Genevieve Blau is dating her Jansport backpack ... and she isn't afraid to let the world know!

Whether you are looking to improve a good relationship or find your soulmate, understanding personality types can help you sort things out. Whether you're an achiever, a mediator, a peacekeeper or a perfectionist, look to these 9 different types of personalities and their best love matches.

Not many people know what polyamory really means, believing that it is cheating on your partner or that it is only about sex. But polyamorous relationships are about so much more. It's about connecting with someone outside of your relationship, even if there isn't a sexual component. Instead of judging others for living this kind of lifestyle but not condoning one-night stands or affairs, they should embrace the idea of a non-monogamous relationship.

What does friends with benefits mean? Some people think this arrangement is only casual sex between friends. But, in truth, women are the ones who hold the power.

By Sovereign Syre

When I entered into porn in 2011, I was in a relationship that I thought was going to last forever.

So when I found myself single a few years later and decided to enter into the dating world, I realized that my dilemma was twofold; not only did I understand very little about how single people went about being a couple, but when I found one I might want to couple with, I had to figure out how to tell them about my rather unconventional day job.

I know plenty of girls in my industry who have partners who are not in the business and who are quite happy.

Contrary to what people will tell you, just as there are tons of people who would never date a sex worker, there are also plenty of people in prestigious occupations with designer educations that would LOVE to marry a porn star. May not make sense to everyone, but it only has to make sense to the two of them.

When I first became single, I had been doing porn for about a year, but I performed exclusively with women, which, for whatever reason, is more “forgivable” to a lot of people.

I wasn’t really interested in getting emotionally invested in someone else. 

But I also didn’t worry too much about what might happen if I ever wanted to date a “civilian," since I wouldn’t have to explain much more than that I had sex with women on camera sometimes. They’d probably get into a high fiving contest with their friends.

In the first year of being single, I just kind of reveled in my freedom.

I was spoiled. If I wanted great sex with a hot guy who wasn’t going to try to bog me down in emotional stuff, I could just call one of my coworkers.

And so that’s what I did for a while; just slept with my work friends who kept it cool but satisfied the physical urges with the added bonus of no explanations required. It wasn’t until a year later when I started shooting scenes with men as well that it hit me.

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I was at a gas station filling up the air in one of my tires when a strikingly handsome guy pulled up next to me.

He was like something out of a billboard selling cologne, and drove a Mercedes and blasted Band of Horses. He wasn’t exactly my type, but he was certainly good-looking and he was confident.

“I know this is weird, but you’re really beautiful and if I don’t ask for your number, I’ll probably never see you again.”

His name was Paul and he had blindingly white teeth. I gave him my number.

That night we were out on a date. He was courteous and lovely. He had just finished his bachelor’s degree and was contemplating entering the police academy with an eye on becoming a detective.

That all sounded great to me, and I realized that I really, really didn’t want to tell him about myself.

I mean, I was fine telling him about the town I grew up in, that I double majored in sociology and literature, and that I went to a prestigious writing program, and that I was working on my first novel.

I didn’t mind telling him about the past three years I’d spent in New York working as an art model. I just didn’t want to mention what I did now.

I love my job. I think I do something important in its own way. I perform in graphic narratives that people use to get off. I think getting off is a vital part of human life and one that we shouldn’t have to apologize for.

I also realize that reality is a long way off, and in the meantime I spend a lot of my time wading through the bog of shit that is other people’s shame and rage as it relates to their sexuality.

So I didn’t tell him.

I justified this to myself with the notion that, hey, who knows if this is even serious and why weigh it down unnecessarily with all of the heavy lifting of institutionalized sexism that demands very specific sanctions against women that are empowered in any way financially or sexually, and, most especially, both?

I mean, just writing about it is a headache. I can already hear everyone who hates porn weighing in with some hot take that’s most likely based on irrational feelings rather than empirical truths. I digress.

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We shared a sweet kiss. He had a firm body and a pressing desire, but was very respectful in a way that was so sweet it made my stomach turn.

I drove home knowing it was an impossible situation.

He couldn’t really know me to know if things were going to work out without knowing the whole truth, but knowing the whole truth was likely to cut things off at the pass.

I’m pretty good at sussing people out, and he’d dropped enough hints in the conversation over dinner for me to figure out that he’d have some questions about the porn thing and it would definitely cause some conflict.

The chemistry was nice, but I decided that he wasn’t worth the trouble.

I didn’t despair long. My brother came to visit me for the holidays, touting the virtues of a new dating app called Tinder.

