Special Sex Report

What does marriage mean?

When a couple decides to get married, is it to validate their love for one another? A mark of adulthood? Or perhaps to put their parents at ease? Simply a box on the list to check off as, yep DONE THAT?

And what really happens a few years after a marriage? Do we feel more calm and secure? Or positively claustrophobic?

QUESTIONS QUESTIONS QUESTIONS.

In June of 2003, same sex marriage was made legal in Ontario. Now five years later we are at a point where qualitative research can be done to better understand what impact this legalization has had on same-sex couples. And the Centre for Sexual Diversity Studies at University of Toronto (http://www.uc.utoronto.ca/content/view/284/1809/) is doing just that by investigating whether there are differences between how lesbian / gay couples and heterosexual couples feel about their marriages.

Having gotten married just over a year ago, I remember the barrage of conversations, e-mails, phone calls:
What dress are you wearing? Are you having a religious ceremony? Who’s walking you down the aisle? Are you having bridesmaids – will I be one? Yeesh. I’m assuming that queer or straight you get hammered with the same dizzying conversations, have the same anxiety attacks of families meshing together and getting drunk and feisty and whether your sex life will remain nice and smutty. So what’s different?

I think we all know that marriage these days has very different connotations than even ten years ago. It used to be that a man and a woman get married, they have a child – maybe a nice golden retriever, mortgage a house, have a weekly bridge night or tennis match and everything was picture perfect, squared away nicely into a sedating and peaceful bliss. YEAH FUCKING RIGHT. We all know this doesn’t happen. Divorce, affairs, step sisters, malicious aunts, common law and neighbour swapping – whatever. My point being is that there is no ‘normal’ anymore. Families are more differentiated now than ever.

I spoke with Professor Robbie Morgan about the study and she explained that their efforts are to further understand how, “…marriage being made legal in Canada is affecting Queer daily life. How does this access change things?”

What are peoples' perceptions now that we have had legal same sex marriage for a few years? Do we perceive the family structure to be dissolving or reinvigorating? Does marriage make same sex couples feel more accepted as normal? Is promiscuity more comfortable in a marriage or frowned upon?

In order to find answers to these questions, the research team is interviewing individuals from 120 couple pools. Lesbian, homosexual and heterosexual couples are all involved in the study and are asked a series of questions that range from how weddings are being practiced; do they incorporate traditions? Culture based questions and questions surrounding individual feelings of identity and acceptance.

Hype surrounds issues on the cusp of change, and when new laws are passed, these issues often get tossed to the back of our mind and filed as old news. However, it is important to document the affects of change, as they happen, to properly understand the results of major societal shifts. In the sixties there was the women’s movement, the hippie movement for peace and love and civil rights. At times, I wish I was twenty during this exciting chapter of history, but one often overlooks the leaps and bounds of sociological issues that are occurring right in front of them. There is no lack of monumental transitions right now, so stop being so damn apathetic and bored and open your eyes to our lively times.

If you are interested in taking part in this study please e-mail jenmcneely@shedoesthecity.com, and I will put you in touch with UofT.
To be eligible, you must have been married for at least one year.

It was a premeditated sexual experiment at the age of twenty two. Dirty, raw, slutty and wonderful. The best thing about it, was that no emotions got tangled – we all did it to try it, and I will never regret as it made me feel absolutely unrestrained, animalistic and like a hot porno star; and for many, this opportunity doesn’t happen quite that easily once you are in a solid relationship, co-existence, married or hung up.

Here’s how it all went down:

There was a man that my friend was obsessed with. He lived in New York City and was in his mid thirties. I think they had met in a bar one night over casual drinks, but continued a very heavy online sex dialogue. She called me up one day and said:
”Would you mind coming over and taking some photos with me? I want to do a sexual story, something that will arouse him and be fun for us.”
“What do you want me to do exactly?”
”Just bring some school uniforms over, nice underwear and we will pose provocatively. Do a naughty school girl story, or something like that.”

