I woke up at 6am and hiked my Pitties up Echo Mountain before 7am, because I was supposed to go do audience work at Fox Studios later that morning. Even after 80 minutes in traffic, I was still a half an hour late. I was stoned, so it didn’t matter too much. I used to get upset about being late, about driving and money and life . . . I surrender.
The security guard told me everyone was already locked in, so U-turning out of Fox, I headed towards Venice Beach. I asked Abe to meet me at the beach a couple days ago, give me back my things and say goodbye to my face. He responded with, “You think too much.” That’s it. Nothing else.
I parked on Venice Blvd and passed a little graffiti sign that said, “All Good Things are Wild & Free.”
So I took myself to the beach. The sand was warm already, even though it was just after 10am. I carelessly laid down in my nice outfit and fell asleep under my black heart sunglasses. I slept on my purse, the waves crashed over distant conversations and children’s laughter. I felt myself twitch and then float away on a shore of brown sugar.
Waking up with the tickle of cold sweat in my hair, I wondered if I could stay there forever. Then I got up and walked down the boardwalk.
A tall, handsome black man approached me with DVDs and put one in my hand.
(above is an actual pic I grabbed off his url http://livewirelegend.com/main/)
Handsome, “Do you want one of my DVDs of basketball greats? Samuel L. Jackson, Tracy McGrady, Kobe Bryant is on there . . . Hey, you have sand on your face. I can’t sit back here and let that happen.”
I wiped my face.
I said, “I can’t buy anything today. I only have $4. Even if I gave you a $1, that would be a quarter of my budget.”
Handsome, “I can’t take no dollar. These cost $2 to make.”
I said, “See? Yeah.” I handed him his DVD back.
Handsome, “Why does a pretty girl like you only have $4?”
I said, “Yeah, it’s that whole ethical way of life thing.”
Handsome, “You need a job. You can help me print DVDs. I’ll pay you. I make $300-400 a day selling these.”
I said, “Really?” What I meant was . . . (low voice, narrow eyes) really.
He said, “Yes! I’ve got diamonds on my shoes.”
I looked down and said, “Those aren’t real diamonds.” One was chipped.
He said, “They’re basketball diamonds. Damn, wipe that sand off your mouth.”
I did again.
I said, “Am I good?”
He said, “Yeah … yeah. You’re good. Hey, uh . . . you and me should get together for a drink or something.”
I said, “Tonight, I am going to a Penis Book Party. You are welcome to come.”
He said, “Nah, I can’t wear that. Where are you going right now?”
I said, “I don’t know, I am just wandering.”
He said, “Don’t wander.”
I said, “Why not? I want to.”
He said, “Hit me up some time.”
I said, “Well, you’re tall. I certainly like that part.”
He walked up to me until his chest was half an inch from mine.
He said, “Yeah? What are you gonna do with that?”
I straightened up and said, “Correct my posture.” I spun around and started walking, I looked back to smile at him. He had a nice smile.
Walking further down the boardwalk, another guy handing out pamphlets, pointed at me and said, “There she is, folks. The heart of the city.”
Another vendor shouted out, “Frozen lemonade, just made for the girl with three hearts.”
I like that- the girl with three hearts. 🙂 Two of mine are broken, which leaves me one to use as a wild card.
The World’s Greatest Wino was just settling into his lawn chair with his beer bottle sunglasses. The older, black body builder who is always there, posing for pictures, was standing on his platform holding four long, green, plastic snakes. A man with a toothless grin holding half of a broken mannequin called out to me and said, “Hey, I come with the complete package. HAHAHAHA!”
Oh Venice Beach . . . how I love thee.
I drove up to Em’s house for lunch. I climbed a mountain at dawn, slept on the beach in the morning and now would lunch in the valley.
She made veggie burgers for me and her husband, and we ate outside with a puppy dancing at our feet. I thought, if today were going to be my last day on Earth, I think I would be ok with it.
I asked Em if she wanted to join me for the Penis Book Party. She turned to her husband and said, “Would you be ok if I went? I don’t want to disrespect you.”
He said, “No, its fine. Go. Go.”
