Mr.MusicBiz and I arrive at the seafood restaurant just after 6PM. The restaurant is nearly empty when we arrive and I wonder if it was really at all necessary to have made reservations?
Despite my request to be seated somewhere romantic, the waitress seats us in a corner halfway between the kitchen and the door. Since there was no one else there, I supposed it hardly mattered where we were sitting.
We skip ordering wine and opt for one bottle of still and one bottle of sparking water. For an appetizer we order a dozen oysters. Yum! Not that we need anything else to get us in the mood, but I wanted to make Round 2 even better than round one.
Our conversation ranged from light and superficial, to deep therapy-like moments. Mr.MusicBiz tells me he’s been listening to my podcasts and that he’s very concerned that I want to try cocaine. He warns me in a stark foreboding manner that indicates that perhaps at one time he was addicted to the stuff. I don’t push the question, however. Later in our conversation he does mention a stint in rehab; but even that nowadays seems de rigueur for anyone in the music industry.
He chats frankly and openly about his ex-wife, a star in her own right. I think back several years ago at having bumped elbows with her at an aftershow party in Kentish Town.
He chats about the girl he’s been living with in LA, an actress (of course!). He says they’re both busy and rarely have time for each other ergo rarely have time for sex. That she’s constantly working on a commercial or pilot or something. If it wasn’t for the writers strike they wouldn’t have had sex at all in 2007.
He mentions the kid he has with her. I observe that he talks about his kid with an eerie distance; as if it’s HER kid not his; as if this kid is an accessory to his life not his whole life. And even though being a dad gives him that warm feeling of being grounded and settled, it seems as if he could really give or take the parent thing. He probably wouldn’t even have pets if he could help it. All of that information is neither a surprise nor turn-off to me. What I see before me is a man at a cross roads. I am impressed by his honesty and kindness.
Despite the acclaim, fame and awards he is surprisingly a normal guy, who at his very core wants the following three things:
1. To feel needed.
2. To have a fulfilling sex life.
3. Passion & freedom
The conversation lightens up a bit and we chat about a few names in the music business: Simon Cowell, Amy Winehouse, Stephen Tyler, Lily Allen, etc. Feeling cheeky, I ask him why he’s never tried a strap-on before? He looks to his left, wondering if the guy at the table next to us has heard. He coyly says, “I don’t know.”
“We’ll have to try it out once we get home,” I say.
We finish our dinner. He kindly pays. We head outside and the doorman hails a cab for us.
In the cab ride home, I’m grabbing at his cock the whole way. He sighs in pleasure. He reaches up my skirt and tries to finger me, but my pantyhose are blocking the way. Damn!
I rub his cock even more. He tries not to let on to the cab driver that anything is happening but I think the driver knows. We get dropped in front of my flat. We race upstairs and are excited to get Round 2 started.
Labels: cocaine, Los Angeles, men with kids, Mr. MusicBiz, Simon Cowell, strap-ons, writer's strike
