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April 8, 2004
| PERSONAL ESSAYS |
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| A year ago, I never would have characterized myself as a prude. Timid? Perhaps. An amateur at seduction? Possibly. A failure at procuring a stable of men? Definitely. But a prude I was not. I mean, I'd had sex — a lot of it. I liked sex. I liked talking about it. "Prude" was one of the last adjectives I'd have applied to myself. Then I started working at Nerve. There were the usual adjustments you face at any job: the logistics (do I need to dial nine before sending a fax?), the names (did he say Keith or Chris?), and the interoffice terminology (is "coprophagy" the consumption of feces or the mere worship of it?). But almost immediately, I was confronted by something completely new: the sexual anomie of my younger co-workers. |
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At twenty-three, Carrie, the assistant editor, wrote about her sexuality with inexplicable ease and candor. She was "fifteen percent gay," she liked to note, and the proud owner of one of the healthiest libidos in the tri-state area. She didn't flinch when describing a night of girl-on-girl-on-guy action for a mass audience. Likewise, Sarah, the twenty-two year old intern, was writing a personal essay about auditioning for an escort service. While editing her piece, I learned that she had already been paid for sex (once), had engaged in a threesome and considered herself bisexual.
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My life had turned into a bad sitcom plot: sexually repressed twenty-eight-year-old works at a sex magazine.
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What exactly was left for her to try I could only imagine, but I envied her and Carrie's way of thinking. They were only half a decade younger than me but seemed to come from an entirely different generation. These girls rejected the term "slut" because, for them, it wasn't a real expression. They didn't seem to harbor any shame about who or how many people they'd slept with, or the things they had or hadn't tried in bed. And, most notably, they seemed capable of separating physical pleasure from emotional angst. For them, the former (sex) didn't necessarily precipitate the latter (meltdown).
I, on the other hand, had recently placed myself in a timeout corner of sorts. In the past couple of years, at least three men had called my attention to what they deemed a sociopathic quirk: more often than not, I fucked with my eyes shut. Then came Jack, my shit boyfriend of eight months. With him, I kept my eyes wide open — think Malcolm McDowell in A Clockwork Orange. When, after the breakup, my altruistic rebound guided me into his bedroom and asked me what I liked, I responded honestly: "I don't know."
After that, I couldn't be in the same room with a man and a bed without bursting into tears. I didn't want a relationship. I didn't want casual sex. And I didn't ever want to be asked that question again. So, I embarked on an indefinite sexual hiatus and began working at Nerve.
My life had turned into a bad sitcom plot: sexually repressed twenty-eight year old works at a sex magazine.
Technically — if one can get technical about these things, like it's topography or bowling scores — I'm not a prude. I can't count the number of people I've slept with on one hand. I've long since checked "one-night-stand" off my list of things to do before I die. I can register a Czech opera house and the Andaman Sea on the list of historic places I've had sex. And I've fooled around and/or slept with most of your basic monosyllables: Jim, Chad, John, Tim, Mike, Bill, Chris.
But aside from the occasional slap on the ass, the sex has been basic, even if the locales were not. I would definitely not fare well in a game of "I never," especially with certain younger members of the Nerve staff. Unless, of course, the rules were reversed and you were given points for things you'd never tried.
When I was seventeen, I nearly broke up with my first boyfriend after a night of intense dry humping. As faded denim rubbed against faded denim, his eighteen-year-old erection pressed against my zipper with enough force that it would leave a mark for days. While my fingers deliberated over the inch of exposed skin between his jeans and shirt, his slightly more experienced hands landed on my inner thigh. Then I came. Just like that.
And I leapt off the bed and locked myself in the bathroom for the rest of the night, convinced my bladder had involuntarily exploded.
The next day, crouching between two Chevys in my high school parking lot, I relayed the incident to my best friend, Liz. "Oh, honey," she said in her saccharine south-Texas drawl, "you didn't pee yourself. You just like him, that's all. It's normal." Liz knew a lot more about sex than I did. She was from a small town where there wasn't much else to do besides drink wine coolers in the woods and fornicate with people your daddy didn't approve of.