Em chewed on her lower lip.
He said, “Go have fun. Just let me know. Text me if you are going to look at cock.”
She laughed, and then got a little excited. She curled, put on her face and let that walnut hair slither down her shoulders. Cutie pie.
We picked up my friend Helen and drove on over to Taschen’s Book Store in Beverly Hills. We were early since the turn-out was expected to be four times what The Big Boob Book party was.
We entered, and there were men in underwear dancing on top of waist-high book shelves, lined down the center of the store. The store is very tiny, maybe two arms lengths wide, it is essentially a long hallway of books with a small upper level, just big enough for a bar, a Drag Queen and a couch. It was a little crowded maneuvering around all the gay men, enamoured with the dancers. I stopped to stare at the dancers myself, and saw their penises flop in beat to the music, behind a thin piece of material.
Initially, I felt a revulsion to gawking. I forced myself to look at them, the way men look at women. My skin was crawling from embarrassment.
Em said, “I feel uncomfortable.”
I said, “I know, I am trying to understand how I feel right now.”
Helen said, “Women are different than men. We don’t enjoy staring.”
My face was level with a dark-skinned dancer’s crotch. I could see 5 inches of flesh laying heavily to one side of his panties. TIMBER! Black, curly leg hair crawled up to a fine, distinct line of bare skin at his crotch. Clearly, he waxed.
I said, “I feel sorry for them. I don’t like this.”
Helen said, “I don’t like it, either.”
Em said, “Let’s get drinks.”
We went upstairs to the outside patio, where a few men, hired by the party no doubt, were walking around in assless chaps. Their asses were baby soft with subtle tan lines. I had no sexual response.
Em said, “I can’t look at that.”
The Bartender said, “What can I get you?”
I said, “What do you like?”
He said, “Well our special tonight is something called The Donkey.”
I said, “Say no more. I will have that.”
He poured me a plastic glass of orange, sloshy deliciousness. We took our drinks and gravitated to my friend who worked on the book and invited me to the party.
He said, “Hey, thanks for coming.”
I introduced him to my friends and I asked again, what exactly he did on the book. He said pretty much everything, selecting the photos and working on which ones were printed and adjusted for 3-D. Then he said, “It’s harder working on the penis, its round.”
Me, “But boobs are round.”
My 3-D Friend, “Sure, boobs are round but balls are rounder. It’s like a circle . . .”
I could feel myself losing balance already. It was tight quarters, so being sandwiched between Em and Helen helped, but the weed I smoked in the parking lot was rolling under my feet, and being that I was genuinely thirsty, I tossed back mouthfuls of the Donkey like it was lemonade. My eye lids hung heavily and I felt my friend step in closer to say more to me.
I wondered if men mistake my Stone-Heavy Eyes for Bedroom Eyes.
My friend kept talking, “I had to put dimension to penis veins, ok? It took us 20 hours just to do John Holmes pubic hair.”
He turned and introduced us to Deep Roy, a small person actor who most recently starred as an Oompa-Loompa in the remake of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. He shook our hands and then went back to the small female entourage waiting for him in the corner.
I said, “We are going to go look at the book.”
My friend cheerily said, “OK! Go! Look!”
We went back downstairs and leafed through the book with one pair of 3-D glasses between us. There were lots of penises. I mean, a number of the models were black men who frankly looked bored. The white men looked stoned or half asleep. Of the handful of pictures I looked at, absolutely none of them were seductive. The 3-D effect was neat . . . sure. Sexy was no where on the page that I could see.
I shared the glasses with Em and Helen who weren’t anymore impressed. Even though the Big Book of Breasts was ridiculous and borderline cartoony, the female models still tried to seduce the audience with their eyes. The men just looked absent, empty and dumbfounded.
We moved on to a wider table near the back, where there were other books, including one called THE NEW EROTIC PHOTOGRAPHY.
I shameless looked through pages and pages of androgynous couples having intercourse or posing. It was a fascinating book, each picture was a story, not just a model. There was one photo in particular with a man penetrating a woman sitting backwards on a motorcycle. Her legs wrapped around his bare ass. His pants were barely pulled down enough to leave room for his scrotum. My arm hair stood up.
