Miley Cyrus is on the cover of the March issue of Cosmopolitan magazine.* She gave an interview, which you can read here, in which she says “fuck” a lot. That’s ok with me. I say “fuck” a lot, too, and I probably said it a lot more back when I was twenty and trying to prove—hmm, well, I don’t know what I was trying to prove. I don’t think Miley Cyrus knows what she’s trying to prove, either.
So the reports of
Hannah Montana Miley Cyrus saying “fuck” brought my attention to Cosmopolitan, a magazine I hadn’t thought much about in the past ten years, but one I used to sneak-read every chance I got when I worked third shift at a Sunoco Mini Mart the summer between my freshman and sophomore years in college. Back then, Cosmopolitan offered advice on fashion and make up, but mostly I read it for the information it gave me on sex, and the promise it made that I could have Great Sex.
Up until then, I had not had Great Sex. In fact, I had not even had Good Sex. I had lost my virginity during my senior year in high school, and I remember lying there afterwards and wondering, “Is that it?” I continued to wonder about sex as I strung along my high school boyfriend, Keith (you can read more about the whole sorry episode in this post, Remind Me Not to Date Taylor Swift) and through my freshman year in college, when I
had sex with dated a very serious poli sci major who wanted to talk about ethnic cleansing (the Bosnian War was raging at the time) after sex. I guess I don’t have to explain why that didn’t work out. Then, I had sex with dated a swimmer who I met while playing the drinking game Quarters. He kept singling me out to drink as he plopped quarter after quarter into the shot glass. I think that’s what they call a “meet-cute” nowadays. Or maybe not. He broke my heart when I found out that all those calls he was getting weren’t from his mother after all. Regardless, the sex with him wasn’t anything special, perhaps because he was exhausted from all the other girls he was fucking swimming.
Meanwhile, Cosmopolitan was out there promising me that there was Great Sex to be had. “Ten Dazzling Bedroom Moves to Drive Him Wild!” or “Learn the New Technique to Achieve Multiple Orgasms!” I wasn’t sure if I had even had one orgasm yet (I hadn’t) and yet Cosmo told me there were women out there who knew the secret to having lots of them.
So there I was, behind the counter of the Sunoco, reading that month’s copy of Cosmopolitan instead of restocking the cigarettes, waiting for some overweight guy to hurry up and decide what candy to buy. I was thinking about everything that was wrong with my love life when I looked up and wondered if the fat guy had a girlfriend and if they had Great Sex. Just then, two Hershey bars clattered to the floor from out of the left leg of his baggy pants. Without making eye contact with me, he turned and exited the store. I looked after him with the copy of Cosmo still in my hands and decided then and there that I would just stop having sex.
Thus began my Sophomore Year of Celibacy.
*If you decide to head over and check out the cover of the new issue of Cosmo, you’ll catch more than a glimpse of Ms. Cyrus’s magnificent breasts; you’ll even find an article (surprise!) promising “Your Best Sex Ever!”