There were no rules that first night we met, just what felt right. And it was oh so right. That is, before Mr. I-haven’t-brushed-my-teeth-in-three-weeks opened his mouth. Now ladies, we can usually excuse a guy for his lacking brain faculties and downright disregard for personal hygiene, but there was really only so much that I could take.

At first, I didn’t even notice the smell. When I first saw Jesse Marshall all I could see was “Man, what an awesome car!” “Wow, you work out a lot, don’t you?” and “You make how much?” You know what, this is probably my punishment for being so superficial. That cutesy-wootsy honeymoon phase lasted all of three weeks before I smelled it and that first stench hit me as hard as the 5 am rush on Black Friday. It was that bad.

Jesse had come over to my place. We were cuddling and watching a movie. It was the quintessential romantic moment. If my landlord had let me install that fireplace like I wanted, it would’ve been perfect. He had his arms around me and I thought I would swoon from the cuteness. Just as the credits roll, he turns to me and says “Hey Hun. How about some hamburgers and french fries for dinner?” The smell hits my nose and I almost choke. There was no denying it. That smell was definitely coming from his mouth. I put on my best everything-is-alright-in-the-world smile and say “Sounds Good.”

For the next couple of weeks, I tried to ignore the smell. I would try to hold my breath for as long as possible when he was talking to me face to face. I would always “accidently” leave my toothpaste and mouthwash at his house. I would even hide breath mints in my mouth for when we kissed. But, no matter how sneaky or inconspicuous I thought I was being, Jesse quickly caught on to what I was doing. I will give him that; the guy is as smart as he is unbelievably gorgeous.

I had “accidently” left another breath mint in his room when he takes the mints from my hand and dumps all of them down the toilet. How could I have the gall to think that he had bad breath? He asks me. I should be more than happy to have him as a boyfriend (despite his apparently non-existent dental hygiene problem.)

Now, I’m listening to all of this and am trying to be the perfect, attentive girlfriend that I am, but all I can see is this big ball of Jesse breath stench forming over our heads. With every word that explodes out of his mouth, the ball quadruples in size. I suddenly realize that I have been holding my breath since he began in fear that I may inhale the malodorous vapor that he calls his breath.

I snapped. “YOUR BREATH FRICKIN’ STINKS!” And I threw some Listerine tablets in his mouth as I ran for freedom and fresh air.

I had a boyfriend a while back, let’s just call him Jarvis, who was very cheap. Being college students, I totally understand wanting to save money, but he took it to the next level. Whenever we went out to eat he would always ask for separate checks, we would never just split the check down the middle and he would NEVER cover the whole tab.

Now I don’t think he should have to pay for everything, but I felt like splitting the check was a bit odd and redundant for a couple. So after dining out, I brought my up my feelings on the car ride home. I mentioned how I didn’t mind paying for a meal if he did the same. Jarvis was silent for a while, mulling over what I said and he agreed.  From how the conversation went, I thought we agreed to trade off on paying for the bill, whether it was a meal, a movie, or anything that involved the two of us.

I paid for everything on the next few dates, which was fine. One night we went out to a bar with some friends and I was running low on cash. I asked Jarvis to go to the bar and ordered me a drink, he said he would. He stood still, tapping his foot, as if he was waiting for something, “Well are you going to give me money?” Jarvis asked, I gave him a perplexed look, wondering why he had such a snooty tone. Then I asked him if he could pay for it since I didn’t have much money and in response he commented “That wasn’t what we agreed on.” Apparently, he “agreed” that I would just pay for everything, not that we would take turns. One of my guy friends, Adam, who was with us offered to get me a drink and denied Jarvis one when he asked Adam to get one for him. Let’s just say I dumped Jarvis’s cheapskate bum and shortly after began dating Adam, who was and is a perfect gentleman.

