Jen: Route 66 Kicks-Santa Monica

By my time there, Hollywood was also attracting record labels, sound studios, and other media businesses. That included Herb Alpert and Jerry Moss's A & M Records that opened a distinctive headquarters building on North Vine Street in 1954.

The famous Hollywood sign near the top of Mount Lee was first erected in 1923 and read-"Hollywoodland," advertising a new housing development in the hills above town. In the beginning the Hollywoodland sign was lit up at night by thousands of light bulbs maintained by a man who lived in a cabin behind one of the L's.

As I was exiting Hollywood, I glanced to my right and got a real jolt. Marilyn Monroe in a bikini was sitting in my passenger seat, grinning at me. Grinning, hell, she was laughing so hard her tits bounced up and down, threatening to fall out of her top. I was flabbergasted. I thought I heard a "Look Out" exclamation. I looked back to the front and barely stopped in time before rear ending the vehicle in front of me. WhenI looked at the passenger seat again, it was empty. God damn, not those damned ghosts again. I suddenly had the urge to pee.

When I stopped at a station to relieve my bladder and top off Miss Swifty's tank, I told the pump jockey about what just happened.

"That's a bit unusual, Miss. Normally, Marilyn's ghost, and that's what you likely saw, is mostly seen in or around the Knickerbocker Hotel here in town. Over the years, it catered to hundreds of celebrities and I imagine, harbors untold secrets. Some claim to have seen the ghost of Rudolph Valentno there as well. The hotel's over at 1714 Ivar Avenue if you want to go check it out."

"Thanks for the information, but no thanks. I don't have time to go to the hotel, but your explanation was a great help to me. What do I owe you here for the gas?"

Beyond Hollywood, all that remains of Route 66 is a few miles of Santa Monica Boulevard, whose intersection with Ocean Boulevard marks the official end of Route 66. This is at 2,250 miles past Go. A few blocks away is the famous Santa Monica Municipal Pier, built in 1909. Santa Monica was also the location of many of Raymond Chandler's thrillers, most notably, Farewell My Lovely.

Despite the urban environment, I'd been driving quite a bit of the way from Cucamonga with my boobs bared. Cooler (as in air cool) that way. It was time to find a place to stay, headquarters so to say, so It was also time to go "civilized" again and put my top back on. I registered for a week at a hotel, the Georgian. That done, I did crash for a nap. When I woke up, nicely refreshed, I decided I wanted to take my first swim in the Pacific Ocean. I got into my very skimpy bikini and a skirt wrap. The hotel valet brought Miss Swifty around and I was off to the Santa Monica beaches.

I found a great public beach where I parked up above in the lot. I took the sandy path down to the beach below and spread out my blanket. After spending a little time arranging my things, I dropped the skirt wrap and ran for the water. God, did that water ever feel good in the heat of that day.

After a refreshing swim, I slowly ambled back to my blanket and sat down. I'd drawn a lot of looks ever since I first hit the beach, but I drew even more as I casually dropped my bikini top to the blanket. The beach was not topless--at least no one else was bare, but since when did that stop me?

With my bare boobs swaying, not only did I draw looks, but I also drew a constant line of studs who found some reason to walk by and ogle me close up. Their stares weren't veiled ones, either, especially when I dug out my sun tan oil and slowly lathered it onto my big boobs.

"Need some help with that?"

I was about to tell the guy to get lost, but I looked up first. That was a mistake. That was it; I was lost. A spark, a silent communication, something, leaped between our eyes. I could tell, we both felt it. I guess it might be called mutual love at first sight, I don't know. Whatever it was, it'd never happened to me before.

After a lengthy period of silent contemplation between us, I just reached out, speechlessly, and handed him the bottle. I flopped over onto my stomach and he, John, as I'd shortly learn, slowly applied the oil to my shoulders and back. His hands caressed the sides of my tits as he spread the oil down the side of my ribs. That's when I moaned the first time.

Then his hands dropped lower. My ass was completely bare. Only the string of the mini bikini bottom came up my crack and became the waist band covered any skin. My moans increased in number but were soft as John caressed in the oil on my ass cheeks. He didn't reach into my crevice but worked around it on his way down my thighs. I quietly, but continuously moaned as he worked his way down my inner thighs to my feet. He went down one side and back up the other.

"Ok, time for the other side."

