IS HONESTY REALLY THE BEST POLICY?

There are times when I will admit, I want to be lied to.

1) All the girls are out, heading into Geisha House for some sushi. Following our raw fish treats, we plan to hit up Le Deux. I'm wearing new Joe's that I picked up at Bloomie's just for tonight, and I ask "do you like my new jeans?" The answer is ALWAYS yes, they're rad. Especially, when there's nothing that one can do about it!

2) I am obsessively texting my ex-boyfriend while completely drunk. No, I am not crazy, is the answer. I am a smart girl, I know you are merely being a good friend by not calling me an insane bitch.

3) I'm going through a tough break-up, therefore, on the Hagen Doz diet, I am PMSing, and about to head to Cabo for a wedding. Do not tell me I look fat. When I ask, I am looking for someone to lie to me... so do it!

Ok, now that I'm sure you get the very clear picture about when lying is actually not a bad idea. I would like to give everyone a chance to get a good feel for one more lie that is actually not a bad to tell.

Saturday night, I'm heading down south to Playa for a drunken night with my sidekick, Writer Chick (actually I am more of the side kick but it is my story). I want tequila shots, and hot boys drooling over my new jeans (they really are hot btw, not the someone has to lie to you hot). I have been working my ass out, and therefore, this skinny bitch is wearing a shirt that the roomie, Bossman, says is "hot," by the way I don't think he's EVER said those words to me before, so I know tonight is special. We look hot, and are both desperate for a piece of ass.

When we finally arrive, there is a room full of two types of men, first, sexy 30 somethings that are looking for a little action (silent YAY), and second, the others are still nursing. So of course, me and Writer Chick mark our territory at the bar, when a nice guy approaches. There's small talk and laughter, until I turn around to find that Writer Chick is MIA, having disappeared into the sea of little boys, I was encouraging her to stay away from. Then I turn around to find her talking to, perhaps, the sexiest two hunks in the bar.

Score. It's been a while since my undersexed body has felt a man touch the inside of my panties, so I'm pretty stoked about her find in the corner of the bar.

We chat with boys, flirt, drink more beverages. Then, I learn that my new friend, The Hockey Player, and I actually share mutual friends. Loads of them actually, to the point where I couldn't believe I had never met this guy before. But who knows I was drunk, from tequila, so there's a chance I did know him but just didn't remember.

Then, the night was about to end. And hind sight is 20/20, so I know I made a mistake when I offered up my digits to the man who clearly wasn't looking for them.

Are you ready for this?

He said to me "No, I don't want your number, I won't ever call."

Ugh. That sucks, but at least the man's honest.

But here is where it gets ugly. He later decided that since his friend wanted to get busy with mine, that he may as well take me home too.

There will be no boots knocking this night, due to his colossal mistake. Even his friend will wake up with a hang over and blue balls, but I'm quite happy that they will both pay honestly. It's the idea of the team. When one team member breaks the 24 hour rule and drinks the day before a game, the whole team will run!

So what, I may have called him a few ugly names before it was over. Loser, Fuck Off, I hate you (maybe), the others who knows.

But what can I say, his begging annoyed me, and honestly was a bit pathetic after he put all the cards on the table. Hey, I'm a poker player, I know when to hold 'em and when to fold 'em. Apparently he didn't.

But for me the Patron made me do it! I am sorry for the name calling, Hockey Player, but next time, just take the number. No harm, no foul.

FRIENDLY ONE NIGHT STAND

Today I had to go to the valley, ugh, but I held my head up high, and jumped into my beat up Landcruiser, climbed the hill crossing over into the valley on the 405. As reluctant as I am to force myself to over to the smog filled hot box, most of Los Angeles tries to avoid, I knew that should I decided to fulfill the craving of a good romp in the hay with some new, gorgeous, perfectly fit, lover boy could be in the cards. New territory, new meat!

