After four or five weeks, it was pretty clear that Jack and I were a couple, by any definition. And not just any couple, but a Nauseating New Couple. We had developed a routine. He would come over to my place after work, and I'd kiss him in the doorway. He'd say, "I missed you," then I'd say, "I missed you too," entirely earnest, but kind of wanting to just lie down and die, because — let's face it — these were some pretty deep depths I had sunk to.
    We held hands a lot. I called him "baby" without realizing it. We watched a lot of DVDs together. We finished each other's thoughts, especially the ones about druids. And if I'd been worried about the sex when I heard he'd only been with one other girl — well, suffice it to say those fears were quelled. I was getting it good, and often. And strangely enough, every morning at 5:30. You could set your watch to it.


Thing is, I'm a shitty girlfriend. You could fuck me all day and take me out to dinner, and I'd still flirt with the cute waiter while you were in the bathroom. That's how it goes. If I find someone attractive, I want to mess around with them, simple as that. It's not so much infidelity as it is greed. And pragmatism: if your relationship collapses, why not have a blue-eyed, nineteen-year-old painter as backup?
    Believe me — this is no double standard. I'm not jealous. It's not that I've never felt jealousy and am incapable of doing so. I'd just prefer that my boyfriend go to his high-school reunion and fuck the cheerleader he never got to, than have him thinking about it and forcing me to deal with that shit on a subliminal level. In fact, it's almost a thrill: he fucks the cheerleader, then comes back for more from me. (Unless he doesn't, at which point I enlist my friends to publicly announce that he routinely told me, "Your touch is like the wing of a thousand birds.")

Old slutty habits die hard.

     Not everyone thinks this way, though. Jack, in particular, does not. Jack holds the perfectly reasonable view that, by being with him, I am relinquishing my right to fuck — or for that matter, kiss, grope, or solicit — others. The same, naturally, goes for him. I understood this from the beginning, but it doesn't stop me from trying to find loopholes.
    I am talking to Lili about this exact problem at Lit one night, right before I lose her to that really danceable Kinks song and a dark-haired man in a leather jacket. I get another drink from the bar, and when I turn around, that same guy is standing behind me, muttering. He has some sort of incomprehensibly thick British accent. I ask him to repeat himself.
     "What's with your Lili?" he says.
     "She's Russian," I begin. She offers this as a catch-all explanation for her behavior, so I figure I might as well too. "Why?"
     "Well, I'm there, dancing with her. She's a lovely girl. I kiss her at a certain point. I turn around for a half a second, and she's kissing someone else."
     "And?"
    "Well, that's unpleasant enough. But she says to me that she became confused because we both had leather jackets. Maybe it's time to take that one home."
    "Oh, no, she does that. If you want to make out with her, you could probably confuse her again. Just stand near him." I'm a bit jealous or depressed. Or something. On the dance floor, Lili seems very free and beautiful and silly, dancing, kissing, being confused by jackets, and that all seems awfully inaccessible to me right now.
    "Carrie, right?" the man says. "I'm Will." I shake his hand. We talk for a bit before Lili comes over, wanting to leave. It's 3:45, and I suggest going to an after-hours place. With a glance, I invite Will along. He follows us. As we weave down Avenue B, he and Lili barely speak, and I shuttle between them with empty chatter. At our destination, there's a smarmy-looking blond man collecting money. This is new.
    "Ten each," he says.
    "Oh, no," I explain, patiently, smiling, twirling my hair. "We're with Slow Loris Promotions." This is my made-up promotions company. It serves its purpose well. He hesitates. "Slow Loris?" I sigh, rolling my eyes. "Check your list." He looks at the list for a moment, then looks back up at me, confused. "Slow. Loris. Slow Loris. Maybe it's under Jay's name?" Jay. There's always someone named Jay on a list. The door guy is about to wave us in when Lili offers:
    "What if we give you five for all three of us?"
    I nudge her, but his resolve has returned.
    "Ten a head." I snort self-righteously and walk away. When I get myself into this mode, I'm able to convince myself that I have actually been slighted. Lili and Will follow.
    "That was bullshit," Lili says. "Wanna just go home and finish off the whiskey?" So that's exactly what we do. Lili eventually goes to bed, leaving Will and I alone, watching TV on the couch. I'm not oblivious to the implications of this, but I'm not too worried, either. Then, when I turn to ask him whether he'd rather watch this shitty Japanese cartoon or this other shitty Japanese cartoon, he full-on kisses me. I'm motionless, making the mental kiss-back-or-don't-kiss-back calculation, when he unsnaps my shirt. I lean away and mumble, "Bad idea. Boyfriend."
    He's the next to pass out, and is still there the next day when my friend Drew comes by for brunch. Will leaves the building with us. Once he's disappeared down the street, Drew arches an eyebrow at me and asks, "Aren't you seeing . . . ?"
    "Yeah. Nothing happened with this guy. It's weird, though, having a hot guy in your house, into you, and not being able to do anything about it. Wanting to, sort of, but . . . old slutty habits die hard, huh?"
    Drew's recently made a policy of being faithful to his boyfriend, and I ask him how he manages this. The answer he gives me involves the word "sanctity," and I tune out. At the end he adds, "So you're not into him, just think he's cute?"