I thought.

As I lead Jane out of the room, everyone staring at the two of us, she stopped at the piano and remarked: “Oh, look! A piano! How great! I play piano, di’you know that, lil man?” No, but I’d listen to you play all day long if I could sit in your lap some more, I thought.
“Wow!” I said.
“Okay, les go and when we come back, I’ll play the piano”
“Okay” I said. Let’s just get to the bathroom, I was thinking.

There was no facility on the second floor, which was great for me because it gave me the excuse to not only be alone with Jane for longer, but I’d get to show off my elevator, the solo operation of which I was quite proud of. I led her down the hall and pushed the button for the elevator, gazing upwards now, a reverse-angle view of the underside of her breasts. The inexplicable aching persisted.

The elevator shaft echoed with the familiar loud, multi-noise start-up sound of the motor as the cable strained to slowly pull the box upward through the shaft toward us. Once it arrived, I pulled open the outer door, slid open the brass accordion inner gate, and courteously stood aside to allow her to enter. The mirrors that paneled three sides of the elevator immediately caught Jane’s attention and once inside, she preened, oblivious to my impeccable manners.

We headed for the third floor, home to my parents bedroom, and The Black Room, a room which had walls that were true to its name. The rug was bright green. It was our family room where we watched TV and housed the bar. Next door was the hallway entrance to my mothers main clothes closet, which also led directly to her master bath, an all pink bathroom, one I knew Jane would just love.

“This way.” I said commandingly as we left the elevator. “That’s the Black room and that’s a closet and here’s my mom’s bathroom”. I opened the closet door, switched on the light and walked into the bathroom ahead of Jane. And I stood there. Jane looked around the bathroom, eyeing the personal taste of another woman. Patiently, I stood, waiting.

I don’t know what I was thinking. Maybe, in some primitive, male-yet-child-like way, I thought I’d get lucky, although I knew nothing of “getting lucky”. Perhaps I thought I could just sort of hang out while she took care of things. But I (hopefully) thought she might want me to stay. So I didn’t make a move to leave. I was giddy – high maybe, on testosterone. I didn’t have any inkling of what to do with a woman, but I think that it may have been on that night, at that party, alone with Jane Mansfield in the bathroom, that I concluded that

woman + clothes off = great thing.

“Wehl, okay, lil man. You wait outside there and I’ll be righ’ out. ‘kay?” Oh, Jesus, she saw right through me. I thought. But she couldn’t have thought… No way. She wouldn’t ever think I could ever think that…Oh, jeez… I cowed and walked sheepishly out into the dressing room, closing the door slowly, and as she turned away from the toilet and began lifting her skirt…. I slowed -- the closing -- of the door. I waited, as she drew her dress up, as it gathered above her knees and headed for her thighs until I knew she’d have to look over because she hadn’t heard the door shut yet! Oh God!! What am I doing? She’s gonna think I’m weird. Oh, God!! I pulled door shut, sure to slam it so she’d here it click closed. And I turned to walk out into the hall.

But I didn’t. I stayed there, right next to the door - and listened! There was something so exciting in standing outside that door, listening. It felt awful, like I was doing something really bad, but thrilling in a butterfly-in-the-stomach-inducing, primitive sort of way.

When I heard the toilet flush, I quickly tip-toed out into the hall and stood with my back against the banister, my thoughts swirling in my pants. When she finally emerged, there I was, mentally whistling a happy (innocent) tune and faithfully waiting like a little angel. Like I’d been waiting patiently the whole time for her to come out.

“There’s my little man!” said my big girl.
“Yup, here I am!” I said. Whew, she still loves me I thought.

We took the elevator back down to the second floor and Jane said. “I want to play the piano now”. That’s not my first choice. The lap thing would be better, I thought but okay…

“Okay”. I said.

Jane went and sat down at the piano and started trying to play something. Other guests gathered around and pretended to be interested and supportive, but two things were at play that prevented a happy ending. One: although she was a somewhat accomplished, classically trained piano player, she couldn’t really play her best under the influence, and two: she was under quite a bit of influence. She got frustrated at her inability to perform at her best, wound up getting annoyed at someone who was trying to sing along and tried to stand up by grabbing onto the sheet music holder, which snapped off in her hand. She nearly fell backwards over the piano bench and broke her neck. Refusing assistance, she became loud and belligerent and, to my horror and disappointment, finally was asked to leave.

I was shocked. I’d had plans for the two of us. It was an ugly end to a magical evening.

I wonder how my parents felt. My poor mom, trying to surprise her husband with a sultry Hollywood starlet (who winds up hanging out with their seven-year old son and then has to be ejected from the party). And a broken piano. Imagine that.

I’m not sure of her motives, but I’ll never be anything but grateful for my mother’s generosity. And frankly, once Jane arrived, I don’t remember much of either of my parents even being at the party.

Not a lot of men can claim that they had their sexual awakening during an evening spent sitting in the lap of Jane Mansfield. But sometimes, you just get lucky beyond your wildest dreams.

Introduction

I was born into a life of privilege, the son of columnist and What’s My Line panelist Dorothy Kilgallen and producer Richard Kollmar. As a child of celebrities, I grew up in an environment surrounded by influences and events vastly different from many, probably most other people. Simply put, we were rich people, living a dream life on the Upper East Side of Manhattan.

But boy, did that change. As the years unfolded, my life took many unexpected courses, some of them wonder filled, some harrowing, many of which I still look back at in awe. My mom died, I found myself thrown out of my house by age sixteen and, the rest, well, as they say – life happens.

Let me, by way of example, tickle your curiosity:

Over the years, I had the amazing opportunities to meet with President John F. Kennedy, his son John Jr., John Lennon and John Belushi.

My first sexual stirrings occurred during an evening encounter with movie star Jane Mansfield.

On my way home from school one day, I was abducted by a huge Hispanic man, who, placing a knife to my throat, told me of his plans to take me home with him.

I was the 1975 World Individual Freestyle Frisbee Champion.

I was brutally attacked by several Puerto Rican gang members in San Juan, during which I stabbed a man nearly to death while trying to protect a wounded friend of mine.

See what I mean? I know. Wacky. The strange thing is, although certainly some of it happened as a direct result of the life I was born into, most of it didn’t. Go figure.

Some of these stories will make their way onto this page, others will not.

My purpose in creating this blog, is to post my memories of some of these events. I’m fascinated with the blog phenomenon, as well as the oddly cathartic experience that writing this stuff down has been. I am also curious to see the feedback, should anyone read these posts and care to. I figure I’ll just throw some of this stuff at the wall, and see what people do with it. Beyond being a practice field and a line on which to hang my laundry (dirty though some of it is), I’d like to benefit from the eyes and thoughts of those who come across it. So here it is, have at it.

And please, tell me what you think.