Forget everything you ever knew about Basic Instinct

Last year you may remember I lost control over both the book and the movie, 9 1⁄2 Weeks. I became obsessed with Elizabeth’s intense, sexual surrender and Mickey Rourke’s smile. I couldn’t believe this 1986 movie had just been sitting there my whole sexual awakening unwatched by me. I was ready to feel that again. 

So I developed a new tradition called “Carolyn watches notable, hot, erotic thrillers of the past in the dead of winter” and this year I chose Basic Instinct. 

Described as a neo-noir erotic thriller and starring Sharon Stone and Michael Douglas, I didn’t know much of anything about the movie except for, well, ::wink wink, nudge nudge::, you know. I never witnessed the infamous scene, and yet, I had seen it parodied in just about every way possible. I was excited to check this off my list.

But as I write about this movie a week later, it’s not that scene I’m thinking about. And it’s certainly not Sharon Stone’s character, author Catherine Tramell, either. The scene (which comes in around minute 27) is interesting, sure, but it’s also muddled by cheesy detective dialogue, the gurgle of a water cooler and the face of Wayne Knight aka Newman. It’s also pretty embarrassing how ‘shocking’ the detectives find Catherine’s carAAAzy habit of stripping emotion out of her sexual relationships.

That scene from Basic Instinct may be iconic but, for me, it takes a backseat to the other icon whose screen time exceeds that of Sharon Stone’s flesh. The icon that actually made me pause, rewind, and ask myself, “Did I really just see that? Did I really just see...a Bart Simpson keychain?”

Wait up.

Basic Instinct was released March 20, 1992. Six days later, only in it’s 3rd season, the 55th episode of The Simpsons, “Colonel Homer” aired. An episode with it’s own themes of seduction as the character of country singer, Lurleen Lumpkin, attempts to seduce Homer. But I’m not here to make symbolic Simpsons episodes connections between Basic Instinct (even if they do exist).

I’m obsessed with people who look and play the part of a quintessential ‘adult’ and, to me, Dr. Beth Garner, the character holding the keychain, is that. She’s involved in an intense sexual relationship with her client/colleague, she wears thigh highs and shoulder pads, she’s a freaking police psychologist and she storms into bars and tells her colleagues to “Fuck off!”

My adult experience has been that no matter how many bills I pay, no matter how much of a woman I become in the bedroom, no matter how many times I see the proof that I really am an adult, I’ll never look the part of a Dr. Beth. I constantly feel like the little girl who feels like she knows nothing, can’t sew a button, doesn’t understand the stock market (especially these days) and is easily intimidated by grown ups with families or a Master’s in Psychology.

But when Dr. Beth revealed to me that she kept her keys on a keychain with one of the most childish icons of my time, Bart freaking Simpson, it was the ‘Don’t have a cow’ moment I needed.

Like Dr. Beth Garner, my keys are also kept on my own silly piece of iconic, pop culture; a Pussy Wagon keychain. But I also own thigh highs, I’ve slept with with a colleague, and I think there’s a time and a place for shoulder pads. I don’t have a Master’s in Psychology but I pride myself on my communication skills that have led to some great conversations and, god dammit, I have a minor in Art!

The Beth and Bart sides that live in me are constantly battling for first place. Depending on what I’m trying to accomplish or who I’m talking to, they’re both always fighting to be understood and I’m pretty sure that’s just always how it’s going to go. My Beth side may never be as bright as my Bart side, but I know they’re both in me. And the less time I spend proving that to myself, the less exhausted I’ll be trying to prove myself to the world.

Uh, so yeah, Basic Instinct was a pretty okay movie.

Losing control over Nine and a Half Weeks

It’s Super Bowl Sunday, the beginning of February. 

I’m spending the evening with my dog. I am trying to decide whether to take a bath or keep watching Nine and a Half Weeks. The movie was released February 21, 1986. My copy I rented on Amazon prime expires midnight, February 3rd. My dog gives me a quizzical look and starts licking his bed. We’re both horny.

Let me backtrack. 

Before the movie Nine and a Half Weeks was the book Nine and a Half Weeks. I received it in November as a birthday present from a friend. At first I confused it with the Hugh Grant movie Nine Months. Laughably wrong.  

I didn’t open the book until this week. Four days later I finished the book, finished the movie and am now almost finished writing an essay inspired by both. “I loved it. I loved it. I loved it. I loved it. I loved it.” I’m as obsessed as Elizabeth is with the relationship this story was based on. 

Oh right. The story. For those of you like me that weren’t familiar, this is a pretty intense love, erotic, ‘sexual surrender’ story of a woman who spends nine and a half weeks with a lover. This man, yes, takes care of her, bathes her, buys her nice things, makes her come (a lot). But he also does things like keep her handcuffed to the coffee table, humiliate her, cause her pain. A pain, though, she often longs for.

The movie...is...hot. Kim Basinger and (holy wtf) Mickey Rourke?!

I only knew Mickey Rourke as the actor who got his comeback in The Wrestler. I had no idea of his earlier roles and drop dead gorgeous smile. Apparently, he’s a mystery to a lot of people:

With most book to movie adaptation, there are obvious differences to be argued, but I loved both versions deeply. The book, written as a diary, puts us inside Elizabeth’s head. As her lover’s requests grow with intensity, we hear her mental responses, in the movie we watch them play out. 

At times I had to step away from both. Not from the intensity (which there is a plenty) but from how ‘god-damn-why-didn’t-I-think-of-that’ perfectly both stories captured a moment I’m familiar and obsessed with. The moment of being absolutely lost in arousal. The tipping point of ‘Jesus Christ, I can go no further. Take me.’ And it’s not a moment saved only for sexual adventures. I felt it just this morning in my weekly dance class. The stimulation so above my skin and petty thoughts that built and built and built until finally I handed over my control and lost it.

It was interesting to read and watch this not too long after I finished another representation of  psychologically questionable relationships, Netflix’s You.

These are very different stories but they both feature a male character playing puppeteer with someone’s life. When I read that actor Penn Badgley had to give girls fawning after his murderous, good-looking character of Joe a reality check, I was disgusted. A disgust which I’m sure many had for our Nine and a Half Weeks male protagonist. 

