Most of his girls had blond hair and displayed a pliancy in his big Iowa farmer’s hands that almost alarms him now. “I mean, some of the things that you read about with the Rat Pack, we were doing that!” he says, big brown eyes ablaze. It’s impossible to fully describe the debauchery that his pronunciation of the word that suggests. That conjures a sea of bare tits bobbing in a hot tub. That sounds like a chorus of gymnasts, flight attendants, waitresses, and models all exhaling his name in unison. And, because Kutcher himself seems so agog at the quantity of flesh bestowed upon him, it’s impossible to resent him for trying as much of that as he could handle.
And it’s the memory of that that impels him to mount that couch at 2 o’clock on a workday. “It’s like this,” he says, pumping his legs and bobbing his head to an inaudible beat. “You’re in the club. You’ve got a bottle of vodka. You’re standing up on the couches. You’ve got your right-hand man Puffy standing there. You’ve got Danny and Wilmer and all of our guys hanging out, and the fucking girls are fighting to see who’s going to be behind the table here.” Kutcher points down to the narrow space between the sofa and the coffee table. He’s gyrating now, his voice bellowing in full Kelso squeak, his body squished up against the invisible crowd. “In this area! Like, fucking fighting! Like gouging other bitches out of the way! And then you go, ‘All right, we’re going back to blah blah blah,’ and then you’re moving as a mass through the club, and you pick up about 15 or 20 more along the way. Now you’ve gotten into a car with, like, four select girls and you’re at the new space, and you just start certain things up. It was so ego-fulfilling. It was retarded.”
And then, right in the midst of all that retardation, he met Demi Moore at White Lotus, a trendy Hollywood club. It’s a story that requires him to get up again. An old friend, the cheesecake model and actress Sara Foster, made the introduction. He had no idea who she was. “I knew who Demi Moore was, but I didn’t recognize the woman I was looking at as Demi Moore. I have to tell you, my celebrity cue is really shitty. Owen Wilson was there too that night. I recognized him. I was like, that’s Owen Wilson. Look how cool his hair is.” Still, how can anyone in America—let alone a Hollywood actor who was in his masturbation prime when Striptease was out—not recognize Demi . . . Fucking . . . Moore? “Honestly,” he says finally, “I was, like, jocking some other girl that night. My focus was with hooking up with somebody else.”
These days, the 28-year-old Kutcher has a sweet setup in the Hollywood Hills, in the house he shares with Moore and her daughters. There’s the room with the 60-inch plasma and the three smaller TVs off to the side so he and his friends can do the Elvis thing, watching four football games at once. A full-time chef whips up whatever Kutcher feels like, and she prints up menus whenever dinner guests come by. He’s particularly proud of that wet bar he had installed in the enormous walk-in closet off his and Demi’s bedroom, where he often sits on the sofa getting an early-evening buzz on, with one eye on the game, while Demi gets dressed to go out. He’s logged a lot of hours in that closet, vetting his wife’s ensembles. At first he fumbled the play whenever Demi asked him, “How does this look?” When he replied, “It looks fantastic,” Demi would respond, “Well, I hate it.” Now each time his opinion is requested—and he is asked each time—he has learned to say, “‘How do you feel in it?’ That is the most important thing. Because if she feels good, you’re going to have a good night. If she doesn’t, you’re not.”