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

Most likely we’ll laugh, cry, dance, sing, dress up, and—surely—consume large amounts of alcohol. Forget about doing anything the next day after being out all night with Trouble. I’m incredibly good at getting everyone to follow my manic madness, too. I shower people with attention, make them feel special; I’m a laser beam focused entirely on them, makingthem happy. Tonight is magic—of course it is! And typically it is. To me it is…
    I have a small part (a maid, ha!) in a thriller, which is being shot in France, where I’m emailing from right now. One night, we had a gorgeous meal. Civilized conversation, nothing crazy. Me with the bigwig actors—feeling inadequate, nearly invisible, or wanting to be, keeping myself down, controlled, restricted, while they spoke about their agents in London and Daniel Craig being godfather to one of their sons.
    I befriended the couple who run the restaurant and have been responsible for the catering. Every meal has been four courses and divinely delicious. Every day I take pictures to remember what I’m not allowed to eat because I’m starving myself for another shoot next week.
    The other night, after everyone left, I stayed on, chatting with Patricia (one of the owners). Next thing you know, my computer was plugged into the stereo system and I had her and her husband dancing their asses off with me to very loud, deep house. Before leaving to go back to my room, I helped her change twenty tables to be set for twelve for breakfast the next day. In the middle of the night, the three of us drunkenly befriended each other on Facebook. She sent me photos of us, showed me her paintings, and spoke of her longing to just bean artist, to leave the restaurant. That night, she’d had a taste of freedom. In the morning, I was sitting there with all the cups and saucers, plates and more plates, the spoons and knives and forks and tablecloths I’d carefully placed three hours before. The following day, she thanked me on Facebook and I couldn’t answer.
    After nights like that I disappear. A night of boundary-breaking intimacy, and then I go into hiding. The other person takes it as distance, rejection, while I’m horrified I lost sight of the good girl; as the night progresses, I act more and more like a cult leader. I’m humiliated by my loss of control, just like my mother is. The fact that we’re not allowed to act salvatge makes us binge. No smoking, no drinking during the week: keep it together and perfect and then on the weekend let that caged-up Doberman speed out of the kennel. I can’t live up to it all. Am I secretly like Ava, who wants to be left to run wild? To live by her own rules? Yesterday she was angry at the wind. She was punching and kicking and shouting at it. I understood. She feels things and can’t keep it in. She has to react. She has to, she says. I do, too.
    â€œI’m getting lonely being with you. The more I’m with you the lonelier I get. That’s not a good sign. If I wereolder and wiser, I’d take a walk. I’d go home, watch Miami Vice and feel good about myself. I’d remind myself how good I live without a man. I’d regain my equilibrium. Ever since I met you, my life’s been imbalanced, it tips in the love and sex direction. I look at your skin and think I’m gonna have a nervous breakdown if I’m not allowed to touch that man’s skin. I meet 10 billion other men a day but I see you, my heart has a little heart attack, I get wet down there”—monologue from Wendy MacLeod’s Apocalyptic Butterflies , which I did in grad school. Total foreshadowing of my relationship with William.
    I’m still attracted to women and probably always will be. I’m lucky I feel comfortable with that, but it turns out I happened to find a man. I don’t feel I’m missing out by not being with women, since I tried it out with many partners and