I Was Wrong

A week or so ago, I wrote an article about the tell-all books being written by young women in the U.S. today, and suggested that this was a (not particularly welcome) trait among female writers.

Then, I picked up a book called "The Other Man" by Michael Bergin, which tells the story of a young man from Naugatuck, Connecticut (which I remember as the home of the Peter Paul Mounds company), who moved after college to New York city to become a model, wound up 50 feet high in his underwear, the representative of Calvin Klein over Times Square, and met (at a fancy bar) one Carolyn Bessette, later to be Mrs. John F. Kennedy, Jr. It is the story of their "romance" and "love" [his words], but really of their sexual escapades over a period of time, their inability to express any feelings about each other in words, and their all-too-frequent spats and estrangements. Of course, she (the love of his life) dropped him (the love of her life) for a Kennedy (Dr. Evil) and he couldn't do anything about it because the Kennedys would undoubtedly do him in. But she was unhappy, told John John that she was going to visit a girl friend, but really went to have more sexual escapades with Bergin (no longer a Klein model, now an actor on "Baywatch" living in L.A.), with him she had another spot, and before you know it, she was downed in Nantucket Bay. Not a pretty story on any (and I mean any) level; how accurate it is, who knows?

But it certainly fits the genre I complained of as female. And then I realized that the Spalding Gray book I wrote about recently ("Impossible Vacation") was pretty much the same.

So, I was wrong. This type of book is clearly ambisexual.