Fast-forward through eleven years (and quite a few sex partners), and I was still a little awkward when it came to sex. But instead of being ashamed of my body and its untimely functions, I was ashamed of my residual shame. Carrie and Sarah were from big cities and younger than me, but they were far more comfortable with their sexuality. I was reminded of this every time I edited their work, sat with them at an editorial meeting, or watched a replay of their previous evening in digital video on someone's computer screen.
Maybe their I-should-try-anything-and-everything-because-sex-is-not-only-ridiculously-fun-but-also-an-integral-part-of-who-I-am attitude was indicative of child-rearing techniques that didn't become popular until the '80s. Perhaps Dr. Spock's parenting guides ("Trust yourself. You know more than you think you do.") had lost their clout. Or maybe there was a progressive shift in sex education. Those girls were still in junior high when Clinton was first elected. But most of my peers were equally experimental. As much as I would have liked to blame the Republican Party for my sexual shortcomings, I couldn't.
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I became the office prig, crumpling in my seat while editing a story about lesbian fisting.
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I grew up in a household that didn't talk about sex. My parents, who spent twenty-five years heading for divorce, were presumably not having it much. Or maybe they assumed their daughters would talk about it amongst themselves, which we didn't. When I was a few weeks shy of eighteen, my mother found out I was having sex from a Tarot card reader. We went together as a post-divorce, mother-and-daughter bonding experience; as we sat side-by-side, staring down at images of fools and magicians, high priestesses and lovers, the reader looked at me and said, "Ten cuidado con su novio! NO WANT BABIES NOW!" My mother and I never discussed the incident. Instead, Liz made an appointment for me with her gynecologist, who immediately put me on the pill.
I have no excuses. Plenty of people have gotten over a lot worse than Tarot turmoil and parents who didn't talk to them about sex. Still, I carried sexual shame with me well into adulthood.
When it comes to sex, there is the shame of ignorance (innocence, if you're a Blake fan) and the shame of experience. Shameful ignorance is not simply virginal naïveté. It is the weighted burden of knowing there are new things to try, but not knowing exactly what those things are. It's wanting to try specific toys, games, or positions, but not knowing how to do so. It is feeling embarrassed and uncreative, and it can exacerbate or be exacerbated by shameful experience, also known as bad sex. Bad sex, the definition of which is immense — I didn't come, he came too fast, he seemed bored, I was bored, he left as soon as it was over, I cried, he looked like he was about to, etc. — can aggravate old shame and lead to additional preoccupations that require concealment from friends and future lovers. And although you can recount your tales of intimacy-gone-wrong casually in the name of mental health or a good story, the physical and emotional ramifications will almost always come back to bite you in the ass.
Yet there are some people who aren't burdened by either type of shame. For them, either sex is great or the person they're with is doing something wrong. They seem to have been born with an immediate understanding and appreciation of the way their bodies work. They seem to move differently then the rest of us. Maybe it's because they get laid more. Maybe it's a confidence-induced swagger. Either way, they're magnetic — they possess information I need — and repellent — they know something I could never possibly understand.
A few years ago, my relationship to Nerve was very much like my relationship to The New York Times Book Review. I'd get the Review every Sunday and want to read it, but few things filled me with more self-loathing than reading about a book whose author I'd never heard of. I'd become an avid reader, just as I'd learned aboutsex, relatively late in life. And because there's never enough time to play catch-up, at a certain point, the attempt seems futile. So I read Nerve as I read the Book Review, with teeth gritted and a bottle of wine within arm's reach.
When I was offered a job, I took it, figuring one of two things would happen: my self-imposed celibacy would be apparent as soon as I walked through the door, and my title would change from editor to pariah in all of two seconds. Or, by walking though that same door, I'd be granted all of the sexual acumen I'd wanted to possess. It would be waiting for me, on my desk, along with sex toys and a box of prophylactics.
