Every once in a while on MTV's The Real World, you'll see a cute girl emerging from the bathroom in a robe, looking dazed and just-been-laid. She's not a regular but a walk-on, there because she hooked up with someone in the cast. A title at the bottom of the screen reveals her identity: "Ravynne, met Drake in club last night." Over the ten-year run of The Real World there have been hundreds of

such publicity whores, both male and female, and after their one scene, they disappear forever — or at least until the next re-run.
     My assignment was to attempt to become one of those girls: to get in the house, get busy and get out. This was a banner year for the show: the first time The Real World had returned to Gotham, its original setting, where MTV began creating "reality TV" before anyone had ever used the term. I was up to the challenge of busting in; I'd been feeling hot lately, with newly blond hair and a newly pumped bod, and I wanted to see what kind of spell I could cast on the himbos. But it wasn't meant to be: what began as a lark soon became an obsession, one that threatened to tear my self-respect to shreds. When you mess with The Real World, no one respects you in the morning.

Monday, March 19: Nine p.m. I got the location of the house from an Internet gossip site that included photos and an address: 632 Hudson. I wasn't sure the info was good, but when I spotted the house I knew I was money. Small, bright floodlights were attached to every window, shining in, and the names on the buzzer seemed deliberately fake, like "B. Gimbel."
     A young woman was standing outside talking on a cell phone — sure sign of a P.A. "They shooting The Real World here?" I asked casually.
     "No," she said, with a too-wide grin.
     "I heard they were shooting here."
     "There are so many rumors!"
     The man in the door of the deli next door

winked at me, so I went inside. "She was lying, right?"
     "Yeah," he said. "They are shooting here, and they come in all the time." His name was David al Maroosh. He was twenty-four and he had a bright, sweet smile. "You want to see them?"
     "Okay," I said, wondering where this was going.
     He reached up to the security video monitor and rewound the tape. He pointed to the screen and showed me three of the four broads on the show. They were ordering sandwiches in front of the counter: a buxom, light-skinned black girl, a hot possible-Asian with a messy middle part and an ambiguous-race girl with no strong features. He said the black girl was Nicole and the other two were Lori and Coral. Mission one accomplished: I'd scoped out the skirts.

Tuesday, March 20: At eight p.m., I went for a cocktail near my apartment with my friend Jen, a petite blond actress who often auditions for stripper roles. When I told her my assignment, she said, "Oh my God! I just had a dream I was going to hook up with one of the guys on The Real World!" So I dragged her along.
     Since there didn't seem to be any action at the house, we decided to go into Bar & Books, the pub down the block. Then I noticed the light was on in the hair salon next door, so I popped my head in. "Have you seen any of The Real World guys?" I asked the stylist, who was cutting another guy's hair.
     "Yeah. The black guy is kind of cute. He has big hair. Personally, I think the crew's hotter than the cast."
     I thanked him and went inside the bar. Suddenly Jen and I spotted a guy with a huge Afro and two white guys, one frosted blond,

one brown-haired and wrestler-y, passing by. We beckoned for them to come in and high-hair did. "Are you on The Real World?" I asked.
     "We're not supposed to say," he said, then lifted his shirt and showed us a battery pack.
     We ran outside and followed them to the door of the house. Jen was wearing a tight Boston Celtics T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. She smiled like a chippie and said, "Can we come upstairs?"
     "We're not supposed to let anyone up," said high-hair.
     "Come on. Just for a little?" I said. They shook their heads. "Then why don't you come down and have a drink with us?"
     "Okay," said high-hair. "Give us a little while."
     We went back to the bar and waited. Ten minutes went by. Twenty. Thirty. I began to feel like I was being stood up by someone I actually cared about. I wondered whether I should've gotten my mustache waxed before I came.
     But suddenly, I saw the guys pass by, cameras trailing them. I chased down the street, Jen not far behind. "I thought you were going to drink with us!" I shouted.
     "We're going to the Chelsea Grill," said the blond.
     We gave them a head start and then trekked to the bar. It was on Eighth Avenue near Sixteenth, and it was sporty and generic. The afro guy was wearing a reggae T-shirt and sitting next to a beaky, unpleasant-seeming girl. The honkies were sitting near the door, by the crew, who weren't shooting but were listening to earpieces.

