An Almost-True Story About New York's Oversexed Thirtysomethings
On a recent Thursday night, a 35-year-old in her 12th year of living in New York hosted a late get-together in her East Village apartment. Everyone there would call it a good party, or, at the very least, an interesting one... This is an outright lie. No one would call it a good party, but maybe they'd call it a diversion from the dreaded tick-tick-tick of their blasted biological clocks, a brief respite from the workaday tedium of pushing papers across a desk and then pulling them back again, a moment among all those other moments in which to partake abusively in sub-par white wine because you're in the comfort of your own home, maybe, or someone else's, and what else are you going to do, go home and watch the Real Housewives?
At any rate, this fete decidedly lacked a climax. This is because, after sharing adorable cat videos with each other for several hours, reading portions of the host's prepubescent Rilke-inspired poetry in a Werner Herzog accent, mocking as many Internet-available exes for their preposterous new fedora-wearing tendencies and balding pates, and drinking, always drinking, the party had run out of wine, and its participants tend to look haggard in the wee hours of the morning. Face cream is only as good as it lasts.
Thus, until 2, maybe 3 a.m. -- it's hard to say, as no one of advancing middle-age wears watches these days, so entrenched are we in our own rapidly departing youth, not to mention the fogginess of early senility tending to hinder any concerted effort at focusing on one's BlackBerry (because of course we all have BlackBerrys), the partygoers laughed, drank, and attempted to get in touch with someone, anyone, via the stunted technological means at their hammy fingertips, who might join them in a few hours of physical companionship regardless of their sagging jowls and lack of cocaine.
Then came the yawn -- that traditional cue that rising for one's soulless 9-to-6 the next day would grow ever the more onerous with every passing second. And so the thirtysomethings began to peel off, not pairing up so much as putting their faces in one anothers' spur of the mo', as assisted by the gods of gravity. Those who ended up without an auspicious pairing slunk off to...
- That person they've been on and off hooking up with who they finally managed to get in touch with once in a taxi on the way back to Williamsburg
- That person who actually didn't leave but instead hid in the bathroom behind the luxury hotel shower curtain until the other guests departed
- Themselves, via any manner of sexting/Internet porn/Skinemax offerings
- The person they are apparently married to
- A bar, for fuck's sake.
We'll just come out and say it: Thirtysomethings in New York are having sex. Why? Because we are a horny, sad lot, and, undeterred by the social media-imbued boundaries and sense of propriety constraining younger society that the Observer has helpfully identified (twentysomethings are no longer having sex! Did you hear?), we can.
Fortunately, via the Observer:
"It doesn't matter whether you're doing it with someone who's a good writer," a young woman, who is a journalist in New York, said over Gmail chat. "Because all it comes down to, really, is whether he/she smells good and can wiggle around well."
We would only add that at the ripe old age of thirtysomething, your sense of smell has gone out the window and there's no need for any show-offy wiggling, which can break a hip, don't you know? Your options are suddenly as wide as the proverbial oyster. As for good writing, just make sure whoever you decide not to wiggle with can sext. Isn't that what the kids are calling it?
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