by Shane Dawson
My first idea was to use duct tape. Now, for some reason my family had duct tape at our disposal at all times in my house. I’m not sure why. Were we getting ready to kidnap a girl who was visiting shore during her family cruise? Were we trying to tape up all the wicker furniture I had broken over the years? Whatever the reason, we had a SHIT-TON of it. So I grabbed three rolls, locked my bedroom door, and started shaping. I was like an artist working on a sculpture. Working all my clay into a form that could pass as a normal human body when clothed. Each long piece of tape was wrapped tighter than the last. I got to the end of the third roll and looked in the mirror, and what I saw wasn’t the Greek god I was hoping for. I looked more like a can of pastry dough that had popped open in a few places.
The tape was a failure, but luckily I got rid of all that shoulder hair when I had to RIP OFF THREE ROLLS’ WORTH OF INDUSTRIAL-GRADE DUCT TAPE FROM MY FUCKING SKIN. After that I made a few more failed attempts at creating my dream body. Some involved Saran wrap, chip clips, a child’s wet suit from Target, even superglue. That last one didn’t end too well. But then an idea so genius, so inventive, so . . . emotionally scarring popped into my head. My mother’s one-piece swimsuit.
I have so many memories of my mother’s swimsuit. Even as a young kid I remember wondering, “Is my mom a whore?” The suit was tight, black, and had an open back. It even had a little keyhole in the front to show off that belly button but still hide the C-section scar. It was tasteful yet sensual. One time I even found a suggestive picture of her wearing it in a box labeled DIVORCE STUFF in the hallway closet. She hadn’t worn it for years so I figured the baton should be passed. It was time to give that suit a new story. A new master. It was time to give that suit its second life. So I waited till she was at work and snuck into her room and started hunting. I looked in every drawer of every dresser, and I couldn’t find it. Although I did find some of her eighties spandex workout clothes, which were a SOLID plan B. I went to the hallway closet and looked in a box marked GOODWILL and there it was. The tight black suit with the worn-out crotch pad. Side note: What is that crotch pad for? Is it to protect the vagina from the impact of a big wave? Or maybe to have a stronger barrier between vagina and sand? I can imagine how uncomfortable a sandy vagina is. Almost as uncomfortable as when sand would get in my loose under-boob skin. See, women, I relate to you.
I grabbed the suit and ran to my room. This time I left the door unlocked. I was kind of an exhibitionist. I slipped one leg in, then the other, and hoisted it up all the way to my hairless shoulders. I packed in all the skin like I was tucking a king-sized bedsheet into a twin-sized mattress. I stood up straight and looked in the mirror, and the results were more beautiful than I had ever imagined. If you squinted one eye and kind of went lazy with the other, I looked like a normal guy wearing a black tank top.
I put on my jeans and threw on a T-shirt and looked in the mirror once again. This was the first time in years that I had worn just a T-shirt. Usually it was a big sweatshirt, to hide my body, or a cargo jacket with lots of pockets. But that day, my eighteenth birthday, it was just a shirt. I heard a honk and ran outside to show off my new body. It was my friends, ready to take me out for my big celebration: Denny’s and Knott’s Berry Farm. Hey, I grew up in Long Beach, what did you expect?
“Shane, nice shirt!” I still remember my friend complimenting me when I got in the backseat. I casually replied, “Oh, thanks. I dunno. Got it from Target or whatever.” The truth was I had gotten it at Macy’s months before and had been saving it for when my body was flat enough to wear it. And it cost about $30 by the way. Ya, it was an investment in my future. So we drove to the amusement park and the whole time talked about what rides we were gonna go on. I hadn’t been on that many of them because I was always too afraid I wasn’t going to fit. I had been kicked off a roller coaster back when I was fat, so the thought of getting on one again was horrifying. Almost as horrifying as having to wear my mother’s pre-divorce one-piece under my clothes.
When we got out of the car I felt the wind flowing through my shirt, and I made an audible “ahhhh” sound. It was probably creepy to my friends, but to me feeling the air that close to my body was a sensation I had only dreamed of. We walked to the front gates and got out our tickets. We had printed them at home because that was the cool thing to do. That and sneaking your own candy into the park. I think I had about three packs of peanut butter cups tucked in my crotch pad. Thanks, Mom.
