As the sun sets, and Hollywood blvd
begins to empty and refill at the same time; the atmosphere changes, the
business people in rush hour began to change into people rushing to get to the
bar, the same people that make the rush hour crowd rich, is the same people
rushing to the bar, the club, some form of entertainment to get away from the
miserable corporation, unethical acts of people and having to construe what the
public wants, because for some reason the message isn’t clear. Sunset strip,
here I come, the bar here I come, roll the windows down and feel the cool damp
air, the breeze and smell of Hollywood. The lights slowly began to twinkle as
the orange glow from the sunset begins to set; the energy surrounds the blvd
preparing for a night of romance and drunken violence; the acts of lust feel
the air, as the girls with perfume saturate the air and their hills clack
against the piss stained sidewalks of Hollywood. The dispensary gives off the
smell of the finest marijuana in the country. The sun giving off its last glow
before it rest, simmers on the horizon, allowing the stars to twinkle in the
Hollywood sky; night has arrived.
For
a brief moment the traffic has died, only to turn into drunken idiots behind
the wheel, honking horns and tourist astounded by lights, the magic that is Hollywood.
The litter streets of the fame and TMZ, the masses of people on highland out on
the town for a cool stroll, sun glasses worn at night by a group of guys
drenched in old spice, wearing 90’s style clothing, like time has stood still;
until they open their mouth is when you notice, this is a different time. Not a
bad thing, it’s different. As the night proceeds, the people began to pour in
and the traffic is backed up on the 101. Traffic accident caused in DTLA by
someone dropping their blunt and almost causing the car to almost burst in
flames; “Come on!” someone is yelling, trying to make it to the same
destination as the accident. Pass by the 110 freeway only to see the traffic is
worse, backed up because of the Dodger game, LA WE NEED A SUBWAY LINE BADLY. Oh
how I would love to ride the train home drunk like I was on the A train in
Manhattan.
The sun is gone. The night is born
and in full swing. Music glares out of cars, art galleries filled with hipsters
from silver lake are starting to line the streets; oh how I love this new Los
Angeles. The
passion of the night can be felt as the people began to pour out their house
into this late summer Virgo evening. The bars are filled with live bands and
people talking about whatever; it’s mainly noise. The clubs are filled with,
raging hormones of 20 something’s waiting to get laid and thinking. “that ass
tho” with their hands out chasing the first person they see to fuck. The
alcohol pours up, the night grows and enters into its prime years.(hours)
The
night is still young, the energy seems to not stop, more and more people are
seeping into clubs and parking garages, more throwing up, more change for the
homeless man on the corner, oh you know the night is really good; they set up
check points around the city. WHEW! The wind acting as a coffee straw,
stirring the night with passion and pheromone; the sniff of the cologne, the
smell of her perfume, combined with intoxication has you romantically dancing, not caring for the rhythm, only knowing just
one kiss, one touch, the slight hair pull, the lips touching the neck, his full
fledge erection penetrating your thin fabricated dress poking your panties and
lightly rubbing against your clit; the grinding motion in the heat intense
club, as the DJ mixes in some house soul with Gypsy Woman, her caressing of
your pants and slightly pulling down your zipper to discretely rub your
manhood, the kinky abrupt, the show watching attention, the shadows of the dark
drenched night club, the heavy breathing and the smell of alcohol lightly
dancing on each other’s breathe, the hidden fantasy and eroticism of being
caught, the one person who notice, the person that joins, the person you boot
away, that person that ruins all of that magic, the smile of relief, the feeling
of release, and your clothes were still on. The balcony were all the cigarette smokers
are loudly talking, puffing away, drinking their drink; finding your corner
only to look down three stories and see the three drunken chicks trying to
carry each other back to the car, the taxi’s, and then the cool LA breeze hit’s
you soaked sweat shirt, you sit back, still a tad aroused, light up your
cigarette, and glaze out, only to see Downtown Los Angeles twinkling in the
close distance.
The
lights, the million of individual stories have become one, and the moment we
figure out all of our stories sound the same, hate might began to break down.
The Jack and coke mixed, the jack and coke mixed, the ack na cke meixd…whew
yeah….the moment we realize, the moment we realize, the moment you realize
your personal thoughts have become a conversation with some other drunken
bastard whose response is far off, far out butt fuck Egypt, in its own league
off the wall gibberish; you relate, you toast then you spot miss, then she
spots Mr., you know, the two of you having sex with each other on the floor,
each one smile, she walks over, grabs your hand, Tom Ford blasting loud against
the speakers she twerks that, I mean she really works that, bent over touching
her toes she, “claps for a n***a with his rapping ass” “blow a stack for your
n****s with you trapping a**.” As you grab her waist, and she slowly wiggles
back into a upright position….
L.A. NIGHT’S
