Chapter One: The H-Word chapter one THE H-WORD HAVE YOU EVER BEEN slut-shamed? Ever been told your sexuality is offensive by someone who has no right to comment on it? Has anyone ever made a judgment call based on the way you dress, or the things you say? Have you ever been told to act like a lady, even though if we acted like the ladies those people wanted us to be we'd still be churning butter at home, waiting for a man to walk through the door? If so, you know how much it sucks to be on the receiving end of those judgments, by-products of a sexist narrative that has been shoved down our throats since we were little. I've been judged and slut-shamed in a very public way, and never more so than when I was twenty-three, going through a period I call my ho phase, which was working out perfectly until the cameras got involved. A chunk of my ho-ness overlapped with my first season of filming Vanderpump Rules , meaning millions of people witnessed me living my very best-worst life--drunk, messy, and down for whatever. Take it from me, a lady's most shameless moments are much easier when they happen in private. In case you're wondering, a ho phase goes a little something like this. You're at a club. You're feeling good. You see someone who gives you those kind of feels. You make eye contact, you start vibing, and suddenly you feel all happy down there. That is your body, calling them. Before long, the nips want a little attention; you're kissing and touching, and boom, it's like David Attenborough, mating-season-in-the-wild-type lovin'. Ideally the person you're about to bump pee-pees with is a friend, or a friend of a friend, because I don't condone slipping off with a stranger and having sex with them. Be smart, be safe, and feel free to never deny yourself a good lay--I didn't. When I was ho-phasing, if I was attracted to him and we were vibing, it was going down. There is no such thing as being "too old" to go through this phase, by the way. There are women I know who married young and are experiencing a ho phase for the first time, in their forties, which I love. I know some women who have had more than one ho phase, which is wonderful, too. There's no right or wrong time to do it, although one advantage of being sexually free in your twenties is that it allows you to really figure out what you like and what you don't like, relatively early on in the game. Then, when you meet someone you're compatible with, you'll know. To this day, I look back on my ho phase as a period of major growth. It gave me confidence; it helped me release a relationship I had been desperately hanging on to; it gave me a power that every woman should experience. Most of all, my ho phase was the bridge to the happy home I share with my soul mate, Randall, whose last name I cannot wait to share. In many ways, ho-ing really is the path to enlightenment. Even so, ho-phasing can be challenging. Hearts get broken, feelings get burned, and lines get blurred. You might start second-guessing yourself, or worrying what other people think. You do run the high risk of being judged and slut-shamed when you're a woman who's sexually free because, unfortunately, that's just how our society works, and it sucks. People judge women more harshly than they judge men, and at times, you may even find you're judging yourself. If you start feeling this way, disengage. Take a time-out and reflect. If ho-phasing no longer feels right, maybe it's because you've reached the end of your phase, or maybe ho-phasing wasn't really meant for you at all. I know many girls in Salt Lake who are naturally wholesome, who never needed to explore their sexuality with multiple partners. But if you're like me, then maybe you like experimenting... maybe you've gotten drunk, and maybe you've eaten a cookie or two... Just know I love you, and there is no judgment here, ever. Do you, boo. Just maybe don't do it on TV, like I did. Had I been given the choice, I never would have chosen to go through this time on camera. Some days it felt like the whole world was calling me names they would probably never have called a man in my same position. My ho phase was life changing, but it also came at a huge cost to my mental health. Girls projected their closeted ho hatred onto me, as did the very dudes who were trying to sleep with me (but never could). Not to mention the online trolls. From trolls, fans, and cast alike, the one word that came up over and over again was whore . I was called a "ratchet whore," a "gold-digging whore,"... and the one that hurt me the most: "home-wrecking whore." I always say, if you're going to call me a name, at least be accurate. Call me a raging bitch whose mouthy ass may or may not need "several good throat punches and an ass kicking," as someone suggested on a Reddit thread once. Call me a drunk, because, yes, hi, I'm Lala, and I'm