The Taming of the Shrewd

Le Snack Shoppe du Surreal  is located on the Lower Level next to Housewares. It was during last week's breakfast battle over those grocery coupons with house guest Norman, that the ringtone of The Wedding March began playing on my cell.

That's the ringtone for Nicely Nice Guy: you'll remember, he and Woodsy rode off into the Wisconsin sunset after a week in Palm Springs, leaving yours truly here at the altar of imagination , with Woodsy referring to me as 'devious'. The last person who called me that and got away with it was my high school boyfriend back in 1980. Woodsy reminds me of in all the same hopeless ways.

That was March. I've been on my best behavior and haven't really talked much to Woodsy since seeing him so very happy with Nicely. That hasn't stopped both of them from emailing, texting or calling me, of course. Ah, the life of a Hollywood writer.

Eager to escape my breakfast companion, I excused myself and take the call on the restaurant patio. As has been the case the last dozen times I've tried talking to Woodsy alone, I get both of them. It's so sticky sweet it almost has me turned off of 'happy ever after'. I can just see them snuggled up in a four poster bed in a log cabin, Woodsy wearing the pajama bottoms and Nicely the pajama top. (Read into that what you wish). Meanwhile, I'm decked out in a blue oxford shirt, argyle sweater vest lime green shorts and Birkenstock sandals. I feel like a lesbian.

These Merry but not Married Men both talked at the same time and so fast I could guess what they had on their Wheaties. Clearly they were into driving me crazy, because quicker than you could say Lac du Flambeau:  the dynamic duo invite me to come for a visit on their turf...at their expense. (Remember, threesomes backfire when I'm one of the trio.)
And the thought of sex with both of them at the same time makes celibacy look awfully good.

More dumb than devious at this moment, and having had a sojourn to Sacramento scrapped, and my Finnish friend falling foul with the flu and pushing his trip towards Fall, I would have taken a trip to Rancho Cucamonga if it were offered.

The love birds weren't kidding, so I stated I'd like a field trip: out to the summer home of theater legends Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne, a historic landmark called Ten Chimneys.
"I've never been, " says Nicely, who's sounding a bit too nice for Old Devious here.
Woodsy says, "Great! You two can go together. I'll have to work."

I ponder the possibility of hiding Nicely's body in one of those ten chimneys. But why bump him off? Then he becomes a saint and I go to the electric chair. A better idea would be stuffing Woodsy's woolly ass in the nearest deep freeze and chaining it ala Barnabas Collins coffin for the next 200 years. He's no doubt relishing the idea of me coming back to visit.
Two years ago, we had a lovely time, even if he did get it in his head that I was walking around Lake Michigan announcing I was moving there. Had he given his blessing, I would have. Ten Chimneys had a job opening that fit perfectly with my skills, but I wasn't about to move there without Woodsy wanting me. And he didn't so I declined pursuing the job.

Breakfast was being delivered to my table, so I said a hasty goodbye and ended the call with the Doublemint Twins. The rest of the week I was busy and then things got even busier so the proposal remains on the table.

Isn't there some good soul who'd fly me somewhere other then the Midwest, so I can decline without sounding spiteful, bitter or bratty? I'm a delightful guest, really. Because, the thought of seeing Woodsy so in love in his hometown with someone else is a reality I don't want to experience up close. After all, two short years ago it was my movie and I was the co-star.

A Scary Story for a Pre-Summer Night

*This post first appeared on 5/26/2012 at www.nastykinkpigs.com under the same title. Due to ongoing system upgrades at NKP and other technical challenges, the original post was unable to be properly formatted and thus difficult to read. Thank you for your patience.


I still find it incomprehensible that this story happened. And yet, it did.

It was Memorial Day weekend, 2007. My pal Joe from Arizona was going to be the house guest of a couple I had become friendly with. We had all met on ICU2.  I enjoyed the couple, Bob and Jacques very much. Bob was about my age, Jacques was  younger and Joe was in his late 30's., Jacques and Bob lived not in West Hollywood, nor in Silver Lake, but on the 'backside of Malibu' off the 101 towards Ventura. 

Joe and I were to have dinner Friday night, but he got an early flight in from Phoenix and I had to work late. His plans for the weekend, he'd told me was to kick back, party hearty and have fun. The fact he didn't call meant he was already at Bob and Jacques', and a good time was already in gear. 

Saturday morning was another work day for me. Around 10 AM Bob called me.
"There's someone here who'd like to have you for dessert tonight." 

I replied in my usual sarcastic style, "There's someone I would have liked to have had dinner with last night, but he stood me up." 

"Oh, don't be a bitch, bitch"
I wasn't sure what time I'd be done with work, so the call ended in a very tentative mode. As it happened, a church pal had an emergency and needed someone to serve as Lector that night at mass. I could do that and head out to Thousand Oaks after. 

