I Did Coke With My Favorite Pop Star at an LA Bar.
- By: Amanda Coscarelli
This story has been submitted by a LOOP reader…
I’ve lived in Los Angeles long enough to know that the city runs on proximity and confidence. If you stand close enough to the fire long enough, eventually you stop feeling the heat—and sometimes the fire starts talking to you like you belong there.
I didn’t always belong there. At least not mentally. Because here’s the thing no one would ever guess about me if they met me out at a party: I’m one of her biggest fans.
I’m talking lyric-by-lyric, songs-on-repeat-until-Spotify-asks-if-you’re-okay levels of obsession. Alone in my apartment, I perform full concert sets. In public, though? I play it cool. Always cool. That’s my survival skill in LA.
I also happen to be a huge party person. I go out constantly. Not in a sloppy way—more like a strategic way. I know which nights matter, which parties are actually parties, and which bars are just waiting rooms for Instagram stories. One of my regular spots is Tenants of the Trees in Silverlake. If you know, you know. Celebs drift in and out like ghosts. Influencers pretend not to notice them. Most nights are private events, which is exactly why everyone wants to be there.
So when I walked in that night, I wasn’t expecting anything different. Dim lighting, packed patio, everyone dressed like they accidentally nailed an outfit. I ordered a drink, scanned the room—and then my stomach dropped.
She was there.
Not “looks kind of like her” there. Not “LA clone” there. Her. My favorite pop star. The voice I’d cried to. The choreography I knew better than my own phone number. Standing ten feet away from me, laughing, like this was just another Tuesday.
I did not freak out. Externally.
Internally, my brain was screaming, DO NOT RUIN THIS.
My favorite pop star. Standing ten feet away from me, laughing, like this was just another Tuesday.
Somehow—still don’t fully understand how—we started talking. No fan energy. No praise. No “I love your work.” Just normal conversation. Music. LA. Dumb party observations. She was funny. Disarming. Way more chill than I expected. We danced. Casually. Like I hadn’t practiced her choreography in my bedroom a hundred times.
At some point, she leaned in and said, “Bathroom?”
If you’ve ever been to a Hollywood bar, you know exactly what that means.
The bathroom was already crowded, all mirrors and whispers and girls fixing lip gloss they didn’t need. We slipped into a stall like it was the most normal thing in the world. There was a moment—just a beat—where I thought, This cannot be real.
Then it was.
Cocaine with my favorite pop star in a bathroom at Tenants of the Trees. I wish I could say it was glamorous. It wasn’t. It was quick, messy, absurdly casual. And afterward, we laughed like we’d known each other for years.
That night didn’t end there. It never does in LA. We partied until closing, then somehow ended up at the same after-party. Still laughing. Still hanging. Still pretending this wasn’t a story I’d one day tell at every dinner party for the rest of my life.
The wildest part? She followed me on Instagram.
We slipped into a stall like it was the most normal thing in the world.
A week or two later, I was back at Tenants. Same energy. Same crowd. And like the universe wanted to test me again—there she was.
This time, it felt… normal. That’s the scariest part. We hugged. Talked. Danced. Bathroom trip. Again. Another very Hollywood-style detour. Another all-night hang. Another after-party.
And the entire time, I held the line.
She still doesn’t know I’m a fan.
At one point, one of her own songs came on. A song I’ve screamed in my car at red lights. A song I know the choreography to so well my body twitched involuntarily. I had to physically restrain myself from singing along. I nodded my head. Casually. Like it wasn’t altering my brain chemistry.
Afterward, I told my friend everything. How insane it was. How funny it was. How surreal it felt to know that the person whose music soundtracked my life had no idea.
And that’s the thing about LA no one really tells you: sometimes the only thing standing between you and your wildest fantasy is your ability to not say it out loud.
Play it cool. Go to the party. Take the bathroom trip. Don’t break character.
Because apparently, if you play your cards right, you really can become friends with your favorite pop star.
Even if she has no idea.
