Why I Took Two Days to Write a Freaky Article About Sex With Writers … and Decided to Trash it
As an occasionally neurotic Jew and compulsive writer, I can tell you with all assurance there is no such thing as “writerly sex.”
Period. End of story.
This was the biggest issue I had with my article-in-progress. It would have been forced.
There are, however, myths about how amazing and damn near transportive writers — and all artists for that matter — are in bed.
So I was inspired, but in the end I wasn’t convinced.
I had intended “Sex With Writers” to be a follow-up to this recent article, which has received its fair share of attention and is presently showcased in S. Musk’s terrific Medium publication, Age of Awareness:
When Your Significant Other is a Writer
The proper care and feeding of scribes requires a complete set of skills definitely not in any manual.
Regardless, as will become readily apparent in, oh, 30 seconds, I do not write erotica. Nor do I write work that will arouse anyone aside from maybe myself.
Explanation: Though I’m a happily married guy of nearly 20 years, the writer gets in his head and fantasies happen, you know. Yada yada.
So if you clicked here out of curiosity, expecting to be titillated and educated, may I recommend something along these lines, from Emma Austin, which I caught on my feed this morning:
Hell, I’m an Emma fan, so ladies and gentlemen, may I happily refer you her way for authentically graphic goodness?
That should work for those who accuse the headline of my article as being “click-bait.”
As for me, I’ll be a bit more aloof about it all as we proceed … having elected to save the lessons for others, though again, not for lack of original intent. After all, if I were to truly start being academic about sex … it would be no different than if I were to brag about my own endowment.
Ain’t nothing to brag about. It’s not the size of the wand, though, but the magic —
You get it.
It’s all a matter of perspective.
And so, instead, I will present to you two scenarios ... from what were four in the first-draft of this piece. Note that I know these people. We talk. Through their experiences — which I’ve dramatized — I had intended to derive some sort of thesis, and begin from there.
Let me know if either of these resonate in any way, and why.
I will tell you the rest of the point of this whole ill-fated endeavor at the end.
Scenario #1: A husband and wife. He’s the writer, and his career is going nowhere fast. We open the scene in medias res, with the two of them in bed, pre-coital …
“When you make it, not if,” she said, “never kiss and tell. My mother may find out and she’ll think we’re freaks.” She unfurled the blanket to just beneath her breasts, then winked at him. He hated winks, but he never found the heart to tell her.
“When I make it …” he wearily responded. “Not yet.” He pulled the blanket back up. “I’m 35. I can’t stop writing but I’m sick of not making any progress. Doesn’t this bother you?”
She sighed. “That’s a double-negative,” she said.
“Which part?” he asked. “Anyway, you should be sick of me, in fairness— ”
She ignored him. “Besides, we’re supposed to be role-playing as our … loud neighbors tonight,” she said. “Put it to rest for now. You will make it.”
“When?” he asked. “When will it happen for us, huh? One more month late on our rent and we’ll be tossed out on our asses.”
“Well, I still believe in you.”
“I don’t deserve you — ”
“You just signed a new book contract, didn’t you?”
“Big deal,” he said. “It’s for an anthology. So we barely survive another month — ”
“The glass is half-full, remember? At least we do survive — ”
“This isn’t what I had in mind for us,” he said. “None of this is fair to you but this is who I am and it’s about time I gave you an out …”
It was as if she had been speaking to the wall. “Anyway …” she said, “I have faith in you.” There was a long pause. “But right now … how about we finally get this show on the road, um?”
It was their same old version of foreplay. Listening for an agonizing few minutes about his lack of career advancement, followed by what he usually and callously referred to as “one amazing fuck, huh?”
“That was one amazing fuck, huh?”
“I’m into seconds, you know — ”
“So why is it that sex is the glue to our relationship?” he asked. “If that’s all there is … what are we doing together?”
“Can you shut up for five minutes, and just enjoy the moment?” she asked. “Jesus. If you want to divorce me, divorce me tomorrow … For now, maybe we should go one more round so you’ll be more aware of what you’ll miss …”
He chose to pass the five (more) minutes in reflection.
“Feel better now?” she asked with a sigh.
Unexpectedly, he had an epiphany. “I feel GREAT!” he exclaimed.
“Really? That’s wonderful! Then how ‘bout if — ”
“I just thought of this great new character,” he said. “I spend so much time basing characters on the lives of others … Check this out. What if the writer was a neurotic Jewish guy, mid-30s, can never relax, always compelled to leap to his computer when an idea hits. In bed, he can most accurately be described as a phenomenon, regardless of the role-playing his wife forces on him to allegedly spice up their relationship …”
He tossed the blanket aside, unable to hide his new erection. “Where are you going?” she asked, despairingly.
