A Wartime, Love Letter To My Sex Life During Lockdown

My dearest, darling sex life,

 Oh, how I long for you! 

I’m sick to my stomach about leaving you behind in the city while I quarantine at my parent’s house. When this pandemic was thrust upon us (Ugh! Thrust!), everything was spinning! No one knew what was happening! I packed my bags and escaped to the suburbs in such a panicked rush that I foolishly forgot to let you out one last time. Now I’ve been here without you for three months and I am full of regret.

Particularly at this time, without me, you may be asking yourself, “Why are we not spending day after day, night after night together? You wear pajamas daily and are horny from sunrise to sunset!” And I just want to assure you, not a minute goes by that you aren’t on my mind.

Summer is near and the days are long, darling. Every night, just like I’m doing right now, I watch the sunset alone with you in my thoughts. The cool breeze tingles like my feet used to before climax. The sliver of the moon smiles the same smile you have brought to my face. Remember when we first met, dear? Oh, how you brought me such a fright! I didn’t even know it was in me! I contemplated our relationship for years wondering what the big deal was about you. But you eventually showed me your true self. Reminded me you were more than just a charlie horse in my calf.

You haunt me. 

I swear I see you in the clouds. Is that you, sweet pea? I close my eyes and see the many versions of you I have learned to love. The quick, the long, the quiet, the loud, the bathroom in the bar, the threesomes. How innocent we were doing it in public or with multiple people! Will the virus change all that, darling? 

I am horny, my love! 

These are hard times, darling. But we must remain in good health. We must find ways to stay sane and happy while we’re separated.  I have been finding pleasure in my own two hands. Can you believe it, love? These ten, simple, fingers bringing me to climax! I think I can hear you laughing! 

I’ve become very close with my imagination in our weeks apart. Last night I imagined the ceiling fan was spitting into my mouth! Silly me. These outlandish thoughts are kind but they do not bring me the complete joy that you do. You penetrate me, split me, drill me, make me crawl. You are magnificent and I love you more than seems humanly possible. You will never be replaced. When the stars finally align for our timely reunion, I will give myself fully and completely to you. 

The sun has just about set. I must leave you for tonight, dearest. Whenever you read this, please imagine me melting and moaning and begging for pizza after. Let’s hope it won’t be much longer before we can order a large with extra cheese again. 

I’ll be dreaming of you. That is a promise. Dream of me?

Yours wholly and truly,

Carolyn

P.S. Honey, I could use some cigarettes if you got any.

Make new friends or just keep the old?

There are always going to be moments on dating apps you come across people you know. Colleagues, friends, someone with a familiar face you can’t quite place but know you’ve met before. For me, it was those profiles that gave me the most thrill. The profiles that would make me stop swiping, study every picture and say to myself, “I know you!” 

It feels a little naughty, right? Like catching someone in the act. Especially the times I’d swipe across someone I knew used to date someone else I knew. Those would be the profiles I’d judge the hardest, especially depending on the circumstances of the break-up.

There have even been a few times I’d get a text message that when I opened was a picture of myself from my own dating profile. Me trying to look sexy, me with me dog, me doing whatever it was that I decided I wanted to share on my profile. The screenshot would stare up at me. Carolyn, 33 (Yeah, okay, I’m 34 now). It was a metaphorical ‘Found you!’ that to me always read as a ‘F**k you!’

If I’m on a dating app, I don’t like being reminded that I’m on it. No one needs to be reminded they’re dating. Just like no one on LinkedIn needs to be reminded they’re looking for a job. But I get it. In swiping through a sea of shit strangers, it’s exciting when you see someone you know because, well, dating blows. 

Which is why I’m surprised to read that apps like Tinder and Bumble have reported a double-digit increase in messages during the recent pandemic. Even the real-time dating app Flutter, only ‘open’ on Sundays, has seen a 78% increase in weekly messages. We talk and talk and blog and blog about the horror that is dating so why when we physically can’t, are we doing it more than ever? 

I recognize the obvious answer to this question: We’re alone. Or if not alone, unable to escape the people we’re stuck with. No matter how many or how little people we’re currently flattening the curve with, we’re all experiencing a new form of loneliness and no one should be judged by their reaction to it. We’re all doing what feels right, right now.  But to start virtual dating, something I don’t particularly enjoy and am not good at, did not seem like the way I wanted to combat my loneliness. 

There has never been anything enjoyable about the pre-date texting that comes along with app dating. There has never been a beginning question which blew me away or an emoji that didn’t make me want to throw my phone. Why would I purposely commit myself to the absolute worst part of the mating ritual? Plus, what would even be the quarantined version of myself I put out there? 

Buuut I admit it, I made a profile. I thought maybe something would feel different about it in these unprecedented times. Maybe the conversations would be richer, easier. Maybe I’d even...find love. No. It felt exactly the same except more pictures of men at Eagles games since my location settings were now set near Philadelphia. The first guy I chatted with used an emoji in his first message and the second guy stopped responding. As suspected, the only person I got excited about was someone I recognized. It wasn’t his looks or personality that got me to stop, it was the fact that I once met him in real life. 

In the absence of naturally meeting new people, getting excited about those I know has become even more appealing. Reconnecting has been a happy accident of the virus. I’ve enjoyed talking to the people I already know or knew and want to know again. Before COVID, there was a lot of pressure behind reconnecting with someone. Now a simple, ‘How are you?’ is okay. You don’t have to apologize and make excuses for your lack of communication. It’s fine. Hello! 

It’s hard for me to get excited by new people right now, when the old people in my life are those I miss and cherish the most. Even if their role was previously small, I’d still rather talk to them than someone who never had a role to begin with. And unfortunately (or fortunately?) this isn’t unique to quarantine. I realize I get excited by the faces I recognize because that means a connection already exists. Because a big, stubborn part of me wants to believe that I’m good. I have all the people in my life I’m supposed to have and when the right time comes to reconnect, we will. 

