MR. PENTHOUSE & ME

By Leslie Jay Gould

  

I first met Bob Guccione in 1976 on the 21^st floor of the Penthouse offices at 909 Third Avenue.  He was wearing a light blue denim shirt unbuttoned just enough to show a bib of gold chains around his neck, a thick leather belt to hold up tight pants, and plain white patent leather boots with a side zipper and small heel that brought his height to over six feet. For the thirteen years I worked for him, his outfit barely changed, except to add a gold chain or two – a small gold penis and a large gold coin embossed with the face of Caligula, the eponymous film on which I was hired to work.

Bob rarely came to the office, preferring to conduct business at his house, which was known as The House, as opposed to The Mansion, what Playboy publishing rival Hugh Hefner called his residence/office.  At the time, Bob lived in Judy Garland’s former town house on 63^rd Street off Fifth Avenue.  He had five Rhodesian Ridgebacks.  These South African dogs used to hunt lions thought it was mealtime whenever they saw me.  The other pets in the house were Penthouse Pets – the human centerfolds who graced the magazine’s pages.  Also living in The House were a butler, a cook and Bob’s girlfriend, Kathy Keeton, who he married years later in a private church ceremony.  Kathy was the publisher of VIVA, a beautifully designed woman’s magazine that Bob created as a female version Penthouse.  The only remarkable feature about the house was the front room which had been Garland’s salon and housed her gold baby grand piano.  Bob took the piano with him when he moved four blocks north to a double townhouse with an indoor pool.   

The mid-seventies was the peak of the sexual revolution.  Penthouse, with its artfully photographed nude women, reflected that sexual freedom.  Its circulation was in the millions and sold more copies on the newsstand then the more established Playboy. The magazine’s pictures reflected Bob’s love of art and looked like impressionist paintings.  Before starting the magazine, he had been a struggling artist living abroad.  In England, he had been a cartoonist and managed a dry cleaning store where he introduced one-day service. Profits in the store increased dramatically.

It was a combination of the magazine’s success and Bob’s entrepreneurial savvy that led him to enter the movie business.  His idea was to create a new film genre marrying mainstream moviemaking with erotica.  He chose the story of the Roman Emperor Caligula, depicting the debauchery and immorality of the time, as the first film production for the newly formed division, Penthouse Films International.  Gore Vidal agreed to write a screenplay with his name being part of the title -- “Gore Vidal’s Caligula.”  It starred Peter O’Toole, Malcolm McDowell, Sir John Gielgud and Helen Mirren, all of whom got naked in the name of art.

My diversified film industry background, with stints in various departments of Columbia Pictures as well as for the film producer/director Otto Preminger, made me an ideal candidate for the job of assistant to the executive producer, Jack Silverman. Since he spent most of his time on the set at Cincetta Studios in Rome, Italy, I became the New York point person for the film, attending weekly meetings with Bob and another film department executive at The House.

At the end of our first meeting, Bob called me “Babe.”  “Okay, Babe,” he said when I reiterated the information I’d pass on to Jack in Italy.  Although I would have preferred being called by my name, part of me liked this familiarity.  It made me feel like I was part of Bob’s inner circle. I also thought it indicated approval of the job I was doing.  He could have spoken with Jack on the phone, but chose instead to communicate through me.

When the second and third meetings ended with “Okay, Babe,” I thought he doesn’t know my name.  My confidence ebbed and I was angry.  In a complete turn around, the “Babe” moniker was no longer appealing. I smiled sweetly trying to hide my annoyance and discomfort with the meaningless nickname, but inwardly I was screaming I’m not your Babe, and I’m not a Penthouse Pet, so just cool it with the term of endearment.

“You don’t tell Bob Guccione what to do,” I had had heard someone say at the office.   I could not continue to work for Bob if he did not call me by my name.  Fearful that my resentment would become evident, I decided to change the situation.

I never formulated what I would say, but thought about the scenario. I couldn’t put Bob on the defensive.  If I angered him it could mean the end of a job I liked and needed or banishment from meetings at The House, an event that people in the office envied.  Also, my hope for advancement would end.

Predictably, Bob concluded the next meeting with “Okay, Babe.”

“Bob, can I speak with you a minute in private?” I asked in a soft voice.  I didn’t want to embarrass him in front of the other producer.  He walked to the side of the room and I followed.  I took a breath.  “Bob, I know you probably forgot my name – that’s why you call me Babe.  But I want you to know that my name is Leslie, so would you please try to remember and call me Leslie.”  His blue eyes were like ice as they fixed on mine.  It felt like a minute, but was probably a few seconds, when he said, “Okay…...Babe.”  Except, he was smiling, and I smiled at his sense of humor.  And, he never called me Babe again. 

