In truth, Marc and I weren’t so newly wed. We were legally married in a civil ceremony last year. But with his parents living in the Netherlands and my parents in Canada, our families decided to host two separate receptions. The first reception was held this spring in Rotterdam, Marc’s hometown, and from the beginning I knew it would be trouble.

“What will you wear?” Marc’s mother asked me over Skype one day.

“I was planning to wear the dress I wore for the civil ceremony,” I said. It was an adorable, custom-made number — a white, A-line strapless dress with a cerise organza ribbon at the waist.

“No, no, you can’t wear that,” my mother-in-law said. “That dress is ugly.”

She had always been a little too straightforward for my liking. But this time, her words stung more than usual. I felt my cheeks grow hot and I looked at my image on the computer screen. A slow Internet connection fragmented my flushed face like a shattered mirror.

“Ma,” Marc jumped in, “don’t be like that.” As their voices heated up, I slowly edged to my left, shuffling my feet until my splintered image disappeared from the screen. Then I dropped to the floor and started crawling on my hands and knees. I didn’t stop until I was well outside of the room. Thanks to Skype, I was able to literally drop out of sight when things got awkward. Unfortunately, that didn’t work as the wedding planning continued, and tensions continued to rise between my mother-in-law and me.

I rejected many of the outdated and rather kitschy Chinese wedding conventions she had in mind. I said “no” to the balloon decorations and “absolutely not” to karaoke during the reception. I said “no, thank you” to the bridesmaids she chose for me, “no” to multiple dress changes throughout the night, “no” to pinning a plastic flower on my dress with a ribbon labeling me as “The Bride” (as if the white dress were not a clear enough sign) and “hell, no” to shark fin soup.

“Don’t you understand? The guests will think I’m cheap if I don’t serve it,” my mother-in-law said, shrugging off my objections that shark finning was cruel and inhumane and throwing the world’s oceans out of whack. From her perspective, I must have seemed like the most ungrateful bride ever.

I’m sensible enough to know that a wedding isn’t just about what the bride wants. But the Holland reception was shaping up to be everything I didn’t want. I imagined standing in a room filled with balloons and large karaoke speakers squealing from the unimaginably high tones of someone belting out Chinese opera. I tried to envision greeting nearly 150 guests — many of whom I did not know — and then watching them happily slurp down glutinous bowls of shark fin soup. It was too much.

“Why does your family hate me?” I screamed at Marc. “Don’t they realize what a good daughter-in-law they have?” The truth was, his mother and father were fond of me. But the wedding wasn’t about me. It was about pleasing their guests.

“This is just one day in your entire life,” one friend said. “Don’t let it ruin your relationship with your in-laws.”

“Or your husband, for that matter!” another friend warned.

It was good advice, but I was stubborn and indignant, unable to let my fury go. Marc and I fought every week leading up to the wedding in Rotterdam. I blamed him for not standing up to his family. I blamed him for not properly explaining the cruelties of shark finning to his mother. I ridiculed the plastic flowers and the balloons.

“What is this? A child’s birthday party?” I screamed, half laughing and half crying. Marc managed to veto the balloons, the plastic flowers and the karaoke. But the shark fin and many other sore points remained. He felt helpless to change his own mother and to change how I felt about his mother. So when I found myself hunched over the toilet in that Rotterdam hotel, retching and in serious pain, I probably could have blamed Marc for that, too.

But what made me sick — even more sick than all that cognac — was to think that our own wedding reception had caused so much strife between us. Marc and I shared a beautiful story that began more than five years ago in Beijing, where we fell so deeply in love that even a subsequent two-year long-distance romance couldn’t keep us apart. The distance only made our bond stronger. Eventually, both of us would give up good jobs in great cities just to be together. How could it be that our wedding could threaten to shake the foundation of our marriage? That night I purged myself of all the anger and resentment that had piled up inside of me and sent it spiraling down that white, porcelain toilet bowl.

