Lindsay Lohan's Had Sex With Me

On one of the few days in Punta that I took time out of my busy schedule of lounging, drinking, and chatting to the extent that I had vocal strain, I checked my email to find that my inbox had been blown up with an announcement no one could ever be ready to hear:


“You’ve had sex with Lindsay Lohan!”

My reaction:

WHAAAAAAT?

I dived into the emails and slowly figured this puzzle out. Lindsay had been in Capri for New Years. From EntertainmentWise.com:

Lindsay Lohan was back on top man-eating form during a trip to Capri, where she was spied locking lips with three different men during a 24-hour pulling spree.

Lilo was visiting the Italian island for the 12th Annual Capri Hollywood International Film Festival but made sure she crammed in some extra-curricular activities during her brief stay.

This is least crude report about what happened. Apparently, Lindsay decided to make-out with any Italian man who could pronounce ‘ciao’ and then spent the night with the youngest son of Peppino di Capri, my former Caprese lover that many of you will remember from my Happiest Place on Earth Series. I described him at the time as “a long-haired Brad Pitt look-alike.” Well, from the photos I’ve seen online, which were EVERYWHERE three weeks ago, he doesn’t look like Brad Pitt anymore. He actually looks exactly how Bartok and I would probably look if we hadn’t left Capri in the summer of 2004: fat from drinking, perpetually hung over, and completely unkempt, as there’s a lack of beauty parlors on the island. I guess even hot people morph into a mess if they’ve lived on Paradise Island unemployed and drinking for four years straight.

I congratulate myself on the good news that I ‘flinged’ with him years ago when he was still young and gorgeous. The bad news that overrules the entire situation is that I share a sexual partner with the HoHan. Of all the moments of mini-fame I expected to receive throughout my lifetime, this bizarre honor was never on the list. So as I shuffled through my inbox of Bartok’s links to photos of Lindsay and my ex-Caprese love interest in compromising positions from every news outlet from Perez Hilton to Reuters, I didn’t really know whether to feel proud or suicidal. Essentially, I felt both.

Too bad the lover Lindsay and I have in common looks like a drunk trucker in need of liposuction lost on the New Jersey turnpike in all the photos and not like the Italian prince he is. But, hey. You can’t win ‘em all. What’s funny is that I actually have an old photo of him from that summer of us kissing. And of course we look tan, happy, blonde, young, enamored and thin. I was extremely tempted to post my snap shot as a point of comparison to the photos of Lohan straddling his beer belly that are currently circulating, but for everyone’s privacy, namely mine, I have resisted that urge.

At the end of the day, while this isn’t really the kind of story I want to tell my grandchildren, it is a great conversation starter:

“I found out I’ve had by association sex with Lindsay Lohan. How’s your day going?”

And I used this exact line with a guy I met at Punta’s Setai that very night. He responded that his ex-girlfriend had slept with Brad Pitt, so he’d had by association sex with the hottest man on the planet.

“So basically,” I concluded, “if you and I got it on tonight it’d be like Lindsay virtually fucking Brad.” He nodded in an agreement and then we went our separate ways, because that was just way too much venereal disease for anyone to want to think about.

And side note to God: If this is my fifteen minutes of ‘by association’ fame, I’m pissed.

Hate Mail to the Bachelor

Dear Brad,

As Bettina and her family pointed out, you lack any sort of formal college education, so this concept may be hard for you to get your head around:

People don’t watch reality TV to see reality.

See, we’re all already dating guys who say stuff to us like, “You posses every single quality I’m looking for in a woman, but I’m not interested.” The Bachelor works to ensure women that true love might actually exist. That dreams can come true. That hot, successful men out there are willing to settle down. If not any of those things, the show works as proof that there’s at least one man on the planet who’s not a total dipshit. That’s why ABC gets to charge advertisers $1.5 million for 30 second spots on the show.

Have you no respect for the system?

I decided not to judge you until watching last night’s cheesily titled “After The Final Rose” Special Edition of The Bachelor. Sadly, you were a worthless asshole last night too, and even got booed by the female audience.

Brad – I get that it’s difficult to be sure you want to spend the rest of your life with someone. That’s why past bachelors have sort of finagled the proposal and handed the ring over saying, “let’s get to know each other better and see if this works in real life.” Did you find both DiAnna and Jenni so repulsive that they weren’t even worthy of that non-committal statement? You’d really rather just walk away? Jeez. The past six weeks must have been torturous for you if you hate them that much. Considering you showered them with assurance, that also makes you a fabulous actor. Agents in LA probably already have you on their speed dial. Maybe that was part of this whole plan.

