On Being a Sexmonger
as seen in Everything You Know About Sex is Wrong.
Here's a special moment: I'm sitting at the dinner table next to an older, respectable lady in her 70's, whom I've hardly spoken to other than to tell her I like her cardigan. We're at a writer's retreat in the middle of nowhere, Wyoming, where I'm working on a new book and eagerly awaiting the release of my last one, "The Straight Girl's Guide To Sleeping With Chicks." As we're about to leave the table, one of the staff walks in with the mailbag and hands me a bulging, padded envelope from Simon and Schuster. My book! I haven't seen it in its final, published form yet, and so it's with much excitement that I tear into the bag and behold my fabulous new work de art. My neighbor is all aflutter (she really was a very cute lady) and asks if she might have a look, dear, as she pulls it out of my hands, adjusts her bifocals, and opens right to page 178. Page 178 is the one that gets my vote for the raunchiest page in a substantially raunchy book. It boasts a large photo of a naked, Barbie-type doll bent over a bed, spread-legged and ready, while another doll pulls her hair and services her up the ass with a huge dolly strap-on. My new friend lets out a gasp, claps the book closed, and mumbles a congratulations as she shuffles out of the room, never to look me in the eye again.
It's times like these that I wish I was my married-with-children sister, a maker of muffins, or perhaps an elementary school nurse. It's not that I'm not proud of my book, or that I've become un-enamored with the path I've chosen, it's just that every once in a while, lugging the old freak flag around gets a bit overwhelming. And although I was pretty much wrapped in the flag at birth, this whole sex thing has me flying it at full mast all the time. Because unlike my drunken bouts with nudity on stage with my punk band in the '90's, or that time I fucked a guy dressed like Pipi Longstocking on a trampoline at Burningman, being a sex author/educator/pert is a much larger part of my identity. For one thing, you don't have to show up at CBGB's or the Nevada desert to catch my act, you can go to your local bookstore or get it online. For another, it's now my job, meaning it can be brought up anytime, anywhere, and people, especially nosy grandparents, tend to need details. Then there's the severe tunnel vision people develop when the topic of sex enters the picture, and, just like all the lesbians and queers who are seen as homos first, people second, my sexpertness precedes me.
This all took a bit of getting used to, especially since I didn't set out to be a sex person, it just sort of happened, like most of the other sex-related events in my life. The book came about because I'd had a couple of experiences with women, found little out there to answer my questions, and decided I should write about it myself. With that began the research and the discussions, and soon I'd made the joyful realization that I'd stumbled upon something that I was really passionate about. Sex is large, Marge, and it's relevant to everyone who's survived puberty. It's political, psychological, controversial, emotional, and physical - it's such an important topic that, especially at this alarmingly conservative time in American history, I'm thrilled and honored to join the ranks on the front lines.
I took to it like a pig to mud, but quickly discovered that while it's totally worth it, it can also be totally weird. Do all my friends think I want to fuck them now? Did my Dad read the part in my book where I talk about how much I love getting tied up? Things were definitely going to change, some for the better and some for the worse. And I figured I could handle most of it, but there were a couple things that were going to be kind of difficult. Like all the icky male attention I would now be inviting into my life. I knew that there would be a select portion of the male population who would suddenly feel entitled to discuss my body parts or tell me what their thick hard cocks had done for fun the past week. As women we have to deal with some version of this all the time (until we get older, of course, and then we have to deal with no male attention). But being a sexually vocal woman would take it to a level that would make walking by a construction site in a miniskirt seem like a skip through the park. Because now I'd be opening myself up to engage in discussions, not just whistles and howls, and that was going to be a whole lot more invasive.
So one of the first things I did when I got my book deal was disconnect my phone and get an unlisted number to keep the creeps at bay. The next thing I did was accidentally call one of them up to chat. It was a guy from one of those glossy men's magazines who'd sent me an email about how well my girl-on-girl tome would go over with his readership. It was to be my very first interview about my book, and I was feeling kind of stuck up and excited about it. This was a big deal magazine. I was a big deal sex expert.
