Two weeks ago, I had my picture taken.
Look up. Good, good.
It was a promotional photo for my column,
scheduled to run on the side of a bus.
I had misgivings.
Which were somewhat mollified
when they told me I could keep the dress.
Friday night.
In lieu of any actual social life of their own,
Samantha, Miranda, and Charlotte
had all stopped by
to live vicariously through my first official date
with Mr. Big.
Carrie!
Oh, honey, it's fabulous.
Bravo!
It's tits on toast, baby. But you make it work.
-Well, let's just say it,
it's the "naked dress."
I mean, you're obviously gonna have sex with him tonight.
Come on, it's our first date!
She's not gonna have sex.
She's just gonna look like sex.
That's right, I'm just the trailer.
Please, if it happens, it happens.
Bottoms up. -Wait a second.
Ooh...
I thought you were serious about this guy. You can't
sleep with him on the first date.
Oh, God, here she goes again with "the rules."
The women who wrote that book,
they wrote it because they couldn't get laid.
So they constructed this whole bullshit theory
to make women who can get laid feel bad.
But if you're serious about a guy,
then you have to keep him in a holding pattern
for at least five dates.
Oh, you've gone up.
Yes, because the number of dates
that you wait to have sex with a man
is directly proportional to your age.
Forget the math.
Just don't fuck on a first date, you're fine.
-Third date. -Too soon!
Reality check.
A guy can just as easily dump you
if you fuck him on the first date
as he can if you wait until the 10th!
When have you ever
been on a 10th date?
And by then at least you're emotionally involved.
Exactly. I mean,
isn't it better to find out if the sex
is good right off the bat,
before anybody's feelings get hurt?
But it's okay to have hurt feelings.
And you always handle those so well.
Well, there is something to be said for restraint.
When did you become such a Victorian?
The Victorians were on to something.
They valued romance.
True romance cannot exist without good sex.
And yet you can have good sex with someone
you don't like or respect.
Or even remember.
Alright, well, ladies, I'm just going to dinner.
Goodnight.
Bye, have fun.
Bye.
The truth is, I was dying to sleep with him.
But isn't delayed gratification
the definition of maturity?
Interesting dress.
Meaning?
Interesting dress.
Don't worry. I'm perfectly capable of restraining myself.
So am I.
I can't be hemmed in by rules.
I go with my emotions.
I mean, some of the greatest romances of all time
began with sex on the first date...
I bet.
I will not be the first one to speak.
And if he never calls me again,
I'll always think of him fondly...
As an asshole.
That was really...
I mean, can you believe we, on the first date?
I mean, I didn't plan that, you know. I...
What do you think?
Well...
-Oh...
Uh, I thought it was pretty fucking great.
But what do I know?
You feel like having some Szechuan?
Had Mr. Big discovered my weakness
for great sex and greasy Chinese?
Or was going out to dinner
simply a diversionary tactic to keep me
from spending the night?
Before I was able to completely indulge my paranoia...
It was my pal, Mike Singer.
We've known each other for ten years,
but never had sex,
because we want to know each other for another ten years.
Hey!
Carrie, what are you doing here?
-Well, I'm with, umm... -Oh, that's him.
No, no, I'll tell you all about it later. I'll tell you later.
-You look great.
-Not too naked? -Uh...
Just naked enough.
Hmm...
Hi, I'm Carrie Bradshaw.
I'm an old friend of Mike's.
I'm Libby Biyalick.
It's so nice to finally meet a friend.
So, I'll call you.
Okay, great. Well, have a good dinner.
Nice to meet you.
I left the table wondering why
Mike didn't want to introduce me to his date.
Jab, cross! Again! Jab, cross!
That very same night,
something absolutely amazing happened to Miranda.
Come on! Jab, cross, kick!
Oh my God, oh my God! I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean--
She met someone in gym class.
Are you...? Oh, God.
Are you sure you're okay?
I'm fine, really.
So, what exactly about my head pissed you off?
I wish there was something I could do.
Well, you could buy me dinner sometime.
-And a CAT scan.
His name was Ted Baker.
He was 32 years old, a sports medicine doctor
with an apartment overlooking the Natural History Museum.
Three prior serious relationships,
none resulting in marriage.
A kiss to make it better.
So, really, can I call you sometime?
Sure.
He left a message on my machine when I got home.
He wants to go out this week.
Hey, that's fantastic!
No, it's too quick.
I think maybe that kick in his head scrambled his brains.
No, too quick is sleeping with him on the first date. That's too quick.
You both got excited and you went for it.
Stop blaming yourself.
No, I don't blame myself.
-I blame the dress, the dress.
The dress led me on, it had a life of its own.
Oh, then we went to this Chinese restaurant afterwards,
and you'll never guess who I ran into.
-Who? -Mike Singer, out on a date.
The whole world's in love.
Oh. I'm not sure, I don't know. He was acting
very weird. Like, he, uh...
like he didn't want me to meet her or something.
What's her name?
Her name was Libby Biyalick.
Mike told me everything that afternoon,
while I helped him pick out sheets
at Bed Bath & Beyond.
