Single State of Mind

by Andi Dorfman

  “Let’s go to Bounce!” shouts one of the guys.

  The word jolts me. I look at Jess and whisper, “If I go to Bounce, I’m going to pull an Elizabeth. I can’t.” I shake my head.

  Jess laughs.

  Elizabeth is Jess’s twenty-three-year-old sister who has recently graduated from some smart school, either Columbia or NYU, I always forget. One Sunday night a while back, I was over at Jess’s watching the Emmys on her couch when Elizabeth burst through the door and stumbled into the living room. She was slurring in between chugging a bottle of water. I noticed her eyes were bloodshot, her hair was a mess, and she was nothing short of absolutely hammered.

  “Where have you been? ” Jess asked.

  “On a date, kind of,” Elizabeth said with that mischievous drunk giggle every woman has when she’s done something semi-bad. “I thought we were just going to do brunch, but then we went to a bar, and I met a guy, and he asked me to dinner, so I went.”

  “Seriously? ” Jess isn’t disappointed, she’s impressed.

  Elizabeth shrugs her shoulders in admission.

  “So . . . who is he? Did y’all hook up? Is he hot? What happened? ”

  “Umm, well, we may have made out . . .” More mischievous drunk giggles. “He’s actually really hot.”

  I can’t help but interject. “Hold up! You just casually went to brunch and ended up getting asked out on a date with a guy who’s actually hot? ”

  “Guilty!”

  “And you were wearing that shirt? ”

  Elizabeth looks down at her loose-fitting white cotton V-neck.

  “With your hair like that? ”

  She drunkenly takes out her ponytail and whips her hair around.

  “And . . . no makeup on? ”

  She closes her eyes, tilts her head up, and smiles with pride.

  I look to Jess. “What the fuck? What the fuck is wrong with us? I mean, no offense, Elizabeth, you know I love you, but you’ve got to be kidding. She goes to brunch wearing that and no makeup and gets a date and a make-out? ”

  Ever since then, it’s been a secret goal of mine to, as I termed it, pull an Elizabeth, and I’m thinking that today might be the perfect day for it.

  Before I know it, we’ve all gone from the dive bar to a table at Bounce. It’s hard to describe Bounce. I guess you could say it’s a mix of a club and a sports bar, but really it’s just a club disguised as a sports bar. Probably so patrons don’t feel like alcoholics for being at a club during the daytime. It’s one of those places you talk shit about and pretend you’re too cool for but yet you secretly love. The women there can be like myself and my friends, who come as an afterthought. This is reflected in our attire: jeans, flats, maybe a wedge or two, and absolutely zero false eyelashes. Then there are the women who come here not as an afterthought but as a plan of attack. This is also reflected in their attire: platforms, bandage dresses, red lipstick, and cleavage that stops just short of their chins. The waitresses wear fishnet stockings, booty shorts, and matching bustiers as they bring out bottles of Veuve Cliquot (not Dom) while waving sparklers in the air. Basically, within minutes of being at Bounce, you realize you’ve officially entered the Twilight Zone. The time passes quickly here. Your vision becomes blurry, and your memory, well, if you’re lucky, you’ll find it to be fuzzy at best. And today is no different. Today, just as I expected, the place is filled with thirsty girls. You know the type, the ones with bodies made for swimsuit ads, faces made for radio, and shamelessness made for sex tapes.

  Looking back, I can’t say I remember much about the hours after we walked in. I do remember at some point a cute guy coming over to our table to say hi to some of our guy friends. I think I found him cute and funny, and I may or may not have made out with him at the bar. Then he told me he was hungry and asked if I wanted to grab dinner. Apparently, I said yes, because I do vaguely remember sitting across the table from him at an Italian restaurant and guzzling red wine and water at an equal rate. And then I think we either walked or took a cab to a hotel.

