Scotty BowersRezensionen

La saludable imagen de América difundida por Hollywood en los años 40, 50 y 60 del pasado siglo es una de las más persistentes en la cultura popular -madres amantes, niños sonrientes-: un idilio conservador. Pero fuera del plató muchos de los actores y actrices que contribuyeron a crear esta imagen llevaban secretamente una vida muy desenfrenada, y un hombre en particular les ayudaba a hacerlo: Scotty Bowers. Scotty es una leyenda desconocida de Hollywood. En una época en que el sexo fuera del matrimonio era tabú, se forjó una reputación como alguien que te concierta una cita discreta con la persona de tus sueños. El propio Scotty se acostó con numerosas estrellas de Hollywood y puso en contacto a otras con sus amigos jóvenes, atractivos y sexualmente desinhibidos. En Servicio completo nos cuenta esta historia por primera vez.

Memories of an octogenarian, nothing new.

This is not by any means a good book, but it is for the most part enjoyable and fascinating in a tabloid kind of a way. The accounts of Bowers' childhood at the start are frankly disturbing, but once you get past that there is undeniable fun to be had reading about the sexual antics of stars from Hollywood's golden age. It's repetitive in that each chapter is basically "another famous person I knew was X, you'll never guess what he liked to do" but it's told with an enthusiasm and fondness that makes it work and Bowers comes across as a likeable, if unconventional guy. That shit with Charles Laughton was fucked up though.

Mr. Sex, Procurer to the Stars, Tells All, Explicitly

Scotty Bowers passed away in October 2019, but in 2012 he teamed up with documentary film producer and director Lionel Friedberg to recount his life in Hollywood as procurer of sexual partners for some of the biggest names in entertainment from just after the end of World War II straight through the Eighties and Nineties. The concentration here, though, focuses on the biggest names of film in the late Forties and Fifties.

During this time, Hollywood still operated under the studio system. Studios exercised control over the lives of their contracted performers and the times were decidedly conservative, especially when it came to sex. Extra marital affairs, general philandering, and in particular and especially homosexual sex, were verboten. Studios were very good at keeping the secret sex lives of their stars under wraps. Just witness the surprise in the Eighties when Rock Hudson revealed that he was dying of AIDS and was gay.

However, people within the community knew of the sexual shenanigans. And then there was Scotty Bowers, who, if you take his revealing memoir at face value, knew them all; not only knew them, but arranged for them on behalf of such stars and personalities as Walter Pidgeon, Cole Porter, George Cukor, Randolph Scott, Cary Grant, Kate Hepburn, Rita Hayworth, Errol Flynn, Vincent Price, Spencer Tracy, Vivien Leigh, Somerset Maugham, Noel Coward, Desi Arnaz, Mae West, Tyrone Power, Charles Laughton, Rock Hudson … well leave it at the list is very, very long. Scotty not only procured partners for these stars, he also participated in the sexual activities himself. And these were as varied as your imagination can conjure, from straight sex, to gay sex, to a variety of somewhat unusual and some highly unusual fetishes. Naming none here; if any of this interests you, though, pick up a copy of the book.

So, who was Scotty Bowers and how did he become the go-to guy in Hollywood, so much so that among many he was known as “Mr. Sex”? He was born George Bowers in 1923 in Ottawa, IL, a farming community near Chicago. He ended up in Los Angeles as a result of WWII, where he served as a Paramarine (disbanded during the war), seeing action during the Guadalcanal and Iwo Jima invasions. He witnessed considerable destruction and death around him during the war and learned of his own brother Donald’s death participating in the Iwo Jima fighting while engaged in the battle himself. Blessed with s strong constitution and a very strong sex drive, he decided that upon mustering out he would live life to the fullest. Also, he was no stranger to sex, having had an introduction at the hands of his uncle and later priests when his family moved to Chicago. Looking for a job and something of a jack at all trades, he landed a gig at the Richfield gas station at 5777 Hollywood Blvd. (now a fire station) and soon he found himself in the sex business. Unbeknownst to his employer, the gas station become a hub for hooking up, or even having sex on the premises, as there was a large house trailer in the back with two separate bedrooms. In a repressive culture with stars who wished to be themselves, at least in private, word spread and Scotty had his hands full, literally, day and night.

This may sound a bit familiar because the gas station features prominently in Ryan Murphy’s and Ian Brennan’s Hollywood, the miniseries, now streaming on Netflix. It’s portrayal doesn’t even scratch the surface of Scotty’s activities. For that, you’ll have to read the book. It’s a real eyebrow raising read, too, even if you think yourself pretty sexually liberal and knowledgeable. You’ll find things here you never dreamed up, guaranteed.

