Drinking and Dating: P.S. Social Media Is Ruining Romance

by Brandi Glanville

  When he finally decided that it was time to turn up the heat, we started making out on the couch. Something about me towering over the guy while sitting upright was strange, so he suggested we take things to the bedroom. Perhaps if we were lying down, he’d be more at ease.

  Despite his height, I was impressed with the size of his manhood. I mean, it wasn’t “holy shit” big, but it was a respectable size for a guy who was maybe five feet seven. This is where things got awkward again. We had spent the evening laughing so much that I couldn’t stop laughing when it was time to get serious. Every time I looked at him, I’d think of something funny he said or remember one of his characters and would burst into hysterics. It didn’t help the mood. When I regained my composure, we’d get back to it. He’d look deeply into my eyes, with an expression so serious it felt like a joke, so I started cracking up again. This wasn’t making the mood very sexy, but I eventually was able to control my manic giggling and enjoyed the evening. We saw each other a few more times over the next month, but I couldn’t help but feel I was hanging out with a really good friend and not a potential love interest. After all, I couldn’t really fall for a guy who would make me laugh instead of come.

  When I first met my ex-husband, I was casually dating one of the biggest television stars of the nineties (let’s call him Andrew).

  I met him in August 1995 at the Whiskey Bar, naturally. Like most drama geeks, Andrew had a lot of fucking to do to make up for his nerdy high school years, so he was out chasing skirts with another actor (let’s call him Larry). Almost immediately after Michelle and I arrived, these two guys waved us over to the booth where they were holding court. Like his character, Andrew was charming and funny—in a quirky kind of way—but Michelle had already connected with him, and I was more interested in his better-looking, less-charismatic friend anyhow. (I mean, of course I go for the stupidest, hottest guy in the room. Typical Brandi move.) I didn’t really give Andrew another thought until about two weeks later. He had taken Michelle out on a disastrous first date and called her a few days later to say hello. Michelle and I shared an apartment—this one had a land line. She wasn’t home at the time—and totally not interested in seeing him again—so he and I shot the shit for a few minutes, and he proceeded to ask me to dinner. Let the record show that I am a firm believer in the golden rule of any female friendship: keep your friends close and their exes really fucking far away. So I declined—because that’s what friends do—even though I knew Michelle had already become hot and heavy with a commercial director who was feeding her a ton of work. #$$$$. I mentioned to her that Andrew had called looking for her and we actually had a great conversation. Michelle suggested to me that I should go out with him, because she couldn’t possibly care less. So when he called a week later (#BoysAlwaysDo), I told him I’d love to go to dinner.

  As a twenty-three-year-old girl, I found the sex to be pretty standard—which means it never would have cut it at thirty or forty. #ForgetAboutIt. But he overcompensated for his lack of bedroom expertise with an incredible appetite for eating pussy (which I can appreciate even more now, because going downtown seems to be a rarity for many men I’ve dated). His schedule was insane, but we got together whenever he had time away from shooting. He was still reeling from a pretty devastating breakup with a beautiful musician (#Obsessed), and we both knew I was just his twenty-something rebound girl with a cute ass. Honestly, I enjoyed being his L.A. arm candy. It’s funny, because as much as we went out, you’ll never find a photo of us. Things were so much more undercover in those days without all the paparazzi, blogs, and tabloids. Andrew’s level of celebrity at the time put him at the top of every exclusive guest list. There wasn’t a velvet rope that didn’t part for him upon arrival or a reservation at the hottest restaurant that wasn’t immediately made available. Imagine the Red Sea, but instead of water parting it was an ocean of Von Dutch trucker hats. I had traveled all over the world at that point, but there’s something about being a part of the Hollywood in-crowd that’s completely intoxicating. But like many actors, he wasn’t immune to drinking his own brand of douche-y Kool-Aid, so I had begun to pull away. We were never exclusive, and his dinner invites had started to become fewer and farther between, so when I locked eyes with my ex-husband for the first time one fateful night at the Hollywood nightclub Granville, I didn’t hesitate to move the fuck on (and quickly). Like I said, Andrew was just using me. He had girls in every city—and, in his eyes, we girls were a dime a dozen. But I quickly learned that “celebrities” don’t like being rejected.

