Why You're Better Off F*cking A Stranger Than Your Ex

by Zara Barrie
Guille Faingold

Greetings, sweet kittens. It's me, Zara, your digital big sister.

While I love the weekend as much as the next free-wheeling, high-heel-wearing, winged-liner-sporting, booze-swilling, red-lipsticked PARTY GIRL, 99.9 percent of the mistakes I've made in my life have taken place during the weekend. I've spent one too many Mondays spiraling down the dark vortex of weekend guilt, regret and shame. 

But hey! Don't fret. Because I'm going to be here every Friday to stop you from the awful weekend f*ck ups that are screwing up your life. Here's my first Very Important PSA. 

F*cking your ex this weekend is a very bad idea. 

I don't know how to make it sound pretty or delicate. There is nothing pretty about sex with an ex. Sex with an ex is a serious emotional setback. You're better off f*cking a stranger than an ex.

Gather round and wrap your fingers around a cup of tea, because it's story time.

A very long time ago, I was in a relationship with a girl that I fiercely "loved." It was a die-hard, I-can't-live-without-you, I-want-to-f*ck-you-and-kill-you-at-the-same-time, you're-the-blood-in-my-veins kinda love. (Or at least, that's what I thought at the time. In retrospect, it wasn't real -- it was fantasy).

Like all reckless 22-year-olds with hearts of gold, I poured my everything into her. I stupidly thought we would be together forever. And the sex. The sex was mind-blowing. The sex was fireworks! She was the first person (besides myself) to get me off.

But, like all relationships built on the fragile foundation of booze, drugs and youth, it ended. And thank f*cking God for that, because this girl was venom disguised as an angel.

It hurt and it stung and I cried my insides out. I was addicted, and I had to go off her cold turkey. It was a withdrawal worse than the time I quit my pack-and-a-half-a-day cigarette habit.

We didn't speak for six months, until one rainy night when we ran into each other at 3 am at a dive bar in West Hollywood. I felt my heart drop out of my body and SLAM, BANG, CRASH against the sticky, beer-stained cement floor. My brain was so swirly from Fireball shots and weed and God knows what else (I was in a dark place) that she looked like a mirage.

I blinked my eyes a few times. I felt my contacts sticking like crazy glue to my eyeballs. It was her.

"Don't do it," my best friend Ruba slurred to me, making a half-assed attempt to physically pull me away.

"I'm just going to say hi. Don't worry," I slurred back, pushing her away from me. The bangles on her arms loudly clanked as she melodramatically flew backward.

"Doooon't doooo ittttttt!"

I could hear Ruba's drunken voice echoing behind me, but I couldn't listen. I had ex-girlfriend tunnel vision and walked straight up to her.

The next thing I knew, I was feeling the hot California sun burning through the blinds of an all-too-familiar Silverlake apartment. F*ck. Sh*t. What had I done?

My mouth felt like the Arizona desert, my heart was beating out of my chest and I was naked. Very naked.

I rolled over, and there she was. My ex was sprawled out on the bed, clutching the cotton sheets and sleeping soundly, like she didn't have a care in the world. And she didn't. That had always been the problem.

I had a sick feeling deep in the pit of my stomach. Get the f*ck out, Zara. Get the f*ck out, Zara. Get the f*ck out, Zara repeated in my brain like a hippie mantra gone awry.

I tripped over her bong as I frantically scanned the floor for my underwear. Screw it, I'll just leave them here, I thought to myself. I threw on my thrift store babydoll dress and my sky-high platform Mary Janes. They had appeared sexy and chic the night before, but in the harsh light of day they looked like cheap sh*t.

I waited for a taxi on her front stoop feeling desperate and lonely and small in my stupid party dress. I was angry with myself.

See, kittens, this relationship had taken a huge blow to my self-esteem and self-worth. The breakup had robbed me of my strength. I had spent the past six months working hard to rebuild myself again. And one drunken night of mediocre f*cking that I could hardly even remember had dismantled me again. I was back to square one. The bandage was ripped off. I, once again, was an open wound that anything could seep in and infect.

It was a setback, to say the least. It took a long f*cking time to get back to where I had been before I had relapse sex.

Please, please, PLEASE don't screw up like I did.

Look, you and your ex didn't have regular, one-night-stand, casual hookup sex when you were together. You had relationship sex. You had love sex. And most importantly, you had intimacy. You found each other's little hairs in your bed. You brushed your teeth next to each other and watched the spit fall into the sink. You drank from the same cups.

You knew each others bodies, smells, sounds and tastes, and you will for life.

You can get over an ex mentally, but the physical part is visceral. It lives in the heart, not the head. Your f*cking hormones are linked.

And you must abstain from an ex's hormonal draw, because once your bodies intertwine again, you're back to square one.

You can't have casual sex with someone you once loved. You just can't.

And always remember, you broke up with this person for a reason. You don't ever want to step backward in this life. I have too many friends in their late 30s who are still f*cking their exes a few times a year. And it's dangerous. Because as long as an ex's smell is on your body, you will stop new, good, healthy people from coming into your life.

I don't care if you're wasted, I don't care if you're horny and I don't care if it's been a while. If you feel inclined to f*ck your ex, just imagine me, your protective lesbian big sister, whispering to you, "Don't do it," "Don't do it," "Don't do it." Message me if you have to!

So girls, this weekend: Bust out the crop tops, drink all the champagne, FEEL SEXY, be a LITTLE bad, and have fun! JUST DON'T F*CK YOUR EX. IT'S NEVER A GOOD IDEA.

XO, Zara