He pounded the keyboard with more passion than he did his wife, smiling and laughing along the way, increasingly aroused with his progress ...
Question: Can any of you relate in any way to either the husband or the wife?
Scenario #2: Two gay men, two gay women. A bar in New York City. They are all novelists.
Frank: “I had this idea last night.”
Paul: “What’s that?”
Frank: “You know how our straight friends all think we’re these promiscuous, partner-swapping, swinging dicks?”
Paul: “Or The equivalent, right ladies?”
Joy: “Whatever you say.”
Sandy: “Nah, Joy. He’s right. I mean … look. Let’s be real. None of us are politically correct. They call me lipstick, Joy, and you’re butch. We have a great time and our straight friends think we’re these insatiable sex machines — ”
Joy: “Well …”
Sandy: “We’re not monogamous is my point and it works for us. They are.”
Paul: “You know that for a fact? It’s not as if we haven’t swung — ”
Joy: “Yeah, but you always return to each other.”
Frank: “And you don’t?”
Joy: “Sure we do. But we return to others as well. We’re not tied to each other like you both.”
Paul: “That’s true. And we write about it all. The magazines love us for our honesty.”
Frank: “New Yorker next month for my baby.”
He kisses his partner.
Sandy: “That’s amazing. Cheers.”
They all lift glasses, and drink.
Paul: “Do you ever ask yourself, though, what the point of it all really is? We’re gay writers. Double-threats. I mean, we can adopt kids and all … well, for now. Maybe if Trump has his way things will change, but — ”
Frank: “You promised. Get off it, would you? I still don’t know who I’m voting for yet. You’re not happy with your stocks?”
Paul: “What about the rest? Everything that’s gone on there doesn’t matter because Apple is worth $1 more a share than last week — ”
Joy: “Same old shit, guys. Knock it off. Can we go one meet without talking politics?”
Frank: “Apparently not.”
Joy: “Well, you all argue. Trump is the most anti-LGBTQ President there ever was — ”
Frank: “Doubt it.”
Paul: “Here’s the issue, and this is what I write about in my books. IT AIN’T ABOUT SEX!!” It’s about identity. You all contribute to the problem. I get more interest from curious women wanting to sleep with me because I’m a writer than a gay man.”
Sandy: “Because of my column, everyone it seems wants me. I must be great.”
Joy: “And egotistical too … Sex in the City was autobiographical, after all.”
Frank: “Yeah, and so was Penthouse Forum — ”
Sandy: “And you? Is your work real or embellished?”
Frank: “That’s my business.”
Sandy: “Fair enough. I have a question, though, for everyone. Do you use your writing to get laid? Do you sweet-talk your way into a party … or do you strike up what they think is a casual conversation and find partners fascinated by what y’all do for a living?”
Paul: “I’ll be honest. Of course I use it ’cause I suck in bed.”
Frank: “You don’t suck in bed.”
Paul: “Well, you’re biased, Romeo. But trust me. (turns to the women) I’m with this one ’cause he checks all the boxes, including flattering me on a regular basis.”
Frank kisses him.
Frank: “That’s why I love my son of a bitch.”
Paul: “What about you both?”
Joy: “Let me put it this way. If I wasn’t a writer, we wouldn’t be having this conversation …”
Question: Ever use your writerly creativity to woo someone for sex?
The original article had four such scenarios.
It became a headache, one of the very few times — maybe even the only time — I ever lost my way writing an article.
The point of the original story was to elucidate the true sexual prowess of writers as an entity, as opposed to the myths.
Actually, I was hoping to define us all as supermen and superwomen in that regard. Sorry, folks.
The problem arose when I kept drawing the same conclusion, and quickly realized the entirety of the effort was leading nowhere.
Are all artists great in bed?
Are all writers sexual demons?
C’mon. Writers and other creatives are still flesh and blood and no different than anyone else, save for our specific head trips and abject compulsion to create … and those other, less subtle qualities as discussed in the above article.
Sure, maybe some creatives possess above-average techniques, but then so does your average porn star. Still, we’re all human beings in the end, and any effort to truly define sex with a writer amounts to nothing more than a fantasy that as an entity we are sexually more advanced somehow than the rest of the mortals out there.
So the piece intended became a dead-end.
Healthy sex between consenting adults fulfills primal urges. That’s all. It makes no difference if one is creative … save for perhaps the mechanism to get to that desired point and other non-writer-specific gifts once you’ve arrived.
So, to all this: My name is Joel Eisenberg. I am a writer.
I truly do not believe I am a phenomenon in bed ... though I try, of course, to convince my wife otherwise at every opportunity.
Thank you for reading.
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