  As soon as I started declining his date night invitations and stopped returning his calls altogether, his demeanor seemed to get more aggressive. It was clear that this man wasn’t used to the word “no” anymore. (Maybe it stirred up those old memories of high school rejection. Did his prom date stand him up or something?) He could have easily moved on to just about any hot girl in Hollywood, but he wouldn’t quit pursuing me. His messages got more and more intense, and by “messages” I mean voice recordings on my old-school answering machine where pushing play would allow the roomful of people to hear the eleven voice mails he had left (welcome to the nineties, bitches!).

  The messages started out arrogant, but soon became kind of sweet, then started to get overly angry and then finally apologetic, pathetic, and just bat-shit crazy. It’s like, dude, I’m sorry no one fucked you until you got famous, but leave me the hell alone! He eventually figured out that I was dating a ridiculously good-looking but little-known soap opera actor, so he had his agent reach out to my ex-husband’s manager, knowing damn well it would probably be the biggest casting call of my ex-husband’s career. Apparently, Andrew couldn’t handle a less successful, more attractive man dating me, so his agent invited my ex and his manager to dinner. What was he hoping to achieve with this incredibly awkward meeting? Was he going to talk him out of dating me? Was he going to beg him to step aside? I guess we’ll never know, because my ex declined the invitation because I had asked him to—and he had already pledged his undying devotion to me. (Something he made a habit of during our thirteen years together. #LessonLearned.) Looking back, I might have had a bigger divorce settlement had I stuck it out with Andrew and followed my head instead of my heart, but I wouldn’t have ended up creating the two most insanely amazing little boys in the world. It’s been a while since I’ve seen Andrew, but we occasionally bump into each other around town. We’re always polite, exchange pleasantries, but never speak of the past. And perhaps he’s just a wee bit anxious I still have those messages. It wouldn’t be the first time I saved a recording. #DrinkingAndTweeting.

  After my divorce, I swore up and down that I would never date another actor. Besides my best friend, who married the most amazing, incredibly kind superstar ever, I haven’t witnessed many actor relationships that have been both healthy and long-lasting.

  I like to think I was somewhat successful in keeping that promise to myself, because since my divorce I’ve only dated a couple of actors (but they were all totally by accident, I swear). #Hypocrite. I rationalized my decision, because celebrities are really no different than anyone else—they put their pants on one leg at a time and have the same number of hours in the day to get their shit done. They’re just like you and me but have worked hard (or bedded enough producers) to become successful in their careers. Even a superstar like George Clooney has everyday problems like needing Lasik eye surgery to correct his vision. (Side note: George Clooney is a pretty great guy and one of the few movie stars who are down-to-earth and charming. I’ve met him through my ex-boyfriend. Isn’t he single again?)

  Most actors are, however, extremely self-serving and think you should consider yourself lucky because they’ve given you the opportunity to fuck a celebrity. I find that dating one usually ends up badly, so unless you’re getting a free trip to the Cannes Film Festival, I’d steer clear. But like I’ve said countless times: do as I say and not as I do.

  First, I’ll tell you about the action hero.
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br />   The sky was a pinkish orange as the sun began dipping below the Pacific Ocean. If I had had a phone handy, I probably would have tweeted it. #Not. I was on the beach playing ring-around-the-rosy with a group of my friends’ little girls. My boys were with their dad that night, and I honestly love being around children. (What can I say? Kids love me because I am a giant kid at heart.)

  A well-known NHL player was hosting a fabulous house party at his beachfront Malibu mansion that afternoon. I had been invited in the past, but my ex-husband was never fond of me frolicking on the beach in a small bikini around professional athletes. #GoFigure. After a full day of fun in the sun and hanging out with my richest, semiwasted friends, I was preparing to go home but promised the little girls on the beach just one more game. I was even more eager to make my exit once I noticed the second wave of partygoers starting to arrive clad in full cocktail attire, while I was makeup-less in a bathing suit with a sheer cover-up and had sand everywhere. Plus, I noticed the new issue of Glamour magazine, which included a feature about me, sitting on the coffee table of the NHL player’s house, and all I wanted to do was snag the copy, go home, and crawl into bed with it. Honestly, I was eager to see what spewed out of my mouth this time in my favorite glossy.

