On my very first date with my boyfriend, I didn’t know if he was going to kiss me. I didn’t know yet that he loves Concord grapes, plays the saxophone and has never seen a Woody Allen movie. But I did know for certain that I wanted this person with whom I’d just eaten dinner to be in my life, somehow. I remember sitting across from him at a table in a Portuguese restaurant, smiling, and thinking, “Whatever happens after this date, I really hope we become friends. You’re cool.”

Flash forward six intense, crazy-in-love months and this man is not only boyfriend—he is my closest friend now, too, the one who knows everything about what goes on with my family, what goes on at work, what weird dreams woke me up in the middle of the night.

And I’m not entirely sure that’s a good thing.

I’d never been one of those girls who’d dreamt about her perfect wedding. The virgin-white dress, the exorbitant costs, the fuss over a big, shiny rock—none of it ever appealed to me. I wanted to find a lifelong partner, and a family sounded nice, too, but honestly? I never cared much about that piece of paper. So why did I just marry my boyfriend after pondering it for a mere two hours? One (evidently all-too-common) reason: health insurance.

A few years ago, I got Botox. A little here. A little there. The needle goes in. You want to scream. And a few days later, voilà! That part of your face is paralyzed. Over a couple years, I did it maybe eight times. Then I stopped. I’d had enough of injecting poison into my face. But a couple years after that, I wanted to do it again. I ponied up a few hundred dollars, lay down on the table, and got another round of botulinum toxin injected into my visage. But the unthinkable happened. It didn’t work!

“Tell me what you want to do to me,” I cooed in Brandon’s* ear. It was our first time in bed together and I was hoping he would pass my “dirty talk test.” The test is simple. I ask the man what he wants to do to me and he responds with his own special brand of dirty talk. Easy, right? Not always so simple.

It’s easier to get the little head than the big head in the game. But the problem is, I only want to have sex with a man when both heads are present. I want him to understand that my pleasure takes place first in my mind and then in my body. And if he can’t stimulate my mind, he has a very slim chance of stimulating anything on my body. Sure he can fumble his way around and accidentally push a button, but why bother? I know some people don’t like to talk; they just like to “do.” But for me it’s not enough.

When I heard this weekend that Shayne Lamas, the gal who snagged Matt Grant in season 12 of “The Bachelor,” was the latest reality star to get busted for behind-the-wheel booziness, I groaned but was hardly surprised. Her arrest was as predictable as Stephanie Pratt’s a mere few weeks before. Yet reading both girls’ shocked, defensive responses to their ordeals—But I only had two drinks! I was practically sober!—I found myself cringing with a pang of empathy. See, a few years ago, just shy of my 21st birthday, I got pulled over for a broken taillight after having a not-yet-legal glass of wine at a dinner party. When the officer asked if I’d be drinking, I reacted the exact same way these two did. As a Dean’s List student at a top college who volunteered at the local children’s hospital, I thought I could do no wrong. I rattled off these accomplishments to the cop, sure that he’d let me off the hook. “Basically,” I said, no doubt looking and sounding like the naïve blonde sorority girl I was, “I am not the type of person who drinks and drives.” Except that, according to the Breathalyzer, I was.

“My parents are racist,” my Filipino boyfriend Edward said, sounding defeated.

My heart made a sudden jolt and then quieted down in my chest. I knew there was something off about this man. Our six-month relationship had been bliss—he was funny, whip smart, and, well, perfect. His quips matched mine and what he lacked in social skills he made up for with his love of conspiracy theories and the ability to play eight instruments. He wrote me two songs and told me that when he looked at me, he heard music. I should have guessed that all his wonderful traits were overcompensating to make up for his family.

“But, I’m Catholic,” I blurted out. “And I’m cute and funny.” I could feel tears brimming as I looked away. As a 25-year-old African American woman living in the age of Obama, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I looked at him, my expression clearly conveying dismay and confusion.

