The Last American Virgin

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So since finding out three days ago that Scarlett Johansson is engaged and has been for over a year, I feel like I’m living in a new universe. First of all, I can’t get over what an idiot I feel like, not just that I was so factually ignorant as to think she was unattached, but also that I was actually thinking I might have a shot with SCARLETT JOHANSSON. I feel like that stock teen movie character, the nerd/fat kid who actually starts to think the hot popular girl likes him because she is nice, until her rich, handsome quarterback boyfriend shows up and the nerd feels humiliated. I place such value on being intelligent, nothing bothers me more than when I realize I’ve been stupid. 

Don’t get me wrong. As I said in earlier posts, I knew that Scarlett was a LOOOONG shot for someone like me. A lottery ticket. I even said, if I had to bet, I’d bet against it happening. What do I win?

For the last decade or so, since things started going horribly wrong in my life, I’ve had a new policy. It is well exhibited by a great book called The Diamond Age by Neal Stephenson. As life throws me one Clayton Kershaw regular-season curveball after another, I create a new narrative for myself that I can live with, something to keep me pushing forward. When I went to prison, and none of the women from my past stood up for me, or even sent me a postcard to say “hope you’re ok”, when all my powerful multi-millionaire former employers and fellow Stanford alums turned their backs and pretended they didn’t know me, when I found myself in the shocking position of being a registered sex offender on parole and no one who knew me seemed at all bothered by that, well that meant that everything I’d planned for my life was over, and a new narrative was required...

When I realized that the striking girl I’d seen in Las Vegas who for a brief moment looked in my direction was Scarlett Johansson, that became my basis for a new narrative. Now that I know she’s not going to marry me, I want to tell myself the girl I saw was someone else, but I know it was her. But that narrative, that hope that maybe that girl I saw felt the same thing I felt when I saw her, and that maybe all the practical obstacles to a relationship between me and Scarlett could be overcome, and Jewish girls historically being fighters for justice and against the prison-industrial complex that maybe she wouldn’t care about my legal problems (she works with my fellow ex-convict Robert Downey, Jr afterall)...I looked at all that and thought that maybe I’d finally found my BFF-LOML and that it just so happened to be Scarlett Johansson!  That hope kept me going through the last two years which have easily been the worst in my life. I made it. Thanks, Scarlett!

But now, since I know Scarlett’s getting married, things have changed and another new narrative is required...

Today, Saturday, I went out to the beach. I don’t even know how many smoking hot PERFECT girls I saw. I lost track. Hundreds. I want to find a girl to be my life-partner. I like sex. But apart from either of those things, I just enjoy the beauty of women as a passive observer. It’s one of the great pleasures of my life. I think of it like going to the museum and looking at Monet paintings. They don’t belong to me but I’m lucky enough to be allowed to look. But God did a much better job with girls than Monet did with his paintings. Unlike a painting, which is not alive, I know every girl has a story, and that makes her more beautiful than any painting. 

Any time I go anywhere that girls are looking smoking hot and not minding that I observe this fact—the beach, the mall, nightclubs—I always enjoy it until the very end when I leave. Because every time I go outside, I go with the hope that it may be the day that I meet THAT girl. But when it’s time to go and I haven’t met her, I feel sad for a while. But as I always used to tell my friends, “There’s always tomorrow...”.

I feel a smaller version of the same disappointment every time I pass a girl who I find especially attractive, and I think “Maybe its her!!!” but then when she goes on without stopping, it’s like a little letdown.

I’ve long since given up on approaching women. It’s stupid and a waste of time, and for me it has never worked. I mean literally never not once. You girls know what your looking for, and I know that when you like a guy, you know how to make it happen. So, I’ve concluded, after much thought, deliberation and research, that when it comes to romance and sex, girls just aren’t looking for me. It’s fine. 

But what was always frustrating to me was that I enjoyed spending time with women, and I enjoyed doing things for women, and unlike a lot of guys, I didn’t want or expect sex as payment. I just liked girls so I wanted to do nice things for them. But I felt like girls were afraid that if the LET me do nice things for them, that they find themselves with a Mafia debt to fuck me. 

