Looking for Love in all the Strange Places

If real estate is all about location, location, location, then picking up girls is all about determination, determination, determination. To test that hopeful if tenuous theory, I decided to reject typical hookup hot spots (bars, clubs, Congress) and apply my powers of seduction at some new hunting grounds--alternative locales that respectable society killjoys would deem inappropriate at best and, at worst, deserving of police attention. Could such counterintuitive behavior make me the luckiest guy in the greater Los Angeles area?

Working in my favor is the fact that a babe's bullshit detector is sure to be cranked several notches lower at a memorial service than at a sports bar nickel-beer night. Working against me is the fact that I'm not exactly George Clooney. Unless the masculine ideal has shifted from tall, dark and handsome to puny, pale and desperately in need of a decent haircut, I'll need every trick up my sleeve. Will I get laid or maced? There's only one way to find out.

Funeral

Why should priests get all the action?

Wearing my darkest suit and eschewing my Three Stooges tie, I park at Forest Lawn, LA's McFuneraLand, where so many burials overlap that vendors sell flowers from buckets outside the gates. When it comes to trolling the bereaved for beaver, it's best to have options.

Judging from the mourners filing past, the Church of the Hills is hosting the trendier of two chapel funerals. I enter clutching a tissue, but there is no reason to be nervous. This isn't a wedding with an invitation list. In fact, the entire burial process seems designed to help construct my lie. I study the helpful memorial card with the deceased's name and photo. And the more people speak from the altar, the more information I have about the dearly departed.

"It's very sad," I murmur to an attractive Latina whose pew I'm strategically sharing. She's in her early 20s, fetching in a lacy black dress, voluptuous but tough, like J. Lo's cop in Out of Sight. Or was that Angel Eyes?

"Yes, very sad," she responds quietly, with an accent. "How did you know her?"

"Work," I say. Hell, everyone does something.

"Oh," comes the somewhat puzzled response.

In the subsequent eulogy, I learn that the deceased was a homemaker. Strangely, I'm not called on the carpet. People refuse to suspect that the guy down the pew at a funeral is there for any other reason than to pay his respects. The dead woman's brother is now speaking. He regrets how much they used to fight as children.

"Did you come alone or with your husband?" I ask J. Lo, clarifying with "Su esposa."

"Mi marido?" she asks, cracking a small smile. Apparently, I had inquired about her wife. "I am not married," she says.

"A pretty thing like you?" I ask.

Her smile widens as noses blow all around us. The casket is closed and pallbearers begin their short march to the grave site. "She was such a sweet person," I say. The priest reads Scriptures as the coffin is lowered. I reach under my shades to rub my eyes. J. Lo gives me a consoling hug. Everyone hugs at funerals. Still, she holds our embrace even longer and tighter than I hoped, as I inhale her sweet perfume. I've been on dates that haven't gone this far.

"Can I call you?" I ask.

I stared at the number for a week before tossing it. I don't really believe in hell, but I can imagine a torturous afterlife being created especially for me if I pursue. I'll say one thing, though: If you think you can get lucky at my funeral, more power to you. Just say a few nice words about me.

Scientology Meeting

Some people think Scientology is a cult. I think cult girls are easy

When I arrive at Scientology's castle-like Celebrity Center in the Hollywood Hills for a Tuesday night orientation, a cute redhead leads me to a class about detoxification, the first step in becoming a member. Afterward, she escorts me to a screening room. For 10 minutes, I watch actors with Eighties hair tell one another how great L. Ron Hubbard's self-help books are. "They're available everywhere they sell books," one enthuses, "even in the bookstore when you leave. But they go fast, so you better hurry."

I spot three model types in the front row. I scoot up right behind a ringer for the singer Brandy. "If the books are available everywhere," I whisper conspiratorially, "why do we have to buy them here?"

"So you're not one of them?" she responds. Sure enough, they are models. Scientology is sponsoring a runway show for LA's Fashion Week, and they were rehearsing next door. "They came and asked us to sit here," Brandy says.

Looking for Love

"Let's split," I say, as though assembling fashion-show harems is something I do every day. As we sneak down hallways lined with photos of satisfied Scientologists, I mention that I know the owner of the Nacional, a trendy nightspot. (Truth: I know a bartender who moonlights there.)

"Hey!" the redhead shouts around the corner. We're busted. "Didn't you like the movie?" I tell her I have a pet-related emergency to attend to. While I provide cover, my models flee.

