“Is All Gay”

I was asked about what it is that a sex editor actually does. I mean, it’s not like I was translating Proust or discovering the next Annie Proulx. The best analogy I could muster up had to do with baseball. Being a sex editor is a lot like being the manager of a minor league ball club. One where all the players are naked, half of them have self-worth issues, and all of them are mad at you because it’s your job to make them put their pants back on and use proper grammar. And nobody likes a full-stop under those circumstances.

I worked with all sorts of people as a sex editor, from the bewilderingly batshit to the occasionally brilliant, to old school porno-mag scribes and self-hating mommybloggers still obsessed with the shrieking imperfection of their postpartum bodies. And then there was the guy I worked for—the guy who owned the thing, who I can really only describe by saying this: go watch Fargo, then watch Cronenberg’s Eastern Promises. Then, amalgamate the most mindless and unsavory characters from each film, give him Viggo Mortensen’s Russian accent and a shitty haircut, and you’d be about halfway there.

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