Neither was the case. My abstinence went undiscovered (although the photo editor did think I was married) and the editorial glossary of all things sex was nowhere to be found. Instead, I became the office prig, blushing during a group screening of the Paris Hilton video, crumpling in my seat at 10 a.m. while editing a story about lesbian fisting (I still believe that no one should have to edit an excerpt about fisting before noon) and giggling like a Tourettic child when, one morning, the editor-in-chief announced:
"We've got new people in here, so we're taking a poll! Who thinks the word pussy is offensive?"
I didn't have a problem with it, but I couldn't say it without blushing.
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I'd never dressed up as a sultry superhero or had sex with more than one person at one time.
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Then came the out-of-the-blue emails from former colleagues, former crushes and former acquaintances — all of them male. "Wow! I can't believe you're working at Nerve. We should grab a drink and catch up." They assumed I had become a sexual expert by osmosis. But I'd never been blindfolded or beaten, dressed up as a sultry superhero or had sex with more than one person at one time. Hell, I'd never even kissed another girl. I felt inadequate and doomed to disappoint.
Meanwhile, my female friends were thrilled. That one of us could land a job reading and writing about sex restored their faith in a just world. Most of us were single and in our late twenties, so we spent a good eighty percent of our time thinking and talking about sex. It seemed only fair that we should be able to profit from our preoccupation. Unfortunately, out of all of us, I was having the least — and least interesting — sex. While one friend playfully recounted a lunchtime "monkey fuck" with a married man in a bathroom at the Four Seasons, and another recalled a Valentine's Day tryst involving a digital camera and panty removal, a third friend was lamenting the loss of one of the guys in her stable, a young Norwegian. (He was getting too attached, so she had to put him down.) "Sometimes it's good to downsize," the others assured her.
But I wanted an excess of horses so grand I could discard one and still have half a dozen left from which to choose. I wanted to have tales of dirty monkey sex — whatever that was — to offer the group. Instead, tales of my sporadic exploits were generally so short and uneventful that they bored even me.
To put it simply, I was jealous — of my friends' sex lives and those of my new colleagues and the writers whose work I was editing. But it wasn't necessarily their experiences that I coveted so much as their imagined experiences. Or least the way I imagined them to be: exotic, enigmatic, unattainable.
Then the unexpected happened. While reading and editing stories for work — about threesomes, foursomes, blindfolds and blind orgies — and mentally preparing myself for a long slide down a complex called inferiority, the experiences I'd imagined and envied started to become less exotic and unattainable. The discrepancy between my sex life and the average Nerve writer's was vexing. However, it was becoming increasingly clear that much of what Nerve publishes seems sensational not because plain vanilla sex is passé or undesirable, but because part of what we aim to do is say what is often unsaid — whether it's politically correct or not, relatable or not so much.
The list of things I wanted to try did grow substantially during my first few months at work, but I'd also started a new roster as a result of my new job. It was a list of all the things I never wanted, needed, or intended to try in bed. And not only was it growing a lot faster than the "must try before I die" list, its existence assuaged my insecurities. The more I read about and discussed formerly shameful topics, the more diffused they became.
Seven months later, I no longer turn red in the face every time someone says "pussy." My therapist says, with not-so-subtle hints of disapproval on her face, that I've become "immune" to such language, but I view the transformation as a triumph. And just as my sexual vocabulary phobia came to an end, so did my sexual nuclear winter. (He made a "Seduce Tobin" CD and built a flower box for me, how could I say no?)
There's something absurdly fun about being my kind of prude. It's sort of like being bipolar.
