A Better Woman Than You

One of the bad parts about staying in the same town that you graduated college in is that inevitably, you'll run into people from your past who you would rather not see. Like today when I unexpectedly bumped into one of the ex's little slips in fidelity. It had been awhile since I'd seen her; even longer since I'd seen her in the same room as myself and the ex. If counting my two relationships since him was any indicator, I've obviously moved on. I don't wish her a quick slip and a bad fall anymore. I don't spend my nights obsessively checking her Facebook profile to see what she's been up to lately (answer then would have been, "having more of a life than you are obsessively checking her page, dipshit,") anymore, either. In fact, it was kind of a shock to see her and instantly remember that, well, she exists. So I did the natural thing, which, in this case, also happened to the the right thing: I smiled genuinely at her, and said, "Hi, _____, how have you been?"

And she barely looked at me. She said a flat "hi" back, and moved on with whatever it was she was doing. For a moment, I was PISSED. Look, I've been the Other Woman (with the same guy, nonetheless!) in the past, so I know what running into the First Woman entails-- You smile politely, but not too much, lest she think you're mocking her. You speak first. You say a genuine, polite "hello" or "hey." If she engages you in conversation after that, you stick to neutral topics-- the weather, work, school, recent plans (that DON'T involve the man in both of your lives). You DON'T just ignore her. Because here's the thing, if you don't at least smile and say hi, then you're being a bitch. And if you happen to the the First Woman, you end up having yet another reason to hate the Other Woman even more. Basically, I was mad because I slipped back into the thinking that if you have the balls to want to share my relationship's bed, you BEST have the balls to meet my eye when you see me. Otherwise, I'm going to think that you're a coward, not a threat, and start to question my partner's interest in you in the first place and if you're what he wants to run around with, than is he really the sort of man I should be with? There's a very particular sort of woman who lurks around the outskirts of your life, looking in, wanting what you have, and is all bark behind your back and no real bite, and those are the women I can't fucking STAND. And THAT is EXACTLY the sort of woman who doesn't have the social grace or class to actually buck up, be a big girl, and converse like an actual person.

All of this flashed through my mind in about a nanosecond, dragging with it all the old feelings of spite and envy and mistrust and haughtiness. Then, something else happened-- I suddenly realized that I had no right to feel ANY of those ways about her anymore, as I was no longer (obviously) with the ex, and neither was she, either. I realized that if she couldn't even look my in the eyes now, over a year after everything between all of us went down, well, that was telling. About her, about her character, and about how she felt about the whole situation. And so, I kept on walking, letting it slide, and feeling vaguely protective of her, and the innocence and naivety that she exposed by not knowing how to do the right thing. Because, when it comes down to it, there are always going to be other women out there who are either trying to get a rise out of you, or you are trying to get a rise out of, yourself. (I would be lying if I said I was currently engaged in a game of electronic "chicken" myself.) We all have it in ourselves to be bitches. We all know exactly how to hurt other women. But that's all rather childish, and should be behind us by now, like how I realized that what she thinks or does no longer has any impact in my life, not even if she refuses to respond to my greeting. What really proves who the bigger (and better) woman is is who smiles and says that theoretical "hi" first. And I am now DEDICATED to being that better woman.

XOXO

A Rose By Any Other Name Is Still A Slut.

While my ex seems to be content with popping up on my cell phone's screen at all hours of the night, now plagued with a need to reconcile after all this radio silence, my S.O's ex didn't seemingly take to the news that he was seeing someone new so well, which has resulted in such jewels as "Makes more sense now; Carissa is a whore's name :)," popping up on HIS cell phone's screen.

I Googled. There seem to be no whores named Carissa. At least, none with websites or internet access.

While it's not the first time I've been called a whore-- let's be serious, this blog's name is "Sex and the College Girl," not, "Aeronautical Nuances of the 21st Century and How They Effected Young Women,"-- it still bothered me more than I thought it would. I think the hardest part for me is that I've been on both sides of the equation that I currently find myself in, and so, I have empathy for my S.O's ex, even if she did call me a slut. Her life was torn apart when she realized her ex had moved on and started seeing someone else, and I've been there, too. While she feels emotionally (and maybe physically) cheated on, I've also been both cheated on, as well as the cheatee, in previous relationships. All in all, it leads to a confusing war of emotions-- part of me wants to land a good right hook on her nose for calling me a whore when I have done absolutely nothing wrong (or whore-like,) while the other, greater, more Gandhi-like part of me wants to help comfort her and work her through this, since I have the knowledge and experience on how to survive something like this from before. If we were men, it would be so much easier. We'd have a good rough-and-tumble fist-fight, and then we'd be best bros. Instead, it all just gets to be awkward and I get to live in fear of opening his bathroom door after a shower, dripping wet, naked, and vulnerable, to find her standing there when I'm home alone at his place. Have I mentioned that she apparently has 8 inches on me? Yikes.

