MY ASSISTANT IS SO FUCKING FIRED FOR LEAKING THIS SHIT!!!!
WHEN I WAS A CHILD, I thought being an adult meant being over 16, having a French manicure, and knowing how to make a pot pie. I assumed I’d stumble through adolescence and eventually end up in some highly evolved place where I’d frost seven-tiered cakes, make my own vinegars, and probably sleep naked.
None of that ever happened.
My mom was a single parent who, when she wasn’t working, was dating some douchebag who probably did sleep naked. After school, my sister and I would beat each other to a bloody pulp while waiting for her to come home and take us to the closest happy hour. Once there, we’d feast on fish tacos, buckets of steamed clams, and the head of her badly poured Coors light. My mom thought of herself as a feminist. To her, cooking was degrading and made her feel like a 1950s housewife. When she did decide to throw a meal together it was typically in the microwave. She’d scoff at women who spent their days slaving over a hot stove. She believed that a woman had to make a choice between the role of caretaker and the role of professional. It was impossible to be both.
Once I was older and living on my own, I dabbled at baking cookies, steaming broccoli, and scrambling eggs. Limited knowledge, coupled with being left-handed, resulted in most things getting trashed. I didn’t start to feel self-conscious about my lack of culinary prowess until I was in my twenties and dating my first serious boyfriend, Glen. After four weeks of dinner dates the inevitable occurred: We decided to stay in and I offered to cook. I went to the store and picked up pork chops, spinach, butter, lemon, and other things that seemed “chef-like.” Then for some reason, I got majorly waylaid by the spinach and forgot to cook the pork chops. I served them raw and Glen spent the rest of the night proving that a human body could vomit and shit at the same time. I was so traumatized by this occurrence that I vowed to never cook again.
However, “never cooking again” didn’t mean I wasn’t going to pretend to cook. Quite to the contrary, I still needed to appear well rounded, ingenious, and like I wasn’t raised by wolves. So I started cheating. Not like severe, “I’m Bernie Madoff cheating” but like, “ Maybe this unsuspecting nerd might help me write my biology paper cheating” The plan was simple: I’d prepare the basics (microwave rice) then place an order at a local restaurant for the rest. I never felt guilty because I figured if I got close to anyone, I’d eventually confess.
When you’re first dating, you are only interacting with a person’s representative anyway. The real me had plenty of time to unintentionally burn the fuck out of something at a later date. So as far as my casual romances were concerned, I was an accomplished chef, skilled in all sorts of cuisines. I could cook Chinese. But not just basic Chinese, I could get specific, Szechwan, Cantonese, and even Mongolian. No request was insurmountable… until I met my husband.
Jason is one of those caring super involved types. He’ s chivalrous and selfless and borderline OCD. So when I volunteered to prepare a good “homemade” meal, he volunteered to help me!
“No, seriously, I like to cook alone. I get in a groove,” I lied, hoping he didn’t remember my exact address.
“Well, I just–are you sure?” he asked, disappointed.
“Why don’t I just bring everything over to your place around seven?” I suggested.
He agreed and I got to work. I flipped through my bible of takeout restaurants trying to decide what cuisine seemed the most fitting. Italian lacked imagination, Indian felt abrasive, and Ethiopian just seemed preachy. Eventually I settled on Thai.
I placed an order at my favorite Thai place, The Green Lotus, around five, giving me plenty of time to microwave the rice and look at cute pictures of myself on Facebook. At six, I picked up the food and brought it back to my house. Just as I was entering my parking garage, I got a text from Jason.
“Hey, I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop in to see how it’s going” he wrote.
“See how it’s going? I’m not delivering a baby,” I quipped.
“It’s cool. I’m covered in sauce right now so I’ll just be over to you soon,” I typed, growing slightly concerned that this guy DID remember where I lived.
I hurried to press send but nothing happened. I was in my garage and my cell service dropped out.
“Fuck!” I screamed as I ran up seven flights of stairs carrying two pounds of Pad Thai.
Out of breath, I flung open my apartment door and locked myself inside. I threw myself on my futon-sofa to regroup when I heard a knock on my front door.
“Oh my God, this guy is waaaay too into me,” I mumbled as I tiptoed towards the peephole to confirm my suspicions.
“Hey, It’s Jason! I brought you some wine,” he called out earnestly from the on the other side of the door.
