Big O

When you've grown up on a farm, you have a certain attitude toward animals that just isn't quite the same as that of city folks. I can remember, particularly in the summer (why do these things seem to heat up so much when it's warm and sunny, as I've often experienced myself in the tropics?) the pain of having to watch female cats in heat. Their yowling was so forlorn, it seemed to express suffering of which I, as a young girl, could hardly conceive. That sound was much harder to ignore than the really shocking manner in which they would drag their bottoms across the lawn (picture averted eyes...). How tragic is it that I should be partner-less at a time when I am cursed with the discovery of the female prostate, multiple orgasms, and a febrile awareness of the several days each month, in which I see next to no difference between myself and those poor cats?

I've really got to start surveying all the older women I know, as honestly, something bizarre is happening. Could it be that peri-menopause is around the corner? But isn't that supposed to be associated with problems with sex?? I can't say why this has all intensified to such a degree this summer, but I am desperately hoping that either the return of winter or especially my return next week to Sexless Berlin puts a lid on the horrors of ovulation. Because far too many of the men in Madrid, I am sadly finding, are either too timid or lacking in imagination to see what I am [though the please-baby-please-baby-baby-please approach is, as always, omnipresent]. None of this works for me, no matter how difficult to resist the physical exigencies may become. Really, it doesn't. I mean it.