I Was Morgan Fairchild's Love Slave

By Stanley Harris

"I Was Morgan Fairchild's Love Slave" is a general audience comedy guaranteed to deliver laughs on nearly every page. The novel recounts the story of author Stanley Harris's trip to Southern California in 1971 where, while hitch-hiking from Santa Barbara to LA on highway 101, he gets a ride with the beautiful, sexy young actress Morgan Fairchild.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stanley Harris
• Release date: Dec 22, 2009
• ISBN: 9781458017628

Book preview

I Was Morgan Fairchild's Love Slave

Stanley Harris

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Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2009 Stanley Harris

ISBN: 0-9645281-0-X

LCN: 95-094008

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Dedicated to

Diana &

Jessica

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

In what is legally considered perceivable reality, this book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents, the home planet, all are either a product of the writer's imagination or stolen from another author who was also writing fictitiously. Names or physical descriptions in my book that may seem to relate to real people are used entirely for the purpose of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons - living, dead, or spirit - is entirely coincidental. As for the lady I kept hearing in my head who claimed to be someone named Morgan, I can give no explanation. However, I sure liked her. I thank her for her faith, and I wish she would come back.

License Note:

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Author’s Note

Long before this book was published, I gave copies of it to over thirty people of diverse economic, social, and educational backgrounds in order to get their reactions. Some knew me; some didn't. I could tell that most of the people who got my book were skeptical. Thought I couldn't write a book. Sometimes it seemed to me even that my book was nothing more than a pile of words. However, it was the overwhelmingly positive response by my once skeptical readers that gave me the confidence to push my book into the market place.

Many of my readers wondered if my book was based on a real experience. Legally, everything in this book is fiction. Any names I use in this book that could relate to living individuals are used only to serve the purpose of fiction. However, almost all of the events described in my book are based on actual experiences. I have witnesses and could prove it in court if I could afford to buy a court. Without a doubt, the emotional content in my book is a reality that all readers will experience.

Should anyone get the idea, after reading my book, that I actually did know the real life Morgan Fairchild, that is their choice. Maybe Morgan was abducted by aliens shortly after our encounter, and the aliens — jealous probably — removed all memory of me from Morgan's mind. Perhaps the actress Morgan Fairchild will read my book and get her memory of me back. Until that happens, this book remains a fiction, and the Morgan Fairchild character in the book is not the one that was abducted by the aliens. Could be Morgan never got over me and is afraid of the emotional trauma that meeting me again would cause her.

I'll get out of the reader's way in a second. My main hope for my book is that it will be an enjoyable, entertaining experience for anyone who reads it. Since the events related in this story occurred some time ago, I may not have nailed down all the physical details or time periods with absolute accuracy. Remember, however, that I claim this book to be fiction, so the physical details and time periods fit where I put them. Enjoy the book.

Stanley Harris

Chapter 1

In the Beginning

Call me Stanley. The core events related in this story, the days I lived in infamy with Morgan Fairchild, occurred from December the thirteenth to December the eighteenth of 1971. We were both twenty-one. The primary location was in Morgan Fairchild's home at the time, a few miles south of Santa Barbara, California, about one mile east of Highway One. In this story, I recount how I was abducted and held prisoner by Morgan Fairchild. This is the tale of how Morgan Fairchild used cunning and magic to reduce me to a toy, a piece of meat, a love slave used to satisfy any and all of Morgan's erotic fantasies. Morgan Fairchild once referred to me as her joy boy.

I could not previously relate this story to the public. I feared my wife would die of jealousy or murder me. My Catholic relatives in Oklahoma would have suffered grievous embarrassment. When I finally did reveal this story to my wife, twenty-three years after the fact, she didn't believe me. She claims that Morgan Fairchild wouldn't have gone out of her way to spit on a poor-born nobody like me—not when she was twenty-one, not when she was only three. My relatives recommend committing me to a proper institution. I took it they didn't mean Harvard. Despite my wife's and my relative's suspicions, this story is not a gimmick, a cheap ploy to get attention. Rather, this narrative is meant to heal, a catharsis in writing, a revelation.

My intention is not to embarrass Morgan Fairchild. I hope this disclosure will be as much a healing process for her as it is for me. Morgan was young and wild and filled with Hollywood craziness when we were together. I doubt she was any more or less wicked than other young starlets. In some ways, Morgan was ultimately more the victim. I escaped to a life of relative normalcy and happiness. Morgan will always feel a painful longing when she searches deep within herself and finds written on precious, hidden pages of her soul the life that she and I could have lived together. The life Morgan Fairchild cast aside for Rolls Royces, mansions, vacations on tropical islands, diamond-studded cowboy boots, mere fame and great wealth.

