The first thing anyone asks a battered woman is, “why did you put up with that?” Domestic violence is the only crime I can think of—well, besides rape—where the victim is treated as complicit in her own abuse.

This is why I rarely talk about my two-year relationship with a batterer. I wasn’t a housewife with no resources, I was a teenager and he was my first boyfriend. He beat me, raped me and stalked me. After I escaped, it was years before I told anyone what I’d been through because I was so ashamed. I still avoid the topic with those close to me.

What people don’t understand is that abusers don’t generally punch you in the face on the first date. If they did, nobody would ever go out with them twice. But there are some early warning signs—and as much as you might hate to admit it to yourself, the fact is, even a strong, smart, independent woman can find herself on the wrong end of the fist. Here are some behaviors to watch out for…

I’m at my parents’ place this week, visiting my family for Christmas. Shortly after I arrived, my mother presented me with an engagement ring. The ring belonged to my great-grandmother, who got married 80 years ago in the fall of 1928. This past summer, when I last saw my mom, I told her my boyfriend and I were talking marriage, and I asked if she could get the ring out of the safety deposit box so I could try it on at Christmas. Eager to see me married ASAP, she was more than happy to comply.

My new favorite show is called “Gavin & Stacey.” It’s a British show on the BBC about a cute guy named Gavin and a cute girl named Stacey who work and live in Essex and Wales, respectively. They meet when they’re forced to talk to one another on the phone for work. Finally, after six months of pining, they agree to meet in person. After much nervousness and baited breath and pacing and primping, they discover they’re totally and completely in love and live happily ever after, with only a few hiccups because of their neurotic but hilarious families and friends. Gavin and Stacey heart each other.

I first heard the word “labiaplasty” three years ago. Immediately, my interest was piqued. My unruly butterfly wings—otherwise known as my labia—interfered with my sexual activities. Riding a bike for more than 15 minutes? Painful. Camel toe? Obvious. Intercourse? Lube did little to relieve all that smooshing, pulling, stretching, especially when condoms were involved.

And then there were the unsolicited anatomical editorials that I’d received over the years, ranging from the respectfully observant, “You’re very floral,” to the horrifying, “Damn, girl. You got a fat p***y!,” to the complimentary, “Actually, I like it full and lippy ... That’s my thing.”

Emotional cripples. Religious zealots. Man-babies. My recent dating roster could serve as a police lineup of degenerates, liars, and serious letdowns. Naturally, I’m hypersensitive to red flags these days. So when a guy I’m interested in tells me that he’s a “bisexual,” shouldn’t I run? Perhaps. But once I got the initial panic out of the way (OK, I called my friend and frantically yelled, “911! 911!”), I let his confession marinate. Then I decided I’m not going anywhere. Or, if I do, it’ll have nothing to do with his half-gayness. 

I like to think that I’m reasonably independent. I’m a modern woman, following in the charming footsteps of Mary Tyler Moore (I even have a little beret, but I don’t throw it up in the air, because I’m afraid I’d lose it). I like my work tremendously. As a result, I’m inclined to regard myself as fairly different from Melissa Beech, who recently wrote on The Daily Beast about her sugar daddy who “pays for a killer wardrobe,” as well as her apartment, and about $5,000 worth of expenses per month. As readers decried her for being “a prostitute,” “selfish,” and “classless,” I congratulated myself on working for a living and not having to rely on an older man to cover all my expenses.

Usually, a daughter’s interaction with her father is her first male/female relationship. It’s how she learns to see herself as a young woman; it’s how she determines if she’s accepted, valued, and respected. Whether you have a positive relationship with your father or the two of you are barely on speaking terms, he has the power to ruin your relationships with men. If a woman had an emotionally and physically absent father when she was growing up, she may be more likely to have difficulty making productive and lasting relationships with men as an adult. But even if your father was your biggest champion and showed you his love and nurtured you, he can still ruin your future with men—if you let him.

There exists a school of thought that dictates if you think something catastrophic, then it won’t happen. What would happen if my family died in a car accident? What would happen if my house caught on fire? Two summers ago, I asked myself: Wouldn’t it suck if my first love met someone unexpectedly and got over me before I could begin to move on? Thankfully, my family and my house are safe, but my feelings, my love life, and my ego still need mending.

My friend Gloria flirts with everyone—even her cat. Seriously. Almost every time I see her she’s cozying up to someone new, even though she isn’t a perpetual dater and doesn’t sleep around. At my birthday dinner a few weeks ago, she asked my friend Sira if he wanted to lick some buttercream frosting off her chest. He busted out his cell phone and said, “Have you seen my boyfriend?” But it didn’t matter to her that he’s gay; she was flirting for the sake of flirting.

