Sexless in the City

Sometimes reading romance novels doesn’t quite prepare you for a love life...

For this 30-year-old urbanite, love is always a misadventure: The Harvard Lickwit, Hippie the Groper, the 5% Man, and the Ad Weasel. These and many other men wander in and out of her life — but never her bed.

Thursday, June 23, 2005

Bothered? Kinda hot

Reader feedback sure has covered the gamut this week; I get unsigned poetry and now my first reader heckling in a long time (pats chest emotionally). I knew more than a few must consider me a full-on freak, never mind the Jesus- part ...
Total Bullshit. It doesn’t take much to see right through this obsession with sex while denying it. I understand the whole “looking for my identity” part, but finding it in the denial of something seem vacuous. Most people define themselves but what they “do,” that seems more noble, more defining. Being known as someone who “doesn’t do” something inspires less admiration. It isn’t hard not to have sex, it isn’t hard not to connect emotionally with people. You’re more of an outgrowth of the emotional disconnect that comes with our anti-social world and an Evangelical Mythical Christian belief system than anything revolutionary.

Whatever...enjoy it like Goth Kids enjoyed dressing up and acting evil before their shift at Starbucks.

It’s a club, I get it. My suggestion, get married now...before the looks fade...and then realize that sex isn’t the end all be all, it’s great, but not defining. Or hell, wait until you’re in the next lifetime to have sex, certainly afterworld sex has to be even better, right? Sex must be better in heaven, right? on clouds and shit...ha

Quit dressing up your non-knowledge psuedo-intellectual bullshit as a creedo. This is as much a perversion as rubber masks and gerbils.
Dear Huh:
I have to confess, when I first saw your comment, I was going to warn you I don’t take shit like that — your swearing, I mean — but uh, well, er ... never mind about that. In any case, dahling, I’m extremely touched by your concern for my identity, and especially how I’m known to the world. You may be reassured to know, I still generally describe myself as a writer and very rarely as, well, a gal who don’t have sex (yet).

But I do plan to, someday. Hopefully sooner than later. And hopefully with children as a result. But here, I have to tell you, I plan to persist in emphasizing what I don’t do along with what I do. If you’ve read this blog much, you know I like my beer. I figure giving that up for nine months won’t quite be the thrill other-worldly sex might (oh wait! Christians don’t believe in sex in heaven; damn. That’s a Mormon thing ... right?!!) — but I’d rather be known as that pregnant gal who’s not doing many things so her baby is born quite healthy than the selfish woman who keeps on doing what she enjoys, come hell or birth defects.

If you find this vacuous too, well I’m clearly a weaker soul than you. I wish I had your emotional and sexual fortitude, but somehow I got stuck with this damn libido that makes my self-control hella tough sometimes. Not so much with the men who like to admire me from the street, o’ course ... but when it comes to that certain gent who really gives me fevah ... Damnation! Why, if he ever came after me serious-like, it’d be a fine mess, me keepin’ my hands off him. Come to think of it, might be a good thing we’re not too close ...

But that’s the blasted thing. Take all these Ryan Adams songs I been listening to lately. “Firecracker”; “Gonna Make You Love Me.” I hear his confidence and I wanna think, “Yeah! If I sang that, all fine and sultry, I’d get me the lover-boy (er, husband) that I want!”
Faith can keep you warm, but I’ll teach you how to shake
And I’ll come to you like a little girl
It’s only gonna make you love me more
But maybe he’s just skeert of commitment, that lad-who-makes-me-sweat, and that’s where I need to set his mind at rest.
Broken bluesy whisper sing to me tonight
Well, everybody wants to go forever
I just wanna burn up hard and bright
I just wanna be your firecracker
See, honey? That’s all. I just wanna be your spark. Well ...
And maybe be your baby tonight
Maybe be your baby tonight
Gee, that might not sound so noncommittal after all. Men have a feeling ’bout these things, I think — that women don’t “just” have sex. Of course, I don’t either ...

But here’s my real beef with all these songs. They all suggest that if I just serenade a guy properly, I can make one who doesn’t like me fall for me.

Only, I’ve never seen that happen. And generally, if a woman can turn a man’s heart toward her, I think it has more to do with the promise of sex than, say, her mad baking skillz (though Poster Boy did once insinuate the way to a man’s heart really was through his stomach — but he musta meant his stomach, literally).

So here’s what I think. Either Ryan’s singing the songs he wishes would have that power (but is really too chicken to sing to his lady-fair) ... or he’s singin’ them to a girl who already likes him (hence her resistance is mostly a sham maintained to make him feel accomplished) ...

Or, dang, maybe it only works like that for men, and women just can’t get away with singin’ songs like that. Unless they’re Nina Simone, perhaps, but I ain’t got her confidence or her moxie. Or her ability to field-test the candidates. You see, lest you forget, dearest Huh, the other caveat of my approach to sex is I don’t get to test for compatibility. Which I imagine is, to your way of thinking, something near a sin. I might never even have good sex if I don’t know what kind of lover I’m getting, right?

So really, dahling, if you mean to insult me properly, it might not do to accuse me of obsession or perversion. If I understand you perspective rightly, you’d probably do just fine calling me a masochist.