I rolled over willingly at John's nudge. My neck and shoulders were done quickly. He was fully aware, I'm sure, that I'd already done my boobs. No matter, he did them again, slowly, sensuously, lovingly. God, my thin bikini bottom,a teeny tiny triangle patch of cloth, was soaked with my pussy juices. He didn't stay long on my boobs.

John worked his way down my chest to my navel and then around, not through my pubic area, and down on leg again and up the other. I was by then shaking and covered with goose bumps. I think I did have at least one mild orgasm. John could plainly see I was quivering with desire. He kissed me on my upper lips, passionately. But that was all.

"Later, babe, later."

He bent over to the side of me and for the first time I saw the surf board he'd laid down earlier. He looked down at me.

"I'll pick you up at eight at your hotel. I saw you earlier today so I know where it's located. We'll have dinner, semi formal. See you at eight."

And then he disappeared up the path to the parking lot where I heard an engine start up and a vehicle roar off.

Jeeze, what the hell just happened?

I was unable to answer that question fully, but I was still quivering and shaking from the sexual tension and desire of that encounter.

My God, that guy sure knows how to stoke the fires.

A chunk of time was used up on a shopping trip. I needed to buy an outfit to wear for dinner. No one appeared to be surprised to see a bikini clad female, shopping. Miss Swifty had no real storage space, so I couldn't carry much for luggage for all occasions. Likewise, I would donate my clothes, or just leave those that I couldn't take with me. Finally, I returned to the Georgian to prepare for my evening. I never doubted John would show up.

As I stooped before my door to place the key in the lock, a voice behind me said, "Good evening, young lady."

I turned to reply, "Goo..." No one was there!

Oh my God, here we go again.

I heard a disembodied, hearty chuckle receding down the hallway as I returned to unlock my door. As I stepped into my suite, I heard a distinctly female voice say, "Bravo, well done, Cosmo."

Once again, when I looked back in the hall, there was no one around. With a shrug, I reentered my rooms and locked the door. After dropping to the floor the miniscule bikini I'd been wearing, I stepped into the huge bathroom. I spent a luxurious hour, soaking in hot bubble bath, only climbing out when the water temperature dropped below tepid.

It took another hour to fix my hair and face. I don't usually take that long for such things, but the evening had the allure of magic and something special.

At last, the time came to dress. I laid out my risqué purchases of a few hours earlier. the sheer, black thigh highs were first. One leg at a time, I slowly and sensuously rolled them up my calves and onto my thighs. The tight, elastic tops would have been sufficient, but I added a black garter belt in anticipation of what lay ahead later.

Sans panties or bra, I climbed into the black cocktail dress. The dress was short, barely covering my stocking tops when I stood straight. The top of the dress bared a lot of skin--a very lot of skin. Any movement would bare anywhere from just a nipple to a whole boob falling free--so I'd have to be very careful--unless of course, I wanted to offer more exposure.

Three inch heels in black patent leather went on my feet. A single strand necklace of pearls, teardrop pearl earrings, and a single strand, pearl bracelet completed my outfit for the night; Yeah, if he wasn't already hooked, I definitely wanted to seduce John.

Promptly at eight, John knocked on the door of my suite. We took the elevator down to the lobby. I already had goose-bumps up and down my arms. My pussy was itching. Exiting the elevator, John, much to my surprise, steered me to the hotel dining room.

In answer to my cocked eyebrow, John replied, "This really is a great place and a very special place to eat. I'll tell you about it--over dinner.

"Ok, it's your show--for the first part of the evening anyway."

We were ushered to a reserved and secluded table by the Matre D'.

I thought my last, formal, gourmet dinner was something. And as you all know, I love to eat and do eat--like a half starved trucker. The dinner with John turned out to be "out of this world!" When all was said and done, the dinner lasted over five hours, including a half hour "intermission" for us to rest and recoup in preparation for the final courses of the meal.

Dinner began with a champagne cocktail--sparkling water poured over a choice of lemon verbena, pineapple sage, or rose geranium. As we sipped our drinks, John asked me a question.

"Tell me something about yourself, won't you, Jen?"

With no reservations or reluctance, I told him the story of my life up to the time I met him. Of course, I didn't mention the sexy details of much of anything, really, about my sex life. That might or might not come later. I told him all about my Route 66 trip, again without the sexcapades sidelights. He listened in rapt attention.

