Listen to “Amor” by Eydie Gorme Y Los Panchos [download]

I went to the post office today to send some head shots and resumés to talent agencies. The reason for this is that I want to stop walking around in the background of commercials and start walking around in the foreground of commercials, and start getting paid a lot more for it. Traffic on the way to the Highland Park post office was slowed down because of a movie shoot that was happening on the sidewalk half a block down from the post office, and it was kind of annoying. I didn’t bother to check for celebrities, as I was in a rush. But after dropping off the envelopes, I was on the way back to my car when I overheard a girl walking nearby talking on her cell phone.

“You’ll never believe who I just took a picture with!” she was saying. “Ice Cube! Ice Cube, fool!” My heart dropped, and immediately I turned around, walking back in the direction of the movie shoot. I had to get a better look at him. I was able to get a glimpse from about fifty yards away, and he looked adorable in an orange jumpsuit and a little mini-fro, waiting for the scene to get started. I stood there for maybe thirty seconds, and then walked away, savoring the memory. To celebrate this awesome celebrity encounter, I must now share with all of you a story I wrote a while back, and have never found the right moment for releasing it. Now is the time. Enjoy!

The Night I Fucked Ice Cube

I’d gone to a free Fiery Furnaces concert at Amoeba Music on a June afternoon, only to discover the band had unexpectedly cancelled their appearance. To quell my swelling streak of anger I imagined the reason for their infidelity as an incident taking place on the long stretch of nothing between San Francisco and Los Angeles: The driver had pulled over to pick up a hitch-hiker in a Primal Scream t-shirt, and the seemingly friendly stranger had taken them all hostage with an extended index finger in his pants pocket. After taking hold of the vehicle and making a detour to a small Scientology encampment outside Fresno, the Friedberger siblings were now hatching a complicated escape plan involving a series of interlinked suspenders and the sharp edge of a Kerry/Edwards ‘04 election button. After all that, they had miraculously been able to escape in time to make it to their paid gig at the Henry Fonda Theater that evening, but due to the aforementioned unfortunate string of unpredictable incidents, had been unable to perform at the free in-store show to which I had walked miles to come see.

I’d woken up at around 3:40 that afternoon in the Silver Lake garage where I’d been squatting for weeks, thinking I’d have plenty of time to get to Amoeba and browse for a while before the show got started. After discovering both the tires viciously slashed on the vintage Schwinn I’d found months before in the cellar of a North Hollywood construction site, I’d used every ounce of energy in me to run at full speed over three miles down Sunset Blvd., making merely two short pit stops at gas station convenience marts— for a 79-cent carton of apple juice and a nice long piss, respectively. So there I was in Amoeba Music, Los Angeles’ only record store, ready to pass out and without a dime to spend on all those rare seven-inches I needed so bad.

Wandering aimlessly, trying to think of my next move and pretending to browse through the World Music section, I felt a wave of nausea hit me so strong I could’ve sworn it was genuine voodoo. I guess my foolish feat of physical activity finally caught up with me, because I swear the last thing I remember was gasping for air and releasing a rasp whisper: “Water— water…” before falling to the floor.

It could have been minutes before I woke up, and it could have been hours. All I know is the next thing I felt was the unmistakably sweet sensation of Ice Cube’s soft, full lips on top of mine. “Is he all right?” asked the EMT, who I could now see was standing in the front of a small crowd that had gathered behind the musician. The tip of Cube’s tongue entered my mouth for the most minute particle of time— just a millisecond before he drew back to answer the question. “Yeah, he’s alright,” he said, “You can all move along, there’s nothing to see here.”

The worried EMT exchanged nervous glances with bystanders before Ice Cube stood up and placed his hand on the man’s shoulder. “This man has just passed out, but now he’s okay. Please. Let’s not make this any more embarrassing for him.” Cube’s words were so warm and comforting, like a honey-spread English muffin in an empty park on a lazy August afternoon. The EMT nodded his head and ushered the crowd away as I started to sit up. Ice Cube turned and looked at me, smiling and reaching out his hand. I wrapped my hand around onto his chubby fingers and he pulled me up from the dirty ground with a surprisingly firm grip.

