Being a sex columnist is ruining my sex life! Yes, it's sad but true. Most men out there in the abyss I call "the black hole of dating" want a virgin in the bar and a beast in the bedroom. But where does a woman that spends her days writing about sex, between her look of innocence and her foul-mouth, fall in this virgin-slut dichotomy?
When I decided to start writing (a sex column last August), my roommates and I made a vow to live up every moment of our senior year in the hopes of getting plenty of writing material for me to work from. In fact, in my quaint Washington apartment we have a motto: "It's all for the column." And when we adventure into Adam's Morgan for an after-hours at Tom Toms, or set off on an escapade to see strippers, or entertain eclectic dates, no matter what fiasco we find ourselves in, or large grin we come home with we do it over and over again because it's all for the column.
While scoping out D.C., I learned quickly that telling men I write a sex column was a big mistake. Digesting idea that I spend my days and hours analyzing, intellectualizing and exploring sex scares them, intimidates them and makes them feel sexually inadequate. And I've tried to shield my identity as a sex columnist. But no matter how many times my girlfriends vow to keep my identity silent, one of my drunken girlfriends would blurt out, "And she writes a sex column!"
"Are you like 'Sex and the City' and shit?" some twenty-something soon-to-be senator would ask.
"I like to think I am more original than just copying someone else, the column has its own style..."
But after men hear the words "sex column" they revert back to pimply-faced, awkwardly horny 13-year-olds, ready to come at the mere idea of missionary sex. Men don't want to date a sex columnist. They may want to ask her questions, read her articles, maybe even fantasize about the concept of a sexpert. But how are they supposed to romance a woman whose job is to dissect men? And while a sex columnist may be intriguing and mysterious, a woman that writes about blow-jobs and handcuffs for a living isn't exactly a girl you would want to take home to your ultra-conservative country club mother.
Men think if you are a sex columnist, you are clearly promiscuous, and in lamest terms, a big slut. If you write about it, these men assume that you must have it non-stop. In fact, how on earth did I find the time to get out of bed and write this column when I must be doing it on my kitchen table all day long? And if a woman is spending her days and nights researching on all fours, she probably has an intimidating collection of glow-in the-dark condoms and a closet full of beyond belief sex tales. Then that curious side of men wonders what you, as a sex columnist, would be like in bed. They estimate that you could out-orgasm them any day and that you must be into some kind of kama sutra. They fear they won't be able to hold their weight underneath the sheets. Some then challenge you to a less than romantic proposition of an evening of orgasms or they simply shy away.
How do men balance a woman who talks dirty and lives clean or vise versa? In our society where therapy is trendy and talking about sex and dating is common water cooler conversation, how do men balance the image of an angel in the outfield and a devil in the bedroom?
Both images are intimidating, but most women don't neatly fit into the categories of sluts and virgins; most women spend their time floating in between the two and pushing their limits on both sides of the sexual spectrum. As a columnist, I explore sex, I didn't create it and while I may know a lot about it, many tools of the trade may or may not keep out of their own bedrooms But when the topic of my column comes up, most men think that dating a sex columnist is an all-glory or all-story deal.
But let's suppose our imaginary man then figures he should take a risk. We have chemistry, he's charming, I'm entertaining and we go home together. His next fear, that I will expose his Clark Kent identity and everyone will know he isn't really a superhero in the bedroom. Men are afraid I will write an expose called, "My Worst Lay", featuring him as the star of the article.
I don't write about my current conquests, Christopher Columbus didn't go blabbing to everyone that he had discovered a new continent while still sailing? My new men and my bedroom are both kept out of the published sex files, to protect myself and the men I date. I am a sex columnist, not sex exploitist.
My theory was again tested a few weeks ago with a childhood crush of mine. I hadn't seen him in months, and through a random twist of fate there we were, low-lit bar, delicious conversation, hard drinks. And while I wanted to rip his J.Crew look off his body in the bar, I wanted to have dinner with him even more. I was intrigued intellectually. I wanted to talk, veg out on his sofa and order Chinese. But because I'm a sex columnist, he assumed that either all I wanted was sex, that my interest in him was purely literary or that he could use me for his own research as much as I could use him for mine.
Now he came home with me, and while I'm sure he imagined a fanciful evening of handcuffs and hardcore sex, what he got was a PG-13 performance of middle school make-out. Sex columnists like to talk and write about sex, but it doesn't mean that we sleep with every man we crave conversation with. After all, every good sex columnist has knows that giving it up may make him come, but it doesn't make him call.
Despite the anti-climactic ending with my childhood fantasy, I still wonder how much of my columnist status should remain under wraps for the good of my sex life. Must I work exclusively undercover, or is it possible to be an explorer by day and enjoyer by night, no by-lines attached?
Jessica Bacharach is a senior in the School of Communication. Caught with your pants down runs every Thursday.
eaglepantsdown@yahoo.com
