My Story

32 bosom tempest

The Studio was always thinking up ways for me to get more publicity. One of the ways they thought up was for me to lead the parade in Atlantic City of the Miss America contest bathing beauties. I wasn’t to compete but to function as some sort of an official.

Everything went well until the U.S. Armed Forces stepped in. The Armed Forces also run a publicity department. A publicity officer wanted to know if I would like to help the Armed Forces in their campaign to recruit Wacs, Waves, and Spars to serve Uncle Sam.

I said I would love to do that.

The next day a Publicity Photograph was arranged. I stood surrounded by a Wac, Wave, and Spar. They were good-looking girls, and they were dressed in uniforms. I, on the other hand, not being in any military service, couldn’t very well wear a uniform. I wore one of my regular afternoon dresses. Joe hadn’t yet won his argument about the neckline.

It was an entirely decent dress. You could ride in a street car in it without disturbing the passengers.

But there was one bright-minded photographer who figured he would get a more striking picture if he photographed me shooting down. I didn’t notice him pointing his camera from the balcony a few feet above me. I posed for the camera in front of us.

The next day brought the scandal. The “shooting down” photograph had been condemned by some army general. He said it would be bad for the Armed Services for parents to think their daughters might be subjected to the influences of somebody like me—who showed her bosom in public.

I thought this a little mean. I hadn’t meant to show my bosom, and I hadn’t been aware of the camera that was peeping down under my bodice.

Of course nobody would believe me.

Earl Wilson, who writes about bosoms in the New York Post interviewed me over the telephone.

“Come now, Marilyn,” he said, “didn’t you lean forward for that shot?”

I said I hadn’t. It was the photographer who had leaned downward.

I felt silly about the whole thing. It was surprising that a woman’s bosom, slightly revealed, could become a matter of national concern. You would think that all the other women kept their bosoms in a vault.

I didn’t mind the publicity too much although I felt I had outgrown the cheesecake phase of my movie career. I was hoping now that some of my other talents might be recognized.

The bad thing about cheesecake publicity is the letters you get from cranks. They are often frightening.

The letter writer cuts out just the bosom of your photograph and writes dirty words across it and mails it to you—without his signature. Or maybe her signature. And there are worse insults and depravities thrown at you by Mr. and Mrs. Anonymous.