I met a friend for dinner in Studio City last night. When I go down there, I always expect to see pretty people and yesterday was no exception.
I walked in the restaurant, a fairly nice place, behind a guy wearing baggy basketball shorts. Whatever. California casual knows no bounds. I looked down and saw that he had gorgeous tanned shaved legs.
"Cyclist," I thought.
He slid into a seat across from the woman who was waiting for him. She had long, curly auburn hair, half-inch long eyelashes and a short, white knit dress that looked like it had been vacuum-sealed to her body. A body that had absolutely not an ounce of fat on it.
My back was to the couple, but my dinner date got an eyeful.
When the couple walked past us to leave, my friend whispered "That's a guy."
"What?" I said.
"The one in the dress, that's a guy."
"Yep. Watch them when they walk by outside."
I sat there in anticipation. Surely, no.
Just then they passed, holding hands.
She was tall. Perfect hair. Perfect makeup. Perfect body.
Man hands. And a rock-hard boy ass.
Ah, the San Fernando Valley. Land of dreams and illusions, where anything is possible.