When I enter my office, my feet sink in the plush white carpet I had put in the room. I turn on the lights just a touch and walk over to the white desk in the middle of the room. Putting down the water bottle next to the vase of pink roses, I turn on the computer. As I wait for the computer to boot up, I sit in the white plush chair and look out the window. The mirrored hutch catches the reflection of the sun, and I look at the picture frames that I placed on the top. Most of them include Karrie, and the picture of us from high school when both of us dressed up for an NSYNC concert is my most treasured one. The other frames are of me with the kids taken in the hospital as soon as they were born. The whole room is my private area, and no one really comes in here except the cleaning lady and Karrie. Grabbing my agenda, I look at my schedule and see that I have an article due for the magazine tomorrow and a blog post to do by next week.

What started off as a pastime has snowballed into my career. After the whole heartbreaking episode, I knew I was never going to fall in love again, so I became a serial dater. It was also at a time when blogging was just coming out into the world, so I started my very own little blog. Not thinking anything of it, I called it Life of a Serial Dater. At the beginning, I would just journal my dates, even if it included sex, and slowly but surely, my following built to over three million people. It was then that the magazine called me and asked if I would like to do a “Dear Serial Dater” article once a month. Readers would mail in their questions or opinions, and I would select a few to post and answer. I was shocked by how big it became, and now I also do an online part to the article every week.

No one besides Karrie knows what I do. They just think I’m living off my family’s money, and I work for them by taking care of their websites. I open my emails and start getting my article ready.

How much sex is too much?

I read my first email.

My boyfriend and I started dating and have only been intimate twice in four months. I want to have sex more. Should I ask for it or just be happy with what I have?

Signed, Sexually Frustrated.

I shake my head. “You aren’t the only one sexually frustrated, my sister,” I say but then get into serial dater mode.

Dear Sexually Frustrated,