an alcoholic. Call me angry; call me someone who needs to pull her shit together--I am all of those things--but don't call me a whore, because a whore is someone who gets paid to have sex, which would be dope, but I don't and never have. For a twenty-three-year-old girl from Utah named Lauren Burningham, who suddenly found herself backed into a corner by strangers calling her every name under the sun, it was an intimidating and scary time to be alive. This was not my first rodeo when it came to big, bad bitches--I had dealt with bullies since elementary school--but the hate I got on my first season of Vanderpump was anxiety-triggering on a whole other level. The choice was simple--quit the show and save my sanity, or buck the hell up and find new ways to cope. Every day I walked into SUR, my self-defense mechanisms were on ten, my sharp tongue was ready to destroy, and my short fuse was set to blow. Later, I'd find my secret weapon--a liquid that allowed me to numb myself, give no fucks, and clap back to any insult with the most shady, most outrageous, most below-the-belt dig ever. Alcohol helped me KO my slut-shaming enemies each and every time, resulting in unforgettable TV (if I do say so myself), but watching it back, I'd hate myself and feel embarrassed for what I'd said and done, even though at the time, fighting back was just a matter of survival. Reality TV plus slut-shaming plus alcohol turned young, sensitive, insecure Lauren Burningham into a badder, madder version of herself--Lala Kent, super-bitch bully-crusher who always came out guns a-blazing... and sometimes shot herself in the foot. If Lala hadn't existed, Lauren might have lasted a few seasons on Vanderpump before giving up her Hollywood dreams and going back to Utah, traumatized, to settle down with a local boy. But that wasn't in the cards.... I vividly remember the day I told my parents I was moving to LA. I drove down to the Humane Society of Utah in Salt Lake City, where my mom, Lisa, works. My dad, Kent, was there helping her put together their annual fundraiser. I screeched into the parking lot like I was in The Fast and the Furious and marched in to give them the big news. "Just so you know, I'm moving to LA next week," I said, acting casual, even though in my mind I was screaming, "I'M MOVING TO LA AND GETTING OUT OF THIS CLOSED-MINDED PLACE, AND YOU GUYS WILL NOT STOP ME!" "That's great, Lauren!" said my mom. I don't think she believed me--I had already tried living in LA before, when I was nineteen, and had lasted only six months, for reasons I'll explain. But this time, I was twenty-three and I felt different. Stronger. I was going to grow some balls (ovaries, rather) and go to Hollywood, where I would make it as an actor, my dream since I was a little girl. This time, I wasn't going to be intimidated by the process, or take rejection personally. Most important, I was going to kick my anxiety's ass. Insecurities be gone! The following week, with one suitcase and $2,000 in my bank account, I hopped in my friend Janet's car (she was also in search of the big dream-come-true), and we hauled ass to Hollywood. We split a $200 one-bedroom sublet in Alhambra, a pretty quiet part of the city, about an hour away from everything. After a couple of months, Janet went back to Utah and it was time to find a real place to live. My friend Danielle, older sister of my best friend and soul sister, Madison, who I grew up with in Utah and also lives in LA, told me someone she knew was looking for a roommate. The apartment was in Miracle Mile, and my portion of the rent would be $900 a month, which I could afford because I was a big-time saver--I had been working since I was twelve, and had shoved all my money away in a savings account, ready for a moment like this. I moved in the next day. The two-bedroom, two-bathroom apartment was on the corner of Olympic and Hauser. It got very little light, and the decor was beyond depressing. My bathroom had burgundy tile with peach trim, and the shower was too small to bend over in to shave your legs. My roommate, Megan, was a bag of fun and didn't care about the apartment being in disarray. She kept her cat's litter box in the laundry room, which made me spiral, daily. I would move the shit box into her bathroom every morning when she went to school, even though as soon as she got home, it would end up back in the laundry room. Bills often went unopened, and rarely was her half of the rent paid on time. I'm a Virgo, and I could deal with cleaning up the apartment, but the rent issue was too much--my name was on the lease, and I was terrified of my credit tanking. "Your credit is your name," my mom always told me, just like her father had always told her. I had to make sure I could afford the whole rent and bills at the top of the month, just in case Megan couldn't--anything to keep my