Drinking and Dating (6 page)

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So I Fucked a Movie Star

I hate the word
celebrity
. What does it really mean?
Nothing. It’s just a label some blogger or tabloid plugs into a headline when photographers snap pictures of a boob falling out of your dress. Everything about it feels so self-indulgent—and I was a model. Since
Housewives,
I’ve occasionally been referred to as one, but I’m really just a reality personality (translation: a more sensationalized version of myself) with a severe case of foot-in-mouth syndrome. Meryl Streep, Madonna, Sean Penn—those are
real
celebrities.

Just like most people, I find myself completely starstruck whenever I meet a legitimate movie star or rock legend. Living in Los Angeles, I’m never impressed by the “I’m an actor” line. Guess what? Every waiter and bartender in L.A. is an “actor.” It’s like, show me your IMDb and then get back to folding napkins, because your shift starts in five minutes. After twenty years in the city, I consider myself a tried-and-true Angeleno (it’s rare to meet an
actual
native). During my years in LaLa Land, I have known my fair share of “famous” people and even had the pleasure of brunching on occasion with Hollywood legend Bruce Willis (#DieHard), but even so, I still have a hard time playing it cool when someone like Johnny Depp walks into a restaurant.

When it comes to my dating life, I
try
to stay as far away from the “celebrity” pool as possible. It’s nothing but trouble. Trust me, I’ve been there and done that. But I was trying to keep an open mind—and it’s hard to avoid actors in L.A., especially the good-looking ones.

I didn’t always have a “just say no to actors” policy. Only after I divorced one.

Shortly after moving to West Hollywood, my stunning roommate Michelle and I were at the Whiskey Bar inside the Sunset Marquis Hotel. On any given night, it was a who’s who of Hollywood’s hottest actors, musicians, and socialites mixed with some movie execs, high-profile investors, and model-types. On one particular evening, I was introduced to an up-and-coming comedian (let’s call him Danny). I immediately recognized him from some bit movie parts here and there, but he wasn’t a household name . . . yet. He had the kind of face you remember—sharp features, thick dark hair, and a goofy grin. He bought me a drink, and we spent the next few hours talking and laughing. His particular brand of sarcasm and wit was sexy. I am a sucker for a guy with a great sense of humor, so even though I had about six inches of height on Danny, I found myself surprisingly and wildly attracted to him. Before leaving, he asked for my number and said he would love to have dinner some time.

He called about a week later and asked if I wanted to come over to his place for dinner and a movie (clearly this was code for dinner and sex). His house was one of those bachelor pads set high in the Hollywood Hills overlooking the city lights. It was beautiful, but clearly decorated by someone other than himself (#ExGirlfriendAlert). We laughed so hard that night that my stomach was hurting and my jaw was sore (it sometimes ends up sore after a date, but not from giggling). There was a natural rhythm to our conversation that made us both feel comfortable with each other. It only turned awkward when I asked him why he still had photos of his ex-girlfriend (now a well-known actress) everywhere. He mumbled something and immediately changed the subject.

When he finally decided that it was time to turn up the heat, we started making out on the couch. Something about me towering over the guy while sitting upright was strange, so he suggested we take things to the bedroom. Perhaps if we were lying down, he’d be more at ease.

Despite his height, I was impressed with the size of his manhood. I mean, it wasn’t “holy shit” big, but it was a respectable size for a guy who was maybe five feet seven. This is where things got awkward again. We had spent the evening laughing so much that I couldn’t stop laughing when it was time to get serious. Every time I looked at him, I’d think of something funny he said or remember one of his characters and would burst into hysterics. It didn’t help the mood. When I regained my composure, we’d get back to it. He’d look deeply into my eyes, with an expression so serious it felt like a joke, so I started cracking up again. This wasn’t making the mood very sexy, but I eventually was able to control my manic giggling and enjoyed the evening. We saw each other a few more times over the next month, but I couldn’t help but feel I was hanging out with a really good friend and not a potential love interest. After all, I couldn’t really fall for a guy who would make me laugh instead of come.

When I first met my ex-husband, I was casually dating
one of the biggest television stars of the nineties (let’s call him Andrew).