Is now that time? I don’t know. However, one of the many lessons this virus has taught me is that we’re all connected. As my dear friend Bill said, “This planet is giving us tougher love than we have ever known, but the message of connectedness is coming thru loud and clear from a mysterious entity that can only be seen with specialized microscopes.” What that means for my future outlook on dating still remains unclear. Maybe the microscope I currently use will break or become stronger or, fingers crossed, disappear completely.

Wet Monday

On Easter Eve I got a message from one of my Polish relatives over in Poland. I translated it:

On the occasion of Easter, I wish you many smiles at the Easter table. Many friends, a lot in the wallet, wet Dyngus and joyful time.

I was drunk so I assumed I misread this whole ‘Dyngus’ thing or maybe I spelled something wrong in Google Translate. I entered it again. Nope. Wet. Dyngus. 

I only met this woman once but I’m pretty certain that when we chatted at her family’s village house in Poland over carrot slaw and cheese, I was very careful with my words. Besides I only know about a half dozen words in Polish, none of which are variations of ‘wet’ or ‘dyngus’ (although I do know ‘majtki’ is underwear). I wondered if since meeting her maybe she read some of my more ‘explicit’ work or watched some of my comedy and this was some sort of weird attempt at bonding with me.

I turned back to Google for help.

Now even though I had always known I was Polish, I can’t say with confidence that I always felt it. But when I typed ‘Wet Dyngus’ into Google (Incognito mode turned on just in case) and read the results, every Polish cell in my body turned on.  

Dyngus Day is a Polish Holiday celebrated on the Monday after Easter and how I went all these sexually peaking years without knowing anything about this special Polish tradition is baffling. Why? Because Dyngus Day is a whole day dedicated to getting women WET. So much so that it’s also referred to as Wet Monday. 

The purpose of Dyngus Day is to celebrate the end of Lent and while there are the usual parades and parties, there’s also the questionably fun tradition of single boys splashing water on single girls. Yep, boys chase girls around with squirt guns, buckets, or other containers as an ‘expression of interest’ and if that isn’t enough for you, sometimes the boys even spank the girls with [beat drop] pussy willows. 

Dang, Dyngus! 

This tradition is said to have evolved from the baptism of Prince Mieszko I on Easter Monday in 966 A.D. So add that to the list of weird things the church eventually brings out in people. Similar to religion, I can’t say I approve of the aggressive, male-dominated hetero makeup of Wet Monday. Even though I should point out that while in the past women got their revenge on the Tuesday after, it has become increasingly popular for them to get their revenge on the actual Dyngus Day.  Thank goodness. 

But as much as the whole boys chasing girls thing is outdated, I gotta admit, I’m obsessed with this holiday. Even though Dyngus Day is one of the horniest things I ever read about, to the Polish people it’s just a silly way to make each other smile and laugh and feel connected to their history. A talent they proved to me last November when I visited them and was warmed with smiles, laughter and charming family stories, despite being a complete stranger.  Since waking up today, I’ve received multiple water gifs from my Polish relatives that have put a giant smile on my face. Even better, they were both from women! The times they are a changin’! 

I’m sure we all have a lot of people we’d love to be ‘splashing’ with today, to be laughing with today, to be smiling with today. I know I do. But since we all remain safely separate, I think I’ll shoot them a text instead and start sharpening my skills for next year’s Dyngus Day. Next year’s consensual Dyngus Day where (fingers crossed) I get spanked by something a little harder than a pussy willow, proszę.

Breaking down with Annie Sprinkle

One pre-Covid weekend not so long ago (but TBH what is time anymore?), I had an interesting Sunday to myself. I had eaten an edible from a dear friend and what was supposed to be a couple hours feeling silly turned into 8 hours of Holy Moly I Am Very High. 

It was neat during my dance class. For two hours, my eyes barely opened, I moved my body in every direction physically possible as what I’m pretty sure every memory I ever had passed through my brain. From a random memory of Wendy’s salad bar (remember those days?) to memories of painful losses, they all made an appearance. 

But even though I danced my ass off (and thought my brain off), afterwards I was still very high. Luckily I had more to do. It was the last day of the ON OUR BACKS: The Revolutionary Art of Queer Sex Work exhibit and I was determined to go. I headed to the Leslie Lohman Museum of Art and despite being real high, was able to enjoy and get excited by the exhibit. Especially the work I saw of sex worker, stripper, actress, magazine editor, writer, film producer (and more!), Annie Sprinkle.

Admittedly Annie Sprinkle first stuck out to me because of her red hair. As a redhead myself (and for any of you about to tell me my hair looks brown, just don’t), I’m always intrigued by the work of redheads more than others. But obviously Annie was and is more than her hue. Annie Sprinkle was a NYC prostitute and porn star who then morphed into an artist, sexologist and champion of sex worker rights. She’s done a lot but it was her work as an artist that drew me in. Annie admitted that while she was content “living as a multi-media whore–making porn films, doing burlesque, nude modeling” her deep, dark, secret fantasy was to be an artist. Remembering her first performance art piece, she described feeling liberated and exposed in a new way and having a lot of creative freedom she wasn’t previously used to.

And after one look at her website, it’s obvious Annie did not take creative freedom lightly.  The titles of her projects as entertaining as their contents: Projects Sidewalk Sex Clinic, The Love Handle, Dirty Sexecology, Bosom Ballet and the very intriguing Public Cervix Announcement. In PCA, Sprinkle invited the audience to view her cervix using a speculum and flashlight, presenting her vagina not as an object of pleasure as “an area of empowering beauty and mystery.”

Annie’s performances remind me of the artists who came before her. I remember in college learning about Carolee Schneemann’s performance, “Interior Scroll” in which Schneemann read aloud from a scroll she pulled out of her vagina, Yoko Ono’s “Cut Piece” that had Ono kneeling on the floor of a stage audience members gradually cut off her clothes. 

Despite being part of a generation that has consistently been ‘putting ourselves out there’, I am still consistently impressed by these performances. They’ve allowed me to convey my own artistic philosophies without shame. By those women putting themselves out there in a way that could do more than get them flagged on Instagram, my comedy, my blog can exist. I think of them often. Especially today. 