Thinking fast, I tore open the bags of take-out and threw everything into its own pot on the stove. Tom Ka Kai splattered organically all over the burners. Spring rolls raced across the kitchen table and the chicken satays were banished to the oven. I couldn’t find the peanut sauce so I opened a bag of white flour I kept in the cupboard for looks and poured it down the front of my body like the fucking Swedish Chef.
Exhausted, I walked back to the door.
“Hey, you.” I said coyly, wiping the flour across my cheek accidentally-on-purpose.
“Wow, sorry, you look busy. You really didn’t have to do all this you know,” Jason said, genuinely concerned by my sweatshop-looking appearance.
“Not at all, I love it,” I lied trying to sound like the perfect woman. “Come on in.”
I escorted him into my kitchen and offered him a taste of “my” yellow curry.
“Jesus, this tastes better than the curry I had in Bangkok” he said, shocked both by the curry and the state of my kitchen.
“Really? You don’t think it’s too bland?” I asked innocently.
“Mm… The rice is maybe a little undercooked but the rest is beyond amazing.” He smiled and poured me some wine.
Biting my tongue, I excused myself to go shower. My reprieve was instantly interrupted by yet another knock on my apartment door.
“I’ll get it,” Jason called out with a mouth full of food.
I rinsed off as quickly as possible, catching only the tail end of a discussion between Jason and the unknown person at my door.
“Thanks so much. I’ll make sure she gets it,” he said, as the door closed.
Toweling off, I walked back into the kitchen to find Jason staring at me half amused and half weirded the fuck out.
“Green Lotus said they forgot to give you your peanut sauce…” he trailed off, dipping a finger in the Styrofoam container and tasting it.
I wracked my brain for a way to explain.
“Yes, I said weakly. I make their peanut sauce for them.”
“It’s delicious,” he smiled. “They’re really lucky to have you.”
My husband and I were married for barely a year, when I ran out of birthday present ideas. After some serious thought, I decided a hooker just made the most sense. I mean, I knew it wasn’t something he already had, it wasn’t something he was going to buy himself, and if everything went according to plan, wasn’t something that’d end up stuffed in a closet in our garage for the next four years. Besides, I wanted to do something sexy, to remind him that just because I sleep in tattered boxer shorts and zit medicine most nights, I’m still capable of turning him on the way I did when we first got together. A year and a half ago.
I went through my phone and searched for someone with access to whores eventually settling on my friend, Cher. Cher worked at a nightclub, has a Marilyn Monroe tattoo on her pelvis and has hair that looks like she just got date raped. If she didn’t know a prostitute, nobody would.
I texted her and asked coyly if she knew any “massage therapists” I could contact for Jason’s birthday. I added quotes around the job title and a wink face on the end so that it would be clear what I actually meant was “whore”. She responded almost instantly with a name and a number of “Laura” (clearly a pseudonym to cover up her prostitute-y real name, which was no doubt something like “Chardonnay”). I explained the situation as vaguely as possible and asked if she could come over that night. She agreed.
Around eight, I set the mood. I turned on a Buddha Bar CD, and poured champagne while my husband paced around the house sweating and insisting we were going to get arrested.
When Laura arrived at the proper whoring hour of 9pm, I opened the door in a see-through bra and undies and led her upstairs to my bedroom. Jason walked in nervously with three glasses of champagne.
“Who wants to go first?” Laura asked earnestly.
“Oh, we can’t go together?” I hinted.
“Well, I only have two hands.” She replied.
“I have two too!” I offered seductively.
Laura looked at me quizzically, and then it dawned on me. This girl was a masseuse- and ACTUAL masseuse, and a total non-whore.
Laura proceeded to give Jason and me consecutive, professional, non-sexual massages and helping herself to the ample supply of Dom that was meant to be for the whore.
“So many people assume just because I’m a masseuse, I’m down for sex? Can you believe that?” she slurred as she stumbled down the stairs back into the living room.
“YES! I am one of those people!” I thought.
Laura plopped down on the couch and kicked her feet up.
“You guys are so cool. I get so many douche bags in my line of work.” She went on. “We should hang out sometime. I can totally see myself being friends with you guys”.
Jason and I sat there torn. This girl was definitely too drunk to drive but also definitely too annoying to keep in our house. After a solid minute of deliberating, we decided against being good people and poured both Laura and her massage table back into her car.
“You’ll be fine!” I said.
“It’s like riding a bike.” Jason assured her as we stood in the driveway waving goodbye.
The minute Laura was out of sight and no longer my problem, I ran inside and texted Cher:
“The whore you proffered SUCKED”
“Huh? Mani pedis this week?” she wrote back, clearly oblivious.
