Story from Marlon Brando's autobiography

[Downey]

" The money that came with A Streetcar Named Desire was less important to me, however, than something else: every night after the performance, there would be seven or eight girls waiting in my dressing room. I looked them over and chose one for the night. For a twenty-four-year-old who was eager to follow his penis wherever it could go, it was wonderful. It was more than that; to be able to get just about any woman I wanted into bed was intoxicating. I loved parties, danced, played the congas, and I loved to fuck women—any woman, anybody’s wife.

Sometimes I did insane things. When I lived on the eleventh floor of an apartment building on Seventy-second Street, I gave a party one night where just about everyone, including me, was smashed or close to it, and I went over to a window, opened it and shouted to my guests: “I’m sick of this world and everything in it. I can’t stand you people, I’m sick of this life.” I stepped out the window and disappeared. I stood on a ledge about six inches wide beneath the window, ducked and lay flat against the wall, and clung to the windowsill with my hands. Then I held onto a cement balustrade on the side of the building with one hand and let go of the windowsill. My guests screamed. They thought I’d become a blotter on Seventy-second Street. I hid under the window giggling, then looked down, saw the street and gulped. Everyone was still screaming, and one girl finally ran over to the window and looked up and down Seventy-second Street, searching for my body before spotting me. Then she said, “Go ahead, drop. See if I care.” I crawled back up, laughing. Everybody was red in the face. Their veins were popping out of their foreheads, and everyone shook their fists at me. It was nuts; I was fearless after two or three drinks."

 

[Vermilioncore]

He was a Chad who lived a good life

 

[Downey]

"When I was twenty-six, I had a casual affair with Lisa, a designer, who was half Filipino and half Swedish and lived around the corner from my apartment above Carnegie Hall. After I moved to California, she came by my old apartment occasionally and asked the elevator operator—a man from Barbados named Susho—if he ever saw me.

Susho, who had designs on Lisa, said, “Yes, but very infrequently. You know, it’s very sad about Mr. Brando.”

“What do you mean?”
Susho told her that I had cancer and now came to New York only for my treatments.
Lisa said she was horrified and asked him what kind of treatment I was receiving.
“It’s experimental cancer therapy,” he said, “in which he is injected with live sperm. But they’re having trouble because live sperm is so hard to get.”
The next time Lisa saw Susho, she asked him about me again and he said I was scheduled to come to New York shortly for a treatment, but that my doctors didn’t know where they would find the live sperm they needed. “I was wondering,” he said, “if you would like to help me make a contribution to Marlon.”
For months Susho took her into the supply room at Carnegie Hall apartments and had intercourse with Lisa while holding a plastic bag under her to capture his semen. Then he’d thank her and said he had to rush it to my doctor. She thought she was helping me by doing it."

 

[Downey]

"Two years later, when I was living in Hollywood, a woman, wearing a tam-o’-shanter topped by a fuzzy white ball, approached me as I was walking up the sidewalk toward my house. I ignored her and started to open the front door, but she followed me right up the steps and stood next to me. I still hadn’t recognized her.

“What do you want?” I asked. Then I realized it was the woman who had climbed over the transom of my apartment. “Why have you come here?”
“I have a message for you,” she answered.
“Who is it from?”
“From God.”
I was quick with an excuse about needing a root canal and said, “I have to go now. Just tell God I was too busy to listen to his message. Thank him but tell him I had to go to the dentist.”
I went out to the garage as if to leave in order to get rid of her. But when I got into my car she followed me. “You’ll have to go,” I said.
“But what about the message from God?”
“All right,” I said. “What is the message?”
She stuck her finger an inch from my crotch and said, “This.”
“That’s the message from God?”
“Yes.”
“Well,” I said, “tell God I’m very glad that he gave me the message, and I’ll certainly take care of it.” I said good-bye, drove away and never saw her again.

