Mercury Film Editor Erik Henriksen assigned me to write a
piece about “why Sex and the City is like catnip to anyone with
a vagina.” I can only assume I received this assignment because I
happen to have a vagina—although, unlike my cat after a
session with his favorite catnip-filled chew toy, a few episodes of
Sex and the City don’t exactly find me frantically rubbing
myself against the arm of the sofa.
Conventional wisdom has it that part of the reason I can comfortably
talk about my vagina like I just did is thanks to Sex and the
City, which introduced frank discussions of female sexuality to
prime-time television. So if that’s the case: Thanks, Carrie, Miranda,
Samantha, and Charlotte, for paving the way for me to unabashedly and
graphically talk about my sexual exploits—over cocktails with
friends; in line at the DMV; at the library; in the pages of your
favorite local alternative weekly. (Hi, Mom.)
Presumably, some women like the show because they identify with the
characters—I noticed several of my Facebook friends recently
added the “Which Sex and the City character are you most like?”
application. (In the interest of research, I took the quiz to find that
I am most like neurotic Miranda, AKA “the dyke-y one.” Fuckin’ great.)
The idea of anyone honestly thinking their lives are in any way
comparable to Sex and the City strikes me as depressingly
reminiscent of The Simpsons parody Nookie in New York, in
which Patty and Selma note that the show is “so like our lives.” I
don’t like Sex and the City because of what it says or doesn’t
say about female sexual empowerment, post-feminism, or the emotionally
arrested state of the American male. In fact, I have no interest
whatsoever in over-thinking why I like the show, or why I’m totally
excited for the movie. I like it because it’s trashy and funny and fun,
and I like to look at the clothes. Isn’t that enough?