When I leave and turn at the door to tell her, “I’m sorry, I won’t be back, because I just realized that I should really sleep only with tenured professors,” I realize that this is the most fun I’ve had in weeks.

I try to dive back into work and forget this whole idea, but every research question I’m asked sounds like sex. I’ve started watching everybody I see and thinking all the time about how they fuck, why they fuck, where they fuck, is it good, what do they do badly. When I’m not answering the phone, I can be found doing some heavy breathing back in section 306.7, reading every sex book I can get my hands on. Hell, I’m so immersed in it I could practically write a thesis—maybe you can get a PhD in bad sex.

Joe’s Bait Shop, the local dive bar. Holly scoped the place for me over the weekend and thinks it’s a guaranteed bad time. Every possible sport on a dozen big-screen TVs, pool tables in the back. The bartender’s a babe. It’s amazing how fuckable everyone looks when you’re looking for people who aren’t.

I’m wearing black tights, a long baby blue sweater, black suede boots and nothing underneath. I’m getting a few looks but no bites because of the damn football game. I forgot it was Monday night. Maybe this is bad sex, when you can’t even draw a man away from the television.

I get myself a drink and wander toward the back room. There’s some kind of a meeting in progress and no TVs, so I slip in and sit down in an empty card chair in the back to check out the crowd.

“My goal,” the handsome man speaking says, “is to help others achieve sexual sobriety.”

Wait, wait. Sexual sobriety? Is this where you fuck only before you get drunk?

“The twelve steps were my saving grace,” he continues. “I turned my lust over to God.”

Holy shit, I think I’ve wandered into a meeting of OverFuckers Anonymous.

I laugh. Heads turn in my direction, followed by frowns at my laughter. I can’t help it. I know they’re deadly serious. But maybe God knows what bad sex is. I wonder, does God like having all this lust turned over to him? Didn’t God turn it over to us in the first place?

The speaker’s looking right at me and smiling. “Who would like to share their story with us today?” He’s got piercing green eyes and big shoulders and a fuzzy beard that I can already feel rubbing between my legs, and I’m considering making up a quick sad story to tell him and I know I should consider getting the hell out of here instead.