“YOU WANNA DO GREEK?”
“That’s why I’m paying you, Candy.”
Two years ago, doing Greek would have been ordering a lamb souvlaki.
A little course in escorting for you laymen–’greek’ means up the ass. Greek is often spelled with a lower case ‘g’, which is funny, because you would think that putting a dick in an ass should require a capital ‘G.’
I love anal. Not the way it sounds when you say it, a-nole, but I’ve moved past that. I accept its dirty imperfections. I’m not even talking about the act. I’m talking more about the idea. The taboo. The dark hole of pleasure that people associate with something ugly. The untouchable is mine.
(I’ve also grown a fetish for feet, armpits and that little section on the back of the leg that’s below the biceps femoris, above the gastrocnemius, right behind the patella.)
I’m what’s known as an escorting hobbyist. But there’s something about the word ‘hobbyist’ that doesn’t quite express how much I enjoy burying my face in a mound of ass for two hours at $750 to $5 grand a pop, depending on the quality of ass and the current demand in the industry.
I guess a better, more appropriate term for me would be ‘lucky SOB.’
My obsession for the ass has helped improve many skills in life. For instance, I’ve acquired a solid understanding of how search engines function, which has become useful when trying to find specific anal scenes on porn tube sites. Using quotes in Google when typing words like “dirty sluts anal” comes in handy when you’ve got a hard-on to find that “dirty sluts anal” scene your bartender showed you at the Broadway Bar.
(I actually once started a video collection of porn stars doing their first anal scene. It was glorious. Then I got a girlfriend and deleted the evidence.)
How it all started
This is what happened: I got hit by a truck about a year ago, and I got 500K to compensate me for my bones shattering and for the spinal fluid leaking from my ears. The truck? A Dodge. A caravan. A 1999. The 90s ran me over. Pathetic, I know.
Not being hit by something badass is one of the biggest regrets in my life. Every day I regret not being plowed by a a 1929 Ford Junkyard Dog.
But I don’t regret the escorts. Or the ass-licking. Or spending thousands on a hotel two blocks from my studio.
I don’t regret the 8 am boozing of the past 12 months. Or the grubHub ordering every day of the week. Or the limos from Los Angeles to Vegas to the Bunny Ranch and back. And most definitely not the Thursday morning trip to Bocas Del Toro last November with a mostly bald, snaggle-toothed hooker.
(She’d lost her platinum wig in the Pacific. So we rented a boat, grabbed a bottle of Balvenie and found he wig off the shores of Red Frog Beach. I got to eat out her ass for no charge as the finder’s fee.)
But that’s all behind me now. Today I’m browsing the Internet hungover from boxed wine and late-night Domino’s, searching for personal loans. After I returned the BMW Z4, I’m wondering if I can use my 2001 Saturn–the piece of shit car I was born with–as collateral for credit. It’s amazing how quick 500K goes in a year. Now I can sympathize with the lottery winners’ crash and burn stories and the bums on the corner of 8th and Broadway in downtown Los Angeles. I’m close to those people now.
I’ve burned bridges. I’ve lied about my identity. I’ve lied about where I got my money. I’ve isolated myself in a world of booze, whores and holidays. And it all seems like a giant blackout, now.
This isn’t an ‘I found God’ kind of story. Though Lord knows if I get my hands on 500K again… This is just the story of how, for one year, where I became Dennis Wilson, Bukowski and Hank Moody all rolled into one hot mess.
There’s no happy ending. There are lessons learned, but mostly not the kinds of life lessons you’d expect, like renting the private Rehab cabana Jacuzzi does not guarantee you a blowjob.
This is just the tale of how one 26-year-old fucking jerk who lived large, carried out every detail of his fantasies and had them all crash down like a burning ball of motherfucker.
The Beginning of My Career as a Hobbyist
Money seems like the issue at first when you’re starting your career as an escorting ‘hobbyist’. But once you dive in, quality is all you care about.
Which is why I’ve come to appreciate escort agencies–to know exactly what I’m buying. The product. The fantasy. To know what ass I will have on my face for a given amount of time at an exact price. And to pay for that ass with an AmEx card.
The first time I got an escort I was nervous. I booked a seedy hotel in Glendale, CA. Drank about half a bottle of Jameson and paced in my non-smoking- turned-smoking room, waiting for cops to barge in. They never came. But she did.
Pattaya. A petite, sexy Thai girl wrapped up in a light brown trench coat.
Definitely not the blonde college girl I’d ordered off some back pages of a website that’s the bear trap for below-average SURPRISE hookers. But I was drunk and I felt it was more important to bust my escorting cherry than to be picky. I wasn’t in a position to be picky.
Pattaya kissed me on the cheek, walked to the dresser and collected her $500. I made a bad joke about PayPal. She didn’t react.
I offered her a drink. No response.
It dawned on me that Pattaya didn’t speak a lick of English. Which I thought would be a problem since part of my fantasy is having the escort say my name and demand that I bury my face in her ass. But I improvised. My new iPhone 4 found me a translation app.
I started out slow: “You look sexy tonight.”
I grew more confidant: “Did you buy that underwear from Victoria’s Secret?”
I wasn’t getting anywhere. I downed some Jameson. You’ve paid for this service, Andy… say what you want.
Did you know that “Can you sit on my face?” looks like this in Thai: “คุณสามารถนั่งบนใบหน้าของฉันหรือไม่”?
Pattaya went to work. Slipped off her panties and positioned herself above my flushed face. I was severely smothered. I’m pretty sure she was texting her friends while my face was lodged in between her cheeks–I could hear the swooshing sound of messages being sent. After about 20 minutes of this, I grabbed blindly for my phone, typed out a message and held it up to where I think Pattaya’s head was. The translation worked. Next thing I felt was her warm little mouth on my balls as she stroked me off.
When my ear-bleeding ecstasy was over, she collected her things, kissed my forehead and left. I didn’t even help her put on her coat.
I remember my first time with an escort more than the night I lost my virginity. I realized escorts are miracle workers. No price is too high: They provide the service of fantasy.
Fifteen minutes after she left, I ordered another. And another. And then two at a time. One night at a dirty hotel turned into seven nights in heaven. I never wanted to leave.
A MAN’S TWENTY-SIXTH BIRTHDAY usually means shit. But when I turned the big 2-6 I’d just gotten out of a three-year relationship. I’d like to say the breakup was mutual, but I’d be lying to you if I said that. The love of my life ended things due to my inability to control my drinking. She gave me chances. A lot of them. But I failed every time.
Maybe it wasn’t just the drinking. It could be my intense interest in anal sex freaked her out. (For my ego’s sake, it’s important to note that I did have breakup anal sex with her. Actually — I’ll go one step further — I’ve made every girlfriend I’ve ever had lick my ass. That way, when the relationship inevitably ends, I know that her face has been in my ass. Some of these women are married now. With kids. Photos of ex-girlfriends kissing their husbands on Facebook makes me smile. These are the small victories in my pathetic life.)
Anyway, as a newly single free man flush with a load of cash, I was going to celebrate my birthday right. New York may be Woody Allen’s town, but Chicago? That’s my town. It’s everything I love about a city.
Chicago’s restaurants range from the slop to the overpriced. Plenty of booze. Sports fans that are borderline suicidal. Money. Architecture. Art. Rough neighborhoods. Rock ‘n roll. Jazz.
The women of Chicago are probably my favorite women in the world, other then Texas girls. The women of Chicago tend to be gorgeous, round-bottomed, hot dog-eating, booze-chugging chicks who are classy yet not afraid to suck your balls.
The Sax Hotel & Queen Latifah
I’d planned to stay at the Sax Hotel for four nights and five days; then find another place. The Sax is a great location: It’s next door to the House of Blues, and it’s got gorgeous views of the Chicago River.
Sporting a fancy trench coat, an overpriced bowler cap, and fake geek glasses, I approached the front desk.
“Welcome to the Sax Hotel, how may I help you?”
“I’d love to check out the furniture in my master king suite, please.”
I always like to see what the layout of the hotel room provides. What couches will bottles be chugged back on? Can the bathtub fit only two, or up to three petite models? Are the foot benches comfortable enough for a woman to bend over on? And is there a leather ottoman nearby to watch any girl-on-girl action occurring on the bed? After examining the room, I told the bellboy to bring up some Balvenie and Goose. I tipped him generously. I have a lot of respect for bellboys. Maybe it’s because I used to deliver pizzas.
I’d planned ahead for my activities. After about three drinks of Balvenie, a fake-breasted blonde entered my room accompanied by a pigtailed brunette. I gave them each a glass of Goose and told them it was my birthday. Not like that information even matters to an escort. They can care less, and they won’t go the extra mile just because you were fucking born. But I told them anyway.
They asked for a refill. I made it a double.
