56: Going down on tiny women

In 56 days I turn 30

I want to dance with Whitney Houston.

I want to dance with her until we are sweaty and tired and then I want to show her all the things the world can still give her: A guest coaching spot on The Voice, vaping, cat cafes, VR.

She will try her hardest to smile at me while she tells me that she doesn’t care a tit for anything I have shown her and we will go back to dancing.

 

There is a young woman in my home. She invited herself here. I am a young woman too.

Before meeting her, I had heard that she was very beautiful. I heard that she was very fond of her own looks. I heard less than interesting things about her intelligence. I heard about her emotional capacity. I heard she was from a country where women are gorgeous and the sun beckons for a prideful dress code.

I meet her at a school event.  It is my first week at school.  She tells,  “You are kind of pretty but you should wear makeup and then you will actually be pretty.”

This is the first of many statements she will continuously make about my need for makeup.  She criticizes without hesitation and without offering any aesthetic guidance of her own.

She is beautiful if you are used to a particular kind of beauty.

If you told me that she just stepped out of a women’s magazine, that she peeled herself off the pages of Vogue just to attend a few years of acting school and that, with time, she will return to her stationary arrangement as the node of envy for Women Who Lie Awake At Night Hungry and Covered in Anti-Aging Creams, I would nod my head and walk away.

I cannot accept her beauty because I cannot relate to her in any way.  This young woman and I are from different worlds.  She is from a world where she is very important, her influence, her sexuality, her image is very important.  I am from a world I made up in my head where no one is important and only the animals can speak.  I do not understand this woman.

Still, right now she is in my home.  She asked to come here.

 

I listen to Whitney all morning.

I listen to the same song.

I wanna dance with somebody

With. Some. Body. Who. Loves me!

The song ends, I grab my phone, I restart the song but as I backtrack I stare at her photo.

She is tall, very thin, her shoulders are angular somehow, maybe because of the way the photo is edited.  Her left shoulder is shifted downward.

She is smiling.

Red lips, huge hair, white tank top, ripped jeans.

Don’t you wanna dance?

Holy shit, yes. I do. I do want to dance.

 

The woman in my house and I have had one conversation that didn’t involve a remark on my beauty (or apparent lack thereof).

We had a conversation about horror films.

In my first year as a playwriting student at theatre school I am assigned to write an adaptation.

I choose to adapt the cinematic Saw franchise.  The entire franchise. One play.

Somehow, word spreads around the school about my project.

Problematically, this adaptation is really just an experiment:  How can I make really horrific theatre? My work on this project had very little to do with accurately transferring the source material.  I just want to bring horror to the stage.

People are asking me quesions about this project as if I have any idea what I am doing. As if I have a plan.

I have no plan.

This is my first year at this school. There is a lot of pressure to be Brilliant. For now I have fooled everyone into thinking I might be brilliant. I still have no friends here.  All I have are people who are intrigued by my potential.

I find myself sitting in the cafeteria wtih a table of second year actors.

I still do not understand how the school works.  I do not understand how relationships are formed between departments. I am not sure I even have stopped to wonder how many people are in each acting class (12) or who is who or where everyone goes in a day.  I don’t really care about the social mechanics of this school but of course I am implemented into them and so, here I am:  Sitting awkwardly with people who are not in my deparment or in my class or, even, in my mind’s interest.

I didn’t even know it was lunch.

I would not have come here if I knew it was lunch.

This woman invites me to sit with her and her friends.

I am intimidated despite being at least four years older than they are, already a trained actress and mostly not that interested in anything they are doing.

“So, do you really like horror films?”  She is swiping at her phone and picking at some lettuce.

“Yeah.”

The question is remarkably useless.

I have been asked many versions of this same question but they are usually far more open-ended: “Why Saw?” is a popular one.

Her eyes widen as she looks at me with authority, “I LOVE horror films. Look:”  She shows me a trailer for something on her phone.

I do an incredibly great job at faking interest.

Partnered with the pressure to be brilliant, there is also a tremendous amount of pressure to be “Excited” at theatre school.  I am faking both things.

“THAT LOOKS INCREDIBLE, OH MY GOD,” I am so fake-excited I almost accidentally flip the table but I control myself.

“I KNOW RIGHT! Hold on, I have to go,” she gathers her things as her table starts leaving for class, “but have you seen Insidious.” 

“NO!”

“We should watch it together!”

“OK!”

What is happening.

“Hang on, put your number in here.”

I put my number in her phone, what is happening, I type out my full name in case she doesn’t know my name because I am still not convince she knows my name: What. Is. Happening.

“Ok, bye!”

I don’t even really like horror movies.  I just really like Saw.