First I meet up with my friends, Dancer Girl and Emotional Disturbance (this is a man by the way). After collecting at Dancer Girls wedded, (probably over sexed) home, we headed towards Aguora. I am heading deeper into the valley, for margaritas.

Upon arrival, there are 25 super sexy firemen having some sort of "hot dude" convention. BINGO. Who's idea was this place, and why am I just finding out about it????? Didn't the memo go around about my lack of sex, with someone other than myself, and/or The Rabbit? This, to me, is like hitting the Triple Diamond on the slot machine.

The MasterCard commercial would be, 1) Price for a margarita at BAJA CANTINA in Agoura Hills, CA, $6.50 + tip, 2) Price of gas to drive from Beverly Hills, CA to Agoura Hills, CA $9.28, 3) Undersexed woman, desperately seeking a good night of unattached, hair pulling sex, then walking into a room full of testosterone, PRICELESS.

That was until, the minute of absolute defeat happened. Emotional Disturbance, walked in from parking the car, and immediately put his (very cute, but not nearly as available as the 25 men sitting, staring at me) arm around me. He walked in and pissed all over me, as if I was his territory.

Fuck. He's going to pay now. I'm going to make him shop with me, drown out his unavailable emotions until finally by tonight I can sit on him and do very dirty things to this man.

Yes, we shopped, this shopping included more day drinking. We hit up one shop, then one bar, one shop, one bar. We slowly but surely became a hot mess.

We stumbled back to Dancer Girl's house, where her old man, Camera Boy was waiting, dressed. "Damn it guys, we have Emotional Disturbance's birthday dinner tonight, and now I'm stuck with your drunk asses!"

We dined on sushi, drink more cocktails. I gently rubbed against him while enjoying the delicious meal.

Dinner's over. I'm ready to go home. Well, not my home.

Cut to.

The next morning. Hung over. Naked. But the good news is, I know where I am. Emotional Disturbance, up and happy, holding a cup of tea, Advil, and ready to hop in the hot tub. I didn't realize there would be morning tea, but I am OK with it. But I do have one question.

Where are my clothes?

As he pulls my shirt out of a pile of sheets on the floor, "Well, here's your shirt, I think you jeans are downstairs on the kitchen table, panties on coffee table, there's one of your shoes...."

Well, I guess all I could say to my hopeful more constant Fuck Buddy, was HAPPY FUCKING BIRTHDAY!

Existential Crisis of A Booty Call

The Fuckbuddy crisis has been explored over and over again, with many citing emotional differences between men and women as the main reason why this particular situation simply does not work. Well, let's take a closer look, deep inside my EXISTENTIAL CRISIS OF A BOOTY CALL.

Last night as soon as my work dinner was wrapping up over 2 or 3 martini's and Century City's X BAR, I looked over at this new familiar face sitting across from me and said "I desparately need to get laid." Her response, not knowing me too well, was this... "Well how long has it been?" Of course, I won't waste your time with the details of exactly how long it has been, mostly because it's oddly embarressing when the last time was. But to give you an idea of exactly it's been since I have a man between my legs, I will happily tell you her reply to my answer, "OH MY GOD, you REALLY need to get laid!" So this is how last night's booty call crisis came about.

I texted to the man of the hour, "It seems as though you may be scared." The poor jerk off replies "I'm still at work :(." Me being the spicy one in this seemingly, dull relationship, says "Why don't you come over tonight so that I can be a bad influence?" His reply "Where do you live?" By the way boys, this reponse implies, "I am on my way."

I get excited, sprint home, quickly popping into my favorite wine store for a little bit of liquid ice breaker. Jump quickly in the shower, freshing up. Then. Nothing. An hour goes by. Then two. Finally, he responds, "So were you thinking tomorrow or Thursday night?"

How the fuck do you respond to the pansy, who wants to schedule a one night stand?