As the Facebook birthday notifications rolled in, I was drinking my Scotch from the bottle and getting a blowjob from both gorgeous women.
The movie “Just Wright” was playing in the background. Queen Latifah was really killing my arousal. I flipped it off and focused on my Scotch and getting the girls to look up at me from time to time while they worked.
See for yourself what a buzzkill this movie is:
And that’s pretty much the way I spent the next three days in Chicago: I cycled through drinking, passing out, ordering room service and getting it on with hookers.
And then I got to feeling a little edgy and anxious. So I popped some Xanax, stuck a flask of booze in my trench coat, and headed out to see the town.
The year before I’d gone to Chicago for a vacation with my girlfriend. Whether it was the booze, the Xanax, or my mind playing tricks on me, as I walked the city I kept stumbling across places we’d visited together.
I found myself at the Art Institute of Chicago, where her 90-year-old grandma works. I made my way to Hot Doug’s where I re-ordered what I had with her: The Brigitte Bardot. I walked in Grant Park where we’d hung out at the Pitchfork festival. I looked at the gorgeous shoes at Fluevog in Wicker Park where I’d bought my ex open-toed lace-up boots. Lastly, I hit up the famous Green Mill in Uptown and watched a drowsy jazz act drone on to a sad, essentially empty house. Seemed fitting. My body was about ready to break. I made it back to Sax and passed out.
Wrigley & The Big Z
The next day I mellowed out. I had a few beers, got a massage, went to the spa. I was preparing for my Saturday adventures with my good chubby buddy, Jake. I should clarify what I mean by ‘good chubby buddy.’ Basically, he tolerates, forgives, and puts up with my antics.
I checked out of the Sax hotel. I hopped into a whiskey-stocked limo and picked Jake up. We headed out to Wrigley Stadium. I’d gone to a Cubs game with my ex-girlfriend the year before. It was magical.
But this time I didn’t give a fuck about magic or history. It was about paying for the most expensive, two-rows-off-the-field seats, and pounding back as much booze as possible. The game was between the Pirates and the Cubs. The pitching matchup: Paul Maholm vs. Carlos Zambrano. The Cubs won 5-3. I know all of this – not because I was at the game – but from the newspaper box score the next day.
During the game, we got friendly with one of the high-up Cubs executives, let’s call him Mr. X. Mr. X was a well-known man, infamous for his public playboy experiences and antics. I knew about his reputation; we clicked from the start. He was entertaining his rich hedge-fund friend–let’s call her Mrs. X, and his high-school-aged nephews. While we chatted it up, my alter ego took over. I lied and told them I wrote for Family Guy and that I had Hefner’s number on speed-dial. I showed them. Indeed, it did say “HUGH HEFNER” in my contacts… But there was no number. Those two simple lies allowed me to scream, heckle, vomit and say whatever the fuck I wanted without getting thrown out.
After the game, Mr. X took us to the locker room to meet the winning pitcher, Carlos Zambrano. I was about 18-20 drinks deep by this point. Probably more. I don’t know. Mr. X introduced me to Zambrano, a 6′ 5″, 260-lb Venezuelan man who I imagined worked out in the Amazon in the off-season. Mr. X told him I wrote for Family Guy, which Zambrano loved. I couldn’t stop staring at the guy and the only thing I could think to Zambrano was, “Mr. Zambrano, how big is your cock?”
Jake and I were immediately escorted out the stadium. I still want to know what the Big Z is packing.
The Dana Hotel & The Bellboy
I checked myself in the lovely Dana Hotel near Chicago’s North Side. The room wasn’t as big as I would’ve liked, but the skyline views were amazing. I decided to spend the remaining days with only one hooker. I didn’t want some glossy, polished escort. I wanted to sift through back pages looking for something different. I wanted someone dirty and broken.
I found her: Veronica. Cheap rate. Girl-next-door type. Not in great shape. Not terrible, either. Young, confused. A gutter girl with punk rock in her blood. Exactly who I wanted.
We drank and fucked and talked and sat in silence. We covered everything from post-punk to Doctor Who to gangbangs. This went on for a while.
The bellboy brought us our oysters. A good looking young man. Probably 19. At this point, I was open for anything. I told Veronica to flirt with him and invite him back once his shift ended. The bellboy seemed confused but intrigued.
Veronica fed me what seemed like an overdose of Viagra and rode me. We feel asleep. The knock on the door two hours later woke us up. It was the bellboy – now in street clothes clearly bought at Hot Topic. I told Veronica to stroke him off on the bed. I sat in a corner chair near the window that overlooked the busy street below. I drank my Balvenie as quickly as Veronica pulled out his dick.
I will admit I was jealous. He was pretty hung for a white bell boy. Veronica hickeyed his neck like a vampire nymph. Two minutes later he came from the handjob.
We tipped him a hundred and kicked him out.
Los Angeles & “Pour Man”
Morning of my flight back to LA, I was alone. Veronica was gone. She’d left her number and told me to call her with a bunch of XOXOs and shit. She wrote she’d see me in LA.
But there was no way I was going to see her again. I have a way of falling in love with hookers. I find them as flawed as I am. Veronica was by no means a pretty escort. She was a dirty, slightly overweight punk girl whore. But that also made her beautiful. She was smart. Opinionated. And funny. And she could fuck. These are the type of whores I fall in love with.
I took a limo back to Midway for the flight back to LA. The sun streaked in through the back window on my strung-out, weathered face. My mind started to think back to all the fun I’d had on the trip. Most of what I remembered was just black with purple dots of memories flashing here and there.
It then hit me.
I realized what I would miss most about this Chicago trip was the Chicago trip I’d taken the year before. The birthday I’d spent with a loved one. The sober, lavish brunches I’d spent in silence and grins with my girlfriend. Watching Close Encounters in Millennium Park. The cooking jazz rhythms that played at the Green Mill when I was there with her. For a moment there, I felt regret and shame.
I almost wished I’d blown my money on big purchases. Like a Porsche. Or a boat. That way, when the money went, I could sell the assets and recoup some cash. But when you blow your wad on hookers and booze… there is no refund.
I think my worst fear is probably that my landlord will find me dead, naked in bed with come on my belly and a Shemale video blaring on my laptop. My poor Catholic mother’s face.
We hit a bump in the road and I noticed Lee Hazelwood’s “Pour Man” playing on the radio.
Two Weeks with Pornstar Maggie May
Between April and May of 2011, I paid for 15 hookers. Seven blondes. Four brunettes. Three black. One gray. But I only fucked twelve of them because I passed out three times.
Over the course of those two months, I went to Vegas four times. I had three visits to the Kaiser ER for detox. But most of the time I holed away in my penthouse, drinking and buying hookers.
When I wasn’t fucking hookers, I was buying shit. House stuff. Mainly because I was bored, and I snagged a few of my mother’s catalogues when I was home in San Jose, one weekend. At this period of my life, I would describe my design style as a mix between the black and silver of American Psycho and the fun of Big. Some of my purchases included:
- A pillow-top sectional and ottoman sofa from the Valentino Collection
- A Sony XBR 65 inch LED-backlit LCD TV
- An AICO Tuscano Bar in biscotti
- A basketball pop-a-shot game
- A Ms. PacMan arcade cabinet
- A 1982 Dr. Dude pinball machine
All this stuff is long gone, and I got only a fraction of the money I’d shelled out for. The only thing I still have from that spree is a fake Bree Olson rubber butt, and some vibrating nipple clamp sex toy. Apparently pawn shops don’t buy nipple clamps.
One day near the end of May 2011, I was perusing the merchandise at a high-end designer furniture and rug store, drinking Macallan 18 from a Tangerine Rain Gatorade bottle. I was in need of a rug. Passing out on 100-year-old tile floors was hurting my back.
And then I saw the 6′ X 9′ beauty: a Couristan Royal Luxury Brentwood Bordeaux Rug. It was a thing of beauty.
Later that night, lying naked and clutching a bottle on the rug, my mind began to daydream about the things I would do on the rug. Like I could watch a Lakers game while getting a blowjob from Aletta Ocean. I could play Scrabble with Bobbi Starr, and we could both have butt plugs in. I could eat Chinese food and watch a bad Kate Hudson movie with Juelz Ventura.
I came on the rug. Then I puked on it. It felt like a low point in my run. I passed out on the Couristan.
Most people, when they hit a low point, usually try to bounce back up and straighten themselves out. I had no such intentions. I was at a low point of excitement. I felt empty. I needed something. Something more longterm than fifteen hookers. Something tangible. Someone consistent. I needed a lover. I needed a pornstar girlfriend.
If you don’t know, it’s really fucking hard to date a pornstar. And not for the reasons you think. I never had a problem with dating a pornstar who took dicks up the ass on a daily basis. I never had a problem with a pornstar’s drug use — I actually preferred the drama.
