The Bodyguard

This being LA, the land of looney-tunes, I tend to meet, greet and possibly fellate people whose professions are not of the usual doctor, lawyer, or toll-collector ilk I associated with back east.  Sure, you got your actors, your agents, your homeless musicians. But, pet psychics, holiday-light design specialists and personal masseurs? All perfectly acceptable, well-paid careers on the left coast. Wild-animal trainers, past-life coaches? Ho-hum. So when I met a celebrity bodyguard, I shouldn’t have been all that surprised.

He described himself as “an executive agent”, which I took to mean some sort of life-insurance, annuities broker. “No, no,” he said, leaning in closer and lowering his voice dramatically, “protective services.” Oh. Like DSS?

When he finally muttered, exasperated, “bodyguard,” I squealed and clapped my hands together. “Ooh, like Kevin Costner and Whitney Houston! I loved that movie! Have you ever been, like, Whitney Houston’s bodyguard? Oh, wait, I’m sorry for your loss…” He rolled his eyes. “That is not an accurate depiction of what we do at all. We in the service were not thrilled when that movie came out, it really gave people the wrong idea.” Huh. OK. “So what celebrities have you body-guarded?”

“I can’t tell you, that’s confidential.” “Well, can you give me a hint?” “They’ve been very high-profile, very famous individuals. One was a musician who’s been famous since childhood, another was a very popular actor.” “OK, so Michael Jackson and Tom Cruise? Is he gay? Tom Cruise, I mean?” “I can’t tell you that.” And so on. It was like an endless game of charades with no winners except a drunk girl yelling, “Cher! That dude from the Beach Boys! Mickey Mouse?”

On our first date he showed up with a rather large backpack. I thought it was a bit presumptuous to bring an overnight bag until he nodded at it and said, “sorry, had to bring my gear with me, I have a detail to cover overnight at an estate. It’s a high-profile, political figure.” “You didn’t want to leave it in the car?” “No, there are too many…dangerous items that I have to keep with me at all times.” I imagined dynamite and cherry bombs, just like those Spy vs. Spy cartoons in Mad Magazine. But he wouldn’t show me. “Sorry, I don’t want to alarm the other diners.” He sat facing the door (of course) and explained the various weapons he was legally allowed to carry. “Let’s just say I’m packing, 24-7.” I giggle-snorted and looked at his crotch, but his eyes met mine with a cold gaze. “I’m completely serious.”

Well, Christ. I didn’t know what to do with this guy. He’s either GI Joe or a delusional Ted Kaczynski. Or a completely sober, mentally stable Hunter S. Thompson. Anyway, he kept calling, and kept asking me out, so I continued our dates. I guess I enjoyed his stories of adventure and intrigue –  certainly a nice change from, “and then Dylan totally killed me at Beer Pong so I had to give him my weed.” But I just had a hard time relating to this guy. I mean, my biggest stories usually involve a Kardashian and a half-eaten bag of Doritos under the couch cushions. And Black Ops over here is parachuting into Karachi.

We didn’t have sex, either, cuz he had to keep running off to guard an estate or foreign diplomat. We made out in his Land Rover and I liked the heated leather seats and his very big, verrrrrrry muscular body over mine. I’d feel his hard cock…or was it his .45? but then he’d have to go.

After about the 3rd date I was starting to get a bit weary, and a bit wary. I really knew nothing about this guy, except that he was packing 24-7 and saving anonymous peoples’ lives from terrorists or over-eager teenyboppers. Never saw his apartment, never met any of his friends, never got to go see him “in action.” For all I know, this could have been a complete facade, the ammunition bag filled with dirty socks that he was taking to his parents while he shacked up in their basement. When he suddenly vanished, with no explanation, text or phone call, I figured he had to go dark for a super-secret covert op. Or, you know, his wife came home.

1 Comment

  1. Nikki B

    May 10, 2012 at 12:42 pm

    Dear lawd I have no words for this. Oh, California.

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