Books |
Screw Everyone: Sleeping My Way to Monogamy
Ophira Eisenberg
By
Published: Feb 27, 2018
Category:
Memoir
I can be so slow. For quite a while now, when I’ve found myself in the car on Saturday afternoon. I listen to alt rock on WFUV until the sports guys take over, then I switch to the opera, and then, at 3 PM, I turn to WNYC for Ask Me Anything, an appealing blend of brainteasers, pub trivia, comedy and music. The host is Ophira Eisenberg. She’s ridiculously quick and sharp and funny, and inevitably I came to wonder what she does when she’s off the air. Well, duh. The rest of the world seems to have heard her on “The Moth” or seen her at a comedy club. And then there’s a book....
“Screw Everyone: Sleeping My Way to Monogamy” is about figuring out what you like, and how you like it, and then getting it.
“It” is not sex, though you can easily miss the cue. It is “connection.” But the thing is, you can’t really tell if you have a connection unless you’re naked. So Ophira Eisenberg took every opportunity to do just that. She said “yes” to almost every man she met. Well, not that many. But more than the roster of the Yankees.
Her conclusion: “And it worked for me.”
It works for me too. Almost too well. As I read her book, there were some convulsive laughing fits that I feared might carry off.
Who can profit from this book? Eisenberg has given that some thought:
Is this book for you? Well, if you’re the kind of reader who orders another round just to see if you can seal the deal with the depressed bass player because “Hey! I’m sad too! We have so much in common!” then the answer is yes. If, when you’re on a first date, your guy finds an “old hit of acid” in his wallet, and you immediately agree to wash it down with an espresso, then not only is this book for you — it’s also about you. And if you fell in love with your high school sweetheart and you’re living “happily ever after” in a castle converted into condos, you need this book more than ever. It’s how you’ll deal with your next marriage.
Key fact about Ophira Eisenberg: She’s a stand-up comedian. And when she’s at the keyboard? She’s a sit-down comedian. And a very funny one indeed. The introduction (scroll down) will give you some idea of her tone. “I didn’t set out to be a slut; frankly, I didn’t even realize I was one,” she explains. “I just thought I was being nice.” [To buy the book from Amazon, click here. For the Kindle edition, click here.]
She had her first kiss in seventh grade:
It really was like a drug. I felt chemistry. I felt all these things. Things started to make sense, music started to make sense, all of a sudden a little bit of the color was added to the world. I was like, ‘I love being with people!’ I love that feeling of connection, that romantic thing — I was like, ‘This is my thing. I want more of this. How do I get more of this?’
As for losing her virginity:
There was no trauma, no change to my body. It was so . . . nothing. I remember thinking, ‘This is what our culture is obsessed with? This is what the songs are about? This better get better.’
Do not for an instant think that Eisenberg hops from bed to bed, with no thought about her partner. That would make her a man. Much of the book is figuring out which men might advance her education and then moving him into position for conquest. “He liked me,” she says of one guy, “which I was slowly learning was ‘my type.’” But not always: “Nothing is a bigger turnoff than someone who is overly grateful.”
And don’t think for an instant that bedding men is her single-minded obsession. She’s also — mostly, really — trying to figure out what to do with her life. This quest begins in her native Canada. School. It moves on to the easy days of living on no money. And then work: “The job came easy. It was at a business where I’d pictured myself working for many years: Kinkos.”
By the book’s midpoint, she commits to stand-up comedy— which, like her search for good sex, offers plentiful opportunities for rejection and failure. Her inevitable opening line: I believe my opening line was, “So my name is Ophira. People always ask me, what kind of name is that? And I tell them it’s Hebrew. I’m from the land of Heeb.”
Out at night in clubs, opportunity knocks. The blind, albino DJ. (But that wasn’t his greatest oddity; on the way into the bedroom, he announced, “You’re about to see the smallest penis ever.” No lie.) The pastry chef with fingers that could knead the needy. (“By the end, I needed a cooling rack.”) The rich guy with the sex toys. The guy “who won’t cushion your head as it’s slamming into the headboard.” The guy who seemed sane but had hundreds of stuffed Garfields in his bedroom. And then a happy ending:
Comfort, commitment, and contentment used to be dirty words to me, but now I understand they don’t mean giving up your life, moving to the suburbs, buying Luna bars in bulk at Costco, and fantasizing about hiring a landscaper. On the other hand, hanging out at bars for years on end and picking up different guys wasn’t exactly a sustainable plan. It’s like particle-board furniture: it’s cute for a while, but after years and years of wear and tear, it looks like cheap crap! Loyalty and commitment are really important to me now. They feel good, but I had to get to that point. I did it when I was ready.
What can she teach you? In case you don’t already know:
Never put up with bad sex! One of the benefits of sleeping around that people fail to mention is that you have a much better chance of stumbling across a gem or two. It’s the law of slutty averages. And once you experience someone with real skills, it’s very hard to go back. I’ll never regret understanding that.
BOOK EXCERPT: INTRODUCTION
The names of the men in this book have been changed because most of them are named Dave. And there are a lot of names in this book. Then again, it is called "Screw Everyone," so I’m delivering on that promise.