What I mean by it’s really hard to date a pornstar is: It’s just really hard to get a pornstar. I tried all the tricks in the books. I offered money, expensive vacations. I said I was a writer for Family Guy.
But money and vacations don’t really matter to the biggest names in porn. They already have them (and the men they get with are usually better looking and pack bigger dicks than me).
So after many failed attempts to hook myself a pornstar girlfriend, I decided on a different approach: Finding a fading pornstar.
There’s no job that screams of desperation more than a pornstar on the backside of her career. I wanted someone who masturbators didn’t know if she retired or died. This opened up a lot of doors until I landed on one: Maggie May. (Note: This is not her stage nor real name, but this the name I’d choose for my daughter if she went into the profession).
Maggie was once a promising porn model. She’s about 5’5″, she’s got perky tits, a luscious pear bottom. Teen cheerleader type. You’ve seen her in everything from straight vaginal intercourse to gokkun. And her success — no matter how brief — was due to the line she blurred between acting innocent and being downright filthy.
I was attracted to this. To the girl who could play both good and evil. I could see myself having a relationship with Maggie May.
It’s tragically easy to find out pornstar’s contact information. Ninety percent of pornstars moonlight as escorts, meaning their contact info, email and rates are out there and can be obtained with a few smart, simple Google searches.
I found Maggie May easily, which meant her career was more in the dumps than I’d thought. Which meant, hopefully, that she was desperate, and open to something new, like dating me. We emailed a few times, hopped on the phone, and set a date in early June to ‘hang out’ in my apartment.
I paid for her the first time. I’ll call it our first date, and it’s fair to say I was loving Maggie May from the start: She was vibrant, young and had big plans to make money. I could relate to her delusional naivete.
We fooled around a bit, talked and got fucked up. She poured Scotch down my throat. Her drug of choice was heroin. Smoking it. Something I’d never done, or planned on doing.
At this point, I’d known Maggie May for two hours and 35 minutes. I’d probably racked up more time masturbating to her than talking to her. But the clock was ticking and she was leaving after three hours. So I went for it.
I told her to be my girlfriend for a trial period of two weeks. I promised lavish spending.
She took a hit of heroin. And another. “Sure. Why not,” she said.
The exact response I was looking for. We stayed up and watched a porn she’d starred in. She explained things I couldn’t see like some ditzy blonde sex scholar. I sucked on her tit until I passed out. We slept on the rug.
The first week of our relationship, Maggie and me basically spent it like Sid and Nancy. Two junkies. Spending money. Fucking. Eating. Using. We partied at a few clubs. We ate at the finest places downtown had to offer.
Every day we’d wake, use, and have coffee. As if it was semi-normal, domestic lifestyle just with heroin and Scotch sprinkled in. From the outside, we seemed like a normal enough couple. Fighting. Making up. Arm in arm. I bought her things. We watched bad movies. She let me live in her ass. And we’d walk around the city all strung out. Maggie would come right back to my penthouse after a porn shoot, like it was her own place. I hadn’t felt so normal in a long time.
Week one was coming to a close and I decided to get courtside seats for a Lakers game. We were getting ready for the game in my apartment. In Maggie’s opinion, the best looking black man in the NBA, Dwight Howard was “going to be at the game” (playing in) and she wanted to make a good impression. So she did her makeup like pornstars do — caking it on. If there’s one thing I learned from dating a pornstar, it’s don’t mess with them when they’re putting on makeup. After she douched (something I really appreciate), we grabbed a limo to the game, only 10 minutes walking distance from my apartment.
But she’d smoked way too much heroin for anyone about to watch a basketball game, for anyone about to sit courtside. As we were waiting in line to get in, Maggie noticed they were checking bags. She started freaking out. I asked her why.
“I have my pipe in my bag,” she said.
“Throw it out.”
“No! It’s my lucky pipe!”
Someone having a lucky pipe should’ve been a clear sign for me to get the hell out of the situation. But there’s something addictive about drama and the dilemma of trying to get into a Lakers game with a pornstar girlfriend who carries a heroin pipe around…. turned me on a bit.
“Look. Throw it out. I’ll buy you a new one.”
“You can’t just throw out a lucky pipe. It’s…lucky.”
“Not even for Dwight?”
“What do you want to do then?”
“I’m just gonna shove the pipe up my pussy.”
If the lucky pipe wasn’t a sign, this was clearly one. But it turned me on. I told her to not shove a heroin pipe up her pussy, if not for her own health, for mine because “I do like burying my face all up in there,” I said.
Maggie got so pissed at me. Stomped around. We yelled. Argued. I chased her down. She got in a cab and left. I went to the game by myself, had two beers and left at halftime.
Maybe one week is all you need. But she’d promised me two. So I called her up the next day. I apologized for the incident and quipped, “We should’ve just shoved the pipe up my ass.” I told her I made reservations for a week at Oprah’s favorite hotel: The Bacara.
I still drove my piece of shit Saturn, so I rented a Porsche for the week and we drove up there. Maggie gave me a handjob on the way, and I came out the open window. To this day, I still consider that my best comeshot.
We arrived at the Bacara and the place is absolutely stunning. With its Spanish-style design, the Bacara has 3 restaurants and 4 bars all on the resort’s 78 acres beachfront. We had a huge suite with a balcony patio that overlooked both the ocean and the pool. We dropped our bags, put on our suits and took our champagne and heroin pipe down to the pool.
For the first three days, everything was nice. We seemed fresh, which is an important thing for two junkies to feel. All hell can break loose when junkies get worn down. We swam in the pool a lot. Had food delivered to us whenever we felt like it. We fucked on the sand and in the ocean and every time she begged me to come on her face — another endearing trait in a pornstar. We were having a relaxing, sex-filled fun time like any other couple on some honeymoon vacation.
All that changed on the fourth night.
Maggie wanted me to smoke heroin. She wanted me to hang out in her world. She even chugged a full glass of Scotch to be in mine. It was that gesture that made me want to try –a woman drinking Scotch is probably the sexiest thing in the world.
So I tried heroin — I smoked for about an hour. It felt great. And she felt great. Maggie’s lips seemed to be non-human form. Her tits felt like there were seven of them. As I smoked and smoked, I felt like a piece of dingleberry, floating along from one sexy ass to the next with no care. She must’ve blown me three times that night, but I wouldn’t have known. I was off thinking of shapes and clouds and anamorphic figures that could only be thought of by fucking up brain synapses.
The next day, I was a zombie. The ghost of Merv Griffin. Maggie wanted me to smoke more. But Scotch was my only nurse — I’m a boozehound at heart, not a huge fan of pills or other substances.
But the booze wasn’t helping. I was out of it. I would spend hours at a time staring into space only to be snapped out of it by Maggie slapping my face. Middle of the way through the 5th day, she had a huge fit and told me this “trial membership” was over (as if it was a porn site I’d signed up for). I was in no mood or had any energy or will to argue. The trial was over. It was over before it had started. I booked her a flight from Santa Barbara to LA.
Maggie May and I lasted one week and four and half days. It felt like three years. I spent the remaining two days holed up in my suite writing, drinking but mainly staring blankly as Bill Callahan played in the background. On checkout morning, I signed for the six grand bill while the front desk man had a grin from ear to ear.
I wouldn’t say this is the last attempt for me in terms of dating a pornstar. Lord knows I’d give it another shot if the chance arose. But this would be the last time I would ever be in a relationship with a girl I only knew for two hours and 35 minutes. It applies across the entire board, not just to pornstars.
I drove back down to LA. I couldn’t stop thinking about how her pussy tasted like she shoved a heroin pipe up herself on a regular basis.
I have to admit… it turned me on.
Muerto en Bocas Del Toro
MY PASSPORT WAS PATHETIC. My high school trip to Puerto Vallarta was the extent of my world travels, and that needed to change, pronto. Not so much to be known as a world traveler, but just to say America wasn’t the only place I got my dick wet.
Since I was on a South American bender re: women, I decided to take my best friend, Colin, to Panama. He was more a traveler than me. But the good thing about Colin is that even though he lived a more active lifestyle than I did, his appetite for South American pussy and booze was equal to mine.
Colin and I have a history of letting things get out of control. From high school arrests to crashing cars to massive party fights… we’re probably the kind of friends who shouldn’t be friends. So we wanted to approach the trip with a bit of caution. We decided that when we first landed in Panama City we’d take it easy and not go out, since the next morning we’d be grabbing a prop plane to the island Bocas Del Toro, where we’d have plenty of time to get rowdy over the next nine days.
The women in Panama City are gorgeous and I’d say almost 90 percent of them have “street walker” listed on their resumes. And cheap hot pussy is not the best recipe for two guys trying to take it easy.