credit looking snatched--so I set my mind on finding a job as soon as possible. I got a fit modeling job for $40 an hour, meaning I was a living mannequin, being photographed in various outfits that would go on clothing companies' e-commerce sites. I would wake up at 6:00 a.m. Monday through Friday to get fully glammed and get to downtown LA by eight. Models usually worked no more than two days a week for just four hours at a time, because believe it or not, fit modeling is exhausting work. But I hustled the agency into letting me work every day, for as many hours as the state of California would allow. I would change outfits between seventy-five to one hundred times a day and have my picture taken. I'd always show up in perfect makeup, camera ready, although most of the time, my head would get chopped off in editing. But all in all, despite the long hours and exhaustion, I wasn't mad that this was my moneymaking situation, because being a fit model meant I didn't have to work at a restaurant like everyone else in town. Since I was a little kid, being a server seemed like the hardest job in the entire world, and was the last thing I wanted to do. Ironic, I know. Some days, after a particularly long day of modeling, I'd wonder why I'd left my mom and dad's chic home in Salt Lake City, then I'd remind myself, this was one step along the road to the acting dreams I'd had since I was a little girl. I wished I could have been more laser-focused on making those dreams come true, but there was something distracting me from pursuing auditions... my on-again, off-again relationship with this snack-and-a-half linebacker named Carter Hoffman. He played college football in LA, was on his way to entering the 2015 NFL draft, and was the second real boyfriend I'd ever had. Physically, Carter was the sexiest thing I had ever seen in my entire life. And he had me wrapped around his finger. It's funny--when I was younger, if you'd asked me or my friends what we looked for in a partner, nine times out of ten we wouldn't talk about how that person treated us or how they made us feel. It would be all about their facial features, what they did for a living, or how much money they had. It's rare that you hear a young woman say, "I want someone who takes care of my heart and cares about my feelings," because those things just aren't a priority. Carter checked all the boxes of what I wanted at the time, and hardly any of what I needed, and I couldn't shake him for the life of me. Each time he broke my heart, I went back for more, until one day, he pushed me too far, triggering the start of my ho phase, for all the world to see. Carter and I had gotten together when I was twenty-one and he was nineteen. I was still living in Utah, and he would fly me out to LA often, which in the beginning felt super sweet and romantic. But the balance of power shifted quickly, which often happens when a dude gets too comfortable. Carter had a big ego and started treating me like I was some clueless little Utah girl. Which in a way, I was. I had a ton of insecurities and let a lot of his bad behavior slide because I was always trying to be the cool bitch who didn't stress out about things too much. Big mistake. Only be a cool bitch if you really are a cool bitch, that's my advice. Otherwise you're just setting yourself up for disaster by hiding what you really feel. Each time I visited, it seemed like Carter behaved with less and less respect toward me. I would fly out to watch his games, and afterward, instead of celebrating with me, he'd ask if he could go out with "just the boys." In my head I'd be thinking, Are you kidding me? But the words never came out like that. I'd say, "Yes, of course, baby, you deserve it. Y'all played great!" Then the pit in my stomach would sink in, and I'd just hope that because I was being such a "cool girlfriend," it would make him want to treasure me forever. How naive I was. It was on one of those visits that I felt the power of intuition for the first time. That feeling you get when something just isn't right. It's like nothing else, and I've come to learn, it's all we can really trust. Carter and I were at the house he shared with five other dudes, who were also on the football team. He told me he needed to study for tests that were coming up, and, of course, I was totally okay with this. I told him I would call my Utah homie in LA and kick it with her until he was finished. He headed to campus around 1:00 p.m., and said he'd be back in a few hours. Nighttime fell, and I sent a few casual texts asking when he'd be done; those texts went unanswered. I blew up his phone once midnight rolled around, and when he finally answered the phone at 12:30 a.m. he promised he was on his way to pick me up from my friend's place, which was about twenty minutes from his school campus at that hour of night. I tried