Casting female s.e.xuality in simplistic, all-or-nothing terms is insulting. Not only that, it's dangerous. Certainly it skews and oversimplifies any discussion about teen pregnancy, STDs, or abstinence. It gives young women-and the world in general-a limited understanding of who we are. It creates the illusion that something is wrong with us if we can't "just say no." And it denies that we're complicated and suffer from conflicting desires-in other words, that we're fully human.

All of this, of course, makes us less powerful. If we don't understand our own true s.e.xual natures, we're less likely to make smart choices at a time when the stakes are higher, when we're already caught in our own s.e.xual tug-of-war, pulled by mounting pressure to say yes and mounting reasons to say no.

Plus, in a culture that's essentially caught in a Celebrity Death Match between hypers.e.xuality and puritanism, we can feel shame when we should feel ecstasy. Or, conversely, we can get lost in the jungle of our libido without any moral compa.s.s.

We can also overlook the possibility that, sometimes, s.e.xual activity may be a symptom of a problem that needs to be dealt with. For example, if a gal picks up people at bars every night, someone dismissing her as a "s.l.u.t" obscures the fact that, hey: Girlfriend might have a drinking problem.

Moreover, if flings are considered solely a sign of promiscuity or bad judgment, they can have some dangerous societal repercussions. Certainly, any nonmarital s.e.xual activity becomes question- able in a court of law. If a woman's steady lover rapes her, if she's filing for custody of her children, or if she's a lesbian, her affairs can be used by opposing attorneys to paint her as an "unreliable" or "unfit" mother or witness. In the Preppy Murder case in 1986, the victim, Jennifer Levin, had written about her fledgling affairs in her diary. The defense tried to use this against her, as proof that she was promiscuous. n.o.body thought to suggest that a young woman who has affairs and writes about them in her diary is clearly a romantic. Or is obviously looking for love. Or is simply experiencing a healthy s.e.xual curiosity at age nineteen.

So, in the name of replacing simplistic explanations with broader, more accurate possibilities, in the name of replacing stereotypes with understanding, and in the name of replacing pa.s.sivity with the power of self-knowledge, we women need to talk about why we really have s.e.x. I'm not talking about sharing the gooey details of our first f.u.c.k and so forth: We've been there, done that, and at this point, frankly, the world doesn't need another confession about the first time we had an o.r.g.a.s.m on top of a pool table. Instead, we need to discuss our motivations. The world's gotta recognize that our s.e.xuality is not simply a matter of naivete or nymphomania. We have as many motivations as there are positions in the Kama Sutra. So here, pooled from a vast array of women, and listed from A to Z, are just a few: Affirmation. We're good enough, we're hot enough, and, doggone it, people want us.

Anthropology. We always wondered what it would be like to have s.e.x with another woman/an aborigine/a white person/a quadriplegic/a Republican.

Appeas.e.m.e.nt. If I have s.e.x with you, maybe you'll: (a) quit yelling, (b) quit whining, (c) stop buggin' me about doing my taxes, (d) stop badgering me about that cutie I flirted with at the bowling alley.

Attention. More people pay attention to us when we're sleeping with someone. n.o.body finds it interesting if we said no last night-again. In fact, when has celibacy ever been captivating in secular culture? The last so-called great novel that centered around a woman saying no was Pamela, which was so interminable, it was enough to make you want to become an illiterate nymphomaniac.

Babies. Duh.

Cash. Boy, what men won't do for a b.l.o.w. .j.o.b.

Catharsis. Cheaper than therapy.

Comparison shopping. Like the song says, "You better shop around."

The Conceptual-art f.u.c.k. A lot like good real estate: Location is everything. Examples; s.e.x on motorcycles, in gla.s.s elevator of Detroit Renaissance Center, atop grave of abusive ex-husband, while skydiving, and so on. While the s.e.x itself may be negligible, it does make for something wild to tell our grandchildren, if we're that type of granny.

Cool toys. Wow, this person has a Humvee and a waterbed. Wow, this person has an airplane. Wow, this person has a bottle of Reddi-wip. A strap-on d.i.l.d.o. Three-dozen peac.o.c.k feathers and a vanilla-flavored dental d.a.m.n. Whatever.

