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*With great pleasure Episode 3 is in a St. Patrick’s Day partnership with Julie Spira The Cyber-Dating Expert.

By Dani Katz

I may have been a freshman, but I wasn’t naïve enough to think that the gorgeous star of our Division 1 NCAA Championship basketball team wasn’t screwing other girls. But, beyond comparing cleavage, waistlines, bone structure and fashion sense, I hadn’t given it much thought.

Until, the itching, that is.

It intensified over a week or so, until finally, I locked the bathroom door, dropped trou and folded myself in half, determined to see just what the hell was causing such a sensational ruckus down there.

And then I saw it – them – EWWWWWWWW!!!!!! An entire eco-system of tiny, insects had made themselves at home in my panties, and it took everything I had not to freak the fuck out.

I knew what they were because we’d just learned about pubic lice, aka: crabs, in my Human Sexuality class, the very same one in which I met the freakishly tall lothario who gave them to me. Still, I knew I needed a prescription, and I wondered what other sort of disgusting viral entities he’d gifted me, so I asked my roommate to drive me to the ER, and because I was quivering and teary-eyed, and she was rad anyway, she did.

“Yup, it’s crabs,” announced the ER doctor, peering at my pubes beneath the world’s brightest spotlight, while surrounded by half a dozen interns peering at the spectacle that was my infested girl parts.

“See how they hang on to multiple follicles at once?” asked the doctor, parting my forest with a pen, giving the herd of curious med students a better glimpse of the bugs populating my pussy.

Drowning in shame, feeling slutty and dirty and cheap and tainted, I got dressed, paid the bill, filled the emergency prescription for anti-crab shampoo, dropped the glass bottle on my toe in the shower and watched all sixty-bucks worth run down the drain. That was it; I’d hit my limit. I collapsed under a stream of scalding hot water in a pool of my own blood, and burst into inconsolable tears.

After I shaved off the entirety of my insect-vile pubes, I went about washing the sheets and the towels and every stitch of clothing I owned, and it still took another year before I started to feel clean.

I didn’t blame him or hold it against him because I was young and green and figured everything was always my fault, even though I hadn’t been with anyone else and I knew that he’d been with just about everyone else. I guess part of me knew how icky it was, and just felt bad for both of us, for all of us, who had to deal with the shame and the yuck and the inconvenience and the expense. It was a gentle lesson, as far as STDs go, and I consider myself lucky.

Over the years, a few people have asked how I got that scar across my toe.

“Crabs,” I say.

By Jillian Weingart

He was holding my hand gently as we walked up to my front door. I turned to face him expecting to receive a hug or a simple good bye. Before I knew it, he thrust me up against the door and we were engaged in a make-out session so intense that it could make a porn star blush.

This guy had come into my bar earlier that day for lunch. Him and a friend were taking the train to see some sports game. However, this young gentleman had such a nice time, that he decided to skip the game and hang out with me until I got off of work so that he could buy me a drink. Romantic, right?

I pulled away from our kissing fest and gave him one last smooch on the cheek, wishing him goodnight.

“Good night, Jillian” he said with a smile.

I looked longingly at my beau, checking my drunk memory for the name to match the face. Hmmm. Not a single name came to mind, and I rushed into my apartment to avoid potential embarrassment.

Bartenders don’t get to see this “forgetting” stage very often. We are the people that get you to forget. The OBVIOUS solution is to just ask. But, for some reason, humans find this embarrassing. There is a stigma that comes with making out without asking someone’s name. “Thank you for searching the back of my mouth for treasure. Now please identify yourself.”

But what do you do, in the parlance of my profession, when you’re in the middle of mixing a cocktail and can’t remember what’s inside your mixer?

Like the dude from Memento, I had to piece together the clues without help from my memory. Asking Bartendress Jane who served us the night before would be the best option, but she wasn’t working again for a few days and I needed the answer immediately. Looking at the credit card reports might yield some answers, but I couldn’t easily match drink totals to his name. And unless his name happens to be “Cute Guy at Bar,” the name I put in my phone wasn’t helpful.

Well, that was that, I ruined another potentially awesome relationship. I really liked this guy, too, and we could have had a great relationship; eventually it probably would have turned serious. We could have made a happy couple, walking our matching Bedlington Terriers through Santa Monica on the way to picking up our lovely twins Oliver and Olive from the Montessori school. If only.

Right at that moment, he sent me a text. “Hi.” My mind started to race. How could I trick him into telling me his name without revealing that I hadn’t caught it in the first place? I took a shot:

“I totally think you went to school with my friend. What’s your last name?”

He was on to me.

“Why?” He texted back, “I told you last night.”

Well, hell. I felt my face get red. How embarrassing was this going to be? Before I could respond to him, I felt my phone buzz. I looked down at my phone and read this:

“Look, I really like you. All you have to do is ask what my name is. And it’s Trent. It’s nice to meet you ☺”

So what is the etiquette for this socially awkward dilemma? For people who like to hook up with a stranger and could care less about names, just leave in the morning. For people who want to see their mystery man or woman again, just ask. It might make you feel like the rapture is coming and you just got left behind, but in the end you will have a cute story for your grandchildren. And also, you won’t have to bug your favorite bartender about it. She can now concentrate on making you and your new hubby your favorite martini.

The Dating in Disguise game show – Because sometimes love is just a matter of luck! Each constant has 3 chances for love along with a cash or zonker prize twist.