L. A. Undercovers

I went to the West Coast to accomplish two things: learn how to make a left-hand turn at a four-way intersection and get laid. I am a New Yorker to the bone--I was born and bred in Brooklyn, learned to drive at 21 and have spent more time in cabs riding home from hookups than I've spent hooking up. But lately I've grown sick of the city; it's gotten to the point where I'm dating the same guys over and over again. I wanted to go someplace shiny, new and carefree, where all the women looked like whores and the men looked gay. I wanted to get busy with actors, agents, rock singers and valets. In a city of movers and shakers, I wanted a piece of the action.

I arrive at the Maison 140 hotel in Beverly Hills in the late afternoon, feeling happy to be alive. When I pull away from the airport on La Cienega I'm so nervous I can't switch lanes, but I breathe slowly and aim high at the wheel. By the time I make it to Beverly Hills, I'm talking on my cell phone, smoking and turning (right) all at once.

My hotel is a tiny B-and-B, all black and red with an Asian theme. As soon as I get to my room I'm horny. It's small and warm, with a king-size bed that's so soft and inviting I want to share it with somebody, soon. I wash my face and head out in search of some Californication.

> the pickup artist

I park on Sunset Boulevard to look for men, and as I walk down the street I notice something strange: Every single guy is staring at me, smiling. Sure, my hair's blown out straight as Barbie's and I'm in gold strappy sandals and a tight black tank top. But, still, it catches me off guard. New Yorkers spend most of their time figuring out how not to look at each other; here everyone acts like the world is TV. And because all the men are Adonises, with high foreheads and tan skin, I'm surprised to find the leering flattering. They look like models and behave like construction workers--what more could a gal ask for?

Suddenly, I get distracted by my car. Even though the parking spot appears legal, I feel certain there's some obscure regulation I don't know about. I spot a Nicolas Cage look-alike in a polka-dot shirt coming toward me. Just as I say, "Excuse me,'' he says, "Excuse me,'' too.

"You go first,'' I say.

"I was just going to tell you how beautiful you are,'' he says with an English accent.

"Thank you,'' I say. "How many women do you stop on the street and say that to?''

"Depends how many I see.''

"What's beautiful about me?''

"Well, if you really want to know, your face and your breasts,'' he says, and giggles. "What were you going to ask me?''

"Whether you think that's a legal spot over there.''

"I have no idea,'' he says. "I'm from England. My name's Colin. I'm a race car driver on the Gumball Rally. We just drove across the country to raise money for September 11.''

I peer at him through his tinted Armani glasses and am surprised to find I feel no fear. I'm a babe and he stopped me to say so. I have to seize the day.

"What kind of car did you drive?''

"A Ferrari.''

"Mmm,'' I purr. "Why don't you take me for a ride in it?''

"My insurance ran out, so I can't. We could sit in it, though.''

He holds his arm out for me and we go to a lot across the street. His car's a 550 Barchetta Pininfarina. I've never seen anything so sexy in my life. It's sleek and low and my ass sinks in so deep I feel paraplegic.

He puts on Frank Sinatra singing Autumn in New York. The combination of Old Blue Eyes and new blue eyes, not to mention the small, enclosed space, makes me weak. I'd never get in a car with a strange guy in New York--not even a parked one--but Colin's so cheerful I don't feel afraid. In fact I feel....

"Do you want to kiss me, Colin?''

"Yeah, sure,'' he says. I pucker up. We kiss, deep and soulful, as Sinatra continues to croon. He pulls away and says, "What are you doing tonight?''

"I'm not sure.''

"Why don't you come to my hotel? The Mondrian, room 602.''

"Mmm,'' I say. "I'll definitely think about it.''

I can't believe it. I've been in LA only a couple of hours and already I've sat in a Ferrari, smooched a boy and have sex lined up for the night. I wind up not going because I have a date with an agent, but as I walk to my car I smile, knowing I can.

