On a personal level, my relationship with what sex on the broader landscape means to me is probably the most difficult subject to deal with and talk about publicly. Unfortunately, the problem is that in America, women in the media are still treated as either Madonnas or whores. Men still run the media and are threatened by strong women with strong voices; and the easiest and most predictable way for a lot of men to deal with a strong woman with strong opinions is to automatically call her a slut and immediately call into question her morality and life choices.
Being a woman in America right now is confusing and scary, at least from my perspective. I did not wait to have sex until I got married. I do believe that everyone should have access to birth control, and I still worry about the kind of mixed signals that continue to be sent to young women in this country. Arguably the biggest celebrity on the planet, Kim Kardashian, got her start essentially by releasing a sex tape with Ray J. Right now she is a multimedia mogul, with a hugely popular television show, different types of clothing, perfume, and endorsement brands, and is frequently on the cover of most weekly magazines. So on the one hand, as a culture we celebrate celebrity figures, even if they have compromised themselves to the point where they have a sex tape available for viewing on the Internet, and on the opposite hand, the debate over whether or not women should have access to birth control is still part of the national dialogue. Why is there no middle ground between virgin and sex tape?
In my life I want it all, and I hope that I am allowed to have it all. I want to be a strong, empowered, smart woman who speaks her mind but can also maintain a strong connection to my sexuality and femininity. Unfortunately, in my experience women are not really given room to have both: to be smart and strong in the world of politics and own their sexuality. I hope we get to a point as a country where the repression and attitude towards all things related to sex are not so taboo. I hope we can have more open conversations about sex and the dangers of sex without the attitude that if you are talking about sex in a real way, you are automatically judged and stereotyped. I do not know what the answer is. All I know is that I myself feel like, from time to time, the media has tried to shame me for talking openly about sex and not trying to lie and hide who I am or the kind of life I lead, which at the end of the day really is not so controversial.
The problem with the current attitude in American politics towards women and sex is that it is not a subject that has really evolved much. Being gay is still considered a liability to many people in and out of politics, which is why so many politicians stay closeted. How many times have we been faced with the hypocrisy of egregious political sex scandals, which more often than not involved people who rallied the hardest for a return to moral values in this country? Times are changing, and this generation has an entirely new accessibility to the Internet and sex; as a result, we have to stop turning the other way and acting like this is still the 1960s. I always try to strive for balance in my life. I want America to have a healthy yet realistic relationship with sex. I want women in this country to have the opportunity to be three-dimensional human beings. I want women to be accepted as smart, powerful, intelligent, and in tune with their sexuality without automatically being labeled “sluts” for having those qualities. I want there to be more middle ground, instead of just being put into one extreme category or another. As Michael and I continue to spend an evening delving into the sex industry in Vegas, it continues to bring up weird feelings for me. Getting lap dances and exploring strip clubs with Michael serves as an easy way to reflect on America’s attitude towards sex. I mean, would it be necessary for strip clubs to even exist if there were less rampant repression in this country?
Michael: Here’s my thing about sex: you should have it when you want it, how you want it, and with whomever you want it. Our bodies are our own to do with what we like, and if you like hanging out with strippers, great. If you like being with dudes, great. If you like being in a situation where there are two ladies and you, and then there’s another lady in a Wonder Woman costume eating ice cream out of a carton but not letting you have any because you’ve been a baaaad boy, but then she puts caramel all over your tummy and all three ladies lick it off while you watch, well that’s fine too. In fact, that’s more than fine. That’s awesome.
Now that I’m a father, maybe I’m supposed to be more censorious about sex. But I can’t be. Because it’s not how I feel. No, I don’t want my son and daughter to have sex too early in their lives, but nor am I going to be the one who determines when is the right time for them to start. I was fifteen when I lost my virginity. Writing this as a forty-year-old man, I think about how young that seems to me now. I think about how worried I would be for my own kids if I knew they were sexually active at that age. But here’s the thing: I don’t regret it.
My girlfriend and I had already been together for over a year when we finally decided to take each other’s virginity. We discussed the matter for months before doing it. Honestly, if I’d given my studies as much care and consideration as I gave to the appropriate time to start having sex, I would have been a straight-A student. The most important feature of our decision was also the simplest: we were in love.
There are adults who question teenage love, but I remember the intensity of my feelings for her, and I do not know any other word to express how I felt. We were careful, we were informed, and we made, for us, the right decision. Twenty-five years later, we’re still friends.
That’s all I ask from my children; that they first have love before they first have sex. As they mature, their sexual lives will probably expand to include people they do not love. That’s okay. Human beings are sexual creatures, and I want them to know the act of sex as one facet of their lives as sexual beings. Sex should never be used to repress or punish or manipulate. It is a gift you give to somebody. Sometimes it is a small gift and sometimes large, but it is always a gift.
But sex is also a gift you take. I want my children to know that accepting a gift requires more responsibility than giving one. Giving is easily forgotten, but when we take, we carry a tiny bit of the giver with us. Hence: crabs.