I had no sooner hung up the phone confirming taking the Lector slot at Mass when I got a text: 

Joe freaked out, jumped off the patio and ran into the hills! Help!" 

I stared at the message, and called Bob. For no reason at all, Joe suddenly accused Bob of planning to kill him....yes, you read that right. 

Being a journalist, I pressed hard with the questions and found that Joe had taken, or perhaps was given without his knowledge, some G. Rumors had circulated for years that Bob did this, in the spirit of encouraging others to expand their limits, but having partied there myself dozens of times, I had seen no evidence of that. 
“We didn't do that much." Bob said meekly, as if reading my mind.

"Don't you think you should call the police?" I said, rather than pursue what constituted 'that much'.

"Hell, no. The police aren't coming on my property: no way."

We were silent for a moment. 

Bob said, “So, come on out. We can barbaque." As if the last five minutes hadn't happened. As if Joe wasn’t missing.

“Find your house guest first. I'll check back later."  

I began to worry. Joe was a smart man, polite, not prone to paranoia. He wouldn't have left unless he was scared, very scared. On the other hand, nothing about Jacques and Bob had ever seemed odd. They fit into suburban life like the married couple they were.

After Mass I called: no Joe. It was getting dark and chilly and there were a lot of places Joe could have gone.  According to Bob, Joe had left wearing Bob's gym shorts and nothing else. Bob is 5'7 and weighs 240. Joe is 6'3 and weighs 150. The more information I was getting, the sicker I was to my stomach. 

Again, Bob invited me out to point and play. "We'll have lots of fun."

"Find Joe!" 

Sunday at sunrise, on 2 hours sleep, I walked to my local cafe, had some breakfast, and called for an update. Joe had not returned. He had been gone 18 hours.

 My patience with the situation was running out of steam.. "You have to call the police and report him missing. This isn't a game, Bob."

"I'm not responsible for a fag tweaker who can't handle his drugs!"  

Then, sweetly, "Come out for breakfast."

 I hung up on him.. I couldn't believe anyone could be so heartless, high or not. I felt he was responsible because Joe was his guest.

I waited a bit, then texted Jacques and asked him to make some excuse to go outside and call me. Jacques does not slam: his smoking is a half-hearted way to entertain Bob. He was Joe's only hope. 

I pleaded with Jacques to call the police. His version of the incident was a paraphrase of what Bob had said. 
He didn't hear or see anything out of the ordinary. He was not eager to disobey Bob's wishes though.
I whispered in my best low voice to Jacques ear that if he didn't call the cops, I would. 

 "And I will make so many disgusting, depraved and foul charges against you two, you'll be lucky if the foundation of your house is still intact when the SWAT teams are done ripping this place apart

" 

There was silence on the other end.  

I played the only card I had left. "Remember, I know Bill Bratton. I see him every Sunday. The chief of police won't like his breakfast interrupted." I hoped that I sounded nuts enough that Jacques would forget that they lived outside of the LAPD's jurisdiction. 

Jacques agreed to call.  I thanked him. 

The day dragged on. Being a man who knows a lot of people, I next called an esteemed doctor friend in NYC and gave him the details. He said, rather matter of factly:  "You're over-reacting. Because you are a writer, your mind creates the most outlandish plots that have no basis in reality. The scenarios you describe are best re-visited on the late late show. Joe probably was embarrassed and went back to Phoenix."

"By foot?" I answered, wishing that I called for a general practitioner's opinion, not Sigmund Freud's.

"Send him an email or a Skype message. He'll call you I'm sure."

I did both. And waited. I stopped returning Bob's calls: now wanting to know if I'd heard from Joe.

At 8PM Sunday night, I logged into Skype.  I saw the green 'online' symbol appear beside Joe's name, but before I could send him an Instant Message he had logged out. I started to call his cell, and realized his phone was at Bob's.

At 1145PM, I got a call from the 480 area code. Scottsdale, AZ.  I held my breath.

"Hi, My name is Alice Longview and I'm Joe Nelson's sister. He didn't show up at the airport today: we can't get him on his phone, the people he's staying with hung up on us, and he has work tomorrow. We're very worried. We hacked into his email account and saw your message."

The worst case scenario was unfolding rapidly. I did my best to calm Alice. I gave her Bob's cell, Jacques' cell, and their emails. I gave her the number of the police department.  She was flying in from Phoenix the next morning to find her brother, she said, and she wouldn't stop until she found him.  She had also called the police and all hospitals in the area.

I have no family. I wondered who would miss me should I disappear into the hills some afternoon and not come back.

