I want your sex.

Yeah, I thought that title would get your attention.

Last week, Dr. X took a peek here at what I've been working on here and started laughing (like a girl). "You know, two words together on your blog address spell sex."

Yes, I know. It's all part of my master plan to lure more readers into my web of anecdotal musings on life, love and all the completely unnecessary stuff in between that my mind seems to hold onto like a steel trap. (Like the fact that, yes, that was Richard from "Caroline in the City" in the "Sex and the City" movie - I recognized him immediately as the real estate agent.)

Sex is such a powerful word - even in the land of Britney Spears, Pussycat Dolls and, God love her because she's still got it, Madonna. I'm not the only one who's marketing completely innocuous things by way of people's overcharged libidos. Just by reviewing the mainstream, look at Us Weekly, watch The CW, click on YouTube. I really don't need to provide any specific examples because it's there in front of us everyday.

The funny thing is, even though I'm savvy enough to differentiate between the message and the marketing, sometimes all the sex talk does actually bother me a little. You see, I'm the girl who would sew another button onto the collar of my shirt. (Well, if I could actually sew and if there was actually a collar there in the first place.) The same girl who wants to yank up those alarmingly awful Apple Bottom jeans over the hips of teenagers everywhere. And when the Victoria's Secret catalog arrives at my house, it's not addressed to me.

See, tragically unhip. Also terribly fashion-conservative.

I can't point fingers at everyone and everything else. I can't blame Britney for everything, right? (I, however, can be thankful that she's covering up with underpants again.) It's my issue that I'd rather stuff myself into a basic Speedo at the beach. It's me that can't get over (or get into) the thong. And it's me - no-boobs, no-butt me - that would rather slip into Dr. X's high school cross country team t-shirt for bed. Sexy, right? (But, darn, those shirts are soft!)

I'm no prude. Really, I'm not. Just a little overly cautious when it comes to my own body. A couple of years ago, running in almost 100 degree temperatures, I finally got the chutzpah to ditch my shirt and finish a race in a sports bra. Things were definitely more sweaty than sexy, but it was still a very liberating moment. The worn-out, faded-pink bra didn't leave much to the imagination, but don't worry - there's not much there to fantasize about in the first place, unless boyish non-cleavage is the sort of thing that gets your motor running. (My mother always claimed things would change for me in the chest department after childbirth - yeah, that was a bold-face lie.)

Maybe there's hope for me yet. I doubt I'll be swinging from a pole anytime soon, but maybe, just maybe, I might convince myself to wear a two-piece next summer. We'll see. So, yeah, not SEXtraordinary. Definitely just ordinary (and sometimes extraordinarily so).