by Diana L. Napier
illustration by Gabriel Guma
quote William Shakespeare

My friends, Victor and Debra, recently entrusted their four-year-old daughter Lindsey to me for the weekend while they took a much needed vacation alone. They must have really needed to get away. They both know my idea of a balanced meal is butter with my popcorn, but the trip was a last-minute decision, and they had nowhere else to turn.

Vic and Deb have always been my relationship Sherpas – romance explorers sent ahead to test the terrain and report back. They not only love each other, they adore each other. But when they dropped Lindsey off, Deb’s melancholy look and Vic’s slumped shoulders indicated something else entirely.

Was there trouble brewing in paradise? Was my idea of the perfect marriage going to hash itself out in some bed and breakfast upstate while I played Go Fish on my living room floor?

At bedtime, I googled Cinderella to read to Lindsey. (Sure the story has issues of a woman’s independence and conforming to male views of beauty, and let’s not forget the evil household chores, but she’s only four-years-old, and that’s better than wolves who eat grandmothers any day.)
As I finished the story and the handsome prince slid the glass slipper onto Cinderella’s size four foot, I reached to turn off the bedside light and quietly closed with the most famous line in fairytale lore: “And they lived happily ever after.” I gently rose to leave, and Lindsey immediately sat up and flicked the light back on.

“And then what?” Lindsey asked all anticipatory-like. “What happened next?”

Next? My little cherub-faced inquisitor impatiently expected me to finish a story that I thought I just had.

“Um, they bought a Classic Six on Central Park West, traded in the pumpkin coach for a Lexus, and pursued lucrative careers in the Arts. Now off to sleep you go,” I said and scurried out of the room. But that was my fairytale, not Cinderella’s. What did happen next? Why did the story end just when the prince and Cinderella met?

Can “happily ever after” really happen?

While I didn’t meet my Prince Charming at a royal ball (it was a friend’s second wedding), nor was I outfitted by a fairy godmother (I wore the same dress to her first wedding), our relationship maintains its appeal year-round. The enchantment prevails through our bright, sunny days and the gloomy, rainy nights; through bitter cold and sweltering heat. Just as the changing position of the Earth’s tilt is the cause that distinguishes fall, winter, spring, and summer, perhaps relationships have a tilt and positioning of their own that characterize the relationship’s season.

In the winters of our romance, though we may have visions of frolicking in the snow and ice-skating at Rockefeller Center while sleigh bells jingle and ring-ting tingle, sometimes it’s flu season. I’d rather hibernate with a venti latte and the DVD boxed set of 24 (season four) than emerge and make nice with my significant other. It’s cold out there. But then, like a cozy fire, he emanates warmth and coaxes me out of hiding to snuggle and rub noses like the Inuits.

Sometimes our relationships are in a renewal phase. I don’t know if it’s hormones, pheromones, or little green gnomes, but like in the spring, something’s up (and I don’t mean the pollen count). We’re what my parents call “frisky” and “sweet on” each other. It’s what we know as “horny.” Although I may have been with my mate for years, like love-struck teenagers, we flirt and flex until we’re flummoxed, and the air is charged with the excitement of new beginnings.

When things are hot and sultry, steamy and tropical, it’s the summer of our romance. Think Kathleen Turner in Body Heat. (If you haven’t seen it, rent it. Trust me.) I like to lie back, close my eyes, and soak up the rays of our passion, the faint taste of an iced citrus beverage just lingering on my balmed lips. Relationships boil, and like the blazing summer sun, it’s scorching. So I protect myself – I’m exposed, and this is the time when burns are most likely to happen. I apply a high SPF (sexy panty factor) liberally and wear a big, floppy hat (because it turns me on).

As temperatures cool, so our relationships settle into a quiet, melancholy calm. We tumble and fall out of the grip of summer, and like leaves shedding from the trees, we drift back to Earth and expose the bare branches of our relationship once again. A slight breeze ruffles our hair and numbs our fingers. There are two things my guy and I can do: either hunker down, gather supplies, and prepare for the encroaching chill, or put on jackets, rake the leaves into a huge, colorful pile, and romp in it. (C’mon, when’s the last time you “romped”?) The leaves are like our memories together over the past year; we revel in them. And then I take a few of the perfect ones home to press into a book for safekeeping.

So maybe “happily ever after” means riding it out through all of a relationship’s seasons – you just have to check the temperature and dress accordingly.

