
The Truth About Hollywood Sex Traps—Marianne Gaba
I suppose I was just one of an endless stream of star-struck teenagers. I certainly never dreamed what I was letting myself, in for when, trembling with excitement, I got ready for the interview.
It would mean so much if I got the part. It was one of the leads in a teenage movie, a very sexy girl—the type of role that so often leads to stardom. A friend advised me that I’d stand a much better chance if I dressed as much as possible like the character in the picture and left as little as possible to the producer’s imagination.
With high hopes, that’s just what I did. My own skirt wasn’t tight fitting enough, so I borrowed one a size smaller from my roommate. I also borrowed a waist cincher, which pushed me up a lot, and I wore my own sweater tautly pulled in. I could barely walk when I finished, so I knew I didn’t have to worry too much about my qualifications being overlooked.
I found the producer quite businesslike. He looked me over very appraisingly and said, “Uh hmm. Uh hmm. Okay, sit down. Your part begins halfway down the page. Would you read it, please?”
I didn’t get very far when he cut. me off.
“Thank you, Miss Gaba,” he said. “An interesting reading. You’ll hear from me soon.”
A week later I received a phone call instructing me to report back to his office. I practically held my breath all the way. He asked me for another reading, then motioned me to sit down in the easy chair next to his desk.
“Marianne—if I may call you Marianne—I think you may be very well suited for this part,” he smiled.
It was all I could do to keep from shouting with joy.
He leaned back to lower the Venetian blinds, opened his bottom desk drawer, and took out a bottle of whiskey. He offered it to me.
“Care for a drink?” he asked.
“No thanks. I don’t drink.”
“Very smart girl,” he said. “Mind if I have one?”
“Of course not.”
He drank in big fast gulps, and licked his mouth. I was waiting for him to continue, and make it official by telling me when to report. But all he did was sit and stare at me. I was growing uncomfortable, but I decided he was still trying to visualize me in the part. I felt a great sense of relief when he finally did speak again and confirmed that theory.
“Yes,” he mused, “I think you could do the part very adequately.”
“Oh thank you,” I cried out. “Thank you very much.”
“There’s only one thing that concerns me,” he went on as if I hadn’t said anything. “If you got the part, you understand, you’d be on the set every day—”
“That would be fine,” I interrupted enthusiastically. “I’d be happy to do whatever the part required.”
Judging from the expression on his face, I must have said the secret word.
“I’m going to be very frank with you,” he picked up with a thin smile. “I think it’s only fair to tell you that I find myself so attracted to you that if I saw you around the set every day I’m not sure I could refrain from making a pass at you. And you wouldn’t like that, would you? Or would you?”
I was so startled that at first I couldn’t speak. Not only was he one of Hollywood’s most respected producers, but he was also married and a father. He went about it in such a businesslike manner that it took me a minute before I fully realized that I was being cold-bloodedly propositioned.
“I don’t think I’m right for the part,” I finally managed to say. I thought my legs would buckle as I ran from the office.
It was a terribly shattering and disillusioning experience. In my wide-eyed innocence, I’d thought I was going to a reputable business office. Instead I’d walked into a sex trap! I had to face it honestly—and it wasn’t pleasant. I’d often heard people say that was the only way to get anyplace in Hollywood, but I’d never taken it seriously. I always dismissed it as sour grapes. But now I was not so sure.

Her parents’ warning
If that was what I’d be up against every time I tried for a part, there seemed little point in staying in Hollywood. I might as well return to Chicago. I thought of how naive I’d been when I’d so confidently assured my folks that they wouldn’t have to worry about me. The funny thing was that they really weren’t worried. They just told me to use the same good judgment I’d used as a model in Chicago. They did warn me to be careful not to let temptation impair that judgment, and the last thing my father said before I boarded the plane to compete as Miss Illinois in the Miss Universe contest at Long Beach was:
“Any time you go out with someone, be sure to mention that your dad is a rugged outdoor man who has rifles and guns, and that he could fly out there in a jet in just a few hours.”
