Love, Lust & Faking It

by Jenny McCarthy

  The next day I was terrified to do anything. I didn’t know what else could go wrong, so I kept my distance as much as possible. Again, I didn’t seem to have my period, but I couldn’t take the chance of having it magically reappear again. Toward the end of the evening Mike grabbed my face and kissed me. He slowly lowered me to the floor and took off my clothes. Ten years of waiting was the longest foreplay a girl could ever ask for. We had great sex, and I’m so grateful there was no Clay and no sign of anything else. It was just a beautiful night with an amazing friend. Finally … the perfect booty call.

  [26]

  Songs to Do the Nasty To

  Okay, so here is a list of songs my tweeters say are their favorite sex tunes. Some of them I wouldn’t be caught dead listening to, but everyone dances to the beat of their own drum. At the end of the list you will find my personal selection from my own iPod, labeled “Booty call.”

  Nine Inch Nails, “Closer”

  Usher, “You Got It Bad”

  Sade, “No Ordinary Love”

  Sade, “By Your Side”

  Scorpions, “No One Like You”

  Kings of Leon, “Sex on Fire”

  Pink Floyd, “Dark Side of the Moon”

  Tool, “Push It”

  INXS, “Not Enough Time”

  Marilyn Manson, “Dope Show”

  Deep Forest, “Deep Forest”

  Avant, “Make Good Love”

  Tricky, “Overcome”

  Dave Matthews Band, “Crash Into Me”

  Jordan Knight, “Give It to Ya”

  Tenacious D, “F*ck Her Gently”

  Jace Everett, “Bad Things” (Theme from True Blood)

  Black Eyed Peas, “Sexy”

  Need to Breathe, “Something Beautiful”

  Janet Jackson, “Rope Burn”

  Janet Jackson, “That’s the Way Love Goes”

  Keith Urban, “Raining on Sunday”

  Led Zeppelin, “Whole Lotta Love”

  Prince, “I Would Die for You”

  Jeremiah, “Birthday Sex”

  Toni Braxton, “You’re Making Me High”

  Lit, “My Own Worst Enemy”

  Kings of Leon, “Closer”

  Maroon Five, “Secret”

  Alicia Keys, “You’ll Never See Me Again”

  Madonna, “Justify My Love”

  Black Keys, “I’ll Be Your Man”

  Keith Sweat, “Nobody”

  Led Zeppelin, “Dazed and Confused”

  Lamb, “Gabriel”

  Notorious B.I.G., “Hypnotized”

  Deftones, “Digital Bath”

  The Wallflowers, “Closer to You”

  Usher, “I Wanna Make Love in This Club”

  Black Crows, “She Talks to Angels”

  Justin Timberlake, “Damn Girl”

  Ne-Yo, “Addicted”

  John Mayer, “Edge of Desire”

  R. Kelly, “Bump N Grind”

  TLC, “Red Light”

  The Killers, “Mr. Brightside”

  311, “Love Song”

  Sarah McLachlan, “Possession”

  Beyoncé, “Speechless”

  Sade, “Cherish the Day”

  Aerosmith, “Crazy”

  Incubus, “Drive”

  Sohodolls, “Stripper”

  Goo Goo Dolls, “Iris”

  Britney Spears, “Slave for You”

  Massive Attack, “Angel”

  My favorite responses: theme song from The Colbert Report,

  porn music.

  JENNY’S IPOD “BOOTY CALL” PLAYLIST:

  Rihanna, “Take a Bow”

  Mary J. Blige and U2, “One”

  Thievery Corporation, “Until the Morning”

  Audioslave, “Like a Stone”

  Clay Aiken!!!!!!!! (f*cking Jojo!), “On My Way Here”

  Clay Aiken!!!!! (f*cking Jojo again!), “Lover All Alone”

  Justin Timberlake, “What Goes Around”

  Fiona Apple, “Shadowboxer”

  Fiona Apple, “Criminal”

  Jay Z, “Empire State of Mind”

  Hooverphonic, “2 Wicky”

  Pras, “Dirty Cash”

  Aaliyah, “Try Again”

