FANTASY LOUIS C.K. SET FOR HIS “MIND IF I JERK OFF?” TOUR
So maybe you’ve heard—I like to masturbate. And I’ve got a feeling that I’m not alone. Raise your hand if you like to masturbate. (Raises hand normally then turns it into a grip and pumps.) Yeah!
Now, I’ve been masturbating a long time. I’m 51 and probably started around 11, which means I’ve been masturbating longer than I’ve been driving—and I’m a really good driver.
And, remember, when I was a teenager, we didn’t have 24/7 access to naked women on the porn box, I mean laptop. But I’ll be honest—I didn’t need it back then. All I needed was six minutes and a catalogue. It didn’t even have to be Victoria’s Secret. It could be the Farmers’ Almanac. “You say April and June will be wet? . . . GAAAHHHH.”
Of course, as I got older, I needed more stimulation. A partner was great, but not always an option. It’s like if you call a pal and say, “Hey, I’m hungry. Let’s go get a pizza,” and they say, “Nah, I already ate.” You don’t say, “Oh well, then I guess I won’t eat either.” You go get that pizza alone and make a pig of yourself.
Then Internet porn came along and made it so much easier to make a pig of yourself. We went from grabbing videos and hoping they’d have 30 seconds of a kink that turned us on to getting really specific with our search terms: “uneven breasts” . . . “nipple rings” . . . “into anal and scrimshaw.”
This advance in porn technology coincided with me being on the road a lot. Which means I masturbated a lot. But here’s the thing—I’m a narcissist. So it was only a matter of time before I started thinking, “Why am I always the audience? Why isn’t anyone watching me?” Now, the obvious answer was I already had an audience on most nights. I was doing stand-up and after an hour of verbal masturbation, I could have ended my act by dropping my pants and . . . (mimes jerking off) The big finish. Splooge! Good night everybody!
Here’s why I didn’t do that. In 2013—this is absolutely true—a Japanese comic stripped off his pants during a set and was threatened with a public-indecency charge. Now, him getting questioned by police wasn’t what stopped me. I just didn’t want to be accused of stealing another comic’s act.
Then I hit on a new idea: what if I asked any female that I found myself in a room alone with to watch me masturbate? It would probably be a colleague or mentee—you know, someone who admired me. And I would always get consent first, right? I’m a gentleman, so I’d say something like, “Prithee, m’lady, wouldst thou fain to gaze upon my dick?”
Sometimes they were so shocked they couldn’t even answer. I took their silence as a yes. Also, did I say I would always ask first? That’s not quite true. Sometimes I’d be on the phone with someone and I’d just jump in. Wankers away!
And look, some women were into it. My pal Sarah Silverman told Howard Stern that watching me pleasure myself was “amazing”—her word, not mine. But not everyone liked it. I’ve since learned that my actions bummed out some of those admirers. Which surprised me. I thought when I offered to give them career advice and then got all freaky and sexual, they would just roll with it. Like, there are scientists who jerk off walruses as part of their job. You don’t hear them complain.
But these women did. They told a few people about what I’d done. And I’ll be honest, I didn’t like that. I thought those women were very rude.
Now, sure, I’ve talked about feeling shame in my act. But I was always the one controlling what I revealed. I did not consent to these women exposing my shame. And I felt embarrassed. So I did what a lot of men do when we’re embarrassed. You all know. (To audience:) What do we do?
We blame other people. “I’m not the problem. They’re the problem.” If those women were so grossed out, why didn’t they just leave the room? I wasn’t holding them hostage. If they stayed for the happy ending, that was on them. And the woman on the phone when I started jerking off—why was that a big deal? What if I were picking my nose or cutting my toenails? Why’d she make the story all about her when she had nothing to do with it?
My ex-manager tried to contain the talk. And when anyone asked me about it point blank, I’d say, “It’s bullshit, man.” Because in the creep’s toolbox, right next to “blaming others” is “outright lying.” It’s not my fault people believed me.
People thought my stand-up was all about telling the truth. I even got a bunch of awards for revealing the ugliness of show business. And now it’s clear: I totally deserved all those awards because I was a much better actor than everyone thought.
Look, no one wants to admit they’re a horrible person. We’re all the heroes of our own stories. But not in this case. The guy holding his dick is really the guy holding his dick. The women who came forward are the heroes. That’s why I called each of them to apologize personally. And I told them if they wanted to yell at me, they could. And they did.
I also instructed my manager to help the women I took advantage of. They’re hilarious and deserve that. Like on this tour, I have a different woman opening for me in each city. I’m also giving half the proceeds of this tour and all the proceeds of the streaming special to Time’s Up. I hope that helps. It doesn’t take the embarrassment away, but I’m done blaming anyone but myself.
That’s my time. I promise I’ll get back to making jokes about cell phones soon. Thanks for letting me jerk off all over you. The pleasure was all mine.
Nell Scovell is the author of Just the Funny Parts, about her 30 year-career in Hollywood.