I guess I remain baffled that you couldn’t just make a non-committal proposal to one of these girls and take one for the team. Give American women something to smile about and dump whoever you picked five days later.

Is that so much to fucking ask?

Now, already emotionally schizophrenic women like me have learned that even if I open up to guy and spill out all my feelings, and even if he considers me ‘perfect’ for him, I’ll still get used like a Kleenex. Women will never want to be contestants on this show again. They sign up for a chance at happiness, not to participate in a rejection-fest. Women can get rejected in real life everyday without having to fly to LA, live in a house, and compete with twenty-four other women for your attention.

You’ve also made the ABC execs piss themselves to the extent where on last night’s special they brought out two happily married couples from previous seasons to affirm the show’s credibility. I’m impressed the head of reality programming at ABC hasn’t strangled you with his tie. I wish he would, because that would be affirming to watch.

That’s all for now.

Keep on sucking,

Model Behavior

PS Keep it up with the creatine because I think you’re getting fat

The Happiest Place on Earth Part VI: The Capri Finale

I know: It’s more exciting than the upcoming termination of the Sopranos. This blog will soon transition back to randomness/a series about the ever so charming Life Coach we got to know last episode. Yet I feel it appropriate to tie up some loose ends in the Capri saga.

First off, Bartok and Prince M.

Things were going well. I was green with envy, and Bartok was already trying to figure out how she’d properly hyphenate all the royal last names she’d be marrying into. Then a petite, slender, tan Neapolitan hottie showed up at Prince M’s dinner party the next day. We’ll call her Alessandra. She was introduced as Prince M’s best friend’s ex-girlfriend and a dear dear dear dear friend who’d be staying for a day or two. Uh-huh, yeah right. No woman in the room was going to believe that story. A superbly awkward evening ensued with Prince M wavering between Alessandra and my Bartok the entire night. Under normal circumstances, Bartok and I would have both given Alessandra our Mean Girls-perfected devil stare until she fled the island like Nefertiti. Alessandra, unfortunately, was so incredibly cute, relaxed, and easy going that it was impossible to hate her. We actually spend long chunks of time admiring her body when she’d lay out soaking up the sun on Prince M’s boat. We knew she was Prince M’s age (thirty) and yet she was still undoubtedly hotter than either one of us could ever hope to be. We had to give Alessandra props, which made it even more annoying when at the end of the evening, Prince M and Alessandra retreated back to castle, leaving a laughing, confused, slightly enraged Bartok in my arms.

But Prince M only disappeared for about two hours. The he was calling Bartok to meet up at around four am. This guy was the definition of euro-pimping. I was impressed at his ballsy-ness. So was Bartok. So for that reason alone, she went to go meet him. In private, Prince M explained to her that Alessanda had been his best friend’s girlfriend for seven years. The two broke up, and now Prince M and Alessnadra were seeing each other but keeping it on the Neapolitan royal gossip circuit DL. They hadn’t figured out exactly what they meant to each other (maybe because they were stoned ninety five percent of the time) so really didn’t want anyone (especially the ex/best friend, I’m guessing) to know they were doing the nasty. The fact that Prince M was fooling around first with Nefertiti and then with MY best friend, remained essentially unaddressed. I felt about ready to write a creepy novella about Prince M’s tastes/issues with women and then puke on it. This rant here is the abridged version.

Now let’s do one of those cheesy “where are they now” lists that I despise when used at the end of feature films.

Gianni: My guess is he’s still in Capri looking for his sunglasses which are on his head. Or in rehab. Either way.

Brad is finishing up university in Rome and still looking way too good for his age. He explained to me that he likes to have a girlfriend in the winter months, but be single when in Capri during the summer months (get on board everybody: Seasonal Dating. It’s a new concept). So according to my calculation, he’s probably breaking some poor Italian chick’s heart as we speak.

Boris I’m sure is off canoodaling with Vegas somewhere in their fabulous fabulous residence on the island which no one ever got to see. Perhaps a wedding is in the works? I wonder if that freakin’ small dog will be in the ceremony.

Nefertiti: I’m hoping she got lucky and is currently working as some other European prince’s/outrageously wealthy Arab’s muse. If she scored a personality along the way, that would be even better. (Sorry, that was mean.)

