Screw Everyone: Sleeping My Way to Monogamy Read Free Page A

To fall in love? Okay, that was a little more difficult, but having a job, a boyfriend, and some sexual experience would give me a running start.
    MY FATHER DIED the summer before I entered high school, and our family broke into fragments. At almost sixty years old, my mother had to go to work and manage the grocery stores. Within a year, she was doing things I’d never seen her do before: going out dancing, dating, having fun. The last of my siblings moved out, and for the first time the household was just two people: me and my mom. Even though it was a period of great transition, we relished the space and freedom it gave us. All of a sudden, the house had too many couches to lie on, too many remotes to control, too much silence. My mother relaxed the rules and my curfews in exchange for me letting her date without interference. I could basically do whatever I wanted, with virtually no one to answer to, as long as I kept up with my responsibilities. And trust me, I took advantage of it. It is possible to keep your grades up AND drop acid.
    Luckily Calgary was a nice, safe place—it was like the walls were made of soft sponges. You had to work really hard to get in trouble. The mere fact that I was considered one of the primary instigators amongmy friends was a sign of how nonthreatening the place was. I was the one with all the ideas, and I’d drag friends through the “bad” parts of town (indicated by an overflowing garbage can) and ask derelicts if I could buy their hash. We’d layer our faces with makeup and tell doormen that not only were we eighteen, but we’d also been personally invited to the nightclub by the owner. Rarely did anyone question or refuse us. It was a talent I’d parlay into every aspect of my later life: approach with confidence, know what you want, and just tell them. I’ve found that it works very well with men, but not with immigration officers or tax auditors.
    Despite my late-night shenanigans, I still managed to make it to school, perform reasonably well, and show up for my shifts at the grocery store.
    I liked having a job. It gave me pocket money to pay for cover charges and Bartles & Jaymes wine coolers. My mother increased my work tasks incrementally, and soon I was even doing the ordering, everything from groceries to hardware to magazines. Never was a teenager more in tune with news, celebrity gossip, trendy fashions, and, of course, men’s sexual fantasies. That’s right, I wouldn’t just sort and restock all those magazines when they came in; I’d read them all—or at least check out the pictures.
    In retrospect, what appeared in the shiny pages of the men’s magazines we placed on the upper shelf of the magazine rack—like Bear, Playboy , and Swank —was pretty tame by today’s standards. I think I’ve seen more hardcore porn on Bravo lately. But if my memory serves me right, the material wasn’t that degrading. I’m sure NaomiWolfe would like to kill me, because yes, the women were being objectified, but I didn’t perceive it that way. What I saw was a bunch of tarted-up women not so much exploited as exploiting a situation to their advantage.
    The story spreads were my favorite: five pages of glammed-up women applying for jobs as secretaries, or being coached on the tennis court. They were both hilarious and fascinating. Everyone started out so nice and professional looking, in polyester blouses with floppy bows or proper white tennis dresses, always paired with Lucite stilettos (see-through goes with everything), but within one panel all the clothes would be off. Good storytelling starts in the action. By panel four, not only did they score the job or improve their swing, but they looked like they were having a damn good time doing it. Sure, maybe my perspective was a bit skewed, but I preferred the dynamics of these scenes over the more passive ideal of timid girls pining in the wings, hoping to get asked to the dance, and scoring poorly on Cosmo quizzes. I