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.
“Drive.”
“Drive.”
Midnight
“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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