Chelsea Handler - My Horizontal Life - A Collection of One-Night Stands

When I finished my drink, I asked him if he wanted to get out of there and go back to his place. His euphoria was nauseating. He told me he was in a white Jeep Cherokee and I told him I'd follow him. I was driving a Toyota Echo at this point, which is a very silly car. It's so little you don't even have to put it in reverse; you just pick it up and turn it around.

Before we left, I informed him I needed to stop at 7-Eleven to get a sandwich. I hadn't really eaten anything of substance in two weeks, and the alcohol was bringing back my craving for something with cheese.

I ran into 7-Eleven while he waited in his car. I got a turkey sandwich out of their "deli case" and the largest bag of Doritos they sold. I hopped back in my car and proceeded to gnaw away at my Doritos and sandwich like a barnyard animal. It was like I was punishing this guy for being so willing. Did I really have to get Doritos, food that leaves your mouth smelling like a Dumpster. I'm surprised I didn't just get a block of jalapeno cheddar to suck on. It was like I was daring him to back out.

We got to his place, and it looked a lot like his personality. Just a bunch of space filler, nothing to really wow you. It looked like he had bought a lot of stuff from IKEA and then decided to refinish it at home. Everything was neat and tidy, but you wouldn't want any of it for yourself.

I sat down on his black pleather sofa and proceeded to make a spread for myself. He put on some Lou Rawls and went in to the bathroom for a couple minutes too long. Maybe he was putting in his diaphragm. By this point I was really considering leaving, but I was enjoying my sandwich and chips too much. Also, I was trying to figure out who the bigger loser was, this guy, or me for being at his apartment.

A couple more minutes passed and then I heard someone whistling. I had to assume it was him because my mouth was full. Then the bathroom door swung open and he walked out.

Now, I've seen guys do some crazy things in the movies but never in real life. He was buck naked, except for a leather neck brace/helmet and a black leather holster. There was a set of shackles around his ankles, but they weren't connected, and he was holding a flashlight.

I had no idea what to make of this. After staring at him for thirty seconds with my mouth full, I managed to ask, "What's up with the flashlight?"

The smile on his face made me wonder if he might be a serial killer.

He started playing with his penis. It was time to put down the sandwich.

"I want you to hit me," he said with a big ugly grin.

I didn't want to appear frightened, so I played along. "I love hitting guys," I told him. I couldn't figure out if he was crazy or just plain stupid. I decided he didn't fit the profile of a serial killer-he was too outgoing.

I was not sleeping with this idiot. No one should have to sleep with this guy.

He came over to the couch and sat down on the side of me that was not occupied by food.

"I love kisses," he whispered, leaning in to make his move.

I held his chest back with my hand. I should have used my sandwich to block him. I was trying to remember if I had my camera in my car. Getting some pictures of him would be fun for years to come, but that would mean spending more time with him.

"Wait," I said, in my most seductive voice. "I have something in my car that I think you are really going to go nuts over."

He got excited. "What is it?" he asked.

"Oh, you're really going to like this."

"How do you know I don't already have it?" he cooed.

"Oh, believe me, you don't have this," I said.

"Okay, sexy, you go get it for Daddy."

This was getting good. I loved that he referred to himself as my father. My dad was going to really get a kick out of this one.

I collected all my belongings, including what was left of my sandwich and bag of Doritos. He asked me why I was taking my food, and I said it was part of the surprise.

Right before I got up from the sofa, I turned and smacked him in the face. I couldn't pass up the opportunity to hit this guy. His nostrils flared and his smile grew so big I thought his head might split open. I smacked him once more for good luck.

I sashayed up to the door without breaking eye contact, walked outside, and went to my car. Then I got in, started the engine, and turned around just in time to see him standing in his doorway, buck naked in his get-up, with his penis dangling in front of him.

I rolled down my window and waved good-bye. He started to wave back and then stopped and looked confused.

If I were a believer in the theory of "rock bottom," this could very well have been it. As it stands, I am not a believer. Rock bottom is for sissies, I've hit rock bottom dozens of times. I've woken up next to a billy goat, for Christ sakes. You don't just give up!

The result of going home with someone just for the sake of getting back at a boyfriend only ended in disappointment with myself. This clearly wasn't the guy for me or any other human. And sometimes going through the roller coaster of emotions instead of trying to distract yourself from it helps the pain move along more quickly. Even if times are tough and you're enduring a terrible heartache, it's important to focus your anger on a vibrator, not another person.

I WAS AT a little bar in Brentwood called El Dorado with Lydia. One of the reasons I like Lydia so much is that she's easy. The minute a glass of cheap chardonnay hits her collagen-injected lips, she is minutes away from being on her back. We're a great team.

This is also a girl who once sat me down to tell me she had joined a club called Sex Addicts Anonymous, and in response to my laughing said, " Chelsea, it's very serious. It's about being addicted to having sex with strangers."

"Isn't that just being a whore?" I asked her.

She went to a few meetings and then quit, once she realized that any sort of promiscuity was not going to be cured by fifty other people who were all trying to have sex with her.

At El Dorado, we came upon two cute boys whom we had met a couple months before when Lydia went home with one of their friends. She and the guy never spoke again, a true one-nighter. Apparently, Lydia 's dream of getting gang-banged by an entire football team never came to fruition, so she at least wanted to frequent the same circle of guys. Then, whoever was videotaping these affairs would be able to piece it together like a real live gang bang. See? Dreams can come true.

More important, their friend Gavin was a babe. Beautiful. The kind of face no one could say was eh. He was about five-ten and lean but muscular, with black hair and bright blue eyes. He was Ricky Martin cute minus the bounce in his step. He was a bit standoffish and I smelled a challenge.

Since I hadn't had sex with anyone they knew (not that they were aware of, at least), I was deemed the sweet, naive "good girl." I took on my new role with conviction. I talked of the all-girls private school I never attended, the Peace Corps in Guatemala that taught me so much, and how, if I played my cards right, one day I might head up the American Red Cross. It was a winning performance. At one point this guy asked me if I was Christian. I nodded piously and told him that while I don't agree with Jesus on absolutely everything (like not having sex on the first night), I did believe you had to live a life full of morals and goodwill.

I excused myself to do a little mingling, mostly because I had gas and didn't want to let one loose in front of Gavin, but also because I didn't want Gavin to take me for granted. Minutes later I returned and continued to conversation-rape him about my fictitious life full of noble dreams, hopes, and ambitions. I told him how the year I spent volunteering at the Boys & Girls Club of Santa Monica had really helped put me in touch with the urban youth. "Tomorrow's future," was the term I used. I could not stop lying, throwing out one ridiculous story after another. I was having a blast.