Dear Pretend Readers:

I was recently accosted by a coworker who asked, “Can you be friends with your exes?”

The answer is no.

Just…no.

It’s such a terrible idea. Why would you even–? Ugh, let me explain how awful this plan is, because lots of people fall into this trap of trying to be friends after a break-up. What do you expect though? Lots of people are stupid, and don’t have nearly as much relationship expertise as I do.

OK, so let’s say you break up with someone. Or she breaks up with you. Either way, one of you has stated unequivocally “I don’t think you’re good enough.” And Jesus Christ, don’t hand me a sack of shit about mutual understandings and whatever, because that’s never true. If you THINK you have been involved in a mutual break-up, this is what actually happened:

A) YOU wanted the break-up and shamed your partner into accepting it as mutual to save face.
B) SHE wanted the break-up and you were shamed into accepting it as mutual to save face.

So either way, even if you both are the most heartless and soulless of people, someone’s feelings are going to be, at the best, a tiny bit hurt.

Do me a favor. Imagine you’re walking down the street, and someone you know runs up and punches you in the face. Then she says, “Ohhhh, let’s be friends.” You would have to be out of your fucking mind to agree to that. She JUST punched you in the face.

Right now hopeless romantics are whining “but we have a shared past” or “he was an important part of my life” or “we have children and for their sake we should be civil.”

No. Just no.

Once a break-up occurs, it’s time to burn some bridges! Spread rumors, sleep around, destroy mementos, and generally be a badass. Friendship!? Friendship is just another word for spineless doormat who probably should have known what a freakazoid she was going to turn out to be before things got serious. You’ve already wasted enough of your life on this bag of numbnuts.

Take my advice. RUN. Take off. Skeedaddle. And otherwise drop off the radar.

You may not learn or grow, but at least you won’t feel like a tool every time you awkwardly go see a movie with your ex, trying your damnedest not to imagine her as you remember from when you were a couple, going over every detail of your failed affair with a fine-tooth comb, and killing yourself over every misstep that couldn’t have been avoided anyway.

So that’s the bottom line, Pretend Readers. You’re welcome.

A Pretend Reader queries rather sweetly:

What would you say is the best method of losing one’s virginity?

Madam, you have come to the right place. I’ve lost my virginity in all sorts of ways! I can describe them all to you, give you a chance to form an opinion as to the best one, and then force my own way of thinking on you.

1. Backwards.

If you are a gay girl, lose your virginity to a boy. If you are a gay boy, lose your virginity to a girl. If you are a straight girl, lose your virginity to a girl. And finally, if you are a straight boy, lose your virginity to a boy.

If you are none of the above, anything you do will be just as effective, so you needn’t worry.

By losing your virginity backwards, you’re saving yourself a lot of trouble later on when people sneer at you and say, “Well, have you ever tried it THIS way?” Then you can say, “Yes, I did, and it certainly was uncomfortable and sticky!”

(Because no matter which way you choose, it will always be uncomfortable and sticky.)

2. Retardedly.

A lot of people retardedly choose to lose their virginity to someone they love. This is a stupid idea for many reasons, the primary one being that, since it will be so uncomfortable and sticky, they will probably not love their partner for very long afterward. I mean, can you really respect a person who just ruined your suede pumps? No, you cannot.

3. Blackout drunkenly.

This one’s pretty self explanatory. The benefits include not remembering exactly how uncomfortable you were while losing your virginity. The drawbacks include extra bruising and maybe some vomit. But you’ll probably vomit anyway, to be honest.

4. With a clear mind and conscience, as one of two consenting adults who trust each other with their physical as well as emotional well-being, who are willing to approach the act carefully, armed with knowledge of sexuality and safe sex practices.

This type does not actually exist. Please do not attempt it.

5. With a friend who you don’t really like.

You were going to burn that bridge anyway.

6. Anally, manually, and/or orally.

It doesn’t hurt to cover all the bases, just to make sure you’re well rid of this virginity business.

