You’ll Never Blue Ball in This Town Again

by Heather McDonald

  “Come on, Ray. What’s it gonna be?” I asked.

  “Yes, come over,” he said. I immediately crossed four lanes, barely escaping a potential pile-up.

  That night, as we were once again on his bed wearing just underwear and making out passionately, I said, “OK. Come on, let’s do it.”

  “Really? Are you sure?” he asked.

  “Yes, but use a condom.” So that was it. I was buzzed, of course, from the drinks I had before, but it was fine, not mind-blowing by any means. I was just trying to do my best to appear as though I had done this monumental act before. There was no way I was going to tell him before or afterward that this was my first time. I stuck to that plan.

  The next morning, we lay in bed and talked just like we had the other mornings when we hadn’t had sex. I kissed him goodbye at my car. When I got home, I picked up my phone and called my two sisters and two best friends, Tara and Liz. I started each phone call exactly the same by saying, “Hi, it’s Heather! Well, you’ve been waiting for this call for twenty-seven years. Congratulations to me, I finally did it, I’m officially no longer a virgin.” Besides the four of them, no one close to me knew I was still a virgin.

  That night, Ray met me at the Laugh Factory to watch my stand-up set. He had never seen me before and it was just OK, not the worst but certainly not my best. He was really sweet and supportive and took me out for drinks and dinner at Red Rock afterward. He said, “About last night, did you have a good time?”

  “Yes, of course, I did,” I said reassuringly.

  “Like a really good time or just a good time?”

  I knew what he was getting at. Did I have an orgasm? Well no, I didn’t, but I wasn’t going to let him know that, so I said, “Yes, I had a really good time.” I followed up the statement with a Sarah Palin wink. I went back to his place that night and did it a couple of times, faked an orgasm like so many women had long before me, and I started feeling like a real adult for once.

  Ray was good about calling and keeping plans. When I came over to his place after I filmed a small role, he took me to Spago’s to celebrate. The following morning, as we talked in his bed, I turned to him with all the confidence in the world and I asked, “Ray, what am I to you?” He looked up at the ceiling and said, “Heather.” I was positive he was going to say, “Heather, of course, you are my girlfriend.” Instead he said, “Heather, I don’t want a girlfriend right now. I just got out of two three-year relationships and I really need to focus on my career.” I swallowed and quickly went to every acting skill I had ever learned and said, “Oh, me, too. I don’t want a boyfriend right now, either. I was just making sure so we were on the same page.”

  As I drove home that morning, I was sad but OK with everything. I liked Ray a lot, but I wasn’t in love with him. I decided to really back off because I knew this wasn’t going anywhere. He called me a few times and I called him back, but we never made plans and I never saw him again. Once it was out there—“Heather, I don’t want a girlfriend”—I just didn’t want to be that booty call and try to push a relationship. I was grateful. I lost it to a nice, fun, cute, and most important, normal guy who never knew he was my first. So he didn’t receive an unwarranted compliment of being “the one” and he also didn’t feel forced into having a relationship with me because he was my first when he really wasn’t into it. That would have just wasted my time and possibly in the end really hurt me.

  I still had my morals and my values but also my birth-control pills, which I continued to take religiously. If I did meet another nice normal guy I was attracted to, I had the tools and knew how to in fact “do it.”

  So this was officially an end of an era—an era of blue balling to my heart’s content. And though I was forced to relinquish my crown as Queen of the Blue Balls due to a technicality (no longer a virgin), I still love the art of blue balling and practice it to this day.

  9 LA, LA, Just Addicted to Crack

  I met Matt one Thursday night during the summer between my freshman and sophomore years of college at a bar just minutes from my parents’ house. Matt was twenty-five which really seemed much older than me at the time. He owned a three-bedroom, one-and-three-quarters bath, 1,100-square-foot contemporary ranch house in Reseda and seemed very successful. Most drug dealers are.

  I ended the relationship once I suspected that he was doing more than remodeling houses. But eight years later, he introduced me to Peter, for which I will be forever grateful.

