My Father Was Killed By My Ex-Boyfriend (Touching Story)

Jessica Sherry, 23, grew up in a small Australian farming village. During her first few months of high school in June 2007, the star of the rugby league team wooed her into being his girlfriend. Their relationship was tumultuous, and he often threatened to kill himself. What her then-boyfriend did to her and her family next made headlines across Australia in 2009. Sherry tells Cosmopolitan.com how she's learned to stay strong for her mother and younger sisters, and why it's so important to take action at the first signs of domestic abuse.





I grew up in a small village [in New South Wales, Australia] and was the eldest of three daughters. I lived somewhat a sheltered life in a small farming town. After finishing at a primary school of just 50 students, I went to a small high school of about 450 students.

At a high school where everyone knows everything and everyone, I met [my ex-boyfriend]. He was only three months older than me but was in the grade above me. He knew everyone and was an important part of the school rugby league team.

By the beginning of my second year in high school, I had friends who were childhood friends with him. My friend and him had the same birthday and at the beginning of the year they had a joint birthday party. This was the first time we had really come in contact. In the weeks that followed, I found myself getting more and more attention to the point where I was being followed [by him] as I left school and while I was around town with my friends.

He turned up uninvited to a birthday party for friends of mine in June 2007. With peer pressure and a lot of convincing, I agreed to date him. As a friend said, "If you aren't happy with it, give it a week and end it."

I kept this news from my parents because I never thought of it as a proud moment and it wasn't something I really wanted. He wasn't the sort of person I thought my parents would approve of. I also felt like dating at such a young age didn't really have a point. I tried to end it. The next day, I went to school and found that I was bombarded with reasons for taking him back not only from him but from my friends as well. Again, peer pressure was the reasoning for taking him back. This started a trend of "breaking up" once a week because I wasn't happy and him pleading for me to take him back. The pleading turned nasty and he threatened to take his own life.

During this time, I began to think that I loved him. Maybe for a while I did. In between the growing number of fights, it looked like he cared about me and wanted me to be happy. He began to grow more and more jealous.

The vocal abuse turned into emotional abuse and blackmail. He felt like he owned me and tried to stop me from having anywhere to go.


After a year of this, he started making it harder for me to see my friends. He started rumors with information I had given him about my friends and created fights between me and my friends to the point where I started getting excluded because they couldn't handle him, my moods, or my perceived attention-seeking.

My friends and the people around me saw my cry for help as attention-seeking because no one could ever think he could be capable of being this horrible to me when it looked like he loved me.

Teachers began to notice the toll it was taking on both of us. I spoke to a few about what was going on, but nothing came of it because he was on the rugby league team that was seen to be the pride of the school. A teacher came and asked me what was going on after he was crying in class, following a fight in which I told him I didn't love him.

He used my emotions and goodwill against me. He used fake illnesses to get me to feel sorry for him and to tell me he needed me. Once, after I successfully made the point that we were horrible to each other and we weren't happy together, he sent me photos of bullets and a gun that he planned to use on himself. He told me he couldn't live without me and needed me. I showed the photo to his friends, who were dating some of my friends, and they told me they would deal with it and take him to get counseling, and promised me this wasn't my fault or my problem anymore.

Turns out they did nothing because they were too busy with their own lives. So it fell back to me to move around his bad moods that were thrown at me. During this time, the attention-seeker label people put on me made me feel like an outcast. My once friends were now subjecting me to severe bullying and I fell into a deep depression.

I left that high school at the end of 2008 and started the new year at school on the other side of town. At a different school, I was able to make the break permanent and didn't have to see him and avoided him around town. After a few months, I started seeing someone who went to my new school. Things weren't perfect with him but it was a lot better than before and I was "free." The news about my new relationship eventually reached [my ex]. He began trying to ring me and wiggle his way back into my life.

On the 1st of May 2009, I received a message saying he needed to see me because the doctors said he was dying. After hours of this, I finally agreed. When I saw him, he took my phone and texted my new boyfriend saying it was over and I was going back to him. I told him that wasn't the case, and he said I owed him and had no choice. Once I got home, I straightened out all the damage he had done and went back to ignoring him.

On the 3rd of May, he was on a football trip where a mutual friend of his and my new boyfriend told him that I had fixed things and started stirring him up. He started ringing people to find out if it was true. He was threatening to kill my boyfriend. He never threatened me but he was threatening others. I told everyone involved that he was just upset and he wouldn't hurt anyone.

On the 4th of May, I woke up at 4 a.m. to mum screaming. At first I thought I was dreaming. Then I thought she was dreaming. She was screaming out, "My babies, my babies." After it had sunk in that something bad was happening, I tried to call the police but my mobile phone didn't connect. I heard loud running through the house and more screams, then silence. I built up the courage to leave my room to see what was going on and to get another phone.

What I hadn't realized yet was that both of my parents had been stabbed.

When I walked out of my room and into the kitchen, the first thing I saw in the dimly lit room was my dad on the floor bleeding and what I thought was unconscious. I walked past him to grab the phone off the shelf behind the bench in the kitchen. I grabbed mum's mobile and walked back to my room. Just before I got to my door, [my ex] walked loudly into the room. I turned around and saw him, and in that moment, everything made sense. Before I saw him, I never even half thought this was his fault.

I yelled at him before my mind even caught up with what was happening. I said, "You have really done it this time."

He yelled back, "Now you can clean up this mess, like you clean up all the messes before anyone sees them. How are you going to explain this to her?" He was pointing at [my younger sister, who was 8 at the time] Polly*, who was now standing next to Dad holding her teddy bear.

He walked over to me, slapped me then punched me in the face. I could feel the knife touching my leg. It was cold. The adrenaline must have blocked the pain from the small scratch I got from the knife. He turned around, walked toward the front of the house, and pulled the phone out of the wall and left. Seconds later, I heard a car speeding down the road.

