We are a nation obsessed with sex. Fascinated by it; driven, titillated and entertained by it. We idealize it for commerce, romanticize it for cable and fixate on it for…well, pretty much everything else. We’ve iconicized our porn stars, peeped gleefully in on our randy athletes, pumped and plumped and pummeled our bodies into Ken and Barbie ideals of sexual beauty, God knows how many of us are actually getting any but, damn, whatever we’re getting we can’t get enough!

Yet even with all this hypersexual oversaturation we still seem to have generated a culture of women with not a sexual boundary or moral compass in sight (men’s wives and children be damned), and a complementary tribe of men who seem hell-bent on destroying their lives, careers, families and reputations for the sake of that one body part that speaks the loudest and can’t ever seem to stay put (you know the one). There’s much to be said about the various women in these equations but for the moment, particularly given the Weiner roasting of late, let’s focus on the fellows.

What’s the problem, guys? Illuminate us.

Why do so many high profile men seem incapable of keeping it in their literal and metaphoric pants? Off their social media pages? Away from their cell cameras? Out of their nanny’s, videographer’s, intern’s, best friend’s wife’s, or local prostitute’s…bed?  What is this unequivocally self-destructive proclivity and why is it so prevalent amongst today’s politicians?

(Though, mind you, it’s not just a problem of the high-profile; I’m sure there are plenty of low-profilers with the same self-destructive tendencies wreaking havoc on their own marriages, families and jobs. We just ain’t hearing about ‘em because they’ve got less distance to fall and the resulting “thunk” doesn’t resonate as loudly. These higher-profile guys? Meteor blasts of destruction all over the damn place.)

There are tomes dissecting the phenomenon being written by psychologists, doctors, therapists and scholars who know much more about the mind and its machinations than I, and their analyses will surely cover the mental, emotional, psychological and cultural pathology of this dysfunction. Me? I want to talk about Mom, Dad and the Sex Talk.

Even in this more enlightened age, I well remember an exchange I had with a fellow mother when my son was in middle school. The conversation came around to sex and she asked how I approached that red-hot topic with my son (she literally leaned in and whispered the word “sex“).  I very matter-of-factly said, “We talk about it. Always have. Ever since he started asking years ago and will until the day he stops asking. Always age-appropriate, always clear and candid, always on both the emotional and physical aspects of the question, and on any sex related topic he wondered about.” She literally gasped and shook her head in awe, “You’re so brave.”

Brave?

What does brave have to do with it? Why does it take courage to talk to our kids about sex and its many wonders, complications, and responsibilities?

Because, despite our libidinous public appetites and ravenous over-consumptions, we remain a distinctly and counterproductively Puritanical society, deferring to our various religious, ethnic and cultural mandates  - and personal timidity – to keep us from honestly and openly dealing with this very real, very important element of life in candid conversation with our children. We’ll allow them to watch sex in movies, music videos, TV shows and the pole-dance parties currently all the rage for young teens (seriously), but we get squeamish about face to face, eye contact inducing, heart to heart talking on the topic. In some homes it’s Topic Verboten (yes, capital letters). In others, it’s considered too private and personal to get beyond bromides. Still others glibly figure “the school’ll take care of it!” and, most damaging, the families for whom sex is  too connected to sin and so off-limits that discussion is moot and repression is inevitable, leaving all future pendulum swings assured.

The result of this panoply of avoidance and ignorance is that too many children grow into their adulthood carrying the same sexual questions, confusions, fixations and repressions ignored or imposed in their childhoods, with no language developed to talk about the quirks and questions of their darker corners with anyone, inclusive of wives (particularly), friends, colleagues, even therapists. It’s all pushed down and put aside and out of conscious view and this cauldron of denial inevitably ferments into a great soup of sexual dysfunction and/or destructive acting out that results in the tawdry and embarrassing scenarios that seem to fill our 24/7 news cycle.

As for why so many politicians? Well, add to my thesis the traits endemic to the political personality – ambition, drive, arrogance, entitlement, perceived social immunity and the “sycophantasy” support system a celebrity or politician (the same?) so often accrues – and you’ve got the perfect storm of Bad Behavior Enlarged.

As more families are shattered, constituents disappointed and “good” wives are left to painfully stand by their errant, damaged men, I say, Parents, start now. Start talking to your kids about sex. REALLY talk to them. More than once, many times over the years, as often as they need or want to, even when they don’t want to. Ask questions. Listen to their answers. Discuss every detail offered, analyze every urge expressed, leave no thought ignored, let nothing be too private. Make no judgment, acknowledge their natural sexuality, and let shame nowhere near the conversation. Guide them through the gauntlet of its power and pull to get them safely to the other side of adolescence clear on what healthy sexuality, emotional fidelity, sexual integrity and personal discretion look and feel like.

I swear, if at every step of the way the questions and curiosities of developing children were openly met by wise, fearless parents and mentors who would honestly and compassionately answer those questions, we couldn’t help but develop a healthier society of sexually rational men who don’t play out their lifelong repressions behind sex and porn addictions, wolf-pack foraging, social media exhibitionism, clueless sexual acting out and, ultimately, personal and very public self-immolation.

And note I said “wise, fearless parents and mentors…” Huh.

Maybe it does take bravery.

