Sex Lives: Allison P. Davis

Fifteen Years of the New York 'Sex Diaries' And I read all 707 of them.

- Allison P. Davis

IN 2007, New York Magazine launched its "Sex Diaries" column, turning readers into a mass of eager voyeurs getting their jollies by peering into random New Yorkers' bedrooms (or bathrooms, or kitchens, or public restrooms of choice) each week. Over the years, the column has done more than just entertain; it's become an exhaustive, longitudinal catalogue of the ways people fuck in this city-a compilation of primary-source documents deserving of a place in the National Archives, in my opinion.

On December 16, "Sex Diaries" became an HBO docuseries. In anticipation of its TV debut, I took a spin through the archives to see how sex has changed from the days when "Aqueous Transmission," by Incubus, was considered a suitable fuck track and BlackBerrys-with their filthy little rollerballs-outnumbered iPhones.

I read through nights with thirsty finance bros, afternoons with stay-at-home moms having revenge-fuck fantasies, and hours with persevering singles determined to get to the end of a date. I was sometimes turned on, sometimes existentially freaked out, sometimes proud of the way New Yorkers get it on, sometimes sad for humanity, sometimes so sick of reading endless details of masturbation habits that I wept blood tears. Trends emerged, linguistic patterns evolved, demographics shifted. And, sure, the Diarists are a self-selecting group of really-eager-to-share exhibitionists and wannabe Carrie Bradshaws with a surplus of therapeutic vocabulary and a kink for emotional drama, but as I read about all the different kinds of good sex, bad sex, thwarted attempts at sex, sex catastrophes, and occasional occurrences of sex that made people see God, a story about how New Yorkers have gotten down over the years began to emerge, one that revealed what has made good sex (at least good "Sex Diaries" sex) good.

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