Drinking and Dating: P.S. Social Media Is Ruining Romance Page 7

  Fuck. And this “fuck” was not like the one I just had.

  With my tail between my legs, I walked back to his door.

  “Forget something?” he asked. I explained, with extreme embarrassment, that my car wouldn’t start because of my “situation.”

  “Let me get you a water,” he suggested, opening the hulking metal door just enough for me to slide back in. I could sense a faint hint of satisfaction in his voice. He returned with a large glass and announced that he was actually about to head out to a party, but that I was more than welcome to stay while I “sobered up.” Just like that, the ball was back in his court.

  For being so paranoid, I thought it was odd that he just let me sit in his house. I sat on the couch for an hour and flipped through magazines before trying to start my car again. Luckily, it worked this time. Seriously, it was one glass of wine like four hours earlier. #Lightweight.

  A few days later, Marty called to ask if I wanted to grab lunch. I agreed but said I would meet him at the restaurant. I knew that I wasn’t interested in sleeping with him, but maybe if we spent more time together that would change. I’m all for second chances, and after confiding in a few ecstatic girlfriends that I had “casually hooked up with this movie star,” I decided I’d be silly not to give him another shot.

  It was fun while it lasted, but the sparks just weren’t there. And I was certain they never would be.. . . The rest is TMZ history.

  Next, there was the actor/rapper/political hopeful.

  He was the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen: tall, dark, and handsome with milk chocolate skin, luscious lips, and the sort of chiseled abs you could see through his T-shirt.

  When I first spotted him, I was doing what all the cool kids do in West Hollywood, grabbing a drink at a local members-only club, with my young, hot artist friend Cari. I immediately recognized him from one of my favorite TV shows. He was sitting in one of the club’s leather-covered circular booths facing the bar, but he couldn’t stop glancing over in my direction. After an hour of catching each other’s eye—and a few well-timed, back arches and head tilts on my part—he crossed the four feet from his table to the bar. I saw him heading my way, so I did what any girl would do in my position: I pretended to be in a riveting conversation with my girlfriend. He was going to have to wait if he wanted to get my attention . . . or so I wanted him to think. I felt him saddle up on the bar stool next to me, but I was turned in the opposite direction. When I finally angled myself toward the bar to reach for my glass of wine, he took the opportunity to introduce himself (let’s call him Wade). I’m not one to stroke egos, but I admitted that I recognized him. #ISeriouslyCantLie. That clearly was the right answer, because his mouth opened to reveal the biggest, brightest smile with the most perfect teeth I’ve ever seen. (Hmm, maybe I should text him right now. Oh crap, I’m busy writing!) He began flattering me almost immediately.

  “You’re so gorgeous,” he said. Clearly that was the right answer too, because I decided in that moment that we were going to be together. Of course not tonight, we had only just met. But eventually we would. #BrownSugar.

  After about forty-five minutes of serious flirting (and the departure of my girlfriend, who had some fabulous party to attend in the Hollywood Hills), I excused myself momentarily to use the ladies’ room; I needed to check my hair and lip gloss and reapply some concealer—yes, I still get pimples. When I emerged from the club’s single-stall restroom, I was greeted by a particularly feisty pseudo-supermodel who approached me rapidly and said, “You’re fucking with my man.”

  Was she kidding me? I looked right into her eyes and slowly, calmly, but sternly said, “Fuck you,” exaggerating each word. Nobody talks to me that way; I don’t care who the fuck you think you are.

  “I think you have a super-fan here,” I said once I got back to the bar. “Some aggressive hot chick in the bathroom told me you were her man.” Wade explained that they had dated a while back, but she was actually at the club with her new boyfriend.

  “She’s just crazy,” he said.

  There it was again. Why do men always refer to their exes as “crazy”? In this specific situation it seemed to actually be true. Either way, I didn’t need the drama, so I left—but not before giving him my digits.

