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Once upon a time an English journalist came to New York.

Elizabeth was attractive and bright,

and right away she hooked up with one of the city's eligible bachelors.

The question remains, is this a company we want to own?

Tim was 42.

A well-liked and respected banker,

who made about two million a year.

They met one evening, in typical New York fashion, at a gallery opening.

Like it?

Yes, actually I think it's quite interesting. What?

- I feel like I know you. - Oh, doubtful.

- I just moved here from London. - Really?

That's my favourite city.

- It is? - Absolutely.

It was love at first sight.

You know, I think perhaps I have met you somewhere before.

For two weeks they snuggled...

...went to romantic restaurants...

...had wonderful sex...

...and shared the most intimate secrets.

One spring day, he took her to a house he saw in Sunday's New York Times.

How about if we start at the top? There are four bedrooms upstairs.

- Do you have any children? - Not yet.

That day Tim popped the question.

Would you like to meet my folks Tuesday night?

I'd love to.

On Tuesday he called with some bad news.

- My mother's not feeling very well. - Oh, gosh, I'm sorry.

- Can we take a rain check? - Of course.

Tell your mum I hope she feels better.

When she hadn't heard from him for two weeks, she called.

Tim, it's Elizabeth. That's an awfully long rain check.

He said he was up to his ears and that he'd call the next day.

He never did call... Bastard.

- She told me one day over coffee... - ...I don't understand.

In England looking at houses together, would have meant something.

Then I realised, no one had told her about the end of love in Manhattan.

Welcome to the "age of un-innocence".

No one has "breakfast at Tiffany's", and no one has "affairs to remember".

Instead, we have breakfast at 7:00am

and affairs we try to forget as quickly as possible.

Self-protection and closing the deal are paramount.

Cupid has flown the co-op.

How did we get into this mess?

There are thousands of women like this in the city.

We all know them and we all agree they're great.

They travel, they pay taxes,

they'll spend $400 on a pair of Manolo Blahnik strappy sandals,

and they're alone.

It's like the riddle of the Sphinx.

Why are there so many great unmarried women

and no great unmarried men?

I explore these issues in my column and I have terrific sources: my friends.

When you're in your 20s, women control the relationships.

By the time you're in your 30s, you're being devoured by women.

Suddenly the guys are holding all the chips.

I call it "the mid-thirties power flip".

It's all about age and biology.

If you want to get married, it's to have kids, right?

If you do it with someone older than 35, you have to have kids right away.

And that's about it.

These women should forget about marriage... and have a good time.

I have a friend who'd always gone out with extremely sexy guys

and just had a good time.

One day she woke up and she was 41 . She couldn't get any more dates.

She had a breakdown, couldn't hold on to her job,

and moved back to Wisconsin to live with her mother.

Trust me, this is not a story that makes men feel bad.

Most men are threatened by successful women.

If you want to get these guys,

you have to keep your mouth shut and play by the rules.

I totally believe that love conquers all.

Sometimes you just have to give it a little space.

That's what's missing in Manhattan - the space for romance.

The problem is expectations - older women won't accept what's available.

By your mid 30s, you think why should I settle?

You know?

The older we get the more we keep self-selecting down to a smaller group.

What women really want is Alec Baldwin.

There's not one woman in New York

who hasn't turned down ten wonderful guys

because they were too short, or too fat, or too poor.

I've been out with short, fat and poor guys. It makes no difference.

They are just as self-centred as the good-looking ones.

Why don't these women marry a fat guy?

Why don't they just marry a big fat tub of lard?

Happy birthday

Dear Miranda

Happy birthday to you

Another thirty-something birthday with a group of unmarried female friends.

We would all have preferred a celebratory conference call.

You were saying?

A successful woman in this city, can either struggle to find a relationship,

or just go out and have sex like a man.

- You mean with dildos? - No. I mean without feeling.

Samantha Jones was a New York inspiration. A public relations executive,

she routinely slept with good-looking guys in their 20s.

Remember that guy that I was going out with? What was his name?

- Drew. - The sex god.

I felt nothing. It was like, "Gotta go, catch you later."

And I completely forgot about him after that.

That's because he didn't call you.

Sweetheart, this is the first time in the history of Manhattan

that women have had as much power as men,

plus the equal luxury of treating men like sex objects.

Yeah, except men in this city don't want to be in a relationship with you,

but if you only want them for sex they don't like it.

- Suddenly they can't perform. - That's when you dump them.

Come on, ladies, are we really that cynical?

- What about romance? - Who needs it?

It's like that guy, Jeremiah, the poet.

I mean the sex was incredible, but then he wanted to read me his poetry

and go out to dinner and chat, and I'm like, "Let's not even go there."

What are you saying? Are you saying you're just gonna give up on love?

