All right: my bags are packed, my last-minute list is on the kitchen table and I’m really wondering if I’m going to get any sleep tonight. Tomorrow morning I leave for LA — for exactly 30 hours in Los Angeles. I get picked up at the airport by a Playboy van, will be whisked to the studio for shooting, then I have a night free. Thursday I’ll be on set all day long, from 9 to 5 and I have to be ready to go on camera at 9. The whole experience is making its way to the top of my "surreal things I did this year" list. To top it off, the woman who will be doing my makeup will be at another photo shoot and I’ll need to go there first — and in a true "I can’t believe it’s LA" fashion, she’s doing makeup at a "busty beauties" African-American photo shoot, poolside. Welcome to the city of bright lights, broken dreams and weighty mammaries.
I couldn’t be more delighted, of course. My mind is on fantasy overdrive about what trouble I might be able to get into in 30 hours. I hope Playboy gives me a bunny. In my fantasy, I am a stunning, charismatic, magnetic young sexpert who takes the Playboy sets and mansion by storm. Security guards and silicone-stuffed blondes all whisper about me as I move around the set — who is she? Everyone wants to sit by me in between takes. They laugh hysterically at all my jokes, causing one mysterious set-visiting celebrity (is it Steven Colbert?) to literally shoot a half-caf nonfat latte out his nose at the sheer hilarity of my caustic wit. Who knew oral sex could be so funny? My clothes are to die for — straight men even admire my sharp, keen SF fashion sensibilities in an almost-jealous way. "Japanese platform boots with an Extra Action Marching Band sticker stuck on the heel, fishnets, tube socks and liquid paper nail polish — she’s a genius!" Bunnies flock — hop — to the mall for tube socks and Office Max for accessories. Word gets back to Hef that there is a funny, sexy oral sex expert in the house whose riotous wit and beauty is keeping everyone from getting their jobs done, and he immediately extends my stay, moves me from the Motel 6 to the mansion, and puts me in charge of teaching oral sex classes to his giggly, jiggly blonde harem. In turn, they give me waxing tips. We all become close girlfriends, a tight-knit family that shops religiously and practices oral sex on each other. Hef becomes jealous; this sassy tattooed brunette with a penchant for robotics and oral sex has upset the warren. And her 40 friends, the Marching Band, have broken all the stemware and peed in the pools. We strike a deal; I get a lucrative deal writing a hip, upbeat accurate sex information column in Playboy and a six-picture porn deal directing porn for couples — as long as I limit my visits to LA to 30 hours at a time. Oh, and I have to take the Marching Band back to SF with me.
Well, it seems likely, don’t you think? Wish me luck. I’ve never done anything like this in my life, and never, ever thought my life would wind up here.
