Jacko, His Rise and Fall: The Social and Sexual History of Michael Jackson (8 page)

All of a sudden, a Lincoln Executive
limousine pulled into the driveway of the
Jackson home. A pink-uniformed chauffeur in black boots with a gold hat got out
from behind the wheel to open the door for the passenger in the rear. It was the next door neighbor, Liberace, at the
time one of the world's most famous entertainers. Stepping out of the limousine, he was a vision in white silk lame. In the foyer, he announced to a
Jackson household servant that he'd arrived to "see the wee one."

Michael rushed downstairs to meet one of his show biz idols. But
Katherine didn't trust the effeminate, flamboyant entertainer alone with her
son, although she was eventually persuaded to leave them together in the living room.

Holding Michael's hand, Liberace told the young boy that he couldn't stay
as he was already late for a party at the home of Rock Hudson. He giggled at
the thought of it. "I'll probably be asked to play an organ or two tonight." He
giggled away, then flashed a wide grin. Michael was almost overcome by the
heavy intoxicating smell of Liberace's perfume.

He invited Michael to come to dinner next week to "meet a special
friend-she's more outrageous than moi," he said, "if that's possible." He jotted down Michael's phone number. "I'll call you to set up a night. Toodle-
loo!" The performer sashayed out of the living room, descending toward the
driveway where the dashingly handsome chauffeur already had the rear door
open.

Michael could not contain himself with excitement waiting for the invitation to come through. He kept wondering who the special guest would be, figuring that Liberace by himself would be entertainment enough.

Knowing that Katherine would never let him attend a dinner party at
Liberace's house, Michael kept the news of the invitation from his family.
When Liberace called and set the date, Michael still remained mum. On the
Tuesday night of the dinner, he pretended to have a headache and went to his
bedroom early. But he slipped out of his room and walked down the street to
the entertainer's house.

The young man who opened the door was the chauffeur, except this time
he was attired in forest green slacks with a white shirt open to his six-pack
waist. He introduced himself as Paul Richardson, and it is because of him, and
his later revelations, that the world knows what transpired that night.

Emerging from the rear of the house was Liberace himself, wearing scarlet-colored lounging pajamas. To Michael, he extended a hand on which rested a large jewel-encrusted ring on each finger.

Before his special guest arrived, Liberace insisted on taking young
Michael on a tour of the house. As he made his way toward the garden down
a long hallway, Liberace pointed out the pieces of value, including a desk he
claimed once adorned Versailles, the property of Louis XV. He also showed
Michael his sumptuous bedroom. "The bed belonged to Rudolph Valentino.
He was before your time. The great lover of the silent screen. Both of his wives were lesbians." Michael was impressed with the garden, particularly its
large piano-shaped pool.

Back in the house, Michael had to go to the bathroom. Paul led the way.
After carefully locking the door, Michael took in the chandelier-lit room, the
walls covered with murals of naked men, some with excessively large genitalia.

Michael waited alone in the living room. Paul stood nearby ready to take
the drink orders. Michael noticed the young man observing him closely. It was
fifteen minutes before Liberace appeared again. "I had to change into something more spectacular," he said. "I called my guest, and she's wearing red. I
decided to get rid of my own red and wear these champagne-colored lounging
pajamas. That way, I'll blend in." Michael couldn't help but notice that the
entire room was in champagne colors.

Liberace pounced on the sofa next to Michael, and took the boy's hand.
"First, let me tell you that I love your music. You're gonna be a big star. Not
as big as me, darling. But real big."

"Thank you, sir." Michael checked out the ruffled silk. "You look great!"

"Thanks," Liberace said. "After Elvis came along, I have to appear more
outlandish than ever, topping him every time. Of course, my onstage outfits
are far more fabulous. I have a different outfit designed every month because
they tarnish so fast. I do, however, remove the diamond buttons from suit to
suit."

"When I start having stage clothes designed
for me, I'll stick to sequins," Michael said.
"Right now Katherine buys for my brothers
and me off the rack."

Liberace

Liberace looked over at Paul and winked lasciviously. "A Scotch for me and a Shirley
Temple for Michael." When Paul came back,
Liberace was lamenting about how many
charity events he was asked to play at every
week. "The same will happen to you," he predicted to Michael. "Don't do any. Never... but
never associate yourself with some kind of
disease."

Liberace had more advice. "Never take sides
in anything, especially politics. If you take
sides, you'll alienate large segments of your
audience. No one knows if I'm a Republican
or Democrat. Come to think of it, I don't know
that myself."

"I'll remember that, sir."

"Just call me Cuddles, dear boy."

At that point the doorbell rang, and Paul went to answer it. Michael could
hear the sound of male voices, but only a lady was ushered into the living
room. He stared in awe as a bejeweled Mae West in a floor-length red gown
with a white sable coat pranced in. "Liberace invited me to come up and see
him sometime," West said, just assuming Michael knew who she was.
"Tonight I'm here to check out Liberace's gold organ." Liberace was at her
feet kissing a white-gloved hand. Taking note for the first time just how young
Michael was, she issued a command. "Kid, write down everything I say
tonight. When you grow up, read it. You'll understand it then."

