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

didn’t have the luxury to wait around hoping for some mythical right time or right person to appear, like some precious orchid waiting for the right conditions of light and water to blossom and grow. I needed to be like a weed, and thrive now . Brad Moore had the right idea. I, too, wanted to get out there and kiss, “go around,” and eventually screw whomever I desired, maybe everyone I desired. Who cared if I made mistakes? I’d figure it out, with or without a cardboard Cupid to guide me.

CHAPTER 2
EXPAND YOUR HORIZONS
    M y first couple of experiences with sex didn’t exactly go as planned. Then again, neither did the next forty. When I hear about women who have tidy, pretty, lingerie-infused sexual encounters, all I think is, Where’s the part where you break your toe and have to mop up? Some women’s torrid love affairs belong in movies with James Bond. Others of us, with Will Ferrell.
    At the beginning of August, I began counting down the days to the start of high school. I couldn’t wait to walk down the hallways in slow motion with my posse, like in a John Hughes movie, and I didn’t even have that many friends. It was the potential that fueled my enthusiasm. Take this entry from my high school diary, dated September 1: “I know this year is going to be amazing. I want an amazing life, full of the most wonderful times, friends, boyfriends, laughs and tears, boyfriends, and for the upcoming years to be the best years EVER!”
    Yes, I wrote boyfriends and amazing twice.
    Western Canada High was not only the biggest high school in Calgary but also the coolest, situated in the heart of the city and surrounded by cute dress shops, restaurants, and cafés. Taking the public bus there every morning made me feel so grown-up—like I was going to my sexy job at a detective agency rather than to a dry biology class taught by a teacher so boring that the chapter on reproductive organs wasn’t even funny. My mother gave me fifty dollars for first-day-of-school clothes. My challenge: find an outfit that would communicate a unique sense of style that everyone wanted to copy but couldn’t, no matter how hard they tried. I’d be untouchable. The answer was Le Chateau, a retail chain that sold cheap, trendy clothing to high school girls whose parents had given them fifty dollars. It was also where all my friends shopped. Somehow we believed that the mass-produced lacey tops and identical jewel-toned felt berets we wore marked us as individuals. Lucky for me, I was able to set myself apart by being one of the few who looked good in mustard.
    Although the standard cliques were well represented at our school—jocks, headbangers, stoners, nerds—the student body was essentially divided into two groups: the smart people and the rest of us. The smart people were enrolled in this Geneva-based International Baccalaureate Program, or the IB Program. Fortunately for them, it was before irritable bowel syndrome was a household name. This education program offered advanced classes for the more gifted students, ensuring them acceptance into prestigious colleges, and all but guaranteeing them plum careers at companies like AIG, Lehman Brothers,Pfizer, and other top-notch corporate empires. The rest of us would have to settle for a shitty education at a mediocre college and a future working at some podunk company where our uncle knew the manager.
    The clincher was that my application for the IB Program was rejected. During my interview with the Ministry of Swiss Intelligence, or whatever they called themselves, they claimed that the amount of time I spent in ballet classes would distract me from my studies. To which I blurted, “Listen, I’m a terrible dancer, not very flexible, and I can barely keep my balance in a double pirouette!” In retrospect, pleading mediocrity probably wasn’t the best strategy, but I accepted my fate. It was just as well. I didn’t fit their profile. I had decent grades but no specific plans to make