But maybe, it's not all so cut-and-dried. As I guiltily found out when the ex cheated on me, it's easy to hate someone you don't know. I was CONVINCED the girl he'd slept with was born with the express purpose to ruin my life, be a bitch, and look horrible in her Facebook profile photos. (There may have been many, many catty references to her resembling a wall-eyed bass. Not my finest moments.) But gradually, I started to realize that she probably A.) Had no idea I even existed, and B.) Was just looking for the same sort of love I was. Unfortunately, we were both looking for it from the same guy, but all the same, I couldn't fault her wanting her happy ending. And so, little by little, I started to forgive. The other day, thinking about her, about me, and about my S.O's ex in the current situation, I looked the ex's indiscretion up again. And you know what? She looked good. She looked happy. And not even the least little bit fishy. Maybe it had just all been me, being a cat-fish.

Then again, maybe it wasn't. The other night, at dinner, my S.O mentioned something inside-joke-like in passing about his mother, a different women than his father is currently seeing. I happened to be looking at his dad's girlfriend when he said it, and I saw a look flash across her face as quickly as it was then gone. But I recognized it. It's the same look ALL women, when the name of the woman who came before, or who they're afraid will come after, adopt as soon as the syllables hang in the span of air between mouth and ear. As I sat at our table in the dining room of the Woodstock Inn and looked at my S.O's father and his girlfriend, it hit me-- The ex-girlfriends of our past and present are only going to become the first, second, and ex-wives of our future. And it'll still be just as difficult, awkward, and confusing as it is now, so we just might as well get used to it, and get good at letting all the flack slide off of our shoulders. So here's to turning the other cheek and waiting for the day when she knows better than to think I'm actually a whore, or that I ever meant to hurt her. Because I, possibly more than most other girls, know both the exquisite pleasure AND pain that comes from these sort of relationships past-yet-still-present. I've been in those tight size 8 shoes, and it's not a fun trip, not in the least.

XOXO

Freaks and Closet Geeks.

There are some things that are sacred to women: Chocolate. A pair of heels that fit perfectly and would never pinch, even if you walked 50 blocks in them. A perfectly made cocktail. Sleeping in on the weekends. Happy hour with your closest friends. How our mother will always be one of the first people we call with news. The four-letter words S-A-L-E and L-O-V-E. And closet space.

A few weekends ago, wading knee-deep in down from a comforter that's apparently determined to molt in time for spring, the guy I'm seeing took one look at the floor in the corner of the room he normally puts his clothing in, and winced at the gathering tumbleweeds of feathers residing there. "Do you have someplace I can put my stuff where it won't get down on it?" he asked, and I froze, like I was suddenly subject to the 10 degree weather outside. There was someplace he could put his things, but I really didn't want to think about it. How could I tell him that my closet is like my personal kingdom, where I am ruler of all labels and ruling regent of all spatial reasoning, keeping the tank tops separate from the dressy shirts from the cardigans, without sounding like a total freak of nature?

In the end, I ended up pushing aside the hangers and clothes on the hanging rack so that he could have easy access to put his bag and jacket on the shelf underneath, but my clothes looked so forlorn, pushed to the side like unloved stepchildren. I'd like to blame what happened later on the fact that I was overtaken with thinking about my black mesh dress pressed up against my woolly Italian sweaters and getting pulled on by their fibers, but actually, there's no excuse for what happened next.

Sometimes, we can all go a little bit crazy. As far as it may be from us, our past is still our past, and as much as we dislike to have it tarnish the golden views of our present or future, it sometimes does. I live in eternal fear of the One Reoccurring Theme of my dating history: That I am merely a placeholder until some thing or someone else better comes along...that while logic states I, an obsessive-compulsive, nymphomaniac, time-consuming, giving, impulse buyer of gifts, needer of needy men, should be more than enough for one man, but if there's one thing my history has taught me, it's that I am remarkably replaceable, and that I tend to be the entrée-- there's always an appetizer or dessert on the side.

