Perhaps you’ve noticed the absence of my column, “Sex & the Show Me State,” here at The Frisky over the last few months. Or maybe you haven’t. For the sake of my ego, I don’t really want to know. What you may want to know, however, is why I’ve been absent. The simple answer is that it’s really hard to write a column about sex when you’re not having any. The more complicated answer—though, admittedly, an easier cop-out—is that my city is to blame. 

I am not used to being pursued by men. This is not to say it’s never happened, but the eight and a half years I lived in New York can best be described as an incredibly long dry spell interrupted by too many bad first dates, as many one-night stands, and one seriously flawed serious relationship.
While I know some of the fault lies in my refusal to date actors, bad spellers, or men who work in finance, my sister and I joke that in New York I was fat and average, but in Kansas City I’m hot. Not that there aren’t plenty of attractive women in the Midwest, but New York is a city full of models, actresses, and hundreds of thousands of women who look like models and actresses. Going out in New York in our size-10 jeans, my sister and I concluded after her first visit, was like going to a gay bar anywhere else in the country.