to maintain my cool-bitch facade. But once 1:30 a.m. hit, I was way less chill. "Where the fuck are you, Carter?" I said. "I just got pulled over by the cops, Lauren." I hung up, feeling uneasy. Something felt off. Then 2:00 a.m. approached and I'd heard no word, so I gave him another call. "This is ridiculous. You've been MIA all day. What the fuck is going on?" "Calm down, La. It's been a long day, and now I have a flat tire I gotta change!" After hanging up, I looked at my friend and gave her my exact prediction on what would happen when he showed up. "I'm going to ask to see the ticket he got when he was pulled over, and he is going to say the cop let him off the ticket because he plays football. But there will be a tire in the back seat, because that is karma for his bullshit. And he is going to make me feel stupid for being suspicious when he has been 'working his ass off all day.'?" I knew Carter very well by now, and every single one of the things I predicted transpired, in that order, when he finally arrived to pick me up at three thirty in the morning, including the part where he guilt-tripped me and made me feel like an asshole for questioning him. But I was too tired to push the matter. I just wanted to sleep. Once we got home, I went straight up the stairs to his bedroom, immediately noticing that his bed was unmade, which was weird because I had definitely made it before we both left the house. I saw that my suitcase had been shoved into his closet, as if to cover up that I was staying there, and my blanket that I traveled with everywhere was shoved in between the couch cushions. "Why is my stuff shoved away like this, Carter? Why is the bed unmade? Who was here?!" "My boy brought a girl over and used my room." "I don't believe you! I think you brought someone back here and wanted to cover that shit up!" We battled back and forth before I completely exhausted myself and he shut down. This was how it always went with us, and by the time we got in bed, the sun was beginning to rise. Carter fell asleep fast, but I couldn't. My gut was churning, and I felt like a hundred knives were being shoved and turned in my back. There's a real, physical pain you get deep in your gut when you know someone is lying, and it was a pain I never wanted to feel again. In fact, this very moment set the tone for my future relationships, because never again would I allow myself to ignore that feeling. Never. When Carter woke up, he said he was getting his hair cut and then he would take me to lunch to "make up for last night." Nope , I thought. I was taking my ass to LAX, catching the next flight back to Salt Lake, and I wasn't even going to tell him my plan. He was going to get back from his haircut and wonder, Where the hell is Lauren? Which is exactly how it went down. When I moved to LA in 2013, we were still dating on and off. I couldn't quit him. Carter was someone I loved and wanted, and now that I was actually living in the same city as him, I figured things could be different. He had matured, I had toughened up, and our biggest problem--the distance between us--had now been solved! I was an LA resident; let's get it poppin', daddy. I played hard to get for a few weeks. Then he invited me over to his new place, which was no longer occupied by five other football players. This was a relief--there's nothing less sexy than having sex when you know five other people in the house know you're having sex. I had butterflies all day before seeing him, and when he met me at the door and kissed me, I knew. This is it. This is how I want to feel for the rest of my life. We walked hand in hand up the stairs to his bedroom. I stepped in and looked over to the bed. Again, that sinking feeling hit me as I saw a pair of hoops on the nightstand, and next to them, a used condom. Yes, you read that correctly. Used. Condom. My feelings of happy anticipation vanished. I felt nauseated, and fought back the tears as I said, voice trembling, "Really, dude? You don't even respect me enough to clean up your mess from the last bitch?" I turned around, rushed back down the stairs, and out the door to my car. I waited there, crying, hoping he would chase me, or call me, or something. But he didn't. He let me stand there, waiting for him, like he always had. He was telling me, This is who I am, and you need to accept that . But I couldn't accept this level of disrespect from someone I had so much history with. I just couldn't. I drove home--by this time, Megan had moved out and Danielle had moved in, which I was thrilled about, because we had known each other our entire lives. (As my best friend's older sister, she was the closest thing to family I had out in LA.) I told her what had happened with Carter, the gross used condom, and she gave me the "fuck him, he doesn't deserve you" talk that all girlfriends give one