My Horizontal Life: A Collection of One-Night Stands

by Chelsea Handler

  We landed in San Francisco and were driven to the W Hotel, where everyone working on the show was staying. We usually traveled with four or five producers, the director, and a couple of location scouts.

  The three days went by pretty uneventfully due to fourteen-hour workdays.

  On the last day we finished shooting early, at around five in the afternoon, so we met up with everybody at the hotel bar in the W. Everyone wanted to go out to dinner for our last night, but I was exhausted and told Shoniqua we should skip it.

  Until this job, I had never experienced fourteen-hour workdays and my body was starting to shut down. Not only did I have a terrible work ethic mentally, it seemed my body was on the same page. I told everyone I was going to pass on dinner, when our producer Jeff informed me that one of his friends who lived in San Francisco was coming by to pick us up.

  "He's good-looking, Chelsea," he said. "He's an attorney for the government, he's got a house and a boat, I think you'd like him. We'll all go to dinner."

  I love how people list material items to get you interested in a person. I was just about to ask if Jeff's friend also had a bicycle but didn't have the energy.

  "I'm too tired," I told Jeff. "I have no personality."

  "Well, bitch, that's what I'm here for," Shoniqua jumped in. "Chelsea, I think we should go. I'm tired too, but this could be worth it." That's the kind of friend Shoniqua is.

  I shook my head, unconvinced.

  "Listen, I got a husband, so it's up to you, but I would hate to see you miss an opportunity to get some booty. Especially from someone who sounds like marriage material."

  The idea that our Neanderthal producer Jeff could actually have a friend who would be considered marriage material was about as likely as Paris Hilton winning a spelling bee. The conversations Jeff usually had involved two main topics: sex with animals and family pornography. Tonight, he had somehow steered the conversation to the new phenomenon of asshole bleaching when I excused myself to the ladies' room. I had eaten way too much during the last couple of days and had neglected to do any sort of exercise. I needed to see firsthand what kind of damage I had done to my midsection. I went into the bathroom, stood in front of a full-length mirror, and lifted up my shirt.

  Good God. I looked like I was carrying a small baby. Not full term, just three or four months. Then I turned to the side for a second look. Clearly, I was well into my second trimester. I started going over baby names in my head. I liked the name Lucifer, but only for a girl. My stomach was in the beginning stages of overlapping my jeans--a few more days of this and I could apply for my plumber's license. I have a body like a Latin American; when I gain weight it distributes itself evenly, but only from the waist up. I turned back to face the mirror head-on. I looked like two sticks with a baked potato on top. "Ugh," I said aloud.

  A woman exited one of the stalls and I asked her if she had ever seen anything like this.

  "Are you getting your period?" she asked.

  "I hope so," I said.

  "Well, it's probably just water weight," she told me.

  I knew it wasn't water weight because not only do I make it a personal rule never to drink water straight, I could actually see the outline of the cheeseburger I had eaten earlier that day. I made a mental note to get my hands on a Soloflex immediately upon my return to Los Angeles.

  I went back to the bar and told Shoniqua that I was fat and therefore not in the mood to meet my prospective husband. "Another time," I said

  That's when Carter walked in. I took one look at him and announced, "We're coming."

  The first thing I liked about Carter was that he was wearing a suit. I love a man in a suit. Especially without the jacket. It reminds me of after-work cocktails at expensive restaurants. Living in Los Angeles for eight years and seeing men walk around in sweat suits and open-toed sandals in the middle of the afternoon will really make you respect a man with a job.

  Carter was adorable, about six feet tall and absolutely charming. He kissed us all hello and escorted the six of us out to his Yukon. I also like men with big cars. As we gathered in the backseat, Shoniqua pushed her index finger hard into my leg and said, "See, I fucking told you. It's a good thing you have me, cuz none of your white friends would go to bat for you like this."

  We went to dinner at some Americanized Mexican restaurant and I tried to maneuver myself to sit directly across from him but somehow managed to sit in between two people I didn't even know were coming to dinner. But Shoniqua sat next to him, so I knew I was covered.