I said, “I like this one.” (couldn’t find it on-line for this blog)
Em excused herself to get another drink, and I continued to page through.
Helen, “I am glad you stayed to look at the pictures with me.”
The music was deafening and strangers were dipping in and out of the shadows. The pictures were sucking me in, and I just wanted to keep exploring.
Me, “Me too . .. ”
Helen, “They are kind of turning me on.”
Me, “I know. Me too.”
Helen, “They are making me think of [her ex].”
I said, “I know, they remind me of Abe. But we have to reassociate our minds.”
Helen, “This sucks.”
I said, “It’s not fair. They don’t have to think about us when they think about sex.”
Helen, “They think about us. Don’t worry.” She gently put her arm around me and squeezed. “They do.”
There is a bittersweet romance to fantasizing about your ex, unfortunately, Abe’s chill demeanour put out that little light of hope I once kept in my pocket. I am done with him.
I closed the book.
Helen said, “One of the good things about breaking up, is I will get to hang from ropes and be swung around at Sinister again?”
I said, “Did you just say hung from ropes and swung around?”
She said, “Yeah, did I ever tell you about how I did that?”
I said, ” . . . no.”
She said, “Yeah, I would sit on this large swing and this guy spins me around, while I hang from the ceiling. I am clothed and everything. He doesn’t touch me. I just get to spin in circles up in the air and show off how flexible I am. It’s not like I get spanked or anything . . . even though the people next to me are.”
We went upstairs and I got one more Donkey with the promise that I would pace myself.
Em handed me a beer and introduced us to a chatty Finnish Reporter. I gently placed the cold bottle of beer behind me, out of sight.
The reporter was over 60, all white hair, stocky and wearing a denim vest, a burgundy sweater vest with a thick, quilted burgundy neck tie (with no collar). I think he was straight since he was the only man hovering over us with a stupid grin on his face. The party was full of gay, male couples and, as a result, far more sedate than the Boobs party.
Finnish Reporter, “So you like looking at this?”
Me, “At what? Cock?”
He smiled and nodded.
I shrugged my shoulders.
Helen, “Women aren’t as visual as men.”
Finnish Reporter, “Then why are you here?”
Me, “For our love of literature.”
Eventually, we ignored him long enough so he would walk away. Helen’s head was weighing on my shoulder. The heartbreak had the best of her tonight.
Em, who I was initially worried about leaving behind in my rum/ganja/people-watching haze, seemed to be the ultimate social butterfly. She would disappear and reappear with someone new and interesting to introduce us to. She was happy as can be.
She introduced us to this Chinese guy in a blue polo shirt with his collar up, like in the 1983 film The Outsiders. Em and his friends kept saying he was gay. I mean . . . wasn’t everyone at this party?
Me, “Are you gay?
Chinese Guy, “Do I look gay?”
Me, “I don’t know. You’re foreign. It’s hard to tell.”
Chinese, “I am married.”
Me, “To a girl?”
Me, “But have you ever had intercourse with a man?”
Silence. He smiled.
Me, “I SEE!”
He says, “What are you trying to say about me?”
Me, “Has a man cum on your face?”
I took my index finger, pressed the end of his nose and sang, “I think he has.”
He said, “No. Look at my ring, SEE!”
He shoved a huge dark, chipped stone on a band around his ring finger up in my face.
Helen already begun to ask, “How much longer?”
I said, “Just another drink and then we can head out.”
The Chinese Guy said, “My patients chase me around and . . .” Here, he made a gesture like he was ass fucking a cow.
Me, “Dude, what the fuck are you talking about? Are you high?”
Helen, “Thats what I think. I don’t really care, I am bored with this conversation.”
Me: “Lets go find a porn star.”
We got up and walked downstairs. There, sitting on a couch built into the wall was a plump, balding man in a blue, Hawaiian button up shirt, yawning as the press took pictures of him.
Me: “Oh, there is Ron Jeremy.”
Helen said, “What!? Oh my God, that is Ron Jeremy.”
