Hi I’m Montanaface, and I’m 35 and I just lost my virginity last week. And I feel really stupid and embarrassed for saying that, but only because in America, a man is deemed a bigger failure than carbonated milk if he hasn’t had sex by his seventh birthday.
I told all of this to Emma Watson when I saw her at this bar in the city last week. I thought she would appreciate my grasp on feminism and its application to both women and men, and recognize that I was a kindred spirit who understood the frustrations of the unfair expectations placed on our young people by popular culture, but before I could even finish asking her just where exactly in the hell one of those NuvaRings goes, she snorted and asked me how many mint-condition Rainbow Brite lunch boxes I owned! I told her that if my virginity bothered her so much, maybe she should do something about it. She then began waving a breadstick in my face, shouting “McDonalmus Jackboxium!”, and then I became a talking hamburger for about an hour, which was upsetting, so I left.
I finally decided to drag myself to a strip club because I went to one a long time ago where all the girls offered to have sex with me for money, and I had considered it, but with tax, shipping, and all the Beanie Babies she wanted me to buy her, it was way out of my price range. So I saved up some cash and drove down by the airport to Wardrobe Mal-FUN!-ction’s High-Class Gentleman’s Money Pit, and sure enough, it had burned down and now there was a library. But luckily for me, all the strippers were Information Science majors at the community college and were now paying tuition as librarians as well as hookers.
So this librarian gets on my lap and starts whispering about putting my card cata-log between her stacked boobliography, and holding my hardcopy, and licking her footnotes, and it just went on and on and most of them weren’t very funny, and now I’ve had sex in a public library restroom. Which would sound cool if Lou Reed had done it, but I’m not him, so it was weird. Before I left, she gave me her call number and told me to reference her if I ever wanted to shelve my appendix in her Dewey, Boolean microfiche again, which made only partial sense to me.
My therapist said I should write about my idea of a perfect day to help me visualize and achieve happiness. I don’t know why I keep doing what my therapist says.
My perfect day begins with me NOT waking up in a pool of my own cold urine, and the realization that I forgot to put on the rubber sheets the night before. My perfect day would continue with me NOT masturbating in the shower to a laminated picture of Victoria Jackson that I found at the used book store because I’m so lonely. Next, I would eat a large bowl of delicious Sugar Bastards, my favorite breakfast cereal. In the box, I would find a slap bracelet toy, which I would immediately use and NOT slice open my Ulnar artery and bleed profusely all over the kitchen.
On my way to work, I will see my hot neighbor Cynthia washing her car. A slight breeze will blow her perfect blonde hair away from her face revealing her slender, graceful neck. She will pick up the bucket of soapy water, but – oh, no! It’s too slippery and she drops it, sudsy water falling all over her chest. She is wearing a thin white T-shirt and no bra, and now she is soaking wet and starts to jump up and down for some reason. I will crash my car into a fire hydrant because I am looking directly at the activity in Cynthia’s driveway. She will race over to see if I’m alright, unaware that her shirt is now completely see-through. She will offer to make love with me, but I will decline, having creamed my pants five minutes earlier.
My perfect day will end with me having dinner at a fancy restaurant. I will order a modest piece of roast chicken, but I will be served a giant juicy steak, free of charge. The waitress, who looks just like Victoria Jackson, will give me her number and I will call her the next day to inquire firstly as to whether I left my jacket at the restaurant because I’m pretty sure I did, and secondly if she wants to go on a date with me. She will accept, and we will go putt-putt golfing the following night. However, I am only allowed one perfect day, not two, so the date will go horribly, with me accidently calling her Cynthia and hitting her on the shins with my putter.
My therapist said I should write a letter to my future self and open it in four years from now as a way to understand my current feelings about myself. This is going to be stupid.
How are you, you old son of a bitch? What’s the future like? Is it as awful as the present? Is that rash gone yet? The current president of the United States is Barak Obama. A black president! I guess in the future there are all sorts of new kinds of presidents. Women presidents. Gay presidents. Trustworthy presidents. Zing!
Today you fed your fish three times because you were bored. I know I like to eat when I’m bored, so I assumed the fish would too. I was wrong. They all died. So I ate them. Because I was bored.
I’m going to put ten dollars in a savings account for you now so that when you read this letter, the savings account will be worth…let’s see…eleven dollars. You’re welcome.
Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you: are there flying cars in your time? I was promised that the future would have flying cars by popular films and literature in my time. But I’m guessing that you probably don’t have them yet, because I was also promised that there would be hover boards by now, and I own zero hover boards. And jumping off of the roof with a skateboard tied to your feet is not the same as riding a hover board, trust me. It is, however, a great way to break your coccyx, which I did, twice.
Ok, that’s all I have to say to you. Good luck with everything. Maybe you will have lost your virginity by the time you read this letter, but I’m not going to hold my breath. Unless that would get me a girl. Do girls like men who breathe, or men who don’t? Why am I asking you.
P.S. – about that savings account…I actually need that ten dollars today, so don’t go looking for it.
My therapist said I should try a writing exercise where you write in the third person as a way to better express your feelings. So, here goes.
Montanaface drives to the therapist’s office on Tuesday afternoon. He does not expect much progress to be made during his session today. Montanaface does not have any insurance, so he must pay the 120 dollar fee out of pocket. Montanaface does not have any money. Montanaface gives the girl at the check-in window a handful of Monopoly money because he knows that the girl at the check-in window is blind and will not know the difference. Montanaface has done this three times already without being caught. During therapy, Montanaface silently passes gas into a couch pillow. Does his therapist notice? Montanaface is sure that she does, because she makes a face. Montanaface would be embarrassed, but his self-esteem is so low that he does not care. Montanaface talks about his mother to his therapist, who makes some notes on a legal pad. Later, Montanaface’s therapist will tear out her notes and throw them away because she secretly hates Montanaface and doesn’t give a damn that his mother put out a cigar on his naked back when he was 8. Montanaface’s therapist suggests that Montanaface go home and write a journal entry in the third person as a way to better express his feelings. Montanaface does this for a while, but then gets bored and starts making things up. Montanaface met Bigfoot in 1973 at a truck stop in Reno, Nevada. Bigfoot was shorter-looking in person than in his photograph. Montanaface can fly a helicopter. Montanaface once flew a helicopter underwater and met a beautiful mermaid who he then had passionate sex with in the helicopter while he was flying it underwater. Montanaface was invited to host the Oscars, but declined because he was too busy solving crime with a talking dog named McGillicutty.
My therapist said I might try having a web log to release some tension, so…Abracadabra.
Let’s see. I think the first and most obvious order of business would be to list people that are more attractive than I am. First, celebrities: Christopher Plummer, Jackie Chan, Ted Danson (Cheers era, not Steve Martin era), Steve Martin (regular Steve Martin era, not unsettling brown-haired Steve Martin era), Dan Rather, Tom Brokaw, and Morgan Freeman. Now, common people: Morgan Freeman (guy I know), lesbian nurse from the hospital I go to, Chinese Pete from Chinese Pete’s Takeout & Exotic Fish, Mexican Pete from Chinese Pete’s Takeout & Exotic Fish, Tom Landry (is he famous anymore?), Eric, Donny, Phil, Li’l Hobo, William Crunkspeare, Duck, Pig, and Whale. Not Platypus, he’s hairy. (He won’t read this.)
Thanks, doc. I feel a lot better.