Hmm. At this point in my life there would be no way that I’d go through with this proposal, but a lesson to all young women – there’s nothing wrong with experimenting and in my opinion, no better time then when you are in you early twenties and life has not settled.

“Yeah, okay.”

That weekend I met her at the apartment. To my surprise, I was not the only one invited, but also a girl I’d never met with really big breasts and long blonde hair. Her boyfriend was also in attendance, he was the photographer – naturally. What a good deal for him.

Nothing serious happened except for some kissing and minor touching. We winded around each others bodies in our bras and underwear, emulating some kind of twisted sister make out session. All the while, we drank, laughed and felt aroused and mischievous.

Following the photo shoot – we departed our separate ways and did our usual Friday night binge drinking.

My friend sent an elaborate package off to NYC with the photos and printed story line to boot.

A few weeks later, I got a phone call at around 11PM.

“He’s in town, we are at the strip club, come meet us.”
“NOW? “
“Yeah, and please say you will have a threesome with us.”
”WHAT?? I can’t commit to that right now. Let me meet you for a couple drinks first – I don’t want ANY PRESSURE.”
“Fine.”

As I got ready, my flat mates all asked where I was going. I quickly made up some cockamamie lie and left the apartment feeling like a call girl. I didn’t feel slutty or disgusting, just excited.

At the strip club, we had a few drinks. He was cute alright, kind of short – but very smart, witty and up to no good.

He bought me my first lap dance – which to be honest didn’t really do it for me, but I was happy to play the game. What was really on my mind was…what’s next?

Loosened up with the drinks, I gave my friend a sort of nod that I was in, and that was the cue to leave.

Back at the apartment there was no winding up or slow flirtatious build; we got down to business.

It started with undressing, kissing on the couch and quickly descended into oral sex. We both gave him head, I brought her to orgasm giving her head, he watched while touching himself.

Following this he asked her:

“Can I fuck her?”
I had turned into this object and consent was forwarded to her. Although this sounds disrespectful – it was actually super hot.

So we fucked, she watched. We did it in every position on the bean bag that lay in the centre of her living room. After mutual orgasmic cries and cumming, we took and intermission for a smoke break and some more vodka tonic.

Next up, her turn. He was nervous that he wouldn’t be able to match his first fuck, and explained that he was exhausted and needed a break. Poor baby. She allowed him ten minutes to recouperate.

They started going at it and I just casually watched on the couch naked, drink in hand.

Following our romp. I swiftly got dressed, as did he.

We shared the elevator down – and these were the only words exchanged:

“You fuck well” he said.
“Thanks, as do you.”

A mutual kiss kiss goodbye as we parted in two taxis – and that was the last I saw of him.

Several years later, my friendship with the other woman still runs strong, and it never caused an awkwardness or blip in our relationship.

So my advice? If you want to do it, go for it – but pick the right people that you know can handle the quick and clean exit.

By Kristen Klempert

I’m a product of the Girl Power revolution, raised to be independent, intelligent, and inoculated against antediluvian discouragements like “because you’re a girl.” I’m as skilled with the contents of my toolbox as those of my makeup bag, as likely to discuss my favorite sports team with my girlfriends as my favorite leading man, and have my own opinions on everything from world politics to World of Warcraft. I know I can go anywhere, be anything, and do anything I’d like by myself. But that doesn’t mean I want to do it by myself. Yes, I dream of making my mark on the world, but also of Mr. Right and the white picket fence.

Growing up, I watched countless Disney princesses snag their happily-ever-afters despite dragons, enchantments, and less attractive villainesses. Now, however, I see there’s a reason knights rescue damsels from towers and not the business world, institutions of higher educations, and internships; the odds of success are much lower against the latter.

