Blowing My Wad — Part 7: Baby Mama Concierge in Cathedral City


This is what happened: I got hit by a truck about a year ago, and I got 500K to compensate me for my bones shattering and for the spinal fluid leaking from my ears. Since then, I’ve burned bridges. I’ve lied about my identity. I’ve isolated myself in a world of booze, whores and holidays. And it all seems like a giant blackout, now. This isn’t an ‘I found God’ kind of story. Though Lord knows if I get my hands on 500K again… This is just the story of how, for one year, I became Dennis Wilson, Bukowski and Hank Moody all rolled into one hot mess.

It Academy Awards day again and I got snubbed. Again. My unproduced, unseen masterpiece, “Egomaniacs Kiss” did not receive an Oscar nod. Again. So I spent the night alone in my apartment dressed in my red-carpet ready sweatpants. My date: a bottle Jameson. On previous Academy Awards nights, me and my ex-girlfriend enjoyed a roasting barrage over Two Boots Pizza. Our jokes were mean-spirited and funny. We’d even place a bet on who could guess the most winners. The victor got a blowjob or, in her case, a muff dive.

The thought of spending the night watching the Academy Awards alone got me depressed. I started drinking early on and somehow decided that taking a limo to Palm Springs, booking a hotel for a night and ordering a prostitute as my date for the Oscars was the ideal cure for my loneliness.

I called my only limo company, LA VIP, and they quickly picked me up in a stretch stocked with a variety of booze. They were used to my odd, quick reply requests and never once questioned or judged my choices.

They kept the limo stocked and their eyes on the road. Suffice it to say, I was pretty hammered by 1 PM, halfway to Palm Springs.

When we arrived, it appears the Doral Desert Princess Resort — the place I booked — was in Cathedral City. Which is near Palm Springs, but not exactly what I wanted. The place I’d landed in had stuffy furniture. Too much floral decoral. Old people. Golf. Their suite was hardly a suite. But I’m a type of guy that if he commits to something, he sees it through for better or worse. Probably why I should never get married.

When I exited the limo, every worker stopped and stared. They must have thought I was lost or the limo got a flat. Then I realized that these workers were actually sorta starstuck by this mysterious drunkard sporting a bowler cap and black shades. They clearly were mistaking me for anyone important. Little did they know that I just got a lucky lotto ticket.

The parking lot to front desk felt like three miles when clealy it was about 50 feet. I finally made it to the desk, told the bell boy to hold my drink while I caught my breath. When I felt somewhat capable of breathing again, I looked up to find the most distinctive, beautiful creatures I’ve seen. Sharp eyes. Distinguished eyebrows. Great jaw line. Petite and tan. Dark brunette hair. Young. Very young. She reminded me of Mena Suvari. An acquired taste. Exactly what I’m into. I smiled at her and she smiled back. I noticed the name tag: Erin.

“I’m Andy Sweat, and I’m here to stay at your wonderful facilities.”

“Wonderful. If you’re a senior citizen.”

Game over. I was smitten. She checked me in while we exchanged small talk. Erin had lived in Cathedral City all her life. She was 20. She had a two-year-old girl named Hannah. She was perfect for me. Everyone assumes that a single, young woman having a kid is an unattractive quality. But a dented BMW is still a BMW.

The bell boy was set to escort me to my suite, but I insisted on Erin. I tipped the bell boy, and Erin escorted me. I gave her a sip of my drink, gave her my phone number and told her to come hang out with me later that evening. The look in her eye said she wasn’t so sure, like I was a gateway down a terrible destructive road. Her instincts were correct, but I knew, somehow, I’d see her later that evening.

I settled in, flipped on some NBA and went to work. You’d be surprised that there’s a fair amount of escorts in the Cathedral City. Mostly for the hip and swank Palm Springs crowd. Probably no escort came to the Doral for fear of fucking a 70 year-old golfer with lymphoma. I found one that looked hot, Kandy Kane. I gave her a call to come over for the Academy Awards and to wear high heels and a classy nice dress.

Kandy Kane came over and I noticed the false advertising: I was better looking than her. If I’m better looking than the escort I’m paying for I know two things:

1) this isn’t gonna work for very long, and

2) I’m gonna have to get pretty wasted to make this work.

So we started drinking. Our conversation was boring. We started to watch the Oscars. I let Kandy bite my nipples while I jerked off on her “classy” Ross-bought dress.

Knock on the door. I quickly cleaned myself up and answered, sorta fearing it was the cops. Though at this point an arrest for prostitution would surprise me. When I opened the door it was Erin still dressed in her work clothes, which I found to be very sexy. She didn’t go home and change, she went straight from front desk, clocking out to my room. Her work outfit was more classy than the hooker.

“Join us.”


“Hi. I’m Kandy Kane. Spelled with two Ks.”

