Bear with me here as this is my first foray into writing about sex.
When I hit thirty-two, the urge to have sex nearly everyday was so overwhelming that I contemplated calling up the guy who cant spell, the one who doesn't hold the door open, the guy sure to smother me if I ever gave him even a whiff of my drawls, and even the guy with seven kids and no car. I'd contemplate it heavy. Lean on it. Think and think and think some more. I'd never call, but the thought would linger because the urge was so great that lowering my standards just for a few hours didn't seem so bad.
This feeling was new to me. I'd never been very much into the act of sex itself. I loved kissing and intimacy, but rarely cared about reaching the Big O. The sudden urge to need it all of the time threw me for a loop. To top it off, it'd been so long since I'd had some soul stirring, "Girl guess what just happened?" kinda loving that I was almost open to anyone.
My last serious relationship was four years ago and featured the most lifeless, boring, inconsistent sex I'd ever experienced. He was a wonderful guy though, and I reasoned that I'd enjoyed enough great sex in my previous relationships. Instead of harping on our terrible sexual chemistry, I focused on his other strengths.