  We began texting—and a little bit of dirty sexting—and went on a few dates before finally sleeping together. He pressed his big, soft lips to mine and would kiss me slowly and passionately. He used his huge muscles to manhandle me around the bed and made me feel tiny. He wasn’t super-freaky in the sheets, but I was okay with that. It felt like making love, so I didn’t even mind that his favorite position was missionary. We would kiss for the entire hour (a little too long for me, but, hey, who was I to complain?). His manhood was enormous—the perfect cherry on top of this gorgeous chocolate sundae. It was so large that he had to special-order condoms just to fit him. My seventeen-year-old kitty cat aged a few months each time we slept together—so I’m guessing she’s about twenty-three now, but it was well worth it.

  Wade spent most of his time traveling for work, so when he was in L.A. he stayed at a posh West Hollywood hotel. It felt like the perfect dating situation. We saw each other a few times every couple of weeks for some great conversation, great food, and great sex. He’d offer to drive all the way out to my house (I was still living in The Valley when we first started dating) to have dinner and watch movies. We met each other’s friends and started to really develop a connection. But there was one problem I couldn’t seem to get over: he was a huge fucking stoner. Personally, I smoked enough pot in high school and wasn’t really interested in starting up again. It just isn’t my thing. If it were a casual hobby, I’m sure I could get over it, but this was a constant habit.

  Every time he smoked, his ego seemed to inflate and I felt like I was there merely as a sounding board for all his grandiose dreams. Acting, he explained, wasn’t his end goal. After winning his first Oscar (for either acting or producing, he wasn’t quite sure yet) and becoming a Grammy Award–winning recording artist, he planned to become a politician.

  “Can politicians smoke pot?” I asked. He ignored the question before showing me his tattoos.

  The pot definitely bothered me, but I wasn’t ready to end it all just yet. During his next trip to L.A., he invited me to dinner at the swanky restaurant in his hotel. Over dinner, Wade convinced me to smoke with him that night.

  “Just one hit,” he said, assuring me that it was the perfect night because we wouldn’t even leave his hotel room. “I promise, it’ll be fun.”

  I finally relented. #BigFuckingMistake. #JustSayNo.

  When we got up to the room, he handed me the pipe and I took a toke, then another, and then one more. Trouble was ahead.

  “This isn’t like the old stuff,” he said. “No hallucinations. No cravings.”

  For the first few minutes, I was feeling exhilarated and bounced around his massive suite. It was a total out-of-body experience. Then he casually mentioned that he wanted to have a little party in the room, so a few of his friends were coming over. I had already met most of them and was feeling fabulous, so it sounded like a great idea . . . not that I had a say in the matter anyhow.

  “Oh, and by the way,” he added, “my sister’s coming by too.”

  Fuck me, I thought. He spoke so highly of his family and I had been hearing about his sister for months and months, so of course I would have loved to meet her, but I was high! #Chronic.

  A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door. It turns out “a few friends” actually meant about twenty or so people . . . most of whom I’d never met. That’s where the pot started to turn on me. This really wasn’t like the pot I used to smoke in high school. My paranoia became so intense that I was absolutely positive that everyone in that hotel suite wanted to kill me.

  I refused to smoke anything else after that, but there were plenty of fumes in the room that kept me buzzing for the rest of the evening. I desperately wanted to leave but wasn
’t in any condition to go out into the world, so I holed up in his room by myself and laid in the bed to hallucinate in peace (oh yes, there were hallucinations). One by one, people started to leave, and I thought that finally I’d be able to come down from this high and pass the fuck out.

  But around one A.M. there was a knock at the door. His sister had finally arrived. I pulled myself together so that he could introduce us. She was beautiful and very light-skinned compared to Wade, which caught me a little off guard. They were both incredibly attractive but couldn’t look less alike. Actually, she looked a lot like his “crazy ex-girlfriend” who had confronted me months earlier. Maybe it was the pot, but I started to get skeptical that they were really siblings. I knew his parents were still married, but maybe she was a half sister or something.

