SEXIS WRONG

On Being a Sexmonger
Jen Sincero
Here’s a special moment: I’m sitting at the dinner table next to
an older, respectable lady in her seventies, whom I’ve hardly
spoken to other than to tell her I like her cardigan. We’re at a
writer’s retreat in the middle of nowhere, Wyoming, where
I’m working on a new book and eagerly awaiting the release
of my last one, The Straight Girl’s Guide to Sleeping With
Chicks. As we’re about to leave the table, one of the staff
walks in with the mailbag and hands me a bulging, padded
envelope from Simon and Schuster. My book! I haven’t seen
it in its final, published form yet, and so it’s with much excitement
that I tear into the bag and behold my fabulous new
work d’art. My neighbor is all aflutter (she really was a very
cute lady) and asks if she might have a look, dear, as she pulls
it out of my hands and opens it right to page 178.
Page 178 is the one that gets my vote for the raunchiest page
in a substantially raunchy book. It boasts a large photo of a
naked, Barbie-type doll bent over a bed, spread-legged and
ready, while another doll pulls her hair and services her up the
ass with a huge dolly strap-on. My new friend lets out a gasp,
claps the book closed, and mumbles a congratulations as she
shuffles out of the room, never to look me in
the eye again.
It’s times like these that I wish I was my married-with-children
sister, a maker of muffins,
or perhaps an elementary-school nurse. It’s
not that I’m not proud of my book, or that I’ve become un-enamored
with the path I’ve chosen—it’s just that every once
in a while, lugging the old freak flag around gets a bit overwhelming.
And although I was pretty much wrapped in the
flag at birth, this whole sex thing has me flying it at full mast
all the time. Because unlike my drunken bouts with nudity onstage
with my punk band in the 1990s, or that time I fucked a
guy dressed like Pipi Longstocking on a trampoline at Burning
Man, being a sex author/educator/pest is a much larger part
of my identity. For one thing, you don’t have to show up at
CBGB or the Nevada desert to catch my act—you can go to
your local bookstore or get it online. For another, it’s now my
job, meaning it can be brought up anytime, anywhere, and
people, especially nosy grandparents, tend to need details.
Then there’s the severe tunnel vision people develop when
the topic of sex enters the picture, and, just like all the lesbians
and queers who are seen as homos first, people second,
my sexpertness precedes me.
This all took a bit of getting used to, especially since I didn’t set
out to be a sex person—it just sort of happened, like most of
the other sex-related events in my life. The book came about
because I’d had a couple of experiences with women, found
little out there to answer my questions, and decided I should
write about it myself. With that began the research and the
discussions, and soon I’d made the joyful realization that I’d
stumbled upon something that gave me a big, fat boner. Sex
is large, Marge, and it’s relevant to everyone who’s survived
puberty. It’s political, psychological, controversial, emotional,
Did my dad read the part in my book
where I talk about how much
I love buttsex?
and physical—it’s such an important topic that, especially
at this alarmingly conservative time in American history, I’m
thrilled and honored to join the ranks on the front lines.
I took to it like a pig to mud but quickly discovered that while
it’s totally worth it, it can also be totally weird. Do all my
friends think I want to fuck them now? Did my dad read the
part in my book where I talk about how much I love buttsex?
Things were definitely going to change, some for the better
ON BEING A SEXMONGER 251