I'll start where we left off: Friday night, a hot Ken doll, a hand on my upper thigh and morals flying out the car window. 

I sped the entire way to his apartment. He had a firm grip and I could picture him being assertive in bed. When we arrived, Ken jumped out of the car and tripped over a stone in his driveway. I feel the need to interject that this was the first of many "ruin the moment" moments that were to ensue. As he crashed to the ground he let out a loud cry. I rushed around the car to help him, but expected someone of his size and muscle matter to jump back on his feet. Instead, I found this 6-foot-2 man crumpled in the fetal position.  

"Are you ok?" I asked as I crouched down to take a look at him. What happened to the attractive, strong man that squeezed me a little too tightly in the elevator earlier? 

"Crap that hurt! I think I hurt my ankle," yelled Ken. His voice sounded defeated and raised a couple of octaves. He then grasped his ankle and rubbed it. What a baby. I think he realized how unattractive he was being because he quickly jumped to his feet and made his way to the door. "Just eager to get inside," he laughed. 

Halfway, he held his hand out for me and almost crushed me as I tried to support his ankle and help him limp to the door. Right as he was about to put his key in the door, it opened. A short boy with shaggy hair, no shirt and green plaid boxers stared at us curiously; he started at the top of my head, made his way down to my mouth, stopped at my breasts then looked down at my feet. 

"Hi," I said a little annoyed.  He looked up slowly, stopping at my breasts again on the way up.  

Before he could answer, Ken informed me that his younger, 13-year-old brother was staying with him for the weekend. Awesome.  

The apartment was a mess. There was a black leather couch with holes on the arms in the middle of the room facing a dusty, humongous flat-screen television playing porn with the sound off. Empty Grey Goose bottles lined the tops of the kitchen cabinets and two open lucky charms cereal boxes lay strewn on the counter, a couple marshmallows spilling out. It looked like the apartment of the boy I slept with occasionally in college; too large and too messy. 

Ken made us a drink while his brother, Junior, chatted away in the kitchen. 

"So where did you meet her?" he asked Ken, as if I weren't two feet from him.  

"Uh, shut up dude and go to bed," said Ken. "It's like three in the morning, why are you still up?"  

Junior ignored him and popped a couple ego waffles into the toaster oven. We sat there in silence while Ken iced his throbbing ankle: moment killer number two.  

When the toaster oven gave a loud ring, I told Ken I thought I should get going. He quickly walked over to my side, put his hand around my waist and pulled me close into his chest. He kissed me like he did in the elevator, and I was weak. Who was I kidding? I wasn't leaving.  

Junior stared at us then suddenly darted toward me. "Want a waffle?" He jammed his syrup-soaked waffle into my cheek, getting the sticky substance in my hair. That was it. I backed away and asked Ken to please take me to the bathroom. He showed me the door then shut it quickly. I could hear him yelling at Junior on the other side, but couldn't make out what he was saying.  

I rinsed my hair and walked out of the bathroom with every intention of leaving. Junior was gone and Ken was waiting for me outside of his bedroom. It was a small room with a blue bed, a television, an IKEA desk and a swivel chair. "Come here," he said, in a low voice. He was incredibly sexy. He held his hand out, and I followed him in. 

He shoved me onto the bed and grabbed my breasts eagerly. He was rough and I loved it. We rolled around on his bed, fighting for who was going to be on top. He held down my hands and forced me into submission. Hot. I didn't know anything about him other than his address, his last name and that he had an incredibly annoying little brother, but I wanted nothing more than to be beneath him. After a few minutes of foreplay, things heated up again.  

I thought everything was great but then, all of the sudden, he stopped. "F***," he yelled and jumped off me.  

I immediately thought I hurt him or did something really wrong and my verbal diarrhea could not be stopped. I thought I broke his penis. "Are you ok?" I asked. "What happened?" "Did I hurt you?" 

"Sorry... crap... sorry, I can't believe it happened again," was all he could manage. As soon as I stopped freaking out, I noticed how embarrassed he was. I looked down and saw the problem. He had gotten too excited. I was flattered but annoyed. All that build up for nothing. I should have told him it was ok, but instead I got up and started getting dressed. I knew I was being a bitch but as I put on my clothes, I didn't say anything.  

"Wait, let's try again," he pleaded. I was already done. The moment was officially ruined. I walked myself out and got into my car. I drove home with the windows open, hoping some of my morals would drift back in with the early morning breeze.

Belle is the alias for our "Adventures of a Serial Dater" column series who walks among the USC Annenberg School of Journalism student body. At this point in time, there are no plans to reveal her real identity.