Women don't always want to be treated like we're delicate, or rare, or somehow more precious. We want to be wanted. We want sex to be just as raw as you do.

This is how we reveal ourselves: these tiny flashes of discomfort, the reactions we can’t hide.

There are moments in life where I wonder whether things can get worse. I'm on a plane, with my new husband, whose enthusiasm for this whole thing seems to be flagging, and it's in this deep moment of self-pity that I register–with absolute horror–that I've also just started my period.

I look down at my white jeans and stifle a sob...

You have very Grace Kelly-like tendencies about you. I hear Grace Kelly had a filthy mouth too," he added.

"You love my filthy mouth."

"True. But I like it better when its full," he said, meaningful smirk in place.

"You know, if you would shut up once in a while you'd be damn near perfect."

"But I'd be a silent panty ripper, which I think is a lot creepier than the angry-boss panty ripper.

The look in her eyes told me that under any other circumstances, I would either already be naked with her on top of me, or lying in a pool of my own blood on the rug.

Wait, you remember that?"
"Of course I remember that. You sounded like a frat boy and looked like a fucking model. What man could ever forget that?"
"I would have given anything to know what you were thinking right then."
"I was thinking, 'Highly fuckable intern, twelve o'clock. Disengage, soldier. I repeat, disengage.