 

[Downey]

"Meanwhile the priest had kept giving us cues to stand up, sit down, kneel, rise, kneel. For non-Catholics, it was very confusing, as we kept going up and down like a bank of express elevators. I noticed Glenn rubbing his knees in pain, and the next time the priest signaled for us to kneel again, he responded with a look of disgust and a barely audible sound of resentment. At first he wouldn’t go down, then he knelt halfway, then finally all the way, and for some reason this struck me as very funny and I started laughing. People turned around and looked at me, so I tried to disguise my laughter as the choked, tearful bereavement of someone suffering a great loss. I clamped my hands over my eyes in sorrow and tried to stop giggling, but I was in the clutches of a sustained and serious laughing attack, the kind that can take the wind out of you and tighten the muscles around your chest so that you can barely breathe. That I was reacting this way at a funeral made me even more hysterical. Glenn looked over at me with a surprised look that said, “Jesus, he’s sure feeling a lot more grief than I am,” which only made me laugh more. It was a nightmare, and I could hardly wait for the Mass to end. Afterward the priest, thinking I was immobilized by grief, came over to me and said, “My son, let’s go into the rectory so we can have a private communication with Louis’s spirit.” Everyone had to follow or it would have been disrespectful, so we prayed some more there, and I could never stop laughing. On the ride back to the hotel, everybody, even Glenn, expressed sympathy for my loss."

 

[Deleted member 15827]

Naughty boy

 

[Johnnybegood]

He was chad but all his children were normie as fuck. Mentally deranged and overall degenerate.

Proof that chad doesn't automatically have the best genetics lmfao...yet some people here think that chad's offspring will be equally godly. Most chad's come from HTNesque parents

 

[khvirgin]

Marlon Brando is one of the funniest guys ever
Just read about what he did on the set of The Island of Dr. Moreau, it's cagefuel

 

[6ft4]

slayer stories from the world's biggest slayers are sui fuels

 

[Downey]

Another time, another woman found a piece of lingerie in my bedroom that didn’t belong to her. When she challenged me about it, I laughed, thinking that joking would pacify her. Instead, she slammed me on the head with her keys, which were strapped to an eight-inch piece of oak. Blood streamed down my forehead, across my eyes and dribbled on the floor, creating a crimson pool on the carpet. I have a high threshold of pain and it didn’t really hurt me, but I didn’t tell her that. I pretended to lose consciousness and dropped slowly to the floor, smearing the blood across my face with my hands to make it look worse. By then she was reduced to tears, and in a panic ran around the house looking for bandages and medicine and telling me she was going to take me to the doctor.

“No, no, I’ll be all right,” I said. “But I can’t see. I don’t know what’s wrong. I can’t see.”
I turned the situation into an advantage and defused her rage, though she never did forget about that lingerie.

 

[Downey]

For thirteen years I had an affair with a very attractive Beverly Hills woman. She is still alive, so I’ll call her Lenore. Our kids grew up together, and I knew her and her husband very well. He was a physicist with a medical degree, as well as five or six others, and he owned a lot of patents that made him extremely wealthy. I used to park my car a few blocks from their house in the middle of the night and in my tennis shoes stroll leisurely down the street, vault over their back fence and open the back door, which she left unlatched for me. Her husband was usually asleep upstairs in his room, and I would walk up the back stairs, where she’d be waiting for me, sometimes in the shower. For some reason we conducted a lot of our sex in the bathroom, where she was both athletic and imaginative. Then we’d either go to bed or I’d leave. Being upstairs with her husband so close by added excitement to the adventure. Before dawn I usually got up and hid under her bed in case he came in, and sometimes I would fall asleep, which was taking a chance because sometimes I snored. Lenore’s children occasionally came in, and after a while they knew what was going on, but they were good soldiers about it. Since our kids used to play together, we had almost a familial relationship.

Lenore’s husband, Arthur, was very intelligent but affected an aw-shucks persona. He pretended to be unsophisticated and said things like “Gosh!” “Gee whiz!” “Golly!” and “For heaven’s sake!” On the other hand, he kept a loaded Saturday night special in his room.
One summer night, I climbed over the fence and found the door unlatched as usual. After opening it, I turned to tighten the latch; I was supposed to lock the door after entering. While I was doing so, Arthur walked out of the kitchen and was standing two or three feet away from me in the dark when I turned around. I jumped about four feet, and he beat me by at least two feet. “Oh my gosh!” he said. “You scared me.”
I was paralyzed and couldn’t think of anything to say. My brain simply stopped working, though it functioned enough to remember Arthur’s gun. A headline flashed through my mind: ACTOR KILLED—MIDNIGHT INTRUDER SHOT, MISTAKEN FOR BURGLAR. It had happened to more than one playboy. After a few seconds I said the first thing that came out of my mouth: “Boy, am I glad to see you.”
Then I tried to find the right face to go along with the words, whatever they meant, but there wasn’t an expression I could come within a mile of, so more words came out of me like bubbles: “God, Arthur. I’m really glad to see you. I’ve got to talk to somebody about this …”
These words flew out of my mouth as if they were coming from someone else, and I thought to myself, What are you talking about, you maniac?
Finally I said, “Arthur, can we talk?” I put my hand on his shoulder. “I’ve got a problem.” I went on. “Can we talk?”