In three weeks I am turning 30 years old. This is apparently a big deal, or so says everyone around me, and I am feeling a lot of pressure to celebrate it as such. But for some reason, I can’t really get worked up about it—either in a positive or negative way—and I don’t think that’s such a bad thing.

As many times as I’ve tried to recall the evening, I don’t remember the first time I met Marc*, although he seems to remember it well. He claims we met in a hot tub at a party that my then-boyfriend was throwing. Apparently, he thought I was “hot,” but I only had eyes for my BF Rick*, who was a friend of Marc’s. That was six years ago.

Marc and I saw each other again many times over the years. He was a peripheral part of my circle of friends—one of those people that pop up in your world every once in a while. The first time I actually do remember meeting Marc was at a get-together at a downtown NYC bar. It was a few months after the hot tub night. Rick and I were still madly in love. Marc showed up at the bar alone. I was wearing a short skirt – it was a humid summer night.

On yesterday’s episode of “The Tyra Show,” Tyra spoke with a married couple who were barely having sex because the woman no longer felt attracted to her husband. She said she wasn’t attracted to him since he put on weight and admitted that when they did have sex, all she could think about was getting it over with. The audience seemed to be expecting a big ol’ whale when her husband walked out on stage, but the guy was actually pretty average looking. As a result, the experts on the panel concluded that there must be other issues in their marriage, if the wife was that repulsed physically, and the audience agreed. So do I.

I recently met David through my blog. He was charming, witty and funny. After a bit of friendly Twirting (flirting via Twitter, the equivalent of computer footsie), he said he thought I was pretty funny too and even admitted to being a bit intimidated when I told him how strong my physical disability, Freeman-Sheldon Syndrome, had made my arms. This bone and muscular disorder has resulted in more than 26 surgeries to correct joint contractures, scoliosis and to straighten my leg muscles. You’d be amazed how strong my arms could get just from using a walker for 20+ years. They’re like giant muscles of steel, only smaller and dotted with cute freckles.

Well, this was a first, so feeling a bit bold, I asked him to guest-post from the male perspective on a question that has nagged me since my days in high school when I’d look at other girls and how the guys easily flocked to them. The question: Why are guys so reluctant to date – at the very least, approach – a woman with a disability? 

If you thought your friend was about to make a mistake—say, buy a computer that gets a ton of viruses or stay in a really dodgy hostel in Rome—you’d try to convince them to do something different, right? Well, I feel a little guilty because I have a friend who might be making a mistake by getting married this summer and I tried to talk him out of it.

My plane landed after midnight last night. I could use about six more hours of sleep, and I’m not sure where, exactly, I stashed my hairbrush or my deodorant. Maybe I took a bath two days ago, but I honestly don’t remember. In any case, I haven’t shaved my legs and armpits for a week and my werewolf-ian brows need a good, thorough tweezing. But no matter! I’ve got on my leopard-print leggings and a hot pink t-shirt to, uh, deflect attention from all that. 

I wouldn’t go into the office looking like this. Hell, I wouldn’t leave my apartment looking like this. So why is my boyfriend—the person I regularly depend on for oral sex and foot rubs—sitting just 10 feet away from me? Because I have gotten comfortable in our relationship. Perhaps too comfortable.

Aren’t we single ladies always on the quest to find the perfect man? Just yesterday, I was on that quest. And then I met him. For the sake of this post, let’s call this perfect man John. John is smart, nice, good-looking, Jewish (which matters a lot to my mother), and would spoil me rotten as my boyfriend. He’s not just your average amount of smart; he’s employed at a top web company (one you use on a regular basis) and is destined to be more successful than anyone I know.

He’s not just your average amount of nice; he has mastered chivalry to a T and is so caring that it makes my judgmental soul squirm. And he’s also not just sort of good-looking. Rather, every time one of my friends meets him, their first response is: “Wow, John’s hot.” I can totally tell they’re eying him for themselves. Oh, and did I mention that John’s after me like Tyra on the search for “America’s Next Top Model”?

