How to F*ck a Woman

by Ali Adler

  Afterwards, Melissa pestered me for approval: “What’d you think? Isn’t Matt great? Isn’t he so, so great?” She wanted to hear that I liked him, but I had all the clues I needed. So I did what any true friend would do: I told her the truth. Matt was an adult baby with a still-soft fontanel. He was in his thirties and wore shoes with no laces, as if on suicide watch. His keychain had a “BevMo” mini–credit card thingie on it next to his “Go Packers” beer bottle opener.

  Melissa was stunned. I pushed on, with no mercy. “He used the word ‘awesome’ regarding the discovery of the hatch on Lost.” I pronounced him not ripe for adult expectations. My friend was mad at me, but all I did was tell her the truth. After she asked me.

  Naturally, Melissa married him. She should’ve listened to me. She couldn’t read the signposts. They weren’t written in Lesbianese, but so what if they were; I translated all of this stuff for her. I warned her that Matt was a man-boy. He’d sit down on the tile floor while showering, as if life was just too tiring to be upright while warm water splashed on his sudsy shoulders. He left shit-skids on the back of his tighty-whities. He wouldn’t hug Melissa because he said it was a waste of time “if nothing was going to happen.” He was an adult baby. And so, when I heard about Melissa and Matt’s divorce years later, to me it had already happened. I wish she would’ve listened, and I’ll bet she does, too. She pays him child support. And the kids didn’t even get her green eyes.

  A Few More Types to Avoid

  Women, while you’re busy searching the world for the one, avoid the depressed, the loners, and the guy who has obvious fixable physical flaws that he just doesn’t bother to deal with because “it’s just the way I am.”

  I know of only one exception to this theory. My friend Claire’s boyfriend had this dead front tooth. You know, one of the big ones. He had the money to fix it. And yet it hung there for years, like some ignored boarded-up window in a building no one wanted to lease. I always wondered about Dead Tooth’s crazy level of internal self-worth and confidence, as in “Claire will love me with or without a cosmetic repair.” Or maybe it wasn’t hubris; maybe it was even crazier: maybe he didn’t even notice it himself. Is that even possible? I mean, didn’t he see it while he was shaving or flossing in the crevices around all its glorious deadness?

  Claire noticed it, but she thought he might be self-conscious about it, so she never mentioned it to him. For years. Very restrained of her. I admired this, but would never have had the self-control not to say anything. It was all I could do to stop myself from blurting it out every time we went to dinner: “Oh hey, would you mind passing the dead tooth.” “Sure, I’d love another dead tooth . . .” “I checked out the dessert menu . . . anyone up for splitting a little dead tooth?”

  So, much like all dead things, the dead tooth continued to be dead until one day, Dead Tooth proposed to sweet Claire. When Claire’s French mother learned the news about their engagement, she quickly decried, very first thing, to his face, oh so matter-of-fact: “Très bien. You’re to be married. Now. What are we going to do about that dead tooth?” And it was just like that. He fixed it before the wedding. Claire and Veneer are still happily married all these many years later. But that’s the only exception to the rule. Don’t go bending the rule if you don’t have to.

  If you have the entire world to choose from, why would you pick an old man if you are a young woman? Don’t do it if you don’t have to. You’ve seen it before: a dusty, fragile stick figure of a man, skull and crossbones–style osteoporotic hand, arthritically bulbous knuckled, who’s with a buxom phony-titted beauty. She is scoping out his house for shit to steal when he dies, before his kids can do an inventory of the place. You’ve seen them out for dinner. You assume they are father and daughter or even grandfather and granddaughter. You take solace in the fact that she’s kind enough to spend time with her elder relation. What a nice family. And then they French kiss.

  I once asked an overly plastic-surgeried and perfumed woman what her type was, and she said, “Rich and sickly.”

