by Andi Dorfman
After being escorted to the private room downstairs, we make our way through the crowd of tall, beautiful models and immediately order champagne at the bar. We’re mingling with our friends when out of the corner of my eye, something, or should I say someone, catches my attention. He’s tall, dark-haired, and effortlessly hot, one of those guys who walk into a room and don’t realize that they silence it. And now he’s one of those guys who is walking toward us. God, he’s beautiful. He appears to be Latin or Italian or something else. Something exotic. Not necessarily my type but very much getting my attention. He starts talking directly to me, telling me that he’s just moved to New York City. I’m so mesmerized by him that even though I can see his lips are moving, I have no idea what he’s saying. I’m deafened by his exotic hotness. It isn’t until a friend comes over and says, “Oh, you two finally met,” that a light goes off in my head. This must be the guy our friends mentioned casually during a dinner that they wanted to set me up with. It all makes sense: hot guy, just moved to New York. Usually, I’m opposed to mixing love with friendship, but I’m thinking I could make an exception in this case. Unable to formulate any sensible sentences, I bail and make my way to the bar. I can’t believe I was so captivated by him that I couldn’t even speak. Who am I? Better yet, who is he?
I take a moment to look around the room and realize this party isn’t just filled with beautiful tall models; it’s also filled with beautiful tall men. ’Tis the fucking season! A few drinks later, I’m making my way through the dance floor to the restroom, when of course, I run into Mr. Exotic. He does a stupid little dance move, which I laugh at. He places his hand on my shoulder and tries to say something in my ear. I can’t hear over the music or over the hotness of his breath so close to me. I back away and motion to the speakers while shaking my head. A chick comes stumbling between us, and right before my very eyes, she starts grinding her ass up against him. He’s shocked, as am I. He gently pushes her away before looking at her and then nodding at me.
“So that’s how easy it is, huh? ”
“I can’t hear you.” He points to the speakers and smiles.
I lean into his ear. “So that’s how easy it is, huh? ”
He leans toward me, placing his hand on the small of my back. “I’m sure it’s not very hard for you, either.”
“We’ll see. Looks like it’s one to zero right now.”
Just then, a slow song comes on, and I use it as my cue to go to the bathroom. On my way back, I see my friend Brett, one of the hosts of the party, standing beside a table. He asks if I want a drink while pointing to the bottles of various liquors sitting on the table in a large ice bucket.
“Champagne, please,” I say.
“No vodka? ”
“Not yet.”
I’ve decided that in light of this new potential guy being here, I will take it easy on the drinking for now. I take my glass of champagne and turn to walk toward the front of the room, when I run into Mr. Exotic, yet again. A new girl is now dancing on him, yet again. I give him a raise of the eyebrow, as if to show him I’m impressed but not stalking. He gives a roll of the eye and a laugh before walking over to me.
“Damn, looks like I’d better get on it.”
He laughs. “Oh, please.”
“You’re up by two.”
“Well, then, I guess you’d better get on it!”
“Oh, I’ll be dancing circles around you in a drink or two.”
“I’d like to see that,” he says, biting his upper lip.
Damn, he’s fucking hot. And quick. Flustered, I panic and turn around to make my way back to Brett’s table. Jess is there, too, along with some of our other friends. Brett’s parents have arrived, and he is introducing them to us. Then he starts looking at me in a weird way. He’s kind of flirting with me, I think. It must be the plunging neckline and the contouring I did around my boobs. Despite not being sure if he is actually flirting with me or not and knowing that nothing will come of it even if he is, I can’t help but indulge myself. In the back of my mind, I realize that by flirting with Brett, I am officially on the board. At one point, I glance over to my left and out of the corner of my eye see the sexy Mr. Exotic. He nods at me. Oh, I’m definitely on the board. I go back to talking to Brett, who is probably now wondering why the fuck I’m flirting with him.
Drinks are being slung, lyrics are being butchered, dance circles are forming, and the party is raging. I’m using a friend to make a guy whose name I don’t even know jealous, and it’s working. I can tell by the look in his eyes and the fact that he is now “casually” hanging around our table.
