by David Louden
We drink, and laugh, I nibble on her earlobes. She responds favourably before reminding me it’s a single sex room. Natasha removes her dress as I light a cigarette. She’s now highly uncoordinated, swaying and making heavy work out of removing her right arm from the most minimal of sleeves. She’s built like a swimmer in her matching black lace underwear. Large breasts, curvy waist, formidable smooth legs and a toned stomach. Her hourglass frame is a welcome sight, beautiful and graceful and completely contradictory to the swaying, hiccupping, imitation of a street drunk she’s doing. Setting down her empty glass she places her hands on my legs and glides up my denim until she’s lying on top of me biting my bottom lip. Reaching in between us she undoes the buttons and slides her hand down inside my jeans, grabbing hold of my member.
“You going to gimme some…”
I ignore the fact that her ample boobage is pressed against my chest, the fact her hand is operating my cock like a joystick and that her warm ass has almost reduced me to tears on multiple occasions throughout the course of the evening.
“Shit Natasha,” I sigh “please don’t take this the wrong way because under different circumstances I’d camp out down there but there’s an old saying that’s popular with court appointed attorneys…too intoxicated to consent.”
“I’m fine.”
“Oh yes you are, but my ass is too tender for prison life.” I manage to free myself from under the sexy burden lying on top of me. Sliding out from under her I position myself on the end of the bed. “You’ve had a lot to drink, so why don’t you sleep it off. We can do this tomorrow if you still want some.”
“You’re a nice guy Doug.” Offers Natasha as she slips off into the blackness of her drunken unconsciousness.
“Sweet dreams.”
I tucked her up in her bed before scribbling my phone number on a piece of paper and pinning it to the wooden frame of the bed. There’s a momentary rise as I go to leave, she asks…
“Stay, stay Doug…sleep over.”
I check my watch; it’s late or early depending on your lifestyle. Undressing in the middle of the room I climb into bed next to Natasha and fall asleep with her tucked up next to me. I slipped out of the hostel the following morning. Six hours sleep brought me to within minutes of the afternoon. I woke to a raging and unsatisfied boner, an empty side of the bed, my phone number missing and one of Natasha’s roommates staring at the tent in the bed sheets, transfixed as though she was expecting it to talk.
Saturday and Sunday were a blur of drugs, booze and repetition. We met up at a coffee shop on the boardwalk, pieced ourselves back together before having a lunchtime drink, Granddaddy neat. The days would pass with forties and blunts, the magic hour would set in as we sipped on moonshine before heading out to the latest bar. Takuma had been the dark horse of the group the night before, where several of us (to various levels of success) paired off the Japanese cyber punk looking kid had bagged himself a three way. I pondered for a moment whether he had been introduced to Ana and Margarita's special brand of international relations. We started out early, the repetition started early too. We gained entry into a bar, we drank, and we mingled. I convinced two Texans that Brad Pitt's character in Snatch was based on my brother. We drank some more, we mingled which became flirting, which became heavy petting, groping and scenes of a sexual nature. Oscar streaked, Hayden picked a fight with a redhead’s boyfriend and we all got thrown out.
Two more bars would follow. Eventually we hit a brick wall, whether it was general demeanour of our group, or the size of our caravan or perhaps the establishments we had been ejected from phoned around the untainted ale houses and forewarned against us; doors were closing to the drunken Irish, naked South African and the fisty Australian. We were out of options. As we walked the length of Venice Boulevard Oscar and I tore off across the street towards a Carl's Jr drive through. Tapping on the window Oscar must have looked like a rabid dog.
"Food! Food me!"
The staff behind the Plexiglas continued on frying, expertly trained to ignore the screen. A barely audible voice reaches out across the cool desert night.
"Sir, this is a drive through."
"I know mate we're passing through!" Said Oscar, apparently unaware of what their issue was.
"Sir, if you don't have any automobile we can't serve you." Said the red box.
"But we do."
"Sir, where is you car?"
