Have a question? Email erin@nerve.com. Letters may be edited for length, content and clarity. Last week I introduced you to the peeps I love most and asked you send in the best (and worst) sex, love, and dating advice you've ever received. Lots of responses, all of them highly entertaining. Unfortunately, Nerve won't let me take over the entire site, so I had to cull it down a bit. Now, without further ado… The Best of the Best I was all set to move to Rome with my boyfriend. The weekend before we were to leave, we were having a final lunch with my family in New Jersey, and had to leave at noon in order to get there on time. Boyfriend comes strolling in at 11:45 a.m., after being out all night. He takes off his clothes and gets into bed. "I'm not going," he says. "I don't have any obligations to your family. Take a taxi." And then he threw a few hundred dollars at me. This was not the first time he had been an asshole; we had been building up to this confrontation for quite some time.

I called our town taxi driver, a flag-waving Jesus fan, and told him I needed to get to New Jersey, ASAP. When I finally got my hysterical crying under control, he asked me what had happened, and I told him. He was quiet for a while, and then asked me if he could give me some advice. "Sure," I said, fully expecting to hear that my plight was not nearly as bad as being nailed to a cross. "You know, you can leave him. There's still time. You don't owe him anything."

We looked at each other through the rear-view mirror, and at that moment I believed in a righteous God. I called Boyfriend from the back of that taxi and told him it was over. Two days later, I flew to Rome alone and started my new life. Moral of the story? Always heed the word of Jesus-loving taxi drivers. — CC

Great story, CC. I also got on-the-road wisdom once. Not from a hack, but a tow truck driver. I was young and engaged and sharing a car with my kind-hearted and cool but stubborn and deeply unambitious fiancé. The vehicle was a rusty 1984 Corolla, with three colors of paint, taped-on hubcaps, and a coat-hanger rigged muffler. It had broken down (again!) on the side of the road during a raging blizzard.
"That's some piece of crap car you got there," says Tow Truck Driver. "What do you do for a living?"
Feeling defensive, I told him I was in college, on the Dean's list, working an internship and putting in a bunch of hours waitressing. "It's my fiancé's." I said. "Not mine."
His reply was short and quick: "You need to marry a guy with a better car."
Holy Tommy Mottola. That moment was watershed for me. There's something adorable about being young and broke and on a shoestring. But who the fuck wants to stay that way forever? I had plans for the future. I knew I would eventually be able to afford a better car. Him? I wasn't so sure. It came to an end a few months later.

 

Aww, don't feel bad. Whether we know it or not, other people are always going to have problems with our technique. The best you can do is try to be on lookout for cues — the verbal and non-verbal kind. But if they've been screwing you while simultaneously ripping on your nipple work to their best friends, joke's on them, not you. How the fuck are you supposed to know? You're not some clairvoyant Barry White. At least you're trying. I agree that questions are a good method. If you're shy, get a copy of The Book of Questions: Love and Sex. It's great for couples on long road trips, and for bringing to the bar with your single friends to have loud filthy discussions that people with kids overhear and get all yuppie-mad. Those who feel weird whipping out a book should leave it on top of the toilet tank or somewhere else their partners will see it. It won't be long before they crack it open and start firing off questions. It may look little and fluffy, but it's got crack-like properties.

Thanks for the heads up, MM. I used to be a potato-skin slinger myself. You guys have no idea what kind of romance went down at the Big B on Heart Day. That, and prom. Best were the high rollers who'd try to skip the seating queue by palming me a $5 spot. (P.S. Does that kind of stuff actually work, Erin? You bet your deep-fried ass it does.)

You can tell Mom and your aunt that this little ditty originated with Maya Angelou. Despite her treacly Oprah Book Club rep, she's pretty badass. We'd all be better off if we stopped trying to explain away people's actions or infer meaning that isn't there. For further reading, please see "(Get That) Dirt Off Your Shoulder" by the illustrious Jay-Z.
Best of the Worst (and Other Random Junk)

N, you're a smart man, though I think there's something to be said for the carpet-bomb approach. It's a fast way to bust through chronic shyness, and it helps you realize that rejection is no big deal. But it's also really dumb to hit on people indiscriminately. There should be a sincere interest. Besides, no matter how busy or packed the club is, if you keep using the same line on people over and over, you're going to get caught. And then you'll look like a big fat loser dweeb. . .

 

I had a guy go all kooky with ice once. He did some exterior work on the labia, then decided to shove the whole cube up my ladypocket. Can you say burning, searing frostbite? I tried to get it back out, but by then it was too late. I had to run to the bathtub, stick my kitty under the faucet, and moan in agony until it melted. Not sexy.

I don't ask you guys for a lot. All I want is the occasional email, pageview, and fake social network friendship. So since when is it okay to swipe a Myrtle Beach t-shirt slogan and pass that off as a personal anecdote? Bro. Dude. Listen. DUDE! (Bro.) You are not getting any more Jäger shots. That was totes lame.

I almost thought this one was spam or just a regular run-of-the-mill (albeit very brief) question. Then I saw "Best/Worst Advice" in the subject line, and realized this missive was intentional. I don't know what to tell you, Anon. Perhaps you should make an appointment at Plahnd Parrothood or consult Webstur's Dickshunerry.