“Why, sure,” Arthur said.

“Let’s go out to the sunporch,” I said. I knew the house well and that a walk to the sunporch would give me about forty-three feet and thirty seconds to come up with something to explain why I was in his house at 2:50 A.M., to say nothing about the door being unlatched.
When we got there, I slumped down in a chair, looked over at him and said gravely that one of my sons was missing from home. “Have you seen him?”
“My gosh, no.”
“You haven’t seen him at all today?”
“No.”
Now I had a toenail grip on a theme, but only a toenail; if I made a slip, it was a straight drop about nine hundred feet down. But I gained a little more ground by saying, “You know, he’s not home. I don’t know where he is. He hasn’t been home all day. I’ve been worried sick.”
My son was home asleep, of course.

 

[DeathlyAware]

If every celebrity wrote their autobiography like this, normies would finally understand how degenerate they are and how different their life is.

 

[Beetlejuice]

Jfl

 

[Downey]

After that, I always wanted several women in my life at the same time as an emotional insurance policy to protect myself from being hurt again. Because I didn’t want to be hurt again, I found it difficult to love and to trust. So, like a vaudeville juggler spinning a half-dozen plates at once, I always tried to keep several romances going at the same time; that way, if one woman left me there would still be four or five others.

I enjoyed the women’s company, but a someone named Harvey was always standing in the corner, an invisible rabbit called a relationship. All but a few women wanted me to promise that their love would be returned in equal measure, and that it would be forever and undying. Sometimes I told them what they wanted to hear, but I have always thought that the concepts of monogamy, fidelity and everlasting love were contrary to man’s fundamental nature. Sure, adolescent, childish myths tell us what love ought to be, and so do the songs we sing; they all proclaim one way or another: I love you … you love me … we’re going to love each other forever … I’m going to love you till I die and after I die I’m still going to love you, until you die and we’re together again in heaven. The songs are part of our cultural mythology, promulgating values that collide with our fundamental nature, which is the product of billions of years of evolution.

I don’t think I was constructed to be monogamous. I don’t think it’s the nature of any man to be monogamous. Chimps, our closest relatives, are not monogamous; neither are gorillas or baboons. Human nature is no more monogamous than theirs. In every human culture men are propelled by genetically ordained impulses over which they have no control to distribute their seed into as many females as possible. Sex is the primal force of our and every other species. Our strongest urge of all is to replicate our genes and perpetuate our species. We are helpless against it, and are programmed to do as we do. There may be variations from culture to culture, but whether it is in Margaret Mead’s Samoa or modern Manhattan, our genetic composition makes our sexual behavior irresistible.

 

[Downey]

Several months later, when I was making Last Tango in Paris, Diana came to the set with a camera. She was now a photographer, trying on a new career. I said I was glad to see her and gave her a kiss. We were filming a scene at the time, so I suggested that we have dinner that night. We did, and had some laughs and talked about old times. Then we walked to the apartment where I was staying; she came upstairs and took off her clothes, but I went to sleep. I didn’t feel anything for her. A few months later, Diana was back in California and called to say that she had a pain in her back and wanted a massage. She came over and took her clothes off, and I gave her a full massage, then fell asleep again. I didn’t even think about making love to her.

 

[Catawampus]

Several months later, when I was making Last Tango in Paris, Diana came to the set with a camera. She was now a photographer, trying on a new career. I said I was glad to see her and gave her a kiss. We were filming a scene at the time, so I suggested that we have dinner that night. We did, and had some laughs and talked about old times. Then we walked to the apartment where I was staying; she came upstairs and took off her clothes, but I went to sleep. I didn’t feel anything for her. A few months later, Diana was back in California and called to say that she had a pain in her back and wanted a massage. She came over and took her clothes off, and I gave her a full massage, then fell asleep again. I didn’t even think about making love to her.

I caged at this the most for some reason, Chad has sex with so many different females he just doesn’t care anymore and falls asleep

 

[Deleted member 20631]

This nigga was so fucking insane. JFL at what fucking chad gets away with he was living a comedy.