He’s egotistical, he’s obsessive, yet here I am daydreaming about what it would be like to fulfill his requests. Crawl for him. Meet him at Hotel Chelsea. 

But Joe never offers a choice. His victims are clueless to his manipulations and clueless to the control they are handing over. Elizabeth, on the other hand, is very aware.

In Nine and a Half Weeks, there’s always an option to relinquish control, to leave. And if the title isn’t obvious enough, she does. But even though their relationship is not perfect, not ‘nine and a half years’, the story has singed into my bones how much I enjoy the duplexity of control when it is mine to play with. Even if I want none, it is mine to give away. Unlike You, I made the choice to go to dance class this morning. I made the choice to crawl.

Rules for couples (or friends)

This week in classic Carolyn fashion, I went to an event alone. Don’t worry, I posted an Instagram story in case I went missing. 

On Tuesday evening at the historic Strand bookstore, Patricia Marx and Roz Chast gathered to chat about their new book, You Can Only Yell at Me for One Thing at a Time: Rules for Couples. Their book, written by Patricia, illustrated by Roz, includes nuggets of wisdom and advice for couples, especially those who live together. 

I was familiar with Roz’s work. I read about her first in Mike Sack’s Poking a Dead Frog: Conversations with Today's Top Comedy Writers and have followed her cartoons in The New Yorker since. And even though I stepped into the event unfamiliar with Patricia (former writer on Saturday Night Live, contributing writer to The New Yorker and author of several other books), I left slightly obsessed with both. Watching Patricia and Roz felt special. Like one of those ‘New York moments’ without Woody Allen (thank God). 

With my resistance to coupling and cohabitating at an all time high, I half-expected to experience the event with jaded eyes. I expected cheesy sitcom one liners about ‘not going to bed angry’ or something else Patricia Heaton might yell to Raymond*. But, like all sitcom husbands, I’m an idiot. I should have known Patricia and Roz would be well-versed in the art of sarcasm, reality and the annoying nuances of love. 

Sexual favors in exchange for cleaning up the cat vomit is a good and fair trade.

Trying to park with your spouse in the car is like brushing your teeth in front of the dental hygienist. 

If either of you has a chance with Michelle Obama, go for it.

Plus, even though intended for couples of the romantic kind, their advice could apply to all relationships. Coupled or not, we all have loud breathers and hoarders in our lives.

But what was more impressive than Patricia and Roz’s ability to make fun of the ‘ick’ and ‘awe’ moments of relationships, was their relationship with each other. The two’s years of professional collaborations (Why Don't You Write My Eulogy Now So I Can Correct It?: A Mother's Suggestions) made more sense as I witnessed their back and forth, BFF banter. 

I specifically watched the other as the opposite spoke. Their eyes, their smile, their focus was always present in their own observations. When Roz struggled to spit out an anecdote about her father and Chinese food because she was laughing too much, Patricia looked on in admiration. They were each other's self-proclaimed sous chefs. 

I left warmed by their friendship and thought of my own, especially that of my two best friends. The three of us share a group text.  In it we run the gamut of jokes, complaints, advice, selfies, ramble dambles and Updates You Didn’t Ask For (those are the rambly videos that end up lasting longer than 6 minutes).

Sometimes I look back and scroll through it like a Netflix menu. ‘Oh, she said something really funny that day. Ima watch that.’ Sometimes I walk around Target filming my lotion options, ‘Guys, why are night creams so expensive, help!’ Sometimes our chat is the first thing I look at when I wake up. I’ll sit in bed drinking my coffee the self-timer so thoughtfully brewed, scrolling and and laughing my morning away. They’re my morning kiss.

My best friends fill in the spaces that so often partners are held responsible. Partners can’t always fill the gaps that BFFs can so if you have to fill them elsewhere - do it! I think one of the reasons living single for long hasn’t felt like a continuous Morrissey lyric is because of the fulfillment I find with my friends. I may be single but I’m still intimately sharing my life. 

The three of us may never collaborate artistically like Patricia and Roz but I think we’re still just as solid. Some relationships have babies, some have books, and others have group texts.

*I think Everybody Loves Raymond is a decent show

Meet myLAB Box - Part 2

Welcome back to myREVIEW of myLAB Box! It’s been a few weeks which, no, it didn’t actually take 5 weeks for my results but I did, um, have some issues. Let’s get to it. 

I was sent a myLAB test for HPV. I had just received negative HPV results (Yay!) from my gynecologist but I wanted to see how myLAB did it. As promised, the package arrived discreetly and inside was a darling little box.

I did my own personal unboxing (minus the 1 million+ YouTube views). The contents inside included: packaging to return sample, registration forms, instructions, specimen bag, swab and swab receptacle(?).

First on the instructions was to register the kit. This allows myLAB to notify you once they receive your samples and where you will eventually be notified of your results. Easy, peezy. A quick username and password later, my registration was complete. Time to swab.

The HPV test requires you to insert an enlarged Q-Tip into the vagina and give it a few swabs around the ole gal. Once complete, the sample would go into the receptacle (basically a plastic test tube) and that would be that.

I reread the instructions a few times but was pretty confident about my game plan. I mean, every month I stick tampons up there (Sometimes Super Sized!) so a wil’ ‘waby Q-tip would be a breeze, riiiiiiight? [Note: This is foreshadowing]

I want to warn you that the next paragraph may gross you out.

I stuck the swab inside me and, well, ok, you know how when you push a light switch down, the lights immediately go off? Well, it was like that. But with pee. Yes, I immediately peed myself. I was not expecting the sensation of warm piss dripping down my hand and legs but even more than that, was definitely not expecting the sharp pain that immediately followed. 

When something hurts, I usually try and stop the pain ASAP. But for some reason, pulling out the swab didn’t feel like an option. I was capital Determined to get my sample. But instead of the 360, triple axle, Earth orbiting the moon swab I wanted, I barely made it past the eastern time zone. I slowly pulled the swab out which a) did not feel good and b) didn’t stop the pain. I put the sample in the tube and sat on the toilet wondering what the hell I just did to myself. I was 100% certain the sample was screwed and 200% certain that I just gave myself an instant UTI. Did I just poke…my…urethra?

And that’s exactly what I Googled. I was grateful for the few brave strangers who asked Yahoo Answers the same thing back in 2012. However the strangers who offered ‘advice’ weren’t that helpful, their responses ranging from “How do you even do that?” to “I’m not sure you understand female anatomy.” Cool, cool.

