I first realized that my relationship with sex had changed moments after returning home from rehab. And here's the kicker: I learned this by not having sex.
I'd just been driven home by my neighbor, a man—let's call him Fred—who I'd known for many years, a few times in the biblical sense. Not only had Fred been kind enough to make the long drive to and from Bastrop, Texas, to pick me up from rehab, but he'd watched my puppy and brought in my Amazon packages during the 30 days while I was away. And in between walking my dog and bringing in my mail, he'd apparently also found time to scatter my apartment with rose petals in a trail leading into my bedroom.
And for those unfamiliar with flower petal placement symbolism, the ole rose-petals-in-a-trail-to-your-bed move can really only mean one thing: Let's bone.
Sweating, exhausted and arms laden with my belongings, I looked down at the trail of rose petals snaking into my bedroom and felt a familiar sense of rising panic. Oh no, I thought. I bet these hard-to-sweep-up-looking rose petals were expensive. I guess I have to have sex with Fred.
Or did I?
Thirty days ago, Fred's grand, romantic, but totally unwanted,