About Me

I used to wear a tie tight enough to strangle the soul. Corporate meetings, fluorescent lights, endless numbers on screens—my life was spreadsheets and small talk. Then I slipped out of that cage and put on a different uniform: a guard’s badge and a black suit.

At first, it was just a paycheck. Security work was supposed to be temporary—part-time, easy money, sometimes even overtime that padded the wallet just enough to breathe. But Los Angeles has a way of pulling you sideways. One job led to another, and suddenly I wasn’t just watching doors. I was standing in the corners of discreet swinger clubs where secrets moved thicker than the smoke in the air. I was stationed at lofts that held jam sessions nobody advertised, where the music hit raw, untamed, and honest.

It wasn’t for the faint of heart. Nights were heavy with temptation, with trouble, with things you can’t unsee once you’ve seen them. But in the strangest way, those hours filled the cracks in me that corporate life had left hollow. Guarding people in their most vulnerable, wild, or reckless states—there was truth in it. A raw humanity that the boardrooms had never shown me.

Somehow, in that blur of velvet ropes and after-hours music, I found myself more whole than I’d ever been behind a desk.

The pandemic was when everything cracked open. The world shut down, touch became a crime, and people holed themselves up behind screens like prisoners in their own apartments. My old coworkers with their ergonomic chairs and home offices sank deeper into their cages—day after day, four walls pressing tighter, minds slipping into places darker than the headlines.

Me? I was out in the night. I was in the line of fire, where people refused to let life stop. De-escalating drunk arguments before they turned bloody, guiding hands off the wrong hips, making sure the beautiful women—draped in dresses that spoke louder than any corporate presentation—got to their cars safely. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was real.

Every time I stepped between two angry men, every time I felt a grateful hand brush my arm after pulling someone out of a bad situation, I felt something deeper than a paycheck. It fed a part of me I didn’t know was starving. My base instinct, that raw human soul that corporate life had starved, finally had its meal. Protection, presence, contact—it was survival work, in a way, not just for them, but for me.

Where others lived in sterile fear, I lived in the pulse of reality. And that line was drawn clear: them in their cages, me in the chaos. And I’d never felt more alive.

The nights became longer, the faces stranger, and the whispers heavier. At first, it was a job. Then it became something else. The discretion required in those clubs, those after-hours sessions, those celebrity hideaways—it didn’t just become part of my work. It became part of me.

Now, when I walk down Sunset or slip through an unmarked door in the Hills, I carry a thousand stories in my chest. They aren’t mine to spill—not in gossip, not in cheap confessions—but they’ve become my muse. They feed the pages of my novel, Gaze of the Basilisk, each chapter humming with the tension between desire and danger, privacy and spectacle, grace and brutality.

This life isn’t for the faint of heart, but it is real. And for those brave enough to step beyond the velvet rope, to taste the city not as a tourist but as a heartbeat, I say this: enjoy it. Immerse yourself. Learn from it.

And if you ever need someone to ease that crossing, to walk you past the rope and into the pulse of Los Angeles with a strong guiding hand—hire me. I’ve made it my business to keep the chaos at bay while you live the story.