“NEXT!” the security guard shouted as we made our way up to the front of the line. I noticed that people were having to take off their jackets and hats because they were setting the metal detectors off. “Thank God I’m not wearing a jacket like I used to!” I thought to myself. “Thank God all I have on is my . . . oh wait . . . oh God.” I ran my fingers down my back and noticed my mother’s swimsuit had a METAL CLASP. What did that mean? Was I going to have to take off my shirt? How would I explain to a security guard that I wasn’t packing a knife, I was just wearing my mother’s swimsuit underneath my clothes?! Not only were all my friends with me but literally everyone from my old high school worked there! At that moment I started planning my escape. Should I fake a heart attack? CRAP, that only worked when I was fat. Ok, what about pretending to have a seizure? That’s a thing, right? Spontaneous seizures?
As I was about to make my choice I heard the dreaded “NEXT!” and had to face my fears head-on. First the security guard patted me down. I’m gonna be honest, I was excited. I’m sure to him he was just patting down a normal dude, but to me I was a NORMAL DUDE! He was probably not feeling any of my extra skin. He probably thought I just had a normal body. Maybe even pecs? Granted, it was just my boob skin protruding outward, but hey, if he thought it was pecs I wasn’t gonna fight him. Then came the metal detector. Thank God the suit was water resistant, because the sweat was pouring.
BEEP. “Are you hiding anything, man?” His eyebrows furrowed at me like I was packing something dangerous.
“Only three packs of peanut butter cups, but you can’t blame me, the prices on snacks here are pretty ridiculous!” I laughed uncontrollably for a good twenty seconds.
“Turn around, kid.”
I turned around, facing my friends, who were all laughing. One said, “UH-OH! He’s gonna FRISK YOU! Happy eighteenth birthday!” I know I should have been scared of getting a gloved finger up my ass but I was more afraid of him seeing that I had on Kirstie Alley’s Oprah Reveal outfit underneath my clothes.
“I’m just gonna lift up your shirt a little. Is that ok?”
NO! IT’S NOT OK! If you lift up my shirt then everyone here is going to see my keyhole cutout and there’s no way I can pretend like it’s just an undershirt I got at Target! Who would believe that Target sells undershirts with keyhole cutouts?!
But of course I said, “Ok. Sure. Just not too high. I have backne.” Nice save.
His hands lifted my shirt up in the back and he paused. Confused. “What is this?” he asked under his breath.
“It’s a swimsuit. Aren’t there water rides here?” Another nice save.
“Ya but . . . Isn’t this like . . . for chicks?”
My heart started racing. My friends were trying to read our lips.
“What’s going on?! Hurry up, Shane!” one of my friends screamed as I literally diarrhead myself in panic.
“I’m going to go get my boss and make sure this is ok. Hold on.”
YOUR BOSS?! Why do we need to bring more people into this? Why can’t this be a quick and easy embarrassing moment? Why do we have to make it a whole fucking spectacle?! This is getting ridiculous. I wish I had stuck with the tape.
“Excuse me, sir, can you please lift up your shirt?” said the boss, who was filing her nails while she was investigating the situation.
Obviously it’s not that serious so WHY ARE WE DOING IT?
“Sure, ma’am.” I lifted up the back of my shirt slightly.
>
“More please.” So I did. “More.” I pulled up again. “Sir, I need to see the whole back.”
WHY?! Do you really think I have a knife taped to my spine?! ’Cause if I did I would have already KILLED MYSELF WITH IT.
“Sure.” I slowly lifted, trying to keep the keyhole cutout in the front covered up. But I was moving too slowly and the boss had a lot of NOTHING to get back to, so she grabbed my shirt and ripped it up.
Gasp. Shock. Confused noises. All of these things coming out of my friends’ mouths. Then came the boss’s laughter. “OH MY GOD! YOU WEARING A WOMAN’S SWIMSUIT?! YOU A KINKY MOTHAFUCKA, AIN’T YOU?!” The boss thought this was the funniest thing she’d ever seen. I didn’t know what would be more embarrassing, telling the truth or just going along with the kinky story.
