I was at a drunken party some time ago, in deepest Hollywood – the center of which, unlikely as it seems – is filled with straight, upwardly aggressive young showbiz people. I was sitting and receiving but not enjoying bottle service (unlike me and fortunately free because I would never pay for that shit) and the extremely handsome but pompous young man, a vague work acquaintance, producer of this, creator of that, whatever of whatever – next to me asked, “How old are you?”
“41,” I replied without hesitation, judgment or shame. It’s just a fact.
He smiled and said, “I’d do you.”
And immediately I was disgusted. Like – just because you are some kind of hotshot young Hollywood mogul seated behind a velvet rope doesn’t mean I would want to do YOU. And why do you think I appreciate you telling me that you want me? After I have told you my age? And acting like you are some kind of magnanimous patron of the arts or like Gandhi or something because you think ‘doing’ me – a woman over 40 – is some kind of noble act.
Anyway, I didn’t let him ‘do’ me. I just turned away so my back was to him, which was really fun because he couldn’t believe I didn’t take him up on it, that I could leave his ‘generosity’ hanging in the air like that without response, that essentially I could turn him down. My ingratitude was too much for him and he got up and unhooked the velvet rope and my face burned inside with hot joy and anger and pride.