  I didn’t see Matt again until several years later when I was working as a writer on Keenan Ivory Wayan’s late-night talk show. My first day on the job, I walked up to the catering truck to get lunch and there he was. It was Matt’s catering company. Wow! He had gone from supposedly building houses to building sandwiches. Matt still had his big white teeth, straight nose, and he wore a blue and white bandana wrapped like a surfer dude around his head to cover the receding hairline, which had been evident eight years earlier. At this point, I assumed there wasn’t much left to run your fingers through. I suppose the look worked in a Brett Michaels kind of way, minus the eyeliner and eyelash extensions.

  “Matt,” I said in amazement. “Gosh, it’s me, Heather McDonald.”

  He was shocked, to say the least, that I was a writer. In my humble opinion, this struck him as being kind of annoying. Hello! Didn’t he remember how witty I was when he took me to the Elton John concert and upon returning from the bathroom I announced, “The bitch is back”?

  As I complimented him on his culinary ingenuity to use not one but two kinds of cheeses in a quesadilla, we quickly became friends again. It wasn’t even in the playing field that we would be anything more than that. Matt was no longer moonlighting as a marijuana sales rep, but he was still a loyal customer of the weed. He also did quite well catering for the studios.

  We would talk on the phone—he in his catering truck, me still in my 1992 red Toyota Celica—about all of our dating nightmares and triumphs. One day he simply said, “I think I have a guy for you!”

  My first question since I was in diapers has always been, “How tall?” Not only am I tall, but I’m also a fan of big hair and platform stilletos.

  Matt said that my potential new guy was six-three.

  “Really?” I replied. “How old?”

  “I think he’s, like, thirty-three.” Matt continued chopping cucumbers.

  “That’s good, since I’m twenty-eight. Kids?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Ever been married?” I asked, going over my “Heather Husband Must Haves” list that I readily had at my disposal.

  “No,” Matt said. Then he hesitated a little, “Ah, but he was engaged.”

  Now to me, this was as intriguing as a two-hour 48 Hour Mystery on CBS. It meant that at one point, my potential date had asked a woman to marry him! Marriage was on his radar. “What happened to the fiancée?” I continued, hoping that, unlike a 48 Hour Mystery, she did not go missing after a day of sailing with him.

  “She broke up with him,” Matt replied. By now, it sounded like he was scraping the cubes into a bowl.

  “Perfect,” I told myself. “Not only is she still breathing, but she dumped him.” This wasn’t the typical potential bride stands at the altar; groom doesn’t show; jilted bride sues, is featured in New York Magazine, gets her groove back, sells the film rights to her story, and Kate Hudson is set to star in the major motion picture. He wasn’t the one who freaked out and dumped her and may one day regret it. She had simply moved on.

  “What’s his hair doing?” I said, nearing the end of what could be called badgering the witness. I didn’t want to hurt Matt’s feelings, since he was losing his hair—and many bald men are extremely attractive—but I’m a gal who loves a full head of hair to which I can apply a variety of Paul Mitchell products. Traditionally, I’ve also always been attracted only to dark-haired men who are not Persian. Matt assured me that Peter had all of his hair so this was all sounding very positive.

  “Where does he
live?” I prayed it was not in the City of Industry or any other town where major water parks are advertised.

  “Sherman Oaks, in a condo.” Sherman Oaks is very nice and only about a ten- to fifteen-minute drive from the Westside, totally respectable.

  “Own or rent?” I asked, wondering why Matt wasn’t irritated by such interrogation.

  “He bought it a couple of years ago.”

  Yeah, a homeowner, and now there is equity in it, too! Yes, we can live in it for a while, then sell it and use the profit to buy a two-bedroom cottage in Malibu Canyon, eventually working our way to a property on the water!

  Matt had the green light to go ahead and set up the date. This conversation took place in October 1998, but Matt was such a flake that he let things lapse. I guess he got a little preoccupied with cleaning out a bong and failed to make the introduction.

  Then in December of that year, Matt said, oh so casually, as he plopped a huge helping of macaroni and cheese onto my plate at the studio, “Oh yeah. I remember there was something I was supposed to tell you. I talked to Peter.”

