Bar Marmont was a few blocks away from my condo on Sunset Boulevard. It became my spot the summer I determined that my marriage had failed in 2007. They had a delightful brut rosé at $20 glass that I enjoyed when I wasn’t drinking the “framboise sauvage” – a concoction of gin, raspberries, lemon juice, and champagne. The outdoor patio was rustic but elegant, with greenery and whitewashed wood, the interior lush with vines and butterflies stuck to the ceiling, chandelier lamps above and petite lamps on each of the tables.
I had a wardrobe specific to Bar Marmont and the various Hollywood parties I attended back then: my Marc Jacobs platform sandals, originally purchased with a company credit card; my white-gold Vicodin necklace I’d purchased at Fred Segal (though I did think Viagra would’ve been even more appropriate); a Dolce & Gabbana tight mini that restricted my stride just a bit; several different strappy tops by Marc Jacobs and Betsey Johnson; a few Moschino corset-style sheer silk chiffon blouses that constantly came unbuttoned; gold sequined Betsey Johnson heels; my great-grandmother’s charm bracelet from Gump’s.
I’d say my look was a cross between Elizabeth Shue’s character in Leaving Las Vegas and my father’s grandmother’s old-money style. It was her nude portrait that hung in my uncle Winston’s living room. It was also very much the look at the time. Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton were getting photographed in micro-minis without underwear every other week, doing strawberry-flavored blow in between rehab stints at my other neighborhood bar, Hyde.
The night I met Gary, I was sitting in the middle of the bar, sipping champagne, probably on my second or third glass, when I spotted him sitting at the end of the bar. He looked vaguely like a good friend of mine, as strangers do once you’ve hit that level of intoxication. He was quite attractive, with long brown hair, wearing a black blazer over some high-end black jeans and tee. He’d been checking me out. I walked over, champagne in hand.
“May I join you?”
He pulled out a chair.
“May I order you another?” He asked, motioning to my glass.
“Sure.”
Turned out he was an advertising director. Mad Men had just premiered on AMC a few months prior, so he would have been feeling pretty smug about his life even if he hadn’t been staying at Chateau Marmont. His firm had a partial ownership in the hotel, or so he said. He was also married. I thought, “Perfect. It keeps things simple,” á la James Bond.
Did I take advantage of this particular situation? Why, yes. And really, why not? I drank free champagne and stayed in numerous rooms at Chateau Marmont. It was a hotel well-known for housing celebrities, from John Belushi to Johnny Depp, with a rich, scandalous history. It was less than a mile from my condo. It was perfect.
I enjoyed the time I spent with Gary. We had great conversations about film and writing. The first night I walked back to his room with him, we had a bottle of champagne sent up. He was staying in one of the cottages next to the pool.
At first, I sat on the edge of the pool, dangling my feet in the heated water. As the hours progressed, we moved into his room. I was leaned back against him on the leather chair, bare chested as he rubbed my shoulders and fondled my breasts.
“I should really go home. The bar’s about to close and my husband will start to wonder where I am.”
We exchanged business cards and I walked home.
When he came back a few weeks later, I told my soon-to-be-ex-husband that a friend of mine from Chicago was in town, staying at Chateau Marmont. I wouldn’t be home until the morning. It was sort of true. Gary was from Chicago and I considered him a friend.
We met at Bar Marmont, grabbing a spot in the corner closest to the entrance. He ordered me a brut rosé and showed me the footage he’d shot that day. I don’t remember what the ad was for, but it was filmed in the noir style, black and white with heavy contrast. I loved it and told him so.
As we talked, a party of three men took the stools to our right.
“Oh, my god, that’s Sebastian Bach,” he said under his breath. “I used to be a huge fan. Oh, man. He looks a little, hmm . . .”
I hadn’t been a big fan of Skid Row and didn’t know who he was talking about. But the guy in the middle was carrying his beer belly like royalty and flipping his long brown hair.
“Really? Wow. Are you a big fan?” I whispered back, leaning up against him, hand on his left thigh.
“Yeah.” He hunched a little and blushed with a slight, childish grin. “I am.”
It was cute.
We went back to his room. This night, he had a smaller room with a huge balcony, tucked slightly behind a billboard with two lounge chairs and a couple of small tables for our drinks and an ashtray.
“Mind if I smoke?” he asked.
“Not if I can have a drag.”
“Oh, here, have one.” Marlboro Lights. I had quit smoking a few years before and that wasn’t my brand, but I took it. He pulled out a Zippo and lit my cigarette first.
The lights of Sunset Boulevard framed in eucalyptus branches, the air was warm with a slight breeze. I took off my sandals.
“I went to see a dominatrix today.”
“How was that?”
“I’ve seen her before. I see her every time I come to town. It was good.”
“Tell me about it. I’m curious.”
“Take your top off and sit here.” He spread his legs a little and patted the spot between them.
