I remember the first time a girl reached down my pants, in the basement of my house, I seized up so fast, I thought my appendix had burst. It took like three weeks for the pain to go away. It was like the devil himself had stuck his pitchfork into my spleen to teach me to not be touched there. Like the ladies used to say to me, “You’re a real Johnny Cotton in the sack.”
Although, I have made slight progress over the years. Intimacy is not my strong suit, but I’ve learned to work with the tools I have. As you can imagine, I’m not particularly adventurous. Even missionary is a bit much for me. My first trip to a porn theater resulted in me throwing out my shoes after, because I thought they may give me gonorrhea, just from the floor.
Part of this may be a product of genetic behavior, as in some people are more sexually open than others. Or it may have been a product of that one time, in eighth grade, during a JV basketball game when I was subbed into the game and got a spontaneous erection. A big moment for me (finally getting to play in a game), and a devastating and curious response (my public erection). It was the saddest time-out ever called. Of course, the backlash was spectacular, with the entire school giving me the time-out gesture for the rest of the year wherever I went.
I attended a small New England college—you know, the one with stone buildings and the obligatory all-white student population. Except for that one kid. Actually, my roommate my first year was one of the very few Hispanic kids on campus, and, simply by random selection, I was introduced, in a deeper sense, to a completely different culture than mine. He was from Spanish Harlem, and I learned so much from him, including how to press Jordache jeans as well as a completist familiarity with “the Roxanne Wars.” He also introduced me to systemic racism, and I got to see it, almost every day, unfurl before my eyes. The most revealing part was that he loved it there. This was, to me, a confusing reaction, but it was his way. “Making the best of things” is not a quality of the privileged class.
Freshman year in college was predominately an experiment in poorly mixed cocktails and clumsy sexual liaisons with a sprinkle of astronomy and Victorian literature. The most awkward feature of most sexual encounters, at least in my dorm room, was that they were performed not by me but in my presence by my roommate. There’s no better ambient aural experience than to fall asleep to other people fucking. It was such sweet relief to hear it end. And just as the room became quiet in that postcoital glow, and I was finally ready to let sleep take me, they would start up again. My roommate had real stamina. I even think we had a conversation about negotiating down the amount of times he could have repeated sex in the room with me in there, like “It’s okay to have it, but can you try to have it no more than twice? I have a nine a.m. lecture.”
Also, maybe I’m an old-fashioned sort, but sex should be between a man and a woman . . . or a woman and a woman, or a man and a man, or a man and a doll, but not in front of a man or a woman. I considered going the It Happened One Night route and putting up a sheet, but then I would’ve also needed sound baffling. But this was the general nature of college sexual behavior. It was a bit circus-like, in that people would have sex like elephants, as in anywhere they could at any time, with no trainer to whip them to stop.
As an upperclassman, I lived in a prison cell–size concrete-block dorm room with a Cure poster and a mini fridge. A guy down the hall was a strapping guy who played on the college soccer team. He was handsome, charming, athletic, a smooth talker and an all-around popular type. I had none of his magnetism. One night, he brought in a girl from another dorm and we sat around, chatting and drinking.
The conversation quickly drifted to sex, and he rather blithely proposed that the three of us all have it. This suggestion was like a shotgun got rung off next to my ear. Fortunately, she, like me, seemed not interested. But he was persistent and began this long, inspiring stump speech in favor of group sex. He went on and on about doing things that are memorable and extraordinary . . . and that we wouldn’t regret this choice but rather would celebrate it later as an emblem of free spirit, and moments like this should never be left undone. He was like the “threesome wrangler.” And how many times had he delivered that speech? It was way too polished to have been extemporaneous. I was nervously giggling a lot and was at least comforted by her expression, which was a mix of “Nice try” and “Holy shit, what a creep.”
Then there was a pause, and she looked at us and said very plainly, “I’ll go put in my diaphragm.” She quickly exited. Stunning development. He casually started undressing with just me in the room. I started to flop sweat. Deep panic. He was suddenly in just his underwear, and I was pacing back and forth like a barrister, prattling on about why we shouldn’t do this. He was pretty unfazed by my nervous breakdown. I just hoped she would never come back. Then, a knock. She entered. Fuck!
She looked him over, and they started kissing. He led her to my bed and gestured for me to come over. I complied like an old dog when its owner snaps, slowly loping over toward the bed. He took her shirt off, and I sat awkwardly at the edge of the bed and started stroking her torso like it was a snapping turtle.
Reluctantly, I lay down next to her and took off my shirt. It was like I had rigor mortis. They were quickly naked and stacked on top of each other, and I was half off the bed, looking at the ceiling, trying to conjure invisibility. Soon enough, they were having sex and less and less remembered I was there. For a good fifteen minutes, I tried to make myself as small and inconspicuous as possible while pressed against two people making love in different positions. It was the porn version of the movie Ghost. I remember, after “we” finished, putting on my shirt and saying that I should shower.