Once I had heard the car leave, my body immediately unfroze and I along with Polly tried to help Dad. He was covered in blood. We dragged his body up the one step in our house and both started to try to do CPR on him. I couldn't bring myself to check his pulse because I already knew that he was dead. With every compression, more blood surged out of his throat. [My other younger sister, who was 13 at the time] Morgan* opened her bedroom door because she heard Polly and me trying to talk to Dad. Morgan came out of her room and started screaming with Dad lying at her feet. I then had to decide it was time to give up on Dad. We went looking for Mum, who was lying on the front veranda.


Mum was lying on the ground heavily bleeding from many wounds all over her body. She was still conscious. She asked if we were OK and once she saw all of us, she started directing us what to do. I got blankets and a few of our thick quilts, and wrapped Mum up in them to try to stop the bleeding.

I got Dad's phone and called the ambulance. Then Mum asked me to call our neighbor so she could watch the girls. Once I explained what was going on, she came over and I called Mum and Dad's best friends, Mark and Kylie, and told them there was an accident and they needed to come over.

When our neighbor came over, she got the girls to get their robes and kept them outside. When Mark and Kylie came over, Kylie sat next to Mum and talked to her while Mark went in to see Dad. He then came out and sat with Mum. I went into Mum and Dad's room to call the police, and the bed was covered in blood, and there was blood and Mum's hair all over the wall and door. The handset of the house phone was covered in hair and blood and was smashed over the floor of the bedroom.

I called the police and they needed me to look up my ex's address in the phone book because the people working at the emergency hotline couldn't.

When the ambulance arrived, they packed up mum. The last thing she said was that none of this was my fault. The police arrived shortly after and removed us all from the scene, so we all went across the road to our neighbor's house. My sisters and I silently sat on the floor and watched the crap television programming that is on at a quarter to 5 in the morning. I washed all the blood off my hands, face, and leg. My clothing was still covered in blood and because I didn't get a spare change of clothes, I had to borrow the clothing of my neighbor's grandson.

Just before the media started surrounding our house, Polly started asking for her teddy bear, so I went and politely asked the closest policeman if they could get it for her. He said he couldn't disturb the crime scene, and after an argument I didn't win, I had to go back and tell Polly that she had just had another thing taken away from her.

Once the numbers of reporters grew outside the house, we decided it was time to go around to Kylie and Mark's house. Once there, Kylie and I took the girls into one of the bedrooms, and I told them that Dad was dead, and that Mum was alive and had been taken to a larger hospital. I then had to call my Uncle David and tell him Dad had died and Mum was struggling to not die.

Once all of Mum's friends showed up at the house, two detectives turned up to the house and said I had to go with them to the station to give my statement. I was there for eight hours. After I finished at the station, we went straight to the hospital to see Mum.

The days following, I found myself surrounded by people who weren't making decisions for me, and I realized that with one single tragedy, I had become an adult. I was a week away from my 16th birthday and I was now making the decisions that would shape the future of our family. I was now the parent to my two sisters.

Because of signs of brain and lung damage (she struggles with memory a lot; doctors say it is very slight brain damage), my mother's recovery has been slow, but she's now working as a special education teacher. My ex is now serving a 24-year sentence with 16 years of no parole because he was a minor. I have a 10-year apprehended violence order on him, and my next problem will be renewing it. The AVO says he can't contact me in any way, including through other people.

Now at age 23, I try to stay strong for my two younger sisters while working as a fashion stylist. My PTSD intensifies to an unbearable degree around the holidays as I recall fond memories of my parents together, snapping endless photos of us.

A combination of desensitization therapy and my healthy relationship of three years has helped me. With my boyfriend's help, I found the right therapist. He attends sessions with me and even encouraged me to take time off university to look after my mental health. Dad's spirit lives on in our minds, and my boyfriend and I talk about him regularly. He even happily drives the four hours back to my hometown with me to visit his grave.

*Names have been changed
From: Cosmopolitan

INSPIRATION! Read The Stories Of 3 Iconic Women Who Didn't "Play Safe" To Get Successful

Get to know three incredible women who took risks that paid off in the end. Now, they're making their mark.

Naa-Sakle Akuete

Courtesy of subject

Founder and CEO, Eu'Genia Shea

By: Kelsey McKinney

If her mom hadn't battled two serious illnesses in two years, Naa-Sakle Akuete might never have founded her beauty company. In 2015, her mother, Eugenia Akuete, took a trip to her native Ghana after winning a two-year fight with colon cancer—only to return to Brooklyn with a serious bout of bacterial meningitis. She spent three days in the hospital, slipping in and out of a coma.

"It was pretty scary," says Naa-Sakle, 30. "For the first time in my life, I said, 'Screw it. I'm not doing the safe thing.'" And so, as Eugenia recovered that spring, Naa-Sakle quit her job at J.P. Morgan, leaving the stable paycheck and the suits behind, and joined forces with her mom to help run Naasakle Ltd., the company Eugenia had started more than 15 years earlier that sells bulk quantities of shea to global corporations, and to launch Eu'Genia Shea, a direct-to-consumer brand.

When it comes to shea, a thick salve with crazy moisturizing properties, the Akuetes are total pros. "I spend 20 minutes every morning shea-ing up," Naa-Sakle says, laughing. "I use it all over my body: my hands, my feet, my arms and legs, my face, even my hair." The formulation she uses isn't the store-bought lotion with a dash of natural plant fat you see on shelves in the U.S. It's the strong stuff—with a high percentage of butter that makes her skin silky and soft. Naa-Sakle got the goods from her mom, who, in the decade prior to her illnesses, had established herself as a force in Ghana's shea butter industry: In addition to founding Naasakle Ltd. in 2000, Eugenia was named president of the Global Shea Alliance in 2012, advising Ghana's then-president on how to take advantage of shea exports.