A memoir such as this, lacking as it does source citations, footnotes, even an index, and that relies on the memory of one man who was 88 at the time of the writing, well, it raises questions about veracity. Did this happen as Scotty claims and remembers? Did he know all of these famous people and did they confide their most personal secrets in him? Did he have as much and as varied a sex life as he represents? And did he make all of these arrangements asking for no payment, simply, as he says often, because he wanted to help people achieve happiness? Quite a few people in the know, including Gore Vidal and magazine writers and editors, think so. However, even if Scotty only did half of what he claims and heard about the other half, his life would still be a jaw dropper.

See of yourself, if tell-alls interest you. A word of caution, though: Scotty can be rather explicit, and some things really are cringeworthy. Intrigued? Have at it.

Mr. Sex, Procurer to the Stars, Tells All, Explicitly

Scotty Bowers passed away in October 2019, but in 2012 he teamed up with documentary film producer and director Lionel Friedberg to recount his life in Hollywood as procurer of sexual partners for some of the biggest names in entertainment from just after the end of World War II straight through the Eighties and Nineties. The concentration here, though, focuses on the biggest names of film in the late Forties and Fifties.

During this time, Hollywood still operated under the studio system. Studios exercised control over the lives of their contracted performers and the times were decidedly conservative, especially when it came to sex. Extra marital affairs, general philandering, and in particular and especially homosexual sex, were verboten. Studios were very good at keeping the secret sex lives of their stars under wraps. Just witness the surprise in the Eighties when Rock Hudson revealed that he was dying of AIDS and was gay.

However, people within the community knew of the sexual shenanigans. And then there was Scotty Bowers, who, if you take his revealing memoir at face value, knew them all; not only knew them, but arranged for them on behalf of such stars and personalities as Walter Pidgeon, Cole Porter, George Cukor, Randolph Scott, Cary Grant, Kate Hepburn, Rita Hayworth, Errol Flynn, Vincent Price, Spencer Tracy, Vivien Leigh, Somerset Maugham, Noel Coward, Desi Arnaz, Mae West, Tyrone Power, Charles Laughton, Rock Hudson … well leave it at the list is very, very long. Scotty not only procured partners for these stars, he also participated in the sexual activities himself. And these were as varied as your imagination can conjure, from straight sex, to gay sex, to a variety of somewhat unusual and some highly unusual fetishes. Naming none here; if any of this interests you, though, pick up a copy of the book.

So, who was Scotty Bowers and how did he become the go-to guy in Hollywood, so much so that among many he was known as “Mr. Sex”? He was born George Bowers in 1923 in Ottawa, IL, a farming community near Chicago. He ended up in Los Angeles as a result of WWII, where he served as a Paramarine (disbanded during the war), seeing action during the Guadalcanal and Iwo Jima invasions. He witnessed considerable destruction and death around him during the war and learned of his own brother Donald’s death participating in the Iwo Jima fighting while engaged in the battle himself. Blessed with s strong constitution and a very strong sex drive, he decided that upon mustering out he would live life to the fullest. Also, he was no stranger to sex, having had an introduction at the hands of his uncle and later priests when his family moved to Chicago. Looking for a job and something of a jack at all trades, he landed a gig at the Richfield gas station at 5777 Hollywood Blvd. (now a fire station) and soon he found himself in the sex business. Unbeknownst to his employer, the gas station become a hub for hooking up, or even having sex on the premises, as there was a large house trailer in the back with two separate bedrooms. In a repressive culture with stars who wished to be themselves, at least in private, word spread and Scotty had his hands full, literally, day and night.

This may sound a bit familiar because the gas station features prominently in Ryan Murphy’s and Ian Brennan’s Hollywood, the miniseries, now streaming on Netflix. It’s portrayal doesn’t even scratch the surface of Scotty’s activities. For that, you’ll have to read the book. It’s a real eyebrow raising read, too, even if you think yourself pretty sexually liberal and knowledgeable. You’ll find things here you never dreamed up, guaranteed.

A memoir such as this, lacking as it does source citations, footnotes, even an index, and that relies on the memory of one man who was 88 at the time of the writing, well, it raises questions about veracity. Did this happen as Scotty claims and remembers? Did he know all of these famous people and did they confide their most personal secrets in him? Did he have as much and as varied a sex life as he represents? And did he make all of these arrangements asking for no payment, simply, as he says often, because he wanted to help people achieve happiness? Quite a few people in the know, including Gore Vidal and magazine writers and editors, think so. However, even if Scotty only did half of what he claims and heard about the other half, his life would still be a jaw dropper.

See of yourself, if tell-alls interest you. A word of caution, though: Scotty can be rather explicit, and some things really are cringeworthy. Intrigued? Have at it.

What to say about this self-serving memoir? Well... I finished it. And I owe an apology to every well-known name dropped within its prurient pages (with the possible exception of J. Edgar Hoover.) If he's to be believed, Bowers ran a unique "service" from the 50s well into the early new century for which he was not paid, arrested, or infected by any happenstance STD. And there you have it.

