The full names of the girls are never disclosed to the millionaires on the show to protect them from contact in between shoots. But I knew there had to be a way to find out more. One of the production assistants had a clipboard with all the information on it, used to organize the shoot and arrange cars and that kind of shit. I pulled the old Pastis trick and knocked a glass onto the ground while we had a chat. As she was distracted by this, I took a picture of the clipboard with my phone and got all the information I needed.
I knew there was something fishy about my date (sorry to put that image in your mind), but I had no idea the depths of dishonesty I was about to uncover. A quick Google and ten dollars spent on a background check website revealed my date was not Canadian, as she claimed (very American, from the white-trash panhandle of Florida or something), was at least twelve years older than she said she was (well into her forties, though on the show she said thirty), and had changed her name on multiple occasions. But then there was the porn.
Holy shit, there was a lot of porn. I mean, none of it was that recent, and she looked a lot different now than she did back in her cinematic days (I think she got a little more work done with each divorce), but that was definitely her, sucking and straddling all over the Internet. I knew this was it. This was dynamite, and I had to use it. Before the show began, my plan was to have the top-rated episode of that season. And now I had a way to engineer this.
So now I was working the entire production to ensure I didn’t have to pay for anything while I was there, working specific producers to make sure the message that I wanted to get across got across (I knew how these things worked, and you could be made to say anything in the edit suite, so I had to be so careful about what I expressed), and working my date so she didn’t know that I’d uncovered her cum-gargling past. It was exhausting. But I realized if I played all these sides against each other and pulled it off, I would generate some unpurchasable publicity.
Timing would be everything, of course. I waited until our on-camera date began. We had our entrees, and then I dropped the bomb. I started innocently enough: “Listen, something has been bothering me. I need to mention it . . .” Then it all came out. Why didn’t you mention that you’re a veteran porn star that’s had more pricks than a diabetic? I pulled out my phone and started watching a selection of her greatest hits right in front of her as the cameras rolled. I mentioned her Boobepedia entry, her interracial double penetration, and her impressive poundability.
I have never heard a TV filming location grow so quiet. Everyone was stunned. Stunned. The only sounds were audible gasps. She looked at me like the utter piece of shit I was, threw something at my head, then stormed off, screaming for her publicist. “Why would a porn star need a publicist?” I asked as she vanished into a stateroom. It was carnage. I said the word “porn” as often as I could during my bomb dropping and the subsequent interview. I wanted that to be the reason the date had disintegrated, but I knew Bravo would never air that. They have a reputation to uphold, and if it seemed like they were hiring any old hooker to appear on their show, then the franchise would take a hit.
So I attempted to guarantee that porn would at least be alluded to in the finished product. Afterward, completely sideswiped crew sidled up to me. They all wanted to see the evidence and watch this girl in action. I obliged, of course. The director, who said he’d been working on those types of shoots for decades, claimed that he’d never, ever seen anything like that in his entire career. It was pretty fucking fabulous television. Then there were all the OTF (on the fly) interviews, those sections where you talk directly to the camera and discuss how you “feel.” Again I talked about my disgust at all the lies and said the word “porn” about a thousand times. All was going well. But I still had to face Patti.
Let me just sidebar for a second and say that Patti Stanger is not at all what you would expect. She is much, much worse. She is a monster. I won’t even bother wasting my energy by listing her many inadequacies. But let me just offer some evidence. Even after eight or nine seasons, she still hasn’t learned the name of anyone who mics her on that show. She treats everyone around her with total contempt. She doesn’t eat or interact with anyone. The whole crew is equally terrified and appalled by her. She’s just one of those people who you assume plays a terrible person and then turns out to be a terrible person. Just awful.