Two girls were giggling and whispering to each other on his left. I watched them as I walked by, making sure I wasn’t interrupting something. I wasn’t. They were just gawkers.
I said, “Can I ask you a question if you promise not to get annoyed?”
He looked at me square in the face and said, “What?”
I said, “Is it still exciting to have sex?”
Ron said, “Yeah. Even when it gets busy- excuse me” He picked up his phone and spoke to a woman for several minutes. With questions like, “What else is happening?” and “I don’t know how much longer I have to be here.” I got the feeling he didn’t want to talk to me and edged away.
When he got off the phone, I took a large, side step back to his ear and said, “Sorry to bother you again. But I am really curious. Can it still be erotic when you are constantly having intercourse . . . and as a job?”
Ron, “Give me a kiss first, then I will answer your question.”
He read my hesitance, and said, “Just a peck.”
Inner dialogue here is “No … no . . . no- oh, what the hell.”
I gave him a peck and felt the tickle of his mustache.
Ron said, “So, yeah its exciting. A new situation, a new girl every time. It never gets old. Take a look at you for example (he put his arm around my waist) You’ve got a cute, little body. How could I ever get sick of something like this.” He leaned in for more pecks. I allowed it with my eyes on Helen, who had her camera phone out. Ron’s eyes were off to the side as well, where the press photographers were. It definitely was the least romantic kiss of my life.
Then Ron slipped me the tongue. I held my head back and he said, “Come on.” Then he pushed on the back of my head.
I grabbed his chin, looked him in the eyes and said, “I am not that kind of girl.”
He leaned back and took a sip of something.
He said, “Let me look at your breasts. Just me, no one else.”
He jammed his hand down my shirt and peaked down my top. I looked down and saw my nipple was erect. That’s a surprise.
He said, “You are adorable.”
Then he slipped his hand down my pants and rested it on my bare ass.
I said, “There really isn’t that much to feel down there.”
He said, “Oh there is plenty.”
I really can’t explain how this situation played out. I mean . . . he is a dirty old man. No doubt about it. Being that he was fearless, and a legend . . . I let him paw at me with playful curiosity. You tell yourself you wouldn’t do anything like that with someone like that. I didn’t care. I liked being groped by someone who was a pop icon for sex. Its like buying cotton candy just cause you are at a carnival.
It felt very much like I was in the 8th grade, in the back of the pet store by the aquariums, making out with a homely boy in my history class. It wasn’t sexy or sweet or romantic, it was base exploration, bordering on a Biology Lab Experiment.
He put my hand on his cock, over his shorts.
He said, “Feel that?”
I said, “Uh yeah.”
He said, “Wait for it.”
His cock started pulsating in my hand.
He said, “Pilates.” Then turned for another sip of something. I laughed.
Helen gave me a glass and poured rum in it, “Here, try some of Ron’s rum.”
I sipped it. Delicious burn.
He turned to Helen for a while, and grabbed her breast. She leaned back, giggling. Later she told me that she felt objectified by the man-handling. I don’t know why I don’t feel the same way.
I leaned into him and said, “Have you ever been in love?”
He turned towards me with heavy eyes, looking into my heavy eyes, and nodded sadly. Then he turned away.
I said, “And that didn’t get in the way of your work?”
He said, “No . . . men aren’t sexually monogamous. Any man who tells you he is sexually monogamous is a liar. Men are emotionally monogamous. We just aren’t built to be sexually monogamous.”
I let this sit in my mind and I thought about Abe masturbating to other women, which pushed down on an unpleasant nerve. I thought about Joel, and Caleb the married documentary filmmaker, and other men who proposition me. A few I actually date work to get me under their thumb, as if to break the mare of her spirit so she won’t flee. Others want to collect me like I am a volume in some grand collection of sexual experiences. There, I would be inevitably shelved. I have yet to find a man who made me feel like a partner.
I said, “Do you ever worry about genital herpes?”
He said, “We are tested all the time, even for that.”
I said, “You don’t have genital herpes? With all the people you have had intercourse, I would imagine its inevitable. One out of three people have herpes.”
