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xmag.com : September 2002: I Hate Sex

I didn't really hate sex all that much until I started writing this column. My inner frigid bitch--I call her Frigidia--only really emerged when I started churning out anti-sex tirades every month. But even as my pen spewed sexual vitriol, in the back of my mind I still counted on my sexuality as something I could whip out in case of emergency. If needed, I could shut Frigidia back in the closet, lube up, and rise to the occasion. But the other night the occasion did arise--and I realized that once you let your inner frigid bitch out, there's no going back!

The realization came when I ran into one of my old sugar daddies. I had successfully avoided this doddering old Texas millionaire for the past year--he was so physically horrifying that no amount of money was worth banging him! He had a bad hip, which made walking difficult--he had to use a walking stick everywhere he went--so imagine what sex was like! Many's the time I nearly suffocated beneath his wheezing 6'4", 280-pound bulk. His hip was so bad that he could barely heave himself atop me and then lie there like a white-haired brontosaurus, flapping his tail every now and then. Not an experience I cared to repeat, no matter what kind of money was involved!

But it just so happened that I was in desperate financial straits when I ran into him this time, so I swallowed my disgust, dusted off my box, and told Frigidia to take a hike. But she refused to obey! I tried to chase her off with a double Grey Goose on the rocks, but my date wasn't one to wait around while I exorcised my demons! He was sitting there, tapping his foot impatiently! Not only had he not been in my hallowed pants for over a year; in the interim, he had also gotten a replacement hip...and he was eager to try out his limber new moves on me. So it was ready or not, here I come!

New hip or no, when we finally got busy he was as clumsy as ever--and to make matters worse, while he was laid up in the hospital recovering from the surgery, he had gained fifteen pounds! With my rusty equipment, I don't know how I survived the ordeal, but let me tell you, it was a real marathon. Due to his advanced age he could barely maintain an erection, even with his stupid Viagra, and I had to resort to all manner of sexy hijinks to get him up. Even then, he would go limp after about three pokes. And the whole time that bitch Frigidia was laughing in my ear--"For this you tried to chase me off? Get over it!" Finally, the old man managed to squeeze out a few drops and rolled over, satisfied, and I shot out of bed to go scour my box with ammonia and Lysol, and to welcome Frigidia back into the driver's seat. Never again, I swore to her. Never!

In the end I collected $300, which my sugar daddy made sure to inform me was "not for last night, but just to help you out with bills." Whatever! We--Frigidia and I--were in a hurry, because it just so happened that I had a gynecologist's appointment that same day. Yes, even after the night's horrors, it wasn't over yet for my beleaguered box. I went straight from a dick to a speculum, but let me tell you, after what I had been through, that pap smear was a cakewalk. But thank God I only go to the gynecologist once a year--I'm safe for another 364 days. As for any other foreign objects that want into my private club...Frigidia is here to stay, and she is one tough bouncer!








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