We said our hello's and he launched right in to the interview, starting out with three insightful questions about my book: "So you hot? You got big tits? How old are you?" In the old days, I would have responded by utilizing one or all of the following words: "asshole, dumbass, fucker, shitfucker, motherfucking prick." But I was too surprised to speak. Plus I wanted him to do the interview, so I heard him out as he went on to explain his idea for the story. He suggested we meet, throw back a few drinks, and then hit the titty bars. I'd follow the suggestions in my guide book to pick up a couple strippers and then take them home to fuck them while he watched. He explained that he was used to writing stuff like this, that he considered himself somewhat of an authority on female sexuality, actually. As a matter of fact, he was at that very moment writing a piece about all the porno chicks he'd banged, and how he could tell which ones were faking it and which ones weren't. Somewhere along the way I lost interest in the interview and told him, among other things, that I found him and his ideas offensive. He replied with, "you want in on the sex game, honey? You better get used to it."
But I'm pleased to report that I haven't had to get used to it. Not to the capacity I feared I would, anyway. Much to my surprise, those with intent to humiliate and degrade have been few and far between, save for the occasional email, a few sweaty-palmed freaks at my readings, and a run-in with Howard Stern. I also made the earth-shattering discovery that all men who have the audacity to speak to me inappropriately aren't necessarily being malicious, some of them are just a little clueless. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that of course they are! All these women are out there being sassy and outspoken and hoochie mama - ing up a sex storm of conversation, then when some poor guy comes loping up, all excited to play along, he gets smacked in the snout. Not really fair I'd say. It's certainly not the same response we'd give a woman should she choose to chime in.
But then there are few fair things about the male/female power structure, and I don't blame the angry ladies either. Because there's an unfortunate connection between sex and violence that women tend to be on the receiving end of (I don't know about you, but it's always in the back of my mind when I go hiking alone). I'm constantly amazed by things like the porn industry's focus on degrading all us stupid, cum-guzzling bitches. And the widespread appeal of things like "innocent virgins getting it up the ass for the first time by huge monster cocks!" Porn is about making money, which means this is obviously what a lot of guys want to see. I'd be lying if I said this didn't bum me out. At the same time, I love rough sex, and I heartily salute those with the courage to let their filthiest fantasies run wild. So where do we draw the line? Is all fantasy OK, no matter how violent it is? And why is the degradation of women such a turn on for so many men? I'm still trying to figure it out. All I know is I need to feel like a guy is somewhat sensitive to the female plight before I can get potty mouthed with him. Or that he's at least game to understand it. Otherwise, his overtly sexual comments can feel like a slap in the face.
Another thing that's been a real trip has been dealing with all the horrified God-lovers and self-righteous conservative folks. Since I tend to live in cities and other liberal-type places, I sometimes forget that our country is crawling with fatheads. But now that the book is out in the world, and I'm out in the world promoting it, I've had the bizarre experience of interacting with these people (and the fact that we're all being brought together on the topic of raunchy girl-on-girl sex never ceases to amuse me).
One of the first radio appearances I made was on an afternoon talk show in Dallas. Some woman called in demanding to know, "what if my twelve year old daughter goes into a bookstore, sees your book, and becomes a lesbian?" The DJ must have seen the look on my face because she slid me over a note that read, "This is Texas." I'd heard a lot of good ones, but never that you could catch homosexuality, like a cold. From an inanimate object no less. No amount of explaining would calm her down, so we eventually just hung up on her, but it was an alarming reminder of just how stupid people can be.
Another humdinger was an email I got from some guy in Nebraska the day after I appeared on the Howard Stern show:
I heard you on Howard Stern the other morning. The
book you wrote and your lesbian experiences
sounded ridiculous and terrible to me.
Your last name is interesting. Some people may see
"sincere" but all I see is the "sin" part.
I pray for you that one day you will see that God
never meant for girls to sleep with girls. He gave us
bodies to respect and cherish and you are doing
neither when you use your body that way. I hope some
day you find the shame in what you've done.
Imagine, writing a book about it! That's horrible.
True, we are all sinners. But the point is to ask
forgiveness for our sins and ATTEMPT to live a
wholesome life. Your life will be nothing but pain and
heartache if you keep living this way.
The thing that really struck me about this guy was that he listened to Howard Stern. Talk about pain and heartache! He must love being upset all the time. Which is one of the most notable differences, I quickly realized, between us and them. They just love to crash our parties, while we couldn't be bothered with theirs. We're not spending our precious time picking apart the bible, hanging around fundamentalist churches, or calling in to Christian talk shows to explain how liberating a really good blow job can be. Not only would it put me in deep sleep, but it's terribly rude.