Whether I truly stuck the swab up my urethra, I don’t know. What I do know was that for the next 2 hours it stung like a bitch when I peed every twenty minutes (a much higher rate than my usual every 3-4 hours). Praise Pussy I had some leftover meds and cranberry tablets from a previous UTI scare which seemed to help. I laid on the couch and cursed my never-ending curiosity. I knew I was HPV-free! Why did I even do this?! How did I even do this? The hole is right there! I feared I had sabotaged my body as soon as it got to a good place. I went to bed angry, in pain and fully prepared to piss the bed.

***

The next morning I sat on the toilet ready to burn. Fortunately, there was only a slight ache. I didn’t want to assume everything was back to normal so I popped another cranberry tablet (They’re pretty good once you get past the gross aftertaste).

Through the pain of the night before I had managed to pack up my ruined sample and get it ready to ship. myLAB provides the envelope and paid postage. All you have to do is drop it at the post office or mail box. “Well, here’s something I can’t fuck up.” I thought. I literally live around the block from a post office! This I could do. I brought the envelope (along with a mug of coffee) with me on my morning dog walk. I walked up to the mailbox and…was quickly put in my place. This was not a drop-down opening mailbox. No, my mailbox only had a small opening big enough to fit a stack of letters, not a test tube of cells. I tried to coax it in (that’s what she said) but knew if I pressed any harder, with my luck, it would crack. The post office wasn’t open yet either so, once again, my mission failed. My dog celebrated my failure with a sample of his own, adding a pile of shit for me to pick up and balance. For those keeping track, I was now carrying a bag of shit, a mug of coffee, my envelope with my ruined sample, and a 35lb pound pup.

At this point, I had to get to work. I knew I had some mail boxes by my office. This thing was coming on my commute. MTA meet my DNA.

My sample and I rode the train together in silence. At this point, despite being biologically connected, we were 100% over one another. I got off at my stop and, considering the chain of events, wasn’t too surprised when I discovered police performing random bag checks. I pondered what details I would give them and what they would be spared. They didn’t give a second glance. Point for me?

Didn’t matter. Whatever points I earned were lost when I then absentmindedly brought the sample with me to the office right to my desk. I somehow completely forgot to walk by the multiple mailboxes on my journey. Was brain damage a byproduct of urethra damage? Should I keep it in the fridge with my lunch? What if there’s free pizza in the cafe and I don’t eat my lunch? I’ll definitely forget it! I kept my sample close.

‘Eight hours’ later I made my next and final attempt. “See you in Hell, stupid sample.” I said to no one.

***

In conclusion, myLAB Box is a good product…that is not for me. I cannot (and should not) be trusted with foreign objects. myLAB did end up sending me another test to try, (gonorrhea and chlamydia) and, I will say, collecting a urine sample is indeed much easier:

Despite my own lack of timeliness, the results did come back as quick as myLAB said they would, so there is a level of convenience. But I would still feel more comfortable leaving the logistics to someone else. It’s why I don’t buy clothes online: If a bathing suit didn’t fit, I would never return it. I kept forgetting to leave the apartment with my urine sample and again had trouble finding a big enough mailbox. Your samples should be put in the mail within a few days and I found myself cutting it close.

I love any product that promotes safe sex and taking control of one’s body. I’m happy to live in a world where myLAB exists. But for now, I think I’ll continue to do my time at the doctors and clinics I’m fortunate to have in my neighborhood. And hey, for those who have their hand/eye coordination and USPS skills mastered, do it up!

Bon Bons, Insults and Putting My Hand Down My Pants: What Married With Children Taught Me About Love & Sex

In case any readers are as nuts as I am and decide to rewatch Married with Children with fresh eyes, spoilers below. 

Thanks to Spotify now including Hulu with my Premium subscription (hair flip!), I could finally deep dive into the show that up until recently has only provided me a sense of ick: Married with Children.

Married with Children premiered in 1987 as the anti-sitcom. Life wasn’t perfect, marriage wasn’t perfect and everyone was miserable. My parents didn’t encourage me to watch Married with Children but there definitely wasn’t a conversation about not watching it. So. Despite not really getting it, I did.

As a kid, I didn’t like Married with Children, I didn’t hate it. I was...intrigued. The theme song was sung by my grandpop’s favorite artist, Frank Sinatra, which made me feel good, but the show itself was dizzying. Everything was bright and cheesy in this world. It was as if dimmers or believable set pieces never existed. It reminded me of the community theatre plays I had begun performing in: over the top, fake, and exhausting. 

I remember thinking Al was mean, Bud was gross, Kelly was dumb, Peg was annoying and their couch was very similar to the one we had in our upstairs TV room. I remember Peg was always eating bon bons (I will never not equate bon bons with Peg Bundy) and I remember Al putting his hand down his pants which I now do often. 

But what I remembered most about Married with Children was the mysterious cloud of ‘sex stuff’ happening. I knew this was a ‘naughty’ show but my memories couldn’t pinpoint exactly why. If I had to define sex based on what I witnessed years ago in Married with Children, it would probably be something that you shimmy excitedly or reluctantly up the stairs for before the credits roll.

I was curious. Now that I was no longer a child, how would I perceive Married with Children? More importantly, how would Married with Children perceive sex? Relationships? Did Al and Peg really hate each other? Was marriage as terrible as The Bundys have me remember? Did Married with Children get anything right? Here’s what I came up with:

MYTH: Al & Peg don’t fuck
TRUTH: Al & Peg fuck a lot
Despite not having a well-defined vision of what exactly sex, I did gather from Married with Children that it was something neither Peg or Al wanted from each other. But, whatever this ‘sex’ was, Al did indeed want it from the svelte models that would (God knows why) peruse his shitty shoe store. 

But Al wasnt’t the only one guilty of not wanting to fuck their bethrothed. Despite Peg’s notorious, whiney ‘Alllllll!’ that would have you assuming she’s always begging for it, Peggy constantly comments on how bad Al is as a lover. She was always hinting about the lack of orgasms she was having with Al, bringing up her vibrator on more than one occasion:

Al: How ya feeling, Peg?  I’m surprised you could make it down those stairs this morning.
Peg: I know. I was pretty tired.  I hope that buzzing didn’t keep you awake last night.