  My dinner experience consisted of molesting a pair of enchiladas while listening to one of the local production assistants we hired tell me about finding her birth parents. I am always fascinated by adoption stories, but for different reasons than most. I am convinced my sister Sloane was adopted, and I have gone to great lengths to try and prove it. So far, I've been unsuccessful. The closest I came was when I hired an online attorney, who charged twenty-five dollars per e-mail and assured me there was a strong chance my blue-eyed, fair-skinned sister was of Creole descent.

  After dinner we went back to the hotel bar for more drinks. Two of the people in our group excused themselves for the night, so our group had dwindled to five. Carter and I sat next to each other in overstuffed club chairs while the others were on the couch facing us. I was just finishing up my conversation with the production assistant when suddenly I heard the words "conspiracy theory."

  There are two topics I enjoy even more than adoption: conspiracy theories and Jennifer Lopez. I turned my head so fast that my contact fell out.

  Carter was discussing Kennedy's assassination. I bided my time and at the exact perfect moment interceded with, "Kennedy, Schmennedy, let's talk about Biggie Smalls and Tupac. That's where some real shit went down."

  There were a couple of seconds of awkward silence before Shoniqua broke it for me. "Now you know you got that fucking right, Chelsea. Let's talk about it!"

  Thanks to my segue, our group enjoyed a roundtable discussion, where everyone put their two cents in with regard to all three assassinations. This wasn't the first time I'd been able to bring people together and it was definitely something to think about. Maybe one day I would lead a committee for people who were unemployed but weren't looking to get back in the workforce.

  Shoniqua said she was tired and going to bed. I gave her a look that said, "Don't go." She leaned down to kiss me good night and whispered, "It's on, he's into you. I fucking told his ass."

  As soon as she left, Carter and I zoomed in on each other. While we were talking to the other guys with us, he kept putting his hand on my leg. I returned his affection with hard slaps to his back whenever anyone said anything funny.

  I asked him about his job and he told me he prosecuted terrorists.

  "Really?" I asked. "Do you work closely with President Bush?"

  "I've met with him before, but mostly I work with his advisers."

  "Does everyone just kind of sit around and make fun of him when he leaves the room, or is that kind of thing done on the quiet tip?"

  He smiled and said, "No, I've never seen anyone make fun of him, but there are definite moments where looks are exchanged."

  "Wait a second. Are you a Republican?"

  "I'm registered as a Republican, but I don't always vote that way."

  "Interesting," I said, "very interesting."

  I immediately had fantasies of marrying Carter and spending my free time with Colin Powell and Donald Rumsfeld at the Pentagon bar, where I would grill them about how they could be so opposed to stem-cell research yet not put a ban on the handlebar mustache.

  I would convince them that gay couples deserved every benefit that the three of us were fortunate enough to have.

  I would also talk to them about my 401 (k) that I never started and see if they could somehow cut me a deal. There are so many issues I would lobby for in Washington, and I would make sure that everyone in my community was heard. I'd be like the new Jackie O, except wilder and
I'd wear jeans.

  I looked at Carter with a whole new level of respect and couldn't wait for us to start seeing each other more seriously. These feelings I had for him, coupled with the fact that I had just seen the episode of Oprah where she had a doctor on who explained that the more sex an individual had, the healthier they'd be, led me to my next decision. In my ever constant desire to maintain a healthy lifestyle, I decided it was time to make my move.

  I got up and announced, "Well, everyone, I'm beat. I'm going up to my room. Carter, would you like to join me for a nightcap?"

  "Of course," he said and stood up.

  We stopped at the concierge's desk on our way to the elevator bank. "Would you mind sending up some ice to room 1202 please?" I asked.

  "Sure thing, right away," he told me. Just as we were about to step inside the elevator I ran back and whispered to the concierge, "Do you have any condoms?"

  "Absolutely, Miss Handler," he said with a very professional smile. "I'll have them sent right up."