I didn't get very deep into my story before the waiter interrupted me to deliver our next dinner course. That course consisted of rosemary ciabatta rolls with chive blossom butter. Quite delicious, by the way. I went on with my story.

Shortly, the waiter returned. That time he delivered our entree: Yearling Pacific Abalone with sea bean tempura, rosemary mussel skewer with oregano aioli, and warm kumamoto oyster in lovage cream with paddlefish caviar. Phew! But I was hungary and more than able to keep up with John. In fact, before the evening was over, I was quite able to outdo him, in more ways tnan one!

Before the waiter showed up again, John exclaimed, "Well, I see I have my life's purpose cut out for me in just keeping you fed!"

"Oh? You plan on being around in my life that long, do you?"

"Don't you figure on being around that long in mine?"

"As a matter of fact, yes, I do!"

"Welcome to the club then, Jen. I think we both knew it the moment our eyes locked back there on the beach this afternoon."

"Yes," was my simple reply.

It was all I needed to answer and we both knew that as well. After a pause in which we stared into each other's eyes for a spell, I cleared my throat and picked up the thread of my story again. I'd just reached our meeting on the beach in my story when the waiter once again I was interrupted. This time it was the wine steward who delivered our post entree wine, a Mirassou Blanc de Noir.

"Alright, John, now it's your turn to tell me your story."

"OK, Jen. My family is old money, quite well off, since the days days when my Great-Great Grandfather came to California in 1850 and made the first family pile. Not in gold mines, but in the freighting and hardware business of supplying the miners. Each generation has found some way to add to the family fortune. My father did it in real estate.

"So you don't have to work any more than I do, eh John?"

"Up to the present, that's correct. My parents died in a freeway crash when I was sixteen. They left the family fortune to me, their only child, in a trust. I gained full control of that trust five years later when I turned Twenty-one. I've been a practicing beach-bum, come surfer for the ensuing seven years. Then, I met you. I don't mind telling you, my world has turned topsy-turvy because of it."

l had the decency to blush. We were both saved immediate further comment by the appearance of the waiter with our next course. That turned out to be Morel mushrooms with Chervil Flan and minted snap peas with vines. For a while, our mouths were filled with food instead of words.

We hadn't quite finished that delicious repast when the next wine arrived, a Vintage 1955 Chateau d' arche Lafaouire Tere Grande Cru Casse Sauternes. It was superb!

John picked up his story. "Where was I? Oh, yes, our meeting on the beach. Surfing's in my blood now--that's what I was doing on the beach in the first place--catching early morning waves and then simply sunning and girl watching. I can't see any real change in my surfing interests--for now. Later, who knows."

We were finishing the wine when the next course arrived. we were served sage wrapped Foie Gras with King Bolete mushrooms, sage blossoms, and currants. Close behind came the next wine, vintage 1950 Chateau Lapinesse Barsac. I looked at John with hooded eyes over the rim of my wine glass.

Tongue-in-cheek, I said in a rather husky tone, "My but you've gone to rather extreme measures to get me drunk and seduce me on this first date, haven't you now."

"It's a celebration, Jen."

"A celebration? Of what, John?"

"Why our first meeting of course, not to mention the start of the rest of our lives together."

"Yes," was once again my quiet, simple, one word agreement with him.

At that point, the waiter once again made his appearance with our next course. Our new fare was herb smoked Alaskan King Salmon with sorrel sauce, golden beets, and young carrots. John talked about surfing and surf boards while I talked of Miss Swifty until the wine steward returned with the next between course wine which was a Vintage 1955 Sauternes Blanc.

We each had a full glass. When the glasses were drained, John asked, "Why don't we take a stroll about the hotel beach and stretch our legs and let some of this dinner settle before we tackle what's left on the menu?"

"Excellent idea, John, but I've got to pee first. All this wine, you know!"

We both needed the bathroom. Returning to our table, John grabbed the wine bottle and our two glasses. Then we set off for our leisurely stroll, albeit, a slightly wobbly one. We drank some, strolled some, kissed some, groped some, then started all over again. We managed to struggle back to our table about three quarters of an hour later.

At the table, we were immediately served with a sorbet of Douglas fir which was then followed by another entree. That new entree consisted of lavender grilled squab with Bing cherries, roasted Walla Walla onions, broccoli raab, rosemary mashed potatoes, and braised garlic shoot. While we enjoyed all that new food, I told John about the disembodied voices I'd heard in the hall outside my suite.

