Thursday, June 30, 2011

There is Doubt but then there is The Beatles

I was invited to the Saturn Awards by someone I went on a couple dates with in 2010. We met on OkCupid, he was nice enough but it didn’t feel right to me so I cut things off. Since then, he has expressed that I might find him more attractive now and/or I should give it another chance.

I didn’t think so with the Abe chaos, but eventually gave in to the Saturn Awards with the understanding that I was seeing someone else. So Thursday, I drove over to meet Austin, who lives in a guesthouse in Burbank.

I was nervous because though I am not sure, I think I may have said mean things to him. Not because I was angry, just to get him off my back. The guy was fairly relentless for reasons I don’t understand. I assume unless a guy penetrates me, he pursues until his seed dries up in the desert.

Austin is in his early thirties, about my height, thick but not overweight and a redhead. He seemed to have a false confidence going on which I actually needed since I was just turned away from a model casting call I had the exact look and hair coloring for.

He said, "You know, there are a lot of girls I could take to this thing. But I thought you were the one girl who would really appreciate it."

I was early (which is laughable), so we decided to grab some food and beer at a bar nearby. Before we left, he played the Siouxsie and the Banshees version of Dear Prudence. It was tender.

♫ ♪ Dear Prudence, won’t you come out to play? Dear Prudence, greet the brand new day . . . ♫ ♪

I was being talky and nervous for a few reasons. I don’t know this guy well. We were going to a B-List Celebrity event. And, I just started things with Alan and didn’t want to create a mess for myself.

So we were talking about life as the Beatles version of Dear Prudence came on the jukebox.

♫ ♪ The sun is up, the sky is blue, It’s beautiful and so are you ♫ ♪

I said, “My parents are really on me about giving up and moving back home. My mother isn’t even talking to me right now. I don’t know, maybe I am wrong. But I am happy. They weren’t happy. Now they are, only after 40 years of working their asses off in jobs they hated. My sister hates her job. Now they can all go to Italy a few times a year. I don’t want to wait 40 years. I don’t get to go to Italy, but that’s the price I pay for being happy now.”

Austin said, “You are right. They just don’t see it. They have small minds and don’t understand. We understand.”

I said, “I mean, I don’t go around telling people they are living life the wrong way. I don’t tell people how to live. The thought never occurs to me.”

He said, “I know. I know.”

I said, “If John Lennon says I am doing the right thing, then I have to be right? John Lennon knows more than all of us.”

Austin said, “That’s right. They can’t see the truth, we can see it. Don’t worry.”

I said, “Do you know the song The Cave by Mumford & Sons?”

Austin, “No.”

Me, “It’s popular right now, but it’s really good. Its based on the Allegory of the Cave by Socrates.”

I sipped my Stella over onion rings.

Me, “The Allegory of the Cave is about people living in a cave, who only know life from what is projected on the wall in front of them. A false reality, or simplified reality. When they look to the light outside, they are blinded and can’t understand it, so they return to the Cave and the shadows, and resume a life with less knowledge and experience, less light and are no longer confused or overwhelmed.

Only a few venture out into the light to discover life no matter how abstract.”

It’s a pedestrian summary but what I gathered from one early morning using the internet and reading a healthy portion of the Socrates’ dialogue.

Austin said, “You are right. They are living in the cave.”

He kept ending each sentence with my name. I don’t know if he read that in a book or something, but it really makes you feel fuzzy. I don’t know. Maybe I just like hearing boys repeat my name aloud, over and over again.

We went back to his guesthouse tipsy, or I was.

The Saturn Awards specialize in awards for Horror, Sci-Fi and Fantasy films. So when he asked if he should wear his Freddy Krueger belt buckle, I said, ABSOLUTELY!

The damn thing was hard to fit on a dressy belt, so I had to get on my knees and try to push the metal casing over the front of the buckle and thread it through the existing holes on the belt.

I said, “Here, I need to get down on my knees, that’s what she said. Let me take a look, yeah, we have to pull a little harder to fit it in the hole, that’s what she said. Almost there, it’s barely poking in, that’s what she said. Here stretch it out so its longer, that’s what she said. Just another inch, that’s what she said.”
Austin, “It might stretch out the hole, that’s what she said.”

I said, “I think it will make it in, that’s what she said, we just need to yank it a little harder, that’s what she said.”

We gave up and put another belt on. It fit fine.

I got dressed in the only formal gown I own, put on my minimal make-up and off we went.

The Awards were at a very nice resort type place in Burbank; resort type place meaning there was a restaurant and a golf course. A car from Star Wars was parked in front with a man holding Yoda. I passed by Michael Beihn, who I lusted after in the 80s. Not so much now.

Also Kurtwood Smith, best known for Red on That 70s show, but also Total Recall and other Sci-Fi awesomeness.

I don’t really bother celebrities because I just don’t know what to say. I usually come in with a plan, a question or something. If I have nothing, then I keep sipping my drink.

Me, “I am glad this drink comes with two straws because it increases the likelihood that my mouth will land in the right place. Wait . . . what happened to my second straw?”

A stranger next to me said, “Is that it? On the ground?”

Me, “Oh . . . yeah. A fallen soldier. So sad.”

We found our seat at a table near the back with several older strangers. We drained the complimentary bottle of peach vodka before the entrees arrived.

The man sitting at the table behind us hit my chair as he left.

His Wife, "Sorry! He does that."

Me, "That’s ok. I just spilled my drink on my table and asked for another."

His Wife, "Good! I piss on anyone who doesn't ask for another drink." Hollywood, dude. They are all high.
I was sitting next to a much older woman in her 80s.

Old Lady Next to Me, "I had a stroke so this is the first real meal I have had in 5 months."

Me, "How is it?"

Old Lady, "Bland."

Me, “So what’s having a stroke like?”

Old Lady, “Like being trapped.”

Me, “Trapped inside a dead body?”

Her, “That’s a really good way of putting it. I think I should be dead.”

Me, “Do you regret being alive right now?”

Old Lady (shrug) “I am thankful I got to see my grandkids again.” (to the waiter) “Bring another bottle, this time to this side of the table.”

It turned out she worked on the original The Day the Earth Stood Still.

Em’s Hubby was there by chance, part of his new job. He saw me and crossed over.

Em’s Hubby, “Hey, take it easy. I am worried about a John Belusi situation happening.”

Me, “What do you mean, with me?”

Em’s Hubby (pat on my back) (laugh), “Yeah.”

Me, “Oh God no, all things in moderation.” Really, I am just in an experimentation stage. Four days out of the week I am sober and playing Scrabble, but I am pretty sure no one wants to read detailed blogs about that.

Em’s Hubby invited me outside for a smoke with one of his new co-workers, so I chased them out in my peach vodka fog.

I said, “I heard Oliver Stone is bi-sexual, which ruins the fantasy of ever having unprotected sex with him.”

Em’s Hubby’s Co-Worker, “I am sure he wouldn’t want to have unprotected sex with you.”

Me, “Why not? A 71-yr-old director tried to have unprotected sex with me last week.”

Co-Worker, “Yeah, but he’s not Oliver Stone.”

Me, “Are you kidding me? He would have unprotected sex with me just BECAUSE he is Oliver Stone.”

The awards show went on and on and on. The alcohol drained out of us and I struggled for a signal on my phone a) to update my Facebook status and b) to get Em into the after-party . . . which I did.

She was outside with two men at a table. I joined her and we were already both amped up on alcohol. I stroked her hair and announced that I loved her and she informed Austin how perfect of an event this was for me since I love old horror movies.

We chased down a boy and convinced him to let Em pose in his cowboy hat for pictures. He spoke slowly with large eyes so I think he believed we were blasted. I didn’t feel off my game anymore than usual. I kicked off my heels and spoke to Em’s Hubby quite a bit as Austin circled around the party.

I was explaining how I sent Alan an email prior to visiting him the coming weekend. I started spotting, common for going on the pill, but I was worried it would be awkward when we had sex so I sent him an email:

ME: June 23 at 1:42pm
“I started taking the pill 2 weeks ago and now there is blood dripping out of my vagina.”

Alan: June 23 at 2:40pm
"Wow.. that is probably the exact opposite of anything I wanted to read about when I logged into facebook. I don't even know what that means. I hope you are ok."

