No Sex in My City

Sitcoms lie.

As someone who has consulted the I Ching of I Love Lucy or the Tao of The Brady Bunch, I never doubted television's clairvoyance or wisdom. Take I Love Lucy. Let's say the chocolate factory episode. Lucy and Ethel learn to wrap individual chocolates on a conveyor belt. Things get out of hand; they try to conceal their incompetence by hiding the unwrapped chocolates. Chocolates down their shirts, in their factory-worker hats. Chocolates stuffed into their mouths until they can't close their lips, forcing them into open "O"s of surprise with bonbons sticking out. Lucy I Ching: don't bite off more than you can chew.

Consider the Marcia, Marcia, Marcia episode of The Brady Bunch. Middle sister Jan, jealous of her older sister's popularity, tries to make herself stand out from her sisters. To distinguish herself from her blonde sisters, she buys herself a brunette wig, eliciting guffaws from her brothers and classmates. She goes from being ignored to ridiculed. Brady Bunch Tao: go forth and be the best possible version of your less cute, less popular self. You may well be less impressive than your older sister, your much cuter best friend, your sex-kitten co-worker, but reinventing yourself to compete with them will only leave you looking like the nerdy younger sister, the geeky best friend, the not-much-to-look-at co-worker of sex-kitten.

What I'm getting at here is that television shows are the new philosophical gurus. Only sometimes they lie. I remember hearing dialogue like "Oh, honey, it's just like riding a bicycle. Trust me, you'll remember," usually followed by some combination of winking, nudging, elbowing, and a cackling laugh track. Or, the ubiquitous "It's just like getting thrown from a horse, dearie. You gotta get right back on that beast." Again, cackling laugh tracks, slaps on the backs, winking, nudging. I knew what they meant, sort of. I understood that this was another of the sitcom commandments. Thou shalt find a bike, any bike, and conquer thy sexual wasteland. And bike-locating shalt be the one small worry of making a wasteland fruitful. The commandment had no place in my ten-year-old life, but Maude, Rhoda, and Loni Anderson made me believe it would be true.

So I grew up, and where were all those women when I needed them? When I went without sex for months . . . and months . . . at a time? When my cable-ready self became strictly major network fare? Admitting to my all-commercials sex life feels like daring to break one of the last sexual taboos. I would rather compare my sex life to PBS, "Oh, honey, no need for ads--just straight plot build all the way to the denouement." No one has discussions comparing the number of consecutive nights spent with only the extra-terrestrial blue-green television glow of Jay Leno or Dave Letterman for company. Maybe people confess to a few weeks, a month, possibly two. But as they get into the six-month zone, they get a lot quieter. More than 12 months? Celibacy muteness.

It's not as if I want to wander the sexual desert like a nomad in search of water or titillation--whichever comes first. (Trust me, it'd be the water.) But what if the right opportunity, the right time, the right man don't present themselves? And Sci-Fi Guy sitting in the cubicle next to me at work doesn't seem to fit the bill on any level with his invitations to the latest science fiction convention where "there are lots of people just like (you)." Just like me? As a girl who spent her formative years reading Rona Barrett's Hollywood and dreaming up her Academy Award acceptance speech, who spent 12 years working in the music industry just to be near that too-hip creative vibe, and who still kicks herself because she didn't pursue the job as actor James Gandolfini's personal assistant since it meant moving from her newly adopted home of Boston to New York (hey, who knew that the series he had just signed to do for HBO would be so successful or that the character he plays, Tony Soprano, would become my new male ideal?), being that girl pretty much precludes me from being thrilled when told I'd fit in well with the slide-rule crowd at a Star Trek convention.

So, encouraging Sci-Fi Guy? What would be the point? Sex isn't just about the physical act. It's also about having a connection with someone. If you're going to invite someone into your bed, shouldn't you also not cringe at the idea of having a conversation with him before or after the act? Shouldn't whatever lucky guy gets an invitation into your boudoir be someone with whom you're not afraid to be seen in public? But it's the sci-fi guys of the world who awkwardly display their attraction to me, while the men I could be even a little interested in hit on my much cuter best friend. (Think successful, hip Mary Tyler Moore to my schlumpy, left-of-center Rhoda. I'm talking Rhoda from the MTM show, not from her spin-off show when she lost weight, started to dress funky, and actually managed to get married. No. I'm talking when she was still overweight and quirky, and you know that Rhoda never got any dates.) Being Rhoda is why I have a lot of experience enduring long stretches of time without physical intimacy.

Imagine my surprise when a boy, a sweet townie boy with a wicked clever sense of humor and mischief, expressed interest in me. Finally, a boy who could challenge me verbally and who could make me laugh. Plus, he was kind of cute with his Little Boy Regular haircut, his semi-pro football-player build, and that damn twinkle in his eye whenever he espoused some politically incorrect, sexist belief about women or about men and women, letting me in on his secret that whatever he said was to get a laugh or a groan.

Imagine my further glee when Townie Boy planted a kiss on me and, to quote Gomer Pyle, surprise--surprise--surprise, he knew how to lay a kiss down! He was a master maker-outer, and he was damn funny. I was in love. Not in love exactly because I'm a modern girl who, thanks to the "Keith Dumps the Nice but Plain Girl for the Hoochie-Mama" episode of The Partridge Family, understands the difference between a lustful itch and a potential relationship. To paraphrase the Partridge Family's first hit, "Heeeeyyyyyy, I think I lust you!" In lust with a boy who had excellent conversation potential. The lure of that can't be overstated.

After weeks of missing each other at the regular Saturday night bar where Much Cuter Best Friend and I hang out, the odds of me getting back on the bicycle seemed dim. Even Carrie on Sex in the City, and she's the least sexually active of those four single, successful, Manhattan women, had no dry spells as long as mine or as much trouble ending them. Every few weeks, I figured out my schedule versus Townie Boy's and realized, "Hey, this is the week we'll all be there at the same time." No show. When could I finally make the leap from major network to cable? On one of those "this is the . . ." Saturday nights, Much Cuter Best Friend backed out of our bar trip because she was sick. But I've seen Mary Tyler Moore. I'm a girl responsible for my own happiness. "Who can turn the world on with her smile? Who can take a nothing day and suddenly make it all seem worthwhile?" I decided to take control and make my crappy night seem worthwhile.

Just having dinner at the bar before a movie, I told anyone who asked why I was there without Much Cuter Best Friend. A little lie. Like Marcia Brady telling her schoolmates that she convinced Davy Jones to perform at her school dance, but she hadn't actually ever spoken with the delicious Davy. The episode ended with Davy not only performing, but also escorting Marcia to the dance and . . . squeal . . . allowing her to give him a kiss, on both cheeks. Brady Tao: sometimes a lie is really a wish in the process of being fulfilled. Of course, she lied about something she wanted. I lied to avoid looking like a fool. But there was a wish in there somewhere. Then my wish came true. Townie Boy showed up. We laughed. We drank. We flirted.

Finally, I looked at the clock. "I don't know what to do," I leaned closer to him. "If I'm going to make the movie, I should leave in five minutes."

A big lie. The movie was a 20-minute drive away and had started ten minutes before I even said this. Only in some reverse warp speed Star Trekkian universe could I have actually gotten to the movie on time.

"So. What are you gonna do?" He leaned closer; I could feel the warmth of his voice on my neck. "Are you gonna stay here and hang out, or go to the movie?"

I should have remembered the Vita-meta-vegamin episode of I Love Lucy. The one where she attempts to film a commercial for an elixir that promises a myriad of health benefits. After dozens of takes, and Lucy getting a buzz from the potion's alcohol content, she slurs her words over and over in dizzying new combinations, resulting in her getting fired. Lucy I Ching: choose your words and your beverages carefully.

But I wasn't thinking about Lucy or the I Ching or Brady Tao. Instead, I gathered together the few ounces of forwardness I possess. "Well, are you going to make it worth my while to stay?"

I had rehearsed my line in my head all night, but as I spoke I wondered what sitcom character had said my line before me. Who had planted this dialogue deep into my subconscious for me to use all these years later?

"What do you mean?" Excited interest cracked through his bad boy veneer; his voice broke and rose in the middle of his question. "What are you saying?" His hand slid across my back.

I stared at the clock at the end of the bar. Ten twenty pm bar time, 10:10 pm real world time. An hour and 20 minutes before the start of Saturday Night Live, a repeat. Please, God and Ricky Ricardo, let me not be watching that show later tonight. I stared at the clock and smiled without looking at him. Because I couldn't. Because he would see through my bluff.

"Well," I stage-whispered so that he had to lean closer to me, "we'll see what happens if you play your cards right." My voice broke this time, but he didn't seem to notice.

Let's just say he played his cards right, I played mine right. We drove to my house two hours later.

It wasn't until Townie Boy and I stood in my kitchen, kissing and touching and taking off clothes that I remembered--I had not ridden a bicycle in quite a while. How would I know when to shift? What about braking or slowing down around the curves? Keeping my head down for aerodynamics or riding high and proud in the breeze? It's just like riding a bike, I chanted to myself. It's just like . . .

How could I have believed Loni Anderson? Mary Tyler Moore may have made it on her own, but she led me astray. I struggled and stumbled. I wondered where the fluidity and ease that I used to have disappeared. There was no moment when I finally clicked into gear. I was awkward, goofy Laverne on a bike all night until the final moment when Townie Boy passed out. He wasn't finished, I wasn't finished, but he was out. No quirky sitcom moment had prepared me for this turn of events. I looked at his limp wheel and got mad. Mad I had brought him home. Mad I had laughed when he wondered what would happen as he combined cough syrup with eight beers. Mad my bike-riding skills might have been so unskillful he had faked passing out. Mad he could blithely snore away like Homer Simpson while I lie next to him feeling like a failure. CBS made me think Mary Tyler Moore was the ultimate single woman in control of her life; I paid the price for believing. Mary never got any action, and neither did I.

Now let me just say this. Not every moment of this night was bad news. Turns out that when you spend an entire night tossing and turning, trying not to wake the person lying next to you and simultaneously praying that the person lying next to you will get up, get dressed, and vanish while you pretend to sleep so that your overwhelming urge to shove him and demand he leave immediately could be satiated without you actually being a bad hostess--well, when you're busy doing all those things, you don't actually get Morning After Bed Head. This may not sound like a big deal, but I have scary Morning After Bed Head. Helmet head. Old-lady-looking stuff. Think Facts of Life's Mrs. Garret and her comb-out teased three inches from her head, every strand Aquanet hair sprayed into submission. Each time I sneaked from the bed that night to find refuge in the bathroom, I reassured myself that drunken, poorly executed, nonfulfilling, passed out sex aside, damn, my hair still looked cute!

I lay next to him and wondered how he would act when he woke up. Would he be Fonzie, the bad boy who's really a nice Jewish boy? Would he be the boy who dumped Marcia Brady after her broken nose swelled, marking her as less than perfect? I didn't want these thoughts anymore. I wanted to know what Townie Boy would do, not Fonzie. Not Marcia's cad boyfriend. Not Fred Mertz. I wanted Townie Boy to prove himself. Or to get out. Sometime after eight am, he stirred. He dashed to the bathroom and then back to bed. Our usual quick repartee replaced with stilted conversation, as uneasy and ungraceful as our attempt at sex the previous night. Leave, I thought. Let's end the agony. Then he started to cough. He was fighting a bad cold; he coughed every few seconds. The caretaker in me took over.

"Maybe you should sit up for a while?"

"Do you want some cough syrup?"

"Would water help?"

I couldn't help but laugh as he lay naked, coughing, and refusing all help. We teased each other about our drunken night and about his cold. Well, I thought, I was a lousy lay and he passed out, but we can still do this. We can still have fun.

Eventually, he agreed to take some cough syrup. As I rose from the bed to get the medicine, he reached for my hand. Much better than any television moment. Pulled me back down onto the bed. The way I would have imagined if I had dared. His arm slid across my stomach. He had a sweet smile. The devilish twinkle gone; replaced with a warm glow. "When you come back, why don't you let me make up for last night?" He kissed my ear lobe and the small patch of skin just under my ear that my hair normally covers up. Skin most people don't see, and no one ever touches. His touch, his kiss felt intimate, caring in a way that all the kitchen making out couldn't.

So, we tried again. It is not just like riding a bicycle; things don't always magically come together in the final act. I still didn't have the magic moment when rhythm and timing returned, making me feel graceful and light. But maybe if I had more practice, I hoped.

Afterwards, we talked for a few hours. We laughed a lot, especially when he confessed that he lived with one girl, he was falling in love with another, and he was telling his woes about them to me. Completely inappropriate, I thought, and completely right. So completely like me, I thought as our fingers intertwined and our hands rolled together through the air as we laughed. Except no sitcom character had ever lain in bed with the one boy she hoped for, shifting into "we'll just be good friends" mode at the drop of a confession.

Over the next few weeks, we talked on the phone. Usually every day, usually three or four times. I acted like Bob Newhart dispensing words of wisdom about his one-too-many-women situation. I resorted to Grace of Will & Grace, making fun of him to get a few laughs when Dr. Bob wisdom failed me. It was an unusual situation, his one-night-stand-girl turning into advice-and-fun-girl. It was an unusual situation, my one-night-stand-boy becoming my latest friend in need. It was my exact usual situation, attempting to preserve my, "What? Your love of someone else means nothing to me" veneer by offering tea and sympathy.

During all this therapy between friends, I had flashbacks about sex with Townie Boy. Flashbacks that felt nothing like riding a bicycle. Snorkeling. That's what I decided. It's like snorkeling. You're encased in a completely different environment that feels, sounds, and looks both soothing and exotic. Outside sounds muffled, outside movements mutate as they seep into your atmosphere. The only sounds with significance exist in your space. The only movements that matter are right here. Even the light looks different as it filters in, surrounding the two of you. You move differently than you would "out there," and, every now and then, he pushes the hair off your face so he can watch you. There's no past. No future. Just you he wants to see. Just you--less cute best friend, less hot co-worker, invisible younger sister--being seen for the first time in a very long time.

There's something very familiar about snorkeling. The way someone can talk to you, but you don't hear. The way someone can walk near you, around you, but you don't notice until he walks in front of you, blocking you from watching whatever you had been focused on. There's something very familiar about snorkeling, and that scares me.

But sometimes a moment of snorkeling noninvisibility changes you in ways you don't notice at first. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror as you walk out of your house and think you look . . . almost . . . cute. And you realize today is the fifth day, or the 14th day, or the 20th day in a row that you've seen this almost cuteness in yourself. And, sometimes that realization changes you, too.

And I never heard Rhoda mention that. But she should. She really should.