My “Sex And The City” Moment
So I boarded this train about seven years too late, but recently I started watching the TV series “Sex And The City”. I have to admit, it’s pretty good, even if Sarah Jessica Parker kind of looks like a mutant horse every now and then, and nobody in the history of the world can figure out how to style Cynthia Nixon’s hair without making her look like a shrew or a lesbian, or a lesbian shrew (such is the power of her real life lesbianism, I guess), and occasionally I want to slap Charlotte n the face and tell her that puppies turn into dogs who grow old and die, and I love Samantha because she’s a whore and I’m a whore and we could both drink champagne together and talk about being whores. Anyway.
I bring this up because I’ve noticed that I have an inner monologue that rivals that of Carrie Bradshaw’s, and that kind of pisses me off because I’m actual real person, and if I were to start my own newspaper column, people would be like, “Oh, he’s just Gay Sex and the City” and I’d be like, “Um, no, hi, I’m real and I was created long before Carrie Bradshaw, so shut your mouth and kiss my ass.” And I don’t think that kind of column gets a lot of readership.
I do have to say, however, that I’ve become a lot more cognizant of my inner monologue as a result of watching the show and the other day, I had my very own Sex And The City moment, when I was inflagranti delicto with this guy I’m going to call Peter, because that name makes me laugh.
Now, if you know me in real life, it’s no secret that I have sex. I’m not ashamed of the fact that I have sex, or that I have had my fair amount of sexual partners. I practice safe sex, I don’t care what other people think about my proclivities, and I enjoy myself, so as far as I see it, no harm, no fowl. However, recently, I haven’t been enjoying myself as much as I would like. I’m not exactly sure what the issue is, but with Peter and with the guy before Peter, I was just like, “Ho hum” and when it was all over, I didn’t reflect on the fun and exciting times I just had. Rather, I reflected on the fact that I was out of milk and needed to head to WalMart.
Carrie Bradshaw’s self-involved influence washed right over me the other night, as Peter and I were fooling around. I don’t know why I wasn’t as into it as usual, but I just felt really lackluster. And then, right in the middle of everything, I had a very clear thought that was so audible, so tangible, so heard that I could have sworn Sarah Jessica Parker had actually clomped her rapidly-aging hooves right into me and took residence in my brain:
“As Peter was discovering what Downtown Stephen had to offer, I couldn’t help but wonder, is it possible to have too much sex and no longer enjoy it?”
Well, let me just tell you that nothing ruins the moment as much as that. I went through the motions, Peter and I finished, and that was that.
But what was it, really? What was preventing me from having that moment, le petit mort wherein I not only had a physical orgasm, but a mental orgasm as well? As I drove home, I pondered if what I thought was true: at the age of [unintelligible] is it possible that I had experienced everything that gay sex had to offer? Would I ever find another man who could make my toes curl and my eyes roll back, reminiscent of first-time sex in Harlequin romance novels? What was wrong with me?
As it turns out, nothing. A week later, I had sex with a guy I’ll call Sir (because that’s what he makes me call him) and when we were finished, I couldn’t move because I was so delightfully spent and when I went home that night, I slept like a baby.
So, Ms. Bradhsaw, I respectfully ask you to remove yourself from my inner monologue and let me get back to mine, because I have a feeling it’s way more fabulous than yours.
-Stephen
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