> the agent

Jack, 34, is a Hollywood agent, a friend of a friend. We talk over the phone and I ask him where (continued on page 78)Sex & 2 cities--Amy(continued from page 70) we're going. He says, "I'll decide that,'' in a gruff, big-penis voice. At seven o'clock I hear a knock on my hotel room door. I crack it and he pushes it wide open. I can't believe my eyes. Though he's by no means a tall man, he has the strong jaw of someone who works out too much, and high, dark hair. He's wearing a Hugo Boss suit. I feel my to-fuck-or-not-fuck bar begin to lower. I can't remember the last time I had a man pick me up for a date, much less wearing something with lapels.

"It's such a pleasure to meet you,'' I say, licking my freshly glossed lips. (Within 24 hours in town I have mastered the LA bitch look: high-heeled car shoes, heavy makeup, a bit of midriff showing at all times.)

"Nice to meet you, too,'' he says, giving me a once-over.

We walk outside. I love that I don't have to take a jacket. In New York you dress up then cover up, because you want the right guys to notice you and the wrong guys not to. Here you're protected by the metal of a car, so you can dress like Pamela Anderson without fear of catcalls.

Jack leads me to a cobalt-blue vintage convertible from the Sixties. He opens the door. "Wow,'' I say. I don't tell him that l've already made out in a Ferrari.

We cruise down Wilshire, the engine rumbling loudly. I stare out the window, feeling like the sexy bitch of a powerful man. A BMW pulls up next to us and Jack says, "That's Brad Grey.'' Brad Grey is with his wife, talking on his cell phone while she stares straight ahead, and I think maybe it's more fun to hang with someone powerful for a night than for life.

The restaurant is a hip place in Santa Monica called Sushi Roku. It's dark and powerful, kind of like my date. As we step up to the host station we see Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt having dinner in a booth to the right.

"Am I good or am I good?'' Jack asks me.

"You're good.'' Brad Grey and his wife come in behind us and join Jennifer and Brad in the booth.

"They're following us,'' I whisper. Jack and I are seated and he orders Sapporo and sake. "So, do you get stressed out by your work?'' I ask.

"I never leave the house without my ego and ambition,'' he says, staring at my breasts. "But I try to keep a healthy distance between my work and myself. I want to be a good man, not a great man.''

"I bet you've said that before,'' I tell him.

"Of course I have,'' he says.

"What makes an agent good?''

"One, he has to make his client money. Two, he has to inspire his client to greatness. Three, he has to make his client money.'' I'm relieved that we haven't eaten our dinner yet; otherwise I would be vomiting.

Over sushi that I let him order, we get to know each other better. He's inquisitive, but when I tell him I wrote a novel he doesn't appear to be impressed. I figure in this town a novelist has less clout than a colorist. I ask him whether he ever worries that women are only interested in him because of his success. He says, "I am far too vain to come to terms with the possibility that a woman might go on a date with me for any reason other than that I'm a first-rate human being.'' I laugh at his hubris and he smiles in a way that makes me unsure whether he's joking.

When we finish our food I tell him I want to go outside and smoke a cigarette--you can't smoke inside--and he says he'll come with me. We run into an African American movie executive he knows who's waiting for his car. "You know what I need?'' the guy says. "Fucking white material. All I get is black shit.''

"Embrace it,'' Jack says. "Because there's a real market there.''

The friend speeds off and I light my cigarette. Jack bums one. It seems being a smoker in California is kind of like being a gay celebrity: You do what you do, but you don't want anyone to know.

After dinner we go to the parking lot and get into his car. He doesn't ask me where I want to go, we just drive. After a while, I put my hand on his neck and when I take it away, he says, "Don't stop. My neck is killing me.'' I roll my eyes and squeeze a little.

We creep up into the Hollywood Hills. His house is modest and sparse and there's a ton of boxes in the living room; he's moving the next day.

