Thursday, March 22: Around 8:15 p.m., as I was approaching the house, I spotted some commotion by the door — Malik and Kevin were leaving with a crew.  I bolted across the street and hid behind some scaffolding. They headed north. Feeling like V.I. Warshawski, I trailed them till they wound up at . . . the Chelsea Grill.
I decided to call for backup so I didn't look like too much of a stalker: my friends Matt and Casey. We sat at the end of the bar. Malik and Kevin were in a booth by the window and didn't seem to notice me. I ordered a drink and the bartender said, "Were you the same girl who was here the other night?"
"Yeah," I said. "I look better, right?" I was wearing a short plaid skirt, high
boots and a tight T-shirt. I'd plucked some of my 'stache hairs, too.
The barkeep introduced himself as Christopher.
"So, Chris," I said. "How do you un-burn bridges?"
"Buy them a round of drinks." I handed him plastic and he brought the boys some brews. They didn't look my way, but after twenty minutes they came over and said thanks.
"I'm sorry I was so rude the other night," I said. "It was the liquor and the chip on my shoulder."
"I know what you mean," said Kevin.
"Where are the girls?" said Matt. "You hang with them?"
"No. They're lame," said Malik. "They sit on their asses. Anyway, we have to go to a party now for this rapper, Trick Daddy. We work at Arista Records."
"Where's the party?"
Kevin narrowed his eyes but Malik answered, "Slate." They thanked me again and jetted. I called information, but there was no "Slate" listed.
I sat back down on my stool as Christopher was telling Matt and Casey how he met the cast. "I was out at a club with some female friends," he said, "and the guys were there with the cameras. I asked my friends if they'd put Band-Aids
on their nipples and dance bare-chested on the bar.  They said okay and did, and now the guys are my buddies. I'm even throwing a birthday party for Malik here next week!"
I wondered whether I'd have to sink as low as those girls. I have really large nipples, and I'd need jumbo Band-Aids to cover them up. Besides, I'd been stalking the guys so long, nudity would look freakish, not cute.
I decided it was time to work on the chicks. I'd be less threatening. I could chat them up, tell them where to meet guys, then edge my way into the pad. Matt, Casey and I headed to Bar & Books, but after an hour and a half of no motion on the street, we decided to drive home in Matt's car.
We walked to Eighth and then north, and as we passed the Chelsea Grill I noticed Malik, Mike and Kevin inside. These were the real Trick Daddies. They'd lied to us. They were stalking me — they kept showing up wherever I was. It was so violating and weird.
"I gotta go in," I said, jumping up and down like a boxer. "I need resolution."
"Your problem," said Casey, "is that they're scared of you. You need to find some way to make your behavior make sense."
As soon as we walked in, the cameras came over and got in my face. They must have recognized me from before. "Malik," I said. "This friend of mine said she'd give me $250 to get to first with you and $500 to get in the house."
"Do I get a cut?"
"What?
"It's only fair."
"Don't you guys get a stipend?"
"No!" all three guys shouted. "No way!"
"Oh," I said, wondering how I was going to come up with the large. "No, I can't give you a cut. The money's for me."
"Have you gotten any Real World pussy before?" said Casey.
"Only one person's stayed in the house so far," said Malik. "A guy, who knew one of the girls from before."
"So I would be the first pussy!"
"I'll tell you one thing. You have a better  chance of getting in the house than kissing me."
"Why?"
"I don't kiss strangers."
"She's got her papers," said Casey.
"Shut up," I said. I turned to Malik. "It doesn't make sense. You let a nation of complete strangers watch your life but you won't kiss a stranger?"
He shook his head.
"All right," I said. "So when can I get in?"
"We have to ask all the roommates' permission," said Kevin.
I sighed. "All right, Malik. Let me give you my number. Or do you still have it from before?"
"No," said Kevin. "We ran out of toilet paper last night." Everyone chuckled loudly. I gritted my teeth and scribbled it down. The cameras moved away. I leaned in close to Malik.
"Call me either way, okay?"
"Okay."
But the king never called. I waited and waited, but he didn't even ring to give me the boot. Thursday night, his birthday, I dressed in a cute vintage dress
and called the Chelsea Grill. "Chris?" I said. "It's Amy, The Real World fan. What time should I come?"
"The party's not happening," he said glumly.
"Why not?"
"The guys stopped coming here because they were tired of being followed around by people like you. Now they hang out in the East Village. I told you to be nice, but you crossed the line. They're good guys and you scared them off."
"Story of my life," I sighed.
I hung up the phone and flopped onto the couch. I'd set out to gain entry through giving entry, and instead I'd literally driven the boys away.
And then, slowly, it hit me that what I'd accomplished had been more far-reaching than any one-night stand. Sex with celebs, even quasi-celebs, is all about power, and although I hadn't gotten the nookie, at least I'd called the shots — driving them from their favorite bar, shoving their sound stage from West Village to East. Any girl could fuck The Real World guys, after all, but only a really special one could mindfuck them.
I smiled proudly and turned on Survivor 2. I don't know where they're shooting next season, but I'm buying a boat.
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