So, how long have you been seeing her?
A while.
-Is this a painful topic?
No, it's just, she's not someone I date openly.
Why, is she married?
No.
Is she a cousin?
No.
Look, the thing is, she's smart,
she's incredibly sweet, and the sex is great.
Well, she's just not the one I see myself with.
Why not?
It was about three months ago.
Mike had been dumped by Fiona Brooks,
a cellist for the Philharmonic,
who he was trying to forget as quickly as possible.
They had both loved to cook,
and shopping for the week was a Saturday morning ritual.
So he was feeling particularly vulnerable when...
Care to try some aged sheep's milk cheese
from the Tyrolean Alps?
Thanks.
Mmm, it's good.
It's made by monks.
-Really? -Trappist monks.
Fresh goat cheese from the Napa Valley.
It's delicious.
L'explorateur.
It's a triple crème from France.
Mike found himself very uninhibited.
Since he didn't think Libby was that gorgeous,
there wasn't any pressure.
The next morning, he woke up and felt at ease,
very relaxed.
I'm a creative director of an ad agency,
but eventually I'd love to have my own shop.
I'd love to have my own shop, too.
Well, cheese shop, I mean.
She was one of the only women he'd ever met
who he felt he could just be with.
So what's the problem?
Look, she's not beautiful,
and we don't have a lot in common.
I mean, you know, most of her friends are in dairy.
But she's warm, and unpretentious,
and it is the best sex I've ever had in my life.
What are you afraid of? What other people are going to think?
Look, all I know is that
she's not the right woman for me in the larger sense.
So I keep her a secret.
I couldn't decide whether Mike was being
shallow or honest.
But the question nagged me for days.
How many of us out there are having great sex
with people we're ashamed to introduce to our friends?
Have I ever had fabulous sex with someone
I didn't want to admit to? Hmm...
Mm. Did I ever tell you about that jazz musician
who lived with his mother in Queens?
Yeah, Alex.
What about the window washer?
The one who doesn't wear any underwear?
I met this gorgeous kid in Spy Bar last year.
He turned out to be in high school.
Evidently, Samantha had had lots of sex,
none of which was secret.
Fine, it just proves that I'm not ashamed of anyone
who I've slept with.
Okay, here it is.
Up here.
Oh, you look--
Naked.
There it was,
the dress that lead me down
the garden path with Mr. Big.
I shouldn't be embarrassed?
No, you look fabulous!
Besides, there's no such thing as bad publicity.
Yeah. You would say that, you're a publicist.
You know, we need to go someplace absolutely fabulous
where we can toast you, where the bus goes by.
And you can invite Mr. Big.
No, no, I don't think so. I haven't heard from him
since we spent the night together.
Oh, sweetie, forget about him.
You are going to be on the side of a bus.
Ten million men are going to be drooling over you
every morning on their way to work.
It's the best personal ad I've ever seen in my life.
Samantha had a particular knack
for turning a desperate situation into a hopeless one.
Oh, speaking of secret sex,
did Charlotte ever tell you about the rabbi?
The rabbi?
Excuse me?
You know who I'm talking about.
I cannot believe that the two of you came down here
to interrogate me at work!
I'm sorry, it's my fault.
Anyway, he wasn't a rabbi.
He was a Hasidic folk artist from Brooklyn.
Close enough.
Evidently, Charlotte had seen Shmuel's work
in an exhibition,
and scheduled an appointment to meet him at his studio.
These are outstanding, so much life.
You have a beautiful way with light.
Thank you.
Now this one is really special.
That's my Yeshiva.
I wanted to capture the exuberance of youth.
Charlotte quickly became intoxicated by his talent,
his strangeness and the smell of his wool.
Magical.
It was so sexy, so forbidden.
Daddy's little Episcopalian princess
in the arms of one of God's chosen people.
We would talk about art and sex and the Torah.
Well, why didn't you introduce him to anybody?
I was embarrassed.
I mean, I couldn't really date him.
And he couldn't date me.
I mean, what would people think?
If the sex is good, who cares what anybody thinks?
Now you cannot put this in your column. Promise?
I promise.
Was secret sex the ultimate form of intimacy,
since it existed in a pure state,
exempt from the judgment of the world?
Or is it just another way in which we deny our feelings
and emotionally compartmentalize our lives?
Hello?
Do you miss me yet?
Who is this?
How've you been?
Oh, great.
Fabulous, fantastic actually, and you?
Well, at the risk of sounding trite...
I haven't been able to stop thinking about you.
I adore trite.
Listen, we should have a real first date.
You know, the traditional American type.
Dinner and a movie.
Of course, knowing us, we'll skip the movie.
Just as long as we don't skip dinner.
What a relief.
I had just escaped the sex on the first date curse.
Whew!
That weekend, I was out with a man whose name
I wanted to shout from the rooftops.
Let me get this straight,
your picture is going to be on a bus?
That's right.
A cross town bus, or a downtown bus?
The M2. It goes right down Fifth.
That's a good line.
I'm getting together a group of my friends
tomorrow afternoon to watch it go by.