  Jay Z, “On to the Next One”

  Alicia Keys, “Put It in a Love Song”

  Jay Z, “Run This Town”

  Timbaland (featuring Justin Timberlake), “Carry Out”

  Garbage, “#1 Crush”

  Alicia Keys, “No One”

  Alicia Keys, “Fallin’”

  Alicia Keys, “If I Aint Got You”

  Alicia Keys, “Rude Boy”

  Rihanna, “Disturbia”

  Rihanna, “Hard”

  Rihanna, “Umbrella”

  Rihanna, “Rehab”

  Rihanna, “Russian Roulette”

  Rihanna, “Lemme Get That”

  T.I., “Live Your Life”

  Alicia Keys, “Un-Thinkable”

  Lady Gaga, “Speechless”

  Ne-Yo, “Because of You”

  Chris Brown, “Forever”

  David Guetta, “Getting Over You”

  Danzig, “She Rides”

  Portishead, “Glory Box”

  Hess Is More, “Yes Boss”

  Puscifer, “Rev 22-20”

  Placebo, “My Sweet Prince”

  Nouvelle, “Vague Psyche”

  BitterSweet, “Drink You Sober”

  Part Three

  FAKING IT …

  [27]

  Boobies: Just Clumps of Fat

  I woke up one morning and was getting dressed for fifth grade when I noticed the first bump of boobies beginning to grow. I was horrified. I didn’t want boobs. They were stupid and silly looking and the boys made fun of them. To make matters worse, we didn’t have much money so I was forced to wear my sister’s hand-me-down bra. If you noticed, I didn’t say bras. I said bra. I was allowed just one that my sister had used for two years and it was held together by a safety pin. I went to school hoping no boys would detect a bra line for fear of humiliation. Thank God for Carrie Dulewski. She took most of the attention away from the other girls during puberty due to her double-D breasts at the age of eleven.

  The following year, my mom decided it was time for me to get my own bra. She came home from the JCPenney summer sale with my first very own over-the-shoulder boulder-holder. I ran upstairs, excited to try it on, and pulled it out of the bag. I took one look at it and burst into tears. It was a cross-your-heart grandma bra. It had crossover support as if it were holding up Mount Rushmore. I was barely an A cup. I had no choice but to wear it, because the other one had disintegrated into nothing.

  Puberty was in full bloom when I met a boy named Jeff. He was a tough kid and not very nice, exactly my type. We went over to the house of my friend, whose parents bowled on Mondays, and snuck into a bedroom to make out. We were getting really hot and heavy when he started to undo my shirt. I couldn’t wait for him to grab my boob. My hormones were raging and with each button that was being undone I imagined our wedding, our children, and how I would love this boy forever. He finally undid the last button of my school blouse and softly opened it. I arched my back in anticipation of his hand moving to cup my breasts.

  “What… in … the … hell… is… that?” he said.

  I opened my eyes, thinking he saw some sort of spider crawling on the wall. Then I noticed that his eyes were directly on my chest. He had a disturbed look on his face.

  “What do you mean?” I said in my most terrified, this-could-scar-me-forever voice.

  “It’s a freaking grandma bra. It’s so stupid looking. What a dork.” In that instant, I turned into a shriveled, insecure, worthless little girl. He shouted to his friend to come in the room and check out what I was wearing. I pushed him off of me and ran home crying. He broke up with me the next afternoon. From that day on, looking sexy was my highest goal, held over anything.

  By the time I left college, I had stuffed my twenty
thousandth bra. I was so tired of those chicken cutlets girls wear that I was willing to do anything to get my boobs done. When you ask, you shall receive, because into my life walked an old friend with the most beautiful clumps of fat I had ever seen. I should say, clumps of saline I had ever seen. She had told me that she had found a doctor in Arizona who did boobs for fifteen hundred bucks.

  “Does he do them in his garage? Why is it so cheap?”

  “Dunno, but my tits look awesome.”

  She was right. They did look awesome. They were soft, round, and beautiful. I was determined to get back at boys like Jeff and prove to all future men that I was desirable. When I finally met with the doctor, I was grateful his office was not in his house or backyard trailer. He seemed extremely professional, so I decided to take my top off and show him my tiny goods. He stared at them for a moment and then poked around. “I think you should get a D cup.”