So we got hammered on our first night. And then we found a strip club. The women there acted like were our girlfriends. Problem was, you lost track of time… and every second cost you — a stripper’s drinks cost four times as much as ours did. It was essentially a sexy tourist scam. So imagine what the bill looked like, four hours, four girls, and 20 plus shots later.
I wasn’t prepared. And didn’t know what to expect when it came to currency. I had about two grand of cash on me but thought I could use my my credit card for the rest. Of course there was an issue. Apparently I needed to tell my bank I was going to be out the country for fraud purposes. My card wasn’t working. But logic just wasn’t helping my case. Four guys strapped with guns were expecting to collect five grand for our dicks’ pleasures.
So I decided to do the next best thing: RUN! I grabbed my Indiana Jones tourist hat, snuck out the back and ran like hell. I made it back to the hotel, grabbed my shit, and told Colin to come with me. He didn’t. I kept going. I hiked for miles in what I’m going to call the jungle. Maybe it wasn’t the jungle. Dazed, drunk and tired, I was scared that at any moment I’d be arrested, or raped, or I’d pass out from dehydration.
Out of nowhere, a fucking Holiday Inn appeared. (Maybe it wasn’t the jungle.) So I slept in my Holiday Inn suite. Meanwhile Colin shucked his watch, forked over six hundred bucks, and agreed to never go back to the strip club.
Bocas Del Toro
The next morning, we met at the airport to go to Bocas. I told him not worry about the money — I’d pay for everything else on the trip. Also I let him punch me as hard as he wanted in the face. Colin told me the story itself was worth the risk, and the image of me running off in my Indiana Jones hat was priceless. This was true friendship.
We landed in Bocas Del Toro and taxied to the mini-mansion I’d rented that was right on the beach outside the jungle (a real jungle). The place had three stories, and it came with a boat, a pool, a golf cart… and four Colombian hookers.
The hookers had big tits and round asses. They spoke barely a lick of English between them. They were perfect. We drank. Lounged by the pool. Swapped partners and engaged in orgies with the Caribbean Sea as our backdrop.
I’d only paid for five nights at the mansion so we spent the last three days at the town hostel. We got the suite at the hostel, which meant it had two stained beds instead of one. We met a bunch of cool people, most our age, who were all down to party. They didn’t have as much cash as us, which made us very popular to the young men and women travelers.
When you’re on a bender in a foreign place, everything becomes a fucking Twilight Zone episode. There were mornings where I had a huge Rastafarian dude banging on my hostel saying I owed him money for “cocaine-ya.” I would have random locals wave at me, sometimes happy to see me sometimes just shaking their heads. I had one local tell me I owed him money for the 35-minute boat ride at 3 am to the source of the coke.
I had no idea any of that had even happened.
Last night in Bocas, I was hammered and I decided to pee on the floor in our hostel. Why? I couldn’t tell you. But the floor was made of wooden planks with major gaps in it. Apparently my piss trickled down into a lower hostel room, and ruined the the hostel manager’s boyfriend’s artwork. When I say artwork what I mean is his doodles were a piece of shit.
Regardless, when confronted… I denied my urine incident. I blamed the mess on the leaking fridge.
Picasso wasn’t buying it, so I bought a bunch of his artwork. And then I took it down to the beach, laid it out on the sand and pissed on it.
Clearly, it was time to head home. Next day, we skipped out before sunrise, caught a small plane back to Panama City. Then we flew back to LAX.
It’s adventures like these that make me wonder if I’m wasting my life. If I’m turning into some asshole douchebag with no purpose. I actually felt ashamed of the way I’d behaved.
With my bank account depleting at a lightning pace, this trip was an awakening. It’s easy for me to say that now as I write this, tired, weathered, and broke. But I think I knew on that flight back that all of it was going to end soon. And I had to make a choice: Start to put the pieces of my life back together or just keep riding the crazy wave.
We took a cab to the beach in Santa Monica. I was glad to see the Pacific Ocean again. A large wave came rolling in.
I decided to dive back in.
The Wonder Years
I woke to songbirds chirping. I had a used condom stuck to my face. This wouldn’t be anything out of the ordinary except this time I was outside and had a Stetson-sporting nine-year-old boy pointing a Smith & Wesson at my face. I stared at the barrel, unsure of where the hell I was or how the hell I got there. I spotted my water bottle on the dirt ground near the boy’s feet.
“Sippy cup,” My dry lips muttered.
“What you say?”
He cocked the Wesson.
I motion to the water bottle. Boy handed it over and I sucked the liquid dry as the gun remained pointed at my face. The boy grabbed it and sniffs.
“What you doing on our property?”
“Where are we?”
“Driftwood. Driftwood, Texas.”
I looked around and noticed in the distance a sign at a nearby establishment: Salt Lick BBQ. My hands were covered in sauce. “I guess I had a craving for BBQ.”
A used but drivable John Deere lawn tractor was parked next to him.
“How much for the John Deere?
“I’d like to buy the John Deere you got there. How much?”
After thinking for what seemed like forever.
I pull out of wad of money stuffed in my black jeans.
“I’ll give you a thousand if you also get me some more of those beef ribs.”
Looking like a very much less dignified Richard Farnsworth in The Straight Story, I drove the John Deere on a road near the highway. Black shades on, chewing on a rib between sips of a 6-pack the boy got me. Tractor max speed: 5mph. My plan was to drive it as far as I could, heading towards the airport, before it either broke down or I got arrested for drunk driving a tractor. Luckily there wasn’t too many cars on this road and it did move parallel to the highway. I got my fair share of looks and middle fingers by nearby farmers and drivers as I would finish a rib and chuck it aside.
As I was moving along the road in my mower, my mind began to drift into hallucinatory state of memories like most drunk minds do. Oddly, the farmlands around me reminded me of the place I grew up: San Jose, California. Once known for its rich farmlands in the 40s and 50s is now synonymous with technology. Born into a Catholic family. My father owns a tire shop. My mother a stay-home housewife. Numerous siblings. Went to Catholic elementary school and all-boy Jesuit high school. I always thought of my childhood — like many others — to be the wonder years. Suburbs, family oriented old-traditional values filled with memories that every kid has. First kiss. First pimple and the 12 after that. First homerun. First car crash. First time running away from home.
As I’ve grown older, my childhood seemed just like everyone else. It saddened me as if it seemed like I missed my only opportunity for a truly unique childhood. Even knowing I was born into this mediocrity, I still felt guilt. I felt cheated. Just another cog in the wheel slated to die of a heart attack like any other Joe at 56.
Driver Blonde + Passenger Blonde
The tractor ran out of gas and I had only made about a 10-mile dent in my 30-mile trip to Austin-Bergstrom International Airport. I sat on my tractor with my thumb out hoping to catch a ride. After about a half-hour, two University of Texas girls pulled over in their beat-up pickup. Both young. Both athletic. Both blonde. They could be disguised as murders and I would be an idiot not to take a ride. I left the tractor there and hopped in.
As we moved from the road to the highway, I sat in the back seat with the girls up front. Passenger Blonde asked me:
“Where you going, hun?”
The following two minutes of silence meant my answer freaked them out a bit. I can’t blame them. The vagueness sorta freaked me out as well, but the drunk honesty just spat out of my mouth. I found a beer rolling on the truck floor and cracked it open.
They talked about needing money for some trip they wanted to go on with their friends. They argued about working longer shifts. Asking parents for money. Getting another credit card. The same conversation I would’ve had four years back, when in college with my friends.
“I’ll give you two grand to play with yourself.”
This again shut the car up. That this business deal fell into their laps from a drunk, rib eating tractor perv was a shocker. They whispered to each other and finally came to an agreement. Passenger Blonde spoke for the group:
“Okay. I’ll do it.”
I sipped my beer as she started to undo her dress.
“Not you. Her… while driving.”
What a pervert I’d become. The confidence to ask these stranger blondes to play with themselves was nothing at all to me after bartering with whores over the past eight months. I saw it as a transaction of desires. My pleasure for their desire for cash.
The girls wanted three grand and I agreed. I leaned forward and shifted the rear-view mirror down towards her Driver Blonde pussy. I instructed her to move her side mirrors in pointing at her tits. Passenger Blonde felt left out. She said: “What do I do?”
“You just watch.”
She made a disappointing tisk noise.
“Okay. Fine. You play with yourself too.”
For some reason that damn Meat Loaf song began to play in my head as Driver Blonde began to play with herself. I just watched, scanning back and forth between rear and side mirrors as she switched hands whenever one cramped up. I was a horror movie perv.
Passenger Blonde went at like she was shredding deli ham. Moaning too loudly. Knees banging on the car door. It was fucking annoying.
