The folowing is the first in a series of anecdotes from my past.
So there I am, a 26 year old stripper, new to Los Angeles, in Trader Vic’s restaurant, on a date with Hollywood icon Tony Curtis.
As a huge fan of classic films, I am enraptured by the story Tony is in the middle of telling me, when he notices his buddy George enter the room. The huge silver bowl of lychee nuts we ordered for dessert had just arrived when Tony suggests that we go and say hello to George. Now I had been out with Tony often enough to know that, in Hollywood, the dinner table protocol is the least famous goes to the table of the more famous person. As we start over, I am mentally going through all the famous Georges I can, never landing on one more famous than Tony Curtis. We get closer to a table where two quite elderly men are seated and I am placed between Tony and George and offered a drink. A while into their conversation, I notice George looking at my chest, then he leans across me and tells Tony, in a stage whisper, ‘you lucky bastard, looks like you nabbed the last real pair in Hollywood.’ After the laughter died down, I spoke for the first time and asked George if he was jealous, to which he smiled and nodded sheepishly. So I gently put my hand on the back of his head and pulled his face into my bosom and asked, better now? When I looked down, there was George Burns with the biggest shit eating grin i’d ever seen.
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