Here's Some Missed Connections Fanfic Called 'Lena Dunham's Dick'

Lena Dunham’s ex-boyfriend wrote her a twisted missed connection, you guys!! Just kidding, it was most likely penned by a creative writing minor on too much Adderall.

Here’s the 3,000+ fanfic (via Craigslist). TL;DR: the author, Dunham’s self-purported ex, can only get off if he imagines fucking her with a strap-on. There are a lot of apt references: Gawker (hey!), Nora Ephron, something called “The Feve.” OMG it must be real.

I was waiting for the L train when I saw you again. At first I couldn’t tell it was you. Someone had Sharpied a penis on your face. Then I looked closer and saw that the girl on the poster had a cow tattoo on her arm, just like the one I lied and said was cool that night we first hooked up at Oberlin. But she also looked more glamorous than I remembered you. She didn’t look like the type who after we boned would squeeze her belly and make it talk like a Muppet for a post-fuck interview. But then I knew for sure it was you when I saw a new HBO series from Judd Apatow and Lena Dunham.

I’d heard about the SXSW prize for Tiny Furniture. I was at Grover’s smoking Hindu Kush or Early Purly or whatever the Puerto Rican dealer called it. We were trying to one-up each other with stupid YouTube clips and I put on one of Florida kids shaving their heads with Nair. When it ended, Grover turned to me with a stoned grin and said, — Did you hear that Lena’s movie won Best Feature at South By? I sucked on the roach and shook my head. Then I turned quiet and retreated to the bathroom, where for the next hour I sat on the toilet googling Tiny Furniture reviews.

All the praise bummed me out. I was a struggling playwright whose sole production Time Out called “the pedestrian navel gazing of an entitled twenty-something.” While you were an award-winning filmmaker with “a brave, refreshing voice and knack for emotional authenticity.”

I felt stupid not knowing about your show since I worked at a talent agency. I was an assistant and thought it would be a good job for making connections. But mainly I just lied to Weinstein execs about why my boss needed to reschedule lunch, or fetched Starbucks for Zach Braff when he came in.

Things were slow that day I saw the Girls poster, so I spent my time trolling OKCupid. I was crushing on this girl with the screen name BabyUnicorn85. I knew she was my soul mate because in the “What Do You Spend A Lot Of Time Thinking About?” box, she’d written Claire Fisher. I messaged her and then spent the rest of the day refreshing my Gmail to see if she’d replied, but no dice.

After work I took the J home and stumbled up the stairwell of my building, using my sleeve to block the cat pee smell. The roommates were watching SportsCenter, so I hid in my room, which barely fit my IKEA futon and Craigslist dresser. I opened my MacBook to work on my play. But the only words I could think of were, a new HBO series from Judd Apatow and Lena Dunham.

To get you out of my head, I stripped to my boxers and watched porn. But I couldn’t get it up. No matter what I watched—amateurs, lesbians, teens, face-sitters, baby-sitters, cum-spitters, MILFs, GILFs, JILFs (Jews)—I could still push myself like I was made of Nerf.

I grabbed my phone, checking to see if BabyUnicorn85 had responded. Still no. Then I pulled up your number. A part of me wanted to text you.

I thought about the time we first met. You were at The Feve with your red hoodie over your head, chewing on the string. I saw you reading Portnoy’s Complaint, my favorite, and asked what you thought. I’d seen you around with that clique of pretty Manhattan girls who knew each other from private schools, but it was you I was drawn to. You had that breezy city-kid confidence I envied. And I liked that you were plain looking; it made me think you were attainable. Beautiful people are like funhouse mirrors to me—I can’t see them without being reminded of my big nose or whatever. It’s the girls with imperfections that give my heart a boner.

We started hanging out. You showed me your short films. I remember that one where you got naked in the fountain and brushed your teeth until the campus police made you stop. I thought it was cool how you didn’t mind stripping naked in public like that (unlike me, who refused to even take his shirt off at the beach so our friends wouldn’t see my backne). But I didn’t get it. It’s a girl brushing her teeth in a fountain. What was I missing? I knew your parents were downtown artists who painted men with dildo faces or whatever, so maybe it was supposed to be avant-garde. I never understood that stuff, I just pretended to in college so I’d seem more intellectual. Did Judd Apatow get it?