But while I've served as the main course, it's important to note that there's a lot of things that I've never done before that I suddenly find being a "normal" part of my life: I've never had someone else's toothbrush and towel residing in my bathroom, other than a roommate's. I've never eaten out so often together or gone out as a couple. I've never slept as many consecutive nights with someone as I have been doing recently. Only one other man was ever even allowed into my house to stay overnight, and that was one time, so I understandably am not used to someone living with me nearly a third of the time. So you better believe I've never had reason, cause, or practice to give away a drawer or a shelf for a man to use as his own. The strangest part of all is, I actually really love all of it. (I seem to have come a Very Long Way since the girl who went through men in under one month like Brawny paper towels.) None of this actually feels strange until I take a mental step back, look at my current life, and assess the Big Picture. Which I did the other day, while simultaneously having a VERY spectacularly large fret about putting all my eggs in one basket and shirts on one shelf and worrying about the possibility of other women fucking my toothbrush-and-towel present reality over. And so I did something when the opportunity arose after he left that I'm not very proud of, at all, and took my last deep breath of sanity, and momentarily dove off the deep end. I freaked.

I knew it was wrong. I knew what I was doing was like stealing, or at very least, breaking and entering, even though the metaphorical doors were already unlocked for me and I didn't touch anything; didn't open any Pandora boxes. All I had to do was use the two eyes I was born with, but even that, I knew, was too much. I surfaced when I didn't find anything that I seemed to be looking for-- there were no illicit messages, no secret trysts set up, no whiffs of another woman's perfume or lip gloss smudges. There was nothing of cause for concern. In fact, what I did find made me feel even worse than what I imagined finding something that I was looking for would make me feel: Instead, there I was, my name staring myself right in my face, not erased or replaced-- the messages a sane women had written being saved by the man who was doing her right, as she let her inner freak flag fly postal. I felt worse about myself than I have in years. I vowed at that moment to lock the super-freak in me up in the closet and never let her out like that again.

As a silent mea culpa, I cleared away my tank top shelf and consolidated some of my hanging rack for his stuff in my closet --like he had asked for the other night-- at 3 in the morning in a "retribution-for-my-wrongs" fit, all while mentally begging for forgiveness, and finally letting him, and trust, into my life...for real. I figure, in my world, giving him a part of my precious clothing space says "I'm sorry; and I'm showing it by proving I love you more than I love my tank top collection" far more than anything else I could ever say or do.

XOXO

Assumption Eats Away At You Like Consumption.

I am an idiot.

Sometimes.

And assuming really does make an ass,

But mostly out of me.

I take it back.

Not all.

But most.

XOXO

Remember: Some Crazy Dude Turned Down Halle Berry.

This is what I like to remember when I'm feeling low:

Even Halle Berry has been rejected, broken up with, and cheated on.

Yes. Some obviously criminally insane man thought he could do better than THAT. This just goes to prove a few things:

A.) The grass is ALWAYS greener on the other side. Even if it's your side, her side, Halle's side, or some other woman who is decidedly NOT Halle Berry's side.

B.) You can bet your sweet ass that after her split with hunk-o'-hunk-o'-burnin'-love Gabriel Aubry, Halle wasn't exactly all sunshine and daises and didn't wake up the next morning looking and feeling like she does above. I mean, this is a Bond Babe we're talking about. He's lucky that he didn't get his Versace-clad ass kicked. I'm sure there was at least SOME screaming and throwing of things. (Hint: If you're not feeling particularly violent, but still want to make a grand gesture of sorts, kicking car tires is a good place to start. Generally, you can't do more harm to them. But it gets a point across. Especially if paired with some good sound-effects.)

And C.) I'll admit it-- some women are crazy. (Note: Most women are crazy, in some way or another. The trick to compatibility is finding someone whose craziness appeals to you so you can handle it without going Lizzie Bordon on their ass.) But if women are crazy, then some men are crazy AS FUCK.

Case in point: "Halle Berry's former husband Eric Benet claims he slept with other women during their union - to save their relationship.

The 34-year-old soul singer was so desperate to rescue his four-year-old marriage to the Oscar-winning actress, which ended in January ('05), he committed adultery as a means to rectify their troubles.

Benet, who was allegedly treated for sex addiction, says, "I'm powerless to stop people thinking bad of me.I'm not a sex addict. I was just in a desperate place in my marriage and I wanted to do anything possible to save it."