However, as I watched the show, bracing myself for the nonstop insults Peg and Al would hurl at each other (and they do), I also realized, these two fuck a lot. For two people who claim to hate boning one another, there are more episodes of them getting it on than not. In fact, they fuck at the end of the very first episode! And the second episode! And the third! I screamed at my TV when, in episode two, Peg says to Al “It’s been a long time.” Bullshit, Peg! It’s only been (in tv world) one week! 

Not only that, there are episodes where they fuck multiple times! In a season two episode, ‘Earth Angel’, Al (and the whole town) become perpetually horny after the cross country travelin’, leotard wearin’ Tiffany spends a few nights on their couch. At one point, Peg’s so ravaged by her ‘sugar tush’ she can’t even get out of bed.

In season four episode, ‘Hot off the Grill’, Al becomes so aroused by Peg cleaning the backyard for a Labor Day barbecue, he rails her at least three times, even referring to himself as Peg’s ‘Daddy.’ Al Bundy the dom?

MYTH: Peg is an insufferable wife
FACT: Peg is HOT
As I mentioned above, I will never not equate bon bons with Peg Bundy (Truthfully, I still don’t know what a bon bon is). Peg was a redhead like me, so as a child I was intrigued. I may have even made my relatives laugh by shoving cash in my shirt like Peg. But I never would have referred to Peg as a role model. 

However, as I watched her now as a grown woman: cigarette in a manicured hand, leg bouncing, a bright lip to match an even brighter outfit; I concluded Peg Bundy was hot as hell. I used to see Peg as an outlandish, wild dresser. Now I was viewing her as a fashion icon. Every outfit she wore, I wanted for myself. Peg even shared my fashion technique of ‘Put a belt on it!’, giving her outfits that perfect touch by wrapping a chunky belt around her waist.

And while Peg was originally written as a lazy couch potato, it was Katey Sagal who came up with her signature, sexy look. Katey showed up to the audition in tight clothes and a red wig and voila! Peg! 

Peg is also known in her friend’s group as having more sex than any of them: “Peggy, you get it once a month. What’s your secret?” Peggy goes on to describe a situation where she basically traps Al into fucking her, but if you ask me, I think not only does Peg get off more than what she wants you to believe, she also gets off on exaggerating her dire circumstances. I think it’s all an act to protect whatever it is that her and Al do have.

And I think Katey Sagal would agree. “I think it was hot underneath.” Sagal said at a 2003 reunion. Katey decided that when something happened between Peg and Al (which we now know was often), it was great and why Peg wanted it.

MYTH: Marcy is pathetic
FACT: Marcy is a strong, sexually healthy woman
Marcy, Marcy, Marcy. In my fuzzy MWC memories, I remember Marcy as the annoying, bug-eyed neighbor.  And yes, she was the character you (men) were supposed to hate. She didn’t eat meat, she hated sports, she hated Al, and she was...a feminist. [cue audience ‘Oooooos!’] Marcy is the exaggerated ‘modern woman.’ But she’s also the freakin’ best.

I may admire Peg’s style but it’s Marcy’s transformation I relate to. Marcy starts the series a somewhat straight-laced, timid newlywed but ends the series a powerful, in your-face, business woman who is also unapologetically kinky.

Yes, Marcy’s first marriage to Steve, which I’d argue is the better marriage, had its issues (mainly due to the appearance of The Bundys). But for the most part it was pretty good. They shared interests, they had sex every 36 hours (except on weekends when they ‘caught up’), and they didn’t wait for the 7-year itch to add mystery and excitement to their love life. Role playing and boning for hours was the norm.

Marcy and Steve eventually divorce. But she doesn’t immediately meet and marry her second husband, Jefferson, until nearly a season later. It’s in that season alone that, IMO, Marcy thrives! She goes out dancing alone, she works hard, she has a fling with a married, 40-year old man who likes to be spanked for his sins. Throughout the series, Marcy also speaks openly about her sexual fantasies going into great detail about Elvis or Mike Tyson. Marcy displays exhibitionist tendencies, disgusting Al by making out with her lovers in front of him on his couch. 

When Marcy eventually did remarry, it was not a long drawn out relationship. It was an accident. After a drunken night at a banker’s conference. Jefferson spotted Marcy on top of the all-girls, banker’s pyramid, proving once again, Marcy knew how to have fun. Sure, I can understand the writer’s interest in adding the chiseled Ted McGinley as Jefferson to their cast, but let’s face it. It wasn’t Marcy who needed him. 

MYTH: Al is a piece of shit, woman-hating husband
FACT: Al is a piece of shit (but he loves his family)
Before Tim Allen’s annoying bark of machismo, there was Al. Every dick move Al made or said on Married with Children was met with a testosterone-heavy studio audience of cheers and applause. The people loved Al.

I don’t want to defend that Al. That Al sucked and that Al, unfortunately, still exists today in the actions of real ‘men’. But there was an Al that was tolerable. An Al that kept Peg satisfied, kept his children always a stone’s throw away and kept him okay in my now way too long essay.

Al was lazy but he got the job done. Or at least tried. Whether that job was respectable; running a shoe store (which he remained employed for 20 years!), giving his neighbor a ride, taking care of a sick Kelly, teaching his kids how to drive, or less respectable such as always exploiting others, Al would often fail but not without a great attempt.

His kids constantly spoke low of him, but something kept them around. They were voluntary, returning spectators to Al’s misery. They watched him work on his garden, went bowling with him, and attended his forced family BBQs. They were there for him as best they knew how to be. 

Deep down in the 7th layer of Al’s dark soul, there was a nostalgic, family man wanting to break free. Al made attempts to keep his family closer through those family BBQs and vacations and Bundy-specific traditions. He wanted his family taken seriously because as shown in flashbacks, Al himself didn’t have strong family figures growing up. 

And, despite the few times Al had the opportunity to stray, he never did. He may have really wanted to but at the end of the day, Al was committed. Any sexy distraction put in front of him (a model, a stripper, a neighbor) was never more than that. Al was even horrified when he discovered Kelly’s fiancee creeping on other women at a strip club, “A man looks, drools, dreams, but he does not cheat!”