- That's sick! - Believe me, the right guy comes along

and this whole thing's right out the window.

- That's right! - The right guy is an illusion.

Start living your life!

So you think it's possible

to pull off this whole women having sex like men thing.

- You're forgetting The Last Seduction. - You're obsessed with that movie.

OK! Linda Fiorentino fucking that guy up against the chain-link fence.

And never having one of those "God, what have I done?" epiphanies.

I hated that movie.

Was it true? Were women in New York giving up on love

and throttling up on power?

What a tempting thought.

I think the only place where one can still find love and romance in New York

is the gay community.

Straight love has become closeted.

Stanford Blatch was a close friend.

He owned a talent agency who, at the moment, was down to a single client.

So are you telling me that you're in love?

How could I possibly sustain a relationship?

Derek takes up 1 ,000% of my time.

Don't you think that's a bit obsessive?

Carrie, I'm a passionate person. His career is all I care about.

When that's under control, then I can concentrate on my personal life.

- Stanford, he's an underwear model. - With a billboard in Times Square!

Oh, my God, don't turn around. The loathe of your life is at the bar.

It was Kurt Harrington.

A mistake I made when I was 26...

and 29...

and 31 .

Carrie, don't even go there.

What do you think, I'm a masochist? The man is scum.

Good. I don't have the patience to comfort you a fourth time.

- Relax. I don't have any feelings left. - Thank God.

Excuse me, I have to visit the ladies room.

It was true, I no longer felt a thing for Kurt.

After all these years, I finally saw him for what he was -

a self-centred withholding creep,

who was still the best sex I ever had in my life.

However, I did have a little experiment in mind.

- Wow, what are you doing here? - Hey, babe.

- God, you look gorgeous. - Thanks.

So, how's life?

Not bad, can't complain. You?

You know just writing the column, the usual.

So, you seeing anyone special?

Not really. You?

Oh, just a couple of guys.

- But you look good though. - So do you.

So... What are you doing later?

I thought you weren't talking to me for the rest of your life?

Who said anything about talking?

What do you say to my place, three o'clock?

All right. See you there.

Are you out of your mind? What do you think you're doing?

Calm down, it's research.

Oh, God! Oh, Kurt!

Kurt was just like I remembered.

Better.

Because this time there would be none of that messy emotional attachment.

All righty.

My turn.

Oh, sorry. I have to go back to work.

- What are you kidding? You serious? - Oh, yeah completely.

But I'll give you a call. Maybe we can do it again some time?

As I began to get dressed, I realised that I'd done it.

I'd just had sex like a man.

I left feeling powerful, potent, and incredibly alive.

I felt like I owned the city - nothing and no one could get in my way.

Number one - he's very handsome.

Number two - he's not wearing a wedding ring.

Number three - he knows I carry a personal supply

of ultra-textured Trojans with the reservoir tip.

- Thanks a lot. - Any time.

Later that night, Skipper Johnston met me for coffee

and confessed a shocking intimate secret.

- Thank you. - Do you know that it has been a year?

Really? I don't understand that, you're such a nice guy.

That's the problem. I'm too nice, you know?

I'm a romantic. I just have so much feeling.

- Are you sure you're not gay? - No!

I'm sensitive and I don't objectify women.

You know, most guys when they meet a girl,

the first thing that they see is...

- You know. - Pussy?

Oh, God!

I hate that word.

Don't you have any friends that you can hook me up with?

- No, they're too old for you. - I like older women.

Maybe.

- Maybe my friend Miranda. - When?

Tomorrow night. We're all going downtown to this club, Chaos.

Great.

Don't tell her I'm nice.

Miranda was gonna hate Skipper.

She'd think he was mocking her with his sweet nature

and decide he was an asshole.

The way she had decided all men were assholes.

- Hello? - Hey, Carrie, it's Charlotte.

- Hey, sweetie. - I can't meet you guys for dinner tomorrow

because I have an amazing date.

- With who? - Capote Duncan,

he's supposedly some big shot in the publishing world. Do you know him?

He was one of the city's most notoriously un-gettable bachelors.

Wait, wait. Don't answer that question, because I don't care.

And another thing, I'm not buying into that "women having sex like men" crap.

I didn't want to tell her about my afternoon of cheap and easy sex and how good it felt.

All right, fine. Listen, have a good time, and promise to tell me everything.

- If you're lucky. Bye. - All right, bye.

Friday night at Chaos.

It was just like that bar in Cheers where "everybody knows your name".

Except here they were likely to forget it five minutes later.

Still, it was the cr�me de la cr�me of New York, whipped into a frenzy.

Sometimes you got a souffl�, sometimes cottage cheese.

It is like a model bomb exploded in this room tonight.

Is there a woman here aside from me that weighs more than a hundred pounds?

