Love, Lust & Faking It

by Jenny McCarthy

  Doctor

  Playing doctor was common in our childhood. Well, at least it was in mine. We would show our butts or flash our tops. All pretty innocent, but it’s still intriguing to me that we were turned on by examinations even at an early age. The most obvious sexual fantasy one would think you would choose would be your ob/gyn’s office. But most of our ob/gyns aren’t attractive in the least bit. Think about it. A guy who had to get a degree just so he could see a woman’s canooter is probably not that cute. Sometimes you can forgive balding and big bellies for the sake of the fantasy. I found myself fantasizing the “replacement” ob/gyn taking over for my chubby one, who called in sick. There is something incredibly arousing about being examined. Let me rephrase that. There is something incredibly arousing about fantasizing about being examined—because in real ob/gyn visits, KY Jelly and a Pap smear metal vagina opener don’t really turn me on.

  Being on Display

  Come on! Who has not fantasized about being a stripper or even a hooker at one point? It’s funny how incredibly judgmental we are about these two professions, yet in our fantasies we are the star stripper and the naughtiest whore in the brothel. Being on display and having men lust over our bodies is incredibly arousing. For example, performing in the middle of a room at a bachelor party or sliding down a pole at a strip club while having guys slide money in your G-string is hot. We want to be drooled over. We want guys to have that look on their face like we are meat and they are starving. In reality, though, our partners don’t necessarily go to that hungry place like we need them to. So, we fantasize it. It’s usually, “Hey, babe, are we doing it tonight?” when sometimes we just need to hear, “Take your clothes off, you naughty slut, and spread your legs.” We might just do what they want—for a really big tip, of course!

  Girls, Girls, and Some More Girls

  Listen, ladies, I was blown away by all the responses I read about girls fantasizing about other girls. Almost every woman, according to my Twitter poll, said that they had at least one fantasy about being with a woman. Maybe men are supposed to be extinct someday, and we’re just preparing ourselves.

  Two Guys

  Yes, why wouldn’t we want another guy to get busy on us? Usually this is where you are having sex with your partner and his friend comes into the room. That seems to be the most typical for the “two guys at once” scenario for girls. Unless your man’s friend looks like Mr. Potato Head, then just picture Brad Pitt.

  Strap One On and Dominate Your Man

  I can honestly admit I have not entertained this fantasy … yet. And I’m sure any guy I’m with would be grateful that I don’t feel the need to attack/have at his butt with my fake penis. But to all those chicks out there that do, God bless you! Seriously, I read that it has to do with wanting to feel in control, and many women don’t normally in marriages; so they go to fantasy world, where they can make their guy bend over and take a butt beating. Wow. Fantasies can be so entertaining!

  I’m sure women have many, many more fantasies; these were just the most common in my poll. What I also found fascinating is the fact that most women have fantasies while having intercourse, whereas men are in the act and concentrating on what’s in front of them. (At least according to my Twitter respondents.) It’s a whole different ball game when it comes to masturbation. I think masturbation is 95 percent fantasy-driven for both sexes. But when it came to sex, I was shocked to see how many guys said, “I’m mainly just focusing on my wife the majority of the time.” They followed it up, of course, by saying, “with the occasional ’my wife making out with a chick in the bed,’ but mostly just my woman.” I think that has to do with them having to do most of the work during intercourse. They have to concentrate, while we get to close our eyes and imagine having sex with their best friends. Hahaha.

  [15]

  Sexual Harassment

  Being blond with fake boobs in Hollywood, I have experienced many different forms of sexual harassment. Some would argue that I deserve it for being blond and implanted with saline. To some extent, yes. I know that if I were to wear a tight shirt one day and happened to walk past a construction site, I would hear, “Nice knockers.” I don’t want to hear that, but if you are going to attempt to look hot, catcalls are inescapable.

  The casting couch is a whole other story. It’s not only real, it’s actually happening right now in many offices in Hollywood. A girl who just moved into town is currently at some cheesy audition for a movie and is being asked to take her clothes off. How do I know this? Because I’ve lived in this business for seventeen years. Oh my God, I just counted on my fingers how long I’ve been trucking away in this business, and it really is seventeen years! Ugh.

