Drinking and Dating (8 page)

“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

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.

“You have to pull over,” I said with heavy breath, my hand making its way over to his lap.

He found a side street and pulled onto it, but we couldn’t find a dark spot to park. The streetlights lit up the entire road. When the car was finally in park, I tried to get on top of him, but it was not working in this tiny car. If anyone were actually watching, I’m sure it would have looked hysterical. We were these two huge people trying to sex-wrestle in the front seat of a Porsche.

“This isn’t happening,” he said. He opened the car door and we both got out. He easily lifted me up and threw me on the hood of his car, and we went for it. My dress was hiked up around my waist before I could even blink, and he was already inside me. A few seconds later, he flipped me over, and now the front of my body was pressed onto the hood of his car. We were already so turned on that it couldn’t have been longer than a few minutes before we were back in the Porsche and headed to his house for round two.

I felt like I was reliving my gymnast days. He flipped me up, tossed me over, and turned me around like I was a doll. I’ve said it before, but there’s really nothing hotter than a man who can make you feel small. And at five feet ten, it’s been a rarity for me. He was also shattering my “fancy car, terrible in bed” theory.
Good for him,
I thought.

The sex was pretty fucking amazing, but there were a few casualties of the evening. My new dress was destroyed. Between all the stretching, pulling, and car hooding, it was totally trashed.
Oh well,
I thought. I could always buy a new dress; I couldn’t always have sex like that. Apparently, his car was a little worse for the wear as well. He texted me the following day that we put a pretty sizable dent on the hood of his $80,000 Porsche. He let me know it was worth it.

We continued seeing each other for the next few weeks, but I knew it would never develop into anything serious. He started to get a little douche-y, and maybe I’m jaded, but I knew the infidelity stigma associated with professional athletes (especially NBA players). I never wanted to go down that road again. Men who were as sexually ferocious as he was were never going to be monogamous. He proved my point for me when we went out on a group date with some of my girlfriends and a handful of his buddies. The NBA Player spent the entire night flirting with one of my best girlfriends. Strike one.

Perhaps I was too vocal about how amazing the sex was or perhaps his best friend’s rising celebrity was getting the better of him, because his messages became increasingly condescending. It is a common epidemic in Hollywood: people think that if they are surrounded by “celebrity,” that they too are actually famous. No one cares who you’re friends with, dude! Your friend’s yacht in the south of France isn’t doing shit for me (unless you’re invited and can bring a guest, in which case, color me impressed!). In this case, however, it was his friend’s fiancée—not even his friend—with all the power. I wanted to say, “That doesn’t make you cool. It just makes you part of the entourage.” And didn’t you watch that show? No one wanted to fuck Turtle. (Although the actor who played him is looking pretty great these days.)

“Want to get lucky tonight?” he texted one afternoon after our group date disaster. Really, dude? You’re going to “allow” me to have sex with you? I didn’t respond. He sent another text a few hours later that read, “This is your last chance.”

Should I be grateful that I get to go down on a guy whose best friend is marrying someone rich and famous? He needed to get the fuck over himself. I wonder if he ever stopped to think that maybe I had something to do with how fucking good the sex was. I happen to know a thing or two.

That was strike two. He was out. (I know it’s typically a three-strike rule, but I prefer to play by my own rules.) I stopped responding—the orgasms weren’t worth dealing with his inflated ego, and I had moved on to the next guy.

His best friend’s “celebrity” marriage lasted for seventy-two whole days—and became the laughingstock of the gossip world. Slowly his friend started to fade from the spotlight, and surprise, surprise, the NBA Player started to reach out to me again. Recently, I ran into him while he was lying out at a hotel pool in West Hollywood. He was there trying to pick up girls. I guess that whole “pseudofamous best friend” thing wasn’t working out for him much anymore.

“I’d love to see you,” he said a little sheepishly. “You want to grab dinner?”

Oh, how the mighty have fallen,
I thought. We haven’t slept together since before the reality-wedding debacle, but he still reaches out every few weeks to see if I’m free to grab dinner . . . and then dessert. Maybe he finally realized that he wasn’t actually God’s gift to women and he should have been a little more concerned with
Keeping Up with Brandi.
I haven’t decided whether or not I’ll go out with him again. Maybe I will, but first he needs to get an SUV—and some dignity.

THE FALLEN STAR

He was one of the most attractive men I’d ever laid eyes on. Honestly, he looked a lot like my ex-husband—complete with delicious dimples—but he had sparkly aqua-colored eyes, more tousled brown hair, and large chiseled arms covered in tattoos. We first met at a mutual friend’s BBQ in Calabasas while I was still married, and I remember thinking he was going to make some lucky girl very happy—and
very
insecure.

Like I said, Valley housewives like to talk, so I quickly learned he was just your typical Hollywood bad boy trying to make a name for himself producing big-budget action movies. After a string of box-office successes, he began getting caught up in L.A.’s party scene and developed some pretty nasty demons. Over the years, I heard stories about his severe drug addiction and was sad to learn he spent most of his time bouncing in and out of rehab facilities. As you can imagine, it pretty much ruined his career. Hollywood loves to celebrate a person on the rise, but the town virtually disappears when he or she begins to fall—which apparently led to one relapse after the other for the Fallen Star. Once again, enter Facebook.

A photo popped up in my news feed of this dark, handsome producer with our mutual friend. It took me a second to register who it was. He looked great—and most importantly, clean. I clicked on his profile and saw many of the AA mantras I’ve heard over the years, but I didn’t notice any kind of strong female presence on the page. #JustSayin.
The Fallen Star finally got his shit together,
I thought—and, wow, he looked hotter than I remembered. After a glass of liquid courage, I decided to message him and ask if he remembered me (but not before updating my profile picture to my favorite beach bikini photo).

Even though I was married when we first met, I could tell he was definitely interested. Haven’t you all learned by now? Just because you’re married doesn’t necessarily mean you go unnoticed—especially in L.A. Sadly, many guys agree that it’s the safest kind of one-night stand imaginable. The married woman’s already got someone to cuddle with her, take her to dinner, and provide for her. You know her sexual partners are limited . . . usually. And, most of the time, she’s
just
as invested in keeping your little tryst a secret as you are. Unfortunately for him, when we first met I was a one-guy kind of girl.

Either way, I thought a flirty little message couldn’t hurt—and if he didn’t get back to me, I’d just convince myself that he never checks his Facebook. Right?

I didn’t have to worry long, because the Fallen Star responded almost immediately: