Man Up! (3 page)

I was very in tune with Carrie. Yes, we were like one that way, always on the same page. After all, this was the girl who sang
Rent
in the car with me, never struggling to achieve flawless, Broadway-caliber harmonies. She could always finish my sentences and I would always finish her nachos. Utter synchronicity.

Five minutes and one Elton John ballad sung by African wildlife later, Carrie emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of Pantene-scented steam. She was wearing nothing but a towel and a sultry, vixen-like stare.

(INSERT RECORD-SCRATCH SOUND EFFECT HERE.)

I was certainly no expert in lovemaking, but I'd seen enough soap operas to know what it meant when a girl entered a room wearing simply a towel surrounded by steam. Oh God. It was happening. I tried to stall. “Do you, uh, want to finish the movie?”

She slowly shook her damp head. “No,” she purred, staring at me like a starving jungle cat leering at a succulent pork chop.

Oh. Dear. God. It was happening. It was
really
happening. Every last instinct told me to just push Play on the remote control and continue watching the movie in one last-ditch effort to extinguish her burning desires. But before I could make my move, she made hers: she dropped the towel.

Oh dear God in heaven!
Here I was,
The Lion King
on Pause and a naked woman—a natural blonde, by the way—standing before me. The law of the jungle is eat or be eaten, so I made a snap judgment and thought to myself,
Hakuna Matata!

I committed fully. Gosh darn it, if I was going to do this I was going to do it right! So after making out for a bit, I bravely shimmied “down South” until I was face-to-face…with a vagina. It was a normal-looking vagina, I guess. Like a sideways smile—or a frown—depending on how you looked at it. There was no turning back now.

Three…two…one…I closed my eyes and went at it like a fat kid in a pie-eating contest at the county fair.

It was fascinating. It was kind of like trying to eat a plastic toy ice cream cone—you can lick and lick forever, but it just won't go away.

Eventually I stopped to take a breather and get another good look at it. It was…unreal. It was bizarre. I had so many questions. I kept trying to figure out how it worked.
What part of this thing does the peeing?
There was simply so much going on! I mean, this was no Barbie doll crotch—this was the real deal—and I found myself wishing it came with an instruction manual. It was much too confusing. I didn't like it. I didn't want to do it anymore.

Eventually, she noticed that I'd stopped and sweetly asked me, “Ross, are you okay?”

I'm not sure how to describe my response. It didn't consist of words, just a guttural whimper of resigned defeat. “Ehhhhuhhhhhggggghhhhh.”

Needless to say, that kind of killed the mood. I felt horrible, like I had just somehow dissed her vagina. Don't get me wrong, it was a pretty part of a pretty girl, but I was pretty sure that it wasn't for me. And it was pretty clear that I wasn't the boy for her. Yes, I could help give her a hot new hairstyle, but I could never help give her an orgasm. She deserved a guy who would dive right in with wild abandon and passionately ravage her lovely lady parts, not study them like a periodic table. Although we broke up shortly thereafter, Carrie and I still remained good friends.

I don't regret what we did that night. I think I heard Oprah say once that we should all do something every day that scares us. I believe that, too, and I'm all the better for it. But what I gained in self-respect that day didn't come without a price. You see, I haven't been able to watch
The Lion King
ever since. For some reason, it just leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

God bless all these amazing ladies: Becky, Tara, Maria, Danni, and, most of all, darling Carrie. These wonderful women sacrificed very intimate parts of themselves—some more intimate than others—so that I could one day discover something very intimate about myself: I am a (spoiler alert!) raging homosexual.

Thanks, girlfriends!

I
f, like me, you happen to possess a voice that could be mistaken for a clown on helium, here are a few professions you may want to avoid: Monster truck rally announcer, Morgan Freeman impersonator, and, most definitely, on-air television personality. I cannot tell you how many times I’ve been given this helpful advice throughout my life and career. Luckily for me, I’ve also heard another voice in my head squeaking even louder,
Don’t listen to those Negative Nancys!

The first thing any good acting teacher, life coach, or spiritual guru worth their weight in tofu will tell you is, “Find your voice.”

That’s excellent guidance, but believe it or not, there was actually a time when I wished I could’ve lost mine.

When I was a little kid, my voice was no different than any other child’s my age—boy or girl. Creepy ghost stories and hilarious poop jokes alike were told in pleasantly melodic, gender-neutral tones. Somewhere around the age of nine, however, things shifted and I became all too aware that I sounded more like a Jane than a Dick.

As my peers and I entered adolescence, life was becoming more and more exciting. Thankfully, along with acne and growing pains also came new freedoms. Suddenly, my friends and I could go to grown-up PG-13 movies without our parents and pick out school clothes of our very own.

Most thrilling of all, our bodies were developing just like we were promised they would in health class.
Well hello, hair down there!
Every day, our young lives were in a constant state of change. For me, however, it seemed like the only thing not changing was my voice.

While the other boys were beginning to sound like truck drivers with emphysema, everything coming out of my mouth sounded uncannily like a perky actress in a tampon commercial. I kept assuring myself, “Don’t fret, Ross! Your voice will change soon! You’re just a late bloomer!”

Yes, I was optimistic. I knew there was still time. After all, both my dad and my brother had low, booming voices. Gruff, manly tones ran in the Mathews family! Heck, even my mom’s sweet voice was more butch than mine. I came from good genes, dammit! I was sure it would be no time at all before I sounded like a genuine grown-up gentleman.

But just like the sequel to
Titanic
that I’ve always hoped they’d make (where it turns out that Leonardo DiCaprio didn’t really [spoiler alert!] freeze to death, and he and Kate Winslet enjoy a long happy life making sexy babies and living off the millions they made from selling the Heart of the Ocean necklace), it just wasn’t meant to be.

Don’t get me wrong—it’s not like I woke up every morning desperately hoping my voice had changed. I knew I sounded different from the other boys, but I guess I was so used to it that it didn’t seem weird to me. My voice was just my voice. Like JLo’s ass or Mariah’s ego, it was just a huge part of me. It wasn’t until my classmates started making fun of it that it became an issue. I was a pretty confident kid, but their merciless mockery really started to hurt my feelings.

I tried to reason with my cruel peers, pleading with them to stop. “Come on, you guys. Words can hurt and you know that’s not nice. Maybe you’re only picking on me because you’re unhappy with yourself ? It’s like last week’s episode of
Blossom
where Joey made fun of her for being brainy, but once he looked within, he realized that he just felt inferior because he’d failed his math test. Oh my God, did you guys see it? Joey Lawrence is
such
an amazing actor, don’t you think? You guys…?”

Obviously, this weak attempt to silence my hateful hecklers and/or completely change the subject made them tease me even more (in their defense, just reading it right now kinda makes me want to give myself a wedgie). I wish that I could have gotten in touch with my rage and let it fuel me like the Incredible Hulk, mutating into something fabulously dangerous, part Elpheba from
Wicked
on steroids and part Faye Dunaway in
Mommie Dearest
.

My superhero name would be The Shrill, and my costume would be made out of unforgiving spandex—man boobs be damned! It would be a fashion risk I’d be willing to take for the greater good.

My signature superhero colors would be head-to-toe pastels. Enraged by injustice and insensitivity, I’d unleash my superpowers with such fury that all bullying, taunting, and teasing—directed not only at me but toward everyone all over the planet—would immediately come to a screeching halt! In defense of us all, I would scale the highest mountain with superhuman strength and, in the divinely unique voice God gave me, I’d boldly bellow that infamous quote from Ms. Dunaway in
Mommie Dearest
, erupting with the unbridled fury of Joan Crawford: “
Don’t fuck with me, fellas!
  ”

But I never did fight back. And if I had managed to somehow harness all that wild ferociousness and retaliate against my misguided aggressors, chances are that no one would have taken me seriously anyway. I mean, let’s face it, I probably would’ve sounded about as badass as everyone’s favorite aunt asking them to get their elbows off the dinner table.