"Well, you're not going to leave without buying a book, are you?"

"I hear that they're available everywhere they sell books," I respond. She's not buying my story, but I'm not buying her book. After a five-minute standoff, I exit near the Scientology coffee shop, where a blonde with double-Ds and collagen lips is ordering coffee. I reach in front of her to grab a tea bag as she stirs in some cream. It probably says something about my own creed that I find these mundane acts highly sexual.

"Did you buy a book?" I ask. Hey, it already worked once.

"I have three," she says. Within a few minutes, Nina tells me she was abused by her parents and escaped from a bad marriage to Vegas, where she got implants and took up exotic dancing. Already revealed as a nonbeliever, I offer a bulletproof cover story. I'm a screenwriter with a character who's a Scientologist. I'm here for background detail.

"You're in film?" Nina is a budding actress. She joined Scientology because so many of its members work in showbiz. She agrees to accompany me to the Nacional.

"Screenwriters get no respect," I say upon finding that my name isn't on the list. Idling on the wrong side of the velvet rope, I ask what Nina liked about her former career.

"Being in absolute control of the guys I lap-danced for," she says. "They had no idea what I was going to allow them to do." I tell her I don't like strip clubs because they make me feel like a big, walking penis.

"You're not?" she asks, biting her red lips. "Too bad." Once inside, I nab a corner of a couch and lean my face into Nina's. She does what's best for her career. I don't know how much it costs to make out with a stripper with big fake boobs in Vegas, but I'm down only about $40 so far.

"Don't touch there," Nina says. "You're not allowed--yet." Tom Cruise would be proud, I think.

Ob-Gyn Office

What's a nice girl like you doing on an exam table like this?

Walking through a door in a Beverly Hills medical tower, I worry that the receptionist might want to know why I'm visiting the gynecologist, or at least which patient I'm waiting for. But she never looks up from her stack of insurance forms. The petite brunette with green eyes sitting across from me in the waiting room seems curious, though. The reason for her appointment isn't apparent, not that it matters to my mission. Contrary to what one might think, pregnant women are prime pickup targets. They're hormonally inclined to play house, accustomed to having their bodies inspected, unduly impressed by a free meal and often pissed off at some other guy. Plus, you don't have to worry about getting them pregnant.

"I see why you guys hate it here," I open. "It's creepy." Those green peepers look up from a dog-eared Elle. I volunteer my cover story: I'm picking up my sister after a "procedure," squishing up my face on the word.

"Say no more," she says, and resumes flipping. I had better say more; she could be called in at any moment. An elderly couple sits nearby. I avail myself of the cheap comedy op. "In vitro, huh?" I ask. The brunette giggles, but the couple doesn't understand. The older woman asks me to repeat myself.

For several painful seconds, I struggle to formulate a witty rejoinder. Finally I blurt out loudly: "Be careful that the doctor doesn't give you too much testosterone!" I feel like an ass, but the brunette is now smiling at me. Apparently humor standards are low at the OB-Gyn's office. The Elle hits the coffee table for good. Caitlyn is a shoe buyer for a department store.

As we chat, I notice the glint of metal in Caitlyn's mouth. This is a good thing: Pierced tongues are like membership cards to the oral sex club. But if you think asking for a girl's number at a club is embarrassing, just try finding the right moment in an OB-Gyn office. Finally I jump right in. "Do you think we could get together sometime, maybe in, say, a podiatrist's office or something?" She smiles and nods. (C'mon, what girl wouldn't give her number to a guy sweet enough to pick up his sister from the gynecologist?) I hand Caitlyn a pen and the nearest thing to write on, a pamphlet titled Vaginitis: Causes and Treatments.

A week later, we're on a date. "So where are we going to tell our friends we met?" I ask Caitlyn after the hostess seats us. A lesson I've learned is to have some cute conversational fodder when you hook up in an unusual place.

Then the food arrives--yellowtail, eel, fish eggs--and I realize I haven't selected our restaurant wisely. If you hook up at a gynecologist's office, sushi is probably not the call unless you want to think about her potentially defective vagina all night. I convince myself that Caitlyn was just in the office for a tune-up. It helps that she's all dolled up as hot as driveway tar in Phoenix.

I charmed her back to my apartment for a nightcap or four and do some doctor role-playing of my own. After a full physical exam, I determine that her tongue isn't the only thing that's pierced.

