Other than that I didn't have much competition, except for every other girl in the club. Well, they could have him too--I just wanted a piece of the action. One of my friends bought me a dance with him and I was called onstage. Now, I'm not a big fan of strip clubs to begin with. I like a little mystery, and it's my personal belief that men look better in clothes. I was wrong. I got my dance--and his ass in my face--but I managed to keep my cool. He had the most adorable face I had ever seen. Sweet baby blue eyes, dark hair, and the cutest smile to hit that side of the Vegas strip.
While he was dancing around me onstage, he asked where I lived and I told him L.A. He said he lived there too and just drove here on the weekends to work. A commuting stripper. Talk about dedication to your craft. I wrote down my number and bid him adieu. My work there was done.
The girls made me promise I'd go out with him.
"Go out with him? I'm not going anywhere with him. I will go to him and then I will have him."
Immediately I wondered how much weight I would need to lose to be acceptable to a stripper. All he saw were other girl strippers and their perfect bodies. Maybe I would just tone up. These thoughts took over my brain for the next few minutes until I found the limo and then the minibar.
THUNDER called me the next week. He tried to tell me his real name, but I quickly interrupted him. "I like THUNDER. Let's just stick with that for now."
"Okay, I guess, but no one really calls me that," his husky voice replied. This guy was giving me too many details.
"No matter," I said. "How was your drive back from Vegas?" I had to feign interest in all this nonsense until I could ask when I could come over and sit on his face. I didn't say that out loud, of course. I never say the things I really want to. If I did, I'd have no friends.
"Can I take you to dinner?" he asked.
"How about drinks?" I replied. I just wanted his address, but I didn't want to scare him.
We met at the Lava Lounge. I made sure it was somewhere close to his place. I told him I didn't want him driving too far after his drive back from Vegas.
He showed up in a flannel shirt and blue jeans. Nothing too revealing, kind of like a lumberjack. Kind of like on a men's calendar. I stared at his flannel shirt, wondering whether it was material I could actually rip with my own two hands. I decided that it was going to be very rough sex.
As I downed a couple of vodka Collinses, I asked him questions about his life and what he planned on doing. "Well, I just turned thirty-seven" (that was a shocker, he didn't look a day over twenty-nine) "and now I want to start really focusing on my acting." Oh, my God. I looked around to see if anyone else had heard him.
"An actor?" I said, trying to sound intrigued. "Wow, that's so . . . You have a great look, I'm sure it won't be a problem."
Who in his right mind decides to get into acting at the tender age of thirty-seven? Weight lifting maybe, but acting? Was this guy serious? What had he been wasting his time with until then? Well, stripping, I guess. They say it's hard to walk away from that kind of money. THUNDER told me he made anywhere from three to four grand a weekend which, compared to my $311 per week unemployment check, sounded like quite a handsome income. But forget taking this guy to Sarah's wedding. I'd never hear the end of it. I just smiled and thought, Keep on talkin', you hot piece of ass.
"So you're a comedian," he said. "Tell me something funny."
"Okay. The great thing about being an alcoholic is that when you're bored at a party, you can leave without saying good-bye, and people just think you blacked out."
"Are you an alcoholic?" he asked me.
"That's not really the point," I responded. "And I don't like the word 'alcoholic.' I like to think of myself as an advanced drinker."
"I'm confused," he said. It was pretty obvious that THUNDER spent a lot of his time being confused, so I switched the conversation back to his career.
There is only so much actor talk one person can take, and I had reached my limit. We needed to wrap this little chitchat up now. I excused myself to the bathroom, hoping that would give him some time to finish his beer, and we could move on to the action. In the restroom, I met two girls who were making fun of a guy one of them was talking to. Evidently, he had a pretty bad lisp. I told them that was nothing--if they really wanted to see funny, they should come and listen to THUNDER for a minute. "I'm not even sure this guy can read," I said and relayed the story of how we had met.
