Josh Wolk
November 23, 2004 AT 05:00 AM EST

”The Real World”: Sarah and M.J.’s failed romances

You know how when you say any word over and over again, it starts to sound weird? There is one exception to that rule: the word sex. Say that over and over again and it just starts to sound boring. And Sarah proves that axiom — over and over again.

On the latest episode of The Real World: Philadelphia, she once again reminded us how much she loves sex. She loves it on a train, she loves it on a plane, she loves it here and there, she loves it everywhere: She’s like the Kama Seusstra. And through this sheer repetition, she becomes the least erotic person ever. It’s like listening to someone who is way too into Star Wars. Yes, I get it, Boba Fett is the coolest, and it was better when Greedo didn’t shoot first, now either shut up or talk about something else!

But it’s more than the fact that the babble is so monotonous: It’s that her rape-survivor psychology (trying to dominate the world of intercourse while avoiding commitment so no one close to her can ever hurt her sexually again) is so blatant it just makes her flamboyance sad, and sadness isn’t much of an aphrodisiac. This is why strippers never work while wearing T-shirts that read, ”My daddy never came to any of my ballet recitals.” The way Sarah talks about her sexual conquests sounds rehearsed, as if she had been reading an instruction manual on How to Be an Empowered Sexpot. She wants to be seen as a horndog in the same way that Carson Daly wants to come off as a good interviewer: Yes, they’re clearly following all the steps, but it just ain’t convincing.

So this week she decided to bed a gay man, Jason, the perfect plan for her. Because it allowed her the patina of supersexiness — I’m going to convert that guy with my irresistible libido! — with the subliminal safety hatch that it could never truly turn into a commitment. Hooray! Next week, will she plan a foursome with a eunuch, one of her first cousins, and a terminally ill cancer patient?

Eventually she worked Jason into her bed, and we were treated to a long, out-of-focus shot of the two writhing in bed, although from that distance it was tough to see just how unsatisfying it was. But Sarah filled in the blanks later, saying he had ”a confused penis.”

In light of this, it was interesting to compare and contrast the sexual exploits of another woman: Nicole, M.J.’s drunk one-night stand, whom he threw out at 4 a.m. without cab fare, all while claiming he was being a ”Southern gentleman” because he uttered those words every young bachelorette yearns to hear just before her suitor dashes back inside to go to sleep, leaving her to find her way back to Jersey: ”You gonna be okay?” M.J., I do declare, you ah an angel! Now, kind sir, if you would point the way to Bayonne, I would be forevah in youah gratitude! I’ve always depended on the kindness of strangahs . . . and guys I hook up with who I met in bars.

Sarah was extremely disdainful, saying she would never put herself in Nicole’s skanky position. Apparently the difference is that if you sleep with straight men, you’re a slut, but if you do a gay man, you’re a pioneer.

Now, you may wonder, is this a double standard? Why do I attack Sarah for being so outwardly sexual but not the tomcatting M.J. and Landon, who stop just short of humping the crack in the Liberty Bell? Because those guys just aren’t that bright. Sure, they’re big, dumb, horny oafs. But they’re horny in an uncomplicated, ”Me feel strange stirring in my pants, and me like it!” kind of way. Women can be that way, too, but Sarah’s randiness is all tortured overcompensating. M.J. and Landon are all id. Whatever fills the immediate need, baby. If you ever wanted them to stop talking about sex, all you’d have to do is wave a pizza in front of them, and they’d happily eat and forget all about their groins. Meanwhile, Sarah would still be talking about how she’s always wanted to have sex with the Little Caesar’s ”pizza pizza” guy.

What did you think? Who came off worse, M.J. or Sarah?

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