AUTHOR’S NOTE: Three years ago, I received an email from an old college classmate. He wanted me to write a memoir about the time he spent in Hollywood from 1988–1992 trying to become a screenwriter. He felt his experiences might help anyone who migrates to Los Angeles chasing dreams. I was skeptical at first, but as we talked, I became fascinated by his sordid adventures. What you’re reading is a serialization of his story.
1992 started hopefully. Through Matt Steele’s efforts, Glamourville crawled slowly into the hands of development offices around town. All was not lost.
Then the responses trickled in. Wildwood Entertainment said Glamourville wasn’t right for Robert Redford, Mariposa claimed Clint Eastwood was looking for more edgy material, and Tig Productions felt my script was not the best avenue to express Kevin Costner’s love for Americana, though they did encourage me to keep them apprised of my future writing projects, especially if I did anything with cowboys. HBO passed, but told me if I ever secured production financing, they would welcome the opportunity to review the finished film for possible licensing.
By March, I couldn’t take more bad news. I was having lunch with Matt at Café 84, the residential dining hall nearest USC’s cinema building. I updated him on my latest rejection.
“Paramount returned Glamourville today,” I reported, glumly. “The fuckers didn’t even pretend to open the script, but they did say how much they enjoyed my writing.”
“Rejection, as a spiritual journey, is a form of progress,” Matt told me between bites of his Mongolian beef.
“I don’t see how.”
“It allows the artist a rare chance to build character. When you no longer care if you get rejected, you’re a true artist.”
I stared at my plate of uneaten tacos. “Each rejection stings. No matter what.”
“Time to reboot,” Matt said. “Recapture that excitement we felt when we first moved to Los Angeles.”
I shook my head. “Once you stick your dick in the hornet’s nest the swelling never goes down.”
“Do you trust me?”
“No. You’ll just advocate more drinking.”
“This is better than booze,” Matt assured.
“Now I’m curious.”
“That’s the spirit. Let’s saddle up and ride.” Matt wiped some beef sauce from his chin.
Soon, we were in his Audi, heading south on Vermont Avenue, away from campus. When we hit Manchester Avenue, we continued west toward the airport, cruising through a blighted landscape of strip malls, grease-pit restaurants, and gas stations, past Randy’s Donuts.
Eventually, Matt pulled into the parking lot of an abandoned car dealership and killed the engine. He opened his wallet and handed me $180 in twenties. “Consider it an advance on future earnings. That should cover you.”
“Cover me for what?”
Matt didn’t say anything. He just climbed out of the Audi and marched to a nondescript building nearby. I followed behind him.
All the windows on the building were blocked out by reflective blinds. The place looked like a cheap medical clinic. The neon sign above the door told me the establishment’s true nature: TOKYO ACUPRESSURE MASSAGE PARLOR.
“But I don’t want a massage,” I told Matt.
“Have you ever had one?”
“I don’t like strangers touching me.”
Matt placed a hand on my shoulder. “Sam, prostate cancer is a leading cause of death in American men, and it’s even higher among Jews. Frequent ejaculations are vital to maintaining a healthy prostate.”
“I ejaculate plenty,” I said.
“It’s healthier if somebody assists you. That’s why we’re here. These ladies are trained health-care professionals.”
“It’s true. They administer a medically validated prostate massage. Again, I say: trust me. Prostate massages are deeply therapeutic. But you have to know how to spot the places that give good value.”
Cars were zooming past us on Manchester Avenue. I was embarrassed standing in front of a massage parlor so close to a busy street. Especially since the LAPD Ahmanson Recruit Training Center was four blocks away. What if the cops saw us? But Matt was eager to share his expertise on L.A.’s hidden Asian brothels.
He pressed the doorbell and the security door buzzed open.
We walked into a white foyer and an elderly Japanese woman greeted us. “Hello, gentlemen.”
“My friend and I are looking for massages,” Matt said.
“Fifty dollars for full hour.”
“One hour is fine. With your best gals.”
“I need to see both your driver licenses,” the mama-san told us.