ME: June 23 at 2:44pm
“Hahhaha!!!!! No, it's normal. Don't girls talk to you about this? :-) “

Alan: June 23 at 3:21pm “When you are going to spend a rare weekend in bed with someone, there's just some things you'd rather not know about in such detail.”

Ok, now I was having doubts. Maybe this guy wouldn’t get me.

ME: June 23 at 3:31pm
“I say what I think and thought it better to tell you instead of hide it from you. That's me. So if you want to be with me, it's something you will have to respect.”

Alan: June 23 at 3:33pm
“I didn't say for you not to talk about it. I said I didn't want to know. You can do whatever you want with that but they are different. :P “

Me Drunk: June 23 at 5:46pm
“Be sensitive with me. I am honest which gives me power but also makes me vulnerable to criticism.”

I spoke openly about it all at the after-party to Em’s Hubby as men slowed down to study Em and me, trying to piece together if we were single or not.

Em’s Hubby, “You don’t have to talk about everything all the time, especially at a place like this and to this poor guy in San Diego. No one wants to know that.”

A handsome gentleman, a little older than me caught my sideways glance and stepped forward as if it was an invitation. I think it was since I was getting the feeling that Em’s Husband was upset with me.

Producer, “What are we talking about?”

Em’s Hubby, “She is about to go down and spend a weekend with a guy she likes and she sent him a Facebook message telling him she is spotting blood.”

Me, "I wanted to tell him I was spotting in case he didn't want me to come down and have intercourse with him."

Producer, "If you were rolling in feces on his bed, he would still want you to go down and have sex with him."

I laughed. The producer tilted his glass, nodded and took a drink.

Producer, “Who are you here with?”

I said, “A guy I went on a date with a year and change ago.”

Producer, “Why is he taking you to this?”

Me, “Well he has been trying to get me to go out with him since.”

Producer, “For over a year?”

Em’s Husband turned away, sipping his drink and manically smoking his Spirits.

I said, “That’s right.”

Producer, “And this is what it took to get another date with you.”

Me, “That’s right.”

Producer, “Does he know you are driving down to see someone else in San Diego tomorrow?”

Me, “Yes.”

Producer, “Huh. Why are you dating someone all the way in San Diego?”

Me, “Because he is smart and funny. That’s hard to find.”

Producer, “Well . . . good luck.”

Me, “Thanks!”

Em’s Husband turned back around, “So where did we leave this?”

Producer, “I wish the best for San Diego. I hope it all works out.”

After some polite questions about his business, and my documentary, he gracefully stepped away, leaving me with Em’s Husband.

Em’s Husband, “Why can’t you just tone it down?”

Me, “I am not hurting you. It doesn’t affect you.”

Em’s Husband, “Am I being hurt by your general insanity? Yes.”

Me, “No one cares. I am here independently.”

Em’s Husband, “Can you think about me and my career first?”

Me, “No, I am too busy thinking about me and my career.”

Em’s Husband, “I think its in bad taste. I think you make people uncomfortable and just do that thing you do. Oliver Stone and unprotected sex . . .”

Me, “No one cares, it’s a Hollywood party.”

Em’s Husband, “These are my co-workers. I just can’t have you two running around being crazy.”

Me, “Please, my stories were probably the highlight of their evening.”

Em’s Husband, “Do you even know who that was?”

Me, “That guy? Some producer . . .”

Em’s Husband, “We don’t know. I might want to work with him.”

Me, “That doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

Em’s Husband, “Yes it does. He might be someone I will work with. Now he knows me only as the guy with the girl talking about her bloody vagina.”

Me, “He won’t even remember you. He will always remember me and our conversation, and not because I am one of the many actresses at this party.”

Em’s Husband, “And your date looks miserable.”

Me, “No he doesn’t.”

Em’s Husband, “Yes he does, you keep talking to everyone else but him.”

Me, “He excused himself to go talk to some people.”

Em’s Husband, “You know, one of these days, a couple years from now, I am going to make you cry.”

Me, “You are going to make me cry? Do you have any idea what type of people I’ve worked for?”

Em’s Husband, “Oh, doesn’t matter. I’ve been holding back. One of these days I won’t.” His eyes narrowed as he sucked out the remainder of his cigarette.

Me, “I accept the challenge.”

Listen, I love Em and her husband. They are the closest thing to a family I have out here. The idea that my general zaniness and off-the-cuff behavior bothers either of them or Alan leaves me with doubt. When do I grow up?

After going into the exclusive after-party area behind a curtain with a life sized version of ROUS (Rodents of Unusual Size from The Princess Bride) and a few of the award winners, I felt my feet get cold and my body winding down. I was looking for Jeffery Ross, who hosted but was no longer there. But that’s alright. My feet were killing me and I felt bad.

I ran into the Producer again and said, “My friend thinks I made him look bad. Did I?”

The Producer cupped my face, kissed me on the cheek and said, “No, you’re perfect.” Well then.

I went home with Austin to let the vodka thin out. We sat on his couch and watched a really awesome movie called The Room as he massaged my feet. I heard about it, championed as the worst movie ever made . . . its bad. Oh so bad. And you should rent it with some friends immediately.

Austin offered me a vicadin, which I took half of until I really got into the movie, then I took the other half. I slipped into a dream world, and Austin retired to the bedroom. Why am I popping prescription pills boys hand to me in the middle of the night? I really don't have any kind of a good answer for that.

He woke me up at 5am so I could get a jump start on traffic and get home to feed my dogs.

I was slow moving, so he played some B-sides of the Doors . . . Hyacinth House, their version of Gloria, Moonlight Drive alternate versions, Who Scared You . . . stuff I haven’t been able to listen to over the last few moves since living alone doesn’t motivate me to organize my things. Also, since my last two computers suicided themselves with all my music on it, I have been using the radio, YouTube and Pandora for musical gratification.

We chatted as the sun came up. We examined our gift bags like it was Christmas morning; a DVD collection of the Exorcist and several other DVDs, nail polish, a ball that lights up when you bounce it. Score.

Dear Prudence circulated back to the speakers . . . ♫ ♪ The wind is low . . . the birds will sing . . . That you are part of everything . . . ♫ ♪

It was a fairly respectable seduction. I liked Austin. I could see why he thought we would get along. And after the email exchange with Alan, I found new doubt with the San Diego trip. That said, I wanted to give Alan a chance with a clear mind.

So I went home and listened to music instead of sleeping more. Then I went to work, came home and gave the tour to my dogsitter/co-worker before driving down to San Diego.


Friday, June 24, 2011

Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked: Hollywood Parties

Friday, I picked up my paycheck at the Doggie Daycare and swooped up Trent by chance, who also needed to deposit his check.

We ended up at Akbar, a gay bar in Silver Lake, for Happy Hour. Kent met us there and we shared a pitcher of beer.

I said, “So Alan has been communicating with me less lately. I know he has a cold and is preparing for midterms, but should I be concerned?”

Kent, “You should write him a little something supportive.”

Me, “Oh, I was gonna go with making him jealous.”

Trent, “That’s what I would do. See? We are exactly alike.”

Kent, “No no no.”

Kent was going to the Hippie Drug House that evening and I asked to come along. I am going through a phase right now, its not like I do drugs (other than pot) everyday. Its just my mind is being a little adventurous at the moment. And with minimal obligations, I might as well enjoy what I can get away with.

The hill to the house is incredibly steep. My knees could tap the sidewalk on that incline.

As we huffed and puffed upward, Kent breathlessly said, “We gotta work for our drugs.”

When we arrived at the house, there was a guy sitting at the kitchen table, under the spaceships and alien toys. He didn’t say hello to us, but her dog did.

The man said, “This ukelele music is just too much.”

Marcia said, “It kind of is, isn’t it?” She didn’t make a move. She let it play.

Kent bought some more of the same. I asked for shrooms this time. On my limited budget, she gave me a large cap and asked me to give her my number, so she could keep me in her phone.

This is how the business works with her, you see her a few times through a personal reference- then she puts your number in her phone. Voila, you are linked in.

We headed back to his apartment, where I said goodbye and hopped in my car.

