June 19, 2002




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Hex sex
By Amanda Nowinski

YOU MAKE PLANS to have dinner together, under the pretense of ensuring that your friendship will remain intact (like you need another flaky Frisco friend). You plan to engage in sober discussion, to catch up on things, to make sure all is well. This explains why you find it necessary to hike up your tits with a fire engine-red bra, smother your legs and arms in cocoa butter, and spend an extra five minutes lining your eyes in black kohl. You're ready for a heartfelt debate about global politics – to get into the mood you pour an ounce of French perfume on your navel. You are anxious to wow him with mental prowess, because a strictly platonic mind fuck with an ultrahot ex can be incredibly rewarding.

You are lying to yourself, but you don't care. Sex with the ex is what it's all about, and like an accidental mushroom trip, you have no choice but to go with it.

During the course of the dinner, you notice he looks about ten thousand times better than ever. His I.Q. has surged an additional 50 points = a brain has grown approximately three feet from the base of his dick. Who knew? He makes informed references to obscure Slovenian novels, dispelling the belief that he was the banjo-playing extra in Deliverance.

You have another glass of wine and make a series of fraudulent claims about your most recent achievements – all of which have something to do with your looks, or would, that is, if they were true. You bashfully announce that you have been invited to speak at a Harvard symposium called "The Rare Few Who Possess Innate Charm, Style, and Wit." It also turns out that you are in the midst of an extraordinary "personal renaissance," in which spiritual enlightenment and creative expression are as plentiful as the product in your hair. Your life – including your outfit – is currently too magnificent for words. You check your watch, and it's already 9:30. There's still some business to get done.

"So," you say after dinner, when you're standing out on the sidewalk right next to his car. "What should we do next?" Who was responsible for the big breakup is unimportant, because for the very first time you both want the exact same thing. You hop in the car, and he guns it.

Once inside your apartment you don't waste time. The corner of your room is so full of burning candles and incense that they threaten to start a bonfire. You pop on Tammy Faye's Don't Give Up on the Brink of a Miracle and feel even crazier as "God's Not Through Blessing You" comes on. Neither of you give a fuck about booze; your clothes fly out the window, and your fancy underwear lands in the kitchen sink. The cat hurls an enormous hair ball on your bed, and you ignore it.

Send comments or tips to amanda@sfbg.com.