When I initially heard that the first installment of my sex column was making the rounds on Twitter, I was elated. Finally, everyone would know, once and for all, how much sex I was having. Then came the comments.
“LOL, has this person ever had sex before?”
“This is embarrassing.”
“What do you think she means by, ‘Had a classic round of sex, the way normal people normally have sex, right up against the stove while a big pot of French onion soup simmered sexily in the background’?”
First of all, yes, obviously, I’ve had sex before. Do you think they let just anyone write a sex column? Please. The privilege of revealing your personal sexual experiences in bizarre and implausible detail is reserved only for people like me. People who have had plenty of sex. Several dozens of times just yesterday, as a matter of fact. Or, if not that number, then whatever number is the custom for a sexy twenty-seven-year-old woman, which I certainly am.
Second, my column is “embarrassing”? Really? I mean, sure, if you think that having a classic round of sex for so long that your friends start calling you and leaving voicemails like, “Are you okay?” or “How did you do at sex yesterday?” or “You never told me how your French onion soup turned out,” is embarrassing, then yeah, I guess you can say I’m like SO embarrassed.
Third, what do you mean what did I mean when I said I “had a classic round of sex the way normal people normally have sex”? If you’re seriously asking that, then I’ve gotta say it sounds like you, yourself, have never had a classic round of sex before. Unless you have and you’re still confused, in which case, please tell me what you usually do in a classic round of sex so that I can compare notes.
Many of you seem to be genuinely confused by the part where we filled the bathtub with lubricant and took a big bath in it. Or the part where I broke out my “big ol’ cheese grater” and started “shredding up all the Gruyère cheese in sight,” which resulted in me having to put all my clothes back on so I could go out and buy some more. Tell me what there is to “get” here. It’s exactly what it sounds like.
Believe me, this doesn’t even scratch the surface of the skeptical comments I received. Plenty of you didn’t like it and “couldn’t relate” when I “threw my partner down on the bed like a big burlap sack full of piping hot French onion soup.” It’s called descriptive imagery. Get over it.
You all then went on to express your disbelief that this playful toss caused my bed to break straight through the floor of my fourth-floor walkup, landing with a heavy thud in unit 2R, causing me to reach out to my landlord, who responded to the issue right away. It’s not my fault that you have a bad landlord and I don’t.
And what’s with the hubbub about it being “logistically impossible” for me to have had sex so hard that I was declared medically dead for thirty minutes and the only thing that could bring me back to life was the sweet, sweet taste of French onion soup? Give me a break. Just because it’s never happened to you doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen to me every 4.5 hours.
One thing I will give you is that I provided a vivid description of a kind man with a strong jaw and a genuine interest in what I had to say. This man also had healthy male friendships and had never seen a Quentin Tarantino movie in his life. Many of you found it “wholly unbelievable” that such a man could be single and roaming the streets of New York City. You’re right. I made him up.
But that’s it.