Porn Stars and Spaghetti

So this is my La-La Life.

I'm sitting in my apartment waiting for the phone to ring on a Sunday night. The out-of-town porn star I've been having an on-and-off love affair with is in town again, and he's told me he wants to get together so we can hang out. I'm picturing a romantic dinner down at my favorite romantic restaurant on Melrose, the Bungalow Club, a pseudo-fancy eatery that has several semi-private bungalow-style booths that you can sit at. With candles and good weather, it's the perfect place for playing footsie under the table.

The problem is that it's nearly 8:30, and Mr. XXX hasn't called yet. He was to be shooting a scene earlier in the day, some threeway with two other guys whose pictures he hadn't seen yet but who had specifically requested him as their scene partner. I can't imagine the scene having gone past three or four hours to shoot; after all, Chi Chi LaRue is directing, and she's pretty damn efficient when it comes to sex. But here it is, going on 9pm, and no Mr. XXX. It's not unlike him, though. Two years ago, when we first started hanging out, he stood me up on our second date because, as he later explained, he had told his boyfriend back home about meeting me, and the boyfriend was not very happy that the porn star he was involved in an open relationship with had hooked up with a guy who wasn't paying him to have sex. Yeah, it didn't make much sense to me either. Then, a year later, when I was visting the east coast in order to attend my 15th year high school reunion, Mr. XXX and I were to have hooked up for the first time in about five or six months. Except he never returned any of my phone calls that time either. Apparently porn stars have some kind of deep-seated phobia of both phones and keeping their engagements.

Anyway, by 9:15, I realize that Mr. XXX is not going to call, and I'm not very happy about it. It's not like I'm just some random fan who wants to get into his pants. I mean, we've actually shared a very special bond together, apart from the weekend of wild, passionate sex we had in Palm Springs two years ago. Which, by the way, was pretty damn nice. It's true; porn stars do have better sex.

As I realize that I've been stood up by Mr. XXX for the third time, I'm feeling pretty low. That's it, I tell myself. This is the straw breaking this camel's proverbial back. I'm not putting up with this kind of treatment any more. I deserve better.

Besides, I remind myself as I curl up on the couch with a pint of Hagen-Daaz ice cream, the latest episode of Gilmore Girls and my cat Masha, I'm an entertainment journalist covering the porn business. I can always say bad things about him in print if I want to.

I smile as I tell myself that it's times like these that it's good to be someone in a position of influence.

* * *

"I need comfort food!" I declare to my best buddy Mike the next evening. "I need to drown my sorrows in food that I know is not good for my girlish figure."

Mike knows what I'm talking about. Having recently not been able to find work in Hollywood, he has been dragging me to various fast food restaurants of his choice in order to comfort his broke-ass soul. Just last week I was forced to go online and research restuarants that served fish and chips because, for some bizarre reason that only Jacques Cousteau and his minions know for sure, there are no Arthur Treachers or Long John Silver's chains located in the city of L.A. or its immediate surroundings. When we finally found such a place -- H. Salt Fish and Chips in Studio City -- it is the kind of tiny dive on the corner that serves deep fried amalgamations of fish, shrimp and hush puppies, with so much batter on them that you can smell the eventual heartattack from Arizona. After finishing off my "Triple Catch" (which consisted of three prawns of "shrimp," a fillet of some kind of sea urchin and fries), Mike finished off the last hush puppy and said, "Thanks for bringing me here, Ken. You're a true friend."

So now it's my turn to drag Mike somewhere that's good for the soul but bad for the waistline, and I choose the Old Spaghetti Factory on Sunset Boulevard. Not that it's the unhealthiest place I can think of or anything, but because eating carbs in this town is comparable to giving up names of Communists during the McCarthy hearings -- just so wrong -- and the idea of rebelling against such body-conscious fascism is always an exercise in fun for me.

When I tell Mike about Mr. XXX standing me up the night before, he is his characteristically droll self. "Maybe you simultaneously disgust him and turn him on," he offers, then laughing hysterically at this display of unsentimentality as our server sets a plate of bruschetta down in front of us.

"Yes, that must be it," I deadpan, wondering again why I bother telling my troubles to the friend I've nicknamed The Ice Queen. "I'm just bummed that he didn't even call to say he couldn't make it. Like my time didn't matter to him. Like I didn't matter."

"Yeah, but he's a porn star. They're supposed to be flakes. If they weren't, then self-righteous, less attractive guys like you and me wouldn't have anyone to complain about, right?"

"Oh, Mike. You know how to say just the right things to mend a broken heart."

"I try, girl. I try." Then he reaches for the last piece of bruschetta, but suddenly pulls his hand back. "You can have it," he offers, apparently as an act of kindness in my moment of need. "Maybe getting fat will take your mind off porn stars. Then you can obsess over something else instead."

It's not exactly the gesture of compassion I was looking for, but it'll do.

And this, my friends, is my La-La Life.