Come Sunday, Lindsey and I were no worse for the wear – she may have had an updated take on the ending of Cinderella, but she was alive and well-fed. And judging by the little slap-n-tickle I witnessed on their return, I’d say Prince Vic and Deberella departed in a cool fall, slid into a sizzling summer, and bounced back into a full-bloom spring.

The weather isn’t always predictable; neither is a relationship. Sometimes a little rain must fall, and you get caught without an umbrella. But rest assured, your summer solstice awaits.

Open relationships are a tricky business.  Classic ideals believe women and men mate for life and raise their children to do the same. Modern times tell a different story. Our society is taking its sweet time toward the altar, opting instead to enjoy more of its twenties and even thirties as the “free-man.”

So where does that leave us loser relationship-types who like to share the bed? Forever banished to the sidelines, with occasional trips under the bleachers and then what, more of the same? To hell with that! When 50% of marriages end in divorce and only 31% of marriages last after an affair is discovered, I think it is time to re-evaluate this whole marriage-monogamy situation.

My Open Relationship started with a request from me. Women are soft, smooth, and they have a mind above their waist. All of my same-sex encounters left me wishing for more. However, I had never incorporated my interest in the ladies with anyone I was seriously involved with. It just didn’t seem wise.

Then I met Captain Awesome. Captain Awesome weaved his way into my entire way of life and all other desires were forgotten for awhile.

In the second year things got comfortable. Sex I once thought could never cool down settled into a cozy, predictable routine.My precious alone time in the house was devoted to surfing lesbian porn. For almost three months, I sat unhappy. Captain Awesome and I continued our descent into the rut that ruled our lives and the space grew between us.

When open relationship first entered the conversation it didn’t go very well and “Girlfriend on the Side” got the big No. Feeling rejected and embarrassed, I let that space grow bigger, along with my need for some same sex love. Fantasies turned into full-blown hallucinations and escort ads started flirting with me. I was facing a long dark hallway of monogamy and wanted to run the other way.

The first time I considered cheating, I placed an ad on AdultFriendFinder.com. AFF allows members to post profiles and search for like-minded people in their area. I wanted to find “A Friendly, Laid-Back Companion Looking For Some Discreet Fun.”

Captain Awesome found it the next day.

He was pretty upset and I was left with a mouth full of salad peeking out from my fully floored jaw. After I swallowed my bite and processed the embarrassment of realizing he had seen my profile, seen my photo, seen my “interests,” he wanted to know if I had cheated and if I wanted to see other people.

The answer was and still is a firm NO. Captain Awesome is a rare find among men and my she-claws are dug in deep. That said I’m not against getting a little sluttish with the ladies. So I slid all my chips to the middle of the table in a single sentence.

“I want to share our bed with another woman. I really, really do and if you don’t think you can handle that you should get out of this now because it is going to happen whether you like it or not.”

The moment my lips closed around the “t” in “not” I lost 8,000lbs of worry weight. There, it was out there. I’m vag-crazy. What he wanted to do with that was up to him. Captain Awesome sat for a moment and let my words sink in. I waited for our relationship to end. He said ok. He was in it for the long-haul and didn’t mind if there were a few kinks along the way.

The worst part was over and I had made my confession but the real work was about to begin. Agreeing to something is easy. Watching the idea bloom into action is quite another matter. It is a complete life-altering situation. My mind filled with all sorts of questions. I wished on an eyelash that Captain Awesome and I did not travel the path towards destruction.

To make sure we were armed with a breadth of knowledge on the subject, we did some research on the Internet, posted a profile on AFF, bought a couple of books and took a few field trips. One of our trips included a stop at the Museum of Sex where I found Shecky’s Erotic New York: The Best Sex in the City. Erotic New York includes a section on bars and private parties for single women and couples looking for an erotic night on the town, as well as strip club reviews, DVD shops and lingerie stores. Hopefully, it will get more use than my Not For Tourists Guide.

When I put an AFF profile up for a second time, there were all sorts of concerns from Captain Awesome. As an employee for the state, he can’t be too conspicuous with his sextra-curricular activities. I assured him we would be as discreet as possible and I would let him proofread our “What We Like” section. Candle wax and light bondage got the axe.

He was also concerned with the pace of our new adventures. In his mind I think he had visions of me posting the profile and opening our apartment door five minutes later for Bridget, your friendly neighborhood fuck-buddy. Once again, I let him know we would be as discriminating as possible and he would have final say over anyone I found interesting.