Sexaholics Meeting

Ladies who can't say no meet the man who always says yes!

I'm the kind of guy who thinks shooting fish in a barrel is good clean fun, so an organized gathering of fuck junkies seems ideal. Morally reprehensible, for sure, but ideal. That the self-help group's official name is the more clinical Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous does nothing to tame my preconception: the slutty dancers from the Addicted to Love video, sitting around and struggling to control their animal urge to blow the first guy who asks. And maybe Steven Tyler lurking over in the corner.

The reality is sobering. Twenty men and five women, four of whom look more like Robert Palmer than his dancers, sit in a circle in a church basement. Who would agree to enough sex to get these people addicted? The one attractive girl, Samantha, is about 40 and blonde. We take turns sharing. One guy is a chronic masturbator, another a cheating husband. I figure I need a more appealing story. Besides, they already have a chronic masturbator.

"My name is Corey and I'm a sex and love addict," I say, mimicking the regulars. Only here is this a smooth line.

"Hi, Corey!" comes the collective response.

"All my relationships end up co-dependent," I announce. Samantha fills the corner of my eye as I speak. "I fall in love way too deep and way too fast." I have just come to a job interview claiming that my biggest flaw is working too hard.

When it's Samantha's turn she says she was kicked out of drug rehab for screwing another patient. "I couldn't resist my baseline urges," she program-speaks, twirling her hair. "I don't even know how I ended up on the floor with this guy." Then she drops a wet blanket: "I have four months of abstinence, and counting." Yes, the platform these 12 steps lead up to is abstinence, not sobriety. This may be a more inappropriate place to pick up chicks than I thought. But, hell, I'm already here.

Private chats during the meeting are not allowed. But there is some mulling around a coffeepot after we adjourn. I tell Samantha that her talk moved me. I don't tell her what part of me is in motion. "I liked what you said, too," she says. "It was brave of you to come here. I wish I didn't have to keep coming here."

While discussing my baseline urges, I am overwhelmed by one. I excuse myself. "Hi there," says a voice from the next urinal. I don't look, in case it's the chronic masturbator. I'm always uncomfortable with urinal chat, and this time, logic is there to back up my homophobia. It's the guy who sat on my left during the meeting. Jeff is muscular and wears lots of cologne. And I thought I felt him lightly brush against my palm when everyone clasped hands to recite the Lord's Prayer. "First time, huh?" he asks.

He's correct. It's my first time at a sexaholics meeting and my first time possibly being cruised in a men's room. I zip up, rinse for two seconds, no drying. When I get back to the classroom, Samantha is putting on her coat. "Can I get your number?" I ask. She looks suspicious. "You seem like a good person to talk with about this stuff," I explain.

"You want me to be your sponsor?" Samantha asks. "It would probably be better if you got a male sponsor."

"I'll be your sponsor," Jeff interrupts, fresh from his lair.

Samantha takes her cue to leave. The very existence of Jeff is evidence that the bad karma created by this article is returning before it's even published.

Lesbian Bar

Even vegetarians get hungry for meat on the bone

At a popular lesbian hangout in West Hollywood, even the men with crew cuts are women. My theory is that at least some patrons might be bisexual--preferably the ones without Elvis sideburns. And if my theory is correct, then the odds will favor the only actual male in sight. Yes, me.

Looking for Love

Women wearing a curious mix of bondage gear and sweats chat at the bar. On the dance floor in back, they gyrate to techno songs with subtle lyrics like "I just want to fuck you." My friend Brenda Jo is here, because arriving by myself or with another guy might have raised some unplucked eyebrows, and also because she's, unknowingly, part of my rap. I walk over to a Lisa Loeb type who sports black glasses and a T-shirt reading Orgasm Donor.

"My friend is thinking about coming out of the closet," I say. "So I dragged her here, but she's shy." This explains what the hell I'm doing here, I hope, and also solicits sympathy. Lipstick Loeb looks at me silently, then at her friend, her supposed orgasm donee. They return my stare with cold eyes. "I thought maybe you would have some advice," I say. Stares so icy they could sink the Titanic.

"Be yourself," the friend says, before turning away as if I had walked off. Worse, Brenda Jo is eavesdropping.

"What did you say about me?" she asks. I'm surprisingly bad at lying to people I know, so I don't. She huffs off to a bar stool, from which she informs me to fuck off whenever I pass. I throw three more raps, each of which is as well received as Anne Heche's sudden return to sleeping with men.