“All done!” Passenger Blonde belted as if this was a fucking race or something. It didn’t matter anyways. I didn’t care for her. My eyes were dead set on Driver Blonde. I shifted the rear view mirror up to look at her eyes. She stared at me in the rear view. Me at her. My eyes stayed dead set on those eyes in the rear view. Driver Blonde breathed heavy and heavier and finally came. I gave them the three grand and put my black shades on.
“Austin airport, please.”
At the airport, I exited the pickup and could feel the Blondes eyes staring at me. Before the automatic doors opened, I turned, faced them and took a bow. I half-smiled and walked into the airport.
“One way. First class ticket to LAX.”
“It’s Southwest, sir. There’s no first class. Any baggage?”
I had about 8 mini Glenlivets on the flight, and a double when I landed.
I hopped into a taxi that took me back home to downtown LA. When I got home I was greeted by Francoise Hardy “Je changerais d’avis” and Sylvie.
“Monsieur Andy, you must try this!”
Standing completely naked, a young French girl stood excited to see me as she held a fork pierced into a piece of steak. I had paid for one night and it has now turned into a bit of a long month relationship with me, of course, paying her. Her escort name was Sylvie Gainsbourg after her two favorite French singers. Sylvie wants to be a famous singer, but wasn’t really any good after she insisted on playing for me. I enjoyed her delusional mind. I told her to spend some time with me and I could make her a famous singer and model. I had no such power or connections to do so. But I wanted her. I was feeling older, weathered and I wanted her youth around. I’m a selfish bastard. So I paid her 15 grand to spend the month with me, cook, fuck and remain topless at all times.
I took a bit of the steak she has made and replied, “Savoureux.”
I slumped on my 106″ Kensington leather sofa and Sylvie went down on me. With the taste of BBQ still lingering in my mouth, I thought about Driver Blonde. I thought about how powerful and hot it was to make this girl do this. Not a hooker. But an average girl with career ambitions and life goals. I thought about how it will probably leave a lasting memory on her life. A memory she wouldn’t dare share with anyone outside of that pickup truck. How I’d never forget it either. I came on Sylvia’s tits and retired to a bath.
I look back on these moments and memories in amazement and wonder. And maybe my perspective will change as I grow older, as I advance in my career and life. But in a way, I considered this to be my coming of age story. Sure. It wasn’t typical. But isn’t that what makes coming of age stories unique? The memories and explorations I had in this two year span of rich to broke has been the most insightful and life changing moments of my life. For good and bad. I got to see and experience life in a not so average manner, something I was neglected in my youth.
Slightly removed and sorta still dipped in it, I look back at these events like they were my wonder years.
Take a Walk on the Wild Side
When you engage in a lot of sex and watch porn addictively, it’s important to keep moving forward so you don’t get bored. So you explore.
Exploration always starts with research. Understanding how users upload content to tube sites is imperative for a successful researcher. Keywords. Tags. These are important things to understand when you are a sex addict pervert. You get better, more precise results when you type in “bigass” as one word and know that typing in “BBC” will get you more specific results for “big black cock.”
I was forcing myself to find something which is an unnatural act when attempting to acquire desire. I needed to find a new fetish… but I didn’t want to force it.
One day, I was browsing for porn videos, feeling burnt out. John Waters’ “Pink Flamingo” was playing in the background and it hit me: Shemale.
The simple mention of the word tranny and a dude masturbating to it makes you instantly some sort of spawn of Satan. I liked that. So I started watching Shemale porn. At first, I realized entering blind and typing “shemale” into a tube site can get you some pretty undesirable results (i.e. dudes that seriously just looked like dudes). I wanted feminine looking women… that just happened to also pack a penis.
I really preferred the Shemale to girl videos instead of guy-girl but it’s tough to be picky when you enter this world. Browsing for lists on the web of the hottest shemales I managed to find about 4-6 I found hot. When saying I found them hot, it’s almost like I have inspected them face, to chest to butt to leg… Oh, and then there’s a penis, too. The penis part was always secondary, but a constant driving force in the turn-on.
After a few videos or so of holding my eyelids open to watch it, I slowly eased the tension on my eyelids until I was actually watching shemale porn… enjoyably. It’s amazing to me how some of these transexuals can look so much like a woman (especially a female pornstar).
I wanted to try it out. I wanted to hire a shemale escort. But this had to be the real deal. I wanted to find a legitimate tranny who had been deemed hot by others. So, of course, I got drunk and high and found an “elite escort service that catered to people seeking transexuals.” The Ladyboy Company.
I perused the pictures on the site and found this British tranny who I thought was pretty hot. Doable. Also, I actually had never been with a British chick or a tranny so it was a good kill two birds with one stone sorta thing.
Let’s just call her English.
When English showed up at my apartment, I’m not going to lie, she looked like a sexy pornstar female.
“Where do you want my cock?” she asked.
Every time she said “cock” I could see the spelling go to “caulk”, like a cartoon bubble, and it made me think of Wayne Rooney applying caulk to a baseboard. Strike 1.
“I need a moment. You can make yourself comfortable on the couch.”
I slipped into the bathroom, peeking out the door as I closed it… and I caught a glimpse of the bulge. I locked the bathroom door. Drank heavily. Tried to psych myself up. For all I knew fucking Freddie Mercury was blaring somewhere right at me. I drank. Tried to psyche myself up. The booze and Freddie combo gave me courage. I opened the door.
“This dick ain’t gonna stay hard all night. Unless you got boner pills. You seem like a boner pill kinda man,” she said to me.
I did seem like the boner pill kinda man. So I locked myself back into the bathroom.
English’s dick was bigger than mine. The fact that this he/she looked better than me as a she and was packing more heat than me as a he made me feel emasculated. Strike 2.
“I want your caulk, little man. Get you cute caulk out here now!”
I popped a few Cialis. I drank a lot more booze and now Marc Bolan and Freddie were screaming all distorted at me in some weird glitzy sleeze glam tune. I shook it off. Opened the door.
Penis to penis
English was standing right there, like a boxer, and we were nose to nose with our junk. Then I caught a glimpse of nipple hair. And I swear I saw English’s five o’clock shadow. I saw too much man in her and I knew I wasn’t turned on. English wasn’t for me. Strike 3.
I told English I was sorry and that I’d pay her. She used my shower because I guess I was in the bathroom so long that she ended up masturbating onto my fancy rug. After she dried off, re-dressed, and gathered her things, English said to me: “Little man… you need a coma.”
“It’d be a vacation from yourself.”
English kissed me on the cheek and left.
Part of me did want a coma.
But I needed to explore these fantasies. I had a period of strictly seeking BBWs. I tried the 60 and older thing. Vegans turned me on for some reason.
At the moment with English, I felt like I was letting down some idea I had on sexual freedom and philosophy. That I’d chickened out. That I was a fraud. But maybe I just found my boundary of what turns me on. And who knows. Maybe when I’m 80 English will be my thing.
Though — to be fair — I always said their are two guys I’d let me fuck me. First is David Bowie. He’s practically an anamorphic reptile so it almost doesn’t even count. But the second is Neil Young. Which I imagine would be dicey depending on what time period I got him: After The Gold Rush or Ragged Glory period. Could get rough.
I think it’s important to experiment sexually. It’s like how we should all take LSD. Expand our minds. Know what kink does and does not work for you. Makes us better lovers to not be so damn afraid to explore sexually. Stop being ashamed and dig in the bowels of the inner kink. It’s liberating. Penis. Vagina. It’s all the same. We’re just all fucking animals.
Baby Mama Concierge in Cathedral City
It Academy Awards day again and I got snubbed. Again. My unproduced, unseen masterpiece, “Egomaniacs Kiss” did not receive an Oscar nod. Again. So I spent the night alone in my apartment dressed in my red-carpet ready sweatpants. My date: a bottle Jameson. On previous Academy Awards nights, me and my ex-girlfriend enjoyed a roasting barrage over Two Boots Pizza. Our jokes were mean-spirited and funny. We’d even place a bet on who could guess the most winners. The victor got a blowjob or, in her case, a muff dive.
The thought of spending the night watching the Academy Awards alone got me depressed. I started drinking early on and somehow decided that taking a limo to Palm Springs, booking a hotel for a night and ordering a prostitute as my date for the Oscars was the ideal cure for my loneliness.
I called my only limo company, LA VIP, and they quickly picked me up in a stretch stocked with a variety of booze. They were used to my odd, quick reply requests and never once questioned or judged my choices.
They kept the limo stocked and their eyes on the road. Suffice it to say, I was pretty hammered by 1 PM, halfway to Palm Springs.
When we arrived, it appears the Doral Desert Princess Resort — the place I booked — was in Cathedral City. Which is near Palm Springs, but not exactly what I wanted. The place I’d landed in had stuffy furniture. Too much floral decoral. Old people. Golf. Their suite was hardly a suite. But I’m a type of guy that if he commits to something, he sees it through for better or worse. Probably why I should never get married.