Who we love is less important to me than that we love. I hope they feel comfortable enough with their bodies that they are able to talk about sex with their partners, that they are brave enough to know who they are sexually, and to never be ashamed of themselves for what they want.
Sex is powerful, physically and emotionally. When young people don’t know how to handle its power, they are more likely to make mistakes. When we make sexual mistakes as young people, we tend to make them again and again as adults. When my kids decide to have sex, I want them to be well informed, safe, and ready.
I hate that sex is so politicized. It maddens me when politicians try to insert their own values into my bedroom (or the back of my sweet custom van). We are a nation founded on liberty, so let us agree that our orifices are our own, into which we should have the liberty to insert whatever we like. In fact, one of my favorite lovemaking songs is Ray Charles’s version of “America the Beautiful.” Nothing gets me going like the image of all those fruited plains.
Meghan: I think back on how mad I got when then-candidate Obama publicly dissed Las Vegas at a town hall in New Hampshire, saying, “You don’t go buying a boat when you can barely pay your mortgage. You don’t blow a bunch of cash on Vegas when you’re trying to save for college. You prioritize. You make tough choices.” President Obama’s comments received a lot of backlash from the city of Las Vegas, which had already been one of the hardest hit by the sagging economy. The city has built a reputation as America’s playground, and though I’m not bringing a kid here anytime soon, it’s only because I don’t plan on having any. One of the most amazing sights here these days is families on vacation. Many people don’t even enter a casino while they’re here; instead they come to shop at stores they can’t find in the Midwest, and eat at big city restaurants while still feeling like they’re in a pretty small town. Add to that the lure for new bu
siness being led by Zappos, and you begin to understand how terribly wrong President Obama was to sling shame in this direction.
I was among many voices that came out publicly defending the city. Americans need to take breaks, and no other city provides the benefits and deals that Las Vegas does. Ever since that incident I feel an even larger responsibility to promote the city, and to defend any of us who find a void filled by the entertainment here. And hell yeah, I’m having a good old time tonight, but Vegas doesn’t exist just as an excuse to party. The city is a symbol of many things that are great about America: innovation, impulsiveness, the American Dream of hitting it big, our gambling nature, and that we are a country that would build an entire city based simply on the notion that what happens here promises to stay here. I mean, come on, President Obama, “Viva, etc.”
Salt Lake City, Utah
The X-Men
Meghan: I always hate leaving Las Vegas, or worse, waking up to leave Las Vegas very early in the morning. As beautiful as the Strip is at night—all lit up, sparkly and seductive in its excess—the city looks depressingly barren and naked in the sunlight. Without all of the neon lights to highlight the architecture of the casinos, it seems monotone and bland, like all the glitter of the showgirls and tinkling of ice cubes have gone to sleep for a well-earned twelve hours. There’s a reason why I usually do my gambling in the daytime, when I have a clear enough head to walk away from the table up a few. The city doesn’t really come out to play until the sun goes down.
Our flight to Salt Lake City leaves at eight, and after two hours of sleep it is only by the grace of God that I’m able to leave my hotel room and make it downstairs to meet Stephie and Michael. My pimp suite ended up crammed with Josh and Kasey, due to a glitch in their own reservation. With all the suitcases and rollaways scattered around the room, packing and winding my way out the door is no small feat.
I drag myself, hung over and makeupless, into the lobby a few minutes late, and Michael’s already there, tapping one Croc on the marble. I feel guilty and embarrassed for some reason, an emotion completely alien to my relationship with Las Vegas.
He asks me from behind his sunglasses, “How late did you stay out?” At almost six feet, Michael towers over my five-foot-two frame, which makes me feel like I’m back in high school and my parents are asking me where I spent the night.
“Somewhere around four-thirty, I guess,” I say sheepishly.
“I stayed up all night playing poker, so neither of us got any sleep,” he says with a commiserating laugh.
It should make me feel better, but as we get in the taxi for the Las Vegas airport, I am nauseous and uncomfortable. I’m thankful that Stephie’s in the car. Michael’s idea of including her on the road as our tour manager and guide is my hangover’s saving grace: she is the perfect buffer between the two of us. Even so, I feel a looming sense of “what have I gotten myself into?” yet again. The trip is really about to start and I no longer will have my own Stephie in my corner. No more cabin. No more hometown. No more Jimmy. No more Kasey and Josh.
To say it feels strange to get into a taxi, leaving Las Vegas after spending a night together exploring strip clubs, the world of exotic dancing, and buying each other lap dances is an understatement. It’s like everything is going backwards. Michael and I are experiencing things together that normally only close friends would do, but the ugly truth is that we don’t know each other at all. Usually when I meet someone I either love them instantly and we are bonded for life, or I feel more cautious and we end up just acquaintances. The thing with Michael is I still have a difficult time gauging how he is feeling or what he likes. I can’t believe that after watching a bunch of women dance naked together, we could still feel so darn awkward with one another, and this worries me.
Michael: The next morning we meet outside the Palms at eight o’clock for our flight to Salt Lake City. Meghan comes downstairs in sunglasses. She does not meet my gaze.