  “Who’s Peter?” I asked. At this point, I was seeing Chris, an extremely cute former USC football player who wasn’t doing much with his life but looking cute. This was totally good enough for me. It was nothing serious, but every time I would accept that it had been a week since I had heard from him and convinced myself that I would never hear from him again, he called. And each time, I told myself, “I am making out with a USC running back! Sure, he was on the team six years ago, but still!”

  Matt went on to explain that Peter asked him, “What’s up with that Heather girl?” Peter, too, was annoyed that Matt hadn’t made this rendezvous happen yet. I told Matt just to give Peter my number, but Matt never managed to do that, either … because potheads are about as reliable as, well, potheads.

  Then one Saturday in January, Cute Chris called me. At this point, it had been almost two weeks since I had heard from him.

  I kind of felt bad for Chris. He played in the Rose Bowl in his twenties, and now in his thirties, he was no longer catching passes but rather delivering muffin gift baskets to overweight realtors as part of his job as an assistant to an escrow officer. He was even back living at his parents’ house in Topanga Canyon. I did not find out about his two “housemates” until a few dates in. I was mortified and chose to keep that tidbit to myself when describing him to my friends. Instead, I said, “What’s great about Chris is he’s really close to his parents. He even manages to talk to his mom every day.” I wasn’t really lying. I just left out the part where the talking took place when his mother was tucking him into bed.

  Chris told me that our mutual friend Jamie was having a birthday party at the Mexican restaurant El Cholo in Santa Monica at eight that evening and asked if I’d like to go with him.

  I immediately thought about Matt. He and Peter were friends with Jamie, too. (Oh my God! Oh my God! I was already feeling tingles of excitement!) Would they be heading there, too?

  Just in case, I told Chris that I would meet him there.

  As soon as I hung up with Chris, I called Matt and asked him if he was going. He said yes and then I asked (so nonchalantly, as if it were an afterthought), “Oh, is that Peter guy going, too?”

  Matt replied that indeed he was.

  I told Matt that I was going, too. I’d be “technically” on a date, but “officially” I wasn’t that into him anymore, so I was going to drive my own car just in case the Peter guy and I hit it off.

  Matt replied, “Yeah, whatever, so I’ll see you there.”

  It’s amazing that this was truly a blind date, which in this era of technology really doesn’t exist anymore. Today, if you can’t find a photo of the person your friend is setting you up with on the Internet, your best bet is to stay home on a Saturday night and watch America’s Most Wanted. All I could think about as I waxed my upper lip to prepare for my plural dates was that Peter was thirty-three, tall, with a full head of dark brown hair that I could style and pet while watching episodes of The Real World. When I walked into the bar area of El Cholo, I said my “heys” to the people I knew. No sooner did I give a quick kiss to Cute Chris, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and this guy with the biggest smile ever said, “Hi, I’m Peter.”

  It was a moment frozen in time, like Nicole Kidman’s pale white forehead in Cold Mountain etched in my memory forever. Peter and I talked that whole night while he bought me piña coladas with the conveniently placed little umbrellas just in case it rained in the bar. I never even glanced in Chris’s direction the entire night.

  As the crowd started to disperse, Chris, while walking toward the door, called out, “Bye, Heather.”

  “Bye,” I replied with a casual wave. I never saw or heard from Chris again. When we were dating, though, he did tell me that the last three girls he had been with met their husbands immediately after going out with him. I couldn’t help but be hopeful.

  The crowd from El Cholo was moving to another bar called Renee’s. Peter asked if he could drive me there. Well, of course, I said um, yes. He had a new black Ford Expedition—again totally respectable—not a Ferrari but not a Mini Cooper, either. He was cool and nice, and yep, I really liked this guy.

  At the bar I was surprised how aggressive he became when he leaned in and I asked, “Are you seriously trying to kiss me right now?”