To understand what made me the perfect victim for Morgan Fairchild, we must first journey back through time to the year of 1963. The year Kennedy died. One year before a musical group named after a bug would begin to change the world. Not my world. It was the year I turned thirteen. The year something went horribly wrong in my life. Until that year, I had felt more or less a regular kid: skinny, average, ordinary as dirt. There seemed nothing sinister on my horizon. I anticipated my share of teenage adventures and romance. Puberty played a dirty trick on me. Fate seemed to hate me.

By my first year as a teenager, I was hefty. Insensitive people called me fat. I proved poor at sports, average in scholarship. Fellow male teens found me less interesting than a fence post. School bullies deemed it beneath themselves to pick on me. The girls found more interest in dust or garbage than in me. When girls did notice me, from the homeliest to the most beautiful, they normally reacted as if they had stepped in some unknown soft and mushy substance. No one sought my opinions. No social clique claimed me. A few people I could call acquaintances, but they would tremble should I claim them friends. I existed a complete nobody, isolated, invisible to the world.

My teachers normally added their encouragement that I continue as mediocre an existence as possible. They said such things as The C student does best in college, Stanley, or Not everyone can be an A student, Stanley. The PE coaches consistently categorized me as one of the girls. My mom owned her little bag of verbal barbs. She would call me a couch potato or bump on a log or lunch mouth. My brother Lee, one year younger than I, turned out normal. His friends would say of me: Stanley is strange or Stanley sure is an oddball. Lee would offer little in my defense, fearing damage to his social status.

Cast off the main highway of life, the side roads, the back roads, all roads, I had to find or make my own road. Nature interested me, so I studied rocks and minerals, plants and animals, the solar system. Bad Stanley studied Playboy magazine. A lot of my time I dispatched watching TV or visiting with the refrigerator. I always went to bed early, because I liked to dream. My family, all Okies, moved from Oklahoma City to Boulder, Colorado, at the end of my second year in junior high. I thought people might be different in Boulder. They weren't. Someone had called ahead from Oklahoma and tipped off the Boulderians. The people in Boulder knew me for an outcast the second I set foot in the town.

In my fifteenth year, I developed an interest in Yoga, mainly because it seemed a weird thing to do. At sixteen, I became interested in hypnosis, with no one to hypnotize except myself. Before graduating from high school, I dabbled in Hinduism, the occult sciences, witchcraft, and Mexican cuisine. I made plans to conquer and rule the world. The world would pay for its ill treatment of me. My isolation made me sensitive and over emotional about everything.

I once swore to Satan that his part in my life would be mentioned if ever I wrote a book. Satan was my pet king snake, a constrictor. He measured about three feet long when I purchased him. I was thirteen. My dad was good with tools, and he built for Satan a large glass cage where Satan could stretch out and have room to chase down his victims. I put sand on Satan's floor and provided him with a nice big branch so he could crawl up on it and watch what was going on outside his home should he have a mind to.

Satan's favorite food was white mice. I named the mice purchased for Satan after people who displeased me. Satan consumed Picasso and Andy Warhol. Frauds. Phonies. Con artists. Satan coiled happily around Mrs. Higgins, my eighth grade math teacher. Gave me a C. Man hater. Over time, Satan gummed down Donnie and Marie, all the Jacksons, and the entire cast of The Brady Bunch. Bubble gum stuck on the world's foot. Doris Day was a little too fast for Satan, so I had to whack her in the head with a stick to slow her down some before she succumbed to Satan's attentions. Satan was my closest companion for many years.

My first two years out of high school, I didn't have the money to start college. I worked alone nights for Joe's Janitorial, slept in the day, and normally stayed home when not working. I read the Bhagavad-Gita, studied Tarot, constantly listening to Beatles albums on my stereo. I attended a twenty dollar class on Transcendental Meditation and earned my own secret Maharishi mantra. Learned a little harmonica. I tried my hand at writing short stories and poetry. Fantasies about becoming a great rock star or writer or head janitor at the White House filled my vacant moments.

Near the end of a year with Joe's Janitorial, sometime in May of 1969, I had to help out a fellow janitor one night at a building that needed some extra cleaning. I never saw him again afterwards. His name was Harold, but he preferred to be called by his nickname, Gizmo, which he picked up in the army due to his penchant for tinkering. Drafted in Fort Worth, Texas, at eighteen, Gizmo was six months out of a two year hitch. He missed going to Vietnam and was stationed in Germany for nearly a year. He was just knockin' around, as he put it. Stopped in Boulder to make a buck. The one thing I always remembered about Gizmo is a story he told me about some European gypsies that he traveled around with in Hungary while he was on leave from his army duties.

