After spending the past two weeks playing phone and text-tag with one another, Mr. Hollywood and I had agreed to finally meet up for a nightly play-date of hot, sweaty Molly and Monopoly/Molestation by a Millionaire (like when kids get all high on a sugar rush and play tag until they’re foaming at the mouth, adults in Hollywood get yacked out or fucked up on MDMA and play with each other’s privates until one or both of them begins foaming at the mouth as well). My advice from my friends was as follows:
Jester: *in all seriousness* Jay LISTEN! You better not FUCK THIS UP for us (using the term “us” because he’s an actor and knows damn well that the future of his career may very well depend on my vaginal escapades from here on out)! Whatever you do DON’T FUCK HIM TONIGHT!
Drama: You didn’t fuck him yet? OK GOOD! You’re still in the game. We need this! Don’t fuck it up!
Me: *whining* But I’m hornnyyyyyy!!! I need to get laid; I just got a great Brazilian yesterday and I need somebody to show my vagina the attention she deserves!
Jester: *understanding damn well that I need some action* OK well you can LET HIM go down on you but THAT’S IT! NO PENIS!
Me: *still unsatisfied* But…but my condoms are gonna expire and…I can’t possibly masturbate by myself in bed anymore it makes me feel like a loser… *getting depressed while envisioning lonely nights with nothing but my hand and judgmental chihuahua*
Jester: *sympathetic towards how pathetic I’ve been* Oh honey..don’t worry once you get him to fall in love with you and we all move in with him you can fuck him all you want!
I’m apparently good to go considering I didn’t put out the first time we were together and he’s still talking to me. At this point it’s safe to say that I am officially being pimped out by all my industry friends hoping to ride my coat tails once my Senior Vice President Prince Charming takes me under his arm and over his shoulder to wife me up…or so everybody hopes.
After telling me that he’s going to dinner with friends at around 11pm already, I affirmed to myself that there’s no way I’m hanging out with Mr. Hollywood tonight, as doing so would solidify my title as nothing but a BOOTY CALL. While I can sit here and pretend that he, like any other guy in this town, has yet to phase me or rope me in and attract anything more than a peaked interest in my pants, I must admit that I find myself disarmed and foolishly charmed by everything about him. Due to my habitually salacious means of self-sabotage, I can confidently say that my interest in any hot, buff, gorgeous Hollywood man is usually fleeting and momentary at best; not with Mr. Hollywood. OK yes maybe he’s a billionaire and yes maybe he’s gorgeous, successful and has a big dick. Yes, Maybe! It goes beyond that though; there’s something else that magically makes me masturbate only to thoughts of him…just having trouble pinpointing exactly what that is though.
Throughout the night, we continued to talk via text, Mr. Hollywood hopping from one bougie-ass Beverly Hills location to another while I sat in bed back in Hollywood, a horny bitter bitch from having missed out on some much-needed nookie. By 2am, when I had already put aside the hopes of Mr. Hollywood putting out, having ceased texting on my part for the past hour or so, Mr. Hollywood exclaimed that, “I’m leaving now!!”, further demanding to see me. Ugh. While I am starting to borderline on desperation for that big industry, Jew dick of his, I’m definitely not there yet, and I’m especially not there after him working me up all night and making me wait, that asshole. After about a half-hour of me seething with conflicting feelings of frustration and libidinous loyalty to the mental work I’d already so forth put, I told Mr. Hollywood, “You fucking tease.” His response?
“Well I had to get you back for last week…don’t you think? Payback’s a bitch…”
WHAT WHAT WHAT?!?!?!?!!?!?!?!?!! I was completely baffled. You mean to tell me you’d rather tease the shit out of me all night to eventually leave me high and dry as a means to get me back for the blue balls I gave you TWO WEEKS PRIOR?! You’d think that the optimal payback in this equation would equate to him fucking my brains out, quite possibly peeing on me, and then never calling me again. THAT, my friends, is my definition of appropriate “payback” for blue balls. Suffice it to say, I’m now even more indecently incensed with arousal for Mr. Hollywood; I’m a bit of a sexually mental masochist and THIS is doing the job. Game on, mother fucker. I simply replied with, “This is war….”
I think it’s time to realize that this is no ordinary Hollywood man – he’s no struggling starving artist working as a waiter on the side, internally chastising others while externally accepting everyone, relentlessly selling his soul and suburban ideals to chase after industry tail and tips as a means to saturate his appetite for fame, fortune, and Fendi fedoras. This is a gorgeous 40-year-old successful studio executive who can have (and has had any and every, possibly several at a time) absolutely any bitch he wants in this town – he’s made his mark and made his millions, so much so that he has the Jag, the jet, and the mansion to prove it, yet remains completely enigmatic and mystical in showing others just how so. Most men in this town succumb to the primal male instinct to think first with their dicks, then with their heads, and if lucky, eventually their hearts. Not only is Mr. Hollywood proving to be an exception to this generalization to which, I too, have unfortunately subdued my strategies, he happens to be using it against me!
Like me, he’s a Gemini.
I think I’ve met my match.