The movie, mired in controversy and scandal from the first day of shooting, took four years to reach the screen. This is when Jack left the company to return to advertising.  I could have joined him in his new agency, but chose to remain at Penthouse.  I now reported directly to Bob.  I had wanted to work in movie publicity and Bob gave me that opportunity by naming me Director of Publicity and Promotion for Penthouse Films International.  It was a brilliant move, have me, the antithesis of the Penthouse image with little make up, turtle neck sweaters, loose slacks and clunky-heeled shoes, be the public face of a movie that was universally called “disgusting and pornographic.” People flocked to see it in record numbers.

I was the first employee who wasn’t a Pet to travel with Bob.  When I went with him and Annika, one of the Penthouse Pet centerfold’s who was in the film, and Del, the retired cop bodyguard, to Washington to publicize the movie, a reporter from The Washington Post commented on Bob’s entourage and “the woman in sensible shoes.” 

My tailored clothes were a trademark, but the truth is I couldn’t wear anything showing even a hint of cleavage.  This set me apart from other women working in the company.  Kathy set the standard for dress, occasionally wearing a gold lame halter top to the office.

Four years earlier, in 1972, I was diagnosed with breast cancer and had a radical mastectomy that left me with half a chest.  Now I was working in a company that revered perfect breasts and flawless bodies.  The country was still basking in the sexual revolution, and I dressed like I was living in the Victorian era.  Wearing conservative clothing was my way of protecting my secret.  I focused on working hard and not making close friends because then I’d have to tell.  This was how I survived in a sea of the best bosoms in America.

Bob, Dell and I also went to Japan when the film opened in Tokyo. The Japanese distributors wanted me to travel in economy with the Japanese media.  When I told Bob, he said, “Tell them I won’t go unless you travel in first class.”  As part of the PR campaign, they wanted Annika and Lori, the other Pet in the movie, to do topless lesbian photo shoots.  When Bob finally told Annika what was expected of her, she refused to go on the trip. He never told Lori. At our first meeting with the Japanese, sitting in the lobby of the Imperial Hotel in Tokyo, I feebly explained, “Annika is sick and she couldn’t come with us.  But, we did bring Lori.”  They responded by telling us they wanted topless photos of her.”  Bob agreed on behalf of Lori, but she said “No.”  Dell, acting as Bob’s intermediary, told me, “Bob wants you to talk to Lori and convince her to pose for the pictures.” 

“I can’t do that.  She won’t listen to me.  Bob has to speak to her,” I said.

“Lori is angry right now. Bob thinks Lori will listen to you.” 

It was one thing to work for a pornographer, it was another to be one.  Yet, I thought if I failed, the Japanese would send us back to NY.  I would be blamed, Bob would lose face.  I might even lose my job.  And, I would lose the opportunity to see Japan.  Several sightseeing trips had been planned including a ride on the bullet train for a two-day stay in Kyoto.

“Why don’t you want to do the photos?” I asked Lori when I went to her room.

“I’m concentrating on my singing career and Las Vegas act.”  She also confided aspects of her life I didn’t know about.  I listened as she talked and talked and talked and then talked some more.  “I’m trying to change,” she concluded.  I felt such compassion for this woman, yet I could not help her.

“Lori, anyone who knows you can buy a copy of Penthouse and see you without clothing.  They can go to the movies and see you in ‘Caligula.’ I know you’re angry with Bob now, but you have a long relationship with him.  It goes back years to almost the beginning of the magazine.  You’re family, and that bond will always be there.”

I was the therapist and she was the patient, but at the end of our time together Lori agreed to take off her top for Japanese photographers.  I called Bob in his room.  “Bob, Lori said she’ll do the photos.”

I went back to my room and sat on the edge of the bed staring in disbelief at the blank space where the wall and floor meet.   I had done what Bob Guccione could not.  I saved our stay in Japan, but at what cost?  I now understood why Bob took 45-minute showers every morning.

During a newspaper interview with Bob, the reporter asked, “What do you want for your children.”

“I want my son, Tony, who graduated Cum Laude from Harvard, to be President of the United States,” he replied.  I was amazed at this answer and thought he was mocking the reporter.   

“Why did you say that about Tony?,” I asked in the limo as we traveled to the next appointment. “This will probably end up appearing in English in a paper back home.”

“Why not?  JFK’s father had mob connections.  All I do is own Penthouse magazine.” 