  Anyway, when I came off the bus from Chicago, someone immediately approached me on the street to do postcards for Hawaii. I was so excited by the idea of doing something with my clothes on, because Playboy was the last thing I did back in Chicago. I guess it didn’t matter I wasn’t Hawaiian or a hula dancer, but I thought if they don’t care, I don’t care. I received an address and was told there would be a hair and makeup person so I didn’t need to come camera-ready.

  This was my first major photo shoot outside of Playboy, and I called my mom from the car. “Mom, Mom, I’m already working out here! I’m on my way to a photo shoot to do postcards for Hawaii.” Mom replied, “Oh, Jenny, I’m so proud of you. I’m so glad that you get to take pictures with your clothes on!”

  I hung up and pulled down an alley and saw the address on the back of a garage. I parked my car and walked over to the door. The garage itself looked like it was about to fall over and as if it belonged to a serial killer. I did what most girls do when they come to Hollywood: I ignored my instinct and knocked on the door. “Come in,” said a scary, grizzly, serial killer voice. My stomach knotted up, and I pushed the dilapidated door open. Inside it looked like Satan’s dojo. I felt a trickle of pee come out of me and didn’t know whether I should run or say something. Around the corner the grizzly voice showed his face. It was the scariest Hell’s Angel I had ever seen. (I could only compare to Hell’s Angels in movies, and this guy looked like the prototype.)

  “Go over to my girlfriend, she’s going to do your makeup.” I looked to the right, and there was a drugged-out, scary-looking truck driver of a woman sitting on the ground. I knew that if I ran away at this point, I would be murdered. I forced a smile to try to calm my nerves, and slowly walked over to her. “Come sit down on the ground here. I can’t get up right now, I hurt my back,” she said. I didn’t think her back was hurt at all. I think she was so high she couldn’t stand. She pulled a used powder puff out of her purse and started wiping my face with it. “I forgot mascara, but you don’t need any.” Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God, was all I kept thinking to myself. The Hell’s Angel/serial killer photographer came over to me and said, “Your outfit is on the set.”

  Set? Did he just say set? We were in a garage with swastikas and pictures of naked women with demon heads hanging on the walls. “Okay,” I quivered. The drugged-up “makeup artist” mumbled, “Your hair is fine, go.” I got up and walked toward a backdrop of a Hawaiian sunset with a surfboard on the ground. Next to it was a bikini bottom and a Hawaiian lei. “Um, are there any coconut cups to use for the bra?” I gently asked.

  “No,” he grumbled. I walked behind the backdrop of the Hawaiian sunset shaking in fear of what this guy was capable of doing to me. He actually had a camera and a light box, so I thought that was at least a good sign that he was intending to take a picture and not just rape and kill me. I put on the bikini bottom and put the lei over my naked breasts. This is not what I had in mind, but again, I was afraid for my life so I just was going to do what he wanted me to do and go. I came around the backdrop, and he said, “Lie sideways on the surfboard.” So I held the lei on my chest so it wouldn’t reveal my nipples and slowly lowered myself to the floor. “Okay, look sexy.”

  He snapped a few pictures and then said, “Okay, now get rid of the Hawaiian le
i.” “What?!” I replied. Oh no! He’s going to rape me now. I stood up and started stammering, “Um … um… listen … um…” And then I heard my instinct say, “Tell him you are under Playboy’s contract, and that if you pose nude we both will get sued.” So I repeated what was in my head, and he started screaming, “That’s f*cking bullshit!” then proceeded to throw shit around the room. “Just take your clothes off, and I’ll hold these pictures for a year.” The argument continued …

  “But I just thought we were doing Hawaiian postcards?”

  “Don’t be such a bitch, just do it.”

  “Can we just reschedule to do nudes tomorrow, so I can at least shave and look hot?”

  “You look hot now.”