So, there was born “the Benjamin threesome,” technically a twosome with a twist. Or like Canadian doubles, if one person didn’t have a racket. My threesome happened fairly spontaneously, but there is a praxis for general application. Just get three people and have one casually observe any two from very close range.
Failed Sexual Positions
THE INVERTED JENNY (OR THE JAME GUMB): Lay flat while the man lays atop faceup and smooshes genitals between his legs all the way back to allow awkward and shallow penetration.
THE VEGAN BRUNCH: Cowgirl positioning, but the man cups the penis to his stomach and penetrates as best he can using testicles only.
THE IRAN-CONTRA: Essentially reverse cowgirl, but instead of using your penis, secretly replace with thumb, intensifying the duplicity of the experience.
THE IRAN-CONTRA (WITH THE OLLIE NORTH): Same as the Iran-Contra, but replace your thumb with someone else’s.
THE THINKER: One lies flat on the edge of the bed while the other mounts from the top, facing out, in sitting position, with one arm resting on the chin, appearing bored.
THE GARLIC PRESS (OR NEWTON’S REVENGE): From a standing or supine position, hold your partner, crotch to head, while he/she hangs down the backside, butthole to face, for oral.
THE WILLIAM TELL: Place your genitals in the hair of your partner and gently grind back and forth until climax.
THE PATTON: Basic doggy-style, but wearing a sidearm in a holster.
THE CANTANKEROUS COACH: Place pillows behind your back and sit on the bed. She then sits on your lap. As she thrusts back and forth, cross your arms and grimace.
THE VERTIGO: Lie on your back and she straddles you. Assist by grabbing her buttocks and lifting and bouncing. Once she starts to ride up and down at a rhythmic pace, wave your arms and legs in circular motions, creating the optical illusion that you are falling.
THE LAFFER CURVE: The woman (or man), facedown, lifts the body up, arching the back into a reverse U shape, then economist Arthur Laffer has sex with him/her.
CHAPTER 9
How I Failed to Provide a Historical Example of Failure
Okay, so I feel like we are at the point in the book where we need to get serious about the principles of failure from a less anecdotal perspective and get to something more objective. This would
obviously require more specific examples of failure in history and how we can use those examples to better understand the nature of failure. But, because I don’t have the tools to provide you with any actual careful historical analysis, I decided to reach out to a professional historian so as to cite pertinent examples. This benefits both of us, because we can learn together. Instead of characterizing his research, I will just share our correspondence. This will be the best way to get the full benefit of a more analytical approach to failure. I reached out to classics professor from NYU Andrew Monson.*
Andrew,
I know this is a bit out of the blue, but I am writing a comedy book about personal failure for Dutton, and I wanted to reach out to see if you could take some time to discuss a particular person from antiquity, Roman or otherwise, who personifies failure. It would preferably be someone not well-known, so I can tell their story for a segment in the book. Any chance we could get in touch? Or perhaps you could steer me to someone who could help? Thanks for your time.
H. Jon Benjamin
Dear Jon,
There was a recent book arguing that Alexander the Great was a great failure, but that, of course, deliberately runs counter to what he personifies to most people and he’s by no means a poorly known figure; he was too obsessed with drinking and conspiracy theories to secure his empire. It’s hard to think of anyone who, at the same time, sticks out as a personification of failure and is poorly known: the Roman agrarian reformers failed (Tiberius and Gaius Gracchus, and the late Roman emperors failed to keep out the Germanic invaders; some of the Macedonian kings in the dynasty of Cleopatra were ridiculed in antiquity and blamed for Egypt’s downfall). I have a hunch you might be looking for a literary character, and, being a historian, I’m perhaps not the best person to ask.
Best wishes,
Andrew
Andrew,
Thanks for getting back. Is there a pivotal moment where someone, by not acting, caused a sea change in politics or jeopardized the stability of the empire or republic? I know this is a very general question, but just trying to pin down for clarity what I’m going for. It can be a historic figure who failed in a big way, in one moment, as opposed to looking at it from a whole career perspective.
Jon
Dear Jon,
I would like to help, but my teaching and research schedule leaves me little time. Good luck with the book and hopefully you can find someone to help with your endeavor.
Best,
Andrew
Andrew,
Again, thanks for getting back. I don’t mean to keep pestering, but I do have a whole section of a book to write and deadlines are piling up. I realize you are busy, but I figure you must have, at minimum, one example so I can pass that on to my readers. Thanks again for the time.
Jon
Dear Jon,
There are numerous books on the subject that can provide you a broad array of examples. I would suggest perhaps taking a look at some more comprehensive studies, to give you a sense of the history and the characters who drove it, and that may pay dividends in finding a subject. Depending on your interests and how familiar you are with Roman history, you could pick a few from among:
The Fall of the Roman Republic
by David Shotter
Provides a brief overview of the events leading up to the fall of the republic.
Outlines of Roman History
by William C. Morey
Another brief overview.
History of Rome
by Michael Grant
Popular narrative.
Rome in the Late Republic
by Mary Beard and Michael Crawford
Short overview. Often used in college courses in the United Kingdom.
