*Not an erotic story per se, but one with a lot of sex and drugs.*
In 1999, at a film festival in Berlin, Denny met one of the bevy of beautiful but marginally talented “models and aspiring actresses” who hang around such events. He said you could tell the real actresses from the trash—his word—by how perfectly they dressed and made themselves up: the real actresses were content to be imperfect, while the models and aspiring types couldn’t afford to be. The fateful day was a case in point. Seated on one side of him was a blonde American dressed in a pink Star Trek t shirt and blue jeans, popping her gum and giggling with an ancient man whom Denny did not recognize was Billy Wilder; three years later this girl was a movie star named Scarlett Johansson.
On the other side, wearing a silver evening dress in anticipation of the cocktail party about to start, was a statuesque knockout with a perfect oval face and mahogany brown hair swept into a Jackie Kennedy bouffant; she made furtive eye contact with Denny and positioned her left arm so that he had a glimpse of her not inconsiderable cleavage. This was Marinka.