Prince M is still pursuing his passion for photography/his passion for photographing women. He resides in Naples during the winter months working in the ever so mysterious “music business” with his entourage. Bartok and I thanked him profusely for his generous hospitality. Prince M and Bartok parted an amicable terms and to this day exchange an occasional raunchy email.

Dr X, the wonderful creature who enabled all this insanity, is still in Milan. We’ll have some posts purely dedicated to his outrageousness at a later date.

Leaving Capri was one of the most depressing things Bartok or I have ever done. As Bartok put it:

“I just want to kill myself here so this island is the last thing I remember.”

We both considered purchasing white dresses and enacting her previously imagined virgin suicide hurling ourselves off a cliff scenario. We decided against it in the end and instead slouched miserably side by side on the ferry back to reality where we’d have to actually act like adults and live responsibly in the “real world.” We were nauseous already.

The good news is that unlike Venice, Capri’s not going anywhere. Unfortunately, Bartok and I both have an intense fear of returning. How could anything live up to these incredibly high and inappropriate standards? Nevertheless, discussions about a Capri trip 07 are in the works.

I’ll keep you posted.

The Happiest Place on Earth: Part III

After a long day on the boat, Bartok and I usually spent the early evenings napping, watching Sex and the City season 6 on my laptop, and evading Gianni (who tended to conveniently burst into our room when he heard bath water running and one of us happened to be naked). Once we felt clean and rested, we’d begin drinking in bed, usually splitting a bottle of wine. Then we’d get ready to go out in an operation called “try on everything each of us owns at least twice.” I loathed many of my cute outfits since they’d lost their novelty. But after seeing my clothes modeled by Bartok, they’d grow on me, and I’d want them back. Hence, even once we felt satisfied with what we were wearing, a heated negotiation would ensue about who could borrow what. Make-up, shoes and accessories were dealt with in a similar manner.

Our first night out on the town with our ever responsible chaperone Gianni we were introduced to a group of Capri natives which included Prince M and Nefertiti. Prince M, not to be confused with the prince-like sons of the singing king of Capri, was an actual French-Neapolitan Prince with five last names, official lineage and his family’s royal coat of arms frescoed above his Capri villa’s fireplace. Since it had been a life long ambition of Bartok and mine to become princesses, Prince M appealed to both of us - A LOT. It helped that he had a great tan, shaggy brown hair, sexy sunglasses and a smile that made you want to melt. He also spoke perfect American English since he had spent many years in California surfing. Our obstacle was the unusual woman Prince M had in toe. Bartok and I immediately referred to her as Nefertiti since her real name was unpronounceable and (for those of you who’ve studied art history) this girl looked exactly like Queen Nefertiti of ancient Egypt. For those of you interested in a visual or the history (which is quite fascinating) you can follow the link here:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nefertiti

Since Bartok and I both craved Prince M’s undivided attention, we realized it would be best to first team up and find out what the deal was with this caramel, exotic, model-esque beauty Prince M had following him around (and apparently staying with him). It’s quite impressive to be lanky and six foot two with a shaved head and still look like a sex bomb (which Nefertiti did.) She’d have to be eliminated.

We went to an impressive bar/trattoria where the famous singer from Capri was casually bellowing out tunes for some “old friends.” This chubby sixty-year-old bore no resemblance to his two sons who we’d spent the afternoon drooling over, but at least we’d heard the famous man sing a classic. Another upside of the evening was that Bartok and I had skillfully engineered who was where along the bar and had Nefertiti trapped in a corner with Gianni, allowing Prince M to focus his attention on us. Several rounds of drinks were purchased.

Some women have opposite tastes in men and therefore rarely find themselves competing for the same male’s attention. For Bartok and I, this was NOT the case. What we find attractive in the opposite sex is actually frighteningly similar, so we are often in the situation of fighting tooth and nail for the same guy. The good news is that Bartok and I, while sharing similar personality traits, consider ourselves equally attractive but in entirely different ways. We look nothing alike. In fact, we have opposite hair, eye and skin color. We get quite competitive over men in a good-hearted way, yet once a man chooses between us we let it go, never taking the man’s decision personally but rather attributing his selection to his personal preference for chocolate or vanilla. Halfway through the night, I was ready for Prince M and I to start picking out names for our boats and children and deciding on a new color scheme for his royal living room. Bartok still preferred Brad. Nefertiti’s lack of English (or Italian for that matter) meant she was continually sinking into the shadows as we hopped from bar to bar, stopping in one picturesque Caprese ally to (surprise surprise) smoke a joint. Prince M was perhaps master of the “canne.” When we’d attend his friend’s thirtieth birthday party later in the week, we’d see that Prince M had not only had a cake made for his buddy, but had topped it with thirty joints as opposed to candles. That gave the birthday boy a smile.

