Monday, May 2, 2011

Life & Tits with a "Steve" On Top

My friend works in the 3-D world. In what aspect, I am not totally sure though I have gone to a number of his parties, eaten his food and drank his wine, so I really should know.

Thursday was the release party for The Big Book of Breasts in 3-D at Taschen store in Beverly Hills. I RSVPed and had to invite Helen, my brilliant flat-chested girl friend. She wrote/directed and starred in her own one-woman play about being flat chested.

Here is an excerpt:

“I am flat. Flat I am. I’m so flat, my ironing board teases me. I am so flat, people often ask if I come from the Great Plains. So flat that people wonder if I was born and immediately

rolled chest first into a wall. So flat my network television debut was on Rules of Engagement as Jane the flat-chested wedding guest. I am flat. . . AND I LOVE IT!

So perhaps you are looking at me, scrutinizing my chest-it’s okay LOOK AT MY BOOBS, you have
my permission-and thinking ‘she’s small . . . but flat?”

Removes padded bra from under tank top.

My little secret. Actually-

Next line in sultry husky tones.

It’s Victoria’s.
 ***

Helen wore her Mondrian vintage dress, no bra. I wore a purple, plaid corset from Halloween in a mini skirt . . . for the theme of the party, of course. We found parking and entered the store, which was pretty much one narrow hallway after another full of porn stars, old men, and a midget. We both said, “Drinks!” And found the next open bar on the second level.


Girls in lingerie held up serving trays of condoms.

Our bartenders were spilling out of silk corsets and thigh-high stockings. I felt bad as they bent down to re-stock the bar and grab bottles of beer. Old men were everywhere, leering. I mean, there is the typical old man leering, but this was at some other late-70s, cocaine induced level of leering.

The first guy was old, drunk and under dressed. “So, what do you girls do?”

I said, “Act.”

Old Man #1, “You want to do a test shoot?”

Helen already moved towards the book away from him.


I said, “For pay. Is this some kind of job you already have organized?”


He took a moment then said, “A lot of artists do it just to have a copy of their work to show other people.”

I said, “I gotta look at this book. Excuse me.” Slime.

Helen and I went through the pages. One woman after another revealing gigantic tits. A number of them looked to be pornographic models from the 1940s and 50s up to the 1970s. The 3-D was amazing because, as Helen said, it looked more 3-D than real life.

Helen said, “Their aureoles are huge.”

I said, “They are too big. Its almost freakish.”

We went upstairs and said hello to my 3-D friend, who was swarmed by people. We waited to talk to him as the crowd shifted from one corner and hallway to the other. The small person (that means midget) who looked Cuban or South American, had a very tall Asian girlfriend with tits pouring out of her top.

There was one cute boy I noticed, early 20s, dark hair, striking black eyebrows and a bruise on the side of his temple. That was like putting an extra olive in my martini.

I said, “Look at him, he’s hot. Hold on. He’s looking over here.”

Helen said, “He is too pretty for me. I don’t like them too pretty.”

I whispered, “Too pretty? Not for me” over my cranberry-vodka. We could barely hear each other over all the conversations in these tight hallways.

She said, “All these guys look so blocky. They must be porn stars.”

I said, “Square jaws appeal more to men.”

We sat on the couch between the two bars and I said, “Oh look! Look!”

She looked only as my subject descended the stairway. I said, “You missed it! This guy had a beard that looked like it was eating his face and reaching for the sky at the same time.”

Helen said, “I really wanted to see that.”

A strange, old Mediterranean dude stood in front of us and then backed up to look up my skirt.

Helen, “Oh my God. He is . . . “

Me, “I know." He is looking up my skirt and smiling at me about it.

He approached, “Are you ladies in modeling?”

I said, “Acting.”

He said, “Why? Acting is boring. Fashion is moving. Fashion is now. I am a fashion photographer.”

He spoke to Helen, “Do you know who designed the dress?”

Helen said, “Actually, I got this at a vintage shop.”

He freely reached for her back tag to read it. I leaned back, are you fucking serious? You are touching my friend. Then he grabbed her necklace and said, “I really like this too.”

I grabbed the handkerchief out of his front pocket and said, "Who made this?" Instead of a silk, monogrammed handkerchief, I pulled out a cocktail napkin folded up like an accordion.”

He shrugged, “I needed to put something in this pocket, that’s what we do in Italy.”

He gave us his business card, “Do you have cards?” We shook our heads. He said, “I am Ronaldo!” 

I gave him my cocktail napkin and said, “Here, you can have this. For your outfit.”

He took my dirty napkin. Then he left us.

Helen said, “Is he really a fashion photographer?”

I said, “I assume not.”