  He replied simply, “Yes.” I loved that. There was nothing I hated more than when a guy would ask, “Can I kiss you?” This is especially gross on the must-see TV series The Bachelor. What are you going to say? “No?” I mean, I think it’s all a little pussified. Guys just need to go for it, not to the extent of date rape, but to the point of a man taking control.

  Peter took me back to my car and followed me back to the apartment I shared with my Buddhist/Catholic/agoraphobic roommate, Debbie. Because of her, there was no way I was going to let him see her sitting in her footie pajamas, eating Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia ice cream, and watching My Cousin Vinny for the thirtieth time.

  I made out with Peter to the point where I was getting pushed into a large flower bed outside of our building in which the back of my black micro-miniskirt was being poked by the prickly rose thorns. I love dry humping, especially on a first date.

  As Peter saw me to the front door, he said, “I will absolutely call you tomorrow.”

  I was on high alert. You know, that level where orange turns into red on Homeland Security’s radar.

  The next day, I waited and waited, and he didn’t call. I checked my home line several times, making sure it was plugged in. I checked my cell phone battery and continued to call both my voice mails throughout the day just to make sure that I didn’t miss his message, even though I had never left my apartment.

  What the fuck? I thought. Maybe he’s just waiting trying to be cool. But at this point in my professional dating career, nothing surprised me.

  The next day, Monday, Peter finally phoned. He asked me if I’d like to go out next Wednesday night or Friday night.

  I chose Friday because I wanted to have a date on the weekend. That was the only reason. That and the fact that even if I sat at home Saturday night, at least I could tell my friends that yes, I did have a date that weekend. Ever since I was a little girl and sleepovers became popular, I hated the feeling I would get on a Friday morning when I didn’t bring an overnight bag with me to school. This was a reminder that no one had asked me to come to their house.

  I have always hated not having plans, whether it depends on being with another fifth-grade girlfriend or a thirty-three-year-old man. Even today, I have to have something to look forward to, whether it’s a stand-up gig, a dinner party, or even the unveiling of a new free tasting item at Costco. I like plans.

  Also, by choosing Friday, it left more days in between seeing each other, which that book The Rules had driven home. The dating bible book also taught me to always appear like you’re busy and have other suitors, so having Cute Chris at our
first meeting had probably helped things. Most guys are naturally competitive. It gave Peter something to work toward, a goal to get me to pay attention to him instead of Chris.

  Friday night came and I buzzed Peter in. When I opened the door, he was even more handsome than I remembered. He drove us to Chaya Venice, a very hip California cuisine bar and restaurant. As we waited in the bar, he said, “I feel like having a martini.”

  “I feel like a martini, too,” I said. “Wow, we have so much in common. We both like strong vodka drinks and olives.” When we sat down to order, I asked, “Do you like to share?”

  He said, “Yes.”

  “Oh my God! Oh my God! I like to share, too. This is all just simply crazy.” Then I asked, “What are the chances that two people like to drink martinis and share appetizers on a first date?”

  As we were enjoying the many other little dishes that we ordered, Peter asked me, “Do you like to fly first class? I like to fly first class.”

  Of course. I mean, who doesn’t like to fly first class? Like someone is ever going to say, “Actually, I prefer to be wedged in between two 300-pound strangers with a seat that doesn’t recline and to be centimeters from a volcano-size pimple on the passenger’s neck beside me that I fear will explode onto my four-dollar energy bar with every passing sneeze.” From that night on, I knew he was the one. He was my first-class guy!

  The day after my first date with Peter, I had been invited to a couple’s baby shower in Hollywood Hills. Unlike a lot of women, I actually love baby showers and bridal showers. I love the feeling I get around four in the afternoon buzzed off Chardonnay and full from cake and Chinese chicken salad. This being a couple’s baby shower was even better because there were all these cute guys there.

  My friend’s husband was in chiropractic school. So these guys were hot and could crack backs. Quite a combo! I am addicted, much like someone addicted to crack, to cracking my back. I first learned to self-crack back in eighth grade listening to Duran Duran’s “Save a Prayer.” I would come home from school, turn it on, and then stretch and twist until I got as many audible cracks and pops as possible.