The next day, I nibbled and felt a little something. When I arrived at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery to watch HEATHERS with my longtime friend Jeph, I took a little more.

Shrooms are by far my favorite narcotic of choice, maybe next to x. They come with a high that tickles the inside of your gut. At my undergrad, we used to make something called “Gummy Bear Juice” out of it.

You laugh from the gut, those hard cackles that are really hard to come by. You feel warmth towards everything around you. And generally, you hallucinate, ie. if you stare at a pattern long enough, it appears to move. They are easy to come down from, you feel relaxed and calm.

This night, I never took enough to feel really off. I was in control, I knew what was happening and there were no hallucinations. After the screening, the sky was yellow behind all the crooked palm trees. I don’t think I was hallucinating, I think that is actually what Hollywood looked like that night.

I drove to Liquid Kitty in Santa Monica where a fellow actor invited me to Jason Patric’s birthday party. Before heading inside, I took a little bit more of the shroom cap.

I was wearing my skin tight AC/DC Back in Black t-shirt that men seem to drool over, with my skinny jeans. My new bangs fully hung over my face. The lip-gloss made me look almost 70s.

Dean is a bit older than me, early forties, angular jaw, rich and happens to be a great comedy actor, though you would never guess it. He has all these connections.

Anyway, I show up and enter a small room that is barely lit. I waded through people in the dark and saw him. Immediately, he bear hugged me, then hoisted me up into the air and pumped my body up and down. Yes, there was an erection down there.

I said, “Ok . . . ok.”

He was happy, sweaty and I thought high as a kite. He insisted he only had a little scotch.

To my left was the DJ, who was alternating between the Stones and the Doors (with some AC/DC, Violent Femmes, Dramarama thrown in there) which made my heart explode into a unicorn party. Next to the DJ was old black and white film footage of women doing nude dance. Naked, flapper type shit.

Dean introduced me to Sammy, an overweight, half-Russian, half-Italian producer. He hugged me and comfortably wrapped his thick arms around my waist. He said, “What are you having?”

I said, “I am not drinking right now.”

He said, “Come on, whatever you want.”

I said, “Well, since you are twisting my arm . . . how about  beer?”

The cold Heineken felt good on my throat. I saw Jason and Kiefer Sutherland at the bar, but Dean didn’t take me immediately to them. I was introduced to a few other filmmakers and actresses before he led me towards Jason.

Maybe this is a good place to say I FUCKING LOVE THE LOST BOYS!! LOVE, I mean, let me be specific: I made my grandmother buy me a VHS copy for Christmas and watched it over and over again until the thing disintegrated. I was just a little girl with another school-girl fantasy of being trapped in a love triangle with Kiefer and Jason (to be alternated with my TV dubbed YOUNG GUNS). Of course now, I was very much taller than them.

They both came up to my nose.

Jason was wasted. I mean, I don’t remember if we met officially without eye contact, or what the nature of the introduction was. I could tell, however, he was trying to figure out how close to Dean I was.

Dean continued to bear hug me and rock me back and forth. Jason smiled at me from over his shoulder and returned to the ladies at the bar.

God Damn it, Dean, you cock blocked Jason Patric!! Ughhhh.

Then Chris Noth was there. (I heart Big). A few times we caught eyes and I smiled politely. He would suddenly look away. We ran into each other at the door and he stopped, stared and then quickly walked away. I thought a) what assholes, do I have to be a fucking celebrity to get a “hello”  b) they must be on coke and freaked out by my intense eyes. I can be rather intense looking.

Later, I found out that his wife suddenly showed up in the middle of the party, and he shut himself off from everyone but a core group of friends.

They are just celebrities, I mean its not a big deal. Its weird seeing them in person, initially- but they didn’t really influence the vibe of the party very much.

Dean introduced me to some music video director who wouldn’t look me in the eye either. He just heard a song and repeat, “I did this music video.”

He was trying to build up the confidence to talk to Jason and Kiefer about a role, and was actually going to make an offer with money. I said, “Let’s just do it right now. I will say I am your agent.”

He wouldn’t look at me. “I know better than that.”

As it turned out, he got too wasted to ever even talk to them. Tragic.

Everywhere I turned, men kept checking my bottle and offering to buy me a drink. Young men, old men. Men there for Jason, or men just there for drinks. It was a very friendly bar.

A few boys around my age came up to talk to me. One said, “Who did you come here with?”

I said, “I came alone.”

He said, “Wow, brave for a beautiful girl.”

I said, “Well, I have been around. I mean, not around but I have been um . . . around.”

He nodded and smiled.  I would occasionally venture away from the bar, but I didn’t want to get caught in the storm Dean was creating on the dance floor. Dean kept dancing. He was the only one. His wild limbs flung around as he took off his button-up and slithered around in a wife beater, chest hair and a small gold chain.

I would go back to the corner where Sammy sat. He got me another drink, or someone got me another drink.

I said, “I really shouldn’t.”

Sammy said, “Why not?”

I said, “Because I am on narcotics right now.”

A man of about 70 next to him said, “Which ones?”

I laughed and said, “Shrooms.”

They both smiled and the man of 70 said, “Wow, way to go. I am impressed. I am a child of the 60s so I really appreciate that.”

I asked him for a smoke, and he said he was going to step out for one as well.  I lit the wrong end of the cigarette. He plucked the bad cigarette from my fingers and slid in a brand new one.

Then he lit my cigarette and I said, “You are quite the gentleman.”

He was good-looking, around my height, and sober. We had a nice chat outside.

We came back in and Sammy said, “You should know who you are talking to. This guy is a big director, he did (insert movies we have all seen and loved from the 80s). I coolly said, “Wow.”

I really didn’t feel anything at the moment. I am not overpowered by the need to network or kiss his ass or ask him a question about what its like working with so and so. I just wanted to glide along into the night.

Sammy gave me his number and said, “Here, give me a call Monday morning. I will put you in a movie.”

I said, “What if I am a terrible actress? You should see some demonstration of my ability.”

He threw his hand in the air, “Don’t worry about it. Now call me, when? Monday.  I don’t do email, I don’t do Facebook or Twitter or any of that shit.”

I said, “Do I have to call you from a rotary phone, too?”

The 70-yr-old director, let’s call him Tom, laughed out loud.

"The Changeling" came on. The song choices were chimerical. Songs most people don’t ever hear in public dosey-doed with a few cult hits. I actually went  up to the DJ to thank him. He smiled and bowed, as if he was the servant to us. Later, I caught his eye dancing to “My Wild Love”, I stopped and bowed to him, while making a heart with my hands.

Tom said, “Sammy is staying at my place tonight, you don’t have to drive back to Pasadena. You can hang at my place.”

I said, “That’s alright, I am fine to drive.”

He said, “Well, you can come over for a while. Its up to you. The invitation is open.”

The bar was closing. There was no fucking way I was leaving without meeting Kiefer Sutherland. I lusted after him in the 2nd grade after seeing “Amazing Stories,” I mean . . . I used to lie awake at night praying to my Catholic Jesus that we would end up together so we could hold hands. When I found out he was married, I cried. That’s right. I CRIED. I was 10.

So when he and Jason went into the men’s restroom arm in arm, I waited as the rest of the bar emptied out on to the streeet.

They came out stumbling. I stepped in front of them, crossed my legs, waved my hand in the air and bowed. Kiefer stepped up to my face and embraced me. Bear Hug Night!

His sweat was all over me and I chuckled against him as he rocked me back and forth. Irish boys. He released me and walked away without a word. Jason Patric stopped just short of the bar and lifted up his shirt to make sure his 6-pack was still there. I checked. It was.

Dean was eager to spend time with me. He kept talking to me about making babies, and how happy I looked and how great I hugged. Oy. I said, “I get that you want to impregnate me but-“

Then he kissed me. He held my face and tried to keep kissing me.

I said, “Stop that now. I am seeing someone I really like right now.”

He stopped and asked what was going to happen next. I turned to Tom and said, “After party at your place?”

We decided to caravan, of course they were all valet and I was parked one block down the street. So I pulled up and we all left together.

I followed Tom and Sammy into an underground parking lot not far from the bar. Then followed them into a mini mansion, a compact mansion on small real estate plots. They are common in Venice and Santa Monica.