  There are also men who aim so far above their heads that they ignore women who would be perfect for them. I had this not-so-handsome friend who used to say, “The heart wants what it wants.” He had a type; he’d pine away for the prettiest girl in the room; the one with the thickest lips, most stacked ass, and highest heels. He’d say, shrugging, “I’m attracted to who I’m attracted to.” He didn’t get it, but this was a recipe for total frustration. He’s still alone. Just because you want what you want doesn’t mean it’s good for you, or that you’ll wind up getting it. Which sets up a string of heartbreaking frustration. Which sets you up to think that’s what love is supposed to feel like. Love is actually supposed to feel satisfying. It’s not the more complicated tributary of love, which is called yearning.

  No One Ever Changes More Than 15 Percent

  Often, women are attracted to a certain type of man, one that they believe they can change. They think they possess a powerful enough tonic to shift this guy’s lifelong personality. Please watch out for this type. You won’t ever change him, but ultimately, the quest to change him will change you.

  An example of the type of guy a woman wants to change is someone I’ll call Truman—whose real name is almost as cool as that (but both names are far cooler than he is). Truman always tells me with great astonishment that he has been suckered into dating yet another “not a great girl.”

  All of his stories are the same; they’re just flavored differently. Me: “What did you do last night?” Him: “I ended up going to a party.” Then he nudges me with his elbow. “I may still be buzzed.” I do the math: 1. Yesterday was Tuesday. 2. Buzzed means high. 3. We are at work. Keep in mind this guy is easily in his early forties. He’s marginally handsome, certainly for a writer. He is a modern-day Topher Columbus, a vaginal explorer, credited with discovering new lands. And he implies that he’s doing it for the good of the rest of the men in the room.

  Truman’s stories are about a secret after-hours club, a secret after-club-after-party he was invited to (what is it after? Life?). The invention of new and incredible drugs that the rest of us haven’t yet had a chance to sample, because we are eating a pointy toast sandwich at the American Girl Doll Bistro with our daughters and their identically dressed doll counterparts.

  The stories usually include a couple of vague celebrities. Not the right ones. Sometimes, something about the Playboy Mansion. All delivered tantalizingly to the married boys. As if the Playboy Mansion isn’t owned by an octogenarian with octogenarian friends and old guy–type furniture and odors. I’ve been there. Not to be a huge buzzkill, but it’s like a retirement home sprinkled with freshly waxed, siliconed and V05’d twenty-year-olds. But, in real life, most of the regular guests at the Mansion are very old men and women. Basically, it’s a retirement home for people who once had tons of crazy sex. In the 1970s, maybe pipe-smoking, raven-haired Hef in his satin rabbit-insignia’d robe was sexy. But now he’s an old dude—droopy balls banging around in his pj’s while still being escorted around by a wife sixty years his junior. These aren’t your parents here; they’re your grandparents. Would you ever go hang out with your grandparents’ friends reminiscing about the good old days when they were 69’ing each other on cocaine?

  But Truman and the other guys in the writers’ room aren’t listening to my tales of spying reel-to-reel audio systems or banged-up faux-wood-paneled game rooms. They don’t want to hear my version; they only want to listen lustfully to Truman’s stories, which illustrate why he will never change. They listen, aching, like they’ve fucked up their whole lives by marrying one person and making responsibility-inducing children with her.

  I’m the one who asks the provocative questions here. Truman says he was late to work because he had a fight with the girl that he hooks up with sometimes. We’ve heard about her before. We call her “the hot bi-girl.” Believe me, there are plenty of not-so-hot bi-girls, but we cling to this one. We’ve seen iPhone pictures th
at Truman promised her he’d never show.

  Truman thinks that if he fucks bi-girl a couple times a month, he can still continue his quest to find the mythical “great girl.” But he’s been searching a while and according to his calculations, there don’t seem to be any. “How old is Hot-Bi?” I ask, mental fingers crossed. He is vague. “Early twenties.” I see. I wonder what someone can possibly argue about with a twenty-two-year-old? Sour Patch vs. Gummy Bears?

