MLA Sex.

The old story goes like this: local hookers leave town when the Modern Language Association’s annual convention arrives.

The phenomenon is usually explained by the following no doubt apocryphal tale (no puns, please) ostensibly overheard by a graduate student. Two hookers are in an elevator, bags packed, ready to flee: “Nah, I never stay around for this convention,” says one. “Me neither,” agrees the other. “All they do is talk. Never saw so much talking, so much drinking, and so little screwing in all my life.”

It’s like “The Return of The Repressed” are in town again.

David Lodge’s Small World described it best, illuminated it with more wit, finesse, and honesty than anybody else could ever match, but the old story about the convention is still fun.

It is, however, flawed.

Because there is indeed sex at the MLA.

Lots of it.

Lots of versions of it, too. Many of those versions might well contain lots of drinking and lots of talking and no actual screwing, but I would argue that even those versions are still sex.

Argue all you want with your partner that those non-screw encounters aren’t sex, but we know better, don’t we?

For those of us who talk for a living, for whom words are erotic and delicious, for whom every phrase is nuanced and laced with the possibility of nearly endless interpretations, talk isn’t cheap and it isn’t sexless.

Three-hour conversations in hotel bars with nearly perfect strangers, meetings held in bedrooms (even if they are referred to as “suites”) where it’s not only the discussions that get heated, dalliances with former students, former professors, erstwhile lovers, one-time friends-with-benefits who might yet remain beneficial — these are the stuff that MLA conferences are made of.

Don’t even talk to me about the sessions. Tell it to your trailing spouse if you want somebody to buy your palaver that it’s all about professional development.

Yes, yes, of course there are fabulous sessions, panels where big ideas get tossed around and where new approaches are made viable, if not actually born; sure, sure, there is the occasionally terrific and invigorating paper that sparks significant debate and worthy deliberation.

But that makes up, what, maybe 1/10th of the time at the convention? The rest is about schmoozing.

And when there is schmoozing, there is sex.

This is especially true for people who otherwise don’t get out a lot or, to be more specific, don’t get unrestricted intellectual playtime with colleagues who share their juicy but too often untapped spring of concupiscence. Of course it’s all highly charged and unnervingly ardent. When talking about our passions, isn’t it often tricky not to act them out?

Look, I’ve had great times at the MLA for all the right and all the wrong reasons — I’m not talking about Other People here while invoking my right to privacy — and all I want to say is this: Remember that the people you spend time with now are the ones you’ll see every winter for the rest of your professional life.

Behave well. Choose wisely.

And take notes.

(Image from original photos by Flickr users Rick, Scootie, Wheat in Your Hair, and Faeryan.)