Everyone wants to talk about sex: who’s having it? Who are they having it with? What positions were used or refused? Yet I’ve noticed that the topic that is continually being broached among my female friends more and more frequently is that of the dreaded dry spell. From the Upper East to Soho, from Brooklyn to the Bronx it’s quickly becoming the new epidemic. I had this epiphany several glasses of wine deep a few weeks ago.
“You know—it’s like they just make this stuff up. There are no men in this city.” I stand up, pour the rest of my cheap red wine into the plastic goblet I am holding and glare at my roommate who is elbow deep in a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. Storming the two feet between our hard red futon and our television I turn off season four of Sex and the City with a vengeance. She doesn’t end up with Aiden anway.
“I mean here we sit in our crappy, tiny, tree-fort of an apartment in the city so nice they named it twice and I haven’t had sex since I flew back for homecoming. Let’s see that was—sweet merciful crap—that was 16 months ago. Sixteen frigging months ago! Can a hymen grow back? If so mine is back and is now made of steel. I mean I am going to need a minor, a chisel, an old priest, a young priest and a crowbar next time I have sex—which is clearly not going to be in New York. I had to export booty last time and maybe hope to import it next time because real men do not freaking exist in this city. No. No. You know who exists in this city? I’ll tell you who lives in this city: a bunch of tight-pants-wearing-hair-slicked-over-the-forehead-metro-mother-issues-homo-erotic-undertones-113-pound-boys—who are only into models. That’s who’s here, and that’s just Manhattan, let us not rule out the boroughs and Jersey—where hair product, popped collars and eyebrow tweezers went to die.”
“You hear that—that’s the sound of my standards dropping? I mean is it so much to ask for a guy who likes sports, doesn’t know what bronzer is, doesn’t take longer in the bathroom to get ready than I do, has bone structure that was chiseled by monks in the mountains, is tall with shaggy hair and dimples. Dimples never hurt anybody. A guy who when he says he likes a girl with a sense of humor doesn’t mean a girl that just giggles at his jokes—a guy who can just throw me against the wall and ride the lumps out of me. Is that too much to ask?”
Putting out our shared Djarum Light clove cigarette into the ashtray resting on her knee my roommate glances up at me somberly. “Good luck with that.”
At this point I am pacing, preaching from on high, “I mean come on, I am funny, attractive, smart, racked like a grocery store, with an ass that you could shelve books on, and all I am asking for is a disease free, good looking, brilliant, witty guy who when the lights are low can make me scream all the vowels in the alphabet. All I know is at this point in my dry spell, if this were that cartoon of me starving on a deserted island, every dude I see is looking more and more like a freaking turkey drumstick.”
Sitting down I light another clove, not so much to smoke but just to gesture with it emphatically. “Not just sex either, the last time I even hooked up with a guy was Halloween, and then I was dressed like Cher. I’m not going to lie to you, I may have to don that costume again and try my luck twice. Man, if I could turn back time indeed. It’s not like I’m looking for a relationship, just a nice healthy sex life. I swear it, dude, guys are the new chicks and abstinence is the new black.”
“I’m either going to have get a gigolo or become a lesbian. Man I wish I were gay, I mean I should be gay, I’m funny, sturdy, like sports, am handy around the house and have a pension for flannel. That would make my life so much easier as it would definitely up my dating pool.”
My little rant, made be think– if George Michael is the only one who wanted our sex, (and Wham’s lead singer shockingly turned out to be gay) and Paula Cole cannot find where any of the cowboys have gone, and I can’t even think of a song nicely citing sexual escapades written after 1994; is there any hope for a young woman from the Midwest to find a healthy bout of sweaty fun anywhere in the Tri-state area? I certainly hope so, but at this juncture it’s been so long since I’ve had sex I am left wondering if they’ve changed it. Will I have to hire for stud? Should I see if Ellen makes me tingly in my user-friendly area? Until I find the answer I guess I am left to my own devices, but worry not, they are such lovely devices.