Futuristic Words

I have returned to Los Angeles. En route to my hotel, I was struck by how much I didn’t remember from when I lived here in 2006. The city sprawls, and every neighborhood takes on a new theme of people and landscape. I don’t see how I could not remember the deserted-looking oil derricks, but there they were, flanking me, as we cruised up La Brea.

As my old neighborhood, West Hollywood, settled into view, as the street names for my vet, my grocery store, my workplace, and more passed by, I was struck with a fusion of nostalgia and longing and contempt. The people here do not have the glassy look I ascribe to them in my memories. Perhaps that sense will return when I speak with a smattering of idiots tonight. Then again, I am returning to this city with my empathy reforged, so there’s a chance I will adore Los Angeles come Monday morning.

I am excited beyond words about the Playboy Mansion. When I had the opportunity to speak with porn actresses, I probably hit on them less than I should have. So me of them told me flat out it was time to make a move. I was far more interested in asking questions like, “What does intimacy mean to you?” So much for keeping it light! Nevertheless, I received a skadillion interesting answers, and I learned that Kayden Kross is waaaay smarter than your average bear.

When I’m hitting on a girl, my style tends to be a breakneck race to peel away the barriers of bullshit that separate people from other people. Life is too short, and anyone can surprise you if you give them the opportunity and make them feel comfortable enough to reveal real information. This has drawbacks, of course, as I discovered when I went on my no-phone-numbers spree earlier this year. For whatever reason, truly getting to know a girl can shift you away from the realm of sexual competition and into the realm of a real contender for her affections. One of the girls I met in Sydney demonstrated this hilariously. I was talking about my family after we left the bootcamp venue, and I asked her about brothers and sisters. “I don’t think you need to know all that,” she said. The subtext, of course, is that I was a fling. She liked me and trusted me, certainly, since we were walking around Sydney arm-in-arm in an hour past God’s bedtime, but everything had been light and breezy to that point, so my very typical attempts to dig to the real core of her were rebuffed. I laughed and threw an ice cube at her before I changed the subject.

The way comfort defines an interaction is beautiful and frustrating. A girl will sleep with some fun, cute guy the night she meets him. She will not do the same with a real contender for her affections.

And so it will be at the Mansion. On the one hand, I am but a man of flesh and blood, and I am confident this experience will result in two evenings of priapism. Of course I want to meet a buxome bunny and sex her behind the cabana. On the other hand, I am definitely harboring hopes that there will be some hilarious girl who looks like a rocket to the moon and, yes, she’d love a shot, but really she a.) just wants to go home and level her alt in World of Warcraft b.) is right in the middle of this book called Infinite Jest, and it’s kind of been haunting her, and she wishes she could put some clothes on and cuddle up with the pages c.) thinks I look like I’m a scrub in Soul Calibur, and she’ll gladly take me on. Or to just meet someone whose human tide overtakes my any assumption about Los Angeles or the Playboy Mansion. Going into any situation with zero expectations and infinite hope (i.e. living, functioning dreams) is always my ideal mental state, but this place weighs on my spirit, and the Playboy Mansion seems an awful lot like a once-in-a-lifetime adventure. Here’s to dreams.

Future