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So I totally had sex with someone who by Daniel Warren
 

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  • will assuredly land herself in an article called, Top 30 Under 30 in LA. The kind of girl I came to LA to sleep with and launch a successful life with.

    We have sex a couple times. The first night. Only three hours after meeting.

    We sit on my friend's couch. Exchange pithy commentary on pop culture (insert TMZ celebrity and witty witicism here). We smoke maybe a gram of weed. My hand shakes when I hand the pipe to my friend but no green spills from the cash.

    We walk to a couple bars. I order deep fried shrimp. She orders greens and a salad. I can't decipher the beer list. I have whatever she's having. Our friend sits in the middle. We make hard eye contact. She is beautiful. And very powerful. She's a talent manager. She's 25 and she's already started a business and had it acquired.

    I admire her immediately.

    At bar two my friend goes to the bathroom. I look at her. We kiss. My friend comes back. We leave. We kiss on Fairfax.

    Then I am on my friend's couch I'm making out with her. My head finds its way to her stomach. Her dress is gone. My pants are coming off as I collapse into a head stand. There. The pants are off. Now she's tapping my cheeks. Don't fall asleep, she says.

    We have sex. She tells me I'm nervous. I am nervous. I fall asleep. I wake up on my back. She's sucking my cock. This is what I came to LA to do. Get a blow job from a successful woman and launch a successful career as a writer.

    I come and I fall back asleep. I wake her up to find my glasses. I leave at 6:30 in the morning. I am hungover all day. Filled with self loathing. I lay on my back in bed and think of death. I remember studying physics in college. I thought I'd be the next Kurt Vonnegut. Now I'm miserable. Sharing my words for free. In a place shining brighter and brighter and brighter with hope and mesmerization.

    It's Saturday and I have no plans. My friend and her other friend and the girl I slept with are going to Long Beach. There's a wedding on the Queen Mary. They have a room and stuff. I skip my noon yoga class. I take a nap instead.

    I work on some ideas. I put time into campaigns. These are salable ideas to help me break into advertising. So I can make money and pay for my apartment. My Volkswagen lease. My adorable puppy. So I can put money in the bank and get married someday. I am 10k in the hole right now. A wedding costs on average 20k. The wife is supposed to foot the bill. Then I can take care of her for life. This seems arrogantly simplistic. I'm an asshole sometimes. Not being an asshole is the only virtue I can attest to.

    I'm being an asshole today.

    I have no plans on a Saturday night. I believe there's something amiss here.

    My friend texts me at 10pm. She needs help. I am to drive to Hollywood to pick up some cocaine. Then I'm to drive it to the Queen Mary. I spot and she'll pay me back. I assume if I do this I will party for free. I am a yes man. Few know this about me. I say yes to whatever people offer me. I don't get offered much.

    I do my errands. Buy some cocaine from a girl who looks like a twiggish dude. Supple, like she could kickflip a ten set effortlessly. We do the deal in the stairwell of an apartment off of Fountain. She tells me there's no cameras here. I take the envelope.

    I drive off. I look at the envelope. I wonder if there's anything inside. It's so light.

    I don't open it in case there's nothing inside.

    I don't want my friend to think I stole the purchase.

    I pull up to the valet at the Queen Mary. I forget the cocaine in the glove compartment. Before the attendant gets in I pull the unmarked envelope out of the glove compartment. He has to know that I'm that asshole showing up at midnight with cocaine.

    I find the girls. They're at a banquet. She meets me in high heels of a long hallway on a boat. She kisses me. I kiss her back. It's sweet. We head down two levels to the room. It's small. Like a room on a ship should be.

    The room is cluttered with femininity. I'm the only guy here. It's like I am on the other side of the mystique. A new girl I've never met is here with my friend and her other friend. The new girl goes to pee. I see her pulling down her tights.

    I hand over the cocaine and my friend's friend prepares the lines. She makes space on the counter first. Bottle and bottles and glasses and makeup kits and jewelry. I find an old drink there too. Whiskey and ginger ale? Not sure.

    I take a seat on the bed while the lines are laid out.

    We do them all. It's half the stash. We save the other half for later.

    We get kicked out of our room for being too loud. It's a little after midnight. We aren't doing anything except for chatting. Whatever.

    We leave and head to Alex's Bar. It's where they film True Blood. I saw Future Islands play here about 10 months ago. I was supposed to go with my ex but she had to get dinner with her family. I never met her family. They didn't know my name.

    So we're dressed for a wedding and we get mad stares. I ask my friends if they were involved in the Punk Scene. They say no. Though my friend's friend compared a new work for my new book to that of Henry Rollins. So it goes. I used to play in hardcore bands. I felt like an outcast there too. Story of my life. I'm a Holden Caulfield and no one wants another one. One was enough and he was probably a prank on literature.

    He's the most successful literary icon who let circumstance solve his problems. Bitch and bitch and bitch and get sent to a shrink. End of story. Salinger is a genius. He double punked Pixar before Pixar wrote the rules of writing.

    The girls do a bit more of the coke in the bathroom. The other girl is obnoxiously drunk and verifiably insane. Double jumping conversations. Saying things like I totally fucked the facilities manager. Then she says, White people and scoffs. Not sure what she means.

    We take a cab back to the hotel.

    The girl and I do the rest of the coke out at a table on the deck of the boat. No one cares when we take bumps. We put the coke on the end of a stub of cardboard.

    My friend babysits the other girl back at the room. She never comes up to the deck. She doesn't want us to get kicked off the boat. It's like an awkward second date out here.

    We get really high and then go back to the room. We have sex on the floor. My friend's friend already drove home. I try my hardest to make no noise.

    Having sex while making no noise is impossible. I sound like a pig trying to break into a hog feed. It's embarrassing. I'm high and I cannot come. I am pumping so hard I think I am going to pass out and I moan. She thinks I came. I roll over and fall asleep.

    I left my dog at home this time. I'm worried about her. I can't sleep well. I wake up at 6:30 again. I head down to my car. The other girl still owes me $60. I forget that I bought coke and got paid back $60 and so I take a $20 out of an ATM to tip the valet attendant.

    I get in my car. I look in the vanity mirror. I still have coke around the edge of my left nostril. The one I can do coke out of better.

    I drive home.

    I don't text her till Thursday.

    We have plans for Sunday.

    It's my first date with a girl who will assuredly be on the Top 30 Under 30 in Los Angeles. It goes horrible. We have nothing to talk about. I'm miserable. She reminds me why I'm like Holden Caulfield. I take her home. On the way she holds my hand. She kisses me goodbye and says, Don't wait till Thursday to text me this time.
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