The “Breaking the Binary” lifestyle and wellness magazine had been a functioning operation for about one year, though technically it had been editor Maura St. Clair’s brainchild for two. A graduate from UC Berkeley, Maura had the dedication and blind self-assuredness of what was essentially a liberal arts school on crack. After graduating with a degree in comparative literature, Maura packed her collection of patterned tights and sweaters into her antique luggage set. She headed off for San Francisco, hoping to land a job as a reporter for the Chronicle. She had big dreams and an even bigger ego.
San Francisco in 2010 was a dream for Maura, who spent much of her free time on the internet scrolling through Buzzfeed and Tumblr on the brand new MacBook her parents bought for her, hoping she’d use it to apply for jobs. Maura loved to carefully curate everything in her life: Her Tumblr page was an aesthetic array of reblogged photos of Zooey Deschanel and her tiny studio apartment looked like it was straight from a Pinterest board. Rather than building a resume, she focused on building an online presence, making her a perfect fit for the plethora of tech-bro hipsters running to the city.
In order to pay her rent and feed her passion for vintage clothing, Maura took a job at a smoothie shop that doubled as a vegan wellness grocery store. It was there she met her coworker Benjamin, a 25-year-old computer scientist trying to find a job at one of the millions of tech startups in the Bay. He preferred computers over humans; at least, until he met Maura. Her colorful wardrobe and knowledge of various indie music genres made her the perfect manic pixie dream girl match for his socially awkward nerd persona. Benjamin wore a daily uniform of some sort of patterned button-up shirt, pants rolled up a little too high, and thick square-frame glasses. Obviously, Maura immediately fell head over heels for Benjamin.
On one of their first dates, an experimental music show at a small venue in the Mission, Maura told Benjamin about her idea to start a lifestyle magazine.
“The blogosphere we know today is boring. Basic, even. I want to bring a new voice, one that people aren’t getting on Buzzfeed,” she said, a light sparkling in her eyes that made Benjamin fully believe she could change the hipster world. Maura was getting antsy without a creative outlet (or a way to talk about herself), and Benjamin was tired of getting rejected from startup after startup. After a heated public makeout session, they agreed to become the cofounders of “Breaking the Binary.”
A year after its inception, “Breaking the Binary” had done very little breaking out into the mainstream, let alone the “underground” that Maura had been hoping to reach. Benjamin told her the magazine lacked “grit”: It was far too basic to be appreciated by the contrarians of their generation and not trendy enough to be loved by the general public.
“We need to write about things that other people aren’t,” Maura said as she blended up strawberries and bananas. “We need to take a risk.”
Next to her behind the counter, Benjamin arranged the various powders flaunting a variety of specific health benefits.
“I agree,” Benjamin mumbled.
“What about drugs? We could do a bunch of drugs and talk about them. Or interview people who do drugs.”
“No, that’s exploitative to the drug-doing community.”
“You’re right. What about politics? We never get political.”
“That’s because there’s already enough politics in the news. What do we have to say that’s any different than the Chronicle?”
Maura gazed off into the distance, her deep pondering soundtracked to the scream of the blender. As she stared out the large glass doors of the smoothie bar and vegan wellness store, the billboard across the street caught her eye. It was advertising the spring line of lingerie at Victoria’s Secret. Maura hated how the overly sexualized female body became a commodity that she was forced to stare at every time she went to work. Then it dawned on her.
“Sex!” she exclaimed, startling the mustached hipster customer waiting for their straw-nana smoothie.
“What?” Benjamin asked.
“Sex. We can talk about sex. Think about it. Everyone has sex, but no one ever really talks about it. It’s messy, it’s political, it’s gritty, it’s…”
“It’s genius.”
Then the couple furiously made out, forgetting all about the blender and the straw-nana smoothie and the waiting customer.
The following week, at the “Breaking the Binary” all-staff meeting in Maura’s studio, the small magazine staff prepared to share their stories. The staff was an eclectic mix of aspiring writers. There was Liza, a personal essayist who was writing about how lesbian sex taught her more about her relationship with the Earth. There was Maxwell, a stone-faced investigative reporter, exploring how the uptick in polyamory was linked to the underground club scene in the Tenderloin. Then there was Daniel Daniels (though everyone called him by his last name, Daniels, as it rolls off the tongue better), a rather unserious writer who wrote pieces neither Maura nor Benjamin could ever predict. He was their loose cannon.
“Daniels, what do you got?” asked Maura.
Daniels, who was busy clipping his fingernails into a waste basket by Maura’s couch, responded: “Working on a story about this guy who wears goggles every time he fucks. Said it was something about endurance?”
“Right,” Maura said, scribbling down into her notepad. “So that just leaves Benjamin and me with the letter from the editors. We’re right on track.”
It had been three days since the last staff meeting, and Maura was stuck. She’d hit a wall with her portion of the letter from the editors. For some reason, she found herself unable to write about sex. She had nothing interesting to say. To her, sex wasn’t this casual or explorative act of self-discovery like her writers seemed to argue. Sex used to mean something. At least, that’s what Maura thought. But no one wanted to hear the ramblings of a romantic. They wanted the dirty details on modern sex.
