Going Down in La-La Land Read Online Free PDF

getting anything?” He turned and asked me.
    I completely lied, not wanting to admit, “No, Stephen. I can’t shop! I’m a poor motherfucker,” for fear that this revelation might repel him to such a degree that they would both ditch me right then and there, leaving me stranded in the Sports Chalet. Instead I said, “No, I’m waiting until I move into a place of my own before I get more stuff that I have to lug around.”
    “ Oh, that’s smart. Moving around is such a pain in the ass,” he mumbled back, focusing on a rack of tank tops in front of him and not showing much interest either way.
    Watching Stephen and Sarah tear through the racks of marked-up nylon-blend gym gear, I had a moment of sadness and melancholy. These weren’t my college friends living in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn with clothes proudly bought secondhand at Canal Jeans that I could joke with about being flat broke. I snapped myself out of it. A mere week was way too soon to start feeling melancholy.
    The three of us went in the same fitting room, the two of them to try crap on while I stood there to give my opinion on the clothes.
    I wasn’t interested in the gym outfits, but I did have a different opinion—that opinion being Stephen had a large basket and a tight ass that caught my eye. Maybe that’s where the attitude came from, though it didn’t make up for his personality. But then again, I’m sure the guys he dated thought personality didn’t matter as much as a big dick and bubble butt.
    He must think he is such hot shit because he has buns of steel and big cock, I thought gazing in the mirror. Well, I have way better cheekbones, my thoughts continuing to drift, before scolding myself for letting myself sink so shallow.
    “ Ohmigod! Stephen, that looks fabulous! You’ve got to get it!” Sarah shrieked, breaking me out of my warped daze.
    Ugh! There went that word again. It brought me back to when I first moved into the dorms in New York, when every other word used was “Fierce!” “Fierce this” and “Fierce that.” “Honey, you look fierce!” Months of hearing that left me wanting to stick every club kid and art fag through the heart with a giant skewer.
    Finally the trendy twosome decided on their new gym wardrobe and we went up front to pay. While they were charging a few hundred bucks, I wondered what kind of unemployment checks they were getting to be making shopping excursions for such superfluous possessions.
    After leaving the Beverly Connection we headed to Crunch Gym on Sunset. This was where Sarah’s whole gang worked out. Candy had just gotten a membership there as well.
    I was familiar with Crunch, having been a receptionist at their location on Christopher Street in New York, one of my countless part-time jobs. I remembered when the first one was just some hole in the wall aerobic studio on Thirteenth Street with brightly painted walls and a bohemian membership that almost wore black to work out in. These original members always seemed more inclined to attack a canvas with brushes rather than jump on a treadmill.
    This wasn’t the case in LA. The hip workout spot was located in a shopping plaza complete with a Virgin Megastore and a Wolfgang Puck restaurant. It appeared that everything of importance in LA came attached to a shopping plaza or strip mall.
    While at the gym, I got the complete tour required of every guest by a nicely built salesman with wide blue eyes and wavy blond hair, who Sarah told me was an aging surfer. I was more interested in looking at this aging sexpot of a beach boy than the equipment.
    As he walked me around, I kept my eyes open for any big celebrities but failed to spot or recognize any. After the tour I met the rest of Sarah’s gaggle of gay men, one by one. It seemed like their names were all either Scott or Brett and I couldn’t keep up. They were all cute and pumped up, and seemed to gravitate toward one another due to their common interest in looking good and