3. You can participate in group sex parties
Let’s rewind to St. Patrick’s Day: it was a Thursday and all I longed for was a mellow night spent scarfing down authentic Irish meals and the occasional pint of green beer. This is not what happened.
Originally, the plan was to hit up Brennan’s – you know, the turtle racing bar where I forfeited my remaining shreds of dignity – until we stumbled upon a line that stretched around the block. (Word must have got out that I would be attending.)
“Let’s go to Prince O’ Whales instead,” my friend Tyler, whom we call Randall after the lizard in Monster’s Inc. (the resemblance is uncanny), suggested. “We love that place.”
“Is it weird? You guys have questionable taste at best,” I shot back.
“Don’t worry, you’ll definitely like it,” Barbz reassured me. “Lots of older men for you.”
“Okay, fine.”
Thirty minutes later, we had arrived, and it was official: when Barbz said old, he meant old old. Like Crypt Keeper, liver spots, asks-for-socks-for-Christmas old. We were surrounded by dads and NOT in the good way. Damnit, guys.
Nested in the quaint beach town of Playa Del Rey, Prince O’ Whales is the definition of divey: there’s a Rolling Stones pinball machine, walls lined with vintage license plates, and an assortment of ping pong tables on the patio. You’d think it would be the last corner on earth for a hump-happy group to congregate. You would be wrong.
At around midnight, I noticed a bevy of people donning identical shirts; they were sporting little pins, clutching pamphlets, and they didn’t appear to be Jehovah’s Witnesses. I shifted to a man – stout, had that sort of Asian Bro look, like Josh from Crazy Ex-Girlfriend – and a woman – lanky, blonde, with a face you would forget after 5 minutes – who seemed totally, utterly normal.
“Are y’all in some sort of club?” I asked, unaware of how much I would regret this inquiry.
“Yes, we’re Naughty LA,” the man chirped back.
I should have cut off the convo then and evacuated the premises. Or simply retreated back to my friends for a hard cider and preservation of my innocence. But it’s me, so resistance was futile.
“What’s that?”
“It’s a group here in LA for big orgies.”
I’m not lying when I say that was a direct quote. Homie obviously wasn’t mincing words and I respected that. And, as an official investigative blogger, I was also hopelessly intrigued.
“So that’s what you do? Just meet up and… get to know each other in the Biblical sense?”
“Oh, we have tons of activities. Like earlier this evening, we covered a bunch of naked women in chocolate and ate it off of them.”
YES, THAT IS ALSO, INDEED, A DIRECT QUOTE. I wish I were kidding.
Instantly, I started choking on my tequila soda. For quite possibly the first time in my young, smartass life, I found myself grasping for words. The only response I could think to give was: “What kind of chocolate?”
“All kinds.”
“That’s nice you don’t discriminate. I’ve always been a fan of dark chocolate myself. Very rich.”
… And that’s when they began treating me to extra helpings of tequila. Given that I have the alcohol tolerance of a first-trimester fetus, my surroundings grew blurry fast, similar to a turnt preschooler riding the playground merry-go-round. But what I do remember oh-so-vividly was Josh and the Forgettable Blonde recruiting me HARD. Kind of like I was an impressionable freshman and they were a bottom-tier sorority desperate for pledges.
“You’d make the perfect addition to the group,” they raved.
“Thanks fam, but I have a Greek mother and went to Catholic school. I don’t think playing hide the salami with a bunch of strangers is in the cards for me.”
Naturally, they weren’t deterred. That’s when the nympho duo started presenting me with gifts… namely, a handful of custom condoms (see above). I should have probably found this disturbing, but as a former marketing student, I was mostly just impressed with their hustle. Naughty LA’s branding is extremely on-point, I thought to myself.
I received business cards as well:
One of my friends, who fell much more on the ‘sober’ end of the spectrum, later informed me that the night ended with Josh and the Forgettable Blonde hunting down a registration sheet for me. There were columns for your name and email address, among other things (I’m assuming ‘known STDs’ and ‘shlong size’). Apparently, they asked me to fill out my personal info… but instead, I just autographed the page and sauntered off.
Me: “Yeah, that sounds about right.”
The next day, I threw up a little blood and was so hungover I could only listen to classical music. It was another holiday for the books.
Other honorable mentions from the month:
- A bizarre string of events led me to the “Sour Patch House,” which is a mansion/recording studio in Hollywood Hills that’s entirely Sour Patch candy-themed. There’s Sourpatch paintings, Sourpatch pillows, vases everywhere filled with the vibrant, rainbow-colored little people… it was some real Willy Wonka shit. All I know is I woke up the following morning with fistfuls of watermelon-flavored packets stuffed in my bra. My cleavage looked rather nice so I kept them in there for a while until I got hungry.
- The Gay Men’s Choir of LA is performing their “Bette, Babs, & Beyonce” show. Talk about a holy trinity. Needless to say, it’s amazing, and if it wasn’t for the fact that I’m neither gay nor a man, I would be starring in it.
- There’s also a David Bowie/Revenant Exhibit near Melrose in Hollywood that I randomly stumbled upon. Whether or not you’re a Bowie fan (and if you’re not, please reevaluate your life), it’s worth checking out. Although I’m saddened to report there’s no jar of tears bottled up from Leonardo’s past Oscar losses. Missed opportunity on their part.
The Art of Being Basic 