I live Beverly Hills "Adjacent.”

The laundromat closest to my apartment has a weird vibe. On more than a few occasions, trips there turned into adventures that featured various annoying, sometimes agro wacko's who have fixed on me, making many a washday uncomfortable.

After one particularly bad experience, in which a stout redheaded man, who appeared to live out of a 1981 Buick LaSabre, brandished a large "Arabian-style" sword, I decided that, henceforth, I would venture the extra seven blocks to launder my garments in Beverly Hills proper.

Like death, taxes, and rent, laundry day has come around and finds me motoring toward Beverly Hills. I ease my car into a parking space in a strip mall on Pico Boulevard, about a block East of Beverly. Then, weighed down by a hamper full of clothes, I clump into the Thrifty-Mat.

K-Earth 101 oldies play on an antiquated sound system while a pretty, slightly trashy, bleached-blond of roughly twenty-five years stands stacking her clothing. On the folding table beside her, sitting like a tiny sphinx, is her well-behaved fluffy, white dog.

My eye is immediately drawn to a "Naughty America" logo upon the tight white t-shirt that hugs her amazing rack. Naughty America is a company, that I know and enjoy... sexually. They produce raunchy, pornographic photos and films that feature MILFs, bookworms, and office-themed situations. Their vibe is on the amateur tip. Making the viewer feel as if they are peering into the sex life of real America.

When the blond bends down to scoop some delicates out of her hamper, I spy a tramp stamp (tribal tattoo on her lower back--the gateway to her amazing ass).

I make myself available for eye contact. A moment elapses, and she still does not look in my direction. So as to not seem "lurky," I briskly move on to the business of my dirty laundry. I hit the change machine then rapidly stuff all my clothing into a cavernous "Quadruple loader" at which point I decide to make a second pass at Blondie.

I curse the barrel-bottom clothing I'm wearing. Laundry day always gets me down to my dorkiest pants and rattiest t-shirts. A shame due to the occasional hook-up opportunities that laundromat’s present. In spite of my substandard garb, I proceed toward her. As I draw nearer, I calculate my approach. I settle on something direct.

"Where did you get that Naughty America t-shirt?" I inquire.

She replies, "I did a feature for them."

"I'm a fan of their productions... Do you live here, in the 'hood?"

"Off of Beverly. You?"

"Cashio / Robertson." I pat her little dog on the head and continue the interview, "What's pup's name?"

"Ricardo."

I gently rub the crown of Ricardo's head with my fingertips and speak to him in a baby dialect. "I'm gonna massage his wittle brain." The doggie likes this. "Are you helpin' mommy do her laundry?"

He looks at me and cocks his head -- we're buddies.

She seems to feel me as well and gives her puppy baby talk validation. "He's mommy's good boy." She pulls him close and gives him kisses.

I ask her what's new and different.

She tells me that she just got a new agent and has been stripping in Vegas. Apparently the money's good, and they put her up in nice hotels like the Venetian and the Hard Rock.

It sounds like fun.

We continue chitchatting. In fact, it's going really, really well. She digs me and starts asking questions about what kind of stuff I write, and this and that. My ego bolstered by her seeming interest, I up the ante, "Hey, you want to grab some coffee sometime?” The second the invitation leaves my mouth, I realize that I’ve jumped the gun.

Blondie stares at me skeptically.

As my mom would say, "You pushed the river."

As my former dating guru, Frank The Pimp (a real pimp), would say, "By moving too quickly with a broad, you put yourself in a box with every other lame-ass guy." And the lemming box is certainly not the preferred address of a playa. If Frank were here with me, he would tell me to be non-threatening, to be funny. He would suggest telling her something like, "Hey, angel, make sure that none of your panties jump out of your machine and into mine."

Anyway, Blondie is growing more apprehensive by the nanosecond, so I quickly switch to damage control--a skill at which I excel, gained as a by-product of a life-long proclivity for screwing things up. "I just want you to know, I'm not hitting on you. I'm using you to get to your dog."

This yields a half-smile from her. It's not really that funny, but it seems to initiate a thaw. I qualify further. "I'm just talking about a friendly cup of coffee. That's all. I just do the ‘friend-thing.’ So, understand, I'm absolutely not hitting on you."

Again, text book Frank The Pimp. Keep it on the friend tip. Friends have it easier. Less pressure on everybody. Friends aren't required to pick up tabs. Friends often get laid more and deal with less bitching.

She's like, "Mmmm, okay. I'll, um, give you my number when I get my stuff out of the dryer."

I'm like, "Cool,” but I'm thinking, whatever. I mean, like, “What's that supposed to mean? Why not give me your number right now?” It doesn't feel right. I pushed the river.

I go over and tend to my shit and just basically pull back and kind of ignore her.

I haven't eaten all day, so I make an innocuous exit and pop next door for some chicken and coleslaw where I leisurely munch for around thirty minutes. To her this must look weird, like, “Where the fuck did he go?” I'm not in her face, badgering her for her number. I'm just gone. I think to myself that this is the right move. Frank The Pimp would approve. He always said, "Be unpredictable. It excites women. Keeps 'em off balance." I've now been gone so long, I don't even know if she'll be there when I get back.

I finish my nosh and saunter back into the Thrifty-Mat.

As I enter, Blondie sees me, and her eyes light up. She rushes to me. "Oh, hey, I was looking for you. I've got something for you." She thrusts her arm out and hands me a small card.

It's a Holographic trading card of her standing in a skimpy summer dress. Her porn name, “Stacy Hartt,” is written above her photo. When the card is moved slightly, the image changes to show her lowering her top and exposing her perfect breasts. If they are fake, the surgeon was gifted.

I flip the card over revealing girly cursive handwriting that spells out her name, Stacy, and her three-one-oh phone number.

She says, "It's a collector's item."

I smile. "Nice, I'll be in touch."

Later, when I arrive home, I Google her. Low and behold, she's done like sixty porn flicks, some starring opposite Jenna Jameson. I find all sorts of hardcore photo galleries and videos of her spreading, sucking cock, doing girls, taking it up the ass. She seems to be very in touch with her sexuality, and for the next hour I have sex with her multiple times, in a variety of ways... in my mind.

Then a couple of days later, I finally call the number on the card. Her outgoing message, left in her tiny, sexy voice says: "You've reached the right girl at the wrong time. Leave me a message." A machine voice then abruptly interrupts, announcing that her voicemail box is full.

I call a few more times. But her mailbox continues to be full, full, full. In another couple of days, I try again. This time a machine voice announces, "The number that you dialed is not in service. Please check the number and dial again."

Oh, well. What can a young brutha do? I wasn't all that surprised. Conventional wisdom states that strippers and porn stars can be flakey bitches. I guess it's for the best. Having sex with a porn star in theory is probably much safer than "hittin' it" in reality. It allows you to avoid newfangled diseases and potential altercations with ex-con former boy friends.

But this is L.A. and we may well meet again... on the avenue.