by Pamela Ribon
I went home and wrote the Barbie entry.
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Subject: Yay!!!!
Dear Anna K,
I feel silly writing to you, but I wanted you to know that I just found your webpage. I really like it and I hope you keep writing because it’s really good. I used to do that stuff with my Barbies, too!
Well, I’m going to go before I feel stupid for writing this fan letter, but I wanted to tell you that I think you’re very cool. How old are you?
Thanks,
Tess
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Subject: Questions About You.
Anna K,
Your Barbie entry is hysterical! One of my girlfriends sent it to me. I love it! We printed it out here at my work and we pasted it by the copier. You should see the looks of the men in the office when they read it. We got our intern Ted to blush!
We keep coming back to read more, but you haven’t posted anything else. Would you mind telling us more about you? Do you have other places where you’ve written? More, please!
-Kristen
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I stared at the screen for ten minutes, reading the words over and over again. Actual fan mail. People had sent fan mail. I couldn’t believe how quickly it had happened. I had just written the Barbie entry. How had so many people read it already? Not only that, but they loved it. They loved the words I had written. I had fans. Fan s—plural!
When I was eleven I wrote my one and only piece of fan mail, to one of the actors on Head of the Class. I had just moved to a new school and was lonely. I wanted a classroom like the one on Head of the Class, where the only thing that mattered was fifth-period History and the people in it. I wanted a gifted class where the ten or twelve of us were a family, with a wisecracking teacher as our father. So I wrote to the girl who played Simone, the redheaded poet. My thinking was that of all the actors on the show, she was the one most likely to write me back because she seemed so nice and sensitive.
I told her all about me, and asked if she’d write back to say she got my letter. She didn’t. I promised myself back then that if I ever got fan mail I’d write back to everyone. And now here I was. Take that, Simone.
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Subject: re: Yay!!!
Dear Tess,
Thanks so much for writing. It’s good to know who’s reading. Hope you stick around. I’m twenty-four years old, but sometimes I’m really just sixteen.
Anna K
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Subject: re: Questions About You.
Kristen,
Don’t get poor Ted fired. I’d never be able to live with myself. I’m not published anywhere else yet, but I’ll let you know as soon as it happens. Thanks for writing!
-AK
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It felt like Christmas morning, just after all of the presents had been opened. I wanted more. I wanted a column, a book, a book tour. A body of work that took up a shelf. A house. A dog. A dog to write about in my books. I wanted to see my paperbacks with the covers ripped off piled in a used-books store, all beat up and worn with the memory of a thousand different fingers.
I wrote another entry immediately where I introduced myself. I said I was twenty-four and still trying to figure out what I wanted to be when I grew up. I said I liked roller-blading, but the truth was I’d never even tried it. I guess I wanted to appear sporty, but not athletic.
I thought about the stories I’d tell Dale that would put him in hysterics. This was his birthday present after all, so I wanted to fill the website with stories he loved. Then I remembered the story that never failed to crack Dale up. It was back when I was dating Ian, but I figured a little time fudging wouldn’t hurt anyone. There was no reason Anna K couldn’t have a boyfriend just because I didn’t. Besides, they already thought Anna K had it all. Why not give her my ex-boyfriend, too?
The Book
29 JUNE
At a sex shop in San Francisco my boyfriend and I purchased a book called 101 Nights of Grrreat Sex. Note the repeated r’s, as I assume they are supposed to contribute to the fun. Or is it “funnn”?
The first page warns that if you are satisfied in your love life, then the book wasn’t for you. I wish I had known that earlier, but since I purchased it sealed there was no going back.
The book comes with a series of sealed envelopes, half “For Her Eyes Only” and half “For His Eyes Only.” You are supposed to sit together and pick an envelope each week to read in private. That way you know at some point during the week you’ll be surprised with a romantic act.
My first envelope was called “Fantasies of the Orient” and involved honey and hot tea. Following the directions, I made a pot of Chinese tea, draped a black blanket over our futon, and made my boyfriend take off all his clothes. Acting like I wasn’t allowed to speak, I pushed him back onto the blanket, poured honey on his leg, and then licked it off. Then I had to put the tea in my mouth and let it hit his skin through my lips as I kissed him. First I scalded his neck and then I burned the inside of his elbow. Soon my tongue was aching from the near boiling liquid, but since I wasn’t allowed to speak I just quietly cried on his stomach as I got sick from too much honey. I couldn’t eat anything for the next two days.
We decided that it was just a bad envelope and tried again. My next envelope (“Treasure Trail”) instructed me to cut out paper outlines of my feet to make a trail from the door to my “hiding place,” where I was supposed to “pounce” on my “mate.”
By the way, the only time that you ever hear your boyfriend or girlfriend described as a “mate” is when you’re reading a sex-help book. Mate is the unsexiest word. Besides tuna. And uvula. Those are the three unsexiest words. But the last two are hardly found in the pages of Cosmo, now are they?