I knew I’d have a confrontation with her, because those shows are as formulaic as a rom-com aimed at the menopausal. The nice guy on the show gets all smiles and sweetness, and the other guy gets derided and shouted at. I was the other guy that week, so I knew I’d be throwing down with Patti. And I knew I had to get my zingers out there faster than her and make my mark on the show. Which, if you’ve seen the episode, you know I managed to do. Patti has a sharp tongue, but a dim mind. She was no match for me. And I appreciated that the whole interaction would end with me storming, or being dragged, out of there, so I had to have the last word. I also planned to throw something at her. And just about the only thing you can throw at a woman without turning into Chris Brown is a pocket square. So I hurled a Pretentious Pocket beauty at her smug fat face with all the spite I could muster.
It was perfect. Got my pocket square featured in every promo and commercial for the show. My sales rocketed. After all the deception, the production company didn’t dare invoice me for the date and all that other shit off the show. But my work still wasn’t done.
I knew there was a good chance that Bravo would whitewash over all the porn stuff, but that was the story that the tabloids would be interested in. They couldn’t give a shit about Millionaire Matchmaker under normal circumstances, but some filthy bitch pretending not to be a high-class hand puppet was sure to pique their interest. I just had to find a way to get the story out there. So, as I’d often done before, I became my own publicist. I contacted Radar Online and leaked the story under the promise of anonymity. They ran it and then contacted me for a statement. Class act that I was, I replied, “No comment.”
So try as hard as they might to cover up the whole thing and claim I was upset due to my date lying about her age, the truth (as I saw it) finally got out there, and the legend of JRL grew even more girthsome. But listen, I have nothing but respect for the porno purveyor that I was matched up to. She was a player, just like me. I nearly met my match. I was just one step ahead of her.
CHAPTER 9
A SHIKSA A DAY KEEPS MY MOTHER AWAY
While I can imagine you’d think my deflowering was a momentous event involving fireworks, parades, and a new national holiday in Israel declared in my name, in reality it was pretty pathetic. Jewvenile, you could call it.
I had reached my sixteenth year as a bratty, obnoxious, incredibly Waspy Jew. As part of my birthright, I’d been shipped off to the West Coast to some SAT “cram camp” at UCLA, where other hideously privileged spawn of assholes assembled to study in a college-preparatory atmosphere.
I managed to bag the heiress of a pharmaceutical empire, which, considering the amount of chemicals I’d soon be shoving up my nose, was healthily ironic. Despite the extent of her bank balance, it was not exactly an enriching experience. More of a teenage fumble that resulted in my beautifully circumcised piece somehow entering her body. But it was over—that was the important thing. The stigma of being a virgin was behind me (and all over her back), and while it probably left the young lady in question slightly traumatized at the time, now she has a story to tell. She popped JRL’s cherry. There’s sure to be a statue or a ceremonial coin celebrating the event in the near future.
The problem was that once I had become a man, in the non–bar mitzvahed sense, I had no idea how to make it happen again. That unfathomable series of events that led to me getting some pussy appeared to have been achieved by voodoo. It was a total mystery. Try as I might with the shiksas in my suburb and at my school, I could not get anyone interested in my dick. Which, obviously, is a ridiculous situation.
It was only when I went away to prep sch
ool that things began to change. While I was renowned and infamous at Brewster, I was not popular, not in the high school sense. I wasn’t a jock. I couldn’t be pigeonholed easily as an instantly recognizable clique member. I was an obnoxious little prick who drove around in a golf cart and pissed off the authorities. While that may have occasionally got me a few nods of approval, it didn’t get any female heads nodding in my lap, if you know what I mean.
Then one afternoon I was dangerously driving my golf cart across the quad when I saw a girl I had never seen before. She was a midsemester transplant, and she was remarkable. I nearly drove straight into a soccer tournament as she sashayed across my path. Holy shit, she was something. And I was smitten.
Her name was Jill, and every male member of the graduating class was trying to get into her pants. Freshmen, seniors, substitute teachers. Everybody wanted her. But she wasn’t interested. She was too good, and she fucking knew it. But I had a plan.
