Screw Everyone: Sleeping My Way to Monogamy (24 page)

It was a shame to be so distraught while driving on the most beautiful one hundred miles of highway in the country. The road felt as if it were hovering over the Atlantic Ocean or suspended by the clouds, as you crossed over from one tropical island to the next. I would look out the windows and gasp at the scenery, then return to planning Mission Delete Jonathan. My idea was to start by telling him that he could take me off his stupid list and wishing him luck finding a girl who fit in better among the Sarahs and Laurens. I’d tell him he didn’t deserve my great blow job that I actually cared about giving to him. Then I’d turn on my heels, drive back to the airport, and get on the next flight. After packing up my stuff, I would move to LA. Fuck that guy—he was dead weight in my life and career. It was too bad we wasted a year and a half on each other.

Jonathan called while I was still driving. I picked up the phone and answered his questions simply, with no cadence or energy in my voice. “About an hour away. Yes, I’m fine. I have the address.”

He ended the call by saying, “I can’t wait to see you, baby!” and the words screeched in my ears and made my mouth dry. I hated him. I felt played, betrayed, and stupid. But I wasn’t going to say anything on the phone. I needed to
see
his jerky face.

As I pulled up to the condo, I saw Jonathan and his friend Jen race down the outside cement stairs to greet me. I tried not to pull back too much from the obligatory kiss and hug and give myself away. We walked to Jen’s apartment down a path surrounded by palm trees
and hibiscuses in bloom, and I fought to control my urge to smash my suitcase over his head. I felt terrible having to meet this sweet friend Jen under these sour circumstances. The poor girl, she kept flashing me these big beaming smiles, but I had nothing to give her back. I knew the disdain was all over my face, my bottled-up fury slowly seeping out of my pores and perfuming the air. She probably thought I was a bit of a cold bitch, but she’d forgive me once she found out why I was acting so bizarre.

It was getting late and Jen was an early riser, so she bid us good-night. I did not want to retreat to our air mattress room and start freaking out with abandon. I wanted it to be controlled and specific and effective. Jonathan closed the door behind us and asked innocently, “Are you okay? Did something happen on the way down?” It was enough to light my fuse. I burst into insults, starting with calling him a sexist pig, and moving on to a lousy misogynist who couldn’t see past a girl’s fucking vagina, and that he certainly didn’t deserve me.

“What are you talking about?”

“I found your stupid list. You must have felt like a really big man writing that list,” I seethed.

“What list?”

“Don’t pretend to be an idiot.”

“I’m serious, Ophira. I don’t know what list you’re talking about.”

“Oh—there are others? Perfect. The list of all the fucking girls you’ve been with! I found it when I was transferring your stupid comic files.”

I could see it dawn on him, and then he sank into a chair. Fuck. This was really happening. We were breaking up.

“No, that’s not a list . . . well, it is a list, but I wrote it, like, a year ago, when we first met, because I wanted to do a comic strip for this sex anthology, and I was trying to organize my thoughts.”

“Well, you have the thoughts of a misogynist pig. It’s revolting how you think about your exes.” I couldn’t believe I was defending his exes. Also, I’d run out of words to describe a woman-hater, so I was recycling.

Jonathan exhaled hard. “I know exactly how that must have come across to you, but that’s certainly not how I see you or women in general. It was for this story that I never wrote. How can you not know that about me? You know how I see you.”

“Yeah. You see me as a ‘comedienne.’”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“No one uses that term! It’s like ‘spinster.’”

“Oh, sorry—I didn’t know. I thought that was fine.”

“It’s not.”

“Okay. I’m sorry. I love you. It was just a stupid list for a strip.”

Even though I’d taught him the word
sorry
, it still felt meaningful to hear it.

“And for what it’s worth, I never want to update that list,” he said very softly.

Fuck. I wasn’t moving to LA.

