Starstruck Romance and Other Hollywood Tails Page 5

  That was it for Lolita. “Aren’t you sweet. You’re in love,” she mocked in a super syrupy tone. “Tanya, you want to know how it’s different? The difference is this is my shop! I can fuck anyone I want back here! If you want to get boned by your precious T-Bone in a dog grooming shop, you’ll need to start your own! Meanwhile, you’ll have plenty of time for screwing whomever you want whenever you want, because you’re fired!”

  “But Lolita!” cried Tanya, struggling to thread her army boots through the tiny leg holes of her pink leopard-patterned panties.

  “GET THE HELL OUT!” shrieked Lolita so emphatically that that there was no point in responding in any way other than just getting the hell out.

  Tanya and T-Bone exited quickly through the back, both partially dressed. Tanya was crying, but T-Bone was more concerned about where they could go now to finish what they had started. “Is your mother home now, baby?” “I just lost my job, T-Bone!” “I know, I know . . . it’s BAD. Really terrible. But really, do you think your mom’s out?”

  Lolita slammed the back door and comforted all the dogs a bit.

  “King, sweetie, just block that whole thing out. Breathe. Picture a ball on a beach. And Max, don’t let this horrible experience close your mind to all men everywhere. Mommy would never do anything like that in front of you. You know that.” She turned to Wilfredo, the little one.

  “Wilfredo, can you forgive me?”

  The tiny Chihuahua gazed into her imploring blue eyes with his watery black ones and said, just as clear as day, to Lolita at least, “We’ve discussed this and have come to the conclusion that there are good and bad men. Good ones throw the ball more than once. They know when to scratch behind ears and when to rub bellies. They let you sniff and lick their hand. They don’t pull back and complain and wipe it off in disgust. We talked this all over with Scarlett O’Hara, that Wheaten, and although we haven’t had the pleasure of meeting him, we believe her master, Master Jack, is a good one. A very good one. Undoubtedly the man for you. Your romantic destiny. And here is that kid’s wallet.”

  Sure enough, Wilfredo had slipped T-Bone’s wallet from his pants while T-Bone was getting into Tanya’s.

  “Wilfredo,” she said, holding his tiny head in her hands and glaring at him like an angry mother, “I am so tired of returning this stuff. Please cut it out.” Then she softened. “But very good work on the Scarlet O’Hara/Jack Stone front. She kissed him full on the lips. She fished her cell phone out of her pocket and called Cynthia.

  The phone rang and rang and rang.

  Day 1, Chapter 5

  Cynthia was driving along Sunset, crossing La Cienega, heading toward Chateau Marmont to have coffee with her friend Dominic Orlando——a dedicated bachelor, very dedicated——who had recently signed up for Second Acts Dating Service. She was dubious, but supportive.

  She looked down and saw who was making her phone ring. She knew what Lolita thought she and Jack Stone were in the middle of doing in his house, in his bed. She decided to ignore the phone and let her think that. She didn’t want to have to deal with telling Lolita that Jack Stone would not be interested in her.

  She had a couple of phone calls to make herself.

  Ringing.

  “Hello, Cynthia! How are you, darling?”

  This was Diego, Cynthia’s good friend who’d barely survived a nightmare of a date with Lolita. She really wanted to find him someone as special as he was. He’d gotten his PhD in Semiotics from Berkeley ten years earlier and was now teaching at Occidental. But he was no dry egghead. He had sold a screenplay last year——a comedy——and was working on another now. He was also a single-panel cartoonist and had been published in lots of magazines. And a skydiver. And a gourmet cook. He spoke four languages that she knew of. And he was a really nice guy. The guy was a catch and truly an adventurous soul when it came to women . . . up for almost anything. He wisely drew the line at dates——no matter how good their architecturally miraculous breasts looked in topless lederhosen——who come chaperoned by jealous, bloodthirsty, two-hundred-pound-plus canines, thank you very much, Lolita. Cynthia really hoped she’d found someone just right for him now.

  “So, Diego, are you good with my selection? She is one spectacular lady . . . little, cute, and tight, like you like. As I said in the email, she was a statewide gymnastics champ. She went to the Olympics one year. She was robbed of a medal.”