I don’t want to get into detail about it here (believe me, one day I will), but it is currently my view that women are only romantically and sexually turned on by a very small percentage of the ultra-hottest men, and with the rest of us, they are...not exactly faking it, but trying to force themselves to do something that goes against their evolutionary biological drive to seek the most genetically ideal partner possible, a drive men don’t have because our reproductive capacity is close to unlimited.  But these genetically ideal men, because feminine affection came so easily to them, usually since the elementary school playground, most actually become incapable of love in any real sense. Being loved and/or fucked by girls for these guys becomes like eating a cheeseburger—enjoyable, but neither rare, nor at all difficult, nor at all special. 

I felt that this was the central frustration of feminine existence. The guys women loved romantically and sexually couldn’t actually love them back and had to be wrangled and forced into commitments, while the men that really loved them left them cold physically and emotionally. 

I felt that what a lot of girls wanted was to find a replacement for their father: men willing to love them without wanting to fuck them. Unfortunately, a lot of girls can’t even count on their dad for that. I always sought to be what women wanted me to be, so while I was in desperate search for a life partner, I tried to be a real friend to girls. I felt sexual and romantic desire for a lot of my female friends (most of them, actually) but I concealed it because I believed that was what they wanted me to do. Girls aren’t stupid. I know you caught me looking, and I know you often did things to make me look. But it was a strange kind of test. Girls started to think I was the Holy Grail: a straight guy friend who would never try to fuck them, and now I get that this is why they all freaked out when I made romantic proposals to them. 

Because of all this, throughout my life, I’ve been in a constant battle with the idea of taking a vow of celibacy. I had a sort of mantra I used to scribble in the margins of my notebooks, type aimlessly into blank Microsoft Word documents: “If I could conquer my desire, I would become a god.”. I am afterall the son of a preacher, and I’ve spent my life enraged at the well-publicized sexual indiscretions of these men who stand up and preach sexual discipline. It’s really just not that hard to keep your dick in your pants. 

These guys, preachers, politicians, athletes, musicians, other notorious philanderers were always saying to me without actually saying it, “But yeah, it’s easy for you to say. These girls aren’t all over you like they’re all over me.”. To which I would think, “If I had ONE of the girls that’s all over you, I’d be happy the rest of my life, but you can’t stop, you greedy asshole.”. But I wanted some test to find out who was right, something I could do to put every man who ever pursued sex dishonorably to shame and make them all admit they were wrong for not appreciating the heavenly gifts that girls gave them so freely. 

I’ve actually reached the point in my life where I regret that I ever had sex. I’ve never had the kind of sex I always really wanted anyway—sex that is a product of mutual love. I now wish I’d taken that vow of celibacy that I considered as a teenager, and have reconsidered many times since. I’ve almost done it anyway—in the roughly 32 years since I hit puberty, 23 of those years I didn’t have sex at all. Almost a virgin isn’t nearly as cool as actually a virgin. It’s not really right to say I’m almost a virgin, because I’ve had sex a whole lot of times in a whole lot of different ways, but the vast majority of that being with just two different girls. 

But this entire prison experience has changed me in so many ways. While I really really want a life partner, after nearly eight years without sex, I can so easily live without it. I don’t WANT to (I didn’t WANT to go to prison) but I can. People throw around the term “born-again virgin” after going a few months celibate, but I truly feel like one. I feel like I barely remember what having sex was like and that I’d actually be more nervous the NEXT time than I was the FIRST time. 

But what I want most from women is not sex, and girls have convinced me, over the course of decades, that I am of no sexual or romantic interest to them, not the girls I like anyway. I used to think, there have to be some girls out there weird enough that I would make their heart melt like girls do to me, but now I believe there is something as fundamental as being a man or a woman that makes me unattractive to girls in that way. 

So here’s how I’m feeling right now: I just want to renounce sex. But I want to find some way to capitalize on it, and to find some recreational outlet to replace the desire for romance. I need money. A lot of you girls are rich. I wonder if I could put it together...Could I get the Aria sportsbook to take bets on whether girls could get me to break my celibacy vow and have sex with them?  Would some of you rich, smoking hot girls with huge egos think, “He likes girls like he does and he hasn’t had sex in like eight years? There’s no way he could resist!  It’s free money.”. So you would think...