I'm still stumped when he asks me what I like. I continue to bite my lower lip and hide my face under the pillow at my lack of self-awareness. But I've found there's something absurdly fun about being my kind of prude. It's sort of like being bipolar. The small defeats — he asked me what I like and I don't know what to tell him or fuck, I'm wearing cotton panties with an iron-on cat across the ass — feel devastating enough to a warrant a chastity belt. But the small victories — finding out that he actually finds the cat on my ass endearing or feeling comfortable enough one night to offer him a whispered hint of what works for me — are euphoric reminders that I'm not doomed to life of sexual frustration or conceptual frigidity. And, now — eight months into what my friends call "the best job ever," my father considers mildly horrifying, and I just call the toughest thing I've ever done — I certainly know my options.
| ABOUT THE AUTHOR: |
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Tobin Levy has worked at Nerve, Talk magazine, Contents and a book-scouting firm that made her an expert on post traumatic stress disorder. Her writing has appeared in Men's Health, Elle, Time Out New York and Teen People. |
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Click here to read other features from the Shame issue! |
Commentarium (45 Comments)
all i can say is thank god i'm 37 and not a year younger.
thanks, Tobin, I enjoyed reading this. As much as I like that nerve "I-should-try-anything-and-everything-because-sex-is-not-only-ridiculously-fun-but-also-an-integral-part-of-who-I-am attitude", I appreciate the fact that you point out that just because you may not have that attitude does not mean you are inelligable to "start screwing with your mind"
Thank you. In all its honesty, or in as much that there can be, This piece really felt good to read. -Mike
the editing shines through; the mark of a good writer.
Tobin:
You're beautiful, inside and out.
I love your writing.
And I have those same coton panties with the iron-on asscat.
Thanks for the great article. Moderation and sensibility in one's sex life is nothing to be ashamed of.
Sincerely,
Katrina
Phew! What a relief it was to read your article...You have described what has been drifting through my mind endlessly for years but have not been able to put it into words...I have been battling "the p word" for many years mainly because the sort of family that I am from...I really enjoyed reading this article...You are an amazing writer!...Keep up the good work!
Thank you Tobin-You gave this twenty-nine and dry as the desert nothern cali girl some good ol terms of endearment to call upon while contemplating...loved it!
A great read and felt so honest... for what it's worth, more honest than much of the stuff that's been written by your more sexually adventurous colleagues.
And that begs a question for the women on the floor: what is your experience in keeping hot, uncommitted sex separate from emotional entanglements? For me, no matter how hard I tried (and I did - among my friends I was known as the sexually aggressive one), it seemed almost as rare as falling in love. I finally made a peace with the fact that fucking men who would never be boyfriends gave me emotional hangovers of migrane intensity. Still, I read about these unfettered 20-somethings (I'm 36, married) and waffle between envy and cynical doubt, remembering that at the time I did a pretty good job of talking about how it was all fine, fine, fine. You?
As a bad speller guy I am glad to see some one with a good mind and heart and honesty talking about sex.
As a pretty sexual (not necessarily lots of sex) guy I still have yet to have many of the sexual experiences mentioned.
Certainly I have looked for threesomes, orgies and fanaticized about same but have not had those experiences even though I am a 38 year old attractive guy.
Some how the idea of expending all that energy on wraps, plastic things etc gets me tired.
Good sex is fulfilling just with another person there. When I am asked what I like I say I like sex with you (the person I am with)
Tobin-I think you are the best writer at nerve and I think this is one of your best pieces-honest and funny, real and relate-to-able (unlike so many of the more sensational pieces written by the so-experienced-you-wonder-when-they-found-time-to-do-anything-else-but-fuck writers.) Thank you for a great essay!
Loved this! Nice job!
Your article is just so much fun to read, and gives me - as a 17 year-old with the *oh-my-god-everybody-else-has-an-exciting-sex-life*-feeling - a bit more confidence in myself.
I loved this article! Good to know that the Nerve.com staff is, indeed, only human after all.
However, this article came from the EDITOR??? With the numerous grammatical errors, I must assume that she wrote this during one of those Paris Hilton screenings...
