Boyfriend Or Blemish? That Is The Question...

I stare at him, his swollen, enlarged head thrust out before me, practically oozing, begging for release. Wet lips pursed ever so slightly, my hands fumble for just the right position. Neck craned, cheeks puffed out. My breathing slows, I swallow hard and pray, pray there won't be too much of a mess to clean up.

I haven't done this in a while...But this zit must be destroyed.

"Everyone does it," she says, eying her own imperfections in my mirror, despite my devout declaration there are none to be found. "It's just a matter of when you let him see you doing it."

Like porn, I offer up for example.

She turns on flamboyant heel, a frustrated professor schooled in but one subject: Men. "No, showing him your dirty porn collection can only bring you closer together," she instructs. "But pimples...there's no way to make a creamy pustule sexy."

And that got me thinking. Surely there comes a time in every relationship when the delicate matter of "personal bodily functions" rises to the surface. Discussing, or rather, experiencing these moments together -- the first belch, the first fart, the first time you catch him wearing girl's panties -- somehow, couples manage to survive. Made stronger even, I hear, when both of you can be in the bathroom at the same time and only one is going number two.

But when is it a good time to discuss bad skin?

Do you cancel a first date because your forehead looks like the coat rack at Nobu, or should you confront the issue blackhead-on and inform him you'll be coming to bed donning a crusty peroxide face mask from now until you're both 40?

The issue at hand is not nearly as superficial as just wanting clear skin, for you or your mate. Our problem lies far more deep-rooted than that. Obviously, it would be ideal to live in Nicole Kidman's porcelain exterior morning, noon and night.

But for those of us not biblically blessed with such seemingly natural beauty, there exists a system of regimented behavior patterns, habitual rituals of cleansing, detoxing and purifying the face, the exposure of which could send our newly established relationships from "too hot" to "so not" in a matter of seconds.

The question then, is it possible to have a blemish AND a boyfriend?

You see, recently I was making out with this guy whose flawless skin made my heart ache, literally. And when our sweaty saliva swapping session ceased, I told him I had to kick him out, not because it was our first date, not because I didn't like him, and certainly not because I wanted to avoid waking up the next morning wrapped in my sheets, in his arms. Far from it.

He had to exit because I had to exfoliate.

I chose not to explain that evening, though it quickly became apparent something was amiss. I was hiding a secret, and he was determined to uncover it.

"Do you snore, like, horrible train-wrecked kind of snoring?"

I looked at him, unsure how to respond. The truth is yes, I do snore, but that's not why these had remained sleepovers for one.

"Leg Thrasher?"

"Sleepwalker?"

"Have you killed your boyfriends while they slept at your side?"

He ran through the possible excuses, each one sounding more reasonable than the next. All, surprisingly, less embarrassing than the truth.

"Do you fart in your sleep? Is that why I can't stay over?"

It was the fifth date, the fifth night we spent together. And as I watched him roll over and reach for his shoes, as if his line of questioning was merely a rehearsed routine to carry us to the good byes, I realized he had given up on expecting an answer.

And that's when it hit me. This guy would risk getting kicked in the groin, stabbed through the neck and suffocate on my flatulence, all just to lie next to me until morning. I pulled him back onto the bed, and told him to wait there while I disappeared from the room.

Standing in front of the vanity mirror I took a moment to eye my products. Face wash, too normal. Tea Tree Oil, invisible to sight, yes, but overbearing to smell. Oxy, Clearasil, Noxzema. Globs of white goo plastered across my face, mountains forming in sporadic areas, a crazed connect-the-dots puzzle only a dermatologist would appreciate.

Then examining my masterpiece, I wondered if this suicide mission was worth it. I mean, would it really be so bad to just have him think I fart wildly in my sleep?

I must have stood there contemplating this for a while, long enough for the peroxide to begin to dry, when I heard a knock on the bathroom door.

"I'm taking off. I'll call you tomorrow."

It was now or never, to be or not to be alone for the rest of my life. And so I stretched for a moment, took one final look at my creation and kicked open the door, stepping out into the light, my cracked white face exposed for his final judgment.

"I'm here. I'm queer. And I have pimples!"

The next morning I rolled over to find, buried in my pillows, his perfect face, now bleached haphazardly with smeared remnants from my melange of zit creams.

After that night, I shuffled my facial routine from time to time, risking a break-out to avoid the break-up I had always feared.

Sadly, things did cool for us a few weeks later, though I'm utterly thankful to say it was not as a direct result of my own exposure. Actually, it was something that he did which pushed me to want out of the relationship:

He swallowed his floss.

Sick, right?