Why I Really Write,Part 3:Sex

After ignoring the obvious,I tackle it with brutal honesty below.

I’ll just get right to the point. One reason I became a writer is that I thought it might help me get laid.

I didn’t consciously plan it that way,of course,because doing so would make me a very stupid person indeed:there are about 10 billion better ways to chase girls other than sitting before a typewriter,alone,unshaven,undressed,and depressed.

I could have tried making a lot of money. Or learned to play the guitar. Or bothered to actually ask someone out once in a while.

But men aren’t the brightest bulbs in the world when it comes to Little Elvis,in more ways than one. Without going into deep,ill-informed flights of Darwinian fancy,let’s just say that I,like 100 percent of the rest of the male population,have sought status in one form or another,and one of the main byproducts of status has been access to more than one ladyfriend,so to speak. And for me,status-seeking comes in the form of the written word.

The most popular scribes among us —those who are male,that is —have often found themselves surrounded by groupies,lit bimbos,and other ladies caught in the swoon of genius. A fellow Chicagoan and novelist once said Saul Bellow had "two hobbies. Philosophy and fucking."

Bellow was an extremely famous writer. There appeared to be no shortage of willing victims.

Or take Salman Rushdie. OK,he’s witty,brilliant,charming,a fantastic novelist,a would-be jihad victim,and one of my favorite writers,but he isn’t going to be modeling anytime soon. I don’t think he would have gotten Padma Lakshmi had he been less than famous,or merely an adequate novelist.

There are lots of ways to get status,of course,but I never fancied myself a financier,was never going to be a successful jock,and as far as guitar playing is concerned,I sound like Andre the Giant picking at a ukelele.

I never really thought of myself as handsome,for that matter. If I was going to get attention from the ladies,it would have to be through some other means,and though I can be accused of being a mite charming,demonstrative I am not. It’s not as if I could hang a sign outside my house that said,"Ladies,Line Up Here for a Good Time With a Hot Guy"and expect any action save for a dog taking a crap on the doorstep.

It was rather pathetic,to be honest:like the a pizza-faced teen nerd that I had been,I secretly harbored a fantasy that my writing would show the world and the beautiful ladies inhabiting it the real me,which was funny,smart,brilliant,and worth a shag or two.

Once in a great while,my lust for words and my lust actually intersected. Once,I met an older lady at a party —I was 22,she was 33,and when she walked up to me,she threaded a finger through a ringlet of my hair and twisted it lightly,so I imagine she had other ideas than just debating the merits of Camus versus Sartre.

Sex? Yes,please

However,before the festivities began,I was forced to enter into conversation in which I revealed that although I had a boring job at a boring company,I was actually working on a novel. Which seemed to suit her just fine,though it was not a topic of post-coital conversation (which was as awkward as the sex was bad).

I dated another lady who,if not enthralled with my writing jones,demanded some form of creative expression from her men,which seemed to fuel her jets. 

And then there’s Wife. If I had not been a writer,I would have never met her,though it had nothing to do with my actual skill or status as a writer other than the mere fact that I wrote,since we met through graduate school,even if they were different graduate schools (long story).

But I imagine that it didn’t count as sex,since we got married.

I mean,that it didn’t count as merely sex. Sex and marriage. It’s a beautiful thing.