The guy just holds up his hands in surrender, shakes his head and walks away.

Once I’m able to breathe again I turn to the patron saint of hopeless women and thank her for intervening.

She gives me a tight smile. “You know, if you don’t respect yourself, no one else is ever going to respect you either.”

“Ah, okay,” I answer, not really sure why being harassed by an asshole at a bar is somehow my fault now. Trying not to seem ungracious, I add, “Thanks again.” I give her a shaky smile and a quick wave. She just nods and returns her attention to her friends. I down the rest of my warm, flat soda before making my way to the nearest exit and into an Uber faster than I can say ‘Friday night fail’.

“Jackie, you’re an idiot,” I tell my best friend as soon as I get home.

She rolls her eyes at me and sighs.

“No, I’m a genius. You’re just doing it wrong.”

“Oh, gee, thanks. I didn’t realize there was a wrong way to get molested by a stranger in a bar!”

Jackie quirks an eyebrow. “There certainly is. And if you weren’t enjoying it, then you were definitely doing it wrong. Was he hot?”

“Yes, he was hot. And he was also crass, overbearing, drunk and had a serious misconception of my personal space boundaries.”

“Jesus, you and your Goldilocks vagina are impossible. This guy is too shy. That one’s too aggressive,” she mocks in a high-pitched voice that is epically condescending. “They’re boys, not bowls of porridge. Just pick one and dig in already.”

I can’t form a response. Creepy fairytale analogy aside, she’s totally right. The guys I like are too shy to ever make a move and the guys who do make moves go too fast. It’s the same every damn time. Either they run away or I do. Fizzle or explosion. I can’t find a middle ground. My just-right Mr. Right.

It seems hopeless. I’m doomed to wander the earth untouched and unloved forever.

“I guess there is one other thing you could try.” Jackie’s tone has a familiar deviousness to it. She’s waiting for me to take the bait. And, because I’m an idiot, I do.

“And that is?”

“Hire an escort.”

An escort? That’s crazy. Extreme. Ridiculous. Flat-out insane. Isn’t it?

I pull up my web browser and type ‘male escort’ into the search bar. Big mistake. Huge. Massive. Throbbing. Mistake! I close the browser and try to purge the last thirty seconds of G-strings and gyrating-hip pop-up ads from my memory banks. Why do men think leopard print is sexy? I don’t want to be mauled by your penis, thank you very much.

Dialing it down a notch, I have better luck searching ‘college hookups.’ The first few links are all Maxim magazine-type articles explaining the dos and don’ts of the college hookup. Spoiler alert, vomiting on a guy is a turn-off. I’ll file that gem away for later reference. Halfway down the page I hit pay dirt.