"You're cute," I slurred.

His name was Buck. It was easy to remember because it rhymed with what we were going to do later. He was a little more stocky than I usually like, but in a sexy way, and had a nice olive complexion. I remember he had this great riotous laugh. I love a man with a good laugh. We danced a little together, then went to the back bar to make out.

Public groping has got to be one of my least favorite things. I find it really offensive and just plain nasty. Unless I'm the one getting groped. Then I don't have as much of a problem with it.

We were going at it for about an hour, drinking, smoking, kissing. Slobbering might be a better description. At one point my girlfriends came over, took one look at us, and guffawed. As if they were above making out in public. This coming from Lydia, who a week earlier had woken up on her bathroom floor.

At around one A.M., I started to hit a plateau and knew I had only a couple good hours left of uninhibitedness. I told Buck to drive me home, and then I'd follow him back to his house. He lived in Santa Monica too and insisted on just driving us straight to his house, offering to take me home in the morning. I had been down that road before, and if there's one mistake I never make, it's not having my own wheels. I do not, under any circumstances, carpool.

I made up some lie about having an early morning meeting-a meeting doing God knows what. Buck insisted that he would drive me home early. That was it. I had to resort to some tough love.

"Listen, unless I have my car, I'm not coming over, and I think we both know that will make you very sad." He agreed and drove me home so I could get my car. Out of the corner of my eye, as I climbed into the driver's seat, I caught him grinning. This poor Echo. It had been through so much. The good thing about the Echo was that due to its size, people always asked if it was electric. I always lied and said yes.

A half hour later, we got to his place and he pulled into an underground parking garage, waving me in behind him. No way did I want to park in his underground garage. I thought he was trying to trap me. This guy was good. I started to wonder if I had slept with him before.

"I don't want to park in there," I yelled.

"What is your problem?" he yelled back.

"Nothing, I just don't like parking in garages."

"Why not? What do you think is going to happen?"

I just stared blankly in his direction. At this point, if this guy carried Mace, I think he would've used it on me. I was turning into a nightmare. He looked exhausted.

"How will I get out of the garage in the morning?" I asked.

"Drive?" he responded wearily. "You don't need a key or anything. The gate will open."

I sat and stared at him, bewildered.

"There's a sensor," he explained, "when your car pulls up." Now he was talking to me like I was eleven. I found this attractive.

"Okay," I said. He must have thought I rode to school on a short bus.

We got up to his town house. It was really nice. There were at least three Warhols that I counted and lots of Nambe crystal. I like men who have their act together. I had seen one too many carpet-stained, bong-infested, toilet paper-less male habitats. He had beautiful dark hardwood floors and it smelled as if Mr. Clean had spent the night.

Everything else was pretty high-end too. He had a lot of electronics. There was a huge plasma-screen TV along with every possible appendage that can go along with it. A lot of stainless steel. I found out later in life that stainless steel is a good countertop for intercourse. Anything with grout can leave marks and/or tear the skin.

He put on Fleetwood Mac, which I love, and I decided to reward him with a little striptease. I pushed him toward the bedroom and then started stripping in the doorway. He liked my dancing. The only explanation for that was that he was on Ecstasy too.

When I was done, I walked over and climbed on top of him in my underwear. I pulled his clothes off until he was only in his boxers. Then I put my hand down his pants.

The thought had never even crossed my mind that he might have a little dinky. "Little" is a generous word when you're describing something the size of a canned Vienna sausage. This thing was smaller than my big toe. It wasn't even like a penis, it was like an extra piece of skin. I was mortified. I had to get out of there.

I was not doing charity work here. I couldn't have sex with him just because I felt bad. I'd feel worse after. I flung myself off of him and yelled, "Oh, my God, Oh, my God!!!"

"What," he said. "What is it?"

"My car," I shouted. "I forgot why I had to leave it on the street."

"Why?" he asked.

"Because Ivory has to come pick it up. She's staying with me."

"What? What are you talking about?"

"Ivory, she doesn't have a car. She needs to pick it up. I totally forgot. That's why I needed to park it in the street."

"Ivory, the girl you just left at the club? How the hell is she gonna know where your car is?" he asked.

"It has a homing device on it."

Silence.

"A homing device?" he asked. "Like a pigeon?"

"Yes!" I replied. "Just like a pigeon, and she won't be able to detect it when it's underground. I'll be right back."

Before he could say anything, I collected my things and was gone. Out of there.

Just like he said, the garage gate opened as soon as Echo and I pulled up. Me and my Echo were going home. I didn't need to learn the small-penis lesson twice. It was time for some Jack in the Box.

When I told Ivory the next morning about how small his penis was, she said, "Gosh, Chels, you didn't need to leave him there, he could have been good at other things."

"Like whati" I asked her. "Math?"

YOU KNOW YOU'VE slept around a lot when you walk into your bank and see someone you've had sex with on a life-size poster for "Small Business Loans."

I have this really bad habit of lying compulsively when I drink. The thing is, it's never about anything I need to lie about. Sure, sometimes it's necessary to lie to get out of going to someone's party; sometimes we lie to avoid hurting people's feelings. Lying about your father inventing voice-mail is a whole different ball of wax.

I once dated a guy for a couple of hours. I met him at a bar called El Dorado and managed to whisk him away after last call. He was a cutie and I wanted him in a bad way. He was funny, smart, and interesting-and mentioned something about spending every weekend in Mexico at an orphanage he had started.

When we were leaving, he hesitated about coming back to my place. This guy was playing hard to get, and I liked it. Fortunately, that act didn't last long, and we were soon on our way back to my apartment, which was conveniently located around the corner.

The sex was above average, and I was thrilled because I really liked this guy and knew it would only get better. Then the next morning he rolled over and asked, "So, does your dad actually own American Airlines?"

I looked at him, bewildered. It took me about thirty seconds to connect the dots. I turned over so that I wasn't facing him and cringed. I would never be able to see this guy again. Great, I thought. Another guy I'll never get to know.

"Yeah," I said hesitantly. "Why? Do you want to go somewhere?" It would be easier never to return his phone calls than to fess up to being completely certifiable. I had to end it right there and, in turn, teach myself a valuable lesson: No lying while drinking. A normal person would have decided to stop lying completely. I decided to restrict myself to lying only when I was sober.

Cut to a couple of months later when I met this guy whose name I can't remember for the life of me. Let's call him Mike. There were a bunch of Mikes, so he was probably one of them.