photograph by Helmut Newton
Beauty and the Light-Switch are Thick As Thieves
by Max Barrie
Big fake tits and a peach scented ass turns me on. It always has…I’d like to think I’m better than that…that quick wit and kindness gets the blood pumping. But, no…not so much.
The first time I went to Midsummer Night’s Dream at The Playboy Mansion was in 2005. I was sober at the time, but just strolling around the property got me high. Girls in their underwear — all the blonde hair, the big boobs and the fun fruity smells. I was in heaven. Being invited there got me a little female attention that night…but I was (and am) a “nobody,” so ultimately the centerfolds and cyber girls made their way over to Bill Maher and Brett Ratner. Bastards.
It only takes a touch of bullshit to make most girls like you. In 2006 I fucked a Floridian waitress simply because she saw the zip code on my driver’s license…90210. The next day she told me she loved me, and I phoned my doctor for antibiotics because while I was riding her ass, I noticed she was coughing a lot.
Anyway, since childhood I had assumed Hefner was hiding all the answers behind those big black gates. Ol’ Dick Daddy had the keys to the kingdom and with them came the secret to happiness. Slowly I learned I couldn’t have been more wrong. The more often I went, my natural high wore off. By 2008, I was back on the sauce and The Playboy Mansion had (in my mind) become a haunted house with spooky pussy.
"Eventually, I ended up relapsing at a whorehouse in Nevada — drinking, drugging and charging five grand on my Bloomingdales Visa card."
The girls that I longed for were never interested in me, so I finally started drinking when I was 13 years old— held out as long as I could. I was small, I was shy, I was simply “friend material.” So I turned to the bottle for solace. There were other reasons why I started partying all by myself, but being denied vagina access topped the list.
I didn’t lose my virginity until I was nearly 20. I fucked my girlfriend on my father’s living-room sofa in Westwood. It was such a creepy little house, that was later bulldozed and built into a McMansion. This wild beauty who was willing to accept my average size penis had already been with TWELVE GUYS. Of course I lied and said that I too was very experienced. The sex was terrible. Using a condom made me imagine I was wearing a wetsuit in the shower…it was happening, but nothing was being accomplished. I knew I was inside her, but couldn’t really feel her sugar walls. Anyway, I ended up falling in love with this girl…but as perfect as she was, I couldn’t stay faithful and ultimately I couldn’t respect someone who accepted me. I’m truly sorry…her not being there today will forever be one of my deepest regrets.
$$$
In and out of “addiction recovery” since 1997, by 2002 I had started hanging out with a shady cast of characters in the twelve-step world. These fellas, although sober and many spoken for. introduced me to massage parlors and prostitution via the Internet.
Paranoid already, at first the possibility of being arrested kept me away from any illegal activities. But soon the itch needed to be scratched and I became a regular…justifying my bad behavior like any good sober alcoholic: “Well, hookers are better than drugs.” Better for me perhaps, but I’m not sure about these poor women. “Poor” is the wrong word. Sometimes I’d pay up to a thousand dollars an hour. I convinced myself they’d be blowing somebody and that because I wasn’t Don Simpson, everything was cool. They were usually high-class call girls and porn stars… and still on several occasions I couldn’t go through with it. Some ladies looked so far fucked that I couldn’t get too close. I would hand them the cash and get out of there. Does that mean I’m redeemable…? Certainly not, I’m just talking.
Eventually, I ended up relapsing at a whorehouse in Nevada — drinking, drugging and charging five grand on my Bloomingdales Visa card. The Madam asked me if I got discounts and points. Indeed I did. Anyway, the girls at this slutty sorority seemed to find me entertaining— probably because I was young and from Los Angeles. I also bought them pot, Jack In The Box, and forked over five grand… so there was that. And even though I was so high I was barely able to bang it out with one of ‘em, it was the most fulfilling and disturbing experience of my life. Fulfilling because of all the female attention… disturbing because it was a whorehouse in Nevada.
So many superficial stories — like the threesome I’ve never had or the woman with herpes who chased me around on her shag carpeting. But I told the editor I would limit this ride to four pages. Next time I promise to dig deeper. I’m not sure why I chose to recall these pink twisted memories… to me they’re entertaining… and perhaps significant?
Max Barrie is a writer and artist currently based in Los Angeles. The son of screenwriters, Michael Barrie and Sally Robinson, Max was born and raised in Beverly Hills, California. With acerbic wit and self deprecating humor, Max documents his life growing up in the shallow, superficial depths of Beverly Hills and the Hollywood machine. In his multiple part autobiographical series, entitled A Trendy Tragedy, Max will explore his bouts with addiction, prostitution and his search for identity in a landscape that is rife with temptation and false ideals.