For artists like Sprinkle and Schneemann, making their statement wasn’t as simple as posting a photo or going Live. And as the world social distances, I continue to see all the ways my favorite artists and performers, figure out new ways to be the old person they were in a pre-COVID world. Whether we want to or not, almost all of us are being forced to shake the dust off of our comfort zones. To dive deep into our creative toolboxes and reinvent ourselves. This process is not easy and in certain ways feels just as vulnerable as the performances above. Because now, it’s not just a small, intimate gathering watching, it’s the whole world. 

How am I going to put myself under the figurative speculum? I’m not sure. Even though I’d love to come out of this the Quarantine Queen of Creativity, I know I’m just not there yet. I’m still in the process of breaking down my old life. It’s hard for me to turn to this new content, this new normal. I find myself instead turning to the art and music and Sprinkles of my past. It was their work that inspired me to be whatever this artist is I am today. As for whatever artist I’ll be after this? Well, that remains as mysterious as Annie Sprinkle’s cervix. I only hope it’s just as beautiful. 

To touch or not to touch

As I sit from couch to bed to chair to couch during this Twilight Zone quarantine, I wonder who I’ll be when I and the rest of the world hopefully crawl out of it. Until now, I’ve written about the connections my sex life brings to my real life, a concept I won’t be doing much of for the foreseeable future.

But multiple friends have already pointed out to me the idea of this being a great time to partake in an activity I relish and often joke about - the activity of self-love. Even the NYC Health Department has rated masturbation 10 out of 10 Hitachis when it comes to safe sex in a COVID-19 world. Most of you know, when my libido is functioning at a normal pace, it’s high. I hear her in the back of my head silently celebrating the health department’s decision, like, “Bitch, strap in. This is what I’m made for!”

I am 100% behind NYC Health Department’s suggestion but I don’t know if I’m there yet. Especially with each passing day I wake up in my childhood bedroom. Yes, I chose to spend this quarantine with my parents. Of all the scenarios that could bring me back here, I would’ve rated nasty divorce way above nasty virus. But here we are. My independence traded in for a backyard and some human contact with those that made me.

I’m not complaining (that much). There is no perfect scenario for this time. I feel grateful I’m afforded the option to escape to somewhere I ultimately knew was better for me. Buuuuuttttt. Of course I’m jealous of those who have someone with them they can get down and dirty with. I’d like to believe my shacked up lovers are raw with panic fucking. 

Ultimately, I admire the NYC Health Department’s horny advice but I understand if some of us aren’t quite ready to get down and dirty with ourselves. These are stressful times and perhaps you’re choosing to focus instead on perfecting your sourdough starter or in one friend’s case, learning how to cook rice. Please, please, please for the love of Moira Rose, do what you need to do to stay safe, sane and healthy these days. But when you are ready, myself included, be sure to follow those same instructions you did when cooking that rice - give yourself a good rinse. You don’t need that excess stickiness.

Channeling my libido into Netflix’s Cheer (+ other useless things to do when you’re too horny)

Note to reader: I wrote this a little over a week ago before life was put on pause. But now that our world has been thrown into a ‘WTF do we do with ourselves’ state of mind, perhaps some of this ‘advice’ may still ring true. Being too horny is never fun and I imagine for a lot of us (especially those without live-in partners who are spending their quarantine at their parents ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ ), it’s about to get a lot worse. I hope you find some humor in this and I hope you and your loved ones stay safe and healthy.

My insides are suddenly tingly. My plans for the night suddenly shattered. My brain is slowly becoming a cloud. But not the kind of cloud that stores all my JPEGs and PDFs in organized folders, no. This is a storm cloud of disorganization and randomness only accepting those files with a .horny extension.

Every so often my libido takes over my body. I disconnect from Me and enter the realm of being Way Too Horny Me. I usually go down many Google rabbit holes, typing in variations of ‘help I’m too horny’, ‘sex drive out of control’, ‘SOS high libido’, but everytime I do, I’m met with some guru or YouTube persona telling me to simply channel my libido. 

I abhor being told to channel my libido. Oh you know that powerful, primal thing stirring inside you? Yeah, try watercolors. It’s not that I don’t have partners that match my libido, it’s that they only match when we’re together. And because our sex life has to be constrained to a calculated, bullshit of ‘casual’ encounters that can occur only every so many days before being misconstrued as ‘too serious’, until I find the appropriate, willing partner, I’m left alone to clean up the mess. 

But I’m still not sure what channeling my libido even entails! The sites I come across always seem to contain vague, breathy instructions paired with images reminiscent of trippy posters sold at Spencers Gifts in the 90s, as if this trypophobia nightmare represents my desire.

Well, now I’m just horny and nauseous!

Their advice reads as if I’m some spiritual Na’vi, ready to connect my tail into some sparkling, purple flower growing out of mother earth’s vag. But I’m not a Na’vi and as I said before, I don’t have the proper mountain banshee lying around ready to accept my life force! So when I read things like “allow your sexual energy to flow through without resistance but also contain it at the same time” I want to scream!

Okay, so my sexual energy is my creative life force energy juice blah blah blah. But please! Give me some advice I can actually understand! Until then, here is my own temporary plan for curbing those stubborn, extended moments of horny.

1. Watch Netflix’s Cheer
I wasn’t horny the entire 6 episodes. Jerry's pureness, Monica’s stone-cold glares, the constant possibility of broken bones, that one guy’s mustache - there’s a lot of distraction in this docuseries.

2. Organize your tupperware
How many miso soup containers does one really need? To stack or not stack? Lids on or off?  Play around with some sorting variations and make a promise to yourself to stay organized for at least 24 hours. 

3. Change your duvet cover
Instead of sexual frustration, try inside out, left side, right side, top or bottom wtf-is-this-thing frustration!

4. Clean your underwear in your bathroom sink 
Believe me, you’ll never look at your intimates the same way again. Something about getting up close and personal with them in the same place you brush your teeth is disturbing. I also keep a bucket in my apt which does the trick.

5. Text all your friends about how horny you are
You’ll find out who your true friends are fast. Maybe have fun with it and come up with a little chain letter: Text your ten horniest friends or you’ll be too horny F0REveEEEErrrrrrrr$$$!!!!

