"I'm not the sexual dynamo I used to be," I tell Andy, pushing his penis and everything attached to it away from me.

"Used to be?" he asks.

"Well, I used to be able to ignore my emotions and just fuck."

"Oh," he says, and takes his hand off my breast. "Do you want to talk?"

He rolls to my side and nuzzles his face in my neck. I turn over on my back to look at the ceiling.

"I want to be flooded with emotion, lost in passion, oozing vaginal juices."

He rolls on top of me and his chin rests in between my breasts. He asks, "What should we do?"

"Time to think is what I need," is what I say.

Andy is obliging. He takes a long shower. I put on a tee shirt and think in bed. I think I'm tired of bed. I'm tired of sex -- it's too tiring to be emotionally intimate and physically intimate at the same time.

He gets out of the shower, dripping. I barge into the bathroom and quick, before the steam settles on my skin, I suggest a romantic walk on the beach, and go change.

He is pleased, and we walk across the street to the steps down to the beach. I tell him I love our apartment. "It's so close to the beach," I say, and by then we're at the edge of the water.

Arched waves crack against the steep slope, and our feet slap the sand while we hold hands. I ask Andy to walk on the sea side of me.

"Why?" he asks. "You don't like the waves?"

"No," I say, "It's not the wetness; I just feel like being taller than you."