Since Eugenia had spent much of her daughter's teens and 20s overseas, Naa-Sakle used her mother's permanent return to the States as an excuse to find a way to be close to her every single day. She discussed with her husband the idea of quitting Wall Street to take over her mom's company and start her own. "He said, 'Now's the time. We don't have kids. I have a job. I trust you. This is a good product. Let's see how it goes,'" she says.

The decision to go rogue was quite a departure from Naa-Sakle's background. As the child of immigrants—her parents fled Ghana in the late '70s after a political coup—she was taught about the importance of a good education and a stable job. Naa-Sakle attended Wellesley College, then worked at Lehman Brothers and Barclays, got her MBA at Harvard, and ulti- mately landed at J.P. Morgan. "It was a long time coming, given how careful I've been my entire life," she says. "I'm still kind of amazed I did this. But I'm so happy that I did it." And the businesses are flourishing: Naasakle Ltd.'s revenue has quadrupled, and Eu'Genia Shea recently participated in the Sephora Accelerate beauty boot camp. Best of all, Naa-Sakle's mom is now healthy, and they get to share this new adventure together.

Angela Duckworth

Christopher Lane/Contour/Getty Images

Founder and Scientific Director, Character Lab

By: Karen Schwartz

Grit—the perfect storm of passion and practice—allows even the most mediocre of minds to achieve success, and success is attainable for everyone, says Angela Duckworth. The 46-year-old University of Pennsylvania professor and psychologist shot to national prominence when she published Grit: The Power of Passion and Perseverance, which topped best-seller lists last year.

Her book, as well as much of Duckworth's research on the psychology that helps chil- dren thrive, isn't about rebelling, per se. It's about the fruits of focused enthusiasm. But Duckworth's own story began with a bit of professional defiance.

After pursuing a relatively traditional (and impressive) path—Harvard undergraduate degree, master's in neuroscience from Oxford University, a gig at consulting firm McKinsey & Company—Duckworth left the lucrative corpo- rate world to teach seventh-grade math in a New York City public school. "Instead of going to medical school like a good Asian girl, I decided to go teach poor kids," she says. "I grew up with Chinese parents, and the idea of public service was just very foreign. Going to help strangers, who, by the way, were not your race—they just didn't get it. My dad was like, 'I sent you to Harvard for this?'" Duckworth moved in with her now-husband to save on rent, allowing her to quit her job at McKinsey. Over the next five years, she taught math in New York, San Francisco, and Philadelphia.

Duckworth felt a change in the way people responded to her job title. McKinsey elicited praise and envy. Seventh-grade math teacher? Not so much. But that didn't sway Duckworth's conviction that she'd made the right choice.

Her work as a teacher inspired her to go back to school to study psychology. "I hadn't figured out how to give [my students] the skills and habits they needed—skills that were not part of the math curriculum, but part of the life curriculum," she explains. At 32, Duckworth began the Ph.D. program at Penn.

Since then, Duckworth's work has received numerous awards, including a MacArthur "genius" Fellowship. She also founded, and now serves as scientific director for, the nonprofit Character Lab, whose mission is to advance the science and practice of character development.

Duckworth's big career takeaway? "I have always done whatever the hell I want," she says. "None of us are going to be here in 100 years." Just go for it.

Sarah Robb O'Hagan

Courtesy of subject

CEO, Flywheel Sports

By: Colleen McKeegan

This time last year, Sarah Robb O'Hagan told the team she had led for four years as president of Equinox Fitness that she was leaving the company to write a book. A few days later, she panicked. "The first three months were totally disorienting," she recalls. The native New Zealander, who now lives in New York, had recently sold her proposal for career guide Extreme You: Step Up. Stand Out. Kick Ass. Repeat., out this month—yet she had never written more than a blog post. She had thousands of thoughts on what it meant to be an "Extremer," but strug- gled to communicate her message.

Robb O'Hagan, 44, has always been a bit daring, but within the safety of a job. She is, after all, an Extremer, which she describes as an executive with a "sense of rebelliousness about their own potential." They're not brainiac Einsteins, skipping grades and exuding suc- cess at a young age. They can be B students with drive and a penchant for following their gut. Extreme You is filled with stories about the ups and downs of Robb O'Hagan's career— most notably her inclination to push back against those who didn't believe in her vision.

Yet taking an abrupt break from corporate life just as her star neared its apex? That was Robb O'Hagan's most surprising move. "I needed solitude in my life to think about what I wanted," she explains. It was hard to turn down the many job opportunities that came her way in the months after she left Equinox, but she focused on writing her book and figuring out what, exactly, she wanted out of the next phase of her career. "I definitely had freak-outs, just because I couldn't see a clear path," she says.

Then along came Flywheel Sports. The indoor-cycling company's chairman reached out to Robb O'Hagan last fall. She initially played coy, but as she learned more, she felt it philosophically aligned with Extreme You. This February, the company announced Robb O'Hagan as its CEO.

If she hadn't quit her job at Equinox after she felt like her growth had stagnated, Robb O'Hagan says, she wouldn't have found this new opportunity: "I believe to reach your own potential, you have to break yourself to make yourself."

This article appears in the April issue of Marie Claire, on newsstands now.

Read The Stories Of Women Sharing What It's Like to Date an Ex

Even when you know there was a good reason you and your ex broke up, that reason can become difficult to remember when you're looking into each other's eyes and laughing at inside jokes. Maybe that's why almost half of people have slept with their exes. But is it worth it to get back into a relationship, or will you just experience the same heartache all over again?