They got excited at the idea of meeting him, and the three of us all went back to the table together.
I made the introductions, explaining to THUNDER that I had run into some friends. They looked at each other and giggled. It was clear they were taken with his beauty. Who wasn't? Then one of the girls whispered to me, "Does he talk?"
I said, "Yes, he talks, he's not a chimp."
"Ask him a question," she persisted.
That's too mean, I thought. "What should I ask him?" I said with clenched teeth.
"Ask him how to spell something," she shot back.
That crossed the line. I started to feel bad about mistreating THUNDER. Flashbacks of being harassed in high school by older girls flooded my conscience. I had never wanted to be mean like that to someone, and now here I was acting just as bad. Possibly even worse, since I was technically an adult and should know better. And, at some point, he was going to catch on. He was a little slow, but he wasn't out and out brain-dead.
So we bid our adieus and jetted back to his pad. I told him I wanted to see his head shots.
Twenty minutes later I'm airborne and getting the bottom knocked out of me. This guy wasn't so stupid after all. He really knew his way around a woman. It was crazy, rough stuff. I couldn't get enough of him. He was flipping me around, pinning me this way and that. His skin was soft and he had a back you could just hold on to for dear life. His arms were solid muscle and he had this beautiful, perfect ass. Of course I had seen this all before when he was on stage, but now I was living out every girl and gay guy's fantasy. Soft lips too. Really good soft lips. I love men.
There's something truly wonderful about a man who knows how to take a woman. I thought maybe it was love. I even slept over. I knew I would be back for more. Who cares if he didn't know how to multiply? This guy was some sort of sign from God.
THUNDER and I started seeing each other on a regular basis. We got into the pattern of skipping the formalities of cocktails altogether, and I would just come over. The sex was amazing every time. I even enjoyed sleeping next to him. It felt like sleeping next to a rhinoceros. His body was so big, I felt petite next to him. I wanted to show him off to my friends, but I didn't want him to speak. I was torn.
I called him while he was driving back from Vegas one Sunday. He didn't seem happy to hear from me. I sensed something was wrong and that I would not be getting any action that night. He told me he was exhausted from driving and didn't know if he would be up for one of my visits. What? Too tired? I understood our Cirque du Soleil act required some stamina, but I felt it was well worth it. Then he laid it on me. He had met someone else whom he thought he wanted to get serious with.
"A girl?" I asked.
"Yes," he said. "You're a really great girl and we've been having a blast, but I think we both know that this is not something that's going any farther. I just don't see myself getting serious with you."
Oh, my God. I couldn't believe I was getting dumped by THUNDER. I couldn't believe I was getting dumped by someone whose real name I didn't even know. My time in heaven was up, and I was being told I wasn't the marrying kind by someone who undresses for a living. Was it because I wasn't flexible enough? Not serious enough? We were seeing each other at least two times a week. How much more serious could we get?
"Are you there?" he asked.
"Yeah."
"I'm really sorry."
"It's okay. I understand," I lied. "So, is there any way I could still just see you tonight?" I asked.
Silence.
"Good-bye, Chelsea. I wish you
well." He hung up. Well, onward and upward. It's not that I hadn't had my heart broken before, but this was the first time I heard my little beaver cry a little. Talk about sad. She didn't leave the house for days.
SHRINKY DINK
A SMALL PENIS on a little boy is not a big deal. However, if that boy continues to grow and his penis does not, it turns into a very big deal. I feel terrible for men who have small penises. What are they supposed to do? I guess they could have penile enlargements, but are people really doing that? I hope so.
I had a brief summer fling with a small-penis person once. My only excuse is that he was a lot of fun to hang out with--and I was barely twenty. I didn't know at that point that it was okay to leave a guy in the lurch. I definitely did know that it wasn't okay to talk to him about his tiny penis. "By the way, will you let me know when you're inside me?" Plus, this guy was right after my black phase where I never came across a penis smaller than a baby's arm. I thought maybe it was the price I had to pay for going back to the white man.
