New Book Reveals Hilarious True Tales

New Book Reveals Hilarious True Tales


Worst Laid Plans: When Bad Sex Happens to Good People: real-life confessions of sexual encounters the writers would like to forget.

Mary Lynn Rakskub reads her contribution to the anthology: “My Fast Boyfriend.”
The exclusive worldwide launch and book-signing event for Worst Laid Plans: When Bad Sex Happens to Good People was held at Ron Robinson’s at the Fred Segal store in West Hollywood on Saturday, May 1. The book is a collection of true tales edited by Alexandra Lydon and Laura Kindred.

Lydon, originally from Boston and a graduate of NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts, is currently a Los Angeles-based actress who has appeared on 24, Prison Break, CSI, Desperate Housewives, and House. Laura Kindred, is also from Boston and also a graduate of NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts. She is currently a fashion writer and senior site editor for a California-base fashion company.

Matt McConkey sang a version of his “Unsent Letters” chapter.
The setting for the book signing and reading, at the Ron Robinson boutique at Fred Segal, included a comfy bed (where else does bad and even good sex happen most often?) and pillows where guest readers could find a comfortable spot to read their intimate contributions to the collection. All together, there are 37 tales in Worst Laid Plans where each writer reveals their most embarrassing sexual snafu.

The stories are divided into themed chapters including Foreign Affairs (“When bad sex goes abroad”), Self-Help (“Love thyself…but do it carefully”), On the Rebound (“The art of getting back in-and-out-there”), and Mob Mentality (“People will do things in groups they would never do alone”), among others.

The concept for Worst Laid Plans evolved out of a storytelling event staged at the Upright Citizens Brigade Theatre. The highly influential comedy organization was co-founded by Amy Poehler, who along with Janeane Garofalo and Casey Wilson, performed at the show that continues today.

“Suz” has guests giggling as she reads “Trapped in the Closet” about her hopeful-turned-hopeless encounter in Italy.
Among the guest readers on Saturday was Laraine Newman, an original Saturday Night Live cast member, who also wrote the foreword for the book. “After seeing the stage show and laughing so hard my lungs hurt, I felt a sense of longing,” Newman wrote. “Is this it? I thought, I want more. So, here, people, are the keys to the kingdom. Worst Laid Plans is a hilarious testimonial to the vast array of consequences we face after having ignored that little voice inside that says: ‘Don’t. This isn’t a good idea. Leave now.’”

And thanks to the book’s editors we are bringing you “The Farting Rapist” an entire chapter from Worst Laid Plans: When Bad Sex Happens to Good People. Enjoy!

Worst Laid Plans: When Bad Sex Happens to Good People

The Farting Rapist
by Alexandra Lydon

I fell in love when I was twelve years old. He was a petty Irish thief named Gerry.

I was watching the film In the Name of the Father. For those who don’t know it, the film is set in Northern Ireland and London and involves the IRA, the British, and all hell breaking loose. But really everything I just mentioned means nothing without the man: Daniel Day-Lewis.

He wore tight corduroy pants, a beat-up red leather jacket, and had long greasy hair that he tucked behind his ears as he struggled to steal scrap metal off a rooftop, stopping only to play air guitar with a metal pole. He ran from the British and started a riot in the streets, throwing firebombs and bricks. He spoke in a thick Northern Irish accent, saying “fook dat,” “for fook’s sake,” and “me dah was fookin’ innocent.” Needless to say, my twelve-year-old heart was pounding.

I directed my eyes to the sky in a dreamy adolescent way and thought, Someday I will meet my Northern Irish, possibly IRA-involved, greasy-haired man from the late eighties, early nineties.

Twelve years and so many Daniel Day’s later, I found myself standing in a pub in Galway, Ireland. I was in the middle of a vacation with my friend Laura, the purpose of which was to get in touch with my “roots.” Laura and I had been on a two-week-long hostel-hopping, culture-absorbing, pub-crawling Irish expedition. On this particular night she had retreated to our hotel with a migraine, but I decided to stay out, soak up the culture, and be among “my people.” The pub was packed, U2 was playing in the background, and there was a sense of excitement in the air. It could have been the four whiskeys I’d just inhaled, but there was something different about this night. I could feel it.