At this time, I had the upper body and physical presence of a member of the Chinese gymnastics team. Buff I was not. Everything about me screamed “limp” except for my brain, of course, which is the organ I primarily used to nab this girl. It was then I realized how important it is to lay the groundwork. To “pre-close,” as I would dub it years later. For reasons that I can only put down to having too much fucking money, Brewster Academy was one of the most technologically advanced educational facilities in the country at that time. Even though the Internet was in its infancy and YouTube was a twinkle in some nerd’s ballsack, we had Ethernet ports up the yin-yang. We also had a rudimentary instant-messaging service ironically named FirstClass.
This is what I used to seduce Jill. We started exchanging sarcastic tittle-tattle that slowly grew more and more flirty. While I probably would have been tongue-tied and fiercely erect if I were talking to her in person, via instant messaging I could be witty, snide, and supremely clever. I slowly stripped away her defenses, and soon we were actually hanging out IRL, as I believe the millennials say.
But there was a problem. She wanted to fuck me. Now, I can probably imagine what your next question is going to be. But the reason this was a problem was because at dear old Brewster Academy, getting caught with a girl in your room was the worst possible offense that could happen. Blowing a line of coke off Subaru Sue’s hatchback was less serious than having a late-night liaison with someone of the opposite gender.
But Jill really wanted to fuck me. We couldn’t get off campus, and me getting caught in the girls’ dorms was a horror I couldn’t even contemplate. I’d be instantly expelled. So I had to get this chick into my dorm somehow. There were several things I had to overcome. Firstly, there was a security guard, Charlie, who patrolled the corridors looking for exactly the thing that I was attempting to do. Then there was Dean Doucheborn, who had a personal crusade against youthful sexual dalliances for reasons I can only imagine were sexual in and of themselves. He would drive around campus in his fucking Dodge Caravan with a flashlight, trying to track down any hormones running rampant.
I also had a roommate at the time. A glorious stoner named Will, who wouldn’t be able to leave our room. There was nowhere to go! If he was caught wandering around the school in a pot haze while I humped, it would soon get back to me. So there were many hurdles between my throbbing schlong and the unknown treasures that Jill was concealing. It was a fucking pain in the ass.
But look, I may not have been actual JRL yet, but I was prototype JRL and I knew I could pull this off somehow. I started to plan this thing and work it like a military campaign. Cue Charlie, the security guard. Luckily I already had him in my pocket.
I didn’t want to go behind his back, so I thought the easiest thing to do would be to tell him about the whole thing. And even though it would have resulted in his instant and painful dismissal, this fabulous asshole was willing to turn a blind eye so I could get my dick wet. It was fucking amazing. Not only would he ignore some teenage girl clambering into a dorm-room window; he actually helped me out with planning and strategic movements. He let me know when Dean Douche-born would be turning the corner in his fucking minivan and about any other obstacles that may have derailed me.
With my roommate, it was just a case of straightforward bribery. I made him pretend to be the heaviest sleeper on the planet, where even the sounds of postpubescent exertion occurring a few feet from his head wouldn’t rouse him.
And then, just to make sure there wouldn’t be any further unpleasant surprises, I called in a fake emergency across campus. This was before the age of the omnipresent cell phone (which also caused havoc with the planning; I had to make sure the coast was clear the second she arrived, as I couldn’t warn her of any disasters), so I had to use a far-flung campus pay phone, which wouldn’t get traced back to me.
I knew I couldn’t report anything too dramatic. A fire would have had the emergency services arriving and a full investigation taking place. No, I swung low and said that some kid I didn’t know looked like he was having a seizure at a dorm that was on the other side of campus.