“What the hell for?” I said. “We aren’t renting cars.”
Matt punched my arm. “Stop being a putz.”
We flashed the old woman our driver licenses, paid the money, then she buzzed us through a security door and led us down a grimy hallway.
“You boys have good time.”
“Always do,” Matt said, winking at me.
The mama-san ushered Matt into one private room and me into another. My treatment room smelled of bleach and ammonia. It was not the smell of romance nor of medical trust.
“Fuji be with you soon,” the mama-san told me. “You like Fuji.”
The old woman bowed and left. I stood there feeling guilty, nervous, but excited. My penis tingled, a pleasurable sensation that reminded me I was still human, with human curiosity, desires, and needs. I surveyed the Japanese décor of the room: a sumé calendar on the wall; framed pictures of tropical jungles; shower thongs under the massage table. Baby oil and a box of Kleenex. The small space had a strange peaceful aura not unlike a synagogue. A ceiling fan circled gently overhead.
I stripped naked, lay facedown on the massage table, covered my bare ass with a coarse towel, and listened to the Muzak piped in through speakers hidden in the false ceiling.
There was a soft knock as the door opened. Fuji stalked in wearing high heels and a skimpy red dress. Her breasts exploded atop her tiny frame. Obviously fake tits, but also a wonder to behold.
She locked the door behind her, tossed aside my towel, and jumped onto the massage table. Straddling me, her silky smooth legs rubbed against my back. My cock immediately stiffened into a full erection, pressing urgently into the massage table.
Fuji kneaded my shoulders and back for a few minutes, then climbed off the table to massage my legs all the way down to my ankles. Fuji leaned over and whispered in my ear. “What you want?”
I tried to think of what Matt would say, and I blurted the first word that came to mind.
She pursed her lips, like I’d proposed a particularly advanced procedure. Then she nodded. “You want ass play. How much you give me?”
Matt had prepped me for the money question while we waited in the lobby. Double the price of admission was always a fair rule, he explained.
I told Fuji, “One hundred dollars.”
“One fifty,” Fuji said. “You get anything you want.”
“Okay, one fifty.” I didn’t even know what I ordered. It was the classic experience of being in a foreign restaurant and not knowing what anything on the menu might taste like.
Fuji splashed baby oil onto her palms, greasing them up. She spread my legs wide then her fingers teased the flesh of my inner thighs. She grazed my balls with a fingernail. Sensual shivers shot through me. As if on cue, Fuji reached between my buttocks and massaged my asshole with her fingertip. Nobody had ever touched me there before, not even a doctor. I squeaked out a delighted whimper.
“You like?” Fuji asked.
“Sure feels good.”
“Turn over. I get special glove.”
I flipped onto my back and watched Fuji roll on a black latex glove that went up to her elbow. It looked like the kind of protective rubber glove workers use to handle dangerous chemicals in a laboratory. Its dark color was strangely erotic against her pale yellow flesh. Then she squirted a golf-ball sized glob of lubricant on my anus.
“Whoa!” I yelped.
“Sorry, honey. Too cold?”
“Let me warm up.”
She rubbed the tender flesh of my anus with one gloved finger. After a pause, Fuji slid the finger up inside my sphincter then pressed it against my prostate. I gasped as she shoved two more fingers in. Matt Steele was right. They did give a thorough prostate massage at Tokyo Acupressure. The pleasure Fuji induced was unbearable, so intense my whole body just about exploded. I gnawed on my fist to keep from moaning.
Fuji’s other, non-gloved hand grabbed my rock-hard cock. She started stroking me, and when she cupped her palm around the dorsal-fin scar tissue, she didn’t say a word about my deformity. She was a total pro. I bet she wouldn’t blink stepping on a land mine. She’d seen cocks in worse condition than a botched circumcision. I shuddered to imagine what those rotten roots were like. The rhythm of her stroke was perfectly in sync with the way she pumped her fingers up my ass. I knew I couldn’t hold out very much longer.
“You married?” Fuji asked.
In answer, I groaned then orgasmed a geyser of white semen right onto her chin.
(to be continued…)