Somewhere around bar number three, Bartok got drunk enough to point blank ask Nefertiti is she and Prince M were an item. Nefertiti’s answer was negative. A day and half later Nefertiti returned back to Naples. Victory.

The nights that followed went something like this: After our power nap and complex dressing ritual we’d head to Prince M’s for dinner at around 11 pm. Dinner in Capri never occurred before 11 – period. Prince M’s family owned a large complex of intertwined villas a pleasant fifteen-minute walk from the center of town. Prince M, being their one and only child, was entrepreneurially renting the majority of this space and living in only one section of the villa with his entourage which included his friends from South America who worked the grill cooking delicious meat and various other friends from Naples in the “music business” who played on Prince M’s professional DJ system 24 hours a day. Food was eaten outside on Prince M’s outstandingly large balcony where he’d set up half a dozen mattresses and low Japanese tables so we could all eat reclining like Roman emperors and empresses, occasionally leaning back to soak in the stars. Blankets and booze were also provided, as was abundant amounts of weed. Prince M scampered around the house supervising the cooking, spinning his favorite trance songs on the DJ table or indulging in his favorite hobby – photography. On his boat and at his house, Prince M was constantly snapping pictures with a Nikon camera that looked like it was worth more than my Milan apartment. In the evening, slide shows of his photographic work would be displayed on a large Apple computer near the DJ booth.

After eating and lounging in our outdoor beds, seeing some shooting stars, and drinking ourselves into a stupor, we’d head out to Capri’s town center at around 3 am. Leave your villa to go clubbing before 3 am and you were labeled a loser. Capri, being a rather tiny island, had only two discotecas – both of which were indoors and insanely small. One had a rather upscale name (which I can’t remember), something like Cabana or Executive. The other, and the place we always ended up, was called Number 2. I shit you not (no pun intended).

Bartok and I spent many evenings questioning our Caprese friends about why the most famous and lovely club on the island had such a disgusting name (after three bottles of wine and heavily spiked vodka cocktails, saying “Number 2” made Bartok and I both crumble to the ground laughing). We explained that in English Number 2 meant excrement. Prince M didn’t find it that funny and all the other Italians just looked at us quizzically before returning to their drinks. Again, since the island was so small, no matter who went out with who, inevitably everyone (Gianni, Boris, Vegas, Prince M, Brad) ended up wasting at least two hours in Number 2. At 6 am the club would wind down and everyone would migrate to the main piazza to watch the sun rise while enjoying a brioche and cappuccino at an outdoor cafe. One morning, we were lucky enough to watch dawn break at Brad’s house (i.e. the famous Caprese singer’s mansion. Brad, despite looking thirty and good enough to eat, was actually only a nineteen-year-old college student living with his parents for the summer.) His family’s villa was at one of the highest points of the island (we needed a caravan taxi to get there) and to this day remains the most beautiful house I’ve ever seen: Three stories of a chic, modern, yet innately Italian décor, tons of windows, acres of gardens, an infinity pool and five balconies. At around 7 or 8 am everyone would stumble home, sleep till 11, and be back on the boat at twelve noon to repeat it all from the top. We were beginning to understand why Gianni had been here three months and had no intentions of leaving.

Coming up:
The arrival of some unexpected guests…
A boating “accident”…
Prince M chooses his princess…
And the crisis-situation in which I met Mr. LC…

To Be Continued…

The Happiest Place on Earth: Part II

Boris was a six foot four, well-built, attractive young man wearing a baseball cap. Not at all what we were expecting, but who’s complaining? Dr X had forewarned me that Boris had “a very hot American girlfriend, a sexy babe” and that I shouldn’t “get her angry.” So Boris was off-limits. He did however, have two younger brothers. The following is frighteningly similar to a fairy tale:

One of the most famous singers in Italy in the 1950s/60s was from the island of Capri. Many of his songs are Italian Sinatra-level classics (hell, I even knew them and I’d only been in the country two years.) Due to his successful career, this singer was in a position to buy some serious real estate, and naturally, he snapped up the majority of his motherland i.e. Capri. Considering his fame and the fact that he pretty much owned the entire island, I feel we can think of him as a king. The king then had three sons, the eldest of which (Boris), we were now following. Boris, a relatively low-key guy considering he can be equated with a prince, owned many apartments throughout Capri which he rented out to friends (and friends only) in a Bed and Breakfast type of operation. Making money wasn’t really the point, hence the cheap rates.

