Sequel to Ali Baba

I wasn’t exactly “waiting,” waiting, but the week of no phone calls didn’t exactly go unnoticed.

I made the idiot decision of getting wasted at what I thought was a final interview but was really an entrapment in which I fell into the net before the fucking thing was even cast.

And he called that night, but Ali Baba has a weird way with words (I don’t think this fool knows English) so I didn’t think he was actually trying to kick it, so I took a tequila shot and went to the interview.

And I got accosted in the middle of the night by a horny Filipino rapper and threw up in my mouth when I ran to the other room, locked the door and hurled myself into bed.

And the bed, wait no, the futon, was covered in rayon-black-satin sheets.

Gross.

So the next morning after I pleaded with friends to come save me out of the East Oakland apartment complex of which I was held hostage in, I saw that Ali Baba had been hitting me up crazy style with his obscure randomness:

“Sometimes, when I go to clubs in America, I feel like Bill Murray in ‘Lost in Translation.’”

What? What the fuck is this fine ass- mama’s boy talking about?

I texted him “ Well I hope all is well, we should get together soon.”

And as if he telepathically knew I was chugging a tallboy at nine in the morning sitting on top of a friends countertop he asked to have lunch.

In thirty minutes.

Fuck.

I hitched a ride back to the city and ran up the four flights of my apartment trying to find a sexy, effortless, chic dress to wear to the beach.

Thirty minutes later he told me not to rush.

I turned on Gucci Mane and cruised the Internet.

When I got the text to come downstairs he was glowing through the shiny windshield of that lovely navy Range Rover I was pushing last week.

I hopped in, and he gave me a kiss. Just as a good Tranny is inconclusive, so is Ali Baba’s sexuality. It is neither cold nor hot, sensual or fake.  His eyes were twinkling.

“So, I thought to myself, ‘Ali, what would make you happy today?’” I had no idea what this fool was talking about; I batted my lashes and made sure not to over lick my glossy lips.  “I wanted the smell of Hawaiian Tropic, I mean, I just love the smell, so I go, and I buy this,” (he holds up a random brown shampoo bottle) “And I pour it on myself and I think ‘this is not Hawaiian Tropic.’”

I mean it’s funny, but it’s also slightly pathetically ditzy. I sit and smile and think of what I am going to have to drink once we get to the restaurant.

When we parked he hopped out and happily found a bottle of Hawaiian Tropic in the back seat of the Rover. And then, all of the sudden, he begins to take his pants off.

I honestly think because he is slightly ambiguous, my shyness (yes, I have some) comes flooding out. About three minutes later he steps out, and this is what he is wearing:

• Grey suede Pumas with no socks (I notice his feet look small)
• Small, small and short, bright red swim trunks
• A bright pink t-shirt

I didn’t know how to feel about it. I mean, it was cute, it was Euro, it was bizarre, and Ali Baba didn’t seem to skip a beat. And then, just like out of a movie, he remembers his treasure find and begins to pour, and I mean pour, Hawaiian Tropic oil all over himself.

I died right there in the Beach Chalet parking lot.

I enjoy his presence and personality. We sat at the bar, and I slightly touched his leg, that was crossed and his shorts were so tight I was slightly peeking if I could see anything.

“You can’t touch me I am getting ard,” he pretended to whisper.

“Hot? Wait what, I am sorry, what did you say?” I had no idea what this guy was saying.  “No hard, I am getting hard,” he loudly replied.

Wow? Really? You are getting hard? Finally I am getting somewhere.

We sat down and he managed to only mention his mother about twelve times. Then he kept ranting about how hungry he was, how he stalked me out of Facebook and his ex-model-ex-girlfriend.

“Should I order a cheeseburger and should I eat you too?” Ali Baba was really feeling himself at this moment.

“What?” I, again, had no idea what I was hearing. Was I now Bill Murray?

“I want to eat you.”

I blushed.

“Yes, I would love that.”

Of course I would, get it started.

We walked on the beach after lunch and he told me some wild story about how he had twins when he was nineteen with a Brazilian model. Fifteen minutes later he giggled, “Just kidding.”

I don’t understand this Ali Baba character. He later admitted, while scream/singing Gypsy Kings in the car, that he knew he was beautiful and sent me “big big big kisses” through text message.

Sometimes even short red swim trunks don’t get you pussy.

Other Articles on Dating and Sex in LA:

ALI BABA

MR. RED FLAG

MEN ARE LIKE CARS

Liz Culley

Remember the craziest night of your life? That's my Tuesday.

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