ATHLETES AND MUSICIANS - The Girl with the Lower Back Tattoo - Amy Schumer

The Girl with the Lower Back Tattoo - Amy Schumer (2016)


I recently came into contact with the hugest dick you can imagine. And when I say “hugest dick,” I mean largest penis. I don’t mean he was a dick. But I’m getting ahead of myself. So, let me back up and properly introduce this as the chapter where I will tell you in major detail about hooking up with a few athletes and a musician. I am telling you because I think you may find it interesting. And also because even though we all know there is no holy grail of a person who will finally be the key to our everlasting confidence, because we are all just damaged little children, we still hope that someone who is killer with a guitar or puck will hold the key to eternal self-love at the tip of their tip. No? Just me? Well, read along anyway.

I will not name names. Right now, maybe you’re thinking: Fuck you, Amy!! I bought this stupid book and I want to know who these dudes are! I hear you. I want to tell you so bad. It makes it a lot funnier having a face and name to go along with these terribly disappointing tales. But I can’t do that. It’s not a legal matter. It’s just that I would personally like to have more sex in my life, and what guy in his right mind would get down with me if he knew he and his penis might end up in my next book?

Also, if we ever meet in person I’ll probably tell you the actual names of these athletes and musicians. But in the meantime, let’s start with the first athlete I hooked up with, who was a lacrosse player, of all sports. I’d been going through a particularly lonely time. As I write that, I realize every single one of the hookups mentioned in this chapter was a direct response to a breakup. I’ve learned the lesson that the grieving process after a breakup will not be sped up by hooking up with someone else. The way I usually advise my friends is by saying, “It’s gonna take time. Let’s just watch movies and go on long walks.” But I don’t tend to follow my own advice. I also sometimes tell a good girlfriend, “You need to have sex with someone.” Are you noticing a pattern, that I am a hypocrite and a flake?

Anyway, about this lacrosse player … We were both newly single and he was better looking than me and from a wealthy family, but he could apparently stomach fucking me, which is literally how it felt when we had sex. I was funnier and smarter than him, but that didn’t matter to me at the time. What mattered in that moment was that he was cute and he had a working penis. We went on a couple dates, which had all the excitement of watching toenail polish dry on a cadaver.

During dinner, I felt the way you always hear men supposedly feel when women are talking. I was enduring it, pretending to laugh at his jokes, letting him ask me a lot of lame questions you’d expect to hear during a job interview, such as “Where do you see yourself in five years?” He asked, if I could have lunch with anyone living or dead, who would it be? I answered, Mark Twain. To which he said, “No, it has to be someone real.” And still, without even thinking twice, I went home with him. When we kissed, there was absolutely no chemistry, which confirmed our mutual lack of interest in one another. And yet from sheer muscle memory our bodies were still able to have intercourse. I think we hooked up a few times before our different levels of attractiveness and senses of humor caught up to us, and he called to tell me that he’d started seeing someone else. I was shocked that he felt our few unappealing hookups obligated him to notify me he was off the market. I said, “I understand,” in as serious a tone as I could muster. We truly did a great job of wasting each other’s time.

The next athlete was in the NFL. Which means he played football. This time I went to the city he lived in, and he came to my hotel. We’d been out three or four times but hadn’t hooked up yet, and this was going to be the night. He got to my room and we had a drink and I could already feel I didn’t want this. I said I was exhausted and needed to go to sleep, and when he kissed me, I just wasn’t feeling it. Our chemicals didn’t mesh well together. That has happened a couple times in my life, where the kiss just doesn’t taste right. It’s nothing personal, just science. He grabbed my ass and kissed me and I stopped him and said good night. I made up some excuses about why I couldn’t hang out with him until he stopped asking.

