Up until a few months ago, when I was sitting home alone in my condo on any random evening, I would wonder how many people in my neighborhood – or city, or county, or state – were having sex at that moment. The thought of all the happy people out their sharing their love with each other filled me with envy and remorse.

I don’t feel that way anymore. Sex is a drag.

At least it has been recently. For one thing, there’s no emotional bond. Based on previous encounters with Bertha, it seems like I should be feeling heightened affection for my partner — maybe even disproportionate affection. Instead, I feel empty, like I’m passing the time in a waiting room, only I don’t have an appointment.

An even greater problem is the physical act itself. It’s just not working. When I try to build up to orgasm, I remain flatlined. I grunt and thrust and push, faster and faster, and all of that effort just makes me sweat harder. My partner tries to say sexy things to help me out, but it all sounds ridiculously unerotic. “Yeah, baby, more, more.”

I just want to tell her to shut up and leave me alone.