So let  me tell you about some trouble I’ve been having at work.  Please note that I work on the seventh floor of the Biscayne Building off Times Square.   A week ago, our marketing firm Dunn-Mahoney just had its huge annual blowout holiday party at the Rosecranz Ballroom.  It was the usual debauchery with thousands of workers and clients from the world over, open top-shelf bar, drunken confessions of secret love and grinding on the dance floor.  Since the party, I have been the object of vicious gossip, hushed whispers in the ladies room, dirty jokes at my expense and the side-eye for real.  Please note:  I work with a woman Sally who’s the daughter of a famous actor. We don’t look alike but we are a similar type — shoulder-length dark hair with blue eyes.  Also note that I am friends with a lot of the movers and maintenance men — deli sandwiches and Heinekens go a long way to buying some corporate love.  So I get to work Monday and someone has scratchitti-ed on my office door and window: “SLUT” “WHORE” “AIDS” and “DIRTY BITCH.”  I am dumb-founded.  I’ve worked here for three years without incident.  Now this.  I confront my office manager Petal about what she knows.  Petal crosses her arms and huffs, “It’s because of the Christmas party.”  So I says to her I went to the Christmas party, ate aplenty, had a few shots of Stoli Vanil, danced my ass off and took a car home.  Did I forget something?  Petal says I’m leaving out the part where I hooked up with four guys from the West Coast office in an orgy at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel and everyone got gonorrhea.  I laughed out loud — I left the holiday party early alone, got home in time to watch Jimmy Fallon. Plus, I insisted, I don’t have gonorrhea.  A small coterie of workers had gathered within earshot as Petal asked, “Are you sure you don’t have gonorrhea?”  I say, hell yeah I’m sure.  I tromp away in disgust but you oughtta see the dirty looks I’m getting.  I gotta get down to the bottom of this b.s. rumor.  So I make my way into the freight area to catch up with the guys who work for the building.  I’m retelling what I heard about me from Petal and I’m practically giving myself an aneurysm.  So Mikey pipes up: “Well, everyone’s saying the girl on seven with the dark hair and blue eyes went to the Christmas party, had a menage a four and gave everyone gonorrhea.”  Well, as it turns out I am not the only girl on the seventh floor with dark hair and blue eyes.  I ask, what about Sally?  All the guys scratch their chins.  Mikey says, “Oh, yeah.  That must be why Sally got a black eye from her husband who works on eight. And why her ‘girlfriend’ Roslyn had to shave her head.” Shave her head to cure gonorrhea?  “Nope,” Mikey says, “Shave her head because Roslyn’s husband ripped her shoulder-length dreadlocks out. And busted her jawbone for giving him gonorrhea.”  It seems that gonorrhea is the gift that keeps on giving to husbands and illicit lesbian lovers alike.  So that explains all the closed doors, doctor visits and cancelled meetings after the holiday party.  Once I put the real story out there, I was off the hook.  But I have a sneaky feeling Sally was the one who put me on the hook to begin with.  God, I hate nepotism hires who are illiterate and fast.  But not as much as I hate gonorrhea. 😉

-Marisa K.

Our firm just lost a really good, really cute lawyer Samuel.  I know there was something going on between Samuel and a shortie doo-wop lawyer Sue but I didn’t get the whole story until it was too late to save Samuel.  I had met Samuel at random at an afterwork drinks thing.  He flirted and gave me his card.  Nothing ever came of it.  Life in NYC is a lot of meaningless flirting and handing out of cards but he seemed like a good guy.  Well, maybe not a smart guy.  Turns out he has a long-time girlfriend he cheated on with petite Sue.  No biggie until Sue went crying to our mutual lady boss and got Samuel fired.  Doesn’t seem fair.  I mean, they’re both consenting adults.  Why’s Sue mad?  Cuz he didn’t leave his girlfriend for her?   I guess not all short girls are endowed with elfin magic.

-Ellie R.


My friend Zahir who has travelled extensively through Scandanavia was explaining the most interesting social theory to me: the liberties taken by the sexual elite.  Who are the sexual elite?  The good-looking, the rich, the athletic, the talented, the charming, the beautiful.  The people the rest of us are taught to aspire to be.  The people the rest of us dream of hooking up with.  The ones we hook up with against our better judgement.

The notion that given individuals are blessed enough to be sexually irresistable makes sense to human evolution.  It is a dangerous notion and even more dangerous dynamic.  Look at the fidelity issues of Kobe Bryant, the NBA, Bill Clinton, Newt Gingrich and H.L. Hunt.  Or Marilyn Monroe, Madonna, Jessica Simpson and Jennifer Lopez.

It must be nice to be able to choose sexual partners at will and get access to them with fair ease.  But, as my friend explained about Scandanavia, there is a dark cost.  Attractive women and men there are coddled, seduced and catered to from the age of 14 or so.  They are pampered, sought after and taken care of.  Then suddenly you have a crop of women and men rendered unable to reciprocate affection, cook or relate to other people other than through their looks and sexuality.  Few social skills, no sense of humor, and underdeveloped humanity.  Being attractive in a sexually elite way thus creates dozens of “reverse cripples” — not missing a limb but reduced to the very narrow sexual aspects of their identities and self-expression.

Now there are people who are sexually elite because they are so very desirable.  And then there are others who are sexually elite because they “cheat” their appeal through surgery, aggressive p.r. and cosmetics.  Or through sexual deviancy or availability.

Note the flourishing of private swingers clubs for the sexual elite.  One named Killing Kittens is based in London.  Their website tells a seductive marketing story:

Populist myth has it that every time a woman ‘sins’ by pleasuring herself God, in retribution, kills a kitten. Over time, “Killing Kittens” has become a colloquialism for female masturbation. What better name for a movement and community whose sole aim is the pursuit of female sexual pleasure!


Killing Kittens today is about providing a safe, sexual environment for people worldwide to explore their fantasies and sexual desires! To join this community and become one of the elite…

Consenting adults can do what they like but there is a pernicious, almost desperate urge driving private behavior in pursuit of being/ being with the sexual elite.  Whether social climbing through sex, looking to trade up partners or demanding public recognition for private sex acts via Facebook and iPhone apps, the influence of the sexual elite can be felt around the globe.

Sex should be a sacred, personal act for every individual.  Our judgement can get clouded when sex mixes with the public sphere.

If we are engaging in sex in marriage or outside marriage, let’s be sure the desire is for the right reasons — our reasons.


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