Last night, I was forced by my restless uterus to sit at home with tea and bad television. I’d dosed up on codeine-enriched ibuprofen and Advil PM when my late-night fallen boy called. To my surprise, he sounded lucid. He wanted to play.

I told him that there was no way, seeing how I was menstrual and drowsy from over-the-counter and imported over-the-counter medications. He said, “In that case, I need to come by.” He liked the idea of fucking me, however menstrual, while I’m drowsy. This is a trend.

Matt’s plied me with cold medication (when I had a cold) and zolpidem (when I couldn’t sleep), and he’s said outright that he’s generous with his medicine cabinet because it makes me more pliant. I’ve been with a few men, most of them writers, who’ve had a thing for drowsy, intoxicated sex. We’d plow through a bottle of wine or several pints of beer and then fuck on a mattress in the middle of the floor. And I’d encourage it, not just because I enjoy being manhandled, but also because I know that when I’m disarmed, so are they.

This stands in striking contrast to my other life, where I’ve been a pristine model of sobriety. I’ve been so meticulous about preserving my lucidity, and for so long, that my quasi-retirement has me luxuriating in the pleasures of drunk, stupid, adolescent, date-rapey sex, and with it, my relentless sleepfuck fantasy. I like being fucked in my sleep, I like waking up to an erection pressed into my hip and a man’s fingertips at the soft edges of my cunt. I go from dazed to nymphomaniacal in seconds, and I think it’s because my rational mind is still dreaming. But it’s been such a long time since I’ve let that happen.