Once in Hollywood, I corresponded regularly with my mother, and she ended every letter with the same counsel.
“Be a good girl, Marianne,” she wrote without fail. “Go to church and take care of yourself.”
Well, after a week of soul searching, I decided that perhaps I’d permitted myself to become more troubled than the facts justified. After all, I still was a good girl, and I had taken care of myself. Perhaps I’d used poor judgment in dressing like a sexpot for the interview—but on the other hand I’d used good judgment by getting out of the producer’s office while the getting was good. I decided that it was childish to pretend that the incident was not partly my own fault. The next time I’d know better. I’d never go to another interview costumed like a teenage Mae West.
I gradually convinced myself that it didn’t make sense to judge all producers by the one who had interviewed me. In that respect my second thoughts were to prove correct. Because I was to discover that producers were no different from so many other men in Hollywood—whether they were famous orchestra leaders or movie stars. Hollywood sex traps, I discovered, are where you find them—in a crowded restaurant, at a party, in a car or at someone’s apartment.
All this was quite unnerving, but it still didn’t necessarily prove that a girl who was nice couldn’t make the grade. Certainly there was temptation. But there was temptation in Chicago, too. I had to recognize that as awful as the producer’s behavior had been, he still hadn’t tried to make me do anything against my will. As long as I had the power of decision why shouldn’t I keep on trying?
Actually I should have realized from the way we were protected during the Miss Universe Contest how many pitfalls faced a pretty teenager in Hollywood. At the time I thought all their precautions were ridiculous. During our two and a half weeks at the Lafayette Hotel in Long Beach we not only were constantly accompanied by chaperones, but guarded by police. We couldn’t even go to the powder room or get a newspaper unless a chaperone was along. We weren’t even allowed to receive phone calls, and our telegrams were screened. Our messages and telegrams were turned over to us only after the contest.
I moved in with an aunt and uncle in West Hollywood and proceeded to check those messages out. I soon understood why they had taken such elaborate precautions. Out of the hundreds of phone calls only five turned out to be legitimate. All the others were thinly disguised ruses of Hollywood wolves on the make.
Thinking back, I realized I should have been prepared for what followed, and that made me feel a little better. Even so, I still was stunned every time I stumbled into another Hollywood sex trap. It didn’t matter whether they were teenage idols or producers. They all had more or less the same thing on their minds.
In fact, one of the things that helped remove the sour taste resulting from some of my early experiences was my friendship with one of Hollywood’s most popular young stars. Going out with him gave me such a lift. It was so nice not having to be on the defensive for being nice.
Once after I’d flown to Chicago for a visit with my folks, he met me at the airport on my return and invited me to dinner that night. I had the feeling that something was troubling him. I was right. He had done a lot of thinking during my absence.
“Marianne,” he spoke slowly and I could see that it was painful for him, “there are two kinds of girls. There’s your kind and there’s the other kind. You know how much I like and respect you. You’re the type a fellow isn’t ashamed to be seen with. Then there’s the other kind you don’t like to be seen with. You know what I mean—the kind that wants to have a good time as much as a fellow does. What I’m trying to say is that if we still went together you’d have to go all the way, and I know you’re not that kind of girl. It’s hard to explain, but do you understand, Marianne?”
Naturally I understood. I don’t know how he could have made it plainer. He was going through a stage that I imagine every boy his age does—of finding out about sex. At first I was shocked and hurt, but I was grateful that he still had too good an opinion of me to think of me as the kind of girl he could experiment with. At least he was forthright about it, and didn’t try to set any sex traps.
I wish I could say as much for an older Hollywood idol who stars on one of television’s most popular cowboy series.
Disillusioned again
I’d never have suspected him of the slightest ulterior motive. We met when two other Miss Universe contestants and I posed with him for publicity pictures. Under the circumstances, I thought it was perfectly all right to let him know where I was staying, and he gave me no reason to regret that decision. One week end he dropped by when my dad flew in for a visit. My dad thought a great deal of him.
