Not only is your head throbbing, but you're naked and there is an unfamiliar naked male body in bed with you.

You wonder, 'What the hell happened last night?'

Ah, those wonderful mornings when you realize you've had unprotected sex. Sure we've all been there, but this isn't an awkward situation you should just brush off and forget about. You need to act quickly to prevent any of your worst fears from becoming facts. This is how to get through it:

Damage Control

The morning after: Get in touch with your gyno and have her phone a prescription for emergency contraception to your local pharmacy. Or you can call the health center on your campus. Either way, be sure to make an appointment to get tested for STDs even if you think the guy is clean.

One to five days later: Take emergency contraception ASAP; the sooner it's in your system, the more effective it is.

One week later: Go to your gyno or health center and get a preventative shot against hepatitis B and get tested for Chlamydia, gonorrhea and trichomoniasis.

One week after your period was due: If you still haven't had a period, take a pregnancy test to make sure the emergency contraception worked.

Three months later: Go for a second round of STD testing ' this time for HIV, herpes, hepatitis C and syphilis.

In the future: Instead of waiting until you're facing the same dilemma, keep a morning-after-pill pack on hand. Plan B should be your first choice in emergency contraception.

For more information visit www.ivillage.com.

While a little bit of 'girly' can go a long way towards snagging a man, guys can quickly be scared off by a girl who seems to be more trouble than she's worth. Here are six signs that might tip him off that you're too high maintenance:

1) You're always running late. A girl who takes a long time to get ready can lack a sense of spontaneity. Although he appreciates when you look cute, he won't want to wait for hours every time he asks you out.

2) You complain a lot. Girls who are hard to satisfy will frustrate even the most well-intentioned bloke. By complaining about everything (especially when you're on a first date), you're secretly giving him an idea of what he has to look forward to.

3) You look perfect ' at 4 a.m. Everyone loves a natural beauty, but spending too much time on your appearance tells him that you expect everything (and everyone) to be as pristine. By exposing more of the real you, he'll feel more comfortable.

4) You never pay but you always get dessert. Not only does this reveal a selfish side, but it also shows that you might not appreciate his efforts. It also means that you'll eventually depend on him for more than he's willing (or able) to provide.

5) You flirt, even when you're not interested. Flirting with old, ugly men can be a sign of insecurity. Sure, it's nice to get compliments and to feel attractive, but constantly craving attention and approval can get old.

6) You're a daddy's girl. It's a stereotype for a reason. Girls who idolize their father often feel a sense of entitlement and are used to getting their way. Guys might also worry that they'll never be able to live up to his ideal.

So while you might not always be natural and confident, it pays to fake it for a while until he realizes you're worth it, shoe-addiction and all.

You ask him if you look fat in a dress that's obviously too tight.
He says, 'Absolutely not.'

You ask if he thinks Jessica Alba is prettier than you.
He says, 'Of course not. I'm lucky to be with such a good looking girl.'

You ask if he likes the slightly burnt lasagna you baked for dinner.
He takes a bite and nods enthusiastically.

You know you're fishing for a certain answer when you ask your man these questions. If he's smart, his response will be what you want to hear but not necessarily the truth.

Let's be honest, if he were to actually tell you you looked a bit on the hefty side in that tight little number, you'd not only be pissed, but would also feel extremely insecure about your body.

There is a legit reason he twists the truth: He wants to protect you, make you feel good and make himself look good. But a lot of the time he's trying to avoid any kind of spat.

Here are a few more things he'll say to fake sincerity:

1) I don't enjoy going to strip clubs. Sorry girls, hate to break it to you, but all men like strippers, whether they admit it or not. Seeing hot chicks dance on stage appeals to his most primal instincts. He won't share this reality with you, because you'd probably freak out if you knew he was fantasizing about another woman.

2) Let's talk about it later. No you won't! This little phrase helps men end a potential or full-blown argument. Basically, he's saying 'I never want to talk about it.'

3) I'm sorry. He may say 'I'm sorry' convincingly, but that doesn't mean he really means it. Whether it's to escape a sticky situation or end an argument, these two words can come in handy for the little manipulators.

There you have it, the truth. Not so pretty, is it?

Rule #1:

One of the first casualties of your new life in college will be your relationship with your high school sweetie. Consider it over.

