by Andi Dorfman
So, with my hat packed in a round box, I find myself in the Louisville airport, where I’m greeted at the baggage claim by a petite lady who introduces herself as Katherine, a member of the board of directors for the charity that was hosting me. Beside her stands a tall, young, blond stud of a police officer, whom she introduces as Officer Stone, my “escort for the weekend.”
Yes, he sure will be, I thought silently as I scanned him from head to toe, checking out his equipment (gun and baton, of course). Yummy! Check, check, and—there it is, the fatal flaw. A shiny gold ring on the wedding finger. Dammit. One piece of jewelry, and instantly his stock plummeted. It’s amazing how that can happen. I know some men say a wedding band actually makes women want them more, but I think that’s just their egos talking. There is no single bigger turnoff for me than a man in a relationship. It’s just not my thing, never has been, never will be. I’d like to say it’s based solely on my morals, but I’m not gonna lie, it’s also based on practicality. I just think with plenty of men in the sea, why would I need one who comes with the drama of a wife or a girlfriend and the moral hangover? But married or not, having my very own police escort for the weekend had me feeling like a badass. Plus, I was pretty sure this was my automatic get-out-of-jail-free card for the weekend, right?
A short drive later, and hunky, married Officer Stone and Katherine are escorting me to my room. Katherine reaches into the gift bag on my bed and reads from a printed itinerary of the weekend plans, which consist of a gala, some optional after-parties, the Derby, and a party to watch some big boxing match between two guys I’d never heard of.
After they leave, I spend the next few hours relaxing until I hear a knock on my door. It’s Kristen. She hugs me as she delivers two air kisses on each cheek while saying, “Mwah, mwah, so good to see you, dahhhhling.” Immediately she spots the gift bag and begins rifling through it. I’m doing my mascara when I hear her pop a champagne bottle she must have found in the bag. I swear, I think Kristen has a sixth sense for finding alcohol.
“Tell me everything! How’s New York? You look so skinny! Are the men hot? You look so skinny! Can you tell I got my lips done? Do they look too big? Where are we partying tonight? ”
Her lips were enormous! Like she’d come straight out of a goddamn cartoon. But I couldn’t tell her this. I mean it wasn’t like it was a bad shade of lipstick that she could just blot off. No, it was going to take a lot more than some tissue to blot out whatever the fuck had been injected in there. So, instead, I told her they looked great and read off the itinerary. In between sips of champagne, she approved with her trademark “Amazeballs!”
We are both all dolled up as we make our way down to the lobby, where Officer Stone is waiting for us. Kristen gives him two air kisses and then takes a step back. She blatantly checks him out while saying “Mmm-hmmm” and “Yassss.” If we were in a work environment, Kristen would have just earned her first of many sexual-harassment complaints.
We are escorted to the ballroom, where the gala was being hosted, and to our table. I’m seated between Kristen and a particularly petite man who I assume to be a jockey when suddenly, I feel a tap on my shoulder.
“Heeeeeyyyyyyy, you!”
It’s Sarah Hyland from Modern Family. I’d met her about a year ago at the Billboard Music Awards, but I didn’t think she’d actually remember me. And if she did, I would have expected her to be like most celebrities who pretend never to have met you before.
“Hey, girl!” I say back as we hug each other.
We chat for a little bit, I introduce her to Kristen, and Sarah introduces me to a gal pal who was her plus-one.
The gala officially is in full swing once the host takes the stage and begins doing some presentations and introductions of who I assume to be important people. My stomach is rumbling as I look at the empty plates. A server comes around with a bread basket and places one baguette on each person’s plate, which I promptly devour. Speaker after speaker, and still no sign of any food. I turn around to see the baguette untouched on the jockey’s plate.
Don’t do it, Andi.
He’s not going to eat it. He would have done it by now.
Don’t do it. Be classy.
