I need an intervention

And by intervention I mean sex.

After last night's late night action involving a pile of cheese, gravy, and fries at Pommes Frites, I stumble out of bed, throw on a bra, and head to the yoga studio down the street.

Only this morning I opt out of steamy Bikram and instead decide to try a more chill studio on the next block. (The good thing about yoga in the am is you can work out and sleep at the same time.)

So I roll up behind two uber flexible 60-year-olds and am thinking, well, don't have to worry about impressing a potential date #5 today.

Until I see Tyrone. Yes, the yoga instructor's name in Tyrone (you betta caaaall Tyrone), and he is quite possibly the hottest man I've seen in two weeks. (In NYC, that's saying a lot.)

And then he opens his mouth.

Let's just say the next two hours were among the most pleasurable and distracting two hours of any workout I've ever had. That voice, that body, and the way he touched my ass and whispered in my ear to drop my shoulders on my baby cobra... you better believe my Oms were the loudest in the class.

So by the time the session comes to a close I've worked my mat up to be front and center on his standing forward bend. Everyone else is sitting with their eyes closed, meditating, and I've got my eyes focused on Tyrone. Those lips. And that ass.

He catches me looking at him and flashes a smile. Embarrassed, I close my eyes and picture us in a downward facing dog.

"Before you go, I want to share a story with you."

Yesss. Tell me dirty stories, Tyrone. Tell me.

"My wife blah blah bobloblaw blah blah blaaaaah."

I'm sorry, what did you just say?

"Our daughter blaaaaaaah"

Ohhhhkay, you wait until now to tell me this? I seriously just did a handstand for you, you asshole. (Although I must admit the thought of T-bone and his daughter is adorable.)

We were supposed to get milkshakes in the park, get married after five amazing months, and start making babies. I can't believe you did this to me.

And then I realize I'm crazy. I am certifiably crazy. I am exhibiting rare symptoms that are none too familiar for yours truly. Symptoms that can only mean one thing:

I, ladies and gentleman, need to get laid.

While I may have won the race to the top on the leaderboard, I'm 0-4 on the dirty. And as evidenced here, inching closer and closer to full blown desperation.

P.S. Oh, and for those of you keeping tabs, I canceled date #3 with Date #3 to the Hamptons. More to come on this...

P.P.S. A pigeon just took a shit on my air conditioner. Karma is for realz.