So what’s the best method, in my opinion? I would advocate a half-assed attempt to make the experience special, perhaps with cliched props like wine or roses or silk sheets. That way, when you’re inevitably disappointed by your first time, the cold irony of these trinkets and the foolhardy faith which you had placed in them will come crashing down around you like a tidal wave. Your partner will undoubtedly be similarly embarrassed and will probably carry the psychological scars of inadequacy around for the rest of his or her life. Any tenderness you harbored for that person will soon evaporate, leaving a purely cynical shell of yourself behind. Sure, you might force yourself to try it again with your partner, but it’ll never be the first time again; you’ll have lost your chance, and your chances at imagined happiness will die alongside it. Soon sex will become a weapon for you, a social tool that is used more as an expression of power and control than any sort of love. As you grow older, the memory of that first encounter with sex will leave you feeling confused and ashamed. You’ll wonder if you should have done it differently, or with a different person, or at a different time, but the horrible truth is, it would have been awful no matter what you did, because nothing will ever compare to your childish expectations.

Oh, and you know what? I almost forgot. Lube is important, too. Don’t lose your virginity without it.

I hope that’s helpful, Pretend Readers! Cheerio.

Dear Pretend Girlfriend:

There will be a point in our relationship, probably long after we talk about our batshit exes, that suddenly the topic of men pops up.

It just seriously POPS up. Like SPROING.

(You know you like my stupid erection puns, Pretend Girlfriend.)

I might casually drop one such pun in mixed company, and maybe you’ve had a bad day or something, because you will snap something like, “And how would YOU know anything about erections?”

Oh geez, Pretend Girlfriend. There’s going to be an awkward pause here, I can just tell.

“What.” There’s a cold way of saying “what” and you have mastered it. I can only shrug in that adorable way I have. At least, I hope you think it’s adorable.

“WHEN?” This calls for some emergency calming-down. I go for my best defensive ammo.

“Listen, I grew up in the middle of nowhere. You try finding a lesbian in Bible Belt City!”

“So you fucked guys?”

“They’re human too, you know! It’s not like I fucked a horse!”

“You fucked GUYS.”

“I didn’t enjoy it very much!”

“That doesn’t make it better!”

“You’re telling me.”

“This isn’t funny!”

“It’s kind of funny.”

“Guys!?”

“I was a kid! Cut me some slack!”

You try to regain your composure. Your hair is in your face, and you smooth it back. “You’re right. Where you grew up, things were different. I’m sure once you got to college, you realized–”

I cough. Guiltily.

Your eyes bulge. “In college!?”

“I drank a LOT.”

“Guys! In college!”

You get like this when you’re furious. The repeating thing, I mean. I try for a different tack. “It’s just sex. I didn’t date them.”

You cover your eyes with your hands. “I’m dating a straight girl,” you moan. “A slutty straight girl.”

“Hey!”

“Sleeping with tons of men means–”

“It wasn’t tons, it was more like an annual thing. Like Christmas.”

“Christmas.” You don’t sound convinced.

“Yeah, but with less gift-giving and more–”

“I don’t wanna know!”

I’m getting a little miffed now. “Are you saying you’ve never, ever done anything with a dude? Not even once?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” you answer, and you’re the picture of self-righteousness, complete with hair-tossing pomp.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. OH.”

I quirk a smile. “They’re really skanky. They’ll do whatever you say. I bet you’d like it, sort of.”

You whack me with a throw pillow. “You are the worst lesbian ever.”

“Ohhhh, don’t hit me, mister!”

“Shut up.”

“Big strong man.” I make kissy noises at you, using my fish face that you hate.

“You’re such a bitch.”

“You should know better than to hit a lady.”

And then we get into a wrestling match that ends up with the fish tank broken on the living room floor, but that’s a whole ‘nother story.

A Pretend Commenter writes:

My boyfriend is really amazing, but one of these tiny itty-bitty pet peeves that he does is wear ugly clothes. His average t-shirts? Geeky, but fine. But his dress-up/church clothes?

Oh my gosh.

All his dress shirts (that he likes to wear) are short-sleeve buttondowns. That’s not terrible, as long as the print is cute. But the print has either red and black dragons or is bright yellow with lighthouses and sailboats. I’ve tried pointing out good examples of guy fashion, but he won’t give it up that these are “cool”. Help?

You were right to come to me for advice. As a lesbian, I am well-versed in the fashions of the day. Sartorially speaking, I’m like a freakin’ Michael Jordan. Every ensemble is a total slam dunk.