The first time you came over I asked this film major if I could borrow his John Cassavetes DVDs. I’d never seen a Cassavetes movie but thought he’d be the kind of guy you were into. So I left the cases lying around my room like I’d just binge watched them. I hoped you’d notice, but it never came up. Instead you flipped through my high school yearbook, asking me which girls I made out with, and then reading their inscriptions aloud. Later you gave me a blowjob and told me to finish on your neck. When I said that might be degrading, you just sighed and said, “Consider our orgasms a politics-free zone.”

We never actually talked about being in a relationship. We just tacitly agreed to one when we started fucking without condoms.

I knew I wanted to end things after college but couldn’t find the courage. Instead I became passive-aggressive. Like at Jack’s party in Red Hook. It was a million degrees out and his apartment was like fifty blocks from the subway. By the time you arrived, that Les Mis Cosette shirt you always wore had huge pit stains. I could tell you were self-conscious and needed reassurance. But when you asked me if anyone would notice, I said, — Yeah probably, it’s pretty gross. You spent the rest of the night alone with Jack’s cat, while I played flip-cup on the roof.

The day we broke up was worse. We were at PS1 for a Ryan McGinley exhibit—naked kids on shrooms climbing trees or something. We ran into this girl I went to theater camp with, and when it came time to introduce you I panicked. We’d been together for a year or so, but in that moment couldn’t bring myself to call you my girlfriend. So instead I called you my “special friend Lena.”

I knew it was a dick thing to say. Why I didn’t simply introduce you as Lena, I don’t know. When the camp friend walked away, you pushed me into the stairwell.

— Special friend? I’m your special friend? you said, slapping me with the Nora Ephron book you bought at the gift shop. — Is that what you call all your girlfriends? Or just the ones you fuck without a condom? I acted like I didn’t know what the big deal was, and that only made you angrier. Finally you couldn’t take it anymore and stomped off in your Chuck Taylors.

That was the last time I saw you.

Years later, back on the IKEA futon, I debated whether to text you. I wanted to write something funny and clever, but everything sounded stupid and desperate. I wrote something, deleted it, wrote something else, and then deleted that too. After ten minutes of this I gave up. I tried masturbating again but gave that up too. I was sailing Lake Flaccid.

I didn’t want to think about you after that night. But I couldn’t help it. Not thinking about you was like having coke at a party and not thinking about another bump. For weeks your name was everywhere. Next to side-boob slideshows on the Huffington Post. On the Rolling Stone cover at my therapist’s office. Even in the Jewish Weekly clippings my mother mailed me (“Maybe she can help with your play,” she wrote on a Post-It).

Worst of all, I still couldn’t get hard. It seemed the bigger you got, the more impotent I became.

Grover invited a bunch of Oberlin kids over the night Girls premiered. I tried to get out of it, making up some excuse about revising my play for a rich lawyer interested in producing it. But Grover wore me down. I showed up with a six-pack of Rolling Rocks, two of which I drained in quick succession. There were a lot of people there that I hadn’t seen in a long time. They all asked if I’d seen you. The beer made it easy to lie, so I told them we’d been texting and were gonna hang when you got back from L.A.

The show started. Your TV parents, the mom from Freaks and Geeks and some actor I didn’t recognize, were cutting you off financially, saying it was time for you to get a real job. I watched for a few minutes, and then snuck off to the bathroom. The show wasn’t bad. I just felt sorry for myself. Seeing you on TV was surreal. And I resented that your onscreen parents seemed more like my own than the bohemian Manhattanites who funded your mumblecore movies.

I unbuttoned my jeans and stood over the toilet even though I didn’t have to piss. While waiting I went through Grover’s medicine cabinet. Behind a box of Star Wars Band-Aids was an amber prescription bottle for something called Sildenafil. A search on my phone revealed it to be Viagra. I slipped two pills into my wallet and left without saying goodbye.

