Sex Mathematics
Thursday, February 26, 2004
nb: You can listen to this piece through wbez.
Before I moved to the Midwest, I lived for three years in the bustling metropolis of Pelham, Alabama, population 14,369. In those three years, I kissed 34 people. I'm not bragging-many of those people were not nice or attractive or intelligent or even unambiguously human. I'm only trying to establish that historically, women and I have not had a terrible aversion to making out with one another.
Now, I am not a mathematician, but Chicago's population is about 200 times larger than Pelham's. So when I moved here, I naturally assumed that in my first three years as a Chicagoan, I would kiss somewhere in the neighborhood of 6,800 women. Surprisingly enough, that has not transpired.
As I stand on the train each morning (because I'm a gentleman), I am always struck by the fact the Brown Line teems with beautiful women. And yet, somehow, very few of these women are actually having sex with me. To admit the awful truth: zero of them. Right now, here in the WBEZ studios, I am currently having sex with zero women. For shame!
But here's a secret: I'm okay with my current, if hopefully momentary, celibacy. When it comes to romantic relationships-and in my case, it so rarely does-women always repeat the same line about men: All guys care about is sex. Well, hooey. Of course, I can't speak for all heterosexual men, since I am - listen up, 20something single women - unusually sensitive, intelligent, ambitious, and kind, and also dead freaking sexy. But I believe that men, as a group, don't care about sex nearly as much as we're given credit for. If orgasms were my primary passion in life, I'd never date again. I've been blessed with wonderful, caring sex partners over the years, but no one-no one-can love me as frequently and as passionately as I can.
But orgasms aren't my reason for living, so I prefer sex with other people. Sex with a loving, monogamous partner is a little like the Democratic party: Even when it's embarrassingly awful, it's still far better than the alternative. The men I know like sex for much the same reason that women do. Our interest in sex isn't merely a selfish physical desire: we like the mutuality of it, the give in concert with the take. To use a word no self-respecting man would ever use in any vaguely romantic context, we like the sharing.
Chicago men, I might add, enjoy the mutuality of sexual interaction considerably more than the guys I knew back in Pelham, where a female friend once told me, "My boyfriend's lovemaking reminds me of life in Hobbes' state of nature: nasty, brutish, and short." Of course, it's plenty easy to find guys in Chicago who like it nasty, brutish, and short. But you, a public radio listener, are for too clever and compassionate for those guys. You need the bookish, nerdy type. You need, well, me. And while I don't mind my sexless life in the city, Chicago owes me 67,996 kisses according to my calculations. Let's get to work.
Before I moved to the Midwest, I lived for three years in the bustling metropolis of Pelham, Alabama, population 14,369. In those three years, I kissed 34 people. I'm not bragging-many of those people were not nice or attractive or intelligent or even unambiguously human. I'm only trying to establish that historically, women and I have not had a terrible aversion to making out with one another.
Now, I am not a mathematician, but Chicago's population is about 200 times larger than Pelham's. So when I moved here, I naturally assumed that in my first three years as a Chicagoan, I would kiss somewhere in the neighborhood of 6,800 women. Surprisingly enough, that has not transpired.
As I stand on the train each morning (because I'm a gentleman), I am always struck by the fact the Brown Line teems with beautiful women. And yet, somehow, very few of these women are actually having sex with me. To admit the awful truth: zero of them. Right now, here in the WBEZ studios, I am currently having sex with zero women. For shame!
But here's a secret: I'm okay with my current, if hopefully momentary, celibacy. When it comes to romantic relationships-and in my case, it so rarely does-women always repeat the same line about men: All guys care about is sex. Well, hooey. Of course, I can't speak for all heterosexual men, since I am - listen up, 20something single women - unusually sensitive, intelligent, ambitious, and kind, and also dead freaking sexy. But I believe that men, as a group, don't care about sex nearly as much as we're given credit for. If orgasms were my primary passion in life, I'd never date again. I've been blessed with wonderful, caring sex partners over the years, but no one-no one-can love me as frequently and as passionately as I can.
But orgasms aren't my reason for living, so I prefer sex with other people. Sex with a loving, monogamous partner is a little like the Democratic party: Even when it's embarrassingly awful, it's still far better than the alternative. The men I know like sex for much the same reason that women do. Our interest in sex isn't merely a selfish physical desire: we like the mutuality of it, the give in concert with the take. To use a word no self-respecting man would ever use in any vaguely romantic context, we like the sharing.
Chicago men, I might add, enjoy the mutuality of sexual interaction considerably more than the guys I knew back in Pelham, where a female friend once told me, "My boyfriend's lovemaking reminds me of life in Hobbes' state of nature: nasty, brutish, and short." Of course, it's plenty easy to find guys in Chicago who like it nasty, brutish, and short. But you, a public radio listener, are for too clever and compassionate for those guys. You need the bookish, nerdy type. You need, well, me. And while I don't mind my sexless life in the city, Chicago owes me 67,996 kisses according to my calculations. Let's get to work.
