FUCK THIS! Literally, fuck this piece of paper. Fuck this pen. Fuck this assignment. I’m dried up, out of ideas. Fuck my job and my boss. There’s no way I can write articles about people’s exciting sex lives when I’m not having exciting sex. Hell—I’m not having any sex. I go home, make dinner, set the table, and clean the house… He comes home takes off his shoes, sits down, stuffs his face, and watches NASCAR on the couch. I clean the table, put the left-over’s away, and do the dishes.  By the time I’m done, he’s ready to go to bed. We head to the bedroom together and get ready for bed. I don’t even bother to doll myself up, what’s the point? Last time I tried to wow him he was passed out and snoring as I sauntered out of the bathroom.  

I used to have exciting sex—then we moved in together and had boring, uneventful sex. Now? Now I’m lucky if I have bad sex occasionally. Now, I’d kill for decent sex. Yet here I am… told to write an article about sex. What can I write about, how much I miss it? No, how about: 

Top 10 Things to do When You’re NOT Having Sex

Top 10 Things NOT to Look for in a Partner

How to Not Have Meaningful Sex

How to Live with Someone You Don’t Like

No – I’m supposed to write about all the amazing things girls can do to make sex better for guys. Independently of my nonexistent sex life, this article is stupid. Men should be reading about how to make sex better for women. Do they understand much work has to go into faking an orgasm? No, no they don’t. All they know is, “my penis needs a warm, moist, dark place, and that’s you baby.” What the fuck is that, aside from a bad pickup line. It’s been so long since my magazine published a how to have sex article, I can probably use the same tricks I used back then, and no one would remember. I’m thinking all the women who read that article when it was brand new have all completed the change of life.

Fuck my deadline. I’m so afraid of having my heart broken again. All this article has done has reminded me of what I’ve lost.  I’m consumed by the thought of marching up to him and shaking his sleeping ass awake and verbally ripping him a new one. Maybe I will… after all we’re not having sex, what do I have to lose?

“Baby, wake up.” He’s not moving. I know he hears me. “Baby. Baby, wake the fuck up.” If I said it any sweeter I would have been asking for someone to pass the sugar. “What, what’s up?” Maybe he was sleeping, he sounds groggy. “We need to talk.” So I start. I tell him all about my article, my deadline, and our lack of sex. Soon we’re talking about feelings and our issues, now a lack of sex has turned into lack of communication. We’re making progress.  We’re making like—making love is for people who are in it, we apparently still only like each other. Go figure. 

I start out on top, and its every last bit of glorious. It’s been so long since we’ve had sex that we have to keep changing position so he won’t come early. I would’ve taken whatever he had to give me, but I like that he wants to do it up. Since we’ve started we’ve moved from the bed to the couch… 

Top Five Most Intricate Ways to Have Mind Blowing, Furniture Ruining Sex

to the desk chair…

Top Ten Places to Have Sex

to the washer machine, on the spin cycle. 

Top Five Household Items to Blow Your Mind during Sex 

When the big finale comes around I’m bent over the bathroom sink, hands pressed against the mirror.  We went from having no sex to this amazing outburst of mind-blowing sex. I’m out of practice, but sex is like riding a bicycle, and it all came back.  I can’t wait to write my article. Forget brushing off an old edition, and revamping a new article. After tonight’s sex I have a whole new set of “must tries” for my readers. My mind was buzzing with explicit ideas, and my heart was tingling with like, and then we started making the bed. 

I can’t even remember how it came up. False – we were recapping the day we had. It had started out like any other afternoon with his mother – kind of pleasant, very awkward, but relatively okay. She took us out to breakfast. Then we all went shopping around town. It was a nice break from sitting home burning batteries in the bedroom while he murdered them in the TV clicker. In passing his mom mentioned something about grandchildren… who could even remember the context? It was just in passing. Fuck it—I can’t remember anything.  All I remember is that one quote, and I barely remember that, “I’m not going to fall in love with you.” I was kidding, that I remember. Whatever I had said to him that made him reply like that, I was kidding. He was not, “We’re just going to date for now.” Then it came up like 15 shots of tequila on an empty stomach. 

“WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN?” I really wasn’t trying to shout. I was just dumbfounded. Who the fuck moves in with someone they’re not going to fall in love with? Better yet… who decides that they’re not going to fall in love with someone? This was asinine. This was stupid. This was entirely mother’s fucking fault. It’s a good thing we were never going to be married or I’d have to kill her. She wants Jewish grandchildren, which is cool. Except I’m Roman Catholic. My family is from Rome, and while I might be a lazy Catholic, I’m still a gentile if we’re going by her book. If I decided to have kids, which in this moment I’m sure I don’t want, I would have to convert. Outside of the fact that I wouldn’t, it wasn’t even an option being offered to me to refuse.   

There was so many things wrong with this. I knew it. I should have known it. I was a fucking nicotine patch, keeping him supplied until he found a nice Jewish woman to be his wife, breed his seed, and raise them Jewish as well. I’m too angry to realize I’m devastated. I was a commitment-phobic before we decided to date. Then we decided to move in together. I’m going to be a basket case when I realize I’m about to break up and he’s going to move out.  


I can’t even respond. If I move to open my mouth I might snap and lunge for his throat. It’s a miracle he’s alive right not. I have wasted—I can’t even think about it. If I try and do math it’ll only make me more upset. I find it laughable that I bought a new kitchen knife today. I’m only 5’2”… who would believe I murdered a man? No. I can’t murder him, it would be too messy. I intend on keeping the apartment, and I’m not going to want to have to deal with getting the blood out of the carpeted bedroom. Conceivably I could kill him in the bathroom, after all it’s all tile in there.  

“What?” he daringly repeated. 

“I can’t… I might kill you.” Does that count as premeditation? Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.

“Are you tired or something?” 

Is he fucking kidding me? Am I tired? No, I am not tired. I was tired of the cooking, the cleaning, and the lack of sex. Now I’m furious. I have been led on and played repeatedly like a Disney movie for a small child. Who forgets to mention that despite never going to Temple or keeping kosher or even being remotely religious that they want their children raised in a specific faith? I still maintain I can get away with murder. I used to watch CSI like it was my job, before I had this one. Shit—I still need to write my article. Maybe I can write it on how to murder your man instead of how to sex him. 

How to Murder Your Man

Become a Real Life Siren in 10 Easy Steps

Sex that Kills – Ways to Seduce Your Partner to the Grave

Joanne wouldn’t like that. She’s really against murder. On the other hand, she’s a very intense feminist, maybe she wouldn’t mind. 

“When are you moving out?” 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” 

I can’t believe he’s not getting this. I’m not staying with someone who’s using me as a hold card. That’s what I feel like, because that’s what I am. I’m a fucking hold card. I’m here by his side while he’s waiting for someone else. If he doesn’t prove me wrong, or do something to prove that it was a miscommunication I’m going to punch him, and soon. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. BAM—like lightning hitting a tree. I couldn’t wait. I think the sound of cracking bone came from my fingers and not his face. It doesn’t matter. It’s the best pain I’ve ever felt. Every cent I have to pay to get my hand examined will be worth it. 

“I’m coming back tomorrow. We’ll figure something out.” Forget asking for the sugar—I sound like a little kid asking for a martini extra dry. 

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