another when guys do something messed up. She was right, I did deserve better. I was sick of being taken for granted. Sick of crying and wishing for more. I was done being humiliated. It was time for a new chapter. That afternoon, Danielle and I rolled up to Costco to stock up on some essentials--vodka, food, and more vodka--and as I passed the personal care aisle, something caught my eye, a thing that all educated hos require in their toolbox. Trojan Magnum condoms. I got the largest box they had. Back at Olympic and Hauser, I cleaned out the top drawer of my nightstand and dumped all the condoms inside. Now, it was time to execute. Danielle and I decided to go to Hyde, a club on Sunset Boulevard in West Hollywood. I knew it was going to be a good night because "California Love" by Tupac and Dre was playing when we walked in--something about that song always makes me feel myself. We sat at a table with hot dudes, the ones who always snagged the new blood that came to LA. These guys were promoters, friends of promoters, actors, friends of actors, heirs, friends of heirs. They never changed, but the lineup of girls who sat at their table did. Later on in my ho phase I would let a few of them hit it. But that night, my eye was on the security guy.... He was about six foot five, built like Dwight Howard, and was giving me tingles in all the right places. Danielle said his name was Marquis and vouched for him, saying he was a good dude--this was important information for me. Like I said before, when you're in a ho phase, try to be safe and stick with the guys who are known among your group of friends. Do your homework before you give them "the look." Which I did, several times. I got up to use the restroom, and as I slipped by him he grabbed my hand and leaned in closely. "Let me walk with you to keep you safe." Can you bend me over while you're at it? I thought. He walked me to and from the ladies' room, holding my hand. It was poppin' from there. I continued to give him baby-making eyes, and he continued to smile at me and ask me if I was doing okay. Before I dipped, I asked him for his number. I had never been this assertive with a guy before. He gave me his digits and asked me to call his phone so he could save mine. The moment I left, I texted him: Come over when you're off work. He did, and as soon as he walked in the door, we went to bang town. This was my first (and only) one-night stand. The first notch on my ho belt. I loved it, but despite my successful ho moment with Marquis, my heart wasn't fully committed to the phase. I was sad, the crying-in-bed-with-my-blankie-watching-back-to-back- Friends kind of sad. It took a visit from my mom and some words of her wisdom to whip me back into shape and get me back in the ho saddle. "Listen," she said. "I came out to California to have a nice time, but you're ruining it for me over some guy! You need to get over him!" The penny dropped. I had to cut Carter off and move on and finally break the emotional and physical bond I'd built with him over the last three years. Hooking up with as many people as possible seemed like a reasonable way to do it. It helped, of course, that I had a ho door. The ho door opened directly into my bedroom from the outside. Therefore, visitors didn't have to walk through the apartment to get into my room. This really came in handy when, every once in a while, I'd bag one dude, then have him make a quick exit so the newer, hotter dude could come through. Not every ho's bedroom has a literal revolving door, but if you can figure one into your architecture, I'd highly recommend it. Because I was always a safe and educated ho, every hookup felt like a positive experience--for me, anyway. But there were a few times I hurt a guy's feelings--when you're ho-phasing, it's easy to do that, because you're not invested and it's all just a game. Also, because I had been rejected for three years, I'd forgotten that men had feelings, too, that their hearts needed to be handled with care sometimes. I wasn't always great at that. Which brings me to André Smith, a banger from Baltimore. Built like Ray Lewis and covered in tattoos, he had dreadlocks down his back and was a perfect snack. I knew him from back home, where he played football at the University of Utah. We had had sexy time on a few occasions, and it had really helped me get my mind off Carter during one of the worst times in our relationship a few years back. So when André told me he was moving to LA and asked if he could crash at my place for a while until he got situated, I said yes, temporarily forgetting that I was supposed to be living in a rhythm with no attachments. My bad. Before André arrived, I cleaned out one side of my closet, which was basically the size of a coat closet, and three drawers. André arrived, unpacked, lined his sneakers up against my wall, and