Who made up the myth that men are the ones who never get enough sex and that women lie in bed with headaches?

I beg to differ.

I feel like I spend half my life writhing around under the sheets, desperate for attention from my boyfriend.

It’s not that we don’t have great sex when we have it. My problem is that I seem to want it more and more.

I was wondering if I had become an over-sexed freak, but I have discovered that I’m not alone.

It seems half the women I know in New York are not getting enough action from their men. No wonder we’ve all fallen in love with Eminem.

A couple of weeks ago, for example, Aaron drove me apoplectic with frustration – without even realizing he had.

We’d spent the evening on the sofa watching “Amelie,” and eating takeout pasta. At midnight, we hauled ourselves into bed. But in my increasing passion for Aaron, I was determined to overcome our tiredness.

As we got under the sheets, I snuggled behind Aaron’s bare body and threaded my arms around his waist.

“I saw the film ‘Secretary’ this weekend,” I said softly.

“Oh, how was it?” asked Aaron sleepily.

“Well, there’s this bit where the guy summons the girl into his office and makes her bend over his desk. Then he pulls up her skirt and spanks her bare bottom,” I whispered. “It was kinda hot.”

“U-huh,” replied Aaron. He seemed to be deep in thought.

I imagined a host of sexy images drifting across his mind, so I pressed myself against his back and nibbled at his ear.

“You know,” he murmured eventually. “Those meatballs were really good tonight. We must remember to order from that place again.”

I raised my eyes to the heavens.

On consideration, I’ve come to the conclusion that my problem is that I’m 31 years old.

I remember a colleague warning me that my sex drive would go through the roof when I hit 30. She was right.

A few years ago, I was quite happy only to have sex with a boyfriend a couple of times a week. Now, suddenly, it’s like I have a biological imperative to shag all the time. Otherwise, I get neurotic and temperamental.

Now I’m beginning to think that the old joke that women in their 30s should sleep with 18-year-old boys actually has some truth.

Most of the men that women meet when they are in their late 20s and early 30s have so many other responsibilities and priorities that sex can fall by the wayside.

One friend, for example, told me she was driven half ’round the bend by a guy who was a film director and worried all the time about his shoots. They’d get in bed, fool around for a bit, then just as she was getting hot, he’d lose his concentration.

One Sunday, he left my mate in bed and dashed off to buy the papers. When he returned, she was hoping for some weekend action.

But instead the guy stood at the end of the bed nagging her to go for coffee. In the end, she shouted: “Look, you have a naked 32-year-old lying in your bed, practically begging you to take her – and all you want to do is read the papers. What the hell is wrong with you?”

Another friend who’s been married a year told me that since turning 30 last year, she wakes up every morning thinking about sex.

One time, her husband had gotten up before her, while she lay under the covers feeling horny. Eventually, she went downstairs and caught him pleasuring himself over her Victoria’s Secret catalog. She was not amused.

Thank goodness Aaron and I haven’t gotten to that stage yet – not that I know of anyway. And things haven’t quite gotten to the dire straits of another pal, who has been dating her guy for 3½ years.

When I was wailing about Aaron, she told me that, in an attempt to stop her sex life from becoming mundane, she’d taken her boyfriend out to dinner, making it clear she wasn’t wearing any panties.

The trick seemed to work, and even before they got to their sorbet, he was desperate to get her home.

Then, just as they were getting down to some serious action, her boyfriend whispered: “C’mon, let’s jump in the shower.”

They soaped each other all over, then she grabbed a towel and threw herself sexily back onto his bed.

She lay there waiting for him with wet hair and a dripping body, trying to strike a sexy pose.

Her boyfriend appeared in the doorway of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waste.

“You know what I really love about taking showers?” he said.

“What?” she purred.

“Cleaning my ears afterwards,” he said, wielding a Q-Tip.