About 12 years ago I was with two of my friends at our favorite bar. One particular night we were sitting there having a few drinks and this guy walks in. He sits down and we start laughing. He was cute…in an odd way. We all laughed at his hat. It made him look like Edd from Ed, Edd, & Eddy.  So me being the outgoing one, was voted to go ask him to come sit with us. Little did I know this would change my view of men forever.

Doug came and sat with us. At first he seemed really funny but almost like a “burn out”, which made him even more humorous. He was SO not my type. He was in a horrible motorcycle accident and he had been in a coma for four months. That changed our views of him completely. Then we felt bad. The next couple of times we were there, Doug came back. He said he was looking for us. Long story short (yeah right)…Doug comes to visit me AND WOULD NOT LEAVE.

Two months later I am so sick of him and want him to go back where he came from. I had tried to help him find an apartment and he wanted one right by me. I told him that was not a good idea but he insisted. We are there and the landlady showed us around. All he did was look out the windows. I asked him what he was doing and he said “I need a good view of your apartment so I know if you are f*cking any guys.” I just had a blank look on my face. I was mortified. She just looked at us and said “ALRIGHTY THEN. ARE WE FINISHED?” I just nodded my head and closed my eyes as if to say “I am SO sorry.”

For me it wasn’t about love, at this point I just felt sorry for him…BUT HE HAD TO GO! He had a habit of beginning everything with “Baby…” or “Ummm (pause) sure.” My friends and I always thought it was hilarious. He would always ask me “Baby? Can I f*ck your friend? You know…the one that looks like The Weakest Link chick.” One of my besties has short red hair.

There was a party at my house one weekend and he was sitting there in front of all my friends and just leaned over and spit. I said “Did you REALLY just spit on my nice carpet?” He said “Ummm…sure.” I asked “Why would you do that?” He replied “It’s the ground isn’t it? Damn. Chill.” I finally told him I was dumping him off where he came from (an hour away). He REFUSED to wait until morning. He wanted me to take him back RIGHT THEN on a school night. So he decides to call my local police (small town) for a ride. I told him he wasn’t calling the police as if they were a taxi service and humiliating me. I put my hand on the phone to stop him. He punched me in the head (not hard…just enough to startle me) to get the phone. He called them and WHILE HE IS ON THE PHONE he says “If you don’t shut up I’ll punch you in the head again.” (I was crying at that point). So…you guessed it, police come and arrest him!

In court (again, small town where everyone knows each other) he’s in front of the judge. He asked if he could say something to me. I knew whatever came out of his mouth was going to be mortifying. I shook my head “no” to the judge as if to say “BAD idea.” But he allowed it. My friend sat there with her face in her hands (The Weakest Link Chick). She knew something bad was about to happen too. So in front of a crowded court room he said “Baby? I LOVEEEEE you, but when you p*ss me off it makes me want to punch you in the head.” The place went into hysterics and the judge put his head right down on the bench. The judge gave him a fine and ordered him to attend “anger management.” Even his counselor at his “Brain Injury” support meetings told me I was brave to deal with him. I ended up dumping him off with nothing but his clothes, vacuum sweeper, & Mark McGuire poster (don’t ask) at a bus station, and sent him home.

What a sight! I don’t know where Doug is today, but I’m sure he’s still a trip. Although he was a total loon…we all agreed that we still felt sorry for him. That’s just a few of my Doug stories. There are many more.  Never again have I met someone like him…and I’m A-OK with that!

“Hey, did you see the Post today?” my best friend’s panicked voice was on the other end of my cell phone.

Odd. She knew I rarely read New York City’s answer to the tabloids. The NY Post contains legendary “Page 6” a gossip column about all the Somebodys (celebs and heavy hitters).

As if reading my thoughts, she raced on, “Never mind Page 6. Check out page 9. Gotta go,” Click! The line went dead.

Off I scurried to buy a copy. There was a newspaper vendor close to my teensy rented apartment, smaller than many suburban bathrooms. Paper in hand, I flipped it open. Even in preoccupied, uptown (chic) Manhattan, my scream made a few jaded New Yorkers turn around to see what had caused such a ruckus.

