Full Service: My Adventures in Hollywood and the Secret Sex Lives of the Stars
by Scotty Bowers with Lionel Friedberg
Grove Press. 286 pages, $25.
SCOTTY BOWERS’ love affair with movie stars began when he was still a boy whose divorced mother had moved from a failed farm in the Depression Midwest to the city of Chicago, where Bowers not only learned to sneak into movies but earned money for his family the way any hero in a Horatio Alger novel might start out: delivering newspapers, shining shoes, and letting local priests have sex with him. But his memoir, published at the ripe age of 88, really starts when, after leaving the Marines at the end of World War II, he takes a job pumping gas at a gas station in Hollywood—where he learns that some of the customers are willing to pay for more than petrol. Walter Pidgeon was the first. Following Walter, it was one celebrity after another. “Those were wild and wonderful days,” muses the man whose dick was so admired that he would use it to stir cocktails at the parties he bar-tended. “Often just before I drifted off into sleep I would stare up at the ceiling and simply count my blessings, feeling overwhelmingly grateful for my lot in life. There was no doubt about it. Hollywood was simply the most marvelous place in the world for anyone to be.”
And why not? Bowers was handsome, well endowed, in love with the movies and everyone who worked in them.