  I didn’t know what to do, so I walked behind the backdrop and quickly got dressed, but shouted out that I was taking my clothes off and I would be right there. As soon as my last piece of clothing was on, I bolted out the door and ran to my car. I didn’t know what a Hell’s Angel dude was capable of, so I drove as fast as I could out of there. Needless to say, I never went to a shoot again if I didn’t know what I was getting into.

  Many years later, after I became famous, I was in Hawaii with my boyfriend and I went to a drugstore, and there I was on a Hawaiian postcard, lying on a surfboard. I couldn’t believe it. I had never been paid for that job, and my manager (who I was dating) was furious. I tried to tell him that it didn’t matter because the man would probably try to kill me. He thought I was being overly dramatic and decided to call the postcard company to track down the photographer. Surprisingly, he did. The phone conversation went pretty much like this:

  MANAGER: Hi, I represent Jenny McCarthy. There were photos taken of her three years ago that you sold to a postcard company without paying her.

  HELL’S ANGEL PHOTOGRAPHER: If you ever call me or contact me again, I will hunt you down, go to your office, and shoot you and then shoot everyone in your office.

  Needless to say, my manager thought it was a good idea to let this one go.

  Even later in my career, with agent and manager representation, I continued to be sexually harassed, sexually groped, jumped on, and asked to remove my clothes during auditions.

  I took a vow to myself when I came out to L.A. from Chicago that I would never sleep with someone or get naked for a job. Mind you, for a great pair of shoes I might give a hand job with lotion, but for an acting gig? No way. The reason my acting career never really panned out was probably largely due to me not putting out to get ahead. Whatever. I’m happy where I am now, and probably saved myself from many STDs.

  [16]

  STDs: The Gift That Keeps on Giving

  Okay, so I did some research to prep myself on these love wounds, and I’m so incredibly grossed out by the pictures I found. You are so lucky I’m not doing a pop-up book on STDs, because you would sew up your canooter after what I just allowed myself to see. It felt like sex-ed class all over again.

  STDs have been around for hundreds of years. Some really smart historians believe that syphilis was brought to Europe by Christopher Columbus’s sailors on their return from the New World. I was shocked when I read that. What in the hell were they poking around in? Many people believed that the early stages of syphilis were the beginning symptoms of gonorrhea. Then this British surgeon named John Hunter wanted to verify that there was only one infection, so he injected his penis with material from a patient with gonorrhea. I know! Gross! When he developed the signs of syphilis he determined that syphilis and gonorrhea were indeed the same infection. However what the lunatic didn’t take into account was that many suffered both infections at the same time. So Christopher Columbus’s sailors brought back two gifts from the New World, not just one. It was a French doctor in the middle of the nineteenth century who convincingly demonstrated that it really was two separate infections. I wonder what he put into his penis to finally figure that one out?

  Then in 1450 pubic wigs were created. Yes, that’s right. I said pubic wigs. They are called merkins and were created initially to combat pubic lice. Prostitutes would also wear them to cover up signs of disease, such as syphilis. Jeez, can you imagine lifting up that pubic wig and finding that kind of surprise? I thought my blown-out vagina from childbirth was bad. Merkins are now used for actors to cover up their meat and potatoes during the filming of love scenes. If you ever get a moment please go online and check out merkins. They are hilarious looking. I’m almost tempted to come out with my own line of them.

  In the 1960s birth control became available, along with the slogan “Make love, not war,” and hippies had sex with pretty much everyone. I’m surprised their genitals didn’t fall off. STDs skyrocketed, and because of antibiotics most people thought they were curable and no longer a health threat. This type of “free love” behavior ended abruptly when the public first became aware of AIDS. That was my puberty generation. My hormones were raging when all over the news, AIDS turned sex into a deadly activity. It was hard to get my brain wrapped around that. Of course my small gang of high school friends would say, “It’s only for gay people, nothing is gonna happen to us.” This kind of ignorant philosophy got many people in trouble. Luckily, I only dated Tony in high school.

  Then I went to college down in southern Illinois. I know what you’re thinking, do people actually live in southern Illinois? No, crabs do. Tons of pubic crabs took up residence on the campus when I went to Southern Illinois University. Looking back now, I don’t understand why everyone didn’t just shave their pubes, but I guess that really wasn’t in style until the mid-1990s. I was so grossed out and fearful to be with any man that I basically would only let them get to third base with me. Even my roommate, a short, spraytanned blonde named Missy, got crabs; I almost died when she told me that her crotch kept itching.

