Passport control was illegally long. A woman dropped on the floor, paramedics swarmed, and she fast-tracked the whole thing. A masterclass. Eventually, the slightly obese police officer gave me the stamp. A grey BMW pulled over. In my lap appeared turkey jerky and a bottle of Organic Coconut Water from Erewhon. The supplier was Jessica, the woman who would take my LA virginity.

I was sleeping on Jessica’s sofa with a thin duvet, so it was the budget version of the LA lifestyle, but still. Jessica is an LA-born bombshell with lustrous lips, thick hair and an ass I would happily sacrifice my right hand for. We didn’t quite share the same worldview. She swore by turmeric juice, affirmations and showering every night before bed. I swore by coffee, doubts and occasional shit talk.

10:36 am
Mornings were spoken for. Reformer at 11. Same girls, all on a first-name basis with the instructor, like a tiny cult in matching pilates socks. Then there was Matvey, in shorts and a little side bag, getting special treatment from Larissa, our 0% body fat instructor. Matvey, a cynical, razor-honest refugee from Russia, always had a thin smile at the corner of his mouth, and in a city built on fake politeness his bluntness felt like fresh air damped by nicotine addiction. He was gay and in an open relationship with his American painter boyfriend, Brad. They lived together in an old church that had been renovated into bougie loft apartments. God had moved out, but the gays had definitely moved in. I fell in love with him instantly.

After the hardest 45 minutes of my life, we all wiped down the machines very politely, said “see you tomorrow,” and drifted out into the sunshine.

Matvey went straight to school. From the car he WhatsApped me a picture of two prepacked soft-boiled eggs in a clear plastic bag, his version of breakfast on the go. The caption simply said “Skinny”. Justified why he was praising sex with twinks.

12:24 pm
Despite Jessicas shaming, I waddled to Trader Joe’s on my trembling legs. Ideally, I would be that person who only shops at Erewhon and buys twelve-dollar celery juices. Reality, my debit card decided where I belonged, and it was Trader Joe’s. My host says all young people working service jobs here are trying to become actors. Was the guy scanning my cheap olives, the next Timothé? While the jar rolled on the conveyor belt, I remembered how someone had once picked 12 olives in Italy, carried them all the way in their pocket, gifting them to me.

Back at Jessicas house, I FaceTimed my parents from the sofa, sports bra still damp with sweat from the class.

“Have your boobs gotten bigger?” my dad asked, squinting at the screen.

“Yes,” I answered, unreasonably proud. Reformer might be destroying my core, but apparently it was doing something for my chest. If LA wanted to sell me on fitness culture, that was the correct strategy.

I showered and helped myself generously to Julia’s line-up of Le Labo products. There is nothing like using someone else’s expensive shampoo to make you feel like your life is working out. Then I pulled on my mid-height Uggs. I had insisted on packing them for LA because, in my head, that was the uniform. Mini shorts and high Uggs. It turned out I was right. I could almost pass for a local.

14.00 pm
I walked to a cafe Jessica recommended. Walking is not a thing here. LA is not meant for spontaneity. People are in wedded to their cars. Everything is distance and parking and traffic. I could not tell if it was fear of crime, the long distances or the horror of A-list people blending in with the masses, but the result was the same. Pavements solely exist as props. Pilates queens, actors, influencers live side by side with the so-called “tweakers” who shuffle along the sidewalks, high on fentanyl, turning certain blocks of the golden city into dystopia. LA gives you both the trailer and the outtakes at once.

On the way to coffee, I slipped into a vintage shop. A woman in her forties, dressed like a nineteen-year-old greeted me. We will call her Bree. She wore a tight black satin dress with spaghetti straps and ballet flats. On paper it sounded tragic. In person it somehow worked.

While I browsed for a band tee, Bree was talking to another woman who looked older than she probably was. Mid-thirties, maybe. Recently I’ve been obsessed with the impact of porn, so when I heard the words “adult industry”, I knew it was my cue.

“Sorry to interrupt,” I said. “Do you work in the adult industry?”

She grinned. “Yeah.”

That was how I learned about porn wrestling. Apparently, it’s a whole genre in porn. She had never shot professional studio porn. It was more her and her friends doing “freaky sessions”. The logistics haunted me. Did they have a ring. Did someone lock up the local boxing gym after hours. Her niche was wrestling and beating. Men paid good money to be dominated. Suddenly my Pilates class felt beige and tame. America has the highest daily traffic on porn sites, and the peak day is Sunday. The ideal slow Sunday morning.  

I love porn. Sex and seduction have inspired humans for thousands of years. Desire is what breaks silence between people. It can spark something electric or end in complete disaster, affairs, relationships and everything in between. Bottom line is that sex is the fifth natural force.

On my way in I had passed a man in the doorway. Tall, pressed suit, lapel pin catching the light, slim eyes. He spoke just above a whisper so people would pay attention. He wore a small, smug smile like a habit. Later I learned he was a top Scientology priest visiting from Arizona. Full of himself, he was trying to recruit both of those women for an audit. The porn actress, Catholic-raised, handed him a fake number and kept her real plan to herself. She wanted to make a porn on Scientology. Confessions made at audit, used later as sexual humiliation. To get it right, she wanted to infiltrate the church. Method acting for smut.  She hoped it would be her break into professional work and less amateur content. I wanted it to happen for her. If anyone deserved funding, it was the woman storyboarding revenge porn for cult leaders.

Before she left, she asked if I could follow her on Instagram. “It is mostly ass pics,” she warned, “but you can see the new wrestling video when it comes out, if you are into that”. Slipping me a free voucher for her OnlyFans. Then she glanced at the time and realised she was late for her 6 o’clock private beating session in Glendale.

After a moment, Bree shook her head and told me Scientology owned half of the streetm I not the entire city. Their largest headquarters was just around the corner.

With an air of self-assurance Bree explained; “I am happy with my Christian faith, I attended a few audits and a brunch here and there”.  Religious speed dating.

They were, according to her, completely insane, and everywhere.

She told me a pastor had tried to convert her by offering to fund her film. She refused. The last 17 years had been spent making a documentary about suicide, much of it shot on her iPhone. I gave her my own documentary recommendations and somehow ended up making her cry.

When I finally looked outside, it was dark.

I asked Bree if it was safe to walk home. She suggested I head toward West Hollywood, which she promised was safer. I stood in the doorway, mentally debating an uber vs walk.

“I mean, I’m sure it’ll be fine, babe, but literally last year, in broad daylight, this car just stops, a guy jumps out and straight-up sprints after me all the way down the block.”

I watched her mouth move while checking Uber prices. They were ridiculous, but I also did not want to be hunted by a sedan, and starring in a True Crime episode.

Bree leaned in.
“Mercury was in retrograde, making commuting difficult” she said. Moving from A to B was cursed. She grabbed my wrist tight, looked inappropriately deep into my eyes and told me with a serious voice that on a day like today I should follow my intuition. If something felt wrong, it was. It was less transport advice and more prophecy.

I nodded, pulled my hand almost empty for blood back, slightly shaken, thanked her and started walking. Within three minutes I was paranoid. That was when I saw the Lime scooter.

I slipped my house key into my Ugg and set off. My legs were still trembling from Pilates, and now they were shaking from fear too. I rode through dark, empty streets lined with quiet villas, convinced that 3 out of 10 had girls captured in basements. In my head, every prejudice I had about the US instantly turned into facts; basement generations, serial killers or Diddy’ decedents. I was essentially cosplaying as my own cautionary tale.

“I come to The Grove every weekend Girl, i come here to colour in my colouring book”

- Hot Girl at The Mall