I work in a restaurant in the business district, the perfect location for a local white collar dating service to send its members for their initial rendezvous. The service requires a certain yearly income to join, which is probably why most of the women come decked out in professionally pressed suits, briefcases and blackberries in hand. It’s also probably why the majority of the set-ups have at least one member who arrives twenty minutes late, why they spend the first half of the date talking about their job, and why they’re in their late thirties and single. I always see these career ladies at the exit, some happy, others disappointed, but either way two steps from the door they’re back checking their loaded date book. Is that really what I want?

Then I listen to those of my classmates that are moms, finally going back to school now that their kids are older. They share methods of fixing home appliances, compare what major food groups their kids refuse to eat, and countdown the days until they’ll have their degree and can change their career. And although they glow about their children’s tee-ball teams, they seem tired, but restless and I know that’s not really what I want either.

So I’m left with finding a balance between these two opposing dimensions .As an empowered woman I can weigh the pro’s and con’s to choose between political candidates, but how can I decide between family or fame? Long term commitment or long term contract? See the world or the school plays? And once I settle on what I’m willing to sacrifice, can I really expect an understanding, supportive, unintimidated prince to come galloping out of some magical forest not to sweep me away, but to fall in step with all my plans? Optimists would say I shouldn’t have to choose; that whatever is supposed to be, will be. And while I hope to God they’re right, I have to wonder if Prince Charming ever followed Cinderella to another kingdom when she was offered the dream job in their happily ever after.

by Lauren Solski
On my way to university, I made a vow to myself that I wouldn’t get involved with him again.

“Lauren. You will NOT get back together with him!” To some degree, I believed what I said. I knew that if I stayed with him, things would remain well for only a short period of time.

When food gets old, science allows it to mould. When we get old, we mould too. Unlike rotting bread on the counter, we end up scrapping off the mould and continuing on. It’s a vicious cycle that neither science, nor we can break.

Moving from Iqaluit to Toronto made me believe that both of us would find different partners. It was only logical, seeing as Toronto is a massive metropolis of eligible, sexy men.

I arrived in Toronto to settle into Ryerson with my mother. My mother and I are very similar women; we tend to be stubborn in our own ways, and therefore fight a lot.

One day, we got in a particular fight about the curtains in my dorm. To avoid the heat, I told her I was going to the mall, and that I would be back later.

I reached the mall and needed some sort of relaxation. Whenever I’m stressed, I like to relieve myself with shopping, food, or sex. Even though I was in a paradise of shopping and food, what did my smart, logical brain choose?

Twenty minutes later, I found myself at his place.

After a very “relaxing” romp, we grabbed a bite to eat. “What are we going to do?” I asked him. Secretly, I was wishing he would ask me to date him.

“I’ll see you again once you’re settled in your dorm,” he said.

A few days later, I sent him an instant message to set up a meeting. At the same time, I decided to make a crack at the fact that I wasn’t in his Top Friends on Facebook.

“That should tell you something,” he said. Thirty seconds later, he appeared offline.

“ WHAT?!?!?!?!?!?!?!” was my initial reaction. I had NO idea what just happened. I thought he was joking, and I didn’t find it too funny.

The next morning I explored his Facebook profile to see if the “joke” had ended. I learned that his anger was not a joke when I couldn’t access his profile.

At this point, I was beyond angry, and I wrote him an e-mail. In fact, I wrote several e-mails, only to receive zero responses. He deleted me off Facebook, MSN, and apparently, his life.

Over the next week, I realized the deletion may be a blessing in disguise. I enjoyed frosh week (minus the crying myself to sleep), and tried to move on with my life in this new, big world.

A few weeks later, I receive a phone call from him. He apologized, and asked me to accompany him to Nuit Blanche. If you’ve read Nightmare Dates before, you can probably guess what I did.

Later that night, him and I started exhibiting the art around Toronto. Halfway through our expedition, a stunning woman came up and gave him a kiss. At first, I was confused. After kissing him, she proceeded to hold his hand and join our evening. I played along and waited until she left before tearing him to shreds.