“Thanks,” I said, looking him straight in the eyes, trying to be as subtle with my curiosity as I could, given the mysterious turn of events. He stepped towards me without missing a beat and said in a low, concerned voice, “Are you going to be okay? You took quite a tumble.” He studied me with prying yet sensitive eyes.
“Yeah… Yeah, I think I’m alright. I just got a little dehydrated, is all.”

We were a mere ten inches apart, and I could feel his breath on me. The inside of my lip was stinging, where he’d slipped his tongue a minute before. It had been all too brief, that contact, and now it ached like an unexpected bee sting. I needed more. I looked him up and down as he moved another step forward, laying his hand on my shoulder. I’m not freakishly tall or anything, but I stand about 6’1” and his forehead was aligned with my nose. As I looked him over, I saw he was wearing an oversized football jersey (don’t ask me which team, I don’t keep up with that shit), baggy jeans and classic Adidas shoes. I looked back into his eyes and opened my mouth to make some stupid quip about Public Enemy, but he cut me off before I could say a word.

“You need to stay hydrated,” he said, locking me down with a powerful, concerned glare. He snapped his fingers behind him, motioning to a bulky bodyguard standing in the corner, who walked away with a knowing nod. I blushed as he spoke to me with soft sincerity. “Water stabilizes your body temperature. It transports nutrients to your vital organs, and lubricates your joints… It also prevents handsome men like yourself from the unjust public ridicule of an unfortunate fainting spell.” He said that last part with a crooked smile, and I smiled back, trying to think of an adequate response to his verbose monologue. The bodyguard re-emerged and handed a miniature bottle of Fiji water to the adorable rapper. He then in turn handed it to me, our gaze never breaking. I thanked him again, and then began to gulp down the water. He looked down at my body, checking me out with a quick, overtly sensuous glance. I imagined how he might then say, “How about some Ice with that water,” and how I’d say, “Very much so, thank you.” God, how I wanted some Ice with that water.

I told him my name and we shook hands. “Just out of curiosity,” I ventured, “What did you come here to find?” In another situation I might have been more reserved and maybe search for a polite way to exit the encounter— without outwearing my welcome— but I wanted to see where this would go. “I just came here to browse,” said Cube, keeping an unbearable cool, “But I think I found what I was looking for.” I smiled back at him, trying to act chill while my heart was in truth beating faster than a laughably spastic remix in some homosexual disco.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said, turning around and motioning for his bodyguard to follow us to the elevator. I walked in step with Cube. I pressed the button for the underground garage and leaned against the wall opposite the rapper, watching him smoke a cigarette in silence.

Once we were in the garage, he said something to the bodyguard in private, and the guard left us alone, departing in a big black SUV. Cube told me we would be taken care of shortly. “We’re going out on the town,” he informed me, “But you’ll need some different clothes.”

A moment later, Cube’s other ride appeared. It was a De Lorean DMC-12, like the time machine in Back to the Future. It was decked out with spinners and big speakers and tinted-glass windows. “Nice ride,” I said. He was a little embarrassed, thinking maybe I meant that sarcastically. There’s no way I could have embedded irony into such a beautiful moment.

“I just like the way it looks,” he said, walking around to the driver’s side. “And besides. I’ve had an electric motor put in here, so it’s not so bad for the environment as you’re thinking.”
“Cool,” I said, standing above him as he adjusted behind the wheel. “I think it’s great that you care about the environment.” He looked up with a nervous smile and I leaned in real quick to kiss him on the cheek before closing the gullwing door and stepping around to the passenger side.

