As I scour internet archives and ebook websites for old Hollywood lore, I found this gem of a story.
It’s part of book that was published in 2012 by Scotty Bowers.
In 1946, Bowers was a young, fit and very handsome ex-military man working at a gas station in downtown Hollywood. Bowers met a lot of beautiful, glamorous and famous people while pumping their gas. One of them was, Walter Pidgeon.
Below is a recounting by Bowers on how he met Pidgeon and the salacious beginning to what would be an on-going relationship.
In 1946 I was twenty-three years old and the city of Los Angeles was witnessing a major spurt of postwar development. Even though the metropolitan district boasted a comprehensive bus and streetcar system, the era of the freeway was about to begin.
To supply the war effort no new cars had been made since 1942. Now production was ramping up again. The automobile was about to become king, setting a trend that would make the City of Angels grow up around the car and its vast network of freeways.
Gas stations were soon to become an iconic emblem on the landscape and were already springing up everywhere. Many became meeting places for young servicemen recently discharged from the armed forces. With their bustling late night, brightly lit driveways and soda pop dispensing machines, they were ideal places for unemployed guys to hang around with their girlfriends, kill time, and meet up with friends.
Russ Swanson, an ex–Marine Corps buddy of mine, worked at a Union Oil gas station on Wilshire Boulevard. He occasionally asked me to help out at the pumps from 8:00 a.m. to 4:30 p.m., just before I went to work at my own evening gas station job on Hollywood Boulevard.
One morning I got a call from him saying that he needed me to fill in for him for a couple of hours so I headed down to his station and manned my post at the pumps. It was a lovely, clear sunny day and I wasn’t expecting much traffic. In that kind of weather folks usually headed for the beach; they weren’t going to spend much time riding around in hot, stifling automobiles. I resigned myself to a potential day of boredom.
When Russ returned at about noon I spent a while chatting with him. Then, just as I was about to leave, a shiny Lincoln two-door coupe drove up. It was a big, swanky, expensive car. Only someone rich and famous drove something like that. Russ was busy in the office so I said I’d take care of the customer.
When I approached the car the driver’s side window slid down revealing a very handsome middle-aged male face that I was certain I had seen before.
“Can I help you, sir?” I asked.
The man behind the wheel smiled, looked me up and down, and said, “Yes, I’m quite sure you can.”
It was the voice that instantly gave him away. My God, I realized, this guy’s none other than Walter Pidgeon, the renowned movie star.
**Pidgeon starred with Greer Garson in Both Mrs. Miniver and Madame Curie.**
That distinctive deep, smooth, very intelligent-sounding voice was instantly recognizable. I thought it best to pretend that I didn’t know who he was, so I bumbled a response.
I pumped the amount of gas that he requested and when I came back to the driver’s window Pidgeon had his hand on the sill. He was holding a few dollars for the gas between his thumb and fore finger and squeezed between his middle and index fingers was another crisp bill. I couldn’t make out how much it was, but I stopped when I saw it.
His gaze remained locked on me. “What are you doing for the rest of the day?” he asked in a very friendly tone, his face remaining expressionless.
Well, it wasn’t too hard to guess what he wanted. I got the message immediately.
(Walter Pidgeon and Greer Garson on the set of Mrs. Miniver – 1942)
I took the money, thanked him, then went to tell Russ that I was leaving.
A couple of minutes later I found myself on the passenger’s side of the comfortable leather bench seat of Walter Pidgeon’s vehicle.
With neither of us saying anything he pulled out of the station and headed west on Wilshire Boulevard.
After a couple of awkward, silent minutes he offered me his right hand and said, “Name’s Walter.”
“Scotty,” I said, and shook his hand.
And that was that, the sum total of our introductions.
The rest of it was all pleasantries and idle chitchat. We talked about the war that had ended the previous year and we discussed my role in it as a U.S. Marine.
He wanted to know how old I was, where I was from, whether I knew many people in town. About twenty minutes later we were driving up Benedict Canyon in Beverly Hills. He swung the car onto a paved drive that led to a large house. As he turned the wheel he pointed out the imposing gates on the other side of the street.
“You like movie stars?” he asked.
“Sure, why?” I replied.
