Marty called the next day to apologize, for what I don't know. This happened with all of her boyfriends. They would somehow convince themselves overnight that they were the ones who were wrong. It was too late, though. Once Ivory made her mind up about a guy there was no turning back. She never whined or complained after a breakup; she just moved forward. She had just come back from her morning jog where she met her new boyfriend, deciding we were done with the whole "blue-collar" thing. I was fine with that because I was getting tired of hearing myself scream the name Turtle in bed.

"We're moving on to Latin America," she told me.

"Salud," I said, holding up a glass of Slim-Fast. "Finally, we can get back to your roots."

Her new boyfriend, Jorge, didn't speak a word of English, and luckily enough, he had a friend who didn't either. Beautiful Latin boys. They were our sophisticated Latin lovers, who would cook for us at my parents' house for the next two weeks. They introduced us to salsa, sangria, and communication via the ojos.

My guy's name was Hector, which he pronounced "Heeeeector." We couldn't really communicate, but he seemed nice, and he was a good swimmer. We would make out for hours at a time, but that's as far as it went. The one time he tried to initiate sex, we were in the shower. I was on the edge of the tub where there's a little area to sit, and he grabbed my hands to bring me closer to him. As I got up, my feet slipped out from underneath me and I went flying through his legs, landing on my back and hitting my head. The last thing I had tried to grab onto for balance was his penis. After that, we decided to keep things more casual.