Self-Deprecating Sex Club


At last night’s wine tasting, I had the esteemed privilege of listening to twenty-somethings bitch about the incredible sex lives they’re not having, all whilst I skillfully tried to master the third level of Destroy the Castle on the computer. It’s a riveting, but sort of inactive game where you catapult large boulders into the air in hopes of obliterating the poorly designed castles and temples that block your path. Kings, Queens, princesses, and petrified knights all stand guard behind their bungled homes, but a splat of blood and their deathly screams from three medium-sized stones landing upon them lets you know you’ve reigned victorious once again. Ah, it’s a favorite game amongst the staff.

The breed of these common animals, the parade of petite bouncy women and highly-groomed men, does not, by no means, even hint at sexlessness. Through a common glance, one would certainly determine all to be fairly sexy or attractive, someone you wouldn’t turn away so soon. This gorgeous blond in a tight strapless number was quite eager to ask me what some of the sex toys do. “What’s this one?” she asked, holding out a small box containing a strange, pink and green set of balls,  thinly attached by a brand of beige silicone.

After inspecting the box, I finally solved the mystery. “These are for your PC muscles,” I answered. “They exercise the inside of your vagina, which may help further stimulate you during sex.” (In so few words, this is what I said).
She smiled widely, like a kid who finally figured out what happened when you add 2 and 2 together. “God, I heard about these!” She said. Women surrounding her turn their heads as she continued to rant about the sleek kegel exerciser. Other women began to touch it and pry it from her hands. It was as if the last piece of meat was left in the dish, and everyone was hungry for it.

So many of us watched Sex and the City, didn’t we? If you weren’t living on the island from which this sitcom takes place, then you knew that one day you had to buy a pair of prada shoes and work those suckers up and down Soho, or wherever Samantha, Carrie, Miranda, and Charlotte went to brunch.

Brunch. What a New York City treat.

Which one are you?

Which one are you?

You had to have your brunch, and your shopping sprees, and your countless outings to fabulous locations, and you had to talk about your sex life. Oh, and you had to look stunning all of the time. That is the criteria for being a New York City woman in this modern world. Of course, getting a job and paying your bills is essential too. But, only poor people talk about financial troubles over a goblet of fruity, white wine.

No, if you paid a 25.00 dollar ticket to all-you-can-drink-wine and full access to the museum’s exotic exhibits, then you had to find something else to complain about. Something trendy. Something fun. And sex is it. And, the reason why it’s so easy to complain about sex is because the advice people give you is more important than treating a malignant tumor. This advice may actually get someone into your bed again, and enjoying it.

There were only two topics discussed throughout the mingling crowd. 1) Networking (Who’s seeing who, who’s doing what with who, who’s going to see The Who this summer – are they still playing?) and 2) I’m not having enough sex. That was pretty much it. And, obviously, the sex talk sprung out of the atmosphere. Hell, they were surrounded by erotic imagery… well. May I step aside and say for one moment that some, if not most, of the images and displays we have aren’ sexy… you know, in that way that makes your knees melt and your privates pulse? No, penis-shaped pasta isn’t sexy. Glow-in-the-dark dice with verbs like “Kiss” and “caress” isn’t sexy. The magnets aren’t even sexy. They’re sassy and insulting, as one woman told me. And she was right. Somehow, these quirky, kitschy magnets got away with being highly offensive and cruel to its buyers… genius bastards.

What would constitute as the “sexier” part of the museum is the “Action and the Moving Image” section, a sultry blue room where various types of pornography and explicit sex scenes perform their sinning ways on multiple screens all around the space. When you’re done watching hardcore commercials from around the globe, you could yawn over Paris Hilton’s mediocre blowjob or relive that “Bring me the butter” scene from Tango in Paris. On my guard breaks, I stay in the blue room the most. The temperature’s warm and most of the patrons in the room are silent and perhaps, a little embarrassed about watching cock and pussy next to other strangers. I respect this part of the museum because it definitely manifests the old-school tradition, one in which a group of men would sit with other men and make dirty jokes to avoid the awkwardness. The only difference is that instead of one-liners and crass comedy, we layer our deep-seeded voyeurism with education. A gift from the gods! We’re not here to jerk off to Marilyn Chambers’s juicy, gyrating snatch. We’re here to analyze, examine, and evaluate how these images affect our ordinary lives… I’m there to watch the porn.


I wonder if our scholarly journey through the museum of sex is the reason why no one had sex inside the museum itself. I thought for sure that a little booze and a bunch of hedonistic artifacts would surely turn these contemporary bohemians into a horny, cannibalistic group of Dionysian hell-raisers. But, alas, the mood was not befitting of the conversation. Another reason why complaining about a non-existent (or dissatisfying) sex life is so acceptable is because one doesn’t have to actually ask for sex, but could indirectly send out the signal to others about their duress. Think about the countless times a big-dicked and highly skilled lover could pass through a vine of women, simply through word-of-mouth recommendations. And it starts with the problem. No one can satisfy you. You can’t find anyone you like. You hate the bar scene. You don’t wanna go online for a fuck. On and on and on.

Also, self-deprecating sex still makes the environment sexually charged, but in a passive way. Me and this excited young blonde light-heartedly spoke about what these set of balls could do for her pussy. Of course, I could mention that I could use the exerciser on her. But, I don’t want to scare her away or have her complain to my manager (Damned sexual harrassment). But, I could hint at it through her lack of knowledge and, maybe, her desire to possess a sex toy. In that case, we could talk about her pussy for ages and I’m not a pervert! And she’s not a pervert, either. A group of Asian men anxiously asked me if we sold v’gra – Viagara – and so, their dick was indirectly participating in our dialogue. And I have to explain that we can’t carry those pills, but someone else might help. Their dicks were most obviously sitting at the table, they were engaged. But, it’s as sexless of a conversation as speaking about dead fish. Unless you find necrophiliac sex with fish guts hot.


Perhaps self-deprecation was the libidinous ingredient to a secretly sensual evening. Maybe this crying out for sexual pleasure is a fetish – an all-consuming erotic catalyst that is necessary for sex to occur… and, perhaps, that’s what stops sex from occuring to begin with, and thus it feeds the fetish. It becomes an endless cycle of not fucking for the sake of talking about it.

Or it could just be the wine bubbling up in my head. Hm.

    • brokenbrooklyn
    • July 13th, 2009

    Your writing seems to be going really well. I have really enjoyed going through your new blog and reading all your stuff. It all proves very witty and insightful. We used to chat back on myspace about a year ago and never got to hang out…Check out my blog;
    and then my myspace;
    Hopefully collectively they will ring a bell and we can get back on track.
    It’s been a while.
    Hope all is well,

  1. Amazing writing skills and perception.

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