  “So, what exactly happened?”

  “Well, she had just turned eighteen and was feeling pretty elated about reaching the age of consent. A huge Swedish track star came on strong to her the night before her qualifying round, and she went for it. How could she know he was sixteen? She thought he was in his twenties. He certainly looked like it at six feet four; I mean, she came up to about his waist. It never occurred to her in a million years that she could ever be robbing a cradle.”

  “Oh, wow. Reverse jailbait.”

  “Yeah, anyway, it really derailed her Olympic career and got her thinking about other paths, which eventually led to law school and all the rest. She’s an entertainment attorney, so she might be a great asset for you in that way too. But she is still a gymnast at heart. She’s thirty-three, but looks ten years younger. She’s whip-smart, super athletic, hot girlie sexy, and light as a feather. You do the math. I mean, if you’re into that.”

  “Cynthia, stop talking! I’m driving.”

  “Sorry, Diego, I’m just picturing the two of you having a really good time. You with your tremendous upper-body strength, she with her, oh I don’t know, maneuverability?”

  “Cynthia!”

  “Okay, sounds like you’re all set. Call me with any questions. Like, Cynthia, does Costco sell condoms in bulk?”

  “Cynthia!”

  “Okay, bye, sweetie!” she laughed, pulling up the long, steep driveway of one of the most famous hotel on the west coast, Chateau Marmont.

  The valet took her keys and smiled. “How are you today, Madame?”

  “Very well, thanks. And you?”

  “I could not be better.”

  Cynthia loved cheerfulness like that. This guy was standing in front of a hotel all day long, catering to all kinds of celebrities and other over-privileged brats, yet he sounded like he was on a beach somewhere relaxed, cheerful, and gracious. She tipped him well. She wanted to encourage relaxed, cheerful, and gracious whenever she could.

  She made her way to the lobby, along the way noticing three or four familiar faces of hot, young up-and-comers whose names eluded her. A wrinkly guy was holding court on one of the couches. He looked like a much older version of James Caan, but then she realized it was James Caan and he was just a lot older. She preferred him frozen in time as Sonny, the hot and hotheaded Corleone brother mowed down in the first Godfather, not this distinguished grandpa.

  “Cynthia, my darling little Putenesca!” boomed a voice behind her, the incredible Dominic Orlando.

  “Dominic,” she gushed, truly happy to see him. She had had a crush on him a while back, but it abruptly stopped when she realized just how many women felt the same way. There had been——as he was prone to call it——a revolving dessert case of tiramisu wherever he and his famous cannoli went. It was before the idea of sex addiction had really caught on, but that was definitely what he was “suffering” from. He almost lost his job at Chateau Marmont more than once.

  The most recent episode involved an Eastern European super model, the wife of an English Shakespearean actor, who, while her husband was shooting a well-known, high-budget, very dumb science fiction movie——long, frustrating hours speaking leaden dialogue to invisible aliens against miles of green screen——was spending many of those same hours playing hide the salami with everyone’s favorite Sicilian Stallion.

  What happened in Marmont would have stayed in Marmont if the super model hadn’t given Dominic a very expensive and distinctive gold ring that her husband had presented her with when he’d signed on to the movie. It bore a large kunzite stone, chosen of
course for its pale pink color and appropriately suggestive name, since it was intricately engraved to depict the folds of her labia. He’d called it his signing boner. Three days into their stay at the hotel, she fell hard for Dominic and wanted him to wear it on a chain around his neck, under his shirt, next to his skin, to remind him of her. He, afraid to be caught with it, but too much of a romantic to simply throw it away, gave it to a beautiful young bit player he wanted to bed . . . and then immediately did, unaware that she had just scored a small role on the very same science fiction movie.