Slowly, I began to consider the idea that maybe I was wrong, or at least blew things way out of proportion. Maybe I wasn’t blind to who Jonathan was. It was a little ridiculous to assume that he was some sort
of psychological mastermind who could hide who he truly was from me for over a year. I stewed, crouched on the corner of the air mattress, trying to let my anger deflate, and finally permitted Jonathan to hug me. Then, much to my surprise, we had sex. Even though it was air mattress sex, it was some of the best sex we’d ever had, top-ten-list kind of sex. Take that, number twenty-two.

Jonathan read over his own list the next day and really didn’t think it was that big of a deal, but we agreed to drop the conversation. On the flight home it crossed my mind that I should be happy there were fifty-four girls. Imagine if I were one of four. Chilling. It was time to stop wasting energy waiting for the other shoe to drop and have a little faith in what we had. I pulled out my phone and deleted a couple of numbers.

I
was experiencing all kinds of unfamiliar sensations, like waking up and thinking,
Is it possible that I love this guy more than I did yesterday?
It was a gigantic step up from, “Where the hell is my other boot?” Don’t get too excited—my feelings of accelerating adoration for Jonathan would then plateau for a solid week—but still, I didn’t know that I could feel like that at all. When I asked Jonathan about seeing my scar every day, he said, “You know what? I don’t even see it anymore. I just see you.” Still, my neurosis could not be subdued. I was plagued by a brand-new variety of inner turmoil: that I’d never have another wild adventure again. There was no denying that I was where I wanted to be. If only it didn’t feel so itchy and prickly on my skin. I missed throwing myself into the night, open to whatever basement it would take me to. But I’m not an idiot; I knew sabotaging a good thing for the sake of chasing a thrill wasn’t the answer. I needed to jam that into my head—everything comes with a trade-off.

Now I was headlining at a few clubs, performing in a new storytelling scene, and doing some readings. After one of these shows, where I told the tale of losing my virginity and a bet on the same night, I received an e-mail from an editor at a glossy woman’s magazine aimed at twenty-five- to thirty-five-year-olds, a demographic I was on the cusp of leaving. This editor enjoyed my comedy and thought I’d be a great fit for their audience. She wanted to know if I had an idea for a stunt piece. It was exactly what I was looking for to fill the adventure void. Finally, I could justify some ridiculous, bizarre thing I’d always wanted to do with the perfect excuse: It was a job. I would be like Hunter S. Thompson, a
Gonzo
journalist, a writer in the field. I would actually use my anthropology degree! My entire life made sense in that one moment.

Then I reread her e-mail.

She wasn’t looking for any stunt piece; she wanted a
sex
stunt piece.

What does that even mean? After intercourse you stick your landing?

My chin receded into my head as I digested the premises of past articles she sent as examples: a woman who’d used a make-a-dildo-of-your-boyfriend’s-penis kit, another who’d won an orgasm contest, a third who’d worn a remote-control vibrator in her underwear for a day.

The dick-molding kit seemed too arts-and-craftsy for my taste; the remote-control vibrator sounded plain annoying—who’d want to endure an entire day shifting around, stifling gasps, and silently screaming, “Slower and slightly to the left, goddammit!”; and the
orgasm contest was beyond my scope of understanding. I couldn’t think of anything less titillating than masturbating for the sake of sport in front of a bunch of random people drinking boxed wine out of dirty glasses.

Then I remembered Mistress Amy.

When I first moved to New York, the majority of my gigs were free shows at little bars where the people in the crowd didn’t know a comedy show was about to ruin their evening, a process I called “terrorist stand-up.” One night after a seven-minute set at some Irish pub, I was told that a couple was waiting to speak to me. I was immediately filled with delusional hope.
They must be casting directors! They recognize my potential and want to polish me into a star
. It was more likely they were from Immigration and Naturalization Services, there to drag me back up north.

But realistically, not even the INS could have found this show.

I peered outside and saw this odd couple loitering near a wrought-iron banister—odd in the sense that they were both so intensely good-looking. We shook hands awkwardly. I couldn’t stop examining their faces, trying to find a flaw. She was a classic, stunning blonde with a cultivated dark edge, like a delicate flower that slices your nose when you sniff it. Her boyfriend sported a rough-and-tumble biker look, contrasted by a gentleness in his eyes that said, “I love kitties.” They didn’t immediately praise my performance, but did insist on taking me for a drink.

