Keywords: Fall 2006
Reading (or writing) about sex is about as titillating and fresh as microwaved lasagna. Which is to say, not. Getting yourself amped-up about the umpteenth sexblog or Ivy League erotica journal takes more work than getting yourself amped-up to go on a date with your Chem partner who asks you to his Sigma Nu formal. Which is to say, a lot.
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On top of it, every chick who's tasted a Cosmopolitan thinks that she's Carrie Bradshaw. Baby, just because you sit at home in front of your laptop in your underwear and can slur out some hackneyed puns don't make you no Carrie Bradshaw. Drop a few pounds, take a journalism course, and try me again.
Superficial concerns aside, the salaciousness of one's subject matter cannot trump one's inability to tell a story coherently. It doesn't take too much work to bait some bone, so the effort needs to be in the writing. Most of these writers have the subtlety and wit of a lab report. Not all sex writing has to be this bad, especially when written by such highly educated people. Foucault is more provocative than porn any day of the week. And Lacan's description of power structures? Makes me go crazy.
Some of the women writing sex blogs seem to think that they're risking everything for the sake of ladies everywhere by making it okay for me to be sexual, for me to talk about sex. They are dying to be controversial. They pray for someone to call them a slut.
That era has passed. I don't really care. I don't think you are breaking down any doors for me. I don't think you are a slut. I think you're a bore who knows HTML. And you're not getting me off.
Side note: While typing up this post, I had to use HTML for the first time, and I now have much respect for all the bores who use it.
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