Without consulting one another Oscar and I walked out of view of the screen and the in-house security camera. Moments later we shuffle up to the window, side by side; Oscar behind the wheel of our imaginary car, my mouth providing the engine sound effects. He toots the imaginary horn before winding down his window and pushing the yellow button in the centre of the red speaker box.
"How do you do?" He projects in his best plum English voice.
"Give the man our order Oscar so we can be on our way. You promised me Palm Springs."
The box chuckles.
"Very good gentlemen but I'm sorry we can't..."
The rest of his statement was drowned out by the blast of a real horn from a genuine car. A large black SUV with tinted windows. Winding down my window I lean out...
"Wait your fucking turn asshole!" I yell.
The doors open, the real doors that is. I'm not one to adhere to stereotypes but what could only be drug dealers get out of their vehicle and start walking towards us. The rest of our group have stopped, they've been watching the drunken antics from across the street much to their amusement. They've also caught eye of the situation escalating beyond our control as four men in leather jackets, two black, one white and one Asian square up to us.
"What'd you say?" Said one of the dealers, in a tone that left no room for misinterpretation. He heard the first time.
"I said wait your fucking turn asshole," I replied, a lot calmer than I had originally said it "but in fairness you started it. So maybe we could chalk this off, we'll get our food and be on our way?"
He stares blankly at us, deciding something. It's silent for a moment. The rest of our group, twenty strong surround their vehicle. All drunk, ready to rumble. Frank steps forward, he marches down and steps in between us and them. His chest pumped, proud, strong and ready.
"Francis get in the car we're leaving." I said.
The tension breaks. The three other dealers start laughing; soon their straight faced friend has fallen into line and seen the funny side of the situation.
"Yo!" yelled the dealer "You gonna serve these guys? You're holding up the line."
"Sir, Carl's Jr. does not permit the sale of product through this window to individuals that aren't in an automobile."
"You can't see their car?" He’d ask.
"Yeah man," Oscar pitched in "you dissing the pussy mobile?"
There was silence for a moment.
"Carl's Jr, can I take your order?"
All twenty four of us sat in the parking lot of Carl's eating our drive through heist. The dealers, though initially intimidating, turned out to be genuinely funny guys. Four joints skinned up, Bret and Carl made a run to the local liquor store and we drank forties from brown paper bags, smoked super strength weed and finished the fries, burgers and desserts until the cops rolled by. Packing up we headed on to a party with the dealers in Englewood.
Monday morning came quickly. I wrecked my fractured mind. Nothing. It would appear we skipped Sunday this week. My eyes were sensitive, my throat raw, coke nose made difficult work of breathing. Every inch of my body ached with the gentle movement that came from simply breathing.
“Fuck me.” I said to myself.
I felt at the point of collapse, as if I was about to cave in on myself. Physically I was unravelling, breakfast burritos on La Brea with Bret allowed the head space I needed. I felt myself at the edge of the cliff, the part of me that wanted peace, wanted the pain to stop was daring me over the edge. To let go, let the reliability of cause and affect take over and shepherd me into the darkness. But there was
still a glimmer. A part of me demanded “not like this”. Bret had caught the eye and become particularly taken with a Danish girl we called May. In recent weeks he had bedded Victoria, and been the Canadian Cristelle needed to tick the land of the Maple Leaf off her list; and had bumped molars with the friend of Oscar’s girl, Kata (a Mexican girl from the Los Feliz party) and a “freaky biker chick” who sounded familiar.
“I’m losing it man.” He confessed.
“Au contraire muthafucka, the whiffiness of your trouser snake would imply you’re winning!”
“Partying man. Worked my ass off to get clean…feel like I’m losing it. Got to get my shit together and get outta L.A…and out of that fucking hostel more importantly.” Bret continues pouring a third sugar into his coffee “Deviant fuckers man. You good?”
“Top.” I slip my sunglasses on, I’m still too vulnerable and Bret’s looking to make this more real than my core can take.
“Never seen a place like it. You consider the amount of people who come to L.A to be discovered…and what are we doing?”
“Try to lose ourselves brother…one shot, snort and nasty fuck at a time.”
