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By: Jimmy Turnpike

Some things go together. Some don’t. Certain girls go together with certain guys. Guys know this. Girls know it too. As is true throughout the animal kingdom, the male can make all the noise he wants, but it is her choice. Arguments have been made. Lines have been crossed. Women have claimed to have problems getting any. It’s all nonsense. It has been my experience that if a woman decides things are going to go together, things are going to go together. It is her choice.

One of my more fortunate co-workers was throwing a party at the El Rey Theatre on Wilshire. Open bar. Lots of girls. Couldn’t pass it up. I was buying my boss a drink when she spotted a girl she knew from a pilot. She ran off and came back with a curvy blonde in tow. Sandy was an actress. She recently played Cheerleader in an awful football movie. She was The Hot Blonde in another. She was also on ecstasy. I had just smoked a joint and wasn’t really aware of the fact that she was rolling until the next day. In my personal haze, in my altered sense of reality, in my warped, toxic brain, I was convinced this woman, this hot blonde actress, was really truly into me. I don’t make enough money for this chick to give me the time of day. Had I met her at a coffee shop, she would have scoffed at my advances. This is LA. It’s not her fault. Her profession demands certain standards. I work, but I haven’t “made it.” And I hate lying. For some reason (drugs?) she decided we were going to go together. Halfway through the night she told me she loved me.

We started making out at the party in the worst possible place. Right next to the women’s rest room. Pretty soon guys that knew us were showing up to take a peak. I understand a little gossip, but come on. I was kissing a girl. People actually took pictures. Sandy disappeared for a minute and came back pulling at my arm. She led me outside and into a white stretch limo. There was another couple in the far end of the stretch. They were making out and paid little attention to us. I highly recommend riding in a limousine whenever possible. We piled out and the four of us went into Sandy’s apartment.

Sandy’s girlfriend and her guy snuck into the bedroom and quickly claimed the only bed. I poured drinks while Sandy did girl stuff in the bathroom. We sat down on her couch with the drinks and looked at each other. She reminded me of a sneaky looking Meg Ryan. She had great eyes. Sneaky drunk Meg Ryan with a Laetitia Casta body. I wondered who she was pretending I was.

She let me unbutton her top. I let her unbutton my shirt. She told me she loved me. Her fantasy had engulfed her. She told me she loved me.

“I love you.”
“We just met.”
“I’ve never met anyone like you.”

I smiled.

“I’m just so happy I found you.“
“Me?“

Furniture slid out of the way as we spilled off the couch. Friction. Her back made fart noises against the hardwood floor. We laughed. We were soaked with sweat. I love you. I love you too. What the fuck am I doing?

A couple weeks later I called Sandy. I had left three messages and never heard from her. I drank beers while the phone rang endlessly on her end. She picked up. I asked her to come with me to see The Who. I had great seats, a ride down to Anaheim, and backstage passes. She told me she had a softball game.

I hope she struck out.