Demi Moore Encounter
It’s official. Demi Moore drinks the blood of virgin Alsace choir boys. I was waiting for a meeting in premiere Hollywood agency CAA for unknown and mysterious reasons which I will only report should something meaningful happen.
As I checked in to the front desk I was struck by the site of perfectly lotioned, caramel-colored, well-hewn calves in white stilettos. As my eyes travelled north I was bedazzled by a white column dress encasing a perfectly toned body. Then there was the hair. A cascade of straight, black silk stretching to a whippet-waist. Then those eyes turned upon me. Sea green and fringed by thick lashes. Was it my imagination, or did the sight of me cause the woman alarm? Who was this buxom, corn-fed, patently cerebral blonde admiring her? (It was me, of course.)
The goddess was Demi Moore, looking no older than 12. She’s made a pact with Satan. She drinks Tibetan yak semen (a stolen line).
I think she fell slightly in love with me. I’ve always wondered about her college years and that one wild weekend with Jennifer Jason Leigh in Oaxaca. I looked quickly away. I didn’t want to be another source of pain for Demi (after the Ashton debacle) as I am happily married and only moderately bisexual.
She did try to BUMP my iphone with hers in order to purloin my information, but I was able to duck behind a planted midget palm and escape to the ladies room.