by Ben Peller
“We certainly are,” One-two-three gazed at me from across the hot tub.
“So where is she?” I asked.
“Where’s who?”
“The woman I’m going to audition with.”
One-two-three clucked. “No, not with anyone. Just by yourself. All you need to do is stare into the camera, pleasure yourself, and say how horny you are and what you would do if someone were there with you.”
“No problem,” I said, pushing myself out of the hot tub.
“Dude,” Kris clutched my arm. “Trust me. Don’t do this.”
I waved him off. “Relax,” I said. “I’ve done stupider things. Besides, I’ll just use a fake name. And I’ll even wear a mask. Can I do that, One-two-three?”
“Of course,” my future producer enthused. “I just need to be able to see your eyes. And your mouth. And of course you’ll need to be naked otherwise.”
Vodkarade #6: Me on a stool, bare as a newborn save for a cheesy looking lucha libre mask with torrents of fire bursting from the holes that surrounded my eyes. My dick in one hand and trusty bottle of Vodkarade in the other. Moaning and pleasuring myself while visions of two hundred dollar payoffs danced in my head. I stroked, I breathed heavily, I mentally ran through almost every online porn site I’d ever visited in order to stay hard while I talked about the various sexual things I wanted to perform on someone while I coaxed myself to climax. For effect I even called myself, in honor of the flame smeared mask, “El Diablo.”
“What are you gonna do?” I shouted at the red eye of the camera just in front of One-two-three’s leering face and Kris’ disbelieving one. “When El Diablo comes all over you?”
Thus inspired, I shot off a good one and licked my own cum off my wrist.
One-two-three complimented me on a job well done and said he would be in touch. He gave me his number, handwritten on a napkin. Kris, meanwhile, seemed to be intent on setting a record on the number of times someone could shake their head in what seemed to be a toss-up between incredulity and hopeless amusement.
“Boy, are you dumb.” Kris said to me as we made our way to the car and I finished off my final Vodkarade. “He has you on film now. You know what that means?”
“I’m a star…?” I smiled faintly, gazing up at the night sky. Without the city lights of Los Angeles, it was even possible to spot a few fellow stars. Out here in San Bernardino I was, to paraphrase one of my many father figures, “… drunk, immaculate.”
“You may regret this one day,” Kris said, then laughed. “But I must say that mask you were wearing did look pretty cool on you.”
The next morning I tried to reason with myself; I wasn’t a weirdo who’d jacked off in front of a camera while proclaiming to be the devil himself. Instead I chose to look at the scenario as nothing more than one of the strangest job interviews I’d ever had. I decided, however, that being a porn star wasn’t in my future. Kris had already warned me that, like most show business jobs, it wasn’t as glamorous as it appeared. Porn stars had to sometimes fuck for hours underneath the glare of bright lights, then come on demand. These two talents, while admirable, have always eluded me.
Still, swinger parties had gotten a grip on me, and I’ve continued to frequent them every now and again. A curious thing. Not only are most of the people at these gatherings better behaved and more sober than those you’ll find at your average bar, but they’re also much more courteous. A woman in a bar on a Saturday night at one in the morning certainly runs the risk of some drunken fool grabbing their ass or slobbering all over them. At swinger parties, one is required to ask permission before touching of any kind goes on. Members of this particular sect are expected to respect certain rules. Granted it’s a distinctly unusual sect, but aren’t most sects worth belonging to at least a tad unusual?
An astonishing variable I’ve discovered at swinger parties are that Republicans vastly outnumber Democrats. Then again, this may be expected being that it’s fairly common knowledge that Orange County, a Republican stronghold of “conservativeness,” houses almost as many freaks per capita as West Hollywood. The only difference being that Orange Countiers are mostly closeted, as they make a lot of money and want to pay less in taxes and therefore have to retain their Republican Party status for appearance’s sake.