After an entire two hours of being “the other woman”, I confronted him about what happened.
He explained that he started seeing her during frosh week, and he didn’t have the nerves to end things; he didn’t want to hurt her.

It blew my mind that he was talking about only hurting her feelings. How did he think mine felt? My anger and sadness was obvious, so he promised that he would end things with her soon.

That “soon” turned into a few weeks before he finally ended it. In the meantime, I was sentenced to sneaking around with him in order for her not to find out.

The “other woman” should be my middle name.

By: Lauren Valentine

One of my hobbies (besides knitting and collecting coins) is experimenting with a myriad of hairstyles (and I don't mean on my head). Here are some pros and cons I've collected to help you make your own informed decision about going bare or having hair - down there.

SHAVING

PROS: You're totally in control of your pubic palate and can trust yourself to do the job right. Done in the privacy of your own bathroom, no muss no fuss.

CONS: The dreaded five o'clock shadow (i.e. when your vagina feels like a dude's scruff face only a few hours after you've shaved her). Keeping her silky and smooth definitely takes a dedicated and persistent woman.

TIP: To ensure it's always sharp, keep a separate razor in the shower exclusively for your vagina. Trust me, she will thank you.

WAXING

PROS: Like the pleasure vs. pain sensation of getting a tattoo or being bitten during sex? They got nothin' on waxing. Another plus, your hair will grow in a little thinner and slower each time you partake in a wax, which makes for easier overall maintenance.

CONS: It hurts like a motherfucker the first time. And getting into doggy style position so your waxer can remove the hair from your derriere just feels bizarre.

TIP: If you're a woman who needs clitoral stimulation to achieve orgasm, throw caution to the wind (or rather, to the wax) and go for a Brazilian. The heightened sensitivity you'll feel from being totally bare will far outweigh the momentary pain of the procedure.

DOING THE WILD THING (a.k.a.) O'NATURAL:

PROS: Very French. Very womanly. Lowest of the low maintenance.

DISCLAIMER: A full bush is best during wintertime when it can be carefully concealed under long pants and big underwear (and not to mention provide that extra layer of warmth while freezing your tocus off waiting for the Spadina streetcar). But summertime stray hairs sticking out of your eenie weenie bikini? Not so attractive.

IT'S TIME TO TRIM WHEN: The dude eating you out gets a hairball caught in his throat.

MORAL OF THE STORY

Whatever options you try out on your girl embrace them proudly - know she's beautiful no matter what she is or isn't wearing.

Urban Dictionary’s definition of prom is: an excuse for horny, young teenagers to get together for a night of drinking, fornication and promiscuity.  
 
This was my prom. In Iqaluit, Nunavut, prom is the ultimate excuse to get down and dirty with alcohol, the opposite sex, and a lot of mosquitoes.  
 
I had always pictured my prom the “Hollywood” way: the jaw-dropping dress, the volumized hair and the perfect date. Up until a few days before my prom, this was my scene.  

I had the perfect dress; white, long and sparkling. I picked it out with my date in mind. He was extremely fond of classy dresses that still portrayed the “sexy” image. I chose my hair do from Cosmo Girl’s Prom edition, and I already had my makeup accessible on the bathroom counter.  
 
My date was perfect. He was my long-time, amazing boyfriend. When we started dating, we knew prom would be a great time. It wasn’t his looks, or sex appeal that drove me insane, it was the fact that I loved him. I always pictured myself with a prom date that I loved.  
 
Unfortunately, things do not always go as planned, especially in relationships. Sturdy roads turn to bumpy ones, and people are often left on their ass. By the end of my prom night, I was left on my ass.  
 
Up until a week before prom everything was well-organized. Things between my boyfriend and I were a little rocky due to a recent trip to Europe. After fighting over his attendance at a European strip club, he felt that he was too restrained by my “wishes”. Little did I know, this entire conflict would ruin my prom. 
 
