"Ever feel like you're not really you? Like you're just an actor pretending to be somebody?"
That's exactly what I am right now - an actress stepping into costume. The same costume I wear every day. Mascara, blush, mini-skirts, tights, sleeveless blouses. I wished I had said that, but I just muttered "uh-huh" as if I were just placating her.
Ever have someone say something that you've been thinking all your life but never told anyone? Andy seemed to have a knack for doing just that, as if some of my consciousness had spilled from my mind to hers. Every time it happened, I wanted to scream "Yes!" I wanted to tell her that I could have written a book on the subject by now and to let her hear every sentence that I would write. But every time it happened, I responded with something similar to that brusque "uh-huh."
I had class in fifteen minutes and make-up to put on. That was hardly the reason I stayed silent, though. When Andy said what she did, the hand that held my lipstick froze, leaving my bottom lip half-pink half-red. As usual, I was too taken by surprise to respond. By the time I had gathered my thoughts, Andy was always ready to move on to something else, as if she thought she had said nothing of any importance.
"Kinda weird, I guess. Whatever." She finished tying her shoe as I finished applying my lipstick. I turned to face her as she walked toward the door.
She stopped and looked me over. "Geez, Sophie, I've never seen such a girlie-looking philosophy major. Go get a beret and a black sweater or something."
"Yeah, well, you go put a big pink ribbon in your hair like a real girl..." She laughed at my comeback, so I pulled out my fallback insult. "Andrea."
She grumbled. "Whatever. Smell ya later." She stepped out the door. She hated being called by her full name.
I looked back in the mirror. My outfit was obnoxiously pink, even by my standards. That made it a prime target for Andy. She subsisted on good-natured ribbings, among other things. Growing up on daddy's farm meant that frilly dresses and nail polish were out of the question for her. She was always ready to jump on me for being what she called "one of those suburban girls with fingernails as manicured as their lawns."
-
When I get home from class, I pull out my drawer full of magazines. Elle, Vogue, Cosmo, the usual. I don't read them for the articles, honest. I just have a fashion compulsion. And I certainly don't want Andy to have any more ammunition by letting her see me read this stuff. She seems to have some kind of strange sense about me, though. I hate fashion magazines, I hate nail polish, I hate skirts, and I hate pink. And I think she has some suspicion that I hate these things.
Of course, that logically leads to the question of why I'm sitting at my desk looking at the pictures in the latest issue of Glamour when I want to torch all of my frilly blouses. Well, it's the same story of my first kiss. So let's turn the page back to that poorly written chapter of my life called high school.
It was senior year. I had never touched a boy, much less dated. I had given up on the hope that I would fill out anything more than the training bra my mother had given me in freshman year. And I had just gotten the worst haircut in my life.
I had decided that my long hair didn't fit my minimal-effort uniform of baggy tees and dockers. Hair needed to be shampooed and conditioned and brushed. So I cut it off. The first thing I heard the next day came from the seat behind me in homeroom: "I knew you were always a lesbian, Sophie." By lunchtime, my name had changed from Sophie to Lezzie. One girl walked up to me, stopped, pecked me on the cheek, then said, "Oops, sorry, I thought you were a guy." I couldn't deny it, though. When I looked in the mirror that day, I saw a twelve-year-old boy.
The Homecoming Dance was in a week and I cooked up the perfect plan to put an end to this crap. I got my hair styled, got fitted for an expensive dress, and let my mom go to town with the make-up. I almost felt bad because I had gotten her all excited and thinking that I had taken a sudden interest in school and boys. Anyway, I walked into the gym in my dress, which made my underdeveloped body look as good as it ever would, and made a spectacle of myself. I grabbed the first boy I saw and stuck my tongue down his throat. Then I promptly ran to the bathroom and hid in a stall until it was time for my mom to pick me up.
My scheme failed. I was still Lezzie and the poor boy became Mr. Lezzie. I didn't even know his name, but I hope he's forgotten about the whole incident. So that's where all the pink and frills come in. Maybe the more I emulated in-crowd fashion, the more I would be respected. I didn't want to fit in, I just didn't wanted to get by, to not be Lezzie. By winter break, I was old news. I liked to believe that my efforts in becoming a fashion plate had paid off, but I knew it was more likely that everyone had just gotten bored and moved on to fresher gossip.
I couldn't let go of my post-makeover Ally Sheedy look, though. It made me feel safe, like an actress in costume. I'm not a girlie-girl, I just play one in real life. When I got to college, it went from being a safety blanket to a point of pride. Look, I can think and wear pink! I wish I could be comfortable in torn jeans and a dusty t-shirt like Andy, though. It would make mornings so much easier.
Just thinking about all this crap gets me wound up, though. My clothes and magazines are like a scar that remind me of why I am what I am. No one can know the story behind a scar unless you tell them.
I threw Vogue back into the drawer and picked up Cosmo. When the pictures brought back too many memories, it was time to distract myself by breaking into the articles. Almost all of them were sex advice columns. Good for a laugh. Sometimes, though, I really wondered if girls were dressing up as French maids, tying their boyfriends to the bed, and tickling their penises with feather dusters to "spice up their sex lives." I didn't know any more about sex than Cosmo did.
The articles were making me even more depressed, so I fell back to my favorite distraction. I tucked Cosmo away, undressed, and slipped under the covers of my bed. The feeling of being naked, the soft sheets caressing me, was enough to make me aroused. I ran my hands down my body until they tickled my lips. Moistness began to build. I sighed as one hand slipped its fingers inside and the other played with my clit. I rocked back and forth to get that wonderful feeling from the bedding. The sheet pulled firm against my erect nipples. The comforter drooped over my toes and fluttered against the soles of my feet.
Masturbation is divine. It is cleansing. The fact that I have a little stretch of skin that I can rub to give myself pure pleasure gives me some hope that there is a god. The simple act of fingering myself can obliterate a shitty day as well as the nagging memories of other shitty days. It's almost a bit strange to me that the act is considered sexual. I never fantasize about anything when I do it; I just let the sensations wash over me.
The old juices were flowing now and I was getting closer to orgasm. Everything that wasn't bliss would be pushed out of my body. I writhed under the sheets and jerked my hips. I let myself vocalize a little bit. It wasn't necessary, but it made my orgasm feel even stronger if I pretended to lose control of my vocal cords along with the rest of my body.
"Ah!" I squeaked as the door flew open. I had completely lost track of time.
"Hey, it's not bedtime yet," said Andy.
I nestled under the sheets. "Uh, no, just trying to take a nap."
"Oh." She looked down at the pile of clothes I had left on the floor. "You like to sleep au naturel?"
I laughed nervously. "Yeah, I guess."
"Okay, then. Sorry if I woke you up. I have a bio test to study for anyway, so I won't make any noise."
Of course, I didn't care. I was on the verge of orgasm. My thoughts were just a continuous loop repeating "Please go away." Andy walked over to her desk and cracked open a book. Shit. I was hoping she would take that to the library. I pulled the covers over my head, letting myself simmer in arousal out of sight. My hand slid back toward my pussy.
I could get myself off real quick. It would feel weird to do that with Andy sitting a few feet away, though. I didn't know how to handle the situation. It was still not even halfway through my freshman year, so I had managed to avoid situations like this so far. But Andy was a junior and a dorm veteran. She told me how her last roommate had screwed guys in the top bunk while she tried to sleep. Surely a silent little orgasm from me wasn't a punishable offense.