  The rest is crystal-clear to me. We were rolling around on the bed, indulging in what I think is the greatest pastime known to woman: a steamy make-out session. I love make-out sessions, I really do. I could literally be completely content with a steamy make-out session and nothing more. I don’t know why. There’s just something so innocent yet also so sexy about a passionate hour of kissing and maybe a little groping. My plan was to just do that, but next thing I knew, he was naked. Naked and erect. Very erect. There he was, just standing tall, in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that showed off the Empire State Building. I don’t know which was bigger, him or the Empire State. Nevertheless, it was quite the view. I was in the midst of debating what to do with such an enormous view when, with a stern face, he looked me dead in the eye and asked, “What’s your rate? ”

  Huh? “You mean, like, umm, what I make for appearances or whatever? ” At this point, I was giving him the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he knew I was on television and thought I did appearances. Maybe he was in public relations or marketing.

  “No, no, like, what is your rate? ”

  He couldn’t possibly be saying what I thought he was saying. I looked around the hotel room; it was stunning. The door to the large bathroom was ajar, and I could see the marbled countertops and a Jacuzzi that—oh, my God! The Jacuzzi was filled with bath bubbles and had flowers floating on the top. There was a candle lit. I glanced back to the bedroom, where for the first time I noticed a table in the corner with an opened bottle of champagne in a silver tub. The entire suite had been set up . . . for sex. Oh, my God! Does he think I’m a hooker? Oh, my fucking—wait, what part of me resembled a hooker? I got it, I was in his hotel room, but we met at a sports bar. Who picks up hookers at a sports bar? Not to mention the fact that I was in jeans. What kind of hooker wears jeans? Part of me wanted to ask what he thought I was worth, but I was too terrified to hear the answer. Instead, I just tried to ease my way out of this epic blunder.

  “I think you got the wrong impression.”

  “Ummmm, okay. I mean, you can just give me a rate, and we can go from there.”

  Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Oh, my God! “No, there is no fucking rate. I am not for sale! I am not for rent! I am not a hooker!”

  I looked at him like he was the biggest piece of shit I’d ever seen in my life, hoping he’d be absolutely mortified and begin profusely apologizing, but he wasn’t. Instead, he was defensive.

  “Whoa! Simmer down. I never said you were a hooker. I just asked your rate.”

  I can’t. I just fucking can’t right now.

  Instead of apologizing for such an obvious error, he rolled his eyes. “So dramatic. Jesus, normally New York girls are cool.”

  I stayed silent, knowing that if I responded, there was a likely chance that I would leave here and have to call Jess to help me bury the body of one erect hooker-seeking prick. I don’t even bother calling a car; I just scurry to find my bra and shirt, grab my purse, and Usain Bolt the fuck out of there. It wasn’t until the elevator door closed and I saw my reflection that I noticed my shirt was inside out, but I didn’t even care. The door opened to the lobby; I lowered my head and covered as much of my face as I could with my hair before power walking through the revolving doors, bypassing the bellmen. My hand was raised to hail a cab before I even reached the curb.

  There I was, alone in the back of a taxi at nine o’clock on a Sunday night. It was the first time I’d ever felt dirtier than the grimy leather seat of a yellow cab. I gazed out the window as one word flooded my mind. Hooker! He thought I was a fucking hooker!

  i left my dignity in kansas city . . .

  Along with my suitcase, my shoes, my earrings, and my nipple  covers. Oh, yeah, and something I’ve managed to hold on to  for twenty-nine years: my one-night-stand card. Yup, what was supposed to be the weekend of Nikki’s wedding, where I was to serve as a bridesmaid, ended up being the weekend I had my very firs
t one-night stand. I blame it on Mr. Seattle and the guy who thought I was a fucking hooker. Both have me feeling less like a depressed woman scorned and more like a vengeful one. And there is no telling what can happen when you mix scorn and a wedding.

  It was the night before the big day when I found myself in Kansas City, in a barn, sitting with the rest of the bridal party, all of whom worked alongside Nikki as pediatric nurses. Out of nowhere, Nikki decided to make a confession.

  “So don’t hate me, but . . .”

  I clenched my jaw and glared at her.

  “I may or may not have invited a date for you tomorrow,” she says in her sweet kiddie nurse voice.

  “Why? ”

  “Well, I wanted you to have a date.”

  “Why? ”

  “Well . . . I don’t know.” Yes, she did.