Marc had downed too much cognac himself and was struggling to stand. But his hand stayed on my back and his fingers continued to hold up my hair, until finally, more than three hours later, I was too weak to continue. Then he dragged my limp body across the hotel room to the bed before collapsing beside me. I woke up the next morning, my head pounding and the room still spinning. I turned over and saw Marc stumbling around the room, packing up our things so we’d be ready for checkout. It wasn’t the kind of wedding I’d expected. But in Marc, I saw everything I ever wanted in a husband.

It was only later that evening, when I took a table near the back and began eating dinner after my hosting duties had finished, that I looked at the program on the table. As I flipped through it, there was the guy who undressed me in the lobby. I couldn’t believe it: He was giving the keynote.

“That’s the speaker tonight?” I asked, leaning over casually to my girlfriend.

“Yes,” she said, laughing, “and I’m sure he’ll be very interested to meet you at the cocktail party after.”

At the time, I was a single mom who had just come out of a horrible marriage, and I was free for the first time in a while. Free to do whatever and see whomever I wanted. So I was intrigued by this man I knew nothing about. There was something inviting about him in a dark kind of way.

That night, we were all gathered at a cocktail party for VIPs. It was a small, intimate setting. As I stood there chatting with friends, a friend walked Herman over to where I was standing. I was so nervous. What do I say? How do I say it?

But he put me at ease. His smile was brighter than the sun itself. His charm filled the room. He asked if he could get me a drink, I agreed, and a few hours later I found myself walking him to his hotel room.

No, it’s not what you think — at least not yet. But it was whirlwind from the beginning. He told me he never felt this way before. Our connection was so strong, and he didn’t want tonight to be the last night for us. He pulled out his calendar and invited me to join him on a trip to West Palm Beach. He was traveling there within the next few weeks for a meeting and golf excursion with his board members. He told me he would take care of all the travel and expenses. He promised we’d have an amazing time together.

It was crazy. I barely knew this man. And he was married, too. But what can I say? He convinced me. There’s a reason Herman Cain commanded so much attention in his run for the presidency despite having so little actual experience. His wild combination of humor and unorthodox antics and risk-taking stunned me into going along with his impulsive plan. The man is seriously persuasive.

He kissed me passionately. A few days later, he called to tell me how thrilled he was that I’d be joining him. I couldn’t know then, but it was just the beginning – the beginning of many trips, many Fed Ex packages filled with cash, many visits, many dinners, many intimate nights, many phone calls and texts.

The thing is, I never once felt love for this person. For me, the relationship was more of an escape from my boring yet sometimes stressful life. It also allowed me to provide for my children while I was in and out of work. I’d been a successful businesswoman living in an exclusive neighborhood, but corporate America demanded too much of my soul. I can’t begin to tell you how many indecent proposals I got during my time there. How many married men were willing to cheat on their faithful and loyal wives. I saw it, I heard it, I lived it. Finally, I decided to leave it.

Over the years, Herman came in and out of my life. I married again, and stayed faithful to my husband, but when I split with him, Herman and I found one another again. It was an odd relationship, but it went on for a long time – 13 years, to be exact. During that time, many people knew of our relationship. More than I realized. But that didn’t matter until he decided to run for president of the United States.

Then, everything changed. Any time Herman was on the news or said something against women, gays, President Obama or poor people, I got a call or a text. My friends — at least, the ones I thought were my friends — were right on. They had every reason to dislike this person I’d shared intimate moments with. I was beginning to sicken of him myself – not just when I’d see him privately but when I’d see him on television. The thought of being with this man – of even being his friend — was getting tougher and tougher, but I felt I had no choice. I had to grin and bear it.