If there ever was a show that reeked of a high school boys’ locker room or the improbable scenarios of moist, nighttime delusion, Showtime’s Californication is it. Loud, crass, bawdy, with some heart, occasional soul, but mostly lots and lots of other body parts (and I don’t mean arms and legs), it’s cable TV at its randiest.  It is, after all, premiere cable, code for “great stories with naked bodies and enough sex to bump the brink of porn.” Which can be fun in the right hands. The Tudors. The Sopranos. Hung. But in the hands of Executive Producers Tom Kapinos and David Duchovny, Californication is a study in the kind of panting, hyperbolic male fantasy that is completely bereft of reality, particularly when it comes to women.

I was an early fan. Loved the insouciance, the irreverence, the utter anarchy of it all, and The Graduate ending of that first season was laugh-out-loud exhilarating. I enjoyed David Duchovny’s slacker charm. LOVED Natascha McElhone. Found Evan Handler and Pamela Adlon’s schtick funny/crass and completely over-the-top. Madeleine Martin was uniquely effective, if a bit one-note, and the stunt casting was often memorable — and not always in a good way, particularly Kathleen Turner’s sticky, sleazy turn as Sue Collini and Rick Springfield’s inexplicably unlikable version of himself. The show has been, in turn, profane, cheeky, contemptuous, and wry, but unfortunately none of this has kept it from the bane of series television: becoming yawningly predictable and downright silly. And like that relationship you hold on to because of that first great year, I’ve stuck it out, too often wondering why. It may be time to let go.

The problem?  Delusional sexual oversaturation.

Hard to fathom, particularly on a premiere cable show supposedly based the alter ego of rock star author, Charles Bukowski, but much like the folly of eating chocolates to the point of gut-churning aversion, Californication’s obsession with all things sexual – the relentless, inescapable menu of every word, phrase, or act ever imagined in that boy’s locker room – has actually caused it to become – dare I say – unsexy.

Hard to fault depictions of women as sexual beings keeping pace with their typically hornier male counterparts and it can be fun to watch a hot chick slap bawdy repartee with the best of the bad boys, but in the humid world that is Californication, every single woman who comes in contact with Duchovny’s character, Hank Moody, unequivocally, immediately and sometimes inexplicably wants to leap into bed with him in a bad way. Every woman. Really bad.

That would be fine – given the tone and tenor of the show – if there was even a modicum of recognizable real-life behavior attached to this Cal-equation of Hank+breath+female=immediate sex, but it’s actually become a running joke in my house: timing how long it will take any new female character to drop trou for our rakishly charming but slightly skeazy anti-hero. Typically it’s within minutes. It doesn’t matter if they’re young, oldish, jail-bait, married, involved or even a Scientologist, the only requisite is that they’re breathing, willing to get naked, and hot (the chunky ones are relegated to the court-jester that is Evan Handler’s Charlie Runkle).  Which poses the question: Every woman? Really?? There’s not one woman in the sphere of this character who can possibly resist his quipping, carnal come on? Apparently not.

When this season began with the introduction of Carla Gugino’s lawyer, Abby Rhodes (clever?) – whip-smart, principled and refreshingly immune to Hank’s weary act – my respect for the writers actually peaked for a moment, believing they’d come to their senses to realize the show desperately needed a shot of something different and unexpected. A hot woman who didn’t want to sleep with Hank Moody would have been both. But no. Within weeks, completely against character but utterly in lock-step with the mind-numbing mission statement of the show, even Able Abby threw her principles to the wind and her panties to the floor when Hank’s infallible appeal broke her down. Women watching around the country threw things at the TV set…and it wasn’t their underwear!

There is clearly a sociological and gender debate to be had regarding the supreme delusion perpetrated weekly on this show regarding how women respond to men. The writers (and I was stunned to learn there are two females in that lecherous group!) would have us believe that their character, Hank, is so appealing and irresistible that the breathless, boundary-less females have no choice but to succumb. Clearly it’s thought that there’s much fun to be had in reducing all female characters to rapacious sexual carnivores utterly lacking in impulse control (can we ever forget Embeth Davitz’s salivating Dean or Eva Amurri’s strip-teasing student?). Not one woman in the bunch has a moral compass, a sense of decorum or even the slightest revulsion to a male character who, while certainly of some dubious charm, also looks like he might need a good hosing down and a visit to the free clinic.

Then there’s daughter-mama, Karen, all winsome adoration and giggling forgiveness, who can’t seem to hold a position of strength for more than one angry retort or two, no matter that Duchovny’s character cyclically and grievously hurts and betrays both her and their child on a regular basis. He is always, always, forgiven with a simple flick of a grin and just the right turn of a phrase, an appallingly glib dismissal of the kind of repetitive dysfunctional behavior that, in the real world, destroys marriages, ruins relationships, sets children up for a life of turmoil, loses jobs and lands people in jail or rehab.  Just look at the recent train wreck that is Charlie Sheen; his behavior is on a par with Hank Moody’s but the consequences of his behaviors offer a brutal, less charming, and much more realistic outcome. Hard to laugh along with Hank’s mischief when what is reflected in real life is so profoundly at odds with the delusional merriment.

Given its persistent story arc, it seems unlikely that much will ever change with this show. Season after season they’ll serve up dirty-mouthed men and women, hyper-sexualized nubiles, endlessly kinky conundrums, lascivious sex partners served on a platter and Hank Moody licking his grinning chops…wash, rinse, dirty, repeat, yawn. I dare you guys to give us a real-life consequence for our cop-smacking, teen-bedding Hank and perhaps a hot female character who actually finds him sophomoric, redundant and utterly resistible. A woman with spine and conviction for whom no amount of Hank-erin’ will break her down. Just try it. You might like the creative dilemmas it poses for our bad boy and, for just once, the lack of ready sex might actually be…sexy. Imagine!