6. Update your shit
Is your passport up-to-date? Check now. How ‘bout your license? Starting October 2020, you’re gonna need one of those new licenses to fly. But be careful if planning any vacations. Vacations are usually sexy and planning one could make you hornier.

7. Chakras are a thing, right? 
Seems like this orange one’s got something to do with our groin and creativity. Give that a pat when you don’t feel like or are sick of masturbating.

8. Dance around your apartment like no ones watching with all your blinds up and heck wearing no clothes
Note: This only helps if you’re an exhibitionist.

9. Up your GIF game
Download Giphy and get to giffin’! Create a stockpile of personalized horny GIFs for your next sexting session.

10. Stare at your dog for as long as necessary 
It’s scientifically proven that staring into a dog’s eyes is as fulfilling as an orgasm. And while that’s entirely not true at all, a long look into a dog’s eyes is sometimes just the thing we all need (as long as they let you).

Pseudo-sex parties are weird

I’ve never been to a sex party. I’ve been to parties on their way to becoming sex parties. But since I’ve never been to an actual sex party, I can’t speak on what scenario would make me more uncomfortable, however, I can say for certain, pseudo-sex parties are way up there.

Because instead of just being the party it’s trying to be, it’s costumed in certain elements that somewhere along the way got mixed up with representing ‘sex’. 

These parties all seem to share similar Groupon-like activities and qualities: Secret location (duh), costumes of some sort (think bathrobes, Alice in Wonderland-type gear), drinks disguised as ‘elixirs’, a Himalayan salted crystal tip jar thingamajig, um, foliage on the dance floor that continues to get caught in your hair, oh and, how could I forget, a cacao ceremony. No pseudo-sex party is complete without a cacao ceremony! 

The names of the parties always sound like resorts off of Highway 307 in Cancun - Dreams, Breathe, Secrets of the Moon or some shit - everything is ‘lush’ and your ticket price includes as much or as little ‘social wellness’ as you desire (Desire. Another great party name. Desires of the Desert, Secret Desires, Deepest Desires, you get it). 

At the party I went to last week within 20 minutes I had participated in some sort of chakra breathing ceremony led by a dude and his synthesizer before sitting in a bathtub filled with rose petals and two strangers. Because of the sentence before this, I kept laughing, but the strangers in the tub with me were very seriously admiring their petal-covered skin as sweet little ‘this is normal’ moans left their mouths. The woman next to me (who claimed that this was her third petal bath of the month) showered me in petals over my head when I told her it was my first. Sure, it felt nice but I wasn’t sure if her baptism was some signal or ritual that meant ‘something else’. 

That’s the problem with these pseudo-sex parties. Everything seems like it’s on the verge of being something else. I tiptoe carefully around each corner and conversation unsure of intentions. I know these are my own insecurities and hang-ups to work through but I would much prefer a pseudo-sex party for people like me, people who will always have some (if not all) of their guard up. 

To stick with the theme of trippy party names, it could be called something like Guarded Hearts and Minds, Avoiding (Third) Eye Contact, or Just Because I Hate Costumes Doesn’t Mean I’m Not Down to Fuck. Instead of chakra breathing ceremonies, every 45 minutes all the lights would come up, the music would stop and everyone would yell “This is not normal!” before going back to their business. Massages would not be permitted on the dance floor unless three or more people and a conga line were involved. All the bartenders would be fully clothed, former diner waiters from South Jersey with absolutely no time for your CBD BS and at the end of the night instead of being sprayed by rose water there would be complimentary urine sample cups for you to immediately drop off for testing. Oh, and cacao ceremonies would be replaced by a roundtable discussion on the best Girl Scout Cookies. 

Ok fine. A naked roundtable discussion on the best Girl Scout Cookies.

Trading in the erotic city for the erotic jungle

I figured my vacation to Mexico would prove mildly erotic. Heat, beaches, sun, frozen banana drinks. Who wouldn’t be turned on by such delights in the middle of winter?

But it turned out the biggest turn on from my first trip to Mexico wasn’t any of the above. It was the Jungle Maya Native Park Tour.

I’m not that surprised by my new very, very specific kink. My sexuality always creeps in through mysterious ways. A friend recently said to me, “I would love to see life through your lens one day.” Whether he meant it as a compliment or confusion, I’m hoping this unique ‘review’ gives him and you that insight. Because while it may seem the whole of my turn-ons are odd or laughable, when they are broken down, I think you’ll find you recognize them in yourself too:

Jungle Maya Native Park Tour
5 out of 5 Stars (Highly Recommend) 
My day at the park began with a bouncy truck ride into the jungle. The lack of seatbelts and windows made it a very precarious journey but the barely 8-minute drive didn’t disappoint. My body was forced into an up and down, ‘hold on to your butts’ gyration that left my rears moved. Limbs from the trees teased me with their weak attempts to smack my shoulders, tricking me into thinking me, not the jungle, was in control.

But when I arrived in the jungle, the me I thought I was, the me who thought she was simply having an exciting adventure day outside the resort was shed. After being led Inside a candle lit cave, a shaman priest waited for us, blessed us, prayed for us, covered us in his cloud of incense. Dios bo'otik. His ritual let us know we were ready and it was time. Time to go deeper into ourselves and into the earth.

Because what was next on our journey was a 30-foot descent into a cenote. Not by stairs, no. By ropes, chains, human hands, and the force of my own repelling body. Certainly not the longest journey down into the cave but just long enough to require a sacred trust. A trust that required eye contact, communication, and calm. A trust in those above and below me. A trust in gravity, a trust in letting go. 

Greeting me at the end of my descent was a swim in a cave of wonders. The cool waters of the cenote immediately healed the heat of my body that worked so hard towards this reward. My original fear was transformed into bouts of laughter that echoed. How did I get here? How is this real? I was as dizzy as the bats that circled above me. 

But before I completely melted away into the waters, I had to leave my magic bath to suit up for ziplining. The ropes and chains meant to protect me were once again carefully tightened onto my body by hands that weren’t mine. My only job was to let it happen, confirm my comfort by a ‘Si’ or a nod of my now swimming head. The ropes and chains made me feel something other than human. With each step they clanged and clashed and reminded me that a part of myself had indeed lost control.