Another athlete I dated was the famous professional wrestler I met on Twitter. I know you’re probably thinking this would be a good moment to trash wrestling, but I have no interest in doing that. This guy was a true athlete. He was healthier, stronger, and more disciplined than most people who play a sport involving a ball or uniform. When I met him, I had no interest in wrestling, though I had spent time pretending to like it for guys in the past (see chapter titled “How I Lost My Virginity”). But once I saw professional wrestling behind the scenes, I was amazed by the athleticism and theater of it. Anyway, we met when I was doing a show in Phoenix, Arizona. I was alone in my nice hotel and decided to order some crab cakes. I know what you’re thinking: landlocked Arizona is world-famous for its killer seafood and surfing. But I convinced myself it was a low-carb option even though we know that outside Baltimore, Maryland, crab cakes are 99 percent bread. Turns out there was enough actual crab in these cakes for me to get the most violent food poisoning you can imagine. I quickly went from being completely healthy and fine to being a convulsing vessel of foul bodily fluids spouting from every orifice of my body. A couple times I had to decide between sitting on the toilet and bending over it to puke. It was a real Sophie’s Choice of human waste. (Spoiler alert: there is no happy ending.)

Despite my predicament, I was still convinced I was going to perform that night. I was especially excited because the cute wrestler was going to be in the audience, and so was the comedian David Spade. I wound up lying on the floor of the bathroom in my own puke with the club owner and his kind mother standing over me. I was hallucinating from dehydration and an ambulance was called. Luckily, David Spade is a hero and he did the show for me that night. It’s the only show I’ve ever had to cancel from illness. I once lost my voice in the middle of a set at Governor’s Comedy Club on Long Island, but I still didn’t leave the stage. Since my mom and I both know sign language, I signed my set to her so she could deliver it to the crowd.

So that night in Phoenix, I ended up having an overnight stay at the hospital. My very kind friend Jackie, who was working with me that weekend, spent the night sitting in a chair next to my hospital bed. When I woke up, I learned that I’d been inundated with countless messages on Twitter that mentioned the wrestler. Turns out the wrestler had led a campaign among his followers to get me to follow him. He had about a million followers, and it felt like I got a tweet from each and every one of them. He had been at the show I missed, so he knew I’d been hospitalized. As I sat there waiting to be released from the hospital, I clicked “follow” on his page and wrote him a direct message: “Okay, I’m following you. What do you want?” He wrote back, “Hi, how are you feeling?” He was really sweet and offered to pick me up from the hospital.

In addition to this very kind gesture, the wrestler was really easy on the eyes—and I figured probably hands—so we started talking and made plans to meet up. We met in Denver, had a nice weekend together, and actually began seeing each other a few weeks later. We did our best to date, despite the fact that we were both on the road all the time and I was still in love with my ex. I once even asked him if I could take a short dating hiatus from him to go to Mexico with my ex and then resume our dating when I returned. He rightfully told me no. I realize that was an insane request but I sometimes forget that a man may actually have real feelings for me.

He was so physically perfect, smart, funny, and kind. But I remember being in some hotel with him, seeing his knee pads drying on the radiator, and thinking I was in the wrong story. Naturally, I got back together with my ex. (Always a great idea.) The wrestler and I are still good friends, and I’ll be very happy for whatever lucky lady ends up with him, even though he’s a recent ex and I usually wish rare Amazonian skin diseases on their new girlfriends. Which brings me to the musician.

The musician was probably the saddest experience of all. He’s famous and I’m a fan. I would never have ever ever ever thought he’d be interested in me. Any of these guys actually—these are dudes who have access to tiny models. But what I’ve learned is that guys are guys, no matter how famous or hot, and they all basically want to hook up with anyone they’re even moderately attracted to who will hold still long enough for them to rub against them. Does that sound like an insult? Because it’s actually something that I love about men so much. I love the simplicity of the drive they have to fuck. Their biology is beautiful to me. We ladies work so hard to be attractive for them and we really don’t need to. Their driving force is to put their penises in our buttholes. Meanwhile I’m worried if he can see the roots of my highlights. I have thoughts like, Should I get a French manicure? HE DOESN’T CARE. HE WANTS TO JAM HIS WIENER IN YOUR POOPER!

Anyway, I met this musician for lunch. I thought we were just friends but he hugged me in a masterful way I will never forget. He slid his hand along my lower back, starting at my hip inside my leather jacket. When he hugged me I realized, Oh, this is a date. We were both going through breakups, so we complained about our exes and ate ramen. We were having such a good time that we made plans to meet up later that same evening. I was very much not out of the woods with my feelings for my ex, but revenge-dating a rock star seemed like a pretty good plan.

