I put on my tarty best: brown jeans, tiny black top that buttoned down to expose my “ample bosom,” red lipstick, black eyeliner, and teased blonde hair in trashy finest. My call was at six, so I left 45 minutes early to account for afternoon traffic and possible parking problems.
I was in the building at 5:30.
I walked up to a man talking loudly, who carried a clipboard. “Are you Guy?” I asked him.
“No, baby,” he answered, already mesmerized by the ta-tas. “You meeting someone? He’s probably upstairs at the bar.” He talked like I was five. “Just go up these stairs right here.”
The hostess asked, “You’re here for the dating seminar?”
I was told we were doing a parody of speed dating, where you get five minutes to impress someone at a table before moving on to the next man at a table, responding to the timer bell like some kind of trick dog.
“In the back, there.”
One woman was sitting at a table, writing things on index cards. She introduced herself as the producer of the segment and I sat down beside her. She was very friendly to me as I introduced myself.
“I’m the Big Boob Girl,” I smiled.