DESCRIPTIONS

It was the best of times, when the planets aligned to place in one garden, that of Allah, the most beautiful representatives of humanity the world had ever seen, united in one location, during Hollywood’s homosexual heyday: Laurence Olivier, Errol Flynn, Tyrone Power, Valentino, Ramón Novarro, to name a very few, whose bungalows had their own entrances, and a pool, the largest existent in Hollywood, for skinny dipping and sheltered corners where untanned buttocks, a white parenthesis in deeply bronzed bodies, were lighted by the first-ever underwater illumination, a pleasure for those in the wee hours who caught the humping, and, perhaps, even the highlighted milky clouds released by the last-minute withdrawals that assured the actors they would not face suits for child support.The only major book on the Garden of Allah was written by Sheilah Graham and published in 1970, Graham who had spent years observing the goings-on at the Garden and had been F. Scott Fitzgerald’s biographer and lover. The book used the Garden as a launching pad to talk about any producer, writer, director or actor who lived there in the ‘20s, ‘30s and ‘40s, a book of name-dropping but no sex, an oversight I intend to correct. The Garden of Allah saw Errol Flynn ensconce himself with what may have been his very first boy, not emerging from his bungalow for three straight days and nights. There were orgies, hustlers and prostitutes, especially during the war years when one lived fast and furious because one didn’t know how long one would be alive, hot and fast because the studios were dishing out the money, and around the Crash of ‘29 boys and girls could be bought for the proverbial Hershey Bar. Only the most beautiful came to Hollywood, in the hope of making it into films, but the vast majority made it into the beds of those that concern us in this book: the beds of men who preferred other men.

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