It was during my amazon.co.uk-search for “serial killers” that I thought to myself; Will anyone ever love me?
It’s not as bad as that. Not at all, really. I have no doubt in my mind that I will meet a decent guy (or just someone who showers more than twice a week) and we will play Scrabble together and argue over him not wanting to punch me a tiny bit in bed. (“No,” he’ll say, “I won’t do it!” and I’ll take his hand and plead, “I trust you, Gavin. Let’s just try it. What are you afraid of?” He’ll look me dead in the eyes and spit, “I’m afraid I’ll like it, okay? I’m afraid that I will lose control over my own strength and I’ll just keep punching and punching and punching till the leftovers of your face look like a bloody spaghetti-with-minced-meat-dish and I will realise what I have done and become insane and start eating it and I won’t eat your brains, okay? I love you too much.” he’ll cry and I’ll hug him and tell him that everything is going to be alright, let’s start with a little slapping and take it from there.)
You know, like any other normal couple.
I have no doubt of that. Anymore. But I have struggled with those thoughts the last week. I’m in no rush — I prefer to not have a boyfriend. As they say in Spiderman, “With great boyfriends come great arguments-about-babies-and-oh-get-the-AIDS-test-already-I-can’t-feel-anything-with-a-condom-on.” (sic)
– But I was recently so fortunate to be reminded that sex is quite nice and having a boyfriend means to have sex regularly, plus, there’s the whole validate-me-the-way-my-father-failed-to-do-thing, that’s also pretty swell. So I felt all grown-up and whilst I should have spent my planning-time on making a budget, I spent it on thinking about How To Get A Guy Within Three-To-Five Years Before Cats Start To Seem Like An Animal I Would Want.
My doubts came when I fornicated with a guy. Now, that has happened before (highfive, fellas!) – more than once even (highfive, sluts!). This time it was different, though. This guy was normal. He was not a comedian. Can you believe it? Someone not craving the affection and affirmation of a thousand strangers. Someone who feels awkward when speaking in public. Someone who probably thinks that Dane Cook is ‘kinda funny’.
It’s not that I have systematically whored my way through the Danish circuit of comedians, but there has been a few drunken nights that ended in a bed (or in a bush, don’t ask) and I’m not ashamed of (2/3 of) it. It’s just that the only times I have had sex within the last couple of years, it has happened to be with comedians.
“But comedians are just people, like everyone else!” said no one ever, and thank God, because it’s wrong. An example;
During the act of sin with the normal guy, I banged my head against the radiator. Not because I was using his penis as a stripper pole and attempted to do a slick move, no, in fact, it wasn’t even during a movement. I was lying completely still (favourite position, preferably with both eyes clenched together and NO SOUND) when my head suddenly protested to not having had a black eye ever and it just attacked the (hot) radiator. I held my breath as I thought I knew what I had coming.
“Are you okay?” he asked. I stopped. That’s not what laughter sounds like, I thought. It almost sounds like… empathy?
I looked at him and he looked genuinely concerned. Not a hint of sarcasm. Not even a smile. It was the face of a nice guy. Also the face of a guy who will never write a killer set with quick punchlines and a comic understanding of timing — but it felt okay. It actually — girls, listen carefully — felt kind of nice.
When I first started doing stand-up, the phrase “don’t do comedians” was often said by the other female comedians. It’s not surprising, really. I’ve heard it here in England as well. Look, comedians are wonderful. I love most of them. They’re pretty and most of them don’t even know it, which creates a really attractive humbleness. They’re funny and intelligent (two things that usually go together) and most importantly — they’re there. When you’re drunk on a Monday night and none of you have a job or school in the morning.
But I didn’t realise what the phrase meant, until now. It’s actually just a shorter version of:
“By all means, do comedians. Just remember that they’re socially handicapped man-boys with mommy issues and tiny-to-average-sized penises (depending on how funny he is) that they may be really good at using (a lot of groupie/starfucker-experience have taught them) but which will most likely will be covered with STD-sprinkles. And that there are real boys out there. Who won’t make a joke when you use their whiteware to give yourself a swollen right eye. Who won’t ask you to keep the two of you a secret. Who want you to stay the night. Do comedians — but mix it up with some real people too, every once in a while. Just so that you don’t forget how it’s like to be loved by someone who was actually loved as a child.”