We got a few women to reveal what happened when they got back together with exes—the good, the bad, and the ugly—and it looks like it can really go either way. Here are some of their most telling stories:





"I did the classic long-distance thing my first year of college. My boyfriend and I broke up during the summer following freshman year. We got back together days later. We were each other's first loves and were too devastated to stay broken up. Then we broke up for good a few months later. I don't regret the long distance at all, even though it's a cliché. Most of the relationship was wonderful and worth it. That is, all except those last few months when we had gotten back together. Those sucked because I think we both knew it wasn't going to work. I still don't regret it, though, because I think if we hadn't gotten back together I would always have wondered if it could have worked out if we'd tried again." —Ellen, 25


"We didn't see each other for a while after breaking up. Then we had drinks and ended up having sex. I hadn't had sex in months, and I thought he was the only person I could be with (I don't know why I thought that). Then I saw in his Instagram that he was seeing somebody else, and suddenly I realized I wanted to be with him again. We got back together for a few months, and it was a disaster. Terrible idea. Now I feel so dumb for going back just because of insecurities and jealousy." —Alejandra, 31

"So many exes. Lots of rekindling. There's a reason they're exes. Leopards don't change their stripes. You kind of convince yourself that a remaining connection means more than it actually does. Like it's supposed to work out if people are still attracted to each other, but that's not the case. It usually unfolds in exactly the same way." —Jenny, 34

"I met Matt online when I was 25 and new to New York City. He was nice and smart and husband material, but I wasn't looking for a husband. When I broke up with him after about two months, I asked him to stay in my life as a friend. We were friends—with benefits—until I got partying out of my system and was ready to get married. We both dated other people—I even set him up once! But eventually we got married . Now we have two kids and live in the 'burbs." —Jen, 39

"I broke up with the last guy [I dated] a total of three times. Both times I took him back, I knew he wasn't good for me. I didn't even really like him that much anymore and knew my friends wouldn't approve... but I felt like I owed him the chance for some reason. The first time, he had just gotten fired from his job. The other time was a few months later, after a two-month split. It took another six months for me to realize my self-worth and leave him for good. I'm sure some of our problems were my fault, but in retrospect, he was incredibly emotionally abusive and had a way of making me feel like I owed him something, even when I hated how I felt around him. We've been broken up for seven months now, and I feel completely emotionally stable." —Nina, 31

"We broke up two times after our first breakup—for the same reasons. I don't think it was a mistake, as we had some really nice times when we got back together. But it ended the same way and just took up more of my life. I learned that it's important to get closure. We just stopped speaking when we first broke up, so getting closure the last time we split was really good. I didn't realize it was missing until I had it." —Amanda, 27

Have you ever gotten back together with an ex? Do you regret it?

How Much Is Emma Watson Being Paid for Beauty and the Beast?

Equal pay for equal work isn't exactly a tale as old as time in Hollywood, but things are looking up, at least for Emma Watson: It's been confirmed the actress stands to make bank for carrying the sure-to-be smash box-office hit Beauty in the Beast on her shoulders.





According to The Hollywood Reporter, Watson is raking in $3 million upfront for her starring role as Belle in the live-action version of the 1991 animated classic, though she stands to make up to $15 million if the movie cleans up at the box office (which it likely will—the movie is projected to rake in somewhere between $120 million to $140 million in its first weekend alone). For Watson to receive the full amount, the movie would have to gross $759 million worldwide, about as much as the Angelina Jolie–led Maleficentdid. And while Disney isn't always known for shelling out big bucks for every potential A-list star—the studio reportedly refused to pay Will Smith $20 million for a role in Tim Burton's upcoming adaptation of Dumbo—the studio does when it makes sense, as Jolie famously commanded a whopping $20 million payday, in addition to profit participation for *Maleficent, THR* reports.

Watson, of course, is no stranger to cashing in on cult-favorite hits. For the Harry Potterfilms, our Hermione reportedly scored $60 million total. And it's no surprise that Beauty has proved to be such a big-ticket item, especially considering its beast of a marketing strategy. The movie has been channeled into themed products galore—some might say to the point of fatigue—such as makeup, nail polish, phone cases, a $280 Le Creuset soup pot covered in roses, and much more.

The issue of women getting paid what they're worth is more important than ever, considering how widespread the wage gap is between men and women in most industries, but especially in Hollywood. Watson, an outspoken feminist, has advocated in the past for equal pay, a topic stars like Jennifer Lawrence, Sharon Stone, Natalie Portman, Emmy Rossum, Jennifer Aniston, and Emma Stone have been rightfully vocal about, as well.

Here's What Happened After 14 Ladies Tried Using Food as Foreplay

Yes, sure, whipped cream lingerie or ice cream oral might sound hot, but explaining the sugary stains on your sheets and favorite bra to your judgmental dry cleaner is a hell no one deserves. Below, 12 people get real AF about what it's actually like to combine food and sex and oh boy, way too many people are putting Pop Rocks too close to their junk. PSA: It's 2017 and hopefully this doesn't need to be said, but please don't put food *inside* your vagina.

1. "My boyfriend and I were watching TV and he had a craving for peanut butter. So we got a jar and started eating from it, and some of it fell on my thigh. I was wearing shorts, so instead of just cleaning it off with a napkin, he says, "Stop! Wait!" and licked it off, and it was so intriguing! So we went from the living room to the bedroom, and we started making out. When we were getting ready to have sex, I dipped my finger in the jar and dragged the peanut butter on both my nipples and a trail down all the way down to my vagina. Slowly, he started to lick everything off! And it was so hot! The tension build up was incredible and when he went down to lick up the peanut butter he ate me out and it was f*cking fantastic! What we liked was that it wasn't at all messy because peanut butter isn’t as liquefied as chocolate is. It was the start of brand new experiences for the both of us!" —Cristal, 25

2. "One of my first experiences using food in the bedroom was actually ice cream and it turned into some of the best foreplay I've ever had. We were naked in bed with a tub of ice cream and we were kissing mid-scoop. He then started taking mouthfuls of ice cream and sucking on my nipples whilst the ice cream melted in his mouth, which felt incredible. He then started to drip ice cream on the area of my stomach just below my navel and began to lick it off. He then moved lower and was using his tongue on my clit. I've done this with ice in the past and I've found it way too intense, to the point where I don't enjoy it. But the ice cream wasn't quite as cold as the ice and so it was the most amazing sensation on my body. My boyfriend then took a big mouthful of ice cream to let his tongue get really cold and went on to stick his tongue inside me, sending tingles all the way up my spine. I had a pretty intense orgasm after that, then decided it was his turn. I alternated between mouthfuls of ice cream (which was pretty much melted at this point) and using my mouth on him — safe to say he came fairly quickly too." —Georgia, 21