Financially, I was in trouble. After I left my corporate job, I wanted to do something meaningful, and I settled on health and fitness. My goal was to help men and women who didn’t feel so good about their bodies find more self-confidence. I got my certification as a spin instructor and started teaching classes in the inner city of Atlanta. I was finally doing something right! And it worked – for almost a year. I was so happy. But during that time I made a bad decision and hired someone to help me with my business, which didn’t work at all. In fact, this person nearly ruined me, and it was tough to recover. During this time Herman made sure I had money for rent, food, etc. My daughter was a sophomore in college and my son a senior in high school. I wasn’t going to let them down. I had to take care of my family. No matter what my personal feelings were toward Herman, I had to stay with him until I could do better on my own. But I hated how it made me feel. I knew this relationship had to end.

Then the first accusation of sexual harassment came. I never questioned the woman’s story. I knew he did it, and I felt so bad for her. But I was in survivor mode, still thinking only of myself: How do I continue dealing with this man? My stomach turned as I watched Herman at a press conference in late October, denying everything. Whenever he would phone me, he’d blow off the whole thing as if it were nothing. Unbelievable, I’d say to myself.

A few days later, my mom called. “Turn on the news!” she said. “Another woman has come out against Herman Cain!” She knew about our affair, and she was not a fan.

I flipped the channel, and there was Sharon Bialek and her lawyer Gloria Allred holding a press conference. I was stunned, even as my belief in them never wavered.  My heart sank. I was so embarrassed I’d had anything to do with this man. That’s it, I thought. I’m going to put an end to this.

After that, things in my world began closing in very fast.  I was getting random calls from the press asking if I knew Herman Cain and if I’d be willing to share any information regarding our relationship. “What the hell is going on?” I thought. “How did they get my number? Who said what?” I knew my relationship with Herman wasn’t the most private, but I never thought someone would leak about it to the press. I felt an uneasy pressure to come forward on our relationship before someone else did. There were only three people who knew the truth of my situation with him, and that was God, Herman Cain and I. By that point, it was pretty obvious Herman Cain wasn’t exactly an advocate for the truth, so the task fell to me.

I had my sister place a call to Dale Russell, a reporter with Fox 5 News in Atlanta. My attorney had warned me of the potential backlash when the interview went public. He said my life was going to change drastically and it was something I needed to brace myself for. Even though you’re telling the truth, he told me, people will judge you. It’s likely they won’t believe you. I told him I didn’t care. I just wanted to do what was right. The interview aired on Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 – but even his warnings didn’t prepare me for what came next.

My life turned upside down that day. Reporters were at my door, so many interviews, so many horrible things written, so many tears shed. My private life is no longer so private, my reputation has been ruined and my professional career has suffered, not to mention the embarrassment it caused my family.

I’ve been asked many times: If you had to do it all over again, would you? Absolutely.  Going public with my relationship with Herman Cain not only freed me from an entanglement that was wrong but it also helped to rid the presidential race of a hypocrite like Herman Cain. At least that’s what I tell myself.

I finally left Atlanta and I’m currently living in D.C., hoping to move on and get my life back to normal. It’s been hard to watch Herman continue to have a voice while I struggle to find anyone to employ me. Of course, Herman has denied everything, and many people believe him. They call me terrible names. But I think there are more people who do believe me. Deep down, they know Herman Cain hasn’t been forthcoming about our relationship. It’s likely he will never tell the truth about what happened between us, and that’s something I struggle with daily and think about every night before I close my eyes.  Then I think of the women and men who have reached out to me and said: Yes, we believe you! Some women have admitted to lying in bed with their married boyfriends while watching my interviews.

You see, this is something that happens every day. Is it right? No, but it exists. When will women stop taking all the blame when it comes to scandals such as this? When will we stop shaming people who fall short of their own ideals and admit that we all make mistakes? No one is perfect. I know I’m not. But I am a fighter with no regrets.

Well, I have one small regret, actually. My only regret is that I didn’t do it sooner.

(Editor’s note: Herman Cain did not respond to requests for comment.)

