Sex
More than physical
The fourth season of HBO's "Sex and the City" is just as funny as the last, but now the girls are questioning who they are as much as who they are sleeping with.
HBO’s “Sex and the City” is a shallow show that goes deep. And if the double-episode, fourth-season premiere Sunday night is any indication, this summer the show will be going as deep as Samantha’s men do in bed.
This season it seems the writers have decided to deal with the prerequisites of great sex: finding soul mates and finding yourself. In fact, the only people who have sex in the first two shows are Trey (on Charlotte’s leg) and Samantha (Kim Cattrall, with herself).
The themes are, as usual, played out by Carrie Bradshaw (Sarah Jessica Parker), the leader of the pack. She’s a sex columnist who worries as much about her hair as she does about why we live. In the final episode of last season, she reached closure with her nemesis, the rich player Mr. Big (Chris Noth). After three seasons of torture — breaking up and falling into lust over and over with a man who won’t/can’t commit — Carrie tells him (and means it) that they should just be friends.
In this season’s first episode, she turns 35 and does what most girls do: tells her friends that she wants to keep it low-key, hoping they’ll give her a party anyway. After attending an engagement party for a couple who patronizes them for being single, Carrie and Miranda (Cynthia Nixon) bring up the show’s theme to the other girls: Is there such a thing as a soul mate?
Carrie thinks there might be more than one, Samantha says she’s had hundreds and Miranda (always the lawyer) thinks the quest itself sets you up for a fall. Charlotte (Kristin Davis), the sweet and square one of the bunch, is currently separated from her husband, Trey. His various sexual problems include impotence and, most recently, a bout of premature ejaculation at an awkward time. (Always the gentleman, he offered to pay her dry-cleaning bill.) Charlotte is accordingly unsure about the concept of a soul mate. “I thought Trey was mine,” she says, “but I don’t think a soul mate would … um … on your leg.”
Samantha, always the most sexually adventurous of the bunch, falls for a hot-looking priest and gives us over-the-top hilarious moments as she tries to pick him up in church. “He’s so Robin and his merry men” in that robe, she tells Carrie, referring to him as “Friar Fuck.” When she strikes out with the holy man, she uses him as fantasy material for a two-and-a-half-hour self-pleasure marathon.
Carrie, meanwhile, has told her friends not to invite Big to her birthday dinner, but breaks down the night before and invites him anyway. When her friends all miss the party because of a variety of traffic and communication problems, she goes home to take a shower and wash all of them out of her hair. Instead, they come to take her to the coffee shop, where the show’s theme is delineated in true “SATC” fashion.
The show’s strength lies in how it gets you laughing with and at the characters and then zings you with a line that is so simple and true it can make you cry. After Carrie says, “I know I have you guys. I hate myself a little for saying this, but it felt really sad not to have a man in my life who cares about me,” sweet Charlotte cuts through it all: “Maybe we could be each other’s soul mates. And men could be these great nice guys to have fun with.”
And just like that, with a childlike clarity that cuts through the weary cynicism, Charlotte brings back the love. The denouement comes when Carrie goes home to find Big parked in front of her apartment in his limo. He offers her a bunch of red balloons and a bottle of champagne. When Carrie asks him if he believes in soul mates, Big says, “I like the word ‘soul.’ I like the word ‘mate.’ Other than that, you got me.” At that, Carrie smiles and lets the balloons go.
The second episode’s theme is “find yourself” and it refers to finding not only the courage to pick yourself up when you fall but the guts to look at your own vagina.
Carrie the writer is chosen by a fashion show producer (a miscast Margaret Cho) to be a “nonmodel” in a runway extravaganza for pros and amateurs. She balks, thinking that a writer shouldn’t strut her stuff, but when she sniffs a chance at free Dolce & Gabbana garb it’s all systems go.
Then we get a great turn from Alan Cumming as a fabulous D&G dresser who orders her around. When Carrie balks at showing her bikini underwear he just yells “Trot, trot, trot” and she drowns her doubts in champagne through a straw.
Meanwhile, the other girls are facing identity issues of their own. Charlotte the prude is wondering what to do with her estranged hubby, who seems to want her only when she’s unavailable. Her gynecologist says her vagina is “depressed” and Sam tells her to take a good look at it sometime, which makes her shudder with repulsion. (“I think it’s ugly,” says Charlotte. “That’s why it’s depressed,” counters Miranda.)
Miranda the brain gets picked up at the gym by a hunky dude who throws her for a loop by telling her she’s sexy. (“Sexy is the thing I get men to notice after I win them over with my intelligence,” she says.) Then she gets him on her sofa and is sexually aggressive with him, only to be turned down.
Samantha the sex machine decides she wants to keep her body hot forever, so she starts on a diet of hot water and lemon and has nude photos taken that she can show her grandchildren someday. When the photographer and framer fail to ogle her 40-ish form, she faces her own fragile ego.
One of the show’s underlying themes, carried over from last season to this one, are the lessons the gay community has given straight people about creating one’s own family. We see Carrie literally fall on her face as she tries to do her catwalk number; but when she gets up and goes on, her action gives courage to her girlfriends/soul mates.
Charlotte finds the nerve to tell Trey to stay away until she figures out what she wants, and then we see her holding a mirror up to her most private self. Miranda approaches the gym bum who didn’t call her and asks why. (He says she seemed full of herself — and we see her realize that was because she was not being herself.) And Samantha decides to forget the crazy lemon-and-water diet and orders in Chinese.
The episode’s theme song is the great disco anthem “Got to Be Real” by Cheryl Lynn, the perfect backdrop to the show’s climax. “When people fall down in life,” says Carrie in voice-over, “they get right back up and keep on walking.”
Sure, “Sex and the City” is a chick show. Sure, it’s shallow. But somehow it helps a lot of would-be urban cynics to keep on walking and keep on smiling.
Karen Croft is the editor of Salon Sex. More Karen Croft.
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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