I met him in August 1995 at the Whiskey Bar, naturally. Like most drama geeks, Andrew had a lot of fucking to do to make up for his nerdy high school years, so he was out chasing skirts with another actor (let’s call him Larry). Almost immediately after Michelle and I arrived, these two guys waved us over to the booth where they were holding court. Like his character, Andrew was charming and funny—in a quirky kind of way—but Michelle had already connected with him, and I was more interested in his better-looking, less-charismatic friend anyhow. (I mean, of course I go for the stupidest, hottest guy in the room. Typical Brandi move.) I didn’t really give Andrew another thought until about two weeks later. He had taken Michelle out on a disastrous first date and called her a few days later to say hello. Michelle and I shared an apartment—this one had a land line. She wasn’t home at the time—and totally not interested in seeing him again—so he and I shot the shit for a few minutes, and he proceeded to ask
me
to dinner. Let the record show that I am a firm believer in the golden rule of any female friendship: keep your friends close and their exes really fucking far away. So I declined—because that’s what friends do—even though I knew Michelle had already become hot and heavy with a commercial director who was feeding her a ton of work. #$$$$. I mentioned to her that Andrew had called looking for her and we actually had a great conversation. Michelle suggested to me that I should go out with him, because she couldn’t possibly care less. So when he called a week later (#BoysAlwaysDo), I told him I’d love to go to dinner.

As a twenty-three-year-old girl, I found the sex to be pretty standard—which means it
never
would have cut it at thirty or forty. #ForgetAboutIt. But he overcompensated for his lack of bedroom expertise with an incredible appetite for eating pussy (which I can appreciate even more now, because going downtown seems to be a rarity for many men I’ve dated). His schedule was insane, but we got together whenever he had time away from shooting. He was still reeling from a pretty devastating breakup with a beautiful musician (#Obsessed), and we both knew I was just his twenty-something rebound girl with a cute ass. Honestly, I enjoyed being his L.A. arm candy. It’s funny, because as much as we went out, you’ll never find a photo of us. Things were so much more undercover in those days without all the paparazzi, blogs, and tabloids. Andrew’s level of celebrity at the time put him at the top of every exclusive guest list. There wasn’t a velvet rope that didn’t part for him upon arrival or a reservation at the hottest restaurant that wasn’t immediately made available. Imagine the Red Sea, but instead of water parting it was an ocean of Von Dutch trucker hats. I had traveled all over the world at that point, but there’s something about being a part of the Hollywood in-crowd that’s completely intoxicating. But like many actors, he wasn’t immune to drinking his own brand of douche-y Kool-Aid, so I had begun to pull away. We were never exclusive, and his dinner invites had started to become fewer and farther between, so when I locked eyes with my ex-husband for the first time one fateful night at the Hollywood nightclub Granville, I didn’t hesitate to move the fuck on (and quickly). Like I said, Andrew was just using me. He had girls in every city—and, in his eyes, we girls were a dime a dozen. But I quickly learned that “celebrities” don’t like being rejected.

As soon as I started declining his date night invitations and stopped returning his calls altogether, his demeanor seemed to get more aggressive. It was clear that this man wasn’t used to the word “no” anymore. (Maybe it stirred up those old memories of high school rejection. Did his prom date stand him up or something?) He could have easily moved on to just about any hot girl in Hollywood, but he wouldn’t quit pursuing me. His messages got more and more intense, and by “messages” I mean voice recordings on my old-school answering machine where pushing play would allow the roomful of people to hear the eleven voice mails he had left (welcome to the nineties, bitches!).

The messages started out arrogant, but soon became kind of sweet, then started to get overly angry and then finally apologetic, pathetic, and just bat-shit crazy. It’s like, dude, I’m sorry no one fucked you until you got famous, but leave me the hell alone! He eventually figured out that I was dating a ridiculously good-looking but little-known soap opera actor, so he had his agent reach out to my ex-husband’s manager, knowing damn well it would probably be the biggest casting call of my ex-husband’s career. Apparently, Andrew couldn’t handle a less successful, more attractive man dating me, so his agent invited my ex and his manager to dinner. What was he hoping to achieve with this incredibly awkward meeting? Was he going to talk him out of dating me? Was he going to beg him to step aside? I guess we’ll never know, because my ex declined the invitation because I had asked him to—and he had already pledged his undying devotion to me. (Something he made a habit of during our thirteen years together. #LessonLearned.) Looking back, I might have had a bigger divorce settlement had I stuck it out with Andrew and followed my head instead of my heart, but I wouldn’t have ended up creating the two most insanely amazing little boys in the world. It’s been a while since I’ve seen Andrew, but we occasionally bump into each other around town. We’re always polite, exchange pleasantries, but never speak of the past. And perhaps he’s just a wee bit anxious I still have those messages. It wouldn’t be the first time I saved a recording. #DrinkingAndTweeting.