I hoped that things would die down after the premiere, but instead you got even bigger. Not watching your show and avoiding the Oberlin crowd helped. Yet short of moving to Africa, hearing your name was inevitable. Although even in the Kalahari Desert I bet some Bushmen would eventually show up clicking to ask if I’d seen Girls.

Of course they talked about you at work too. I was stuffing Zach Braff’s latest screenplay in envelopes, along with a mix CD that his cover letter promised would “underscore the film’s full emotional complexity.” Close to my desk were two agents waiting for the elevator, shooting the shit. One was short and goateed, like an older Bud from Married With Children, while the other had wavy black hair and reminded me of Damone from Fast Times. I listened in.

— You watch Girls? said Bud Bundy.

— Yeah. Love that show, said Damone.

— Isn’t it great?

— Yeah. It’s great.

— Where’s Lena at, WME?

— UTA. Barry is her TV.

— Ah.

(pause)

— I could live without seeing her tits every week, though.

— I know. When’s Brian Williams’ daughter gonna strip naked?

That made me angry. I wanted to get in there and defend your tits. I loved those tits. But what could I do? They were hotshot agents and I stuffed Zach Braff’s envelopes.

— I didn’t really like this week’s episode, Damone said.

— Me neither.

— That one scene was funny, though.

— Which one?

— The one with the ex-boyfriend.

— Yeah. That was good.

My head popped up when I heard ex-boyfriend. I leaned in to hear more, but their elevator came. I jumped from my desk and joined them inside.

— Excuse me—you guys were talking about the ex-boyfriend on Girls? I said.

— The gay guy, yeah. What about him? Damone said.

— Gay guy? No, I’m talking about the ex-boyfriend. I was just wondering—

— The gay guy is the ex-boyfriend. Hannah meets him for a drink and he tells her he’s gay. That’s the scene.

— I read on Gawker that he’s based on her college ex, Bud said. — Apparently he came out after they graduated.

I was confused. At first I thought this ex was someone else. Someone you dated before me, maybe. But no. There were no other college boyfriends. Just me.

— Well the casting ruined it, Bud said. — I mean the guy’s flaming. How could she not know that someone that gay was gay? I would’ve bought it if they went Zachary Quinto gay. But they went Perez Hilton sings Elton John on Broadway gay. The elevator reached the lobby and the agents strode out, while I stood there alone like an idiot.

I know I confided in you that I read all the Baby-sitters Club books. And that, yes, I like the occasional finger up the butt. But you know I’m not gay. I guess this was just you fucking with me.

Despite my confidence being at an all time low, the day wasn’t all bad. BabyUnicorn85 finally wrote me back and we were meeting at Last Exit in Brooklyn Heights. I got there early and sat at the bar with a Maker’s Mark, jotting down play ideas in my Moleskine. I didn’t really have any ideas, but wanted her to think I was a cool, writerly type.

I was midway through my second Makers when she arrived. She was much more attractive than her pictures. In fact, she was beautiful. Her figure was movie-star thin and wrapped in a tasteful dress that teased just the right amount of cleavage. Freckles sprinkled her cheeks and bounced off her big hazel eyes. Her skin was tan and even toned, and hinted at Sundays in Prospect Park wearing coconut oil. She even smelled beautiful, like expensive French shampoos.

The point is, Lena, she was way out of my league.

You know me. With girls like that I generally talk too much, or keep looking sideways to hide my nose. But something happened that night. Maybe the bartender put something in my drink. All I know is that I entered a trance-like state. The usual desperation that I emit like cartoon stink lines gave way to an easy confidence. My jokes landed. My stories charmed. My eyes made contact. I even listened in a way that made her feel heard. It was amazing. For a few short hours, I was the guy I always wanted to be. I wish you could’ve seen it.

If you asked me what we talked about, though, I couldn’t tell you. That’s how in the zone I was. But then she touched my knee and said—

— Do you watch Girls?

And I was zapped right out of it. I could feel my usual insecure self banging on whatever door he was locked behind. I tried to stay cool.

