Sex With The Ex? Not In This Lifetime


One would think, when my nether regions begin to resemble the Dust Bowl (of the Dirty 30’s, no less!), that I would simply drunk dial an ex and request a full tune up. But no. It’s as if the fates conspire to keep me solidly on the path to better tomorrows, or more likely, a celibate, slightly unhinged potential cat lady, providing hours of entertainment as she searches feverishly for the remote.

I have gone to extreme lengths to break this curse, especially when the current single offerings have violated the terms of their probation are headed back to the Big House. Par example: I researched, signed up for and ran a 26.2 marathon because my ex happened to live in that city. I called and said in my sweetest, little-girl slurry that I just had to stay over his house the night before the race, because we had to be at the start line at 5AM. It worked – but still, no nookie was served (“You have a big day tomorrow, I don’t want to drain you of your energy, heh heh!”). So, with the possibility of post-race nookie serving as my dangling carrot, I somehow managed to finish the goddamn thing. Hours later I crawled back to his apartment, crippled and beyond exhausted. He opened the door and blanched at my appearance, as I now resembled one of those hairless dogs with a slight case of PTSD. He tried to give me the Heisman by insisting he drive me to the hospital, but I threatened to suffocate him with my mylar blanket if he didn’t give me a fucking right then and there. He acquiesced, but the sex was a goner – I had to stop after two minutes because of a cramp – in my aortic valve.

Similar rejections continued: “sorry, I’m now seriously dating the triathlete beauty pageant winner who teaches music theory to the deaf”, or “I’ve discovered I am, in fact, a homosexual, and I want to thank you for helping me come to that realization.” Abandoning the drunk dial, I tried the good ‘ol breaking and entering routine, climbing in the bedroom window at 2AM, only to be greeted by his roommate and ‘ol slugger (damn, got those bedrooms mixed up AGAIN) or the triathlete beauty pageant winner trying out her latest Krav Maga move. It just never seemed to work out. They had moved on, and gently (or not) suggested that I do the same.

So here I sit, remote and “Cat Fancy” at the ready, waiting for the next Prince Charming who will reward me for my patience — or, more likely, will be joining the legions of former lovers who are Googling “restraining order” as we speak.

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