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

"How old is the boy?" asked a horrified Jerome.

I scrambled to think of an appropriate age for a child who would set someone else on fire. "He's seven," I told him, "but challenged." I didn't know where these lies were coming from, but I couldn't stop myself. I was so intimidated by him I just jumped into a story I was sure would give us a lot to talk about.

Within the next fifteen minutes Linus had also been born a Siamese twin whose brother didn't make it through the surgery and whose biological mother had tried to auction him off on eBay.

"I didn't even know there was a Boys and Girls Club around here," said Jerome.

I had never seen a Boys & Girls Club in my life but wasn't about to tell Jerome that. "Oh, there's one at the mall," I blurted.

"Really?" he asked. "That's weird."

"It's new," I said. I knew I would have to stop lying eventually but didn't know how to. We needed to change the subject quickly and I needed a drink to relax.

Though I wasn't of legal drinking age, I had an ID with my picture on it and all of Sloane's information. My mother had given me Sloane's birth certificate when I turned eighteen after I explained how difficult it would be to fit in at community college without an ID. My mother agreed to aid my abuse of alcohol but only if I promised never to tell my newly converted Mormon sister, whose identity I had stolen.

"Are you okay? You look-" Jerome said.

"I'm fine," I said.

If I could just calm down for a minute, I could be normal. I hailed the waiter and ordered a vodka and cranberry. Jerome ordered an ice water. Shit, I thought.

"You don't want a drink?" I asked.

"I don't drink," Jerome said.

This was going to be a complete disaster. What did he mean he didn't drink?

"Ever?" I pressed on.

"I just don't like the taste," he told me. Then he leaned in. "That doesn't mean I don't know how to have a good time."

I smiled and said, "Are you sure you don't want to have just a beer or something?"

"I'm sure." He smiled. This was going to be a long dinner. I had never been on a date with someone who didn't drink and I didn't like it.

If this guy had any sort of affiliation with Alcoholics Anonymous, he would definitely try to recruit me, so I asked to make sure.

"You're not in AA, are you?" I said it in a way that implied if he was in AA and would be bothered by my drinking, I would simply skip it. This wasn't really going to happen, of course; I just wanted to come off like I had manners. I immediately had images of becoming his AA sponsor and waiting for the night he'd call me and tell me he wanted a drink. I'd by jumping up and down screaming through the phone, "I have one! Come over!"

"No, no. You go ahead, I don't mind. I just don't like it."

So I went full speed ahead. By my fifth drink, I was beginning to be the more normal version of myself, which meant that I would only pepper my stories with half-truths rather than create them entirely out of thin air.

It turned out that he was a third-year law student at Seton Hall. His mother and father owned a shoe store outlet in Secaucus, New Jersey.

"Oh, wow. I love shoes," was my soulful response.

He was a really decent guy with a charming personality and I had no idea at all what he was doing with me. He loved his parents a lot and talked about his mother in a way that more men should. It was sweet to watch and I hoped that when we married, he would hold me in the same regard.

The thought of not sleeping with him right away crossed my mind, because I wanted his respect, but there was no way I would be able to control myself. He was too cute and sweet. And I knew if I dated him, he would probably end up hating me anyway.

"Do you want to skip the movie?" I asked.

"Sure, if you want to," he replied.

"My parents are out of town. We could go back to my house and hang out."

"We could do that," he said.

He followed me back to my house and parked his car in the street. Like most first-time visitors, he asked me why there were so many cars in our driveway and I explained to him that my father had a bad car habit and was unable to sell any of the jalopies sitting in our driveway. I told him if he wanted, I could get him a sweet deal on an '85 Buick wagon with no engine.

"So none of these cars work?" he asked.

"A couple of them," I told him. "It's not like you'd want to drive them anywhere anyway."

He had the same scowl on his face that our neighbor had every time he called the police to report my father for having too many cars in the driveway.

"Jeez," Jerome said.

We got inside and went straight into the den. I turned on the television and poured myself a Grey Goose and Tang. He, of course, wanted nothing alcoholic, so I gave him a Coke. It felt like I was at a Chuck E. Cheese birthday party. How was he going to make his move on me without any alcohol? I could easily make a move on him but wasn't sure if he liked me as much as I liked his body.

It was only nine o'clock, so we turned on the TV and started watching America 's Funniest Home Videos. I was tempted to pop in the porno I had stolen from my brother but didn't want Jerome to think I was completely fucked up. My brother was in culinary school and had left behind more than fifty porno videos that he went to the trouble of hiding in the linen closet. Every once in a while he would call home and ask my mom to send him one of his videos. They weren't in their jackets anymore, so you would know they were pornos only by their titles. My mother asked me once if I had ever seen Kristen Does Kentucky, and I told her, "Yes, it's a story about a girl who is torn between two lovers. Literally."

"Your brother must really like it, he wants me to send it to him," she said.

Jerome and I started moving closer and closer together. He was rubbing his hand back and forth on my leg when I threw my head in his lap and stared up at him.

"You're adorable," I told him.

He laughed and then kissed me. Finally, we were making out. He had the softest lips I had ever felt and he smelled like Drakkar. I loved, loved, loved Drakkar. I put my hands around his back and held on to his immense linebackerlike physique. Everywhere I put my hand, I found a new muscle. I put my hands inside his shirt to find the hardest six-pack I had ever felt. This guy was in unbelievable shape, and his skin was sooooo soft.

I was so turned on I could barely control myself. I had to stay cool, though, and not forget to suck in my stomach. I wanted him to think I was on a physical par with him, so I kept my body in its most flattering position: horizontal.

He maneuvered himself to get on top of me and do some dry-humping when I felt what could only be a third leg. I wiggled underneath him in order to confirm.

"Is that your penis?" I gasped.

He let out a small chuckle and kept on kissing me.

"Seriously," I said. "Is that your penis?"

He stopped kissing me and lifted his head to look sternly at me. "Yes, that's my penis."

"Well, that's gonna be a big problem," I said.

He just stared at me.

"I'm sorry," I told him. "Your penis is too big." I had a girlfriend who had cried during sex once and now I knew why.

He got up off of me. "We can still fool around," I assured him. "We just can't have sex."

"Well, what makes you think I want to have sex with you anyway?" he snapped.

I wanted to tell him that it was pretty obvious, judging from the time bomb growing in his pants.

"All right, geez, don't get so offended," I said. "Just in case you wanted to, I want you to know I can't." You would have had to be the size of the Lincoln Tunnel to accommodate that thing.

"Well, you're not the first one," he said, defeated. Apparently this had happened before.

"Really? I'm so sorry, you're just too big. It's like a space shuttle," I told him. He looked bummed and I felt bad for him. "We can go in my room and do other things." By other things I meant sleep, because I didn't want that thing coming out of its shell for fear that it might attack.