by Ali Adler
The result was that when we actually went on a real face-to-face date, I felt way too emotionally exposed. Drowning in how much she knew about me, not able to pull down those safe-feeling facades as easily. It was too late. I had texted the truth about self and soul with her already. It’s a far more nebulous closeness. It takes less courage to type out your vulnerable insides to a disembodied numerical face than expose yourself by sharing with an actual human being. Inserting a crying emoticon really isn’t the same as shedding a tear. But Liz and I got to know each other in these lengthy text sessions that filled up the crevices of our own lives. I had the opportunity to be more open about myself than I ever would’ve dared risking in real life.
So, of course, when we actually sat down for sushi, the result was a meltdown for me. An imbalanced equilibrium of her already knowing me, versus me feeling overexposed in person. Not a great first date. I got out of there fast. I was in the parking lot of the restaurant when I texted my wise friend, Jenni (because all women communicate every goddamned emotional shred, including lesbians . . .). I told Jenni, “No. Not going to happen.” Me, incredulous: “She used the word ‘delishy’ to describe a crab hand roll.” Jenni yelled at me for being the word police. Liz and I went out again without the overwhelming emotional meltdown of it being the first time. Happily ever after. Liz still says “delishy.” Maybe a little less than she used to. And of course it bugs me, it’s “delishy”—but she is who she is, so the only way for me to have a happy relationship is to accept her.
The Rules for Texting
But here’s the thing: although texting can be a very helpful tool to learn more about each other, it can never replace actual human connection. Texting is connection on steroids. A text demands your attention; it doesn’t care what you’re doing in that moment—it says, “Pay attention to me!” It can become wholly sexual—sexting to fruition—which can emulate intimacy. It can even begin to imitate a real relationship and then, when you’re together in real life, it can suddenly feel alienating and unfamiliar. Not the true connection of what you’ve experienced together before. It’s as if the bond you shared was about the size of your iPhone.
And men and women interrelate differently even with technology. Women examine every nuance of every conversation. This is also true with anything technological. The modern age affects women’s obsessional qualities, as well. My friend’s eighteen-year-old daughter came to me for advice about a new boy she was dating. Taylor, all flustered and maddened: “He hasn’t liked any of my Instagrams at all. And he didn’t comment or even reply-all about my ‘Boo, the world’s cutest Pomeranian getting groomed’ video that I sent him and eighteen of my other friends.”
That is modern anything-but-love. The “rules” of dating can’t even be applied anymore. How long to wait to return someone’s text? There’s no “Wait a couple days to return his call.” Or “Don’t fuck him until the third date.” There isn’t even a first date. The young just hook up at group gatherings. Everything moves so fast. Young women click and dispatch before thinking anything through, and then he’s already cc’d all and forwarded a random batch of boys your innermost thoughts and thighs that an uncontrolled mass of people can save on a cloud just for the short time of forever.
There’s always a new app, a new jolt of what feels like connection in under 140 characters—always wanting permission to use your current location. And FaceTime, wow. So intrusive. Nothing moves slowly enough not to return calls. Taylor composed six versions of a text to connect to a tanned, toned swim team boy who lanced her virginity on a hook up. “Do I exclaim, or use ellipses . . .?!” Each dot was thunk over as if it was the actual debate to lose her virginity—which incidentally, she dispatched within the time it took to press send.
I assured her that wherever the swimmer was the night we debated and agonized over punctuation marks, he was not somewhere composing theoretical lists of possible texts to send to her. Different pitches with various “What’s up?” “Wassup . . . .?” “Where r u??” “Where r you . . .?” “U around?” “You around . . .?” No, he was actually out there in life, stalking, claiming, masturbating to, or discussing pussy. The swimmer was either almost fucking someone or actually fucking someone, or asleep after having fucked someone. A blissfully empty sac, agitation juice relieved.