Later that night, Benjamin and Maura were cuddled on the couch in her apartment, watching Wes Anderson’s “The Royal Tenenbaums.” She suddenly found herself frustrated. She was 23 and living in San Francisco. She shouldn’t be tucked in on a Friday night watching some arthouse movie. She yearned to be wandering down the streets of the Castro, popping in between late-night taco stands and bars illuminated by the neon lights of corner stores. She should be on a dance floor, holding onto a stranger and making out under a streetlight outside before stumbling through their apartment door.
“Benjamin?” Maura peered up at her boyfriend, whose eyes were glued to the screen as Luke Wilson and Gwyneth Paltrow stared at one another while “These Days” by Nico played in the background.
“Yeah?” He didn’t even turn to meet Maura’s gaze.
“What if… what if we don’t finish this movie and…” she trailed off as she scooted herself up against him awkwardly, attempting to plant a kiss on his lips.
“Wait, Maura, you’re blocking the screen.”
Maura sank back down into the couch, letting out a defeated sigh. Sex seemed out of the question tonight.
The next magazine meeting took place in a cramped Starbucks blasting Katy Perry, much to the chagrin of the staff of pretentious indie music enjoyers. Maura’s landlord had warned her against hosting “large groups of people” after her neighbors complained about the stench of marijuana and cigarettes that filled the hallways after each meeting.
“How’re the articles coming along? Liza?” Maura asked from where she was perched on Benjamin’s lap (the Starbucks lacked enough seating for the whole crew).
“I’ve hooked up with a different woman each night,” Liza, who was wrapped in layers of tie-dyed boho-chic fabric, responded. “I think I’m finally opening my third eye.”
“Wow, that’s um, amazing,” Maura replied, though she didn’t sound particularly excited about her friend’s sexual success. “Maxwell, how’s the polyamory going?”
“Monogamy is a prison that only SF nightclubs can free us from,” the stern reporter retorted.
“Monogamy, prison. Great. Daniels?”
Daniels, who remained diligently focused on his occupation of folding paper napkins into tiny paper planes, remarked, “Goggles guy is currently being studied by researchers at Stanford; they’re fascinated by the connection between visual impairment and sex.” Seemingly satisfied with his paper plane, Daniels released it into the air before adding, “And let me just say: I started wearing goggles in bed. Has me telling the girls I hook up with that I love them!”
“Ohhkay. Well, it seems like your pieces are all going great. Can’t wait to read the final products.”
However, the manner in which Maura forced this remark out through gritted teeth suggested otherwise.
Maura couldn’t help but resent her fellow writers. She felt out of touch. Everyone in her generation seemed to be having free, reckless, emotionless sex except her. Maura was jealous. Why wasn’t she included in this new sexual revolution? There were people like Daniels’ goggle guy, who claimed he was mainly focused on how much sex he could have rather than who he was having it with.
She thought about all the sex she’d had in her life. When she had first started having sex, she’d listen to the advice her friends told her: You just have to lie there.
After meeting Benjamin, sex became easier, something she participated in rather than just let happen to her. Still, she’d find herself dreading the end of the night when she’d have to strip down and let Benjamin’s heavy form push her into the bed. She was accustomed to counting the seconds it took for him to collapse, sweaty and panting onto her chest. He learned to stop asking if she finished.
Later that night, Benjamin and Maura were finally having sex after what felt like weeks. She was initially excited to potentially become the sexual goddess she imagined for herself. She wanted to try something new, but when she tried to initiate a little role-play or dirty talk, Benjamin seemed to freeze. Anything else beyond typical missionary and gentle kisses were like a puzzle Benjamin could not put together.
Suddenly the voices of her staff members entered her mind: “I’m finally opening my third eye…” “Monogamy is a prison…” “I tell the girls I hook up with that I love them!”
No, no, this couldn’t continue.
“Stop!” The word came out before she realized. Maura felt disgusted as Benjamin interrupted his pathetic performance, rolling onto his back next to her.
“What’s going on, babe? You didn’t like that?” Benjamin asked through inhales.
Now was her chance — her chance to become liberated, her chance to free herself from the chains of bad sex and enter a new life as a woman who knew what she wanted.
“No. I didn’t.”
“What?”
“Yeah, it was bad. And you didn’t even notice?”
“What — what do you mean?”
“I was laying there silent the entire time. I wasn’t even thinking about you! I was counting down the seconds until you finished!”
“Babe, I’m confused.”
“We had bad sex, Benjamin. It’s not that hard to comprehend. We always have bad sex. Maybe it’s good for you, but it’s never good for me.”
Maura didn’t even want to let Benjamin respond; she needed to release everything that was pent up in her body. She leapt out of bed, unable to control the anger pulsing through her veins. The words just flowed out of her as she paced in front of the bed where Benjamin was staring at her, knees pulled to his chest in defeat.
“You don’t care if I finish. We only ever have missionary sex. I’m bored! And you’re just simply not going to satisfy me the way I need!”
“Babe, I can, just let me try!”
“You’ve had two years to try. I guess I thought that it was normal.”
“What are you saying?”
“I have to be free to have good sex. I deserve it.”
And with that, Maura got out of bed, pulled on her colored tights, buttoned up her cardigan, and headed out the door. As she walked down the busy Mission streets, she smiled to herself. She’d finally broken the binary. She was free now. She was going to be sexually radicalized. She was going to have meaningless empty sex with people she didn’t know nor particularly care about. She’d be like all her single friends. That would finally make her feel worth something. It had to.