Our first search for profile matches on AFF was mildly embarrassing. Here we were, openly discussing my bi-sexual tendencies and pointing out attractive women together. Our shit-eating grins giggled the whole time and after that awkward beginning Captain Awesome now encourages me to flirt with women, stating that I am going to have to be aggressive to get what I want. Dr. Ruth over here.

It struck me that this was a huge step in our relationship. Stipulating our demands in a House Rules fashion allowed us to air our jealousies and insecurities in a constructive manner. Our honesty with one another took front position out of necessity. We HAD to tell one another what we could deal with and what would send us packing or risk hurting them down the line.  If you are not into butt sex in a latex body suit say so or expect to be wrapped like a condom.

All this honesty struck me with a conclusion about the whole experience to date. Opening one’s relationship is an awakening. The first step may be hearing our deepest and most secret sexual desires out loud but as this continues, the higher awareness of each other leaks into all aspects of life together. Communication as a whole is strengthened.

A few weekends ago, Captain Awesome surprised me with a trip to the strip club. Both titty-bar virgins, we stepped through the door pink from a flushed face and smirking like two high school boys. We paid our cover and walked through a second pair of doors letting them swing shut, cutting out the flourescent glare of reality and cocooning ourselves in the misty purple hue of g-strings and lap dances.

Sitting together we watched Two Girls for One on poles situated behind the bar. I tipped each dancer (‘cause someone has to put them through college) placing singles shyly into the soft crease of their cleavage. We sat there, pointing out our favorites and watching each other appreciate the entertainers. An hour and a half later, we grabbed the train home, our wallets $120 lighter but laughing all the way home about our night together at Checkmates.

It was after this field-trip that I had my second conclusion. Although open relationship is generally used to categorize someone’s sexuality, the meaning could also include mental intimacy. Each new endeavor we pursue in our open relationship allows us to bond with one another in a new way. Our inside jokes formed a new language.

We are still waiting for our first encounter, as the pickins on AFF are pretty slim and we are both very shy. Until that time comes, we stand together, emotionally naked, open to all possibilities and feeling grateful for a partner. Our conversations are energized again and we share much more of our opinions with each other than before. I don’t know if our escapades will ever cross over into the three-person realm but even if it doesn’t, I’m happy knowing that the kink inside of me doesn’t have to hide anymore.

“Has anyone ever told you that your scent is intoxicating?”

That’s a line I use sometimes. It works. On men. On women. They fall for it, without fail, each and every time. Want to know why? Romance. Sensuality. Sexuality. It’s all bullshit. It doesn’t exist. You cannot measure it. You cannot capture it. You cannot test it. There is no theoretical explanation or supporting evidence to suggest that what a guy eats makes him more susceptible to not be an asshole and bring you flowers on your birthday. No formula to make sure he calls you when he says he will.
No mathematical equation to say for certain that the night he fucks you he won’t fuck someone else. It isn’t real.
But that line. The one I use on men, on women. It works. Why?  Because it’s scientific—and I’ll prove it.

Attraction. Chemistry. The connection you feel when you meet someone, talk to them, tease them, dance with them, touch them, kiss them, fuck them—it’s all based on pheromones. Those tiny little particles come individually packaged along with the DNA injected into your body by the genes your parents gave you when they were fucking in the backseat of a Metallica concert without a condom. Each person has their own set of pheromones. A distinct scent unlike anyone else. It makes them special. But that itself is an anomaly—because no one is special. Each and every person may have their own personality, DNA, fingerprints, belly button, taste buds; but then again, so does everyone else. They are not subscribed to a certain race, weight, height, eye color, hair color, or sexual orientation.

Yet even though we are aware of this universal truth, no one wants to admit that they are not unique. That nothing distinguishes them from the man sitting next to them on the bus or the woman they pass on the street. Sigmund Freud was not mistaken. All humans have an ego, and it must be fed. Like a lioness who hasn’t eaten in days, we are savages. Polytheists who worship the same gods: pride, power, and sex. They all feed our ego. And that line, the one I use on men, on women, it succeeds in satisfying each of our gods.