There would have to be rules, of course. You couldn’t use blackmail or threats. I mean, if a girl says something outlandish like what Michele Durrett says to Dwayne Johnson in Southland Tales, what am I supposed to do?  No, the basic rules that are in place on college campuses these days would apply. You have to keep your hands to yourself, and you have to get my affirmative consent in a non-coercive way. 

But outside of that, you can say or do whatever you want.   You can make me watch porn with you if you think that’ll help (it won’t). Or if you’re smarter than that, you can make me watch Lucy, which might help you if you can figure out what to say about it. If you can beat me at Scrabble when I’m really trying, your chances of winning go up. You can’t drug me, but depending on who you are, I might be willing to take something voluntarily if I think it will make things more interesting. 

The basic bet I would offer (this really gives you the best chance) would be that I have to hang out with you for a week, doing whatever you think would get me all infatuated with you, and then I have to spend 36 hours with you in Room 37037 at the Vdara hotel in Las Vegas, right next door to the Aria. It is not a regular hotel room. It’s about a 1500 square foot luxury apartment, so it won’t be claustrophobic. It has a kitchen. I’ll cook for you. I’ll get locked in with you at say 6pm on Friday afternoon, and you have until the sun comes up Sunday morning to do your best/worst. Why that room? That’s the room I was staying in and went to sleep alone in on the night that I saw Scarlett. Sentimental bastard that I am, this gives you a better chance than just about any other physical location on earth. 

There has to be someone reliable to monitor to see what happens. Maybe a closed-circuit camera and accountants from my former employer Ernst & Young can watch. But I wouldn’t cheat. If a girl beats me, she beats me. To win the bet, all you have to do is get me to consensually engage in any of a fairly exhaustive list of definitively sexual activities. Basically, cuddling with clothes on is okay, but anything past that is a win for the girl.  And I’d be cocky enough to cuddle with a lot of you girls. Some of you I’m going to have to sit on the other side of the room. Well, to be fair, I’d have to allow you to be as close as you want to be, except no physical contact without permission. 

Of course, there are still a few people out there who might think I’m in some kind of an elaborate closet because of my feminine tendencies, so before I started taking these bets, I would have to provide some hard documentary evidence that I like girls. Tori Black, you busy right now?  We could make a movie, “The Last Fuck of Michael David Boyd Eagleton”. You can sell it, I don’t care. You can keep all the money. You know, Tori, that alone might not be convincing enough. Do you know Brianna Love at all?  Umm...you guys get along?  After watching THAT movie, all these girls would know I was straight. I’ll cut you two in on the gambling winnings too. I’m sure you’d enjoy taking some money from these girls. 

Of course, I’d have to have my life monitored all the time so people would know I wasn’t cheating and having sex somewhere in secret. I’ve never minded that. I’ve actually lived my whole life as if someone was always watching. I never knew who or what I thought it was until recently. 

The only problem with this idea (besides some possible legal issues that I think the State of Nevada would gladly iron out), is I’ve got to find somebody to cover these bets. The amateur gambler doesn’t realize that when you bet at a casino sportsbook, you aren’t actually betting against the casino. The casino tries to get equal money on both sides of the bet, so you’re mostly betting against other people. The Aria can’t afford to take that big a gamble on my sexual discipline. If Taylor Swift showed up with a briefcase with $200 million in it, it would probably bankrupt the casino if I lost. I use Taylor as an example because she’d never...never make that bet, and smoking hot as she is, there’s NO WAY I’d EVER let HER win. That’d be so much fun...

So, Oprah Winfrey, would you be interested in taking a few hundred million dollars from rich White girls who think they are sexually irresistible to any Black man?  I’d be even more motivated not to lose YOUR money. I think there might be so many girls willing to try this bet, you might double your net worth. There might not really be any celebrity girls that would bet millions on it, but prostitutes, strippers, pornstars and everyday smoking hot girls would be showing up non-stop to bet thousands. 

