At that moment, Jayne Mansfield arrived. The crowd of guests parted to let her through as she headed straight for my table. She moved forward, swaying on her heels, perhaps not completely sober, with something grand and imperious about each step she took. She knew everyone had their eyes on her, and how could anyone not gape at her neckline, which was more than generous. It was as if she were saying: "Here comes Jayne Mansfield. The Blond Bombshell!" She sat next to me at the table and started talking -- it was like a volcano erupting. As she got more and more worked up, suddenly I found one of her breasts on my plate. I looked up at her, terrified ... One especially quick reporter took a picture of the scene, and the image went around the world. I refused to autograph it. Hidden behind Hollywood's enchanted kingdom were some coarse and grotesque sides, which I refused to have anything to do with.