New Year’s Eve 2005
I was on location with Jessica, the pop star, in lower Manhattan while she shopped for a few items for her New Year’s Eve party. She was having a masquerade at her duplex on Park Avenue. The Gucci store on Fifth Avenue had to shut down to all other patrons while she strolled the aisles. In less than an hour, she’d already gone through what was equivalent to six months’ pay for me. After she’d finished spending an obscene amount of money, I had just enough time to drop her off, run home and shower, and return to her duplex in time for the festivities.
I entered Jessica’s New Year’s Eve party listening to the deafening music of the live band she hired. Her duplex apartment was packed to capacity. By nine o’clock everyone was intoxicated. Jessica immediately scoped me out and came rushing over. I handed her a bottle of champagne I’d picked up.
“Dom Perignon. You have good taste. But you shouldn’t have.”
“It’s just a gesture,” I retorted. I was still in a sour mood.
“Give your overcoat to my butler, and let’s dance,” she yelled. She threw her arms in the air, twirled around like a prima ballerina and headed to the dance floor. The band was playing The Black Eyed Peas’s “Let’s Get It Started.”
I met up with Jessica on the dance floor and showed her a few of my moves. She tried to keep up, but she was no match for a brother from Harlem. As she caught every third beat, I watched as her titties jiggled up and down. Then I grabbed her by her waist, pulled her in close to my dick and started to grind on her. I could tell she was excited.
“Let’s get out of here,” she said.
“What’s the rush? I just got here and I’d like to enjoy the party. Isn’t that the actor from Rush Hour?”
“Yes.”
“Great. Introduce me,” I urged.
“Go introduce yourself,” she retorted and walked away.
“I guess I have no choice,” I replied to no one.
After meeting the actor and telling him all about my screenplays, I networked with a few other celebrities. I was enjoying myself until I remembered how I had spent last New Year’s Eve, alone in a hotel room crying my eyes out. That memory prompted me to have a drink. As I picked up a glass of champagne, a beautiful, dark chocolate sister came over to greet me. I recognized her immediately. She was Playboy’s Miss November centerfold.
“Drinking alone?” she purred.
“Not anymore,” I said and winked. Before we could go further, Jessica appeared and practically pulled me from Miss November’s clutches.
“I’m ready to go,” she replied again, and then pouted.
“Go where?”
“I want to go to your place and screw your brains out,” she said, but instead of turning me on, she turned me off. I wanted to say, I don’t screw—I fuck. Instead, I said, “Sorry, but I have other plans.” I was meeting Su at my apartment for bring-in-the-new-year sex.