The next day, I was not only pissed off that my husband’s birthday treat didn’t come to fruition, I was also ashamed that I didn’t have any friends with access to whores. “I must be getting old.” I thought.
As fate would have it, we were scheduled to fly to Vegas that weekend for our friend Alan’s 40th surprise birthday party. I mitigated my inner rage by assuring myself that I’d pick up where I left off the minute we landed. I had to pull off this birthday adventure! If I didn’t I would not only be letting down my husband, I would be letting down myself.
The minute we hit the Vegas tarmac I was on Cityvibe.com trolling for escorts. I honed in on a photo of a thin brunette with elbows for boobs and made the call.
“Hello?” a cutesy voice chimed in instantly.
“Hi, um, Ava? I whispered so as not to tip off the people seated around us.
“Yeah, well, my husband and I are in town tonight and we were wondering if you could get together this evening.” I whispered.
“Sure, what time were you guys thinking?“ she said.
“How about, four?” I suggested.
“Sounds good. Why don’t you call me when you get to your hotel, give me the room number and I’ll be there.”
“Done”, I cooed and hung up.
We checked into the Four Seasons under the name Drew Peacock. About 50 people were in town specifically for this surprise party and nobody was to know we were there. I texted Alan’s wife, Gertrude, to notify her we’d arrived. She wrote back that they were in room 3512 and heading down to the pool.
“Shit! I screamed, pulling my husband into a fire escape. We are in 3511!”
Not only was this logistically problematic for the surprise, it also further complicated our afternoon rendezvous.
We peered out the fire escape door and waited for Gertty, Alan and their two boys to disappear into the elevator. Once the coast was clear, we made a beeline for our room.
After a long and thorough hot shower, I started flat ironing my hair and shooting mini bar bottles of grey goose like I was going to the prom.
“Do whores prefer eyeliner or just mascara with a pinch of shadow?” I asked my husband.
Before he could answer, there was a knock on the door. Excitedly, I tossed the iron and threw myself on the bed. Jason opened the door revealing a no more than three foot tall Filipino chomping gum and twirling her hair.
“Eva?” he exclaimed trying to mask his discomfort.
“Hi, guys.” she purred as she walked over to a chair and sat down.
My mind sort of froze for a minute as my eyes took Eva in. She looked nothing like her photos online. In fact, to me, she kind of resembled one of those little island pygmies from Gulliver’s Travels. I wasn’t sure how this was going to work out.
“Why is everybody so giggly?” she asked.
“I guess mainly because you didn’t mention that you were a gartenswerk in your profile.” I thought.
Further nervous laughter ensued until finally my husband said, “So, should we talk business?”
I took this to be his way of saying he was willing to look past the munchkin factor and proceed as planned. Eva asked for three hundred dollars before talking shop. She explained that it would just cover her bills and her “door fee.” the kind of party we were going to have was up to us. In other words, hinged on how much more cash we were willing to fork over.
“Why is Bilbo Baggins being such a sheisty little bastard?” I thought.
Frustrated, my husband handed over the money asked, “What can you do for three hundred more?”
Eva laughed and asked us to hold as she called her manicurist and pushed her appointment an hour. We sat there awkwardly as she described what was going on with her acrylic and how she needed her fill a week sooner than usual. Once she hung up, my husband notified me that he needed to run down to the ATM for more cash.
“I will be right back,” he promised.
Once we were alone, I was even more uncomfortable. Eva sat in her chair laughing and text messaging friends. I offered her a drink. She immediately declined. I hadn’t thought of it before but I got the impression it was in the hooker handbook not to accept drinks on the job. It made sense. One roofie and I could have easily scored my whole three hundred bucks back. Once she was done with her text war, she started telling me about her family. She said her father left when she was very young (shocker) and her mother raised her all alone. I felt like I was in an Oliver Stone retelling of Rumplestiltskind. Thankfully, my husband burst back into the room just before she asked me to start spinning the bed sheets into gold. He was out of breath and Eva talked over him.
“Ok, so, I will go down on him, and you can sit on his face, cool?” she asked.
I was jarred by how fast she got down to business when the money was near. She was like a shark circling its prey.
“Um…ok.” I gulped.
As she started to pull her rip-away outfit off, my husband stopped her.
“I couldn’t get anymore money out!”
“What? Eva and I replied in irritable unison.
“I already maxed out how much I can withdraw for a day,” he said pathetically.