But refreshingly, the only party line that matters at swinger parties is the line of people ready to head into one of the “group rooms.” Certainly politics are discussed, but usually with a willingness to see the other person’s point of view. It’s as though being free enough to swing opens one’s mind in other ways. If our “representatives” in Washington could just relax and treat their fellow politicians with the mutual respect demonstrated at swinger parties, they might be able to one day balance a budget.
Swinger parties do tend to inspire confidence. One of my companions at a party told me she “never knew just how awesome her ass was” until so many people at a party complimented her on it. It was true she had a wonderfully shaped posterior, and I felt I’d expressed an appreciation for it on many an occasion. But it was possible that I’d grown used to it. Hearing so many people praise my companion’s butt put a fresh value on it. Gold, diamonds… how precious would they be if not so many people appreciated them? The same can be certainly said for bodyparts.
Yes, in an ideal world one should find “the one” in kindergarten, fall hopelessly and madly in love, and spend the next eighty or so years of their lives never even considering sex with another person. Ever.
If you think that sort of thinking has any foothold on absolute reality, you’ve seen Sleepless In Seattle way too many times. But in that movie Tom Hanks hooks up with Meg Ryan after his wife dies, so even Hollywood seems to reason that perhaps there exists in the world more than one version of “the one” for us all. And swinger parties encourage exploration into these parts of our humanity that seize both our vulnerability and curiosity.
True, swinger parties can inspire jealousy in a relationship, but so can mysterious emails and “boys/girls nights out.” With swinger parties, all is out in the open. Yes, there are people who manage to remain “happily married” for fifty years, but quite frankly, they’re very few and far between. And many of them live in isolated areas such as Loma, Montana (Population 92) where opportunities of meeting new people are undeniably remote.
But here in Los Angeles, there’s a wide variety of people to go around, with more arriving every day. Throw in the fact that many of them are at least semi-attractive and you’ve got a recipe for a bit of wandering. Or, as it’s referred to as swinger parties, “playing.” Perhaps “playing” with others makes “working” at a relationship with one person easier.
I met one couple who, after having both proclaimed themselves staunch right-wingers, told me how swinging had helped save their marriage.
“I wasn’t sure at first,” Diane, a pleasantly plump woman in her fifties confessed, hugging her husband John’s waist. “But the first time I saw him with another woman really turned me on.”
“And I love looking over while I’m with someone and seeing her getting pounded hard.” John replied, and the two of them exchanged a kiss.
Admittedly being a bit provocative, I asked these right-winging swingers what they thought of gay marriage.
“Oh no,” John said quickly.
“Marriage is meant to be between a woman,” Diane said, giving John another squeeze. “And a man.”
“But when you come to these parties, aren’t you breaking marriage vows? Technically, I mean?” I suggested as delicately as possible.
“We don’t see it that way,” John smiled.
“After all,” Diane added. “Who am I going home with?”
A valid point. Also, it was hard for me to argue given that I was wary of all marriage, period. The difference between these swinging right-wingers and me, a swinging no-winger, might not be all that great great.
Swinger parties can bring people together in a safe and secure environment.
They’ve been known to save marriages, inspire passion, and lead to fantasy fulfillment. Such are the blessings of swinger parties.
However, there is a particular curse to them as well. If one is young, drunk, and impressionable, they may be stupid enough to perform a videotaped soliloquy about the pleasures found in sexual activity while committing said pleasures on themselves. And fifteen years down the road, may be casually leafing through a porn website doing research for their latest book, and find a picture of themselves on the box cover of a porn entitled: “YOUNG MEN LIKE IT HOT, VOL. 3.”
So all you swingers be careful out there, and “just say no” to that sixth Vodkarade. A message from El Diablo himself.
I flip over this last page, then let my gaze meander to the dashboard. There sits the Diet Mountain-Dew and vodka I mixed just an hour ago. I haven’t touched a drop. Still, I have a definite giddiness, a high that I need to exploit. I flex my right forearm and kiss the bare skin farewell. Then I head inside the Del Taco, call my tattoo buddy in Vegas, and tell him to get ready. I’m coming to see him. After hanging up I move to the counter, where I proceed to order three chicken quesadillas and six chicken soft tacos.
