About Me

My photo

Used to work for AVIVA offshoring IT to India.  Now retired through ill health, writing my life story as a series of blogs chronologically from birth to current time.  At www.jw-alifeofsurprises.blogspot.com

Tuesday, 7 February 2012

The Small Ones can get Nasty!

In the early spring of 1988 I was leading a fairly debauched lifestyle.  As my sister commented, I was a shallow git back then.   Well tanned, healthy, long hair, well built, a real hunk.  (Or Wanker) 

For example;
there was the time I went watch a movie and was amongst only a handful of people in the theatre.  I sat with my popcorn and Big Gulp Pepsi in the middle of a row, three quarters the way back from the screen and a girl, attractive, hard body, brunette, sat down in the row in front, to my right.  The lights had yet to go down and she turned and began to make conversation.  She had soon walked down her row, along mine and we sat discussing movies and our other “interests".

Pretty soon she was telling me of her interest in the Rocky Horror Picture Show, and I was feigning my interest as I can’t stand musicals.  Pretty soon, she was telling me about her meeting a group of friends at a small theatre in Belmont, where they re-enacted the film and sang the songs (!!), and I was all “wow, how cool,” and “do you dress up” and “how soon until the next one?”  Pretty soon, she was showing me pictures from her pocketbook (purse) and pretty soon after that, she was blowing me and in-between mouthfuls, saying how turned on sex in the movie theatre made her (the lights HAD gone down by this time).  Pretty soon after that I was making a hasty retreat from the cinema, as I did not want a Rocky Horror oddball following me around, making demands of my time, I mean, seriously! 

But life was great, spending time in San Francisco, using the trams, going to Alcatraz, visiting Salsalito across the bay, every weekend was fun and the weekdays were'nt to bad either. 

Mark, Jamid, and I were good friends and hung out most weekends, the Union Street/Pacific Heights district in San Francisco was a popular location.  Cafes and restaurants stood alongside bars and clubs, Balboa’s was a cool place, plenty of singles and good music.  We’d walk along the streets and intersections, Union, Fillmore, Lombard, and Broadway, while Limousines, hired by fathers for teenage daughters to impress whoever they wanted to impress cruised past.  The girls would scream, laughing hysterically, poking out of the sunroofs, the cars looked like they were vomiting women out of their roofs. 

If you are under twenty one, you are not allowed to drink alcohol in California, so many of these “Limo Chicks” would be drinking fruit punch and acting as thought they were drunk.  Nearly everyone would be carded (asked to show ID), upon entry to a club/bar and once inside, the music and atmosphere would soon take affect and I would be off, eager to seek out and chat up the next girl.  Mark was behaving himself as he and Andrea, (his friend Frank from the Karate’ Studios sister), were fast becoming an item, but Jamid and I were always eager to meet new friends.
One Saturday evening, we were wandering through the Fillmore District and Lower Pacific Heights after a day’s fun at Stinson Beach.  The spring weather was warm and we were already in shorts and T-Shirts.  We’d been to see Jag and Jack, whose house in town was just around the corner and we were now looking for a place to eat, drink, and relax.  Smoking was allowed in all establishments, I smoked (the only smoker amongst us), but I have been a considerate smoker all my life.  I tend to ask in company if people mind and don’t smoke if asked not to.  As we ambled down the sidewalk, we arrived at Harry’s Bar (http://harrysbarsf.com/index.php) and wandered into its vibrant atmosphere, young “San Franciscans” laughing, drinking, eating and generally having a ball.

It was very busy as we squeezed our way through the throng to the bar and ordered beers.  It was easier to stand away from the bar, so we went back towards the doorway and there were seats at a table to our left.  The girls sitting there said they were free, so we sat down and began talking, and I inevitably pulled out the Marlboro Red’s.  I knew that Mark and Jamid did not object, so being the gentleman turned to the girls across the table and asked whether they’d mind if I lit up.  Two of them said “Go right ahead”, the last looked at me and said “that’s a disgusting habit”.  I looked at her and saw a petite brunette, very pretty but with a sneer across her mouth and a hard stare in her eyes.  I thought, “This is going to be hard work” and we began a debate on smoking (me for, her against), and to be fair I was enjoying winding her up. 
The usual second hand smoke argument (fair point) came out along with the always popular, smelly clothes, smelly hair, bad skin, cancer, blah blah blah.  I knew all this and was not about to start smoking in front of these women, a) for fear of bodily injury B) I couldn’t be arsed to get further into this, there were better things to do.  Problem was, the ardent non-smoker was becoming more vocal, and I hadn’t even lit up!  She was giving me both barrels, for fuck all reason.  In fact, she was starting to piss me off, so Mark stepped in to calm matters and change the subject.

