Kat George

Not only were the external stimuli I was exposed to promoting an “ideal” body image, they were also promoting a sense that unless I fit that particular ideal, I should be morbidly dissatisfied. And I was; for no particular reason other than I felt some sort of social pressure to find ways to hate myself, which, needless to say, is absolutely ridiculous.

While they have common characteristics—a lone, often single humanoid in the company of a couple (and sometimes a really super cute, tiny little puppy the couple just added to the fold) with whom they are not sexually or romantically involved—third wheels come in many shapes and sizes, and often serve quite a functional purpose for said couple.

I’m not convinced first time sex needs to be this bad for women, or bad at all for that matter. All it takes is a ‘can do’ attitude, a little bit of bravado, and Bob’s your uncle—you’ll be having great sex before you know it.

I know you probably think I’m some kind of uniquely filthy, completely nasty woman, but I’m not. Just because I like picking the wax out of my ears and rolling it into little balls, or because I spend an equal amount of time picking my nose and hoping that a little hair will come out attached to the snot.

I really do love surrounding myself with boys, and I’ve always had a lot of close straight male friends. And my boys—the boys I’ve climbed trees with, played video games with, burped the alphabet with—have given all the other boys a lot to live up to. This is what those wonderful, disgusting, can’t-live-with-em-can’t-live-without-em fellas have taught me about boys.

Once I wrote this list I realized I’d missed a lot of amazing Bruce movies—Twelve Monkeys, Mercury Rising, The Jackal, Hudson Hawk, Blind Date, Striking Distance, The Whole Nine Yards—and I almost hate myself a little bit for not being more discriminating with my choices. But then I asked myself, WWBD?

When I finally broke, it was very difficult to un-break. I cried a lot. I didn’t understand why this was happening to me. I’d only had a handful of sexual partners and the only unprotected sex I’d had was with boyfriends who had been checked for STDs. I was immunised against HPV when I was 21—a fact that scared me more than anything, the knowledge that this thing could have been hiding inside me for up to 5 years completely undetected.

When I got home I threw myself across my bed, pizza still in hand. I continued to cry, louder now, and reveled momentarily in my hideous self-indulgence. I fell asleep to the sound of my own sniveling. In my wrought sleep I dreamed vividly of a man I used to love. I dreamed of him getting married, of my total, gut-wrenching heartache; I woke up feeling exhausted, used up physically and emotionally…

So here I am, an almost-26-year-old-woman sitting alone in half darkness, writing this to you with Colgate Total all over my face. I’ve been Googling and self-diagnosing, and the internet seems to think that toothpaste will help resolve our issues. But I don’t know Pimples, I really don’t. The second I think I’m free of you, you just pop up again, completely unexpected. Would it kill you to call in advance?

There’s nothing worse than wearing pants—nudity is a wonderful thing. But you’re at your most vulnerable when you’re naked, at the mercy of emotions and the elements, which are both liable to kick your bare ass at any moment. Here’s a guide I prepared (based on my own experience) to help you navigate the minefield of the ubiquitous birthday suit in the context of a relationship.