||[Aug. 12th, 2014|07:42 pm]
So. Some years ago, some like-minded friends and I slipped through the back gates, past the late-night kitchen staff and up the service elevator into the main floors of the Bel'age Hotel, right off the Sunset Strip.|
Oh, by the way? Since Wyndham bought the place, they've tightened security up quite a bit - don't try it now, kids.
We took the stairs to the fifth or sixth floor (we were all much younger and in better shape, then), crossed over to the elevators and made for the roof.
A little-known amenity of the place was roof-top hot tubs; the five of us slipped out of leather, t-shirts and various bits of lingerie (worn as clubwear by most ladies and some gents, in that time and place), unabashedly nude: it was around 3 a.m., and we had the hot tubs, the roof and a most marvelous view all to ourselves.
Or so we thought.
I didn't realize who it was at all, not until I'd been speaking to him for a few minutes. 'Course, he wasn't as famous, then - or maybe he was, maybe it was just that thing of living in Tinseltown, where anything can happen and one gets jaded. At any rate, he was very quiet until it became obvious that we were glad to have him with us, we weren't really clear on his celebrity or much of anything else.
Shortish hair, sure, but he had it all over - jesus, the man was hairy. I don't envy whoever cleaned the tubs the next day, to be honest. Didn't even realize he, too, was naked until after we'd left, that's how hairy he was.
Most of it was a blur; I laughed until my face hurt. He, thankfully, laughed, too - there were, ah, high spirits all around.
We left right as the sun was pinkening the sky; I think I thanked him, but I can't remember. But I do remember him smiling.
In all the time since, I've never wondered why he'd be up there, on a slick roof with no guard rail, alone, at 3 am on a weekend - until yesterday.
Life's a funny ol' bitch, ain't it?
Best of, Robin - hope your journey was better than it seemed.