When I exited the limo, every worker stopped and stared. They must have thought I was lost or the limo got a flat. Then I realized that these workers were actually sorta starstuck by this mysterious drunkard sporting a bowler cap and black shades. They clearly were mistaking me for anyone important. Little did they know that I just got a lucky lotto ticket.
The parking lot to front desk felt like three miles when clealy it was about 50 feet. I finally made it to the desk, told the bell boy to hold my drink while I caught my breath. When I felt somewhat capable of breathing again, I looked up to find the most distinctive, beautiful creatures I’ve seen. Sharp eyes. Distinguished eyebrows. Great jaw line. Petite and tan. Dark brunette hair. Young. Very young. She reminded me of Mena Suvari. An acquired taste. Exactly what I’m into. I smiled at her and she smiled back. I noticed the name tag: Erin.
“I’m Andy Sweat, and I’m here to stay at your wonderful facilities.”
“Wonderful. If you’re a senior citizen.”
Game over. I was smitten. She checked me in while we exchanged small talk. Erin had lived in Cathedral City all her life. She was 20. She had a two-year-old girl named Hannah. She was perfect for me. Everyone assumes that a single, young woman having a kid is an unattractive quality. But a dented BMW is still a BMW.
The bell boy was set to escort me to my suite, but I insisted on Erin. I tipped the bell boy, and Erin escorted me. I gave her a sip of my drink, gave her my phone number and told her to come hang out with me later that evening. The look in her eye said she wasn’t so sure, like I was a gateway down a terrible destructive road. Her instincts were correct, but I knew, somehow, I’d see her later that evening.
I settled in, flipped on some NBA and went to work. You’d be surprised that there’s a fair amount of escorts in the Cathedral City. Mostly for the hip and swank Palm Springs crowd. Probably no escort came to the Doral for fear of fucking a 70 year-old golfer with lymphoma. I found one that looked hot, Kandy Kane. I gave her a call to come over for the Academy Awards and to wear high heels and a classy nice dress.
Kandy Kane came over and I noticed the false advertising: I was better looking than her. If I’m better looking than the escort I’m paying for I know two things:
- 1) this isn’t gonna work for very long, and
- 2) I’m gonna have to get pretty wasted to make this work.
So we started drinking. Our conversation was boring. We started to watch the Oscars. I let Kandy bite my nipples while I jerked off on her “classy” Ross-bought dress.
Knock on the door. I quickly cleaned myself up and answered, sorta fearing it was the cops. Though at this point an arrest for prostitution would surprise me. When I opened the door it was Erin still dressed in her work clothes, which I found to be very sexy. She didn’t go home and change, she went straight from front desk, clocking out to my room. Her work outfit was more classy than the hooker.
“Hi. I’m Kandy Kane. Spelled with two Ks.”
Erin shot me a smirk.
“Kandy’s my… friend,” I told Erin.
So, myself, Erin, and a third-wheel Kandy Kane watched the Oscars drinking Jameson. I got along with Erin so well. She was young and vibrant, almost like a newborn entering into this chaotic mess of a world. I spent so much attention chatting and laughing with Erin that Kandy Kane said, “You guys are really cute together. I’m gonna leave.”
“No, no… stay…”
False and weak replies exchanged… but we wanted her to leave. And she did.
“I wonder if Kandy Kane is her real name,” Erin said.
“I’m sure it’s spelled with two Cs in real life,” I answered. Erin punched me lightly. That was all the punishment she would dish out to me for sleaze-balling ways. We watched the Oscars in sync, like how my ex and I had. We both got pretty drunk. At the conclusion of the telecast, Erin had predicted more winners than me. But no muff dive was given. We kissed instead.
“Tomorrow morning, there will be an empty limo — with no one else in it — to pick you up and drive you to my apartment in LA.”
“What?! I can’t go. I have work.”
“Think about it. The limo is already paid for. You can tell the driver yes or no tomorrow morning.”
“This is crazy. I just met you.”
“What do you have to lose? Besides your head.”
I guess I said that murderous remark in a charming way that made her smile. As we said our goodbyes, she said she’d think about it, but no promises.
Next morning, I was in my own limo heading back to LA not knowing if she’d take my offer. I was laying down on my bed when I heard a knock. It was Erin.
“So what are we gonna do, Mister Sweat? Can’t believe that’s even your last name.”
I gave her a hug, and a drink and a bullshit tour of my place. Immediately after, I booked a room at the Casa del Mar in Santa Monica. The limo took us right over there where we immediately checked in, took in the breath taking views of the Pacific.
“To losing your head.”
“To losing my mind.”
We cheered and then made out. I loved her stomach. Flat. Tan. Skinny. I tend to fantasize and masturbate to curvy, whooty white woman… but all my relationships are with skinny diamonds in the rough. We never had sex and by this point sex wasn’t even my urgent desire. She was uncomfortable, sorta ashamed of her body and sexuality. Who knows, it could’ve meant she didn’t want to have sex with me. Either way, I respected that. I was fine kissing her, holding hands, drinking, laughing, and talking about life. We must’ve had “Social Network” playing in the background for the entire stay. Mainly for the Beatles “Baby You’re a Rich Man” playing in the credits which became the anthem of our brief relationship. We didn’t do much except lounge by the pool with the sand below our feet. We ate everything from crab to egg rolls and washed it down with margaritas. We talked about everything and nothing at times. It was a perfect day for two strangers to get to know each other.
At night, we found a Karaoke bar. Ordered a bottle of goose. She was getting frisky and biting me a lot. I enjoyed the pain. I sang a song or two but mainly watched her stumble and fumble like Hugh Grant on the stage. She was a terrible singer which I adored. The night ended when she started flirting with a black guy. I then proceeded to threaten to bash his skull with the Goose bottle. Needless to say, we both had too much and the night came to a close.
We laid in the hotel bed mumbling words while petting each other as if we were 14.
“Do you think I’m ugly?” she asked with one eye open.
“In the dark. No. The light… well…”
She sorta half-smiled, but was clearly looking for confidence.
“I think you’re perfect.”
“You’re sweet” she said and attempted to kiss me, but made no effort to reach my lips.
We fell asleep spooning.
Next day, I couldn’t drink anymore and the withdrawals were coming in hard. It was time to sober up which meant the end of our time together. It was time either way. We both needed to get back to our lives. She had her responsibilities and I had my own mess to deal with.
The limo dropped me off at my apartment.
“Will I ever see you again?” she asked.
“When the timing is right.”
I kissed her cheek and watched the limo take her back to Cathedral City. Weeks went by and text messages floated around. Plans about having her and Hannah fly to LA to visit. Something we both knew was not going to happen.
I think we both know those four days were probably the extent of our romantic relationship. And that’s okay. Because at that point in time it was exactly what we both needed. I needed company, a companion, someone who was real.
And she needed an escape.
Who knows. Maybe one day when I have more money and the timing is right, we will meet again.
Hollywood Munch Party!
IN A HIDDEN CASTLE IN HOLLYWOOD, a row of men lay on their backs as a line of women press their various-shaped asses on men’s faces. My best friend, Colin, and I are among these men. This lovely event was called an “Ass Munch Party” where various people obsessed with ass gather socially to engage in their fetish. Hors d’oeuvres and beverages are provided. It’s the perfect party for any woman who enjoys their ass being worshiped. It was heaven for ass worshiper men like myself.
I had been to a few of these before and always had a nice time. I never got pinkeye and I usually made a friend or had sex outside of the party with one of the female guests. But this Hollywood ass munch even was a little different for me.
I had done a bit of stalking on Facebook and found out my ex-girlfriend had a new boyfriend, so my mind couldn’t really focus on the pleasure of getting face-sat on. My ex-girlfriend was fucking with one of the only joys in my life and I had to tell someone. So I brought Colin along to the party. Colin’s probably the only male who has enjoyed the fruits of my settlement money. The escorts, the gambling, the exotic trips and the 24/7 party people lifestyle. He was never really into kinky fetishes, so this was definitely a new thing for Colin. I gave him a hundred bucks to come along and listen to me spit my troubles.
“It’s been three months since we broke up and she’s got a new boyfriend already,” I said muffled through ass cheeks.
“How long did you guys date?” Colin replied, his voice muffled through ass cheeks.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Colin doing math on this Hispanic girl’s booty.
“That’s a month of grieving per year. Seems logical.”
A hot older female ring leader struck the gong to signal the women to shift one man over to the right.
“She should be as miserable as I am.”
“Well, I don’t think it’s very considera–”
“And… SIT!” The ringleader exclaimed as a white bubble butt plopped on my lips, literally stopping my train of thought.
I looked over at Colin but all I could see was a headless man grabbing for oxygen with his hands. A BBW black woman has completely engulfed his head. I waited for a few seconds before asking him, “Do you want to get out of here?” The thumbs up meant yes.