It only took about two months and hundreds of hours hunched over the computer, but I finally did it: I got my very own apartment, in New York City. After living in the slums during college (which my parents graciously funded), I wanted to leave the University of Michigan behind me and get an 'adult' apartment. No futons, no red SOLO cups and no parental contributions. This apartment was going to be mine, and I wanted to be proud of my new home.

Considering that I moved back into my parents’ house, post-college, I knew that finding an apartment rivaling their home would be a tough match. How do you get a dishwasher, washer and dryer, and live-in housekeeper for under $800 a month? You don’t, not in New York.

But, I did find something – something amazing, actually: large bedrooms, wood floors, windows (that provide sunlight and not just views of other buildings!), a beautiful kitchen and a really great landlord. There was no dishwasher, but it was as close to perfection as I was going to find. I had to have it.

After haggling with the landlord, I was handed the keys. I jumped for joy, all the way to the martini bar, to celebrate. I threw back a few (three) apple martinis and headed straight to the store where I spent days picking out the perfect accessories for my new home. Because this was the beginning of my new life in the big city, I made sure every detail was absolutely perfect, from the dressers to the drapes. I lay in every bed, walked on every rug and wrapped myself in every towel. And it was all worth it.

Returning from a long day at work, I get an overwhelming sense of comfort as I come home to the first thing in my life that is 100 percent mine (minus the two roommates I share the apartment with – mandatory on an entry-level salary!). It is a perfect blend of old and new. There may not be an old keg in the corner of my kitchen like last year, but every wall carries pictures from my past (my freshman dorm, sorority date parties, family gatherings) and evidence of the present (my very first printed article!). My beautiful new martini glasses are home to my favorite old cocktails. And my brand-new bookshelves are stacked high and deep with my thousands of college memories.

Every hour I spent devoted to finding this place – from late nights spent on Craigslist to the early mornings scouring the flea markets – was more than worth it when I wake up on a Sunday morning, throw on my slippers and plop down on my maroon, over-stuffed leather couch. An apartment may not seem like much, but for a young person in a big city, this tiny span of space is all you really have to call your own.

Graduating from college, I had no grand plan for a vocation. But I did at least know what didn’t appeal to me for a career: banking, advertising, sales – soulless professions, in my estimation. And so, through a process of elimination, I arrived at what I wanted to do: to be a writer or an editor, or both perhaps. But I should have known that all along: my grandfather was a writer and editor, and both my father and mother were editors and writers; in fact, they met at Newsweek. And my college professors had always admired my writing, which shined, in their estimation, in all the endless term papers I had to write to fulfill the requirements of being both an English and political science major.

For a year or so, I waited table, working late into the evening, crawling home late, sleeping into the afternoon and then getting up for another evening of being a waiter at a caf' on the Upper East Side in New York City. After a year or so, the routine was getting old and was becoming hazardous to my health. So, in earnest, three years after graduating from college, I began looking for a job in the publishing business.

It wasn’t easy. I purposely applied for jobs that amounted to secretarial work at publishing houses, assuming they couldn’t resist giving me a job that required so little in job skills other than the ability to type. From there, I figured, I would work my way up the ladder to be christened editor-in-chief of some glorious publication some day. Small hitch: human resource personnel assumed the same, that I wouldn’t stay put and be content with typing memos and running errands. So, time after time, I was overlooked as I was handed the same excuse. It was a vicious Catch-22.

The summer I began looking for a job was hot as blazes in New York City. You could hardly breathe: remorseless. I can remember shuttling from office lobby to office lobby just to take in the air-conditioning, which felt like diving into a cold pool, before commencing my scalding trek to the next fruitless interview. After 20 or so of these, I was beginning to give up hope. I thought I would never get a job, and I knew I would be good at it. My daytime job to hold me over was still waiting table, and the sight of serving another plate of food was making me nauseated.

A glimmer of hope came when my godfather contacted his daughter at The New York Post to inquire whether she could get me an interview with somebody there. Indeed, she did. Within a week, I was before the deputy manager editor of The Post, a gruff Australian with a thick neck and jowls, and a ruddy complexion that suggested a heavy drinker. 'I need copy boys,' he said, taking the measure of me. 'Nothing pretty: getting coffee and cigarettes for the editors; delivering newspapers around the building; being a go-for. Any appeaL?'

