At first, I had a boyfriend. He didn't ask about the cash. He had his own problems with work.
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We compare the lies we tell our boyfriends and our families, pursuing the perfect story to fit our hours and income: we hide cash in secret drawers and in our shoes on the train downtown.
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"So, when I was done faking my orgasm," she says, "I bent over, panting, and said, 'Thank you so much for sharing that with me.'"
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"My Mom and me came out to each other at the same time," says Emily. "My Mom's gay too," I say.
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My boyfriend holds my letter in his hand gingerly, like it's a job offer he's not certain he can accept.
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I used to blast "I Want You to Want Me" when I went out. Now I detest that song.
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