PALISADES POOL PARTY
Christie meets me at the door and life does not feel real. It's probably her perfume, or is that scent her conditioner? Her lotion?
But what really distorts reality is her smile. Her eyes wide and clear and blue. Her cheeks flushed, her mouth wide and upturned and inviting, showing me her teeth. Her teeth are nice, her smile real and toothy. The evolutionary part of my brain tells me she is showing me what a fine vixen she would be, what a good hunter and carnivore. I know that despite my rush of insecurity at her scent and her feminine perfection, the evolutionary part of my brain tells me she does this because of all the alpha qualities I have displayed throughout our dating, throughout our courtship. Her eyes match her smile. She feels sincere to me, and ethereal, like a dream.
Like I am experiencing this, but also at the same time watching it happen to me as if on a screen. This is real, but this is not real.
We're at her place, up some winding hill in Silver Lake, where all the amazing spiritual models are living that era.
She makes sounds of greeting that the evolutionary part of my brain tells me means she is happy and aroused and available and her smile makes me smile and then she's still standing in the same place in the middle of her open front door, not budging, not getting out of the way to let me in, and she's leaning slightly forward and then:
Christie is kissing me and I'm kissing her, slow and sweet on her lips.
She puts her hands on me, to hold me there, one hand on my arm, one hand on my face, to hold my lips to hers. Her lips are full and with my eyes closed, I can tell her eyes are closed.
The scent of her is so close and so layered and creating a sort of magnetic connection; my lips and hers are bound, polarities meeting.
When our lips part, my brain has partly melted.
"Shall we?" Christie says, already pulling her door closed and using her key to turn the lock on the front door to her house.
"Let's," I say, and then take in her outfit. Her sandals are strappy, soft leather; her sundress is cotton and flowered, tight enough on top to show she has no bra, and a hem that catches the summer breeze easily and shows that she is wearing a matching set: no bra and no panties.
"You look incredible," I tell her. "I love your outfit."
Christie smiles and says a modest "Thanks, mister."
I hold the passenger door of the top-down convertible open for her. She slides in demurely, thighs together, then gives me a sweet, quick flash of her open thighs just before I close the car door.
And another flash of her conspiratorial smile.
Her housekeys go into her wristlet purse, and that goes into the glove box of the sportscar, a silly toy that only feels worthwhile on adventures like this.
Driving the car down her block and to the freeway, my head feels drunk, but in the good way. Maybe it's her perfume. Maybe it's her conditioner. Maybe it's her magnetic field.
Psycho-spiritual Intoxication notwithstanding, it is a thirty minute drive to our destination.
Christie plays the radio and sings along to the Top 40. We say fun and funny things to each other. I've never felt like a better driver in my life.
"The Los Angeles Gods of Traffic have blessed this Quest," I say to Christine. "This is how long it was supposed to take to get out here using the freeway when they built the things."
"Of course we're blessed," Christine replies. "The gods always bless Sex Quests."
I laugh. "I think that was a rejected Showtime pilot."
It's one of those big houses in the Palisades, way up on the bluff where you can see and hear the Pacific. There's security at the gate and we can see other cars of other guests parked up the hill near the house's entry courtyard.
The sun is in the southwest and bright. Another perfect day with blue skies and no clouds and plenty of sun.
The guard is respectful, there's a recent drive-on pass from Paramount with my name and photo on it in the center console, and I show that to him instead of a driver's license. I can feel that his small guard shack has its own air-conditioning set icy cold. He presses the button for the gate and we drive through.
Cars fill much but not all of the courtyard. "I see everyone brought their party cars," I remark to Christie.
She punches me, lightly on the arm. "Yellow car, I win," Christie says. "You ever play that game?" A smile on her face.
"Sure," I say, and I notice the yellow Rolls SUV convertible, parked close to the house's front door that Christie saw first. Another tastefully uniformed security officer is manning that door, too; tastefully and unobtrusively out of the way.
