filed in Sex and Dating
Zip It
Yesterday, stewing in Oscar traffic, I inched by the Beverly Hills Hotel. I’m rarely on this stretch of road, and it suddenly brought back a buried memory from when I lived in San Francisco. I’d flown to this storied hotel for romance, with a man I’d met the week before, while he was filming a commercial at my neighborhood restaurant. We’d kissed with meaning in the parking lot, and he urged me to come to L.A. for a rendezvous. I had such excitement in the cab ride to Beverly Hills. Could he be the one? Our room was swank and full of promise, but the weekend was a bust. He got drunk. Less than 12 unconsummated hours later, I called my trusted L.A. pal William to pick me up. Surrounded by shiny white limos outside the hotel, I waited, forlorn. 45 minutes later, my real Knight circled around in his white Mazda and rescued me.
Photo by Suzanna Scott
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Oh no! At least your disaster trip wasn’t consummated.
I paid for my own ticket to Paris to spend a week with a Moroccan Millionaire. He drank a bottle of wine every day at lunch and then took a four hour nap.
Not only was my trip – ahem – consummated, but I ironed his shirts. I am so ashamed.
http://diaryofagolddigger.blogspot.com/2010/05/in-which-i-iron-gomezs-shirts-dont-hate.html
I’ve done the transcontinental search for love, too. I don’t regret any of it, though. It has all been a grand adventure.