Sex Drought

It’s raining here in Southern California, but my sex life is a barren desert, longing for petrichor, that ineffable damp dirt and wet rock smell that comes with the rain.

I only know about this word, petrichor, because a really tall guy had it on his Hinge profile, among a list of things he likes. It was both the word and my literal sex drought that made me decide to go out with this guy. I needed to change things up. We did not have sex. Not even close. Not that there was anything wrong with him. He was attractive, successful, very kind, and like I said, tall. Tall as a tree. I would have had to climb him if I’d wanted to reach his lips. But I did not. And that’s not his fault. It’s me, it’s all me.

Still, I must prevail.

I went to a bar one-time, I think it was in the summer. After five minutes I was desperate to leave. At Erewhon, I’ve stared creepily across perfectly arranged stacks of lemons, and cantaloupes, only to discover a ring on that finger. At Trader Joe’s I don’t bother. I …