Tom showed me his framed Woodstock tickets and opened a bottle of wine. Oh dear. I took a little more shrooms and sat down. I couldn’t give Dean the address because my reception was totally gone.

Sammy said, “He’ll be fine. He can’t come over now. He was off on his own thing.”

I said, “I promised I would.”

They both said, “Don’t worry about it. Dean is fine.”

I said, “Please call him so he doesn’t think I ditched him.”

Sammy swayed a little over his phone and called as I used the restroom. There I heard him say, “She is leaving right now. She is going home and we are going to bed. Ok? Ok. Talk to you tomorrow.”

I walked out of the restroom and said, “Why did you tell him that?”

Sammy said, “He is going home and gonna sleep it off. I know him, its fine.”

I dumped myself into a designer couch and sipped some red wine. Sammy was drinking scotch when Tom dropped a pill in his hand. Sammy said, “I need more. I NEED MORE!”

Tom said, “Trust me, with the scotch that will knock you out.”

I said, “Um .  . . I am a little worried about you taking strong pills with liquor. It’s very dangerous. I don’t want to have to watch you die tonight. That would traumatize me.”

Sammy dismissively waved his hand in the air.

Tom said, “Trust me, he’s used to it.”

Sammy said, “You know who had a problem? Anna Nicole Smith. I dated her for a couple months. Great girl. She came into my club, this is how I met her, I owned this club 10-15 years ago. She walks in and says to me, ‘I will do anything for mashed potatoes.’ So I turn over to my chef and have him whip up some mashed potatoes, while I buy her drinks and we get to talking and flirting.

Then my chef brings out the mashed potatoes, and I scoop them up and dump them in her brassiere. Just like that (he is motioning with his hands here in the story). So I keep scooping them into her bra, and she is loving it. I fucked her while eating mashed potatoes off of her chest and it was . . . one of the best things . . . it was really nice.”

Tom said, “I always think about my affair with Maria Schneider.”

I said, “Who?”

He said, “She was in a movie called Last Tango in Paris.”

I said, “Oh, I know it well. But she is a lesbian.”

Tom smiled over his glass and let his head fall to the side, “She was on the fence.”

I said, “You had an affair with her?”

He said, “In Spain. But nobody ever believes me.

I was dating a girl that was working on a Jack Nicholson film. Jack’s assistant called me and said, ‘Someone really wants to see you. I have been told to get you a round trip ticket to Spain.’ And I had nothing at the time. I didn’t have any money, or a job or a place but I would do anything to jump on a plane and meet Jack Nicholson.

I get out there, and I will always remember the look she gave me, like ‘There’s my boyfriend.’ You know, ecstatic to see me.”

I said, “You didn’t feel the same way.”

He shook his head slowly, like he was underwater.

He said, “And one day, Maria calls me and says, ‘I need to take a bath and I don’t have anyone to wash my back. So naturally, I went up to her hotel room. She was with a woman named Jo at the time, who was out doing something else.

We took a bath, I washed her back and Jo stumbled in, looked at us and passed out on the bed. I knew she would have had a threesome with us if she were conscious. But she passed out. It’s a shame.

Maria and I went ahead anyway, with her girlfriend asleep in the room. It was an amazing experience.”

I said, “Was that it? Just the one night.”

He nodded.

These guys were living in the past. I wondered where I would be, when I was 70 and telling stories about right now.

We got on the subject of money and I told them I was struggling. I didn’t want to be specific, but I think it helps people know who they are dealing with. I am a nobody.

Sammy said, “Never say that.”

I said, “Well right now I am. I can’t afford my rent. The second half of my rent is going to put me in the red until July’s rent is due. It’s a vicious cycle. I don’t know what to do.”

Sammy said, “What do you need?”

I said, “$495.”

He said, “I’ll give you a check for that. Call me on Monday, I will get you a job at my company. No problem. I will give you the $495 and help you with July’s rent.”

I said, “I am not going to take money from someone who is intoxicated.”

He said, “Just take it. Take it! I would give it to you sober anyway.”

I said, “I would rather wait until you are sober.”

Sammy started nodding off in his chair.

I said, “Why don’t we tuck you in?”

Sammy slurred, “Where am I going to sleep?”

Tom said, “In my daughter’s room. It’s a princess room but the bed is comfortable.”

Sammy said, “No, I am fine.”

I said, “Come on, I will read you a story.” I must have been out of my mind.

So the pattern I have recently identified is when I am out of my mind on drugs, I mother people.

He clumsily climbed halfway into the bed when I found “Horton Hears a Who!”

I said, “PERFECT!”

Tom was in the room as I took off Sammy’s shoes then he gracefully exited as soon as Sammy started pawing at me.

I said, “No no no!”

He said, “Come on, what do you need? I will write you a check.”

I said, “On the fifteenth of May, in the Jungle of Nool . . .”

Sammy said, “Let me eat your pussy.”

I said, “Don’t talk to me that way. I am a lady.”

Sammy said, “Come on, let me eat your pussy. I am sooooo good at it.”

Me, “We are in your friend’s house and you are propositioning me?”

Sammy, “He doesn’t care.”

Me, “Stop this. Don’t do it.”

Sammy, “Let me eat your pussy.”

I got up outraged, “Eugh. Disgusting.” I angrily threw the rest of the blanket over his exposed leg.

Sammy sat up and gave me a look of Italian disgust and said, “I am doing you a favor. Do you know who I am?”

I said, “Oh, you are doing ME a favor. Wow. Thanks.”

Sammy (this time, child-like), “I just want to take care of you . . . “

I said, “I was going to read to you but now you’ve ruined it. Good night.”

He said, “Wait, wait wait . . . let me say one more thing.”

I said, “Before you do, I want you to think about my mother.”

Sammy, “Let me eat your pussy.”

I exhaled a dry barf, gasped and left outraged, but not angry. I mean, its ridiculous and rude, and disgusting . . . but that’s Hollywood.

I walked downstairs and Tom was sitting there with a couple Parliaments and a bottle of wine. He even had the fireplace on . . . in June . . . in Los Angeles. J

I said, “Thanks for leaving me up there.”

Tom said, “I knew you could handle yourself.”

I think he was testing me or something.

Me, “So how did you become a director?”

He said, “I taught (insert big celebrity from the 70s)’s niece how to ski. He said he wanted to return the favor, so I told him what I really needed was a recommendation to USC film school and he wrote me the letter. Its laminated in the bathroom.”

I went in and read it.

I said, “That’s nice. I wish he would treat women better. I have heard horrible stories.”

Tom said, “We all have stories.”

I said, “Yes, but one should never urinate on a lady.”

We ran out of cigarettes and he offered to drive us to CVS to pick up more.

In the car:

Me, “I love Gene Hackman. What was it like working-“

Tom, “He is Satan.”

I laughed.

Tom, “I am not even kidding. Next time you see him on screen, look into his eyes.”

In the Mansion:

I told him about my documentary.

He said, “Wow, I had no idea.”

I said, “Well, you know, I did come out here to be a filmmaker. It’s just too taxing. It took all my money; I am still paying it off and not seeing a dime. I haven’t heard from my sales rep in years, and he is the one who gets the checks. I am assuming he is just cashing them in himself.”


Tom said, “You could sue him.”

I said, “I will, when I am rich.”

Then I told him I write, namely this blog.

I said, “I write about everything so . . . let me just apologize in advance. I keep things anonymous but . . . I write about everything.”

He smiled and asked for the name and my phone number.

I said, “I can just call your phone.”

He said, “I am a pen and paper kind of guy.”

I said, “Oh. Do you have email or do I have to use smoke signals with you, too?”

He laughed and said, “No, I have email. Give me the name of the blog.”

I did.

He laughed, again. He was giddy.

I didn’t feel like I was tripping on psychedelics. I just felt comfortable.

We spoke about the African who made his furniture without profit. (Yeah right, an AFRICAN is going to make a rich director furniture without profit.)

And the Amish made the dining room table.

It was interesting to me that he was surrounded by all this spiritually inspired furniture and didn’t seem spiritually inspired himself.

Then he reached in and kissed me.