While the financial mecca of New York is home to hundreds of thousands of investment bankers, how many Babbitt Alistair Doneghan IVs could there be? Perhaps Heaven knew that I needed more proof. His bank was mentioned as well. My boyfriend was being sued by his fiancé. His what? The article concluded with a picture of an attractive-in-a-trashy-way woman claiming physical abuse and breach of contract to marry her.

No! That couldn’t be. While very far from perfect, Babbitt was not a wife beater. His lapses in attention, the lack of a key to his place, the frequent business trips all took on a different meaning. Was he really a Wall Street workaholic or had I been played? I glanced at my ring finger, devoid of jewelry.

I did what any intelligent woman would do. I stood by my man. He thanked me profusely, insisting this horrific experience taught him I was that rare bird, a true friend. After his name was cleared, the bank gave him back his old job, complete with retroactive pay. He asked me to marry him. I declined.

Instead I sold my script, “Is Willie a Wife Beater?” a fictionalized version of the events. With the proceeds, I purchased a beach bungalow. Now I’m in the other Manhattan. No, not Kansas; I live in Manhattan Beach in sunny, Southern California with Guss U. Davis, a world-class surfer and the most trustworthy gentleman I’ve ever known.

My best friend insists that the moral of my un-Page 6 worthy story is that if you manage through B.A.D., you’ll end up with G.U.D.

I walked into the 1^st Santa Barbara International Film Festival Gala and quickly scanned the room.  Between my 4 inch stilettos and my enormous hair I must have been more than 7 feet tall! As such there was nothing obstructing my view of “HIM” on the opposite side of the room.  He was tall too and VERY attractive albeit in a rather sinister way (hindsight=20/20) and the immediate magnetism reminded me of that camera trick used so often in romantic comedies and horror movies (coincidence? I think not!), where the heroine is suddenly sucked through space and finds herself standing toe to toe with her greatest fears and most overpowering desires.  He was a writer/actor/photographer, so how could an actress/writer/model possibly resist?

That first “date” lasted three days and, yes, the sex was insane!  He had plied damn near every cinematic love-scene cliché in existence but I was simply too intoxicated by his presence to realize it.  He insisted I call in sick on Monday morning (the “day” job…) but by Monday afternoon I really needed a breather from all that intensity.  He only allowed me to leave once I had promised to call him the moment I got home.  It hadn’t even dawned on me that I didn’t have his number.  We had finally gotten around to exchanging names though, he the son of a well known novelist no less.

I had just walked in my door when the bell rang, a floral delivery (tiger lilies, had I actually told him?  Ah yes, between the chocolate covered strawberries with champagne and the sensual massage…) and a card “CALL ME!” with his number.  I didn’t know whether to be flattered or freaked-out so I just put the flowers in a vase and jumped in the shower.  By the time I was washed and dressed there were five messages on my machine (these were the days before cell phones and e-mail).  It did seem rather pushy but my ego was eating up the attention, he was really crazy about me!

Now of course, being a wee bit older (ahem) but worlds wiser, I can distinguish between “crazy about me” and just plain crazy!  It took me two weeks to realize that something was seriously amiss, a month to convince myself that I really had to end it, somehow, and another six weeks to execute the meticulous plan my best girlfriend helped me devise in order to extricate myself from his stifling embrace (literary term for emotional hammer lock).  During that time I discreetly found another apartment and applied for a new telephone number, splurging on that little extra charge to keep my new number blissfully unlisted.

After that experience my best girl and I found a term for all freaky beaus: beware, The Gorgon!

Ladies, take it from me, Victoria King-Voreadi : “too good” is ALWAYS too good to be true love.  “Less than perfect” on the other hand, with proper training of course, can often be sublime!