A PowerPoint presentation began to play. Fuck me! I can’t take it! I see out of the corner of my eye that the jockey is completely fixated on the presentation, so stealthily, without moving my head, I reach back with my right arm and steal his bread. A girl giggles. Shit, I’m caught. I look out of the corner of my eye to see the source of the laughter. It’s a young blond woman wearing a crown. She has a sash on. It reads MISS USA. Oh, God! Miss USA just caught me stealing bread.
Cut to the next morning after we’ve finally eaten and proceeded to dance the night away and I am awaking from a four-hour “nap.” I hop into a cold shower, dry off, and look in the mirror to see last night’s mascara running down my cheeks. My head is pounding, my eyes are bloodshot, and I have what I’m pretty sure is the remnants of pizza sauce stained on the corners of my mouth. Kristen is moaning as she rolls around on what might become her deathbed. We are both train wrecks. Train wrecks in need of Gatorade. I rummage through the gift bag, only to find an empty miniature bottle of bourbon that Kristen must have drunk while I wasn’t looking, along with a coozie and a plastic sleeve of Planters peanuts, none of which is going to do the job. Gift shop it is.
I throw on a hat and some sweatpants and take my hot-mess self down the hall to the elevator. The door opens. And there inside the elevator stands the most beautiful sight I’d ever laid eyes on. Fuck the Burberry peacoat, this was better. This was a tall, athletic, godlike creature straight from a dream, leaning against the wall. This was a clean shave that showed off a sharp jawline, which showed off a pair of piercing blue eyes, which for a second caused my heart to stop beating. I closed my eyes and opened them again to make sure that I was, in fact, seeing what I thought I was seeing. Yup, it was Tom fucking Brady.
“What floor? ” he asks.
I go numb. I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out. Finally, I just shake my head in defeat and say, “No idea.”
He laughs. “What do you mean? ” God, not only was he hot, but he was sweet, too.
“I—don’t—even know.”
He’d clearly seen this reaction before, because not only was he completely unfazed by my inability to take my eyes off him, let alone form a complete sentence, but he knew exactly how to revive me.
“All right, well, let’s see. What are you looking for? ”
You, I want to say. “Gatorade.”
He laughs again. “I see. Rough night? ” I nod. “Pretty sure that’s in the lobby.” His forearm brushes against my shoulder as he reaches over me and presses “L.”
I’m never washing this shirt ever again.
Two floors later, he gets off, leaving me alone, with wet hair, no makeup, and my hungover puffy face hidden underneath a floppy hat, wondering if my shower had been enough to wash away the scents of last night’s booze and pizza. Of course, this would be the time I meet Tom fucking Brady. Of fucking course.
A lot of pride lost and a few hours later, we’d made our way to the racetrack, where I walked the red carpet and did some quick interviews about my excitement at being at the Derby (which was actually true, despite a raunchy headache). Officer Stone escorted us to the club level, which was a large room filled with various buffet stations and several makeshift bars along the walls. Large round tables circled the betting kiosk in the center of the room. Several balconies gave us an incredible view of the track. I soaked up the energy as I peered down at the crowds. Ahhhh, this is the good life, I thought to myself.
Suddenly, a shot was fired, and just like that, the horses began running down the track. This is it! This is it! This is the Kentucky Derby! Wait, why was no one into it? Seriously? The stands were not even halfway filled, and the cheers were so faint they were embarrassing. Seconds later, the winning horse crossed the finish line. A few more cheers but not
much.
“Ummm, that was kind of anticlimactic,” I said to Kristen.
“Well, it’s only race number three. There’s like ten more to go before the big one.”
“Big one? ”
“Yeah, like the actual Derby. These are just the small races before.”
With that in mind, I began alternating races with trips to the bar to refill my mint julep. In fact, I think it was somewhere between mint julep numbers four and five, or perhaps even five and six, when I met a young couple from New York. He was on the shorter side, with dirty-blond hair and one of those beards so pristinely groomed that you don’t quite trust the man behind it. His wife was more subtle in her appearance but beautiful nonetheless. Taller than he was, she wore a tight black dress that revealed her ample cleavage. Her minimal makeup complemented her wavy brown locks. The total effect was one of effortless sophistication that also oozed sex appeal. They immediately give a bio of themselves: married for six years, no children, split time living in New York City and Malibu.
