Are You Too Much of a Floozy?

Are You Too Much of a Floozy?
Love, Sex

For the second time this year, my friend Kim has had to tell a guy who offered to pay her for sex to get lost.

Though Kim is no bombshell, she’s certainly real-world hot.  Great
bod, killer personality, enough sexual dynamism to ignite World War
III.  Men write poems to her in European cafés, chat her up in bars
despite the presence of their wives and girlfriends, and friend her on
Facebook to tell her she’s still their “best” even if it’s been decades
since their roll in the hay.

When Kim was younger, she liked being a sexual supernova.  No shame
felt she for her wanton ways, her colossal lustiness, her
stereotypically manly ability to separate sex from love.  She wasn’t a
man stealer or desperate fool.  Kim was a healthy sexual being, as whip
smart as she was sensual, as capable of meaty conversation as she was
blowing minds in the sack.

Then all in the same week, stuff happened.  First, she had to tell
the gentleman who wanted to pay for her services she wasn’t that kind
of girl.  Next, she got propositioned by a married male friend with a
new baby.  Then, a lover from the distant past re-emerged with an
ill-timed, monstrously pornographic email.

But the real doozy was the text message from Matt, the one man with
whom Kim had fallen deeper in love than any normal woman deserved.  For
a year, she’d enjoyed a passionate but inconsistent romance with Matt
until he picked up and moved to Hawaii for business.  Though Kim was
trying to move on, whenever he contacted her, tiny red hearts poured
from her eyes.  A month had passed without word, when all of a sudden,
in the midst of this already strange week, she got a text.  Matt wanted
to know what she was wearing.  All this time, Kim had been pining
away.  Matt was only sporting a woody.

As she gets older, Kim wants love, a family.  However, she hasn’t
wanted to shut off the erotic valve to suckle the Goody Two Shoes one. 
But after this crazy, sexed up week, Kim came to a painful realization:
the men in her life don’t see her as an intellectually gifted,
emotionally sophisticated feminine force who just happens to like to
get it on.  She’s a fantasy, and like all flights of fancy, she
dissolves in real life.

My dear friend is suffering the Marilyn Effect.

Marilyn Monroe might have been the sexiest woman ever to have
lived.  However, she was also the most notoriously heartbroken, bowling
over everyone from dorks like Arthur Miller to superstuds like the
Kennedys, yet being ditched as soon as these guys had their fill.  By
the end of her life, the loneliness and rejection tangled with the
reality of losing one’s charm to old age.  Legend tells us Marilyn just
wanted a baby and a man to love her.  But no one could see past her
intoxicating sexuality.

“People had a habit of looking at me as if I were some kind of
mirror instead of a person,” Marilyn once said.  “They didn’t see me,
they saw their own lewd thoughts, then they white-masked themselves by
calling me the lewd one.”

My girl Kim is tons healthier than Marilyn, though she’s starting to
feel just as tragic.  She fears becoming the washed up floozy who one
day turns into the unfortunate spinster.

It’s easy to blame men for being schmucks whose thoughts originate
from the lower portion of their bodies.  Easy to blame a society for
creating double standards.  But like every arrival at a crossroads, the
question shouldn’t be, “how’d I get here,” but, “where do I go now?”

To imagine my friend no longer giving into her appetites is like
imagining God turning off the spigot to Niagara Falls.  But that’s what
Kim’s decided to do.  No longer will those of us who love her salivate
over stories of sexual intrigue or envy her bawdy invitations from
men.  Kim’s done.

Sure, it’s nice to know your booty is so good, dudes will pay for
it.  Nice to find out an island of hula girls can’t distract a man from
wondering what clothes you’ve got on.  But at some point it’s much
nicer to be in love.

**Reprinted from Laura K. Warrell's blog Tart&Soul at