  I said, “Um, I don’t want to go that big. I think C would be perfect.” The doctor replied, “No, you have to trust me. Everyone always comes back to get them redone bigger. You should stick with a D.” I pointedly replied, “No, I really only want a C cup.” He finally gave up after a rather long back-and-forth. I don’t understand why doctors and hairdressers don’t just listen to what you want in the first place. Anyway, the day of surgery came, and I woke up with butterflies in my belly. I stared at my baby boobies, questioning if I should go through with it at all. I had thoughts of my Catholic mom at my funeral telling people I died for tits. But of course, vanity won over sanity. I was wheeled into surgery, injected with drugs, and slowly drifted off to the most bizarre dream of getting a boob job and hearing the doctors talk about it. I was thinking to myself, This is amazing that I happen to be dreaming about the exact same thing that is happening to my body. I was dreaming that they were tugging on my chest and pulling it. Then I opened my eyes and realized why I had only paid fifteen hundred dollars for this boob job. “I’m not under anesthesia!” I started screaming and tried to get up. “Jenny, just relax, we have one breast left.”

  I screamed back, “What in the hell do you mean I have one breast left?” I looked down and saw that one boob was big and one boob was small. “For the love of God, what have you done to me?!” I heard the nurse say, “Should we give her some Valium?”

  “Valium? Valium? How about some fucking anesthesia?” I cried. They started on the other breast by putting a tool inside my breast pocket to make room for the implant. At this point I went into shock that I was allowing this to happen. I thought this kinda thing only happened in countries I couldn’t pronounce. I looked down again, and the boob now matched the other one. I thought it was over until they grabbed my breast and violently moved it back and forth like they were pressing it into my rib cage. “Please, for the love of God, be done or give me drugs!!” Suddenly, the table I was lying on started making this electronic noise, and the table began to move into a standing position with me still on it. “Oh my God!! Please don’t make me stand up and walk. I promise I’ll stop yelling.”

  “Jenny, just relax. We have to make sure your breasts are even, so we need to stand you up,” said the nurse.

  I noticed that my arms were tied down but spread out like wings. “I’m gonna fall forward! You tied me up like Jesus on the cross so I can’t even break the fall. Stop the table!” The doctor and nurse walked over to the other side of the room and stared at me like I was a ceramic bowl they’d just painted. I heard them agree that both the left and right boobs looked even. As a Catholic, being tied up like Jesus on the cross while naked and bleeding convinced me that this was punishment for my sins. I began to shout profanities that I’m sure Jesus would have said if he could, and then the miracle happened. I heard, “She’s all done.” Hallelujah! The electronic sound of the table started up, and I was lowered onto my back. They wheeled me out into a room and threw me on a La-Z-Boy to wait for my boyfriend to come get me.

  I sat there in so much pain, completely pissed off I had gone through with it. I mean, why do guys like boobs so much anyway? When it comes down to it, they are just clumps of fat. Shame was the perfect word to describe how I felt sitting there on that La-Z-Boy. When my boyfriend walked in the room, he knelt down in front of me and I puked all over him. Thank God he was one of those boyfriends I could puke on, because little did he know he was going to be wiping my butt all week because I couldn’t move my arms.

  The only way I could describe the pain is, imagine a semi truck rolling over your chest and parking there for three days. That’s exactly what it feels like. When we got back to the motel, I asked my boyfriend to hand me a pain pill. He looked at them and said, “Baby, they only gave you Tylenol.” What?! I mean, come on, were these people sadistic? Because we were in Arizona we didn’t know anyone, so I couldn’t get any help. To make matters worse, I could only pay for two more nights in the motel and had to head back to Chicago on freaking Tylenol! Heidi Montag would have died if she experienced the pain I did. Anyway, we got to the airport and my boyfriend got out of the car to get me a wheelchair. I was so embarrassed because he had to put me in the damn thing and leave me sitting there while he returned the rental car! I hadn’t bathed, my hair was in knots, and I was grimacing in pain. To make matters worse, I couldn’t move my arms, and my boyfriend left me in a high-traffic area. Seeing the pity in people’s eyes was worse than being awake during surgery. I started to get angry and yelled, “Take a picture, it will last longer,” which I’m sure made me sound like a third-grader in a wheelchair.