But do you know what bugged me even more than my bullies’ nasty intentions? The crappy caliber of their insults. Seriously, these half-assed attempts were just stupid. Take, for instance, when the biggest, dumbest bully in school hurled what he thought was a brilliant verbal assault and actually called me a “girl talker.” As in, “Hey, what’s wrong with your voice, Girl Talker? You talk like a girl! Haw haw haw!”

Girl Talker
? Ouch. Really, dude? Come on, now. I may sound like a girl, but even I can do better than that. So here, for your enjoyment, are a few well-designed disses aimed at my ladylike larynx:

• My voice is so high-pitched, only gay dogs can hear it. 
  
• Even Richard Simmons thinks I should butch it up. 
  
• My voice is the only thing Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell still applies to. 
  
• You’d think I’d like vaginas, since most people with my voice have one. 
  
• Equal parts my voice and Fran Drescher’s voice are how doctors cure those four-hour Viagra erections men are warned about. 
  
• The recorded version of this book—read by me—is so torturous that it could replace water boarding. 
  
• My drag name would be Ross Mathews. 
  

Learning to laugh at myself before anyone else can has allowed me to not only stop hating my voice, but actually love it. It’s an age-old tale of self-acceptance. One needn’t look any further than classic literature for countless examples. Can’t think of any? Hello, dum-dum! Haven’t you read
Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer
? Guess what—it happens to be a song, too, and a great stop-motion movie that, for some reason, they only show like once a year.

Without ruining the ending, the gist is that he’s a gay reindeer who can’t afford a nose job, but he becomes a superstar in the end. It’s all very inspirational.

It turns out that, just like Rudolph, what I initially considered to be such a negative is, in fact, the very thing that has made me stand out. Not to sound preachy, but accepting my voice has given me the confidence I’ve needed to pursue my dreams. And just like Seal rocks his facial scars, Cindy Crawford works her mole, and Barbra Streisand wins every race by a nose, I hope you’re inspired to make the most of your possibly less-than-perfect trademark, too.

(God, do me a quick favor and just reread that last paragraph, will you? I’m superwise, like one of those ancient wizards with a long white beard and a pointy hat from a medieval fantasy-adventure movie! God, those robes look comfy, like a magical muumuu!)

One day I just decided to face the facts. Unless I start gargling with lighter fluid or smoking three packs of filterless cigarettes a day, my voice is never going to change. And you know what? I’m fine with that. Really. I’ve totally come to terms with it. I think I sound perfectly lovely. Plus, there have been times in everyday life when having a voice like mine has actually paid off in surprising and fantastic ways.

For instance, there was this one time when my car was stuck in the repair shop for an entire week. When I called to see if it was ready to be picked up, the macho mechanic got straight to the point. “Sorry, but it’s not gonna be ready for a few more days.”

Without thinking, I moaned, “Oh no! I need it back really,
really
bad!”

Suddenly, his hard tone softened. “Well, little lady, it sounds like you’re in quite a pickle.”

If only he knew that this “little lady” was packing a pickle of his own! But, what the hell, I decided to just go with it. “Well, I guess I am! Are you
sure
there isn’t
anything
you could do?”

Eww! It was all so cheesy and sounded way too much like dialogue from the beginning of a low-budget porno movie, but he was swayed by my sweet talk and totally took the bait. “Well, I suppose I could pull a few strings, but only for you, honey. I’ll have her ready for you by five o’clock this evening.”

Oh my God, I couldn’t believe it! My high-pitched voice was totally making this mechanic pitch a tent! Here I was a big-bellied boy, but he was convinced he was flirting with a busty blonde bimbo. When I picked my car up at five o’clock, I was gonna surprise him with a five o’clock shadow. Whatever! All that mattered was that I was getting my car back early!

At five o’clock on the dot, I arrived at the shop and declared with a triumphant and toothy smile,
“Yoo-hoo!!! I’m here for my car!!!”