When I met Brian a few years ago, he was leaning over a pool table.  He was a Justin Timberlake look-a-like shooting pool – totally my type.   A few weeks later, we were a couple; and the fun was just beginning.  I learned quickly that he didn’t have a cell phone, and didn’t drive.  Both were a bit strange living in LA, but I let it go.  It’s easy to let quirks go when the guy in question is easy to look at.  Besides, relying on a home phone seemed charmingly “vintage”, and he explained the lack of a car by saying that he had been badly injured in a car accident as a child, and without any peripheral vision in his left eye anymore, he couldn’t get a license.  At our first date, he also admitted that he was a vegan.  I was only 23 at the time; and ‘no meat’ would typically be a ‘no way’ in my dating life.  But when he explained that one day as a child, his body rejected all food except for a vegan diet, I felt for him.  I melted when he looked at me with his big brown eyes and whined, “I miss cheeseburgers SO much!”  I figured it wasn’t his fault, so why hold it against him?

As we continued dating, however, I started to realize something else was up.  With his stunning good looks and smarts, there was no reason that finding dates should have been a problem for him.  But the way he poured over me and continued to tell me that he couldn’t believe I was still with him, my sensors went up.  I started to realize that there must be something else tucked away; a boy this sweet and cute shouldn’t have such low self-esteem.

Then one evening at dinner, he got quiet and said the dreaded, “there’s something I need to tell you.”  I braced myself… and then he opened his mouth.  “My parents are gnomes,” he said.  I didn’t quite know how to respond, so I asked if HE was a gnome.  My 6’1” new boyfriend explained that he wasn’t, but that his 4’11” stepfather had a long red beard, and went around town with his mother wearing pointy hats and tunics.  His stepdad was a Chiropractor, and everyone in their hometown went to “the gnome man” to get their back adjusted.

I gave the poor guy the benefit of the doubt.  As our relationship developed, I realized that his bizarre family history left him with some deep issues that I couldn’t help him with. The art on his walls seemed to reflect that something was a bit extra twisted in his head, as well.  I eventually broke up with Brian before ever meeting his gnomish parents; but to this day, sometimes I open my front door and half expect to see them posed on my lawn asking me to take back their son.

I met Max in high school advanced chemistry class.  I was a new student. My feet rested on the foot-rest bar under Max’s chair, and his chair was further back than where he usually sat.  He came in, looked at me and said, “Oh, hi!  You’re new!”

“And your fly’s open!” I exclaimed.

“Oh, I beg your pardon!  So it is!”  He turned his back to me, zipped up and wasn’t looking where his chair was, sat down-     falling on his rump upon the floor!

“I’m so sorry!  I had my feet under your chair!”  I laughed!

“I’d better look at my chair from now on!”

I fell madly in love!  He showed me where my next class was.  Whenever we met in the hall, he had a quick smile and greeting for me.  He was student body vice president and he read all of the announcements over the loud speaker first thing in the morning.  To me, he was a rock star!

Then, he asked me to attend a non-denominational youth club.  I accepted and started going to meetings with him.  I also joined the before-school weekly Bible Study with him.

We dated.  It took him four months before he kissed me.  He didn’t ask me to homecoming, so I asked him.  My brunette hair was done professionally, high atop my head, being it 1969.  Little yellow silk bows were pinned inside each curl in my hairdo.  We dated with two other couples.  Max kept teasing me about my hair and dress.  He poked me in the ribs elbow and index finger.

“Do you think if I untie one bow your entire hairdo will fall?  Let’s find out!”

He made me nauseous when he made fun of the marabou on my cuffs and around my U-neckline.  I had felt like a million dollars until I was with him that night.  We ate at a seafood restaurant, and the entire evening is a blank from then on.

Max told me not to come up to him and hold hands in school because he was V.P. and needed to be friends with everybody-   boys -  and girls, alike!

He continued taking girls to the youth group, he told me he was trying to bring them to know God.  I was a schmuck!  He wanted to save souls of females-  only!