Of course, I said, a model of enthusiasm. And then I didn’t hear from The New York Post for five months: another trail run cold. Then, late one night, when it was early in the morning, a call came at 4:00. I was dead asleep, having survived marathon Labor Day traffic jams all the way back to my apartment. I had been asleep for maybe two hours. 'Is this a Mr. David Major? This is The New York Post. Can you be here by six o’clock?' Exhausted, incoherent and dead to the world, I mumbled: 'No, thank you. I already have a job' and hung up. My girlfriend, lying next to me, stirred: 'Who was the that?' 'The New York Post,' I said. 'The New York Post?! And you said you have a job?! Are you crazy?! Honey, call them back now and tell them you will be there, do you understand?'

Two hours later, after navigating the labyrinth subway network of New York City, I entered the front doors of The New York Post and I had began my career as a journalist.

I had just come back from an internship in Washington, D.C., working for a senator from Ohio, and was looking forward to cruising through my last semester of college. It would be one last slide of enjoyment. Then I discover my girlfriend is seeing this dude I kinda new, one ugly f—. Trip something. He looked like Groucho Marx. It was one of the first nights back at school, and I was at a house party off-campus. Liz and this guy, Trip, were there. With no warning or anything – with no 'Hey, we need to talk; things haven’t been going well with you and me; I’m seeing this guy' – she had started hooking-up with him. How could she be interested in him? But there they were, enjoying each other’s company in plain view, she hanging on the punch line of each one of his dumb jokes. It was like they were taunting me, or something. I flipped out, right then and there at the party. Made for an ugly scene, the whole nine. As Trip and she sought refuge and were driving away in her Volkswagon, I went out into the driveway and actually punched her driver side window as she roared by. I was crazy with jealousy, with her betrayal. This wasn’t part of the plan?

Another night, I pulled her out into the hall of her dorm room, when she opened the door and I could see him inside. I remember I slapped her before I knew what I was doing. She started screaming like I was knifing her. I took off, running through the long, silent hallway before doors began to open. The rest of the night – the semester – was a blur. I was basically drunk the whole time, and not in a good way. There would be occasions that I would try to talk to her, but it was pointless. She had changed, and I didn’t even recognize her. Three months in DC, and this? Then it became a case of her friends warning her to stay away from me. But by then I had thrown in the towel. I was harmless. So, I finally just chose to ignore her, to not even try anymore. A great two-year relationship was done. I couldn’t wait for the school year to end, and I didn’t even stick around from the graduation ceremony. I wanted out.

That summer, I worked on a resort island. I painted houses and lived in my VW camper bus: a new venue for a bender. I tried to push Liz from my mind, but she always crept into my thoughts. I drank with the best of drunken sailors, and that helped some, I guess. I had no way to cope, no tools, no one to turn to. I was going to have to ride this out on my own. All along, what I couldn’t reconcile was why she dumped me. For him? There was no comparison. And then to see the changes in her: It was like she had been brainwashed. Maybe time would help me; meanwhile, the hours and minutes were pretty raw to deal with. Then after three or four months, when the summer tourists had gone back home, I got a call from Liz in mid-October, at about the time the winds from the northeast began to ruffle the skin of the Atlantic. She wanted to see me. She had broken it off with Trip, she said. She had been seeing a psychiatrist. She wanted to get together again. Basically, she wanted to have her cake and eat it, too. Over the months, I had imagined this moment, imagined what it would be like to hear from her again. And I had also imagined the different replies I would give her. And one of the replies I had imagined came out, beyond my control, like I was a witness to it: 'I don’t think that’s a good idea.' It was like a spell had been broken. With that, I was on my way to moving on.

You see a hot girl at a party or you're totally digging her body, her hair, her smile … You want to make your move, but the fact that she's surrounded by her friends is intimidating and you really don't want to make an ass of yourself. Here is how to tell if she's interested:

Hair Tossing:
If she's throwing her hair over her shoulder, she wants you to notice her. It's a way of calling attention to one of her greatest assets.

So far, so good.

Eye Contact:
Making eye contact with someone is usually the first way two people connect. Pay attention. If you notice her eyes locked on yours throughout the night, she's definitely interested.

Make your move.

The Lean:
As the two of you are chatting it up, again, pay attention to her. Be aware of the distance between you. If she's leaning in, lessening the distance between you, she's feeling a definite attraction. But, if she stays significantly distant from you or she crosses her arms, she's not feeling it.

