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The night of the last reading I did at P.S. 122 (which was called "(Spawn of) Worst Sex Ever," and happened to be the one-year anniversary gig for the WYSIWYG Talent Show), I was heading home from the afterparty at Hi-Fi with Todd Levin and my beau. Todd performed that night as well, but at KGB with Legs McNeil. Oh. No big deal. So, the three of us are walking down 1st Avenue when a man in a hat walks by and shouts, "Hey! You were great tonight! Great job!" We turned back to look at him looking at us. I smiled and said "Oh! Thank you so much!" A few minutes later it occured to me that he was probably talking to Todd.

Here are some highlights from my "performance" anyway. Now, imagine an ever-loving audience screaming and throwing roses and dollar bills at my feet, and me looking cute and good and much hotter in person than I appear to be online because that will give you a more rounded reading experience.

There was the manic-depressive, possibly bi-polar, Londoner with unavoidably kissable lips. He always walked with his head down, and it would sway from side to side as though he was having a conversation between him and himself: "What kind of mood are you in today? Hmm, I'm feeling pretty manic, actually. What about you? I'm alright, leave me alone." My one-night, post-house-party romp with him was promising until afterwards when he told me that he'd always wanted to sleep with a black girl. (Check!) And when he said that, the reason that he'd been playing "Slave To The Rhythm" by Grace Jones of all things, while we were fucking, suddenly became clear...

All I could hear was the voice in my head going, "Polish that knob! Polish that knob!"...

Someone I know who's pregnant recently asked me what I thought she should do [about circumcision] if the baby is a boy. Honestly, the first thing that came to my mind was, "I don't really like sucking uncut cocks." (I didn't say that because I thought it might not have been totally helpful)...

I didn't know whether to just laugh and tell him to shut up, or whether I should be saying, "Your 'hot nine-inch cock'? What about my nice pussy?!?" He used a lot of porno/Harlequin novel words: THROB. STAFF. And he was one of those "Aw, yeah, fuck, shit, fuck, aw, fuck!" guys. But then he would also say things like, "Can you hear the birds singing for us?"...

There was this guy I slept with off and on for a while. The sex wasn't bad, per se. He was just really awkward. He was jerky during foreplay like he was so excited to have his hands on me that he would have these mini-seizures. It was kind of like having someone do the Elaine Bennis dance -- you know, from "Seinfeld". Only, naked. And on you...

He had a perpetual look of doom on his face, but it was accented by this sort of raised-eyebrow thing that made him look as if he would break into a Morrissey song at any moment. So, I slept with him...

[The reverse cowgirl] has never been my favorite position. Because all I see are feet. Even if I don't look down, I know what's going on down there and I don't like it. But for some reason, I looked down. I saw his feet. Or, more accurately, his two lifeless rounded bricks of flesh-meat, each at the end of its own ankle-less stump, which appeared to be sticking out of my vagina. Was he this short earlier on in the night? Because now I was looking at the legs of the Wicked Witch of the West from "The Wizard Of Oz". And I was the house that landed on them. I was riding a representative of the Lollipop Guild...

What are you left with besides a hangover, sore labia, and the Walk of Shame to look forward to? It's not cute. What's worse is that you inevitably start to worry about what precentage of the bad sex was your fault. You become fixated, obsessed. (I'm not saying I do this, I'm just saying maybe this might be something you're familiar with.) You're thinking, "Was there something I should have done differently? Was I too loud? Too aggressive? Was it that monster zit on my ass that ruined everything? Maybe I should have licked his balls."