He gestured toward the opposite driveway and told me that it was the home of Harold Lloyd, the famous silent movie actor. I cooed in mock wonder. I wanted him to feel that celebrities impressed me, but I had to keep my act up about not recognizing Pidgeon himself.
As the car crunched up the gravel and pulled up outside a large expensive-looking house he glanced at me and told me that the guy who lived here was his friend.
Yeah, right, I thought. Whoever he was he would certainly be more than a “friend.”
Nevertheless, I kept my thoughts to myself. The extra bill he had given me —all twenty dollars of it—meant a lot to me. I could certainly use the cash. Whatever Walt and his friend were into I decided to play along. I swung my legs out of the car, shut the door, and joined Pidgeon on the porch as he rung the bell.
When Jacques Potts opened the front door he was surprised to see me standing there. He greeted Pidgeon, then looked me up and down as though he were studying a piece of merchandise. I got the feeling that he liked what he saw.
Potts led us through his palatial home to the pool in the backyard before he turned around and disappeared inside the house.
Pidgeon walked over to me and said, “It’s hot, Scotty. Hop in for a swim. I’ll join you in a minute.”
He turned to go inside but not before throwing me a quick remark. “No need for a suit. There’s no one else here.”
What the hell? I thought. Who cares?
So I got undressed, threw my clothes over a deck chair, and dove stark naked into the sparkling water. It felt great. I swam a lap or two before Potts reappeared, followed by Pidgeon, who was naked except for a towel tucked around his waist. They each chose a chaise lounge, lay back, and watched me.
“So, tell me about your new friend here, Pidge,” Potts said.
Apparently all of Pidgeon’s friends called him Pidge. I was being assessed, studied, sized up. I was a plaything being carefully examined before being brought into the playpen. And, to be honest, I was enjoying every moment of it.
After an hour of some really hot sex, preceded by both of them taking turns performing fellatio on me, we all unwound, and relaxed around the pool. By then, of course, Walter Pidgeon had revealed his true identity to me. I had feigned complete surprise. I hemmed and hawed and made a great fuss, doing my best to appear both humbled and excited by his mere presence which, to be honest, I really was.
As for Jacques Potts, I soon learned that his real name was Jack, and that Jacques was a fancy French name conjured up to match his profession as a well-known milliner to the stars. It turned out that both men were married. Pidgeon’s wife was Ruth Walker, whom he had wed back in 1931.
Before I left that day, he swore me to secrecy, begging me not to mention anything to anyone about what had transpired between us. I told him I was quite capable of being as discreet as necessary and I instinctively knew he believed me.
Potts’s wife was out of town. And because he and Pidge had agreed to see one another that day the servants and the gardener had been given the day off. It was a perfect opportunity to play under a blazing Southern Californian sun.
Pidge and Potts were two very nice, sweet, highly likeable guys. They were both smart, well groomed, and very rich. Their manners were impeccable. Neither of them exhibited even a hint of effeminate behavior. They were both in remarkably good shape, too, especially when you consider their ages.
Walter Pidgeon must have been at least fifty at the time. Potts could have been a bit older. They were totally masculine in all their mannerisms and in the way they moved, talked, and behaved. The only thing that made them a little different than straight men is the fact that they enjoyed having sex with other men as well as with women.
And, quite frankly, I saw absolutely nothing wrong with that.
As a result of that encounter, Pidge and I would see each other off and on over the ensuing years, always for sex followed by a handsome tip. His preference was to suck me off while masturbating. He would reach his orgasm just as I reached mine.
On the rare occasion in later years when we got together with Jacques Potts the three of us would engage in some inventive ménage à trois antics. Sometimes I would just be a voyeur while the two of them did their thing, with Jacques acting as a “bottom” to Pidge’s “top.”
Do you get what I mean? I’m sure I don’t have to explain. The fact is that whatever we did and whenever we did it, we always had a lot of fun together.
THANK YOU FOR READING.
If you found this content valuable please share it.
HAVE A SENSUAL DAY.
Dyann Bridges xoxo
If you liked this article you might also like….
ALL Links – https://linktr.ee/bodyhouse1
Contact Dyann at: email@example.com