But on his Tumblr Wednesday, Ocean decided to clear the air, writing eloquently about how “4 summers, ago, I met somebody. I was 19 years old. He was too.” For a man in the historically homophobic culture of the hip-hop world to reveal a same-sex relationship, to write in unequivocal terms about a passion that was like “being thrown off a cliff,” to lament his unrequited feelings for someone whose “girlfriend was waiting for him upstairs,” is new terrain. New, because it’s a straightforward acknowledgment of all the intensity and heartbreak of a “first love,” one for which Ocean says he’s profoundly grateful, and a conscious refusal to put a name on it. In his post, Ocean never refers to himself as gay or bisexual; and he positions his ardor for the unnamed man within a narrative that includes “the women I had been with, the ones I cared for and thought I was in love with.”

Ocean may simply have felt, after detailing the significance of the life-changing relationship, that it was unnecessary to label himself. But it’s incredibly meaningful that he wrote the story in the way that he did, because his particular way of telling it offers hope of illuminating the homophobes, particularly those in the machismo-heavy music world. In a culture that still unfortunately abounds in rampant squeamishness around what adults do in their bedrooms, Ocean is making a statement about love. About a love that came as a surprise.

We’re all oriented – across a broad continuum, by the way – in our own directions. But nobody falls in love with a gender. We fall in love with a person. Ocean’s story is an acknowledgment of that simple truth, of the integrity and the power of it. You don’t like the fact that the person he fell in love with was a guy? Well, that’s your problem now, isn’t it?

Despite some expected knee-jerk homophobic spew from online commenters, response to Ocean’s post so far has been overwhelmingly positive. Odd Future’s Tyler, the Creator, whose Twitter bio — no doubt in a nod to his openly lesbian DJ Syd tha Kid — declares “I AM NOT A DYKE,” tweeted supportively that “My Big Brother Finally Fucking Did That. Proud Of That Nigga Cause I Know That Shit Is Difficult Or Whatever. Anyway. Im A Toilet.” Russell Simmons wrote an open letter praising Ocean’s “courage and honesty,” stating that it “gives hope and light to so many young people still living in fear.” And Jay-Z  has praised Ocean’s “revelation about your fluid sexuality” as “full of love and grace.”

Love and grace are not the province of any gender or orientation. They belong to all of us. If you’re lucky enough to experience it – to let yourself experience it — it may break your heart. But it’ll liberate you forever. In his post, Ocean writes that “I don’t know what happens now, but that’s alrite,” because, he says, “I don’t have any secrets I need kept anymore. I feel like a free man.”

In responding to the EW piece, Cooper basically performed its thesis, forgoing any big television interview or magazine cover and announcing to Sullivan that “The fact is, I’m gay, always have been, always will be, and I couldn’t be any more happy, comfortable with myself, and proud.”

In his email, Cooper explained that he had not publicly come out before because he wanted to protect both his privacy and safety, something of import to a person who reports stories all over the world. However, recently:

I’ve begun to consider whether the unintended outcomes of maintaining my privacy outweigh personal and professional principle. It’s become clear to me that by remaining silent on certain aspects of my personal life for so long, I have given some the mistaken impression that I am trying to hide something — something that makes me uncomfortable, ashamed or even afraid. This is distressing because it is simply not true.

I’ve also been reminded recently that while as a society we are moving toward greater inclusion and equality for all people, the tide of history only advances when people make themselves fully visible. There continue to be far too many incidences of bullying of young people, as well as discrimination and violence against people of all ages, based on their sexual orientation, and I believe there is value in making clear where I stand.

While, as of this writing, there were already some tweets wondering what took Cooper so long, that seems overly critical. Better late than never. You can read Cooper’s full letter here.

Imagine my utter amazement, then, when Charlie showed up in the middle of class with a tray of chais and mochas for my class and me, and then returned with another tray of muffins and pastries. Newly bought.