I should be in heaven, right? But I’m not. Because as perfect as he is, John just doesn’t make me want to rip my clothes off. And I don’t know why.

Because I’ve been single for so long, my married friends often like to give me unsolicited advice. “I know what your problem is!” Elinor had a sudden revelation as her newborn baby suckled at her breast. Now that she is a wife to a man and a mother to a boy, her new favorite thing is to live vicariously through my love life. But what seems titillating to her is just plain old depressing to me.

“What is it?” I replied.

“You need to start dating men.”

Two weeks ago, my gentle and loving boyfriend of three months held me down and forced me to have sex with him against my will, and then told me I had asked for it. And technically, he was right.

Jacob and I had only been dating about a month and a half when I intimated that I had a rape fantasy. Over the years, I’d had my share of experience with role-playing and rough sex. I vividly recall a male friend of mine in college telling me that I had a distinct air of “sexual prey” about me, and me thinking that this was a huge compliment. Being dominated and playing the innocent who secretly wasn’t had been my currency and had guided the sexual dynamic I forged with partners for the last 10 years. But only for the last few months had I allowed myself to entertain what I considered to be the final frontier— a simulated rape.

I committed one of the cardinal sins of dating recently. I somehow found myself in a heated conversation about the B word. As in BABIES. With someone I’ve been seeing for two weeks. I know. Upon realizing the foolishness of this move, I considered putting my suicide windows to use. But hear me out.

Men of the world, in case you missed the memo detailing all of the things you should understand about women, let me give you a refresher on item # 503: Food is just as important, if not more important, to [most of] us as love – oh, and we often use one as a substitute for the other.  It is just as important to me that we are compatible at the dinner table as we are in the bedroom. At the end of the day, I’m just looking for someone to eat with. If you want to date me, there will always be someone else on my mind. If you want to work your way into my heart, accept my other lover – food. Acknowledge me, acknowledge my food allergies. Love me, love my delicate palette. Understand me, understand that I eat olives with every meal. Really want to find out what makes me tick? Share a meal with me.

I’ve had Terrible Girlfriend Syndrome (TGFS) for years. It all started with Matt Noonan in 6th grade. He was the new boy and all the girls wanted him. But I got him. Clearly, we were going to fall in love. We were going to hang out on the playground and go with a bunch of other snot-nosed 6th graders to PG-13 movies and the whole thing was going to be glorious.

Or so I thought. Instead, I showed up at school on the Monday after our epic decision to “go out”— his friend called my friend to ask if I liked Matt, mine wrangled the same info from the friend, etc.—and one of those bitchy 8th grade girls who was similarly smitten with Matt asked me if we were “together.” Images of the two of us skipping around hand-in-hand flashed through my head, and I quickly blurted out, “God no!”

Confused? Me too.

One of the first times I went on a date with a girl, she asked me, “Are you bi or gay?”

“Well, I’m still figuring that out,” I told her.

Her response was: “I knew you were too good to be true.” I then fell all over myself in an effort to explain to her that, although I was unsure about how to define my sexuality, I was definitely into girls, more so than I’m into guys. I am not and have never been bi-curious, bi for attention or bi only when men are around. Since then, I’ve figured out that I’m solely into girls. So I guess I wasn’t too good to be true, huh?

But, alas, in parts of the gay community, being bi or being a lesbian who has hooked up with guys in the past is like having horns or an incurable disease.

The man I was engaged to was my first real adult love. It was mutual, it was committed, and it was mature. But there were other “loves.” Adam, the long-haired hippie in 8th grade, who held my hand once and played the acoustic guitar; Rob, the twenty-something video store employee, whom I stalked for the entire summer before I turned 15; Jesse who gave me emotional support when my parents divorced the summer after freshman year of college; and lastly, Aidan*, a fellow staff member at my college newspaper whom I fell for—HARD—my senior year.