The shark looked angry.
“Do you accept cashier’s checks?” I offered.
“No.” she said, putting her top back on and getting back on her phone.
“Yeah, they don’t have enough money. Just pull around front. I’m coming down,” she said, to what must have been her pimp on the other end of the line.
I was so embarrassed. Apologizing profusely, I walked Eva out, thanked her for her time and promised we’d get in touch once we figured out the cash situation.
As soon as the door was locked and the evil widget was gone, I let out a huge cry of frustration.
“Babe! You totally embarrassed me in front of the whore. She totally thinks we can’t afford her,” I cried.
It was time to go to the surprise party and I was hung over, frustrated and humiliated – in a totally unfuckable way.
On our way downstairs, I convinced my husband to stay another night by promising to be nice to him. My ulterior motive of course being, “operation: find whore” Still reeling from the Herve Villachaise debacle, I decided to take an alternate approach. On our way out, I walked up to the youngest concierge and just gave it to him straight,
“Dude, I’m having the worst hooker luck! Can you help?”
He looked me in the eye the way drug dealers do when they’re trying to assess whether or not you’re an undercover cop, paused, then handed me a small pamphlet.
Seated at the surprise dinner, we perused pictures of the “merchandise” like those rich guys who murder for sport in HOSTEL 2.
“Finally, a professional” I declared before ordering my main course (the salmon).
The next day we hung poolside with Gert, Alan and their boys. At 1:00, I feigned exhaustion and scurried up to the room. Jason met up with me several minutes later. This time around, I dressed a bit more casual (no eyeliner). At 2:00 on the nose we heard Gert and Alan’s boys running down the hall with their nanny. For a brief moment I panicked.
“Babe, get those two into their room! The whore is going to be here any minute”, I demanded.
I pressed my face firmly against the peephole to see if I could collect any more data. Then, my entire frame went dark. Knock, knock, knock. Without thinking, I flung open the door and reached out to grab the little culprits. Instead of baby swim trunks, however, I got a face full of silicone.
“Hi, I’m Keisha,” she laughed.
It took me a second to process what was going on. Did Gertty and Alan hire a new nanny? Did the boys morph into a giant whore on their walk down the hall? Seeing the shock on my face, my husband stepped in.
“Welcome!” he said as if we were STILL on Fantasy Island.
“Where did the boys go?” I finally got out.
“Oh, they are so cute! They are looking out the window in the hall with their nanny. I rode the elevator up with them,” she continued.
“You didn’t tell them…” I started and then revised my question. “They didn’t see you come in here did they?”
“No! I am really discreet! I usually just get away with saying I’m somebody’s cousin,” she explained.
Before she could continue, I cut to the chase. “We want you to go down on him for six hundred bucks,”
“Great,” she said cheerily.
Finally the red shoe diary version of our Vegas weekend was about to get underway.
“Oh and just so you know, I don’t do girls so any pleasure you get is gonna be from your husband”, Keisha cautioned.
“Not into girls? For six hundred bucks, I’ll be telling you what you’re into!” I pouted silently, feeling rejected.
Slightly less intrigued, bordering on bored, I listened as Keisha walked us through an extensive list of potential upsets: Wife gets hurt and wants to stop, husband can’t get erect; wife and husband can’t focus because they are too aware of the other’s emotions etc. With sweaty palms, clearly a bi-product of all the newly discovered potential for failure, my husband undressed and sat on the bed. Keisha instructed me to do the same.
The bronzed buxom beauty climbed up on my husband, fastened a condom over his semi erect penis and went to work. Instantly, my excitement returned. This was the easiest sex I’d ever had!
“Do you want to go down on him a bit?” Keisha suggested.
“No, that’s why I paid you the six hundred dollars, I’m going to be over here eating chips.” I thought as I nodded my head yes so as to appease my increasingly more distraught husband.
I decided to forgive Keisha for not wanting to go down on me the second she complimented my blowjob skills.
“Good job Jenny- you’re really deep throating that thing!” she exclaimed
“See baby, I am kind of good at this,” I said as Jason’s dick went completely limp in my gloating mouth.
“Stay focused!” Keisha said smacking me on the head causing me to choke on my husband’s cock.
Coughing up saliva and stale cashew remnants all over Keisha’s balloon tits, I sputtered out: “Does anyone else kind of feel like Jason’s a giant baby and we’re putting a weird sex diaper on him?”
“Just you, Jen.” Jason said, sitting up and putting underwear back on.