I managed a few email back and forths with Mr. Nebraska and learned that he was listening to Howard because he believed Howard could be saved (and because Howard has hot, big-tittied women on his show I suspected). He prayed for him daily, and now me too apparently, and was unreceptive when I suggested he instead pray for himself to be less judgmental.
All this obviously goes way beyond bad manners and kinky, voyeuristic tendencies, to much more serious things like hate crimes and laws that strip us of our rights. But as I try to do my part in fighting the powers that be, I take some solace in the knowledge that people are their own worst enemies. The "moral majority" will no doubt contract a slew of stress-related diseases by constantly worrying about who is sticking their what into whose holes, and the more we shamelessly talk about it, the more powerful we are. I mean, they're so easily distracted by it - isn't there some way we could use that to our advantage? "Look George! Butt sex!" and then take back the country?
Regardless, I think it's fascinating. And terrifying. And I know part of the reason I have the cajones to be so loud-mouthed about it is because my family has always been there cheering me on. Although I have to say, this last stunt really put us all to the test. Because no matter how wild I'd been in my past, this was the first time I'd played the sex card. I knew we'd all somehow rise to the occasion, but I suspected we'd probably do it with a lot of fumbling around. Because not only were we WASPs, which meant we never, ever, discussed the S word, but we were family, and up until now, the only proper response to the thought of, say, Mom and Dad doing it, was to gouge our eyes out. I couldn't imagine telling them all about my new gay sex book.
In the beginning we were all quite happy to just breeze on by the details, but the more excited I got about my project, the more I not only wanted to tell them about it, the more I wanted to involve them in it too. I wanted to be open with them, to free us all from guilt and repression and see each other as whole, sexual beings who could freely talk about sex without incestual shame standing in our way!
Mom was unamused. We were in the car on the way to visit my sister, Jill, and I was blathering on about all the fascinating research I was doing and all the inspiring women I was interviewing. "Don't think for a second you're getting an interview out of me for that thing," she announced, as I put new batteries in my tape recorder, seconds away from asking her for one. "I wasn't about to ask you!" I shot back. My Mom is a sweet potato. She supported me through the punk years, even brought friends to a couple of my shows, but she was drawing the line at telling me how she felt about eating another woman's pussy.
My sister, on the other hand, was all over me like a baby chimp. “I’ve always wanted to try being with a chick!” she said, demanding to know everything. She dragged me off to her son's room so we could be alone, and I got my first familial interview. Here's how it went:
ME: Have you ever been with a woman?
JILL: No.
ME: Why not?
JILL: I don’t know. I wasn't ballsy enough most likely.
ME: Would you have had the balls to make the first move if the situation presented itself?
JILL: Probably. I’ve done it with men before.
At this point my mother walks in the room. Jill and I stop talking and look at Mom while she hovers near the doorway and fiddles with something on the table.
ME: Can we help you?”
MOM: What are you guys doing?
ME: I’m interviewing Jill for my book.
MOM: Oh.
And she just stands there!
ME: Mom.
MOM: What?
ME: Get out!
And she leaves. Jill and I look at each other with raised eyebrows.
ME: OK, so what about the experience intrigues you?
JILL: Probably that it's taboo. And that women are sexy.
ME: Does the thought of eating pussy freak you out?
JILL: Mom's back.
I look over to the door and there she is, fiddling with whatever the hell she was fiddling with on the table before.
ME: Mom, what do you want?
MOM: Nothing.
ME: Mom, would you get out? We’re trying to have an interview!
MOM: I will! I just want to know what this is.
She holds up a little plastic box with a hole in it.
ME: It’s a pencil sharpener. Now get lost.
But she just stands there holding the damn thing. I look at Jill who shrugs. Then it occurs to me.
ME: You want me to interview you too, don’t you?
My mother nods her head and puts down the pencil sharpener.
A year later Mom would be manning the merch table at my New York reading, selling smut, lube, and panties, and no doubt doubling my sales by adding the kitsch value of: "This is the lube I bought from Jen's Mom!"
Needless to say, I feel very blessed. After a while, even my 800 year old Italian father came around to give me his weary nod of approval. "I don't know if you get older and wiser, or older and just more tired," he explained. I don't know either, but I really do believe that time is a magical thing, and that people are capable of eventually seeing the light. My worry is that we don't have the kind of time it would take for the likes of George Bush and Mr. Nebraska to grow brains between their ears, which means all us perverts and freaks have got to stick together and be loud, proud, and unyielding. Even if it means we make a couple little old ladies blush in the process.