Sex
How Sarah got her groove back
In HBO's voyeuristic treat "Sex and the City," Sarah Jessica Parker finally gets a role fit for a comedy goddess.
Sarah Jessica Parker looks like a walking doodle, a daydreamy collision of curves and straight lines. The wavy mane and wiggly bod don’t quite prepare you for the playful intelligence of her long face, though, or the warmth of her gaze. Parker still bears traces of the roles she played as a kid actress — spunky Little Orphan Annie, awkward Patty Greene, her teenage nerd from the ’80s cult sitcom “Square Pegs” — and you don’t expect to find those particular humanizing qualities in someone who looks so hot in Prada. The element of surprise is Parker’s greatest asset as an actress, but in her biggest films (“L.A. Story,” “The First Wives Club”), she’s been predictably cast as a bimbo with marshmallow for brains.
In another era, Parker would have been a Hollywood comedy goddess, like Claudette Colbert, Barbara Stanwyck or Carole Lombard, playing characters who were smart, wily, ambitious, sexual beings. But where Hollywood has failed Parker, TV has come to the rescue. In HBO’s super-glossy adult comedy “Sex and the City,” which has just begun its second season, Parker is at her gawky, sexy, sly best as a 30-ish sex columnist observing the mating rituals of New York singles. Based on Candace Bushnell’s droll New York Observer columns, “Sex and the City,” like its screwball comedy forerunners of the 1930s and ’40s, appreciates the humor in the complicated socioeconomic dance of marriage-seeking. Parker’s Carrie and her three best friends work the problem of finding a mate as if they’re plotting a complicated bank heist — which, many unhappily single people in major metropolitan cities will probably tell you, is easier to accomplish than finding a non-psychotic person to date.
OK, I admit it — at first I was put off by “Sex” for reasons succinctly articulated this season by Carrie’s friend, feminist lawyer Miranda (Cynthia Nixon): “How does it happen that four such smart women have nothing to talk about but boyfriends?” But gradually, the show won me over. Producer Darren Star (“Melrose Place”) and regular writer Michael Patrick King juice up Bushnell’s pseudo-anthropological premise with dazzling guilty-pleasure voyeurism.
“I love a big dick. I love it inside of me. I love looking at it. I love everything about it,” exclaims Carrie’s 40-ish, well-worn, publicist pal Samantha (Kim Cattrall). But to appreciate the comic force of that speech, you have to realize that the sexually voracious, not-to-be-denied Sam is out of her mind with frustration because the otherwise perfect guy she’s dating is, as she somberly puts it, roughly the size of a gherkin. Let’s face it, you’re not going to hear dialogue like that on “Providence.” “Sex” is horny and witty, goofy and wise. Imagine Edith Wharton and Jacqueline Susann meeting for drinks at Moomba and you have some idea of its smart girl allure. “Sex” is literary sociology with a graduate degree in smut, and, boy, is it fun.
“Sex” revolves around the romantic misadventures of Carrie, Miranda, Sam and their refined, relatively naive art-dealer friend, Charlotte (Kristin Davis). The show’s structure is pretty straightforward — narrator Carrie taps away at her Powerbook, composing columns about such puzzlers as, “Are there certain things one should never say in an intimate relationship?” and “Are relationships the religion of the ’90s?” These dilemmas are then depicted in story lines involving the quartet and its acquaintances. Throughout the ensuing chaos, the girls still have many opportunities to gather ’round the bar or the coffee shop booth and debate Topic No. 1, the difficulty of finding marriageable men in New York who aren’t asses. Watching “Sex” is like eavesdropping on a conversation in the ladies’ room, and not a unisex bathroom, either — “Sex” knows the value of boundaries. Which is why “Sex” may be horny, but it’s never crude.
What sets “Sex” apart from the similarly relationship-obsessed “Ally McBeal” is that Carrie, Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte are true-blue friends — they’re supportive, not envious of one another’s career or romantic successes. The second season opener of “Sex” had a denouement that sweetly illustrated the nurturing quality of female friendship at its best. Carrie has broken up with the commitment-phobic man of her dreams, known only as Mr. Big (played by Chris Noth with a degree of rogueish charm that, I believe, is illegal in several states). She runs into Big unexpectedly while she’s out on a rebound date, and it throws her off balance. She eventually sends her date home, goes to a pay phone and makes a call: “It’s me. I know things are weird between us right now but I really need to talk. Can you meet me at our place?” Carrie goes to the coffee shop and, after an anxious moment, spots — no, not Mr. Big. Miranda. Despite her earlier high-minded outburst about her friends’ conversational preoccupation with men, Miranda has answered Carrie’s call, because that’s what girlfriends are for.
I would be remiss if I didn’t at least acknowledge that “Sex” doesn’t exactly portray men in a heroic light. The show is a parade of “toxic bachelors,” “serial modelizers” and assorted other small-membered, ball-scratching, bad-breath-spewing, selfish, conceited, unfaithful, untruthful males who fail to measure up as husband material.
However, I know that some guys feel left out, bullied and dissed by girl-talk shows like “Sex and the City.” So I must inform those guys that there are two new cable shows, FX’s “The X Show” and Comedy Central’s “The Man Show,” that are allegedly designed to ease the pain of the average maligned, unappreciated, badgered, Dockered, “Titanic”-ed male. The nightly “X Show,” which features four hosts, advice segments and interviews with Playboy Playmates and sports stars, is basically a male version of “The View,” except without the sage presence of a Barbara Walters as elder statesperson. Hugh Downs, call your agent. As for “The Man Show,” fellas, listen to me: Nothing the women on “Sex and the City” say about your gender could possibly be more humiliating than what “The Man Show” says about your gender.
