Sex Columnist at The Observer Is Your New Hate Read

Not Lobe. She had a more conventional pipe dream. She went out to L.A. to become an actress. This column is ostensibly a diary of her second act. You see, she’s falling back on being a sex columnist in New York City. And we’re maybe supposed to find it endearing that she had to go back home with her tail between her legs to live with her parents—in SoHo because they are celebrated artists. Sorry, we don’t relate to living for free in prime Manhattan real estate while you get your shit together, girl.

That being said, her background doesn’t mean that she’s not qualified to write a sex column. No. Her column is evidence enough of that. Here’s a sample of what we’re dealing with:

My hand found its way to his heart and stayed there all the way through second base.

Yeah.

Lobe’s first effort details her flight home to New York. She ran into a guy she used to date on the plane. There’s definitely a seed there for some great material. But it just doesn’t lead to anything.

First of all, there is no sex in her sex column. She apparently never fucked this guy. They only made out a few times and then he stopped speaking to her. Still, she fell in love with him, even though he said booger stuff like this:

“Sometimes, I’m in my head, but tonight all I’ve thought about is the task at hand. This is what it must feel like to meditate.”

That’s him talking about hooking up with her. How can you respect anyone who is into something like that?

Also, she refers to herself as “Julia” throughout the piece, even though her byline says “Jasmine Lobe.” But we’re still reminded that her name is Jasmine over and over again as it’s listed under the handful of photos of her sprinkled throughout the piece, lest we forget that she’s hot!

Later, just past midnight and my parents asleep, I lie back on the hardwood floors of my childhood bedroom and study the white, engraved ceiling. The pattern resembles rows of connected fish or infinity signs, joined by bow ties.

He writes, “Julia, we’re due for a catch-up, yes?”

I wonder what decisions she will make.

Why does she start, in mid-sentence, to refer to herself in the third person? Why is this happening? What is going on? Why are the glowing reviews of her Facebook friends the only comments appearing beneath her piece? Why is she retweeting compliments? Why is one of them from her good friend Zac Posen?

The worst part about this is that it’s not even messy. Like, at least that would be entertaining. This is just like someone needed a job and had a friend in a high place who was like, “Hey, write about sex,” and she was like, “Okay,” but then didn’t want to write anything that would freak out her parents too much.

The last thing a sex column needs is for its columnist to be thinking about her parents.

Text and the City: The Observer’s New Columnist Debuts [The Observer]

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