  “I don’t know what the hell is wrong with my crotch,” she said.

  “Well, maybe you have yeasty beasties.”

  “No, it’s not inside my vagina.”

  “Maybe you have a rash of some sort or need a serious shower.”

  “I dunno. Let me go look.”

  A few moments later I heard a bloodcurdling scream. I thought a murderer had just entered our apartment, so I did what any good friend would do: I ran the opposite direction to save my own life. Screw her, I kept thinking. I don’t like her anyway. As I was opening the back door, I heard her scream, “Jenny, look what just came off my vagina!” Oh, no, I thought. She’s got crabs. I should still run for my life! She’s infected. GROSS!!!

  “Jenny, oh my God, please come here!”

  “Dammit, Missy, I don’t want to get fucking crabs.”

  “Please just come. Please!”

  I ran to the kitchen and pulled out a Hefty garbage bag and opened it. I pushed both of my feet through the bag, wearing it like a diaper. Then I grabbed another one and wrapped my hair up in it like you would with a towel.

  “I’m coming. I’m coming.”

  I entered the bathroom, and she started crying when she saw me. “What the hell are you wearing?!”

  “Bitch, if I wanted crabs I would have gone to Red Lobster.”

  She started laughing, then I started laughing, and then she pointed to the dot on the counter.

  “Look, it really does look like a crab.”

  “What the hell, Missy?! Do something before it freaking makes babies on the sink or something.” She grabbed the phone and started dialing.

  “Who are you calling?” I asked. Before she had time to respond to me, she said, “Hi, Mom,” into the phone. Who in the hell calls their mom to tell them they have crabs?

  “Mom. I have crabs.”

  Well, that’s being direct. I could hear her mom shouting, “Oh my God, Missy. How many boys have you been sleeping with down there?” She responded with, “Everyone has crabs down here.” To defend my cleanliness, I screamed, “I don’t! I don’t have crabs.” My roommate looked at me and said, “I wore those sweatpants you’re wearing last night to bed.” Everything went i
nto slow motion as I imagined the worst possible infestation colony of crabs bouncing from one pube to another. I saw them having orgies and being so happy that I’m half Polish because of the enormous amount of pubic hair I have. I finally snapped out of it and found myself tackling my roommate to the ground while wearing a Hefty garbage bag diaper.

  “You bitch!” I shouted as I rolled my body on top of hers. She started screaming, “I’m just kidding, Jenny, I’m kidding! I didn’t wear them. I’m just messing with you!” I stood up, pissed off and grossed out. My roommate grabbed the phone and continued her conversation with her mom and learned how to remove pubic lice with shampoo. I wore my Hefty bag underwear until we washed everything in the house thoroughly, and I made my roommate sleep on the kitchen tile floor for a week. We were one of the only apartments that was crab-free the rest of the year.

  By the time I got to Hollywood, herpes was the new gross “love wound” on the scene. I met a guy out here, who I slept with for six months. We were watching a herpes commercial on TV, and he casually said, “Oh, I have that sometimes.” I slowly turned toward him and threw him a right hook. I only hit his arm, but I definitely bruised it. “What?! You prick. You tell me six months later?”

  “I thought everyone had herpes, baby,” he replied.

  “No, I just moved out from Chicago, we only had to worry about crabs. You should have told me the first time. You totally could have given it to me.”

  “We never did it when I had an outbreak.”

  “Didn’t… did you hear the commercial? You can spread it without having a breakout.”

  “Well, none of my other girlfriends got it from me.”

  I broke up with him. Not because of herpes. I could love someone with herpes. I was just upset by the fact he didn’t care enough about me to tell me ahead of time. It’s gotta be an uncomfortable thing to do when you meet someone new and you’re hot and heavy and don’t want to interrupt them with, “My cauliflower herpes don’t seem to be there right now, let’s have sex.” Not the best kinda foreplay talk.