Kylie Jenner, you want in on this?  Kylie, you might think you should bet based on things I’ve said, but I wouldn’t steal your money like that. Because you can never be as hot as this girl I know who kinda looks like you, you’d have no chance. Between you and Oprah, we can cover all the bets, and I’ll make you girls a lot richer. Bring your sisters, they might think this is fun too (I like you girls but none of you could win, so you might as well back my bets). I might lose a bet eventually, but not before we make a shit-ton. If Jesus could make it 33 years, I can make it the rest of my life (although the Gospels do not explicitly say Jesus never had sex and the original Mosaic law does not prohibit all premarital sex, if you really want to be precise about your theology.). 

This would be SOOOO much fun!  It wouldn’t be easy. There are some girls out there who would be dangerous. But I don’t think any of them could figure out what to say or do to get me to do it (it would be different for every girl). Rihanna would be real dangerous if she knew how to approach it, especially given that she’s got hundreds of millions she could bet (that’s so hot). There are some girls that would be really dangerous but they’d never try it: Condoleezza Rice, really dangerous. Natalie Portman, probably the most dangerous one, but she’d never.  As for you, Scarlett, be nice. Don’t bet. You know it wouldn’t be fair. 

Look, obviously, the most dangerous girl out there is Amanda Seyfried. And I wouldn’t put it past her to be willing to walk to the sportsbook window on that. I suspect Amanda is secretly a little wild. Maybe it isn’t a secret. I’d warn Oprah and Kylie that its a dangerous bet to take, but that I think I can win it.  Could I NOT sleep with Amanda Seyfried if $100 million of Oprah Winfrey’s money was on the line?  Come on, you know that’s interesting. Amanda knows its interesting. Oprah knows it’s interesting. Spoiler alert: don’t worry, Oprah. I got this. 

There’s another girl who’d be real dangerous, but she’d never.  But she’s so dangerous that I’m not going to give her any ideas by mentioning her. There a lot of not famous girls who would be somewhat dangerous. Hell, DJ Zomb-E would be dangerous but she doesn’t like boys, probably doesn’t gamble, would find this whole idea offensive and probably doesn’t have enough money for Oprah or Kylie to be worried if I lose. But I’d really want to lose to her on purpose. She’s so cute. 

But I’m pretty sure I’d be like Parker Lewis at this game: CAN’T LOSE. Maybe years would go by and people would begin to suspect I might have lost my desire, in which case I’ll get Tori to bring a couple of her friends over and we’ll make a new documentary. 

I would enjoy this so much. I might enjoy it even more than the male fantasy of being able to sleep with any girl I wanted. Eventually, after making me very rich, girls would get the idea that my renouncement of sex was really serious and my discipline unbreakable, and we’d just be able to be real friends, which was all I ever really wanted anyway. Their boyfriends and husbands wouldn’t worry about me spending time with their girls because they would know I had gone from Unlovable to Unfuckable. 

But I would not be inflexible. I’d never give up hope of finding my BFF-LOML. She may not be out there—there is only a finite number of girls on the planet. But, there’s always hope until I’ve met them all. However, my new rule, if I started taking celibacy bets, would be no sex until marriage. If I met a girl who loved me and wanted to get engaged, I’d take the bets off the board, and we’d have to have a platonic romance for at least six months before getting married, and then I’d lose my born-again virginity the old-fashioned way. 

Maybe this is too ridiculous to ever work. Maybe girls know they couldn’t win and nobody would bet. Maybe I’m not  as too-cool-for-school as I think and I’d lose as soon as the suite door closes on the first night of the first bet. Maybe I’m wrong about how girls feel about me, and as I felt was about to happen a little while ago, I’ve almost proven myself enough to get a pass into Girl World, that they made me wait so long and go through so much just because they couldn’t really believe that I am what I am. Maybe just when I thought all hope of it was lost, I’ll finally be able to enjoy an emotionally and physically fulfilling intimate life with girls I love who love me. I’m still hoping for that plot twist. But right now, betting on celibacy is a fun and comforting thought as my Scarlett dreams fade away. 

Just two things:

First, this would only be fun if I’m getting to spend most or all of my time hanging out with girls as friends. Celibacy while lonely or while surrounded by dudes is too miserable to bear. 

Second, there has to be a sign posted on top of the odds board: “Jessie Stewart Cannot Bet”.  That one I KNOW I’d lose.

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