One of the greatest moments of stress relief might possibly be the advent of a sexual reawakening (that is, assuming one hs previously been active in riding the train to Shagland). When one realizes it's time to get back on the pine pony, gone are the cement shoes that unknowlingly sent one down to the bottom of the river Deprivation.

Sometimes one slips into one of those ruts where sexual desire seems like it has no relevance amongst the millions of things one must accomplish, the constant worry one faces at things in one's life that need to be tended to, the nagging memory in the back of one's mind of a Polish nun who smacked one's hand with a ruler because one asked about the "dirty deed."

But when the dust settles, and one finally has time to listen to that slight restless beast that dances at the bottom of the stomach's pit, one realizes that all the asking for is to be, well, fucked.

And there's nothing better than realizing that all one really needed was a good shag--and I'm not talking one of those cheap, desperate sessions where one ends up feeling like one just drank a fifth of vodka only to find it was 90% water--a shag in which all the proper precautions were taken so as to relieve the most preventable issues, where one is allowed to relax and slip into the sensation that can only be properly described by a biting of the lower lip and an involuntary guttural release of air from the vibrating larynx.

Now, the choice to adhere from sex could probably be fulfilling in itself; however, when one has opted for a safe-as-can-be, healthy sex drive and doesn't realize that sex is what was missing from the equation, the realization and conssequential remedy is nothing less than sublime.