Prototype Issue
Destinations of Desire: Getting ‘Hot’ in LA Hotels
By RTLA
(page 1 of 1)It doesn't have to be a special occasion to stay at one of these special overnight get aways. Splurge a little at some of these sexy spots.
“O” for Orlando
In the low-key Northern Italian elegance of the Orlando bar, Bob the savvy bartender delicately pours my usual Bellini. Something in my purse vibrates. My dirty Don Juan, Fabrizio, is running late. Italians take their bloody time making everything; wines, cars, music, shoes and love. Fabrizio’s a world-famous opera star, but that has nunca to do with my devotion. I put up with this divo’s outsized ego because it’s matched by his artistic genius in el nido. Fabi’s meeting con Maestro Domingo. Va bene. Back in the room, I vengefully order two bottles of Iris Vigneti Prosecco, and the luscious north-central-Italy speciality, agnolotti osso buco. Sated, bored, antsy, I try on my pre-tryst buys. Finicky Fabrizio demands una bella figura. I pillaged Vic’s Secret on my way here; Chantal Thomass and Anna Sui are my accomplices in the latest bid for fickle Fabi’s attention. He loves high heels. How predictable, how Italian and how convenient for my shoe obsession. My gilded Vuitton wedgies with the garter belt will get his baton waving. Thank God I brought my PlayStation. This could be a long wait.
The Orlando: Rooms from $209. 8384 W. 3rd St., Los Angeles; 323-658-6600; www.theorlando.com.
Accidental Taming of the Shrewish Euromodel Since I was utterly swamped at the office, my next vacation seemed as distant as a mirage in the post-apocalyptic, globally microwaved Sahara. Burned out, fighting Steve Carell-esque cubicle despair with delusional madness, I arranged a working lunch with my new client and secret crush, the Manolo-wielding, anger-management poster darling, euromodel Tara. As a wedge against possible drama, I chose the colorfully atmospheric, decidedly uncorporate Figueroa Hotel. Half Moroccan oasis, half Spanish hacienda, the vintage 1925 building cast a strange spell as we made our way through ombré-d chiffon wafting seductively in the breeze. En route to the poolside Veranda Bar, I confessed that the ominous clacking of her deadly 5-inch Blahniks and the counter-beat of her swaying derriere in that Gucci suit had me choked up with fear and repressed desire. Recklessly, I shared my best off-the-record stock tips. This yielded a dazzling smile from Tara. In a deep mojito haze, I winked at my longest-running Sports Illustrated fantasy across the rapidly evaporating rum-paved divide. She winked back. An hour later, poof! I’m Aladdin, rubbing this combustible genie in the Casablanca Suite, a veritable Moroccan pleasure den, with a mosaic pool and Jacuzzi. I’ve ridden the magic carpet—transformed from pen-pushing peon to pampered pasha in two hours. Thanks be to Allah and the Figueroa.
Figueroa Hotel: Rooms from $104, Casablanca Suite, $204. 939 S. Figueroa St., Los Angeles; 213-627-8971; www.figueroahotel.com.
Coppola to the Graciela As an up-and-coming, single, overhyped but underpaid, major studio producer, I have a reputation to infect. I am far too squeaky for my own good, and my mojo’s credibility is in question. I’ll never get the respect of Clooney, Owen, Vince or McConaughey—or even props from freakin’ Wilmer Valderrama—if I don’t show up as a player. It was suggested by my unofficial publicist (OK, so he’s my weird Scientologist roommate, Bill) that I take “meetings” with the hottest talent at the classiest hotel in Burbank: the Graciela. Conveniently close to my Pass Ave. office, it seemed like a plan. I don’t want to get fired for sexploitation but neither can I afford to be the 29-year-old vegan virgin. The Graciela met my needs with the quick check-in, flashy Kobe steaks in its lobby library, seductive rooftop sundeck and tolerant attitude toward my embarrassingly loud, chocolate-dipped-strawberry, rose-petal-tossed deflowering by a Diane Lane-esque casting director. A chance martini-bar encounter with a vegan-curious Sofia led to my career-making meeting with Francis and my indie blockbuster: The Winefather. Break open that Coppola Diamond Merlot and put it on the studio’s bill, please.
