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Friday, April 16, 2004

Sex.

Good GOD, man, what the hell is wrong with me? It's like I'm freaking 17 again, and it's all I can think about. Constantly. Of course it's worse this week as I'm getting ready to ovulate (as if everyone who reads this needs to know such things), but it's true: for one week every month, I become a raging, seething hormonal lustbag. Why did this not happen while I was married? Oh yeah, the sex sucked. But that's a whole other story.

Every man of childbearing age I meet [freudian typo: meat] is quickly evaluated for fuckability. How did I go 10 solid years without so much as a sideways glance at a nubile frat boy in tight jeans, but now even the busboy's glances seem to imply that he's mine for the asking. The problem is, I really don't want a boyfriend right now. Honestly. I really don't. I don't have time for one, even if I fell truly, madly and deeply in love with The One and Only. I just really need to get laid. Isn't that pathetic?? When I realize how very not-20 I am, I wonder if all the other 20-year-olds I spend my mornings with have any clue how badly this "older woman" really needs to get banged. What I need is a fuck buddy. Just somebody to shag me rotten once in a while and leave me the hell alone in between.

Hell, I don't have it in me to do that, either. I am too emotionally intense to fuck and run. And so I go on sweating lust and pining for what is surely several months, if not years away.

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