The Romans: From Village to Empire
by Mary T. Boatwright et al.
This is a commonly used college text in the United States.
A History of the Roman People
by Allen Ward et al.
Another commonly used college text.
The Roman Revolution
by Ronald Syme
Seminal and one of the most influential works, but don’t start here.
The Last Generation of the Roman Republic
by Erich S. Gruen
Controversial work directed at Syme.
I found H. H. Scullard’s From the Gracchi to Nero impossibly soporific and dull. And [Edward] Gibbon, although enjoyable enough, would probably lead you astray, as his history is really more of an indictment of Christianity than anything else. In other words, Gibbon is not the place to start to learn Roman history. It reads more like a polemic than history (more Voltaire than Michelet).
Best,
Andrew
Dear Andrew,
Look, I don’t have time to read any of these. And to be honest, I’m just looking for you to write four to five pages of the book to provide an example for my readers. There are a lot of failures out there who are counting on some historical background, and I don’t want to get prickly, but maybe I should have been more direct earlier on what I needed. Can you at least write a few paragraphs on any subject you pick, and I’ll just add some stuff to extend it to five pages? I assume you’re good at this kind of thing.
Jon
Jon,
I can’t just provide you material for your book. It would be a breach of ethics. As I stated, I believe it would be best to get in touch with someone else.
Best,
Andrew
Andrew,
You were the only one to write back. I wrote a bunch of classics professors, and none have returned my emails. I’m not going to lie, it would be easier if you wrote something, and I will credit you in the book and that way, we would be clear of any ethical questions. It would be a huuuuuuuuge help. Thanks. Maybe that agrarian reformer, Gaius Gracchus. Maybe him?
Jon
Dear Jon,
Please cease contact with me in regards to this matter.
Best,
Andrew
CHAPTER 10
Dee Har (or How I Failed to Move to France)
I love the movie Five Easy Pieces.
Let me backtrack. I am pretentious.
When I was in college, I read Camus, but I didn’t really understand him. I just knew he was one of those authors deep thinkers would appreciate. Existentialism, as a philosophical movement, was a wellspring for pretentioneers like me. It was because its emblem was nonverbal brooding, so discourse could be avoided—i.e., I rarely had to back it up. I was so bad at branding that my version of being an existentialist was forcing myself to read The Stranger and reading the first forty pages of The Plague.
And then, the real pièce de résistance (classic pretentious move to overuse French idioms): buying a Camus T-shirt. I mean, that is real Mall of America–level existentialism. I didn’t even have the balls to don a beret or wear all black or smoke a pipe—just a red T-shirt with Camus’s face on it. And the problem was, there’s a built-in conflict in wearing the Camus T-shirt, because, at the most basic level, the T-shirt is an invitation for like-minded Camus fans to spot me and then spark a dialogue. And this is the real enemy of the pretentioneer: real, deep, meaningful conversation on the topic they pretend to embrace. The hope was, at best, to meet people with no interest in Camus who I could at least establish a false sense of superiority over and then go from there. Sample dialogue as follows:
Girl: (Pointing at T-shirt.) Who’s that?
Me: Oh, it’s my favorite author, Albert (pronounced Al-Bear) Camus.
Girl: Oh.
Me: Yeah, have you read The Stranger?
Girl: No.
Me: Oh, you have to. It’s essential existentialism.
Girl: Cool.
Me: I am an existentialist, basically . . . I mean, that feeling of being totally autonomous, untethered. It is that all-enc
ompassing feeling of pure dread and pure freedom, feeding off each other. It’s about being totally self-aware and totally authentic. I hate people who can’t see that our natural state of being is being totally alone the universe.
Girl: Right . . .
Me: So, do you want to hang out sometime?
After I left school, in 1989, I decided I wanted to move to France—the ultimate pretentioneer power move. Fake it till you really fake it. Without that feeling of disconnectedness to my world, the move was largely the fulfillment of what the Camus shirt had done on a small scale. I was getting serious about my pretentiousness and putting my money where my mouth was.
So, with that in mind, I asked my parents to pay for it. Appropriately, they refused, so I took a job at my father’s store and a side job at a chain restaurant in Worcester called Charley’s Eating & Drinking Saloon, home of the sizzling fajita. In a somewhat related failure, my stint at Charley’s saloon only lasted a few months because of my sincere inability to deliver the fajitas sizzling, which was the whole raison d’être (did it again) of the sizzling fajita.
I mainly delivered them non-sizzling due to my severely slow reaction time. The sizzle was created by the cook hitting the pile of meat and peppers with hot oil while the plate sat on the expedite counter, and the waiters were meant to swoop in and rush them to the tables. Here’s a snippet of a conversation between myself and the manager that would commonly occur due to overtly poor fajita-serving aptitude.
Manager: How do we deliver the fajita?
Me: Sizzling.
Manager: Right. Do we ever deliver a fajita that’s not sizzling?
Me: No.
Manager: What happens when a fajita is not sizzling?
Failure Is an Option Page 6