After my divorce, I swore up and down that I would never date another actor. Besides my best friend, who married the most amazing, incredibly kind superstar ever, I haven’t witnessed many actor relationships that have been both healthy and long-lasting.

I like to think I was somewhat successful in keeping that promise to myself, because since my divorce I’ve only dated a couple of actors (but they were all totally by accident, I swear). #Hypocrite. I rationalized my decision, because celebrities are really no different than anyone else—they put their pants on one leg at a time and have the same number of hours in the day to get their shit done. They’re just like you and me but have worked hard (or bedded enough producers) to become successful in their careers. Even a superstar like George Clooney has everyday problems like needing Lasik eye surgery to correct his vision. (Side note: George Clooney is a pretty great guy and one of the few movie stars who are down-to-earth and charming. I’ve met him through my ex-boyfriend. Isn’t he single again?)

Most actors are, however, extremely self-serving and think you should consider yourself lucky because they’ve given you the opportunity to fuck a celebrity. I find that dating one usually ends up badly, so unless you’re getting a free trip to the Cannes Film Festival, I’d steer clear. But like I’ve said countless times: do as I say and not as I do.

First, I’ll tell you about the action hero.

The sky was a pinkish orange as the sun began dipping below the Pacific Ocean. If I had had a phone handy, I probably would have tweeted it. #Not. I was on the beach playing ring-around-the-rosy with a group of my friends’ little girls. My boys were with their dad that night, and I honestly love being around children. (What can I say? Kids love me because I am a giant kid at heart.)

A well-known NHL player was hosting a fabulous house party at his beachfront Malibu mansion that afternoon. I had been invited in the past, but my ex-husband was never fond of me frolicking on the beach in a small bikini around professional athletes. #GoFigure. After a full day of fun in the sun and hanging out with my richest, semiwasted friends, I was preparing to go home but promised the little girls on the beach just one more game. I was even more eager to make my exit once I noticed the second wave of partygoers starting to arrive clad in full cocktail attire, while I was makeup-less in a bathing suit with a sheer cover-up and had sand
everywhere
. Plus, I noticed the new issue of
Glamour
magazine, which included a feature about me, sitting on the coffee table of the NHL player’s house, and all I wanted to do was snag the copy, go home, and crawl into bed with it. Honestly, I was eager to see what spewed out of my mouth this time in my favorite glossy.

I was making my fifth lap around the “rosy” with all the kids when I heard loud laughter and shouts coming from the house as more people poured in. Most of the daytime partygoers had left, but a giant bus had just unleashed a gaggle of very attractive girls dressed in “evening bikinis,” full makeup, and six-inch stilettos. #WhoreDeliveryService. I looked over my shoulder right before my newest little girlfriends and I dropped to the sand and spotted two very famous actors making their way through the crowds, complete with bro hugs, air kisses, and high fives. The rich and famous love Malibu’s premiere beachfront row—as do the star-fuckers. #NotMe. #BeenThere. #DoneThat. These are gorgeous, roughly four-thousand-square-feet homes that overlook the Pacific Ocean. These coveted abodes sell for way over $20 million. The more cost-effective approach is to rent one for a month in the summer, if you have an extra $200,000 lying around. That’s why these high-profile types love to live there. It’s exclusive, only very few people can afford to live there, and it’s not super- easy to get to, so tourists usually opt for the Hollywood Walk of Fame and the Santa Monica Pier for sightseeing (think: fanny packs, cameras, and Hawaiian shirts). But Malibu is still close enough to Los Angeles, so if you choose to leave this luxurious little town, you can be anywhere within the hour.