  I was making my fifth lap around the “rosy” with all the kids when I heard loud laughter and shouts coming from the house as more people poured in. Most of the daytime partygoers had left, but a giant bus had just unleashed a gaggle of very attractive girls dressed in “evening bikinis,” full makeup, and six-inch stilettos. #WhoreDeliveryService. I looked over my shoulder right before my newest little girlfriends and I dropped to the sand and spotted two very famous actors making their way through the crowds, complete with bro hugs, air kisses, and high fives. The rich and famous love Malibu’s premiere beachfront row—as do the star-fuckers. #NotMe. #BeenThere. #DoneThat. These are gorgeous, roughly four-thousand-square-feet homes that overlook the Pacific Ocean. These coveted abodes sell for way over $20 million. The more cost-effective approach is to rent one for a month in the summer, if you have an extra $200,000 lying around. That’s why these high-profile types love to live there. It’s exclusive, only very few people can afford to live there, and it’s not super- easy to get to, so tourists usually opt for the Hollywood Walk of Fame and the Santa Monica Pier for sightseeing (think: fanny packs, cameras, and Hawaiian shirts). But Malibu is still close enough to Los Angeles, so if you choose to leave this luxurious little town, you can be anywhere within the hour.

  I turned my attention back to the action on the beach, but a few moments later I heard someone walking up behind me—it was one of the movie stars.

  “Hi,” he said. “I’m —.” Let’s call him Marty. “What’s your name?”

  “Brandi,” I said and continued to dance in the sand. Only this time, I knew I had an admirer who was watching my every move. #KnowTheGame. Instead of playfully circling with the girls, I shimmied down the sand a bit to where some adult friends were enjoying cocktails and listening to music. I began to move my hips and shake around a little more provocatively. His eyes never left me—and I knew it. It was starting to get uncomfortable. Okay, not really. I loved it.

  “I’m headed to the Malibu Beach Inn,” he said, approaching me from behind. “Do you wanna join me?”

  So slick, I thought.

  “No, I really can’t,” I purred. A smile crept across his face; he seemed amused by my rejection. Apparently, women didn’t usually deny his advances, but I already had plans for the evening—nothing he could offer me was better than cuddling up with my pups and my favorite fashion magazine. Plus, like I said, I wasn’t wearing any makeup and I was all too familiar with the lighting situation at that specific “inn.” I wasn’t interested in exposing myself . . . in that way. While I wasn’t interested in heading home with him that night, that wasn’t to say I wasn’t interested in a possible future date. Plus, playing hard to get is like the first lesson mothers should teach their daughters. The more available you are, the less interesting you are. #Fact.

  “Could I get your number?” he asked after a long pause.

  “Sure,” I said coyly. I waited for him to produce a phone or, at the very least, a pen. I mean, I wasn’t above writing my number on his palm. Whoever he ended up going home with that night might have ended up with a “Brandi brand” on her ass. #GetIt?

  “Go ahead,” he said.

  “There’s no way you’re going to remember it,” I said.

  “Try me,” he said.

  The next morning I woke to a text message from Marty asking what my plans were for the afternoon. At first I was totally floored that he remembered my number, but I suppose for actors, memorizing shit is part of the job requirement. I considered my day, and I was unusually flexible (figuratively and literally—Pilates really does work wonders). The boys were with their dad, so besides the normal errands—Sephora, Target, and maybe a manicure—I had the day free. I responded that my afternoon was open but I had dinner plans and needed to be home by five P.M. He didn’t need to know that I was really just pretending. You never want to seem too available. #BeAChallenge.

  “Would you like to grab lunch?” he texted back after a few minutes. It was clear that he was eager to see me and wouldn’t back down easily.

  Fuck, I thought. Why not? After all, “yes is my new no!”