“Do you have a boyfriend? ” the husband asks me but not Kristen, who was standing right next to me.
“No way!” I laughed.
“Really? A beautiful girl like you is single? That’s hard to believe.”
Umm, okay, that’s a little weird considering his wife is next to him. But there was no way he was hitting on me, right? It’s not until later when I find myself standing among some guests that shit really starts to get weird.
The husband comes and stands right next to me while I’m listening to a guy in a seersucker suit (of course) tell us a story about bourbon (of course). His wife is nowhere in sight.
“You really are beautiful,” he whispers creepily into my ear.
It’s confirmed: he’s hitting on me.
“Thank you.” I cringe and take a small step away from him.
Moments later, his wife joins the conversation (thank God). We begin talking about fashion and our favorite places in New York. She seems completely normal, unlike her husband.
“We should get together in the city,” she says.
I lie and say, “Definitely.”
Then she asks me when I’m heading back to New York.
“I fly back tomorrow, you? ”
“So are we. What time? ”
“Oh, I’ve got a layover in Atlanta because there weren’t any other options.”
“Oh, that doesn’t sound very fun.”
“I know. The things you endure to come to the Derby.” I chuckle.
“True.” She giggles. “Wait a second, why don’t you just fly back with us? We have a plane and extra seats.”
“Oh, no, thank you, but that’s too kind. I can’t.”
“Seriously, we are more than happy to give you a ride. We can drop you off on our way into the city.” She said it so damn casually it was as if she was just splitting an Uber with me.
“Are you sure? I don’t want to impose.”
“No, really, I insist. What hotel are you at? ”
And just like that, my layover turned into a direct flight . . . on a private jet. Sure, it was a little strange, but I’d been in New York long enough to know (a) people here have money, money, money, money, (b) people here like to spend their money, and (c) when you have money, you don’t fly commercial. Plus, I already seemed like a badass thanks to Officer Stone’s escort; why not add a private jet ride?
Later that evening, I get a text from the wife asking me for my date of birth, weight, and number of bags I had. I turn to Kristen to tell her that the weird couple at our table offered me a ride home on their private jet.
“That’s fab!” Kristen exclaims.
“Yeah, but I don’t know. Was it just me, or did you—”
“Get a weird vibe? ” she interrupted. “Oh, for sure. Probably swingers.”
“You think? ”
“One hundred percent. But fuck it, a private jet is a private jet.”
She was right. I reply to the text: “April 3, 1987. 115 pounds. 2 bags.” (The weight part might have been a little bit of a lie.)
She immediately replies, telling me to meet in the lobby at noon. I turn to Kristen to ask her what to do when you get invited on a jet. I’d never been in this situation before, but I was all but certain Kristen had been. Should I be offering to pay for this? If they had a jet, they certainly didn’t need my money, but my mother would kill me if she knew I didn’t offer to pay for something. That’s very much outside the Southern code of conduct. But then again, what if I offer and they take me up on it? I can hardly afford my rent; a private jet would be the end of me. Kristen reassures me that I don’t need to offer to pay, nor do I need to feel anything but badass about the entire situation, which, like I assumed, she’s been in a number of times herself.
The following day, I nervously meet them in the lobby as planned. We walk to the front of the hotel and into a waiting Cadillac. We’d barely reached the highway when the wife turns around from the passenger seat and asks me, “So, just out of curiosity, are you into threesomes? ”
“Huh? ”
“Sorry, that’s probably forward, but we are both very open and nonjudgmental, aren’t we, babe? ” She strokes the back of her husband’s neck.
He looks in the rearview mirror at me. “Have you ever tried it? ”
What the fuck! What the fuck! What the fuuuuuccckk! Think, Andi, think. If I tell the truth and say no, they’re probably going to ask me why not and tell me I should try it. If I lie and say yes, they’ll either leave it at that or ask me details, at which point they might find out that I’m lying. Fuck!