You might wonder if the quantity of men indicates that I possess a special talent or I’m some sort of knockout. Au contraire, my friend. I’m not effortlessly pretty, but I do clean up well. My real gift is that I’m not fussy. If we were talking about food, I’d be considered “adventurous,” in wine circles, “unpretentious,” and in dating terms, “a slut.” If there were such a thing as Lady Scouts, I would have easily earned the booty-call badge: an embroidered silhouette of a girl ordering two drinks at last call.
When most people think of a slut, they envision a woman who is a lost soul, wildly insecure, mentally unstable, and possibly dumb. Au contraire encore! I might not speak great French, but I am not dumb. And I didn’t set out to be a slut; frankly, I didn’t even realize I was one. I just thought I was being nice.
Call me an enthusiastic consenter, or a fairly responsible hedonist, but sleeping around was often the by-product of getting what I wanted. I felt empowered going against the accepted “rules” of society by intentionally going home with a guy. They weren’t just random guys. I picked them. That being said, I was an advocate of equal opportunity hook-ups, with everyone from jazz musicians to blind albinos.
Right from the start, I planned and strategized my potential romantic encounters like a veteran criminal. My quest in life went beyond wanting to “try anything”; I wanted to try everything. Sex and relationships became my drug of choice. What turned me on the most was the seduction, the thrill of trying to get someone to like me, and seeing how far I could take it. Rarely was it a problem to get the ball rolling; the issue was how to control it once it picked up speed. By my estimation, dating was 1 percent confidence and 99 percent troubleshooting.
And then there is the simple case of efficiency. Say what you will about going all the way on the first date, but if you want answers about compatibility faster than what Google can provide, it’s the best way to go. Plus, I like men. I never considered them “the enemy” or an unsolved mystery to be analyzed to death. I had too many other things to worry about.
I didn’t relate to any of the classic dating rules, either. If you believe you can master your romantic fate by playing games, like waiting three days to call someone or pretending to be busy on a Friday night when you’re really just watching Prime Suspect with an overpriced bottle of Chardonnay, then fantastic. But I think the only person you’re fooling is yourself. I’d rather slip into my favorite pair of jeans and head over to the local Pig and Whistle pub for a quick pick-me-up. Experience showed me that if there was anything I could count on in life, it was another beer and another boyfriend in my future.
After thirty years of intense study in Canada’s school of relationships, I graduated by moving to New York City, which baffled me on every level. Much like affordable apartments, relationships were not easy to come by. I retaliated by boldly claiming that I didn’t want to find “a relationship.” I didn’t believe there was such a thing as “the one.” I wanted to have a good time and enjoy my freedom with guys I consciously didn’t want to get to know.
Underlying this was the fact that despite gender stereotypes, I was the one with an intense fear of settling down. I was sold on the idea that letting the same someone in, year after year, would stagnate my personality. When men have this problem, it’s called “commitment issues.” When women have it, it’s referred to as “hitting the jackpot.” At least that’s what most of the guys I dated thought.
As luck would have it, eventually I would be faced with a new challenge: I was introduced to someone who didn’t respond to the brash and freewheeling character I’d invented for myself. Moreover, he wanted the real thing: marriage, commitment, stability, old-fashioned love—which, like a spray of DEET, repelled me and made me want to fly as far away as possible. Unfortunately, I’d already done that by moving to New York. So I stayed.
And this is the story of how I discovered myself, conquered my fears, and even found the “real thing” through promiscuity. That may sound as backward as saying “cocaine saved my life!” but it’s true. I traveled from flask to flask, futon to futon, gathering data, figuring one day I’d put it all together, and like a mad scientist, build my own perfect Boyfriend Bot. It’s not the ideal plan for everyone, but I give it four gold stars.
I know I gave away the ending in the book’s title, but I guarantee you that by the end you’ll still be surprised that I got married, and a little that I’m still alive.
If you’re wondering, is this book for me? Well, if you’re the kind of reader who orders another round just to see if you can seal the deal with the depressed bass player because “Hey! I’m sad too! We have so much in common!” then the answer is yes. If, when you’re on a first date, your guy finds an “old hit of acid” in his wallet, and you immediately agree to wash it down with an espresso, then not only is this book for you—it’s also about you. And if you fell in love with your high school sweetheart and you’re living “happily ever after” in a castle converted into condos, you need this book more than ever. It’s how you’ll deal with your next marriage.
If you’re a guy whom I hooked up with in the past and you’re now madly flipping through this book, wondering why you can’t find your story, I need to tell you that unfortunately, not everyone made the cut. I’ll let you know if I ever need to do callbacks.
Kidding aside, I’m very grateful for the men who populate the pages of this book. Not one of them could be classified as a true-blue asshole. They had their troubles, they had their habits, they had questionable haircuts, but with few exceptions, the guys I spent my bedtime with were totally worth it. Most were navigating through life as messily as I was, often unsure of what direction they were headed. So we slept together to see if that shed any light on the path. Some batteries just had a shorter lifespan than others.
