I get a phone call this morning from work that basically amounts to “please don’t write on the fitness board anymore because your handwriting is shit”. Which is fine by me. I know my handwriting is shit. I’m just surprised it took this long for upper management to realize this. My handwriting sucks so bad that I’d probably be better suited carrying around a bag of clipped-out magazine letters and a glue stick.
Kimberly visits and we fuck like experienced teenagers. And god is it good. In the past few months, I’ve forgotten what pussy feels like. There’s just been a faint memory. It’s like trying to recall the quadratic formula:
“Uh… negative B over X… uh… plus the square root of… uh… equals me jerking off. Squared.”
Pussy is a five-sense juggernaut. Touch, taste, smell, see, hear. But when you don’t get it, and must watch porno in its stead, then all of those senses disappear. You can just see it. Sure, you can try jerking off with a can of tuna under your nose while you chew with your mouth open and finger a McDonalds apple pie, but it’s just not the same.
Even if you add sweat to the tuna.
Because I masturbate so much, over the past few months I’ve come to associate pussy with my large, calloused hand. So, naturally, after months of conditioning, the first thing I wanted to do when I saw Kimi’s vagina was jerk off into a brown Chipotle napkin. Foil shizzle.
Kimberly comes… into town with her friend/former Gap manager Rob. Rob is the fucking man. He also likes to fuck men (Go Tops!), so we hit up the West Hollywood boy bars.
On the first night, we go to Mickey’s on Santa Monica Boulevard. Ever see a movie with ripped, tighty-whitey’d guys dancing on tables? Well that’s this place, complete with bubblegum techno and lusty-eyed gay professionals looking to unwind after a hard day of making a shitload of money. The dancers with the most dollar bills wear their underwear low to show off their ass cracks and trimmed or shaved pubic regions. They have exaggerated, cod piece-like bulges. It looks like their dicks took a shit.
On Saturday night we go to the Abbey. Imagine a bar from the Canterbury Tales. Now imagine lots of cigarette smoke, overpriced drinks, and men. Rob chases some Miller’s tail – a young stubble-faced god who may or may not be scamming for free drinks. Kimberly is his wingman. I crash out on a big leather chair near the fireplace. Tired, not drunk. It’s hard for me to close my eyes because my neck is exposed and I’m worried that somebody’s going to come by and inject me with a 24-hours-to-live poison and I really don’t want to go on a high-octane quest for the antidote.
We leave eventually, but Rob goes back out once we get back to the room, determined as ever.
And he succeeds. Go Tops!
We spend the rest of the time doing touristy shit: Hollywood and Highland, Kodak, Chinese Theater, the Grove, Venice Beach, etc. We don’t make it to Santa Monica or South Central, but that’s okay because I’m still perfecting my Crip Walk.
One of the awesome things about Kimi’s trip is she rents a fucking car. And I get to drive. I zoom past bus stops where I’ve logged hours waiting and give the finger to the Metro signs. In my head, because people are waiting and I don’t want to flip them off.
LA is a car city until it comes time to park. Fuck. Three tickets in three days. $180 total. Never, ever, ever park if any fraction of your car is hanging into a red zone, even if it’s 1/16, because you will get a ticket. Parking officials are professional tattletales who nanny-nanny-boo-boo their way through life. Fuck them.
On Friday night one of my coworkers has a birthday party at this place on the Sunset Strip called Bar Marmont – some ritzy hotel bar. I dress up in jeans and Etnies. Kimberly wears a sexy black dress. Rob goes all GQ.
And it’s all for naught.
That’s right. We get velvet-fucking-roped:
“We’re at capacity.”
Two bimbos step up.
“Come on in.”
Just like in the movies. We still can’t get in even when my coworker comes out, points to us, and says we’re with her.
And so I’ve come to this conclusion:
LA is a city based on exclusion. The barred windows, the gates, the hedges, the velvet ropes, the parking permits. Exclusion is this city’s theme. It’s like one big cool-kid table in a high school cafeteria. Do you look good? Do you have money? Do people know who you are? Awesome, bro. Have a fucking seat.
The rest of us can sit somewhere else.