I am truly at a loss of words here. I don't know how to respond, or how to feel about this. Did I do something? I mean I thought causal sex was what he meant when he told one of my closest peeps, that he works to much for dating. Am I wrong? I mean, this is either him planning our sexual escapade's for two nights from now, or is he planning a date. Because the bottom line here, is YOU'RE NOT EMOTIONALLY AVAILABLE. Therefore, I'm not going to become emotionally available to you... but I will acknowlegde that insanely intense chemistry we have, and I would love for you to do very naughty things to me. So I'm not about to start planning a time that I have to sit down with you and learn how you like your coffee, or hear about your brother's wedding, because honestly, I don't care. I don't want you to know my favorite color, or movie, or what flowers you should send when you've been such an ass that you know you owe me something colorful that will make my office smell lovely.

I want to get excited when my phone vibrates in my pocket, dreaming about your fabulous cock slidding into me. I only want to hear from you in the middle of the night, when my BAC is over the legal limit. When my inhibitions are not standing in the way of jumping on top of you, or caring that my room is dirty.

So, I don't want flowers from you. I don't want anything from you, except of course the occassional fuck. Isn't that what you said you wanted too?

eFriction

Internet dating, technology has made everything so easy. We can shop for that adorable little dress that we need for the upcoming wedding, in which the man that I used to think I was going to marry will attend with his wife and two children. Joy. We know that I'll be the life of the party and you'll be the one with the little tikes that everyone will gaga and googles over. And of course, I will wonder which is better, to be the cutest couple or the loudest drunk. Humm. For now, I guess the single, and undersexed existence only can be related to being the loudest drunk, so that's the best for now. The grass is always greener.

I asked my newly married BFF, "how did you meet your little hottie?" The internet. Humm. I'll give it a go!

So I have been purusing the net to locate a manly men to come over and rock my world for about 5 months now. You know when I started I was told that I was taking on a second job. Who knew that that would actually be the case. Now I wake up each morning to find a lovely array of undersexed desparate men in my inbox. Oh look, male me's. All nudging me to return their emails, or answer their questions... I haven't figured out why any well educated doctor thought that asking questions like "What is your idea of adventure?" was a good plan when getting to know your future lifelong bedmate. That bedmate that we will one day have to make ourselves go home to and fuck, even when the idea completely repulses us, share money with through the good times and the bad, and yes, wake up smelling their stinky ass breath every morning for the rest of our lives.

Beligerant drunk. Maybe that is the way to go. At least that way, there's a frequent new man in it for me!

Harem of Husbands

Traveling. Ah. Yes. How lovely to spend three weeks abroad, living amongst a fabulous new culture for as many weeks as our slave drivers can possibly spare. Well this year, as odd as it seemed, I choose EGYPT for my lovely holiday. Figuring that I'd be so far away and so out of touch that no one could reach me for their typical vacation taunting questions.

24 hours prior to travel, anxiety. Lot's and lot's of anxiety. Is this trip going to be fun? OMG, what if I hate it and I have to spend the only three week of my year in a HORRIBLE place?

Cut to. Landing Cairo International Airport. Stinky, exhaust fumes, smog... Pollution everywhere. The worst nightmare, is already upon us, and the worst part about it, is that I'm already here. So I can't skip out on the flight now.

Chaos.

"I have to pee." "I have to pee before we clear customs."

I enter the smoke filled bathroom, there are two stalls for this "International" Airport. And people are smoking in them. In walks an Egyptian woman, followed by a team of mini Egyptians, children. Momma Egyptian, immediately turns to the bathroom attendant and hands her the baby in her arms. While the bathroom attendant is smoking up the bathroom, that only has two stalls!

Yikes, this is looking pretty bad. What have we done to ourselves????

Cut to 45 minutes later, 3 marriage proposals, and after we had enlisted the help of two of the hottest tour guides in town.

I guess you could say, as luck would have it, it all took a gigantic turn of events the moment that me and my new traveling companion, SPICE GIRL stepped out on the streets of Cairo. Wow. It's quite lovely here. It's like we're movie stars on the streets of Manhattan, minus of course the skyscrapers and posh clothing.