;)
It is soul and life affirming to know that even someone whose profession puts her in the know of each position (and the correct spelling) in the Kama Sutra, is just like the rest of us regular folks. Bravo Tobin!
GREAT Article. As a man, I relate to it!! My question, is two a stable? Thanks,
Wow.
I actually read an article on Nerve.
And I liked it. I loved it!
Great, smart, funny, perceptive stuff.
I'm generally not "touched" by stories I find here, but I found this one equal parts cute, honest, and sassy. Tobin is a flower blooming, behold the sweet fragrance!
p.s. Long live iron-on kitties!
I was great to read a piece about sexual freedom that isnt unnecessarily attached to a concept of freedom as being more than . . .
Freedom is the ability to freely explore and enjoy
You're just looking for love Tobin. The problem is, sex is lower on Maslow's hierarchy of needs.
Hang in there, you just haven't had the right teacher.
Tobin,
Thank you. Although I am twicee youe age,56, and male, I find myself in synch with your style of sexual freedom (sic).
I too have had an opportunity to "try many things", on the whole it turns out I prefer to have emotional intensity conjoined to (what I think is) wild sex. Fantasy not withstanding, reality is much harder. Sweet caring is best, iron on pussys and all.
Jim
As a 26 year-old male who was also a late bloomer with respect to experiencing the pleasures of sex (and reading too), just wanted to say thanks. Despite having used the personals section of Nerve for quite some time, this just happened to be the first essay I clicked on - and now I'm looking forward to being a regular reader. The simple act of speaking from the heart does wonders, no?
I can only speak for myself, but I really don't think there's anything prudish--and even less wrong--with not having a fully-stocked "stable" and trying every trick in The Big Bang for its own sake. As for knowing yourself and what you like, it takes a lifetime of discovery, no matter how much you know or don't know at any given point. Remember that there's more to life and self-knowledge than your sexual antics. That being said, I appreciate the way Tobin has the maturity and strength of character to talk about her insecurities in a serious and thoughtful manner, as well as what she's justly proud of. It's a large part of why she's my favorite writer at Nerve.
Thank you Tobin! I am also a late bloomer...actually I haven't bloomed at all. I'm a college freshman and all three of my roomates are sexually experienced. I feel like the black sheep. I really enjoyed this essay not only because of it's honesty but because it gave me some hope. You are a great writer, and I can't wait to read some more of your articles.
Great, sincere article.
Damn good article; good for you
You are hanging with people for whom sex is the center of therir lives. Ultimately the girls of "Sex in the City" get boring. Sex is great, but there are so many more sources of pleasure out there. When sex is asked to carry too much of the buden of your identity it becomes as opressive as fundamentalism in religion. There is pleasure in understanding art, exploring music in all its varieties, giving back to the community, studying history, taking walks in strange cities, participating in worship, becomming a good cook....Move on.
Good to read.
I would suggest that you realize that right and wrong are not empty concepts, but real. And you have some rethinking to do. About what? About who you want to be. About your life. About a lot of things.
And stay away from Tarot cards and such. Get an NIV Bible and start reading in the New Testament.
let me know what you think, if you like.
julesg@newebmail.com
The sincereity and clarity of this article is terrific. Cheers for Tobin. Surely there is liberation and relief in realizing you're comfortable not having three-way fisting matches with whoever happens to be wearing an oven-mitt. I respect sexual innovation, but I admire those who don't cave to pressure to don a strap-on with super-hero accessories.
Most people live in two worlds, as Luda says, "We want a lady on the street and a freak in the bed". Being prude is sexually appealing, if you give that up then you are boring. Just remember boring is a relative term.
Great article - enjoyed immensely - and i'm sure you'll be hearing from many people who can empathize 100%, myself included.
i liked it a lot. I hope the newest one works out. then you can be the envy of all the early 20-somethings.
How do I tell you, without upsetting you; or your world view? I guess I just...