Today, for example, I am rocking some circa-2006 olive cargoes with a flannel shirt. The day before that? Some seriously frayed jeans I bought at Gap Outlet back in college and a flannel shirt. The wedding I attended the other day? Flannel backless gown.

I’m the perfect person to call in for advice on how to handle your hobo of a hubby. If he’s not dressing up to snuff, that reflects on you. Like a mirror in a truck stop that’s been flecked with the spittle of a thousand lonely drivers (who, incidentally, are probably wearing flannel as well).

However, I have some bad news, Pretend Reader. It sounds to me like you’re the one with the bad fashion sense. Dragons are BITCHIN’. Why would you not want your man wearing a shirt emblazoned with one in primary colors? That sort of thing says to the world at large “I HAVE SLAYED THIS DRAGON AND THEN SCREENED IT ONTO THIS SYNTHETIC MATERIAL SOMEHOW.” That shows a kind of masculinity you can’t get everywhere.

And lighthouses? Sailboats? A peaceful nautical scene? This is appropriate for showcasing your man’s softer side. And you are lucky to have such a multi-faceted lover in your clutches. Good on you! So just let him wear his obviously fly clothing. He is entitled.

If his shirts really do bother you, perhaps you should consider being a lesbian. We hardly ever wear prints at all, preferring to keep to plaids and, on a particularly spirited day, polka dots. Thanks for asking me for help, Reader! I hope I solved all your problems.

Dear Pretend Girlfriend:

There will come a day, probably about 5 months into our pretend relationship, that I will say something so dull that you will consider leaving me, Pretend Girlfriend.

Possibilities of what this utterly mind-numbing topic might be include:

“Let me tell you why I enjoy the sink faucets that expel water in a clear stream instead of a forcible spray.”

“…and then the intern asked to use the A12 form when she actually meant the A15 form! Isn’t that a hoot?”

“I keep a list of all the things I hear that follow iambic pentameter.”

“And then it turned out I was in the wrong conference call! Crazy, huh?”

“Where the heck is Iowa? I always mix it up with Illinois.”

“No, honey, this is the difference between marketing and public relations. You see…”

Pretend Girlfriend, I apologize in advance for how boring I can be sometimes. If you want to scratch out your own eyes to end the pain of watching me expound on meaningless concerns, I won’t hold it against you. But please remember that I am always willing to entertain you in the proper way, if you would gently tell me to shut up about work and my OCD obsessions.

Jelena asks:

This is just a hypothetical question because I’m single, but here goes: I’m a vegetarian and what if my specific dream rabbit is a voracious carnivore and considers a proper vegetable to be fries? It’s not that I have scruples about killing animals (that are raised happily and organically), but after being a vegetarian for a while meat’s become kind of gross. Even worse, what if he scoffs at organic produce and fair trade bananas? This is clearly a huge concern in my hypothetical relationship and I’d appreciate any advice you have.

Jelena, this is a good question. You were right to come to me with this. Lesbians know ALL about vegetarian issues. There’s several chapters devoted to it in our handbook (6th edition).

While I myself am not a vegetarian, I’m pretty sure Pretend Girlfriend will turn out to be one (maybe even a vegan) because that’s how a lot of gay gals roll. I’m only a pollotarian, a word I just made up that means I don’t eat beef or pork but MAN will I eat the poultry like it’s going out of style.

What I’m trying to say is I see your dilemma. After years of avoiding a certain kind of food, it would be totes uncomfortable to watch your new man nomming a hamburger and turning up his pert nose at zucchini.

There’s only one thing for it: you will have to change his fundamental character and force him to give up meat as well.

Let’s be honest. One of you is going to have to compromise your beliefs, and it’s MOS DEF not gonna be you. You already went through enough trouble when you first became a veggie-head; no way will you ever go back. And why should you? Your hypothetical boyfriend could probably stand to lose some weight anyway (especially if he turns out to be American).

The best way to ease your new love into the vegetarian lifestyle is total immersion. It works in swimming classes and learning a second language, after all. Just strap him to a table and feed him nothing but spinach for a long weekend. If you’re a creative couple, this could be a laugh for you both.