As West seated herself in a winged armchair across from the two men, she
carefully arranged herself. "I saw Liberace on one of his early TV shows and
fell in love. When reporters asked me what I wanted for my birthday, I said
Liberace. One day he shows up on my doorstep wearing a large red bow.
`Here I am!' he said. `Your birthday present."'

A dog ran into the room and headed for Michael where he proceeded to
raise his leg and issue a squirt of piss. Liberace looked on, amused. "This is
my favorite pet. A Lhasa Apso."

"I think he likes me," Michael said.

"I like you too," West cooed. "I caught your act on TV with that Ross
creature. That one is a bit too uppity for her own good, but you were terrific."

Liberace seemed jealous that he was no longer the center of attention.
Reclaiming the floor, he jumped up and headed for a 19th-century piano. "It
once belonged to Frederic Chopin." He sat down and played "Mad About the
Boy" from Noel Coward's repertoire, beaming his famous smile at Michael.

When Paul signaled that the butler was serving dinner, Liberace took a
bow. Michael applauded. West did not. "Tonight we're having dear of Mum's
potato pancakes," Liberace said. "I made the rock Cornish game hen with
cherry sauce myself. All these recipes are going to be in my new book,
Liberace Cooks!"

"I'm not the domestic type," West said, rising to her feet. "The boudoir is
where I show my expertise. How about you, kid?"

"I just sing and dance," Michael said, following Liberace and West into
the dining room lit by three antique Venetian chandeliers, one of which depicted a series of faces, each fashioned from black glass, that resembled Aunt
Jemima.

Before seating Michael and West, Liberace pointed out the K on his silverware. "The set once belonged to President John F. Kennedy."

Somehow West made a romantic link in her head. "You know, that
Marilyn Monroe bitch-speak of the dead-stole her whole act from me. I was singing about diamonds before she was born."

Over dinner and champagne-Michael was allowed to have one glass of
bubbly-Liberace, his eyes twinkling, leaned over toward West. "There's this
one rumor I want to know about. Do you have African-American roots? Did
one of your ancestors pass for white?"

"I've heard that one a million times," she said, smiling at Paul who hovered nearby. "I'm not black. The rumor probably started because of my affinity for black music." She leaned over and patted Michael's hand. "Black
music is the best there is."

"My parents always had progressive racial attitudes," she said. "We once
entertained Bert Williams-of course, he was famous. I was just a little gal
when I realized that black people are just like us, only of a different color. I've
always believed that white men should not exploit women, black people, or
gays." She smiled at Liberace.

"I grew up listening to ragtime," she said, continuing her monologue.
"Ragtime is certainly rooted in African music. I remember when the
Cakewalk, created by blacks, was the rage of the nation." She leaned toward
Michael again. "Let me give you some advice, kid. You should develop a distinctive walk on the stage."

Did Mae West inspire Michael's future Moonwalk?

"I was a champion of blacks before it became fashionable," she went on.
"I fought to get Duke Ellington cast in The
Belle of the Nineties. I even was seen dining
alone with Louis Armstrong, my reputation
be damned. When a black performer was
injured in a car accident in Las Vegas, I intervened and got treatment for the poor soul in a
whites-only facility."

Mae West

When dessert arrived, West shooed it away,
although Michael went in a big way for the
baked Alaska.

West almost never drank alcohol except on
this rare occasion. The champagne had made
her tipsy. As the three of them settled into the
living room, with Paul still hovering nearby,
she provocatively asked Liberace: "Are you
still against homosexuality like you said in
that British court a decade ago?"

"Just because I wear fancy clothes and am a
nonconformist, people always judge me,"
Liberace said.

"Let's cut out this horse manure," West said, "You're talking to your
mama here. You're just as gay as those male chorines I cast in my play, Drag,
way back when. Without you boys, I wouldn't have any fans left."

"You must understand, Mae, I'm trying to set a fine example before this
impressionable young boy here."

He looked over at Michael. "You're just a little boy, and already I'm hearing rumors about you. Regardless of what the press writes about you, no matter how cancerous the innuendo, deny that you are a homosexual."

"Liberace's got a point," West chimed in. "I've spent years denying I'm a
drag queen! Personally, I adore homosexuals. You might say I launched the
gay movement by writing the first gay play. But, to me, homosexual sex is just
a form of masturbation. A temporary relief of tension. No real satisfaction."

"Oh, Mae darling, if the boys could hear you say that," Liberace said.
"They'd take away your crown as Queen of Sex."

"Not bloody likely, dearie," West said defensively. Ignoring Liberace,
who seemed to have angered her, she focused once again on Michael. "Clean
livin', kid, that's the answer, for a long career in show business. No drugs.
Take an enema once or twice a day. There's putrid, poisonous matter in your
body. I can't stand to take a shit that smells. Bad for my image. What if someone followed me into the crapper and it was all smelly? When you've cleaned
yourself with an enema, and then you answer nature's call, your wastes are
fresh - not putrid."

"Mae, are you trying to tell us your shit don't stink?" a drunken Liberace
asked.

"It ain't Chanel Number 5," West said. "At its worst, perhaps the smell of
beef stew."

"This has been a most enlightening evening for me," Michael said, "and I
thank you for it. My parents might discover I'm missing, so I'd better be leaving. Miss West, meeting you and Mr. Liberace has been the grandest evening
of my life. From now on, both of you in separate ways will be my role models."