I'd always imagined – when I was in high school reading Harlequin Romances in between Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet and Iris Murdoch’s Sacred and Profane Love Machine – that by the time I was in my late 20s – not to mention by the time I was 50 – I’d be a sophisticated lover. I’d know how to glance with just the right amount of dark and sultry to seduce the man across the restaurant. I’d wear glamorous one-strap dresses that would drape suggestively over my breasts and cause men to dream of what might happen if they would slowly slide that strap down my arm. My hair would be gloriously thick and long and I'd know just the way to cross my legs so they'd slip ever so seductively through the slit in my skirt. Within moments I’d coyly pull the red satin material across them while I looked directly at my suitor through a lock of hair that has fallen across my thickly lashed eyes. Yep, I thought this would all be something I naturally conquered.
I was wrong.