‘…for better or for worse the 60’s happened and now sex is fine. But can’t we take the best of that, the nice music, the colours, the “I have a dream” etc., but not have to face the… squalor?’
These were exactly my thoughts upon receiving a Facebook message from someone I can describe as no more than an acquaintance. This was after a house party I attended in the apartment – I can call it that, that’s what it’s called – I’m staying in, located in North Hollywood. They call North Hollywood ‘NoHo’ here – I can’t call it that, I’m nowhere near thin enough.
I think you should also be privy to the fact that I am writing this as we speak in a cafe that serves only pie and home made vitamin based beverages, surrounded by people who look like they are an even mix of cult leaders and Lenny Kravitz impersonators.
I digress. Again, these people are real and so in the spirit of British dignity and fair play, I am going to call them… Zanzibar, and let’s say…Cybil…why not?
So I met Zanzibar at the same wedding I met Rachael and Will who I am staying with. (Rachael and Will never tried to slip me one so I’m not making up names for them.)
I thought Zanzibar was a hoot, and prior to my knowledge of Cybil and the seriousness of their relationship it was my belief Zanzibar was trying to tap me up for some LA lovin’ due to an unprompted mundane chat he started with me on Facebook when he heard I was heading over. After going through his timeline like a raccoon through garbage it became clear he was taken so his communication could only possibly be of the friendly American cousin kind. ‘looking forward to meeting your girlfriend at the party – I didn’t get chance to chat to her at the wedding’ I threw in, upholding the girl code like a digital burning bra.
The party night came and went, Cybil was a doll, Zanzibar, her and I chatted about dog training, cool things in LA and London and generally never strayed into any spicy territory. You could have televised it on BBC2 at 7pm on a Sunday. All very above board.
With a horrific hangover under my belt I crawled to a brunch I didn’t want to miss and it was then I received a message…
I find this funny on many levels, but top of the pile is the delirious notion that Zanzibar (and most men) have: That free cock with no commitment is in short supply for women. Trust us, we’re drowning in offers. All of us, every minute of the day. You can’t swing a binbag in the streets without knocking down 10 offers of free dick. And we aren’t buying what you’re selling.
Welcome to LA people …who said romance was dead?