My boyfriend had been ignoring me for a few days, and I knew this was never a good sign. I decided to call him and ask to meet up after school. When I got to his place, I could already sense the dumpage coming. 
 
“What’s going on?” I asked nervously.  
 
Screw prom. The last thing I wanted was my lover to dump me.  
 
“Look, I don’t think we’re right for each other,” he said.  
 
“Is that even a legitimate breakup line? If we weren’t right for each other, how did we toughen out three years?” I thought. I wish I said it out loud, but I was the lowest, most cowardly breed of “chicken” on this planet. 
 
After giving me more lame excuses, he proceeded to put on Jay-Z’s song “99 Problems, but a Bitch Ain’t one.” This was my cue to exit his apartment, which I did in tears. I ran home, knowing that my prom would be in my black book forever. 
 
I attempted to call him later that night to reconcile, but had no luck. Being the Facebook stalker that I am, I quickly learned he was taking his best friend’s little sister to prom. What a kick in my non-existing balls. Luckily, I found a substitute prom date, who happened to be extremely handsome and genuinely kind. My mother kept insisting on calling Leonardo DiCaprio to escort me, but unfortunately, those plans never followed through.  
 
The night of my prom couldn’t have started off better. I actually thought everything was going to be alright. I was dancing the night away, enjoying time with friends and people who didn’t consider me a “problematic bitch”. 
 
The first slow dance of the evening came on, and my guts told me it would be trouble. I started to dance with my prom date (who I was then very attracted to.) Suddenly, I saw my ex-boyfriend creep up beside me with his date. Not only did he fondle her in front of me, but he proceeded to start a full-out tongue war with her on the dance floor.  
 
That was it. I ran out of the room towards the bathroom and stayed there for the next hour. My white dress was now off-white from the time I spent crying on bathroom floor. My mascara was all over my face (waterproof, schmwarterproof), and the one night I was supposed to remember for the rest of my life was completely shattered. That night, I didn’t enjoy anything. Prom was ruined, grad party was ruined and my heart was ruined.  
 
A few days later, my ex-boyfriend contacted me and said he was sorry and wanted to “start things up again.” Being the attached woman that I am, I jumped right back to him. This wasn’t the first time he’d dump me, and it wouldn’t be the last.

by Jenny McCracken
What lies beneath is my Monday-evening, post-yoga trauma. I thought you all might enjoy it. And if you don't, screw you.

(Sheesh. i'm kidding. Diane, put down your dukes).

So, there I was, standing at the streetcar stop on Dundas bemoaning the hours upon hours of my life spent on waiting for the TTC, when I saw her. She was a compact package. Shorter than me; about 5’2”, wearing a tight pencil-skirt and fuck-me heels that seemed high enough to boost her into the Heavens, if, you know, Heaven was the place where those College-Girls-Gone-Wild pornos are made (which, of course, it is). She had the kind of body that makes a person—male or female—stop for a second and think, “God, damn”. Boobs out to here, ass out to there. She truly was sex personified: the angles of her calves, the cleavage of her toes bound by those tight, hot stilettos, the arch in her back and the way her hand was obstinately placed on her hip as if to challenge, “Come on, I dare you. I fucking dare you.” If she was a sandwich, she would be slow-roasted pulled-pork on a hot, round, soft bun with spicy peppers and gravy that would drip from the meat, on to your chin and down to your Armani dress shirt and you wouldn’t give a fuck because, holy shit, you’ve never had a sandwich like this before.

Now, I get that I look like a lesbian sometimes. I also get that I make comments about girls that, while are not particularly lesbian-esque, aren’t exactly those of a girl who really, really does love dong like I do. In my defence, let me say this: I am a visual type. I like to look at people and appreciate beauty in all of it’s forms. Also, I’m fairly easy and am not opposed to rubbing off on some hot girl’s thigh if the situation calls for it. But truly, this isn’t what I was thinking as I watched this little, tight composition of curves and stretch-cotton.