 

I let Whitney end.

My iPhone plays Miley Cyrus.

I have a weird crush on Miley Cyrus.  I mostly just want to have sex with her so that I can become her a little bit which, I imagine, is one of the confusing hardships of being a celebrity.

I listen to Party in the USA and I realize that I do not want to dance.  I do not want to dance with Miley.

These shades of love are blinding.

I don’t even like fucking women.

 

We are in my home.  We are watching insidious.

We have already finished one bottle of wine.  We are drinking another bottle of wine.

We are under a blanket.

We are eating the cheese she brought.

I am not confused yet.  I am drunk.  I am dissapointed in this shitty movie.  I am wondering, a little bit, how the night will end.  I don’t feel confused.

The movie ends, we sit on the couch.

The woman in my house tells me about her boyfriend.  He lets her “makeout and stuff” with other women. For example, her and her best friend “do stuff sometimes but it’s just for fun, we’re just friends.”

Her accent, her South American, youthful, cassette tape on-repeat, gorgeous accent matches her tan matches her flippant hand gestures matches her nonsense stories about her life.  I am wine I am wine and this was a terrible movie and now I am kissing a woman.

I have watched a lot of lesbian porn.

I think I might know how to handle this.

It likely isn’t her pussy’s fault but I hate the smell, texture, faculties, the entire CONCEPT of vagina, it is INSIDE what kind of genitalia is INSIDE what am I supposed to do with this thing that is INSIDE and it isn’t mine and I have to go INSIDE, I have to, go, what? INSIDE?

WHERE IS THE ERECTION?  HOW DO I KNOW IF SHE’S INTO THIS?

Sexual intuition is not a real thing.

I can’t not finish.  If I don’t finish I am no better than the men.  She grabs my head, thank god.

 

I wonder how many women in prison have written to Whitney Houston.

“Dear Whitney. I love you. I just want you to know that I killed my husband but I would learn the ropes of serenity for you. I want to stroke every bit of you. I want to run my tongue along your hairline while I yank on your curls (with your consent, respecting your boundaries) and massage your clit with my knee. I want to dance with you 😉

I’m locked up at the Grand Valley Prison in Kitchener.

Look me the fuck up because I love you.

Cuddles, kisses and cunt,

-Eden Berger

I love Lesbian Prison Porn.

 

She is holding my head because I have failed but I do not mind at all.

Unlike a blow job, cunnilingus is suffocating. I have a very good gag reflex (even the doctor remarked when I had my throat tested for gohnnoreah!) and so the penis is no problem for me. It is even a fun challenge.

Where in this vagina am I meant to feel in control of anything?  My nose, mouth, completely lost and I feel like her body is trying to murder me.  Unlike the men I have known, who remain engaged with my suffocating vagina no matter their failure, I just do not want to do this. I do not want to be here. Suffocate me and I will surrender because, I have no idea how I got here and I would truly like to leave, please.

She pulls me up and holds my head. She kisses me. She makes noises while she kisses and I wonder, while she is kissing me, if I should make noises too.  She takes her shirt off.  Again, I wonder if I should do the same.  She does it for me. She leads me to the bed.

A very small woman in my home is going down on me.

I feel fat and manly. I hate this.

She comes up for air (oh that’s how it’s done) and grinds her knee into my clit.

How do I use my face to convey a fake excitement?

“Have you seen Insidious?” gained an enthusiastic “NO”

“Have you cum yet?”

“YEAH”

 

I am not a skinny woman.  All of the celebrities I am attracted to are skinny women.

I don’t want to fuck them.

I want to watch them have sex so I can study their bodies.

I want to touch them and watch them get dressed.  So I can study:  Their bodies.

I want to dance with them. Just to mingle with their toned, fat free, vegan, starved, tiny bodies.

Cunnilingus is a deal breaker.

If I have to think of my own body in relation to theirs, it’s over.

I just want to imagine that we match.

Don’t come near me.

Just be tiny from a distance.

 

She leaves me, gets off of me and I feel relief.

I immediately wonder why she wanted to do that, what made her come here, what made her look at me and suspect that I would be a target for her sexual experimentation.

She must miss her boyfriend.

I must demonstrate vulnerability with astute perfection.

Something about my body, something about the “not so prettiness” that she has remarked on more than once, many times, made her come here.

I didn’t even want her here.

I feel big.  I feel failed.

She states that she should probably go.

We laugh.

She gets dressed.

I don’t watch her get dressed.

 

Thank you so much for reading! If you like my work and you’d like to contribute, I have a show in the Toronto Fringe festival that needs your support!

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All the best, calm calm peace,

-R