  At least an hour had gone by, and I began to assume the worst: my boyfriend had left me at the airport to rot in hell. Why wouldn’t he have? I’m sure he didn’t appreciate my period coming early and my inability to move my arms. Then in the distance my man showed up and saved me. He got me to the gate, where they had told him he needed to board without me and that I had to board last. He explained that I needed extra help because of my condition, but they didn’t seem to care. They said that airport people would help me. So my boyfriend kissed me good-bye and boarded the plane. Now what kind of freaking airline has that as a rule? Usually those who require “extra assistance” get to board first. (Looking back, I realize that in my life I have always experienced the opposite of normal; at least I have good stories to tell when I’m drunk. And other people do, too.)

  Everyone boarded the plane, and it was finally my turn. I was a tiny bit excited, knowing I would be in my own bed soon. They took me outside, and I saw that there wasn’t a jet bridge. It was one of those stair things they push next to the plane in lieu of the jet bridge. How was I going to climb all those stairs? I could hardly even stand. Two guys in airport jumpers approached me and said, “Do you think you can make it?” I said “Hell no, I had surgery.”

  “Where?” they replied.

  “Ummmmm … in my chest.” I think they thought I had heart surgery or something because they gently grabbed each armpit and held me in the air, pulling me up the stairs. I was in so much pain with every step that I was literally howling like a coyote. I made it into the plane, where everyone was staring at the crying handicapped girl who just boarded. They sat me next to my boyfriend, and we prayed the worst was over.

  We took off and the turbulence was out of control. Everything was bouncing around, and I asked the flight attendant for extra pillows to encase my body. She was very sweet and surrounded me with pillows and then kindly asked what surgery I had done. I told her I got my boobs done, because I felt like a woman could relate to the insecurities of a girl. I swear to God she turned into an evil bitch before my very eyes. If she could have snatched the pillows back she would have. Hours went by, and my mouth was parched. I had my boyfriend ring the bell to call them to see if I could get some water. “No, not right now, there is too much turbulence.” But if I were a handicapped girl you could be sure I would have gotten a case of water delivered to my seat.

  We finally made it home, and I took off my bandages after a week and almost died yet again. My tits
were huge. Yes, they were swollen, but I knew after the swelling went down I was going to be a D cup. Well, the swelling went down, and I was right. The bastard gave me a large D cup. Then because of the stretching, a month later I woke up with the worst stretch marks known to mankind. I mean bad. I kept bitching to my friends and they said, Show us in the bathroom. So I showed them and they said, “Oh my God, that’s awful.” Three years later I went back, to the same guy, to get my boobs the size I wanted, a C cup. But I’m still painfully insecure about my boobs. I don’t have sex with the lights on and hope one day either that I can become okay with them or that a cream will come out that regenerates new skin.

  Do I regret that I did it? Well, I try not to regret anything I do. You can’t change the past, so why bitch about it? I just wish I’d waited until I got older to see if boobs really mattered. They don’t in my eyes, but to some guys they do. I can see their point. I don’t like small penises.

  Before I end this chapter, I have to tell you that I bumped into Jeff, the boy who made fun of my bra, at a bar while I was on Singled Out. He came up to me and said, “Wow, you really grew up hot. I can’t believe it. Do you want to dance?”

  I smiled and said, “Sorry, I don’t dance with dorks.”

  [28]

  The Facade: Love the Fake Me

  Whenever I look back at past relationships, I cringe when I think of how perfect I tried to be in the beginning. Laughing at dumb jokes, acting like a lady, farting in the other room, pretending I like to watch football when I would rather be getting a root canal. This is incredibly common in all relationships. We work so hard to win the approval of our new partner, their friends and family, that we lose touch with who the hell we are. We don’t live our lives… we are acting them instead.