When it was my turn to fly in the trees, some words of caution were passed before I was chained to the wires I now had no choice but to trust. Three, two, one, tres, dos, uno, adios and I was off. As I flew, I realized, it was the first time since beginning my adventure I was alone. But before my mind spun into a place of worry, my body was jerked. The ropes decided it was time to land. In a blur, I was unhooked, freed, and rushed away as someone else sped in. I watched them from a few feet away. I grew jealous. I wanted more.

And the jungle was ready to give me more. Not from high above in the trees, from inside another sacred cave of wonders. I never snorkeled before and I certainly never snorkeled in a cenote. My nerves were settled, though, as our leader promised to stay in front with a guiding flashlight. 

These waters were as cool, welcoming and beautiful as the last, but this cave was more confining than vast. At least from above. From below was all the vastness in the world. My first look down startled my floating body. I screamed. We all did. But with our mouths now filled by our masks, our screams sounded like muffled moans of pleasure. I was both comforted and horrified by the light of our leader. It’s appearance confirmed how small my body was in this space. Tears sprung from my eyes when the new experience finally sunk into reality. I shivered in fear, I laughed in amazement, I wanted out, I didn’t want it to end. 

But when the light of our leader disappeared into the light of the cave’s exit, I knew it was over. All of it. The tour of a lifetime had ended and it was time to towel off. Our original skins were handed back to us along with picture packages and souvenirs. Adios amigos. They asked us to return. I said I would and I will. Not in the way they requested, no. But I will return every time I let go. Every time my body is moved. Every time my limits pushed. Every time I lose control.

Oh yeah. The lunch was good too.

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

Fuck, buddy!

The title of Lynne Truss’ book on punctuation Eats, Shoots and Leaves, has always amused me. I love how the addition of that one comma drastically alters the sentence and what was meant to be a simple fact about panda bears becomes a comical (and dangerous) situation.

I thought of this book as I sat in bed the early morning hours of the new year. I had just taken my first sip of coffee in 2020. It was a cup of coffee that I did not make and it was a cup of coffee that I did not request. It was a cup of coffee that, without me knowing, was placed near my face as I slept. It’s invisible smell twirled into my unconscious nostrils and then, like a cartoon character following their nose to a freshly baked pie on a window sill, I woke up sniffing.

In front of me was an outstretched hand holding this cup of coffee in a perfectly shiny, perfectly red mug. It could’ve been Heaven. Or an IKEA ad.

“What a perfect start to the day, to the year, to the decade!” I thought as I sipped. “I could get used to…” But before I could finish that thought, reality abruptly reared her head. She came with the reminder that even though I was in the bed of someone I’ve been visiting for over a year and a half, this was still a bed that belonged to, pardon the expression, a fuck buddy.

I’ve never been a fan of the term ‘fuck buddy’. I go out of my way not to use it and for the past few years, prefer to call those I’ve been intimate with as lovers. Many people laugh when I do. I think they can’t help but hear Rachel Dratch and Will Ferrell crooning ‘lov-ah’ in a hot tub. But I don’t say it to be dramatic or funny. I say it because, casual or not, my decision to be intimate with someone is not one I make without some serious thought. My lovers will always be important to me for one reason or another. 

Especially this particular lover. Our non-relationship/relationship has been a consistent, surprising, fun, unique, eye-opening, blindfolding good time. It’s why I trusted him with my last hours of 2019 and my first hours of 2020. But when I received that cup of coffee, my brain took it upon itself to twist the non-relationship/relationship I knew and loved and created what the comma did to the panda bear’s eating habits - a dangerous situation.

I envisioned him waking me up like this every day. Every new year. Living together, being in love, maintaining our odd libidos despite everything working against us. 

“Fuck, buddy!” I said to my brain. “Why are you going there?” 

I knew perfectly well our connection wasn’t meant for that scenario. We weren’t Friends with Benefits that would see the light and finally fall in love in a flash mob. I knew all this, accepted all this, was happy with all this and yet for a brief moment my brain decided, “No, this should be something more!”

Even though it was just a cup of coffee and not a wedding ring, it was still a reminder that despite all my self-proclaimed growth, I’m still getting used to simple acts of intimacy and kindness coming complimentary with relationships of all kinds, even the casual ones. I hope that changes. Because even though the disruption was quick, it made me question what I knew was a perfectly good thing. What I knew shouldn’t change. He has exactly one photo hung up in his apartment. I have over 30 in my entrance. It would never work! And that’s ok. 

Putting limits on our relationships with others doesn’t make the relationship flawed, it makes it honest. Whether it’s your Sunday lover or a parent or a colleague, no one should be forced into a role they don’t want to or can’t play. Fuck your buddies (or your brain) and their judgement. Punctuate carefully but don’t be afraid to edit your script, change your settings, and write the scene that works for you.

Happy new year!

Modern Role Models

Friends ended in 2004 but in 2019 there has been a Friends renaissance. A Friendsaissance, if you will (Copyright. Trademark. I came up with that shit.). Pop-up events, anniversaries, Netflix, Jennifer Aniston joining Instagram, whether you want em’ or not. Friends is baaack. 

When I was younger, Phoebe was always the ‘friend’ I related to most. She was goofy, a loner, she was creative, and she loved attention. But as I rewatched the show as an adult, it wasn’t her goofiness I related to, it was her sexual independence. Phoebe was by far the most sexually liberated friend despite what ‘How you doin’?’ Joey would have you believe. Phoebe-smelly-cat-singing-Regina Phalange-gave-birth-to-her-brother’s-triplets-Buffay was always in search of satisfaction. And not in the ways we were used to seeing. She was rarely in relationships that lasted more than a few episodes. She dated scientists, firemen, musicians, cops, therapists, cooks, international politicians, stalkers. She enjoyed casual sex and like me, she rarely let a crush simmer before diving in:

Rachel: Phoebe, you had a date three days ago.
Phoebe: That wasn’t a date! That was, that was just friends getting together…having sex.