I go with the most minimal lie I can muster up. “I’ve dabbled.”
“And? ” the wife asks.
“Not for me.”
“Oh, well, that’s too bad.”
“Well, we think you’re gorgeous, so if you ever did want to try it . . .” the husband chimes in.
I awkwardly thank him for the “offer.”
“So is it the girl-on-girl thing you don’t like or the sharing or what? ” the wife asks.
“Yeah, like, would you do girl-on-girl? ” he adds.
“No. Yeah. Ummmm, it’s both—the girl-on-girl and the, um, the, um sharing.” My mouth can hardly utter the words “girl-on-girl.”
“That’s too bad. I think you’d be fun,” he says seductively.
Meanwhile, I’m dying in the backseat and know I need to shut this down immediately, so I try to change the subject. “So what do you do in the city? ”
The two of them start talking as I hysterically text Kristen: “SOS CALL ME ASAP.”
Within seconds my phone rings. “Spill. What the fuck? ”
I begin a conversation with Kristen that basically consists of her asking me every question imaginable while I answer in yes or no form.
“Are they swingers? ”
“Oh, yes, absolutely!” I say to Kristen in my most cheerful voice.
“Shut the fuck up! I knew it! You’re in the car with them, aren’t you? ”
“I am. I can’t wait—it should be great.”
“God, you’re good at this, almost too good. Holy fuck! This is just—this is amazeballs. You win. Okay, text me when you get to the plane. Guard that vagina!”
“Will do! I’ll give you a shout when I get back to New York.”
We pull up to the private hangar, where two valets take our bags and escort us to the check-in desk. I make a beeline for the bathroom and lock myself in a stall. Think, Andi, think. I take a seat liner and place it on the toilet seat and sit. My hands are rubbing my temples as I replay the conversation in my head. Am I into threesomes? What the fuck! I am panicking. What am I going to do? I cannot for the life of me endure two and a half hours in a jet with them. What do I do? Do I abort and just make a run for it? Fuck, they already have my suitcases loaded on the plane. Do I just suck it up? I mean, after all, it really is saving me a ton of time and a layover in Atlanta. I can do this, right?
>
“Time to board,” the wife shouts into the bathroom.
I guess I’m doing this.
We board the jet, where I find myself sitting next to the wife. I dig in my purse and open up the magazine I’d already read on the flight over but forgot to throw out, and I pretend to read. We are just about to take off when I get a text from Kristen.
Kristen: “Holy fuck! Look up the wife’s name on Google.”
Me: “Can’t right now I’m sitting next to her on the plane.”
Kristen: “Trust me you need to.”
Me: “I can’t what is it? ”
Kristen: “She’s a Hollywood madam.”
Me: “WTF! What do you mean?”
Kristen: “She sells girls as sex slaves to rich millionaires.”
Me: “WHAAAAT? ”
Kristen: “Oh yeah got busted a few years ago and changed her name.”
Me: “Like sells them how? ”
Kristen: “I don’t know but just FYI.”
Me: “WTF!!!!”
Kristen: “Just don’t take any drinks they offer you.”
Me: “WTF what do I do? ”
Message failed to send.
Fuck. We are airborne now. I’m screwed, figuratively and quite possibly literally. Here I am, aboard a private jet bound for New York City, sitting next to a swinger and his madam wife, thinking this is how it is all going to end for me, isn’t it? I am going to wind up shoved into the trunk of a car, only to wake up in a brothel somewhere in Russia where I’ll be auctioned off to the highest bidder and live out the remainder of my life as a sex slave. Or the plane will crash and I will die, and nobody will even care. The headline won’t read, “Former Bachelorette dead at twenty-eight in a fiery crash.” No, the New York Post won’t give a shit about me. Instead, the headline will be “Hollywood madam goes down in flames.”
