Sexual Anthropology, 101.

I'm 32 years old. I have two master's degrees. I have a 2 year old son and I've never been married. His dad is not involved, and this is fine with me. I work as a clinician in the mental health industry. And I just moved back in with my parents.

I like to tell people that I moved back in to help my aging and ailing parents so that I don't sound like such a douche about living at home again. The truth is that I can't afford to live independently on my measly salary and I went a little crazy working two jobs. So now I'm living in my childhood home, raising my son in the very home and yard I ran around in when I was his age. Which is incredibly surreal at times.

Living at home is embarrassing to admit, but enjoying living at home is even more embarrassing to admit. After working as an apartment manager in a total shithole while holding down a full time job working with mentally ill children while raising a toddler on my own, moving into a beautiful home on several acres with a pool, jacuzzi, huge back yard, with built in babysitters has been fantastic. Dinner, which used to be an allusive, vague idea a few months ago is now waiting for me on the table every night when I come home. Laundry, which used to be a nearly impossible task to do with an infant in an apartment complex where the laundry room is a half mile away (seriously, HOW do you do this? Baby in arms, laundry basket where? Okay, baby in stroller, laundry basket in other arm, detergent where? Leave baby in the house? CPS is called?) is now a simple walk down the hallway. Leaving the house for a quick jog or for a trip to the store, once an impossibility without baby in tow, is now a regular part of my life.

Life is just easier for me now. I only work one job. I get to exercise daily. I eat healthier, well cooked meals. I have moments alone where grandpa takes my son in the backyard and plays baseball with him. Hell, until recently my parents had a housekeeper who cleaned my bathroom! It's kinda felt like resort style parenting. As a result, my energy levels are up, my mood has improved, and I've lost a lot of excess weight. And, as a result of that... my libido has shot through the roof.

Through. The. Roof.

People, I'm not sure I can adequately describe how intense I am craving sex these days. It is all I can think about. I mean, all I can think about. I walk past men and imagine throwing myself on them. I scroll through the contacts on my phone over and over again to see if- maybe this time- I'll find a male friend who is neither married nor gay who will have sex with me. I don't care if they don't love me. I don't care if they never want to see me again. Hell, I don't even care if they pack up and leave the moment we're done. I just want a penis in my vagina.

Which, brings us back to living with my parents. Holy shit, I live with my parents. I want to get laid and I LIVE WITH MY PARENTS. This concept- that living with my parents would equal no sex- had not occurred to me prior to moving in with them. This is because for the past three years I have been living in the Sahara Dessert of sex drives. I have had no interest in sex whatsoever. With men, with myself, with anyone. Zip, zilcho. I had no reason to believe that would change.

Well.

The experiences I have had in the past few months in my pursuit of sex have spanned the gammut from awkward, sexy, depressing, and exhilarating to downright weird and bizarre. They're too good to not share with someone. But unfortunately, I have found that (most of) my girl friends are not like Miranda, Samantha, Carrie or Charlotte and do not want to talk about our sexcapades over breakfast. In fact, I find that most of them are really uncomfortable with my sexuality and are "concerned" and "worried" for me. So, I've decided to make this space my trendy little New York cafe and you my Carrie, Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte.