In “You'll Never Blue Ball in This Town Again," author and stand-up comic Heather McDonald describes her journey to remain a virgin. Although she had many opportunities to give up her V-card, McDonald waited until she was 27 years old, leaving ample men unsatisfied along the way. In this excerpt, she explains how she called the radio show "Loveline" to find out whether her habit of “blue balling” her suitors could lead to testicular cancer.
Finally, late one night on the phone I got up the courage to tell Kevin that I was a virgin. I absolutely hated saying the word virgin aloud because it always made me think of the Virgin Mary, who in my opinion never got enough props for giving birth without having sex or an epidural in a manger with some hay up her ass all while three strange men whom she’d never met before insisted on being there just because they brought some frankincense and myrrh. But I managed to tell him, and Kevin was the first and the last guy who thought it was a good thing. He was confident he would be my first, but he wasn’t going to rush me, which was good because I was in no rush to do it with him. The only rush that mattered was spring sorority rush.
Kevin and I had these long dry humping make-out sessions. While fully clothed, we French kissed and I did the grind on his hard penis. One night, Kevin told me on the phone that I was blue balling him so badly that he was at risk for contracting testicular cancer. I felt terrible. The next night, I was listening to Love Line on the radio. Dr. Drew Pinsky and Adam Corolla were the cohosts while people called in to get advice on their love problems. I called in and got through to the screener.
“Welcome to Love Line. What’s your question?” asked the screener.
“Well, I’m a nineteen-year-old virgin and ...”
He cut me off. “Really, a nineteen-year-old virgin?”
I felt like he thought he had struck gold or something.
“Yes, and my boyfriend says that I blue ball him so much he could get testicular cancer. I want to ask Dr. Drew if that is possible.”
“OK, turn down your radio and hang on the line,” he said to me as I promptly sat on the bed and waited on the line.
Wow, I’m going to be on the radio. I had never in my life even attempted to be the sixteenth caller on the radio to win U2 tickets.
Dr. Drew immediately got on the line and assured me that you cannot get testicular cancer from being blue balled. But Adam was impressed that a guy had the inventiveness to guilt a girl into putting out by telling her she was causing him cancer. Well, this certainly made me feel a lot better knowing that unlike the tobacco industry, Heather McDonald was no longer on the American Cancer Society hit list.
Do you ever find yourself in your office daydreaming of an old crush and wondering what your life would have been like with him, especially on the days when your husband isn’t treating you like the princess you still are? Suddenly the crush comes to mind and you decide to Internet stalk him to find out if he is still single or to see how ugly his wife is or what your kids may have looked like with him. Well, Kevin O’Sullivan is the guy I Google and search on Facebook, MySpace, LinkedIn, Classmates, and so on. When my husband is not being nice to me, he refuses to help me on the computer in my attempt to track down this old flame of mine.
With a name like Kevin O’Sullivan, I knew he was Irish. In fact, his parents were from Ireland: the land of potatoes; four-leaf clovers; leprechauns and Lucky Charms cereal; and, of course, famine and bloodshed. He went to Arizona State, where I was visiting my friend Suzanne, but his family lived in Pasadena, which is just outside of LA, but at least an hour from my home in Woodland Hills. We went through the usual college pre-hookup-meet-and-greet of “What’s your major? Dorm? High school? What was your SAT? Is there a history of cancer in your family? How about acne?”
With Kevin the conversation was really easy, and the alcohol helped. I don’t think I ever saw the bottom of my red plastic cup. Fraternity guys are trained to never allow a sorority sister’s drink to run out. They’re such gentlemen in that way.
At about one a.m., it was time for us to leave. Suzanne was from Arizona and we were crashing at her parents’ house, so we couldn’t be too late. Kevin asked for my number and I asked for his. I loved having the guy’s number. At the time, my Heather philosophy was that these guys always lose the little pieces of paper with the numbers scribbled on them; they must lose them, or what other explanation is there for them not calling? I couldn’t risk the possibility that my precious phone number might be held hostage in the crevice of a futon for months and by the time it was rescued the guy would have no recollection of who I was.
If you can believe it, in the nineties there were no BlackBerrys or iPhones or Palm Pilots, so the potential boyfriend could not program my digits in his telecommunicative device. By getting his number I had control if I chose to call him. He said he’d be back in Pasadena over Thanksgiving and we should go out then. I was going to hold him to it and that’s why I kept his number safe in my Velcro Louis Vuitton knockoff wallet. I also transcribed it into two different notebooks in two different locations just in case I was approached by a mugger while walking to my car and I couldn’t reach my mace or kick him in the groin while yelling “fire” (I was told “fire” gets more of a response than “rape”) and he successfully grabbed my purse.
Like Oprah says, “Never go to the second crime location,” even if it means a potential boyfriend’s phone number might be lost forever. I also decided to always keep a bottled water and granola bar in my car so that when the big earthquake strikes and a freeway collapses on my car, I can eventually tell Oprah, “And even though there was only a small pocket of air, I managed to reach down and get that water and granola bar until help arrived.” Oprah always tears up at a good story about survival and rationing one granola bar over a period of ten days.
Thanksgiving weekend rolled around and I left USC, where I was in my sophomore year, for the long forty-six-minute drive home to the Valley. The Wednesday before Thanksgiving Day is always a great party night. People don’t have to work the next day, and some are staying, like me, at their parents’ house. I loved flopping into my double bed with its pink ruffled canapé top, which, by the way, does not work like a bunk bed. My sister and I learned this the hard way. I would lie among my stuffed elephants and panda bears, which were impossible to cuddle because they were all won by my dad from various trips to Six Flags and therefore synthetic, and watch my junior varsity cheerleading ribbons spinning around my room before I passed out. This memory repeated itself every Thanksgiving. It just always screamed “autumn” to me.
Around six p.m. on Thanksgiving, with some Blue Nun wine and tryptophan in my bloodstream, I decided to call Kevin O’Sullivan and see if he still wanted to take me out that weekend. Needless to say, he hadn’t called me. I retrieved the number from my wallet and dialed. It was his home number and an Irish woman answered, which freaked me out because any Irish woman sounds like a nun to me. My heart was already beating because I was calling a boy, and now I was having flashbacks of my fourth-grade math teacher, Sister Therese.
“Yes, is Kevin there please?” I asked as politely as I could, thinking she could ask me to solve a long division problem at any moment.
“One moment dear,” she replied.
“Hello?” Kevin said.
“Oh, hi. This is Heather. I met you at the ATO party a while back. I go to USC and ...” He cut me off.
“Of course. How are you, Heather?” he asked. The rest of the conversation was easy, yet my heart still managed to beat at an excessive rate. Whenever I was on the phone at my parents’ house I never knew when my dad would start yelling about something so loud that the person on the other end would hear, “Don’t get your tit in a wringer about the blood. Just get me the goddamn Band-Aids!” When that happened, I would immediately hang up, and then when the house was quiet again I’d call back and say, “What’s up with your phone, we just got disconnected, that’s so weird, you should have that checked out.” We made plans for Kevin to pick me up on Friday night at my parents’ house and decided we would go out in Woodland Hills.
The next day, my sister Shannon and I went shopping. I love when you shop for a new outfit and then have plans to wear it that very night, provided the idiotic salesgirl doesn’t forget to remove the security tag. When that happened to me, I called the store in a panic demanding that they send someone from Forever 21 immediately to my home with the security removal gun and take care of the situation or I would file a lawsuit on the grounds of intentional infliction of emotional distress. When the salesgirl made a sarcastic remark about how they don’t make house calls for purchases under twenty-nine dollars, I attempted to remove the tag myself and went out that night looking like I’d been shot by a blue paintball gun.
Being a virgin never conflicted with the way I dressed. My philosophy at the time was: If I don’t show it, how will people know I have it? So the shorter and tighter the outfit the better. Shannon was not as risqué and didn’t always agree with my clothing. I was so confident with my Forever 21 purchases that even as an aspiring attorney she wasn’t able to convince me that cleavage and upper thigh should not both be the focal points of a dress made out of 100 percent hot pink spandex.
When Kevin met me at Arizona State University, I was wearing a salmon-colored mesh tank-style minidress with white cowboy boots and big white hoop earrings. Obviously, that look worked for Kevin.
Excerpted from “You'll Never Blue Ball in This Town Again" by Heather McDonald. Copyright (c) 2010, reprinted with permission from Touchstone.