Here is how it begins. One lovely husband after another falls right into place, though most of them were named Mohammad, they were all rather adorable and charming.

First, Mido (real name Mohammad by the way). Perhaps the hottest man alive on planet Earth. He begged me to talk to him. How often in La La Land has any dame been begged to merely speak to the most beautiful man on the street? Never I say! Well, that would be a never for me, of course. Even pleading with me to be his wife. And still to this day, a few months after departing my beloved land, still begs for my hand in marriage.

Second, Meyer, this story will follow this blog with a much longer blog, it will be titled, "Cheating Allowed, Only In Egypt, The Undersexed Girls Guide to Not Getting Laid."

Third, the most important of all, every street vendor, taxi driver, fruit stand guy,
concierge, etc. These were the best. Everywhere Spice Girl and I went, they whistled, they charmed, they flirted, they proposed, they cut their prices, they were for all purposes, puddy in our hands. These Mohammad's were truly amazing.

So here it is, the book of Mohammad's:

1) Mohammad, tour guide to the South Africans. He likes hash, coffee, loud women (oooh, I fit that description), and most importantly, he's not accepting a nice free piece of ass without having to chase it!

2) Mohammad, the jewerly salesman, he only spoke French, but managed to figure out how to say "I love you," in English. And by the time I left the store, could even propose.

3) Mohammad, the art dealer. Ah, lovely. The art dealer, perhaps my favorite. He managed to allow me to talk him down from $340 American Dollars to $100 American Dollars and he even through in a couple of bonus pieces. This Mohammad was the first to actually offer me camels, but of course those camels were offered to my tour leader. Apparently, since it's a trade of possessions, I could never actually own the camels.

4) Mohammad, the street vendor. "How many camels?"

Did I open the door of the camels with the art dealer?

5) Mohammad, the head maid guy/towel creature creator. Everyday when Spice Girl and I arrived back to our room, there was a Mohammad waiting by our door, awaiting our reaction to whatever new animal had taken over our room during our absence. The person sitting on the bed dressed in Spicy's clothing was the scariest.

6) Mohammad, the bartender. He got me drunk, I still can't figure out how he didn't get me to marry him in my drunkened vacation haze. It must be due to lack of experience with the wand of pleasure!

I won't bore you with the rest of them, however, they certainly were the highligh of the trip. And here's the absolute best thing about having all of the Mohammad's, I could pack them in my huge suitcase, bring them home with me, and if I choose to hide them from each other, to avoid any outrageously jealous outbursts, I would never have to worry about getting their names mixed up!

But seriously, right now I'm not ready for one boyfriend (or boytoy even apparently), so for now I have to pass. But be assured that when I'm thirty five and the clock is ticking... I'm moving to Egypt. Someone there will certainly give me the little bundle of responsibility that every woman dreams of!

Giving up...

Giving up, it's one of the hardest things to do. And people give up on lots of things dreams, lovers, or even friends.

They say the more you love someone, the more you can hate that person. Well...

You know, the feeling you get when you meet the man you think you're going to marry. That feeling that makes your toes curl, your heart flutter, and your eyes water. Yes, that feeling, the one that makes your words come out all wrong, your hands sweat, and your brain to think things that make absolutely no sense what-so-ever. It's not about sex, or anything dirty, it's simply about the person's body chemistry that makes your blood pressure rise.

Now imagine the opposite of that. This is where the "hating" part of the equation comes in. There is a flurry of wailing tears, of rage, anger, frustration, and pure disappointment. Disappointment because we all struggle to allow ourselves to be vulnerable to each other, and then after we piss ourselves in front of God and everyone else, we get pissed on.

So finally, after years of loving, hating, and feeling completely devoid of feel over one man. I decided that enough is enough.

Giving up. One must give up at some point. Move on.

And even allow ourselves to be vulnerable again.

