Friday, 2/28/97
Sexy or Psycho?
A handy reference guideBY KATHERINE TOM
I find it kind of funny that on Valentine’s Day, Ahh’s ran a
full page ad in The Bruin depicting various sexual aids. And I
don’t mean "funny, ha ha," like my column tries to be, I mean
"funny, strange," like my column actually is.
What I find intriguing is that if you pay The Bruin enough
money, they will run a full page of photographs of assorted
lubricants and flavored lotions with captions like,"licking up
afterwards is a must – yum yum!" If you only happen to be a lowly
columnist like myself however, your humorous article on shopping
for sex toys won’t even get published. Instead they’ll run
something from The Associated Press. Has anyone besides me noticed
the striking similarities between The Bruin and the Los Angeles
Times? For instance, they’re both using the same writers.
People have been asking me about my brush with censorship. In
fact, there are those who have expressed great interest in my
opinions on the subject of sex toys. The fact that these people are
usually callers on my 900 line (1-900-2-MIDGET) is unimportant. The
people have spoken. They deserve to know. So here, for the first
time ever, is a section from the lost manuscript of Katherine Tom’s
Jan. 17 column on sex toys:
My old vibrator disappeared under mysterious circumstances.
Mysterious enough to warrant, say, an FBI investigation. But alas,
David Duchovny won’t accept my calls. He told his secretary that
I’m a deranged psycho, and he’s never met me before. I don’t think
that’s a very nice thing for him to say about his spiritual soul
mate, but I forgive him. His despondency over our long separation
has clearly driven him to repress the oh-so-bittersweet memories of
our all consuming passion, which has rocked the entire known
universe to its very foundations.
Incidentally, in the X-Files, Scully is always withholding
information from her superiors in order to protect Mulder’s safety.
Just once, I want her to say to Congress when they tell her she is
obligated to reveal her partner’s whereabouts: "I answer to a
higher law … the code for the preservation of hotties." If I ever
became a writer for that show, believe you me, I would make better
use of David’s many talents as an actor. (Next week on the X-Files,
Mulder is abducted by aliens and forced to perform as a male exotic
dancer in their human cabaret!!!).
There you have it, pretty hilarious, right? Am I not funny? If
you read me, do you not laugh? If you tickle me, do I not kick you
in the shins in a desperate attempt to escape the exquisite torture
of your fiendish fingers? If you buy me a drink, do I not sleep
with you? Actually, I do not … but you’re welcome to think so if
it means you’ll buy me the drink.
You could say that my method for getting drinks is pretty
straightforward. Boys are simple creatures – easily confused. The
last thing they’re expecting is a full-frontal, close-range
assault. That’s where I come in. I put boys the on the defensive
right from the get go. Favorite lines of mine include, "So, are you
going to buy me a drink or what?" "Which one of you is going to buy
me a drink now?" "Is this the part of the conversation where you
buy me a drink? Or is it the part of the conversation where I
leave?" And, if all else fails, I’ll point into the crowd, shout,
"Look, it’s Elvis!" and quickly chug the drink of whatever
feeble-minded sap falls for my diversionary tactics. This has
earned me the reputation of being slightly insane, which, in all
fairness, I probably am.
I’m going to let you in on a little secret about boys. A large
number of my guy friends foster this theory: If a girl is good in
bed, she has to be a little bit crazy – psycho women are better
lovers. All you girls who, up until this point, only imagined that
boys are perpetually clueless, there is your proof. It’s like that
thing where men tell themselves that all women go for assholes,
because, as far as they’re concerned, any guy that gets to have sex
with that hot blonde who shot them down is automatically an
asshole. Except that my theory is actually true: Guys love psycho
women. They go out of their way to date them.
Here’s how it works. All men, even the most liberal ones (bless
their hearts), secretly believe that a woman can’t possibly enjoy
sex as much as they do. And if she does, there must be something
wrong with her. If a boy likes sex, he’s normal, but if a girl
likes sex, she’s a nymphomaniac.
