So, there I was lying in his arms, in that post-coital fuzz that leaves you about as cognisant as a hibernating bear, feeling warm and sexually sated and was just about ready to drift off into an Egyptian-like sleep of the dead, when he opened his mouth.
He opened his mouth and said, 'You know, this is really something else. (Yes, yes it is...) I feel so comfortable with you... (Hmm, yeees...) It’s just that it’s so weird you know (It is? Um. Ok...) It just confuses me… (Say what?) Because you know, it's just that my ex… (Fuck.) Read on...intern here and here, here is the column.
Someone asked me the other day if you have to have sex every time you write a column about it. no. writing about sex is not exactly embedded journalism.