We go out onto the terrace, which overlooks the Los Angeles basin, glowing and bright. "This view can be very beautiful,'' he says, "and the most depressing thing that you've ever seen when you're lonely.''

"Where are you moving?''

"To my place in Malibu for now. I got an offer on this I thought I should take, but now I have seller's remorse. You know what my problem is? I'm always looking for something better than what I have.''

I start thinking how men really do tell you everything you need to know right away. We return to the living room and I sit down. He goes to the kitchen and brings back two Playboy tumblers filled with single-malt on the rocks. We clink and drink and then he asks me to sit on his lap. After a little bit of grinding, our paws disappear.

"Oh my God!'' I cry, yanking my hand from his chain.

"What?''

"You have less hair than I do! I've been outvained!'' He grins slyly. "Who does that for you?''

"Who do you think? I do.'' My hand roams around listlessly, but the lack of Chia on his pets is so intimidating that I have to move it away.

"Before I leave this house, there's something I want to do that I've never done,'' he says. "I'm hoping you'll want to do it, too. It involves the balcony.''

Hmmm, I think. At least it seems this won't involve my having to touch them.

(continued on page 158)Sex & 2 cities--Amy(continued from page 78)

I get something from my purse and we go outside. He sits on the chaise and I climb on top, trying to give his Hollywood Hills view a little competition. As we move he makes small hollow sighs, like a failing respirator, and his face looks different. Vulnerable. I grow addicted to that look because it makes me think I've produced this change in him. But when we finish he gets up and goes into the living room. I walk in and find him sipping scotch and staring out the window.

"That was the perfect farewell to this house,'' he says. "A period at the end of the sentence.''

We go up to his bedroom. He has a walk-in closet with shorts and socks on labeled shelves. It's hard to trust a man whose closet is bigger than mine.

His bed is warm, but his two cats keep hopping in. "There's only room in this bed for one pussy,'' I say.

"Just kick them out,'' he says, picking one up by the scruff.

In the morning he goes into the bathroom, and after he showers I hear something horrifying. A hair drier. I haven't even brushed my teeth, and Bald Balls has already blown his hair. It's too much competition for a girl to take.

He calls later that day from Malibu and says, "Is it normal for a grown man to cry when he leaves his first house?''

I start to answer, but the cell phone goes out and I lose him.

The rock star

The day following my agent hookup I stand in the shower and decide to go totally LA. I take out a Gillette for Women and shave off the valley below, leaving a perfect triangle on top. It takes a long time and it's a little scary, but I have to do as a Roman would if I want to fit in.

I meet my friend Gina, a bartender, to go barhopping on the Sunset Strip. She takes me to Red Rock, a wild bar pulsing with young people on the make. After a few Coronas she grabs a sweet boy and pulls him toward me. He has pale skin and black hair--Crispin Glover, but hot. His name's Patrick, he's 25 and he's a musician.

We go out onto the smoking deck and he gives me an American Spirit and leans in close. "What kind of music do you play?'' I ask.

"Singer-songwriter, folk-influenced.''

"I bet you have a strong mother,'' I say.

"I do,'' he says. "How'd you guess?''

"I'm intuitive,'' I say. I have a feeling about him, and since it's LA, where you can say these things, I do. "I bet you're incredibly good at going down on women,'' I say. "You love doing it and are happy if that's the only thing you get to do.''

"Are you psychic?'' he asks. I nod.

"Why are you asking me that?'' he says.

"Would you like me to do that for you tonight? Because I would.''

His white teeth are gleaming. Everyone out here acts like they're on ecstasy all the time. Suddenly, I feel like I am, too. It would be nice to show off my new puss, and this guy's such a pushover I know I could boss him around.

But then I wise up. It's crazy to waste free cunnilingus in LA when I could save it for the Big Apple, where I really need it. New York musicians are nothing like this--they're just as fey, but mean.

