It’s understandable that when you are the spawn of someone famous, your reality can tend to skew a little outside the bounds of what is, well, actually reality. And since reality is already so subjective even as a “normal” (a.k.a. garden variety plebe), there still exists common objective ground when you are in the world and of the world. Try as Cazzie David, daughter of Larry and Laurie, might to attempt being what gays would call a “relatable queen,” her debut book, or rather debut collection of essays, No One Asked For This, does not quite get that message across.
But there is one essay in particular, called “Too Full to Fuck,” that stands out for being among the most glaring attempts to nurture as many neuroses and ersatz white girl problems as possible (we know, we know–she’s Jewish, it counts on the spectrum of non-whiteness). Despite claiming up and down that her greatest problem in life is being too empathetic (sounds like when someone in a job interview says they’re too much of a perfectionist)–feeling everything down to the most minute tremor of Earth–it’s a bit surprising that she can’t then comprehend the male ability to balloon up just as uncomfortably as a female. Sorry, “woman”–it is my understanding that the word “female” has now become offensive too, as it likens women too much to a clinical, animal level.
In David’s oh so scientific estimations, “From what I’ve discovered, only one gender has to save room in her body if a penis is to go into it–meaning that sometimes, if you’ve eaten a hearty meal, there isn’t enough room for a penis.” Is that what she’s “discovered”–is that the height of accomplishment when one turns being a layabout into being a writer? Yes. What she fails to mention, possibly because she has an entire chapter that goes on about how she finds everything embarrassing and does not want to admit her theory is hooey, is that men have this problem as well, even if they cannot “receive” an additional “entity” inside of themselves that hinders their capacity to bang while full.
Speaking conspiratorially, as though she’s trying to craft a cutting edge Cosmo article, David continues, “Sometimes I’m just too full to have sex. I don’t know for sure if this is something other girls experience or just me, because I’ve never heard any of them discuss it.” Enter her opportunity to carve out a new niche for herself in the grossout sex comedy genre. One supposes she could have at least gone the extra mile by talking about how she’s so full of shit (literally and metaphorically), that when her then boyfriend fucked her up the ass, a fountain of diarrhea spewed out. Huh? Where’s that detail about fullness? Want to take it to the next step? No, of course not. That would go against the publisher’s wishes. “Decency’s” wishes.
For the rest of the brief essay, David positions the “narrative” as a woman’s struggle (again, she needs something to cling to if she wants to relate to the common reader–who is probably reading the Bridgerton series now anyway). She even brings blue balls into it with her insistence that she was always taught to suffer her own uncomfortableness for the sake of ensuring a man’s pleasure. Not being able to give the “too full to fuck” excuse back then, because the world wasn’t a free-for-all of talking about the most absurd maladjustments, she tended to rely on the old classic about being on her period. Lucky for her, she never had a boyfriend who was aroused by that prospect. Because yes, men who relish period sex is a whole fetish. Perhaps she ought to have included a separate sub-chapter on that, but then, it wouldn’t be “esoteric” enough for her. Not the way being too full to fuck is.
So it is that she persists with her so-called tale of woe about how she and her boyfriend have ordered a dinner large enough for four people–as judged by the fact that she “overheard the waiter recommend [their] exact order as a feast for the double date next to us.” She is then both delighted and saddened by her boyfriend’s subsequent suggestion that they top it all off with ice cream. How could he, after all? Considering she’s already confessed to him about her gender-specific problem. It all happened when, as she tells it, “I had to come clean after my boyfriend rolled on top of me in bed to kiss me after a big dinner and I accidentally screamed, ‘GET THE FUCK OFF ME! PLEASE DON’T TOUCH ME!’” Having broken the ice about her dilemma, she reminds him, “If I eat ice cream, I won’t be able to have sex later.” Why does this somehow sound like a distinctly Lolita-esque problem? Is this bia twelve years old with a stomach that fills up so easily and a sexual appetite so designed to please?
It is at this point that she does her best to up the ante on manufactured neurosis, all while never mentioning that her boyfriend might–just might–feel exactly the same way regarding his own fullness. But possibly does not want to make a “whole thing” about it. Or is possibly willing to endure the discomfiture for the sake of what is usually a guaranteed orgasm for men anytime they have sex. If David doesn’t believe men can be full to the point of not being able to fuck, let me take you back. Valentine’s Day 2014 (oh God, I’m starting to sound like Sophia Petrillo when she says, “Picture it, Sicily 1912”). My ex and I went to a now defunct restaurant called Bianca (yes, I’m aware that’s the Italian word for White–as in, “This whole thing is some white people shit”).
We proceeded to eat the same amount of food, an array of Italian dishes that were actually Italian as opposed to the most odious cuisine of all, “New York Italian.” Yet, at the end of the evening, one of us was prepared to fuck, while the other was not. Someone, with their faint Anglican constitution, could not hack it. Had a belly too full to be laid on top of or to lay on top of me. No, as David would point out, it might not mean that he had the same kind of “suffering” as a woman would get during sex in taking in an additional “thing” inside of her stomach, but it does mean, nonetheless, that a man can and has been too full to fuck. Upon learning this information firsthand, I said something like, “Goddammit, you’re too full to fuck, how could you do this to me on Valentine’s Day?” And yeah, needless to say, I did not fuck on that Valentine’s Day. But I’ll always have my precious food memories of Bianca, now closed.
David, on the other, hand will have her precious clinging to somehow being persecuted by something she feels only happens to women. It all seems like another method for self-martyrdom, a way for David to assure herself that at least being a female makes her life unfair. Since being the daughter of two successful people in “the business” has not done that. And the only thing chicer than being rich is being just middle class enough to make it on your own merits and talk about it in interviews when you become the kind of famous that was earned (something really only women of the past seem to be known for, like Marilyn or Madonna).
Concluding with a circle jerk of cause and effect, David laments, “I thought he didn’t want to have sex with me, because he was telling me to get ice cream. And he thought I didn’t want to have sex with him because I was salivating at the ice cream. And at that point, no matter which one I chose, neither would be as good as it was supposed to be.” It’s at this juncture, you really wish he would just fuck her up the ass already and make the diarrhea pour forth to compensate for the one-sided perspective. At least then she couldn’t deny that “shit dick” is an unfortunate thing that can only happen to men. Of course, some might think me a female misogynist for coming so valiantly to the defense of men. Anyone who believes that need only visit missingadick.com. I rarely defend the gender, but in this case, someone has to.
And P.S., I was saying “too full to fuck” long before this essay, but I didn’t have the benefit of a famous parent to coin the term as my own in a book. But this turn of phrase we both like could probably be just another symptom of being a basic white bitch posing as endlessly neurotic for the sake of masking a total lack of an interesting persona. As Bradshaw once said, “It’s like she’s consciously trying to cultivate eccentricities so people won’t notice she’s completely devoid of a personality.”
