Funny, sex as the litmus test.
Defining chocolate or shopping, a five-course meal or rock climbing “better than sex” is something of a misnomer. Rather the underlying message is, given the opportunity, I would choose sex (in some form or fashion); however, if not an option at present, look instead to the happy, heart pounding distraction.
Sex is the place marker, the definition. What fun aspires too.
I like the high from a hard physical workout. The surprise of one hot bead of sweat falling from the tip of my nose as I pound quads on a spinning bike until they burn, ready to explode in a spent, wet puddle with one more rotation of the wheel, one more turn of the tension crank, harder and harder, before the sweet release of a downhill stretch. Or pumping out mile after mile on the elliptical, back drenched, hips and torso bouncing side to side, up and down, rhythmic, slower than faster.
But better than sex? Better than flesh on flesh, bone on bone? Nahhhhh. Accept no substitute.