I Took a Bath With a Guy Who Didn’t Know My Last Name
Maybe I should evaluate my standards but whatever.
Here’s the type of writer I don’t want to be: I don’t want to be the type of writer who uses sex to lure you in; I don’t want to be the type of writer who skates close to the promise of erotica. It’s cheap and makes for bad writing, and I want to be a good writer. And while I’ll happily open a vein and bleed on the page to tell you about my sad and lonely childhood, I draw the line at my sex life.
I’m open about sex, but I’m also a total prude. Men feel comfortable around me because I celebrate the fact that at their core, they’re animals who just want to fuck (that’s the openness part). But I don’t really color outside the lines of the love scenes in 1980s movies (that’s the prude part). No bells and whistles for me. My idea of sexting is something like: you’re in bed reading the New Yorker and I’m next to you reading Dwell Magazine and neither of us has socks on. If you put a gun to my head, I still couldn’t have phone sex. Honestly, I’d rather be shot.
Don’t get me wrong, I think I’m ultimately fun in bed, probably because I let men be complicated and weird. But the result is that I end up attracting complicated men in weird situations. Someday I’ll go back to therapy and examine this at an excruciating slow pace…