“Okay.” I stood facing him and took off my little strappy top, looking him in the eyes. Then I settled myself between his legs, his right hand tickling my back, up to the nape of my neck and under my hair, down my arm, under and onto my breast. I leaned back.
“First she had me strip. I stood there in the middle of the room and watched her walk at me, fully dressed in latex. Then she bent me over and fucked my ass with a giant dildo.”
“Did you enjoy it?” I was curious. This conversation was mildly titillating.
“I did. Now I want you.” His left hand drifted slowly down my right side. He pulled up my skirt and ran his fingers along my inner thigh. “Let’s go in the room.”
We got up and he grabbed my left hand and pulled me in the room, placing me in front of the bed.
“Bend over.”
He hiked my skirt up the rest of the way, pulled off my thong. I bent over the bed. He slid his hand up the inside of my thigh, between my vaginal lips, dipping a few fingers slightly inside me. I was wet.
“Stay there.”
I did. I heard the rip of a condom wrapper and then he was inside of me. At some point he pulled me onto the bed. After he came, we rolled to one side and fell asleep.
The next morning, I walked home, tiptoed through the living room so as not to wake my husband, and got ready for work.
That evening, I returned to Bar Marmont. Gary had flown back to Chicago. I flirted with the French bar manager instead. He kept my glass of champagne filled. He knew me pretty well.
One night he’d watched me walk out with a tall Australian guy. We went up the hill to my psychiatrist’s house and fucked, leaning up against a car in his driveway, looking out at the lights in the Hollywood Hills. I’d gotten him there after an hour of him patiently stroking my inner thigh along the edge of my underwear. Then, we’d walked back into the bar and ordered another drink or two as though nothing had happened.
A few weeks later, I bought several drinks for a tall, beefcake of a guy, complete with fake tan and shaved chest. I got him to drive me to the top of Mount Olympus and took his clothes off. He couldn’t get it up and I found it oddly satisfying.
But on this night, fresh off the high of my first sexual encounter with Gary, I had one of my favorite adventures. I was sitting out on the patio, placing a Parliament Light between my lips when one of the guys at the neighboring table leaned over and lit my cigarette.
“Thanks. I’m Cat.” I reached out my hand. They introduced themselves as Chris and Alex. We carried on, ordered another round. As I was finishing my champagne, they said:
“We’re going to head back to the studio. It’s close, up the street. Wanna come?”
“Um, I don’t really know you.”
“It’s okay. We’re safe, I swear. We’ll take you home afterward. Okay?”
“You promise you’re not serial killers or anything?”
“We promise.” They said it in unison with a slight giggle.
“I’m a music producer.”
“And I’m a musician.”
“Oh, of course. Studio, musicians, okay.” I rolled my eyes but followed them out. We drove up into the hills in a light blue or maybe white Toyota Land Cruiser. I remember one of them buckling me in.
“So, what are you working on?”
“Death Cab for Cutie right now, but I’ve produced all kinds of stuff for bands you’ve probably never heard of.”
“Very cool.” I wasn’t a big fan of Death Cab for Cutie, but they got a lot of press that year in anticipation of their next album, Narrow Stairs. I knew who he was talking about.
We got to a multiple-story wooden home. Nothing fancy. It didn’t have a great view or anything. They played a bunch of music for me. We talked. At some point I kissed one of them and then they took me home. I was most impressed by the fact that they were a lot more interested in hearing what I had to say than in seeing me naked. It was so sweet and unexpected.
A few weeks later, Gary returned. I was pretty drunk and probably should have ignored the call.
“You’re back?” I looked over at my husband, mouthing, “It’s my friend from Chicago.”
“I am. And, I wanted to see if you might want to come over. There’s a big party going on for the GQ Man of the Year Awards. I’m not sure who all is here, but I spotted Seth Rogan. And, there’s an endless supply of free champagne.”
“Let me get freshened up and I’ll be right there.”
I changed into a Betsey Johnson dress, my Marc Jacobs sandals and a choker, and walked up Sunset to the Chateau. Gary met me in the lobby, escorting me up the tiled stairs and through the restaurant entranceway to the party on the terrace. It was packed with beautiful people elegantly attired, and photographers.
“Let me get you a glass of champagne.”
“Of course.”
Continuing to drink was a horrible idea. Within about 45 minutes, we were up in his room looking down at the party naked. And then I ran into the bathroom and starting puking. This was not at all what Gary had in mind, though he was very kind about it.
“Here, drink some water and I’ll tuck you into bed. I’m going back down to the party.”
Around six, I awoke, naked and alone in the room. I pulled myself together and went home.
I got a text from Gary a few hours later letting me know he’d found an earring. It would be at the front desk so I could pick it up at my convenience. Included with the earring was a short note explaining that his wife had intercepted a few of our texts and emails and that I should never contact him again.
So I didn’t. I kept things simple.
