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I was so over fucking my last boyfriend. We were together for four years and by the third of those my libido was as MIA as he seemed to think my clitoris was. I just couldn't be bothered, he knew I couldn't be bothered—even our Chihuahua knew I couldn't be bothered. I was also on the pill, which can make your body reject the idea of sex entirely gr8 contraceptive, for realsies. Towards the end, we literally never had sex, not even when we really hated each other, which is like, the only good time to have sex with anyone.
In hindsight, maybe we wouldn't have had to buy the fucking Chihuahua if I wasn't so sexually indifferent. We would have had something to bond over besides that tiny, yappy little bitch. You know what would have made my life a bit easier during that dark time? A big, fat dose of Viagra. If it works for old guys with dicks limper than Andy Warhol's handshake, why shouldn't it work for me? I spent a week testing out all the different forms of female Viagra I could find in the hopes that at least one of them would turn me into a dribbling, thrusting sex-pest.
I guess if giving head turns you on you can spread it all over your boyfriend and suck away be careful not to get carried away and, like, chew it off, though. That's pretty much the only sexual satisfaction this is going to give anybody. It probably would have been more useful if I'd just thrown the shot down the sink and used the tube as a dildo. It made me feel about as sexy as watching one pigeon trying to force-fuck another on the roof of a funeral parlor.
Viafem capsules contain a blend of eight herbs, which apparently increase blood flow and sensitivity to your lady flower. According to their website, you should not take Viafem under any circumstances if you are not in the mood to have sex, the implication being that they turn you into a total nymphomaniac whether you like it or not.
It was an implication that I liked, and after popping a few, I was pumped to go flash my teeth at teenage boys on a light-up dancefloor. Unfortunately, the big night out we'd planned at the Roxy off Oxford Street in London it's so easy to get laid at that place I think it must be built on ancient lay lines ; was suddenly dashed when, much to my vagina's chagrin, my flatmate decided Two for Tuesday was more important than my sexperiment.