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Authors: Brandi Glanville

Tags: #Biography & Autobiography, #Nonfiction, #Personal Memoirs, #Retail

Drinking and Dating (7 page)

BOOK: Drinking and Dating
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I turned my attention back to the action on the beach, but a few moments later I heard someone walking up behind me—it was one of the movie stars.

“Hi,” he said. “I’m —.” Let’s call him Marty. “What’s your name?”

“Brandi,” I said and continued to dance in the sand. Only this time, I knew I had an admirer who was watching my every move. #KnowTheGame. Instead of playfully circling with the girls, I shimmied down the sand a bit to where some adult friends were enjoying cocktails and listening to music. I began to move my hips and shake around a little more provocatively. His eyes never left me—and I knew it. It was starting to get uncomfortable. Okay, not really. I loved it.

“I’m headed to the Malibu Beach Inn,” he said, approaching me from behind. “Do you wanna join me?”

So slick,
I thought.

“No, I really can’t,” I purred. A smile crept across his face; he seemed amused by my rejection. Apparently, women didn’t usually deny his advances, but I already had plans for the evening—nothing he could offer me was better than cuddling up with my pups and my favorite fashion magazine. Plus, like I said, I wasn’t wearing any makeup and I was all too familiar with the lighting situation at that specific “inn.” I wasn’t interested in exposing myself . . . in that way. While I wasn’t interested in heading home with him that night, that wasn’t to say I wasn’t interested in a possible future date. Plus, playing hard to get is like the first lesson mothers should teach their daughters. The more available you are, the less interesting you are. #Fact.

“Could I get your number?” he asked after a long pause.

“Sure,” I said coyly. I waited for him to produce a phone or, at the very least, a pen. I mean, I wasn’t above writing my number on his palm. Whoever he ended up going home with that night might have ended up with a “Brandi brand” on her ass. #GetIt?

“Go ahead,” he said.

“There’s no way you’re going to remember it,” I said.

“Try me,” he said.

The next morning I woke to a text message from Marty asking what my plans were for the afternoon. At first I was totally floored that he remembered my number, but I suppose for actors, memorizing shit is part of the job requirement. I considered my day, and I was unusually flexible (figuratively and literally—Pilates really does work wonders). The boys were with their dad, so besides the normal errands—Sephora, Target, and maybe a manicure—I had the day free. I responded that my afternoon was open but I had dinner plans and needed to be home by five
P.M
. He didn’t need to know that I was really just pretending. You never want to seem too available. #BeAChallenge.

“Would you like to grab lunch?” he texted back after a few minutes. It was clear that he was eager to see me and wouldn’t back down easily.

Fuck,
I thought.
Why not?
After all, “yes is my new no!”

It was after one
P.M
. when I finally arrived at his beachside residence with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view of the Pacific. It was a “come fuck me” house that I’m sure worked just about every time. I had spent hours perfecting my impossibly natural not-wearing-makeup makeup look and opted for an itsy-bitsy bikini and a semi-sheer cover-up. I was going for the “I wasn’t trying” look. By the time I made my way to his front door, my stomach was in knots. Marty answered the door in shorts and a T-shirt and invited me inside. He seemed super-jumpy, so that immediately put me on edge. This wasn’t off to a great start. He gave me the grand tour of his pristinely decorated summer rental home, but strangely paused before each of the twelve floor-to-ceiling windows and peeked to see if there were any photographers lingering outside. With each window he passed, he pulled closed the curtain and continued the tour. I was pretty used to the paparazzi scene in Los Angeles at this point, but this kind of paranoia seemed a little over the top. I had seen countless photos of him in magazines, striding shirtless on the beach, so I never considered that he actually didn’t want the attention. I began to feel incredibly uncomfortable and wasn’t sure how to act. Was he nervous that someone would spot him inside his house? Or worse, was he nervous someone would spot
me
?

I was starting to get extremely insecure with this entire ordeal. When the tour finally ended, he could tell that I had tensed up and offered me a glass of wine. I wasn’t planning on drinking and still had a court-mandated Breathalyzer in my car from my DUI charge the previous year that I needed to blow into before starting the engine. #DefinitelyNoDrinkingAndDriving.

“I thought you were sober,” I blurted out.
Shit,
I thought. There I go again. I didn’t want to offend him, but clearly I have a tendency to word-vomit. Marty looked at me and shrugged.

“I am, but I still keep wine here for when I have guests,” he explained.

I accepted his offer—it seemed rude not to after that—and he ducked into the kitchen to grab me a glass. He made no mention of the lunch plans, but I don’t think I could have forced myself to eat anyway. I was just too anxious at this point with all the window covering and fumbled conversation.

We spent the next two hours talking, and I finally began to relax. We talked at length about my divorce and ex-husband; he shared similar war stories of his past relationships. It became clear that he was a serial modelizer, but his honesty was refreshing and his eyes were sparkling. #SuckerForEyes. Plus, Marty had no idea who my ex-husband was, which was refreshing.

My single glass of pinot grigio kicked in, and our conversation escalated to flirting and touching. He would grab my thigh when he laughed, and I would gently push his shoulder when he playfully ribbed me. It wasn’t long before we started making out. He stood up from the couch with my legs wrapped around his waist. He placed his hands under my ass and carried me to his bedroom—making out the entire way.

Why is it that the powerful, successful men you expect to be rock stars in bed rarely are? I firmly believe that there is a direct correlation between the kind of car a man drives and his ability to make you orgasm. The guy in the beat-up 1998 Honda Accord can fuck you like the world is ending, but the guy in the Bentley expects you to do all the work. Should I feel lucky that he’s been in a few movies and is gracious enough to let me lie in his bed?

To be fair, he wasn’t
bad
in bed. Actually, he seemed to know his way rather well around a woman, but I guess I just wasn’t feeling it. A few minutes in, I knew that I needed to make my escape, so I got him to come the quickest way I knew how: enter Brandi’s special sex-tastic secret magic trick.

I whispered a command in his ear and he looked at me with hungry eyes and, without saying a word, obliged.

“More,” I said. I felt his heart rate accelerating and his breath quickening. Celebrity or not, guys are so fucking predictable.

Presto! He collapsed on top of me, apologizing that he came so quickly. #ThankGodForCondoms.

There’s something my special little trick does that pushes men over the edge. Don’t ask me why, but it works . . . every time. You may want to know what it is, but it wouldn’t be my secret little sex trick if everyone knew . . . now would it?

“It was amazing for me too,” I purred.

I quickly dressed and pulled the old “Will you look at the time?” line. Like I’ve said, I’m a terrible liar and needed to get out of there as soon as possible. I thanked him for a lovely afternoon before scooting out the door. I jumped into my car and blew into the Breathalyzer, but the engine wouldn’t start.

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.

BOOK: Drinking and Dating
12.09Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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