Ms. Tobin:
It takes youth to develop the dense, titanium-strong mental muscles that allow a person to live a lie 24/7. By the time we get to be your age, some of us a little older, we no longer have the ability to maintain a life-style based, 100%, on total fabrication. It takes youth. Young minds and muscles.
What fabrications?
Take anything you wrote about regarding what Carrie or Sarah describe as healthy sex. Twenty-two and twenty-three year old healthy sex. Only in their minds can the two terms become associated with each other - healthy sex.
You own words go a long way to defining your true feelings about the whole scene of what I call, Free Love, Part II. "...I envied her and Carrie's way of thinking."
Personally, I do not think so. Their "thinking" may allow them to "reject the term ""slut." They have no shame; says you. My oh my, isn't that attractive in a date? Would you like to be in a social situation where you were called on to introduce one of the ladies?
"Oh, Charles, please say hellow to my friends. You'll enjoy their company. They have no shame."
In my twenties, sure. I'd want to meet them and meet them and...you get the idea. Now, being a little older then you, I'd politely move away; fast.
Here's something I say to patients every day: Experience is not always the total of the sum. Sometimes, we can total experience-after-experience, and due to the nature of the experience's; the sum we add over and over, equals none. Zero. Worst case, it equals a negative.
The quantification of repeating abnormal behavior, is only half the experience necessary to understanding behavior.
Balance is essential in this universe among the people we live with and interact with daily.
The sums and totals that make up the other half of the equation: = Normal. Add the two parts; abnormal and normal, the rudiments of behavior are in place. The degree of balance determines...everything about where we fit in the spectrum of our constant self-measuring against our peers. It draws the bell curve of the norm and: There. We. Are.
"only half a decade younger then me but seemed to come from an entirely different generation. These girls rejected the term 'slut'"... That would be one 'extreme' on the line defining the bell curve.
Place a mark right past "way out there." Notice the loneliness of that mark? Almost everybody else is "way back there" on the line. Right where the form of the bell tops out. It's highest point.
That's what I call civilization.
A decade 'younger.' Sure, at their age, they have what it takes to believe they have rejected being a 'slut.' They desperately need to, in order to deceive themselves first, before they can convincingly lie to other people.
Denial. Delusion. Magical thinking. Low, terminally low, self worth. Eating disorders. Sexual identity loss or confusion. Excessive guilt and ""shame."" Suicidal w/plan and means.
Just a few terms that come to mind when I read your piece, and the part Sarah and Carrie played in it.
You observe people well. You are also good at translating your observations into nicely turned phrases that give your description's depth and sometimes, unintended insight. In the beginning of the article, you had me going. I thought you believed what the two young ladies were telling you.
I thought it was very creative the way you exposed the false statements, the futile effort aimed at convincing you, an old pro in the lifestyle, how ""wonderful"" everything was with no shame. Yay Yay Bullshit.
However, excellent tie-in for the "Shame Issue."
It takes a lot of youth-strenghtened, emotional, mental, physical and spiritual muscle, to live that no shame deception 24/7. Young minds, young bodies, they can handle the grueling, sleepless, night crawling-ness, humping, slurping, being slurped, physical-ness and endurance of on again, off again endorphen rushes from multi-multi-climatic highs and reverse bell curve lows. Daily, or more then once daily, sex is very much for the fit and the young.
Recouperative reserves can only be replenished by rest. Preferably, rest alone.
They may not be sluts. I prefer to be generous in my thoughts of other people whom I know nothing about. Unfortunately for each of them, it appears that they may be intelligent. If so, then they are smart enough to know that their behavior is same-same of a slut.
Life would be kinder if they were stupid, ox-like plodders, working their way down the career-ladder for prostitution, or as wive's of alcoholic wife-beaters.
Sarah..."had already been paid for sex (once)." Sarah has already auditioned "for an escort service." In these few words, written by you about Sarah, prove your point. You are a Prude.