I was actually hating her. I was hating the way she dangled her laptop bag from her wrist as she texted whatever boy she had on the agenda tonight. I was particularly, internally, puking at what I assumed was her life. She is a receptionist, perhaps for a financial company on Bay St. Or she is a bank teller at TD (they have the most do-able employees). She shares a condo with a girlfriend and goes rock climbing on Saturdays. She uses perfume that smells like something one would eat, I.e. creme brulée, strawberry shortcake or cotton candy. She drinks Malibu and let’s loose with the girls on Friday nights at This is London or Fluid Lounge. Sex in the City is her favourite T.V. show and the esteemed award for her favourite book is tied between “The Life of Pi” and Cosmopolitan’s Bedside Astrologer. Mother fuck, was I ever hating her.

Then she turned to look at me. I thought, “OK, so, girlfriend is looking at me. Why wouldn’t she? I’m practically burning holes straight through her skull.” The moment passes when most people look away, and she is still maintaining eye contact. So, I did what I do: I gave her The Chin. Its a manoeuvre I do when I feel like I need to be a little masculine and stand-offish. Not only does it offer acknowledgement but it also says that I don’t really care enough to speak to you.

That is when she said something and immediately started to laugh. It wasn’t a giggle, it was a full-on laugh. Like, you know that part in Dumb and Dumber when Harry eats a whole mess of Turbo Lax and he’s in the toilet having the groadiest diarrhea and lets out this really squeaky, high-pitched fart? Ya, she laughed at herself like we all laugh at that part of The Greatest Movie Ever Made.

Nothing is that funny.

So, I got closer to her, held my breath so as not to smell her cheap perfume, and said, “What??”

Something about the streetcar. She said something about the streetcar. Great. So I said something back and made a move to put in my earphones. “I don’t want to get in to it with this one,” I thought.

The next thing you know, everything I said, and everything she said, was as funny as a squeaky fart. To her, that is. We got on the streetcar and she sat her sex machine body next to me with a big “Yay! I am so happy to meet a new friend!”

“Oh God,” I thought. The universe is drastically maligned right now. No one looks at me and thinks, “She looks like a nice person. I bet she’s fun. Ya, she looks like she’s in to booze cans and shopping for thongs together. Totally.”

I highly value this perception because it keeps the wackos at bay and allows me the anonymity I love. But, as I discovered tonight, the joke is on me because it’s the real over-the-top nutters who fail to pick up on my cold shoulder and inevitably sit beside me on the streetcar, spouting devastating shit like, “What’s your number so we can hang out!?” and “I’m going to add you on Facebook!” There was also a statement that I am becoming all to familiar, but none too comfortable, with: “You’re 32!? But you look so young!”

To which I think, “Ya, fuck you. No seriously. Can I fuck you?”

I won't allow her to spend the night though.

MIRROR MIRROR

by H

I was skimming through the entertainment section of the Star today when the advice column caught my eye. A guy supposedly in his 20s had written in, saying that he was depressed because he didn’t have a “drop-dead gorgeous” girlfriend. Instead, he’d only been able to date girls who were “sweet, nice, and cute, but not HOT”. Ellie’s advice to him was that he had a deeper rooted problem, and that he should maybe not be so fixated on finding someone “hot”, but should focus on getting some therapy instead.

As a matchmaker at one of Toronto’s many dating agencies, this is a lament I hear often, and not just from guys in their 20s, but from people in every age category, from fresh-faced 20-somethings, up to 70 year old grandmothers, who, by that age, you’d think would know better than to be fixated on outer appearances.

Although “Blue” describes himself in the Star as “a good looking guy”, it’s likely that he isn’t all that. Certainly, looking at the pictures of the appearance-obsessed service members that I have to deal with on a day-to-day basis, I feel safe in saying that it’s a pretty good bet that “Blue” isn’t nearly as attractive as he thinks he is.