Hours later, we all find ourselves at Brett’s house for the after-party. I spend a solid hour pretending to engage in conversation with everyone while really keeping an eye on the door, hoping Mr. Exotic will walk in. It doesn’t happen. After a few hours, I give up hope and call it a night.
The next day, I find myself at 310 Bowery with Ava and Jess. Emily and a few others are planning to meet us here later. Most of the crew from last night is here, along with a new slew of young models. I can tell they aren’t New Yorkers, because, unlike me and my friends, who are in jeans and T-shirts, they are in bandage dresses, batting their fake eyelashes at any guy who looks their way. Thirsty girls, but whatever. I’m sipping beer out of a bottle when suddenly, there he is, Mr. Exotic. He makes a beeline toward me. Fuck, I look like shit.
“Hey, you! Two days in a row? Man, am I lucky.”
“Ha ha. Glad someone else missed the cocktail attire memo,” I say, glancing down at his open plaid flannel.
“Ha ha. I mean, I thought Sunday and football meant casual? ”
“You and me both.”
“Hey, girl, heeeeeeeeyyyy,” shrieks a voice from behind me.
I turn around. It’s Steph, an acquaintance who, last I knew of, lived in L.A.
“Heyyyy! What are you doing here? ”
“I’m in town for the weekend. How are you? It’s been a while.”
“I’m great, just living the New York life. Are you still out in L.A.? ”
“Yeah! Love it! Umm, who is the guy in the plaid? Boyfriend? ” she whispers.
I tell her no. She tells me if I introduce her, she’ll owe me forever. Whatever. I do, and they shake hands. I’m expecting a three-way conversation to start, but it doesn’t. It’s almost as if he doesn’t even realize Steph is still standing there. It’s obvious enough that Steph turns around to talk to some other people. Next thing I know, she’s across from me at the high-top table we are all crowded around, mouthing, He’s hot, hook it up, to me.
“My friend thinks you’re cute.”
“That’s nice, but umm—”
“What? You should talk to her.”
“I’d rather talk to you.”
“Uhh, why? Do you not have two eyes? ”
“Yeah, and they are both looking at you.”
“Yeah, well, umm—”
“What? ”
“Me. You. Not gonna happen.”
“Oh, really, why is that? ” He seems to find my brush-off amusing.
“Ummm, I don’t think I’m your type.”
“You mean I’m not your type. Damn, I guess I have some convincing to do.”
I roll my eyes but smile at the same time. I can’t help but find joy in appearing to have the upper hand. It’s been a while since I’ve felt in control, and damn, does it feel good. He asks for my number. I give it to him. He immediately texts me. And then glances to my phone, which is sitting on the table. The screen is dark.
“Did you just give me a fake number? ”
Oh, shit, my burner phone is in my purse. I reach under the table and find my bag, dig through it, and pull out my cell phone. He has a puzzled look on his face.
“Wow, I don’t know what’s worse, giving a fake number or having a burner phone.”
He is so turned on. Clearly, he’s not used to texting a woman’s burner phone. But there’s a look in his eyes th
at also says he’s intrigued. “We’re going to dinner this week.”
“Maybe.”
“Yes.”
Later that night, I lie in bed staring at his text. All it says is his name, but as I stare at it, I envision his face. I envision his lips, his shirtless body. I envision a date with him. I save his number as “Mr. Exotic.” Two days later, he texts me early in the afternoon.
Mr. Exotic: “Dinner, me and you, tonight. Please? ”
Damn, he’s good.
Me: “Drinks.”
Mr. Exotic: “Fine. I’ll pick you up if you pick the place.”
Later that night, he arrives at my apartment, where I make him wait on the stoop, like I do everyone else. Then I take him to Aria, like I do everyone else. Drinks turn into dinner. Dinner turns into closing the restaurant down and the manager giving me a wink and a thumbs-up, something he’s never done with any of my prior dates. As we walk back to my apartment, I can’t help but feel like the night isn’t over. I want to be with him as long as I can, but can’t invite him in. I’ve got to plan this one right. So instead, I suggest we go to a bar down the street.