He said, “You are one, I am two, (pointing at Helen) she is three. I guess that means one of us has herpes. Its not that big of a deal. Just don’t have sex with someone who has bumps and you can’t catch it.”
I said, “I heard it’s not that big of a deal, but . . .” Sip.
Helen crosses to sit next to me on the wall couch.
Ron, “Are you two lovers?”
Me, “We could be. (beat) Are you still doing porn?”
Ron, “Occasionally, you know, not often. Every once in a while.”
Me, “Have you ever been to an orgy?”
Ron, “Oh yeah, have you?”
Me, “No, but I am curious about them.”
Ron, “They are great. The couples who have locked eyes on each other, you stay away from. You don’t bother them. The couples looking around the room while groping and kissing, they are looking for someone. And you come in and put your hand on their leg or tickle their shoulder, nothing sexual, just small and friendly. It becomes something bigger. Its great. I have a club in Portland Oregon called Sesso.”
Me, “Do multiple men get aggressive with one woman in those sexual scenarios?”
Ron, “No! Not at all. They are very respectful at those places. More respectful than most people. There is no violence whatsoever. You say, ‘No Thank you,’ they respect it.”
He chuckled like it was a stupid question.
Helen said, “Where’s Em?”
I said, “I saw her come down the staircase, but I don’t know where she is.”
Ron, “Are you two roommates?”
Me, “We could be.”
Ron’s girlfriend approached us. She was a tall pretty blonde, around our age. She had the vibe of a publicist, but the voice of a sex kitten. She crawled behind Ron’s shoulder and meowed, “I have an idea, why don’t you two sexy ladies come back to our penthouse and sit next to Ron while we interview him for a documentary? You don’t have to say anything.”
Ron, “No, no!”
She said, “Why not? We could bring them back-”
Ron, “It’s not going to happen, ok? Back off!”
I really appreciated that. I mean, maybe I am fooling myself, but it felt like he was protecting us. Unlike other men, the first time I said, “I am not that kind of girl” he backed off. The kiss strangely crossed a line for me, even though fondling his genitals didn’t. I don’t want to sound naive, but I think he kind of got me.
Turning away, Em had a whole new gay entourage with her. One of the guys was named Kybron and I caught him in mid-thought declaring, “Sucking a big cock will take your dignity and self-respect away. Sucking a small dick makes you feel brave and accomplished. Like, yeah, I did a good job with this cock.”
I said, “I like you. Will you be my Facebook friend?”
As we left, I walked by Ron. I let my hand trail across his back, towering over him, I bent down and said, “It was real, Ron.”
He turned and smiled a real smile. Then he said, “Take care, sweetie.”
We got in the car and drove away. Em was eager for food, and Helen was eager for sleep. The sugar in the alcohol was eating through us.
Helen said, “Do you want to hear the poem I have to read at my friend’s wedding?”
I said, “Sure.”
“you politely ask me not to die and i promise not to
right from the beginning—a relationship based on
good sense and thoughtfulness in little things
i would like to be loved for such simple attainments
as breathing regularly and not falling down too often
or because my eyes are brown or my father left-handed
and to be on the safe side i wouldn’t mind if somehow
i became entangled in your perception of admirable objects
so you might say to yourself: i have recently noticed
how superbly situated the empire state building is
how it looms up suddenly behind cemeteries and rivers
so far away you could touch it—therefore i love you
part of me fears that some moron is already plotting
to tear down the empire state building and replace it
with a block of staten island mother/daughter houses
just as part of me fears that if you love me for my cleanliness
i will grow filthy
if you admire my elegant clothes
i’ll start wearing shirts with sailboats on them
but i have decided to become a public beach or an opera house
a regularly scheduled flight—something that can’t help being
in the right place at the right time—come take your seat
we’ll raise the curtain, fill the house, start the engines
fly off into the sunrise, the spire of the empire state
the last sight on the horizon as the earth begins to curve”
The words hung over us in the cab, as the night folded around my moving car with one headlight.
Three girls go to a penis party, and all it reminds them of is love.
For previous postings from this blog: http://soibecameanactress.blogspot.com