My First Five Husbands
Read My First Five Husbands Online
Authors: Rue McClanahan
CONTENTS
To Mark
Acknowledgments
“I’d like to thank everyone who helped make this award possible.
The rest of you will be in the book.”
—R
UE
M
CCLANAHAN,
E
MMY
A
WARDS, 1987
T
his book is about my life and experiences as I lived them, and anyone who doesn’t like it can jolly well lump it. Others may have a different perception of events. I respect their right to render totally biased and self-serving commentary about their own lives, but only if sifted through long years and a few bourbons, dipped in forgiveness and wisdom, and salted with a sense of humor—because that’s what I’ve done. But a word of caution: Writing a book is one hell of a lot of work. Let me assure you, I couldn’t have done it without the love and support of the following people:
My erudite and sweet-smelling sixth husband, Morrow Wilson, whose advice always stopped short of interference; my beloved inimitable son, Mark Bish, and indefatigable sister, Dr. Melinda McClanahan, both of whom patiently endured uncounted phone calls to help with names and dates (and in my sister’s case, repeated warnings: “Don’t you say anything bad about him!”), as did my staunch and dear friends Andrew Greenhut, who had memories I’d forgotten, and Marty Jacobs, Curator of the Theatre Collections of the Museum of the City of New York; my friend and assistant, Kathy Salomone, who not only helped type the manuscript, but without whom I’d still be trapped in Computer Dysfunction Hell; my pal, Ed Kaczmarek, who took phone calls at his home and office in Chicago to get me out of the Computer Dysfunction Hells that even Kathy couldn’t solve; my literary agent, Wendy Sherman, who shepherded me to Broadway Books; my editor at Broadway Books, Ann Campbell, who gently, firmly advised a better format while planning her wedding and never got the two confused; my memoir guru, Joni Rodgers, who, along with Ann, devised that better format, working hand-in-hand with me with unfailing enthusiasm; the design and production team at Broadway; all my friends who have been saying excitedly to me for over two years, “Oh, I can’t wait to read it!” And finally, Saint Dymphna, patroness of insanity.
In a few instances, I’ve chosen, in spite of temptation, to refrain from using specific names and going into exquisite detail—not so much from fear of getting sued, although I might invite several lawsuits if I let it all hang out, but because, in spite of being a legal grown-up for some fifty-
ummph
years, like a good Southern girl, I respect my family elders, many of whom are still hale and hearty and possessed of clear eyesight. So some details have been altered, some events condensed, and some names changed to protect the innocent (me) and to discourage a few black-hearted scalawags.
Prologue
“If men can be categorized for their looks on a scale of 1 to 10, they can also be graded for their sexual prowess, A to F.”
—M
ARGARET
T
HATCHER
I
’m told the Esquimaux have a charming take on lovemaking. They call it “laughing together.” Working from that premise, we could refer to the Laughing Together Quotient, or the LTQ. You could have an LTQ from “snicker” to “guffaw” right up to “belly laugh.” But as I have yet to know an Esquimau under the walrus blankets, I’ll stick to the Lower 48, and using our more familiar reference, refer herein to certain gentlemen (and a couple of the other kind) in regard to their FQ—that is, of course, as you undoubtedly surmise, their Fun in Bed Quotient, or Fun Quotient, for short.
As every woman knows, it’s possible for a man to have an FQ of A+ and an IQ of Zip. Ah, yes, we know him well—he falls into the Smoldering Handyman or Stanley Kowalski Category. Certainly right up there at the top of
my
All-Time Hits List. But generally, high IQs bestow upon their owners equally high FQs, since FQ is greatly enhanced by imagination and wit. Two of the best lovers I’ve known were psychoanalysts, both brilliant.
Loony, but brilliant.
And FQs of A+. Rare as a day in May? Let me tell you…which I shall. This book is about men I have known, in both the platonic and biblical senses. Some I knew only slightly, some quite well. Some I’ll love always, some I no longer like very much, and there are a few I’d like to strip naked, tie to a maypole, smear with sweet syrup near a beehive, then stand back and watch. I’ll describe a goodly number of these hot dudes—and
duds
—keeping the nicest man for last, because—if for nothing else—I’d like to leave you, dear reader, with a good taste in your mouth, and Hubbies #3 and #4 might make you want to rush to gargle. There were times I truly wondered,
Lord, will I EVER get it right?