“How’d it go last night?” I ask her.
“Fine,” she says in a voice pitched a little too high.
“Did you get any sleep?”
She shrugs. She didn’t. She’s embarrassed.
“Did you?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say, but I’m embarrassed too, because after I dropped off Stephie in the lobby, I played poker all night, trading chips with obnoxious tourists until dawn. I am exhausted. There’s a quiet moment when neither of us says anything. We just stand out in the sun trying to blink ourselves awake.
After a few moments of silence, Meghan asks, “Are you having fun?”
“Yes,” I say. “Are you?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I say. “You?”
“I’m having a great time.”
Each of us is trying to convince the other that we are having a good and/or great time. The whole trip is starting to feel like a first date, a really odd, really long first date. I’m not saying it’s a bad first date, but it’s got that kind of charged atmosphere where each person is hoping to make a good first impression even if they’re not necessarily interested in seeing each other ever again. The problem is that our first date is going to be a month long.
A few hours later, we arrive in Salt Lake City just as Brigham Young and his band of followers did 160-something years ago: exhausted, bedraggled, and filthy. The difference is that, unlike the early Mormon settlers, we are arriving after a night at a nasty-ass strip club.
The thing about Salt Lake City, which makes it different from every other major American city, is that it’s still pretty much a theocracy. America has had its share of religious communities, but Salt Lake City is the only one that was founded by a prophet, flourished, and still retains its theocratic roots. This is Mormon country. And Mormons make me nervous.
If you’ve ever seen the X-Men movies, you know they’re about a group of mutants who are the next wave of human evolution. They’ve got special powers, and if left unchecked they will eventually wipe out humanity as we know it. That’s how I feel about Mormons. They just seem to be a slightly superior breed of human: they seem taller and more bright-eyed. Mormon kids have straight teeth. The women are all pretty. They are a wholesome, better breed of people. Never mind that Mormons wear more than their fair share of Dockers. Never mind that Utahans consume more porn than anybody else: that just speaks to their superhuman testosterone levels. Mormons are taking over. It’s the fastest-growing religion in America, and now they are even running for president. Who knows? By the time this book comes out, one of them might actually be the Republican nominee. Salt Lake City is Mormon Mecca, spiritual and administrative home of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. SLC is LDS, and being there can make you feel like you are on LSD.
Meghan: We land in Salt Lake City and drag our hot mess of a trio to rent a car and go explore the land that Joseph Smith built. When we are standing in the rent-a-car line there is a group of little boys clustered around with their mother, all of them dressed identically. They have matching blond bowl-haircuts and matching blue eyes. They look like any and all idyllic versions of small all-American little boys, except maybe all-American little boys from the fifties, given that their outfits are some spotless, tucked-in version of light-blue shorts and button-down shirts. Their hair perfectly gelled in a sort of Beaver Cleaver coif. If Norman Rockwell had married Maria von Trapp, these would be their kids.
Michael whispers in my ear, “I’m betting they’re Mormon.”
“I know,” I say. “Why do they dress their kids like that?”
Just to be clear, I have no problem with Mormons, with neither their religion nor their culture. In fact, every Mormon I have ever encountered has been nothing but kind, if a little on the quiet side. I support Mitt Romney’s run for president and think he has a really good shot at winning the whole thing. It is fascinating that we could possibly elect our first Mormon president before we have elected a woman.
Mormonism has of late b
een hitting the mainstream pop culture. The Broadway play Book of Mormon is a huge, huge success, both critically and commercially. In addition to Romney, fellow Mormon John Huntsman made a primary bid for the Republican nomination. Time and Newsweek magazines have both run features on what it means to have Mormons running major corporations and possibly even the free world. It’s a religion I’ve been around my entire life, representing an estimated 5.8 percent of Arizona’s population. Congressman Jeff Flake, who is currently running for the Senate to fill Jon Kyle’s old seat, is highly respected—and a Mormon.
I was amused to learn that long before the railroad tycoons settled Las Vegas, a small band of Mormon missionaries set up an outpost in a small adobe fort near a spring-fed creek. The mission failed and they returned to Salt Lake City. The juxtaposition now for us going from Las Vegas to Salt Lake city is purposeful, with the intention of going from one extreme of American life to another and, depending on your perspective, going from a place of good to bad, or bad to good.
Michael: One of the games I have always enjoyed playing when visiting SLC is “spot the Mormon.” It’s easy. You just look for anybody who looks happy. I can’t explain it. Maybe it’s the lack of alcohol. Maybe it’s just that structure makes people happy. Maybe, ironically, in a country that prides itself on being the freest in the world, strict guidelines actually make people happier. Mormons have a lot of rules. No caffeine, no alcohol, no premarital sex, have lots of babies once you do get married, work hard, be self-sufficient. These are all pretty good rules, and maybe if you are able to live by them you can be happy. Of course, people are still people and a common joke about Mormons is, “How do you keep a Mormon from drinking all your beer? Invite another Mormon.”
America, You Sexy Bitch Page 8