“Wanna come to Adam Levine’s party?”

Does the pope shit in the woods?

For this brief moment in time, Adam was between supermodels. Single and ready to mingle. So I dolled myself up in a long silk halter dress and crowned my short, blonde pixie with clip-in blonde hair extensions. Party time.

The party was star studded, and everyone was hammered, except Kate Bosworth. She was just skinny.

I flung myself head long into the mix, trying to blend in with the glitterati. I found a friend in Sam Rockwell, of Charlie’s Angels fame. With L.L Cool J blasting on the stereo, we were inspired to practice our break dance moves.

For the most part, I dance like a white girl. At best, I can pull off a rhythmic spasm. But for some reason that will forever remain a mystery, I can do the worm. And I did, for the entire party. Although I’d never done it in a dress or sober.

The thing about the worm is that it requires violently propelling one’s body along the floor. It also involved propelling my dress above my waist and exposing my purple thong. I relay this not because I was embarrassed, but because this unintentional revelation of my buttocks played a pivotal role in the next five hours of my life. Adam could not help but take notice of my careening ass cheeks, and, after the perfunctory exchange of pleasantries, invited me into his boudoir.

He took me by the hand and led me down the hall just as Drew Barrymore announced to the party she was going on a beer run. Before reaching our destination, Adam pressed me up against the wall and kissed me, cradling my face in his hands in a romantic Notebook style gesture.

Slowly, his hands traveled from my face into my hair. Mayday! Mayday! But it was too late. The would-be Sexiest Man Alive’s fingers had already been met by a row of hair extension metal teeth. Shit.

What’s the protocol here? Have hair extensions been around long enough that there’s etiquette? Am I supposed to acknowledge it, or just keep frenching? Is it the equivalent of making out with a guy, and discovering he’s wearing a rug? How much of a turn off was it? Enough to throw in the towel and forfeit the game?

As these questions swirled about in my head, Adam had pulled me into the bedroom, successfully removed my dress and I was now lying on top of him, purple thong up.

Just then, Drew burst in, having forgotten her purse for the beer run. Now what do I do? Is there a Drew Barrymore- interrupting-your make-out session etiquette? Should I invite her in? Ignore her? Tell her about my hair extensions? It was all too much.

I decided on what seemed to be the most logical solution in that moment: play dead, thereby making Adam look like some kind of pseudo-necrophiliac. Drew drunkenly stumbled around the room for much longer than I expected, and just long enough to highlight the absurdity of my corpse strategy. Adam and Drew made small talk as I debated whether or not to pretend rigor mortis was setting in.

Finally, she found her purse and I came back to life. Adam flipped me over and the smooching resumed. It went on for hours. So long, in fact, I started to get bored. I know -- bored while making out with People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive. Seems impossible.

I decided to abate the boredom with some creativity and reached my hand up and secured it around his neck.

“What are you doing,” he reeled back, startled.

“I’m um…I’m choking you.”

“Oh. Weird. I’ve never tried that before.”

I took this as a green light and tightened my grip. Adam leaned back in ecstasy, letting out a soft groan. Ah, we’d stumbled upon a new fetish.

“Harder,” he commanded. “Do it harder.”

Damn. Now my hand was getting tired. But at least I wasn’t bored. Having a pop star’s life literally in your hands would keep anyone alert. The S&M portion of our make-out went on for about thirty minutes and it was time to face the inevitable.

“Adam,” I tentatively began. “I just met you so I don’t really feel like we should have sex.”

“Oh, no, we definitely should not have sex yet,” he said, maybe a little too quickly. “I like to wait until I know a girl a bit better.”

Oh, really, sexiest man alive? Or is it because you think I’m bald????? Or perhaps his was a more legitimate fear. Having nearly sliced his fingers off after trying to run his hands through what he mistakenly thought was my hair, maybe he was a little nervous about what might happen if he ventured south of the border.

Soon he was asleep, and I left at 6 am without leaving my number.