Conclusion
Married with Children is ridiculous. The jarring dialogue, misogyny, homophobia, xenophobia, women-hating, men-hating, pet-hating, slut-shaming, fat-shaming, life hating Bundys couldn’t exist (on TV) today. But The Bundys paved the way for other TV families to exist today (while also showcasing a cast of women characters who were horny as hell) so for that, Ron and Michael, bravo!

Married with Children had a job of showing a ‘realer’ version of marriage and family, than say The Brady Bunch or Leave It to Beaver. This they accomplished. But if another job was to also make marriage unappealing, I think they failed. Relax, my reintroduction to Married with Children doesn’t have me suddenly running to the alter but it does have me reconsider my initial ‘ick’ response. Married with Children reminded me of that unique, special (sometimes harsh) intimacy that comes from knowing someone so well (even if you can’t remember their eye color or birthday, Al).

Behind the egregious insults of Peg and Al’s dysfunctional relationship, was a pretty functional couple, their shared hatred merely an attempt to further the then current theatre of ‘Marriage Sucks’. But that’s what it was, an act. Al and Peg split their relationship between show and reality, which worked well for a sitcom that played out like bad, community theater. They had to exaggerate, had to be big, bold, bright, obnoxious because that’s what you do to be seen from stage. Your hair and facial expressions have to burst off your face if you want to reach a new audience. However, what makes sense from the balcony doesn’t always translate once you get closer. In fact, it looks ridiculous. It’s this ridiculousness that protected Al and Peg’s unique version of intimacy. An intimacy that, when done right, truly is hard to disparage.

Meet myLAB Box - Part 1

Despite my commitment to never going back to school, I have recently been taking a lot of tests. However, these tests don’t involve cramming the night before. Okay, well, I guess technically cramming is involved but it’s a very different kind of cramming, and honestly, if you’re cramming things in the bedroom, you might want to take a step back and reevaluate the situation. 

Needless to say, the tests I’ve been taking are of the STD variety. You may have read my review of the Crown Heights Sexual Health Clinic a few months back but recently I learned of a new way to keep yourself safe and tested: myLAB Box. 

According to the company, myLAB Box is a first-of-its-kind service that delivers STD screening solutions to your doorstep allowing you to keep private things private. While I’ve done a fair share of things to my pussy, I’ve never tested it for things beyond the scope of UTIs and babies, both which involve the easy (yet messy!) task of peeing on a thing. What would I have to do to test other things? And what other things could be tested myself? 

Well, if you use myLAB Box, a lot! The at-home tests included on the site include chlamydia, gonorrhea, HIV, genital herpes, hepatitis B, syphilis, hepatitis C, and everyone’s favorite, HPV. Some are combined into combination boxes like the V-Box which includes tests for all things vagina: yeast infections, bacterial vaginosis, trichomoniasis, chlamydia and gonorrhea. Or the Boomer Box which tests for common STDs and hepatitis C. According to the site, hepatitis C has a 40% prevalence in the “Baby Boomers”(born from 1945-1965). Plus, there are boxes specific to fertility and hemoglobin levels or gluten sensitivity. 

So who’s behind the box? 

Lora Ivanova, the CEO of myLAB, used to work at an e-commerce retailer, second-largest to Amazon in global sales. Not exactly ‘sexy’ but she says “I had worked passionately to help provide positive shopping experiences for millions and with myLAB Box, I saw an opportunity to do this in a sector that truly made an impact - healthcare. I wondered, why was it that in the age of convenience which affected everything from consumer goods to dating was healthcare failing to adapt?”

Lora’s upbringing in Europe, focused on regular checkups, self-care, and wellness education, had her questioning how “with less than 15 days between vacation and sick time a year, when are Americans supposed to find the time for an exam?” As someone who’s wondered about ‘something weird going on down there’, I agree that the added time and cost making and waiting for an appointment to get it checked could certainly add to the stress. 

I am fortunate to live in a city with doctor options out the ass; Urgent Cares, Planned Parenthoods, etc., an appointment is usually just a quick train ride away. myLAB Box is not meant to replace those. Ivanova says, “We consider free clinics a vital part of our care ecosystem but they remain limited by geography and funding, which as we know has been an acute challenge to scaling their reach.” We’ve seen the news: Planned Parenthood taking cuts, medical services becoming harder in certain states. “We need an alternative that can reach every household regardless of income, gender, age or location.” says Ivanova.

So what does a myLAB Box cost? 

Well, each box is priced differently, but on the site, myLAB provides an at-a-glance view of how the boxes compare to the services of other providers.

By selling direct to consumers, myLAB box says they can offer exceptional service at half the cost of conventional lab tests. Not to mention, the extra benefit of reducing the fear and stigma some face when getting tested, could be considered priceless. If you do test positive for anything, myLAB offers access to free telemedicine consultations, claiming to work with some of the best experts in the United States. This also includes the added convenience of prescriptions. “It's that simple.” says Ivanova.

 Would myLAB Box be the simple solution for my own box? I was about to find out...

Sex Play

This was the first play I was seeing in over a year and upon entering the theatre I was asked to sit on stage. Maybe I would have accepted if I were attending the play alone. But! I was waiting for ‘the other person who attended the play with me’ or what the majority of you would refer to as ‘your date’. 

Don’t get me wrong. ‘The other person who attended the play with me’ wouldn’t be opposed to sitting on stage during a play. I just figured bringing someone I’ve been ‘hanging out’ with for only a month to a play described as ‘a meditation on the nature of human intimacy’ seemed risky enough without the added voyeurism. 

As you can probably tell by my choice of words and excessive use of quotations, I have my own ‘intimacy issues’ to work though. And after watching Sex Play, safely from a seat in the proscenium, I realized I am far from alone in my plight. 

Sex Play, written by Charly Evon Simpson, was created by The Pack Theater. The Pack was created by Artistic Directors Jenny Reed and Sam Sheppard. They describe themselves on their website as a ‘female-led collective of theater artists and designers in NYC who make highly collaborative new plays that elevate underrepresented stories.’ According to Sheppard, who also worked as Sex Play’s Intimacy Director (Yes! That’s a thing!), Sex Play was meant to bring attention to “nuanced and modern relationship structures; celebratory, pleasure-oriented queerness that centers women and nonbinary folx of color in interracial relationships.”

