Its sex positivity still resonates; its vision of female freedom sometimes doesn’t. But the show’s most lasting contribution of all? Brunch.
Courtesy of HBO/Getty Images.
Sex and the City premiered on HBO 20 years ago today, staking its claim to a bold thesis: maybe women want sex as much as men do, and maybe they don’t need men for much else. This represented a huge shift at the end of the millennium, a time when sex was on everyone’s mind and newscast: Independent Counsel Ken Starr’s investigation into President Bill Clinton had just taken a prurient turn by focusing on Clinton’s sexual relationship with White House intern Monica Lewinsky, and the nation was hanging on the intimate details. But the dominant narrative was still the tale of a powerful man taking advantage of a much younger woman.
Sex and the City had a different story about sex to tell. Over six seasons, the series presented its case for Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha as the models of a new kind of womanhood: they supported themselves, they made their friends their family, and they had lots of sex. Some of it was good, some of it wasn’t, but all of it was central to Sex and the City’s vision of female freedom.
But the show’s landmark portrayal of women’s sexual freedom is exactly what can make it feel anachronistic now, in the age of #MeToo. Amid the four main characters’ many encounters with men, very few involve danger, nonconsensual sex, or even harassment. Such incidents that do occur are played off as jokes, “bad sex,” or occasions warranting no more than an eyeroll.
Sex and the City had a good reason to favor the fun and frivolous side of sex: it was meant to portray a glittery, glamorous version of the single woman. Before the show, single women in media were spinsters, cat ladies, and “Cathy” comic strips; if they were lucky, they were Mary on the 1970s’s Mary Tyler Moore Show (required to be perfect in exchange for her freedom), or Ally on Ally McBeal (unhinged, baby-crazy, and feminism’s death knell, according to one famous Time magazine cover), which ran from 1997 to 2002. The last thing single women needed at the time of Sex and the City was another Looking for Mr. Goodbar (indiscriminate sex results in brutal death, 1977) or Fatal Attraction (desperate single women are coming to steal your husband and boil your bunny, 1987). Sex and the City’s unrealistically positive depiction of women’s sexual freedom was one of its most revolutionary qualities.
In an era that has seen the rise of such shows as Girls, Broad City, and The Bold Type, it’s easy to forget just how groundbreaking Sex and the City was when it came to HBO on June 6, 1998. An adaptation of Candace Bushnell’s newspaper column-turned-book, the show followed a fashionable, Bushnell-like character named Carrie Bradshaw and her three best friends: romantic Charlotte, success-driven Miranda, and libertine Samantha. The formula sounds familiar, right down to the core foursome of distinct personalities. But this wasn’t just a younger version of The Golden Girls. It included some of the most graphic sex talk ever featured in a prime-time television show targeted at the masses. Its spot on premium cable allowed this, of course, but what made it even more radical was that the sex talk happened among women who were presented as the norm, not some fringe exception.
The sex scenes themselves reflected the female gaze. The women looked great during their bedroom romps, but they weren’t objectified. The scenes were played more for humor, insight, and character development than for eroticism. Sex, the show told us, was hardly ever perfect, but it was often fun and/or funny. As show-runner Michael Patrick King told me in an interview for my book, Sex and the City and Us: How Four Single Women Changed the Way We Think, Live, and Love, “Sex, up until Sex and the City, was sort of dipped in black, and it was dark and dirty and oily. After us, sex was seen differently. We made it pink. And fizzy. We took it into the light and made it something empowering, but also funny.”
m Paramount Pictures/Newsmakers.
At the time, it seemed impossible to pull sex out of the dark depths and into the pink and fizzy—while still addressing its more dangerous side. So there is very little #MeToo in Sex and the City sex. This was of a piece with the many bargains Sex and the City seemed to strike, intentionally or not, as a show that raised hackles. It was sex-positive but apolitical, and in one episode, even anti-political. When Carrie dates a politician played by John Slattery, she reveals that she’s not even registered to vote. The message seemed to be: Don’t worry, guys. We’re only exercising our newfound power in the bedroom; we’re not coming for your public sphere, too.The show demonstrated women’s financial independence, but mainly through extravagant fashion and lifestyle spending. Don’t worry, guys. We’ll just be over here shopping.
This approach worked: Sex and the City became not just a hit, but a worldwide phenomenon. It made rabbit vibrators, Manolo Blahniks, nameplate necklaces, cosmopolitans, and cupcakes trends across the globe. It was nominated for 54 Emmy awards and won seven. It spawned two movies that broke box-office records, even though they were widely regarded as less than great.
Countless people have watched the show in reruns, streaming, and on DVD since. It has become a rite of passage for women and gay men in particular.
Of course, as younger generations have watched, and even as older generations have re-watched, our modern eyes can spot a few stray Sex and the City moments worthy of #MeToo reflection. There are some passing instances that didn’t register with most of us at the time—like when the “modelizer” films his sex with models and uses it as art without concern for consent, or when Charlotte wonders if an older artist is considering a show at her gallery only because he finds her “charming.” Carrie asks if he wants her to “hold his paintbrush.” Miranda: “If he so much as suggests what she’s suggesting, you give me a call and we’ll sue the hell out of him. That’s the only proper way to trade sex for power.” A shocked Samantha calls her “the Harvard Law Lorena Bobbitt.”
The most classic #MeToo encounter happens in the sanctity of the fashion closet at Vogue, where Carrie is freelancing. There, an editor who has taken a liking to her, Julian (played by Ron Rifkin), drops his pants after plying her with martinis and rare shoes. She rejects him and runs, deciding to work only with the tougher editor, Enid, played by Candice Bergen.
In another, murkier situation, Carrie puts up with physically punishing—but consensual—sex with Charlotte’s husband Harry’s best man. Carrie shows up at the wedding hunched over with a “sex sprain” and dismisses the experience as “jackrabbit sex.” She declines a second round with the perpetrator and incurs his wrath: “If I’d known you were just using me,” he says, “I wouldn’t have made love to you like that.” Let’s just say a lot of us have been there, and it’s exactly the kind of problem that would be solved by more affirmative and enthusiastic consent practices.
All of these are perfect examples of typical incidents in many women’s lives, the kinds of things we’ve always assumed are just normal—because they have been. The show models exactly this: it doesn’t imply that these guys are right, but it shows how women have long dealt with such situations. You complain about it to your girlfriends, then move on. The #MeToo movement is liberating because it allows us all to verbalize such experiences in public—to not explain them away or joke about them, to acknowledge that they chipped away at us.
Sex and the City did give us one great tool for more empowered sex lives, whether we’re seeking better experiences in bed or trying to process how sex has been used against us in the past: brunch. The show’s classic girl-talk scenes were its most revolutionary and lasting contribution to women’s culture. They modeled open and honest talk about sex positions, kinks, and relationships, and—critically—they allowed each of the characters to debate and clearly verbalize her own likes and dislikes.
This allowed them to create a conversational version of what’s known as a yes/no/maybe list—a lengthy menu of sexual options that you can peruse alone or with a partner to determine what you’re into. If you’re with a partner, it allows for the clearest enthusiastic consent possible. If you’re alone, you’re setting boundaries for yourself so you’re clearer about them in the heat of a moment, or during the shock and confusion of a nonconsensual encounter. If you’re with your friends at brunch, it serves the same purposes, along with extra bonuses like learning others’ boundaries and alleviating shame and guilt.
Carrie Bradshaw may not have been as enlightened about sexual harassment and assault as we are in 2018. But her couldn’t-help-but-wonder attitude did help us get here—and it can even offer us help on the way through #MeToo, and on to a more hopeful future.
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