Hosted by Adam “Loveline” Carolla and Jimmy “Win Ben Stein’s Money” Kimmel, “The Man Show” (which premieres Wednesday) is a snarky schmuckfest dedicated to (as the hosts declare in the opener) “building a dam to hold back the tidal wave of feminism that is flooding the country. A dam to stop the river of estrogen that’s drowning us in political correctness. A dam to urinate off of when we’re really drunk!” (Hey, didn’t Comedy Central already build that dam and call it “Politically Incorrect”?) This weekly “joyous celebration of chauvinism” promises a testosterone-friendly lineup of things guys supposedly like to watch on TV, which in the first show includes women in bikinis, women jumping on a trampoline, explosions, supermodels and “one of the purest forms of entertainment” — monkeys, wearing costumes, doing people things.
Coincidentally (or not!), TNT has just launched a weekly sitcom called “The Chimp Channel,” starring actual primates doing spoofs of TV shows like “Treewatch” and “NYPD Zoo.” I don’t know where those guys on “The Man Show” get the idea that watching monkeys is strictly a male thing — I enjoy a good performing monkey act as much as the next person (Oh, that Marcel from “Friends” was pure gold!), but I am disappointed to report that “The Chimp Channel” just doesn’t cut it. The dialogue is unimaginative and sophomoric and the parodies aren’t so much funny as they are creepy. Putting a chimp in a blond wig and a “Baywatch” swimsuit with big fake Pamela Anderson boobs sure seems like animal abuse to me. Oh, jeez — I hope I didn’t just give “The Man Show” any ideas.
Joyce Millman is a writer living in the Bay Area. More Joyce Millman.
Massage therapists rubbed wrong by sex talk
A Jennifer Love Hewitt show and the Travolta allegations have masseuses tired of being confused for sex workers
(Credit: iStockphoto/sybanto) Joe, a licensed massage therapist, knows what it’s like having a famous client who expects something extra. He had an Academy Award-winning actor begin gyrating on his massage table before raising his hips in the air to show off his erection. “He was hoping that I would play with him in some shape or form,” he says.
Needless to say, Joe isn’t surprised by allegations by two masseurs that John Travolta got handsy during massages. (Travolta’s attorney has denied all the allegations, and called them “ridiculous.”) “It happens all the time,” he says, and not just with celebrity clients. He frequently encounters men who try to fondle him, usually while he’s working on their glutes or lower back and their hand happens to be level with his crotch. “They think they’re so original, but they’re all so much the same,” Joe says, his voice rising. “They all use the same tactics, the same body movements, the same gyrations and grinding my table, the [heavy] breathing.”
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
A night at the vibrator museum
Early vibrators were hand-cranked, two-person jobs -- and prescribed by doctors. How far we've come since then
(Credit: Antique Vibrator Museum) I can now say that I’ve used a turn-of-the-century vibrator — on my hand, but still.
The silver, hand-cranked contraption is usually kept behind glass at Good Vibrations’ Antique Vibrator Museum in San Francisco — but staff sexologist Carol Queen made a rare exception. “This is very special,” she whispered, unlocking the case and carefully pulling out Dr. Johansen’s Auto Vibrator, a relic from 1904. The “auto” part is not so much: It was a two-person job, with her having to crank the device’s handle to get it thrumming. Pressing my finger tips to its inch-wide circular platform of pleasure, I was pleasantly surprised by its power.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
Maggie Gyllenhaal on sexual liberation
The beloved indie star tells Salon about her "vibrator movie" and why she loves playing transgressive women
Maggie Gyllenhaal (Credit: Reuters/Mark Blinch) When I met Maggie Gyllenhaal about six weeks ago, she was enormously and gloriously pregnant, stretching out on a sofa with her shoes off and feet up in a Manhattan office building. (Since that time, Gyllenhaal and husband Peter Sarsgaard have welcomed their second daughter, Gloria Ray, to the world.) We were there to talk about “Hysteria,” the charming, lightweight feminist farce from director Tanya Wexler that explores a key event in the history of female sexuality: the invention of the vibrator by Mortimer Granville, a Victorian doctor who was seeking to cure the mysterious “female malady” that lends the movie its title.
Continue Reading CloseMother-daughter sexperts
Susie Bright and her daughter, Aretha, make parental talks about sex look easy -- and fun
Most parents loathe talking to their kids about the birds and the bees, let alone pubic hair grooming, faked orgasms and “water sports” — but most parents are not legendary “sexpert” Susie Bright.
Better than talking about these things, she penned an advice column in 2009 with her daughter, Aretha, then 19, for the ladyblog Jezebel. Their answers to questions about everything from porn to Paxil were unflinching but playful, and at times controversial. Now the pair have collected those columns into a new e-book, “Mother/Daughter Sex Advice.” Together, they read as an irreverent version of “Our Bodies, Ourselves” for the Internet age. The mother-daughter team also reflect on what the experience of writing the column was like, and it turns out it wasn’t as weird as many would think: For the most part, it was just a continuation of conversations they had been having throughout Aretha’s life.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
On the rack: A cultural history of breasts
Did breasts evolve for lactation or to enhance sex appeal? A new book explores why they matter
(Credit: iStockphoto/NadyaPhoto) It’s hard to be boobs. Sure, breasts are cherished as givers of milk and the pinnacle of sex appeal, but the modern world hasn’t been good to mammaries.
As Florence Williams writes in “Breasts: A Natural and Unnatural History,” they’re the most tumor-prone organ in the human body. They “soak up pollution like a pair of soft sponges,” and transmit environmental toxins to babies through breast milk. “Breasts are bellwethers for the changing health of people,” she says. While we’ve “genetically modified our crops to be able to protect them from the ill effects of pesticides,” Williams writes, “we haven’t yet figured out how to modify our breasts.” Aside from using saline and silicone, of course.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
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