Yep, those gypsies were the best time I had in Europe, Gizmo claimed. They knew right off I wasn't just your ordinary fellow. They can tell those things, sometimes just by your voice. They said they liked me cause I was ornery. Gizmo cocked his head right and pulled on his left earlobe a couple times, a tired expression on his face. They taught me a lot of how they do things, those gypsies. He rubbed his fingers in both eyes, fighting the late nights. They can tell a person by their shoes, their clothes, what they look like, how they comb their hair, how they move.

To me it sounded like the European gypsies Gizmo talked about were well versed in body language. My study of hypnosis had led me to read about body language. Few people consider how much of themselves they reveal through hundreds of little clues their presence telegraphs to the knowing observer. Female breast and hip movement orientation proved my favorite body language topic. Gizmo had a little more to relate about the European gypsies.

Once they'd sized you up by everything on the outside, they sometimes could read stuff comin' out your eyes. Stuff that some people don't think is normal, Gizmo said, caution in his voice. But it's not the gypsies fault if they can get to where they can sometimes see a person's destiny, he claimed. The gypsies told me people have to take care of their own fate and destiny. I believe them. That's why people are scared of gypsies, cause they know things. Them gypsies never stole nothin', Gizmo insisted. They was good people.

Before my night of cleaning alongside Gizmo was over, he also clued me in on how to cleverly engineer mixed drinks that would help compromise a lady's virtue. He called them girlbusters.

You gotta use fruity stuff or somethin' strong like coffee. Put some whipped cream on top. Orange juice or punch or even pineapple juice works. Girls like that sweet stuff. They don't even taste the booze, and they're gone city before they know it. He told me some of his recipes, and I filed them away in my head for later use.

Close to a year and a half later, in December of 1970, a fortunate accident completely changed my life, my destiny. I was still fat, still living at home, friendless, womanless, too shy to rent a prostitute. I still worked part time nights for Joe's Janitorial and attended the University of Colorado during the day. I had finished my freshman fall semester. It was three days into Christmas break.

My brother had an old green Rambler station wagon. Lee and I and Lee's friend Larry drove into the mountains west of Boulder. Larry was a friend of Lee's who could tolerate my existence. We parked the wagon and climbed up a steep, winding, rock crevasse about fifteen feet wide on average. We perched on a narrow rock shelf about three hundred feet up the crevasse. We were drinking Southern Comfort, passing the bottle around. After about ten minutes, I stood up and stepped forward, launching my fool self into the heavens.

I remember nothing about my accident. My speculation is that I stood up to go looking for a bush because I needed to take a leak, forgetting my precarious situation. The first crack of my head against the rocks knocked me cold. My brother later described to me the details.

You just stood up and walked off the cliff like a regular dummy, he told me. You looked like a rag doll bouncing off the rocks. Sometimes you went back and forth; sometimes you went head over heels. The last twenty feet or so you went pretty straight, head first, like a rocket, and your face was scraping against the rocks. When you crumpled up at the bottom, we thought you were dead. That last twenty feet of rock wall—scraping, grinding, ripping at my face—proved the fortunate aspect of my accident.

Had I not been smart enough to get knocked out almost immediately at the beginning of my fall, it might have killed me. The doctor said that it was probably due to my body being relaxed that I didn't suffer fatal injuries or break any bones. I was bruised, skinned, scuffed, gouged, torn from top to bottom but salvageable. Nearly all of the left side of my face was covered with ugly abrasions, which turned to horrible scabs in a few days. Already self-conscious about my portly figure, I now qualified to star in a movie titled The Fat Scab Face. I refused to leave my house for nearly five months.

I had occasionally suspected that a good looking person might be hidden beneath my excess girth. With little to do during my months of self-exile, I decided to attempt losing weight. I dieted, exercised, ministered to my lacerations with lotions and oils. Satan and I communed often. At the time, I was feeding Satan people from The Lawrence Welk Show. I skipped the rest of my freshman year in college. My mother continually carped at me because I gave up gainful employment at Joe's Janitorial. At least it was work, she would complain.

Since the age of thirteen, I had been blaming my obesity on a rare, incurable disease that made people fat. A few days short of my twenty-first birthday, I was slim, sinewy, possessor of an athletic body. Thousands of silent-scream exercises made my face thin and strong and beautiful. The fat caterpillar had transformed to a virile, manly butterfly. It was near the end of April, spring was springing, and I was ready to emerge from my parent's house.

I got a summer job that added perfection to