Now that that’s over, we can finally stop talking about Taylor Swift.

At least, I hope so. Because we need to have an urgent national conversation about what is going on with older, highly educated married women who keep writing graphic accounts of their depraved sex lives.

Open marriages. Polyamory. Divorce as titillating memoir fodder. Blowing up their kid’s lives to YOLO into an infinite game of musical crotches with equally middle-aged saggy partners.

You’d never know that behind each of these dour, makeup-free hangdog faces, graying roots, unimpressive PhDs, sensible shoes, and vanity-proof librarian spectacles beats the heart of a thirsty orgy queen who engages in trysts so numerous and meaningless that they would scandalize the most syphilitic, tubercular 19th-century courtesan in Paris.