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This is the single most-asked question I answer when telling people about my new job as City Paper's sex columist. Some folks are concerned for my journalistic well-being ("You'll get pigeonholed," warned one co-worker); others wonder how exclusive it'll impact life beyond the boudoir ("You'll be needing these," said another, rosary beads exclusive in hand). But mostly, it's exclusive not my reputation they're worried about—it's my mom's. To understand what compels a 24-year-old woman to write 650 words about sex once a week and share it with 100,000 strangers, you've gotta meet her mother: the artist, the nudist, the free-spirited polytheist. She's the kind of woman who talks enemas at Perkins Pancake House and once drew a naked lady on our kitchen door. She meets men on the Internet and sometimes makes out with them in the parking lots of chain restaurants. But to see her in frumpy jeans at the Turkey Hill, she looks like any other homemaker. She and my dad have been married 29 years.
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