"Oh, sweetie, don't look at him," Amy pointed at the man. "He's terrified. He just learned things about biology that his high school coach skipped. It's okay, Dave. It’s all natural. Mostly."

She took a final swig of lukewarm water, adjusted her blazer, and stepped into the wings. The wall of heat and the smell of stale beer hit her first. Then, the roar of the crowd. "Please welcome... Amy Schumer!"

The neon sign for "The Laugh Factory" flickered, casting a sickly pink glow over Amy as she paced the green room. She wasn't nervous about the jokes—she’d lived them—but she was wondering if the front row was ready for a play-by-play of her last gynecological exam. "Five minutes, Amy," a bored stagehand muttered.

For the next hour, Amy didn't just tell jokes; she performed an anatomical exorcism. She broke down the awkward gymnastics of "trying to look sexy" while accidentally catching a glimpse of yourself in a mirror at a bad angle—"I looked like a rotisserie chicken falling out of its packaging."

"So, let's talk about sex. Or, as I like to call it, 'The Reason I Have This Specific Lower Back Pain.'"

She strutted to the mic, squinting against the spotlight. "Hi guys. Wow. You all look great. I look like a thumb that someone tried to dress up for prom, but we’re making it work."