Depression. Hey, it's cheaper than therapy or Prozac.

Diet s.e.x. Hey, it's either f.u.c.k or eat. Which burns more calories?

The Don't-leave-me/please-call-me-again f.u.c.k.

Don't ask us why, but we still think this actually works.

Drunkenness. Often includes wicked hangover, in more ways than one.

The Easier-to-say-yes-than-no f.u.c.k. Can be close to date rape, though more the result of apathy, fatigue, or boredom than submission.

Escape. s.e.x because it gets us out of our head, distracts us from our pain, neurosis, or fear. Sort of like physical equivalent of television or, for outdoorsy types, mountain biking.

Excitement. Better than ride at a theme park; usually includes emotional roller coaster.

Fantasy. They read Pablo Neruda's love poetry aloud and feed us bananas Foster. The sun is setting outside the cabana. There is Dom Perignon, bubble bath, and Bocelli on the box. "Come to me," they say, in a languid, smoky voice. What girl could resist? It's just like in those Harlequin books we keep reading.

Fear. We worry that they'll get angry, act crazy, or say something bad about us if we say no.

To Feel "adult." What else can we do if we're not old enough to drink beer and we already smoke and drive?

To Feel alive, s.e.xy, and young. Like, du-uh.

To Feel desired. Duh again.

To Feel powerful. Triple duh.

Glamour. s.e.x with rock star, actor, billionaire, cool leftie activist, tortured poet, athlete, local bigwig, and so on.

To Get a clue. Usually s.e.x for beginners or between new partners. Often like biology cla.s.s or, in some cases, shop cla.s.s.

To Get presents. What some of us won't do for jewelry. Or maybe a Happy Meal.

Great for our looks. Provides better glow than Clinique.

Guilt. He/she bought us dinner, helped us change our flat tire, came to our emotional rescue, fed our dog: We owe them.

The Hire-me f.u.c.k. Just when we thought it was finally safe to go back in the water, it seems the casting couch lives on. Also close to date rape, though force involved is usually economic/professional.

The I'm-on-a-vacation-in-a-foreign-country f.u.c.k. Otherwise known as the "hey-what-the-f.u.c.k" f.u.c.k. Fun, though usually terrible PR for American women abroad.

To Incite jealousy. Yoohoo! Over here! Look what I'm doing! Eat your heart out!

Intimacy. Because playing Pictionary and drinking latte only goes so far.

Loneliness. Not to be underestimated. Often more powerful aphrodisiac than l.u.s.t.

Love. Ditto.

Make-up s.e.x. A better, faster peace accord.

To Make people like us. Don't ask us why, but we still think this works, too.

To Manipulate.You wannit? You wannit? You wannit? Say please . . .

The Melodrama f.u.c.k. We sleep with our lover's best friend, someone married, or the person our best friend has a crush on-anything to really make everyone's life miser-able-because we get some sort of sick pleasure out of the attention and drama. In other words, we make a mess because we can.

The Mercyf.u.c.k. We basically think that having s.e.x with this person ent.i.tles us to a tax deduction for making a charitable donation. We don't get off from the s.e.x so much as from the idea that our lover is so helpless/inexperienced/ needy/in l.u.s.t with us, he or she will be eternally grateful to us for sleeping with them.

Natural high. Fabulous source of endorphins-without having to wear sweat pants, listen to aerobics instructor, buy running shoes.

Nostalgia. This could be with our ex, or someone who reminds us of our ex, or someone who reminds us of an earlier time in our life, or someone we once had a crush on and now that we actually have the opportunity to sleep with them, we feel like we can't turn them down, if only because our younger self would've killed for it.

Nothing on television. Six hundred cable stations, and for what?

Peer pressure. We know: If all of our friends jumped off the Empire State Building, would we? Well, what if jumping off the Empire State Building increased our social status and maybe gave us an o.r.g.a.s.m?

This Person-is-so-hot-I-have-to-sleep-with-them-immediately-or-I-will-die. Self-explanatory.

To Please someone else. Hey, some of us just refuse to cook or clean.