I thought about two very specific things:

1)      I thought about how I told myself, if it didn’t work out with me and Abe, I would sleep with a high powered director as a social experiment to see if it got me anywhere.

2)      I thought about Alan. In my mind I kept saying, “I am sorry. I am sorry.”

I did kiss back. So please stop accusing me of only being interested in younger men. I like Tom but . . . Alan and I have been talking every day since our first date. I adore our conversations. What the fuck was I doing?

I pulled away.

He said, “You kiss like a demon.”

I said, “Dude, don’t say that when I am tripping on shrooms.”

He said, “Why? Take it as a compliment. Evil is powerful.”

I pushed away and muttered, “I am not evil.”

I mean . . . I’m not.

Tom said, “No, I like the way you kiss. I would like to do this the right way and take you out.”

I said, “I would like that. I am a nice girl.”

Tom said, “I think this could be interesting. I appreciate this whole conversation, I appreciate the upfront honesty and the intelligence and just your personality. The only thing I see about us not working out is the age difference.”

I said, “Tom, we aren’t going to work out.”

He said, “Well . . . I know . . . but I would like to take you out anyway and show you a couple things.”

What am I? An idiot. Of course I wouldn’t mind spending an afternoon or evening with a professional director who treats me like a lady.

The sun was coming up and I said, “I have to go.”

Tom said, “Why don’t you lie down with me in my bed?”

I said, “No no no. You know better than that. I know you need to sleep so I am gonna get out of here.”

He said, “Don’t you!?”

I laughed and said, “Need to sleep? Not really. That’s the funny thing about me.”

He said, “That’s weird, like Twilighty.”

I stood up and looked down on him.

I said, “Oh please! I am not a vampire!”

He shrugged his shoulders in uncertainty and said, “I don’t know.”

I couldn’t believe after taking magic shrooms and drinking 4 units of alcohol, I was still of more sound mind than anyone else I met that night.

Before I left, he said he never thought he would feel what he was feeling again before he died, and thanked me. It was kind of sad and romantic.

I got in my car and drove home in the early morning mist off the Pacific Ocean, something I miss since I moved from the west side. You can taste the saltwater in the air.

As I got on the freeway, I called Alan and told him about the Eating Pussy scenario and the “You’re a demon” conversation.

He said, “It sounds like a bad trip You should not be going out alone in public on hallucinogenics.”

I said, “I’m fine, its ok. Its just, I don’t think my actions tonight honored you. I want to honor you. What type of girl goes to someone’s mansion and puts herself in that position? I want to do right by you and I feel like you deserve a better girl than me.”

He said, “Um . . . we have only been dating for 2 weeks. You don’t have to worry about honoring me. This is part of the business. Part of being an actress is going to director’s houses. I get that. You might want to be careful with who you sleep with, because it could hurt your reputation. Just be calculating and careful. We are both in evil businesses. Just never lie to me and you won’t hurt me.

And next time someone offers you a role in a movie, make sure you have an agent there with a contract ready to sign. That’s how this business works.”

His knee jerk reaction wasn’t betrayal, though there was a hint of jealousy in our next Gchat conversation when he suggested buying me mace and a pocket oozie before the next Hollywood party.

The thing with Abe was I did everything to keep that relationship honorable. I never lead anyone on, I was never looking over his shoulder, everything I did kept his best interests in mind. I was 100% loyal to him.

With Alan on my side, I see a different kind of relationship. Instead of family dinners (he doesn’t know his and mine aren’t talking to me) and jealous spats, we would strategize and be on the level. We would keep our best interests in mind.

We would be . . . a power couple.

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Modeling, Narcotics and Gay Porn

 Two weeks ago, I had a model audition. I hate those auditions. Models are like actresses but cattier and not interesting. My model booking service always sends me to the same studio for auditions, I don't think its the only company they work with, but its the only company that calls me in. The studio is very clean, a large big screen plasma TV, a white shag rug and lots of glass; glass walls, glass doors, glass tables.

Last time I was there for an audition, I saw two people walk into the waiting room and scope out the girls, pinch their faces in disappointment and shake their heads. Shortly thereafter, I was told by a red haired woman with a pointy face that she couldn't work with my hair type and excused me in a room full of bitches. Other girls were excused before me, but something about the moment turned me off to those casting calls. I am not a model, I can't walk, the only knowledge I have of modeling is from watching every episode of America's Next Top Model at least once. (Yes, I have.)

So that particular morning, I thought about skipping the audition. The studio is all the way out in bumfuck Woodland Hills, it takes gas to go out and be rejected in person. Its part of the business, I get it, but it reminds me a little bit too much of picking teams in gym class. Though I was the most athletic girl, I was the least popular. They never let me forget it. Here I am again, updating my Facebook status, leaning up against the back wall trying to stay upright on heels.

We were called back and the clacking of high heels on linolieum filled the building. Then, we were pulled into a presentation room and a very sweet Latina girl gestured towards me first. Me? First!

She asked me to step aside with one other girl, and then we were asked if we would agree to a specific hair cut and color. She showed me a spread called Glamazon featuring an Asian woman with long flowing hair and bleach ends. I said, "Yeah, I am fine with that."

Immediately, the two of us were ushered into a salon parlor where I had to sit on my bony ass for 4 hours as my hair was cut and dyed while being forced to listen to bad pop music. The other model was friendly enough, she had very short hair that was being chopped even shorter. She said, "I book these jobs often enough to make good money, but I am a commercial actress and they always give me hair cuts that aren't very marketable." They cut one side of her hair at a strict angle over her ear, left the other side long and dyed portions of her bangs green, purple and frosty blonde. The rest of her hair was a deep black. I loved her look.

She was reading a book and didn't talk much.

The beautiful latina girl working on my hair was conducting a live webinar on the two styles- both looks for the fall.

She cut my hair and asked, "When was the last time your hair was worked on?"

I said, "Here on another job in January. I can't afford haircuts. Well, I can at Supercuts but I don't know what's so God damn abstract about asking to look like Lindsay Lohan. Billowing layers. They always only give me two, long bangs and a trim."

She said, "Well this is better, getting paid to get your hair cut."

I said, "Yes, its ideal."

She said, "I chose you in the waiting room. I wanted you as soon as I saw you. If you were here for another casting call, I was going to wait around and try to nab you."

I blushed.

We discussed dating.

She said, "Anywhere else in the country and I would have a boyfriend. But dating in LA sucks."

This hair stylist was gorgeous, I mean, she looked like a softer Jennifer Lopez.

She continued, "Now I am finally at that age where I can date someone in their mid-40s and not feel weird about it."

I said, "Where are all the guys our age?"

She said, "I don't know where they are."

I booked this job for $400. That's the most I have ever made on one job before. Of course, I don't get paid for 60 days.

When my hair was blown dry, I looked in the mirror and looked different, almost elegant. I have never been that pretty before.

I updated my Facebook status, "Don't believe what the media tells you about age. I just looked in the mirror and am prettier now at 33 than ever before."

We were fitted for wardrobe, and the other model came out in a jet black bob and a black vintage dress, I said, "Wow, you look amazing."

She was suddenly cold with me, barely looked over and said curtly "Thank you." Swiftly, she turned around and walked out. Jesus, don't hate me for being beautiful.

When I drove home, I was high on the whole thing. I knew that eventually I would start getting jobs. There have been some great, well paying prospects calling, auditioning .  . . but no bookings. Sooner or later, I had to book something.

I called my parents. My mother didn't pick up. She's mad at me.

Two week before, she was pushing me into moving back to Washington again. What would I do there? My life is HERE.

She said, "But you are miserable there."

I said, "I am not miserable, I am heartbroken. I was heartbroken up there too. I was miserable when I was stuck in a lease with a boyfriend who was beating me up and my bosses were torturing me. I asked to move back then. You said, 'Tough Love.' TOUGH LOVE. I started over on my own and I am not going to give that up."

She said, "Oh, I see. You are going to bring this up. We gave you that car years ago and I send a couple hundred a year when I can. I . . . I have a headache. I have to lie down."

I was tipsy but WTF . . . if Jennifer Lopez can move into her father-in-law's ranch in some Robert Redford movie, I SHOULD BE ABLE TO GO SOMEWHERE TOO. She wasn't there for me. That is when I stopped calling my mother once a day, and stopped caring what she thought.