  He tells me they had a fight because his condom broke, and he panicked. “Well, why’d you fight? She didn’t want to take the morning-after pill?” I joke. This startles him. “Wait, what? Do you think she should?” “Should?” I marvel. I thought that was why he was late for work. I figured he had to drive to the drugstore and then back again to watch her take it and check under her tongue to make sure she swallowed it like a lothario Nurse Ratched.

  Truman now turns even greener than the boozy hue he came in with today. Says he’ll text Hot-Bi, have her pick it up, he’ll reimburse her, he’s sure it’ll be cool. I wonder if maybe he wants to have a baby with this crazy baby. After all, I know she’s very young and beautiful. So young that the only thing she’s left unpierced is her bisexuality; so young that her father (who is two years younger than Truman) is serving a jail sentence. I assume he must be making this up. I laugh. “As long as it’s not for murder.” Truman corrects me unironically, “Manslaughter.”

  Now I’m worried that Truman has impregnated a murderer’s daughter. I’m no longer laughing at his sexploits with an oh-well, good-natured rubber-necking attitude. I am worried for his safety and also his paycheck. I urge him to go to the drugstore. Get a pill (cheaper to pay for a pill than college tuition!). The men want to know about her boobs, which are big, by the way. No one wonders if she has a big vagina. Which, in case you don’t know, is way less good.

  Now, keep in mind—I enjoy having sex with my own gender. But this is what separates the men from the girls. I don’t look at pretty first and then the red flags. To me, they are all one package. I won’t look at tits affixed to a host of insurmountable eternal headaches and go, “Oh, fuck it, there’s always Valtrex.” But men seemingly never learn this lesson.

  The boys in the room are clamoring for details. “If she’s bi, can you get a three-way?” Are we all missing the headline here? This large-busted child-woman is potentially carrying Truman’s only progeny, and all these guys are concerned with is whether he got the chance to have anal. When I mention that there may be a child here, suddenly Truman experiences conflict. Maybe this is a sign. Maybe this will push his life in a direction that he alleges he wants, but never makes the necessary choices to pursue.

  Now, Truman may have made a child with a hot-bi-twenty-two-year-old with a murderous dad, a woman only slightly older than an actual child; but he won’t even text back the super-sweet fifth grade teacher he went out with last week. No. He “just wasn’t into it; not his thing.” Didn’t like the looks of her hair. Too too itchy to sleep next to.

  Truman is a smart man; brilliant by some standards. But he cannot see what is in front of him when camouflaged by a stark-ravingly-gorgeous vagina. So, while the boys murmur riotous envy in the room, I am quiet for a moment. Then I ask the hardest question: “When you are in the shower . . . finally by yourself after your long night and drunk morning of fucking . . . aren’t you lonely?” His eyes get wet with tears. He probably won’t even deny this; there were seven witnesses. He doesn’t break my gaze, so grateful for this tiny second of feeling understood. He nods without nodding.

  I move in, hug him. A slow, important hug. I mean this hug with all my heart. Not judgmental for a moment, for a change. Nothing condescending about it. He leans into me, allowing this, our embrace. I feel his weight relax into my own. I know he’s moved by the simplicity of our connection. This hug is washing away all his stupid moves and poor decisions; this hug will change him forever. After this, he realizes the folly of his actions and will be ready for true love.

  This hug cleanses everything. He lingers for a beat, then Truman says it aloud: “I need you to let go . . .” “Huh?” I stare at him, confused, as we stand an inch apart. After all this time, I’ve forgotten male physiology. I finally catch on, letting go. He shrugs, simply: he’s half hard.

  The gory truth is that men will never stop being men. Most of the change is in you. You have to be willing to try to stop changing them. Someone said, no one ever really changes more than 15 percent. So you’d better pick well enough to make sure that other 85 percent is pretty great.

  It’s Not Just About the Sex

  Men and women: please put aside your genitals and everyone read the following. It’s very important.

