Yes, you read that right: SFR has a brand (spanking) new love and sex column, written by the illustrious Caroline Morgan just for your enjoyment. Read on, darlings.
I've been told that I go through men as regularly as most people change their underwear. I've summarized the impact that these men have had on my life over the past 13 years in a PowerPoint presentation that contains 1,377 words and 70 slides.
People who have seen my presentation might say that I've been around the block a few times when it comes to both romances and rug burns. Simply put, I love sex. I created a PowerPoint presentation because I love talking about sex almost as much as I love having it. But at the moment, I'm not having nearly enough sex. And I want to talk about that with you.
When I moved to Santa Fe, it never even occurred to me that dating pool would be as dry as the climate. Instead, I naively looked forward to finding my first real cowboy. After arriving here, however, it became immediately apparent that I would not be riding reverse cowgirl in any such brodeo—unless, of course, I wanted to bone a retired cowboy with a brand new hip and a prescription for Viagra.
Within my first six months living in Santa Fe I had only met six single men under the age of 35. Of them, at least two were gay. After a year here, when I leave my house in the morning, I am thoroughly convinced that I'm more likely to spend the day riding a unicorn bareback across a double rainbow than I am to meet someone moderately normal with whom I share a reciprocal desire to bone.
To be fair, the Santa Fe dating scene isn’t uniformly terrible. It probably looks pretty promising to the woman who currently comprises the entire one-person population of Monowi, Nebraska. It also seems like a singles haven for anyone who was alive when Roosevelt was president or who thought Ted Kaczynski’s reclusiveness was sexy. I feel fairly confident that, like Beyoncé, I can speak for all the single ladies used to a more active social scene when I say that the weather isn’t the only thing we wish were wetter.
My point being: if you’re single in Santa Fe and you haven’t just emerged from living in a bomb shelter a la Brendan Fraser, you know how hard it is to go to poundtown.
But I'm still going to try, and I want your help. Like most people, when the possibility of sex is on the table (or lurking somewhere in the periphery), I sometimes turn into a bumbling idiot. When that happens, I make completely unnecessary decisions that lead me to the bog of eternal stench (Labyrinth, anyone?), or most recently, to faceplant in a mysterious placenta-like liquid in a strip club bathroom.
In short, this is an advice column—except that I, the columnist, need advice from you, the reader, on navigating Santa Fe's elusive trail to slam city/varsity pin status (if indeed such a trail exists). Where do I go to meet guys? How do I attract them? Should I be wearing a lot more turquoise? Do I need a concha belt? Do they even sell green chile perfume? Email your tips, thoughts, counsel and rants to