I find someone; man, woman, it makes no difference. Men are easier to control, but women are better in bed. For heterosexual’s sake, let’s say I meet a man. We meet at a bar. He sees me from across the room. Our eyes meet, blah, blah, blah. The classic scenario carefully deployed by every romantic movie. Its cliché, but I’ll use it here because it fits into the scientific method. Now this man is handsome, meeting the symmetrical standards that are the foundation for visual attraction. I catch his eye. Target acquired. He strolls over to introduce himself. I don’t care what his name is, it is irrelevant. I am on a mission. He finds our conversation intriguing. I keep him interested with clever word play, with light touches, with my smile. But what really keeps him inching closer and closer to my strategically placed, scandalously clothed body are my eyes. Windows of fire that seer into his very existence and make him feel like my eyes were made for his gaze alone. My eyes draw him in, a fishing line baited with dynamite; waiting for the perfect catch, the ideal opportunity so I can explode.

He suggests, “Do you want to get out of here?”

“Sure,” I casually respond.

And it must be “sure.” Not “Yes.” Not “Absolutely.” “Sure”. “Sure” is nonchalant. It isn’t too eager, it’s cool. It’s calm. It doesn’t retreat and throw away the upper hand. “Sure” sounds differently than “yes”. “Yes” is a preppy school girl who finally manages to sneak out of the house for the first time. “Okay” works the same way, but “sure” is aesthetically pleasing to the ears. It’s the s. Automatically triggers sex in his mind, not that it wasn’t already. But it lets him know that it’s on mine too.

We go back to his place. Drink a glass of wine on his fine leather sofa. He leans in to kiss me. I let him. Lightly, gently, not too much tongue. Then I lean back, I stare into his eyes, and then I attend to his neck; softly grazing my nose from the bottom of his trachea to the beginning of his earlobe. I investigate his skin. I inhale him.
Once I reach his ear, I whisper, “Has anyone ever told you that your scent is intoxicating?”

Instant explosion.

Pride. Each person wants to be proud of themselves, of who they are. And the only way to get that is through reinforcement. Constant reinforcement. They want to know, believe that the image they project into society is the same one reflected in the mirror. Scent is a projection. And I just told him that I cannot escape his.

Power.  He believes he has a hold over me, that I have fallen for him. He has the control. He is the cat, I am the mouse. And I am trapped.

Sex. Enough said.

My work here is done. I have ensnared my prey. I have hit my target. Mission accomplished. Time to go home. Well, as soon as I get what I came there for: satisfaction.

My brother once called me a hunter. He said that I “go in for the kill.” Word for word he warned his friends about me. He told them to watch out for me. At first I was offended. What a terrible thing to for an older brother to say, to even think, about his baby sister. But that’s the rationale our patriarchal society wants me to have.

So I thought again.

I realized that I have a particular set of skills that make me dangerous, even deadly. I am a Venus fly trap. I am a siren, a temptress with an unprecedented skill for seduction.

It’s a game I play.

And I always win.

This is America where originality, audacity and opportunism are not to be….um, frowned on.

We all have that one person in our lives – you love them to death, but you can’t for the LIFE of you understand what is going on in their tiny little minds. Every time you try to have a real conversation about real realities, and you think they’re taking you seriously, a week later they proudly announce they’ve just done the one thing you told them was a Bad Idea.

For me, that person is Jamie Berndthart.

I’ve known Jamie for longer than I care to remember (because I’m getting old), and for about that long she’s allowed things to come out of her mouth that have often made me wonder about my own sanity in choosing to hang out with her. (It boils down to Jamie being generally a good person, and funny, and that we have a lot of the same interests so she’s up for doing the silly things I want to do. That’s hard to find in a new person once you’re old—there are even studies about it—so hang on to what you have, kids.)

Jamie is probably the opposite of me in just about everything regarding plans for the future, and always has been. I stuck around school for a masters (and I’m thinking of going back for more); Jamie dropped out of college halfway through sophomore year (at the time you could still do that and get a job). I have little interest in dating because I just don’t; Jamie found a boyfriend on her first day of high school and never dated anyone else. I would jump into a burning building to save a child, but I would also jump off a cliff before I had any of my own; Jamie could hardly wait to be married and get herself knocked up.

Even though she was between jobs at the time and trying to make a career of part-time retail and part-time acting.

I told you I can’t for the life of me understand what is going on in her tiny little mind.

