I’m not sure why I keep gravitating toward that type when it’s like thirty-one flavors of disappointment in the bedroom. There’s a reason my nightstand drawer is fully stocked. Either I have to provide explicit, step-by-step directions like some kind of sexual GPS, or I give up and resort to taking matters into my own hands after the fact. Mind you, there’s one noteworthy exception to this rule—and he’s sitting ten feet away. Upon further reflection, I think I’ve got a new type.