"Yes, this old lady (the hotel) is said to be haunted by ghosts of residents of the past. I heard the story from an 'old timer' I met one time in this hotel bar. As long as I kept supplying the drinks, he kept talking."

"Lucky you, John."

"Yes. Well, in any event, I think he said the hotel was opened in 1933 as the Lady Windemere. It was intended as an exclusive, secluded hideaway for VIP's and other members of Los Angeles's upper social registry. Mistresses were still popular."

"Did you ever keep a mistress here, John?"

"No, but I might consider it now."

"Oh really?" I chided.

"Yes, well anyway, the hotel featured an ocean front verandah, just perfect for martinis,. There was also jazz music and a stage for notorious figures such as Bugsy Seigal the gangster and actors such as Fatty Arbuckle not to mentionthe likes of Clark Gable and Carol Lombard."

"Good grief, what a combination--gangsters and movie stars. But then, I guess that's still the case elsewhere. Isn't Frank Sinatra, among others, supposed to have gang connections?"

"Couldn't tell you about that, for sure, Jen. But back to the story of the hotel. It was considered right up-to-to-date and modern with its offerings of a beauty parlor, barber shop, playground, dining room, and a most popular speak-easy, one of the first in L. A."

"You said it was secluded. I don't see much around but open beach. How is that, 'secluded'?"

"You talk about now. In 1933, the hotel was built in the then heavily wooded shoreline of the then little-known seaside community of Santa Monica--viola--seclusion and the hotel became a very popular hideaway for pleasure as intended."

"Who ran the place back then?"

"One Rosamond Borde was the owner and manager. It was her discriminating manner, her daring, and her ability as a progressive entrepreneur that was so popular with the elite of Los Angeles."

"So, what happened to this happy little establishment and arrangement?"

When prohibition finally ended and expansion dramatically occurred in the 1950's, Los Angeles began to truly develop into a major metropolitan center that continues up through today. It was during that same decade of the fifties that the Lady Windemere was sold, refurbished, and renamed the Georgian."

"That's an interesting history. But where do the ghosts come into the picture?"

"Well..." John began, but was interrupted once more by the wine steward. The new wine was a Vintage 1947 Chateau D' Angludet Haut Meoc. As the wine steward retreated and we sipped the new wine, Jonn continued,

"Slowly, stories began to surface from hotel staff and a few guests about incidents with ghosts."

"Ghost of whom, John?"

"I'm coming to that Jen. Ghosts of former guests, famous or infamous Actually, as the ghosts themselves are rarely reported to be seen, it's more the voices that are more often heard with no bodily apparition around."

"Like my experience outside my suite."

"Yes."

"I'm told that the ghosts and/or their voices are most often heard in or close to the old hotel's speakeasy restaurant. Running footsteps throughout a supposedly empty former speakeasy is the most reported phenomenon So you see, Jen, you're not alone in having ghost experiences here in the hotel or in those other examples you told me about."

Our latest wine interlude ended with the end of the ghost story. It was then time for watercress, radish, and mache salad with quillisascut, ash-coated goat cheese, and a thyme cracker. Finally, the last course--dessert. Even I, with my big appetite, was getting filled up. Dessert was a rose petal foam with a single strawberry, strawberry shortcake with bay leaf cream, and a strawberry rose geranium ice cream cone.

The final wine of the meal that night was a Vintage 1901 Barbeito Malvazia Madeira. To tell the truth, by that time, I couldn't tell one wine from another. It took a while to drain that last bottle.

"Johhhhnnn."

"What, babe?"

"I want to go back to the beach and go for another swim in the Pacific."

"Ok, we can do that tomorrow."

"You don't understand, John, I want to go now, right now."

Our waiter brought the bill on a silver tray. John laid a credit card on it and the waiter scurried away. When the waiter returned, John signed the credit slip and retrieved his credit card. I didn't want to see what dinner had cost. Those special wines would cost a king's ransom by themselves, let alone the rest of the meal and service.

"Done, Jen, let's go to the beach for our midnight swim."

Actually, it was closer to three a.m.

Near the waterline, we slowly stripped out of our clothes. Neither of us had any reservations or embarrassment in doing so. John did ask me a question though.