You feel it necessary to passively defend Sarah for being paid for sex.(once) (once) (once)(I "get it." Sarah is not a whore...in your mind, and through your keyboard, hopefully into my mind, readers mind's, but more importantly; Sarah needs the same conclusion too.)
"There were the usual adjustments you face at any job..."
..."something 'completely' new: the sexual anomie of my younger co-workers."
Turns out, your concern about "The P Word" has a basis in fact and truth.
There's an appropriate joke, fits perfectly right here. It's an old joke about a rich man dancing with a recently widowed women. He asked, "will you have sex with me for a million dollars?"
After a moment of thought, she says, "yes."
He then says, "how about for a hundred dollars?"
She is shocked! Utterly shocked!
Hauntingly, she responds by demanding, "what kind of women do you take me for?"
His reply: "I think we've already established that madam, now we are negotiating on the price."
What did Sarah charge? Or, if through a service, what did she make - net not gross.
At their age, young twenties, I did "my thing" too. After all, someone has to be the stiff prick available for...being stiff, stiffer and stiffest.
Non-discrimimatory stiffness and availability. Well used brain... not required. That was me for a couple of years. Although, the whole time I was Mr. Stiff and Available, it wasn't really me. I knew it. Didn't need a mirror. Just knew. Felt all wrong at the worst times. Big clue.
A lot of the memories have become blurred with the desire to re-virginate. That's like being born again without all the hassle and other people. I just edited in and edited out. Now, it's just a good story with me right on the line, but never across it.
Oh, and what about you?
It appears we have something in common. You're editing back in, you have peppered your story about yourself with a few well-placed threads within the whole fabric which do not match. Maybe they belong to another rug. Or, possibly they were fantasies recounted so many times they became, part and parcel of your recounting historical fiction.
All for the cause, as it were. All for the cause.
There is nothing wrong with being a Prude. It beats the hell out of "sleept with most of your (not mine) basic monosyllables: Jim, Chad, John, Tim, Mike, Bill, Chris."
To be fair, you did qualify all that "action" with "and I've fooled around and/or slept..."
The whole section which is your "badge of courage" or "ego wall" with your sexual experiences; it is not you. As a reader, I appreciate the cheap look-see into something very personal for you. Surely, there was a little, tiny bit of shame in that whole exercise: "This was me. Now I'm..."
The use of the word "pussy" gave me a small titilation. Imagining it in a management meeting; well hell, that was pretty funny.
Here is my Grand Finale:
I am ashame of spending so much of my personal time writing this useless note, ney; massive missive of biblical preportions.
Say, any other personal information you care to share about Sarah...hey; can I help it how I get turned on. Write me you slut. Minor ex-slut!
harddoerules@hotmail.com
chastheriot@hotmail.com
gumbonono@msn.com
Hurry. My wife could read this and kill the computer. Been there done that.
Good story. Needs a better ending. I'll provide.
Try marrying the world's best person and greatest woman. I waited until I was 38. Gave up hope. Worked hard. Stayed home. Worked out everyday. Alone.
One day...BAMB!!!!!!!! Saw her across the lunch room at work. Always believed in love at first sight. Thought it happened to other people and in the movies only. But, there it was.
I should have said, try marriage for good, for ever. Enough time goes by, we never have to ask what the other likes. The years have made them all known to each of us.
I bet most people get married not really knowing what they like. Probably need to experience something, mostly by accident - not much planning. THEN BAMB, BAMB, WHOW, GITTY UP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
15 years later. She's still the sexiest woman I have ever met. Thanks Beedabee.
From: Pop Pop
Tobin,
What a GREAT essay. Amazing, the power of writing -- particularly in public -- to change one's life. I had a hard time with sex until my mid-20s, and in fact it was sex chat in the late '90s that got me over a lot of Issues in my offline sex life.
Now in my early 30s I've spent a year baring my sexual soul at TechTV.com (I write the weekly "Sex Drive with Gina Lynn" column; the archives are at http://www.techtv.com/ginalynn) and found that most folks appreciate it when we bare ourselves like this. Appreciate it beyond the prurient, I mean.