  During one long, hot and sweaty green-screen marathon, the ring, slightly too large for this particularly slender actress’s finger, slipped off and rolled about twenty feet downstage, finally circling and resting at the feet of the cuckolded actor, who was inhaling lunch at the craft services table. He gagged on his iced coffee and passed out, landing in the potato salad. When he came to, he immediately accused the starlet of stealing it. When she denied it, the actor called his wife. She confirmed, that, yes, it must have been stolen. But when the husband explained to her how it had slipped off the finger of a stunning young actress, you know, the one with the nude scene everyone’s talking about, she screamed bloody murder and the whole thing unraveled very quickly after that.

  The craft services girl who witnessed this revelation immediately burst into tears, confessing that she too was in love with Dominic and that he had begged and begged and finally convinced her to participate in a three-way with the actor’s wife the day before.

  “I love him!” she screamed, attacking the actress with a large ladle that happened to be full of vegetable noodle soup at the time. “He’s going to marry me! I’m his little Tiramisu!”

  The capper was that just then, the assistant director on the film, a French woman in her fifties, walked in and, after removing a noodle from her hair, said, “That’s funny, I had a boyfriend back in the early ‘90s——a costume designer——who called me that. He was going to marry me too! What was his name again? Dominic something. Dominic Orlando!”

  While all this was going on, Dominic was back at the hotel in a broom closet with a hot new young hotel housekeeper who had been hired by the hotel operations director literally minutes earlier.

  Dominic and the housekeeper got fired. But as soon as that particular science fiction movie wrapped——eight days later——Dominic was re-hired. Nobody worked the concierge desk like Orlando. But they had him on a much tighter leash.

  Which was why he signed up for Second Acts.

  “Cynthia, Cynthia, Cynthia,” he murmured, taking her hand in his and kissing her knuckles one at a time. “How I have missed you. I wouldn’t need a dating service if you were ready to settle down.”

  This was of course hilarious coming from him.

  “Settle down?” she asked, rolling her eyes. “You’ll settle down when you’re dead. Even then, I’m not so sure. The first cute young angel who flies by in a short tight robe . . .”

  “Ha, ha. So funny,” he interrupted, kissing her cheeks. “It is you who is my bellisimo angelo! But no, bella donna, that was the old me. I’ve changed. I had to. Next time I screw around, I’m out the door faster than you can say come to me my sweet little biscotti. Not to mention that eventually one of these husbands or boyfriends is gonna be packing heat. I’m getting too old for hiding under beds and shimmying down fire escapes. Boy do I have stories.” He pointed downward, smiled mischievously, and continued, “Me and Senor Pepperoni have had a good run. Noi abbiamo assaggiato molto micio. But it’s time. Time to find my true love——the whole kit and cannoli.”

  “Okay, okay, I get what you’re saying,” said Cynthia, taking his hand and leading him to the couch. She sat across from him in a large stuffed chair. “Except for that ‘Noi abbiamo . . . ’ blah, blah, blah . . . what was that, pray tell?”

  “Oh, yes, sorry. That’s we . . . I was talking about me and, you know, my pepperoni. It’s a sausage, but it kind of looks like . . .”

  Cynthia shook her head. “Dominic, I know what a pepperoni is and what it looks like. I don’t speak Italian, but I’m not an idiot.”

  “Oh, okay, sorry. So what I was saying was that me and Mr. Pepperoni have tasted a lot of micio, you know . . . a lot of cat.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You mean pussy?”

  “That’s it! Yes, pussy . . . sesso!” he cheered, clapping his hands and kissing her cheeks again.

  “Okay, okay,” she said, “please, no more smooching——at least for the next two or three minutes. What are you looking for in a date? What have all your years of experience——not just with the sesso, mind you, but with the women attached to the sesso——taught you? What is your idea of a perfect mate?”

  “Il mio dio! Good question, Cynthia. That’s a tough one. You know, I think I love all women. Young, old, skinny, fat. They all appeal to me. I really don’t enjoy the company of men so much. They don’t smell so good.”

  “Okay, Dominic,” said Cynthia, with mock seriousness, jotting down an invisible note with an imaginary pen. “Men . . . are . . . not . . . women. Got it.”