Without giving it a second thought, I accepted. For one, it was the polite thing to do. For another, I didn’t have enough money to buy
myself a drink and really wanted one. I followed them to a nondescript bar, one of those places that changes its name and management so often that people refer to it as “Grand Opening.”

Within minutes of sipping my Shiraz, I spilled my soul to these strangers. I whined about my struggle to get situated in the city and how the only job I could find was in phone sales. I was so beaten down by people’s rudeness, I’d begun engaging in something I termed “reverse telemarketing.” I’d call someone, and after they said “Hello,” I’d yell, “Not interested! Go fuck yourself,” and hang up. I’d barely started the game and was already losing. The couple nodded and smiled patiently.

As it turns out, there’s no such thing as a free Shiraz.

The blonde, Amy, complimented my stage presence. It made her think that maybe I’d consider dabbling in her line of work. They were currently hiring.

Great, another sales job
, I thought.
What would it be this time? A fancy jewelry store? A catering outfit? Receptionist at her modeling agency?

No. She worked at a private club. As a dominatrix.

Of course she did.

My face blanched. The whole thing had to be a joke. I wasn’t the type. I was more the girl-next-door’s even nicer friend who’d just moved here from Canada. My entire life had been spent happily agreeing to take care of neighbors’ cats or water their African violets. Sure, occasionally they’d return to new cats and different plants, but they never had to question what I was up to in their basement.

Still, the offer gave me a bit of perspective. A performance has to be a certain kind of painful if someone offers you an S&M–related
job after seeing it. But she was referring to my control of the audience, so that was something. And it wasn’t the first time someone assumed that with my dark hair, bangs, red lipstick, and desire to work in various male-dominated fields, I must be into punishment on some level, and unconventional in the sack. I’d tried, but so far I was still kinkless.

However, dollar signs challenged me to think differently. The more
Mistress
Amy talked about her job, the more it sounded safe, relatively easy, and perfectly reasonable, which showed how desperate I was to rationalize it. It involved a lot more psychological punishment and role-playing than anything approximating actual sex. She was always fully clothed, the guys weren’t allowed to touch her, and when I asked her if they
ever finish
during the session, she casually nodded, but added that you can make them clean it up—they’ll do anything to please you. For all this she made between four and seven thousand dollars a month, depending on the season. Christmas must be nuts. Those numbers certainly impressed me. She even offered to show me the ropes—
and whips and chains and straps
—herself.

Another Shiraz arrived.

Mistress Amy and her biker boy-toy whispered to each other about my body type and pointed at my torso. Without warning she approached like a doctor and cupped her hands around my chest. She squished my boobs together and glanced at her boyfriend. “They’re small,” she noted, “but with the right corset, I think it could work.”

Embarrassed and slightly titillated, I thought,
This is what a submissive must feel like
. There was something undeniably hot about a
gorgeous woman and her manly boyfriend suggesting you might be in their club. In “the right corset,” that is.

Flashdance
sequences swirled through my head. Next I’ll be telling a Ralph Fiennes look-alike that he’s a piece of shit, whipping a Wall Street executive in a light-gray suit, and then counting hundred dollar bills.

Back in my disheveled sublet, I dropped my jacket and keys and eyed myself in the mirror. I tried one dangerous-yet-sultry look but saw a goofy-faced brunette wince back at me.
Whatever
. I just needed practice. I knew I’d be good at it and even suspected that this might be the beginning of something life altering. The dual life, the secret identity, the power, the costuming, the MONEY. It all appealed to me. How would I explain my fat wallet to my family at Passover? They’d never buy that it came from telling jokes. It would be a good problem to have. Everyone wants to be naturally gifted at something; they just need a mentor to point them in the right direction.

Since my own rational inner voice had laryngitis, I collect-called my recent ex at the time, Henry. He was still my voice of reason. We were hanging on to each other, operating under the false impression that we could break up, weather the crisis of my move, and immediately segue smoothly into friendship. That was the kind of torture with which I was familiar.

Appropriately, Henry quickly burst my leather-hooded bubble.