Lip-Licking:
When a woman is aroused and excited, her mouth gets dry. If you notice her licking her lips a lot throughout your conversation, it's safe to say she wants you ' which means there is the chance that she'll take you home tonight.

After graduating from college, a couple of girls were hardly ready to enter the adult working world. There was more education to be had ' and fun. And where else but in Europe?

Before I entered the permanence of a full-time job, I knew I had to get fresh perspective on my life ' and enjoy my freedom. Being cooped up in the little world of college can leave you a bit out of touch with reality. I needed to take myself out of my comfort zone in order to see what I was capable of on my own. What could be more unfamiliar than another continent? So my friend Kerri and I planned our trip and left the good old U.S.

June 28, 2005
12:00 a.m. London

I'm finally here, beginning the month-long trek through Europe! Kerri and I are sitting on our beds in a room full of guys. Staying in hostels is humbling, to say the least. Be prepared to run into weirdos.

Arriving in London, however, was one of the most traumatic experiences of my life. First of all, as our plane was beginning its decent with a horrific thunderstorm raging, it was struck by lightening. Apparently, the pilot thought it was a good idea to fly directly into the chaos instead of around it, putting us all in harm's way. At first, I was calm and a bit worried, but the continued shuttering and rocking through the air made me question whether this would be my last living memory. Kerri and I clutched each other's hands, praying we would make it out alive. After an hour of circling the wretched cracks of thunder and treacherous bolts of lighting, we landed safely.

But the drama was far from over. We collected our backpacks and made our way outside where it began to pour, buckets and buckets of rain. Walking to our hostel was not an option. Luckily, we were able to hail a taxi, whose driver brought us safely to our destination without overcharging us.

Once we settled in, Kerri and I looked at each other and said, 'This trip is not going to be easy.' The moral of the story: visiting other countries is no-walk-in-the-park. Disasters are likely to occur, but getting through them is a personal achievement in itself.

June 29, 2005
Still in London

Today was our first day out exploring the lovely city of London. Over breakfast, we met Jake, a 25-year-old from Texas just finishing up his backpacking trip through Europe. We decided that he should come along as we walked all over the city. The three of us must have walked eight miles or so through parks ' Hyde Park and Green Park. We watched the famous changing of the guards at Buckingham Palace, but got bored quickly; it's overrated. However, I like that I'm able to tell people I saw it.

As we really dug into the city, I absolutely loved it. The streets are narrow and charming, and the architecture is so ancient and beautifully detailed. London is such an old city. Most of the buildings have been standing for centuries and centuries. Yet when it came down to the stores, it reminded me of a more beautiful version of New York City.

We stopped for lunch in a tiny pub. It wasn't touristy at all ' which really allowed me to see British culture first hand: how the restaurant staff interacted with one another and the customers. I ate a sandwich and tried a popular beer drink called a shandy. It's a mixture of beer and lemonade. Let's just say it was an interesting experience, but I'm still sticking with the regular beer beverage.

After a long day of sight-seeing, we decided to call it quits and rest up for dinner. Kerri and I asked one of the hostel managers to recommend a fun place near by where we could eat and also have a good time. He recommended a restaurant and bar called Harlem. It was a small, dimly lit place, the tables only inches apart. We nearly bumped elbows with the people sitting beside us. Throughout the night we sat chatting, sipping on beers and watched the British surrounding us. I felt like we fit in. We weren't tourists; we were part of it all.

Women really want a sensitive man, right? Sure, but we can't stand a guy who's too in touch with his 'feminine' side. There is a fine line between expressing emotion and being just plain girly. Don’t cross it if you want us to stick around.

1) Cooking
It's impressive if you can prepare and cook a decent meal. But it's a tad strange if you routinely bake chocolate-chip cookies and pie.

2) Dancing
Women love a guy who can dance. But, please, never be the first one on the dance floor. You don't want us thinking that you're some kind of dancing queen. Also, any guy who looks like he's trying too hard to show off his moves is a huge turn-off.

3) Talking about another guy's looks
A guy who can acknowledge another guy's good looks gives us the impression that he's secure with himself. But please remain vague: Any specifics will make us concerned that you're checking out the men more than the ladies.

4) Drinking girly drinks
It's definitely cute if you can prepare a couple of girly drinks, and it's okay if you've taken a sip or two of a female friend's fruity martini. But any guy who walks around with a colorful beverage is usually considered gay.