Erin shot me a smirk.

“Kandy’s my… friend,” I told Erin.

So, myself, Erin, and a third-wheel Kandy Kane watched the Oscars drinking Jameson. I got along with Erin so well. She was young and vibrant, almost like a newborn entering into this chaotic mess of a world. I spent so much attention chatting and laughing with Erin that Kandy Kane said, ”You guys are really cute together. I’m gonna leave.”

“No, no… stay…”

False and weak replies exchanged… but we wanted her to leave. And she did.

“I wonder if Kandy Kane is her real name,” Erin said.

“I’m sure it’s spelled with two Cs in real life,” I answered. Erin  punched me lightly. That was all the punishment she would dish out to me for sleaze-balling ways. We watched the Oscars in sync, like how my ex and I had. We both got pretty drunk. At the conclusion of the telecast, Erin had predicted more winners than me. But no muff dive was given. We kissed instead.

“Tomorrow morning, there will be an empty limo — with no one else in it — to pick you up and drive you to my apartment in LA.”

“What?! I can’t go. I have work.”

“Think about it. The limo is already paid for. You can tell the driver yes or no tomorrow morning.”

“This is crazy. I just met you.”

“What do you have to lose? Besides your head.”

I guess I said that murderous remark in a charming way that made her smile. As we said our goodbyes, she said she’d think about it, but no promises.

Next morning, I was in my own limo heading back to LA not knowing if she’d take my offer. I was laying down on my bed when I heard a knock. It was Erin.

“So what are we gonna do, Mister Sweat? Can’t believe that’s even your last name.”

I gave her a hug, and a drink and a bullshit tour of my place. Immediately after, I booked a room at the Casa del Mar in Santa Monica. The limo took us right over there where we immediately checked in, took in the breath taking views of the Pacific.

“To losing your head.”

“To losing my mind.”

We cheered and then made out. I loved her stomach. Flat. Tan. Skinny. I tend to fantasize and masturbate to curvy, whooty white woman… but all my relationships are with skinny diamonds in the rough. We never had sex and by this point sex wasn’t even my urgent desire. She was uncomfortable, sorta ashamed of her body and sexuality. Who knows, it could’ve meant she didn’t want to have sex with me. Either way, I respected that. I was fine kissing her, holding hands, drinking, laughing, and talking about life. We must’ve had “Social Network” playing in the background for the entire stay. Mainly for the Beatles “Baby You’re a Rich Man” playing in the credits which became the anthem of our brief relationship. We didn’t do much except lounge by the pool with the sand below our feet. We ate everything from crab to egg rolls and washed it down with margaritas. We talked about everything and nothing at times. It was a perfect day for two strangers to get to know each other.

At night, we found a Karaoke bar. Ordered a bottle of goose. She was getting frisky and biting me a lot. I enjoyed the pain. I sang a song or two but mainly watched her stumble and fumble like Hugh Grant on the stage. She was a terrible singer which I adored. The night ended when she started flirting with a black guy. I then proceeded to threaten to bash his skull with the Goose bottle. Needless to say, we both had too much and the night came to a close.

We laid in the hotel bed mumbling words while petting each other as if we were 14.

“Do you think I’m ugly?” she asked with one eye open.

“In the dark. No. The light… well…”

She sorta half-smiled, but was clearly looking for confidence.

“I think you’re perfect.”

“You’re sweet” she said and attempted to kiss me, but made no effort to reach my lips.

We fell asleep spooning.

Next day, I couldn’t drink anymore and the withdrawals were coming in hard. It was time to sober up which meant the end of our time together. It was time either way. We both needed to get back to our lives. She had her responsibilities and I had my own mess to deal with.

The limo dropped me off at my apartment.

“Will I ever see you again?” she asked.

“When the timing is right.”

I kissed her cheek and watched the limo take her back to Cathedral City. Weeks went by and text messages floated around. Plans about having her and Hannah fly to LA to visit. Something we both knew was not going to happen.

I think we both know those four days were probably the extent of our romantic relationship. And that’s okay. Because at that point in time it was exactly what we both needed. I needed company, a companion, someone who was real.

And she needed an escape.

Who knows. Maybe one day when I have more money and the timing is right, we will meet again.


Beatles “Baby You’re a Rich Man”

Related on The Smoking Jacket:
Blowing My Wad Part 1: How I Got Hit By a Dodge Minivan and Pissed 500K on Booze,
Whores, and Designer Furniture 

Blowing My Wad Part 2: Chicago Whores 
Blowing My Wad Part 3: 2 Weeks with Pornstar Maggie May 
Blowing My Wad Part 4: Muerto in Bocas Del Toro 
Blowing My Wad Part 5: The Wonder Years 
Blowing My Wad Part 6: Shemales