She pushed me into grad school. She pushed me into getting married. She pushed me into office jobs. She pushes . . . with no foresight. When I reach for her, she lets go entirely. I can't take that anymore.

So here I was, with great news and she was going to turn her back on me again. She and Abe have a lot in common.

I called Alan and left a voicemail. He was in the process of buying a car and finding a new apartment. It seems like everyone is in a major transitional shift. I left a message on my sister's voicemail and then I rushed over to Trent's to take him to the doctor.

Two weeks before, Trent got in a fight with a taxi driver. The driver wouldn't accept credit card for payment, so they were driving around for an ATM but Trent didn't want to dish out extra cash for gas while they were looking, so tempers simmered. They found one, Trent was tossed on whiskey, wine and tequila. He ate a sandwich, got in a fight with the driver and smeared the sandwich all over the back seat of the car. Pushes came to shoves and they got in a fist fight.

Trent's lip was split and his hand was swollen to three times its original size.

One week later, he was sitting on his boyfriend's lap in the back of a car sharing the seatbelt. The car of intoxicated twenty-somethings erupted in an arguement of sorts and the car smashed into a barrier off the freeway.

Trent's wrist popped on his swollen hand.

He is beating himself up.

I told him I would drive him to the "free clinic" which is actually $40. I was late, trying to fit in a free lunch with fridge food back at my place in the middle. I fucked up.

As I was driving him, I said, "I am worried about the people you are hanging out with. I heard you were dragged by a car once a couple months ago . . ."

He said, "Oh. Yeah. Persian guy."

Trent likes to seduce men who are on the fence with homosexuality. When he gets them to turn, he loses interest. I guess you could look at that as evil, but I think he is doing a public service. I mean, at least now they know they are gay.

We were 2 minutes late and they said the doctor left for the day.

I called around other clinics, but no one could give me a straight answer on whether or not Trent would have to pay, they all just referred us to Urgent Care which is at least $100.

We sat in my car and Trent told me not to worry about it. It was hard making an appointment, he hated the clinic and its the bureaucracy and would rather just drink a bottle or two of wine with me.

So thats what we did. We grabbed a couple bottles of white at a liquor store and went back to his boyfriend's place. Kent, the BF, is a high school teacher and wasn't home from school yet.

Trent said, "I really like the blog and I am a total snob. I think you are going to end up being one of those artists that isn't appreciated until after you die, like Emily Dickinson or Bessie Smith."

I said, "Yeah, I don't really mind. I think its my calling to document a life of struggle right now, at this moment in time. And I have to live it to capture it."

We exchanged some secrets, which easily rolled out of my mouth onto the bed where we sat. Trent smiled and nodded. I did the same. No tears or bursts of confession, we were just kicking in the drywall. We knew each other already, the details don't matter. Its ok.

Kent came in, cute, early 30s, a little shorter with a full beard and glasses. I hadn't met him yet, so when he walked in we were pleasant but studying each other from a cool distance.

Trent said, "She is like my soul mate."

His boyfriend said something to the effect of, "SHE'S your soulmate. Oh, then shall I leave you two alone . . ." or something. It was playful but not.

They invited me to a drug dealer's house to pick up narcotics for the Gay Pride Parade in West Hollywood the next night. Its a pretty big deal down here.

While Kent got ready and the boys kissed, I emailed Alan. Buzzing from cheap wine I wrote . . .

Me: June 10 at 8:08pm
"I just looked up how long it takes for all the body's cells to regenerate because I don't want Jaq's vagina on my vagina. It's 7 yrs. :-/ " (Jaq is his ex-girlfriend and my ex-friend).

Alan: June 10 at 8:09pm Report
"Of all the arrangements of words I had not wanted to see tonight, I think that one might be at the top of the list."

I wrote: June 10 at 8:32pm
"Let me redeem myself: I think about you all the time. Half the time I think about having lots of sex with you and even going down on you (which I never fantasize about) and the other half I am thinking about how to make you happy. Maybe I will learn how to cook."

Alan: June 10 at 8:53pm Report
"Nicely done. And I saw your kitchen! You know how to cook! You just have to know how to cook for me. (hint: it involves a drive-thru) " 

Me: June 10 at 9:17pm
"Going to a hippie drug house soon. I want to slow dance with you. And eat Thai food. And be your girlfriend.

Does that scare you?"

Alan: June 10 at 9:22pm
"Well hippie drug houses scare me. Baths really don't offend Mother Earth. Other than that, no."

I followed them to this house, and a middle-aged woman in a short black bob, purple (almost stylish) short moo moo and knee high pink socks in pink converse greeted us at the door. The wall to my immediate right was full of vintage barbie dolls, from floor to ceiling. A room straight ahead appeared to have a red couch in the middle of green walls.  She guided us to the kitchen which was wall to wall of sci-fi toys still in their original packaging. All the toys were grouped by brand, "AstroBoy" "Jetsons" . . . stuff I never heard of. The toys were the wallpaper.

The ceiling had stars and planets painted as a backdrop with the occasional space ship toy hanging suspended in the air, facing off with another similar model craft. A few of those laser toy guns, like Flash Gordon, lined the wall over the doorway. It was extravagent.

The cabinets had no doors, so you could see vintage glasses and bowls from the 60s in perfect order. A Vintage B-Movie poster covered the entire fridge door.

The woman, Marcia, was nervous. She didn't make eye contact but was very direct. "What do you want?"

They said xanax, cocaine, adderall and Mollys (pure MDMA). Trent offered to buy me something. I said I never tried adderall. He got me a pill.

We left and walked back to Kent's apartment.

Once the second bottle of wine was opened, the mood changed. It became an emotional free for all.

I told them about a lover I had in college, and how once I asked him to wear his boyscout uniform and gave him one of the first blow jobs I had ever performed. Kent had a boyscout uniform, put it on and I took pictures of him making out with Trent. It all felt very natural in the moment.


Trent, "Yeah I was in a porn. I was young, really young. I didn't know what I was doing. You can see me though."

I said, "Did you get paid well?"

Trent, "No, I accidentally left the check for $600 in the car when I argued with this guy on the film. I asked for the check back but he said that was it. So I didn't get the money and now my ass is out there. Whatever."


Kent, "My brother's friends used to bully me all the time. I was forced to drink my brother's urine."


Me, "I had sex when I was 14 with someone older, in his mid-twenties. It was horrible. It was a terrible experience. I was uncomfortable, there was this black light, it hurt and I didn't know him very well. I ran into him when I was an adult and he asked me if I regretted it. I said I did. He said he didn't because it was a beautiful thing. I shook my head. I wanted him to know that I hated what he did to me. 14 is young, you forget how young until you actually meet a 14 yr-old."

I still tell people I lost my virginity at 16.

I never really tell that story because I am ashamed of it. Somehow with them, in this tiny little apartment, I felt like I could say anything and there would be no judgement. It would never be held over my head later. They just knew what I was talking about, in a way most women I know don't.

We took half a pill of adderall and then I saw the beautiful white lines of coke lined up on the glass table. Kent offered me a line.

I looked down at it and said, "Hello, old friend."

The snort of white powder tastes like aspirin. As it crawls through your nasal cavity into the back of your throat, your heart starts racing. The real high is about to hit as it slowly drops down the back of your throat into your heart.

I sat down in Kent's massage chair, the only chair in this studio, which violently rolled into my back. It was painful but I thought it would help work out the kinks in my back. Unfortunately, thanks to the drugs, I sat there for 5 whole hours while my flesah was beaten into rubber cement. My mouth hung open in excruiating pain thinking and emailing. Oh God, the emails . . . WHY!?!? While the chemicals were still merging into my blood stream, I started emailing Alan.

Me: June 10 at 11:50pm
I want u

Me: June 10 at 11:52pm
I want to give u the best sex of Ur life. If I concentrate I think I can.

Alan: June 10 at 11:52pm

Me: June 11 at 12:06am
I am trying to learn about blow jobs for you.

Me: June 11 at 12:44am
You are beautiful. I want to make you a vegan milkshake, give you a Bj and then kiss you.