All of this made Phoebe Buffay’s eventual marriage to Mike (Paul ‘Ugh’ Rudd) extremely disappointing. Not only was it a rushed story line, it didn’t line up to the Phoebe I looked up to. The Phoebe that made my own hunt for independence and sexuality feel normal. 

Fictional figures in popular culture end up being there for us when, perhaps, we don’t have anywhere else to turn. Look at Cathy. From 1976-2010 Cathy Guisewite made a wildly popular comic strip for women entering those “transitional years of American feminism”; when Betty Crocker and Betty Friedan were clashing. The always ‘AACK!’-ing Cathy was a role model for women who were realizing even if they couldn’t always fit into their jeans, they still deserved great things in life. As I question my own great things, my changing definitions of love, intimacy, sex and independence, I’d love to get insight from ‘someone who’s been there.’ But with no Phoebe or comic strip to turn to, finding role models representative of the less conventional love life I am seeking, real or fiction, isn’t always easy. But! They’re out there. 

At the beginning of the year I came across an article about the recently deceased Vogue Fashion Editor Babs Simpson. Not only was I impressed with the longevity of her life, I was impressed with the longevity of her unconventional, 35-year relationship to art collector and writer, Paul Magriel. Instead of moving in together, the two kept their separate apartments in the same building in Manhattan and spent weekends together in Amagansett, New York. She shared that their flawless relationship would’ve been ruined if they lived together. “I didn’t want to be making meals all the time, and that sort of thing. Paul was a very free spirit, and I didn’t want to be pinned down any more than he did. It couldn’t have worked better.” she said. 

Considering the time Babs lived in, I wondered if her arrangement was known to all or kept secret or if that even mattered. Because even if it was a secret, even if she had no one to turn to for advice or support, the end result was her happiness. Hearing stories like Babs’ is important. It’s those real experiences that hopefully influence the experiences of future, fictional Phoebe’s. Or Abbi’s. 

[Girlfriend’s Guide to Divorce spoiler alert!] 

Leading up to the series finale of Bravo’s Girlfriend’s Guide to Divorce, protagonist Abbi and her boyfriend Mike (What’s with Mikes?) started living together. Suddenly their sexy, loving relationship stopped working. Did they break up? No! In fact, not only did they get married, Abbi and Mike decided to live in separate houses! I was thrilled to see tradition take a backseat to something different that worked for these characters.

It’s storylines like this that can bring lesser accepted concepts to our mainstream conversations. So when I and others want to share our own ‘new’ ideas about romance, we don’t have to first prove ourselves as reliable sources. When recently a friend shared with me that he and his wife have been living in separate houses for years, he confessed it wasn’t a fact always easy to share. Early on it made them nervous to tell people. But the nerves that came along with sharing didn’t matter once the success of it was realized. Their living arrangement, while foreign to most, allowed their relationship to thrive. They had date nights, they were excited to see each other and they remained the individuals that each of them fell for in the first place. 

Having a friend or character or comic strip ‘who’s been there’ is helpful. Hearing someone else’s experience can help guide our own. If stories like the above continue to be told, continue to be accepted and continue to get louder, soon everyone will have a pre-Mike Phoebe or a Cathy or a Babs to look up to. Maybe you already are the Babs! If that’s the case, grab a pen, grab a paintbrush, grab a person, grab whatever it is that will amplify your story.  Believe me, someone needs to hear it. 

I want to be fucked like latte art

When a barista passes you a latte with latte art, the handoff is purposeful. The barista may pause, slowly slide the drink over, make a point to witness your first glance, perhaps direct your eyes to whatever illustration they’ve created out of foam. It’s not enough for them to simply make the latte art, they need to see you receive it. It’s a shared moment. 

Receiving a latte is a gift. The moment when milk and espresso come together is beautiful, sexy and satisfying on its own. But when you’re given a latte with latte art, you’re given a gift within a gift. Suddenly that nameless barista touches a special place in your heart. They care just a little more than you expected. You sigh. You feel good. You are touched.

It doesn’t matter if it’s a flower, a heart, the first letter of your name, a bird, a smiley face, a Van Gogh portrait, a foamed ‘Warren 2020’; it’s not the skill level of the latte art that takes your breath away, it’s the fact they did it at all. 

You don’t ask a barista for latte art. It’s not a talent every barista possesses, nor is it a talent every barista cares to express. It has to come from within them. They need to want to create the latte art for no other reason than to please. 

I need to be fucked by someone who has the intuitive passion for going even just the smallest step beyond what is required. Someone who, yes, is satisfied by making me come, but even more satisfied by sharing the moment, digging deeper, taking pause, finding purpose in their movements, sipping slowly, cooling slowly, someone who doesn’t feel the need to put the lid on right away. 

So many times sex becomes tit for tat. You then me. Instead of a directionless adventure, it becomes a GPS of orgasms. I’m no longer satisfied by just ‘getting there’, by just ‘receiving the latte’. I didn’t choose the drive through for a reason. If you don’t want to talk to me about the origin of your beans, the temperature of my drink or what makes almond milk trickier than whole, you’re not a barista I care to get to know.

Sex is weird

The other day I ran into someone I knew. He asked me what I was doing that night. I told him what I was doing that night. There was nothing special or unique about this conversation yet when I walked away I couldn’t stop myself from chuckling.

Having a basic, polite conversation with someone isn’t particularly funny to me. But what is funny to me is having a basic, polite conversation with someone I had sex with. Yeah! Sex! Can you believe it?! Okay, I know there’s nothing crazy about that and, no, the sex wasn’t bad or weird or whatever. But knowing our time naked together wasn’t something that needed to be factored into our conversation is something I find stinkin’ hysterical.

“Hi person I’ve seen naked and hear moan. Here’s a dumb anecdote about my weekend!” 

I never imagined there would be a time when sex became a non-thing. That I would be able to walk by someone I fucked without some sort of intense flashback of our time together. 

A friend of mine said, “I think I’d get more nervous about seeing someone I had a crush on that I hadn’t boned yet.” I laughed but I also agreed. How is it that someone I want to be naked with could intimidate me fully clothed?! Are my vulnerabilities fucked? Am I backwards, forwards, right, wrong?