We met up at the Bowery Hotel and had some drinks. Showing up to this second location for the second date in one day with this guy totally freaked me out. He was now going to be evaluating me as a woman he might want to hook up with, or date, so I of course lost all my self-esteem while I was getting dressed to meet him. I got nervous and I put too much into it. The early hangout was lunch with a friend, but this was a fucking date with a fucking rock star! He commented, “You’re like a different person than you were earlier today,” immediately detecting my plummeting confidence. We walked around and watched some stand-up comedy at a nearby club. I told him I’d had a great time and tried to say good night, but he talked me into one more drink at the hotel. The bar was closed by then so he suggested we order drinks from room service and went up to his hotel room.

By this point, I’d accepted as fact that there was no way he was attracted to me, and I figured he must have just liked hanging out with me. This is how it’s been my whole life. I’ve always assumed that men see me as just one of the guys, so when someone is interested in me as a girl I am floored. This hang-up has gotten better over time, but it’s not completely gone. Anyway, we had a drink in his room and when I got up to hug him good-bye, he kissed me. We didn’t have good chemistry but I was flattered, and this was the first person I’d kissed who wasn’t my boyfriend in the last four years, so I went with it. We got in bed, we got naked, and I couldn’t have been less present. It was like what I would imagine Pat Sajak feels like at this point on Wheel of Fortune. If you look deep into his eyes, he is a full-blown zombie.

I could see the two of us like I was out of my body and I felt so sad for us: a rock star and a whatever I am. But no matter who you are, you still feel all the same shit as everyone else. We both missed our exes. We didn’t do much of anything. We touched each other and tears started rolling down my cheeks. I wasn’t crying but they were just coming out. He noticed and held me. We lay there in the dark, eyes open, listening to each other breathe. I was in so much pain at the time and I could feel his pain too. We didn’t judge or want anything from each other. After he fell asleep, I slipped out of the room. I’m grateful he was so sweet and as sad as I was too. I felt less alone for a couple moments, and I’m sure I was the most disappointing hookup of his life. Which I am actually a little proud to say. It’s good to stand out, even in that way. He will never forget me!

I’m now seeing a real pattern in these stories: I have been a huge disappointment to hook up with. I’ve always thought of myself in these hookups as the one who was shortchanged by a bummer guy, but upon further reflection, it seems like it really was me who was the bummer. Interesting. Oh well. No time to unpack that. On to the huge cock.

I want to preface this story by saying I have no interest in hockey. I have gone to a couple games and had fun—but that’s mostly because I went with my sister, and we gave ourselves fake bruises. We only went to Rangers games at Madison Square Garden, and I’d wear a neck brace and two black eyes, and put Band-Aids all over Kim. I don’t know why we used to do that, but we liked to look like we had gotten all bloodied. Most people would ignore us and look away as quickly as possible, but some people would ask what happened and we would say we got into a thing with each other.

Kim and her husband love hockey, and they always talk about one of their favorite players. They love how he plays and are always mentioning that he’s funny and cool off the ice, too. They bring up this dude all the time with me. He followed me on Twitter, so I followed him back, and when I told my sister he was following me, she flipped out. She was like, “You have to message him! You would love each other!” So I did. I told him he was my favorite player, and I think I said if he ever wanted to come see a stand-up show to let me know. He showed me enough respect not to pretend to be interested in seeing a comedy show and instead asked me if I wanted to get a drink. I said yes and was very excited that Kim would think I was the shit. She never does.

On the day of our date, I went to the location we’d agreed on and waited for nearly forty minutes. He was texting me saying, “Sorry, leaving soon!” I left the place angry but got a text shortly after telling me that he was very sorry and that he would meet me anywhere I wanted. I made him go to Fat Cat, a basement bar in the village that has jazz music and Ping-Pong. When I arrived and saw him from across the room, I realized he was with all of his friends.