“He’s free to go. Have fun in there, beautiful!”
Well I’m glad SHE had a blast, because now it was time for me to explain to my friends what had just happened. I stood to the side while they got checked for metal materials and of course all of them were clean. As they walked up to me my heart started racing. I thought I was going to pass out. Blood started rushing to my head, and I was sweating. What was I going to say when they asked me why I was wearing a woman’s swimsuit?
“Who’s ready to ride the Boomerang?!” one of my friends screamed. A collective yell of excitement came from the rest of the group as they headed toward the first ride. They didn’t ask. They didn’t care. They were my friends, and it didn’t matter to them. A tear fell from my eye as I screamed, “LET’S DO IT!” We ran into the park and had an awesome day.
Thanks, Mom, for my birthday suit.
INTERNET FAMOUS
ABOUT THE ARTIST
Sophie Lubos is currently in her freshman year at Tupelo High School. She has loved art ever since she was little. She is now taking private art classes with Daphne Works. Follow her on Twitter at @im_a_chobits.
It was nine o’clock on a Saturday night, and I was dining at an incredibly fancy restaurant eating incredibly fancy food with my incredibly sophisticated friends. Ok, I’m lying. We were eating shitty cheap Mexican food with what was probably dog meat in the taco filling and talking about all the times we had “carted.” For those of you who don’t know, “carted” is a term used to describe the classy act of simultaneously cumming and farting. It was a very in-depth conversation that went on for about two hours and two baskets of chips too long. As I was midstory about one incident during which my dog licked my butthole while I was masturbating and I didn’t push him away (come on, we’ve all been there), a table nearby started yelling my name. I turned to look and what I saw was a familiar sight. It was a few teenagers with their incredibly confused parents.
Teenagers: SHANE!!!
Parents: Who’s that?
Teenagers: The guy from the internet!
That conversation between child and parent doesn’t go too well when the child isn’t actually a teen. I’ve had way too many eight-year-olds scream, “That’s the man from the internet!” to their parents in the middle of a crowded Target. Luckily, this time it was sweet and innocent and appropriate, so I walked over to the table and took pictures with them. Little did I know this wouldn’t be the last table of people who would notice me that night. The next group wouldn’t be so nice. But I’ll get to that later.
The whole idea of being recognized in public is something that I never imagined would ever happen to me, much less that I’d be comfortable with it. As a kid all I wanted was to be invisible. Not because I wanted to sneak into my guy friends’ rooms to compare their dick sizes to mine but because I didn’t want anyone to notice me. I was never the class clown, and I did everything I could to make myself blend into the background. Whenever I went to a store I would try to color-coordinate my outfit to the store’s color scheme so I could blend into the walls. That didn’t always work out well, because customers would assume I was an employee and constantly ask me for help, which was the opposite of being invisible and also the opposite of fun. I can’t tell you how many old women I had to help reach the “elderly pads” on the back shelf at Target. I threw ALL my red shirts away after that.
The first time I was recognized for my YouTube videos was when I was eighteen years old, and I was going to the doctor to get a physical. This was the first time I had let a doctor see my goodies so I was extremely nervous going into it. I’d spent an hour that morning manscaping in my bathroom. I wasn’t very good at it. My razor was so covered in blood, you would have thought it had telekinetic powers.
At the doctor’s office I sat in the waiting room and stared at my blank phone pretending to read a text. This was before there were apps, so it was a lot harder to pretend you were busy. I can’t imagine standing in an elevator now next to a stranger and not having apps to help me avoid eye contact! Sounds horrible!
The doctor’s assistant walked out to greet me, and she had an expression on her face I had never seen before. It was the look of someone who had just seen a dead person or a leprechaun. She appeared to be in shock and didn’t move for a good five seconds. Man, I wish I’d had an app. Those five seconds felt like an eternity.
Assistant: Oh my God. You’re Shane Dawson.
Me: Hi. Do I know you?