“You see it too,” Bret smiles “comforting man.”
“I run arms open towards it.” I finish my interrupted thought.
We make a pact to have a clean day; a day of culture, thought and clean living. We even shake on it and take pride in ourselves that we’ve made an intelligent and mature decision. It was 11AM. 1PM came and the “Patio crew” sat smoking and listing to Carl’s iPod with our arms tucked tightly to our sides. May had told us a story about how her brother had discovered that alcohol laced tampons secreted under the armpits bypassed the hours of drinking and took you to the finishing line in the amount of time it took to smoke a Marlboro. Along with myself – Carl, Oscar, Bret, Frank, Takuma and two new guys sat waiting…waiting on the six tampons soaked in tequila and vodka we had duct taped under our arms to kick in. While we waited I snorted a line of vodka. Impatient for what was sworn to be an “immediate hit” Takuma soaked another cloth finger before dropping trousers and thumbing it up into his ass. This was as clean living as the day got and it ended in a parking lot on Sunset Strip getting a thorough and deeply attentive blowjob from Natasha while resting up against the side of an unsuspecting minivan.
By Thursday our worlds were completely out of control. While on a bus to North Hollywood to see Don Johnson and maybe score some good weed Carl and I munched marijuana popcorn and watched in slow motion as our bus side-swiped a Sedan looking to force its way into the traffic. The driver slammed his foot hard down on the brake; passengers flew forward before jerking back. With a shush the doors open and the bus driver rushes out to inspect the damage. We were running late so it didn’t seem unreasonable that Oscar appointed himself substitute to take the wheel, driving the bus off from the scene of the accident and within fifty yards from the front door of Don Johnson’s prized restaurant.
Partying in Hollywood took me back. It had now been months since I was green behind the ears and unsure of the world I now thought I ruled. Drinks at Hotel Café got rowdy so we took the night out to a club called The Beauty Bar, I didn’t know whether it was a functioning salon during the day but it was designed to look like a 1950’s hairdressers. I popped two ecstasy within the first hour, drank a bottle of vodka and a table worth of Guinness before fucking Natasha in the toilets. Dropping her pants she raised her polka dot dress before resting one high heeled foot on the rim of the toilet and offering me her pert round ass. I pushed the memory of Kelly to the back of my mind. She had been obsessed with polka dots, it made birthdays and anniversaries extremely easy to buy for, and she looked good in everything. I had packed a polka dot dress for Kelly, which needed to go to the back of the mind too. There was ass on the menu. Returning to the party highlighted just how far behind we had fallen. Everyone was drooling, making zero sense. Kay, who was normally cold with me, was full of smiles and praise. She placed two LSD tabs on her tongue; Natasha took one off before Kay offered me the second. At some point the group became fractured. Outside of the bar Carl was laughing, he had paid a fifty year old homeless woman with a wooden leg twenty dollars to suck off Fido (one of the new guys) as it was his birthday. What was more surprising than her willingness to do it was his willingness to accept…or maybe it was Carl’s desire to watch. I caught a glimpse. It was sobering. I had spent months exploiting only myself. Yes there was promiscuity and errors in judgment but I had never intentionally exploited someone’s situation for sport – let alone a blowjob. Taking Natasha by the hand I lead her outside of the bar, past the oral novelty show and towards what looked to be the chain smoking members of our motley crew.
Stan was a young Welsh IT student. He was quiet but always seemed to be there, I was never entirely sure how much fun he was having. Frank had his large shovel like hands on each of his arms and was forcing eye contact.
“Serious big man,” coaxed Frank “don’t give it a second thought.”
“What’s this now?” I ask as I light a cigarette, inviting myself into the conversation.
“Young lady,” stated Oscar “who was a little more than a young lady…if you know…”
“When’d you find out?” I ask.
“Huh?” Stan says his first words in my presence.
“Tranny right? You find out when it was too late? You touch tool?”
“No…Frank told me.”