Poor-excuse-for-a-hug f.u.c.k. What we really want is to be held, but the person won't come home with us unless we sleep with them.

The Post-mortem f.u.c.k. Not to be confused with necrophilia. Impulse after a funeral, witnessing of an accident, death of a loved one.

The Powerf.u.c.k. Not a reason we like to admit to. Generally entails sleeping with someone because we get off on the control we have over them, such as when they're younger than us, our underling at work, our student, or our blackmail-able boss.

The Prove-something f.u.c.k. "See, I'm not gay. I'm sleeping with men." "See, I'm desirable." "See, I can get someone cute, so people will respect me."

The Rebound f.u.c.k. Combination of healing and distraction after heartbreak. To escape from the grief, to prove we're still desirable, and usually done with secret hope that our ex will hear about it. Consequently, we don't kiss-and-tell-we kiss-and-broadcast. Like over the Internet.

Revenge. Sort of like what Lorena Bobbit did, only psychological. Motives differ, too: "You've cheated on me? Fine. I'll get even." "That will show you never to forget my birthday again." "She took my lover, so I'll take hers."

Self-education. Nothing like getting a little experience under our belt.

Sport. Contest with roommate, best friend, even self. Centers around challenge, pursuit, acquisition, quant.i.ty. Often high risk of STDs, emotional chaos. Not something we generally want to admit to, either.

The That'll-show-my-parents f.u.c.k. A Freudian field day: "Boy, Daddy would fall off his polo pony if he caught me here with his Jamaican stable boy." "That's it, baby. Give it to me right here on her plastic slipcovers." "Of course my mom doesn't mind. I always sleep with her boyfriends."

The Wait'll-I-tell-my-friends f.u.c.k. A biggie for writers, braggarts, anyone with sense of self-invention.

Whoops-watching the p.o.r.no channel again.

Whoops-vibrator out of batteries.

And last, but certainly not least, the number-one reason why women have s.e.x: Because it's fun and it feels good.

And let's not let the world forget it.

Chapter 9.

Every Idiot We Date Is One.

Less Idiot We Risk Marrying.

When I'm dating, I look at a guy and wonder, "Is this the man I want my children to spend their weekends with?"

-RITA RUDNER.

Okay, let's face it: Dating sucks. There are no two ways about it. Let's not let the comic books, movies, or magazines tell us otherwise. Dating is a misery. Gay or straight, male or female, everybody hates it.

Dating is a job audition, beauty contest, and public-speaking engagement all in one. Except if it's a blind date. Then it has the a.s.sault of a surprise party thrown in, too. Of course, somebody's already tipped us off about the surprise part ahead of time. We still don't know what to expect-only that we'll be visually ambushed and compelled to feign enjoyment.

And the person we're being fixed up with feels exactly the same way.

And we both know it.

Ugh.

There are always a few annoying people who say things like, "But I really like dating. It's fun to go out and meet new people." Yeah, well. Either these people are selling pyramid schemes or they f.u.c.k everybody they hook up with and that suits 'em just fine. But most people hate dating so much, we consider getting married just to avoid it.

Now, as far as we gals are concerned, we know that there is nothing inherently empowering about dating for us. But, then again, there is nothing inherently empowering about dating for anybody. In this way, ironically, dating may be a great equalizer: After all, it reduces all of us to self-conscious, preening Bundles of Need. It's not like, say, art cla.s.s, childbirth, or kick boxing, where some of us clearly have an edge over others.

Of course, one could argue that dating is slightly riskier for women because more of us tend to be abused and killed by people we're romantically involved with. To put it mildly: This is not good news. But then, what the h.e.l.l are we supposed to do? Sit home with our cats for the next eighty years watching public television? (Not that there's anything wrong with that.) Obviously, there are some ways we gals must try and protect ourselves. I mean, like, duh: Don't give our phone number to some schmuck in a bar just because we're afraid of "hurting his feelings." Meet in public. Stay relatively sober. Try to keep the libido in check. And, whenever possible, pay our own way.

