"This week's rehashed Sex & The City column is all about this woman who has no money but puts up with really bad sex to sleep at someone's fancy place in the Hamptons," said Miriam to her friend Hillary, as the two sat on her Lower East Side apartment setee gazing idly at a rerun of The Bernie Mac show on her Philips Magnavox cathode ray screen. "I can't remember the time was the last time I fucked someone just to have a place to stay. The only time that stands out it was college, and that was date rape, so it's not like I voluntarily had sex just to stay at his place. Have you done that recently?" Hillary watched Miriam squeeze a stubborn inflamed pore and answered. "I don't really have sex," she said. "Oh wait, I did last week, but it was Keith." "Ah, Keith," sighed Miriam. Keith was a rapper from Philadelphia who was Miriam's ex-boyfriend. He had played a show in Greenpoint Miriam and Hillary had attended, and slept over at Hillary's house. "So it's really the opposite phenomenon that occurs today.
Dudes take advantage of the fact that we have fabulous — well, effectively exterminated— apartments in the city and no patience to go looking for dudes we'd really like to screw to freeload off us," said Miriam. "Pretty much," said Hillary. "Wasn't that what happened between you and Ricardo?" Miriam thought. She didn't think that's what had happened between her and Ricardo; she had always thought of Ricardo as someone who had simply liked her a lot and happened also to live in a highly inconvenient neighborhood of Brooklyn; the sex had never been good enough to justify allowing him to sleep over if he was actually using her and not legitimately, pitifully lovestruck; in retrospect if she'd suspected he was using her the sex might have been better. "Fuck, I don't know," she said, taking a sip of lukewarm Bushmills and water as an objectionable Ikea commercial blended into King of Queens. "I usually read these columns to feel superior."
Hillary snorted. "Maybe we should change the channel then."
"Oh, look at this line," Miriam interrupted. "He came up to her and cupped one of her breasts. They're just standing around in the kitchen! And who cups your breast? That's so Cosmo."
"Keith will, like, poke at my tits sometimes, for no reason at all," Hillary offered.
"Yeah, but in a twelve year old way," Miriam said.
"Same shit," Hillary said, and heaved another sigh — it was a heavy sigh-heavy conversation — as Miriam continued reading the column aloud, looking for flecks of behavior so poor she could ascribe it to a different, more nasty and brutish, species of single person. A particularly offensive paragraph in the gas station reminded Hillary of Keith's possessive attitude toward his computer. The bad sex reminded Miriam of pretty much everything, although not that vividly, since it had been so long since she had actually had sex.
"I always imagined that this would be what it's like to date, like, a hedge fund guy," Hillary mused.
"Hey, at least these people are having sex," sighed Miriam, only it wasn't, of course, actually a sigh, or else by this point it would sound like an asthma attack, when really, it was the vaguely comforting sound of not-wholly-sincere abject resignation of the type of girl who can't erase from her subconscious the irritatingly comforting fictional fact that Carrie Bradshaw was, like, forty when she was pulling this crap. And look at her now!
Frisky Sexual Freeloader Makes Hamptons Plans [NY Observer]