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It was the early aughts. I had broken up with my first significant girlfriend. My married friends threw a dinner party, and the wife invited a gal she worked with to even things out. Little did I know, it was a setup.

Blissfully ignorant -- and freshly wounded from the protracted dissolution of what I thought was a once-promising coupling -- I was perfectly situated, mentally, to seduce this new creature.

I made a few passing mentions of the ex while sitting on an ottoman, clutching a glass of wine and generally putting on a tormented, regal air. (God, what a jackass.) But she dug it. I did my whole Dark & Stormy routine, which most women dismiss pro forma; but this little lady, whom we'll call M, became enraged with concern for me.

I played a sad and noble woodland creature and M was a magical sprite with huge blue eyes and a southern accent who flitted about my ear and whispered things in a funny twang. Everything I said was poignant. Every drink I imbibed was earned.

It was just one of those nights. The cosmos convened and decided a transformative experience was in order. When Bob Marley's "Exodus" strangely and perfectly played on the marrieds expensive, multi-room speakers, I took it as a sign (I still believed in them back then) I offered to walk M home. Cut to an hour later ...

Hitchhiking on a Highway to Nowhere
... when M jammed her fore and middle fingers into my ass. Shock became me. I yelped like a Shih Tzu and shot bolt upright. M looked like Bambi, spoke like a Faulkner character, and was super whatever-religion-Southerners-are (Baptist? Methodist? Animist?), yet here she was, naked in my bed, whisking me away to this strange new world of prostate milking.

To put it in militaristic terms, it was truly a shock and awe campaign.

I soldiered on. The sex had the urgency of the End of Times, and in the morning I awoke with a heretofore never experienced soreness in my butt. My little sprite was gone, vanished back into the mists from whence she came. The sun poured in through the sliding glass to door to the patio in fairy-tale volumes. My tiny little studio was literally drowning in light. I rubbed my eyes and stood up to take a piss and took one step and screamed. I had her huge, diamond-studded cross lodged in the sole of my foot.

I will never forget the date; Easter Sunday, the Year of our Lord 2003. Signs don't come much more explicit than that.

From that day forward, I would search in vain for M-level sex.

Boring Missionary Is the Little Caesar's of Life
Like most dudes, I'll take sex where I can get it. Which is the problem -- really good sex can happen with a stranger, but it rarely does. But because of this biological urge, this inescapable yearning, I keep casting myself willy-nilly into the available pool of singles and taking off my pants with women I don't truly like and who don't like me.

People like to say that sex is like pizza, even when it's bad it's good. But you know what? I no longer like bad pizza. Bad pizza is gross mozzarella over middling sauce on poorly baked bread. I'd rather eat a burger. And bad sex is the same. Because bad sex often happens with people you don't really like in the first place.

No chemistry plus not caring about the person is almost a guaranteed recipe for a carnival of horror in the bedroom.

And you know what? I'm sort of over it.

Why I'm Voluntarily C-Blocking Myself
I'm over sleeping with women who put Altoids in their mouth during fellatio. I'm over giving some stranger a hickey and having her get all mad about it.

I'm over not being able to get a woman's bra off and then finally getting it off and going to kiss her but head-butting her instead. And I'm over women treating my testicles as if they were toys. (It's not Play-Doh! You can't make anything with them!)

I'm over the 10 years it takes to put a condom on. Oh, and I'm over you just laying there and staring up at me expectantly while I'm putting it on, like you're waiting for me to give you an estimate on the damage to your car and you're prepared to not believe anything I say.

I'm over sleeping with women who have dry dog food in their bed. Your bed smelled like dog farts, and do you know why? Because your dog was in it. Farting.

Yet these women I sleep with are not to blame. I'm to blame. The truth is, a lot of this sex is all elbows and awkward facial expressions and the thought that maybe I left my oven on. Yeah, I'm over it. And bad pizza.

[Redacted] is the resident Single Guy writer for Lemondrop. He once got physically aroused during an episode of "DuckTales" and has subsequently never been able to achieve climax without asking the girl to speak in a Scrooge McDuck brogue.

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