Bruce Wagner - I Met Someone

The hyper-sexualized child had obsessed over the story of Tiresias…

When he separated two snakes having intercourse in the middle of the road, the female became so enraged — Allegra the adult couldn’t blame her! — that she punished his meddling by turning him into a woman. After seven long years, the transgendered Tiresias saw the same snakes fucking and somehow reasoned that if he interfered again, his maleness would be restored. He was right; his original form was bestowed. When Zeus and Hera squabbled over who enjoyed lovemaking more — man or woman — they asked Tiresias to judge, as he alone had experienced both sides. Strangely, it was Hera who insisted that men received the greatest pleasure. But Tiresias ruled in favor of the gentler sex, calling their ecstasies tenfold. Hera was so peeved at being contradicted that she blinded him. Being Tiresias was a bummer.

She thought it would make an amazing screenplay, abetted by the culture’s ravenous appetite for all things intersex. The version in her hand (while sipping Mexican hot chocolate in the other) implied that Tiresias became a whore during his phallic exile, making Allegra even more passionate about the transgressive prospect of adaptation. But when the thought of her unfinished Children of God script swiftly intruded, inspiring winds poured through tattered sails.

She ruminated some more on that mad time. She hadn’t been altogether honest with Jeremy about her early experience; there was much she was ashamed of and much she’d repressed. It was true that while Allegra remained mostly amnesiac about the Family’s ritualized sex-play, she knew bad stuff happened in India for sure. A few years ago, to her dismay, a persistent childhood masturbation fantasy resurfaced, featuring a totem cock that sprung from her nine-year-old cunny like a genie when summoned. She could fuck women with it, and boys too. (Another memory: frottage was the prepubescent sleep aid of choice.) She vividly recalled what the thing looked like — the real, veiny deal. Yuck. It wasn’t so much the Boschian precocity of the image of her bedangled cherub self that alarmed and mesmerized, but the ensuing speculation over the nature of dark materials, lost and unseen , that drove poor, gypsyfied Alice-Allegra through the looking-glans. A mishmash of nefarious, arousing, troublesomely indistinct home movies played double matinees in her head throughout her late teens. If she’d blacked out their content for nearly twenty years, what else might soon be resurrected?

The myth of Tiresias was so compelling because it held the seeds of both punishment and a child’s polymorphous perversity in hand. Yet no one would arrive to separate the snakes, no one but Allegra the Orgasmic Dragonslayer — for in her wild, ambivalent couplings, she dreamed herself to be the seer come to her own rescue, who would then be betrayed for telling the truth about the poisonous, anarchic power of sex. (Rendered blind, might she at least be rewarded with the power to un-see all that she’d seen?) Along with retribution for whistleblowing came the deep consolation of prophecy — a double bind the child would have eagerly embraced, because she’d have sacrificed the pantheon of gods and Mothers themselves to foresee how her story would end.

—

The set was cleared while Dusty and her co-star rehearsed for Bennett. Only the D.P. watched from the periphery, and Bonita, who would make a late entrance in the scene.

The lovers lay in bed. The Marilyn was blowsy, radiant, and real — like one of those JPEGs of what movie stars might look like if they hadn’t died young. When the First shouted, “Very quiet! We are rehearsing!” the people milling around the soundstage suddenly deactivated, staring into their phones like recharging droids.

The director hovered over the actors as they ran their lines, occasionally watching through a handheld lens like a referee poised above wrestlers.

“Arthur’s in a major fucking funk,” said the Marilyn.

“Talk to me,” said Dusty.

“At a certain point, male artists just keep going back to the well.”

“You mean the womb . And not just artists! All men. Ted’s been so depressed.” Dusty paused. “He can’t fuck.”

“ Tell me about it! Arty never could . Maybe if I wore a mask… of his face! The man would not eat pussy under threat of death.”

“You could dangle a Pulitzer down there…”

“It’d have to be a Nobel!”

Dusty asked Bennett if she should do some business — drink a glass of water beside the bed or fuss with the Marilyn’s hair. He said, “Whatever comes.”

The scene resumed.

“Does he hate that you’re doing a sitcom?”

“Sylvia, oh my God! Hate isn’t even the word . And he’s mean about it. He’s always been a sadist, and that’s on me… But you know what? The Golden Girls is the smartest move I ever made. Keeps me alive —and not just in the public eye. I laugh more on that set than I have in my entire life .”

“And the ratings!”

“We’re bigger than Family Ties .”

She lightly kissed the Marilyn, avoiding her mouth — tongues would come “on the day”—then asked Bennett who he thought would be the aggressor.

“It’s probably more interesting if it’s Sylvia,” he said. “I kind of think of Marilyn as the eternal bottom.”

They rehearsed awhile longer (Bonita making her entrance) before calling second team. Larissa came on set. Dusty left an earring in the yoga studio and the stand-in had been carrying it around for a few days but hadn’t found the right moment to give it back.

Dusty kibitzed with the Marilyn on the way out. Stepping into the sun, she was startled to see Marta and her daughter.

She’d completely forgotten.

“Oh my God, Marta! Was this the day?”

Marta nervously wondered if she’d gotten it wrong.

“You say Friday — today. It’s not okay?”

“No, it’s fine! I’m such an idiot, I didn’t even think to look at what we were shooting .” Her face scrunched to a stressed-out wince. “I’m just not sure if today’s appropriate —but whatever.” Her qualms vanished as she turned full wattage on the daughter. “ Hi , Julia! Oh my God, look at you, look how pretty you are in your dress! And happy birthday!”

The Marilyn excitedly said, “It’s your birthday?”

“Yeah,” she said shyly, amending to “Yes” so as to be more adultlike.

“Come have lunch in my trailer!” said Dusty. “Though maybe you’ll have more fun eating with everyone outside? That’s probably better than a stuffy old trailer. Go! Go with Mama and I’ll join you.” She stage-whispered to Marta, “It’s kind of an R-rated day … but she should be fine, to watch. For a little , anyway!”

“Hey, you’ll both be in your birthday suits,” said the Marilyn, in good humor. “How old are you, Julia?”

“Thirteen.”

“It’s not her quinceañera ,” said Dusty.

“Well, duh ,” she said, puffing up in contrived offense. “What do I look like, a dumb blonde? Don’t answer that!” She turned back to the girl. “So you wanna be an actress?”

“Don’t encourage her,” said Dusty.

“Maybe,” answered Julia. She’d never given a thought about acting, ever.

“Marilyn,” said Dusty belatedly. “This is Marta, Julia’s mom.”

“Hi!” said the Marilyn, shaking Marta’s hand.

“Her name is Marilyn, and she’s playing Marilyn — Monroe.”

“You look just like her,” said Marta. She really thought she did.