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Vivien Leigh in the HotelFacebooktwittergoogle_pluslinkedinmail

I work at a great Manhattan hotel whose name I better not mention. I’m just a bellhop but only twenty-two and know I’m going to have a great job someday. Today, I’m rolling a cart with the luggage of a special guest: she’s Vivien Leigh, Scarlett O’Hara in the flesh, and almost as beautiful now as she was about fifteen years ago. I’m not nervous, though. I do this for quite a few celebrities. They usually don’t say much. Vivien’s different.

“You’re such a handsome young man,” she says.

“Thank you.”

“And you’re in marvelous condition.”

“I still play baseball with my friends.”

“Do you know Babe Ruth?”

“No, he died a few years ago but he’ll always be my favorite player. Here’s your room, Miss Leigh.”

I unlock the door and bow as I motion to enter first, and she walks in and says, “Oh, this is wonderful.”

“Let me open the drapes. You’ll love the view of the city.”

“Incredible. You’re really quite a young man. Will you please put my bags in the closet and unpack them.”

“You want me to unpack your bags, Miss Leigh?”

“I hope that’s not too much trouble. What’ your name?”


“Please, Mike.”

“It would be a pleasure.”

I start pulling out fancy dresses, skirts, and blouses and hanging them in the closet.

“Here, Mike, hang this one up, too, will you,” she says, handing me the dress she’d been wearing as she stands there in her panties and bra.

“Sure, Miss Leigh.”

I hang up her dress.

“And please put all my undergarments in the dresser.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You can start with these,” she says, removing her panties and bra.

I just stare.

“Come here, Mike.”

I hesitate, and she rushes to hug and kiss me and starts pulling on my coat and trying to unzip my pants and says, “For God’s sake, get undressed.”

That’s what I do and she pulls me onto the bed and kisses and paws and moans, and that’s before we even start, and soon afterward she shouts, “Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop. Promise me you won’t.”

“I swear,” I say, but need a little rest.

“Don’t go to sleep, Mike. I can’t allow that.”

“Just give me ten minutes.”

“My husband’s not vigorous enough to keep up. I hope you are.”

She grabs me and, with amazing strength for such a petite lady, pulls me on top and is without doubt wilder than any woman I’ve known, not that I’ve known many but I’ve had a few. She claws my back. She sucks my neck and chest and screams and moans and still demands I never stop, and that’s how it goes all afternoon. The phone rings a few times, and once, when Miss Leigh can, she answers and says, “Mike is helping me unpack and will be compensated accordingly. Good afternoon.”

Washing up in the bathroom, preparing to get back to work, I see several huge hickeys on my neck and chest, and turn to examine my back which is scratched up pretty bad. I put on my shirt and uniform and say, “Thank you, Miss Leigh. I better go now.”

Standing and still naked she says, “I want you back here tomorrow and every day as long as I need you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“This is for you.” She hands me a twenty-dollar bill.

“Thank you so much.”

Back downstairs in the lobby my boss marches up and says, “Where the hell have you been?”

“I was helping Miss Leigh unpack.”

“Get back outside and take care of our guests.”

Waiting by the curb in front is Howard, the cabbie, and I lean through the open passenger window and say, “I’ve been helping Vivien Leigh unpack all day.”

“Great, Mike. This morning I spent about an hour giving her a tour of the back seat.”

“You’re lyin’”

He points to a couple of angry purple marks on his neck.

“Anyone could’ve done that,” I say.

“Look, Mike, she’s a fine lady, but I hear she’s sick.”

“Who’s says?”

“An actress who rides with me sometimes.”

“What’s her name?

“That’s private.”

“What’s the matter with Miss Leigh?”

“Manic depression.”

“I wonder if she does this often.”

“I hear she’s driving Laurence Olivier crazy.”

Vivien Leigh and Laurence Olivier

This entry was posted in Laurence Olivier, Mental Health, Movies, Vivien Leigh.