“We wanted to make something that could lean on the strengths of theater: poetry, metaphor, real bodies in space, and highlighting the effort and vulnerability involved in live, physical acts.” Having seats on stage wasn’t a spacing issue, it was building in a level of consent. To witness or be witnessed. “That feels important in this time, as we're collectively questioning what bodily autonomy and agency look like (for performers, but also as humans living together in the world).” says Sheppard. 

When I saw performances as a child, there would usually be one dancer or actress that would stick out to me as my favorite. Usually that person was the tall one with long hair. The one I could see physical parts of myself in. No one in Sex Play shared my hairstyle, my smile, my physical characteristics, not even my sexual orientation, yet I saw myself in all of them. I admired every character’s story and could not pick a favorite. Sex Play could’ve been called Everything Carolyn Is Currently Thinking. It was as if the characters, Nic, Ella, Serena and Paloma, brought My Sex Project to life. 

Nic (Kelly Bartnik), a super strong, powerful choreographer, struggles with sharing and being heard by their partner, Serena (Ianne Fields Stewart). Serena spends her days doling out advice as a relationship/sex therapist yet struggles with her own self love, making requests of her clients that she herself can’t do. Clients like Paloma (Claire Jamison), who at the start of the show, finds herself a single, puddle of sadness, recognizing the importance of getting comfortable with herself, the importance of being ‘well-fucked’, but also recognizing how much she wants the simplicities of someone to fall asleep with. Someone like Ella (Nia Calloway), a confident dancer who while unsure of the outcome of a new relationship, decides it is something she’d like to pursue. Nic, Serena, Paloma and Ella questioned the roles of themselves and their lovers, but Kelly, Ianne, Claire and Nia acted their indecisions with complete confidence. 

The next day as I did a deep dive into the bios of the cast and crew, it was clear this was a group who was more than their talent. These were more than credits. The projects of the cast and creative group of The Pack were reflective of the issues of our time and the values we question today. I was instant fans of their work and their causes.

Future runs of Sex Play are still in conversation as the cast and The Pack embark on other projects. Sheppard explains, “It may be another year before we're able to come back together, but we're also looking into expanding some of the themes of the show into new creative mediums.”

Whenever and however Sex Play does return, it should be required viewing for anyone about to navigate the dating world, anyone feeling unsatisfied with their own sex rituals, and anyone questioning what is their current definition of pleasure. No, it didn’t solve all the questions I have. I didn’t leave ready to give myself fully to ‘the other person who attended the play with me’ or never see that person again. But it made me feel less crazy. It made us feel less crazy. It started a conversation that continued on the steps of Union Square as the rest of Saturday night passed us by. We left it up to them to watch. I hope they did.

Emojibator

I’ve never been a strong emoji user. Something about being a writing major and emoji user never sat right with me. It’s why when texting a potential ‘love interest’ in the early stages of our getting to know each other, I find if they use too many emojis, I am easily turned off. If they communicate in gifs, I will flatline. We’re adults. Use your words. But! I have finally found an emoji that turns me on. An emoji I wouldn’t mind being used over and over (and maybe under?) again.

Meet Emojibator.

Emojibator launched in 2016 back in my neck of the woods in the great city of Philadelphia (Go Phils!) by Joe Vela and Kristin Fretz. The two ‘believe in humor and education to promote a society that celebrates pleasure.’ Pleasure and humor? This sexually peaking comedian was an immediate fan.  

Emojibator currently offers 5 types of Emoji-themed vibrators: the Eggplant (🍆), the Chili Pepper (🌶), the Banana (🍌), the Chickie (🐣), and the Shark (🦈). But when the time came for me to decide which vibe I was going to try, I went for the signature dish - the Eggplant. The Eggplant was the original Emojibator, the ‘Magic Kingdom’ if you will. And if it’s your first time in Disney World, you always start at the Magic Kingdom.

My Eggplant Emojibator arrived directly into my little, Brooklyn mailbox - no signature needed. What a sigh of relief when your sensitive deliveries arrive safely and don’t get sent away to die at your local two and half star, kill-me-now post office (Did you know 🏤 is a European post office emoji?!).

I was already running late for work but I couldn’t resist tearing the package open for a look. This little guy was cute and quite frankly, didn’t look like a vibrator at all. At first glance, it looked more like a novelty chapstick more than anything. As somewhat of an artist, I’ve enjoyed this trend of colorful, beautiful, artistic, cleverly created sex toys. I’ve always been a fan of vibrators that can be left out without too much worry. No, I don’t want a glass dildo centerpiece in my living room but I wouldn’t blush too hard if my little Eggplant Emoji was accidentally on display.

Later on, I was pleasantly surprised to learn my Emojibator has an impressive 10 speeds. Usually when something is that cute, you expect it to be just that - cute. Like I imagine a Hello Kitty waffle iron maybe doesn’t make the best waffles, right? Plus, I was always more of a Keroppi head, anyway. But this lil nightshade has all the fun, alternating speeds like any other hand-held vibrator you’d pay upwards of $50 for.

Another pleasant surprise was how the slightly curved shape of the eggplant hugs and contours in all the right places and yes, it is safe for insertion! 😍😍😍!

—-
I was so excited to surprise a special friend with my new eggplant. I was even more excited when, at my arrival, he had freshly picked carrots from his garden* ready for me to taste. The vegetable Gods were indeed having some fun and I knew with Eggplant Emojibator, we were about to have some fun as well.

*I only date people with gardens

Book Review: Full Disclosure by Stormy Daniels

I have a small tower of books I’ve collected in preparation for My Sex Project. I’ll be honest and say Full Disclosure was not one of them. No, I came across this book from an unlikely source: my grandmom.

Grandmom has always been able to crank out a book faster than I can read a Buzzfeed list. It’s why a friend of my mom’s routinely passes her previously read books to Grandmom. Over the holidays I saw Full Disclosure at the top of her most recent bag of books.

“I think I’ll read this first.” I said quickly grabbing the book, somehow thinking I was saving Grandmom from embarrassment, the grandmom who happily volunteered to be interviewed for my web series Sexually Speaking. I didn’t know much about the Stormy/Trump drama. I knew she fucked our now president. I knew there was hush money. And I knew she was a ::gasp:: porn star. It hit enough check marks to qualify for an MSP read.

