The perils of trying to be a sex columnist

I think trying out to be a sex columnist ought to be a rite of passage for aspiring writers. Note that I say "trying out" to be a sex columnist, not actually being a sex columnist, though it seemed an appropriate aspiration at the time. The vacancy was for a person, male or female, to blog about their sex and dating life on, a Web site that bills itself as some sort of New Yorker - Playboy love child. They write about sex, relationships and culture, and, if I worked for them, so would I. It seemed like a good fit for a girl who considers John Updike the best writer of sex scenes in all of contemporary American literature.

I also liked because while my picture would be all over the blog, my name wouldn't. This way, potential employers wouldn't be able to google "Monica Wendel" and come up with a lot of lovely details about my ex-boyfriend's circumcision this summer. Which, of course, was what I wrote my first potential entry on.

Let me just say that talking about circumcision is a lot easier than writing about circumcision. Tone of voice tells a lot. It says, well, I'm confused as to whether or not I'm supposed to be happy for him. And a little freaked out. As for my other writing samples, I tried to make them look like they would fit in at by being intellectual and not mentioning that I'm probably going to live with my parents when I graduate.

Despite being obviously uncool, and not yet 21, I actually got a response from an editor at nerve. His name is Sam, and he wrote me a really nice e-mail and said I would be a good candidate for their internship, which made me feel special, albeit not special enough to get paid. It also made me reconsider applying for a position in which I'd be sharing information more personal that what I've written about in English 305: Creative Nonfiction. Not to mention, I go to Geneseo. Once I had exhausted my supply of stories from freshman year, and from when I left school for a semester to travel cross-country by myself, what would there be left to write about?

Hey? Why not everyone? My best guy friend here wants to be a priest when he grows up. Today in philosophical logic I got really bored. I bet really exciting things are going on in Brooklyn, huh? Last night I heard about some girl who shat herself at a bar on Main Street. Details to follow.

Seriously. I'd be fired in a matter of weeks. And so, I find myself reduced to reader. They ended up hiring a woman who is really cute and also writes for The Onion. Sometimes I want to shoot her an e-mail and say, "Hey Sara. You must have a cool life. You live in Brooklyn and actually make money from writing and host a comedy show in your bathtub during which you wear hot pink '80s prom dresses. But you also wrote about your yeast infection last week." And there are just some things that I really, really don't want to know.