"I had a cat once, who, when he felt the need to clean me up, would come over to where I was sitting, put his front paws on my thigh, and stare at me with a kind of fierce desperation. If I didn’t immediately invite him into my lap, he’d dig his claws into my thigh. Hilde was looking at me that way now. Her felt need was sex. I just didn’t feel up to it. Having sex with Hilde was like extreme cagefighting without gloves. Hilde always ended up on top and her screams of ecstasy were like a Viking battle cry invoking the Norse god Wodan."
That's how my latest flash fiction piece starts out. It's about an out-of-work SW programmer who feels 'used.' Since it's only 711 words, telling you any more would be... well, redundant.