  "Well, that was easy," I told Carter as I caught back up with him inside the elevator.

  We weren't alone in the elevator so we didn't start kissing until we got into my hotel room. It wasn't immediate, though, because first Carter headed straight to the minibar and took out every bottle of alcohol.

  There was a couch that ran the length of the window and was connected to the wall. We sat on it together while he poured me a warm vodka and soda and a gin and tonic for himself. Then he went to the fridge and took out a sixteen-dollar bottle of Vos water and chugged it.

  "Are you okay?" I asked him.

  "Yeah, I'm just so parched."

  "Yeah, I guess."

  "Oh, I'm sorry. Do you have to pay for any of this?" he asked.

  "No, don't worry about it. Have some Pringles too if you want."

  "That's okay," he smiled.

  We made out for a little bit, which was pretty blase. We didn't have the chemistry I was hoping we would, and I was sensing Carter wasn't able to relax. He kept getting up and sitting back down. He was a really nice guy and charming, but his body language was all over the place. Then we heard a knock at my door. He tipped the bellhop and grabbed the ice bucket along with a sunglasses case.

  "What is this?" he asked as he opened it and saw three condoms splayed inside like magazines at a doctor's office.

  "Did you order condoms?" he asked me.

  "No, are those really condoms?" I asked. "That is so funny. Talk about good hotel service."

  Carter was emptying ice into our glasses while I turned on the satellite radio. I went to the bathroom to freshen up and take a last look at my gut. I wasn't happy with it, but I had noticed that Carter's body wasn't in tip-top condition either and he was carrying a little extra meat around the middle. He had the physique of a football player who had stopped playing years earlier.

  I brushed my teeth and came out. Carter was sitting on the window sofa when I approached. He made a movement with his mouth that I immediately recognized from my friend Nathan's drug-induced repertoire. It indicated one of two things: either he had a hair in his mouth or he was on cocaine. It was not at all attractive and I needed to investigate further.

  "Are you partying right now?" I asked.

  He hesitated and then said, "I just did a tiny little line. Is that okay?"

  "I don't know. Is this going to affect your performance?" I asked, referring to his penis.

  "No, no, not at all," he replied.

  Carter took this as his cue to prove to me that he was indeed ready for some action and threw me on the bed. He got on top of me and started to put his hand up my shirt when I moved it down the back of my pants instead. I wanted my torso quarantined until I could get into the perfect horizontal position with my hands over my head to ensure a leaner look.

  "Your butt is so cute," he said as he squeezed it a little too hard.

  "You think that's good, wait until you get a load of these!" I said as I threw off my shirt and undid my bra.

  "Wow," he said.

  "Don't look, feel!" I told him, as I forced his head between the girls.

  Then he moved his head down my stomach. I stretched out farther and farther and he set off for downtown.

  I quickly pulled him back up. I don't like oral sex between strangers and had to redirect focus. I undid his pants, and he tried again with his head to travel in a southerly direction.

  "No," I said. "Let's have sex."

  I yanked Carter's pants off and he reached for one of the condoms that he had placed on the nightstand. We were rolling around a little until he put one on and headed in the direction of my vagina.

  A moment went by while I waited for him to get started. Instead, he just laid on top of me in silence. Was this Carter's idea of sex?

  "What's up?" I asked.

  "I'm really sorry," he said. "I don't think I can get it going."

  "What?" I asked.

  "I did a little more than one line . . . but I can do other things," he said.

  I wondered if by other things he meant finding me someone with a working penis.

  "I feel like shit," he said.

  "Ugh," I said and put my hand over my forehead. "Don't you work for the government?" I asked.

  "Yes," he said.

  "Well, what do you guys do, just sit around and blow lines together? Is that what's taking place in our nation's capital?"

  "No, no, not at all."

  "This is ridiculous," I said and rolled over to cover myself with the comforter.

  "Can I come to L.A. and make it up to you? This doesn't usually happen," Carter explained.