 

[Downey]

During those early years in New York, I often got on my motorcycle in the middle of the night and went for a ride—anyplace. There wasn’t much crime in the city then, and if you owned a motorcycle, you parked it outside your apartment and in the morning it was still there. It was wonderful on summer nights to cruise around the city at one, two or three A.M. wearing jeans and a T-shirt with a girl on the seat behind me. If I didn’t start out with one, I’d find one. There was a lovely Jewish girl named Edna whose father was very rich. She was bright, well educated and beautiful, with lovely brown hair and skin that was almost Oriental in color, and she lived with her father in a deluxe apartment on Park Avenue. For some reason, what I remember best about it were the drapes: the windows were covered with two layers of gossamer white curtains, first a lush tier of pleated satin, then floor-length folds of feathery white silk with the texture of a bridal veil. About two o’clock one morning, when I pulled up to her building on my motorcycle, the doorman looked at me as if I were a longshoreman who’d taken a wrong turn on his way to the docks. I climbed off the motorcycle and asked him to call Edna on the house telephone and tell her that Mr. Brando wanted to see her.

“Do you know what time it is?” he asked.
I told him Edna was expecting me, which was not true, and said she would be very put out if she were informed later that I had called and not been allowed to come up.
With a doubtful look, the doorman dialed her apartment and woke her up. Over the phone, pressed to his ear, I heard a frail, sleepy voice say, “Who?”
“Mr. Brando.”
I couldn’t hear the next exchange, but the man hung up the phone and said, “Take the elevator to the left.”
“I know it well,” I said and turned my back on him to express how annoyed I was at the delay.
Edna’s father was asleep in his bedroom and we went into hers. There was a soft breeze, and the silk and satin curtains billowed behind her like the canopy of a silken parachute. She was wearing a very attractive soft satin nightgown. I pulled the sheets back and was almost paralyzed by the fragrance of her warm body.
Edna didn’t say anything while I got undressed. I got into bed and she put a soft, lovely arm around me. After we made love, she asked, “Would you like something to eat?” It was about four A.M. and still dark outside, although a narrow shaft of yellow moonlight pierced the curtains, casting a glow across the room. When I nodded, she went into the kitchen and fixed a tray set with Irish linen, English silver, French crystal, orange juice, eggs and perfectly done toast, all wonderfully arranged. I remember eating that breakfast with her beside me, the silver and crystal in front of me, thinking, This is the life, boy. If this ain’t it, you’re never gonna find it.

 

[OldRooster]

I mostly think of Brando as his older, fatter self. Rather impressive that he lived to 80 after being this fat at 70.

 

[Reckless Turtle]

So, like a vaudeville juggler spinning a half-dozen plates at once,

Just spin plates like prime Marlon Brando bro

 

[max_frisch]

I mostly think of Brando as his older, fatter self. Rather impressive that he lived to 80 after being this fat at 70.

incel starves himself with ideal diet and daily exercise yet dies with 50 of an heartattach

brutal

 

[max_frisch]

Marlon Brando is one of the funniest guys ever
Just read about what he did on the set of The Island of Dr. Moreau, it's cagefuel

post it

 

[Downey]

As he honked the horn, a prop man was supposed to blow a trumpetlike horn offstage loud enough to be heard in the back of the house. But every so often Homolka honked his horn and the prop man missed his cue and was several seconds late. This made Homolka furious; sometimes he would turn around and shout into the wings at the poor old cricket of a stagehand so loudly that the audience could hear him, and matters became very tense between them. The prop man kept promising to get it right, but one day when he wasn’t looking, I stuffed his horn with Kleenex, and the next time Homolka honked his horn onstage and the prop man, with perfect timing, blew his, there was complete silence. He blew harder and harder. Still no sound. Homolka got red in the face and started bellowing at him from the stage while the prop man reached deeper and deeper into his lungs and blew with all his heart—so hard that he blew his false teeth out of his mouth. It was uproarious to see him fighting to get a grip on his choppers with his lips while still trying to blow the horn, and I almost had apoplexy.

In another scene Mama’s sister had to say, “You certainly make a wonderful cup of coffee. It’s so delicious I think I’ll have another cup.” On one occasion I poured salt and some Tabasco sauce into the coffee, and she had to drink a cup of this witches’ brew, keep a straight face and ask for another cup.

 

[Deleted member 17872]

Fucking degenerate subhuman. Hope he rots in hell.

 

[MRD]

Fucking degenerate subhuman. Hope he rots in hell.

I wonder if he wrote about all the gay orgies he was having, too? Fact is: Hollywood back then was ran by rich homosexual Jews that would host mansion parties in the 50's 60's 70's 80's - to get ahead to the A-List you were generally having to do depraved shit. They'd film it and then use it to keep you in tow for your career - so back then if you were exposed as a homosexual: your career was over.