“Wait, we’re done?” I asked.
“For now.” he sighed.
We spent the next half hour lying in bed with Keisha listening to stories about her crazy life. She told us about the guy who makes her and her girlfriend come over, call a male prostitute, then order said guy to suck the male prostitute’s dick. Then there was the innocent looking couple from Washington State that wanted her to go home and take a laxative so she could come back later and shit on the husband while the wife took photos.
The thing that struck me the most was how casual and seemingly well-adjusted Keisha was. She was articulate, gregarious, and were it not for the torpedo boobs and crotch-less panties, the type of girl you COULD see being your cousin. As our time came to a close, Keisha apologized and told us to call her if we wanted to try again later that evening. She lightened the mood by saying,
“See, your husband must really love you. He couldn’t even stay excited by the idea of another woman.”
“Mmm. I’m pretty sure I’m the reason he lost his erection but… it’s cool, let’s pretend I wasn’t. Go back to the part about me being good at oral,” I thought as I walked her to the door.
On the plane ride home I texted Keisha and thanked her for her work. What ever she did for that six hundred bucks, worked. I was significantly more aroused by my husband. He seemed so mysterious to me. Even though the actual prostitution act was relatively boring and a financial bust, the reliving of it grew hotter and hotter in my mind.
“What a sweet whore,” I said, staring down at the flickering lights of good ole Sin City.
Jason laughed and grabbed my leg. Something was rekindled between us. Or perhaps something blossomed that was never there before. I don’t know which it was, but I felt closer.
I kissed him, bashed my forehead against his, and asked,
“Any ideas on what you’re getting me for my birthday?”
So I made a new friend recently. But not in the real world. Because who even talks to people in the real world anymore? I made this friend on Twitter. I can usually tell if I’m going to like a person right away based solely on how much they like other people. Casper hates everyone. I don’t really know how our accounts collided but I assume it was the result of me tweeting something outrageously entertaining and amazing! Our interaction quickly went from hateful banter, to Facebook friendship, to face-to-face lunch.
Let me start by saying I rarely if ever make lunch plans with real people, let alone cyber ones. And had I not been busy finishing a pilot and wanting to use my laptop to take my own life, I probably would have found some excuse to avoid meeting. However, Casper caught me at a desperate hour. I needed to distract myself from my own shortcomings, I needed to eat something other than Think Thin bars, and I needed to emotionally deconstruct someone that wasn’t my poodle. Judging by his fucked up profile pic (that heavily resembled my poodle), Casper was perfect!
We met for lunch one Sunday afternoon in a heavily crowded café. I made certain to notify my husband and @jennyjohnsonhi5 of my whereabouts in the event that Casper turned abducting sociopath. The minute he ordered the beet and goat cheese salad however, I loosened up, knowing I could def murder this person in a fight if I had to. Sipping iced coffees on the patio, we talked for hours. He told me about the new woman in his life, Sheila, their recent trip to Hawaii, and his impulse to expect everything to fall apart. Our love of sadistic humor and our hatred of artificial sweeteners anywhere near our caffeinated beverages bonded us instantly. I left lunch knowing I’d found a kindred spirit.
Five minutes after getting in my car to drive home, I called Casper and invited him and his girlfriend over to my house the following Sunday to have dinner with my husband and I. He agreed and we made a plan to talk details later in the week. When Thursday rolled around, I texted him to confirm and gave him our address. Five hours later, at about two in the morning, my phone beeped. I rolled over to see a cryptic text from Casper that simply said: “Listen, I haven’t been completely honest with you regarding Sheila…”
Half asleep, I managed to type: “?”
“It’s sort of a secret/surprise. But it’s something we should definitely discuss this over the phone before Sunday,” he wrote.
Of course the first thing I thought was that Sheila was Casper. Maybe he didn’t have a girlfriend at all. I reminded myself that I didn’t know this guy, and it was entirely possible that I had a fucking Norman Bates on my hands. Before I could respond, a third text appeared.
“Can you talk now?” he asked.
Can I talk now? At two in the fucking morning? About the fact that Sheila is you in a wig? Umm… lemme think, probs not! I thought to myself. Does this guy really think I’m gonna get bated into picking up the phone to hear about his drama in the middle of the night while my husband is fast asleep looking like a peaceful little Russian doll beside me?
“Hello?” Casper answered before the first ring.
“Hi” I said, curious.
“Soo… here’s the deal. Keep in mind this is my life so I need you to promise you can keep a secret,” he said.