"You enjoying yourself?" asks a hot blonde cocktail waitress. Eureka, the hot blonde cocktail waitress! I order a bourbon and tag along as she sashays back to the bar. Waitresses are like flight attendants: It's their job to be nice to you. But I'm hardened by my recent failure, so I go for it.

"You worked here long?" I ask. It's Sandy's second week.

"Shh, don't tell anyone, but there are no guys here," I say.

"Are you looking for men?" she grins. "Those bars are down the street a few blocks."

"No, I'm looking for women," I say. "And I think I just found a great one."

"You're sweet," she responds to my cliché, which could only sound genuine coming from the one guy in a room of lesbos. "What are you doing here?"

As I begin explaining how dedicated I am to my friend's sexual awakening, Brenda Jo interrupts. "Can we go now?" she says. "I hate it so much here I've got hives!"

"I understand," Sandy says with a wink.

"Can we continue our conversation another time?" I ask, pen whipped out. I've practically become Doc Holliday with a felt-tip. Sandy's number now occupies the slot in my cell phone where Brenda Jo's once was. She hasn't called back yet, but I know where she works.

Porn Set Fluffer? I hardly know her

Hitting on a porn star at work doesn't seem inappropriate--if you've never been to a porn set. These hardbodies are here to do a job--and I don't just mean of the blow variety. They don't want to think about off-camera sex. And certainly not with extras. On the porn social ladder, the extra rung is below the guy who washes off the dildos.

Today, I'm an extra in a production called Sex and Marriage. It's about a wife who's upset with her husband's lack of interest (as much as a porn movie can be about anything). I catch myself sneaking a glimpse of actress Ashton Moore getting dressed in the trailer, even though in about 20 minutes, she'll be naked in front of me and 10 other guys, receiving a saliva bath from two other actresses.

"You're such a hot slut, getting your pussy eaten," Ashton is told by Nevaeh Ashton between nipple licks, as Jenna Haze slurps away. This is the first time I have seen anything like this without the use of a pause button. Even more of a trip is hitting on these women afterward.

"Are you Heaven backward because you're the opposite of heaven?" I ask Nevaeh. Things are going well with this 20-year-old goddess until I inquire if she has a boyfriend.

"He's in Vegas," she says. "Don't make me think about him or I'll cry and ruin my makeup." Jenna also has a boyfriend. And Ashton Moore is married.

My only chance is with Cynara Fox, a 22-year-old brunette. We talk about her craft. "I don't do anal," she says. "But I do double vaginal." Mom, set an extra place at Sunday dinner! Cynara is in my scene. Director Cash Markman has cast me as a mobster who buries his accountant alive. One look at me in person and the casting changes.

"Nope, you're the accountant!" he says. Swell--every porn starlet wants to make it with an accountant. The assistant director hog-ties me and tosses me into the trunk of a Buick. "By the way, this is a gay bondage video," he jokes. I hope.

I'm hoisted over to a hole in the ground and covered with dirt. At the end of the scene, my underwear is brown and I smell like potting mix. "Sorry we had to bury you," Cynara says sweetly.

"That's OK," I say. "You can make it up to me. What's that?" I ask, tracing a snake tattoo on her thigh with my grubby fingers.

She delivers a lesbian-bar stare. "I have a girlfriend," she says. "And I don't fool around off camera--unless you're Jude Law or Hugh Jackman."

I am neither of them. It's time for my secret. Playboy wanted me undercover, so porn stars wouldn't be unduly impressed. Fuck that. "My readers want a happy ending," I say.

"We can do it," Cynara agrees.

Apparently, I am motherfucking Jude Law. I shower up in the trailer bathroom, then I meet Cynara in a darkened corner of the soundstage. "God, you're beautiful," I say.

"And you're hot," she says. "I would have totally fucked you, even before I knew about your article." This is about as believable as the acting in Penetrator 2: Grudgefuck Day. "But I was thinking about it, and I just can't. I have a reputation already, and this wouldn't help."

Exactly how does one obtain a "reputation" in a business where sex is had on camera for money? And why would that reputation be a bad thing? I do not point out the flaw in her argument. I figure it would be a futile effort, and, anyway, I'm running late for my feminist studies class.

Samantha was kicked out of rehab for screwing another patient on the floor. Hi, Samantha!

The line I try on the lesbians is about as well received as Anne Heche's sudden return to sleeping with men.