We dated six months.  I saw him one Friday night, and Monday at school, there Max was with Julia hanging all over him, him holding her hand, and his arm was around her.

“What do you think of Max and Julia going together now?” I was asked.

After graduation, Max contacted me, but I’d met my husband by then, could talk about nothing, except Jason, and went on to marry Jacob.

Every ten years, Max called me to beg me to go to class reunions.  When I was 48, I finally hung up on him!

He never called again.  Sweet revenge, bad boyfriend!

This story is not a funny anecdote about a guy who didn’t know how to use a vacuum. It’s not a tale about the man who decided to piss off my parents, it’s not about cheating, or cleanliness, or sports-addiction, or any of that. It’s also not deep or tragic.
It’s not even about one bad boyfriend. It’s about them all. Not just all the “bad” ones, but all the one’s that didn’t work out. Not even just the boyfriends, it’s the crushes who passed on you, the friends who see you like a sister. It’s about why it hurts so much when things don’t work out the way you are hoping they will. In my experience nine out of ten times it has less to do with the guy and more to do with a shift in how I perceive myself. There are plenty of fish in the sea, and there will always be someone waiting in the wings to make you feel beautiful and special. Then one day, they might not see you that way anymore. Then despite years of positive affirmation in the mirror, despite knowing you are smart and having the test scores to prove it, despite having dozens of friends who love you to prove that you are, in fact, lovable; you will doubt that essential and crucial fact about yourself. This story is not about a relationship, it’s about why we cry over the men who we know are not worthy of us. Most importantly, this story is not a story, it’s a poem:

You looked at me like I was the most beautiful woman in the world.
You spoke to me like I was the most intelligent person you had ever met.
You liked that I was goofy, and geeky, and gawky.
You even found my love of alliteration adorable.
In your eyes I saw reflected back at me the Woman I had always hoped I’d
become.

And she wasn’t good enough.

One of the first instances of Hanky Panky’s practical jokes on me happened after we had only known each other a few months.  He loved putting me in awkward positions and watching me squirm.  Hank was a frustrated football player and used to play with a bunch of friends and business associates every week.

One of his favorite practice things to do was surprise tackle me.  I never knew where or when he was coming at me.  It could be in the living room, in the bedroom, on my way down the hallway, anywhere.  He would laugh his head off and tell me I should be more aware of my surroundings because some rapist could grab me if he didn’t keep me on guard.  I could be walking out of the bathroom and bang, down I’d go, and ‘gotcha’ he’d say, giggling at my lack of awareness once more.   I knew it was all in fun, but I started thinking up ways to get revenge, in fun.

We also socialized with these people that he played ball with, so I was obligated, in my mind, to behave as he led me while in their company.

It was at one of the Saturday night parties that something really interesting happened. He and I didn’t drink, yet everyone else did.  It was sort of fun to watch some of them get slobbered and drive them home.  People are so gullible when they imbibe.  In any case, he decided one night to make it more interesting and told everyone that I was a psychic and could read palms.  He winked at me and I was silly enough to go along, after all who could it hurt.  They started coming over to me and I looked them over and made up some generalized junk they wanted hear about themselves and what they would have happen in the future.  I was blatantly lying my head off.  Yet, I don’t wonder that some of the celebrity weirdo pseudo psychics do no less.  I was inundated with palms all night and read as many as I could until I was bored and faked a weak spell of depletion.  Hank giggled galore proving these people were suckers and he could sell them anything. I was biding my time with him.

He was a good worker though, every day he’d get up at six am to get to work and give his face a quick wash, use the toilet and jump into his shoes waiting at the door for him, in his hurry to get to the car.  It was a good consistent habit. He ate breakfast out and I could sleep in and he would be gone when I woke up.

It just so happened that we had a friendly girly penny ante poker game on Monday nights, we would exchange stories about our men.  I told them about Hank and they insisted I get even, so I did.  One morning when he jumped into those shoes, the shoe strings were tied together and he hit the wall…oh I guess girls will be girls.