Testosterone will transform any good person into a mindless sex machine. Which explains a lot.

Women need a reason to have sex. Men just need a place.

— Billy Crystal

I know exactly what it’s like to be a man.  Well, mostly. I guess I’ve never felt like publicly scratching my crotch, jumping up and bumping chests with another man or fantasizing about giving myself head.  But I know what its like to be a man in the sense that I have had thoughts about fucking anything or anyone that came into my line of view, including garbage collectors, geriatric patients, homeless men and even Trekkies.  Elevated levels of testosterone will do that to you. For real. And yes, you read that right. I said I even considered doing a Trekkie.  And Love doesn’t do Trekkies. EVER. Not for any reason.

But before I can explain how on earth I got to such a ridiculous point, you need some background.  Beginning when I was about 5 months pregnant with my first son, I began waking up in the middle of the night, in mid-orgasm.  Yeah. I would wake up orgasming.  So that’s fucking great, right? Kind of.  Except I would have insane dreams about doing sex acts that should be illegal, if they aren’t already. I dreamt of things that I can’t even imagine crossing my mind ever, EVER, consciously and if they did, I would arrest myself right after I puked everywhere.  If I relayed them here,  it would create a complete and total barf-o-rama for my readers, except those of you with mustaches. You guys would probably love for me to expound.  Go find some porn, dudes. Suffice to say these dreams were explicit and filthy. But waking up most nights in the middle of an orgasm created only by her filthy subconscious thoughts?  A girl could get used to that.

I know. I know! You’re all, “Bitch, please!”  But I am a victim. Of hormones.  I mean, if I sat all day and consciously tried to orgasm with no physical contact, I’d have a better chance of figuring out the cure for cancer.  But when I was asleep? Good Lord. I came more than Jenna Jameson and Briana Banks together in Briana loves Jenna.  So that was kind of a bizarre, fun and often disturbing side effect of pregnancy (homeless dudes? Trekkies? REALLY?!).  When the pregnancy ended, so did the nightly dreams and their accompanying orgasms. And I went back to normal.

I’m not sure what caused this phenomenon, but I’m sure it had something to do with pregnancy hormones.  I would have asked my OB-GYN about it, but every time I imagined the conversation, it wasn’t working for me.

“So, everything looks good.  Do you have any questions for me?”

“Um… yeah. I was just wondering – is it normal for me to be having fantastic spontaneous orgasms every night which stem from all the extensive whoring around I do in my dreams, several times a week?”

No.  There are only two people on this earth that I could really share my secret question with, so naturally I wrote to Dr. Oz.  Via Oprah’s handy site.  Here is a man who regularly puts his hands in people’s intestines and can talk about poop for a whole show.  He’ll even humor Oprah and go through Past Life Regression exercises.  But will he delve into my pregnancy induced sexual perversion? Nooooo.  I mean, they feature ladies who have gas or smell bad or are fat. But they’ve no love for the orgasming pregnant lady.  Obviously, one more thing Oprah doesn’t care about.  Sometimes I like to think my issue was so fascinating that Dr. Oz just saved that question for his upcoming series, but then I think maybe Oprah didn’t want him to take such important intellectual property from the Oprah Winfrey show.  Or maybe Oprah was scared of the powerful emotions I might stir in her heart, were she to invite me to appear on her show.  We all know Oprah doesn’t like surprises.  That, or once again, I reach out to Oprah for help and I am summarily dismissed.  But I will not be deterred. We were meant to be together. Not as lovers, but surely as BFFs (cue Keri Hilson and Kanye).  Ah fuck – I’m off on another Oprah tangent again. Am I the only person this happens to?

Okay, so fast forward 3  years. Five months pregnant again. The nightly sleeping orgasms return. Sweet, right?! I swear some of my son’s testosterone is seeping out of the uterus and into my brain. But then I give birth, sad to bid adieu to my effortless, spontaneous nightly orgasms and all that extra testosterone.  But something else altogether happens –  I’m exhausted, sore and drugged up from the c-section and all I can think about is sex. Sex anywhere, at anytime, with anyone.  With everyone.  All the time.  Day and night.

Picture this, if you will: I’m up feeding my newborn son at 3am and trying desperately to find porn to watch on TV. I become extremely hostile and resentful toward my husband for not having porn in our house. “Where is the porn?! There must be porn!? Where can I get it?” I feel like a crackhead who needs a fix. But I have to settle for the poor man’s porn — Cathouse episodes on HBO – because there is no porn in our house.  This causes me to think unkind things.

“What the hell is wrong with you? Shouldn’t you have an entire library hidden somewhere in the floorboards or by your tools or something? WHERE IS THE PORN?” I screech, desperately clawing at BD’s face and chest, like a daytime soap star that finds out after a bout of amnesia that her husband was abducted by aliens, but not before sleeping with her twin sister, who she thought was dead all these years.  Yeah. But so, where was I? Oh yeah, so I politely suggest that he go out and buy us some hard core porn before I take off to the Bunny Ranch with our family savings. He tries to talk some sense into me. I threaten to go myself with the newborn strapped to me in the Baby Bjorn and tell him if our son and I catch some sort of STD while we’re in there, it will be all on him.  He stood firm. He was not going to be an enabler.  Or a co-dependent. No porn for me.

One would think that this turn of events would be a boon to BD.  A horny wife demanding porn? Yes, please! But there is that pesky little problem of no sex for 8 weeks after the baby, but we’re Irish so we probably could have chucked that one out the window pretty quickly. But then there was the other pesky problem that I was practically hemorrhaging for a full four months after giving birth.  That was my penance for all of those orgasms. The universe always has a way of evening things out, doesn’t it?   Was that TMI? Sorry. That was probably TMI. But relevant right? At least I get points for relevance? Anyway, my testosterone surge, along with my burning desire for porn, was finally extinguished after three or four excruciating weeks.

But I swear I’m getting to the point of all of this over-sharing. Here I am, supposed to be nurturing two young children and baking apple pies and doing other stuff that I’m pretty sure all the good moms are doing, and all I can think of and pout about is sex. Sex that I can’t have.  And suddenly it dawned on me. “OMG – I am a man! This is what it’s like to be in the head of a married man or an ugly one every.damn.day.” It was one of my only most important Aha! moments, which is why I’m sharing it with the Internet. If this is what its like to be a man, then how on earth does any man stay faithful? If all they do is think about getting laid and every household object can somehow elicit some type of sexual reference, how do they keep their dicks in their pants for most of the day? How do they get any work done? How do they have room to think about Fantasy football or remember what the square root of 125 is? How do high school boys even make it through the day with all the slutty girls that attend high school these days?

So here it is, the finale: To men around the world, Love salutes you. Especially those who have made the choice to be married and stay faithful, even though all you do all day, every day, is think about getting laid by every woman who walks by.  Holy shit. Now it’s so apparent and understandable why many of you can’t do even the simplest things.  You only have about 10% of your cognitive capacity available for anything unrelated to sex.  Love (channeling Bob Dole) has walked a mile in your shoes. I know your pain. How do you stand it?!

Note to BD: Stay strong, brutha.