This August will mark the 40th anniversary of the mass murders committed by Charles Manson and his brainwashed executioners. In my capacity as an investigative satirist, I researched the case before beginning to work on a fantasy about what occurred behind the scenes. The only connection Doris Day could possibly have had with Manson was that her son, record producer Terry Melcher, had been interested in Manson’s music, but then changed his mind. But former FBI agent William Turner showed me his report delineating her shady side, epitomized by large loans from the Teamsters Union Pension Fund.
I realized that this could be the focal point of my satire — an imaginary, torrid affair between Charlie Manson and Doris Day. It would serve as perfect symbolism for the coming together of the image and the underbelly of Hollywood. Just for the hell of it, I wrote to Manson and asked if he ever had sex with Doris Day. “Yes,” he answered, “and I also fucked Rin Tin Tin and the Virgin Mary.” Well, that was good enough for me. Charlie had told me that he never lied.
However, the deeper I got sucked into his story, the more serious it became. Los Angeles police had discovered, seized, and sold porn films and videos that were stored in Sharon Tate’s loft, including a sexual encounter between one of the killers and one of the victims — proof that they were not chosen at random. Rather, the Manson “family” had acted as a hit squad for organized crime figures who had befriended Manson in prison and now sought revenge for a drug deal gone bad.
Thus I had to write about reality instead of satirizing it, and so the following scene — intertwined with facts — has never before been published anywhere.
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Charles Manson loved young pussy, especially when a new find was the daughter of a famous person. Ed Sanders reported in The Family that Charlie had slept with Dean Martin’s daughter. Yet his greatest triumph was the night he reversed that pattern and found himself in bed with Terry Melcher’s mother, actress Doris Day. Life is beyond metaphor. If one wished merely to indulge in surface incongruity for its own sake, one could report instead that Jack Ryan, creator of the Barbie doll, gave necrophilia parties. One could further assert, in order to establish credibility, that corpses for such parties were rented from a specific mortuary in Beverly Hills. Finally, one could reveal the source of this information as the Chatty Cathy doll.
It was in the spring of 1968, at a Hollywood recoding studio, that Charlie first met Doris Day. He offered her a Zuzu, the family’s generic term for candy, and she in turn offered him some bubble gum. They had other things in common. She was a Christian Scientist, and he considered all diseases to be psychosomatic. She was an animal lover, and he had a vegetarian rap. He charmed her with his concept of a hunter who shoots a deer and then cries because his dog gets run over. He entertained her with his question of whether she had ever looked at her own asshole in the mirror. And he aroused her sympathy with an original song.
They ended up fucking on the set of The Doris Day Show. It isn’t that unusual for seduction to take place in such a show-biz environment. In fact, producer Martin Ransahoff fired director Sam Peckinpah for fucking Sharon Tate on the set of The Cincinnatti Kid.
Doris Day had an actual trailer at her studio, with a real lawn and trees, surrounded by a white picket fence. Inside her trailer, Charlie’s mind was blown by a cartoon on the wall showing one hungry buzzard saying to another, “Screw patience — let’s kill somebody.”
Somewhere during the preliminaries to their lovemaking, as they lay nude in her bed, Charlie started doing his old kissing-the-feet routine. And she reciprocated. Doris Day was kissing Charlie Manson’s feet! This fetish had always turned him on, although, because he had learned from childhood to accept his dominance by others as not having anything to do with him personally, this same awareness applied to his submission of others. Charlie simply did not take people kissing him on the feet personally.
But, for the first time, he began to lose his erection. He quickly tried to flash on a fantasy that would restore tumescence. Pick a fantasy, any fantasy. Without thinking about it, he mocked up an image of himself masturbating. And it worked. His unholy hard-on returned. All that was missing was a fanfare. Later, even while Doris was moaning in the midst of an overwhelming climax, Charlie was struck with the notion that his penis had finally turned into a Scientology E-Meter. As for Doris, her brief romance with Charlie was a pristine encounter compared with the state of her finances ….
This article originally appeared in the June 2009 issue of AVN Online. To subscribe, visit AVNMediaNetwork.com/subscribe.