He took us to a rather lovely apartment and showed us our room (which could have easily slept three people) and private bath. The kitchen was stocked with breakfast cookies and there was a charming outdoor patio equipped with a grill. Then he introduced us to Gianni who was staying in the larger bedroom across the hall from us. Gianni is an excellent example of what can happen to a person if they’ve been in Capri too long. Gianni was obscenely tan, around forty-five, with overgrown grey hair, stubble, and glazed over eyes. In conversing with him, it was abundantly clear that he was either drunk or stoned or both, and had probably been in such a condition for several weeks. Upon inquiring, we discovered he’d been staying at Boris’ in Capri for over three months. He was topless, wearing a bathing suit (which he had also clearly slept in) and had sunglasses hanging off the side of his head. Gianni was delighted to have some fresh American “bambine” meat in the house and assured us he’d act as our father figure and show us the ropes of the island. If this guy was our chaperone, we were bound to have a good time.

Since it was only noon, Boris suggested Bartok and I join him, Gianni, and others for an afternoon on “the boat.” So we slipped on our suits and joyously skipped behind them to the main piazza. On the taxi ride down the water (note: these are beautiful open-air caravan-like taxis) Bartok and I began to marvel at the landscape and the extremely attractive men and women who inhabited it. Was the salt water here especially good for the skin? Why was everyone glowing? And how was everyone in beach attire still looking hot enough to strut a runway? Our heads turned more than a couple times as we checked out what looked like mermen in Armani strolling the streets, but when we reached the water, both our eyes honed in on a long-haired Brad Pitt look-alike motoring a small white boat in our direction. Our jaws dropped and we spit out at the same time:

“Who is HE?”

“I’d like a piece of that man to go,” Bartok added as if ordering a Happy Meal.

We’d find out who he was soon enough because his boat was apparently also our boat. Boris and company were shuffling us down the dock towards him (rudely interrupting my fantasy about he and I rolling around naked in some sand). Somewhere along the way, Boris’ infamous girlfriend had joined us. She was from Vegas and outrageously hot in that “I’m made of plastic” kind of way. She teetered on stilettos, pouting under her oversize sunglasses while carrying one of those ridiculous toy sized dogs that you can fit into a fanny pack.

Soon we were out to sea drinking Havana on the rocks, sprawled out on the boat, rocking gently from side to side. It would have been really relaxing had we both not been smiling so hard and calling dibs on who got to marry Brad. Well, in true fairytale style, our Brad turned out to be Boris’ younger brother, prince number three in the Capri dynasty. The middle son we were informed had last week “gotten sick” of Capri so took his boat and entourage to Panorea. While Brad was blonde and Boris dark, they had the exact same perfectly chiseled features. How Lady Vegas had snagged Boris still remains a mystery. They were in year three of their relationship. She had moved to Capri and (talk about creativity) was running a Bed and Breakfast of her own.

We swam like mermaids, got exceedingly drunk, and ooh-ed and aaaw-ed as the boys navigated the boat through those picturesque coral arches that dotted the ocean. Everyone was also getting…well, stoned. See, the joint is to Capri day-to-day life what electricity or running water is to normal people’s existence. Folks lit up at 10 am and carried on through till the wee hours – no questions asked. I was feeling especially glamorous since Brad had decided to take a break from pretending to steer the boat and lain down beside me. He took out my left ipod earpiece and stuck it in his own beautiful ear before grunting/requesting that I put on some Vasco Rossi (which, thank Jesus, I had).

We stumbled back to shore as content as small children after a day at an amusement park. Little did we know that the real fun was yet to come. Capri’s nightlife loomed ahead. Not only would we meet a REAL prince, but I would meet a man who I’ll refer to in code as LC, the man to whom number 11 in my “What’s coming preview section” (11. Your boyfriend has an alternate identity – a support manual) is dedicated to.

To Be Continued…