Sometimes I think we’re just a generation of Carrie Bradshaw wanna-bes, writing publicly about our sex lives and relationships not only because it helps us create a network of support (which, if only in a comment thread for a day or two, normalizes our issues), but because it kicks away any lingering shame we may still have.
Women of my age grew up on Bradshaw. Maybe this is why we write like we do: thinking out loud and questioning our relationships in real time. Will my baby sister’s generation be more of a Hannah Horvath type?
What holds true in both cases is that every good female writer needs a freak in her life who’s going to be a total dick before maybe coming around (and around) again: a Big or an Adam. The ’98 archetype of a boyfriend versus the 2016 version.
In my early 20s, I lived my life like a lesbian: After our first fuck, my boyfriend and I were both ready to rent a U-Haul. But you know what sucks about moving in with a boyfriend? Moving out. The number of times I packed and unpacked my vinyl during that decade – I just can’t get those days back, man. The hours spent fighting over albums – and not because I really needed that album in my collection, but because I just wanted to win. And that original Wipers poster? It’s gone. That’s young divorce: fighting over an original Wipers posters you and your boyfriend inherited together.
Simone de Beauvoir and Jean-Paul Sartre were a power couple way before the term existed. They got together in 1929, never married, but remained in an open union for 51 years. It’s even been said they refused to share a home – or, at least, they kept separate living spaces to which they could retreat. “The comradeship that welded our lives together made a superfluous mockery of any other bond we might have forged for ourselves,” de Beauvoir said in The Prime of Life.
The unfortunate truth about most of my early move-ins was the financial incentive: We were both broke-ass motherfuckers. (I’m sure most of your move-ins had a similar logic behind them.) The older I get, the more I value my own space and my own life, my independence, my ability to finance my life without splitting the bills with a boyfriend. There once was a time when sleeping alone in my apartment without my boyfriend left me tossing and turning all night. I can’t remember that feeling anymore.
I’m married now. When my husband and I first started seeing each other, it was after a long stretch of being single. I soon found that I had writer’s block, and I blamed him. I think it was so easy to write about my sex life when I was single, because my single life was a really self-satisfying joke. The space between my legs was simply a place used for gathering material for my columns. It’s much easier to write about the coked-out mishaps and the dirty condoms stuck in the shower drain than to actually sit down and pen something about a person I like talking to when sober. The only difference here is respect. When I was going after men at blitzkrieg speed, I didn’t really respect my targets. I mean, in what world does one actually respect another human being if they’re referring to that person as a “target”?
A different satisfaction comes from being single as opposed to being with someone who is not only your friend, but your “lover.” One is not better than the other. Being single means relying only on yourself and having complete control over your emotional state. Once you let someone else into your life – beyond just fucking; I mean, really letting someone in – you face the risk that comes with that trust. Suddenly, another person has invaded. You become somewhat responsible for one another’s feelings. You invest. You have the power to love each other, to hurt each other. I tiptoe cautiously. Swan-diving is for naive 20-somethings.
So, maybe I had no stories that I was willing to share. No man to throw under the bus for the sake of my own articles. However, I’m happy with the man I’ve got. I don’t want to expose my husband (even though I did accidentally post a photo of his dick on Instagram). Plus, I’m too busy enjoying this to reflect on it yet.
Safe to say, the writer’s block isn’t as severe these days. Love is distracting as hell, butI’m totally OK with writer’s block being a trade-off for the killer sex and companionship.
• Send Mish your own sex questions and queries to [email protected]