We park, and Christie waits for me to open her door and help her out of the car. The gravel of the entry courtyard makes it easy to park elegant automobiles, but more difficult for a lady in fine leather sandals with the narrow, high heel so on trend that season. Someone so beautiful holding on to you for support, because she is wearing one-of-a-kind sandals personally given to her by the designer, and which she will later sell by secret auction online and thus pay for an entire year at the University of California, is one of the most invigorating feelings available in the modern world.
Fortunately, it's one that stays will you long after it's happened.
The closer to the door we get, the louder the beat sounds. "I love she loves house music," Christie says, as we walk to the door, which is a tall, double-door, one panel of which stands open.
The sound of our hostess is the cheerful sound of a thousand perfect champagne bubbles. Her sound approaches as we are approaching the outside guard attempting to be unobtrusive and anonymous--he and I share share a classic, friendly head-nod and a "hey"-level smile--and the music is getting louder as we're getting closer, steady fun beats and sampled vocals, provocative vocals, teasing vocals.
Then, in the door, there she is. From the sound the two women suddenly make, I can tell Christie has seen and recognizes our hostess.
"Hello, hello!" my date coos.
"Hellllllooooooooooooo!" she receives.
But the greeting our hostess gives Christie is intimate indeed. Not the continental air-kisses that were de rigueur that season at The Ivy lunches or Bird Street dinner parties, though continental air-kisses were what the ladies exchange first.
Muah. Muah.
And then, something not at all de rigueur: a long, sizzling kiss, on the lips-- closed-mouth at first, but the longer it lasts, the more the women open their mouths--it takes no time at all, but as I watch them, it feels like it takes forever, the slowest kiss I've ever witnessed and I want to savor every sudden second of it--and my sweet Christie is soul-kissing this lovely woman who looks to be wearing next to nothing; something very expensively next to nothing.
I notice her hair when Christie has her hands in it: full and thick, such a luxury of dark curls that Christie pulls at the roots with no difficulty. Christie pulls and our hostess winces pleasurably.
"Mmmmmmm," the woman says, biting her lip when their kiss finally breaks. Christie's hand still pulling tight at the dark roots of our hostess's dark hair. "Pristine Christine. So good to see you again, Doll."
"I missed you, Light-of-my-Life," Christie says, and releases her grip, giving the woman a peck on the lips.
"Honey, this is Luz," Christie says.
"Hi," Luz smiles, "I'm Luz, it means Light."
"Hi," I say, and reflexively put out my hand. Luz takes my hand, and leans in for an air-kiss, turning to my right-cheek side.
"Oh, I know who you are, K.B.," Luz says, warmly, and we exchange polite, trendy air-cheek-kisses and then, like she did with Christie, Luz lays one on me. Right on my lips.
Even though I know to expect it, I am still shocked. Stunned.
Then I'm delighted. And amazed. And happier than I may have ever been in my life, yes, it feels like for a second, possibly. And as I respond to this kiss, knowing that Christie extremely wants me to respond and to kiss her friends back with full enjoyment, my entire spine melts because I feel like as good as things are--the best they have ever been--they are about to get even better.
It's going to get even better than French-kissing Luz the first-time meeting her in person, and having her being the aggressor with the tongue.
When she ends our kiss, I am dizzy. I think for a second, we just had an earthquake. Something full and fun, like a low-four on the Richter scale. Four-point-two. Four-point-four. A fun one.
Luz's laughter at my reaction--cheerful, accepting the compliment--clues me to reality. Luz's swimsuit is perfectly-tailored fabric held together with impossible-looking chains. Her model-perfect feet are in flat sandals.
Christie takes my arm like a sweetheart, steadying me and smelling like heaven. Luz guides us into the house, and then the house smells like heaven, only a different and even more exclusive part.
But around a corner, and then through the house we go, out to the drop-dead view of the Pacific, out to the drop-dead view of the back lawn, out to the drop-dead view of the infinity pool, out to the world-class patio for entertaining.
Large enough for a powerful party. Isolated enough from the neighboring properties that powerful parties stay private parties.
The sounds are of party music, and party laughter, and of people in the pool. Of people on the patio, sunbathing and rubbing lotions on each other. Of joints being rolled and passed, of bongs being iced and filled and passed, of edibles being distributed with strict descriptions of their potency.
