Sex. Lots of it. According to the lead story in the “New York Post”—and my father—we Manhattanites are doing it, and quite frequently.

“Are you kidding me?,” my father taunted my mother during one of our annoying, three-way phone conversations. “EVERYONE is doing it up there—EVERYONE,” he intoned with undeserved authority. What does he know, tucked away in their mountain house, high atop the Blue Ridge Mountains? And, moreover, why aren’t I experiencing any of the fabulous coitus down here in the nether regions, in the tip of the island of Manhattan? I have my theories…

Sex oozes from the over-priced loft windows high above Prince Street, from the “Wolford” hosiery store on Greene (the mannequin almost always sports a thong and sheer chaps), from the picture window of “Olive’s” bakery where, every morning, the counter guy (and girl) follow my body a full city block with their lusty gaze. The City itself is sex. Engaging in the act would be excessive—a sensory overload.

Last night, I had a lovely dinner at “Giorgione,” one of my favorite haunts near the Hudson. My friends and I sat in the front, by the French doors, to feel the evening breeze, steal glimpses of the moon-lit river and—most importantly—to people watch. We had barely taken a sip of our Sicilian white when a pregnant Christy Turlington and her husband, Ed Burns, walk in the door. Christy cradled her belly—fertility goddess incarnate—looking content and lethargic. Ed smiled at her, looking smug, satisfied, accomplished. He then proceeded to stare down every breast in the restaurant. Just as they were seated at a banquet table, David Schwimmer came in. Handsome… humble…demure… was this really the $1,000,000 an episode sitcom star? Then, the hostess paraded him past a bevy of New York beauties. He puffed out his chest, threw back his shoulders. If I had looked closely enough, I would have seen his pupils dilate, his nostrils flare.

New York City.

Sex

Sip of wine.

Before I could decide between the asparagus and ricotta ravioli or the pear and pecorino risotto, G., the restaurant owner, tries to kiss my neck, invite me on his next trip to Ipanema, extend an invitation to “do some party favors” up in his penthouse. It’s all too much and not enough.

“Celibate in the City.” Do you think HBO would buy it?

Manhattan, Birmingham. Manhattan, Atlanta. Manhattan, Pensacola. I’ve flown between my two worlds—North and South—too many times this summer. I forget why I go from one city to the next…why I choose one over the other…why I leave my sister, newborn niece, mother and everyone else for an empty apartment in SoHo…why I set aside my martinis at the Four Seasons for fried food and flat beer…why I kiss Southern Boy good-bye and fly back to a city filled with egos and pretention and frenetic brilliance. I’m happy everywhere and nowhere.

Why did he and I have to meet while we’re still so young? This isn’t the path I planned. Our careers are supposed to be fixed, successful, lucrative and we should be in our thirties with many more relationships under our belt. We should want the same things. Instead, we’re both 25 and very green and undecided about everything except for love.

Ambition…

Indifference…

Craving…

Contentment…

Will we ever find our place?

I come back from my trips down South feeling more grounded and real. In a way, I feel cleaner. Greed and flash are in the past, I tell myself. But, then, I have box seats at the US Open, silk skirts brushing past me in the Bryant Park tents, dates that try to kiss me during the sticky, midnight cab rides downtown.

The poison—and the beauty—of New York City is choice. La Guardia will fly me anywhere. 9th Avenue restaurants will feed me anything. Madison Avenue will sell me the world. The people in the bars and lounges and coffee shops will let me be any woman I want to be. But, has the time come for me to be one person, with one man, with one grand life plan?

A mere three days north of the Mason-Dixon and I receive a phone call from the Manhattan District Attorney’s office. A man that had once pursued me—namely inviting me to Madonna’s Christmas party—is now being investigated by the state as well as the Federal Government. He’s being charged with fraud and money laundering. They confiscated his telephone and computer records and found my name. I’m to testify against him—or something along those lines. It’s all very “Law & Order” and I feel like a duped Bridget Jones.

I’ll keep y’all posted…

Very sorry for the blog hiatus. I had family members and meals and Southern Boy to tend to back down South. But, I’m back in the city, sitting at my usual perch (the kitchen table), looking out at the pretty cornices of West Broadway, ready to write.

Two months ago… I had never felt the warm weight of your body a top mine… You didn’t blush and laugh quite as often… My cheeks didn’t burn from hours of kissing… I didn’t know that there was someone out there to make me dinner, hold my hand, bless the food and our friendship… You couldn’t begin to spell ‘principessa’… I had never considered a white jacket, black piping to be erotic…Neither of us had smiled quite as much… I didn’t close my eyes and whisper little sentences to someone above, thanking him for surprises and fate and men with sweet souls…