At noon on Monday, Memorial Day 2007, Alice called me. Joe had been found, on the other side of the hills and 25 miles from Bob's. He was in the hospital.  The prognosis wasn't good. Alice asked if I would collect her brother's things from Jacques and Bob and bring them to the hospital. She had gotten a voice mail from one of them saying they didn’t know where he was, had called the police and to stop bothering them.
 I called Bob at work.
"Oh, thank you sweet Jesus," his voice cracking. It was a relatively convincing performance if you'd just tuned into the story. "Can we go see him?"

"Things aren't looking good, Bob. Make sure Jacques is home this afternoon. I need to get Joe's luggage and take it to his family."

At the lovely home I'd played at so many times  the pool, hot tub and panoramic view of the hills looked just as peaceful as always.  As he handed me Joe's bag and cell phone with its 75 missed calls, Jacques informed me that 'Bob removed all the drugs to keep Joe from getting into trouble.' How thoughtful. 

Jacques had no further insight as to what went wrong, and I thanked him again for making the call that quite possibly saved another man's life.

At the hospital, Alice was at the pocket park as planned. Having come from work, I thought I looked more like a doctor in my three piece suit and horn-rim glasses. Along with Joe's bag, I gave Alice a card for him and a Mass card for her. "Could I see him?' I asked.

"Absolutely not." 

My first thought was Joe was dead and I'd been set up. Seeing Joe's lover appear didn't help change my mind either. He never cared for me, probably because I called him Granddaddy once too often . And now he was walking up the sidewalk, dressed in black, glaring at me. 

Then, from behind the grassy knoll, carrying a notebook computer, a very tall, very handsome, very pissed off younger version of Joe came over. Positioning himself on the slope so that my eyes were level with his flat stomach, he pushed his index finger into my chest. The big bully.

"I'm Tom Nelson. We have some questions and we want you to answer them."

"I'll tell you anything that I can, Mr. Nelson, but kindly remove your finger from my chest.  I have nothing to hide."  I was so very glad I hadn't gone to Jacques and Bob's for the holiday. Not to dismiss what happened to Joe, or the serious predicament that I had gotten myself-guilt by association as well as being the only contact they had, it was clear I was viewed as the enemy. Maybe the Nelsons had watched a few too many of those 'ripped from the headlines' crime shows, because that's how it felt.

"We think our brother was given a date rape drug. What do you have to say about that?"

"You'd have to ask his hosts."

"It appears something was injected against his will.... with more drugs... that made him....go crazy."

The questions continued at me from Alice and Tom while Grandpappy looked ready for his big scene at Julia Roberts' funeral in Steel Magnolias. And every question was followed by 'What do you have to say about this?' 

I so very much wanted to reply, "Could you call this number in Manhattan? A doctor friend thinks I have an overactive imagination. I'd like you to set him straight." I was so pissed.

"I will do whatever I can, but you have to talk to Bob and Jacques. I was not there." After looking at my driver’s license to verify my identity, I was allowed to leave-but with a warning not to try to contact Joe. But if they had further questions, they would call me. 
Good deeds rarely go unpunished, and neither of them had thanked me. In my heart I knew Joe was dead. They were lying to me. I walked back to my car, locked the doors, put my head on the steering wheel and cried.

 ***** Joe was not dead, but severely dehydrated, in shock, with a broken leg, arm, frostbite on his feet and various facial contusions. He remembered nothing of what happened, and I honored his family's wishes and did not contact him. I felt responsible in a way, but had I been there, it might have been worse. 

Bob lost his job soon after that...karmic debt, in my opinion.  And yet, he couldn't grasp why I declined all future invites to play, did not add him as a Facebook friend, LinkedIn contact, would not serve as a reference for work and stopped returning his calls. 

If you can't handle your drugs of choice, don't do them. If your host tries to expand your limits without your ok...get the fuck out of their home quickly. If your house guest flips out, please call the police. They can handle the situation better than you. 

The failure to handle a crisis makes everyone of us guilty. Controlling the damage responsibly and honestly benefits all of us. Before you hook up at 3am with a stranger from the internet, or get ready to point and shoot with regular fuckbuddies, look in the mirror and ask yourself: if something goes wrong, what would you do? 

 
You may be saving your own life.

After Our Cat Fight, We Luncheoned in the 5th floor Tea Room

With only a couple of days before arriving in Los Angeles, Woodsy's boyfriend, Norman Nicely emailed and asked if we needed to talk.

I didn't want to talk.  I wanted Norman to get lost, disappear, sprain his pinkie...anything, so that I could have one evening with Woodsy alone.

Yet, I can't resist an advance meeting. I might get some inkling of weakness, so if needed, I'd know where to plant my teeth.

Unfortunately, Mr. Nicely doesn't seem to have a weak spot. And so, Confrontation: Hollywood Style was set.

I'd written him an e-mail...all full of sturm und drang about ancient history that needed no rehashing (he can just read these blogs). So, trying to look calm, cool and collected, I pushed the Skype call button.

