Going Down in La-La Land (22 page)

But I decided Brian never talked about it. Brian was too image conscious. He fancied himself a serious fashion photographer who hung out with the influential West Hollywood crowd, the people Sarah and Stephen wanted to be. He even used a separate name for his pornographic work. When other people were around on a set or a shoot, Brian was all business. He made it clear he was in it for the money only, and as soon as he became successful enough with his mainstream work would distance himself from the sex industry altogether.

“
I’m glad you guys had a good time, Dale. I felt really bad about that,” I said earnestly. It wasn’t hard to sound authentic. I really did feel awful about bailing out.

“
It’s cool,” Dale said. “You gotta do what you gotta do. I know you have a plan, Adam. And that’s good. A lot of these guys don’t, and then a few years later they find themselves used up and useless, with no resumé, skills, nothing. You are smart for wanting to get out.”

“
Is this the same Dale speaking that less than a week ago wanted to shape me into the biggest name to hit gay porn since Ken Ryker?” I asked.

“
Babe, I can’t make you do anything. You could go all the way to the top, but you have to want it,” Dale said. “Anyways, that’s not why I called. I’m going to a party tonight, and wanted to invite you. It’s at the home of Robert Gleisman, a really hot movie director a few years back. His house overlooks a canyon in the hills. It should be a lot of fun, and a really eclectic crowd with a lot of Hollywood people, not just porn people. You up for it?”

Dale hadn’t sounded this well adjusted for a few weeks. I was looking forward to seeing him. When he was together, I still had more fun with him than with any other guy I’d been with.

“
I’d love to come,” I said.
“How about I pick you up at nine?”
“Perfect.”
“Later.”
I clicked off my phone and tucked it away. I was relieved we were speaking again. “Sounds like somebody has a hot date tonight,” Candy commented.

“
Yeah, we’re going to a party at some director’s house,” I said casually. “It should be interesting.” “I tell you, Adam, a few months in town and you’re already living

the fast life,” Candy teased.

“
I’m hearing this from Miss Playboy Mansion herself?” I teased back.

At least once or twice a week Candy had a wild event to attend, including many bashes

at the Playboy mansion. Candy had been going to the mansion since she first landed in LA, after a girlfriend she met got her on the permanent guest list. I had already advised her numerous times on what to wear to the endless parties held there. She had a whole page on her Web site dedicated to photos taken with celebrities at the Playboy mansion, which showed her standing with various luminaries such as Jon Lovitz from
Saturday Night Live,
Mini-Me from
Austin Powers,
and Hef himself. She was more than a little bit bummed when they instituted a rule barring personal cameras at future parties.

So assisting in putting together an outfit was my duty as her close friend. If there was a theme, like Valentines or a midsummer Night’s Dream, we could get pretty damn creative.

That evening I didn’t have to get as creative as Candy. Just a tight black T-shirt, boot-cut jeans straight out of
Urban Cowboy,
and some city boots. Dale showed up a few minutes before nine.

We had to stop for gas on the way there. While Dale went to pay, his cell phone began ringing, which he had left between the front seats. At first I ignored it, but it rang and rang and rang. Finally I answered it just to shut it up. I thought his voice mail would never pick it up.

“
Hello,” I said.

“
I have your stuff. The good shit. One hundred and twenty a gram. When do you want to pick it up?” a bitchy female voice snapped on the other end, taking me aback.

“
Uh, hold on,” I replied, seeing Dale approach the car.

“
Here,” I said to him handing him the phone from the window. “It wouldn’t stop ringing, so I picked it up.”

I was worried he might be annoyed, but instead he thanked me.

“
Dale here,” I heard him say. Then his voice changed, became uncomfortable as he walked away from the pump. “Great. ...I can’t. ... Not tonight. . . . It’s gotta be tomorrow.”

Eventually he walked out of range so I could hear no more. When he finally finished his call, we took off. He didn’t mention the call, and I didn’t ask.

He was calm the rest of the way, mostly filling me in on our host. Robert Gleisman was a rich and once very successful movie director, who had directed one of the highest grossing musicals of all time. It had been rereleased in theaters right before I moved from New York.

His house was in the Hollywood Hills, a fabulous 1950s-style spread straight out of a Rock Hudson and Doris Day romance. He frequently rented the place to film and television productions, a profitable side venture.

“
He had the crew of
Beverly Hills, 90210
shooting a scene up there,” Dale began. “Robert told me in one scene the house was supposed to be on fire, and the director stood by in amusement as the crew had to show Tori Spelling how to spray water out of a hose by simply placing her thumb on the end. The girl had never picked up a hose in her life.”

There was already a string of cars parked down the road from Gleisman’s house. Eventually it appeared after passing by the drive’s gates. Gleisman was very warm and gracious upon meeting me. In his late fifties, he was very attractive, with a strong and handsome face, thick sun-bleached hair, and a nice build.

The party was already going full swing. A bar was set up outside by the pool, and beautiful people, mostly gay guys, stood around with cocktails. The hot tub was lit up and bubbling, as though it were inviting illicit activity. I had always wanted to fool around in a hot tub in the hills. That was so California to me, part of the illusion I had of LA before moving here. That and beautiful blond surfers, drives along the Pacific in convertibles, and bonfires at the beach. Of course, when I was romanticizing coming to live in LA I failed to think about smog, insane traffic, urban sprawl, and riots.

I spotted Brian a few feet away and nodded a greeting. He came over to join Gleisman, Dale, and me.

“
Adam, every year I have an Oscar party, and this year’s is just down the road,” Gleisman smiled. “Brian and I came up with the idea to have men wear skimpy gold lamè thongs, and then paint them in gold metallic paint. My friend’s film is considered a favorite, so I am throwing an after party for them. For every Oscar they win we are thinking of having a life-size Oscar.”

