My pal Chris thinks I should write more about sex, so this is for him.
When I think what a hound I was now that I’m one step from a Carmelite nun, it’s hard to believe.
I have a friend whose cervix closed up, I’m assuming from lack of use. It’s what got me thinking, if you don’t use it, you lose it.
My Indian gynecologist, a dead ringer for Indira Gandhi, tried giving me an estrogen cream you lather your ying-yang in, to quote my friend Tina, keeping it moist and ready. I balked at the suggestion worried I’d feel like a basted turkey from the waist down, not to mention the cost. I decided a magnum of champagne would make me more amorous than an overpriced lube job.
I’m told by reliable sources many doctors get variable kick-backs from eager pharmaceutical companies anxious for them to push their products. Does Indira win a toaster if she gives out enough estrogen cream?
But back to sex.
As I figure, if I never have it again, I’ve still had more than anyone else I know. It’s true. Models get around, not in a bad way, but we do meet the most interesting men. It’s part of the package.
It’s a pity I’m not the kind who kisses and tells after having a few notables between the sheets. I just can’t bring myself to tell the intimate details that would certainly sell copies.
The famous actor who came to the door in a monogrammed bathrobe eating a pint of chocolate Haagen-dazs smiling like a cougar muttering, “Just getting my sweet tooth nice and ready for things to come.”
Then there was the Englishman who quoted Hamlet as he crossed the finish line. At that point I hadn’t even read the play casually asking over dinner, “So who the hell is Ophelia?”
I’d like to have sex again, but it’s very much like being on a certain diet. Where before you ate practically anything, now you’re much more picky. No more secret sauces for you.
However, I do believe in the unexpected…the chance encounter that could change your life.