It seems a lot of straight men need a word coach or a lawyer when it comes to discussing Sex and the City.
First comes the disclaimer: “My wife makes me watch it with her.” I always imagine these guys tied to a chair, like Malcolm McDowell in A Clockwork Orange, head in a vice, forced in the direction of HBO on Demand. I picture their loving wife or girlfriend sitting next to them, sipping a Cosmo, tears of joy glistening in the corners of her eyes as she leans over and says, “That wasn’t so bad was it?”
There is also the “I was so drunk last night, I don’t remember a thing” straight man approach. This usually involves some sort of denial that leads to a confession: “I was flipping around on the remote, and at first I didn’t know what it was—then I realized what I was watching—and I thought, ‘Hey, let me see what the fuss is all about.’” At this point, I lean in expectantly, hoping to hear his positive reaction to the show or the movie—but nothing comes. He’ll confess to watching to see what the fuss is all about, but that’s as far into the fuss about the fuss as he’s going to go.
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