This isn’t to say that the gorgeous, brilliant, super-brainy Taylor gave something up to him that she didn’t want to give. She gave it willingly and wantingly. She confided to me that she thought this swim guy was a little stupid. The ironic “Communications” major. But that she was really into hanging out with him again. When I asked her what she thought they’d do if they were to hang out again, she shyly admitted she was thinking about the sex. I asked if she was looking for the connection part, the intimacy? “No,” she admitted, all blushily. They couldn’t really connect, she explained, because he wasn’t intellectually stimulating enough to scratch that itch for her. She was only really interested in the physical/sexual connection, but her body and her feelings still read his abject disinterest as unfulfilled yearning and rejection.
Poor Taylor. Really, she just wanted to objectify the swimmer as much as he wanted to objectify her. She only wanted to fuck him, but she still registered his disappearance as a wound, when all she wanted was the same thing he did. That’s the gender difference manifested: they were both using each other, but her lady feelings still perceived his disappearance as emotionally injurious.
The Fast Food Theory
Do you know that guy who loves to have sex with any woman he can? I’m sure the answer to you is, “Yes, all men do.” But I actually have a theory about this type; the ones who just can’t help themselves. This is certainly not helped by the Internet with all its magical portals and ways to meet new people. Men who sleep with a whole bunch of women, versus those who only sleep with a select few. I call it the Fast Food Theory: a burger chain has filled the bellies of literally billions, but does not provide a very good meal nutritionally. Though delicious in the moment, it usually leaves you with a desire for something more substantive. You’re filled with a salty regret. But, if you spend a little more time picking and preparing your food, you and your body will feel healthier.
I wanted to ask someone who would have an opinion on this. I wanted to talk to someone who has tested out my theory. Someone who had been fucking women long before I started, and continues to do so long after I confined my options to just the one. So I went out to dinner with John Stamos. You know the guy I’m talking about: the coyly smirking guy with excellent hair from Bye Bye Birdie on Broadway. Before that, he was John, the guy with excellent hair on Glee, or Tony the excellent-haired paramedic on NBC’s ER. Long before that, he was the nineties excellent-haired Uncle Jessie on ABC’s Full House. Before that, he was the eighties Blackie “excellent hair” Parrish on ABC’s General Hospital. He was on a show that I cocreated with Ryan Murphy, NBC’s The New Normal. What I didn’t confess to John while we were working together was that I possessed a lifelong Tiger Beat crush that superseded all lines of sexuality.
See, John Stamos is the universal donor. We humans are all attracted to John, regardless of our collective sexuality. Stamos is a staple in any writers’ room as “a theoretical guy.” A Theoretical Guy is a person of fantastic charm and handsomeness that another (usually less-attractive straight) man must allow for the possibility of having a sexual encounter with. A “but-what-if-that-man-was-John-Stamos” heterosexuality barometer.
Me: “Really? Your dick’s never moved for any man, ever?” Sample straight man: “No. Nope. Not into it.” Me: “Okay, so no one? There’s not a man alive you ever remotely could get a boner for?” Sample man: “It’s not a homophobic thing, just not into it.” Me: “Okay, I get it. You’re so straight; you wouldn’t take a free and easy blow job? No conversation required afterwards. No compliments or thank-you necessary. Just unpause the Daily Show and drift off to sleep.”
I can tell this scenario appeals in some way to Sample
Straight Man, never having really had it so articulated before, because now there is a dawning realization. “Ohh. No, I don’t think so, no.” Me: “So just like, theoretically, what if some dude bought you a Porsche just because he thought you were cool, adamantly agreed that your dad had unrealistic expectations of you, and laughed aloud at all of your jokes, even your stupid puns. He made you feel special . . .” Sample Straight Man wanes, considering: “What kind of Porsche? Not, like, a Boxster?” Me, knowing I have him in my sights now: “No man alive? Not even, like, John Stamos?”
Okay, now we’re in the zone. This is where even straight men must allow for the possibility of a theoretical Stamos blow job: “I mean, if my eyes were closed . . . guess it could be anybody’s mouth, right? I could pretend it was a woman’s mouth. I mean, John is very good looking. (Then, getting into it . . .) Bet he’s had so many BJs, he’d be very good at it.”
