Last Time I Wore a Micro-Mini Skirt
Or Notes from a Hollywood Glamour Girl
Jeff. Paul tells me wonderful things about you. Let's go to my office."
"Great! Should I bring my water?" What a dumb question. Why am I so
"Sure, you can bring your water."
Stop saying "Great."
"Right this way."
His office boasts a view of Century City and beyond. Jeff gestures for me to take
a seat on a navy blue couch spotlighted by a rectangle of sunlight pouring through
the window. As I sit down I realize that the fabric on the couch feels cool and
smooth against my bare legs. Is this satin? Who upholsters his couch in satin?
I cross my legs and feel like a showgirl in a regional production of Chicago.
"Nice couch!" I say.
"Oh you like it? It's brand new, and
cost a fortune but..." he trails off, taking a seat on a brown leather club
chair across from me. I place my bottle of Evian on the coffee table.
"So where do you come from, Lauren?"
"Oh! You mean heritage
wise? Or like, what state am I from?"
He smiles. "I meant what
part of the country?"
"Oh! I'm Chinese," I giggle, clearly
not listening. "From Illinois," I add.
"I'm from Illinois
too. What part?"
"Highland Park! Do you know it?"
"Quite well, I have relatives in Evanston."
great! I went to Northwestern." I sound like such a moron he probably doesn't
believe that. "Did you go there too?"
I don't remember his answer.
I am too distracted by an odd sensation occurring in my underpants. Oh my God,
I'm leaking. Something is coming out. What the hell? What is all this fluid? Am
I wetting myself? It couldn't be my period, it's not the right time. And then
a faint chlorine-like smell drifts up my nostrils. My eyes grow wide.
"Oh that's great!" I giggle. Does he smell it too?
I've got to
get out of here. Looking around the room I notice a computer on his desk. "Is
that a computer?"
"Yeah," he says glancing over at it.
"Gosh, you know, I am socan I see it?"
he replies, "Uh
sure" as he stands and walks to the desk.
I spring up. My skirt is sticking to my underwear. With a sense of dread, I turn
and look down at the couch.
There it is. As if Dali, painting in white
goo, had laid down a melting butterfly. A gigantic Rorschach shaped cum stain.
I watch, paralyzed, as it seeps further into the brand new, expensive, navy blue
satin couch. Then, like a dog shaking water out of its ears, I snap out of it
and run to the desk trying to block Jeff's line of vision with my body.
"This is a great computer, isn't it? I just bought the same one. But I'm
so computer illiterate. Could you show me how to turn it on?" I bite my lip.
I'm trapped in this body that keeps saying stupid things.
over toward the couch. I snap my fingers in front of his face and move my hips
as if to say "hey look at me, look how cute I am, see me smile
It's not working. He's looking at me like I'm on crack. I wish I was. Someone
take me out right now. A 9mm right between the eyes. He trains his gaze on mine,
reaches around to the back of his computer and pushes a small button.
I shout, "Oh! That's how you do it! Duh," I say slapping my forehead
with the palm of my hand. "You know, you're going to think this is so weird,
but would you mind if we re-scheduled this meeting? I'm suddenly feeling a little
"Of course." He stands up and walks around the
desk. "Can I get you anything? Would you like your water?" he asks making
a move towards the coffee table.
"No!" I protest, putting up
my hand and backing up towards the couch. "I think I just have to go. I'm
I'm hyperventilating as I dash for the door. Don't look
back. Never look back.
The ride home is long. This is back in the day
before I own a cell phone so all I can do is marinate in my own thoughts: This
is the end of the line, you nincompoop. Forget Nicole Kidman, hell, forget Ralph
Macchio, you're going to be lucky to book an industrial, you won't even work a
car convention, you're going to end up back in Highland Park living with your
mother because you left a gigantic wad of your fiancé's spuzzle on a Fox
executive's brand new navy blue satin couch.
I never did hear from Jeff
about any future projects.
But I did learn a very valuable lesson: That
in Hollywood, there is no logic. You can wear your lucky micro mini skirt, meet
the "right" people, say all the wrong things, and still not become a
But hey, that's life. Gism happens.
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