So I give up, by being the adult, I say to The Writer "I can't do this anymore, we must move on."

He replies, "You are absolutely right, I need to get my shit together. I drank too much, I party too much, I have too many other girls in my life..."

SHRREEECHH. Halt.

"Other women??? WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, cheating on me?"

Wait, we're breaking up. I don't want to know about your life, or ANYTHING ELSE, that includes the other hoochie mama's you have coming around."

Ended.

So I thought. Until I started getting 11pm-2am texts and calls. "Hey B-Rabbit" blah blah... always oddly uncreative coming from one of the most talented writers alive.

I ignore.

The text/calls become more and more, until I decide perhaps maybe this is physical, we can just fuck. Every once in a while, at 11pm-2am we will decide to use each others bodies as lusty playgrounds, full of the excitement and joy we have giving each other for a very long time. Hum. I like this idea. It's free unattached sex, from someone I know can do it to me right!

We text sex for WEEKS (but it feels more like MONTHS).

"I can't wait to feel you big hard cock slide inside of me again."

"I want you to sit on my face."

Stuff like that... but obviously it gets dirtier.

Finally, after hours of debating a date, we choose Friday night. (In my mind, a Friday night, that's a date night, what if I get a date for that night and decide to go home with him). Instead, my date was my typical Friday night date with all my girlfriends and a bunch of booze. I got drunk. I forgot. Was at another man's house, finishing off a bottle of wine, hitting a pipe.

The writer, he got upset. This time he broke up with me. Some long email about how much he loves me and didn't think "hitting and quitting with me was such a lovely idea."

Whew, OK, maybe I didn't get laid this weekend, but at least I got rid of the man I have been trying to get rid of for years now.

Fourth of July, away for the weekend with another man. What happens, the asshole texts, and calls. Good thing I didn't get service.

It's as if he knows when I'm with another man, and comes back into my life at that moment.

I WANT TO GIVE UP. I WANT TO MOVE ON. I really want to be able to let go. But when I hear his voice, or feel his touch. I melt. My body hurts, my eyes water, my hands sweat. I am in love with a man who can't love me the way I need to be loved. And times isn't healing. It isn't helping, if anything it makes it harder.

So, today, I give up on the idea of being truly in love with only one man. I give up on this idea, because I have realized that I will always love more than one man. The one that I can not have, The Writer, and whomever I choose to exchange vows with.

In Da Club

So, Saturday night, against my most sacred beliefs, I went to a Hollywood club with a handful of hot, sexy babes. We dressed in our hottest, BCBG dresses, and red bottomed shoes, then hopped in the nearest cab. In hopes of finding the love of our lives, heading towards the Hollywood sign, we were free to roam the streets with the most beautiful men and women in the world. Until of course, everything came to a screeking halt.

That was the moment I realized my whole love life was quickly falling apart. The warning that some women are still single because they are too picky, or too flaky, or play by the wrong "rules", or some women put off the "get the hell away from me vibe." UGH. Am I one of those women OR is that I find myself too good to be swaying from side to side in the sweat pool, on the dance floor, and with a shit load of horny, drunk men who have no manners rubbing against my lady lumps. No, I don't want to give you my number. I don't even want you to take me to the nicest restuarant in LA, and have me sip the most fabulous martini's in town. What I do want, is for YOU to leave me alone.

Cut to. The next morning. Waking up in a pool of drool, and reaching for the dreadful person I managed to drag home with me. I keep reaching. and reaching... nothing. No one.

OH NO.

This is happening to me. Finally, after all the years of finding myself laying next to one big mistake, whose name I have either failed to get, or neglected to remember, I have gotten what I always thought I wanted. This morning, I have graduated to waking up, realizing that ending up alone, watching the cartoon network, is boring when there is no random guy to laugh about it with.

Am I getting to old to bring someone home for a romp in the sheets? Or did I get too drunk?

Or perhaps, I have found myself to be entirely too good for any man alive.

