The club is a barrage of beautiful strangers with faces so clean and fresh, they're probably not born with it, it's gotta be Maybelline. I feel like a freshly-landed alien from the planet Plaid-Beard, on a planet of smooth white grins and caramel skins, with fluttering sequins and sparkles as far as the eye will bear. I say "club," but it's really more of a mansion-turned-bar/club, with small bars in the living room and bedrooms. With all of the little conversations happening along the walls and on the suede sofas (I wonder how difficult it is to get Bacardi barf out of suede), I keep reminding myself that this is a bar, and I didn't just crash Zac Efron's birthday party.

As Mark, Danny and I meander from room to room with our drinks, we eventually stop in what might have once been the den.

"What are you guys drinking, rum and cokes?" I ask.

They both look down at their glasses, look at each other, then look at me, and say, "Yeah."

"What are you drinking?" Mark asks.

"Whiskey. On the rocks. That must mean I have the biggest dick here," I say.

"Oh, wow- I guess we'll have to find out," says Danny, looking off into the glitter sea.

Scanning the crowd and each silky face giggling or drawing out their vowels ("Yaaaa" "I know-aaaa"), I'm getting that sinking feeling in my stomach again.

"So, everyone here is absolutely stunning," I say, taking a sip off my bourbon.

"Yep," they both say, staring at this lean, raven-haired vixen in the corner sipping from a champagne flute that has the grace and elegance of a first lady, but the body and mannerisms of a sought-after porn star.

"How do you even begin a conversation with any of them? Do they give you the time of day?"

"Not really," Mark says, sipping from his drink.

"So how do you guys get laid?" I ask.

They both laugh. Danny says, "Some of these chicks will put out, depending. Some of them are so grateful that you open the door for them that they'll have sex with you on the spot."

I scoff into my cup. "Has anyone ever actually had sex with you on the spot?"

"Once," Mark says wistfully.

"Yeah, once for me, too," says Danny.

"Was it because you opened the door for them?" I ask.

With a twinkle in his eye, Danny rearranges his stance to douchebag mountain pose: "No, it was in my apartment complex. I was in the laundry room, you know, doing my business, and this girl got her quarter jammed in the washing machine."

I feel my eyes rolling like a couple of downhill marbles.

Danny continues, "So, I asked her if she needed help. Of course, being the proud babe that she was, she said she got it, but she clearly didn't. I happened to know where the tool kit was in the laundry room, and I ended up unscrewing the little coin slot thing and got it working again. She didn't have to pay for laundry after that. And then we did it on the drier."

"Bullshit!" Mark says, laughing and spilling droplets from his drink.

"Yeah, seriously. That sounds like a bad porn you watched last night. Oh, I'm sorry, that's redundant- any porn."

"It happened. I know it sounds ridiculous, but it happened. We did it on the drier. It was stupid hot."

I ask, "Did you guys exchange phone numbers or anything? Did you ever see her again?"

"Nope. I think that she was just really grateful that she didn't have to pay for laundry anymore, and it made her really horny."

Mark says, "Usually people just write on my Facebook wall or send me a card."

"Were you shirtless and wearing a toolbelt, too?" I ask, finishing my last drop of whiskey.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Danny asks, smirking into his cup.

His smugness makes me want to throw up and kiss him at the same time. I excuse myself and go inside to get another whiskey, and find out which one it'll be.