The Chocolate Bunny: Playboy Bunny, model, Hollywood actress, Mafia Moll, lover to some of the screen's most glamorous leading men, Francesca Emerson has done it all.

By Francesca Emerson

Mother to three children, wife to three husbands, and in these reflective years of her life, sculptress, Black Activist and writer. Franny Emerson has done it all. Born into poverty, lost her mother when she was barely five, married her first husband when she was still at school just to get out of the stultifying home in which she was livin

• Language: English
• Publisher: Golden Wren Publishing Pty Ltd
• Release date: Dec 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9781646065394

Francesca Emerson

Francesca Emerson was born into the poverty of the Black ghetto of Harlem, and grew into one of the most beautiful and accomplished women in America. Her first husband married her while she was still at school...and then tried to kill her. She stuck a butcher's knife into the chest of her next lover when she found him with two other women. Then began her career at one of the most outstanding of Playboy Bunnies, until she married her second husband, a Californian actor and was swept up into the Hollywood lifestyle. Her many lovers included world-famous singer-songwriter Leonard Cohen and Mafia mobster Nathan McCalla. In THE CHOCOLATE BUNNY, her tell-all autobiography, which exposes the amazing world of between-the-sheets Hollywood, Francesca holds nothing back as she exposes everything...and everybody.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

ME AND DR. BENNETT

Unlike most children, my life began at the age of seven.

Before that I’d existed, but you couldn’t say that I was really alive, by being alive I mean enjoying life, being nurtured by family and friends, running through green fields, feeling the cleansing wind ruffling my hair, playing with other boys and girls and learning about the multitude of wonders which this world has to offer.

For me today, as a mature woman looking back on my life, there are no memories of a glorious childhood, one filled with hope and adventure, learning new skills and coming to understand my place in this world. Instead, my sketchy memories of my early childhood are of living in a hustling, bustling and scurrying inner city filled with noise, cars exhaust fumes, clamor, dirt and people. Looking back on my life then, the best way to think about it, is like rats living in a gigantic nest.

Oh, so many people. People hanging around street corners, people rushing to secure any kind of work so they could buy food to enable their families to survive to the next meal. Men weaving drunkenly on the pavement after spending the entire day in a bar thinking about whether tomorrow would be any different, and drinking themselves into the falsity of hope. Women sitting on tenement steps, legs spread open so that their well-used private parts could enjoy the whispered breath of a breeze, and waiting for something – anything – to happen to give them a reason to exist.

Life for black people in 1940’s New York, where I lived in a ghetto neighborhood, was more a struggle for existence than a reason to live, a daily strategy for survival rather than a career path for success. Before the massive economic surge in America’s prosperity, thanks to the automotive and housing industry boom, recovery from the Second World War was slow and patchy, especially in black ghettos. Of course, after the troops returned home and the American economy began to pick up pace, our country had never known prosperity like it. But this was largely white man’s prosperity that by-passed and further marginalized some communities – mine for example.

Unemployment in the black community, especially in Harlem, was high. Since the time of slavery and our subsequent manumission, enabling blacks to live and work beyond the shadow of the whip, America continued for many years to be geographically and socially divided between black and white communities. In certain places, and not just the Deep South, racial tension was high but kept in check by an authoritarian police force and rules and regulations which continued to make black men and women into second class citizens. From the 1930’s, there was serious unemployment in Harlem, and it stayed that way for decades. There were even rent riots between 1935 and 1943.

And that was the environment where I spent the earliest years of my life. Not that poverty, unemployment or rent riots mattered to me as a toddler. For me, as a child of the ‘40’s growing up in Harlem, all that mattered was being safe from the outside world, having enough food to eat, and a place to rest my head at night. Everything else was secondary to the security of my existence.

Until one day, that is, a day which changed my life. A day when I came to understand that there was a massive world out there which I knew nothing about…a world there for the taking.

And take it, I did!

With open hands and outstretched arms. Which is what this book is all about. It’s the record of the life of a woman of color, a woman of the world, a woman of courage and intelligence who used her beauty, innate common sense and the gift of a quick and agile mind to make the most of the little I was given…a woman who lived her life in the stratosphere, in the firmament of Hollywood stars, loving and loved by many of them; a woman who did everything on her terms.

So what happened all those many years ago to this bright, intelligent girl of seven? Well, there was a particular day, and a particular event which catapulted me into my understanding of the future I wanted for myself, and for which I’d strive with all my heart, guts and energy.

As you read my book, you’ll get to know me as one of the first black Playboy Bunnies; a woman who had as her friends and intimates some of the world’s most famous actors, musicians, artists, television stars, and creative virtuosos who were the imaginative geniuses in the Golden Era of Hollywood. A woman who has had sex with some of the world’s most famous men, gorgeous men, movie idols; but most of them uninspiring and forgettable lovers. All brass, and no balls.

