So when my sex life flags, I should do the one thing that renders me less interested in sex than in watching paint dry.
Who'd have thunk it?
(This post is a figment of your imagination. Dominant females, as we all know, don't exist, though people play them for pay. Sightings of actual dominant females in the Bermuda Triangle someplace are still being investigated, but should be regarded with the same skepticism as Nessie or El Chupacabras.
Some who listen closely while reading this message during a full moon have said they can hear the faint sound of rabid headdesking, but it's most likely just the wind.)