That Thing You Do With Your Mouth: The Sexual Autobiography of Samantha Matthews as Told to David Shields by David Shields, Samantha Matthews

I’VE BEEN TAUGHT to not apologize before any performance, and I find it annoying when actors apologize for what they’re about to do, particularly during an audition, but in this case I need to do that, once; I feel terrified. If I just say it, instead of pretending to know what I’m doing, maybe I can start off on an honest path. My mind doesn’t think at all linearly. I have a hard time keeping up with my thoughts and narrowing them down. I don’t know. This might be a complete mess.
    In no way do I want to feel like I’m being self-indulgent, talking about all of my “issues.” Who gives a shit? Who am I to be telling a story? I have this intimacy-junkie part of me, though, that wants to provoke others to see something deep inside themselves. I like breaking downbarriers—not to be perverse but to find a more authentic connection. Generally speaking, we’re not unique.
    A director once said to me, “Sam, it’s so exhausting for the audience to watch you hold up all that armor. If you could stop holding it up, it would be so much easier not only for you but also for us to watch. The energy required to protect yourself just gets in the way of telling the story.”
    I have less and less of a need, I think, to pretend I’m a good girl. I should be professional, friendly, responsible, accommodating, easy to get along with, elegant, and graceful. Must never step out of the house without wearing at least a tiny bit of makeup, because you never know who you’re going to run into. Lipstick is a winner, because my lips sort of blend in with my face. Must be confident. Don’t slouch. Don’t diminish yourself in public or in any conversation. Wear classic clothes, which suit you. Nothing too tight-fitting because that looks cheap. Always good to make people wonder what’s under those clothes instead of shoving it in their face. Game’s over, and so is their respect for you. I must foresee everyone’sneeds. If I’m incredibly attentive to everyone and everything around me, I can avoid all possible conflict, dangerous and trivial situations alike. No one can call me selfish, either. Don’t get in the way or be irritating. Don’t joke around and make silly faces with three chins (I’m really good at that) around your lover, who will then find you unattractive, even disgusting. Be aware of how big your nose is (once, on an airplane when I was fifteen, my mom told me maybe I could just get my sinuses operated on and the surgeon could do a quick little nose job while he was at it). Try to avoid the profile: not good. I should never talk about anything negative—that’s a waste of energy and makes others see you as a negative person. I can smile and say yes to everything, make your life easier. Keep those nails trimmed and not painted. No, leave them a little longer, but still not painted; he doesn’t like that. Don’t paint your toenails; he doesn’t like that, either. Be strong. No, don’t. That’s butchy. Seeing a difference between men and women is better. Be vulnerable, but don’t cry around men, because there’s a study that says the smell of women’s tears actually lowers their sexual desire for you. Be mindful. Do yoga. It gives you a great ass.
    Friday—how many days to Friday? It’s only Tuesday. Four more days of this till I can escape.
    When I was fifteen, Scott fingered me, breaking my hymen. Blood covered his hand, as though he’d punched a window. I was convinced he’d seriously disfigured me, maybe even made me sterile, for all I knew—flashes of the doctor examining my genitals at age five. After all, bad things happen to me. I’d deserve that for what I’d done. My mom was constantly reminding me of all the possible life-threatening dangers that could accompany sex and other illicit behavior. A famous basketball player died of a heart attack after trying cocaine