It was entirely by coincidence that I saw our cowboy hero again a year later in Chicago. I’d gone home to take part in a July 4th parade, and he happened to be in Chicago at the same time. My father had told him to phone anytime he was in town. To his great surprise, I answered the phone when he called. I invited him over for dinner, and it was a lovely evening. He was warm and friendly, down to earth and a perfect gentleman.
As it turned out, both of us were planning to return to Hollywood the following day, although he had to leave on a later plane. He wondered if I’d like to go out when we got back, and we made a date right in front of my folks. He had made a marvelous impression on them—and on me. After he left, my dad nodded vigorous agreement as my mother said:
“He’s such a nice young man. You can’t realize what a comfort it is to us to realize you know people like him in Hollywood.”
Back in Hollywood he didn’t phone me until 11:00 the following night.
“How would you like to come to my place and have dinner?” he suggested.
Had it not been so late I don’t think I would have begged off.
“Don’t worry about that, Marianne,” he urged me. “Why don’t you just take a cab both ways and charge it to me?”
“No,” I insisted, “I still wouldn’t feel comfortable.”
He wasn’t easily discouraged.
“All right then,” he said, “I’ve got a better idea. Why not have dinner and stay overnight? It’s very safe. There’s a separate bedroom, and I’d give you the key.”
“Well, would anyone else be there?”
“No,” he admitted frankly, “the maid doesn’t stay. It would be just you and me.”
Bang went another illusion! By then he’d certainly made his less than honorable intentions clear enough, and if I had walked into his sex trap I would have had no one to blame but myself. I just let him know that wasn’t my cup of tea.
But curiously, I don’t feel bitter. As long as they don’t use force, I never really get too angry. Practically every fellow you date in Hollywood somehow gets to the subject of sex. They act as if there would be something wrong with them if they didn’t at least try.
Sometimes I even feel a little sorry for them. I particularly have in mind a recent date when a boy who was getting very lovey-dovey in the car suggested that we go to his apartment. I decided to teach him a lesson.
“Oh no, I couldn’t do that,” I whispered, “but what about going to my apartment?”
I almost burst out laughing watching him try to conceal his excitement. He couldn’t believe his luck! What he didn’t know, of course, was that my roommate, Connie Stevens, wasn’t feeling well, and I knew she’d be home.
All the way to my place, he kept telling me how much he really liked me, how wonderful and mature I was. When we parked, he jumped out of the car, ran around and opened the door for me.
He expressed surprise that the lights were on in the apartment.
“Oh, I forgot to turn them off when I left,” I said.
As soon as we went into the living room, he sank down on the couch, took my hand, and tried to pull me alongside him.
“I’d love some coffee,” I said, gently freeing my hand, “wouldn’t you?”
“Not really,” he replied, “but if you’re going to have some, I suppose I might as well join you.”
I went into the kitchen, put some coffee on, and slipped into Connie’s bedroom.
“Don’t make a sound,” I whispered after explaining what was going on, “but be sure to come out in a few minutes.”
I returned to the living room and sat next to my date.
“Would you like some cookies while the coffee is getting ready?” I asked.
He shook his head and put his arm around me. I sat up and said I felt like having a cigarette.
“You can smoke later,” he breathed as he kissed me on the cheek.
He got more affectionate by the second. His kisses became more ardent, and I was beginning to get alarmed. Just then there was a loud squeaking noise. The bedroom door opened, and in walked Connie!
My date jumped bolt upright!
“Why, Connie!” I feigned surprise. “What are you doing home?”
“I wasn’t feeling well,” she covered a yawn, “so I decided I’d stay home. I’m not breaking in on anything, am I?”
“Of course not,” my date knew I had to be polite, “why don’t you have a cup of coffee with us?”
“Well, I’m so tired. . . .”
My date’s face brightened.
“But maybe I will have just one before I go back to bed.”
