Yes, you read that right: SFR has a brand (spanking) new love and sex column, written by the illustrious Caroline Morgan just for your enjoyment. Read on, darlings.
---
I've been told that I go through men as regularly as most people change their underwear. I've summarized the impact that these men have had on my life over the past 13 years in a PowerPoint presentation that contains 1,377 words and 70 slides.
People who have seen my presentation might say that I've been around the block a few times when it comes to both romances and rug burns. Simply put, I love sex. I created a PowerPoint presentation because I love talking about sex almost as much as I love having it. But at the moment, I'm not having nearly enough sex. And I want to talk about that with you.
When I moved to Santa Fe, it never even occurred to me that dating pool would be as dry as the climate. Instead, I naively looked forward to finding my first real cowboy. After arriving here, however, it became immediately apparent that I would not be riding reverse cowgirl in any such brodeo—unless, of course, I wanted to bone a retired cowboy with a brand new hip and a prescription for Viagra.
Within my first six months living in Santa Fe I had only met six single men under the age of 35. Of them, at least two were gay. After a year here, when I leave my house in the morning, I am thoroughly convinced that I'm more likely to spend the day riding a unicorn bareback across a double rainbow than I am to meet someone moderately normal with whom I share a reciprocal desire to bone.
To be fair, the Santa Fe dating scene isn’t uniformly terrible. It probably looks pretty promising to the woman who currently comprises the entire one-person population of Monowi, Nebraska. It also seems like a singles haven for anyone who was alive when Roosevelt was president or who thought Ted Kaczynski’s reclusiveness was sexy. I feel fairly confident that, like Beyoncé, I can speak for all the single ladies used to a more active social scene when I say that the weather isn’t the only thing we wish were wetter.
My point being: if you’re single in Santa Fe and you haven’t just emerged from living in a bomb shelter a la Brendan Fraser, you know how hard it is to go to poundtown.
But I'm still going to try, and I want your help. Like most people, when the possibility of sex is on the table (or lurking somewhere in the periphery), I sometimes turn into a bumbling idiot. When that happens, I make completely unnecessary decisions that lead me to the bog of eternal stench (Labyrinth, anyone?), or most recently, to faceplant in a mysterious placenta-like liquid in a strip club bathroom.
With this column, and your help, I hope to avoid those situations. So stop being shy, start getting naked, and let’s mix our minds (and maybe even our pelvises).
In short, this is an advice column—except that I, the columnist, need advice from you, the reader, on navigating Santa Fe's elusive trail to slam city/varsity pin status (if indeed such a trail exists). Where do I go to meet guys? How do I attract them? Should I be wearing a lot more turquoise? Do I need a concha belt? Do they even sell green chile perfume? Email your tips, thoughts, counsel and rants to
.
