"Believe me, I would pay $50 grand to have sex more than once a month," says Kim as she starts scrawling furiously into her PDA. "Hey, note to self: Try to have sex more often than I have my period."
Suddenly, I feel compassion for Kim and make the little universal hand gesture that says, "You've got a big glob of caramel sauce on your chin that I didn't tell you about when you were annoying me." She swipes at it petulantly.
Later, as we say goodbye, I suggest that Kim apply serious lingerie therapy to her marriage. I have always said that the path to world peace is strewn with lacy underthings. Lingerie takes over where skin lets us down. Kim nods meekly. "If Barnaby says he's too tired, I'll just tell him it's the only way for us to get out of debt."
That night, after making love to William, I watch him sleep. It's irrational and possibly chemical, but something about the way his impossibly long, dark lashes curl against his face makes him more dear to me than anyone in the world, and more delicious than the world's richest hot fudge. As I stroke his hair in the moonlight, I realize, as any competent sex and relationship expert should, that a loving, happy sex life isn't worth $50,000. It's worth a million bucks.
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