I don’t know if the mechanic even put two and two together, the poor thing. He just kind of stared at me blankly, wondering why someone other than the pretty lady of his dreams was picking up the car. But ignorance is bliss, right? At the end of the day, I had my car back early and he’d had his fantasy of the damsel in distress. It was a win-win.

But trust me: when it comes to my voice, this kind of happy ending is very rare. Usually, I don’t even realize that I sound different from any other guy until I’m rudely snapped into reality by well-meaning (and sometimes not-so-well-meaning) strangers.

You see, it isn’t always easy living in a world like ours with a voice like mine. I have to brace myself for those inevitable, awkward moments that accompany situations like these: every time I place an order in a fast food drive-through (“Pull up to the second window, ma’am”), whenever I meet brutally honest and annoyingly curious young children (“Hey mister, why do you sound like a lady?”), and every time I answer a telephone (“May I please speak to the man of the house?”).

Oh, please, don’t
even
get me started with the telephone! I can honestly say that I’ve never been called “Sir” by a stranger on the other end of a phone in my entire life.
Ever.
One of the very worst experiences had to be the time I called my cell phone carrier to cancel my plan. I won’t divulge the name of the specific company right here in my book because that would be downright tacky. Instead, I will be classy and refrain. I will, however, simply say that it rhymes with
splint
and is another word for a short burst of fast running.

Despite giving them all the information they
demanded
—​address, Social Security number, mother’s maiden name, favorite Broadway musical (
Bye Bye Birdie
, bee-tee-dubs)—the snooty operator refused to close my account because she was convinced I was not only a woman but one with ulterior motives.

She told me, in a bitchy Southern accent, “Ma’am, we do not believe that you are Ross Mathews. We believe that you are, in fact, Mr. Mathews’s vindictive ex-girlfriend who is trying to cancel his account to get back at him for whatever reason.”

Oh no she didn’t! My face was red-hot as I white-knuckled my baby-pink phone. I was dead set on proving to her that I was, in fact, 100 percent Grade A man meat. I cleared my throat, clenched my teeth and, in the lowest, butchest register I could muster, channeled my inner Clint Eastwood and snarled, “I can assure you with absolute certainty, this is not Ross Mathews’s ex-girlfriend. And furthermore—”

She interrupted me, “Ma’am, I’m gonna have to ask you to calm down.”

Well, that didn’t work. Try as I may, I was still coming across more Debbie Harry than Dirty Harry. So, instead of completing what should have been a very simple phone transaction, I had to drop everything and
Sprint
(cough, cough) over to their closest store location to cancel my account in person. Not only was it a total inconvenience, but it was also completely embarrassing. Thank God there was a sale at the Old Navy next door, so it wasn’t a total loss. I found a wonderful teal-blue cardigan on the clearance rack that I still wear to this very day.

As bad as that experience was, what happened to me on stage a few years later was even worse. I was performing at a casino in Lake Tahoe as the opening act for my beloved Chelsea Handler. The audience seemed to be enjoying themselves, mostly because, let’s face it, they were delightfully drunk off their asses. One particularly shit-faced gentleman in the front row interrupted my act and loudly slurred to his date while pointing right at me, “Hey! Issit juz me, or does she kinda look like a guy?”

Yep, that happened. And
everyone
heard it. Then the entire crowd—hundreds of complete strangers—burst into hysterical laughter. And you know what? So did I. I mean, come on, that’s funny on so many levels. As I stood there giggling like a schoolgirl along with the audience, I knew I had just marked a major milestone. I had struggled to accept my voice for my entire life, and now I knew without a doubt, through highs and lows (okay, mostly highs), that I had fully embraced my voice once and for all.

It turns out, when it comes to my voice, I’m kinda like a twist on the famous slogan from that old deodorant commercial. Remember? “Strong enough for a man, but made for a woman.”

Except in my case, I’m strong enough
as
a man to sound
like
a woman.