One More Dude on Lindsay Lohan’s Celebrity F*^# List

March 13, 2014 • Culture, Love & Sex

freak

This story is not about love.

One Saturday in 2011 my baby daddy was rung up by his agent.

“They’re casting a male model for Lindsay Lohan’s Playboy spread,” said agent explained. “They’ve requested you.”

“That sounds like death to your career,” I remarked, overcome with morning sickness and currently vomiting my oatmeal. “Since when do Playboy shoots use men as props?” He shrugged. I shrugged. And then we both stared at each other for a minute or two with that upside-down smile/grimace that Nick from New Girl always makes.

But a job is a job, and one naked chick is the same as another naked chick—at some point you accept that boobs are just that (plus he’s more of an ass man, and Lindsay is quintessential Pancake Toosh), so he tied up his laces, kissed me goodbye and took a 45-minute drive up some windy ass road to a mansion overlooking Los Angeles with no cell service.

My “Are you naked and greased up!!?” texts were met by a deafening silence. Because although I am secure with my shit, this was not a scenario I wanted to let my imagination loose in. Because, gross.

While he was there he was mostly ignored. He sat around for hours, while no one so much as took a photo of him (no digitals, no Polaroids!), and Lindsay rasped on and adjusted her weave, and asked for more Parliament Lights. There was no craft service to aid in stifling his boredom (or abject terror) with a bucket of M&Ms and peeled carrots. No cell service. No Instagram. No magazines. Just cracky Lindsay being much as you would imagine her.

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When he came home later that day he smelled like stale cigarettes and cheap hairspray but not of LL’s frightful nether regions. This was one relationship she could not destroy.

“How’d it go?” I asked.

“It was,” he said, “well,” and here he paused. And for a second I felt the pang of disgust, a red hot flush of the possible reality that he would be in the December 2011 Playboy spread, covered in motor oil or bound and gagged and posed as a prop behind La Lohan.

“It was, really weird. Like really, really weird,” he continued. “I’m not sure there was a job.”

There wasn’t. Per se.

Later he found out from the makeup artist that it wasn’t a casting—not in the traditional sense anyway. It was just Lindsay and the photographer trying to figure out who she was going to fuck later that night.

She was casting men for her bed.

A bed, which, as it has been made public, has been full of celebrities.

All-in-all LL is DTF.

So it wasn’t the least bit shocking—or really even interesting—when her supposed “Celebrity Fuck List” dropped on the Internet today.

This is a game every girl has played, some of our lists are just a little sadder and less impressive than Lindsay’s—the wigger boyfriend from high school, the dude who slept on his friend’s couch, the dude who still lived at home, the balding 40-year-old, our own version of low-rent James Franco (or is that James Franco?). (Also, side note: It would appear almost everyone in LA has slept with Lukas Haas. #pussyposseforlife.)

But you know how it goes. You’re sitting at some wine bar, or the say, the Beverly Hills Hotel, staring at that totally hip banana leaf wallpaper, and you, for better or for worse, start to take a walk down cunnilingus memory lane. Because when chicks are single (and drunk) they like to recount everyone they’ve ever slept with—a nostalgic trip that, in effect, is supposed to make them feel empowered, less alone.

But as the list gets longer, and the girl actually gets to talk about these “conquests,” bringing up tidbits and memories from that one time in the bathroom at Chateau Marmont, or the blow job to the bouncer at Avalon circa 2004, it’s clear that she’s drunkenly stumbling down said (and slutty) memory lane because she’s lonely.

She’s so lonely, in fact, she feels compelled to stage fake castings to find someone to spend the night with.

And although this list is not surprising, or even very interesting, it is quite sad.

Because the best thing that LL has going for her right now is that she has some really neat handwriting. And that one time she was in a movie with Dennis Quaid, whose son, Jack, she’s also probably tried to fuck.

Photo courtesy of In Touch and Terry Richardson (Ed. Note: Gag.)

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