2006 was a year of unprotected sex for me. No, not every time, but I started off the year with a fling with a slightly older man I was besotted with, who didn’t speak a word about condoms, and, in response, I didn’t either. I wanted to trust that he had some magical knowledge that somehow I was missing, that maybe the world had overturned itself and they were no longer necessary. I was wrong, and after a pregnancy panic as I searched for Plan B—this was right before it was so readily available—I escaped unscathed. Then later that year I met a guy I fell absolutely head over heels with, sure that we were destined to be together.

Right now, I’m in the most serious relationship I’ve ever been in; as in, even though I live in New York and he lives in San Francisco, we’ve talked about where and when we could live together—and how soon. He’s met my uncle; I’ve gone to his family’s cabin, and I’m joining them for Thanksgiving. His mom sends me emails, and my grandmother sends me clippings urging him to stop smoking. We talk almost every night and end most calls with “I love you.”

I double-checked my bag: Wallet, bus pass, lip gloss. A bottle of cheap wine. A variety pack of condoms. My favorite vibrator and a pair of handcuffs. 

My husband and I were attending our very first sex party and — by god — I wanted us to be prepared. 

I wasn’t sure what to expect that evening. My libido levels had been low as of late, and intimacy with my husband was suffering. As someone who often relied upon a vibrator, was I really planning on possibly masturbating in public? Were Michael and I actually going to pull out that set of never-before-used handcuffs in a public setting? Was I going to allow myself to actually feel something?

Earlier today, we told you two “Dancing with the Stars” cast members were diagnosed with endometriosis within days of one another. In fact, it’s a health problem that’s a lot more common than you’d think. My story, after the jump ...

I’m not proud to admit I’ve already clocked more hours on my wedding-gown search than I did choosing a college.

From afar, it seemed like a fun task to find a gorgeous vintage dress to get married in. On the other hand, it only has to be the most knock-’em-dead dress of a lifetime, to be photographed more than any other outfit I will ever wear.

The upside of going vintage is that nearly every gown is one of a kind. This is also the downside. When you find a real beaut, there’s always at least one thing wrong: color, condition, price, it’s already sold (second most common problem), or the most common and aggravating issue of all, size.

I’ve been growing my hair out for 10 years, ever since I got a totally tragic close-crop days before graduation from high school. I had kind of low self-esteem and I was majorly obsessed with Gwyneth Paltrow’s new short cut (you know the one—it closely resembled then boyfriend Brad Pitt’s hair too)—I came to the conclusion that if I cut off all my hair just like hers, I, too, would be pretty. Fat chance. The haircut, for starters, was poorly executed. Additionally, my hair was still in that post-puberty stage of frizzy horribleness—and I did not yet understand that flat irons and blow dryers could be my friend. The haircut was a disaster and I have spent the last 10 years growing it out, associating prettiness and femininity with length.

A couple of years ago, when I was a freelance writer, I got Botox. I was working on a story for a women’s magazine in the U.K. about “ageorexia”—women in their 20’s and early 30’s who were getting anti-aging treatments and surgeries as a preventative measure rather than as maintenance. While I interviewed a number of women about the subject, I also thought it was a good opportunity to do a little Gonzo-style journalism and get a cosmetic procedure myself.

Hold onto your mouse pads, I have a revelation for you (drum roll please): online friends are not the same as their “real world” equivalents.

I know, duh. You rarely, if ever, actually see the people you meet online. They don’t go with you to the grocery store or to check out the cute guy at Starbucks and are unlikely to ever ask to borrow your Marc Jacobs handbag (meaning you never have to humiliate them by saying no). If you’re going through a bad time, they might be there with some emailed sympathy and advice but call them in tears at 4 AM and you’re crossing over into stalker territory.

On a last night’s episode of “The Hills,” Spencer was being his usual d-bag self, but I couldn’t believe he was so rude to Heidi’s mother that she later cried on camera. This to me is the most unthinkable sin for a boyfriend or husband to commit. I’ve never understood how a woman can date a man that doesn’t get along with her family, especially if she has a close or at least workable relationship with them.

Recently, my friend became a naturist. I re-read her email twice to make sure she hadn’t said “naturalist”. But no: there it was in 12 point Verdana, as clear as the shock on my face: “I’ve joined a naturism society”.

I couldn’t be more shocked had she joined a satanic cult. Not only is she English to an almost stereotypical degree (reserved to the point of inhibition – or so I thought – and sporting milk-pale skin prone to burning) but she lives for Doris Day musicals and her politics make Sarah Palin look liberal.

And yet her new hobby is meeting up with people she doesn’t know… and taking off all her clothes.

If you had brain cancer, would you date a neurologist?  Would you sleep with a chiropractor to ease your chronic back pain?  Around my twentieth birthday, I was hit with a sudden onset of crippling depression and anxiety.  After two years, several doctors and a veritable rainbow of colored mood-altering capsules, I still felt hopeless.  With no cure in sight, I fell for a psychotherapist.