"It's OK," says Alex. "I don't think it's going to happen."
"No!" I say. "I've got this."
After another five minutes of what must be frightening-looking self-flagellation, I finally manage to scare up something I can use. I waste no time re-coupling with a surprisingly patient Alex, and some minutes later I have a mediocre orgasm.
"If it makes you feel any better, it didn't do much for me either," says Alex. "But you did get there two more times than me so..."
"Oh, yeah," I say. "Sorry. Would you like me to… ?"
"No," she says. "I'm tired. Get me back in the morning."
Final conclusion: meh!
Sober sex in the cold light of day had never sounded quite so appealing. While these three drugs augmented our experience of sex in different, mostly positive ways, they robbed us of the underlying stimulus to have it at all. The drive to ravage each other -- a central and enduring component of our seven-month relationship -- was dialed way down. It was clear that what we'd added to sex had taken something much more important away.