3. "I blindfolded and tied up my boyfriend and made him guess where he was licking the whipped cream off of: My wrist, lips, neck, stomach, nipple, or vagina. Every time he got it wrong I whipped him and every time he got it right I licked him back. The experience was silly but still sexy. It was extremely messy and sticky but we just hopped in the shower afterwards." —Stacy, 27

4. "My fiancé and I decided to spice things up and bring some chocolate into the bedroom. The plan was that it would be warmed up so we could drizzle it on each other. Since this was our first time doing this we weren't sure what type of chocolate to use, so I decided to microwave up some leftover Easter bunny chocolate. Big mistake! I got it way too hot and right when things heated up, literally and in the bedroom, I went to drizzle it over my fiancé's abs and his sexy smirk went to a horrified scream really fast! I ended up burning him with the chocolate! He had a burn mark that lasted almost a week! Needless to say, now we stick to chilled chocolate syrup or chocolate covered strawberries if we ever want to try to indulge a little more in bed!" —Christina, 25

5. "I am a woman, and I was in bed with another woman. We peeled a banana, and she stuck it in her vagina, so it was sticking out like a penis. I mimicked fellatio while putting the banana in my mouth, and then slowly ate pieces of it. The act itself was funny, and we had a good laugh about it together. It wasn't messy at all, and it led into fruity tasting oral sex." —Lolela, 26

6. "During high school my first boyfriend decided to add a little excitement by putting Pop Rocks on his tongue then going down on me. The popping sensation was unpleasant and unsettling. We shelved the Pop Rocks, candy is meant to be eaten not put on sensitive vaginas". —Rebecca, 21

7. "I tried food in the bedroom with honey. It was my ex boyfriend's idea to pour a line of honey from his chest down to his crotch. As soon as I licked the honey off his chest I gagged. It was too sweet for me and it was all sticky. We laughed and washed it off by having shower sex. From then on, the only reason I bring food into the bedroom now is to only watch some Netflix or Hulu." —Angel, 21

8. "I tried it once with yogurt. My partner dumped it on me and licked it off. It was very messy and it was all crusty on me and the sheets the next morning. I wouldn't recommend it because of the mess. I also used Pop Rocks while giving a blow job it was sticky and awkward... Not sexy at all." —Lindsay, 35

9. "It was very impromptu, we decided that whipped cream would be a fun way to spice up foreplay. Having been both of our first experiences with food in the bedroom, we sprayed it on some sensual parts of our bodies, and then ate it off! It didn't go exactly as I had imagined it! It was super messy, and ended up all over the sheets. It was a great experience for us, however, we both laughed the whole time, (some whipped cream got stuck in my bellybutton and he had to lick it... I'm super ticklish)! I think it helps when you're comfortable with each other, and it brought us closer together as a couple. If anything, it opened us both up to trying new things together. Keep in mind, if you decide to try it, to stay away from anything sticky!" —Hannah, 21

10. "I decided it was a good idea to use a Fruit By the Foot in the bedroom. I wrapped a Fruit Roll-Up around his member before giving a blow job, leaving the tip exposed and throwing the leftover rollup away. They're tasty so why not? It was definitely a little messy being that it gets sticky when mixed with spit, but it didn't hinder the experience of it all. It was a success and both of us enjoyed it. I probably liked it a little more just because it gave a creative spin on something that can grow routine and mundane after time." —Kerri, 23

11. "My ex and I actually tried the grapefruit blowjob. My ex was actually the one who wanted to do it after I showed him the video; we planned the whole following day around it. Once we started getting into it, when I got to use the grapefruit, we clearly didn't leave it out of the fridge long enough, because right when I put it on his dick, he shrieked and threw himself against the wall. So pro tip, make sure it is ACTUALLY room temperature. Once we warmed it up and got going, it was a lot of fun. For me, it tasted delicious and made giving head a lot more enjoyable. He enjoyed it and said it was something he's never felt before. Since we used this as foreplay, having sex after was a bit tricky as there was grapefruit ALL over his dick and it was extremely messy. Plus I don't really want grapefruit juices inside of me and giving me some awful bacterial infection. It is a bit messy to do often, but would do it again for special occasions." —Alex, 20

12. "A few weeks ago, my boyfriend and I thought it would be really hot if I were to stick a Krispy Kreme donut on his special area and eat it off. It turned out to be super messy because the icing chipped off everywhere when I was trying to slip in on there, but still it was still delicious. Overall, we would totally do it again." —Devon, 19

These confessions have been lightly edited for length and clarity.

v

How A Church Almost Ruined My Life And How I escaped From Their Polygamous LifeStyle

Married at 19 to the 85-year-old Prophet of the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, Rebecca Musser thought she was free after his death seven years later—until she was told she must remarry. So she escaped from her faith, family, and the only way of life she had ever known.

I had one week to choose a new husband. In absolute agony, I felt as if I were already falling to my death—all roads seemed to lead to a hopeless future. Four days before the deadline, I glanced into the mirror before bed—my eyes were sunken and colorless, surrounded by graying, sallow skin. Months of righteous fasting for the failing health of my late husband, Rulon Jeffs, had played havoc on my body, but it was my spirit that felt broken. After years of striving to be a good church member and a good wife—one of 65—to a man chosen for me, I was tired. Trying to look at my options with less fear, I kept coming up against a door I didn't dare open. If I did, I would have to rely on the kindness of the outside world. That thought petrified me, nearly as much as marrying again. I couldn't begin to think of how to live among the wicked, corrupt, ignorant, and unkind people of this world, as outsiders had been described to us since birth.