And that’s when it happened. That’s when I saw him.

From across the room our eyes locked on each other. It was my very own Daniel Day-Lewis look-alike, complete with a red leather jacket, unnaturally tight pants, and long, dark greasy hair. He stood casually against the wall, surrounded by people, rolling a cigarette but never taking his eyes off of me. Then suddenly as if walking out of my childhood, he approached me and spoke.

“For fook’s sake, what the fook are you doin’ in a pub, standin’ around all by your fookin’ self?”

Thank you.

The events that followed are fuzzy, but they involved talking, laughing, and a lot of drinking. I heard his political rants, primarily against the “British bastards,” followed by stories about growing up in Belfast amid the bombings and the “Troubles.” He told me his father was a general, to which I replied, “Oh my God! My whole family is in law enforcement! I come from a family of cops. That is such a coincidence!”

He stopped. Stepped back and stared at me with a cold, almost coy expression. He then slowly pressed his knuckles into my skull as if holding a gun to my head and said, “I don’t like cops.”

As I met his subtly threatening stare I realized the type of “general” he had been referring to and immediately thought, Holy fook . . . I am really turned on right now.

See, in that moment, with a virtual gun to my head, I realized that the universe had handed me the exact man I had asked for as a child. In that moment, I knew the true power of The Secret.

The transition from our meeting place to his apartment is hazy. I recall images of four or five different bar interiors, a creepy alley with a motorcycle chained to the wall that he claimed was his (but then couldn’t seem to open the lock to), and the inside of a cab.

Eventually after a long ride, we were at his place, and he started to kiss me. The next transition is even more difficult to recall, but within fifteen seconds of the first kiss he had my pants and underwear off in one swift motion and was proceeding to mount me.

I lay motionless beneath him, trying to comprehend what was happening. As one eye stayed focused on him, the other began to peruse the wall next to me. It was littered with newspaper clippings of old IRA bombings delicately interspersedwith posters of Star Trek.

I must pause here. It is important that I divulge a personal and somewhat repressed piece of my life. I was once on Star Trek. Not only was I on Star Trek, but I introduced a new “species” and I have a trading card. I now, five years later, can say with no regrets that I was a blind, telepathic Aenar from the Frost Vapor Lakes of the planet Andoria. I had an abnormally large forehead with a receding hairline. I communicated through antennae. I rocked it. Now it’s been said. I feel better. Not that this would really have mattered—especially because it is not as if he could have recognized me . . . or could he? Was I suddenly some weird Trekkie trophy fuck? Was I the blind Andorian to his Daniel Day?

I was immediately struck by a moment of sobriety. Potent clarity dawned on me. I’ve been through too much in my life. I am a smart person. It is time to stop doing stupid things. So I decided to stop the situation. First I tried the subtle and delicate approach: “I’m sorry, I can’t do this, I just don’t think this is right.” Noticing this was not working, I transitioned to the more aggressive approach of: “Get the fuck off me right now!” When even that method didn’t work, a rather awkward struggle ensued until I somehow managed to push him off me and to the other side of the bed, where he accepted defeat by instantly falling asleep.


I lay there, covering myself with a sheet printed with South Park characters, and the panic and disgust began to grow from within.

Now I need to make one thing clear. I understand that after one is almost raped, one should probably . . . leave. I fully encourage this, and under most circumstances I would have done so; however, in this case I was in a foreign country, I had no idea where I was, it was the middle of the night, I had spent all my cash, and as a former Girl Scout I can recite in the handbook where it says, “ ’tis better to deal with danger in daylight than in darkness.”

