Celebreality Bites: Volume 1

Despite having grown up in the backyard of Los Angeles County I had absolutely nothing to do with the city until I was about nineteen. This is of course with the exception of one trip to the Palm Restaurant with my boyfriend plus his dad and dad’s flight attendant lady friend. Then there was the class trip to the Museum of Tolerance; rather ironic having been scheduled by my Catholic school who’s “Love the Sinner, Hate the Sin” anti-gay propaganda is seared into my memory. Oh, and there were a handful of La Brea Tar Pit family days. As a side note, going there as an adult was a far less enjoyable experience having since acquired a keen sense of smell and a heightened level of OCD. The “Imagine Pulling Yourself Out of a Vat of Tar!” segment turned into “Imagine Yourself Catching Malaria from Kiddie Boogers!”
I was a Los Angeles virgin. And like most late bloomers who went away to college determined and pure, I popped my cherry with the boy bang equivalent of the naughty dude who barely showered, probably did drugs, and was rarely seen in class. I can’t say that at nineteen I had 100% quality guaranteed, foolproof taste in people. The crowd of people I fell in with will remain nameless but their ilk were the types to own shi-shi restaurants, private planes, and were listed as named contributors to political campaigns (most often Democratic…this is Hollywood). New money, old money, inherited money, money, money, money.
One night one of these money boys had a party. The host was an emaciated little lizard who, ironically, often sported a black snakeskin leather jacket. The driveway up to the house was lined with vintage cars and Aston Martins. Two gigantic doors with round center knobs opened up to a literal homage to the 1960s shag pad. Silver leafed wallpapered bathrooms, white shag carpet rugs, pod-like patio furniture staring out over Los Angeles. Daddy was in the fruit business, and not in the mafia sense but in the “Look at Me Next to the President” picture in a frame sense…which were littered casually around the house.
I spot Stephen Dorff, or rather, he spots me. He’s shorter than I expected, not as good looking in person, but when he slurs a suggestion that we go sit on a pod in the backyard I think, “What the hell…I liked Blade.” What transpired lasted only a few minutes and included some mild flattery followed by a swift recommendation that we “go make out over there.” He points at the dark side of the house. Now while talking on an isolated pod with a troll is perfectly acceptable, looking down to make out with one is an entirely different animal.
“No.”
“Why?”
“I don’t kiss strangers.”
“Well, fuck you then.”
Mr. Dorff gets up to leave and proceeds to abandon me in the middle of the backyard with panoramic views of Los Angeles where I am sure that somewhere down there, at some party, some asshole just did the same thing to someone else.


Bite me.

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