So there was this movie that opened up last week about some drunk girls in high heels or something. It was, from what I understand, a pretty big deal. Women — the type of women I can never be, the kind with curling irons and clutch purses and modesty — liked the movie, and the show that it was based on. I thought it was kind of okay when HBO showed frontal.
One of the characters was a sex columnist. She lived near where I went to school. I know, for a fact, that she couldn’t afford to live there on a writer‘s salary. Besides, nobody that cool lived on that block, only old people with Shih Tzus.
I know I’m not the first person to wonder if I could be a sex columnist, especially in light of a program that made the life of a freelance writer seem basically like the life of a vapid socialite, complete with club hopping, IUDs, and drinking binges. I tuned in for a couple of shows hoping to see the episode when Carrie Bradshaw would curl up in a ball listening to Danzig, then sob to her father about how the fuck she was going to pay rent, and finally the hour would happily conclude when she’d apply for food stamps and dumpster dive. Yeah, that show never happened and I got distracted by an online game of Boggle.
But that doesn’t stop me from thinking that maybe I should take my hat off of my notched bedpost and throw it into the ring.
According to my half-assed research, there’s a growing demand for sex columnists. It seems that us internet addicts aren’t just getting our jollies in the way of YouPorn, we’re searching for saucy advice on sites like Nerve. More people I know read the Village Voice for its online offerings from Tristan Taormino and Dan Savage than for its events section.
I’m unfortunate proof of what happens when a person cuts out all vices. I don’t smoke cigarettes, I’m in AA, and drugs make me act like my mother. (Think an OCD version of Chrissy from Three’s Company, then set it to a Joy Division record.) That leaves me with two things that I’m obsessed with: Splenda and sex.
No, I haven’t tried to combine the two, but don’t think the thought hasn’t crossed my mind.
I’m not just into fucking in the way that most nymphos are, though you could ask my boyfriend how goddamn exhausting it is to have a hyper, five foot tall sex addict in your room at two in the morning after a quadruple shot Americano. I’m actually interested in the mechanics of it, what makes us pursue who we pursue, what makes certain acts taboo. As a girl who only shared beds (and futons, couches, flatbeds of Toyotas) with girls for ten years, I have a unique perspective. If by unique you mean batshit crazy lesbian who now smokes the flesh pole.
And, as previously documented on this blog, I’ve thought about sex work. I already link something that I enjoy recreationally with money. If instead of dressing up in a fishnet unitard and gyrating to Poison, or introducing myself in the Biblical sense to strangers for Benjamins, why don’t I just write about it? I’m already kind of doing that, and much like actual boot knocking, much of the actual writing right now is also being done for free.
But I’m also the kind of person that blushes and sweats — not in the good way — when I watch pornography. The only way I can say the word “cunt” is by thinking of football and changing a consonant. I admire Traci Lords…for getting a book deal. I was raised Catholic. Usually I feel less sexy, more shameful.
It’s a weird mix, I know.
And, besides, who would pay me for advice? I suck at relationships. And my sexual guidance — as with most things — usually comes off like the waterboy of the New England Patriots talking about their success using collective pronouns. I put the ego in paregoric. I’m compassionate, I guess, but I’m also a bit of an idiot, erring more on the side of humor than help. I figure if I can make you laugh about it, what the hell difference does it make if your boyfriend can’t maintain an erection unless you’re wearing a squirrel costume?
All of this said, here’s a test run. I’m not sure how many people read this, or if any of you actually have sex, or sexual issues, or whatever, but if you’re down for a little internet game of email show-and-tell, hit me up with a question and I’ll post it ANONYMOUSLY along with a response. This way we both learn something. Hopefully not that I’m just a self-obsessed douche nozzle.
Send all Dear Slutty Abby letters to AinsleyDrew at gmail dot com. Though I warn you in advance, furries? Yeah, they creep me out.