While making the cutouts the little voice in my head muttered, What the hell are we doing here? How old are you? I used my glitter crayons to make the feet say funny things. It takes a long time to trace, cut, and color feet to tape from your front door to your hiding spot. Plus the card said I should make them go in and out of several rooms in the house. We have a one-bedroom apartment, so I had the feet go into the bathroom, up the wall, and around the corner on the ceiling. Just a little Lionel Richie in there to get him motivated.
I’m sitting in the closet waiting for my boyfriend to get home from work and I’m thinking, Gosh, I hope he doesn’t go out for a drink after work. I hope he just comes home on time. I wonder what I look like in here. Ow. I’m sitting on a high heel. I’m thirsty. Maybe I’ll go get something to drink. No, I can’t go out there, what if he comes home and I’m standing in a trail of my own toes? This isn’t sexy. This isn’t even cute.
It was solitary confinement.
He did come home—late, of course—and apparently didn’t even notice the new foot trail installed on our carpeting. I heard him call out: “Hello? Baby? Where are you?” I didn’t know if I was supposed to answer. I heard the refrigerator door open and close. The television snapped on and the sounds of a basketball game filled the apartment. Unbelievable. He wasn’t going to notice. What if in three hours he finally decided to do something about it? What would I do if he called the police and they came over, followed the paper trail, and found me asleep in the closet cradling a tin of Altoids, wearing only my panties?
I panicked, making noises that were a combination of whimpers and shrieks until I heard him get off the couch. When he finally found me five minutes later, he looked at me with a face that read: “Hello. Did you get lost? Do I need to call a hospital? Do you still understand English?” Then he laughed, and I knew this book was making a moron out of me.
His assignment that week focused on kissing. That was fun.
I pulled my third assignment. I was to make a sex game creating two sets of cards—one with body parts listed on them and the other with verbs. I tried all week, but I just kept wondering what would happen if he pulled the two cards that said “Thrust!” and “Ear!”
I refused to do my next assignment as well, wh
ere I had to “innocently” take him to a miniature golf course (because we putt-putt all the time?). I was supposed to go to the bathroom, take off my panties, wrap them around the golf ball, and hand them to him. Can you imagine? I’m sure he’d say, “What the hell—Hey!” And everyone would look up to see my panties on hole nine. Besides, there are children on Putt-Putt courses, mostly due to the fact that Putt-Putt is supposed to be a game for seven-year olds.
The only thing I liked about the book was that while planning those ridiculous things, I thought about my boyfriend. I liked thinking that sometime that week there was going to be a surprise for me. But in general the two of us were much more creative than that book—which still sits in the bedroom, by the way, mocking me. Feeling like a dork is a really bad way to spice up your sex life. And come on, do you really want me showing my naked butt to innocent putt-putting children?
Love until later,
Anna K
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Subject: Me Again!
Anna K,
It’s me again. I just wanted to thank you for posting all of the new entries. Now I can forward your webpage to all of my friends. You’re my new favorite place. I laugh so hard when you talk about your boyfriend because it’s the same stuff I went through during my last relationship. That story you told about fighting over the car stereo? That’s just like my old boyfriend. I eventually dumped his Classic-Rock-lovin’ ass.
Thanks,
Tess
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Subject: The Book
Hi, Anna,
My husband and I got that book as a honeymoon present. Can you believe that? You’d think they’d give us just a bit more credit in the beginning. Apparently they know the sex is going to go downhill, huh? It hasn’t yet, thankfully. I don’t know why I just told you that. In any event, I wanted to commiserate on that book. I opened one envelope that told me to strip for my husband. There’s nothing worse than trying to give your husband a lapdance and getting your high heel caught in your underwear. I fell, Anna. I fell.
I’m not one to support book burning, but maybe we could make an exception in this case?
A fan in Syracuse,
Gwen
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I felt dizzy with excitement. This was becoming more than just Dale’s birthday present. I suddenly had a body of work that people were gobbling up as fast as I could write it. It was so easy to write something and then post it online. The instant feedback was infectious. People loved Anna K. I was creating a celebrity.
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How to Fake a Football Orgasm
30 JUNE
This is my favorite time of the year because there’s absolutely no football. If you ever saw just how much football I have to watch, you might start crying. I’ve been dating Ian for over three years now and we’ve lived together for more than a year. He has no idea that I actually can’t stand football. He doesn’t know I find it repetitive and boring. How have I done this? How have I tricked this man into thinking I’m the coolest girlfriend ever? Because I am an expert at faking a football orgasm.
That’s right. I can wiggle, shout, and cheer with the best of them. I spill beer and throw chips and just about paint my face blue and silver every weekend. It’s not just a game for me anymore; it’s become an art form. I’m willing to share my secrets because I think we’re all friends here now, aren’t we? Plus I’d like to contribute to happy, healthy relationships.
If you break any of the following rules, it will be obvious that you are faking it, so be careful. Here we go.
1. Don’t walk in front of the television while the ball is in play, while they are doing an instant replay, or while the ball is at something called “the line of scrimmage.”