  Come to L.A? I thought.

  I was so irritated by the whole situation. I hadn't even wanted to go out in the first place tonight, and now look what happened. I consumed way more than my allotted fifteen-hundred-caloric intake, all in the name of sex, and now I wasn't getting any.

  "I'm going to sleep," I told him.

  "I'm leaving my number for you. I'd like to see you again if you're not too turned off."

  "Great," I said with the same enthusiasm I reserve for Steven Seagal movies.

  I woke up the next morning and found Carter's cell number scribbled on a hotel pad. I packed my things in order for our airport pickup at nine A.M. At eight, I went down to the restaurant and ordered an egg white omelet with a side of Tabasco. I needed to get serious about the couple of extra pounds I had packed on. I sat at a table by myself, reading Dear Abby. When in doubt, advice about lending out a hairbrush will always put things in perspective.

  The thought occurred to me that the one-night stand was not nearly as much fun as it used to be. I felt disgusted with myself for being so disappointed in a complete stranger not being able to perform. I felt like a man must feel after using and abusing women for ages. Then I reminded myself that I had only physically hit one man, and he had seemed to enjoy it. I felt better, but was still low. What am I doing, I thought.

  If I continued on this path, the only men I was going to meet were guys like me, and I definitely don't want to end up with someone like me. The idea of marriage and monogamy were concepts that didn't make me shiver like they once used to. I wanted someone like Shoniqua had, to call when I was traveling or to come back to after happy hour ended.

  The thought of giving up alcohol crossed my mind too, but I was soon reminded of the promise to Ketel One, Grey Goose, and other top-shelf vodkas I had made in my early twenties. Never turn your back on someone who has asked nothing in return.

  These were feelings I had felt coming on in the past couple of years that I repeatedly pushed to my subconscious for fear of my very first panic attack.

  I felt like maybe it was time to grow up, and I was not happy about it.

  Shoniqua, of course, came down at ten minutes past nine because she had never been on time in her life. I was already in our idling car when the driver opened the door for her. She hopped in. "What's up, ho?! How was it?"

  "Don't ask."

  "W
hat? Girl, please don't tell me you managed to fuck it up. I put in a good two to three hours workin' that shit out for you. Do not tell me you somehow managed to fuck that up."

  "Carter does coke and couldn't get it up."

  Her mouth stayed open until I physically closed it for her.

  "I think you should give him another chance," she said. "Did you give him your number?"

  "He gave me his and it's still upstairs where I left it."

  "Chelsea," Shoniqua said in her shame-on-you voice.

  "I've decided I'm taking a break," I told her.

  "A break from what?" she asked.

  "Sex. I'm not having sex for a while, or at least until I meet someone I care about. I'm done."

  "Well, shit, I've never heard you say that before," Shoniqua said. "You might go into fucking shock."

  "It's not fun anymore, and you're right. I'm an actual grown-up and whether I like it or not, someone is going to have to marry my ass one day so I better start getting ready for him."

  "Copy thatV Shoniqua said.

  "Did you hear that, Ahmed?" she said to the driver, whose name she didn't know. "Chelsea's closing up shop for the winter! Well, it's about fucking time!"

  We were flying to New York City to film some more of our television show, so my father decided to pick us up from the airport and bring us home for dinner.

  "I can't wait to see your hot mess of a daddy," Shoniqua said as we collected our luggage from the baggage claim.

  We walked outside and I spotted my father standing halfway out of a purple two-doored Ford Escort with racing stripes. The front fender was missing, and having grown up with vehicles like this parked in our driveway for years at a time, I was able to deduce that the car was from somewhere between 1980 and 1985. We were in the year 2005.

  "There's Melvin." I pointed.

  "Where, where?" She looked around excitedly.

  "Right there."

  "Look at that piece of shit car," she said.

  Melvin saw us heading in his direction, leapt out the driver's side door, and started waving.

  "Do you see those fucking sausage fingers attached to his hands?" Shoniqua asked, smiling and waving back.