Ever experience an unwelcome change in your body where seemingly overnight you go from wet as a lake during sex to dry as a week-old cake? I’m talking about the dreaded vaginal dryness. Two words I never thought I’d utter.
In fact, there was a time, when I could tell how hot the sex was by how wet it got, down there, you know, where it counts. You can fool your head with fantasies and delusions trying to convince yourself that the “frog” you’re screwing is actually a “prince,” but you can’t fool it. If it, in the words of my friend, Jane, “Ain’t dripping egg whites, it ain’t happening. The rule of thumb is,” she went, “The wetter, the better.” I nodded dutifully and made a note to myself to never ask for an omelet at her house.
Bone dry. Not even a bit of tacky wetness. Just tree bark rubbing against tree bark. Not to be outdone by my body, I ran into the kitchen naked, grabbed a bottle of olive oil from the cupboard and raced back to bed.
“What’s that?” asked the unsuspecting prince.
“Olive oil,” I said matter-of-factly. “Your tool needs oiling.”
“Oh, no, you don’t,” he said covering himself with the sheet. “You do that and I’ll never be able to eat a salad again without getting a hard on.”
“So give up salads,” I said. “We can’t stop now!” My eyes flashed desperation.
The prince stared down at his penis. It had shrunk to the size of a giant peanut.
“Oh yes we can,” he said. “I’m going to bed.”
He rolled over and was snoring in seconds. I lay flat on my back, staring at the ceiling fan for hours, and asking myself over and over, Had the lubrication faucet just turned off for good?
What would you do? The only thing I could thing of was to go see my doctor.