The Four Dicks of the Apocalypse

And One Unsatisfied Woman

Hail, darlings! Before I sued Donald Trump (and got fired from Elle), the Ask E. Jean advice column solved five problems a month in the magazine. Now, the personal is political. And just for the Queenhell fun of it, we’re solving dilemmas, poking bad men in the testicles, and cheering one another on!

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This Correspondent Is Not Gonna Like My Advice

So, faithful (and unfaithful) readers, I’m offering everyone a 48-Hour, 20%-Off subscription to Ask E. Jean. I’m flinging open the gates in hopes you can offer her such a charming/smart/do-able solution that she will follow YOUR advice instead.

Dear E. Jean:

Eight years ago I up and ousted myself from a long marriage to a Master of the Universe who treated me like a household appliance.

Then I met a man online. In a WTF moment, I flew cross-country to spend a hot weekend and get to know each other. He turned out to be tall, handsome, intelligent, kind, intuitive, supportive, well-read, loved similar books and movies, praised my writing, and generally exhibited every single trait on my imaginary Perfect Guy List.

Yeah, I never left. 

We have a real connection. He's got my back in any situation, and, as I’m more financially fortunate, I take care of him and a lot of other things as well. Ok, I'll stop stalling now. 

When I first arrived, I thought the intensity and frequency of the sex might actually kill me. But after six months with him, every day became every week, which became a couple times a month, then once a month, then eventually kinda well, never.

Of course I've brought it up over the (eight) years, asking if there was something I was doing or not doing—I'm quick-witted, sarcastic, intelligent, playful, reasonably attractive, though more in a classical sense, and not exactly overtly sexy—think Katherine Hepburn, not fiery Sophia Loren. 

I've asked him WHY in many different ways, never gotten an answer. He's a type-two diabetic, well-controlled. Of late he says he's "done with all that," loves me and wants to be with me forever, but good old-fashioned man/woman sex is off the table.

I'm pretty sure he still takes care of himself, (feisty hand/porn sites) at least occasionally, and I have requested that if he's not up for intercourse (my favorite thing), then perhaps some side-by-side play/mutual gratification might be in order. He agrees, but then begs off when it's time to saddle up.

We haven't had intercourse in two-and-a half years.

Am I being an idiot for moaning about the only thing I'm not getting out of this relationship? Or am I crazy to think that someone who doesn't want me really loves me? He says he finds me attractive and that I'm the best thing that ever happened to him. I find him endlessly fascinating, hot as hell, we have a fabulous life, an adorable dog, travel, cook, and very much enjoy each other's company. I'm not leaving. And not interested in being unfaithful. OK, whatcha got for me? Thanks!—Katherine Hepburn

Thus, Dear Reader, begins the saga of “The Unbearable Tension of an Unsatisfied Woman.”

I read Katherine Hepburn’s letter aloud at the virtual Ask E. Jean Cocktail Time last Saturday night.

The Conflab loves their cocktail parties and we were whooping it up, wearing Halloween masks, toasting one another. Marissa Rothkopf was making us a special Vodka-and-Elderflower cocktail named “The Sebastian,” after the parrot belonging to our friend, Mary Trump; Patrice, an officer in the United States Navy, was describing what she did to a chap who “shoved” past her as she was helping an old lady out a shop door (and if the poor man manages to produce another atom of testosterone after Patrice verbally whacked his onions into Thousand Island salad dressing, I’ll eat my size 11 shoe), and we all gave a resounding-but-sitting ovation to the line in the letter where Katherine Hepburn says, “the intensity and frequency of the sex might actually kill me.”

And now here’s the mystery: Everyone knew the letter-writer was there, but didn’t know who she was. But just before that witch Claire Zulky stopped by to show us her new tattoo of the Mermaid of Warsaw

and the Conflab was advising Katherine Hepburn to obtain a 40-pound bag of Viagra, and/or take a break from her chap, “create distance,” hang him over the fiery pit of anticipation, talk with the doctor about his meds, and take a lover, take a lover, take a lover, Katherine Hepburn stood up, said she had suggested Viagra, and vanished.

One instant, she was there; the next, gone. Many of us removed our Halloween masks and frowned. We yearned to do our best for Katherine Hepburn! We had just gotten started with the advice, we had just begun to come up with some good ideas, and we felt forlorn that we couldn’t help her. I worried about her all night. The next day, I was stuffing my face with a mustard sandwich and opening my emails, when I see a note signed:

“Looking forward to you kicking Trump's fat ass!!”

I quickly scrolled up to the top and began reading:

Hey there, E. Jean:

Thanks to the Conflab for taking the time to address my situation. Sorry I exited abruptly, but we had plans with friends and I needed to jump off and get ready for it.

I appreciate the advice to take a lover, but my overarching interest in sexual congress is to share with and feel closer to the man I love. It’s not screwing for the sake of screwing.

Ultimately, I find it sad, and ok—selfish—that my partner chooses not to deal with my needs. I believe there's something inside him that he will not divulge—that I cannot see—that keeps him from allowing intimacy. So, (to repeat) my original question: Am I crazy for believing a man who does not desire me, can really love me?

Looking forward to you kicking Trump's fat ass!!

So I replied with this email, but I haven’t sent it yet.

Dear Katherine Hepburn:

I have three questions for you, Kate:

First: What if everything you think about this love affair is wrong?