Feb 17

01

GENERATION WHA?

Oh Leah, Part Two

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The other day I was sitting across from my friend R. in one of my neighbourhood’s more insouciant bistros, the kind of trendy spot-du-jour where blindingly stylish web designers nursing hangovers rub shoulders with members of the Rock Machine.

Over a ruinously expensive plate of bespoke frites, which is French for ‘fries,’ R. – a screamingly funny and happening urbane chick, resplendent in a deliciously cheeky Japanese schoolgirl suit and fashionably clunky shoes – was bemoaning the state of affairs: “Is it just me, or is no one having sex any more?”

I paused, swept my hair back over both shoulders, and decided I was going to find out.

I called B., a hot composer of film scores, who always seems to be just back from New York and usually has some tall, leggy model on his arm. “Are you having sex?” I asked.

“No time.” he said. “I figure I’ll have plenty of sex when I’m in my thirties, but that’s too far away to think about now.”

I put down the phone and said, “Hmm.”

I flew to Halifax – a city on the East Coast that produces bands critics adore – to have drinks with L., a brassy but sweet A&R (artists and repertoire) rep for a hot underground label. Over glasses of hard-to-find Belgian beer I asked her, “Are you having sex?”

“I wish,” she said, wrinkling her tiny, perfect nose. “All the mopey, delicious boys in these bands are gay nowadays. And even if I had the time, even if I could find a date, I’m too stressed about staying ahead in my career. Let’s just say my chatroom screen name has a great sex life.”

Later I was watching the news, a television show about events of the day that airs in the evening. All the people who were talking to the camera looked like politicians in suits from Moores or creepy balding businessmen, and I’m certain none of those people are having sex. Except maybe dreamy Stockwell Day, even if his wife looks like she could be his mother.

I wondered if I’ve been having sex. I flipped through my daytimer for the past year, and it looks like I haven’t, although of course I could: my vagina is my very healthy, very dear friend; plus you can still bounce a quarter off any part of my body. I asked my boyfriend if he was having sex, and he said “Sure,” before pausing to say, “No, no, I don’t think so.” So he’s not either.

I ran into R. the other night at a gallery opening (an invitation-only event celebrating the sale of new pieces of art). As we hugged I noted how loopily gorgeous she looked in sans souci lederhosen and pigtails. As I dutifully reported my findings, that no one is in fact having sex, we were interrupted by the rogueishly handsome artist, who wanted to show R. some private items not for sale in the gallery show.

As she was dragged away, she turned back to look at me with mock distress and amazement on her smiling face.

“Maybe you’ll have sex,” I chirped.