Before it’s all over I want to compile a book of reluctant sex stories and have my friends to submit chapters describing their experiences. It would most certainly be a best seller to those chicks who made us promise not to talk about the excursion on stage, and an out for those of us who co-signed the agreement. For some it’s therapy, for others its cathartic. That time hasn’t come, but for now I’d like to do a brief summary on the counter culture of strange and what it means to the vulnerable male comedian. We are the victims, let’s not get it twisted.
When stand-up comics sit around and chop up sex stories we all have one that is our closer. We cry and seek counsel for this sickness that sometimes it’s so overwhelming we must use the condition as a remedy for itself. It helps. Sure, we talk about the hot chick in Miami, or the club manager who is an undercover freak but there is always one stand-up tale that leaves other comics in awe. For some less enlightened comics, their act is a 45-minute ad for post show activity. Archetypal favorites are greasy masses of upper body strength who integrate punch lines into what could be otherwise described as an elaborate Craigslist ad. These figures are Picasso’s at posting up after the show in the back of the room and initiating conversation based on the suggestive T-shirt they sell. Cute chicks normally get them for free unless it’s a Sunday night then all bets are off and whoever takes the bait can potentially get a room number whispered to them or at the very least a “text me later.” For most male comics we avoid the Succubus at all costs in hopes that one day we will be recognized by our talent, not our merchandising prowess or the insatiable sexual appetite we apparently provoke.
We as male comics are victims to thousands of women who would take advantage of our jovial nature for their mere sexual pleasure; however, as much as we try to abstain, sometimes the pressure is overwhelming. We succumb to pressure from our peers, the overwhelming urge not to be alone and in rare cases the pride of showing off the 46-inch flat screen in our hotel rooms. Honestly, we just want a hug.
To better understand these women, we must describe them categorically:
The first hint that a woman wants to be more than a fan is how she stares at you during a show. Veteran comics can identify a Potential eight rows and two tall waiters away. Somehow, she wants you to notice her. She will flirt with her eyes and when yours make contact there is subtle acknowledgement that is recognized by both. She can be seated with anyone from a group of happy hour friends to her husband’s family after a funeral. She is normally sheltered and fits into the ever popular “I’ve never done anything like this before” category.
This one plays a role in order to get your attention. Either she wants to chastise you for your clever take on Spina Bifida or she pretends to be drunk just long enough to get you into a place where she can unmask her inhibitions. She’s big on sexting. Sometimes, the Actress will play psychiatrist and use reverse psychiatry accusing the comic of sleeping with women everywhere he goes. The more convincing you are against her argument, the more she likes it. Occasionally, the Actress will act uninterested but will speak loud enough among her friends to get your attention, when you take the bait she’s won – and you both share in the spoils. Sadly.
“Bait and Switch”
This one is extremely interested until all the other competition has left the room. She will routinely buy drinks in order to keep you occupied outside of your normal flow then extract power from the sexual energy she’s created and use it against you. Her obligatory “take my number and call me if you’re in town again” rings hollow as you check your phone for the naked picture from “The Actress” or the graveyard address from “The Potential.” At this point you are a junkie. This encounter can sometimes end ugly as comics never enjoy our predatory natures being called out. Normally she ends the conversation with a resounding “asshole!”, and it’s not a request…normally.
In other circles she would be known as “The Groupie” but this chick travels alone. She traps you into her web of sexual dysfunction and travels to shows that are hundreds of miles away from where you met. She drives the same car her dad drove to his prom while listening to Buckcherry’s Pandora channel and soliciting relationship advice from her friends via text. When she arrives she claims to want to make you feel comfortable but comes to every show with a heightened sense of entitlement, pissing off the staff and ordering drinks beyond what your comps can accommodate. “The Follower” then sits in the back of the room analyzing your every move while cruising through your Facebook page preparing questions about posts that are in her view cryptic. To escape her you arrive at the airport nine hours before your flight and pray that one of those comfortable chairs will be available at the Southwest Airlines gate with the USB ports, electrical outlets and Boingo.
These are the most dangerous. They have seen how we operate and can be any or all of the aforementioned characters. They can suck you in with the eye contact of “The Potential,” they have mastered the crafts of “The Actress,” they bait and switch with your future at the club hanging in the balance – however they have been known to follow comics to other cities with intentions that are purely complimentary. When they say they want to party at the condo rarely do they come without their server besties and the well educated cook who is reading Tolstoy and exponentially funnier than you. If things get weird, they will disarm you with calculated conversation about their favorite comedians while never mentioning your name. They are not impressed by your pay scale because in a good week they have likely earned more than the average comic and when they leave the condo they all leave together, thanking you for staying awake until 5am and wishing you good luck on morning radio.
In the final analysis, this comic has seen it all. The humies between shows in the parking lot, the absence of underwear on the front row, the hookup at the bar next door, the firing because you didn’t realize it was the owners daughter and the one Madonna impersonator whose actual name was Herb. Be mindful that not all comic/client relationships end badly. For some there have been long standing relationships and weddings, for others restraining orders and paternity suits but all in all if comics continue to stay focused on that red light and fight against the injustices that are placed before us by that one needy chick with the bachelorette party, we can make a world a funnier place. Albeit not nearly as fun.