"Why don't you call me the next time you have a gig in New York?'' I say, scribbling down my number. He pouts, but I tell him to keep his chin up.

The has-been

Because the city is teeming with more has-beens than A-listers, I call my buddy James and ask him to set me up with his friend Marc Price--a.k.a. Skippy of Family Ties. Skippy was the dorky friend of Alex P. Keaton, and I'd always had a secret crush on him. I loved his fedoras and whiny lisp. Now he's 35, does stand-up and is developing a bunch of game and comedy shows. He still has the lisp, though it's less prominent.

I pick him up at the Improv. He's heavier but has the same bright face.

"I'm so excited to meet you,'' I say.

"You, too,'' he says. "just to give you a heads up--I'm distracted by work right now. In case I seem out of sorts.''

Great, I think. We walk about 10 blocks to his car and I start thinking he must not have a lot of dough if he skimped on the valet. Then I spot the car itself--it's a 1994 Infiniti, and the backseat is loaded with crap--clothes, an economy-size box of Cap'n Crunch, a laundry basket.

I try to sit in the passenger seat, but something's in the way. "Are these crutches?'' I ask.

"Trim for my house,'' he says with the patented Skippy giggle.

He tosses the trim to the backseat and drives me to a Hawaiian-themed bar in a strip mall, the Lava Lounge. It's cozy. Skip just earned some points.

"So, do you still get juice from your role?'' I ask.

"You'd be amazed how many people recognize me,'' he says.

"But it was so long ago!''

"That's true,'' he says. "My Skippy superpowers are beginning to wane.''

I ask if he ever got down with Justine Bateman and he says, "No, with one of her friends.'' Then he tells me he hooked up with Lisa Bonet when she came into town for an NBC anniversary event. He says he was a Ferris Bueller type on the set of the show--sometimes he'd tell his tutors he was working and instead go to and instead go to Venice Beach. I don't like this amoral side; it makes me wonder whether he has ethics when it comes to women.

"What are you looking for in a woman now?'' I ask.

"I definitely want to meet someone special, but there's a point in life when you're not interested in investing a lot of time for a little something. I'm in love with the comedy biz.''

Just my luck. I come all the way to LA to meet another neurotic Jewish guy who is obsessed with his career.

When we finish our drinks he says,

"Do you want to see my house? It's got an incredible view.''

"Where do you live?'' I ask.

"In a Forties trailer in Laurel Canyon. I bought the property and put the trailer there to live in while I build my house.''

"How far along is it?''

"I haven't started.''

"How long have you been living in the trailer?''

"Eleven years.'' I give him a funny look (concluded on page 161)Sex & 2 cities--Amy(continued from page 158) and he says, "I thought my house would be built by now. But it's very expensive. Besides, it gives me a reason to wake up in the morning, to look around and imagine it.'' It seems this man has a problem getting things started. I wonder whether that's a by-product of early fame: You get lazy. He tells me I should come see his hot tub. I tell him I gotta jet.

The Celebrity

On Monday night I go to a fancy restaurant called Les Deux Cafes with my friend Cindy. There's a garden in the back, and as we walk in I feel like I'm at the Oscars. Owen Wilson's at one table, Harvey Keitel's at another, Stella Tennant's having a gathering at a long table, Vincent D'Onofrio's sitting with a bunch of hangers-on. I need somebody in my league. I spot an Indie Auteur from New York leaning against a wall, eyeing me. He's emaciated and handsome in a bedraggled way, and I've had a humongous crush on him forever.

Cindy and I take a seat at a table near Indie and I beckon him over. He does the "Are you talking to me?'' gesture. I nod. He comes over slowly, playing it cool. I stare at his straggly hair and say, "When was the last time you washed that?''

"Three hours ago,'' he says. I touch it. It feels surprisingly smooth.

"What kind of shampoo do you use?''

"It's very expensive.''

"Like 50 bucks a bottle?''

"Try 300.''