John is also the great lesbian equalizer. I wanted to sleep with him, too. Who am I to be immune to his ridiculous adorableness? John is how pretty I require my men to be. It’s why I become straight for four-hour pockets, every dozen years, give or take. So absurdly handsome, he’s almost a well-kempt butchy female. But pop culture pedigree aside, I was hypnotized by him. I’m sure it had something to do with his fame, as with any attraction to anything excellent, but what he emits is way more than a garden-variety case of star fuck. His twinkly-eyed Greekness, the self-confidence associated with a lush thicket of hair are impossible to ignore. I never actually had the chance to sleep with John, because in the time between working with him and actually wanting to have sex with him, I found and fell in love with my person. So, Stamos case closed. But it didn’t stop me from eating a steak with someone who’s as good an actor as he is a friend.
We met at the Palms in Beverly Hills. I wanted us to sit underneath his own caricature. Without even asking, he ordered for me and my girlfriend. King crab meat appetizer. Coupla steaks. Cheesy potatoes. Creamed spinach. For himself, he chastely got a simple fish with a monkish squeeze of lemon. He was interrupted no less than four times for photos, and every time he smiled and happily posed as if it was the first time in his life to ever be asked. Between interruptions that seemed to annoy only me, he asked what I was working on. I told him about the book. I laughed between bites of the heavenly quadruple potato cheesy thing he’d ordered and said, “I should probably interview you. You have so much experience.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I might not be that good at it. I could probably use the tips.”
Wow, wait. John’s penis had been inside maybe a tenth of the Screen Actors Guild, and here he was, admitting possible ignorance. Beyond the hair, the money, the sex appeal, the in-through-the-out-door ride entrances at Disneyland—here he was, confidently admitting that he didn’t know everything. No wonder this guy got laid so much!
Steal from his wisdom: When you openly admit gaps of knowledge, it makes someone want to teach you something while being simultaneously open to your not being excellent at it. Acknowledging imperfection allows for a learning curve and degrees of improvement. As I type this, I am only right now realizing that maybe I’d been played. Did I fall for John’s brilliant method of feigned ignorance, or was he being guileless? Not that it mattered; his modesty alongside his ability to de-pants someone with his dimpled, flirty smirk was a walloping duo.
Wisdom from an Expert
So in wanting to talk to John further about this book, I met him again for breakfast. Of course he ordered feta in his egg-white omelet. As I described the topic of the book, how to fuck a woman, he volunteered:
John: I am the last expert on the planet. But first and foremost, it’s respect. I want her to be turned on and be happy ten times before I even get off even once. I have an ego that the woman’s takeaway is, “Wow, he was great in bed, what a piece of ass Stamos is,” and she wins because I put all my energy into whatever turns her on.
Ali: So, wait, is that ego (which is inside you) or reputation (which is things people say about you)? I mean, if you were a less attractive person, less famous, would you feel the same?
John: I guess, it’s not funny or anything but the truth is—I care. I think it’s about body communication. Listening to her. I always feel like I talk too much about myself in life. So, I want to ask a million questions of her. It’s just more interesting when you know someone. Same thing with her body.
Ali: But, you’re you. Don’t you automatically get the girl? What’s the challenge?
John: People think that. I don’t know what it’s like not to be me, but I’m not the Lothario everyone thinks. I haven’t had sex, like intercourse, in a year because I’m at that point in my life where I don’t want to give shit away.
Ali: Aren’t you sort of quantifying your experiences (my Bill Clinton theory) with the intercourse version of sexual experience being the only one? Could it be that orgasm (or at least the valiant attempt to get it) should be the definition, not penetration?
John nods, absorbing this.
Ali: I wonder if you don’t “give it away” because of supply and demand? Like, you’ve had such a wealth of women, maybe it matters less to you?
John: I’m fifty-one years old. I’ve had some experience but it’s about listening, asking, talking . . . Maybe some girls are afraid of communicating. But I find most aren’t if you ask, “Does this feel good?” Or listen to her body like an instrument. (This coming from the guy who occasionally plays drums with the Beach Boys.) I guess I do approach sex in a musical way. With me, it’s more rhythm than melody with a woman . . . but it’s all listening. When music clicks, you can feel it. You have to listen to the other musicians. With women, you have to listen to their bodies. Not just listen to them say out loud, “That feels good, no, that doesn’t feel good,” but listen to their actual bodies. You can tell. And you have to put that energy into it. To finding out what works. Try stuff out. There’s a lot of other real estate besides the nipples and the vagina. A neck is a beautiful part of a woman; the ears, the belly. Be curious to see what turns her on. I swear to God, I would rather—and maybe this is just me at fifty-one—I’d rather have a woman have ten orgasms than me have ten orgasms.
