Back then, having an argument went something like this; I would snoop in her phone and find a message from an ex. I would confront her about it, and she would immediately jump to, “Why do you go through my things?” She would say something about how a relationship was about trust, and I would counter with, “For me to trust you, you would have to be trustworthy.” Thus the circle would begin. I would ask for details, want to know what exactly had happened, and she would sit and stare at me with a blank look in her eyes. I learned from interviewing people for my high school newspaper that to get people to talk, the interviewer should remain silent, so that’s what I would do. And I would push occasionally, and finally she would tell me everything. We would make up, and the cycle would repeat itself the following week, when I found a beer can in her trash.

Now I know better. I know not to try and control a relationship. I know not to snoop, and since I’ve relaxed a great deal since my teenage years, I don’t even care to anymore. I don’t get upset as easily by things my partner does, but when I do, I know how to express myself without resorting to yelling. Nowadays, my boyfriend and I don’t really fight; we talk.

I learned a lot about successful communicating from experience, and I also learned a lot from psychology class. I’ve learned that when I’m upset, the best thing to do is calm down. Think about things. Write down the reasons I’m feeling angry and then access them: Is it really that big of a deal? Am I overacting? Is there something else the matter that’s making me care about this more than I should? And once I’ve figured my feelings out, I talk to my boyfriend.

I try to wait until it’s convenient before I bring it up, but sometimes I don’t get the chance until we’re both in bed. That’s one thing I’m still working on, figuring out a more appropriate time to communicate the things that bother me. My boyfriend seems to have that part down better than I do; he usually casually mentions something immediately after the fact.

When I broach the subject, whatever it may be, I try to make sure I’m only speaking for myself, using “I” language rather than saying things like, “You did this” or “I don’t like it when you do that.” I try to make the complaint as centered around me as possible, so that it doesn’t feel like an attack, and my boyfriend does the same. I also try to rationalize the reason I’m upset. For example, I say, “I feel rejected when I don’t get introduced to your friends.” I’ve found phrasing things like that, and stating them calmly, really helps get the point across without resorting to yelling.

As the listener, I find myself making sure I know exactly what’s upsetting my partner. I ask questions, clarify, and try to come up with a way I can improve my behavior the next time. I apologize, and I try to remedy the situation the next time.

The main thing I’ve learned about communication in a relationship is to choose my battles. Since my boyfriend and I just moved in together, we’ve been working out the kinks of house cleaning and yard maintenance, and often times issues will arise that may upset one of us, but don’t really matter too much in the long run. If it’s simple enough, we just state our issue and move on, but often we just let it rest, choosing instead to focus on the positive parts of our relationship.

We also make sure to compliment each other far more than we bring up complaints. I make sure that my partner knows that I appreciate the dinner he cooked, and he makes sure to tell me when he appreciates that I did the grocery shopping this week. Couples who compliment each other more than they criticize are far more likely to last, and it definitely makes the relationship a lot more fun.

It was about two years ago. I had a girlfriend at the time, and she kept hinting that she wanted to sleep with a couple we hung out with often, two incredible women: Tiffany and Sarah. I wasn’t opposed to the idea, but it never seemed like the right time. Then I found out that my girlfriend had taken matters into her own hands; she’d been sleeping with Tiffany, without Sarah, and neither Sarah nor I had any idea. When I found out, I told Sarah, but she decided she loved Tiffany too much to let her go. I broke up with my own girlfriend – after all, we hadn’t been together long enough for me to tolerate the drama she was trying to introduce – and started hanging out with Tiffany and Sarah by myself.

I was rather melancholy for a while, but they really helped me feel better. I wasn’t all that mad at Tiffany. I’d known her a long time, and I guess I didn’t expect that much from her. At first I entertained ideas of sweeping Sarah off her feet; I’d started to develop feelings for her, since we both went through the same thing, but I soon realized that she was only really interested in me to get back at her girlfriend. I gave up on that, but I still thought she was the cutest thing. So I started flirting with both of them.

Then Halloween came around, and we all three went to a party together. I was a bumblebee, Tiffany was a sailor, and Sarah was a cat. The party was a ten-kegger, but by the time we got there all the beer was gone. While Tiffany left to go get some beer from the car, Sarah and I decided to sneak up into the VIP room. We waited until the guy guarding the door had left – he wouldn’t let us in, no matter how much we begged – and rushed the stairs. There was beer there, and so we filled our cups and sat together on the couch. She asked me to kiss her on the check. When I did, she moved her face so that my lips hit hers, and it all went downhill from there. I stopped making out with her long enough to say, “Let’s go find Tiffany,” and when we did I grabbed them both by the hand and led them to my car, which Tiffany drove to my place as Sarah and I made out in the backseat.

Once we were at my place, however, I passed out. Apparently, the first rule of threesomes is don’t get drunk. It may sound like a good idea at first, but then you wake up with a note by your bed and no memory of what did or didn’t happen. I felt so stupid, but I vowed that the next night would be different. I was having a Halloween party, and they were both coming.

Halfway through my party, Tiffany took me by the hand and said, “We should all go to your room.” We did, and clothes came off, and that’s when it happened, finally. But it was so different than the fantasy; I felt like I was the Guest Star, and they were competing over me, pulling me one way and then another. To tell you the truth, it was a little too much. I wanted to pleasure the other girls, especially Sarah, but every time I would start, one of them would end it, and the focus went right back to me. I got a little sore, and tired, and felt more and more like a Guest Star whose role should have been reprised long ago. When the whole thing was over, they wanted me to sleep in the middle. That was probably the nicest part, cuddling with two adorable ladies.

So it wasn’t all bad. I thought that maybe I was just new to them, and that was why they had concentrated so heavily on me. I tried it again with them, months later, and it turned out a lot better than the first time. I actually got to go down on Tiffany, but Sarah had just discovered the Naughty Ruler I bought from Edenfantasys, so she was a little preoccupied with spanking. But by then it was clear that they wanted me to make a regular appearance, which may have been nice for while, but it wasn’t exactly what I was looking for. I thought about it; it would be a new experience, something I probably wouldn’t have very many opportunities to do, but in the end I decided I just wanted just one woman, or one man, and getting between the two of them seemed like more trouble than it was worth.

In the week that followed, Sally broke up with her boyfriend to be my girlfriend. We weren’t secretive about it; we held hands as we walked down the hallway, and soon everyone knew. I couldn’t enter a classroom without a swarm of eighth graders circling me, tossing question after question my way. “What’s it like to kiss a girl?” they’d ask. “What do you do together, when you’re alone?”

A little over two years later, I met another girl. Her name was also Sally, and she was wonderful. The funniest person I had ever met. A week after I met her, she asked me to dinner. I told her I wasn’t out, that I would have to sneak behind my mother’s back, and she groaned.
“You didn’t tell me your parents don’t know,” she said.
I apologized and concocted a story to tell my mom, about joining her for her aunt’s birthday, because that sounded more like a friendly duty than a date.

My mother was in the bathtub. I knocked on the bathroom door, and she told me to come in. She dipped her washcloth into the water and spread it out over her stomach; the water lapped around her body, and her long blonde hair was pinned back with a clip, so only the tips of a few stray tendrils were wet. I sat on the shag rug beside the bathtub and asked her if I could go the next night. She asked me if that girl she saw me with the other night at the movies was a lesbian. I told her yes.