  That’s when shit got strange. After saying hello, she walked over to Wade, who had settled into a chair, and placed herself seductively in his lap. #WTF. I have a brother; I do not sit in his lap ever. And if I were forced to, it damn sure wouldn’t be sexy. For the next hour, I watched as she flirted with him and caressed him, all the while asking me a million questions about my life, my divorce, and my children.

  Are you fucking kidding me? Was this really happening, or was the pot fucking with me that badly? Was he lying to me about who she really is, or was he fucking his sister?

  “Okay, honey, I need to ask you a question,” I blurted out. “Are you really his sister, or are you a fucking hooker?”

  With or without the pot, sometimes I just can’t help being Brandi.

  A blanket of silence fell over the room. Neither of them said a word.

  “It’s probably time for you to go to bed,” Wade said after what felt like ten minutes.

  But she didn’t answer my question, I thought.

  My word vomit pretty much put an end to the party, and everyone, including his “sister,” made an exit. When he finally joined me in the bedroom, he didn’t say a word about what had happened and appeared to still be in the mood for some sexy time. I was grateful that he wasn’t angry, so even though I wasn’t particularly in the mood, and I was on my period, I went with it . . . for the entire hour. When we finished, the white sheets looked like a fucking crime scene. I knew I couldn’t stay there. The high had finally worn off, so I got dressed, said good-bye, and did the walk of shame to the hotel taxi line.

  We’re still friendly and continue to send the occasional naughty text, but we’re no longer seeing each other. And thankfully, I learned that the woman who spent the evening seductively perched on my boyfriend’s lap wasn’t actually his sister.

  Not all actors are terrible partners. The gay ones pretending to be straight for the sake of their film careers and children seem to be devoted husbands capable of maintaining long-lasting relationships with their wives. Sure, they would much rather fuck other men—but at least they’re discreet.

  Let me be clear. My “just say no” policy also applies to musicians and professional athletes. These types of men feel like they’re carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders, which makes them difficult partners. They are constantly surrounded by people paid to fluff their egos. #Fluffers. If you choose to be in a relationship with them, you’ll constantly play second fiddle to their career, bank accounts, and all that necessary traveling. You’ll need at least three bellhops to assist you with all their fucking baggage. Because at the end of the day, they’ll always “come” first—pun intended.

  • 5 •

  Douche Bags, Part Two

  MICRORELATIONSHIP (NOUN)

  1. An arrangement between two people that is not significant enough to be considered a legitimate relationship but more meaningful than a casual encounter.

  2. The essence of my dating life.

  Example: The microrelationship lasted a few months but never went beyond biweekly dinner dates or more than fifteen minutes of oral.

  You didn’t think I only dated two douche bags while on my journey to find Mr. Right, did you? I’ve had a handful of microrelationships. I have a theory that most guys are just a little douche baggy, but there are degrees of severity, from mildly lame to downright repulsive. Trust me, I was married to one for eight years. I consider myself something of a douche bag expert. When you finally meet a man who you actually want to spend time with despite whatever douche-y flaws he might have, I like to think you’ve finally met the person you’re supposed to be with.

  As I spent more time in the dating pool, my sea legs got stronger and I developed a better idea of how to detect the skeeziest of potential suitors—and how to weed them out.

  THE NBA PLAYER

  He was six feet eleven.

  And even wearing my six-inch Christian Louboutin stiletto (I was on crutches at the time), I could still fit perfectly under his arm. We met at the Skybar at the Mondrian hotel (no, I don’t actually go there anymore) one summer night and kept locking eyes across the pool. He finally asked if he could buy me a drink. We chatted for a little bit—and it was fun to have to look up to catch his eyes even though I was wearing my one high heel. He was bossy, and I liked it. He told me he was taking me to dinner the next night and asked for my number.

  When we arrived at Dan Tana’s in West Hollywood the following evening (Yes, we arrived together. Technically, wasn’t it our second date?), we squeezed into the tiny booth like two giants in a Volkswagen Bug.

