The Sex and the City Diet, Round 3: Samantha Jones

More pantsuits than Miranda, more cleavage, less sex

10.23.15
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Cock.

I’m so glad we got that over with, because Samantha Jones, my alter-ego of the week and I, did not see eye-to-eye on that four letter word. We didn’t see eye-to-eye on anything, actually, but you would think that cursing would be an easy task.

“Cock” isn’t really a curse word, though. It’s a verbal glop of mud that somehow found itself as the mascot for big dicks worldwide and cliché pornographic rhetoric. I find the word “cock” in no way offensive, though similar to “cunt” (and what a visual I’m about to paint), I choke on it mainly for its clunky and useless nature as a noun. Sam loves the word, though. She says it a lot.

The word “fuck,” which I have zero problem with despite its equally clipped syllabic nature and the same “ck” cluster as my first gripe, is better by virtue alone because it’s more successful. (Sam says “fuck” less but I say it a lot.) As both a verb and a noun, fuck not only does more, but says more: One can be fucking, or one can be a total fuck. One can get fucked (literally, figuratively). One can also miss their stop on the subway train, screw themselves over (that’s a fuck), then communicate their frustration with the heroic expletive and shout out loud you-know-what.

Meanwhile, a cock is just a cock.

…Unless it’s a rooster, which we don’t have in New York City. (If you’re about to counter with Carrie Bradshaw’s fowl alarm clock in season 3, episode 18, note that Carrie likely lied for the sake of drawing narrative parallels.) Still, it means that during my electively-celibate week as Samantha Jones, Public Relations Extraordinaire, I had exactly zero uses for cock: word, rooster, appendage. This fell in line rather neatly with all of the other various ways I failed on the Samantha Jones Diet.

But first, let’s start with the highs:

1) I took an abundance of selfies that did not involve double chins. It’s not the same thing as commissioning nude photographs of myself, but you know, close enough.

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2) I dressed up in less clothes. This is about as naked as a girl can get in October, but I still got down with a cold shoulder. There is something extremely empowering about dressing like the sexiest version of yourselffor yourself. It’s self love of the none vibrating variety.

3) I analyzed zero text conversations with men. What’s the point.

4) Though I do not know a Smith Jerrod, I assure you I know a wide variety of men with surnames for first monikers. This isn’t so much a high as it is the only thing I have in common with Samantha besides not having a child and enjoying alcohol.

5) The Samantha Jones Power Suit and a published cock-count of six. Seven if you include this one: cocktail.

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And now, the lows:

1) Getting anything done in a pencil skirt is impossible.

2) I am not equipped for the life of a publicist. I tried it twice in my early career and never got the hang of a headset.

3) I did not flirt with a priest.

4) I did not fly in a private jet.

5) I did not wear a pearl thong.

6) I did not wear fake nipples.

7) I did not hit on our UPS delivery man.

8) I tried to flirt once but fell asleep instead.

9) All male interactions were platonic. (You say draught, I remind you: diet.)

10) I work at a website called MAN REPELLER.

Collage by Krista Anna Lewis

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