I'm concerned.

The man responsible for the best sex of my life is in town. We both knew Monday night would be the only night we'd have free to, you know, talk about the weather. But when the time came and the phone rang, I didn't answer.


Having sex all night, waking up after 45 minutes of pseudo sleep, and being exhausted all the next day used to be something I not only could handle, but secretly enjoyed.

It's fun knowing that, while your coworkers order grande half-caff lattes during their morning Starbucks excursion, you're ordering an extra shot of espresso in your Americano because you were ravaged all night by a man who needed no instruction and navigated your body as if he were led by a Tom-Tom.

But following my daily routine in a fatigued fog no longer feels like a fun little secret, and the thought of waking up at 6 a.m. to start a 10-hour day after a nightlong horizontal workout cast an ominous shadow over my impending horniness. That's when I sent the call straight to voicemail and apologized to my vagina.

But I think it's for the best — an extra shot of espresso costs 50 cents, and I've only got enough change for a tall drip.

LA Weekly