No Sex, Drugs, or Rock 'n' Roll

"Don't compromise yourself. You're all you've got." —Janis Joplin

I was hiking in the woods up here when I heard on the drive home that a person I knew a long time ago was about to release a book, a sequel to an earlier book. I was flung back to my experience as a writer for the magazine that he edited. His reputation was bad, one of those '80s-era men who saw any woman as prey no matter how inappropriate the situation. I received a dream assignment from him, which would have been a cover story. The subject was basically the end of the sexual revolution, an era I had lived through but sadly did not find anything revolutionary. There was just the expectation that you would sleep with someone no matter how brief the encounter; no one took you on dates, and when someone said anything vaguely romantic, it was a tool to achieve a goal of meaningless sex.

photo by Vale Arellano

Mind you, I was sober, and one result was that this situation, meaningless sex, was now unavailable. My experience with sober sex was limited to hangover sex, and let's face it, the effects of the previous night had seldom worn off. No, this was eyes wide open, fully conscious and emotionally present sex, which I had avoided since I stopped drinking. Not for want of trying.

I developed a crippling crush on a person, a brilliant anthropologist who understood my toxic mixture of lapsed Catholic shame, fear, and desire and offered to make me dinner, which I interpreted as a chance to get naked. When I arrived at his apartment with my date book, the day circled and written in ink: "Have sex with ______.” I found myself in tears. I also discovered he had no intention of taking me to bed. He had brilliantly assessed my plan, which was to fuck him and then never talk to him again. Because this was the only way to handle how I felt about men, myself, and the pressure to be a Madonna/whore.

Anyway, back to the editor and the cover story and the rumors around him, which included his interest in prostitutes and the fact that if you wanted to write for his magazine, you had to have sex with him. This was not possible. Drunk, I might have overlooked his lack of attractiveness and my own awareness that selling my soul and body for a byline was a bad thing but sober I absolutely could not. He invited me to his apartment at St. Mark's Place to edit my article; I had already signed a contract, and as I walked up the many flights, I encountered several very young women walking down, dressed to indicate they were sex workers. This was a relief, as I thought he must have hired them before I arrived and was now fully sated. My own clothes lacked any hint of sensuality but instead indicated an ambition to become a Mennonite. Naively, I thought this would deter him from pressuring me to fuck him, but I was wrong. The moment I entered his studio, I felt the atmosphere, incense heavy, weird music, and dim lights was not conducive to an editing session. Also, he was wearing a bathrobe. The following conversation ensued.

Me: “Uh, where are we going to work?”
Him: “We can go to café after, and edit there.”
Me: “After what?”
Him: “We fuck.”
Me: “I'm not going to do that.”
Him: “I'll cancel the article.”
Me: (in tears) “I'm leaving.”

I left. I discovered this scenario was played out with every female writer he ever worked with. It occurred to me that if I had been drinking still, I might have had the cover story for this important magazine, but it also occurred to me that this was why I had stopped drinking. I would never allow another man to pressure me into having sex. I still made stupid mistakes, like sleeping with the shoe magnate who gifted me a pair of shoes after we slept together, or a few other dubious encounters. None of them resulted in a book deal or anything related to my writing life. My soul remained intact.

Molly Moynahan