“I only use this car when I feel really comfortable with somebody,” he told me, and I seriously wondered how many boys had heard that before. We rolled up to Barney’s, and Ice Cube handed the valet a 20-spot to park the car. At the front door, the attendant started to turn us away, telling us that they store would be closing momentarily. Ice Cube cut him off and took him aside, whispering something into the man’s ear and pointing in my direction. The man nodded and smiled and then looked at me. “There will be someone in the men’s department to assist you shortly,” he said, winking as we walked away.

The last of the regular customers were leaving by the time we’d reached the men’s floor. A sharp-looking fellow with unfortunately ridiculous slicked back hair and a handsome gray suit introduced himself as Miguel, our personal shopper. “I’m going to go try on some swimwear downstairs,” Cube said. “Miguel will take care of you.”

He disappeared down the stairs and Miguel set to work fitting me in a Marc Jacobs suit. I thought it was pretty decadent when he brought me a $120 John Varvatos undershirt, but the $300 Prada tie was even more outrageous. “And Ice is going to pay for all this?” I asked, wary.
“Mr. Cube is generous to be a benefactor for men like you,” Miguel explained through a thick Italian accent. I felt like a whore. It was great.

After my fitting, I went downstairs to check up on Cube. He was admiring himself in a pair of white Yohiji Yamamoto swimming briefs before a diamond-studded dressing room mirror. An overhead fluorescent covered his skin with pink luminescence. I approached with steady confidence and stood behind him, admiring his body in the mirror. I watched the reflection of my left arm wrapping around the rubenesque rapper, slowly caressing him from his nipples on down. He placed his hand over mine and led me to the bulge in his new swimsuit. “It’s a nice fit,” he whispered and turned toward me. I advanced forward, pressing him up against the dressing room mirror, brushing my lips over his. I could feel his rapid heartbeat, and I pushed my tongue into his mouth.

The faded feeling of a gentle bee-sting kiss he’d left lingering on my lips before disappeared now, replaced with the warmth of a thousand supernovas, the juicy sensation of biting into a watermelon on a summer’s day, and a nostalgic feeling like the resolution of an Agatha Christie novel— something you knew all along, somewhere deep inside. My dick was a rock hard space shuttle pressing against the silky fabric of my new Dolce & Gabbana underwear, pitching a tent in the flawless threads of my slacks, pressing into the ebony skin of Ice Cube’s nearly naked body. He broke free of our kiss and looked me in the eyes with his lids half-drooped in ecstasy. “There’ll be time for that later. We’ve got reservations for dinner now.” He slid away from my embrace and disappeared into the changing booth.

We ate dinner at the Roscoe’s Chicken and Waffles on Pico. He wore a classic Georgio Armani suit and a sparkling brown tie that seemed to match the passionate pigment of his eyes. The waiter brought a candelabra to the table, and there was a phosphorescence in the air on that magic evening. Outside the restaurant, a percussionist followed us to the De Lorean, tapping out a sinister and unforgettable beat from the drums around his neck. We drove to Cube’s Beverly Hills mansion in silence. I watched his handsome face as the lights of this horizontal city slid past, like apparitions in the unmoving obsidian night.

The mansion was silent, dim, and eerily vacant. I waited in a grand hall while Ice Cube disappeared. I examined the nick-knacks carefully placed around this almost barren room: a crystal cologne bottle, a Jonathan Adler scented candle, and an olde thyme bicycle statuette. Ten minutes went by, and I was starting to think that he might not come back. Just when I was going to call out his name, his shadowy figure re-emerged from the darkness.

Over a speaker system, the opening organ strains of Prince’s “Let’s Go Crazy” played loudly. Ice stepped up on the coffee table and began lip-synching to Prince’s constrained monologue, conveying an animated zeal I hadn’t known he’d had in him. The room lights suddenly turned up as the song got moving, and Ice jumped off the table and down in front of me, landing on his knees, a move that wouldn’t have been foreign to an Usher music video. He jumped to his feet and we followed Prince’s instructions, simply going crazy and dancing around the room together without a hint of restraint or abandon. As the song reached its magnificent climax, he pulled me close and we not so much as kissed, but fucked each other’s mouths with our tongues. It was so rad.

