BIKER WITH A HEART OF GOLD

[2012]

I just got a standing ovation on stage! It was fucking awesome. Also, a guy sitting on my stage gave me two twenties and said that he came in looking for me, and that I should find him when I was done with my set. I remembered him from last night. Nice guy. Old gangster biker with a heart of gold. I’m a sucker for those types.

After my usual dressing room routine, I sat at a table with him. His name is Hank, and he says he has a proposition. He launched into a tale about his lonely life and how he has lots of money but no love. He wants to travel the world but doesn’t want to do it alone. His proposition: He would like me to get to know him and see if I have a “lady friend” for him. Apparently I told him I was taken, which, of course, I don’t recall. He offers me five hundred dollars to have lunch with him the following. He lives near the club, so he said he’d pick a restaurant close by (most men assume we live near the club, but mostly they’re wrong).

[The following day]

I dressed in expensive jeans, boots, and a cute sweater. I never really know how to dress for this kind of thing. Hank chose a place called Hometown Buffet. I’ve never been to one but didn’t really give five shits where we went. I got the address and drove to the hood. It was 2:30 p.m. on a Sunday in Inglewood. The place was jam-packed with post church folk. We were the only two white people in the joint. Fried chicken, biscuits, and mash potatoes were in full swing (which is exactly what I ate).

Hank was an interesting man and has lived a wild life. He doesn’t like women his own age but he also doesn’t want a sugar baby. He wants to fall in love. Fair enough. Not great news for fifty-something women, but that’s the crumbled cookie. Unfortunately, I don’t know any women for him, but I tell him that I’ll keep my eyes open. We finish our fancy lunch and leave the restaurant. He writes his email down and I assure him that I will let him know if I think of a girl for him to fall in love with. Back to Hollywood.

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