just like that I went from a ho phase to HOLY SHIT I HAVE A LIVE-IN BOYFRIEND. After he was situated, it was time to lay out the ground rules--I told André I had no interest in being exclusive, but I also didn't want to disrespect him by sleeping with him and someone else in the same night. At the time, this seemed like a rock-solid plan, and André said he was cool with it. That first night, André said he was going to say what's up to his sister in downtown LA and would probably stay the night there. I loved this idea, since I had already made plans with a yummy man named Cooper. After a lot of drinks, I brought Cooper home and let him hit it. He was super cool, so I didn't mind him sleeping over afterward. At 5:00 a.m., I got a phone call from André. I told Cooper to shh and then answered. "Hey, babe." "Hey, boo. I'm pulling up. Can you unlock the door?" "What? How far away are you?" "I'm here. Just parked." Shit! I hung up, made sure the ho door was locked, and told Cooper to go in Danielle's room. (Cooper and Danielle were old friends, so I knew she wouldn't be too freaked out by him crawling into her bed.) André knocked on the ho door, and I let him in. He climbed into my bed and got lovey with me, but I just couldn't do it. My conscience was stepping in, making me feel like a shitty person. André was a piece of home, I respected him. I had to tell him the truth. "André, I can't do this tonight." "Why, baby, what's up?" "Because I brought a dude home and he's hiding in Danielle's room." I pulled the covers over my head, wishing I would have shut the fuck up and not said anything. I felt André leap out of bed and barge into Danielle's room, ready to go toes with Cooper. Danielle sprung to Cooper's defense, pushing André (unsuccessfully) and yelling, "Get the fuck out of my room! Leave!" Danielle may be a tiny human, but when she gets mad, it is absolutely terrifying. André stormed back into my bedroom and started packing up, much quicker than he had unpacked. As he opened the ho door, arms full of his belongings, he left me with these immortal words: "You could have been with a millionaire." I tried reaching out a few times after to apologize but never got a response. Sadly, we never spoke again. This is what we refer to as a ho fail. But I had started to notice something--the less invested I was in building a relationship, the more my "lovers" seemed to want me. How in the hell is that supposed to make sense? Why was it that if I showed a guy I was ride-or-die for him, he was less attracted, but if I treated him like a piece of meat, that's when he was blowing up my phone, beating my door down for a moment of my time? I began to understand why people say you should "act like a woman and think like a man," because apparently it drives some guys wild when you don't give a shit about them. I started to understand some of the mistakes I had been making with Carter, like continuing to sleep with him despite the way he treated me. To this day, I tell my friends, if you feel an emotional connection toward someone who isn't offering you what you need in return, you must stop having sex with them. Trust me, boo, it always ends in tears. It can be so hard to do; I know that. Sometimes a dude gives you just enough to allow him the pussy, and you feel wanted for twenty minutes, maybe longer if you're lucky, and then you're left feeling emptier than you felt before the bang sesh. Reject him, ladies! Send him away. They need to go above and beyond for your cookie. By the mid stage of my ho phase, I was incapable of emotionally attaching to anyone and was breaking hearts without ever meaning to. But I didn't care. I had really come into my own and was having a great time. The moments I thought about Carter were few and far between. Sex was just fun, and if anyone tried to get too clingy with me, they were in for a rude awakening. I kept hearing through our group of friends that this hot actor guy named Cody was cyberstalking me and hoping for an introduction. Why not? I thought. A mutual friend linked us up through text, and Cody and I decided to set a date for Valentine's Day. Meeting someone for the first time on V Day is unusual and a little aggressive, I know, but I figured with enough edibles and vino, we'd forget what day it was and just have an epic time before I sent him back out through the ho door. Which is exactly what happened. We drank, got stoned out of our minds, and had sex all over the apartment. It was one of the most fun Valentine's Days I've ever had. At some point during the night he went to the bathroom. When he came back to bed, he made a comment about the lack of toilet paper in my bathroom. For a girl in her early twenties, experiencing her first ho phase, grocery-store runs are low on the to-do list. "I guess I'm more of a baby wipes kind of chick?" I said, and didn't think