While he does deny philandering, Benet does concede having "physical contact that was extremely inappropriate and wrong in marriage". (This gem on the male psyche from ContactMusic.com.)

Now, doesn't that make you feel better? We won't even get into Jennifer Aniston getting left so that Mr. Pitt could be with a familiar skeletal brunette who has been known to kiss her brother, wear her lover's blood as a necklace, and single-handedly try to adopt all the world's orphaned children like designer bags or Pokemon. Gotta catch 'em all!

XOXO

Intimidation Street

NEVER let someone run you out. The other day, I was at a friend's house when I was told after an incoming call that someone else was on their way. What was I supposed to do, run screaming and crying in fear the very moment her name reached my ears? Naw, I don't THINK so. As Lafayette would say, "Girlfriend, it ain't no thang." And it really ain't. Make the point that you could either A.) Not give less of a fuck, or B.) Pretend they don't exist by staying for another ten minutes as conversation naturally comes to a close and you're leaving on your own time, as opposed to being thrown out right on your ass in mid-sentence by the mere mention of another girl.

XOXO

The Tell-Tale Heart

I know Facebook has ruined us. Do you want to know how Facebook has ruined us? Because for what was probably the past three hours of my sleeping life, I grappled with a dream which started out pleasant and involved two loves of my life: men, and pie, and yet progressed into something that made my heart-- literally, I felt my heart-- plunge to somewhere in the vicinity of my toes when in my dream, I saw It. That thing that all girls secretly dread. The terror of the internet. The scourge of Facebook. "_______ is in a relationship with _______." That little pink heart has never been more ominous.

When I woke up, I promptly lunged for my laptop, just to make sure it wasn't true and I hadn't been sleep-web-surfing like how I sometimes have to wake up and grab for my phone to see if I really was sleep-texting or so-fucked-up-you-might-as-well-be-asleep-because-you're-not-gong-to-remember-doing-it-in-the-morning texting. The rest of the dream I could brush off as kinda ridiculous-- running down the road, looking in houses for someone you have no idea how to find (oh, that's telling!) and who remains, decidedly, not a character in the rest of this dream, but instead, a blue and white profile with a new pink heart on it; an 18 year old, baby-faced, cowboy hat-wearing new girlfriend who kinda looked like Bret Michaels had actually succeeded in fathering a child with one of his Rock of Love floozies, having a traumatic breakdown on my shoulder while the only decent thing to do was hold a tissue for her to blow her nose while consoling her because, "I know how he can be, sweetie." It rang so true I couldn't even get mad when she blew snot all over my toes and her parents told me how perfect they were together over what seemed to be a feast straight from Henry the VIII's table. I mean, there was a woman ladling split-pea soup straight into her mouth, for chrissake. How am I supposed to take a dream like this seriously?

The point is, I did. The point is, I woke up with a start, gasping and bolting upright, and then scrambled down to the foot of my bed and grabbed my laptop to check-- just because. Just because it felt so real. Just because I am that terrified. Just because it brought to my attention that any day, that could be a real possibility, and I am, as evidenced, nowhere near prepared for that. I guess what they say about dreams bringing out your subconscious fears and desires is true-- in which case, I am a mess. Facebook, you've finally fucked me over.

XOXO

P.S-- In other news, you have 5 days to become my 48th, 49th, or 50th follower. (Which is a great birthday present to me.) And there's $1.14 that stands between me and a check from Google, which would really be appreciated as I am currently investigating the laws of prostitution for some gray area and not quite the same severity as a sentence for robbery/forgery/extortion/embezzlement, as those are my 5 options at the moment to afford summer rent.

"Well, It Seemed Like You Might Be Asking."

I had the most INTERESTING conversation with Perfect last night.

Firstly, yes, you read that right—your tired eyes are not deceiving you—a conversation (text, albeit,) was had. The first multi-text conversation since he left for college, and it lasted for 6 HOURS. (There was driving and eating somewhere in between there, so I’ll trim it to 4 hours, but still—6:30 PM through 12:30 AM.

YES.

Secondly, against all my better judgment, and all Caiti’s better judgment, Perfect may now have a slightly scandalous picture of me in his possession. Now, before you go all medieval and shit on me (yes, you, Caiti), let me start from the beginning and explain.

