I was on the S bus, staring out the window, wishing I didn’t have to write The Handbook of Sex Tips for Women of a Certain Age, a book which was to just another one of those awful instruction manuals one follows, promising a title, a plot, a heartbreaking conclusion. So far I had only written several entries I knew I could never print:
Dear Reader, let’s face the facts. Not all sex is created equal. Many orgasms are as forgettable as the faces passing by the bus window, each offering just another opportunity to forget a name, an address, a city, perhaps a marriage, that first one to your high school sweet heart who possessed neither sweetness nor heart but he did have a Rottweiller named Ludwig you adored and missed for years after, phoning once or twice a week to ask, May I speak to Ludwig?
Dear Reader, let’s face the facts. Catullus is right. A good Thallus is hard to find.
Dear Reader,
Do you really believe this shit?
Dear Reader,
I used to think the southern term, rode hard and put away wet, was kind of erotic. Turns out it means, it looks like you've had enough sex for one lifetime.
Ed. note: The painting "Frenzy of Exultations" (1890) is by the Polish painter Władysław Podkowiński
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