  “Okay, Cynthia,” he said, flashing the smile that had charmed his way past more zippers, snaps, buttons, and hooks than there are stars in the heavens. “You’re making fun of me now, but I don’t care. I used to think I liked redheads the best, then, for a stretch it was all black all the time. Now I don’t know. Lately the Asian ladies have been looking really, really good, you know? Seriously, I think I was put on this Earth to love them all.”

  “Hold on, Casanova,” she said, starting to wonder if this entire meeting was a gigantic waste of time. She was very close to just standing up and walking out. “Are you serious about finding someone special or not?”

  Dominic got quiet. His face drooped. He had a huge helping of thespian in him. All of a sudden an exaggerated expression of despair had transformed his face into a tragedy mask.

  “Cynthia, darling, I have never been more serious about anything in my life. I need help. I admit that. We are friends. I am here for you and you for me. Help me help myself. I don’t want to chase all the girls no more. I promise. Tell me what to do. Mi liberi. How do you say? Rescue me. Please, this is all I ask. Rescue me.”

  Just then, two young party girls entered the lobby. They were well outside Dominic’s peripheral vision, but Cynthia could tell from his not-so-subtle flinch that he had heard them come in. The tapping of their tiny spike heels, the carefree, anything-goes quality in their whispers and giggles. His ears didn’t literally stand up like a dog’s, but almost. The girls click-clacked their way to the center of the room, stopping to talk to each other a mere ten feet behind Dominic’s head. But he didn’t turn around. Cynthia knew he was trying to prove that his skirt-chasing days were over.

  “Cynthia, go ahead,” leaning in and whispering in a deadpan. “Describe them to me. I don’t need to look. I don’t even want to look.”

  “Right, Dominic. Okay, well, one of the girls is sporting the tiniest and tightest black miniskirt I have ever seen outside a strip club. It barely covers her underwear, assuming she’s actually wearing any.”

  Dominic did not turn his head. He would not look.

  Cynthia continued. “I mean, Dom, it might actually be one of those tube-top bras that she has simply shimmied down around her ass. Then up on top is a fake fur cape . . . fuchsia. Il mio dio, that looks soft. It’s just sort of hovering above her otherwise nude, gravity-defying breasts like a strawberry cloud. The slightest breeze would blow it away.”

  “This is supposed to be interesting to me, I am guessing?” asked Dominic, his eyes vibrating slightly, his heart palpitating, but somehow still staring straight ahead.

  “And the other girl,” Cynthia continued, “good heavens, her pants are tight. If it’s any indication, her camel toe is so prominent, I’m not completely sure the pants are even pants. They might be sprayed on.”

  “Thank you, Cynthia,” he said, “but this is of no concern to the new Orlan
do.”

  Cynthia was impressed with his restraint. She had to hand it to him, he was serious about this and he was trying very hard. But then she noticed Dominic’s eyes darting away from hers, over her shoulder, then back, then over her shoulder again, and she realized that he was looking into the large arched window directly behind her, which had been affording him a clear reflection of the sex-charged extravaganza the entire time.

  He noticed her noticing. “Ooh, boy,” he said with a small laugh, “I guess I am busted. I’m not dead, you know.”

  “Okay, listen, Dominic,” she said, moving in front of him, blocking his view of the window, then actually grabbing his face and pulling his gaze back toward her. “I do want to help. I need to think about this. I’ll figure out the best possible selection of ladies for you. You need to trust my opinion and really, really try.”

  “Thank you, my darling,” he said, his face now morphing into a comedy mask.

  He seemed to be very close to shedding tears of joy. But as much as Cynthia loved him, she didn’t trust him. His charm was a weapon that women were rarely able to defend against. She wasn’t in danger of literally being wooed by him, but she knew she could be conned by him and she felt the need to call him on it.

  “Dom. You are charming. Everyone knows that. But if you want to get this to work, you have to hang your charm on the wall, like a gunslinger hanging up his pistol and holster. If any woman is going to trust you, you have to give her some small reason.”

  “Okay,” said Dominic, rising to his feet. “You let me know. I need to get back to work. It looks like it’s starting to get crowded.”

  It was a little more crowded, but she couldn’t help wondering what he really wanted to get back to. He walked her back to the front entrance.