I am so high from dinner that I don’t even mind giving Thomas a blow job afterward. As I bob my head on his shaft, I think this must be how Gwyneth Paltrow felt when she got off Harvey Weinstein: not ideal, but well worth it. She got an Oscar, after all.

Thomas is so excited by it he doesn’t even mind that we exceeded the agreed-upon meal price by $300. We are both getting what we want from this transaction. My therapist used to say that if you alter your thoughts, you can change your reality. She’s right. Acting like I am successful and rich and impressive all night makes me feel like I am in fact successful and rich and impressive. I’m confident I’ve cracked some serious code to happiness. All I have to do is keep lying to myself.

Thomas comes super quickly, which is a major relief—my jaw was starting to hurt. Afterward, I excuse myself to the bathroom and open Beau’s Instagram. I tremble when I see the pink-and-orange circle around his avatar—now it’s my turn to get off. I open his Instagram story. He is at the Big Sleep. I charge back into Thomas’s bedroom and announce, “Let’s go dancing!”

Thomas is still all glowy and delirious from the BJ, so I know he will agree. I am right.

We dress and smoke some sativa to wake up. I am trembling with excitement, believing my lies. I am a famous actress, an astrological consultant to a multibillionaire, and about to seduce my dream man. Thomas looks decent enough that Beau will probably see me as desirable.

There is a different bouncer tonight, but Thomas knows him too.

“What is your secret, Thomas?” the bouncer asks. “Always a beautiful woman by your side.”

I suppress a smile. I know it doesn’t mean anything, but I am not immune to my female conditioning, the sense that when a man makes a positive comment about my appearance, I am doing something right.

The bouncer turns to me. “What, is his dick made of gold?”

“I promise you there is nothing special about his dick,” I say quickly. “He’s just independently wealthy and extremely available.”

The bouncer lets out a hearty laugh, then says, “She might be my favorite.”

“That makes one of us,” Thomas says as he grabs my hand and walks me into the noisy, crowded club.

This is exactly how I had imagined my life in LA when I was eighteen, wearing designer clothes and bypassing lines to get inside exclusive clubs. It only took me eleven years to get here.