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I browsed through the stack of mail, discarding the credit card offers and grocery store coupons before picking up the blue and red cardstock envelope. By the colorful print and swirly typography, I could tell it was an invitation. Oh great, another party that I wouldn't have a date to.

I ripped the envelope open and pulled the invite out. In bold capital letters it shouted, "AMY'S SUMMER STAG PARTY!" I squinted and read it again. Had I seen that right? A stag party? You mean, a party whose theme was to come, dare I say it, alone? JACKPOT!

This was the first time I had heard of such a theme. I had to call Amy and ask her myself what the deal was. I dialed her number and listened to the "It's Raining Men" ring tone play while I awaited her answer. We spoke, and she confirmed my notions: this was, by some grace of God, a singles-only party. Amy, like myself, was apparently dateless and lonely, but unlike me, she was putting matters in to her own hands by throwing a fabulous party with dozens of attractive single people. Why hadn't I though of that?

Fast-forward to Saturday night, t-minus 1 hour until party time, and I had yet to decide on an outfit. I had three very different ensembles set out on my bed; the "Refined Woman" outfit, which was basically semi-nun attire that would give off the classy vibe, the "Single and Loving It" little black dress, which was a go-to item for when I needed to up my flirt quotient, and lastly, the "I-Can-Have-Your-Babies-and-St ill-Rock-Your-World" attire, which consisted of a sexy top downplayed with a cardigan, tight jeans, and killer heels.

I chose the last outfit, slipping on my jeans, tousling my hair, and applying one last layer of lip gloss as I glided out my door. I arrived at Amy's shortly after, walking into a singles mecca of hot available men and some killer bean dip at the appetizer table. I vowed to stay away from the bean dip as to not lower my attractiveness rating right from the start, and instead was embraced my Amy's open arms and squeal.

"Welcooomme! I'm so glad you're here!" Amy greeted me, and then whispered in my ear, "Kory, investment banker, 31, 10 o'clock!" The girl-code version of a man's profile-Name, Profession, Age, Location. I glanced ahead and to my left and eyed the prospect. He was delish-about 6'2", curly blond hair, blue eyes. Not too shabby. Not too shabby at all.

I made the quick rounds, saying small talking with acquaintances and introducing myself to strangers. I was using all my will power to

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