After Bob bought his country home in Staatsburg, in Dutchess County, New York, I was invited for a weekend, His chauffeur, Guy, drove Bob, Kathy, me and one of his assistants, Jane, to the country in the tan stretch limo with the Penthouse key logo on the doors that Bob used for transportation.  On Saturday, Bob wanted to buy a new pair of sneakers.  As Bob, Jane and I piled into the back of the limo, I had images of the three of us strolling through the charming historic town of nearby Rhinebeck, meandering in and out of shops until we came to the local shoe store where Bob would make his purchase. 

When we arrived at a nondescript mall, I whispered to Guy, “This isn’t Rhinebeck. What are we doing here?”

“Mr. Guccione buys his sneakers at K-Mart,” Guy answered. 

When we entered the store, Bob walked directly to the sneaker table and easily made his selection.  At the time I had never been in K-Mart and was curious about the merchandise.  Bob saw me eyeing a pair of sandals and said he’d buy them for me.  I didn’t know how to refuse this offer so I came home from the weekend with new shoes I didn’t want and never wore.

After “Caliugla” was released, I continued working at the company publicizing the TV show, OMNI: The New Frontier, based on the science magazine OMNI, and then Penthouse magazine.  

The first big story I worked on was the publication of nude photos of Vanessa Williams that resulted in her losing her Miss America crown.  She threatened to sue, but never did.  Bob said, “She’ll go on to become the most famous and successful Miss America of all time.”  He was right.

For the twenty fifth anniversary of the magazine, Bob appeared on the Arsenio Hall Show.  When I met Bob at The House, he was carrying a round nylon duffel bag, the kind you get as a give-a-way for joining Channel 13.  Bob, along with Dell for security, got in the tan limo. “Where’s your luggage?” I asked. 

“This is it,” he replied.

“No, seriously…”

“This is it,” he repeated. 

“But, Bob, what are you going to wear tomorrow night on the show.” 

“What I’m wearing now.”  He was all in blue with jeans, a jean jacket, denim shirt opened almost to the waist, and an abundance of gold jewelry around his neck.

“Don’t you think you should wear a sports jacket? It’s network television. We can go shopping on Rodeo Drive tomorrow,” I said.

“No.  People expect me to look a certain way.  It’s part of my image.”

In 1988 Bob learned my secret.  I had planned on telling Bob and Kathy together that I’d be out of the office for one short surgery and then, after a second, for about two months.  In order to keep it private, I scheduled the meeting through Kathy.  “What is it about,” she asked. I told her I had had a mastectomy and was getting reconstructive surgery.

I was never nervous meeting with Bob, until now.  I walked into the Georgian Room, the wood paneled room he had imported from England that served as an office, and took my usual seat to his left at the mahogany table used for meetings.  Kathy had told him the purpose of the meeting.  I wanted him to save me from having to tell my story.  I was waiting to hear the words, “I know why you’re here.  Take as much time as you need,” but he was silent.  At that moment I thought he was cruel.

“In 1972, I had a radical mastectomy,” I began.  “My body was scarred so badly I never thought I’d be able to get reconstructive surgery.”  I thought about a Penthouse Pet meeting him for the first time.  I have no idea what those encounters were like, but I imagined he would ask the girl to disrobe as he viewed her body. As I spoke, it felt like I was undressing in front of him, except I was wearing all my clothes. The difference between me and a future centerfold was that I wanted to keep my clothes on.

Bob was silent.  He looked at me, no emotion in his eyes.  He wasn’t even doodling, his usual activity during meetings, although he had a pad and pencil in front of him.  The quiet in the room was deadly so I started talking.  “The doctor who is performing the surgery is Dr. William Shaw who was featured on the OMNI TV show,” I continued.  “Remember the segment about a young man who had neurofibromatosis – elephant man disease?  Dr. Shaw was the person who restored his face to near normal.”  Still, no reaction from Bob.  His silence meant that I’d have to tell him about the surgery.  I also knew that like a voyeur looking at pictures of naked women in Penthouse, he’d love hearing all the details.  “My first surgery will insert an expander in my chest cavity to stretch the skin so it can hold the new breast,” I said.  “Then after a few weeks I’ll have another operation called the gluteal flap that will transfer tissue, nerves and fat from my buttocks to my chest.  When I return to my room I will have to lie still for at least 24 hours to make sure the blood is flowing freely from the nerves of my butt to the nerves in my chest.  This is still a new procedure that not many doctors do.  I’ve  already had my pre-operation pictures taken,” I said.  Then, he spoke.  “I’d like to see these photographs that will help guide your surgeon during the operation.”      

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