The pushy director always brought the goods, and this night was no exception. After yet another untouched meal, using our forks to move expensive flesh around on our plates, sniffling and talking over each other, he checked his phone and asked if I’d like to go to a bar in West Hollywood, to meet up with his actor friend, JP. I most certainly did want to do that, and I nodded my head furiously to convey my intense enthusiasm. Anything to avoid the inevitable pushiness that would come if the evening were to lead to his architectural canyon home, just the two of us, alone. So we set off, in his brand new Audi SUV, while he described his actor friend to me, laughing and calling him a “massive slut”. A funny sounding phrase coming out of his usually soft-spoken mouth. .“This guy, he’s just like, really good looking, and really rich, and I swear to god, he fucks a different woman every night. Models, prostitutes, porn stars, you name it. He tells me about them all! He is so crazy!” I wondered if he really was that good looking, and I wondered if he might be telling me this information as some kind of warning. In response, I faked a little laugh, and then tried to change the subject. I find it boring to talk about people I’ve never met. “Nice car!” I said, inhaling the smell of newness. He told me he had just gotten it that day. I kept myself busy, staring out the passenger window, humming a little melody of comfort to myself. At times, closing my eyes completely, as this man’s driving always terrified me. He was famous in the world, but to me he was most famous for rear-ending vehicles. He had a tendency to pull right up to the bumper of the car in front, and slam on the brakes, nano-seconds before collision. Sometimes, his break-foot wasn’t fast enough, and he’d pretend like he couldn’t believe what had happened. “They stopped short!” He’d say. The way he drove was a metaphor for how he was in life. Hence, my nickname for him, pushy director. But in driving, he’d at least try to curtail a crash, while in life, he always pushed, shoved, crammed and rammed until he got his way, all the way. We parked on Melrose and walked into a dark and nearly empty bar. At a table, in the corner sat JP. He looked like a Disney prince, with thick, dark, hair, pushed back off of his face, a strong jaw, and green, almond shaped eyes. The pushy director was right, he was “really good looking” and I found myself sitting up a little bit straighter, suddenly self conscious of my outfit, my face, and my existence. The vibe between the three of us was fun and easy, right off the bat, as we laughed and joked over Titos and soda. It was what everyone drank in Hollywood at this time. Low calorie. When a beautiful blonde arrived, an actress that had been in one of the director’s films, I had a pang of concern that her and her golden locks might outshine me, with my plain, brown hair, stealing away some of the attention I was soaking up and basking in, from JP. As it turned out, she seemed more interested in winning my affection, than any of the men. The pushy director suggested I take her to the bathroom. She needed to catch up and get on our level, drug-wise, so after he slipped the tiny, amber vial into my palm, I took her by the hand and led her up the stairs, pulling the heavy wooden door of the ladies room, closed behind us. I poured some of the white powder onto a key and held it to her lovely nostril. And then the other one. And then for myself. We left the bathroom and on the way back to our seats, I returned the goods to the director, so that he and JP could take their turn. Now it was just me and the golden girl. As she looked into my eyes and told me I was beautiful, I became distracted by a smell, coming from the restroom. At least that’s where I thought it was coming from, the bathrooms being located just behind us. I must tell you, I am insanely sensitive to smells. This has been an issue since I was a little kid. I may not be famous in the world, but I am famous among those who know me, for my super smell capabilities, which cause me to gag at inappropriate times, my eyes becoming red and drippy, while I attempt to swallow and choke back vomit. It’s a real problem for me. I tried to maintain our starry-eyed moment, but my vision went blurry as the tears started up, and before I knew it, my back was arched, and I was dry-heaving like a sick dog, tongue out, red faced, praying I didn’t puke. I stood up quick. I needed to get away from the smell, so I ran to the other side of the bar, and stopped in a corner, near the front door, holding onto the trunk of a potted tree. I inhaled deeply, relieved by the fresh air that was filling my lungs. As I wiped my eyes, the beautiful, actress girl ran over to me asking, “are you okay?” In that instant, the smell returned, like dirty diapers, like death, like maggot covered meat down in a sewer, and my reflex went crazy, all over again., eyes bulging, hunched over, choking and desperate to hold it in. At this point, the director and JP had returned from the bathroom and were standing up near our table, watching us and trying to assess the situation, wondering if they needed to intervene. The beautiful, actress girl drew closer to me in an effort to comfort her sick, new friend, putting her hand on my back, and then I realized. It was her. The smell was coming from her. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings and I really didn’t want to throw up on her. My only choice was to run away, making a beeline across the empty bar-room floor, diagonally, to the farthest corner of the other end. Again, she followed, and this time, the men came over to us as well, wondering what all the trouble was. Upon hitting our mark, the director said, his soft voice as loud as could be, “Oh my god it smells like shit.” My crazy convulsions had started up again, and then I saw the beautiful, actress girl’s face change from a look of concern to one of horror. She turned on her heels and ran back into the bathroom. The moment she was gone, the smell dissipated and my reflexive gagging stopped. Gasping for breath, we all looked at each other, understanding at the exact same time what had happened. Just a minute later, she came blasting out of the bathroom, full speed, flying out the front door, and running up the street. The director ran after her. I felt a real tenderness towards him in that moment, wondering how he was planning on handling the situation. Apparently she had made her way pretty far up the block, so he jumped in his Audi, which was parked right out front, and drove off to catch up with her. He called me from the car, saying he was driving just behind her, and really concerned, as she ran. “What are you gonna do?” I asked. “Are you going to have her get into your brand new car?” I had always thought that he was incredibly shallow and secretly uncaring, so I was impressed by this grand and sympathetic gesture. A few minutes later, he returned and told us what had happened. He had driven behind her, until she reached her car, hopping in and zipping off. He called her and she answered, breathless and in tears. He tried to play it off like he wasn’t sure what had happened or why she had left. She cried, “Come on. You all knew. And I will forever be known as the girl who shit her pants!” At this point, the director claimed that he was exhausted, and ready to go home. JP and I were in agreement that the night was young, so we decided to hit the Chateau, and relive the fantastic events of the night over, and over more Titos and soda. Naturally, by the end of the night, due to all the excitement, I’d forgotten about the director’s not-so-subtle warning, and I became another one of the many women in JP’s bed. A decision I would come to regret. But that’s another story for another time. You’re a free subscriber to Neon Cowgirl . For the full experience, become a paid subscriber. |