Wicked … Unkind … Was that really my experience? Memories flooded my mind: neighbors offering sympathy and supplies after my childhood house burned down; a former violin teacher who nurtured my talent; the owner of a stringed-instrument shop who encouraged me to play—I took a long, hard look at all the things that new church leader Warren Jeffs had said were absolutely true that I knew were not. If I was going to leave, I would have to take a chance on that outside world, whatever it held for me.

In the predawn hours of a Sunday morning in 2002, I put a note on my bed for my mom and my sisters. Taking an exit to avoid the cameras and security patrol on the Jeffs' sprawling estate, I pushed the heavy oak door of the mansion quietly behind me until I heard the latch click shut. My heart pounding, I walked as casually as if I were out for a stroll. I made my way around the side, then turned toward the fence. The gates were locked, as I knew they would be. I scaled the tall fence that protected the Jeffs family from "outsiders and wicked apostates." In doing so, I became one of them.

The spikes at the top of the 6-foot-high wrought-iron gate I had to slip over were tricky to manage in my long skirt, yet nothing compared to the half-mile walk I had to trek to meet Ben, who would meet me in his brother's truck. Technically, he was my grandson, as he was the 19-year-old grandson of Rulon and one of my sister-wives. He had shown kindness to me, telling me not to be forced into doing anything I didn't want to do. Without him, all was lost. I had no escape route and no time for a new plan. Between the horror stories I knew from the inside, and with the police in Warren's pocket (God's law was above man's law, we were told, and law enforcement in our area was either the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints or affiliated with the FLDS), I could not win on my own.


My heart pumped wildly as we passed our neighbors' homes on the way to Highway 59, which would draw us away from Utah toward Las Vegas. In the silence of the growing light, I stole furtive glances at Ben, whom I barely knew. I had just left everything and nearly everyone I'd ever known, and so had he. We were headed to Oregon, where my brother Cole lived. He had been kicked out of the FLDS six years earlier when he tried to shield our younger siblings from a beating.

Matt Spencer

For the two days before the escape, I had attended every meal and class so it wouldn't occur to Warren that anything was different. It had been agonizing deciding what to pack besides my violin. Carefully, I had selected only a few favorite long dresses, my photos and scrapbooks, and my sewing machine and boxes of material—besides music lessons, sewing would be my only way to make a living on the outside. I'd had to sneak the most important items out without being seen, then hide them somewhere off the Jeffs' estate. Though neither a liar nor a thief, I'd had to steal my own belongings away to claim my very life.

I had worked for so many years to be an example to my family and my community, and that thought made me want to stop and go back. But the knowledge of my destiny under Warren brought reason. When my letter of explanation was discovered in the light of day, Warren was adamant in the order he issued to the community: Find us before nightfall "to save that girl's soul before she commits adultery." Many of Warren's brothers and several members of the God Squad were sent on a massive manhunt for us, scouring Colorado City, St. George, Cedar City, and environs. As the former Prophet's widow, I knew far too much about the inner workings of the Jeffs family and the true undertakings of the FLDS. I was a dangerous liability to the new Prophet.

People at rest stops and restaurants stared curiously at our attire and my hairstyle. A woman's hair, usually worn piled high atop her head, was her crowning glory. As Mary and another woman did to Christ in Luke in the New Testament, a wife will wash her husband's feet, anoint them with oil, then dry them with her long hair. That's why an FLDS woman is never to cut her hair. The FLDS bought hairspray by the caseful.

Once in Oregon, I was paralyzed by fear of the outside world. I had no idea how to do my hair, how to dress, and what social rituals to follow. The only clothes I owned were the long prairie dresses of the FLDS dress code, and I continued poufing my hair. When Cole took me shopping, with literally no idea what to choose, I ended up with a jogging suit and a shirt in the shocking and once-forbidden shade of red. (Rulon said it signaled a proud and immoral woman.) Afterward, at a hair salon, I blanched as yards and yards of my rich brown hair hit the ground. Even though it felt so foreign and naked, I thought perhaps I could live with short hair. The next day, it didn't look anything like it had the day before. Not only was my hair gone, it now looked ugly and made me feel that way inside. For days, I cried in private, feeling homesick and missing my mother and sisters and friends desperately.

In the meantime, Ben and I needed to start earning money immediately. Two weeks and countless applications later, we both got jobs at restaurants. Everything was new, thrilling, and sobering to me. Excitedly, I called my mother, anxious to share with her what I was learning in life and through books. While she was glad to know I was safe, she told me I was trading my salvation for material goods. Warren had warned that anyone who associated with either of us would be considered traitorous and deeply immoral. Our families were not to contact us—their eternal salvation was at stake—so she was risking everything by the very act of communicating with me.

Courtesy of Rebecca Musser

When I watched television, I was surprised and often scandalized by how different it was from when we were kids and allowed only certain programs (Little House on the Prairie, Mister Rogers' Neighborhood, and Sesame Street until it, like cartoons, was deemed idolatrous for imitating God's creations). One day, Cole insisted that I watch a movie called The Truman Show. The main character, Truman Burbank, was adopted as a baby by a television studio. Every important person in his life is an actor, every part of his life a set—but he doesn't know it. Whenever he wants something the production team can't provide, he's told that it's just not available. He has inklings things aren't right and finally realizes that his life is a total lie—set up for the camera. When Truman finally makes it to the edge of a painted canvas and recognizes it for what it is, he walks off the set and into his new life.

The movie was a mirror of my own life. Before every decision I'd ever made, I'd asked myself, "What would the Prophet have me say? What would the Prophet have me do?" For every question, there had been an appropriate, programmed answer. I was never allowed my own opinion; I had never developed the ability to choose. All of my people were like that, too. I gave myself permission to look deeply at polygamy in a way I never had before. Nothing seemed holy about the structure that must be in place for polygamy to work. Why would God put a roughly equal number of males and females on the earth if He wanted a polygamous society? This structure meant that women don't get the time, affection, and validation they so crave. And because only a select number of male leaders are righteous enough to receive multiple wives, not only do an extraordinarily high number of young men get kicked out, but the marriageable girls become increasingly younger as demand intensifies.