This isn’t to say that he is, in fact, an ugly guy, or even average. Chances are pretty high that he’s a fairly good looking guy, but no one that you’d risk your bodily safety for by navigating your way through a drunken dance floor at Dance Cave on a Saturday night.

Contrary to popular belief, most of the people that are fixated on dating only “gorgeous” or “exceptionally attractive” people aren’t those who are a ten on the attractive scale, but are in fact closer to a seven, maybe even a six. It’s these types of people that seem to think that being linked to a very attractive person in a romantic sense conveys an air of attractiveness upon themselves as well. After all, why would someone very attractive not be dating someone who is just as attractive as they themselves?

What I’d like to tell these people, (once they stopped their whining), is that they need to go see a therapist about why exactly they’re so obsessed with the physical appearance of those around them, instead of being focused on what those people can bring to them as individuals who are smart, caring and funny.

It’s not that I’m saying that looks don’t matter, because they definitely do.

However, the next time I have a self-perceived Brad Pitt on the phone telling me how the Keira Knightley-esque girl that we set him up with wasn’t up to Angelina Jolie standards, and how that consequently ruined his weekend, I might just have to bite the bullet and tell him that he may want to start worrying less about the superficial things, and more about what is more important, like personality and compatibility.

Or, short of that, I could do what I swore I would do the other day after a particularly aggravating phone call with a narcissistic client: Go to IKEA, buy a mirror, then send it to the hapless member with a note taped to it saying “Look in this mirror, and tell me what you see, because your mirror is clearly defective”

The bomb: That sinking, warm feeling in the middle of your chest. The one that makes you want to break a window or puke all over the floor. 
 
The bomb hit me last week while I was out celebrating my boyfriend’s 19th birthday. A few days earlier, we decided to get back together and make our relationship official for the 18th million time. I didn't expect for my heart to face demolition a few days later.

While joking with him over a pint, I learned that he slept with my best friend, Jessica, during the first few months of school. My heart stopped for a moment and my palms began to sweat.

"What? You didn't know?" he asked me. I wanted to throw an actual bomb at his head and watch it explode. 

“I knew," I replied. I didn't want to ruin the night and say what was actually on my mind.

Besides the terrible feeling my body was experiencing, there was good news to his gruesome tale. He slept with Jessica before I met her, so I experienced little negative feelings towards her, and mainly negative feelings towards him. 
 
Aside from the heart and body shock bomb, there was the tear bomb, which quickly followed when I confronted Jessica. The tears would not stop flowing. I felt awkward around her, and I couldn’t touch her for a few days. The news put a speed bump on our friendship.  
 
I took my drunken boyfriend home and couldn’t kiss him good night. I was imagining the scenario, and I couldn’t forgive him for what happened. I passed him a bottle of water as I imagined the pickup line he used on Jessica. It especially drove me insane because of the number of times he’s flirted with her in front of me. I would always brush it off because I thought I knew what their relationship entailed. Apparently, I was wrong. 
 
After a few days, the awkwardness departed between Jessica and me. I had to keep in mind that she slept with my boyfriend prior to us meeting.  
 
After the dust settled from that bomb, I learned from Jessica that my boyfriend approached her the night I found out. He told her not to feel bad about the situation because he had done this before with my other best friend, Sophie, during high school. 
 
Jessica decided to hold off a week before she informed me. A week later, I was not in tears, but in rage. I understood Jessica’s reasoning for sleeping with my boyfriend, but Sophie had no reason. She was there from day one of my relationship with this boy. Best friends shouldn’t sleep with your ex, especially if the relationship is constantly up and down.  
 
I confronted Sophie, only to hear denial. When I mentioned it to my boyfriend, he had a sheepish smile on his face which made me want to knock his teeth out and force feed them to him. He knew I was angry and justified that we weren’t together when it happened, which made it acceptable. Afterwards, he tried to make me admit that I would have slept with his best friend if I had the chance.  
 
