Perfect

It was perfect.  The kind of perfect that is found only in movies, only when it's scripted.

It was so perfect that it even took place in the Hollywood Hills, in the perfectly and impeccably designed home of a successful Hollywood screenwriter.  It was so perfect that it took place on February 14, on Valentine's Day, the kind of story one can see telling friends and family over a candlelit dinner recounting the circumstances of their meeting, finishing each other's sentences in their personal tale of "meant to be".

So there I was, on Valentine's Day, another fete to celebrate Single's Awareness Day only this party was specifically for single gay men.  I was there somewhat reluctantly; I'm never good at flirtation, and this was specifically designed for flirtation.  I brought Dutch along for support, as a crutch, as a guarantee that I wouldn't be left alone with no one to talk to.  But it was fine.  We walked in relatively early and straightaway started talking to various guests.

It was one of those Hollywood parties littered with industry heavyweights and their hangers on.  Cute little waiters flitted about the room with martinis in hand.  The unlucky ones were actually serving them.  The lucky ones were drinking them, because tonight, as guests, they were actors! 

I panned the room from the sitting room to the front door.  From the specially designed leather swivel chairs to the Italian tufted sofa to the contemporary but obviously extravagant runner of the foyer, just as the door opened.

That's when he walked in.  I saw the heads turn as he stood caught in a column of light from the recessed light in the entry.  He was stunning with perfectly coiffed hair and perfect skin stretched taught over perfect cheekbones dusted with the perfect amount of stubble.  And he had taste--a white ribbed sweater underneath a distressed white leather motorcycle jacket.  It was more than obvious that he also had a perfect body.

I was mesmerized.  I don't even remember what happened or how much time had passed between that first glance and the introductory handshake.  It may have been seconds; it may have been an hour.  All I know is I saw him enter and then I was shaking his cold hand.  I don't even remember if he'd introduced himself or if someone else had facilitated the introduction.  I was dizzy.  

"I'm Rick.  I'm sorry.  My hands are cold."

"I'm Van," I said as he placed his hand on my cheek to prove just how cold his hands were.  I was just getting over the fact that not only did he have the most hypnotizing smile, but also the most endearing European accent.  

Over the next four hours, we talked.  By the stairwell we talked about his life in Europe.  On the outside deck, we talked about his pursuit of acting, and I pointed out some of the actors and writers present that he might want to talk to.  In the den, as we sat side by side, we talked about music and European politics and travel.  At times, others interrupted, trying to engage him in conversation or just to tell him "You're so adorable."  I politely excused myself, conscious of monopolizing his time, and not wanting him to feel as though I was crowding him.  And yet, every time within minutes, he would find me to continue our conversation.

I admit, I felt uncomfortable and self-conscious, and I did what I am good at--self-sabotage: "With all these industry types here, I just want to make sure you don't feel like you're wasting all your time with me.  You should network a little."

But he didn't allow it.  His response was sweet, "I'm not wasting my time; I WANT to talk to you.  I don't want to make it in this business by kissing the asses of people I'm not interested in.  I want to talk to you."

At the end of the night, he took my phone.  He dialed his number and called himself: "There, you have my number and I have yours."

We left the party together and gave me a hug at my car.  "Call me if you want to hang out."

It was perfect, the perfect meeting.  Perfect like a Hollywood script.

Only the perfect Hollywood script is never this easy.  The perfect Hollywood script is never free of conflict, never free of problems.  And in that sense the rest of the story is Hollywood perfect.

Comments

[Dutchimport]

I'm sorry, I need take take some credit here: I started talking to him and introduced him to you and B. as we made our way to the bar in the garage!

[paul]

A cliffhanger! So what happens next!