We Couldn't Help But Wonder: An Entire Issue on 'Sex and the City'
Four zany, sexy essays on Darren Star's hit rom-com series, featuring guests Liam and Matt. In four words: Steve. Breakfast. Election. Taylor Swift.
We’ve brought in two guests this week to tackle one of the grandest rom-com series ever: Sex and the City. There’s an even four of us. One Carrie (Matt), one Miranda (Liam), one Charlotte (Fletcher), and one Samantha (Annabelle). We figured: if we covered Darren Star last week, why not again this week as well?
There’s not much left to say. We’ve penned four essays about the series, because we simply couldn’t help but wonder…
On Steve, Who Straight-Up Sucks
by Annabelle
For as long as I can remember, Steve, Miranda’s scrappy little bartender boyfriend with one ball has been a huge part of the Sex and the City Cinematic Universe. He opens up a bar with Carrie’s ex-fiance Aiden, he is there at the funeral when Miranda’s mother passes away, and he is there all the way up to the 2008 feature film with his and Miranda’s son Brady in their quaint little Brooklyn brownstone. After all this, all of these plotlines and episodes and films, I must ask: why? Why is he still here?
Steve is an absolute, utter garbage can of a human being. I can only imagine (and immensely pity) what Carrie and the girls are going through because if one of my friends came to me and introduced Steve as their significant other, I promise you, I would not be sticking around for brunch. That makes me a good friend. Steve says “Sowwy Miwanda” when he is trying to say “Sorry Miranda” and that’s only his voice. Every single time he comes on screen I am absolutely floored by the audacity of Darren Star to have him return time and time again.
Steve never respects Miranda’s boundaries, very nearly forcing her into having a baby she does not want to have. When Miranda finally winds up getting pregnant by accident, she decides to have the baby out of more so guilt than anything else, considering that Steve had testicle cancer and his future chances of contraception were very slim. Perhaps she would have felt differently had Steve not dragged her to multiple appointments to get, I’m sorry, prosthetic ball fittings? He wanted to get a prosthetic testicle? For what, exactly? Other than to reinforce the idea that Steve always has and always will absolutely reek of insecurity, of course.
I could have chosen to write about so many different things with this franchise. I could have chosen to write about the immaculately terrible prequel The Carrie Diaries (which I exclusively watched drunk with my two guy friends in between Super Smash Bros. games). I could have chosen to write about how much this franchise pushes the capitalist agenda, and forces women into believing that the only way they will truly be happy is with a rich boyfriend whose only goal is to surround them with material goods. I could have chosen to write about the problematic writing surrounding Charlotte’s adoption of a Chinese girl. I could have chosen to write about how this franchise brainwashes women into sticking to a toxic feminine agenda. Yet, I am writing about Steve, because my hatred for him burns so deep.
To those of you who think Steve is a “cute puppy dog” or a “sweetheart”, I have only one thing to say. Grow up. Seriously, grow up. You deserve better. At least try to love yourself.
Why Don’t the Sex and the City Guys Ever Go to Breakfast With the Girls?
by Fletcher
Weekend breakfast is sacred. I know this, because I used to work every Saturday and Sunday brunch shift in the book. As I doled out mimosas, coffee, all the fixings, I eavesdropped on New York socialites catching up on their workweeks. It’s a scene Darren Star (bless him) frequents in the Sex and the City universe: four girls, not at all dissimilar to groups I’ve served before, waking up with a bit of gossip.
I laud this, with one critique. The men of Sex and the City — the lovers, to be specific, because I know Stanford and Anthony will tag along occasionally — deserve a spot at the table.
By no means do I mean to sound like a meninist here. By no means am I an activist for men’s rights. And yet: by no means do those women need to be so exclusive with their brunch gatherings. People will tell me I’m crazy, that those four women needed each other — and only each other — to unload about their respective weeks. But that’s not always the case.
Not every brunch needs a guy, and not every guy deserves a mimosa with the girls. Some brunch conversations should be left unheard by masculine ears. And yet, there are a plethora of conversations that would be made more fascinating with a jocular anecdote from Harry, or a snide comment from Big. When we used to host parties (RIP), my roommates and I would spend the next day debriefing the happenings from the night before — and it was always whatever morning guest we had left giving the most amusing reaction to our tales.
Conversations would stay the same. Carrie would still fling her hair around, doing her silly little wondering in her silly little Manolo Blahniks. Miranda would carry on with the cynicism, and Charlotte would still be disgusted by everything. And we all know one man at breakfast wouldn’t alter Samantha’s devilish persona.
None of this is to say that every guy deserves breakfast with the gang. In fact, I can think of quite a few who should be restricted from life: definitely no Steve. Steve is much too loud, he’s quite impolite, and he works in the service industry anyways — perhaps he could just be their brunch bartender. Forget Aidan, too. He doesn’t like to gossip. Can’t deal with an honest man early in the morning. But Big, Harry, and definitely Smith Jerrod should get a chance. Richard, Trey, Aleksandr… well, I wouldn’t even invite them to dinner.
Speaking of evening invites — I believe nights out should be firmly left to the girls, and the girls only. There’s that one dinner where Big tags along and it’s a mess. Guys can come to breakfast, but every night should just be lady’s night.
I digress. Darren, let’s get this discussion started: time to feed your men breakfast.