Back in the day, in colonial, Puritan New England, those women
who were considered to be promiscuous or sexually threatening were
labeled "witches" and burned at the stake. Today the same sort of
code suggests that if a woman accepts money for her favors, she is
a "whore," but if she declines to share her "belle chose" with a
guy who has just paid for an expensive dinner, she is a
"cocktease."
Women are expected to live up to an impossible standard of
behavior – to be sexy and uninhibited and chaste and sweet, all at
the same time. It’s the whole madonna/whore syndrome (or,
alternately, the madonna/Madonna syndrome). With all the
contradictions in boys’ expectations of us, no wonder some of us
are a little loopy. Society requires girls to be demure and
passive, while boys are expected to be bold and aggressive. This
puts an incredible amount of pressure on boys to perform and
display sexual prowess. Therefore, nothing is more frightening (yet
tantalizing) to your average guy than a girl who is more
experienced than he is. Her expectations are higher, his chances of
"failure" are greater, and she has a large store of information,
knowledge, and skills at her disposal. This is as intimidating as
it is intriguing. So it becomes easy to label this woman wanton,
unintelligent, or even crazy. I’ve seen boys ensnared in the
tangled webs of these Jezebels, and trust me, if anyone is acting
stupid, it’s not the girls.
In fact, you have to feel a little sorry for the boys. Boys, you
try hard, I know you really do. There are a few bad apples out
there, and they’ve given the lot of you a bad reputation, but I
know you’re good at heart. So I’m going to help you out. Because
there’s a line between sexy and psycho, and just because I cross
that line all the time, doesn’t mean I don’t know where it is. You
need to be able to tell the difference, because you really don’t
want to date an actual psycho by accident. Trust me. If your date
looks around nervously every time she hears sirens, buckle up –
you’ve got a psycho on your hands. A psycho will dump drinks on
your head in public. She’ll have sex with your brother and tell him
about all your shortcomings in bed. She’ll have sex with your
father and tell him about you and your brother. Don’t let this
happen to you.
Sexy: Takes the cherry stem from her drink and ties it into a
knot with her mouth.
Psycho: Takes a fistful of cherries from behind the bar, stuffs
it into her mouth, then spits them out at passersby.
Sexy: Laughs at all of your jokes.
Psycho: Laughs at any of the "jokes" on "Suddenly Susan."
Sexy: Slips off her shoes and slides her foot into your lap,
under the table.
Psycho: Slides under the table, takes off your shoes, and runs
off with them, yelling "Catch me if you can!"
Sexy: Makes lots of eye contact.
Psycho: Makes lots of eye contact with the guys at table 3.
Sexy: Sends out the signals: wait, go, wait, go.
Psycho: Sends out the signals: go, go, go, stop!
Sexy: Drinks a shot of vodka straight up.
Psycho: Drinks 10 shots of vodka straight up.
Sexy: Wears your old sweatshirt to go to sleep.
Psycho: Fashions a makeshift "cocoon" from a pile of your dirty
laundry and refuses to emerge until she has finished
"metamorphosizing."
Sexy: Leaves cute little notes for you (around your house, in
your wallet, etc.) that say things like, "Thinking about you," and
"Have a nice day."
Psycho: Leaves cryptic little notes to her imaginary friend
"Floyd" that say things like "buy carpet cleaner" and "row, row,
row your boat."
My real point in all this? Unless your date is a full-fledged
psycho, she’s probably just out for a good time. Don’t be one of
those narrow-minded puritans who cringes at the subject of (gasp)
sex toys and dismisses the girl in the scandalous outfit (i.e me)
as a tramp. (I’m the one at the bar, wearing a scarlet "A", for
"alcoholic.") Remember, just because my column is "dressed up" all
sexy with phrases like "rampant alcoholism," "nymphomania," and
"illegal in 49 states," doesn’t mean there isn’t a real message
underneath. Then again, there probably isn’t.
Tom is a high priestess of love who has taken a long vow of
celibacy in order to replenish her mystical powers.