Throw all of these factors into a climate in which the leaders make the people feel as if they can never question those leaders because that means questioning God Himself, then one has a recipe for spiritual abuse. Every way that I examined it, it was neither healthy nor holy. Why could no one see it? Because they would not—unless, like me, they were denied the good graces of Warren Jeffs. All I knew was that I did not want that perverse dictator running my show ever again.

POSTSCRIPT: Rebecca Musser, now 37, was the key state witness in the 2008 trials of Warren Jeffs and several FLDS leaders. In 2011 Jeffs, who counted a 12- and 15-year-old among his reported 80 wives, was convicted of sexual assault and aggravated sexual assault of a minor and is serving a life sentence plus 20 years in a Texas prison. Musser, a motivational speaker and the founder of Claim Red Foundation, which supports victims of human trafficking, lives in Idaho with her two children. The FLDS, based in Arizona and Utah, maintains a membership estimated between 6,000 and 10,000.

Excerpted from The Witness Wore Red: The 19th Wife Who Brought Polygamous Cult Leaders to Justice by Rebecca Musser with M. Bridget Cook. Copyright © 2013 by Rebecca Musser. Reprinted by permission of Grand Central Publishing. All rights reserved.

I Can't Stop Responding After I Began a Private Facebook Friendship with My Ex's Wife

Of all possible illicit online liaisons, how did I wind up with my first lover's wife?

I fell for David when I was 14. But after six years together, I had a birth control mishap, an abortion, a meltdown and a humiliating split I couldn't erase—since he refused to speak to me. While I was friendly with other exes, this initial heartbreak remained foggy and unfinished.

By 35, I was married to a taller, sweeter man, sure I'd completely recovered from my first disastrous breakup. Yet during years of difficult fertility treatments, I was haunted by the pregnancy I'd ended in college. Was being barren punishment for not becoming a young mother? I feared I'd ruined my last chance. Should I have kept the baby? I craved an answer to that lingering question.





The Internet led me back to David, 500 miles away. I emailed him, asking to discuss our painful falling out two decades earlier.

"I'd rather take out my own appendix with a bottle of Jack and a dull spoon," he answered.

Still sardonic, the quality that originally attracted me. "Why?" I pushed.

"Let's leave the bad memories intact. Am I scared to see you again? Fucking right I am," he wrote. "Think you're still nuts? Is a trout's ass watertight? Can we finish with the joint therapy session now?"

This sarcastic exchange completed the chapters of my memoir that were focused on him. Upon publication, I sent him an O Magazine review of my book that included his quote, adding "It was just optioned by a film producer." I hoped he'd talk now that my romantic trajectory—and his fateful rejection—was deemed cinema-worthy.

"Hey, that's great," he replied this time.

I was relieved. Mature adults, we were over the past. No harm done. Trauma averted.

Until the next email: From his wife.

"Congrats on all ur success," she wrote.

He must have forwarded my message to her. I worried they'd shared a computer and joked about the original Crazy Ex-Girlfriend who wouldn't leave. I awaited a "get away from my husband" admonishment.

Instead she wrote, "I'd like Eva Mendes to play my part in the movie."

I wondered what she really wanted from me. To see what I looked like or if we were similar? To gloat? I decided his wife—let's call her "Eva"—was a test I had to pass to get a last heart-to-heart with her spouse. Assuming he was reading along, I typed how pretty she'd looked in a sparkly black dress at a party. I'd spied the picture web-stalking a classmate's Instagram, curious if David still had hair.

When Eva requested a Facebook friendship, I was flattered. Why not add her? Here's why not:

"No offense, but maybe think about losing the bangs?" she wrote. "Ur gorgeous, but darlin' it's aging u." She added, "p.s. Ur facebook entries suck ass. U write beautifully, but social media, not so much. I'm available for 50 bucks an hour :)"

This semi-stranger using tween slang wanted me to pay her to edit my web profile? Rather than finding my path to emotional resolution, I'd stepped on a landmine. Guess I wasn't the only one harboring hidden animosity.


Annoyed by her insults, I investigated her Facebook wall. No job mention, lots of selfies, Woody Allen quotes, an article "Do you Suffer from Decision Fatigue?" In khaki shorts, T-shirt, and sneakers, she looked like a cute camp counselor. There were few pictures of David. I was disappointed that their teenage son resembled her, not her husband, curious to revisit the curly red-haired science-brain I'd met in ninth grade.

Looking through her albums, I relived my six years with David. He was the first to take me to bed, to get me high at a Dylan concert, to give me jewelry (a gold heart necklace), to say "I love you." (Actually I blurted it out and he asked, "Think I'd put up with your insanity if I didn't love you too?") Despite our intense passion, we were socially acceptable, cruising to our little brothers' Bar Mitzvahs in his silver Camaro, blessed by our parents. Hooking up in Israel during my summer study abroad, it felt like we were both hot and holy, tricking the world.

Then, in college, despite using condoms, I found myself three weeks late. He proposed. But I was petrified, not ready for parenthood. After terminating the pregnancy, I had a drug and alcohol-fueled breakdown at 20, smoking, drinking, doing magic mushrooms and coke. Afraid of sex, David, and my body, I told him, "I need some time alone." When I resurfaced to apologize three months later, he wouldn't return my calls. He kept sending me agonized Bob Dylan lyrics in the mail. I assumed that meant he still cared.


So at two a.m. one autumn Friday, I impulsively drove my orange Cutlass four hours to his university in the middle of the night to ask why he was sending me cryptic typed-out words to Blood on the Tracks. He never really answered, though he did admit that he'd fallen for a petite girl who was under his covers in the other room. With Eva asleep in his bed, I cried in his arms on his living room couch. Then I drove home, sobbing to the Dylan bootleg he'd made me. It became the soundtrack of my dark era.

