SAN LUIS OBISPO CONFIDENTIAL: Sex, Celebrity, and Why They Shouldn't Mix

SAN LUIS OBISPO, Calif. (ZP) -- My friend J. works in the adult entertainment industry. Not just as a house or feature dancer, but, well, the whole nine yards.

She's very good at what she does; She makes the equivalent of my monthly salary for an hour's worth of "work." She's acquired some namebrand recognition for herself and works very, very hard to maintain her public image. I personally believe she's smart and saavy enough to do whatever she chooses; I don't like what she does but understand why she does it.

Now, before anybody jumps to conclusions, there is no romantic relationship and definitely no possibility of exploring a romantic relationship. Two totally different personalities living two totally different lifestyles. We're just friends...sort of.

While I have moral reservations about what - and who - she does for a living, I respect her right to do what she pleases with her body without having to deal with me hopping on my high horse. If my laissez-faire attitude concerning this subject bothers you, blame it on the fact that I was once engaged to a stripper for three months.

I realize not everyone takes that position when it comes to such a controversial subject as pornography. Feel free to comment at your leisure.

J. and I met for brunch yesterday morning in San Luis Obispo, then just sort of hung out and did some after-Christmas shopping. I feel bad because I blew off my sister, whom I'd made plans with previously. I didn't give my sister a reason, because, well, I'm pretty sure my family wouldn't approve. But this woman woke up at 4 a.m. to drive up from Los Angeles and called me en route from Santa Barbara. What am I supposed to do?

Brunch was the easy part. J. weighs less than a hundred pounds yet can easily suck down twice her weight in food in under an hour. Hyperactive? The word does not even begin to describe this woman. Trust me, folks, there is nothing sexy or erotic about having to ask a woman to take their bare foot out of your crotch while said person is literally licking the carcass of a tiramisu of her plate.

The shopping and hanging out part is where the trouble begins.

Trying to keep J. entertained is akin to to attempting to train a monkey with OCD. For one, she fidgets. Fidgets with everything. Her necklace. My necklace. I've never had a grown woman pull the ol' high school jock "cup check" routine so many times in one day and find it funny every time.

Nor have I ever had someone insist on sharing a fitting room. She was shopping for jeans and she wanted my opinion. I've seen her naked before, as have quite a few other folks obviously, so that's not the issue. It's not like we were getting down and dirty in a dressing room, but I'm sure it must've seemed pretty odd from the outside.

Because J. is essentially built like a 15-year-old boy (J. is in her 20s), I'm sure at least a few of our fellow shoppers thought I was just another late-20s, metrosexual scenester trying to relive college with a teenage plaything. While this is the norm in places like Beverly Hills, Malibu or Santa Barbara, where such behavior is as common as botox parties and breast implants, this sort of thing sticks out like a sore thumb in San Luis Obispo. I won't even begin to describe some of the looks we received as we left one dressing room after another.

For the record - she walked away from the day with 10 pairs of jeans, a sundress, three handbags, and about a dozen tee-shirts. I bought a shirt off a clearance rack.

A couple of people recognized her at this one boutique we visited. While celebrity worship has always seemed to be the dumbest thing in the world to me, I must admit the whole thing was pretty fascinating to watch. It was as if somebody had flipped a switch somewhere deep inside J. One minute, we're talking about the Dodgers offseason moves. The next, she's smiling with her arms around some random dude, posing for a camera.

The way J. handled the whole thing reminded me of a more personal version of usability testing. She was ensuring her product line was meeting the needs of her clients. A very different kind of user needs analysis but, given the nature of her profession, a very useful tactic.

The tiny fan frenzy lasted about 10 minutes. Soon, she and I were back on the sidewalk window shopping. Without missing a beat, she's back to talking about baseball, smoking up my cigarettes, and asking me how she can install her own garbage disposal.

I told J. about my information-science-in-porn revelation. She gave me a look like I'd just stepped off a rocket from Mars. Information science folks can take some satisfaction in the fact that she picked up on the whole "holistic, user-centered approach" concept in less than five minutes.

While we were getting coffee, she brought up an invitation she'd extended my way months ago in Oxford. A professional proposal of sorts. I'm not talking about a librarian position here, either.

Um...yeah. I'm pretty sure most of my readers are smart enough to connect the dots on this one.

I don't know why, but I got angry. Yelling-in-public angry.

The first time she brought it up months ago, I treated it as a joke. This time, she sounded serious. To me, that's like a slap in the face. I'm really not that kind of guy anymore. When I was young and stupid, back when I was a reckless bastard and womanizing piece of garbage, I probably would've at least considered it. That guy, who my oldest friends referred to as Dog Juan, died a painful death a long time ago.

I guess I felt she crossed a line in our friendship. I still feel that way. Maybe I've been a bit too understanding; maybe that led to some mixed signals on my part. Maybe I hadn't been clear enough in communicating my discomfort. Whatever the reason, I guess I feel having someone ask me to participate in something that would undoubtedly end my career, hurt my family, and make me feel like shit hurt a bit.

I walked off, she followed. Both of us have the "get-in-the-last-word" mentality, so the whole thing turned into a full-fledged argument by the time we reached the parking garage. Yelling turned to sobbing. Sobbing turned to silence. We sat in her little convertable without saying a word for about an hour.

I finally apologized for yelling. She accepted my apology, I think. She didn't say much when I got out of the car - just said she was sorry she offended me.

I still don't know why she got angry. It's not like I asked her to become a librarian and participate in some hot, steamy reference interview in front of complete strangers or on camera.

Yup. There are definitely some wires crossed somewhere.