Alan: June 11 at 12:46am Report
My umm... tastes change with my mood.. all of those tastes include you tho.. now I'm off to dream about you.

Me: June 11 at 12:47am
We are talking about genocide. I wish u were here. Or just awake. Law is more important than drug escapades with me. But u Are amazing enough to make this even more interesting.

Alan: June 11 at 1:18am
Woke up long enoug to tell u I miss u already.. bed seems empty.. talk to you tomorrow.. take care of your gays :D

Me: June 11 at 1:50am
I miss you. Stuck with the massage chair while they discuss higher intelligence and Mayan culture. Always thinking . . . about you.

GAWD, did I send that? For SHAME.

Sometime after, Kent was on his phone, scrolling through a community website trying to recruit a boy for a threesome with Trent. They had tried a threesome earlier in the week, but Trent lost his erection when he realized that he was jealous and asked the boy to leave. The boy picked up his clothes and ran out. Kent thought it rude but this may be Trent's first love. He must experiment to know what makes this affair different than the others. Experiments must come with failures.

Trent knew what Kent was doing on the phone while I typed away.

They got in an arguement and I mediated.

I said, "Trent, what Kent is trying to say is that because the prozac makes it difficult to keep an erection he wants to bring someone else in the mix so you are sexually satisfied."

Trent said, "Really?"

Kent said, "Yeah."

Trent, "I am sexually satisfied."

I said, "Kent, Trent gets jealous in threesomes."

Kent said, "Really!? I didn't know that."

I said, "Yes, Trent is in love with you."

Kent said, "I know . . . "

Trent said, "I love you."

They kissed. I resumed emailing, but branched out to men I had unfinished mental business with.

To Cabby (my first love from 10th grade). June 11 at 3:21am: "Why did you really break up with me?"

To Atticus (one great date and no call back) June 11 at 3:22am: "Did you read the blog?"

To Kashul (two nice dates and no call back) June 11 at 3:23am: "Did you read the blog?"

To The Prophet. (the most intense love affair of my life) Sat, Jun 11, 2011 at 3:26 AM: "Do you read the blog?"

I didn't email Abe, nor had any desire to. That's when I knew I was really over him.

Kashul emailed me back right away, June 11 at 4:09am
"Send me the link... "

I wrote, "June 11 at 4:35am
"Nah. Just checking. :) "

He wrote, June 11 at 4:35am
"Checking what...?"

Cabby wrote back, June 12 at 3:57am
"Social pressure amidst my delayed maturity the result of my first TBI." (Traumatic Brain Injury) Cabby was hit by a car in the 7th grade and in a coma for two weeks. They actally had to staple the top of his head back on. When he woke up from the coma, he cruised through college, got his Bachelor's Degree and resumed high school so he could be a normal kid and got caught up with me. He will never be normal.

Now he is a Registered Sexual Offender for initiating a sexual relationship with a high school student. I always joke he never got over me.


While Kent and Trent continued debating experiences with botched threesomes and their night in a sex club, stating who was jealous of who, and who wanted Kent and not Trent or Trent and not Kent- I would step out for a smoke.

One would follow me out and we would continue talking. Trent and I got on the subject of attempted suicides, we both had done it and were both institutionalized for it. We really do have a lot in common.

I said, "And what really sucked, is in the mental institution they wouldn't give me vegan food."

Trent, "That's why in jail I exchanged apples for burritos."

We went back inside, and we finished the coke. I thought about the Prophet, it is my only association with cocaine and part of why we bonded so intensely . . . just like Kent and Trent were bonding now, and I with them. Drugs can corrupt the mind, but they also bind souls.

Kent said, "You are so pretty. So is Trent. So pretty. There is so much pretty in the room I can't take it."

I straddled Kent and said in a baby voice, "You are a cutie pie. Whose a cutie pie? You are. Yes you are."

Kent asked to put on a video one of his students gave him, it was Pink Floyd Live. Trent didn't want to watch a video of Pink Floyd, and I even think there was mention of who was jealous of which Pink Floyd band member. Trent wanted to put on gay porn and was describing a scene to me. I asked to watch it and crawled in bed with both of them, sitting at the end of the bed between their feet.

In went the DVD and I watched two scenes of men dominating and degrading each other. It was interesting, I hadn't ever really seen men do it to each other.

Now watching porn isn't exactly erotic for me. Its more like watching Discovery channel but porn moves a little slower and offers less information. The men were angular and blocky with one incredibly feminine man, they call a Twink, always in the mix. Trent is a self-described "Twink."

Via Wikipedia: "Twink or twinkie is a gay slang term describing a young or young-looking gay man (in his late teens or early twenties) with a slender, ectomorph build, little or no body hair, and no facial hair.  In some societies, the term chick or chicken is preferred. The related term twinkle-toes, which implies that a man is effeminate, tends to be used in a derogatory manner. The terms can be complimentary or pejorative."

After two scenes, I waited it out until all three men orgasmed on the one guy and then said, "Ok, its 6am. I've got to go home."

In unison they said, "Noooooo! Stay!"

Kent said, "You have a very calming energy."

I wanted to go home and give myself a few orgasms before the coke wore off, and I would assume they would want to do that to each other. Not to mention, I had an audition in four hours.

Trent walked me to my car and said, "Now you are a really Hollywood starlet."

I sniffed up one nostril and said, "I'm ready for my close-up."

We laughed and I went home. I gave myself about 12 monster orgasms. And I don't use that term lightly. Between masturbating, I played some Pink Floyd and flirted with Alan on-line some more. I don't know when that kid sleeps.

I wrote: "Sorry about the emails. I didn't promise you I would lern to cook, did I?"

Then I wrote, "I've decided after this evening with my gays, that a couple just starting out in love should not go to sex clubs or have threesomes."

The adderall remained after the cocaine was soaked up by the morning light. I felt worried about nothing in particular and I was shaking a little.

Alan wrote, "Yeah, you are going to want to do a lot of things, but your body will be useless for the rest of the day."

He was right. I missed my audition, and from that point further, I promised myself never to let the drugs interfere with my career again.

It took me about two days to recover. I couldn't sleep at all that night and I worked the day after, then I had my modeling gig. I am getting to that age where looking tired could ruin my career. So I slept a lot, and drank lots of grapefruit juice.

Monday morning, I went in for my first modeling job. I couldn't afford a latte and the coffee maker I bought for $2 at a second hand shop was broken already, so showing up at 6:30am uncaffeinated was brutal.

Then, to have to sit in a chair and stare at yourself for hours on end while two people whip your hair about ... is maddening. I thought about sex to keep me alert.

The woman who rejected me at the last casting call because she couldn't work with my "hair type" came in to help. She said she entered into a beauty contest to help give her a title, so it would be easier to book hair seminars. She kept saying, "I was way out of my league. One girl gave me something to keep my bathing suit from going up my butt and it was super glue. Another girl said, 'Congrats on making the top ten. Oh yeah, you didn't.' And walked away. They were so mean. So I never did it again."

That's why she was so cold to us at that last audition. The thing is, we are all exposed to pretty bitches. It made her want to be one. It makes me not want to be one.

When I left to change into wardrobe, with my hair and make-up done, I looked in the mirror and said, "Never in a million years did I think you could look like this."

We did the first webinar, which was sickeningly boring. I sat there and let someone display my hair with a very medium smile on my face. They asked for a soft, no teeth smile, keep our face relaxed and not look into the camera during the webinar because it makes viewers "uncomfortable."

We didn't rehearse, so during the live taping I was brought in with the other model to show off the final hair style. In heels, I am well over 6 feet and I couldn't fit on the screen standing up. So they gestured for me to crouch and hover over the other model.

We had two webinars with a three hour break in between. We decided that I should not only do the next show barefoot, but sit in the chair with the other model standing behind me.

During the break, I started talking about my sex life to keep my mind going and engage the others. The other model chugged a 5-hr energy shot and started turning red on any part of her body that was touching the seat or a surface. She had alibaster skin, so the red really freaked her out. I told her to drink some water and flush it out.

The Make-Up Guy became a confidant with the other model. I told them about the director who kissed me during the audition.

Other Model, "Ew, gross. I would never take that role. Ever. "

I said, "I am taking it, I don't know, as long as he isn't the lead actor. I like the script and haven't done a short in a while."