She took out his card and said, “No website or address. It just says, ‘Ronaldo: Fashion Photographer.’ Clever.”

My hot, bruise-in-the-face guy disappeared downstairs as I found the bitter end of my plastic cup. Helen got up to talk to someone when a tall, old guy with curly, long hair in a greasy ponytail sat next to me. He smelled like the frozen corn dogs they served in the cafeteria of my Junior High School.

He flashed me an address, “Here is the next party.”

I said, “Where is it?”

He said, “Culver City.”

I said, “I don’t go to the west side for parties, not with gas prices like they are.”

He made some nonsensical small talk before launching into his first story about problems with his brother, “My brother got mad because I wanted a log fire instead of a gas fire. And he yelled at me but I was right . . . I don't want the place to smell like gas.Who does? That's crazy . . .Then I gave him a bus to park."

I said, “A bust?” I am hard of hearing since working at Doggie Daycare.

He said, “No a bus, to use for construction outside. A school bus.”

I said, “Oh. Ok.” Whatever.

He said, “What do you do?”

I said, “Act.”

He said, “What are you acting?”

I said, “Right now? Slightly cynical and not-drunk-enough for this conversation. Excuse me.” Square jaw to my right giggled. Porn star laugh is worth more than 1 point, right?

I got up to get another drink before joining Helen and her new friend in conversation, an artist of some kind.

The woman, in her forties, said, “I tried being an actress but the casting couch thing got old. Do they still do that?”

I motioned my hands back and forth like a row boat caught in a storm.

Helen, "I have been able to avoid it."

She said, "If they said they were producers or distributors, I just asked them, ‘Whose your foreign distributor?’ If they didn't know, I knew they were full of it."

We all laughed.

We finally got a brief conversation with my friend who put together the book. He had a male friend with him; smaller, bald, older who was smiling at me and Helen like we were free samples of Kentucky Fried Chicken.

My 3-D friend said, “The Big Penis Book is selling out much more.”

Bald friend, “I guess what they say is true, women do read more than men.”

Helen and I exchanged looks. It ain’t chicks buying the Big Penis Book.

Later, Small Bald Friend approached us on the couch.

Baldy, “What do you think of the book?”

Helen, "They border on deformed."

Baldy, “I prefer smaller breasts myself.”

Me, “What a coincidence!” Motioning to Helen’s body. You can see her nipples pierced through the fabric of her dress. She is flat-chested, and ridiculously sexy. Porcelain skin and long, straight brown hair; she is somewhere between a China doll and a vampire.

He smiled, “They should do a small breast book.”

Helen, “They really should.”

Smiling. Nodding.

Helen, “Not with mine, but other models.”

Baldy, "What do you girls do?"

Helen, "Act."

Baldy looked at me and I motioned to Helen as I swallowed my vodka, eyebrows up. “Same.”

Baldy, "What types of things? Drama? Commercials?"

Me, "Whatever."

Baldy, "Whatever pays the bills, huh?"

Nod. Sip.

Baldy, looked at Helen, "And you?"

Helen, "Same boat."

Baldy, "Do you girls have your answers synced with each other?"

Me, "Its just the same question we have been asked all night."

Baldy, "You should find a new answer."

I said, "Or you could come up with a new question."

Helen giggled. Baldy . . . just blinked.


As the bars closed, we all moved to the lower level where Kelly Madison, some kind of titty-porn-star, lifted her dress to reveal enormous boobs with no panties or bra. The brown midget stepped in and buried his face in her tits. Then photographers gathered, seemingly out of nowhere. All of a sudden there were 6 photographers jumping in to get a snap. Midget posed with his drink and, I think, even a thumbs up. (I looked but can't find these photos on-line)


Helen and I watched. She said, “Should we talk to her?”

I said, “I feel like I should have a question but I don’t think I do.”

Helen approached, “Do you ever really orgasm?”

Kelly said, “Of course . . .”


Two dorks with AV equipment, one in drag, approached us with a video camera and said, “Can you describe what's happening right now so we can get this on tape?”

Kelly said, “These two very sexy girls came up and asked me if I cum and I said, OF COURSE!”

As it turns out, her name is Kelly Madison and she only does girl-on-girl porn with her husband producing/acting. http://www.kellymadison.com

Kelly said, “Its only with women. I don't like men's energy. Its very base. I like dominating and being in control.”

I asked her, “The last few men I have been with put their hand on my throat. Do you know what that’s about?”

Helen said, “That has never happened to me.”

Kelly said, “Yeah, lots of guys are into choking girls these days.”

I said, “But they don’t squeeze or anything.”

She shuddered and said, “Ugh. Male energy. I really don’t like it unless its my husband. And that’s because at home he is more femme and I am butch."

