Mirror, Mirror

EARLY PLOT: ON THE AIR

She was half terrified and half thrilled to be working for this guy. Okay, maybe half bored with it all too.  Of all the people she could be working with, it was a thrill to work with a hero.  And not just because you get to GET OVER all the excitement by seeing them day to day.  She had prided herself on being jaded about fame, and was especially proud of how she acted around him.  Betraying nothing.

Especially because she suspected he had forgotten her.  It was a decade later, and she had been just one of MANY girls who followed him.  He couldn’t possibly remember her name, much less her face.  She had changed so much anyway, her hair was short now, and a different color every week.

There WAS that one concert, she must’ve been 16, she finally worked up the courage to ASK him. She had a sense that he’d help her lose her virginity, but she wanted to appear more grownup, and didn’t want him to think she was still a virgin.  Or that she was 16.  Instead of getting him into a hotel room, or any situation with a bed, she wanted to do SOMETHING dirty with him.  It drove her crazy at every concert.  Since that first time she asked him for a kiss during intermission and he slipped her the tongue.  He was picking up on HER.  Her unique beauty; lifted her above the crowd.  Granted, maybe it was just because she had ASKED for the kiss.  What if you were able to ASK for what it was you wanted? Wouldn’t the very ACT of putting it into words make it much more lucky?

Buoyed by the confidence of the kiss (well, kisses, there were a total of 5, from 8 concerts, she had to wait in line-literally for each of them), she finally had an idea.

Ask him, before you chicken out. Do everything the MOMENT you think of it!  Do it!!

“Hey, I have a bunch of colored markers.  I was wondering if you’d like to draw on my breasts?”

It came out so casually that he had to ask her to repeat herself (Re”Peter”).  But he asked with such a smile that she had a feeling like she was asking for a million dollar lottery ticket and he was more than happy to hand it to her.  Finally! She had landed on a request that he probably hadn’t gotten in a while.

She had scouted out the downstairs Handicapped bathroom; a perfect spot.  A locked door, a small room, big enough to even appear less than bathroom-like.  There was even a mirror, so she’d be able to see everything immediately.

He had said 10 minutes.  Somehow that stretched into 15 or 20 minutes, and seemed like forever.  Especially because her mom was waiting outside in the car, in the cold.  Her mom had NO interest in music, especially not THIS music.  Maybe she should be grateful about this, especially as she had no license of her own.  THAT was love.  

And there she was, trying not to let anyone else into her bathroom (especially if they were going to stink it up for Her Special Moment).   But someone came by, doing that particular dance and she couldn’t tell them the reason she was barring the door.

Those 20 minutes quickly devolved from sheer excitement at her own brazenness, to terror, to mild nervousness, to an existential angst about being a bad feminist and daughter and planted seed of insecurity she would carry with her for the rest of her life. The humiliation of loving a Rock Star who was loved by a million other girls, and wasting your life waiting for a few moments of his meager attentions.

But then he came striding down the hallway, a huge grin on his face.  He probably had told all the boys in his dressing room.  And they all had a good laugh.  She tried hard to take pride in this; that for a few minutes, HERS were the enviable breasts.  The moment deflated somewhat as they had to make small talk outside the bathroom. (SCENE)  Someone exited a few minutes later and she could still smell the sourness of someone else’s body odor.  

He didn’t seem to mind.  Still grinning wildly, like a kid on Christmas.  

“What would you like me to draw?”

“Whatever you are in the mood for.  And include a signature, if you don’t mind.”

“But of course!”

She took off her sweater.  Then a thin turtleneck.  There should be more small talk, she had lots of layers; it was winter, after all.

“You sure you don’t mind doing this?”

He stood there, practically drooling, like the wolf in a storybook she once had, who was inches away from a fat little pig.

“No, not at all!!”

Somehow his eyes turned into that of a teenage boys; all the teenage boys who had tried so hard to get her to say yes in the back of their cars or sitting on a porch.  The Game.  And here she was, letting him win so easily.  What must his life be like?  Would he have ever been the “Type” to ask?  She decided not.  That teenage glance made him look shy, and even a little scared.  

As she took off her bra, suddenly, she felt as if SHE were the Rock Star.  The power shifted in the room, and even with just the two of them and the toilet, it seemed like all the light shifted from the porcelain to her two glowing orbs. Somehow, she felt like her real self had been revealed.

Of course, and she had a feeling this is where his experience came in, he dove in and began kissing her.  She easily surrendered to his embrace, even though she felt well aware of her skin against his clothes and his full beard.  Like he was completely covered and she was completely exposed.  Like that painting, Je Dejeuner Sur L’Herbe.  The men all clothed and the women all naked. It was excellent to imagine herself in the role of muse at that moment. No matter how self-orchestrated and self-conscious it was. She was especially happy not to have to remove her jeans and expose her cellulite.

Both of them did some giggling after the embrace, and he was careful and awkward, trying to be a gentleman and only touch her breasts with the tip of the markers, instead of holding the skin taut.  They laughed again and again, a parlor game.  He tried to finish with a flourish and cried “Voila!” as if it was the final stroke on the Mona Lisa.

“Can you tell what it is?” as he positioned her in front of the mirror.

She was hoping for something clever, or surprisingly artistic.

“It’s a pair of breasts!” he proclaimed proudly.

She couldn’t make out anything except some squiggles.

He politely helped her back on with her clothes.  Complimenting her purple bra-which she wore all the time.  Helping her with the clasps; he was thoughtful enough to ask her which rows she preferred.  A detail to carry forth towards future boyfriends.  

They parted with a handshake, growing more formal as they separated.  

She took a few pictures, in the mirrors of her friend’s houses when she could, for the next week.  It was a secret to carry upon herself.  She traced the lines over and over again after every shower until it didn’t resemble the original.  Like a game of Telephone.  

It wasn’t until she’d been working for him for 3 months that he stopped her one night as they were leaving the station.

“Hey, I have some markers.  Are you in the mood to do some drawing?”