I have to admit: I removed the book cover. Not because I was embarrassed or ashamed to be reading the book. It’s just the picture was so god dang cheesy! Stormy is no doubt incredibly gorgeous but this. This was CHEESE. Was she on a picnic blanket? Why are her legs kicked up behind her like she’s Kristy on a Babysitter’s Club book cover? This looked like an ad for Doublemint Gum not a salacious tell-all. I imagined the commercial:

EXT. Park - DAYTIME

It’s a sunny, beautiful day. Stormy rides in on a bike, smiling. Her teeth sparkle. She gets off her bike and parks it by a bench. In her basket, she pulls out a copy of Full Disclosure.

STORMY
Things aren’t always sunny…

MICHAEL COHEN rides by on a skateboard, barely missing Stormy.

STORMY
...especially when you’re Stormy!

Some things I didn’t know about Stormy:

Stormy loves horses
Stormy starred in more than one Judd Apatow movie
Stormy has a daughter
Stormy’s pregnancy was as much of a nightmare as the Trump scandal
Stormy directed music videos
Stormy once had a short run for a seat in the Louisiana senate
Stormy directed and starred in a 3-hour Western porn called Wanted
Stormy is a big fan of Saturday Night Live

This book is exactly what it’s supposed to be. We get a peek into how Stormy became Stormy. We get the scandal. And, obviously, we get her side of the story. Don’t you wish there was a section in bookstores for My Side of the Story books?

Honesty is a recurring theme throughout Full Disclosure. Stormy is well aware she profited from this situation. Her Make America Horny Again stripping tour, which she insists she had no part in naming, certainly made her more money than her usual tours. But this type of work is what she’s always done. Why would more money stop her?

Not only is Stormy smart when it comes to her career, she is undoubtedly confident. It’s this confidence that I think scares people. Makes people dislike her.  Makes her an easy target. I loved this quote from Jill Filipovic in her own Washington Post Full Disclosure review:

As I found myself comparing Daniels to Trump, I also became shamefully aware that even the most feminist-minded among us often are viscerally repelled when we witness women who are unvarnished in their normal human self-interest.

Beyond the grounds for potential campaign finance violations, it’s this more profound examination of our subtler biases that Daniels has brought about. Her rags-to-riches story tacks a familiar course, but she got there via sex and brazen power-seeking — things women are not supposed to be quite so blatant about.

Let’s not discount either that Stormy is already a writer. She’s written the scripts for over 70 adult films and, as mentioned above, one of them an epic 3 hours. She’s good at everything she does.

Sure, Full Disclosure probably could have been just fine as a three part series in a magazine or something. But I understand its purpose and decided I will give the book back to Grandmom. She may cringe during the description of Trump’s dick (I know I did) but Stormy’s life is pretty interesting, even before Donald. Her alcoholic mother, her sexual abuse, her pregnancy, her decision to buy a mangy horse - these stories could and should live on her own. I hope Stormy writes more.

Gifts for you or me or us

Listen. It’s not Christmas (or even the day after Christmas). But that doesn't mean today, tomorrow or next week isn’t a good time to treat yourself to one of these slightly sexy gift ideas that have recently crossed my radar either by personal experience or curiosity. Do your research, find a friend (or not) and this 2019, treat yourself. Just make sure to tell me all about it and tag me in the pics.

See a movie at Cinema L’Amour
Okay, so this one involves a trip to Canada but what good gift doesn’t? I heard about this theater at one of last year’s Touchpoint events I attended. One of the storytellers told a wonderful story about a gift her boyfriend had given her. That gift was a visit to this theater. Montreal’s Cinema L’Amour is a “voyeuristic, exhibitionist, stress-free, drug-free, violence-free environment” according to owner Steve Koltai. Not only does this theater screen porn but it provides a place for solo patrons or couples to ‘get busy’. For an extra price you can even reserve a spot on the couples’ area in the balcony.

This admittedly grossed me out at first. But as I listened to this woman’s story about her semi-public sexual encounter and their ability to let go both physically and mentally, it got me a lil hot.

Toys, toys, toys
No matter the time of year, you can’t go wrong with a visit to Babeland or the sex toy store of your choice. Try a new shape, size or texture for yourself or buy someone a gift card and let them decide. Another option, if you’re feeling a little ‘demanding’, tell them what you’d like them to purchase.

One of my favorite, sexy experiences was when a visiting lover sent me a gift card to my local sex shop a few days before he arrived. Included in that were direct instructions on exactly what I was to purchase. The thrill of following his instructions turned both of us on days before his arrival. It made for a great experience when we were finally together and now it’s impossible not to think of him whenever I use his gift. Smart move!

Get reservations to an over the top, immersive restaurant
There was a time when taste was the most important sense for dining out. But now restaurants have become complete sensory experiences. Or in the case of those pitch black restaurants, limited senses.

This is why I recommend Blue Hill at Stone Barns, which I was lucky enough to experience a few years back.  I’m sure dining in one of those dark restaurants has the potential to be sexy (and sloppy). But I know for me, seeing the faces of enjoyment from a good bite of food is one of the best parts of the dining process. Tasting something amazing, locking eyes with someone and sharing that moment of complete satisfaction. It’s like coming at the same time.

This will happen nonstop for you at Stone Barns where yes, it is a restaurant, but more than that, it is an overwhelming sensory experience. From the website, “There are no menus at Blue Hill at Stone Barns. Instead, guests are offered a multi-taste feast featuring the best offerings from the field and market.” In my experience, my dining partner and I were treated to plate after plate of the most delightful vegetables (and meat if you’d like) that were grown and raised at the very place we were seated. It was a nearly 4 hour sensual cacophony of yummy noises, eyes rolling back in our head, explanations of ‘Oh my god’, tears of joy as we swallowed mini burgers made of tomatoes.

Check your calendars, save your pennies (it’s not cheap) and go with someone you want to rub.

Attend a nonmonogamy/poly conference
I’ve never been to Comic-Con and I don’t really have the urge. But I do get jealous of an event that immerses you into another world, another culture, another lifestyle. I want to be surrounded by people of similar viewpoints and similar questions. I want to be somewhere I can learn about a topic that interests me and get a free tote bag.

