I drive my Ferrari up to Stone Canyon Road in Bel Air. The night is a bit chilly, considering it’s not even mid-January, but the heated seats feature is a perk I wanted in my car even if I do live in Los Angeles.
The estate I’m driving to is nestled between the trees dotting this neighborhood. Kevin Peterson, the producer hosting this party, couldn’t wait to show off this new mansion he purchased a few months ago, after his divorce from his ex-wife became final. When a Hollywood producer personally invites you to a party at his house, you can’t say no.
For an actor like me, networking is vital to continuing to work in this industry, so even though it’s Wednesday and tomorrow morning I have an appointment with my agent, here I am, wearing my best shirt and trousers, driving my luxurious car in Los Angeles traffic, hoping they have valet parking because it’s a pain in the ass finding a spot up in these hills. I don’t think Kevin kept his guest list limited to a few close friends.
When I reach the gates, I’m immediately surrounded by paparazzi taking pictures of the guests arriving at the party. Flashes almost blind me and I’m glad I’m driving slowly, trying to figure out where to park, because they’re so close I could probably run over someone.
The gates are open and a couple of security guys in black suits are keeping the unwanted photographers at bay. Or at least they pretend not to want them here, the truth is everyone here benefits from their job. If you aren’t worthy of the gossip magazines, your career is probably free-falling into the pit of anonymity, and climbing back out of that pit is painfully difficult.
“Harrison!” I hear them calling me, and I school my face into a bored expression. Photographers are vital for every Hollywood actor, but the trick is to pretend they’re bothering you.
I spot the guy in a black suit who, when he first sees me, turns pale, then smiles and waves at me. I stop my car in front of him, turn off the engine, step out and give him the keys. He gives me a keyring with the number twenty-five carved on it.
“Thank you.” I smile while he walks around my car and sits behind the wheel.
I have no idea how that poor guy will find a spot to park my car, but when he turns it on, he lightens up. I don’t know how many chances he has to drive a Ferrari, but considering he works at these parties, I think he more than enjoys a ride in a luxury car.
I walk up the marble steps of the mansion toward its ten-foot, iron and glass front door and the two marble columns on either side of the massive two story. If he wanted something to show off his status as a rich dude in Hollywood—he nailed it.
I give my name to the security guy at the door who checks his list then motions to the mansion behind the door. “Enjoy the party, sir.”
“Thank you.” I smile.
The music is blasting from the living room, visible through the foyer with its double marble staircase leading upstairs, while a massive seven-foot statue of Aphrodite greets me in the middle of the marble floor. A sparkling gargantuan chandelier attached to an iron and glass dome in the ceiling looms over the statue, dwarfing it.
“Jesus Christ,” I murmur walking into the house and keeping out of reach of the fixture.
“Are you wondering if it will come crashing down by the end of the night too?” Aaron’s voice makes me turn around.
I smile at my friend and stroll toward him. “It’s, how can I say, unique.”
He chuckles and I follow him into the heart of the party. I watch him elegantly making his way to the bar and I can’t help but notice the difference between him and the host of this party. They’re both famous producers in Hollywood, but while Aaron is classy and doesn’t show off his money, the other is obnoxious and tacky. They couldn’t be more different.
“Have you been here long?” I shout over the loud music.
He shakes his head. “Just long enough to take in the crowd.”
I glimpse around at the people he’s referring to, taking a good look at the crowded space. There are a lot of people I know, from A-list actors and actresses to a bunch of producers, directors, and insiders. There are also a lot I don’t know, some looking like this is not their first gig, others gawking at every famous person in the room.
“Did anyone stay home tonight?” I grin and Aaron laughs.
“When you have a new toy to show off, you want to reach out a bit farther than your neighbors. At the end of the day, everyone in this industry has a house like this. You have to call the new faces in town if you want to impress someone.” He sips the glass of wine he grabs off the tray of the waiter in a black suit and white shirt.
I nod, knowing exactly what he means. After years in this industry, you see so many outrageous and crazy things nothing fazes you anymore.
“Are you here for networking or just for pleasure?” Aaron asks.
I shrug. “I’m in between jobs, so I thought it would be helpful to pop in here for a bit. I saw a couple of directors I want to chat with. You? Are you working tonight?”
“Dakota’s here because she’s auditioning for a role in a movie coming up this summer, so she’s sweet-talking the director and producer. I thought it could be a productive night for me too. You know, there are a couple of projects I’m interested in and the people involved are here too.” He doesn’t sound convincing.
“You’re keeping an eye on her, aren’t you?” I chuckle.
He rubs a hand over his face and nods. “God, yes. There are so many assholes in this room that I want to be here in case she needs me.”
I bark out a laugh. I understand his jealousy, not because I have doubts about Dakota, but because there are a lot of perverts in this industry. He’s one of the few producers with a moral compass who doesn’t require an actress to suck his dick to get a part.
A flock of five girls wearing their best party dresses approaches us with dreamy gazes and coy smiles. The blond one puts a hand on my arm and leans in.
“We love your movies! We’re huge fans.” She puts a smug smile on her face.
“Really? Which one’s your favorite?” I ask, knowing they don’t really watch my movies. They probably saw the massive, action-packed franchise, but nothing else I did, not even the one that won me the Oscar. But it’s fine. It’s part of the game. They profess their love for me, take pictures, put them on social media, and my name gets out there. No different from the paparazzi, they’re just better dressed.
“All of them! We can’t choose just one, that’s not fair.” She puts a hand over her chest and pretends to be shocked while her friends nod.
I chuckle, playing their game. They have no idea how many times I’ve heard this excuse. If you really like someone’s work and you want to have a conversation with them, you can at least do your homework. Watch just one of my movies, then you can talk about it. I’m not here to give them a pop quiz about all of my roles.
