BEVERLY HILLS, Calif. __ Ever been to a Beverly Hills mansion party? Me neither, until last week. I was invited to one by a company that wants to raise awareness of its brand. It did this by paying beautiful women to stand next to its products, which definitely raised my awareness of breasts. That’s how hip companies promote products these days. They throw parties and attend trade shows and conventions and bring large-breasted women. It’s all very subtle: If you like our product — titties!
This was my first invite to a Beverly Hills mansion. I do not get invited to fancy parties, mainly because my friends in Los Angeles are unknown writers, comedians and musicians and our parties, while fun, tend to be humble and small-breasted.
The company that invited me was Nivea, maker of grooming products, and the theme of the party was to encourage men to “Look Like You Give A Damn.” To underscore the theme, the bouncers let a crowd build outside the rope line and waited for an unshaved guy dressed like a cross between Jimmy Buffett and Turtle from Entourage to enter. At this point, large-breasted women yelled at Turtle Buffett for not looking like he gave a damn and turned him away. I knew it was fake because, this being Los Angeles, he did not ask either of the women for their phone numbers.
By the way, hot women yelling at clueless guys is not the best way to move product. There is a certain beer company currently airing television commercials in which gorgeous women in bikinis mock chubby guys in tight clothes. When I’m in the beer aisle, do you want me thinking, “I associate this beer with judgmental women making fun of guys who look like me,” or do you want me thinking, “I associate this beer with strong horses heroically trotting through a snowstorm to bring beer kegs to a thirsty village filled with Good Americans who live in a Normal Rockwell painting”?
At the mansion, there were women everywhere. Most of them were named Marissa. They wore tiny dresses, drank vodka and nibbled sushi.
Two blondes, with maybe 45 percent of their original body parts, joined me while I ate dinner. They wanted to know if I was going to the Gene Simmons Super Bowl party in Dallas. They seemed genuinely surprised that I, or anyone else in the world, was not going to the Gene Simmons Super Bowl party in Dallas. They were very excited about the Gene Simmons Super Bowl party in Dallas.
One six-foot blonde bombshell – standing in the kitchen, pulling men into her orbit through the gravitational force of her good looks – wore a sheer white man-shirt with lingerie underneath. This is a look more women need to embrace, provided they are attractive, and not related to me.
Probably because this was the first time I have seen 200 beautiful women in the same place, an event that causes a man to reevaluate every aspect of his life, I had a realization about my hometown, and it probably holds true for other major cities. Los Angeles is a great town if you’re a 25-year-old woman and a lousy town if you’re a 25-year-old man. The 25-year-old women, if they’re attractive, get hit on constantly by 35-and-45-year-old men. The 25-year-old men, who have no game and no car and no hope, often have trouble competing. But then something horrible or wonderful happens, depending on your gender. The 25-year-old men become 35-year-old men and they have the money and game to date the 25-year-old women. The 25-year-old women, unless they get married, become 35-year-old single women and no longer get invited to cool parties. They’re all on OK Cupid.
Everyone at the party was given a guest credential, the back of which contained a “Bucket List” of things to do, because Nivea is German, which means it has a death fetish. Each item on the “Bucket List” represented a different room in the mansion that guests were encouraged to visit. Sadly, there was no Have a Catch with Your Father before He Dies room. Too real.
There was a Reinvent Yourself room, in which you could have your photo taken with models. There was a Get Tastefully Decadent Room, in which you could eat dessert and have your photo taken with models. There was a Make a Hole in One room, in which you could putt a golf ball into a martini shaker held by a model, and then have your photo taken with her. Then there was a Tame the Wild Beast tent, where organizers brought – I kid you not – a live tiger to the party. Probably, there were models there, too. I couldn’t find the tiger, which is generally a sign that it’s time to leave the party. Finally, guests were encouraged to Snag the Swag on the way out so jeweler Pascal Mouawad could get back to living in his mansion without me there taking photos of his bidet and uploading them to Twitter.
After the party, while I was waiting for the valet, the tiger handlers brought the tiger out through the front gate. A woman near me turned to her date and said, “Did you see the tiger?” Her date, a man with a European accent of indeterminate origin said, in a serious and disappointed tone, “It was small.”
So, I guess it wasn’t that great of a party.
Photos courtesy of Nivea
(Joe Donatelli is a senior editor at Break Media who writes and edits for Made Man. He has written about The Day His Bachelorhood Ended, How Dreams Help Your Brain and Taking A Dip In A Sensory Deprivation Tank. You can contact him at jdonatelli(at)breakmedia.com.)