Yeah, I know this last bit of advice is going to p.i.s.s off a few people, but c'mon, let's not kid ourselves: Money is power. There are still too many guys out there who think that if they treat us to something, we owe them or they own us. So I say: Let's not go there. Our autonomy is worth at least a fifteen-dollar dinner. Besides, there are often so many unknowns and miscommunications when we first start dating, why compound the confusion with money issues? If we really like a guy, it's nice to make it clear that we see him as more than a meal ticket. Plus, if guys don't have their wallets to rely on, they may actually have to develop things like listening skills and better personalities. This, too, is worth at least a fifteen-dollar dinner.

Beyond that, I believe we must avoid at all cost men who subscribe to Soldier of Fortune magazine, crackheads, fundamentalist Baptist yahoos, men who refuse to take their lithium, Sensitive New Age Guys who are so busy bragging about how enlightened and feminist they are that we can't get a word in edgewise, any guy who uses bronzing gel, Amway salesmen, alcoholics, and anyone over twenty-one who's still playing with his Game Boy.

Otherwise, if we want to find romance, we single sisters have to keep taking risks and go out on dates. Why? Because, whether we're gay or straight, if we want to be with someone, we gotta kick some game. Short of an arranged marriage, it's the only way to get from A to B. And, face it, there's only one thing worse than picking at a Southwest Fiesta platter at TGIF's while someone we barely know rehashes old Jeff Foxworthy jokes over the blare of the jukebox. And that is: sitting at home watching "Pop-up Video" and wishing we were out with someone.

So, how might we survive the real-life versions of the Dating Game, Love Connection, and Singled Out without sacrificing our sanity or self-esteem?

1. Abandon all hope. More than anything else, my fellow femmes, I think it's crucial that we change our att.i.tude. Stop thinking positively. Kiss expectation good-bye. Say adios to optimism.

Why?

Because we shouldn't be m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.ts.

And dating is a process of elimination.

Dating isn't simply about meeting someone. It's a screening process. It's like the Brita filter for romance. I mean, how else are we going to figure out whom we want to be with and what we're really looking for, except through trial, error, and experience?

The things we value in someone when we're fifteen-say, their ability to look really cool playing air guitar-are not what we want when we're twenty-two (a photographer who can get us into nightclubs for free)-which is not, in turn, what we want when we're thirty (a guy as solid as his credit rating). And this maturation comes from dating enough players, pseudo-rock stars, and pretentious intellectuals to realize that their appeal actually has its limits.

Bad dates are inevitable, but they are a crucial, necessary education. As my friend Desa likes to say, "Every bad date brings you closer to Joe." Joe is Desa's kind, handsome, doting, and impossibly suave husband. Joe is amazing with a capital A. Joe is the bomb with a capital B. Joe is a catch with a capital C. Pick your letter: The guy's the whole d.a.m.n alphabet. But lemme tell you, that's almost what Desa had to go through herself before she met Joe. Just as she watched me date some guy who collected lizards and another who got called in for police lineups on a regular basis, I watched her date a guy whose life's ambition seemed to be packing groceries and another whose primary pastime seemed to be falling off his skateboard and flirting with her mother.

But with each guy, Desa learned something. And she learned enough that by the time she met Joe, she was smart enough to appreciate him and know that he had what she wanted.

Hence, her motto. And mine, which is a variation of hers: Every idiot we go out with is one less idiot we risk spending our lives with.

Knowing this, it's counterproductive to build up our expectations. Because we're all tempted to treat each new date as our own personal Academy Awards. We run out to buy a new outfit for the occasion. We hope, imagine, and pray that this evening will be it-that we'll finally be chosen-and that we'll wind up hurrying down the aisle and delivering our acceptance speech. But if it doesn't happen, we feel devastated. Dear G.o.ddess, why put ourselves through that?

Better to get dressed, singing, "Another One Bites the Dust." That way, if the evening does not turn out to be a total disaster, we'll be pleasantly surprised.

2. It's not a date. It's entertainment. The real purpose of a date is not to meet someone. The real purpose of a date is so that we can tell our gal-pals about it the next day.

Since ninety-nine percent of all dates we'll ever be on will end in disappointment, we're far better off approaching each date as a source of endless entertainment and mockery for ourselves and our friends.

This way, when the guy our aunt Myrna fixed us up with drools and picks his teeth with his salad fork, so what?