  “What should we order?” he asked, looking over the options.

  I didn’t need to open my menu; it was practically committed to memory. This was a frequent date-night haunt for my billionaire ex-boyfriend and me. #DrinkingAndTweeting. Looking back, I think he preferred it for how big the miniature tables made him feel. I couldn’t even cross my legs (not that I wanted to that night anyway). Plus, I have four restaurants that I like all within a three-mile radius of one another: Dan Tana’s, Polo Lounge, Craig’s, and E. Baldi.

  “I got this,” I purred, snatching the menu from him. The NBA Player smiled and touched the top of my leg. Our chemistry was electric. He was fair-skinned but stern looking and rugged—one of those manly men who always took control, but I would do the ordering tonight. The sexual tension was thick and had been from the moment he picked me up in his Porsche Panamera, a “come fuck me” kind of car. (All the hot guys in L.A. drive either this . . . or a piece of shit.) The energy between us was out of control, and even the simplest gestures became sexual.

  The waiter came by, and I ordered my staples: extra crispy fried calamari, all rings (no squigglies); fried mozzarella; the chopped salad; and the veal Milanese with a side of pasta with meat sauce.

  Men love women who actually eat. Which brings me to my next piece of advice: ladies, don’t think you’re doing yourself any favors when you order a small salad with dressing on the side and take four bites before announcing, “I’m so full.” It’s so much sexier when you have an appetite—and you won’t end up devouring a pizza by yourself later that night when you get home.

  “He will have the grilled Dover sole,” I announced. I could tell he was a healthy eater, and I knew my taking charge of the order would be a total turn-on.

  I also knew I couldn’t go too overboard in the food department, since I was wearing my new Alexander Wang one-shoulder gray T-shirt dress, which was so tight I couldn’t even wear underwear. The dress was a new purchase for the date, and I didn’t need a huge pasta belly at the end of the meal. Although the way things were going, I would need to carb up just a bit because it was clear that I would need my energy later. I nibbled on just enough of everything and was perfectly content.

  To be honest, I can barely remember what we talked about during dinner. We couldn’t keep our hands off each other. Watching one another as we ate became some kind of food foreplay as I dropped a calamari ring on my tongue. We barely knew each other, but there was such an intense chemistry between us that we powered through dinner so we could quickly get to dessert . . . and I’m not talking about the espresso ice cream.

  I
didn’t even mind (at first) that most of the conversation I do remember consisted of him name-dropping his best friend . . . another basketball player who was engaged to an incredibly famous reality star. They were planning a TV wedding that had been the talk of the entertainment world for months. Apparently, there were a lot of perks that came along with having a friend who was marrying into reality TV royalty. I realized then that the NBA Player was not the next great love of my life, but I was pretty sure he was destined to be a pretty great fuck.

  By the time I was on my third glass of wine and he was on his third potato vodka, the heat was turning up. His hand found its way under the table and up my dress. (Honestly, with our legs under this incredibly tiny table, it was a wonder that his huge hand could even fit!) I bit my lower lip and stared at him for a second before I started to blush and diverted my eyes. I couldn’t wait to feel the scruff on his face, covering his strong jawline, rubbing against my inner thighs. In our minds, we were already fucking. It was on like Donkey Kong.

  An hour after we sat down (quick by most standards), he asked if I was ready to go. As we waited at the valet stand, he stood behind me, pressing himself into me while rubbing the sides of my waist. I had to squat down to get into the low car, but luckily there were no paparazzi around to catch my Paris Hilton moment (they’d catch up with me eventually).

  His house was approximately five miles from the restaurant, just up Coldwater Canyon in Beverly Hills, but in L.A. it would take about a fifteen-minute drive. I had no idea how we would make it that long.

  We didn’t.

  By the time we hit the canyon road, he was already halfway to fully pleasuring me. We made out like teenagers every time the car hit a traffic light or stop sign. His fingers were all sorts of ways up my dress, and he would look over every few seconds to watch me as I squirmed in the leather seat.