  “Because everyone else in the bridal party is married or engaged? ” I offered her the answer.

  “Well, I wasn’t going to say it like that.”

  I rolled my eyes as I asked who he was.

  “Don’t hate me. Actually, you can’t hate me, I’m the bride.”

  Another eye roll, but she was right.

  She flagged down her maid of honor. “Meg, come here. Tell Andi about Hot Rob.”

  I scowled in disgust.

  “Ahhhhh, he is hot as a motherfucker,” squealed Meg. “That’s your date tomorrow, right? ”

  “How did you know? ”

  “Girl, we all know.” Lindsey “with an E,” another bridesmaid, had now joined the conversation. “He’s so hot, and fun, and oh, he’s just so hot!”

  “Okay, whoa! First, who the hell is this guy, and why do you call him that? ”

  “That’s what we call him around town. Does anyone even know his last name? Actually, does anyone even know if his name is, in fact, Rob? ” Meg asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Negative. But he’s hot.”

  “He’s sooooo hot!” Lindsey was on the verge of drooling.

  “How hot? ” I asked.

  “Hot, hot,” Nikki said. “Like kind of invited-him-less-as-your-date-and-more-as-eye-candy hot.” I could tell the stoic look on my face had Nikki slightly worried. “Oh, just hush. It’s not a big deal. It’s just a date, if you don’t like him, then you can just dance by yourself.”

  “You’re lucky you’re the bride.” A small smile cracked across my face.

  The following morning, all of the bridesmaids arrived across town at Meg’s house at precisely nine in the morning. Per the detailed schedule that the wedding planner emailed and printed out for each us, we began hair and makeup at ten, posed for photos in our robes at eleven forty-five, ate lunch at noon, were dressed by one, and were out the door and in the trolley at two. Surprisingly, the day flew by without a single glitch. We were on schedule, and there were no wardrobe malfunctions, no bridal meltdowns, no mother-of-the-bride panic attacks, nothing. Just a gaggle of bridesmaids on a trolley, drinking mimosas from pink Solo cups, on our way to church to watch our girl tie the knot. When we arrived, one by one we filed out of the trolley as the wedding planner did a head count. When it was my turn, she crossed my name off her list before snatching the pink Solo cup from my hand.

  “No alcohol in the church, dear,” she snarled condescendingly.

  “But we’re just going to be in the side room until the ceremony starts, so technically we’re not going in the church.”

  “Yeahhhh . . . Sorry, it’s a no.”

  Thank God I’d stashed two plastic airplane-sized Fireballs in my tote.

  Like clockwork, we processed down the aisle at four thirty. Nikki was stunning as she walked to meet her waiting groom. They shed their tears, made their promises to love each other for richer or poor, yada, yada, yada, before finally saying “I do.” And just like that, Nikki, my best friend, whom I met on The Bachelor, was married. (Though, thank God, it’s to someone other than the Bachelor himself.) Hundreds of posed photos at sunset in a picturesque park later, we finally made our way to the reception hall, where we were seated at a head table on a raised stage above the commoners—I mean, other guests.

  Next to me was Meg, who not thirty seconds after we sat down nudged me and whispered, “That’s him,” as she pointed to the farthest table.

  “Damn, he is hot.”

  “Told ya! Let’s go say hi.”

  I was nervous at the idea of actually meeting this guy, however, given the fact that it had now been more than two hours since this wedding officially started, I had no excuse not to. I reapplied some lip gloss and perked my boobs up. (Not that it mattered, considering I looked like a nun in this floor-length gown.) Then I followed Meg to the table, where she introduced us.

  I reached out my hand to shake his, but he ignored it and instead gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek before saying with a laugh, “Hi. I guess I’m your date, huh? ”

  I laughed in return. “I guess so. Sorry, I know this is totally awkward.”

  “Nah. Okay, maybe a little. Y’all did a great job today.”

  “Oh, yeah, really difficult walking down an aisle holding a bouquet, let me tell ya.”

  He laughed again and then asked if I’d like to join him for a drink at the bar. He ordered a whiskey, neat, which made him even smoother than he was five minutes ago.