“So no big deal. You didn’t fuck her, you didn’t take one in the trunk. Get back in the game and keep an eye out for broad shoulders and a five o’clock,” I offer “you guys seen Bret?”
“Wang’s.” Said Frank indicating the Karaoke bar.
“Tak-man?” I ask, as Takuma had been gone for a while
“Same…I think.”
“Karaoke?” I direct at Natasha.
We walk the two blocks to the karaoke bar just in time to see Hayden, Bret, May and a few others race out of the karaoke bar quickly followed by a heavily tattooed man who’s covered in what looks to be a blue cocktail. I didn’t need to ask, it was obviously Hayden’s work. A gunshot rings out as we get to the corner of the street, we turn quickly and race back up the street and collect the rest of the group. North Hollywood was no longer welcoming and there was a mass of tattooed ex-cons to emphasis this.
Back on Venice Beach we buy ten bottles of vodka from the liquor store and head down to the sand to party with the stoners and the gangbangers. Weed and acid and vodka are battling it out, the night sky seems all engulfing. It takes several conversations amongst the many misfiring brains for us to realise that we had lost Takuma. Finishing up we say our goodbyes, I purchase some weed from one of the gangbangers who I’m sure remembers me from the night Ana, Margarita and I crashed their party. Holding hands with Natasha I walk, sweating, heart pounding and spaced back to Lost Angeles. From out of the seaside darkness a small, lean, male figure appears waving. He’s carrying an open bottle of tequila which he’s slugging from.
“Taki!” Bellows Frank “Where you fucking been man?”
As he gets within vocal distance the blue and red flashing lights of the LAPD pull up alongside Takuma. A conversation begins, Takuma’s head shakes, he walks on and is quickly chased by the two armed patrolmen. Again they talk; as we approach we make out sounds but nothing much over the crashing of the Pacific waves. Suddenly he’s grabbed by the arm and spun. He drops the bottle, falling before shattering on the sidewalk and is pinned to the ground.
“Officers!” calls Bret “Hold up Officers!”
Several of us jog forward; we’re clearly sober enough to know the difference between a jog and a charge.
“Officers, what’s the problem?”
“He’s committed a public offense and disobeyed a police officer.” states the taller cop.
“He doesn’t mean any disrespect officer. This is nothin’ more than a cultural misunderstanding. Where he’s from he can buy beer in a vending machine.” pleads Bret.
> “He’s going downtown.” The smaller cop chips in.
“Fuckin’ hell wise up, he’s just a kid. A tourist…cut him some slack!” I blurt out.
“Excuse me,” the smaller cop steps forward “wise up?”
“Yeah wise up…come on…be decent about this.”
“Take the wall.” Instructs the cop.
“What?”
“You heard me…take the wall.”
“For what?”
“Ok,” he smirks “you’re under arrest for disobeying a police officer.”
“Fuck off you tiny cunt!”
He lunges at me, cuffs drawn. I shove him out of the way before the taller cop winds me with his nightstick. I black out for a moment but come around just in time to hear the click of the handcuffs and I’m sat upright by the police car on the side of the curb.
“Little man syndrome,” I rant “that’s what this is you baby-dicked pig.”
“This might be a good time to remain silent brother.” Bret whispers before he’s told to step away from the prisoners.
The hostel has emptied. The hundred plus backpackers that drink and smoke and screw their lives away standing by the side of the road and then it dawns on me. I’ve a quarter pound of weed in my jacket pocket.
14
I HAD BRET’S thriftiness to thank for my stay in the Los Angeles Correctional System being significantly shorter than I had been anticipating. He was indeed light with his fingers; I could see why the ladies liked him. His physical appearance the night before told nothing of his state of mind. He was still razor sharp. Having lent in and whispered “this might be a good time to remain silent brother” he then picked my pocket, removing the weed from my jacket and further criminal proceedings and deportation from my near future. In fact, I had the advancement of mankind through modern technology to thank for my short stay behind bars. Several camera phones caught the assault perpetrated upon me by the Los Angeles Police Department’s finest munchkin making my stay superficial and my criminal record nonexistent.