I wolf-whistle and ask him to light my cigarette. "You shouldn't smoke,'' he says.

Cindy gets up to buy a drink and asks if we want one. LA orders a water and I order a grapefruit and Stoli.

"You drink too much, you talk too much and you smoke too much,'' he tells me.

"I've been told all those things before,'' I say. "But I can do magic tricks.''

I hold a match and make it disappear from my hand. Then I do the one where I make my hand look like it can spin around 360 degrees. "I like your magic thing,'' he says.

"I like you,'' I say. "What do you look for in a woman?''

"I like her to be lying on her back. Sometimes I like her to be lying on her stomach. I really like her lying on her stomach.''

"You're into rimming?''

"Yeah,'' he says. "I'm into rimming.''

I lean in close. "Do you hook up with a lot of girls?''

"No,'' he says. "I don't like to have indiscreet sex.''

"What about kissing?'' I say. "Do you kiss indiscreetly?'' Since I'm a little afraid of him I feel the need to set boundaries.

He nods. "Maybe we should go in the back and do that,'' I say.

He shakes his head no. "What do you want from me?'' he says with a hint of hostility.

"I just told you.''

"What else?''

"Creative or uncreative?''

"Uncreative.''

This is not a man for whom subtlety works. I have to get a reaction out of him to keep him at the table.

"I don't know,'' I say. "Maybe I could lick your balls?''

"Really?'' he says, appearing awake for the first time all night. "I'd like you to do that, and then I could come all over your lips.''

I've opened a door I don't know how to slam shut. I want to fuck a star, but the whole point is to be able to tell your girlfriends afterward. With what IA has in mind, though, I'd have to keep my mouth shut.

"I have to go to the bathroom,'' I say. I throw some water on my face and decide I've gotten something from IA that is far more important than sex: dialogue. Cindy and I will slip out when he's distracted and I'll never have to see him again.

When I return, Cindy's alone. "Where did he go?'' I ask.

"He said he saw a friend of his.''

I look around the room but can't spot him anywhere. That's the good thing about actors' short attention spans: They leave as soon as they get bored. Thank God for that.

The B-Lister

The next night I stop in an unpretentious bar downtown and spot a really cute B-list actor sitting a few seats down. He's done movies and a little TV, and he's funny in a sardonic way.

Halfway into my grapefruit and Stoli I notice Mr. B. smiling at me. He doesn't say anything, though. There's this mellow reggaeish music playing, so I say, "What is this?''

"Jack Johnson,'' says Mr. B. "He used to be a surfer and now he's a musician.''

"I like it,'' I say. "It's mellow. Is he big here?''

"Yeah. So you don't live in LA?''

"No. I'm from New York.''

"I love New York,'' he says.

"You mean you heart it,'' I say, raising a brow.

"Right. I heart it.''

He moves closer to me and buys my next cocktail. We talk for a long time and eventually he invites me to his house. I follow him in my car and he waits for me at every light so I don't get lost. When we get to his place he puts on the same Jack Johnson album that was playing in the bar. I sit on the couch and Mr. B sits next to me and slips his arm around my shoulders. I could elaborate on what happened, but it would make Mr. B really mad. He says he's been screwed by journalists too many times.

"Within hours I have mastered the LA bitch look: high-heeled car shoes, heavy makeup, a bit of midriff showing at all times.''

Ask Sarah Silverman

Playboy:What's the difference between New York men and LA men?

Sarah Silverman, comedian: New York balls are bigger and browner and LA balls are closer to the body and pinker. But that's probably because of the humidity.

Playboy:What about guys who take the hair off their balls?

Silverman: That's so nasty. I like a big bush. No shaving anywhere. That's gay. If your man does that, he's gay. That's how you know.

Playboy:Who's better in bed--LA men or New York men?

Silverman: Fat guys, because they try so hard and they've learned a lot from pornography.

(Silverman lives in LA)

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