The bar is closed.
“Let’s go to Soho Grand, it’s near my place,” he suggests. And we do. A few drinks later and I’m doing exactly what I wanted to but at the same time didn’t want to do: following him back to his place. At this point, I’m pretty tipsy but I can feel that something is really off. Not with him. With where I am. It’s like a word that is on the tip of my tongue only it’s a feeling on the tip of my brain. It’s like I know what I’m thinking but I can’t describe it. It’s not until he opens his apartment door that it all comes together.
I’ve been here before.
I’ve been in this apartment. Holy shit. This is the Yankee’s old apartment. I heard it was on the market and was being rented until it sold, but oh, my God, I didn’t know it was being rented to none other than Mr. Exotic. I’m trying not to look like a deer in headlights while Mr. Exotic opens the fridge and grabs us some waters.
“Sorry about the boxes. I have to be out of here by Tuesday. I guess the apartment sold.”
There I am back in the apartment with the windows that overlook all of Soho. It really is a fabulous view, I think to myself. As I’m gazing out at the rooftops below, I feel a familiar touch. He is stroking my hair and kissing my neck from behind. I’m standing in the exact same square foot I was in when the Yankee first did this. For a moment, I contemplate what to do next. On the one hand, I know how fucked up this is. I’m with a new man in my old man’s apartment. But on the other hand, it’s kind of only fitting. I broke in this apartment, and now I should give it one last make-out session.
I turn around and press my lips to his.
I leave in the wee hours of the morning, having indulged in a passionate few hours of nothing more than some good old-fashioned making out and a little light groping. My self-discipline makes me feel better about it all. I put on my jacket and heels and exit the apartment, for the last time, I hope. I make my way down the elevator and through the lobby, where a doorman tells me goodbye in a judgmental kind of way. Little does he know, I’ve been here both before and after the original owner moved out and I’ve got the key on my ring to prove it. I wave two fingers in the air, nod my head, put my sunglasses on, and, like a badass, strut my ass right out of there.
Fuck playing, this girl is on fire.
the end of an era
Well, no luck finding a winter boyfriend so far, and no luck finding a New Year’s Eve kiss. I can’t remember the last time I didn’t have a New Year’s Eve kiss. Is that a bad sign for the year to come? This year, instead of going to Mexico, my friends and I stay in the city and have a low-key dinner. I have to fly out early the next morning to film a segment for Jimmy Kimmel Live. I know, I still find myself in disbelief when I say things like that. Like who the fuck am I to be on Jimmy Kimmel Live? It blows my mind.
The past two times I was on the show, I was promoting The Bachelorette and going public with my then-fiancé. This time is going to be a little different, since now I am going to promote Number Twenty-Five’s new season. There was a full-court-press effort to make this the most dramatic season ever. And what better way to make it dramatic than to bring not one but both of his exes onto the show? I won’t say I am super-excited to be flying across the country on New Year’s Day, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to turn down Jimmy Kimmel Live.
Cut to the actual taping. Kaitlyn, the other ex, and I are getting ready for the evening interview portion with Number Twenty-Five. We’ve had our hair and makeup done and are now showing the stylist what we plan to wear. Kaitlyn has a sexy midi skirt and crop top that look expensive and hot. I reach into an H&M bag and pull out a pair of black trouser shorts and a tank with the tags still on them, which I bought across the street this morning. Luckily, I also brought from home a navy blazer onto which I’d hot-glued black beads on the lapel and sleeves. I slipped it on and oiled up my legs before walking out to show the stylist.
“Oh. My. God. Giiiiiiirl, is that the Balmain blazer? ” he asks.
“This? Seriously? ”
“It’s fire!”
“Ummmm, this is an H&M blazer that I hot-glued beads on.”
“No fucking way! Karen, Karen!” He’s waving to a producer. “Come see this. You have got to see this.”