It’s time to carb up.
The Craziest Girl In L.A.
After I get back from Vegas, I spend a few days staring at my inner forearm, cocktailing, and chuckling. Then I resume my odyssey of Shawn Michals’ L.A. love streets. His next email directs me to a stop that looks harmless enough. The address is an apartment building in Studio City. Stucco roofing, a gated parking area for its residence. Probably a community pool inside. I buzz the name listed on Shawn’s emailed missive, and a voice from the intercom responds quickly: “Yes?”
“Is this Nicki?” I ask.
The following pause’s suspicion seems palpable even through the speaker. “Who wants to know?”
“My name is… well, I was sent here by Shawn Michals.”
“Apartment twenty-three,” the voice crackles. “Take the stairway on your right and you’ll find it four doors down.”
A buzzer sounds, and I push the doors open. Through some twists and turns of hallways, I smile at a shimmering pool within the complex.
I climb the steps and find apartment twenty-three. The door is already open and a gray haired woman wearing a chef’s outfit is there to greet me. Her hand is already outstretched, just two fingers supporting an envelope as one might hold a paper bag containing a dog’s recent leavings.
I’m a bit taken aback. This woman looks to be in her seventies, which would make her a good forty years older than Shawn. Then again, her eyes do possess a distinct vitality and the way she shakes the envelope at me suggests nimbleness.
“Thank you,” I say. “Nice to meet you, Nicki.”
She laughs; it’s a laugh that contains the weariness of one who’s seen more than her share but also one who continues to be just amused enough to see more.
“I’m not Nicki,” she says. “My name’s Rosemary. I’m Nicki’s Great Aunt.”
“Ahh…” I reply. “Is Nicki at home, perchance?” By this point, after voyaging through so many stories of Shawn’s L.A. love affairs, I’ve grown wildly curious to meet one of their characters face to face.
“No,” Rosemary answers. “She’s back in North Carolina. Nicki had problems, you see. But now, well… now she’s at peace.”
The way she states this implies that Nicki is doing more than dancing around singing “Kum By Ya.” There’s a disturbing permanence to her tone that suggests Nicki has found bliss in either padded walls and healthy meds or a coffin.
“Okay,” I nod, suddenly eager to get out of there.
“So you know Shawn?”
“Vaguely,” I admit.
“Well, when you see him, tell him I hope he’s found his peace as well.”
“I’ll do that ma’am.” I say. “By the way, something in there smells delicious.”
This is true; there’s a rich scent of garlic mixed with a meat of some sort wafting out the door that strongly overtakes the blanket of smog the San Fernando Valley calls “air.”
She laughs. “Why, thank you. Since retiring I’ve grown to love cooking. I’d ask you to stay, but I’m already having someone for lunch.”
“Great!” I nod. “I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time. Take care.”
As I turn to go, she calls out, “Oh, sir…”
The playful manner in which she draws out this phrase gives me pause. Not to mention her vagueness regarding Nicki’s current whereabouts. Throw in her comment about “having someone for lunch” and she may very well be a female Hannibal Lecter. I whirl around, half-expecting to find a meat cleaver in her hand, beckoning me into her abode to find my peace.
