Tuesday, February 9, 2010

MY FIRST DATE IN LOS ANGELES (Part 1 of 3: The Beginning of the End)

Some might call it a fluke. I’ll go with another word: typical.

In order to determine whether or not I should move to Venice Beach, my friend since 13 years-young, Alexandria, invited me down to Los Angeles for the weekend. I deemed this an opportune time to not only check out a few places to live, but for the drinking/smoking shenangians, and the debauchery that usually ensues.

It was July 3rd. Within 24 hours, I locked down a garage turned bedroom to rent for $1100 per month. Sweet. I was going to live with three other dudes, and share a grungy bathroom sans bathtub.

“The hell with it,” I thought. “I’ve lived in a dorm, I’m 22. I can deal.”

This was going to be one hell of a ride.

Now, July 4th was something else. Alexandria, two of her friends and I were fucking around at a block party on Catamaran Street. Five blocks full of booze, grinding, people in costumes, deejay booths setup in driveways, coke draped porta-potties… it was an utter clusterfuck.

We were dancing to techno with homeless people, slurping down vodka infused beverages in Dasani water bottles, chatting with the has been teen idol/sexpot Andrew Keegan, smoking intense amounts of marijuana, etc., etc. The glorious combination of alcohol, pot, sunshine, and fist pumping, made my make-up sweat off in puddles. The perspiration was beyond grotesque, as my sweaty hair curled up in mini ringlets once I took a break. I looked like a disaster.

After three hours of nonsense, the sun was finally set, and a nearby restaurant was surely going to be pleased with our patronage. Munchies, yo! The four of us pranced into Gaby’s, a Greek/American Restaurant, footsteps away from the beach, with a mission. Mission Possible: Not one fry left behind.

The bimbo hostess sat us down next to the sidewalk, with only a teeny fence partitioning us from drunken passerbys. With ranch and ketchup drenching my lips, I look up from hovering over the plate to see three stooges clinging on the fence, attempting to talk to us.

“Can I help you?” I ask, still chewing on my Chicken Shwarma Pita.

“Uhhh… uhhhh…” One of the guys responded with such wit.

“If you’re lost the beach is that way.” Alexandria chimed in without making eye contact.

Suddenly, I felt someone groping my shoulders. I jerked back to find the good looking one of the crew giving me a massage. I have him a quick, manly head nod, and continued chowing down.

A fat-astic meal and a massage in one? Venice was looking up.

Five minutes went by…

After fingering the remnants of ranch off of my plate, I wiped my hands in my napkin and turned around to find the mysterious creeper still caressing my back.

“Um, hi. I’m Stess.”

“Ben.”

“Nice to meet you. That felt good, thank you.”

I turned around to start packing up my purse.

“That’s it?” Ben retorted.

“What do you want? A tip?”

“Your number would be nice. I’d like to take you out sometime.”


Hmmm. I drunkenly thought to myself, “if this guy is willing to give me a massage without an introduction… why not?”

Alexandria and company were getting ancy, so I quickly jotted my number down on a scrap off the paper placemat, shoved it in his fist, and dodged out of Gaby’s.

10 minutes later, I received a text… “Hi! It’s Ben! Great meeting you, meet me out for a drink later tonight.”

I didn’t respond immediately. Let the games begin…

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