Last week on Downtown Oliver Brown we ended with:
We followed Jared into XS the sixty-thousand-foot twelve-million-dollar-club. I no longer had ten million in gambling debts on my mind. My girlfriend was back in Los Angeles studying for midterms at USC or something…I felt that exited feeling that you can only feel in anticipation of a goodtime in Vegas. Steve Wynn was indeed a wise man. It was good that I quit while I was ahead. And then came the crushing of arms around my neck and breasts against my chest.
“Oliver,” panted April The Stripper into my ear. Then here tongue was in my mouth, so I couldn’t possibly tell her about my girlfriend Nichole. “You came back for me! Who told you I was going to be at XS tonight? Oh it doesn’t matter just so that you’re here and we’re together.”
Now as I described in previous blogs, nobody kisses like April. In fact nobody does anything like April and I’ve done everything. Anyway, the kiss was a mixture of pleasure and pain due to the right-hook the former First Lady, Barbara Bush, had delivered to my jaw at the poker table—sore looser that old dame. Then much to Whiskey Peet, Stan Peters, Dave The Jew, and Fat Andy’s delight she delivered several more bone crushing hugs.
“I love this mare…” Whiskey Peet hoisted her off the ground and spun her around in a 360-degree circle. “It’s about time you come back and saddle her up for another ride. Especially since she bought you that nice house to live in with her!”
Now as you may recall April bought the incredible house with the money she had won gambling at Whiskey Peet’s private casino—mostly while Dave The Jew and I were driving around hallucinating from a strong dose of peyote (Lophophora williamsii). Then she caught me by surprise by taking me there and having sex with me on the floor—while the boys apparently, rather than excuse themselves, took iphone pics. This conceivably facilitated my breakup with Misha, but had faded from memory by the time I had met Nichole.
Nichole: “Hey I like the Annie Lennox look.”
“I just finished five rounds of chemotherapy.”
This conversation took place over lunch, which ensued after my noticing an unusual saying printed on her t-shirt. She was beautiful like an angel.
So our group proceeded up the stairs to the landing that overlooked the truly spectacular club. There was something very 1980’s about XS—in an updated way that dazzled my 1980’s bone! The club, a circle with a dance floor that flowed out to a pool area used for topless bathing during the day, was pulsing with electronica and surprisingly well-dressed young ladies of every attractive shape and size. Of course April put them all to shame—still I could not help but to gaze and drool, a little.
Jared took us to the best booth; right on the dance floor, and April wasted no time in commencing with something similar to the lap dances that she’d given me the night that we met at Seamless.
“You want me to bring her over here,” said April, nodding toward the girl she caught me glancing at. “It’s okay as long as I’m involved.”
“Sure.” April walked off and the boys all looked over at me. I shrugged. “I have no idea what she’s up to.”
And then with April on one side and the blonde she introduced as Kristi on the other side we some how managed to engage in a three-way French kiss—this went on for several minutes until the moment Sandstorm started to play.
“I love this song!” shouted April, pulling me to my unsteady, drunk, coked out, blood boiling with lust, feet.
The great thing about dancing to a House classic like Sandstorm is that everyone can just kind of dance with everyone, so our whole group bounced around with one collective conscience. Halleluiah! By the time we settled back down to our booth the table was covered with bottles—my eyes focused on my little blue friend, Johnny Walker and the girls went right for the Cristal. By girls I mean April, Kristi and the ten others that had miraculously appeared with the bottles. Drinking, dancing, and more of the three-way French kiss kept the night humming along at a brisk pace. This may be churlish to say—the Go-Go dancers seemed under inspired in comparison to the girls at our table. I don’t know why this bothers me. Perhaps because they’re actually getting paid to do the exact same thing we were paying to do. Or in this case Steve Wynn was paying for us to do in order to keep us out of his very classy casino.
I don’t remember leaving the club or at what point April had procured a suite at Encore—weird given we usually have sex back at Whiskey Peet’s or our own house, but it was a beautiful room from what I could ascertain buried underneath two female bodies. It struck me as strange that two girls who did not know each other previously were able to trade off positions so seamlessly. But April had been the best dancer at Seamless, so it kind of makes sense.
I know. It seems strange to me as well that I could be in love with April, Kristi, and Nichole all at the same time. I think her name was Kristi. But as their bodies consumed my own I did still feel a profound love for Nichole. I decided as I bathed in that sweet mixture of body fluids, not my own at this point, that I would do the right thing when I returned to Los Angeles. I would live a double life. There was no other choice, I could not leave Nichole and since she would never go for a polygamist arrangement I would not be able to tell her about April and maybe Kristi.
Breakfast that afternoon was a frelich affair—I had to head back to LA.
“You are one dumb son-of-a-biiitch!” said Whiskey Peet. “Now you got yourself two little sex monkeys to play with and ur going back to the land of Fruity Pebbles! Shiiiit!” He turned to Stan Peters, Hollywood’s scummiest and most powerful producer. “Stan, I know ur not some liberal fagooot, talk some sense into Broke Back Boy, here!”
“I need him to finish a script—”
That would be my script about an author that moves Downtown to escape the pretentious idiots in Hollywood.
“You self-centered kuter f*cker…”
“I’ve got fifty million riding on this,” said Stan, immediately realizing that he had agreed to pay me based on a thirty million dollar budget. So according to the Writers Guild he now owed me another five hundred grand. “Shit!”
I shook my head. “And you wonder why I don’t put my heart into your projects you cheating bastard.”
“Don’t be so sensitive, I cheat everybody,” said Stan, in his heart believing that this made it all okay.
A few hours later we did not board Stan’s G5 as planned. No. The whole bunch of us could not fit so we took Whiskey Peet’s 747, which like his mansion is decorated with every kind of animal he’s ever killed, back to LA. I would have been stressed over April and Kristi accompanying me back to the same city that Nichole resided in, but as it turned out Kristi had not yet joined the Mile High Club, so April insisted on the three of us…Well you know. And all was forgotten.