So I stayed. I stayed and became a prisoner in a foreigner’s bedroom. Come to think of it, it actually kind of looked like a cell. A cell with South Park sheets. My own personal nightmare. As I lay there silent and still, hoping that he wouldn’t wake up and praying for a glimpse of sunlight to come through the window, signaling it was safe for me to flee, I heard the prophetic words of Gerry’s father after he and Gerry were wrongfully imprisoned for a crime they
didn’t commit.

I saw the scene so clearly in front of me. A tired and sick man who was still so full of faith faced me. He pointed at his head and said, “All they done was block out the light. They can’t block out the light in here.”

He was right. The only way I was going to make it till dawn was to use my mind to take me away. So I remained perfectly still and did the only rational thing I could think to do: visualization exercises. Breathing in yellow light, breathing out fear and disgust. Breathing in protective light, breathing out unsuccessful rapist lying next to me. Just as I began to feel myself relax and allow myself to be absorbed by yellow light, it happened. . . .

He farted.

It was the loudest release of gas I have ever heard in my entire life. This was no ordinary passage of wind. There is no real way to describe it, other than that it sounded like a foghorn. It wasn’t quick either. It was long. It was a long, powerful foghorn, and it actually shook the bed. And me as well—it shook me. It shook me to the core.

I tensed up, not knowing what to expect. I thought, Surely the beast has been awakened by his own fart. But nothing; he didn’t even stir.

Then it happened again. And again. He proceeded to fart every two minutes for the next hour. Each fart had its own quirky personality. One came with such force that it actually lifted him from the bed. One had such a deep, bellowing nature that I feared the mighty cliffs of Ireland may have crumbled where they stood.

I rolled to the very edge of the bed and curled into a ball, trying to comfort myself while simultaneously creating a small target. I envisioned pink lavender being wrapped around me like a ribbon. A ribbon of protection. A bubble of love. But nothing could protect me. They just kept coming.

I directed my eyes back up to the sky and asked, “Really? Is this what I get? Really?

Finally, as light began to fill the room, my eyes burning with grief, I quietly reached for my purse. He stirred!

I thought, You’re waking up now?

Before he could speak, I blurted out, “I need a cab!” At which point he sat up, turned up the volume on his TV, and said, “Well, Star Trek comes on in two minutes. I’ll walk you down after that.”

“That’s okay,” I said with a forced grin. “I’ll find it.”

He called after me, but I didn’t look back. I kept moving. I burst through one door, then another, finally making it out onto the street. The cold rain hit my face, and a surge of gratitude for my life and freedom came over me. As I stood alone in the rain on the streets of the Irish ghetto, I felt reborn . . . and extremely hungover. In that moment I realized two things: One, I had no idea where or what the name of my hotel was. And two, my Daniel Day-Lewis was a flatulent Trekkie.

I made it back to my hotel, after a taxi driver found me wandering aimlessly down the street. I described what my hotel looked like and explained with tears running down my face that I had no money to pay him. A kind Irish cabbie, he drove me there anyway. When I arrived back to my hotel I found Laura finishing her sixth shower of the evening/morning. We both sat there, me in my clothes from the night before describing in detail the battle I had just been through, her with a towel on her head, hands pruned from the number of showers she had taken to stave off the anxiety of thinking I was dead. And then for a while we didn’t say a word.

The next words spoken were from Laura’s mouth. “We will call him the ‘Farting Rapist,’” she said.

Yes, we will.

Addendum: A few months ago the Farting Rapist (we’ll call him “Roy”) sent me a Facebook friend request with a message attached that read, “Hola, muchacha . . . Remember me?” I nearly fell off my chair; it had been almost two years since I had seen that greasy hair and subtly threatening smile. There he was, staring back at me in a trying-to-be-casually-good-looking, unsuccessfully-tried-to-crop-out-the-person-standing-next-to-him Facebook profile pic, and I felt ill. I wanted to respond to him, “I do remember you, ‘Roymond.’ There are things in life you never forget, like being fart raped by an assumed member of the IRA.”

Instead I hit “Ignore” and went back to spying on people from high school whom I hated.

© 2010 Alexandra Lydon and Laura Kindred.

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