After our dance, we went outside for a breather, and Cube suggested a game of badminton. I hadn’t played in years, but I remembered some of my old winning moves, giving my expert opponent a run for his money. He wore a black Fred Perry shirt, American Apparel jogging shorts and old school LA Gear high-tops. Throughout the game, I took off more and more clothing as I worked up a nasty sweat. Before long, I was down to my skivvies and my wife beater. It was a tie game: game point. Cube launched the shuttlecock at me, and I dove to strike it before it could fly out of my range. It floated lackadaisically back toward him, landing on the court’s precise mid-way point and sticking there, its feathers lodged in the net. We both ran toward it, trying to determine whose side it was on.

“That was all me,” he said, exasperated. “I so won that match!” I looked him up and down as he placed his hands on his knees, bending over, out of breath. I stepped toward him and reached out my hand, turning his exhausted face toward mine.
“Yeah, you might have won that match,” I said, in a distant, suggestive tone. “Let’s go get clean off.”

His shower was extremely luxurious. I scrubbed down my spent body and indulged in Cube’s collection of expensive shower lotions. I took my time, relaxing in the mist of his solitary shower, before finally drying off and re-entering Ice’s bedroom. The chamber was bathed in the soft blue iridescence of the chandelier hanging from the ceiling, mixed with the cold hard moonlight seeping in through the open balcony.

The curtains blew silently on a sudden gust of wind, and I finally saw Cube lying on the bed, completely naked. There was a trail of rose petals leading from the bathroom to his bed. He was lying on his side, his head propped on one hand, and his other hand caressing his thighs seductively. For the first time, I could see his cock, and it was standing at full attention. It must have been eight inches long, and thick as Spanish salami. I dropped my towel and walked toward the bed, placing myself on top of him.

Our hands explored every inch of each other as we kissed passionately for minutes. Cube nibbled on my ear, and I reached down and felt his erection, sliding my hand along it and pushing my finger under his onyx foreskin. Soon I was dribbling precum and I pushed him down on his back. Lying on top of him, licking him down from his neck to his ass, I could hear his stifled moans of pleasure. He sat up and pulled me close. “Fuck me,” he said with a growl. He reached into the bed-side drawer and handed me a condom, which I slipped over my aching member.

Pushing him down again, I bit down on his blackberry nipples until he writhed in ecstasy, before flipping him over and ramming my cock into his ass. I started off slow, filling my lungs with the sweet scent of Ice Cube’s supple skin, and I gradually thrust faster and faster, until he was screaming in a mixture of pleasure and pain. Soon I was pumping gallons of cum into his tight ass hole, and he was shooting streams of junk out of his own erection, making permanent stains on his extremely high thread-count silk duvet with his thick baby batter.

Afterwards, we both collapsed in exhaustion, and I fell asleep with my arms around my cuddly Cube. I slept a deep sleep, waking up late to find nothing but harsh sunlight filling the room. There was a note on the beside table, $300 in twenty-dollar bills, and an iPod fully loaded with all of N.W.A.’s albums and some of Ice’s solo work. The note read, “Thank you for the enchanting evening. You allowed me, even for a moment, to feel like a complete man. It’s quite stressful to keep up the charade of my public image, and you helped me alleviate that stress. Stay hydrated, and enjoy the music. Maybe we’ll meet again some day. Prince is inside me.”

I’m still not sure exactly what that unusual parting sentiment meant, but as I was walking to the bus stop and listening to my new iPod, I noticed an album of that I’ve never seen in stores: a complete Purple Rain cover album, with Ice crooning out all the songs in true Prince vocal styling. I paid the bus driver with a twenty and laid my head against the Plexiglas window, closing my eyes as I thought of Ice Cube one more time. I imagined being up in the sky with him, floating above the city in a hot air balloon, as he whispered the lyrics of “Purple Rain” into my ears, headed off into the sunset together, for a lifetime of rapturous romance and nightly fucking.