— I haven’t seen it, I said taking a sip of melted ice, although most people seem to love it.

— Then I’m not most people ’cause I don’t get it. I mean, the show’s okay. I still watch it. But the way people go on and on about it. . . It’s like Lena Dunham grew a dick and the whole world lined up to suck it, you know?

I knew. Oh god did I know. Finally someone understood. I kissed her. She kissed me back. And within seconds we were making out.

She invited me back to her place. Normally I would’ve tapped danced back to her apartment. Instead I panicked—I hadn’t gotten it up in weeks. But then, thank god, I remembered Grover’s Viagra in my wallet. I ran to the bathroom and took them before we left.

I figured I needed time for the pills to kick in, so when we got to her studio I stalled by going through her DVD collection. It’s a good thing you made me watch Troop Beverly Hills a million times ’cause it turned out to be her favorite movie. I got some good mileage out of that, but there was only so much I could say about Shelly Long.

There was a lull in the conversation and she pushed me onto her bed. Soon shirts were removed and breasts uncupped. She leaned forward and put a nipple in my mouth. But below I felt nothing. I flipped her over and slid down her underwear. She held the back of my head as I licked between her legs. I stayed there a long time, fifteen minutes maybe. Still nothing. I wanted to stay down there forever.

But of course I couldn’t. — My turn, she said rolling over. I brushed her off, mumbling it’s better to give than receive, but she shushed me. — Don’t worry, she said undoing my belt, I’m good at this.

I closed my eyes and prayed not to bruise her confidence.

She was good—as skilled at fellatio as she was pretty. Yet even a Viagra-assisted blowjob, from a woman I wooed somehow through sorcery, wasn’t enough to break the curse of Lena Dunham.

I remained lifeless. At first she considered it a challenge. She calibrated her technique, speeding her head bobs and intensifying her sucking. When that failed, she coupled the blowing with a hand job and cradled my balls. But it was no use. I was like raw chicken in her hands.

I got up and dressed. She tried to reassure me that it was no big deal and I cracked some self-effacing joke to soften my humiliation. But it was over. The Hulk was gone and I was Bruce Banner again. I said something about emailing her the next day, even though we both knew that wasn’t going to happen, and left.

I took the G back to Metropolitan. It was late and the train was quiet. I looked up and above a row of empty seats was a new HBO series from Judd Apatow and Lena Dunham.

When I got home I tossed and turned on my futon. I was tired but couldn’t sleep. I thought back to the day we broke up at PS1. Why had I been such an asshole?

I gave in to the insomnia and reached for my laptop. I needed to see your show for myself. I found it on BitTorrent and downloaded an episode—the one where you visit your parents in Michigan and go out with a guy from high school. It was funny and sad and real, and way better than I wanted to admit. And way better than anything I could do.

Near the end was a scene where you and the high school guy fuck. Your pear-shaped body was totally exposed. Seeing you stirred something inside me. I paused the show and stared. I remembered my hand on your tits, as I put my hand on my cock. I kept my eyes on the screen and stroked. Blood rushed and I swelled.

It was finally happening.

But seeing you naked again wasn’t enough. I needed more. I thought about what BabyUnicorn85 had said earlier. It’s like Lena Dunham grew a dick and the whole world lined up to suck it.

And that’s what I imagined. You with a dick. Not a strap on, but you—small tits, soft curves, and all—with a big, hard, dick.

Only I wasn’t there to suck it. I was bent over and spread open. Ready to be fucked.

It worked. I’d never been so hard. I stroked and stroked until I could cut diamonds. I pictured you finishing inside me, and finished at home on my futon. Then I collapsed and fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.

I’ve thought a lot about that fantasy. Submitting wasn’t just sexual—it was cathartic. I’m pretty sure I released a lot more than cum that night.

Anyhow, I’m sorry this is such a long email. It’d be great to hear from you. And if you’re interested, I’d love to send you my play.

Xoxo,

AP

What does it all mean? Probably nothing. Based on the state of the publishing industry, this dude will probably get a book deal.