"You know what your problem is?"
"What?"

"You're giving your pussy away on a platter."

"I'm what?"

"You're coming across as desperate."

"I am desperate!"

My soon-to-be-ex friend Clint is explaining to me in his inimitable way that giving some guy my number last week went a little too far.

"I guess he was supposed to 'hunt' for it or some caveman bullshit like that?"

"Exactly."

Silence.

"Out. Get out."

And for the third time in a year, I threw Clint out of my house.

I don't seem to be winning here. For the first few years at the Jersey shore, I played it safe, not hooking up with any of the locals. Not that I had some great desire to; I'm always wary of men who wear more hair product than me. Yet somehow the more I tried to protect it, the more my reputation grew.

But nowhere did it cut so deeply as with my old friend, George.

George is an old, sweet, Jesus-looking, acoustic guitar-slinging hippie, beamed right from Woodstock. He dated my sister for many years when I was a child. He became a surrogate brother during that period: protective, kind and instructive.

He took me to see a meteorite shower one night at the Jersey shore, which still remains one of the most bright and shining memories of my life. As a child, I wanted to believe in magic so badly, but too many disheartening things had happened already to allow me that spiritual luxury.

But that night, as George and I watched the sky explode with light, I believed in magic once again. My soul lit up. From that point on, George and magic were indelibly entwined in my child mind.

When I moved back to the Jersey shore several years ago, George and I joyously reconnected, after decades apart. Picking up where we left off, he quickly became that watchful, warm friend, helping me whenever I needed. As someone who hasn't experienced much protective familial care or guidance, this was a huge gift.

He taught me how to make repairs to my car, found an old bike and fixed it up so I could ride it around the island (with a cardboard license plate that read "Beth"), he made a concoction of special oils for my surfing-induced ear infection and showed me how to tell the wind direction by letting sand run through my fingers - kind and gentle acts that fed some undernourished side of me.

After some time had passed, I noticed he hadn't invited me to his home. When I asked him about it, he told me that he was afraid his wife wouldn't understand our friendship.

"What do you mean? Why wouldn't she?"

"Well, she gets jealous."

"But we're just friends," I said, my neck tensing. It was disturbing to think that anyone would consider George as my romantic partner. Incestuous and creepy feeling.

"George, if you can't tell your wife you're here, its probably best we don't hang out."

"Oh...and you might want to grow some," I wanted to add but said instead:

"I'm nobody's secret."

But that wasn't true; I have been a secret. My friend David only calls me on his drive home from work, because he's afraid to talk to me in front of his wife. I've been friends with him for 20 years.

Robert and I dated when I lived in New York but he always felt uneasy bringing me around his "baby's momma." We remain friends but he still has an issue with it.

"I just don't want any problems with her or the custody of our kid. I don't want to upset her."

"But you have no problems upsetting me."

Before you tell me to toss these jerks to the curb, please understand: these are men who mean a lot to me. They have been my guardians and my mentors and my friends - all for a long time.

Besides, I did start tossing.

Shortly after George and I stopped talking, he came to my house, desperate for help. His wife had "found out" that he stopped by my house on several occasions and was going ballistic. Would I please go over and explain to her that nothing is going on?

"Oh god, George...you can't be asking this of me. You can't!"

He implored me. I finally relented. Before I left the house, he asked me to dress down. I put on a flannel shirt and a baseball cap, so I didn't appear the supermodel that I really am.

Entering their house was one of the braver moments in my life. The energy was palpable and hostile. I decided to swallow the poison as quickly as possible. Marching over to the kitchen sink, I stood behind his wife, her back to me. She was sniffing, as if she'd been sobbing.

"I'm Beth. I'm sorry you're upset. I've known George since I was 5. He dated my oldest sister. The thought of anything romantic with him makes me deeply uneasy. I can assure you nothing has happened nor would it ever. He's a friend and he's been a great help to me."

She didn't turn around. She simply asked me to leave.

I turned and walked out of the house...and away from a friendship I had since childhood. Occasionally, I see his wife out in the world and want to say, "Do you know what your petty insecurities cost me?" But of course, I know it's his responsibility as well.

He's doing it to protect his family, a friend countered. From what? Am I disease? What kind of marriage are you protecting when you have to resort to lies and cowardice just to maintain a friendship? What are you teaching your children? How to be in a deeply dysfunctional family that stays together at all costs? So they too can one day mimic your relationally twisted ways? "Gee, why does our daughter have an eating disorder." "Why is our son hooked on drugs." Protect them? Please.

And this is only one story. As I continue to "do the right thing", my scandal quotient grows. A 43 year-old woman who hangs around young surfers and acts free and sexual and creative and doesn't have children? What's wrong with her? Stone her!

"So why aren't you married? Why don't you have children?" I've been asked several times before.

Who knows how to answer that? "Um...I was busy doing stuff, I guess."

The truth of it is, the need to marry and procreate wasn't imbued in me, like other people. I didn't dream of a wedding dress or a fat rock to wear on my finger. That doesn't mean I don't want to get married or have a family...it just doesn't dictate my life.

That's one take.

The other? When you spend a lifetime simply trying to survive, battling depression and fostering relationships that you think might last but end up smashed into pieces over and over again, it eats up a lot of fucking time.

Clint knocks at the door.

"Do you want to go grab a beer?"

"You're an ass."

"Sorry about the pussy on the platter comment. Can I come in?"