Blocks away from my loft, Colin and I sat at a private booth in the dark Broadway Bar in downtown Los Angeles.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“I’m gonna win her back.”
I sat confidently with about 3/4 a fifth of Jack gone between us both.
I took a big swig, grabbed my coat and headed for the door.
“You have a few butt pubes on your forehead!” Colin yelled.
“How long were they on there?”
“Two hours give or take.”
My ex-girlfriend lived pretty close in LA’s hipster paradise, Echo Park, so I felt I could drive. I know, I know. I usually would take a taxi or a limo but time was of the essence. I was really drunk and I had courage. I finally made it to her street not before stopping at Del Taco.
I parked a good distance away from the two-story house she shared with three other young “professional independently strong” women. I always felt like a jackoff around them and probably rightly so. Her room had a big window facing the street in perfect view from my piece of shit Saturn. I sat staring at the window waiting for some action as I ate a taco and washed it down with a flask of Vodka. I was about to move onto my Del Taco burrito when she appeared. Looking healthy, skinny, and fiery red-headed fox as ever. I reached for the door handle. I figured I’d do one of those rock tosses at the window sorta things, but…
He appeared and I saw them kissing, unintentionally mocking me. I almost hated how cliche of a moment this was more than her kissing someone else. I tried to make myself feel better in the moment by thinking about how funny it would be if I saw her drop to her knees to blow him. But that didn’t happen. They just kissed. Fucking romantically. That hurts more than seeing her blow a dude. They closed the blinds.
I chugged the rest of the flask. With my head swirling with toxins and emotions…I passed out in my car on her street in fucking Echo Park. I dreamt about two unicorns working a hot dog stand in Brooklyn and then having sex on the street. I distinctively remember this because I was buying a hot dog at the stand and the two unicorns had my ex and her boyfriend’s faces. I asked for sauerkraut but the two unicorns were clearly occupied in some sort of scissoring/69 unicorn thing.
A knock on my window awoke my atom bombed head. It was morning and there she was, dressed in her teacher uniform as she was heading out to go to work. I brushed off some taco cheese from my chest and rolled down the window.
“What are you doing?” she asked me.
“My car ran out of gas.”
“On my street?”
I couldn’t get a lie past her during the three years we were dating, how the hell did I expect to get this one by her. The jig was up. “You don’t love me, eh?” I asked.
“Andy. I don’t even know your face anymore. You have all these other versions of you.”
The title of a song she later wrote.
“I can’t be with you because I’ve seen these shades of you. All I see when I think of you are these weird wax figurines… melting.”
A line she used in that song.
“I fucked up things with you,” I admitted.
“Yeah. You did. And I’m sorry you’ll have to live with that.”
She rubbed my face. I handed her the last item I had of hers: A forest green Amoeba Music Store T-shirt. She smiled. Kissed my cheek.
“By the way… you have pinkeye.”
It was that balance of wisdom and crass in which I loved in that girl. She waved as she drove away which would be the last time I have seen her. “Pinkeye” was the last word she said to me. I started up my car (full tank of gas) and headed back to downtown. I don’t know if I’ve ever fully got over my ex-girlfriend, but I’ve learned to move on.
In a way, it’s comforting to know that someone, no matter where you are at in your life, will always have a lasting effect on you. Makes you believe that the three years spent together was not a waste of time. It was something of substance. And that is something I can live with.
A week later, I went back to the Hollywood Munch Party. This time with a “scar,” my head clear and completely saturated in beautiful asses.
“Edie Sedgwick” Locked Me in Her Basement
It’s been a little over 48 hours, two bottles of Whisky, 20 boxes of Gushers and this basement is my casket. Patsy Cline was skipping on Edie’s mother’s 1960s Philco turntable cabinet which I love, despised and now consider my best friend. I was either on a very extended timeout or I walked into Silence of the Lambs. I was running out of booze which meant I was running out of time. Patsy Cline and the Ghost Cunt Mom were mocking me now.
48 hours ago…
It was a Saturday night in November and I was seeking company. I don’t really find the few friends I have to be that great of company. It’s nothing against them. I just prefer the surprise of the unknown. I like not knowing whether someone is a sweetheart or a psycho. It excites me because my life tends to be one broken record. My favorite company is strangers. That happen to be sexy. And I can pay to fuck and talk.
One of my hooker friends knew this other hooker who was more on the “artistic” side of the biz. She was a hooker to support her painting career, but mostly her cocaine habit. Sounds like a crap shoot so I was in. She only did incalls so I had to go to her place in Tujunga which meant I’d have to stay the night which meant instead of $200/hr, it’d be $1,500. Tujunga is a little dry hole in the middle of nowhere LA. With two post offices and one police station, I knew I couldn’t find trouble in this sleepy town. I drove up and parked in front of my incall address which was this sweet, 50s looking old house. June Cleaver would’ve enjoyed saddling up in this shack. I knocked on the door and this blonde, beautiful, skinny mousey face woman with blue paint on her fingers and t-shirt answered.
“You look like Edie Sedgwick, ” I told her.
She rolled her eyes, swung the door open and I entered.
“Wall. Wall. Bathroom. Door. Floors. Another Door. Wall.”
Edie was a terrible tour guide as she lead me to the basement. She likes to “do intercourse” (as she put it) in her basement not to ruin the energy and feng shui of her mother’s house. She had inherited the house when her mother passed away from breast cancer. I had a couple swigs on the ride over and I made a terrible joke about her “not having to worrying about that” because she didn’t have any tits. I know. Seconds after I said it, I slapped myself. She actually found the honesty to be funny and refreshing. Plus her dead mother was a real abusive cunt.
The ghost of a real cunt saved me from getting kicked out and, later, as I laid locked in the basement, I loathed that Ghost Cunt.
The basement was as nice as a basement can be. Not dusty. Not musty. Had a nice old ’50s charm that clearly Edie setup from the leftover Ghost Cunt’s stuff. The prized jewel of the basement was not the old floral mattress flopped on the ground. It was Edie’s mothers’ 1960s Philco turntable cabinet. Edie’s mother had every 1940s-60s drunken country singers album. That’s a lot of addicts.
Edie offered a line of cocaine and a bottle of whisky. We cheered as Johnny Horton’s “Schottische in Texas” played. Everything was going swell. We drank. We fucked. We danced the hoedown. We drank. She painted me a portrait and I bought it. And then we passed out.
When I woke up, Edie was nowhere to be seen. Not thinking much of it, I took a sip of whisky and gathered my clothes. As I reached the top of the stairs, the basement door wouldn’t open. I tried and tried and did the movie put your shoulder jump into it sorta deal. No dice. I yelled, banged, kicked and threw a shoe at the door. Nothing. My phone was dead and the basement had no windows to yell at the neighbors for help.
I sighed and walked down the steps to the turntable. A yellow sticky note, with the words written in red oil paint, was on the record player:
I went somewhere.
The specifics of this note were really comforting. So… Lefty Frizzell was the record of choice with my morning whiskey. Half a bottle and a few hours gone, I started to get real anxious. Fidgeting with shit. Found a baseball and threw that against the cement walls for a bit. Luckily I had my chew to burn off the edge and booze a little.
I drank. I switched records. I ate boxes of Gushers Edie loves to snack on when she is “doing intercourse.” I switched records. I passed out.
This went on for two days. With no end in site, the booze running low… I accepted my fate that this was my country death song.
I picked up a paintbrush, went to the cement wall and engraved my tombstone:
Andy Sweat was sorta here. He loved. He fucked. He drank.
He didn’t do much of anything. But he was technically here.
AND THEN… a beam of sunshine peered through the opened basement door. It was Inez. Edie’s housemaid. I crawled up the stairs and kissed her feet. She seemed calm, like this happens all the time. She didn’t speak a lick of English as she made me breakfast in the kitchen. I ate in silence as she feather-dusted everything. I thanked her, gave her 200 bucks and left Edie a note:
Don’t make me no coffee babe, ’cause I won’t be back no more. I’ve sent your saddle home.
– Hank Williams
LATE NOVEMBER 2011, the money was running dry. My apartment became a bomb shelter with all the necessities: Cases of booze, the Internet and a working TV set. I’d sold all the fine furniture, the pinball machines and the car. I had a mattress, some blankets and my bar counter. My vices alternated between Marlboro Red and Copenhagen, Scotch and wine, petite and voluptuous, air and starvation.
My anxiety was high, yet I wasn’t panicking. Strangely, I had a sense of optimism like I knew something no one else in the world did. This was a lie, but I’d convinced myself otherwise. I had to or else what the hell was the point to keep on living?