I know it's like under-eaters anonymous.

- That's funny, Skippy. - Skipper.

I have this theory that men secretly hate pretty girls

because they feel that they're the ones who rejected them in high school.

But if you're not in the beauty Olympics, you can still be a very... interesting person.

- Are you saying that I'm not pretty? - No, of course you are.

So ipso facto, I can't be interesting? Women fall into one of two categories -

beautiful and boring, or homely and interesting? Is that it, Skippy?

No, that's not what I meant.

Excuse me, is this your hand on my knee?

- No. - Let's keep them where I can see them.

I guess you must find me beautiful.

Or interesting.

I was about to rescue Skipper from an increasingly hopeless situation,

when suddenly...

- Lucky me, twice in one week. - Well, you may not be getting that lucky.

- I was pissed off the way you left. - You were?

Yeah. And then I thought how great!

You finally understand that we can have sex without commitment.

Yeah, right. Sure, I guess.

So whenever I feel like it, I'll give you a call.

Yeah, please, whenever you feel like it. I mean, if I'm alone, I'm all yours.

- All right. - I like this new you.

- Call me. - Yup.

I didn't understand,

did men secretly want their women promiscuous and emotionally detached.

And if I was really having sex like a man,

why didn't I feel more in control?

You see that guy? He's the next Donald Trump,

except he's younger and much better looking.

Hi.

- Do you know him? - No, I've never seen him in my life.

He usually dates models, but, hey, I'm as good looking as a model,

plus I own my own business.

Samantha had the kind of deluded self-confidence

that caused men like Ross Perot to run for President.

And it usually got her what she wanted.

Well, if you're not gonna hit on him, I will.

And there she went, off to take her best shot with Mr Big.

Meanwhile, Charlotte York

was passing the most splendid evening with Capote Duncan.

Want to go back to my place and see the Ross Bleckner?

- I'd love to, but it's really getting late. - No problem.

What year was it painted again?

'89.

Though Charlotte was playing hard to get, she didn't want to end it too abruptly.

Well... Maybe just for a minute.

This could easily go for a hundred grand. Ross is so hot right now.

It's beautiful.

No, you're beautiful.

Thank you...

for tonight.

- I had a wonderful time. - Well, it was my pleasure.

I have to get up really early tomorrow.

I'll get you a cab.

Charlotte told me later that she thought she'd played the entire evening flawlessly.

So, what are you doing next Saturday?

I'm having dinner with you.

Hey, hey, you're going to the West Side, right?

Right, West Fourth and Bank please.

Scoot over, will you?

Two stops,

Fourth and Bank and West Broadway and Broome.

- You're going to Chaos? - Oh, yeah.

Why?

I understand where you're coming from and I totally respect it.

But I really need to have sex tonight.

Back at Chaos, things were swinging into high gear

and Samantha was putting the moves on Mr Big.

I've been smoking cigars for years, back when they were terminally uncool.

I've got this great source that sends me Hondurans. Do you want to try one?

- No, thank you. - You can't find them anywhere.

Cohibas - that's all I smoke.

Look, I do the PR for this club

and I have a key to the private room downstairs.

Really?

You want a private tour?

No thanks, but maybe another time.

Meanwhile, Skipper Johnston was hopelessly smitten with Miranda Hobbes.

So where we going now?

Listen, Skippy, you know, you really are a nice sweet guy, but...

Oh, I understand.

Goodnight.

Miranda said she thought he was too nice,

but she was willing to overlook one flaw.

And Capote Duncan found his fix for the night.

Where is it? I want to see the Ross Bleckner.

Later.

Later.

Oh, listen.

I gotta get up really early, so you can't stay over.

- Cool? - Sure, I have to get up really early, too.

Taxi! Taxi!

And so another Friday night in Manhattan crept towards dawn.

Taxi!

And just when I thought I would have to do the unspeakable -

walk home...

Well, get in for chrissakes.

- Where can I drop you? - 72nd Street, Third Avenue.

- You got that, Al? - Yes, sir.

So what have you been doing lately?

You mean besides going out every night?

Yeah, I mean what do you do for work?

Well, this is my work. I'm sort of a sexual anthropologist.

You mean like a hooker?

No. I write a column called Sex And The City.

Right now I'm researching an article about women who have sex like men.

They have sex and then afterwards they feel nothing.

- But you're not like that. - Well, aren't you ?

Not a drop. Not even half a drop.

Wow. What's wrong with you?

I get it.

You've never been in love.

Oh, yeah?

Yeah.

Suddenly I felt the wind knocked out of me.

I wanted to crawl under the covers and go right to sleep.

- Thanks for the ride. - Any time.

Wait.

Have you ever been in love?

Abso-fucking-lutely.

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