In a matter of a week, I found out that my boyfriend slept with both of my best friends. It ruined me. My boyfriend’s actions have ceased to shock me. For now, I’m trying to get past the fact that he slept with two people that I love. I’m scared for how many more bombs will be set off before I’m caught up to speed with his sexcapades.  
 
Do you know the term back-stabbing? It hurts more than 10 million bombs ever will.

Right when you think things finally start going right with a guy, they tend to get a million times worse.  
by Lauren S
 
Friday nights are a great time for partying, especially when you have a reason to celebrate. I finally decided to let go of my long-time man. We were at a point in our relationship which I like to call, “The Booty Stage.” After our three year relationship ended, we continued to see each other for a year. There was no title, no honesty and no kindness. I would like to say there was no love, but unlike him, I still experienced the emotion.  
 
This Friday night, I was heading out with my craziest girlfriend, Sarah. She was bringing one of her male friends as a candidate to take my mind off the man I currently adored.  

 
We reached St. George subway station, where the potential “new” man lived. I had an open mind towards the idea of being set-up. After the last year of dirt, I figured it would be nice for a new, dedicated man to step into the picture.  
 
I met the “new” man; dark hair, great smile, and a lovable personality. We started walking to the pub. A few steps into the walk, the “new” man asked if he could carry me the rest of the way. I was hesitant, especially because we had been drinking. Maybe that’s why I pushed all logic aside and said, “Sure!”  
 
An uneven sidewalk later, I was on the ground, crushed by his body. He dropped me. The asshole DROPPED me. Not only was I covered in dirt, but I hit my head on the sidewalk. I asked to see a doctor. 
 
“Nothing is wrong, just walk it off,” Sarah kept telling me. We reached the bar and I suddenly forgot about the pain in my head, and realized that I couldn’t move my shoulder. I decided it was time to head for a hospital. I didn’t want to ruin everyone else’s evening, so I picked up my cell phone and called the only person I could think of. 
 
“Hello?” the voice on the other end said. 
 
“Hi, I think my collarbone is broken. Can you take me to the hospital?” I asked crying. 
 
“Yeah,” he said dully, “meet me at St. Patrick station.” I knew he didn’t want to do this. Our situation was more complicated than our usual separations. This time, had a new girlfriend.  
 
I said goodbye to Sarah and the-definitely-NOT “new” man, and caught the subway. I knew that I was still in love with my ex, and his new situation tore me to shreds. I reached my destination. He was there, waiting for me.  
I had been drinking, so I was an idiot. I couldn’t fill out my hospital forms; he had to do it for me. I couldn’t dress myself in the hospital gown; he had to do it for me. I couldn’t walk straight; he had to help me. Worst of all, I couldn’t kiss him, and he wouldn’t do it for me. For once, he had a girlfriend, and it wasn’t me. Usually he would still see me if another girl was in the picture. Unfortunately now, he was trying to make it work with someone else. 
 
After the x-rays were finished, he walked me home. At Yonge Street, I broke down. I told him that I wanted to be his girlfriend again. Without sympathy, he told me he was going home, and that I could walk the rest of the way by myself. As he started to walk away, I realized that if I didn’t tell him how I felt, things may never change.  
 
“I love you!” I screamed.  
 
This was a typical movie scene. Girl loves boy. Boy is taken and wants to end things with girl. Girl doesn’t realize until the pivotal moment; which is now. 
 
He turned around and shrugged. That was it. I poured my heart out on a public street, and he walked away. Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse, it started to rain. I was the injured, crying, pitiful girl in the rain.  
 
A few weeks later, he kissed me at a party. I’m not entirely sure why I let him kiss me, but I know I was relieved when the girl crying in the rain was back as the girl in his bed. When you love someone so much, you don’t care how you’re in the picture, as long as you’re in it.