Jen and I sat a few seats down from the boys and ordered Jameson's. I realized I was a little too buzzed for my own good. I went over to the black guy and asked his name.
     "Malik," he said.
     "Malik means king," I replied.
     "How'd you know?"
     "My boyfriend in college was named Malik," I said. "That was Malcolm X's Muslim name."
     "That's who I'm named after," he said, impressed. I smiled pretty and waited for more interaction, but he turned back to Frown Girl and kept chatting.
     Jen was down the bar talking to the white guys. I ran over before she could cockblock.
     "This is Mike," she said, pointing to the jocky guy. "He's from Ohio." He had a broad forehead, kind of angry, and mean, slitty eyes.
     "Where in Ohio?" I asked.
     "Parma. Outside of Cleveland." I looked down at his football jersey. It said "Parma" in white, scripty letters.
     "Are you a hick?" I asked.
     "What?" I was supposed to seduce, not destroy, but somehow the nastiness had slipped out. I didn't know how to fake-flirt.
     "Um," I stammered, "I just mean, I've never heard of Parma, so I thought it might be a small town. What's your name?" I said to the other guy.
     "Kevin."
     "Where you from?"
     "Texas."
     "'That's right, you're not from Texas, but Texas wants you anyway.'" He didn't say anything. "That's a Lyle Lovett song," I said quickly.
     "I hate Lyle Lovett."
     Zero for two. I didn't get where we'd gone wrong. I'm no skinny Minnie, but I have biceps; I play squash. And Jen is easy on the eyes.

These guys were acting like jerks. They had the sexual egos of celebrities — cautious and snotty — even though they'd never been on TV and no one knew who they were. It was such a downer.
     "So what do you think of New Yorkers?" said Jen. The camera crew came over and started shooting, right in our faces. They could smell confrontation.
     "Judgmental and kind of obnoxious," said Kevin. "The kind of people who would call someone they don't know a hick."
     "Hey!" I railed. "I'm not judgmental." The camera swung wildly toward me. "That's completely unfair! I'm all love! All love! You guys are obnoxious!"
     "Look, you followed us here," said Mike.
     "No we didn't!" shouted Jen. "He invited us!"
     "We're two beautiful women and you're blowing us off," I said incredulously. "It doesn't make any sense. Are you gay? You must be gay."
     The camera panned over as the hick's jaw dropped. I shut my own mouth and Jen and I slinked slowly down the bar. When I turned around again they'd disappeared. I was supposed to get them in bed, and my resentment of their fake fame had driven them away.
     I looked over at Malik. It didn't seem like he'd heard much of the first convo, so I figured I might have a chance. He was talking to the bartender and the girl. I sauntered over and waited for an entry, but they ignored me.
     I reached for his hand and stroked it awhile. I've tried that number before and it usually works — guys are so relieved not to have to make the first move that when you just give them skin, even hand skin, they turn into jelly.
     But Malik turned into dead fish. He didn't move his hand away, but he didn't squeeze, either. I removed mine and scribbled a note with my name, number and, "I'll show you hot spots."
     "Thanks," he said. I grabbed Jen and we ran out.

When I got home I couldn't sleep. The guys had been cruel and not bright, but in that sense they fit my pattern. I kept writhing around, aroused yet pissed off, imagining how the night could have ended . . .

     The phone would ring and I'd leap out of bed. "It's Malik," he'd coo. "Come show me your hot spots."
     I'd slip into a teddy with two dangling blue balls at the bosom and dart into a waiting cab. When I got to the place I'd press "B. Gimbel," and a mystery someone would buzz me in. When the elevator door opened, I'd be face to face with Malik, lying naked in a beanbag chair from Urban Outfitters, stroking his ego.
     "Hello, Mrs. Robinson," he'd drawl. I'd dash to the chair and flip up my teddy, but he'd hold up a finger and say, "Wait a second. I want to be safe." Then he'd reach behind the chair and pull out an ultra-sensitive rubber, with "The Real World™ stamped on the shaft.
     Once he slipped it on, I'd pounce eagerly, and as I neared my redemption song, Mike, Kevin and David al Maroosh from the deli would file in — Kevin clothed only in yellow roses, Mike in a jock strap, David in a colorful Yemenite marriage gown. "Party of Five!" I'd coo lustfully, as the camera crew followed them in.
     They'd lay like logs in a row, in order of west to east: Texas, Ohio, Yemen. I'd tackle them one by one, riding, erupting and then rolling onto the next. At first the cameras would be distracting, but I'd soon grow to enjoy the hot light on my coochie, like a gyno's during a pelvic.
     As David and I came in tandem, a P.A. would thrust a release form at me. In the midst of my Hancock, the girls would emerge from the elevator — Rachel, Lori and Nicole, looking hotter in life than on the surveillance and shamelessly ogling my rack.
     "Is it possible?" I'd cry joyously. "Are those dark days of Real World tokenism over? Can there be not one, but a troika of lovely lesbians in this cast?"
     Nodding eagerly, they'd race over and throw me down in a massive multiracial pile-on, the cameras panning from puss to puss. Then the fourth mystery girl would enter, masked and bound, led by Carson Daly . . .
     When I woke up the next morning I checked my bod for hickeys — but my skin was intact, my labia sadly serene.
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.