Yesterday, Alli, Melissa and I went to Montpelier and Worcester for an end –of-summer weekend blowout. We cleverly called it the “Girls’ MON(tpelier)-(Worce)STER Adventure.” We did all the things we normally do: blasted music, took gratuitous amounts of pictures and video, got coffee, climbed on cannons on the State House lawn and offended families with our sexually-themed poses, skipped gaily through Montpelier without a care in the world of being yelled at to get out of town by Perfect from Capitol Copy now that he’s three and a half hours away in Massachusetts, bombed down Route 12 into Worcester, took some more gratuitous pictures, stopped for gas, took two new “field trips” around Worcester to further adventure, went to the Pots, went skinny-dipping, were caught by a family, walked down the road naked, went to Dairy Crème, had to hold myself back from slamming my medium chocolate/vanilla with rainbow sprinkles twist into the face of the girl who served it to me…you know—the usual.

I should make an aside here so you don’t assume I’m a normally violent or vindictive person. Although I love the ice cream at Dairy Crème, I fucking hate their wait-staff. It seems as though every girl who has ever left a flirty or potentially loaded comment on Perfect’s Facebook wall insinuating SOMETHING works there. Really. And the one who handed me my ice cream cone yesterday was the same girl who posted lyrics to a bump-and-grind song that due to the content that followed afterward, I can only assume she and Perfect ground it out together to some night this past summer. I know, I know….assuming makes an ass out of “u” & “me,” but really—I know Perfect. I know how he loves to dance. I know how he loves to grind. I remember his caveat to me of, “I see pictures later and I’m just like, “whoa, it wasn’t like that!” You know? It’s just dancing.” Yeah, it may just be dancing, but I am a dancing fool who loves to dance just as much as he does, and you know the only people I really grind with? People who I’d let get into my pants, because they might as well be, anyway.

It wasn’t that whole fiasco so much. I’ve gotten past (most) of my issues concerning what may or may not have happened, and channel it in a productive way: I downloaded that song onto my iPod, and when I’m running at the gym, if I start to think I won’t make it another quarter-mile, I put it on. And thinking about it, imagining them fused at the pelvis, well…that burns me through the next quarter-mile with energy to spare. It works. So it wasn’t so much THAT, as the fact that as she reached out, cone in hand, our eyes locked as I realized who she was, and her eyes flashed in recognition of who I was, and then…she smiled at me. This really nice, friendly smile that said, “oh, hey! I know who you are! We have friends in common.” And I just wanted to reach over the counter, grab her by her hair, and smash her forehead repeatedly against said counter with an identical perky smile on my face that said, “Oh, I know!”

But my whole psychotic tirade is an aside to the point.

While at the Pots, Melissa took a picture of Alli and me standing in our towels in front of the swimming hole and waterfall. And yeah, ok, so we may have been obviously not wearing bathing suits because of our blatantly bare backs, but I didn’t think much of it, because I sent it to Perfect later while we were at Dairy Crème with a note attached saying, “Wish you were here! (It’s fucking cold!)” Previously, I had fired off a spur-of-the-moment and not really seemingly important text that we were running a bet, and could he finish of one of the gigantic Dairy Crème large ice cream cones? When he replied back to that verbosely and in multiple sentences and thought processes, it was obvious he was feeling chatty. Maybe that’s what us going five days without talking to each other will do for him. I decided that hey, still parked in the Dairy Crème parking lot while Little Miss Pelvic Thrust was watching us through the glass service window, it would be a good time to send him that picture. So I did.

I should realize by now that Perfect is one of those very few people in my life who always manages to shock me. If I think it’s one way, he’ll be thinking in another direction. If I say “up,” he’ll be thoroughly “down.” When I finally get exhausted from being constantly on my tip-toes and throw in the towel and least expect it is when he always seems to pounce, and it always knocks me off guard. He knows exactly how to push my buttons, in what order, and how I liked them to be touched.

“That’s nothing! I’ve seen better pics!” he said.

At first, I was shocked. Then, affronted. Then, realization dawned and I realized what I had meant to be a friendly photo of something familiar and an “I’m thinking of you” was taken to a “yeah, I’m familiar with your naked back and now I want to think of you fully nekkid” level.

“Hahaha, please,” I texted back after I had recovered. “That was just supposed to be a pic from home. Believe me, if I were going to send you pictures to get your pulse racing, I’d know to send a better one than that.”