If he complains about feeling weak and light-headed, then it’s working. When you finally release the buckled straps on Monday morning, he’ll have completely forgotten his taste for meat and will gladly eat the tofu you’ve lovingly prepared for him. This is because he will be starving. But trust me, he will thank you for this later. And you’ll be a stronger, healthier couple for it.

Good luck, Jelena! If this doesn’t successfully turn your future man into a vegetarian, then maybe you should consider becoming a lesbian. Chances are you already are one since you don’t have a man at the moment, and there are tons of lady-loving vegetarians who are probably perfect for you.

Dear Pretend Girlfriend:

Even now, before meeting you, I can tell you’re going to be a total dork. You’d have to be, really. So the day that we fight over something dorky is inevitable, like taxes and farting in a crowded elevator.

I’m 97% sure our dorky fight will be over a television show. You’ll probably say something like Lost had a better time travel narrative than Doctor Who. And I will be PISSED.

(You’re probably right, but that’s not important. The day we have a dorky fight, I’m so angry that, once you insult the Ninth Doctor’s teeth and the Tenth Doctor’s adorable hair, I will not speak to you for hours.)

I will go to great lengths to try and prove to you that you are wrong. I will draw diagrams. I will make lists. I will e-mail mutual friends and digitally involve them in our fight.

So, okay. It’s kind of my fault that we end up fighting. But you’re no better, Pretend Girlfriend! The moment I say something snide about Sawyer or whoeverthefuckhisfaceis, you will glare at me with a hate normally reserved for unabashed Nazis and puppy-killers, and you will leave the room, taking the TV remote with you.

I was in the middle of a DVD, Pretend Girlfriend! And you know I can’t give up on a DVD in the middle. So I have to knock on the bathroom door, while you threaten to flush the remote down the toilet (after I’d programmed it to control the microwave and our laptops, too!).

You demand that I admit that Lost kicks the ass of the TARDIS. I grit my teeth and agree, because I love you.

You demand that I say that Sawyer could take the Doctor in a fistfight. I pause (with or without a sonic screwdriver?) and you jiggle the toilet handle noisily, so I finally break down and say it, because I love that remote.

You finally demand that I watch season one of Lost with you so that I will finally realize what I’m missing. And I sigh and say okay, because I made you sit through four seasons of Who and I sort of owe you one.

(But you and I both know that the Doctor would win that fight, and it’s one of the things I whisper to you before we fall asleep. Faced.)

Lee (if that is his/her real name) writes:

Could you recommend some totally awesome beers to go with a classy date meal, say, filet mignon, or salmon, or you know…that classy shit.

Pretend Readers, I DO know all about classy shit, and I can answer your questions about classy shit with helpful information.

You see, Lee has made a common error in judgment, namely, that one should eat food during a classy date. This is a terrible idea for many reasons: 1) classy food like filet mignon or salmon often has little greens bits flaked over it that will get stuck in your teeth, 2) there is a 90% chance your date will be a vegan, and 3) if you’re an American, you’re probably overeating anyway.

I recommend the following course of action. If you really want to make your classy date memorable, just go straight for the beer. It’s a good idea to do this on an empty stomach as well. (See #3 above.) Your date will be impressed, I assure you.

Dick’s Best Bitter is a good bet. If you’re a dude, this beer might give your date a subliminal message of where the evening should progress. If you’re a lady and you want to employ the same trick, just order a Dick’s and have the bartender float some maraschino cherries and orange slices in it. Women. Love. Fruit.

Here are some other beers you should order for your classy date:

Pabst’s Blue Ribbon — It won A BLUE RIBBON.

Miller High Life — This is the CHAMPAGNE of beers.

Natural Lite — It’s so natural, it’s practically ORGANIC.

Old Milwaukee — It will make you look YOUNG by comparison.

My advice would be to ensure your date knows how classy you are by sampling at least five or six of each of these brands. You don’t want your date to think you’re a cheapskate, after all.

Good luck, all you dating boozers!

Dear Pretend Girlfriend:

The day we met was a funny thing because I sort of thought you were a prostitute of some kind.

I don’t travel for business often, but when I do it’s usually to schmooze with a fancy client that’s paying the way for me, my coworkers, and our significant others. The problem was, now that I don’t have a significant other, I feel a lot of pressure to show up on these business trips with a nicely dressed S.O. in tow, just like everyone else.

