Nerve.com is seeking bloggers to write posts about sex-related products. They're paying people to do this, which is, you know, enticing. Why not apply, I thought.
I was getting pretty excited about a conceptual piece in which I'd contrast merkins and brazilian waxes, discuss my bafflement when it comes to proper and reasonable maintenance 'down there,' but then I checked their site for inspiration. Ah. A post about a book of bourbon recipes with (wait for it) a bunch of Mad Men references! A promo post about a new sex book now available on Amazon.com! Well, sigh. They seem to be looking for the types of clips I used to write for Metro, and I don't really have that market-driven friendly cornball voice in me anymore. (I could, of course, if the price were right or if I needed it enough; let's not get too haughty here.) Anyway, it was clear as I was reading through their entries that I wouldn't fit, and I gave up. I reluctantly put the merkin back on the shelf.
It's a funny thing, though, writing about sex. Even loosely sex-related products. I think about it, and suddenly I'm a gawky sixteen, shifting uncomfortably in my baggy Gap jeans and sneaking sideways glances at CJ, the youth group Jordan Catalano lookalike. Suddenly I'm worrying what my mom will think.
I'm trying to imagine what I would have told Nerve readers about attraction, love, about trying to get it right. What do I know of it? I think of the fleeting moments I sometimes have, we all have, pressed on the subway next to a stranger we suddenly realize - recognize - is attractive. Glancing up and across his face, away, down, flustered. Up again, quick eye contact, and away. Up and together and away, again. Then finally away, definitively away, head lowered and shouldering out of the open doors, jogging up the exit stairs, away.
There's an inherent loneliness in attraction.
I'm sitting here thinking I had more to say, something about the way we imprint on early loves and are doomed to see their faces over and over, cast over strangers' faces and slipping away around corners, forever. Certain bodies we know without having to touch, always. But that's a mouthful, isn't it? Too much for right now.
Let's get a glass of water instead. We'll change into loose clothes, curl up with a book and take our pills. We'll remember to moisturize and floss. Soon we'll sleep, and in the morning if we're lucky, our boyfriend will make the coffee.