I’ve been writing furiously, most of it not making much sense, always distracted by the bottle’s curves. I was about two months late on my rent and no money coming in sight. I’d had some promising Hollywood leads, but the pitch meetings ended up going nowhere. I’d barricaded the door with bricks I found in the alley in case the police came to evict me. But, through ALL OF THIS, I kept being optimistic.
Booze has a funny way of making me delusional that way.
I wrote a plan on my wall: Establish a career or die by 30. I felt good with that. So, filled with boozy optimism, I kept sending my writing out even if I felt like Hank Chinaski at the mailbox, destined for his writing to make it to the landfill along with my empty bottles of Balvenie.
But I needed money now to stop the eviction. I had been chipping away at it with the few dollars I still had left. I also had been doing a bunch of odd jobs to make up some of the rent. I donated sperm, plasma and bone marrow a few times. If only I was a woman, I would donate my eggs in a heartbeat. I’ve done a few psych experiments at UCLA, one that involved a lot of electrode strings all over my body. I tried telemarketing, but my drunk outbursts and screaming to a woman that the “Titanic would’ve been saved by global warming” on the phone was not the smartest sales tactic. You start thinking you’re smarter then the smugglers in “Locked Up Abroad” and you would never body pack.
But I didn’t have a drug smuggling situation (or at least not yet) and time was running out.
I needed a little over $500 in two days. I had a last resort option before killing myself or getting a barista job.
Calling Billy Blanxxx
I didn’t want to call this guy, Billy Blanxxx. Not because Blanxxx was a bad guy or anything, but because I didn’t want to go down this road. But I had no choice. I gave Billy a call and he said he had a couple shoots I could do.
Specifically, a participant in a couple bukkake shoots. Of course. It couldn’t be a romantic one-on-one softcore porn shoot. It had to be with 5 to 25 sweaty men all shoving their dicks in any orifice they could find and painting the ground with sack fluids. It’s one thing to enjoy watching porn, yet to engage in it is a completely different beast. People watching you, filming you, hot set lights, stops, starts… and, in this case, being around 25 cocks and potential cumshots flying all over the place.
These are the moments where I actually wonder if I should’ve just stayed in the Bay Area, taken over the family business and lived a regular fucking life just like any other Joe. But, for me, that would be quitting. There’s no way I was gonna throw in the towel and head home. I had to do whatever was necessary to keep this pipe dream of doing something in Hollywood alive. Even if it meant being surrounded by dicks.
The bukkake shoot was a few blocks down from me. For some reason, when I arrived to the warehouse, I expected to be greeted like some leading actor star. Instead, I was put in line against a wall, herded like horny sheep.
“Stay there. Don’t move. Don’t say anything,” one of the worker people (I’m not even sure what his job title was) told me.
“What if I need to use the bathroom?”
“Come on, man. You’re at a bukkake shoot. Pee yourself.”
All the other various shaped white men in line eyed me with such disdain for the amateur I was. I felt like it was high school or the only white guy in a Guatemalan jail. I was nervous.
I gave a guy a friendly nod. He looked at me like I was some freak. I noticed a bald dude had a headband on with little silver cock patches sewed on it. This was equivalent to the Ohio St. Buckeye Leaf sticker rewarding players for doing well on the field. I was told that this guy stitches on silver cock patches for every bukkake he participates in. I counted 18 and that was 3/4ths of the headband I could see.
“Let me see your dick,” the Director of Photography shouted at me.
“Your cock, man. Let me see it.”
All eyes on me… I slowly unzipped my pants. The DP had no time to wait, so he quickly unzipped them for me, pulled down my pants and rolled his eyes.
“Number 18. Nice face. Average to sub-par dick.”
His assistant made a note on a piece of paper under #18 which was essentially my “name” for this movie. He went to the next guy to examine his cock.
“Perfect. Come with me.”
All the other men in line groaned as the DP and the “Cock Stud” walked away together. Being picked first I learned that this “Cock Stud” was the first dude to enter the vagina, her asshole and pop on the pornstar’s face, which was some sort of prized position.
Next thing I know, we’re all escorted into the warehouse.
“Stand in a circle and get naked.”
Everyone stood in a circle. Dropped their pants. Ripped basketball tear-aways with nothing underneath. These guys were prepared pros. Except me. I took my socks off first. Left one. Right one. Undid my watch. Set it down. Took off my sweatshirt. Then shirt. Everyone was watching how slowly I was moving. A sea of dongs stared at me. My heart started pounding. What the hell was I doing here?
I felt like I had hit rock bottom willing to do anything to survive and for money. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the porn industry, but this place wasn’t for me. I had romantic ideas about my life. Part of the good and loving man wasn’t all forgotten in this mess. I started to sweat like mad. Everything getting dizzy and distorted. All the dicks had five dicks sprouting from them. Then multiplying into humongous 80 dick circus freaks. The bald guy with the headband now seem to have 120 silver cock patches. Heavy breathing turned into panic. I could hear “Once in a Lifetime” playing in my mind. So….
I ran out of there. Shirtless. Barefoot. Down the downtown streets and alleys. Past tall buildings and homeless people. Business men and buses. Sweating and running like my life depended on it. Where was I running to? Back to my apartment? Where booze and lust and lack of love has led me to this moment? This moment of panic? This moment of self-hatred?
I made it back to my apartment and sat in my shower. I didn’t leave that tub for 5 hours. I noticed the bricks barricading the door. Cracks in them. All of them. I decided I needed to do something different with the way I was living. I didn’t want to end up in the middle of that bukkake. I didn’t want to end up killing myself. I cleaned myself up, swore off the booze for a while. I talked to the landlord and she agreed to give me more time. I worked out, ate better, and went for sober walks. A week later, I sold something and had the money to pay the rent. I removed the brick barricade, bought a couch, and started drinking coffee in the morning instead of Scotch.
Playing the Hollywood game is like Russian roulette. There’s no pension or hazard pay for this industry. You hope to hit it big. But most likely it never happens. Or you’ll never be satisfied with whatever little success you had. It’s a place like no other. It’s essentially hell. Buy the ticket. Take the ride. Everyone has a story to tell. It’s why I’m in Hollywood. I don’t want a regular job or a boring life no matter how much fire I have to walk on.
Over and out
The Downtown Los Angeles streets are still coated with urine. Skid Row is still littered with needles and come rags. The process of gentrification continues with trendy restaurants sprouting up, talks of white washed cable cars in the works and a football stadium seems imminent. I’ve blown through all my “wad of cash” yet has somehow managed to earn enough to stay in this junky wasteland where wealthy people like to hide and hang out.
My drive to get my hands on cash has never been more sinister. There are a few promising things for me in the works which could land me some cash. But promising means shit until that check is in your hands. As of right now, I’m sitting in this shitty coffee shop writing articles that hardly pay. Things might be different when I actually earn the big payday instead of getting a dump of money from being hit by a minivan. But most likely not. Cash is cash no matter how you get it.
The hardest part about writing “Blowing My Wad” is the fact I haven’t been too far removed from these experiences I’ve been writing about. If I were 35, married, kids and financially set… I might have written these stories with a different tone. But I am just 27 and there’s something raw about retelling these experiences from such a near vantage point. If I wrote these at a different, later time in my life… Hindsight, regret, and wisdom would’ve have all slithered their way into these stories, staining what actually happened and how I felt in the moment.
Right now… I don’t want those kids. I don’t want that wife. I don’t want that white picket fence with a fucking dog and a 9-to-5 cubicle gig. What I DO WANT is my life back. That high lifestyle living where I couldn’t tell a difference between vaginal fluids and Scotch. I want that life of lining up a row of ass in Panama and burying myself between the cheeks for however long I payed the pimp for rent. I’m tired of just squeaking by, money to barely pay the rent, and people not knowing if I am dead or alive.
If going broke ever did me any good it is this: FOCUS. I’ve never wanted something so badly in my entire life. To get back on top. To earn a big wad of cash. To prove people wrong. To play out the rest of my adventures and fantasy life however I please. But this time… for keeps.
Over the past few months I’ve been busting my ass, putting myself in a position to crawl off the urine-soaked downtown streets and actually have a wad of cash again. Maybe this time I will actually make a few investments. “Blowing My Wad” was the story of a 25 year-old guy who played by the book his whole life. Who listened when folks told him: Be a good Catholic boy. Play sports. Don’t be a fag. Go to college. Get a job. Get a girlfriend. Build that 401k. Only drink socially. Keep PDA to a minimum. Play by the rules. Play by the rules. PLAY BY THE RULES.
That Dodge minivan was a miracle. A fucking rebirth. The worst event in my life was the best thing that ever happened to me. It’s given me more valuable lessons and experiences that most people could ever drum up. I’m never going back to playing by the rules.
I say goodbye to this story for now. I plan on coming back when I have more tales to tell and, hopefully, I’m sitting in a different position from where I am at this very moment.
It has to get better than where I’m at right now.
It just has to.