I decide I have to find a new girlfriend in a week so I will have someone to take on this trip. So I do something a little stupid and desperate and I post the following on OK Cupid:

ATTENTION LADIES.

If you like going to resorts and eating tasty foodstuffs and drinking for free, then maybe you would like to come with me to [city redacted] next week.

PS: I am not an axe murderer.

Pretend Girlfriend, you must have balls of steel and a sense of adventure to match, because you actually took me up on my offer. Only then am I told by close friends that you are probably a crack addict who will kill me for my liver once I fall asleep in our shared hotel suite. But your profile picture is totes hot, so I tell my friends to go to hell.

(Plus I’m pretty sure my liver’s nothing to write home about.)

It’s a little weird and awkward to meet you for the first time before we board the train to leave for the resort. I’m trying very hard to appear normal, but that’s not easy. It’s easier for me to start talking about time travel. (Because when you sit in the backwards-facing seats on trains, you always feel like you’re going back in time. This is a fact of life.)

It turns out, Pretend Girlfriend, that you have given time travel as much, if not more, thought than I have! We probably talk about the ramifications of Superman going back in time to save Lois Lane in the first movie for WAY too long. In fact, my coworkers across the aisle are staring.

That sort of seals it. As soon as it’s clear we’re both huge nerds, we spend the rest of the weekend arguing about the plot of Buffy season 6, doing shots of sambuca, and ordering room service like it’s going out of style. We even get into the fake-relationshippy game, making up stories to tell my clients about how long we’ve been together (anywhere from 3 to 6 years) and how we met (organic orchid arrangement classes seem like the winner). By the time we both pass out in front of our suite’s flatscreen TV, which is playing reruns of Quantum Leap on Pay Per View, I think we might actually be dating for reals.

When we get back to the city, we exchange phone numbers shyly, even though we’ve slept together and taken showers together.

Dear Pretend Girlfriend:

The day I kill your cat is not a good day. I didn’t intend to kill your cat, obviously. Not that it makes it all right, but it really was an accident.

It’s not that I don’t like your cat, which is probably named something dorky like Hortence. Hortence is a good cat. He’s only barfed in the bedsheets once and very rarely pees on the furniture. But, as I’m sure you recall me pointing out, even once is too often to have peed on the furniture.

Pretend Girlfriend, I tried to hide this part of myself from you because I knew how much your cat and your puppy and your goldfish and your ferret mean to you. But I don’t like pets. They’re messy and they drool and they scratch up the floor. Except for the goldfish, Ernie, who I get along with pretty well.

The point is, Pretend Girlfriend, that if I were left to my own devices, I would not choose to populate my home with domesticated animals. But you like pets, so I never said anything.

So when you go out of town for a weekend and ask me to take care of your ark full of beasts, I say okay.

In my defense, Hortence was an old cat. He could have croaked at any moment. But nooooo, he waited until you were gone and there was only me around. When I find him in the bathtub, all stiff and cold, I pray that you have just bought a realistic stuffed cat to toy with me. Because you’re a bitch sometimes. But no, Hortence is dead, and I have to make the most awkward long-distance call ever.

(I consider just telling you via Twitter: @Hortence is totes ded D:)

Of course you accuse me of killing the cat. Did I feed him too much? Did I feed him too little? Did I not give him water? Did I stand idly by while the puppy chewed him to death? What happened!? are all questions which you are clearly entitled to ask because you’re upset.

But I didn’t kill Hortence. He was a billion cat-years old!

You ask if you should fly back home right away. I point out there’s really nothing else to be done.

“What about the funeral?” you ask scathingly.

Seriously?

Seriously.

We have to bury Hortence, which isn’t easy considering we don’t have access to a yard in our buildings. So I put Hortence in a little box and we wait until it’s late. We go to the park down the road and you pick a nice, quiet corner under a tree. I shovel the dirt and we put your cat in the ground.

I ask if you want me to get you a new cat. Maybe a kitten. You like kittens.

“But you hate kittens,” you sniff. “They pee on things.”

Yeah, but you like them even when they pee on things, so after a few weeks go by, I give you a scrawny little tabby from the pound. You name him Polk after your favorite obscure president, and he pees on lots of things. Everything.

But that’s all right. Ernie and I are still cool.