But what you won’t get to know, because I don’t know it myself, are the earliest recollections of my childhood. Oh sure, most children don’t remember their life as an infant, but they have photos and family who’ll fill in the details.

Me? I just remember one particular event, and I’ll get to that in a moment. But let me continue telling you about my life as a woman… and as you’ll read in this, the story of my life, some people really think that I became quite a woman!

Not all of my lovers were duds…Leonard Cohen, the world-famous singer and songwriter, as well as the gangster Nathan McCalla come to mind…wonderful lovers to whom I gave my heart and soul, but most of the others were glorious to look at, and be with, but in bed… nah! Useless. Just show ponies who pranced and preened but when it came to them satisfying a woman…forget it.

In fact, as I’ll reveal, I didn’t have an orgasm from sex with any of them. Most of them were movie stars, singers, artists, Hollywood producers or directors; but they were all so used to being adored by fans, preening themselves in public and parading before the masses, that their skills in the privacy of the bedroom were often more about their personal enjoyment, their satisfaction, than pleasuring the woman they were with.

Right now, though, instead of reading on, just for a moment stop reading, and think. Close your eyes and imagine that you’re not you, but somebody else. A relative? A famous politician or actor? Ok, now try to put yourself into the life and mind of the person you’ve just created in your imagination.

It’s not easy, is it? So now you understand my problem in trying to tell you what I was thinking when I was a bemused kid of seven, a bright-as-a-button, smart, small black girl who lived in a brownstone ghetto neighborhood in Harlem, surrounded by rundown tenement blocks, broken pavements, communal poverty, welfare lines, and men and women just sitting on steps or hanging on street corners. America had just come through the Second World War and was waiting for something to happen. Prosperity was around the corner, but as the troops were returning, and the joy of ending the European and Japanese conflicts began to fade, we faced an uncertain reality… nobody knew what level of prosperity we were about to enjoy.

None of this, of course, concerned me as a little seven year old. But it only took one occasion on one day for my life to change. To this day, seventy years ago, I still remember what happened as if it were yesterday. The memory is so sharp, so scintillating, that it still takes my breath away.

So let me introduce myself. My name is Francesca Emerson, born Francine Irene Barker, nee Hudson, nee Epstein, nee Foley. Yes, I’ve had a lot of husbands, and a lot of men who’ve loved me, all of whom you’ll read about as you dive into my life. But as you’re going to get to know me so well, why don’t you just call me Franny.

The event which changed my life, and my perception of who I was and what I would do for the rest of my life, happened in June 1948. I was living with my Grandmother Margaret and my brother Teddy, in a three-story walk up in Harlem, on 123rd Street, between 7th and 8th. Today, close to where we lived, there’s a Harlem Jazz Museum, and had it been there when I was, I’d have visited it many times; but back then, the area was just full of people with virtually no cultural enrichment.

Margaret worked as a housekeeper for a very wealthy Jewish family, the Bennetts. They lived on 89th Street on the Upper West side and my Grandmother looked after their home, their kids, cooked and tidied their place. They were a lovely family and treated her with respect.

Dr. Bennett, a physician, had a beautiful house in the nearby Catskill Mountains where all the Jewish people went for their summer vacations. It was the month when those New Yorkers who could afford to, moved away from the sweltering heat of Manhattan, and into the cool and refreshing atmosphere of beech, maple and oak trees and the gleaming, shimmering and crystal waters of the mountain lakes. It was a time of the year where youngsters frolicked in the water, teens fell in love and parents and grandparents sat around playing Canasta and Mah Jong and gossiping with friends and neighbors about… friends and neighbors.

It was a time for fun and relaxation after the stresses and strains of inner-city living. And it was a time for the visitors to go every night to experience some of the best and biggest entertainers in the world, who went to the Catskills to perform for the wealthy patrons in a totally relaxed atmosphere.

When it was time for the Bennett’s to leave town and go to the Catskills for their annual ‘Get Out Of New York’ vacation, they invited my Grandmother to come up and look after their home for a weekend. I think it was partly to reward her for all of her hard work in the city, and partly because the usual house staff they hired in the mountains couldn’t begin work until the Monday. So on that Friday, Grandmother packed up her bags, and packed me and my younger brother Teddy onto a bus late on Friday afternoon, and we travelled the 100 odd miles from the bus terminal on 48th Street, east and up into the Catskills.

We were met at the bus in the darkness of the evening by Dr. Bennett’s wife and driven to their house. It was too dark for me to see anything. We were given milk and cookies then went straight to bed.

The following morning, I washed and dressed, and realized my Grandmother was already hard at work. So I was free to explore. This is where my life changed forever. I went to look around my new surroundings and try to position my whereabouts in a house which was so vastly bigger, so much richer and more sumptuous than anything I’d ever known. Even leaving my bedroom, I got lost. The house had so many corridors, so many rooms and steps up and down to different landing points, I couldn’t place myself accurately.