I think for now, I'll settle with believing that I got to drunk.

We'll face reality another morning.

Looking for someone or anyone??

In love, we can explain our experiences as either very different, or quite the same. There are two types, 1) Romeo and Juliet love, 2) giddy, school girl love. So I met a man. A very cute southern man who happens to look like a very cute southern bloke. This is the sense that he wears Oakleys (with the string that goes around your neck), and enjoys fishing (and probably hunting too). But the point is when I met him I felt like a giddy little school girl. The kind of bubbleheaded, giggly, silliness that you don't know where all of that crazy energy came from.

Immediately, I was in love. My palms were wet in anticipation of the first kiss, the first hug, and of course him visiting my amazing digs in the City of Angels (more bumping and grinding, YAY). But it was when he got here, that all of the love in my heart would not ever be enough to want to deal with our difference of opions on many, many, issues.

So, for a moment in time, I thought that I was in love.

Then on my home turf, I got to know my southern gentleman. Quickly realizing that his love of hunting and fishing wouldn't fit so well into my anti-gun, anti-republican, pro-choice lifesyle. I mean I did give money to the Hilary Clinton campagne.

He didn't know what to do when he found himself knee deep in designer shoes, when he walked into my closet. And when he learned that Bloomie's was not a code name for my panties, I think it upset him slightly. But these things never occured to me, until the moment he asked why women would pay so much to buy designer jeans, that's when it dawned on me, that he couldn't be the one for me. He doesn't understand why the only men I will always vow to remain loyal to are Joe, William Rask, Jimmy Choo, and Mark Jacobs. As they are my one and only True Religion.

At this point, I began to contemplate all of my past relationships, and wondered to myself, am I looking for someone special, or anyone who'll have me?

I admit, that I am a little obsessive and even a little compulsive, sometimes a little closed off when it's someone I truly do care about. So perhaps, it could be The Republican, who clearly I will never end up with, who may be the type that can tame this lioness (since he's the only type I can actually open up to). But the reality of it is would I settle on someone less than perfect (for me) because I can't tell the guy that I really love anything at all?

It's highly doubtful, but more probable as I get closer to the end of my child baring years. Hell, I have a ways to go. So I'll just tumble around in the back seat of my car with less the amazing until Mr. Flawless comes along (and stays until I talk to him - I mean eventually you have to say something)!

Wedding Bell Blues

You know how most girls get really sad and teary eyed when they see their best buddies get married. They weep and sob, until the open bar starts. Then it's all about getting drunk, dancing our asses off and of course, getting laid. Also I'll add, for some of us closet smokers, sneaking a few ciggies on the back porch.

Well 'tis the season, eh? I have never been in a wedding before. Honestly, I'd only been to my friend's parents second (and often third) weddings growing up. All of my friends that were married thus far, merely said their vows in front of the town judge, because they were knocked up. So, barring the few courthouse nuptials I had witnessed this year, was a new beginning. I was excited, because people always talked about how great the sex was at wedding, and with my dry spell all of the wedding I was hitting up, there was sure to me a wealth of juicy details for my LA girls.

This year, out of the twenty six of my fellow high school graduates, 12 got married. I was in 7 weddings, and had to do guest book for 2, one of which was my grade school boyfriend, whom we'd promised each other to marry if we didn't have someone by 30. Well, he found someone, and I didn't. So here I am at his wedding begging the guests to give their Johnny Hancock to the overpriced "guest book" which of course they'll hardly ever look at again. Thoughtfully, my gift to the bride was simply not signing. That way she could forget about me, and of course all those battles that they had about her insecurities that she felt about me! After hearing the drunken, badgering from the new wifey, the previous night at the rehearsal dinner, I even gave her the gift of staying out of as many wedding photos as possible. I thought she'd appreciate that, especially since the first thing she said to me when I arrived was, "Damn, how do you keep that body." I politely, declined to give this southern lady my secret, but I did say, "I guess I got lucky" simply sparing her the details of my harsh diet and Pilate's schedule!