It’s hard to find popular multi-day events in the topics of sex and love and all that kind of stuff. These various events may not be as popular as Comic Con or a random porn star convention in Edison, NJ (Yes, that exists!), but I still think they seem pretty interesting.

January 25 - 28th: Winter Poly Wonderland
March 28 - 31st: Southwest Love Fest
March 29 - 31st: RelateCon
May 4 - 5th: Solo Polyamory Conference
July 10-12th: National Sexual Health Conference

And if none of those seem sexy or interesting enough for you (and if you don’t have a crippling fear of the ocean like I do), try a Couples Cruise!

Get a sexy photo shoot
Last Christmas my sister gave me a Groupon for a sexy, boudoir photoshoot. She knew I was going through a ‘sexual awakening’ and figured a day of dressing sexy in front of the camera would add to that. She was right. Though I will say, if I were to do again, I may bring tequila to help with the initial nerves.

My photoshoot at Bad Kitty was worlds more enjoyable than the Glamour shots I took in the Deptford Mall back in 2013. (Note to self: don’t take sexy photos when you’re in the final stages of an unsexy, failing relationship.)

Sure, there were cheesy moments when my photographer said something like ‘Get it, girl!’ that snapped me out of my sexy but their enthusiasm also brought the best out in me.

Despite the rumors, I did not take these photos ‘for the likes’, I took these photos for the opportunity to see what exactly my version of sexy looks like. I’ve taken sexy selfies but I’ve never seen my ass in the air or my thighs from above and damn, they look good! They were also covered in some of the most creamiest, delightful lotion provided by my photographer but I still think I deserve most of the credit.

A work of art by Laura Berger
If it’s not photos of friends and family hanging in my apartment it’s various, random, naked women. I think my nipple count is at least 16. Laura Berger’s paintings wouldn’t necessarily add to my nipple count but they are indeed beautiful, nude depictions of women.

Laura’s paintings involve the bodies of women in various shapes, colors, and positions. They are almost always intertwined and touching. They seem incredibly exclusive while at the same welcoming you to their feminine tribe. I look at the women in her work and I ask myself how can I become their friends? I want in!   

Naked trip to the sauna
I had my first sauna experience this past year in Düsseldorf, Germany at Vabali. It was hours before my flight to Dublin so my friends and I killed time by killing toxins. The entirely nude grounds of the sauna had me excited but nervous. Naked bodies walking calmly from room to room and me trying to keep my cool in 100+ degree saunas. Not only did I have to adjust to sitting in extreme heat, I had to adjust to extreme nudity.

I started the day like a lost puppy, nervously following my friend and her husband closely. Am I doing it right? Can I cross my legs like this? You put the honey where?! But after an hour I was roaming free. Roaming free among the gorgeous landscapes, the massive grounds, the pools with lovely views, the fireplaces, the cozy beds with embroidered pillows, the welcoming Buddhas. Being naked became increasingly easier the more I felt like royalty. I was aroused not at the bodies, but at the entire experience. This was a relaxation I never felt before. It oozed out of me.

I’m sure every sauna provides a different experience. They probably aren’t all as amazing as Vabali but I am definitely open to experimenting. Trip to King Spa and Sauna anyone?

Embracing myself (not like that)

I have this book The Erotic Impulse: Honoring the Sensual Self. I bought it in Denver when I was there for a comedy festival. I was perusing the store with other comedians who I had just met moments before. We all got a crash course in each other’s personalities as we brought our chosen books to the counter. I blushed as I put the aforementioned Erotic Impulse on the counter.

Since I’ve been trying to replace my bedtime ritual of falling asleep to my iPad blaring Netflix nonsense to the more reasonable ritual of reading, I keep Erotic Impulse at my bedside and sometimes peruse before it I go to sleep.

The book includes essays and stories and poems written by various authors, some recognizable to me, some not. The book is not porn. It doesn’t turn me on like that but it does stimulate me. Each story/essay/poem offers something completely different but all with the intent of “opening the gates to a richer, more satisfying erotic life” for the reader. I find myself nodding along and relating to certain passages. And then are those passages that I don’t relate to: stories of coming out, poems and essays too complex for me, effects of the AIDS crisis.

There used to be a time I might skip those readings that I didn’t relate to. If something was too far removed from my world, I’d flip ahead and find something more relatable. A tactic I regrettably used in life too. What a dumb and terrible way to live that I’ve fortunately worked hard to break. I have no interest anymore in contributing to a close-minded way of thinking. I’ve seen the results. We’ve felt the results.

It’s become more and more easy to curate one’s life to your exact needs and surround yourself with only the pretty things you want to see. It makes starting a blog about my possibly mundane, dumb, scary, sexy thoughts on sexuality feel like a waste of time. Does anyone care about the opinions of some random white girl in her thirties who loves sex? Women love sex, have been loving sex. People love sex. I am, let’s face it, a nobody. Do I deserve to be taken seriously? Given a chance? What can I bring to the table?

(As I write this, two barely twenty-somethings sit next to me at Jack’s Coffee in the West Village. I’m tempted to ask them if they would give a shit about what some 33-year-old, non-sexpert, comedian had to say about sex. They keep saying words like ‘seminar’ and ‘homework’. They’re gonna be so much more successful than me.)

My stand-up act is very sex heavy. My experiences are interwoven throughout jokes, designed to be ‘funny’, certain words chosen over others. Yes, I am honest but do people believe me? Is this shit important? My jokes are inspired by very real moments and thoughts and feelings but they are being told on comedy shows where it’s reasonable to question the validity of what someone is saying. Something inside me keeps tricking me into thinking I have to prove that sexuality really is important to me and not just some attempt to be shocking. It’s why when people come up to me after sets and ask ‘Did that really happen?’, ‘Was that real?’ and I can confidently say ‘Yes!’, I get very happy. That moment when I say ‘yes’ is a reward for me. Once people realize I’m telling the truth, not only do they trust me, but they want to hear more. We talk. We share. It’s a reminder that my possibly mundane, dumb, scary, sexy sex life, your sex life, everyone’s sex life is important.

Of course I hope readers nod along in agreement to future entries but an even bigger hope for the blog is that my intent to discover a more satisfying, educated, well-rounded erotic life shines though. Embracing what I do know, embracing what you know. This is not an act.