After 49 years of  living, the last 4 years including chemical chicanery, I've been having great insights into how my mind works. My views on sex. love, relationships, and who can lay claim to who are at the minimum, archaic, childish and prudish.
Woodsy, Norman and most likely a majority of the world population are far more relaxed than I ever could be. Mr. Nicely didn't see how he could be my rival, being a total bottom. Gosh, that means Woodsy has to be on top...and that made me chuckle. 

I can fuck anyone I set my sights on. I'm not being sarcastic, either. Wake up,  you self centered bottoms.  I do not need to fuck your ass.
Where i feel threatened by Norman Nicely is regarding matters of the heart. No surprise that when I told him this, he reacted like a cuddly ball of fur that suddenly rolls itself out flat and s in fact a rabid mink or a creature with fangs. I managed to keep composure, but many things Mr. Nicely said weren't so nice. For the first time ever in my life, I was too tired to play this game. We finished our chat, and I went back to my work.

*********

Woodsy called me 2 hours later. He is eager to get to the Coast.  Norman Nicely, the guilty huss, couldn't wait for Woodsy to figure out we'd talked. Not wanting to get into particulars, I managed to steer Woodsy away briefly, but then he barked: 'Norman says you have a crush on me...'

AFTER TWO YEARS, the message NOW sinks in?
Before I could reply with those exact words,  Woodsy, as diplomatic as an Atomic Bomb, continued,  'when are you going to get over me? This is like high school.'

I was speechless. Not only had my romantic interest been graded as Suitable For Sweet Valley High, I was being told to 'get over it' by him.

I managed to say, 'Fine. we won't call it a crush. Would you like to hear what it really is?'

Woodsy must have a spark of intuition that advised him to Stop Talking Now. And he did, for a minute, but then continued,
'Why me? I'm nobody special."
I thought that was the most honest statement he's spoken, and a key to what a good man he can be.  However, me, being me, remained silent. For about 30 seconds.

'I don't know why, and I wish to God I didn't.' I snapped instead.  (I don't help myself in these matters, do I?

Woodsy and Norman Nicely have known each other for a couple of years, I may have mentioned. Woodsy gave me insight into Norman’s backstory. My little problems are nothing compared to his struggles and Woodsy has been supportive.
Norman is not some boarding school trust fund baby nor is he an Orphan of the Storm. ....ironically those two phrases describe me.  It didn't matter. There was a cheer and a lightness to Woodsy's voice that I hadn't heard in a long time. And I knew then that I had lost the war.
Woodsy was head over heels in love with Norman Nicely

There was nothing I could do to change that. I face defeat pretty well--- especially when it's staring me in the face... in fact, I was devastated. And in less than 48 hours, they'd be in my living room.

Tag! You're the Host

Can you host?
Prefer 2 Host
Must Travel
Can't Travel

In the top five  of real time negotiation points, the question of who comes to who's house ranks high. Often, it's a deal-breaker. As someone who has the Room and a View, and likes people, or used to, I have hosted, hosted often, and hosted well. Perhaps too well, because my last few guests have apparently confused me with the W Hotel over @ Hollywood & Vine.
They came with nothing and offered nothing (except the opportunity for me to fuck them....as if there's a shortage of holes in Los Angeles to fill.  You might think I'd be appreciated for providing if nothing else, a place to play. Hardee har har.

One had the audacity to look around my place and, without skipping a beat said:
"Will your building's management be restoring this unit to its original splendor?"
He didn't mean that 'unit' either. I almost wish he had.

Another, taking in a cyber tour of my accommodations via Skype, asked, aghast,
"Are you in a guest room? That looks like my grandmother decorated it!"

I replied, "If you do visit, I'll be fucking you on top of my dining room table. The bedrooms are an earned privilege."  (or they were, before I rented out one to my tenant, which usually limits me to my quarters)

Yes, I really do say this stuff, and I really do mean it. And I host a lot less than I used to. And, having taken 'inventory' today, and finding that my 'real' jockstrap, the formerly white one, is gone, along with one gold and one green jelly cock ring, one half of a set of nipple suction cups, a blue kerchief,  two bungee cords, and a Chinese Dragon like you see in parades. Unrelated, but add to this two pairs of 501's (size 31/30) that i just bought that vanished from my laundry last night. Perhaps I should invest in monogrammed robes, ashtrays and matchbooks.

Oh, and if anyone hooks up with a little white guy in the greater Alhambra/Temple City area of Los Angeles County, perhaps you can retrieve the snap-on leather strap and cock ring component to my harness. E-mail me for details, it's not as crazy as it sounds. I am though.

To be continued, as I have a guest downstairs to collect. He's a sweet, handsome, intelligent and hilarious man and he's brought me a double cheeseburger, onion rings and a giant Sweet Iced Tea. Now that's impressive.