Celibate in the City

Sex. Lots of it. According to the lead story in the “New York Post”—and my father—we Manhattanites are doing it, and quite frequently.

“Are you kidding me?,” my father taunted my mother during one of our annoying, three-way phone conversations. “EVERYONE is doing it up there—EVERYONE,” he intoned with undeserved authority. What does he know, tucked away in their mountain house, high atop the Blue Ridge Mountains? And, moreover, why aren’t I experiencing any of the fabulous coitus down here in the nether regions, in the tip of the island of Manhattan? I have my theories…

Sex oozes from the over-priced loft windows high above Prince Street, from the “Wolford” hosiery store on Greene (the mannequin almost always sports a thong and sheer chaps), from the picture window of “Olive’s” bakery where, every morning, the counter guy (and girl) follow my body a full city block with their lusty gaze. The City itself is sex. Engaging in the act would be excessive—a sensory overload.

Last night, I had a lovely dinner at “Giorgione,” one of my favorite haunts near the Hudson. My friends and I sat in the front, by the French doors, to feel the evening breeze, steal glimpses of the moon-lit river and—most importantly—to people watch. We had barely taken a sip of our Sicilian white when a pregnant Christy Turlington and her husband, Ed Burns, walk in the door. Christy cradled her belly—fertility goddess incarnate—looking content and lethargic. Ed smiled at her, looking smug, satisfied, accomplished. He then proceeded to stare down every breast in the restaurant. Just as they were seated at a banquet table, David Schwimmer came in. Handsome… humble…demure… was this really the $1,000,000 an episode sitcom star? Then, the hostess paraded him past a bevy of New York beauties. He puffed out his chest, threw back his shoulders. If I had looked closely enough, I would have seen his pupils dilate, his nostrils flare.

New York City.

Sex

Sip of wine.

Before I could decide between the asparagus and ricotta ravioli or the pear and pecorino risotto, G., the restaurant owner, tries to kiss my neck, invite me on his next trip to Ipanema, extend an invitation to “do some party favors” up in his penthouse. It’s all too much and not enough.

“Celibate in the City.” Do you think HBO would buy it?