Thank God I thrive on variety.
“
T
omorrow’s assignment: Bring in five scenes depicting five reasons to get married.”
Barney Brown’s acting class, Perry-Mansfield Dance-Drama Camp, Steamboat Springs, Colorado. Summer of 1955. I was twenty-one, my partner a year younger.
“There’s only one reason to get married, and that’s being in love,” I told my scene partner. “I guess some people get married for money, but”—I frowned—“would you really get married for money if you weren’t in love?”
“I dunno.”
“Well, I wouldn’t. Should we put it down anyway?”
“I guess so.”
“Okay, we’ve got two reasons. What else?”
“Okay,” he said. “See, maybe someone was run over by a car or something, and to keep from going to jail, he marries the girl he ran over.”
“Hmm.” I considered that. “No, that’s not logical. Gosh, this is hard. Okay, look, let’s say you’re getting married, okay? So why are you marrying this girl?”
“Well,” he squirmed, “I never really thought about getting married for any reason.”
My Lord, he’s gay
.
“Oh, brother,” I sighed. “We’re gonna flop.”
So we brought in two reasons: marrying for love and for money. But I simply couldn’t imagine getting married without being in love, and up to that moment, my experience of love was…well,
lovely
! Pen is the first boy I remember being enamored of. I was five. We played house, imagining we were a married couple. In my mind, this meant “romance.” In his mind, it meant “mud pies.” (A dynamic that persists between many married couples.) My first really big heartthrob was Benny Frank Butler, from ages eight to fourteen. In junior high, Al Ringer and Johnny Brooks gave me fits of unrequited passion. And I liked my high school beau so much, I married him thirty-five years later. In college, there was dear Bill Bennett, and heck, I was still a virgin! So who’s the first man I ever slept with? That’s what everyone wants to hear.
Who was first? What was it like?
Let’s make a game of it: “Erotic Mystery Maze! Follow the Hidden Clues to the Virgin Encounter! Three free spins to get it right!”
As I made my way in the world, my worldly ideas of love evolved. Over the next twenty-nine years I lived out five marriages that afforded me plenty of reasons why people get married, including a raft of reasons not to. In the pages that follow, you’ll find my musings on my various attempts at the venerable institution of marriage. Each time, I believed the wedding would be the first day of a lifelong union. My suspicion that I’d possibly made a horrible mistake came later. Sometimes as late as—hmm…
the honeymoon
!
I’m not very lucky with honeymoons, and some of them were even in lovely places. Or at least, decent. But all in all, I’d rather go to Hawaii with a girlfriend and, as I’m being balmed by the balmy breeze and mooned by the melon moon, sigh,
Ah, if only I were here with a man in this romantic place!
—instead of being out there in the moonlight with a man, thinking,
Oh, no—another turd in the punch bowl
. Getting past the honeymoon requires mature judgment in mate selection, as well as luck, proper planetary alignment, and most important, burying an Irish potato in the dark of a new moon. I kept getting distracted by good looks and sex appeal (and occasionally desperation) and forgetting to bury that damned potato.
Now, every once in a while, as I float through the living room of my cozy Manhattan apartment, I run into my husband sitting there with one leg akimbo.
“I think you’re marvelous,” I sigh.
He looks up from his book, and says, “Why?”
But I don’t have a list of reasons. There are too many. Or maybe I was right in the first place; there is only one reason. And it ain’t mud pies.
“You will do foolish things,” said the great writer Colette, “but do them with enthusiasm!” And that, my darlings, I have done!
So put your feet up, relax, and let me take you on one woman’s journey through the beguiling, bewildering wilderness of romantic encounters, replete with puppy love, Latin love, smoldering lust, star-dust, obsession, high comedy, high camp, and all manner of peccadilloes and misadventures. A rollicking, madcap ride through the wide-open countryside of love.
Just watch out for land mines.