At the time my videos weren’t getting very many views. I probably only had around five thousand subscribers and the only people who left comments were family members and people telling me to “get AIDS and die” . . . so it was basically just family and friends.
Assistant: Ya! I watch your videos!!
Me: You do?!
Assistant: Yup! Every week! My screen name is RachelPflower!
Me: Oh! I think I’ve seen you in the comments! Are you the one who told me to sit on a sword and kill myself?
Assistant: No.
Me: Oh . . . I hope I get to meet that person one day. I’m sure he’s lovely.
Assistant: So what are you doing here??
Me: Getting a physical.
Then reality hit me. As I told her I was getting a physical her face went from “I just saw a leprechaun” to “I’m a cartoon dog and I just saw a cartoon steak.” Her eyes were wide and her mouth was practically foaming. Was this fan going to get to see my . . . everything?? This was too much. This was much more than taking a selfie, this was showing her an everything-ie! I tried to keep cool, hoping that maybe it was just her job to send me on to the examination room and then to leave me alone with the doctor to do our uncomfortable business.
Assistant: Well, come on back!
I followed her to the doctor’s office and she asked me to sit on the bench. She took a gown out of the closet and handed it to me.
Assistant: Here, change into this. And leave the back undone so the doctor can have easy access to your anus.
She left the room and I froze. I don’t even think I had an anus at this point. I was so full of nerves that it had completely closed up. I tried to compose myself and put on my horribly unflattering gown. Just as I finished changing, the assistant walked back in.
Assistant: Ok, the doctor will be in soon. I’m just going to check your vitals really quickly.
She sat on a stool and swiveled over to me. She got so close that her knee was up against my poorly shaven balls. The only thing between her knee and my sad sack was a gown thinner than Bible paper and I was praying to Jesus Christ that it wouldn’t rip.
Assistant: So. Working on any new videos?
Me: Nope, just trying not to die of humiliation at the moment.
Assistant: Is this your first physical?
Me: Ya. The closest I’ve ever had to a physical was my mom cleaning out my dick cheese when I was twelve.
Assistant: She did that until you were twelve?
Me: So, who is the doctor? Is he nice?
Assistant: It’s a she and she’s awesome! I showed her some of your videos last week dur
ing our lunch break! She loved them!
OH. MY. GOD. THIS. ISN’T. HAPPENING. GOD. DOESNT. EXIST.
Me: Oh really? Wow . . . that’s cool.
Assistant: Ya! I told the whole office you were here! They are all so excited! We love when you put on that wig and act all ghetto!
I. CAN’T. STOP. SWEATING. I. WANT. TO. DIE.
Me: Awesome!
Assistant: Alright, I’ll go get the doctor. Don’t go anywhere!
Me: I won’t!
I’M. GOING. TO. JUMP. OUT. THE. MOTHER. FUCKING. WINDOW.
The door opened and in walked the doctor. “She seems normal enough,” said my brain in disturbing denial. “I’m sure she doesn’t remember me at all! She must be fifty years old! Maybe she has a bad memory! Maybe she got amnesia on the way to the office today!”
Doctor: Hey! Where’s your wig! I didn’t recognize you!!
She laughed hysterically. My anus clenched.
Doctor: I’m kidding! How are you?
Me: I’m ok. Just ready to get this over with.
Doctor: Me too. You know how many balls I’ve touched today? More than all the Jonas brothers put together! HEYO!
She went for a high five. My anus clenched.
Doctor: Sorry, just trying to keep up with you, you crazy guy! So, let’s get this started, shall we?
She walked up to me and asked me to lie down. As I lay down I looked at the ceiling and envisioned my head getting cut off by the ceiling fan. Anything to get my mind off the current situation. She reached her hand up my gown and grabbed my balls. She was gentle and polite about it. I closed my eyes and just let it happen. Things were going pretty smoothly until . . .
Doctor: Hey. Do Shananay.
That was the moment I knew my life would never be the same. I was no longer just a stranger getting his balls fondled by a doctor. I was a YouTube guy getting his balls fondled by a doctor who wanted him to tell offensive jokes in a ghetto woman’s voice.
