Last night I made a Sex tape. That’s right, move over Paris. Step aside Pamela. Robb’s got a brand new tape and it’s all Sex, all the time. My much loved iPhone rang around five yesterday evening while I was winding things down at the office. It was Ankit and he was desperate. He wanted to make a Sex tape and needed some volunteers. Always one to help out a friend in need, I said “sure thing!” It was at that very moment I realized I had nothing to wear. I ran home and scavenged through my closet tossing designers this way and that. This was Sex, and any old designer would not do. Stores were closed and my bank account was empty. Was life replicating art?
It was just after eight when Ankit and camera crew arrived. I may be a bit exaggerating when I say “camera crew” when in reality it was camera person. They were set up in no time and suddenly, without hair or make-up, there I was all DSquared and Dolce, propped up in front of the camera like some overgrown Cabbage Patch Doll. And leave it to a friend to know enough of your innermost secrets and how to pull them out of you for public consumption. I felt shy, violated even, and nothing I could do could keep my secrets from issuing forth from my pouty lips.
Questions like “What is your favorite Sex and the City episode?” and “Who is your favorite character?” It was invasive and offensive. Until then, Sex had been my dirty little pleasure and now there it is, on public television for the masses to see.
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