I had to say I would have made an awesome Oscar, just because my shoulders are broad to point of abnormality and my waist is so narrow in comparison, the top half of my body looks like an upside-down pyramid. However, how many people at the party are really going to take time to socialize with one of the living trophies in the corner? I could see myself walking around with gold paint on for days, and I’d had my share of body painting with Owen Burger. But if it was a paying gig, as always, I could use the money.

“
So what do you think?”

“
Is there any pay involved?” I asked the director pointedly after he excitedly rambled on about my golden opportunity to be an Oscar.

“
Ugh, no,” he answered, sounding a little taken aback and surprised that I would ask such a thing. “But everybody will be there, you’ll meet a lot of people!” he went on to say, his voice gaining back its former enthusiasm.

Sure. I can just see it now, future Hollywood star discovered while parading around in a gold thong and paint. Call me pessimistic, but something told me I wasn’t going to be like Lana Turner getting discovered in a soda shop. If this would have been asked of me when I was in or right out of college, or even new in town, I probably I would have jumped at the chance to hang out in the same place as a bunch of stars and Hollywood heavyweights, but by now I had been to enough parties to know guests won’t take much time out to speak to the living trophy in the corner.

I wasn’t kidding about pay either. Gleisman had more than enough money to shell out at least a hundred bucks to a few suckers who were willing to freeze their gilded asses off in a frigid March evening. Here the nights got damn cold. Contrary to popular belief LA isn’t a year-round summer climate like Miami, where you can prance around in a thong all year long, 24-7.

“
You know, I think I’d rather be a guest and appreciate other glistening gold bodies. But thanks for keeping me in mind.” I smiled at Gleisman.

“
Really? Are you sure?” he sounded dumbfounded.

I’m sure he had me figured for the ultimate starfucker who would say, “I’m there!”

“
I’ve taught Adam well,” Dale joked. “He doesn’t come cheap for appearances.”

“
Well,” Gleisman said, “if you ever change your mind, let me know.”

“
You got it,” I replied, really thinking to myself,
not a chance in this world.

With that Gleisman excused himself to attend to his other guests. Brian, Dale, and I stood around making chitchat.

Two men were having a loud conversation nearby. One was telling the other about what he needed to do to further his dance career, going on about the importance of a good head shot. A third, more inebriated guest piped in and said, “Who cares about pictures? Everybody has one and nobody can agree on what a ‘good head shot’ looks like!”

I had to laugh at that one. Candy had taken tons of head shots, spending a fortune on photos that indeed no agent or casting director could agree on what “a good head shot” was. It was about who you knew in this town, not what your picture looks like.

The three of us decided to move around. A beautiful table of food was set up, and cater waiters were making the rounds with platters of champagne. Gaggles of pretty gay men stood about in Prada, and very few people were eating, as if it were a big faux pas to be seen near the food. That rule didn’t affect me, as I stood there enjoying everything offered while Dale and Brian talked crap.

Keep the cheese and crackers and give me the good stuff,
I thought while standing by the kitchen door and waiting for more filet medallions to come out. Keeping myself busy chewing on tiny Swedish meatballs and little strawberry shortcakes, I stuffed my face as Hollywood big shots such as Sandy Gallin sauntered by, checking the crowd out. When he smiled and said hello to me, I felt a bit embarrassed as I struggled to keep pieces of meatball in my mouth when I greeted him back. If I overdid it with the food, I practically drowned myself in champagne flutes that were constantly being circled around the room by the cater waiters.

Later on I dipped my feet in the hot and bubbly Jacuzzi near the pool. I wanted to strip off my clothes and jump in but thought I could get cramps and drown from stuffing my face like a pig with all those meatballs. Not to mention the three champagne flutes I had downed.

Dale had excused himself to go to the bathroom and Brian had disappeared a while ago to mingle. I could barely hear it when my cell phone rang above the now louder and more intoxicated crowd.

“
Hello?” I yelled.

“
Adam?” a soft voice asked.

“
Yeah?” I yelled.

“
It’s John Vastelli.”

I was completely caught off guard. I hadn’t expected to hear from him until the following week.

“
Hey. How are you?” I asked blankly.

“
Fine. It sounds like you’re at a party. I can barely hear you.”

“
It’s getting pretty loud,” I admitted. “I hadn’t expected to hear from you until next week.”

“
I had a charity event to go to. It just ended. Pretty boring, but my publicist set it up. Helps us promote the show,” he said.

“
Never mind the good cause,” I joked.

“
What? I can’t hear you,” he said.

“
Forget it,” I yelled.

“
I don’t suppose you want to come over for a drink afterwards?” John suggested.

“
I’m sorry, I can’t.”

“
Having too much fun, huh? Sounds like a wild time,” he teased.

“
No, it’s not that. I mean the party is fun. It’s just that I came with a friend,” I said.

“
Oh, okay. I get you, its cool. I know I’m calling at ten-thirty on a Saturday night, not much notice. Listen, I’ll give you a call on Monday. I was thinking we could do something on Wednesday.”

“
I’ll mark it down,” I said.

“
Don’t get too wild tonight,” John said seductively. “Save some of your energy for me.”

“
I’ll talk to you later,” I laughed.

“
Later.”

After I hung up I sat for a minute thinking about how much I looked forward to seeing John again. I felt infinitely more comfortable around him then any of the West Hollywood clones around me, with the exception of Dale. Then again, Dale wasn’t a typical West Hollywood clone himself.

Just then I was interrupted by an accented voice behind me. For a moment I thought it was Owen Burger. But when I turned around I was greeted by the pale, angelic face of Perry Bristol.

“
Is this Mr. Adam Zeller, formerly of New York City and now rising star of HUNG Video?” he asked with crisp British wit.