I remember the morning after my first kiss...with tongue. I looked at myself in the mirror. Someone’s saliva was in my mouth. I couldn’t look at the person without thinking of our tongues touching. My god! Who have I become?! I know a 13 year old girl is much different than a 34 year old woman. But if that girl knew one day she’d have sex with someone and then it wouldn’t matter, wouldn’t linger in all her thoughts, wouldn’t be a big deal, I’m certain her mind would be blown. 

It hasn’t been until recently that the urge to tell someone, anyone, about a new lover disappeared. It used to be at least 10 text messages to friends (old and new) and maybe even a stranger on the elevator. “Psst. Guess who I did last night?”

But maybe it’s as simple as time. Maybe I’m no longer gobsmacked by tongues and touching simply because I’ve existed longer. If that’s the case, will other things lose their pop as I age? Will something that sends a shiver down my spine now barely send a spark later? Will sex become less of an obsession and more of a fact as German actress Marlene Dietrich put it?

I can’t imagine quite yet. There are still times I get dizzy thinking about the movements, the smells, the positions, the bodies, the vulnerability we give and allow from others. It’s fucking nuts! I guess sex is just one of those things that’s gonna be weird. Leonardo da Vinci called it disgusting. He also drew the anatomy of copulation. There will always be competing dualities.

It’s probably why I’m fascinated by it so much. And why I’m also fascinated by rollercoasters, unsuspecting magic tricks, my Instagram dedicated to finding empty train cars. Any moment that is and then isn’t. High and then low. Fast and then slow. I only know how great an empty train car is because I also know the intensity of a packed one. My highs are pointless without my mundane lows. 

How to embrace celibacy when you aren’t having sex

Masturbation.

The end.

Just kidding. Masturbation is indeed a wonderful way to combat celibacy but it isn’t the only solution. 

Also, let me backup. 

What is celibacy, Wikipedia? 

Celibacy is the state of voluntarily being unmarried, sexually abstinent, or both, usually for religious reasons. Mostly used in terms of abstaining from sexual relations. It is often in association with the role of a religious official or devotee.

That’s exactly the definition portrayed on the 6-time Emmy award winning series, Fleabag, as Fleabag grappled with her Hot Priest crush. Given the series popularity, celibacy should be popping off like Rachel’s haircut any day now. Everyone’s doing it! Er, not doing it. 

But, ugh, that definition of celibacy is so intense! Religion?! No, no. My celibacy practice has nothing to do with any deity or leader. It’s also neither voluntary nor pushed away. It just...is. 

Whether you’re having sex every day or every other week, there’s going to be the times in beween when you aren’t. Don’t worry. This isn’t a sex drought and happens to everyone. Sleep, work, commute, shitty dates, stomach aches, shitty dates with stomach aches, deadlines, presidential debates - there’s always going to be someone or something that gets in the way of you fucking. But instead of living life with the constant mindset of “I need to get laid”, there are things you can do to earn your oxytocins and embrace those moments with grace, dignity, and, of course, dirty thoughts.

Crushes
Gotta have em. I don’t care if you’re in a committed relationship or poly-boly-quad-trolley - always be crushin’. Keep one everywhere you go. Like chapstick. Actually, my advice is to never have less than 10. They’re free. Stock up.

Crushes make the days more exciting. You’ll walk into your neighborhood coffee/hardware/grocery/bodega shop and be like ‘Oh right! I have a crush here!’ You’ll be so busy flirting, you won’t even realize you aren’t having sex.

Baths
A good bath can be as fulfilling as any bedroom session. If done right. 

In my recent article for Emojibator, I give you a run-down of how to give yourself a sexy bath. Through my own sexy bath research, I’ve compiled everything you need to take your bath from sexy to sexy. Don’t you just love italics?

Practice your knife skills 
When you’re practicing celibacy in between having sex, you may find you feel a little more...intense than usual. I find a great way to channel this intensity is learn or practice a new skill. Especially one that requires concentration, a steady hand, and the risk of bleeding out. 

Jkjkjk.

But seriously, make a salad that requires a lot of chopping and dicing. Pretend that green pepper is begging to be sliced, that tomato insisting to be cut. Really listen to how the knife moves with their skin and take note for future handling of sensitive items. 

Start planning
I find the best cure for vacation depression is to start planning another vacation. So, whether you have a partner in mind or not, start giving your next rendezvous some initial thoughts. Get some recommendations from friends who are willing to share reviews.

What moves will you want to do? What things will you want to say? Do you want to take the southern route or northern route? Are there any places you missed the last time? Roadside attractions you want to check off? Where will you stay? What will you skip? Is your passport up-to-date?

Figure out these details now because your next sex adventure will pop up sooner thank you think. 

Make eye contact with a dog
I can’t stress this enough. Staring at a dog is by far the second best prescription for temporary celibacy. 

I start every morning with 60-seconds of holding eye contact with my Remy. This gives me enough oxytocins to get up and take my morning shit without once thinking about sex. 

I can’t be certain if this works the same for cats. Please exercise caution.

Don’t just eat cheese, become the cheese
Cheese is so good I think we sometimes forget to take the time to enjoy it. But if you currently aren’t having sex, it is extremely important to activate all 5 of your senses when eating cheese. 

The best way to do this is to become the cheese. Some things to consider:

How would your body taste as mozzarella? How would your body look as sharp cheddar? What noises would you make if you were crumbled blue cheese? Would a truffled asiago have a really loud or really quiet orgasm? Are you shredded? Are you whole? Are you melting? 

This is a wonderful exercise to get to know your body while also eating cheese. 

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.

Doggystyle

I thought living on my own would be a non-stop fuck fest. For the first time in my life I could finally be as loud as I want while simultaneously being as naked as I want. The ultimate dream. But I learned quickly that just because I no longer had human roommates, did not excuse me from disturbing my other roommate, my 9-year old, French Bulldog, Remy. 