  The thing is, your relationship can break unless you pay attention to the creaking along the way. Unless you change the way you approach her, or the way you approach him, something will force you to pay attention. Something will happen that you can no longer ignore or dismiss. But I hope that something sneaky has happened along the way here. If you’ve diligently read this book up to this point, maybe a few things will stick. How to listen. How to empty a trash can. How to finger-fuck. It doesn’t matter. Any of these things will prove that you have the ability to change. And that tiny thing that is different about you will be the new thing in the petri dish. The one new idea that seeped into you will grow and maybe change everything. With only a few small movements, just like in fucking, you can crack the entire code. You can have it all. The part where you feel better about yourself exists in the places where you stretch and grow.

  Sure, this stuff all seems like a bunch of love and sex tips—and it is. If you implement some of this stuff, sure, more people will come, which generally puts everyone in a better mood. But more importantly, more people will connect. And connection does bring change, healing, openness, and love. With love, like it or not, we grow.

  So get out there. Put down your iPad. Turn off your Kindle. Stop reading this book while you’re off pouting because of some idiotic miscommunication with the person you love and value. Go connect with your person. Different or not, if we’re in this together, the world is ours.

  Acknowledgments

  I want to thank everyone at Weinstein books: Amanda Murray, Georgina Levitt and Kathleen Schmidt, who made this is as different and amazing a writing experience as I’ve ever had.

  Thank you to my tireless and brilliant editor: Leslie Wells, the only person who gets less sleep than I do.

  Thank you to so many people for so many years at WME: Ari Greenberg, Richard Weitz, Lisa Harrison. To the incomparable Andy McNicol, endlessly patient in the face of my fears.

  Thank you to Soleil Moon Frye for laughing and then making me take this idea to Andy in the first place.

  To my best friend Elaine Pope, my main dispensary of advice in all things wise and insightful, though she will avoid sexual matters at all costs. She is, after all, the Pope.

  Thank you to my parents, Allan Adler and Frances Payne Adler. My brain is so much a product of their genetic mash-up: a psychiatrist and a poet. And to my stepmom Judy Adler, so much more than just a stepmom, but that’s the title I’m limited to use.

  Thank you to my brother, Michael Adler. And to Molly Newcomer, my sister-in-law and one of my closest friends. They are a role-model couple for me. Married for twenty-one years, they still kiss every day.

  To Melody Young and Christy Snyder and Rhonda Endlund and Jared Levine and Alex Kohner and Cindy Comito for keeping it all together.

  To all the women I’ve slept with and to those it never occurred to me to sleep with.

  To all the hilarious, heart-shaping men along the way. Thank you for including me in your conversations.

  Thank you to John Stamos, that I ever got to meet you and more or less consider you my friend. Blackie Parrish for President.

  To Greg Berlanti, your wisdom is contained within your dimples. Both are very deep.

  To Paul Downs Colaizzo, I will join whatever religion you one day choose
to start.

  To Ana Maza, whose insight and generosity makes so much in my life possible.

  To my gaggle of forever female friends who shared their stories with me and still do. All the time. Women really love to talk. Melissa Berton, Aline Brosh McKenna, Jen Crittenden, Kate Adler, Sophia Rossi, Sarah Schechter, Carla Hacken, Howard Stern’s penis, Dana Fox, Kelly Oxford, Jenni Konner, Carleen Cappelletti and the incomparable Kathy Greenberg.

  To the teachers who told me I should write and then made me: Laura Michaels, Beverly White, Robert Litchfield and Michael Auer. Feels weird not to call them Mrs. And Mr.

  To the Mount Rushmore of women who inspired me: Dorothy Parker, Fran Lebowitz, Gilda Radner and Sandra Bernhard.

  To my love, Liz Brixius. Thank you for always giving me a soft place to land.

  And, lastly, to my 97-year-old Oma who stopped speaking to me decades ago for being gay. Hope this has been a fun read.