We had history, Kitty and I.

The kind of history where one person makes the other pick up pieces of their little dog’s poop for on-air shits and giggles.

The kind of history where instead of hitting her with a paintball, I tagged a priceless work of 16th century art.

Once upon a time on Love Factory, my first foray into the world of reality TV, Kitty was the Hot Girl choosing a date from 10 Hot Guys. I was Hot Guy 6.

After a series of stupid questions and stupid answers and a Hot Bod Meter and a spirited game of Truth or Dare and a steamy hot tub session, Kitty picked me. To end the show, we ran towards a super-cheesy backdrop rainbow, but the backdrop lifted like it always did, revealing a giant pot of cash.

And the choice was mine.

And I had bills to pay.

And I took the cash.

Which turned out to be a mistake because I found out later that Kitty’s family was super-rich, like rich to the fifth power. “It’s okay,” said Kitty, when we met again on season 2 of Awake!. “I was in total love with you for about a day, but I got over it.”

Reunited, we had a passionate week together. The make-out sessions. The grainy night-cam tumbles under the sheets. The game of topless paintball tag in the Louvre. The break-up as millions watched.

You know, the old story.

That season, on the Awake! bus, there were 3 girls and 3 guys.

There was me. There was Kitty, disgruntled, rebelling heiress. There was Lolita, bikini model and serial rock star divorcee. There was Margaret, nobody-turned-somebody, standout from season 1 of Ugly Duckling, the plastic surgery show where human disasters were rebuilt from scratch.

And rounding out the cast were 2 guys who surfed the fame wave when their uploaded personal videos went ultra-viral:

(1) Mal, who lost a testicle when a wet towel flick in a university locker room went bad.

(2) Brady, who got caught on tape in the early 1990s dancing the running man to MC Hammer in nothing but parachute pants and a pair of high-top Reebok Pumps.

We were all between 21 and 28 and beautiful and sexy and fashion-conscious and camera-friendly. We talked brand names and body fat percentages. We discussed cool bands and killer abs workouts. We lived music videos and movie premieres. We gossiped only the ripest, most succulent gossip. We partied like rock stars and drank like fishes. And we definitely had situation-dependent morals that always promised to keep things interesting. If not, entertaining.

So angle on a lot of drama kings/queens doing what they do best: Fighting, frolicking, fornicating. See, it wasn’t only the silly stunts and sleep-deprived games we captured on tape, it was the ongoing saga of the hot people on the roaming purple bus.

It was the Human Theatre of Us.

It was a soap opera, a game show, a road movie all rolled up in one.

It was also a magnificent cash cow, according to Mr. Super-Producer, Mr. HotFire Productions, Franklin J. Adams. Because the ratings went through the roof, and there was lust in the air as everybody with a financial stake in the matter watched the bank account dollars have animal sex in every imaginable, twisted position.

And not a rubber in sight.

So new dollars were born and born and born.

Call those the salad days.

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