Pismo Beach Fog

10 p.m.
We walked outside to the stars I never saw in LA. A dense grey mist suspended over Pismo on any night, but on that night for sure. A rampart to outsiders since the town was more of a boys club than anything. The fog was its mayor, police and church.
 “Your brother is freaking me out, you wanna get outta here?”
Southern Comfort and Coke and a pixyish grin on face: chiseled but I thought Asperger’s or inbred.  In a girl’s emotionally troubled world, and stomach, looks didn’t matter.  Boys were soul food.
More drinks and Black Eyed Peas on the jukebox allowed me time to give an answer, and contemplate.  Why wasn’t I in Hollywood right now?  At the Dresden, 4100, industry parties, shows, anything with interesting people, drinking interesting drinks wearing or carrying whatever I wanted: heels, jewelry and a vintage clutch.  Anything louder than a pair of jeans in Pismo Beach was akin to walking by a cop in 7-Eleven and yanking his gun out of the holster.  You didn’t do it.  So, why was I there?  I was a lost 5 year-old in the department store, wandering, approaching anyone who would listen.  
Jesus fuck, stop thinking.
“Oh really?”  Hollywood and 7-Eleven cops faded as I snapped into focus and
realized this might be my moment for cemetery sex redemption.  A night in his bed, no interruptions, talking, cuddling and breakfast. 
“I can’t tell you how much I want to eat your pussy with your bro standing right here.”  Why didn’t he, and statements like these, disgust me?  Instead it was
under this dome, he was crackerjack charming, geeky and adorable. 
Childless Brad Pitt drank one barstool away with his girlfriend,
Accountant.  Honored and half-pickled, I acted a seamless cool.  

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