Playground (26 page)

aware of the depths of my feelings. “It wasn’t a choice. I didn’t feel

comfortable there. I don’t feel comfortable anywhere.” I lower my

head, returning to that place in my mind where fantasy takes over

and real life fades away.

The thought of vomiting four pounds off races through my

head, though I am interrupted by a fever of self-loathing. Suddenly

I don’t feel good enough, smart enough, or pretty enough. I try to

remember a time when I felt my mother loved me, but the memo-

ries won’t come.

I turn around and head back toward the tennis courts. When I

reach the center of the court I slam my tennis racket into the net as

hard as I can.

173

Fifteen

The night of my seventeenth birthday I don’t have plans with

friends, so Dad invites me to a party at a ritzy condo in West Holly-

wood. We ring the bell and a brunette in a turquoise miniskirt,

heels, and red lipstick answers, welcoming us in. The condo is

sparsely furnished, mostly in black, white, and gray. Prints of Cindy

Sherman’s photography line the walls. There are a lot of model-

type girls, many of whom my father knows and greets warmly. I

notice there are very few men, and the ones I see are old and don’t

look very happy. The smooth-operator hostess offers us a cocktail.

Dad and I roam through the girls waiting for more guests to

arrive.

“So, how did it go with your date the other night?” I ask.

“Which one?” Dad answers, scratching his head.

J E N N I F E R S A G I N O R

“The one from Eva’s,” I specify, wondering if he’s on something.

“Oh, right. Poor thing’s in dire need. It’ll take her weeks to get

out of the position I left her in. She calls me all the time to tell me

how much she loves doing me,” he boasts.

“That’s because she’s too young to know any better.”

“You sound jealous.”

“Concerned,” I say with conviction.

I notice a gross older man staring at me hungrily and I shoot

him a dirty look. Dad excuses himself and wanders down a hall-

way, where he disappears behind closed doors. I saunter outside to

a candlelit balcony, where I look down at the city lights until some-

one with a familiar face grabs my hand. It’s Paulina, one of the

coke whores from the Bistro Garden.

“How do you know Heidi?” she asks.

“Who?”

“Heidi.” She looks around the condo. “You know . . . it’s her

party . . .”

“Oh, right. I don’t know her. My father does.” I sip my drink,

scanning the room for my father.

“Which school do you go to?” She wipes a piece of hair off her

face and for a second Paulina looks like Kendall.

“Beverly,” I peer into my cocktail. “But soon I’m going to col-

lege,” I say semiconfidently.

“You must be really smart.” She looks me up and down, and I

blush, flattered because she’s striking and therefore it matters to

me what she thinks.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” she asks as she moves closer, trac-

ing her hand over her miniskirt.

My father is still nowhere to be found. No other guests have ar-

rived. The women are sitting on red stools playing with their hair.

Christian Lacroix accessories are left on tabletops. A pair of em-

broidered gloves, a leopard-skin hat, and a patchwork cape are

slung over the backs of chairs. I’ve never seen a party like this be-

fore. And then it hits me: exclusive guest list, attractive women, a

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few older men, condo in West Hollywood, and the hostess, Heidi.

My father has brought me to an upscale whorehouse for my seven-

teenth birthday.

I turn to face Paulina and let out a half smile.

“I gotta go,” I say, stepping back inside.

I find my father sipping on a martini.

“Dad, why are we here?”

“One of my friends asked me to watch his date for the night. I

told him that’s like leaving a plump hen with a fox,” he laughs.

“Who should I take home with me?” Dad contemplates taking

home three first-class broads standing across the room. They’re

not the usual whore types.

“Who’s on your pimp roll?” I ask.

“The redhead.”

“I heard strawberries are in season.”

Dad approaches the sexy redhead, the kind of girl who only

pays attention to wealthy men. The three of us take off moments

later.

That weekend, Dad invites me to an annual party in Malibu re-

served for Hollywood’s A-list stars. He tells me that list can be

tougher to get on than the ones for the Mansion parties.

I go with Dad and Eric, who take off roaming as soon as we ar-

rive. Dad is in a hurry to hook up with some girl who is in a rela-

tionship and can never talk because her boyfriend is always lurking

nearby.

I wander around the party checking out the scene. Label

whores pose by the pool as caterers in black-and-white suits pass

by with trays of hors d’oeuvres. They spared no expense. Women

in short off-the-shoulder sweater dresses and Jean Paul Gaultier

heels nibble shrimp as they take turns running to the bathroom

every two seconds. Others stand anorexic and tan, seemingly

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J E N N I F E R S A G I N O R

unaware that their neon skimpy string bikinis could fly off at a

moment’s notice.

The six outdoor bars are sponsored by some vodka company.

Girls in black stilettos and miniskirts the size of headbands sip

clear drinks with pineapple in them while they survey their op-

tions. I see a table filled with magnums of Cristal and Dom. Three

sushi chefs cut up fresh fish and there is more caviar than the party

can consume. I make a beeline for the bathroom and bump into

Paulina, who’s running around in a G-string and body paint. She’s

so high she can barely speak.

