Screw Everyone

by Ophira Eisenberg

  SCREW

  EVERYONE

  SLEEPING MY WAY TO MONOGAMY

  OPHIRA EISENBERG

  SCREW EVERYONE

  Sleeping My Way to Monogamy

  Copyright © 2013 by Ophira Eisenberg

  Published by

  Seal Press

  A Member of the Perseus Books Group

  1700 Fourth Street

  Berkeley, California

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Eisenberg, Ophira, 1972-

  Screw everyone : sleeping my way to monogamy / By Ophira Eisenberg.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-1-58005-458-4

  1. Eisenberg, Ophira, 1972- 2. Comedians—United States—Biography. 3. Conduct of life—Humor. 4. Sex—Humor. I. Title.

  PN2287.E3955A3 2013

  792.702’8092—dc23

  [B]

  2012041690

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Cover design by Elke Barter

  Front cover photo © Jan Cobb Photography Ltd.

  Interior design by Domini Dragoone

  Distributed by Publishers Group West

  DEDICATION

  For Jonathan, who claims that counter to what

  I wrote on page 221, he was not reluctant

  about paying for the wine, whatsoever.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Introduction

  CHAPTER 1: First Kiss on My List

  CHAPTER 2: Expand Your Horizons

  CHAPTER 3: Nasty, Brutish, and Slutty

  CHAPTER 4: Swan Dive

  CHAPTER 5: Tommy, Can You Hear Me?

  CHAPTER 6: Fijian Waters Run Deep

  CHAPTER 7: The Whore of Fraser Island

  CHAPTER 8: Hex an Ex

  CHAPTER 9: The Trouble with Fieldwork

  CHAPTER 10: Unsend

  CHAPTER 11: Legally Blind

  CHAPTER 12: The Nice Fetish

  CHAPTER 13: Rent a Wreck

  CHAPTER 14: Screw No One

  CHAPTER 15: Goodnight, Charlie

  CHAPTER 16: Endless Lasagna

  CHAPTER 17: Turn Around, Bright Eyes

  CHAPTER 18: The Last Comedienne

  CHAPTER 19: Vanilla Mistress

  CHAPTER 20: Know When to Fold ’Em

  CHAPTER 21: Unbridled

  Epilogue

  EPIGRAPH

  “My only regret in life is that I didn’t drink enough Champagne.”

  —JOHN MAYNARD KEYNES

  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 fel
l 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.

  These are the highlights of my relationship resume, from my newbie days as a tween to my efflorescence as a (mostly) willing bride-to-be. But before all those Daves, at the ripe age of eleven, I met my inspiration. A boy named Brad . . .

  CHAPTER 1

  FIRST KISS ON MY LIST

  On the first day of seventh grade, I took my hair out of its two braids and wore it down for the very first time. This was junior high. Things were different. According to all the Judy Blume books I’d read, shit was about to get real.

  On the second day, Brad Moore approached me after Mrs. Cairn’s English class and asked me if I wanted to “go around.” Brad Moore had curly brown hair, a freckled face, and a silly smile, but his most attractive quality was that he liked girls. While most other boys were still punching us in the arm and running away, squealing like preschoolers on a sugar high, Brad Moore was more likely to casually approach and tell you how pretty you looked in your rainbow suspenders. The guy knew how to work a homeroom.

  I didn’t know what “going around” meant; I pictured us arm in arm, promenading around the playground, while our classmates applauded. I had no idea if I even liked Brad Moore but figured the best way to find out was to say yes. My girlfriends deliberated and advised against it, claiming that going around was a slippery slope to getting knocked up. I was naive, but I wasn’t dumb. I knew from observing my older siblings that he’d have to buy me something before he could do that. I think the real reason they were threatened by my budding romance with the class Don Juan was because I was the first girl in our group to get attention from a boy. I have no idea why he liked me. It certainly wasn’t because I was the most attractive or most popular girl in our class, nor because I had the biggest video game console at home. Maybe it was because Brad Moore, even as a tween, had some primitive sense that I was the perfect girl for him: the kind who never says no.

  In actuality, “going around” turned out to be a pretty lackluster affair. All we did was make dumb faces at each other in biology class and eat lunch at the same table. There was no applause or chance of a pregnancy scare. We didn’t even hold hands. I couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. That is, until the night of the Halloween dance.

  I went dressed as a sexy alien, in a purple and silver ’60s mod dress I found at the Goodwill, my face covered with sparkles and my hair sprayed blue. He went as a punk rocker: green hair, fake tattoos, and a sleeveless jean jacket covered with safety pins—because duh, we all knew that large numbers of safety pins equaled punk rock. We slow danced to the last song of the night, Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven,” edging closer and closer together until my lips were nearly pressed against his ear. I inhaled him deeply, and whoa, my nerves sparked like foil in a microwave. All of a sudden I understood every episode of Dallas, every Danielle Steel novel, every Tina Turner song. I hung on to him even tighter, as if it would ground me, but it only made the tingles intensify and multiply. To this day, the smell of tinted Halloween hairspray turns me on.

  I ended up kissing Brad Moore, but that happened after we broke up. We terminated our short stint as classmates-with-slow-dancing-benefits via the 1980s equivalent of text messaging: passing notes. Based on the speed dating he did after our “breakup,” he must have wanted first shot at all the seventh-grade girls before the other boys caught on that we weren’t icky. I wasn’t terribly heartbroken; I just wanted to climb more of that stairway to junior high heaven.

