Rupert Everett dishes

O lordy ... this story is such delectable swill...

Sharon stepped out of her white towelling dressing gown and stalked over to the bed, totally naked.
Her body was extraordinary. Beautiful hips, wide shoulders, a flat stomach, shapely breasts and gazelle legs, all wrapped in porcelain skin; powdered and highlighted, waxed and perfumed.
You could feel the surge of energy engulf the set. Several hours later, we were lying naked on a bed in a pool of light from a forest of lamps. I was on top of Sharon, lying between her legs.
We both smoked a cigarette, while Sharon's hairdresser rubbed ice cubes on her nipples and a make-up artist covered up a few spots on my bum.
Someone measured the distance between the camera and Sharon's crotch with a tape measure. The operator practised zooming in on it with his camera.
Sharon watched lazily, leaning back so that the camera could get right in. After icing her nipples, the hairdresser blow-dried them with his hairdryer.
The conversation turned to sex. "You know what I say when I'm f*** ing a guy?" said Sharon.
"I say, stop. Look at me." I looked at her. "Now. Talk to me." "Talk to you?" I asked, incredulous. "Communicate," she said. "What? While we're - ". "And now… go in and out real slow." "Oh my God, now I know why I'm gay."

It's all from Rupert Everett: My life with the divas. The tale above is about Sharon Stone.

"Man, she came into me last night. She's right there." Sharon banged her chest with her fist, then opened her fingers and grabbed one of her breasts, shaking it with passion. A man at the next table nearly fell off his chair.

Then there's Bob Geldof.

Bob had just performed in Alan Parker's adaptation of Pink Floyd's The Wall. According to Alan, Bob had a c*** so big that he needed a wheelbarrow to carry it around in.


Everything about Bob announced the fact: the incredibly thin body, the large pushy nose, the jungle smell of the man and, of course, the delight he evidently felt at the sound of his own voice.

He never listened. But this is not a put-down. Actually, it is the recipe for success. Bob was definitely sexy in a good old-fashioned Rimbaud (the poet) kind of a way, and all set to become a legend one way or another.

And of Julia Roberts ...

Julia was beautiful and tinged with madness, that obligatory ingredient for a legendary film star. Most of the time she was a calm, practical earth mother, curled up on a director’s chair in a cardigan with her knitting needles and a bag of wool. But sometimes she would rear up like an untamed filly, with flared nostrils and rolling eyes at some invisible lasso.

She had a vein on her forehead that occasionally stood out. That was a sign not to make any fast moves. She could buck you, or kick out.

This bit is very fascinating to me. God, what an awful world to live in, but is it not the same as ours?

Like Madonna — of whom, much more tomorrow — Julia smelt vaguely of sweat, which I thought was very sexy. There is a male quality to the female superstar. There has to be. If a girl is going to survive in Hollywood, she must develop special ‘people skills’.

Flocks of executive seagulls will try to take her and drop her onto the rocks. She must learn to f*** them before they f*** her if she is to survive, so she becomes a kind of she-man, a beautiful woman with invisible balls. After sex with a man, she fights the desire to eat him.

For him, and all the hims like him, the smell of her sweat is a strange and powerful reminder, attractive and terrifying, of who is wearing the trousers. It marks him out as her territory.

And this film was Julia’s territory. But there was another embryonic superstar taking her first tentative steps on the same set: Cameron Diaz. Cameron was the antithesis of Julia. She was gangly and exuberant, a tomboy with gazelle’s legs, and good in high heels, which Julia wasn’t. She loved greasy burgers, didn’t care that it made her spotty, and she wiped her hands on her jeans after she ate. She went out with Matt Dillon.

‘Why can’t Cameron relax around me?’ asked Julia one day. Actually Julia couldn’t relax around Cameron.

It requires a strong nerve for a superstar to take a part where she loses the guy to a younger girl. It meant that Julia was no longer an ingenue.

Must be some fall out for this, but the writing is lovely and the dish, sublime.