Handler - My horizontal life: a collection of one-night stands

A SMALL PENIS on a little boy is not a big deal. However, if that boy continues to grow and his penis does not, it turns into a very big deal. I feel terrible for men who have small penises. What are they supposed to do? I guess they could have penile enlargements, but are people really doing that? I hope so.

I had a brief summer fling with a small-penis person once. My only excuse is that he was a lot of fun to hang out withand I was barely twenty. I didn't know at that point that it was okay to leave a guy in the lurch. I definitely did know that it wasn't okay to talk to him about his tiny penis. By the way, will you let me know when you're inside me? Plus, this guy was right after my black phase where I never came across a penis smaller than a baby's arm. I thought maybe it was the price I had to pay for going back to the white man.

Cut to five years later at a club called 217 in Santa Monica, and a little Ecstasy. 217 is a dance club, and in order for me to go to 217 and do what everyone else was doing, I had to take drugs. I like my Ecstasy in small quantities, and then I like it again in about an hour or soin more small quantities. I don't like to overdose. Call me old-fashioned.

We were all in the mood for a wild night. Ivory had just broken up with her architect boyfriend from Holland. Ivory hadn't dated a guy without an accent since high school. Lydia was reeling from a terrible breakup with a man who'd treated her like shit for close to two years. I had seen him on plenty of occasions out at bars, where he would not only hit on her friends but then tell her about it. She thought he just needed to grow up. The guy was thirty-five, which in L.A. years is twenty-five, and it didn't look like he was going to get his act together now or later. The worst thing about him, though, was his terrible breath.

After their first date, Lydia had called me and said, I really liked him, except he had smelly breath. So we went back to my place...

I'm sorry ... ? I asked her.

So we went back to my place...

Hold on a second. After you realized he had bad breath, you went back to your place?

Well... She paused.

Well, nothing! I told her. Listen, Lydia, halitosis is not the beginning of a relationship, it's the end of one. That's not something you can work through. Unless you have access to a tongue scraper that I don't know about.

Ivory and I had taken to calling him AB. Ass Breath. Long before the breakup, Lydia started using that nickname too.

Ivory, good old Lydia, and I were flying high on our three tabs of Ecstasy. Thirty minutes after we got to the club, Lydia disappeared and Ivory and I were dancing. I saw a cutie watching me from the bar. My favorite are white, dark-haired men with decent footwear and he definitely fit the description. He was probably wondering who gave me the right to dance, but he seemed amused. So did the rest of the onlookers. I jumped down from the little dance stage with a scissor kick, onto the main floor, and made my way over toward him. Know that if I'm dancing on a platform, what little inhibitions I have, have completely left the building.

You're cute, I slurred.

His name was Buck. It was easy to remember because it rhymed with what we were going to do later. He was a little more stocky than I usually like, but in a sexy way, and had a nice olive complexion. I remember he had this great riotous laugh. I love a man with a good laugh. We danced a little together, then went to the back bar to make out.

Public groping has got to be one of my least favorite things. I find it really offensive and just plain nasty. Unless I'm the one getting groped. Then I don't have as much of a problem with it.

We were going at it for about an hour, drinking, smoking, kissing. Slobbering might be a better description. At one point my girlfriends came over, took one look at us, and guffawed. As if they were above making out in public. This coming from Lydia, who a week earlier had woken up on her bathroom floor.

At around one A.M., I started to hit a plateau and knew I had only a couple good hours left of uninhibitedness. I told Buck to drive me home, and then I'd follow him back to his house. He lived in Santa Monica too and insisted on just driving us straight to his house, offering to take me home in the morning. I had been down that road before, and if there's one mistake I never make, it's not having my own wheels. I do not, under any circumstances, carpool.

I made up some lie about having an early morning meetinga meeting doing God knows what. Buck insisted that he would drive me home early. That was it. I had to resort to some tough love.

Listen, unless I have my car, I'm not coming over, and I think we both know that will make you very sad. He agreed and drove me home so I could get my car. Out of the corner of my eye, as I climbed into the driver's seat, I caught him grinning. This poor Echo. It had been through so much. The good thing about the Echo was that due to its size, people always asked if it was electric. I always lied and said yes.

A half hour later, we got to his place and he pulled into an underground parking garage, waving me in behind him. No way did I want to park in his underground garage. I thought he was trying to trap me. This guy was good. I started to wonder if I had slept with him before.

I don't want to park in there, I yelled.

What is your problem? he yelled back.

Nothing, I just don't like parking in garages.

Why not? What do you think is going to happen?

I just stared blankly in his direction. At this point, if this guy carried Mace, I think he would've used it on me. I was turning into a nightmare. He looked exhausted.

How will I get out of the garage in the morning? I asked.

Drive? he responded wearily. You don't need a key or anything. The gate will open.

I sat and stared at him, bewildered.

There's a sensor, he explained, when your car pulls up. Now he was talking to me like I was eleven. I found this attractive.

Okay, I said. He must have thought I rode to school on a short bus.

We got up to his town house. It was really nice. There were at least three Warhols that I counted and lots of Namb crystal. I like men who have their act together. I had seen one too many carpet-stained, bong-infested, toilet paper-less male habitats. He had beautiful dark hardwood floors and it smelled as if Mr. Clean had spent the night.

Everything else was pretty high-end too. He had a lot of electronics. There was a huge plasma-screen TV along with every possible appendage that can go along with it. A lot of stainless steel. I found out later in life that stainless steel is a good countertop for intercourse. Anything with grout can leave marks and/or tear the skin.

He put on Fleetwood Mac, which I love, and I decided to reward him with a little striptease. I pushed him toward the bedroom and then started stripping in the doorway. He liked my dancing. The only explanation for that was that he was on Ecstasy too.

When I was done, I walked over and climbed on top of him in my underwear. I pulled his clothes off until he was only in his boxers. Then I put my hand down his pants.

The thought had never even crossed my mind that he might have a little dinky. Little is a generous word when you're describing something the size of a canned Vienna sausage. This thing was smaller than my big toe. It wasn't even like a penis, it was like an extra piece of skin. I was mortified. I had to get out of there.

I was not doing charity work here. I couldn't have sex with him just because I felt bad. I'd feel worse after. I flung myself off of him and yelled, Oh, my God, Oh, my God!!!