Miss Wendy's Texas Love Advice
Plus Some Occasional Comments on the
State of the Popular Culture

L-R: Michael Mazocco, Wendy R. Williams, Armistead Johnson
Photo: Stephen Mosher

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Dear Miss Wendy,

Where is sex better, in New York or LA?

Sincerely,

Enquiring Joanne

Dear Joanne,

Neither. Here is the dichotomy. Both New York and LA generate huge amounts of income by selling the image of sex: movies; advertising; fashion; etc. etc. But in both cities people are so stressed out from “selling it,” they are not very interested in actually “doing it.”

In LA, there is the image problem. You need a hot car, great clothes, $500 hair cuts, a million dollar hovel and to be seen eating at the hottest restaurants (the food at the Ivy couldn’t be that good). And the stress of paying for all of that leaves most Angelinos utterly exhausted.

New York residents have the same stressors (with the exception of the car). But they have an additional problem – their hair looks like crap most of the time because you can never catch a cab before your hair frizzes. And New Yorkers are so narcissistic that they cannot get turned on unless they think that they “themselves” look good.

So here is Miss Wendy’s new theory about just where people are interested in sex; it is in the heartland where there is nothing much else to do and there is the added aphrodisiac of repression.

Miss Wendy came about this theory as she attempted to fly home from Jamaica last month (and no, I was not actually flying the plane). Dear Miss Wendy was grounded in Charlotte, North Carolina for one night only to be flown early the next morning to Norfolk, Virginia where she was required to wait for another five hours.

It was utterly horrifying. There she was dragging her exhausted “Jamaicaned” carcass through the hallways of the Norfolk airport, past massive murals featuring Pat Robertson and his Regent University; it was the ninth circle of Dante’s Inferno.

Then, Miss Wendy drags herself into the relative civilization of the airport Starbucks and was sitting there when what should occur but sex-in-the-heartland. A good looking young white man came into Starbucks where he recognized a long lost friend – a beautiful young black girl. They then fell into an amorous embrace and proceeded to make out in the Starbucks of Norfolk, Virginia at 11AM for about five minutes (that is very long time to be smooching). At first I was annoyed by all the nibbling and smacking sounds (they were standing right next to me, it went on forever and I was in a really bad mood). But then I thought, “They must have seen those murals of Pat Robertson too and were just doing whatever they can to cheer themselves up, or……… AHA, just seeing Pat Robertson (The Godfather of Goody Goodies) plastered on the walls turned them on.”

So here is Miss Wendy’s suggestion for a new aphrodisiac: Get posters of Pat Robertson, Jimmy Falwell, Gary Bauer, Tim LaHaye etc. etc. and plaster them on your bedroom wall (in front of a bowl of apples?) and turn sex back into a compelling and forbidden fruit it was meant to be.

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All of Miss Wendy's old columns are in the New York Cool Archive Section, listed under the month in which they were published.