The AV guys cut tape and left.

Helen said, “Did that get too cerebral for you?”

I had one more little question, “Are you on coke when you do these . . . tapings?”

She smiled and said, “Oh yeah. (beat) I love coke.”

Jesus. I love coke, too.

The next day, I worked Doggie Daycare.


That night, I had an OKCupid date with a screenwriter/psychology student. He was kind of promising; in his early 40s, receding hairline but I am not a superficial man- looks aren’t #1 or #2 .  . or #3. I should preface this story with the fact I found out, on my shift that night, one of our dogs who boarded there that week, died as soon as she got home.

She was a one-eyed, very old cocker spaniel who drowned in their pool because the deaf son, who picked her up from Doggie Daycare, neglected to close the back door behind him. My manager said, "They kept her alive all those years, just for her to go like that." She was over 12 yrs old.

The Swiss woman I work with kept saying, “I just get the feeling that she is done.” Its possible she wanted to die. She was barely mobile.

The last week, we held up her torso so she could walk to the gate for food or to the bedroom for a nap. We cleaned her up after urinating on herself. We put our hands on her belly or back to see if she was quivering, sometimes just breathing. I scheduled naps with management because she was panting. We felt her bones push through her skin.

She was tired and dazed, but she knew we were there for her.


When I heard the news at work, my exact response was silence, tears in my eyes, mouth open.

He said, "It broke my heart this morning. Dogs should never die alone."

I took a moment and then said "Wow. Life sucks." I turned away and tried to keep from crying for the rest of my shift.

I got home and downed two glasses of wine then played my Weezer song.  I was late for my date, shocker, and drove up to The Rancho Bar in Altadena, a dive very close to my place and recommended by Professor Alas.  There I met my next date.


I will call him Steve, since he looks like any Steve anywhere in the U.S. He said, “Your profile is funny.”

I said,  “People keep saying that but I don’t know what’s funny about it. I wrote it when I was mad.”

Really, the bulk of it says:


I love animals.

I love movies.

I love sarcasm.

That's all you need to know.



Whatever I can to make the rent every month.



I don't know



The internet
My two dogs and cat
My car allows me to be independent
My credit union allows me to overdraft in order to make rent
My craft gives me spirit
My job gives me balance



Watching the Soup



I just got out of a relationship and want to laugh

I mean . . . what’s funny?

He said, “I guess that’s true. Maybe it’s that you are emotionally unavailable. That takes the pressure off.”

Great. Now isn’t that inspiring?

We had a good conversation, about television writing, film, blah bah blah. Nothing funny. Nothing new. Nothing . . . memorable. He was fine. Apparently sane and smart but really lacked anything sexual whats so ever.

He said, “You are doing well."

I said, "Am I?”

He said, “Well, you are cute. (pause) And charming.”

Why does this kind of piss me off? I don’t know. Maybe its because I had a very educated conversation with him about story structure and writing, not to mention the film industry, and all I get is “cute” and “charming.” Two things he is lacking sorely.

The bar is lowered for girls who are just sexually appealing. Really it didn’t matter how educated I was, or how accomplished or how funny. All that mattered was I was cute . . . and charming.

It makes sense he is attracted to whatever he lacks, but I am not sure it ever occurred to him in this conversation, “Hey, but what do I have to offer you?”

Abe texted me and I said aloud to Steve, “Its funny, he always texts or emails me when I am on a date. Its weird.”

He said, “Seriously?”

I said, “Yeah. Its ok. I am not going to respond. He is younger and I think that’s part of the problem.”

Steve said, “You need to be with an older man.” He leaned in with his eye brows arched like he was going to bite my neck to feed on virgin blood.

I said, “That’s what they keep telling me. I don’t know. Whatever.”

He walked me to my car and kissed me like an excited girl at a boy band concert. He really shouldn’t procreate. I felt like slapping him in the face; not for the kiss . . . just for being a girl.

I drove home and texted Abe, "I don't want to speak to you until you flooded my apt. with flowers and have a prepared apology for being a callous asshole."

Less than a minute later, after swerving into the neighboring lane from alcohol and poor judgement, I continued to text, "Nevermind, you just didn't care about our anniversary. Fuck off! Stop contacting me."

What I wanted to say was "You showed me life was more than men drooling over tits and old dogs dying alone. Then you took it away."

I needed a boyfriend that night. Not a date.

But, life sucks. Doesn't it?

1 comment:

  1. wow, I've entered here while googling "cute" and found your blog. It would be like any other google unmatch page except that it seems like if I was reading my girlfriend... My spine shivered... uff it was you! Good luck StarFire, I think of you as the next Cuoco or whatever her name is (the girl in the big bang theory). Cheers

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