Remy does not make it easy to bring people back to the apartment. As soon as a tongue goes in a mouth, as soon as a stare lingers just a little too long, you can count on Remy to get in the way. He immediately acts out. He demands attention. He’ll decide an ant trap that has sat untouched for months is his new favorite toy. He’ll thrash his bed around at your feet, tearing his own precious pillow to pieces until taken away and hidden from him. I live in a society where paying for sex is illegal, yet I’ve been paying for it in the form of doggy beds for years. Go ahead, arrest me. 

From an outsider, Remy seems like a hot, jealous mess that needs to be locked in a crate and dog whispered. But I’ve known this puppy for 7 years. I know why he does what he does and why I forgive him every time. Remy makes it hard for me to fuck because, well, I fucked him up. 

I got Remy on Labor Day, 2012. I decided on my day off that instead of relaxing, I would get a dog. I never had a dog. Whenever I was sad as a little girl, I would want so badly to have a little puppy face come up to me and lick my tears. The lizards and hamsters I did have couldn’t do that and looking back, neither could the man I lived with at the time. At least not with an argument moments later. 

So, I had been emailing with Remy’s previous owners and decided Labor Day would be the day I meet (and possibly keep) their 2-year old Frenchie.

My boyfriend, who was supportive but less excited about this decision, drove with me to Brooklyn from South Jersey (Yes, my dog lived in Brooklyn before me!). I barely remember my first moments with Remy. I remember him being at the top of the steps super excited visitors were there. I remember playing with him for a little and I remember his owners tearing up when we left together. I remember looking back at Remy as he sat panting in the backseat of my red, Ford Focus. There was my new dog! I was super excited and with Remy’s adorable, smiling, panting face, I thought he was too.

However, despite Remy’s first night with me being wonderful (I accidentally dropped a huge stuffed mushroom from Wegmans), Remy’s first year with me was not easy. He was plopped into the middle of an unhealthy, dying relationship. Remember how awkward you felt when you overheard your parents argue? Now imagine that except you’re a dog with ears bigger than your face. Intuitive yet confused. Tuned in yet clueless. 

Remy and my ex quickly clashed. They had their loving moments but my ex was a big man with a noticeable anger problem. Remy was an anxious dog torn away from the only life he’s known. I felt stuck, unequipped to deal with the situation as productively and maturely as I would have liked. The one side of me was a woman trying trying to make it work with her lover, the other was a little girl who wanted to desperately bond with her dog. I wanted to give Remy all the love and attention but was demanded to give it to my failing relationship. One hour I’d be teaching Remy to leave visitors alone as they entered, the next hour I’d be escaping myself.

And finally I did escape. To Brooklyn. But Remy didn’t join me right away. Subletting and going on interviews wouldn’t be easy with a dog, so for almost three months, Remy remained in South Jersey with my parents. I know this was the right decision but I also know I, for the third time, shook up Remy’s life. Sure, he had a big backyard and ‘grandparents’ who would make him a scrambled egg every now and then, but I was not there. Seeing him on Facetime made me happy but provided nothing to him. What good’s a human without a scent?

I was excited when Remy could finally join me. Especially now that I had two male roommates who could provide an energetic aggression with Remy that was playful, not fearful. I was so lucky that despite Remy being a somewhat difficult dog, Greg and Aaron adored him.

Remy certainly still had his moments of being a hot mess (peeing inside, jumping up on visitors, hating the landlord), but we were finally creating a stable life and relationship with each other. The mom/pup bond was getting stronger. 

And then there was ‘the incident’. Oh yes. I thought since Remy and I were finally grooving, he should start grooving with his own species. In my one (and only) attempt to find Remy canine friends, Remy got himself into a scuffle with a neighbor’s dog. He walked away from it seemingly fine until the next night when he started making noises I had never heard in our time together. X-rays, MRIs, and a ruptured disc surgery later, my Remy now had the physical scars to match his emotional ones. 

Remy may have recovered just fine from his surgery (thank you doggy diazepam!), but I admittedly gave up on scheduling any more pup playdates. And frankly, so did Remy. To this day, any dog that wants to play, Remy either straight up ignores or wants to murder. I’ve seen dogs ‘puppy bow’ with the grace and dignity of a Buckingham Palace visitor only to be met with my avoidant, ‘couldn’t give less of a shit’, Mr. Bean-like Remy. 

Which brings me back to the start. I got Remy 7 years ago. The Ford Focus and boyfriend have come and gone, both ending terribly. One on Thanksgiving Day on the side of the road in Staten Island, the other over a 5-year time period sprinkled with intensity, anger, and name-calling. Guess who was there for both?

Remy doesn’t make it easy for me to bring guests home, just like I didn’t make life easy for Remy. His panting face in the backseat of my car 7 years ago may have looked cute, but I have grown to recognize that expression as anxiety. I believe my trauma, our trauma, still lives in Remy in a much different way than it lives in me. As I slowly healed through therapy and long talks with friends and sweaty dances, Remy remained a dog. Remy’s old owner once warned me that Remy was shook by the noise of a storefront gate being opened as a puppy and it is still a noise that gets him running.

So no, I don’t think it’s that Remy is anti fuck fest. I don’t think it’s that Remy senses bad vibes from certain lovers (that would be a blessing) and I don’t think it’s that Remy disapproves of my kinkier preferences (although I will say, it is very hard to be submissive while discipling your pet). Remy is doing the best he can. 

I hope Remy senses I’m not going anywhere, we’re not going anywhere. I would love for him to let some of his anxieties go, to let people into his world, ultimately letting them into my world. Because I know I struggle with that too. I love my cozy existence with Remy and often wonder if I love it too much, if I’m shutting myself out like the friend who disappears after they start dating someone new or in my case, the girl who’s settling into solo adulthood. In the meantime, I’m trying not to be too hard on myself or Remy. He’ll always be my number one, no matter what I scream in the bedroom. 

In fact, I think Remy’s distracting behavior may actually prove to be for my benefit. When Remy knocks the passion and spontaneity out of sexy moments, it forces me to ‘break character’ and simply be Carolyn. I have to bring a very real part of myself to a situation where I was maybe playing pretend. Perhaps this is Remy’s litmus test. If it doesn’t feel right to be vulnerable, be embarrassed, be myself with a person, what’s the point? Less bullshit, more regular shit.

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.