A dating site seemed a little easier. I could put myself out there without any pictures from work, get some responses to people that were genuinely into me, and then I could come out if we made it past a few dates.

My phone was buzzing immediately with more “matches” than I could keep up with. Tinder is a slash and burn campaign through the sexual jungle.

I became precise in my rejection of people based solely on their looks, age, or interests. But once again, it’s hard to get to really know someone without revealing a key piece of information, mainly that

It was my first week in college when I saw him walk into the cafeteria. A mix of Ralph Macchio and Andy Garcia, he was tall, dark and handsome — just my type. Better yet, he arrived complete with a leather jacket and overly-macho attitude that made this California girl experience that weak-in-the-knees moment one only gets when too young to know better.

My eyes followed him as he explored his dinner options while enthusiastically sharing my excitement with my new girlfriends as they teased me for acting very much like the giddy schoolgirl I was. Finally, after my new roommate dared me to go for it, I pretended to need something from the milk station where he stood, making a cup of coffee. I looked over and smiled and quickly walked to my table all the while hoping he was watching. 

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According to the eight eyes at my table, he was.

I sat down and pretended not to notice as he made his way over to where my friends whispered taunts under their breath. When he approached the table, he boldly introduced himself, making sure to get my name first. He explained that he had just graduated college and was here to attend law school. He was an older twenty-two and maintained a confidence about him that I loved then, but now see as a massive red flag.

I hung on his every word, all of which dripped with a thick New York City accent. He asked me if I would like to go out with his friend that night and I said yes without question, volunteering my not-so-impressed roommate as a chaperone-slash-date for his.

That night, the four of us bonded over vodka cranberries and Britney Spears. As my roommate learned the many ways in which alcohol can sneak up on you, my new crush confessed that he had seen me a few days earlier but didn’t approach me because he wasn’t sure how to break the ice. He thanked me for my smile which he claimed, gave him an “in”. I had no idea what that meant back then but I was excited just the same.

At the end of the night, I took my very sweet, very sick roommate home and he explained that he wanted to see me again, first thing in the morning. By the end of that semester, he was telling me he loved me and asking me to meet his parents.

To say that I was “madly in love” with him would be an understatement.

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I took his neverending confessions of feeling the same way to mean that we were, in fact, “meant to be” as he often stated. Sure, we had our young dramatic fights and make-up sessions but with each one, it seemed we only became more attached to one another. It was young love at its most passionate.

We spent nearly every day together, studying for tests, talking about torts, heading out to Adams Morgan where we danced until the desperate need for pizza was so overwhelming that we stumbled out of the clubs.

When it came time to study abroad in Italy, I opted to stay with him in Washington, D.C. because the idea of being apart for eight months seemed downright hellish. I spent weekends with his family and took trips with his friends. He wasn’t always a perfect boyfriend, but who was? I trusted him implicitly and loved him wholeheartedly which made everything else seem workable.

By the time I graduated, we had our life planned out. I moved in with him for eight months while looking for a place in New York where I intended to fight like hell to make it as a full-time writer. He would work in DC for one year to gain experience before taking the New York bar and joining me in the city. Until that happened, we would take turns flying to see one another each weekend.It was a perfect plan. He helped me move into my loft in DUMBO and I brought him presents from the city he loved.

One weekend he came up and told me he wanted to marry me.

There was no ring, it was just an expression of love and a future plan, and I told him that, when and if he asked, the answer would, of course, be yes. He left that Sunday evening with plans to see me the following Friday. I decided I couldn’t wait that long and decided to surprise him that Wednesday.

“Hi Baby! Guess what? I am heading to the airport to see you early!” I exclaimed.

“No!” he blurted out.

It was an emphatic and desperate no. The kind of “no” someone yells when the door is being opened on a dark secret and there’s no way to stop a terrible revelation. Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for and I wanted to know why, right then and there.

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Though he tried to tell me it was because of work, I knew that that kind of “no” had nothing to do with depositions and so I flew down anyway and planned to host my own.

Five hours later, I walked through his door and was met with flowers, open arms and an apology. He loved me. He was sorry. He was overwhelmed with his first law job and having me so far away.

He was full of shit and I knew it.

With my gut on fire, I casually looked around what I was sure was a crime scene and searched for clues. Not wanting to tip him off, I pretended to believe his explanations and even apologized for not trusting him (a lie that still makes my stomach turn). I made dinner and we decided to get ready for bed. I knew there was something to be found but finding it with him

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This dating app collected data from its users to find out where the most and least attractive people live.