I thought, maybe if you weren't doing anything--
Hey, how are you?
It's good to see you.
-You remember Phyllis. -Of course, Phyllis.
-How are you? -Everything good?
Yeah, everything's dandy.
Well, that's what I hear.
-So, uh, good to see you. -Good to see you again.
-Good seeing you. -Bye-bye, cheers.
-Who was that? -Just some guy
I skied with in Aspen.
I didn't understand.
Had I suddenly become the invisible woman?
I tried not to let it bother me.
I also tried not to let it bother me
that he took me back to Fung Wa,
scene of our post-coital dinner.
Oh, I can't make your party tomorrow.
Oh, no.
I wanted to introduce you to some of my friends.
Well, I'll be home later if you miss me.
As I surveyed the room,
I realized it smelled like a cheap date
you don't want anyone to meet.
I told Mr. Big I was on a deadline
and I had to get home.
-Hello? -Listen, I have a question.
Of all the restaurants in Manhattan,
why did you take Libby to Fung Wa?
Well, it's pretty obscure.
Not much of a chance of running into anybody I know.
So, you mean it's the kind of a place
that men take women they don't want to be seen with in public?
Yes, it is perfect for that.
Oh, sorry.
The evidence was mounting.
Was it possible that I had become
Mr. Big's secret sex girl?
The next morning,
Miranda discovered a shocking sex secret of her own.
She had just spent a wonderful night with Ted,
who had to leave early in the morning
to catch a flight to D.C. for a spinal conference.
I can go home, it's no big deal.
No, stay, it's 6:00 a.m.
I'll be back tonight. Want to do something?
-I'd love to. -Alright, I'll call you at work.
Have a good flight.
Miranda waited for the dead bolt to drop,
and then used the opportunity to ransack Ted's apartment
and look for pictures of old girlfriends.
She was not at all prepared for what she found.
Yeah? Do you feel your cock where it wants to e every night?
Every single night when you come home
and everything's done in the house
and I've been doing it all day long...
I don't know what to do.
I can't admit to having found this,
but now I don't know if I want to see him again.
How can you judge him until you spank him?
I'm only kidding.
But, I mean, obviously this is what he's into.
Maybe it's just his fantasy life.
Later that day,
the cream of New York gathered to toast
the maiden voyage of my bus.
Where's Mr. Big?
Oh, he couldn't make it.
What do you mean he couldn't make it?
I don't know, it's a work thing.
Oh, but this is your bus party!
Oh, I told you, you shouldn't have...
Well, never mind.
What, he's not here because I slept with him on the first date?
Basically, yes. When you sleep with a man on the first date,
the relationship will never be anything more than just sex.
-Uh-huh. Okay, thank you.
-Cheers! -Cheers!
I didn't want to admit that she was right.
Ah, here it comes, here it comes!
I just wanted to see my bus and get the hell out of there.
-Oh, shit. Carrie!
-Hi, did I miss it? -Hey! Hi.
Not yet, no.
Hey, I thought you were going to bring Libby...
Oh, yeah. I finally asked her to join me in public
and she turns me down.
Why?
She told me that she met somebody else
who doesn't have my problems with intimacy.
Oh, I'm sorry.
Uh! Quiet,
here you come!
Ohh...
Aw, don't worry, sweetie, don't worry. Eh...
Nobody in New York notices a bus
until it's about to hit them.
That's right.
Meanwhile,
Miranda spent another wonderful evening with Ted
and began to re-evaluate her options.
That was one of the most amazing meals
I have ever had. Thank you.
My pleasure.
You know, I missed you today.
-You did?
I guess I've just been waiting all this time
for a good kick in the head.
And here I thought that all you really wanted
was a good spanking.
Excuse me?
You heard me.
Oh.
Ted didn't take Miranda home that night.
He never took her calls or returned her messages.
And she never saw him at the gym again.
Very late that night,
fueled by a massive quantity of champagne,
I decided to say goodbye to Mr. Big.
I just came here to tell you that
if you're embarrassed or ashamed
to be involved with me in any way,
that we can no longer see each other.
The truth is, I blamed myself.
I wore the naked dress on our first date,
I slept with him too fast,
and now I'm on a Fifth Avenue bus with a penis on my head.
What are you talking about?
You won't introduce me to your friends,
you bring me back to that restaurant
where men take women they don't want to be seen with,
you won't come out and meet my friends.
You have me in a niche.
Certain events, certain restaurants,
certain people.
Like I'm only a particular fragment of the kind of person
you think that you should be dating.
But I've only gotten to know a particular fragment.
Although, I'm beginning to know more.
No, this is not me.
This is me reacting to your perception of me.
Oh, okay.
Well...
I think Fung Wa's is
the best Chinese food
in the city, so that's why we went there.
And, uh...
Oh... The guy we met in the street,
I couldn't remember his name,
which possibly means I have Alzheimer's.
So that's what that was about.
And this afternoon I had courtside tickets
to the Knicks,
and that's all folks!
I should have been jumping for joy,
but I only felt a hard knot of fear.
So you and me...
Then maybe this is for real?
Could be...