‘Sex in Los Angeles?’ my weedy, chain smoking, writer friend exclaims over dinner at a Hollywood hot spot. ‘I’ve been here three years; there is no sex in LA.’ Not quite the response I was hoping to get from the guy who co-authored a travel guide for the horny adventurer. But it goes to show, compiling information about skin-to-skin activities is not the same as seeing action of one’s owniespecially not in this town. Sex is sold here so much that people forget the pleasure of an old fashioned sweaty fuck.
Disappointed by my companion’s terse reply, I looked around to see if our fellow guests might throw more light on sex in Los Angeles. All around are fig trees planted in pots the size of a colossus’ tea cup, leather booths, and outdoor heating lamps, and we are the only people on the patio who are not in the porn industry. At the table to our right, a blonde with a body the size of Kylie Minogue’s, clad in gold hot pants, lifts her gravity-defying breasts over the place settings and opens wide her titanium Macbook for her fellow diners to admire.‘I’m going to be in Playboy,’ screeches the blonde, letting the slideshow of nude photographs run for the guests at her table, and mine. She has waist-length hair extensions, a yoga-toned, sun-toasted body, lips as glossy as her black vinyl jacket, and at the apex of the V of her splayed legs a pink pussy invites the viewer’s tongue to get licking. ‘These are my test shots.’ The rest.