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Our club had the prettiest girls in LA, and they all wanted to talk to him. The night before our date, I Googled him—the more I learned, the more impressed I was.

"I'm ready," whispered my 30-year-old self, fully tipsy and half incoherent.

He would show up every week in old-school sneakers, a hoodie, and jeans, and stand in the corner of the entrance, watching me emasculate men attempting to enter.

I was in charge of getting celebs to come in—and keeping B-listers out. On one of the early nights, a coworker yanked me aside to hiss, "You don't know who that is?

The gig was glamorous but tough, and I learned quickly that many male VIPs had god complexes and felt entitled to my attention. " I didn't at first, but apparently everyone else did."Just give me a chance! Go find a chick who's impressed with your day job."He would shake his head and mumble, "Brutal, man.

Just brutal."Nights passed, and he grew more ambitious, chatting with me by the door instead of going inside to hang with his entourage.

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