I met a potential client/philanthropist the other night at the suggestion of a young woman I worked with some years back. She met him at the club and he's been in her life ever since. She said he has enough money to take care of several women simultaneously, and that he likes smart women. She was convinced we’d hit it off, even going as far as to say, “Don’t forget about me when you ride off into the sunset with him.” I doubted that would be the case, but I was excited at the thought of a real potential who could help finance my projects and life. The timing could not be more perfect. Not that there’s ever a bad time for a call girl to meet a sugar daddy, but with my wanting to step off The Texan crazy train, it’s exactly what I need. I gave her my trick email address to pass along. He reached out. Our communication was succinct, which I appreciated. We made a drink date. I noted that he overrode my bar suggestions and chose The Standard Hotel on Sunset (down the street from his house: it oozed “I don't want to go too far out of my way”). I said sure. Normally I would have explained about donating for my time—I don’t need a free drink, I need cash, plus my time and effort isn’t free—but she said he knew the drill and not to mention money; that he didn’t like it. Yeah, no man likes it, but it’s necessary if you want to get paid. Against my better judgment, I took her advice.
A friend of mine happens to live near that part of town and had just asked if I would co-write his short film, since I try to avoid the Sunset strip like the plague, I figured we should take this opportunity. We made an after-drink plan to discuss his film. I wasn’t sure if the meet n’ greet would lead to sex, but I was sort of hoping it wouldn’t. I need the money, but if this was going to be the magical relationship she seemed to think it would be, there was no reason to rush it. My friend knew what I was up to and said to text him whenever I was done.
I wasn’t in the mood the day of, but I sucked it up like the pro that I am, got dressed up, and drove to West Hollywood. I arrived ten minutes early. I ordered a martini. I text the girl to ask what he looked like. It’s uncomfortable meeting strangers in public places. He arrived soon after. In his early fifties and not a bad looking guy. She called him “old”, semi-jokingly, but that’s due to their age difference (she’s still in her twenties). We said hello. He sat as far away from me as he possibly could in the open curved booth. Off to an immediately awkward start. Then he ordered a fucking Coca-Cola. He may be sober, but I would have assumed one of them would have told me if that was the case. The following forty-eight minutes turned into time I wish I could take back. He was smug, and I got the distinct feeling that A) I was too old for him, and B) he preferred women he felt mentally superior to. At one point he guessed my age, only being three years off, then proceeded to point out the best angle of my face. Oh, and repeated several times that I was “cute”. Never once offering me another cocktail or compensation for my time. He did, however, make a slightly non-convincing invitation to join him and another chick later. I said I’d think about it. I took his phone number down in my notes and said goodbye. I know she meant well, but it was a complete waste of my time. Even if he had offered loads of cash on the spot, I’m not sure I could have pulled out the necessary hooker skills—I hated the way he treated me. This is why men should be generous from the gate. It always works in their favor. He may have seen a woman over-the-hill by his estimate, but he just lost out on the best blowjob he’s ever had.