Keep a secret? I thought. Wow, this guy really is a new friend.
“Sure, totally,” I lied.
“Okay, so Sheila isn’t really Sheila–” he started.
“She’s you!” I finished.
“No! She’s someone you know. She has a different name. I lied because, well, nobody knows we’re dating and gossip travels fast in the Twitter world,” he continued.
Wait, this guy thinks I give a fuck about who is dating who in the Twitter world? I thought. “At what point did I give you the impression I cared about anyone other than myself?” I asked, only half joking.
“I just wanted to tell you before we showed up at your house. I’m dating @lalacita28, ” he said.
I knew who @lalacita28 was. She was a perky brunette actress named Lola who was half Casper’s age and at least four times as cute. She was a ‘get’ by any man’s standards and I was quite proud of Casper for pulling such a hot P.O.A. The only thing that rubbed me the wrong way was his initial instinct to lie about it.
Before hanging up, I assured him that his secret was safe with me and that I’d never write an essay about our exchange for The Smoking Jacket.
That Sunday, he and Lola came over for dinner. We all got wasted and ended up reenacting scenes from the movie Anything Else. After they left, Jason and I talked about how much fun we had, how adorable they were, and how weird it was that they didn’t smoke pot. (Casper looks more like a pot dealer than my actual pot dealer.) We both agreed that they were people we could see again and just like that, my Twitter friend became a bona fide, real life friend.
With time, the fact that our initial interaction was based on lies became a thing of the past. And by thing of the past I mean I never shut up about it. I knew secretly I’d eventually I’d have to get payback. I just needed to wait for the right time to strike.
That time came, last night in the form of a wine-ridden text.
Casper and I have a mutual Twitter friend named @louispeitzman. He is hilarious and amazing and if you are looking for someone fun and self-deprecating to follow, add him ASAP! I’ve hung out with Louis in person on several occasions, but Casper never has. Like most people you share the most intimate details of your life with online, they’ve never actually met.
Therein was the absolute genius of this situation.
Apparently Casper saw a photoshopped pic of Louis online. His avatar at the moment is the poster from American Beauty with Louis’ head subbed in for Mena Suvari’s. If you don’t look closely at the image, you might think Louis was an achondroplastic dwarf. And this is what Caspar thought.
Less than twelve hours ago I received another random late-night text from an obviously drunk Casper: “Wait, I just looked closely at Peitzman’s avatar. Is he a dwarf?” he wrote.
“You didn’t know that?” I responded, knowing the first rule of improv is ALWAYS to agree.
“What? Really?” he wrote.
At this point I knew I had him. So I came back even harder… “I thought you knew that! I must have mentioned it when his name came up for sure!” I wrote with tears of laughter in my eyes.
“I thought you were kidding,” he said.
Which is extra hilarious because in reality I NEVER talked about Louis’ body at all. I officially loved drunken people.
“Is he Andy Milonakis?” he asked.
“Smaller,” I wrote.
At this point I knew was time to take things to the next level by involving my better half… @jennyjohnsonhi5. I texted Jenny and asked her to tweet something to Casper about being weary of people’s bodies online. This is what she wrote: “Hey Casper, if a person’s profile pic is just their head, it means there’s not much body to show off.”
Almost instantly, as if he knew we were talking about him, Louis the not-dwarf responded with a simple tweet that read: “@jennyjohnsonhi5, do you like my body?”
It was as if the entire universe wanted Casper to be duped. Within seconds, I got a panicked text from Casper. “He knows we are talking about him!!!!”
Casper was completely losing his shit while Jenny Johnson and I were laughing our faces off over the coincidence.
“Did I ever tell you that he wears a dog collar?” I asked innocently.
“I’m going to faint, seriously I really feel terrible. Now he’s going to think this is why I’ve never met him in person,” Casper rambled.
Unable to control myself, I sent Louis one last tweet, which read: “Louis you are the perfect size to fit in my pocket. LOVE your body. Don’t ever changeJ” cc: @Casper - @jennyandteets
Before I could hit refresh, Casper was calling. Knowing my work was done for the night, I shut off my phone and drifted happily to sleep.
I still haven’t told Casper the truth about Louis. Or the moral of this story, which is not to fuck with someone crazier than you. But I’m hoping him reading this article will establish both truths effortlessly. Sorry Casper!
Is now a good time to tell you I can’t keep a secret?
THE BELOW ARE A SERIES OF TEXTS FROM THE ACTOR, PAUL GIAMATTI…