  Three months later, I got my chance at Janet Vanderbroek’s legendary Valentine’s party. Packed in her wood-paneled basement that was decorated with rolls of red and pink streamers, we stood around nervously munching on bowls of potato chips and listening to Janet’s recent purchase of ten cassette tapes for a penny from Columbia House, which included everything from Huey Lewis and The News to Quiet Riot. But the real centerpiece of the party was the cardboard Cupid hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the dance floor. Word quickly spread that the Cupid was ersatz mistletoe: If you ended up under it, you had to make out with the person you were dancing with. As the Orange Crush and root beer took hold, we loosened up, and Brad Moore, wearing his brand-new ripped jeans, made his way through the crowd and asked me to dance. Maybe he realized that playing the field wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

  I don’t remember what music was playing at that moment; it could have been a death metal band, for all I knew. All my attention was on our proximity to that cardboard Cupid. Working together like a Ouija planchette that magically slides to yes, we floated across the room until we were suddenly beneath it. Brad closed his eyes and leaned toward my face. This is it! I thought, nervous, but game. Our lips touched, and then his tongue shot into my mouth, wiggling around like a minnow caught on a fishing line. I quickly joined in with my own tongue. I may be a poor leader, but I’m an excellent follower and a quick study. It was more than childish kissing; we were really making out—just like in Grease! Looking back, I’d have to say that Brad Moore was a better kisser fresh out of the gate than many thirty-year-old men I’ve known. That’s why I didn’t bother changing his name. He should know that.

  Everyone was gawking at us, some with disgust, others with envy, a few with a mixture of both, but I didn’t care. It was better than eating bacon on Hanukkah morning. Days later, I could still feel the pressure of his lips, and for months afterward, I would replay that moment in my head every night before I went to sleep. The only stinger was that after our dance, Brad Moore asked every girl at the party to dance and kissed them all. Thank god I was first, and subsequently the only one who didn’t come down with strep throat.

  MY MOTHER DIDN’T raise me with fairy tales about some Prince Charming sweeping me off my feet and solving all my problems. “Wish on stars all you want,” she would say, “but no one’s listening except you.” It sounds harsh, but what do you expect from a woman who grew up in World War II Holland? “Don’t be picky,” she warned, “it’s not attractive.” Looking back, I guess she was saying, “Be happy if someone likes you, and if it doesn’t work out, try someone else.” We weren’t raised to be orchids, only blooming under perfect conditions. We were taught to thrive anywhere. Like a weed.

  My parents met in Nijmegan, Holland, right after the German occupation. My dad was born in Israel (although back then it was sort-of Palestine) and was part of the Allied forces that liberated Holland from Germany. Eager to leave war-torn Holland behind, my mother agreed to the marriage and was pregnant at sixteen years old, living in the oh-so-peaceful land of sort-of Palestine. She raised my two older brothers there, but constantly complained that she’d only moved from one war zone to another. “I was sick of all the bombing, the guns all the time. I wanted a break,” she would say, as if she were recalling a particularly rainy year. In 1957, they immigrated to Canada, the land of peace, snow, and opportunity. My dad started working as a Hebrew teacher, and then became the principal. Meanwhile, they had four more children. The only battles now took place in the living room, in the form of whining protests if we had to watch the news when Star Trek was on.

  T
here are twenty-five years between my oldest brother and me. He and my next oldest brother already had wives and kids before I was even a trickle in the tap. I’m the youngest of six, and my mother had me late in her life. Back then if you were pregnant in your forties, you’d appear on Ripley’s Believe It or Not!

  As a family we joked around a lot. Sarcasm and teasing were the currency of affection. The dinner table was like an open mic, with whomever was oldest headlining. My brothers and sisters loved telling anyone who would listen how my mother cried and cried when she found out she was pregnant with me. They took to calling me “The Mistake.” Once I asked my mom about this, and she told me not to worry—we were all mistakes.

  If she could embrace her mistakes, even consider them happy errors, then the pressure was off me to make perfect choices. Maybe life wasn’t so much about getting it right, as much as it was about rolling with the punches . . . or punch lines.

  The year I was born, my father left education and bought three grocery stores. We lived in Calgary, Alberta, Canada, an affluent oil and cattle town near the Rocky Mountains. Calgary was about as ethnically diverse as a Joan Baez concert—or a Moby concert, or a Taylor Swift concert, depending on your age. The fact that we were Jewish, and a family of seven brunettes and one redhead, made us the most exotic household in the neighborhood, second only to the Chinese family that lived down the street. As a child, I hated how my name, Ophira, stuck out and no one even bothered to try to pronounce it properly. They called me Ophelia instead. Didn’t that Hamlet character kill herself? Forget unrequited love; she probably did it because no one ever got her name right. My grade school teachers would scroll down the roll call list, study my pale face, light eyes, and suspiciously dark hair, and ask me if I was Black Irish, or maybe my parents were hippies? I’d tell them that my parents were twice their age, from Israel and Holland, and Ophira was an ancient Hebrew name; it just didn’t catch on like Rachel or Sara. They’d nod and put a little red x beside my name. I was definitely a kid that needed to be watched. By singling me out as special, they created a standard that I’d strive to live up to.