Other Model, "Eugh, I don't think its worth it."

Then I told her about Joel and the $100 check. The Make-Up Guy, a big, black and very feminine man gave the old gay, closed mouth, "Nuh uhhhhhhh."

Other Model, "What does he do?"

I said, "He is an actor but he also bartends."

They both laughed and she said, "What is he going to pick up another Saturday night shift so you'll be his girlfriend. That's pathetic. Tell him, 'Hey Asshole, I make more than that just so people can do my hair."

I get that I was supposed to feel shame and outrage. Everything is complicated though. Joel liked me in a way that made him feel desperate enough for a grand gesture that had nothing to do with his heart and soul. And I felt badly about that.

Other Model, "Thank God I am not hot. I don't have to deal with directors trying to kiss me or men paying me for sex."

She thought I was hot? Please.

I said, "You are married. You are in a different category."

She said, "I don't bring my wedding band to auditions, but I guess thats true."

I said, "I think men can smell that I am vulnerable."

The Make-Up Artist shook his head and said, "Its hard dating out here. Its because no one is called out on their behavior. You can be whoever you want to be."

After the second show, I sadly took off the dress and left to deal with more audio grief on my project. It always seems like a waste of pretty to go home alone after a shoot.

The emails came back to haunt me. (Preface: Atticus sent me a puppy rescue story about a dog who shared my first name a week or two ago.)

Attitcus emailed back: June 14 at 3:11pm
This may be a stupid question but what blog? Also I should probably mention I have a girlfriend at the moment, so after you tell me about this blog we should maybe go back to our no-talking-during-relationships situation. I know I know, I initiated this one, but that puppy story was just too cute.


I wrote: June 14 at 3:31pm
Oh if you don't know it's irrelevant. I was not of sound mind or body when I emailed you and a few others that night.

I figured you had a girlfriend. I am also dating someone but in my relationships emails aren't a threat. Being adults and all.

Why don't we do one better and defriend? That way you can feel much more secure in your relationship.

Atticus wrote: June 14 at 3:57pm
Dude, I'm an adult, come on now. I know emails aren't a threat but I can imagine a saucy email exchange somehow biting me in the ass months later, so I dunno...just being courteous.

If you would like to defriend, no judgements. I have no desire to defriend you.


I wrote: June 14 at 11:09pm
I wanted to go home and smoke a bowl before responding to you.

A) I would not have a saucy email exchange with you because I am seeing someone I think is special, and out of respect for him and disinterest from me, there is no need.

B) Courtesy, Atticus . . . courtesy would NOT be taking a girl fresh off a break-up out on a date and then asking her to come home with you while having no intention whatsoever to call her. You were not forthright with me, and though it worked out for the best, I am seeing now that you didn't respect me as a friend, as an individual or as a woman. For all I know, you had a girlfriend at the time.

I called you after my break-up to meet because the relationship made me feel cynical and lonely. I thought spending time with someone I connected with and was attracted to would remedy the emptiness. Your behavior only amplified it. And then to find out you miraculously recovered from heartbreak to form a relationship with someone else, when the truth is, you just wanted me for that night.

I am a girl with a heart and mind. And the "diss" I guess is the right word for it was burn on top of fucking gushing blood from Abe.

I spent a few days wondering what I did wrong and concluded you read my blog and didn't contact me because of it. Which I would actually kind of understand.

As far as I am concerned, I dodged a bullet with you. I am glad I didn't sleep with you and even happier I didn't get to know you.

You are a douche bag, Atticus. The new guy is making up for it though, you are lucky. Otherwise, I would be really pissed off right now.


He wrote: June 15 at 1:01pm
Your contempt for me lies in the assumption that bringing a person home for some physical fun is somehow immoral, that good people, male and female, don't do this all the time without assuming it's somehow a precursor to a relationship. I resent the notion that this makes me a bad person. If I had somehow lied to you, that would be a different story. You told me you don't have sex outside of committed relationships, and I respected your boundaries. (Not true, I was on my period which is why we didn't have sex)

You were respected. You know what a rebound is, and you know that everything about that night has the obvious markings of one. To quote you:

"I called you after my break-up to meet because the relationship made me
feel cynical and lonely. I thought spending time with someone I connected
with and was attracted to would remedy the emptiness."

If you didn't want it to be a rebound then don't talk about your recent breakup, and don't go home with your date. I owe you nothing but the respect a good person deserves, a respect you seem to think that I do not.

Very sorry to message you. I'm glad to hear you're seeing someone who makes you happy.


I wrote: June 15 at 1:13pm

I have had a lover since and was open about what I wanted from that relationship before we got physical. That is the difference between you and me. Not the act, the means to achieve the act.

I liked you. You knew that. You blew me off.



My email exchange with Cabby pretty much ended with his offer to buy me a plane ticket to Hawaii and give him a chance to sexually satisfy me. Something he failed at when he came to visit LA in 2006.


And then Joel, after not hearing from me in a week and change, he read my blog and wrote me a painful email. Per his request, I can not include it in the blog. I felt badly though, and I think I owe him a conversation.

The blog continues to stack cross winds into a tornado of dry, hot emotion. My personal life was bloody last week, but at least my career was doing well.


My sister took leave from her 9th grade English class and came out for a Joyce conference in Pasadena to stay with me for two nights. I asked her about the man she was seeing, who she was so excited about during her last visit.

She said, "Something's off. We have gone on 8 dates and not gotten passed first base. He always walks me to my car, is always the perfect gentleman . . . but I think he is either living with his ex or still married. Unless he is still too hurt about his last relationship to get physical."

I said, "Men don't work that way. Women do, but not men. Sex is their motivator for almost everything."

This made me profoundly sad. My sister has not been in love for years and hasn't had sex in four. Love is magic, when you don't see it or feel it, you stop believing it exists.

I told her that I partied with a high school teacher who does cocaine. She said, "I don't blame him. I drink every day, I have to or else I couldn't bare my job. I gained back all the weight from the surgery." (She went through two liposuction treatments which were frankly grotesque. I nursed her back to health after the first one and I never want to see blood and fat ooze out of tiny holes in my sister again.) She said, "I gained back all of it. But I am going to keep drinking."

That morning, she woke up suddenly and said, "I don't know why I always have angry, violent dreams."

She isn't happy. God damn it.

Before work, she asked me to pick up some marijuana lollipops from the clinic. To my knowledge, my sister doesn't smoke at all. I think it will do right by her, so I did.

She hated the conference and felt like it was a waste of time, so when I came home after work with the lollipops, there were 6 empty bottles of beer and Mick Jagger singing on my computer screen. I looked at her and she said, "I didn't know what else to do. I couldn't find the remote."

The next morning, I woke up from a dream where a strange man was pressing into my back hard like the massage chair. I said, 'That hurts, stop!' And then I was restrained while he pressed harder. The pain was unbearable. The thought I had in my dream was 'Let go of your body and leave. Die.' I woke up with a breathless gasp. My sister touched my arm and said "It's ok."

She picked up her phone and scrolled through the news. Information before breakfast.

My Sister, "Looks like Weiner is stepping down."

Me, "Its about time. Jesus." He shouldn't have lied, looking back, maybe he shouldn't have resigned either.

My Sister, "And his wife should leave him, but she's pregnant."

Me, "So?"

Sister, "She should give it up for adoption. I wouldn't want any connection with that piece of shit."

Me, "A baby is more than a connection to the father, its a life growing inside of you."

My Sister, "Blah-blah-blah, blah-blah-blah-bah. I need a wash cloth so I can take a French whore's bath."

We got up and went for coffee at a local Starbuck's, which is our ritual now when she comes to visit.

Walking back to her car, she spilled coffee on her sleeve while rustling through her purse.

Sister, "Damn it."

Me, "Help is available to you. I have this whole other hand. You don't have to do everything by yourself."

Sister, "Apparently, I do. Apparently I will be dying alone while on your deathbed, you will still be getting angry emails from men."

We said goodbye. I hugged her hard while she lightly patted my back. We are totally different people. She hasn't discovered the secret. I can tell you, but you have to give yourself up to it 100% . . . "Fuck it all. Live for your soul."