Perfect, in full button-pushing mode, called my bluff and raised me. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I’ve sent some well-appreciated pictures before, but only to the very, very good, and the very, very lucky.”

“Haha. Very, very?”

“A girl’s got to be discerning,” I texted back, with the sort of Victorian haughty sniff that I hoped he caught on to. “Can’t just give them away, you know.”

And then Perfect said the thing that just literally blew my mind right out of the water. “Haha, true, but I have had sex with you!”

Excuse me. Gentlemen in the room? Please stand up. Oh, Perfect, I notice you’re NOT standing? Good boy. Right answer. Although yes, I will admit, it, ahem, got the ocean below rolling when he said this (ohhh, I’m so easy), it got both my libido and pride going in tandem.

“So what?” I asked, maybe a little forcefully; I don’t know, you tell me after you read this. “You want a picture? Do you think you’re very, very good or very, very lucky? Just because I’ve had sex with you doesn’t mean you get a complimentary picture. What’s in it for me, hmm?”

I like to pack as much sass as I can into my 5-foot-3-inches as I can. Sass is something that I feel Perfect doesn’t get enough of in his daily diet. He’s more used to things and/or women just falling over in front of him. I don’t like to fall. As evidenced by the above.

There was about twenty minutes of silence from his end in which I started to worry if I had completely called our little game of non-penetration stimulation off with my loads of…sass. Up until this point, Perfect had been texting back seconds after I sent him a text. (I love that promptness. Nothing says “I’m home in my dorm room and bored and horny” more than a very prompt response. I live for those prompt responses. They are one of my favorite things. Especially if the subject matter built around them is naughty by nature.)

I also started to worry that I may be on the receiving end of a dick-a-licious picture text. So I did what was natural: called in a girl friend’s expert advice. Between the two of us, Caiti and I reached a decision: make sure he’s alone, is sober, and promises to not show any sent pictures to anyone else. Trust is key. Also, DON’T SEND ANYTHING WITHOUT GETTING SOMETHING FIRST. Also, men’s idea of sexy tends to be, literally, balls-to-the-walls. Men have, do, and will continue to think that sending pictures of their packages is hot. They expect titty shots in return. Women, on the other hand, think there’s nothing more tasteful and teasing than a pretty, sexy, and pretty sexy lingerie shot to get things rolling. Women tend to send progressive pictures, each with less clothing than the last. Again, it’s about building both trust and suspense. Men tend to go BAM! There it all is, all at once, and all in the front.

Understandably, I was having some performance-anxiety issues with the idea of actually having to send Perfect a picture if that’s what it came down to. The whole “I’ve seen better” had started to churn around in my head. A.) Oh, really? How many girls are sending you nudey-pics, Mr. Perfect, and B.) What is he used to getting, and so C.) What does he expect? Don’t get me wrong—like I told him, I’m not new to this. And my pictures in the past have been well-appreciated. I also have a nice stash of some pictures already on my cell phone’s memory that I took when Perfect and I were officially together on my birthday, the night that he was supposed to be able to spend the night but ended up not being able to. Let’s just say, the money I dropped in Victoria’s Secret that day was not wasted that night. He had asked for pictures that night, as well, but I heeded the advice of a different Caitlin—Cait—and kept them to myself. But this was an issue of: if he were to send a picture of his artillery, what the fuck was I supposed to counter with? This snatch ain’t seeing a cell phone camera, HELL to the NO.

Instead, I got a different kind of response: a major scale-back. After I read the sassy response out-loud to Alli and watched he face go shocked and slack-jawed, I had started to draft a clarification, but Perfect beat me to it. Wounded. (I forgot he was sensitive. Oops.) A bit affronted. Hurt pride. “LOL, I don’t know. LOL. I wasn’t asking.”

“Oh, well, that last text was supposed to be teasing, not harsh. Text doesn’t translate tone well, hahaha. And I seemed like you might be, so I was trying to decide if you were good or lucky.”

“Haha, am I good or lucky?” AHA. There we go. Back where I wanted. Good save! Carissa fumbles the come on, but recovers it to score a touch-down response somewhere in her end-zone. (Excuse me for a moment. I love football and sexual football metaphors.)

“Well, from what I remember, you were good, and I’d say you’re pretty lucky, but it all depends on a few things.”

“Like what?”

“Are you asking now, for starters?”

“Well, I am if you’re offering, haha!”