“I’m going crazy,” she yells past me as she runs up to two

guys and starts giving them head by the pool. Nobody even pays

attention.

In the house there’s a huge dance floor with a big-screen televi-

sion against the wall. A DJ spins the latest records as an old black-

and-white porno movie plays in the background. Two girls in

bikinis dance on cubes beside the screen. Turning around, I see two

police officers standing behind me. I jump, paranoid I’ve done

something wrong. And within seconds, the owner of the house

comes running over.

“Hello, officers; how are you doing today? How can I help you?

I’m the owner of the house. My name is Mr. Malcolm.”

“We had a complaint about the noise,” the officers explain.

“I’ll try to keep it down. Thanks for letting me know. Sorry if

it was an inconvenience for you. By the way, what department are

you from?”

“Malibu Police Department.”

“How is Captain Walker? He’s a dear personal friend of mine;

in fact, he should be stopping by this evening.”

The officers appear somewhat surprised, almost embarrassed.

“I’m a fellow LAPD reserve myself. I always enjoy seeing a man

in blue. After your shift, please feel free to stop by and have a drink

on me. In the meantime, I have a little surprise for you guys.” He

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snaps his fingers and his Asian assistant runs toward him with

four center-court tickets to the next Lakers game.

The officers’ faces light up. “Thank you, Mr. Malcolm, we sure

do appreciate it. We’ll be out of your way now. Have a nice eve-

ning. If there’s anything we can do, don’t hesitate to call.”

The officers accept the generous gift and leave as quickly as

they came.

I continue roaming through the house, passing wasted guests

left and right. I reach a door that is slightly ajar and go in. It’s filled

with entertainers in costume. A woman in a black vinyl cat suit

holds a whip as she walks on a naked man’s back in high heels.

She screams, “Tell me what a little bitch wimp you are!”

“I’m a little bitch, I’m a little bitch,” the man whimpers.

“No, you little bitch; cry and tell me that you are a little bitch!”

He begins to cry as she steps on his balls, which are tied to-

gether with a tight little string.

“Who do these balls belong to, bitch?” the woman screams.

“They belong to you, Mistress,” the naked man yelps.

“Spread your legs, you pathetic little bitch!”

The Goddess kicks him hard in the balls using the tip of her

stiletto heels.

“Another one, Goddess, please,” the man cries and she kicks

him again.

“This is my ass, you fucking bitch. You hear me?!” she yells and

whips him on the back. “Now bark like a dog!”

The man tries to bark.

“Bark like a dog, not a pussy!” she whips him again.

As I step out of the door, a guy grabs my hand and I gasp

slightly.

“It’s not about sex, it’s about entertainment,” he whispers.

I push past him and bust out of there, moving quickly down the

hall. I pass another room and stop when I see a young woman

dressed in a schoolgirl uniform kiss another girl dressed as Raggedy

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Ann. I turn around and accidentally bump into Paulina again, re-

lieved to see a friendly face.

She grabs onto my arm.

“I’m so fucked up. I don’t know what to do. I’ve been throw-

ing up. I need a bump, one bump, please, you’ve gotta give me a

bump,” she begs.

“I don’t have one, hon, and honestly, I don’t know if you

should do anymore,” I say, as gently as I can.

“I’m fine.” She zooms off and approaches a strange-looking

guy. “I’ll give you a blow job for a bump,” I hear her beg.

The sniffling guy looks both ways before he takes her by the arm

and leads her into the nearest bathroom. Curiosity gets the best of

me and I can’t help but stand outside the door listening.

“What’s your name, little girl?” he asks in a perverted voice.

“Paulina,” she mumbles, barely able to speak.

I can hear them sniffing inside until I don’t hear anything for a

while.

“What the fuck? Your nose is all fucked up! You got blood on

my fucking dick, you stupid cunt! What the fuck are you doing?”

the guy yells as the door flies open and he runs out. I stare at

Paulina on the floor with a pool of blood surrounding her face.

Her body is wiggling up and down. She’s having convulsions.

Instinctively, I scream, “Help! Someone call 911!”

“Chill out!” someone calls after me.

I can’t find my father. It feels like hours pass before I find a

phone. I pick it up and dial, but there’s no dial tone. Shit! I’m run-

ning around frantically. I go back to check on Paulina and see that

the door is still wide open and no one has stopped to help her. I

shout again for help and finally Mr. Malcolm comes running over.

I’m in tears as I show him Paulina. I know she needs to get to the

hospital and quick. The owner peeks into the bathroom, looks at

the girl, grabs a security guard, and walks over to a phone. I fol-

low him.

“I have a situation,” he says into the receiver.

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Within minutes, a man dressed in business attire arrives. Mr.

Malcolm announces that the girl’s going to be okay as two security

guards wrap the lifeless Paulina in a blanket and carry her up-

stairs. They put her in a bedroom and close the door. I try to go in

but they stop me.