That’s too long to put on a t-shirt, though.
I know that now there are comedians going, “Did you see my set? What did you think?” because they’re too busy worrying about themselves to be reading this stupid blog. But if one of them did, he would probably take offense. If you are reading this and you’re thinking “Hey! I’m a comedian and I’m not socially awkward or any of those other things you just said!” then hey, stop calling yourself a comedian. Based on who will probably have the time to read this blog, I suggest, you’re probably not a comedian yet. Stop calling yourself that. If you are a comedian — a professional funny guy — and this upsets you, well, prove me wrong. I’ll get naked and pound my nose against your fridge till you can’t hold the laughter back anymore. Then I’ll laugh too, wipe up the blood and have no difficulties convincing you to punch me a bit, because hey, we’re both damaged, right?
Normal guy never called afterwards. To be fair, he didn’t have my number, nor did we have any spectacular connection and I had made a dent in his radiator. But it was then the worries came. What if I am just too… much… for a real-life person to take?
Painting a picture: It’s Saturday night. I’m eating chili-flavoured crisps in my bed while shopping for books about serial killers. I’m currently working on a joke, in which I talk about guys I’ve slept with – and I end up gagging on the microphone. I am out almost every night, performing. I’m currently living in London, but I don’t know where I’ll be in a year. Every August I’ll be in Edinburgh. If you slammed your penis in the refridgerator-door, I’d laugh. Then write a joke about it and tell everyone. My aim would be to tell it on TV. I fart, I say inappropriate things; It’s not a choice as much as it’s a self-defense-mechanism. And no one will ever be as important to me as stand-up is. Because of my career, there will be nights where I’d rather that Steve Bennett loved me. I will spend most of my time around guys. I will get drunk on Mondays. And I absolutely hate long walks on the beach. I hate long walks enough as it is, but walking in sand, seriously, have you tried it? It’s harder than walking on a pavement. I don’t like walking — I lose my breath and then I can’t talk as much, and I love talking. I talk a lot.
It’s not about normal-guy. It’s not about men in general. It was just a thought, really. Very quickly after I had the thought, I shrugged it off again. Mostly because the thought bores me. There’s nothing worse than a girl talking about wanting to have a boyfriend, without having someone very particular in mind. I don’t want a boyfriend, I just want it to be my choice. Besides, reading about serial killers, I stumbled across a book about female serial killers. Turns out, most female serial killers are only killers because their boyfriends or husbands were and they were too afraid that they would leave them, so they helped them kill hookers and hitchhikers. By not caring if I have a boyfriend or not — I’m saving lives, people. Not that you should let me pick you up when hitchhiking or anything — I still sing loudly along to musical-songs in every carride I’m in.
It’s definitely a conversation I am not looking forward to.
“Honey,” he’ll ask in that playful tone I will usually enjoy, “It’s just that… We’ve watched like, everything on NetFlix and I’m bored… I was wondering…” he will stop himself briefly. “Yes, Gavin?” I will ask him, with that motherly softness I will know always works. “Can I…” he’ll take a deep breath, “Kill a hooker tonight?” I’ll widen my eyes, but before I will have time to protest, he’ll quickly resonnate; “Just one! I’ll do it quickly. They say the first one is the best one! I won’t get blood on me and I’ll clean up after myself, promise!” I’ll sigh. He’ll gently caress the arch of my back, a touch that sends shivers down my spine. His brown eyes will find mine and he’ll smile carefully, “Please?” he’ll whisper, “I won’t ask anything from you ever again.” he pauses, “I’ll even… punch you a bit?” I’ll cave in immediately, “Alright, but just this once! But do it in the basement — and no burrying her in the backyard afterwards! And stay away from the freezer, I have my B&Js in there.” he’ll jump up and down, excited and joyfull. He’ll kiss my lips and thank me. He will put on his GiantHamster-mask and before he closes the door behind him, he’ll turn around and roughly, but firmly, punch me in the face with his clenched fist. “I wlwove you.” I’ll mumble, blood streaming down my throat. He’ll wink and grab the hatchet from the hallway before exiting the house. Later, I’ll write his autobiography.