Oh no. I wasn’t going to let him escape with this one, oh no. This was not my horny little doing, my friend. His sex-mind was what got us here in the first place. I was just doing a “friendly” thing, which he turned into a “hey, we fucked and I’d like to see where we can still go” thing.

“You were the one who brought it up. And you should know this isn’t a one-way thing. If I send you something, I expect something in return. Can you deal with those terms?”

“Well, I’m not in a place I can do that now with my two roommates in the room, so I guess that means tonight’s a no, haha.”

My libido cried at the same time I considered saying, “That’s what cars are for. Or bathrooms. Or vacant rooms. Or a dark bike-path devoid of passers-by.” Instead, I reigned it in, leaving him to do the thinking on his own.

“Aww, that’s a shame. Well, if you get creative, let me know. I’m down for it.”

“LOL, alright.”

I put down the phone.

An hour later, still thinking about it, I picked it back up, took advantage of Perfect’s now 24/7 coverage that was the only thing that kept me from doing naughty things like this when he lived at home in Worcester, and sent him one of the pictures I took the night of my birthday. Before you kill me, especially Caiti—let me explain. It’s tasteful. I’m covered in a pink-orange lace teddy and flouncy matching underwear. I’m wearing heels that make my legs look a deceptive mile long. The lighting is low, I’m tan and toned, and half of my face is covered by my hair. It’s very Victoria’s Secret catalog, maybe because the lingerie IS Victoria’s Secret. I figure, give him something to think about so he doesn’t go off texting those other little hussies who will apparently send him pictures no questions asked. (To this, I think, really? I can’t see One Time Girl firing off candids of her boobs, so who does that leave? Dairy Crème girls? Grrrrrrrrrr…)

“There’s a little something to start you off,” I told him. “I’m making you a tab. I expect you’ll pay it off when you can. Sweet dreams.”

“Haha, oh, that’s a little better,” Perfect responded back.

“Well, enjoy it killer, because that’s all you get fo’ free, hahaha,” I said. He remained quiet for the next twenty or so minutes, which from previous knowledge is about the time we’ve decided it takes for him to sneak off to whack off. When he texted me back, it made me hoot with raucous laughter.

“Haha, who took that? LOL.”

Now, Mr. Perfect, you can hide behind your “haha”s and your “LOL”s, but really, by now, I know that’s how you dress up, disguise and hide what you’re really trying to say when you’re a little bit unsure of how it will go over. And this “Haha, who took that? LOL,” had concern, jealousy, and just the right amount of delicious male possession all over it. I couldn’t resist baiting him a little more. So easy.

“Hahaha—one of my other lovers. No, I took it myself. I’m holding my cell, see?” And it was true. Almost front and center in the picture, shining in my hand was my cell phone, outstretched to catch my image in my mirror. (Yes, I had to Myspace it up to take the picture in the first place—I’m so, so sorry.) But it felt good knowing my nearly naked body was so captivating he didn’t even notice it until I pointed it out.

“Haha, oh, ok.” Blatant relief.

So. Excuse me, again. Here I am, thinking he’s sleeping around with all the new freshmen girls, getting ready to expect the worst, and yet, apparently, he’s still feeling possessive over my body and worrying about other people seeing it? What is not adding up here? Could Perfect be—gasp—holding on, too? I try not to lead my train of thought down that road, but really—what gives for his concern and desire to make sure I am not passing myself around like I am thinking in a worst-case scenario he is passing himself around?

As I told the lovely Miss Sarah, men are hounds. I like to keep this in mind, which may not fit with the whole "think positive" thing I was supposedly trying to, but I always, ALWAYS keep a little part of my mind that tells me, "He's off sleeping with another girl. Right now. Possibly, two. Possibly, he's sleeping his way through his college/local bar/city/gym."

I have found that if I keep this possibility in my mind, I am never quite so shocked and pissed off as I would be if I didn't consider it a possibility in the first place, or train myself to expect it.

Maybe it's teaching men a bad thing, though. Maybe it's teaching them that we expect bad behavior from men. But honestly, even while I'm intimately texting or talking to Perfect, I can't help but wonder what other girls he's also texting/talking to/looking at pictures of. Maybe I'm guarded. Maybe I am a pessimist at heart. But maybe, it's also smart.

I would cry “double standard” if it wasn’t for the fact that this new development makes me feel deliciously tingly inside. Perfect is still somehow, even just a little bit, attached. Hostage relationship, we have a win!

XOXO