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.

Jess Cox

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

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