After graduation, I heard he landed a great job, married Eva and welcomed a son. Broke and adrift, I envied their prosperity and perfect family. When a friend said Eva's second child died in infancy, I was stunned, mournful for them. It threw me back to my own lost baby.

It turned out while I'd been burning to know their story, my memoir had ignited Eva's curiosity about me.

"Why did you change everyone's name in your book?" she now emailed.

"The Random House lawyer suggested pseudonyms," I explained.

"Why did you turn my dead daughter into a dead son?" she asked.

This stopped me. I felt guilty for appropriating her trauma. "I'm so sorry. It was a mistake," was how I finished this eerie cyber-chat with my one-time rival.

Yet Eva wasn't through with me. She disclosed that during my calamitous road trip, while she was in his bed, she'd been in lust with her Shakespeare professor. So while David was breaking my heart, he didn't know she'd been breaking his. Was she being competitive by confessing this? I'd just published a book about my old lovers, after all. Rather than regaining David's attention, I was stuck e-waltzing with his angry spouse. She'd been a mythical figure—the petite size-two brunette he'd chosen over me. (I was size eight on a good day. Was that why?)



"You look thin and lovely on TV," she wrote next, admitting that he hadn't encouraged her writing; he insisted their problems not be aired in public. I liked the idea that she might envy me.


"He loved being quoted in your book and O Magazine," she added.

It was electrifying to have a spy in his house, the least likely turncoat I could have imagined.

"He Googled?" I asked anxiously.

"He ran out to get a copy," she clarified. "Might be the first time he was in a bookstore."

More than any book press or old friends resurfacing for my launch, Eva's words compelled me. I couldn't stop reading and answering, like I was high on cocaine. In abbreviated missives, she confessed her own union was passionless, detailing their sexual problems. I'd unwittingly stumbled on the juiciest of insider scoops: The stud who'd left me for a hotter woman had been karmically avenged by discord in his marital bed.

A day later, Eva apologized for being "bitchy" and "passive-aggressive," saying "Have NO idea why I am writing such personal things to u. Will blame it on alcohol, heat wave, lack of impulse control." So she had an addictive personality—something else we shared. Clean and sober for years, I was getting swept up in a new compulsion: emailing my first boyfriend's mate.

It turned out she was Jewish, cynical, well-read. An English major. My age. Were we doppelgängers who switched lives? She'd aimed to publish too, but didn't know her subject.

"Try chronicling this electronic tête-à-tête with your husband's high school girlfriend," I offered.

"Then he'd know we're in touch," she said.

The revelation that he didn't know came as a surprise, and I was confused over who I should feel loyal to. If I ever told him, it might damage their marriage. If I didn't, I'd feel like I was her co-conspirator, trashing him—betraying my ex with the woman he'd once betrayed me for. In between work and the evening classes I taught, I kept checking my in-box to see what else Eva revealed.

This time she was the one alienated, frustrated, lonely in an empty relationship. Content in work and love at last, I expected vindication to wash over me. Yet knowing my first lover's wife was hurting made me sad and bizarrely worried. Underneath her snide tone, she seemed confused—like I used to be—pent-up, career-less, repressed in the conservative milieu I'd escaped.

"My shrink advised me to 'Lead the least secretive life,'" I wrote to her.

"Why am I confiding in you?" she questioned (me or herself?)

"Does a memoirist delving into unresolved pain hold up a mirror?" I asked.

"Am very entertained by this repartee :) PLEASE give me a subject. Will be one of ur protégées."

The wife of my worst heartbreak wanted me as her mentor. I used to envy her marriage, now she coveted my career. I felt emboldened. "Get an MFA. Write a book about the daughter you lost." I tried to assist her, unlock her, give her permission. "Two of my students published momoirs. They're hot." I listed bestsellers on motherhood, then worried I sounded insensitive. She didn't seem to mind.

"Ur a real firecracker," she answered. "Thanks."



But I wondered if I was I helping her, or updating my early amorous loss, so that this round, instead of playing the discarded girl, I'd be the heroine who won. After more intense cyber-volleys, my brain, husband, and therapist insisted: disconnect. To avoid staying stuck in the past, I quietly un-friended her, leaving the woman I'd over-connected with online, but had never even met.

The intimate portrait Eva provided offered an illuminating coda, clearing up many misconceptions: Waiting a decade longer than her to wed didn't ruin me, it saved me. Those extra ten years single allowed me time to finish graduate school and develop two professions I adored, with the help of a smart therapist who said, "Love won't make you happy. Make yourself happy."

Just as I let go of the fantasy that I needed to talk to my first ex in order to fully heal, he returned.

While he was visiting New York, he emailed, casually asking if I wanted to get together, as if I hadn't been begging for this rendezvous half our lives. I quickly showered, shampooed, put on makeup, flattering jeans, heels, perfume. When he came over, I stared at him. He was still cute, less burly, with hair (though it was thinner). Luckily there was no heat. We talked nostalgically for an hour, sipping bottled water. In retrospect, we were ridiculously mismatched; all we had in common was our history. Not wanting to hurt their marriage, I kept what Eva confided to myself.

The next day, I wondered why he'd finally reappeared.

"I wonder if Eva pushed him to meet with you?" my husband said.

Was I no longer a threat?

A few years later, when I learned they'd divorced, I guessed another reason Eva may have sent him to me: she no longer cared. Catching up with my first boyfriend felt sweet and healing. But it was nowhere near as charged, confessional, and intensely compelling as my clandestine email madness with his wife. She gave me the closure he couldn't.

Susan Shapiro is the author of the WHAT'S NEVER SAID and FIVE MEN WHO BROKE MY HEART. You can follow her on Twitter at @Susanshapironet.