So I was now on a group date with a bunch of rowdy guys. I was yelling over the music and trying to communicate with him, but we had all the rapport of the Pope and Rick Ross. We didn’t know what to talk about, couldn’t hear each other, and didn’t understand each other’s sarcasm. I finally gave up and started talking to his friends. They were treating me like some whore that their famous athlete friend was gonna bang—which, in their defense, was what I was. Except I didn’t have the patience to stick it out. So when he told me that they were going to another bar, I said I wasn’t and started to say farewell to my sister’s favorite athlete. He said, “Well, no, I’ll just go with you then.” I was shocked. He didn’t even say good-bye to his friends. We went to one more bar on the way home, and I watched him play a dumb golf arcade game and listened to him discuss his dreams and his family. I couldn’t believe I was going to hook up with this beautiful, tall, talented guy whom I could barely understand or connect with. He was using hockey terms, thinking I was a huge fan, but I’d only been to a few games in my life and understood nothing. He asked me exactly zero questions about myself, and that was the perfect amount. I wasn’t interested in building a future with this guy, I was just sticking around to see if he’d be willing to hook up with me. Even though in my eyes we were a physical mismatch on the level of Miss Piggy and Charles Grodin in The Great Muppet Caper. Or Kate Hudson and anyone I’ve ever seen her paired up with. I often feel this way with men who have been willing to be physical with me. Fortunately, most men are driven toward a wet hole more than a perfect face—especially late at night.

We went to his apartment, and he put on the TV show Workaholics and went down on me right away. I thought he was such a sweetheart for doing that. I came, thinking he was a prince. But then I saw the reason for his chivalry. He took his dick out and I became a cartoon. My jaw hit the floor. Which, coincidentally, was the only way his dick was going to fit in there. I have a small mouth, and the size of this hog was like nothing I’d ever seen. No way was that going near my vagina. I felt like a musician performing on the deck of the Titanic, knowing there was nothing I could do but go down. I felt like I was trying to fit an entire Thanksgiving turkey in a toilet paper roll: not happening. He tried to act like his dick wasn’t that big, as if it were a normal size and I was just being skittish and weird, but after several attempts, I determined I could not fellate this fellow. Feeling badly, I tried to be a team player and said we could give sex a go. I lay back and tried to think of a more relaxing environment, like Guantánamo Bay or the shoe display at the Holocaust museum, but it wasn’t going to happen. He encouraged me to try to make it fit, to which I said, “I’m not going to try to force it in and deform my pussy just so I can have sex with you once. Sorry, bro. I’d rather not have to pick up my NuvaRing off the subway platform because it keeps falling out of my new gaping vag, courtesy of your endless BFG of a cock.” I was making him laugh and this was clearly not his first rodeo with a girl chanting, “Hell no, water buffalo!”

So we did the only classy thing we could do. We made out while I jerked him off in my general direction. When he came, it landed mostly on my stomach. I got up to clean myself off and he said, “Where are you going? You got a mess on you!” and he went to get me a warm washcloth and a dry one. I then watched this member of the NHL clean me very carefully. Maybe he was afraid I’d try to steal his DNA like a hip-hop wife, but it was the sweetest thing to witness. He looked like a little boy working on a science project. I got dressed, and he seemed legitimately confused and sad that I was leaving. He asked if I would stay and watch a movie and when we would see each other again. I felt like we were starring in two different movies. I explained that I had had a great time with him and that we would never see each other again. I did the walk of shame at four thirty a.m. You may be recalling an earlier chapter where I told you I’d only had one one-night stand in my life and thinking this counts as number two. But I don’t consider it a one-night stand unless sex occurred. Sex where a penis enters your vagina or butthole. (Why don’t I write romance novels? My prose is so arousing!)

I called my sister in the morning from a Starbucks and told her what had happened and we both laughed so hard we were crying. I’d only gone out with him so she’d think I was cool, and that is definitely not what happened. She thought it was the saddest thing she’d ever heard. We still laugh to tears whenever he takes the ice. Does that sound mean? Did you have a moment reading this story when you felt bad for him? Please don’t. Please don’t shed any tears for this rich, famous, and perfect-looking athlete with a huge cock. He’s just fine. He has no doubt had many wonderful sexual experiences aside from with me. He’s now married to a gorgeous, tiny woman, and whenever I see pictures of them I think, Good luck with that, sweetheart!