  It was after one P.M. when I finally arrived at his beachside residence with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view of the Pacific. It was a “come fuck me” house that I’m sure worked just about every time. I had spent hours perfecting my impossibly natural not-wearing-makeup makeup look and opted for an itsy-bitsy bikini and a semi-sheer cover-up. I was going for the “I wasn’t trying” look. By the time I made my way to his front door, my stomach was in knots. Marty answered the door in shorts and a T-shirt and invited me inside. He seemed super-jumpy, so that immediately put me on edge. This wasn’t off to a great start. He gave me the grand tour of his pristinely decorated summer rental home, but strangely paused before each of the twelve floor-to-ceiling windows and peeked to see if there were any photographers lingering outside. With each window he passed, he pulled closed the curtain and continued the tour. I was pretty used to the paparazzi scene in Los Angeles at this point, but this kind of paranoia seemed a little over the top. I had seen countless photos of him in magazines, striding shirtless on the beach, so I never considered that he actually didn’t want the attention. I began to feel incredibly uncomfortable and wasn’t sure how to act. Was he nervous that someone would spot him inside his house? Or worse, was he nervous someone would spot me?

  I was starting to get extremely insecure with this entire ordeal. When the tour finally ended, he could tell that I had tensed up and offered me a glass of wine. I wasn’t planning on drinking and still had a court-mandated Breathalyzer in my car from my DUI charge the previous year that I needed to blow into before starting the engine. #DefinitelyNoDrinkingAndDriving.

  “I thought you were sober,” I blurted out. Shit, I thought. There I go again. I didn’t want to offend him, but clearly I have a tendency to word-vomit. Marty looked at me and shrugged.

  “I am, but I still keep wine here for when I have guests,” he explained.

  I accepted his offer—it seemed rude not to after that—and he ducked into the kitchen to grab me a glass. He made no mention of the lunch plans, but I don’t think I could have forced myself to eat anyway. I was just too anxious at this point with all the window covering and fumbled conversation.

  We spent the next two hours talking, and I finally began to relax. We talked at length about my divorce and ex-husband; he shared similar war stories of his past relationships. It became clear that he was a serial modelizer, but his honesty was refreshing and his eyes were sparkling. #SuckerForEyes. Plus, Marty had no idea who my ex-husband was, which was refreshing.

  My single glass of pinot grigio kicked in, and our conversation escalated to flirting and touching. He would grab my thigh when he laughed, a
nd I would gently push his shoulder when he playfully ribbed me. It wasn’t long before we started making out. He stood up from the couch with my legs wrapped around his waist. He placed his hands under my ass and carried me to his bedroom—making out the entire way.

  Why is it that the powerful, successful men you expect to be rock stars in bed rarely are? I firmly believe that there is a direct correlation between the kind of car a man drives and his ability to make you orgasm. The guy in the beat-up 1998 Honda Accord can fuck you like the world is ending, but the guy in the Bentley expects you to do all the work. Should I feel lucky that he’s been in a few movies and is gracious enough to let me lie in his bed?

  To be fair, he wasn’t bad in bed. Actually, he seemed to know his way rather well around a woman, but I guess I just wasn’t feeling it. A few minutes in, I knew that I needed to make my escape, so I got him to come the quickest way I knew how: enter Brandi’s special sex-tastic secret magic trick.

  I whispered a command in his ear and he looked at me with hungry eyes and, without saying a word, obliged.

  “More,” I said. I felt his heart rate accelerating and his breath quickening. Celebrity or not, guys are so fucking predictable.

  Presto! He collapsed on top of me, apologizing that he came so quickly. #ThankGodForCondoms.

  There’s something my special little trick does that pushes men over the edge. Don’t ask me why, but it works . . . every time. You may want to know what it is, but it wouldn’t be my secret little sex trick if everyone knew . . . now would it?

  “It was amazing for me too,” I purred.

  I quickly dressed and pulled the old “Will you look at the time?” line. Like I’ve said, I’m a terrible liar and needed to get out of there as soon as possible. I thanked him for a lovely afternoon before scooting out the door. I jumped into my car and blew into the Breathalyzer, but the engine wouldn’t start.