Graciela Hotel: Rooms from $189. 322 N. Pass Ave., Burbank; 818-842-8887; www.graciela.com. (Better prices available online.)
Happy Huntley In the lobby of the Huntley Hotel, I spy a wall of white piranhas. Guillermo, in his Dolce & Gabbana suit, whisks me up the glass elevator to the Penthouse restaurant, designed by Thomas Schoos. We pick a cozy spot next to the fireplace, and I order a sea-spray kiss. The sun sinks into the ocean, glass walls framing the pink glow. I gaze up through the skylight and purr. Shall we retire to our signature suite? Oh, yes. From his python chair, Guillermo watches me kick off my Jimmy Choos and slither out of my Riser Goodwyn dress. I slip into the tub as he slips in a steamy DVD and swivels the flat-screen plasma. He joins me, Gilchrist & Soames bubbles up to his tight abs. Can’t wait to try out those Egyptian cotton sheets.
Huntley Hotel: Signature Suite, $550. 1111 Second St., Santa Monica; 310-394-5454; www.thehuntleyhotel.com.
Aphrodisiacal Avalon I pull up to the swanky Avalon Hotel in a vintage Jag. My date, a chick named Corina, has already picked a nook out back at Blue on Blue, right by the hourglass-shaped pool. Just like her shape, in fact. Far hotter than her online photo. I try to play it cool. She orders a blue martini and a niçoise salad, comments on the modern decor. She’s curious what the rooms look like. Is she serious? I can’t believe my luck. There’s actually a blue moon out tonight. We order dessert to go. Something tells me I won’t be feeling blue in the morning.
Avalon Hotel: Rooms from $289. 9400 W. Olympic Blvd., Beverly Hills; 310-277-5221; www.avalonbeverlyhills.com.
Hot Tomatoes at the Farmer’s Daughter Lexy struts into TART, the hotel’s saucy restaurant, wearing a sexy little gingham dress, her hair in pigtails. She orders a Dita von Teaser cocktail and peers up at me with a coy smile. I’m not buying the innocent act. We both know why we’re here. I grab her by the waist and lead her straight to room No. 101, the No Tell Room, in the corner of the Farmer’s Daughter Hotel. This used to be a rent-by-the-hour joint. Now I’m footing $189. Still a bargain. I shake myself a martini at the wet bar, as blue light bounces off the mirrored ceilings. Lexy sinks into the leather chair, crossing her legs demurely. Give me a break. I toss the two rooster-print pillows to the floor. There’s room for only one cockfight in this bed.
Farmer’s Daughter Hotel: 115 S. Fairfax Ave., Los Angeles; 323-937-3930; www.farmersdaughterhotel.com.
Roughly Royal at the Viceroy The curtains of our private dining cabana at the Viceroy are shut tight. He’s feeding me raw oysters, my favorite: cold and wet on the tongue. As I wash them down with a Sexy Beast champagne cocktail, my napkin falls to the ground. “Fetch it,” I command. He obeys. Good boy. Time for my in-room massage. Passing though the green and white lobby, I lead him to our ocean-view room. I make him sit in the corner and watch. Once I’m satisfied, I slide on my black-leather stiletto boots and pull a pair of cuffs and a riding crop from my bag. His eyes flash with fear. “On your knees,” I say. “Time to kiss the boots.”
Viceroy Hotel: Rooms from $400. 1819 Ocean Ave., Santa Monica; 310-260-7500; www.viceroysantamonica.com.
Miyako, Oh My! Ken wanted discretion. He may be an international movie star, but he began as a starving musician and he still plays a mean trumpet. His salsa band, Tokyo Tempesto, was blowing off steam at the Standard, but we are playing delicate love songs at the quiet Miyako Hotel in Little Tokyo. Eyes never meet eyes in the lobby, where his fame is a moot point. A mouthwatering selection of sushi from the in-house Shinpachi Restaurant awaits us in the neatly appointed Tokyo executive suite. Ken has emerged from his shiatsu massage, mellow and ready. On screen he’s a gallant general, but in the shadows of the Miyako’s minimalist luxury, it is he who stands at attention. Sukinishite, baby!
Miyako Hotel: Rooms from $109. 328 E. First St., Los Angeles; 213-617-2000; www.miyakoinn.com.
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