I think your essay resonates with a lot of people who secretly worry that they're "not normal" -- or that they're too normal, too ordinary, too square.
And the flower box thing is so cool. :)
~ Gina Lynn
Whoopsiedoodle -- I didn't realize the feedback was PUBLIC. Not that I'd have said anything differently, of course, but ... whew!
Excellent article. I'm sure it took a considerable amount of psychological self-examination to be able to say what you did.
It's truly great to read about what goes on in the minds of the writers at Nerve about their own sexual background and personal attitudes about the various aspects of sex.
I'm a 48 year old married guy and many of my own sexual attitudes, and I'm sure I speak for many others, are comparable to your own in that we often seem to let our preconceptions about "how it should be" get in the way of allowing what might be an otherwise wonderful encounter to turn into what you termed "bad sex".
In any case, articles such as yours provides us readers a different kind of glimpse into the writers' personal sexual experiences that we don't ordinarily get to see.
Maybe you should encourage the other writers at Nerve to do the same sort of thing. If not for the benefit of your readers, then perhaps to help improve interpersonal relationships in your workplace, by helping to dispel any mutual misconceptions about each others' sexual experiences and attitudes. :)
be_nude@yahoo.com
I really enjoyed that. I feel a lit like the way you described and yes, I am getting there slowly... and slowly *is* good enough! :-)
I'm a 58 y/o male and, as I read "P Word, my primary thought was "Where would I mant my 13 y/o daughter to land on the continuum partially represented by Tobin and her younger colleagues?" I'm still puzzling that question and likely will puzzle quite a bit more. In that context, I'm grateful for the fodder added to my ruiminations by WVR, but I can't quite see myself ever getting even reasonably close to his sense of disapproval, and I certainly hope his opinion is a lonely one - which in no way means it doesn't merit consideration.
A brilliantly self-aware and emotionally candid piece. There are orders more of us out there that struggle with our inner selves and sexuality than those who are self-assured.
And the ones we look up to today are not the ones of a few years hence. All changes...each of us, our understanding, our phobias, and our expectations.
Wonderful provocatively thoughtful piece.
I just read your P word piece and LOVE IT. You are one talented Texan motherfucker! See you later, gator on our Willy B bridge walk........
There's something kind of horrifying and depressing about this article, and about listening to a woman complain about her sexuality, in general. "I feel bad about myself because I feel like I don't enjoy myself enough."
Cry me a river. You wouldn't last five minutes in my shoes.
It was strange when I undertook the difficult task of a platonic relationship. Suddenly, I got free coffee at Starbucks. I got into see bands for free. I spent a lot more time partying. I got to see this girl get favors like being able to open a bank account that she wansn't eligible for, and having entire semesters of classes get graded as incomplete until she could finish the coursework over the summer. Seeing how the other half lives was an eye-opener.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that when it comes to sex and love, the world gets separated into haves and have-nots pretty quickly. Guys don't "put themselves on time out" sexually: guys have what we call "dry spells". Just being a woman grants a lot of advantages, and it just doesn't do to complain. Would you complain about losing a scholarship to Harvard to the guy taking your money at McDonald's?
Anomie literally means lawlessness, and it sounds like a pretty apt description of your massively sexed-up friends, but in the same way that Billie Holiday owns "Strange Fruit", or Patsy Cline owns "Crazy", this is Marx's word. Herr Marx used this word to show that as someone gets more and more alienated from their work (in this case, the pursuit of love and sex), they get alienated from themselves -- they lose meaning as people. And if you claim that this kind of thing happens to you, well, I'm not sympathetic.
By the way, if you're ever in Austin, can I buy you a coffee?
Cheers.
Holy S#*t !! That was YOU at the opera house in Prague??!!
gypsyjourney@hotmail.com
this article is as well written as any i have read in the new yorker.......keep up the good work, tobin.
Now you say something