Oh, shit...there's caviar on the menu

Shit. Please don’t pick the caviar. You’re gonna pick the caviar.

The Sunset Tower Hotel sits on the Strip as a throwback to a time passed. Once called the St. James (I did the Running Man at a wedding there) and the Argyle (I think that was the last of an eight ball at a time when it was time to stop doing eight balls). It is now a valet key drop into a world of not interesting money, but still has the AMW crowd, though they IG story every moment, when back then the Actress/Model/Whatever’s would simply look for a ride back to the Valley and hopefully a call would start up an answering machine and they could listen and not pick up vs. simply not liking a comment on Facebook about their tits and hoping for maybe a town car to the Sony lot in the not so distant future.

For them, it meant another week doing laundry in a coin-op, how do you spend 40 minutes waiting for the time-dry, I don’t know any good books, I don’t think my mom slept with more than five people and my body count is triple digits, which is one more than their bank account.

So, app dating.

She was a like a painting or the ammo for self-gratification, holy shit, you liked me back.

Platinum hair, clothes I’ve only seen on blogs from people at the Venice Film Festival.

I wanted to fuck every part of her boots and poses on side streets in Paris.

When the fuck were you in Paris that I can text you and you reply right back given the time difference?

It was confusing enough, but I let that go to get tips on hair gel, eye serum, and what it’s like to look that good…seemingly all. the. time.

She had a table. Who has a table? I went to the hostess and mentioned a name.

I’m early.

“Yes, the table is near the window in the back. Do you want me to show you?”

“No, I’ll hang in the bar,” I responded.

Only a big hand clicking a couple of times did I ask, “I think I’ll go to the table.”

‘Of course’ was the polite answer.

I ordered a Prosecco and watched what I thought were two girlfriends catching up…only to witness them slowly sink into each other and start making out.

The platinum blonde and I had a good conversation once she showed. For the first time in person. I stare at her lips most of the night. And, yes, I listened to what she had to say. I can’t fuck you unless you say something interesting. She was interesting.

I moved closer…my presence mixed with hers.

We are fucking right now, but with clothes on.

The valet on the way out was hopeful.

Her car, then mine.

2012 Range Rover. Black. LA vibes.

My car was clean, used. It cost me the tenth of a new one and looked better.

A kiss. Lips full. Wet

We texted.

Two days later the text was her in a dressing room.

Over the knee leather boots and great legs in one of those triple mirrors.

I’m in.

One date is not naked.

Two maybe.

The next couple of texts were about a guy named Robert who had them (the boots) on hold.

Boots. Leather. Over the knee.

In Beverly Hills.

Retail? Or a deal? I don’t know.

“He won’t hold them for long, you need to get down there.”

Huh?

I don’t pay retail. Ever.

I asked, “are you saying you want me to buy you these boots?”

I hope for a certain response. I didn’t get it.

My comeback was something like ‘not in a million years.’

I wanted to fuck and lay in bed on Sundays and eat and fuck and talk. And fuck.

Wasn’t going to happen.

We never talked again.

When it’s wrong, it’s wrong. Previous lesson learned. Again.

This other girl not long after gave me head on the ride back to her place.

I haven’t spoken to her in over a year.

I recently texted an old girlfriend… whom I kinda liked.

She hasn’t responded.

It’s a minefield.