Jamie married her high school boyfriend about five years ago in spite of having very little money to do so (but still found and spent $800 on her wedding dress). They then bought a house with even less money, because somehow that made more financial sense than living in their old apartment with a superintendant to take care of repairs and fixes built into the rent. No, they couldn’t put up with an apartment any longer—what they really needed was a one-story house in New Jersey with superbly ugly laminate flooring, a series of kitchen appliances that hadn’t been changed since the 70s, a brand new mortgage and the ‘extra space’ (which was either the second bedroom of approximately 20 feet squared or the 5 feet of ‘yard’ in the front, I’m still not clear on that).

While they were buying their house, Jamie left her steady, full-time job because she didn’t like it, in the middle of the worst part of the economic recession. Her husband was still in school. She took up acting, bringing in checks of up to $40 a week when she could actually get a gig as an extra. She did this for a year before finally capitulated to the need for a real job and took her part-time job at retail making minimum wage and hating everyone.

And then, two years later, she got herself pregnant.

​I am allergic to children, especially when people have no money to use to raise them, and I thought her timing was ridiculous. But she was so damn happy that I couldn’t bring myself to beat her head against a wall and applied myself to the studious knitting of baby blankets. It beat worrying myself over her crap financial situation by a lot.

​Apparently I needn’t have worried at all.

Jamie, bless her little pea-sized brain, had actually gone through the books and looked at the checks she and her husband were writing every month to stay with a roof over their heads and realized that their income versus outcome was just barely enough. A screaming, wailing sack of baby that couldn’t support itself would probably send them into the red, and Jamie realized that, but she wasn’t willing to go looking for a real job while pregnant.

Now, honestly, I can’t blame her for that one because the job market is horrible to women who aren’t pregnant, let alone those who are—but it seemed silly that she wasn’t even going to send out resumes, and I told her as such over an instant message chat.

​“Nah, don’t worry, it’s fine. I’m just selling positive pregnancy tests,” she wrote back.

​I put my coffee cup down and stared at my laptop screen for a bit. Surely I was reading it wrong. I blinked, then closed my eyes, then opened them again and read once more: “I’m just selling positive pregnancy tests.”

​“You are not!”

​“I am. Put the ad up two nights ago and got three responses by this morning.”

​“For your pee on a stick?”

​“Yeah, I guess. If that’s how you want to look at it.”

​“Wait, what, show me!”

​Jamie sent a link and I, with some trepidation, clicked. And there it was: A Craigslist ad for the tri-state area, for anybody seeking a second-hand, positive pregnancy test. (Blessedly without any supporting-evidence pictures.)

​I’m pregnant and selling my positive pregnancy tests! I don’t care what you’re planning on using them for – you don’t tell me and I won’t ask. Reply with your name and address and I’ll send you my paypal information. Once the money’s there, I’ll ship out the test.

​My instant message pinged at me with, “Anne?”

​“Reading,” I typed back distractedly. I read the ad again and let it sink in. Then, “Who the hell is even seeing this? Who would buy one and why?”

“…I don’t know?” she replied. “I mean, it’s Craigslist—I just put it up and priced at $25 plus shipping. Then I got three answers. I know their names ‘cause of shipping but I don’t care what they’re going to do with them. I’m just waiting for the money to show up in my paypal before I send them. But I got ‘em ready this morning.”

​The image of my friend peeing on sticks and packing them up with the intent to put them in the mail was not one I ever wanted to think about in my life. (You’re welcome.) But there it was, and apparently it was netting her a semi-decent $75 on the first day. Now, provided she had to pee on three sticks a day, every day, for nine months, she might have some breathing room in her budget after the important bills were paid.

​“Oh my god you have to show me the emails. Pictures or it didn’t happen!” I demanded.

​“LOL ok.”

​My phone chimed with email notifications a few minutes later; still on my laptop I rushed to my inbox to check. Three forwarded emails from three different email addresses, all looking for a positive pregnancy test and willing to pay $25 plus shipping to get one. (I guess knowing someone who’s pregnant isn’t all that common even though I see pregnant women in the street all the time.)

​You may not understand what’s going on in your friend’s tiny brain—but sometimes you may not have to. Just know that it’s still (mostly) working.