Instead I find her dangling the envelope, the one holding Shawn’s leavings, before me. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“Right! Thank you.” I say, and take the envelope from her with speedy delicacy. Then I retreat along the balcony and down the stairs as quickly as possible before she can wish me peace. Once safely back at my place, I microwave up a Lean Pocket and munch away while I read…
I’ve had experience in Los Angeles as both a stalker and stalkee. On the stalker side, it’s not that I’ve ever waited outside a woman’s home with a knife in one hand and a cellphone with my defense attorney on speed-dial in the other, but I could sometimes be accused of being a little overly enthusiastic in my pursuit of a love interest. Mostly it boils down to my ego; if a woman gives me her phone number I automatically assume they may have amorous intentions, even if this phone number happens to be on a business card. These cards get propped up alongside my stereo. Drunken scrawls such as “works in Internet merchandising” or “likes to play tennis” decorate them so as to have some frame of reference to clutch at when I call them. Usually, after not receiving a word from these women after two or three calls I take the hint and move on, telling myself that they most likely found the love of their life in the past couple days while ignoring the possibility that they may have been blitzed when they gave me their card and most likely don’t even remember me, even if we made out at a bar, restaurant, gas station, etc. There have been occasions when, armed with both a business card and a passionate kiss, I’ve left late-night greetings on the answering machines of real estate brokers and medical technicians that may have been a bit rambling and were most likely verbally unintelligible.
The most extreme and embarrassing moments come when women have given me their home phone number, and then either had a change of heart, or most likely, come to their senses. When they answer the phone and upon hearing it’s me tell me they’re tied up and they’ll “call me right back in a half hour or so,” I tend to take them at their word. But then, having been a screenwriter in Hollywood, my faith in assurances of callbacks is cynically sharpened. So when I don’t hear from these women within an hour or so, I assume they’ve forgotten. Another hour and a cocktail or three later I’m certain they’ve forgotten their promise to call me back, or lost my number, or fallen and knocked themselves unconscious. Either way, nothing will do but for me to call back again. And again. Until they answer, and respond. The responses I’ve received due to my persistence have ranged from: “I was just on the phone with my boyfriend, okay?” to “My cousin’s a cop and I can trace your line if you call again” to “I’m HIV positive, schizophrenic, and I’m wanted in four states for manslaughter, so you might not want to have anything to do with me.”
Of those three I preferred the last. It sounded so bizarre that it almost had to be the most authentic. And if not, it certainly got an “A” for effort.
Karma being what it may be, I’ve had my share of stalkers as well. I’ve given out a lot of business cards in L.A., and for a reason addressed in a previous chapter, I saw fit to put my home phone number on them. Combine that with the number of drunken kisses I may hand out on any given weekend, and there have been months when up to a dozen or so women have been calling me at various hours. Outsid
e of having to frantically sort through business cards while trying to approach some sort of clue through conversation about who “It’s me!”’s given name was, I enjoyed these calls. I was casting my shadow over the female population of Los Angeles, getting to know fascinating people, and also collecting stories. All seemed harmless enough. This was Los Angeles, after all. Everybody drunk dials. People out here are too busy obsessing about their careers or their cars or an upcoming audition to waste time actually stalking one another.
Then I met Nicki.
It started at a beach party. She seemed really cool from the start, being that the way she introduced herself to me was by running her tongue along the back of my left ear while I was just about to serve in a volleyball game. I flubbed the serve, naturally, and turned to see her skipping back to the other side of the net laughing. “Missed serve,” she sang. “Our turn.”
Though I didn’t know if the World Volleyball Federation (on the assumption there is such a thing) would find this kosher, throughout the game I became entranced enough with her to let it slide. She had nerve, and exhibited physical ticks (leaning from side to side, sticking her tongue out at the sky) that resembled my own. Later on, we got to know each other better, cuddling underneath her Spongebob Squarepants beach towel with the L.A. night overhead, its stars hiding behind the lighted reflection of the Santa Monica Pier Ferris wheel.
“Here,” Nicki slipped something into my palm. For a moment I thought it was a condom. Then I looked at it and saw a rubber heart. The glancing light from the Ferris wheel illuminated a message in white on the heart’s shape: Mine Forever.
“I only give these out to special people,” she whispered. “The ones who know.”
What I knew I wasn’t sure of. “Know what?” I asked.
“Silly man,” she chuckled easily, almost desperately. “You know this moment, don’t you? Just like the grains of sand will always know this moment. They may be swept out to sea and returned as the earth goes through cycles and seasons change, but they’ll never forget this moment. Promise me you won’t either.”
