I‘m lying in bed next to Manic Depressive Anonymous Sex Seeker, the confused, chain-smoking, liquor-loaded lothario who made a brief appearance in an earlier column.
I think: In a few seconds I can finally reverse the shameful downward spiral of my nonexistent sex life. Only two thin layers of cotton and some tension-filled air separate us underneath the sheets.
I go in for the kill.
“No,” he says.
He must be kidding.
“Don’t make me,” he says like a convict under torture.
“Why?” I ask, foolishly.
All this was embarrassing enough, being rejected from someone who asked you to “sleepover.” But I’m a glutton for punishment. I asked