He called at 3:30 a.m. I was getting some online shopping done, purchasing only the important things. I knew he’d just gotten back from a wedding, so I told him he was drunk. He wasn’t, but it was still fun to insist. We bantered a little about nothing. Then, he invited me over. At 3:56, I told him to give me an hour. At 5, he was buzzing me in. We said our ‘hellos’ quite quickly and got right to it. The kissing, licking, sucking, (not choking this time) just standard fun. The sex was okay, but the post-sex warm-down was interrupted by his most recent ex-girlfriend frequenting his text message inbox, and voice mailbox soon after. It was an admirable capability of hers: the ability to drive him temporarily mad when his temperament was relaxed only five minutes prior. He seemed embarrassed when she threatened to come over, but the hilarity that inevitably ensued was all too much fun.

Upon her much-awaited arrival, she wildly buzzed the bell to his apartment and, while crying hysterically, proceeded to throw rocks at his window. (God bless the girl for multitasking in the midst of heartache and mental breakdown.) This was all terribly romantic, so I found it appropriate to whisper Shakespearean prose into Scott’s tiny ears: the typical “Romeo, Romeo” nonsense, for those who are wondering. “She’s fucking crazy!” was all he kept saying, to which I replied, “Be a fucking human being.” He hated my sarcasm. He refuted my insistence that he have a heart and defensively made his argument. And he was right, little Marcia Brady did this to herself. She trekked through the treacherous tundra (the light flurry) all the way to his place in an attempt to undo their recent romantic liberation. She cried her borrowed sorrows away in front of his apartment building, and for God’s sake she searched New York City’s cement sidewalks for free standing rocks to throw at his halfway open window. She screamed his name into the depth of the early morning, and after being “fuck you” buttoned a few times, probably delved her pretty mind into some self-thinky gibberish, all because she’s terribly in love.

But in retrospect, are incidents like this ever really worth it? Ten years from now, when she’s his age mind you, will she look back on the early morning of Aug 7th, 2016, and feel that her hysterics were justified in their heartbreaking entirety? Probably not. Silly stunts like that are what consistently drive us to call each and every ex-girlfriend “crazy,” whether you’re a guy or ‘the new girl.’ Hell, if I were in her position I would’ve made the commitment to being ‘crazy.’ There were just too many options: ringing another bell, throwing something bigger at his window, or climbing the fire escape (he only lives on the second floor). But in reference to my circumstance, keep in mind that I was on the other side of the window, the side that faces the inside of his apartment as opposed to the side exposed to the cold air that wafts along 33rd street. Quite honestly, pardoning my jaded interpretation of her hysterics, I wonder if anything she did can really be considered wrong.

A part of me tells myself I should have asked him, “What the hell is she doing here?” If I were that petty and insensitive, then yes, questions like, “Do you still have feelings for her?” would have been legitimate. But I was the new girl, the younger girl, the “hot-crazy, not crazy-crazy” girl, and the girl that was very far from feeling the way she felt about him, so quite honestly, what the hell was I doing there? I wasn’t the one crying my heart out, verbalizing my passions, and disregarding all sensible inhibitions (assuming that they existed in the first place). I don’t know how long he expected me to sit there and half-heartedly mock his disarray while she exasperatingly and whole-heartedly made clear that she was intensely in love. I was armed with the self-interest and coquettish glances; her presence was jam-packed with selflessness and hungry screams. I evaluated the situation with all humility I could possibly muster and realized that, clearly, she wins.

He “didn’t want me to leave,” but I insisted. After he disconnected the buzzer and shamelessly screamed at her over the phone (surprisingly not directly out the window), it was the only appropriate thing to do. So I packed up my laptop, threw on my waistcoat, slipped on my Ash Bowie’s and left Murray Hill. But not before letting her into the apartment building as I let myself out. It was 7 a.m., and that meant it was time to bask in complacency, laugh a little at the situation I just walked away from, and sip the chilled macchiato teasing what’s been described as my colder-than-ice-cold heart.

Listen, I know, winter is hard. Especially if you’re single. Not only do you look fat in all those layers, you may even have to pull on those (dare I suggest it?) incredibly unflattering UGG boots to keep your toes warm on treks through the cold and damp city streets. Yikes. And although you don’t want to bitch (puh-lease) about being alone for those bitterest of nights when no one will venture out of their bedrooms, the alternative of shacking up with Mr. So-Incredibly-Far-From-Perfect sounds like the most miserable self-betraying idea you’ve ever had.