Me, no I'm not depressed about the situation here. I'm happy that I'm here on my 10th wedding of the year (this time my best friend who was a year younger than me), I am still single, without even having a man by my side, I guess I could have hired one. Everyone should be jealous, I'm single. Free to roam and travel the world, and bone any many who sparks some sort internal pheromone. I can look, touch, play with anyone I want, and no one will care.

But the sad news is, I'm on the dance floor surrounded by the group of people who used to be my safety net, along with a sea of strange faces along side of them. Several of the familiar people, vowed to marry me. One of which even wanted to marry me for green card, once. I kindly refused, citing we were too young to exchange vows. But who were the alien people around us? Enjoying our fun. And the little rug rats that the girls are ooohing and aaahhing over, who brought them here? My hazy realization was here. I was alone, with no man, no single friend, and no one to dance to with. Not even a single father of one of my friends.

The booze kept me going, and helped with the front of pure bliss.

Wait, I thought I never wanted to get married. What is going on with my clock. It's ticking. Do I want to get married or laid?

Post crisis/Patron shots, I sit on the back steps to the Reception Hall, silently hiding the fact that I'm a smoker when intoxicated, when my best friend, the bride joins me. In a deep southern accent, despite her long standing New York City living, "Brandy, you know that you are my best friend in the whole world, right," the long pause indicated to me that she was going to say something that I did not want to hear. More pausing. Anxiously, I say, "what woman?!?!?" She responds, "Bunny, why are you still single, we are all starting to worry about you? Last night my old man asked me if you were a lesbian."

OH MY GOSH, was I wrong about this. I thought they may be jealous of my single lifestyle, or they didn't think twice about it but now I'm learning that they may thing I'm gay! WHAT THE FUCK!

Undersexed, and overly drunk, my world was spinning. These "married" people are not normal, or sane, I MUST get back to west side of the world before something terrible happens, like a witch trail or worse, more people think I'm not looking for the one thing that I think about every day, hour and minute... dirty, hot, sweaty, hair pulling, sex with a man!

Drunk Dialing

Should be something reserved for the completely wasted. Wait. Sometimes, unfortunately I get really wasted.

Cinco De Mayo.

Yes, friends, this is the day of debauchary. And this year, I made sure that I did it with great dignity. Well that was of course until 1:30am, when I somehow managed to find the number to my ex-boyfriend, from YEARS ago. Ok, maybe more like two months ago, but remember in LA time, that's a decade.

I text "Hi gorgeous, I have a hottie friend that I would love for you to meet."

"Where are you?" He responds.

Where were we. Oh no. I bellow to my impecibly dressed girlfriend "where the hell are we?"

Sunset Beach.

This is the new hot club, I didn't know anything about because I never go to the hip places. Crowds, lines, and cover charges really just aren't my thing. But we were there. And he was jonesing to meet my girlfriend.

Ex-boyfriend, or more honestly ex-hook up, shows up. More like, Jimmy Choo. Yes, the shoe guy. I was so drunk that I wanted to hook my friend up with THE SHOE GUY.

In my drunkened stubber, I yell to the door guy, "let 'em in, he's with me." Looking back on it, the door didn't even know who I was, but to my surprise (now), Jimmy Choo, was escorted to the party.

Cut to....

Next morning.

Aching head.

Blurred vision.

"Shit, where the hell am I?"

"Fuck"

Damn it.

How the hell did I end up here?

I roll over, spot a handful of beautiful pumps, YIKES. I hurriedly try to sneak out, when I hear from the kitchen. "Baby, I made pancakes."

I didn't want pancakes. I didn't want a night of meaningless sex with the man that I truly wanted to pleasure my friend. I want to know where my car is, and if he doesn't know that much, perhaps, just a ride home.

Game over.

I am a commitmentphobe... buyer beware.