  “Heyyyyyy, handsome!” shouted a pretty brunette from across the bar before she dashed over to us.

  He gave her a side hug before introducing me as his date.

  “So nice to meet you.” She reached out her hand, unveiling a large diamond on her ring finger. Whew! “I’m not even going to pretend that I don’t know who you are. Oh, my God, can I just say I loved your season, and I loved your book, and oh, my gosh, sorry, I’m ridiculous right now, aren’t I? ”

  “No, no, you’re fine.”

  She eyed me up and down before turning back to Hot Rob. “How the hell did you land her as a date? ”

  “Lucky guy, huh? ” He winked at me.

  Hot Rob and I headed to the dance floor, where minute by minute, I found myself more and more drawn to him as our chemistry climbed off the charts.

  His hand had gone from the small of my back to now firmly clenching mine. Holy shit, I was on a bona fide date and actually enjoying it. There was something about Hot Rob that was bringing out the best in me. It was like I was myself but a cooler version. I was looser, funnier, wittier, and, with every sip of alcohol, sexier, or so I thought. Our banter had me feeling the need to stay on my toes and woo him a tad, but the desire in his eyes had me knowing it was in the bag.

  I had not a care in the world, as was evidenced when one of the other bridesmaids bumped into me, spilling an entire glass of red wine down the front of my pale pink dress. I raised my hands in the air and shrugged. I was too busy having fun to care about a dress I’d never wear again.

  Hot Rob was impressed, and he let me know it when he leaned into me and whispered in my ear, “Best wedding date I’ve ever had.”

  “Last call,” shouted the DJ. And without saying a word, we left the dance floor hand in hand and made our way to the bar. He’d just ordered drinks when the music came to a screeching halt in the middle of a song. I noticed a crowd forming in the far corner. The dance floor was now empty.

  “What the hell is going on over there? ” I muttered aloud.

  All I could see was a mob of people, two bridesmaids crouched on the ground, and the back of Nikki’s long white train. She was on her knees. It’s not until someone moved that I saw that the bridesmaid who had spilled an entire glass of wine on me was now lying flat on her back. I was desperately trying not to laugh at such a grave situation. I know, I know, I’m a horrible human being. But come on! I was on a blind date, covered in red wine, at a wedding in which one of the bridesmaids has keeled over, and now we had all these bridesmaids who were real nurses tending to her like she’d been shot in a drive-by or something. I might not be a nurse, but I can tell you that homegirl didn’t need he
r pulse checked, homegirl needed a glass of water.

  “Well, welcome to Kansas City, where the bridesmaids get drunk and the brides get on their knees,” Hot Rob said.

  I almost spit out my drink in laughter before looking down at my stained gown and throwing my hands up in total defeat.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please make your way to the exits. Thanks, and have a great night,” the DJ announced.

  “After-party at PBR!” screamed one of the groomsmen.

  At that moment, Meg and her fiancé came over to Hot Rob and me and insisted we join. The guys called an Uber, and Meg and I went to the head table to get our purses.

  “So how’s it going? ” Meg asked.

  “Ummm, he’s kind of great.”

  “Told ya!”

  “Like really great.”

  “I know!”

  “How is he single? ”

  “He’s picky. Rightfully so when you’ve got an ass like that.”

  We’d gotten our bags and made our way to the entrance, where Meg’s fiancé and Hot Rob were in an Uber waiting for us. After a short ride, I was standing in my stained gown, still holding my bouquet, while the bouncer waited to see my identification. I rummaged through my tote bag, pulling out a cosmetics case and handing it to Hot Rob along with a pair of flats, my yoga pants that I wore earlier when I went to Meg’s, and some lip gloss. I was just about to reach my wallet, which of course was at the bottom of my bag, when the bouncer rolled his eyes and told me not to worry about it.

  A hand stamp later, we were officially in. The place was packed. I immediately spotted a girl in a cropped tube top and a cowboy hat riding the mechanical bull as we made our way to the back, where the rest of the bridal party were all dancing around a few tables in a roped-off section of the bar. Moments later, Nikki and her new husband, white gown and all, arrived. We cheered.