It’s that magical time of year when, disgusted by the post-holiday bloat effect, we make all kinds of unrealistic promises to ourselves (A.K.A. “resolutions”): We’ll stop eating Skittles every day at 4 p.m., totally start exercising again, nix the Marlboros and get our hair looking really awesome once and for all. And of course, the single and looking folks out there feel a twinge of hopeful new optimism that maybe this year, “I’ll meet The One,”—or at least find a temporary substitute in the form of a f**k buddy or two—and go about procuring the goods. One thing that is way easier to change than say, the cellulite you inherited from Aunt Geena, is the ad you post on Myspaz or Nerve or whatever illustrious forum you choose to advertise your flesh wares in.

Every woman I know can share some anecdote regarding that gorgeous female “friend” her boyfriend annoyingly adores. It’s just inevitable. The minute you settle down with the Brad of your dreams, some Angelina shows up like a bee to your honey. Occasionally, she really is “just a friend,” but when her feelings run deeper, well, a woman just knows, and I think we can all agree it puts you in a somewhat awkward—make that insanely frustrating—position.

Memo to the ladies: Your boyfriend jerking off to Perfect 10 or the occasional American Apparel ad is not cheating. Masturbating to a hot message that he got from a new 17-year-old “friend” he met on Facebook is. See the difference there? We hear a lot of complaints, especially from women, about concerns regarding their partners’ insistent masturbation. “Would you consider this cheating?” some ask. While no question is a stupid question, such queries do give me pause. Catholic guilt aside, when did self-love become tantamount to infidelity?

Whether you agree with the sometimes tawdry, often, er,  “illuminating” material that makes up the content of AskMen.com, you must also know that it is the largest men’s lifestyle destination on the internet. Every once in awhile, they do the Great Male Survey, which, given the vast numbers of participants, projects an arguably legitimate big picture look into what’s going on in today’s male mind. Surprisingly, the last study indicated some startling results for all of the women out there that stereotype men as the kind of cads that might show up in a Jay McInerney novel. To wit, 42 percent of men claimed they wouldn’t bother pursuing a relationship with a woman who wasn’t “wife material,” (jeez, what ever happened to pursuing a woman for cheap sex?), a whopping 70 percent believe strongly in marriage despite overwhelmingly discouraging divorce statistics, and over half of the respondents don’t fear commitment, and wait for it—only 18 admitted that was due to sacrificing the kind of freedom that accompanies singlehood; the rest cited emotional fears. Aww…

After I broke up with my sweet college boyfriend, a decent man who never ran me through the ringer, who responded to my bouts of recklessness and immaturity with compassion and sympathy, a guy who never did me wrong, I desired nothing more than desire itself. After years of slow and steady I yearned for spark and drama. Conveniently, along came Matt.

Matt was British, a very recent London transplant, and I was still inexperienced enough to equate his lilting accent with worldly sophistication. Like me, he worked in the magazine business, so we had that in common, though I’m not sure we ever went so far as to discuss the intricacies of that bizarre industry. In fact, we spoke very little, as we were highly preoccupied with having fabulous, mind-blowingly awesome sex. We did it everywhere—the Natural History Museum, a New York City alleyway, and of course in all the more traditional places such as the kitchen counter and my bed. The sheer quantity and quality of the sex should have been my first indication that something was rotten in the East Village.

I remember the end with a daunting visual and emotional clarity that is sometimes even accompanied by a distinctly palpable nausea. We were lying in bed one overcast afternoon, the bed we’d shared for years, the bed that had actually lived against a different wall when we first met, the bed with the creaky mattress that necessitated a trip to Sleepy’s, whereas there was no store where we could purchase a salve for our dying relationship. Annihilated by that particular form of fatigue that results from an exhausted argument for which there is no solution, we drowsed in and out of sleep. At one point I felt that very bed lift, as if suspended by an unseen platform, and to my left I could see a coursing, churning brook, and to my right, a dried up riverbed. As I caught myself falling to that side I jolted awake, felt him sleeping next to me, and tried to insinuate myself beneath his heavy arm. He too awoke with a start, and then rolled over to turn away from me. All the glassy looks, the distant conversations and the poison tongued exchanges suddenly seemed inconsequential compared to this very concrete action, proof that it was indeed over.

Every time I’ve ever had sex with an ex, the results have been nothing short of disastrous. There was the time I had sympathy sex with the guy I didn’t love him anymore (resulting in him being certain I still was); the um, “incident” where I made a complete fool of myself when I gave an ex a blow job even though he definitely didn’t love me anymore (the lowest of low ex sex); and the horrifying moment when I cheated on my then bad boyfriend with the sweet ex that I had dumped for the boyfriend but felt I had almost definitely made the wrong decision. (Hey, it was very, very confusing!)

A lot of people swear by ex sex. Some claim to keep it casual, but my question is, if you broke up it was for a reason that was probably somewhat emotionally charged, how can you ever truly be flip? The bottom line is, someone is still attached. If not, why exactly are you allowing yourselves to sleep together again? Sadly, the answer is that one party is just interested in sex, while the other has a desperate ulterior motive: to convince the former to realize that they should get back together.

At this point, it’s redundant to dissect the various political sexcapades of late (although, if you can’t get enough, there’s a great new book of um, politician erotica out called Sex for America). But all that talk of cheating has many of us civilians looking over our partners’ shoulders. And I think every woman cringed a little when we saw Silda, tear-stained yet stoic, standing by the man that publicly shamed her. Would you do the same?

I met Duke* in Paris. He was actually British, visiting from London, and I was there from New York, sent by the magazine I worked for to cover the fashion shows. My boyfriend back in New York had just broken up with me for the bajillionth time, and I was devastated (as usual). When I met Duke, a blue-eyed scruffster with a gorgeous accent and a mischievous grin, the chemistry was immediate, and somehow I knew that he might provide just the rebound romp to lift me out of Dumpsville.