The year was 2006. I had just graduated from college and made the smart decision to live in Los Angeles without a car. This was long before Uber, Lyft, and electric scooters had been invented. No one had an iPhone, Justin Timberlake was bringing “SexyBack” and Facebook was something you had to go “check” on a desktop computer.

Before the ’08 recession, it was actually possible for college kids to get a job before they graduated. I did an internship in New York City the summer before my senior year and they offered me a job right out of the gate. I was NYC bound for the fall but was also offered a summer job in Los Angeles before I started.

Growing up in Michigan, everything I knew about L.A. I learned from watching “Entourage.” I couldn’t wait to live out my fantasy of becoming the Black Vinny Chase. There was only one problem: No car. It’s a little hard to cruise Hollywood Blvd. with your boys when the only wheels to your name is a bike you “borrowed” from the UCLA campus.

I was only in L.A. for three months and planning to move to New York City right afterward, so it didn’t make sense to buy a car. When I moved to L.A., I only had about $1,800 to my name. I found a website where people listed car leases that they needed someone else to take over. I could “lease” a purple Lamborghini for a cool $3,000 a month, or ride around in a more modest grey BMW X5 for a much more reasonable $800 a month, or, enjoy the joy ride in a navy convertible Porsche Boxster for $1,200 per month.

Being young and aspirational, I picked the Porsche. Vinny Chase and “Entourage” had taught me that before you get famous, you need to feel famous. The Porsche would be perfect.

When I handed the leaseholder for the Porsche a check for $1,200 for that first month, he didn’t bat an eye. It didn’t matter that I was a 22-year-old kid with only six friends in my MySpace Top 8 (including Tom). This was L.A.: the guy knew that keeping up appearances is what living here is all about.

I drove off in my brand-new, sub-leased Porsche. To make the car look like my own, I immediately put on my University of Michigan license plate that read “GO BLUE.” I was ready for one hell of a summer.

The Porsche had magical powers. I always thought that driving an expensive car to pick up women was a myth. I soon learned that having a sweet ride is a much easier way to woo women than doing things like calling them and listening to their problems.

That summer in L.A. was my first real taste of adulthood. Just like the white girls on “The Hills,” back in 2006, the nightclubs of Hollywood were calling my name. One night at closing time, I stepped out of one of the many Hollywood hotspots that lined the Sunset Strip. I hopped in the Porsche, revved the engine, and drove down Sunset Blvd, only to be greeted with TRAFFIC. At 2 a.m. Welcome to L.A., I thought to myself.

While idling my Porsche, waiting for the light to turn, I look over and see a hot older brunette driving next to me. Other guys are yelling at her from their cars and the backs of cabs, doing anything to get this woman's attention. You can tell she doesn't mind. She's smiling back. These guys may have a shot, I thought

At the next light, we pull up side by side. The congestion on Sunset has cleared away and for a moment I feel like we’re the only two cars on the road. The brunette glances at me. I glance back at her with my best “fuck me” eyes. This was my “Entourage” moment, I thought. Unlike the guys hollering at her from the other cars, I play it cool and don’t say a word.

We both rev our engines and take off. This is now a race. Soon we’re going 70 mph along the winding roads that run through Beverly Hills. The chase continues until we both hit the same red light. We look at each other and laugh.

Her beautiful lips say the words “That was fun.”

“Yeah,” I respond, trying to hold back my grin.

While we’re stopped at the red, I have a moment to get a better view of this gorgeous woman. She looks like a slightly older Carmen Elecktra: rockin’ bod, big boobs (probably fake), and a sexy smile.

“I like your hat, I’m from New York,” she says. I was wearing a fitted Yankees cap. I acted like I was from New York too. Out here in L.A., us New Yorkers gotta stick together, I thought.

“You’re cute,” she says. I noticed that the light is about to turn green. I asked myself, WWBVCD (What Would Black Vinny Chase Do)? This was my moment to have the confidence of a B+ actor who had just made the jump from “Queens Boulevard” to “Aquaman.” I needed to hurry up and go for it.

“Pull over,” I tell her, and she does. We both pull over onto a side street and get out of our cars.

We chat for a few minutes. Our conversation is a typical one until she asks me “What do you do out here?”

“You don’t recognize me?!” I say, like I’m insulted. Being the Black Vinny Chase is getting easier by the day, I tell myself.

She laughs and I can tell she feels old and out-of-date.

“No, who are you?” she asks again with an excited, anticipatory tone.

“I’m an actor,” I lie. “I just got my first two-million dollar check today.”

Soon, we were fully making out. Her breasts felt as good as I thought they would. They were definitely fake, but not too firm. I hiked up her dress and put my fingers inside her. She was already so wet. Then she stopped me.

“Guess how old I am,” she asked, but it was more like a command.

“I don’t know, 28? 30?” I said. She was clearly over 35, but I didn’t want to lose my chance to fuck a hot older woman in a Porsche on Sunset Blvd.

“I’m 42,” she replied without hesitation. We continued making out.

“I used to be in Hustler,” she whispered into my ear. I took her word for it. I was a successful actor with a two-million-dollar contract. Hooking up with centerfolds was par for the course.

“Do you wanna see me move my clit,” she asked, again more like a command. I was confused. 

Then she opened up her car door and slid sideways into the driver’s seat. She spread her sexy legs and lifted up her skirt, revealing the fact that she wasn’t wearing any underwear. She spread her Hustler-approved pussy before me and used her middle and index finger to touch herself.

Somehow, my mouth fell into her clit. Don’t know how that happened. My knees hit the pavement as I continued to go down on her, giving this woman literal road head. She was moaning loudly, aggressively grabbing the steering wheel and the stick shift, pulling at my dick through my jeans.

She managed to unzip my pants and I stood up, fully erect. She pulled my dick out and proceeded to give me head. As her lips smacked against my body, I heard her Motorola Razor ring about a dozen times, but she didn’t pick up.

Then she sat up quickly, saying she had to go.

“No, don’t go yet!” I said, my dick still at attention. “Let’s get in the back and fuck for a little.”

I don’t know why I suggested we fuck in the Porsche. After giving each other road head in front of the car for at least 20 minutes, I suddenly felt like we should maintain some level of modesty by hooking up in the car, like we were two high school kids necking in the woods and afraid of being caught by the cops. Or worse, our parents.

She contemplated my offer for a minute, but then pulled her dress down and said she had to go. Her flip phone continued to ring every 30 seconds. Instead of pulling me into the Porsche and giving this 22-year-old kid the night of his life, she gave me her number.

“No worries, you’ll see me at the BET awards,” I said confidently. Before I lied and told her I was an actor, she said she was a makeup artist and in L.A. because she was working the BET Awards.

“Okay,” she said, grinning in anticipation of us running into each other again. The hot brunette got back in her car. I hopped into my Porsche and drove down Sunset, heading home to Westwood.

Being an adult is going to be awesome, I thought.