Her career was tottering, and she was the failed superstar, the union of the divine and the profane.
She had committed suicide only nine months earlier, on August 5, 1962. “I want to be like Marilyn Monroe.” This was before Marilyn became the legend, before she entered the realm of myth. I pronounced the words clearly with a downbeat. Andy Warhol had asked me to star in his first movie and be his first superstar. “I want to make a movie of you sleeping.” “Yes! I do!” Snuggling close, I pressed up against him like a cat. Andy talked, as he often did, about making a movie, what he wanted to do, the kind of movie. At the crowded Old Lyme railroad station, we waited interminably for the delayed Boston–New York train.
We went back to New York early on Monday afternoon. That night, Andy got the idea for the movie Sleep. He was on amphetamines and had watched me sleep for eight hours. and sunlight came sharply into a corner of the room, heating it up to a tropical rain forest. The next time I woke and looked, Andy was in bed with his clothes on, his head sunk in the pillow, drowsily looking at me. It was not my problem that he wanted to look. I took a piss, stumbled back and gave his shoulder a squeeze, and dove back to sleep. In the bright morning, he was dressed, sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed, still staring at me. I woke two hours later and he wasn’t next to me. I kept my eyes shut, but knew he was still looking. I was wet from sweating in my sleep, so there was no thought of cuddling. “And take off your underwear.” His skin was very white and soft, and he had hairless, beautiful boy’s legs. Fifteen minutes later, I turned and he was looking at me with Bette Davis eyes. “What are you doing?” I had a rubber tongue.Īs it became lighter, I saw him more clearly. I woke after a while and he was still doing it.
I took another piss and went back to sleep. “What are you doing?” I was still drunk, and confused. I woke up two hours later, and Andy was still looking, his eyes open wide.
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