Free American Prince by Tony Curtis Page A

which I could slick down on the sides and leave curly on top. I loved the way people looked at me. Underneath all that hair was a good-looking face. I’ve always been a little ashamed of acknowledging that I was handsome, but the truth is that I took real pleasure in looking good. I always kept that feeling inside me because I was afraid of the Schwartz curse, afraid something bad would happen to snatch that good feeling away.
    When I was fifteen, a woman in the neighborhood called me over and asked if I could give her a hand lifting something in her apartment. As soon as I got inside the door she closed it, grabbed me, and kissed me so hard that my mouth started to bleed. She rubbed her body against me. After a few minutes I found myself back outside her building, with the feeling of her lips on my mouth, and her urgency, and at the same time feeling violated. I walked the half block to my house, went upstairs, and washed my face. I didn’t know what to think.
    It was an era when nobody wanted to stand out, to be unusual. If you were good-looking, you were likely to be called a homosexual, a fairy. But once I found out the effect I could have on girls, I didn’t give a shit what anybody called me. Before puberty, I had no interest in girls, like most kids my age. Now that I was fifteen, I was starting to notice the way the wind would blow girls’ summer dresses against their bodies, and how great their legs and breasts looked.
    When I first started to go out with girls I quickly fell for them, but they didn’t seem to care about me the same way. I could tell from their behavior that I didn’t mean anything to them. The lesson I took from this was simple: be careful; protect yourself. As a result, I was hesitant to enter into any relationships.
    I was fifteen when I met Alicia Allen, a beautiful girl with a love of acting that made us instant companions. I had never told anybody but Alicia that I wanted to be in pictures, because I was sure they’d have laughed me out of the room. I hadn’t done any acting yet, but I was interested in giving it a try.
    So I auditioned at the 92nd Street YMHA and played the lighthouse keeper’s son in the play
Thunder Rock.
Early in the play I had to walk through a scene and then come back in and speak my one line. It was actually just one word: “Yes.” I also had a part in another play at the 92nd Street Y, a Clifford Odets play. I can still remember that line too. I said, “They found Lefty in a car barn with a bullet in his head.”
    Having the name Schwartz helped me get parts in YMHA plays. What an irony. The truth was that I didn’t feel Jewish in any way. As a kid all it meant to me was being taunted, being bullied, and not being treated as an equal.
    One day Alicia said to me, “What are you doing Saturday? I’m going to a party. Want to come?”
    “Sure.”
    Saturday I called Alicia on the phone and told her, “I’ll be there at six to pick you up.” I got dressed in my coolest clothes. I wore a dark blue jacket with gray slacks, with loafers and a tie. My father had fixed the jacket, and it looked really spiffy.
    I went downtown to Twelfth Street where Alicia lived. She was older than I was, and she had her own place. From there we took a cab to a private residence in the theater district over on the West Side. It was an old mansion. I had never been inside anything like it. We walked through the gate, in the front door, and went upstairs. Alicia introduced me to lots of people, and then, before I knew it, she was introducing me to Ethel Merman. I couldn’t believe it, and I’m sure I looked as starstruck as I felt. But Ethel Merman was very gracious, and she put me at ease. “Hi, kid. Oh, what a nice-looking guy you are.”
    I loved being at this party with all these nicely dressed people, and I was pleased with the way I was able to mingle. I spoke well. I watched my language. We had a really nice evening, and Alicia was pretty happy with me for holding my own