The Orson Welles Diaries VII

January 27th, 1972.

I’m staying with Peter Bogdanovich and his delightful mistress, Cybil Shepherd. Yesterday evening, whilst dining on a superb plate of grouse, I felt a foot under the dinner table pawing up my leg and making an inexorable motion towards my crotch. Sitting opposite the delightful couple I was unsure as to whom the foot belonged to. Naturally I hoped it was Cybil and she was merely mischievously flirting with me but from the look of lust in his eyes, I became convinced that it was Peter currently teasing my scrotum with his big toe.

After a couple of minutes of uninvited but not entirely unpleasant nut nuzzling, I decided to take a sly peek under the table in order to fathom exactly who was probing my generous plums, when to my horror, I discovered the actor Dennis Hopper, clearly inebriated and lying on his back with his right bare foot undulating up and down my undercarriage.

When I questioned Peter as to how Hopper had come to be under table, he explained that Dennis had attended his New Years Eve party and knowing the man usually took around a month to recover from whatever grotesque cocktail of liquor and narcotics he was currently consuming, they simply left him under the table until he was conscious enough to leave.

Amused by this tale I laughed and returned to the Grouse but suddenly, I was struck by a notion. If Hopper had been there for 27 days, perhaps it wasn’t Cybil administering fellatio to me under the table during breakfast last Thursday.

I had three doughnuts and five scoops of butterscotch ice-cream after dinner, followed by dessert.