“Balmain? ”
I laugh. “H&M and hot glue.”
“Holy amaaaazing.”
Now that I am apparently looking like a million bucks, it is time for the interview. The door opens, and we walk to the couch next to Jimmy’s desk. Number Twenty-Five is already there. We all greet one another. His hug with me seems much warmer than his with Kaitlyn does. Number Twenty-Five and I squashed our beef long ago. So much so that we actually text each other on occasion just to see how life is. It’s weird. I never thought I’d say that, considering this is the same guy who once told the world we’d had sex on live television, but since then, we’ve both gone on to do our own things. Our resentment is so far in the past that it’s become something that kind of bonds us.
But the same can’t yet be said for him and Kaitlyn. There seems to be nothing but disdain between them. As we take our seats on the couch, Kaitlyn next to Jimmy and me between her and Number Twenty-Five, the tension can be felt by everyone, including me. There I am, sitting between two fires, and I can’t help but feel responsible for having set them aflame. Had I not sent Number Twenty-Five home when I did, then maybe he wouldn’t have gone on Kaitlyn’s season, and maybe they’d just be acquaintances instead of whatever awkwardness they are now. I think I’m asked a question, and all I can say is “This is so awkward.” Kaitlyn starts rambling about some bet she and Jimmy have, and at one point, I honestly don’t even know what the conversation is about. I figure I’ll just sit back and flex my oiled-up legs and smile. And that’s exactly what I do.
As I fly home, part of me laughs at the last twenty-four hours, and another part of me feels a sense of sadness. I know that this was probably my last appearance as it relates to the Bachelor franchise. I know that it’s time to move on from a show that changed my life forever. It’s a weird sense of identity crisis. Just the way my identity changed when I went on the show and got engaged, the fact that I’m no longer engaged, not on the show, and becoming more irrelevant with each season is also a change in my identity.
The truth is, I’ve been out of the Bachelor game for a while now. Sometimes Sharleen, who was on the show with me and lives in New York, invites me to viewing parties. Despite knowing my answer will always be “Hell, no,” it’s sweet of her to ask. But as for me, when it comes to this whole obsession with the show, I just don’t get it. I never did. Maybe that’s why I was such a boring lead. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not the reality television factor that I don’t get. I love reality television. I love the worst of it. The Real Housewives of every city, Million Dollar Listing, My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding, Total Divas—you name it, it’s set
to my DVR. Except my own show. Maybe there is a part of me that can’t watch it because I went through it and it didn’t work out. Maybe it’s all rooted in my own sense of failure. Maybe it’s rooted in my own fear. If I watch it, will it bring up memories that have taken a year to erase? I don’t know, but I don’t want to find out.
The other thing about the show and these viewing parties is that a bunch of other former contestants always go to them. They all cling to one another and upload tons of photos and snaps whenever they hang out together. I understand there is an underlying bond among contestants of the show; trust me, I’ve experienced it myself. We all share the experience of being plucked from our normal nine-to-five jobs and inserted into a life that is anything but normal. But other than that, what do we all really have in common? Am I really inherently bonded with a contestant just because she went on the same show I went on four seasons later? What would I even talk to her about? The show? That’s exactly what I don’t want to talk about.
The other thing is, I’ve seen how social media has changed with every season of the show since mine. Sharleen and I were once talking about the fact that back when we went on, there was no social media, really. It was kind of shocking when we all got off with fifty thousand or a hundred thousand followers. Now it’s shocking if these contestants don’t come off with half a million followers. It’s become such a thing that I wonder if most of the contestants are now going on the show simply for a social media following. Which leads me to distrust the ones I don’t know. When I see these people building their lives around social media and a television show, it seems only natural that in order to fuel that engine, you have to keep gassing it up. And how do you gas it up? With photos and friends who are also building their lives around the same show. Do you really think half these people would be friends if social media didn’t exist? I’m not hating on them; to each his own, really. But I’ll leave the posing-in-cornfield photo shoots to them.