2. Walk (and by “walk,” I mean “run”) past the television only during the commercials.
2a. If you are watching the Super Bowl stay clear of the television at all times.
3. Offer beers to everyone when you stand up. You’ll be the coolest girl there, and it’s still a feminist move if you’re already on your way to get your own beer.
4. Be familiar with shouting the words “asshole” and “pussy.”
5. When the ref throws a flag (it’s yellow), start shouting possible reasons why. Try “Foul!” “Pass interference!” or “Face mask!” Don’t worry, the boys will yell, too. Continue shouting through the ref explaining why the flag was thrown, at which point you will all stop and ask, “What was the call?” Then you will all argue about what the call must have been.
6. Anytime there is a call against your team, it is time for you to yell, “Oh, that’s BULLSHIT!” Just like that. Try it. It’s fun. I like to say it at the bank when they say, “It looks like you have five dollars in your account.”
7. It is called a “touchdown.” That’s worth six points.
8. Then they try to kick an extra point. That’s worth one. Generally they will get the extra point. If it is a close game, they may try for two points. We don’t have enough time, so I’m not going into this here. Just trust me on this: If it is a close game and one team gets a touchdown, say, “Do you think they’ll go for two?” This will cause a boy debate about field goals and ranges and red zones and things you don’t need to worry yourself about. Just sit back and think, Oh, yeah. You look so cool. See, girlie? We’re gonna make it through this.
9. If the guys are suddenly really upset, ask them what happened. They will be more than happy to shout the injustice of the last play. Let them vent.
10. Do NOT attempt to kiss your boyfriend at any time during the game. Do NOT go “TOUCHDOWN! KISSES!” You will not get them, and people will hate you.
11. NEVER TOUCH THE REMOTE CONTROL.
12. You don’t need to know every athlete, but it helps if you know a few names. Here is the athlete that makes you sound like you know your shit. Ready? Vinnie Testaverde (VIN-ee test-a-VER-dee). Is that a great name or what? He plays for the Jets. I think. Or he used to. It doesn’t matter. Just say things like, “Well, he’s no Vinnie Testaverde.” What I like saying is “Well, I was really comparing him to someone like Vinnie Testaverde.” Chances are they’ll all tip their heads back and say, “Oh. Well, yeah. If you’re doing that.” It works like a fucking charm, I’m telling you.
13. Know that being a girl means that if there is an argument about sports, even if you know you are right, they will say that you, the girl, are wrong. They will find a loophole in your logic and there’s nothing you can do about it because you were born with ovaries.
14. You are supposed to be happy about overtime. It means more football.
15. Make sure you know which two teams are playing because they’re going to switch channels during commercials. They’ll watch other games at the same time, so be on your toes. If you’re only rooting for “the guys in blue,” you could end up cheering for the enemy of a different game. At any moment, there might be three different games on the television within an hour. I know. I’m sorry.
16. If, like me, you’re ever in a situation where you are in a public place and your boyfriend is standing in the middle of the bar shouting, “That’s what I’m talking about! You cannot fuck with the Cowboys!” it is completely okay to pretend you do not know him at all. Get someone to buy you a drink.
17. I don’t care how persuasive they are, it is not tradition to take off your shirt when there’s a turnover. You don’t have to do it.
18. The Super Bowls are counted off in Roman numerals. Don’t say the X’s and I’s. Hey, I don’t know what level of expertise you’re on. I’m just checking.
19. If you are watching the Super Bowl, you will probably have to sit through the pregame and the postgame festivities. It’s okay to laugh at the pregame stuff (which involves a terrible film of some guy making the Super Bowl ring), but it is not okay to laugh at the postgame footage. The levels of beer consumption are so drastically different before and after the game that it’s best not to have any reaction that might affect an emotionally vulnerable, boozy sports
fan.
20. The season does end eventually. Then you get to watch hockey, basketball, and baseball! (These are things you’re supposed to be excited about.)
Now go out there and fake it like a pro. That swirly feeling you might get at first is only the guilt from completely lying to the people that you love. You just have to break through that. It gets much easier with time. Go team!
Love until later,
Anna K
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Subject: Orgasms
ANNA K, I WILL GIVE YOU A REAL ORGASM IF YOU WRITE TO ME AND SEND PANTIES PLEASE YOU WON’T NEED A BOOK WITH ME.
ED
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Was it wrong that I even loved my creepy fan mail?
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Dale’s birthday party was in three days and my stories were coming along nicely. I knew he was going to love his present. I printed out some of my fan mail to brag about my “audience.”
My sister Shannon called to find out what I was getting Dale. She and Dale have always gotten along since last Easter, when he flew home with me. I couldn’t find either of them for two hours. Turned out they were hiding in the garage, smoking dope, and going through my fifth-grade diary.
“Is he still into those stained-glass things?” she asked.
“That was last year,” I said as I walked out to my balcony, crooking the phone under my head. I gave a quick look back to see if my cat was planning his great escape, but Taylor was sacked out on the kitchen table.
“I can’t keep up with his fads,” Shannon said. I heard her light a cigarette.