Cut to five years later at a club called 217 in Santa Monica, and a little Ecstasy. 217 is a dance club, and in order for me to go to 217 and do what everyone else was doing, I had to take drugs. I like my Ecstasy in small quantities, and then I like it again in about an hour or so--in more small quantities. I don't like to overdose. Call me old-fashioned.
We were all in the mood for a wild night. Ivory had just broken up with her architect boyfriend from Holland. Ivory hadn't dated a guy without an accent since high school. Lydia was reeling from a terrible breakup with a man who'd treated her like shit for close to two years. I had seen him on plenty of occasions out at bars, where he would not only hit on her friends but then tell her about it. She thought he just needed to grow up. The guy was thirty-five, which in L.A. years is twenty-five, and it didn't look like he was going to get his act together now or later. The worst thing about him, though, was his terrible breath.
After their first date, Lydia had called me and said, "I really liked him, except he had smelly breath. So we went back to my place . . ."
"I'm sorry ... ?" I asked her.
"So we went back to my place . . ."
"Hold on a second. After you realized he had bad breath, you went back to your place?"
"Well . . ." She paused.
"Well, nothing!" I told her. "Listen, Lydia, halitosis is not the beginning of a relationship, it's the end of one. That's not something you can work through. Unless you have access to a tongue scraper that I don't know about."
Ivory and I had taken to calling him AB. Ass Breath. Long before the breakup, Lydia started using that nickname too.
Ivory, good old Lydia, and I were flying high on our three tabs of Ecstasy. Thirty minutes after we got to the club, Lydia disappeared and Ivory and I were dancing. I saw a cutie watching me from the bar. My favorite are white, dark-haired men with decent footwear and he definitely fit the description. He was probably wondering who gave me the right to dance, but he seemed amused. So did the rest of the onlookers. I jumped down from the little dance stage with a scissor kick, onto the main floor, and made my way over toward him. Know that if I'm dancing on a platform, what little inhibitions I have, have completely left the building.
"You're cute," I slurred.
His name was Buck. It was easy to remember because it rhymed with what we were going to do later. He was a little more stocky than I usually like, but in a sexy way, and had a nice olive complexion. I remember he had this great riotous laugh. I love a man with a good laugh. We danced a little together, then went to the back bar to make out.
Public groping has got to be one of my least favorite things. I find it really offensive and just plain nasty. Unless I'm the one getting groped. Then I don't have as much of a problem with it.
We were going at it for about an hour, drinking, smoking, kissing. Slobbering might be a better description. At one point my girlfriends came over, took one look at us, and guffawed. As if they were above making out in public. This coming from Lydia, who a week earlier had woken up on her bathroom floor.
At around one A.M., I started to hit a plateau and knew I had only a couple good hours left of uninhibitedness. I told Buck to drive me home, and then I'd follow him back to his house. He lived in Santa Monica too and insisted on just driving us straight to his house, offering to take me home in the morning. I had been down that road before, and if there's one mistake I never make, it's not having my own wheels. I do not, under any circumstances, carpool.
I made up some lie about having an early morning meeting--a meeting doing God knows what. Buck insisted that he would drive me home early. That was it. I had to resort to some tough love.
"Listen, unless I have my car, I'm not coming over, and I think we both know that will make you very sad." He agreed and drove me home so I could get my car. Out of the corner of my eye, as I climbed into the driver's seat, I caught him grinning. This poor Echo. It had been through so much. The good thing about the Echo was that due to its size, people always asked if it was electric. I always lied and said yes.
A half hour later, we got to his place and he pulled into an underground parking garage, waving me in behind him. No way did I want to park in his underground garage. I thought he was trying to trap me. This guy was good. I started to wonder if I had slept with him before.
"I don't want to park in there," I yelled.
"What is your problem?" he yelled back.