It was the smell of cooking, pancakes and maple syrup and kosher pastrami which led me to a stairway taking me from the bedroom areas to the downstairs living areas. And it was there that I knew, from the bottom of my heart, in my gut, in my awakening consciousness, that I had suddenly arrived, deus ex machina, in the place where I belonged, where I wanted to be, where I would strive with all my heart and energy, to acquire as my very own.

Where I stood in awe and amazement was a place I was born to be…not as a seven year old, but as an adult. This was my life and the life I would lead. I was surrounded by opulence, by wealth, by quality and stability. But it wasn’t the furnishings, nor the refined quietness, nor the subtle prosperity which excited my mind. Suddenly, I had entered a world of wisdom, a library full of volume after volume of books, a place steeped in learning, intellect and permanency.

Books from floor to ceiling. Books which stretched from one end of the room to another. Books on four walls. Books of enlightenment and learning and knowledge, the accumulated erudition and culture of humankind, a depth and breadth of wisdom, scholarship and judgement of which I had no comprehension, but of which I was suddenly desperate to acquire…to become a part of.

I had landed in heaven. I looked around me and realized for the first time in my young life that the perimeters of my life weren’t bounded by the streets where I lived, but were infinite in my imagination. That there was a life beyond the ghetto of Harlem, beyond the restricted confines of narrow thought, of vistas limited by buildings and streets, by poverty and subsistence. Suddenly, I realized that life and my future were there for the taking, provided I could break away and not be defined by heritage and prejudice, by the color of my skin and the place where I lived.

Not that I thought these thoughts consciously at that moment. I was, after all, only a kid, overwhelmed by a treasury of books, and only realized these things later in my life. But standing in that library was the pivotal moment when I came to understand that who I was and what I would become weren’t decided by birth or skin pigmentation, nor the arbitrary decisions of other people. My life would only… solely…totally…be decided by me.

This was the beginning of my understanding that I could break down any prejudice, smash through any barriers and overcome any obstacles, provided the strength of my body was fueled by knowledge – the sort of knowledge contained in these books.

I would decide who I was, what I was capable of being and how I would embark on the journey to get there. And when I stood in that library, surrounded by a world of learning, even as a young girl, I knew in my heart that I could be who I wanted to be with education, courage and single-minded dedication to my future.

This was the life I wanted. A life of luxury and ease; a life of new clothes instead of hand-me-downs, of deep-cushioned furniture which wasn’t broken or threadbare and on which I could sit without fear of injury, of views of the seas and the mountains, the rivers and the valleys that I’d only read about.

But not just expensive furniture or objects. There was intellect here. Bookshelves as far as my young eyes could perceive, each shelf groaning with a repository of novels, poetry, philosophies, science, arts, books of paintings, biographies, autobiographies…volumes written by ancient and modern intellectuals with a knowledge and wisdom which bore no comparison to that of anybody in my life. Nor was there any comparison to the books which were in the only other library I knew, the paucity of my woefully underfunded library of my public primary school. My fingers itched to reach out and touch these books, to open them, read them, immerse myself in their insights, ideas and intellect. Erudition at the touch of a finger.

Ok, so I was only seven, but I was old enough to realize that there was an entire life to be lived beyond the walls of the ghetto in which I was living in Harlem. And this library was the key to open the gates which locked me in.

All my young life, without realizing it until this moment, I’d been seeking a way out, a way to go beyond the physical, emotional and intellectual constraints of the people in my neighborhood. And suddenly I was surrounded by books and books and more books, all of which held the promise of freeing me from these constraints, these bonds which held me in place. This was the key to unbind me from the chains of my manumission.

I walked across the plush green carpet and felt its softness on my naked feet. Perhaps I wasn’t permitted into the library. I didn’t know, but as an adventurous and devilish child, I didn’t care about the strictures imposed on others. I was in my element. I wanted in…

As I tried to read the titles of the books from their faded spines, suddenly a voice came from behind, a deep baritone voice, a cultured voice, said, Hello…who are you?

I turned, and saw this avuncular gentleman standing next to the door, looking down at me. Perhaps I was in trouble, but there was something in his voice which told me to square my feet and answer him politely.

I’m Francine. I’m Margaret’s granddaughter. Who are you?

He smiled, and said gently, I’m Dr. Bennett. I own this house. He walked over and solemnly shook my hand. And tell me, Francine, are you yet able to read?

I told him, Oh yes, I can read. But we can’t afford many books, so I have to read the same books, over and over. And there aren’t really any good books in my school. That’s why I was interested to see your books.

Well, my books are a bit grown up for you. You’re in…what…first grade?

I told him that I was, and mentioned a few books I’d recently read…and re-read.

