Olvera St.

I have a girl sleeping in my bed.

Wait, I’m beginning at the end. Let me back up.

Thursday night, Mischief & I went to a gallery show at a club space downtown that featured art, photography, fashion. We were invited by my friend Ben Hoffman (The Photographer in the Attic) who truly is an Artist.

He is one of the more astonishing photographers I’ve ever seen. He’s currently living an art project of his own devising called Project One. The mission is to create one piece of real art every day for a year.

I’d strongly encourage you to check out his site HERE.

The show itself, with the exception of Ben’s work, was a sardonic joke. A hipster facsimile of style, taste and genuine skill. An accidental postmodern sendup of the L.A. art scene. If you could make an ironic T-shirt out of an art show and sell it at Brite Spot, this would be that shirt.

Friday night was supposed to be a solo dinner with my friends John & Brusta to catch up and discuss John’s current screenplay. With a warning that I was afraid she might be bored or feel left out when we came to the script notes, I invited the Girl to come along, and she accepted.

I needn’t have worried. John can be a lot to keep up with, and the two of us together have a hurricane-like effect, blowing over everything not oak tree-strong in the room. Mischief kept up just fine. She related the story of her ex, who had been posting shitty comments on her blog under various guises throughout the day.

When we got to the script discussions hours later, she curled up against the wall, draped a leg over me, and was perfectly happy just to be there, alone in her thoughts, but together as a unit.

Saturday, we took the Metro in to Olvera St. and wandered it thoroughly. Museums. Craft & Crap stores. A great lunch. Some illicit behavior on a hidden balcony overlooking downtown. A great afternoon.

We went home so I could load up for the Burning Angel shoot that I’ve been DPing/Gaffing. When the loadout was finally finished, we showered and I went with Mischief to one of her clubs so I could see her dance.

I’ve always liked going to clubs. I resolutely Do Not Dance. But. The people-watching is always first rate as humans are never more entertaining than when they are On Display for the benefit/antagonism/seduction of others. Peacocks preening and dancing for the other birds in the muster.

Because I cannot go anywhere in this town without bumping into someone I know, we found a hysterically tipsy Aiden Starr at the club. Talking to drunken blond munchkin women with perfect bodies makes me happy.

And then, when the drought of songs she liked finally broke, I got to see Allison dance. It was one of the more erotic experiences of my life.

It wasn’t just the intimate knowledge of being inside that gyrating body… because on that weekend, we finally fucked after weeks of abstinence for a variety of reasons.

The way she moves, the way she melds herself to each song as if it were a lover, the combination of steps and gestures built around a kind of subconscious “here I am/you can’t have me” dynamic… it made me hungry.

Sadly, I had to cut out early. I needed to get a few hours’ sleep before my call in Woodland Hills.

The Burning Angel shoot was grueling, especially on top of four hours’ sleep, but I’ve certainly done worse. Plus, James & Joanna are such great people that you just want to pull it off for them, so we all really tried to hustle.

The movie is about Joanna confronting her possessed blow-up doll from Topco, and it’s going to be really cute. Goth Biscuit & I texted each other back and forth all day like teenagers. Revolting.

Monday, the shoot continued at a loft downtown, and when we ran over and got gently bumped from our location, I offered up my place for the final sex scene. We did the company move, and Mischief got to watch the sex scene being shot, which she’d been curious about, and everyone got to meet her, which they’d been curious about.

The next oldest person on set was 13 years younger than me. When that realization hits you, especially when you’ve been up for 42 hours straight and are sleeping with a 26-year-old, it verges well into the realm of the surreal.

It is a strange, strange life, this thing I’m living.

So, I have a girl sleeping in my bed.

When I finish the things I have to do, that life and work and keeping body and soul together demand of me in the never-ending stretch of never-ending hours that seem to comprise a single, never-ending workday, I’ll slide in next to her. She’ll move to my side and curl up on top of me, like a cat, sleeping on my chest. Out cold. Safe.

We’ve known each other for less than a month – can that be right? – and since she showed up on my doorstep needing a shoulder, we’ve seen each other every day, save one.

And it feels right. It’s effortless and natural. We’re pretty confident we can work out the monogamy issue, and I’m not going to let myself be concerned about the age difference. I figure as long as we can joke about it, it’s not too creepy.

What I’m not going to do is get overwrought, or spend too much time analyzing, trying to convince myself that my own worthiness of a happy existence is constantly in doubt – the way I do – and so anything that contributes to happiness must be suspect. I’m not going to stress about how Allison will react when she finally hits the shoals of the various broken pieces of my psyche. I’m not going to presage doom.

The way I do.

Nope.

Instead, I’m going to go to bed and I’m going to let that smart, sexy, dynamic, dirty girl who seems to think the world of me curl up on my chest and sleep as my fingers trace the edges of the magnificent tattoo down her right ribcage while I drift.

And I’m not going to worry about it.

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When you start to live outside yourself, it’s all dangerous. — Ernest Hemingway, The Garden of Eden