“I’m glad you love them. Thank you, I really appreciate your support,” I say sincerely.
They may not be interested in me as an actor and only in me as a status symbol, but I really do appreciate their support. It’s people like them that keep my name out there and allow me to keep working in this industry. It’s depressing, sure, but it’s the least I can do to keep doing the work I love.
“Do you mind if we take a picture together?” she asks and I smile.
It took them less than two minutes to get to what they really wanted. “Sure, I saw a photo booth over there we can use.” I point to the corner of the room where a small crowd is waiting to use the spot with the perfect setting for an Instagram picture.
I turn toward Aaron, who is hiding a smug smile behind his champagne glass. I give him a don’t-even-try-to-comment look and he innocently shakes his head.
“I’m going to take a picture with these lovely ladies,” I announce, eliciting some giggling from the girls.
“Don’t let me take you away from your groupies.” He winks at me and I scowl at him.
“See you in a few minutes.”
“Are you sure about that? They look like they want a bit more than a picture,” he teases.
I turn toward the expectant girls and take in their ages. They’re young, way too young for me. They’re probably legal, but with all the makeup, dresses, and high heels they probably look older than they are. I don’t know if they’re even twenty-one. I sure as hell wouldn’t give them something to drink.
“More than sure. Jail is not my favorite vacation spot.” I raise my eyebrow.
“Yes, you should probably keep your hands to yourself,” he agrees.
We make our way to the other side of the massive living room, walking around waiters with champagne and dodging tipsy dancers. We don’t say a lot while we wait our turn for the photo booth. The girls mostly whisper into each other’s ears and giggle, casting furtive glances in my direction. I smile, make some small talk, but the time is dragging out so long until it’s almost awkward standing here without saying a word. If I needed confirmation that they’re young, really young, this is it. A more experienced woman would have probably already dragged me somewhere more private to have a quickie.
“This is us!” I say with too much enthusiasm when the last couple comes out of the booth.
We enter the space and I’m horrified to find a love seat to put my ass on. No way I can fit with all five girls on there.
“Ladies, sit, please!” I bow to let them walk in.
“You can sit with us!” the blond chatty one suggests.
“I would never let a girl stand while I sit. My mom raised a gentleman.” I don’t give in to the suggestion.
They giggle and reluctantly sit down, but at least they don’t make a fuss. The camera in front of us is automatically triggered when you press a button, so when they push it and strike a pose, I stand behind them raising my hands so everyone can see I’m not groping teenagers and then smile at the camera.
It takes thirty seconds for the set of photos and then they decide to get a digital copy on their phones. I take the opportunity while they’re focused on their mobiles to say goodbye and bolt out of the booth.
It’s easy to disappear into the crowd that seems even larger than when I arrived. I spot a familiar figure on the dance floor and I reach her, putting my hands on her hips and grinding her ass to the beat of the music.
“Hey, beautiful.” I kiss her cheek.
She turns her head and smiles. “Hey, handsome!” She kisses me back.
I filmed a couple of projects with Samantha. We had fun working together and also hooking up from time to time.
“I saw you with Kevin’s teenage daughter. She’s young, like really young!” she teases me.
“I swear, I kept my hands high and visible in the picture.” I keep dancing with her while she turns around and laces her hands around my neck.
She is gorgeous in this silver sequined dress. If I play my cards right, I won’t be alone tonight.
“Good, because they are barely legal.” She winks at me while she keeps grinding to the music.
My hands travel to her lower back, skimming over the naked skin. “Are you here with someone?” I lower myself to talk into her ear, feeling my erection growing in my pants.
“Yes, with my husband,” she answers back against my ear.
I freeze. “Your what?”
“My husband, he’s over there.” She points to a bunch of producers chatting between each other.
“Since when do you have a husband?” I ask in disbelief, completely stiff in the middle of the dance floor. The other people surrounding us are too engrossed in the music to pay attention to us.
“A couple of weeks.” She frowns. “I thought you knew.”
“Well, obviously not. Why are you grinding against my boner if you’re married?” I ask in disbelief.
“Because you’re hot? A lot of times I get off watching your shirtless compilation on YouTube,” she admits like it’s the most normal thing in the world and my heart sinks into my stomach.
This is my life. Approached by fans way too young to have a conversation or married women who use fan videos of me shirtless to pleasure themselves. While sometimes this is flattering because, no matter what, some confessions boost a man’s ego, on the other hand, nobody takes me seriously.
I’m the good-looking actor that takes his shirt off in the first fifteen minutes of the movie and stays like that for the other ninety. Nobody remembers that when I won an Oscar, I spent the entire movie stuffed into a black coat, the only skin showing was my face and hands. People seem to have forgotten I can actually act.
Don’t get me wrong, I like fame and the movies I star in, but sometimes I’d like something that showcases my skills more than my abs.
A middle-aged man with a beer belly hidden under his jacket approaches us, and I realize I’m still hugging Samantha way to close for a married woman.
“Can I dance with my wife?” he asks, smiling sweetly at her.
“Sure,” I blurt out jumping back way too fast to be smooth and waving at the couple that doesn’t even pay attention to me.
I march to the bar where I left Aaron and find him chuckling. He probably saw everything that happened on the dance floor.
“Fuck my life,” I mumble, waving down the bartender to order something stronger than champagne.
“Not your best night, I guess,” he jokes.
“Shut up, please.”
This night perfectly summarizes my last few years. I have a life most people envy. I’m rich, famous, and I don’t have any problems meeting women. The thing is, nobody takes me seriously. I’m a stereotype, a cliché: the shallow Hollywood star, good for fucking and taking off my shirt on screen but nobody stays around long enough to dig under the surface.
Fuck. My. Life.