Save it. Taking a winter boyfriend isn’t turning your back on true love (didn’t we already do that years ago when we moved to this city?). It is merely a temporary relief from feeling cold and lonely all winter. And besides, without a winter boyfriend, no matter how imperfect, think about all those feelings you’d be eating instead of burning! It’s a win-win for everybody. It is also a completely acceptable and widely practiced affair. We may not talk about it as openly as we ought to, but believe me when I say everybody knows somebody who did it this winter (or somebody who seriously should have). And do not despair when considering the opinions friends and acquaintances will voice about your decision to take said Winter Boyfriend: he is by no means a reflection of your perfectly sophisticated character. (Hint: no one is gonna bust your balls if he isn’t the loaded, intelligent, devilishly handsome, bad-boy we all know you are saving yourself for.) We get it: twenty degrees and freezing your romantic ass off means an inherent lowering of standards.

But beware. These same winter standards do not (repeat, do not) trickle over to spring. And seeing as the wonderful season of mini-dresses, sling-back heels, outside brunches, and social gatherings on rooftops is soon to be upon is (thank f’ing god), it is time to kick not only some serious clothing, but also the make-do man. Yes, he was sweet—if incredible nauseating—spoon-feeding you steaming hot chocolate hot chocolate while watching Woody Allen movies. (Clamp hand over mouth so as not to release ear-piercing scream of disgust and congratulate self heartily for not actually sleeping outside on sidewalk to escape.) But honestly. Be nice. He didn’t know that he wasn’t what you wanted, and you certainly were in no position to tell him before now, so before you go and serve him up the serious ego-crush he doesn’t in fact deserve, here’s a “How To” to make him think he’s leaving you. Brilliant…I know:

1. Name his penis something girly. Like Princess, Froo-Froo, or BooBookins.

2. Obsess about the future over and over and over again. Tell him you’d absolutely DIE if he took you to London or Paris for Easter.

3. Never shave your legs. When he points it out, use his brand new razor and leave it full of hair.

4. Cry after sex. Every. Time.

5. Tell him it’s time you were honest with him. Then become the first woman—ever—to actually tell her boyfriend exactly how many dudes she’s slept with.

6. Call repeatedly. If he is the one repeatedly calling, the rule is switched: never answer your phone. Then never call him back.

7. Refuse to tie him up and play Mob King and Moll because you don’t want to “trivialize your love.” This also means no other fun with Cowboys and Indians, Slaveboy and Empress, burlesque dancer, and pre-WWII Berlin guru, etc. No fun.

8. Take yourself really, really, reallyyyyyy seriously. No laughing. I mean it. None at all. Really.

9. After a part, refer to every woman he chatted with as a “slut.” If it was an uppity party refer to them as “famous sluts” and “common” or “normal sluts” just for kicks.

10. Always forget your wallet. Always.

11. End fights mumbling under your breath, “you’re an idiot just like your father.”

12. Tell him either his stupid dog goes…or you do. Pet doggy out of sight to make sure dog spirit is not broken.

13. Make him listen to The Vagina Monologues when you are driving to visit friends on the Island.
14. Call his mom up “just to chat.”

15. Invite his mom to lunch…just to chat.

16. If you went to a better college than him, don’t ever let him forget it. This also applies to career, fashion sense, and exes.

17. When he wants to know, “How’s. that. make. you. feel, baby?!,” respond truthfully with, “I’ve had better.”

18. Constantly ask, “So, where do we stand?”

19. Never laugh at his jokes.

20. Burst into tears during commercials with babies in them. Then look longingly at him.

21. Constantly think up things to fight about. “Are you actually going to wear those shoes in public?”

22. When you run out of things to fight about, criticize his mother.

23. Invite your hottest girlfriend to lunch with the two of you. Kick him under the table around twenty-three times.

24. Tell him you can’t have sex because you’re “bleeding fucking ovarian wall.”

25. Text him ninety-two times in one day. You can do it; thumb exercise!

26. Organize the closet when he’s at work.

A few of these should send Winter Boyfriend running (quickly) into the arms of a new spring fling; use them all and he just might run from women for the rest of his life (and you wouldn’t want tot disappoint some lucky, lucky girl who is holding her breath for that perfect man to wipe hot chocolate foam from her lips and watch Annie Hall with her). But now with your Winter Boyfriend kicked to the curb (finally!) it’s time for you to welcome spring with a little freshness of your own. So make eyes at the cute guy across the bar, pair those spiked heels with the shortest dress you can get away with, and remember to throw two sheets two the wind, baby. Spring has sprung