So it was with a distinct level of ass-clenching fear that I crouched by my window on the first night, waiting for Jill to arrive. Which she did, precisely on time. The plan went without a hitch. No nosy deans, no suspicious security, no wide-eyed roommates. It had been a huge, stress-filled undertaking, but it was on that night that I not only fell in teenage love with Jill, but also fell in love with the whole notion of pussy. It was all I wanted. And from that moment on, my life would be dedicated to the pursuit, and liberty, of all things pussy.
Of course it didn’t last.
Incredibly, we had many dorm-based fuck sessions and were never caught. Not even close. And we carried on in this regard for a year or two—an eternity at that age. It even limped along when I left Brewster and went to college. But soon I knew things were going wrong.
The communication grew less intense; the gaps between calls got longer and longer. Soon they stopped altogether, and she just vanished. I was so pissed I took a car service all the way from Northeastern back up to New Hampshire and charged it to her account. When I arrived, I discovered she had a new me. Not so good looking, not so funny. But new and more easily attainable.
I was crushed.
But in a weird way, this heartbreak was a fundamental cornerstone in what became JRL. I moped around for a good three months, failing to eat, not going to class, acting like a jackass. Then one day, as I think all young men in my position do, I just said, “Fuck this.” In my beleaguered state I threw myself into partying and one-night stands. And nothing perks you up more than those essentials.
So gradually I became a club rat. I had this smoking pad in Hartford, and I knew all the club owners, plus had the best coke in town. I threw myself into fairly free-falling hedonism. I’d drink heavily, blow my face off, go out to the clubs, stay up for two or three nights, and fuck anything decent with a heartbeat.
I wouldn’t say, at first, there was any precision or technique connected to this. It was just a sort of dumb luck combined with a nihilistic abandon. I didn’t care anymore. I’d had my heart crushed, so fuck it. But that was the curious thing: the less I cared, the more I got laid. And the more I got laid, the more my reputation as someone who gets laid grew. And once you’re in that missionary position, you can pull off a little maneuver that gets you laid every single time.
This is what I learned in all my hours at clubs in Hartford. If sluts know you are a man whore (and I’ve never shied away from my inner man whore), they will want to try you out. And if you deny them that, it will drive them crazy. Here’s what I started to do: There would be some piece of ass that I wanted to bang. I’d approach her, and I’d grab her hair. Not too hard, but I’d give it a tug so she felt a little pain and it got the endorphins rushing. Women love to have their hair played with; men don’t do it enough. And if she tells you to get the fuck away from her and not to touch her hair, then she’s not going to touch your dick.
So now you’ve g
ot her attention. You start talking. Then you drop the bombshell. You say, “Look, I think you’re great. And I’d really love to spend some more time with you. But listen, I have to make this very, very clear: you can come back to my place, and we can talk and have fun, but under no circumstances am I going to have sex with you.”
And you leave it at that. You leave a little mystery hanging in the air. And this is going to drive her crazy. She knows that you’ve fucked her mother and her sister and all her friends and her fourth-grade teacher. But you’ve drawn the line with her. No matter what she was thinking beforehand, now there is no way that this woman is not going to find some way to fuck you. It’s a situation where she thought she had all the control, but that was taken away from her. She desperately wants to get it back.
So you take her home and you play “just the tip.” You tease her, just like you’ve been teasing her all night. You carry on insisting that this is all going to be purely platonic, until she snaps and fucks your brains out. That application of service denial has got me laid in every coastal state in the union.
Look, I am not claiming to be any sort of pickup artist, and this technique won’t work for every cooze hound. But it works for me. As I mentioned, I’m a lucky fuck, and once your luck starts rolling it’s hard to stop it.
And as this reputation grew, my confidence grew. It helped to bring out my inner JRL. Soon I was this guy who could talk to any chick in a bar, and I was really boxing above my weight class. Dime pieces were falling into my bed. It helped to have this character to rely on. When I was wearing the armor of JRL, this invincible, arrogant asshole, nothing could touch me. Rejection was out of the question.
Don't You Know Who I Think I Am?: Confessions of a First-Class Asshole Page 14