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.