After high school I first worked as a stocker boy at the local grocery store, then I worked as a check out girl at the local grocery store, then I worked as the pharmacy check out girl at the local grocery store. I was moving up, I thought. In school I had been labeled a 'slow reader' from early on but that wasn't the reason for my low grades. My teenage rebellion was never fully holstered, I could never be controlled by my parents, they never got their fists firmly around my fiery disposition. Sure, I seemed unassuming to the casual onlooker but at home I was always neglecting my studies to run off with friends who weren't really my friends because they thought I was too weird, or run off with boys who didn't really care about what I had to say. I refused to do my homework when my folks were strictest, as that was all I had control over. My counselor told me I would never go to college. My father repeatedly told me I was stupid. Thus my teachers believed me to be a rather slow in the head socialite. I was neither slow in the head nor a true socialite.
By the time I was twenty five I was working a stable job at the pharmacy and could have been happy with my career, my relationship with Jay, our trailer home, our dreams for a family. But I had these feelings, nagging feelings of intellectual inadequacy, especially after what people had said to me. The thing that nagged me the most was that "slow reader" label. I went to the community college and enrolled in Literature 101. Reading. It was a pretty solid class, really. Most of the people who were there were there because they couldn't afford four years of a regular college and they had a chip on their shoulders about it. They all had something to prove: they were bigger, better, smarter than that community college. Oh boy! And by how far! My advantage: I was still unassuming, which made for some pleasant debates.
Seeing as how I actually did read slowly (I read word for word), I had a fierce lead over those petty academic snobs. I knew the texts inside and out. I knew the page numbers on which certain conversations appeared. I knew the streets on which certain events took place (very useful in Russian lit). I knew the colors of the walls in various rooms in various homes and posited their significance. When it came time for class discussion I felt like a mother fucking lioness who had been caged and starved and I attacked fiercely, but politely. When everyone left the classroom, no one knew it was I that had hit them. For an hour and a half twice a week, those nerds treated me like an equal and I reveled in the feeling it gave me. That class made me feel smart, and feeling smart made me feel power hungry. And I liked it.
Jay and I had been known as what you call high school sweethearts. In high school, we sure did have a rather passionate thing going. Love poems. Letters. Professions of love. Stolen time snuck away during school lunch. Stolen time when my folks were away. Stolen time when he snuck into my bedroom window at night.
Jay used to climb under the covers with me. We would kiss for what seemed like hours. Passionately and desperately. He pulled on my lower lip, swelling it. I licked the crevice between his two lips. We fully explored each other's mouths, probing, licking every part, our inner cheeks, tickling the roofs of our mouths, occasionally stopping to catch our breaths. Gosh, it was such an innocent time. Because all of our time was stolen we were always frantic in each other's presence. But somehow, there was time, there was always time for prolonged kissing. Jay was funny. He would rub my shoulder, massaging it in larger and larger circles, (like I didn't know what he was doing). He was never bold enough to touch my breast outright, not knowing his lack of courage was perfectly building tension in his young lover's body. I waited, occasionally halting kissing when I thought the moment would finally come, when he would run his fingers across my breast. His innocent muddlement was unknowingly brilliant. The suspense would paralyze me and finally the brush would come and I would let a little breath out onto Jay's lips to let him know this was nice for me too. The proverbial ice was broken. Jay could have his way with my breasts. We would roll back and forth over each other on my queen sized bed. Jay would grope at my breasts like the inexperienced high school boy he was, squeezing, grabbing, desperately searching for a nipple to pull, maybe even kiss. If we fell from the bed it would make an undeniable thumping noise and Jay would have to grab his clothes and run from the room out the window, at times naked, because my stupid dad would no doubt open the door shortly thereafter, asking what all the noise was about. All my dad ever found was me on the floor explaining the thump. Another bad dream, I'd say.
On the occasion that Jay didn't have to leave due to a thump, he would tug on my pajama pants. Occasionally I would allow his fingers to roam down the waistband, past my panties, to the depths of me. A part of me knew this was supposed to feel good, and I did feel good, I felt an excitement, but I still somehow... some part of me didn't really understand what all the fuss was about. What was so great about sex? But Jay was kind to me. He never pressed me to do things I didn't want to do. He was always giving. Those were sweet times between us.