It was OK, about what I was expecting -- a bit of self-serving gossip, repeats of oft-told stories of the sexual habits of certain Hollywood stars. It's gossipy & light fare, not well written or particularly revealing. Bowers has no insight into himself or others. However, it was interesting if only in the fact that it confirms some of the rumors that many of us have heard or read.

It is so funny that a book so unrepentantly cheerful would be so damned depressing by the end. Okay, so I admit that maybe part of it is I am already convinced that sex work can be rewarding and enjoyable, so my feeling of "Okay, okay, Scotty Bowers, I get that you liked hustling, okay, jeez," might be that I am just not who he is trying to speak to. He's speaking to the square-looking middle-aged woman who recommended this to me, people randomly finding it on the shelf at Barnes & Noble, ect. ect.

But still. Bowers. Baby. Your book reeks of desperation. To be liked by me, by readers, by celebrities, by the men who had sex with him when he was a kid, ect... like, pathological levels of people pleasing. He has all these sex stories about movie stars but you can tell he wanted to be their friends, hanging out, bitching, eating dinner. He loves his "friendship with celebrity" stories but in no way was he an insider; he was their procurer, their handyman, or their bartender, but not their friend.

The book is so sad. But I don't think Bowers himself is sad, actually. The writing is... confused? over whether it should focus on salacious stories about celebrities or be a more well-rounded memoir. Bowers, sweet as he is, is a superficial man either incapable or unwilling to really explore unpleasant emotions and memories, and instead wants to focus on how much fun he's had. And he seems very reluctant to be unflattering to anyone, himself included. Which is fair enough, but it makes for a pretty... undramatic? memoir. For many of these complaints though, I should blame the person who fashioned together the book from interviews from Scotty Bowers instead of Scotty himself. In any case, it's funny that such cheerful, chatty writing about celebrity sex turns by the end to be so depressing and tedious. but hey! Celebrity sex gossip is entertaining most of the time.

I heavily skim read it. Mainly curious about some of the older actors I grew up watching on Saturday movies and the royals shown on the cover. Interesting that he was able to avoid getting AIDS really.

This is a non-pornographic romp through the sexual exploits of the people of Hollywood through the eyes of a man who claims to have set up tricks for the well known of the time, mid-40's through the '70's. Not to mention his own romps with the stars of the time.
It is fun and if half of what this guy said he did is true, he has lived one heck of a life!
It is a fun read!

J'ai donc lu ce livre en anglais et il n'est pas bien difficile à comprendre en VO. Que dire ? Le livre tient ses promesses en termes de "salacious gossip", c'est d'ailleurs un peu le problème car si le début du livre intéresse (le narrateur raconte son enfance puis explique ce qui l'a amené de retour des marines au curieux poste de pompiste qui met en relation des célébrités et des jeunes gens), la suite ennuie un peu à force d'être un catalogue de curiosités sexuelles des diverses célébrités croisées (et non des moindres il est vrai), on se surprend à penser que le narrateur qui ne se remet en avant qu'au tout dernier chapitre est une énigme peut-être plus tenace que ces célébrités (aux singularités sexuelles assez vite répétitives) et on regrette la perte de texte de Tennessee Williams sur le narrateur ! Le livre n'est pas d'une très grande qualité d'écriture sinon ... Tout ce qu'on pourra apprécier c'est la liberté de ton de l'auteur et surtout en filigrane à quel point toutes ces stars qui incarnaient un certain modèle de l'amour hétérosexuel monogame vivaient en privé une toute autre vie !!!½

So poorly written it's hard to believe. Not that I expected fine literature, going in, mind you. I expected garbage with a side of Katherine Hepburn gossip. What I got was just... icky. Bowers is so smarmily self-congratulatory it's sickening, and such a bad writer it's jaw-dropping. Way, way worse than I expected, and I didn't expect much.

While the revelations in Scotty Bowers' Full Service are intended to shock and mischievously delight, what shocked me the most was that this book ever made it past an editor, or (equally shocking) that it might have been published without ever passing through the hands of an editor. I thought the point of a "contributor" was to make a book readable after it has already been pounded out by someone who couldn't write. But why judge this book on the basis of its literary merits or lack thereof? This is a book about salacious gossip, and to a certain extent it delivers. If you're into this sort of thing, you'll find juicy tidbits reinforced for you that you've probably heard elsewhere. Never hurts to hear them again. Unfortunately, for a man who was supposedly the life of the party and everyone's best friend, the stories are told in a surprisingly insipid way. While being told that Bowers was the confidant to the stars, by the end I got more the impression that he was the affable (and quite secondary) barkeep who happened upon a trove of choice bits of gossip. All in all a mildly entertaining read certain to be laughed over and quickly forgotten.