Every woman in the room gasped. Charlie flashed a wolfish smile, while his eyes sparkled a green like the wave crashing on a beach in Costa Rica with the sun setting behind it (the same exact color as 1-by-2-inch glass tile named SURF currently available at Daltile in Denver for $18.80 a square foot). Oh dear. I’d been counting the days till our contractor would leave. Was it wrong, now, that I hoped he’d never leave?

But I wasn’t the only one ready to slut out over a cup of coffee delivered by a man in a tool belt. My class was all pheromones.

“He is so hot!” whispered the lady who’s been married for 20 years.

“Hmmmm …” breathed the lesbian.

A few days after the chai incident, my husband, Peter, put on his tool belt. He had worked for years as a carpenter before he became a psychotherapist, and our shed needed some new siding. He was wearing an old white shirt and some jeans a skidge on the short side. His tool belt had suspenders.

“Don’t you have a regular tool belt?” I asked in a tone more horrified than I’d intended.

“What? I’m not as sexy as Charlie?”

“Well, yeah. But my god, what are you, Amish?”

Look, life had gotten confusing.  I had been invaded and held hostage, and I had asked for it. Men came in, removed my sink, installed glaring clip-on lights and made me answer dozens of questions a day. My hallway clogged with people I had never met, muttering dire things about my plumbing while they eavesdropped on my phone conversations with my doctor. I resented this, but because these men held the answer to basic life questions like when I would be able to sit on my toilet again, I endowed them with enormous power. On the design front, I was the boss. (As I pointed out to the open-mouthed crew one day, “I am the boss of you!”) But I wasn’t a great boss. I bought the ugliest piece of orange mottled granite in the world for the bathroom, and my husband, whom I had come to view as a vengeful Amish man, commented on this regularly.

It is worth mentioning that there is at least one therapist — Rachel Cox, unsurprisingly of Palo Alto, Calif. — who specializes in guiding couples through the unrelenting grind of a house remodeling.

At our renovation’s toughest point, Peter and I were changed from a pair of tea-brewing pacifists into a pair of warring dinosaurs. Our reptilian brains swelled grotesquely. Our once-complementary styles went Jurassic: I stormed into Home Depot up to four times a day, buying armloads of paint samples and craving the relief that only completion could bring. Peter stepped back and considered. Added up columns of numbers. Considered again. I took to burying my head in my hands every time we tried to outline a simple task. Charlie turned to me one day and said, “He’s so avoidant.” I live in Boulder, Colo. Contractors talk that way here, Marlboros or no.

Not long after Peter started wearing his tool belt, I am happy to say that the renovation reached its natural end. Circular saws were loaded back on trucks. Molding was installed around windows. Our new, naturally lit, joyfully colored home took shape from the rubble and Peter and I realized that we had made it. That Charlie had done an amazing, masterly job. That we had made good decisions. Who knew I had it in me to design a really nice bathroom that captured exactly the “Downton Abbey”-meets-the-Joker look that I’d wanted? Who knew that Peter could do the same for the porch?

As the exhaustion receded, I saw that my husband had not just been inward and slow as a deliberate ploy to frustrate his impatient wife. He had been keeping tabs on things – holding us to our budget, preventing the whole show from running off the rails.

And I also saw that all along, Peter had met Charlie’s strong opinions, blow for blow. My dharma-teaching, nonviolent communicator of a husband who has dedicated his whole life to nonharm went out there and kicked some serious bootie. Peter is gentle, but that doesn’t mean he was a pushover who couldn’t stare down Charlie the contractor. So he re-measured the sink. Pointed out the 3-inch error that had been made. Didn’t settle for Charlie’s admission that he may have been off by half an inch. “Nope,” said the husband who was at that moment fresh home from a meditation retreat in the desert, where he taught people to see their anger as ephemeral and impersonal. “That was a 3-inch error you made there.”  Met the sea green SURF eyes with his own hazel ones.

And in our new, empty, clean house, I found myself saying:  “Honey, come here.”