THE BLOG
11/15/2011 08:38 am ET Updated Jan 15, 2012

No Sex, Not Quite the City

In the bedding department, the men I've shared one with reads like a veritable who's who do not call list. Don't ask me what my number is. For the record, it's on a need to know basis unlisted. But recently, things have changed. Here's a sentence I never thought I would write: "My sex life is like Texas". It's not hot, but for what seems like ages, it has been awfully dry. I guess it's called the Lone Star state for a reason.

To put things mildly, I'm in a drought and the title of my movie would be No Sex and Not Quite the City.

However, when it comes to a "to do" list, this is where things get much more interesting. George Clooney, Bill Maher and Anthony Bourdain are at the top of it and certainly go to the head of the class. Those are three names I could live with. Not all at once, mind you. That would be way too good to be true impossible, even for me.

I can fantasize. That's not a question. It's a fact of life. In real time, with no reservations. I'll stop now with the references only a person with no sex life and too much TV time can understand. And here I was hoping that you might let me get to seven of them. Eight is enough Mr. and Mrs. Duggar.

Which leads me to my next rant point. I can count on one abacus hand the men in my life who have come up short in the sex and romance department. Insert your own list of names ruler here. It's not that they were pitifully endowed unwilling or unable, it was that they may as well have yelled, "Fore!" the moment they decided to start charging inside of me like it was a 30-second shopping spree instead of a leisurely round of golf. No iron, no wood, but a whole lot of false advertising. If only I had been able to collect three percent interest for some of those transactions I'd be retired. Do not even think for a moment about inserting a reference to 18 holes. Believe me, I'm ahead of you.

For every sports enthusiast that can waste an entire Sunday watching a game that often goes into overtime, why can't that happen in the bedroom I be given at least an entire quarter inning's worth when he decides it's finally time to score with me? If my 30-second G-spot is really as important as the "big game," why aren't I demanding and getting Super Bowl prices for admission into my very own super dome? And why do I suddenly have images in my head of Mr. Haney from Green Acres and Soupy Sales trying to make this happen just for me?

Life is messy and complicated enough. By this stage in life, sex shouldn't be like the game "Operation". Tweezers optional. A GPS is fine for getting to one's destination as quickly as possible but you'd think they'd have invented a device and a map that helps men know which button to press when they're going up or down. Is it too much to hope for ask for directions? If a man wants to get to the top, there's work to be done; if he wants to sleep his way to the bottom, let's just not go there. Really. Some things are best left alone.

Not all lovers were disappointing. Some had girlfriends in other cities potential. Others were extremely tender after I was done with them and considerate. But it wasn't always this way and for all the frequent flier points I wasted accumulated, my luggage was lost more than once when it came time to decide if I wanted to check into a less than satisfying relationship. Somewhere, there is a wait list with my name still on it.

I like to remind my younger female friends that you can lead a man to the bedroom, but getting him to leave the toilet seat down is an endless battle you can't get him to decorate it. Better he should decorate you. With respect, love, kindness and big cash prizes support. If he has a healthy libido sense of humor and the ability to perform routinely, I want his resume.

I'm taking applications.