Ali: Is that because you’ve been with so many women, you can afford to make that choice?
John: It turns me on more to see a woman get turned on, more than anything. Do the listening. I can tell, you can tell. And if you can’t tell, talk about it out loud together.
Ali: Do you think, based on the amount and variety of women you’ve slept with, that it makes you a better lover?
John: You’d have to ask them. I hope I’m a decent lover.
Said so much like someone who probably is.
Ali: The first time you had sex, was it a nightmare, a mess? Are you actually like everybody else?
John: It was like, this is what the whole world revolves around? I didn’t quite get it. You know I did that show [Losing It with John Stamos] about losing your virginity, so I’ve talked about this a lot. But it was an older woman who guided me through. But, as I got older and, I guess, becoming more of a caring person, I want someone to be turned on and I want to find out what turns her on. Maybe that comes from experience. Every woman is different. You can’t ever do the exact same performance.
Ali: Is there one particular experience that stands out as your favorite?
John: Is the Mile High Club only with another person, or if you’re in the bathroom by yourself, do you still get the wings? The real answer is, the times I’ve been most in love with someone, but who wants to read that? It’s so boring.
Uhm, an entire swoony female population wants to read that. Though I’m also very certain he’s got many more standout moments. I watch him as he’s silent, scrolling through his own personal most-liked, but John here is uncharacteristically politic, perhaps polite. I wish he’d share, but kind of admire that he doesn’t. But he does offer me something different. Something about him feeling . . . he doesn’t use this word, he l
eft it to the ellipses . . . but I think it’s something like “used.” Women having slept with him just to get a prize when they’re done.
John: A few, a couple of women, have wanted to take “selfies” afterwards, when we’re done, a picture of us together after the experience. One girl really wanted my shirt, like a souvenir.
Ali: Do you think many guys in your position would go, “Who cares why this woman wants to fuck me? I fucked her.” So what if they want your shirt or a picture, is the experience lessened because they do?
John: Yes, of course it is. I mean, I had long-term relationships until my forties. I had girlfriends. I was with someone for ten years. I wasn’t out fucking as much as everybody thinks I was.
Ali: I have to ask you your “number.” How many women have you been with?
John: It’s not as high as you might think. In my twenties and thirties, I had girlfriends and long-term relationships, and now I have morals.
Ali: Has a woman ever turned you down?
John: All the time. Sometimes my . . . fame . . . sort of works against me. Some women think, “Hey, just ’cause you’re John Stamos, you don’t automatically get to fuck me.” So, in a sense, I cock-block myself. In some ways, it takes me longer because I need to overcome their assumptions about me. They think I do this all the time, so they feel less special, whether or not that’s true. Or conversely, I’ve gone out with women and I don’t do anything, and she complains afterwards that she just wanted me to bend her over a table.
Ali: What was your worst sexual experience?
John: Well, it’s not my worst, but I had an experience where a girl I was dating for a month, we finally got to the place when it was “the night.” It was going to happen. And, I’m very self-conscious, I have to take, like, fifteen showers, make sure my breath is great. And it’s happening and I’m going to give this woman oral sex and I took, like, thirty minutes before I even got near her vagina, and she was ready. And I knew this was going to be a relationship, so I wanted it to be great. So, I got to the arena and there’s a very strange . . . there was an unusual . . . a mass . . . something that wouldn’t ordinarily be there. It was a weird texture, a lump, but it wasn’t a medical thing. I kept licking it, checking at it with my tongue and was like, what the fuck is this thing? So it was me going, “Shit, I really care about this person and I really want to continue this, but what the fuck is this thing?” You know what it was? It was my gum that I’d been chewing from before because I wanted to make sure I had good breath. And we finished that part and she went to the bathroom and she was like, “John. Why is there fucking gum in my pubic hair?” (I was very impressed here that any woman John dated made the choice not to wax her pubic hair.)