Because of this early passion Jay and I thought we'd solidified true love for good. Whatever we thought true love was. We thought we'd made it and had it, you know? We thought we'd better stick together, though much of these passionate acts had disappeared and our relationship had slowly devolved into a series of robotic routines once we moved in together. We still believed we were a special couple. But that was pure silliness.
One day I saw a flyer outside my classroom. It was for a play called "The Swan." I thought to myself, "A play... a play." I thought this could help me with some of my, well, let's call them social ills. My heart was aflutter as I inspected that flyer. It had a sexy woman's silhouette on it and I imagined myself, well. You know how I'd imagined myself. I thought I could meet new people and get out on stage. Become... well. I thought to myself the literature class was quite the successful experiment and this shall be as well.
I got a copy of the script and read that it was a version of a novel rewritten by a professor right there at the college. He was going to be directing the show and selecting the cast single handedly. I must tell you now that I've always been oblivious to men's attentions towards me. At that point in my life it was because I'd always kept my head down. You know, and that grimace. But there were times when men's attentions were so overwhelming they even made it past my own ignorance. The director's awareness of me was evident. His eyelashes delayed blinking in mimicry of my own. He leaned into me, far enough so that I could smell what he'd had for lunch. A clumsy move for an older man on a younger girl. I wasn't sure why he'd displayed such an interest in me but he coached me. He coached me on the role I wanted to play. I'd picked out the Swan, the curvaceous silhouette. I don't have to tell you how this story turned out.
I rehearsed my lines at home (alone) and when it came time for auditions I was paired with someone from Lit class. I was nervous, but I was relieved to be paired with someone I knew. He was a super nice guy. The role I had selected was that of an older woman, that of a sex crazed thirty-three year old. I thought to myself, "It must take some brains to play an older woman. Compose yourself, girl." Me and the guy completed the scene with awesome chemistry and humor, but I got my part and he didn't get his. Too bad.
My real competition for this role was Amanda. Amanda fuckin' Jenkins. She played the role as any proper character actress might. She didn't really use her body, or her sex appeal, but used acting tricks, sitting at the end of the stage and crossing her legs in the most sexless way possible, laughing whole heartedly in the least believable way possible, and instead of coming across as a sultry thirty three year old, she came across as a vivacious eighty eight year old. She went through all of the motions that someone with sex appeal might go through, but she had none of her own. And that role needed sex appeal. But some in the theater crowd considered this good acting and did not want me to get the part that I inevitably did.
It was a low budget play and actors were responsible for their own costumes. I didn't really think about costumes until the last minute and I hurriedly picked out two options from my cousin's closet, a frilly dress or a tight, low cut tee-shirt with tight pencil skirt. Both were to be worn with very high heels with rounded toes and ankle straps (we wore the same size shoe). Literally in the last minute, right before I was called onto stage, I chose the more daring, the latter. When the time came, when my line was up, I don't know what came over me. I just knew, I knew how to walk in those heels and I sauntered onto that stage and I said my lines and the crowd laughed. I sat on the couch with the lead actor and inched over to him until he fell off it. I leaned over to look at him, letting both my feet lift off the floor, kneeling in a very provocative position on the couch. It was like I'd shed my corduroys and was a slinky sex goddess to be looked at by hundreds of people. The crowds loved me! The theater kids did as well. I won best supporting actress that year, voted for by the actors.
I'd gotten dressed up for the awards ceremony, after which a flaming gay boy walked right up to me and said, "You shouldn't have had to use your body like that. You should have used your brains." He stood up onto his tippee-toes, swiveled around, and began to walk away. Clearly he was deeply impressed with his own comment and incapable of imagining any retort. As I saw him walk away, hips sliding from side to side, I thought he was almost right. I rather did like using my brain in literature class. But on the other hand, I rather did like using my body on that stage, and, like I said, it took some brains to play an older woman. Something he clearly just hadn't grasped.