Harry's Bar - San Francisco
I decided to ignore her totally and while Mark was valiantly working to make the peace, I devoted my attention to a more worthwhile study of the other women in Harry’s and wandered off to chat to few women at the bar.  Jamid arrived with more beers and the evening became more relaxed.  I went outside to smoke and came back in, sat down and was about to pick up my beer, when “Miss Vocal cords 1988” started up again.  I ignored her or tried to but she was insistent, in that she was speaking directly to me and in the small space we occupied it became impossible to not take notice.
The problem for me was that seeing past her nagging, she was actually very attractive.  Deciding upon a different tactic, and as one of her friends had left the table, I sat down next to her and asked her name?  Brooke was the answer.  Where do you live?  Los Angeles.  What do you do?  I am John Travolta’s PA.  “What, the failed actor” I asked.  At that time Travolta was not doing well, his recent films had flopped and it was a year before he would star in “Look Who’s Talking”.  She gave me an icy stare and then laughed, I laughed and we started over, talking about movies, music, I told her I was buying clothes mail order from a shop on Melrose Ave in LA and was interested in going to the shop itself. 
Suddenly we were getting on like a house on fire and we moved on to another bar and yet another bar.  Come time to go our separate ways, I had her address and phone number and had been invited down to stay.  “I asked her what had changed” and she said it was because I didn’t give a shit, had ignored her and pretty much did what I wanted.  Nice!
A few weeks later, after a very long week at work, I was walking off a plane at LA X airport and towards Brooke, who was there to meet me.  She jumped up (she was short remember) to kiss me and we walked to her car and drove to her house just off Venice Blvd.  A small one bed apartment, it was neat and tidy and as soon as I had put my bag down, she was on me like a police dog.  In fact, it was a little bit scary, as she was ripping my clothes off and pushing me through the room and onto her bed.  We spent the early evening testing the springs on her bed and then showered, dressed and drove to a very nice Ocean front restaurant that served BBQ. 
The following morning we went shopping along Melrose Ave sight-seeing along Rodeo Drive. In the early afternoon a group of her friends met up with us and we headed off up Highway One to Santa Barbara. The parents of one of the group were stars on TV, but when I asked who, or what programmes they were in, everyone declined to say, as if it was some big secret. I did not actually give a shit, but the majority of them were stuck up and held far too self-opinionated. Once we reached Santa Barbara, we turned in-land and headed up the hills that overlooked the town below.

We drove along tree lined roads, passing beautiful villas and bungalows, perched on the edge of ravines and hillsides.  We turned off the road and into a cul-de-sac and drove to the end, where we arrived at a sprawling estate, a large single storey residence sitting amid well manicured gardens and pathways; it was all very feng-shui.
Brooke led me into the home and we were allocated a bedroom, in fact it was an office and we had an inflatable mattress to blow up and sleep on, with a blanket or two for good measure.  How posh!  We gathered in the lounge, low level furnishings and bare wood floors, open plan living.  The rear of the property was made of glass doors, leading to more gardens.  I was knackered and feeling the need for a good sleep.  I told Broke I was going into our “office” for a while and promptly lay down and dropped off.  Brooke woke me when she came to bed and had a real go about my rudeness.  I apologised, but guessed that we were no longer going to be making the beast with two backs anymore and rolled over and went to sleep again.
Sunday morning, I was up early, refreshed, and eager to go.  Well; eager to have a go at Brooke, who tried to evade my advances, but succumbed once I’d gone south for a few minutes.  She was quite a vocal girl, not only when arguing the point about smoking and I was encouraging her along in making as much noise as she wanted. 
We appeared in the kitchen, helped ourselves to coffee and as her friends were all looking down their noses, made our excuses and left.  Heading back to LA, we stopped in Santa Monica and walked along the beach looking at the homes of the rich and famous.  We agreed that whilst the sex was great, we were not made for each other, and that we were better off staying friends.  (I never saw her again).  But as my flight was still a few hours away we went back to her place and we tore into one another like a starving man eating a bottomless bowl of pasta; messy, noisy, lots of sauce and you force yourself to keep going just in case someone takes the plate away (which they eventually did).

I arrived back in San Mateo and set about tiding myself up and readying myself for another weeks painting.  My mum had written that she wanted to come and see California for herself.  I said that I would come home in June for my twenty third birthday and we could fly back together late June.  This was still three months away and I was about to meet a new girl, Tammy.  Life was great, wine, women and even song to some extent.  I was working with the Garcia family still and it was all coming together nicely. 

1 comment:

  1. Your blog is amazing!!!! You are brilliant! Fantastic post! Have a brill day!