She had one and then another. My date kept saying, “Well, it’s getting kind of late. I’ll have to be going pretty soon.”
Connie was not about to take the hint. Finally at 1:30 her dad, musician Teddy Stevens, came home. My date was livid. He mumbled the good-byes of a foiled romeo and stalked out.
I’m afraid I lose more boyfriends that way.
Temptations and good judgment
For sheer audacity, I never had an experience to compare with a recently divorced orchestra leader who didn’t even make a pretense of bothering with the usual softening-up preliminaries. He simply called me up, told me who he was, and said, “I saw your picture in a producer’s office yesterday. You’re very attractive, and I’d like to meet you tonight.”
“I don’t even know you!” I exclaimed.
“You may not know me,” he laughed, “but you’ve heard of me.”
He sounded rather nice even if he was unusually forthright, and I knew from his own pictures that he was quite handsome.
“Besides,” I said, “I already have plans or this evening. However if you’re that insistent on meeting me, I suppose I could say hello at lunch.”
I felt there couldn’t be much danger in broad daylight. If he really turned out to be nice, there would be nothing wrong in going out with him. So I agreed to have lunch with him at the Beverly Gourmet.
The head waiter led me to his table. He stood up, threw out his arms as if we were old and warm friends, and puckered his lips as though he really expected to kiss me! I did my best to ignore his fantastically effusive greeting, and sat down. The moment! did, he grabbed my hand and said, “You’re just as charming as I knew you’d be. I have a nice evening all planned.”
He didn’t even make any small talk. I just sat there astonished as he went on.
“Not very often,” he assured me, patting my captive hand, “will you have the chance to be loved by someone like me. I’m very dynamic. When I work, I work very hard. When I sing, I sing all the way. When I love, I love all the way.”
“Well, you just happen to have the wrong girl,” I got up to leave, but he caught my hand again.
“Anytime I date a girl,” he serenely ignored my indignation, “we have a thorough understanding. I have no time to waste with any girl who’s coy. I’m very nice to people who are very nice to me.”
It was so incredible I almost laughed.
“Do you really have many girls fall for that line?” I gasped.
“It’s not a line,” he said earnestly. “Very few girls pass up such an opportunity. This is my philosophy of life. And the sooner you find out about this way of living, the happier you will be.”
His brashness was beyond imagination. As I stomped out of the restaurant, he blandly uttered these parting words, “Don’t forget. Call me when you decide.”
No wonder, with creatures like that crawling out of the woodwork, you keep wondering if a good girl can make good.
Not that I think sex is anything sordid or shameful. It’s just that there is a right time and place for it. For me, marriage is the only right time. In my opinion to make sex beautiful you definitely have to be in love with someone and married to him.
So many Hollywood men have tried to shame me into submitting to their desires. “You’re inhibited,” they ridicule. “You should grow up and act like a woman. You’re not enjoying life.”
I happen to think they’re the ones who really aren’t enjoying life. I know there are girls who don’t agree with me.
“Sure,” they say, “you don’t have to be loose. But when it’s to your advantage . . . well, there’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
Perhaps not for them. I know I’d die with shame.
I also have met quite a few girls who would give anything if they had not made the mistake of such thinking.
“Don’t let anyone kid you,” these girls tell me, “all you get that way is grief and regret. Once you do it, word gets around, and everybody expects you to be easy. There’s no longer any question of saying no.”
Fortunately, with study, hard work and my self respect intact, I’ve been able to make progress. And without sacrificing my principles or bringing shame to myself and my family. Nice girls can get jobs. I’ve done a lot of work in television and lately I’ve had more luck in pictures. So I’ve proved to my own satisfaction that a girl doesn’t have to turn her back on her moral values unless she wants to.
I know that in the long run I’ll be a lot happier than girls who take the Hollywood shortcuts. Those shortcuts are mined with sex traps and tragedy.
THE END
—By Marianne Gaba as told to William Tusher
It is a quote. MODERN SCREEN MAGAZINE DECEMBER 1959