anything more of it. I liked Cody. He seemed easygoing. But a couple of nights later, I learned that unless he'd eaten several pot cookies, Cody was not chill. I invited him to my friend's house in the Hollywood Hills and he was mad at me for being stoned. (During my ho phase, I was always stoned on edibles.) He followed me around the party, disapproving of my life choices, and it was starting to make me feel claustrophobic. I wished he would let loose and mingle, but he wasn't having it. He kept saying he wanted alone time with me, even though I was in absolutely no state to have a serious conversation--I was baked, high on living my best life. He bugged me so much, I sent him home and told him I would call him later. He was super bent by this, and then, I completely spaced on calling him because I was too high to remember he existed. The next day, Cody called me and said we weren't compatible. Duh. I agreed. At the end of our breakup conversation, he said, "Can I come by later to drop off some edibles? You might as well have them, since I don't do them as much." Danielle and I were broke, and if someone was offering me free edibles, I was taking them. Later that day, Cody pulled up outside my place, handed me a bag, and drove off without saying a word. Weird . Then I looked at the bag--printed on it, in big letters, were the words FUCK YOU . Inside, a lot of edibles... and a roll of toilet paper. Low blow! I was shook. Clearly, Cody was very upset; "fuck you" gift bags don't grow on trees, and he must have worked hard to find it. Danielle and I couldn't stop laughing--it was a ridiculous, unnecessary thing for Cody to do and deserved a ridiculous, unnecessary reaction. I waited about forty-five minutes before calling him--I wanted to make sure he'd gotten all the way home first. "Baby, I really want to make this right," I said. "Can you please come back so we can talk?" Forty-five minutes later, he pulled up outside my apartment. I walked out, the "FUCK YOU" bag in my hand. Inside was the toilet paper. No edibles. Danielle and I needed those--the struggle is real out here in California. I opened his car door and threw it in. "You're thirty-five years old, Cody. Act like it." By this point, Carter was starting to send me messages, all of which remained unanswered. He had done a real number on my heart, but I was finally over it and ready to give him a taste of his own medicine. I finally responded and told him to come over. Carter was about to step into some unfamiliar waters. I was Lala now. And Lala was a beast. Carter showed up, and without further ado, the condom drawer was opened. Afterward, I took the used condom and held it up. "This is what you do with a condom when you're finished with it, Carter, in order to show respect to the next person who comes over." I walked into the bathroom, dropped it in the toilet, and flushed. "Carter, this is what I'll do with every condom I use, so you never have to see something that might make you feel uncomfortable. That's called respect." My words shook him. His face said it all: Oh shit. She's flushing used condoms from other dudes? I was much more assertive than the girl from Utah he'd once known, and, predictably, he was very attracted to that. I got back in bed, expecting him to leave, but this time he wanted to cuddle and watch a movie, instead of leaving right after, as he always had. Now it was my turn to be shook. Who is this person? And why are guys so weird? Carter slept over that night. And from then on, he was attentive. He now invited me out with his friends and wanted me by his side at dinner. If I said no to meeting him at the club, he'd offer to take a separate Uber from his friends to pick me up first. He began giving me the affection and attention I'd always wanted, but it was too late. I had changed, and my inner ho was steering the ship. She stuck up for me. She was bossy and badass. She encouraged me to celebrate my sexuality. She helped me heal my heart, and thanks to her, my mental health was good. For the first time since meeting Carter, I felt happy and whole. No way was I going to risk that, no matter how sweetly he was behaving. When he invited me out, I'd say I had to be up early. When he asked me to dinner, I'd say I already made plans. I did whatever I could to keep him in my "ho box." I couldn't allow myself to get attached. I'd come too far to fall back. Meanwhile, Carter fell madly in love with me. Actually, he fell in love with Lala, the bad bitch who was ho-phasing and about to get famous on TV, not Lauren, the sensitive little girl from Utah who would have done anything for him. That's why I could never take him seriously--because if you can't love me at my Lauren, you sure as hell don't deserve me at my Lala. Excerpted from Give Them Lala by Lala Kent All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
