Tell-All

Recently Kirstie Alley’s new memoir has been a topic for discussion from The View to The Talk.  (Essentially the same program.  The Talk is just a raunchier, down-market caricature of The View that former child actress-turned talk show hostess Sara Gilbert pilfered as unemployment insurance.  I find them both egregious and unwatchable, but I dutifully check in to see what “hot topics” America’s housewives are supposed to be hot about.  They have replaced Oprah in this capacity in my life.)

I guess Kirstie divulges never-heard-before tidbits about her sex life- real and/or imaginary.  She confesses to lusting after the likes of Patrick Swayze (conveniently dead and can’t defend himself) and John Travolta (who desperately needs this kind of publicity just now for his own purposes.)

There might be juicier revelations contained within this latest example of faded-celebrity confessional, but I’ll never know.  I have no intention of wasting my money or eyesight on such claptrap.

I made that mistake once.  Because I had loved her in The Last Picture Show, Moonlighting, and Cybill, I immediately ran out to Aspen’s Explore Bookstore and plunked down hard currency for the hardback version of Cybill Shepherd’s bio, Cybill Disobedience.

I knew she was quirky and outspoken and had lived an unusual life.  Her cover photo coyly beckoned and I succumbed.

Big, big, mistake.  As quick as a naughty wink, I was plunged headlong into Cybill’s precocious and hectic teenaged sex life.  Then it was more lurid tales about one-night stands, quickies, brief encounters, and hops in the sack with the likes of (but not restricted to) famous ladies’ men like Elvis and Don Johnson.

You could say her take on her own sexuality was candid and refreshing.  But I was appalled and disgusted.  She and I are of the exact same vintage- born one year apart- and back in my day, no gentleman was supposed to kiss and tell.  There wasn’t a similar rule or admonishment for a lady because it was inconceivable that any woman would admit to these goings-on and brand herself- sorry, but there is no other word in my own antiquarian vocabulary- a slut.

Yep, that’s what we called them in high school.  Girls who were fast or put out or did it.  “Slut” was never to be used or confused with the word “popular.”

I was shocked and then, ultimately, bored by Cybill’s revelations.  I get it.  She was very, pretty and many, many men wanted to bed her.  And did.  And then found out, like I did when I read the book, that there was nobody behind the pretty face worth getting to know. They loved her and left her and so did I.

And imagine her surprise and chagrin when the “pretty” faded and the less-beautiful mantrap was suddenly left home dateless on a Saturday night.  I could well imagine that too.

We had that in common.  I had had more than my fair share of boyfriends, husbands, steadys and beaux, too.  But I’d like to think that it wasn’t because I was a slut, and since I’ll never tell and none of the aforementioned men have books, blogs, or talk shows, you’ll never know.

Hey, did you hear that? A collective sigh of relief just went out around the globe as men who I once fell for, dated, or married just breathed a whole lot easier.

Or are they sadly disappointed?  A few have good reason to be.  Believe me, I could write glowing, rapturous endorsements for some of my old paramours– if I were so gossip-inclined.

That is because I have been lucky enough to have known both sides of that side of romance.  The grand passions and the humdrum routine.  The “throw caution to the winds” and the “Not tonight dear, I have a headache.”

I have been disappointed and amazed.  Transported and bored.  I have despised the “hurly-burly of the chaise lounge” (to quote the inimitable Mrs. Patrick Campbell) and my love life has, on occasion, “frightened the horses.” (Same source.)

I have flown to the moon and gone through the motions.  I have been too young to know what it was all about and old enough to know better.  I have been the teenaged bashful bride and the fortysomething cougar.

It’s been hard on the woman but great for the writer.  Both ends of the passion scale have put me in touch with Anna Karenina, Blanche Dubois, Cora from The Postman Always Rings Twice, Daisy Buchanan, Natasha Rostova, Holly Golightly and Emma Bovary.

But name names?  Give out with the steamy details?  Never.  Those secrets go to my grave- and beyond.

Of course, on the other hand, if any of the men in my life really want me to tell the truth about their exquisite prowess, legendary stamina, Porfirio Rubirosa-like equipment, and sophisticated savoir faire… no,  no, sorry.  I could never, ever be able to blog about such personal things.

Pssst. The rest of you will just have to wait for the book party.