Free It's Not Okay: Turning Heartbreak into Happily Never After by Andi Dorfman

opportunity to check out his backside again. Ass . . . check. Butterflies . . . check. Damn, I was screwed.
    Get it together , I told myself. It was only the first night and the options were plentiful inside. For all I knew he could have a girlfriend, be a total douche bag, be the token drunk of the group who gets wasted and jumps in the pool, or even be a serial killer. The possibilities were endless, but one thing was sure, I was into him. So into him, in fact, that I actually contemplated sending him packing that very first night. Call it insecurity or fear, but he seemed too good to be true. Our romance had the makings of a Nicholas Sparks novel. Here I was in California surrounded by cameras and a crop of handsome men from all over the country, and he was a guy from my very own city. Had I really traveled all the way to Los Angeles, moved into a mansion, gotten dolled up, and agreed to be taped by a massive camera crew all to fall in love with a man living in my backyard the whole time?
    And then there was that first kiss. Oh that kiss. It was hands-down the best first kiss of my life, though it wasn’t the first kiss of the season. No, that one went to Number Twenty-Four. I wanted this coveted first kiss to belong to Number Twenty-Six, but he totally bombed the chance when he had it. I had decided that for the first week of dates, Number Twenty-Six would be on a group date, rather than one of the two solo dates. This was largely due to the fact that I was afraid of falling even more in love with him, but also because I wanted to make him sweat it out a little bit. I mean, he was undoubtedly the type of guy that didn’t have to do so much as buy a chick more than a drink before they were naked in his bed, but with all the power that came from twenty-five men vying for me (and an open bar), I wasn’t going to be conquered that easily.
    After the first date (a solo one), which included no chemistry and therefore no kiss, it was time for a group date. Without a clue as to what they’d be doing on the date, a slew of men, including Twenty-Six, met me at a dimly lit nightclub in downtown Los Angeles. After greeting each of them, I showed them inside and led them toward the stage. The music began blaring through the speakers as the strobe lights lit up the room before the curtains drew back to reveal five male exotic dancers in midroutine. As terrified laughter filled the room, I announced that today’s date would involve each man getting dressed in cheesy costumes and performing an exotic dance in front of a live audience, all in the name of charity.
    That one magical word, “charity,” made the most inappropriate activities seem irresistibly right and thus I was selflessly giving back to the community one firefighter, soldier, and oiled-up cowboy at a time. After a few hours of practice, the men had nailed down their routines and it was time to see what they were made of. Joined by my friends from the previous season, Kelly and Sharleen, we watched from the front row as shirts were ripped off, booties were shaking, and sweat was dripping. As we sat in what could only be described as single-lady heaven, the men’s performances left me certain that a) this wasn’t their first time stripping, b) it wasn’t the first time lathering up in baby oil, and c) it most certainly wasn’t going to be their last time doing either of the above.
    The date ended, much to my dismay, and it was time for the men to wash off the baby oil and meet me for a cocktail party. With the first group date in full swing, the testosterone and Fireball were flowing, causing one man in particular to become utterly shit faced. While it was amusing at first, after he jumped in the pool and tried to fight some of the others (bless his sweet heart) the vibe of the evening took a turn for the worse. I found myself exhausted and annoyed and certainly in no mood to flirt. I took a break from the chaos and went upstairs to a private terrace to catch