Well, my grandkids have left some books here for when they come up. Why don’t we go into their room, and see if there’s anything you want to borrow…or keep…

So I held his hand as he took me to another part of the house. There were books I hadn’t read…books for kids my age. But part of me yearned to return to the library. And one day, I’d be old enough to understand what Dr. Bennett’s books contained, wise enough to learn from them, and tall enough to be able to reach an upper shelf.

That’s all I can remember from my first encounter with Dr. Bennett, somebody whose horizons were vastly greater than mine. But it made me determined from that day onwards that I would steep myself in intellect, and into a landscape which wasn’t hemmed in by the Harlem River, the East River and the Hudson River, his was the world I wanted to inhabit. A landscape unconstrained by minds whose only thought was how to survive. And to escape from that land, I would need to use my native charm and street smarts to raise myself above all those around me. I would strive for a life for which I knew, deep in my heart, I was destined to live.

Did I ever, for one moment, think that this destiny I craved would lead me to become the lover of some of the most famous Hollywood men? Or as one of the favored and elite Bunnies in the famous Playboy Clubs? A sexual object of desire for all the men who were patrons and couldn’t take their eyes off me, like voyeurs, while I played the role of the Vestal Virgin, glorious but untouchable.

Nor, as a seven-year old in that house and that library, did I think for a single moment that I would be leading a film star’s life on three continents which is like the stuff of legends? That I’d be dining on a world-famous author’s yacht moored for the Film Festival in Cannes, or telling an internationally renowned movie director to go fuck himself, or posing nude for a brilliant photographer and then making love to him in a frenzy of lust under the hot lights of his studio? And did I ever think, even for a single moment, that I’d be at the Academy Awards in Los Angeles, holding tightly onto an Oscar won for the movie Amadeus?

Even when I stood with naked feet on the deep pile green carpet in a doctor’s home in the Catskills, did I think this could happen to me quite like it did. But it did. And that’s why I’ve written this book of my life.

Enjoy!

CHAPTER TWO

GOODBYE MOTHER, WHOEVER YOU WERE

Let me start by telling you about the greatest loss of my early life. Why were my brother and I living with my Grandmother? Because my Mother had died when I was five and my father hadn’t wanted to have us kids around, and that left my Grandma to become our mother…and our father. We went to live with her in Harlem.

I don’t remember much about those years. They’re a haze of boredom, feelings of hopelessness, loss and inadequacy, and especially deracination; even though I was surrounded by the black community, as a five year old having no mother, and a father who had rejected me, I felt uprooted and without stability. My Grandma tried to give me and my brother stability, but she was working day and night to pay for food and lodging, clothes and other necessities, and so from the earliest of ages, I felt as if my brother and I were responsible for ourselves.

While I don’t remember much of those far-off days, there is one thing I recall so very clearly that it’s etched into my mind, and like a recurring dream, it keeps playing like a movie in my mind when I’m feeling low. It was attending my Mother’s funeral. A short, stocky man carried my brother and me down the aisle of a church. Time has hidden his face from me, but I have such a vivid memory of stopping in front of a casket lined with white satin, and peering down inside to look at the strikingly beautiful woman all dressed up in pink as if she was going to a dance. She looked like a sleeping fairy tale princess. She was my mother, Jeanette Catherine Davis.

She was laying there looking so peaceful and serene.

She was dead!

As I looked down into her coffin, I kept wondering why she didn’t open her eyes, smile that gentle, benign loving smile at me, and sit up so that she could look after me. But the hush in the church as I gazed down at her told me that she, too, would be silent; silent for the rest of my life.

Odd, isn’t it, how a child can conjure up a vision which is so strong, so real, so potent, that the image becomes the certainty. Well, at that moment, I planted the seed in my mind of how I would die at the age of 23. Yes, I was going to die at 23. I too would die like my mother, as a beautiful sleeping fairy tale princess. I would be dressed all in pink and I would lay down on a satin pillow, and everybody, from the President of the United States, to the reigning monarch of England, would look down at me in my coffin, and they would all comment about how beautiful I looked.

I feel very sad that I never got to know my mother. I sometimes wonder if I would have been a different woman had I grown up with a loving father and a devoted mother, as so many other children took for granted? The secure upbringing where kids grew up knowing their place in the world? Would I have become the woman so many men sought, would I have had the courage to stand up to the Warren Beatties and the Roman Polanskis of this world, some of the most gifted artists and creative people of the past century, and deal with them as equals?

Today, I’m certain that I would, but as a little girl at the age of five, sitting in a crowded church as the black choir began to sing ‘Amazing Grace’ and ‘Nearer my God, to Thee’, hymns and imprecations to a deity I’d never met, I now realized that the answer is unknowable. Maybe yes, and maybe no.

I was too young to remember anything about my mother, she was never talked about as