"Nothing, I just don't like parking in garages."
"Why not? What do you think is going to happen?"
I just stared blankly in his direction. At this point, if this guy carried Mace, I think he would've used it on me. I was turning into a nightmare. He looked exhausted.
"How will I get out of the garage in the morning?" I asked.
"Drive?" he responded wearily. "You don't need a key or anything. The gate will open."
I sat and stared at him, bewildered.
"There's a sensor," he explained, "when your car pulls up." Now he was talking to me like I was eleven. I found this attractive.
"Okay," I said. He must have thought I rode to school on a short bus.
We got up to his town house. It was really nice. There were at least three Warhols that I counted and lots of Nambe crystal. I like men who have their act together. I had seen one too many carpet-stained, bong-infested, toilet paper-less male habitats. He had beautiful dark hardwood floors and it smelled as if Mr. Clean had spent the night.
Everything else was pretty high-end too. He had a lot of electronics. There was a huge plasma-screen TV along with every possible appendage that can go along with it. A lot of stainless steel. I found out later in life that stainless steel is a good countertop for intercourse. Anything with grout can leave marks and/or tear the skin.
He put on Fleetwood Mac, which I love, and I decided to reward him with a little striptease. I pushed him toward the bedroom and then started stripping in the doorway. He liked my dancing. The only explanation for that was that he was on Ecstasy too.
When I was done, I walked over and climbed on top of him in my underwear. I pulled his clothes off until he was only in his boxers. Then I put my hand down his pants.
The thought had never even crossed my mind that he might have a little dinky. "Little" is a generous word when you're describing something the size of a canned Vienna sausage. This thing was smaller than my big toe. It wasn't even like a penis, it was like an extra piece of skin. I was mortified. I had to get out of there.
I was not doing charity work here. I couldn't have sex with him just because I felt bad. I'd feel worse after. I flung myself off of him and yelled, "Oh, my God, Oh, my God!!!"
"What," he said. "What is it?"
"My car," I shouted. "I forgot why I had to leave it on the street."
"Why?" he asked.
"Because Ivory has to come pick it up. She's staying with me."
"What? What are you talking about?"
"Ivory, she doesn't have a car. She needs to pic
k it up. I totally forgot. That's why I needed to park it in the street."
"Ivory, the girl you just left at the club? How the hell is she gonna know where your car is?" he asked.
"It has a homing device on it."
Silence.
"A homing device?" he asked. "Like a pigeon?"
"Yes!" I replied. "Just like a pigeon, and she won't be able to detect it when it's underground. I'll be right back."
Before he could say anything, I collected my things and was gone. Out of there.
Just like he said, the garage gate opened as soon as Echo and I pulled up. Me and my Echo were going home. I didn't need to learn the small-penis lesson twice. It was time for some Jack in the Box.
When I told Ivory the next morning about how small his penis was, she said, "Gosh, Chels, you didn't need to leave him there, he could have been good at other things."
"Like whati" I asked her. "Math?"
DON'T BELIEVE A WORD I SAY
YOU KNOW YOU'VE slept around a lot when you walk into your bank and see someone you've had sex with on a life-size poster for "Small Business Loans."
I have this really bad habit of lying compulsively when I drink. The thing is, it's never about anything I need to lie about. Sure, sometimes it's necessary to lie to get out of going to someone's party; sometimes we lie to avoid hurting people's feelings. Lying about your father inventing voice-mail is a whole different ball of wax.
I once dated a guy for a couple of hours. I met him at a bar called El Dorado and managed to whisk him away after last call. He was a cutie and I wanted him in a bad way. He was funny, smart, and interesting--and mentioned something about spending every weekend in Mexico at an orphanage he had started.
When we were leaving, he hesitated about coming back to my place. This guy was playing hard to get, and I liked it. Fortunately, that act didn't last long, and we were soon on our way back to my apartment, which was conveniently located around the corner.