Yep, All Four Sex and The City Girls Are Voting for Trump
by Liam Faigen
Back in 1998, Charlotte, Samantha, Miranda, and Carrie were the epitome of power in single women. Fiercely independent and incredibly modern, this fearsome foursome stood out and shouted from the proverbial rooftops, “I AM A THIRTY-YEAR-OLD SINGLE WOMAN AND I LOVE SEX! ESPECIALLY IN THE CITY! THIS IS FEMINISM NOW!”
But a lot can change in 20 years. And change things did. All four of these women are loud and proud Trump voters! You heard it here first, even some of New York’s chicest want to get a slice of MAGA pie. I know this may be a hard pill to swallow, so allow me to explain how these ladies went from overpriced flats to red hats.
Carrie Bradshaw
Carrie Bradshaw was never one to think for herself, and whenever she did, she tended to catastrophize more than rationally critique a situation. So it’s really no surprise that after she married Big, she could finally let go of her neuroses and just be a faithful wife. Bad choice, Carrie! Turns out, Big and Donnie go way back. Both Wharton “grads”, Big was a fixture at Trump Tower and Mar-A-Lago, often bringing Carrie along with him. Carrie personally doesn’t care for Donald (she thinks he’s a misogynist, but isn’t quite sure) but years of partying and galavanting with the Trumps made her a close ally of Melania. Carrie ultimately becomes an East Wing advisor and ends up leaking to the media that Melania doesn’t give a shit about Christmas decorations.
Samantha Jones
It’s December 2000. It is a cold and lively night in Aspen, Colorado. After a long day on the slopes, Samantha is pleased to unwind with a martini and socialization with a potential suitor to warm her up on this chilly night. Here she was, in Aspen, brushing shoulders with the creme de la creme. Samantha was stunned by the bartender’s rugged good looks and boyish charm. It was Donald Trump Jr. They spent the entire night reminiscing about New York and ended it with some of the best sex Samantha has ever had. Anyways, she’s voted Republican ever since.
Charlotte York
Charlotte is the suburban woman FiveThirtyEight told you to worry about. She’s from Connecticut, so you know she loves white people. Listen, Charlotte is looking for a WASP-y guy, which we all know is just coded language for someone who doesn’t pay taxes. Also, she was literally in the College Republicans. At Smith College! With balls like that, she’s definitely voting for Trump.
Miranda Hobbes
I am as shocked as you are about this one, but unlike many of Miranda’s orgasms, this is absolutely true. Look, we really don’t know much about Miranda! She is career-minded, yes, but that’s pretty much it. Does she believe in a Green New Deal? QAnon? Gay people? We just don’t know. In an era where virtue signaling is key to one's understanding of self, Miranda’s propensity against letting us, her best friends, know about her personal beliefs is terrifying. Usually, when someone with power isn’t forthright about their political beliefs, it's because they know most people aren’t going to like what they have to say. Her son’s name is Brady — with a name like that, you’re practically BEGGING for him to end up on The Bachelor franchise, and we all know that they are ALL republicans.
On Carrie Bradshaw, and How We Love to Hate Her
by Matt Markowski
Carrie Bradshaw honestly sucks. She is selfish. She is a little bratty, and at times a bit aloof. At times, she can be a terrible friend. Would she really have landed her Prada and plush life with Big without Miranda? I say no, but there is something about Carrie that all of us Sex and the City fans, and romantics, cling to. Why is Carrie Bradshaw so awful, yet such a perfect leading lady?
The “Carries” we meet in the real world can be a toothache that for some reason we won’t let the dentist pull, but watching Carrie is voyeuristic for viewers. We understand that she is at times a trainwreck and selfish, but we cannot look away. We stood by her side for six seasons and a feature film (we don’t talk about the mess that is Sex and the City 2). But why? Because there is a little voice in the back of our heads saying, “You wish it was you, don’t you?”
Everyone has those moments where they listen to music and stare out the passenger window imagining themselves as the star of the music video. The same applies to Carrie. We all watch her and wish we could have her life. Well, maybe not her life exactly, but something adjacent. Something with a job that pays for all of her designer clothes and a supple amount of free time. Something where men (or women, or whomever you are attracted to) are humping our legs like a chihuahua. Something where no matter how many mistakes we make we still have friends AND are somehow successful. We accept her because we wish for just one day that we could live as chaotic a life as Carrie Bradshaw and really not have to deal with the consequences.
And I know this may be hard to swallow, but the same is true about our dear sweet-blonde-guitar-plucking-singer-songwriter Taylor Swift. I think we can all acknowledge that Ms. Swift at times is a large pill to swallow. Not a jagged little pill, but more of a straight-laced twangy pill. Take her classic song “Speak Now,” where the listener is singing along with a woman who randomly showed up at her ex-boyfriend’s wedding that she was not invited to, and plans on winning him back in the middle of the ceremony. Now if that doesn’t sound like a desperate move by Carrie, then I don’t know what is.
But thousands of listeners are dedicated to Taylor Swift and her music because they wish they could have the audacity to pull off a move like that, and for a few moments singing along, they do. Swift even says it herself, “You wish it were me, don’t you?” Though the lyrics may be written in a different context, it still proves the point as to why we tolerate the Queen of White Girls in Danger, Carrie Bradshaw. We wish that just one day we could have the privilege and audacity that she was born with.