ME: He was casing the joint!

EXCITED s.e.xUALLY LIBERATED FRIEND: No! He was not casing the joint! He was being s.e.xy and sweet and making cute little jokes about family photos. And then he asked if he could see my bedroom-

ME: Your bedroom, so he could rape and murder you!

Eventually, my constant interruptions make her so irritated, she stops telling her s.e.xy story. I guess nothing puts a damper on a one-night stand as much as your friend pointing out all the opportunities where you might have been killed.

Don't get me wrong, I love hearing about it. I don't want to come off as prim or that I won't go see a R-rated movie or something. In fact, I would feel sad if I didn't have my s.e.xually Liberated Friend there to tell me fun, frank tales of desires fulfilled.

I just don't think I could ever do it myself.

So, this is what I'm like: if you come over to my house, I need to know your first and last name. I need to have your phone number and a person whom we both know so you can't disappear forever in case you murder me. Ultimately, it comes down to this: How embarra.s.sing would it be for me to be talking to a detective at a precinct after you tried to rape and murder me in my home, and not be able to tell him your name or any information about you because we were having a one-night stand? I've seen Law & Order: SVU. I know how it works.

"Hooking Up" Is Confusing

THE CAREFUL reader will note that my teens and early twenties were largely without significant s.e.xual incident. Okay, even the not-so-careful reader will notice this. All right. If you've merely glanced at the back cover of this book while you're in line at the bookstore, you'd probably come to that conclusion. This is what happens when you have friends who are more likely to tell ghost stories in a living room with flashlights than recount tales of raunchy s.e.x encounters.

Because of this, I have fallen way behind in my terminology. I am especially tired of not knowing exactly what "hooking up" means. Some version of this happens to me constantly:

PSYCHED PAL: Oh, hey! I hooked up with Nikki last night.

ME: That's awesome! You've liked her for a while. Nice job.

(We high-five. A pause.)

ME: What does that mean? Did you have s.e.x?

PSYCHED PAL: You're disgusting.

It's not that I'm some pervert looking for lurid details (this time, anyway). It's just that I have no idea what you are talking about. There have been times when friends have said they hooked up with someone and all it means is that they had a highly antic.i.p.ated kissing session. Other times it's a full-on all-night s.e.x-a-thon.* Can't we have a universal understanding of the term, once and for all? From now on, let's all agree that hooking up = s.e.x. Everything else is "made out." And if you're older than twenty-eight, then just kissing someone doesn't count for c.r.a.p and is not even worth mentioning. Unless you're Mormon, in which case you're going to h.e.l.l. There, I think we're all on the same page. If Europe could figure out a way to do the euro, I feel confident we can do this.

*Full-on All-Night s.e.x-a-thon is also the name of my debut hip-hop alb.u.m.

I Love Irish Exits

I RECENTLY LEARNED that an "Irish exit" is when you leave a party without telling anyone (and presumably it is because you are too drunk to form words). A "French exit" is when you leave a party early without saying good-bye to anyone or paying your share of the bill and maybe you are also drunk. Um, I may have found these on kind of a xenophobic website. Makes me wonder about Jewish exits or Black exits. Okay, thin ice. Too far.

I think Irish exits should actually be de rigueur, except the drunk part. Slipping away is basically all I do now at large parties. My version of an Irish exit has an air of deception to it, because it includes my asking loudly, "Where's the bathroom?" and making theatrical looking-around gestures like a lost foreign tourist. But then, instead of finding the bathroom, I sneakily grab my coat and leave. Other times I say, "Oh, I think I left my lights on in my car!" or "Oh my gosh, I think I left my car unlocked." Cars make great pretexts for Irish exits. People never doubt weird issues you have with your car, because it's extremely boring to listen to.

The reason I pull Irish exits is not because I think I'm too busy and cool to be bothered with pleasantries. It's that when there is a gathering of more than thirty people I don't want to waste your time with h.e.l.los and good-byes. I think it's actually the more polite thing to do, because I'm not coercing partygoers into some big farewell moment with me. Then other people feel like they have to stop what they're doing and hug me, too. It's time-wasting dominoes.

Irish exits are supposed to be subtle, a way to leave without creating a disruption, and yes, on occasion, a way to perhaps escape notice for epic drunkenness. The only snag is you have to be comfortable lying directly to the faces of people you like. There has really been only one time when someone actually busted me on it. It occurred at my friend Louisa's birthday, on the roof of the Downtown Standard Hotel in L.A. when I was twenty-seven. I was having a crummy time because I was supposed to go with my friend Diana but she couldn't make it at the last minute because she was going to Burning Man.* Diana was going to be my wingwoman because I knew my ex-boyfriend was coming to the party with his new girlfriend, Chloe.

A word about Chloe: Chloe was so young (or young-looking) she'd actually played the daughter of an actress four years older than me on a TV show. But the worst thing about Chloe is that she was sweet.

Chloe approached me.

CHLOE (shyly): Can I just say you're my hero? I took the Long Island Rail Road out to see Matt & Ben when I was in middle school.

Don't you dare, Chloe. Don't you dare make it impossible to hate you. Quit looking at me, all earnest, with those Bambi eyes. Also, I'm your "hero"? What am I, ten thousand years old? I quickly said something weird like "Bless you, child," excused myself, and walked briskly away. I went over to Louisa, who was standing with my friend Pete when I began to initiate an Irish exit.

ME: Oh man, you know what? I think I left my glove compartment open when I parked here. I'd better go check on it.

PETE: Just say you're leaving. We know you're not coming back.

Pete read my mind. At that moment, I was actually thinking about which twenty-four-hour taco stand on the drive back home would conceivably accept credit cards.

A word about Pete: Pete is a very funny, direct, mildly pessimistic guy who's a great friend because it's like Larry David is your pal. He's also one of those guys whose plainspokenness is charming when used on other people, but super irritating when used on you.

ME: I'm not leaving. Just need to check my car and maybe use the bathroom. Just drinking so much water these days. Health. Ha ha.

I mimed drinking a long gulp of water to sell the point.

PETE: Why must you always tell us why you're going to the bathroom?

Pete had a point. No one has ever been curious about what people do when they go to the bathroom. It was a sure sign of guilt: giving too much information about my cover story was such an amateur move.

Ugh! That stupid Chloe threw me off, with her hot youngness and surprising sweetness. Why not just be a total b.i.t.c.h to me like I would've been if I had been the hot and young one? d.a.m.n it, Chloe!

Then I got an idea.

ME: So am I trying to sneak out or am I using the bathroom, Pete? Get your idea of my motivations straight before you accuse me of something.

I looked around to see if anyone else had noticed my Rainmaker-level-closing-arguments reb.u.t.tal. Nope.